#shockingly this took me less than 25 hours
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The beheading of Cazador
Closeups and background info below 👇
This is a classic painting study based off of Judith slaying Holofernes by Artemisia Gentileschi, 1614–18. In the story, Judith, a beautiful widow, is able to enter the tent of Holofernes because of his desire for her. Holofernes was an Assyrian general who was about to destroy Judith's home, the city of Bethulia. Overcome with drink, he passes out and is decapitated by Judith.
#my art#bg3#baldur's gate 3#astarion#baldurs gate astarion#bg3 cazador#illustration#digital illustration#digital art#fantasy#dnd#d&d#can’t believe this monster is finally done#shockingly this took me less than 25 hours#y’all I just love Astarion so much and his story means so much to me#I’m like actually really proud of this one#wow guess who was dumb and misspelled Cazador when they initially posted this lmao
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Wednesday 2 July 1834
5
12
no kiss see last night - very fine morning - F70° at 6 10 - A- and I out at 6 40 sauntered along the rue de Rhone § [to the Toporama to see Godots’ fine model of Switzerland – not the one I saw in 1827 – only ½ the size but containing more extract of country i.e. the Tyrol, Italian lakes, part of the Piemont and the whole Switzerland – on sale – for not less than 24000fr. French – would see the other (the large and old one) for 900fr. - a model in hand like the 24000fr. one, reduced from about 15 by 9ft. French to about 3ft. by 2 ½ ft. French at 500fr. to be sent to Sweden to Baron Müller – had made several on this scale and sent them to England - to Lord Grey – Lord Monson et aliis - made one of the Mont Blanc mountains only, on a very large scale for the Ecole des mines à Paris – said I should like a scale between the big and the little and he agreed to make me (in 6 months and send via Paris and Calais to London there to be paid on its arrival) a model taking in all the country – all the étendre of the large at 24000fr. for 15000fr. – said I should be back again from Chamouni [Chamonix-Mont-Blanc] soon and would let him know about it - Miss W- shockingly tired of standing so long – about an hour there – put in the post en passant my letter to my aunt ‘Shibden Hall Halifax Yorkshire Angleterre’ and A-‘s letter to her aunt Cliff hill and sister and Washington – vid. yesterday - home at 8 ¾ - breakfast at 9 to 10 ¾ - having George up 2 or 3 times to give him instructions in French
§ went into the rue de la cité and paid for plan of Geneva that came at 6 ½ this morning etc and staid there sometime – the man very civil gave me 4 addresses for pensions (thought of leaving Eugenie at one) and gave me the relative value of Geneva money compared with French
sols de Geneva Francs cents
pieces of
½ = 0.2
1 = 0.4
3 = 0.12
1 5= 0.58
21 = 0.80
1 florin de Geneva = 12 sols de Geneva
26 sols de Geneva = 1 Franc de France
1 Ecu de 5fr. (French) vaut florin 10.10s
2fr. ---------------------------------------- 4.4.
1fr. -----------------------------------------2.2
1/2fr.----------------------------------------1.1
then chez Joan Soupat, place du bourg du four, for little silk shawl for A- had not one, but good shop for Swiss Muslins and linen etc - they sent us to Louis Pernin fils au bas de la cité no. 51 and got a ficher - home at 8 ¾ - breakfast etc (the 12 lines with in brackets belong to after breakfast) - from 11 ¾ to 1 ¾ when A- and I out again – had had a porter after breakfast – said there were 240 rooms in the house of which 160 de maitre - 34 chambres de maitre sur chaque des 5 étages - price of a country house for the season (6 months 3,000 to 4,000fr. - Coligny) that Lord Byron had 4,000 fr. -Had inquired at the police – Miss Pickford had not been here of 3 years - A- had lain down – had ordered a carriage at 2 – she and I out in it at 2 ¾ and took Eugenie with us – went to the bank (H. Hentsch and co.) on the quai almost opposite to our hotel des Bergues - from £25 circular no. 4096, received 11 double napoleons + 9 singular ditto = 620fr. for which paid (agio on the gold) 7/50? and for gold now cost 15 fr. per thousand and this not considered dear - a month hence would be 20/ agio per thousand - forgot to ask for an account of what I received - supposed I paid 7/55 agio this would make 620+7/55+(5sols de Genève taken at sols French) ./20 = 627fr. 75 cents = exchange at 25fr. 11 cents- from the bank to the Grand Chemin des Philosophes, chez Madame Bacle for pension for Eugenie - would take her (giving her 2 ground floors rooms) for 175fr. per month so that we could sleep a night or 2 there if we liked - but for our own living to pay 10fr. a day - happening to inquire about Miss Pickford found she and Miss Maitland were chez Madame Palis – a house or two distant – went there – waited 20 minutes till 4 5 then sat with them till 4 ½ - Miss P- said nothing but seemed surprised – was she not nervous? looked well - told her of her letter record in Paris last July - they are going to England on Tuesday - Paris via Dijon by voiturin, the one from here they have had at Naples, and everywhere - Miss Maitland a very tall, large woman – asked me to stay and dine with them at their public table! – Miss P- said nothing – she probably knew me better – declined very civilly on account of much to do and going to Chamouni [Chamonix-Mont-Blanc] tomorrow - Miss P- hardly seemed at ease - true she lost much (‘pretty well’) by Miss Threlfall who died 2 years ago - might have recovered it, but it would cost more than it was worth - the musé [musée] under repair could not be seen perhaps may be a fortnight hence - 20 minutes in the botanic garden goes up to Mr. Eynards’ nice house and gardens - the garden arranged on the natural system - very ill kept - the Serres full of workmen - then to the cathedral - full of workmen preparing for the Grand Helvetic concert on the 28th inst. - neat, clean, handsome gothic pile - du temps de Charlemagne the woman said - 3 fine painted glass windows in the apsis - Charlemagne, in that on the right - home at 5 ½ - dinner at 5 40 - had just the loueur of the carriage - called the distance to Sallenche [Sallanches] 15 lieues (instead of 12 or in truth 11) and asked 48/. - tho’ he had agreed with the porter for 36/. - said people gave the cocher 3/. a day - 30/. + 4/. for cocher would have been enough the porter owned had it been last year - now forage dear and 36/. fair - offered to get me another carriage - no! said I would go en poste - poste arranged as in France 36 sols per cheval and 1 extra cheval not put on for us at 20 sols - so I shall leave the carriage at Sallenche [Sallanches] and Eugenie too - sat long over dinner and dessert – dawdling talking – from 10 ¼ to 11 20 wrote the above of today – fine day till lowering at 5 ½ and between 6 and 7 (and long afterwards flashes of lighting at intervals much thunder) heavy rain and a thunder storm – lightning very vivid and much thunder 1 peal so near the house seemed coming down - F72 ½° now at 11 20 pm - Miss W- owns she has had whites again (had them years ago and since) these last two or three days burn her in making water said she had rather affected me on Monday night
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MORE POLYCULE SHIT
here this is mostly Sam/Ned from Matt’s POV. (this piece assumes Matt didn’t know about the negotiations until later)
Title: soda bottles
Summary: Matt finds out about Sam’s involvement with Ned and then with Peter’s polycule. He tries to talk to Sam about it, but fails. On like, every front.
---------------
The apprentice told him to stay out of his room and his life and his business and he should have known better by now, truly.
Matt knew that voice. And he also knew that what Sam, Samuel, Sammy-my-darling was doing right now at this present moment was giggling.
Unacceptable. There would be no joy in this house.
Matt removed himself from the door and declared war in silence.
---
The dogs were instrumental in luring Samuel out to open space. And by luring, Matt meant knocking on his bedroom door with leashes in hand and asking Sam if he wanted a walk.
In no time Matt had zero leashes and zero dogs and, while he was at it, zero apprentices.
In fact, he had been abandoned.
In his own house.
Again.
How did this keep happening?
---
Foggy told Matt to let Sam have his little crush on Ned. Ned was a good boy. Foggy had maintained this for years. He skirted around the fact that he’d grabbed Ned’s shoulders when he was 17 and had told him to stare him in the eyes and to never fall in love with his best friend.
Matt pointed this out to him and got a pillow to the face, then a huff and an uncalled-for reminder that he was a fucking idiot and no one loved him.
This was Foggy’s love language though, so Matt didn’t take it to heart. Instead, he abandoned him for the only person in the world who truly understood him.
Jenn.
---
Jenn had to spend fifteen minutes cooing over the fact that Matt had acquired an apprentice and then she had to spend another ten being an asshole about it and then she spent a solid 5 making dad jokes at him when he tried to talk and so he waited until she was done with her cackling and personal jabs.
She told him that it was cute that Peter’s bestie was gushing over Matt’s apprentice.
She told him that he should be happy for them.
And Matt was. Happy for them, that is.
He was thrilled.
Sam’s track record with long-term partners, as far as Matt could tell, was a solid nil for nil. The boy refused to be attached to anyone, which Matt totally got.
But it was like standing by, watching your own young moronic self making a series of unfortunate decisions that were not only whole unnecessary, but also had solutions within easy reach, like headstones in a damn cemetery.
Sam had a string of guys and girls that he’d picked up at clubs and bars and fuckin’ hipster literature readings downtown who were literally, actually falling over themselves to be with him. And he texted them and laughed about them and joked with Leilani and Achara about them, and then never spoke of them ever again.
Matt got it, okay?
He’d been that guy.
Maybe a little more on the jock side of things and maybe a little less, say, refined than Sammy—but he still got it. A slightly longer relationship was good for Sam. And Ned was a good egg—no, a great egg.
But he just couldn’t shake this feeling, Jenn.
He didn’t even know what it was, but it made him paranoid and want Sam to go back to the self-destructive nonsense, because at least Matt knew what that felt like. He could push back against that after dumping the kid out of the ring in training.
“Matty,” Jenn said affectionately, “You’re trying to protect Sam, Ned, and Peter. But you don’t have to do that. They’re all grown. Let them make their decisions.”
Ooooohohoho
How dare she.
Matt knew they were grown. Sam was nearly 25. Peter was almost 27—oh god, Peter was almost 27. FUCK. Jesus. Lord. Someone—Christ.
Sammy was a baby.
He couldn’t be playing with these big kids, he’d have his heart broken.
What if Ned got bored of him, Jenn??
Matt couldn’t beat the shit out of Ned. Ned was a good boy. And Peter would lose his damn gourd and that was how Matt would end up under two tons of concrete and rebar with an angry spider perched on top, stomping and spitting.
“Matt,” Jenn said soothingly. “Peter learned how to be polyamorous from you, dear heart.”
Oh shit.
Oh right.
Oh no.
“I’ve gotta go,” Matt said. “Lovely talking to you, next time you’re in town, come around for a foursome or a twosome or a three if Kirsten’s down—okay BYE.”
Jenn laughed at him when he hung up.
Matt clutched at his chest.
---
He’d inadvertently taught Peter what polyamory looked like by flinging himself down on many disgusting surfaces and moaning and writhing in agony and despair about Foggy being monogamous and everyone in the world being unspeakably brilliant and strong and no-doubt gorgeous.
Fuckin’ Kirsten.
Fuckin’ Wade.
Fuckin’ Karen.
And Heather and Marci and ONE TIME ONLY Frank.
UGH.
Disgusting. Matt needed Lysol to scrub that moment of weakness from his brain.
The point was that he’d been a chump, and baby Peter had observed these various moaning sessions and had apparently, at some point, started taking notes.
Gah.
Peter. Why?
Stop loving your friends. Stop copying me. Get your own breakdown material.
Uuuuuuugh.
Okay, okay. Rally, Murdock. It’s fine.
This is simply a conversation to have with Sammy about how to negotiate such--hng. Actually maybe this was a Kirsten conversation.
---
He went to visit Kirsten.
He got a little distracted because Kirsten was Kirsten and she required thorough smelling and like, minimum two kisses and she deserved to have at his bare chest if she wanted it—who was he to deny her—THE POINT.
The point. Was.
That he told Kirsten about things and she told him not to talk about work when she was taking her shirt off, and he told her to leave it on for just like, five minutes longer and that came out wrong and she was insulted and Matt had to backtrack for half an hour.
But he got there in the end, alright?
Kirsten said she didn’t know that Sam was polyamorous.
Matt said that he didn’t know if he was, but he sure as shit was flirting with Ned like, constantly.
Kirsten said that that explained why Sam kept telling her that he couldn’t come to dinner with them because he already had a date. Kirsten then went rigid and said, “Wait, you mean Ned-Ned?”
Yes.
Yes, Matt did.
“Oh.”
Correct reaction.
“Is that—do you think that’s –hm.”
Correct reaction maintained and appreciated. Matt no longer felt like a monumental ass.
“That might be a little, uh, cuttin’ it close there,” Kirsten said. “Does Peter know?”
Presumably. Ned couldn’t lie for shit.
“Maybe we should ask Peter what the negotiations there are. He’s pretty on top of that stuff.”
Shockingly, that was true.
Good plan.
“If Sammy’s gonna get involved with them, then he should at least know what he’s getting into,” Kirsten said.
Yes, but also—why is this feeling happening, Kirsten, beloved life partner number 2?
“Oh, that? That’s called ‘you’re a territorial dick,’” Kirsten said. “Get over yourself.”
“But he’s 24,” Matt said. “A child.”
“He’ll be twenty-five in a few months, Matthew,” Kirsten said. “That’s bad-decision-making prime-time. This is inevitable. My concern is that he’s not going into a relationship with Ned, thinking that he’s the primary partner there.”
Okay, fair.
“Are we done with this conversation now?”
Yes.
“Thank god. I hate your dad impulses. Cleanse yourself of them and get on the bed.”
Would do.
---
Kirsten made Matt call Peter and be awkward for the both of them which, Matt would like it stated for the record, was extremely unfair and manipulative of her.
Peter told him that Sam was fine.
Peter told him that he and Sam had maybe fooled around a little bit without Matt and Foggy and Kirsten’s knowledge which was. Hm.
Troublemakers. Stop laughing, Franklin. This is nothing like the time we inducted Kirsten into our life and lied about it to everyone we knew for 3 years.
Nothing.
Peter thought not. Peter thought that Sam had told Matt about this whole thing. He then got a little huffy and said that Ned was the one who had swept Sam off his feet while Peter had been standing right there, man. As Spiderman. Primed for feet-sweeping.
That was satisfying.
Peter took the next ten minutes to complain about how Sam didn’t want to talk to him as much as he wanted to talk to Ned and how Ned was always begging off dinners with Peter and MJ to go have dinner with Sam and how Peter and MJ had to make do with Johnny in his absence.
Matt would never understand why Peter pretended that he and Johnny Storm were nothing more than fuck buddies, but okay, sure. If that’s what helps you sleep at night, little lion man.
Peter went on to say that the worst part of Sam and Ned’s mutual obsession was how fucking cute it was.
Disgusting, Peter maintained.
There were matching bracelets and drawn out decisions about matching sneakers. And there was nattering on until past midnight about Transformers lore and there was non-stop texting and complaints about various tools and coding languages and all this shit that Peter’s own flavor of nerd had diverged from about six years ago.
Kirsten made a little squeak that told Matt that she was highly entertained by Peter’s ‘complaints.’
It sounded more to Matt like Peter and MJ were hunkered down behind the couch, narrating all Ned’s behavior to Johnny (the totally uninvolved fuckbuddy) in whispers.
Foggy curled up on the edge of their own couch to muffle his wheezy giggles.
Exhausting.
The youth were exhausting. How had no one just shot Matt straight through the heart at 27?
“I will speak to Sam about emotional repression,” he promised Peter only to receive a “NO WAIT” from both him and, from the sound of it, MJ and (only fuckbuddy) Johnny a little ways away.
Peter hurriedly explained that Sammy was really shy and skittish about being around their polycule and had just connected with Ned as the least threatening member and it had taken ages, so please don’t say anything and destroy all of the rest of their hard work.
This hit a strange note.
Foggy and Kirsten weren’t snickering anymore either.
Sam?
Wasn’t?
Shy?
Like, if anything, Sammy was shameless. Always lying in people’s laps and snatching their open hands to swing back and forth.
Sure, he was teasing. But shy? Shy?
Sam was sick.
“No,” Peter said. “Double D, he’s not sick.”
Very sick. Terminally ill.
“DD. He’s not sick.”
Bullshit. Matt was taking him to the doctor. Too bad, Sam. You couldn’t avoid it forever.
“Matt. He’s just. Emotionally. Repressed. You should recognize it because its your whole way of being.”
Wow, hadn’t this conversation been going on for a while now? Time to go.
“MATT. Leave him alone,” Peter said. “I’m looking after him, okay? Chill.”
Chill. Yes. Okay, fine. Matt would chill.
For now. Goodbye, Peter.
---
Matt hadn’t chilled about anything in his life and he didn’t intend to start now. So instead he confronted the apprentice.
The apprentice leaned very hard against his door and told Matt that he would rather die than speak of such things, so Matt told him to bare his neck.
Sammy was convinced. But only just.
He made himself frighteningly small and grumpy on his bed and allowed Matt to sit only on the last four inches of it. Matt kind of wanted to take the opportunity to teach him how to hiss.
But alas. That was a skill for another time.
“I talked to Peter,” he said.
Sam mumbled.
“He says you’re shy. Are you feeling okay?”
Sam mumbled in a more prolonged, growly kind of way. He was muffled by something. Probably jeans. Or sweats. Hard to tell.
“Why are you being shy? We both know you’re not shy. Ned’s a nice boy,” Matt told him. “You can trust him.”
Sam jerked his body in some way strongly enough to make the bed shake.
Matt sighed.
“Sam,” he said.
“I don’t want to talk about it,” Sam said.
“Listen, kid,” Matt said. “You’re gonna do what you want. You’re grown, those are your decisions to make. But if you’re ever uncomfortable or you want to spend time with one person in particular, you’ve gotta communicate that to the others. I know that’s not like, smoothly done or whatever. But it’s what you’ve gotta do in these kinds of relationships.”
Sam made an unhappy sound.
“I don’t want a relationship,” he said quietly.
Ehn.
Same, pal.
They’re a lot of work.
“They’re worth it,” Matt promised him. “And it’s okay to be a little in love, you know. I’m in love every day. It’s not shameful. You don’t have to hide it.”
Sam huffed.
“People’ll stare,” he finally said. “If we ever went out. People would stare.”
Ahhh.
“That’s what you think,” Matt said. “But then you go and do it and it turns out that no one actually cares. People are very self-centered, Sam. You spend all this time worrying about how others perceive you and, at the end of the day, 90% of people literally don’t care. You don’t have to talk to Ned in your room all the time.”
Sam did something with his body that concentrated it even further into a dense mass.
“I like him,” he admitted. “He’s nice.”
Matt hummed.
“He’s a peaceful person,” he said.
“He talks so I don’t have to,” Sam said.
Aw.
Matt felt across the bed and eventually found Sam’s cheek to pinch.
“So shy for such a loudmouth,” he teased.
Sam bit his hand. Matt snickered.
“It’s okay, when I met Fogs I was shy, too,” he said.
Sam grumbled.
“It’s true,” Matt said. “Could not fathom having another human around who I didn’t have to put on an act for.”
He waited.
Sam didn’t even seem to realize that his heart was slowing down.
“I don’t like talking all the time,” he said after a long few beats.
Matt ruffled his hair.
“Ned knows a lot about Star Wars,” he said.
“And computers,” Sam added.
“And code,” Matt said.
Sam’s foot shook a little. Matt schooled his face. Sam crunched into a tighter ball.
Adorable.
Matt got up.
“Long distance is rough,” he said. “Maybe you guys can watch a movie together.”
Sam made a disgruntled sound. Matt left him to be miserable.
