Stay awhile and listen.

A figure in a long street coat and newsy cap emerged from an alley between tenements. Patrick fought off bleary weariness and stared, focusing on a hand extended towards him as he heard, “Sorry to spook ya so, gov’, but I were asking if you was in fair form and now it seems that’s a ways aside the truth, yea?”

While Patrick’s mind was grinding back to life, he could not yet make anything of this velvet voice he was hearing. It sounded young, but whether lass or lad he could not say, and although smooth, it spoke in the coarse tongue of the street. He clasped the outstretched hand with his, grunted as he hoisted himself up, nodded as he righted himself, and responded, “Aye. Thank you. I’ve had much to drink and have much yet to walk.” Patrick glanced aside, trying to identify the block, “Much at this gait, at least.” Turning around to look, he stumbled once more.

The indeterminate youth reached out to steady the man, offering, “Come this way. Lean to here in the alley fer a spell afore ya tumble the rest o’ the way home.” Despite the curiousness of the request, Patrick found the contact comforting, and followed suit to lean against the cool brick of the alley, which lightened his bones and tempered his flushed cheeks. The two stood in dark and silence for a few moments as Patrick tried to will himself back to alertness, or at least to whatever modicum would be necessary to make it home while on his feet. “What’s got you so coiled up and taking liquid comfort to come to this sorry state?”

Leaning further into the wall, as though the resistance of the wall would push him back to sobriety, and without opening his eyes or turning to face the question, Patrick replied, “It’s hardly your place to ask a stranger his business.” Without pause, he heard a small, sweet chuckle, which almost provoked a low rumbling laugh of his own, but he did not at all understand why.

“May be right, there, gov’, but this side of the street is hardly any place at all. There don’t need to be any rules here in the dark.”

Patrick cracked his eyes open to regard the shrouded youth and their queer questions. They leaned on the wall opposite him, and naught of their form could be made out beneath the cap and coat. He knew nothing of them, and yet Patrick found them positively disarming. It was almost charming, and he couldn’t say what kept it from being so. “My story ain’t an uncommon thing you wouldn’t hear from any other working man. Just hit it hard today and then harder tonight.” And then, with a smirk, Patrick dismissively glanced away and parried, “I doubt you’ve the same excuse for being out here past bedtime, young’un.”

A louder, brighter laugh came from the opposite wall, and as Patrick’s gaze was drawn back over, he saw faint lamplight bouncing off what must have been a cascade of dark hair, which the youth was now running one hand through, cap held in the other. “Wherever we find ourselves, it can be important to take a moment to breathe, and allow our own creature comforts to set us aright again.” Patrick was transfixed by the glint of light in her (he was certain it was ‘her’, now) eyes, which he had not yet seen but now could not ignore. “Wouldn’t you say?”

A moment. Another.

“What?” Patrick grasped at brick as a parcel of his bubbled up to deliver the thought that her voice sounded different than it did a second ago, but he wasn’t receiving such messages at the moment. “What?”

“If you’re worried, it only has to be a moment, but what a moment it would be, wouldn’t it?”

Patrick felt warm. Everything felt warm. His blood flooding through his veins felt warmer beneath his skin. The night air went from crisp to sharp and scalding for a moment. Her scent tickled his mouth, his nose, his eyes, his- when did he get close enough to feel her breath?

“Wouldn’t it?”

An eternity in a moment. He was already leaning over her, hands splayed on the brick beside her head. She placed her cap on his head and pulled the brim closer to her, bringing his face with it.

“You seem to be tasting the idea, sir.” She opened her coat, revealing reasonable men’s garments, a buttoned shirt, a waistcoat, trousers, but also releasing the air that had been trapped within, and that air subsumed Patrick’s senses. She traced his collar for a moment before gripping it in one hand. “If you care to dine, I trust you’ll find the meal fare quite reasonable.”

Patrick’s tantalized mind found a bubble of clarity as it became achingly clear what this woman was propositioning.

And when it popped, it exploded.

-----

Heartbeat pounding in the temples. Bleary moonlight and crooked shadows. A dirty patch of ground, cool to the touch.

Elaine finally pushed herself upright. What had taken only moments felt like hours, as the gravity of the situation dripped along the ground.

Her cap was ruined. All of her clothes too, frankly. Stripped buttons lay scattered all over this alleyway, beside the man. She never learned his name.

Even if she took the entire contents of his wallet, it would not have been worth this. She wouldn’t be able to get home, get anywhere in this state. She stood contemplating the sight, and what it would take to clean any of this up.

“You’ll also catch your own death in the night like this, hardly covered and wet with red.”

Elaine jerked to a low stance, looking around for this voice that suddenly pooled around her. It certainly wasn’t the man’s, though a man’s voice it was.

“What exactly was your plan after all this? Bleeding up and down Western Central Park couldn’t have been how you expected to spend a Friday evening.”

The voice didn’t echo. It sounded as though it were coming from directly behind her, and yet as she turned and turned Elaine found nothing. Nothing until the moon drew directly overhead, and she finally made out the form of a proper tailcoat at the other end of the alley, coiffed in neat blonde hair. She remained in her low stance, still gripping a pocketknife in her right hand, coated in gleaming crimson. “Some men jump, some men limp, some men whine, but most men pay. I’ve never had a man so… instantly… entitled to what wasn’t his. Anger and entitlement must have driven him to drink. I suppose I’d have to watch out for that next time, were I ever to have another after tonight. I doubt I’ll ever have another free night after this.”

