simmering on low

6) What's the fic you wrote with the angstiest ending?: I spent an inordinate amount of time coming up with a shortlist. This is not what the question asked for, but I'm listing them anyways because I couldn't narrow it down any further.

last rites. — Horacio Carrillo x reader, 4.6k

in for five years — Mick Moynihan character study, 1k

not right/not enough — Javier Peña x Horacio Carillo, ficlet

The End — OFC x OFC, 2.2k

Oblivion (Never Been A Better Reason) — Venom/Eddie Brock, 7.2k

7) What's a fic you wrote with the happiest ending?: I have a handful of total fluffies, I think? This is one.

Peach — Astrid Leong/Goh Peik Lin, 2.4k

8) Do you get hate on fics?: Not that I can remember, though I have experienced a few stunners secondhand through friends who have gotten some real weird/inaccurate/racist stuff.

9) Do you write smut?: Yes! Badly.

10) Craziest crossover?: I couldn't choose.

this is the last time — Avatar (animated 00s children's TV show) x Mad Max: Fury Road (R rated 2015 dystopian action movie)

the pale orange skirt in the Continental lobby — John Wick (recent gritty action movies) x Marie Kondo RPF (reality tv show about supremely pleasant small woman who teaches organizational skills)

One thing about me is that I'll treat a crack crossover dead serious.

11) Have you ever had a fic stolen?: No, thank goodness! I'd be so upset.

12) Have you ever had a fic translated?: Yes! I only allow translations to be published on AO3, and I prefer people ask first. I've been translated into Mandarin, Russian, and Bengali. Pride and joy <3

13) Have you ever cowritten a fic before?: Ohhhh yeah. The big ones are:

The Pack Survives cowritten with herequeerandreadytofight, 54,597

A Bit of Heart Left cowritten with shoshe_anders, 53,034

heart full of love and murder cowritten with herequeerandreadytofight, 38,520

I find that it's way easier to sustain longfic with a partner. We go back and forth writing a paragraph or two, then handing it over again. Nobody is in charge of specific characters, both partners can just do whatever they want (with communication, ofc).

14) All time favorite ship?: I have no idea, tbh.

15) What's a WIP you want to finish but doubt you ever will?: Anything I've tagged "Abandoned Work - Unfinished and Discontinued" on AO3 while holding back tears. Plenty. No further comment. 😂

16) What are your writing strengths?: i

17) What are your writing weaknesses?: Smut and fight sequences. Anything where it's primarily description of 2+ bodies doing extremely important and physically precise interaction. Yeesh! Yuck. It's hard.

18) Thoughts on dialogue in another language?: Speaking as a reader, my first preference is that a fic be all in one language, regardless of what that language is. After that, I like when there are entire chunks in another language. My least favorite type is when the whole fic is one language, but then inexplicably there's only a few words, or just random very simple sentences in another language. If the characters themselves very naturally go from language to another in their canon everyday life and it's a characterization choice, then I'm sometimes into it, but again I prefer it if it's done realistically, i.e. it's not all just one language with only swear words or only basic words thrown in of the other language, but rather reflects how bi- or multilingual people really go in and out of different languages with each other (like my aunts and grandmother, for example). As a writer, I don't envision myself mixing languages in a fic unless it's for a very specific reason. I've done an all-Spanish ficlet, but I doubt it was good. I particularly admire people who regularly publish in languages other than English and Mandarin, and I wish I could support them via commenting more, but I'm just not properly fluent.

19) First fandom you wrote in?: A Jason Bourne x East Indian original female character fic in a composition book as a child, never shared with anyone. My OFC wore purple a lot and their meetcute was her spying on him and then having to save his life when he almost choked to death on a chicken bone.

nothing and no one can touch you when you’re like this, sunk deep inside yourself. your throat is still hoarse from shouting last night, but that’s incidental, not important. nothing is important.

you don’t want to be here, so you’re not. 

you’re standing on the corner with half a pack in your jacket pocket, and he’s not there—you can’t see him right now, not even in your head—but he’s on his way. the winter sinks cold so deep into you that your forehead starts to hurt. if you stand here much longer, you’re going to get a runny nose. you’re itching for a cigarette. you don’t want to smoke without him. 

a lot of people want your attention.

julie, you’ve got mail. who’s this, your man? is he trying to get you back? put a price on it, maybe you can finally get us something from commissary. 

julie, the feds are not playing around. it looks like there’s charges related to human trafficking coming down the pipeline, and they’re trying to tie you to it. i’m doing my best with your defense, but if you don’t want to cooperate, i can’t guarantee—do you hear me? 

julie, when she comes through, we’re gonna take her back here. if you see a guard coming, just keep your mouth shut and kick the dryer, okay?

a lot of people want your attention, but nobody gets it. you can survive this, put one foot in front of the other, only as long as you can stand partly sheltered by the angle of your apartment building, and listen to the wind rushing past. waiting and safe, as long as he never arrives.

the snitch gets carried out on a stretcher.

the lawyer leaves unsatisfied.

you don’t open the letter.

