#bizarro smoke
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ipa discourse ignoring the fact that all enjoyment is just consuming something that is awful and you hate until you love it
#none of you could handle a negroni#i do like neipas sorry everyone#gratzers though that's the real goated bizarro beer type#yes bartender give me a glass of liquid smoke
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HELLFIRE & ICE — eddie munson x f!oc as enemies to star-crossed lovers
CHAPTER TEN — THE NEW FACE OF FAILURE
PREVIOUS | MASTERLIST | NEXT
summary: a surprise visitor shows up at nancy wheeler's house during your sleepover. eddie has a run-in with steve harrington and gets some hard-to-choke down news from a teacher. things with your newly released convict father seem to be going... eerily well.
content warnings: does excessive yappin count. cussin! shitty dads! allusion to past physical abuse! drugs and smoking! heavy pettin! lovesick and scared about it edlacy!
word count: 11.6k
Dear reader,
For the first time in forever, I have nothing smart to say. I mean, really. For the first time in forever, when things have reached a previously unprecedented crescendo of shit-hitting-fannery, when my life has truly shown every possible sign of being headed toward complete ruin, when it’s not just opposite day but bizarro world incarnate, I feel…
Good.
Because I’m looking at him.
And he’s looking back at me.
And Nancy Wheeler is yelling for him to get in the goddamned window.
Eddie Munson has no business standing outside the Wheeler’s garage with a fistful of pebbles, cautiously flicking them at a second story window, yet he is. The soft pelting noise had made your neck jerk up from where it craned over Nancy’s nails, painting them a springy green and go, “Do you hear that or is it my paranoia talking?”
See, when you woke up that morning, you knew you had two phone calls to make. Instead of using the traceable line of your house phone, you’d snatched a handful of quarters and booked it to the payphone at the edge of the lot. You’d almost stopped at the Munson trailer, tossing your own rocks at Eddie’s window, but thought better of it– there was always a chance that the newly exonerated (sort of) Ray Doevski would be peering through the blinds, taking a Rear Window affect to his newly instated house arrest.
Yeah. House arrest, and you were sure that the same crack had run concurrently through the minds of you and both your parents– we’d hardly call this a house. But Ray was ordered to stay put, and even had this nutty gadget tagged to his ankle, this new fangled monitor that they were just rolling out.
“Always on the cutting edge, aren’t you, Daddy?”
With shaking fingers, you thunked in Eddie’s number, which he’d scrawled inside the cover of a Flannery O’Connor short story collection you’d been carting around a couple of months ago. It was one of those days that came up every now and again, where you couldn’t quite keep the lid on feeling blue. The weight of everything came down on you in an avalanche, leaving you unable to throw your pithy remarks into conversation with him or with Ronnie like you usually would’ve. Pretty much silent, pretty much staring a hole through the middle distance. He grabbed the book from you in the library during free period, your free period which he wasn’t even in, and whispered, “Just in case that curse gets lifted and you get your voice back. I’m sure you’ve got, like, a laundry list of barbs you’ve been dying to unload on me all day.”
You remembered the way his eyes softened as he slid the book back to you, pressing his ringed hand against the cover for a couple seconds longer than he needed to.
“Or just… for anything, y’know. We can just talk. About nothing. If it helps.”
At the time, you fought the instinct to put your hand over his.
“Won’t Wayne care that I’m calling?” you’d crackled, voice weary from underuse.
Eddie shrugged. “Not if you pretend you’re Gareth.”
And that was exactly what you were hoping you wouldn’t have to do, shivering in your thin sweater as the dial tone to the Munson’s droned out. What if Wayne answered? What if you couldn’t rightfully approximate the voice of a balls-half-dropped freshman? What if he knew it was you, what would he do?
Well, you needn’t have worried, because you apparently had a future in impressions. You squeaked out something about being the aforementioned Emerson looking for Eddie (at this ungodly hour of the morning?), something about Hellfire.
“Gareth the Great! What’s the problem, the Arcane Brotherhood finally scoop your ass? Need me to come bust you from their tower? I told you, goin’ all Fear and Loathing in Luskan is gonna cost y–”
“Jesus Christ, Eddie, it’s me,” you chattered, but even through the worry, a tiny smile pulled at your lips.
“Uh. Disregard everything I just said.” His voice had an early-morning static to it that you wanted to stay tuned into. “Hi!”
“Hi.”
“Hi… are you… shivering right now? Need me to come warm you up, because I’d be more than happy to cr–”
“Eddie, I’m at the payphone–”
“--what the hell are you doin’ out there?”
“--will you shut up so I can tell you? I don’t have a lot of time, so I need to cut right to the chase.”
“Sorry,” and this breathy little laugh runs through his voice that nearly knocks you clean out. God. What you wouldn’t give to hear that breathed into your ear instead of through some handset flaking rust. “Please, cut away.”
But, uh, yeah. That other thing.
“My father got out of prison some-fucking-how–”
“Wait, what? Like he esc–,” you listen as Eddie drops his voice to a hiss, “Like he escaped?!”
“Oh my god, let me finish! –but, psh, no. Ray Doevski is a man of manicured hand, alright, he’s not tunneling out of anywhere. It’s all apparently legally above board, but… he’s– he’s at home. He’s in the trailer… He’s there right now.”
The fear in your chest was beginning to make your breathing feel white hot, hard to get out. Walls closing in. Your dad is at home. He is in your trailer. He is there right now. Five minutes alone in your room, a flick of his eyes over your belongings, he’ll know everything– everything that you’ve done–
You didn’t even notice that your breaths were turning into low, panicked gasps until Eddie’s voice broke through the receiver again.
“Lace, stay put. I’m comin’ out there.”
“Eddie, no!” you barked down the phone, and a couple of birds scattered from the powerline overhead. Despite the fact that you were pretty sure collapsing into Eddie’s arms would have put a temporary stopper on the panic, you weren’t awarded such luxuries in this life. Figures. “I’ve got to get back to have some phony-ass breakfast with them in, like, now and you cannot be seen near me. Not here, okay?”
What Eddie crackled back with was like a shot of adrenaline to the heart chamber. It wasn’t a plea, or a demand. He simply said, brimming with a bright resolve, “Say the word and I’m there. Right next to you. Hear me?”
You had never heard anyone sound so sure about you before.
Well, Eddie’s valiance was rivaled only by Nancy Wheeler, who you phoned up next. Karen Wheeler answered in a chirpy voice that even sounded blonde, her voice pitching higher when you announced who was calling.
“Oh, Lacy! Of course. I’ll grab her for you, sweetie.” A little too goddamn knowing-sounding for your liking.
But Nancy was all firm edges, picking up on the tremble in your voice just like Eddie had. “Well, you’re coming over. Obviously. Pack a bag– we need to put in serious work for that Streak article you’re finishing, right? Might even be an all-nighter. I’ll order pizza.”
With your dad shackled to the trailer and your mom reluctant to leave his side, there wasn’t a whole lot they could do to prevent you from swanning off to the Wheeler residence. Had to stay true to your commitments, after all, something your dad constantly impressed upon you. But when you reminded him of this as you hitched your overnight bag over your shoulder, heading out to Nancy’s waiting car, he met you with a serene smile.
“Of course, honey. Do what you need to do.” No argument. No pushback. Not even a snide remark. That chilled you to the bone.
You attempted to distract yourself from… well, the whole meal of it, by allowing the Precious Moments-themed decor of the Wheeler household to wash over you. The house is warm and chintzy inside, with shoes piled up by the door and laundry overflowing in baskets. Nancy’s bedroom is just as achingly normal in tones of pink and cream, a sanctuary and a strangle between girlhood and growing up. She’d shyly batted a couple of stuffed animals away from the bed that had seen the throes of her and Steve Harrington. Her Tom Cruise poster hangs opposite a pinboard of college brochures. Barbara Holland’s memorial card on her mirror.
Guilt and innocence and upward mobility.
As you looked around, you thought about the photo strips from the mall of you and Tina and Cass and Carol, how they were stuffed away in a box somewhere. You made a mental note to tug Nancy into the next photobooth you both came across. And Ronnie, for that matter.
Nancy was kind about everything, of course, like she always is; she didn’t push for information about your dad’s surprise return, but you gave it pretty willingly as you cracked into her Cosmo and nail polish collection. Everything but the you and Eddie of it all… that juicy morsel you were saving until the witching hour struck, the customary time for girls to tell secrets at sleepovers.
But somebody always has to try and get the jump on you.
Which is how you and Nancy end up hanging out of her window, a beaming Eddie staring up at you from the pavement.
“What the hell is he doing down there?” Nancy hisses, her eyes panicked and flaring.
“I’m not entirely sure,” but even through the initial flash of panic, your voice has taken on this dreamy quality that makes Nancy roll her eyes–and rightfully so! “Munson, what say you? What the hell are you doing down there?”
“I–”
Nancy doesn’t even let him finish, just lets out an exasperated sigh and tells him, “Just– come up here, alright? I do not want to answer for what’s gonna happen if my dad catches you in the driveway!”
Without a second thought, Eddie makes to hoist himself into Nancy’s dinky bedroom window. He falls over the little seat in a jangle of silver and leather and hair and gleaming teeth– “Ow! Jesus!” “Eddie, shut. Up!” Nancy winces, you wince, but as Eddie rolls onto his back and clears the hair out of his eyes, you realize that fluttering in your stomach is not a fight or flight response.
He smiles up at you, all teeth and mischief. “Hi. Whatcha doin’?”
Oh, no.
You nudge him in the ribs with your foot, way too light for him to yelp like that. Nancy looks like she’s going to kick the shit out of him for real–and you too, maybe.
“You’re telling me you didn’t know about this?” she demands, turning on you. You notice that she’s still holding her fingers aloft, which you appreciate! No one seems to care about manicures as much as you do. It’s nice to finally be seen, for Chrissake.
“Like I’d bring the heat around your place, Nancy! Come on, currently in a precarious situation much?”
Hilarious to describe Eddie Munson as heat when he is, at best, a bull in Wheeler’s overstuffed china shop. Adorably so, you have to concede, watching him pick up a little porcelain figurine from her dresser.
Nancy’s not buying it.
“I plead the eternal fifth!” you exclaim, eyes wide and willing the laugh to stay out of your voice as Eddie peers around Nancy’s stuff. “He operates on his own logic.”
Nancy eyes you warily before her gaze darts to Eddie. “Can you not touch anything? ”
“You have a cat just like this!” Eddie barks.
“What the fuck are you doing here?!” the both of you chorus.
Delicately, Eddie replaces the little ceramic cat with a severely offended look. “Sheesh, ladies, I thought we were friends.” He drops the pretense pretty fast, jerking his chin in your direction with a smile that has I ain’t goin’ nowhere written all over it. “I need a word with the duchess here.”
“So leave a message!”
“He can’t–” “--you think we got answering machines in Forest Hills?” “--my dad–” “--life might be different for all you up here on Maple–” “--will have him taken out by sniper rifle.” “--you know this woman used a payphone for the first time in her life today?”
A squinting Nancy lets this settle in the air for a second, like a stink bomb that’s just been deployed. I mean, you don’t know if she can see it exactly, but the charge between you and Eddie isn’t exactly subtle. Changed, maybe, from will-they-won’t-they to they-did-and-it’s-hazardous. Realization soon dawns on her.
“Oh, you–ohhh,” Nancy nods, and chirps another, “Oh!”
Then, a thunderous hammering that just about brings down Nancy’s bedroom door. The three of you lurch and freeze. Your hand instinctively goes to grab Eddie’s arm, fingers finding the soft leather. Your lashes flutter.
“Nan-cyyyyy!”
That high-pitched, middle-schooled, reedy little tone? “Oh, shit. It’s just Mike.”
“Mom said you were getting pizza so you have to get a pie for me and the guys! Wait,” some juvenile sounding muttering, “Two pies!”
“Oh, Jesus Christ,” Nancy snarls, in the way only an older sister can, “I… am going to go out there and run interference and you– five minutes, okay?! I’m–” She goes so far as to set a timer on her watch. “I mean it.”
Both you and Eddie make noises in the affirmative, him sidling closer and closer to you as Nancy moves out of the room. But she pivots, nailing you both with pointed index fingers. “And don’t– don’t you even think about it. You two are not subtle, I will know!”
“Wheeler, I resent that perverted implication!” Eddie hisses, but his fingers are already walking themselves over the curve of your ass. You’d say something if you weren’t desperately trying to keep yourself under control.
“Mike, quit yelling the house down like an asshole!” “Who is that? Have you and Lacy got a guy in there? Gross, are you sharing a boyfriend or something?” “Shut up, don’t be disgusting, I’ll kill you, get downstairs!”
Soon as Nancy’s door clicks behind her, you wrestle an easily malleable Eddie down to sit on the bed and climb right into his lap, thighs planting either side of him. Your body is completely abuzz now that you’re alone with him again, physical form melding instantly to the heat of his body. Eddie’s gaze darkens just a touch, like he’s dimmed the switch inside his head from mischievous to slightly dastardly. “Oh, shut up!” you say, and catch your mouth on his.
“I didn’t say shit!” Eddie breathes in return, falling right into your rhythm.
“You heard the chief,” you struggle through desperate lip smacking; that lived in taste of him, cigarettes and sweet soda, makes your head feel all baubly on the stem of your neck, “Five minutes,” Eddie’s hands web into your hair, your knees sag into the comforter, “Explain yourself.”
“I was in the neighborhood,” Eddie’s mouth clicks sweetly against yours, words a bullshit mumble against your tongue. A heady mix of relief and desire flood you as you brace your hands around his shoulders.
“Don’t lie,” you say, tinge of a whimper creeping in as Eddie’s grip starts to harden, indenting the flesh of your thigh. “I’ll kill you.”
Looking at his grin is one thing, but feeling it against your neck as his mouth embarks on its own journey is something completely different. “Prom–”
“Eddie, how did you even know I was here?” A light, mindless slap comes down on his shoulder. Your breathing is becoming troublingly labored, head becoming troublingly spinny as Eddie’s teeth graze your collarbone.
“Rudimentary guesswork!” he gasps, coming up for air that’s soon stolen by the ready plushness of your mouth. “Okay. Okay. Fine, I saw Wheeler pick you up in her goddamn station wagon and–” Eddie’s voice cracks a touch as your hips press harder into him, “--put two and two together?”
“And you came here because…? Expound, already!” Your furious, air-starved hiss is a stark contrast to the way your lips keep chasing his.
“I wanted to c– I needed to come–” he swallows your stupid blooming smirk with another kiss, “Shut up. I wanted to make sure you were okay. And I couldn’t sleep. Could you sleep? I couldn’t sleep, just kept thinkin’... Kept… hnm, thinkin’ about you… About you like this… ‘n last night…”
As he babbles, your heart jackrabbits. Christ, you want him so bad. You’d listen to him like this for hours–talking like this alone, open and wanting, is enough to get you off. Eddie’s easing your skirt up your ass, rucking that fabric up slow like he did last night–but you want more than last night, if that’s possible, you want all of him, and for longer and for good–
You want him so badly that you forget where you are. Eyes snap open to catch direct iris-on-iris contact with Nancy’s Tom Cruise poster, hung strategically in view from her bed.
Nancy’s bed. Nancy’s room. Nancy’s fucking Tom Cruise poster.
“Shit,” you say in a strangle, right against his cheek. “Shit, what are we doing?” You rear right back, getting a good look at Eddie’s ruffled demeanor, his blush-high complexion. That intoxicated look he’s wearing just from feeling you up.
Someone looking at you the way Eddie is right now feels completely, totally brand new. Ardent and urgent, untouched by influence.
You’re almost positive that your gulp is audible.
With a couple of rapid blinks, Eddie seems to come back down to earth.
“No. No, you’re right, um– listen, at the risk of completely humiliating myself–”
“More than you did crawling in that window? This is crazed.”
Eddie pauses a beat, a genuine look of offense constricting his features. His hands have moved from your ass to your waist, and don’t shift.
“Hold on–Doevski, are you marking my dismount?”
You assholes just can’t help yourselves, can you? Mouth twitching at the corners, you harden up your gaze.
“I’m just saying, if you weren’t wearing ten tonnes of regalia, you might be able to make a more subtle entrance–”
“--who died and made you a hellenodikas?”
