Talking to a Brick Wall - The Cooper Temple Clause

I'm not quite how I should be been finding tricks too hard I'm thinking something must be broken Cause it's wasn't like this before Now everyone is ugly and everyone is stoned Small things about you excite me But then I'd hate to spoil the tone

All my little somethings just ran out of luck Secret dates with strangers Dirty words and fighting talk I'm so scared it's killed me Time and time again I can't live with compromise So maybe we could talk as friends? If at first you don't succeed try again for me

Today is going to be fine tomorrow will be fine too I asked for things to better me Even though they silenced my soul I can taste it just for a second and then it disappears The flowers look like glitter but then so do you my dear

All my little somethings just ran out of luck Secret dates with strangers Dirty words and fighting talk I'm so scared it's killed me Time and time again I can't live with compromise So maybe we could talk as friends? If at first you don't succeed try again for me

It's in the way that you look It's in the books that won't read It comes and goes like a friend It's with me right 'til the end It's in the memories I've lost It's concentrating too much It's breaking down of relations And it's the beat of the clock It's not being able to be explain Or get your feelings across It's in the pain that won't leave you It's coming straight back for us It's in a new lease of life And a search that ends well It's in finding that change It's being happy again

With Marvel, I have my otps, I have my notps. And yet, I still take the time out and respect people’s wishes, because at the end of the day we’re just fawning over characters that mean so much to us. Are you willing to say that you have your head so far up your asses that you’re determined to ruin your own Age of Ultron experience over a ship that isn’t canon anywhere else?

God i love Jean Valjean so much, this man was literally like "I'd be content to live in the convent with Cosette forever and die here with her company and see her never suffer a day in her life." But instead realized that life without personal choices breeds disdain and personal sorrow and quit the convent he loved, causing him personal anguish just so that Cosette could choose a path for herself. My man THEN berates himself for having the audacity to think "If I condemn Cosette to a life within walls she might grow to hate me" is a SELFISH thought and not a completely valid and logical reality. My dude, we WISH our parents were on your level of self actuality and reflection!! Jean Valjean has considerate and empathetic thought processes and still finds a way to berate himself for having them because the outcome leads to a better relationship with his daughter which means happiness for him??? BUDDY YOU DESERVE THAT HAPPINESS MORE THAN ANYONE!!

talking to a brick wall | drabble

❝  I forgive you, but I’m not going to forget what you did ❞ 

They wouldn’t call themself an optimist. Too many people too often proved themselves invariably unkind, and the world was seeped in just as much darkness as it gave birth to good. The world was at war, after all, and Xeno, who sought knowledge of all kinds as if it were as natural and crucial an action as drawing breath, who spent their quiet moments piecing together information, trying to understand, couldn’t grapple with why. They knew the rote reasoning that people would announce with unwavering certainty on the wizarding wireless, or leaning over a drink. The wizarding world was at war because of power. Power and blood. Xeno knew that, of course they did. But they didn’t understand it. 

Except for the times when they did. 

Xeno had unsubscribed from the Daily Prophet years ago, and no one had questioned them. Because for all the years that they had tucked coins into the pouch of the owl and fed them treats they had bought specifically for the purpose, Xeno had been an outspoken critic of the paper. They would read it,  ink spotting their fingers as they corrected articles and crossed entire sections out. Then they would turn up at the Prophet’s offices to argue with Rita Skeeter, dropping off a stack of edited papers while they were there. And so when they stopped receiving the paper, ostensibly because they no longer wished to pay for a publication they didn’t agree with, no one had thought anything of it. Xeno hadn’t either. 

