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Language:
English
Series:
Part 8 of Five Moments of Intimacy (POI) , Part 6 of POI Drabblefics , Part 2 of Bechdel-Wallace Pass
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Published:
2018-08-12
Completed:
2019-09-02
Words:
1,000
Chapters:
5/5
Comments:
17
Kudos:
19
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516

Five Moments in the Park

Summary:

The early-series cast, each connecting with a homeless person in a different way, however slight the contact or lasting the relationship.

Note: This was an experiment, and I definitely flubbed it in one chapter (the guy in question clearly isn't homeless), and one reader pointed out that I screwed up in another more significant way. I have been debating about rewriting this, but that probably won't happen for a while.

I've also debated about taking it down, but I shy from scrubbing clean the mistakes that I've made; whatever they are, they are mine. And I hope that it can still be seen what I was trying to do here, even if I didn't do it well.

Notes:

I've got several FMI fics that my brain is flitting around, and I figured I might as well start uploading the parts I've got. Expect more in the upcoming days/weeks.

This one's just, I wanted some charitable activity that the POI crew could individually get involved with in some fashion, and this is what spun out. Especially since the homeless are already incorporated elements in the POI canon (see "Risk").

Chapter 1: Help with Grooming/Hygiene (Carter)

Summary:

In the military, and then later as a cop and as a detective, Carter has seen humanity at its worst, both as perpetrators and as victims. She's long past judging people for conditions obviously outside their control.

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

“Do we have anything larger than triple-X?” Carter asks; they point her at a pile of trash bags on the park bench, donated items that didn’t make it onto the racks. She discards the garish circus-tent mumu -- it’s the wrong shape, and overkill -- and picks out her best guess.

“Not a lot of options,” she tells the woman when she returns.

“There never are,” the woman replies. “But it’s something, at least.”

The handicap stall (tarps and PVC) gives them privacy as Carter helps the woman struggle out of her stretched-out t-shirt and malformed denim shorts. No underwear, and the donated packs aren’t nearly big enough. With Carter’s assistance, she manages to get into a pair of spandex tights -- the only feasible option, given her lipedema. Shirts are much easier; they find two t-shirts that fit her, and then a stretchy turtleneck that works fine after Carter slices open the front of the neckpiece.

The old clothes get set to the side -- for the dumpster, after the woman’s gone. Carter imagines that they haven’t been off her body since she got them; maybe they got washed when the woman showered. The smell doesn’t bother Carter; she’s been around far worse.

Notes:

I briefly stopped to look up homelessness in New York around 2012-13, then realized that the research was going to take up way too much time for tonight. I did get the impression, though, that it had gotten a lot better than a few years earlier, and that it would thereafter get worse, as legislative measures started causing problems. (It's likely that my quick skim has misinformed me.) If anyone knows some more concrete details and can express them to me succinctly, I might consider weaving them in.

Also, this was around the year that the Lava Mae buses started operation -- on the whole other side of the country, unfortunately nowhere near New York. So when it mentions showers in the second chapter, it'll be some sort of portable type, like those hand-wash booths at fairs or the milk-jug-on-a-stick that we used to use in Girl Scouts.

The homeless having access to showers (and general hygiene supplies) is a big thing, though, and I'm thrilled that the Lava Mae program seems to be going strong; I hope they can branch out more.

Chapter 2: Acceptance of a Vulnerable State (Finch)

Summary:

It's been a long time since he's had to exercise the kind of patience you need to deal with a person whose memory is failing. Even so, Harold's well practiced in the art.

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

“I’m probably rambling again,” Emil observes, pausing in his tale of a high school crush. “You can stop me, if I’m rambling.”

A smile crosses Harold’s face; Emil reminds him very much of his dad. “I don’t mind listening to you.”

“We have to wait, for your friend,” the old man haltingly confirms. Harold nods; it’s only the fifth time he’s asked. Dementia. Emil never even realized that he’d been in danger.

The threat’s been dealt with, and Harold’s already set up better living arrangements, gotten in touch with a more competent agency; they’re just waiting on John.

It’s peaceful here, even as Emil continues to trail out random thoughts; the hedges cut down on the sound of traffic. Most of the activity is on the far side of the park, a fair for the homeless sprawled out across half the grass. Shower stalls and free toiletries. Job referrals. Game booths for the kids; a musician on one side, Pixar movies on the other. Volunteers cutting hair, passing out clothes, food, gas cards.