---
“You’ve sure turned your opinion around.”
Yes, Husband. Matt had indeed. But that was because Sam was clearly and obviously suffering as a result of this crush, which was precisely where Matt needed him to be.
Misery was familiar. Resentment was nearly as good as spite in terms of skill development.
Dopey-ness was asking for trouble.
“Matt, you cannot be serious.”
Oh, but he could.
“Matthew, what did you tell that boy?”
Nothing he didn’t need to know.
Foggy abandoned him at the table. Matt sipped his coffee. It tasted oh-so-sweet.
---
Things did not change until Matt got a text from Peter that said simply ‘when the fuck is Sam’s birthday?’
In February. Why was he asking?
Peter said ‘damn. Okay, thanks.’
Peter then said that he’d seemed a little sad lately and Ned was freaking out about it and fixating, so they were collectively looking for an excuse to cheer Sam up a little.
Oh, Matt realized. No, that wasn’t sad.
The night nurse had given Sammy the good drugs after last week. He was high as a kite, bless him. Kept running into walls and shit. Matt had dragged him up out of the dog beds twice now.
He informed Peter of the damaged elbow and got nothing but keyboard smashes in return.
This was followed by Sam stumbling out of his room and half up the stairs to make pitiful sounds when he couldn’t make them stay still long enough to climb the rest of them. Foggy shook his head and told Matt to go “strap that kid to the bed, for god’s sake. He’s gonna tear more stitches. And go text for him before he drops his phone again.”
Sammy was coming along great.
He held his phone out to Matt when Matt came down to stand over him on the stairs.
“They’re yellin’,” he slurred.
Yeah, Matt figured.
“Bed,” he said.
“It’s too hot,” Sam said.
No, pathetic ball of humanity. That was the fever, bud.
“Open the window,” Matt said.
“I have a window?”
Bless.
“Up you go,” Matt said.
“DON’T TOUCH ME. Nooooo. Teach, noooooo.”
---
MM: Peter stop texting him. he can’t read his texts rn. Zero tolerance for opioids.
PP: for WHAT
MM: he’s fine. lightly stabbed. Fractured elbow.
MJ: MATT
MM: yes?
MJ: tell him to get better for us
NL: ;__; please?
MM: he will be fine. He’s supposed to be sleeping this off.
MJ: can you keep us updated?
MM: why
PP: he’s our partner?
MM: ?
MM: I thought he was Ned’s main
NL: AJDF:AKSDFJASDFa
NL: DOES HE TALK ABOUT ME??
MJ: dude
NL: my b my b sry sry
NL: does he talk about me DD?
MM: no
NL: cool cool cool that’s fine
PP: ned
NL: it’s casual that’s cool
MJ: oh my god
NL: it doesn’t mean anything. That makes sense.
MM: peter what is happening?
PP: ned has decided that no texting means that sam hates him and no longer wants to be part of our relationship
NL: TELL HIM IM SORRY
PP: remember how you told me I have rejection issues?
MM: Ned he’s fine. He’s not mad. He’s high.
NL: [pikawat.png]
MJ: *coughs*
NL: oh shit my bad. I mean.
NL: what do you mean?
MM: I mean he likes you. He just hates talking about weaknesses. Ergo he hates talking about you.
MJ: ah, yes. I see now. The superhero logic. The forest has reappeared before me.
NL: OWO
MM: what does this mean?
PP: it’s a face. Like a super interested cat
NL: shut up
NL: so he likes me back?
MJ: no
PP: no
MM: I presume so? I don’t know kid. I just said he doesn’t talk about it.
NL: DD I will pay you in computer repairs to find out for me
MM: to find out if Sam likes you??
NL: yes
MM: what part of his obsession is confusing you
MJ: ASHDAF:SDF
PP: harsh
NL: all of it.
NL: okay so here’s the thing. We got like, matchy matchy stuff, right? Cause that’s what couples do. But he never wears his?? And like, we’ve been playing these games online, like, trying to beat each other, but he just stops playing halfway through? And if we’re watching a movie, it’s fine for the first half, but then he gets quiet and I just end up nattering away about nothing for like an hour and I can’t read the silence DD. I can’t read it. And Peter’s a liar
PP: okay no it is WELL established that I can’t lie what are you even talking about
NL: and he keeps going on about how sam’s shy, but he’s NOT shy. And we were fine until this week, but like, obviously, he’s high and not reading his messages and stuff, but idk am I making this into a big deal? From your end?
MM: What was that face, Peter?
PP: OwO
MM: OwO
MJ: ASDFAeirwieawewdflajwe
MJ: NED LOOK WHAT YOU’VE DONE TO THE OLD MAN
NL: SHUT UP. DD, please. Help me. Should I apologize? Is he bored of me? Does he want more time with Peter?
PP: what
PP: no pal I’m just a piece of ass in this situ
MJ: as you should be
PP: awwww
MM: ned Sammy’s fine?
NL: omg ‘sammy’ that’s really cute do you think he’d mind if I called him that? You know. If he ever speaks to me again?
PP: DD just tell him everything is fine so we can all go to sleep without being woken up every 20 min for a crisis.
MM: I literally don’t know. He doesn’t talk about any of you.
NL: can you sneaky-ninja ask him?
Matt could not with these children. Sam’s heartbeat was evening out. He was nearly back to sleep. Matt’s back couldn’t take hauling him up off the stairs in another half an hour, so he was going to stay right where he was, that was for damn sure.
“Samuel, you are dating three different flavors of spazz,” he told him.
Sam wriggled over and snuffled into his duvet.
Matt decided that that was an affirmative.
MM: he says you’re all dramatic and to leave him alone to sleep.
NL: ;__;
PP: ned that is not rejection
NL: ok
MJ: this is embarrassing
NL: I’m just gonna crawl under the floorboards and waste away👍
PP: for fuck’s sake this is me-levels of drama
NL: DD can you tell him that if he’s ever down to just watch shit as friends that’s okay too?
MJ: NED. Matt’s literally out of this loop. And Sam’s probably unconscious.
MM: can confirm is now unconscious. I am exiting your drama.
PP: Dude remember when I said I was gonna drown myself in the sea? You are reaching those levels
NL: I JUST LOVE HIM
Oh, aw.
NL: And it’s okay if he doesn’t feel the same way, that’s okay, I just wanted to make sure he wasn’t like uncomfortable. I can text him less and let him do his work things and we don’t have to organize shit on the weekends. It’s totally fine
These fuckin’ kids.
Matt grabbed Sam before he cracked his head against the wall and felt around for something to put between his forehead and it.
He fumbled out his phone in the meantime.
“Samuel,” he said into it, “When you wake up, come upstairs before taking the next pill.”
---
Sam was in pain and grumpy as shit and his mood did not improve as he read through Matt’s messages.
“Two days and everyone loses their goddamn minds,” he said.
Pretty much.
“Ned loves you,” Matt teased.
“Ned needs one of those happy pills,” Sam deadpanned.
Hm. How about no?
Sam groaned and carefully melded himself to the table.
“Why don’t you wear the matchy-matchy stuff?” Matt asked, setting a bag of icy water on Sam’s shoulders. He made a soft sound of relief.
“I don’t want to get ‘em dirty,” Sam hummed.
Hm.
“Maybe if you wore them out a little bit, Ned would like that,” Matt offered.
Sam mulled this over.
“Nah,” he said. “I’ll just tell him I wear it to sleep.”
Matt was so proud.
He missed Foggy coming in halfway through that discussion.
He did not miss the lecture Foggy laid on both of them about lying to loved ones.
---
Matt decided that Sam was far, far more emotionally repressed than he’d given the kid credit for. He was tickled pink.
Kirsten and Foggy were not. They called this ‘concerning behavior’ that needed ‘to be monitored in case of hidden injuries and self-harm.’
And like, man, it was as if they’d hard experience with this shit or something.
Matt decided to bypass their waffling and cornered Sam by trapping him in his duvet and demanding to know if he was hiding any injuries or self-harm.
Sam told him to get out of his room. His heartbeat did not react to the accusations, but rather to Matt’s ‘giant, heavy, albatross body’ assaulting him in his safe place.
Matt decided that this was proof that the emotional repression was, as he had always argued, doing exactly what it needed to: making Sam three times more functional as a human being.
Foggy took from that explanation that Matt was lying to him again.
Which, like, obviously.
But did Foggy need to know any of that?
Fuck no.
Only happy times with Matt Murdock here.
Smiling was somehow the wrong answer.
Smiling resulted in yelling. And then lots of loud heartbeats. And then something that looked a little like a fight, probably, to people with working eyes. But Matt knew that it wasn’t that.
It was just Foggy being hurt that Matt couldn’t tell him that Foggy’s homesickness was digging holes in his own resolve and mental wellbeing.
Sam popped up when Foggy went to go lay down to calm down and asked if everything was okay.
Matt told him it was.
Sam’s heart was not convinced. It started beating faster somehow.
Matt fully anticipated the texts that arrived later that night.
---
PP: yo DD, you guys okay?
MM: why
PP: ‘cause Sam’s freaking out saying that you and Foggy were shouting again?
MM: ah
MM: no we’re okay. No biggie
PP: I smell bullshit
MM: carry on smelling then
PP: Matt do you ever think about how you’re like, an example to us all of how not to live?
MM: beg your pardon?
PP: I just mean like, you do shit and we all learn from your shit. Like, every day.
MM: ?
PP: Sam like dumped a pile of lies he’d been telling Ned in his lap and started crying for like half an hour and apologized for another 40 minutes and then hung up and won’t answer his phone.
MM: what was that face again? The cat one?
PP: OwO
MM: OwO
PP: lol
---
The apprentice was perhaps absorbing too much too fast. He flat out denied having had any emotional crisis.
His heart was dead even when he said it. He was getting too good at out-maneuvering that trick.
“Peter seems to think that you had one the other night,” Matt mused.
“Peter needs to mind his own business,” Sam sniffed.
Aha.
“You like Peter,” Matt pointed out.
“He’s fine,” Sam said.
“Fine or fine?”
“That’s nasty, Teach. Don’t be gross. That’s like your little brother.”
Oh, sure it was.
“If Peter is sussing out your lies, you’re not doing a good enough job,” Matt said. “What you need, kiddo, is an aura and a starting point.”
Sam paused in making a horrible grating noise with some tool in his hand.
“A starting point?” he asked.
Why yes, apprentice.
As in, if you start off with your walls up and don’t let them buckle so easily, so many of these problems can be avoided.
“Isn’t that, like, the opposite of what Foggy said to do?” Sam asked suspiciously.
Well, technically. The husband might be correct for normal humans, but they weren’t normal humans. And as much as Matt loved him and thought he was brilliant, Foggy would never truly grasp that Matt needed those lies.
He needed the repression. The bottling. The anger.
He needed all that shit to be shaken up in him and then capped by the helmet every night.
Doing that kept Matt safe. It kept others safe.
It wasn’t fun and it wasn’t pretty and yeah, Matt was pretty fucked up because of it.
But Stick hadn’t been wrong about everything.
Not even he could be wrong about everything.
“It’s called balance,” Matt said. “Think about it like this. You’re a teacher. You’re about to walk into a new class. You need to establish a respectful relationship between yourself and these kids. How do you do it? Do you start off nice? Or do you start off strict?”
Sam said nothing.
“I start off strict,” Matt said. “Because it’s infinitely easier to become nicer and to keep respect than it is to start off nice and get meaner.”
Sam processed this.
“This sounds like an anti-Foggy sentiment,” he said.
No. It wasn’t anti-Foggy. Nothing was anti-Foggy.
“It’s nuance,” Matt said. “Intrapersonal relationships? Minimal repression. Interpersonal relationships, maximum repression. Don’t give them something to use against you”
Sam’s teeth clicked together as he worked his jaw.
“Talk to Ned and Peter,” he said. “Walls up to everyone else.”
Everyone else. Yes.
“I can do that.”
Yeah, Matt knew. Sam did it to pretty much anyone he didn’t immediately take a liking to at the firm.
“I can do that,” Sam repeated.
Woah. Wait. Hold on there, slugger. Nuance, remember?
“I’m just gonna hate the entire world,” Sam said. “Thanks, Teach. That’s a big help.”
---
PP: Matt
MM: Peter
PP: you know that Sam fucks with you daily right?
MM: …I forget sometimes
PP: lol you guys are funny
That little shit. Fine.
Do whatever. See if Matt cared.
Goddamn kids and their goddamn love affairs.
Whatever. Fuck ‘em.
Let them learn the bullshit on their own time. Matt had better things to do.
---------------
Matt and Foggy and Kirsten have their own polycule goin on with folks entering and leaving it as need be. And sometimes you just have to make Sam/Ned content because it is unerringly adorable.
#ficlet#samuel chung#matt murdock#ned leeds#inimitable verse#but this isn't canon to the verse I'm just fuckin around#fic#don't mind me#just having a ball#how does one make a category on Ao3 that is just like I accidentally made my own spiderman verse#and now I want to write stories using those characters but not in that main arc#I JUST WANT TO PLAY IN THAT SPACE YALL
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Everyone Deserves Love chapter 1
A/N: It’s finally here! I really wanted to finish this series before I started posting (mostly because I was afraid I wouldn’t finish it). This is my first time writing for an OC, and for SVU! I promise not every chapter will be this long; I was just trying to establish the character.
The first three chapters are prequels. This chapter takes place during season 5.
Next Chapter
Tags: child prostitution mention, sex trafficking mention, minor character death, child death, guns, blood, normal SVU stuff.
Words: 10k+
Devon Motely got out of bed and stretched, yawning loudly. She walked over to her window and threw the curtains open, letting the sun stream in. She glanced at the clock, 7:05am. She shook her head; it was later than she was used to, but not really; time zones still made sleep times awkward. The dawn was just peaking over the city buildings. New York, Devon thought, a thrill running through her. She had just moved across the country from California at her boss’s suggestion, transferring in the same department, but a new place; a welcome change from the monotony that was Devon’s life. It was fine by her; she was kind of done with California: the heat, the drama, the constant worry of her childhood coming back to haunt her. New York was a fresh start, a new adventure. Though, as someone who worked in the FBI, an adventure wasn’t always a good thing. But she wouldn’t think about that, instead focusing on the positives. For example, her best friend and fellow special agent, Emma, was reassigned with her. Plus, her old psychiatrist-turned-friend was reassigned to New York years ago, and she was hoping to catch up with him.
Devon was nearing thirty and had been an FBI agent, working with the Hostage Rescue Team, since she was 18—a whole decade ago! Most of the time, she hardly believed it had been that long. Other times, it felt like it had been so much longer; working HRT meant she had to do and look at things that would make others sick. They made her sick, too, but she could deal with it; she had to, it was her job. Sometimes while working undercover, however, she had moments of weakness, moments when she couldn’t commit to her illicit cover story, and she had to isolate herself to get back in the mindset. Only once did she ever have her cover blown; she grimaced when checking out “product”—little girls—and she couldn’t recover. She lost a couple girls that day, and she learned to always put on the correct face after that, no matter what she said or saw. Devon was damn good at her job, though, and she almost never lost another life since. Almost.
1 year later
Cubicle of Devon Motely
Thursday, October 25th. 12:37am
Devon sighed heavily; she was in the office—a rare occurrence indeed—flipping through pictures and unconsciously clenching her teeth in disgust and anger, slowly giving herself a headache. The Assistant Director, and subsequently her boss, Thomas Jenkins, had personally given her this task. It was a delicate procedure, one that he needed to make sure made it into the right hands. For that, only one name came up, and that was Devon’s. Devon scrolled through the pictures looking, searching for anything that could be useful—a tattoo, a building, a street sign. Anything. Hell, she’d take a moldy food wrapper at this rate; her search has pulled up dead-end after dead-end, and she was getting frustrated. She knew, though, how to relax and refocus her efforts; getting frustrated helped no one, especially not the poor children that were caught in the middle of this chaos. That being said, flipping through hundreds of kiddie porn images wasn’t the way she wanted to spend her day.
About two weeks ago, another field agent had been able to shine some light on a huge human trafficking ring, one that the FBI had been trying to break into for months. Devon hadn’t really been on the case, besides maybe looking through some facts or pictures in her fleeting free time, but she was now called in. Thomas mostly wanted her to stay caught up on the details because he wanted to send Devon in, hence why she was now stuck at her desk in the middle of the night, obsessively looking for some clue as to the location of where the kids may be. The other field agent, the one that first broke into the ring, was shockingly able to take one of the pimps alive, and even more shockingly, they were able to break through the encryption on the bastard’s laptop. All that he really had on there, however, were private messages with anonymous johns and pimps, something that the FBI’s best computer techs were trying to crack the identities of, and then some very, very disturbing pictures and videos.
Devon had mentally prepared herself for a couple hours before going to work on watching the videos; she figured that they were probably the worst things there, so she’d deal with them first. Sadly, she was correct; the things that she saw in those videos—mostly violent kiddie porn—made her skin crawl and still haunted her at night. It had been about a week since Devon started this “project,” and she had either gone to or talked to a psychiatrist almost every day afterwards. The pictures were…better isn’t the correct word, but they were less intense than the videos...for the most part. Devon kept a notepad and pen by her as she flipped through file after file. She came upon a particularly horrible picture and turned her screen off for a moment, feeling nauseous. She stood up quickly and took a couple steps from her desk, rubbing her temples, trying to get the image out of her mind with no luck. She needed a moment to recollect herself before she did something she regretted—going into their secure facility to beat that pimp to a bloody pulp would help no one. Though, it may make her feel better.
She sighed, taking a sip from her long-cold coffee. She picked up her notepad, going over the few—mostly useless, she knew—clues that she could pick up from the files she had already gone through. One kid in a video—a young boy, no older than 10--begged the man to not touch him, calling him by name, Evan. She wrote down the video timestamp; you can see half of Evan’s face for the briefest of moments. That’s been the most helpful thing she had found, though. Everything else she had scribbled down was just a description of the various rooms in the videos and pictures, or one of the children’s names, or the brand of…items used—anything that may be helpful in tracking down where these children could be. There was a grand total of 4 different rooms; she labeled one as “Evan’s room” and had scrawled down a basic description, but no other names of the pedophiles came up.
Tossing the notepad back onto the desk, Devon took a deep breath before sitting back down. She steeled herself, trying to force herself to feel nothing at all. It was good that she still felt repulsed, she told herself. Once she really did feel nothing, then it would be time to quit…and find a better therapist. Barely containing her groan of discomfort, she turned her computer screen back on, and analyzed the grotesque picture that appeared, looking for something, anything, that could help this child and all the others.
It took her two more days, and thousands of images that she’d need the strongest alcohol in existence to erase from her mind, until she found something concrete. There was a picture of the same bed that Devon had seen a hundred times now, the bed that she had labeled under “Evan’s room.” But Devon ignored the…scene that the picture was attempting to focus on. Instead, she focused her attention on what looked like a receipt—one that someone would get after they signed for something, a carbon copy of the signature on the bottom—that was on a clipboard on a dresser on the other side of the bed. It looked like the signature said “Evan Thompson” or “Evan Frampton,” but it was hard to tell. She needed another set of eyes, a fresher set that aren’t bloodshot from looking at a screen for days. She called Jenkins on his direct line and waited for him to come over to her desk to inform him about her discovery, see if he could make it out.
“I was starting to give up on you,” Jenkins joked as he appeared in the office doorway.
Devon gave a tired smile. “Trust me, I’ve been wanting to give up on this since the first image.” Jenkins came up behind her, looking over her shoulder at the image on the screen. Devon had saved him from seeing the whole image, having it punched in on just the receipt. “What does that signature say to you?”
Jenkins leaned over her shoulder, putting his face almost against the screen. “Evan Thompson?”
