Is Steve with Robin in the KGB Robin and CIA Nancy au?
Steve understands them, completely; understands this need to leave Hawkins behind and never look back. Fill whatever is left of their lives with new memories that have nothing to do with this black hole of a town, with the grief it left them with, with the nightmares in childhood bedroom, with the trauma of looking into these woods and being afraid something still hides between the trees and under the roots.
He hears the relief in Jonathan’s voice when he checks in from New York; hears it in the loud background noises of him diving into a big city and healing among massive crowds of people who don’t give a shit of talking to him or about him.
He hears the hope in Nancy’s phonecalls late at night, when she cannot reach anyone else this late. Nancy says she doesn’t sleep through the nights anymore, hasn’t done so since they were sixteen, but -still- underneath the quiet confession, the tone of her voice goes lighter when she talks about how she has started to relax in auditoriums, about starting to slowly ease into the loudness of clubs and busy sidewalks, about maybe journalism isn’t really what she wants anymore but maybe a different major could click, maybe a different class could fill right, and there is hope in the choices given, there is future in the way she talks.
Robin... doesn’t call.
Well, she does call -sometimes, between such long stretches of silence, when Steve starts to feel another crack going through his chest cavity at the worry of not knowing if she’s okay- she calls from phones Steve cannot call back because Robin left Hawkins for Europe, got an apartment in Paris for about half a month and then found a group of people with a camper van. She has been traveling the countries; she tells him of a different city each time she calls, and the apparent happiness in her voice isn’t something Steve wants to break by keeping on begging her to call more, maybe send a goddamn postcard from wherever she has found herself.
A year and a half goes by. Robin calls in the middle of April; her voice pitched down and sounding nervous as she asks about the kids graduating, as she asks about maybe coming back to see them.
Steve is over the fucking moon.
Steve takes a few minutes to recognize her.
Steve takes a few minutes to recognize Nancy too but that is entirely a different conversation, because Robin arrives to Hawkins on a motorcycle from the goddamn airport outside Indianapolis two hours away. Arrives wearing clothes Steve had never expected to see her wear; short heeled boots, black slacks, a dress shirt she has tacked in the waistband. Blonde hair flowing long and free, and blue eyes scanning city square they’re meeting at as if making a statement.
A statement Steve doesn’t hope to understand but he is so goddamn happy to see her smile with that same goofy grin she always send him when she decided to be a little shit about something - that he can only laugh in glee, and crush her in an embrace aiming to bottle up these months of missing her, and scream about the motorcycle and the new look and this serious look in her face. She looks older; older than twenty one. She is quiet; way more quiet Steve remembers. But she grins the same, laughs the same, teases him about the tie and the suit as if no day has passed.
Orders the same hotdog and soft drink she always did, and throws her head back with a long groan of pleasure at the first bite and says she has missed the shit quality of american junk food, and when Steve asks about her trips she goes quiet and says she’s sorry she didn’t call more, and then spins stories about Paris, Milano and Barcelona to tell him anyway.
They spend the night talking as no time has passed and each hour has Robin relaxing, has Steve missing her more. They go to the graduation ceremony together, but Robin takes a moment to stop by the phonebooth outside Hawkins High to call who she says is a Romanian girl she’s been talking to the last few months. Steve doesn’t hope of understanding yet another language his best friend taught herself and so he goes inside to greet the kids.
They crowd him, as they do each time. The pack of Wheelers arrive in solemn silence, missing two of them. Hopper has gone to bring Mike, they say. Nancy has stayed outside with Robin.
Steve greets them all the same, leads them to their seats and saying hello to coworkers, to parents of kids he is coaching, and looks at the clock to see time passing. Jonathan sets up the camera, Dustin is called to the front, Higgins is preparing to take his stand. Steve goes to call the girls in.
An argument isn’t what he was expecting.
"...I don’t need to tell you shit".
"Nancy, I swear this is not... this is not a game".
"Are you... are you serious?!"
"I need the name, Nancy. I need... my life is - we cannot have a leak, not with this. Tell me who told you, I need to -"
"Screw you, I cannot believe you. After everything we-"
"No, listen -"
"No, no, screw you. Screw you, Robin, if that’s even is your real -"
"Nance -"
"Don’t you fucking call me that".
Steve rounds the corner, calling out, "Hey!" as soon as Nancy shoves Robin back against the wall and he doesn’t know what he is seeing, doesn’t know what he is hearing but he doesn’t like it. Doesn’t want it to go further.
"What the hell are you doing?"
Something immediately flashes over Robin’s face; something too similar to horror, something looking a lot like shame. She stares at Nancy as if paralyzed. And Nancy stares back, as if fire has leaked into her bloodstream instead of blood.
"Guys". Steve steps between them, and takes a moment to recognize Nancy, just like he took a minute to recognize Robin.
Her hair is cut short, so different but wonderfully suiting her. Her clothes demand attention; a thick blazer, a softer sweater, slacks meaning buisness. They haven’t talked in a while, but she doesn’t match the young, hopeful college student Steve was used to call in a packed dorm. Nancy looks too much like she has been thrown back into fighting a battle.
Something softens when she looks at him; something looking too much like pity. Steve doesn’t -
Robin clears her throat, her voice rough and tilting over the words as if speaking is slightly uncomfortable. "Let’s just -"
"Yeah", Nancy grunts and rapidly blinks, looking around as if she hasn’t realized they are standing right outside their old high school.
Steve shakes his head. "Hey, no, no. What’s between you?"
At the same time, Robin inhales deeply and Nancy’s jaw tightly clenches.
