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“You, up there: I hate you waking and sleeping. I will hate and curse you in the hour of my death. I will hate and curse you from my grave, and it will be your children and your children’s children who will have to bear my curse. I have no other weapon against you but this curse, I know that it withers the heart of him who utters it, I do not know if I will survive your downfall. But this I know, that a man must hate this Germany with all his heart if he really loves it. I would ten times rather die than see you triumph.”

“You uppity, arrogant idiots seem to be under the impression I’ve survived this long by some kind of luck, but let me inform you to the truth that not one of you want to admit. I’ve survived through my own skills, the same ones that let me and my so-called ‘useless magic’ bury two blades into your chest before you could cast anything past a pathetic fireball spell.” - Julian”

“You use a glass mirror to see your face; you use works of art to see your soul.”

“You use words like 'introvert' and 'extrovert,' various traits of a personality. A lot of that stuff, we used in drama school, and that was kind of interesting, to realize my teachers sort of ripped off a lot of Jung. And how much of it is part of our society now, these phrases, introvert and extrovert, where it actually came from.”

“You used me. Seduced me. Fucked me to get what you wanted. All these months, you made me think--- God, I'm such an idiot!--- you had me believing you actually loved me! And now you claim some shit went down with ghosts and a veil and you're blaming me for it? And--- and Frankie? Who's dead, by the way, so I'm not exactly sure how he figures. That about sum it up?" "That's not fair." She felt like she was falling. "Something did go down. I saw them. I do love you." "Bullshit." He stood up, everything itching inside, that sick sensation like he was about to hurl. "You love not being Hungry. You love yourself. You love that you can hitch a ride to the Afterlife whenever you feel like taking off my pants." "No! Konstantin, that isn't--- that might be how it started, but it isn't how it stayed! I fell for you. It would have been so much easier if I hadn't." "Glad we're just doing what's easy now." He walked around the station, angry-clearing plates. The glasses of champagne. He needed to move. To keep busy. To not look at her. Maura steadied herself on the edge of the counter, the steel a block of ice beneath her grip. "It wasn't easy. Any of it. I'd give anything to take it back." It was hard to breathe; she couldn't get enough air. "The Hunger... it took so much from me---" Konstantin slapped a wet kitchen towel down, the sound so loud it made her jump. "Yeah? As much as tasting the Dead for a couple decades? Or thinking you're insane every time some mystery flavor appeared? And let's not even talk about my assorted paranoias and trust issues. But hey, you're the only one who's ever suffered, right? At least you know what you did to deserve it. My mouth just happened to be me.”

“You used to be optimistic. You used to think that whatever we did would turn out well. Even after we came back from the north, you used to think that. Now you're cautious, you're anxious… You're pessimistic." She knew he was right, but it wasn't right that he should speak to her accusingly, as if it was something to blame her for. "I used to be young," was all she could find to say.”

“You used to have to make a choice. Is it a serialized television show, or is it a stand-alone or procedural? We were wildly influenced by The X-Files. Even when we created Fringe, it was the same thing. It's the gold standard of all gold standards, in genre television, and it was so wonderful because you felt so much for those characters.”

“You used to scare me, Draven,” I whispered, skimming my fingers over the back of his neck. He was quiet for a moment. “I know. But I was never your prison. Never your captor. All I've ever wanted was to be your protector. Your sanctuary.” My heart flipped over in my chest. Draven reached out a hand and caressed my hair. “I saw you, and I wanted to consume you. Like a fire that would only burn for me.”

“You used to sit like this and tell me stories about my great-great-grandmother, the one who killed scorpions with her bare heels and slit the throats of the goats on Eid. You and Teta Badra before you and Teta's mother before her—my great-grandmother Wafaa, daughter of the scorpion-killer—you were the bearers of bravery in our family. You were the one who fought to save the neighborhood I'm now sneaking into to paint each night. But you failed to realize that America has only ever deemed certain heritages worth preserving.”