@arcanemysteries I don’t mean to seem like I’m attacking or picking on you, but are you aware that this image is very anti-Semitic? The whole “stereotypical witch aesthetic” is originally an anti-Semitic tradition. A good article about it can be found here. Please help spread awareness that this is not okay! Thanks! :)
@the-darkest-spark@tinycog You are not attacking me at all. I want to thank you for making me aware of this. I was unaware of the “stereotypical witch aesthetic” as an anti-semetic tradition. Thank you for providing this information. I would like to make it known that I had no intention of creating nor sharing an anti-semetic image and created the image as a quote for a saying that I say all the time which is “I’m that witch” I sincerely apologize to anyone and everyone that I may or may have not offended. I hope that this reblog brings awareness to others like myself who may be offending other people without even realizing it. Thank you again for your time. Love, Light and Progress. - ArcaneMysteries
You’re welcome, again, and thank you for your support! ❤️ Blessed be~
Sum’:Once again trouble fall upon the peaceful coven, spreading its darkness on each Hook. Only this time only one will remain and with the help of the Savior, will decide the fate of the rest of their secret family…
Note:Oh dear. That’s it, that’s the last chapter! What a ride my friends, it has been an amazing journey to write but also by reading all your reactions. I know I haven’t answered to all of them but know that every words, tag or “!!” got me smiling ♥ So I hope you enjoyed that story and on that I will let your read another small view of the coven..(that might come in visual one day ;)) Again, a hell of a thanks to @hookaroo for her amazing beta and reactions
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The place in front of him was peaceful, almost heaven-like, smelling of home. The big house proudly standing in the middle of the clearing, emitting a welcoming warmth. A gentle breeze blowing through the tall trees surrounding the coven. Killian took the time to enjoy the familiar view, inhaling each scent the wind was carrying.
Note: I hope it doesn’t feel like I’m rushing these final updates, but I kind of am :D Now that the story is pretty much complete, I don’t need as much time between chapters. But the real reason is that I’m going on a band trip to Ireland on the 30th (!!!) and was hoping to finish posting before I leave. Both to avoid keeping you in suspense and so that Winter(/Spring/early Summer) Whump doesn’t become Midsummer Whump! XD
A little voice sang, high and sweet, while a tiny body wandered the periphery of the darkened cathedral, perfect miniature fingers trailing sanded oak walls, touching each crack where the boards were joined, sometimes slapping them with a giggle. Killian lay flat on his back, completely immobile, straining to protect his daughter. He needed to get her away from there somehow, before his Master noticed her, before she was caught up in its tortures, her body broken and cast aside like a rag doll.
His words came out silent. And she continued to sing.
“Donkey named Eeyore, little friend… Kanga, Roo, Curious George, tee-hee-hee…”
Killian could feel his heart pounding with the terror of Hope’s imminent discovery and violent death, all of his nightmare scenarios coming true before his eyes. Still, voice and movement remained out of reach. And the waves of pain accompanying the effort only convinced him of the reality of the situation. But then came another voice that did not belong in that sanctuary of horrors.
“Shhh, baby; Papa is trying to sleep, remember?”
Killian’s eyes snapped open and before anything had a chance to register–his surroundings, who was with him, even the throbbing pain in shoulder, chest, and hand–he was scrambling to push himself up to his elbows. Anguish tore through his upper body as he heard Hope squeal,
“Oh! Papa waked up!”
Killian fell back against the mattress, panting a grimace and still in the throes of dream disorientation. There was a commotion, Emma speaking quietly and urgently to someone else nearby, and then he felt her at his side, resting her hand on his upper arm.
“Shh, Killian, settle down. Lemme help you.”
The bed shifted suddenly beneath him, the quiet grumble of a motor sending vibrations through his chest and shoulder as the top half of the mattress slowly elevated. The movement made him dizzy, but his eyes were glued on the angelic face in the corner. She was in the arms of someone, being gazed upon by someone else, but it was like the radiance of her sharp outlines blasted away every other detail and left the rest of the scene in smeared, muted watercolor. Eerie prickles blanketed his face as jagged cracks begin to form in the crystalline layers of falsehood within his mind.
“Breathe, Killian,” pleaded a worried voice beside him. A chiming machine nearby seemed to second the request. But Killian wasn’t sure he even remembered how, until he suddenly realized he wanted nothing more than to greet the daughter the fates had restored to him. His chest expanded, filling him with life and light and longing.
“Hope,” he whispered, the name as much a plea to hold her close as it was an expression of unbridled joy and near-disbelief all rolled into one. The bed stopped moving, and though the change in position had intensified his pain, Killian did not comment; he was too caught up in the moment to pay it much heed. In fact, he even started reaching for the grinning toddler, until his blazing shoulder reminded him why that was a bad idea.
The two observers moved closer, and enough orientation had returned for him to identify them as David and Snow White, yet still, he only had eyes for Hope. Wearing a watery smile, Snow passed her granddaughter to Emma and then stepped back. Seeing the desperate look on her husband’s face, Emma gently spoke to their wriggly daughter.
“I think Papa wants a hug. Do you want to give him a hug?”
“I want a hug too, Mama.”
“Okay, just remember Papa’s owies, okay? You need to be very soft and still by him.”
Hope looked a little bit intimidated at first by her mother’s somber tone, but soon enough she was reaching both arms out toward Killian. After double-checking Killian’s expression for permission, which was unnecessary and they both knew it, Emma settled her carefully against his right side, between flank and forearm, where a toddler’s lack of caution might not result in serious harm. As Emma settled into a nearby chair, keeping a hand on her daughter just in case, Hope hunched over and laid her head on Killian’s chest. Maybe slightly closer to the sore shoulder than would have been comfortable in other circumstances, but the undeniable magic of the moment washed away such petty concerns.
Again rendered breathless, feeling as if he could stop time by remaining completely motionless, Killian’s surge of uncontainable joy triggered the response that had grown so automatic the past month, back when such feelings would lead to certain doom. The vision, and the mantra, both so at odds with what his senses were telling him was true but inescapable nonetheless. Desperate to override the mental reflex, Killian curled a trembling forearm around the tiny body, tentatively resting his splinted, bandaged hand on silken locks as he silently quarreled with his internal voice.
Hope was not kidnapped; she was here, snuggled against him, delicate fingers patting him in imitation of what she’d observed in adult hugs. Tangible, indisputable proof, tapping a sweet, sweet rhythm next to his vulnerable heart.
Nottortured.No. He could hear her even breaths, contented sighs with no trace of pain or fear. Nothing in her tiny wiggles suggested any distress, merely a toddler’s natural restlessness and the drive to remain always on the move.
