they say jack doesn't love ianto not enough but that scene where jack says life knife risen mitten and stun gun that was for ianto (i know, terribly paraphrased) i'm like honey that had nothing to do with ianto you are making everything about ianto (kicks all my making everything about ianto under the bed)

hmm for the fic title thing could u do

"the man who sold the world"

I have no idea what it would be about but tbh I love everything u write :)

i have talked about my 'davey as pulitzer's assistant' au a BIT on this account but i don't think i ever went in on what it actually entails, and this title is just perfect for it.

so the gist is, instead of getting a job selling papers, davey is somehow able to get a job as working closely for pulitzer. i don't really know how this would've happened for davey since there are very little possibilities for him to have ever gotten a job like this, so i think it majorly boiled down to luck - he just happened to be in the right place at the right time and landed a job for it. in songs like 'watch what happens (reprise)' we can see davey is idealistic, but he's not delusional; he has hope when he's given reason to have it, but he still understands what his place in society is and how best to preserve it. we can see it in act one - davey does not want to rock the boat. he would anchor the boat and starve in it if it meant just staying afloat. so i think davey would understand what an unfathomably lucky opportunity this is and, as a kid unused to luck, he doesn't want to lose it, since after his father getting injured, he is basically all that's keeping his family standing. his entire life revolves around keeping his job. he drops out of school so he can fund sarah and les's education instead. he's tired all the time so his father can afford to rest. their tiny tenement is still tiny, but at least they're warm most nights. davey doesn't make it home for dinner some nights, but who cares, he can sleep on the weekend! or when he's dead. whichever comes first.

fast forward to the day jack starts the strike - specifically, the point in 'the world will know' where he and crutchie march into pulitzer's office (sans davey and les for obvious reasons). instead of getting tossed out by a security guard, they're politely sidestepped by an unassuming kid who jack could probably knock over with a feather. he's polished, polite, has the perfect customer service type voice, but his smile doesn't reach his eyes. he looks through them like they're not even there and says 'welcome gentlemen, do you have an appointment?'. jack's barely said two words before he's barrelling on, 'oh, i'm sorry, mister pulitzer is in a meeting, can i take a memo?' they try again, but 'that's nice, the world takes feedback very seriously, i'll make sure to pass it along, thank you for your interest and good day :)'. jack's about to punch this wetrag out and run into that office himself when something shifts in this boy, turns him from some gaunt looking schoolboy into something sharper, harder, something carved out of steel - and he takes jack by his bandana and says 'listen, cowboy, i don't know what you're playing at, but either i get security to throw you out or we both lose our jobs. either way, you're out of here.' and. well. we all know about jack's famous competency kink. i think he'd become enamoured with how quickly davey went from being just a forgettable face in the background to a force to be reckoned with - i think he'd realize pretty quickly that davey's pretending just as much as jack is and would really want to bring that force out of him more and more, seeking him out to pester him and so on, thus leading to davey becoming more involved in the strike.

(i also envision a big 'pointing spiderman' moment when davey and kath meet each other through the newsies in this au. big 'i saw her at the devil's sacrament!' 'girl what were YOU doing at the devil's sacrament??' energy)

i think 'the man who sold the world' would be a good allegory for davey's arc in this au. davey sold his whole life, his world, to pulitzer. i imagine in this au he would barely know what's going on in his family's life anymore - who knows, maybe les still turns up at the newsstand looking to buy papers out of a clumsy, childish attempt to help his brother not have to work so much, and there can be a big moment of davey arriving at the rally, seeing les, and realising oh. his brother has a whole life and davey didn't see any of it. he doesn't have any spark about him anymore, he's too bogged down by the burnout. that's why jack gets so interested in drawing out that sharpness from him he saw in their first confrontation, and why he keeps on seeking davey out - and why davey begins to seek jack out right back, becoming more involved in the strike despite his association with the world and pulitzer as he begins to believe more and more in this idea that he and every other worker does hold power over their employer. i also imagine that'd be part of pulitzer's blackmail against jack, threatening to both fire davey and blacklist him to other businessmen, making him unable to provide for his family, as well as arrest les for being part of the newsboy union. but when davey still insists on partaking in the strike and takes part in the children's crusade (and maybe convincing other workers like hannah to do the same since i imagine he'd have a close working relationship with them), he gets to see firsthand how pulitzer's office falls apart without him and sells out the company that took over his life for a better future.

thanks for the ask anon! i know the ask game said 'SHORT synopsis' but uh... lol xd i guess? i really really love this au-

ask game is here if anyone else would like to send something in!

