The Bear and Barnacle

Winter, 1940

He chooses a Sunday after dinner to make the announcement. Once the dessert plates are cleared up and most of the family is in the living room beginning a large, loud game of rummy, he comes into the kitchen to his parents. Mom's at the sink with an apron over her flowered church dress. Dad's sitting at the table with a cigarette. Jack knows from many Sundays that he'll he telling her over the soft clink of dishes about interesting points in the evening paper, or talking with her about the news their grown children have brought back this weekend.

Jack pauses at the door to watch them for a second in their peaceful comfort before he comes in to disturb it.

"Mom, Dad," he says, "I've been wondering whether to tell you this, and I think you deserve to know. ( There's something that I need to do. )

Professor McGonagall had told them time travel wasn’t unusual in this place he privately thought of as Supernatural Portal Posing As Margate (SPPAM, for short).

When he and Victoire had met the Professor on the beach upon arrival, he wanted more answers than questions—it went against his Ravenclaw nature to not interrogate the unusual lack of knowledge Minerva had about Octavia. But he suspected something else; and at the time he certainly wasn’t about to say that the concept of alternate timestreams had been discussed among him and his more eccentric colleagues. He suspects that this could be a good example of it. But that theory’s a stretch, even for the young man who enjoys dabbling in the stuff better left to Unspeakables.

( First and foremost, Teddy Remus Lupin has always been fascinated with history. )

"The way I understand it, a job is something you do, forced by necessity, but not something a person is naturally inclined to, correct? Consider the trials and tribulations of Job from the Bible, and you have it, in a nutshell. Poor Sisyphus on his mountain, day in, day out."

"But whatever happened to calling? I'd prefer that to a job."

The distinction is fleeting, though, the lines blurry. Cesare weaves his fingers around one knee and remembers the grey afternoons of Romagna, himself buried under mountains of paperwork - dispatches, administrative documents, topics so sensitive he couldn't even trust Agapito, his private secretary with them. For a while he dug and delved into those. It was better than seeing Miquel's pale face, wan and drawn, betraying the sickness they shared. Better to bury himself in work, draw up maps, marshal his troups, ride out and inspect the battlements.

"Because a calling is something you can't help, see? A lightning stroke from above, a benediction, a course set for you." He nods gravely. "What could I do but follow my star? Indeed, what can I do? When it's my calling to rule? Retreat to my country villa and tend to the vines while there are decisions to be made?"

***

Leave him be, Miquel pleaded. Send him back to Napoli. Alfonso is a limp-wristed pretty-boy; he poses no threat. Let him go, Cesare.

And allow him to drum up the Sforza and all of Aragon? I don't think so. Cesare crossed his arms, set his jaw.

It will kill Lucrezia. She's grown fond of him.

Ah. If there was any pain in Miquel's voice, then he hid it well. Then she'll have to grow fond of someone else, I suppose. Cesare smirked. Thinking of applying for the position as her sweetheart?

Cruel. That had been cruel. Miquel's face shut and smoothed itself into something noncommittal. Your orders, Excellency, he said. Not a question, more of a statement, and anything but deferential.

You know them. Just do your job.

Kouma Sensou (War of the Monster's Fall)

He's been lashed--verbally, and with salted rope and with white holy fire--for this one. Which is monstrous unfair, anyway you look at it, ahaha, monstrous, get it? Guard, they said. Not the job of a Priest, really, not even here, where mostly it means seneschal, but they were stretched tight, and he'd by the Eyes guarded! All those beautiful, righteous, golden-shining flying lizards, those overbearing philocidal genocides, trying to ambush his new home at four in the morning... And this after doing a job on the first one whose thoroughness he can admire with his new detachment, but still has no desire to see repeated. ( This time, he was determined, they wouldn't just do as they pleased. )

The responses this month have been incredible. <3
(this one originally posted to voices, but fits this prompt, too. vOv)

Back when Iago was a soldier, the career he'd chosen and worked at since his youth, he knew he was on the path to success. In the six years between his enlistment and earning his commission, his rise had been meteoric, his talents recognized and valued. And even after the promotion that turned out to be a complete dead end, he worked at his soldier’s duties with relish, seeing his actions accomplish results that were visible and tangible and well-rewarded.

There was no pleasure in being home for him, not then, when he was ever in the taverns or on the canals or in his general’s house. His life was on duty. To return to his house was to return to a wife he disliked and an endless time of waiting for the next time he would be called upon to leave. He always left before called for. Even in the rare moments when his presence was no help to his general’s business he saw to his general’s pleasure … and now, looking back, Iago sometimes half-envies himself that life, of success and achievement, recognition, status, a soldier’s career.

But now he knows how limited it was, how many joys he never knew.

He’s turned taverner now, and however little he thought of it when he worked for someone else, now there is a pleasure in the hundred little tasks. He’s his own master, sets his own hours. He works with time to talk to his patrons and to play with his daughter, and though this is a stepping stone to nothing, it has its own satisfaction.

And now he knows what a pleasure it is to leave work for home, a home of one’s choosing, a home his lover is creating around them with his own beloved hands. And again he has the pleasure of leaving that home in the morning with the person whose company he would rather know than any other’s.

Watching Xellos come into their room with a basket of laundry balanced on his hip for Iago to help fold. Bringing him small gifts of live herbs to grow in their windows. Taking him to bed tired from their day in the occupation they share. Rising again in the morning to their daughter leaping onto the bed.

It’s not a career as such, Iago often thinks. But the thought doesn’t bother him a bit, and he contrives to pass by the grill and give Xellos a kiss, to ruffle Dora’s hair where she’s perched at the bar with her crayons. Being a taverner with a spouse and a child is no career at all. And he wouldn’t give it up were he offered every other thing in the world.

Rincewind draws a finger idly through a puddle of condensation on the bar. “They best job I ever had,” he recalls rather dreamily, “was as an assistant librarian. ( An ape’s Number Two )

The Joker's brain was Very Busy (was there ever a time when it wasn't running at least two conversations and a few jokes and a blueprint for a masterpiece of chaos?).

He was pacing the empty warehouse on the edge of town (and just WHY does evey town have one or more abandoned warehouse? It's perfect of course, but really, they might as well post a "Villians Lair for Steal" sign out front and EXPECT the bad guys to move in. Everyone is always so surprised, like "Wow, we never thought to look HERE for the criminals!". Hmmm, villians realty...that had possibilities...no, no, it didn't, but it WAS funny.)

Gotham had been a GREAT place to work. But it was time for a change, time for a break from the Bat. Give the city time to recover and go back to a false sense of security.

( Hard Work )

This month's topic is jobs!

What do you want to be? What have you been? Have you had any really brilliant jobs? Or yucky ones? Do you have a job here in Margate or do you want one?


Responses to this topic, as usual, get posted to the community by your character. Please use the appropriate tags, including the new one of "jobs".