Hope was alive. So very, very much alive. Not dead. Not dead. As Killian tried to clear blurred vision, he could hear muffled sniffling sounds echoing in every corner of the room, and he was pretty sure that they weren’t all coming from him. Not that it mattered. She was alive, she was safe,NOT DEAD, and his sore shoulder could not stop him from squeezing her tightly against his ribs, long enough that she grew bored and started to squirm. Bursting with energy, with life.
Emma carefully steered miniature knuckles away from the central line tunneled within Killian’s chest. Reluctant to release his hold on his precious child, Killian kept his arm around her lower back as she sat up. Her beaming face could have lit the entire world, and lingering shades of grisly thought fled before the onslaught. Even should he have wanted to do otherwise, for some unfathomable reason, Killian would have been helpless to resist: he grinned back, tears and all, as the ocean reflects the sun’s glory. Sobbing one last time, his expression wobbling only briefly in the direction of pain, he whispered,
“Thank you, love.”
Adorable concern darkened Hope’s features, and she glanced from her father’s face to her mother’s and back again.
“Papa is crying, Mama,” she said, and she touched a faded diamond printed on his gown. Barely able to form words herself, Emma managed,
“He missed you, baby.”
Hope turned unsure eyes on her father, who nodded in earnest agreement. That may have been one of the biggest understatements he’d ever heard, but it was no less true for it.
“Why?”
Emma rested one hand on Killian’s elbow and used the other to rub small circles on Hope’s upper back. “Because he loves you a lot.”
“Why?”
Before Emma could answer–or direct the conversation away from the endless spiral of repetitive questioning–Hope spotted a familiar item lying forgotten on the bedside table. “I want Oreo, Mama!”
She leaned forward, stretching her arms toward the stuffed animal, though she really had no chance of even coming close to retrieving it on her own.
“Please?” prompted Emma, and she waited for Hope to repeat the word before grabbing Eeyore from the table. And Killian was struck by the utter normalcy of the scenario he’d just witnessed. Hope was alive and Emma was still teaching her manners as if she would need them in the future, because she would need them in the future, because she had a future, because she was not dead. Tears filled his eyes yet again.
“Oreooooo!” sang Hope gleefully, oblivious. She’d been unable to pronounce the donkey’s name when first receiving him as a gift. Since then, she had learned the words to the song, sort of, and knew that ‘Eeyore’ referred to her favorite plush toy. But ‘Oreo’ he would forever remain.
“Do you want to show Papa your story?” asked Emma as Hope squeezed the donkey around his fluffy neck.
“Happy Bear!” she cried, nearly leaping to her feet in excitement and causing a definite jolt in Killian’s shoulder. Emma caught her arm and helped her to settle down.
“Okay, but you have to sit quietly, remember?”
David stepped closer and handed Emma a thin stack of papers sandwiched between two pieces of decorated cardstock and tied at one end with colorful yarn. As Emma accepted the homemade storybook, Killian could just make out Belle’s fanciful script gracing the cover, which read, The Happy Bear.
Half in explanation, Emma asked,
“Auntie Belle helped you to make this, didn’t she?”
“Yeah,” answered Hope, already entranced by her creation.
Careful not to rip the pages, Emma opened the cover and began to read.
“Once upon a time, there was a very happy bear.”
She held the book up so that both Killian and Hope could see the illustration on the facing page. The crayon sketch was hardly recognizable, least of all as a bear; it was a simple, somewhat circular shape with two eyes of unequal sizes and a wide smile stretching from the corner of one eye to the other. In that moment, Killian would have gladly classified it as the most beautiful art he’d ever seen.
“It’s lovely, darling,” said Killian in a gravelly voice, and Hope smiled and smiled.
Happy Bear went on to have several pages of disjointed adventures, appearing mostly the same on each one. When they came to the part where the wind blew all of the bear’s hair off, and a scribble at the edge of the page represented the wayward pelt, Killian startled himself with a genuine laugh, the first he had uttered in who-knew-how-many weeks. Emma had to stop and wipe away a tear from her cheek before turning to the next page.
It was a different type of paper, and Killian immediately recognized Emma’s handwriting taking the place of Belle’s.
“One day,” read Emma in a quavering voice, “a very naughty bear came and was mean to the Happy Bear and all of her friends.”
More circles filled the page, each wearing a frown, and it was difficult to tell which was the offending Naughty Bear. The next page had one giant, oblong shape towering over another half its size, and the smaller one wore a surprisingly recognizable expression of fear.
“Happy Bear’s papa came and told the Naughty Bear to go away.”
They had reached the final page. Emma’s voice was thick as she read,
“Happy Bear loved her papa very, very much.”
The giant circle was joined by a smaller one with the distinctive, wide smile representing the story’s protagonist. Even without appreciable arms, they were clearly locked in an embrace, celebrating the villain’s defeat. And Killian’s eyes were once again too flooded by tears to determine whether the back cover declaring The End contained an illustration.
Suddenly, what he had been through and accomplished had taken on just a bit more meaning. To think that his three-year-old, with the help of her mother, understood and appreciated the victory, could feel safe under his protection and might one day learn to follow his example was at once humbling and reassuring. Everything had been for her, whether he’d realized it or not. His Papa Bear’s instinct to defend his little one. And she was safe.
“Again, again!” begged Hope. Her excited squirming was causing Killian’s shoulder to throb, but he kept a tight hold on her anyway. The tormenting mental images could not compete with the truth on display, observable by all of his senses. And even the pain was preferable to what lay just beneath the surface of his consciousness.
Emma shut the homemade book, saying
“We can read it again the next time we visit, but right now Papa needs to rest.”
“No!” whined the toddler, but Emma was ready for this reaction. She got to her feet and, in an excited tone, said,
“We need to go meet Henry now, remember? Ice cream time?”
“H'ice cream!!“ Forgetting all about her Happy Bear story, Hope began bouncing in anticipation. Emma quickly lifted her up before she could do Killian any harm, in the same motion snatching up Eeyore, who was lying facedown on Killian’s abdomen. Whispers of panic flooded his mind at the sudden loss of proximity, and he gulped a breath that burned in his chest.
"Give Papa a nice goodnight kiss, okay?” Emma stooped to bring Hope within a cautious distance from Killian’s face. Restricted movement meant he could not reach up to caress her, but he savored the sloppy smooch she placed on his forehead.
“Ni-night, Papa.”
Killian could barely force sound through his throat, and the process was made that much harder by the fact that all he really wanted to do was ask her to stay.
