#*breaks a table two chairs one window and no less than twelve lamps*

[wilsonthemoose]

Well, as fate would have it, I adopted two boys, and they grew up great. They grew up heroes. Dean and Garth.

[leslie057]

From the one-word prompt list, I'd love to see áoyè about Nancy Wheeler.

Sorry this took me forever. What started off as a short au became a twelve page gdoc. Anyway, enjoy whatever this is.

áoyé: to pull an all-nighter

______

Her vision unfocuses as she stares at the thin sheet of paper in her lap, its soft fibres worn from her scrubbing and scrubbing at it, white shreds of eraser left behind as proof of her absolute hopelessness. 

She can’t think, she can’t write. She can't begin to understand why her professor assigned a seven page paper in the last week of school.

What she does know is her current arrangement isn’t working, and she desperately needs a change of scenery. It’s not like she will be sleeping tonight, anyway. 

She scoops one or two books up into an arm and stuffs her pencil into the front of her khaki shorts, tucked into the leftover space of the button loop. Passing by the Panasonic on her way out, she pushes down on the pause button, killing the guitar strums of a Stevie Nicks single. 

Outside, it’s pitch black. She wanders more than she walks along the pavement, making slow movements. Partly because she doesn’t want to get back to work and partly because it feels so nice out. It’s a hot May night but there’s wind coming through, and she assumes it’s the kind of night where every couple in the city is down by the woods or something. Sacrificing privacy to hook up at the lake. 

And here she is. Sacrificing her sanity.

When she finally reaches the student union, she pulls open the heavy door and walks inside. It's dark except for a few dull banker’s lamps, and she thinks it’s unusual (but not a bad thing) that she has the building all to herself.

She comes to a second door, the one leading to a hall of meeting rooms. It’s a practiced routine of hers. Go down and take a right, then the next right, and find the first room on the left. It’s by far the widest room and it has the nicest seats, a big ceiling fan, the most windows. Only she can’t get to the hall. When she pulls on the handle, the heavy wood doesn’t budge.

She tries the door across from it and has no luck there, either.

Hugging her papers to her chest, she turns to examine the main area. Far away, just against the back wall, someone is sitting in a chair. It’s at a diagonal, so she would almost be able to make out his profile, but his back is facing her. 

“Hey,” she calls out, “do you know why these doors are locked?”

The silhouette doesn’t acknowledge her, instead bowing his head. He’s concentrating on something. 

“Hey!” she near-shouts, frustration helping her voice catch hold. 

He leans back in his chair, tipping his head to one side. As if he doesn’t have time for her. Doesn’t care about her multi page paper (which is a rough draft at best and worked around a thesis that she just feels like scrapping altogether, but that’s beside the point). 

With a dramatic huff, she’s leaving. She would rather go back to being cooped up in her room than stay here with some jackass—and not even in her favorite study place. 

Though, dramatics usually get her nowhere. As she rounds the corner, forcefully tugging her bag’s strap higher up her shoulder, the heavy thing in question swings over a table, wiping it clean of a lamp. With the help of her hip, it knocks down some books off the edge, too. No, not books. Textbooks.

The large space echoes with thuds and sounds of breaking glass.

“Shit,” she hisses and crouches down. She drops her bag and papers, beginning to fill her arms up with the books. She deposits them onto the shelving unit and returns to the mess below, bright shards of glass sprinkled across the floor. 

She tries to sweep up the pieces into her hand and then hears it: “Hey, you okay?”

From the entrance, she watches the silhouette become less of one, soft yellow light starting to show his features to her while he approaches.

Upon recognizing him, the anger crackling under her skin immediately cools. 

“Jonathan?”

“Hey, Nancy,” he says and kneels beside her.

With a palmful of glass, she freezes. Gapes at him like he’s an alien as he helps clean up. She’s always known he was at IU but never actually seen him here.

The last time they spoke was senior year, but they first met a long time ago. Kindergarten, even. She can’t remember a time when they weren’t in each other’s orbit, but she also doesn’t know if there was ever a point where they could have become friends. He isolated himself. Even more so after his brother got sick. He loved to be alone. She knew that much. 

Still, she had a small obsession with him then. She went through a few boyfriends in high school, but she never felt a gravitation towards them that paralleled the unduly strong feelings she held for him. An effective stranger. 

For years, she would take the seat behind him in the honors classes they shared and let her imagination run. She would study his movements, memorize his clothing, wonder about the late nights he spent with Will in the hospital. Ache to look through his photographs and get a taste of his personality, which he kept so deeply hidden. There had to be something he liked apart from being by himself. 

For years, imagining was enough. Sort of. 

But she hasn’t stopped thinking about him. Even if they have no classes together in college. 

How could the jackass who just ignored her be the sweet guy she thought Jonathan Byers was? She figures she should give him a hard time. So much for crushes.

Dropping some triangles of glass into the trash, she says, “Look, it’s nice and all, but I really don’t need your help.”

“Oh. Sorry, I just thought—”

“Which you know, I don’t know why you didn’t want to offer me any help before. It’s not like it would have been that much trouble,” she grumbles.

“What?” 

“We don’t need to pretend to be friendly now, though. It’s never been that way, anyway.” Her motions turn careless because of her temper, and she cuts her palm on the glass. Red trickles down her hand. She curses aloud. 

“Woah, uh...do you...should I find the first aid kit or something?” 

She rises from the mostly clean floor, and he copies her, broad brows knitted together. She gathers her things and delights in shunning him.

“Okay, um. I’m just gonna go back to studying then. I’m really sorry for...I don’t know, exactly.”

She rolls her eyes, wiping blood onto her recently bought shirt before she can think it through. He starts to walk away when she spies something on the table. 

“Forgot your walkman, genius.” 

He spins around, making the realization. Ready to get back to her room, she pushes on the door’s crash bar with her shoulder and takes no notice of the thanks he mutters. 

Then something clicks in her brain.

“Oh, my god,” she blurts. She eases off the door, causing it to slam back into its frame loudly.

“What now?” he says, letting irritation rough up his voice a little. 

“Did you,” she gestures to the headphones, “have those in earlier?”

“Are you mad at me for that, too?”

Her heart’s in her stomach, heavy and hard. “No! No, I’m so sorry. When I came in, I was just asking you why all the doors were locked. I didn’t realize you couldn’t hear me, I thought you were...being an asshole.” 

“Oh.”

“Fuck, I’m…embarrassed. I’m really sorry.”

“It’s okay,” he shrugs, headphones around his neck, “there are some rooms on the third floor that are never locked. If you want, I can show you.” 

She agrees, planning to be as polite as she can be now that she’s made such a horrific first impression. She’s not as insecure as her teenage self, but every time she slips up these days, it’s hard to quiet the voice in her head telling her she’s not sophisticated, mature, sweet enough. It sounds a lot like her mother. Nasal and feminine and critical.

This is why she never goes home.

She steps over to the elevator a few feet away, and when he stands next to her, she finds she’s nervous. 

“So what’s keeping you up?” she asks tentatively.

Attention on his white high-tops, he deliberates the answer for a second. “It’s my final. Nursing science.” 

Jonathan? In the medical field? That’s news to her, but intriguing news. She’s barely visited Hawkins in the past two years, and she considers it beneath her dignity to hound Mike with questions about his friend’s big brother. But she’s offended by the fact that she doesn’t get updates and never has. 

She buries her slight shock and walks inside. “That’s cool,” she says. 

“What about you?”

“I have an essay. For my english class. It was assigned Monday and it’s, like, 4000 words so...I’m going a little crazy

“Wow,” he breathes and shifts his weight, “I definitely couldn’t do that.” 

“Don’t like writing?”

“Not really.”

“Yeah, I get it. For me, it’s just the only way I can really clear my head. I like how it makes you sort your thoughts and everything. I have a lot of those. But, this week, we had no time to think about the paper really, so it’s stressful. And, you know, my mom didn’t even want me to go to college. Then I got a scholarship, and she stopped forcing her opinion on me. So...I’m here. English is my major, but I have no idea what kind of job I’ll really want later. All I know is this paper is so big but, for some reason, I see no incentive for finishing it…”

Before she can continue, they hear a creaking noise, or crunching, like metal parts rubbing against each other. “That doesn’t...sound right,” she states the obvious. 

“No,” he says.

“We stopped.”

“...yeah.”

“Why did we stop? Are we even on the 3rd floor? Shouldn’t—”

“Just,” he presses down on the open door button and holds it, “hold on.”

She takes a deep breath and gingerly places her notebook on the floor. She knows talking would keep her calm, but she’s already said so much. For every dozen words that leave her mouth, it’s like he only has one to say. He’s concise. Quiet. Maybe that doesn’t have to do with her, but how can she be sure? 

“It’s not working?” she asks before she can help it.

“No. I actually...I don’t know, maybe we’re between floors.”

“Oka-ay,” she says and crosses her arms. Leans her weight on the panels behind her. While he experiments with the various call buttons, a bell begins to ring. A good sign. She takes the opportunity to really look at him. 

He’s how she remembers him mostly. Tall but not overly so. Kind of thin. His hair isn't much shorter but styled a little differently. It’s a tidy mess on his head, hanging over his forehead a bit but not in his eyes. It swoops to one side, long on top, less long on the sides and tapers into a short tail of hair at the nape of his neck that she wants to touch. His eyebrows are sharp, his jaw even sharper. But as for his eyes, that’s a different story. There’s a softness there, like his lips. His lips have interested her since the tenth grade. 

Speaking of, his shirt she recognizes from high school. A dark blue one, and it may fit tighter than it used to, but she won’t complain. His jeans are not so familiar but look worn and grey. It works on him, and he looks really nice. He is really nice. However, she’s a horrible person. At least that’s the reputation she’s just made for herself.

Over the speaker, a woman’s voice finally comes through between the machine’s hisses. “You’ve reached emergency services.”

“Hi, uh, we’re in the student center at IU and our elevator is...stuck, I think it’s...it may be stopped between floors. But it could just be the doors, though.”

“Okay, at the university you said?” 

“Yeah, Indianapolis.”

The operator asks him a few questions, tells him she’ll call to get a technician to them, then: “It should be within the next hour or so.”

With a confused expression, he glances at her, and she’s being pulled back down to earth. Did she just say an hour?

“O...kay. Um, thank you, then,” he manages without sounding too startled. 

The speaker’s fizzing fades, leaving them in silence. 

“Why would you say that?!”

“Say what?”

She groans and sits down on the floor. “You were way too nice to her.”

He follows, but doesn’t get close, sitting with one leg bent. “I don’t know what you would have wanted me to say to her.” 

“That it’s...you know, it’s bullshit,” her tone playfully edges on hysterical, “and if it’s gonna take over an hour to get a technician to us, he’d better be like the best fucking technician in the world or...Tom Cruise. I don’t know.” That pulls a soft laugh from him and then from her. 

“Next time maybe you should do the talking.”

“That’s all I’m saying,” she says, teasing more. “Hey, I’m sorry again for earlier. I didn’t mean to lash out at you. I’m not usually like that. I promise I’m not.”

“You already apologized. It’s okay.” 

“This week has made me crazy.”

Absentmindedly, he plays with his walkman, tracing the edges with his fingertips. “Well, you have your paper with you, at least.”

“Oh, no,” she frowns, “you don’t have your stuff to study with. I’m sorry, this is all my fault.”

“No, it’s not. Besides, I’ve been studying for hours. I think I tend to overdo it. Because of nerves, I guess.”

She drags her notebook into her lap. “Why are you so nervous?” 

He presses his lips together into a fine line, works his jaw. “It’s…I just need my GPA as high as it can be. And classes like these—I need to have impressive grades in them. Really impressive. It’s the only way I’ll get into a good program.” 

She flips until she finds the page she’s looking for, taking a moment to glance at him shyly from beneath her thin bangs. “Nursing program?”

“Yeah.”

She hums. “What about your camera?”

He finally looks at her, so she doesn’t hide. Doesn’t look away. Something about his eyes staying on her awakens the long dormant swarm of butterflies at the pit of her stomach, and they’re flitting around everywhere now. Reaching as high as her heart and her neck, even. 

“What about it?”

“Come on, I know how good you are at taking pictures.”

“I couldn’t for a job,” he says, cautious. “Besides, I’ve been around a sick person my whole life. I guess this feels like the natural thing for me.” 

“Well, what about med school? You might as well go all the way and be a doctor,” she jokes. 

“No, I couldn’t. Med school is, um, not something I can do.” There’s obviously a story there. Against temptation, she won’t pry. They technically just met. Well, not at all. Kind of.

With an impatient sigh, she checks her watch. 1:00 am. “How long do you think we’ve been in here?”

He turns his own wrist as she had. “...it’s been four minutes.” He says it almost apologetically. 

God, four minutes can stretch itself out to go on for miles when you don’t know someone enough that silence is comfortable but feel like you would enjoy hours of silence if it meant being next to them. Come to think of it, she is enjoying this a little bit too much. She can think of worse people to be stuck in a tiny room with. 

She swallows her pride and shoves a paper at him. “Read this,” she orders. 

While he begins to gently decline, she picks up his walkman. “Come on, even if you don’t like to write, you’ll be able to tell me if it’s shit or not.” She tugs the cassette out of the tape deck. “What do you have on this?” 

“It-it’s written on there.” 

Ceremony- New Order

Warszawa- David Bowie 

Lazy Calm- Cocteau Twins

Nocturnal Me- Echo and the Bunnymen

Perfect Circle- R.E.M

Stories of Old- Depeche Mode

She knows a few of the bands, knows of Bowie for sure. But the songs themselves, like him, are a mystery.

It can’t be worse than when her last boyfriend put ‘Like a Virgin’ on a tape for them to have sex to. 

She unplugs the headphones and hits play. He looks troubled, frankly, that she would touch his player—or listen to it, for that matter. Yet he says nothing, silently reading through her work. 

The first song is resonant and one that she deems sad though there is nothing inherently bleak about it. It’s compelling either way; what’s also compelling are the visions she gets of him listening to it and the ideas that branch off from there. Does he ever have it on when he’s driving? Where does he drive to? Maybe home on the weekends or maybe places she has no clue exist. Does he listen in the shower? She doesn’t ever have her stereo on for that, but she has decided something about this music makes it a good companion to hot mist and soapy skin and...now she’s only thinking of him in the shower.

She has never had such indecent thoughts about a stranger before. 

Though ‘stranger’ is starting to strike her as the wrong word for him. Her attraction to him doesn’t flow from someplace random. They may not be close, but she’s learned some things about him over the years. If anything, he is magnetic because of how much he cares about things. How loyal he is to his family and how he protects them. If there’s another living person who loves as cosmically as him, she completely doubts it.

A paper being placed in her hands hauls her head from the clouds.

“I can’t believe you can write like that.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. I like to read, but I would read more if everything was yours. If it sounded like that.”

She can practically feel the deep shade of pink spreading over her face. “You know, I was hoping for some actual criticism.”

“I’m really not the person for that, Nancy.”

“Come on, there has to be something.”

He slides his player closer to himself, lowering the volume some. “There’s nothing.”

She shrugs her cardigan off, a light coat of sweat on her bare shoulders. “Let me get this straight. You’re studying to be a nurse, and you have nothing to say about my paper on the connection between physical health and mental health.”

“I don’t know, maybe you misspelled ‘psychiatric.’”

She shakes her head fondly. “You’re impossible. Has anyone ever told you that?”

“Will does.”

Her flirtatious smile fades into something tamer. His body has tensed up. She knows she shouldn’t stare, but she can’t stop looking at him. His presence is hypnotic almost. His dark eyes won’t land on her. Eventually, she speaks. “How is he?”

“He’s not doing any worse, which is good. He’s not doing better. But he’s not doing worse.”

There’s a different kind of tension between them now. She’s getting the strangest urge to reach over and hug him. To distract herself, she picks up her sweater from her lap and begins folding it, hand brushing his for a second. The pads of her fingers are electrified. Suddenly she gets an idea that is either dumb or really dumb. Unsure if she’s about to overstep a line, she winces at herself. God, this paper is not going to write itself.

“Would you...mind if I used him in my essay? As an example? I mean, if not, I understand. But I would really love to hear more about him.”

______

They talk for a long time about Will. She learns so much. So much that her own brother could have told her, had she asked. She learns that last year, on his birthday, the doctors said he might not live to be older than thirty. She learns that his condition is so rare and complicated that scientists are trying to develop an entirely new medicine for it. 

Before she knows it, she has two pages of notes written, front and back. 

“Look at this,” she laughs quietly and flips her papers over so he can see how much she wrote. The black cursive letters are smudged and running into each other. “It really is so amazing. Your brother’s story. More than I ever realized.”

“Yeah,” he agrees. As he takes a deep breath, she feels the warm air on her neck. Were they sitting this close before?

“Not that it’s a story. Sorry, I didn’t mean to say it like that. But he is amazing.”

“I know what you meant.” His voice is low, serious. She didn’t make him upset, did she?

“And thank you, so much. This is definitely going to save my grade.”

He moves his walkman to the other side of him, music still playing low and slow. If she scooted over just a few inches, her knee might touch him. “Well, I should thank you, too. I don’t really ever talk about this stuff with anyone. It’s not as hard as I thought.”

He doesn’t talk about it with anyone. Anyone but her. Should that make her feel special? Because it really really does. There are other things she wishes he would do with her and not anyone else. “Maybe we could do this again sometime, then.” She crosses her arms over herself and looks away. She’s sweaty but slightly cold, and there is the weirdest burning sensation building in her middle. It’s probably because she needs sleep. Or because they’re running out of oxygen. Or she’s already fallen in love with him. One of the three.

“Do this again?”

“Oh, well,” she messes with her hair, “not exactly this.”

“Yeah. Not this.”

His response confuses her. The way he says it. Is he uncomfortable? Waiting to get away from her? As if he notices her offense, he explains himself. “I mean, I’m just sick of being stuck like this.”

She still has nothing to say. All she can think of is how attracted she is to him and how scared she is of what he’s attempting to tell her. 

“Not...stuck with you. Um, well, I am stuck with you—we are—but sick. I’m not sick of you.” 

It’s stupid, but her feelings are hurt. She can’t tell if he’s nervous or feels bad for her, trying to cover what he said. When they do finally get out of the elevator, what if he never speaks to her again? She can’t help but think he might believe the rumors about her from high school. That she’s slutty, shallow, that she can’t—

Why is he right next to her? She’s just turned her head and he’s there. Right there, his nose a few inches away from hers. Gasping, she looks to his mouth. His lip trembles just barely. Her heart seems to stop working for a moment, clogged with fresh, strong, warm anticipation. 

In a whisper, he finishes his thought. “I’m not sick of you.” 

The second his fingers touch her jaw, she shivers, closing the distance between them before it kills her. She leans the side of her head on the wall behind them, breathing heavy as he gently draws her lip into his inviting mouth. They stay like that for a moment, to preserve the initial frailty that a first kiss has. When he does finally pull back she can tell shame is welling up in him. 

“I shouldn’t have—”

She doesn’t let him voice his concerns. There’s no reason for it. Instead, she grabs his wrists tight, forcing his hands to remain on her flushed face. She kisses him like she’s confident, even if she’s not. As surprised as she is about it all, there is no part of her that wants to stop. She can question it later, psychoanalyze their encounter like she does everything else in her life. 

For now, she has what she wants. She shouldn’t have prepared herself for the worst.

She pushes her loose leaf paper from her lap, shifting on the hard floor to get rid of the awkward space between their hips. She keeps shoving her knee at his thigh, unable to get close. She decides the only way to be comfortable is to be in front of him, not beside him. When she traps him between her legs, pressing in on both sides of his waist, it’s like she does it every day. He does not appear to be scared, but a little confused nonetheless. To slow her down, he lets his large palm come down on her shoulder. He pulls up the thin strap of her shirt from where it had fallen down and leans his warm forehead on hers. 

As they take each other in, one thing is clear: neither of them are usually the type to go around kissing people in elevators. 

But today, they feel different. 

“I had no idea you liked me,” she says and cards her hand through his hair. It tickles her cut.

“I was trying to forget that I did.”

She kisses him again, hooking his top lip with her tongue, then biting it softly. She’s so red in the face, but it’s worth it, and she hasn’t scared him off yet. Which is what she thought would happen if she got too close to Jonathan Byers. “You’re starting to remember?”

He nods carefully. The back of his hand grazes her side.

Pulling all-nighters never used to be so eventful for her.

And when the technician does get there, she almost leaves her essay inside, too distracted by her new friend to realize the reason she was up so late in the first place.

[anistarrose]

To See The Unseen - Ch. 4 (Gravity Falls)

Summary: The kids embark on a quest to take back the mirror, and Stan embarks on a quest to find his brother. Neither goes quite according to plan.

Warnings: canon-typical violence

AO3: archiveofourown.org/works/20884673/chapters/50514815

Remember when I said last chapter had changed the most from the outline? This chapter has it beat by a pretty large margin, but I’m so glad it changed because I feel like it really went from good to great.

***

Come on, Ford, where are you…

Moving scenes flickered by Stan, like a projector wheel was whirring and spinning inside his head. Gilled alien children, playing in an underwater kelp forest. A group of humanoid beings celebrating as a sleek rocket ship lifted off in front of them.