“Oh! Pulling out the Ancient Greek mythology on me now, huh?”
“I would never… pull out on you,” Eddie says and manages to hold his stone faced expression for a grand total of half a second before both your faces split in two. See, you hate him for this; that he can keep perfectly in time with you, and has since the jump.
You’re the first to move. You edge yourself off Eddie’s lap, his hands mournfully side along your legs as you move.
“C’mon. Montague moment’s over. Kick rocks.”
He gives you one good, solid nod and mockingly straightens himself out before attempting to worm his way back out the window. Crouching half in-half out, he pauses. Some remnant of a smile he smiled at you about a million years ago flickers across his face.
“You know, Lace,” Eddie says, “you keep throwin’ me out of windows like this, I’m gonna start thinkin’ you don’t like me.”
The door of the record store. The hot blast of stoned realization. Your fingers around his wrist.
Knees working faster than your brain, you bend to Eddie and meet his mouth again. The kiss is soft and gentle, devolving into several little pecks around his smiling cheeks, his eyes, his forehead. To tide you over. To be continued.
“Eh, I don’t like you,” you mumble, tips of your noses brushing. “That much.”
“Yeah? Well, you got a funny way of showing it.”
You watch Eddie’s dismount (an easy six) and nervous jog all the way ‘til he’s disappeared through the shrubbery of the Wheeler’s. Soon as he’s out of sight, you’re almost positive that you catch a flash of burgundy paintwork zipping past the driveway, but it’s too fast to tell. Weird.
Nancy near slices your fingers clean off as she noiselessly returns to the room, slamming the window shut. For as enraged as she’s trying to look, this girl with her half-painted nails also bears the familiar expression of someone baying for gossip.
“Spill everything. Right now.”
—
Eddie is a living, breathing, stink bomb of a cliche. He’s walking on air, he’s signed a lease on cloud nine, he’s all Gene Kelly’d out and still tap dancing down the locker lined steel trap of Hawkins High. Push back his curling bangs and he’s sure that PROPERTY OF LACY DOEVSKI is etched on his forehead, by the delicate hand that wields your fountain pen.
Dude’s a goner. Lights out, KO’d, hit the bricks gone. And he only has himself to blame.
If it were anyone else, he’s pretty sure it’d be different. Easier to stamp out the flame of hotheaded lust beneath his sneakers like a bag of dogshit on fire if it was some other right-side-of-town type girl. If it was just about being his diametric opposite. But it’s not. It’s you, sharp and silly and sexy, a total turn on even when you’re doing your best O’Donnell impression to sic him into studying. The you that he’s been slyly slipping into the NPCs of Hellfire, in ways that make Ronnie’s eyes roll (but she still tries to flirt with them, and that weirdly makes him a little… jealous? That dwarf is slick when she wants to be). The you that sometimes make a cameo appearance at his lunch table when you’re not holed up in the newspaper room, sat with poise and pith that the rest of the gaggle of nerds just don’t know what to do with.
Eddie can’t count the amount of times he’s wanted to crawl across that table and kiss you. And he’s been close to doing it. Couple times. Remnants of sloppy joes on his hands and knees.
But now he can kiss you, at least in private anyway, because there’s still a roadblock or two you have to navigate. And so what! What’s a little challenge when you’re this blissfully, head fuckerly, heartburningly in l—
“Watch where you’re going, asshole.”
This particular dagger comes straight out of the maw of Hawkins High’s crown jackass, Steve Harrington, whose shoulder Eddie’s just accidentally checked. Now, Eddie’s never cared much for Harrington, but never thought much about him either—the feeling, outside of scoring a baggie or two, is apparently mutual. But the glower Steve is sporting says anything but nonchalance.
“Jeez, Harrington,” the grin Eddie’s sporting makes a full meal out of a plate of shit, “If you like me so much, you can just say so. No need for the whole pullin’ pigtails routine.”
Steve stares at him for a good, hard second or two— so rigidly, in fact, that it nearly makes Eddie’s face falter. Who pissed in this guy’s Cheerios? Because, even if he double counts on his fingers, Eddie’s sure it wasn’t him.
“I,” Steve starts, pretty dumbly, “I’m havin’ a party on Friday. You should come.”
Eddie knows an order when he hears one, but it’s usually couched in something like, You got any good stuff, man? Y’know, phrased in the strained way popular kids do when they pretend not to hate his guts for half a second.
He knocks a mocking two fingered salute off his forehead and Steve’s grimace deepens. “Be there with bells on, sire.”
Up the hallway, one of the classroom doors creaks open.
“I don’t have all afternoon, Mr Munson.”
Steve looks past him to the imposing, near-six foot figure of Ms O’Donnell, impatiently tapping her shoes against the linoleum. Eddie’s smirk flattens into a tight line.
“Well, I’d love to stay and chat, but I’m in high demand! As you can see.”
Steve doesn’t dignify that with a response and takes off toward the exit.
“Quit gazing after the quarterback and get in here,” O’Donnell demands. And who is Eddie to deny her, Amazonian Baba Yaga that she is?
“Ms O’Deeeee, you call yourself a Hawkins Tiger?” he says, turning on heel, “You oughta know that Harrington is one of our finest ball players. Loves to play with balls, that one.”
“You can attest to that first hand, can you?” O’Donnell snarks, settling down behind her desk and gesturing Eddie to get comfortable at the top of the class.
Oh, Iris. She’s right on his level, when she’s not tearing him a new asshole, scholastically speaking.
Her name may not be Iris either, but tomato potato. Eddie slumps down into the desk like a graceless, clinking cat.
“I know you didn’t bring me here to talk about my extracurriculars. That would be a breach of propriety on your part.”
“Sure as hell I did not.” O’Donnell removes her eyeglasses and pinches the bridge of her nose, as she often does not even thirty seconds into an interaction with Eddie. “I’m missing my granddaughter’s recital for this, I want you to know that.”
He’s pulled out the there’s no way you’re old enough to be a grandmother line half a dozen too many times for it to fly again. Not that it ever did— look at this woman, with her tented fingers! She has a clear sight line right through his bullshit.
“I appreciate that you value my education more than some pipsqueak with a cello.”
“The problem is that you don’t,” O’Donnell sighs. There’s a note of defeat in her voice. “Eddie, we need to talk.”
In all the years O’Donnell has been on his case (four consecutive), she’s never addressed him by his first name. Eddie shifts in his seat a little, good mood not quite punctured yet. But askew, slightly.
“They finally found out about our clandestine little tryst, huh? Well, you can tell Higgins and the school board that I’m—“
“Shut up.”
He does. Right up.
“You understand why I push you so hard, don’t you?” O’Donnell asks him, and instead of some smartass response, Eddie clams. Ask him honestly and he’d say she’s a past-prime faculty lifer in desperate need of a power trip. That’s the narrative he’d always gone with anyway, the reason she’d always single him out and make an example of him and insist on the repeat exams he’d rarely end up passing anyways. Like, just flunk him, okay? Get the humiliation over with.
“It’s because I know your situation,” she tells him, “And I know you’re better than it. By a goddamn country mile.”
That knocks him. He blinks. Huh?
“You’re bright, you know. If you only allowed yourself to be,” O’Donnell nods, leafing through a manila folder in front of her, “If you could only find some way to focus, you’d be a halfway to decent student. Might even make it to college.”
“Don’t be too generous,” Eddie scoffs, arms folding over his chest. He can feel the defense rising.
O’Donnell stares at him over the rim of her glasses. “Oh, I’m not. Because the reality is, you’re too far gone. I’ve done all I can to try and drag you out of the sandpit of shit you’ve managed to fall into, but our time is coming to a swift and brutal end.”
A beat.
“Christ, who died and made you my guidance counselor—“
“You’re not graduating, Eddie.”
A cold sear runs down Eddie’s spine. “Um.”
Alright. Alright, look. It’s not like he hadn’t expected this, in some way or another, but again, if he is really honest… Eddie had expected some eleventh hour miracle that ended up with him with that diploma in his hand. Walking the stage in that godawful green gown, scooting down the line to take his place beside Ronnie and… and you.
First Munson to ever do it, at least in the proud township Hawkins. Something solid to his name, finally. A GED that wasn’t necessarily a ticket to college, but proof that he could break the family curse of not following through. He didn’t need to be valedictorian or anything, he just needed…
“But—but,” begins the scramble, “I’ve been doing… better, right? Like, I’ve gotten my grades up… not massively but a little!”
And he had. Fact is, these last handful of months, he hadnt just been dicking around with you and Ronnie after school— you’d actually gone out of your way to slice off some of those legendary brain smarts and slide them his way, bumping him up a letter grade in at least three subjects.
You’d said something similar to O’Donnell.
You’ve got something, y’know, beyond all the hair and regalia. This system is rigged to fail anyone who surrenders to being, like, a bad test taker— so you just have to game the system and make it work for Eddie Munson. Right?
Then you’d poked him in the cheek with your number two pencil and he’d forgotten everything he’d ever learned, brain lingering on that little touch for days.
That was before. Before your bedroom. Before Wheeler’s bedroom. Shit, before Granny Ecker’s closet.
“Now, Eddie. Jesus. You’d need a miracle to get you anywhere close where you need to be to get out of here. Look, I am telling you this because I—“
“Why? Why do you even care? You’re the one that’s been failing me half the time.”
“Yes, because you’ve been failing, smartass! Think I’ve got a choice in the matter?” O’Donnell and her high Midwestern fury shuts him up again. “I’m telling you this because… well, it’s time to weigh up your options.”
“Which are none.”
“Which could be none. The question on almost the entire faculty’s mind is, why haven’t you dropped out by now? And I’ve got a pretty good stab, I think.”
“Enlighten me, then.”
“Because, contrary to popular belief, you’re not your father.”
Eddie has to look away. “Oh, yeah?”
“Yeah. I knew Al Munson. My first year here, I taught him. And I was green then, sure, in the goddamn dark ages but even then I knew he was just looking for any easy way out.”
“And I’m not, huh?”
“No. Because you would’ve dropped out by now.” O’Donnell closes the folder like she’s seen enough. “Eddie, you have something to prove. And it’s worth proving.”
Far be it from Eddie to believe that any teacher in this school actually gives a shit about him, but the glance he steals to O’Donnell makes a damn strong argument otherwise.
“So w… what do I do?”
“God knows half the staff doesn’t want you around for another year. Sorry, but it’s true,” O’Donnell rolls her eyes and Eddie feels the sting of his last name, the skid mark of his father’s legacy following him wherever he goes, “I’ll work on it. Starting with Higgins, which should earn me canonization of some kind.”
“Castle in the sky and all that shit.”
Eddie doesn’t exactly nod; defiance is as strong as his white blood cells. He kind of wants O’Donnell to prove that she’s serious about helping him. About caring at all.
She goes on, tone strict and pushing.
“But you– keep your nose to the grindstone. Just because you’re not gonna pull through this year completely doesn’t mean that the improvement in the last couple of months meant nothing. I have noticed, by the way. And, uh, keep up the peer tutoring.”
Eddie raises his eyebrows. “Huh?”
“Peer tutoring,” there’s amusement dancing in O’Donnell’s words that makes them a little uneven, “Lacy Doevski’s been so kind as to take you under her wing, hasn’t she?”
A shock of heat takes seat on his cheeks. Right. He’d forgotten about that scam you ran like a ride on lawnmower through Kaminsky’s class.
“Y—yeah, somethin’ like that.”
“Well, keep that something going. It’s good. For the both of you,” O’Donnell clips with a knowing look. “I knew her father too.”
She dismisses him with a wave and Eddie, feeling like she’d just made him tie up a pair of leaden boots, follows the tug of his deflated heart like a compass. A tread through the eerily empty after-hours halls brings back a memory here and there. Getting caught smoking under the stairwell on the first day of freshman year; a girl named Phoebe lending him a pencil in Biology, which he ended up using to pretend-stab Tommy Hagan who made fun of her stammer (Tommy cried like a bitch, as if Eddie would ever actually do that); fighting against his better judgment and jimmying the lock of a classroom open so he could help Gareth make a new character sheet for Hellfire and getting detention when they were found out, while the freshman hid under the desk so he wouldn’t be caught too. Plenty of little battles lost. But this is the big one–the one that tells him he’s doomed to repeat this adolescent torture for at least another year.
However, as soon as he shoulders the swinging door open and sees you, bathed in a pool of lamplight with reams of typewriter paper surrounding you, and you pull your fountain pen from your mouth with a tired smile, stitched together just for him…
KO. The big gold belt. Eddie Munson, heavyweight champion of the world.
“Hey, Hildy,” he says, sliding down the short handrail into the typing pool, just because he knows it’ll make you roll your eyes and laugh. And it totally does, a croaky little giggle rasping out of your lips. “What’s the scoop?”
“Don’t you dare come any closer.” Your voice, your outstretched hand, makes Eddie freeze in a rigged marionette’s pose. It’s like your words have actual alchemic pull, how powerless he is to obey you and shit. “Let me just…”
“Seriously?” Eddie lets his arms drop, playing with a ball of elastic bands from the desk he sits on as you painstakingly reorganize your papers. “Y’know, I really should have an early preview of this, given I’m the star of the goddamn article and all. What if I object? What if you paint me in, like, an unflattering light? I could sue. Character defamation.”
“You’re taking care of that defamation all on your own, darling,” you yawn, the punch of your words not quite hitting like they usually would as you stagger across the newsroom to him. You’re exhausted–Eddie can see it. The deep shadows under your pretty eyes, new ink stains appearing on your fingers every day. You’re jerky and shaky, overcaffeinated to the point that the drug ain’t even working anymore. You’re working yourself to the bone. It’s been like this for ages; every spare moment that Eddie doesn’t see you, you’re playing catch up for college applications. “But no. Not ‘til it’s cooked and printed. My portfolio needs this article for a lead-in and it has to be bulletproof. Watertight. Unassailable. Other words for–”
“--perfect?” Eddie steps in, tossing the elastics over his shoulder and tugging you closer so that you’re just about sitting in his lap. “In that case, you chose a real winner of a subject.”
“Eddie.”
“No, seriously! Trailer park nobody with a fantasy game club. Wah-wah. I don’t envy the amount of fluffing you probably have to do to make it remotely appealing to… whoever’s in charge of reading that shit.”
“Admissions board,” you supply. You’re close enough that Eddie can taste your perfume and honestly, he’s doing a great job of not just licking it clean off your neck. “And I know this is one of your self-pity rally cries, and I won’t entertain it. Besides, it’s not just about you. It’s about Hellfire. The whole… well, I’m not saying any more. You’re just gonna have to read it and find out.”
“But I want my ego massaged,” Eddie pitifully whines, right out his nose. He clutches onto you harder, the pressure of your body against his alleviating the pressure of his total failure. His breath snags as you, so tired that you’re nearly trembling, kiss him softly.
“Mm, let’s compromise. I can massage something else,” you hum against his chasing lips, but something saintly touches him before you get the chance to move your inky hand. He uh-uhs you.
“Much as I appreciate the offer and will immediately curse myself for turning you down the second I get back to the trailer… you’re worn out, Lace. Seriously.” Eddie flicks a lock of your hair out of your face. Were you always like this, even when you were queen bitch? Did anyone ever think to check in on you before? “You been sleepin’? At all?”
“I have a countdown to my future and a convict father taking up residence on my couch. Of course I’m not sleeping. I’m optimizing,” you snit in the sleepiest voice he’s ever heard, your head is lolling against his shoulder. The pout you’re wearing makes Eddie want to bundle you right back to Forest Hills, tuck you up in his grody sheets and not let the rest of the world in ‘til you’ve got your strength back. Just you, him, some records. He’d read to you from The Silmarillion, because that was a surefire way to send you unconscious in seconds.
“I just need to get this article done and then I’m… I’m good. It’s out of my hands,” you croak.
“Then it’s… NYU’s problem, right?” says Eddie.
“Columbia,” you murmur, “with Emerson as a safety.”
“Lofty safety.”
“I’m a lofty girl. But you know what? I’m gonna get in.”
A pang in the key of dread hits Eddie in the throat. “I believe that.”
“But you know why?”
“Enlighten me.”
