i think the hill i'm going to die on here is that lasting anti-fascist activism begins and ends with unrestricted social services.
protests are great. kind of indispensable right now. but in times when we can be less reactive, you want to know what you're protesting *for*, not just against.
today i saw a post elseweb saying "why aren't white women fleeing maga? they have to know by now that tradwife means sex slave". and like... it's very simple. they can't leave because they would end up like me.
they're, we're, deliberately made unemployable so that we'll have to marry whatever mediocre white man picks us out. as it happened, i was unappealingly intersex, fat, butch, and autistic, so none of the mediocre white boys of my generation ever took a second look at me, but that didn't give me job skills or career connections.
i knew multiple women whose husbands divorced them and took the house as part of their midlife crises. they had to send the kids to live with relatives and take dead-end jobs like bagging groceries because they were in their forties with zero job experience. if they'd rejected the worldview, if they'd alienated their families and what few friends didn't victim-blame them for the divorces, they'd have had nowhere to turn.
it's been over twelve years since i got out. psychologically, medically, i'm healthier. but i've chased a fresh start through half a dozen states. i spent my inheritance getting a degree. none of it helped. there are no supports for abandoning (or being abandoned by) your support network.
you won't defeat fascism until my people are free to leave the cult if they realize they want out. until we can access free housing to get away from financial abuse, free comprehensive job training and placement services to help us start careers, national healthcare so we can flee across state lines if necessary without losing any medical care we're lucky enough to have access to, protections for children and teens so they can flee without needing a parent's help... universal basic income would be really good but there are smaller steps that could help with financial independence.
and it all has to be available to everybody, including people you think are "unworthy". people who hold the wrong opinions. drug addicts. people whose husbands or parents make too much money. people who aren't from around here. unrepentant bigots. if they want out, you have to give them a path out. minds can change later, once people are less scared and less pressured.
(i'm ex-catholic. do you want to hear about what happens when you force people to profess certain beliefs in order to access basic assistance? i have two thousand years of examples.)
"but if they really wanted out they'd do the Right Thing and leave without support!" Better to be one man's sex slave than turning tricks on the street. "staying just proves they're actually evil and there for the bigotry!" Live in your car for six months in 100°F heat, twice, and then talk to me again. There's no virtue in cutting yourself off from society just to prove some kind of moral point. All that does is get you dead or worse.
("JT, you're not dead" I'm a fucking cockroach. Most people would be dead by now. Survival bias goes both ways; we're not all the same model of airplane.)
Pairing: Benjamin Poindexter x fem!reader
Word Count: 9k
Summary: Soulmate marks were an alien invention, literally. But they stuck around and so you carried those words on your body, and you yearned, and you wished for that person to come along. Of course, he arrived after you'd given up, and only after there was blood on your hands.
The thought of being marked with words from Foggy Nelson's killer sent spirals of shame and guilt to your core, but a fragile, thin line stretched between the two of you, and it wouldn't be broken.
Warnings/Tags: fem!reader, no use of y/n, canonical character death, canon-typical violence, eventual explicit sexual content, explicit language, hurt/comfort, catholic guilt, soulmate identifying marks, your honor they're in love, SLOW BURN
Notes: This man got me out here making fic banners, y’all. The club scene was fully a little John Wick moment because I love John SO MUCH. The line where reader yells, "Agua!" in the bar is directly inspired by Julia Stiles' character in 10 Things I Hate About You because of course it is.
I have to admit that I had a hard time with this one, it seemed like everything struggled with me the whole way -- so just imagine me wrestling my computer trying to make the fic(n) fic(v). I think parts of this were re-written three times! Anyway, I'm just glad it's done and I do hope you'll forgive me if it isn't the best.
Chapter six has a whole Big Talk(tm) and other fun moments, so please stay with me here. I do have to go to a wedding next weekend (yay, I'm so happy about it, can't you tell?), so I will try to post but you may have to wait two weeks for what comes next. No tomatoes please, they'll stain my clothes. In the meantime, now that this is posted, I'm off to FuelFest! Apparently I agreed to a lot more outside activities than I thought I did over the summer.
As always, can’t wait to hear your thoughts. Love you all.
where have you been?
do you know when you’re coming back?
‘cause since you’ve been gone
i’ve got along but i’ve been sad
- The Neighbourhood. “Reflections” Hard To Imagine The Neighbourhood Ever Changing, 2018
April 11, 2027
Most spring, summer, fall mornings you preferred to wake to the whisper of fresh air on your face, to the sounds of birds, and the ambient noise of the city. Could hear cars driving by on the street far below, regulars calling out to garbage men on their routes, perpetual sirens, children screaming on their way to catechism. As far back as childhood, that was what you liked as long as the weather allowed, no matter what. You never slept in complete darkness, shrouded in quiet. Private.
This explained why you woke up the morning after your party so confused, disoriented, the apartment almost blackout. That sounded dramatic but it wasn’t for some terrible new wave of emotional turmoil and strife just… blinds that you knew hadn’t been closed the night before. Being a Sunday, you would ordinarily have slept late, but the internal sense of a something wrong dragged you from REM even without the sun on your face.
You propped yourself up on an elbow, bleary, rubbing sleep out of your eyes and yawning. The window above your bed was shut totally, even though you remembered nudging it open an inch or two; these shades were also drawn tightly. Confused, you stared for a moment, tried to figure out how this had happened. For all the adults in attendance at your birthday the night before, there was but a single bottle of wine, so it wasn’t as if there had been drunken shenanigans or you were hung over. Your eyes drifted to the side to see a thin, rectangular puncture in your wall, next to the window frame. The fuck?
Reached out to trace it, seeing that it was deeper than you might have expected. Scowling as a little bit of plaster crumbled into your palm, rubbed it between two fingers till it eroded to dust. The landlord was gonna have your ass for this if you didn’t fix it before the next inspection. Maybe you had accidentally… uh, well…
No, nope. Couldn’t think of a single thing you might have done to cause this.
Slowly you sat up, pushing your blankets down your thighs, and processed the fact that at some point in the night, said blankets had straightened themselves out to cover you fully. You remembered tossing and turning as sleep crept over you, restless and nervous. Huh. Swung your legs out of bed and planted your feet on the cheap wood flooring to feel – the hell was that? Looking down, there was another big puncture wound in the floor, the edges of it rough and splintery under your foot. How the hell were you supposed to fix that?
The blinds on the other window in the studio, situated by the living area, were also usually semi-drawn for light. After all, you were on the fourth floor and the fire escape was a rickety jumble of metal that woke the dead the moment anyone even thought about climbing on it; what harm could it do? But these too were drawn tight, the horizontal blades arranged in perfect straight lines with only the barest breaths of sun sneaking through.
You padded over absently, examined the situation like a detective might survey a crime scene, hands on hips; eyed yesterday’s leftovers and let them remind you of how things had ended.
Dex.