"She’ll tell you later", Nancy snarls and Robin shifts on her feet, something else -a warning- flashing behind her eyes. Whatever it is, Nancy doesn’t take kindly to it; shifting as if about to pounce again -
"Stop, stop, okay!" Steve throws a hand through his hair, livid with both of them chosing this time and place to do whatever the fuck this is. "This isn’t the fucking time. Get yourselves together. We cannot ruin this for the kids".
The anger in Nancy’s face deepens as if it is the wrong thing to say, and Robin’s entire posture changes in an instant. Shoulders straightening up; eyes flashing too cold for Steve’s old friend; the very air surrounding her tensing in response.
Steve shivers without meaning to. The familiarity to Robin’s stance is weird but he cannot connect it to anything other than a cold basement in Starcourt; the empty office he was thrown in one and a half year ago, at the military’s MAC-Z downtown.
The only thing Robin says is, "Later" and Nancy takes half a step back. Lips parting in surprise at the switch. Steve doesn’t know what the -
"Go on, Wheeler", Robin continues and Steve feels a cold chill down his spine at the tone, the posture, the look in Robin’s eyes-
For her worth, Nancy doesn’t move. Nancy has put a hand under the lapel of her jacket as if reaching for something; and Robin goes painfully still, frowning. A tremble in her fingers, a wet glimmer in her eyes.
"Guys", Steve tries again but his voice catches and dips into something too young. Does the trick though; they both turn to look at him. They both deflate.
"Later", Nancy whispers and doesn’t look back at Robin as she walks away toward the bleachers.
Steve turns just as Robin falls back against the wall and wipes her eyes with rough hands. "Hey, what the -"
Robin croaks out a sound between a laugh and a sob. "Later, Steve".
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Thank you for the prompt! This turned into a sequel to Christmas With The Scullys, but I think it can also be read on its own. It's very fluff.
Wc: 2,231 | Tagging @today-in-fic
Mistletoe Musings
Gooey darkness greets him as he slowly comes to, trying to blink away the sleep from his eyes. He wakes up languidly, stretching his legs, amazed at how soft this bed is. How quiet everything is here. How wonderful it smells.
Wait.
Mulder opens his eyes fully, looking around. His head is throbbing in tandem with his heartbeat. Where the fuck is he and why is he not alone in his bed? First things first. This, he realizes seeing a picture of a very young Scully and her siblings – Bill may have grown, but he hasn’t changed – on the nightstand, is not his bed, or his home. The memories return to him in scraps. Hospital. Concussion. Scully’s car. Scully’s mother’s house.
The bed he’s sleeping in is Scully’s. The person he’s sharing the bed with is… Scully. His eyes are still getting used to the dark, but now that he knows, he can see her. The lump under the comforter is without a doubt his partner. This isn’t the first time they’re sharing a bed, but it’s the first time they’re sharing her bed.
He doesn’t remember why they put him up here in Scully’s room. Does her mother think they’re dating? Scully, still asleep, chooses that moment to scoot closer to him, sighing deeply. Her scent is intoxicating. So is her proximity. If his mind keeps going down this path, his head will soon no longer be the only thing throbbing.
What he has to do is get a grip. This is Scully. She brought him here because he got himself hurt – again – and he couldn’t be left alone. Like a child. He’s crashing her Christmas because he acted before thinking.
He should thank Scully and all his lucky stars that he’s here and alive, not dead in some ditch, or all alone in a hospital. His eyes find Scully and his mind stops racing. A smile breaks on his face, just watching her sleep. He shifts the tiniest bit closer to her, hoping she won’t wake. When she doesn’t stir, he wills himself to relax. His eyes watching her, he’s being pulled back to sleep, too.
“Why can’t we wake them?” Someone not too quietly whispers. “I want to see what Santa brought!”
“Shhh. Let them sleep a moment longer.” Another voice chimes in, more familiar and more mature. It must be Mrs. Scully.
“Huh?” Scully, who at some point during the night decided to use his chest as a pillow, wakes up and as soon as she realizes how close they are, she gasps. But she doesn’t move away. She glances at him, her mind playing catch up, and then she smiles.
“Good morning,” she says.
“Grandma, they’re awake!” Two Scully children exclaim and both Mulder and Scully turn towards the door where Mrs. Scully stands with the biggest grin on her face.
“You better hurry,” she says, chuckling. “These kids are in a hurry.”
“Aunt Dana and the fox are awake!” One of the children screams, running down the stairs.
“What time is it?” Mulder asks once they’re alone again.
“Early,” Scully replies with a yawn. “Too early. How’s your head?”
“Scully, why is your very Catholic mother not at all fazed that I’m in your bed?”
“I take it your head is better.” Her words don’t stop her from touching the bump on his head and he winces. “There’s not enough space with half my family here. Is your head not better? Do we need to go back to the hospital?” Her hand is still on his head, but now she’s cradling it.
“No. No, we don’t. You’re important to me,” he says, remembering saying the same thing to her last night. He wants to say it again. Needs to say it again. There are no painkillers in his blood. Even the adrenaline is gone. If she didn’t believe him last night, she cannot deny it this morning.
“You told me last night. Do you- do you remember what happened yesterday?”
“I know I said it last night,” he assures her. “I do remember what happened. Well, mostly. I know where we are, and I know who I am, and I know who you are. What else do I need? I just wanted to say it again so that you know I meant it.”
“Glad we’re on the same page.” He grins at her, his head moving towards hers. Somewhere in the back of his mind he knows that they were supposed to get up and go downstairs where a plethora of Scullys wait for them. But what he really wants is to drink in Scully’s sleep-tousled hair, her make-up-free morning face full of freckles, and her inviting lips.
