Javi's Afterglow

In Cold Blood; The Exposition

Grab a Latte! lounge around in the foyer with this sweet fic "Happy to Help" @itwasntimethatdidit40, before heading into the Bookshop!

Triggers: mentions of alcohol/smoking, huge spoilers for the Truman Capote classic "In Cold Blood" which is referenced A LOT, profanity, romance, common themes from 1959, slight misogyny, murder and mayhem! Enjoy....

Series Masterlist

Word Count: 3k

A seedy and polluted haze drifted over the din of the L.A. basin as Tim Rockford inhaled a slow drag from another satisfying smoke. Just another day in the life of investigation, as the gears of inspection ground down to a wearied lull. Another night for Chinese Take out, thought the P.I as he loosened the strap of his gun holster and downed the first of several whiskeys. Rockford didn’t mind being a private investigator. If pressed, he’d go so far as to say, he absolutely loved it; the adventure, the intrigue, the search for truth amidst a grimy haze of innuendo and misdirection. 

But on tired nights, such as these, he also wondered if a soft, feminine body wouldn’t cushion the loneliness. Begrudgingly extinguishing the cigarette and flicking the light switch, he grabbed his coat, poised to enter the bustling Los Angeles night life before….

A phone rang. 

HIS phone rang, in the echoing and empty office building he populated with so many others. Who would be calling at this hour? He paused but a millisecond to lift the phone receiver, anticipating the tinny crackle of an undisclosed voice.

“Tim Rockford; Private Investigator for hire”. An eerie silence permeated the landline, as Rockford sucked through his teeth with annoyance. “Look Mack, I’m on my way out, so make it quick…”. The line immediately bristled to life as a tentative, high-pitched nasal voice cut through the auditory ether.

“Tim Rockford?” the voice nonsensically repeated, as though caught in an unexpected moment. Rockford cocked his head to the side with curiosity. He wasn't often contacted by a woman, particularly this late at night.

“In the flesh” Tim answered, with softening annoyance. What was this? Rockford had some Moo Shu Pork to order before this whiskey threatened his already cranky stomach lining. Maybe egg rolls were a good idea as a chaser, he pondered, waiting for the caller to get up their gumption. “What can I do you for?” he probed, shifting his weight impatiently. 

“Tim Rockford….in Los Angeles…Tim Rockford, Private Investigator?” the voice gained a little anonymous momentum, as Tim tried to wrangle his increasing disdain.

“Look doll, I don’t care if you’ve got the zorros, but make it quick will ya? I’ve got a plate of stir fry with my name on it….” Rockford admonished, wondering if he should take his raincoat off or not.

“Yes! Yes, Mr. Rockford, forgive my hesitancy. Um….are you familiar with Holcomb? Holcomb, Kansas?” 

Rockford froze with intensity, looking around the quiet, darkened room. Of course, he’d heard of Holcomb, Kansas. The recent catastrophic four person, Clutter Family murder had painted the newspapers over the last couple weeks, and the entire investigative community was alight. Who would do such a thing in a sleepy, unassuming town? It had all the markings of a robbery gone wrong, but what could have led to such unmitigated violence? Tim’s inquisition and sense of justice was immediately heightened, but he tried to play it off as the cool cat he was.

“Plastered all over the news, paper shaker. What’s it to me?” his stomach gurgled audibly as he waited with rapt anticipation. He wanted in. This was maybe the biggest crime of the decade, and chance had potentially dropped a prime opportunity in the palm of his hand.

Another dramatic pause of introspection gripped the receiver before the voice admitted, “We need help Mr. Rockford. This case is much bigger than anyone here in Finney County can muster. It’s only a matter of time before the Kansas Bureau of Investigations comes snooping into all our business, and we want someone we can trust. You know, a man of the people…” the voice confessed.

Score.

“Alright doll, how many smackers are we talkin’?” Rockford chewed his lip with anticipation. He had just finished a recent case and there were no prospects on the horizon. Well, unless you counted the secretarial search, but a hook as large as this one would necessitate two…no…four weeks of investigation, travel and per diem. Maybe even justicial glory for the taking.

“Well….we took up a little charity offering at the town hall yesterday. Managed to dig up about one hundred dollars…” Rockford rolled his eyes before draping a weary hand over his furrowed brow. One hundred dollars? That would barely cover two weeks salary, to say nothing of the cost of food and travel. He stalled momentarily, unsure of his footing as the caller placated.

“Please Mr. Rockford, I think you might be our only hope”.

Rockford held his breath, weighing the options. The pay wasn’t as enticing as he’d hoped, but the rewards would far outweigh any monetary reparations. If his moniker was attached to solving the crime of the decade, it was only a matter of time before Rockford P.I. was a household name.

“I can be there in about two days” Rockford’s gravelly voice betrayed a hint of child-like enthusiasm as the anonymous caller rattled off the important details.

“Oh thank you Mr. Rockford, P.I., sir. I can’t tell you what a boon this is for Holcomb, Kansas. We are just beside ourselves with worry” the voice pleaded as Rockford nodded with encouragement.

“Damndest thing I’ve heard of in a while” Rockford admitted. “I’ll get to work straight away. See you in a few days, Mrs.….?”….but the line went dead at the potential inquiry.

Hmmm. Not a good sign. But Rockford was already planning his next move. Grab every piece of newspaper clippings, roadmaps and literature he could get his hands on. Pack a suitcase for a few weeks in Holcomb, Kansas, hop in his trusty Ford Falcon tomorrow morning and start the arduous task of uncovering the truth in the “Clutter Family Murders”.

Now, all he needed was an egg roll, some Moo Shu Pork and a good night’s sleep. Finney County, Holcomb, Kansas….here I come.

The mellifluous voice of Frankie Avalon drifted from your record player singing the dulcet tones of “Why” as you teased your bouffant just a bit higher.

I'll never let you go Why? Because I love you I'll always love you so Why? Because you love me

You bit your lower lip, already smudging the dark red lipstick you had freshly applied. Who did you think you were, Marilyn Monroe? You were reaching for the stars, not trying to ascend to heaven with the height of your questionable hairstyle. Opting for a more humble approach, you shifted your pantyhose awkwardly as they began to ride up your ass. So much for new fashions. 