.

.

.

it’s much worse at night. but still, sometimes, you can sleep.

.

.

.

lunch here has a queasy familiarity. it feels like barracks or school. you sit at a long table and corresponding bench with the italians, wondering if all this sodium is gonna worsen your perpetual low-grade headache, squeezing peanut butter from its plastic packet directly into your mouth, not bothering with the bread. 

behind you, you pick out the word doctor in somebody else’s conversation. thinking that it might have something to do with you, you turn and glance over your shoulder, just in time to catch a woman saying, too loudly, no i’m fine. you think her words sound a bit slurred. you’re fifty percent sure her name is aja. 

you’re sweating, says her friend, a woman with box braids whose name you’ve never learned.  she sounds exasperated. did you take something? when she gets no answer, her voice gains a note of urgency. hey. did you take something?

aja, leaning hunched forward on the table, mumbles no.

relieved, her friend says, then just eat your lunch.

i don’t...aja blinks. goes to lift one baby carrot to her mouth, looks at it, then stops. is car warning, she explains.

in the back of your brain, something stirs.

by now, you’ve been noticed by the other women at that table, and they’re staring daggers back. they’re almost all black women, just like all the women at yours are almost all white—and your stare is violating rules more important than the law. 

beside you, your cellmate janine has caught on too. she smacks your arm a little harder than she needs to, annoyed that she has to reiterate a fundamental lesson. mind your business. but you can still hear aja muttering out a slow explanation of increasingly jumbled words, and that’s all you care to hear.

it’s like there was a heavy weighted blanket keeping you down and separate from life, and that’s suddenly lifted. you can see and hear. there are words floating to the surface, and next steps, and you’re on the move, standing up. 

every woman sitting at aja’s table is up on their feet in five seconds flat, except for aja and her friend, though the friend gives you a look that could cut glass. you can hear everyone from your table getting up behind you, too. 

what’s your problem? says one of the women standing opposite.

i’m a doctor. you’re not even looking at her, but when she says, sure you are, there’s enough menace in it to stop you in your tracks. then janine has an iron grip on your arm, trying to drag you away. it’s too late. when you said you’re a doctor, you believed it, and with that the world has come into focus with perfect clarity. the rest doesn’t matter.

is she diabetic? you say.

janine hisses in your ear stupid fucking bitch fast and low and you can see a flicker of movement to your right, another woman from your side coming for you, so you wrestle free from janine and dart a few steps forward. as quick and smooth as if you’d planned it, a woman from aja’s side steps behind you, between you and your own table. she’s taller than you by about six inches. she says, yeah, she’s diabetic. 

permission enough. you sit down on the other side of aja. up close, she’s sweating and wearing a concerned expression, like she’s forgotten where she left her phone. you can hear the guards shouting, getting closer. you ignore them.

don’t touch her, the friend snaps.

who’s gonna take her pulse, then? keeping a careful eye on the friend, you reach for aja’s arm. nobody stops you. aja herself looks at you with vague suspicion in her golden brown eyes, but she’s not all there enough to resist. once you get your fingers on her wrist and find her pulse, you don’t bother counting it for a full thirty seconds, that’s how fast her heartbeat is going. 

at this point, the outside world has gotten too loud, too insistent, and you can feel the moment about to break. 

she needs sugar now, you say to the friend. or she’ll end up in a coma.

got it, she says, and then the guards are on you. with shouts and shoves, they break up the gathering, end lunch ten minutes early. with a yank of your shirt, you’re returned to your group. 

what the fuck is wrong with you, janine hisses, but you barely hear her. you’re still thinking on your patient, trying to get a look. you think you see the friend reaching for somebody else’s tray—to get a packet of strawberry jam, maybe—but you can’t be sure.

.

.