But, fingers skating along the edge of a copy of the Prophet they had plucked off a table- weeks old, with a circle from a mug of tea marring a corner-, Xeno thought there had probably been another reason, too. The war was inescapable, omnipresent, but something about seeing it writ large in the spaces between the words of stark headlines every morning made it seem like a fact of life. It rendered the chaos permanent. And this war being something that was commonplace and continuous was not a reality that Xeno wanted to confront. Letting the news of every murder of a child, or decimation of a muggle village, trickle down to them naturally, through word of mouth, or a day later, overheard in a cafe, might have seemed like willing ignorance. Xeno deliberately distanced themself from the news of the war, kept their life one step out of sync. But, in doing so, the news of every atrocity that rippled through the world came to Xeno in harsh contrast to the rest of their life, freed from the bounds of text on paper. Every atrocity was real, and palpable, and every one reminded Xeno that this wasn’t normal. 

Xenophilius couldn’t accept that this was normal. 

Xeno dropped the paper back onto the table, and, hands suddenly free but still itching with an anxious energy, they thrust them into their pockets, pivoting on their heel in a slow circle. Mr. Mulpepper’s Apothecary looked much the same as it had when Xeno had tracked down Frank there, the day after the break-ins. It looked much the same as it had in years previous, when Xeno had wandered in and poked around the stock looking for everything and nothing all at once. But it was unmistakably abandoned, now. And, incidentally, surprisingly easy to break into. 

Not that Xeno had really even meant to break in to the apothecary. Something had simply drawn them to the door as they were walking past on the way home, and that same something had them pulling out their wand and muttering an unlocking charm and walking right in. Their intentions weren’t malicious. Xeno didn’t have the disposable time or energy to hold grudges. There were much more important and interesting things to devote one’s mind to, like studying nargles, or collecting nice flowers. And Mulpepper, at least as far as Xeno was concerned, didn’t deserve to have a grudge held against him. They just wanted to look. 

The news had come while Xeno themself was a primary suspect in the break-ins and mass poisoning, and so it was recently freed from Alastor Moody’s questioning that they learned of Mulpepper’s role at the center of the crimes. Xeno had visited St. Mungo’s, had personally seen what the poison Mulpepper had brewed did to people, and they had seen, unable to look away, as Moody spilled images of Edgar and Alice and all the others, pale and drawn and painfully close to death in their hospital beds, across the hard metal table top of the interrogation room. 

And it was in those moments that they understood. 

Not why people fought this war, though that was becoming clearer, too. No, Xeno understood Mulpepper. Because someone had killed the person this man loved most in the world, and he hadn’t known what to do with that grief but do what he did best. The apothecary had brewed a potion, dangerously deadly, and did what he could do in an attempt to come to terms with the death of his wife. Xeno’s mind was filled with those images of Edgar and Alice and the rest of the poisoned people against cold, hard metal, and they understood. Xeno was entirely certain that they wouldn’t try to murder nearly a dozen people if someone killed one of the people they loved in cold blood. But they weren’t entirely sure what they would do, either. 

Xeno walked, unhurried, from the center of the darkened room to the counter at the back of the shop. The last time they had seen the man,- a very unremarkable day, months ago, when Xeno had spent half an hour staring at jars of rare potion ingredients and asking countless questions- he had been here. Behind the counter, perhaps a bit caught off guard by their curiosity, but not unkind. Xeno stood in front of the counter, head tilted slightly, eyes a bit narrowed, before sucking in a sharp breath. And then the words spilled out. 

“What you did wasn’t good. I don’t- well, I wouldn’t have done the same. And, I suppose you’re probably lucky you didn’t end up killing all those people, because I don’t think it would’ve helped anyone. Definitely not you. I-” Xeno’s voice, quiet and soft, suddenly hardened, head losing it’s tilt, “I wouldn’t have forgiven you. I couldn’t have, and I wouldn’t want to.” They cut off suddenly, shifting where they stood, and let out a breath in a huff of air, “I’m sorry about your wife, I really am, but it’s only because Edgar is still alive that I can understand, I think. Also the fact that I’m talking to a wall probably helps. But what matters, really, is that I’m sorry. And I forgive you. But I- well, I don’t think I’ll ever be able to forget what you did.” 

Xeno’s words, quiet but infused with a sort of urgency, fell into the silence of the dim apothecary. Nothing and no one but jars of pickled newts were around to hear them.