A city burning. A smaller town rebuilding. A man offering a few scraps of food to a stray dog. Two chimeras with bat wings and scorpion stingers, chasing each other across a starlit desert sky.

Yet for all their diversity, none of the scenes showed anyone resembling Ford.

He’s got to be out here somewhere. I would feel it if anything happened to him, I’m sure I would —

A long-abandoned space station colliding with a comet. A small family carrying potted flowers up a massive, barren mountain. A world teeming with insects and arachnids, associating into families and societies and nations. A perfectly clear ocean, eerily empty for miles in every direction.

There are too many places he could be, Stan realized. I need to see more.

I need to see everything.

The images blurred together as Stan’s head spun faster and faster, but the universe resisted becoming known, writhing and shrinking away from him.

I NEED TO SEE EVERYTHING. I NEED TO SEE MY BROTHER.

The projector whirring intensified to a dull roar, as Stanley Pines grabbed existence by the throat and stared at it dead in its eyes.

***

“Shoulda figured the gate would be closed,” Wendy grumbled as they approached Northwest Mansion.

“Well, time to make Stan proud, then.” Dipper pulled a small crossbow out of his backpack, and fired off a few shots. The first bolt sailed harmlessly over the fence, but the second flew true and impaled itself in the security camera, spinning it around so that it pointed away from his party. “You want to lead the way, Mabel?”

“Sure do!” Mabel expertly scaled the gate with her grappling hook, then tossed it through a gap in the bars for Dipper to follow with. “If Pacifica asks, we’ll just tell her that we got lost in tunnels that mole people dug under the fence.”

Wendy shook her head. “First grappling hooks in the gift shop, and now crossbows in the closet? We need to get Stan back just so I can yell at him about leaving weapons where you kids can find them.”

“Hey, you carry an axe everywhere!” Dipper shot back as he landed on the other side of the wall, passing the grappling hook through the gate one last time. “And you’ve got to admit, these weapons come in handy all the time.”

Wendy shrugged. “Yeah, but I’m not a kid. I’m a responsible teenager.”

“That’s an oxymoron and we all know it,” Dipper told her as they set off towards the mansion.

“Less of an oxymoron than ‘responsible twelve-year old’ would be.”

“Shh, guys!” Mabel motioned towards a guard rounding the corner, and the three of them ducked into the bushes. Once he’d passed them by, they sprinted towards the front door, only to stand there awkwardly for a moment, unsure of how to proceed.

“Do we… just ring the doorbell?” Wendy asked. “It feels kinda anticlimactic after doing all this cool heist stuff.”

“Is it unlocked?” Dipper gave the door an experimental push, and sure enough, it slid open, revealing a grand ballroom lit by dozens of crystal chandeliers. “I guess we should just head in.”

“Aww, lots of cute animals!” Mabel exclaimed, rushing over to the nearest taxidermied squirrel. “And they must’ve been even more adorable when you were alive — weren’t you, Mister Fluffytail?”

“Why is there so much gravel on the floor?” Wendy muttered, kicking around a few of the jagged chunks of rock that were scattered across the carpet. “I woulda thought the Northwests would take better care of their stuff…” Her eyes followed the trail of gravel and dust across the ballroom, and up the stairs —

And to the balcony from which two Northwests glared down at them, one of looking far more ghostly and petrified than the other.

“Oh,” Dipper whispered. “So that’s what happened to that statue.”

“Dipper? Mabel?” Pacifica gasped. “What are you doing here?”

“Don’t worry, we had a really good reason for breaking and entering, I promise!” Mabel spoke up. “See, our grunkle spoke to me in my dreams and said that in order to lift his curse —”

Dipper and Mabel Pines? Nathaniel Northwest asked as his statue form began to rise up off the ground and out past the balcony. Oh, how convenient!

“Uh, excuse me?” Dipper asked. “I’ve never met you before, dude —”

The statue plummeted to the ground, smashing through the floorboards and coming just inches away from crushing Dipper as he jumped to the side.

You don’t even claim to know the very man whose legacy you fouled? I’ve met a lot of petty children in my day, but you put all of them to shame!

“Grandpa, what are you doing?!” Pacifica shrieked, covering her mouth with her hands. “Are you trying to kill him?!”

Nathaniel turned back towards her. Why wouldn’t I try to kill the meddling kids? Is mercilessly eradicating our enemies not the Northwest family modus operandi any longer? I didn’t think times had changed that much!

“No! It’s not! Even my parents or grandparents would never…” Pacifica’s voice trailed off, like she couldn’t help but doubt her own argument.

Oh, dear naïve granddaughter. Nathaniel shook his stone head. I can’t fault you for not knowing all your family’s history yet, but as much as I disagreed with my children, I simply can’t imagine them abandoning such a simple tenet. Nor can I imagine your parents, or your grandparents, or any of your ancestors, for that matter! How do you think we amassed the family fortune in the first place? Because it sure wasn’t by being kind, or charitable, or —

He staggered backwards as Mabel’s grappling hook caught him directly in the chest, and cracks began to spiderweb across his beard.

“That’s what you get for attacking my brother! You dumb old capitalist!”

I am not DUMB! Nathaniel roared. The world tried to suppress my genius!

His beard began to crumble even more, but a whirlwind of black smoke caught the rocky shards and hurled them through the air. Wendy knocked Mabel out of the way with a rolling tackle, then sprung to her feet and raised her axe just in time to deflect Nathaniel’s stone flagpole in place as he swung it at her.

“Pacifica?” Mabel pleaded. “A little help here?!”

“I —” Pacifica took a few hesitant steps down the stairs, and then froze. “I don’t know what to do!”

As Wendy and Nathaniel continued to spar, remaining at more or less a stalemate, Dipper frantically flipped through Journal 3.

“Come on, come on, I know there’s a whole section about ghosts in here somewhere —”

Nathaniel blew a plume of dust in Wendy’s face, but didn’t strike at her even as she began to cough. Instead, he turned to Dipper, and pointed a chipped stone finger towards the ceiling.

Searching for my weakness? Now now, we can’t have that!

Tendrils of smoke wound around the lamps and chandeliers, and their lights faded. Faint sunbeams from an overcast sky still poured into the mansion through the windows, but as the living combatants’ eyes adjusted, they saw Nathaniel’s statue form collapse to the ground, no longer possessed. His smoke-black, ghostly form was nowhere to be seen.

“Gah, it’s too dark!” Wendy cried, wiping dust away from her face. “I can’t see where he went!”

Mabel poked the lightbulb on her sweater. “Don’t worry guys, I got this!”

But nothing happened, even as she kept poking it more and more frantically. “Oh no! I must’ve ran out the batteries while we were in the bunker!”

“Look out!” Dipper shouted, and Mabel narrowly dodged a chair flung at her from behind. She whirled around and fired her grappling hook in the direction it had been thrown from, but it just harmlessly bounced off the edge of a table.

Nathaniel’s voice boomed from all around them. A lot harder to hide when you can’t see who’s attacking you, isn’t it?

Wendy picked up the same chair that Nathaniel had thrown, diving in front of Dipper and using it to shield them from a volley of broken lamps and shattered glass. “I don’t know, we still seem to be doing pretty well for ourselves!”

Nathaniel laughed. And I can’t wait to see how long you’re able to keep that up! It’s a good think I don’t grow tired like you mortals!

As Dipper, Mabel, and Wendy stood back to back to fend off a barrage of inanimate objects, Pacifica slid down the stairway banister and made a dash for the closest mounted animal — a ten-point buck, hanging on the wall just low enough for her to reach.

“What are you doing?” Dipper yelled as he noticed her pulling out her tweezers. “This is no time for —”

“You can thank me later!” Pacifica shouted back as she plucked a few hairs from the deer’s coat and tossed them into the lantern, then pulled a lighter from her pocket and set the oil ablaze. “Abracadabra!”

The resulting light didn’t quite illuminate the whole ballroom, but still cast a surprisingly far-reaching glow. It turned everything it touched grayscale, except the kids and Wendy, who still looked as brightly colored as ever, and Nathaniel himself — who no longer looked like an amorphous cloud of darkness, but rather an elderly bearded man, floating in the air and glowing a bright, impossible-to-miss shade of blue.

For a few seconds, he just stared at the transparent hands of his true form, until finally his eyes landed on Pacifica, bearing the lantern he himself had created over a century ago.

Young lady, he finally spluttered, what do you think you’re doing?!

Pacifica stared him down.

“I thought you were a kindred spirit,” she began softly. “I thought you were different from all the other Northwests… like me. But you’re really exactly the same as the rest of them after all, and…”

BLASPHEMY!

“And that’s not something I want to have in common with you!”

You want to betray your own ancestor? You want to be disowned?!

Pacifica flinched, her grip on the lantern tightening.

“You go, girl!” Mabel spoke up. “Tell him who’s boss!”

Pacifica whirled around, mouth hanging agape. “You really mean that?”

To her surprise, Dipper cheered her on too. “You heard Mabel! Give him a piece of your mind!”

“You’re not so bad after all, rich girl!” Wendy swung her axe through the air. “Don’t worry, we’ll back you up!”

Pacifica took a deep breath.

You can’t be serious! Nathaniel shouted. My granddaughter would never throw her lot in with you commoners —

“Thanks for letting me know how your lantern worked, Grandpa,” Pacifica interrupted with a smile. “I’m going to help to help these nerds exorcise you now.”

***

A fine mist of subatomic particles condensed on Stan’s glasses, then pooled into iridescent newborn dimensions. They dripped off the glass one by one, and fell into the spiral of foam rotating beneath him, ready to embark on eons-long journeys of existence.

For a fraction of a second, Stan considered looking away, but the thought escaped nearly as quickly as it had occurred to him — after all, he knew in the back of his mind that he wouldn’t be able to tear his eyes away even if he wanted to.

There was such diversity in the structure of the worlds, from the liquid droplets to the solid ice crystals to the bubbles of negative space in the foam. It was so much to take in, so much that you’d think it would destroy the mind of someone like Stan — but if anything, it was a comfort to behold, a reassurance to see how tiny and insignificant every tiny sliver of existence was on its own despite how massive and all-encompassing and significant they all became together.

Do not forget, an echoing voice sung in his ear, that you are also significant all on your own — perhaps not to the grand scheme of existence itself, but certainly to many of the people you share this existence with.

Stan rubbed his head. “Wait, what?”

This place encapsulates everywhere and nowhere, for now and forever. Anyone who can make their way out here, to this place no mortals are meant to see, can surely make a difference in the little droplet of reality they reside in.

“Um… thanks? I guess?”

Stan couldn’t see the entity smile, but he sensed it nonetheless.

You have done something extraordinary, Stan. But do not let that distract you from what you came here for.

“What I came here for? I… shit, I was looking for Ford! How — how long have I been here? How much time have I wasted when I could’ve been trying to find him?!”

Worry not. Your bond with your twin is strong, and that bond will guide you to him as long as you put your faith in it.

Stan nodded slowly, and closed his eyes.

“Ford never gives up,” he reminded himself out loud, “which means he’s still out there, still fighting and surviving. He’s my brother, and I will find him, because I don’t give up either.”

He let a wave of sensations and emotions from a trillion different worlds wash over him, but it didn’t carry him off his feet this time, and he wasn’t overwhelmed and hypnotized by it.

Follow whatever feels most familiar, the voice told him. And above all else, trust yourself.

There were too many familiar sensations from the multiverse to count — too many advanced math problems and leather-bound journals and trench coats and broken glasses. And others still, things that were so tragically Ford that they ached — broken inventions and angry parting words and loaded crossbows and bloodshot eyes…

But nothing struck Stan harder than the bittersweet nostalgia.

It was distant and fleeting, like someone’s not-quite-lucid dream as they began to toss and turn and awaken; it was warm like a beach on a summer day while stinging like a splinter from a recently sanded wooden plank, and it resonated. It wasn’t a feeling Stan had ever expected to come from Ford, of all people — but it was so familiar, like a dream that could’ve sprung from his very own head.

“That’s it,” he whispered, and a light pink tail materialized beneath his feet, guiding him forward as he dove towards the droplet of reality that held his brother.

Thank you, whoever you are, he thought to the entity, and even though he hadn’t spoken out loud, something told him the message had been received.

He held his nonexistent breath as images materialized around him — a damp cave, an extinguished campfire, a black sleeping bag…

And sure enough, there was Ford, sitting upright and rubbing his eyes like he’d just woken up. There was Ford, alive.

“You’re okay!” Stan whispered, not even caring that Ford being awake meant he wouldn’t be able to communicate. “Oh my god. I mean, I knew you would be, but — holy shit, Ford. I really will be able to bring you home, won’t I?”

Ford rolled up his sleeping bag and stuffed it into a larger bag of supplies, which he slung over his back alongside a giant, rectangular case that presumably housed some kind of weapon. He marched towards the mouth of the cave, through which rays of morning light were beginning to peek, but then paused for a moment, and rifled through the inside pocket of his coat to procure something.

Stan floated closer to get a better look, only to freeze in place as he recognized the item — a photograph of two boys standing on a boat, with proud smiles on their faces despite the broken hull and tattered sails.

“You kept that picture?” he whispered.

Ford sighed and tucked the photograph back in his pocket, then looked up to stare suspiciously at the exact spot where Stan floated — and for just a moment Stan would’ve sworn that Ford could see him.

But then Ford shook his head and stepped past Stan, out of the cave and into the morning sun. As he adjusted the strap holding his weapon, he muttered something that sounded suspiciously like “it won’t be long.”

“You can count on that, Sixer. It won’t be long at all.”

As Ford set off, Stan closed his eyes and concentrated on the familiar elements of the multiverse once again.

“Man, this took a lot longer than I expected, didn’t it?” he whispered. “I hope those kids haven’t broken into any mansions without me.”

***

“Pacifica, above you!” Dipper shouted, just in time for Pacifica to dodge a massive chandelier that came crashing to the ground. Nathaniel dove back into the statue, possessing it once again as he took a swing at Pacifica with a crumbling arm, and Pacifica lost her grip on the lantern as she ducked, sending it clattering across the hardwood floor as the light flickered and began to fade.

“Oh no you don’t!” Mabel jumped onto Nathaniel’s back from behind him, covering his eyes as Dipper snatched the lantern up off the ground and held it upright as the flame roared back to life. Pacifica pulled out a nail file and threw it with uncanny precision, knocking one of Nathaniel’s already crumbling fingers clear off of his flag-bearing hand.

Oh no YOU don’t! Nathaniel roared back as his other hand detached from his body, plucking Mabel off his back by the scruff of her sweater and hurling her towards the mounted head of a massive elk. She narrowly avoided being impaled on most of its antlers, but one single point pierced through her sweater just above her shoulder and ensnared her in place.

“Hang tight, Mabel!” Wendy shouted, taking a swing at the animal’s neck, but she failed to notice the detached stone fist swing around once again — first clocking her in the shoulder and making her drop her axe, and then grabbing Dipper by the throat and pinning him to the ground.

“Shit!” Wendy gasped. “Let him go, you bastard!”

Nathaniel advanced towards the lantern, blasting Pacifica backwards with a cloud of smoke and dust from his stump hand while raising his flagpole over his head in preparation to strike Dipper.

Give me the lantern, Pines, he growled. Or —

“How about I give you an ass-kicking instead?!” Stan’s ghost rose up from within the floor like a blazing blue lightning bolt, and in the same fluid motion, he delivered an uppercut to Nathaniel’s chin that knocked his spectral form clear out of the statue and twenty feet straight into the air.

“You want a fucking ghost fight?! ‘Cause I’ll give you a ghost fight!” Stan crowed, flexing incorporeal arms. “I got my ghost brass knuckles right here!”

“Grunkle Stan?!” Mabel gasped. “How did you do that?”

Stan whirled around to face her. “Wait, you can see me? Fuck, I really shouldn’t be swearing then, should I?”

Dipper got to his feet, the stone hand having relaxed its grip around his throat. “It’s the magic lantern, I think. It reveals all the ghosts in range of its light.”

“And it used to be Grandpa Granite’s own magic lantern at that,” Pacifica scoffed. “Talk about irony!”

“Ha, Grandpa Granite!” Stan laughed. “That’s pretty good!”

Nathaniel slunk out of the lantern’s range, where he transformed back into a ghost made of smoke and ashes, but his eyes were glowing such a firey orange that everyone could still make out where he was.

“Quick, kids!” Stan commanded. “Get behind me!”

Mabel tugged at her sweater, still caught on the elk’s antlers. “I can’t! I’m stuck!”

An orange smile flickered on Nathaniel’s face, and he leapt back into the light towards Mabel.

“Don’t you dare!” Stan shouted, diving forward at superhuman speed to meet him, knocking him off balance with a left hook before jabbing a knee into his groin. Nathaniel howled and aimed a blow at Stan’s head, but Stan jumped out of the way with ease, then kicked Nathaniel’s legs out from underneath him and sent him tumbling to the floor.

“I’m guessing you didn’t take boxing lessons as a kid, did you?” Stan asked smugly. “I never thought I’d tell this to a ghost that doesn’t weigh anything, but somehow, you’re putting too much of your weight into your punches.”

So this is how you want to fight? Nathaniel hissed. Too bad my quarrel isn’t with you.

His hand swept up a pile of jagged porcelain shards, and with a blast of ghostly smoke, fired them in a volley towards Mabel. Stan dove in the way to intercept, but they passed straight through him, and Mabel barely extricated herself from the antlers in time to dodge.

I can beat him to a pulp, but I can’t affect the physical world enough keep my kids safe from him while I do. They’re the ones he wants revenge on. Stan realized. I’ve got to make myself his main target, somehow. Or…

An idea occurred to him that was so dumb he couldn’t help but grin, and Nathaniel glared at him.

What’s so funny? Are you excited to watch your family die?

Stan ignored him, struggling to stifle a laugh. It was a horrible, risky, completely harebrained idea, and it was exactly what he needed.

“HEY, BILL CIPHER!” he shouted at the top of his lungs. “I NEED TO TALK TO YOU!”

The room fell dead silent as the tapestry behind Stan lit up with a flash of golden light. It depicted a gray, one-eyed triangle looming over two pleading silhouettes surrounded by red and orange flames — but as a cold wind blew through the ballroom, the figures began to write in agony as the flames lit up blue.

Bill cackled as he opened his eye and casually stepped out of the tapestry like it was something he did every day. “Well, well, well! We meet again, Stanley! Finally ready to make a deal?”

“Oh, hell no!” Stan replied, pulling his 8-ball cane out of thin air to make an overdramatic gesture in Nathaniel Northwest’s direction. “I just thought there was someone here who you might like to reunite with. For old times’ sake, you know?”

YOU! Nathaniel howled. YOU DOUBLE-CROSSED ME AND LEFT ME TO ROT!

The cockiness deflated out of Bill’s pose as his eye went wide. “Hey now, let’s not jump to conclusions here! Give me a chance to tell my side of the story —”

Nathaniel lunged forward and grabbed ahold of Bill, seething with such an overwhelming rage that his whole body lit up firey and orange. YOU ARE NO MUSE! GO TO HELL, YOU TREACHEROUS AFFRONT AGAINST INSPIRATION!

Bill fired back with a blast of blue fire, but he looked shaken. “Alright, FINE! My side of the story is that I DESPISE you and every single atom that’s ever passed through your BODY!”

“Fight, fight, FIGHT!” Stan chanted. “Kids, get the camera!”

“FUCK YOU!” Bill shouted at Stan, only for Nathaniel to seize the opening and punch him directly in the eye. They continued to tussle, tumbling out of range of the lantern’s light, and Stan flew after them, disappearing from the kids’ view.

“I am so confused right now,” Dipper muttered.

“Stan knows what he’s doing,” Mabel assured him. “Probably.”

DIE, FOUL BEAST! Nathaniel roared, but Bill caught his fist in midair, and Nathaniel screamed as bolts of blue electricity surged up his arm.

Stan seized the opportunity, floating up behind Nathaniel and tapping his wrist, where a silver watch resembling the portal appeared. The clock’s hands whirled around the inner circle unnaturally fast, and Stan put on his cockiest grin as he raised his wrist for Bill to see.

“Remember, only nine more hours until we BOTH lose everything!”

The lightning bolts sparking from Bill’s hands shorted out.

“Speak for yourself!” he shouted, voice jumping up to an even higher pitch than usual. “I DON’T need —”

Nathaniel slammed his head into Bill, knocking him backwards and through the staircase.

“But of course you can keep wasting your time letting Cowboy Casper here beat you to a pulp,” Stan jeered. “I don’t mind waiting!”

Bill flew back out of the stairway, his whole body crackling with electricity as he summoned a vortex of fire around Nathaniel, trapping him in place — but Bill’s eye stayed fixed on Stan, even as Nathaniel thrashed and howled and cursed.

“If you want the portal on so badly, then just shake my hand, you idiot!” Bill shrieked. “I really don’t know how to make this any simpler for you!”

“If you really hate Old Man Northwest so much, then you should just trap him in the mirror and let me go for no price — because that handshake? That deal? That’s never happening, Cipher,” Stan shot back. “Go ahead, call my bluff! Wait out the last nine hours, and watch thirty years of biding your time go to waste! I’m sure you know exactly what a petty, stubborn asshole my brother can be, so let me give you one last warning before you make a choice you regret — I’m just as petty and stubborn as he is!”