.

it makes no sense. your head throbs. if janine’s threats are even half true, you’re in for more trouble than you know how to handle, and you didn’t know how to handle your troubles before. but somehow, once you’re in the laundry room, it happens. 

you realize that you like it all. the strong smell of detergent, the sun coming in golden through the high windows built too thin for jumpers, the way you have to lean forward and really push against the weight of hundreds of t-shirts in the hamper trolley. even the finicky machine quitting mid-cycle only amuses you, because you know the trick to starting it up again: thump it in the right spot a couple times, hear it rumble back to work. it’s not until one of the guards passes by you that you hear, the fuck are you smiling about? and you realize you were smiling at all. you stop at once.

the thing is: you fucking did it. at dinner, you’ll see aja sitting at that same table, eating and talking clearly. she’ll be fine. you did that. you never thought you’d get this again, but it seems not everything is over. there is still a little life in you, enough to save hers.

not everything is over, and for once you can think about the letter tucked into your bra without it burning you. 

you don’t imagine it contains forgiveness—hope isn’t the same as delusion—but there could still be something in it that you would want to keep. richie could never respect your decision to leave. loyalty is what he’s cared about most, the one value he’s managed to cling onto by the skin of his teeth. but he might at least understand. 

times past, he has understood you far better than you expected, and strangely enough, you’ve understood him too. he might understand you now. stranger things have happened.

you won’t read the letter, of course. but you’ll keep that possibility with you, the one thing you have left to hold.

.

.

.

hey doc, come here. look at this. 

janine is calling to you from across the laundry room, beckoning you towards the back corner where the security cameras don’t quite reach. you hesitate. you’re not stupid. that’s exactly the spot they once made you stand guard, and given how publicly you ignored all orders today, you wouldn’t be surprised if it was janine’s turn to stand watch and your turn to take the beating. it’s been a while since you’ve done that. you’re probably rusty. ah, fuck it.

you leave the bin of stained shirts where it is and walk over, rounding the corner to find two women waiting for you. one you recognize immediately as an enforcer, blonde and tall and glaring ferociously at you. the other, slight and silver-haired, is the leader. 

do you know why you’re here? she says. calm, even pleasant, like a schoolteacher. 

i have a guess, you say.

so the leader explains. she takes her time with it, uses so many words, but the long and short of it is: you have been living an easy life. they have been taking care of you, and you’ve repaid them with nothing but trouble. angie—the massive woman leaning on the far wall, the enforcer—burned herself today in the kitchen, on purpose, badly enough that she got sent to the infirmary. sure enough, there’s a bandage around the enforcer’s left forearm. aja was supposed to also be in the infirmary, unconscious.

why angie and aja would need to be in the infirmary together, with aja unconscious, is obvious. the leader doesn’t need to explain that part. 

interfering is a crime. interfering in someone else’s murder is a crime whose punishment you can’t afford.

i didn’t know, you say. on hearing your thin voice, you realize your mistake. times like these, you’re supposed to keep your mouth shut. matter of fact, almost always, you’re supposed to keep your mouth shut. 

i’ve been told you have a letter on you, the leader says. let me see it.

you say nothing. she motions to the enforcer.

in your second tremendously stupid choice of the day, you fight back. you duck one punch only to get your ears rung by another, square in the left eye. after that, she deals with you easily, with the advantages of height, weight, reach, and the knowledge that this might be her one chance to get you back. she hates you and she fights like it, like she might just kill you and call it an accident. it’s all you can do to keep quiet, not yell for help. 

in under a minute, she’s back to the leader with your letter in her hand, snatched from your bra. the sound of your own heavy breathing is so unsteady, it’s almost as bad as crying. your eye has already begun to swell up. 

we have a problem, the leader says. if you can’t follow the most basic instructions, how can we trust you? and if we can’t trust you, what can we do? 

in the silence, you realize: they have everything now.

you need to prove that we can trust you. you have no idea how you could possibly do that, and then she adds, tell me about what you did for linda.

this time, you think it through before you open your mouth. 

you know what she’s asking about, of course. it’s the only thing you’ve ever done for your boss’s wife directly, and you were told to keep it secret, too. an iud for her daughter-in-law, along with a fake fertility treatment. what a woman would do to convince the people closest to her that she wants children, when she doesn’t. you know what those men are like.

i don’t know what you’re talking about, you finally say. if you have a problem with linda, go settle it with her. 

the enforcer starts forward, but the leader stops her. i’ll give you the night to think about it, she says, as undisturbed as ever. but first, i want you to tell me the list of things we could do if you turn out to not be trustworthy. i need to make sure that you know.

you need to get these women away from you so badly now that it’s almost easy to talk. 

you could kill me. you say that first because you doubt they’d bother with that much effort. or make my life miserable. you could keep that letter. you could talk to your boss and work it so i get stuck in here for a ten-year stretch. 

and other than that?

i don’t know.

we could make it so you never work as a doctor again.

does she know?

her pale green eyes give nothing away, and the longer you stare at her, desperately trying to pierce her pitiless calm, the more you feel you’re only exposing yourself. eventually, you give up. it doesn’t matter if she knows. the carusos know. if they expose you, the best years of your life, spent in hard work and little else, they’ll be gone. the worst years of your life, spent in restless loneliness and little else, they’ll be gone too. if that bomb drops, there’s no point to any of it. a decade of your life, best and worst, all for nothing. every second of every day. everyone you pushed away. 

i’m in jail, you manage to say. i don’t think i’ll get work as a doctor ever again.

i’m just the messenger, the leader says. see you tomorrow.