He was out, escaped. You placed your palm against the curtly written words under your breast, rubbed one finger back and forth over them, thinking. Tried to quell the sensation of that chain, clinking and rattling against your ribs, that leash. Dex was free and walking around somewhere in New York City, but surely he had better things to do than break into your crappy apartment? He wouldn’t risk his freedom for nothing, for a stranger.
But it wasn’t nothing – that feel of his mouth on your fingers surged through you, a shock to your system. It wasn’t nothing – the way he catalogued each detail about you every time he saw you. It definitely wasn’t nothing – even if both of you might want it to be. ‘Please just let me be,’ you thought even as it was rear ended by another thought, ‘God, please want me.’ All the times you’d thought about letting him go from your life because he’d never get out of prison floated across your mind.
Be careful what you wish for, right?
A deep breath, in and out, in and out. Stop worrying about the future and handle things one step at a time. Call Marci, probably call Karen, Kirsten. They’d all left in a hushed hurry once everyone knew of Dex’s escape, the party quashed under an avalanche of feelings. Karen near as much stormed out, a riot of red cheeks and eyes threatening to leak tears whether she wanted it or not. Kirsten departed quietly, hugging you tightly, hands on your shoulders. Marci, apologetic but sad, had squeezed you close before walking to the landing with her boyfriend, whose name as actually Pat. Yes, better check in on them, put the cake away, apply for more office jobs without late night hours, look at your bank account and try not to sigh out loud at the sight of it.
A plan.
Dex seemed to be always derailing you though, because he threw all of that self-determined roadmap out the window a moment later. There on the table, amongst the half-eaten cake and little gifts, was a small, dark shape – stopped you dead in your tracks. Placed carefully in a perfectly straight line parallel to the table’s edge, was a knife. Near invisible in the imposed darkness, but your hand knocked it askew when you tried to convince yourself it was your imagination, proved it was real.
He'd been there. In your apartment.
You stared at the knife, heart in your throat, placed a palm to your chest like that would help calm the quickening beat there; thumped so quickly and erratically you almost felt lightheaded for it. Fear and hope battled in your gut, each of them stuck facing the other over a deadly no man’s land of uncertainty. That rope coiled in your chest began to unravel, pull you in the direction it wanted, pulled harder when you resisted, sought the wrong lodestar like a determined hunting dog.
Your skin prickled, shoulders rising at this sense of sudden awareness, and twisted around to see if there was a dark form holding up the wall behind you, waiting for your attention.
But you were actually alone, and so sat down heavily on one of the folding chairs for the party that you still needed to return to Marci’s place. Stared at the weapon sitting innocuously on your cheap IKEA table. The knife was utilitarian. Dark, brushed metal and hard edges. No grip on the handle, with grooves molded into it for more control, aerodynamics exemplified. There was a ring at the end for easier grabbing, a blade so sharp it could have split air currents or an errant thought. And carved into the base of the handle with precise, clean strokes was a small, perfect bullseye.
He'd placed it within enough proximity of the gifts and scraps of torn wrapping paper to make his intent obvious. A present. Dex had left you a birthday present.
You laughed suddenly, sharply, loudly in sheer disbelief. Stood up and roughly pulled on the cord so the blinds opened and you could see clearly because this couldn’t actually be happening. Stared at the knife again, like it was alive and might bite you. A fucking birthday present.
Dex had: broken out of prison – tried to kill Mayor Fisk – tracked you down – broke into your apartment – and left you a birthday gift. In that order. If this was a television show, the audience would have been screaming online about jumping the shark.
Insanity. You laughed aloud again, and picked up the knife before you even knew what your hands were doing. Held it in front of your face, and tried to convince yourself this was real life. If you squinted, the gesture was kind of… considerate? Courtly, if you read between the lines. Like a knight handing his maiden fair a token of affection before he rode into battle. Something she could hold onto while he tempted death and risked not coming home. Your mouth opened but to say what to who?
You were alone, and there was no one to say thank you to, no one to tell you to throw it away or call the police, no one to hear when you said, “Fuck, why does this mean so much to me?”
Dragging your finger over the bullseye, pressing the tip down on the design until it was imprinted on the pad there. Imagined his hands dwarfing yours and showing you how to use it. It would have been warm from his body heat when he left it there; a piece of his armor that he’d purposefully taken off and placed where you could reach it. Left a part of himself behind so that you’d have something to defend yourself with. Shoved you just an inch closer to hope, an inch farther from fear.
Tapping the blade in your palm, the sharp tip pricking your skin, you turned to see your apartment with new eyes. With how he might have looked at it. You had two chairs for your little table, folding ones notwithstanding, even though you lived alone – did he notice that opening for him to exist? Had he stopped by the bookcase to look at the photos next to it on the wall? Picked up your perfume bottle on the bathroom counter? Opened your fridge to see that you needed to go to the grocery store?
Picturing Dex actually existing in your world shifted it to a new plane you feared you’d never be able to retreat from.
The day passed in a bewildering cycle of slow-fast-slow. Slow-fast-slow. One moment you’d be standing in your kitchen staring at your coffee maker, and then you’d blink and you’d be down the street on the way to your local Grocery Outlet. One moment you’d be picking up an apple to squeeze it, and ten minutes later you still stood there with the same fruit in your hand. Blinked and you were multiple subway stops away to pick up some specialty supplies for work. A blur that failed to make any impression on your brain because it was so occupied with the idea of what if?
You showered absently that night, thinking of Dex, wondering if he would come back, trying to parse your own emotions. The sudden reversal of your situation sent everything you felt into a wild, uncontrollable spin – spinning, spinning, spinning – except for the soulmate whipcord that tied you two together. Water sluicing across your face gave you the privacy to feel shame – hope – grief – anger – confusion – desire – a melting pot without bottom. Reminded you of all the times you’d cried in the shower, trying to hide the sound of your gasping from Michael with the bathroom fan.
Thoughts of Dex kept dragging thoughts of Michael along with them, even when the comparison was unwarranted. Despite Michael’s vested attempts, your life was your own to control, and you had rebuilt yourself from nothing. Above all, you were unwilling to let either of those things go.
And Michael had never taken care of you in any meaningful way, never tucked in your blanket or closed your blinds for your own safety. Never remembered your birthday, or gave you a part of himself just because. He’d also never – well, this made you scoff with how absurd it sounded – Michael had never taken a beating for you so you wouldn’t be charged criminally in court. Dex had.
As you stood by your bed, putting on night clothes, the cycle of thoughts closed in on itself. None of that meant Dex didn’t have blood on his hands and control issues a mile long. Didn’t mean you wanted to jump into his arms. Didn’t mean you forgot anything you heard in his trial. Didn’t mean it wasn’t weird that he thought knives were an acceptable gift for someone, or that closeness wouldn’t freak you out if you thought too long and hard about it. Maybe he too would want to wrest that control from you. Tear you down so you were small enough to catch like fawn with a foot in bear trap.
‘I’m sorry he had to die.’ Your eyes sought the picture of you with Marci, Foggy, and their families at some holiday party, placed on the wall next to the bookcase. Looked away quickly. “Jesus, this is fucked.” Maybe someday you’d be able to stop saying that.