No broken hearts for us 'Cause we love each other And with our faith and trust There could be no other

You had already been to more interviews than you could count, and opportunities were starting to become scarce. For most employers money was tight, and you didn’t have an official secretarial certificate to fall back on. But you were talented, skilled, full of moxie, and today on this potentially mediocre Tuesday, that was all you needed. 

I think you're awfully sweet Why? Because I love you You say I'm your special treat Why? Because you love me

You nodded curtly at your beleaguered expression in the mirror, grabbing your coat and heading for the door.  You were determined to land this next employment, come hell or high-water, and were willing to do whatever it took. Well, ALMOST whatever it took, you noted, grabbing your thermos of coffee and heading for the bus stop. This Mr. Rockford P.I wouldn’t know what hit him, you mused, locking the door securely behind you and strutting forward confidently. At least you would try to look damn good...while you, once again, fell flat on your coifed face...

We found the perfect love Yes, a love that's yours and mine I love you and you love me I love you and you love me We'll love each other dear forever

Rockford had spent most of a sleepless night pouring over the many newspaper clippings he had accumulated about the Clutter Family Murders. Somehow the Moo Shu Pork remained relatively untouched. The trades could always be sensational, but the distinction of these reports was indicated by everything they DIDN’T say. This was a veritable bloodbath, which had done quite enough to set Tim off his much anticipated dinner. The main point of contention seemed to be the cause for such a grandiose and seemingly incomprehensible atrocity. The Clutter Family did not seem to possess extravagant monetary means. They were well-loved and admired by the town of Holcomb, Kansas; couldn’t have been more quintessentially traditional than apple pie.

What had gone wrong?

One newspaper clipping had stood out. Such was the descriptive narrative by a reporter named…Capote something…Rockford had all but obsessed on its picturesque description. 

“Until one morning in mid-November of 1959, few Americans-in fact, few Kansans had ever heard of Holcomb. Like the water of the river, like the motorists on the highway, and like the yellow trains streaking down the Santa Fe tracks, drama, in the shape of exceptional happenings, had never stopped there. The inhabitants of the village, numbering two hundred and seventy, were satisfied that this should be so, quite content to exist inside ordinary life-to work, to hunt, to watch television, to attend school socials, choir practice, meetings of the 4-H Club. But then, in the early hours of that morning in November, a Sunday morning, certain foreign sounds impinged on the normal nightly Holcomb noises on the keening hysteria of coyotes, the dry scrape of scuttling tumbleweed, the racing, receding wail of locomotive whistles. At the time, not a soul in sleeping Holcomb heard them-four shotgun blasts that, all told, ended four human lives. But afterward the townspeople, therefore sufficiently unfearful of each other to seldom trouble to lock their doors, found fantasy recreating them over and again-those somber explosions that stimulated fires of mistrust in the glare of which many old neighbors viewed each other strangely, and as strangers.”

Rockford issued a heavy sigh, dragging himself to his feet, pouring himself into the Ford Falcon and making a quick trip to the office. He rubbed the bridge of his nose with irritation and fatigue. Maybe a breakfast of whiskey and aspirin wasn’t TOTALLY out of order. He had started packing a small suitcase for the approaching trip, before realizing that most of his formative research and notes still remained at the office. Pulling into the parking lot of the building, his reliable Ford puttered to a smoky stop before Tim achingly lumbered up the stairs to his own office. Just ONE whiskey before the road. How many aspirin could you take on an empty stomach, he wondered before opening the door to find….

….the silkiest legs he had beholden in more time than he would care to admit.

The sounds of an imaginary saxophone seemed to permeate his now idling brain, as his eyes lugubriously dragged from the curving ankle up to the ironed skirt, and finally resting on the mischievous expression of an unknown female.

“Mr. Rockford, I presume?” you stood, outstretching a well-manicured hand into the dumbly, overstimulated countenance of a somewhat befuddled and handsomely disheveled private investigator.

“Ummmmm….” he stalled, simultaneously looking around the office to make sure nothing untoward lay in a public place. 

“I’m here for the secretarial interview” you immediately offered, as he kicked the door shut behind him, holding your hand tentatively in his surprisingly tender grasp.

A spark of acknowledgement flitted through his mind scape as he reconsidered the logic of a whisky chaser with breakfast. Damn. What a doll. Shame that I can’t investigate further, he lamented, dropping your hand with immediate chagrin and bustling about the office haphazardly.

“Look sweetheart, I don’t mean to be rude, but I’m just on my way out with an important case. I’m sorry the agency wasted your time, but I’ve got little to no time for a person of your….skill” Rockford seemed to be bumbling with his words as he gathered the important documents and research loosely in his grasp. Your expression immediately fell with disappointment before morphing into a confident transformation.

“I’m not with an agency!” you piped up, starting to organize his desk, such as it were, and placing a smelly, used cigar in the nearby wastebasket. “I’m a go-getter, and a single gal of wit and resource. Looks like you could use all the help you can get!” you blurted out enthusiastically, grabbing the pile of papers from Rockford’s surprised hold and smoothing them into an organized pile. “Now if you’ll just show me where the typewriter is, I can get to work on notating this important case of yours” you insisted, nearly shoving him to the side and plopping down in the main office chair as it squeaked with impetulance.

Tim smiled ruefully to himself, opening the side drawer that revealed assorted contents of handcuffs, pencils, paperclips and aspirin. Well weren’t you a fire starter? Typical redhead. He winced with regret, massaging the back of his neck with discomfort. Get ahold of yourself, fella; no time for night time fantasies in the day. Just let her down easy and head towards the next steps of your future. “Look Miss….?”

“You can call me Red” you offered definitively, beginning to rifle through Rockford’s drawers in order to appear decisive, but gasping ever so slightly upon discovering what appeared to be a spare revolver in the lower chest. Clearing your throat immediately you sallied forth, brushing past his broad shoulders and beginning to organize the disastrously unkempt file cabinets in desperation. 

You could NOT lose this job opportunity. You would do whatever it took…and this Mr. Rockford could just get on board sooner rather than later. Rockford stood smiling behind you, with a knowing agitation. Maybe he could employ your services after the case, but it wasn’t going to be easy to throw you off of his scent. Maybe intimidation was the key...

“Familiar with the Clutter Family Murders?” he all but interrogated, reaching over to slam the file cabinet shut, a puff of air displacing your auburn locks and eliciting a fast flourish of your feather-like eyelashes.