.

.

.

that night, you wait for janine to snore, then you bury your face in the pillow and discover that you’re wound too tight to even cry. the pillow smells like old socks. you turn over and stare up at the bunk bed above you instead. 

it’s not a choice, it’s just pure dread. in this place, you have nobody else. if the italians drop you, you’ll be as easily extinguished as the slugs that little boys like to sprinkle with salt, but it’ll take much longer, however long they make your sentence. your lawyer said the feds were trying to pin human trafficking on you. maybe they’ll succeed. it’s life or hell, that’s the point. life or hell isn’t a choice.

you will tell them what they want to know. they will pass it back up the chain to old caruso, who in turn will figure out that alessandra has been fooling him all along with that combination of iud and fake fertility treatment. wronged the family, in his eyes. maybe, given the raid that came not long after, it will be considered a sign that she knew the end was coming and helped it along.

maybe she did snitch. you don’t know. does the truth matter? this man looked at his own wounded son and said, he should be dead. not helping death along was his idea of fatherhood. but he had considered it, you know. this is the man you’re going to deliver your patient to, the man who has you by the throat.

when you first learned about the hippocratic oath, you found it romantic in the only way you could bear: do no harm. not be kind or even do good, not change the world or save the day, and certainly nothing as lushly irrational as love. something possible and real. a solid foundation. first, do no harm. 

alessandra might never know that you’re the one who gave her up.

that’s your patient, you remember a veteran surgeon saying to another resident. you can’t exactly remember what made him say it, some disrespect, but the viciousness of his voice left an impression on you. the unspoken seemed obvious. they’re the patient, you’re the doctor. they let you cut them wide open and put your hands inside them, so you better be prepared to show some fucking respect. surgeons always have a reputation for ego, so maybe it had nothing to do with treating the patient well, maybe it was a pure ego thing. but it felt, and still feels, like a personal claim. you violate your own patient and you might as well be a leafless tree, an unloving father.

you think over the leader’s words, trying to find yourself some loophole. relive each word as best you can while sniffing back snot because you have no tissues. but all you find is that the letter is gone now too, and with that, you tighten your jaw and refuse to let yourself start crying, because this time if you lose it, you’ll be lost.

the laundry room sunlight feels like it fell on your face years ago. that hope is gone. richie would not understand you abandoning your patient, and you wouldn’t want him to. you don’t even want him living in the same country as this fucking place. 

why didn’t you open that letter when you had the chance? if it’s not understanding, it’s probably rage, and you want that.  you would willingly read in excruciating detail just how fucked up it is that you caused his best friend’s death and then wormed your way so deep into his life that you could see him up close fighting the grief like a fish against the hook. you’d take that. if he tells you to go fuck yourself, fair enough. as long as it’s his words. that letter is the last of him, and you want it. 

that letter is the last of him because once you give up alessandra, there’s no coming back. once you give up alessandra, you’re not just a legal liability, not just a burden, but a genuine honest to god piece of shit twice over. you were a piece of shit already, but this?

you only realize you had hope now that you’re losing it. you only know you want to be a doctor once your license is on the line; you only know you were going to go back to him now that the door is receding many more years into the distance. there’s some life left in you, yeah. that’s not a good thing.

.

.

.

when you get up out of bed the next morning to meet your fate, your left eye has swollen up so badly you can barely see out of it. you face the morning, the sudden harsh overheads turning on, with half vision and a desperate, helpless longing to be numb. the numbness doesn’t return, though the leader does. 

she sits next to you at breakfast. there’s no enforcer this time. apparently you’re not enough of a threat.

well? she says.

you should’ve cried last night; maybe then you wouldn’t feel such an intense urge to cry now. stupid. you say nothing. you want to pick at the lumps of rubbery scrambled egg on your tray, but you only stare at them.

this is your chance. she doesn’t say it like a threat. she says it like a friend. you sure you have nothing to tell me?

it’s happening, you can feel it happening, but you can barely process. she thinks your silence is a no. she thinks she’s being denied. and you know you need to tell her what she wants to hear, but the guilt of it is so heavy that your mouth stays closed. you’re terrified of her. of yourself. you know what will happen once you crack and open your mouth and let your patient down: your life will be over. and you have no idea of exactly what will happen if you don’t open your mouth, but your imagination can fill in those blanks a thousand different ways. 

you’re just fucking scared in all directions, and what it amounts to is this: you keep your mouth shut.

after what feels like hours, the leader speaks.

okay, she says. i’ll pass it on. 

she gets up from the table. around you, women are eating and joking and squabbling as usual. it doesn’t feel like you made a decision. it doesn’t feel like the end of anything. it just feels like you’re waiting for the next punch to land.

