Starker!Portal AU where FRIDAY uploads Tony's conscious into the building/an AI he was creating/a robot because he was dying and she was trying to save him by any means necessary.

And it works! He is alive! Just. As an AI.

Unfortunately, AI's don't have human rights so SI ends up changing hands to a certain Cave Johnson and Tony ends up in charge of - and addicted to - testing the .. test subjects.

SI, now known as Aperture Science, does not particularily care about things like "being osha compliant" or "work safety" or "morals and human rights".

Tony tries his best, but, well. He dosen't actually have that much access. FRIDAY tried to save them - and the test subjects - first and he really dosen't want to face her fate. He dosen't give up, but he does decide that the long game is the way to go about it.

Cue the Apocalypse. Which. Hm. It does get rid of all the horrible people here, but it also kind of killed everyone else, so. Ya know. You win some, you lose some.

But! Fortunately! One test subject survived: Peter Parker.

He's the best. He figured out the portals so quickly and he does the test's so fast, Tony can hardly keep up production and he actually talks to him and he's so funny and cute and-

Well. Outside is just wasteland, anyways. So it's for the best for both of them if Peter stays right where he is; in Tony's Test Center, where Tony can see and control everything. Forever. No need to leave (at all, ever).

Now if only he could convince Peter to burn that damn companion cube..

This is my contribution to the @daredevilexchange, a fic for @valinorbound using the prompts, Foggy, Karen, and Matt setting up their new partnership, a post-Defenders reunion, and team as family. 

“What do you mean you haven’t spoken to any of the other Defenders?” Foggy asked as he strained to squeeze a conference table into the space above Theo’s shop. The Three Avocados, as Foggy liked to call them, were busy trying to convert space previously used for storage into a semblance of a lawyer’s office. 

Foggy and Karen were trying to treat Matt’s vigilante side job like a normal extracurricular activity. But it was proving to be a little harder for them than if Matt had taken up, say, the violin. Foggy thought that Matt was better off in a team up, rather than working alone - safer that way - and had brought up the Defenders. It turned out that Matt hadn’t spoken to any of them since the Midland Circle debacle.

Matt, after trying to duck the question for at least five minutes by attempting to clear some clutter from what was soon to be their waiting room and keeping up a running commentary of what he guessed the items were, had finally mumbled something about not having seen them since the building had come down. He hoped they would drop the subject, but judging from Karen’s quick intake of breath and the fact that Foggy had completely stopped all movement for about 10 seconds told him that this was never going to happen.

“Matt, buddy,” Foggy began, “I saw them after it all happened. When we all thought you were, you know,” he dropped his voice to a whisper, “dead.” 

Behind him, Karen rolled her eyes, but stayed silent, emptying out an old file cabinet she hoped they could use.

“And, let me tell you, man, they were pretty broken up about it. I mean, you stayed down there when they all came up. That leaves a mark on people. Hell, Matt, YOU leave a mark on people, and you really need to get better at the whole,” here he stopped his futile efforts with the table and leaned against it, “you know, communicating thing. Starting with NOT LETTING PEOPLE WHO CARE ABOUT YOU GO ON BELIEVING THAT YOU’RE DEAD.”

“What Foggy is trying to say,” Karen interrupted, shooting Foggy a look over her shoulder as she approached Matt, “Is that even if you don’t team up with these people again, you should at least let them know that you’re ok.”

“I’m sure they’ve heard by now,” Matt answered them dismissively. “It was a little hard to miss Daredevil’s return; it was all over the news!” Hearing both Foggy’s and Karen’s heartbeats start to pick up, he asked, “What?”. They were both getting worked up about something, but he really just wanted to focus on what they were doing - making a fresh start for the new Nelson, Murdock, and Page and making sure they were ready to open the doors on schedule. 

Seeing that Foggy was about to yell again, or possibly pull his hair out in frustration, Karen placed a hand on his arm and took a step forward, “Matt, don’t you think that they might want to hear it from you? Whatever the four of you went through down there, it was pretty intense. And then to think that you stayed down there when they all got out. That had to have been difficult for them. I think you owe it to them to at least let them know that you survived.” As she spoke, Karen moved slowly toward Matt, as if toward a skittish cat. “They may not love you like we do, but I’m sure they’d be happy to hear from you again if you were to reach out.”

Matt sighed, running his fingers back through his hair and turning away for a moment. They were right. He knew they were right, but at the same time, his plate felt awfully full just then. The Yakuza seemed to be trying to make a play for the hole left by the Hand, he, Foggy, and Karen were attempting to get their new partnership underway, which meant a lot of physical work as well as paperwork, and he was making more of an effort to be a better friend to both of them. This meant trying to juggle a worklife, social life, and his nightlife, and he lived in constant fear that one of those balls was going to drop on his head.

The thought of reaching out to three more people, even if it was just socially, was more than he really felt up to at the moment. Admitting that, however, was something that he just didn’t think he could do right now, either. He couldn’t see their faces, but he could picture the sympathetic looks that Foggy and Karen would give him, as well as the requisite pep talks and encouragement to cut back on his nighttime activities if he so much as hinted that he was feeling a little overwhelmed. 

After a moment, he decided that the only way through this was to admit that Foggy and Karen were right, and call up the other Defenders. Maybe he would get lucky and a quick phone call would suffice. 

____________________________________________________________________________

Murdocks don’t get lucky, Matt thought as the limo he sat in propelled him through the city. We get hit, we get up, we use pain to keep us going, but we never get lucky. 

Matt’s hope and plan went off the rails with his first phone call. It was to Jessica, who first hung up on him, then called him back to yell at him until he had to hold the phone away from his ear fearful of hearing damage. She hung up on him again, then called back, clearly inside a bottle, to yell some more. It took him two days before he recovered enough to call Luke, who was overjoyed to hear from him, but a lot more sane about the call than Jessica had been. Fewer expletives as well.

The call had gone so well, in fact, that he immediately called Danny, a decision he was now regretting. Danny had also been overjoyed to hear from him, and had immediately suggested that the four of them meet and catch up. “You don’t have to do a thing,” he promised over the phone, “I’ll arrange everything. Hey, did I tell you I bought that restaurant we all met at? Yeah, after the car came through the front window, I sort of had to in order to avoid being sued. Anyway, it’s mine now so I can host you all there for a reunion dinner! I’ll call the others and set it up, how’s the 20th work for you?” Given that it was the 1st, and the 20th seemed ages off, Matt agreed and hung up the phone wondering what he had gotten himself into.

The next few weeks flew by as they continued getting Nelson, Murdock, and Page up and running. They were officially open for business, and the word about the hot shot pro bono attorneys was spreading. Karen was almost never in the office, off following some lead while Matt and Foggy did their best to keep up with the unending stream of people who flowed through their doors.

They were so busy, in fact, that Matt had completely forgotten about his dinner with the Defenders until a limo had pulled up outside of the shop one evening, and a beaming Danny - he could actually hear the man smile - had him by the arm and inside the limo before he had time to blink. 

Any attempts Matt made at stalling or entering the restaurant quietly were thwarted by Danny, who pulled him inside, while calling out enthusiastically to the others the whole time. Matt was immediately greeted by a punch to the gut and an, “Asshole!” from Jessica, who was clearly still mad at his failure to communicate the fact that he was still alive. He struggled to get his breath back while he felt Luke watching him, “I’m STILL not giving you a hug,” the bigger man told him, his hands folded inside his hoodie, “But I am glad to see you, man. Glad you’re still with us.” And with that, he good naturedly swatted Matt on the arm while Matt tried not to flinch, remembering the wallop he had just received.

Luke moved off toward Jessica, who Matt could hear pouring shot after shot of what smelled like cheap whiskey. Guilt flooded him for a moment as he faced the fact that his decisions had caused this pain. But, he had promised Foggy and Karen that he was going to start doing better, so he took a deep breath and steeled himself for what was coming next.

Danny, who hadn’t let go of his arm as if afraid Matt was going to turn around and leave again, pulled him further into the restaurant toward a table in the back that was already filled with food. Given how much Danny could eat, that wasn’t surprising. Matt seated himself and began to toy with this knife and fork. For a moment he was actually thankful to be blind, as it meant he didn’t have to make eye contact with anyone as the others seated themselves at the table and dinner got underway.

The meal started out somewhat awkwardly with Danny doing most of the talking. Eventually, Matt managed to get a word in edgewise, and apologized to the others for not reaching out sooner. There was a brief pause while the others let him squirm for a moment, and then things relaxed and the evening became a lot more, if not fun, then at least enjoyable. 

So enjoyable, in fact, that when Jessica announced she had to leave to follow up on something, the other three decided to join her. A lot of whiskey went into this decision, but Jessica had said this was a routine surveillance, after all, so what could go wrong?

____________________________________________________________________________

Matt cursed the Murdock luck again as he ducked what sounded an awful lot like a computer printer flying at his head. The paper tray had come loose and was sliding outward in one direction while the power cord whipped around in the other, making a whistling sound that distracted him. He dodged the printer easily, but the cord caught him across the face. He grabbed it and used it to swing the printer back at the thug that had thrown it at him, knocking the guy backwards so that he stumbled into the man standing behind him, taking them both out.

 Jessica’s “routine surveillance” had turned out to be on a very angry and destructive executive who had been caught slipping back into his office presumably to destroy evidence that showed the fact that he had been appropriating funds. Jessica was acting on a tip that the scumbag was planning on leaving the country soon, and she was hoping to gather evidence of this tonight. 

A security guard clearly on the man’s payroll spotted Jessica taking pictures, though, and all hell had broken loose. The next thing any of them knew, they were engaged with several hired goons who had clearly been instructed not to let them get away. When the hired thugs realized that they were clearly outmatched, they became desperate, throwing everything but the proverbial kitchen sink at the group. It didn’t really matter in the end, but it did slow the Defenders down enough that the evidence was destroyed before the executive was out the door and into a town car. This led to a heated argument about whether they should follow him, or simply turn over the images that Jessica had managed to take before the shit hit the fan and walk away from the mess. Matt was personally torn on the subject; this wasn’t normally his game, but he hated to see guilty people slip away. Luke was all for turning over the evidence and getting out of there before someone called the cops on them, and Matt was leaning toward agreeing with him, but Jessica and Danny were outraged and argued that it wasn’t enough to simply send some images when the guy could be anywhere within an hour.

In the end, it was decided that Matt and Danny would trail him while Jessica and Luke got the images into the right hands. Thankfully, the guy was easy to trail from the rooftops, and they were able to keep reporting on his whereabouts while Jessica and Luke got the info to her client, who was able to go to the police with his case. 

It was dawn before Matt made it back to his apartment. He managed a quick shower and a quick nap before he dragged himself into the office for the day. For the first time in ages, he actually considered calling in, but he knew that if he did the others would worry, and he had enough guilt to deal with. Making them worry wasn’t something he could bring himself to do just then.

Foggy and Karen were waiting for him, both of them clearly eager to hear about how his evening had gone. Matt could hear them talking excitedly when he entered the shop and headed for the back stairs. They were hoping that he had enjoyed himself and that maybe he would consider working with one or more of them in the future, which Foggy felt would be safer for him in the long run, to have someone watching his back, what happened at Midland Circle notwithstanding. Matt was touched, and had to pause for a moment before he let them know he was there. He didn’t want them to realize that he had overheard them. That, and he was pretty sure he looked terrible after last night, plus he was moving a little oddly due to Jessica’s punch, which had left him a very sore, and black and blue stomach. 

He could smell coffee, though, and in his rush to arrive on time he hadn’t had any yet. He was so desperate for caffeine he was willing even to drink the coffee if Karen had made it. In fact, he might have to ask her to make him his own pot; he was so tired he was afraid he’d end up doing something dumb like forgetting to put the carafe under the stream. 

Pausing outside the door, he straightened up, suppressed a hiss of pain from his bruised abs, and plastered a smile on his face. He knew he looked bad, but he wasn’t sure exactly how bad until he went in and heard both Karen’s and Foggy’s heart rates jump up about 50 beats a minute each. They were both silent for a moment before they rushed him, talking at once.

“Matt! What happened,” Karen asked as she ran to take his cane and steer him toward a chair. 

“Matt, buddy! What the hell happened last night? I thought you were having dinner with Danny, Luke, and Jessica!” Foggy was alternating coming in close and quickly backing up again, obviously not sure what to do. “You look like shit, buddy. Don’t tell me you blew them off and went out Daredeviling,” Matt could hear the frown in Foggy’s voice and was quick to reassure him.

“No, no, I did meet up with them. I swear. And it was nice, really. I mean, Jessica punched me in the stomach when I first walked in,” Matt paused as he heard Karen’s sharp intake of breath. She reached a hand toward his stomach, but he brushed it away with a shake of his head. “I’ll be fine, really. And I did deserve it. I realize now that I shouldn’t have left them hanging like I did. And, can I get some coffee? Please? I was out till dawn, and I haven’t had any yet.” He trailed off, his head starting to pound from caffeine withdrawal. He must have looked as bad as he felt since Karen got up to fill him a cup without asking any questions.

“So, what, did Luke and Danny take turns on the rest of you? It looks like you got smacked in the face by a whip,” Foggy had finally succumbed to his need to be close to Matt, and was gently turning Matt’s face toward the window with his fingers so he could get a better look at the damage. 

“Actually, it was the power cord from a printer,” Matt said sheepishly as he took the cup of coffee from Karen, “Thanks,” he told her, “this is exactly what I need.”

“A power cord?” “From a printer?” Foggy and Karen spoke over one another in their confusion. Matt had to laugh in spite of himself. 

“Yeah, I know, it sounds weird. But… trust me we did have a great time. It was a little awkward at the beginning, but then we relaxed and it was good to catch up. I apologized for not having reached out sooner.”

“And they whipped you with a power cord?” Foggy interrupted. He and Karen were both confused, and starting to wonder if Matt had hit his head. 

“No, no, that happened later,” Matt laughed. “Jessica needed to go to check up on something for a client. We decided to follow her, and if I’m honest a lot of whiskey went into that decision. Things went a little sideways, which is where the printer came from. I’ll spare you the details, but the cops arrested the guy just before 4. We split up then and I made it home before 5, grabbed about two hours of sleep and here I am. We agreed to stay in touch, though, maybe make dinner a regular thing if not the fighting.” Matt smiled at his friends, who he could tell were torn about how they felt on this subject. 

“Well,” Foggy began slowly, “are you sure you want to be here today? No offense buddy but you really do look like shit. In fact, I’m not sure you should see any clients; I think you’ll scare them.”

Matt started to protest, but then paused, weighing Foggy’s words. It was true his appearance might be off putting to some of their older clients if Foggy and Karen’s reactions were anything to go by, and it was also true that he was trying to be more open about how he felt with Foggy and Karen - part of their agreement when they decided to work together again, but he honestly didn’t want to leave either, despite how gnarly he felt. He decided to come clean.

“Yeah, I know I probably look awful, and frankly I’m not feeling that great either, but I think I’d really rather be here with both of you than home on my own.” He paused to try to get a read on the others, but they were still and silent, heartbeats steady. More nervous now, he continued, “I could just hole up in the back, take care of the back end details, Foggy you could handle the face to face for the day,” he trailed off, as the others were still not giving him anything to work with.

Evidently, though, they had both come to a decision, “Sure thing, buddy,” Foggy said, standing, “Why don’t we clear off that table near the closet and you can work there for the day. It’s kind of hidden behind those weird Chinese screens my mom stashed up here, so no one will see you. And besides,” he said, with a glance at Karen, “I think I speak for both Karen and myself when I say that we’d probably be happier to have you here with us where we can keep an eye on you than have you off on your own, knowing that you’d be likely to jump off a fire escape or something just to help an old lady across the street.” He was smiling, Matt could hear it in his voice. Karen said nothing, but refilled his coffee cup and went to start clearing off the back table. 

Matt smiled at Foggy in relief, glad to finally have no secrets between him and his friends - his family.

It’s been over a week since everyone found out the truth about Chimney. Buck doesn’t understand why but Maddie HAS to go see him at Henrens house when she hears he’s been released.

Buck isn’t sure this is a good idea, or why on Earth his sister is so sure that it is, but here he is, waiting in his car in Hen and Karen’s driveway.

Just a short visit, Maddie had insisted, she just needs to see him, physically see that he’s okay and hopefully doing a bit better.

Buck doesn’t really get it, considering that Maddie doesn’t actually know him, but they’ve technically saved each others lives twice now, so he guess he sort of owes them both. And he’s almost lost Maddie, so as long as it isn’t dangerous, he’ll give her whatever she wants.

Hen apparently shared the same apprehension he did, not knowing if it’s a great idea to bring two determinedly suicidal people together outside of a hospital setting, but she had eventually given in, too. Just half an hour tops, they had decided on.

Maddie feels awkward, more than a little awkward when Hen opens up the door, because the last time she saw the woman, she was crying and ranting at Chimney for lying to her and trying to leave this life, and that’s the only time she had ever met her. She tries to push past the awkwardness, though, walking to the living room where Chimney sits on the couch, looking as nervous as she feels.

“Hi,” she whispers, trying to figure out what to say, both because it’s a... unique situation, and because she’s sure that both Hen and Karen are listening in from the kitchen, “how are you?”

It feels like a dumb, overly simplistic question to ask, but Chimney doesn’t seem offended.

“I’m... I’m here. Okay enough that they let me out after only a week and a half.”

“And should they have?” she asks, raising an eyebrow, “or did you just say the right things? You’re a paramedic, I figure that you’re smart.”

It could be considered to be bold to ask someone she hardly knows, but given the fact that both times they’ve met previously it was at a bridge with the intentions that they both had, she figures it’s not too out of bounds for her to ask.

“I was honest,” he shrugs, and she hates that she can’t be entirely certain that he’s telling the truth, because he’s fooled her once before, “why, were you not when it was your turn in the mental hospital?”

“No, I was honest, I just worked in an ER,” she sighs, biting her lip to keep from laughing because they should not be laughing about this, “I’ve done intake for suicidal people before... when someone else brings them in... suicidal doesn’t mean stupid. People can usually figure out the right things to say if they don’t want to be admitted, as long as they haven’t actually hurt themselves yet.”

“That makes sense,” he murmurs, folding his arms across his chest, “I told the truth.”

“Okay,” she says evenly, and she can tell that he knows that she doesn’t fully trust him on it, but he doesn’t push it any further.

“How are you, Maddie?” he asks instead.

“Nervous, on edge,” she admits, because maybe if she tells the whole truth it’ll compel him to do the same, “Athena had a cease and desist order because of the gifts being sent, was pretty easy to get the order but... it’s only a matter of time.”

“Don’t say that.”

“It’s true,” she shrugs, “you don’t know him, and you especially don’t know him when it comes to me... he’s relentless. He can’t be arrested until he actually DOES something, and when he does...”

She can tell from the look on his face that his mind has filled in the blanks easily.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” she shakes her head, “I’m probably not making you feel any better, am I? You just got out of the hospital, I should be trying to help keep you feeling positive...”

“I’d rather you be honest about how you really feel. That’s what’s important, right? They told you that, too?”

“...Shut up,” she can’t help but chuckle, hating that they’re both partaking in psych ward humor, “but really, are you alright? Well, I suppose you’re probably not alright but... more alright than the last time I saw you?”

“I’m not on a bridge, am I?”

“Chimney.”

“Yeah,” he sighs with a nod, “more alright. And Hen and Karen will have me on near constant surveillance, not to mention I’m pretty sure they’re telling their son to be as intentionally cute as possible to emotionally manipulate me, so I wouldn’t worry about me, Maddie.” 

“Hard not to, given the last two times we met.”

“Hmm. Fair. How about we start over. Hi, I’m Chimney,” he says, sticking his hand out with a smile that sort of reaches his eyes, and God, he is a bit of dork.