It seemed like an impossible challenge, to walk the tightrope of that soulmate connection and not fall off. To know that you should be allowed joy but not reach for any of it. To sit on your tiny couch with the TV turned on low to some shit streaming show, and pretend you weren’t listening for him to come back.
“Oh god, I’m so dumb.” You said, continuing the bad habit of speaking to no one but yourself. Looked down at your hands folded in your lap, your fingers looking unexpectedly empty without the sapphire band. The night sky was a velvet blackout with neither stars nor moon out to observe any human foolishness, rendering your feelings invisible in the dark. Time to go to bed, and rebelliously, you left the blinds half open, the window cracked.
Across the street, scope to his eye, Dex smiled, his teeth white in the dark.
***
April 14, 2027
When the world spiraled in a direction that Dex wasn’t prepared for, he reverted to old habits as best he could. Returned to a strict schedule to keep himself on track, and did what he did best.
Well, one of the things he did best.
Collect information. Figure out her schedule, her likes, her habits and needs. See what fit into his worldview, what didn’t, and what could be forced either way. It allowed him both the distance to make up his mind, and to observe from close range when it suited him. He preferred to call it recon, but most people would probably tell him that it was light stalking.
It was apparent to him now that there would be no cutting off this phantom limb and cauterizing the wound, no separating himself from a soulmate and walking away. Not when she haunted his thoughts, his dreams, his body. Not when he was so compromised he couldn’t eliminate her as a threat to his own self-determination and then left a piece of himself behind for her. Couldn’t even say it was this word bond that made him do it, he just… liked the thought of her having something from him.
‘Your internal compass isn’t broken Dex –’ He drowned out Dr. Mercer’s voice with the words sitting under his skin. They were pouring her into his body, like needle and IV had been inserted into his veins for direct injection – the question was, how long would he withstand, could he withstand, the desire to drown himself in it until they were one? Could he manage it until one good deed evened out the scales? Could he microdose her perfume and skin like an addict without losing himself if need be?
Just because she was his didn’t absolve him of needing to make things right. Dex stopped, the pad of his finger hovering a millimeter over the sharp edge of his blade, and corrected himself. She wasn’t his. The man across the table from him eyed the sudden stillness nervously but kept typing in his computer, frantic, while the soft sounds of a jukebox played some crap 80s song in the background. She wasn’t his, but he doubted that would last forever.
“Almost done.” Bigelow was a tech genius, an old FBI contact with few morals and many gambling debts, lured out by the promise of money. He was also very, very motivated by the threat of sharp objects. Dex only raised an eyebrow in response, questioning, uncompromising. The typing sounds were suddenly even faster.
What he needed was money. Vanessa had given him a small fund to outfit himself with before that night at Josie’s, the leftovers of which had lured out Bigelow. It wasn’t enough to get him established in Hell’s Kitchen, to stay hidden, even before the payment – and so the sallow skinned incel on the other side of the table was hacking into bank accounts to transfer his money from before the first incarceration into new accounts under a different name, accounts he could access. Everything else was negligible, not necessary.
His apartment was considered abandoned six months into his first prison sentence in the facility, everything sold to random neighborhood people looking for a bargain and a few rancid true crime enthusiasts who thought it would be really fucking cool to own something from the killer who had impersonated Daredevil and attacked Wilson Fisk. The Daily Bugle reported that someone from SHIELD had purchased his gun collection and service medals. The photo of him with the rest of the suicide hotline staff went for the highest amount, broken frame, splintered glass and all. But he received virtually none of that.
Money also meant being able to provide. Dex ignored that thought, pretended it didn’t matter to him at all, not relevant. Even if he was supposed to be able to provide for his soulm—
What had he just thought about not mattering at all? The knife shifted between his fingers and the tip buried itself into the top of the cheap table, low lights from the bar catching on the gold ring he wore. His second prison sentence had stripped him of literally all possessions except the clothes on his back, the weapons he wore as he fell, and the ring. Better take care of it.
Bigelow was laughing nervously, sipping on some expensive imported beer with a fancy label and pretending they weren’t sitting in a shitty bar in fucking Newark. Scribbled a bunch of numbers, passwords, names on a bar napkin; shut his computer emphatically. Dex took the napkin and tucked into his pocket with a nasty smile, watched the man’s eyes track to where he was missing a tooth.
“S’you won’t like… ever fucking come back here, right? We good?”
In his head Dex thought about the things he’d need to acquire, to move forward. An apartment that was safe, under the radar; a bed; toothbrush; weapons. It bothered him to leave a witness behind but technically they were all good, there was no need to kill the man, and he had things to do. Dex stood up, knew the gun holster strapped to his thigh would also show up in the low bar lights, pulled his knife out of the table, smiled again. “Yeah. We’re good.”
He was a good guy, after all.
***
May 18, 2027
The shine of being watched was definitely wearing thin. The shine of having a soulmate who left you a knife and once broke into your apartment and closed your blinds at night so you’d be safer but didn’t hulk up and just fucking speak to you was certainly, totally, and completely wearing real fucking thin.
It frustrated you that nothing was happening, that you were being kept on tenterhooks perpetually waiting for him to do whatever it was he wanted to do. At least if he spoke to you, told you what he wanted, you might be able to figure out what you really desired in turn. Give in? Run screaming? Call the police? Drag him into a kiss and never let go? Difficult to say since more than a month to think left plenty of time to rationalize and plenty of time to melodramatize. As if a metronome, you bounced from one extreme to the other like it was a job you paid taxes on. You were not good at waiting for things like this.
And it was annoyingly invasive to your daily life how often you’d see dishwater blonde out of the corner of your eye, whip your head around to see if it was Dex, and then realize that you were staring at some random New Yorker who wasn’t even paying attention to you. Hear some noise outside of your apartment and jump up to check, only to find a neighbor shuffling by or a cat settling onto the fire escape outside. More often than not, your fingers drummed unsteady rhythms in wavering circles on your thigh, your table, an empty subway seat, anticipating a greeting that never came.
How many times had he watched you in your apartment? Cooking? Reading? Sleeping? And then done nothing. The blinds had never been pulled down again, but he was closing your bedroom window each night, pushing it down from the outside so you were less vulnerable. Maybe the new locks on the front door were actually stopping him from breaking and entering again. Doubtful but if you couldn’t reassure yourself with falsehoods, what did you have anyway? And it did seem that he was busy – often when checking the news on your phone there were reports of more AVTF officers dying in random acts of violence, knew it was him.
The lobby door to your building slammed shut as you jogged down the steps on your way to work, words shifting restlessly against your ribs which they were wont to do more and more often. Sent your skin shivering and goosebumps rising up your spine, like you were being followed. Always like this, always, but he was never there. Goddamn soulmates.
“Knock on my door, Dex. Stop screwing around.” You muttered to yourself, but the words kept getting louder the more you went on, accusatory fingers jabbing the air like he stood before you. “Say hi, sorry for fucking everything up. Here’s a coffee. Can I come in? Should I leave forever? Say hey, you wanna get dinner or maybe me stab in the face? Can I walk you to work or to the police station? I don’t know, so many fucking ways to be normal, Dex. But no. That’s cool. Don’t. Jesus.”