Bill’s whole body lit up red as he slowly pointed one index finger at Stan, and fired another blast of blue flames —

And Stan sat up in his hospital bed with Bill floating over him, looking angrier than it ever should’ve been possible for any two-dimensional object to look.

“This isn’t over, Fez!” he hissed. “I’ll still get exactly what I need from you sooner or later, one way or another!”

“So you finally admit that I’m useful to you, too!” Stan gloated. His voice was hoarse, but he didn’t care. “I figured you’d come around soon enough!”

“You have NO IDEA how lucky you are that I need you alive! I would let you rot in that mirror FOREVER if I could!”

Stan stretched his arms, giving each of his biceps a celebratory kiss. “Ahh, I missed these bad boys! How’s it feel not to have a body, Bill? If only you hadn’t made it so goddamn obvious that you still needed me, I might’ve even given in and agreed to let you borrow mine!”

Bill vanished without any fanfare or even one final threat, leaving Stan alone in the hospital room with a recently-awoken and extremely confused Soos.

“Mr. Pines?” he gasped. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah, more or less,” Stan assured him, places a hand on Soos’s shoulder as Soos rushed to his side. “Plan A didn’t go so great, but Plan B worked like a charm.”

“I’m so glad you’re back,” Soos cried, wrapping Stan in an uncomfortably tight hug. “But who were you just talking to? I didn’t see anyone else in the room…”

“Don’t worry about it, kid,” Stan told him. “Right now, I need you to call Wendy and the kids for me, ‘cause I vanished before their eyes just a couple minutes ago and they’re probably worried out of their minds.”

“Shh, not yet.” Soos wiped his eyes. “Just give me ten more seconds of hugging you and sobbing first.”

Stan sighed. “Alright, I suppose.”

***

(End notes:

Poor Bill, wasting such a dramatic entrance on a scene where he got completely and utterly dunked on. And there we have it, the conclusion of the main story! There’s still an epilogue coming to tie up the wide variety of loose ends I’ve created here, so keep an eye out for that sometime in November, if all goes according to plan!)

[rjmorrisonuniverse-blog]

Nolan and the One-Hook Day

1. NOLAN

 What a shit storm of a day.

Distilled angst, chain of events, cosmic joke funnel, harpoon of the gods.

I know as I sit near him that I will have to throw the best punch I have ever thrown; one with technique and violent finality. I'll have to lift up from the chair, slide it back as I tell him "I'm going for a piss", and deliver the perfect right hook that begins from my heel and gains muscle torque up the calf, thigh and buttocks. I'll pivot with it as I rise and all my years of practice should unconsciously find that sweet spot on his jawline. I have to throw for a kill.

One chance or else big trouble.

Even I know that you don't get into punch-ups with massive off-duty cops.

One knockout hook, and an expedient exit through the side door on the far end of that pool table. It has to be soon, before the after work crowd shows up and this shit-hole becomes witness city. Before the pork behemoth gets even nastier and I run out of time. You bet your ass the pig reference is intended; this guy has the face of a swine. Mammoth jarhead on a stump neck with beady red rimmed eyes and nose vascularity that bespeaks years of hard drink. His voice is gravel, whisky phlegm and flat hard, and his salt and pepper goatee has an ugly way of framing an unsmiling mouth.

Motherfucking pig, prick, douchebag.

 I guess we should backtrack some. My name is Nolan. You don't need the surname, so get over it right now. I work for a metal stamping plant, and we make mostly automobile fenders. The job pays well but the environment is a hell on earth; a gargantuan space lit by low sodium lamps that hang forty feet above the floor. Two-storey tall machines that thump and roar like monsters starved for metal and perhaps human flesh, and a long shift there with earplugs inserted and legs taking shock after shock wave is about as otherworldly a job as I've ever had.

Is it any wonder I amped up my mixed martial arts training and aimed at the UFC?

Lunch breaks at A.G. Simpson were hilarious, as the zombies filed into the cafeteria in various states of exhaustion, depression, hangover, debt, disillusion. Even there, with the long bank of windows that overlooked the main work area below, the fucking lighting was brutal. In your face harshness, bad food, a sickly mint green high gloss paint on the cinder block walls... I mean, no amount of overtime could justify my being there and ONLY there to make ends meet. I remember a painting crew that was hired to spray the ceilings and recoat the washrooms, and those guys were freaked OUT by the vibe. They took their breaks in the cafeteria too, cursing themselves for not bringing their own food to the job, bitching about the watery vending machine coffee, and more than a dozen times asking us "how the fuck do you stand working here?"

So, given my size and mindset coupled with a love for man-to-man conflict resolution, it was a no-brainer for me to embark on a little side action in the octagon. I started as a gangly kid with the amateur boxing and proved a quick study with natural power in each hand. Even with the headgear and twelve ounce gloves I was knocking people out cold, and sparring partners too. I always seemed to have that mean in me, but as lady luck, that rotten bitch, would have it... I was a "cutter". If I didn't knock his ass out in the first couple of rounds, sooner or later I'd be bleeding. Bottom lip, bridge of nose, and for a brief stint in the pro circuit, both eyelids. I was an undefeated slugger fighting out of a loser gym, punching for power and lantern jawed, but that goddamned skin of mine  pushed me toward MMA combat, and that was fine by me. I didn't like my fellow man as a rule, and most days, hitting him made more sense than conversation.

I started out lucky, through a cousin who was being trained in the Pat Miletich camp, and found myself under the tutelage of the great man himself. I could list details about the intensive training that mixed kickboxing and Jiu-jitsu, Pat's karate methods and a stripped down version of Thai boxing that seemed best suited to my power... I could talk about the first dozen fights in Iowa, all victories by knockout in the first round.

I was busting my hump at the metal stamping plant all day, training five nights a week, and taking fights for shit money anywhere they would put me. Eventually I was given an opportunity to match up against a name opponent, even though his career was on the downward spiral, and representatives from the UFC were ringside. That was one motherfucker of a highlight reel knockout, let me tell it. My six foot four two hundred fifty pound hammer was primed to drop and I don't mind saying that poor bastard was knocked out during the stare down. Stoked? Homicidal.

The first thing he attempted was a leg kick, and in missing, he presented me with a clean shot at his mandible. I saw his eyes go all wide and wild just as I uncorked a sweet left uppercut and felt that indescribable delicious shock of connection when it exploded on the sleep spot under his chin. He was out before his head bounced off the canvas, and even today the debate continues about what killed him; the punch or that heavy landing. My celebrations ended when I saw that he wasn't getting up, and by the time the stretcher arrived I knew it was serious. I won't lie to you. I won't say it chewed me up inside that my opponent died a week later. These are gladiators and they go into it fully aware of the dangers. Highly skilled, trained to the nth degree, all it takes between two combatants in that arena is a nanosecond of error and somebody's lights go out.

Permanent injury, career ending injury? Not common, but I wasn't a common hitter either. Maybe we can thank my father for that. Every opponent wore his face and I don't throw to win. I throw to injure.

I was told that a contract was being drawn up for me in the aftermath of that fight; that all the way up to Dana White's office, the name "Nolan" was being spoken as the next money magnet. Then that poor bitch died and the contract offer was postponed until the media hornets nest died, too. I was pissed, maybe even a little at myself, and for sure at the man whose physically abusive ways had forged the fires that shaped me.

Two weeks later, I busted up one of Miletich's top young prospects during a heated sparring exchange, and that was the end of my UFC dream. Back to the zombie show at A.G. Simpson I went, and no amount of prying from fellow workers would get me to talk about just how close I had come to fame and financial freedom. Fuck it, fuck them, and fuck dreams. That became my mantra, and I withdrew into a mean sonofabitch's shell. Nobody messed with me back then.

Well, not until I took on that part time gig as a bouncer at Bunny's strip club. That was where I met Sherry-Ann.

  2. SHERRY-ANN

  Here in the bottom of the barrel tavern, I motion to the waiter for two more pints and listen to the gravelly voice of the big prick sitting at the corner of the table. He's talking about his failed marriages, the failings of the judicial system, the failure of society to appreciate what he does for a living. Failure? I'll show the motherfucker failure. Then, as the waiter sets down two more pints, I hear off-duty pig's speech beginning to slur.

"You shoulda been a cop". He fixes his cold eyes on me, looking at my down-to-the-wood hairstyle and clean cut features. He's bitching about the career path and in his next beery breath he's pitching a sale.

"My woman wouldn't have anything to do with me if I was a cop", I tell his stump of a face while Sherry-Ann drops the needle down on some distant memory that plays a song of sex and rage. Pig-mug leers into his ale, and I glance down at the broad knuckles across my right hand, square and knobby and designed for pain delivery. I had been forming a fist as he bitched about his marriages, and now I force myself to flatten out the fingers on my thigh.

 You may have thought that Sherry-Ann was a stripper, based on my mention of the club where I watched the door and floor. Nothing against the girls inside who worked the laps for money, but I would never date a peeler. I fucked a couple of them when I first took the job because they were practically throwing it at me. These all-American clean cut features of mine would have been enough, but toss in some nasty scar tissue and my indifferent conduct, and it was shooting fish in a barrel time. I don't pretend to understand the mind of a woman, but there is a fundamental truth about their being attracted to rough men. They may not love us in a lasting way, but a lot of them want us between their legs.

My first weekend on the job, on the Saturday shift, this feature dancer "Savannah" kept taking her breaks in the entrance lobby, near the door and near me. Nothing wrong with my meat radar, and I knew where the harpoon was headed. This joint, "Bunny's", was a rough place in a nasty part of southside downtown. Blood spatter on the sidewalk out front was common, and in time a lot of it was extracted by yours truly in the doing of his job; I always thought it funny how these down and out motherfuckers could find money for beer and lap dances. How many of them had wives and hungry children at home?

Some of them came in looking for trouble, pissed off at the world, and I took pleasure when reducing their dietary needs to soup. The owner of the place didn't give a shit how we did our duty, as long as the money came in and the cops stayed away and the girls were kept happy. So, when Savannah finished her final three song set of the night, instead of taking private dance requests she asked me if I would join her for a drink. Rose, the owner, cleared it with "Night's almost over... long as you keep an eye on the room."

Savannah and I shared a small table near the entrance door, and she did most of the talking while I admired her rack and scanned the patrons. Her body language was nothing less than a carnal invitation, with those shapely legs spread and her hand coming up often to touch my bicep, forearm, knee. A vacant, giggling, augmented and needy blonde caricature.

Shift finished, I invited her back to my two-bedroom apartment for a few more drinks and some good hard fucking, but on the way out the back door I first saw Sherry-Ann and she laid a burn job on my mind. She was leaning forward to talk to a potential client through the driver side window, and I caught sight of long-honed legs flowing up into a tightly rounded naked ass calling to me beneath her hiked black skirt. Statuesque, easily six feet without the twat-for-sale boots, and when she heard the back door squeal open and slam shut she turned for a second to shoot me and my companion a hard appraising look. The street lamp threw a sleazy orb over her beautiful features, with that young Margot Kidder sneer, too much lipstick and tumbling waves of ludicrous wig-red tresses tickling the mid back.

Untamed; that was the immediate impression. Lanky and dangerous and maybe a little crazy, and the kind of bedroom ride that was sure to be a roller coaster. We experienced that intense time-stand-still-eye-lock and I felt the kinetic energy between us that stayed with me all through the next two hours of sex with Savannah. That final climax, doggie style with her face pushed into the back of my sofa and her hands braced against the wall... that was another woman's bird I was basting. A woman I was determined to meet at the next opportunity. I remember drama-Savannah's look of injury when I handed her cab fare at four in the morning and bluntly told her I needed to sleep alone. She tried to protest and I gave it to her straight - "We both got what we wanted tonight, and now it's time for you to piss off."

 "You really shoulda been a cop, I'm telling you."

I nod as if in agreement, look at the clock above the bar and realize that I'll have to do my thing soon. Sherry-Ann will be expecting me home from work, completely unaware that my day is an official shit-storm only beginning to hit the fan. The huge man sitting with me lifts the pint of ale to his mouth, still glaring my way over the rim, and I see his police-issue service revolver sitting snugly in its shoulder holster. The open front of his brown suede jacket, the bulging stomach, massive arms barely contained by sleeves, and a pungent body odor of sickening complexity.

This doomed fuck doesn't have a clue that I followed him here.

3. PARENTING

  A week after I first laid eyes on Sherry-Ann's lanky goods, I was on duty at Bunny's with a sense of excitement that I hadn't felt in a long time. The shift was uneventful, and when I went through the back door, there she was at the end of the block with another chick. I thought about walking over to her, but decided to roll up in my Grand National. It was a hot night and she was sweetly tucked into a pair of high-riding denim shorts and a tight red t-shirt with black boots at the mid-calf; straight platinum blonde wig. I saw her eyes move from her companion as I rode up slowly, window down.

What a fucking body. Built for cock of Nolan. I can't explain the power of the attraction, and I had never considered paying for sex even once in my life. She just had that sneer, defiance, youthful strut and a physique to match. I'll admit that I had a soft spot for the ladies of the night, because my mother had been one, and I hate on pimps and everything they represent. Sure, I had some Travis Bickle in me, and Sherry-Ann was my Jodie Foster.

"Looking for a date?" her upper lip curled at the corner, and then I could see her remembering me from the weekend before. She smiled as I stopped, and her girlfriend took a long look through the windshield before casually strolling around the corner out of sight. "Hey, I remember you, stud."

Long story short, we did a little negotiating and she got in the car. I drove around the block and parked in behind Bunny's near the fire escape and garbage bins. Very romantic. Turned out that Sherry-Ann was new to this stroll, and didn't fuck. She was oral only, and I had to wear a jimmy hat Her old man was a biker-type who also had a piece of the action in the very club where I worked; a few girls who took on after hours customers at his command. He'd taken a shine to his newest meat, and didn't want Sherry-Ann riding any cock but his. I was as stiff as a fucking girder when she started stroking me through the dress slacks, but when I tried to enjoy her tits she moved my hand away gently, bending to unzip me and set the crowbar free. As soon as she started rolling that goddamned rubber over the head I could feel myself losing the erection.

"This isn't how I want it" I told her flatly, and she froze, raised herself back up and looked me long in the eyes. I remember thinking that I knew her from somewhere, maybe another life, and for the first time in my thirty four years I felt that I wanted something intensely. Her. "I wouldn't mind grabbing a coffee somewhere for half an hour, for the same money, if that's cool."

We started that way, and for weeks I would take her to a seedy twenty four hour diner near her stroll, to learn about her life and tell her about mine. Both of us were survivors of violent childhoods, but her father was nothing compared to the evil piece of shit that was mine. Her dad was heavy into the booze, gambling, and spousal abuse. My father was the angriest most self-entitled rage-aholic in existence, and from my first childhood memories it was his fists that marked my growth.

That prick verbally abused my mother and took sadistic pleasure in kicking the shit out of his only child. As I grew into a large teenager, the beatings escalated in duration and ferocity. He never told me why he hated me, but I knew instinctively that my life had been an accident... a miserable wait around that cocksucker's reality. As Sherry-Ann and I shared these sad stories over coffee, we could feel a mutual caring develop between us, and I always had that sexual hunger for her.

In time, she trusted me enough to explain that she wanted to get away from "Roy", who was becoming increasingly demanding and violent. He'd brought in another girl from the bus terminal, and that was his new top bitch. Sherry-Ann had to start earning like the other girls, and when she told me that, I took care of the situation for her. I spent a couple of weeks in hiding, watching for this fucker, and quickly enough I was able to figure out his schedule. He'd roll around just after the sun went down, in a beat up blue panel van, and again after three in the morning to collect the pussy rent... I waited for the Thursday of the third week, told Sherry-Ann exactly what I planned to do, ignored her warnings and pleas, and when Roy showed up later that night for his money...

Nolan came out of the shadows across the street. Roy was in the driver's seat, window down, in conversation with one of the other girls and I casually walked around the back of the van to push his bitch out of the way with my right hand before looping a short left hook into the center of his face; it had brutal follow-through and Roy's head whiplashed before he hit the bench seat sideways. Two of the girls started running away, but Sherry-Ann stayed for the show. I yanked open the door and grabbed a generous handful of beard and long hair, pulled the semi-conscious Roy back to a sitting position. The blood was cascading out of what remained of his nose, down his shirt and vest, all over the money he had dropped into his lap. I gave him a good shake and his eyes rolled open, tried to focus, and before he could attempt anything I drove a hateful straight left into his open mouth, putting him OUT. I loved the sight of him sagging back to a lying position in a grotesque slow motion of jaw-hanging gore. "Sherry-Ann is with ME from now on" I shouted into the cab, and who knows if he heard it or not...

"Call an ambulance for this piece of shit, and let's go get your things." An hour and two pieces of luggage later, Sherry-Ann took refuge in my apartment. A roach-infested den of depression and about as dead end as it gets for a pretty young runaway of twenty three. We had sex for the first time that night; a two-way act of consumption that I won't ever forget. We felt like we knew each other far beyond those few weeks of talking, and her forthright way of telling me how to fuck her, how to do the things that she needed done, the way her sexy mouth formed a leering curve when she came so hard and violently around me. It would be a long time before she heard it, but when I called in sick the next morning, I was sure I could love her.

Roy? He hadn't seen what hit him. I heard that he lost most of his upper and lower plate, had to have his nose reconstructed, and a few weeks after that night he and his women vanished from Bunny's and the block. Sherry-Ann settled in with me, took a waitressing job, and we fell into a year-long calm spell... I had saved almost all of my earnings over the past eight years and we made plans to get a house together outside the city core. We had a friendship and the sex was ferocious, but there were hurdles to overcome. I helped Sherry-Ann quit the glass pipe, and she helped me open up.

 Which brings me back to this nameless drinking hole and the large man sharing a scarred wooden table with me. Brings me to a heartbeat of hate, and the day that marked the history of Nolan with a river of tainted blood.

 4. SHIT, MEET THE FAN

 A Friday that began like any other, with the five thirty alarm. Sherry-Ann's warmth against me under the sheets, and the new anticipation of weekend reward in my life. I gave up the bouncer gig at the strip club to spend weekends with my woman, and for the first time ever I had days to look forward to during the workweek. Long lazy mornings in bed together, watching television, having sex, lost in conversation... me, the short fuse with lots on his mind and little to say. Simple, beautiful hours.

That Friday I ate my breakfast alone then walked quietly into the bedroom to kiss Sherry-Ann on the forehead as she slept. Me, the guy who told himself he would never give a shit about anyone... she was asleep on her side, dark brown hair fanned out across the pillow. I ran it through my fingers to make myself believe again that this amazing change had come to my existence, and then left to make the half hour trip to the A.G. Simpson metal stamping plant. I first noticed the horizon of fire when I made the turn into the industrial park on Laird avenue; jet black smoke billowing upward to form the devil's cloud cover, licked from below by a massive wall of flame. I hit the gas and felt my guts sink into the comfortable abyss of my usual state of being, knowing what I was going to see at the end of the avenue, reaching for the radio as I saw the rows of cars lining each side and stopped by a phalanx of police cruisers, ambulances, and fire trucks. The all-news station was on the scene and I learned that a huge explosion had ripped through my place of employment, killing four workers and injuring dozens of others.

"Jesus H. Fuck!" I pulled over and parked on the strip of grass adjacent to the two lane blacktop, got out to watch the blaze. Co-workers either sat in their cars or stood around in groups, shaking their heads at the sight of the apocalypse before them. A couple of them acknowledged me with nods, but most of them ignored me. I told you before, people tended to avoid me and I like it that way. I asked a couple of the guys what they knew, and nobody had shit for info other than the explosion happened just before dawn. Fuck me, I kept thinking, there goes work for a while. Maybe for good if the place is gutted.

I went back to the car, sat and watched the show, and after a couple of hours it occurred to me that I should just go the fuck home to be with the only person I cared about before she went in to work her half day. All the way back toward the small house we were renting, my mind was in a fog that reminded me of the worst of times during my childhood. My sixteenth birthday, when the man who called himself my father arrived to take me out of school because my mother had overdosed on heroin. Waiting in the hospital as she fought her last battle, he found a way to blame me, and that night after her death the beating he dished out had me fearing for my own life. I fought him back for the first time, and even though I hurt that motherfucker, he got the best of me and I spent two days in my room bruised, battered, and determined to leave. Two weeks later, he went in to work the night shift and I escaped. Some day I'll tell you about those first few months... I did things to survive that no one should resort to. If not for my mother's sister, I wouldn't be here today to break deserving skulls.

A half block away from the house I could see a car in the parking pad. A rusty Pontiac Laurentian, dented along the passenger doors and crusted with dirt. What the fuck? I glanced at my watch and it came from the stomach up to my throat; a sick knowledge of a thought that I stopped from forming... without realizing it I was on the brake and slowing. Ten in the morning on a day I'm not supposed to be here until five thirty. She goes to work at twelve, comes home before five. I put the car in reverse and backed up to park against the curb about a dozen houses away from mine, killed the engine and sat in silence. I watched the car in the driveway, looked at the front of the bungalow that framed the inevitable act of betrayal that life had in store for guys like me. For the first time in nearly twenty years I didn't take immediate action. I couldn't, man. I was paralyzed with a cold sweating fear, choking on a feeling like being trapped in a plunging elevator. There was no rationalizing in the car that morning as I sat there watching and so certain that Sherry-Ann was in there destroying us with another man who was soon to pay a price beyond reason.

