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innuendostudios · 3 years

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Thoughts on: Criterion's Neo-Noir Collection

I have written up all 26 films* in the Criterion Channel's Neo-Noir Collection.

Legend: rw - rewatch; a movie I had seen before going through the collection dnrw - did not rewatch; if a movie met two criteria (a. I had seen it within the last 18 months, b. I actively dislike it) I wrote it up from memory.

* in September, Brick leaves the Criterion Channel and is replaced in the collection with Michael Mann's Thief. May add it to the list when that happens.

Note: These are very "what was on my mind after watching." No effort has been made to avoid spoilers, nor to make the plot clear for anyone who hasn't seen the movies in question. Decide for yourself if that's interesting to you.

Cotton Comes to Harlem I feel utterly unequipped to asses this movie. This and Sweet Sweetback's Baadasssss Song the following year are regularly cited as the progenitors of the blaxploitation genre. (This is arguably unfair, since both were made by Black men and dealt much more substantively with race than the white-directed films that followed them.) Its heroes are a couple of Black cops who are treated with suspicion both by their white colleagues and by the Black community they're meant to police. I'm not 100% clear on whether they're the good guys? I mean, I think they are. But the community's suspicion of them seems, I dunno... well-founded? They are working for The Man. And there's interesting discussion to the had there - is the the problem that the law is carried out by racists, or is the law itself racist? Can Black cops make anything better? But it feels like the film stacks the deck in Gravedigger and Coffin Ed's favor; the local Black church is run by a conman, the Back-to-Africa movement is, itself, a con, and the local Black Power movement is treated as an obstacle. Black cops really are the only force for justice here. Movie portrays Harlem itself as a warm, thriving, cultured community, but the people that make up that community are disloyal and easily fooled. Felt, to me, like the message was "just because they're cops doesn't mean they don't have Black soul," which, nowadays, we would call copaganda. But, then, do I know what I'm talking about? Do I know how much this played into or off of or against stereotypes from 1970? Was this a radical departure I don't have the context to appreciate? Is there substance I'm too white and too many decades removed to pick up on? Am I wildly overthinking this? I dunno. Seems like everyone involved was having a lot of fun, at least. That bit is contagious.

Across 110th Street And here's the other side of the "race film" equation. Another movie set in Harlem with a Black cop pulled between the police, the criminals, and the public, but this time the film is made by white people. I like it both more and less. Pro: this time the difficult position of Black cop who's treated with suspicion by both white cops and Black Harlemites is interrogated. Con: the Black cop has basically no personality other than "honest cop." Pro: the racism of the police force is explicit and systemic, as opposed to comically ineffectual. Con: the movie is shaped around a racist white cop who beats the shit out of Black people but slowly forms a bond with his Black partner. Pro: the Black criminal at the heart of the movie talks openly about how the white world has stacked the deck against him, and he's soulful and relateable. Con: so of course he dies in the end, because the only way privileged people know to sympathetize with minorities is to make them tragic (see also: The Boys in the Band, Philadelphia, and Brokeback Mountain for gay men). Additional con: this time Harlem is portrayed as a hellhole. Barely any of the community is even seen. At least the shot at the end, where the criminal realizes he's going to die and throws the bag of money off a roof and into a playground so the Black kids can pick it up before the cops reclaim it was powerful. But overall... yech. Cotton Comes to Harlem felt like it wasn't for me; this feels like it was 100% for me and I respect it less for that.

The Long Goodbye (rw) The shaggiest dog. Like much Altman, more compelling than good, but very compelling. Raymond Chandler's story is now set in the 1970's, but Philip Marlowe is the same Philip Marlowe of the 1930's. I get the sense there was always something inherently sad about Marlowe. Classic noir always portrayed its detectives as strong-willed men living on the border between the straightlaced world and its seedy underbelly, crossing back and forth freely but belonging to neither. But Chandler stresses the loneliness of it - or, at least, the people who've adapted Chandler do. Marlowe is a decent man in an indecent world, sorting things out, refusing to profit from misery, but unable to set anything truly right. Being a man out of step is here literalized by putting him forty years from the era where he belongs. His hardboiled internal monologue is now the incessant mutterings of the weird guy across the street who never stops smoking. Like I said: compelling! Kael's observation was spot on: everyone in the movie knows more about the mystery than he does, but he's the only one who cares. The mystery is pretty threadbare - Marlowe doesn't detect so much as end up in places and have people explain things to him. But I've seen it two or three times now, and it does linger.

Chinatown (rw) I confess I've always been impressed by Chinatown more than I've liked it. Its story structure is impeccable, its atmosphere is gorgeous, its noirish fatalism is raw and real, its deconstruction of the noir hero is well-observed, and it's full of clever detective tricks (the pocket watches, the tail light, the ruler). I've just never connected with it. Maybe it's a little too perfectly crafted. (I feel similar about Miller's Crossing.) And I've always been ambivalent about the ending. In Towne's original ending, Evelyn shoots Noah Cross dead and get arrested, and neither she nor Jake can tell the truth of why she did it, so she goes to jail for murder and her daughter is in the wind. Polansky proposed the ending that exists now, where Evelyn just dies, Cross wins, and Jake walks away devastated. It communicates the same thing: Jake's attempt to get smart and play all the sides off each other instead of just helping Evelyn escape blows up in his face at the expense of the woman he cares about and any sense of real justice. And it does this more dramatically and efficiently than Towne's original ending. But it also treats Evelyn as narratively disposable, and hands the daughter over to the man who raped Evelyn and murdered her husband. It makes the women suffer more to punch up the ending. But can I honestly say that Towne's ending is the better one? It is thematically equal, dramatically inferior, but would distract me less. Not sure what the calculus comes out to there. Maybe there should be a third option. Anyway! A perfect little contraption. Belongs under a glass dome.

Night Moves (rw) Ah yeah, the good shit. This is my quintessential 70's noir. This is three movies in a row about detectives. Thing is, the classic era wasn't as chockablock with hardboiled detectives as we think; most of those movies starred criminals, cops, and boring dudes seduced to the darkness by a pair of legs. Gumshoes just left the strongest impressions. (The genre is said to begin with Maltese Falcon and end with Touch of Evil, after all.) So when the post-Code 70's decided to pick the genre back up while picking it apart, it makes sense that they went for the 'tecs first. The Long Goodbye dragged the 30's detective into the 70's, and Chinatown went back to the 30's with a 70's sensibility. But Night Moves was about detecting in the Watergate era, and how that changed the archetype. Harry Moseby is the detective so obsessed with finding the truth that he might just ruin his life looking for it, like the straight story will somehow fix everything that's broken, like it'll bring back a murdered teenager and repair his marriage and give him a reason to forgive the woman who fucked him just to distract him from some smuggling. When he's got time to kill, he takes out a little, magnetic chess set and recreates a famous old game, where three knight moves (get it?) would have led to a beautiful checkmate had the player just seen it. He keeps going, self-destructing, because he can't stand the idea that the perfect move is there if he can just find it. And, no matter how much we see it destroy him, we, the audience, want him to keep going; we expect a satisfying resolution to the mystery. That's what we need from a detective picture; one character flat-out compares Harry to Sam Spade. But what if the truth is just... Watergate? Just some prick ruining things for selfish reasons? Nothing grand, nothing satisfying. Nothing could be more noir, or more neo-, than that.

Farewell, My Lovely Sometimes the only thing that makes a noir neo- is that it's in color and all the blood, tits, and racism from the books they're based on get put back in. This second stab at Chandler is competant but not much more than that. Mitchum works as Philip Marlowe, but Chandler's dialogue feels off here, like lines that worked on the page don't work aloud, even though they did when Bogie said them. I'll chalk it up to workmanlike but uninspired direction. (Dang this looks bland so soon after Chinatown.) Moose Malloy is a great character, and perfectly cast. (Wasn't sure at first, but it's true.) Some other interesting cats show up and vanish - the tough brothel madam based on Brenda Allen comes to mind, though she's treated with oddly more disdain than most of the other hoods and is dispatched quicker. In general, the more overt racism and misogyny doesn't seem to do anything except make the movie "edgier" than earlier attempts at the same material, and it reads kinda try-hard. But it mostly holds together. *shrug*

The Killing of a Chinese Bookie (dnrw) Didn't care for this at all. Can't tell if the script was treated as a jumping-off point or if the dialogue is 100% improvised, but it just drags on forever and is never that interesting. Keeps treating us to scenes from the strip club like they're the opera scenes in Amadeus, and, whatever, I don't expect burlesque to be Mozart, but Cosmo keeps saying they're an artful, classy joint, and I keep waiting for the show to be more than cheap, lazy camp. How do you make gratuitious nudity boring? Mind you, none of this is bad as a rule - I love digressions and can enjoy good sleaze, and it's clear the filmmakers care about what they're making. They just did not sell it in a way I wanted to buy. Can't remember what edit I watched; I hope it was the 135 minute one, because I cannot imagine there being a longer edit out there.

The American Friend (dnrw) It's weird that this is Patricia Highsmith, right? That Dennis Hopper is playing Tom Ripley? In a cowboy hat? I gather that Minghella's version wasn't true to the source, but I do love that movie, and this is a long, long way from that. This Mr. Ripley isn't even particularly talented! Anyway, this has one really great sequence, where a regular guy has been coerced by crooks into murdering someone on a train platform, and, when the moment comes to shoot, he doesn't. And what follows is a prolonged sequence of an amateur trying to surreptitiously tail a guy across a train station and onto another train, and all the while you're not sure... is he going to do it? is he going to chicken out? is he going to do it so badly he gets caught? It's hard not to put yourself in the protagonist's shoes, wondering how you would handle the situation, whether you could do it, whether you could act on impulse before your conscience could catch up with you. It drags on a long while and this time it's a good thing. Didn't much like the rest of the movie, it's shapeless and often kind of corny, and the central plot hook is contrived. (It's also very weird that this is the only Wim Wenders I've seen.) But, hey, I got one excellent sequence, not gonna complain.

The Big Sleep Unlike the 1946 film, I can follow the plot of this Big Sleep. But, also unlike the 1946 version, this one isn't any damn fun. Mitchum is back as Marlowe (this is three Marlowes in five years, btw), and this time it's set in the 70's and in England, for some reason. I don't find this offensive, but neither do I see what it accomplishes? Most of the cast is still American. (Hi Jimmy!) Still holds together, but even less well than Farewell, My Lovely. But I do find it interesting that the neo-noir era keeps returning to Chandler while it's pretty much left Hammet behind (inasmuch as someone whose genes are spread wide through the whole genre can be left behind). Spade and the Continental Op, straightshooting tough guys who come out on top in the end, seem antiquated in the (post-)modern era. But Marlowe's goodness being out of sync with the world around him only seems more poignant the further you take him from his own time. Nowadays you can really only do Hammett as pastiche, but I sense that you could still play Chandler straight.

Eyes of Laura Mars The most De Palma movie I've seen not made by De Palma, complete with POV shots, paranormal hoodoo, and fixation with sex, death, and whether images of such are art or exploitation (or both). Laura Mars takes photographs of naked women in violent tableux, and has gotten quite famous doing so, but is it damaging to women? The movie has more than a superficial engagement with this topic, but only slightly more than superficial. Kept imagining a movie that is about 30% less serial killer story and 30% more art conversations. (But, then, I have an art degree and have never murdered anyone, so.) Like, museums are full of Biblical paintings full of nude women and slaughter, sometimes both at once, and they're called masterpieces. Most all of them were painted by men on commission from other men. Now Laura Mars makes similar images in modern trappings, and has models made of flesh and blood rather than paint, and it's scandalous? Why is it only controversial once women are getting paid for it? On the other hand, is this just the master's tools? Is she subverting or challenging the male gaze, or just profiting off of it? Or is a woman profiting off of it, itself, a subversion? Is it subversive enough to account for how it commodifies female bodies? These questions are pretty clearly relevant to the movie itself, and the movies in general, especially after the fall of the Hays Code when people were really unrestrained with the blood and boobies. And, heck, the lead is played by the star of Bonnie and Clyde! All this is to say: I wish the movie were as interested in these questions as I am. What's there is a mildly diverting B-picture. There's one great bit where Laura's seeing through the killer's eyes (that's the hook, she gets visions from the murderer's POV; no, this is never explained) and he's RIGHT BEHIND HER, so there's a chase where she charges across an empty room only able to see her own fleeing self from ten feet behind. That was pretty great! And her first kiss with the detective (because you could see a mile away that the detective and the woman he's supposed to protect are gonna fall in love) is immediately followed by the two freaking out about how nonsensical it is for them to fall in love with each other, because she's literally mourning multiple deaths and he's being wildly unprofessional, and then they go back to making out. That bit was great, too. The rest... enh.

The Onion Field What starts off as a seemingly not-that-noirish cops-vs-crooks procedural turns into an agonizingly protracted look at the legal system, with the ultimate argument that the very idea of the law ever resulting in justice is a lie. Hoo! I have to say, I'm impressed. There's a scene where a lawyer - whom I'm not sure is even named, he's like the seventh of thirteen we've met - literally quits the law over how long this court case about two guys shooting a cop has taken. He says the cop who was murdered has been forgotten, his partner has never gotten to move on because the case has lasted eight years, nothing has been accomplished, and they should let the two criminals walk and jail all the judges and lawyers instead. It's awesome! The script is loaded with digressions and unnecessary details, just the way I like it. Can't say I'm impressed with the execution. Nothing is wrong, exactly, but the performances all seem a tad melodramatic or a tad uninspired. Camerawork is, again, purely functional. It's no masterpiece. But that second half worked for me. (And it's Ted Danson's first movie! He did great.)

Body Heat (rw) Let's say up front that this is a handsomely-made movie. Probably the best looking thing on the list since Night Moves. Nothing I've seen better captures the swelter of an East Coast heatwave, or the lusty feeling of being too hot to bang and going at it regardless. Kathleen Turner sells the hell out of a femme fatale. There are a lot of good lines and good performances (Ted Danson is back and having the time of his life). I want to get all that out of the way, because this is a movie heavily modeled after Double Indemnity, and I wanted to discuss its merits before I get into why inviting that comparison doesn't help the movie out. In a lot of ways, it's the same rules as the Robert Mitchum Marlowe movies - do Double Indemnity but amp up the sex and violence. And, to a degree it works. (At least, the sex does, dunno that Double Indemnity was crying out for explosions.) But the plot is amped as well, and gets downright silly. Yeah, Mrs. Dietrichson seduces Walter Neff so he'll off her husband, but Neff clocks that pretty early and goes along with it anyway. Everything beyond that is two people keeping too big a secret and slowly turning on each other. But here? For the twists to work Matty has to be, from frame one, playing four-dimensional chess on the order of Senator Palpatine, and its about as plausible. (Exactly how did she know, after she rebuffed Ned, he would figure out her local bar and go looking for her at the exact hour she was there?) It's already kind of weird to be using the spider woman trope in 1981, but to make her MORE sexually conniving and mercenary than she was in the 40's is... not great. As lurid trash, it's pretty fun for a while, but some noir stuff can't just be updated, it needs to be subverted or it doesn't justify its existence.

Blow Out Brian De Palma has two categories of movie: he's got his mainstream, director-for-hire fare, where his voice is either reigned in or indulged in isolated sequences that don't always jive with the rest fo the film, and then there's his Brian De Palma movies. My mistake, it seems, is having seen several for-hires from throughout his career - The Untouchables (fine enough), Carlito's Way (ditto, but less), Mission: Impossible (enh) - but had only seen De Palma-ass movies from his late period (Femme Fatale and The Black Dahlia, both of which I think are garbage). All this to say: Blow Out was my first classic-era De Palma, and holy fucking shit dudes. This was (with caveats) my absolute and entire jam. I said I could enjoy good sleaze, and this is good friggin' sleaze. (Though far short of De Palma at his sleaziest, mercifully.) The splitscreens, the diopter shots, the canted angles, how does he make so many shlocky things work?! John Travolta's sound tech goes out to get fresh wind fx for the movie he's working on, and we get this wonderful sequence of visuals following sounds as he turns his attention and his microphone to various noises - a couple on a walk, a frog, an owl, a buzzing street lamp. Later, as he listens back to the footage, the same sequence plays again, but this time from his POV; we're seeing his memory as guided by the same sequence of sounds, now recreated with different shots, as he moves his pencil in the air mimicking the microphone. When he mixes and edits sounds, we hear the literal soundtrack of the movie we are watching get mixed and edited by the person on screen. And as he tries to unravel a murder mystery, he uses what's at hand: magnetic tape, flatbed editors, an animation camera to turn still photos from the crime scene into a film and sync it with the audio he recorded; it's forensics using only the tools of the editing room. As someone who's spent some time in college editing rooms, this is a hoot and a half. Loses a bit of steam as it goes on and the film nerd stuff gives way to a more traditional thriller, but rallies for a sound-tech-centered final setpiece, which steadily builds to such madcap heights you can feel the air thinning, before oddly cutting its own tension and then trying to build it back up again. It doesn't work as well the second time. But then, that shot right after the climax? Damn. Conflicted on how the movie treats the female lead. I get why feminist film theorists are so divided on De Palma. His stuff is full of things feminists (rightly) criticize, full of women getting naked when they're not getting stabbed, but he also clearly finds women fascinating and has them do empowered and unexpected things, and there are many feminist reads of his movies. Call it a mixed bag. But even when he's doing tropey shit, he explores the tropes in unexpected ways. Definitely the best movie so far that I hadn't already seen.

Cutter's Way (rw) Alex Cutter is pitched to us as an obnoxious-but-sympathetic son of a bitch, and, you know, two out of three ain't bad. Watched this during my 2020 neo-noir kick and considered skipping it this time because I really didn't enjoy it. Found it a little more compelling this go around, while being reminded of why my feelings were room temp before. Thematically, I'm onboard: it's about a guy, Cutter, getting it in his head that he's found a murderer and needs to bring him to justice, and his friend, Bone, who intermittently helps him because he feels bad that Cutter lost his arm, leg, and eye in Nam and he also feels guilty for being in love with Cutter's wife. The question of whether the guy they're trying to bring down actually did it is intentionally undefined, and arguably unimportant; they've got personal reasons to see this through. Postmodern and noirish, fixated with the inability to ever fully know the truth of anything, but starring people so broken by society that they're desperate for certainty. (Pretty obvious parallels to Vietnam.) Cutter's a drunk and kind of an asshole, but understandably so. Bone's shiftlessness is the other response to a lack of meaning in the world, to the point where making a decision, any decision, feels like character growth, even if it's maybe killing a guy whose guilt is entirely theoretical. So, yeah, I'm down with all of this! A- in outline form. It's just that Cutter is so uninterestingly unpleasant and no one else on screen is compelling enough to make up for it. His drunken windups are tedious and his sanctimonious speeches about what the war was like are, well, true and accurate but also obviously manipulative. It's two hours with two miserable people, and I think Cutter's constant chatter is supposed to be the comic relief but it's a little too accurate to drunken rambling, which isn't funny if you're not also drunk. He's just tedious, irritating, and periodically racist. Pass.

Blood Simple (rw) I'm pretty cool on the Coens - there are things I've liked, even loved, in every Coen film I've seen, but I always come away dissatisfied. For a while, I kept going to their movies because I was sure eventually I'd love one without qualification. No Country for Old Men came close, the first two acts being master classes in sustained tension. But then the third act is all about denying closure: the protagonist is murdered offscreen, the villain's motives are never explained, and it ends with an existentialist speech about the unfathomable cruelty of the world. And it just doesn't land for me. The archness of the Coen's dialogue, the fussiness of their set design, the kinda-intimate, kinda-awkward, kinda-funny closeness of the camera's singles, it cannot sell me on a devastating meditation about meaninglessness. It's only ever sold me on the Coens' own cleverness. And that archness, that distancing, has typified every one of their movies I've come close to loving. Which is a long-ass preamble to saying, holy heck, I was not prepared for their very first movie to be the one I'd been looking for! I watched it last year and it remains true on rewatch: Blood Simple works like gangbusters. It's kind of Double Indemnity (again) but played as a comedy of errors, minus the comedy: two people romantically involved feeling their trust unravel after a murder. And I think the first thing that works for me is that utter lack of comedy. It's loaded with the Coens' trademark ironies - mostly dramatic in this case - but it's all played straight. Unlike the usual lead/femme fatale relationship, where distrust brews as the movie goes on, the audience knows the two main characters can trust each other. There are no secret duplicitous motives waiting to be revealed. The audience also know why they don't trust each other. (And it's all communicated wordlessly, btw: a character enters a scene and we know, based on the information that character has, how it looks to them and what suspicions it would arouse, even as we know the truth of it). The second thing that works is, weirdly, that the characters aren't very interesting?! Ray and Abby have almost no characterization. Outside of a general likability, they are blank slates. This is a weakness in most films, but, given the agonizingly long, wordless sequences where they dispose of bodies or hide from gunfire, you're left thinking not "what will Ray/Abby do in this scenario," because Ray and Abby are relatively elemental and undefined, but "what would I do in this scenario?" Which creates an exquisite tension but also, weirdly, creates more empathy than I feel for the Coens' usual cast of personalities. It's supposed to work the other way around! Truly enjoyable throughout but absolutely wonderful in the suspenseful-as-hell climax. Good shit right here.

Body Double The thing about erotic thrillers is everything that matters is in the name. Is it thrilling? Is it erotic? Good; all else is secondary. De Palma set out to make the most lurid, voyeuristic, horny, violent, shocking, steamy movie he could come up with, and its success was not strictly dependent on the lead's acting ability or the verisimilitude of the plot. But what are we, the modern audience, to make of it once 37 years have passed and, by today's standards, the eroticism is quite tame and the twists are no longer shocking? Then we're left with a nonsensical riff on Vertigo, a specularization of women that is very hard to justify, and lead actor made of pulped wood. De Palma's obsessions don't cohere into anything more this time; the bits stolen from Hitchcock aren't repurposed to new ends, it really is just Hitch with more tits and less brains. (I mean, I still haven't seen Vertigo, but I feel 100% confident in that statement.) The diopter shots and rear-projections this time look cheap (literally so, apparently; this had 1/3 the budget of Blow Out). There are some mildly interesting setpieces, but nothing compared to Travolta's auditory reconstructions or car chase where he tries to tail a subway train from street level even if it means driving through a frickin parade like an inverted French Connection, goddamn Blow Out was a good movie! Anyway. Melanie Griffith seems to be having fun, at least. I guess I had a little as well, but it was, at best, diverting, and a real letdown.

The Hit Surprised by how much I enjoyed this one. Terrance Stamp flips on the mob and spends ten years living a life of ease in Spain, waiting for the day they find and kill him. Movie kicks off when they do find him, and what follows is a ramshackle road movie as John Hurt and a young Tim Roth attempt to drive him to Paris so they can shoot him in front of his old boss. Stamp is magnetic. He's spent a decade reading philosophy and seems utterly prepared for death, so he spends the trip humming, philosophizing, and being friendly with his captors when he's not winding them up. It remains unclear to the end whether the discord he sews between Roth and Hurt is part of some larger plan of escape or just for shits and giggles. There's also a decent amount of plot for a movie that's not terribly plot-driven - just about every part of the kidnapping has tiny hitches the kidnappers aren't prepared for, and each has film-long repercussions, drawing the cops closer and somehow sticking Laura del Sol in their backseat. The ongoing questions are when Stamp will die, whether del Sol will die, and whether Roth will be able to pull the trigger. In the end, it's actually a meditation on ethics and mortality, but in a quiet and often funny way. It's not going to go down as one of my new favs, but it was a nice way to spend a couple hours.