“Good night, my happy bear,” he murmured, sure that the desperation in his smile would frighten or upset her. But she merely giggled, pleased by the nickname, and thrust Eeyore in his face so he could bestow a kiss on a fuzzy ear.
As Hope began to sing loudly about ice cream, Emma straightened, shifted her grasp on the three-year-old, and brushed a gentle hand along his face, promising,
“I’ll be back in maybe half an hour. 50 percent chance I’ll be painted with hot fudge, though.”
Killian nodded with a small wince. He was nowhere near ready for solid food yet; the longing he felt was for the company and, of course, the bliss of watching his little treasure enjoy herself with Henry and his family.
As Emma headed for the door, directing Hope to call out a “Bye-bye, Papa” as they went, David and Snow stepped forward to take her place. Tearing his eyes away from the retreating form of his daughter, Killian was, for the first time, forced into the realization that he had other visitors. That perhaps they had come to see him, not just to tag along with Emma and Hope. And he was suddenly struck with the reminder of what he had done to them both. All words of apology felt inadequate and stuck in his throat, and he was left helplessly staring, wondering if they would ever find it in their hearts to forgive.
Snow White was wearing a gentle, sad smile as she dug in a bag at her side.
“We should be going, too,” she told him. “But… we thought this might be helpful.”
She seemed a bit timid about the suggestion, as if it were in response to some information she was afraid he wouldn’t want her to know. From her bag, she produced a plain, brown frame and rotated it so he could see its contents: a color photocopy of the last page of Hope’s book, the Happy Bear embracing her papa, both of their smiles as wide as could be. In a blank corner, she had pasted a photograph portraying a real life hug between father and daughter, from before any of this had started.
“Emma mentioned that you were having some nightmares,” continued Snow in the same hesitant tone. “I thought, if it happens again, that you could look at this when you wake up and be reminded that she’s okay and that she’s thinking about you.”
She placed it on his bedside table, then adjusted everything so it was within effortless view, and he managed one strangled “thank you” before overpowering shame made him avert his eyes. The room’s outside window had the shades drawn, blocking out the daylight in the same way as the pall of trauma, physical and mental, fogged his thoughts and prevented optimism.
“I’m sorry,” he said suddenly, a bit too loudly, trying to drown out the returning words and images worming their insidious pathways back into the spotlight. “For what we… whatI…”
His lungs seemed to be shrinking, a great weight pressing down in increments, and he shifted his bandaged, useless hand toward the line of sutures between his ribs, all to no avail. He could hear the desperate grief that had colored the words of both of these dear people beside him, saw himself driving the sword point into David’s flesh, remembered the lies and heartache, and then the torture and the helplessness as his control gradually waned. Hope dead, no hope, no hope…
“Killian. It’s okay,” David was saying, his good hand wrapped carefully around Killian’s twitching forearm. “Killian, look at us.”
He sought the framed drawing first. His link to the new reality, a mild balm for his soul, not yet corrupted by doubts. Snow White’s hand joined her husband’s, warm and soft upon his arm.
“We’re just glad you’re back,” she soothed. “It’s all over… and you’ve suffered enough.”
Happy Bear hugged Papa Bear. Hope hugged Killian. Snow’s words, forgiveness implied, blanketed his guilt-ridden heart. He could not understand.
Killian looked up, first at Snow, then at David. Both were watery-eyed but relaxed, wearing honest and compassionate expressions. He could read their sincerity, bewildering as it was. He had perpetuated the worst of all lies, and perhaps they would never trust his word in the same way again… but they were willing to move past it and bestow upon him a mercy he did not deserve. Even if he’d had the breath for thanks, Killian lacked the words.
David must have sensed how overwhelmed he was, for his eyes took on a twinkle of levity as he added,
“You’re even off the hook for this.” He carefully lifted his wrist a fraction to call attention to the sling he still wore, and Killian found himself raising an eyebrow in response, more in bemusement than anything else. David sighed, looking off into the distance as he feigned annoyance. “I sort of… owed you that one.”
Before Killian could protest–that wasn’treal,though, and anyway, ancient history had been the last thing on his mind when he’d been forced to stab David–Snow White interjected,
“And actually, Killian… we wanted to thank you for what you did. You made the Realms safe again, for us, for Neal… I don’t think we can ever truly repay you for that.”
She bent and placed a soft kiss on his tousled hair, then stepped back to allow David access. He took an awkward look at his injured son-in-law, possibly trying to figure out a way to shake hands or pat him on the back without hurting him. Finally settling for a light squeeze of his mostly intact forearm, he smirked,
“Seconded. But I’m not kissing you.”
Killian came perilously close to laughing for the second time that day, and only stopped because of the threat of unbearable pain from the required muscles. He caught himself with a grimace; when he opened his eyes again, David was just hiding a wince of contrition.
“Get better soon.”
Finally finding his voice, Killian met each of their gazes in turn as he breathed,
“Thank you.”
A sudden, overpowering weariness washed over Killian as his visitors took their leave, and though he still feared what his dreams would bring, he was better equipped this time to meet twisted memory in battle. He had his family’s thanks and forgiveness, the promise of future encouragement, and most importantly, the lingering feeling of Hope’s touch, real and solid against the threat of ethereal phantoms. Perhaps it would be enough this time.
AN: Shout-out to my best friend’s little girl, who is a few years older now, but memories of visiting her at that age provided much of the inspiration for toddler Hope. The story book was based on one by baby Hookaroo, though, and I have to wonder if the poor hairless bear was an early stage of my metamorphosis into a whumper! XD
In this exact chair, this oppressive waiting lounge with its dusty fake plants and decades-old magazines, a nearly empty water cooler in the corner, a vending machine down the hall that always jammed when you tried to get a pack of Cheez-Its. How many lifetimes had Emma spent here, always anxiously awaiting news on her gravely injured husband, fearing the worst as the minutes and hours ticked by, as people came and went and doctors brought tidings of good or ill?
Had her turn finally come to be on the receiving end of the ‘We Did All We Could’ speech?
Nearly midnight. It had been at least eight hours already. The hospital was thrumming, jam-packed with the influx of newly liberated slaves, all of whom were desperately ill, shell-shocked by the loss of that guiding voice in their minds, and the majority seriously wounded to boot. The ambulances kept coming; most were on their 7th or 8th trip by now despite having crammed as many casualties in each vehicle as was safe. Emma had not been involved in the discussion of whether some could be transported elsewhere to relieve the burden on the relatively small Storybrooke General, but it was by far the closest facility and more advanced than anything else the United Realms had to offer.
Because she’d been on the first ambulance to arrive, Emma had not endured much of a wait to have her minor forehead wound dressed, once Killian had been whisked back for emergency surgery. That would have been a different story now; even with every available physician, nurse, and allied health provider called in on disaster protocol, the ED was packed and wait times for anything less than a life-threatening condition were astronomical.