Almost two hours went by, in a blur, before I decided to leave the car. I strolled over to the house, slowly and not feeling anything I can describe. I was thinking about a movie that I'd seen called "Into The Night", where the main character played by Jeff Goldblum comes home early to find his wife screwing someone. As I walked between my place and the neighbour's, around the side to the back bedroom window, my mind went numb. I always knew that God had put me here in this body for a lifetime of getting fucked. Life is a better fuck than pussy. Life is a twenty four and seven joystick, motherfuckers.

Our bedroom windows bottomed at eye level. An air conditioner filled the lower section of the far pane, so I cupped my hands around my eyes and peered through the glass of the east frame... the blinds weren't dropped all the way down to the sill and I was able to make out the two shapes on our bed. The bottom of the bed faced the windows, giving me a clear enough look at his big legs and ass as he pumped his erection into her. I felt a scary chill of calm for a moment, watching his balls move back and forth as he rode that beautiful pussy and blocked her from my view through sheer bulk. The sight of her long naked legs, one bent upward and one straightened, and a small hand gripping the blankets... that started the tears and I turned away quickly to walk back to the car.

Those were the longest two hours of my life, longer even than the wait for news about my mother that afternoon in the hospital. I'm not a smoker, so I sat and chewed gum in silence, waiting and getting used to the idea that once again, the dream is over. Fuck life, fuck love, and fuck dreams. Welcome back to reality. You fell for a whore, asshole. She's been turning tricks on the side all this past year and you bought the Hallmark card version of what it should have been and isn't. Last Friday had been a good fucking day that lasted clear through until the following Monday, and THIS one is the end of the world as you know it. Job, woman? Fuck you. Gone.

 The bartender, myself and this half drunken off-duty pig, plus six others who sit at the bar on the far side of this shit-hole. Four hours ago I watched this man leave my house through the front door, as though it were his, and casually get into his old Pontiac. I gave him a decent head start and then followed him across town into the city core. He parked in front of a tired brownstone on the south side, got out and lumbered up the stoop past a sign that read "short term rentals available", and I parked further up the street and did some more waiting. Him first, her later. I couldn't believe it and yet it made perfect sense. I'd deal with him, then Sherry-Ann would get one chance to explain this to me. Just one. I turned to lean against the driver's door, stretched my legs out across the seats, flexed my fingers, and watched the front door of that brownstone. When I made the decision to stop waiting he emerged from the building wearing the same clothes, and I followed him to the fucking dive that now serves as the shit-storm epicentre.

I gave it fifteen minutes before I entered the nameless hole. It took my eyes a moment to adjust from bright afternoon to damaged liver gloom, and the smell of piss and old beer and sweat that hit me like a swinging back-fist. All eyes turned at my entrance, but he was hunched over a pint and facing away from the front door and was the only one not to see me come in. I went straight to the bartender and asked him in a low voice what "that guy over there" was drinking, ordered two pints, and walked the length of the room to his table.

I set the pints down in the middle of the tabletop and pull out a chair around the corner from his, and he looks first at me and then the beer. Back at me, eyes widening as I lower myself and bore lasers into his pupils. "Still a cop?" I slide one pint toward him and raise mine up for a good swallow. He doesn't answer right away, staring me in the face, sizing me up, lost in something... "YOU shoulda been a cop" he mutters. "I followed you here" I tell him right away, let it soak in for a moment. "From the place where I'm staying?" he runs a huge hand through his goatee and greying hair. "No, from my place... the factory where I work is burning today."

He nods slowly, looking down into his beer... "been looking for you, son."

"I've never been your son, mister. I have the scars to prove it."

"I heard you left the city to stay with your aunt for a long time... " his voice trails off in memory. "So you found out where I live, dropped by for a friendly visit, did you?" He smirks a little and I almost throw the bomb right then, but it isn't the right time... I'm throwing for a kill, remember. I play it like I don't mind that he found me, and of course he has no idea that I saw him fucking my woman... no idea that as I sit here getting psyched up to stop his motherfucking heart, my own has been smashed. "So here I am, sir. What can I do for you?" he smirks again.

And it goes like that for nearly an hour, as this beastly childhood force sits next to me and attempts to... what? Atone for something? Correct the damage that he inflicted on his only child? I sit here and listen to his talk about the difficulty of losing my mother, and the failed second and third marriages. I let him ramble through his anger, and I hear nothing but an older version of the gigantic negative force that took all of my potential and crushed it into a compact life-hating machine. I can't even come up with one iota of pity for this prick, and now it's Sherry-Ann I'm thinking of as I glance again at the wall clock and decide it's time. How she could betray me... us... like that, and with THIS of all monsters.

"Tell me something" I interrupt his self pitying rant about spineless judges. "How much did you pay?" He looks at me stupidly, one bushy eyebrow lifting. "For Sherry-Ann this morning" I raise my voice a notch. "What did that cost you?" His hand comes up with the pint as he says "I didn't pay" and I slide the chair back, start the hook from my hip as I rise and pivot to throw thirty five years of poison through my torso and shoulder and forearm and fist as a projectile unlike any I've ever unleashed. Instinctively aimed for his heavy jawline as he tries to react too late, jerking beer over the rim of his glass when I land it and envision my knuckles removing his lower face. The jolt of it through my arm is like an orgasm and he and the chair hit the floor as though a wrecking ball has swung into the tavern. I'm not even looking at the others in the room, and in one chain of events I squat to look at his hanging jaw and the teeth that he is pushing out of his mouth with a bleeding tongue.

The cocksucker is still conscious but the force of the hook has probably broken his neck. I've never seen a head swivel like that. I grab a handful of vest and start dragging him across the floor as the witnesses just begin to realize what has happened, maybe not even giving a damn in a place this rough. I drag the piece of shit across the floor and his face is hitting the legs of chairs, his arms are limp. The bartender yells "hey! take that shit out of here" and I feel a nasty smile crack my mouth. The door near the pool table has one of those metal bars on it that you push, so I lift up my prey with both hands and ram his face into it. Outside in the late afternoon sunshine I can see that his fucking head looks like a shotgun suicide, and his breath is heavy and blood thick. There's a big blue garbage dumpster around back, and I drag him face down by the vest collar, hearing his gun scrape along the asphalt, feeling the swelling along the top of my hand. 

I prop him up in a sitting position against the dumpster and step back to deliver a looping head kick to his temple. His skull whiplashes and he hits the parking lot on his right side. I feel myself nod in agreement, then finish him off with a short toe kick to the throat. From the moment I first hit him to the lifting and tossing of his body into the dumpster I have been outside of myself. I take one final look at his imploded features and spit on them, dropping the metal lid down on the fucking garbage.

Do you think the blades of the fan are now filled with shit? No. There's just one more detail to cap my Friday to end all Fridays. I drive back to my house, just ahead of rush hour traffic. My hand is swollen and cut where I clipped his teeth. My mind is a seething pit of rage and fatality. I don't care about a fucking thing at this point other than to have Sherry-Ann look at me with her gorgeous eyes and talk me out of this crescendo. Tell me it was a moment of weakness, of old habits dying hard... tell me what you have to but tell me everything will be okay.

I pull into the driveway, enter the house, and see that she is home early. Her purse and shoes and waitress outfit are all in the living room. The house is silent and I walk quickly down the middle hall toward the last room on the left where she is lying in bed with her eyes wide open and the belt from her bathrobe knotted up around her neck. My breath hitches in my chest. I turn on the ceiling light. The bedsheets are on the floor, the pillow case beneath her spattered in blood, the tip of her tongue is showing between bloody lips. I nod again in agreement with the universe. Nolan is getting cosmic-fucked now. How DARE I fall in love? Who am I to change what I am?

In an echo of my earlier gesture that morning, I bend over Sherry-Ann to kiss her forehead, then close her eyelids. No tears now. I pack one piece of luggage, turn off the bedroom light, and get into the car to head for the nearest automatic teller. I'll get a hotel room and tomorrow I clear out my savings. Nolan blows this town forever. I'm on a mission now, and before I'm finished people will know about me from coast to coast.

Every lowlife motherfucker in every shitty part of every city has it coming, and I'm the delivery boy.

[erisgregory]

Satellite Call Chapter 9

cross posted to AO3

or start with chapter one

Rating: Explicit Archive Warning: No Archive Warnings Apply Category: M/M Fandom: Roswell New Mexico (TV 2019) Relationship: Michael Guerin/Alex Manes Characters: Michael Guerin, Alex Manes Additional Tags: Michael is an Escort, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Shameless Smut, Other Additional Tags to Be Added Summary: Alex is home from the air force but finds he is as lonely as ever. He engages an escort one night under a pseudonym and when the escort arrives it’s his high school love, Michael Guerin. Thankfully for both of them Michael is a professional. However one night couldn’t possibly make up for all they’ve missed. Can they keep an ongoing relationship professional? Can they learn to trust that there is something more than this transaction between them?

Alex has taken the day off, he needs time to think about how he’s going to keep doing desk duty for his father, when all he wants is to be as far away from him as possible. It gives him time to catch up on his chores around the cabin and to worry about Michael and everything that’s passed between them.

He’d gotten an email back saying Michael owed him and though that should be the last thing Alex wants, he can’t help but think as long as Michael owes him, there is some tie between the two of them. Is that what Alex wants? Some connection? Even though he’d told Michael the complete opposite, now, having had time to think about it, he doesn’t actually care what his father thinks of him, does he?

It’s a lot and Alex realizes he isn’t going to figure it out in one morning, so he decides to table it for now. The idea that Michael owes him, keeps running through his head, but he lets it fall into the background as he does his laundry.

Around eleven some shuffling out on the porch draws his attention. At first it sounds like it might be an animal, but Alex doesn’t know what would be out in the daylight like this, so he opens the door quietly and peers out.

It’’s Kyle and it looks as though he’s about to break the window.

“You could try knocking. It’s less of a felony, but it’s also less dramatic so depends on what you're going for.” He tells him.

Kyle looks completely surprised to see him, which may have something to do with Alex always parking in the back.

“Come on in, you can tell me what brings you out this far.” Alex offers.

Kyle follows him in, turning around and giving the place a once over. “I’d forgotten about this place.” He says. “Our dad’s old hunting cabin.”

“Your dad’s technically.” Alex corrects. “So, you wanna tell me why you drove all the way out here?”

“Legacy, I guess.” Kyle says. “This place wasn’t part of the assets in his will. Guess I wanted to know what happened to it.”

“When I got back from Iraq, he left me the key and a letter telling me I could have the place. I figured that you knew.”

Kyle shook his head. “No. Why would he leave this place to you? Instead of me or my mom?”

“I… I don’t know. When I got back, he’d already passed. I never got a chance to ask.” Alex tells him.

Kyle pulls out a keychain and holds it out in his hand for Alex to see. “You recognize this?” He asks.

“Yeah.” Alex says, taking a look. “Keychain looks like mine, but that key is too small for the door.”

“Mind if I poke around and see if I can find the lock? Then I’ll take off.” Kyle looks around the room, already hunting for where the key might go.

Alex thinks it can’t do any harm since he’d come all this way. “When I got here, I put everything that reminded me of the good ol’ days in the closet. Go nuts.” Alex decides to leave him to it and go sit on the porch. He doesn’t need any more memories haunting him today.

There’s a spot on the side of the cabin where Jim had set up a small table and chairs to look out into the desert years ago. They were starting to rust and would probably need to be painted or replaced soon, but that was where Alex gravitated now. He wanted to stay out of Kyle’s way and he had a lot on his mind.

Mainly Michael and the way things had gone down between them. Maybe Michael really had been trading copper wire, though that wasn’t technically legal either, to steal from the dump, but it was a good sight better than the thought of him taking money for sex out in the open like that. The truth was, Alex was jealous of the thought of him with anyone else. Which was hardly fair seeing as Alex had told him things weren’t going to work out.

Alex sits and thinks about Michael and about emailing him for close to an hour and all the while Kyle hasn’t come out. Eventually Alex shakes himself from his reverie and goes to check on Kyle.

He finds him sitting on the couch with a fishing reel and looking nostalgic. “That’s not a lock.” Alex says.

“Yeah, got distracted.” Kyle tells him. “Do you remember that night your dad made us set up that tent to teach us extreme weather survival. We found a way to sneak back inside. We were a good team.”

“Yeah. Until you grew one chest hair and instantly became a nightmare of a bully. Like some bro jock from an eighties movie.” Alex says, shaking his head.

Kyle has the decency to look ashamed. “I don’t know why I was like that.”

“Because I was gay. People started to notice, and you were afraid that, if you were nice to me, people would think you were gay, too.” Alex explains. He’d figured it out years ago.

“I’m sorry… I--I didn’t think that…” Kyle started.

“Don’t.” Alex interrupts him with a humorless laugh. “Please. I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but I’ve been through a lot worse than your locker room taunting at this point.”

Kyle looks uncomfortable with that, like he doesn’t quite know what to say and he stands with a sigh.

“How much longer do you think is gonna take?” Alex asks.

Kyle bends to pull the drawer out of the coffee table. “I don’t… “ The whole drawer comes out on accident. “Whoa. Dammit.”

Alex just rolls his eyes. But Kyle looks concerned.

“Whoa.” He says. Alex has no idea what he could be looking at. “Hey, uh, um, help me move this.”

Together they lift the coffee table out of the way revealing a hatch of some kind underneath it.

“What the hell?” Alex asks.

“Did you know about this?” Kyle wants to know.

“No, dude.” Alex shakes his head taking a step back. “Okay so this is the point in the horror movie where the audience starts screaming, no don’t do that.”

“What’s the worst we can find?” Kyle asks.

“What… literal skeletons!” Alex tells him.

But that doesn’t deter Kyle at all and he begins to try and open the hatch. Alex sighs, resigned, and steps forward to get a better look as Kyle opens the hatch door and they both look down at a ladder into darkness.

At the bottom of the ladder Kyle feels around until he finds a light switch. When the light goes on, Alex can’t quite believe his eyes. They seem to be standing in a girl’s bedroom and he has no idea why. It doesn’t feel right.

“I think I’d prefer skeletons.” Kyles says, warily.

Together they walk further into the room, looking around. There is a bed on the far wall with two nightstands with lamps. A chest at the end of the bed and a wardrobe. All of it very clearly meant for a girl.

Alex notices the symbol from the keyrings is punched out of one of the lamps but he doesn’t know why or what the symbol means.

“Why did you really come here?” Alex asks.

“I’m looking into Rosa Ortecho’s death.” He says plainly.

“Liz’s sister? The DUI?” Alex can’t imagine why anyone would be looking into that when it seemed so straight forward. Tragic but straight forward.

“Liz has questions.” Kyle explains.

“What, you think that your dad had something to do with it?” Alex guesses.

“I think Rosa and my dad were having an affair.” Kyle admits.

Alex immediately rejects the idea. “No.” He shakes his head. “Your dad was a good guy. You know why he left me this house, and not you? Because you were fine. You were popular. You were at the top of your class in med school. Your mom loved you. I wasn’t loved. My mom was gone. My dad was a homophobic abusive dick. And your dad saw it. He left me these keys so that I would have a place to go. He wasn’t the type of person who would take advantage of a desperate teenager. He would help them.”

Together they stand in silence looking around and trying to figure it out. Alex opens the wardrobe and finds medical supplies of some sort. “Look.” He tells Kyle. He pulls out an I.V. bag and passes it to Kyle.

“This is for detoxing.” Kyle says. “My dad had been through the twelve steps. A couple times. Maybe… he was trying to keep her in here to get her clean? Or maybe I’m just thinking wishfully again and I need to get a grip.”

Alex takes another look around. “Something isn’t right.” Finally voicing his concern.

“Uh, yeah. Wrong would be closer to my choice of words.”

The chest at the end of the bed catches Alex’s eye and he bends down to look at it. There’s a small lock on it. “It’s locked.” He tells Kyle. “Your key.”

Kyle brings the key over and it does in fact fit the lock. So he turns it and pulls the lock off the chest. He opens it slowly revealing pictures, a teddy bear, a baby blanket, and other odds and ins. The picture on top catches his eye and he picks it up, looking at it closely.

“I’d recognize his hands anywhere.” Kyle says. The picture is a man holding a baby in the blanket that’s in the chest. The blanket has an embroidered “R” on it. “My dad didn’t have an affair with Liz’s sister.” He says quietly. “He had an affair with her mom. That’s why he was trying to help Rosa sober up. That’s why he was never the same after she died. Rosa was his daughter.”

Kyle closes the chest back and puts the lock back in place. Then, after another quick search of the room doesn’t turn anything up they decide to leave it for the time being. They climb back out of the bunker and close the hatch, placing the table back over it.

They stand in the living room facing each other. Kyle sighs heavily before saying, “I’m sorry. For dragging you into all this.”

“Kyle.” Alex says softly. “How many men do you know who were a father to any and every kid who needed one? That’s who Jim Valenti was. And he was yours. The dad I got was a monster. Is a monster.”

“Because he sent you off to war?” Kyle asks.

“My father was my war.” Alex tells him, sitting down on the couch. It’s dark outside the window behind him. “And your dad saw it, when we were kids. Do you remember the summer that we built the treehouse?”

“Yeah.” Kyle says.

“That’s the summer that my dad found out I was gay. He knew before I did. He thought he could beat it out of me. Jim tried to intervene. But you can’t make someone stop hating someone. And my dad hated me.” Alex fell silent after that. There didn’t seem to be much more to say.

“You’ve got it wrong, you know?” Kyle interrupts his thoughts. “My dad didn’t leave you that key because he thought you were weak. He would’ve never thought that about you. You’re the bravest person I know.”

Alex looks up at him, surprised by his words. Kyle offers him a small smile before turning to leave. He closes the door softly behind him leaving Alex alone with his thoughts once more. He sighs heavily and leans against his hands. There was something about the bunker that still felt strange to Alex. Something they were missing. Why was there a bunker to begin with? Before it was made into a room for rosa to detox in, what purpose had it served?

He just has more questions. So he decides to go for one last look, by himself. Moving the table is a little bit difficult but he pushes it mostly with his good leg until he can get the hatch open, and then he climbs slowly back down into the darkness. When he flips on the lights the feeling hits him fresh. Something is off and he is going to figure out what it is.

Alex walks slowly toward the lamp with the symbol on it. He flicks it on and sees that it shines the symbol onto the wall. He pulls out his keys and confirms that it is the same spiral symbol. It looks a little like a sun with a moon nearby. In the center of the spiral is a notch out of the wall which gives him the idea to check behind it.

Lacking any sort of tool, Alex picks up his crutch and balances it in his hand. He punches the wall with the bottom of it until the wall begins to crumble away. Alex hits it several times until there is a sizable hole where the light is shining from the lamp.

He leans down and sees that there is something in the wall! So he reaches for it and carefully pulls it out. It’s dusty but smooth and as he dusts it off it shimmers and glows in a variety of colors and symbols. It’s a part to something larger, that much is clear. And the first thing Alex thinks looking at it, is that it’s not of this world.

Alex carries the piece back up the ladder and thinks of where to hide it for now. He’s going to look into it and see what he can find out about it and in the meantime he knows he needs to keep it safe and hidden. The only thing he can come up with is his backpack because he usually carries it with him and that way he can keep an eye on it wherever he goes.

After it’s tucked safe into the backpack, Alex sits down in the couch once more. He runs a hand through his hair and wishes he had someone he could call. He had friends, he knew he could trust, but this felt different. This felt big. He didn’t want to drag anyone into it until he knew what it even was.

He especially wanted to see Michael and for a few minutes he even held his phone in his hand and thought about sending an email. A text would be better but he didn’t have Michael’s number in his phone.

In the end he does nothing. What would he say. He wants desperately to see Michael, but he’s hurt him, or at the very least pissed him off. How wrong would it be to call in the debt just to get some face time? Very wrong, he decides.

Alex doesn’t feel like dinner so he takes a shower and goes to bed. He tries his best not to think about how many mistakes he’s made with Michael and instead thinks about the mystery in his backpack and where it might lead.

[nasanerdevans-blog]

Someone Pinch Me // [S.R.]

prompt: being a medical prodigy already has it’s ‘holy shit’ moments, but this might be the biggest ‘holy shit’ moment you’ve ever had or will ever have.  

warnings: swearing, lots of swearing

enjoy :)

Your hands slowly wrapped around the doorknob, the cool metal contrasting with the warm clamminess of your hands, coming from the rising nerves in your stomach. The large light above the large circular table was out, but two standing lamps that sat in the back corners of the room were flicked on. “Take a seat.” One of the two faceless individuals said, making you jump. Your body jolted forward to the seat that sat on the opposite side of the table.

The room sat silent for entirely too long, but you took this time to take in the characteristic of each of their faces, well, the ones you could see. These people were practically silhouettes due to the lights sitting directly behind them. The man who had instructed you to sit was sitting to the left. His head was smooth, due to his lack of hair, and seemed to have a darker skin complexion. As your eyes shifted towards the other man, the man who first spoke to you, broke the silence. “Are you (Y/F/N) (Y/M/N) (Y/L/N)?” He asked, his voice was hoarse, you heard the turning of paper pages. “Y-Yes, s-sir.” You stammered, fiddling with your fingers in your lap. “Fury, can we turn the damn lights on? You’re gonna give this girl a heart attack.” The voice of his partner was higher pitched, and oddly sounded familiar.