“Because of a silly little story I wrote about you.” You curl Eddie’s hair around your finger and he wonders if you can feel the physical sensation of him melting. Dripping all over you like a pathetic soft serve. “It’s so beyond comprehension but… You’re gonna make my dreams come true, Eddie Munson. I can feel it.”
About time I returned the favor, huh? is what he wants to say, but it’s not the time and it’s not the place and he thinks you might be drifting off in his arms. So he just breathes you in, and takes the win.
—
One thing Ray Doevski was always known to do was move. Not so much in a without exercise, the body devours itself kind of fashion, but in a without constantly one-upping oneself, the self devours itself kind of fashion. With Ray, moving was always some new business venture, some new property acquisition. Some other new reason for a cocktail party, so your mom would have an excuse to pretty herself up and you’d make your on-cue cameo, sweeping through the room and waving at all the important people your father had charmed and collected like stamps. And like stamps, the people he tended to collect all got more valuable with age. Ray liked old money, even if your family was on the newer end of the see-saw.
You saw all that for what it was now. Running the big scamola, charming these people out of pocket with that ugly Hawkins High class ring on his finger. Gold, garish, glaring, a glimmering green stone set right in the center. You hated that thing.
So, to see someone so diligently dedicated to movement and momentum sit docile on the sofa is pretty fucking disturbing. With that ankle monitor permanently welded to his leg, Ray can’t do so much as stand outside for a smoke without the heat coming down on him. Such are the conditions of his parole. It’s a humiliating fate, watching someone so previously well-kempt rot before you.
And more disturbing still, your father seems… not unhappy about his situation. As far as a man on house arrest goes, he’s not angry. He’s not irritable, he doesn’t even seem that frustrated. It’s strange. He’d even asked you to borrow a couple of your books to keep him occupied. That threw you. He’d never taken an interest in your voracious love for literature before… but boredom does absolute downright Invasion of the Body Snatchers type shit to a man.
He smiles at you from the corner of the sofa as you come in from an evening shift at the bookstore, your worn copy of Answered Prayers by Truman Capote in hand. It sends a cold dart through your tummy.
“You!” comes a snarl and your elbow is being snatched before you can even regain your bearings.
“What the f–”
Your mother slams her bedroom door so hard it seems to shake the trailer. It occurs to you that you haven’t stood inside her bedroom in weeks–months, maybe–or even seen inside of it save for the odd glance. Even then, it was always the sad staging of dresses and hose strewn across the bed, glasses with scarlet staining sitting on the nightstand and the smell of cigarette smoke and perfume growing old and flat and stale. But she’d straightened the place up– now the bedsheets sat tight around the corners of the mattress, and Gloriana’s jewelry was tidied away somewhere. No used wine glasses to behold. Like housekeeping had breezed through.
She told you she worked as a maid once, ‘For about a minute. Before your father rescued me.’
“What’s your problem?” you snipe, rubbing your pinched elbow through your sweater sleeve.
Your mother exhales a furious stream of smoke through her grit teeth, Dunhill poised, lit and ready. “You have to do something with him!”
“Me?!” you hiss back. Alarm sets off a roil in your stomach. You’d made incredibly delicate work of avoiding your father since he landed on the other side of the trailer’s formica table, notching it all down to I’m eighteen, I’m about to graduate, I’ve got work to do! All of which is definitely true, but you’d padded it out a little.
Padded it out with the time you spent with your lips on Eddie Munson’s lips, sure, but…
“Yes, you!” Gloriana spits, “Don’t think I’ve noticed how you’ve been skirting around him since he came back. Shouldn’t you be over the moon with yourself?”
“I am. I am over the moon.” Greatest lie you’d ever told. “He’s back! Hurray! We’re all happy families again. Do we get the house back? Do I get my car?”
Your mother’s lip lifts into a little smirk. “Oh, Lacy. Has someone gone and turned your head about Daddy? Knocked him off his pedestal?”
See, your mother’s always had this thing– this seething jealousy about the way you looked up to your father. Not necessarily because you never looked up to her the same way (you’d written plenty in your journal about the vapidity of being a ‘society wife’, as she definitely was– a kind of cornfed Midwestern Slim Keith, an ex-pageant girl from the unremarkable middle point of Hawkins who benefitted entirely from her once-poor husband’s grafting), but because you were there at all. Yearning for his approval and robbing his attention.
Not like you ever got much of either.
“You want I should call the cops and tell them he’s been running phone scams from the trailer?”
Your mom lets out a little huff that could be mistaken for a laugh. “He just sits there, all day long. And when he’s not sitting, he’s curtain twitching.”
Just like you’d thought. Rear Window. Danger zone.
“This place could use a neighborhood watch,” comes the pith through your nerves, “Has he seen anything good, at least?”
Gloriana rolls her eyes at you, hooded with the pretense of as if I’d tell you. “That’s the other thing. He doesn’t talk. But he does ask questions.”
“Like?” you ask, after a rough swallow that alerts you to how dry your throat has suddenly gotten.
Finely penciled eyebrows quirk. It reminds you of how much your mother can resemble Ava Gardner, when she puts some chutzpah into it. “Better get out there if you want to keep him from his suspicions, is all I’m saying.”
As if she knows more than she’s letting slip.
“Shouldn’t you be over the moon? Aren’t you happy that he’s out?” You turn the mirror on her. Gloriana’s eyelids flicker, as if she’s exhausted by the mere question.
“Of course I am. Don’t be ridiculous,” she sighs. “But some things… were easier. Before. You and I didn’t need to pretend–”
That we liked each other.
“Yeah.” You snip right into her sentence because although you’re well aware of the scope of your mother’s feelings toward you, it still stings to hear it said out. She’s still your mom, after all. Or, she should be.
Standing in this room is making you nauseous.
“I’ll keep him occupied for a while.”
“Good. Thank you.”
“Don’t strain yourself.”
Moments later, you’re tossing a pack of cards on the little formica breakfast table. It used to be a universal language in your household, when your father was still feigning interest in you. He taught you to play cards, and taught you how to cheat at them. You only retained one of those things. Little miracles.
“Want to deal?”
Ray slowly closes the cover on Answered Prayers and rises to the table.
“Why don’t you give it a try?” he says, a smile playing around his mouth. You resist the pull to roll your eyes, as if he’s bestowing such an honor on you—and wonder when exactly you did stop worshiping him.
Sometime between the last time you’d seen the back of his hand and the guilty verdict, you’re guessing.
You lay out his hand, and yours. He archly remarks, “Gin?”
“I’ve gotten better.”
“You’ve gotten a lot of things, haven’t you?” Ray says, focusing on his cards. “Lot of things have changed.”
“What does that mean?”
“Look, I admit, I came on a little… strong that first night I came home.” Strong was one word for it; you’d call it more of a three-hour cross examination delivered while you were trapped inside an iron maiden. You’d shed as little light on the whole Munson situation as you could. He gave me a ride once or twice. We go to school together, what do you expect? “But can you blame me? With you and your mother living in… this place? I had to know. To be sure that you were safe.”
You want to think, he doesn’t give a shit about safety. He gives a shit about treason. About me fraternizing with his enemy’s offspring, or whatever. But the way he says it gives you pause.
“It’s not so bad,” you shrug, swapping out a card. “It’s cozy.”
We’re not cozy people.
Ray takes a dig into the stock pile himself, regarding you with a curious look. “See what I mean? You seem… more willing to accept your circumstances. It’s interesting.”
The line between Ray Doevski praising and insulting you is like fishing line; depends on what he’s baiting you with. Accepting one’s circumstances was usually Doevskian for accepting failure.
“What, did you expect me to be kicking up tantrums about not having a clawfoot bathtub anymore? Because I’m not,” you smirk, “I’ve even adjusted to the notion of not always having hot water.”
Your mind flashes back to the small, square shower in the Munson trailer and you make a mental note to ask Eddie how his water heated to boiling within seconds.
“That, I could personally never get used to.”
“Plumbing wasn’t so great in IDOC, I take it?”
“No. But that didn’t register so high on my scale of problems inside.”
“Was it scary?”
“Yes.”
“And were you… in danger?”
A long beat settles between you. Ray shifts in the vinyl-backed seat, a tiny squeak the only sound between him and his apparent discomfort. Chills, again. You get a chill.
“... yes,” he says, and meets your eyes. They’ve sunk a fraction more than the last time you’d looked into them. Some of the gray shocks in his hair have turned white. Scary, to witness real evidence of your parents growing old. And frightened. “Lacy, I’d done badly by a lot of people. Some of them were even inside with me, and they wanted retribution, and that was fair. I could live with that,” depending on what end of a shiv he was on, you guessed, “But I also did badly by you. Very badly.”
Ah, acknowledgement that their father has lied about their criminal enterprises for the better part of her life–just what every little girl wants. It wasn’t as if you had still staunchly believed the not guilty campaign that your parents had spearheaded throughout Ray’s trial, even in the face of stony evidence. He was guilty; you had to figure out if you cared about the crimes, or the fact that he’d led you to believe he was so much better than he was.
But this is the first time he’s really copped to it.
You’re not quite sure what his admission is supposed to do, so you stare at your spades.
“It makes sense that you don’t trust me anymore,” Ray goes on, “But I love you, and I always will. All I’ve ever wanted is to provide the best for you, the very best I could. Better than that, even– because that’s what you deserve. The whole world, Lacy.”
Stomach churning, you wish he’d stop calling you that. Your nickname sounds wrong in his mouth. A world apart from the girl he thinks you are.
“I just feel like you could’ve done that without skimming money off children’s charities,” you hear yourself saying before you register that your mouth is drawling off the words, “And laundering money through those rentals. And… what was it, drug trafficking? I lost count.”
Knowingly, you brace for explosion. Ray flipping the table, scattering his hand and laying an open palm across your face, the dull thunk of his Hawkins High class ring making contact with your cheekbone. That’d be something. Something solid. Something you could point to, that said I know who he is, I tried to stand up to him, I’m not him, please don’t think that I am.
But he doesn’t, so the line of your shoulders tense for no reason. He digs a cigarette out of the soft pack laying on the table and flicks it towards you with a fingertip. His right hand, ring finger bare. He’s not wearing it.
He is wearing a sad grin of humility, shrugging like, well, kid, you got me there. Dead to rights.
He looks like somebody else.
“So, how’s your life been, Lacy Doevski?” A charm dances around his tone, the way a flame dances around the edge of a photograph that doesn’t want to burn.
And despite your best fucking instincts, despite the way that nickname falls out of his mouth like upchuck, despite the fact that you should hate him, there’s a change in the lighting around him that you just cannot help but want to engage with.
“You really wanna know?”
“I really wanna know. Tell me everything. The road to Columbia, how’s that going? The newspaper. This job at the bookstore in town. Your friend, uh, Nancy, right? She seems like a nice kid. I know Ted Wheeler, a little bit. Went to school with him and her mom, Karen. And everybody knew Karen, but, uh, don’t mention that to Nancy!” He steals another card from the stock pile, but doesn’t discard one from his hand. You decide not to mention it. “I want to know everything, Lacy. I’ve been way too distracted with things that don’t matter as much as you. Call this… makin’ up for lost time.”
Your shoulders shrug into themselves, like when you were a little kid and he’d let you sit on the big leather chair in his office after you’d sat outside the door for a solid hour, begging to come in. The corners of your lips pick up.
“Just about to finish my applications. I’m submitting this writing portfolio–”
“--I thought we talked about business school?”
You seize. You had. An effort in setting you up for a future of undebatable prestige started to sound more like sending you off to the meet market, the more your father talked about it. Business school is where you’ll meet young men of excellent character, Lorelei. Excellent family stock. It won’t hurt if they see that you’re smart, too.
… why the everloving fu-huuuck would you go to business school when you spend every spare second of the day giving yourself carpal tunnel and preaching about that Woolfe chick, Lace? Nope, you need someplace with climbing ivy and people whose dissenting opinions on cliterature you can cat fight with. Eddie Munson, leaning over the counter at the Bookstore and shedding light on your secret desire to bury yourself in novels and pretention with his ever-burning flare of perception.
Cliterature? you’d asked, brow an arch.
Classic literature. As written by the fairer sex. Bronte and broads.
Well, Jesus Christ. Who died and let you lead the third wave of feminism, Munson?
“Um…” You hadn’t prepared a good defense for this. You felt a stab of nausea.
“It’s okay!” your dad chuckles, tapping you on the wrist in reassurance, “You changed your mind. That’s fine. But it’s still Columbia, right?”
“God, of course. Couldn’t imagine anywhere else.”
“Good.” The smile reaches his eyes. “Sorry, your portfolio.”
“Right, uh– I’m just about polishing it off and I’ve got a great lead in, my last article for the Streak…” you trail off. A warning signal travels down your brain stem. Don’t tell him. Don’t tell him about Hellfire. You’ve got to keep him as far away as–
“About what?” Ray asks brightly. Picks up a card. Discards another. You see a twitch in his mouth.
“An after school club,” you blurt. “My, um. My friend Ronnie’s in it. We were… lab partners. Junior year. Dissected frogs together.”
“Yeah, that really bonds people for life, huh?” Ray says. Not a trace of irony. “Well, I look forward to reading it. If you want me to. I know writers can be very precious about their work.”
And their subjects.
“Uh, well. We’ll see. I might not want to jinx it after I send off my applications.”
“Superstitious,” he smiles, “Just like your old man.”
“And I have a boyfriend.” The blurting just doesn’t let up from you, eh? Like you have to cover all your bases while Ray is swept up in this gregarious mood. “And he goes to… Ithaca. I think.”
Your father makes a face that stands up to some interpretation of, la-di-da, lookit you! and Christ, you’re nearly sure he’s bought it. College guy… he’d kind of fallen by the wayside since you took that trip to Saturday morning detention. He’d better fucking pick up if you call now, if he hadn’t gone back to Vermont or wherever.
“Well, look, I’m glad you’ve kept that momentum even given… everything. And I’m glad you seem to be surrounding yourself with good, level-headed people.” People he would have called nobodies eight months ago. People you would have called nobodies eight months ago. “Like Nancy. And this Ronnie. And that you’ve stayed out of trouble, as much as you can.”
You swear you see his eyes flick to the window beside you. In the direction of the trailer across the way, where a warm yellow light glows from the bedroom. There’s a shake in your breath, but Ray isn’t quite done.
“I’m incredibly proud of the woman you’re becoming, Lacy. And look at that–” His hand slaps down on the table, revealing his melds. “--gin! I thought you said you got better at this, kid!”
“You took me by surprise, Daddy. What can I say.”
—
“Quit that. That’s explosive cargo you’re flickin’.”
“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.” Tap, tap, tap. One of the hinges of this rusty, crusty, dusty old domed metal lunchbox is loose, and you can’t stop toying with it. “This is what you’ve been carrying your motherlode around in?”
“What about your mother’s load?” Eddie says, scraping the lunchbox a couple of inches away from you on the bench. Still, you reach for it, and he smacks your hand away. “Respect the receptacle, please. It’s a thing of legend.”
“Seems like a dangerously obvious hiding place for a bunch of illegal substances,” you say, brow creased. Had Eddie put any thought into his operation thus far? Because this seems extremely haphazard. He’s always swinging that goddamn thing around school, and one look inside the false bottom could put him away for a long time, if the Reagan administration had anything to do with it.
“Exactly! Making it the last place anyone would think to look!” Eddie beams, flicking the lid open. “Class A drugs? Why, no, officer, these are my party pretzels. From home.” A deeply tragic baggie of crushed pretzel pieces lands between the two of you. Your frown deepens a degree or two. Eddie shrugs, shaking his curls out a little and starts picking through the detritus in the lunch box. Other than a couple of dime bags, a box of Camels, a lighter and some loose Twizzlers, his load’s light.
“How exactly does one get into the business of selling hydroponics et cetera out of a lunchbox, Eddie?”
“Why, you lookin’ to diversify your criminal skillset?” That sly poke. You roll your eyes, jiggling your mary jane’d foot and pick up a bag of Mary Jane herself.
“I’m just curious about the trajectory! The more I learn about you, the more it occurs to me that you’re possibly the uncoolest drug dealer in history. You know, stereotypically speaking.”
“The answer I think you’re looking for is that I’m a big, big boy,” Eddie rasps, taking an exaggerated chomp out of one of the liquorice ropes, “and I contain multitudes. Shit happens. Sometimes it leads to you selling pot. Et cetera.”
