Some miscellaneous observations and Good Canon Facts about the FBI Family:
JJ was the first to refer to the team as a family, Garcia and Rossi are the two that use family words the most
Reid is a similar age to Steven (Gideon’s estranged son) and Sean (Hotch’s estranged kid brother), and if Rossi’s son had lived he’d have been about that age too. It’s obvious from their relationships with Reid that Gideon, Hotch and Rossi are all aware of this fact.
Rossi considers himself “more married to this team than [he] was to three ex-wives”
Morgan once jokingly referred to Hotch and Rossi as “mom and dad”
Hotch and Emily look like they could easily be siblings
Reid doesn’t look much like Hotch, but he could very easily be mistaken for a relative of Jack’s (eg. a cousin or much older brother)
JJ and Reid could probably pass for siblings too, although that’s more in terms of behaviour than looks
Jack calls Rossi ‘Uncle Dave’
JJ’s kids call Reid (who is also their godfather) ‘Uncle Spencer’
Garcia likes to specify that she is Henry and Michael’s fairy godmother, thank you very much
Blake once said that she likes to think that if her son Ethan had lived, he’d have been a lot like Reid
Blake’s dad (who had only just met them that week) invited the whole team around for a barbecue, saying that they couldn’t have a party without “the whole family”
Shortly after Morgan’s son was born, Rossi delightedly declared that it was time for him to meet his Uncle Dave
Morgan names his son Hank Spencer Morgan, after his dad and “the best little brother anybody could ever ask for”
Garcia refers to the team going out for a meal together as “family dinner”
in year four, coach can’t make it up for family weekend once again
and bitty’s feeling a bit blue about it, ‘cause he thought maybe being Captain would make his dad more determined to clear his schedule or whatever. but he bakes some pies in preparation for his mama, chats with the chows and the nurses and meets ford’s moms and whiskey’s siblings and there’s a mini party going on at the haus pre-game when the doorbell rings.
now, bitty knows it’s probably his mama because who else would ring the doorbell? so he opens the door and yes, his mama is there, but next to her is Shitty in a sweater vest and tie, holding a pipe and wearing reading glasses he must have stolen from ransom.
“son!” he shouts, arms open. “my boy, you’ve grown six inches since i saw you last! been eating your spinach, i see.”
and mama’s laughing and going along with it, so bitty grins and lets shitty pull him into a hug. and the whole night Mr. Crappy is absolute gentleman, making small talk with the other parents and introducing himself as bitty’s Honorary Father. (”because i’m honored to be his dad for the evening, git it?”)
and bitty is so happy to see his mama and so tickled by shitty that he forgets how sad he was feeling earlier. at the end of the evening, after the game, he pulls shitty aside to thank him. and shitty kisses the top of his head very loudly and says, “bits, c’mon. that’s what family’s for.”
Angus McDonald normally wears his hair buzzed down pretty close to his scalp. It’s easier to manage that way. But in recent months he’s been very busy, with school and new cases and making sure to spend as much time as he can with all of his new family, and now it’s much longer.
Lup told him yesterday that she liked his little ‘fro, but Angus can’t shake the feeling that this particular hairstyle is not conduscive to inconspicuous detective work. He’s with Taako and Kravitz for the week, and is just about to buzz the whole thing off, when he hears the familiar tearing noise that means Kravitz is back, and gets another idea.
“There you are Angus, Taako told me you’d be here, I’m sorry I wasn’t around to welcome you home last night,” Kravitz says when Angus walks into the living room downstairs.
“It’s alright sir! But, umm, actually I was wondering if you could help me something? It’s alright if you can’t or don’t want to I imagine it takes a long time and lots of work and I know you’re probably tired and-“
“Angus,” Kravitz interrupts, “of course I’ll help you. What is it?”
“Um,” Angus tugs at his curls for a second or so before answering. “I was wondering if you could help me do my hair… so that it’s like yours…”
Kravitz blinks, and then smiles.
When Taako gets home he finds the pair of them in the living room, Kravitz is sitting on the couch with Angus between his knees on a little cushion. While Kravitz is carefully parting and twisting together Angus’ much shorter locs, Angus reads aloud from the newest Caleb Cleveland novel, squinting a bit without his glasses. It looks like they’re about halfway done. In the doorway of their little house, Taako’s heart swells (twice over, actually, when he spies the little pile of enchanted silver beads Kravitz is picking from every now and again).