Emma’s hand clenched around the paper-flavored cone of water she held as she relived the day’s events. Everything had been such a close call. If anything had gone even slightly differently, she and all the others may not have been in this place at all, never mind Killian.
Try as she might, she could not rid herself of the image of the Vocivore as she’d seen it upon entering that abysmal cathedral. How it had loomed over a broken Killian, how grotesquely ominous her first impression of it had been.
What it had been doing to him, in plain view of her and all the other slaves in the building.
Another tear slipped down her cheek, following the salty trail blazed by countless predecessors. The last gulp of water overflowed out over her hand and onto her lap, the cone squeezed into a bitter crumple, and Emma didn’t give a damn about the wetness on her knees because it was such a minor inconvenience to all that her husband had suffered through in the month gone by. And she was at least 50% culpable, by her reckoning.
“Hey. Save some of that for the fishes,” came a gentle voice from the doorway to her left, and Emma scrubbed at her face before rising to her feet.
“Dad.” Her voice was tremulous, low and husky with emotion, and the prince was quickly at her side and wrapping her in a one-armed hug.
“You still here?” he murmured into her hair.
With a shuddering breath, Emma nodded. “Haven’t heard anything for… at least four hours,” she calculated. “They had to pause the surgery in the middle ‘cuz his blood pressure and temperature both got too low. They plan to resume as soon as he’s stable enough.”
If he ever reaches that point, was the unspoken addition.
David gave her one more squeeze before stepping back. He looked haggard, almost on the verge of collapse, so Emma took a seat in the hopes that he would follow suit. Letting out a low groan, he sank into the chair beside her, settling uncomfortably sideways to avoid touching his injured shoulder blade to the seat back. Rubbing his eyes, he gave a report of his own.
“Well, we just brought in the last of them, near as we could tell. There may still be some out in the woods, but we cleared all the buildings at least. Figure we’ll track down the rest when it gets light.”
“Thanks for taking over back there.”
“Of course.”
He was always so good to her; he and Snow both. Always willing to do whatever she asked, regardless of their own busy schedules. Emma could count on them both for anything at any time. Which made this apology so hard, but also so important. And maybe she should have waited for her mother to be there as well, or for a time when Killian could add his own, but Emma didn’t feel right putting it off any longer.
“Dad, I… I’m so sorry we lied to you.”
David looked as if he were steeling himself, and Emma cringed.
“About Hope?” he asked slowly, expression unreadable. She nodded and watched him massage his temples one-handed.
“How much did Detective Jones tell you?”
“Not much,” he mumbled. “He was in a lot of pain; mostly we just waited quietly.”
That was probably for the best, decided Emma. Jones’ own feelings of betrayal may have colored his retelling of the scheme; better for it to come from one of the bastards who had created it and pulled it off. Still, it might have been easier if David had had a little bit of preparation first…
Emma was still searching for the best place to start when David sniffed, cleared his throat, and gruffly asked,
“Does that mean… did you find… something…?”
A chill skittered up her spine. Her father was reaching for her hand, tears brimming in his eyes, and she realized she had unintentionally led him to draw a horrifically incorrect conclusion.
“Shit, Dad, I… no. Hope is fine, really and truly. That wasn’t the lie. She’s okay.”
As relief warred with confusion on David’s tired face, Emma berated herself for making things so much worse. She squeezed her father’s hand, more to get his attention and assure him that he was awake than anything else.
“Hope’s… okay?” he repeated.
“Yeah. With Belle. I swear to you; she’s fine. I’ll need to go get her, once we know Killian’s gonna…”
Emma trailed off, realizing again that there was no guarantee that she wouldn’t be bringing Hope home only to attend her papa’s funeral.
“Belle?” David pulled back his hand in order to clear the wetness from his cheeks.
“I wanted to tell you so badly!” whined Emma, her voice catching on the emotions constricting her throat. “It was killing me to keep it from you. But it was… it…”
The magnitude of what they had all been through struck her yet again, and suddenly, she was crying too hard for coherent speech. She managed one more strangled, “I’m so sorry” before she found herself enfolded in David’s grasp, her face against his shoulder.
“Emma, shh, it’s okay. We can worry about the rest later; right now, all I care about is knowing that Hope is safe.” David laughed a sob of his own. “Those are the sweetest words I’ve ever heard.”
Emma could not be sure how much he had worked out on his own; he must still have a million questions crowding his mind, and maybe once the relief wore off, the sting of betrayal would take over. Truthfully, Emma could not think that far ahead, and she was glad for the moment of grace right now. As she took what comfort she could from her father’s embrace, she barely felt the twinge of guilt over his patience. Now that the pressure was off to tell the whole story, her focus had returned squarely on one thing: Killian. And she could only pray that, against all odds, he surprised them all and lived through the night.
*****
Present (Saturday)…
Neither Emma nor David slept much in the padded chairs, as comfortable as they were for sitting. Worry for Killian was at the forefront of Emma’s thoughts, whether awake or dozing, so that any slight noise set her pulse racing in dread of bad news.
If David had managed to reach Snow aboard the Jolly Roger, Emma had missed that moment. His soft snores at her side–when he managed to drift off for a short while–were a small comfort when panic threatened to send her bolting into the depths of the hospital in search of information. She kept reminding herself of that old saying that ‘no news is good news.’ It did seem to apply in this case, for if there were any change in Killian’s condition, especially a turn for the worse, they surely would come and speak with her. If only to give her an opportunity to say goodbye, should they deem it necessary. So when someone burst into the lounge shortly after 6, Emma nearly toppled a lamp in her haste to leap to her feet.
But it wasn’t Whale, nor was it a solemn-faced nurse.
“The monster is dead?” demanded Regina, immaculately groomed as always despite the early hour. “Why am I only now hearing about this?”
“Sorry,” grumbled Emma, rubbing at her burning eyes. “There was a lot going on yesterday.”
“I had to find out about it from Leroy, of all people. Do you know how that makes me look? A queen so out of touch with important developments that she has to get her updates from the town gossip?”
“How did he find out?” Emma asked. She’d been so busy and then distracted that she hadn’t composed a single message after contacting her father.
“Ambulance driver?” suggested David.
Regina stood glaring the wallpaper off the wall behind Emma’s head. “Care to fill me in, Sheriff?”
Emma was so tired. She lacked the mental energy to convince Regina to wait. And maybe it would have been better to share the story individually with David first, so he could react honestly without the queen watching, but tough. Emma was also too exhausted to consider trivialities like that.