There was a bench just down from the apartment building stoop, usually occupied by a few kids after school or an unhoused person resting. A man sat there in a long black coat and black hat, a newspaper spread out on his lap, but he looked up in unexpected interest at the loud complaining. Ticked an eyebrow as his lips thinned. Only then did you see the white on his collar and blanched, “Oh shit, sorry Father.”
The other eyebrow went up and this time you held up both hands, ducking behind them. “Whoops, sorry.”
‘Maybe stop being so damn loud.’ You scolded yourself, bobbing your head apologetically as you sped off. Marci would have your head if she knew any of this, your literal head, on a pike, right next to Dex’s. Soulmate or not. Karen, Matt, Kirsten too. So maybe don’t shout about it on the street.
What did they say in those terrible soulmate films? But daddy, I love him? How sad that this was even a little understandable to you, but everything felt… amplified. The way a storm got worse as you approached its eye, the climax of a film that never ended and kept pulling you in. That damn latch was hooked tight on your bones, tied you permanently to the bodiless rope made of heat, of need, that was slowly reeling you into him again after such a long time feeling set adrift.
Stands selling Bulletin issues caught your eye by the entrance to your subway station, reminded you of your journalist friend and her paramour. No one had seen either of them since the night of the April 11, and reward posters were starting to sprout up around the city, haunting anyone who knew them. Texts and calls went unanswered, apartments were empty, police reports were filed. Detective Mahoney reluctantly admitted that he remembered you from that night at Josie’s when you were interviewed. Tapping your Metro card, you fumbled out your cellphone and tried to type one-handed, with varying degrees of success on each word.
5/18/27 11:37 am EST hey karen just checking on you and matt. tell me if I can do anything ofc
Were you just supposed to come out and say, ‘Hey, I’m kind of worried because I keep seeing missing posters for you and your soulmate-boyfriend and the police questioned me and I’m concerned that I might get a call to identify your bodies because neither of you have family in the area so please just let me know if you’re okay, thanks?’
The train was nearly full with an early lunch crowd, business men going to meetings, people who weren’t experiencing some weird existential soulmate crisis. A group of tourists in a bachelorette drinking party dressed as famous SNL characters pushed in too; sober and on their way to their first stop, and a very short Rosanne Roseannadanna stepped on your foot as she shoved her way into the seat next to you. Across the train car was a huge advertisement for soulmate research, some sketchy off shoot of Oscorp looking for clinical trial participants to test a chemical suppressant. Pointedly ignored it in favor of studying the Debbie Downer bachelorette.
Two stops in and you sighed, pulling your messaging app up again. Another one-handed text because you had a hard time letting these things go.
5/18/27 11:34 am EST idk if you’re even getting these. i think i said i was worried already…
5/1827 11:34 am EST is this because of fisk or something? or the police? ok I’ll stop. text me if you need something
The bell over the cleaner’s front door chimed your arrival precisely one minute late to work, huffing a little from the subway stairs. It was quiet with Brandon standing aimlessly at the front of the store, so you went directly to the alteration area to work, set just back and to the side of the front counter. Ignored the spectral touch of a hand on your elbow, guiding you through the store.
Sometimes you’d be at work, or out running errands, and realize that the rope was twisting the wrong way around your ribs, your wrists, your bond. Knew that meant Dex was out there somewhere, doing something that upset him or hurt him, that it was echoing back to you. More and more often, it was the phantom touches that drove you crazy – breath on your spine, your hands, your neck; fingers in your hair or on your arms; always reminding you to think of him, as if you didn’t do enough of that already.
It was the sensation of lips along your jaw as you sat down to work, and scratched at the skin there absently. Concentrate! Button replacement and a hand on your shoulder; letting garments out or in with French seams to finish and the ghost of a mouth on yours; pants ripped in the back and jackets with linings that needed repairs and fleeting touches to your waist. Hours later, by the time you realized the service bell had rung a third time, your spine ached right where your neck hit your back, while a tender touch skimmed it. And someone was waiting patiently at the counter, craning their neck to see what you were doing.
“Daniel, sorry. Did you wait long?” Smiled both because it was good customer service and also because the guy was cringy but nice. It was his third time coming in with old designer clothing and vintage sports jackets that needed help – you suspected he was selling them on eBay.
“Nah, nah.” He grinned affably, sticking his hands in his pockets. “I got this wicked 1980s Jets jacket but it needs some work. Thought you could help.” Looked around the store with the confidence of someone who had decided things would always work out for him in the end.
You processed the jacket by rote. On a hanger and sent to the back. Paper slip, written out and then put in the system; yellow copy to Daniel and white into the old, scratched Pyrex dish kept under the counter for precisely that purpose. “How’s it going?”
He glanced at you from the side, evasive but interested. “So, the BB Report…”
“Daniel, please I wouldn’t feel comfortable doing that.” This was not his first time asking, always saying the people of New York would be psyched to see the woman who’d testified against Bullseye with two black eyes be interviewed. The offer always made with too much enthusiasm to be entirely proper.
He held out both hands and gestured emphatically that he understood a no was a no. “No, no! Wilson—Mayor Fisk, he suggested I might get some local business owners to be interviewed over the summer. I thought your boss’ might want to do it.”
They wouldn’t – none of you felt much but disgust for the Safer Streets Initiative – but you knew from experience just saying no prompted people to argue. Better to pretend to check so they’d think it was out of your hands. “Yeah, I don’t know. Let me go get them. Watch the front for me?”
You left halfway through his agreeable nod, stopping to remove a handful of pins from your shirt and pick up a repaired jacket that now needed washing. The noise of the machines covered the tap of your tennis shoes on the old linoleum, the fluorescent lights flickered occasionally, and dresses that needed extensive restoration sat limp on padded mannequins, bodies without heads. Ducked your head into the small back office, but it was empty. Peered between the rows of industrial washers and dryers, no one. Even though you knew this place well, a warning sign was flashing in the back of your head, some kind of sixth sense set off by the sudden liminality of the room around you.
“Hey, Jim?” You were an adult, your employers had kindly informed you not long ago, as if this was news to you; call us by our first names, they insisted. “Lea?”
No answer, just the rustle of the jacket as you set it down.
The only possibility left was the alley out back, straight out of any Law & Order episode, all half-full dumpsters, flattened boxes, and hot steam from all the vents dotting the wall like pock marks. Sometimes people went out back to handle sensitive phone calls or deliveries – or in Brandon’s case, smoke weed – so you shouldered the door open, hand reaching out to grab it when it swung wide. Its low creak was drowned out by a passing fire truck, sirens blaring.
Across the alley, standing by a dumpster with an empty trash can in her hands, was Mrs. Zhang – Lea – her eyes finding you as the back door opened. She looked more nervous than you’d ever seen her, worried and pleading, her still dyed dark hair coming out of its braid and her face red with emotion. Standing over her was a tall man, with heft, with a close cropped beard and a shape at the back of his gray tracksuit that looked uncomfortably like a gun.