They haven’t noticed him yet, and so Taako loudly clears his throat, and says, “I suppose this means you haven’t started dinner yet?”
They both look up and give almost identical sheepish grins and Taako is nearly floored by the domesticity of it all.
“Sorry Love,” Kravitz answers. “He asked for my help.”
“No, no it’s fine, I’ll just do everything around here like always,” Taako replies, strolling towards the kitchen to make those little personal pizzas that are Angus’ favorite, that he’d already been planning on making anyway.
Kravitz is a section away from being done with Angus’ hair by the time dinner is ready. When he’s finished, Angus darts up the stairs to the bathroom mirror and comes back down a minute later wearing a smile so big it looks like his face might split in two.
I got a bit fucked up over how, when Pike said JB was staying in Whitestone, the Trickfoots didn’t even blink. No protests, no “she’s one of us”, they just took their gold and fucked off. Fuck.
I am so glad, though, that JB gets another chance to do things right. With good people. In a city full of people who are still healing. With others her age - Cassandra, Kynan - who have done the same kinds of things, but are working through it.
And I will always be so happy and thankful for a show that gives us so many examples of how found family can be more than the family you’re born into. That the people you choose to love and be loved by in return matter, that when your blood family are shit there are other, better options. It means a lot to me that we keep seeing these choices being validated; in the twins, in Grog and Pike, in JB maybe as well.
If you ever ask me who’s real space dad in Voltron my input is always Coran.
Listen- if we’re determined to cast this found family in stereotypical roles that it may or may not fit, Shiro’s not dad. He’s the perfectionist oldest son everybody calls “dad” with a mix of love and exasperation because he’s trying so dang hard to be another parent when everybody actually knows he doesn’t have it in him and he’s maybe slowly falling apart from stress, and the best thing that happens to him is he learns to stop heaping more things onto his workload.
Coran’s the guy who left his destroyed planet with the unconscious body of his best friend’s daughter and who’s just trying to take care of her and support her because they’re alone out here, and he’s quietly managing his own grief more or less behind the scenes to support everyone without running himself into the ground.
And yet, with all that hanging on his head, he gets stuck on a ship with a couple of weird alien kids and by the second day he’s got them ranked by height, he gives them juiceboxes and tells them to not overwork themselves.
Coran, with very little preamble, steps up and really takes in all of the paladins. Everybody talks about who in Avatar the Voltron guys remind them of but I don’t think anybody’s pointed out that Coran in some regards is a dead ringer for Iroh: the older mentor and surrogate father to young and troubled royalty who initially reads like comic relief and is both ready and able to raise hell if properly crossed.
But it’s not just Allura that Coran is looking out for. Consider episode s1e4, where both Lance and Shiro are withdrawing from the party and upset- and who checks on both of them, but, Coran, who does so in this completely innocuous, casual manner that makes it seem like he just happened by when we actually see him take note of Lance leaving the party.
And I mean, c’mon. He does embarrassing dad things, he worries, he uses weird turns of phrase, he’s singlehandedly the backbone of the team playing Every Support Role At Once. Coran’s the real team dad.
It’s been years since The Accords were shredded. It’s been years since Tony called Steve from that burner cell phone and said, “We need your help, Cap.”
And Steve had gone. He’d gone because that’s what his body and mind are hardwired to do- help, protect. He’d taken one look at the shield at had been his for so long. It’d been frozen with him, it’d been out of place and time with him, it’d been the thing that identifies Steve as who he was. It’s the symbol of Captain America.
“I’m not Captain America anymore,” Steve had told Tony, swallowing hard. Steve had looked to Sam standing next to him, eyes flicking between Tony and the disaster occurring behind him. All the people he could be helping if he wasn’t standing by Steve’s side. “But he is.”
Steve had still helped and at moments, his fingers had ached for his shield to be between them, but for once he wasn’t just Captain America. He was Steve, just Steve.
“This is your nephew,” Tony tells him, years later. Steve had no idea that Tony’s voice could ever sound so soft. “James.”
Steve cracks a teeny smile when he hears it. Sam says , “I hear Rhodey says he’s going to officially change Bucky’s name to Binky so that he can have the name James all to himself.”
Tony smiles. “I’m writing a check as we speak. You wanna hold him, Uncle Steve?”