Trouble in Mind (dnrw) I fucking hated this movie. It's been many months since I watched it, do I remember what I hated most? Was it the bit where a couple of country bumpkins who've come to the city walk into a diner and Mr. Bumpkin clocks that the one Black guy in the back as obviously a criminal despite never having seen him before? Was it the part where Kris Kristofferson won't stop hounding Mrs. Bumpkin no matter how many times she demands to be left alone, and it's played as romantic because obviously he knows what she needs better than she does? Or is it the part where Mr. Bumpkin reluctantly takes a job from the Obvious Criminal (who is, in fact, a criminal, and the only named Black character in the movie if I remember correctly, draw your own conclusions) and, within a week, has become a full-blown hood, which is exemplified by a lot, like, a lot of queer-coding? The answer to all three questions is yes. It's also fucking boring. Even out-of-drag Divine's performance as the villain can't save it.

Manhunter 'sfine? I've still never seen Silence of the Lambs, nor any of the Hopkins Lecter movies, nor, indeed, any full episode of the show. So the unheimlich others get seeing Brian Cox play Hannibal didn't come into play. Cox does a good job with him, but he's barely there. Shame, cuz he's the most interesting part of the movie. Honestly, there's a lot of interesting stuff that's barely there. Will Graham being a guy who gets into the heads of serial killers is explored well enough, and Mann knows how to direct a police procedural such that it's both contemplative and propulsive. But all the other themes it points at? Will's fear that he understands murderers a little too well? Hannibal trying to nudge him towards becoming one? Whatever dance Hannibal and Tooth Fairy are doing? What Tooth Fairy's deal is, anyway? (Why does he wear fake teeth and bite things? Why is he fixated on the red dragon? Does the bit where he says "Francis is gone forever" mean he has DID?) None of it goes anywhere or amounts to anything. I mean, it's certainly more interesting with this stuff than without, but it has that feel of a book that's been pared of its interesting bits to fit the runtime (or, alternately, pulp that's been sloppily elevated). I still haven't made my mind up on Mann's cold, precise camera work, but at least it gives me something to look at. It's fine! This is fine.

Mona Lisa (rw) Gave this one another shot. Bob Hoskins is wonderful as a hood out of his depth in classy places, quick to anger but just as quick to let anger go (the opening sequence where he's screaming on his ex-wife's doorstep, hurling trash cans at her house, and one minute later thrilled to see his old car, is pretty nice). And Cathy Tyson's working girl is a subtler kind of fascinating, exuding a mixture of coldness and kindness. It's just... this is ultimately a story about how heartbreaking it is when the girl you like is gay, right? It's Weezer's Pink Triangle: The Movie. It's not homophobic, exactly - Simone isn't demonized for being a lesbian - but it's still, like, "man, this straight white guy's pain is so much more interesting than the Black queer sex worker's." And when he's yelling "you woulda done it!" at the end, I can't tell if we're supposed to agree with him. Seems pretty clear that she wouldn'ta done it, at least not without there being some reveal about her character that doesn't happen, but I don't think the ending works if we don't agree with him, so... I'm like 70% sure the movie does Simone dirty there. For the first half, their growing relationship feels genuine and natural, and, honestly, the story being about a real bond that unfortunately means different things to each party could work if it didn't end with a gun and a sock in the jaw. Shape feels jagged as well; what feels like the end of the second act or so turns out to be the climax. And some of the symbolism is... well, ok, Simone gives George money to buy more appropriate clothes for hanging out in high end hotels, and he gets a tan leather jacket and a Hawaiian shirt, and their first proper bonding moment is when she takes him out for actual clothes. For the rest of the movie he is rocking double-breasted suits (not sure I agree with the striped tie, but it was the eighties, whaddya gonna do?). Then, in the second half, she sends him off looking for her old streetwalker friend, and now he looks completely out of place in the strip clubs and bordellos. So far so good. But then they have this run-in where her old pimp pulls a knife and cuts George's arm, so, with his nice shirt torn and it not safe going home (I guess?) he starts wearing the Hawaiian shirt again. So around the time he's starting to realize he doesn't really belong in Simone's world or the lowlife world he came from anymore, he's running around with the classy double-breasted suit jacket over the garish Hawaiian shirt, and, yeah, bit on the nose guys. Anyway, it has good bits, I just feel like a movie that asks me to feel for the guy punching a gay, Black woman in the face needs to work harder to earn it. Bit of wasted talent.

The Bedroom Window Starts well. Man starts an affair with his boss' wife, their first night together she witnesses an attempted murder from his window, she worries going to the police will reveal the affair to her husband, so the man reports her testimony to the cops claiming he's the one who saw it. Young Isabelle Huppert is the perfect woman for a guy to risk his career on a crush over, and Young Steve Guttenberg is the perfect balance of affability and amorality. And it flows great - picks just the right media to res. So then he's talking to the cops, telling them what she told him, and they ask questions he forgot to ask her - was the perp's jacket a blazer or a windbreaker? - and he has to guess. Then he gets called into the police lineup, and one guy matches her description really well, but is it just because he's wearing his red hair the way she described it? He can't be sure, doesn't finger any of them. He finds out the cops were pretty certain about one of the guys, so he follows the one he thinks it was around, looking for more evidence, and another girl is attacked right outside a bar he knows the redhead was at. Now he's certain! But he shows the boss' wife the guy and she's not certain, and she reminds him they don't even know if the guy he followed is the same guy the police suspected! And as he feeds more evidence to the cops, he has to lie more, because he can't exactly say he was tailing the guy around the city. So, I'm all in now. Maybe it's because I'd so recently rewatched Night Moves and Cutter's Way, but this seems like another story about uncertainty. He's really certain about the guy because it fits narratively, and we, the audience, feel the same. But he's not actually a witness, he doesn't have actual evidence, he's fitting bits and pieces together like a conspiracy theorist. He's fixating on what he wants to be true. Sign me up! But then it turns out he's 100% correct about who the killer is but his lies are found out and now the cops think he's the killer and I realize, oh, no, this movie isn't nearly as smart as I thought it was. Egg on my face! What transpires for the remaining half of the runtime is goofy as hell, and someone with shlockier sensibilities could have made a meal of it, but Hanson, despite being a Corman protege, takes this silliness seriously in the all wrong ways. Next!

Homicide (rw? I think I saw most of this on TV one time) Homicide centers around the conflicted loyalties of a Jewish cop. It opens with the Jewish cop and his white gentile partner taking over a case with a Black perp from some Black FBI agents. The media is making a big thing about the racial implications of the mostly white cops chasing down a Black man in a Black neighborhood. And inside of 15 minutes the FBI agent is calling the lead a k*ke and the gentile cop is calling the FBI agent a f****t and there's all kinds of invective for Black people. The film is announcing its intentions out the gate: this movie is about race. But the issue here is David Mamet doesn't care about race as anything other than a dramatic device. He's the Ubisoft of filmmakers, having no coherent perspective on social issues but expecting accolades for even bringing them up. Mamet is Jewish (though lead actor Joe Mantegna definitely is not) but what is his position on the Jewish diaspora? The whole deal is Mantegna gets stuck with a petty homicide case instead of the big one they just pinched from the Feds, where a Jewish candy shop owner gets shot in what looks like a stickup. Her family tries to appeal to his Jewishness to get him to take the case seriously, and, after giving them the brush-off for a long time, finally starts following through out of guilt, finding bits and pieces of what may or may not be a conspiracy, with Zionist gun runners and underground neo-Nazis. But, again: all of these are just dramatic devices. Mantegna's Jewishness (those words will never not sound ridiculous together) has always been a liability for him as a cop (we are told, not shown), and taking the case seriously is a reclamation of identity. The Jews he finds community with sold tommyguns to revolutionaries during the founding of Israel. These Jews end up blackmailing him to get a document from the evidence room. So: what is the film's position on placing stock in one's Jewish identity? What is its position on Israel? What is its opinion on Palestine? Because all three come up! And the answer is: Mamet doesn't care. You can read it a lot of different ways. Someone with more context and more patience than me could probably deduce what the de facto message is, the way Chris Franklin deduced the de facto message of Far Cry V despite the game's efforts not to have one, but I'm not going to. Mantegna's attempt to reconnect with his Jewishness gets his partner killed, gets the guy he was supposed to bring in alive shot dead, gets him possibly permanent injuries, gets him on camera blowing up a store that's a front for white nationalists, and all for nothing because the "clues" he found (pretty much exclusively by coincidence) were unconnected nothings. The problem is either his Jewishness, or his lifelong failure to connect with his Jewishness until late in life. Mamet doesn't give a shit. (Like, Mamet canonically doesn't give a shit: he is on record saying social context is meaningless, characters only exist to serve the plot, and there are no deeper meanings in fiction.) Mamet's ping-pong dialogue is fun, as always, and there are some neat ideas and characters, but it's all in service of a big nothing that needed to be a something to work.

Swoon So much I could talk about, let's keep it to the most interesting bits. Hommes Fatales: a thing about classic noir that it was fascinated by the marginal but had to keep it in the margins. Liberated women, queer-coded killers, Black jazz players, broke thieves; they were the main event, they were what audiences wanted to see, they were what made the movies fun. But the ending always had to reassert straightlaced straight, white, middle-class male society as unshakeable. White supremacist capitalist patriarchy demanded, both ideologically and via the Hays Code, that anyone outside these norms be punished, reformed, or dead by the movie's end. The only way to make them the heroes was to play their deaths for tragedy. It is unsurprising that neo-noir would take the queer-coded villains and make them the protagonists. Implicature: This is the story of Leopold and Loeb, murderers famous for being queer, and what's interesting is how the queerness in the first half exists entirely outside of language. Like, it's kind of amazing for a movie from 1992 to be this gay - we watch Nathan and Dickie kiss, undress, masturbate, fuck; hell, they wear wedding rings when they're alone together. But it's never verbalized. Sex is referred to as "your reward" or "what you wanted" or "best time." Dickie says he's going to have "the girls over," and it turns out "the girls" are a bunch of drag queens, but this is never acknowledged. Nathan at one point lists off a bunch of famous men - Oscar Wild, E.M. Forster, Frederick the Great - but, though the commonality between them is obvious (they were all gay), it's left the the audience to recognize it. When their queerness is finally verbalized in the second half, it's first in the language of pathology - a psychiatrist describing their "perversions" and "misuse" of their "organs" before the court, which has to be cleared of women because it's so inappropriate - and then with slurs from the man who murders Dickie in jail (a murder which is written off with no investigation because the victim is a gay prisoner instead of a L&L's victim, a child of a wealthy family). I don't know if I'd have noticed this if I hadn't read Chip Delany describing his experience as a gay man in the 50's existing almost entirely outside of language, the only language at the time being that of heteronormativity. Murder as Love Story: L&L exchange sex as payment for the other commiting crimes; it's foreplay. Their statements to the police where they disagree over who's to blame is a lover's quarrel. Their sentencing is a marriage. Nathan performs his own funeral rites over Dickie's body after he dies on the operating table. They are, in their way, together til death did they part. This is the relationship they can have. That it does all this without romanticizing the murder itself or valorizing L&L as humans is frankly incredible.

Suture (rw) The pitch: at the funeral for his father, wealthy Vincent Towers meets his long lost half brother Clay Arlington. It is implied Clay is a child from out of wedlock, possibly an affair; no one knows Vincent has a half-brother but him and Clay. Vincent invites Clay out to his fancy-ass home in Arizona. Thing is, Vincent is suspected (correctly) by the police of having murdered his father, and, due to a striking family resemblence, he's brought Clay to his home to fake his own death. He finagles Clay into wearing his clothes and driving his car, and then blows the car up and flees the state, leaving the cops to think him dead. Thing is, Clay survives, but with amnesia. The doctors tell him he's Vincent, and he has no reason to disagree. Any discrepancy in the way he looks is dismissed as the result of reconstructive surgery after the explosion. So Clay Arlington resumes Vincent Towers' life, without knowing Clay Arlington even exists. The twist: Clay and Vincent are both white, but Vincent is played by Michael Harris, a white actor, and Clay is played by Dennis Haysbert, a Black actor. "Ian, if there's just the two of them, how do you know it's not Harris playing a Black character?" Glad you asked! It is most explicitly obvious during a scene where Vincent/Clay's surgeon-cum-girlfriend essentially bringing up phrenology to explain how Vincent/Clay couldn't possibly have murdered his father, describing straight hair, thin lips, and a Greco-Roman nose Haysbert very clearly doesn't have. But, let's be honest: we knew well beforehand that the rich-as-fuck asshole living in a huge, modern house and living it up in Arizona high society was white. Though Clay is, canonically, white, he lives an poor and underprivileged life common to Black men in America. Though the film's title officially refers to the many stitches holding Vincent/Clay's face together after the accident, "suture" is a film theory term, referring to the way a film audience gets wrapped up - sutured - in the world of the movie, choosing to forget the outside world and pretend the story is real. The usage is ironic, because the audience cannot be sutured in; we cannot, and are not expected to, suspend our disbelief that Clay is white. We are deliberately distanced. Consequently this is a movie to be thought about, not to to be felt. It has the shape of a Hitchcockian thriller but it can't evoke the emotions of one. You can see the scaffolding - "ah, yes, this is the part of a thriller where one man hides while another stalks him with a gun, clever." I feel ill-suited to comment on what the filmmakers are saying about race. I could venture a guess about the ending, where the psychiatrist, the only one who knows the truth about Clay, says he can never truly be happy living the lie of being Vincent Towers, while we see photographs of Clay/Vincent seemingly living an extremely happy life: society says white men simply belong at the top more than Black men do, but, if the roles could be reversed, the latter would slot in seamlessly. Maybe??? Of all the movies in this collection, this is the one I'd most want to read an essay on (followed by Swoon).

The Last Seduction (dnrw) No, no, no, I am not rewataching this piece of shit movie.

Brick (rw) Here's my weird contention: Brick is in color and in widescreen, but, besides that? There's nothing neo- about this noir. There's no swearing except "hell." (I always thought Tug said "goddamn" at one point but, no, he's calling The Pin "gothed-up.") There's a lot of discussion of sex, but always through implication, and the only deleted scene is the one that removed ambiguity about what Brendan and Laura get up to after kissing. There's nothing postmodern or subversive - yes, the hook is it's set in high school, but the big twist is that it takes this very seriously. It mines it for jokes, yes, but the drama is authentic. In fact, making the gumshoe a high school student, his jadedness an obvious front, still too young to be as hard as he tries to be, just makes the drama hit harder. Sam Spade if Sam Spade were allowed to cry. I've always found it an interesting counterpoint to The Good German, a movie that fastidiously mimics the aesthetics of classic noir - down to even using period-appropriate sound recording - but is wholly neo- in construction. Brick could get approved by the Hays Code. Its vibe, its plot about a detective playing a bunch of criminals against each other, even its slang ("bulls," "yegg," "flopped") are all taken directly from Hammett. It's not even stealing from noir, it's stealing from what noir stole from! It's a perfect curtain call for the collection: the final film is both the most contemporary and the most classic. It's also - but for the strong case you could make for Night Moves - the best movie on the list. It's even more appropriate for me, personally: this was where it all started for me and noir. I saw this in theaters when it came out and loved it. It was probably my favorite movie for some time. It gave me a taste for pulpy crime movies which I only, years later, realized were neo-noir. This is why I looked into Kiss Kiss, Bang Bang and In Bruges. I've seen it more times than any film on this list, by a factor of at least 3. It's why I will always adore Rian Johnson and Joseph Gordon-Levitt. It's the best-looking half-million-dollar movie I've ever seen. (Indie filmmakers, take fucking notes.) I even did a script analysis of this, and, yes, it follows the formula, but so tightly and with so much style. Did you notice that he says several of the sequence tensions out loud? ("I just want to find her." "Show of hands.") I notice new things each time I see it - this time it was how "brushing Brendan's hair out of his face" is Em's move, making him look more like he does in the flashback, and how Laura does the same to him as she's seducing him, in the moment when he misses Em the hardest. It isn't perfect. It's recreated noir so faithfully that the Innocent Girl dies, the Femme Fatale uses intimacy as a weapon, and none of the women ever appear in a scene together. 1940's gender politics maybe don't need to be revisited. They say be critical of the media you love, and it applies here most of all: it is a real criticism of something I love immensely.

#film noir #neo-noir #criterion channel

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pumpkinov · 3 years

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Where the Dust Settles

You can read Chap. 1 here and Chap. 2 here

Portia Collins, the sole survivor of Vault 111 has lost more than most. With the Institute defeated, she sets her sights to the next big jobs - unification of the Commonwealth wastelands and the large warship docked at the Boston Airport. More work for the General of the Minutemen, who is finding herself increasingly alone as her companions move on with their lives. John Hancock, the Ghoul Mayor of Goodneighbour is struggling to find his footing in the new political climate of the Commonwealth, and is finding a surprisingly vocal supporter in his local Minuteman General.

Chapter 3. Do you wanna come over, and kill some time?

Portia meets with an adoring audience, Hancock gets high. They walk home together.

Portia’s headache was back, and this one was a ripper.

She briefly considered decapitation, and settled for a stimpak. Two and a half years in the wasteland, and this was still the grossest part.

Well, maybe not the grossest, but she still hated it. She poked the needle through the delicate skin of her elbow and decompressed the vial, feeling the weird cold sensation of something entering her bloodstream. She’d left Preston, Nick and Piper at the Dugout Inn and headed straight home. Not that she spent much time here anymore, but Home Plate was hers and she could relax here, at least a little.

She sat in her arm chair, waiting for the Stimpak to work. It didn’t take long, the headache was already less crushing than it had been before. There was a stack of paperwork upstairs on the desk that she needed to look over before the final meeting tomorrow. And oh Jesus Christ what was she going to do about fucking Hancock.

He was right, of course he was right. She just hated being put on the spot like that.

And there was no way she could skip on the socialization of the night - the General of the Minutemen summons you to walk the dangerous roads between your settlement and Diamond City, and doesn’t even bother to speak to you?

She sunk a little lower into her battered chair, allowing herself a moment to scrunch her face up. She could have a cry later, maybe, as a treat. But right now, there was work to be done. Portia put her shoes on, grabbed her coat and her scarf, flicked off the lights and stepped into the market of Diamond City. It was snowing again, lightly for now. It lay across the ground, shimmering under the string lights running off the roofs in the square. She breathed in the noodle smell wafting in the air, and for a moment she felt a little lighter.

She was greeted at the door of the Dugout Inn by Nick, who was smoking out the front.

“Hey there kid,” his yellow eyes burned bright against the darkness creeping in from the corners of the old park. “How’d it go today?”

Portia sighed, and dug around in her pockets for a cigarette, “It went pretty good.”

“Is that so?” the old synth looked over at her, she could hear the faintest of whirr’s as his eyes focused on her. “Heard John had something to say at the end. He dropped past my office earlier.”

“Oh. Yeah, he did.” Portia lit her cigarette and inhaled, staring up at the sky. The snow was starting to land in her hair. “He’s right.”

Nick nodded slowly. “He is. But folks around here, they like their town the way it is. It seems pretty unlikely anything will change.”

She chewed on her lip a little, rolling her cigarette between her fingers. “Yeah, I tend to agree with you.”

“Most smart folks do.” Nick agreed.

“You knew him when he was a kid, right?” Portia asked suddenly, “What’s the Mayor’s deal?”

“John?” the detective seemed to deliberate for a moment.

“Yeah, is he all bark and no bite?”

More whirring, as mechanisms hidden under the plastic pulled Nick’s mouth into a smile. “Oh no, he bites. But under all that bark and all that bite, he’s a bleeding heart.”

Portia rolled her eyes, and Nick laughed.

Inside was even busier than the Third Rail had been last night. It was hazy inside, steam rising off everyone’s clothes dampened by the falling snow. The coat rack near the door was overburdened, but Portia had no choice but to dump her coat and scarf on top of the pile, it was a million degrees with all these bodies and the fire going. People reached out to her as she passed, she fixed a smile on her face as she desperately looked for a familiar face. But no Preston, no Piper. She almost reached the bar before being cornered by a woman, a trader from The Murkwater Construction Site to the south. There was a Minuteman checkpoint nearby, and they had helped defend the settlement from a supermutant raid a few weeks earlier. She grabbed Portia’s arm, desperate to tell her how her men had defended the farms, how they had saved this woman’s home.

“That’s the Commonwealth Minuteman ideal, to be ready at a minute’s notice,” Portia gritted her teeth, subtly trying to pull her arm out of the woman’s grip but it was a vice. Then came the wash of shame and guilt - this woman just wanted to tell her how much she appreciated the work Portia and her group had accomplished. And all she, Portia, the fucking General wanted to do was get away. It took her fifteen minutes before she was finally released - after which another family wanted to pass on their thanks for the Minutemen’s work protecting Oberland Station. A man touched her shoulder; he wanted to tell her that his son had died defending the Minuteman checkpoint near the entrance to the Glowing Sea, and how proud he was that his son had died doing something so honorable.

By the time Portia’s hands collided with Vadim’s bar, she was emotionally wrent. Vadim placed a glass of whiskey down on the bar for her, stopped and considered for a moment, then left the bottle. Portia stared at it for a moment - tempting, really. But she made the responsible decision, and knocked back the glass instead. She turned to face the room, leaning her back against the bar. There was a flash of red in the corner, and her eyes chased it without really thinking. There was something so distinctive about the mayor. He wasn’t particularly tall, or muscular, but his presence filled a room. He moved with his shoulders - they were broad for his frame, emphasized by the ridiculous frock coat he wore everywhere. He swiveled around, almost if her gaze had summoned him. He looked over, and winked. A wicked smile spread across his face, and he turned back to say his goodbyes to his captive audience, two women with drinks in their hands and fire in their eyes; before making his way towards Portia.

She watched him approach, feeling the heat creep through her stomach as he made his way through the crowded bar. Interesting response, best ignored. There was no time for nonsense like this. She wrapped her hands around the whiskey bottle Vadim had left on the bar and moved away, spotting Piper near the door. Was she avoiding him? Maybe.

Another few hours of greeting people, of being seen, and Portia was finally free. Preston had appeared, and eventually shooed her out the door, bundled in her coat and scarf, hands still wrapped around her untouched whiskey bottle.

“You look like you need a sleep, it’s fine, I can handle this!”

“I need a fucking coma.” Portia replied to him after he’d closed the door to the inn. She leant her forehead against the wooden door for a moment, before turning around and almost screaming.

“Mayor, do I need to make you wear a bell?”

He grinned, “Are you trying to collar me now?”

He was sitting on the stone wall, a cigarette between his lips and a jet canister in his hands. The snow had stopped, but the air was bitingly cold. Portia briefly considered her options, before heaving herself up to sit next to him. She nestled the whiskey bottle between her thighs as he handed her the jet. She turned it over in her hands, glancing around. There was no one else around, and she raised it to her lips and took a quick breath in.