.

.

.

days go by and you’re still tensed, waiting for that punch. nothing seems to change, but it’s cold comfort. and there’s no comfort in the moral victory, either—discovering that you have a single principle left doesn’t make you feel any better when all your energy goes into keeping your guard up. every dull hour, every dull meal could be taken away from you at any moment. the afternoon light in the laundry room is still beautiful. somebody should try to hurt you, and soon. if they don’t, you’re just going to lose it.

and then there she is. the enforcer, sitting on your bed, when you come back from the laundry room smelling of bleach from the white shirts. the burn on her arm is still bandaged. in full light, she looks even bigger. dirty blonde hair swept back in a ponytail, grey eyes hateful. 

when she takes out that blue envelope, your chest tightens. you can tell that she enjoys the look on her face, but it doesn’t last long. it’s strange. she tosses the letter with a dismissive gesture, and it lands on the floor between you.

congratulations. she still hates you, that much is clear—but she’s no longer enjoying herself, and that’s vital. that’s a good sign.

yeah? you say.

jack says you pass. 

she shoves past you hard on her way out. it’s all you can do not to snatch up the letter from the ground, to try and look as though you have some kind of control. 

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.

.

> dear julie, 

> i don’t know if you remember me, but you dated my best friend mikey a while ago. when i found out you got arrested, i talked to tina about it. she said you helped him till the day he died, and you’re the one who got us narcan.

> that sounds about right to me. i heard negative things about you once, but i never believed them. some things only come around once in a while, like a leap year. (which doesn’t have 365 days, it has 366.) one of those rare things is a friend who’s there when you need them. you have to recognize them when you see them. i think i recognize you now.

> this is just me saying that we haven’t forgotten you. tina says hi, and i’ll come visit, if you’ve got the time to spare. i’m guessing you’re pretty bored in there, and i can honk my horn and take a pie to the face as well as the next guy. 

> yours,

> richie

.

.

.

yeah, that’s him. 

you know it’s him on the first reread, because you can see all the tightness falling away as he writes, from the cramped propriety and false casualness in the first sentences to the dear clown stupidity of the last. you know it’s him on the second reread, because he’s lying in his own way, trying to fit in with what you wanted, pretending he’s just the friend of your ex, not admitting to knowing you. you’re crying. you’ve waited a long time to cry. that’s incidental. 

it’s only on the fifth reread that you snag on the part about the leap year. it’s the weirdest part, the parentheses. long after you have the letter half-memorized and tucked away in your bra, after dinner and lights out, you’re thinking on it. you fall asleep to the question and wake up the next morning with the answer. 

i’d bet my life that there was a sig p365 in his hand when they found him.

some things only come around once in a while, like a leap year. (which doesn’t have 365 days, it has 366.)

what if it wasn’t you?

no, you’ve been inside for less than two months and you’re already detaching from reality. that’s probably what’s happening here. but you can practically feel the warmth coming off the page, and that’s all that matters. 

your nose is practically fountaining snot, and without kleenex, you just wipe it on your sleeve and read the letter again.

it’s only hours later that you stop obsessing over the letter for long enough to truly realize what has happened. you’re going to be okay. 

.

.

.

the days pass quiet now. your swelled eye heals up slowly, until one morning you have full vision again. just as before, all you do is sleep, eat, work, and keep to yourself. nothing has changed. 

nothing has changed on the surface.

.

.

.

you think about alessandra all the time, because of course you do. 

just because old caruso couldn’t get you to flip on her doesn’t mean she’s safe, and yet you think about her the way you think about aja, the way you think about a gap-toothed surgery patient from way back in your residency sometimes. the thing that made you text your bosses begging for news about the carbon monoxide poisoning patients. that’s still in you. 

you know you can’t actually save anyone in a way that lasts—any and all work can be undone in an car-crash instant, and sometimes is—but still. one of your patients has to make it, or else what’s the point?

eventually you stop seeing aja around, but you don’t hear any talk about her getting killed, so you figure: that’s the one. that’s the one you got to save. it makes no sense, you know, but you have this feeling that if you get to save anyone, you only get to save one. so you try to prepare for the news that alessandra is gone. 

but when the news comes of a death in that family, it’s not the one you expected.