“Of course” you lied. It’s possible you had read something fleeting in the local newspapers, but most of your attention had been focused on securing a new job as fast as was humanly possible. It had been a long trek to L.A. and you weren’t enthusiastic about returning to your mid-western roots, with your tail between your legs. Determined to make something of yourself in the City of Angels, you stared back at Rockford with what you hoped was a steely gaze of determination. Rockford’s glance lowered ever so quickly to the plump, reddish hue of your lipsticked mouth. 

Damn. “Look doll…I mean…Red…I don’t know the intricacies of this case, I’ve only just started. But based on the trades, the scene is about as colorful as that perky nickname of yours. Not easy fixin’s for the eyes of a lady, to say nothing of a doll….” Rockford bluntly stated, as a thin shade of embarrassment crept up your neck and into your cheeks.

Damn. “Mr. Rockford, I don’t know how many ‘dolls’ you’ve employed in the past, but I am no shrinking violet” you tried to quell the slight tremor that laced your voice. Probably just…the excitement of a new job opportunity. “I am more than capable of fulfilling any secretarial duties, whether the crime is polite or not” you nodded curtly, perhaps in an attempt to convince even yourself. Rockford gazed at you appraisingly with a degree of skepticism.

“I can’t pay you…much” Tim muttered, hesitantly considering the options before him. This was quite possibly the biggest case he had ever been invited to solve, and it didn’t escape him that he might need all the help he could get—even from a distracting broad like you. Your visage shifted ever so slightly with the changing balance of power.

“I’m very interested in gaining more experience” you blurted out a bit too quickly before confidently placing your hands on your hips. “I can type 60 words per minute and make a darn good cup of joe”. Almost as an afterthought you raced around the desk, grabbing your purse for the plaid thermos, unscrewing the top and hefting it under Rockford’s nose. Tim tilted his head to the side with cynicism.

“Travel per diem might be in order….” he considered, taking the thermos tentatively and sniffing with curiosity. This was better than whiskey. Or….better WITH whiskey, he sipped slowly at first, eventually draining the entire draught. Your mouth dropped with surprise at this new information.

“Travel?” you dumbly repeated, dropping the purse on the nearby chair and attempting not to sink down on top of it. What the hell? You had barely been in L.A one month and had yet to fully understand the transit system. Was your first job in this new life, already tearing you away from it? “Travel to where??” you doubled down, stubbornly unwilling to let go of this tantalizing opportunity just within your grasp.

“Holcomb, Kansas of course!” Rockford wiped his mouth with the back of a speckled hand, returning the thermos and now rifling through the drawers once again. Aspirin. Revolver. Binoculars….He begrudgingly thought better of actually retrieving the “breakfast whiskey”.

“KANSAS?!” the word escaped from your mouth like an accusation, trying to pin him down with incredulity and meeting his gaze with unadulterated surprise. “When?”

“That’d be now, sweets” Rockford offered, nodding curtly and lumbering out the door with a handful of files and assorted necessities as you looked around the office helplessly.  “Either way, thanks for the coffee, you’re a real doll. Meet you back here in an hour if you’re game. Otherwise, I’ll be seein’ ya…” his voice drifted down the hall as you stood with mouth agape.

He must be joking. Within thirty minutes of meeting Rockford P.I. you had a possible job, the promise of adventure and intrigue, and a questionable road trip with a man you hardly knew. What could possibly go wrong?

“Does that mean I’ve got the job?” you questioned, receiving no answer whatsoever and hearing a car puttering to life outside.

Well not if you just stand there, Red, you mused, gathering your things and taking one final glance around the office. “Catch you on the flip side!” you muttered to no one in particular, racing down the hallway and running towards the nearest bus stop. If you hurried, you could just make it.

Exactly one hour later, you felt ridiculous. Standing on the corner, with a small, humble suitcase, you felt like Little Orphan Annie. You bit your lower lip in frustration. If William could see you now, he would be laughing his ass off. You brushed the self-deprecating thought aside. Well, William isn’t here now, and it’s up to you. You heard the sound of the sputtering Ford Falcon before seeing it, as a smoky plume drifted into your peripheral view and Rockford P.I. loomed large before parking the car just beside you, the engine idling loudly.

“Wasn’t sure you’d come, Red” he smiled, opening the passenger door, and gesturing to the back. “Glad you packed light! Hoist it in the back will ya?” It seemed you had passed the point of no return, as you hefted your small suitcase atop boxes of newspapers, a small typewriter, baseball bat and other assorted mysteries. You hesitated just a moment before wiping down the dusted passengers seat and noting the myriad of cigarettes populating the nearby ash tray.

“How ‘bout it doll? Ready for an adventure?” Rockford asked rhetorically, before the engine roared to life in response. Your answer died quickly on your lips before settling in your stomach with a heaviness that betrayed the fluttering curiosity in your chest. Only one way to find out…

@littlemisspascal  @lizette50 @beefrobeefcal @sawymredfox @anelva @wordywarriorwrites @burntheedges @inept-the-magnificent @timelordfreya  @schnarfer @devineconjuring @mermaidgirl30 @galaxyedging @joelalorian @joelmillerisapunk @jennaispunk @sheepdogchick3 @marcus-is-my-muse @guiltyasdave  @copperhalfcent @bluesweaters15 @drewharrisonwriter @darkheartgatita @harriedandharassed @brittmb115 @confusedpuffin @yorksgirl @quicax3 @shaunasflannel @shinyanchorobject

Pedge's Tree + Xmas Card

Oh this is fun! Pedge and I have never done this before, so I wanted to get a quick start since I'm late in the season! Pedge and I are currently making cookies! Weeeee! Decorate my tree. I mean...if you want to. Like, if you have time. Pedge says I was being too bossy...but I think he secretly likes it...

Rec's for a Lonely Winter's Evening

Your Fave Things @jolapeno

What Could Go Wrong? @beefrobeefcal

Christmas Writing Challenge @bluestar22x

Let's Celebrate! @chronically-ghosted

Dead Dove December @romana-after-dark

The Cheeseboard @goodwithcheese

Reverie Goods and Gifts

Pedro-Tober #4

Inspired by @alyssamariag and @norththelemon I've decided to feature curated pics/art, juxtaposed with fics and AI inspired Bitmoji. So much artistry to celebrate this October, look at these amazing artists! Also, it's the last week to "Trick or Treat"! Hit me up!