There was the sound of rushing blood in her ears, and everything fell away for a moment. All she could feel was the freezing cold of the stone under her ass, which was steadily going numb.

It only lasted a moment, bit by bit the rest of the world returned. She opened her eyes to the sound of Hancock laughing, almost a growl in his throat. “What?” She asked blearily, pushing the little plastic container back into his hands.

“I’ve never seen someone look like they needed a jet hit as badly as you did when you walked out.” He chuckled, inhaling his cigarette deeply.

Portia hummed a little, the afterglow of the jet slowly working it’s way out of her system. “I fucking miss weed, man.”

“Weed?”

“Cannabis, it was a plant, you dried and smoked it.”

“Oh right, yeah I’ve heard of that.”

Portia sighed. “I smoked a lot of weed back in the day. I can’t believe that fucking scorpions survived the end of the world, but no more pot.”

Hancock slid the jet canister back into his coat, blowing a stream of cigarette smoke into the night sky. “If you’re looking for other things, I have enough daytripper to help you avoid reality until next week.”

Portia chuckled, and shook her head, “Mayor, not all of us can function on jet fumes and mentat dust.”

He grinned at her, “Heh, yeah it’s a skill I’ve spent years honing. I didn’t pick our General as a habitual drug user.”

Portia smiled a little thinly, “You all seem to forget before I went into the deep freeze I had a whole life, you know?” Hancock slid his hand back into his coat, this time producing a cigarette, which Portia took. “Is your coat the nuclear wasteland version of Mary Poppin’s bag?”

“None of that made any sense.”

“It’s an old story, she flew around on an umbrella and put kids up the chimney. It’s, uh, unimportant.” She saw his expression and laughed a little. “I’ve seen you pull a fucking shotgun out of the coat, how do you keep so much stuff in it?”

His eyes flashed again, “You’ll have to get me out of it, General.” He leant over and lit her cigarette, before returning the lighter to the bottomless coat, and sliding off the wall. He held his hand out, steadying Portia as she dropped down to the ground with him. They moved down the street, their breath and cigarette smoke rising in front of them.

“I hadn’t planned on my punch at the entirety of Diamond City,” Hancock said casually. “I was just thinkin’ and I just … said it.”

“Makes sense.” Portia was focused on her boots shuffling through the snow, “I should have realised dragging you back here was gunna stir some feelings up.”

He laughed, low and deep. “Sure stirred something up.”

Portia felt her stomach spike again, and frowned at herself. She lifted her chin and aimed for a professional tone, trying to shake the intimacy out of the moment. “What are you hoping to achieve, Mayor?” She noticed they were walking close enough for their arms to brush against each other; she took a slight step away from him. If Hancock noticed her abrupt shift in energy, he didn’t react.

“Honestly, General? I don’t know. I don’t expect them to go back on what they voted for all those years ago. But I also can’t resist reminding them of who they’re fucking with.” He stared straight ahead, and Portia found herself staring at his face in profile.

High cheekbones, the faint outline of lips still left in the scars of exposed muscle on his face, his dark eyes shone in an otherworldly way. There was a twitch in his set jaw.

When he had greeted her in Goodneighbour two years ago, she’d found his face confronting, upsetting; a constant reminder that she was in a completely different world. Now his face was almost comforting.

They’d reached the front door of Home Plate now, Portia turning the whiskey bottle over in her hands. Hancock glanced at her, the wheels in his head turning.

“Is this … is this your house?”

“Yeah.” Portia was distracted, digging her keys out of her coat pocket and unlocking her front door. Then the penny dropped, as she pushed her front door open and she felt the warmth behind her shift forward slightly. She spun around barring the door with her arm. “No, no absolutely not!”

He was grinning across at her now, leaning an elbow against her door frame. “One drink?”

“In my house? No way.”

He pulled an expression of mock hurt, “Don’t you trust me?”

His body was inches from her, the warmth radiating through the layers of her clothes. “In general? Sure - in my home? Nope. You’ll never leave.” Shit

“Is that a threat or a promise, General?” He grinned slowly, before shifting his weight off the wall and standing up straight again. “Fine, one drink, in the freezing night air?”

Portia stared at him for a moment, he stared back. He was always fucking smiling. Sometimes she couldn’t tell if he was flirting with her, or mocking her. He was still close to her, she could smell him. Smoke, and something heavier. Patchouli, maybe? Or something close to it. She rolled her eyes, and let her arm drop.

“I am going to regret this, aren’t I?”

He followed her through her doorway, reaching his arm out to close her front door behind them. “General, I am nothing but a gentleman.”

She stared over her shoulder at him, “If I catch you in my underwear drawer, I’ll break your arm.”

His laugh drifted out the door, before it snapped closed.

#Fallout 4 #fanfic #John Hancock #Hancock/Sole survivor #Hancock/female sole #Where the Dust Settles

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fiddlepickdouglas · 3 years

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Viva Las Vegas, Pt. 20 - Just Kids

Summary: Sunset Curve Alive AU, Willex, what consequences?, 4.9k

@trevor-wilson-covington is the bestie who makes these lovely edits, we stan supportive friends

Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6, Part 7, Part 8, Part 9, Part 10, Part 11, Part 12, Part 13, Part 14, Part 15, Part 16, Part 17, Part 18, Part 19

All too soon, two very familiar colors filled the back of the van. Alex’s heart immediately submerged into the dark ocean it always went to in despair, knowing they were all screwed this time. He could already see Bobby pulling onto the shoulder - they didn’t need the sound of sirens to tell them what was up. Willie still seemed like he wasn’t all present, and Alex squeezed his fingers and shook his hands to bring him back to the now. They had really hoped it wouldn’t happen. None of the guys could’ve anticipated the alarm, or that Caleb would be in town when they definitely thought he was gone, or that everything would go wrong.

Not knowing didn’t matter, though. Hours later, all five of them sat inside a holding cell at the LAPD, heads bowed as none of them dared to make eye contact with each other. It was early morning by the time all of them had been processed, and they were all varying levels of exhausted. The time passed at a frustratingly slow pace, although there was no way of telling what time it was. Thankfully, they were the only ones in the cell at the time; if there had been other inmates it would’ve sent Alex’s nerves past their threshold. A guard sat just outside a doorway to the rest of the station while another sat directly outside the cell.

Alex was tempted to wrap his arm around Willie’s shoulders, since he remained dissociated, but the eye contact from the officer sitting across from them was too unsettling. He didn’t like the thought that came through his mind - the one that made him feel like an even worse criminal, even though he knew he wasn’t. Stubbornly, Alex fought to push the feeling away, and settled for putting a hand on Willie’s shoulder. There was almost no reaction, but then Alex saw his brown eyes flicker in his direction and that was all the peace he needed.

“It’s my fault, you guys,” Reggie murmured, barely peering up from where his head hung dejectedly. “I was just so caught up in getting back - ”

“It’s not your fault, Reggie,” Bobby interrupted him gently. “He was waiting for us.”

Luke didn’t speak. His eyes couldn’t leave his empty hands. Alex almost couldn’t look at him; it was a sad image.

They had all been so sure that Caleb was finally out of LA, never spoke about their plans at the studio, had been so careful about the way they acted around him - there was no way. There was just no way that he could’ve been so ready to show up just as they were trying to get the master copies of their album out of his hands. And worse, now Alex had dragged Willie into it, and the guilt mounted even higher from there.

A female officer approached the cell with a clipboard, not bothering to look up from the page she had her eyes glued to.

“Bobby Wilson?”

Bobby raised his head at the sound of his name.

“You have an older brother here to pick you up,” she said monotonously. “You’re free to go.��

The door to the cell was opened and Bobby made his way out in slight confusion. He threw a conflicted look back toward Luke.

“Did he say if I was taking anyone with me?”

“He came for Bobby Wilson and Bobby Wilson only.” Her tone shut down any further questions that he had. Looking back apologetically, his shoulders slumped as Luke shook his head.

“Don’t worry about it,” Luke said, although not as assuring as he likely wanted to be. “I’ll be fine.”

Alex watched as Bobby’s eyes lingered for a few seconds on Reggie, who was still hunched forward with his gaze fixed on the concrete floor. It seemed so uncharacteristic for him, but Alex understood he was probably shutting down at the mere thought of returning home. The emotions ran high enough in his home as it was. They hadn’t really been given options as for who got called when they’d been brought to the police department. Finally, Bobby turned and took the car keys and wallet that had been confiscated and disappeared.

Luke moved closer to Reggie and put a hand on his back, and he began muttering something to him. They were just far enough away that Alex couldn’t properly hear what they were saying.

“Sheldon’s gonna be so freaked out when I get home,” Willie spoke suddenly. Alex turned to see him finally looking around the cell, fully aware of his surroundings.

“Hopefully he’ll be okay,” he assured. “They can only hold us for up to twelve hours; that’s what they said.”

Willie looked at him and nodded, eyes once again immediately training themselves onto empty space.

“How are you doing?” Alex asked carefully. Willie didn’t move his eyes, but he appeared to be brought back into focus again.

“I just have all these images running in my mind,” he said. “Things he did. Things I did. He decided to pretend I was dead rather than deal with my existence. It’s like he was already trying to bury me by taking away any connection to my past. Sometimes I wonder what I was like before the accident. What if I deserved this?”

For a minute, Alex merely sat with his jaw agape, as if he’d been slapped upon hearing what Willie was saying.

“Wha- ? No. Willie, that can’t be right,” he started. “You couldn’t possibly deserve any of this, no matter what happened in the past.”

Willie shook his head.

“I was in the foster system, Alex,” he argued. “From the few things I know, I was passed around a little bit. Caleb was someone who took difficult kids; he had a reputation with social services. I wanted him to be the bad guy because I got a taste of something better, but when I look around, Alex? I have no one to call. Not even family.”

It was the first time Alex had seen tears well up in his eyes since the night at the Stratosphere, but he felt that any comfort he wanted to offer wouldn’t be accepted. All he could do was look back at this beautiful boy who deserved far more than he believed, brow furrowed in silent protest. As much as he didn’t want to admit it, Willie had a point. There was a possibility that the guys’ dislike of the man had become biased based on Willie’s story, as unintentional as it may have been. Still, Alex refused to believe that it was because Willie was the real menace.

“Look, we may never know the truth,” he started, trying to look at him as directly as he could. “But I’m the one who got you here; I take responsibility for that. And sometimes having someone to call doesn’t mean they’re there for you.”

Willie gave him a look that was mixed, but he mostly read concern. Frankly, Alex wasn’t sure what his own parents’ reaction would be, but he didn’t dare hope for any sort of understanding.

“Reggie Peters?” The same female officer approached the cell again with her clipboard.

Reggie turned away from his conversation with Luke, sucking in a nervous breath.

“Your mother is here to take you home; you’re free to go.”

Pressing his lips together anxiously, Reggie simply bowed his head as he was escorted out the same way Bobby had been. Luke promptly spread himself out along the bench, pulling his beanie over his face.

For a while, Alex let his mind wander as he kept his hand resting on Willie’s shoulder. What Willie had said made him want to reevaluate the whole situation with Caleb. It wasn’t that he thought Willie was as bad as he said he was, but it stood to be examined. He remembered the difference between his short first impression of the man at the diner, and the second time he’d seen him. He even remembered his own reasoning - how it was possible that Caleb could come off as so severe while running a diner but maintain such charisma while serving guests.

A pang of memory also came as Alex had noted he didn’t seem like a straight man and after months of actually working with him there was even greater evidence toward that notion. It had been what made Alex want to trust him in the beginning. Finding an adult figure who offered him a break from being constantly vigilant about the way he naturally felt had been a blessing. Not even Alex could ignore that. However, something still told him that just because they had that in common didn’t make Caleb trustworthy.

“Luke Patterson?” All three boys looked up in surprise when they heard the officer’s voice a third time. Luke clutched his beanie to his chest, confused most of all as he sat up from the bench. Instead of announcing who had come for him, the officer stepped aside as two familiar faces came toward the cell.

Julie Molina and her Aunt Victoria looked at the boys, both with stern expressions.

“Julie?” Luke uttered in surprise, standing up from the bench and slowly moving toward her.

Folding her arms, Julie had her eyes fixed on Luke with a brand of disappointment that appeared to burn like acid. She flashed the same look toward Alex for a moment and he was duly stung. Luke could make all the sad, pleading puppy faces he wanted, but ultimately was struck dumb by knowing he had no room to speak.

“We have a lot to talk about,” Julie told him, the chastising tone not to be missed. Luke’s face fell and he hung his head, looking back toward Alex with a similar apologetic look as Bobby had given.

Alex caught Victoria also looking at him. It was still stern, but more in telling him she was let down. Why it compounded his already guilty feelings even more, he couldn’t understand. Her expression changed, however, as she looked at Willie next to him, as though she were trying to recall where she recognized him. Immediately forgetting his guilt for a moment, Alex perked up and subtly pointed a finger toward him, mouthing the name “Willie!” to her. She looked at him incredulously, and it was a shame the officer was already escorting them out with Luke, because he was sure she had questions.

“Was that Julie’s mom?” Willie asked. Startled, Alex looked at him and cleared his throat.

“Ah, no, that was her aunt,” he told him. “Her mom is still in the hospital.”

“Oh,” Willie replied, casting he gaze to where they had left with a look of empathy. “That really sucks.”

“Yeah,” Alex agreed.

For the second surprise that night (morning? Alex couldn’t tell), and for the fourth time, the female officer returned.

“William Taylor?”

Willie looked at Alex in utter perplexity, and then back at the officer.

“Um…” he began saying. Before he finished, Flynn came around the corner accompanied by a woman both boys assumed was her mother.

“Hey big bro!” she said in a highly exaggerated tone, sending them a gigantic wink with a grin that was very out of place. “Looks like you messed up big time mister!”

Willie could only stare back in shock. Alex was too busy trying not to laugh at her poor acting skills. It was so obvious that she and Willie weren’t family.

“Hey...sis,” Willie said finally, still unsure what was happening just then.

Holding onto the bars and leaning close into the holding cell, Flynn dropped the grin immediately.

“Julie tipped us off and Alex’s parents aren’t coming, so we’re doing you guys a big favor,” she said to them in a low voice, laying on the irritation and topping it off with a tilt of her head and a smile that suggested murder.

Promptly, Willie stood up and was let out of the cell, still looking at Flynn and her mom in bewilderment. Alex sat with his hands folded in uncertainty.

“Him too,” Flynn’s mom nodded toward him. The officer opened the door for him and Alex sighed as he came out, realizing just how high his nerves had really been while sitting there for the past few hours. He could suddenly feel the blood rushing into his fingers again.

As he and Willie followed Flynn and her mom outside, he wasn’t surprised that his parents had opted not to come get him. If he guessed right, his father would’ve refused to go in some backward attempt to show tough love, and his mother would’ve been barred from going herself to show she agreed with the choice. Both he and Willie thanked Flynn’s mom as they sat in the back seat of her van.

Flynn turned around in the passenger seat as they drove off and Alex knew what was coming.

“How many times am I gonna save your ass?” she directed at Willie.

“Language, honey,” her mom warned. Flynn rolled her eyes, but backed down a little.

Willie smiled nervously at her.

“Third time’s a charm?” he offered with little confidence.

“There better not be a third time,” she cautioned. “Seriously, what were you thinking?”

Alex opened his mouth to respond but she put up a hand.

“Actually, save it. Anything I have to say is just what Julie will say to you guys later, and she’s the one who’s really mad at you. Right now, I’ve got permission to skip school and I’m not gonna waste it lecturing you two.”

Sharing a look with Willie, both boys were happy to at least not have to endure Julie’s wrath right that minute. It was only imaginable what Luke was going through at the moment.

“So, how did you know I was there?” Willie asked.

Flynn leaned back into the correct position in her seat and took in a deep breath.

“Julie’s aunt is supposed to be on sabbatical, but apparently she can’t stop doing little bits of work here and there. She’s an investigator. Anyway, I guess she was doing something at ungodly hours on a Sunday night for God knows why, and she was already in the station when Sunset Gets-Caught-Being-Stupid was brought in. I guess she tried to make sure nobody called the Pattersons because she promised Julie she won’t, and she found out there was a fifth kid with no emergency contact so she had Julie call me, and I had to wake up at six-thirty this morning to an angry Julie and while I, for one, don’t care that you were trying to steal something, the way y’all did it was just so dumb, I can’t even stand to look at y’all - ”

“Okay, we get it,” Alex interrupted.

“But the important thing is,” Flynn continued. “We can’t take you guys home. Sorry.”

“Wait, why not?” Alex asked.

“I have one hour before I need to be in the office,” Flynn’s mom told them. “So I’m putting my girl in charge of you two for the day.”

Flynn looked back at them smugly.

“Oh, I’m putting you two to work,” she said, not hiding how much she enjoyed being in a position of power.

Alex could only gesture with his hands in a manner of saying “ah, well,” and sighing in acceptance. This was loads better than dealing with his parents for the time being. And Willie seemed to have finally broken entirely out of the strange trance he’d been in ever since they’d seen Caleb.

“Do we get a nap first?” Willie asked. “‘Cuz we’ve been awake all night.”

Flynn’s eyebrows shot up in realization and she flopped back into her seat again with a sigh.

“That’s fair.”

It was well past noon by the time Alex opened his eyes. They had thanked Mrs. Taylor and then immediately passed out on the living room couch. Barely gaining his bearings, he found Willie still zonked on the opposite arm of the couch. He couldn’t help but admire his sleeping form, so much calmer than any other time he knew. The sunlight streaming in from the blinds glanced perfectly off his cheekbones and highlighted the rich brown tones in his hair. Alex had been struck by how handsome he was from the second they met at the diner, but he’d hardly gotten a moment to properly appreciate how beautiful he was.

Somehow there was something so lonely about him that brought an ache to Alex’s chest. Their conversation from earlier replayed in his mind. Willie really seemed to believe he didn’t belong anywhere when the only thing Alex wanted in the whole world was to keep him tightly in his arms. He really hoped to show Willie how much he meant to him some day.

“Oh my god, you are so in love with him,” he heard Flynn saying as she stood at the edge of the living room. He was too tired to give a proper response and could only turn to her still wearing a look of fondness. “Oh my god, stop, you are so precious!”

All Alex could do was lightly chuckle in return. Flynn tilted her head adoringly.

“And to think I was there from the beginning,” she reminisced.

Alex had a realization hit.

“I never said thank you, did I?”

She shrugged.

“No. But now you get to pay me back by doing all the chores my mom left for you.”

Heaving a sigh, Alex sank back into the couch and pressed his lips together, already reeling from exhaustion.

“Yep,” he muttered before reaching over and grabbing Willie’s hand, gently shaking it to kindly wake him up.

“Sheldon...stop,” Willie groaned as his tired face pinched together against the light. Alex giggled as he leaned over and tried shaking his shoulder instead.

“Hey, it’s me,” he said in a low voice, watching as Willie’s eyes fluttered open and immediately gazed back into his face. The absolutely enamoured smile that spread from cheek to cheek as he took in Alex’s face framed with his hair hanging down was more than Alex could take, and he felt honest-to-God butterflies in his stomach.

“Hey,” Willie murmured, his voice a pitch lower than usual from being asleep with just the right amount of vocal fry. It took all of Alex’s strength not to smother him right there on the couch.

“I really do hate to break this up, you lovebirds,” Flynn told them. “But it’s time to get to work!” She clapped her hands and the boys clambered off the couch, still sharing admiring looks at each other. She led them through her house, listing off the many things her mom had demanded: cleaning bathrooms, weeding the garden, and mowing the lawn were all there.

“And last but not least,” Flynn was saying as she led them upstairs. She flung the door open to an unfurnished room with bare walls and plastic covering the floor. “Painting!”

Alex saw Willie’s face transform from bleary task mode to shining with joy at the prospect of getting to paint. He wasn’t sure what it was, but everything Willie did was making him fall even further in a way he hadn’t thought possible. They were doing household chores for heaven’s sake. It made him consider doing all the rest of the chores just to let Willie do something he enjoyed. After seeing his reaction to Caleb, Alex thought it would lift his spirits more than anything.

“I say we divide and conquer then?” he suggested, putting a hand on Willie’s shoulder and giving it a firm squeeze. Willie tore his eyes away from the unpainted walls to give Alex a puzzled look. Before he could ask questions, though, Alex simply looked him directly in the eyes and nodded toward the room before them, insisting he stay and paint without saying a word. He saw Willie’s expression soften and one corner of his mouth turn up in a delighted smirk once he understood the message.

“Okay,” Willie muttered to him, facing the bare walls with newfound glee.

Willie watched Alex head back down the stairs and he couldn’t help but be overwhelmed with gratitude. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to spend as much time with him as possible - looking into that angelic face as he’d woken up had spun his head more than anything else in his life - but it was just the thought of how he was suddenly in Alex’s world and it was so...different. It vaguely reminded him of hanging out with everyone after the show at the Pearl, but it appeared to be so much deeper and so tight-knit. Julie and Flynn and their families went so far as to stick out their necks for the guys when they really had messed up, and it wasn’t even an obligation. Even being made to do housework for people who were still practically strangers to him felt like he was being taken in with open arms. He had the intruding thought that he’d eventually wear out his welcome.

“So, are we painting everything the same?” he asked Flynn, rubbing his hands together. Flynn wagged a finger and smiled with excitement.

“No,” she teased. Going over to a corner, she lifted two cans of paint, handing one of them to him. Looking at the swatch smeared on the top of the lid, Willie smiled to see a lovely teal, and then sunflower yellow on the can in Flynn’s hands.

“Oooh yes, these are some good choices,” he said, rolling up a sleeve with his free hand. All the worried thoughts could be put aside as they began popping the lids off and mixing the paint. “Have you got a hair tie I could borrow?”

“There is something about a boy asking me that question that just feels amazing,” Flynn commented as she briefly headed out to fetch one. Giggling at her remark, Willie lifted the paint mixer and watched the color drip into the can in fascination. There was something familiar about the notion of painting that made him wonder if it was something he’d done often before. Before forgetting. Would putting the brush in his hand unleash some kind of muscle memory or sense of nostalgia for something he didn’t know he had? Flynn returned with the hair tie and handed it to him, and he immediately pulled his hair back into a small bun.

“Alright, so these walls are gonna be the teal green color,” Flynn instructed, pointing toward the walls furthest from the window. “And these over here are gonna be yellow. I’ll start with the yellow and meet you at the corner, sound good?” Willie nodded at her as she moved her paint supplies over to the opposite side of the room, putting her braids up into a ponytail as well.

“Copy that,” Willie replied.

Once the paint was all mixed they got to work, both silently focused on the task at hand. For a while, all that could be heard was the repetitive swipe of brushes against the texture of the wall. There had been no sweeping rush like Willie imagined, but a gentle comfort quickly took over as he watched the color fill the empty space. He heard a loud buzzing outside and for a moment, peeked out the window to see Alex steady at work mowing the lawn below.

“So,” Flynn started, almost making him jump as he turned his attention to her. “It looks like our skater boy likes to paint; do you do art too? I saw your face.”

Chuckling, Willie hadn’t realized he’d gotten himself stuck in a situation that warranted friendly banter. Out of all of Alex’s friends, though, she was the one he’d seen the most, now that he thought about it. Despite how aggressive she had appeared at first, he really enjoyed her energy.