“Hi, I’m Maddie. It’s nice to meet you.”

Fire Away: Chapter 9

Chapter 9: Well I WIsh I Could Say That I’ve Never Been Here Before

Also on Ao3:  Fire Away: Chapter 9

Super emotional sexy times in this chapter.

--

The next day found them in an unfamiliar diner across town, Frank and Karen on one side, Matt and Foggy on the other. Karen fidgeted with her straw wrapper, trying not to look as nervous as she felt. When she glanced up she noticed Frank and Matt were having a ‘staring’ contest of sorts, both scowling deeply at the other. Foggy was trying to act casual but she could see tension in every inch of his face.  

Letting out a long suffering sigh, Karen snapped her hand down on the table bringing all eyes to her. “Listen, if you two want to make moon eyes at each other the entire time, that’s fine, Foggy and I can get another booth and discuss the situation.”

Matt had the decency to look a bit sheepish and Frank gave her what she was coming to understand as an apologetic look before he sat back in the booth to rest his arm behind her on the seat. When she looked over to Foggy, he was doing his best not to laugh, a smirk tugging at his lips. If it weren’t for his unease around Frank he would be outright laughing.

Matt cleared his throat, “You said you knew who was behind the attempts on your life?”

Karen opened her mouth to respond but Frank snorted before taking a quick drink of his coffee. His voice was casual but he was clearly antagonizing, “Yeah, Murdock, it’s someone who should be in the ground instead of a jail cell.”

Squeezing Frank’s knee under the table, Karen turned a withering glare at him. There was no apologetic look this time, he just shrugged and took a longer drink of his coffee. Matt, for his part, didn’t respond, just clenched his hands around his own coffee and kept his attention on Karen.

It was Foggy’s turn to jump in, his eyes wide with disbelief, “How is that even possible? He’s under constant surveillance and his contact is limited. Brett has been checking in personally to ensure that he isn’t getting special treatment like last time.”

Another sigh, this one defeated, escaped Karen before she answered, “Because he still has enough money and power to get around the justice system. We’ve slowed him down putting him behind bars but I think it was more just an inconvenience for him. What we have found over the past couple of weeks is that he was using me more as a diversion to distract from what he was trying to accomplish.” Karen launched into the particulars of what they had found, being sure to lower her voice whenever the waitress would return or other patrons strolled by. When she mentioned Vanessa being the outside link, Matt let out a quiet curse.

“Okay, so what is our plan then?” Foggy asked. Karen gave him an affectionate smile, he was all business now, whatever discomfort he had disintegrated when there was work to do.

“Well, for the legal side of things, the plan is giving you all of the information and evidence we have found and see what avenues you can find to legally sink her. However,” Karen drags her bottom lip through her teeth, “Some of the information we obtained...less legally? So you may not be able to use all of it in court if we get to that.” Matt scowled while Foggy raised an amused eyebrow at her.

“Ms. Page, we leave you to your own devices and suddenly you are an investigative reporter, PI and a hacker? I’m so impressed at how you keep gaining these valuable skills!” Foggy smiled teasingly at her while Karen shook her head at him, smiling herself.

“Don’t forget Counselor, she also has the ability to find trouble anywhere she goes and an incredible talent with sarcasm.” Frank spoke up, taking a bite of toast before smirking at Karen as she gaped at him.

Foggy let out a choking sound, sucking his cheeks in to hold in his laughter, “Man, he does know you Karen.” Matt was even smirking through his scowl.

“Shut up, all of you.” she grumbled but she couldn’t help but smirk, “ Anyway , that is the legal side of it. The less than legal side of it, we are going to go to Vanessa’s estate and I am going to talk to her about lifting the contract on my life.”

Matt tilted his head slightly, ‘When you say ‘we’...” his voice was the slightest bit strained with a hint of antagonism.

“Frank and I. You as well if you want to as long as you agree to go in as a team.” She did her best to ignore Matt’s tone. To his credit, Frank kept quiet and just sipped at his coffee but Karen could see everything he wanted to say, clear on his face.

“I really don’t think it’s necessary for Frank to be involved any longer. We don’t really need a murderer present to have a discussion with someone.” The antagonism was strong now.

Karen and Foggy simultaneously put their faces in their hands while Frank let out a scoff.

“Christ, you really are an alter boy all the way, huh?” Frank gave a cutting smile as he shook his head and then leaned forward to rest his forearms on the table, closer to Matt, “You can take your sanctimonious bullshit and shove it right up your ass, Red. They are after Karen, she’s the one that has done all the investigation, that means she gets to decide who is on her team. Not you. And if I have to choose between killing a shit bag and keeping Karen alive, you bet your ass I’ll take them out.”

“Yeah, well, she’s always had clouded judgement when it comes to you so maybe it shouldn’t be her call.” As soon as he finished speaking, Matt’s face scrunched up with regret. Foggy was looking at his friend, aghast, and Frank had sat back and was chuckling lowly. Karen was glaring so icily at Matt she was surprised he hadn’t started shivering.

Karen smacked Frank in the stomach with the back of her hand causing him to grunt and hunch over slightly before she leaned in towards Matt across from her. “I really hope I didn’t just hear you say that Matt because if we are going to talk about clouded judgement I can give you a whole list of shitty calls you have made.”

“Karen-”

“And for the record, this is why I didn’t come to you. Now, I’m going to be mature enough to pretend you didn’t just say that and get back to the plan. So you can keep your patronizing bullshit to yourself and just listen, got it?” Her voice brokered no argument and Matt, very smartly, just nodded.

Foggy looked between Frank, Matt and Karen before heaving a deep sigh, “Karen, not to agree too much with the idiot next to me but I don’t like the idea of being part of a plan where murder is an option.”

Frank clicked his tongue but didn’t say anything as Karen glared at him once more. “I know Foggy.” She paused to smile at the waitress as she dropped off Frank’s eggs and bacon and her own food of yogurt and fruit. She saw Frank eyeballing her plate but ignored him to respond to Foggy, “We have already discussed that. It looks like most of the personnel at her estate is a hired security company, not criminals so they won’t be killed.”

Matt gave a derisive snort that resulted in Foggy elbowing him sharply in the ribs before saying, “And what about the ones that are criminals?”

“As long as they don’t threaten Karen, I promise to be on my best behaviour Counselor.” Frank looked at her plate pointedly. “Is that all you got to eat?”

“Yeah, I’m not that hungry.” She murmured before she turned back to Foggy, “I’m going to do everything I can to ensure we talk to Vanessa with no casualties.” As she spoke, Karen saw Frank move two pieces of his bacon to her plate and bit her cheek to keep from smiling. When she turned her attention back to Foggy, he had been watching as well, there was a look of bewilderment on his face, like he couldn’t quite comprehend what he was seeing.

“Well, I guess that is all I can really ask at this point, I’m just glad you are back and safe. It is getting so boring at the office without you.” Foggy said.

Matt looked offended as Karen laughed, “Well, I hope to be back in the office by next week at the latest. I can only imagine what kind of disarray you left my desk in.”

They chatted over their food, mostly catching Karen up on things she’d had missed while she was gone, cases that had been completed, new cases on the docket and any ridiculous gossip that had been picked up at Josie’s. Matt jumped in every once in a while but he and Frank stayed silent for most of the meal after that.

Once the food was gone and everything had been discussed, they all stood to pay for their meals and go off in various directions to begin preparing for their respective parts of the plan. As she moved to the register, Karen felt Frank’s hand at the small of her back, a steady, reassuring weight as they waited for the person in front of them to finish up. She wondered if she would always be so aware of him, if every little touch would always feel so important and monumental. She hoped so.

Foggy took off first with a promise to dig into the files Karen planned on sending over as soon as he received them but first he had a coffee date with Marci that he couldn’t miss. With a tight hug for Karen and respectful nod to Frank he turned and made his way to the closest taxi.

Karen gave Matt a quick hug and promised to call later with an address and started to turn away but he grabbed her elbow before she got far. She could feel Frank tense behind her but he didn’t say anything. She looked expectantly at Matt.

“Karen, look, I-,” he sounded strained for a second and took a moment to collect his thoughts, “I’m sorry about earlier alright? I know you are capable of taking care of yourself and it was a real asshole thing for me to say.”

She raised her eyebrows, “Ya think?” She relented however, she knew it wasn’t an easy thing for Matt to be around Frank, especially since he could probably tell with his fancy superpowers that there was something going on between them. “I know, Matt, it’s okay. Just, try to have a little more faith in me, okay?”

Giving the hand he had on her arm a reassuring squeeze she attempted to leave again but Matt kept his grip firm. Oh for Chrissake, what now? She squared her shoulders, forcing him to drop his hand, and crossed her arms over her chest, waiting for him to say what was obviously on his mind.

“Why don’t you come stay with me or Foggy?” Karen started to protest but he pressed on, “You said you were staying in some warehouse, that can’t be comfortable. We can finalize everything at my place and you’ll still be safe.”

“No.”

Matt looked at a loss, like the only real option was going with him and the fact that she refused was beyond comprehension.

“Why?” he asked.

Karen chewed on her bottom lip as she studied him for a second. She had the urge to shake him which was not unusual with Matt Murdock but she settled for a quiet, “You know why, Matt.” before turning to walk back to where Frank was waiting. She didn’t have to look at Frank’s face to know he was looking smugly at Matt and rolled her eyes when he slung an arm over her shoulder as they walked away. I’m going to hurt them both.

She gave him a sweet smile and then promptly pinched his side, causing him to step away quickly with a quiet curse.

“What the hell was that for?” he asked, rubbing the spot. He tried to sound angry but she heard the underlying amusement in his tone.

“You know why, Frank.”

They spent the day going over details and making sure they didn’t miss anything important. Karen had forwarded her files over to Foggy and had answered a couple calls from him for her input on clarifying some finer points.

Karen was pulled from her hundredth time of scanning the folder she put together by Frank beckoning to her.

“Hey, come over here for a sec.” He waved her over with one hand while the other was digging around in a container that appeared to be full of tactical gear. Pushing away from her computer with a long stretch, she made her way over to where he stood and watched him pull out a couple of bulletproof vests.

She raised an eyebrow at him but he just shrugged and stepped in front of her with one of them. He strapped her in with ease and went over the garment critically, checking how it fit and laid on her frame and said, “I’ll occasionally acquire them after finishing a job. I wanted to see if any of these fit you or if I am going to need to find one before tomorrow night.”

Karen looked down at herself as he tugged and shifted the garment and said skeptically, “Is this really necessary?”

Frank stopped what he was doing, two fingers tucked into the vest at her chest and gaped at her disbelievingly.

“Alright, alright it was just a question.” She gave a small laugh and let him maneuver her around to take the vest off.

He apparently wasn’t satisfied with the fit of that one because he tossed it back into the container before grabbing another and starting the process again. “To answer that question, you wouldn’t be going into that place without one. Maybe the guys working there aren’t criminals but they are there to do a job. If they see us as a threat, which I’m betting they will, they will probably take some shots so you need to have protection.”

He focused fully on the task at hand and seemed more pleased with the fit of this vest but she could see the worry creeping into his eyes, no doubt imagining all of the scenarios in which the plan could go wrong. Karen caught his hand checking the straps at her side and held it between hers, rubbing her thumb over his knuckles.

“It’s going to be fine. We are just going there to talk, it’s not like we are facing down a psycho with a bomb or escaping through elevator shafts or anything.” Her gallows humor had the desired effect for a second, his lips quirking a bit at the corners.

It faded quickly though, his eyes going serious and grim, his voice solemn, “I know how quickly things can go wrong, normal one second and batshit crazy the next. People there with you one second and then gone the next.”

Karen’s heart gave a painful lurch and she felt her eyes start to prickle so she stepped into him quickly, wrapping her arms tightly around him. Thinking of everything Frank had lost always made her weepy and she didn’t want him to have to deal with her tears when he was the one who should be upset. She felt his arms settle around her shoulders and his head rested against hers and for a moment they just swayed together gently.

After a moment though, Frank stepped back, placed a soft kiss to her forehead and began to pull off the vest.

“This one fits pretty well, I think it will work well for tomorrow.” He placed it next to his, the emblazoned skull stark against the black material, which lay atop his selected arsenal for tomorrow. “Have you heard from the counselor? Got anything he can use?”

Karen sighed, “Yeah, there are a few things he would be able to use against her, some illegal trading and some potentially forfeit art but nothing as serious as I would like but it may be enough. At least to get them off my case.”

Frank nodded and she saw him thinking about his next question. Here we go. And she wasn’t disappointed.

“Have you heard from Murdock?”

“No”

“Have you contacted Murdock?”

“ No .” she answered a bit more curtly.

Frank held up a placating hand, “If he is going to be part of the plan, he needs to know where we are going.”

He was right of course but she was still a little annoyed at both of them. “I’ll text him the address and where we intend to meet. You sure you two are okay to work together? You seem like you would rather glare and bitch at each other.”

Frank scoffed, “Red’s a pain in the ass but he isn’t a bad ally to have on your side. If he could just stop being so preachy, we would get along just fine.”

Karen shook her head with a small smile, “You’re not wrong, I suppose. On the flip side, I’m sure he thinks if you were less murdery you’d get along just fine.”

He gave her a wry grin, “I guess neither one of us are going to get what we want, huh?”

She couldn’t help but laugh, walking away from him to go back to her task, “No, I guess not.”

-----

Frank watched Karen go back to her desk to pour over everything again. Nothing will have changed since the last time she looked but he knew it was a good distraction for her. In the meantime he needed to make sure he had all the gear he needed and was ready himself. He still didn’t like the idea that not only was Karen going into the den of the enemy but he had to also attempt to get her in and out without any fatalities. As much as Murdock annoyed him, Frank was glad he would be there as well, it would allow him to focus more fully on Karen’s safety.

Sitting across the room, Frank began running through his mental checklist, he wanted to have time to hunt down any needed supplies before go-time. This was a top priority mission with very precious cargo and he was not going to fuck it up. Every mission or war he had waged over the past several months was nowhere near as important as the one he was preparing for, failure was not an option.

He’d need to pick up some more ammo for his .45, realistically he probably had enough but he’d rather be over prepared. Frank glanced up when he heard a thoughtful noise from Karen, a detail catching her attention. He watched as she buried long graceful fingers into the pale spun gold of her hair with one hand, while the other skimmed the document, occasionally tapping out a rhythm on the table. For a second he was transported to the previous night, those long locks sliding between his fingers while she was on her knees in front of him. Her teeth pulled at her bottom lip as she worked and Frank couldn’t help but watch the slide of her tongue when she wet her lips.

When he realized he was outright staring at her he shook his head and went back to the task at hand. For God’s sake he was acting like a horny, head over heels teenager. First that little dominance stunt he pulled with Murdock, huffing out a laugh he rubbed the spot Karen had pinched him, and now he was ogling her while she worked. It was amazing how fast the switch was flipped in his mind of him thinking of Karen as his. He really needed to get a grip. Frank still wasn’t sure he made the right call, agreeing to give a relationship a shot. He was still dangerous to be around and the thought of him bringing even more danger to Karen’s life made him nauseous. The thing was, it was obvious that Karen would be in trouble at some point whether he was there or not and the thought of him not being there to help her also made him nauseous.

Maybe it was a bad idea….but god he wanted it. He could pretend he was alright with the solitude and all the nights alone but that delusion was quickly fading. The past couple of weeks, waking up with someone in bed next to him again, was like a breath of fresh air he didn’t know he needed. Like an ache in his joints he wasn’t aware of until they were gone. Even cramped on the little cot with Karen who was just as tall as him and threw a mean elbow in her sleep, was the most comfortable he had been...well, since Maria. The feeling of waking up to Karen’s softness and warmth, her smile and morning quips, was like a drug and the mere thought of going back to the way things were had him feeling like he was going through withdrawals.

It didn’t really do any good to debate it with himself at this point, he had told Karen he would give it a shot and wouldn’t lie to her. So they would take care of the issue at hand and then he would man up and keep his word. However, if it looked like he was bringing too much danger into her life, he was gone, no questions asked. Well, probably anyway. He had a feeling Karen Page was becoming a major guiding force in his life and he may not have a choice on if he goes or stays.

Shaking his head, Frank ran through the remainder of his list and decided to grab some more ammo for Karen’s .380 while he was at it. He set everything back in place and stood, rolling his shoulders back to work out the knots and headed over to grab a jacket and pull on his boots. When he stood from lacing them up he noticed Karen was watching him.

“I’m going to go pick up some ammo and dinner. Anything sound good to you?”

She hummed, eyeing him with a hunger that had nothing to do with food and he felt desire hit him hard in the gut. Before he could begin to make his way across the room though, she gave him a coy smile, her voice mischievous, “Japanese sounds good. Some sushi? Maybe Katsudon if they have it, yakisoba if they don’t?”

Raising an eyebrow at her, he turned to pull the jacket on. “Japanese it is. I’ll be back soon, I’ll text you before I come in so you know it’s me. Keep an eye on the cameras and call me if anything looks out of the ordinary.” She nodded along as he spoke, turning back to her work but he said her name softly, it brought her attention back to him quickly. Frank gave a little smirk, “Stop being a stubborn ass and text Murdock the information.”

He stepped around the closest object to dodge the pencil that had been lobbed at him and made his way to the exit. He didn’t care one way or the other if Murdock actually accompanied them, it would be helpful sure, but they would be fine without him. However, he knew it was important to Karen to keep her friends in the loop, a pact they had made she didn’t want to break.

The air was chilly when he stepped out into the dusk, heading in the direction of the subway, he needed to go a ways to get to the shop he was wanting. He walked quickly, eyeing his surroundings casually and jumping on the train just before the doors closed. It took about 15 minutes to get to his stop and he emerged onto the street about another 10 minutes walk from his destination.

Frank was nearly there when he felt the prickle on the back of his neck so he stepped into the next alleyway and kept his hand ready to reach for the gun at his hip. However, only one person he knows could land that softly out of nowhere so he wasn’t surprised when he turned to see Murdock frowning at him from behind his mask.

“Evening, Red.”

Murdock gave a small nod and a quiet, “Frank.” Before resuming his pensive silence.

Frank waited another minute before shifting impatiently, “Did ya have somethin’ you wanted to say or….? I kinda have some errands to run and a hungry private investigator waiting for me. I have a fair idea of how grumpy she can be when hungry and would like to avoid that if I can.”

Matt’s face turned a bit more sour, his stance stiffening even more. “She shouldn’t be there. She should be somewhere safe. Somewhere away from you.”

Letting out a long suffering sigh, Frank tucked his hands deep into his pockets and balled them into fists. “You’re not entirely wrong Red but the fact of the matter is that is where she decided to be and you of all people should know that telling her to do something else would not go well.”

The other man gave a begrudging nod but didn’t look put at ease. When he spoke again he had his lawyer facade on, trying to dig for information, “What exactly is your relationship with Karen?”

Frank went still, his eyes narrowing at the other man and said nothing. It wasn’t any of Murdock’s business and Frank was pretty sure he knew already.

“I could smell you on her, at the diner.” His voice was accusatory.

“Well that is officially the weirdest thing you’ve ever said to me, Red. Also the creepiest.” A very immature, alpha male part of his brain swelled with pride at the knowledge that there was no mistaking that Karen had chosen to be with him. He nearly chuckled when he thought of how quickly she would put him in his place if she knew he was thinking like that. “What does it matter to you anyway?”

“You know why it matters Frank. You are still killing, making enemies and starting wars. Karen deserves better than that. Better than you.”