Sidney Chambers and The Narrow Gate #3

Mr and Mrs Chapman invited Audrey to her stepdaughter Isabel’s wedding, after a fairly dramatic case of her mother’s passing and the father of her baby making a run for it, Isabel found love with a kind carpenter who managed to fall in love with Isabel and her baby. Jack, Mrs C’s husband, pulled out all the stops for his only daughters wedding. A beautiful winter ceremony at midday followed by a grand wedding buffet at the Royal Hotel. She’d met Isabel numerous times and was very fond of her little boy Timothy. She was happy for Isabel and it made her consider getting married herself seeing them so happy.

“Its the perfect time for you to meet everyone, Jacks gone and invited the whole village!” Audrey was adjusting the flowers at the end of the pew with Mrs C, she had come early to help with the preparations. Jack grew up in Grantchester and left when he was only 16 travelling the world, now in his 50s he wants to reconnect with his hometown and finally be a father to Isabel.”who knows you might meet a nice lad!” Audrey almost laughed at that, she has kept some hope despite her youthful heartbreaks but it still seemed unlikely to her.

“One can only hope Mrs C!” Her eyes lingered on to the altar that was quite a bit higher than the floor of the church, making who ever stood there, she assumed, to look quite grand,”it’s quite high the alter” she thought out loud.

“It used to be a catholic church, the altar is the only thing that remained past the 16th century” they met at the last pews near the entrance of the church. “I know I give him quite a bit of grief but when he’s at his best and he’s on that altar, it’s like the Holy Spirit comes through him” Audrey saw the pride in Mrs Chapmans eyes as the latter stared at the altar.

“You almost sound as if you miss him” she went back to a adjusting the last of the flowers.

“Well as you know he hasn’t been around much lately, I was scared he was loosing his way with that damned wo...” She stopped herself looking directly behind Audrey. “And where have you been!?���

Speak of the devil,Sidney had come in with a woman just behind him. She had a beautiful dark grey coat over her dress with the sleeves and neckline lined with fur and a matching fur hat.Audrey suddenly felt quite plain and wished she had used more eyeliner. She had on a perfect red lip, her big brown eyes beautifully lined, her brow clean and straight making her look like a fairy. Not a perfectly curled hair out of place. She felt slightly underwhelming in her dark green pea coat and black fascinator. The two of them entering together made the seem Like teenagers getting caught.

“I was just picking up Amanda, she’s coming to the wedding” Amanda moved forward next to him and smiled at Mrs C. This must be his girlfriend, she concluded.

“It’s good to see you again Mrs Chapman” Mrs C pursed her lips inward and shifted her eyes between the two.

“Yes Mrs Hopkins, how nice of you to join us, is your husband here as well?”Oh...ohh. Audrey was not expecting that. Where’s Leonard when you need him!? Mrs M asked the question but she didn’t seem to need answer. Audrey felt like she was the one intruding despite the fact she was there first.

“Unfortunately not, he’s in London for business” she said tightly. She glanced up at Sidney who looked equally uncomfortable. His eyes settled on Audrey, taking in her appearance. He never seen her like this before, put together and dressed up. Audrey’s eyes were so dark you could barely see her pupil and they were framed with her thick lashes and eye make up, making them look mysterious but inviting. Her black hair was pulled back into a bun partly hidden by her fascinator and for the life of him he could not help but notice her full lips painted in a warm peach colour. He looked almost relieved and took his chance to move the conversation along.

“Audrey! Mrs C mentioned you were coming” he shifted the attention to Audrey in hopes that social politeness would lighten up this interaction. They had decided to drop formalities and call each other by their first name after she celebrated her new job with them. Amanda seemingly alarmed by the familiarity finally looked at Audrey.

“Mrs Hopkins” Mrs M cut in, again with a lot of emphasis on the Mrs.”this is Miss Houghton, she’s the new junior archivist for Grantchester Library.” Amanda smiled warmly at Audrey and shook her hand.

“Pleasure to meet you” She didn’t seem like she was from Grantchester, all her formality and posture made her seem more suited to the city. Her diamond earrings looked like they could have cost more than her parents house. Sidney suddenly looked nervous and decided he should get ready for the ceremony.

“I’ll see you at the reception!” He said rushing off behind the alter.

“Come Mrs Hopkins, you shouldn’t stand too long in your condition” Audrey wondered what she meant but quickly lost her thought when guest started coming in. She had promised Mrs C to help the guests with their seats.