“Yeah, actually I draw. A lot,” he told her.

“Nice!” she nodded. “What kind of stuff do you draw?”

“People...places,” he said thoughtfully as he continued painting. “Memories.”

Flynn kept nodding, her expression becoming more pensive. “Cool.... Memories are interesting. Did you do a lot of cool things when you were little?”

Willie chewed on his tongue for a minute, realizing she still didn’t know. Even now that he’d been away from Caleb for a while and Alex’s reaction had been so kind, sometimes speaking of his amnesia still felt like something that wasn’t allowed. Regardless, it was a pretty important detail.

“I actually don’t know,” he stated. Flynn’s eyebrows knit together in response. “I was in an accident a little over a year ago, and I don’t remember anything - well, I remember a few things, but not a lot. Whatever I can figure out, I try to draw it so it stays with me.”

She gave him a long sympathetic look. Every time it was different; Alex had been a little shocked but then really sweet, Bessie had merely brushed over it like it wasn’t anything crazy, and now Flynn had her big brown eyes staring with such sadness in them. Again, he wondered how much he had really lost along with his memory. It seemed to be a thing everyone else could properly mourn, knowing the difference, but he couldn’t no matter how much he tried.

“That’s really awful,” she said. “I’m sorry.”

Willie only nodded, accepting her words.

“It sucks, but I manage,” he said. They both resumed painting after noticing they had stopped for a moment.

“I mean, you made it here, which is pretty amazing,” Flynn told him. “Well, not here as in we just picked you up from the police station, but you know, you left Vegas and have your sweet job at the record shop.”

He shrugged, trying to be casual. Those thoughts were getting to him today in a way they hadn’t ever before. The ones that said he was still messing everything up anyway. He was just in a different city with a different job. It was great that he’d miraculously found Alex, which had been his entire goal, but now that he’d passed that step in his plan, life went on. And it hadn’t really become so different, now that Caleb had his hands on things again. There were still so many questions about that as well, because he really did wonder if maybe he had made everything out to be worse in his mind. Caleb had been his guardian for three years and Willie was one of numerous kids - he couldn’t be that insidious, could he?

“I said, ‘you’re dripping paint on your shirt!’” Flynn repeated to him, enunciating loudly and snapping him out of his train of thought.

“Oh,” he started, looking down at his now ruined shirt and then continuing to work on the wall. He could live with it.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” she asked.

He shook his head. “It’s nothing. I just keep thinking.”

“Uh huh. Whole lot of nothing to think about in there.”

Willie shot her a slightly wounded look. She rolled her eyes.

“Sarcasm, sorry. Looks like you have so much on your mind you can’t even function. So what’s up?”

He looked at her, unsure where to begin. It was great that she seemed easy to trust, because it made him less hesitant about talking, but he didn’t want to turn the painting session into something else. His mouth betrayed him though.

“I just keep thinking that maybe I have everything wrong and I brought all the guys down with me,” he confessed. Flynn didn’t respond, but listened quietly. “I met Alex and it was amazing! And I got it in my head that maybe being here with him would make everything better. But it looks like I’m just a bad influence.”

Flynn had nodded along until that last sentence, to which she tilted her head and squinted.

“Hold up,” she said. “Alex told me Caleb was your guardian, right?”

Willie nodded.

“Who also told Alex you were dead for no good reason?”

He nodded again.

“And you think you’re the bad guy here?” She had set down her brush and placed her hands on her hips.

Taking in a deep breath, Willie prepared to explain.

“Well - ”

Flynn simply held up both hands to shut him up.

“Willie. Buddy. You’re just a kid.”

You’re just a kid.

The words echoed around in his brain for a little bit as he let them settle in. She was right. Somehow he’d lost sight of that.

“You made some mistakes, I get it,” she continued. “But you’re not the bad guy. You’re still figuring things out. Actually, you know what I first thought of you? Well, actually, my first thought was that you were some creep who was trying to get into my friend’s concert, but after that, you know who I saw? A really good guy trying to show someone he cared. And bad people don’t do that.”

For a long time Willie just stared back at her in amazement. Somehow Flynn had managed to completely obliterate any other self-deprecating thought he had. It was the most human he’d felt all day. There was a sticky thud as his brush landed on plastic and he rushed to throw his arms around her.

“Oh!” she cried in surprise, slowly accepting the hug in return and patting his back. Willie squeezed her tightly and then stepped back, chuckling to himself as a small wave of embarrassment hit.

“Julie has good taste in friends,” he told her. “You’re really good at those pep talks.”

Flynn beat her chest with her palm and graciously took the compliment.

“Thank you.”

Willie picked up his brush again and continued working. He almost laughed when he had the thought that while he technically already had a boyfriend, Flynn was his first real friend. He was going to make that count.

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effei-s · 3 years

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aurora, aurora, aurora.

First and foremost: dear @alwaysreading I’m so sorry that it took me so long. My chaotic ass just won’t ever let me get things done quickly and that’s why I can’t have nice things (c).

(it’s like…. looooong and i’m hoping it’s gonna be interesting).

Aurora Aurora Aurora, the love of his life (and mine) and the baddest bitch in the house (she’s aries and entj, that alone says a lot).

let’s start with the question: yes, she knew about him marring someone else and about Aaron. i’m gonna be a lazy bitch here and copypaste part from my ff:

There was a mother-in-law, obsessed with public opinion, who liked to pry and snoop around (and the private detectives she hired, whom he fed to a school of large barracudas at the Gulf of Mexico). And there was the truth that still surfaced, no matter how careful he was. Untimely. Ugly. It left him with an empty house, a short note “please, return to your real family,” and an endless year of solitude.

And now my favorite part: HEADCANONS!

headcanon 1: they’ve met when they were teenagers. I know in mafi’s world people are very indifferent to children’s suffering (Anderson can beat the shit out of Adam in broad daylight almost on the school’s porch and no one would bate an eye; Juliette can go around covered in bruises and no teacher would ever question it), but I prefer a little bit more realistic approach. So when a mother forces fucking BLEACH down child’s throat I expect that that child would be taken away from her.

What i’m trying to say is that Rori and him were in the system (foster care, in the same family, but Aurora was there first; age 14 maybe 15; he probably changed a few different homes, and then he saw her and decided to stay). They started as friends (and that was probably the first real emotional bond he had). And they both were troublemakers. Anderson because he’s… Anderson (whispers; a sociopath and he hates school). And Aurora because she’s walking “I take no bullshit” sign. And sometimes, when people annoy her too much, she tends to break their noses (but her marks are still excellent). So both of them had detentions and suspensions in school, but unlike Anderson Aurora never had any REAL TROUBLES with the police. In their tandem she’s the smart one. And then (at the age of 18) they parted their ways for three years. He went in the army (because it was the easiest choice), she went to college (BA in art conservation in States). Then they’ve met again, started dating, she decided to get a master’s degree in Europe (Switzerland I’d say or Netherlands) and became a full-time art conservator (she’s very passionate about preserving cultural heritage, can you see the conflict here?) and around that time Anderson was introduced to the reestablishment concept.

here’s the thing, their relationships were always “long-distance thing” (long before he married Leila) and both of them were perfectly fine with this. There was no “i’m gonna die if you’re not near me 24/7” bullshit. There was no “I love you” 35 times a day and holding hands. They just… knew that they love each other and it was enough.

This is probably the reason why I love them together so much: they’re two very strong-willed, stubborn and completely independent people (in this house we hate codependent relationships). They have lives and dreams and goals outside each other (and that’s the reason why they never married in the first place: marriage is a relic of the past, that weird thing for other people).

(of course it backfired at her, badly, he betrayed her trust, he broke her heart; but, trust me, if someone told her that in order to have him only for herself she had to be near him all the time and had to give up her dreams for MA and Ph.D., Rori would say goodbye to him and never look back, no matter how painful it’d be. She loves him, she does, but she loves herself more.)

Headcanon 2: kids and independence. She won’t make sacrifices for him, but she would make them for her kids. And yes Adam is HER KID. AND HERS ONLY. And the same goes for James. I see how you can catch this “it was one-sided and she didn’t really had a choice” vibe from books. Her sneaking food in secret, him showing anger at the sign of Adam(???). I love @cyanidesouffle interpretation of this: that Cat loved him and hoped that sooner or later he’s gonna come to his senses. Lose the battle, win the war, as the saying go. But if we’re talking only about canon, i’m really not a fan of Anderson who can walk in and out and wreck havoc in HER HOME and implant his stupid ass rules, when he’s the one who’s at fault here. she’s not the one who married other man and had a child! He has no right to be angry at Adam, he has no right even look at him the wrong way. I don’t like how it’s implied that she either had no other option but to submit to his whims or she was too meek to stand up for herself and her son.

my favorite thing about my headcanon girl is that Aurora REALLY doesn’t need him. And she doesn’t even think about him as the father of her kids. The hardest part of it (first pregnancy, labor, first years of Adam’s life) he wasn’t there. He wasn’t there, because she didn’t want him to and because she didn’t need him to. He knows it and it makes him treasure her more (there won’t be any third chances for him, another fuck up like this and he’s out for good). It wasn’t all sunshine and rainbows back then, and she wasn’t the kindest and loving with Adam (it’s inevitable when you impulsively decide to have a child to spite the man whom you plan to never see again) but she learned to be, little by little. Although she still was quite demanding of Adam (he literally learned the alphabet with her ‘history of art’ books).

Again: she loves Anderson, that’s why she allowed him to came back, but she loves her son more. So when they decide to start again she’s the one with all aces up her sleeve.

MY HOUSE. MY KIDS. MY RULES.

(if you don’t like it, then you can kindly fuck off. don’t want to act like a human being? shut the door on your way out. and so help me god if you lay even one finger on Adam)

There’s her love for him, there’s her love for her work, and then there’s her love for her kids. And she can sacrifice first two, but not the last.

Headcanon 3: it’s more of a AU part, but things would so different if she didn’t die. She won’t be a part of RE, obviously, she won’t marry him even if he’d ask her. BUT!

a) Leila would be alive. And well. Because Rori would find out the truth, as she always does, and then she would make him fix things. She would probably take Leila under her wind, as a form of punishment for Anderson (oh look I care about your ex-wife more than I care about you, she’s really cool, btw).

b) he won’t be a supreme commander. Actually becoming a supreme was his biggest mistake. Everything gone awry because of the routine. It was fun for a few month, but then the middle-age crisis came and everything went to hell. So Rori would definitely convince him to look at it not from the ‘AAAA MORE POWER EVEN MORE POWER, I’M UNTOUCHABLE!!!’ point, but from ‘i’m gonna need to take REAL responsibility for my actions, and they actually gonna have consequences’ point.

paris: wow, i really don’t like it. thank you, rori. where would I be without you?

rori: six feet under, darling, six feet under.

#shatter me #paris anderson #paris anderson meta #eff answers #aurora #otp: it was always her #oh headcanons my headcanons

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thejakeformerlyknownasprince · 4 years

Text

After the Bombs Fall [Animorphs ficlet]

[Note: I seem to have lost the ask where someone requested my post-war headcanon for Alloran, but anyway here it is.]

Less than a month after the end of the war, Alloran applies for transfer off of Earth and back to the homeworld. When the first request gets cancelled due to a minor typo in a sub-section of a supplemental form, he curses himself and immediately applies again.

The second application lingers in the metaphorical z-space between agents for longer, nearly two Earth months, before it gets cancelled as well. The systems are overtaxed due to the sudden influx of Earth tourism, the form letter tells him this time, and they’re very sorry for their inability to accommodate his request.

The third time he applies, the form remains “under review” on the submission portal for half a year, even though the review process normally takes less than a day. So he applies a fourth time, a terrible suspicion taking hold by now. The Electorate automatically cancels both applications, and has the gall to send him a snippy comm message asking that he refrain from filing redundant claims from now on.

The fifth application gets reviewed and cancelled; the sixth one doesn’t even get that courtesy. It just stays there, “submitted” but not yet “under review,” unwanted and ignored.

Just like its author.

Alloran considers, then. For nearly a day he paces, watching the andalite computer and the primitive human device alike, and weighs the merits of stealing Visser Three’s Blade ship out of the impound lot. It wouldn’t be hard; the security system is coded to biometrics. No one but he or Tom Berenson could fly that ship now, and Tom Berenson is dead.

After another day, Alloran instead morphs human and walks to the nearest CVS.

He has to swallow an entire jumbo bag of marshmallows and three jars of tomato sauce for comfort before he can swallow his pride as well. But the comfort food does its trick, and at the end he pulls out the human cell phone still registered under one of Esplin 9466′s aliases and enters the fifth speed-dial option.

“Hey, you.” Eva answers immediately. “How’s it going?”

They don’t know each other, not really. And yet in every one of their three conversations, Eva has greeted him like an old friend. Her voice brings a reaction to Alloran’s human morph: tightness in his throat, the heat of tears behind his eyes.

“I apologize for troubling you,” Alloran says stiffly. “Please, if you are busy, disregard this request.”

Eva snorts a laugh. At least, Alloran thinks that that’s what the sound is. “I’m not busy, and I owe you a favor anyway. Shoot.”

Alloran glances around the room, but there are no weapons, so he decides to disregard that last. “I am truly sorry if it slipped my mind,” he says, “but what favor do you owe?”

“My kid is not in jail on some foreign planet right now, and I hear that’s all your fault. What’s the favor?”

“The War Council would not have imprisoned the Animorphs. That is, perhaps Aximili and Prince Jake may have been imprisoned, but doubtless the full Electorate court would have proven merciful—”

“Alloran. What’s the favor.”

He’s stalling, and she knows it. “It’s a bit of a complicated political matter, and I’m afraid I am not well equipped to explain it to a human, but enforcement of our travel policies is more subject to individual agents’ personal judgment than we ideally would have it be, and...”

“Hijo de puta. They’re not letting you go home, are they?”

Alloran fills his human lungs with more air than they technically need for speech. “It’s a complicated matter.” Nevertheless, his voice comes out small.

“You still camping at the Sharing Community Center?”

“Yes.” His voice is even smaller now.

“I’ll be there in half an hour, querido.” She hangs up.

While he waits, he goes outside to run, to graze, to stare up at the stars.

He didn’t lie; it is complicated. The Andalite Electorate is struggling to recover from a decades-long war, one that threatened the existence of their very soul as a people. Seerow’s mistakes — and Alloran’s own decision to publicize the failings of his prince — have ensured that the whole debacle was a massive embarrassment even before the defeat on the hork-bajir homeworld.

And then...

He’s heard the word, whispered and hissed and screamed and shouted.

Abomination.

His face is the public face of the Yeerk Empire. His voice is its voice. The morph he was just using — a bald, middle-aged human male — was constructed from the DNA of a dozen human-controllers. Everything he owns, from the black limousine parked at the curb to the press pass of a woman called Aria, was taken from the hands of murdered slaves.

Of course his people don’t want him back. Of course not. The quantum virus was one thing, but then he had the gall go to and get himself captured by the yeerks. And he’d added insult to injury when he’d challenged a captain on Aximili’s behalf.

He can see it. That’s what stings. He can stare up at the glittering point of his home star even as he runs across a field of dull foreign grass, and at this rate it’ll never be anything but a fixed point of light in an unfamiliar sky ever again.

Eva shows up then, before he can feel too sorry for himself.

She brings a human substance known as pinot noir.

**********

“And then...” Eva points a wavering finger at him. Her words have gotten blurrier over time. “And then, we just sneak it in, and bam!” She slaps the tabletop.

Alloran leans in across to her. “Bam,” he agrees.

“You needed a ride home?”

At the new voice, Alloran stands up sharply. Too sharply. He gets his two flimsy little legs tangled in the chair and almost pitches over.

Marco catches him. “You all right?” he asks.

“I,” Alloran intones, “am intoxicated. Tox. I. Cate. Ed. Wonderful word. Intock. Sick. Kate. Dd-d-d-d-d.”

“Yeeeaah, I was getting those vibes from the—” Marco leans around him in an impressive display of human balance. “Bottle of wine apiece you two’ve apparently emptied.”

Eva draws herself up. “I did not call and request a ride home, I called and requested a ride to the Netherlands!”

“You’re right, you did.” Marco rolls his eyes. “Which is why I made the decision to show up and bring you home instead.”

“No, no, the Netherlands.” Eva steps up next to Alloran. They both regard Marco carefully. “Not to worry, we’ve thought it through. You call your friend with the private plane, Bradley or Bradford or whomever his name is. We fly out to the Hague tonight.”

“Where is this going,” Marco mutters.

“Holland,” Alloran informs him. “It is-sssss in...”

“Yeah, I’ve been.”

“Anyway.” Eva gestures sharply, bringing attention back to her. “We shall have a perfectly ordinary canister of table salt with us, and we shall request to visit with Visser Three—”

“Oh Jesus. Mom.”

“The guards will not suspect a thing, for it is just an ordinary condiment. All we must then do is create a diversion, and...” Eva flings out both hands as if miming an explosion.

“Splat,” Alloran says. “Pllll-lat. Hissssss.”

“And this will accomplish what, exactly?” Marco asks.

“Making Alloran feel better,” Eva whispers to him. However, she seems to be whispering a great deal louder than she realizes. Humans are ill-equipped for private communication, with their sad reliance on verbal speech. “None of the andalites want him back.”

“Yeah. Cool.” Marco laughs. “Ten out of ten therapists recommend war crimes for a friend in need! And as a guy who’s been to at least ten therapists, I’d know.”

Alloran is not certain, but he believes that Marco might be employing the human verbal quirk known as “sarcasm.”

“No one will suspect a thing.” Eva pats him on the shoulder.

Marco sighs. “Security will just think it’s cocaine.”

“Cocaine?” Alloran asks. “Coke-cane? Co-c-c-c-c-c-c-aine?”

“Something you’re never going to try.” Marco levels a hard stare at him. “Given how well you handle your red wine.”

“Cooo-caaayyy-nnnee. Co-cane.”

“How did you get wrapped up in this dumbass heist, anyway?” Marco looks from one of them to the other.

“Alloran needed me,” Eva says.

“I have no friends,” Alloran announces. “And Arbron does not own a cell phone. Ell. Elffffff-own.”

Marco closes his main eyes for several seconds, massaging the bridge of his nose. An impressive feat of daring, for a creature with no stalk eyes who relies upon bipedalism. “Should’ve known you’d be a morose drunk,” he says.

“So, you’ll take us to the airfield, then?” Eva asks.

Lifting his head up, Marco opens his eyes. “In the words of my wise and estimable mother: if you want it that bad, you can have it when you’re sober.”

Eva opens her mouth halfway, squinting in what Alloran would guess is the effort of remembering when she would have said that. After a second, her expression clears. “I was right to say it, that floozy would have broken your heart in the morning, and this situation is entirely different!”

“That floozy’s name was Jake Gyllenhaal,” Marco mutters, “and I totally would’ve gone for it when I was sober, but I never got his number.”

Eva says something in Spanish, presumably about the loose morals of Jake Gyllenhaal. Marco’s expression would suggest that he only pretends not to understand her.

“Anyway. The point stands. I’m driving you home.” Marco jerks his chin at Eva. “And you,” he says, looking at Alloran, “are gonna morph and sober up before we go anywhere. I’m not having you nothlited on my conscience.”

“But,” Alloran says, “the salt—”

“We’ll revisit the salt in the morning,” Marco says firmly. “Demorph. Please.”

Alloran considers pointing out that he is a war-prince, he does not take orders from alien children, he has his pride... And then considers whether any of those statements is actually true.

He demorphs.

Instantly, he feels both better and worse. On the upside he’s more clear-headed now, but on the downside he’s more clear-headed.

“I’ll call you.” Marco gives him a long look while shepherding Eva out the door.

**********

Marco does not call, but he does send several written missives to Alloran’s cell phone. The Animorphs still have an illegal andalite communication device, it would appear, and Marco has put in requests to channels both official and not about the possibility of transport from Earth to the homeworld.

—Ax is on it, Marco’s latest text reads. —He’s calling an old friend. Might take some smuggling, but we’ve got an idea.

—Thank you, Alloran types carefully on the tiny keyboard. —Your assistance is greatly appreciated, and undeserved.

He’s debating whether to hit send when there’s a knock on the door.

Alloran’s in an abandoned building the Sharing used to use for housing human-controllers. There is very little chance that this is an incidental knock, or someone who wandered by accidentally.

The thought occurs to him that it’d be smarter to morph human and blend in before he answers. But the fear of facing the unknown in a half-blind, tailless morph wins out. He opens the door as is.

It proves to be the right decision. The andalite on the other side didn’t bother to morph either.

Estrid stares at him in silence for several seconds. Her expression is unreadable, all eyes ahead and carefully blank. Alloran doesn’t know what she’s looking for, but he lets her look.

«Estrid,» he says at last, when it’s clear she isn’t going to speak first. He gestures with his tail blade, the downward sweep of greeting for an honored warrior.

«Father,» she says.

Her own sharp tail-turn puts the flat of her blade toward him. A greeting between equals. An insult. Both not formal enough for an aristh to acknowledge a war-prince, and too formal for greeting a family member.

But then, Alloran went for Estrid, didn’t he. Not Aristh Estrid-Corill-Darrath, not Estri-kala or my child.

They haven’t seen each other in over two years. They haven’t spoken in almost twenty.

Arguably, given how young she was when he was taken, they’ve never really spoken at all. Certainly Alloran knows little of the person his daughter has become as a young adult. As a groundbreaking aristh. As a brilliant researcher.

As a war criminal.

Humans have a saying, about apples that don’t fall far.

«How is Jahar?» Alloran says. It’s what he really wants to know, and he doesn’t know how to approach any of the other minefields that lie between them. «And Ajaht, how is he?»

Judging by Estrid’s expression, she takes this to be a standard small-talk opening instead of the deeply earnest inquiry it is. «Mother is well enough. I suppose you’ll have to apologize to her in person.» She doesn’t mention her brother.

Alloran feels his tail blade drop nearly to the floor without his permission. «Yes. Of course. Estrid...»

«I’m on a diplomatic mission to Earth,» she says briskly. «Prince Aximili and I have concluded discussions with several local leaders about access to morphing technology and tourism restrictions going forward. Therefore, I will be able to exit the planet and return home after being subject to nothing more rigorous than human security scans.» The dismissive little flick of her tail at this last is, all things considered, somewhat warranted. Humans have yet to devise a single effective way to detect morphers.

«Return home,» Alloran repeats.

Might take some smuggling, Marco said. It’s sinking in: Estrid is here to bring him home.

Home. To the wife he disgraced. The brother he got killed. The children who won’t even acknowledge him, a feverish pair of overachievers desperate to leave his legacy behind. Ajaht’s tail-fighting is so legendary that, even using human channels, Alloran has been able to find scraps of news. Estrid’s skill is not praised so publicly... but the yeerks got ahold of Arbat’s files, after their disastrous mission to Earth. Alloran knows more about her, he thinks, than he ever wanted to.

«We’re leaving now,» Estrid says. «My window for authorized exit ends in two-point-eight-six Earth hours, so we need to move.»

She must have been here for days if not weeks, to negotiate the way she’s describing. And yet she came to find him at the last possible second. Likely to minimize the time they’re forced to spend together.

Alloran doesn’t have the time or the energy to care. «What would you prefer me to morph?»