��“That’s what it looks like to me, too. Think the techs can clean it up?”
Jenkins leaned back, nodding. Devon turned to face him, cautiously hopeful. “I think it’s worth a shot. Good work Motely,” he replied, giving her a pat on her shoulder.
Grateful for the praise, and for the possible lead, she copied the file into a message and sent it to the techs. It took them only an hour, in which Jenkins had retreated back to his office and Devon had been engrossed in more pictures, before they sent back the picture, clearer than before. The receipt now clearly read “Evan Thompson.” She could even see a total amount above it now. With how much it came to, she was pretty sure that she knew what he had purchased; more children.
With a name now confirmed, Devon opened the Bureau’s database, typing in Evan’s name. Thousands of matches pinged in seconds. She narrowed the field down; in New York—the apprehended pimp accidently mentioned that detail--still alive, not incarcerated. Down to a couple hundred. She then pulled up the half-of-a-face picture she had saved and added in a couple things in her search; white, aged 35-50, 160-190lbs. Only a handful of addresses this time. She wrote down all of them, then got up to go to Jenkins’ office, give him the good news. She needed a team of—she looked down at the number of addresses—at least 16 people, if they were to go at all of these Evans at once and in pairs, as per protocol. They were all over the state, but in clusters. The furthest an Evan was from another was 5 miles. Perfect.
The FBI had been desperate to catch this trafficking ring; they had people at their disposal. Getting the field agents to interview the suspects would be the easy part; the hard part was assembling teams to go back them up. Devon wanted to be coordinated in this takedown. If the real perp was to catch wind of the FBI coming down on Evan Thompsons, then he’d be in the wind instantly. They had to be ready to take all eight down at the same time, just in case. They couldn’t let this guy get away. Because of their close proximity, they were also able to place teams in between the suspect’s locations, saving them some manpower. Devon conveyed as much to Jenkins, who agreed; now they just had to pull every agent they could back to base, go through the briefing and saving those children.
FBI Headquarters
Monday, October 28th. 8:05am
Everyone crowded in the briefing room, standing with their partners or teams, watching Jenkins intently. Jenkins went through the whole operation with everyone, 80 agents in all—16 field agents and 64 SWAT members. Every single person wanted these kids in safe hands; they all wanted to take these bastards down, and they hung on every word Jenkins said. Assignments given, the agents started to prepare. Devon vaguely noticed the field agents that were assigned to interview the suspects pair off and get their equipment.
“We better get this guy,” she heard one agent mumble to another. Devon pulled on her bulletproof vest, strapping it tight. She strapped on her glock and put her badge on over her head—she had it on a chain necklace for this. Then she grabbed the rifle issued to every SWAT member. She wasn’t normally SWAT, and the metal weapon felt heavy and unfamiliar in her hands. True, she had learned to use it in training, but it was rare that she used it at all. She couldn’t wait for this mission to be over, to be back in the field, alone, with no liabilities. It was easier that way.
“Hey Dev, don’t sweat. We’ll get those kids out safely,” a familiar voice said. She turned to see Emma next to her, red hair pulled back into a low ponytail, helmet already secured on her head. Devon didn’t have many friends, inside or outside of the FBI, but Emma had always been nice to her, always had her back when Devon had to play nice with others instead of going undercover by herself. While Devon counted Emma as her best friend, they didn’t see much of each other outside of work, only a stray text here or there.
“God, I hope so,” Devon replied. She didn’t want to imagine the scene that may be awaiting them. She had done this hundreds of times, but it never got any easier; her brain liked to imagine the worst possible scenario. It didn’t help that she had seen that scene in person. Every time she geared up for a siege like this, the dead bodies flashed in her mind. She shuttered.
“We will. I know we will,” Emma said with such conviction, how could it end any differently? Devon simply nodded back, putting on her helmet. Once fully geared up, Devon, Emma, and the rest of their team—6 other men--made their way to their SWAT van. Devon felt the familiar butterflies in her stomach on the drive to their outpost spot. She tried to calm her nerves; there was only a 1 in 8 chance that she would even see any action today. But she knew her luck. And she knew how much Fate liked to fuck with her. So, she counted the minutes ticking by while her team idly chatted about nothing; getting drinks later, the Knicks game the previous night, the wife and kids wanting to go on vacation with their father for once. Devon had nothing to contribute—she hardly did anything outside of work—so she just listened, replying only when prompted.
Devon’s phone rang, causing her to jump and the others in the van to go silent, looking towards her. Devon quickly silenced it, looking at the caller ID. She never got phone calls outside of spam or telemarketers; she had completely forgotten to turn it off before this. She was shocked when she saw a name appear; Dr. Huang. Fighting the urge to answer it, Devon let it go to voicemail. Dr. Huang only ever called in case of emergencies, opting to communicate through text. But there was no time to answer as the van’s engine sprang to life, Jenkins informing them through their earpieces that the Evan they were sitting on was their guy. Devon shot a quick text to the psychiatrist—emergency, call you later—before putting her phone away. She fought down the thoughts that had sprung up, wondering why the doctor had called her; she had more important things to worry about. The knot in her stomach had returned and every bump in the road made it feel like she was going to be sick. The van drove for a couple more minutes before cutting the engine. Everyone in the back of the van readied themselves. They laid out a basic plan on the short drive over—Jenkins had told them it was a warehouse. A team of four people were going through the front and the other 4 were going through the back. Devon and Emma would be in the latter group. They had done this a handful of times before; all the team knew each other, trusted each other. Devon gripped her rifle, stifling any lingering nerves. She switched her thoughts off, ready to rely on instinct and training. The van doors were thrown open, and Devon and her team charged out and into the beyond.
Warehouse of Evan Thompson
Monday, October 28th. 12:47pm
Devon and her team stormed the place as quickly and quietly as possible. They found the backdoors quickly, unguarded. One of the men pulled out a crowbar, shoved it into the crease between the doors, and ripped it open. It was loud, and they moved in slowly, listening for any sign of life. Hearing nothing, they started clearing little office rooms before they made it to the big, empty space. Well, empty besides a couple of abandoned cement guardrails, like something that littered parking lots, and a huge chain-link cage. Devon had taken the lead, had been the first to peer around into the expansive place. The cage had caught her attention immediately, not because of its size, but because of its contents. What seemed like at least 30 children, all between what looked like 8- and 12-years-old. Devon felt the nausea come back but shoved it down. She could feel sick later. She motioned for the team to follow her as she led them slowly towards the cage, keeping an eye out for danger.
“What the fuck?” a male’s voice called out from across the warehouse. Devon whipped around to the source of the sound, seeing 4 heavily armed men coming out of a small room. Then, pandemonium. The traffickers open fired, forcing them to take cover behind the cement guardrails, firing back. Devon looked over to the cage; it was far enough out of the line of fire that none of them were injured, though the children were all on the ground now, hands covering their heads and ears. But how long would it take until the traffickers decided to cut their losses?
“Cover me,” Devon said, mentally preparing herself for the short run to the cage—it was at least 10 yards. She felt the familiar churning in her stomach when having to make this tough decision; she knew it was highly unlikely that all the children would survive, but it was better than leaving them stuck like fish in a barrel. Wasn’t it?
Emma saw what she was planning and shook her head. “You’ll be killed before you make it halfway.” A bullet pinged off the cement by their heads, as if to emphasize this point.
“That’s why I said cover me.” Without waiting for a response, she poked her gun out from behind the low wall she was crouched behind, rapid firing in the direction of the traffickers. Their gunfire quieted as they took cover from the barrage, allowing the FBI agents to peek their heads out, taking better aim and giving her the cover she had requested. Devon took her chance and sprinted to the cage, firing at the traffickers as she went. A couple of stray bullets got close to her, but none hit their target. The kids noticed the agent running towards them and scrambled to their feet. They came rushing to the door, reaching for Devon through the chain link wall, voices overlapping, panicking as they begged, pleaded for help.
“Stand back!” she yelled over the ruckus. It wasn’t until she took aim at the lock that the kids backed up. She pulled the trigger, bullet destroying the padlock. Devon turned her back on the cage, firing wildly at the traffickers while the children ripped the door open.
“Run, run! Go go go!” she ordered, raising her voice over the gunfire. She could barely hear the children fleeing across the warehouse towards the waiting agents. Devon chanced a glance to the side, trying to make sure they were making it. She felt a pang in her heart when she saw Emma positioned halfway between the cage and the other agents. It was in that moment, that split-second glance, that Devon realized that she loved Emma.
The traffickers renewed their efforts, obviously pissed that their product was escaping. Bullets flew, but Devon held her ground until the last kid left the cage. Once the cage was empty, Devon started to retreat back to her previous cover. It was a perilous journey; there were a few bodies in the path—Devon glanced to find her footing, but otherwise tried to ignore the small, unmoving corpses and the sudden sadness and anger that they conjured. After what felt like hours, Devon made it back behind the low wall. As she was moving to crouch behind it, however, she was hit in the chest. It hit her vest, but that didn’t stop it from knocking the wind out of her, causing her to fall onto her back. It hurt like hell, and she knew she would have a wicked bruise, and hopefully that was it. She scrambled back to her knees, trying to get a baring on her surroundings again. One of her teammates was covering the escape route from their cover to the hallway leading to the exit; a much closer trek than the cage was. The other agent that stayed behind was giving them cover fire from the hallway. Devon joined in; having no more distractions besides the pain in her chest, she was able to take precise aim, shooting two of the traffickers, their bodies falling like a sack of bricks. The firefight seemed to go on forever, but eventually, the warehouse fell silent. Keeping their guns at the ready, the agents came out from behind the wall, making their way towards where the traffickers had been in cover. Six dead bodies; two more must have joined the original four. Right at that moment, the other half of the team came in from the front, calling out the all clear. Devon let out a heavy sigh, lowering her weapon.
“Thanks for the cover, Emma,” she said, turning to find the spunky redhead. But she wasn’t with Devon’s team. She unstrapped her vest, checking the area that she was shot. It hurt and was already bruised, a bump forming, but no broken skin, and from the feeling, no broken bones. “Emma?” she called out after a couple moments of silence.
“You didn’t see?” one of her teammates asked. Devon felt a stone drop into the pit in her stomach. She shook her head and the man raised his hand slowly, pointing. Devon hesitantly followed his finger and felt the ground drop out from under her. The children who were hit were laid out in almost a line from cage to cover, an indicator of their flight. And among them was a redhead, complete with SWAT vest.
No, Devon thought. A pain completely unrelated to her injury punched her in the heart. She hurried over, knelt down, and turned her friend over, hoping against hope that she was just grazed, that she was still alive. Emma’s eyes were flat, grey, staring at nothing. A bullet hole was almost perfectly in the middle of her forehead, blood already drying. Devon dropped her as if burned, falling backwards onto her ass. She started hyperventilating, bile rising in her throat. She had to get out of the warehouse, get some fresh air. There was a roaring in her ears, her heart beating frantically. Out of nowhere, a faint whimpering broke through the blood rushing in her head. Devon whipped her head in the direction of the sound. There—a small form was crying, breathing hard. Devon scrambled over to the child, anything to get away from her dead friend, and found a little girl. She was clutching her stomach, blood seeping through her grasp.
“I need medical attention!” Devon yelled, ripping the shirt off a not-so-fortunate body, and using the fabric to try and staunch the bleeding. She held the shirt firmly, but not too hard; pushing too hard on a stomach wound could damage the internal organs. Devon stayed like that with the poor girl until paramedics came. A different set of medics checked Devon’s injury. They tried to convince her to go to the hospital, to make sure nothing was damaged internally, but Devon declined. She was quiet the whole trip back to the FBI HQ, mind completely blank.
FBI Headquarters
Monday, October 28th. 2:26pm
Devon moved on autopilot, making her way to her locker, ignoring the congratulations or condolences sent her way. She opened the locker and started taking off her gear, her hands like machines. She unstrapped the helmet from under her chin, lifting the piece of equipment and placing it on an empty shelf. She then gently took off her vest, wincing in pain, the events from the past hour still fresh in her mind, flashing before her eyes, as if she were still in that warehouse. Devon closed her locker door forcefully, hands still feeling sticky from all the blood, even though she had scrubbed them clean. In all, 7 children laid dead in the warehouse. The little girl, Patsy, was the only one who was found to still be alive in the pile. She was still in surgery, and Devon had asked for updates; she needed one win to come out of all this. The other 25 children survived, and the FBI were now attempting to track down their family members, if they had any. Now out of her SWAT gear, Devon made her way to Jenkins’ office. She was running on autopilot, Emma’s dead stare branded in her mind’s eye. She really rather just go home, drink until she couldn’t see straight. But she had to be debriefed, and she knew Jenkins would force her in to see the Bureau’s shrink before she was allowed to leave—if she didn’t tell Jenkins that she was shot, then he wouldn’t force her to the hospital.
The debriefing took upwards of an hour, and Jenkins gave her a shot of strong scotch—not Devon’s drink of choice, but she was used to it from past hard cases and highly grateful for the burning liquid, warming her cold, empty shell of a body. As she had predicted, Jenkins all but ordered her to go to the shrink before she left for the day. And to take some time off—she had enough vacation days saved up—and to continue seeing a shrink at least once a week. Devon hid her pain as best she could, but she knew Jenkins saw her little winces. Jenkins, to his credit, ignored it; he knew that she’d make sure she was alright, but he also knew that she needed some time. It wasn’t until Devon was sitting in the waiting room of the company shrink that she remembered that she had a call from a different FBI psychiatrist earlier, before everything went to shit. She pulled out her phone and redialed Dr. Huang’s number.
“Hey George. What’s happened?” she asked when he answered.
“I need a favor, and it’s very time sensitive.”
SVU Department
Monday, October 28th. 4:30pm
Devon stepped through the doors of NYPD’s 16th precinct after blowing off her appointment with the shrink, claiming she was meeting up with Dr. Huang. The psychiatrist had giving her a hard look, but agree that Huang could counsel her, too. Devon looked around curiously; she had never been in this particular precinct before and had to ask for directions from the deskman, who directed her to the elevator. The elevator dinged and the doors opened to the Special Victims Unit. Officers and detectives were wandering about, doing paperwork, or otherwise working. Devon felt eyes trailing behind her as she made her way through the precinct. She tried to shove that down, along with all her other emotions; there was a time and place for that eventual breakdown, and this wasn’t it. Work was work, and this seemed important as well as stressful, as her work normally was. NYPD already felt like walking on enemy ground, no matter how much people wanted to claim about them being “brothers in arms.”
“May I help you?” a woman asked, breaking through Devon’s thoughts. She was in street clothes—a detective, then—with short cropped hair. She had bags under her eyes, slumped shoulders; she was obviously running on overtime, probably hasn’t slept in a day or two.
“I’m looking for Dr. Huang,” Devon replied. She felt a fresh wave of pain as she subconsciously puffed out her chest. She didn’t try to engage in posturing, but this woman already was giving her a hard glare.
The woman nodded. “Ah, you must be his FBI friend—” Devon didn’t miss the…resentment? Venom? in her voice—“he’s in the Captain’s office.”
“Thanks,” Devon said, pushing past the detective. She was used to NYPD disliking her; the Bureau had no friends. But she rarely had someone using that kind of tone so boldly to her face; it was usually coy smiles, sugar-coated threats, and other politics designed to make them seem like friends to the untrained ear. She may not like the detective, but she respected her bluntness. Devon ignored all the other eyes that she could feel on her as she made her way to the only office in the place. She knocked on the open door, sticking her head in. Before she could say anything, Dr. Huang stood up from his seat, gesturing her in.
“Devon, it’s nice to see you again,” he said, giving her a hug. He released her quickly, giving her a concerned look when he felt Devon tense up, hissing in pain. She subtlety shook her head, promising to explain later.
“Same to you, George.” Devon had met the doctor years ago in California as a patient; they’ve been good friends ever since, even after Huang was reassigned to New York. As much as Devon liked him, though, she had a hard time reading him; it made her slightly uneasy, but not enough to stop being friends with him. They’ve worked on cases together in the past. Huang was a profiler as well as a psychiatrist; he made most of Devon’s aliases when she went undercover in her early years, would spend hours working with her until she became that person.
Dr. Huang gestured to the man, presumably the Captain, sitting behind the desk. “This is Captain Cragen,” he introduced. “Cragen, this is Special Agent Devon Motely.” They shook hands.
“I assume Huang told you why you’re here?” Cragen asked by way of meeting.
Devon let out a breath. “No, actually. Only that it was an emergency.”
Dr. Huang gave her a weird look but said nothing. Devon knew the look, though; she had said something wrong, something weird. She knew he’d ask about it later, when they had more privacy. She wasn’t looking forward to that talk.
Cragen looked between the two before answering, “well, we have a missing kid. Kidnapped 16 hours ago. Believed to be taken by a gang member in retaliation. It’s a…delicate situation, one that I felt the need to call Huang in on. Though, he has convinced me that you specialize in this kind of work, that you could get this kid out with no casualties.”
The familiar knot formed in Devon’s stomach; the dead children from earlier, Emma’s dead face flashed in her mind. She took a sharp breath, trying to ground herself in now. She needed to focus; there was another child in danger, another child that needed her help.
“Do you know where the perp is, where he took the kid?” she asked, trying to keep her voice steady, professional.
“No, but I have every available officer on it; we’re closing in on them.”
Devon nodded. “Tell me about the perp.” All business, nothing else. Emotions didn’t belong here.
Cragen led the two FBI agents to where they had a screen and whiteboard, all filled with information on this case. The woman detective from earlier was there, as well as two others; one was a tall white man with glasses and grey hair, the other was a black man, slightly taller than Devon. Another detective was at his desk, on the phone and typing on his computer. Cragen introduced the man as Elliot Stabler, the woman as Olivia Benson, the tall man as John Munch, and the black man as Fin. Devon nodded to them each in turn, but got mostly the cold shoulder or a hard stare in return. As Cragen filled her in, she tried to memorize every detail she could, no matter how small. The perp’s name was Jose Gonzalez, the kid was Eddy Suarez. Eddy’s father was in the same gang as Jose; from what SVU understood, the father had slighted Jose in some way, so Jose took his kid as payback. He was considered armed and dangerous.
“Captain, I may have something,” Stabler called out, slamming his phone on its receiver. His desk was against Benson’s desk—partners, then. The group hurried over to look at his screen. “Got the car and license plate crossing the bridge into Staten Island.”
“Let’s move,” Cragen said, spurring the detectives into action. Devon followed; Huang would stay behind, waiting for the interrogation, to where his skills would be needed.
“We need to talk,” he murmured to Devon as she hurried by him. She simply nodded, then followed the Captain out of the precinct.
540 East Marigold Lane
Monday, October 28th. 5:28pm
They pulled up a couple houses down from where Jose had barricaded himself with the child. ESU was still arriving, scrambling to get into place. It was a normal, suburban house, one story, complete with white picket fence; ESU didn’t need long to surround the place, evacuating the houses nearby. Devon wanted to get in there before they were ready; the most important part was getting the 7-year-old Eddy out, alive and unharmed, not something ESU was trained for. She got out of the car, bulletproof vest on and ready, trying to ignore the pain in her chest and her heart, but failing miserably. The nerves that she normally got in these situations were absent; she was still reeling from the warehouse earlier. She kept glancing around, trying to find Emma, then remembering and grimacing. It was like she couldn’t control her emotions, her mind. Devon was afraid that she’d feel this anytime she put the vest on again.