“What kind of shit?”
He considers you for a second, but you’re bright-eyed and curious about him. He jumps back from you when you’re like this sometimes, like he just touched a hot stove. You’d give him shit for it, but you did the same thing. The Twizzler waves in your face. “If I didn’t have such a brain-damage inducing crush on you, I’d think you were a narc.”
“Eddie.” Though your heart does jump like a needle on a scratched record when he says crush. Particularly when he says crush like that. But he could elaborate on that for you later.
“Fine, fine, fine– I’m not gonna get into the finer points of it now, but… basically, some shit went down with my dad that meant I had to move in with Wayne and working at the plant isn’t actually the cash cow that you’d think it is, and neither is me picking up barback shifts at the Hideout so… I hit up my dad’s friend Rick who said he’d help me out if I ever needed it and here we are. Lunchbox and all. Half ounces for halfwits at horrible parties.” Eddie toughens into this tense line as he speaks, like he’s halfway embarrassed about having to do this. “Means to an end, y’know?”
You nod, though you want to prod further so bad. “Do what they expect of you until you don’t have to anymore.”
Exactly, Eddie mouths with narrowed eyes, another bite into the Twizzler. “You know what tune I’m singin’.”
Better than the both of you realize, it seems.
“This whole,” you gesture around the circular clearing, the place everyone knows you come to meet Munson to score product, “place does kind of look like the kind of hotspot where one might catch Goody Proctor dancing with the Devil.”
It’s your first time out here–you’d elegantly skirted the responsibility of ever having to pick up for your group of friends but it’s… delightfully creepy. Whispers cragging through the tree branches. Eddie’s presence knocking you off guard at every turn–well, not you. Not anymore.
“Rumors are kind of starting to add up. Satanic worship, human sacrifice… girls panties going missing. That’s all I’m saying.”
A maddened grin peeling over his features, Eddie scooches closer to where you sit, perched on top of the rotting picnic table. “Why do you think I lured you out here, Lace?” His fingertips race up your calf and you spill a giggle, squirming away. “The Dark Lord requires another infernal bride!” He leaps up, ticklish touch attacking your sides ‘til you’re shrieking, not working quite as hard as you could to beat him away.
“Ed–Eddie, st-aaahap!”
“It’s all cool! It’s no big deal! Just take your clothes off and sign my yearbook! Then, hey presto, the big guy’ll give you whatever you want.”
Eddie’s hands slow to a still on your hips, your uncrossed legs caging his sides. His lids fall, mouth prepping a pout for yours, but you press your thumb into his lips.
“Whatever I want?” you whisper, eyes narrowing.
A smirk flickers across Eddie’s mouth, a puff of breath pressing his mouth into your thumb until the tip is wedged between the edge of his teeth. Your breathing stills for a second and you resist pushing it further into his mouth.
“Shit,” he murmurs, moving your hand across his cheek so he can kiss you full on the mouth. His tongue is needy and searching, making you curve into him just a touch. You can feel the prickle of his stubble coming up. Eddie with a five o’clock shadow… “I’d give you whatever you want, Lace. John Hancock in the Book of the Beast or no.”
The wettened peaks of his lips go straight for your jugular. You two have shared enough mouth-to-mouth episodes for him to know that feeling his tongue against your pulse is liable to make you do nutty things.
“Tell me what you want, dahling one,” Eddie’s mouth crawls up your jaw in an approximation of Bela Lugosi, up to your ear, where he knows you’re ticklish too. You feel him smile at your breathy laugh. “Anything you desire, anything beneath the blazing sun and under the heaving mud, anything under the banner of… the Hawkins township, because I don’t have a lot of gas money right now…”
“I want you,” you struggle through a sigh–his stupid mouthy beautiful mouth, “to get rid of that goddamn lunchbox. At least, for illegal purposes. Keep it for pretzels.”
Eddie honks out a nasally groan far too close to your ear and you jerk back. “No! You’re supposed to be all, ‘I absolutely indubitably want you, Eddie,’ and then we’re supposed to, ee-ee,” he thrusts his clothed hips into yours animatedly, “on this very table top. Until you realize it’s covered in woodlice.”
“Well, I can’t fuck you if you’re in prison. I’m telling you, that old tin thing falls apart in the hallway and you’re being tried as a full adult!” Wait, did he say woodlice?
“You worry too much. S’gonna make you warty. Plus,” he says, unlatching himself from you and tossing his effects back in the tin box, “this is a family heirloom. Al Munson made good on his last straight job at the plant for a grand total of six hours, and all he got was this lousy lunchbox.”
Speaking of Al…
“Y’know, I was thinking… If it wasn’t for your dad…” Your hands knit in your lap as you pretend to look around for woodlice.
“‘If it wasn’t for Al’ what?” Eddie’s tone is flat, “Grand theft auto would decrease tenfold from here to Bloomington? Less diner waitresses would have complexes about men who abuse the free refill system? Starcourt Mall wouldn’t have burned down?”
Your eyebrows knit. Okay, pause. “What has he got to do with Starcourt Mall?”
“I’m not a hundred percent, but I have a theory,” Eddie says, arms bound across his chest. “It involves horseshit bombs and the Russian mafia.”
“And you told me my Larry Kline theory was crazy!”
“Well, funny you mention because my idea actually runs kind of concurrent to that–”
“No, let’s put a pin in that for a second,” you cut him off, “It’s… my dad. I think he might actually be somewhat rehabilitated. Knocked down a peg, maybe? He actually displayed a hint of diffidence, Eddie. I think I … kind of have Al to thank for that.”
Sure, there was an air of initial disconcert to you and your dad’s little game of gin rummy, but the more you ruminated on it, the more it felt… threatless. Your mom had even joined you for a grim dinner of mac and cheese, where the three of you had nearly fondly reminisced on the pasta alla vodka from a restaurant they always went to on New Years Eve in Indianapolis. Maybe that’s what it took; a stint in prison to crack his ego like the Liberty Bell, and now Ray Doevski had to bear the humility like everyone else. Maybe he’d make good on his promise, making up for lost time.
But the disbelief, and, in fact, concern that Eddie is eyeballing your way says something different.
“Don’t thank Al for anything.”
“I’m just saying. Dad and I actually talked last night, for the first time in… ever, really, and it didn’t feel like he was sizing me up. It was.. He was… nice.”
“Lacy.” Eddie’s shoulder’s sag. He hops up on the table next to you, bringing you knee to knee. The tear in his jeans rubs against the webbed nylon of your tights. When he looks at you, it’s with rounded eyes that could very well have been checking you for brain damage. “I don’t mean to blow out your candle or anything, but coming from someone as well versed in the tales of a crooked father who never really changes as I… I don’t buy this Ray of sunshine bit.”
Your hackles start to raise. Hey. Just because Al Munson was a famed and patterned piece of shit didn’t necessarily mean–
Eddie clocks you immediately, your crunched brow and pursed mouth. His hands go up, requesting pause. “Look. This is your first time at the convict parent rodeo, so I know how it is. Whirlwind. They always roar in in some Cadillac full of promises, right, swearing to make everything they fucked up right by you. But it never sticks, Lace. They’re hardwired to not follow through, okay? At least not on anything that doesn’t serve their own vain little agenda. With Al, it’s always some big dick scheme, something that’s gonna set us, and by us I mean him, up for life. No matter how good it feels to have them back, it– it always feels better when they’re gone.”
His searching eyes dart to his hands, as if he’d said a touch too much. On the one hand, a couple of painful pop rocks explode in your chest. You always feel this way whenever he mentions Al– Eddie’s let you in on glimpses here and there, revealing that he hasn’t quite shucked off the essence of being a hurt kid. It presents you with the super challenging desire to soothe the memory, but you dance around it at a distance. The dad stuff, it’s still sticky for the both of you. But now that Ray is back, and Al is back, you kind of have to talk about it. It figures pretty keenly into… whatever the fuck you two think you’re doing.
Then, on the other hand, a quick flash of resentment burns in you. Yeah, your dad is hardwired–why can’t mine be different?
“Better?” you ask.
“Maybe–not better,” Eddie rectifies, his rings knocking against his palm. “But easier. It’s always easier when he’s gone, even if I want him to be there. At least I know what to expect when he doesn’t call or write or whatever, which is nothing.”
“So I should do the same? Expect nothing?” You can’t hide the bite in your voice, and you can’t meet his eyes when he looks at you.
“Lacy,” he says, searching hard for you in there, “You know what kind of guy your dad is. All the pomp and circumstance in the world won’t change what you’ve already seen. What you’ve already been through. This nice guy shit is a tactic– you…”
A heavy-ringed hand pulls your face to his, forcing you to look him in his earnest, gleaming eyes.
“You deserve more than that.”
Confusion with a sadness chaser churns in you. The metallic chill of Eddie’s rings against your cheek. A cooling comfort. Not a harsh sting. Not an open palm. A cradle.
“I know you don’t believe me, for whatever reason, but you do deserve more than that.”
I still want you to be wrong, a voice hisses in the back of your head. Fucking Medusa rising.
“Yeah,” you nod in his hands, surrendering because it’s the right thing to say. “Yeah, of course I do. I’ll be careful. It’s fine.”
“And speaking of careful,” Eddie’s timbre hits a more suggestive spot, his hand falling from your jaw to your shoulder, “Harrington’s having a party on Friday, s’why I need fresh supplies.”
“Oh, really?” you mumble, mood not immediately perking up.
“Yes, really,” Eddie mocks, grip slipping to your waist. “I was thinking… y’know. Harrington’s house is big. Lotta rooms. Lotta beds…”
“Lot of intimacy at big parties,” you paraphrase Gatsby. “But the last time I was at Harrington’s… Is that such a good idea? Risking a repeat of teenage gladiator?”
“You were hardly gladiating, you were performing The Crab Monologues. Now, Carol, she wa–”
A scowl starts growing on your face. “Not helping your case.”
“Okay. Okay, I’m sorry,” Eddie grins that bitten, private grin he deploys when he’s just about to lay one on you. “Will you show if I promise to protect you from wild redheaded assailants?”
“I’ll consider it. But that better include that little neighbor girl of yours, too,” you warn, suddenly reminded of the viscous stink-eye that Billy Hargrove’s stepsister had been throwing your way the last couple of times that you passed her in the trailer park. “Orphan Annie has it out for me for some reason.”
“You’re so cute when you’re paranoid.”
“You have a woodlouse in your bangs.”“Wuagh! Where! Kill it!”
author's notes: christ it is GOOD TO BE BACK!!! if this feels like a part one to something, that is because it very much is, my friends. this was on its way to becoming a 20k+ chapter, which would freak me out actually so i decided to have some boundaries for once and split it in two. get you warmed up for what's to come. it's drama. btw. anyway on with the show
- ohhh, you guys i have been listening to so much early-mid 00s emo in order to write this story. i realized that that's my secret weapon, because it's just as melodramatic as these two fucking dumbshits are. points to anyone who knows what the title of the chapter is a reference to (bonus points if they can find it a second time in a past chapter of this story)
- flannery o'connor is of course a standard doevski pick for an author, but also a nod to maya hawke playing her in the biopic, which looks exquisite btw
- back at it with the extremely rudimentary dnd references! i thought fear and loathing in luskan was fun
- eddie WOULD know a ton about ancient greek mythology, specifically the goings on at the olympics, but not because he has any real vested interest in it but moreso because when he researches for a campaign he goes absolutely hard, like me with my 26 tabs open googling 'nail polish shades popular 80s teen girl bonne bell'
- kick rocks! montague moment's over! but real quick-- what's munson? it is not hand, nor foot nor arm nor face, nor any other part... belonging to a man :)
- yet another hellfire & ice fancast moment, i must present my personal pick for o'donnell-- it's gotta be allison janney, baby. less in the 10 things i hate about you guidance counselor vein, rather in the stepmom from juno vein.
- 'hey hildy, what's the scoop?' had to get a his girl friday reference in somewhere, didn't i
- answered prayers by truman capote is not only the cuntiest book ever written (capote essentially sold the secrets of his wealthy socialite friends in order to write it) but is also the latest ryan murphy adaptation
- we stan jordan baker from the great gatsby in this house
alright! that's all for this one! hope you enjoyed it, i know it's heavy on set up but next chapter will see us right back at casa de harrington for another blowout party, so... brace yourselves. please comment and reblog to support the work, thank you hellcats i love you forever
#published by powder#hellfire & ice#in progress#e. munson by powder#eddie munson x reader#eddie munson x f!reader#eddie munson x you#eddie munson x oc#stranger things fic#eddie munson fic
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Acedia's suits!!!
if Acedia was in a video game, you'd have quite a decent selection to choose from for a new cosmetic to play with!
Some suits have a bonus feature/ability that can aid in battles, while the rest are merely aesthetic. A few may even be beneficial during story moments.
small descriptions of all of them:
Default: Amazing Fantasy #15: The Cryptid Crawler 1962. A beautiful 2 piece suit that Acedia and Doc Ock designed and crafted together as a thank you to her for saving his life.
50% Matcha: Symbiote/"Black" suit. When Matcha was born, it grew attached to and bonded with Acedia without her knowledge, causing her to act out without her usual anxiety, becoming a little more bubbly and bouncy. Her suit got visual overhaul when Matcha made itself known. It was only when Matcha finally detached from her that Acedia was hit with a wave of realization, embarrassment and regret to the things she did. (Boosts attack and speed)
"Big Time": Who doesn't love a nice black with neon suit? It almost gives off a futuristic vibe. (cosmetic)
Homemade: Before she became 'Acedia' she lurked around in her beloved sloth onesie and matching slippers to stop a few petty crimes despite her better judgement. (cosmetic)
2099: In the far off distant future, the Daily Bugle is torn between calling the Cryptid Crawler the 'New York Jersey Devil' or 'New York's very own El Chupacabra'. After so many years, they still aren't very bright on creature identification, as noted by 'The Lizard' being an Axolotl. (Boosted stealth & speed)
"Web-Man": Bizarro Acedia?? Something is off about this Sloth-Woman. Yet JJJ still thinks it's Acedia, albeit with a new change of clothes.. that are just a color swap. (cosmetic)
Cryptic Mystic (Mysty Dreamer + Bubble Sloth): A little gift from her beloved Mysterio made in his image. When couples wear matching clothes. (Boosts Stealth + releases smoke from palms of claws) (other 2 are souvenirs from hopping the multiverse to her friend's worlds)
Insulated: When getting shocked one too many times, Acedia got this suit made to help protect herself against Electra the next time they fought so she could help to deescalate things more safely. (stores charges of electricity from Electra's attacks and is able to release small bursts to temporarily stun enemies + boosted attack & defense)
Doc Ock: A suit devised by Otto to aid Acedia in getting closer to him safer to help stop him when his inhibitor is damaged and he is sent into a frenzy. The two actuators that hang behind her can are fully functional. (boosted stealth & attack)
Zombie: What if..? Mysterio had been scratched during an unforeseen attack by a zombie, keeping it a secret from Acedia so she wouldn't worry as they found a place to hide. It was only a matter of time before the infection kicked in and his bit her, causing her to change alongside him. (cosmetic)
Negative: A special suit crafted to counter Miss Negative's energy powers and be able to take her out. (effective only against Miss Negative, otherwise cosmetic)
Harvest: Perhaps in another life Acedia was more on brand to the whole 'Spider' thing. (boosted speed)
Captain Universe: Temporarily Acedia was chosen by the Enigma Force while the current holder at the time was unable to perform their duties, being taken out of commission by some outside greater power. (boosted attack)
Mysteria: In the future of The Fantastic Spider-Man, Mysterio has a brand new partner in crime. Mysteria was a loyal and dedicated fan who idolized Mysterio so much she became deluded, seeing Spider-Man as the villain and Mysterio as the hero. She now works by his side and often faces and fumbles against Spider-Girl as Spider-Man enters retirement. (can create an illusory duplicate to distract foes for a quick getaway, duplicate fades after a short bit of time)
Love Bug: A lovely little albino sloth here to spread love and joy to everyone and be your friend! :) (cosmetic)
Friends Forever: A suit made from friends across the multiverse coming together to show their everlasting bond with one another through the shared hardships they've all faced together. Wearing this feels like a group hug. (boosted defense)
#my art#phone art#spidersona#//long post#I don't know how to tag this help--#blood#blood tw#blood cw#zombie#zombie tw#zombie cw
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being like... just barely too old for the vaping craze really does make me feel like i'm in a bizarro world. like what do you mean a very short-lived ad campaign got everyone like 2 years younger than me addicted to faux-smoking. just three months of 'don't you want to be cool??' got y'all spending your barely there disposable income on smoking for babies? in this economy???
i literally don't even know how it happened. just one day vaping didn't exist, the next my weirdo roommate was vaping but it was just him and tbh it was his healthiest addiction so we let it go, and then i blinked and everyone in the world younger than me is doing it.
for what reason??