“Mulder,” she says, his name sounding like a murmur. Her eyes flicker to his lips, letting him know that she wants this, too. But before their mouths meet, his brain fires another word at him.
“Mistletoe,” he says, right before their lips meet. “We talked about mistletoe last night, didn’t we?” Scully chuckles, her eyes closing briefly.
“We did.”
“I still don’t know if there is any downstairs.”
“I think it’s time you find out.”
*
They draw all eyes to them when they enter Mrs. Scully’s living room. For a moment Mulder isn’t sure whether he’s seeing double. He’s never seen so many people for Christmas. They’re everywhere.
“Finally,” a kid says with a groan, crawling towards the tree and the presents there. Scully takes his hand, leading him toward the couch where her mother is sitting. Mulder feels several pairs of eyes bore into him. Most prominently Bill Jr.’s. He swallows hard, smiling at everyone else.
“Oh dear,” Mrs. Scully says. “There really is not enough space here.” She motions to the couch and Mulder realizes she’s right. There’s just enough space for one more person. They can’t very well ask the old lady with her cup of tea to sit on the floor.
“I can, um, stand over there,” Mulder says, pointing. “It’s fine.”
“Don’t be silly,” Mrs. Scully says. “Dana can sit on your lap. Come on now,” she urges. “You’re going to miss all the fun.”
Mulder and Scully exchange a quick look. If they don’t sit down soon, they will make it worse. Though Mulder isn’t sure things can be worse now.
“Sit down,” Scully says, her voice soft. She touches his arm, letting him know it’s okay. This is at once a dream and a nightmare come true. But he sits down, the couch sinking under his weight. Mrs. Scully nods at him, smiling before she redirects her focus back to the children. The only person still watching them is Bill Jr.
Mulder’s head is throbbing but he ignores it, waiting for Scully to sit on his lap. His Scully on his lap. She’s light as a feather, feeling just right sitting here. His arms go around her waist of their own volition. She leans against him, throwing him a quick smile. As he watches everyone tear through their presents, wrapping paper flying everywhere, he wonders if this is happening or a side effect of his concussion. Last night, he shared a bed with Scully. This morning, she’s sitting in his lap.
“This one’s for you, Dana.” Someone hands Scully a present and he rests his head on her shoulder to watch her unwrap it.
“What a beautiful scarf,” she says. “Thank you, Aunt Sylvia.”
“It’s from Santa,” one of the children reminds her.
“You’re right,” Scully says, laughing. “Thank you, Santa.” She turns around to look at Mulder, still smiling. He’s never seen her like this, like Dana. Being around her family grounds her, mellows her. She’s the most beautiful he’s ever seen her.
“Happiness looks good on you,” he whispers.
“It looks good on you, too,” she says, wrapping the scarf around him. It already smells like her and he doesn’t ever want to take it off. She’s right: he’s happy. It’s been more years than he can count since he’s felt this peaceful on Christmas.
“I know you had no choice,” Mulder says, his voice breaking. “But thank you for bringing me here.”
“I wanted you here, Mulder. I could have left you in the hospital.”
“I need to find that mistletoe,” he says. As much as he wants to kiss her – and do it right now – it might just be the last straw for Bill Jr.
“Look around,” Scully whispers, making him shiver all over. He does. His eyes scan the whole room and then, finally, he sees it. Mistletoe right by the window. He knew he could count on Mrs. Scully. Now all he has to do is be patient. He’s grinning like a Cheshire cat, much to the delight of the other grown up guests. He hopes they don’t know what he’s thinking about. But even if they do, he can’t care. Not tonight. Today he will receive the greatest Christmas gift he can imagine. He will get to kiss Scully.
*
In the end, it’s probably no more than an hour. To Mulder, it feels endless. The last present is unwrapped, the children are happy and playing with their toys, and the adults are refilling their coffees to stay awake and alert. Mulder doesn’t need caffeine. He’s thirsty for something else. But Tara has grabbed Scully by the arm and now the two women are in the kitchen while Mulder hangs around the mistletoe by himself.
“So you are Dana’s partner.” A woman approaches him, holding a plate with cookies. She offers one to Mulder and he politely takes one. “I’m her aunt. I’ve been very curious about you.”
“Hmm?” Is all he can say with his mouth full of cookie.
“Maggie told me all about you and Dana. She was hoping you’d be here. I love Dana, but these last few years,” she trails off, sighing. “It was obvious that there was always something missing. Someone missing. It was you. It’s good to see my favorite niece smile again. Don’t tell Bill Jr. I called Dana my favorite.” She winks at him and Mulder smiles, trying to process what he just heard.
He doesn’t get much time, because Scully returns to the living room, walking towards him. He forgets everything else. There is no one else in this room but them. His head doesn’t hurt. The only reason his knees are weak is that Scully is smiling at him. She has a cup of coffee in her hand that she puts on the mantelpiece.
“Hi,” he says, his voice breathless.
“Hi.”
“I found mistletoe.”
“I see.”
“You know the tradition,” he says.
“I do. You should be glad Aunt Sylvia didn’t look up just now,” Scully says. “I think she might have a thing for you.”
“Hmm, too bad. I’m already interested in someone else.”
“Who?” Scully asks, but he steals the word from her lips. They meet in the middle with her on tiptoes and him slightly stooped. It starts out soft and gentle, a perfect first kiss. But when Scully’s fingers lock in his hair, all bets are off. He forgets that he shouldn’t be upright for longer periods of time. His knees buckle, but kissing Scully takes precedence over everything else.