“You alright there, Agent?” Stabler asked, coming to stand next to her. She nodded absently, not really pay attention to the man. Devon’s mind was far away, her nerves fried. She felt like she was about to scream, cry, explode, all of the above. She shook herself, shoved all of her thoughts and feelings down; all that mattered now was that little boy being held hostage. She conjured up the picture she saw in the precinct; a little boy, laughing, being held by his dad who was also laughing. She focused on that boy, focused on the fact that he was in the house in front of her, scared to death. She took a deep breath, then made her way around the house, away from the NYPD officers. She vaguely heard someone call out to her, asking where she was going, but she ignored them. There was a backdoor in the backyard that had a huge window next to it, blinds open, giving her a clear look inside.
She could see a large living room with couches and a TV mounted on the wall. There was a coffee table and a couple of bookshelves full of a variety of books. Otherwise, the room seemed empty. Looking through it, Devon could see an empty kitchen and a hallway. No sign of the man or child. She tried the doorknob and was stunned that it was unlocked. Why had no one else come back here? she thought. Fearing it was a trap, she unholstered her gun, the familiar steel in her hand. She twisted the knob, opened the door slowly. She stepped back, aiming her glock for anyone who may jump out at her. Nothing. Confused, she slowly went through the open door, checking both ways as if someone could be hiding there against the wall, waiting to kill her. Empty. The house itself seemed empty, but then why was ESU and the NYPD stationed outside? Might as well clear the building, make sure that they were just overreacting rather than blaming them right away for botching the location.
Devon crept through the rooms, listening for any sound, but hearing nothing. She then made her way to the hallway; there were only two doors lining the walls, with a master bedroom at the end. She took one step into the hallway, and her mind flashed. She blinked, and she was back in the warehouse, hard concrete under her boots, Emma’s breath loud in her ears. Devon’s breath caught in her throat as she whipped around. But no one was there; it was an empty living room in a quaint house in a suburb. Trying to calm her racing heart, Devon turned back to the hallway; all the doors were open, almost confirming that there was no one here with her. The first room was an empty child’s bedroom, nothing in it disturbed. The second room was a small bathroom, also empty of human presence.
“Get out of here,” a man’s voice called from the master bedroom, making Devon jump, heart racing painfully against her chest. She heard a soft, metallic sound and looked down, trying to find the source. She was surprised to find that it was coming from her; the hand holding her glock was shaking, hard enough for it to be making noise. Calm down, she told herself. She glared at her own hand until the shaking stopped. Devon took a deep breath, then made it to the doorframe, pressed up against it. She tried to peek in, to see the situation she was about to be in.
“Let the boy go. We can talk about this,” Devon replied, gripping her gun tighter if only to keep in control. She could just barely see the man holding the child, gun to the latter’s head. Eddy let out a choked sob. Another flash in Devon’s mind and she saw Patsy lying in a pool of her own blood. She pulled back, breathing hard. Quit it! she yelled at herself, her own mind.
Jose’s voice wavered slightly as he said, “this wasn’t supposed to happen.”
It took a moment for Jose’s words to make their way into Devon’s mind. “Then stop it from continuing. All you need to do is let the kid go, and we can all walk out of here unharmed.”
She could almost hear him shaking his head. “Naw, that’s not gonna happen. If I let this kid go, you’ll just shoot me. I don’t wanna die, man.”
Emma’s face flashed across her mind. She didn’t want to die, either, Devon almost spat out, but she held her tongue. What was happening to her? It had been a long day, and she needed to get out of there. “I’m going to put my gun down, okay? I’ll be unarmed, and I’m coming into the room.” True to her word, she put the safety on her gun, then gave it a little toss into the room, not close enough for Jose to reach it, but definitely out of Devon’s reach. A little show of trust, so that hopefully he will trust her, even a little bit. She then put her hands up, reaching them around the doorframe before coming in herself. “I don’t want anyone here to get hurt, Jose, I promise. Why don’t you tell me how this happened?” Keep him talking, help him see that there was no winning here, that he’d have to do as she asked.
Jose used the hand holding the gun to rub his shaved head. He was panicking, but Devon was hoping to calm him down, even if she couldn’t keep her own mind calm. “Alonso fucked up for the last time”—Devon recognized the child’s father’s name— “and the boss wanted to make him pay, ya know? So, he had me pick up his kid, but then he wanted me to kill him and I just, I can’t kill a kid, man. But if I don’t, boss will kill me.”
Devon felt a pang of pity for the man; he was in a lose-lose situation. But her fraying nerves and overall exhaustion was making it hard to think straight, making it hard to play the nice cop. “Jose, you’re not leaving this house alive unless you surrender yourself. But, no listen to me, if you give yourself up, you’re only going to jail. You hurt that kid, though? You’re done, you’re in the ground, I guarantee it.” She spat out the last part, a little more violently than she meant to. Normally, she’d use a threat like that just to get a suspect to comply. But right now, she was afraid…afraid that she wasn’t using an empty threat. Afraid that she may actually kill this man if she didn’t end this soon. She had never felt like this before.
Jose let out a pained whine. “I don’t wanna die,” he mumbled. He tightened his grip on Eddy, who was starting to cry louder, as if he understood that the more distressed Jose became, the least likely he was to survive.
Devon took another deep breath, trying to shove all of her personal feelings down, trying to bring that professional side back out. The field agent that she always was. “I won’t let you die, Jose. Trust me, I can get you out of here, but you have to put the gun down. You said it yourself, you don’t want to kill this child. What would that even accomplish? Eddy has done nothing wrong. Think about how terrified he must be, how cruel it would be to end his life before he got to do anything that he’s dreamed of.” Devon glanced at the cross Jose was wearing around his neck. “Do you really believe that God would forgive you for ending this child’s chance at life?” If personalizing Eddy didn’t get through to him, religion probably would.
Jose sniffled, the hand holding the gun starting to shake. “You—you can get me out of here? Alive?”
Devon nodded. “Of course, but you have to put the gun down, let Eddy go. I give you my word.” During this whole exchange, Devon had been making her way slowly through the room, around the bed towards Jose. Jose looked like he was thinking through all of his options, breathing harder and harder. After what felt like forever, he released Eddy, who ran to Devon, wrapping his arms around her legs. She jumped as if shocked by the touch, but played it off, trying not to scare the child. Jose then slowly handed his gun to Devon. She put it in the waistband of her pants at the small of her back.
“I’m so sorry,” Jose said through tears. He turned around, head down, defeated. He put his hands on the back of his head and waited. Devon took her handcuffs out of her back pocket and awkwardly made her way to Jose, Eddy hanging off of her.
“Don’t let me die,” Jose whispered, more to himself than to Devon. Once he was secured, Devon let out a breath she didn’t know she had been holding. All of her nerves were on fire, as if the slightest touch would set her off. It was taking everything in her to not react to Eddy hanging off of her. As she led the two out of the room, she swooped down to grab her gun, replacing it in her holster. Eddy stayed by her side, never releasing her leg. She was glad he was safe, that she could provide some safety to him, but it was starting to annoy her more and more. He’s a scared child. You just saved his life. Suck it up, she thought to herself. She thought back to Patsy, still in surgery. If Devon had patience for her, she’d have patience for Eddy, too.
“Let me go first,” Devon said, stopping them when they had reached the front door. She pushed Jose gently against the wall by the doorframe, so that none of the awaiting officers could get a clear shot on him. She moved the child behind her legs, effectively becoming a human shield. It’s not that she really distrusted ESU or the NYPD as a whole, but all it took was one overzealous cop to have a twitchy finger, to let this all go to hell.
“Coming out! Suspect is unarmed and apprehended! Don’t shoot!” she yelled out the closed door. Slowly, she unlocked the door, then turned the knob, inching the door open. From the outside, she knew that ESU would only see her standing there, a child behind her. From her point of view, Devon saw guns from every direction aiming at them.
She put her free hand up in surrender, the other hand holding Jose by the cuffs. “Hold your fire!” she called out. She waited until she heard whoever was in charge repeat her order before she moved Jose through the doorframe and out into the open. Eddy took Devon’s free hand when she had lowered it, gripping her tightly. She couldn’t even imagine how terrified this kid must be having this many guns pointed in his direction. She led them out slowly, struggling not to flinch as officers came hurrying up. They all but ripped Jose out from her grip, reading him his rights, and throwing him in the back of a squad car. Devon gave him a sympathetic look as the car pulled away. At least he didn’t die, she thought. More officers came up to take the boy, but Devon refused to release him as Eddy gripped her hand tighter, turning to hide his face against her legs. All of the anger and frustration that had been welling up inside of her finally had a target.
“Back the fuck off,” she said, venom dripping from her voice. The officers scrambled to get out of her way as she led him over to the awaiting paramedics in the ambulance. She waited by his side as he was checked out for injuries. She looked over and saw the SVU detectives, Cragen in their center, looking over to her, something like respect and astonishment in their eyes. She knew Cragen would want to debrief her, but at this point, she was emotionally exhausted—she had spent all day in this damned vest. So, she stayed with Eddy, giving him silent support while he was poked and prodded, asked questions. It eventually came up that they wanted to take him to the hospital, run more tests to make sure he was physically okay.
“Don’t let them take me,” Eddy cried, grabbing Devon’s hand like a lifeline.
“It’s okay, Eddy. I’ll ride with you,” she replied softly. She climbed into the ambulance before the medics could say anything. If they didn’t want her there, they made no mention of it as they loaded up. The whole way to the hospital, Devon whispered encouragement to Eddy—“everything’s fine, you’re safe, you did so good back there”—until he calmed down. Devon stayed with him until the nurses kicked her out, much to his dismay.
“I’ll be right outside. I promise, I won’t leave you until your parents get here,” Devon said as she was shooed out. She went to the waiting room and was shocked to see two detectives—Stabler and Benson—already there.
“That was good work today,” Stabler commented quietly. Benson nodded in acknowledgement. “Even if you did go a little rogue going in the house.” Benson rolled her eyes at that.
“I’m just glad there were no casualties,” Devon replied before slumping into a chair. She felt so drained, so tired. And yet, today wasn’t quite over; she wanted to be there for the interrogation, to let them know about Jose’s impossible situation. To maybe give him some sort of mercy, and maybe some protection from his boss. This day just got longer and longer. Plus, she should probably get her injury checked, too. She rubbed at it absentmindedly, trying to relieve some of the pain.
Benson sat down next to her. “How’s Eddy?”
“He’s fine…relatively. He’s going to need some counseling. But physically, I think he’s unharmed.”
Benson nodded. “Detective Olivia Benson, by the way. Detective Elliot Stabler,” she said, gesturing to the man. Devon was glad that the animosity from earlier seemed to have disappeared. Rescuing a child had that effect on people.
“Special Agent Devon Motely,” she replied, giving them both a small smile. “Any word on Eddy’s parents?”
“They’re divorced; mother is going for full custody, and after today, I’m sure she’ll get it,” Stabler explained. “She’s on her way now.”
Devon nodded, but was too tired to answer. Hopefully, the mother can better protect her son from her ex’s illicit life. She’d make sure she gave them her business card, let them call her if they were ever in trouble again. Even if Devon was busy, she had connections all over the city.
It took about 20 minutes of the three officers sitting in silence—the detectives seemed to know how tired Devon must be, mumbling to themselves every no and again--before the mom showed up. Devon and the detectives had been barred from seeing Eddy until a parent or guardian gave the okay, but they were informed that the child was indeed unharmed, just shaken up by the ordeal. The mother was shown to his room, and the nurse asked for Devon to follow her about 5 minutes later.
“Not you two,” the nurse said to Benson and Stabler. Stabler looked like he was going to start a fight, but Benson waved him down. Devon followed the nurse to Eddy’s room, his mom standing next to him, grasping his hand in both of hers.
“You’re the one who saved my boy?” the woman asked. Devon nodded and the mother came over, flinging her arms around Devon’s neck and pulling her into a tight hug. Devon grimaced as fresh pain coursed through her, but she did her best to stay quiet, keep her pain undetected by the civilians. She awkwardly patted the woman’s back as she cried, thanking the agent over and over again.
“I’m glad he’s alright. You got to watch him, though. Make sure he doesn’t get wrapped up in this again,” Devon replied after she extracted herself from the mother’s grip. She handed her card to the woman. “You call me, though, if anything does happen, okay?”
“Yes, yes of course,” the woman nodded fervently, taking the card from Devon. “We’re moving out of the city, though. Moving closer to my family in Connecticut.”
Devon felt a weight lift off her; getting Eddy out of New York was probably for the best. “Good, that’s good.”
Feeling like they needed time alone, Devon said her goodbyes to both Eddy and her mom—who never stopped thanking her—and backed out of the room. Both detectives were still in the waiting room, and Devon relayed the information to both of them.
“As long as she brings him back to testify, then it’s fine,” Stabler huffed.
“Do you really need a 7-year-old to testify?” Devon asked, incredulous. Devon hated the courts; such bad memories from her past there, plus the unneeded drama and politics that came with it. Besides, hadn’t Eddy suffered enough?
Stabler gave her a hard look. “If we want to get him on kidnapping, then we need the actual kid that was napped,” he explained in a slow tone, as if Devon was an idiot. This was why she liked her job. She only needed to catch the bastards; she didn’t have to go through the whole façade of lawyers, courts, and the politics involved.
“That’s your problem,” she shot back. She really wanted to just go home, have a nice, relaxing bath, and listen to some orchestra music. But she needed to go back to the precinct, listen in on interrogation. Like hell she’d ride with this asshole, though. She said nothing as she left the hospital, hailing a cab. She was sure that the detectives were staying behind to interview Eddy, anyways.
SVU Department
Monday, October 28th. 8:36pm
She made it back to the precinct quickly. Her mind had wandered on the drive over, and she was having trouble focusing. She vaguely realized she didn’t see a doctor about her gunshot wound while she was at the hospital, but she couldn’t force herself to care. She felt like she was floating through the precinct, weaving around the officers as she made her way to SVU’s floor. Her emotions were so frayed, she didn’t think she’d ever feel anything ever again. One of the officers pointed her towards an observation room, where she found Captain Cragen and Dr. Huang watching Fin and Munch grill Jose.
“Fin and Munch have been able to get the whole story out of Mr. Gonzalez, here. Not that it took much prompting,” Cragen said by way of greeting.
“From what he told me in that house, he was in an unwinnable situation. I do hope that you and your DA will take that into consideration when indicting him,” Devon replied flatly. She didn’t have the strength to put up a polite exterior anymore.
Cragen gave her a wondering look; he didn’t seem mad about her tone, just curious about her, about why an FBI agent, especially someone who works in HRT, would be on the perp’s side. “He kidnapped a 7-year-old and held him hostage at gunpoint. Do you really think we should go easy on him?” It didn’t seem like he was trying to defend this point, simply wondering how Devon would answer. As if he were in charge of the debate team in high school, seeing if she could defend her point.
“He was just following his boss’s orders, the promise of death if he failed. And even then, he didn’t kill Eddy. He made it clear how much he didn’t want to,” Devon explained.
“And what would have happened to Eddy if we didn’t find them? If you never talked to Jose?”
Devon didn’t have an answer for that. She’d like to think that he wouldn’t have shot a child, that he may have even killed himself instead. But she could also see the possibility of Jose doing it, because he could make sure Eddy didn’t suffer in death. It all came down to Jose’s fear of death versus his fear of God’s wrath. She resigned to watch in silence as Jose continued to tell the detectives—Fin and Munch—about the hierarchy of the gang, about his boss, about anything they asked about. She could feel Huang’s gaze on her, but she ignored him, trying to focus on Jose’s words.
All three looked to the door when a redheaded woman walked in. Devon felt a punch to the gut as she recalled Emma’s face for what seemed like the thousandth time that day. No matter how many times her empty eyes flashed across Devon’s mind, the nausea and emptiness hit her hard.
“This is ADA Casey Novak,” Cragen announced. “Novak, this is Special Agent Devon Motely.”
“I didn’t know this was a Federal case,” Casey said, giving Devon the familiar I-don’t-trust-the-FBI look.
“Off the clock,” Devon replied, giving her a small, exhausted smile. Maybe she could still have some pleasantries. Casey gave her another look, this time of disbelief—who the hell wanted to do this kind of work off the clock?--before focusing in on the interrogation. Cragen filled her in on the details, including the fact that Devon was the one who collared him, before Devon interjected.
“I’d like to request that you go a little easy on the man,” she said.
Casey gave her an appraising look. “He kidnapped a child, with a gun.” It was the same conversation over and over again. Devon was getting sick of it.
“Yes, but Jose had a gun to his own head. He was acting under duress. Plus, he’s giving you guys all the information on his boss that you need,” Devon reasoned.
Surprisingly, Casey agreed. “I’ll plead him out, then. Kidnapping is 5 to 25 years; I’ll recommend 7.”
“Thank you,” Devon said before excusing herself from the room. With her work effectively done, Devon just wanted to go lay down somewhere for a couple hours…or days. She heard someone follow her out of the observation room and sensed Dr. Huang’s presence.
“We do still need to talk, Devon,” he commented. Devon’s shoulders slumped and she hung her head in defeat as she followed him to an unoccupied room, full of standard-issued beds. Must be where officers could sleep when they couldn’t make it home. It seemed like a cruel joke to bring her here, with how tired she was, but at least it was private. Devon resisted the urge to sit on any of the mattresses; she was afraid she wouldn’t get back up again.
“What’s going on, Dev? Are you okay?” Huang asked once he shut the door.
“Don’t treat me like a patient, George. I know you know me better than that.”
Huang nodded, dropping the professional tone, and adopting something more personable. Yet still that overall calm that he exuded was present. “You’re right. Something did happen to you today, though. Do you want to talk about it?”
Devon huffed out an unamused laugh. “Not really, no. I would rather just down a bottle of whiskey and sleep for three days uninterrupted.” She knew by admitting that, Huang would just dig in further, at least until she got everything off her chest. But she was too exhausted to come up with some elaborate lie about how she was feeling, too exhausted to really care what anyone thought of her right now. She felt nothing, only the dull ache in her chest that pulsed in pain in time with her heart.
Huang looked concerned but hid it well. It only showed in his eyes. “You need to talk it out,” he said. When Devon didn’t reply, he continued, “first, you missed my call, texting me that you were in an emergency. And second, you told Cragen that I gave you no details. I told you the whole case over the phone.”
That stunned Devon; she thought back to the phone call that felt like days ago—how was it only earlier today?—tried to remember what was said. She didn’t remember a single word, though he must have at least old her to come to the 16th precinct, since she showed up here.
Sighing, Devon recounted the Thompson ring takedown. She was a little shocked that Huang didn’t get the notification—“I’m not a field agent, and I was already assigned here,” he explained. Devon got a little choked up when recounting the 7 dead children, and the 1 dead FBI agent, shocked that she even had emotions left.
“I don’t have many friends—you know that. So, losing Emma hurt more than I thought it would,” Devon finished. She refused to acknowledge the feelings that became apparent shortly before the agent’s death—that would be something to unpack later.
Huang had listened intently to her plight. He gave her a look of sadness as she recounted the dead; no matter how many times someone saw another person killed, it never got easier. “You saved 25 children from hell, though.”
“And lost 8 people in the process.”
Huang weighed his words, then responded, “but don’t the lives saved outweigh those lost?”
Devon’s phone went off right then. She recognized the hospital’s number and answered. She felt the dread build in her core, tears finally springing to her eyes as the final nail of the day was hammered into her. “Correction, 9 people. Patsy didn’t make it.” She let the tears flow freely now; it was the first time she had cried that day, but all of the sadness, anger, and guilt from earlier rushed out of her in a wave. She collapsed onto one of the beds hard, face buried in her hands as she let everything out. She vaguely felt Huang sit down next to her, patting her back in comfort, careful to touch lightly after hearing about her being shot. He let her cry until they became hiccupping sobs. Devon wiped her face with her shirt, trying to regain her composure. She tried to make it a point to not cry in front of people; she didn’t want to appear weak. The fact that Huang had been here to see her fall apart hurt her pride more than anything.