Shit, felt little rivulets of fear begin to cool the blood in your veins, and the soulmate rope you were so used to now did that thing again. The one where it twisted and tugged in the wrong direction – for once you were the one causing it, wondered if Dex could feel it too. Kids called it the spidey sense after their favorite neighborhood hero, but you knew it was just plain old danger.
“Hey Lea?” You couldn’t heave her out there with that guy, anything could happen to a vulnerable woman.
He was gesturing, one finger in Lea’s face while he loomed over her, and you could see how her knuckles whitened, how she gripped the garbage can tighter and tighter each time he did. When you spoke, the man froze, finger in the air, but his other hand went reflexively to his low back, the warning clear enough that you retreated by a half-step into the building. Slowly, he turned around and looked at you like you were a curious mouse who’d found the wrong piece of cheese.
“Sorry,” You blurted, out of habit more than anything else, hand tightening on the door frame. Gestured to Lea to come with you. “For interrupting. Lea, there’s this guy—”
“Come here, little girl.” He smiled then, but it wasn’t friendly, and the interruption was sharp, angry. It was a slow smile, patience tested, and this time he crooked his finger at you, the joint bending oddly like it had been broken before, trying to be encouraging. His accent was Eastern European, heavy.
Little girl? The fuck? Stronger alarm skittered across the back of your neck, and the words under your breast beat once, hard, hot, a clear warning not to go the hell over there. Defiant but not entirely idiotic, you pushed the door open more, gestured to Lea again. Let go of the door frame to cup your words beneath your palm, seeking comfort. “Lea.” Pointed, tone hard. “There’s a guy here from Mayor Fisk’s office who wants to talk to you.”
Silence, Mrs. Zhang still pinned in place from the way the stranger had her cornered with the dumpster.
“I don’t think we should make him wait any longer.” Sunlight split the alleyway in half down the middle, and for a brief moment you thought there was a flash of a shape in the sun by Lea’s feet, like someone watched from the roof. Disappeared as soon as you saw it. Didn’t reappear even when your heart beat faster and the rope twisted tighter.
The man was staring at you like you were batshit insane to ignore him, but Lea took advantage of his distraction to duck under his arm and hurry to the door. She handed you the empty trash can as she passed by without looking and you held it like you might need a weapon as you closed the back door. Locked it for good measure too.
***
June 18, 2027
In case it wasn’t obvious, Dex had never been to a club before.
He stuck out like a sore thumb, all dark pants and black shirt, stern expression that made even the bouncers step back and open the door without checking his fake license. The air was clouded with perfumes and vape smoke; the flashing strobe lights made him feel too blind to defend himself against an attack correctly; and too many bodies drunkenly shoved past him at all angles without care. Too much sweat, too many indefensible positions, overwhelming. But his girl could be a risk taker, sometimes.
His girl.
He snorted at the habit of the affectionate nickname, something he’d adopted after two weeks of recon. It felt too full of sentimental bullshit but Dex still kept it tucked in his chest cavity where it would be safe. Risk taker, he thought again with irritation of the half-open window and blinds; the way she felt too comfortable taking subway lines after dark; the way she was too polite, encouraging, to men on the street; the way she thought a night-time women’s jogging group was without danger because there was safety in numbers. Foolish. Naïve.
A group of feral frat boys broke around him in the crowd like he was a rock in a stream, but a birthday party’s worth of violently drunk sorority sisters forced him to weave the perimeter of the dance floor. Couples ground against each other, while the rare designated driver gripped bottles of water on their way back to the dance floor. The music was so loud he swore he could feel it pulsing in the metal holding his spine together; the words on his forearm throbbed with heat and need, like an annoying itch but pulling him in the right direction at least.
“Excuse me, baby,” A tall woman with deep red hair and a tattoo on her shoulder said, using the crowd as an excuse to push close to him. She backed away when she saw his face, the tension stitched into each feature and the irritation at being touched. As he kept going, she retreated back to the main bar, leaned over her friend group for a barrage of nervous whispers.
A shark investigating a school of fish, Dex paced the perimeter again, growing truly annoyed. No one else could have gotten him to do this, no one. For a moment, he was blinded by a red strobe light that flashed across his face like blood, and then his vision cleared, and there she was. Wedged between the DJ booth and a smaller back bar with that damn running group.
The knot of women around her would make it impossible for him to approach unnoticed, so Dex settled himself at the smaller bar, back pressed to the edge of the counter, arms folded across his chest. It wasn’t a comfortable position with the cogmium in his spine. “Beer.” He said curtly when the bartender asked what he wanted, and left it sitting untouched to his side. As he continued to watch his girl, he felt himself relax a little, the bond braiding his emotions into closer alignment with hers. The club speakers burst, transitioning from enthusiastic jumping to swaying bodies pressed together. Here the lights faded into blue, lacquering her face in his favorite color as she moved her hips against another woman’s body, raised her hands in the air, palm up.
Flash. In his mind he saw her palms – red in his imagination, lit by the lights of Josie’s bar, drops of blood sliding down her wrists – in the same position. A cross-pollination of mind and reality, the strobe lights dyed her deep blue, shading her eyes black and the blood indigo. Those glistening red tears and the tracks they followed burst into a flare of fluorescence as another light, bright white, illuminated the entire room for the briefest moment before fading again. Left heliotrope paths down her cheeks. She kept dancing, those tear tracks imposed on her laughing face, mixing with the arousal of her body moving with the crowd.
Dex shifted against the bar, reached over for his beer because he was suddenly more than thirsty. His jeans felt too tight, his body too densely wound to be safe, his skin hot. Didn’t react when someone jostled him to the side because he was thinking too intently about sensations that hadn’t dogged him in years. Teeth in his skin, biting down harder; wet warmth as he pressed his fingers into dark places she gave only him access to; the potent image of her eyes looking up at him, down at him. Another swallow of beer.
Fuck, he needed to get out of there.
“Agua!” Suddenly her voice was close, too close, and Dex jerked like he’d fallen asleep standing up and was only just now awake. His girl stood only a few feet away, on the other side of a pair of groping lovers, leaning over the bar while her top gaped and her skin shone with sweat. The bartender handed over two sealed bottles of water, accepted some cash in exchange, left for another person’s waving hand when she nodded. “Thanks!”
A smaller woman, blonde and unfamiliar, accepted the second water while Dex turned to lean on the bar, keeping his face tilted out of direct sight. The music was loud but they were yelling to each other over it; let him just hear her voice one more time and maybe he could drag himself out of there. “I’m just saying!” The blonde shouted, taking a quick sip and tossing the lid carelessly onto the dance floor. “Any of these guys would fuck you for sure!”
His back stiffened, arousal disappearing in favor of ugly, piercing concern. Who the fuck was this? What the hell did she think she was saying?