«Something small and Earth-based.» She barely finishes speaking before she starts to morph herself.

Alloran pauses in surprise, because Estrid morphs with shocking skill, melding from andalite to human in a mere forty-seven seconds, all without ever once losing her footing. She even wears a normative amount of clothing when she’s finished, a sundress and sneakers and a coat overtop.

She sighs, looking him over. «We don’t have all day, here.»

«You were wasted in Arbat’s lab,» Alloran says.

«You don’t have to tell me that,» Estrid snaps. «Tell me, dear father, what else was a girl and a second-born and the child of a disgraced bloodline meant to do?»

Alloran has no answer. Silently he morphs.

His options are limited — Visser Three overwhelmingly preferred large to small morphs, and Alloran hasn’t bothered acquiring much else — so he opts for snake, Lachesis muta according to a human-controller from the area. It’s still larger than most Earth reptiles, but by coiling in close he becomes small enough to drop into the oversized pocket of Estrid’s jacket.

Estrid doesn’t speak to him, and he doesn’t ask her to, the entire way back to her fighter. She’s under no obligation, and he won’t force the issue.

********

«We’re landing soon,» Estrid tells him, three Earth weeks and eighty-two light years later. She’s maintained that icy formality throughout the entire journey so far, responding to Alloran’s questions — about her research, about her brother, about her morphing — with flat non-answers.

Alloran steps to the viewport to look out over the rolling grasslands of home like a child on his first in-atmosphere flight. Is it home, really? It’s been thirty-nine years since he left home to quell the small skirmish on the hork-bajir homeworld, forty-seven since his first offworld assignment serving under Prince Seerow. He has seen a dozen planets, been a hundred species, since that time. This body belonged to Visser Three for nearly as long as it did to Alloran himself, decades of nonexistence until he all but forgot his own name.

«What will you do next?» Alloran asks Estrid, still desperate for conversation.

She flicks a dismissive hand at the air. «I have my work.»

«Even without Arbat?»

«I didn’t say it was easy.»

«And the quantum virus?»

She turns all four eyes on him. A small part of him wants to scold her for bad form, but a far larger part of him recognizes he’d be overstepping. «The quantum virus never happened,» she says sharply. «And if it did, I was never informed of its existence. This journey was my first visit to Earth, Arbat died in a lab accident, we were never involved in weapons development, and if you even think about saying differently the War Council will back my story, because all of the documentation —»

«Estrid.» He cuts her off as gently as he can. «I would never...»

He sees it, in the stiffening of her stalk eyes. Hears it in the catch of her breath. She doesn’t want a father. Or if she does, she doesn’t want him.

«I would never dishonor the memory of my brother by raising questions about his death,» Alloran says instead.

Estrid relaxes, and turns back to the controls.

He is weary of war, weary of being alone. The person he’d been when he first met Esplin 9466 would have been shouting by now, demanding to know what right Estrid has to consider herself any better than him. He only deployed a quantum virus, had no hand in its evil creation. Either she is a hypocrite... or she is just like the War Council officials who consider it a far worse crime to be enslaved by yeerks than to have murdered ten million hork-bajir.

It’s been a long war, and Alloran has missed her every moment of it. Let her be angry; she’s here.

There is one more delicate question Alloran needs to ask, however, before they disembark on their family’s land. «Jahar,» he says. «I assume... She has found someone else. To help raise you, and...» Dark Sun, but this is hard. «She deserves to be loved, of course.»

Eva’s mate remarried, after all. Together they’d cried about that, somewhere between the third and fourth glasses of wine.

«Who would date her?» Estrid asks. «Who would be seen speaking to her? No. There’s no one. There hasn’t been. There was me, and Ajaht, and that’s it.»

Alloran feels sadness and relief and disappointment and shame at his relief, all at once in a rush too complex to understand. «I see,» he says at last.

«So go to her.» Estrid yanks hard to unseal the fighter’s outer door; they’ve landed without his noticing. «Go to her and—» Another hard yank. «Kriffing thing!»

Alloran puts his hand next to hers, pleasantly surprised when she doesn’t pull away. As one they move, and the door comes open at last.

She came to meet them. Alloran doesn’t know why he wasn’t expecting that, and yet...

Jahar is older, lined around the eyes and stooped in her shoulders and dull-edged around her hooves. She’s radiant. Transcendent.

Alloran is frozen. Aware of all the knocks he’s taken, all the shine he’s lost. Aware that they’ve been apart for longer than they ever were together.

He blames that last for the way his knees lock. For the voice that freezes inside his mind, unable to form words. For the crack in his breath and the painful squeeze of his hearts as she becomes the one to step forward. As she raises a hand to his cheek, in the first gentle touch he’s felt in over twenty years.

[Note: I know that Aloth’s line in #38 about Estrid being Arbat’s niece — which would make her Alloran’s daughter — is probably not meant to be literal in context. But the straightforward interpretation is boring, so I went with the fun one.]

#animorphs #animorphs fic #long post #ficlet #alloran #alloran is my trash baby #animorphs spoilers #victim blaming #estrangement #alloran semitur corass #Estrid Corill Darrath #alloran is estrid's dad #actual dumpster fire alloran semitur hardass #star wars swear words #cold mountain... in space!

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ramblinganthropologist · 3 years

Text

MER Week Day 4: Mass Effect + Mass Effect Andromeda

Summary: 2179. What should have been a normal shore leave on the Citadel leaves Alistair and Bo Peep Shepard in a place they’ve never been before: teachers. What can these battle hardened biotics teach young Kitty and Dick... and why do they look so damn familiar?

---

“Well… we’re here. What do you want to do?”

“How about anything other than getting shot at?”

Now that was something Alistair could agree on as he stretched out as far as he could. His body was still sore from the last mission, the lack of sleep, and the ride to the Citadel. Honestly, he was amazed his bones weren’t cracking to bits as he walked along, taking in the artificial sunshine of the space station. Given what he had just been through, it was a true surprise he was still one piece.

Well, maybe that was to be expecting. After all, he and Bo were N7. They were supposed to be tough.

“Could always head to the Tea Cozy, unless you wanted to save that until tomorrow.” He threaded his arms behind his head as he walked, definitely not the picture of a military officer by any means. “Or we could check out the hamsters at Citadel Critters.”

Above his head, Bo rolled her eyes. “Last time I was there, you forgot I existed when you got too deep into discussions on how fucked up the breeding lines at the gift shop are.”

“Well, they are. I don’t know what they think they’re trying to pull…” His voice trailed off. Bo was giving him that look. “Right… specialist knowledge, general application. I’ll stop now.”

She gave him a nod. “That a boy. Honestly, I could go for chicken nuggets that come from a fryer instead of a microwave. It’s been too long since we’ve had real food.”

Real food sounded great right then, especially if it involved a milkshake. Just thinking about them made Alistair’s stomach growl. Judging from the noises coming from his sister, he wasn’t alone in the assessment. Easy enough – lunch it was. Lucky for them, they weren’t too far from one of their other favorite spots.

A few moments later, and the pair were seated by one of the many fountains that dotted the Citadel, their food spread out in front of them. For most people, it would have been a lot. For them, not so much. When it came down to it, they both just needed to eat way more food to keep their biotic systems operating at peak capacity. There was a term for it, and Alistair knew it, but he wasn’t thinking like a medic then. Instead, he was cradling a large paper cup happily, the sleeves of his jacket insulating his hands as he poked in the straw into the bright green concoction.

Nothing like Citadel Burger’s Shamrock Shake. Was he being a bad Irishman that he loved them? Probably, but it wasn’t like he was born in Ireland – that was his parent’s problem, and they were dead, so they really didn’t have anything to say on the matter. Until they managed it, he was content to put a hurting on the milkshake as he started to nibble on the straw.

“You’re supposed to use that to drink, you know.” Bo snickered as she started on her first order of nuggets. The first dip of the day was barbeque sauce, or at least it smelled that way. “You look like Fluffytail like that.”

He would’ve stuck out his tongue, but that would’ve been messy. Instead, he just kept drinking his milkshake and swinging his foot that didn’t quite touch the ground. What could he say, the benches were designed for aliens, and he wasn’t exactly designed for playing basketball. It was something he had… mostly… come to accept.

Mostly.

“I won’t bite through this one.” He leaned back to watch the crowd in front of them. Then downside of Alliance life was being absolutely surrounded by humans. Even back on Mindoir, there had been aliens around, even if they had been far less numerous than the space station. It was why he liked coming to the Citadel – it helped remind him they were part of a community. Of course, that community wasn’t all that fond of humans yet, but they were getting there.

Speaking of community… off the distance, Alistair watched a C-SEC agent picked up the pace. He looked rather upset about something, but it wasn’t clear what. Or, rather, it wasn’t until the blast of light knocked them into a bush.

“What the fuck.” Bo shot him a glance as she got up, bringing her nuggets with her. “Was that?”

She didn’t need to finish the sentence – Alistair had felt it too. It was the telltale tingle of human powered biotics, as if their amps were ringing out in response to the activity. More than that, it was uncontrolled as hell. That left only a few options – someone who was clearly about to melt down, or they were a kid who had no idea what they were doing. Neither were circumstances he trusted a C-SEC agent to handle, and from the looks of things he wasn’t alone. So, he picked up his milkshake and followed behind his sister as they headed over.

The officer, a young turian with blue face paint, was groaning in the bush. His armor was a bit scuffed, but he hadn’t sustained any permanent damage. He wasn’t alone either – in front of the bush, a teenager was laying spread eagle, dazed and confused.

“Human cannonball’s a classic… so who launched them?” Alistair glanced from human to turian. Neither looked badly hurt, but they probably had some scrapes that medigel could fix. “Bo, want to go?”

But she was already gone before he could finish the statement, heading off in the direction of a nearby park. That left him alone, shaking his head as he activated his medigel dispenser. Lucky for him, he had just refilled it before getting off the ship.

Medigel – never leave home without it.

“Alright, so who wants medigel?” He glanced towards the turian, who was already starting to come to. “How about you, Officer- “

The turian stood up, wincing a little. “Vakarian. I’m fine, just a little rattled. Some human kids…”

His voice trailed off. One of the human kids was still groaning at his feet, clearly the loser in the fight between the species. Honestly, they were kind of pathetic, laying there in a lump, half hidden by an oversized sweatshirt that was clearly a few sizes too large.

Boy, was that a reminder of his teenage years…

“I think they need this more than you.” Alistair knelt down to assess the patient. “Hey, are you able to focus?”

Green eyes slowly focused on him – good, no concussion. While he was shit at gauging ages, they couldn’t have been older than 17. More than that, the metal jutting out of the back of their neck was new. Most kids that weren’t him got that at puberty and spent time after that practicing so they didn’t blow shit up. Clearly, someone was still in the blowing shit up phase.

So… he’d put them 16 at best.

“Y-yeah…” they groaned, holding their head. “Where…”

Officer Vakarian filled that in for him. “In the Presidium. You know you’re not supposed to use biotics here, Dick.”

He looked around, towards where Bo had run off. “Did Kitty cause it this time?”

Dick and Kitty… well, Alistair was in no position to judge anyone’s names Still, at least the officer knew his would-be patient. That would make getting them back on their feet easier, especially if he had access to their emergency contacts.

He wasn’t really used to using those while people were still alive… so this was going to be a new one for him.

Dick shook his head, and then instantly seemed to regret it as he started to groan. “Maybe? It’s kind of a blur, Officer Vakarian…”

He looked up at Alistair, frowning. “Was it that bad you brought the EMTs in?”

Alistair chuckled as he waved his hand. “Don’t worry, I’m just a passerby. I can fix up your scrapes, though. It doesn’t look like you’ve got a concussion. Still getting used to your biotics, I see.”

He offered his hand, and the boy took it. Much to his quiet relief, Dick was still shorter than him. It was a little petty, but the marine took his small victories when he got them. Besides, the boy would outgrow him in a year or so. They always did.

Maybe he had been kidding about being mostly ok with his height… he was only human.

“Yeah… I got my amp six months ago.” Dick touched the back of his neck, frowning. “How’d you know?”

Before Alistair could answer, his attention was drawn by a flash of pink. Bo had returned, and at her side was another teenager. This one shared Dick’s face and green eyes, but the hair was blue and there was a bandage over their nose. At least they didn’t seem too put off by his sister, though the sight of Officer Vakarian caused them to blanche.

Ah. He knew an instigator when he saw one. Somebody was busted.

“We were totally not in the common area, Officer Vakarian, I swear.” Who he assumed was Kitty held up her scraped hands – yep, those were going to need medigel. “Dick and I were just…”

The turian shook his head. “Just using your biotics outside of a registered practice zone. That’s the third time this week. I left you off the last time, but now I’m going to have to call your parents on this one.”

The two teenagers winced at the thought, and Alistair felt a pang of sympathy. While he hadn’t been as young as them when he’d first gotten his amp, he remembered the early jitters of new biotics and the need to get them working. Of course, he had never launched a C-SEC agent into a bush, but… well, hormones and biotics were tricky.

“What if my sister and I talked to them about it?”

All eyes were suddenly on him – the hopeful gaze of the two would-be criminals, the mildly confused glance of the turian agent, and his sister, looking amused by this. Talk about a tough room to work. At least sweat didn’t bead on his forehead. Maybe he was getting used to public speaking.

And maybe the hanar would get into rodeo. No way he was ever talking in front of people…

“And… what would that do?” Officer Vakarian cocked his head to the side. Most people would take that as instigating, but there wasn’t the tone to his voice. Instead, he sounded curious. Maybe he wanted to see how this would play out.

Smart man – maybe he’d be the lucky one to make it to retirement.

Bo was the one who answered for him. She motioned to her neck, allowing the metal to catch the light. Unlike the two teenagers’, her amp had seen some action. It was scuffed and starting to look a little dull. His probably wasn’t much better, but it wasn’t like he could see it. After all, it was on the back of his fucking head.

“We’re biotics who got past the unintentional blow shit up phase.”

Emphasis in her case on unintentional.

Alistair nodded though, keeping his eye on the turian all the while. “Plus, I think two N7 level marines could give these two a worthy lecture. No need to get their parents in on this, Officer. You’ve probably got a hundred more important things to do, right?”

Nothing like giving someone an out and reminding them of the work piling up to get them off your case. He could practically see the gears churning underneath the face plates and face paint. Just a few more seconds of contemplation…

Officer Vakarian sighed and shook his head. “Try to keep an eye on your sister, Dick. I’ll let you both off with a warning this time since these two are going to vouch for you.”

The twins visibly relaxed at this. Not long after, the turian departed – probably to go write a parking ticket or mess up someone else’s day. This left Alistair and Bo in a weird quasi state of loco parentis that definitely made him sweat a little as he eyed the two teenagers in front of him.

Maybe he should’ve thought this one out better.

“Well, I’m getting back to our food before the Keepers clean it up.” Bo glanced over her shoulders at their new friends. “Follow me if you don’t want to get arrested, squirts.”

Back to the food it was then. Much to Alistair’s relief, the Keepers had left it alone. Of course, that didn’t matter much – there were mild injuries to be treated. More importantly, he realized he was getting a rather dirty look from Kitty as she glanced over at him.

Was it something he said?

At least Dick didn’t seem to mind as he settled into the bench. “Thanks for saving us… I don’t think you said your name.”

“Alistair, and that’s my sister Bo.” She nodded her head at his introduction. “Not a problem. Who wants the medigel first?”

Kitty shot him another dirty look as she tugged at her brother’s sleeve. “Thanks for the save, but not int- “

Contact with her scraped palms was enough to make her hiss. Alistair shook his head as he motioned for her to come over. She fought it briefly, but soon she was seated across from him, holding out her hands as he applied the medigel. Maybe in a few years she would be a proper badass like Bo, but she still had a ways to go. Still, not bad for a 16-year-old, especially one so new to biotics. There was hope for her yet.

“Best to clean these up before they get infected. Biotics mess with heal rates and germs can get trapped underneath the skin.” He motioned to Bo. “Ask her if you don’t believe me.”

Next to him, his sister bristled. “That was ONE time…”

And once was enough for him.

“Yeah, whatever, thanks.” Kitty pulled her healed hands away, almost as if she was burned. “Can we go now? I get enough N7 bullshit at home, I don’t need it from two randos on shore leave.”

She sent him a withering glance. “Especially not from the boy scout over here.”

Well, wasn’t someone a fucking delight…

“Kitty, they’re just being nice…” Dick frowned as he turned towards the pair. “Sorry… we uh… don’t really get along with our dad. He’s N7 too.”

Huh. Now that Alistair was getting a good look at them, something did strike him as vaguely familiar. It wasn’t exact, but he’d sworn he’d seen those eyes somewhere before, it just was hard to put his finger on it. Maybe it had been someone he had been in training with? It was going to drive him nuts… damn name was on the tip of his tongue.

“Most of them are bastards except for me and the boy scout.” Bo, always the fountain of truth. “What’s his name? Maybe we kicked his ass for you once or twice during training.”

At the mention of her father’s ass being kicked, Kitty brightened. “God, I hope so. He’s such an ass… but his name’s Alec Ryder.”

…

Oh, fuck.

Alistair felt his eye twitch as he looked from one teen to the next. He could see it now, in the defiant set of Kitty’s jaw and the pointed accuracy of Dick’s gaze. Normally, he saw those features combined and set into the face of an old man he wanted to blast into a fucking wall. Maybe the outright lack of assholeism was enough to make him temporarily forget the face of the man he hated more than anyone else.

Who the hell had taste bad enough to marry Alec Ryder, and where could he send his condolences?

“That asshole is your dad?” Bo snorted. “Al, I think you just found someone to beat you in the shittiest father competition.”

Oh, how he wanted to agree… but was it wrong to badmouth a father in front of his children like this?

Dick must’ve been a mind reader, because he smiled awkwardly. “It’s ok if you don’t like him, we think he’s an asshole too.”

“Oh, thank God…” Alistair sighed in relief. “I didn’t want to talk badly about him in front of you if you liked him.”

So sue him, he didn’t exactly put much stock in father-child relationships. After all, his fucking sucked. Judging from the looks on the twins’ faces, they knew exactly how he felt. And how could they not – they had Alec fucking Ryder for a father. The man was a blowhard douchebag on a good day; Alistair didn’t even want to think of what he might be like at home. His poor wife…

Nah, he was definitely divorced. No way anyone stayed married to that man for long.

“Well, at least we know other Alliance people hate him. Guess that means we’re not crazy.” Kitty seemed visibly cheered by this as she grabbed for one of Alistair’s fries – he let her; she was a growing biotic. “So, what about that little lecture you were planning? Can we skip it if we promise never to do it again and don’t cross our fingers this time?”

At that, Alistair shook his head. “No, we do need to talk about that. You got lucky this time because your strike was off. Full force could’ve really hurt Officer Vakarian or your brother.”

Dick’s head picked up very slightly at that – and as the pieces fell into place, his heart went out to him. Kitty on the other hand just looked mildly annoyed at the assessment of her aim as she stole some more fries. Lucky for him, he’d gotten extra.

“I didn’t even dent his armor…”

Bo snorted. “Not with a strike that weak. If you really want to put some force into it, you need to generate a little spin before you strike. It makes it hit harder.”

“It does?”

Oh, no. He could see where this one was going… best to nip it in the bud before Officer Vakarian got launched out the airlock with their next practice attempt.

“You need better control before you attempt something like that.” He sipped absent-mindedly at his milkshake. “And better separation of your attack styles. That felt like a half warp, half singularity to me. I would focus on getting each move down first.”

It was an argument that often fell on deaf ears, especially if they belonged to teenagers. He could just tell from the look on Kitty’s face that the kind of practice he was suggesting would bore her to tears. On the bright side, at least her brother looked interested. Dick actually had his omni-tool out and was honest-to-God taking notes.

Kid like that was an ego boost and a half… talk about having a favorite.

“That works fine for defense, but if you’re interested in front line assault, you need power. Sometimes it come down to who can hit harder.” Bo cracked her knuckles for emphasis. “I’d start lifting weights honestly.”

He shot her a look over his milkshake. “You’re going to turn them into berserkers, Bo.”

“What, it’s a valid strategy. You teach yours your way, I’ll handle mine.” Bo motioned for Kitty to get closer. “Now… the key to a good smack…”

Alistair was left groaning as he gave up – he knew a lost cause when he saw one. At least there would always be a future for them in destruction. On the bright side, he still had an attentive pupil, eager for more information. He could work with that.

“Well, since they’ve decided to go blunt force, we could discuss defensive maneuvers…”

“Sure, sounds good!”

Music to his ears… now, where to start?

---

“Thanks, Bo! I’ll let you know how the weightlifting goes!”

Kitty’s voice carried over the Presidium as she and her brother waved goodbye. Apparently, it was time for them to go home for dinner. This left their two impromptu instructors standing by the fountain, watching them go.

They were good kids, if a little green.

“Kid’s going to be killer when she gets older.” Bo chuckled, clearly pleased. “How about yours? We got another brick wall in the making?”

Alistair nodded as he worked to clean up their trash. “Dick has promise if he works on controlling his barriers. The new amps are great for fine motor skills. I can’t wait to see what they come up with as their hormone levels even out.”

With any luck, he wouldn’t see either of them in the Alliance anytime soon. As much as he appreciated them helping to keep his brain for overheating, the last thing he wanted was for a young biotic to think their only option was the military. Things were getting better now, or at least better than they had been when he was their age. Maybe with luck, they’d avoid it altogether.

That was at least his hope for them.

“Kitty said she’s going to send me some vids when she makes progress. She’ll probably slide the string bean in there too.” The sight of the clock in the nearby square caused Bo to wince. “Shit, it’s really that late? We were talking to those kids for two hours…”

No wonder his throat hurt so much…

“Guess we just got excited.” The pair started walking back to where they were staying, plans still on their mind for tomorrow. “Though, hard to believe they’re Alec Ryder’s kids.”

Bo snorted at that. “Yeah, they’re actually hu- “

She stopped, and then started to snicker. “Damn… can’t believe I didn’t pick that up until now.”

Alistair cocked his eyebrow as he watched his sister chuckle. If there was a joke, he wasn’t getting it. Of course, maybe he was just tired from the explanations. Either way, it be nice if she let him in sometime.

“What?”

“Their names are Dick and Kitty Ryder.” Another snicker. “Dick Ryder, come on…”

…

“Come on, Al, you know you’d have gone there too if you were in his shoes. Don’t hate cause the kid picked a better name than you did.”

He wasn’t hating… he was appreciating the balls it took to run with the joke all the way to legal documents. There was a difference.

“I would’ve gone with Knight or Ghost personally, but we all know my opinions on riding dick.” It was a miracle he kept a straight face at that.

“He had to, you already got Kitty Ryder. Gotta complete the set after all.”

Bo was grinning like the cat that ate the canary, and honestly, he wasn’t doing much better if the shake of his shoulders was anything to go by. At least he managed to keep walking, though a thousand jokes were still bubbling up with every step he took. He pushed them down – didn’t want to overdo it after all.

“Come on, let’s get back before we find some more biotic children to mentor. I want to watch Forensic Files VI tonight.”

“Ugh, you always want to watch Forensic Files…”

What, it was like the only thing available in like every system. So sue him.