20.) Frankie Morales IG: VanessaDraws, "Moody Frankie" @pedges-world

21.) Curls @norththelemon

22.) Gladiator @southparkpedro

23.) Din Jarin IG: Tealspy

24.) Sundance IG: Vanessa Draws

25.) Javier Pena IG: Junes.Pegasus, Afterglow Series @pedges-world

Series Masterlist

Pedge Paints Pride!

Pike's Place A Christmas Confection

It's time for a Christmas Confection y'all! Inspired by @auteurdelabre and their VHS Club, I'm hoping they will add "Pike's Place" to their rental collection. A big thank you to @dornish-queen for the superb "Mentalist" footage. Please enjoy these Christmas Confections until then. I got a peak at Pike's Journal during the Holiday Festivities...

Pike's Playlist

I love combining reality with fantasy, and while I'm sure this isn't a new Tumblr concept, I'm going to be cataloguing our Pedro Boys as per Pedge's suggestions! All playlists will attempt to utilize music or groups that Pedro Pascal has referenced at some point. Get your headphones and enjoy!

Triggers: music may involve profanity and adult topics, short description of character's interactions with music, smut

Pike's Playlist (Spotify)

*Pike, who follows the same routine at almost every job location; make friends with the locals, tour museums, find local Thai Restaurant and listen to jazz music before his evening movie. *The only other music besides jazz that Pike appreciates is movie soundtracks. He adores the soundtrack from “Casablanca”, as well as Thomas Newman’s compositions for “Little Women” *Pike prefers to observe his favorite museum pieces in silence, but since that is so difficult to come by, he can often be found with his old iPod headphones, listening to jazz music and admiring the local artistic scene *Pike is a pretty regimented guy, so he will often go for a morning jog while listening to his favorite playlist.  *Marcus Pike LOVES taking his time in the bedroom and has prepared many playlists for just such an occasion. He loves the poetry and romance of the moment and can ALWAYS be relied upon to make you morning pancakes afterwards. *After the divorce, Pike is a little more armored up, but once you get to know him, he’s a pretty big teddy bear. One of the first things he likes to do with new relationships is to make a mixed tape, and then spend the first dates talking about his selections and how they relate to you. *Pike will often pause movies or soundtracks to tell you the backstory about filming or production. You used to find that with other people who were condescending, but Marcus is always so excited and forthcoming, you find it endearing. *When Pike is in the kitchen, he is always humming to himself and dancing playfully to the jazz pieces he enjoys the most. You try to sneak up on him on occasion, but he always senses your presence, and tries to pull you in for a slow dance…without burning the pancakes. *Once a month Pike insists on taking you to the opera, the ballet or the outdoor cinema in Washington D.C. He claims its to “keep abreast of local culture and artistic trends” but it mostly seems like an excuse to take you to a fancy dinner.

*thanks @steadycameraroll-graphics for the cool dividers!

Knitting Back Together

Hey folks! I don't know about you but I find interviews with PP to be deeply therapeutic. He's said a number of things I try to speak to myself in self help moments and I hope this FICTIONAL encounter that references some of those quotes is helpful!

Triggers: SH references, scarring, un-alive ideation, hurt/comfort, anxiety attack, discussions of death, spirituality, slight profanity, childhood memories, depression, mother relationships etc...

“Baaaaabe! I’m home!” Pedge exclaimed from the front door, gripping one bag in his mouth and precariously balancing phone, keys and coffee in one hand. Slamming the door shut, he immediately paused at the mausoleum like attitude that forced the air out of the room, oppressing everything in its path. “Baaaaabe?”

He piled everything at the door entrance, looking over at the coffee table to see your keys, book bag and water bottle sitting in loneliness. Furrowing his brow, he bit his lip with concern. This wasn’t good. He did a quick surveillance of the living room to make sure nothing was broken. That’s ridiculous. An over-reaction. You’re probably just taking a nap. At…7pm in the evening? He took a deep breath, calmly walking down the hallway towards your bedroom door which was slightly ajar. “Babe?”

His breath caught in his throat seeing your sedentary figure, piled under copious blankets, a mug of cold tea and tissues strewn around the room.

He swallowed dryly, walking softly to the edge of the bed and sitting down carefully, so as not to jostle you. “Are you awake?” he asked, positioning his hand on the other side of your body, caging you in. Momentarily unsure of your answer, he noticed the lump of fabric, shuddering with movement and whimpering slightly. Trying to lighten the mood he continued, “If this is a burglar, I just want you to know that I only have enough food for two people, and my girlfriend is going to be VERY annoyed you are using her favorite mug.”

Silence.

Shit. Maybe this was serious. He quickly changed tactics, becoming concerned. “Can I touch you?”

More silence.

“What’s wrong? Is it your mom?” he shifted to the other side of the bed, laying down next to you.

“It’s nothing” your face crumpled slightly at the tell tale crack in your voice. A strong forearm reached over your quivering form, splaying against your abdomen and pulling you into his torso.

“I’m here” he quietly said, kissing your shoulder and slotting his hips against yours. Your resolve started to shatter as you realized you’d been holding your breath for some time now. A silent cry started to emanate from your mouth as the shaking intensified. Pedge sat up attempting to assess the situation, turning you by the shoulders and looking into your eyes with worry. You started shaking like a leaf, scrunching your face into a silent, distorted cry. He grabbed the back of your neck, pulling you into his body and holding you around the waist. “Breathe, pobrecita, breathe” he commanded, rubbing your back and exampling with his own breath as you shook against him. Your silence finally shattered into a heartbreaking sob as he gripped you even more tightly, rocking you back and forth.

“Can’t…breathe….can’t….breathe….” you squirmed amidst the sheets, kicking your legs in discomfort, and grabbing at his hands for purchase. He grabbed both hands in one grasp, wrapping the other arm around your waist and scooping you into his lap, holding you as you writhed and hyperventilated against his chest. “Can’t…breathe…can’t…breathe…” you twisted in desperation, shuddering against his body and bucking sporadically.

“Okay, we’re okay” he tried to steady his voice, swallowing hard as his heart pumped wildly in his chest with anxiety. “You’re holding your breath, hermosa. Exhale”. Pedge’s voice was steady, but you could hear the edge in his tone as he looked into your face. He blew a soft stream of air over your face as though cooling a warm coffee, and that broke your episode momentarily, your eyes shooting open in desperation.