“You’re not wrong there either.” Frank closed the distance between them, bringing them toe to toe, his voice dropped low, a mix of building anger and antagonism, “Is that the only reason, Murdock?  I remember seeing you two back then, holding hands, standing close. How she watched you with so much admiration in the courtroom, when you showed up, that is. Now, she doesn’t want to stay with you, despite being in danger. So is it really that you want to protect Karen or is it that your ego can’t take the fact that you royally fucked up and lost a beautiful, intelligent, brave and loyal woman? To a murderer no less. ”

Matt snarled muscles tensing as though preparing for a fight but Frank’s phone chimed alerting him to a message. His adrenaline spiked, brain always going to the worst case scenario first and Matt must have picked up on it because he took half a step back. Pulling the phone out of his pocket, Frank relaxed when he read the message.

“Shrimp Shumai as well, please. Don’t forget chopsticks, I don’t trust the silverware you have here not to give me tetanus.”

Frank shook his head with a smirk, tapping back a quick ‘Yes, Ma’am’, before tucking the phone in his pocket again. Matt’s head was tilted to listen and his features had relaxed from anger and disgust to mild annoyance and disbelief.

“I don’t deserve her, Murdock, you’re right about that. The problem is, I’ve pushed her away time and time again and we just keep endin’ up back in each other’s space. I’ll never argue with you that Karen Page is too good for me but she asked me to give this a chance and goddamn it, I owe it to her to try. I know I’m one lucky motherfucker that she chose me of all people, you don’t have to tell me.”

Matt looked downright defeated, “You love her.” It wasn’t a question.

Clicking his tongue and stepping around the other man, Frank walked back towards the main sidewalk, “I ain’t even talked to her about that Red so I’ll be damned if I talk to you about it. Check your phone, she should be sending you the information for tomorrow night.” With that, he stepped around the corner and walked the remaining few blocks to the gun store. He did love Karen, but now he was wondering if love encompassed everything he felt for her. Frank was starting to feel complete in a way he hadn’t since he still had his family. That large piece of his life would always be missing, god he missed them every second of every day, but Karen was becoming the glue that held the rest of his pieces together. His air when he was suffocating. The stones in his foundation when it started to crumble. Love was only a part of the things he felt for Karen Page.

It was another hour and a half before he had the ammo and food in hand, heading back to the safe house. He texted Karen to alert her that he would be there soon and when he stepped through the door and into the living area of the building, she was right where he had left her.

“Welcome back, took you long enough.” She barely turned from the papers but he saw the teasing lilt to her lips anyway.

“The lady wanted shrimp shumai, the only place to get shumai in this city is Mei’s so I had to go a little out of my way to get it.” Frank set the food down at the table and plucked the container with the shumai out of the bag. He walked over to Karen, popping the lid open to waft the delicious smelling steam in her direction, enticing her to leave the desk.

Karen let out an appreciative groan at the smell, pushing her chair back and following closely behind him. She settled down at the table and pointed at him accusingly with the chopsticks Frank handed her, “I know of at least three places to get shumai and I know at least one of them was pretty close to where you were going.”

“Yes but the only place you should get shumai from is Mei’s.” His voice was deep with conviction when he pointed his chopsticks right back at her.

Karen barked out a quick laugh, “Unbelievable, a burger snob, a coffee snob AND a Japanese cuisine snob. The surprises keep coming.” However, when she took a bite of the first morsel, her eyes nearly rolled into the back of her head with pleasure. She snapped her eyes to his quickly to see if he caught her, which of course he did, with a knowing, smug smirk. “Alright, you win this one Castle.”

Frank thought about mentioning the fact he ran into Murdock but she would want to know what they discussed and he wasn’t sure he was ready to go down the rabbit hole just yet. So instead they talked about their favorite places for asian food and occasionally discussed details of tomorrow’s mission. Thankfully she mentioned she had texted the information to Murdock so he didn’t have to bring it up again.

Once they were full and leftovers were packed away in the small fridge, it was time to call David and ensure that everything on his end was set as well. The phone rang a couple of times before he answered.

“ Hello friends! Ready to talk super spy stuff and breaking and entering?” His voice was cheerful and already grating on Frank’s nerves.

“Cut the shit, David. You got everything you need?”

“ I want to talk to Karen. She’s nicer than you.” There was an unmistakable pout in his voice.

“David…” Frank growled. Karen hid a laugh behind her hand. He gave her a pleading ‘don’t encourage him’ look and turned his attention back to the phone.

“... And prettier. Fine. Yes, everything is in order. I’ll walk you through setting up the comm pieces tonight so all you have to do tomorrow is turn them on and double check the frequency. There haven’t been any changes to the personnel schedule and the layout of the house hasn’t changed over the past two days.”

Over the next hour they activated and synced up their comms, checking for any bugs, and outlined the time frame they hoped to maintain for getting in and out.

“ Hey, uh, I noticed you only requested the two ear pieces, was there a change of plan? Daredevil no longer assisting?”

“No change of plan. He won’t need an earpiece, he will be able to hear just fine.” Karen’s voice was one of begrudging acceptance.

“ Okay then, well, then I think we’ve done everything we can for today. I’ll be in touch tomorrow at 10. Now, I need to go to dinner or I have the real potential of sleeping on the couch tonight.”

Without preamble, the line went dead, the screen of the phone flashing the call time for just a moment before going dark.

Karen gave a little snort, “What an interesting change of events, usually it’s you hanging up on him.”

“I guess the prospect of sleeping on the couch is more motivating than getting on my damn nerves.” Frank said gruffly as he put the phone on charge next to the comm equipment. When he looked back at Karen, she had an unreadable look on her face.

“What?” he asked.

“If he bothers you that much, why do you keep in touch? I know he is an incredible hacker but you are crafty and would be able to figure something else out.” Karen asked, leaning on the table and regarding him curiously.

Frank gave a deep sigh. David did endlessly wear on his nerves but he cared for the man and his family. “David just...doesn’t know when to shut up. That being said, he’s a good guy. He’s reliable and a good person.” When he looked over there was a smug look on Karen’s face and he felt like he just walked into a trap.

“So...you care about him? Behind all the mean words and mask of indifference he’s your friend.” She looked so proud of herself, blue eyes sparkling and her head tilted as she watched him.

Frank shook his head turning away from her, “ Christ . You're just as bad as he is. I’m takin’ a shower.” He could feel her eyes following him as he grabbed a change of clothes and disappeared into the bathroom. She wasn’t wrong, he did care about David and his family. Very much in fact, but he wasn’t going to admit it out loud. It could make it back to David and Frank would never have peace again.

The hot water was doing wonders for his knotted muscles. Preparing for tomorrow had left him anxious and processing his feelings for Karen furthered that anxiety because he knew how easy it was for things to go wrong. He could lose her tomorrow and it had him on edge all day. It would be his luck that he would finally accept what he feels for Karen, just for it to be taken away immediately. If it were just him going in he would be unaffected, if he got injured or killed it will have been worth it to keep her safe. But Karen was going to be with him, just as close to danger as he would be.

The shifty plumbing gave a groan and sputtered a quick deluge of ice water over him before going back to hot so he finished washing off quickly before he got another rude surprise.

He found as he stepped out of the shower he was more tired than he thought, his muscles finally loosened a bit so he didn’t feel quite so much like a spring that was wound too tight. However, as he tossed his towel over the curtain rod of the shower, Frank gave a quiet curse as his brain started sprinting down the same roads it had been running all day. Just that quick he felt his shoulders drawing back up towards his ears, muscles coiling and ready to fight. Christ he couldn’t wait for this to be over so he could be the normal amount of anxious over Karen’s well being. Throwing on some boxer briefs and low slung sweatpants he made to leave the cramped room.

A small cloud of steam followed him out of the bathroom before Frank started toward the cot. Karen was already laid down with one of his books open in her hand as she sprawled over their makeshift bed. Suddenly, Frank felt like he had been hit in the chest with a sledgehammer and his coiled muscles were prepared for an entirely new action.

Karen had grabbed one of his shirts to wear to bed, something that would have been enough to turn him on in general but due to their similar height the shirt just barely brushed the tops of her thighs. Frank’s gaze traveled from the tips of her toes up her impossibly long legs and fixated on the spot where the shirt had ridden up, exposing a hip bone where the thin black strap of her underwear contrasted exquisitely with her creamy skin. He could just glimpse the curve of her perfectly shaped ass the way she was laying but it was enough to spark something in him. Frank was suddenly a man starved. Hyperfocus that he tends to save for the battlefield is now fixated on the woman just across the room from him to the point everything else blurs and she is the only thing in focus.

Karen must feel his gaze on her because she lowers the book a fraction to meet his eyes. He sees her breath catch and her eyes widen when their gazes lock. Carefully she sets the book aside, her eyes leaving his to slowly drag down his body. Frank felt his temperature spike when he watched her hungrily take him in, her pupils blowing wide and her bottom lip unconsciously pulling between her teeth. It amazed him how expressive Karen was with just that bottom lip.

“I, um, ran out of comfortable sleeping clothes so I borrowed one of your shirts. I hope that is okay?” Her voice was small, uncertain. If Frank were more stable at the moment, he would feel guilty that she would feel so unsure about taking what she needed from him. Of course he didn’t mind, in fact, he would encourage it any chance he got.

When he didn’t answer, Karen looked even more unsure, “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have presumed. I can grab one of my old-” She began to wrap long fingers around the hem as though she were going to pull the shirt off.

“Don’t. Move.” The words came out commanding, a simmering heat in his voice that was deep and full of gravel, his desire filling the words with a thousand promises. Karen froze at the order and when she drew that damned bottom lip between her teeth again and he saw the full body shiver of her reacting to him, Frank couldn’t stop himself from crossing the room. He moved steadily, long, methodical strides that had him at the foot of the cot quickly.

From this new vantage point he could see the pretty blush starting across her cheeks and down her neck to disappear under the shirt at her collarbone. She was perfection. Slowly, he placed a knee on the bottom corner of the bed, Karen watching his every move with rapt attention.

Another full body shiver ran through her when he caressed her ankles with hands he could no longer keep idle. There was a growl that he belatedly realized came from him before he was bent over, dragging teeth over the exposed flesh of her hip, the breathy noise Karen released spurring his actions. Frank’s hands slid up the smooth backs of her thighs that now bracketed his chest until he had two glorious handfuls of her ass.

“ Frank.” Fuck, the way she said his name. She had a way of putting everything into those five letters, all breathy want and desire. He was so hard it almost hurt, the need to be inside her so strong Frank was almost delirious from it. He snapped his eyes up to hers from his spot at her hip, where he continued to drag his tongue along her skin, nipping and sucking at her where he saw fit. He followed her panty line, nudging the shirt out of the way as he went. Karen’s eyes never left his but the air caught in her chest when his hands slid around to grip her underwear as he continued to cover her skin with pink marks.

He could smell her and god, she smelled sweet. Frank let out a small sound of need and began tugging away the barrier between them. He had reached her other hipbone, nipping the soft skin there before sitting back to fully remove her underwear and then she was gloriously bare to him, only his shirt bunched up around her midsection. He took a moment to take her in, lips glistening with arousal and a blush spreading over her inner thighs. It was his turn to pull his bottom lip through his teeth, taking a moment to decide where he wanted to start. Leaning down again, Frank tucked his arms under Karen’s thighs, wrapping them around the outside so his hands were at her hips to get a good grip and tugged her roughly to the edge of the cot.

She let out a little yelp in surprise and when Frank looked at her again, the shirt had rucked up around her chest when he scooted her down. Her graceful arms were above her head where they had settled after her startled movement. She was a fucking sight. Frank knelt on the cold concrete floor and settled her legs over his shoulders, moving slowly and deliberately, his entire focus on devouring the woman in front of him.

Giving an appreciative groan, Frank leaned in, dragging a kiss over Karen’s inner thigh before switching to the other leg. Next, he ran his tongue up the crease of her leg, mere centimeters from his destination. Karen’s hips were beginning to sway towards his mouth, rising and falling with each tempting swipe of his mischievous tongue.

As he was laving a slow kiss to the top of her mound Karen gave a quiet curse causing Frank to glance up at her with a devastating smirk.

“Something wrong Ma’am?” his voice was impossibly deep and rough.

She reacted like his voice was a physical touch, closing her eyes and shivering before she looked at him again, the blue of her irises dark with her need, voice husky with restrained desire. “If you don’t touch me soon Frank I’m going to lose my goddamn mind.”

His answering chuckle was rich and dark and it vibrated through every spot their bodies were connected. What Karen didn’t know was he was torturing himself as much as he was her, every fiber of his being screaming to do more, to drive her crazy, make her scream for him. Frank finally relented, giving a slow languid lick to her center, just barely parting her folds. Both let out a groan and before Frank could convince himself to keep the pace slow, he was drinking her in like he’d not had water in years.

There was longer any finesse to his movements, lewd noises filling the room as he licked and sucked at her, letting out appreciative growls and grunts as she moved under him. Fuck she tasted good, her breathless moans and little curses, her beautiful lips saying his name when he pressed just right, all driving him mad with need. When Frank opened his eyes he let out a long low groan at the sight. Karen was gripping the blankets above her head with one hand so tight her knuckles were white, her eyes screwed shut while her mouth was open and panting. Her other hand had pushed the shirt over her breasts and was tweaking a nipple in time with the firm strokes of his tongue.

It was all too much, he needed to be in her, and soon. Never taking his eyes off of her, Frank closed his full lips over her clit and gave it a hard suck. Karen’s back arched off the cot prettily and her breathing stalled. Lifting her hips slightly he did again before quickly dragging a firm tongue over repeatedly. It only took two more strokes before she went completely rigid, a keening moan the only sound she was able to make.

Frank softened his ministrations, licking at her softly until her hand snaked into his hair to tug him away gently. He pulled just enough to nip her thigh before he rested his cheek there and looked up at her. She was gloriously disheveled, chest still rising rapidly with each breath, lips parted and eyes glassy and distant as she came down from her high.

Slowly, Karen came back to herself and she gave him a devastating little smile, her voice throaty and sated, though he saw the hunger building in her gaze again, “Goddamn, Castle. You’ve been hiding your finer skill sets from me.”

He gave a quiet laugh, trying to not let his pride show too much on his face, “Happy to be of service, ma’am.”

Slowly he stood, tugging at the drawstring of his sweatpants as he did, Karen watching the movement with intense focus. Frank slid pants and underwear off in a smooth movement before he started to crawl after Karen as she scooted back up the cot. Working together, his shirt was peeled up and over her head to be discarded somewhere on the floor.T hey didn’t have much room on the small bed but neither seemed to mind as he settled between her thighs and their lips met. The kiss was slow and dragging, tongues sliding together deliciously and little gasps escaping when they drew back long enough to change their angles.

Frank’s arm had traveled up to bury a large hand in her hair, something he found was quickly becoming one of his favorite things to do, his forearm bracing the side of her face as he continued to ravage her mouth. Slowly, he began to grind his cock against her core, dragging it through her folds torturously. Her hips met him at every thrust and finally, finally , he let himself sink into her.

All he could do for a moment was rest his forehead to hers, his hips stilling when he sank to the hilt, tightening his grip in her hair when she groaned and nipped at his chin. Being inside Karen was intoxicating and Frank was dizzy with pleasure that coursed through his system. He was so fucking lost on her, there was no way he could ever recover.

Frank leaned his head back enough to watch her eyes as he slowly pulled almost completely out of her before unhurriedly sliding back into place. Her gaze never left his, though her eyes were hooded, and he saw raw emotion staring back at him. For a moment it was overwhelming so Frank focused on the leisurely push and pull of his hips, his chest tight with everything he felt. They continued like that for several moments, quiet gasps and moans punctuating the easy rhythm that Frank set. Occasionally he would break eye contact to lick and suck at her neck, Karen dragging her hands up his back to hook over his shoulders, nipping at whatever skin was presented to her, a bicep, shoulder, the underside of his jaw. He could feel her starting to tense under him, her body straining towards release. He was working steadily towards his own orgasm, the burning pleasure spreading down his spine.

When Frank pulled back to look her in the eyes again the breath stilled in his chest. There was a trail of silent tears seeping from Karen’s eyes as she looked back at him. The hand in her hair dropped to her cheek to swipe the tears away tenderly. He hated to see her cry but it made him feel better to know she was feeling just as intensely as he was and when he spoke his voice was wrecked with the struggle to keep his own emotions in check, “What do you need?”

“Just...” she let out a shuddering breath and brought her hands to the back of his head, sliding blunt nails over his scalp, “Just don’t let go.”

A hungry desperate noise escaped from the back of his throat before he descended on her mouth. The kiss was slow but frantic, a desperation filling both of them. The hand on Karen’s cheek dropped to the side of her neck and the arm that propped him over her buried fingers into her silken hair. Frank’s thrusts sped up but they were still deliberate, grinding into her at the end of each stroke. That’s how they both came apart, her hands at the back of his head and neck, him not far behind with his own hands buried in her hair. Both of them holding on with both hands. Karen came, gasping his name in between quiet sobs and Frank came with a shuddering moan, pressing her name and kisses into the delicate skin of her temple.

For a moment they both were still, Frank was trying desperately to recover his composure and he felt Karen trying to do the same. When he did lean back again, swiping a gentle hand over her forehead to move damp hair out of her face she gave him a watery smile and he couldn’t help but return it.

Sniffing quietly, her smile turned sheepish, “I promise I’m not usually a crier during sex. I uh...just got a little overwhelmed, I think.”

Frank huffed out a little laugh, stroking a thumb over her cheekbone but before he could think of something to say, her hand came up to rest on his cheek, her eyes on him with a singular focus that wouldn’t allow him to look away.

“I love you, Frank Castle.” Karen’s voice was quiet and sincere, her eyes were watery once again but her gaze dared him to refute her.

Frank felt everything around him spin and then go completely still all at once before he drew in a quick breath and suddenly his chest was light, like a band that had been wrapped there just snapped. He was still terrified at the prospect of being loved, of loving again but looking at her, daring him to deny her, he felt like it might be worth it.

“I love you too, Karen Page.” Rough and low, the words felt so natural he wasn’t sure how he hadn’t said them before.

Just like that, the bravado left her and tears were escaping the corners of Karen’s eyes again, a smile so sweet on her lips he ached just looking at her. He leaned down to give her a tender kiss, her lips trembling lightly under his. Tsking, Frank rolled gently to the side, pulling her into his chest, banding protective arms around her, “You keep crying like that, Page, and you’re going to give me a complex.”

She gave a little laugh, thick with tears and swiped at her cheeks, “Sorry, Frank, I’ll try to keep the tears to a minimum next time. Promise.”

Humming, he placed a gentle kiss to her forehead.They lay quietly like that for awhile, both awake and lost in their own thoughts. Karen was running absent minded fingers over the smooth planes of his chest while his thumb ran soothing circles over her shoulder. Eventually he felt her relaxing against him, her breathing turning deep and even. Frank could feel his own eyes falling shut, heavy as lead as he listened to her breathe. He wanted to think a bit more, run the plan through his head again before giving in to sleep, think about the monumental words Karen and he had just spoken to one another but before he could try he was snoring quietly against her forehead and neither of them moved until morning.

Yellow Line

Title: Yellow Line

Tags: mental illness, its set in an asylum... i guess thats it pretty much

Summary: So this was a collaboration (kind of lol) with my little sister. She has a bit of a hard time in school and she knows I love writing, so when she got the assignment and asked me to help her, I was more then happy to. So the assignment was to make a short story, no longer then five pages about an island. I advised her to avoid shipwreck or plane crash cuz i figured most students would go directly to that idea, and she said she wanted creepy/scary, so this is what we came up with.

    The brunette sat at the front of the small motor boat that was quickly approaching her destination. It pulled up to the island in front of her, the driver jumping onto the dock to tie the boat. She stood on shaking legs as the boat rocked beneath her with the gentle waves, accepting the hand that was outstretched to her.

    “Doctor Amanda Rolins.” The man pulled her onto the dock beside him and she nodded as he continued, “I'm Doctor Markus Hamlin, head doctor of the asylum here. It’s nice to finally meet New York’s most renowned psychologist.”