“There are children present, for God’s sake.” It’s Bill’s booming voice that brings them back to the present, to Mrs. Scully’s house, and the various family members glaring at them.
“I’m, um, we- well.” Mulder tries to find words, but can’t. He wipes his mouth and Bill’s eyes narrow.
“The kids are not even paying attention,” Scully says. Everyone over the age of 12 is, however. Mulder has never seen so many women smile at him. He stands closer to Scully, knowing she’ll protect him.
“I said I’d try to be nice to him,” Bill says, looking him up and down. “But Dana, this is going too far.”
“It was one kiss, Bill.”
“Hey, don’t fight, please,” Mulder says, his headache returning with a vengeance. “I think I need to sit down anyway. I’m a bit dizzy.”
“I wasn’t thinking.” She throws Bill a dirty look and for a brief moment, the siblings battle a silent fight that Scully seems to be winning. She leads Mulder over to the couch where every Scully woman starts fawning over him. His very own Scully has her hand on his head, straightening the hair she mussed up. He grins, thinking about what happened mere moments ago. He wants it to happen again soon.
“He’s wearing lipstick,” Aunt Sylvia says, taking a sip from her coffee. “Looks good on him.” Somewhere Bill Jr. groans while everyone else laughs. Scully wipes the lipstick away with her thumb, pressing a kiss to his cheek. She’s not at all shy with him here, surrounded by her family. Even if she only does it to rile up her big brother, he doesn’t care. After all, he gets kisses. From Scully. He will never complain about that. Though he can’t wait to do this when they’re alone and Bill Jr. isn’t breathing down their necks. Quite literally.
“It really does look good on you,” she whispers, bringing him back to the present.
“Maybe I can wear it again later?” He asks, full of hope.
“Oh, you will be wearing it again later tonight, don’t worry,” she promises him.
"Here we are." she said. Theodore took in the view, it was a massive village, with cherry blossoms and a crystal clear lake and lush grass.
It got very long @ask-the-illager-obsessed-art1st
He looked at the little girl and smiled "I can tell she has your fighting spirit~" he held his hand out to the child as she reached out to touch his...
One of my favourite things about Persuasion is that Wentworth has to learn to accept Anne’s form of strength? He thinks that she was disloyal to him in choosing to honour her family’s wishes over their engagement, and so he sees her as weak. Wentworth cares for Anne so much that I don’t think he can understand that her choice was a sacrifice that she made in part for him. He can’t see that really she choose his success over her happiness.
Had she not imagined herself consulting his good, even more than her own, she could hardly have given him up.---The belief of being prudent, and self-denying principally for his advantage, was her chief consolation, under the misery of a parting---a final parting; and every consolation was required, for she had to encounter all the additional pain of opinions, on his side, totally unconvinced and unbending, and of his feeling himself ill-used by so forced a relinquishment.---He had left the country in consequence.
The text sort of sets up Wentworth’s success in the Navy as being due to Anne breaking their engagement but he can’t see that because he wanted it all. He wanted to have her and wealth. He didn’t want to have to give her up. But he might not have taken the same risks if he had Anne at home, which I think other people have pointed out. The brief moment Austen gives us of his perspective is really telling.
He had thought her wretchedly altered, and, in the first moment of appeal, had spoken as he felt. He had not forgiven Anne Elliot. She had used him ill; deserted and disappointed him; and worse, she had shown a feebleness of character in doing so, which his own decided, confident temper could not endure.
(Side note: Austen almost makes this sound like a Marianne/Willoughby situation with Wentworth feeling like Marianne, which is interesting)
Part of it could boil down to their awareness of each other; I don’t think there’s any way he wouldn’t have noticed how little Anne’s immediate family gives her emotionally. It might be a pride issue with him--why would she choose her family over him? And Lady Russell’s concerns, while motivated in part by a monetary concern for Anne’s wellbeing, ultimately come down to her not liking Wentworth; this is sort of shown when Lady Russell wants Anne to go to Bath even though she knows Anne doesn’t like Bath.
Lady Russell felt obliged to oppose her dear Anne’s known wishes...Lady Russell was fond of Bath in short, and disposed to think it must suit them all.
It also happens again when Lady Russell wants Anne to marry her cousin. Lady Russell likes him, and while I think she absolutely loves Anne, she’s a little blinded by her own tastes and wants.
This is part of why Wentworth pursues Louisa after her loyalty speech; he sees her as the opposite of Anne.
‘My first wish for all, whom I am interested in, is that they should be firm.’
However, when Louisa gets hurt, Anne quietly takes charge and they all turn to her and let her lead. I think it’s a turning point in more ways than one for Wentworth, in part because he’s finally forced to see Anne’s strength of character.
If Anne is as weak of character and feeling as Wentworth resentfully believes at the beginning of the novel, she would have married Charles Musgrove or her cousin. Her own quiet strength enables her to let Wentworth go and do it in part for his own good, but she remains steadfast to him until he comes back and she’s convinced he’ll never forgive her. Her own understanding of people makes her realise that Mr. Elliot isn’t a good person, regardless of her feelings for Wentworth.
Wentworth is the one that has to learn and grow through the novel, more so than Anne, I would argue. Anne has to learn to trust her own judgement, but Wentworth is the one who goes through the Elizabeth/Darcy process and realises that just because Anne’s character presents itself differently from his does not make it lesser. And it is interesting that Wentworth is more dictated by his emotions than Anne.
‘No!’ he replied impressively, ‘there is nothing worth my staying for;’ and he was gone directly.