“Come back, come back to me…” you could hear his voice echoing around you in a dim haze, stars punctuating the edges of your vision, enjoying the tingling sensation traveling through your fingers and across your cheeks. You crumpled slightly against his chest as your body sagged in exhaustion. “Breathe”. You could numbly feel his hands circling at your back, rubbing some life into your deregulated system.

You’re not really sure how much time passed, but your eyes fluttered open to the gray daylight, face dried and sticky with salty tears. You gazed at the particles of dust floating magically against the stream of sunlight drifting in from the windows. Another day.

You felt your body expand with breath, tilting your head up to hazily take in your bedmate. Pedge was sleepily propped up against the headboard, his lips slightly parted, arms grasped loosely around your sides. You took in a shaky breath, moving fingers delicately over his warm forearms. This man was a constant furnace; you felt the corners of your mouth tickle upward in recognition. Okay, a smile. You could still smile.

Taking a few minutes to enjoy the rise and fall of his easy breathing you tried to sink further still into his chest. If I can just disappear. Just for a second. I’m nothing. Just a breath. I’m not me. I’m you. A single tear fell, cascading down his soft stomach. I don’t feel anything. I’m that tear. I’m nothing. No feeling. No being. Just breathing.

Floating between your disassociation and internally grasping to get back into your body you heard Pedge inhale suddenly, licking his lips and gazing around the room in confusion.

“What time is it?” he rasped, blinking against the sunlight.

You gazed up at the ceiling fan which was circling in a monotonous, repetitive drone.

You tried to respond but nothing materialized.

“I’m worried about you” he whispered, rubbing his sore neck and blinking away the sleep. His eyes drifted down as your fingers trailed absentmindedly over the faded, light lines feathering your forearms. You hugged your abdomen tightly against the massive scar slicing across your pelvis.

Broken.

“Do you wanna talk about it?” he ventured, lifting your chin up with one finger to gaze intently into your eyes. You wanted to be rid of this dark, self-seduction. So many words. So many feelings. It all seemed to intensify that which you couldn’t control. Your breathing hitched in your throat, picking up pace in anticipation of the next anxiety attack.

“Okay, okay, okay, my turn…” he cautioned, bringing your body close to his as the bed creaked underneath with your shifting weight. Pedge sighed heavily and swallowed hard, pondering how to offer some comfort in this moment. “Sometimes emotions feel kind of invisible…” he began, trailing his fingers over your scars pulling a small shiver from your body. “And other feelings are so vivid. Like some kind of cinematic dream…” he continued while you closed your eyes, listening to the melodious quality of his voice.

“I mean, in my life. Family. The beach. Movies. It’s like a kaleidoscope…and sometimes it’s hard to grab ahold of”. You bit your lip, holding your breath in anticipation. Pedge was always open hearted, but you didn’t want him to feel obligated, just because you couldn’t get your shit together.

“It can feel really isolating, for me. Denmark…Chile…never entirely belonging, even to yourself.” You tilted your head up with concern. “You really don’t have to…” you eeked out, already thankful for his candor.

He smiled dolefully, carrying on. “There are some things you just can’t say. Emotions that are so strong. Unless it’s a book. Or a movie! Then it’s magical. It’s sacred. It’s a kind of…church”. You nodded your head against his chest.

“I don’t really know. Sometimes you’re just so desperate to belong. I told you before, but school in CA wasn’t great. I thought I was accepted, and then I was wasn’t. Geez, adolescence sucks.” Smiling with acknowledgement, it wasn’t until Pedro grasped your hand that you realized you had absentmindedly been scratching at your forearms. You stopped short, embarrassed by the momentary lapse. He paused, licking his lips and gripping you tightly.

“What am I saying, here? It was like the parts I wanted to keep were slipping through my fingers. But the feelings I didn’t want were so visceral, it was like I couldn’t escape them.”

You felt your body relax atop him, trying to slow your breathing and take in the moment.

“I don’t really like remembering that time, but the connections. The connections with people who knew me. Like REALLY knew me and accepted me even when I didn’t accept myself” he drew his hand over his face, scratching at his beard. “Jesus…what am I even saying?” he grinned ruefully, a blush creeping up his cheeks in self-deprecation. “What does it all mean?”

You cleared your throat hesitatingly. “No, I think I get what you’re saying. Sometimes life feels intangible. Or temporary. Or larger than life. And emotions can be so strong, you just wish something would mirror that experience. Like…cinema…or…other people…” you trailed off gazing hesitantly at your largest scar digging its way through your pelvis. “Sometimes you just wish you could explain…or…not have to”. His eyebrows furrowed together sadly, tightening his lips in silence.

“Yeah, there are some things we want to express that are…wordless” he ventured, rubbing the new pinkish trails of scratches that were just plumping up, angrily. You laughed sarcastically, shaking your head disapprovingly at your own proclivities. Change.

“Anyways…I think it can be hard, following expectations other people set for us. OR we set up for ourselves. I sort of believe nobody has the right to tell us how to live our lives, as long as we don’t hurt anybody” he stopped abruptly, unsure if he had said too much.

You shifted with discomfort at the unintentional sensitivity. Nobody can hurt me more than I can hurt myself, you chided, attempting to keep that thought as silent as possible.

“I’m sorry, that’s not…” he back pedaled slightly, embarrassed at the derailed attempt, but you hugged him fiercely around the torso, eliciting a grunt of admission.

“Keep going” you pouted, nuzzling your face into his neck.

“Okay…” he started over, clearing his throat. “I mean, I guess the person who probably understood me the most was MY mom”. You stopped breathing for a moment, uncertain if you should stop his narration, but desperate to hear his thoughts.

“I always liked her attention, but that’s like…a special connection. I was talking to a doctor one time and he said the times that we were separated were like…embedded in my body or something weird like that. I don’t know if I believe all that stuff, but…her love really shaped my life…” his voice broke haltingly, as he cleared his throat again, masking the emotion.

You sat up, swaying slightly at the head rush, mumbling something about getting more tea, but he grasped your upper arm sweetly. “It’s okay, just a few more minutes, I’ll get us some tea…”. You rested your head against the headboard, searching his brown eyes for a way to communicate your gratitude.