Still, Alistair got a good feeling about the future as he walked with Bo by his side. If the new generation of biotics were like the pair in the park, maybe things would turn out better. Hell, maybe one day he’d hear about the Ryder twins making their own history.

Of course, that was for another day. At the moment, he had more pressing matters in mind – like beating Bo back so he could wrestle away control of the remote for a few hours. That was a fight he was willing to go to the death on.

Ah, nothing like shore leave. Why wasn’t it always this enlightening?

#merweek2021 #Bo Peep Shepard #Alistair Shepard #Dick Ryder #Kitty Ryder #and ft Officer Vakarian who didn't realize he just met his husband lol

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im-gettingby · 3 years

Text

30 Days of Carry On

posted (and written by?) @captain-aralias

(I’m doing most of these at once because I said so. it’s long so under the cut)

1. Favourite major character

I literally thought — Simon no Baz no Penny no, Agatha!

I guess I will pick Simon, since I relate to him the most — or at least, my connection to him led me into the fandom.

2. Favourite minor character

I think we all know this one 🐑🐑🐑

I have written many a treatise on Lamb Rights. I’ll spare everyone now

3. Character you relate to the most

Oops— I already answered this, kinda. I relate to them in different ways: I relate a lot to WS Simon because he has abandonment issues and “kid who was told he was extraordinary and then grew up to be ordinary” issues. We also both have a “fix all the things for everyone” complex, too.

Baz — It took me a while to get into Baz’s head, but I would say, I relate to him because of his intense emotional world and tendency to see the world through an intensely romantic/tragic lens. But also he’s a Pisces. and I’d never do that like a Pisces does. (Sorry, not sorry.)

4. Which character would you like to go to lunch with?

SHEPARD obviously. I don’t feel the need to elaborate.

5. Favourite non-Snowbaz ship

Ooh! Probably Lamb/Baz or Simon/Shep or just...literally anything. Like, I will read anything as long as it’s well written. The weirder the better. (Within...legal and moral limits.) in my other fandoms I’ve been a big multishipper and there’s not a lot of options for that in CO - which is fine - but wholeheartedly support rarepairs :D

6. Favourite non-romantic OTP

So, obviously Simon/Penny and Baz/Penny are great ones, but I think the nearest & dearest to my heart is Simon/Agatha. The kind of siblings/unwillingly dating/weird exes dynamic and the way they both shaped each other’s lives is just so interesting. And while Simon & Penny are closer, Agatha and Simon represent their aspirational selves to one another. And the way that they were both tied to one another along with their gender roles/places in society and both broke away at the same time is just...mwah

7. Favourite Baz outfit

I honestly dress kinda like Baz. Anything involving a printed silk shirt or a floral brocade suit, so like, all of them? I love WS Baz, his fashion sense is so thoughtful yet fun. He’s so expressive with it — in the sense of both being guarded, being sexy, and playing with masculinity/femininity.

8. How do you feel about Wayward Son?

In case it wasn’t obvious, I absolutely love it. I mean, from a writing/narrative standpoint, I don’t think it’s the most elegant or engaging book ever written, but it’s just so raw and fresh. I don’t see many examples of an author trying to do what Rainbow did, which is build a complex emotional AND plot-driven story with so many characters and so much lore. I’m very excited for AWTWB.

9. Favourite scene from Carry On, besides Chapter 61

I like what the book does/sets up overall. Honestly probably the first scene, where Simon walks to the bus stop & takes the train and just thinks about his life and makes lists -- I love Simon. I know Rainbow said she thinks that bit is boring, but it honestly says so much about his character in a short time. (and he’s an extremely complex character!) Also, Baz’s dramatic entrance. Also, the chapter where Baz says “and I’m hopelessly in love with him” because it’s just so dramatic, and it comes out of nowhere

10. Favourite scene from Wayward Son, besides Chapter 41

Baz and Lamb’s journey across the Strip - vampire lore, jealous Simon, Baz getting to be his own character— it’s beautiful.

11. Remind us about something in canon readers might have forgotten about

Ahahaha um. Simon says he thinks Baz’s cousin Marcus is fit. That’s pretty funny.

12. What are your hopes and fears for Any Way the Wind Blows?

I don’t have any hopes because I don’t want to be disappointed - and that’s not a cynical thing, I just want to go into it with an open mind. (I’ll take a break from fandom and reread the books beforehand so I’m (more of) a blank slate) I guess just...interesting emotional journeys, whatever that ends up being. There’s a lot that Rainbow has to do in the book and I don’t think any one person could get through all of it -- that’s why we have fanfiction.

Fears? I don’t know. I think just...the series ending. Even though I’ve been in fandom for less than a year I just really love this fandom & the thought of that kind of eroding away is sad. But also I don’t think that will happen immediately, and change is a part of life. I’ve never related as much to Cath as I do now :’)

13. An unpopular/cracky opinion you hold

unpopular: Lamb is the best character; I don’t want Simon to get his magic back; both Simon and Baz should have other romantic options.

14. Something from your head fanon

Hmmmmmmm well. Just mean things about Baz really. Like that he’s weird looking, not that great at football, and actually has kind of garish fashion sense. (which is a self-roast as well - see above.) I just feel like Simon/fandom put him on a pedestal, and Simon’s an unreliable narrator re: Baz anyway. So I like the idea that Baz is this average looking kinda strange nerdy guy who is everything Simon has ever wanted in life.

And before you tell me that Baz was hot at Watford and Agatha was into him, have you ever been to a tiny boarding school? Standards get weird 😂😂😂 and Terry being into him — come on. The guy’s a violent pervert.

also - back to Watford being a tiny school. Baz doesn’t have much competition to be the star of the football team. (also, does anyone except Simon even think that he is?)

16. Favourite location other than Watford

Vegas!

17, Favourite location in Watford

I’m pretty bad at Watford lore/geography bc again, I’m way more into WS. Probably the floor in the Cloisters where everything happens the same way, just a day later. There’s a fic there, but I can’t wrap my head around all the time travel implications enough to write it.

18. What would be your favourite subject at Watford?

Any potions-esque subject because I loved chemistry lab. Latin because I loved Latin in school. Uhhhh I don’t like history class, so not that — maybe a literature course focused on the derivation of spells.

19. What would your magical implement be?

Ooh! This is a good one. I’d like to think it would be a weird body piercing. Or a belt a la Gareth. Maybe some kind of traditional south Asian jewelry, like a nose chain or mang-tikka or something. maybe a hat. like, imagine your magical instrument being a fedora and you just have to...wear a fedora all the time.

21. Favourite canon spell

Hm. Kiss it better? Candle in the wind?I should try to think of a non-horny one. honestly they’re all so cool and clever - I love the magic system in CO/WS.

22. What would your eighth year spell at Watford be or do?

Maybe something from a poem I love. That would probably be pretty but not very functional. Or a healing spell.

23. Who would you want as your roommate?

Agatha is uptight, Penny is passive aggressive, Simon is a slob, Baz is both uptight and passive aggressive.

Definitely Shepard.

24. Favourite item of merchandise, official or unofficial

My @subparselkie sticker

25. Favourite book cover design

WS. Oh, another unpopular opinion - I don’t like the kevin wada cover of carry on. their faces look so weird and the colors don’t work for me. I own the version with the blue and yellow cover art instead

26. Do you want a movie? If yes - any fan casts for the movie?

Probably wouldn’t want a movie! Because I am way too possessive of these books/this version of the story. And I am historically extremely disappointed by adaptations — I get upset with the smallest of changes 😂

27. If they made a movie, what scenes do you think they’d cut that you’d be furious were missing?

See above. A LOT haha

28. If you could ask Rainbow Rowell one question, what would it be? (If you have already, you can share if you like)

What is Lamb’s full name????? Is it actually Lamb Lambert Lamborghini the third???

What is Rainbow’s relationship with sheep and goats. Why are there so many references to them

29. Have you read any of Rainbow’s other books?

Only Fangirl

30. How did you get into Carry On and/or Carry On fandom?

I read fangirl & the pages at the end mentioned carry on, so I read that, and enjoyed it but I wasn’t obsessed. Then I read WS spring 2020, reread it a bunch of times, reread CO, freaked out about the cliffhanger/cool vampire stuff/unresolved sexual tension, had pandemic cabin fever, got on AO3, and the rest is history.

As @annabellelux knows, I wrote my first (published) fanfic after reading her amazing fic Drop The Game. and the first fanfic I read was @captain-aralias’ Greener Grass. I was so obsessed that about a month later, I searched through the AO3 tags for it, because I couldn’t remember the title or author but kept thinking about it.

#tag game #30 days of carry on

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cytarabi · 4 years

Note

Hey! I've become a huge fan of your fics on ao3. I wanted to know how do you push out so many beautiful chapters so quickly? What's your writing process like? I'm working on a big JB fic, which I'm trying to finish timely, but high quality. Always like to see how other writers do their thang! Thank you!

Hi! I remember your name!! <3 Thank YOU for the question and praise, that’s so sweet!!

I love seeing how other writers do their thang, too! And I’ve found it can be very, very different for each author.

TLDR I write a lot of my fic ahead of time. I outline the entire fic, chapter by chapter before I start writing. I use several tools to speed the process and/or to make it more artsy fartsy.

I’ve found that I’m a “plotter” and not a “pantser” (two main ways of writing, unless you hate being labeled lol.)

Plotter means that I prefer plotting out most of the story before I write the details. Here’s been my process for my multichapter fics:

1) I come up with an idea and let it brew! I think about key scenes or dialogue I love and I jot them down in my phone on Google notes. Write down your ideas, you’ll probably forget them.

2) During this brewing time, (for As Black As Thunder and my next fic) I take the time to read, read, read. I read works and jot more notes! I have an entire Google doc for Rebecca by Daphne de Maurier where I wrote down her tone usage, figurative language and summary of each chapter. I can’t tell you how much this has helped get me in the write TONE for the work. Tone is SO important. Readers reading a thriller will expect thriller beats! Deep Fried Drinks was a rom com, so the verbs, adjectives etc are very different from creepy Gothic. When I started As Black As Thunder (ABAT), wow, it was hard to nail the tone at first. But by the second half of the fic, I’m fully immersed in it and it’s much easier to create the tone naturally. Without using inspiration, I don’t think it would have turned out as well. For ABAT, I think I took two weeks of no writing, when I’m used to writing every day. It was hard not to write, but wow, was I ready when I started!

3) When I’m ready to outline, I do! I open a google doc for the fic and start throwing everything I can think of in there. My ABAT doc was only like three lines for 6 months... lol! I’ve only just started looking into story structure, so my older fics are all wonky. BUT for ABAT and Deep Fried Drinks, I tried to follow story structure for plots. First act, second act, third act, character arcs, etc. My longest fic, Time Stops, dropped a bunch of readers in the middle and I think it’s because my middle SAGGED majorly. I didn’t try to follow a structure, just sort of plotted it out how I wanted to, and it was probably very repetitive and boring. For ABAT, I plotted a mid point turn to spice things up, chose things to make the character more proactive, etc. I highly recommend Ellen Brock on Youtube for any plotting advice. She’s an editor, and I’ve learned so much!

4) Organize plot into chapters, write key notes for chapters and fill out background info. The first two are self explanatory, but the third is my favorite! One thing that speeds my writing (I have no idea if people do this or not) but I have lists. So many lists! For ABAT, I have lists of common outfits for characters (I usually hate writing about outfits but I’m glad I wrote more for this work). I also write the character arc for each main character. For ABAT, I have the following for Brienne:

Brienne

Symbols: white crocus flower (purity, youthfulness, sensitive to rain), White begonia, Small birch saplings struggling for light

Goal: serve public, be idealistic, honorable

Lie: (hidden for spoilers)

Truth: (hidden for spoilers)

Flaw: stubborn, idealistic, watched her father get fame and respect for his engineering, wants to do the same thing and do it perfectly, doesn’t understand systemic racism

Motivation: serve people, be accepted by the public, belonging, abandonment

Stakes: public rejection, Tarth name on the line, mockery, insanity, failure

So when I think about a curve ball for Brienne at any point of the story, this character section helps me stay true to character. I have a section for Brienne, Jaime, Cersei and Missandei. Cersei has a larger section because she’s a villain... ;)

In addition to this section, I also write down their personalities and strengths. You know, like if they went to an interview lol. For example, I have Missandei have the following strengths:

Missandei

Adaptability: able to adapt

Intellection: introspective and appreciate intellectual discussions

Consistency: all people should be treated the same

Futuristic: fascinated by future

Learner: loves to learn

I ALSO have an emotion worksheet and this is SO USEFUL. They say in writing: show that the character is angry, not tell the reader. WELL, IDK about you but I can’t keep track of all the little quirks characters do and yet, I want them to be consistent. If while writing a scene, I sometimes think, “Hmm what is Jaime doing if he’s in awe right now?” I search for “awe” at the top of my fic, and bam, I have options, more or less. For a lot of emotions, I brainstormed ideas based on character traits, arcs, Gothic tone etc. I fill all of this out before I write the first chapter.

Here’s an example of some emotions I have for ABAT:

Emotion List (remember to have introspection, unique perspective)

Awe:

B: wrinkle deepened between brows, parted lips, fixed gaze, stands still

J: arched brow, open mouth, stare, goes closer

C: lowering chin or raising chin, goes closer

M: adaptable, quick to react

Deceptive:

B: looking away, walking away

J: scratching ear

C: smiling, neatly placed hands

M: long blink

Thoughtfulness:

B: staring off, quiet, daydreaming

J: staring at object important to him, twisting pencil or object in his hand, squeezing his hand

C: squeezing hand, staring at object she wants to get rid of or improve

M: daydreaming, staring off at her own outfit—it’s foreign

5) Now the fun part: writing! I used to write with scene structure outline, but I think I’ve grown off the training wheels. But it really helped me in Deep Fried Drinks to plot out the chapter scenes ahead of time, and I used Ellen Brock’s proactive and reactive videos to help me out with that. I throw on some music to get me in the mood of the story and I write during my kid’s nap, about two hours every day. Sometimes I’ll write at night, but lately I’ve been too tired to do that. My tip for this part is to try and figure out what you want to improve. What are you good at, and what could you improve as a writer? My first fics had like zero figurative language. Awkward. This takes a level of awareness that’s hard to reach but watching or researching creative writing technique really helps me. For example, I used to NEED to write all five senses out for each chapter ahead of time. Now it comes naturally to me! I would say now my main issue is phrasing? Pacing? And I need to tone down the melodrama for my next work....... lol! I write, write, write--and usually, I write 60-90% of the fic before I start editing!

6) Editing. Fun fun fun. I don’t mind editing, I just don’t think I’m that GOOD at it. I try to read through my chapter twice and edit as I go. I look for things I want to take out or add, look for show vs tell, formatting, etc--do things make sense? Did I miss anything? In ABAT, I’ll write something in chap 20 that I need to start in chap 18, so I’ll go back and make a quick note to “add part about document somewhere in this chapter” so I don’t confuse readers. When I edit chap 18, I’ll add that line or paragraph in. It’s all an intricate web! I also have a list of vague words I try to eliminate or replace with stronger words (I have more words if you want them). I found that I have certain words or phrases that echo a lot, like “while”, “turned around”, “turned” or “did not”--now I search for these phrases/words and try to change them:

Get rid of vague words, fix by explaining more:

Some

While

Thing

Stuff

Very

Really

Big/small

Good/bad

Simple verbs: had, was, went

Got/get

Few

Several

What

Do/Did

Like with all writing “rules”, they can be broken, but it helps to know why they are rules. I steered away from adverbs, and I think it improves my writing. Other writers have different prose and adverbs work so well--it all depends on your style! If I find these vague words in dialogue, for example, I almost never change them because dialogue is usually freaking vague lol!

7) Beta reader(s)! I honestly think this work is better than my other stuff because I have a newer beta reader, theunpaidcritic!!! *I bow* She’s literally an expert so it’s SO helpful for me in every way--I can’t fangirl about her enough. If you’re struggling to get a beta reader, I recommend joining a JB discord (transformative werk is my favorite discord, and there is a beta read request thread) or post a request on reddit!

8) Post! Once you’ve edited and gone over beta reader notes, it’s time to post! Congrats!!!!!!!!!!

For time reference, I started this process around mid-May for ABAT, and I will be done by early September. Maybe I’m just a fast writer? Compared to angel-deux, ha, I look slow. Everyone is different! Please let me know if you have any other questions, I am ALL about helping out! :) <3 <3 <3

#cytarabi answers #jaime x brienne #writing #braime

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monaisme · 3 years

Text

Day 22: burned

“I’m just gonna say this,” Peter piped up, “It sure is nice to know that there are people on this planet that have the sense to run for cover when alien lizard men attack your town.”

“True story!” Mr. Stark exclaimed as he dragged his Iron Man suitcase along beside him. “I’d say I blame the NYC tourists but... yeah.”

Peter, still in full garb gave him the side-eye. “Are you sure you don’t want me to carry that for you? It’s really nothing for me, sir,” he offered for the second time.

“Pfft. Do you hear that, Clint?! He calls me old and then expects me to back up his insult by allowing him to carry my totally not too heavy armour.” Mr. Stark lamented.

“I never called you old, Mr. Stark!” Peter replied.

Mr. Stark stopped in his tracks and pointed a finger at the kid. “Did you or did you not call me ‘sir,’ Spider-Man?”

“You know I did!”

Mr. Barton snorted.

“And I rest my case, your honor! The kid thinks I’m old!” Mr. Stark flailed around in mock exasperation, and then continued on toward the quinjet. “I’ll carry my own suit, thank you very much—even though it’s practically scrap now.”

That suit was actually why Mr. Stark, Ms. Romanoff, Mr. Barton, and Peter were walking down the abandoned Main Street that ran through the center of Broadbury, New Jersey; home of Joe’s Garage & Gas & Convenience Store & Diner... well, maybe not anymore? The town proper had actually managed to come out of the attack pretty unscathed save for Joe’s, which was still on fire, but it was only the Diner end and it looked to be burning low. An alien powered knock by one of their lizard nemeses had messed with Mr. Stark’s power distribution, though. Within minutes of the hit, he’d received an alert that he needed to exit the suit or risk needing to be cut out of it.

... and without the suit, they didn’t have the scanning capacity to confirm that all hostiles had been dispatched and that the town was safe.

The quinjet however was wholly capable...

Sirens could suddenly be heard in the distance.

“And that would be the cavalry!” Mr. Stark joked. Yes, Damage Control would come in and help out in the end, but that didn’t mean they let the world burn. Just before his suit had shut down, Mr. Stark was calling in the neighbouring townships’ volunteer fire departments. Broadbury, New Jersey would be fine.

Mr. Barton grinned once he heard the approaching trucks. “Sweet! You know, if we double time it to the quinjet, we can be back in time to sneak in some pizza and a couple of movies before the Spider-baby here,” he gave Peter a playful shove, “needs to be home for bedtime.”

Ms. Romanoff smiled, “That sounds fun, but I’m picking the movies, tonight.”

Mr. Stark and Peter knew better than to argue with her. Mr. Barton, however, couldn’t contain the whine. “But Nat, you always pick stuff with subtitles!”

“Yes, Clint, it’s called exposing the baby spider to culture.”

Peter stopped walking abruptly, “Guys, wait. Did you hear that?”

Of course no one else heard a thing, and with the suit offline, Mr. Stark couldn’t even pretend to try and help.

Peter raised his hand to stop their rustling. “Shhh.”

“heeeelp.” The call was so weak, it was no wonder the others couldn’t hear it... and it seemed to be coming from Joe’s.

“Shoot, guys! There’s someone over at Joe’s!” He gestured to the building. “I’ll be right back, okay?”

He was off before Mr. Stark could holler out a “Be careful!”

They were all mother hens, and he told Mr. Barton and Ms. Romanoff as much over the comm.

“Enough with the sass.” She called out. “Focus and get the job done. It’s a fire and you never mess around with it.”

Peter had helped with enough fires in the city to know exactly that. “Yes, ma’am.” He replied, and then searched for a safe point of entry.

The diner seemed to be the place to be, and so Peter called out as he entered the smoke filled but flame free part of the building, “Hello?! Can you hear me?”

Peter heard a weak cough, but no actual call for help. He had to hurry.

“Hey! I’m coming! Just hang on!” he yelled out, and crossed through the diner into the small attached convenience store. He wondered offhandedly if the aliens had made their way in here and they’d missed it, ‘cuz Peter could tell that the building was trashed even through the smoke. Twinkies and cases of Gatorade and those little white powdered donuts were messing up the entryway, but he leapt over them all easily enough. “Hello?! Can you make some noise?”

Peter heard another cough on the opposite side of the room, closer to the entryway to the garage... and the fire.

Shit!

Hey! I’m here, buddy! I’m coming!” The heat was becoming uncomfortable, especially when coupled with the smoke. It hadn’t looked that bad from the outside, had it?

“Ms. Romanoff! What’s the status of the fire?”

She replied immediately. “It’s looking pretty much burnt out from where I’m standing, but that doesn’t mean anything.” She paused, “Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” he replied as he tried to move a large, industrial metal shelf while keeping lower to the ground. “But tell Mr. Stark we’ve gotta work on a better-- *cough*-*cough*-- air filtering system for the *cough* suit.”

“Will do, Spider-Man. Just hurry.”

Peter did, and within ten seconds had found the man trapped under another metal shelf. The man was nearly unconscious and Peter was starting to struggle to breathe a little more, but that didn’t stop him from reassuring. “I’m here, buddy *cough*-*cough*-- gonna get you outta *cough* here.”

He’d never be exactly sure how it happened, but as Peter moved the shelf trapping the now unconscious man, another shelf toppled and shattered an exterior window. His spider-senses flared like the fire around them and Peter was throwing himself over top of the man he was determined to save.

He could barely find the breath to scream as the fire receded, though the flames licking at the edges of his scorched suit still burned, and he dragged the man toward the only exit he could barely see through the smoke with the last of his strength. He stumbled and fell forward, and thought this was the end, only to be caught in the arms of the fireman who would pull him and the man to safety.

Peter was barely aware of the people surrounding him—them... the man? The man was being pulled away and Peter was being strong for him and then he was gone and all Peter knew was pain in its purest form. He was the pain. No part of him existed save for it.

He didn’t hear Ms. Romanoff screaming over the comms for Mr. Barton to run faster—get the quinjet there NOW!

He didn’t hear Mr. Stark threatening to kill the next person to try and take the mask off as he waved around the sidearm he would wear under his suit.

He didn’t hear anything because he was flame and fire—

* * * * * *

On a regular day, the distance between Broadbury, New Jersey and the compound would be approximately ten minutes, if Clint really meant it.

Today, he did. Clint made it in five and a half.

Everyone was afraid to touch him, so they didn’t save for the removal of his mask within the safe confines of the quinjet and to place a nasal cannula for oxygen once he’d been positioned on his belly on the stretcher.

They’d never been more grateful to watch the boy lose consciousness.

While Peter was unconscious, his teammates sat brief vigil—none of them were devout to any type of faith, but only a higher power could be responsible for someone as wonderful as Peter, and that was who Tony, Clint, and Natasha prayed to.

* * * * * *

They landed and within seconds of the landing gear hitting the roof of the compound, SHIELD medical staff were flooding the plane and tending to the boy. He was transferred to a gurney and was on his way down the ramp and on his way to Helen Cho... and thank God for her and the absolute providence that placed her in New York in the first place.