Jealousy of Mr. Elliot! It was the only intelligible motive. Captain Wentworth jealous of her affection! Could she have believed it a week ago--three hours ago! For a moment the gratification was exquisite. But alas! there were very different thoughts to succeed. How was such jealousy to be quieted?
Anne’s understanding of Wentworth here, instead of being hurt by his absolute rudeness, is another of those moments that shows Anne’c character. Wentworth understands Anne, except when his judgement is clouded by his emotions and pride. Anne understands him outside of her emotions. At the beginning, she knows he’s not in an emotional place to be able to forgive her, but here in Bath, she’s able to recognise that he’s jealous and never even thinks about being hurt by his words.
Perhaps most telling, though, is that in his letter, Wentworth clearly states that he’s been the weak one. And he finally admits the depth of his feeling to himself and to her by stating that he’s never stopped loving her in the midst of his anger.
I have loved none but you. Unjust I may have been, weak and resentful I have been, but never inconstant. You alone have brought me to Bath. For you alone I think and plan.---Have you not seen this? Can you fail to have understood my wishes?---I had not waited even these ten days, could I have read your feelings, as I think you must have penetrated mine...You sink your voice, but I can distinguish the tones of that voice, when they would be lost on others.---Too good, too excellent creature!
He understands her tone of voice, but his judgement is clouded in regards to her emotions towards him and he admits that she is better able to read his emotions than he is her’s. When Anne goes after him
He joined them; but as if irresolute whether to join or pass on, said nothing--only looked.
Wentworth sort of becomes what he told Louisa he did not like; irresolute. He wants Anne to want him, but he’s not sure if she still loves him. Finally he admits to Anne that he’d been wrong about her.
...he had been constant unconsciously, nay unintentionally; that he had meant to forget her, and believed it to be done. He had imagined himself indifferent, when he had only been angry; and he had been unjust to her merits, because he had been a sufferer from them. Her character was now fixed in his mind as perfection itself, maintaining the loveliest medium of fortitude and gentleness; but he was obliged to acknowledge that only at Uppercross had he learnt to do her justice, and only at Lyme had he begun to understand himself.
At the end, Anne reiterates that she as right to listen to Lady Russell; Wentworth still doesn’t like this but I think it shows us that he’s the one not thinking rationally in regards to Anne. When Wentworth states his worry that she was going to marry Mr. Elliot, she responds:
‘You should have distinguished...You should not have suspected me now; the case so different. If I was wrong in yielding to persuasion once, remember that it was to persuasion exerted on the side of safety, not of risk. When I yielded, I thought it was to duty.’
Wentworth’s response to this is also very telling:
‘...I could not derive benefit from the late knowledge I had acquired of your character. I could not bring it into play: it was overwhelmed, buried, lost in those earlier feelings which I had been smarting under year after year, I could think of you only as one who had yielded, who had given me up, who had been influenced by anyone rather than by me.’
Wentworth’s anger, despite what he asserted to Louisa, isn’t caused by Anne being persuaded, but rather that he wasn’t able to persuade her to stay with him over the advice of Lady Russell. He is very ruled by his emotions in a way that Anne isn’t. Anne is more able to read the situations around her, recognise that she wouldn’t have persuaded someone under her care in the way she was persuaded, but also that:
‘...I must believe that I was right, much as I suffered for it, that I was perfectly right in being guided by the friend whom you will love better than you do now. To me, she was in the place of a parent. Do not mistake me, however. I am not saying that she did not err in her advice. It was, perhaps, one of those cases in which advice is good or bad only as the event decides; and for myself, I certainly never should, in any circumstance of tolerable similarity, give such advice. But I mean, that I was right in submitting to her, and that if I had done otherwise, I should have suffered more in continuing the engagement than I did even in giving it up, because I would have suffered in my conscience.’
Wentworth is then able to recognise that his pride and anger made his and Anne’s separation last longer than if he had been more understanding:
‘...I too have been thinking over the past, and a question has suggested itself, whether there may not have been one person more my enemy even than that lady? My own self. Tell me if, when I returned to England in the year eight, with a few thousand pounds, and was posted into the Laconia, if I had then written to you, would you have answered my letter? would you, in short, have renewed the engagement then?’
‘Would I!’ was all her answer; but the accent was decisive enough.
‘Good God!’ he cried, ‘you would! It is not that I did not think of it, or desire it, as what could alone crown all my other successes. But I was too proud, too proud to ask again. I did not understand you. I shut my eyes, and would not understand you, or do you justice.’
Here, where he finally understands her and her motivations more fully, he is able to better understand himself. This is part of why I love this novel, though, because Anne is so gently faithful and steadfast, and while he loved her before, he has a much deeper understanding of her by the end. When Wentworth says in the letter that his heart more fully belongs to her now, I think it is in part due to his greater knowledge of her, his new ability to try to look past his own emotions to understand hers.
Ron Chernow: Tales of False Information, Hypocrisy and Sucking Up.
I’m not doing this in a pretty essay because I wanted to get the taint of his name from my keyboard quick enough. Often enough, I exclaim my opinion of Ron Chernow. What comes afterwards is a bucket of asks questioning my reasoning, to which I have explained on numerous occasions. Today, once and for all, I will answer it in a clear formate so that I may 1) Stop being asked of Chernow and 2) Give you all the information to choose properly when reading up on your history! Let’s begin.
This is Ron Chernow:
Ah, yes. The man himself. Historian, best-selling writer, journalist... you name it. Kinda looks like your uncle who gets you a child’s Christmas present even though you are seventeen years old. If you are interested in history, or follow it to some extent you most certainly have heard his name in the past. Whether it be in a book store, online, or for your especially crafty people--this blog ;) You are bound to be able to recognize his name. He has published titles such as Titan, The Death of the Banker, Grant & Washington to name a few with the most popularity or catch among readers and stats. However, if it is one biography of which stands out the most against anything it is: Alexander Hamilton. You know that big yellow book?
