𝗟𝗘𝗦𝗦 𝗧𝗛𝗔𝗡 𝙄 𝘿𝙊

“AND  I'M  SUPPOSED  TO  BELIEVE  THAT  ?!”  she  must  think  he's  some  kind  of  idiot.  “why  the  hell  would  some  guy  try  and  beat  the  fuck  out  of  me  if  you  weren't  painting  a  certain  picture  ?”  brett  knew  he  was  an  asshole,  that  was  by  design.  he  deserved  a  lot  of  what  he  got,  but  even  he  doesn't  think  he  deserved  to  get  punches  thrown  over  this.  “don't  pretend  like  you  care,  it's  really  starting  to  piss  me  off.  if  you  don't  like  me,  OWN  THAT  SHIT."  he  genuinely  can't  understand  her  disdain  for  him,  because  he'd  been  such  a  non  -  issue  for  the  past  twenty  years.  this  small  town  was  starting  to  feel  a  tad  bit  too  small,  and  he's  not  sure  how  much  longer  he'll  last  with  the  ghost  of  his  past  (  and  her  bodyguard  )  lurking  around  every  corner.  “you've  done  a  great  job  of  ignoring  my  existence  OUR  WHOLE  DAMN  LIVES,  why  is  it  so  hard  for  you  now  ?  you  know  how  many  people  i've  told  about  you  ?”  he  leans  in.  “zero.”  perhaps  it's  cruel,  but  she'd  essentially  thrown  his  previous  olive  branch  into  a  fire.  what  had  being  nice  to  her  gotten  him  ?  he  lowers  his  voice,  lest  someone  hear  him  say  the  s  word.  “you  haven't  been  my  sister  in  a  very  long  time.  WHY  ARE  YOU  TRYING  TO  START  NOW  ?”

BROOKLYN NINE-NINE 4.14 Serve & Protect

JOHN LOGAN AND JULES LOGAN OFF CAMPUS | 1x02

on fathers.

୭ৎ

Marina Tsvetaeva, in a letter to Boris Pasternak, from Letters Summer 1926

"SEINFELD" S3E16 - "The Fix Up"

BRETT  SHOULD  NOT  HAVE  A  JOB,  by  any  means.  he's  often  unreliable,  likes  to  mess  with  the  customers,  and  has  too  much  fun  wasting  company  time.  luckily  for  him,  staffing  at  the  little  theater  was  never  great,  which  is  how  he'd  managed  to  work  in  concessions  as  long  as  he  has.  face  twists  in  disgust  as  he  sees  the  man  in  front  of  him.  he's  grateful  the  man  can't  see  which  soda  belongs  to  which  dispenser,  so  he  can't  watch  brett  pour  root  beer  into  his  small  cup.  no  ice,  of  course.  brett  doesn't  care  enough  to  hear  whatever  else  was  coming  out  of  his  mouth  –  he  assumes  it's  all  bullshit  anyway,  so  he  simply  tunes  it  out.  “you  don't  have  to  apologize,  big  dog.  THIS  IS  YOUR  BED  !  LIE  IN  IT,  give  it  a  try  !  you've  earned  it.”  because,  frankly,  whatever  the  hell  this  guy  has  going  on  with  winter  is  none  of  his  business.  he  places  the  cup  down  in  between  them.  “also,  we're  fresh  out  of  popcorn,"  he  says,  the  popcorn  INCREDIBLY  VISIBLE  behind  his  back.  “that'll  be  fifteen  bucks.”

" you think i don't know what you gave up ? " he's felt guilt over it every day for the last thirteen years. but sometimes it felt like it was the only thing holding her together. " i know what you did for me. for him. " the father that stayed but never fully showed up again. always absent, even when present physically. " i know. " he goes silent for a moment. because the way the conversation is going, it sounds like she thinks he's never done anything for her. that breaks his heart more than any stupid boy in high school ever could. there'd been many fights of his own, moments of defending her, THROWING A FIST FIRST if someone so much as said her name wrong. " i wasn't supposed to be your burden. d'you think that's what i wanted for you ? " " i thought — " he shakes his head, frustrated sigh filling the space between them. " —i don't know what i fuckin' thought, alright ? we've never fought like that before. " and god, they've had some bad fights. but never to the point of prolonged silence on both ends. " wasn't sure how to go about it. figured maybe a wee bit of time without me might've been good for you. " freeing. a dead weight lifted. the sight of tears in her eyes sends him into shock. they don't to the EMOTIONAL SHTICK, never have. it feels unnatural. yet, the moment he catches glimpse, his own emotions threaten to swallow him whole. he hates himself for this. he doesn't know what else to do, how to FIX IT. all he's ever known is how to make things worse. " did hittin' me help ? " he questions, moving forward. his movements are somewhat erratic as he reaches out, catches her wrist before he can think better of it, and presses her palm hard against his cheek. " just keep hittin' me. " if anger wasn't their DEFAULT, maybe they wouldn't be in this situation. " come on, please. " he takes her hand, clumsy, desperate, and drags it back to meet his cheek once again. " hit me as many times as it takes for you to stop HATING ME. " if only they'd been taught how to talk things through. how to hug it out. process their emotions.

unfortunately,  she's  far  too  in  her  head  to  see  that.  instead,  she  does  exactly  was  he  asks.  an  open  palm  to  the  face,  a  fist  to  the  shoulder,  two  hands  on  his  chest  shoving  him  away  like  she'd  done  all  those  months  ago.  it's  all  she  can  muster  before  crouching  down,  HEAD  IN  HER  HANDS  in  defeat.  the  tears  were  streaming  down  her  face,  the  sound  coming  out  of  her  didn't  sound  human,  and  she  was  exhausted.  the  weight  of  the  world  was  no  longer  manageable  on  her  shoulders  alone,  despite  how  much  she  didn't  want  to  admit  that.  IT  WAS  TOO  MUCH,  EVEN  FOR  MAEVE  FINNEGAN.  and  maybe  that's  what's  so  embarrassing.  not  once  had  she  ever  asked  for  help,  nor  did  she  want  people  to  think  she  needed  it.  she'd  spent  so  much  time  crafting  this  image  of  herself  that  had  just  fallen  apart  in  a  few  short  months.  now,  years  of  prioritizing  everyone  else  over  herself  had  finally  caught  up  to  her  in  the  sense  that  she  doesn't  know  how  to  soothe  herself  anymore,  and  she  can  barely  breathe  in  between  sobs. 

maeve's place     /     late evening

she'd  just  put  on  her  clean  pajamas,  and  she's  halfway  through  braiding  her  freshly  washed  hair  in  her  bathroom  when  she  jumps  at  the  sudden  voice.  “jesus  christ,”  she  mutters,  one  hand  holding  her  braid  together,  the  other  pulling  the  door  open  as  she  tries  to  follow  the  sound  of  stellan's  voice.  “SHUT  THE  FUCK  UP,”  she  groans  with  a  roll  of  her  eyes  as  he  finally  comes  into  view.  still,  a  smile  lines  her  lips  (  as  it  always  does  with  stellan  ).  “and  what  rightful  property  would  that  be,  hm  ?”  she  gives  up  on  keeping  her  braid  altogether  and  lets  it  go,  just  so  she  can  cross  her  arms  as  she  leans  against  the  wall.  “an  apprentice  …  ?  no,  sorry.  A  MAID,  however  …  maybe  !  how  good  are  you  with  a  broom  and  a  mop  ?”