Huang waited until she seemed to be back in control before whispering, “Devon, why do you still do this job?”
The question caught her off guard, and an answer didn’t immediately jump out at her. She thought about it, really thought about it; why she got up in the morning, put on the badge, and went to deal with the worst side of humanity. Why she put her life on the line for strangers. Why she cared enough to help people.
“Because if I don’t, who will?” she sniffled. She wanted to expand on that, but the right words didn’t come up right away. She took a deep breath, tried to pull in her scattered thoughts, then said, “you’re right, you know. The lives saved are more important than the lives lost. This city, this world, can be a terrible, terrible place. But if I can save even one person, one child, then it’s worth it to me.” She sniffled again and blurted out, voice desperate, “I just want to help people.”
Huang nodded. “That’s a good answer. The fact that you even had an answer is a good sign, Devon. You still have your humanity. You’re still a good person.” Huang always knew exactly what Devon was really feeling; inadequate, remorseful, and most of all, guilty.
“Even if those 9 deaths are my fault?”
“Devon listen to me. Emma”—her name still hit Devon in the stomach—“knew what she was doing. It was her choice to cover the children’s escape. Besides, if you didn’t unlock that cage, what do you think would have happened to those kids?”
As much as Devon wanted to argue that the cage was out of the line of fire, she didn’t know what would have happened. Maybe the kids would’ve been safe until the firefight was over. Or maybe the traffickers would have decided that they didn’t want any witnesses.
“Survivor’s guilt takes time to digest, to move forward. I agree with your boss, too; talk to a psychiatrist about this. I can talk to you as a friend, but not as a doctor-patient anymore. The one in your sector is good, and a friend of mine,” Huang said.
Devon nodded, agreeing to go to the company shrink. “You know me, though. I can’t take time off; I’ll go insane.”
“You are a workaholic,” Huang agreed. He was the only one allowed to call her that, no matter how true it was. “How about I arrange Cragen to call you if he can use your help?”
Work for the NYPD? Busting low-level rapists and pedophiles? Trudging through the shit field work, the court systems, and the corrupted politics of the mayor’s office? “Sounds like a deal…as long as I don’t have to work with that Detective Stabler.”
“He can be a little abrasive,” Huang said, smiling. “But he grows on you…eventually.”
“Like a parasite?”
Huang laughed at that. “He is a good detective, and a pretty good person. He gets angry, and he’s headstrong. But at the end of the day, I’m glad SVU has him on their side.”
Conversation coming to an end, they both stood up. Devon didn’t really care what her face looked like after all that crying. All that mattered was that she was tired and hurting but feeling lighter than she had all day.
Huang stopped her as she went to leave. “Do me a favor, though.” When Devon arched an eyebrow, Huang said, “go see a doctor for that gunshot wound.”
#everyone deserves love#edl#fanfic#law and order svu#law and order svu fanfic#law & order svu#law & order svu fanfic#barba x oc#oc fanfic#my writing#chapter 1
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The Vancouver Island & Sunshine Coast Loop: A Solo Cycle Tour of BC’s Finest Retirement Communities. Part 2
Day 4: I hit the road at 7am. A quick ride on the Trans Canada woke me up and brought me to my daily bakery stop.
Serious Coffee for Serious Cyclists.
After second breakfast, I only had to follow one road: the 19A. With wide shoulders and no navigation required, I made good time up the coast. It would have been top notch riding if it wasn’t for the EXCESSIVE WIND that blew all day for NO REASON AT ALL.
The best views were at Union Bay, where I slowed down a little too much until I realized the ferry I wanted to catch was coming up soon. I gunned it the last 25km to Comox, which was, shockingly, FULL OF HILLS. I gave up on my granny gear zen and let my rage carry me to the ferry terminal, where I caught the 3:25 just in time. The wind refused to chill out so I sat inside and charged my phone while I watched the white caps dance on the ocean.
Once I landed in Powell River it was only a few minutes to the campsite. After 113km my legs once again felt perfectly normal, which was weird. Sitting on a bike saddle, however, was deeply uncomfortable. I decided to walk the 3km to Townsite Brewing, stopping to gorge on veggie korma and stuffed potato naan on the way.
I didn’t have room for another beer but I drank it anyway because I had biked HUNDREDS OF KILOMETERS to get there.
I met this beautiful cat on the way back to the campsite, where I quickly fell asleep.
Day 5 began with gear sorting. It seemed like a lot.
I was a bit apprehensive about biking on the Sunshine Coast as I heard it was even hillier than Vancouver Island, but if the family camping next to me could bike to Lund from Powell River with a trailer and a young kid, there's no reason Gavin and I couldn't. The hills were very present, but still doable. I only had 27km to go, and I would have enjoyed the long decent into Lund if I knew I wouldn't have to climb back up eventually.
Lund was a tiny, bustling hub. I was surprised at the size of the grocery and liquor store (also surprised there was a liquor store at all). The store didn’t have much fresh produce, but I can live off beans, chips, and hot dogs for DAYS, thank you very much. Next I headed to Nancy's Bakery for a couple sandos and one of their famous blackberry cinnamon buns (which I'd been thinking about since the last time I was there, two years ago). I found a patio spot next to an outlet and gave my phone one last top up, because I couldn’t count on charging anything on Savary Island. With a couple hours before my water taxi reservation, I found myself on my own with nothing to do, which hadn't happened yet on the trip. I decided to call my parents and tell them what I was doing. I promised my mom I’d write a blog post so I could share some photos (hi, mom!).
It was bizzy on Savary Island: rubbermaids, bags, boxes of booze, bikes, and a line of trucks lined up the dock. The people quickly dispersed into various homes, cabins, guest houses, resorts, and moss covered trailers. I went up the hill (no matter where I went, it was up a hill) to the campground: a loose scattering of wooden tent pads on some guy’s property. The owner told me “There is no check in. You just find a site that looks good and settle in.” Cool.
Of course the only rain I saw on the trip happened as soon as I arrived at a sub-tropical island. I expected to have a nap ASAP, but instead opted for a cold shower and laundry in the sink. I couldn’t fully clean my smelly bike shorts with Camp Suds; I could only make them slightly less smelly.
Savary is a long, skinny island filled with lush rainforest and edged with white sandy beaches.
After a comfortable and pitch black night, I was up at a decent hour. Day 6 was my rest day, which meant biking without all my gear. My legs felt overqualified for the 8km rip across the island and back.
It was Gavin’s rest day, too.
After a big brunch scramble and a hot dog, I headed to the beach, which was just as sunny and glorious as I imagined. I took a dip in the ocean, read, ate a bag of chips and a hot dog. When I ran out of food I went back to my camp and made an underwhelming dinner of overcooked veggies and terrible instant mashed potatoes with a hot dog.
One of the best books I’ve read in a long time. It’s about a girl growing up in a survivalist, ultra conservative, and unsafe family fighting for education, despite never setting foot in a classroom until the age of 17. I left my copy at a community library on Savary. Feel free to go get it.
On day 7 I caught the morning water taxi back to Lund, then made one more stop at Nancy's before tackling the 3km uphill. It was overcast and muggy. Sweaty and grimy. The ride to Powell River was quick though, and I treated myself to a Buddha bowl and cold beer for lunch.
It was another 27km to Saltery Bay...
... which was an exceptionally beautiful provincial park.
Of course the campground attendant came to collect fees while I was in the middle of washing myself from a pot.
I felt resourceful that day. Like I belonged out there. It was the little things, like seeing the cycle route sign even though I didn’t see any other cyclists, collecting large rocks to hold my tent down because the ground was too hard for stakes, or improvising a bear hang because the campground didn’t have a bear proof locker for cyclists (get it together, Saltery). Part of me still feels like the kid who spends all her time reading, watching LOTR EE marathons, and making pizza at Panago for $6 an hour. I never grew up thinking of myself as athletic or woodsy, and compared to many people I'm not, but it's about time I realize I can do this on my own. And that I love it.
Day 8 began with a serene ferry ride to Earl's Cove. Out of the entire trip, I was the most nervous about the upcoming ride from Earl's to Sechelt. I knew it would be windy, narrow, and steep, and I didn’t want to end up schmucked on the side of the 101 because some yahoo hauling a yacht, four kayaks, and a dozen mountain bikes couldn't be bothered to slow down on a blind corner. But at this point I had 500km of experience, a bag of Sour Cherry Blasters, and my screaming pink cycling jersey to get through the day safely. It was relatively quiet early Wednesday morning, and the beautiful ride turned out to be one of my favourite sections.
I took a detour on Redrooffs Road after Half Moon Bay to get off the highway for a bit. It was scenic enough, but the elevation was stupid. I hadn’t walked Gavin up that many hills since Thetis Lake Regional Park. Things started to go downhill from there. Metaphorically of course, as the hills only went up.
Traffic volume started to increase at Sechelt, where I stopped for candy. The Cherry Blasters picked me right up, but not even a sugar rush can hold off eight days of fatigue indefinitely. The last few kilometers to Gibsons weren't exactly painful, but they were not pleasant. My faith in Google Maps’ elevation estimates might never recover. My bike chain was dry and squeaking, but I thought if I could just make it to my destination and offload my gear I could zip back into town and find a bike shop and get some lubricant. In reality, once I finally arrived at Mike's place, after 83km and over 1400m of elevation gain, I couldn't bring myself to take the hill down into Gibsons again. "Can olive oil work on bike chains" is not my proudest Google search, but weary, smelly, and perpetually damp cyclists are nothing if not humble. And the answer is no, not really, but olive oil is better than nothing.
Thankfully Persephone Brewing was within walking distance. My healing began with an order of spring rolls and a rye farmhouse ale.
That evening, as I settled in to my tent, I heard the soft whisper of my couch back at home. The call of the bahn mis at Chickpea that Brian said were amazing. The whinny of my stupidly sensitive horse on Red Dead Redemption 2 Online. The sweet yet powerful purr of Alley Cat, my gentle golden nugget. I was a two hour ride away from completing the biggest physical achievement of my life. A year ago running 5k was a stretch, and biking 11km to Richmond was a chore. I wanted to do an ambitious cycle tour to see if I could. And I can. There’s nothing particularly special about me, or most people, but that doesn’t have to stop us from getting shit done.
Day 9 was a quick ride down to the ferry, then a hilly ride through West Van on Marine Drive. Once I hit the Lions Gate Bridge, I knew I was home free.
Coming home after 9 days and 590km of a door-to-door solo cycle tour was incredibly satisfying.
Almost as satisfying as seeing my number one precious sweet potato again!
This sweet pup is my number two.
Maybe one day I’ll do a proper Google Maps route but this is the general idea.
Highlight(s): the views on Salt Spring, Sokka’s beautiful kitten face, the ride up from Nanaimo, the white sandy beaches at Savary, the peaceful ferry ride from Saltery, the surprisingly doable hills after Earl's Cove, the pics of my niece and nephew smiling on their first day back at school, the beers and food at Persephone, the moment I realized that I absolutely crushed every part of my ambitious plan.
Lowlight: Thetis Lake Regional Park.
Gold star: Gavin. This humble, unassuming, steel frame hybrid has been a true star, solid and dependable. I love this bike. I love what we can do together.
Runner up: The weather. Almost perfect.
Runner up: My legs. You know what you did.
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1/11/2019
Hey guys! Here we are with another weekly update!
Welcome to November! Autumn for nearly everyone else and just…hot...for Australia!
Writing:
This week in writing, I did finish the rough draft of Chapter Eleven but my roughs are……shockingly rough. Some people call their roughs a "zero draft" but I've decided to adopt the phrase "potato draft" since it seems more accurate.
I spent most of today cleaning up my potato draft and upgrading it to...slightly less-potato than before. Everything will get additional revisions later, but I wanted it to be at least somewhat readable.
That said, the route is currently just at 88,000 words or 88% to the target word count and we're up to 25% for the total which is a pretty big milestone.
We can now officially say the script is ¼ of the way done. Which sounds like….not a lot. Even though it is a lot!
The total word count is around 163,000
Coding:
I finished up coding chapter two! I got all the sprites done, the music, everything. Even sound effects now.
Side note: Looking for sound effects is mind numbing and annoying. It takes forever to locate the right sound and some libraries really require specific (but not too specific) search terms to find the right stuff.
Fortunately, we didn't need too many for now - though I did also grab some for chapter three - but it was still annoying looking for them.
I actually sent out chapter two for beta testing with a small group and will probably be making it available to patrons soonish...
Arting:
We got the background we were waiting on for chapter two! I'm so excited. Even though it's just a car background so it's a little boring but it looks really cool in the game!
We also got a couple more chibis since last time. You can see one of those here. They're looking super cute. Three more to go!
Demo:
Beta testers have helped locate a couple of lurking traceback errors as well as copious typos. With the completion of the car background, we have all the assets needed for chapter two.
However, it will go out to patrons first.
And I'm thinking that we'll probably release part two of our demo to the public maybe start of December.
Part III will probably be released just before our Kickstarter, which is still planned for February.
The Upcoming Week:
So last update I think I kept saying I was going to be coding common chapter THREE. I don't know why...since that is not the chapter I was, in fact, coding. I was coding chapter TWO. OwO;;; Just to clarify.
My plan for this week is basically to write until my fingers fall off.
Not really. I still need them.
But I do want to focus on finishing Ari's route before the end of November. December and January will be the months I really spend prepping for KS. There's a lot of promo art to do, and I do want to get some of the planned rewards (wallpapers and such) also done. So before I start focusing on those things, I want to do my best to finish as much writing as I can.
I was really hoping to finish Ari's route by now. But getting the demo going has obviously divided my time in a way that kept me from writing as much as I was hoping at several points. I also had to do more CGs than I was initially planning. And again, that took me away from writing.
But with that stuff out of the way for a while, I'm going to be writing and writing and writing and writing.
For this week:
-I want to finish fleshing out Chapter Eleven
-I want to at least get a potato draft of Chapter Twelve completed
AS A FINAL NOTE:
There are two current Kickstarter campaigns I'd really like to share with you guys. Both are really getting down to their final days/hours and could really use help maybe snagging a few stretch goals.
The first is Reanimation Scheme by my good friend Windchimes. She is pouring her heart and soul into this game and I know she won't disappoint. Your support would mean the world to her!
The second is Love Spell, a game by a very sweet developer I've only recently met. I think this game has a ton of potential. It looks really polished and cute and I know she'd really appreciate your support.
Demo | Patreon
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Plz take this constructive observation in the positive way it's offered. Change doesn't occur unless we're honest w ourselves & our lifestyle choices. You often post pics of your food & most of the food groups are processed white carbs & sat fats. Your Thanksgiving dinner pic iirc had dk meat turkey, mac n' cheese, potatoes, & a white flour roll. Your most recent post shows cheese-stuffed shells & bread. All yummy. But where are the green & RAINBOW veggies? More colors = >nutrition &
I have no doubt that you think you’re being positively constructive. Unfortunately for you, you’re wrong. Let me tell you why.
I don’t know what makes you think you know anything about my eating habits and nutrition. In the past three months, I have posted pictures of 5 meals. Trust me. I went back and counted. That’s how much you pissed me off. Here’s some quick math: Let’s assume I eat three meals a day and did so for the last 3 months (let’s call it 90 days). That’s 270 meals. You saw five. That’s 1.9% of the meals I’ve eaten in the last three months. I’ll be generous and round it up to 2%. So based on the last 2% of the meals I’ve eaten, you have all the information you need to know about my nutrition and feel justified, knowing literally no other information about what/how I eat, to give me advice. Would you want to be judged about something you do when the person making the judgement has 2% of the information? No, you wouldn’t.
I obviously don’t show you everything I eat. Why would I? I post the things that I want to. Shockingly enough, it’s probably going to be “unhealthy” things because that’s what I feel like showing. I don’t post a picture of the fruit I have every day with my lunch. Doesn’t mean I don’t have it. I do. You just don’t know that.
For the record, I had a side of green beans with that cheese shells meal. It wasn’t in the picture because I don’t like my food touching and I put them in a separate bowl. They were still there. When I had some of the cheese shells for left overs, I had cucumber slices on the side. But I didn’t take a picture and post those, so I didn’t eat them, right?
I’ve got cucumbers, carrots, green peppers, oranges, bananas, apples, frozen fruit, etc. all in my kitchen right at this very moment. I eat them all the time. But I don’t post those things because I only post things when I feel like it and you’re using that 2% of information to make judgments about me.
And god forbid I post a picture of my Thanksgiving dinner. (Why you are so worked up about my Thanksgiving dinner two months later is beyond me. Are you the same person who sends me messages telling me I can’t be gay because I liked Enrique two years ago?) OF COURSE that’s what I was eating for Thanksgiving. That’s one day out of the entire year. Do you think that’s what I eat every fucking day?!
And you know what’s crazy? I’m not even mad about anything yet. The only reason I’m responding (and not just deleting/ignoring) is because you said, “Change doesn’t occur unless we’re honest with ourselves and our lifestyle choices.”
Let’s break that down, shall we?
1) I went back and skimmed that last post I made. Unless I’m much mistaken, I didn’t say I’m trying to change anything. I said that I’ve been going back to the gym and I’ve been really excited and I wanted to share the motivation behind that (which has absolutely nothing to do with nutrition or weight loss, almost deliberately so). I did say that last time I was going to the gym regularly I lost but then regained a lot of weight. I wanted to change why I was going to the gym because it didn’t work last time. That’s the only reference I made to change. Feel free to correct me if I’m wrong.
2) Again referring to the last time I was going to the gym regularly and losing weight, I did adjust my lifestyle choices. I chose to work out for three and a half hours a day and eat at most 1000 calories per day. Since you’re the expert apparently, you tell me if that was a good “lifestyle choice.” I just went online and found that based on my current age, height, weight, and gender, and a “slightly active” lifestyle, I should be eating 1957 calories per day to lose weight. I put in the info for my approximate weight last time. 1846 calories per day to lose weight. So 1000 calories or less per day doesn’t sound like a great lifestyle choice to me. Eating three good meals a day (the vast majority of which I don’t share with you) seems like a better lifestyle choice if you ask me.
3) Lastly, and most importantly, don’t you dare tell me that I need to be more honest with myself. In any way, shape, or form. And while I know that you’re talking primarily about nutrition, I’m looking in all areas of life. I genuinely don’t think I could be more honest with myself if I tried. I have done more personal growth in the last 3 years of my life than in the whole other 25 put together. I have changed and learned more about myself than I ever thought possible because I am honest with myself. Because I sit down and write in my journal when I have a bad day. Because I’m trying to get better at asking for help, something that is really hard for me. Because I’ve learned as much as I can about depression and anxiety and OCD so I know what I can do to take care of myself. Because I fight with myself on an almost daily basis, telling myself that who I am is okay and not bad or wrong or unworthy of love. Because I’ve come to understand that what I once called nutrition is actually far from it. And now if I do actually want to see anything resembling change, it’s going to be much much slower. And that’s hard, but I’ve accepted that that’s okay and it took me a very long time to get here.
That’s me being honest with myself and it has absolutely nothing to do with how many fucking vegetables I eat.
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and the cold was as sharp as my baby
Rating: E
Read on AO3
No phone has ever rung at 2:23 AM with good news, and this was no exception.
“Karen. It’s me. You still living in Tribeca?”
“I–Frank? How did y–”
“Meet me at Pier 25 in half an hour.”
The last thing she heard was Frank taking three sharp breaths, as if he were steeling himself for something, before the line cut out.
-
In the three months that Karen Page had lived in this building, she had established a reputation for herself as a woman who did not show up in the lobby at the witching hour with the dripping wet arm of a black-clad man slung across her shoulders. It seemed it was time to reset the counter on that one.