——————-

The wedding proceeded at twelve o’clock precisely, Isabels’ little boy Timothy almost stole the show as the ring bearer, his fluffy hair littered with a bit of snow and his now and cheeks red from the cold. Isabel walked down the aisle on Jacks arm in a modest tea-length wedding dress with a caged pillbox hat and a bright red lip. Jack kissed her forehead and sat next to his wife, his eyes wet. Audrey sat on the same pew with Leonard and Amanda either side of her. Sidney stood at the alter in front of the happy couple the light from the large arched windows behind him making him look majestic.

The wedding went on and ended with Sidney’s conclusion. “Edmond and Isabel, today you have chosen each other in the most important sacrament of your lives, marriage, it is an unbending bond meant to fulfil and encourage you both to be better servants of God. May your love weather through the trials of marriage and life together as one flesh forever and ever amen” There was a solemn moment until Sidney broke into a wide smile and proudly announced the couple.”Mr and Mrs Edmond George! You may now kiss the bride!” Edmond planted a fairytale kiss on his bride and thus the celebrating commenced.

There is a thin line between sacrificing a lamb and striking a deal with the Devil.

We give up whole parts of ourselves to belong in our families. In turn, for those of us who dare to come home to ourselves, we risk losing our family and severing the ties that bind us.

When I was twenty-one, I became the first member of my family to earn a college degree. In hindsight, this seemingly positive milestone, or the culmination thereof, both gave and spared me a lifetime of heartache. By achieving an advanced education and moving just an hour from home, I unknowingly left my family, and in doing so, embarked on the long, arduous task of breaking through the invisible (but formidable) barriers of class and intergenerational trauma.

Pittsfield is a city people never leave or never return to; I only knew I had to go —that hanging out with girls who were “dating” their father’s friends and losing five of my cohort in just ten months to alcohol, suicide, and drugs filled me with foreboding. My peers and I shared a unique darkness. One that went beyond the cynical, independent, and pragmatic nature that hallmarks Generation X. We shared history rooted in trauma bonds. Collective memories steeped in Black Sabbath and Pink Floyd, psychedelics and Jack Daniels, sex hallmarked by confusion versus consent, a blur between victim and perpetrator —think Lord of the Flies meets Heavy Metal.

Despite having just over forty-one thousand residents, my hometown lays claim to one of America’s highest crime rates (from the smallest towns to the very largest of cities). If you visit, you have a 1 in 27 chance of being a victim of a violent crime. Put differently; you’re more likely to be mugged or collide with a drunk driver than to get COVID19 while not wearing a mask. The irony is the city lies nestled in the center of the sleepy Berkshire hills. The surrounding landscape, a living Norman Rockwell painting, populated by wealthy New Yorkers and nineteenth-century “cottages.” Home to the Boston Symphony Orchestra and Tanglewood, where tourists eat bacon-wrapped figs and sip Sauvignon Blanc on the lawn. The Berkshires —where you can visit Herman Melville’s house in Lenox and score crack in Pittsfield, all in the space of an hour.

My twenty-one-year-old self-fled to the Pioneer Valley, and misfit though I was, I claimed it as my home. Just fifty-one miles as the crow flies, it kept me within driving distance of my closely knit (but) turbulent clan while affording me the possibility of a new life. Northampton was both academic and bohemian, brimming with universities, bookstores, cafes, and the arts. It was an altogether different planet, and it terrified me.

I had no idea of the implications of this move —of what it meant to transition from a working-class family in a post-industrial ghost town ravaged by racial and class warfare to a white-collar world steeped in privilege and academia. I could not foresee the coils that spun out from my childhood to my future. How they’d wrap around my life like the tentacles of a giant squid, choking me, pulling at my dreams, dragging me under —how I’d thrash, how it would take decades before my lungs acclimated to the water that would birth me, and the casualties of connection to be incurred along the way.

*****

When we were teens, we traversed Pittsfield via an underground network of train tracks. We believed that if we put an ear to the railway metal, we would hear the train coming long before seeing it. That as long as we maintained a vigilance by pressing an occasional cheek against the hot-rolled steel, we’d anticipate the train’s arrival —hear the hissing of the rails, feel the engine’s vibration in our skull. In hindsight, this is how we lived our days. A trick we played to maintain the illusion of immortality –we believed that a car full of balloons would cushion a crash, that powder and smoke were less lethal than needles.

The reality was, we were often too stoned or just plain afraid, so we never actually listened for the train. Never anticipated the deaths of our friends.

We lost the first one to suicide. Pinned between two car bumpers on a Friday night bender, Paul never acclimated to his right legs’ amputation. Several months following the accident, he shot himself in the face in front of his fiancé. Then there was the motorcycle crash. Timmy was a bad boy from the town’s outskirts; he had warm cocoa curls and a smile sweeter than John Travolta. He flew his Harley around a corner, jacked on cocaine, and never landed. That same Autumn, up Barker Road, Ryan and Ellen wrapped their green Chevy Nova around a maple tree — he lived, she did not, their newborn baby home sleeping in her grandma’s arms.