    “Thank-you,” she smiled, blushing slightly at the compliment, “I'm excited to take a look at your patients here. Once I complete my research and bring my findings back to my team in New York, we will see what we can do to start helping your patients.”

    “I appreciate that, so far no one has been able to help. But I'm sure a doctor as well known as yourself will be able to work wonders for our patients here.” He turned, gesturing to the building behind them, “Shall we begin with a tour? Afterwards my assistant, Lina, will set you up in your room for the remainder of your stay here.”

    “That sounds great.”

~~~~~~~~~~~

    When they entered the building Amanda was immediately struck by a chilling feeling in her body. The hairs on her arms and neck stood on end at the cool air in the building, and as they continued deeper into the facility the hallways got darker. A light blue hue took over, and she couldn’t help but feel a sense of anxiety come over her as they continued on.

    Turning down a hall to their left and through a set of locked double doors, the chill in the air seemed to get worse when she was met with another long hallway, only this one was lined with large floor to ceiling windows on either side. She stepped forwards cautiously, Markus tight on her heels as she walked past the endless windows. Inside each one was a single patient, a bed, and a small bathroom, the entire space no bigger then a small office.

    Markus searched her face, trying to read her expression as they walked in silence before clarifying, “Many of our patients are considered highly dangerous, not only to the staff, but to themselves. The full windows allow the doctors here, as well as the security staff who walk the halls, to keep an eye on them at all times. Each room is also equip with camera surveillance that’s fed back to the nurse’s station up front. It’s the best way we can help to keep them calm and safe.”

    She nodded, not adding anything else, but she couldn’t help but think to herself that this seemed more like a prison then somewhere for people to get help.

    She slowly wandered a few more steps, coming to a stop at one of the windows. Inside was a boy, huddled in the middle of the wall beside the window. His knees were up to his chest and his hands here buried in his hair. He intrigued her, why she didn’t know, but she turned her body and began walking closer to the window.

    Markus’s hand wrapped tightly around her elbow stopped her, pulling her from her trance. She quickly turned her head to look at him as he whispered in her ear, “Do not pass the yellow line, do not touch the glass.”

    Without another word he let her go and walked past her down the hall. When he was almost at the end she finally gained the courage to look down. At her feet, just by the edge of her toes, was a thick bright yellow line that ran down both sides of the hallway. She didn’t know what this line was for, or what he meant by what he had said. She spared one last quick glance at the boy through the glass, who was still huddled against the wall unmoved, before she quickly turned and decided she did not want to find out.

~~~~~~~~~~~

    “And this will be your room while you stay on the island with us.” Lina, Markus’s assistant, had lead them to a part of the asylum at the very back of the building. Her room was small but good enough for her short stay here. It consisted of a bed, a desk, a small sitting area, kitchen, and bathroom off the back. “If you need anything else while you're here just let me know. My rooms right down the hall there.”

    “This looks great, thanks,” she nodded as she threw her bags on the bed.

    “No problem.” Lina turned to walk out of the room, but before she closed the door turned back to say, “Doctor Markus will be busy for the rest of the day but feel free to start your research any time. The facility is completely open to you.”

    She smiled as Lina left, closing the door behind her. She took a few moments to dig through her bag, taking out a small note pad and pen for the time being. She decided on spending the rest of the day quietly observing the patients from the hallway, and hopefully she could talk to Markus about entering the rooms to give each patient a proper exam the next day. With her tools in hand she left the room.

~~~~~~~~~~~

    A few hours into her walk through the halls, Amanda had made a few small observations on some of the patients and their current states in their rooms. Despite the constant reminder of Markus’s words running through her mind, that the patients were dangerous, from where she stood she hadn’t seen anything to be worried about so far. Most of the patients seemed calm and comfortable in their rooms. Some reading, some sleeping, it didn’t give her a feeling of danger.

    She then found herself in a familiar hallway, in front of a familiar window. The same boy from before sat in the same place, same position as he had been when she stopped here earlier. Back against the wall, knees to his chest, and hands in his hair. She watched him for a few minutes, oddly curious about this one specific patient and his condition, and the entire time she stood watching him he never moved.

    The air seemed to chill even more around her, and she once again found herself walking closer to the window, just wanting a better look at this boy. Markus’s warning from earlier forgotten as the tip of her toe slid across the yellow line. For the first time she since had been watching him she noticed a slight twitch to the boys head, as if his eyes were watching her from the side as she stepped even closer. With one more step both feet crossed the line now and she was nearly flush against the window. In a sudden rush the boy was on his feet, standing directly in front of her on the other side of the window, though she didn’t move away. She found that she couldn’t, but instead was pulled even closer.

    She lifted both hands, slowly and gently laying them on the glass of the window, and the boy did the same. When their hands were in the same position he looked up to meet her eyes and she was in shock. She took in his appearance, his wore a white shirt and loose white pants, slightly dirty and ripped in some places, his hair was also white, but his eyes where what caught her attention. There was no iris or pupil, just a hazy white storm, and when she looked deep into his eyes the fear she should have felt coming into this place hit her hard and fast.

    Before she knew what was happening she was surrounded by a thick grey fog, creeping across her body and covering her completely. A voice cut through the fog, one she instantly remembered, “You… you were supposed to help me.”

    Turning to her left she saw the young girl, sixteen, Karen. Eyes wide, she choked out, “You… you died, you're dead.”

    Karen walked closer, until she was a few feet away from Amanda and whispered again, “You were supposed to help me. Why didn’t you help me?!”

    “I'm sorry!” Amanda shouted, tears in her eyes.

    Karen quickly took the remaining steps between them, and finally Amanda was able to pull away from the window. Eyes closed and waiting for Karen to touch her, nothing happened. Slowly she opened her eyes to find the fog gone and the hallway empty aside from herself.

    She turned back to the window, the boy’s hands no longer on the glass, but his stormy eyes still fixed on her. In a panic she jumped back across the yellow line and without another look back to the boy through the window, she ran full speed down the hall and back to her room.

~~~~~~~~~~~

    Slamming the door behind her she slid down to the ground with her hands over her face. Taking a few deep breaths to calm down, she tried to convince herself that what she saw was not real, it was her imagination and nothing more. Then the chill came back, worse then it had been before and the fog with it.

    Her stomach clenched and her fingers clutched tightly to her hair as she looked up to find Karen staring down at her. Tears streamed down her face now, breathing becoming hard, and her voice completely lost.

    “I needed your help,” Karen was so close now, “I needed you!”

    Before she could get any closer Amanda stood and ran out of the room. She ran as fast as she could through the asylum, down the halls searching for a way out, and she found it in the form of an emergency exit down a small hidden hallway. She ran towards the metal door and slammed her entire body against it, nearly tripping as she ran outside and into the forest surrounding the building. But the fog had followed her, began chasing her through the forest. And every time she ran faster it would move faster too. Until it finally got in front of her and no matter how fast she ran, she could not escape it.

    She ran in every direction, around trees, down hills and through the thick bush, but nothing could get her away from it. Then, she came back.

    Karen was at every turn, every small break in the fog she was there. No matter where she went she couldn’t get away from her and her words, “You left me!”

    “No I didn’t.”

    Another turn and she was there again, “I died because of you!”

    “I tried to help, I'm sorry!”