The doorman gave her a profoundly skeptical look. “New...boyfriend, Miss Page?”
A strangled attempt at a carefree chuckle escaped her throat as she worked to school her expression from determination into an approximation of embarrassment. “Yes, yep, he’s my new, uh, new guy,” she said, chancing a glance at Frank as she did. His lips had gone from purple to white and, somewhere along their shambling walk here, he had stopped shivering. They did not have time for this.
Just as she began to make her excuses for them, he slurred, “K’ren, ‘m not–”
“Drunk!” she said sharply. Too sharply, in fact. She tempered her tone to something like exasperation as she looked back at her doorman. “He had a little too much on an empty stomach, so I’ll just head up to let him sleep this one off.”
The doorman still looked a little suspicious, so she opted to dazzle, as a last resort. She ignored the frigid cling of her own coat all down the side that had been pressed up against Frank soaking up water for the past twenty minutes. She quieted the alarms in her mind that had been blaring since her phone rang almost an hour ago. Then, she sent her elderly doorman her most dazzling smile as she said, “I really do appreciate your concern, Mr. Martin, but we’ll be fine, I promise!”
“Well, sure, Miss Page, no need to worry about me,” Mr. Martin mumbled, cheeks reddening as he was a little dazzled in spite of her less-than-polished appearance. “Will you be needing any help getting him up the stairs?”
Karen stopped halfway to the, apparently, still out-of-order elevator at the far end of the lobby. “Nope!” she said, bright and just a little edged in desperation. As she steered them both toward the stairwell entrance, she muttered, “What is it with us and elevators, Frank?”
-
Six stumbling flights later and Karen’s hand barely shook as she unlocked her array of deadbolts with practiced familiarity, only a little hindered by keeping an arm around Frank’s waist as he tried to push away and stand upright on his own. He only relented after Karen gritted out a quiet, “You called me for help. Let me help you, goddammit.”
This mollified him for the next ten feet of stumbling across her miniscule living room, but just as she reached for her bedroom door, he managed to free himself her and, promptly, collapse to the floor. “Frank!” she whisper-shouted, feeling, for a moment, like she really was trying to get a drunk friend into bed as she strained to lift him from the armpits. “You’re hypothermic. No need to be hypothermic and an idiot.”
This was not, strictly speaking, a particularly fair thing to say; confusion and clumsiness were both symptoms of hypothermia, so being an idiot sort of came with the territory. Still, Frank grudgingly allowed her to put his arm over her shoulders again and steer him over to stand beside her bed. This success filled her with enough triumph and relief to carry her into giving her next command, which was, “Take off your clothes.”
The balloon of confidence in her chest didn’t burst, but it did start to deflate when Frank just stared at her. “...‘m sorry, what?” he mumbled, one eye squinting in an expression that might have been comical if it weren’t on such a pallid face. She fumbled with the proper words for a response for a moment, but then his expression cleared. He nodded and began to try to shrug out of his heavy canvas jacket, movements jerky. “Ri’, ri’, makin’ me cold. An’ stupid.” This last was added on with an eyebrow raised in her direction, which might have been more effective if he weren’t struggling to remove his jacket at the same time.
This unusual display of vulnerability was enough to shake her out of whatever immaturity had gripped her a moment ago. Karen let a protective layer of cool, clinical, nurse-like distance fall over her, brusquely reaching over to pull the stiff material off of his broad shoulders. It was heavy in her hands, still dripping, so she let it fall to the ground and kicked it toward the wall.
His signature body armor was, thankfully, missing, and he wore only a black thermal shirt, which was also soaked through. “Arms up,” she said, and he rolled his eyes but unlocked his arms from around his chest and lifted them. For all his bulk and presence, he only had an inch or two of height on her, which was fortunate in this case as she was able to pull off the long-sleeved shirt with relative ease. Their similar heights also kept them at eye level with each other, which was part of why–no. Cool, clinical, nurse-like distance. She’d need it for this next part. She took a deep breath.
“We need to take off your boots, but you’ll have to be sitting down, and I don’t want you to get the blankets too wet, so your pants will have to come down first.” Her voice was clipped, and while that had certainly been a run-on sentence, she hadn’t stuttered while speaking it. He didn’t seem to be in an editorial mood, anyway. They made eye contact that Karen immediately regretted, but then he nodded and looked away, stuffing his hands into his armpits.
She undid his belt and fly, face smooth; before she could second-guess herself, she gripped the waistbands of both his black jeans and the underwear beneath them, shoving them down his legs to his ankles. “The bed is behind you; sit,” she said, keeping her eyes on his knees as he wordlessly complied. His skin was a bloodless, waxen yellow beneath the dark hair that was beaded with moisture. This sobered her. Cool, clinical, nurse-like distance.
Her fingers were sure and steady as she unlaced the combat boots and pulled them from his feet. She carefully peeled off shockingly normal white tube socks, followed by the sodden mass of denim and cotton at his ankles. Just like that, she had a naked Punisher sitting on her bed. She cleared her throat. “OK, lie back”
He lifted his legs with some difficulty, managing to get his head on a pillow. She pulled the blankets over him and tucked them around him. He looked surprised. “It’s warm?”
“Electric blanket,” she said, but he had begun to shiver almost violently and didn’t reply.
For the next hour, she perched on the desk chair she had rolled into the room, lips pressed together into a hard line as she watched him. His body-wracking tremors had subsided into normal shivering after a few minutes, and then he appeared to fall asleep.
-
Two hours and eighteen minutes later, Frank’s breathing stilled. She glanced up in time to see his hand slip under the pillow and took that as a cue to roll her chair about two feet backward. A heartbeat later he burst upright, pointing a gun at her face.
“Karen?” he said, eyes dazed, then, hotly, “Jesus, Karen, I could have…” He trailed off from that desolate line of thinking, staring at the weapon in his hands whose nonexistent safety he had been attempting to engage. Only then did he seem to notice that the gun was made of vibrant blue, white, and orange plastic that was currently creaking in his white-knuckled grip.
“It’s not loaded,” Karen joked feebly, pulling an orange foam dart from her pocket. Abruptly, she spun in her office chair so her back was to him. “Also, you’re naked. Your shirt and boxers are on the nightstand along with some sweats that I think should fit.”
She looked down at the legal pad in her lap, where she had just written Towel at the bottom of a list. Ten long seconds passed in which she heard no rustling of fabric. A quick glance over her shoulder found him still sitting in bed, staring at the toy gun with an expression so dumbfounded that she rolled back toward him in order to place a hand on his forehead, wondering if she had misjudged his improvement. “Frank? Are you feeling dizzy, confused, or short of breath? ”
He shook his head wordlessly. His eyes were black in the pale light of early morning. She cleared her throat and ran the hand that had been on his face through her hair. “Good, that’s good.” When his silence persisted, she gestured lamely at the sweatpants she had donned while he slept. “I ran our clothes–or, the clothes we were both wearing earlier through the building’s dryer down the hall. Not your jacket, though; that’s hanging in my bathroom and probably won’t be dry for a day or two. I didn’t find any weapons.”
“Dropped them while I was swimming,” he said, voice hoarse, then seemed to remember the toy he held. He set it on the nightstand beside the aforementioned stack of neatly folded clothing before turning back and meeting her gaze steadily, purposefully.
“Swimming.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“In the Hudson.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
This was familiar territory. She met his gaze easily now, raising her eyebrows and lowering her chin. “And what, precisely, were you doing in the Hudson at two in the morning in February?”
He winced. “Well, there were these drug runners in Hoboken–”
“Hoboken? Did you swim across the Hudson?”
“No, I snuck onto their boat on the Jersey side. Wasn’t planning on confronting them on the water but…” He trailed off with a grunt and a shrug. “Didn’t have a lot of time to decide what direction to swim.”
“Because?”
“Boat was sinking fast.” Another grunt. Another shrug.
“Of course.” Karen gripped the notepad on her lap. “And you chose not to swim back to Jersey.”
“I could see the lights of that park on the pier.”
“And you knew,” she said, nostrils flaring, “that I live a few blocks away from that park.” He had the grace to look a little rueful at that, but she wasn’t finished. “So you thought you’d just give me a call from a literal sinking ship.”
“Misjudged the distance, to be honest with you, ma’am. It was farther and colder than I thought.” Her face must have looked as unimpressed as she felt, because he finally looked away and rubbed his eyes. “I, uh, I like to know where to find you. In case you need help. Case either of us needs help.” He looked back at her, one corner of his lips raised. “Don’t suppose you got any coffee? Still feelin’ a little cold.”
“Right there,” Karen said, pointing to the thermos on the floor by the bed. He huffed something that might have been a laugh and took a swig. His expression immediately soured, and he swallowed as if he had a mouthful of mud.
She covered her mouth and turned to the side to hide the smile she couldn’t stop. “That,” he said, sounding properly dangerous for the first time in hours, “is not coffee.”
After taking a moment to school her expression—cool, clinical, nurse-like—she turned back to him. “No,” she agreed, “it’s chamomile tea.” He narrowed his eyes at her. “Warm drinks help with mild hypothermia, but they shouldn’t contain alcohol or caffeine.” It sounded like it was being defensively recited from a textbook because, well, it was, but she couldn’t help that.
She raised her eyebrows at him challengingly, ready for him to laugh at her or argue, but he did neither. He looked from her face to the thermos in his hand. He set it on the nightstand and then pressed both palms to the blanket that had pooled precariously low around his waist. “Electric blanket on the lowest setting?”
“Yeah.”
He smoothed a wrinkle in the pilled fabric. “It was on already when we came in. I remember.”
Karen swallowed, suddenly in choppier waters. “Yes,” she said, carefully. “I got it out from the closet after you called.”
“And,” he said, also careful, “the tea?”
Another time, she might have laughed at the way he said that like a cuss word. “Made while you were sleeping.” He held her gaze as he placed a deliberate hand on the Nerf gun and cocked an eyebrow. “I figured,” she said, licking dry lips, “you’d be less likely to tackle me if you found a gun where you were expecting to.”
He nodded, ran a hand down his face, and then very slowly reached toward the legal pad in her lap. She closed her eyes for one breath, two, and then handed it over.
His dark eyes ran down her list, which began with Suture kit and ended, as of quite recently, with Towel. “I didn’t anticipate your being wet,” she whispered, feeling suddenly as though she were the naked one.
Mercifully, he kept his eyes on the paper. “Why a kitchen blowtorch?”
“It goes with the sterilized knife that’s next on the list,” she said much too quickly.
His eyes flicked up to hers, but he didn’t comment on the fact that she had the list memorized. The look on his face was complex and somewhat familiar, though she couldn’t quite place it. “Cauterizing ain’t like it is in the movies, white-hot knife sizzling on a bullet wound and all that,” he said offhand.
Her jaw fell open. “I know that. Heat blade to brick red and allow to cool until no longer glowing before applying to the wound in one- to two-second bursts until bleeding stops,” she rattled off snappishly. “It’s a last resort, anyway, Frank Castle, as I’m sure you noticed it’s after the suture kit, superglue, and duct t—”
The words stuck in her throat. She had finally recognized the expression. It was a lot like the look he had given her across that diner table. A .38 shows thought. It also looked a little like, Still got that hand cannon?
Like that, but also different. Because his expression right now was also on fire, and she could feel the flames licking inside her chest. “Tell me why,” he said, gravelly and low.
“You know why,” she said, voice steady.
“Please.”
She wanted to close her eyes but didn’t. “I told you in that hospital room. I know who you are.”
Her voice caught as Frank reached out lightning quick and pulled her chair toward him. She put a reflexive hand on his shoulder and said, “Don’t.” His hand dropped like he had been scalded, but hers stayed where it was, tightening a little as she stared at it and tried to think of what she had been about to say.
Don’t pity me? Don’t take me for granted? It was obvious he did neither from his expression that was naked with want and wonder. Don’t leave again? She could finally admit, here at the breaking point, that she would rather not know his response to that one.
So she met his eyes, quirked a half-smile, watched his pupils dilate and his head tip back, and said, “Don’t do anything you’ll regret.”
For the barest moment, he gave her a small, sad smile. Then his gaze caught fire again as he sat up on his knees. She barely had a moment to appreciate the wide, scarred mass of him before he gathered her to him in an embrace. He slid one hand into her hair at the back of her head and the other inside her sweatshirt low on her back, just above the swell of her ass. “Jesus, Karen,” he groaned, nose cool at the base of her neck, “you feel like a furnace.”
“You felt like a corpse,” she whispered back.
He lifted his face to meet her gaze, resting his forehead against hers in a familiar sort of nuzzle. “Not just yet,” he said. “Not just yet.”
Then they kissed. Like so much that had happened between them, in this Frank was relentless but accepting, holding her tightly but taking as good as he gave. She was once again grateful for her height as she felt his cock hardening at just the right place to apply a little pressure to the front of her mound. She pushed her hips forward as she slid her tongue into his mouth and was thrilled to hear the groan that tumbled from deep in his chest in response.
Both his hands came to the sides of her face as he pulled away to look at her, eyes black and hungry. “Take off your clothes.”
“Trying to level the playing field, Castle?” Karen said as she pulled off the sweatshirt and shimmied out of sweatpants she had changed into as he slept. They were baggy, so it was quick work. Just as she was tossing the pants away, she looked up to find his expression dizzy. In spite of the moment, a flutter of concern cooled her. “Frank, are you OK?”
“Thought I was ready. Feels like I just took one on the jaw. C’mere.” He sat back on his knees, hands at his side. Karen felt more than a little pleased to have dazzled Frank Castle and climbed into bed with him. She wrapped her arms behind his neck and pulled herself into his lap, her thighs straddling his as she kissed him again. His arms came up her back, hands tight on her shoulders as he crushed her to him.
“Karen, can I eat you out?” he gasped like it was being pulled from him.
She had wanted to keep kissing, actually, but the edge of something like desperation in his voice sent an impossible heat pooling between her hips; she actually felt herself get wetter. “Yes.”
He pivoted immediately, lifting her with ease to lay her down on the bed. He moved down her body and used his thumbs to spread her outer lips. She thought he would dive right in or say something, but he did neither. He just...looked.
For a moment, the urge to close her legs and hide almost overtook her. She might have done it if it weren’t for the fact that she could see his cock getting thicker and redder with every long breath of gazing at her; she might have done it if it weren’t for the way his jaw ticked with roiling tension.
Here was a man whom she had known and been known by in so many different shades of bloody. Here was a man who saw the hell in her. She felt anything shy within her evaporate off of her skin. Something dark and wild settled in its place that made it easy for her to tilt her chin and catch his gaze. “Well?”
He smiled, all feral delight, and surged forward, running the flat of his tongue all the way up her opening before twisting around her clit. She gasped and bucked her hips, and he immediately slid both arms beneath her ass, keeping her pelvis tilted up. Then his pace settled into something languid and meandering, a journey that knew of but was not desperate for its destination.
She felt her orgasm coming from a mile away, and only when it was close did she begin to speak, little gasped directives like, “Don’t stop,” and, “There, there, right there.” When she came, it was one of the good ones, rolling through her slow like thunder on the prairie. Her back arched, her breath heaved out, and her thighs tightened on his head.
Her first thought after the orgasm was that she wished he had longer hair for her to grab, maybe a beard to rub against her thighs. Her second thought was that maybe next time, he would. Her third thought was, No, no, Karen. None of that.
When she looked down, he was gazing up at her, chin resting on her stomach. There was something knowing and a little sad about the tilt of his lips again, and she gave in to the urge to press her hand against his craggy cheek, running her thumb along a fading bruise under his eye. With her other hand, she pulled a condom from the box at the front of her nightstand drawer and handed it to him.
The moment he took it, she sat up and wrapped her fingers around his cock at last, gratified to feel it surge heavily in her hand as she started to jerk him. “Is this OK?” Her voice was quiet as he panted open-mouthed against her shoulder.
“Yes,” he breathed in response. His teeth grazed her collar bone, and she felt a thrill of pleasure pass over her at the sharp tug of it. Her skin pebbled and her hand stuttered in its rhythm around him. He went...very still. Then he pulled back to look at her. She set her jaw and let a little more of her darkness show on her face, a little bit, I shot him seven times because the clip ran out. There was no blood in Frank Castle’s mouth at this particular moment, but there might have been from the wild light in his eyes. He leaned forward and bit her earlobe. She gasped, and his cock jumped in her hand.
“Frank,” she said, suddenly desperate, “now.” In spite of her urgency, his movements were deliberate as he unwrapped the condom and rolled it on, his eyes continually shifting back to meet hers. The moment it was on, she pulled herself flush against him, knees on either side of his hips, and said, “Ready?”
“As I’ll ever be,” he said, and lined himself up against her. When she felt the head of his cock slip in, she sank down on the rest of him in one quick movement. He wrapped his arms around her torso so tightly that it hurt a little bit and groaned out a long string of curses. She smiled faintly and arched her back as much as she could, brushing one breast along the side of his face as she squeezed her inner muscles around him. His mouth fell open and he looked at her almost accusingly. Then he turned his face and nipped the side of her breast. Her hips jerked. He smiled.
Then she set a pace, not so languid as that of his eating her out, but steady and consistent. He set about trying to break her rhythm, experimentally sucking on a nipple (which didn’t do much to thrill her) and rasping his stubbled chin across her sternum (which did). When he slid a hand between them to rub circles on her clit, she picked up the pace as she felt another orgasm coming on much more quickly. “Come on, Frank, come on,” she gasped, reaching down to rub her own clit, “come with me.”
With both hands now free, he gripped her hips and began lifting her hips as he drove into her at a bruising speed. Just as she was getting close, he let out a gasping groan and bit down, hard, where her shoulder met her neck. She made a funny sound like a hiccup and came, lightly rubbing her clit through it.
They stayed there upright in the middle of the bed with their chests heaving for a dazed minute. Then Frank stirred, holding on to the base of the condom as he pulled out of her. He pulled it off and began to look around, but then she took it from him and dropped it into the wastebasket on the floor on the far side of the bed. He shook his head with a single, amused huff, and then he flopped onto the pillows.
She knelt for a moment longer, looking at the half of his face that wasn’t pressed into the pillow. He watched her with one, steady eye. “Ah, well,” she said, resigning herself to maybe just a little more heartbreak, and stretched out beside him.
Frank pulled the blankets over both of them and pulled her close. They arranged themselves wordlessly with her head on his chest and their breaths synced up. Some minutes later, Karen drifted to sleep, her right hand resting over the steady thump of his heart.
#kastlesmutweek#kastlenetwork#ksw: makeout monday#kastle#frank castle#karen page#the punisher#daredevil#frank drinks his respect karen juice first thing every morning#karen researches field medicine in her spare time pass it on
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A Question of Cindy
A Question of Cindy
Daria Morgendorffer and Jane Lane were in the Pizza King, celebrating their graduation from Lawndale High earlier that day.
“So, dazzling academic achievement, eh? What a sellout,” Jane said.
“I know. And then I had the perfect opportunity to beat Ms. Li senseless with my trophy, and what do I do? Give a heart-warming speech,” Daria said, with her usual amount of thick sarcasm.
“You're getting soft around the edges, Morgendorffer.”
“Maybe, or maybe you've got glaucoma.”
“To college! I can't wait! What do you think we'll find when we get there?”
“Hmm. That the students are shockingly ignorant, the professors self-centered and corrupt, and the entire system geared solely to the pursuit of funding?” Daria said, inwardly hoping that it wouldn’t be like that.
“Hmmm, yes. You know that thing I said about you getting soft?”
“I take it back,” Jane said. She and Daria then clinked their cups. ‘To the future, may we stay friends no matter how old we get!’ Jane thought.