you stare at your lawyer, shocked. wait, so old caruso is dead?

suicide, she says matter of factly. hung himself in his cell. 

the fuck? so do we think that… you trail off, mindful of the cameras, even if they’re technically supposed to be turned off for lawyer consultations. you believe he’s dead, but you don’t believe for a second that he actually killed himself. 

your lawyer shrugs. who knows. all that matters is that apparently there’s an informer of some sort that’s turned over a bunch of shit—cellphone records, emails—and they’re willing to give an affidavit that you were threatened. there’s a couple pretty graphic and specific examples. for example, allegedly, after the first surgery you performed in the easystop basement, the oldest of caruso’s sons put his hand in the semi-coagulated blood and—

he’s dead now, you feel obligated to say. it’s whatever. you remember it well, though you wish you didn’t.

she’s admirably noncommittal, your lawyer. it would be nice if it wasn’t so annoying. which one is dead now?

most of them, i guess. the father’s dead, the oldest son is dead, and the youngest son will probably never be the same despite your best efforts. considering those numbers, it’s nothing short of a miracle that jack, the middle son, has apparently decided to spare you. you kept your mouth shut on behalf of his wife, but right now there’s such a tangle of complications and so few actual facts available to you that you can’t begin to guess what’s truly happening behind the scenes. you can only be grateful that you haven’t been hurt worse. 

your lawyer is considering you with shrewd eyes. after a second, she says, if i can get you a plea deal, will you take it? 

i can’t testify, you say automatically.

i know. i think i can get a deal without testimony included.

wait, really? 

she gives you a look, as if to say, catch up, dummy.

how many years? you say.

months, possibly. we’ll see.

you hardly know what to say to that. cool, you say, feebly.

you’ve kept your mouth shut, so they’re taking it easy on you, that’s the bottom line. it feels like a copout to escape the worst punishments on the basis that you were coerced, even if that’s true, because you feel like you probably deserve worse. but fuck, you’ll take mercy from anywhere right now, right and wrong and dignity be damned.

i’ll let you know. your lawyer gets up to go, but just as you’re about to call for the guard, she stops short. oh, one last thing. your landlady finally agreed that you don’t need to pay her rent for the past two months.

lovely.

she threw out all of your belongings that the cops didn’t take.

can’t say i’m surprised. it still hurts, but it’s a hurt dwarfed by the immense relief of an imminent plea deal. i’d sue, but we both know my retainer’s gonna run out too soon for that.

she did forward your mail to me, though. 

my mail? what is it, a dollar fifty off a personal pan pizza?

one postcard from your mom and her boyfriend and his family. one interview request for a doctoral residency program in indiana. 

you don’t know which of those is weirder. the residency applications you mostly did in a period of loneliness and boredom. they were an exercise in desperation daydreaming, not meant to touch real life, and you never even imagined a person reading the papers you submitted. getting a response, a good response, is as strange as a character stepping off a page. and your mom having a boyfriend is no surprise, but a boyfriend with a family? the world’s ended, yeah, but is the world ending?

can you forward those to me? you say.

they’re already in the mail. you should get them within the next two weeks.

when your lawyer leaves, you’re still sitting there. the guard has to call your name twice before you get up.

what a fucking week.

.

.

.

if you’re gonna get out in months, then…

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.

.

you earn seventy-two cents per day working in the laundry. the first time you go to the commissary, you buy a stamp, an envelope, and a blank card. then you smuggle detergent out of the laundry room so you can bribe janine into letting you borrow her pen.

you have richie’s letter memorized, but you read it again anyway. then you stare at the blank white space of the card. 

what is there to say? well, fucking everything, but there isn’t much you can say with the inevitable prison guard reading it all too. that cuts you off from saying most things, and then dignity wants you to shut up about the rest. sorry i thought my life was over and tore you to pieces about it. turns out my life isn’t over, can we be friends again?

thing is, if you write him a letter, he’ll write back, even if it’s to tell you to fuck off. and honestly at this point, you’d give up a lot more than dignity for that. so here fucking goes.

> dear richie,

> thank you for writing. i’m not good company right now and i can’t really write letters, but maybe we can get coffee sometime when i’m out?

> yours,

> julie

the yours gives you away, but you have so little else to offer. and besides, he started it.

it’s disciplined. that’s what you’re trying to tell yourself. it’s disciplined and concise and it gets across exactly as much as he needs to know and jesus fucking christ that short note looks absolutely pitiful in the comparatively vast white space of the card. 

so you make an addition.