She shared the whole story. And then when it was over, she sat staring at the ‘Employees only’ door, unable to meet the eyes of either person watching her as they absorbed the month of falsehoods in stony silence. Finally, Regina spoke up.
”All those search parties… you’re telling me they were for nothing?”
Emma wilted slightly. “Not… nothing, no… they were to help the monster believe in Killian’s motive. And… well… it worked.”
Regina scoffed, then turned to David. “Were you in on this?”
“No. I wasn’t.”
Emma’s heart twisted just a little bit more at the careful control in his tone.
“And Detective Jones? You mentioned that he helped you yesterday?”
“He helped me get in, yeah. Took a stun projectile to the shoulder at close range but was conscious last I saw him.”
“I’m sure he’s still here,” added David. “I saw him off in the ambulance.”
After a beat of silence, Regina began,
“This is serious business, you know; the sheriff misleading the whole town like this–”
At that moment, Dr. Whale came marching through the door, and Emma truly could not care less about what Regina was saying. The blood drained from her face, seeming to concentrate in her ears as she got slowly to her feet.
“He was touch and go for most of the night,” reported the physician without a word of greeting to anyone, which Emma very much appreciated. “He’s still not out of the woods, to be frank. I’d like to see several numbers come up before we attempt surgery again. But… there has been a slight improvement since we were forced to halt the procedure last night.”
Dizzy and overcome with equal parts relief and fear, Emma nodded and collapsed back into her seat. She had a hundred questions but could not think of a single one.
“Right now, I’d say his odds are about 50/50, and even if he does pull through, he’s got a long and difficult recovery ahead of him. But we’ll do our best for him.
“Now. I’m off to try to get some rest,” Whale told them while the bleak outlook sank in. “Day shift has their orders and will contact me if anything changes. I suggest you try and do the same: you won’t be allowed back there to see him for at least the rest of the day. You may as well go home where you’ll be more comfortable.”
Emma just stared at him as if the very idea were offensive. Whale shrugged and moved toward the exit, and if anyone had felt the urge to thank him, they would have been drowned out by Regina, who was hot on his heels.
“Victor? You wouldn’t happen to know anything about Detective Jones, would you?”
Their conversation faded down the hallway, and Emma sniffed. She’d retained a fairly good handle on her guilt where Jones was concerned. True, she felt terrible that he’d been injured in the rescue mission, but at least he’d gone in fully aware and of his own volition. Emma had enough other misdemeanors to regret.
One victim of which sat silent beside her while she tried to shake off Whale’s pessimism. It was the physician’s responsibility to be brutally honest, to prepare everyone for the possible worst-case scenario. Maybe the odds were 50/50 from a purely medical standpoint, but Emma knew Killian. Surely, his stubborn resilience had to stack things more in his favor?
Cringing, Emma cast a sidelong glance at her father, who had not directly addressed her since finding out the extent of their deception. Again, and certainly not for the last time, she squeaked,
“I’m so sorry.”
Not yet meeting her eyes, David slowly asked,
“This whole plan… All of this… you and Killian did it entirely of your own free will?”
“We’re insane. I know.”
“Hope was never in any danger.”
“Right…”
“But you went through with it anyway. Killian…”
He trailed off into silence and Emma braced herself for the inevitable rebuke. And for a moment, it appeared as if David would oblige. But then he shook his head, quiet resolve on his features.
“Nope. Not gonna do it; not yet.”
“W… what do you…”
He turned to her then, and though she could make out the traces of hurt and anger in his eyes, she also saw love and understanding.
“Later. I promised.” He reached out for her hand, wearing a tearful smile. “Today, you need a supportive dad way more than a stern lecture filled with fatherly wisdom. Right?”
As Emma returned the expression with a similarly watery one of gratitude, David added,
“But we’re going to have to repeat everything when your mother gets back.”
Suddenly too exhausted for words, Emma leaned against his shoulder and murmured,
“You said it best just a minute ago. Later.”
*****
Detective Jones hurt everywhere, but strangely enough, what was bothering him the most at present was the donor blood being pumped into him as he lay waiting for something to happen. The blood had been stored frozen, and while it had thawed enough for transfusion, it remained chilled well below body temperature, causing his arm to ache fiercely and highlighting the swollen tunnel from which several inches of coat hanger had previously been removed. A hazy sort of fog seemed to be collecting around the periphery of his room, and though the clock indicated 7:15, he would not be able to hazard a guess whether that was AM or PM.
The whole encounter with the monster had warped into what felt like an abstract nightmare; were it not for the physical proof on his body, he very well could have mistaken his current predicament to be a continuation of the sword battle’s aftermath. He had vague memories of waiting with David inside the church, bleeding and in pain, then treacherous transport by ambulance over unpaved, bumpy roads for the majority of the trip to Storybrooke General. After that, massive doses of narcotics blocked out most of his time spent in the emergency department, although he did remember more pain as the staff worked to assess and stabilize his condition.
Jones closed his eyes, determined to ignore his discomfort in favor of drifting into one of the short naps that were all he’d managed to do since arriving in his room. Inevitably, a nurse would come in to check for transfusion reaction, or a loud cart would rumble by, or he’d be awakened by a jolt of pain or for no reason at all. Given his total exhaustion, it was all very irritating indeed.
Right on cue, the moment he felt himself beginning to relax, brisk footsteps approached his door, then continued inside with hardly a pause. Probably a nurse, then. With a sigh, Jones dragged reluctant eyelids open. Maybe he would inquire about some method of warming the blood so he could get some real rest for once…
It was Regina. The concern on her face gave way to obvious relief when she saw that he was awake, but she covered it up with a dramatic scowl.
“Those idiots!” she ranted, coming to a stop at his side. Jones blinked up at her, already lost. She continued regardless. “What kind of utter imbecile gives himself up to a scream-eating monster on the off-chance it will reveal a weakness to him? And all on the advice of none other than the Dark One, who just so happens to be that idiot’s mortal enemy?”
“You’ve spoken to Emma, I take it.” Jones’ voice sounded like the baleful call of a territorial raven, gravelly and hoarse. Regina gave him a look, spending half a second to glance around for a glass of water for him, which was nowhere to be seen.
“I might expect something like this from that damn pirate–no offense–but Emma? No one will ever trust another word coming out of the mouths of either one of them!” She narrowed her eyes at him in suspicion. “You didn’t know anything about their asinine plan, did you?”
“Not until… whatever day that was.” Jones waved his hand vaguely to indicate his complete loss of orientation, then winced as pain shot up his forearm and out through his chest.