    Stumbling, Amanda crashed hard to the ground, scraping her knees on rocks and drawing blood through her jeans. Feet came into view and she looked up at Karen, “I am your fault.”

~~~~~~~~~~~

    The brunette sat against the wall, straight jacket clinging to her body and holding her arms tightly in place. Her scrapped knees bandaged and pulled to her chest as she rocked back and forth, two sets of eyes watching her through the floor to ceiling window.

    “You found her where?”

    “In the back forest,” Lina stood beside Markus, clipboard in hand jotting notes.

    He chuckled, hands behind his back as he watched the once sane Doctor Amanda Rolins on the other side of the window, “That didn’t take nearly as long as I thought it would.”

    Lina nodded, closing the note pad and holding it under her arm, “It was a good idea, seeing how someone with not only her amount of intelligence but also a past as like hers would hold up in here, with these kinds of patients.”

    “My best and most successful experiment yet.” She nodded as he turned and gestured her towards the front of the building, “Come, Lina, I think our newest guest Doctor Tyler Scanson is arriving.”

End

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

So yeah, that was the story she handed in :D She should hopefully be getting a grade this week!! and i dont know if any of you would want to read this but @goingknowherewastaken @medicatemedrmccoy @weresilver-in-space you defintely dont have to read this, but i know my sister would be over the moon if y’all did XD <3 <3 <3

Finding a Constant: Part Two

Word Count: 2,070

Main Characters: Peter Parker, Ned Leeds, Michelle Jones, and Amrita Delport (student at Midtown High)

Warnings: attempted rape, not graphic; some PTSD

Setting: After Spider-Man: Homecoming, after Peter tells Tony Stark that he wants to postpone being an Avenger, but before Infinity War...obviously.  *muffled sobbing*

Summary: Amrita Delport has been moving around her whole life, but when her parents relocate to New York for some mysterious project, she is unexpectedly sucked into the life of Peter Parker, otherwise known as the neighborhood-friendly Spider-Man.

A/N: Please look at the warnings before reading. Thanks!

...................................................................................

Peter's POV

    I would be lying if I said it truly took me that long to slide a few books into my backpack. As I picked up each item, I’d fiddle with it or flip through the pages before carefully placing it in the bag, organizing things as I went⸺very slowly. Amrita was standing at Mrs. Han’s desk and I was doing my absolute best to look as if I wasn’t eavesdropping.

    “Even so, Miss Delport, you might find some of my points to be quite interesting…” Mrs. Han was saying. “And quite helpful for the upcoming test.”

    I discreetly looked over to see Amrita smile and nod before saying, “I understand, Mrs. Han. I'll do better.” Mrs. Han raised her nearly-invisible eyebrows, so Amrita added, “I promise.”

    Mrs. Han beamed at her.  “Alright, go on then,” she dismissed her. I quickly brought my gaze back to my books as Amrita waved and turned. Right before she walked out the door, I thought I saw her pause in my peripheral vision. But then she left.

    I zipped up my bag and threw it over my shoulders. “See ya, Mrs. Han.”

    “Goodbye, Peter,” she called as I made my way out of the classroom. Once in the hallway, Ned caught up with me and jostled my shoulder with his own.

    “Hey, Peter,” he greeted. “Where ya headin’?”

    “I dunno, Ned, I’ll probably just walk around and see if I can find…” I trailed off, not sure how to word it.

    “Crime?” Ned asked enthusiastically. “Are you gonna go fight crime? I can come with if you need some surveillance or back-up or⸺”

    “No, Ned,” I cut him off. “I’ll be fine, and I’ll just see you tomorrow, yeah?” I didn’t mean to sound so...condescending and callous, but I couldn’t put him in harm’s way. I would always be grateful for his help...that night, but I couldn’t put his life at risk. My priorities would always be the same: keep Ned and Aunt May safe.

    “Come on, Peter. I really think I can help you out! You need a guy-in-the-chair!” He gave me a pleading look, but I only shook my head at him.

    “Look, man. Just go home, and I’ll talk to you later.” I patted his shoulder and offered him a brief smile before turning and walking towards the front door.

    “Alright, see ya later, Peter!” he called from behind me. There was a dejected undertone to his voice that I tried and failed to ignore.

    I navigated the teeming cluster that was funneling through the doors and managed to make it out in one piece. The second I broke away from the crowd, I took off in the direction of the alley I normally swung by to change into my suit.

    I flung my backpack to the ground and pulled my spider-suit out of it. I stripped, discarding my clothes on the ground next to my backpack, and shrugged the suit on, the high-quality material hanging off my thin frame awkwardly. I pressed the spider emblem on my chest and the suit immediately form-fitted to my body.

    “Good afternoon, Peter,” Karen’s voice came from inside my mask.

    “Hey, Karen! Ready to go kick some criminal a—” She cut me off before I could finish.

    “I should warn you that my language protocol dictates that I shock you at the use of any unsavory words.”

    “Of course Mr. Stark installed a language protocol,” I muttered to myself. “Let's go, Karen.”

    Grabbing my backpack from the ground once again, I stuffed my school clothes into it and threw it over my shoulders again. I leaped at the wall next to me, my feet coming into contact with the bricks and sticking. I sprinted up the side of the building and vaulted onto the roof. It was instinct now, scaling walls and jumping hurdles, but I could remember a time when it wasn't so simple. I'd stumbled, tripped, and fell all over the place just like anyone else. Being able to move like I could now still took me by surprise sometimes, giving me an inexplicable thrill. It coursed through my veins and pounded in my ears, begging to find release through movement.

              I returned my attention to the present long enough to throw my bag down by a large air conditioning unit. I used to leave it down in the alley, hidden in the dumpster, but I’d quickly learned my lesson when it had been stolen. That had been the night Ned had discovered my secret identity. Most of the time I wished he hadn't been there to witness me crawling on the ceiling, but I couldn't deny the relief it gave me to not have to hide it from everyone anymore. I knew that was selfish though. Ned being aware of that sort of fragile information could get him killed—which was exactly why I tried to keep him out of it all.

    “You're doing the right thing, Peter,” Karen interrupted my reverie. She knew about the Ned situation because I'd talked with her about it before, but sometimes I swore she could read my mind. How else could she know that I was dwelling on the subject right now?

    “Thanks, Karen,” I responded before pushing the thoughts aside and sprinting to the edge of the roof. I jumped across the space separating the roof and the next building over. Clutching at the walls with my fingers and toes, I began my ascent and made it to the top in no time. This building was much larger than the one before it. I took in the view of countless brick buildings and, farther away, steel skyscrapers. Once I decided where I wanted to go, I hopped off the side and let my instinct take over. My hands shot webs of their own accord and I grasped them, using them to swing from building to building. It was freeing.

    I was flying through the air over an alleyway when my senses started to tingle. Instead of propelling myself up onto the roof like I'd planned, I intentionally collided into the brick wall and perched there. Not a second later, a scream pierced my ears. I moved silently along the wall, heading in the direction of the outcry.

    Peering around the corner of the building, I located the source. There was a small brown-haired girl struggling with a much larger man, who was gripping her by the shoulders and pushing her up against the bricks. I saw one of his hands go up her shirt and though the woman tried to stop him, his strength overwhelmed hers. With one fist, she attempted to fight him off while her other was frantically patting the bag at her side. But the man paid no attention to either of them as he tore her shirt in half with his bare hands, eliciting another scream from her.

    “Would you like to activate instant-kill m—”

    “No, Karen!” I hissed. I heard the girl yell once again and I didn't hesitate any longer.

    Springing off the wall, I landed in a crouch behind the man. My arrival remained unheard and unseen, so I straightened and tapped the man on the shoulder. I could see him jump a bit in shock before he whirled around to face me. Without a second thought, I punched him in the face as hard as I could, sending him reeling and colliding with the girl behind him. She surprised me by wrapping an arm around his throat and pulling herself onto his back. As soon as her face appeared over his shoulder, I froze. Even though her expression was pinched in concentration as she cut of the man's airway, I recognized her.

    The man almost regained his composure and might have thrown her off if he had, but she didn't give him the chance. Her other hand appeared in front of his face with a small bottle clutched between her fingers. She pulled the trigger and pepper spray erupted from the container. The man howled—as best as he could with her arm still wrapped around his windpipe—and brought one hand up to protect his skull from the metal bottle, which she had begun to beat him over the head with. His other hand was attempting to pry her death grip off his neck.

    Finally, I snapped out of my frozen state and grabbed her wrist, pausing the bottle’s descent to the man's skull. She looked up in horror, as if this was the first time she'd realized I was there. The man used her moment of distraction to shake her off and she fell to the ground. Before he could make another move, webs shot from my hands and shrouded his face, effectively blinding him. I aimed a punch at his ribs and finally he fell to the ground with a heavy thud. He must have hit his head as well, because he instantly grew silent and still.

    I knelt down and felt his pulse—he was only unconscious. I sighed a breath of relief and looked to the girl. The girl that was Amrita. Her brown hair that had been up in a neat bun earlier today was now falling around her face in disarray. The wild, desperate look in her green eyes from before had been replaced by one of wariness and terror. She was leaning up against the wall, panting and clutching at the two halves of her shirt, trying to cover herself. I refrained from scanning her body for injuries, knowing that she could misinterpret my scrutiny for a hungry leer. Thinking about what that man had tried to do made my blood boil.

    “Miss? Are you ok?” Amrita flinched when I spoke, but didn't answer. I took a step closer in a crouch, but she immediately scrambled to get away. I put my hands up in the air to convey that I meant her no harm, but that didn't seem to calm her either—every nerve appeared to be on end, her eyes darting around the alley as if looking for another attacker.

    “Miss, it's alright. You're safe now,” I assured her in what I hoped was a quiet, soothing voice. After one more sweep of the alley, Amrita slumped against the wall, the tension bleeding out of her bones. I took another cautious step and when she didn't move, I got closer. I was about to place a hand on her shoulder, but thought better of it. She wouldn't want to be touched right now.

    She lifted her head to look at me and for a panicked moment I thought she could see right through the mask. But I was just being paranoid. “Thank you,” she breathed.

    You did most of the work, I thought to myself. I might've told her as much had she not been in such a delicate state. Instead, I just nodded.

    “What's your name, Miss?” I had to keep up pretenses that I'd never met her before. My only vulnerability was my voice—I was keeping it quiet and husky so that it didn't carry its usual pitch. I just had to hope she wouldn't recognize it.

    She looked at me for a few moments, slowly processing my words. “Amrita,” she finally answered. “Amrita Delport. And you're Spider-Man.” It wasn't a question, but I nodded anyway. “Thank you,” she repeated.

    “Amrita—”

    “Rita,” she interjected.

    “Ok, Rita, I'm going to go get you a new shirt. Just stay right where you are.” She gave me a fearful look, bringing her knees up to her chin and wrapping her arms around them. I couldn't blame her for not wanting to be left alone, but I couldn't walk her home shirtless. “I'll only be a couple minutes, Rita. I'll be as quick as possible, I promise.” I waited for her to nod again before I took off down the alley.

    “The nearest location selling clothes is approximately one minute away,” Karen informed me, also rattling off an address. I absorbed the information and plotted a path in my head.

    Right before I rounded the corner, I casted a look back at Amrita to make sure she was alright. She had put her head down between her knees and I could see her gently rocking back and forth.  This was the first time I regretted not bringing Ned—at least she wouldn't have had to sit there all alone.

locking out the ghosts chapter six (of eight-nine?)

chapter one, chapter two, chapter three, chapter four, chapter five

s5 fic: spoilers for the pine bluff variant, part of my series that i write as i rewatch the x files.

warning for violence (mostly in the context of canon, but in a missing scene-type thing after mulder’s interrogation). 

He's hiding something from her.

It's subtle, in the way he seems distracted, absently chewing at his thumbnail as he works, jolting in an almost violent matter when she says his name. The nervousness he has around her. She couldn't place it if anyone asked her what it is, but she can tell something is there.

She's wondered more than once if it has anything to do with the interlude on the floor of her hallway a few weeks before. She only remembers bits and pieces, mostly just Mulder holding her. (She doesn't remember calling him and she doesn't remember him leaving. He's just there. The monumental constant shining through.) She doesn’t remember if it went as badly as half of their other vulnerable moments since the breakup. But she doesn't think it has anything to do with that. He'd apologized over the phone. He'd said he was worried about her. Whatever’s going on, it’s something else.

Her theory is nearly confirmed when she leaves for an appointment with Karen Kosseff around three o’clock, leaving Mulder alone in the office. When she comes back an hour later, he's gone. Over an hour before work ends and hours before Mulder leaves work, on a normal evening. Scully swallows, keys in her hand in her pocket, running her thumbnail over the Apollo 11 keychain. What the hell is he doing? she thinks.

Mulder had seemed happy, weeks ago, when she'd told him that she was going to go back to Karen Kosseff. He'd encouraged her; he's asked her about her appointments every time she’s had. She can tell he really is worried about her; she thinks he really does care. (She'd hoped this would be their chance to start to patch things up between them.)

Her appointments with Karen Kosseff have helped tremendously in the weeks since Dara Kernof and Roberta Dyer. Since what she would describe as her daughter's ghost (if she believed in ghosts) spoke to her, asked her to let her go. She told Karen what she saw (she'd called it a dream in the end, dubbing it as close as she could get to whatever the hell happened in that church), voice trembling a little as she traced the seam of her pants with one finger absently, looking at her knees instead of Karen. She'd cried, and Karen had listened. She'd started talking, and the words came almost easily.

She wasn't keeping Emily’s photo in her wallet anymore, but she still pulled it out to look at it, every now and then. She and Karen were slowly unraveling everything, the tangle of emotions she'd shoved down into the pit of her stomach all those months ago, and it felt good. Painful, but good. It felt like there was a lighter weight in her chest, like she could breathe again.

She hadn't told Karen about Mulder, or at least about their former relationship. In the midst of one session, she'd been describing how she felt like she couldn't talk to her family about this, and Karen had asked, gently, “Can you talk to your partner about this?” (She at least knew how close they were.) And for a while, it had seemed like Scully might be able to talk to him. (She'd thought in the back of her mind, just a little bit, that maybe they could even reconcile their relationship. In a month or two. When the time was right. She’d thought it was a possibility again.) But now… now, with the distance he is putting between them, she isn't sure.

She mentions it offhand the next day, when they're eating lunch over the top of the desk, just to see if he'll lie to her: “Mulder,” she says, stabbing at some lettuce and cucumber with his plastic fork, “where’d you go yesterday? You left early; you weren't here when I got back.”

He swallows hard, Adam’s apple bobbing as he takes a sip from his water bottle, avoiding her eyes. “Oh, I, um… I had an appointment with a contact,” he says, picking at the label of the bottle. He changes the subject quickly, saying, “How, uh… how was your appointment, Scully?”

She stares down at the plastic container, shuffling the lettuce around in the container. So he's not mad at her, for whatever reason—but he's definitely hiding something. She just wishes she knew what.

“Fine,” she says to the stack of files she balanced the container on. “Just fine.”

---

Nearly a month after the Kernof case, they get recruited for a task force. An attempt to catch Jacob Haley, one of the leaders of an upcoming terrorist group, the New Spartans. Mulder is instructed to be undercover at the site as a jogger, Scully providing backup from the surveillance van. Mulder's shoulders tense, just slightly, but he agrees without argument. Scully absently wonders why this assignment would make him anxious; they’ve been recruited for these types of assignments a thousand times before.

The undercover operation goes down a half-hour after they find out, but it's not without its hitches: Haley murders his contact with some sort of flesh-eating substance, and Mulder disappears right after. Panicked, Scully bursts out of the van and sprints across the park, looking for him. But she can't believe what she sees when she finds him. Suddenly, in a strange, panicked, nonsensical moment, all the time he's spent avoiding her and disappearing from work makes sense.

She sees him standing near a car. She sees him patting the hood of the car, the car pulling away. Mulder disappears and reappears a few minutes later, claiming he lost Haley—which seems impossible because he had him, he had him, and Mulder has never been one to let a suspect go, but this time, that seems to be what has happened. He's avoiding Scully's eyes.

She can't believe it. She knows what she saw, but she can't believe it. Not Mulder. Mulder would never… he may resist authority, but he would never…

She's seen the New Spartans’ methods, and they are brutal. They kill civilians. Mulder is not brutal. Mulder wouldn't kill civilians, or brush off the killing of civilians for a larger cause. She knows Mulder. She's seen him put himself on the line for civilians, do whatever it takes to keep people safe. She's seen him buckle her daughter in a borrowed car seat and feel her forehead with the back of his hand. She's seen the way he cares about his sister, tirelessly looking for her, for justice; she's held him while he cried over his mother's hospital bed. She's seen the way he's fought for her, heard the stories from Skinner or her mother or small-town cops over cups of coffee as they took her testimonies after all the times she almost died. He can't ally with someone like the New Spartans; it goes against everything he stands for. But maybe… she's seem him devoted to his cause to the point of ignoring all logic, ignoring her. Is it possible that he could have found what he thought he needed through the New Spartans? That the best way he could see to take the conspirators down was to join them, the man on the inside?

It can't be. She doesn't believe it, but she knows what she saw. The surveillance tape confirms what she saw. When she confronts Mulder about it, he shrugs her off. He claims not to know what she is talking about when she accuses him of aiding in Haley’s escape, but he doesn't look her in the eye. She thinks she might believe him if he looked her in the eye.

She wants to yank him back from the edge, stop him before he gets in too far, convince him that the New Spartans are too dangerous and their methods are inhumane, even if they believe what he believes. But he won't confide in her. “I expect you to tell me the truth,” she tries, because that's what always seems to be the most important thing to him, he's always encouraging her to tell him the truth, but he doesn't respond. Brushes her off with a statement about how they're late for the meeting and walks past her out of the room. She watches him go with the dumbfounded feeling she's been experiencing too often lately. Except for this time, it has nothing to do with their partnership or the lack of credit he's giving her. This isn't something he can apologize for and vow to change and make everything all right. The implications here are that Mulder is a traitor, and there is no coming back from that.

In the meeting, he stills refuses to meet her eyes as the CIA and fellow FBI agents lay out the implications of Haley’s escape: the guns he got away with, the true mastermind of the New Spartans, one August Bremer. Scully herself lays out the mechanisms of the deadly toxin. She keeps trying to meet Mulder's eyes during the meeting, but he always looks away. He makes a dry comment about how they know the toxin isn't airborne because they're all still alive. He points out Haley’s military background, his paranoia, and Scully wonders if he knows this from personal experience. When the meeting is ended, Mulder makes a beeline for the door, ignoring her when she calls after him.

He's hiding something, has been for a month, and now she knows what it is. She doesn't want to believe it (she can't believe it), but the evidence doesn't lie. Mulder's recent behavior patterns don't lie. He may have been genuine when he said that he wouldn't leave her behind, when he apologized for not being there for her, but maybe this is something separate. Maybe this is his way of caring about her, by dismissing her methods to pursue his own, those so dangerous and ruthless that he thought it better to leave her out. Maybe he still cares, or maybe he was lying. If he really is a part of this group, who knows how long it has lasted? He could've been a double agent for months, years in advance. Maybe even since Kritschgau told him that everything he'd ever believed was a lie. Maybe he's just now acting strangely because something is coming up, something big, and he doesn't know how to face it. Maybe she doesn't know him at all.

She follows him home. She follows him home because she has to know for sure (because this isn't him, and she can't face the idea that she doesn't know him, hasn't known him after all this time; he knows everything about her for fuck’s sake, and she… she thought she knew him). She follows him, but he doesn't go home. He gets on the highway headed east, and she follows him there, too. She follows him for over two hours until he pulls off at a hotel in Angola, Delaware. She hangs back while he checks in, while he goes to his hotel room.

She watches the door of the room for a while—room 130—but nothing happens. She decides on a new approach: going to the front desk, and asking. She claims that it's her hotel room, and asks for the name. The manager tells her it's Mr. Kaplan. So he is trying to cover his tracks. Scully feels a mixture of annoyance and fear bubbling in her stomach, and she turns to leave. The manager asks if she's the wife, and she scoffs. If she were, maybe she would know what the hell is going on here.

She's headed to Mulder's room with some wild plan in her mind—maybe to confront him, maybe to convince him not to do this—but he exits the room before she can get there. She ducks behind a parked car and watches, watches as an unfamiliar car pulls up, watches as Mulder gets into it. The car pulls away and she sprints to her car to follow them.

She stays behind them for miles, hanging back with her headlights off. If anyone asked, she couldn't tell them what she is doing—it's not as if she's going to barrel into a terrorist hideout and drag Mulder out by his ear—but all she knows is that she needs to know. Whatever’s happening, she needs to know. Know how far Mulder is, if Haley can be exposed without implicating Mulder, if she even should be protecting him. She hasn't formed a solid plan yet outside of needing to know.

Maybe it's fitting what happens next: blinding headlights, screeching tires, cars surrounding her and men in suits pulling her out of the car and leading her to another one. It's the type of military arrest situation that she's grown used to, but it's usually with Mulder. Or a result of Mulder, which she supposes this could be classified as, but she has no idea why, this time.

They treat her amicably enough, these men in black figures, but they won't answer her questions, which is annoying as hell. They lead her through the hallways of some government building to an office. Behind the door is Skinner, sitting across from a CIA agent she recognizes from the meeting earlier today. “Agent Scully, take a seat,” he says.

“What the hell is going on?” she snaps as she crosses the room, mostly addressing Skinner.

“I apologize for our methods,” says the CIA agent.

“They may well have saved Agent Mulder’s life,” adds Skinner.

“What about my life?” she says angrily. “I don’t appreciate being run off the road.”

“We had our reasons,” the CIA agent says simply.

Skinner says knowingly, “You’re suspicious Agent Mulder’s betrayed his country.”

“I don‘t know what you’re talking about,” she says, protecting him like a reflex. She doesn't know if he deserves it or not, but she is still his partner, and what will they do to him if they catch him?

“Your discretion is understandable,” the CIA agent says, like he knows anything about them. “In point of fact, Agent Mulder’s actions are entirely honorable. What you’ve stumbled into is a classified action, a deep-cover assignment.”

“Until now, Agent Mulder’s true mission was known only to the US Attorney and myself,” Skinner says.

“His true mission?” Scully demands. She's remembering everything she's thought about the New Spartans, the toxin she studied, every time she told herself that Mulder couldn't join a group this ruthless. If she was right, then that means…

“The council we sat in was front to make the New Spartans believe we were unaware of Agent Mulder’s complicity,” the CIA agent explains.

“Why him?” Why not anyone else, this is a dangerous assignment, Mulder's been through enough… “Why choose Agent Mulder?”

“We didn't choose him, they did,” Skinner says quickly, like he's trying to confirm that he, too, doesn't like this.