A few moments later Daria looked to the door and saw one of the former students of Lawndale whom had graduated with her and Jane enter the Pizza place. “Hmm.”
“What’s up?” Jane asked.
“Do you know that girl?” Daria asked. She had seen her around the school, but couldn’t recall her name. (Indeed, Daria was sure that she knew less than 25% of the student body, and that there was a lot that went on in the school that she didn’t know about and she preferred it that way.) ‘Jane may know. I don’t want to ask Quinn.’
“Not really, All that I can tell you is that her name is Cindy Brolsma and that she is into computers. Why?” Jane asked.
“Jane, she graduated with us this afternoon,” Daria pointed out.
“She did?” Jane exclaimed.
“And the last that I can recall, she was in Quinn’s classes. She was in the Language Arts class that I taught during the Strike,” Daria said, referring to the Teachers Strike held two weeks after their previous summer vacation had ended.
Jane thought for a moment “Oh yeah,” she said.
“I am going to talk to her,” Daria said. ‘It would likely be the only chance that I’ll get,’ she thought.
“Are you sure?” Jane said, wondering what good that will do. She saw Cindy ordering a pizza at the counter.
“Yes. I would like to know,” Daria said, as she got up.
“Just don’t antagonise her, ok?” Jane said. ‘If so, I think she won’t tell her anything,’ she thought.
‘I will try not to antagonise her,’ Daria thought as she went towards the other bespectacled teen.
Cindy Brolsma had just ordered a pizza when she turned around and noticed Daria Morgendorffer coming towards her. ‘This is definitely unusual,’ she thought.
“Cindy?” Daria asked.
“That’s me,” Cindy said, quite puzzled.
“Would you like to sit with Jane and myself?” Daria asked.
Cindy hesitated. Why was Daria Morgendorffer, one of the most anti-social teens in Lawndale, with the reputation to match, asking her to sit with her? “Um, sure,” she finally said.
“Good,” Daria said, as she turned to go back to Jane.
“I will be there when I get my Pizza,” Cindy said. ‘Hopefully that will quell the butterflies in my stomach.
“Sure,” Daria said.
“That was rather quick, and you didn’t get to the point!” Jane said, when Daria had sat back down.
“Jane, if I did antagonise her, she wouldn’t have told me anything,” Daria said without hesitation.
“That’s true,” Jane said as she took a bite.
“I invited her to sit with us,” Daria said.
“So both of us can ask her?” Jane asked. ‘Certainly better than Daria by herself asking her,’ she thought.
“Yes.”
Six minutes later, Cindy sat with Daria and Jane.
“Ok, why did you ask me to sit with you and Jane, Daria?” Cindy asked, as she opened her pizza.
“Direct, aren’t you?” Jane said.
“When I need to be,” Cindy said.
“Um, you graduated from Lawndale High this afternoon, right?” Daria asked.
Cindy nodded, she knew that other students at Lawndale would be confused by her early graduation, but she hadn’t expected be asked about it students whom she did not associate with.
“How did you pull that off?” Daria asked.
“Why are you asking me this?” Cindy asked, wondering if Daria was going to chew her out like she did most others she crossed paths with.
“Curiosity,” Daria said.
“We are going to college and we don’t know everything about Lawndale?” Jane asked with a mischievous tone.
“Actually, I am beginning to wonder if I had overlooked other like minded people whom attended Lawndale High. Anyone who can graduate High School early is a good person in my book,” Daria said.
‘At least she is asking politely. She is also not chewing me out.’ She decided to tell her and Jane about how she had managed to graduate from Lawndale High early anyway. ‘At least someone besides Kristen knows,’ she thought.
“Well, I attended advanced classes via concurrent enrolment Post Secondary Enrolment Option programs at Lawndale Community College,” Cindy said tentatively. ‘Best to tell them about that first,’ she thought.
“Ms Li mustn’t have been pleased about that!” Jane said.
Cindy chuckled, she knew that the principal tended to keep tight tabs on the school’s budget. “She still isn’t,” she said.
“That wouldn’t do it. You would still have to do the full four years,” Daria said, the curiosity showing (only slightly) in her voice.
“I have been doing advanced placement classes since seventh grade. I also did the International Baccalaureate,” Cindy said.
“Interesting,” Daria said, feeling a little jealous. Despite her straight A record she had never been able to get her mom to allow her to take the advanced classes. ‘My lack of socialisation may have had something to do with that,’ she thought.
“Is that all?” Cindy asked, wondering what else the so called outcast duo would want to ask her.
“You are going to College, right?” Jane asked.
“Of course. I wouldn’t do all that and not go to college. This Fall, goodbye Lawndale, hello Boston!” Cindy said.
“Boston?” Daria asked wondering. ‘It has to be a coincidence; there are many tertiary institutions in Boston,’ she thought.
“Yeah. I am going to Raft,” Cindy said.
“Raft?” Daria asked, almost in shock.
“What is wrong with that? Raft has a great reputation!” Cindy retorted.
“I didn’t mean it like that!” Daria said.
“What then?” Cindy asked.
“She is also going to Raft,” Jane said.
“You are?” Cindy asked.
Daria nodded.
Cindy relaxed; “At least I’ll know somebody,” she said.
“I won’t be the only one,” Daria said.
“You won’t?” Cindy asked.
“Yeah. Jane will also be in Boston. But not until next Spring,” Daria said. ‘If she knows I am going, she has to know that Jane is too,’ she thought.
“Daria!” Jane exclaimed.
“She would find out anyway,” Daria said.
“What?” Cindy asked, wondering why Jane would be touchy, about going to Boston in Spring.
“I applied to BFAC late. I wouldn’t be going to college, if it weren’t for Daria encouraging me,” Jane admitted.
“Boston Fine Arts College? I have heard that you are a good artist, but wow. BFAC has a really good reputation in the art world,” Cindy said.
Jane looked at Cindy “How would you know that?” she asked. ‘I haven’t heard that she is interested in art,’
Cindy grew quiet. “My mom went there after school. She now works in the Lawndale Art Museum. So what are you doing at Raft, Daria?”
“Double Major English and History, I will be trying to be a writer and a historian. And yourself?” Daria asked. She had no idea of what Cindy may be interested in, besides what Jane had said earlier.
“Computer Science. In your face, MIT!
“Interesting,” Daria said.
“Do you have anything against MIT?” Jane asked.
“There are more males than females, although I heard that is improving. Besides, Raft is almost as good as MIT as regards Computer Science,” Cindy said.
“Cool, I guess,” Jane said.
“It definitely is,” Cindy said.
The trio continued to talk for the next half hour, before they left the Pizza King to head home.
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Better Place
AN: So this ideas been in my brain for weeks. and I wrote a bunch of it a few days ago but I accidentally deleted it, so here’s take two
“and ah, you’re my favorite thing
ah, all the happiness you bring
well it feels like I’ve opened my eyes again
and the colors are golden and bright again
and the sun paints the skies
and the wind sing our song
it’s a better place since you came along” -rachel platten
Tony wishes he could say the day he walked into Peter Parker’s life was a day like any other, but that was unfortunately not the case. It was likely one of the lowest points of his life. Pepper had left him a few weeks ago, and now half of his team was following. Worse yet, he was now resorting to recruiting a teenage kid to help detain what were now being called the Rogue Avengers. He tried to push that all aside as he put on his mask to introduce himself to the kid’s aunt. Not his Iron Mask, as that would likely startle her quite a bit, but his figurative mask that was the persona he took on at press conferences and business meetings, the persona of a cocky, flirtatious, carefree billionaire. After a brief questioning. Mrs. Parker buys his phony story of a grant and soon the boy arrives home and he is allowed to speak with him in private. Seeing the kid in person for the first time, it felt hard to breathe. Years of practice allowed him to hide his panic but he was internally at war with himself, he knew this kid was a 14, but his brain did not truly realize how young that was until his eyes were seeing it. Even his brain, which many considered genius, struggle to consolidate this gangly teen with the graceful vigilante from the videos. Be brought the kid to Germany and told himself that he was helping him by giving him a safer suit, but the guilt came crashing down on him when he saw the boy knocked out by the giant Ant Man, ad felt panic that he refused to admit felt vaguely parental when he did not get back up. Thankfully, Peter seemed to be okay, albeit slightly roughed up.
In the time that followed Tony’s life just seemed to keep going further and further downhill, starting with Rhodey falling from the sky and Tony being unable to help, to Tony facing what he considered the ultimate betrayal from the Captain he used to call a friend. Returning from the fight, Tony immediately rushed to be with Rhodey while the doctors ran tests. While they awaited results, Tony kept checking for messages from Happy, who he had left Peter with.
“I can tell your worried about more than just my legs Tones, your waiting for Happy to message you about the Spider Boy, right?”
“It’s Spiderman” Tony mutters
“That’s not the point and you know it. How do you know the guy? You haven’t told me anything about him but judging from what I’ve seen, he can’t be older than 25, which places his birth right around the time of your-”
“He’s fourteen, actually” That manages to put Rhodey into a stunned silence as Tony looks away guilty. After taking a few seconds to process Rhodey whispers
“Jesus Christ, Tony” after pausing for a few seconds “How could you recruit your teenage son to fight with the Avengers, and how could you have not told me?”
If Tony had been holding a drink he would have spit it out. Instead the man shook his head, and explained what had happened.
“Despite your denial, i can tell you care a lot about the kid. Go, check on him. I know you sent Happy to take him home, based on how eager the kid was to please you, I bet he’ll be glad to see you”
“Rhodey I can’t just leave you here alone”
“Why not? I’ll be here when you get back, it’s not like I’m gonna get up and walk away.” Tony laughs for the first time in what feels like weeks, bids his friend good bye and good luck and goes off to check on the spiderling.
Tony had originally planned to take a hands on approach in mentoring the kid, but upon seeing his eagerness to get involved with the big leagues he decides a more distant approach may be better. Tony already made the mistake of bringing him to an Avengers fight, he wasn’t going to get the kid killed by introducing him to a level of fighting he is to young for. Instead, he has the kid send Happy status reports, but in truth he has them all forwarded to himself. When he spends long days working with politicians to fix the accords, listening to Peter’s voicemail reminds him that there is good in the world. Living alone in the tower was rough, it seemed every corn he turned he could feel the ghosts of the happy memories he and the team had had their. Now, the rooms that once seemed vibrant and full of life faded to a dull gray.
Over the next few weeks several things happen very quickly. While Tony is away in India Tony has t send a suit to save Peter after he got involved in crime that was a little to advanced for him. Tony briefly thought that the stress he felt for Peter’s safety must be what it’s like to be a father, but he quickly pushed that notion out of his head. Next comes the incident in DC, which Tony only saw a few hours later and he swore that kid was TRYING to give him a heart attack. A few days later, Tony calmed down and realized, despite how stressful it appeared, the kid did a good job. He had just got off the phone from telling him this when he saw Spiderman on the news, and he was most definitely NOT at band practice.
The events that follow happen in a bit of a blur, one second he’s fixing the ferry, the next he’s on top of a building with Peter, taking the suit. He feels awful about it the next day, but he also thinks that he cannot go back
Of course, then comes moving day, and the plane crash, and Tony decide that maybe he ought to keep the tower after all.
(Pepper suggests he wants a location to stay close to New York to keep a eye on Peter. Tony will never admit it, but she isn’t wrong)
After the shocking turn of events that was Peter turning down the offer to join the Avengers, Pepper and Tony were in their kitchen, celebrating their engagement when his phone rings. He does not recognize the phone number calling and he answers in the manner he does all of these calls
“I don’t know how you got this number but don’t even think about cal-”
“This is Spider Man’s aunt. You may remember recruiting my kid to fight behind my back?”
“Crap.”
No women could ever scare Tony as much as Pepper, but May Parker came pretty darn close. After she finished thoroughly chewing him out she agreed to allow him to continue under the basis of Tony training him and personally monitoring his patrols (which Tony normally did anyways, not that he’d admit it) and that he give her access to monitor the suit (he sent her a StarkPad that was completely synced with Karen the next day.) After Peter accidentally blew up his school lab making web fluid, she added the condition that he go to Tony’s lab once a week. What started as Peter using the facility to make web fluid, led to Tony teaching the kid all the inner workings of the Spider Man suit to Peter being his personal intern.
(Pepper suggested that it was less like he was his personal intern and more like he was his son, but what does Pepper know?)
Occasionally they would work so late into the night that Peter would just stay the night. This led to Peter coming to the compound every Friday after school with a duffle bag and then returning to his apartment Sunday afternoon. This definitely was not because they were forming a father son bond (”I swear to God if you call me Iron Dad one more time Rhodey....”) It was just convenient. May had the most shifts on weekends and Peter got bored being home alone. Any good mentor would invite him to stay. For an early birthday present, Tony decided to redo the guest room to personalize it for Peter. Pepper suggested he just hire someone to do it, but he brushed her aside. If someone leaked that he was having a room decorated for a teenage boy God only know what kind of rumors would spread. That is why he was sitting on his tablet at 11 PM stressing over what color paint would prefer.
“Just buy both and ask him which he likes better when he comes over”
“Pep I can’t just.... actually your right, I’m a billionaire, I’ll get both.”
That is how, a few days later the billionaire finds himself hand painting a room with a 15 year old boy. Peter returns from the bathroom just to feel paint drip on his face from above. He looks up to see Peter on the ceiling painting the part of the ceiling he couldn’t reach from the ground.
“Whoops, sorry Mr. Stark” the laughter in his voice told him he wasn’t really sorry. picking up a paintbrush he exclaimed
“I’ll get you for that little you little twerp” and with tat flung some of the paint at Peter.
When Pepper went 30 minutes later to see what kind of pizza to order for lunch, she finds them laughing hysterically and covered in paint.
A week later Tony hosted a surprise birthday for Peter at the tower. He, shockingly enough, kept it small, only inviting Peter’s closest friends, May, Rhodey and Pepper. He and May had spent the past few hours painstakingly setting everything up to be perfect. Tony’s back hurt more than he cared to admit, and part of him was wary the girl, Michelle, who watched him with a far to knowing look. It was all made worth it when he say the look on Peter’s face when they surprised him. When Peter crushed him into a hug his initial reaction was to jerk away, but instead he returned the hug. He wasn’t certain, but he thinks he heard the boy mumble “thanks dad” into his shoulder. After a few seconds he released the boy and ruffled his hair.
“Anytime, son” he said to quietly for anyone to hear. Than, louder, he said “Enjoy the party, kiddo” and handed him off to his aunt.
Now, when Tony walks the halls of the tower, instead of seeing the ghosts of his ex teammates he see’s Peter’s homework strewn across the table, his backpack propped against the couch, his report card that he had jokingly taped on the fridge and often time the curly haired teenager himself, breathing life back into the place.
One day he realized that the world is no longer all gray.
AN: Thanks for reading, i haven’t actually read back over this, though I might sometime soon. Hope you enjoyed!
#irondad#IRON DAD AND SPIDER SON#peter parker#tony stark#spiderman#iron man#may parker#rhodey#pepper potts#my writing
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July 25, 2018
Saturday, July 21
I arrived in Accra, Ghana around 8pm local time. Upon landing, the flight attendants walked up and down the aisles spraying bug repellent so mosquitos wouldn’t enter the plane when the doors opened up at the gate. Not having any bug spray on myself, I was real pumped for what I was about to walk into. We were warned that we could be prosecuted or fined for taking pictures at the airport (which explains why I don’t have any to share) and we exited the plane in the middle of the runway.
The two gentleman that I was sitting next to for the ride was the first example of “Ghanian hospitality” (which is a huge part of their culture) that I experienced. They knew a staff member who worked in the immigration process and took me straight to this officer so my visa processing could be efficient and not as hostile as I was warned it could be. While I was grateful for the quickness of getting through immigration, I felt so bad once I realized how long it was taking for my bag to get off the plane and to the baggage claim. Michel and Paul were one of the first to receive their bags, and after waiting 2+ hours (!), my bag was the very last one off the plane. I tend to be a dramatic person when telling stories, but I am not kidding with this one. It was the very. last. bag.
My mind was all over the place while we were waiting. On one hand, I was worried about my bag never showing up and therefore, having to take on 22 weeks in Africa with only the two outfits in my bag and the two granola bars in my backpack. On the other hand, I was also felt incredibly anxious and guilty about Michel and Paul waiting with me. I kept apologizing and telling them how grateful I was for their care, especially because their uncle was patiently waiting outside to pick them up and they could have left to go home hours ago. I felt like my issue was taking over other individuals’ nights and that did not sit well with me, but the Ghanaian men did not seem to care at all. They said they would be more affected if they left me and spent the next couple days worrying if I ever got my bag and if I felt comfortable in their country. I just kind of stared at them and thought, “if everyone in this country is going to be this nice, I am going to be more than okay.”
Finally, I was outside the airport and met the Volunteer Coordinator from the Cheerful Hearts Foundation, the organization I will be working with throughout my time here. His name is Oppong, and his smile and patience immediately made me feel welcomed. On the car ride to our house in Peace Town, Kasoa, I learned that Oppong will be one of the five people that will be my current housemates. The program I am in is very customizable, which means that throughout my time here, the number of roommates I will have will be ever changing since people can constantly come and go from different countries.
Sunday, July 22
I spent my first morning unpacking and getting settled in. Here is a picture of my pretty-princess bed :) my sister joked that I should have ordered a pink one.
Afterwards, I went on a walk with my roommates to get food from a local stand. We ordered Kenkey, Fufu, and Red Red. KenKey is a some sort of cold blended corn soup with condensed milk and fried peanuts, and I don’t think I ever want to eat it again. But! Fufu was a boiled corn and maize mixture that almost acted as a bread that one could dip in a VERY spicy sauce and/or wrap around fried fish. This wasn’t too bad, although I cannot say that I ate much of the spicy sauce. However, I did eat all of the Red Red - which is simply just rice and beans, and is typically served with plantains.
On our way to and from the food, the children in my town could not stop pointing and yelling “obroni!” (which means “white person!”) at me as I walked past. They would run up to me and try to hang on my arms and/or they would want to rub my skin because it was so unusual to them. I loved every second of it.
Following our meal, we went to the mall which reminded me a shockingly amount of America, I felt like I was walking around Yorktown and I kept thinking “this is not at all what I pictured Ghana to be.” There, I exchanged money and bought a mifi with 6 GB on it for the cost of 177 cidi (about $45) as the office I will be working in does not currently have wifi like they said they would. I can also use this wifi on my phone and to upload these blog posts.
To get to and from the mall, we had to take a TroTro - which is a shared “bus” that is actually the size of a SUV. Men hang out of the windows and keep the doors open so they can stand and ask the people they are driving past if anyone want a ride. While the trotro only has 8 seats in it, they can cram up to 14 people in these cars. For the price of 1 cidi, or 25 cents, I could take a trotro for a 15 minute ride from my town to the closest mall.
We came home, had Red Red for dinner, watched The Secret Life of Bees (weird, I know), and went to bed.
Monday, July 23 - Wednesday, July 25
Throughout my time here, I will be working with the Cheerful Hearts Foundation in Kasoa, Ghana to assist them in their Child Labor and Trafficking project. The goal of the project is to get children off of the shore where they work for/potentially sold by fisherman and back into school. The Foundation does this through three ways: research, sponsorship, and awareness, and my work began this past Monday.
I spent most of my time on Monday and Tuesday in the office reviewing materials and analyzing survey data. The intention was that through this I would get a better understanding of the organization overall, and the issue of child labor/trafficking.
