only took three minutes for Pidge to realize that there was no saving
the cargo ship’s engines. The main drive was damaged beyond repair
Clawomian named Nrr had helped her to the best of his abilities but
there was nothing that could be done. The auxiliary
drives were running near-critical levels, there was no way they’d get
this ship past the Galran battleship.
Summary: Things at the Sub Shop had become pretty regular. Same people coming in and out each day, even the little weird things Trucker and Zo do weren’t particularly surprising. Tish had gotten another job and only came back a few days a week. She and Priestly decided they were better off friends. He’d entered a cycle of work, mope, work, mope. He stopped cracking jokes, didn’t dye his hair, didn’t do much in general. Piper and Jen decided to take matters into their own hands….
A/N: This is it! The last part…….I’m sad that it’s over. But I hope you enjoyed reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it!
You wound around the end of the counter, walking over to wipe down a table. A familiar hand grabbed your wrist, effectively stopping you.
“No kiss goodbye?”
“Babe, I’m literally going ten feet away.”
You kissed him anyway, chuckling at how mushy he’d gotten. Walking by the register, you don’t miss Piper and Jen high-fiving.
How is Oliver dealing with Father’s Day while Abby is away in Gotham? Did Jon remember to stop by? I’m sure Tish reminded him, and probably signed his name on the card that she bought…
His head lolls against the raw silk of the wingback chair, and he makes an indistinct noise that might have been intended as, “What?”
Felicity tips backwards from her perch on the arm of his chair, right into his lap. “Honey, wake up.”
She gives him a patient “Mm-hmm” and a long, sucking kiss on his neck.
Now he’s awake. “No hickeys. Got a press conference.” He wraps his arms around her, blinks in the soft yellow lamp light, and looks around the living room. “Where are the kids?”
“Jon and Tish snuck off with the rest of that last bottle we opened. Abby’s passed out on the sofa in the breakfast room.”
“Good.” Oliver lets his hands slide down to his wife’s ass.
She grins and rubs noses with him. “How did you like your Dad Day?”
He kisses the air just shy of her mouth, too lazy to close the half inch distance. “Fine. Decent. Acceptable.”
She kisses him for real, wriggling more snugly into his lap. “You loved every second.”
He smiles and lets his eyes fall closed again, radiating contentment. “They didn’t have to cook. And I told them not to buy me anything. I was very clear on that. No gifts.”
“Oh, grump grump grump. ‘My kids tracked down my nasty Russian vodka that’s ten years out of production. The little brats.’ Grump.”
With one hand he squeezes her hip, and with the other he gestures at the table next to him. “I liked the card. Best part.”
Abby’s cream-colored stationery lies face-down, but a backwards J is visible where the ink has bled through. Jon has a heavy hand with a fountain pen. If Felicity picks up the card and rereads the message printed neatly in Abby’s round, bubbly handwriting, she will probably mist up.
“I’m not sure Jon gets credit just for signing his name,” Oliver mumbles, drifting off again.
“It was a very sincere signature,” Felicity says, laying her head on his shoulder. “Heartfelt.” She nuzzles up under his chin, and in a murmur inaudible beyond the recesses of the wingback, she says, “You know he loves you lots and bunches.”
Oliver lays his hand on her hair. “Yeah. I do know that.”
“What do you say we go up to bed?”
“In a minute.”
Oliver wakes an hour later to his wife sound asleep in his lap and their son standing over them, an empty bottle in one hand and two wine-stained glasses in the other. “That’s gonna hurt in the morning,” Jon says, pointing at them with the bottle. “Go to bed.”
Oliver frowns fiercely at Jon, at the bottle, and then back up at Jon. “You drinking my booze?”
Jon puts the bottle behind his back. “No. Go to bed.”
“On Father’s Day,” Oliver grumbles as he hefts Felicity higher onto his shoulder and gets to his feet. “Stealing my Côtes du Rhône.”
“It’s past one,” Jon shoots back, heading for the kitchen. “Father’s Day’s over. Not gonna see it again for a whole year.”
“Leave the Pontet Canet, you hear me?”
Without looking back, Jon raises the bottle in acknowledgment.
“Lots and bunches, you said,” Oliver grumbles into Felicity’s hair. “Sincere. Heartfelt.”
Tish Brennan has been using Auryn Ink since its 1st verion to keep inspiring us. Follow her on her blog http://ift.tt/1TEnRAG #aurynink #watercolor #digitalwatercolor #painting #paint #digitalart #artist #colorful
did lars von trier ever get to meet ingmar bergman? he's a huge fan of his and I'm thinking they probably at least spoke before his passing,
No they didn’t I think. Lars Von Trier said he used to write fan letters to Bergman and Bergman “of course” never replied, so when Bergman died and he was asked to comment on his death he said that Bergman was like a father to him because Bergman treated him like he did his own children - with no interest whatsoever! Ba-dum tish!
Y’know when you leave something metal out to the elements. After a little while it gets a bit tarnished, a bit rusty… But you can just polish it off and it looks good as new.
But if you leave it too long, and the weather is particularly rough, the rust starts to damage the metal, and no matter how hard you polish it, how much you have to scrape it and sand it away, even if you can build it back up with new parts, it’s never going to be exactly the same as it was to begin with. It’s changed, but it’s fixed.
Then, if things are super bad. If the conditions are all wrong and you leave it years and years, eventually the metal just turns to brittle rust. It may be the same shape as it originally was, but there’s nothing left of the original Thing. You can scrub it and treat it and brush it away, but there’s nothing else. It’s just rust. The metal is gone and there’s nothing left buried under there. Maybe you can replace it, but then can you even say it’s the same bit of metal?