“You’re no less of an moron for going in the way you did,” scolded the queen, though her tone now had much less bite to it. “You should have brought backup.”
Jones lacked the energy to explain his reasoning just then. He settled for a gruff,
“Bad idea.”
Regina just rolled her eyes, annoyed. “And yours was such a good one, I see.”
Rather than arguing the point–an exercise he’d surely lose, even on a good day–Jones rested his head back and closed his eyes. “How is Killian?”
“Not good,” she replied bluntly as she pulled a chair near his bedside. “They’re having trouble getting him stable enough for the surgery needed to even startfixing him. And Whale said that the neurological deterioration compared to how it was even three days ago is very troubling. You know they still haven’t been able to keep one single former slave alive, right?”
“Suppose I should begin planning my funeral then, too,” murmured Jones, half asleep. He wasn’t too concerned; they’d performed an MRI at some point before sticking him in this bed, and while the official results had yet to come back, Dr. Whale had not seemed troubled by his reading of the images. If there were changes, they would be extremely minor considering how short a time he’d been in the Vocivore’s presence.
“You are going to be fine,” commanded Regina, leaving no room for argument. Hurriedly, she moved on. “So what exactly happened out there? The monster is dead, for sure?”
“You’re asking the wrong person,” answered the detective, wishing again for a drink of water to soothe his parched throat. “One moment I was under the creature’s thrall; the next, I was flat on the floor and feeling like I’d been shot in the heart instead of merely the shoulder.”
“Emma mentioned seeing a green glow.”
“Did she?” Uneasily, Jones reached for his chest.
“It sounds an awful lot like the effects of your poisoned heart.”
Jones stared at her as dread got a chokehold on his throat. Finally, he slowly admitted,
“That’s what it felt like, too.” He took a breath, shuddered slightly at the necessity of admitting it out loud at last, and winced. “But I’m completely cured and have been for nearly three years. I’ve even got a new heart to ensure it.”
“Well…” Regina looked to be deep in contemplation. “I’ve been thinking about that. Rumplestiltskin gave you his heart and that’s what’s been keeping you alive. Performing all of the duties of your old heart, unaffected by the poison. But… your old heart is still in there, kind of… wrapped around the new one. You don’t feel any effects of the poison because the good heart is there, functioning for you. But I think the poison was still inside, and has been all along, only you were no longer cursed.”
Jones felt dizzy, and not just from his physical maladies. “Bloody hell. Are you sure about this, Regina?”
“Of course not; there’s no way to be sure until magic is restored, and we’re still working on that.”
The nightmare had just gotten ten times worse. Jones imagined he could feel the poison coursing through each chamber of his inherited heart, growing stronger the closer Captain Smee sailed the Jolly Roger Kiddie Cruise to Storybrooke. And he could not stop tears from forming at the injustice of it all.
“What would have reactivated it, do you think?” Even he could hear the helpless exhaustion and sorrow in his tone; there was no way Regina would have missed it. She looked stricken for a second and rushed to reassure him.
“No, no; not reactivated, Killian. Transferred. From you to the Vocivore.”
The wave of relief was so strong that for a full minute, Jones felt nothing else: no pain, no weariness or confusion, only sheer gratitude that his happy ending with Alice had not been so suddenly taken away. “Transferred?”
Regina reached for his hand and pulled it away from where it had been clutching the gown over his breast. “That’s what makes sense to me.”
“But how?”
“Again, this is all conjecture at this point. Emma was certainly too distracted to give all of the details I would have liked. But from what I gathered… am I correct in believing that you went in trying to suppress any positive emotions that may have alerted the monster to your approach?”
Jones nodded.
“And I assume you accomplished that by recalling painful memories of your separation from Alice.”
When the detective did not correct her, Regina continued as if her conclusions were the most simple connection she had ever made.
“Well, those memories and emotions are inextricably linked to the curse on your heart. They dwell, in part, within the poisoned shell still residing in your chest. So when the Vocivore started literally feeding on those emotions, it drew the poison into itself along with the energy. It could not get one without the other.”
Before Jones could express surprise or amazement at the queen’s revelation, the dryness in his throat caught up to him and he started to cough. This had the unfortunate effect of jolting the wound in his shoulder as well as aggravating the marked soreness in his chest, and he spent the next several heartbeats in excruciating anguish. Regina leapt to her feet, radiating frustration.
“Can’t anybody get a cup of water in this place?” She made as if to go out into the hallway and throttle the next nurse she saw until they retrieved the requested water, but Jones reached out to stop her. He cleared his throat several times and finally managed to growl,
“Not allowed. Slated for surgery soon.”
Regina somehow managed to look even more impatient than she already had. “What’s taking them so damn long? Haven’t you been here for something like 14 hours already?”
Jones gingerly massaged his aching chest. “I couldn’t begin to tell you, love. Feels like a lot longer, yet also no time at all.”
He swallowed, winced, and cleared his throat. Regina still looked peeved.
“Let me see what I can do to light a fire under Whale’s team.” She reached for his hand, gave a brief squeeze, and assured him, “Then I’ll be back.”
As she made her way to the door, she tossed out over her shoulder,
Okay. Thanks for your input, @enoughtohold. I thought that if you had it for long enough, it damaged your system permanently? Like most diseases that attack the immune system? Especially since he started with an imperfect med. If that’s incorrect, I’m sincerely sorry.
Frick, I forgot about undetectable = untransmittable. I’m so sorry, that wasn’t my intent. I’ll change that at once.
That is firmly not what I’m trying to do, I assure you. I listened to the first person that’s HIV+ that corrected me, and I’m listening to you too. Yes, I do like the angst possibilities of various hurts and disabilities, because I like writing angst in general. NOT specifically because of HIV. Any hurt or disability has a lot of angst inherent. I would not make his life a spiraling pit of sadness just because he had HIV. I just presented the mostly-negatives because that’s what I’ve heard and what I know. And as people chime in, I’m corrected, I learn, and I edit my post.
I’m working on learning. I’m not planning to write this soon, but in about two months, and certainly not without the input of HIV+ people. The first person has agreed to look my future draft over for dumb stuff, and I hope that you will too. I want to do this right. Like I said, there’s not a lot of HIV+ heroes even in fic.
Part of why I threw this post out was because I wanted to see how people with HIV would respond, what they would think of this. Evidently they think I’m throwing out a lot of problematic stuff. I get that. I’ll change it. I’ll do more research.
But I sincerely do not think that cancelling the fic entirely is something I should do.
If you still think that I should scrap the project after reading this, please tell me so. I don’t mind if it’s DMs or more replies, or even asks. But I would truly prefer that you respond in some way, so that I can work on this further.