#i never even understood hte appeal of real smoking#because its SUCH a high health cost for such a mild buzz?#same with vaping#youre spending that much money that much health... for JUST THAT???#you're better off just buyign a treat at the store??#or just smoke real weed#do you just not know how to roll??
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"Jekyll is the most mentally stable of the mad scientists" what are you smoking? do you live in a bizarro world in which everything is the opposite? this man literally needs to do fantasy cocaine every 3 hours to keep himself lucid lest he attempts to eat people's faces
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on fire: a teen wolf novel
chapters 4-6
chapters 1-3 here
cox communications doesn't respect 3rd shift workers so last night i had to go into my brick and mortar office. i was able to get a lot of reading done but due to rules and regulations i was unable to write down my thoughts as i went. instead i used those little sticky note tabs to mark passages of interest so that's why this post took a little bit longer as i had to review what i had marked.
anyway.
our national nightmare continues.
ngl this book is weird. it's bizarro season 1.
it's non-canon compliant post-episode 5 the tell. i genuinely do not understand why they just didn't tap nancy holder to write a novelization of season 1.
warning: kate argent's existence and general grossness.
so buckle up buttercups here's a preview of what's to come:
we start this chapter from kate's point of view and it makes me feel dirty already. cast it into the fire, isildur. she’s just vile. just look at these nauseating quotes that she has all within the first page:
“nothing beat the feel of cold, hard steel -- unless it was the rippling muscles of a well-built man.”
this bitch.
”god, all those muscles. the last time she’d seen him, he’d still been in high school. still a kid. a stupid, gullible kid, who should have died in the hale house fire along with the rest of his family.”
tell me again how the intention wasn't for derek to have been a minor when kate was grooming him? tell me fucking again.
“maybe she should’ve taken advantage of derek while he’d been down on the floor, writhing from the nine hundred thousand volts she’d sent skittering though his kick-ass body. for old time’s sake.”
chris and victoria are there too, being way more normal about things. they brought egg salad and cold cuts which feels like it’s hitting the beat where victoria comes in with cookies in the show.
despite having grounded allison for her skipping school with scott on her birthday they are perfectly fine with her having not only a study date with lydia but allowing her to sleep over. it’s apparently to cover the arrival of a shipment of weapons. kate isn’t impressed that they’re still hiding everything from allison and disappointed there isn’t some super-special weapon in the shipment.
this entire time she’s being weird and kind of sexual about an uzi. like, fuck off kate.
now we’re back to scott and allison at the seedy motel plot where they are trying to locate jackson. “scott’s first instinct was to throw his arms around allison and duck, but she yanked the door open and barreled inside the motel like a superhero.” uou are goddamn right, scott. that is ally a.
the motel is basically an off the books brothel. one of the patrons supposedly saw something in one of the windows when he went open it for a smoke but saw something that scared him causing a heart attack. allison and scott ask a few people if they’ve seen jackson then have to book it when sheriff stilinski shows up.
these two idiots duck down in her car. i think we see stiles and scott do this a few times in the show.
lydia calls allison freaked out that she hadn’t called her back yet and harkens back to the tell by saying “a....window?” when they tell her about the man having a heart attack and scott describes her as sounding odd.
i appreciate that lydia's trauma isn't being ignored because that just happened to her in the tell.
all this use of the generic where’s my phone app and using conference calls to sneak around feels like an adaptation of the plot beat in wolf’s bane.
the sterek agenda continues. derek and stiles spend a significant portion of the coming chapters together much like they do in the back half of season 1. it starts with the possible origin of the derek being in stiles’s room trope.
stiles muses over the text he’d received from scott about the incident at the motel and as if being summoned derek is just suddenly there in his room. look at this bullshit:
he texted back, muttering, “so, scott, saw what? saw derek?”
“yes?” derek said from behind him.
“yeaoww!” stiles shouted. he turned around to find derek leaning against the wall. he did that on an irritatingly frequent basis, both at scott’s house and casa stilinski. he was wearing his black leather jacket and he looked especially pouty and broody. “could you not do that anymore? it is so not cool.”
irritatingly frequent basis? how many times has derek randomly appeared in your room stiles? and i’m sorry “especially pouty and broody”? what a totally super casual observation that is.
it gets even better. derek questions what scott is doing and stiles deadass answers “doin’ stuff.” which naturally irritates derek and derek requests stiles tell scott he wants to meet him. they’re interrupted by the sheriff calling for stiles to which we get:
“gotta go get that.” Stiles pointedly shut down his desktop -- Derek actually growled -- and slid his phone into the pocket of his jeans. “don’t touch anything.”
derek why are you growling? weirdo.
stiles talks to his dad and probes for information about the motel guy and they discuss his homework. it's actually a pretty great conversation between the two and pretty much the only time it occurs in the book.
there’s a mention of stiles’s mother and the sheriff asks stiles if he’s taken his adderall that day. so again, clearly whatever notes holder received very much indicated stiles's ADHD.
back in stiles’s room we get derek pointedly having ignored stiles’s directive to not touch anything: “he zoomed back into his room to find derek clacking away on his computer keyboard.” and “hey,” he said. “keep your paws off.” derek gave him one of his trademark sour glares.”
this just continues to confirm for me that holder received some kind of outline of character and plot beats. casa stilinski? sour glares? derek and stiles doing investigative work and going to a hospital? stiles having a low key bisexual crisis over derek? it’s all there.
i mean bro look at this:
“look,” derek leaned toward him and the hairs on the back of stiles’s neck stood straight up.”
and the banter:
“but don’t do anything wolfy in my jeep,” he said, opening his door and peering into the hallway. the coast was clear. “like stick our head out the window to let your tongue hang out --”
“shut up,” derek said.
here's another werewolf moment i find rather intriguing. scott and allison have made it to the preserve by this point still hot on the trail of jackson who lydia had told them was somewhere in the preserve. scott has a moment where in his mind he hears the how of a wolf. it says “an echo inside an echo” and “one wolf calling to another. seeking the pack.”
that's pretty cool and it's not something shows up in the show.
jackson has finally arrived. i miss this asshole. he's in the woods being pissy about meeting the private investigator that had left him a note and a picture of his supposed biological father.
jackson’s perspective on what happened in magic bullet is just [chef’s kiss]. he refers to derek as scott’s drug dealer.
“mccall’s creepy drug dealer had shown up at school. when jackson had stood up to him, he’d grabbed him by the neck, and, like, gouged him with his fingernails.”
in jackson’s narration something caught my eye. “things had been fine before the start of the school year. Then it was almost as if McCall had concocted some kind of scheme over the summer to ruin his life.” so not only is this book an AU of season 1, the time frame seems off. the show starts the first day after their winter break in january. wolf moon takes place during the episode. the book places this before wolf moon has occurred which comes up later in derek’s narration.
this is such a good line and is a window into jackson’s mentality:
“everyone wanted something jackson had. it was usually money or popularity. the secret? they were exactly the same thing.”
allison and scott are still in the woods. they’ve been kissing for a while but then they run into a wolf. they are really so soppy in this book and it's both accurate and annoying.
allison is awed and scott is quietly panicking. allison goes on about how she thought it was beautiful and scott’s mind wonders if he’ll ever turn into a wolf like how Laura did.
which, lol, no baby because you never make peace fully with being a werewolf.
annnnd we’re back to the stiles and derek plot line. they’re playing dress up. i kid you not. these two are pulling a dean and sam.
“my new best friend and i are at the hospital.” stiles said, twirling the listening end of a stethoscope in a little circle. so far he’d been unable to hypnotize derek with it.
there’s another small dig about derek not being a real person in stiles’s narration. this book hates derek, okay but i have a lo more on that later. for now these two idiots infiltrated the hospital by pulling the old stand by of Looking Important. stiles has a conversation with scott which is invoking wolf’s bane so hard:
“and you’ll never guess what. you can get past hospital security if you steal a white coat out of the storage room and parade around with it and a clipboard.”
derek grunted. he was the one holding the clipboard, but he had passed on wearing a lab coat.”
stiles continues his observations of derek like the freak4freak he is:
“stiles covered the phone, “he can’t talk about wolfie matters,” he reported back to derek.
“because he’s with her,” derek said, looking even more dour than usual. stiles had never realized there were so many degrees of the brood until derek hale came into their lives.”
there’s a bit of back and forth regarding scott reporting that he and allison saw an actual wolf. derek’s disbelieving and cranky to which stiles ponders this totally normal thought:
“maybe if he gave derek a sugar cube -- or threw him a piece of raw meat -- derek might cheer up. stiles would have to try that someday. but today wasn’t looking good for that.”
derek then snatches stiles’s phone to question scott’s whereabouts. he is still cranky. meanwhile stiles is reading derek’s body language and it’s way too detailed for a normal person. like, stiles no one cares derek’s hand is in his jacket pocket while he grumps at scott and emphasizes “like always”.
stiles how hard have you been watching derek? he may have complained about derek showing up in his room unnaounced but he's like
before we get into derek’s narration which ooh boy guys you aren’t ready. stiles and derek have their classic bickering-bantering some more.
derek’s insisting stiles take him to the preserve so he can scent scott out. stiles is appalled and is like “oh my god derek you weirdo there’s an app for that.” and gets a little red riding hood dig in.
derek refuses to admit stiles has a point but orders stiles to give him his phone. stiles all but says Fuck You No and derek brings out his oldie but goodie:
“tell me or i’ll rip your throat out.”
stiles probably thinks “don’t threaten me with a good time” but instead he says that he knows derek’s not telling him everything and insists he’s going with derek to find scott.
it ends on this exchange:
“all right,” he said, “but we’ll take your jeep.”
stiles huffed. “why can’t we ever take your car?”
alas the camero. we barely knew her.
now we switch to derek’s point of view to narrate and so begins a piece of characterization that i don’t like, isn’t actually accurate to the character at any point in the series and frankly chaps my ass. i’m just going to give you all the paragraph as a whole.
“hey, you have to take me with you.,” scott’s annoying little sidekick insisted as derek stalked out of the hospital. derek took a tiny bit of satisfaction in the way the human had to trot along to stay abreast. he was sick to death of taking the weakness of humans into account while formulating his plans. de respected power, and few humans had any.”
besties, this book may very well be the origin of Derek Thinks Humans Are Weak trope. now, i’m sure some of you are like heather aren’t you perhaps being a tad dramatic?
no. no i’m not. at first i considered this might be because of derek’s experience with kate. it would make sense that perhaps based off the information holder had that derek might be wary but than this fucker drops this line:
“werewolves didn’t share information with humans, ever.”
but he follows this thought with this:
“except for him, derek hale. he had shared information with a human. he hadn’t meant to. and the results had been disastrous.”
i will definitely get into more detail about this attitude he has because it really comes out in some later chapters because ooooh boy y’all ain’t prepared for the nonsense ahead. in actual canon derek never behaves this way or express this kind of opinion about humans. it stands out starkly in contrast to the episode this moment is paralleling in wolf’s bane. derek thinks stiles is annoying but not because he’s human.
we end this chapter on jackson’s point of view. de had met with the so-called private investigator and they tit-for-tatted and jackson bolted when he sensed danger in the woods. now he’s lost in the woods. he’s scared, doesn’t want to admit it and sends a text to lydia.
it's here in these chapters where i realized that the character of deaton is missing entirely. since all of season 1's plot past the tell is omitted deaton's significance went with it.
also the mystery of the alpha is present but she's unable to really do anything with it so peter's presence is still regulated to comatose burn victim.
#my blog#thoughts on teen wolf#teen wolf#on fire: a teen wolf novel#sterek#or the teen wolf AU#heather reads#kate argent is her own trigger warning
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Im still not sure about the predstrogen thing, I've seen many people say there wasnt nsfw selfies on their blog (I have no idea whats true) and they were banned for a set of selfies that were (as ive seen them passed around) obviously just innocent, regular pics, specifically showing their transition before and after. I think staff was unreasonable to go scorched earth on this one person, especially considering it went all the way up to the CEO for fairly benign behavior - their "threat" was basically saying "ugh i hope staff dies in a looney tunes explosion" out of frustration, which isnt a credible threat to me, just blowing smoke. Ppl have been saying theres a conspiracy to mass report transwomen's blogs which i cant tell what is true, they seem to be getting flagged for nsfw content, but that means someone is intentionally reporting their blog - the culprit is "TERFs" of course... I havent seen radfems waste much time with reporting TIM blogs just for coexisting on tumblr, usually ive seen radfem tumblr try and do a reporting campaign for someone sending death threats to radfems, that kind of misconduct you know....but someone must have flagged their blog in the first place somehow. a mysterious and convaluted situation methinks
yeah obv there's a difference between what he said and like, posting a detailed plan about how to make that happen, but bottom line is that it still passed the threshold of a threat and he's not the one responsible for keeping the rules on this site
staff might not have had to go scorched earth on him but he was (and i mean this in the most literal sense and not at all metaphorically or in a victim blaming way) asking for it
but of course this is just gonna feed the narrative that tims on this site are uniquely victimized despite having every corner of the community tiptoeing around their feelings (and despite the fact that they are far from the only people who get randomly or wrongfully terminated)
like, this is how it's getting spun:
like warped beyond recognition to support their story that "transfems" are the first and only people to face this kind of treatment
so everything is about to become way more transphobic pretty soon (in that everything will be labeled as transphobia, not that anything will actually change)
and about harassment campaigns - yeah i've never seen anything close to a "terf" mass report campaign, but i have seen users get targeted by mass reporting for really dumb reasons, i get worse anons than the threat that kicked this off almost every day, and i've seen the radfem tags clogged by coordinated campaigns to make it so they'll never be functional, so i think that's a bit of hit dogs hollering. if your only answer to anything is mass report campaigns, then you'll tell yourself that's what's happening to you when something bad happens. so yeah like you said it's very conspiracy theory
interesting tho when you factor in what he dropped about the "transphobic" mod - we've kept hearing about the secret terf on staff for forever with little to no evidence, and then he just casually drops that yeah they had to fire someone on their mod team for being transphobic. no detail so it's not really much to go off of, and it's not like that really shielded anyone from bizarro mod practices, and i've still never been able to find evidence of the secret terf on staff beyond "someone on the mod team liked a post about hufflepuff traits" but i'm sure they're gonna take that admission and run with it
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Posted Ferbuary 27th, 2024 by thgchoir
Welcome back to another Episode of Weird New Jersey. Today’s journey takes our Favorite Pennsylvania boi Derek Zanetti on a wild and fun filled adventure to New Jersey (where the grizzly bears eat your trash!) to hand deliver art to long time friend, tour buddy, and all atound champion of weird and bizarro art @frankieromustdie . It was a wonderful reunion. We laughed and hugged, went to a tattoo shop, a record shop and then we laughed and hugged some more. Frank took me out to support him on-tour for the first time almost TEN YEARS AGO! Holy smokes. Since then We’ve toured all over the US together, in Europe a handful of times too. And he is one of my favorite people to tour with, always supportive and loving and encouraging.Also!!!!!! Guest surprise cameo by OG tour mate @tipgiblets ON A MOTORCYCLE! (((Calvin, you smell like french fries!!!!)))
Because of my Friends, Im the richest person on Earth! Thanks Universe Today was just what i needed.
frankieromustdie1d
🖤🖤🖤
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#all four pics with frank from that post together#the homeless gospel choir#february 2024#2024#peace sign#frank's smile#jamia nestor#frank with picture
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This apparently has no real Santas in it but I am COMMITTED at this point, have another Holiday Special fully reviewed. Next up is DC Holiday Special '09 #1.