I can assure you, that while this book looks to big and bright as to blot out the sun: it is nothing but a walk in the park. The biography delves heavily into the life of the first Secretary Treasury of the United States in a manner which has never been performed to such an impressive extent for the historical figure before. From the poor island to by Washington’s side and then the forest of Wekawken to his last breath beside Eliza, just as David McCullough did with John Adams, Ron Chernow masterfully articulates all of the information in a conscious and extraordinary manner. So, perhaps you ask: why, Presley, do you hold an utter disdain for Ron Chernow if you think it was good?? Well to answer your question:
Because he does too much sucking up.
Sucking up.
But what do I mean by that? I mean rather poignantly that if Ron Chernow could, he would get down on his knees and please Hamilton in any which manner that he wishes. He sucks up. Alexander Hamilton is solely one example of this manner of creating a larger and life picture of the man. I have stated all this before, in my review on this book, but today I am going to tackle a few reasons why you shouldn’t rush out to read from Chernow on this interesting figure. From not allowing Hamilton to take account for his wrong deeds, to blaming the people in his life to blatant lies among the text. Ron Chernow, is, in my honest and collective opinion, a lying and untruthful historian.
First and foremost: bias. You’ve heard this word before often coming from me on this blog regarding historians. In my context, it means an author who does not take both prospectives in an argument and is always inclined to one specific side. Perfect examples of how historians have been masterful in avoiding bias is Jon Meacham in Thomas Jefferson and John Ferling in Jefferson vs Hamilton. Those authors were able to perfectly walk the line between giving their figure’s opinions and being able to tear their views to shreds. Ron Chernow does not walk the line. Actually he pretty much fell the thousand feet away from the line to his doom in hell. Strong wording? You bet. Chernow is EXTREMELY BIAS. By bias in Chernow context, I mean that he does not understand how to incorporate differing opinions into his passages or know how to interpret Hamilton in what manner he was: a brilliant but extremely flawed man with a multitude of moral issues who constructed the country from scratch with the rest of them. Instead, Chernow chooses to view Hamilton is a divergent light.
So what does this do for his character? Hamilton’s. It amplifies it. Chernow spends the entire biography attempting to convince how holy, forgotten and sacred Hamilton is that he entirely disregards that Hamilton is already interesting by himself! We don’t need useful false information or bias information. For example, Chernow portrays Hamilton in a light of “do no wrong” and that is was everyone around him of which had issue. For a few examples:
Thomas Jefferson started all of the arguments between them and he was evil. Not like Hamilton did anything to be either...
Maria Reynolds is a stupid whore and she seduced poor Hamilton into banging her.
James Monroe just stopped being friends with him and backstabbed him. Lmao. Right.
It is Eliza’s fault that Hamilton cheated on her because she was pregnant all of the time.
It was Eliza’s fault being Hamilton needs to protect his fragile masculinity and bang other women.
It is Eliza’s fault.
IT IS ELIZA’S FAULT FOR EVERYTHING.
This brings me onto another point about characterization. So, in the wake of him having to amplify Hamilton to his extraordinary human bring who cannot do any wrong, he had to, at the same time, ruin the characters and personalities of the people around Hamilton. He spends the entire book trying to say that it was Eliza who was the hero but then completely goes against his claim just to bring attention and say that Eliza was responsible for the largest blot on Hamilton’s character. He trashes James Monroe by putting him the light of a Hamilton or Jefferson wannabe. He characterizes Jefferson the wrong way and takes numerous amounts of time just to dig at his character in the text like a middle schooler talking shit about someone. The thing is? Jefferson sucks! Yeah! We all know that: Jefferson is a piece of shit. However, Chernow doesn’t diss Jefferson in a way that is so bring to light how disgusting he was, he does it just to prove how much “cooler” Jefferson was to him and in turn ignores all of his subject’s flaws. James Madison is portrayed pathetically as well. Thought I’d mention... I believe the most horrifying thing, however, is his incorrect take on Maria Reynolds. That she was a stupid whore and Hamilton couldn’t resist her beautiful, sexy and entrancing sex sex sex.
Alright. I spoke enough about character. Now allow us to tackle a fundamental reason why Chernow drops the ball in all of his biographies. The sacred ball. The sacred, holy ball that all historians must follow.
CITE YOUR GOD DAMN SOURCES.
Chernow puts information in there that you cannot find anywhere else. I mean... anywhere. But... what do I mean? I mean it is no where. No sources, no archives: nothing. A lot of his information is completely and utterly false! He places it in there just to serve his own agenda! It is completely crazy. Here are a few examples I noticed (there are many):
He states that Hamilton never owned any slaves and places him in the light of an extreme abolitionist. WHICH IS COMPLETELY FALSE. Chernow shows him as a fervent abolitionist and only mentions on one page in one sentence the possiblity that Alexander Hamilton owned slaves. Alexander Hamilton owned one or two house slaves, he married into one of the richest slave owning family, he bought slaves for his family member and Chernow tries to say this was all against his will–seriously? Newsflash, Alexander Hamilton was NOT an abolitionist.
Stated that Hercules Mulligan was in the New York Manumission Society yet he is not in any records and was owning slaves all throughout his life.
The story about Martha Washington’s tomcat is also untrue and the Boston Globe stated the emailed Chernow multiple times to no answer.