Note: Sorry, I just noticed that I have to leave for a psych appointment in 10 min or so, can’t edit post and get out door. I want you to have this, know things will be changed, it just might be a 3-4 hours, no longer than 6 unless there’s something wrong.
Sometimes apologies fix the problem. Sometimes all that’s needed to make things ok is to acknowledge that you did something wrong. For instance, if you accidentally bump into someone, saying “sorry” clarifies that you didn’t do it on purpose and don’t intend to hurt them. That’s usually enough in that kind of situation.
When someone apologizes in a way that fixes the problem, it’s usually good to say something like “it’s ok”. Because now that they’ve apologized, it *is* ok.
Sincere apologies aren’t always enough to make everything ok. Sometimes mistakes hurt people in ways that persist even after an apology. They can still matter. Fixing part of a problem is better than doing nothing.
If someone apologizes to you in a way that’s real but doesn’t erase the problem, you may not want to say “it’s ok” (because it still isn’t). One thing you can say instead is “Thank you for apologizing”. Thanking someone for apologizing acknowledges and accepts the apology without pretending that everything is fixed. This can create space for the problem to actually get solved.
Tl;dr: When sincere apologies don’t fix everything, ‘thank you for apologizing’ can be a better thing to say than ‘it’s ok’.
Some apologies amount to someone asking for permission to keep doing something bad.
These apologies generally shouldn’t be accepted.
(But it can be really hard not to, because who want permission to do bad things tend to lash out when they don’t get it.)
(If you have to accept a bad apology to protect yourself, it’s not your fault.)
Eg:
Moe: “I’m sorry, I know this is my privileged male opinion talking but…”
Or, Moe: “I’m sorry, I know I’m kind of a creeper…” or “I’m sorry, I know I’m standing too close but…”
At this point, Sarah may feel pressured to say “It’s ok.”
If Sarah says, “Actually, it’s not ok. Please back off” or “Yes, you’re mansplaining, please knock it off”, Moe is likely to get angry.
The thing is, it’s not ok, and Moe has no intention of stopping.
Moe is just apologizing in order to feel ok about doing something he knows is wrong.
Another example:
Sam is a wheelchair user. He’s trying to get through a door.
Mary sees him and decides that he needs help.
Mary rushes to open the door. As she does so, she says “Oh, sorry, I know I’m supposed to ask first”, with an expectant pause.
At this point, Sam may feel pressured to say “It’s ok”, even if the ‘help’ is unwanted and unhelpful.
If Sam says, “Yes, you should have asked first. You’re in my way. Please move”, Mary is likely to get angry and say “I was just trying to help!”.
In this situation, Mary wasn’t really apologizing. She was asking Sam to give her permission to do something she knows is wrong.
More generally:
Fake Apologizer: *does something they know the other person will object to*.
Fake Apologizer: “Oh, I’m sorry. I know I’m doing The Bad Thing…” or “I guess you’re going to be mad if I…”
Fake Apologizer: *expectant pause*
The Target is then supposed to feel pressured to say something like “That’s ok”, or “I know you mean well”, or “You’re a good person, so it’s ok for you to do The Bad Thing.”
If the Target doesn’t respond by giving the Fake Apologizer permission/validation, the Fake Apologizer will often lash out. This sometimes escalates in stages, along the lines of:
Fake Apologizer: I *said* I was sorry!
Fake Apologizer: *expectant pause*
The Target is then supposed to feel pressure to be grateful to the Fake Apologizer for apologizing, and then as a reward, give them permission to do The Bad Thing. (Or apologize for not letting them do The Bad Thing.)
If the Target doesn’t respond in the way the Fake Apologizer wants, they will often escalate to intense personal insults, or even overt threats, eg:
Fake Apologizer: I guess you’re just too bitter and broken inside to accept my good intentions. I hope you get the help you need. And/or:
Fake Apologizer: Ok, fine. I’ll never try to do anything for you ever again. And/or
Fake Apologizer: *storms off, and slams the door in a way that causes the person who refused their intrusive help to fall over*.
Tl;dr Sometimes what looks like an apology is really a manipulative demand for validation and permission to do something bad.
Notes: Just a little drabble. This will not make any sense out of context, so if you’re not following along with the story at least partly, well. Still read it, because I want you to so badly. But like, it’s gonna be a rough follow. Takes place a few weeks before Bring Me the Collar, or approximately 7 months in.
Leo sits silently at the large table, his shirt collar constricting his neck just on the edge of uncomfortably. Next to him, Luke talks enthusiastically with another senator.
It’s all wealthy people at this event. It’s black tie exclusive, Leo’s first time feeling so put together since his time with West. Luke hadn’t pressured him to come, but he had made it clear there was an open invitation. In a moment of, perhaps unearned, confidence, Leo had agreed.
Now, he sits quietly, watching Luke talk business. Leo has done well tonight, he thinks. He’s earned a break from conversations with strangers, from warm smiles and handshakes. He takes a slow bite off of his plate, feeling oddly anxious. Luke is right next to him, but feels so far away.
sometimes you say or do bad things while you’re in an awful mental place. sometimes you say things that are rude or uncalled for or manipulative. and i’m not going to hold that against you. mental illness is hard, and no one is perfect. but once you’re through that episode, you need to take steps to make amends. you need to apologize.
“i couldn’t help it, i was having a bad episode” is a justification, not an apology.
“i’m so fucking sorry, i fucked up, i don’t deserve to live, i should stop talking to anyone ever, i should die” is a second breakdown and a guilt trip. it is not an apology.
when you apologize, the focus should be on the person you hurt. “i’m sorry. i did something that was hurtful to you. even if i was having a rough time, you didn’t deserve to hear that,” is a better apology. if it was a small thing, you can leave it at that.
if you caused significant distress to the other person, this is a good time to talk about how you can minimize damage in the future. and again, even if it is tempting to say you should self-isolate and/or die, that is not a helpful suggestion. it will result in the person you’re talking to trying to talk you out of doing that, which makes your guilt the focus of the conversation instead of their hurt.
you deserve friendship, and you deserve support. but a supportive friend is not an emotional punching bag, and mental illness does not absolve you of responsibility for your actions. what you say during a mental breakdown doesn’t define you. how you deal with the aftermath though, says a lot.
This is the most carefully-nuanced discussion of this I think I have ever seen. Thank you for writing this.
@whipplefilter Hi!! I drew HARV for u and for one of ur fics!! I also based him from this post from u and that fanart!! I really like your writing and ur blog very much! here’s fanart for u!!!
omg omg omg omg omg omg omg omg omg omg omg omg THIS IS THE MOST GLOOOOORIOUS DAY OF MY LIFE!!!!!