Uncle, and Steve doesn’t know what to do with the new title at first. He can take military ranks, sir, mister, but uncle- that’s. Steve looks into Tony’s eyes, his eyebrows lifted in question, his beautiful new son curled up closely to his chest. James is so small, so fragile and Tony wants Steve to hold him and be his uncle. It’s personal. It’s family.
“Yeah,” Steve clears his throat and sits up straighter. “Yeah I do.”
James squeaks and grunts as Tony gets him settled on Steve’s chest, since he likes to be positioned that way. Steve puts one of his big hands underneath his bottom and another behind his head to support it, since Sam’s nervously whispering, “his head, his head!” behind him.
James is so soft, so little that Steve can barely stand it. “He’s, Tony-” Steve can’t think of the words. He’s glorious. He’s a miracle. He’s proof that things like babies and puppies and really good coffee are just as perfect reasons to keep fighting the good fight every day as any. He’s a reminder to Steve that his family, this new family stretches further than he thought. “He’s perfect.” Is what Steve settles on.
“I know,” Tony replies. His tone isn’t cocky like it normally might be. It’s reverent.
Steve looks at James’ little balled up fingers and counts them, unbelieving that five little fingers can be that small. “Sam come see, he has five fingers.”
Sam and Tony both laugh. “What were you expecting?” Sam asks.
“Exactly that,” Steve answers. He looks up at Tony again. “He’s absolutely perfect.”
There’s only two people in the whole world who ever really cared about me. We messed up a lot, and we used to fight with each other a lot too, but…no matter how bad things got, we always had each other.
Sam I have an important Chicago question: just north of the DuSable bridge there is a statue of what looks like Abe Lincoln excitedly taking a man in a knitted sweater on a first date. I only saw it from a bus, so didn't get either a photo or an explanation. Can you explain this phenomenon? Are Abe and Sweater Man happy???
*head in hands* FUCKING SEWARD JOHNSON
You have triggered the rage within me, so now you will ALL be treated to an outside-the-readmore screed about SEWARD GODDAMN JOHNSON.
I don’t normally attack artists because a) it scares my friends who are artists (I love you all, you are beautiful, don’t be afraid) and b) honestly most artists don’t deserve the level of vitriol I’m about to employ. I want you all to remember that the seething hatred I feel for Seward Johnson is driven in large part by class consciousness.
But not entirely. So let’s begin.
First what you have to know is that Seward Johnson is a “sculptor”. If you google “seward johnson sculpture” you’ll get an idea of his work, most of which is terrible. I feel okay calling his work terrible because he is also the scion of the family that founded SC Johnson Johnson & Johnson (my bad), so he has all the money he needs and could step back, do his art for funsies, and let people with actual talent or two original thoughts in their heads exhibit their art, but he doesn’t, he forces his terrible art on all of us.
The reason I harbor such animosity towards Seward Johnson is that he has been exhibiting on Pioneer Plaza (that area north of the DuSable Bridge) for almost a decade now, and when I worked in the north loop I had to walk past his art every day. It was bad enough when the sculpture was American Gothic, rendered without talent or meaning into three dimensions and provided with luggage.
How very fucking dare you, you talentless hack
These things are sculpted out of what amounts basically to styrofoam painted in rubberized/weatherized paint, so they are fragile, and tourists were constantly climbing on Farmer’s shoes and falling into them when they found out it wasn’t the cheap but supple fiberglass you would expect of a tacky monstrosity more suited to a roadside motel than the business district of a major metropolitan city. (I would imagine this is why Abraham Lincoln And The Mayonnaise Sandwich has a little fence around it.)
But American Gothic Motel Attraction was mostly just annoying because it was meaningless, derivative, and CONSTANTLY covered in gawkers getting in everyone’s way.
Additionally, Seward Johnson’s sculptures on the Plaza are very popular photo spots for tourists, who carry lots of cash and are constantly distracted, which means beginning with The Assault On American Gothic it became a very popular spot for pickpockets. Which means members of our staff, who had nothing to do with this mess, got pickpocketed as collateral damage about once a week during the exhibition of….