Let us also not forgot to mention the incorrect labeling on the William S. Hamilton picture.
As you can see: Chernow puts in facts and flowery information in order to pump up his nice thesis. He spends so long trying to do exactly what David McCullough did masterfully: bring a figure up from the depths and turn him in one fellow swoop into an icon. Sure, Chernow has gotten that done. He has a musical, which is pretty amazing, and everything. But masterfully? Debatable.
At the end of the day, Alexander Hamilton is just one example of Chernow’s dirty deed. He did the same thing in Washington btw which is why I don’t recommend it. I must giver Chernow props however: his writing style is complex but fascination, interesting and he does immense research for his writing. Kudos on that.
If you are looking for entertaining book with many facts and nearly a thousand pages of information on one person: you will go to the right now. I am not asking you to not read Chernow because in the end, he actually is quite good. What I am saying is that when you are going to read Chernow: you will need to take everything he says with a big pinch of salt. Because you may never know what is fact, what is reality and when he is crossing between being a historian and being a fan boy.
Take Chernow with a pinch of salt. A big pinch of salt. A whole thing of salt. A bucket of salt. A damn house of salt. As you are reading, you are going to have to question everything that he is writing about and you’ll never know fiction and fanboying between truth and reality. Want to relax instead? Come to me and I’ll recommend you anything better than him.
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Lex Dozel is trouble. That’s what all the dukes in attendance of the party know explicitly. Every time the Dozels host some sort of gala as such, Lex finds one way to make a buffoon of himself, but it’s never a reflection of the Dozel family line – he can’t be faulted for it, he’s only a minor blood.
What they don’t know so implicitly is that Lex Dozel is usually perfectly well-behaved, if not a little mouthy and rebellious ( as all young men are, anyway ). Both Lex Dozel and Azelle Velthomer are well-mannered, well-meaning young men. Get them in the same room, and that’s when trouble stirs. The only caveat is Lex takes the fall, as he prefers, to keep any one from seeing Azelle any worse than they may already. In this way, he gives Azelle freedom that the poor mage may never know otherwise.
( He doesn’t have to be anything for Lex, he doesn’t have to study spells, he doesn’t have to train with the Rotenritter, he doesn’t have to settle down, sit on his hands, take another carriage ride away from home to spend two weeks bored in Belhalla. Unabashedly, he can be Azelle, however Azelle is, without fear of rejection in any shape. )
❝ It’s called a firecracker, ❞ Azelle explains, holding out his palm, filled with tiny paper-wrapped somethings that Lex has never seen before. They’re crouched on the balcony, just out of sight from any one who doesn’t know where to look for two troublemakers. ❝ Usually, you just throw them on the floor or at a wall so they crackle, but you can light them up so they bounce around. ❞
❝ And you can do it with fire magic, ❞ Lex completes the thought with a grin. He nods. ❝ So. Into the wine they go!! ❞
It will be a fun prank. Pop one off while it’s in a wineglass and it looks like a beautiful accident – either the wine splashes harmlessly or the glass shatters randomly, wine ruins the gown of whoever’s holding it, and no one ( seemingly ) is to blame.
❝ We’ve got to make sure Father’s new woman gets one, ❞ Lex says.
❝ Wait. ❞ Azelle says it, and Lex obeys mechanically. ❝ Does Arvis already have his glass?? ❞
Arvis will know what a firecracker is. He’ll know how to light one with just a tiny spark, even at a distance. Fire is a messy affair, but if anyone can keep it contained through force of will, it’s a Fjalar-blood. This is one prank Lex can’t shoulder the blame for.
❝ I’ll never hear the end of it, ❞ Azelle warns. ❝ I’ll be locked in my room until I’m thirty, and Arvis will only let me out then once I’ve begged his husband to see the sunlight again. He can’t know, okay?? Let’s be careful. ❞
He can already hear Arvis berate him… You ruined an important negotiation with this woman and now she’ll want repayment and she was already pressuring me enough to marry her daughter or you’re supposed to be on your best behavior, Azelle, our family has enough gossip to last the rest of the century without these ill-thought-out pranks. His heart sinks to consider the very real outcome – charity’s up, Azelle, get out of my house – but with Lex beside him, it’s easy to brush aside as nothing but mere conjecture.
Lex stands and peers back into the party. ❝ The target is wet, ❞ he says. Azelle playfully slaps his arm.
❝ Just say he’s already got a glass!! ❞ Azelle’s laughing, despite himself. He returns to his full height, as well. ❝ You put them in. Teamwork. ❞
❝ As you wish, ❞ Lex replies with a wink. He offers his hand, palm up, and Azelle transfers the firecrackers carefully onto his palm.
Lex has no problem slipping them into the wine. He flirts with a woman who was moving to fill her glass, in order to distract her, and once the deed is done, he gives a toothy smile and a thumbs up to his best friend.
Their plan is perfect, mostly, until they remember they won’t know if a glass has a firecracker until Azelle tries to light one up.
The two mill about, pretending to mingle. They people watch. Eight people have gotten wine, but they threw in ten firecrackers, at least... Azelle contemplates trying to spark some one’s glass. How best to do it...??
He thinks about it. He knows the people who are potential targets, but it’s only a chance they even got one. Two of them are mingling close together... Both women -- neither of them Lex’s step-mother. He doesn’t recognize one, but the other, the one speaking to Arvis, has been asking for his brother’s engagement to her daughter for at least a year now.
Azelle already knows he hates parties, that woman is included in his reasons. There are others like her, of course, but Arvis always has an unwavering poker-face. They always offer an heir, which Arvis already has, and no one is supposed to know he already has, which leaves him ambivalently sipping at the one glass of wine he allows himself for the evening, and later complaining in the carriage ride home to his younger brother.