At home, I’ve been adjusting to the Ghana lifestyle - wake up, go to work, show up later than you should, come home, eat dinner around 4:30pm, sun sets by 6:30pm, find something to do until you fall asleep. On Monday, our power went out (which is apparently a normal thing as it is only two days later, and again here I am sitting in the dark...at 6:45pm) so I took a shower in the pitch black and found a cockroach that apparently decided to shower with me. On Tuesday, I showed up to the office at 8:30am as instructed, and my first coworker - who had the key to the office - didn’t show up until 10:30am. My Irish skin and I really appreciated it. On Wednesday, the power went out at work and no one even flinched, but rather just continued working. If this happened back in Chicago, we would have all called it quits and went home.
On Wednesday, I had the opportunity to visit 3 schools in the neighboring fishing villages and I visited the shore in Nyayano where children go to work instead go to of school. While at the shore, I was able to talk to some fisherman and children. I learned that the highest rate a child has been sold in to trafficking for, at least that they knew of on this beach, was 300 cidi. To put that in context, that is less than $100. Due to poverty, threats, and unemployment, families feel “forced to sell their kids to fisherman” as they see it as what is best for them and their future. In their minds, the adults receive money, and their children receive a mentorship to learn a specific skill that they can specialize in, and hopefully use to get a job in the future.
I am only here to learn and not to judge, and that calls for a change in perspective. I am not familiar with this culture, I am not familiar with this environment, and I am not familiar with this lifestyle. So, it is really hard for me to understand how parents could sell their children into slavery basically, and for such a cheap price. But, it is hard for me to believe that anyone would chose to do this unless they felt like it is the last absolute option. They have to believe that any other situation would be worse for them and their children. I may not understand it now, but I have 22 more weeks to figure it out.
But, what I do have to understand is that the scale of privilege and advantage has been extremely tipped for a long time. It might not be my fault, but I could easily say that it is partially my responsibility to tip it back. What I am coming to learn is that it takes a disproportionate effort from our side - our more advanced culture, environment, and lifestyle - to lean the scales back to equality.
Throughout all of this, I have been having a lot of first impressions during my first couple of days in Ghana. And, each impression is fleeting. I can go from feeling passionate and motivated to overwhelmed and lonely in a moment’s instance. What this fleeting-ness teaches me is that none of these perspectives are yet to be true; they aren’t rooted in anything. I am excited to take this experience one day at a time and to continue to figure out what I will learn from this community and what they can learn from me.
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25 years ago
Summary: a story of when Logan and Kurt decided to leave the hero stuff and live together in a nice little cabin in the woods.
Characters: Logan (Wolverine) Kurt Wagner (nightcrawler)
Story:
It had taken quite a lot to manage it but they did it. Logan and Kurt were on their own. The two X men, well ex-x-men, had gotten away from their troubling lives and were now looking at a plot of land that belonged to them and them alone. Nothing sat in it but the trees at first.
Logan was determined to build something with his own hands. Kurt didn't argue, it was nice watching his Wolverine work, and he wasn't useless when it came to helping out. It was mostly the time it took to get things together that came to mind.
Their pasts allowed them to not be all that bothered by the wild living until the cabin was done though. Logan cleared trees with ease, moving them and striping them with old experience. While Kurt worked on making sure the food was worked out and keeping his leibe from over working.
Two weeks passed and soon a building was up. It had one bed room, a bathroom, and a living room with kitchen and dining room attached. It wasn't large but it was theirs and made with love. That and some yelling when things didn't go to plan.
Kurt decorated it with their objects from different missions and past adventures while Logan cooked. Watching the blue elf crawl along the walls to hang a picture or put something up on a high shelf seemed a little over the top, but it wouldn't be Kurt if it was done the normal way.
There was no one to judge or stare, and the view was so amazing. Then there was the nice look of the forest from the windows too. Logan smirked as he watched his elf judge if the picture was straight, the pants he was wearing rather shapely. Kurt caught the stare and draw a smirk across his blue fur.
"see something you like, mien leibe?" Kurt asked strutting over, tail giving a twirl of being a show off to the movement across the room. Logan shrugged.
"I think the pictures a bit too far to the left." Logan teased, watching Kurt turn around to look at the picture only to Huff and look back at Logan with that "you got me" glare. Kurt finished coming over to his chief and gave a loving nuzzle. Logan hummed pleased to which Kurt responded with a purr like noise. The relaxed together until Logan had to move to finish cooking.
With the change Kurt decided to just lean on the counter watching Logan work. It was the life. Their first meal in their finished house, and it could have been a burnt mess and still be the best meal they had ever had. Sitting together by the fire they cuddled. Something Logan never let happen at the mansion.
Some things died hard and the fear of prejudice toward his loved ones was one of them. Logan could heal, take on anyone who had a problem with how he lived. But he had long ago learned that his loved ones couldn't.
Here in the forest though, it was safe, and they could be as clingy as Kurt enjoyed. And boy was he clingy. Arms around Logan's neck, tail curled around Logan's closest arm and one leg up on Logan's lap. It was a sight for sure. Kurt talked about this and that while Logan sipped a beer.
With in a half an hour Logan feel asleep though dispite himself. Of course he wanted to celebrate their first night in their house. To ravish his elf with love. But even his energy ran out and two weeks of building a house from scratch seemed to have done it, dispite Kurt trying to insure he rested.
So with a soft laugh, Kurt teliported his hard worker to the bed room. With some struggle, that shockingly didn't wake the buff man, kurt got Logan into bed and under the covers. Watching for a bit, admiring the image of a relaxed Logan, Kurt went and cleaned up.
It didn't take much work, compaired to the dishes of the mansion. So tidying up took less time than planned. So Kurt crawled into bed and cuddled by his Liebe. It was a nice night, comfortable and warm, safe and sound.
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Mount Temple via East Ridge
8/2/18
Mount Temple had been on my radar since around ~2015, when I first visited Banff. In the summer of 2017, during our van trip, Leo and I had set our sights on the East Ridge, but the Banff area ended up being a disaster most of the time we were there because of a heat wave and constant smoke from fires. Nervous about the snow traverse during a heat wave, and lacking all motivation since we’d have no views, Leo and I decided to leave it for another time.
That other time for me ended up being the next summer when I visited Marco in Banff while he is on his own van trip. Marco is a strong climber who doesn’t have much of an interest in long slogs, but I managed to trick, I mean convince, him this would be a fun day. We did all our research the morning before, and in the evening after some cragging near Canmore, we headed up to Moraine Lake to scout our route for the next day. We found the slide path ~2km before Moraine Lake where we’d need to park the next morning and begin our ascent.
We drove to the Lake Louise overflow lot (this spot is so clutch — free overnight parking with everyone sleeping in their vehicles) about ~25 mins from our starting point, where we planned to sleep for the night. We made dinner, ate plenty of ice cream, and packed our gear. We each planned to wear approach shoes, but bring climbing shoes, harnesses, an *extremely* light rack (3 cams: 0.5, 0.75, #1), crampons, ice axe, helmet, and a 60m half rope. We made sure to pack shells as well, since there was a chance of rain in some forecasts (though mountain forecast called just for clouds, making us feel comfortable going for it).
We set the alarm for 4am, were at the trailhead at 5am, and were hiking by 5:10am. Originally we’d hoped there might be a use trail heading up the avalanche slope, but we never found one while looking the night before, so we just started up the talus field. The talus field narrows to a distinct steep gully at its top. It got pretty loose/miserable towards the top of the gully, but once we were there we were treated to some of the first “good” rock of the day. I say “good” because it seems all rock in the Canadian Rockies is crap (us Californians are spoiled, I know), but this section wasn’t *totally* chossy. :) The gully separates to a left fork and a right. I got the impression from trip reports that either would work, so we picked the left fork, heading straight up for a while before starting to veer right. We scrambled up and right for a while until we found some cairns.
We followed the cairns going up and up. We felt that we were finally on the ridge at this point, but I never felt 100% certain because the ridge is so broad at this point. The scrambling is fun and feels solid enough, maybe up to fourth class here and there. As we kept going, I was nervous that we hadn’t come across any landmarks that I recognized yet until we finally reached the little step, protected by a bolt as promised in other trip reports I’d read. The little step really only had maybe 2 low fifth class moves. Marco pulled my pack up for me, and then I felt comfortable doing them sans rope or climbing shoes. We continued up the ridge a couple hundred feet more and found ourselves at the big step right around 8am.
By this point I was starting to feel pretty hungry — after all, we’d been moving for nearly 3 hours and gained probably close to 3k feet of elevation. As Marco flaked the rope and assembled the rack, I wolfed down a cliff bar. We followed the SummitPost beta for the climbing pitches and didn’t have too much trouble, with Marco leading all the pitches. The climbing felt a bit harder than I was expecting, and I was happy to have my rock shoes. Marco on the other hand stayed in his approach shoes and felt very secure with the three cams he’d brought for our rack. Later that night I heard him on the phone telling his girlfriend, “I’d start a pitch, put a piece in so Yelly wouldn’t worry, and then climb to the next anchor.” Thanks Marco. :-P
We finished this section of roped climbing around 10am, put away the rope, and took another snack break. We scoped out the rest of the route as we munched, easily identifying the leaning flake we needed to reach just below the black towers. We continued up the ridge, cutting left on a ledge and heading towards a chimney as described again in the SummitPost description. Once we passed the chimney, we basically took a direct upward/left traversing line towards the flake. The terrain was definitely loose, but I managed to feel solid enough to make good progress. When we finally reached the flake, we had to climb over the band of snow that is typically there. I was happy to see that right next to the flake, the snow was maybe only 5 ft wide, so not too bad to cross.
Marco carefully kicked steps in the very soft snow, plunging in his axe entirely for extra safety on each step. I followed suit, and then climbed up behind the flake, again seeing the bolts we’d expected from the SummitPost description. The description says going behind the flake is the hardest part of the black towers, but I found it to be quite easy. While some people pitch out the terrain up to and even past the flake, I never felt even close to the need to pull the rope out. I kept on my approach shoes, since the terrain felt very reasonable to me. Yes, it was heads up, but never really felt like fifth class to me. Marco disagrees here and definitely says it felt like fifth class. Who knows?
We continued up the gully through the black towers. As promised in some beta we’d read, every single hold did indeed have pea-sized gravel on it. I felt that my approach shoes were better on the gravel than climbing shoes would be. Just before 12:30pm, we topped out and had our views of the glacier. Over the course of the whole day, I’d been most nervous about the glacier. It seemed most trip reports didn’t really mention it, but those that did usually didn’t have good things to say. I also haven’t climbed much steep snow this year, I’d borrowed Leo’s very dull aluminum crampons and only had approach shoes, and we had no beta on the snow conditions on the glacier. If we’d found that the conditions were bad and we had to down climb the whole east ridge, I might have chosen to give up climbing entirely. Okay, that’s a bit dramatic, but down climbing all that horrible loose terrain really seems like a nightmare (which, after the fact, Marco did find a trip report in which some people thought they wouldn’t need crampons on the glacier, so they did indeed down climb the whole thing).
We took another snack break and geared up for the glacier. This was Marco’s first time doing roped glacier travel, and my first time this year, so I had to somewhat dust off the cobwebs. Between the two of us, we had enough knowledge to make it work though! For example, I couldn’t for the life of me remember how to tie an alpine butterfly, but Marco was there to save the day. After debating about who should lead the rope team, we settled on Marco, since he’d likely be faster at kicking steps.
And we were off. I was feeling pretty nervous about the terrain, since it was still unknown, and it definitely looked steeper than I had anticipated. The snow varied from everything to soft post-holing to full on alpine ice. I got pretty spooked in the alpine ice section, feeling my crampons couldn’t get nearly as much purchase as I’d like. I, with no ice climbing experience, was desperately throwing the pick of my axe into the ice, trying to get a good hold, with Marco watching and thinking…. well, that’s not going to work. He tried to coach me through the best way to throw my axe, and after several minutes without making much improvement, I yelled to him that this was not the time for me to learn to ice climb, and I’d just have to make my existing skills work.
As we got closer to the summit, we got more on the ridge proper. The snow was better closest to the edge, making me want to go towards it badly, but we also knew that the edge was heavily corniced, so quite dangerous. Excellent. After passing one particularly spooky spot, I spied some hikers on the summit, and was incredibly jealous of their position of safety, which was so close yet so far away. I saw them taking photos of us and thought to myself, “Well, it would be really embarrassing if I fell right now”. With Marco’s words of encouragement (and a “belay” at one point — though, let’s be real, we had no ice screws or pickets — this was a “make you feel good” belay), I got through the cruxes, and we moxied on up to the summit!
All the hikers had left by the time we arrived, so we shockingly had the summit to ourselves. It was just before 3pm, and I was pretty pleased with our very reasonable time — less than 10 hours to the summit. We took off our now very wet approach shoes and changed into dry socks, ate our sandwiches and some celebratory Reeses peanut butter cups, and took the required summit selfie. The clouds had luckily held off all day, but were looming nearby, so I didn’t want to press our luck. After maybe 20 minutes of snacking and repacking the gear, I headed off down the tourist route. I’d read very little about it, so I hoped the trail would be easy to follow, and it certainly was.
Heading down the trail was pretty uneventful. It did rain on us for a few minutes after we’d descended maybe halfway. The views from the trail itself were spectacular. The switchbacks above Moraine Lake seemed to go on forever, losing so little elevation at a time. But, we were back at the lake by 6:15pm, so just over 13 hours after we’d started that morning. After asking 6 different cars, Marco finally found a ride back to the van and then shuttled back to the lake to pick me up. I was shocked how good I felt and was stoked to have bagged such a beautiful peak via such a classic route. I was just craving more. :) Marco, more reasonably, was tired and ready for some rest. Shockingly, Marco the rock climber said it was a fun day and not a *total* slog. We headed to the Lake Louise overflow parking lot to make dinner and sleep away all our sore muscles.
Big thanks to my rope gun Marco for this one — for leading the rock pitches and helping me keep it together on the exposed snow. #teamworkmakesthedreamwork
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Wednesday 2 July 1834
5
12
No kiss see last night -very fine morning - F70° at 6 10 - A- and I out at 6 40 sauntered along the rue de Rhone § [to the Toporama to see Godot’s fine model of Switzerland – not the one I saw in 1827 – only ½ the size but containing more extract of country i.e. the Tyrol, Italian lakes, part of the Piemont and the whole Switzerland – on sale – for not less than 24000 fr. French – would see the other (the large and old one) for 900 fr. - a model in hand like the 24000 fr. one, reduced from about 15 by 9 ft French to about 3 ft by 2 ½ ft French at 500 fr. to be sent to Sweden to Baron Müller – had made several on this scale and sent them to England - to Lord Grey – Lord Monson et aliis - made one of the Mont Blanc mountains only, on a very large scale for the Ecole des mines à Paris – said I should like a scale between the big and the little and he agreed to make me (in 6 months and send via Paris and Calais to London there to be paid on its arrival) a model taking in all the country – all the étendre of the large at 24000 fr. for 15000 fr. – said I should be back again from Chamouni [Chamonix] soon and would let him know about it - Miss W- shockingly tired of standing so long – about an hour there] – put in the post en passant my letter to my aunt ‘Shibden Hall Halifax Yorkshire Angleterre’ and A-‘s letter to her aunt Cliff Hill and sister and Washington – vid. yesterday - home at 8 ¾ - breakfast at 9 to 10 ¾ - having George up 2 or 3 times to give him instructions in French.
§ went into the rue de la cité and paid for plan of Geneva that came at 6 ½ this morning etc and staid there sometime – the man very civil gave me 4 addresses for pensions (thought of leaving Eugenie at one) and gave me the relative value of Geneva money compared with French
sols de Geneva Francs cents
pices of
½ = 0.2
1 = 0.4
3 = 0.12
1 5= 0.58
21 = 0.80
1 florin de Geneva = 12 sols de Geneva
26 sols de Geneva = 1 Franc de France
1 Ecu de 5fr. (French) vant florin 10.10s
2fr. ---------------------------------------- 4.4.
1fr. -----------------------------------------2.2
1/2fr.----------------------------------------1.1
then Chez Joan [Soupation], place du bourg du four, for little silk shawl for A- had not one, but good shop for Swiss Muslins and linen etc - they sent us to Louis Pernin fils au bas de la cité n°51 and got a ficher - home at 8 ¾ - breakfast etc (the 12 lines with in brackets belong to after breakfast) - from 11 ¾ to 1 ¾ when A- and I out again – had had a porter after breakfast – said there were 240 rooms in the house of which 160 de maitre - 34 chambres de maitre sur chaque des 5 étages - price of a country house for the season (6 months 3,000 to 4,000 fr. - Coligny) that Lord Byron had 4,000 fr. -Had inquired at the police – Miss Pickford had not been here of 3 years - A- had lain down – had ordered a carriage at 2 – she and I out in it at 2 ¾ and took Eugenie with us – went to the bank (H. Hentsch and c°) on the quai almost opposite to our hotel des Bergues - from £25 circular n° 4096, received 11 double napoleons + 9 singular ditto = 620 fr. for which paid (agio on the gold) 7/50? and for gold now cost 15 fr. per thousand and this not considered dear - a month hence would be 20/ agio per thousand - forgot to ask for an account of what I received - supposed I paid 7/55 agio this would make 620+7/55+(5sols de Genève taken at sols French) ./20 = 627 fr. 75 cents = exchange at 25fr. 11 cents- from the bank to the Grand Chemin des Philosophes, chez Madame [Bacle] for pension for Eugenie - would take her (giving her 2 ground floors rooms) for 175fr. per month so that we could sleep a night or 2 there if we liked - but for our own living to pay 10fr. a day - happening to inquire about Miss Pickford found she and Miss Maitland were chez Madame Palis –a house or two distant – went there – waited 20 minutes till 4 5 then sat with them till 4 1/2 . Miss P- said nothing but seemed surprised – was she not nervous? Looked well - told her of her letter record in Paris last July - They are going to England on Tuesday - Paris via Dijon by voiturin, the one from here they have had at Naples, and everywhere - Miss Maitland a very tall, large woman – asked me to stay and dine with them at their public table! – Miss P- said nothing – she probably knew me better – declined very civilly on account of much to do and going to Chamouni [Chamonix] tomorrow - Miss P- hardly seemed at ease - true she lost much (‘pretty well’) by Miss Threlfall who died 2 years ago - might have recovered it, but it would cost more than it was worth - the musé [musée] under repair could not be seen perhaps may be a fortnight hence - 20 minutes in the botanic garden goes up to Mr. Eynards’ nice house and gardens - the garden arranged on the natural system - very ill kept - the Serres full of workmen - then to the cathedral - full of workmen preparing for the Grand Helvetic concert on the 28th inst. - neat, clean, handsome gothic pile - du temps de Charlemagne the woman said - 3 fine painted glass windows in the apsis - Charlemagne, in that on the right - home at 5 ½ - dinner at 5 40 - had just the loueur of the carriage - called the distance to Sallenche [Sallanches] 15 lieues (instead of 12 or in truth 11) and asked 48/. - tho’ he had agreed with the porter for 36/. - said people gave the cocher 3/. a day - 30/. + 4/. for cocher would have been enough the porter owned had it been last year - now forage dear and 36/. fair - offered to get me another carriage - no! said I would go en poste - poste arranged as in France 36 sols per cheval and 1 extra cheval not put on for us at 20 sols - so I shall leave the carriage at Sallenche [Sallanches] and Eugenie too - sat long over dinner and dessert – dawdling talking – from 10 ¼ to 11 20 wrote the above of today – fine day till lowering at 5 ½ and between 6 and 7 (and long afterwards flashes of lighting at intervals much thunder) heavy rain and a thunder storm – lightning very vivid and much thunder 1 peal so near the house seemed coming down. F72 ½° now at 11 20 pm - Miss W- owns she has had whites again (had them years ago and since) these last two or three days burn her in making water said she had rather affected me on Monday night.
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