SEWARD JOHNSON GO FUCK YOURSELF
This is a very famous image of Marilyn Monroe which is horrifying for the following reasons that Seward Johnson appears not to have understood nor cared about:
a) The day this was shot, on an open set with people leering at her all day, her husband, professional athlete and dirtbag Joe DiMaggio, found out about the filming. Rather than comfort his wife, who had been through some shit already that day, he became angry she’d been showing her panties in public and beat her so badly the neighbors called the police on him. Joe DiMaggio also go fuck yourself.
b) IT’S IN A MOVIE INFAMOUSLY SET IN NEW YORK. To quote a local newspaper, “Did Chicago lose a bet?”
c) Yes, you can look up and see her panties. While this is juvenile, it’s not nearly as juvenile as the literally thousand of photographs I angrily photobombed of some douchebro from Fuckville Middle America in a backwards baseball cap standing between her legs with his face tilted upwards and his tongue out.
Oh and btw before it was unveiled it looked like this:
For literal days, before it was installed, she had a bag over her head. (For more on this, though the pictures are now missing, you can read my reaction post here.)
In any just world, there would be a trap door between her legs and everyone who tried to do the upskirt shot would fall into a pit where they would be forced to give five dollars to women’s shelters before they were allowed to leave. THAT would have been interesting art.
Sidebar, both as contrast and because I love it: Marilyn left a few years ago and was briefly replaced by a refreshing and beautiful piece called The Watch, by Hebru Brantley. The Watch was playful and interesting and didn’t have a single upskirt. Hebru Brantley is a wonderful artist in his own right, but he was also a welcome breath of fresh air after Johnson’s mediocre tribute to sexual assault.
It is an unfortunate coincidence that Confused Closeted Republican there is wearing khakis and a white shirt, the new uniform of the alt right, and it’s also coincidence that this is facing Trump Tower, but it’s not exactly helping Seward Johnson’s cause that he chose the blandest outfit possible for Paean To Confused White Bread. The sculpture is meant to be Lincoln, the darling of Illinois, welcoming a visitor to our fair city, but it sure does look like fresh meat is about to get a free trip to Boys Town with the Sixteenth President of the United States.
This is what I mean when I say Seward Johnson lacks not only skill but also understanding: he clearly didn’t know that Lincoln’s sexuality is under enough debate to have its own wikipedia page, and he either didn’t know or didn’t care that Marilyn Monroe was nearly killed by her husband for shooting that scene. All he cares about is image and he’s bad at reproducing image. That is not a well-executed rendering of how human beings are, and dynamically speaking it’s boring. If he were good at visuals or if he had something meaningful to say I would be less angry, but he is mediocre at best and the statements his sculptures make are banal pap if they make any at all.
But he is rich, and I guess either he likes Chicago or he’s got blackmail on Sam Zell, owner of Pioneer Plaza, so he gets to spatter his hideous, meaningless masturbation in my city. And lest you think Seward Johnson got here on his own merits, Forever Marilyn, now on tour from coast to coast, is owned by The Sculpture Foundation, which is heavily subsidized by Seward Johnson. He basically founded a nonprofit to ensure his work gets toured around and publicized and to ensure that if no museum wants it, it has a place to go to die (Palm Springs, CA).
In short, I hope Abe and Sweater Man are happy, because at least then something good has come out of Seward Johnson’s astounding mediocrity. That said, if you are passing his latest work, spit on it for me. As performance art.
Hopper tells El she’s allowed to go to the Snow Ball when he gets home from his lunch with Doc Owens, her brand new birth certificate kept secure in the pocket of his jacket.
El is waiting for him by the front door of the cabin when he returns, her eyes wide and eager, awaiting the answer. For the briefest of moments, Hop considers dragging this out, teasing her with a smirk or a shrug. But he can see the hopefulness written on every feature, the excitement held in her shoulders. So he just smiles wide and nods once, unprepared for El launching herself towards him and catching him around the waist in a tight hug.
The air knocked from his lungs, Hop stumbles backwards before he sinks into the hug, rumpling El’s hair.
“We’re going to have to get you a dress,” he tells her when she finally lets him go, “And I’ll have to figure out how to do that hair stuff from the magazines.”
“And makeup?” El looks up at him, grinning wide.
Hop sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose, “And makeup. We’ll make you look…what’d you call it? Bitchin’?”
El looks thoughtful for a moment before shaking her head. “Not bitchin’. Pretty.”
“Okay,” Hop laughs, “Pretty it is.”
El hugs him once more before practically dancing back to her bedroom to rifle through her closet and toy around with the few lipglosses and eyeshadows Nancy had given her weeks ago.
Hop lets out a long breath, listening to her happy humming from the other side of the door, his hand gently patting the document in his pocket.