He contemplates his actions for a second, and tries to light up a glass. He hopes the woman not currently speaking to his brother is the target, but that’s not the case. The other woman’s drink bursts out of its glass ( which remains thankfully in tact ) and spills across her dress... And Arvis’ suit.
Lex bursts out laughing, or almost does, before his hand can cover his grin. Azelle can’t even think to enjoy their prank coming together. He quickly grabs Lex’s arm and tries to pull him away, to find another alcove to hide away the party in. He’s so absorbed in that, he doesn’t notice his brother hiding a small smirk behind another tipped wine glass.
For the remaining of the night, Azelle manages to successfully avoid Arvis. Lex even convinces him to try another glass, this time for his step-mother, and they both have a chuckle at how fast she is to yell at Dannan for it.
But at the end of it all, Azelle still has to get in a carriage with Arvis, and they’re forced to sit face-to-face.
Arvis has a book he’s reading, and Azelle is convinced he’s waiting for him to confess himself. The silence in the air is tense. Azelle is drawn closely to himself, stiffly sitting as small as he possibly can, hands curled into fists in his lap.
❝ Okay, ❞ Azelle begins after a great pause. ❝ I’m sorry. I should have kept my head down and not done anything. I won’t do it again. ❞
Arvis raises his head from his book, staring straight at Azelle with his usual glare: unreadable, harsh, and cold. After a moment that feels like a century, he calmly asks, ❝ What are you talking about?? ❞
That’s the worst. Azelle knows he knows what he’s talking about. He’s asking for a full explanation, a full examination of what Azelle did wrong, and why it’s wrong, and in that confession Azelle is supposed to explain how he’ll never do something like that again. He’s sure of it.
Azelle hates that.
He begins. ❝ It’s my fault that lady’s drink got all over your suit and it was a stupid idea, I shouldn’t have -- ❞
❝ Your fault?? ❞ There’s something to the way Arvis asks the question. It’s like he doesn’t believe Azelle, but that doesn’t make sense, because they both know about firecrackers and they both know Azelle does these things, sometimes, so Arvis absolutely knows. Him pretending not to... scares Azelle, until he continues. ❝ I really don’t know what you’re talking about. She’d been practically begging me to marry her daughter, and then she spilled wine on my newly tailored suit... I expect now she’ll never speak to me again. What would you have to do with that?? ❞
Azelle opens his mouth uselessly. He can’t think of what to say.
❝ No one got hurt... ❞ Arvis phrases this like a question. He clearly searches for an answer in Azelle’s face.
❝ Right. No one got hurt at all. ❞
❝ As I was saying, ❞ Arvis continues. ❝ I don’t see how that could possibly be considered your fault, Azelle. She made a mistake, and it looks like I’ll never be marrying her daughter. A real pity. ❞
❝ Right!! It’s a real shame, guess you’ll never get that heir she ( probably ) promised you. ❞
Arvis returns to his book without another word, and Azelle turns his smile to the passing scenery out the small carriage window.
How do you feel about the interpretation of your character vs the fandom?
okay, fuuuck. for a fucking long ass time and maybe even now, the amount of people who boiled jesse down to dumb cowboy, big flirt, stumbles over himself, big laugh and cuddly. like fuck, are you seeing the same character as me? i feel the same way when people make the jesse and gabe relationship abusive? or even weird??? like the way I see jesse is he was real lost. And sure Gabe did a lot. He turns Jesse to have a direction.
I don’t see Gabe as a cruel man.
I don’t see Jesse as a simple fool.
I see Gabe as a guy trying his hardest to do what he could and he did what he thought was right and fucked up.
I see Jesse as a man with a bad past who is hurt by it. So I like my jesse. I like how it works and how he reacts. But I don’t care much for the fanon half the time.
I am 100% for the freedom to write whatever you want... provided you are willing to accept any possible consequences for your actions. Honestly, writing rape (because that’s what both of those are; I won’t go into the history or semantics of the formation of dub-con as a term) is something a lot of writers tackle for tons of different reasons.
I used to read a TON of Hetalia fics, and historically, rape is big and it’s a brilliant way to demonstrate power abuses between nations (Japan and China/Korea/SE Asia being an excellent example which you can read here: ASIAN HOLOCAUST). I’ve read so many powerful rape fics in the past that were perfectly framed and respectfully handled. Writing rape can also be a way for people to deal with past traumas or to explore potential traumas (let’s be real here, if you’re a woman, statistically, it’s very likely you have the potential to be raped in your lifetime).
Here’s some reasons why not to write rape: you think it’s cool, you think it’s sexy, everyone else is doing it and you want that benchmark too, you think it’s funny, you think the victim character deserves it and want to punish them, you want shock value *stares at hollywood* to make something “gritty” and “edgy”
Personally, I’ve never written it or had a desire to write it. I know too many people who have been raped (including someone who was asexual and was gangraped to “change her mind” and someone who was raped systematically as a child). It makes me doubt I can write it correctly and respectfully enough just having conversations about it with them, just like I wouldn’t feel confident writing about the systematic and traumatizing oppression in North Korea after speaking to refugees about it either.
Would you ever kill off a canon character?
Can and have. To date I’ve killed in one story or another: Lucy, Gray, Natsu, Ultear, Jellal, Erza, Lyon, Simon, Wendy and probably others I’ve forgotten (but oddly enough, I don’t think I’ve killed Sting or Rogue?). Nothing personal; it just happened to fit whatever the plot was.