Harold needs this break, though. This reminder. As bad as things get, they’re not in this fight alone; others, too, want to raise lights against the darkness.

Notes:

My mom sometimes talks about a relative -- maybe her grandfather? -- who had Parkinson's, and whose ability to communicate was slow and halting and frustrating. She was pretty much the only family member who would willingly wait for him to speak, instead of rushing him or talking over him or assuming that she understood before he was finished. I like to think that her patience was a comfort to him.

When my mom's mom was in her final years, she needed help even in the bathroom. My dad spent a lot of time living with her and helping her out. There were people who criticized him without even knowing him -- "Why is he helping her? she's not his mother!" and "Why isn't [my mom] helping her instead?" -- but I was never more proud of my dad than knowing he was willing to do that for her.

Chapter 3: A Peaceful Moment in Nature (Reese)

Summary:

Shared silence can be more powerful and intimate than any exchange of words.

Notes:

Here is what a koto sounds like. You might let it play while reading this chapter ^_^

Also, this is kind of a palate cleanser, as we get a little further into the depths of Unseen Things. Or maybe it's more of a comfort blanket.

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

Even knowing that he ought to hurry back to Harold, John can’t help but sit beside Joan a while, the delicate sound of the koto washing over him as the sun plays across the water. The adrenaline from the case is working its way out of his system, and the unexpected delight of seeing his friend -- hair freshly washed and cut, a new scarf about her shoulders -- has gone a long way toward getting him centered again after a very trying week.

They don’t feel the need to speak, today. Just to relax next to each other, watching kids run around the edge of the lake. The air’s a perfect neutral temperature, vacillating between the warmth of the sun and the slight breeze; it breathes in clear, with just a hint of pollen.

Soon enough, John will be helping Harold relocate the day’s number, an old man who’d unwittingly offended his law-skirting landlord; for some reason, Harold had gone above and beyond in hunting down a better location for the man to live out his days. After that, they’ll get dinner, and sleep, and tomorrow there’ll be another case.

This afternoon, though, John’s just going to enjoy a short break.

Notes:

As I "grew up on" Japanese language and culture during my college years, I acquired an appreciation for anime theme songs, but also for some specific instruments, including the koto (which I hope to someday own) and the taiko and odaiko: giant drums that reverberate through your whole body -- it's the one medium I know of where recorded performances can't come close to a live show (bring ear plugs), and man do those performers need to be in good shape!

For a look at the nuances of traditional Japanese music, see this video essay; I found it quite interesting.

Chapter 4: Desire to Alleviate Suffering (Zoe)

Summary:

When you've never been through a situation yourself, it can be hard to empathize. But not only is Zoe good at working out the feelings of another person (has to be, for her position), she knows that action can be worth far more than pale sympathy.

Notes:

I don't really feel that I nailed the category here, but I'm not making sufficient headway on some other fics, so I thought I might as well post it anyway. This is the category of Emotional Intimacy (sharing the same feeling, comforting someone who's in a bad emotional state), which could conceivably cover emotions that don't seem to be emotions, or hidden emotions, like sharing the desire to make sure your friends don't see you afraid.

Anyway, Zoe at least opens the door to some level of connection between her and the homeless girl, so I'm gonna consider it "good enough for now." Possibly, when I get around to the final chapter, I'll update this chapter as well, but I wouldn't count on it.

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

The girl’s wary tension, thin frame, and grimy, mismatched clothes say she’s spent months on the street; whatever she’s encountered isn’t as bad as what drove her from her home. When Zoe hands her the corn dog, she scarfs it.

“A lot of kids your age run away,” Zoe muses, trying for “helpful and harmless” (the opposite of whatever adults have failed this girl so far). “Sometimes it’s the right call, just getting out of a bad situation.”

Hunching over, Cat combines defiant with miserable. Zoe’s heart aches, recalling a friend she couldn’t help at the time; she hopes to do better with this one.

“So… what you running from?”

Cat’s eyes dart at Zoe, then away.

“There are people who can help you.”

Cat hunches over even more. “They can’t help me,” she murmurs.

“Well,” Zoe drawls, trying not to spook her. “I know a lot of people. Kinda my thing. What say you help me understand the problem, and I’ll bet you fifty bucks, against the earrings, that I can find the right kind of people to help you out. Deal?”

A breath later, Cat smiles. “They’re just glass, y’know.”

“Doesn’t make ’em any less pretty. So… spill.”