It's always fascinating which characters make it into the specials. Reading these has reminded me that the war stories and the frontier stuff apparently has a bunch of fans - there's frequently Sgt Rock, Enemy Ace, Jonah Hex, etc.
Silent Knight - Batman. I am presuming DickBats chases a crook dressed as Santa and ends up in a warehouse of Santas. He identifies which is the crook, takes him out, and then is invited to what looks like a Santa Christmas Party.
Man of Snow - Superman. A kid makes a snow golem. This is one of the Hanukkah stories. Supes talks to the family and takes the kid flying.
The Flash Before Christmas - Flash. Family time story! Wally is very busy at Christmas with family and hero responsibilities (including fighting Killer Croc with Dick and Donna!) After the fight Dick and Donna twit Wally ('Linda got you a present, remember you have Raven in the Secret Santa') like the good best friends they are. (Also Wally accidentally gives the wrong gifts to Linda and Raven and has to emergency-switch them).
Also delightfully Wally keeps saying 'crud', presumably because he's working to avoid swearing with the twins at home.
The Christmas of Doom - Doom Patrol. Flashback story (Beast Boy is on Doom Patrol). Rita and Gar both hate Christmas. Rita and Steve make the offer to adopt Gar.
Party Gift - Superboy (Actually Match). This is unfortunately Bizarro!Match, who organises the Christmas Party for assorted Rogues Galleries.
Reason for the Season - Martian Manhunter. Another flashback story, it's J'onn as John Jones, police detective. J'onn learning about togetherness on Earth, as opposed to the Mars type.
Angel & the Ape - this has no title, and is just the two soliciting for holiday donations for kids' presents.
A Peace on Earth - Sgt. Rock. Sgt Rock runs into a German soldier on Christmas Eve 1944 (literally). They sit down and drink cognac and smoke cigarettes together, and discuss family and their fathers who both died during WWI. Then they both 'follow orders' to shoot on sight when encountering the enemy...by both firing into the air, before parting.
Stille Nacht - Enemy Ace. General Werner Dietrich wants an air assault on the English and French lines on Christmas Day 1914. Enemy Ace takes his squadron over the lines ready to bomb...only to see the Christmas Truce and refuses to bomb the mixed English-French-German troops singing carols together.
The Hunt for Christmas - B'wana Beast. So this is a bad guy character I didn't even know existed, who has been dead since 1992, and is an avatar of the Red (except he got resurrected in n52 because of course he did). That out of the way - our man here is hunting poachers in Africa and brings supplies stolen from them to a Christian Mission (all set to Light Shining out of Darkness by William Cowper).
Look. Decisions were made here. I really want to know who pitched this, and who approved it. The writer is Beau Smith, whose other writing credits include a lot of Guy Gardner: Warrior, and being co-writer on the Batman-Wildcat (which I adore for its 90sness) and Catwoman-Wildcat minis.
Home for Christmas - Captain Marvel. Billy is fighting Ibac and they realise they've knocked down a homeless shelter. Both having connections (Ibac's had a friend on the street; Billy's been homeless), Billy insists they need to rebuild the shelter, after which they agree to stop the fight for Christmas.
Unbearable Loss - Deadman. Boston saves a suicide jumper - Scarecrow's mother.
A Night Before Christmas Story - Red Tornado. Reddy is trying to find a present for Traya that is the IT gift that year, and is horrified by the venality of man when it comes to competing to get a low stocked toy.
He does manage to get the toy, but realises as Traya comes to cuddle in bed on Christmas morning the real present is family.
Naughty or Nice - Huntress. Helena stops a shop robbery, and contemplates what makes someone good deep inside.
Seeing the Light - Ragman. The OTHER Hanukkah story this issue, retelling the story.
Auld Lang Syne - Adam Strange. Adam's trying to get home for New Year's Eve but fighting crime keeps interfering.
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mungrove week 2023 - prompt 1: Upside Down
Written for @mungroveweek
Edit with the Ao3 link: Memories like knives, so I run to you
Billy antis DNI. 2.3k words
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When Billy died, he expected to see nothing. He didn’t expect to be in a parallel version of Hawkins where monsters with no face roamed and the air was thick with mystery spores. Was this his version of Hell? Maybe. Living in the real Hawkins certainly was.
He didn’t even know what the hell was that thing that killed him was. A twisted mess of amalgamated flesh with teeth and claws. He remembered Max’s screaming as he faced it down to protect the girl who had reached out to him while he was under its control. He remembered the searing pain when its teeth ripped into his forearms and when it plunged more of its arms into his sides and finally into his chest. After that, it was a blur of neon lights and the sounds of fireworks exploding.
Next thing he knew, he had woken up in this bizarro version of Hawkins.
Night or day didn’t exist here, it was always dark with occasional flashes of red lighting in the sky. The monsters with no faces had sniffed at him but eventually left him alone. Maybe he smelled too dead to be their lunch. He aimlessly walked around, maybe this was his punishment for being a dick in his short life, to walk around a town he hated for eternity and to think about what he did. He’d never get the chance to apologise properly, to show Max and the others that he was trying to be better. Maybe she’d never forgive him, but he thought he probably deserved that. He just prayed that Neil didn’t turn to Max after he was gone. He thought about his mom, how she would maybe never know what happened to him, did she know he was buried in Hawkins? Would she visit his grave?
He eventually found the house on Cherry Lane, but it didn’t look like the Hargrove-Mayfield family had ever moved here. No truck or Camaro in the driveway, just an old SUV. When he entered the house, the first thing he saw was a calendar for November 1983 with red crosses up until the 6th. Billy was pretty sure he died on the 4th of July 1985. Wait, wasn’t November 1983 when the Byers kid went missing? He remembered Susan saying that she had heard something about it from her friends at work. Had he gone back in time? But then shouldn’t he be back in San Diego? Too many questions that couldn’t be answered.
He walked through the hallways of his house, it wasn’t his house, but he didn’t know what else to call it. The walls were pristine, with no signs of fists or bodies being driven into them. No signs of Neil Hargrove’s wrath. He reached what would’ve been Max’s room, the door was slightly ajar and he looked inside. There were posters of pop stars, stuffed toys on the bed, a full-length mirror and a vanity with the remnants of a teenage girl getting ready to go out. He could believe this could’ve been Max’s room if she had never crossed paths with the Hargrove family.
Then he reached what would’ve been his room.
It wasn’t as lifeless as his had been. There were no signs that anyone had been thrown into the walls or that anything precious had been broken by angry hands. Whoever had this room before Billy had been happy. A tear rolled down his cheek, and he wiped it away, feeling a little embarrassed. Fucking crying for what he could’ve had if he had been able to go with his mom. He’d never have it now.
He left the house before he could break. He ran from the unhappy memories of the house on Cherry Lane, ran from the thought of who he had left behind, and who he could’ve been. He ran until his lungs burned, remembering the coach’s words about his smoking. He ended up in front of the Palace Arcade. He’d dropped off Max many times here before, usually ending in a screaming match about her needing quarters for the machines.
He leaned against the arcade wall and cried. He felt his chest heave with the sobs that racked his body. He felt the phantom pains from where that flesh monster got him.
“Max, Sinclair, everyone, I’m so goddamn sorry…” he hiccuped between words, “I’m sorry I was the monster you had to run away from. Max, I’m sorry I wasn’t the big brother you needed.”
He cried until he couldn’t anymore, he felt kind of lighter afterwards even if he was stuck in twilight zone Hawkins. But he couldn’t shake the thought that he maybe wasn’t dead. He didn’t know how he couldn’t be dead, that thing had pierced him all the way through. He had lost way too much blood. Hell, the last thing he remembered from the Starcourt Mall was Max crying over his body, and Steve Harrington in a dumb sailor costume. He had come to the realisation that this version of Hawkins didn’t play by the regular rules.
Was this place the reason why Max was always looking over her shoulder? Was this the reason why she never left the house alone? What the hell did Max get involved in? Was the thing that possessed and killed him part of this?
He thought about that night at the Brimborn Steelworks, the thing that pulled him down the stairs by his ankles and shoved something into his mouth. Bile rose in his throat. If he spoke about this with anyone, who would believe him? But he got away right? No, he didn’t. Not really. It made him swallow something and that something controlled him. It made him do stuff he didn’t want to. His chest felt tight, and his breathing shallow. Oh god, he really didn’t want to think about what it made him do. All those people, they- they were melted together to make that flesh monster. He kidnapped Heather and her family to make that monster. Did that mean he was a monster too?
He could hear his heartbeat and his fingers and toes felt tingly. Was he dying for real now? Were the spores in the air killing him? His throat felt like it had closed up when he tried to swallow. He couldn’t breathe. He needed to breathe.
“Ok, Billy,” he forced out a shaky breath, “remember what mom told you when you fell off your board. Stay calm and breathe.” His inhales were still shaky but his mind wasn’t racing anymore. A flash of the red lighting made him jump, but this time it was at a specific place, not just generally over the sky, but at the Forest Hills trailer park. That was weird for this place, right?
“What the hell is going on?” but still Billy started to trudge his way to the trailer park.
When he got closer to the park he could hear some music. Music? What the hell? And it wasn’t like, the creepy music that you hear when Micheal Myers is after you, it was metal. Who the hell is putting on a concert in fucking Mordor?
He heard voices as he got closer, he couldn’t tell who they were from where he was in the bushes. He could see a platform with some amps set up over Eddie’s trailer. Wait was Eddie here? Did he get involved too?
Billy didn’t want to think how Eddie did, Eddie was his sense of normality in the chaos that was his life. If Neil had been particularly angry one night, Eddie was always a 10-minute walk away if he climbed out his window. Eddie would make him laugh and they’d get high and listen to whatever cassettes each other would bring over. Billy would never admit to it, but Eddie’s cafeteria antics made him laugh. Like Eddie was his jester.
Eddie had this way of worming his way through even the most guarded of people’s walls. He hadn’t even flinched when Billy had snapped and snarled at him. It was like Eddie had just decided that he would be Billy’s friend as soon as the blond had pulled into Hawkins blasting Metallica as loud as his car speakers would allow.
Along the way, Billy started developing a crush on Eddie, the was just something about this goofy Tolkien nerd who was also a metalhead that got Billy’s stomach infested with butterflies. The way he scrunched his nose when he laughed, or his dumb tier list of sodas that he drank in his stupid goblet. Billy still thought mountain dew was gross but Eddie seemed to live off the stuff.
The night before Billy got possessed, he had nearly worked up the guts to tell Eddie how he felt. It had taken a lot of cheering himself on and some rapid fire acceptance that he was, in fact, gay. He had the Dio tape that he had saved to get in his back pocket, messily wrapped in some old wrapping paper that Susan insisted on saving. Deep breath, in and out.
Eddie had been happy to see him as always, and invited him into the trailer. Eddie said Wayne would be at work late tonight so they had the couch all to themselves. Billy accepted but he was still wound tightly, ready to run if this went wrong. Even if Eddie was his closest friend, scratch that, Eddie was Billy’s only friend, Billy still couldn’t settle.
“Billy? Are you ok?” Eddie looked at him with eyes full of concern. Billy figured that he looked like he was waiting for a bomb to go off.
Might as well bite the bullet.
“Uh Eddie, I wanna tell you something,” Billy pulled the parcel out of his pocket, “Ireallylikeyouok?” he thrust the tape at Eddie, his face burning. Eddie took the tape and unwrapped it, he was overjoyed at the new Dio tape Billy had given him.
“What did you say Billy? You were talking so fast I didn’t understand you,” Eddie scratched the back of his head, doing that little half grin that made Billy’s heart pound.
Billy stuttered his way through his confession again, he was sure most of the blood in his body was in his cheeks at this point. He didn’t expect Eddie launch himself in a flying kiss at Billy from the other end of the couch. They were a tangle of limbs, both trying to kiss the other as much as possible.
“Wait, do you like me too?” Billy was breathless from the kisses, he couldn’t take his eyes off of Eddie, with the living room light shining off his hair like a halo. Maybe this was as close to heaven as Billy would ever get.
Eddie laughed and answered that of course he did and kissed Billy again. Neither of them wanted this moment to end. They lay there, lazily kissing each other while Nightmare on Elm Street played on the TV. Neither of them heard the trailer door open.
“Oh, uh, sorry if I’m interrupting something boys,” Wayne Munson stood awkwardly in the doorway. Billy’s blood turned to ice in a second. He wiggled himself out from under Eddie.
“Billy where are you going?” Eddie sounded heartbroken from the couch. He looked as if he was about to cry.
“I’m sorry Eddie I have to go,” he squeezed past Wayne, “I’m sorry Mr Munson, I won’t come around here again.”
“Son I don’t mind-” Wayne started to say but Billy was already pulling away in the Camaro.
Now seeing Eddie on that platform playing his absolute heart out to ward off the winged monsters, he was just as beautiful as Billy remembered. His fingers flew over the frets, Billy didn’t know what Eddie was playing but it sounded good. Billy could also see Steve, the curly haired kid- Dustin, Nancy Wheeler, and the band kid Steve worked at scoops with alongside Eddie but Billy was fixated on the guitarist.
Red lightning flashed and the bat-monsters swirled around Eddie, he seemed to be making a distraction for the others to get away. But then how was Eddie getting out? Billy wanted to run over and help but he didn’t think the others would take too kindly to an undead Billy Hargrove, especially Steve. He could hear Dustin and Eddie whooping “Most metal concert ever!” until the bats swarmed again. Dustin managed to get away. Eddie didn’t.
“No!” Billy yelled and ran over to where Eddie lay as fast he could. The bats had taken chunks out of him left and right, he lay in a pool of his own blood. Eddie’s eyes looked glassy but still focused on Billy. A shaky hand reached out to touch Billy’s cheek.
“Eddie, why are you here?” the tears fell before Billy realised. Eddie smiled and leaned up to press his lips to Billy’s.
“Could ask you the same thing sunshine. I never forgot you,” Billy held Eddie’s hand to his cheek.
“I’m sorry for running away Eddie. I was scared.” Billy grabbed Eddie’s hand and kissed the knuckles. He blinked the tears out of his eyes and hoped to any gods or deities out there that Eddie would forgive him.
“It’s ok Billy, I understand now why you ran, Max told us what happened when we visited your grave.” Eddie wiped a tear from Billy’s cheek. “I had a gut feeling that you might not be dead after what Steve and Dustin told me about this place.” Eddie shuffled himself up to a sitting position and pulled Billy close to him. “I don’t know why but I just knew that the fire at the mall wasn’t true. It seemed too convenient.”
“It was the monster, it was me,” Billy held Eddie tightly, not wanting to lose him again.
“It wasn’t you, you got possessed. I know you Billy and I know you’d never do that,” Eddie kissed his forehead, “I love you Billy Hargrove, and I’d like for us to try again.”
“I’d like to try again as well Eddie Munson.”
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Me & the questions aren’t going anywhere lol
1: if they can design their hair what type of haircut would they create? Buzz cut, Mohawk, half shave like prime earth lor-zod, bald XD etc..
2: is the whole Superman getting his identity revealed canon to your universe? ( not the one where he openly reveals it but where he got blackmailed) & for angst & sadness, this takes places after the invasion of zod, imagine sitting in a classroom next to the introvert boy who open up a portal & got your love ones killed.
3: would Jon feel angsty with the super twins if aged normally? Maybe feeling the same way Chris felt when he was growing up: abandoned & replaceable.
4: would they use farts as a weapon? I can see Jake squatting over that victor zassz guys face & letting out a high rip XD
5: speaking of that, a villain for Jake: similar to smoke from mortal kombat, but uses farts instead of :p
6: any Christmas themed outfits? Maybe just add a blue & green Santa hat for Chris & Jake
1) As kids and preteens, their respective hairstyles remain as they’re usually depicted but as they reach into their later teens, that’s when their hairstyles deviate even if it’s slightly, more or less based on their canonical appearances in their respective stories. As such, upon reaching his mid teens, Chris sets to smooth and shorten his hair on it’s sides and back, leaving mainly his bangs intact. Then there’s Jake whom also trims off the top but most of all, combs his bangs upward having a noticeable streak present. Only instead of white akin to both in New Order or more commonly Jason Todd’s, Jake’s streak would be red like his Mother’s hair
2) Ideally no not really, I don’t really intend to have that plot angle be incorporated personally into my universe since the optics and wider scale consequences would have to be be addressed and past canonical times that’s happened have proven the concept is precarious in execution.