“We’re not doing this good cop, bad cop thing, it never works. You just end up giving everyone heart palpitations.” The familiar voice said, you watched his faceless head turn towards you now. “Sorry kid, can you flip the light on?” He said, more as a demand and less as a question. You turned in the swivel chair and scooted just close enough to reach the switch. The room was quickly flooded with light. You hesitantly turned back around, and almost as a reflex, your jaw dropped. “Holy shit...” Was all you could muddle out. Sitting before you was they one and only, Tony Stark, or Iron Man, both names being just as infamous as the other. What the actual fuck is happening?

That day started off completely normal, nothing but the ordinary.

Your alarm went off at the ungodly hour, four o’clock in the morning. This may seem like an odd hour for a few, but for a someone who works in any sort of medical field this was normal. Your average morning consisted of rolling around in your sheets for another ten minutes, dreading to leave your warm and cozy sheets. Once you finally sit up and swing your feet over the edge of your bed, anticipating the cold floor contrasting with your warmer feet, making a layer of goosebumps layer across your skin.

Striding across the wooden floor to the bathroom across the hall, instantly turning the knob of your shower completely to the warm side, waiting until it was scolding hot, just the way you liked it. The hot water made the sleep-heavy haze, that hung over your body slowly disperse. It wasn’t that you were actually tired, you had been off the last two days, using them to catch up on your lack of sleep. You absolutely loved your job with every fiber of your being, the patients, co-workers, and every other thing that came with this job.

For the most part, your mornings were quick and to the point, the thing that took the longest was the shower, once you were in the warmth, similar to your bed, you struggled to leave it. Besides that, you would just throw on some scrubs and fix your hair into the simplest of styles, that would be out of your way and kept out of your face, so that day was no different. The hospital you worked at was a decent drive away, thirty to forty-five minutes. Your supervisors had asked if you wanted to transfer to a closer hospital, but you declined, you loved the drive, blasting your favorite music. It was just your daily dose of ‘me-time’, which is something you barely had, due to your busy schedule.

The building was twelve stories, completely made of two-toned bricks with hundreds of windows, you always felt bad for the window clearers, heaven forbid, one of the wires snapped. Well, at least they were directly next to a hospital, but still. You turned down the music as you pulled into your assigned parking spot.

“Good morning, Ms. (Y/F/N)!” the receptionist said, a huge smile plastered on her face. You gave her a big smile, while taking a sip of the drink in your hand. Approaching the steel doors with short strides, you clicked the button with a small arrow pointing up, tapping your foot as you waited. The metal box carried you up to the fifth floor, where your unit sat, also known as the ‘Trauma Center’. This specific floor dealt with the most grueling and high-risk injuries, and then being a a Level One Trauma Unit, only added to the insanity. A ‘Level One’ meant it provided total care, prevention and rehabilitation, equipped with learning stations for  research programs.

As the elevator doors pulled open, you were instantly greeted by a fellow co-worker and good friend, Jasmine. “Oh hey!” You exclaimed, almost walking into her. The smile that had twisted your lips upwards, was instantly changed into a worried expression. “What's wrong?” You asked, noticing her wide-eyes and arched eyebrows. Instead of explaining anything to you, she simply grabbed the wrist of your free hand, practically dragging you towards the West end of the floor, where most of the classrooms and conference rooms sat. You tried your best to plant yourself on the tile floors, but to no avail, Jasmine just continued to drag you past patients and some nurses.

“What the hell are you doing?” You barked, trying to pry your wrist from her tiny fingers. “You’re gonna bruise me!” You further explained. Opening your mouth to bicker again, but before your could get out the first letter, she stopped, right outside one of the conference room. You looked at her angrily, finally ripping your hand away from hers. You gripped your forearm, shaking your wrist, and checking for any damage. The skin was a small bit irritated, but besides that, everything was still intact.

“Now can you tell me what the fuck is going on?” You whispered-yelled, tossing the empty cup in your other hand into the garbage beside the door. “They’re in there.” Was all she said, you watched her gulp, making the nerves in your stomach only grow stronger. “Who’s in there?” You asked, voice just above a whisper. “Just go in.” She urged, practically pushing you into the door.

And you know how it went from there.

“Can-Can I ask w-why you’re h-here?” You stuttered, something you did often when you became overwhelmingly anxious, leg bouncing up and down under the table, one of the habits you could never break. “You can.” Mr. Stark said, a bright smile on his face, he let out a loud chuckle, laughing at his own’ dad-type’ joke. The other man rolled his only visible ‘eye’, while Tony just continued to chuckle at himself. “We’ll be asking the questions here, Ms. (Y/L/N).” The more intimidating man said, flipping through a file with your name printed on it, last name first followed by your middle initial, and then your first name. “Oh god, Fury, could you be anymore cliche?” Stark asked, leaning back in his chair, propping his head up on his hands. “I’m gonna kick your ass if you don’t shut up, we’re supposed to be intimidating.” They bickered back in forth, which was quite amusing, if you weren't in a complete state of inner chaos you might of laughed, but instead you just watched the two interact. “Bring it old man!” Tony tested, his hand hovering over the glowing triangle over his chest.

Fury changed the subject looking back at you, ignoring whatever Tony mumbled under his breath. “I need you to verify some information for me.” Mr. Fury said, pulling a sheet of paper out of the manilla folder. The questions were simple, like verifying your birthdate, the day you graduated high school/college, etc. “It says here Ms. (Y/L/N), that you are on your last year of medical residency training, at only the age of twenty-four, is that correct?” Nick asked, glancing up at you with his ‘good eye’. “Yes, sir.” You confirmed, bringing your hands up to the desk, still fiddling with your thumbs. “That is six years sooner than the average individual.” You had heard that statistic a million times, you almost rolled your eyes, but you decided against.

“Fury, we know she’s a genius, can we just get on with it? With what we’re actually here for.” Tony said more as a demand, than a question. “I’m never taking you with me to these things ever again.” Nick muttered to Tony, although he was obviously able to hear him. “Alright Ms. (Y/L/N), we are here to offer you a proposition.” You didn’t think your heart could drop any lower into your body, but you felt your heartbeat in your toes. “M-Me?” You asked, dumbfounded. Tony nodded, grabbing another manilla folder from his briefcase.

This is when Tony began to speak to you, “I read the essays you wrote about the effects on the Super Soldier Serum, and I’m very impressed with your knowledge.” Tony explained, this made your heart skip a beat, hearing those words coming from ‘They Tony Stark’ meant more than words can say. “You know things about the serum that has never been released, how is that?” You racked your brain for a moment, resurfacing the information you put into your essays, and quickly began to explain, bur before you could Nick cut you off, “How did you know Potassium was a part of the serum?” He pressed, his eye scanning over a copy of one of the essays in question.

“Potassium’s main job in the body is to grow and build muscles, and since these ‘Super Soldiers’ have the ability to regenerate muscles quickly, there must have been an above average amount of Potassium in the serum.” You explained, both of them watching you intently. They continued to question you on this knowledge, and continue to become more and more impressed with each passing moment. “You’re hired!” Tony exclaimed, jumping out of his seat,pointing at you.

 “H-Hired for w-what, sir?” You asked, the nerves bubbling back up. “Oh right, you still have no idea why we’re here.” he mumbled. He slid a manilla folder your way, you caught it right before it slipped off the table. A black bar was printed at the top, white letters spelling out ‘confidential’ with a small bird-like symbol just below it. You flipped open the folder and was greeted by a photo of a familiar face, one you had seen on the news hundreds of times, whether that be through a broadcast, interviews, or through phone videos played by the news. It was Captain America, aka Steve Rogers. You felt like you were looking at something you weren't supposed to, so you quickly closed the folder, pushing it away. “W-What is that?” So many questions swimming through your brain, but that was the only one you could get out.

“We’ve been tip-toeing for too long, so I’m just gonna say it.” Tony said, rolling his eyes and sitting upright in his chair. “Basically, because we’ve been researching you after a tip came in about you existence, and we came here because we believe you would be the perfect nurse for our two Super Soldiers.” All the information was too much to process, you felt like your brain had shut down. “What?” Was all you could muster out. “I don’t have enough time or energy to care for Rogers and Barnes after every fight, so I need someone who is completely dedicated to them, health-wise, and you fit that mold perfectly.” He picked up his briefcase and set it on the table, clicking it shut. “You’ll be their Sexy Sup-Stop.” Nick cuts him off, you didn’t even register what Tony was beginning to say, your brain had practically shut down, and was currently rebooting, you probably looked drunk, with glossy eyes and flushed cheeks.  

“Someone pinch me.” You thought to yourself, but it must have slipped past your lips because you heard Tony mumble something, that you couldn’t even register his words. They didn’t even let you get out a yes or no, and not even a ‘can I think about it?’ Instead, they placed a thick manilla folder in front of you, similar to the one you scanned over earlier. 

“In here is your contract, and you are not to share this information with anyone, do you understand?” Fury said, his tone back to serious, the same as before Tony began to make a fool of himself. You simply nodded, trying to knock yourself back into reality. “W-What if I-I have any questions?” You asked, looking between the two men. Stark fished around in his pockets for something, and quickly pulled out a small card. “if you have any questions, give me a call.” He said, placing the small business card on the folder. Before you could say anything else, they were already walking out the door, and presumably towards the elevator.

“You really can’t make this shit up.” 

[nikolairas]

self para: lucy.

characters: lucy rasmussen (pov), nikolai rasmussen, magnus rasmussen, ingrid rasmussen

word count: 2,432. 

summary: the development of lucy rasmussen over time and the story of her husband’s disappearance. nikolai’s secret is revealed here.

tw: abuse, death, violence, blood

lucy met magnus when she was only fifteen. when lucy was fifteen, she was bright and bubbly, with wide eyes and large curls, bright pink lips with laughter always on the tip of her tongue. "he's the boy you're going to marry," her mother had said. "i don't know him," lucy said. "yes," her mother had said, "but the rasmussen name is powerful. and they need our money. you can help each other. " 

lucy had always been an easygoing and bright girl, but by the time she turned eighteen, there was no fighting it. she was the youngest in her family and the only girl. this was how her parents saw that she could be useful. she didn't know magnus well, but he was handsome. she thought that maybe she could love him.

but lucy never learned to love magnus. it was six days after they returned from their honeymoon when he hit her for the first time. she'd been on the phone with an old boyfriend, one that still loved her and one she thought she might have loved too. magnus had ripped the phone out of her hands, smashing it on the floor, wires and buttons spanning out over the tile. "you will never disrespect me like this again," he'd said, "i am the man in your life now." he was six years older than her and much stronger. there was not much that could be done. 

darkness filled her days as she put on a smile for every gala, every charity ball, every luncheon. the rasmussen bank account only grew – magnus has a mind for money, a keen eye for what would be a good investment, a good property. as lucy got better at predicting his moves, the beatings became less frequent. but in doing this, she was losing her light. she was losing everything that made her lucy. it was not until she gave birth to their son, nikolai, that she finally began to hope again. she understood her purpose, and it was to raise this boy to be gentle and good, despite his father's temper and anger. it was to protect him.

she devoted herself to this purpose, to teaching him piano and reading him stories every night. she fostered his imagination as best she could. all that lucy rasmussen wanted to was to raise a good, kind, and smart boy that would counteract all the evil and violence that his father put into the world. when magnus got angry, she was able to retreat into nikolai's room and read him a story. he would fall asleep with his head on her chest, curled up in her arms. she knew that she would move mountains and fight armies for her son, her boy, her light. she is supposed to be taking care of him, but most nights, nikolai is the one who takes care of her. when there is broken glass and black eyes, nikolai stays up late and tells his mother stories.

after ingrid is born, she joins them for story time every night, even if she is too little to understand. magnus is angered by their closeness and their traditions. after an outburst, it is decided – there will be no more stories.

it isn't until nikolai is twelve that lucy finally loses a battle she has been fighting since his birth. nikolai brings home bad grades from school and she stuffs them in her drawer, hoping to god that she can hide them. but when the teacher calls, magnus answers, and he lashes out at the boy for not living up to the set expectations. late at night, he lashes out at lucy. "how could you hide this from me?" he says, "this is my house. he is my son. you continue to fail him – if i don't teach him how the world works, he will never survive."

lucy begins to notice change in her boy after that. he acts out more at school, comes home with scrapes and bruises. he leaves home with fresh ones too. every day, he becomes harder and more closed off and lucy feels like she has failed him and herself. she misses her nikolai, the one who would stay up late to tell her stories and play the piano. one afternoon, she comes back from a luncheon and she can hear the echoes of clair de lune around the house. she peers into the piano room and sees nikolai playing, fingers fiercely flying over the keys. ingrid's laughter fills the room as she dances, spinning and jumping off of things.

lucy walks back to the den, sinks into a chair by the fireplace, and sobs.

routine continues. the men fight, they make up. magnus begs for forgiveness, nikolai doesn't respond. the two men fight in the kitchen, they fight in the living room. they break the coffee table, they break the lamp. they break lucy rasmussens heart, over and over again.

if nikolai has become magnus, then ingrid has become lucy. ingrid is girly and bright, full of laughter and wide-eyed smiles. boys love her, teachers are delighted by her. her future seems bright. she is clearly nikolai's world and he will do anything to protect her. lucy is proud of this – she has raised a boy who cares about his sister, who looks after his family. lucy fears the day that magnus might hurt ingrid, but he doesn't touch her until she is nineteen.

ingrid always had many admirers, but one night, one of these boys is caught in her room. it's 11:30pm. she should be in bed and it is certainly against magnus' rules for her to have a boy in her room. magnus barely has the door open before the boy is running out, clutching his khakis and fearing for his life. it is not the boy that magnus intends to punish. "how dare you disobey me? and bring a man into this home – " he pauses, "i never raised a daughter to be this disrespectful towards me, towards her family."

lucy watches, petrified, "magnus, don't –" she whispers.

"you didn't raise me at all," ingrid hisses, "you've never done anything for this family but hurt us, close us in, and trap us. you're not my father and i will never be your daughter."

the screaming brings nikolai rushing in from the other room, hair messy and shirt half-buttoned. he's red-faced and out of breath. he arrives just in time to see magnus reprimand ingrid for her insolence with this fist. she spins backward and falls against her bedside table and on to the carpet. she jumps up, but nikolai has already raced forward and is at magnus' throat.

"don't you fucking touch her," he says, "don't you ever fucking touch her." lucy's worst fears are realized when fists begin flying. nikolai hits first, swiping his father across the face. magnus hits back, pushing him against the window and punching him back, hard. the two hold nothing back as they throw each other around ingrid's room, into bedposts and shattering bedframes. ingrid screams, trying to step between the two, and in the crossfire, niko accidentally swipes her across the face. lucy pulls her daughter back, holding her close. "just stay out of it," lucy whispers, "it will all be over soon."

ingrid continues to shout, crying, but lucy stays calm. she steadies her breath and holds her daughter close as nikolai gains the upper hand, pinning his father to the floor. lucy watches as nikolai swings, over and over again. she can see in his eyes that he's lost, that he's really not the little boy she once knew. his shirt is bloodstained, his hair is disheveled, and in his face she can see the darkness and emptiness that she recognizes only in the face of one other man.

magnus has been beat long past breathing. nikolai stops, falling backward on his knees. "oh my god," he whispers, bringing his hands to his face. he leaves bloody fingerprints on his own cheeks. "what..." lucy lets go of ingrid and she rushes forward, checking her father's pulse. his face is beyond recognizable, bloody and disfigured. it is strange to see him laying like that – the man that once controlled her every move, commanded her every step. now he lay powerless and empty, a shell on the ground. she would be moved, but she looks at her children and knows that she has no time for that. she has to act fast.

"what have i done?" tears begin to stream down her son's face as he shakes, coughing. he starts to stand up but doesn't make it, vomiting the contents of his stomach all over the floor beside his father’s body. he collapses, shaking and crying. ingrid goes to him and he holds up his hand, "don't touch me – just...just call the police. call someone. maybe we can...maybe if we're fast enough...they can help..."

the stench is unbearable, blood, death, and vomit – but lucy doesn't register it. she doesn't even wrinkle her nose. lucy brushes her skirt off and finally speaks. "no," she says, "do not call the police. they will take you away forever, is that what you want? to leave me and your sister alone, spending every cent on a lawyer, rendering us penniless pariahs after we battle this scandal tooth and nail? and you, in jail – or worse, unable to see us ever again, your future ripped from you because of the things he did?"

lucy shakes her head, "no. it has always been the three of us and it will continue to be. we need each other now more than ever. ingrid, help your brother to the shower while i clean up this mess."

so, lucy does what she has to do. she calls in a few favors and replaces the carpet. she ensures that the body will be sunk deep into the hudson river, never to be found. she does what she has to in order to take care of her children, to ensure the future of their safety, because that's what she's always done. as she watches his body sink, deeper and deeper, she does not feel sadness or regret – she feels a sort of satisfaction. unfortunately, this will not come without a price. she knows that more arrangements will have to be made and more lies will have to be told in order to keep them all safe. but lucy also knows that she will and can do whatever it takes. because even this will be better than the life they endured with magnus lording over them.

so, she goes home. she finds ingrid sleeping on the couch in the den and makes a mental note to get all her things moved into the guest room tomorrow. ingrid sleeps restlessly, tossing and turning. lucy pulls the blanket up over her daughter and kisses her forhead. they have hard days ahead, lucy knows, but she is so proud of her and the woman she has become.

lucy walks into magnus' study, opening the safe. she immediately starts going through papers, sorting through accounts. her glasses rest on the bridge of her nose as she leafs through everything, knowing that this will be a long and sleepless night. she's only made it through a few files when nikolai walks in.  he's in a daze, still in shock. his eyes seem glazed over. lucy drops the papers on the floor and runs toward him, wrapping her arms around him tightly. "i'm so sorry," she whispers, "i wish...i had done more. i wish i had said more when i could have, then this...oh, nikolai, i'm so sorry."

he shakes his head. "no, this is all my fault...you should turn me in – you could say you didn't know...that it was all me, i..."

"you know i can't do that," she says, "and i won't. i need you here with me, i always have. you know what the consequences would be."

nikolai pauses for a long time before he finally nods. "i'm scared," he whispers, "i swear, i don't know what happened to me. i started and i just couldn't stop myself, it was like i was blind – it felt like blacking out, and i looked down and he was just..." his eyes fill with tears, his lip quivering. "i couldn't stop myself. what if it happens again? what if i lose control and it's...it's you, or ingrid?" a tear rolls down his cheek and he steps back from his mother, shaking his head, "i can't do that. i can't be here, it's too dangerous. i'm too dangerous."

lucy steps forward towards her son. "no, it's not. we'll be okay. ingrid and i will look after you and you'll look after us. from now on, you're going to keep your cool. you're going to stay calm and stop getting into fights. and you're going to run this company." lucy walks back to grab one of the files and presses it into his hand. "you have to do that – you owe it to us now. we need you."

nikolai looks at his mother, eyes resolute. he looks down at the file, leafing through the pages in his hands. she can see his posture harden in front of her as he realizes what he must do. he won't lose control again because he can't. it's that simple. his mother needs him, his sister needs him. so, in spite of the tragedy, he will soldier on.

but every night, lucy can hear screaming from down the hall. she knows that he's having night terrors. her son has always had a monster inside of him and now it is free. 

nikolai wakes up in the morning and puts on a suit and drinks black coffee at the kitchen counter. sometimes, lucy walks into the kitchen and her heart races. for a moment, sometimes she can swear it's him, pulled up from the bottom of the hudson river. then, nikolai turns around, brightens his eyes and smiles at her and she can finally breathe a sigh of relief.

with magnus gone, she hopes to god that the worst of it is over. she hopes to god.

the girl that lucy rasmussen once was when she was fifteen is long gone. her hair is straight and thin, eyes dark and tired. she walks with purpose and intent, heels clicking down every hallway with a haunting rhythm. dark red lips with a snide remark always on the tip of her tongue. she will do what she has to in order to keep her children safe. just as she has always done.

[whosxafraid]

Jayden and Luka for the Married Life

Meme: Married Life Meme Status: CLOSED

leaves their dirty clothes on the floor

Shame. He has it. But not about physical things. At least not a lot. And there’s a certain sort of walk mortals talk about; that you do the morning after. Walk of Shame, if he’s got that right. But that’s not the sort of walk he’s doing is it? Even if for a second he thinks about pulling on lounge pants and a shirt, but she’s already seen what he usually hides from the world….So in nothing more than what he was born in, he gets up. Stepping on clothes that had been shed last night because tunnel vision is one hell of a drug.

Gets the coffee started. Checks the fridge. Realizes they’ll have to go out for breakfast because he’s all out of eggs. Something brushed off for the time being, as he allows the door to fall back shut of it’s own volition. Back to the window to clear the bowl of creme and throw away the burned out candle. The slightest of twitches to his lips, because he doesn’t know why he bothers hoping things will change.

Off to the table, clicking on the tv. Switching it to the morning news, while he surfs through the supernatural want ads. Don’t knock it. Once in a while there’s a high paying job in these things. Not everyone could know him by word of mouth. Why? Because that takes part of the fun out of it. The coffee pings and not a moment later he picks up the tread of feet.