Notes:

I once met a person on YouTube who was depressed because her little sister had killed herself (a few years before I met her).

While talking with her, I asked for a memory of the girl, something that I could hold onto and pass on. Now, I don't myself believe in that "so long as people remember you, you're never really gone" idea -- and given that I do believe in an afterlife, it's not necessary -- but I thought it would be comforting.

This is what that person shared with me:

When her little sister was, oh, five years old or so, she got upset enough to try to run away from home. She had this pink inflatable backpack, and she filled it up with (IIRC) breadsticks before heading out of the house and down the street.

Just a cute little incident in the life of this girl, a long time prior to the sad end of that life. And a memory that perhaps you could pass on to others -- this little girl with the pink inflatable backpack, and her sister who's been missing her.

News: Quick reminder that June 28th is Tiny Box Tim Day, a good time to use time, money, and/or creativity to help those in need. It's my fourth year celebrating it.

I've been batting my head against the next update of Mirror, which is coming along, just like molasses. Along with some Loki fics that are likewise coming along like molasses. Or maybe snails. In the desert. I dunno. It's frustrating to not get updates out as fast as I'd like, but I'm still working on them regularly, still planning to complete all my open chapterfics (except for Manipulations, but I specified that ahead of time), just suffering from writer's block and a life that's busier than I would've thought. Oh, and distractions, because man is it easy to distract me these days.

I have a kind of feel for the general order of upcoming fics, but since my predictions have been so wildly off of late, I'm not even going to bother. Things will update when they update. Just know that I'm alive and still writing, and that getting into the Loki fandom does not mean that I've abandoned the POI fandom.

Oh, did I mention that I got a Pillowfort account? It's like an alternative to Tumblr, and I got it in the wake of the Tumblr exodus (which I joined, despite never having a Tumblr account, because I was annoyed with their censorship policies and the way they threw out a lot of Mature Content artists). I don't blog that often (and most of my blogs so far have been my "Journey thru the MCU"), but it's a place to get info on what's going on in my life, with a bit more depth than my Twitter updates. (Also, I tend to use Twitter to rant about random things that outrage me, whereas I put more thought into my Pillowfort blogs.)

Chapter 5: Secret Sharing (Fusco)

Summary:

Over the years, Fusco has learned the value of open ears and a closed mouth. It's nice to use that trait to protect good people, for once.

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

The sun’s set to retire by the time that Bridgers is done giving testimony about Thursday’s shooting. He skillfully avoids mentioning Reese; maybe that’s why Fusco decided to give him a lift back downtown. Tough to get around when you don’t have a steady income, but the fair’s still up for another hour, so maybe he can still get a bus card or something.

Besides, Fusco was heading that way anyway. The captain had wanted some positive police involvement, and Carter volunteered; might as well see if she needs any help putting away the leftovers.

Halfway there, Bridgers sighs. “Ever get depressed that your life isn’t interesting enough to feed a myth?”

Fusco blinks. “Huh?”

“You and me, we’re not gonna be remembered. Too common. But there’s a legend goin’ round. Homeless guy after a bottle to drown in… found himself a suit instead, and now he fights crime.” He glances at Fusco. “Wades in where guys like you stand out.”

“Guy in a suit, huh?”

“Protector of the city. Shows up when something bad’s about to go down. Somehow he just knows. Lotta people alive because o’ him.”

“Well,” Fusco muses, “guess some guys just need a second chance.”

Notes:

I once read a tale, possibly an anecdote, of a missionary who visited some South American tribe regularly, and got to be good friends with the chief. And one day the chief told him that he was going to give him a gift:

From now on, all the incredible tales that had been told about the chief, would instead be told about the missionary.

I have always found that idea thrilling, the thought of deliberately changing tribal memory like that, of reshaping the past as an honor due to one who meant a lot to the people. And I mean, that's similar to what we've done with Saint Nicholas, right? As I explain him to kids, he's the guy who was so kind and generous to children in need that we honored him by creating the tale of Santa Claus, a tale that is taught to nearly every child in our country and many other countries as well as a symbol of generosity. It may not be precisely what happened, but it's a powerful symbol nonetheless.

Myth and legend are powerful forces, and should not be discounted.

This is part of why I take a great deal of pride in being one of the modern bards, spinning stories for others to help teach essential lessons -- and why it hits me so hard to hear a phrase like "But there are few bards now." Because storytellers matter, and the artful use of fiction and fantasy can shape entire worlds.