That being said though, had Chris’ identity alone though had gone public (Lois can come up with a generally accepted cover story of Superman letting the kid be cared for by his longtime Daily Planet friend Clark after the Bizarro incident just in case), then that Angsty route of him overhearing and bears the brunt of his classmates who blame him for the tragic consequences of Zod’s invasion should be excellent to explore for his character. It makes his doubts about whether Earth being his true home or not still linger as a constant source of internal turmoil and anxiety all the more palatable as he can feel all of that loss was his doing at the end of it. This is further complicated by also though of people like other classmates who still believe in his heroism and being a positive spot in their world. He did them is still their hero in spite of everything and it’s not just Jake and Jon that are telling him that.
All of that is delicious stuff to tackle for stories and I’m quite surprised that frankly I hadn’t tho if they too deep about it till basically now lol
3) I have a feeling that can be somewhat the case but I don’t foresee even an aged-up-too-fast Jon merely holding it all in just because of his sake. I can fully see him even talk with the twins about those emotions out of honesty but also reassurance that they belong in the family as much as Chris and him do. The twins are likely being accepting and understanding of those thoughts their adoptive big brother shares in the best way they know how. I don’t think I can call immediate reconciliation but it has a start and it can grow as their bonds grow over time.
4) …..mmmm…Nah. Funny as the idea sounds at least in their heads, maybe at for most for like panels where they have thought balloons showing that visual, the Duo are not exactly gross humor based when doing superhero work. Maybe some slapstick and definitely snark but not gross out
5) I can see a villain who utilizes gassy smells and other flatulence related gimmicks being akin to a joke villain for Skybird, akin to one of Spider-Man’s lesser known and often derided foes, Big Wheel. Maybe like some dude bro in his late teens who never really grew out of his early high school life, having been expelled from so many schools for his crude humor that at most he can get a GED. So he turns to small scale crimes and mischief to fulfill his habits, like a prankster type of villain that regularly gives the Bludhaven PD massive headaches to deal with. He dubs his villain moniker The Gas Master.
6) Maybe Jake can have a Skybird suit with the yellow parts if the torso being a light red while the main parts are instead differing shades of green. The cape can also be a solid white like the snow itself. Finally, Skybird can wear a hoodie with similar colors of green and light red with a white band to reflect the Holiday spirit in the air.
Then there’s Chris which the only real change to his suit in fitting for the Holiday season can be small Santa pins on the right side of his shirt.
Apologies for the long wait but here are your answers my friend. @gothicghost2000 thank you very much for your patience
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Like, okay, my cousin is already out of surgery and had one stint put in, because apparently one artery was completely clogged. He has to be in the hospital for about three days while they monitor for arrhythmia. But they're hopeful because he's young. But, oh, apparently this is probably because he smokes! STOP SMOKING PEOPLE!
But like - I SHOULDN'T HAVE THIS BIZARRO POWER TO AFFECT THINGS JUST BECAUSE I LEAVE THE HOUSE. I DO NOT LIKE THIS. IDIOTS AT SKI RESORTS AND MY COUSIN ALMOST DYING, NO THANKS.
I just wanted to post a SIR STOP BEING SO SEXY WHILE BEING VICIOUS post about Namor.
What the hell, Universe. Fuck it, I'm doing it anyway. We have to give the Universe the middle finger! We have to give idiots at ski resorts the middle finger! We have to give Death the middle finger!
SIR STOP BEING SO SEXY WHILE BEING VICIOUS
ALSO - Thank you to all of you for your kind words and thoughts and messages! It's awesome, you are all so awesome, and I really appreciate it all! ❤️
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Operation Stumpy Re-Read
AFFC: Samwell V (Chapter 45)
Thrice longships were sighted by the crow's nest. Two were well astern, however, and the Cinnamon Wind soon outdistanced them. The third appeared near sunset, to cut them off from Whispering Sound. When they saw her oars rising and falling, lashing the copper waters white, Kojja Mo sent her archers to the castles with their great bows of goldenheart that could send a shaft farther and truer than even Dornish yew. She waited till the longship came within two hundred yards before she gave the command to loose. Sam loosed with them, and this time he thought his arrow reached the ship. One volley was all it took. The longship veered south in search of tamer prey.
Samwell and a Summer Islander are shooting arrows again.
In case it matters, Sarella Sand was using a goldenheart bow in the prologue.
+.+.+
"It's very tall," said Gilly.
"Wait until you see the Hightower."
Bizarro jongritte.
+.+.+
Dalla's babe began to cry. Gilly pulled open her tunic and gave the boy her breast. She smiled as he nursed, and stroked his soft brown hair. She has come to love this one as much as the one she left behind, Sam realized. He hoped that the gods would be kind to both of the children.
When he says gods he means George R. R. Martin.
Born-in-battle has a new mommy. Say goodbye to Mance and his sister-in-law, I'm not sure they make it.
+.+.+
"Who would be so mad as to raid this close to Oldtown?"
Xhondo pointed at a half-sunken longship in the shallows. The remnants of a banner drooped from her stern, smoke-stained and ragged. The charge was one Sam had never seen before: a red eye with a black pupil, beneath a black iron crown supported by two crows. "Whose banner is that?" Sam asked. Xhondo only shrugged.
Euron Greyjoy, you little rascal! What am I going to do with you?
+.+.+
"My apologies," the captain said when his inspection was complete. "It grieves me that honest men must suffer such discourtesy, but sooner that than ironmen in Oldtown. Only a fortnight ago some of those bloody bastards captured a Tyroshi merchantman in the straits. They killed her crew, donned their clothes, and used the dyes they found to color their whiskers half a hundred colors. Once inside the walls they meant to set the port ablaze and open a gate from within whilst we fought the fire. Might have worked, but they ran afoul of the Lady of the Tower, and her oarsmaster has a Tyroshi wife. When he saw all the green and purple beards he hailed them in the tongue of Tyrosh, and not one of them had the words to hail him back."
Ironmen dressed like a Tyroshi! How clever.
Wouldn't it be funny to see Euron dressed like a Tyroshi? Imagine Euron wearing Daario's clothing! Hilarious.
+.+.+
"The Hightower must be doing something."
"To be sure. Lord Leyton's locked atop his tower with the Mad Maid, consulting books of spells. Might be he'll raise an army from the deeps. Or not. Baelor's building galleys, Gunthor has charge of the harbor, Garth is training new recruits, and Humfrey's gone to Lys to hire sellsails. If he can winkle a proper fleet out of his whore of a sister, we can start paying back the ironmen with some of their own coin. Till then, the best we can do is guard the sound and wait for the bitch queen in King's Landing to let Lord Paxter off his leash."
Lynesse Hightower shoutout.
Lynesse was awkwardly spotlighted in Catelyn V, ASOS, so I wouldn't be surprised if she became a factor.
As for the rest of the Hightowers, all I can think about is that random story we heard in Jaime's first AFFC chapter.
"Ser Jaime, I have seen terrible things in my time," the old man said. "Wars, battles, murders most foul . . . I was a boy in Oldtown when the grey plague took half the city and three-quarters of the Citadel. Lord Hightower burned every ship in port, closed the gates, and commanded his guards to slay all those who tried to flee, be they men, women, or babes in arms. They killed him when the plague had run its course. On the very day he reopened the port, they dragged him from his horse and slit his throat, and his young son's as well. To this day the ignorant in Oldtown will spit at the sound of his name, but Quenton Hightower did what was needed. Your father was that sort of man as well. A man who did what was needed." - Jaime I, AFFC
+.+.+
The bitterness of the captain's final words shocked Sam as much as the things he said. If King's Landing loses Oldtown and the Arbor, the whole realm will fall to pieces, he thought as he watched the Huntress and her sisters moving off.
Counting on it.
Someone has to assist Oldtown, but who? Cersei, Aegon, Daenerys, or Stannis.
+.+.+
It has to be Horn Hill, Sam finally decided. Once we reach Oldtown I'll hire a wagon and some horses and take her there myself. That way he could make certain of the castle and its garrison, and if any part of what he saw or heard gave him pause, he could just turn around and bring Gilly back to Oldtown.
Probably what happens.
How else is he getting Heartsbane?
+.+.+
Sam used the time to explain his plans to Gilly. "First the Citadel, to present Jon's letters and tell them of Maester Aemon's death. I expect the archmaesters will send a cart for his body.
It's not clear whether this happened.
+.+.+
Then I will arrange for horses and a wagon to take you to my mother at Horn Hill. I will be back as soon as I can, but it may not be until the morrow."
"The morrow," she repeated, and gave him a kiss for luck.
Until the morrow. The morrow.
+.+.+
"How long will you remain in port?"
"Two days, ten days, who can say? However long it takes to empty our holds and fill them again." Kojja grinned. "My father must visit the grey maesters as well. He has books to sell."
Who can say how long they'll stay? Hopefully they're still there on the morrow.
Those books* Sam brought from Castle Black get referenced in almost every single one of his chapters.
*Maester Thomax's Dragonkin, Being a History of House Targaryen from Exile to Apotheosis, with a Consideration of the Life and Death of Dragons.
+.+.+
"Can Gilly stay aboard till I return?"
"Gilly can stay as long as she likes." She poked Sam in the belly with a finger. "She does not eat so much as some."
Gilly's staying aboard until he returns. On the morrow.
+.+.+
The day was damp, so the cobblestones were wet and slippery underfoot, the alleys shrouded in mist and mystery. Sam avoided them as best he could and stayed on the river road that wound along beside the Honeywine through the heart of the old city.
Is that a joke about Samwell avoiding Pate's fate?
+.+.+
The gates of the Citadel were flanked by a pair of towering green sphinxes with the bodies of lions, the wings of eagles, and the tails of serpents. One had a man's face, one a woman's.
Is that a joke about Sarella Sand?
+.+.+
The path divided where the statue of King Daeron the First sat astride his tall stone horse, his sword lifted toward Dorne. A seagull was perched on the Young Dragon's head, and two more on the blade. Sam took the left fork, which ran beside the river.
If this fork in the road means anything, I'm not the person to tell you.
+.+.+
The man glanced up and did not appear to approve of what he saw. "You smell of novice."
"I hope to be one soon." Sam drew out the letters Jon Snow had given him. "I came from the Wall with Maester Aemon, but he died during the voyage. If I could speak with the Seneschal . . ."
[...]
"How much longer will it be?"
"The Seneschal is an important man."
After minor mentions here and there, this is the first time in the series we're assaulted with the word seneschal.
I'm not done with this thought.
+.+.+
"How could you tell I was of noble birth?"
"The same way you can tell that I'm half Dornish." The statement was delivered with a smile, in a soft Dornish drawl.
Sam fumbled for a penny. "Are you a novice?"
"An acolyte. Alleras, by some called Sphinx."
The name gave Sam a jolt. "The sphinx is the riddle, not the riddler," he blurted. "Do you know what that means?"
"No. Is it a riddle?"
"I wish I knew. I'm Samwell Tarly. Sam."
Could Maester Aemon have meant this Sphinx? It seems likely.
+.+.+
"Well met. And what business does Samwell Tarly have with Archmaester Theobald?"
"Is he the Seneschal?" said Sam, confused. "Maester Aemon said his name was Norren."
"Not for the past two turns. There is a new one every year. They fill the office by lot from amongst the archmaesters, most of whom regard it as a thankless task that takes them away from their true work. This year the black stone was drawn by Archmaester Walgrave, but Walgrave's wits are prone to wander, so Theobald stepped up and said he'd serve his term. He's a gruff man, but a good one. Did you say Maester Aemon?"
Alright, follow me here.
No theories, just thoughts.
Every single year an archmaester serves as Seneschal of the Citadel. I checked the appendix, there's 21 archmaesters at the Citadel.
Despite all his travels, there is a possibility Marwyn has been the Seneschal of the Citadel before.
"No. Hear me, Daenerys Targaryen. The glass candles are burning. Soon comes the pale mare, and after her the others. Kraken and dark flame, lion and griffin, the sun's son and the mummer's dragon. Trust none of them. Remember the Undying. Beware the perfumed seneschal." - Daenerys II, ADWD
Unfortunately, no mention of perfume or any other scent appeared in this chapter. I'm not sold, but we'll keep Marwyn in mind.
+.+.+
"Aemon Targaryen?"
"Once. Most just called him Maester Aemon. He died during our voyage south. How is it that you know of him?"
"How not? He was more than just the oldest living maester. He was the oldest man in Westeros, and lived through more history than Archmaester Perestan has ever learned. He could have told us much and more about his father's reign, and his uncle's. How old was he, do you know?"
"One hundred and two"
Weird she knows about Aemon Targaryen.
Laughing at the thought of Aemon having any good insight on his family.
+.+.+
"What was he doing at sea, at his age?"
Sam chewed on the question for a moment, wondering how much he ought to say. The sphinx is the riddle, not the riddler. Could Maester Aemon have meant this Sphinx? It seemed unlikely. "Lord Commander Snow sent him away to save his life," he began, hesitantly. He spoke awkwardly of King Stannis and Melisandre of Asshai, intending to stop at that, but one thing led to another and he found himself speaking of Mance Rayder and his wildlings, king's blood and dragons, and before he knew what was happening, all the rest came spilling out; the wights at the Fist of First Men, the Other on his dead horse, the murder of the Old Bear at Craster's Keep, Gilly and their flight, Whitetree and Small Paul, Coldhands and the ravens, Jon's becoming lord commander, the Blackbird, Dareon, Braavos, the dragons Xhondo saw in Qarth, the Cinnamon Wind and all that Maester Aemon whispered toward the end. He held back only the secrets that he was sworn to keep, about Bran Stark and his companions and the babes Jon Snow had swapped. "Daenerys is the only hope," he concluded. "Aemon said the Citadel must send her a maester at once, to bring her home to Westeros before it is too late."
Yeah, let's have Samwell Tarly parroting these ideas of Daenerys being The Great White Hope. That won't blow up in his face. Or Dickon's.
+.+.+
"How far do we have to go?"
"Not far. The Isle of Ravens."
They did not need a boat to reach the Isle of Ravens; a weathered wooden drawbridge linked it to the eastern bank. "The Ravenry is the oldest building at the Citadel," Alleras told him, as they crossed over the slow-flowing waters of the Honeywine. "In the Age of Heroes it was supposedly the stronghold of a pirate lord who sat here robbing ships as they came down the river."
They should rename it the Isle of Crow. Hee.
+.+.+
It was cool and dim inside the castle walls. An ancient weirwood filled the yard, as it had since these stones had first been raised. The carved face on its trunk was grown over by the same purple moss that hung heavy from the tree's pale limbs. Half of the branches seemed dead, but elsewhere a few red leaves still rustled, and it was there the ravens liked to perch. The tree was full of them, and there were more in the arched windows overhead, all around the yard. The ground was speckled by their droppings. As they crossed the yard, one flapped overhead and he heard the others quorking to each other.
We've got eyes on the Citadel.
Not that it matters, Bran doesn't appear to need a tree.
+.+.+
"Samwell. A new novice, come to see the Mage."
"The Citadel is not what it was," complained the blond. "They will take anything these days. Dusky dogs and Dornishmen, pig boys, cripples, cretins, and now a black-clad whale. And here I thought leviathans were grey." A half cape striped in green and gold draped one shoulder. He was very handsome, though his eyes were sly and his mouth cruel.
Sam knew him. "Leo Tyrell."
Yay, the asshole's back.
+.+.+
"Are you still a craven?"
"No," lied Sam. Jon had made it a command. "I went beyond the Wall and fought in battles. They call me Sam the Slayer." He did not know why he said it. The words just tumbled out.
He owned it!
Slayers slay dragons. That's what they do. They're dragonslayers. These are the rules.
I'm working off my own, you know, karma here, because I'm George, and what's he known for? He killed the dragon, you know, come on. Come on, I was almost abolished at one point when the Catholic Church was reviewing all the saints, I was terrified that George would be abolished, because they abolish a lot of fiction, I said George is only known for killing a dragon, how can they keep him in, but they did so, that was, that was good. - George R. R. Martin
George is Sam! It is known.