“No, no, no!” His heart rate slowed a beat to hear her shouting it back, shaking her head with amusement. Took a drink. The side of her halter shifted, the curve of a breast appearing, and Dex wanted to pull it all the way to the side and see if his words were there, just where he’d left them. “Don’t start with me!”
“You gotta let this soulmate shit go!” The blonde was slurring some, dancing in place then, drinking down her water in long gulps between words. Dex wondered if it was possible to drown someone with so little liquid. Maybe if she went to the bathroom by herself, he could arrange something. “Get cracked girl, you need it, and he ain’t here!”
Every single cell of his body rebelled to hear a stranger say that to someone who was fucking his, his, his. Not conscious thought, not deliberate decision. Reaction. Just fucking rage that lit a fire in the palm of his hand and traveled rampant over his body like wildfire burning grassland. Like those times in the facility when all the anti-psychotics in combination had scorched him from in the inside out before they began to deaden all sensation. Like when you grasped a knife flesh to blade first and the protective endorphins hadn’t kicked in yet.
Someone thought they could take from him? Persuade her that he was nothing? Convince her to give up her body to anyone other than him? That woman was dead. He’d see to it.
His hand was halfway to the bartender’s prep station where a knife meant for cutting lime and lemon wedges sat, neglected, when her response stopped his fury like an icepick to the head. “Why do you always bring this up? Jesus Lois, I’m not into that!” She was dancing in place too, finishing her water and dropping it in the recycling bin. “Come on, I want to get a few more songs in before I drag myself home!”
Slowly Dex retrieved his hand just as his fingers glimpsed the blade’s handle, shut all the things he could do with it away. Told himself not to expose her to that side of himself just yet. Breathed deep and ordered himself to calm down as he shoved both hands in his pockets and felt the chain unravel from his wrist.
‘She’s not yours yet.’
What a fool he’d been to act like he hadn’t made a decision already. This moment was the well that reflected back his hazy, true face. You could run away from what you were and what you wanted, but the second you thought you were in charge, there it was – ripping control from your grasping fingers and proving to you how little sway you really had. We are who we are, after all.
***
June 18, 2027 – and still
You stumbled out of the dance club, sweaty, hot, and thirsty, the halter on your top digging into the back of your neck. Tired was the right word, but also jittery somehow; an impression of tension that you didn’t think belonged entirely to you. Bouncers politely held the door open while one of the ladies from the running club hung half-way out of the entrance, drunk, calling, “Don’t wait another year to come out with us!”
“Yeah, yeah maybe!” You stopped pawing through your purse for your phone to look up and see that she was draped halfway over the bouncer’s arm, giggling, and he didn’t look necessarily displeased by it.
“Get home safe!” She waved without coordination and then disappeared back inside, leaving you alone on the sidewalk.
A New York night in late June was muggy and thick, dead air that stifled your attempts to fan yourself as you took a few steps away from the front door to clear the area. Several people milled about with bottles in brown paper bags, and at the corner a few feet away someone was arguing with their boyfriend. Blue neon lights from the club sign made your bag look like a black hole and streetlights were little help. Finally you glanced your phone with your fingers and yanked it out, pulling up a rideshare app. Traffic was minimal on the dark street, and you’d probably have to wait forever for a ride and then still pay an arm and a leg for it, but you just didn’t feel like the subway was a good idea.
Feeling so jumpy and wired while wearing a backless shirt by yourself? Yeah, probably best not to get stuck in a metal tube with whatever weirdos were down there. Said weirdos were prone to gross comments and wandering hands that would get everyone named in a police report. The conventional wisdom of course was to wear a subway shirt, but damn if you didn’t want to have to carry that all night.
There was a bus bench at the edge of the sidewalk, so you plopped down with precisely zero energy and set about setting your address and updating credit card info that was expired, because that was truly how long it had been since you last used Lyft. Crossed your legs and then stilled because you knew that feeling as you ordered the ride. Perception.
The sensation of a hand running directly up your calf, eyes full of sharp edges cutting you out of the background until you were distinct and alone. Little nicks along your skin from a man who could slice with a glance and dismiss just as easily.
Slowly, you looked up – abruptly remembering how it had felt to see him more than a year ago. Harsh features fighting to be soft, a rolling presence that swallowed the street and then you in turn. Dex.
He stood across the street from you, watching, waiting. In plain view, not hiding. Right fucking there, after all this time avoiding you or whatever it was he was doing, like it was nothing. The image of him, strong and imposing in dark clothes was so similar to the shooting at Josie’s that you blinked hastily. Tried to clear your vision, afraid you were flashing back to that night again but in public.
But no, still there, hands in his pockets. Wearing black jeans and a black shirt that was just tight enough to suggest everything you might want to think about beneath. Damp from the humidity and clinging to his biceps while his hair fell across his forehead, longer than you remembered it. Not obviously armed but there was a shape on his calf that screamed concealed carry and a single holster running parallel to his belt as opposed to vertically to disguise it; what you thought was a knife handle shaping it. His face was faintly glossed in blue light, darkening his eyes until they were black tar pools that would suck you in all the way if you weren’t careful.
Just like before, he noticed you looking at him – his thighs, cords of muscle in his forearms, at his throat – and smiled, crookedly, the jagged scar darkened by the shadows and cracking his cheek in two when he tilted his head. The streetlight caught it just so, as if he was wearing a mask across the top of his face. Just like before, he caught your hand pushing your hair back, tracked your legs uncrossing again, centered on your eyes as you stood up.
“Dex?” But you said it at a normal volume, too low for him to hear. All confusion and want because being able to see him made rationality feel unimportant.
He must have read your lips, raised one hand like a greeting.
Your wish to see his hands granted, long fingers and broad palms and a crescent of flesh between his pointer finger and thumb that would just fit a half-moon pressure of teeth. If he spoke to you, maybe you could sink to your knees in the gravel of his voice until the pain was too much. That bite against your breast tugged, pulled, insistent; the wings of a bird flapped in your chest, anxious and needy; hesitant desire that slowly smoldered along the rope between you until you could feel his and he yours. “Dex?” You called again, louder. A few people turned their head to see who you were talking to, quickly lost interest.
There weren’t any cars coming, so you started to step off the curb, took a few steps into the street and halted when he did the same; his eyes flicked from you to the bus bench pointedly, clearly an order. When you took another step forward he frowned, looked again at the bench, and nodded his head at it, irritatingly assertive. Sit on the bench and wait for me like a good girl, right?
Instead, you stood right where you were, arms crossed over your chest while he walked across the street. And Dex definitely didn’t miss the attitude – a muscle ticked in his jaw and the easy looseness of his lips disappeared. With long, casual strides he moved past you to sit on the bus bench himself, propped one ankle up on the opposite knee and then just waited with infuriating patience for you to join him.
Swiveling to stare at your soulmate, then groaning when he didn’t react at all. This was how he chose to show up? At the fucking club? Unbelievable.