She’d sent a nurse out to update the lot of them approximately forty-five minutes after they’d entered the room. Their group had grown to include Steve, Sam, Bucky, and Wanda once word had gotten out that the Spider-kid was down.

None of them reacted when she disclosed that seventy percent of his back had been impacted by the flame. Second and third degree burns and months and months of pain and surgeries and grafts were in the cards for that precious boy, depending on...

And May was at a nursing conference in Virginia and out of contact until 9:30pm.

Tony was the secondary emergency contact and Peter’s alter-ego’s medical power of attorney, so when Helen Cho came out looking to discuss Peter’s care after a few hours of nothing, he was it.

She looked tired, but satisfied when she spoke. “He’ll be fine.”

It was like a puppet whose strings had been cut— the relief was palpable.

“We’ve just finished debriding his back and, because Peter is still a minor, we need a guardian’s permission to go forward with treatment.”

Most of the superheroes paled.

Steve muttered a quiet, ‘shit.’

Helen smiled in sympathy. “Yes, it was a lot, and unfortunately Peter woke up during the worst of it. We did give him his painkillers, but as with non-enhanced individuals, it can only bring so much relief. Now, we need to discuss how we are going to progress in his treatment.”

Tony cocked his head in confusion, “What is there to discuss? You do what you need to do to fix him. End of story.” He looked back at his teammates, where they all stood nodding in agreement.

“It’s that there are two options here, Tony. We have an enhanced teen so the standard option isn’t one— that would be the multiple surgeries, etc. Now what I’d like to do is use the Cradle but—“

Tony jumped in, “Do you have the Cradle here? I thought you were keeping at your lab in Seoul?”

“I do have it here. It was why I was in New York in the first place... I would—“

Again, Tony didn’t wait for her to finish. “Use the Cradle, Helen. The boy shouldn’t have to suffer for doing the right thing.”

Relief washed over Helen’s face. “Thank goodness! Okay, I’m going to head back in to prep him for the procedure.” She then addressed everyone present. “The treatment will be at least a few hours. You may want to head up to your quarters and shower and clean up.” She knew how much the boy was cared for. “I will send out an update when everything is done. Trust me. We’ll take good care of him.” She smiled once more and headed back into the treatment room.

Tony looked at his team, all exhausted for the waiting and doing nothing. “Alright, folks, you heard the good doctor. Everyone head out and grab a shower if you stink like Clint, or something to eat or whatever. Just take a break. We’ll all be here for the next couple of days I’m sure, so let’s just take a breather while we can.”

Clint grumbled about not smelling bad, Steve mumbled something about making his Ma’s soup so it would be ready for the Spider-kid, and all the rest filed out one after the other... except for Tony.

Tony stayed and waited.

* * * * * *

Tony called Pepper to fill her in on the chaos and she promised she’d be at the compound first thing in the morning to help out with whatever they’d need. She was awesome that way.

He’d also managed to get ahold of May shortly after midnight. A quick drink with friends had turned into a girls’ night so Tony was sending Happy out with his private jet out to collect her first thing in the morning so she could grab some sleep before she entered the fray. Peter was stable, and there was no need for her to stress about finding a way back so it just made sense.

It was an hour after that when Helen popped her head out into the waiting area and scanned the room. She saw Tony, pointed to him, and then spoke, “Come with me. He needs you.”

Tony was up and moving before she’d finished demanding. Nothing would keep him away.

She talked as they walked down the short corridor to the treatment rooms. “We’d just finished up with the Cradle when we were moving him to a bed to rest. Everything was fine—is fine. We wanted him to take a few steps, just to get the circulation going and,” she put a hand out to stop Tony from entering the room. “It’s my fault. I didn’t take into account the energy he burns through when he heals and he ended up passing out.”

Tony was about to panic but Helen put up her hand to stop him.

“He’s fine! We’ve got him in bed, but we’ve put in a nasogastric feeding tube and he was a little upset. He’s calm now, but we thought you might be able to cheer him up.”

Grateful that he was being recruited for support squad and not something more dramatic after the long day they’d had, Tony gladly accepted the task and walked through the door—only to stop short at what he saw.

It wasn’t gore or anything like that. Not at all. Peter was laying on his stomach on one of the med bay beds. The tube that Helen had mentioned was in and a bag of nutrient sludge was hanging from a hook next to the IV bags of saline and antibiotics and the like. It wasn’t the oxygen. It wasn’t even the exposed pink skin, freshly grown on the kid’s back.

No. Tony always seemed to forget how small Peter was—for the huge presence he was out in the world and even as a part of the team, he was still a gawky sixteen year old boy trying to find his place.

“Hey, Mr. Stark,” the boy whispered, interrupting Tony’s thoughts. “I told them you didn’t need to come in. I figured you were probably asleep so...” he trailed off.

Tony pulled up one of the rolling stools and plunked himself down. “Nope—I was waiting for my favourite Spider-Baby to finish playing with the cool kids,” he gestured to the medical staff around them. “And now I just get to hang out with you for the boring part.”

“Boring part?”

Tony smiled softly, “You know, the part where you close your eyes and sleep part?”

Peter smiled back sleepily. “Oh, that part.”

“Yeah, so you can close your eyes now. The scary stuff is over and now you can rest or make a list of movies without subtitles to force Nat to watch—Hell. I may even let you order a pizza with pineapple on it without giving you grief once you’re outta here.” Tony gave him a playful wink.

“That sounds nice, Mr. Stark... but, um... I like the movies with subtitles.”

Tony laughed, “Of course you do, ya’ brat!”

Peter chuckled along, then grew serious. “Mr. Stark? Did the man make it? The one from the fire?”

Tony hadn’t needed him to clarify, but was embarrassed by his response. “I’m gonna be honest, Pete. I hadn’t given him a thought.” No. Tony had been too busy worrying about him. “Why don’t you go to sleep and when you wake up, I’ll have some information for you, okay?”

Peter nodded cautiously. Some of the new growth kissed at the base of his neck and Tony was sure it felt strange.

“Don’t worry about it, though. He looked pretty okay when I last saw him.” He got up and leaned over, planting a soft kiss on the side of Peter’s head. “You did so good, kid. Now take a break and let the ‘B’ team worry about things for a while.

Peter nodded again, and closed his eyes. “Thanks, Mis’r Stark. You’re the best.”

Tony ran his fingers through the boy’s curls as he fell asleep, thinking to himself, “No, Petie, you are.”

* * * * * *

Peter had just fallen asleep for the night after a couple of false starts. Tony was going to do the same once the staff brought in a recliner, but when Nat and Steve came to the med bay room door, Nat clutching a manila folder, he figured it was a lost cause.

“How is he?” Steve asked as Tony approached them.

Tony smiled. “He’s gonna be fine. I think we’ll have some issues to deal with it, but I’m gonna talk to Sam in the morning and figure some things out.”

Steve closed his eye for a second and nodded. Perhaps it was a prayer of gratitude? Tony would never know, but he was grateful, too.

Nat interrupted then. “I know it’s late, but we just found out how Michael ‘Joe’ Hanlan is doing, and thought you’d appreciate the update.”

Tony saw the look on Nat’s face, and cringed. “I’m not so sure this is news I want to hear.”

She looked frustrated and angry, two combinations that were never good on her. “The fire marshal headed over to the site shortly after we left. There were some concerns that with a team member of ours being hurt, that we’d need all the relevant information for our reports as soon as possible.”

Tony was imagining that he looked as confused as he felt. “That was mighty considerate of him?”

“It was, and I was especially appreciative of the fact that they’d already moved quickly to arrest Mr. Hanlan for arson once they found the gas cans.”

Tony straightened. “Excuse me?”

Nat just shook her head. “Apparently Mr. Hanlan saw the aliens and decided that now was the time to cash in with Damage Control and get the hell out of Broadbury, New Jersey. He and the stripper he met in Atlantic City during his last gambling binge were already planning to head to Vegas for a fresh start when this opportunity literally came out of the sky. He was apparently shoving over some shelving to add to the ‘level of authenticity,’” she air quoted, “when the shelf fell over unexpectedly and he ended up trapped and hurt.”

“He’s hurt?!” Tony inquired.

Steve took this question. “Yeah, he ended up with a pretty bad sprained wrist from when he topped the shelving, a mild concussion from when he hit the floor, and of course, the smoke inhalation.”

“...And our Spider-Baby is growing himself some fresh flesh for the effort to save the scumbag.”

Steve smiled and shook his head. “You know that won’t make a difference to Peter, right?”

Tony scowled at the truthfulness of the statement. “I know.”

And Tony really did, because already, the kid was better than them all.

@febuwhump

#febuwhump #febuwhump 2021 #fanfiction #burns #irondad and spiderson

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chickensarentcheap · 4 years

Text

Sanctuary -Chapter 60

Warnings: none

Tagging: @innerpaperexpertcloud, @c-a-v-a-l-r-y, @alievans007, @thunderintheshadows, @valkyrie-of-the-light

It's the first time in five and a half years that she's actually picked him at the airport; normally, Nik was in charge of any and all elements of a job, including the transportation to and from home. It doesn't seem like much; being able to do something simple. But it's a sign that their new life has already begun. That all ties to their former existence are being cut; one at a time, a slow withdrawal from the things that had taken up so much time and energy and caused so many issues and grief. And it will a slow process; the out with the old, in with the new. As will the path to healing; long and arduous, filled with a lot of guilt, anger, and tears. But he needs to go through it. They both do.

He stands out amongst the crowd; mostly businessmen in crisp linen suits and expensive silk ties, a stark contrast to his weathered and worn jeans, simple t-shirt, and scuffed and stained combat boots. Easily several inches taller than most. All long legs and torso; broad chest and strong, muscular arms, a backpack slung over wide, sculpted shoulders. There’s a scowl on his face as he weaves through the sea of people. He’s anxious; she can tell by the tension in his body, how dark his eyes are as he surveys the crowd, looking for her. Maybe there’s a worry there too. This was an entirely new situation to them, and while he was letting go off his old life, it would be difficult to let go of all his old habits. If even he could. Perhaps he’d always wonder if there was potential for hidden threats; someone who’d felt he’d wrong them looking for revenge. And maybe that overprotectiveness would never be corrected; perhaps it was just something that years on the job had engrained into him and she’d just have to learn to live with.

There were worst things in the world to deal with, she supposed; she could be stuck with someone that give a shit whether she was coming or going, alive or dead. This way she’d always feel important to someone. Worthy of them. And she’d always feel safe. She would never have to worry about anything happening to her or the kids; confident in Tyler’s ability to handle any situation. The boy may leave the job, but part of the job will always remain in the boy. It was ludicrous to think otherwise. Those skills were engrained in him now; years of having to use his hands and weapons to save not only others, but himself.

The scowl is replaced by a smile when he sees her making her way towards him. A genuine smile: full of relief and content, immediately bringing that sparkle back to his eyes and diminishing the creases in his brow. He looks tired, but he’s happy. As if the just merely seeing her there managed to lift a considerable weight off of his shoulders.

“Hey,” he greets simply, and she gives her own smile and ‘hey’ in return before he’s gathering her in those strong, powerful arms, one across her back, the other under ass. Pulling her up onto her tip toes and tightly into him.

She curls her arms around his neck and presses her body against his. Closing her eyes as she revels in the feel of him, all solid muscle and warmth. His scent familiar yet still in intoxicating. And she moves one of her hands from his neck to the back of his head, where his hair is clipped right to the scalp.

“I’m just glad you’re here,” she breathes, as she fights back the emotion that threatens to consume her.

The relief is overwhelming; knowing that she doesn’t have to do this anymore. The last time she’ll ever have to welcome him back home after putting his life on the line for other people. No more hard goodbyes in the driveway, or late-night phone chats, or worrying if she’s ever going to see him again. Removing an arm from behind her back, he pushes his fingers through her hair and cups the back of her head in his palm as he kisses her. Long and soft. And she can’t remember a time in the last five and a half years that both his kiss and his touch have been that gentle. There’s an always an edge to Tyler; a hardness and aggression that he just can’t shake. Even when they make love. But she feels it now; in the way that his mouth moves against hers and his fingers softly knead at the back of her head. And it’s enough to both take her breath away and bring tears to her eyes.

“I’m so glad you’re home,” she pulls back to look at him, fingertips gently exploring all the old scars and the wounds from the altercation at McMann’s house that are in their final stages of healing. There are no new injuries; a first in the years they’ve spent together. No return home is every complete without at least a few stitches, a split lip or black eye (or two) or even broken bones. Usually ribs. But there’s been a busted forearm, wrist, and ankle thrown in for good measure.

“So am I,” Tyler says, and presses her lips to her forehead, allowing them to linger there before pulling away, chuckling when he notices all the curious eyes and smile surrounding them.

All strangers see is a couple being reunited. They don’t know everything they’ve been through though, or just how close it had come to this moment never taking place at all. But he does. The cards had all been stacked against him, right from day one. The second McMann had failed to kill him in Guatemala and had shown up in Colorado. It had all begun to unravel from there, the intricate and deliberate mind games being what brought him down in the end. Not a bullet.

“You look tired,” she observes, as she brushes his hair out of his eyes and then lays a hand on his cheek, repeatedly brushing her thumb against his beard. “Did you sleep at all?”

“I managed a couple hours on the plane. Shoulder and knee both started acting up though, so…”

“In a couple days you can call the doctor and see if you can get them look at,” she gently suggests. She doesn’t want to come across as overbearing or controlling. But she knows just how stubborn he can and how he’ll just let something go for months…even years…and the damage ending up being far worse than it ever needed to be. “Better to do it now than wait until we move, don’t you think?”

“You’re the boss now, baby. Whatever you want.”

“Wait a second,” she grins. “I never agreed to being in charge of everything.”

“I’m retired now. All I have to look forward to is getting fat and lazy.”

“Right!” she laughs, and instead of his arm underneath his ass, his palm briefly travels over it and then settles on the small of her back. “You? Fat and Lazy? We both know that’s never going to happen. You’re going to end up in the gym even more now because you’ll need a way to get out all the pent-up aggression and energy.”

“Yeah?” he looks down at her with that crooked grin; the one that had captured her heart all those years ago and still made her weak in the knees. And his splays his hand on the small of her back, so those longer fingers come in contact with her ass as he pulls her even tighter against him. “I can think of other ways to get all that out.”

“I can’t believe you’re even in the mood for that.”

“I’m always in the mood for that.” What better way is there to get everything out of your system? Anger. Frustration. Sadness. Even grief. It wasn’t a permanent fix, but at least it temporarily made you feel better.

“Well, soon I’m going be fat and gross and we wouldn’t be able to do things like that,” she reminds him. “So you’re either going to be working out a lot or you’re going to studying alone a lot. There’s no third option, so finding some hot blond to occupy your time is not in the cards, I’m sorry.”

“Not even a brunette or a red head?”

She shakes her head. “I don’t share. You know that. So when I’m fat and gross, you’re going to have to come up with something to get your energy out.”

“For the record, you’re not going to get fat and gross. You could never be fat and gross. Not in a million years. You’re pregnant. There’s a difference.”

“I keep forgetting you’re one of those weirdos who find their wives beautiful and sexy when they’re knocked up.”

“If that makes me weird…” he shrugs.

“Well that’s not all that makes you weird. I actually have a list at home if you want to see it.”

He grins, then kisses her once more. Shorter this time. But a little more aggressive.

She rests her chin against his chest, smiling up at him. “You’re okay?”

“No.” he admits. “But I will be.”

****

He cries after they make love. A release of so many emotions that have been threatening to swallow him whole. Enormous amounts of frustration, anger, and hints of sadness and desperation. Relief as well; that the most dire and dangerous years of his are not behind him and he can concentrate on having a normal life. Or his version of it, at least. He was ashamed afterwards; embarrassed that he’d allowed his emotions to get the better of him, that he’d lost control and let himself be so vulnerable. And she’d held him as he clung to her, stroking his hair and his back, ensuring him that of all the people in the world that he could be that way with, it was her. There was no reason for shame. Or embarrassment. Not with her. Never with her.

They know all of each other’s deepest and darkest secrets; things they’ve never told another other living soul. He was the first -and still the only- person she ever told about everything Mark had done: the mental abuse along with sexual. And she was one of the few people that he’d ever opened up to about not only the death of his son, but the tremendous guilt he’d been living with over abandoning his own flesh and blood. Keeping secrets were not something they did; no matter how painful and devastating they could be.

The emotional meltdown, mixed in with jet lag, had worn him out and he’d fallen asleep; on his side with the comforter pulled up past his chin. Exhausted both mentally and physically, his features soft and not bearing any sign of pain of discomfort. The most peaceful and content that she’d seen him -while at rest- in years. She took it as a good sign. That although the road was going to long and bumpy, he was ready and willing to work on putting the past behind him. On finally putting all those monsters and demons to rest. And finally forgiving himself for the choices he’d made and the things that he’d done.

She’d settled in beside him; tucking her back into his front, loving the instinctive way his arm reached out to wrap around her, hand resting on her stomach, and his leg came to rest over top of hers. The same way he’d been falling asleep for the past the five and a half years. Eventually he’d move; either woken up by pain or because she’d tell him to roll over and leave her alone because he was either too hot and too heavy, or snoring way too damn much.

The sun is beginning to set when she wakens; finding that heavy arm and leg still draped over her and his forehead resting against the back of her head. She’s hungry and needs to pee, but he’s a light sleeper and getting away from him when he’s in that close of contact is nothing short of a feat worthy of Mission: Impossible. Even the smallest of movements and sounds able to wake him in an instant, the hyper-vigilance extremely strong. And she feels him begin to stir when she moves slips out from underneath the weight of his two limbs.

“What’s wrong?” Tyler mumbles, eyes still closed.

“Nothing’s wrong. Go back to sleep.”

“What time is it?”

“What does it matter? Got a hot date or something?”

“Maybe I do,” he responds, and then reaches out to curl an arm around her waist and pull her back towards him. Once again placing his hand on her stomach and burying his face in the back of her neck. And the feel of him…that solid body, the warmth that he gives off, the tickle of his breath again her skin…makes her temporarily forget all about her own discomfort. “What time is it?” he asks again.

“Almost quarter after nine.”

“At night?”

She nods.

“Where’s the kids?”

“They’re with Kyle and Nik. Remember? I told you this yesterday. That Kyle would take him them so we could be alone for two or three days. So it would nice and quiet and you could just have time to relax and start working shit out.”

“Oh…yeah…okay…” he nuzzles the tip of her nose against the nape of her neck, then presses a kiss to it.

“You remember that, right?” She can’t help but feel slightly concerned. Had his memory issues really gotten that bad?”

“Yeah. I just…I don’t know…half asleep I guess.”

“Do you know what day it is?”

He nods. “It’s Thursday.”

“Month?”

He yawns. “July.”

“Year?”

“I know what day, month and year it is,” he grumbles. “And I remember about the kids. I was just…I don’t know…out of it for a second. I’m not brain dead.”

“I didn’t say you were. It just kind of freaked me out for a second.”

“Well stop…” he implores and kisses the back of her head. “…stop freaking out, stop stressing, stop being irrational. Everything’s fine. I’m home now. That’s all that matters, yeah?”

She nods in agreement, and lays her hand over top of his, lacing their fingers together. “Do you want to talk about it?” she asks.

“About what?”

“I don’t know. Things. All the things. Why you wanted to come home?”

“I didn’t want to come home. I mean, I did. I needed to come home.”

“Do you want to talk about that? Why you needed to come home?”

“Not right now.”

“But you will? Right? Talk about it?”

Tyler nods.

She rolls over onto her side, facing him, and presses a kiss to his forehead. And he gives a small smile and places his hand on the small of her back, pulling her body flesh against his. His head dropping to her shoulder as her fingers slowly comb through his hair, letting those longer strands slide between her fingers.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, his breath warm and soothing against her skin.

“For what?”

“Everything.”

“Everything is a lot of things. Do you want to give me something specific or…”?

“Everything,” he stresses, as he lifts his head to look at her. “Everything shitty fucking thing I’ve done in the past five and a half years.”

“Tyler, I don’t know how many shitty fucking things you think you’ve done, but…”

“I never should have gotten back into it. The job. After we helped Ovi out the second time in Dhaka, that should have been it. I should have just walked away then. I should have just told Nik to fuck off when she called offering me work. But we had Millie and Ovi and you were having the twins and I was worried about keeping a roof over your heads and food on the table and…”

“We talked about this. It was four years ago. You did what you thought was the best for us. It wasn’t an easy time and you had lot of valid worries and concerns. Do I wish you’d handled things differently? Like talking to me about it before you just went and did it? That would have been great. But it’s over and done with and you can’t go back and change it. You need to let things like that go. Stop holding onto them and blaming yourself and hating yourself. I don’t blame you and I don’t hate you. And you shouldn’t either.”

“I couldn’t stop. Wanting to do it. The job. I kept telling myself that I would. Every time I came home, I’d tell myself that I wouldn’t answer the phone the next time Nik called. Or I’d just say no to whatever she offered me. But I never could. It was an obsession. I couldn’t let go if it no matter how hard I tried. I’ve been away from you and the kids more than I’ve been with you.”

She gives a nod in confirmation.

“And I fucking hate that. That I let I let it get that bad. That I myself get that bad. And I’m sorry. For all the times I just left you and the kids. For missing birthdays and anniversaries and all of that. For just being a shitty goddamn husband. For abandoning you when you needed me. I never meant to hurt you.”

“I know you didn’t,” she assures him. “I know.”

“I just took of advantage of it. You. I just knew you’d be here when I got back, and I thought you always would be no matter how many times I left. I thought you’d always be here no matter and then one you almost weren’t.”

“McMann’s house?”

He nods, the tears threatening once again. “I’m sorry. I am so fucking sorry.”

“Tyler…it’s okay…” she takes his face in her hands, pressing her lips to his brow. “…you need to let this all go.”

“It’s not okay. It’s never going to be okay. How can you forgive me when I can’t even forgive myself?”

“Because I love you,” she reasons. “Can’t that be a good enough reason?”

He nods, sniffling noisily as he wraps both arms around her, hands clasped together at the small of her back.

Pushing her hand into his hair, she grips it tightly and draws his face down to her shoulder once more. It’s nowhere near as powerful as the breakdown he’d had before; no sound escaping his body, no trembling against her. Just the feel of his tears against her skin. Holding him there until he eventually pulls away, rolling over onto his back and using his forearm to clear any remaining droplets from his face.

She reaches out and rubs his stomach. “You hungry?”

“Yeah, I could eat.”

“Good. Because I’m starving. I haven’t been able to stop eating since the doctor put me on those meds. I swear to God, if I’m actually eating for three instead of two, I will chop your balls off. One set of twins is enough.”

“Maybe it’s triplets.”

Frowning, she grabs her pillow from behind her and smacks him in the face with. “You bite your goddamn tongue! You were the one that made the twin comment four years ago and look what happened. It came true. So if at the next ultrasound, they find three…”

“I will let you chop my balls off,” he promises her.

“Or, you could go and the snip like you promised you would after Declan. It would be a lot less painful than chopping them off. Just saying.”

“Whatever you want, I’ll do it. Make the call. Set it up. Get her done.”