Dearest to me was Bill, driven mad by an excess of Gooney Birds —that particularly potent blotter he partook of as a daily sacrament, so much so that the blur between his tripping and psychosis became indistinguishable. I can personally attest to the magic in those dime-size tabs, how it tingled your tongue and altered reality for days. Under its influence, I saw a bag of marshmallows breathe, watched my cousin’s hand melt into the ochre shag of a van rug. That November, Bill’s delusions drove him wild and deep into the woods of Hatfield; his body found unmarred amongst the ashen brush. The authorities said it was a lacerated liver, that he bled to death internally —that it was like going to sleep.

*****

At what moment do we begin the slow and steady handing over of our hearts? I remember being six and staring at dirty linoleum, my mother sobbing on the kitchen floor by the dishwasher. There were shards of glass underfoot; to walk toward her would require cutting myself. I believed that I had broken her —that my sister and I spawned a storm so vast that our home would not see sunlight for months. Our Italian grandmother and father concurred. So, I clapped my hand over my mouth each time my voice yearned to escape and swallowed it whole. Again, and again, I walked barefoot on glass to reach her. A little blood seemed a small price to pay. Slowly, I learned about relational transactions, equating love with pain, and silence with safety.

There is a thin line between sacrificing a lamb and striking a deal with the Devil. The first (we hope) affords us blessings and wishes. The latter steals our soul and damns us. When we offer up our voice in exchange for belonging, we silence our longing. It is a curious thing to consider; that to no longer Be our Longing, we must sever something, and it leaves me wondering what becomes of our hunger?

For me, my father’s blows and punches — an act of desperation intended (literally) to knock some sense into my inebriated fifteen-year-old head, no longer registered pain. My mother’s second wave of melancholy did not inspire compassion. The afternoon five girls ambushed me in a ballfield, and I felt the bubble gum on my tongue crumble like chalk when mixed with blood (a chemical reaction few have experienced) —I floated above the grass. Any part of me that longed for tenderness, validation, reassurance, and kindness burned down

—this is what trauma does; it begets and destroys, permeates, and empties.

*****

Fortunately, memory is malleable. To evoke a memory is to flick a switch —light up a constellation of neural pathways that are as intricate and ever-changing as the night skies. Our recollections are not so much facts as they are stories, and like all works in progress, they are subject to edits and revisions. Memory is as affected by our perceptions of the present as our perceptions of the past. This concept offers immense hope for those of us who have had bad things happen, which is to say —Everyone.

Implicit in this idea is that our perceptions can radically shift our stories —that when we mine our past for meaning, we will arrive at new understandings concerning our misfortunes, sorrows, and pain. Our divorce will no longer be a disaster, but rather a turning point that catalyzed a life otherwise not possible. A malignant tumor might serve as a wake-up call to a life otherwise spent underwater and holding our breath. I’m not implying we should wish adversity on ourselves but rather acknowledging that ultimately, we will all belong to some club. The “I lost my spouse to suicide” club. The “I had seven miscarriages and ten years of fertility treatment” club.” The “My mother was an alcoholic and my father left when I was two” club. To be alive is to be in a club.

I believe the road to wholeness begins with the slow and steady patching of our hearts’ fractured pieces. That by stitching together tiny moments of connection, risk, and vulnerability, we find our way Home. That it’s not a straight line, but a somewhat never-ending journey where hopelessness, fatigue, and lapsing into old habits is standard. As we age, there lies the potential to write our story versus having our story write us. And if we stay the course and remain open, we will slowly assemble a network culled through friendship, psychotherapy, surrogates, and self-made kin. We will come to a deeper understanding of the hows and the whys of our life and we will find our people.

It took me thirty-one years of individual therapy, earning my master’s degree in Psychology, becoming licensed as a psychotherapist, moving one hour and a lifetime away from home, one marriage, a divorce, and a child to find my way. The cost —immeasurable. To paraphrase Maya Angelou, I belong nowhere because I belong everywhere. I belong to myself. I belong to a tribe of tattooed scavengers who have mastered the art of melding dung to feathers —a band of gypsies, ravens, and heretics who hover between scrappy and soulful —who happily fly alongside Icarus, broken wings and all.

What we share beyond our common humanity is a visceral knowing that suffering is here to stay. That trauma is inseparable from life. That loss is both holy and abysmal, and that grief is, in turn, the most sacred and proper response to joy. We are all wretched and omnipotent, sitting in the sun and soaked to the bone.

This is what trauma does.

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