         “Mornin’, love. Coffees ready. Be moi’ndin’ bringin’ me o’mug?”

A noise that sounds like agreement so he leaves her be. At least until a handfull of his ass is getting groped.

       Ya know most people at least put on pants when they get up in the morning.

          “Aye. Mos’ people do.”

forgets to run the dish washer

Time is…rather relative when you don’t age. And getting back from a job can be at any hour. Today it happens to be at two in the afternoon. He’s hungry. He’s tired. And he just wishes he could eat and sleep at the same time. But even he can’t manage that one. So eat first it is. Or would be if not for the fact the dishwashers not full of clean dishes. A minimal sigh, that pulls shoulders down into the dirt.

Okay, plan b. The steak gets put directly on the eye of the stove. Turned over twice. Picked up with tongues, then juggled between his hands a few moments before a chunk is bitten out of it. And that would have been the end of it if she hadn’t come home early. Stopped dead center in the kitchen door way, one brow lifted, like him with a pratically raw steak hanging out of his mouth is the weirdest thing she’s seen all week. Which by the way? He knows would be a lie if she tried it.

        “In me de’fense? S’no’ d’weir’est d’ing ye be walkin’ in on me doin’….”

               Did you just quote Tony Stark?

        “Maybe?”

And there’s a tired grin around the pound of flesh between his teeth. At least until he pulls. Tearing off a bite and chewing.

              Just….try not to get any on the floor and wipe up the stove. My mother’s coming over.

        “Aye, love. As ye loi’ke.”

pumps gas for the car

                 It’s one little stop over. I don’t see why you’re…

          “Oi’ said no. oi’dunna go d’ere less oi’absolutely have ta.”

Out of the car, leaving the door open. Pushing and pulling a card out. Punching in his pin. Punching the gas selection. He really hated rentals. But it couldn’t be helped.

              Have you seriously scheduled every flight you ever taken to compensate for not even wanting to BE in England’s air space?

       “Aye. An’ oi’ dunna plan on stoppin’ now, jus’cause i’be shavin’ an hour off travel toi’me.”

            Luka this is ridiculous. It’s been what? Twelve hundred years? Let-it-go!

He shuts the driver’s door without response. He’s not going to continue this argument right now. And he lets his ears settle to the clicking of the gas pump. Let it go? Over his damned dead body, he will.

drives when they’re going somewhere

They’ve been driving for a half hour. Not a word between them. And this is not at all how he’d pictured driving to through the Italian country side but here they are. And there’s a small huff, as he lets the window down. Lights up. He’s not going to break the silence, because he’s not going to bend. Not on this. Even if he knows in his heart of hearts of hearts–it is a little stupid. But he’s bitter and he’s been bitter about that one thing for ages.

          Fine. There’s a flight out of tomorrow night. Take an extra two hours but the lay overs in Iceland. Happy?

         “Aye.”

She’s upset. But he’s not going to apologize for it. Not yet anyway.

rearranges the furniture

It starts with not leaving her be while she attempts to make herself tea. Hands where they shouldn’t be going at one in the afternoon. Hands that get soundly popped, thrice. So he backs off for all of fifteen seconds. Trying again from a different angle behind the couch. Hands on her shoulders that don’t waste a lot of time sinking further down as teeth nibble at her neck. And this time she’s got a hold of his nose. Pulling him up by it.

       What’s gotten into you? I told you not right now. I have a meeting to get to in an hour.

          “D’at’s plen’y o’toi’me….soi’des how ye expect me ta be keepin’ me hands ta meself when ye smell loi’ke ye do?”

And he’s pushing forward. Stealing a kiss. And there go his hands again. Wandering places he knows will get him what he wants.

        Luka O’Ria–

And there’s a dawning sort of sun that rises over her entire being. Because it clicks and oh no. Oh god damn. And there really isn’t a fairness in making him wait. But she’s going to put up her best defense anyway. Because the chase is all part of the process.

So before he can react, she’s faded out of his hold. Appeared again behind the arm chair, and he moving with that one speed he usually saves for when he’s working. And the first thing to fall is the coffee table. The next the couch that’s tipped over, and the frame of it cracking under the pressure. The shattering of a light bulb when the lamp bites the dust. And by the end of it, one would think a small war had occurred in the loft. 

Books knocked off shelves, furniture split open and/or split in half entirely. Scatch marks in the wood floors the same as in flesh. And in the middle of it all, the heated pair of them. Echos still drifting on the air, walls settling back into place from the pressure. And if there’s one thing for sure? She’s going to be late, just like he’s going to be furniture shopping after she leaves.

falls asleep with the TV on

Sometimes she can’t sleep. Sometimes he can’t. The only difference is how they handle it. And though each other doesn’t know it…the other always wakes up. The only difference is how they handle that too. But tonight’s a little different isn’t it? Because she wakes up a second time and he’s not come back to bed. The easy sound of water shifting as he cuts up and down the pool isn’t there. And well she can hardly be blamed can she?

Blanket wrapped snugly around her, treading lightly over wood panels. And to be honest she’d expected to find him bent over his table. Researching or working his way through plans for a job but what she finds…

He’s asleep. Head propped up by one hand, in his chair. The record player near by skipping off its track. And she’s twice as careful and quiet after that. Moving the book that’s been threatening to slide out of his lap for who knows how long, to the table. Hanging up the record needle and switching it off; along with the lamp. Pulling his head away from his hand, to lay it back against the chair, that she reclines. No sense in him waking up with a crik in his neck. Then comes the blanket. Cast over him as gently as possible, and there’s a small wince when a rather canine quaffle escapes him. But thankfully he doesn’t wake up. And Jay? She slips off back to bed. Not to say a word about it come morning.

gets to use the bathroom first

Sometimes but not always she wakes up first. Lays there in the stillness of the pre-dawn, wondering how she got here. Where she’d be if she wasn’t here. But then the quiet clink of metal and brown is drawn to the familiar looking up at her from across the room. And that’s her que isn’t it? 

She gets up. Quiet and slow so as not to wake him. Not that she thinks a canon going off could do that right now. He’s probably still got enough alchol in his system (to numb the hole in his shoulder), to kill three horses. Something that is only emphasized by the way his hand slides from her middle. Flopping dead weight on the bed that’s already cooling with her absence. 

Then it’s off to the bathroom. To shower and find clothes for the day. They’re not normal…they’ll never be that. But every once in a while it’s nice to pretend that they are. And she’ll let him sleep, while she lets Prue out before getting started on breakfast. Because canon fire might not rouse him, but the scent of sweet bread and bacon? That can raise the dead. Just don’t ask her how she knows that.

decides the temperature for the ac/heater

            I’m back!—-Luka?

        “Up here, love.”

              Holy shit, what the fuck are yo—

        “Fan no’ runnin’. M’replacin’ d’rotor.”

              How the hell did you even–

         “Pulley ropes. Installed ‘em when oi’ renovated d’place.”

And there’s a few seconds where she’s just standing there with the bag of groceries. Open mouthed staring up into the ceiling where all she can really see are his swinging feet and the occasional flash of red hair. But then she’s shaking it off the almost surreal feeling of it all. Because how long ago had he renovated? The truth is? She doesn’t want to know. It’ll just make her feel like she’s five and remind her he’s older than the dirt her great five times removed grandmother was buried in. And she almost laughs when a question comes drifting down from the ceiling.

         “D’ink ye can be doin’ me o’favor and flippin’ d’eigh’d breaker switch?”

sets up holiday decorations

Incessant knocking. And even though it takes him only a few seconds to open it, the person–or rather familiar–on the other side huffs. Pushes her way inside a bit frantically. Tinsel stuck in her hair and garland hanging off her shoulders. A crooked set of reindeer horns half cocked on her head.

            Save me.

           “From wha’, lass? Ye look loi’ke ye go’o’ttacked boi’y d’at wan’o’be elf.”

          Jay. She’s decorating the shop and everything i–wait you’ve met Santa?!

           “In passin’….”

          Get out!

           “Ye know fer o’magical bein’ ye no’ really me’ many people have ye?”

        Well I mean yea I have but n—oh no. HIDE ME SHE’S COMING.

leaves the lights on

Sentimental. 

There was a time when she’d gone. Disappeared out of his life as quick as a snowflake melts on his tongue. And he’d been forced to move on. Forced to pick up and keep going, because what choice did he have? Though it gnawed at him for decades. More so than any of the others that had come before her. And company…was not sought after in the wake of her. At least not in the same form.

And once a year, every year he’d put a candle of another kind in the window by his reading chair. Tall and strong. The kind of wick meant to burn slow and last well into the wee hours of the morning. And when he rose the next day it was cleared the same as the flameless light by the bowl of creme in the kitchen. So the routine became habit, until he’d stopped thinking his way through the ritual.

Stopped remembering every candle marked another birthday spent without her. Because the day wasn’t important it was the year in between. And though he knew in the bottom of his soul she had to be gone, the kind of gone mortals do not return from, by the fiftieth time, he’d carried onward through the decades. 

The corpse of every single tower of wax still encases the single candle holder. Collecting dust now on a shelf. Its existence forgotten most days, because against odds he’d never imagined, she’d come back. So it is left to the ages of the past, where he has every intention of leaving it. Though he never finds the heart to throw it out. It had been his first birthday candle after all. 

uses the bathroom with the door open

There are things. That no matter how old you become. No matter how weird the things are that you’ve seen…there is something utterly alien about what he’s currently staring at. Coffee filtering steam up into the air in front of him. To the point that he hasn’t moved in the last thirty seconds. To the point what the feck doesn’t even begin to cover it so it never makes it out of his mouth. Though it suddenly makes sense why the toilet paper would be torn off at weird angles periodically.

The sound of flushing, and then the clitter clatter of claws on the tile turning to wood panels. An annoyed sort of quaffle as the familiar goes click clacking by him. And honestly? He needs another few seconds to process it all; before he turns on his heel and vacates the door way. Because nope. He’s not had near enough coffee to calculate all the ways that didn’t add up. Only to get as far as the kitchen before remembering he had to piss. And its back round again, giving Jay nothing more than a single pointer finger, when she asks if he wants his eggs scrambled or fried.

One thing at a time.

One.thing.at.a.time.

fixes the plumbing (or calls the plumber)

             How should I know?! It just stopped pumping.

Hands up because okay, okay. And back down he goes. Cramming himself into a space he really should not be able to fit at all. Bending in ways he knows his back is going to be punishing him for later. But right now all that matters is getting the pump to the latte machine working. Before Jayden goes nuclear…literally.

Something turned….something else tightened. Flashlight between his teeth starting to taste like lead. 

      “Proi’y i’mouw.”

            What?!

A sigh, worming his way back out. Yanking the flash light out of his mouth.

      “Troi’y i’now.”

And there’s a second where he will never admit he’s holding his breath, because if that doesn’t do it….whirling and something fires off and there it goes. The vibration of the pump that’s the tell tell sign hot water is on it’s way up to fill the tank reserve in the machine.

             YES!

It almost looks as though she’s going to hug it, instead opting to kiss its metal front; before she’s turning to him. Grabbing his face and planting one right on his lips. And ya know? The last thirty minutes of being squashed in the space too small for a toddler becomes completely worth it. Cob webs still stuck in his hair and beard regardless.

[itsme98z]

Virgil’s New Compulsion

Summary: Virgil has OCD and gets a new compulsion

Word count: 4,204

Links: Wattpad

Warnings: Constant mentions of OCD, compulsions, and intrusive thoughts. two anxiety attack (first mini and seconds one large. There are markers where they start and end).Swearing. If you think of any more, please tell me!

Characters: Roman, Virgil, Logan, Patton, and Thomas.

Ships: Platonic LAMP.

Rating: PG-13. 

****Please, if you have OCD, PROCEED WITH CAUTION. It was cathartic for me to write about it, but reading it back was difficult. Also, this is not a ‘one size fits all’ thing. Please do research and learn about OCD. Also, some bits are dramatized for entertainment purposes. And lastly, if you think you or anyone you know may have OCD, please don't hesitate to talk to someone about it. It’s okay to have OCD. You are not weird or crazy.**** 

Before he left his room, Virgil stopped to double and triple check everything. “Okay, the bed is made. Pillows are in the right spot. Okay, the curtains are how they should be.” He continued for a good five minutes until he was done. “Okay. Everything seems to be correct. Wait. Did I check it right?” He checked for another five minutes. “Okay, Virgil. You checked everything. Now just go downstairs.” He closed the door when “Wait. What about the bed?” He quickly opened the door to check yet again. “Everything is perfect, Virgil. Just go downstairs.” He walked down the stairs counting in his head. “One, two, three, four, one, two, three, four.” This continued until he made it to the end of the stairs. It was perfect. There were twelve steps, a multiple of four. He always felt lucky about that as he did everything in fours. But these thoughts were abruptly interrupted.

              “Hey, kiddo! How are you?” Patton’s happy demeanor irritated him sometimes. But at least it was consistent. That calmed him a bit.

              “Hey, Pat. I’m the same as always.”

              “What? A huge edge lord?”

              “Hello to you too, Roman.” Virgil gave the two-finger salute.

              “Ah, Virgil. Exactly who we were waiting for.”

Virgil made a worried look. “You were waiting for me?”

“Don’t worry kiddo. It’s nothing bad.”

“Yes. We just wanted to discuss chores.”

“Chores? But we don’t have any.”

“That’s precisely the point. Patton does way more work than he shou- “

“It’s fine really,” Patton quickly intercepted.

“It’s not okay our soft puffball! You do everything and we barely do anything.”

“Yes. Because of this, we are assigning chores. Which chores would you like?”

Virge felt bad for Patton. The others were right, he took on a much bigger amount of work to keep everyone happy. It was nice, but he needed a break. But he didn’t want the others, namely Roman, to know that he cared. He would never hear the end of it. “Well, I would like none, but since I have no choice…” He walked over to the board Logan had set up listing all the chores. “The only available ones are cleaning the bathroom and the kitchen! Why’d you ask me to choose when all the others were already taken?”

“Um, well, it’s only two. The rest of us have quite a bit more,” Logan tried to argue.

“But they take the most time!”

“Well, then you’ll be even with us!” Roman compromised.

“Ugh, fine. I don’t have any choice.”

“Yeah! Thanks, kiddo.” Patton got up and hugged Virgil, well more like grasped his arms around him. Virgil stayed stiff like a limp noodle. “Don’t worry Virge. I only cleaned both of them on Saturday.”

“Hey, padre. It’s Saturday.”

Virgil groaned. “Well, if any of you need to take a piss or shit, do it now. You are not ruining my amazing cleaning job.”

Roman looked at the others before he bolted up the stairs to the bathroom. Virgil rolled his eyes. “I’ll get started in the kitchen.”

Patton helped direct him through all the cleaning supplies and what to do. Virgil internally thanked him as he got to work. Logan was vacuuming downstairs, Roman was cleaning all the windows and glass, and Patton was cleaning the tables. Virgil was cleaning the counter. He found it oddly relaxing. He liked when things were clean, but this new chore gave him more control. But what he liked most was how clean his hands became. Before he knew it, the kitchen, and his hands were spotless. Every little spot was wiped clean, every speck of dust gone.

“Hey kiddo, sorry to bother you. Just getting some wat-whoa.” Patton could not believe his eyes.

“Patton? What is it?” Logan asked from the living room. As he came in, he just sat there bugged eyed.

“Ugh. Why am I the only one cleaning?” Roman came into the kitchen as well.

“Get out guys. It’s getting dirtier.”

“I don’t think that’s even possible any more emo nightmare. You’ve seemed to have gotten rid of all the dirt in the world judging on how clean this kitchen is.”

“The kitchen is clean, but you guys aren’t! Now go finish your chores while I clean up this mess.” He ushered them out and started to clean where they were standing.

Patton whispered to the others, “There’s nothing there.”

“Who knew Virge was such a germaphobe?” Roman joked.

After Virgil finished cleaning the kitchen, it was time for the bathroom. Yes, it was a shitty job (sorry for the pun), but he oddly enjoyed this one too. Making it as clean as he wanted gave him more control and helped him relax. But the best part was how clean his hands had become. Because of all the chemicals, he had to continuously wash his hands. They were so soft and again, clean. His anxiety was probably the lowest it had ever been in years.

When Virgil was done, he came downstairs noticeably relaxed. The other three noticed and stared in confusion.

“Who are you and what have you done with Virgil?”

“Very mature princy.” He rolled his eyes.

Patton shook his head to stop him from staring any longer. “Hey. We just finished our chores. Wanna watch some movies?”

“Oh, sure. As long as it’s not Disney.”

“Hey! Disney is art!”

“Whatever.”

They watched Disney. By the third movie, Logan was annoyed. He’s seen all these movies over ten times. He looked over to see what the others were doing, trying to see if they were still enthralled in the films. Of course, Roman and Patton were, but Virgil seemed to be on edge. Yes, he always was, as he was the literal embodiment of Thomas’ anxiety, but this was different. His leg was shaking and he kept looking up at the stairs. Logan leaned in and lightly touched Virgil’s arm, causing him to flinch. “You can go upstairs if you need to,” he whispered in his ear. “Don’t feel obligated to stay down here.” Virgil nodded and quietly padded upstairs. Luckily the other two didn’t notice as they were caught up in Aladdin’s antics.

Virgil felt dirty, really dirty. His hands had touched everything. The couch, the table, etc. He needed to get clean. Thankfully Logan noticed and mistook it for normal anxiety. Virgil made his way up the stairs and paused at the top. He knows he should just go in his room, but the bathroom seemed to be calling to him. “Nope. Just go to your room.” But as he got there, it was too much for him. It made him ten times more anxious in a matter of seconds. He made a beeline for the bathroom, panting as he closed the door. He stared at the sink ahead of him and walked over to it. Then he started to wash his hands. He washed them about four times before he stopped himself. “No. You’ve washed your hands enough. You’re fine. You’re clean.” He went to leave but stopped at the door. He put his sleeve over his hand then touched the doorknob to open it.

The next week was a strange one for Virgil. This new feeling that he needed to wash his hands continuously came up. While they were eating, watching movies, even while doing nothing. He noticed his hands got really dry and cracked. He used lotion to help it. Saturday came and he spent hours cleaning and hand washing. He had to stop. He tried to distract himself with anything. Music, movies, he even hung out with the other three. He admitted that it did help somewhat, but not entirely. The urge was still there. “It’s new. It’ll go away soon. Just wait it out.” But it didn’t go away. It was here to stay. The next Saturday came and he had to clean.

“Hey, kiddo I- oh. You’re not using gloves?”

Virgil ceased his cleaning. “I-I didn’t know we had gloves.”

“Oh, we do.” He rummaged through the cupboard and tossed them to Virgil.

“Thanks.” “Maybe these will help stop the urge.”

“Of course. Anyway, I came up to ask if you were alright. You’ve been actually hanging out with us.”

“Well isn’t that a good thing?”

“Well-yeah. I just thought something seemed off, but now it sounds silly. Sorry to bother you.”

“It’s not a problem dad. Thanks for worrying about me.”

Patton smiled big. “You’re very welcome.” With that, he left.

Virgil slipped the gloves on and continued to clean. He hoped they would work. He needed then to- “Ugh! These don’t work!” Virgil took the gloves off and threw them down. He stared at the sink. “No. nonononono. I can’t. I can’t. I- “He turned the water on and started to wash his hands.

Each week afterward mirrored this. It was a never-ending cycle of denial, fighting, perseverance, failure, and struggle. He didn’t know what to do. It was too out of hand. He had spent the day trying to distract himself. He played games with the others, they watched movies, he listened to music, he did just about anything he could think of to not give in to these compulsions.

“Are you alright Virgil?” Logan asked. He noticed Virgil acting weird this past couple of weeks. And this moment didn’t seem to be any different. His leg was shaking wildly and he couldn’t focus, well a lot less than usual.

Virgil had to act normal. “Yeah, pocket protector. I’m fine.”

“Virge, lately you’ve seemed…off,” Roman chimed in.

“Kiddo, are you sure everything’s okay?” Patton asked with that concerned dad voice.

Virgil fidgeted with his hands, feeling the dry, cracked skin. “Yes, I’m fine.” He looked at the clock on the wall behind Logan’s head. “It’s just late. I’m tired. I’m going to bed.” He got up from his chair.

“Oh. Well, goodnight kiddo.” Virgil just gave the two-finger salute and made his way to his bedroom.

~~~~Mini attack~~~~

Once inside, he started to hyperventilate. The thoughts wouldn’t go away. He started to hit his head, hoping the thoughts would just fly out. “Please. Go away. Please.” He couldn’t handle it. He made his way to the bathroom and washed his hands five times, ten times, twenty times. He couldn’t stop. It was all too much. “One, two, three, four, one, two, three, four.” Everything was in fours. “Ugh! It needs to be even. It needs to be balanced!” All his compulsions were caving in on him all at once. The only release was the constant hand washing. He lost track of time and how many times he had washed his hands. By the time his anxiety attack ended, he noticed his hands were covered in spots of blood.

~~~~End of mini attack~~~~

His hands were so dry and cracked that they started to bleed. “Shit.” He went to his room and put lotion on the backs of his hands. It stung like a bitch, but they started to heal. He laid down on his bed and tried to go to sleep, but that was extremely difficult. “Just go to sleep. It’s late anyway. You’ll be okay. Just go to sleep.” It took two hours to finally fall out. His mind wouldn’t shut up and his guilt and anger wouldn’t let up.