Dex’s mouth kicked up into another uneven half-smile when you sat on the bench with a huff, just an inch too close to not feel the warmth of his body radiating out. Up close, you could see that he was missing a tooth now – shuddered to think of how that had happened – there was a small bruise at his cheekbone that peppered into his hairline, and your ring sat on his smallest finger, flashing under the blinking club sign when he rubbed at his mouth, trying to hide something.
Michael would have—fuck that dead man, stop thinking about him. This wasn’t Michael. Maybe Dex was worse, maybe he wasn’t, maybe he was just fate. You were tired of all this dancing around and feeling resentful of aliens, or words or the way your ribs were chanting his name like in an echo chamber. Stop hiding things, damn. ‘Just talk to me, show me who you are, cut open your chest so I can figure out if I’m safe with you.’
“Can I have my ring back?” You blurted out, impulsively, and held out your hand, palm flat like you were supposed to do with skittish animals. He eyed it like it might be an IED in disguise, then shook his head, whatever he was thinking amusing him. Should you really be provoking a wanted murderer? No, probably not but the man seemed to drive all your sense to the bus depot and leave it there for someone else to find. “Well?”
Someone else was getting into the club because the door behind you opened and let out a wall of sound, heavy thumping bass that briefly broke the tension slowly shifting like sand granules in an hourglass. It cut off just as quickly when the door closed, leaving the only a heavy weight of silence between you. From this position you could see your words on the inside of his arm, in your telltale handwriting, glistening faintly like wet ink.
“Can I have my knife back?” His voice slithered down your back to grasp your spine and hold on.
“No,” Offensive. That was a birthday present. “You gave it to me.”
He looked at you briefly again, a quick glance from those polished eyes sharp enough to leave a scar; folded his arms across his chest as if he was afraid you’d try to pry the ring off of his finger yourself. One of his eyebrows was quirked just higher than the other, a frustratingly bare hint at what lay beneath. “You gave me your ring.”
Well, okay, that was true. Don’t think about his tongue. Don’t think about his teeth. Just take another step on the tightrope and pretend like this was normal. Like it was totally okay that he knew where you were and just showed up. Just shrug and hide everything you’d cried in the shower about. “I’m not sitting with you, I’m waiting for my ride, you know.” How could you still feel those phantom touches along the backsides of your knees when he was sitting right next to you?
“I’m sure.” Asshole.
This fidgeting while he sat still and quiet was annoyingly embarrassing but it felt like fire ants crawling under your skin, all of them shrieking out of tune with each other and telling you to wrap yourself around him and not let go. In contrast, Dex sat rock steady, waiting. That didn’t mean you liked this lack of response any more than you had back in the courtroom that day when he was found guilty, wearing an expression so hard and impassive it was practically granite. “What, are you gonna say next that you didn’t expect any of this?”
The words were vaguely calculated to barb him, provoke him the way he’d done to you when he repeated your words to Karen at the courthouse. Meant to be slightly hurtful because it was late and you were tired in more ways than one and yeah, a little bit bitter about the way this had all worked out even at your most foolishly hopeful.
“No, I did not.” That unbothered half-smile was gonna get him slapped, one of these days.
A car rolled to slow stop in front of the bench, trash crunching under the wheels of the blue Toyota Echo. The window rolled down hesitantly, and the older man inside held up his phone with the rideshare app on it. “I think you guys are my ride?”
crushing!art donaldson because i need that boy to be desperate since childhood [nsfw]
• you guys have known each other since you were 7 or 8, growing up in the same circle, at first, he thought you were annoying as fuck
• only sees you during summer because you go to an all-girls catholic boarding school
• doesn't know how to deal with the fact that you grow more mature and prettier each year, so he resorts to tugging on your ponytail, pinching your waist, and teasing you with silly nicknames
• notices your hips getting wider and your chest growing fuller when you're 13, and he can't help but let his eyes linger a little too long when you aren't looking
• starts being more gentle when you play rough-and-tumble, one time, you even feel him growing hard beneath you, you never wrestled again after that
• introduces you to the infamous patrick one summer and it's the first time you understand why your dad tells you to be cautious of boys, so you stick to art, you feel safe with him
• forces patrick to invite you to his summer house after that, telling him you're like family, patrick thinks you're just getting in the way of precious boy-time with his best friend
• brings you to the beach to buy you ice cream as soon as patrick takes a nap, when you ask why patrick is missing, he tells you he's lactose intolerant and can't eat that
• tries to teach you about tennis but the shorts you're wearing makes it hard for him to form coherent sentences, he spends the whole time readjusting his own shorts
• gets mad that you always associates him with patrick, even if it makes sense since they're always glued to the hips
• his grandma thinks you're dating and calls you his girlfriend, he never bothered correcting her
• helped you get rid of the sand on the back of your thighs once and still thinks about the feeling of your skin underneath his fingers on a daily basis
• the first time he stroked himself thinking about you was after another day at the beach when he saw you mindlessly tugging at the crotch of your bikini bottom that kept riding up your crack
• was turned on by you long before that but had never admitted to himself that he was attracted to you and allowed himself to think about you in his most private moments
• caught you changing into your swimsuit once and turned bright red, it was so quick before you covered yourself and whined at him that he had barely seen anything but knowing that he saw you naked got him heavy breathing
• thinks of you as a prude innocent thing that needs to be shielded from the perversion of the world and keeps telling patrick to shut up when he starts saying innapropriate things in front of you
• gets obsessed with the idea of kissing you ever since you told him you wear flavoured lip glosses
• when he finally tells patrick about his crush, patrick is constantly on your back bragging about what a good guy art is and trying to question your feelings about him, but from art's point of view, it looks like patrick is monopolizing your time and he gets pissed about it
• gets in a big fight about it with patrick, after that patrick seems more distant with you
• finally kisses you in the ferris wheel at the funfair during the summer of your 17, he had planned that moment for days because he wanted your first kiss to be romantic
• changes his mind about you being prude and innocent when you're sucking on his tongue minutes later, you both spend the rest of the night making out on the beach
• when he tells patrick, he's all giddy until patrick reminds him how frustrating it's going to be for him to date a virgin who is saving herself for marriage
• starts officially dating you and when the making out gets too intense, he assures you he respects your choice to wait and he won't pressure you into doing anything
• you spent the whole summer after that just constantly dry humping each other, both soaked, always coming close to breaking the promise you had made to god
• gets so frustrated while making out that he asks for your hand in marriage while his is up your shirt, you laugh at him but maybe he was a little serious about it
• thinks about all the ways he could convince you to let him just slide the tip in for a second, just to feel you, but he won't
• the summer ends with you still a virgin, you did jerk him off though, a lot, like in every room and at any moment of the day, patrick even urged you to 'just do it already' the third time he caught you with your hand down art's pants
• pays for your train tickets home the first weekend back to school because he misses you so much already
• when you show him that after a long introspection you decided to stop wearing your purity ring, he already knows you're going to spend the whole weekend in bed
People often say Christianity is a monotheistic religion, but from my perspective (Jewish) that seems inaccurate seeing as trinitarian sects of Christianity appear to have 3 main deities and many also worship saints which from my standpoint appear to be essentially minor deities (particularly those which are essentially historic local cultic practices integrated into Christianity). Since you seem to know more about Christian theology than I do, what do you think? Is it monotheistic, polytheistic, or something else?