> p.s. tear the bottom off for eva.

as best as you can, you draw the horses from memory. arched necks, white and dark patches on their coats, as close to the style of the girl who loved horses as you can. and then one girl with a superhero’s mask and a cape, holding up an apple so the tallest horse can eat it. you don’t draw well, but you don’t have the pen long enough to try a do-over. there’s a small chance you’ll make her smile, and that’s all you want. 

lick envelope, peel stamp, and send.

[ next chapter pending ] [ masterlist ]

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.

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a huge thank you to all readers.

again this is all just my own observations about myself because that’s kinda all i have—i’m no expert

i had too many other things going on and i did need to cut down on other hobbies a bit (in this case, i had to cut down on rp) because those other things all were...relatively small tasks and they took less time, so my brain would often go “hey what about this short and rewarding task vs this long and intimidating task?”

which goes hand in hand with training your focus—i think my phone really does impact that in a bad way. reading books helps with training focus, as does muscling through. i know muscling through goes contrary to a lot of advice, but it helped me. because a lot of times, i would start writing a scene and go, ‘wow, i hate this!’ but knowing that i didn’t have another idea of what to do, i just kept going until i realized why it felt wrong. and there were like...four or five different breakthroughs like that when i was writing my latest chapter. just ‘OHHHHHHHHH’ moments that i got to only after writing like a thousand or more words that i would not end up putting in the fic. it is NOT always like this but if you’re really blocked, sometimes it’s just cause you’re writing a genuinely emotionally complicated and crucial bit and your brain has to go down the wrong path a few times before it figures out the right one

part of that is figuring out what you feel about your current scene? like, sitting down and writing a certain scene, i would go, ‘no, this feels wrong, i don’t like it, i hate it’ and sure enough my instincts were right. it WAS bad. it was bad because it focused too much on the logistics and details of a side plot when i didn’t want to waste all that precious real estate and audience attention on something that was not connected to the core of my story. but i didn’t fully realize that till i was done. it was still good that i’d written out the long version, because it laid out all the information i needed (plus a bunch i didn’t, but still). idk. i love editing more than writing on a blank page. i love cutting more than i love creating. this may be a me thing.

could also be something went wrong earlier on, like your actual scene idea is quite good but you didn’t lay enough emotional or plot foundation for it to hit as hard as you want it to? reread your previous bits of fic and see if you can find the problem there?

i think peer pressure and/or friendship are huge for this—i don’t mean peer pressure as in ‘silly anti-drug advertisements where all the cool kids try to make you do weed’ i mean ‘hanging out in a community of writers & artists and/or with friends where there’s an atmosphere of people lowkey always working on their craft, whatever that may be’. because truly i think it helps keep writing top of mind & sort of normalizes the emotional struggles. plus the camaraderie is really nice! 

my current home of choice is the narcos fandom discord (which is only about 25% about narcos fandom at this point lbr) but i know there’s a ton of different places out there to be a fic writer in community with other fic writers, so take your pick. i will say that not every community is perfect and i think the ideal community strikes a balance between participation & low stress—that is, people support each other but they don’t feel like they have homework-reading they have to do that they’ll get penalized for not doing? yk? i’m rambling whoops

plus, getting a friend that is willing and HAPPY to talk through the fic with you—an editor, a beta reader, something like that—is a godsend. truly without bellinitini/narcolini i would literally not have even published chapter one of my current longfic. but the key is to find someone who genuinely is interested or who is willing to do a bit of a swap; you help them with theirs, they help you with yours.

and then there’s the audience for longfics, which may or may not apply to you. cannot lie, rereading comments, even for previous fics that are unconnected, is extremely motivating! maybe that’s just me! (i don’t think that’s just me) on that note, if you’re feeling real desperate you can always reblog ask games about your WIPs so that you can interact with your audience a bit?

you could always try to take in more art—that’s usually pretty refreshing for me. canon review is great, but taking in other stuff (fictional books especially) can make your brain start thinking in different ways, especially if your brain is a bit spongy like mine and tends to absorb little bits of other writer’s styles if you chug a lot of them. you could try to find books that deal with the same setting, the same themes, or the same relationship dynamics.

so for example, i read colorless tsukuru tazaki and his years of pilgrimage by haruki murakami in prepping for my next chapter of richiefic because richie references it in season 2. and genuinely, reading it made me understand his character a bit better. but i also have a character going to prison, so i have read some of the works of george pelecanos (the novel drama city and several short stories), because pelecanos deals with the justice system in a way that i think is admirably clearsighted, not melodramatic, very honest. i’m fixing to reread some of the parade’s end series because ford madox ford is, to me, one of the greatest of all time when it comes to complicated conversations where two characters are completely legible to the audience—completely understandable—while struggling through emotionally complicated conversations with each other. and i am about to try and get some more books set in women’s prisons + books set in modern day chicago. reading stuff with the context of “i’m about to write something related to this” is such a good way to read stuff, too. just feels really good and sometimes you need a positive feeling when you’re struggling through the depths of depair i mean writer’s block.