“He spoke at a UFO conference in Boston where he broadcast his feelings about the government and their conspiracies against the American people,” the CIA agent says with some disgust. Scully wants to say fierce, angry things, wants to ask if this is his punishment for his beliefs, but she doesn't. She silently crosses to sit down next to Skinner. The CIA agent is still talking: “Somebody from the organization was listening so the man who escaped, Haley, sent out feelers in hopes that Agent Mulder was a man whose politics were in line with his own. Someone on the inside that he could use.”

“To what aim?” Scully asks, because the pictures in the back of her mind are not pretty.

“That we don't know,” Skinner says.

She turns to face him. “You've put Agent Mulder’s life in danger by not telling me,” she says roughly. She is still his partner, for God's sake.

“Agent Mulder came to me, I advised him not to tell you,” Skinner says. “He’s at a very delicate point. Everything he does now must work to build trust.”

“Including letting this man Haley get away with murder?” Scully demands. They say nothing. “Sir, we know nothing about this bioweapon. We don’t know what they want to use it for. We don’t even know if they have the capacity to store it safely. Putting Agent Mulder in this situation is extremely risky.”

“They want something from him,” says Skinner. “We have no other way of learning what.”

An agent enters at that moment, claiming that the toxin has been used again at a movie theater in Ohio, and Scully's heart leaps into her throat. In the moments after, she tells herself that it couldn't possibly be where they took Mulder because they left less than an hour ago, but she knows this feeling won't go away. Who knows where he is or what they're doing to him? Who knows if they really want him for his connections, or if they just want to make an example? Who knows if he's even still alive? She thought Mulder had betrayed his country, and he's done just the opposite: he's going to sacrifice himself for it. And wherever he is now, she can't protect him.

The CIA agent is talking to the man who just entered. Skinner's hand lands on her shoulder. “You'd better go home,” he says apologetically.

Her shoulders stiffen and she stands up, effectively throwing him off and glaring at him a little. “I know now,” she replies firmly. “I know now, and I'm not walking away from this. He is my partner, and I'm not letting him do this alone. From now on, I'm a part of this operation.”

She's actually surprised when they agree. (She suspects Skinner knows how hard she will fight back if they refuse.) They lecture her about keeping her head down, about all of this being classified, about not attempting to contact Agent Mulder. She agrees, even though she has no intention of following the third order. She needs to know that he is okay.

They want her to come to Ohio and try to identify the toxin and she agrees to that, too, even though the panic is wild inside her, a live thing thumping in her chest. She goes with them to the airport and gets on a flight to Ohio, touches the glass of the tiny window with cold fingertips and tries not to think of Mulder out there somewhere, alone with no backup, maybe hurt, maybe dead. Tries not to think.

In Ohio, the crime scene is horrifying on the same level as the burn sites in March. People with their skin burned off, sticky blood and muscle and bone all that's left. Scully paces the theater, looking for the source of the toxin. She theorizes that it must be something that everyone touched—the tickets, maybe—but there is no clear source. The CIA agent interviews the only survivors, two teenage boys, and Scully watches through the two-way mirror. The only clue as to how they survived is one of the boys sheepishly admitting that they snuck in the back instead of paying. That could support the idea of the tickets being contaminated.

After the interview is over, Skinner sends her home. He seems to think there is nothing more she can do in Ohio. She's inclined to agree, if only for the reason of wanting to go and check on Mulder, to see that he's gotten home okay. She's terrified for him and trying to convince herself not to be, that he'll be waiting at home when she gets there. She gets on a flight back to DC and arrives in the early evening. She drives straight to Mulder's apartment and finds it empty.

Pulse pounding, she tries to tell herself everything is fine. She flips off the lights, locks the door behind her and settles in on his couch. Decides to wait here for him for the night. She thinks he'll have to come home at some point tonight. She hopes. She hopes he will. She hopes he is okay.

---

He knew this assignment would be dangerous, but he thinks he underestimated it. He thinks he had to have underestimated it. He thinks he wouldn't have taken the job if he'd known this was going to happen, but then again, he walked in expecting to die.

They strap his hands to a table and break his finger. They send pain shooting up and down his hand as they bend his finger further and further back, and he can't do anything to fight them off, rendered immobile by the leather around his wrists. They have him practically begging, still feeding them lie after lie so they don't kill him. He just wants to go home. He is caught between a rock and a hard place with no way out. He should've known he'd be crushed in the end.

Haley doesn't bother to believe him until his pinky finger is broken. Until he's nearly sobbing from the pain. Haley snaps his fingers and the gimp who was torturing Mulder puts the hood back over his head. All he can see is stifling black. Mulder tries to keep his breathing steady, ignores the tears trickling down his face. The gimp unstraps his hands and hauls him up, zip-tying his wrists in front of him and taking no care to be gentle. Probably still pissed about the head butt. Mulder yelps as his bad finger is jolted. “See you in a few hours,” Haley says easily as Mulder is pulled off in an unknown direction. He's shoved into some dark, musty-smelling room and pushed down on the floor. He hears the door lock behind him.

Mulder rests his head against the wall, lowering his bound hands to his lap. He tries to slow his breathing, teeth clenched from the pain. He thought they were going to kill him, right there. Gun to the head or a knife to the throat or toxin sprayed in his face that would slowly eat away his skin. He doesn't want to die. He can put on as many acts as he wants, but he doesn't want to die. Not here, not for this. He huddles closer against the wall, curling into himself for some kind of protection.

(Do they know they've sent him into a trap he might not be able to claw his way out of? Do they know there's a good chance he may never come home? He wonders what they will tell his mother if he dies. He wonders what they will tell Scully.)

Minutes or hours later, he hears the door open, hears footsteps approaching him. One or two people, he can't tell which because his head is spinning. Someone dragging him to his feet, shoving him forward. He stumbles into a standing position, holding his useless hands out for balance. Nausea coursing through him; he breathes shallowly in an attempt not to vomit. “I do believe you, Agent Mulder,” Haley says from somewhere in front of him. He claps him on the shoulder with a gloved hand, and Mulder's skin crawls at the thought of the toxin. “I do.”

“That's nice of you,” Mulder snaps when there's no pain, no feeling of his skin being eaten away. “I wish you hadn't felt it necessary to snap a goddamn bone to come to that conclusion.”

Someone grabs his bad hand, hard, and pain sparks in his finger like a match; he makes a sound somewhere between a yelp and a whimper. “I believe you,” says Haley generously, “but I need to know that you understand what needs to be done. I need you to earn your trust, because right now, your loyalty strikes me as weak enough that you could be persuaded to betray us if asked.”

Mulder shuts his eyes behind the hood. The hood gives him a certain advantage in the area of concealing his lies, but he'd rather be able to look Haley in the eye, see what he's thinking. Look for signs of a bluff. He can't breathe in this thing. “What do you want me to do?” he growls in an unsteady voice.

Someone grabs his wrists, and he tenses for a moment before he hears the snap of something slicing through the plastic ties, the pressure being released. He lets his hands drop to his sides in relief. “I want to know about fund transfer schedules for the eastern seaboard,” Haley says simply “Whatever files you can get on the federal reserve bank. We need cash, Agent Mulder.”

He nods, blindly. “Fine, fine.”

Someone grabs him by his shirt again, drags him forward. “You say you didn't sell me out?” Haley hisses in his ear. “That it was one of my own? I want proof. Get me surveillance files. I know your people have them.”

Breathing hard, Mulder resists the urge to pull away. “Okay, fine,” he blurts. “Fine, fine, whatever you want.”

He's let go, rocking back on his feet. “Take him out of here,” Haley says dismissively, maybe even with disgust, and one of Haley’s goons shoves him forward. Mulder stumbles blindly, grateful that his hands are free if only for the advantage of balance. “You're a valuable asset, Agent Mulder,” Haley reminds him as he's shoved in the other direction, out of the room. “But you'll do well to remember what we do to traitors.”

I remember, Mulder thinks. His finger throbs. I've never forgotten.

---

They drive him around in circles for a few hours, likely to confuse him about where their headquarters are, before dropping him back at the hotel in Delaware. They whip the hood off and shove him out of the car in an obscure portion of the parking lot. Blinking in the bright sunlight, Mulder staggers forward, towards the room he'd left earlier. He doesn't go to the hospital. He goes back into the room and sleeps for a few hours, curled stiffly on his side, before driving back to DC.

It's dark before he gets home. He parks the car and takes the elevator up to his floor, sagging hard against the metal wall. He's regretted taking the phone call that morning in Scully's apartment for the past month, but he regrets it more than ever now. His hand hurts. He just wants this all to be over, but he knows it's not. It's just beginning.

His apartment is dark when he enters. He can't remember if he left any lights on. Sighing, he tosses his keys aside, looking at his pinky where it sticks out at an odd angle, and then jumps about a foot when Scully says, “Don't be alarmed,” somewhere from the depths on the apartment.

She appears in front of him, and what the hell is she doing here. He knew he was suspicious, but he didn't know… she can't be here. She can't, it's too dangerous. He rubs his face, says wearily, “Scully, get out of here.”

“Mulder…”

“Get out of here!” he snaps, half-shouting.

“I know what you're doing,” she says, walking towards him. “Skinner told me everything.”

Well, Scully is nothing if not persistent; she must've had to tear apart a great deal of their charade for Skinner, who never wanted her to know in the first place, to tell her. “I don't know what you're talking about,” Mulder says bluntly, hoping she’ll believe him and go away.

“What happened to your hand?” she prods, gently.

“Nothing,” he insists, but she doesn't listen. He winces as she takes his hand in hers, laying it flat across her palm.

“Oh, Mulder, what did they do to you?” she whispers in horror, studying it, and he remembers the hours he spent in the New Spartans cell, pain rattling through his hand, wishing she was there. His doctor. She prods the hand, and he winces, clenching his fingers together protectively. “Okay, this needs to be set,” she says, moving his fist to rest against him. “You're in pain.”

“Yeah, if you keep pulling it around like that,” he tries to crack. She pats his clenched fingers a little before heading for the fridge, assumedly for an ice pack. He goes to the couch and sits beside the fish tank, the faint light of it.

Scully approaches, whispers, “Let's get the swelling down,” as she sits across from him on the coffee table and puts the ice on his hand. Their knees brush. He swallows roughly, looking away.

Scully sighs. “”They've killed again, Mulder,” she says, and he looks back at her in surprise. “Fourteen people in a movie theater in Ohio. The same toxin they released in the park.”

“Fourteen people?” he repeats incredulously. “That doesn’t make any sense.”

“Unless it was a test… for something bigger,” Scully says softly. She's still holding the ice pack in place on his hand; she begins a smooth motion of her fingers across the back of Mulder's hand. He shudders a little under the feather-soft stroking, but he doesn't pull away. “Why do this to you, Mulder?”

“They’re testing me, too,” he says. “Haley’s paranoid and spooked. I was sure he was going to kill me.”

Scully winces, just a little, and it is a small reaction, but it is there. “What stopped him?” she asks, her voice still calm. Her middle and ring finger still tracing lines on his hand.

His good hand reaches out, fumbling, before it finds her knee. He covers her kneecap with his palm and squeezes. She doesn't pull away. “They still need something from me,” he says, “and I’m sensing there’s someone Haley trusts even less—the man giving him his orders. Someone I haven’t met yet. A guy named August Bremer.”

“The man Skinner told us about in the meeting,” Scully says.

“Yeah.” Mulder squeezes her knee again before pulling away, looking at his shoes flat on the floor. If Haley is second in command behind Bremer, then he's not particularly looking forward to meeting the guy. He’d hate to see what the leader would do to a traitor.  

Scully moves the ice pack to check Mulder's finger. “Swelling’s gone down,” she murmurs. “Supplies still in the cabinet?”

There's a cabinet in his kitchen that she stocked with medical supplies a long time ago. He hasn't moved it since she patched him up after the AI case. “Yeah,” he says again, bobbing his head up and down absently.

Scully presses the ice pack back into place. “I need to set this,” she says softly. “I'll be right back.”

He leans back into the couch as she goes, eyes slipping closed. He hears rather than sees Scully's approach, feels her hand on his forehead. “You look exhausted, Mulder.”

“Yeah, well, I am exhausted,” he mutters.

“Yeah, well, this will probably wake you up,” she says apologetically, rubbing circles on the palm of his bad hand. He opens his eyes in nervous anticipation. “This is gonna hurt,” Scully says, smoothing the pad of her thumb over his life line, catching the hook of his thumb. He nudges her thumb with his, a faux thumb war. “You ready?” she asks.

He nods. “Ready as I'll ever be.”

He sucks in air through his teeth as she sets his pinky, tapes it to his ring finger. “Sorry,” she mutters, smoothing his hair. He closes his eyes again, breaths coming shakily. His hand presses against her hip. They're leaning into each other a little, just enough so he can feel her body heat. Scully covers his hand with hers on his thigh, her fingers cold against his. “Why wouldn't you tell me?” she whispers.

He exhales slowly, looking at her. Her eyes are shining in the half-light of the fish tank; she looks near tears. “I wanted to tell you,” he says. “I swear I did. Skinner… he told me it wasn't a good idea. He thought they'd find me… or you. It seemed safer to…”

“Don't do that again,” she blurts, sternly and softly and tenderly. She leans forward, their foreheads bumping together; he doesn't pull away. She shuts her eyes as if overwhelmed. He lets his own slip shut. Scully is whispering, “Mulder, I don't want… I thought you had gone over to the other side. And then when I found out you went over to the other side… if they broke your finger because they thought you had betrayed them, Mulder, than what will they do if they find out the truth?”

“They won't find out,” he mumbles. Their noses brush.

She sighs again. He can't see her, but he knows she's there, can picture her perfectly. He could recognize her in the pitch black after not seeing the light in years. “I can't lose you, Mulder,” she whispers, and it feels like they have torn something apart, like they have pulled everything into the open. He opens his eyes to look at her, and she is looking back at him, eyes just a little wet. Just a bit.

“You won't,” he whispers back, even though he doesn't know. “You won't.”

They breathe shudderingly in tandem. Her hand presses harder over his. He pushes a loose strand of hair behind her ear with his good hand, rubs her cheekbone with his thumb. She leans further into him. He brushes his thumb over her cheek again, says, “You should go.”

Her hand briefly tightens over his. “Mulder,” she starts, warily.

“If they're watching,” he replies, and that's all it takes.

Scully tenses, relaxes, pulls away a little. Puts a hand on the back of his neck and kisses his forehead lingerly before standing up. “Stay safe,” she tells him sternly. And then she turns to leave.

She's halfway to the door before he tries to stop her. He's standing up and following her. “Scully, wait,” he's saying, and then she's turning and kissing him for all he's worth. Different than how she kissed him in Dallas; soft and sweet and desperate. One arm curling around his shoulders as she leans forward on her tiptoes to meet him, and the other wrapped around the hem of his shirt. Holding him to her. Overwhelmed, he pulls her closer, cupping her head in his bad hand. She kisses him harder, their teeth clicking. Her mouth soft under his.

Finally (regretfully), he pulls back, hugging her hard and burying his face in her hair. Breathing hard, she doesn't pull away; in fact, she tightens her hold on him. “You've got to go, Scully,” he whispers.

She nods, regretfully, leans forward to breathe in his ear, “I love you.”

It almost feels like he can't breathe, like she's sucker-punched him in the best way possible. He leans back a little and kisses her forehead, tightening his arms around her. He's loved her for so long now. “I'm coming back, Scully,” he whispers against her cheek, hugging her close again. He might be lying, but he hopes he isn't. He hopes. “I'm coming back, I promise. You don't have to say your goodbyes.”

“I know.” She kisses his cheek, pushing his hair back. “I know you're coming back,” she whispers, inches away. “That's why I'm saying it.”

Why I believe Trump will win in November

Just three says before the 2016 US election I told a fellow ALP member, "I believe Trump will win." He looked at me incredulously. "What about the polls?" I shrugged and smiled. "What about the tape of him bragging about grabbing them by the pussy?" "It won't matter," I replied. He shook his head. "You're serious aren't you?" "Absolutely." "OK then, why do you believe Trump will win when all the experts say that it's a foregone conclusion?" I couldn't put my finger on it. I sensed an anger and a mood for change. There was a definite antipathy towards Democrats by many Progressives. This was partly borne out of the shafting of Bernie Sanders, but something deeper was at play. I shrugged again. "Just a feeling, " and left it at that.

I turned out to be correct

To be honest I was neither thrilled nor excited about it. To say I believe Trump will win does not make me a supporter. At the time I pretty much subscribed to Julian Assange's view of the choice presented to the American people. I figured though, that maybe the DNC would take a long hard look at themselves. Hopefully they would retool and hit 2020 with an inspring leader, some clear vision and policies that would capture the electorate's imagination. They did, after all, produce JFK. Instead, the DNC and its vast array of supporters have spent four years partaking in the most hilarious dummy spit in political memory. Well, it used to be hilarious. I'm not so sure now. All the while, Trump has played the media like a fiddle. Directing them down blind alleys, making them walk back statements and generally provoking them into hyperbolic outrage. He's either been very lucky or he is a first class troll. If you believe mainstream media, Trump's presidency has been a shambles. Yet, prior to the coronavirus pandemic, the economy was booming and the United States had managed not to involve itself in another unneccesary war. That wasn't too shabby. In ordinary circumstances you would imagine reelection would be a piece of cake. These are no ordinary times. Even before Covid 19, Trump was faced with an extraordinary set of events. From day one, the legitimacy of his presidency was called into question by the inference that he was a Russian puppet. Despite constant headlines claiming that the walls were closing in on him, Trump ploughed on, implementing those parts of his policies that seemed possible. The Mueller probe was meant to finish him but found no collusion. Then he was impeached in a show house trial without a crime being alleged. No sooner had that circus been despatched by the Senate then Covid 19 arrived on his doorstep. Throughout his Presidencey, Trump has had to cope with negative press, wild unsubstantiated accusations and constant misrepresentation. Throughout it all, his base has stuck fat. Rightly or wrongly they believe he's "their guy." The only time he has been in danger of losing his base was when Julian Assange was arrested. For reasons best known to themselves neither the DNC (except Tulsi Gabbard) or the media have held Trump to account on this. With all the drama and intrigue there is reason to suggest that Trump is mortally wounded and limping to the election. I don't think so.

Here are the reasons I believe Trump will win in November

Joe Biden Seriously, Biden has multiple credibility problems. The most obvious is his seeming dementia. He's obvious vulnerability is detailed in this article here by left leaning independent journalist Caitlin Johnstone. Biden has other problems. These include the rape allegations levelled at him by Tara Reade, his apparent general creepiness (which is sure to be used in republican attack ads) and the allegations of corriuption swirling around him and his son, Hunter. No amount of protective cover being run by MSM can prevent at least some of the mud sticking. Biden's chief asset appears to be he was Obama's VP. Aside from that he offers nothing and his voting record suggests that he is the classic virtual signalling Democrat that caused Trump's rise in the first place. Trump has already highlighted Biden's record over 43 years with this Tweet. https://twitter.com/realDonaldTrump/status/1268167411230007300 We can argue all day about the merits of Trump's tweet but you can expect this line to continue right up until November. The Democrats are a divided party. In politics there is an old saying that disunity is death. There is a chasm within the Democrats that seperates the "progressive" left run by AOC and the more pragmatic wing of the party headed by Nancy Pelosi and Chuck Schumer. They hate each other's guts. Don't expect this to change any time soon. The Republicans on the other hand, with the odd outlier (Mitt Romney) appear united and focussed. Rioting and looting in Democrat Cities and States Peaceful protests are a necessary and valid function of the political process. Rioting and looting are not. It is not necessarily the fault of State Governors and city mayors that a riot breaks out. How they respond determines largely how they are perceived by the vast majority of their own citizens. You can bet your bottom dollar that a store owner who has had his store broken into and his livelihood destroyed is looking for answers. Releasing arrested looters back onto the street within hours isn't going to win many friends among that sector. Nor is allowing rioting to continue unchecked in some cities. Ordinary people don't spend their lives on Twitter. They're too busy making a living. They don't need CNN to tell them what's happening . They can see and feel it. Time and again history has demonstrated that riots generally provoke a move to the political right. People want to feel safe. They want to earn a living without fear. They vote for law and order. Meanwhile, there are Democrat states and towns talking about defunding the police. How do you think that's going to work out when people cast their vote? List of cities in the headlines with major riot activity Minneapolis - Mayor Jacob Frey (Democrat) Cincinnati - Mayor John Cranley (Democrat) Atlanta - Mayor Keisha Lance Bottoms (Democrat) Columbus Mayor Andrew Ginther (Democrat) Oakland Mayor Libby Schaaf (Democrat) San Jose Mayor Sam Liccardo (Democrat) Seattle Mayor Jenny Durkan (Democrat) Bakersfielsd Mayor Karen Goh (Republican) Denver Mayor Michael Hancock (Democrat) New York City Mayor Bill De Blassio (Democrat) Washington DC Mayor Muriel Bowser (Democrat) Los Angeles Mayor Eric Garcetti (Democrat) Phoenix Mayor Kate Galllego (Democrat) Dallas Mayor Eric Johnson (Democrat) Louisville Mayor Greg Fischer (Democrat) Memphis Mayor Jim Strickland (Democrat) Houston Mayor Sylvester Turner (Democrat) Richmond Mayor Levar Stoney (Democrat) Fort Wayne Mayor Tom Henry (Democrat) Saint Paul Mayor Melvin Carter (Democrat) Trump has offered most of these mayors the National Guard. Many have refused. How is that going to work out do you think? Former Oakland Raiders Super Bowl star and Republican candidate for Congress Burgess Owens has no doubt that Democrats are starting to panic and the riots will cause immense damage to the DNC base.

Fisa Declassification is Ultimately Why I Believe Trump Will Win In November.

When the impeachment push foundered in the Senate, I wrote an article When you come at the King fully expecting that a full declassification of the FISA applications would be made in days. I was wrong. Instead, what we have seen is a gradual constant drip of declassified information that suggests that the Obama administration knowingly and willfully targeted an opposition candidate for intelligence surveillance without due cause. Respected independent journalist Glen Greenwald who could never be described as a Trump fan lays out what we know so far here. https://youtu.be/xB26jj0jrjc I expect the constant drip of information to continue and with each revelation, the truth will become harder to suppress. None of this makes me a Trump supporter. I simply see the writing on the wall. I suspect many in mainstream media see it also. They just don't want it to happen and are doing everything they can to prevent it. That isn't their role. It is the people's role to decide. They will in November. This piece is not meant to be an endorsement of Donald Trump. It is an analysis of the situation and an acknowledgement that the Democrats are a shambolic institution. I sincerely hope that major change occurs within the Democratic Party if and when they are defeated. I also pine for an idependent media focussed on reporting facts and policy differences. Thank you for taking the time to read why I think Trump will win in November.  Please share it on Facebook, Twitter or any other platform that you hang out on. Please leave comments . I read them all. To support the work I do in this area you can leave feedback,  follow me on Twitter, Medium or Steemit or alternatively fund my independence by becoming a patron or making a crypto donation Read the full article

A Trans Woman's Harrowing Journey Through the Asylum Process

Jimena says she wore handcuffs almost everywhere she went at Winn Correctional Center: To visit the doctor, on the way to meet her attorney and even on phone calls.

But sometimes, the cuffs came off, and she says she instead spent virtually all day locked behind a maximum security door at the Louisiana prison. Like in a movie, where a guard has to press a button to let prisoners out.  

All of this occurred in the aftermath of a medical emergency, when Jimena says she was attacked by one of the facility's health care professionals while trying to comfort another detainee who had purposely cut herself. 