“You can consider that an early birthday present to me,” she chides, and then leans over to kiss him. “I am going to make dinner and you are going to shower and then come and eat with me. Deal?”

He nods. “Deal.”

****

“I want you do something for me,” he says a half an hour later, as he joins her in the kitchen.

“Blow jobs come after dinner,” she says from where she stands at the stove, stirring a pot of pasta sauce. “Those are considered dessert.”

“As tempting as that sounds,” he lays a hand on her hip and presses a kiss to the side of her head. “That’s not what I was talking about. Although, I might take you up on it.”

“Might?” she grins, as he leans back against the counter by the stove. “You know you will. There is no might. What do want me to do?”

He holds up the hair clippers that he’d brought down from the bathroom.

“We talked about this. You get your rid of your beard, we’re getting a divorce. This is not up for debate.”

“If we get divorced, do I have to pay alimony and child support?”

She frowns.

“I’m not getting rid of my beard. That’s not what I want you to do. I want you to shave my head.”

“Okay…” she wipes her hands off on the thighs of her leggings. “…why?”

“Why’d you want to dye your back to its normal color?”

“Because the red represented a really fucked up time that I didn’t particularly want to relive every day.”

He holds the clippers out to her once again. “Shave my head.”

“That’s a little…extreme…don’t you think?”

“It’s hair. It’ll grow back. You wanted your hair back to normal to forget about something bad, well I want it mine gone so I can forget about things. We want to move on, right? We want to put all of this behind us? This life? This job? Everything fucked up that’s happened in the last five and a half years? That’s what we’re trying to do, yeah?”

“Yeah, but your hair? Why…?”

“Just do it. I dyed your hair when I didn’t want to.”

“You weren’t attached to my red hair in the weird and creepy way I’m attached to your hair.”

“Please?” he offers the item in his hand once more. “I need to do this. I need to let it go. I need to let him go. And I want you to help me do it.”

She sighs, and then takes the clippers from him. “Why do you have to break my heart like this? Your hair? I’d almost rather the beard.”

“Okay. Then it’s one or the other. Beard or hair. You can’t keep both.”

She looks down at the object in her hand, then back at him. “I’m really going to miss your hair.”

****

They have dinner first; sitting out on the back deck with nothing more than a handful of candles and the solar lights attached to the top railing. It’s been a long time since either of them has felt this relaxed; soothed by the comforts of home and familiar surroundings. Being able to indulge in conversation that didn’t revolve the job anyone even remotely attached to it. Teasing on another in the good natured and loving way they’d developed years ago, laughing easily as they reminisced about the past four years in their home, speaking wistfully of all the things that awaited them in Australia. They’d picked a home the day before; a four bedroom bungalow on fifteen acres in Cookstown, the northern most habitable point on the Gold Coast in Queensland. It backed out onto the ocean and came with its own private beach; a fair size that would give them the privacy and security they craved when it came to their children. The money had already been transferred. In full. And they took possession in a little more than a month and a half. It didn’t leave a lot of time; to pack up their life here and leave behind what they didn’t want weighing them down.

Kyle would move into their current house. Taking on the chickens and the goats. Ovi…and Chloe…would be moving with them. The house in Cookstown having a one bedroom granny flat a hundred yards from the pool that would make a great place for a young couple just starting out.

“I don’t know if I can do this,” Esme says an hour after dinner, the clippers in her hand as Tyler sits in a chair in the middle of the kitchen. “This is a lot harder than I thought it would be. What if I screw it up?”

“What’s there to screw up? You’re shaving it all off.”

“But it’s just so nice…” she pouts as she runs her fingers through the longer strands. “…I’ve only been in love with this hair cut for five and a half years.”

“Did you fall in love with my hair or me?”

“Do you really want me to answer that?”

He glares at her.

“You of course! But this is how you had your hair when I met you and that’s how I know you.”

“I grew my hair out after you had Declan,” he points out.

“And I made you get it cut back to this. This is all I’ve known. This haircut. And I’m a little attached to it.”

“You think?”

“You were mad when I cut my hair,” she reminds him.

“I wasn’t mad. I was disappointed. I liked it long.”

“And I like yours like this.”

“Because you can pull it. That’s the only reason. You like to pull it and I let you do it.”

“Exactly. Won’t you miss that? Me pulling here when we’re doing��adult things?”

“I’ll learn to deal. Are you crying to cry over this?” he grins. “You look like you’re going to cry about this.”

“I might,” she admits, and he can’t help but laugh. “It’s only because I’m hormonal. I’m not that attached to your hair. I can’t believe you’re laughing at me. You’re the reason I’m hormonal in the first place! If you didn’t sleep in grade nine health class, you would have known the pullout method doesn’t work and I wouldn’t be insanely hormonal right now.”

“I’m sorry. I’m…” he bites down on his bottom lip to stifle his laughter. “…I’m laughing with you, not at you.”

“Bullshit you are.”

“It’s just hair, Esme. It’ll grow back. But I really need you to do this. If we’re putting it all behind us, then this is part of it. If we want to let go of everything from the past, we have to let go of him to. Please…” he lays his hands on her hips. “…do this for me.”

“Okay…” she sighs, and leans in to kiss him. “…but if I mess this up…”

“What is there to mess up? You’re taking it all off. You’ll be alright, baby. You can do this. I have faith in you.”

“Don’t be a smart ass or I’ll shave one of your eyebrows off,” she threatens, and turns the clippers on.

It takes all of five minutes; the guard set on the lowest setting before taking the hair right down to the skin. He hasn’t worn it that short since his military days, when he’d been much younger and short hair had been mandatory. And which each strand that falls, so does some of the weight from the past. The memories of the things he’d had to do in the name of survival; the people he’d killed, the ways he’d had to resort to, the money he’d taken. It didn’t matter how many he saved. The lives he’d taken will always overshadow them.

Killing had never been for fun. He’d never gotten a rush or a joy out of it like so many other mercenaries did. It was simply a means to an end; something he had to do in order to either save someone or himself. There would always be regrets. Over having to do the things he’d done. For making the tough decisions that he wouldn’t wish on even his worst enemy. For trusting the wrong people and not trusting the right ones. There were so many things he’d done wrong over the span of the last five and a half years. And all he could do was try and not make the same mistakes twice.

“Anyone else you’d shave their hair and they’d be hideous,” Esme says as she unplugs the clippers. “Not you. You just stay hot. Regardless. What a burden to have to live with. I don’t know how carry such a heavy weight being so attractive while the rest of us are destined to be ugly forever.”

“You can see the scars now,” he tucks his chin into his chest, fingers moving over his scalp. “How bad are they are?”

She stands behind his thighs and holds his hand in her hands. “If I connect the dots, I can make a perfect outline of New York State.”

He frowns.

“There’s barely anything there. And who cares? You have lots of scars other places. They don’t bother me. They’re sexy. They give you character.”

“You’re weird.”

“Maybe,” she shrugs. “But you’re still the most beautiful man in the world to me.”

“Normally I hate the B word, but I’ll give it to you.”

“Good. Because it’s true,” she kisses him softly. “Whether you like that word or not. And I have to say…” she runs her palms over his head. “…it’s pretty sexy. You pull it off. It’s just…I don’t know…” she chews on her bottom lip, tears welling in her eyes.

“Baby…seriously…” his hands find her hips. “…over hair?”

“It’s not about the hair. It’s what getting rid of it means. It’s like an ending. Like we’re saying goodbye to the last five and a half years…”

“Just the bad stuff. Not the good stuff. Just the job and everything connected to it. It had to go. He had to go. And you know he did.”

She nods. “It’s just all getting to be so final now. You coming home for good, getting rid of everything that came with the job, now the hair. It’s just seems more real. And in a month and a bit, none of this will exist either. We’re just going to walk away and leave it all behind.”

“We don’t have to. We can get the money back and stay here. If that’s what you want.”

“That’s not what I want. I want to go back to Australia. I need to go back. We need to go back. It’s just sad, you know. There’s a lot of good memories here too. I mean Declan was born here. In this house. All because he couldn’t wait long enough to get to the hospital. I bet you thought you’d never add ‘delivered a baby’ to your resume.”

“Nope. And I don’t want to ever do it again. So this…” he lays a hand on her stomach. “…stays where she’s supposed to until she’s supposed to.”

“We still don’t know for sure if it’s a boy or a girl, so…”

“It’s a girl. Trust me. It is.”

“Wanna make a bet? Just a friendly wager?”

“Depends. What’s it entail?”

“If you lose and it’s a boy, you have to clean all the dirty diapers from the time he comes home until he’s two months old. And your track record for making boys is three out of four, so…”

“And if I win?”

“If it’s a girl…and that’s a big if because you’ve had one girl and made three boys afterwards…you get to decorate the nursery any way you want.”

He arches an eyebrow. “Any way?”

“Any way you want. And I won’t complain about it once. I promise. Just no clowns because Junior is scared shitless of them and unless you want him sleeping in our bed until he’s eighteen…”

“Junior?” Tyler laughs. “That’s what we’re calling him now?”

“You call Declan ‘the Ginger’,” she points out.

“We are going to give our kids complexes. If we haven’t already. They’re going to need therapy. Lots of it.”

“Is it a bet? Are you in?”

“I’m in. And I’m already going to apologize for what I’m going to do with that nursery.”

“You’re so cocky,” she laughs. “There’s no proof than some dream you had that it’s a girl.”

“And you have no proof that it’s a boy. So…”

“History, my friend. Specifically, your sperms history. History is not on your side.”

“I’m due for a win. It’s a girl.”

“We’ll see. We’ll find out for sure in four weeks. Which means we actually need to find a doctor in Australia before we get there. And you said you’d handle all the Australia stuff. It’ll keep you busy and out of your head. Which…by the way…” she rubs her hands against the stubble. “…is a very sexy head.”

“Thank you. For doing that for me. I know it broke your heart.”

“A little part of me died inside,” she teases. “I’ll never be the same. But…” she holds his face in her hands and kisses him. “…you’re lucky you’re hot no matter what you do with your hair. And thank you. For trusting me with that. I know why you had to do it. And you trusted me with it.”

“There’s nothing I don’t trust you with. My kids’ lives. Mine.”

“Don’t get all sappy with me. My hormones cannot take it. You know it makes me weak. When you get like that. I swear you use it to your advantage. You know it makes me weak enough to give you whatever you want.”

“You know what I really want right now? Dessert.”

She smirks. “Are you talking code language for blow jobs or are we talking actual food to eat?”

He grins and kisses her. “I’ll let you figure it out.”

#tyler rake #tyler rake fan fic #tyler rake fan fiction #sanctuary #extraction #chris hemsworth character

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ba-mi-soro-orisha · 4 years

Note

when youre done recovering id love to hear your thoughts on the book(even if the post ends up being almost as long lmao)

Buckle up, y’all, cause this is going DEEP INTO SPOILERS. This is my no-holds-barred take on Children of Virtue and Vengeance!

SPOILER WARNING

If you read any further past this, CoVaV is gonna be majorly spoiled for you. This is your last warning.

Okay, I gotta open with a minor - but really the only - critique I had about CVV: we know Tomi was rushed in finishing the book in time for the third pushed back date, and the book kinda reads like it. Book 1, I felt like we got a lot more detail and getting to know characters and buildup of the plot. Book 2, it felt like we were just rushing to get through all the action planned. There wasn’t very much in between downtime, which resulted in not only a kinda rushed book with way more plot than pages, but also a very emotionally devastating book.

Which leads me to: I feel like the central theme of CoBaB was more “hope”, while in CoVaV it was straight up “conflict”. And there was no recovery time. Even the precious few hopeful times that were in the book, I didn’t really have time to process or chill or cope. I always knew something worse was coming, which is what made this such a raw read. I do think the book could have benefited from giving us a little more hope. Like three-quarters of the way through, I had to keep thinking back to CBB and how I felt reading it and hoping there would be more hopeful and optimistic feelings in book 3. I couldn’t put the book down, but as a result, I pretty much just sobbed through the last fourth (at least) of the book, finished the book, sat in shock, and then went to bed. This book literally exhausted me. What a godsdamned ride.

I completely get why the book was like this, even if it wasn’t as a result of being rushed, but I feel a little more for the readers to balance it out helps us survive, lol.

That aside, there was SO MUCH in this book, I have SO MANY feelings!!!

Firstly, the worldbuilding was GREAT. I loved the new insight we got on magic. I totally didn’t realize frm book 1 that tîtans and maji were different and used magic differently for the most part.

With the direction of the ending, I’m not sure Tomi will go in this direction, but I’d like to know more about these differences. Why is it that chants can work for tîtans but maji can only use magic through chants? Is it just most effective? Will we discover they can use raw magic in book 3? I HAVE QUESTIONS.

Learning about the maji clan setups was also really interesting, but I have to admit it threw me for a bit of a loop referring to the leaders as elders and then they were all children. xP

Also, I’m really glad Tomi listened and gave us queer characters. I love Nâo and Khani. Powerful leader girlfriends? HELL YEAH.

I think this book made it really clear that Zélie x Amari is not end game and will not happen. I know a lot of people were/still are hopeful for that, but I think there’s just too much set up that says otherwise. They love each other, but imo they firmly think of each other as family. I’m going to put my stock in our canon queer couple and support them 10,000%.

Next big one: FUCKING HELL INAN STILL BEING ALIVE, I AM REALLY NOT HAPPY. I didn’t check out the chapters in the table of contents, so I didn’t have the forewaring to see that Inan was getting perspective chapters again, so it took my by quite a bit of surprise. A lot of you called that Inan would still be alive, but I honestly so prefer “dead means dead” in stories (otherwise, I find deaths are used too much for shock value and it just devalues the overall story and plot) that I had myself convinced he really was dead. He got a convincing death scene. Listen, if you kill off a character, I am going to grieve them. It is not going to be the same if you bring them back. I will have completely detached feelings for them and have to form a whole new relationship and perspective on them, and I am always going to keep them at a distanced because they were dead, I saw it happen, and there is no going back.

But no. BAM! He’s not only alive but Zélie is the one to wake him from his connector coma. Not happy. I really feel that Inan’s story played out in CoBaB. It’s interesting that I’ve seen some real anti-Inan folk feeling more sympathy for Inan in this book, while I’ve talked about feeling that Inan was a really compelling villain in book 1, but I’ve got much more negative feelings towards him throughout book 2. (And also why the hell should Inan get to come back but all these little maji kids - Zulaikha and Mazeli, c’mon - die and die for real??? It feels very cheap and very shock value to me. I don’t know if it was like some statement on privilege or Tomi just didn’t want to be done with Inan, but yeah.)

Honestly, the way Inan and Amari think in this book is so similar, and I found it so fucking conceited and narrow-minded. My view on both of them went down in this book. They just kept talking about how they have to be so selfish and they’re the only ones who can see things for how they are and how damn much they sacrifice and how tired they are because it’s up to them to sacrifice everything. Like!!! GUYS. No.

From the beginning when the CVV summary was released, I was wary of the plot focusing on Amari leading the people. It’s one of those things like: the system is not broken. It’s functioning exactly as it intends to. The monarchy has evolved to uphold a class system where diviners and maji are at the bottom. That’s what it wants to be doing. Can you really effectively change the system by accepting the system as your basis for change? Maybe it’s time to deconstruct the system and build something better. Not just put a royal back on the throne and think that’s gonna go smoothly.

And that’s exactly what happened here. They tried to use the system to buck the system and everything collapsed around them.

But I’m getting a little off topic - fixing a system of bigotry and oppression that your people built is not a sacrifice. You are still in the position of power here.

And Inan’s little bit where he thinks he’s so good and pure and better than his father because he offers the maji a place in society if they bend to his rules and follow him when the other option is that he will murder them had me wanting to tear my hair out. “Follow me or perish” is not a compromise. It’s not improvement. It’s literally a threat. And then when the maji don’t take this offer, Inan takes this as a sign that his mother was right and they can’t trust the maji to make the right decisions!?!?

Ugh. I was just done. I know all the factors of why I originally had sympathy for Inan are still there, and they largely control how he acts and thinks in CVV. (What he really needs for character growth and development is to be away from toxic influences and given time to grieve and work on figuring himself out. Not thrust into a position of power with his mother holding all the strings.) So, for me, Inan’s character really hit a wall, always getting stuck in the same patterns. And so now I feel less sympathy for him and find his story less compelling.

I honestly found Inan’s cousin, Ojore, really interesting. I think it could have been a really compelling story if somehow Ojore was allowed to take up the throne. WIth his background, being there in the burner attack that killed Saran’s father, he had a lot of backstory that we could have explored. And Tomi still could have revealed that it was Nehanda that manipulated things and let the burners in to encourage the war and the genocide against maji. Without Inan, we could have really gotten to explore how Ojore would react to that while on the throne. He could have potentially gone through the character development that Inan will never really get to see. Instead of him being killed pretty much immediately after he learns the truth behind his family’s death and the attack on him.

That being said, I do respect Inan’s decision to give up his position in the end. I think the whole “I’ll let your murder me” and Zélie apparently going to go through this was a little… contrived. But at least Inan did pull it out in the end. It will be interesting to see how these last moments between Inan and Zélie come into play in the next book. I’m assuming either Inan has been taken with the rest or will mount a rescue to go after them, so you know we’re going to get more on how this relationship develops.

(I think with Tzain done with Amari right now, Amari and Inan trying to navigate a new siblingship with each other will be a more interesting relationship than Inan x Zélie, and I would look forward to getting to see these sibs talk and get to actually be there for each other like they never have before.)

And since I just went through Inan, let’s go ahead and talk about Amari.

Oh, Amari.

Amari, Amari, Amari.

GIRL. Why did it take you this entire book to realize that making decisions based off of what your father would have done was the wrong damn thing to do!?!?!? Omg, we all knew that was gonna crash and burn on you. The entire purpose of overthrowing your father’s rule was to not do things his way because his way was cruel and malicious. smdh

I was still rooting for Amari throughout the book. I am still rooting for Amari, but damn. She sure did try to make it hard doing things like going back on promises right after she made them (forcing Zélie to teach her chants that didn’t belong to her and then immediately using them on a maji) and acting like she new better than all the maji (I agree that just wanting to kill all the nobles and other peoples wasn’t a feasible plan, but GIRL. These are a traumatized, hunted people. They’re going to be angry, especially right in the thick of a war. Strongarming your way into a position of power over them is not going to make them feel any better about you or bring about peace. It’s just going to show them that they cannot trust you). And her move at the end? Sacrificing Zélie and all those people in that village? Being willing to murder them all? … If killing her father fucked her up, what’s this going to do? I still have faith in her. I want her to come back from this. But she’s going to have to majorly confront her own feelings and actions and work very hard to come back from this. Though, I have a feeling that she’ll mostly get forgiven in the next book because bigger and worse things will happen and they’ll have to come together, regardless of how they feel about each other.

Amari’s realization in the end when she decides she doesn’t have to kill her mother (uh… was I the only one expecting some sort of Avatar moment like when Aang took away Ozai’s bending? Like… Nehanda is still a threat… this part of the story can’t just be over) and that killing her father just fucked her up kinda made me feel ashamed for feeling so proud of her when she did kill Saran in CBB. Like, it was just such a powerful moment, and I think too many (simple “good vs evil”) stories fall prey to poor and simplistic messages like “killing in self-defense is evil and makes the good people as bad as the villains”. But it’s just been weighing on Amari this whole time and fucking her up, and now I feel bad. =(

Speaking of Amari feeling bad, though: Ramaya. The connector Amari beat for connector elder.

I hope either Inan was taken with everybody else or Amari will connect with him via their connector-sibling connection. It seems incredibly likely that Ramaya is stuck in her dreamscape similarly to how Inan was stuck in his before Zélie somehow entered it and woke him. Considering they were constantly saying Ramaya was their best soldier, it seems like it would also come in handy to wake Ramaya and be able to utilize her skills to help rescue the kidnapped crew. Like, this HAS to come up at some point, doesn’t it? She can’t just be forgotten in a coma. Did anybody stay behind to take care of her when they marched on the capitol? D|

Other relationships!

Fuck, I fell so hard for Roën in this book. He’s just so endearing. And it seems like it was really only Roën that was able to keep Zélie grounded and moving forward in this book. I didn’t really support Roën and Zélie getting together in book 1, but book 2 absolutely made me support the ship.

However, I think Roën’s actions at the end of the book are a very good insight into the types of things that Roën is capable of. I don’t know if this is endgame for Tomi, but after Zélie’s constant struggle of just wanting to leave and be free and start over in this book and how her rage towards Inan consumed her and caused her to make some short-sighted mistakes (promising she’d protect Mazeli at the temple, then Ojore almost killing him while she tussled with Inan), I just don’t know that this is a particularly healthy relationship. The bit where Roën takes her out to see and they get a ride from a whale? Absolutely adorable. Just what Zélie (and I suspect Roën) needed. But long-term? I have a feeling that Roën is going to have to let more of that mercenary self of his out, and it’s going to scare and wear on Zélie, and erode their relationship. I think this is one of those relationships that is good in the short-term but isn’t long-term sustainable.

Speaking of long-term - I know Tzain is absolutely done with Amari right now, but I think he’s overall shown a great capacity for forgiveness, and I do think Tzain and Amari are endgame for Tomi. I don’t think this break between them is permanent.

But you know who we really need to talk about?

MAMA AGBA

What a heartbreaking arc. You know she had to sever the tie between Mazeli and Zélie to save Zélie’s life. I so wish she had gotten more time with Zélie for them to reform their trust and love for one another. I absolutely wouldn’t have been able to survive the maji elders sacrificing Amari to complete the linking ritual, but I can’t believe they really did sacrifice Mama Agba like that. She was really the only guidance these poor kids had. I can’t believe they really sacrificed her.

RIP Mama Agba. I hope you’re helping to look after Mazeli. 3

Now, for that damn epilogue.

I don’t know if I can take the next book. I don’t know how Tomi’s gonna make it through the next book.

Getting gassed and waking up on an eerie ship with the other elders? Anybody else get the feeling that Tomi is going to dive into a trans atlantic slave trade parallel? I hope I’m just being paranoid here (hey, the book seriously played with my emotions; I have no idea where I’m at anymore). What were y’alls takeaways from that part?

Predictions!

- Harum obviously has something to do with all the elders being taken and them being on a boat now, right? Tomi was totally setting him up as an antagonist and he got very little antag action in this book. He’s got to have something to do with this.

- This was always intended to be a trilogy, but I have to wonder if this isn’t going to end up turning into a couple more books than intended. There was so much to go over in book 2 and then the twist of an epilogue. They’re not even getting to rebuild yet. It just feels like Tomi has so much more planned it can’t possibly be wrapped up in just one more book.

- I feel like something’s gotta happen to sever or dampen the connection the elders (and Roën and Tzain) have with each other. After how powerful they were in the end, Tomi’s gotta counter that somehow. I just don’t know if she’s gonna dampen the powers or pull out an even BIGGER bad than Nehanda was.

- Obviously “Children of Gods” has to do with the title of book 3. If it’s not just Children of Gods, I predict: Children of Gods and Ghosts.

Ending Thoughts

CVV was well worth the wait and lived up to the hype, but if we don’t get some hope and optimism in the next book, I don’t know what I’m going to do. I need these poor kids to get some semblance of a happy ending. They’ve been through so much.

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