“It’s all kind of fragile. Kind of vulnerable. That’s love, and then life changes before you have a chance to notice” his lower lip wobbled with emotion as you placed your hand over his heart. You closed your eyes for a moment, smiling with approval. So much love. Everywhere. Ever-present.

He sniffled slightly speaking quickly as though afraid to stop “And sometimes it’s super confusing…the separation…the tension. The danger. I don’t really know how to reconcile that with…everything that happened. The funeral. Everything was so weird. How the universe could keep going when an entire world had stopped. It takes a really long time to feel safe again, within yourself. It’s just a lot…” he stopped suddenly a bit overwhelmed with reliving those particular memories.

“Thank you” you whispered, reaching up to catch the small tear threatening to cascade down his cheek. “She would be so proud of you” you said definitively, gripping the side of his face, finding the small heart-like patch in his beard.

“I hope so” he smiled, remembering easier times. “Be good to yourself and be good to others, right? Beeee gooooood…” he placed his hand over your heart, looking intently into your eyes.

“E.T.? Are you quoting E.T,. Mr. Cinema?” you joked.

“Maybe” he grinned, happy with your quick catch. “I mean, all that stuff was a long time ago, but sometimes I think, maybe I should talk to her more. Like we’re doing right now…” he sighed, yawning slightly.

“I think she’d like that. I know I do” you leaned back, still exhausted from the effort of thinking and feeling…and being.

“It feels silly sometimes, saying these things out loud. I like, think about her everyday and try to live it out. I don’t know, maybe that’s a kind of prayer, or a song or something…” he trailed off.

You smiled with joviality. “Is this the part where you start singing?”…

He poked you in the stomach as you crumpled in half, a little chagrined.

“Come on, you know I can’t sing”.

“You know it. I know it. But I’m glad that doesn’t seem to stop you…” you giggled, rubbing your feet together playfully. “Sometimes you’ve gotta find any way possible to express something, whether it makes sense or not”. Your attitude grew immediately somber again, sinking back into your seemingly inescapable mindset. Flitting your eyes back to his face your countenance took on a guilty expression. “Sorry I’m such a mess” you apologized.

“It’s okay. You don’t have to be okay all the time. There were a lot of things I wish my mom had said, but you’ve only got so much time…Once that person you love is gone, it’s so definitive. There’s everything we want, and then there’s reality, and all this space in between.”

You listened to the hum of the ceiling fan and faint sounds of the city as it began to wake up. Another day. You sighed shakily, trying to assemble your thoughts for the day. Work. Food. Responsibility. Shit. Therapy. That was today.

Pedge coaxed you lower on the bed, sloppily pulling the comforter up and over both your heads in a makeshift tent. “I guess we’ll just stay in bed. Nobody can find us here” he whispered. “Geez, it’s so dark, I can’t even find us here…” he laughed, fumbling around and messily planting a kiss on your chin.

Wouldn’t that be nice? God, what I wouldn’t give to just disappear, all of my feelings going with it. It’s not really fair that I’m here and she’s not.

“You don’t have to do anything, you know”. You heard his voice muffled in the pillow, as though reading your thoughts. “Life is just hard. Lots of striving. Trying. I’m kinda lazy, so this is an easy one for me…” you heard a smirk in his tone. “I just mean…there’s nothing to earn. We’ve got what we’ve got, and all we can do is enjoy it while we can. Before it disappears” he paused, unsure of your reaction, in the dark.

“I hear you” you nodded, willing yourself to consider another day and all the ramifications of that one simple step forward. It didn’t have to be a good day. Just another one. And then another. And then another.

“Most of the time I’m not even sure what I’m doing. It all feels like a big mistake, still wanting all that attention, and knowing it doesn’t last. But all those wants. All those feelings, I just pour it into what I’m doing so it doesn’t…hurt me as much” he finished gently, shifting on his back and wincing slightly.

“Sorry about the sleeping arrangements last night” you hissed, sliding a hand across the mattress, just under his lower back. “I don’t think that was recommended by AARP”.

“Ouch” he parried. “I’ve still got another year before that, thank you very much…”.

You stretched, catlike, feeling light headed and humming slightly.

“Do you want some food? I can make that tea…” he offered.

“Noooo, let’s just stay like this for a little forever longer” you whined, curling up next to him, thankful for the thoughts he had shared. Feeling yourself knitting back together slightly, at least enough to conquer the day.

“Fine by me” he yawned, wrapping an arm around you and pulling you close. Just two people. Surviving a day. Surviving a life. And trying to knit themselves back together.

Here is some beautiful artwork designed by Marsha Onderstijn and coupled with a Mary Oliver poem called "The Life of Death". I noticed it on the Insta and Pedro Pascal similarly liked...Blessings on our collective healing!

Moody Ricky

I'm sure most of us would like to be "touched by this angel" and I'm going to try to catch the episode this evening. Back in the day I used to watch Touched By an Angel religiously, who knew we were all viewing our lifetime crush in real time?

Pedge, Painter, Poet...

I feel like Dieter's expression communicates my evolving thoughts on this piece. What can I say? I like it for Bi Visibility week? And I certainly like it better than the small cold I procured this weekend...

Pedge Tweets PikesPlace

I fell hard for these two, in an unexpected way. Since y'all love them as much as I do, I've started a Slow Burn Winter Series with the assist of @inept-the-magnificent! Here's a little Christmas Confection before our next reveal December 15th! Fictionally, this takes place somewhere between Episodes 3 and 4...

Series Masterlist

*produced with i-fake app

Pedge's Cinema The Trailer

Concessions Stand @iamasaddie is getting us ready for a true snack! See some of the fics we are going to be covering with Javi this awards season...

Triggers: profanity, alcohol consumption, lite flirtation, disastrous attempts at Italian, easy peezy we're just getting started...

Words: 2.6k

The landlady handed you an archaic looking key that was easily the size of a small brick. You half expected her to give you bottles that said “eat me” and “drink me” in Italian, but she merely snickered tossing her hands up with exasperation. “Idiota americano!” she muttered, not wholly under her breath, closing the ornate door behind her, leaving you alone in the somewhat crumbling apartment.

Guess you didn’t need Google Translate after all.