+.+.+
Marwyn wore a chain of many metals around his bull's neck. Save for that, he looked more like a dockside thug than a maester. His head was too big for his body, and the way it thrust forward from his shoulders, together with that slab of jaw, made him look as if he were about to tear off someone's head. Though short and squat, he was heavy in the chest and shoulders, with a round, rock-hard ale belly straining at the laces of the leather jerkin he wore in place of robes. Bristly white hair sprouted from his ears and nostrils. His brow beetled, his nose had been broken more than once, and sourleaf had stained his teeth a mottled red. He had the biggest hands that Sam had ever seen.
Um.
These are the characters that chew sourleaf:
Chett -> dead.
Emmon Frey -> going to die. duh.
Masha Heddle -> dead.
The pious dwarf -> dead.
Snatch -> sellsword introduced in ADWD.
Yoren -> dead.
Are you noticing a pattern here?
+.+.+
"Call it dragonglass." Archmaester Marwyn glanced at the candle for a moment. "It burns but is not consumed."
"What feeds the flame?" asked Sam.
"What feeds a dragon's fire?" Marwyn seated himself upon a stool. "All Valyrian sorcery was rooted in blood or fire. The sorcerers of the Freehold could see across mountains, seas, and deserts with one of these glass candles. They could enter a man's dreams and give him visions, and speak to one another half a world apart, seated before their candles. Do you think that might be useful, Slayer?"
I hate these stupid candles.
+.+.+
The archmaester peeled a sourleaf off a bale, shoved it in his mouth, and began to chew it.
Oh no.
+.+.+
"Tell me all you told our Dornish sphinx. I know much of it and more, but some small parts may have escaped my notice."
He was not a man to be refused. Sam hesitated a moment, then told his tale again as Marywn, Alleras, and the other novice listened. "Maester Aemon believed that Daenerys Targaryen was the fulfillment of a prophecy . . . her, not Stannis, nor Prince Rhaegar, nor the princeling whose head was dashed against the wall."
That other novice is a Faceless Man, and probably not a huge fan of Valyrians or dragons.
+.+.+
"Born amidst salt and smoke, beneath a bleeding star. I know the prophecy." Marwyn turned his head and spat a gob of red phlegm onto the floor. "Not that I would trust it. Gorghan of Old Ghis once wrote that a prophecy is like a treacherous woman. She takes your member in her mouth, and you moan with the pleasure of it and think, how sweet, how fine, how good this is . . . and then her teeth snap shut and your moans turn to screams. That is the nature of prophecy, said Gorghan. Prophecy will bite your prick off every time." He chewed a bit. "Still . . ."
He seems to be sensible? I don't get Marwyn.
+.+.+
Alleras stepped up next to Sam. "Aemon would have gone to her if he had the strength. He wanted us to send a maester to her, to counsel her and protect her and fetch her safely home."
"Did he?" Archmaester Marwyn shrugged. "Perhaps it's good that he died before he got to Oldtown. Elsewise the grey sheep might have had to kill him, and that would have made the poor old dears wring their wrinkled hands."
"Kill him?" Sam said, shocked. "Why?"
"If I tell you, they may need to kill you too." Marywn smiled a ghastly smile, the juice of the sourleaf running red between his teeth.
Oh dear.
They wouldn't kill Maester Aemon. That's ridiculous. This whole conversation is weird.
+.+.+
"Who do you think killed all the dragons the last time around? Gallant dragonslayers armed with swords?" He spat. "The world the Citadel is building has no place in it for sorcery or prophecy or glass candles, much less for dragons. Ask yourself why Aemon Targaryen was allowed to waste his life upon the Wall, when by rights he should have been raised to archmaester. His blood was why. He could not be trusted. No more than I can."
That's some world class bullshit from Marwyn. The Targaryens clearly destroyed themselves, it wasn't a society of elderly scholars. Surely he knows that. What is going on?
Loving the talk of dragonslayers killing dragons though!
The world the Citadel is building has no place in it for sorcery or prophecy or glass candles, much less for dragons.
If he has a problem with that, why is he there? Why is he encouraging Samwell to forge his chain?
+.+.+
Marwyn glanced at Sam again, and frowned. "You . . . you should stay and forge your chain. If I were you, I would do it quickly. A time will come when you'll be needed on the Wall." He turned to the pasty-faced novice. "Find Slayer a dry cell. He'll sleep here, and help you tend the ravens."
Didn't happen that way on the show, but I believe him.
+.+.+
"B-b-but," Sam sputtered, "the other archmaesters . . . the Seneschal . . . what should I tell them?"
"Tell them how wise and good they are. Tell them that Aemon commanded you to put yourself into their hands. Tell them that you have always dreamed that one day you might be allowed to wear the chain and serve the greater good, that service is the highest honor, and obedience the highest virtue. But say nothing of prophecies or dragons, unless you fancy poison in your porridge." Marwyn snatched a stained leather cloak off a peg near the door and tied it tight. "Sphinx, look after this one."
Am I crazy? This is nonsense, right? I refuse to believe a maester would poison a novice. If that were the case, why would they let Marwyn the Mage serve? Why would there be a Valyrian steel link for expertise in higher mysteries?
Other than Pycelle and Qyburn (who lost his links), I can't think of a single morally corrupt maester in the story, and we've met dozens. Don't even talk to me about Cressen, that was justified, okay? Lol.
Look at the people who hate maesters: Aeron Dam-phair, Qyburn, Cersei Lannister, Barbrey Dustin. That's not the side you want to be on.
+.+.+
"What will you do?" asked Alleras, the Sphinx.
"Get myself to Slaver's Bay, in Aemon's place. The swan ship that delivered Slayer should serve my needs well enough. The grey sheep will send their man on a galley, I don't doubt. With fair winds I should reach her first."
[...]
"Where has he gone?" asked Sam, bewildered.
"To the docks. The Mage is not a man who believes in wasting time." Alleras smiled.
Finally, here we are.
We can only assume Gilly, Dalla's baby, Aemon's rum corpse, the horn, and the Castle Black books are still on that ship.
It's possible the ship won't set sail until the next day, and there's nothing to worry about.
It's also possible the ship left once impatient Marwyn arrived, forcing Gilly to get off, and spend a rough night alone in Oldtown.
He hoped he still remembered the way to the Citadel. Oldtown was a maze, and he had no time for getting lost.
x
Sam had sent Gilly out to get some, forgetting that the wildling girl had lived her whole life in sight of Craster's Keep and never seen so much as a market town. The stony maze of islands and canals that was Braavos, devoid of grass and trees and teeming with strangers who spoke to her in words she could not understand, frightened her so badly that she lost the map and soon herself. - Samwell III, AFFC
I don't know.
Side note, I never noticed Marwyn predicting the other maesters would send someone too. I wonder who?
+.+.+
"I have a confession. Ours was no chance encounter, Sam. The Mage sent me to snatch you up before you spoke to Theobald. He knew that you were coming."
"How?"
Alleras nodded at the glass candle.
I suppose I can't deny they work, but I loathe most glass candle theories. I don't want to read about Leyton Hightower having a glass candle - it's stupid, and I hate it.
Maybe Quaithe has one. I don't even care.
+.+.+
"There's an empty sleeping cell under mine in the west tower, with steps that lead right up to Walgrave's chambers," said the pasty-faced youth. "If you don't mind the ravens quorking, there's a good view of the Honeywine. Will that serve?"
"I suppose." He had to sleep somewhere.
"I will bring you some woolen coverlets. Stone walls turn cold at night, even here."
"My thanks." There was something about the pale, soft youth that he misliked, but he did not want to seem discourteous, so he added, "My name's not Slayer, truly. I'm Sam. Samwell Tarly."
"I'm Pate," the other said, "like the pig boy."
Prologue Pate! Strange seeing you in the first and last chapter. I thought you died.
How much do we hate Jaqen being anywhere near Samwell? Lots.
I'll trust the process.
Final thoughts:
Friends,
WE DID IT!
-> return to menu <-
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A VERY DESCRIPTIVE PROFILE OF YOUR MUSE. repost with the information of your muse, including headcanons, etc. if you fail to achieve some of the facts, add some other of your own!
NAME. Clark Joseph Kent / Kal-El
NICKNAME(S). Smallville, CK, Kal
TITLE(S). Superman
AGE. Verse dependent
SPECIES. Kryptonian
SEX. Cis male
NATIONALITY. American
ALIGNMENT. Neutral good
INTERESTS. Sports (mainly football and baseball), cooking, languages, astronomy
PROFESSION. Reporter for the Daily Planet (later the Smallville Gazette), superhero
BODY TYPE. Tall, very physically fit, muscular
EYES. Blue
HAIR. Jet black
SKIN. Fair
FACE. I mean, he's got one
HEIGHT. 6'3"
VOICE: Baritone, neutral midwestern American accent; Superman's voice is noticeably deeper than Clark's
SIGNIFICANT OTHER? Lois Lane (wife)
COMPANIONS. Jimmy Olsen, Bruce Wayne, Diana Prince, other Justice League members, Kara Zor-El, Lana Lang, John Henry Irons, @murder-popsicle's Bucky Barnes
ANTAGONISTS. Lex Luthor, Zod, Doomsday, Darkseid, Bizarro, Mxyzptlk, Metallo
COLORS. Deep blue, red, golden yellow
FRUITS. Anything!
DRINKS. Water, coffee
ALCOHOLIC BEVERAGES. Beer, red wine
SMOKES? No
DRUGS? No
DRIVERS LICENSE? Yes
Tagged by: @murder-popsicle <3
Tagging: @the-demons-son @grace-of-gotham @invidentius @cxpedcrusxder @awolxsiblings @wundor @chimugukuru
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That am not Buddy for November 19th. It am not Bizarro? Bizarro Buddy no smoke because smoke good for lungs.
It's Bizarro! Bizarro Superman, as we all know, is the perfect opposite of Superman. He lives in the Bizarro world, says hello when he leaves and good-bye when he arrives.
Superman has a bit of a habit of acquiring enemies that look like him. There's Hank Henshaw, the Supercyborg, Ultraman from the evil Earth, and the composite Superman too. Which of course is probably a response to the issue of Superman sounding pretty dangerous when he's evil, cause he's so strong and mysterious.
I do like Superman, I think the idea of the character taps into something pretty interesting about humanity - the idea that he's an omnipotent alien hiding among us as an average guy. A lot of people relate to Superman cause everyone sees that duality in themselves - the balance between normalcy and alienation, having your own personal culture (he is, after all, the last of his world) that you keep hidden from society at large.
Then again, nowadays a lot of stories ignore that aspect of the character and just have him be Superman all the time, which isn't something I enjoy. It makes sense only by the metric of people knowing how the old superman stories worked, and these newer ones serving as a riposte to them.
But, it's whatever.
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There's this thing people say about bright lights and dying. About finding comfort in it. For Buck it only hurts and scares him shitless. What if he can't not go into the light, what if it steals him away as the white lightning did with his body, his breath, his heartbeat.
He's not finished yet, he's barely past the starting blocks. And the idea of leaving Christopher another dead parent(al figure) is more horrifying than he can express. He wants to scream no, let me stay, he wants to yell out his please into the vast whiteness around him. This empty nothingness that is worse for its bright starkness than if it'd been dark, because in the darkness there may be things hidden. Like an exit out of this limbo.
There's this thing people say about bright lights and dying. About finding comfort in it. For Buck it only hurts and scares him shitless. What if he can't not go into the light, what if it steals him away as the white lightning did with his body, his breath, his heartbeat.
He's not finished yet, he's barely past the starting blocks. And the idea of leaving Christopher another dead parent(al figure) is more horrifying than he can express. He wants to scream no, let me stay, he wants to yell out his please into the vast whiteness around him. This empty nothingness that is worse for its bright starkness than if it'd been dark, because in the darkness there may be things hidden. Like an exit out of this limbo.But he likes to imagine the 118 visiting him, he's sure they would be. Pretty sure. Right? He doesn't let his thoughts wander too far, too many monsters from childhood abandonment down that road and it's not fair to the (better) family he's found all by himself.
Family, yeah.
There was one building with him, Eddie and Christopher. He wonders if Eddie has let Chris visit him, or if it's better for Chris to not see Buck like this. Maybe it would be better.
He wonders how long he's been here, stuck like this. He wonders what his body looks like, is it very burnt? Or did he just get a Lichtenberg figure? In another situation he'd be fascinated, now he's just scared. And alone.
Time passes but he can't say if it's minutes or days, the light keeps getting brighter and he feels smaller and smaller. Like he's concaving in on himself. But sometimes he imagines he can almost feel a small hand in his, hear someone's voice he knows he loves but can no longer name.
He tries to hold onto it, the vague feeling like smoke
Then the door opens and the stark whiteness is exchanged for uncomfortably bright hospital lights. But everything feels bizarro-land. He's never felt more alone surrounded by people who say they know him.
Some moments he can't help but think, is he actually awake?
Was the child's hand in his a dream? The comforting voice in his ear? Is this the nightmare or is it like Daniel says that he just needs to relax.
But he can't, it feels too much like letting go of something he's not sure what it is but feels precious to him.
They find him a therapist who prescribes him pills but he only tries it once, the void he fell into just turned into loud beeping and he woke with a sore chest and a vague nightmarish feeling of wrong wrong wrong.
He goes for a drive and even his little Prius feels wrong and he keeps looking over at the empty seat in the back. As if he's expecting someone to look back in the mirror.
The pier is teeming with tourists and families and feels like he's walking against a current. Everyone knows where they're going except him and everytime he tries to reach the Paris wheel he finds himself out on the edge of the pier, waves batting the scaffolding under his feet. This feels wrong too, he collapses on a nearby bench, head in his hands. Shouldn't he be happy that he's healthy after his accident? Why is he acting like this, he knows he's worrying his parents & his siblings keep telling him to take a vacation and have some fun. Take his girlfriend out on a trip. But he hasn't met her since the hospital and he hasn't realized till now that he didn't even miss her.
But he's missing something, there's that gnawing feeling in his chest that won't give up.
A kid bumps into him and yells sorry as it stumbles by the bench, too busy eating cotton candy to look where it's going. "This cotton candy is so good!"
The deja vu moment grips Buck by the belly, the voice is wrong, the child is wrong but he's so sure his brain is looking for a real memory he can't place. It's like a ghost on the bench beside him talking about dreams about being a firefighter, but it's wrapped in dread. He has to stand up to look at the water, it's like he suddenly feels it's about to attack & his hands are clutching empty air expecting a child sized yellow shirt.
He's hyperventilating & he can feel that echo of a child's hand in his again, screaming for Buck in his ear.
Maybe he faints on that bench. Next time he wakes it's mellow lights & hospital smell in his nose. But he's too tired to stay awake, his body feels too heavy and his throat thick with something. He falls away again before he can figure out what's wrong.
He's thirsty before he's really awake, his tongue feels thick & dry in his mouth, his eyelids feel like there's weights attached to them. But his left hand is warm, the small weight of a hand in his and he remembers a curly haired boy again. It's like reality dropped on him like an anvil overnight, his mind caught up with the body in the hospital bed. He's not sure how hurt he is but he knows the hand in his. "Christopher?"
The name is barely a croak as it stumbles across his heavy tongue, but there's no tube in his throat anymore. Just the rough memory it left.
"Buck? Are you awake enough to drink this time? Small sips."
"is'time?"
"Hey, welcome back." Eddie's hand stroking through his hair almost makes Buck cry with the feeling of it, it's like he's finally tethered back to himself again. "You've been trying to wake up several times the last hours or so but the doctors said it may take a while for you to be conscious enough to remember."
He can feel Christopher's hand clutching his & he squeezes back, relieved he can move his hand. "Hey Buck, missed you."
"Missed you too", Buck croaks in some semblance of sound but Christopher's body slumped across his giving an awkward hug makes the meaning come across enough. He wishes he could hug back as hard as he wants to but instead he feels his energy zap away. "T'red"
"Go back to sleep Buck, your body needs the rest." Eddie says as he helps Chris sit back up. "Yeah, dad says the doctors said your coma is over. Now it's just sleep & we'll see you soon"
Buck mumbles what he hopes come out as "Soon", as he falls asleep. This time sure he'll wake up again in the right place, his anchors right by his bedside.
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