From an external, academic, comparative religions perspective, reasonable people can amicably disagree on classification.
But is that really the best perspective we can apply to the question?
Christians, after all, universally self-identify as monotheistic and have complex theological ideas which allow them to see their Trinity as one G-d in three personae.
Look:
You know how much most Jews dislike it when some Christians evaluate Judaism only through the lens of Christian framing?
The way such Christians describe synagogues as "Jewish churches," Rabbis as "Jewish priests," the Tanakh as "the incomplete Bible," and Jews as "incomplete Christians"?
It's exasperating to endure that, right? If you know anything about Judaism (or, frankly, the history of the Church) you recognize this perspective as false, chauvinistic, and intellectually lazy.
I think seeking to judge Christian belief through the lens of Jewish framing is a lot like that.
I like to encourage Jews to study the religious beliefs of others in the respectful way we'd like them to learn about Judaism: in their own contexts.
Rather than seeking to pigeonhole Christian belief as outside of Jewish conceptions of monotheism, why not read their literature and seek to understand the thinking through which they see themselves as monotheistic and the very different way they conceive of the oneness of the divine?
Wouldn't that be more productive?
More kind? More fruitful?
Isn't that a better question?
And isn't seeking the better question...very Jewish?
(For Catholics, btw, Saints are not deities - they're role models and conduits.)
Christians, please feel free to weigh in? I sure don't want to (and can't) speak for you.
My village is minuscule by American standards--less than 2000 permanent residents.
We have a yearly celebration where everyone comes back to their home pueblo. It has a particular name but it's "coincidentally" centered around the Assumption of Mary. So there are a ton of people in town now, and the pueblo is trying to look its very best.
They do not like Muslims around here. We have a smallish Muslim population. The only kids I've seen getting picked on in the streets by adults are Muslim. I'm sure there's more I don't see.
So, to be clear, this is an extremely Catholic pueblo which likes to brag that it supports Muslims, but doesn't.
I've mentioned before that I knew a Jewish man who died here a couple of years back. One of the things he begged us to do was never, ever tell anyone in the pueblo that he was Jewish. We of course agreed. Pre-conversion me wondered if he wasn't overreacting just a little; now, maybe nearing the end of my conversion journey, I no longer wonder.
Since he died, there have been no Jews in town. I once saw a man wearing a menorah necklace who was visiting, but I haven't seen him since.
A few months ago, a family moved into town and bought one of the local bars, reviving it--they're doing all kinds of neat stuff with the space. They are not Jewish, so far as I know. But they have family who is. (Jewish geography means we actually knew the Jewish family already.) And they talk about going on trips to Israel pretty openly in the bar, so maybe that's why this happened.
This morning, when the village is at its fullest and the atmosphere is supposed to be one of a fiesta, my wife and I went out to get some cash and to buy some fresh veggies. On our way back from the bank, we almost stopped dead in the street.
Someone had hung a huge banner which read "[PUEBLO NAME] CON PALESTINA", along with a Palestinian flag, in the big-for-this-village's central plaza. Where the church is. Where everyone gathers.
They hung this flag, the only flag of its kind in the entire village yes I can say that for certain, directly facing the only business owned by people with any connection to Judaism in the entire village.
But it's just antizionism it isn't antisemitaahahahahahaha sorry I can't even type it sarcastically anymore.
Turnabout is fair play: give me 5 facts about Eddie finding out about the bucktommy hook up in his house. 😉
1. Eddie was never supposed to find out. Buck had sworn Ravi to secrecy. "He's having a Catholic Guilt Crisis. It might send him into cardiac arrest." Ravi really wasn't intending to talk to Eddie about Buck's sex life anyway, but he agrees to get Buck off his back.
2. The three of them are at some random restaurant in WeHo, licking their wounds after a miserable attempt at speed dating, half drunk and bemoaning the thought of being single forever.
"I mean, I set you up with the perfect opportunity to get Tommy back," Ravi tells Buck, the vodka in his drinks loosening his tongue a little too much. "It's not my fault you fumbled it the morning after."
Eddie is confused and when he looks at Buck, he's making the 'cut it out' motion.
"You hooked up with Tommy? When?"
Buck hunkers down in the booth, glaring at Ravi over his beer. "A few months ago. I don't want to talk about it."
Eddie knows Buck hasn't been out much since Bobby died and he'd been crashing at Maddie's while he waited for the issues to get straightened out with his new house. There was no way he would take Tommy there for a hook up. He hasn't lived at the loft in over a year. It hits him like a brick.
"In my house?!" The words come out louder than he intended and a few people turn to look at them.
"It wasn't really your house at the time," Ravi points out and Buck thunks his head down on the table.
"Please shut the fuck up."
3. Eddie tries not to be weird about it. Ravi is right, it was Buck's house at the time, he was allowed to do whatever he wanted there. But he can't stop thinking about it. When he's standing at the counter in the morning making his coffee: "They're both taller than me, these counters are the right height for one of them to bend the other over."
Rinsing his hair in the shower: did Tommy lift Buck up in here and fuck him against the wall?
Laying in his bed at night: what was it like, hard and fast and needy after months apart? Or had they gone slow, savoring being back together?
He can't even escape the thoughts sitting om his couch, watching a movie with Christopher: Buck's couch is an uncomfortable monstrosity and ridiculously small for his size, there was no way two 6'2 men were fucking on that. Right?
Why was he so hung up on this? He couldn't get the thoughts and images out of his head. Would a priest exorcise a house in a case like this?
4. It all boils over when he sees Tommy at one of the pick up basketball games. He's sleep deprived and annoyed and Tommy is acting like nothing happened. Eddie plays dirty, he's pushing and shoving, reminiscent of Buck the day he sprained Eddie's ankle on this same court. Except Tommy won't budge when Eddie knocks into him, the dude is built like a brick wall. He does notice the aggression, though, and plays back just as rough. He nearly topples Eddie over and it pisses him off enough to swing on him.
"What the fuck is your problem?" Tommy demands, shoving him back.
"In my fucking house? My kid sleeps there, man!"
Tommy looks confused for a moment, then the realization dawns on him. He laughs in Eddie's face and Eddie almost lunges at him again.
"You really need to get over yourself," Tommy informs him, an irritating smirk on his face. "Maybe go back to therapy."
5. Eddie is picking up takeout for him and Christopher when he runs into Buck and Tommy leaving the restaurant as he's about to go in.
"So you guys are giving it another go?"
"Yeah. You know, Maddie was right, we shouldn't wait to tell the people we care about we love them." Buck looks at Tommy when he says it and Eddie feels like he might throw up.
"Why be apart when we can be together," Tommy agrees, and they smir at each other like it's some inside joke. "We'll see you around, Eddie."
He watches them walk away, Tommy's hand on the small of Buck's back and Buck leaning into his side, and it hits him all at once.