HARV! MY MAN HARV! THE WORLD’S GREATEST AGENT
ngl I teared up a little when I saw that first image, because it’s the gif. (Fun fact, this gif was created on January 1, 2018, so I’m really glad that I had my New Year priorities straight, because you cannot start a new year off better than with Harv sparkles.)
These are absolutely beautiful, you are amazing. I love how much expression you convey through the two shots, even though his position changes very little–they’re two very distinct iterations of Harv encapsulated in one side of one phone call. And the sunglasses lolololol. Ugh he is just so perfect, and I love the way you did his shine. And the fact that it’s THOSE LINES LOL. Truly this is one of the best things that has ever happened to me, I am overjoyed that you enjoyed my Harv and my fic and that they inspired you to draw these. Thank you so much for these glories!
Legit, like, I’m gonna print these out. I am going to buy a triptych frame. I am going to put these on my real, actual wall. Watch this space!
YOU ARE A GEM. OMG. <33333333333333333
Thank you thank you thank you!!!!!!!!!!!
HELLO!! I’M GLAD U LIKED THEM A LOT HUHUH!!!
Since I read ur stuff, i was itching to draw him!!! I could really see the LOVE for this man from ur stuff, and just, I really like how you portrayed him as well
IM A BIG FAN!!!!! of ur work, you, and all man!!!
HARV 4 the WIN!! About the gif huhu, i really liked it, I couldn’t NOT do something about it when I was drawing the world’s greatest agent so I just had to do a little thingy for it. the best sparkley gif ever. pink and perfect. HARVVV
also, thank u for your kind words.. I really liked the phonecall lol AAHAHDS also just a big fan of his vocab, and u added to that interest with the stuff you wrote about him. UGH HARV!!! Love your 12 lines in the movie and MORE!! Thank u for liking his shine, that’s just how the world’s greatest is!!!!! I really enjoyed drawing him hehe, fun car to draw that’s for sure!!! Also, fr man, ur Harv and ur fics are the best, I really like your interest in the business and industry part of racing. AGH no words.. THANK U FOR YOUR WORKS
also omg.. ARE YOU REALLY?! enjoy I think!!!! THANK U FOR LIKING HARV AND THE THING I DREW HUHU. THAN K U!!!!
I tried. I know that you know that, everyone does, but I failed. For some reason to me that feels worse than if I hadn’t tried at all, if I hadn’t been there for you, if I hadn’t held your hand and gave you hope. I tried, I’m so sorry that I did because it didn’t make any difference at all in the end.
None of us are perfect. For today’s challenge, offer a sincere apology to someone you’ve hurt in the past. That can be online, over the phone, or even in person. Then reblog this image with the tag #MonthOfAction to inspire others to step up to the plate. http://bit.ly/MonthOfAction-26
I want to apologize. I’m sorry that I have had to pull you down with me into this antechamber full of cold blood bags. It’s hard to believe such a room exists, that there is really a room where they just put bags of blood. But they stack up and stack up. When I got here, they didn’t cover the door, but they do now. I don’t think anyone ever comes for the blood bags again. No, really. It’s drafty. I’m so sorry.
Hold one of the bags, and feel the blood inside.
This is my mothering instinct talking.
I’m sorry for how this ends, in a chamber that used to lead somewhere.
Hey guys, this week’s episode caps might be a bit late because I’m super busy with family and school stuff. I hope you forgive me. Also, you can submit your own caps if you like, because I think I can pop in here every once and a while to post them.
i scrolled past this an hour ago and thats when the winston/hanzo drama started happening so im obligated to reblog this to dispense with the bad energy. sorry
Need my job thanks
Prom is this weekend so no thanks
i’m really sorry but I can’t not reblog this
Ugh. I have a medical issue I’m waiting to hear about and I’m not chancing it on this. Sorry.
Seperated out the Tarzan stuff from my recent sketchbook for closer looks. For the very few people following me that like the Tarzan stuff hahaha. I totally and utterly goofed on Jane’s hand in the third to last picture. Drew Tarzan’s hand at the wrong andle too dark too early so oop. Oh well. Including a convoluted method for background drawing because my intution is NOT good enough to eyeball it.
Also a couple of these are style studies of Glen Keane sketches. I seldom recommend learning to draw by drawing things other artists have made. Real life or photography are much more consistent teachers. But GK’s character design drawings were meant to be mimicked. Not by me of course… by other Disney animators.. Mimicking other artists is only a good learning tool if you know what specific aspect you’re attempting to capture. For me here (other that just to draw Tarzan fan art) It’s to gain more of an eye for dynamicism and purposeful exaggeration.
No idea why I felt the need to babble on here oof.
do y'all even know how much i hate being an “elder queer” at 40? a whole goddamn generation before me was wiped out by a plague that politicians deemed not their problem bc it was killing the “right” people. like. this was OPENLY STATED. i spent a large chunk of my childhood going to funerals. nevermind the fact that killing queer people for being queer wasn’t codified into law as a hate crime until i was a junior in high school.
i should NOT be an elder queer, i should be middle at most. i am a middle aged queer. most of the elder queers died.
when i was growing up i didn’t go to pride parades, i went to pride marches. because that’s 100% what they were in the 80s and 90s.
from the absolute bottom of my heart, LEARN OUR FUCKING HISTORY. a generation was nearly wiped out so you young queers could be here. don’t let that have been in vain, please.
I was referring to the tags that someone reblogged this with so can you chill with the outrage before you give yourself an ulcer?
You know what? I would swear that I checked the tags on the post you reblogged from and didn’t see a COVID mention, but I would be dead wrong, because here it is
And I’ll be perfectly honest with you, even if those tags hadn’t been there, I would STILL have been out of line to respond to you the way that I did.
I should have assumed that there was some kind of context that I was missing when I read your post and taken a beat to look further if I felt such a need to respond to it, and to respond like a dick.
I apologize for my rash and harsh reaction. I was out of line, and you didn’t deserve that. I’m sorry. I’ll update my previous reblog with a comment saying as much.
Please understand I’m not trying to excuse my behavior, but a quick tip - if you reblog to reply to tags, it’s sort of tumblr custom (or at least it used to be) to include those tags in your reblog to provide some context when people come across your post later.
But again, I’m sorry.
I’ll also reach out to the couple people that reblogged it from me and let them know.
Just wanted to say that the Langst survey analysis is going to be a bit late. Usually I try to get the analysis done the week after a survey ends, but there’s a lot of text I have to sift through, and I’ve been swamped with schoolwork recently; I have a midterm on Monday and I reallyneed to study. Sorry for the inconvenience!