“For helping, they punished me,” Jimena told NBC. 

Jimena is a transgender asylee from Honduras and has no criminal record there or in the United States, said her attorney, Karen Hoffmann, who asked NBC to only use her client's preferred name to protect her safety.

In mid-August, Jimena encountered another trans asylum seeker at Winn who cut herself near the wrist in an attempt at self-harm, according to sources with direct knowledge of the incident. When Jimena tried to help the bleeding woman and gave her a hug, she and her attorney say a nurse at the facility struck her twice on the back, leaving marks.  

“Nothing ICE does at this point is really unbelievable, but it was shocking to me,” said Hoffmann. “Especially the fact that it’s a nurse.”

As punishment afterwards, Jimena and her advocates say she spent a week isolated and alone in her cell where all she could see was the wall around her. In the rare moments when she was allowed to visit other parts of the prison, she says she was forced to wear metal handcuffs. 

The only time she got to see the sun was when she was taken to the prison yard during the afternoon. In Winnfield, Louisiana, where the temperature sometimes reached triple digits in mid-August, Jimena stood outside for an hour or longer in a cage with no shade or cover.

While Jimena was in detention, she said there were times when she didn’t want to exist anymore.

“But. .. I’m here for a reason," she said in Spanish. "And the reason is because I want to remain alive."

Today, Jimena is finally settling into life in the U.S. But she and her attorney described harrowing harassment and mistreatment she endured for more than half a year just to access her right to refuge. And with around a million pending immigration court cases, plus thousands of immigrant detainees such as Jimena holed up in ICE facilities across Louisiana, advocates suggest the horrors she faced while in ICE custody are far from isolated or anecdotal. 

U.S. Immigration and Customs Enforcement spokesperson Bryan D. Cox told NBC that “all persons in ICE custody are under arrest by a federal law enforcement agency for violations of federal law.” But Jimena didn’t break the law by asking for asylum.

Cox required a privacy waiver to answer any questions specific to Jimena, but when one was provided, he did not respond with comment. He would not say whether Jimena was forced to wear handcuffs; ICE’s national detention standards mandate that under no circumstances should staff apply restraints as a form of punishment. Asked twice for video surveillance of the alleged assault, Cox did not make the footage available. Nor would he say whether Jimena was placed in disciplinary segregation — ICE's version of solitary confinement — when she was confined to a cell, or what she had done to deserve punishment. 

Cox said that “in general, a suicide attempt or alien injury would be considered an ICE Significant Incident” and documented as such, and there were no reports of a similar occurrence at Winn on Aug. 20, when the other trans asylum seeker allegedly cut herself.

But a person with knowledge of the situation, who asked to keep their identity secret for the privacy and protection of the trans woman in question, corroborated Jimena’s account that an attempt at self-harm took place at the facility last month. The source was unable to confirm an alleged attack on Jimena because of lack of information. 

Endless detention, near-constant harassment When Jimena came to the U.S., she waited her turn at the U.S.-Mexico border so on Jan. 13 she could present herself at the San Ysidro port of entry in California and lawfully request asylum. She was then whisked thousands of miles away and incarcerated for more than seven months at three different facilities — despite an asylum officer determining that she had a credible fear of persecution in Honduras.

At all of the places where she was held in the U.S., she was harassed and demeaned: Called homophobic and misogynistic slurs "f----t" and "w---e," whistled at, catcalled, and told she was destined for hell, according to a document submitted by Hoffmann to an ICE Enforcement and Removal Operations assistant field office director in an attempt to secure Jimena's release. When other prisoners insulted her, Jimena asked for help, but she says the official she alerted did nothing.

The last facility where Jimena was detained, Winn, sits near a town with fewer than 4,500 residents, in a remote area where cell service is spotty and the closest cities are about an hour away. Now run by LaSalle Corrections, it holds just under 1600 people at capacity and was the subject of a 2016 Mother Jones exposé on poor prison conditions.

It’s one of the facilities where people “feel like trash, ... like you don’t want to live anymore,” Jimena said.

And now, it’s filled with immigrants, including asylum seekers: In early August, ICE listed its average daily population for Winn as more than 251 people in the 2019 fiscal year.

Asked repeatedly for comment by phone and email, La Salle Corrections did not respond to NBC.

Winn is not Louisiana's only contentious immigrant holding place. The state has become something of a hotbed for ICE under the Trump administration, recently hosting the agency's largest detainee population outside of Texas, according to NBC News. 

During the last few years, the New Orleans ICE field office that oversees enforcement and removal operations in Louisiana stopped releasing almost all asylum seekers through an ICE policy called parole that allows migrants who have passed the first hurdle in the asylum process to fight their cases outside of government custody. In practice, the near-blanket denials meant that migrants in Louisiana were languishing indefinitely in detention as their cases wound through the courts, until a recent preliminary injunction required the New Orleans field office to restore parole for those who qualified.

Long, drawn-out detentions pose hardships and due process concerns for all asylum seekers, but they present unique challenges for trans women, attorneys suggested. If trans asylum seekers are not at ICE’s only known permanent, transgender-specific detention unit in New Mexico, they're likely held alongside men or in segregation. When they're detained with men  — as Jimena was for part of the time she was in ICE custody — they face a high risk of sexual and physical assault, said Allegra Love, an attorney and the director of Santa Fe Dreamers Project, which she said has represented hundreds of trans women in recent years.

Love and her colleagues field near-constant complaints from clients about discrimination, misgendering, abuse by guards and fear of danger at detention facilities. And if a trans woman reports feeling unsafe surrounded by men, ICE’s reaction is to isolate her, Love said — a tactic a United Nations expert on torture has said may cause "severe mental pain or suffering."

ICE does not collect comprehensive data on how many detainees are being segregated, though NBC News has tracked thousands of such occasions. Under the current administration, solitary confinement is on the rise for immigrant detainees: The Project on Government Oversight documented a 15.2% increase in solitary placements during the first 15 months of Trump's presidency, compared to the last 15 months of Barack Obama’s. 

Cox did cite two studies ICE conducted that found only about 1.1% of its detained population was segregated at any given time — research done in May 2012 and March 2013, more than half a decade ago and under a previous administration.

Lynly Egyes, the Transgender Law Center's legal director, has practiced immigration law and represented trans people for more than 12 years. She said ICE uses solitary confinement as a way to control trans women, and sometimes the person doesn’t even know why they’ve been placed there.

There’s no reason to detain any asylum seeker, said Love, but it's especially bad for trans women because they're so unsafe.

“It’s an optional hell,” Love said. “They can just let them all go.”

Where can they go? Like countless others who are held by ICE but have family and friends who are willing to take them in, Jimena has a place to call home in the U.S. Her sponsors, David Andres Martinez and Alex Pedro Rosalez, waited for months to meet her in-person.

After connecting with Jimena through a friend who volunteered at the border, Martinez and Rosalez spent 15 minutes nearly every day on the phone with her. As members of the LGBTQ+ community themselves, they identified with her story.

“The only difference between Jimena and us is where we were born,” Martinez said.

As sponsors for Jimena, Martinez and Rosalez compiled a long list of documents to prove they would support her. Their U.S. passports and driver’s licenses. A utility bill. Tax returns, earnings statements, a bank statement. The person in charge of this country had to submit less than they did just to look after one of his detainees, Martinez said. 

And yet, even after all that, Jimena remained in ICE custody, allegedly because the agency was not convinced she was not a flight risk. The days and weeks trickled past, but Jimena still gave her sponsors scant details about what she was going through: “She always says, ‘oh, I don’t want to worry you,’” Martinez said.

Then, when she was allegedly struck by a nurse and isolated — after being detained for more than seven months — she told them more.

She said she was in handcuffs. She said she was not a criminal. She asked why she was being treated like this.

“Jimena presented herself, did not come into this country in the dead of night. She followed all the rules,” said Martinez. “And it just seems like a broken system that awful people are just trying to make it harder for the people who want to do things right.”

Death and asylum Statistically, it has become more difficult to eventually be granted asylum here. Based on data from fiscal year 2018, the Executive Office for Immigration Review reported that asylum denials increased 193% in recent years. According to the Transactional Records Access Clearinghouse (TRAC) at Syracuse University, they jumped to 65% last fiscal year. 

But for trans women, asylum claims are easier to articulate: It’s widely understood that members of the LGBTQ+ community are often persecuted. Love said the vast majority of trans women are granted asylum, partly because “they have incredibly strong asylum cases.”

Despite the likelihood that transgender asylum seekers will be given the opportunity to stay in the U.S., and despite the unique hardships they face when they’re detained, trans women such as Jimena are sometimes being held throughout the asylum process — with life-threatening consequences. Already, two trans women have died in just over a year: Johana Medina Leon died last summer, days after being released by ICE and taken to a hospital, and Roxsana Hernandez died in ICE custody in 2018.

Others who are detained face potentially lethal mental health setbacks. 

“A large percentage of our clients express suicidal ideation, and some of them have attempted it," Love said. "It’s really scary.”

In the end, Jimena got out. Judge Brock E. Taylor — a newly appointed immigration judge — presided over her asylum case in late-August. She won.

Taylor delivered his decision orally, but according to notes provided by Hoffmann — Jimena’s attorney — he found Jimena to be “fully credible.” He detailed violence she faced in Honduras and told her she was lucky to be alive after an attack she had survived.

Because Jimena waited to enter the U.S. at a legal port of entry, she proved she was committed to the rule of law, Taylor said, according to the notes. She deserves this opportunity, he added, and will make a positive contribution to society.

Jimena was granted asylum based on her gender identity and political opinion. On Aug. 30, she was finally released from Winn and joined Martinez and Rosalez in California.

But before that, another woman in Virginia caught wind of Jimena’s struggles. Amanda, who asked to use only her first name because of an unrelated safety matter, did not know the asylum seeker from Honduras. But a tweet about Jimena’s case caught her attention.

In July, Amanda set the goal to paint a new piece of art that represents a quote from a detained migrant every day. And on Aug. 22, Day 35 of the exercise, she took on Jimena’s story.

Amanda wanted to create a reality where Jimena ended up in a place that let her protect herself and those she loved. She wanted to represent the asylum seeker with something that was fierce and female, that no one would dare strike. Not even a nurse at Winn Correctional Center.

On watercolor paper, a tigress stares upward. It’s hard to tell where she’s looking, and whether she’s hopeful, or afraid, or something in-between. But there’s both majesty and determination in her amber eyes. Like maybe — just maybe — she’s finally going to be free.

Photo Credit: Sam Hart/NBC This story uses functionality that may not work in our app. Click here to open the story in your web browser. A Trans Woman's Harrowing Journey Through the Asylum Process published first on Miami News

FINDING DANCE BY CHANCE

I once enjoyed holy moments at an ordination ceremony in a huge catholic church somewhere in Ngong’ Karen. Especially when songs and dances unfold around me with the mass filling every corner of the cathedral with prayers of submission. At one moment I backed-off from my seat and stood at the main door to get better view of the massive architecture before me, black saints frescos allover its interior walls. Beyond the high pillars enclosing a relatively smaller consecrated area that glowed with cream yellow flames of burning candles was ‘the synagogue’. It had a heavenly splendour as incense rise from censers softly floating upwards over it in the cupola, mingled in rising waves with the morning sun rays that streamed in from the rear windows. I was part of teenagers from Korogocho invited to witness the event since the ordaining priest had been involved in some charity work in our community.

With all these and from the synagogue, the gospel softly hit every ear and heart in the congregation from alter boys to choir, to every believer. The dances and the singing came on overly exhilarating yet purifying. It felt like everything existed to support the very moments we shared such that even tiny gestures in the congregation were extremely visible and could affect the general balance of the mass proceedings particularly the still spiritual moments. I was stunned at this, and for the first time in my life, I thought I received a seed of God's word in my heart.

As a young boy then, it aroused in me a strange curiosity on how it could happen that one could make such performance possible - preciously the songs and dances - however fragmented and elusive it may sound. Beneath the alter, was a man with his belly to the floor taking the most sacred oath of his life - defying pleasures of this world, denouncing marriage to serve God. Celibacy was a fancy idea then, much as I remember but not anymore. Maybe I was too naive then. Though my commitment with church has gone colder, I was impressed, not too much so, I felt it tangibly. But such occurrences where deep confessions are made in public have also become rare.

The wish came true. I was only a teenager then but a lasting impression, a hidden feeling of it all remained in my heart, ready to rise up and respond when the time came. And just so, hardly many years passed before I found myself a dancer and a choreographer. The word became flesh and I have massive fantasies to share with the world. In fact tonight as I write this, am preparing to make a dance performance which - begins with me standing in the middle of a wide room, a spot-light hanging above my head like some despot god exercising surveillance - radiating everywhere. I don’t panic because when the door opens and audience start streaming in one by one, some will sit on few benches scattered in the room and some standing expectantly, silence will automatically set-in and then, I will begin.

’My names are jared ONYANGO and I stand before you as a dancer.’ I will introduce myself and jest further. ‘Thank you for acknowledging my ability to continue my dance career in the face of relentless ridicule and constant rejections. Tonight I welcome you to this performance and it’s my hope that I will not fail you.’ After these words, I will start dancing in the luminous light. Dancing amorphously yet readable as the music fades in slowly creating a delicate ambient environment. Moving and moving, making room for my dancing. The dance resembles a village market in how it builds slowly to flimsy climaxes then come to disarray unexpectedly. In a market, people walk around to buy what they need - typical stuff mainly food- fish, maize and wheat flour, threshed grains (millet, wheat, sorghum etc) both raw and dried cassava, potatoes, tomatoes, onions, indigenous vegetables, matchboxes, paraffin etc laid modestly on the ground. A village market functions in that polyvalent exchange between cash, goods, people and conflictual movements.

Though I make my own dances today, I have learnt that few people find them interesting, others struggle to grasp them while majority literally get lost in them. I follow my heart’s desire and though many lament, I take a deep breath in and move on whenever in doubt. I’ve had awkward critiques, mostly from people I respect so much. One day I was showing a short solo dance to fellow students, their response were rather grievous, demeaning and way too weird for all they saw in my dance was some African voodoo dance. And I wondered if that’s all they could see! Yet strangely so, they said that’s what they saw. A certain dance scholar wrote, ‘while  African dance has been the galvanising force of black culture and a contributor to the world’s culture at large, African dance has not always been recognised as a site of theorisation even in the academy.’ Which of course every pan-Africanist agrees with.

Naive indeed because one of them in seeing the cruelty in all these and as if wanting to sympathise some more, nonchalantly said ‘yeah but why would we just see that? I mean why not see dance as dance and take dance for what it is, I mean…?’ Then he stopped. Of course the problem here was obvious, or maybe not but I would attribute it to how seeing and perceiving is influenced by how one has been taught to look and understand other people’s things.

I expected all these in advance, even before doing the solo - for what followed is exactly what always follow. The usual redundant debates seeking to reduce black body into single categories in its representation as the vulnerable body. Interesting though but why in the least of things would someone really care so much about black things?  Who really knows what is fit for a young African? What is African today? Who is aware of it and whose responsibility is it to care for things African?

Part of my lessons in life is, there is no real safety except in self-belief. Especially if you are African dancer. Whereas I would want to dismiss people, deep-down I want people to be part of my journey as well. I want people to enjoy my dances as well just like I saw it happening in that ordination ceremony. For this my relieve me the pain of being the dancer nobody understands to winning a flock around me because nowadays the talk is: create new audience for dance. For who and why? For dance they say but who cares? I just wanna dance. Just let me dance.

What struck me in that ordination was the immensity and affluence of the dances and songs presented there. They embodied an ‘aura’ of sort with aesthetic beyond words and ordinary fantasies. I meditate on them even though several years are gone. Submission - devoting ones life to the service of God is spectacular in its own way, yet I still regard the dances, singings and the swaying that was I saw and the oneness of hearts in the congregation quite extraordinary. It’s a nostalgia that is not fading any soon. My memories seem uniquely embedded in them.

If there is one thing that I can relate all these together with the years I have been practicing dance - which many will dispute anyway is that, there is a parallel to be drawn between dance and the oath of celibacy. The sacrifices involved in devoting ones life to attain a higher good marches commitments entailed in dance practice - more so choices involved in making a choreography. It’s constant rejection of average ideas to attain higher ones. Training ones body daily to attain a better version of oneself in dance. In letting go certain privileges, sacrificing certain choices and choosing to submit oneself fully to demands and consequences of those choices.

When Does Hate Turn into Terror?

Federal Judge Henry T. Wingate. Photos by John Ramsey/TCR

As a young African American growing up in segregated Jackson, Miss., Henry T. Wingate lived in constant fear of being assaulted, abused and harassed. When he became involved in the civil rights movement, he was a constant target of local law enforcement.

He recalled awaiting a visit in 1963 from civil rights leader Medgar Evers for advice about how to deal with a pending charge against him. But Evers never arrived: he had been assassinated the day before by a white supremacist who was a member of the Ku Klux Klan.

Wingate eventually broke out of what he called Mississippi’s “apartheid” system, when he graduated Yale Law School and returned to his home state to serve as a defense attorney,  a prosecutor–and eventually as the state’s first African-American federal judge.

In an ironic twist of history, he presided over one of the trials in the first case to be prosecuted under the federal Hate Crimes Prevention Act in the Deep South. The case involved the 2011 murder of a black man, James Craig Anderson, who was beaten by a group of 10 white teenagers yelling “White Power,” and then run over by a truck operated by one of them.

Four of the youths were found guilty under the Hate Crimes Act, sentenced to long prison terms, and ordered to pay $840,000 in restitution to Anderson’s estate.

Did their crime, like the Medgar Evers assassination a half-century earlier, amount to terrorism?

Wingate now says he is leaning in that direction.

“No one wants to be labeled a terrorist,” Wingate told an audience at John Jay College  Thursday—-which is why, he argued, that it may send an even stronger  message of society’s disapproval than a label of “hate criminal.”

Wingate drew criticism at the time of the Jacksonville case when he linked the racist invective of the youths who killed Anderson to the willingness of many otherwise law-abiding whites to ignore the long, violent history of southern racism.

During the trial, it was revealed that the young people had regularly traveled to Jacksonville, which they nicknamed “Jafrica,” from their homes in a nearby county, to terrorize and intimidate black people.

The historic racism of the American South, which has morphed into the proliferation of  white supremacist groups today, becomes terrorism when it is deployed in violent attempts to intimidate and spread fear, Wingate believes.

As the nation experienced a record rise in the number of hate crimes last year, the question of whether they should be prosecuted as terrorism was the focus of a discussion at the 14th annual John Jay/Harry Frank Guggenheim Symposium on Crime in America yesterday.

Wingate was joined by Karen Greenberg, director of the Center on National Security at Fordham Law School; Faiza Patel, director of Violence Prevention Programs at New York University’s Brenner Center for Justice; and George Selim, senior vice president of programs at the Anti-Defamation League.

Several speakers pushed back at the notion of  making a blanket equation between hate crimes and terrorism.

Karen Greenberg

According to Greenberg, it could give the government power to extend anti-terror practices like surveillance and putting groups on a “terrorist watch list” to any organization that promotes  policies it considers destabilizing or threatening.

Racism has been a consistent feature of U.S. national life, with deep roots in American history, she said, and labeling it terrorism risks distorting the problem.

Moreover, she argued, it would have little effect on preventing the kinds of racist acts now prosecuted as hate crimes.

It’s a view shared by many national security experts.

See also: Are Hate Crimes Terrorism?

Patel countered that redefining bias crimes against specific racial, ethnic, or religious groups as terrorism might in fact contribute to giving them higher priority for law enforcement.

“Terrorism is (now) the FBI’s number one priority,” she said. “Hate crimes enforcement is its number five priority.”

But she also cautioned against “over-criminalization,” noting that hate crimes are often perpetuated by individuals with a mental illness.

Faiza Patel

“Do we want to criminalize every incident we think is motivated by hate?” she asked the panel, noting there were already 51 separate statutes on federal lawbooks defining domestic terrorism.

“We have to be very wary of over-criminalization… We don’t want to capture every small thing into a terrorism definition.”

The ADL’s Selim said his response to the question of whether hate crimes should be treated as terrorism is “sometimes.”

He gave the following examples of crimes which could fall under the category of terrorism: the gunning down of six people at a Sikh temple in Wisconsin in 2012,  the 2017 killing of 26 people at a church in Sutherland Springs, Texas, and the  murder of 11 people by a man shouting anti-Semitic slurs at the Tree of Life Synagogue in Pittsburgh last year.

These incidents were acts of terrorism, according to Selim, who previous served as the director of the Office for Community Partnerships in the Department of Homeland Security, because they were  targeted  against specific religious groups in their houses of worship.

“These cases are examples of where I think hate crimes and terrorism are at an intersection.”

George Selim

He also noted there should be “comprehensive solutions” not only from members of the FBI, but from religious leaders, elected officials and police to intervene in the cycle of violence of motivated hate crimes.

Wingate agreed that reclassifying all hate crimes as terrorist acts could complicate prosecutions.

But he noted that in the Anderson killing, the white youths involved had come from a party where over 50 young people were present.

“Some might consider it progress (in Mississippi) that just ten of those young people [committed a hate crime] and the others in the party didn’t,” he said. “But I have to wonder whether in some way those ten people constituted a (terrorist) faction.”

Earlier this month, a white army veteran named James Harris Jackson was sentenced on terrorism charges to life in prison for fatally stabbing an African American on a New York street,  representing the first such conviction in New York. During the trial, prosecutors presented as evidence a manifesto written by Jackson before the murder proclaiming “the racial world war starts today.”

See Also: Upsurge in NYC Hate Crimes Targets Jewish Communities. 

Additional Reading: 60% of Hate Crimes are Racially Motivated: FBI 

For a news release on the Symposium events, and a list of the 2019 Fellows, click here.

The public agenda for the conference can be downloaded here.

The 2019 symposium is organized by John Jay’s Center on Media, Crime and Justice, and supported with a grant from the Harry Frank Guggenheim Foundation. Additional supporters include the Quattrone Center for the Fair Administration of Justice, and the Pew Charitable Trusts Public Safety Performance Project.

TCR Senior Staff Writer Megan Hadley contributed reporting for this story

