Just a Fan

I've never understood why he looks so surprised. I don't think POWs get proper cleaning supplies. Or at least, not these.

Stitch is the kind of chaotic freedom that I wish I could be.

More people need to have a book thrown at them for their stupidity.

.....

Mick leans after and whispers in Leonard's ear, "I thought you said he'd wore himself out."

Leonard grimaces, "That was before Ramon decided to play 'Who Wants to Be a Millionaire.' I can see why Ramon keeps misplacing his inventions."

"Oh for fuck's sake. He's dead." Mick mutters.

"Not the right answer, but you're getting close, Mick!" Barry looks at Leonard. "You're turn Len!"

"Picasso," Leonard deadpans.

Barry pouts, "How do you- no, wait. I don't want to know."

Peter really wasn't sure what he was supposed to feel when he first walked out of the group home. Excited? Nervous? Terrified? Breathless?

Who was he kidding. There's a limousine sitting on the side if the road. A -limosousine-. Rich people have those. "Omg there's a driver." Of course there's a driver. Rich people.

He clutches the luggage handle as he takes small, hesitant steps forward. "Keep going," a soft voice says. The lady with lightly flaming hair.

Peter nods, trying and failing to pick up the pace. The driver opens the door, revealing a figure that he's only seen on TV and posters.

"C'mon, kiddo," the grumpy voice urges. "We've got places to be. People to see. I don't do slow."

Peter pipes up, "Yes, sir. Sorry, sir." He almost trips over his foot hurrying up. The man sighs and helps him in.

One of the best places in New York is definitely the rooftop garden of an abandoned hotel on a rougher side of town. It's not the ideal walking area, but the garden... the scent of the flowers is so fragrant that it covers up the stench of the garbage in the alley below. There's a small pond that have attracted some birds and cats. A tree shadows a concrete bench with just enough height that a person can still see the faintest stars despite the city lights.

This garden isn't Peter's. He doesn't belong here, laying down with his mask in his hand as the cold concrete bench soothes the aches of his muscles. He should probably still be hurdling through the city, patrolling. But he's tired. He's worn out after the hours of drifting from street to street, from having to be braver than he feels.

Right back at you. It must've been lonely and painful not being able to rely on the people you thought you would be able to. I hate how ALL OF THEM hurt you like that. I'm sorry that I or someone like these heroes could've been there for you.

I'm glad my writing has helped you, even a bit. Thank you for telling me too. It makes me feel warmer/more positive.

Not actively, at the moment. I've wanted to dive back into it, but work in healthcare has gotten both insane and depressing.

This hasn't been the kind of Christmas I wanted or hoped for. I thought the first two patient deaths were hard enough. Dying alone on the holiday, no family by their side - just a nurse or CNA if they happen to be gowned up at the time.

I thought seeing patients unaware of the world as machines breathe for them, family unable to visit or hold their hands was hard enough.

I didn't realize that I would be on the outside, unable to be there for a loved one as they struggled to breathe. I didn't know that I was going to be one of the ones who received those horrible phone calls that make you realize just how powerless you are. I couldn't be there to hold their hand. I couldn't talk to them as they slipped away. They died alone, amongst strangers, without knowing how much we wanted to be there, without knowing how much we cared.