Virgil woke up with more thoughts. “Oh my God. Just stop already. I hate this.” He got up, got dressed, fixed his room exactly how he always did and checked it multiple times. He sighed. “Everything’s correct. Everything’s perfect.” Yes, everything in his room was perfect, but his mind and life was a mess. As he walked out the corner of his eye caught the bathroom door. “Nononono, not again. Just go downstairs.” But he found his feet already taking him to there. Before he could say or do anything to stop it, his hands were in the sink. He washed them about five times (then three more to make it eight, a multiple of four). “Shit.” They were bleeding again. He went to his bedroom and reached for the lotion. But realized he used the last of it the night before. “Shitshitshitshitshitshitshit!” He contemplated what to do before hearing voices downstairs. He didn’t want to go along with it, but he knew what he needed to do. He breathed in and out, then made his way downstairs.

“Hey, Virgil! How are you?”

“I’m good Pat. Anyways, any one of you have lotion?”

“Um, Virgil are you sure you are okay? Your anxiety seems to be heightened.” Logan was worried now. He noticed something going on for weeks.

“Yes, caption obvious. Does anyone have lotion?”

“Why Virge? Using it for some…personal reasons?” Roman taunted.

“Oh, shut the fuck up! God, you’re so disgusting sometimes.”

Patton placed a hand on his shoulder. “Now calm down slugger.”

Virgil shoved his hand off. “Does anyone have any lotion?” he repeated.

“Virgil, why do you need lotion? Are you having some issues with dry skin?”

He looked down. “You could say that.”

“You must be having a really bad dry skin problem. You are acting like you need lotion to live.”

“Ugh! Princy, can’t you just shut up for once in your damn life?!” He started to scratch his now itchy hand. “And will somebody lend me some damn lotion?!”

Logan looked down at Virgil’s hands and noticed the scratching. “Virgil, let me see your hands.”

Virgil’s head snapped up and his eyes met Logan’s. “Shitshitshitshitshitshitshitshit.” “What?”

“I’ve determined that the reason you have a need for lotion is dry hands. They are itchy, causing you to scratch.”

Virgil looked at his hands and stopped scratching. He shoved his hands in his pockets. “Great. You’ve figured it out. I have dry hands. Whatever. Just give me some damn lotion.”

“Are you sure you’re okay kiddo?”

“Yeah, Jack-smelling-ton. You doing okay?”

“Oh my God! I’m fine!”

“Falsehood. I’ve noticed something off for weeks now. There’s something going on that you’re not telling us.” Logan gave him a stern look. “I’m going to ask you again: Virgil, please show me your hands.”

“I-I can’t.” Virgil tried to be stern and stand his ground, but it just came out shaky.

Logan gave the others a glance; they seemed to be on the same page. Roman and Patton grabbed Virgil’s arms and pulled his hands out of his pockets.

“What the hell!”

Logan reached forward and pulled the long jacket sleeves up and grabbed his hands in his own. His face fell. “Virgil…”

“Kiddo, why are your hands so…dry?”

“Forget how dry they are padre, look at how bloody they are!”

Virgil pulled his hands out of Logan’s grip and started ringing his hands together.

“Virgil, why are your hands so bloody?” Logan had an idea of what was going on but needed to know for sure. He wished it wasn’t true. He didn’t want it to be true. It couldn’t be tr-

“I have OCD!” He yelled. “It’s like a band-aid. You just gotta rip it off.” He closed his eyes, not wanting to see their expressions. But he knew it was inevitable. He breathed in and out then opened his eyes. Roman was shocked, Patton had a hand covering his mouth, and Logan looked dejected. Like he knew all along. “Look, I’m fine. I just need some lotion. I ran out.”

Logan spoke up again. “Virgil, this is not okay. Your hands shouldn’t be bleeding. You need help.”

“Well, I can’t actually get help now can I, pocket protector? I’m apart of Thomas.”

“Thomas! How’s this affecting him?!” Roman practically screamed.

“I’ve noticed similar behavior that I’ve seen in Virgil in Thomas as well.”

“Yes, we know. I’m horrible. I’m a fucking screw up. Can you just get me some lotion? My hands are stinging.”

Logan looked at Patton. “Go see how Thomas is doing.” When Patton disappeared, he turned back to Virgil. “You are not a screw-up. You are not horrible. This is something you are dealing with. Something we will help you through.”

“Please Logan. Just…just let me be.”

“Virge, as your friends, we cannot just let it go,” Roman said. “We will help you kill this demon of yours.”

“OCD is usually lifelong. It’s not like a fucking cold that you can get rid of,” Vigil said with disdain and irritation.

Before Roman could respond, Logan spoke. “Virgil, I understand that. It’s something you’ll be fighting for a long time. But that doesn’t mean it won’t or can’t get better. We can help you to not wash your hands so often. Help you learn to control and decrease the constant thoughts.”

“But- “Virgil didn’t know how to continue. He didn’t want them to be upset even more.

“But what Virgil?” Logan was trying to stay calm while being stern. He wanted Virgil to corporate and agree to get better, but didn’t want to make him more anxious.

“What if when we deal with one compulsion it heightens the others?”

“The others?”

Virgil sighed. “I’ve had OCD for a few years now. Hand washing is just a new compulsion. It’s most intense for me when it first starts, which is why my hands are so bad. This isn’t the first time this has happened.”

“What are you other compulsions?” Roman asked. Though he constantly taunted the anxious trait, he did care for him.

Virgil sighed. “the two main ones are doing everything in fours and making everything even or balanced.”

“I-I didn’t realize- “

“That’s because I hid it so well teach. But this one- “He looked down at his hands. “Has more of a physical aspect to it. It’s hard to keep hidden.” He paused. “It’s hard to keep it hidden when it’s causing anxiety attacks,” He mumbled to himself.

“Wait. Did it cause anxiety attacks? I knew you had one last night as Thomas had one as well. But I didn’t know it was because of this.”

“Yeah. All my obsessions and compulsions kind of converged in on me all at once. It was not a fun experience.”

Logan took Virgil’s ringing hands in his. “Hey. We will help you through it all. The obsessions, compulsions, anxiety attacks, anger, anxiety, everything.”

“Yeah, Virge. You can talk to us whenever you need to.”

~~~~Beginning~~~~

Virgil knew they were talking, but couldn’t hear. Before when they pulled his hands from his pockets, they touched his hands. But he was able to calm himself enough to have a decent conversation. But now there Logan was, holding his hands again. It was too dirty, too tainted. It was too much. All of the sudden he couldn’t breathe. “Please, not another anxiety attack. I just had one last night. Please.” But his lungs didn’t listen. He ripped his hands from Logan’s and started ringing them together again.

“Virgil? Are you okay? Can you hear me? Virgil?! Shit.” Logan knew what was happening. “He’s having an anxiety attack. Virgil, hey. Look at me. I’m right here.” He took Virgil’s hands in his again not thinking, but he ripped them away again. He constantly glanced upstairs. “Crap. He’s gonna bolt and go to wash his hands.” “Virgil, no. You cannot go wash your hands. You need to stay here with us, okay?”

Virgil could only focus on the bathroom. He needed to wash his hands. He glanced at the other two before he turned and tried to speed up the stairs. Roman grabbed him from behinds and pulled him back. “Let me go! Please! I need to wash my hands! Please!” He started to sob as his breathing became even more labored.

Roman set him down on the floor and sat behind him to hold him down.

“Virgil, look at me. I’m right here. Let’s do some breathing exercises. Come on. The one you taught us.”

Virgil couldn’t pay attention. He was being held from behind like a fucking criminal and his mind wouldn’t shut up. He started to hit his head. “Stop it. Stop it. Please.”

Roman grabbed hands and held them at his sides. Tight enough so Virgil could still move but couldn’t go at his head again. “Come on, Virge. Breathing exercises.”

Logan had now crouched to Virgil’s level. He grabbed one of Virgil’s hands and placed on his chest. “Come on. Breathe with me. In and out. In and out. That’s right, in and out.”

Virgil tried his best to copy, but it seemed impossible. “I-I can-can’t. I can’t br-breathe.”

Logan may have been Thomas’ logic and would never admit to having feelings, but he did. He felt heartbroken seeing Virgil like this. He wanted him to be okay. And he hated how he dealt with this for years but he couldn’t help.

Roman saw the sadness in Logan’s eyes and decided to help take over a bit. “Come on Virge. In and out. You can do it.”

This shook Logan out of his thoughts. “Yes. In and out. You will be okay. Everything will be okay.”

It continued for half an hour. When it ended, Virgil was relieved. Breathe. “I can- “Breathe “breathe now.”

Logan’s shoulders dropped. “Thank God.” “I’m glad Virgil.”

~~~~~End~~~~~

But it the pain wasn’t over. Yes, Virgil just sobbed at the beginning of the attack. But he had another sob that he just couldn’t hold back. Tears started to fill his eyes.

“It’s okay Virge,” Roman consoled behind him.

Virgil let out a choked sob, then another, and then another. Until they all became mixed together. He hated crying in front of anyone. It made him feel weak. But right now, he was. He was too tired, too weak to care. He rolled into a ball and leaned against the wall. “I hate this.”

“We know, Virgil, we know. It’s okay.”

Roman and Logan tried to help him. Roman rubbed circles on his back while Logan did the same to his shoulder. Once Virgil calmed down, they tried to encourage him. “Everything’s okay Virge.”

“Yes. Virgil, you will be okay. We helped you through this, and we will continue to help you through everything. We can talk to Thomas about it for you if you want.”

“Uh, yeah. That-that’d be nice.”

“Though Virgil, Thomas needs to go to therapy to help you both.”

Virgil became silent for a bit then responded. “I know. I’m sorry.”

“No, no, no. You do not need to feel guilty my emo nightmare.”

Virgil chuckled at that.

“Roman is correct. There’s nothing wrong with needing therapy.”

Virgil was worried. “But what if- “

“What if what?”

“What if he’s prescribed anti-anxiety medication?”

Roman and Logan’s face fell. “Oh, Virge…”

“Virgil, anti-anxiety medication would not harm you. The medication is to help the brain function better, more ‘normal.’ The brain affects you which affects Thomas. The medication would help Thomas’ brain function better which would help you to feel better, which would help Thomas.”

“I-I didn’t think about it like that.”

“Yeah. A lot of people don’t,” Roman filled in.

“I guess it would be okay, if it would help.”

Logan smiled. “I’m glad to hear that Virgil.” Virgil yawned. “Do you want to take a nap?” Virgil gave a small smile and nodded. “Okay, but you’re sleeping down here on the couch. We need to be able to keep track of you.”

“You make me sound like a fucking murderer,” Virgil joked.

“Your hands are in bad shape. We don’t want the rest of you to follow suit,” Roman warned.

He sighed. “I guess you’re right.” They got up with Virgil. They followed him as he walked to the couch and laid down. Roman laid a blanket on him. They sat there as he fell asleep fairly quickly. Suddenly they felt a familiar pull. They glanced at each other before sinking down.

“Guys, what is going on?”

“Thomas, we will give you the answers you want if you give us the ones you want first.”

“Okay…”

“Have you experienced any OCD like behaviors?”

Thomas was quiet at that.

“I guess that’s a yes,” said Roman.

Thomas ran his hand through his hair. “I know I should’ve told you. I-I’ve been like this for a few years now and lately, it’s gotten worse.”

“We know Thomas. Virgil’s been dealing with the same thing.”

Thomas looked down. “That’s what I was afraid of. Where is Virge anyways?”

“He is taking a nap after the panic attack I’m assuming you experienced as well.”

“Huh, yeah.”

“Thomas, Virgil has pretty bad OCD.”

“Yes, and now we know you have it as well. Thomas, you need to go to therapy for you and Virgil.”

“I- “Thomas didn’t know what to say. He never wanted to admit he had a problem, that he had OCD. He had denied it for years. But now he needed to be honest with himself. He has OCD. “Okay. I will.”

Patton put a hand on his shoulder. “I’m proud of you Thomas.”

“Thanks, Patton. Thank you for helping me through the panic attack.” He looked up at the other two. “And thank you for helping Virgil through it. I bet it was ten times worse than mine was.”

“Of course, Thomas. We just want you both to be okay.”

Thomas smiled at that.

[thankyoufinnick]

Ommgggg, I have been so busy you would not believe it. Just imagine that between my Sept 1-5 New York trip and my Sep 15-28th road trip, I decided to move house! Without taking time off work. Or owning a car. That’s not exactly what happened, but I am effectively doing all the hard parts of moving without actually moving. (I’m moving my stepdaughter, who has a disability that prevents her from being able to do any of the work herself.) I also came home to find that mice showed up while I was gone and the exterminator’s not returning calls, the new microwave is tripping the breaker like whoa, we need all new windows to replace the rotting ones, my laptop is having problems, etc.

Tonight is the first time since the 1st I’ve had a chance to sit down and look at tumblr. I haven’t had time to read or write since I got back from New York, and while I read a bit in New York, I certainly did not write.

But New York was great, let me say! Food, museums, shopping, a friend, Central Park, and tennis from my hotel bed. (I strongly considered going to the US Open, but between my back pain and the fact that my favorite player wasn't scheduled to start until 7 pm, all the way out in Queens (I was staying in Manhattan), I opted for television. Since he did not in fact start playing until 9:40 pm, I am extremely satisfied with my life choices.)

I did knock out that character sketch of Delly right before I left. I don’t know if it’s going anywhere, but I have more ideas. SO MANY ideas. I’m just undecided about--well, about how much time I want to spend on these characters, and about how far down the self-destructive path I want to take them.

Anyway, it’s not ready for AO3, but here’s some Delly, below the cut. You can imagine it post-canon for now (a few years after the war), but if I continue it, it’s going AU. Unless Hunger Games fic continues to take over my life for a fourth consecutive year, I’m unlikely to merge it with Mags’ Heir (although I know exactly where and how they dovetail), but if it’s going anywhere, it’s going Delly/Peeta. I just don’t ship Katniss/Peeta. I think they both deserve better.

ETA: Oh, and post-canon with me ignoring Mockingjay, as usual: Delly’s an only child, and her parents made it out of the bombing of Twelve. BECAUSE I SAID SO.

Content warning: Haymitch has alcoholism, welcome to Hunger Games. Delly has undiagnosed ADD, inattentive type, and she engages in emotional eating. And her parents...have no frame of reference to understand her, so they’re critical, and certainly emotionally aloof, but they’re also doing the best they can with what they have. Oh, an in-passing reference to the existence of abortion (no actual abortions performed).

“As long as you're not causing any trouble.” Those are the words Delly's heard all her life. If she's not going to follow in her parents' footsteps, they don't much care how she spends her time. Perched on a stool in the pantry, polishing off the remains of a cold chicken pie, Delly peers out the window. Not quite dark yet. She's got time. She looks over the shelves and picks out a corn muffin and a hunk of cheese. Munching, Delly tells herself that if she goes on a full stomach, she can stay longer. As much as her parents don't want her feeding the whole town (as they call it), she can't very well show up at the house of someone who has less than her and expect them to share, not when her parents feed her so well. No dessert, but all the bread, meat, cheese, fruits, and vegetables she could want. The Peacekeepers may be gone, and with it most of the market for boots and boot repair, but her parents are doing quite well making clothes from dawn to well past dusk. They're hard-working, resourceful, and they wanted a hard-working, resourceful daughter. What they got was a dreamy butterfly. Everyone likes Delly, but no one counts on her. She knows if she were in the studio with them, helping out instead of wandering around aimlessly and eating, they'd be happier, but they gave up on her when she was about ten. She's obedient enough about starting her chores, but her mind wanders. The next thing she knows, they're still not finished and someone's looking at her in disappointment. Delly accepted that about herself a long time ago. It's not worth the effort of getting upset. She's got a pretty good life, all things considered. Her family's still alive, which is more than a lot of people can say. They've always made sure she's had enough to eat, which almost no one can say. And she's twenty-two, living at home, contributing nothing, and they've never told her she had to shape up or move out. They just stopped giving her chores, threw up their hands, and told her to please herself. Finishing the last bite of cheese, Delly peels a hard boiled egg and eats it, then another. Comfortable and full, in her own house surrounded by food, she rests for a while, savoring the moment. She's just starting to cut off a slice of ham to go with her next muffin, when she hears her mother's voice. “Delly? Your father and I wanted to talk to you.” That's unusual enough that Delly forgets all about the food. Turning around, she sees her mother standing uncertainly by the kitchen table, and her father behind her. Behind him, the kitchen window is dark, and the lamp's been lit. She has no idea what time it is or how much she's eaten. Delly comes out of the pantry smiling at them. “What can I do for you?” “Have a seat,” her father invites. They both look awkward, and Delly starts wondering if they're trying to break difficult news to her. She can't imagine what. She just pulls out a chair and sits down, waiting for her parents to tell her why they suddenly decided to stop working and talk to her. They seat themselves across from her. “It's your birthday, Delly,” her mother begins, “and I know we never really connected, but we just wanted to—I don't know.” “You're our daughter, no matter what,” her father says firmly. “Yes, exactly.” Her mother looks relieved. “And I may not have any idea what to do with you, and you may not be doing anything to make us proud, but we could have had a lot worse daughters. You always have a place here, as long as you don’t cause trouble.” “You're the best parents,” Delly tells them, with real enthusiasm. “I want you to know I really appreciate how you always take care of me, even if I eat enough for three.” “That's an exaggeration,” her father says sharply. “Isn't it? You're not taking food to anyone else? You're not fat enough for three people.” “No, Dad, I would never steal from you, really,” Delly promises patiently. “I get hungry, that's all. And yes, I was exaggerating.” “Well, I do wish you would eat a little less,” her mother says for the hundredth time, “but as long as we have food and a roof, it's yours.” Her dad looks uncomfortable. “It's because of you we're alive, anyway.” “Really?” Delly looks at them in surprise. Her mother pinches her lips. “Well, you were so bent on following that Hawthorne kid into the woods. I didn't trust that troublemaker any farther than I could throw him, but we sure weren't letting you wander off on your own. You can't even take care of yourself in a town. In the woods? You'd be dead in minutes.” Somehow, the thought that she did something for her parents makes Delly feel unbelievably good. Good enough to get up and hug them, even though she hasn't done that since she was a little kid. “Well, anyway.” Her father clears his throat after she releases him. “We don't have much money to throw around, but we wanted to get you something for your birthday, something you don't usually get.” “We thought about making you a new outfit,” her mother tells her, “but, well, we thought you'd appreciate a treat more. And you have plenty of clothes.” “So we went to the Mellark bakery.” Bending over, her father passes her a small paper bag from under the table. “Goodness knows you don't need any encouragement to eat more, but that boy can bake, I'll give him that.” Delly claps her hands in delight as she pulls out a fruitcake. She always walks past the bakery and sighs in pleasure at what's on offer, even if no one would ever trust her with spending money. It's just nice to see all the tasty morsels. The pretty ones are her favorites. The fruitcake isn't as pretty as some of the frosted cookies, but it looks delicious, and it's just the thing for eating while you walk. And so thoughtful. Now she wants to hug them again, but even she thinks that's enough for one night. There are people you can hug twice in one conversation, and then there are her parents. Who are now peering suspiciously at her. “That shirt looks a little tight,” her mother says. “Stand up, Delly.” Stalling for time, tugging at the bottom of her shirt to try to make it cover her midriff, Delly obeys as slowly as she can. All her clothes are tight, but she hasn't wanted to say anything. Partly because she doesn't want to put any more financial pressure on them than she already does, and partly because she's afraid they'll tell her the answer is to work more and eat less. She stands, frozen, while they inspect her. “It's fine,” she tries telling them. “It's comfortable, and in such good shape! It'll last for a long time yet.” With a sigh, her mother ignores her and tugs at the waistband of her pants. It has no give to it. “We'll be letting out your seams, then. We saw this coming when we made your clothes, and we made allowances.” Delly's relief is overpowering. That's them, always making allowances for her. “You're the best parents anyone could have. I wish I were a better daughter.” “You're not so bad,” her mother says, again with that sigh. “I just wish you'd try.” Delly doesn't argue. Her parents can't imagine hard work not paying off. But she knows trying doesn't get her anywhere. So she just smiles and lets them fit her for her adjusted clothes. “There, we're done. We'll have these ready for you soon. You're not wandering around in public like we can't make decent clothes.” “Thanks, Mom, thanks, Dad. You're the best, really.” Picking up her fruitcake, Delly heads for the door. “Where are you going?” her father asks, after a pause, like it only just occurred to him to ask his daughter about her life. “It's almost ten.” Delly stops, her hand on the knob, and smiles. “I'm going to Haymitch Abernathy's.” Her mother's eyes bug out. “Why on earth? He doesn't even get winnings any more, he's just living in squalor.” “That's why I go,” Delly explains. “He doesn't have any family, and he needs someone to make sure he eats and takes care of himself a little. It can't be good for him to be alone all the time. I'm not bringing him food, I promise.” “Well, she has a good heart,” her father says under his breath, turning away. “I'd rather she had a good work ethic, but it's her own time she's wasting.” As Delly's opening the door, and her parents are heading back to work, suddenly something occurs to them. “Delly!” She freezes. This is more interaction than they've wanted in the last year. What now? “You know what happens if you get pregnant, right?” “I know, Mom,” she assures her. “I have to get rid of it. Don't worry, I don't want a baby. I can't even take care of myself, remember?” “All right. You just remember that. We'll take care of you, no one else.” On her way to Haymitch's house, Delly eats her fruitcake thoughtfully and thinks about what just happened. About them telling her she wasn't a total disappointment, and getting her a birthday cake. It feels...good, and a little weird. She doesn't know whether to hope it lasts. She liked the attention, of course. But if they start expecting things from her, they're going to be disappointed, and she doesn't want to put everyone through that again. She remembers the despairing conversations, not quite arguments, when she was a kid. “I've tried everything to teach her responsibility. I don't know how to get through to her. I don't believe in beating children, even if I thought it would work. She's had teachers yell at her, for all the good it did them. She's willing enough if you stand over her and walk her through every step, but she doesn't seem to learn, and I can't be doing that all day, every day.” “We've done everything we can. If all she wants to do is sit around like a lump on a log, at least she's not hurting anything. We'll keep supporting her, what else can we do?” “What is she going to do when we're not around?” “If she doesn't outgrow it, maybe she'll get married. Then it'll be her husband's problem.” “If she can find a man willing to take care of her. She doesn't cook, she doesn't work, she's not picking up any skills, she's such a slob...” “But she has friends. Everyone likes her. And she's pretty enough. She'll find someone. And if not, well, not our problem once we're gone.” Delly doesn't want to be anyone's problem. She just wants to sit and talk to people. People are nice, people are interesting, people like it when she smiles at them and asks them questions about themselves. Even Haymitch once admitted, when he was drunk, that he'd probably start drinking earlier in the evening if he didn't have her visits to look forward to. And then, scowling, that he'd kick her out if she told him to stop drinking so much. But that's not Delly's style. As long as he's not hurting anyone else, she'll even fetch a bottle out of the cupboard for him if he asks. But she'll put food in front of him, too.