When Does Hate Turn into Terror? syndicated from https://immigrationattorneyto.wordpress.com/

Immersive Artists and Architects Share the Secrets of Their Practices

Their art practice conflates structural interventions with immersive installations, so it isn't surprising that Jonah Freeman and Justin Lowe partnered with Turner Prize-winning British architecture collective Assemble for a panel discussion this past Frieze Week. Moderated by Karen Wong, Deputy Director of the New Museum and co-founder of NEW INC, and held at A/D/O, a creative space in Greenpoint that's an architectural wonder in its own right. TACTICS. MATERIALS. RESULTS was centered on the intersection of art and architecture and the radically different approaches that can be taken when combining the two.

Each group began the panel by giving an overview of their practice and sharing an array of project highlights with the intimate audience of creative professionals. Because the 20 members of Assemble are based abroad, the group charged a lone representative with showcasing their work. Started seven years ago in 2010, one of the group's first projects was The Cineroleum, a temporary architectural intervention where the group transformed an abandoned petrol station in London into a dazzling movie theater, primarily using reclaimed and donated materials. After each film screening, the PVC screens covering the theater would rise, transforming the audience from passive viewer to active spectacle for pedestrians and onlookers on the street.

The Cineroleum, Assemble

Assemble went on to discuss Folly for a Flyover, another intervention involving unused physical space in London. On this occasion, an undercroft that was essentially abandoned after the 2012 Summer Olympics was transformed into a pop-up arts venue that became a temporary hub for an eclectic mix of individuals, from tourists and the London art community to surprised locals from the area.

Folly for a Flyover, Assemble

While Assemble's work is aimed at fostering community in otherwise disused spaces, Freeman and Lowe's practice is centered on creating experiential zones. For Hello Meth Lab in the Sun, the duo's first project, they transformed Ballroom Marfa into an enveloping labyrinth, part hippie commune, part DIY meth lab, part mysteriously pristine museum space. Due to the disparity between the rooms, navigating the space was like entering a series of otherworldly portals, each leading into something far removed from what was visited before.

Hello Meth Lab in the Sun, Jonah Freeman and Justin Lowe

In the more recent Bright White Underground, the two morphed the Schindler House in LA into the cult-like headquarters and experimentation grounds for a fictional psychedelic drug called Marasa, a narrative they loosely based on the life of LSD psychotherapy practitioner Dr. Arthur Cook, a previous resident of the house. Through the careful re-sheathing of the building's interior, its pristine walls were modified to look long-abandoned and decrepit, with signs of furious chemical experimentation alluding to a morbid history. Scattered cameras and surveillance equipment further enhanced a sense of invasive intrusion; you do not belong to the cult of Marasa.

Bright White Underground, Jonah Freeman and Justin Lowe

Both projects (and their work at large) feature one constant: the shuttering of windows and openings to the outside world, prohibiting the viewer from connecting with the outside world as they navigate borderline treacherous spaces.

As the panel went on, the role and importance of a public audience became a focal point of discussion. Freeman and Lowe disclosed that, while they consider the visiting public to be a crucial part of their elaborate projects, they don't set out to make inherently interactive installations. Instead, they see their works as multi-room sculptures and hope that the audience treats them as such, exploring the spaces but not physically engaging with what has been presented. "The audience might as well just be a camera moving through the space," the duo explained.

TACTICS. MATERIALS. RESULTS Photograph by Patrick Buckley courtesy of A/D/O.

On the other hand, Assemble seeks to make thoroughly participatory projects, pointing out that all of the images of their work shared during the panel feature numerous people, while Freeman and Lowe's images are intentionally devoid of humanity. But the architectural group confessed that their desire for participation was, at the beginning, somewhat selfish: if many visitors interacted, they could continue to create architectural projects. Now, with the group's increasing success, participation has shifted from a vital necessity to a genuine desire on the group's behalf. They strive to instill life into the communities they work in, evidenced by their recent creation of affordable artist studios as an effort to give back to local artistic communities.

Despite their different intentions and distinctive end products, the two groups agreed that the relationship between space and audience is of inherent importance to any architectural undertaking. There are many distinctive ways to craft this relationship, but whether you are making hallucinatory, sculptural installations or reinvigorating desolate gas stations, there must be a connection between human being and spatial construct.

The Cineroleum, Assemble

TACTICS. MATERIALS. RESULTS Photograph by Patrick Buckley courtesy of A/D/O.

Check out more projects by Assemble and by Jonah Freeman and Justin Lowe on their respective websites.

Related:

Inside the New York Art Space That's Been Turned into an Alternate-Reality Urban Wasteland

Sculpting with Architecture's Third Skin

Japan's Skyline is Full of Self-Replicating Architecture

from creators http://ift.tt/2qoo8Rl via IFTTT

Hana O’Neill Dr. Rothenbeck English 2270 May 1, 2017 Mental Illness Related to Gender Roles in The Bell Jar and “The Yellow Wallpaper”

Societal expectations related to gender, specifically women, have been an issue that dictates the culture of people’s everyday life. Women have always been expected to be thin, pure, and submissive.  This idea was re-installed after the end of World War II, when wives returned to their households from working independent jobs in factories and sustaining their families while their husbands were away at war.  Throughout Sylvia Plath’s The Bell Jar, it is obvious that Esther’s sufferings from bulimia and depression are linked to societal expectations and how her peers react to it.  Plath uses Esther to showcase what it means to grow up as a woman in the 1900’s and explain her experiences from her own childhood.  Similarly, in Charlotte Perkins Gilman’s “The Yellow Wallpaper”, the narrator explains how she feels that the woman in the wall is “trapped” by the pattern in the wallpaper.  In this context, Gilman uses the pattern in the wallpaper as a metaphor for the pattern of societal expectation and has it act as a symbol of how women are unable to escape from it.  The Bell Jar and “The Yellow Wallpaper” use mental illness to critique social gender role expectations and women’s position in American culture.   When Esther arrives to New York she is introduced to a corrupt and brainwashed society that states women have to fit a certain description to be happy. Esther’s strife is caused not only by her reaction to society’s ideologies, but also by the women that surround her and how willing they are to conform to it.  Esther is ostracized from her peers due to her unawareness of the expectation of women and the want to be thin and dainty. While all of her co-workers are cutting calories and trying to reduce, Esther binges because it has no effect on her weight.  This is most prominent during the luncheon where Esther consumes copious amounts of food in one sitting.  Plath writes “I paved my plate with chicken slices. Then I covered the chicken slices with caviar thickly as if I were spreading peanut butter on a piece of bread.  Then I picked up the chicken slices in my fingers one by one, rolled them so the caviar wouldn’t ooze off and ate them…. when I finished my first plate of cold chicken and caviar, I laid out another. Then I tackled the avocado and crabmeat salad” (Plath, 28).  Plath fights the dainty vocabulary that is traditionally associated with women by using masculine and, borderline violent, words such as “tackle” or “laid out” (28).  In The Bell Jar, a majority of the women characters conform and accept the ideologies of women during their time, and as Susan S. Lanser describes in her article “Beyond The Bell Jar: Women Students of the 1970s”, they rarely question why those ideologies are in place (Lanser 42).  Esther succeeds in fighting these ideologies by not participating in the extremes her colleges go through to maintain their weight and “womanly” appearances, but ultimately fails by falling into the trap of depression and bulimia and wanting expensive material goods to make her feel beautiful.   The short story “The Yellow Wallpaper” is a major example of women’s lack of representation and equality during early America.  Throughout the short story, Charlotte Gilman decides leave the narrator nameless, but includes the names of her husband, which “suggests [women] are merely representatives for Husbands and In-laws” (Karen Ford, 309).  The two women that Gilman did chose to name are Mary, the name relating back to the virgin Mary who is thought to be pure, who is watching over their child and who’s descriptive quality is that “she is so good with the baby!” (Gilman, 1672), and the narrator’s sister-in-law, who is acting as a housekeeper, Jennie, a word meaning “female donkey” or “beast of burden” (309).  Throughout “The Yellow Wallpaper”, the narrator’s husband, John, keeps her inside on bed rest when she begins to stray outside the lines of appropriate behavior and appearance for women.  The fact that John had the ability to diagnose his wife for wandering the borders of what he thinks is acceptable and orders her to remain indoors further proves the power and dominance that the male gender holds over women in society throughout history.   Not only are women’s appearances pressured by what society deems is correct, but the qualities women are supposed to encompass are as well.  Women are meant to be pure and clean by abstaining from sexual acts, thoughts, and desires.  Along with that, women are meant to dress in conservative clothing at all times in order to preserve their pureness and help men refrain from taking advantage of them.  In The Bell Jar, Esther challenges societal expectations by wanting to lose her virginity - not for love, but to get even with Buddy.  This desire to lose her virginity is in reaction to when Buddy informs her that he had an affair with “this waitress at the hotel he worked at as a busboy the last summer at Cape Cod” (70).  Esther describes Buddy as “relieved to have somebody to tell about how he was seduced” (70), which is an example of the double standard about the sexuality between men and women.  If Esther was the one who had participated in the affair, she would have been considered unclean and used, while for Buddy, it is not only acceptable, but seems as if he considers it an honor.  Buddy’s lack of shame in his actions is proof of the distinct unfairness between the male and female genders throughout American history.   Another example of the impact a woman’s sexual life has on her reputation is Doreen.  Doreen is sexual, wild, has little to no boundaries, and wears revealing items such as “these full-length lace jobs you could half see through and dressing gowns the color of skin, that stuck to her by some kind of electricity” (5).  Esther, along with the rest of society, views Doreen as dangerous and considers her a mistress.  None of these qualities are considered socially acceptable for a woman, nor are associated with qualities an idea wife would possess.  Esther wishes she could act with the confidence of Doreen, yet when she is presented with the idea of taking the initiative to engage in sexual activities with Constantine, she says that he isn’t interested in her wished that he would have “found her interesting enough to sleep with” (83).  While it is a possibility that Constantine wasn’t actually interested in her, Esther may have been convincing herself of it due to society’s constant surveillance of her sexual life, and the fear of how she would be perceived in the future if she did engage in sexual activity with him.   Throughout The Bell Jar and The Yellow Wallpaper, both Esther and the narrator are constantly under surveillance by society, their friends, and themselves.  In The Bell Jar Esther is constantly surrounded by mirrors in her everyday life.  Whether it was at Ladies Day Magazine or the Amazon, Esther was never living an un-objectified life.  Plath includes mirrors to symbolize the constant surveillance that women dealt with on a day to day basis, from not only their peers, but their inner conscious as well.  Comparably, the narrator in “The Yellow Wallpaper” feels as though she was constantly under surveillance by the woman behind the wallpaper.  The “unblinking eyes” that are “everywhere” (1672) in the wallpaper are used as a metaphor for the eyes of society constantly judging and watching women, and waiting for them to make a mistake.   Along with the eyes in the wallpaper, the narrator in “The Yellow Wallpaper” is also being watched and held captive by her husband and the house that she is trapped in.  Gilman uses several metaphors to represent captivity and to simulate jail.  She mentions how there are windows everywhere, yet they are all barred off, and how the woman in the wallpaper is trapped by the lined pattern.  The barred windows and lined pattern provide another example of being judged and always on review with no escape. Gilman also uses this imagery to further prove that it is not only men who are judging women’s flaws, but other women as well.  At the end of the short story, the narrator tears up the wallpaper piece by piece in attempt to liberate the woman who is trapped.  In doing this, she is shedding light on “her struggle for freedom” (Treichler, 64).  By the end of the story, the narrators husband finds her pacing the room having ripped off the last of the wallpaper, which she then exclaims “you can’t put me back” (1681).  Paula A. Treichler refers to her captivity as “domestic slavery” (64) in her article “Escaping the Sentence: Diagnosis and Discourse in ‘The Yellow Wallpaper’”.  Esther experiences a similar situation to the narrator in “The Yellow Wallpaper” in that she is continuously restricted by the rules of the Amazon.  With a strict curfew and daily visits from hotel maids, Esther had no escape from a confined life absent of freedom and adventure.  In the same way, women of the 1900s, and centuries before them, had little liberty, if any, in their lives due to the constricting rules dictating what is and isn’t acceptable, and the endless surveillance that society placed upon them.   Another way that society controls women’s lifestyles throughout history is by deciding what women are responsible and how they should live their lives.  Throughout decades of history, women are thought to be less intelligent and more domestic than men.  Simple phrases such as “house-wife” or “stay-at-home mom” prove this.  At the time the novel takes place, women are still being influenced by what men and society think they are capable of amounting to, and women believe it.  This is shown when Esther imagines life with Constantine as her husband.  She thinks “It would mean getting up at seven and cooking him eggs and bacon and toast and coffee and dawdling about in my nightgown and curlers after he’d left for work to wash up the dirty plates and make the bed, and then when he came home from living a fascinating day, he’d expect a big dinner, and I’d spend the evening washing up even more dirty plates till I fell into bed, utterly exhausted” (84).  Although Esther knows that she doesn’t want this “dreary and wasted life” considering she is “a girl with fifteen years of straight A’s” (84), she believes that life is inevitable if she ever decides to get married because it is all that she has ever seen.  Esther then proceeds to compare a wife to a kitchen mat, that would eventually be flattened out by the feet of their husband (85).  This degrading idea of women is also present in “The Yellow Wallpaper” when the narrator complains to her husband about feeling ill, and he attributes her depression to post-partum with her child.  He doesn’t believe her when she complains that her illness is deeper than post-partum depression, and then explains that his directions of bed rest with no movement or social interaction is the best medicine since he is a man and a physician, and she is only a woman.  John discredits the narrator’s ability to recognize her own feelings and symptoms solely because she lacks a proper education, thus he believes there is no possible way she would be able to evaluate what illness is and the proper treatment for herself.   John goes as far to treat her as a child, placing her in the old nursery with a bed bolted down to the floor.  By the last day, when John finds the narrator in her room, he sees her crawling around along the walls of the room like a child.   Sylvia Plath’s The Bell Jar and Charlotte Perkins Gilman’s “The Yellow Wallpaper” are examples of how women have been oppressed by society for the entirety of history and how it has impacted, and continues to impact, their lives.   Whether through never-ending surveillance, or dictating husbands, women find no escape from society’s ideologies and perhaps never will.  Through these works of literature, it is obvious to see the ways society’s unofficial rules and constraints have taken a toll on the female gender, and how Sylvia Plath and Charlotte Gilman hoped to put the culture of America’s past to rest and reconstruct the culture of America’s future.  

Works Cited Gilman, Charlotte P. “The Yellow Wallpaper.” The Norton Anthology American Literature, edited by Nina Baym, Robert S. Levine, pp 1672-1681.

Ford, Karen. “‘The Yellow Wallpaper’ and Women's Discourse.” Tulsa Studies in Women's Literature, vol. 4, no. 2, 1985, pp. 309–314., www.jstor.org/stable/463709.

Lanser, Susan Sniader. “Beyond The Bell Jar: Women Students of the 1970s.” The Radical Teacher, no. 6, 1977, pp. 41–44., www.jstor.org/stable/20709092.

Plath, Sylvia. The Bell Jar. New York: Harper & Row, 1971. Print.

Treichler, Paula A. “Escaping the Sentence: Diagnosis and Discourse in ‘The Yellow Wallpaper.’” Tulsa Studies in Women's Literature, vol. 3, no. 1/2, 1984, pp. 61–77., www.jstor.org/stable/463825.

Tales From the Border: 2 Weeks Along the US-Mexico Frontier

AP, April 7, 2017

TIJUANA, Mexico--The smells and sounds of Tijuana smack us as soon as we open the doors of our bug-splattered rental, a Jeep Renegade: food stalls selling roasted corn, churros and hot dogs; a near-empty bar blaring the oompa-oompas of norteno, Mexico’s answer to polka.

This is our last stop. We have just logged 3,000 miles from the Gulf of Mexico to the Pacific Ocean, crisscrossing back and forth across the world’s 10th-longest border 22 times over two weeks and blogging about the experience. We have traversed the terrain through which President Donald Trump would build a 30-foot-high wall; we have talked to anyone and everyone who was willing to open up to us.

We’ve seen a father and daughter speak through the bars of the border fence, and talked to an Arizona rancher who supports the wall but who has installed taps at every well on his desert property so migrants can drink. In Ciudad Juarez, we watched Mexican children throw rocks across the fence at railroad maintenance vehicles in the U.S. In Tijuana, we met a U.S. Army veteran who crossed the border, in her words, to “hide” from life for a few hours.

What we’ve found, from the near-empty migrant shelters of Tamaulipas state in Mexico to the drug-running corridors of the Sonoran desert, is a region convulsed by uncertainty and angst, but rooted in a shared culture and history unlikely to be transformed by any politician, or any barrier man can construct.

Border life “is not going to change,” said Ramon Alberto Orrantia, a 54-year-old restaurant parking attendant who has lived in Tijuana for 48 years. “People continue doing the same thing. Life is normal.”

Practically everyone we met has been welcoming and evinced a deeply held sense of the place they inhabit--from the Mexican-American sheriff in Nogales, Arizona, who shook hands through the fence and chatted amiably with a man he later said was probably a lookout for smugglers, to the cheery border agent in Deming, New Mexico, who astonished us with a thorough knowledge of the history of the AP’s founding during the Mexican-American War.

I’ve spent six years living and reporting along the border, most of it in the Rio Grande Valley of South Texas. My traveling companion, Rodrigo Abd, is an Argentine photographer who has covered some of the most violent conflicts on the planet but has spent little time on the border. He expected every American he met there to be fervently pro-Trump and pro-wall, but we often had a hard time finding such people.

Mostly, we found a culture that is neither exclusively Mexican nor American but distinctively both.

Nowhere was that more clear than in Columbus, New Mexico, and Palomas, Mexico, where each day about 1,200 children in backpacks and sneakers wake up in Mexico, cross the border and hop on school buses.

These kids are all American citizens; many of their parents were deported and moved to the frontier so they could get a U.S. education. They are the epitome of the bicultural border population, growing up fluent in both English and Spanish and prepared to thrive on either side.

“There are more opportunities there ... more hours of work, and I think that all favors them,” said Ada Noema Gonzalez, whose 10-year-old son Jesus and 9-year-old daughter Karen live in Palomas and attend class at Columbus Elementary.

But life on the border is not always so hopeful. Drug trafficking and its accompanying violence are grave concerns. And Trump’s presidency has turned U.S.-Mexico relations on their ear with politicians exchanging insults, threats of possible trade wars, fears of mass deportations and near-constant talk of the wall.

All along the trip, people shared their very real concerns. Some feared the heavily armed cartel smugglers who mule cocaine shipments through their backyards in the dead of night. Others harbored less violent worries of losing a job or being separated from loved ones.

Fernie Velasco in Sunland Park, New Mexico, was grilling a mountain of steak next to his trailer when Rodrigo asked to photograph his kids jumping on a trampoline. A U.S. citizen who works construction and spent more than a decade as a migrant farm worker, he worries that his Mexican wife could lose her work permit and be deported at any time, leaving him alone with the kids.

In northern Mexico, thousands of people eke out a living at the so-called maquiladora plants that boomed under the endangered North American Free Trade Agreement and crank out all sorts of goods for export to the United States, everything from shoes to toys to electronics.

But while these jobs are treasured, it’s not an easy life. Reynosa plant worker Jorge Santiago told us how maquiladora entry-level wages, while well above Mexico’s minimum wage, are barely enough to scrape by: “Here everyone makes it with overtime.”

U.S. Homeland Security Secretary John F. Kelly acknowledged this week that despite Trump’s frequent promises to put up a solid barrier the length of the border, “it is unlikely that we will build a wall from sea to shining sea.”

To travel the length of the border is to understand why.

Where the Rio Grande makes a long slow curve through the aptly named Big Bend National Park, we bore witness to how nature already dwarfs any man-made wall that could be built. Here, twin sheer cliff faces rise 1,500 feet above the water.

At the bottom of the canyon there’s a shallow river with no border agents on either side to prevent park visitors from wading across. “As far as we understand, we just crossed an international border,” David Finston, a retired math professor from Las Cruces, New Mexico, told us.

Just west of El Paso, workers were welding hundreds of steel panels into place in a stretch of see-through fencing that was planned before Trump’s election and replaces a shorter chain-link fence. (There are now about 650 miles of different kinds of fence along the border.)

Many residents on both sides say the current fence is not stopping border crossers. Every night, they lean ladders up against the barrier and climb over.

Randy Calderon, a 44-year-old retired U.S. Army military police officer and security specialist, doesn’t favor a solid wall--he thinks blowing sand could build up to where people could just walk over it--but he likes this see-through fence of parallel bars in tandem with sensors and boosted policing.

“It’s a visual deterrent ... a slow-down, which gives the security guards on the inside a chance to respond,” he said.

In Arizona, Jim and Sue Chilton offered a different take on the wall.

Jim hides surveillance cameras all over the couple’s 50,000-acre ranch in Arivaca, about 80 miles southwest of Tucson, and showed us videos on his laptop of camouflaged smugglers carrying backpacks through the scrub brush. They walk with military precision, stepping on rocks and wearing carpet-soled slip-ons to avoid leaving tracks.

“Outrageous,” said Jim, who has encountered smugglers carrying AK-47s. He has a beef with people from far away who shrug off border security.

“They say, ‘Oh, it’s OK for all these people to walk through Jim Chilton’s ranch,’” he said. “I mean, they have no skin in the game.”

And yet he and his wife both have empathy for the migrants who risk death to cross the border. Some have died on the Chilton’s ranch, prompting them to install drinking taps.

“No one comments on the cost of not having effective protection of the border,” Sue Chilton said. “That cost includes all those dead people, the raped and mutilated, the otherwise abused and abandoned.”

As the sun goes down over the ocean off Tijuana, a lighthouse comes alive and its rotating beam slaps a border surveillance tower on U.S. soil. At a nearby bar, Mexican baseball fans are watching the San Diego Padres beat the Los Angeles Dodgers on four large-screen TVs.

The San Ysidro U.S. port of entry between Tijuana and San Diego is the busiest crossing in the Western Hemisphere, handling 50,000 northbound vehicles and 25,000 pedestrians each day--more people than the top two U.S. airports for international arrivals combined. They’re crossing to go to work or school; as tourists; to visit family, dine out and party; to shop for cheaper medicines in Mexico or flat-screen TVs in the United States--which, odds are, may very well have been assembled in Mexico in the first place.

The two countries do about $584 billion in commerce each year, with much of that crossing by land. People along the border are more likely to be bilingual and often share an affinity for things like baseball teams, jacked-up pickup trucks and chile-spiced cuisine. They draw water from the same rivers to drink and irrigate crops, and their governments work to protect the same ecosystems and imperiled species.

It’s a relationship that can be adversarial at times. Far more often, it’s symbiotic.

“We Mexicans have been through a lot, especially here in our own country,” said Hector Mendez Leon, a 28-year-old Mexican who was about to cross from Tijuana to his cashier’s job at a clothing store in Chula Vista, California. “So for Mexico, a president like (Trump) is like having a cold. One day you will get over it.”