You looked down at your myriad of belongings, heaped into two large suitcases, and the somewhat dilapidated but charmingly rustic Italian apartment that smiled before you. You had arrived. After about 15 hours and one too many espressos, you found yourself at your Italian residence, anxious to start your teaching internship, yet even more enthusiastic about taking a shower. Finding yourself in your mid-forties, embarking on a summer adventure of this scope seemed an implausibility, as you rubbed at your lower back wincingly. As you shuffled slowly down the narrow hallway, you were exponentially grateful for the study abroad program at the college you had recently gained tenure at. Things were finally starting to amount to professional and personal solidity, so why did you still feel so lost? The bumbling taxi drive hadn’t helped, as you felt for the stale bag of airplane peanuts in your pocket. This was the opportunity of a lifetime. You’d been working with students your entire life and we’re finally exploring the international ways to bring creative techniques to life. But maybe your artistic eyes were somehow bigger than your metaphorical stomach. What were you even doing here? You opened the first door on the left, expecting it to be the water closet and were greeted by the imploring eyes of….a pigeon.

A bona fide pigeon. You blinked back and forth at one another curiously until an unexpected shriek from you caused your temporary flat mate to flutter haphazardly around the room, seeking immediate solace through the nearby open window. Sigh. Expect the unexpected. And, no toilet paper. Obviously. You felt around your pocket for the discarded cocktail napkin. Score. You could do this. Your path might not be clear, but you had earned your summer of adventure. All that remained was to take full advantage of the opportunity, and try to enjoy yourself in the process. Besides, weren’t pigeons a sign of Italian good luck? Maybe they needed to poop on you first. Heading him off at the pass, you quickly locked the window for good measure, taking stock of your surroundings. The shower was a dubious looking pipe that awkwardly found its way to a free standing bath tub. The ceiling of the water closet hovered about two feet above you, as you finally expressed gratitude for your diminutive stature. Finally, being short was working to your advantage, once you figured out how to use the faucets. You returned to your quest, shuffling down the hallway to the first door on the right, finding a queen sized, decorative bed frame showcasing the boudoir and more open windows. Luckily, there was no flora, fauna or fowl this time, but your eyes were immediately drawn to the picturesque view. Dragging your fingers lazily across the veil-like linens you gazed at the idyllic panorama before you. As though mirroring your cinematic dreams, the small Italian town stretched out before you, a winding fantasy of artisan shops, coffee, clotheslines and cobblestone.

What a view. Maybe you weren’t so lost after all.

Savoring the afternoon air, you sat cautiously on the pillowy mattress, a very thin layer of particle dust billowing in the sunlight. But nothing could stop you, as you nestled into the linens for your first nap. Any pigeons were welcome to join you.

A blurry feeling of disorientation greeted you, along with a melodic Italian argument, punctuated by puttering vespas. You blinked lazily at the dusky horizon, propping yourself up on your forearms. Your stomach immediately gurgled in response. You had given yourself several days to acclimate to your new Italian environment, before attending classes and symposiums, but hadn’t really considered what your first order of business would be. The stale bag of peanuts was holding little appeal, so you willed yourself out of bed and into the bathroom to tidy up. The apartment was slightly dilapidated and breezy, but the summer charm was already beginning to work its magic. You laid out your wardrobe on the bed before enjoying a luxurious shower, gazing forebodingly at the ceiling, as though it were about to crash down upon you. Just some getting used to. You looked around the small kitchenette, but only found a teaspoon of dried coffee grounds and what appeared to be some dried olives in the cabinet. Tomorrow’s task; find the nearest farmer’s market.

You had gone to inordinate lengths to make your phone internationally ready, but were already encountering difficulties. Other than a smattering of musical terms, you weren’t seriously proficient in Italian and were looking forward to honing your skills, as Duolingo had proven only conceptually effective. But that’s what this entire experience was about! Dipping your toes into the adventure of travel and mystery. You had tried to research this area of town, but could only find the local cinema listings which seemed to feature at least one movie in English. Clutching your chatty stomach with annoyance you slipped into a silky blouse and comfortable jeans. Stop overthinking and head out the door! Grab your Alice in Wonderland sized key and start exploring, woman! Smiling to yourself with chagrin, you checked for your Euro, passport and key, took a deep breath and closed the front door behind you. Ciao Bella!

It had been several decades since you had been to Italy, but your memory did not disappoint. Floating down the cobblestone streets, you were once again thankful to be wearing sneakers as you gazed at the nonnas bringing in their dried laundry and shouting at one another across the way. You were sure you stuck out like a sore thumb as you used your cell phone as a divining rod to arrive at the local cinema art house, patting yourself on the back. Surprised to discover your very limited geographical intuitions had actually served you, as you noticed the only English Film available blazing against the darkening sky;

PADDINGTON 2.

Alright, it wasn’t “La Dolce Vita”, but you were determined to give your stale packet of peanuts a run for its money, if this Italian cinema had anything resembling the Western definition of a snack. As per usual, the Italians were eons ahead of the United States, offering a sampling of pasta, wine and confections, which you unabashedly stocked up on. You sheepishly entered the small movie house, balancing an array of popcorn, snacks and wine, the latter of which was offered from a soda-like dispenser. Your international travels were already getting off to a GREAT start. You gazed around the room appraisingly, surprised to discover that you had the movie house COMPLETELY to yourself. 

Bellisima.

Indulgently plopping down in the absolute center of the room, you nearly squealed like a little girl when the projector clicked to life and the room darkened in response. This was only partially stifled when another figure peripherally entered your vision and began ascending the stairs. You weren’t overly concerned. Having visited Italy nearly 20 years ago, you had received more than your fair share of attention, but now, at 45 you were fairly certain you could blend into the background. It wasn’t until the curious stranger sat in the seat next to you that you glanced sideways with slight annoyance. Your heart immediately dropped at the sight of the standard Italian god that greeted you; well coifed, colorful, a curly mop of hair gelled into submission and a potent, but not disagreeable cologne that mixed with the heady smell of buttered popcorn. You weren’t sure why he had selected the seat immediately next to yours, but were momentarily distracted by his matching box of indulgent snacks. His face broke into an immediate grin as a handful of popcorn fell into your lap with his jostling.

“Popcorn, principessa?” he muttered, jamming a handful into his own mouth and licking the butter from his fingertips playfully. In another lifetime, you might have been irritated, but there was something immediately disarming about this man’s demeanor. You stalled, at the realization that he might not be Italian after all. Thankful he couldn’t view your blushing cheeks, you sputtered, 

“Oh I’m all set!” before wondering if he spoke English, and then realizing he was in the same movie as you. “Uh…par…parlare inglese?” you bumbled, spilling some Golia licorice into his lap in turn and grabbing at them haphazardly before flushing a dark shade of pink. “Scusi…”.