The man peered down at the body, then regarded her crouching form, tapping his walking stick on the ground. Elaine did not feel as though he glanced overlong at her exposed vulnerability. In fact, she had almost no read on how he read her, a rare thing for her. “What cause have you to say such a thing? You’re a plenty clever girl. You were doing quite well before the man decided upon what was his.”

Elaine did not know why she was compelled to say anything to this man who appeared out of moonlight. Perhaps some nihilistic resignation to the fact that she had no exit strategy for this. Perhaps something about the man who remained entirely composed when confronted with a highly indecorous cadaver and the woman who made it in an alleyway at night. She looked down at the body, and then at her knife, “I carry this knife in case of tempers like his, but it’s never… never supposed to come to this.”

“And yet you wielded it so well!” Elaine looked up to hear the blonde’s voice come from right in front of her. She struck with her left hand as she drew back her dagger in her right to follow up, but found that the man had already stopped both her left punch and right stab with outstretched index fingers. “If only you could have seen the arcs, the curves, the splashes! I dare say you were quite ready to do so, as you were ready even just now.”

She didn’t hear the man approach. In fact, as she registered his last words, she heard his walking stick topple and clatter over at the other end of the alley. This wasn’t a trick of the light, or her nerves failing her in her final hours before she’d be subject to the law. This man was unflappable, faster than shadows, and still staring directly at her, his face inches from her face. “And yet I’m no match for you, so let’s cease the theatrics. Are you here to commandeer a doomed woman for some rich pervert’s purpose? You’ve been watching this whole time and you didn’t stop any of it, so I can only assume your ends are nefarious at best.”

“You’re not entirely wrong, but you wound me so to tell me to dispense with theatre. Theatre is the whole point, you see. And I’d merely hate to lose such a skilled player as you, whose words remain so incisive before a man whom she cannot strike.”

“I’d rather leave my body with his for the police to find in the morning than to be subject to whatever demented will you’re intending.”

“Such spirited words for someone threatening their own demise! You continue to surprise. Delight, even.” They had remained frozen in this awkwardly combative pose, index finger to fist, index finger to wrist, as though they were striking the pose for a dance, all this time, but the man finally stood upright, righting Elaine along with himself. He took her hands and folded them in front of her, dagger still clutched, but being careful enough not to have her cut herself. “What would it take for you to believe that I intend something… nefarious, sure, but something different, a different role for you?”

Elaine could not move her hands. His frigid grip ensured that, and so he saw fit to continue. “A different role than toiling day in and day out, thrifting, grifting, stealing, and selling even yourself to feed all those adorable little mouths back at the orphanage?” She chilled to think of how he could possibly know any of these things. Could this madman read her mind, or has he been watching her for longer than just tonight?

“You seek to protect and provide for yours. I would do the same, and I would empower you to do so as well.” He relented, releasing her hands to quizzically shrug at her. “I don’t have to call you ‘mine’ if that’s more to your taste, but it would be true to at least some degree, there’s no getting around that.”

He shrugged and she stared, uncomprehending. He continued, “If that’s so abhorrent to you, go ahead and do what you’re going to do. Kill yourself, I imagine, after making a few arrangements for one of your little scoundrels to find this poor man’s paltry salary. You’re determined to die here, for fear of what comes with the d-”

“Why is it so important to you that I agree to whatever this is? Whoever you are, you could have had your way with me already. Several times, even. Assuming you have a way out of this mess, which you must, or you wouldn’t have wasted your time.”

“Wits sharper than your blade, even in the face of the truly unknown. Remarkable. What a remarkable performance. What magnificent theater, to be arguing for your fate, as your meal cools down below. Pretty soon, he’s going to be useless to you, and then what will you do?”

“Wh-”

“It’s important to me that you agree simply because...” He took her head in both his hands, adoringly, and in the instant before the moonlight overhead vanished behind the rooftops, he flashed the sharpest smile Elaine had ever seen. “...even with such noble motives, having you agree to give up the dawn just makes for better theatre!”

I’ve read a lot of fanfiction in the past year, chiefly in the Miraculous Ladybug fandom, after only briefly flirting with fiction during high school. But I’ve been remiss in not giving a lot of feedback to authors and creators. Recently, there’s been some pushes from creators and the community to have active fans provide more feedback, as a way to encourage engagement and support, and as a way to promote the creation of more work from authors that may need the encouragement. I feel this movement is very good, and I want to help.

But my reluctance to provide feedback is for none of the frequently given reasons.

If you’re reading this at all, I’m surprised you’re here, but by now you have an idea of my conversational tone. It’s dry. It’s just not obviously congruent with the very warm and welcoming space the fandom has carved out for itself. That disconnect is just spackled over the core of my discomfort:

In short, if I’m not speaking the lingo, I come across as just a critic.

For me, the most sincere compliment I can pay a piece of work is to face it honestly, engage with it, and then talk about my experience with it. But I communicate that experience through the language of literary criticism (or what pieces of it still remain after college), and coupled with my tone, people don’t think I like their work. This is tragic to me, because if I’m putting words on a page, it’s because you’ve evoked a strong positive reaction somehow. If I instead have overwhelmingly negative reactions to your work, I’m not your audience so I just leave. (Also, please believe that I know the difference between constructive criticism, nitpicking, and spite.)

I can do better. I can sound kinder. I can provide more encouragement and reinforcement. I can reflect on what is and isn’t appropriate to comment on, relative to how an author presents themselves in their work and their notes. I can learn to do better, in this particular capacity, and elsewhere in life. But now I’ve written this here, to plead my case. 

That’s it. Thanks for listening.