Rambling: I’m slightly concerned that Delly’s turning out superficially too similar to Cashmere, especially their people-pleasing, non-confrontational approaches, but they are wildly different underneath. Cashmere has C-PTSD and is scared to death, all the time. Delly doesn’t have the greatest self-esteem, but she doesn’t have an anxiety disorder (or at least she hasn’t informed me she has one yet). She’s pretty mellow, financially and largely emotionally secure (what she didn’t get from her parents, she’s gotten from the rest of the world), and inclined to take the path of least resistance.

A lot of things are hard for her, so rather than keep trying, she shrugs them off and goes and does something easier. There’s a certain amount of avoidance here, but there’s also self-acceptance. She may not know why she is the way she is, but she has a sense of self-worth above and beyond her abilities.

You can see a convergence of environment and genetics at work there. Her parents take care of all the practicalities, so she’s not forced into doing things that are hard by sheer necessity. If she had to support herself, she’d be thoroughly stressed all the time. So it’s sort of a luxury that she can be so relaxed about life. But it’s also her personality. It means she doesn’t find ways that work for her, but it also means she doesn’t suffer through the self-blame and anxiety of constant failure. Her parents are disappointed and think she’s lazy, and she’s sorry for that, but she doesn’t know how to change, so she’s not going to keep trying things that don’t work.

And that is way, way not Cashmere. Delly’s nice to people because she likes them. Cashmere’s desperately trying to please them before something bad happens.

Also, Cashmere thinks she’s stupid and bad at simple things because 1) she had a very limited childhood and wasn’t taught to do things that weren’t fighting or pleasing sponsors, 2) was discouraged from asking questions or showing curiosity, 3) was gaslit into thinking she was a scatterbrain (I’m not sure how much of that people picked up on, since I never spelled it out, but all of her interactions with Brutus that led her to believe she was disorganized, losing track of time, misplacing things, and clumsy, were 100% gaslighting).

Delly thinks she’s not terribly bright and is bad at simple things because she legit has trouble focusing or planning ahead, and she’s not been given any of the tools or helped to find any of the ways that might work for her. Delly’s also more or less accepted that she doesn’t have whatever other people have, whereas Cashmere is desperately straining to keep up while she self-flagellates. But they have the same cheerful exterior, which might lead you (or in-universe characters) to confuse them.

[ecotone99]

[SP] Part 1- You Won't Believe What My Job Is

Date: Unknown

Time: 22:52-standard time

Location: Sunny Hillside State Psych Ward

The night air is warm and muggy due to the storm coming in from the east. You can see the dark, heavy storm clouds rolling from atop the hill, encroaching on the little town of Sunny Hillside. While others might dread or fear the downpour to come, Sunny siders embrace the weather with gratitude. The farmers do, at least. There has not been a drop of rain in the sunny town for three months, and the farmers at the base of the hill are starting to feel it. For the farmers, rain is not destruction, or a bad omen for the harvest to come. It is, in fact, the opposite. The growling, ominous storm will bring growth, abundance, and above all else life.

You stand at the peak of the hill, the small town of Sunny Hillside facing your back. In front of you is the state psych ward filled with all sorts of wonderful oddities, each brimming with chaos and ill conformity. It was tempting, really tempting. But you hold yourself back. Tonight’s undertaking is called Regina. Regina, you know, could be a bit of a wild card from what you could tell. In her life she committed many, many heinous crimes and was committed to Sunny Hillside once someone was finally able to catch her. What she was committed for you are not really sure. They don’t tell you that. You know it was bad enough to get her in a straight jacket and put is a nice padded room with no window and one very well-hidden door.

Regina was always mental, which is why she did whatever it is she did. A case of disbelief really. Born into a wealthy family, there was no possibility that something could be wrong with their perfect daughter. Their only heir to the family name, born only to retain their wealth. Regina was troubled indeed but time would prove just how much trouble she could be. It stared with one incident, then another. Their butler tripped down the stairs. An accident really it could have happened to anyone. Oh, and poor Spot. Mauled by a bear he was. Tragic really. It happened to be the only time a bear passed through Sunny Hillside and would be the only one ever, really. What a shame that poor Spot was the only one to see it. Tragic.

As time went on, Regina passed through boarding school, university, taking over whatever it is that her family had all their money from. Every couple of years, “accidents” surrounded our poor Regina. Heartbreak, death, destruction. Regina just couldn’t escape it, that’s just how she was. Mom and dad always told her she was so special, and she should never change. They would always chuckle when they said that. It must have been so funny, mom always had tears streaming down her face.

Of course, mom and dad came to and end as well. They were due for their accidents in time. When mom and dad finally had enough accidents to handle, they disinherited their dear Regina. Big mistake. Upon going to bed mom and dad suddenly lost their breath, never to return again. They say sleeping face down is dangerous. Who could’ve known it was deadly? But our Regina made a big mistake as well. She was vulnerable now. She had no one to protect her. Oh god, how was she supposed to explain why her parents haven’t left their bed in a week and why she never told anyone. People visited, asked about her parents? How is she supposed explain anything?

You can probably guess what happens next, right? This is how our dear Regina ended up at Sunny Hillside Psych Ward, clearly mentally unstable but dangerous non the less. You are not supposed to know this. They don’t like when you have a biased opinion about the assignments. But what are you to do when this information falls into your lap? Ignore it? Or embrace it?

The lamp post twitches bringing you out of your thoughts. You make your way into the ward. Automatic doors open before you as you embrace the scent of sanitizer and sterility. There’s not too much too see, really. A few fake potted plants frame the doors of two elevators on the right-hand side. Looking straight is a long corridor with hallways branching off to different wards. The emergency stairs are located at the end of the corridor, across from a seldom used water cooler. You pass by the front desk, waving your hand at the nurses busy with, what were they busy with? Oh yeah, nothing. At this time of night there are seldom visitors and only the prospect of a prison break keeps them awake. Security is stationed by the door in case an excited patient tries to check out earlier than intended. As you make your way, the nurses and guards pay no mind to you.

You make your way down the corridor to the stairs and ascend to your assignment. You count your step until you reach the wall. 33 steps. Same as always. To your left is the water cooler and to the right the stairs. You take a step and pluck a fresh cup from the holder and pour yourself a crisp, refreshing cup of water. Best to hydrate before an assignment. After discarding the cup, you turn to your right and start climbing the stairs.

The building has 12 floors plus a basement, and you are headed straight to the top. Elevators, great if you’re into that, but they are dirty and crowded. Not ideal for someone like yourself. You like the stairs, maintaining yourself in the shadows, away from prying eyes. A job like yours needs preparation, dedication, and time. Stairs give you two out of three. You have time to contemplate what you are about to go through. You can prepare your mind for the journey you will take with your assignment. The best part is, you have never run into anyone while taking the stairs to your assignments, so you are certain you will have no disturbances. Twelve flights will be just enough.

You start you climb, step after step, thinking about Regina. Where will she go once this is all over. Can she really be blamed for her actions when her parents never got her the help she needed? Does she know the extent of her actions and just how bad they were? You try to guess where she’ll end up, but you are stuck in an ethical dilemma. They will be able to forgive her and send her up. Right? Although, the things she did were pretty horrible. Maybe they’ll have no mercy at all, and she’ll go down. You enjoy guessing where your assignments will end up, but you can never be sure. They don’t tell you that either. Even after your job is done, it would mess with your unbiased opinion. You do think it’s fun to guess, though, if they end up upstairs or downstairs. Sometimes you get some insight where a couple of your assignments ended up. You’re usually able to pat yourself on the back for being right.

Stairs come and go, time ticks by, thoughts run through your head. You look at your watch. 10:52pm. You are making great time. You reach the landing of the twelfth floor and take in your surroundings. In front of you is the door to the corridor that will lead you to the patient’s rooms. Looking around, you kneel down to tie your lace that came undone after climbing all those flights stairs. You’re dressed in plain jeans and a casual shirt with a logo from a band that was popular in the 90’s but became cool to wear again because tragedy sells, and drugs sell tragedy. A chunky cardigan hangs off your shoulders and plain white trainers decorate your feet. These are the clothes you’ve been in since you stumbled upon this job. Most of your assignments think you look very welcoming. You have a kind look on your face, even when you don’t smile. The only odd part of your attire is the wide brimmed black hat you wear atop your head.

You make your way through the door and make a right following the lights of the corridor. Walking, one foot in front of the other brings you to dear Regina’s room. Room 12-018. You turn the knob and enter the room. There is a small bed in the middle of the room, a side table on one side of the bed, and a wooden chair to the other. You walk across to the chair and take a seat. To your back is a window, unable to open, looking out onto the town of Sunny Hillside. The storm clouds are painfully visible, waiting to release their burden. You pay no mind to the storm and focus on your task at hand, your assignment.

On the bed in front of you lay Regina. Last name is unnecessary, or so they tell you. Regina is not how you pictured in your mind. She has extremely long, black hair ending at the base of her waist. It is loose underneath her body, as if nobody has cut or brushed or braided it in the time she has been in the ward. Her skin is an ungodly pale, having not seen sunlight in years, glistening with sweat. Yes, sweat was drenching her from head to toe. What nobody knows is Regina is fighting for her life against pneumonia, not being treated because nobody knows she’s ill and, quite frankly, nobody cares. She was dying, suffocating to death, and nobody cares. Who would care about a psychopath whose dead parents hid her murders, then died at her own hand? Who would care about a murderer dying alone in a place where nurses and doctors are paid to pretend to treat them, when really it is just a purgatory between life and death? Who would care about dear Regina?

You grab Regina’s arm and begin her descent.

/

/

/

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Regina opens her eyes. She realizes she’s standing in a gigantic train terminal. Grand Central Station. At least she thinks it’s Grand Central Station. She’s never seen it like this before, completely and unapologetically empty. She looks around for the sign of anyone or anything remotely close to normal. Frantically, she runs straight trying to find someone when a loud bell chimes. On the wall to her left where the train destinations and times are normally located is a gigantic flip clock. It reads 3:00:00. BOOM. 2:59:59. BOOM. 2:59:58. It’s not a clock at all but a countdown… But to what. Where is she? What is that clock counting down to? And why is it so loud? She covers her ears but cannot escape the sound of the BOOM BOOM BOOM she can’t help believing is counting down to something terrible. She crouches down and covers her hands over her ears to stop the god-awful booming. Regina gasps suddenly when she feels something touch her.

You grasp her arm gently but firm, warning her that you are present. She raises her head, tears streaming down her cheeks. To your surprise the person in front of you is not the same Regina that you saw sweating in the bed. She is wearing the same white medical gown but that is about the only similarity. No, this Regina is a small, scared child. A figment of what she once was. You expected something like this would happen. Rarely do villains keep their form when they are about to depart. It is a mechanism of sorts. One does not need to lie when they don’t have anything to hide. Regina is a monster. One that likes to hide under the bed.

You crouch down and look at her once innocent face, not fooled by the façade. You snap your fingers. The clock continues to count down but the booming stops. Regina is relieved. You help her to her feet and give her a warm embrace. It is your job, after all, to help assignments feel comfortable. The hug lingers for a while, as if dear Regina missed the sensation of human touch. After the embrace you look at each other. You raise your left arm and hold your watch up to the count down on the wall. Somehow, they are already in sync. You turn away, walking toward a corridor. Regina did not follow. Does she not get how this works? Well, some don’t pick up on things too quickly. You keep your feet planted and turn your top half about a quarter to the side, waving Regina to follow. She scurries to catch up with you. Once she is a few steps away you start walking slow enough for Regina to keep pace. Soon you are met with a dark walkway, leading you somewhere that is close to Regina’s heart. You hold hands. A wind blows both of your hair back, you are holding your hat closely to your head. You walk through the walkway together.

You are standing side by side in a well-lit room. At the far side of the wall is a small, circular window divided in four by two pieces of wood. The room is quite peculiar, to say the least. You find yourselves in an unfinished attic with a slanted roof, supported by beams of sturdy wood. The room was littered with antiques, mannequins half clothed in garb as old as Regina’s mother. Boxes filled with books and ancestral goodies lined the walls, an old locked chest stood heavily next to an ancient radio consisting of only a speaker and two dials. Other artifacts filled the attic space with family heirlooms from the decades Regina’s family lived there. How far back Regina’s heritage went in this mansion was unclear, but you knew it was long enough to breed a Regina.

Hillside Estate was established when the first settlers came to the US. Regina’s ancestors, as the story goes, were gifted the land by the natives as a peace treaty between the two cultures. The natives enjoyed the bountiful new treasures the settlers brought from the new world, while the settlers appreciated how the natives showed them the ways of the land. This was, by all means, untrue. Regina’s ancestors seized the natives land after a brutal argument between the rivals. On the ground that Hillside Estate stand today was the sight the bloody battle between the natives and the settlers. Naturally, the settlers won. Guns and plague are no match for bows and arrows. A war that gruesome seldom leaves without residue. Echoes of death stained the land even after the blood washed away. The settlers were cursed whether they knew it or not.

The settlers were ignorant to their wrongdoings, living their life prosperously. That was, until the harvest. Though the land on their plot was the most fertile in the town, their first year of crops did not bear. The leaves were black with spots and the husks were dry as hay. Any crops that did appear were sour and rotten at the core. Their tobacco crop was plagued with insects, eating it from the root up. The residents of the estate had worse luck than the crops. Each member of the family died a painful death, under extremely bizarre circumstances. Family members were dropping left and right. One by one, the family died off, leaving only the children, caretakers, and estate staff to take care of the residence. The cycle continued for each generation to come. Once and heir was born, the parents died of in strange and bizarre ways, leaving the children to face the same fate. Our Regina, on the other hand, was not a result of the curse, but the embodiment.

Today, Hillside Estate not on the hillside at all. The estate is actually not located in the town of Sunny Hillside at all, what with county lines changing and other government standards. Now Hillside estate is just on the outskirts of Sunny Hillside, away from the farmers and residents and other disturbances. The estate consists of 15 acres of land, equipped with horse stable, guest house, and open fields for… well, nobody really knows what they do with the rest of it. The only people allowed on the estate were the staff, a few invited guests, and the family to whom it belongs.

The foyer of the Hillside mansion was as grand as expected. A massive staircase welcomed anyone entering the home, branching off into two separate directions leading up to the second story of the house. The windows framing the large mahogany door lit the entryway with beautiful natural light, highlighting the fresh flowers decoratively placed on the center table. The room was filled with other lavish items, like the Persian rug lining the floor or the marble statues standing on either side of the stairwell. From any perspective, Regina’s family was clearly from old money, and they wanted it to stay that way.

There was a knock at the door. The ill-fated butler opened the heavy mahogany door only to show a mother and young son. The mother looked to be about forty-five with her grey roots showing and signs of wrinkles emerging around her smile. Her eyes were covered with large, round sunglasses and her ears hung low with heavy pearl heirloom earrings. She might have been smiling, or maybe she felt indifferent about the situation. It was hard to tell if her face was stuck like that after going to the doctor or if that was just her expression. Her body was adorned in a hefty fur coat ending mid-calf and her feet sported simple black heels with a red sole. The boy at her side was about Regina’s age, maybe seven or eight. He had bright blonde hair that might sprout brown when he aged. His eyes were a deep brown and freckles speckled his nose across to his cheeks. He sported a strapping peacoat, grey slacks and black oxfords. One would not guess he was dressed for a play date.

The butler welcomed them into the home and showed them to the garden where Regina and her mother were waiting. It was a crisp spring morning, perfect for brunch and mimosas. While the moms ate and drank and gossiped, Regina and the blonde boy wandered around the grounds to play. Regina was not fond of the blond boy, or any other person that she met. She felt that she needed to become someone else when she played with other kids. They did not laugh at the same things, enjoy the same games, or find joy in the same pass times. The kids were by the koi pond counting fish. Surprisingly, Regina was enjoying herself with the blond boy. Each time they counted the fish the resulting number was different. The fish were so fast, and they were always moving, how on earth were could the get the right number? The kids got distracted and started chasing each other, playing some sort of mix between tag and hide and seek. This was the first time Regina was actually enjoying herself with another child. The blonde boy was growing on her. He was open to her ideas of fun, played along with her games and never complained.

Sometimes, situations are too good to be true. Just as they were having fun the blond boy tripped and fell over some vines by the trees. This resulted in a broken ankle just as the moms came to check on their children. They were excited as they heard screaming, hoping it was the children having fun. To their dismay they walked in on a scene that looked like Regina purposely injured the blond boy. After that was a mess. The moms did that thing adults do when they think they know exactly what happened, so they talk over and reprimand their children, not letting them speak or expect them to tell the truth. The blonde boy tried to defend Regina too, he really did, but it was to no avail. Regina and the blond boy would never cross paths again.

Regina’s mother was furious. This was the fourth time Regina scared off a “friend” and this time it ended in injury. Regina’s mother grabbed her by the hand, quite literally, dragged her into the house. Regina knew exactly where she was headed. This was not the first time she would be locked in the attic and she knew it would not be the last. Her mother flung her up the stairs and Regina landed with a thud. She was not sure if it was the anger or the mimosas, but her mother was especially feisty. Her mother shut the door with a thud and the clinking by the knob confirmed it was locked.

The attic was Regina’s time-out room and time outs could be long. Sometimes time out was going to bed without supper and wake up the next morning long. Other than the hunger she did not mind it too much. There were plenty of things to keep her busy and distract her from her punishment. A family of birds built a nest between the support beams on the ceiling and tweeted sweet melodies from time to time. The solitude could be quite pleasant.

Regina was mad. She was more than mad, she was furious. None of this was her fault at all, she was actually getting along with the blonde boy, everything was going so well until he tripped on those vines. She was pacing the room breathing short and heavy. Her vision was blurry, with tears or with anger or with both she was not sure. The birds started tweeting at the disturbance in the attic. Their once sweet melodies sounded sour in her rage. A bird swooped down in her direction and Regina’s limbs went flailing in defense. She felt that the bird was trying to heighten her range by attacking her, so she swatted like her life depended on it. She hit the bird with her hand, and it landed with a thud.

Now in a calmer state, Regina went to check the bird’s condition. She did not mean to injure it; she was just protecting herself. The sad bird was twitching on the floor, close to death but not quite there. She held it in her hands unsure of what to do in this situation. She watched the twitching bird dying in her hands. Finally, she decided. With a swift flick of her wrist she put the bird out of its misery. Regina was silent for a while, absorbing the events of the last few minutes. Regina did not feel sad or angry or remorse. No, those feelings could not justify what she was feeling in that moment. Regina felt something she’s never felt before. She felt power. She never tried to befriend anyone again after that, she merely made her own.

Regina kept her bird friend along with the others that as time went on. She would lay them out in a line in the light of the sun from the round window, admiring her handywork, remembering how it felt. When she was released from the attic, she would roll up her friends in a felt cloth and hide them for the next time out.

You watch Regina as she takes a rolled-up piece of felt out from a hiding spot in the corner of the room. Her long black hair cascades around her waist, contrasting the paleness of her face. You crouch next to her as she unrolls the fabric in the light of the sun. She caresses her friends and lays them back on the fabric, smiling from past memories. Your watch ticks on your wrist. You pat her back and take her by the hand. Walking side by side you descend down the stairs of the attic toward the exit. Regina glances over her shoulder, then walks with you through the door.

Part 2?

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