“Si!” he blurted out before wiping his hand embarrassingly over his face with chagrin. “I mean, yes!” He awkwardly grabbed your hand, shaking it emphatically and spilling still more popcorn over the floor and both of you. You both laughed good-naturedly as the movie was preceded by several Italian commercials you didn’t understand.  Settling into the gravitas of the cinematic experience, you quietly chewed your snacks, attempting to be demurely polite, but quite frankly you were starving. You were also immediately charmed by your unexpected movie date, as he uproariously laughed at the smallest jokes, nodding in agreement at the the most poignant dialogue. The snacks eventually discarded in satiation, you hadn’t expected the well of emotion towards the end of the movie, but that was nothing compared to your seat-mate. He was sobbing vociferously, his body quaking with emotion, when you finally reached over to tentatively pat him on the shoulder comfortingly.

“I…fucking…LOVE…this…movie…” he sniffled, between big gulps of air as you smiled knowingly to yourself. God, European men were so much more beautifully emotive than some of their Western counterparts. No wonder you had found yourself currently single in the States. You chanced a quick look at his left hand and found his wedding ring finger unoccupied, but internationally, did that even mean anything? Come on, woman, this isn’t “Only You”; get a grip. Just enjoy your new friendship and move on. You swiped at a few stray tears of your own before the lights gradually increased, leaving you both alone in the lightened movie house.

“Is that not the BEST movie you have ever seen? Without cinematic film star, Nicholas Cage, of course…” he oddly presumed, staring at you with saucer shaped eyes of warmth, a slight tinge of red dotting his cheeks at the corners.

“Uh…well, yes. Quite good, Much more emotional than I was anticipating” you admitted, shuffling your feet awkwardly.

“I feel the same way. It made me want to be a better man. I would even place it above towering films of cinematic greatness like “The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari”….or maybe even “National Treasure 2”” he observed dryly, taking in your inquisitive expression.

“National Treasure 2?” you repeated dumbly, blinking with curiosity at the tenure of your conversation. Who the hell was this guy?

“Oh, I couldn’t possibly bore you with my encyclopedic knowledge of the greatest actor, and my personal friend, Nick Cage” he blushed shyly, rubbing at the back of his neck with humility.

“You know Nick Cage?” you brightened, stumbling upon a fellow afficianado. You worked with artists all the time and loved discussing the creative process. That was the exact reason for your internship.

“Do you know him as well?” he turned his body to more fully face you, the fragrance of cologne intoxicating you slightly in response.

“Oh…certainly not. But I know OF him, he’s quite talented, and eccentric I believe…” you started before he launched into a cinematic info. dump.

“I find his artistic choices to be quite outlandish, but in a very stylized and curated execution…” as he began to wax theatrical for the next 20 minutes. You tried to remain focused on his discussion points, but you were equally distracted by his animated and appealing aesthetic, as much as the lateness of the hour. It wasn’t until you stifled a yawn and shivered slightly that he paused in his information monologue with a look of lamentation. “Oh, principessa, you are quite tired of my ramblings. Please, may I walk you home?”. He stood impressively above you, holding out his hand in inquiry.

You cleared your throat with some embarrassment, as the wine fueled evening crawled up the back of your neck with a seductive tickle. “Oh, certainly mister….?” you inquired, stumbling ever so slightly to your feet as he grabbed you protectively around the waist.

“Javi! You can call me Javi!” he intoned. You weren’t sure, but you thought he brushed a small, affectionate circle at your lower back, turning you towards the exit and guiding your steps. You weren’t one hundred percent sure it was a good idea to lead this stranger right to your door step, but you were even less sure you could make it there on your own, the inefficient osmosis of popcorn and wine happily buzzing inside you. Jet lag didn’t help. But the streets of Italy were warm and inviting, as children continued to play late into the night, and old men sat smoking cigarettes and drinking grappa.

You wrapped your arm warmly around his as he gripped you solidly around the waist. The combination of wine, jet lag and cobblestone streets was proving a challenge, but your newfound friend didn’t seem inconvenienced. If anything, he kept chirping about his favorite movies and inquiring about your own theatrical tastes. It was like something out of a movie, and you decided to give in to the romantic idealism, however short lived it might be.

“This is me” you blinked lazily, arriving at your apartment and happy to return to your queen sized bed. And doubly grateful for your new and unexpected friendship. Javi.

Javi beamed, a dazzling smile dotting his face as you unlocked the door hesitantly. “What time can I call on you tomorrow?” his question immediately poked you in the stomach as you nearly tripped over your own doorway.

“Wh-what?” you sputtered, butterflies immediately erupting in your abdomen and cascading into your fluttering heart. He looked back at you curiously, as you swayed slightly in the night air. “Uh…noon please” you found yourself saying, equally delighted and confused at the surprising turn of events.

“Excellent, we can continue our cinematic discussion, and I will bring my screenplay for your perusal” he stated matter-a-factly before leaning in confidently and kissing you just to the side of your lips, which curled in delight. You blushed at the welcome bristle of his beard as it tickled your face, before he pulled back slightly and inhaled pointedly. “Buona notte, principessa” he whispered before purposefully turning and jaunting down the cobblestone street, his arms swinging happily from side to side, as he disappeared round the corner as quickly as he had entered your evening.

You stared after him, not entirely convinced he wasn’t some sort of cinematic illusion himself. It wasn’t until noon the next day, as you blearily considered the friendly knock at the door that the realization began to dawn on you. Squinting into the sunlight, you gulped dryly at his reappearance, two espressos in hand, as he stood once again, on your doorstep. He seemed to lustfully drink in your disheveled head of hair and naked legs which peeked from beneath the large white t-shirt you had haphazardly settled into before bed.

“Javi?” you rasped, rubbing the sleep from your eyes, and smiling dopily. It seemed your cinematic dreams had temporarily come to life.

“Buongiorno, principessa!” Javi beamed, shoving the espresso emphatically into your hand and downing his own in one shot. “What movie are we seeing today?” he beamed, removing his glasses and smiling broadly.

This might be the beginning of a beautiful friendship….

*Thanks @dornish-queen for the cool footage!

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