There’s a range of things to pull from this: be brave in the face of death, be brave for other people, be brave enough to go for someone you love, be brave enough to sacrifice yourself, be brave after loss, be brave in the face of your enemies, be brave in social situations, be brave of your abilities. Just be brave.
[Edited by me and my sister. We put as many fandoms in as we could manage.]
okay no but what made me start crying
was that it basically sounded like all of those characters and people were saying
“I miss the good old days, where you could state an opinion without someone getting offended,” says the older relative’s shared meme, with a random picture of Donald Duck.
“Just be polite and don’t offend people,” I respond, because it’s an easy, free solution.
“That’s the point,” replies the relative, even though it isn’t at all.
“Not really,” I counter, genuinely confused. “This doesn’t promote being polite, it mourns the days before ‘PC culture.’”
Someone else swoops in, a stranger to me but a friend or relation to the relative. “It is absolutely saying you should be polite,” she objects. “But that people these days just have a thinner skin! It isn’t at all suggesting what you say it does!”
“Why,” I ask, “do they need thick skin, if you aren’t saying something offensive?”
The outrage! The insult! That I would suggest that these people missing the days “when they could state an opinion without someone taking offense” in fact miss being able to unapologetically say rude things without consequences…is so ~offensive~! They must express how offended they are at my suggestion of being polite and considerate! They must let me know how offensive it is to suggest they hadn’t been! Don’t I know people these days just have thin skin? So easily offended! It isn’t /their/ fault! The skin! It’s so thin! So thin that polite words tear bleeding wounds, and how can you navigate a world like that?
And I am confused, still, because I have encountered many humans, and they do not all bleed so easily. You just try to be polite, to refrain from speaking from a place of ignorance, and apologize if you misstep. But I have noticed a pattern… That those who complain loudest about others being easily offended, have themselves skin like onion paper.
Mycroft and Sherlock? Mycroft is the one in the back…..best moment at ca. 5 secs….;-)!!!!
He is so annoyed by his little brother … but you can also see how much they like each other!
Mycroft’s briefcase hits the floor of his dimly-lit kitchen with a thump. His phone is in his hand, already dialling the number that means emergency response team, now –
“No no no no wait!” A cacophany of different voices, mostly loud and American, try to restrain him. “We’re here from your brother! Your brother and Anthea.”
Adrenaline runs, hot and demanding, down Mycroft’s spine. “Sherlock – Anthea – this is my flat – who the –”
“Henny, please, breathe,” says a tall, sweet-faced man with long shining hair. He’s wearing a grey jersey dress, a denim shirt, and ankle boots with a chunky heel. He steps forward and puts his hand on Mycroft’s arm. “We do not need to start this with a heart attack. Come and sit –”
Mycroft shakes him off. “Explain this intrusion, now. Please bear in mind that I can have several teams of fully-armed and highly-trained agents here in under two minutes. I advise you to speak quickly.”
“Oh, baby,” purrs the man, tucking his arm under Mycroft’s. His accent has shifted to a Southern American drawl. “They told me you were a James Bond, and I will be your Bond girl, if you want me. I look damn good in a bikini.”
Several of the men roll their eyes and smile. A tall, muscled – muscled, oh good Lord – black man steps forward, his manner cool and confident. He holds out a hand. “I’m Karamo. And we’re the Fab Five.”
Mycroft blinks. He does not take the proffered hand. “I have so far heard nothing which will prevent me from having you escorted from the premises.”
“The Fab Five?” says an impeccably-groomed young man with soft, sweet brown eyes and a delicate, clean-cut jaw. Mycroft tries very hard not to be reminded of Detective Inspector Lestrade. “From Queer Eye?”
Mycroft simply raises one eyebrow. The effect is utterly spoiled by the man holding his arm, who moans theatrically and leans in close. “Do that again, honey. Do it all night, for me.”
A small man with bright silver-grey hair steps forward, and again Mycroft’s thoughts flick to Lestrade. He, too, holds out his hand, and this time Mycroft dazedly takes it. “Queer Eye, the TV programme,” says the man, and his voice is different: British, Pakistani heritage, if Mycroft is not mistaken. “On Netflix. Your brother signed you up for it.”
Mycroft shakes his head. “I cannot – I work for –”
“Mmmm,” purrs the man holding his arm, leaning his head against Mycroft’s shoulder. “Don’t worry, we know you’re a spy. We have been told.”He mimics an appalling British accent on the last few words.
The British man smiles. “I’m Tan. Your – Anthea replied to us when the show tried to contact you to get consent. I don’t think your brother had anticipated that process. She told us that we couldn’t – for obvious reasons – film you.”
“But,” says Karamo, with a calm smile, “she did say you need some help. She made a very generous donation to the show, in return for which, Netflix were happy to fly us over here a week before our British Edition dates were due to start.”