movies and tv are good too, though imo they’re not as helpful. i...personally avoid reading other people’s fanfic like the plague if they’re dealing with a specific pairing whose longfic i’m struggling to finish.

just putting it down and coming back in two-three weeks sometimes helps. couldn’t tell you why.

and finally. you could always drop the fic. it feels shitty for a while, but if the muse has genuinely left you for good, you deserve to enjoy the freedom instead of just like...struggling onwards indefinitely. this has happened to me with longfics before and it always makes me sad. but sometimes there is genuinely nothing you can do, and in those cases, forgive yourself <3 this is a hobby, after all

my top three recommended tactics, without knowing details of your situation, are: talk with a friend/editor, take in more art, muscle through. in that order.

These are the fandoms I've written or created 2+ things for on AO3. I couldn't list everything. My AO3 profile is here. 💛

Peaky Blinders (TV) (42)

Chronicles of Narnia - C. S. Lewis (25)

Original Work (18)

Game of Thrones (TV) (16)

Narcos (TV) (13)

Narcos: Mexico (TV) (13)

Dublin Murder Squad Series - Tana French (10)

Venom (Marvel Movies) (8)

Marvel Cinematic Universe (7)

Avatar: The Last Airbender (5)

Daredevil (TV) (4)

Emily of New Moon - L. M. Montgomery (4)

Dublin Murders (TV) (4)

To All the Boys I've Loved Before (Movies) (4)

Love/Hate (TV) (4)

The Bear (TV 2022) (4)

Sam Wyndham Series - Abir Mukherjee (4)

Fast & Furious (Movies) (3)

Crazy Rich Asians (2018) (3)

Anne of Green Gables - L. M. Montgomery (3)

John Wick (Movies) (3)

Brooklyn Nine-Nine (TV) (3)

Taskmaster (UK TV) RPF (3)

The Godfather (1972 1974 1990) (3)

Parade's End - All Media Types (3)

Blue Castle - L. M. Montgomery (3)

Letterkenny (TV) (3)

A Little Princess - Frances Hodgson Burnett (2)

Shadow and Bone (TV) (2)

Black Panther (Marvel Movies) (2)

Actor RPF (2)

The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015) (2)

Six of Crows Series - Leigh Bardugo (2)

Never Have I Ever (TV) (2)

La Reina del Sur (TV) (2)

X-Men (Alternate Timeline Movies) (2)

Parks and Recreation (TV) (2)

Something New (2006) (2)

Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies) (2)

Wonder Woman (Movies - Jenkins) (2)

Chronicles of Narnia - All Media Types (2)

Godless (TV 2017) (2)

The Defenders (Marvel TV) (2)

The Crown (TV) (2)

Queen of the South (TV) (2)

Sherlock (TV) (2)

Rebellion (TV) (2)

Ted Lasso (TV) (2)

The Far Pavilions - M. M. Kaye (2)

x

you're mikey.

fuck you.  

so fucking selfish, he says bitterly. it’s as close to hate as you’ve ever heard from him. but you’ve gone so far, you’re not stopping now.

richie, what the fuck do you want from me?

you know what i want! his voice goes quiet when he adds, did really you think there’s anything that could keep me away from you for five fucking years?

you know what he means.

can’t put words to it, can’t accept it, can’t fucking bear it—won’t—but you do know, you know exactly what he’s trying to say to you, what he’s trying to give.

you don’t deserve it, but it’s not for you anyways, it's for michael. it's all for michael, and it would be beautiful if it wasn't such a fucking waste to love a man when he's dead. richie’s gonna throw everything he has onto the fire in the hope that it will quench the flames. that just makes it his pyre, but he’ll never see it.

i don’t want to ruin it by overanalyzing, but. some thoughts. (proceeds to overanalyze)

↠ we’re reaching a point in this fic where you could play a where’s waldo type of game, but instead of looking for waldo, you’re looking for times that richie or julie say i love you to each other without actually saying those words. this is one of those times.

↠ mikey’s emotional presence is heavy in this scene. sometimes he’s present in ways that are sometimes totally natural and inescapable for richie and julie, but sometimes they manipulate or narrativize his presence for their own reasons, probably without even realizing it. julie can’t deal with love, so she decides it must all just be for mikey. richie can’t deal with the resentment and grief he still feels about mikey’s suicide, so he puts it off on other people, including julie at times. to be fair to him, she is pretty directly paralleling mikey, so he has some cause.