#AND I KNOW ALL MY THERAPISTS AND DOCTORS HAVE SAID ‘OH BUT WHATS NORMAL?’ AND I GET THEIR POINT BUT BABE I JUST WANT TO STOP FEELING SHITTY

[strawberrybyers]

trying to make 6 xanax last for the rest of the week whilst i’m out of the country is a task that i do not like engaging in. i’ve been having a panic attack every day since i’ve left home and the dosage that i’m prescribed isn’t helping even tho usually it does. i feel nauseous. i want to go home. the idea of having to travel all fucking day just to get back home in a few days is giving me even more anxiety. i have a funeral to attend to tomorrow where there’s a whole bunch of people there i’ve never met before. at this point i need a horse tranquilizer or something because i can’t cope with this shit anymore

[sadlynotthevoid]

This came to me while I was reading a novel:

At the supermarket,

Og!Cale: Depressed? But I'm not depressed.

Og!Cale: I almost never feel sad or opressed.

Og!Cale: Actually, most of the time I don't feel anything at all!

Kind lady who was helping him to choose groceries: ...

Guy squatting next to them comparing soups: Can I recomend you my therapist?

For context, it was a modern AU in which Og!Cale had just moved to live by himself and went to buy essentials and meal for the first time. He had bought snacks and one or two items in stores before, but he never went to buy his own groceries and normal house stuff. He was just improvising and picking up anything he thought was useful.

Then he saw protein and vitamine bars and he was like "hey, why didn't I know this existed? Now I won't have to eat food!" And started puting a lot of them on his cart. One by one.

So a middle aged lady near him noticed it. "Young boy, you can take the box if you want".

"Oh."

And then she started to give him tips and helping him because he obviously had no idea what he was doing.

"Be careful when you pick fruit and vegetables. Fresh ones are better than frozen ones."

"This offer is a good chance. You always run out of napkins fast."

And so.

At some point the chat she was passing him recipes and told him to cook his own meals of it was possible because is healthier. And Og!Cale was like "but can't I just eat this bars and call it a day?"

Which turned into he telling her that food normally tastes awful or like nothing at all for him.

"And the doctor said you're healthy? Then it could be your mental health. My nephew had the same problem. He still does, but it happens less now. He was going through a big depression at that time".

By the way, the guy was totally eardropping.

[carefulfears]

the biggest thing about elegy is that it takes all of that unspoken isolation of this arc, and it slowly lets the audience in. the first thing that mulder says about the apparitions, is that they seem to be an "omen." an impending prophecy. and carefully, throughout the episode, both the audience and scully are waiting to see, not who the killer is, but what is being foretold. when they're going over records, and scully's nose starts bleeding, it's the one thing that they can't ignore. she wasn't even there in the previous episode. she was in the hospital. alone. they don't talk about it. she's "fine." she has "always been the strong one." just like in irresistible, years earlier, she does not want him to know how much she is struggling. but she doesn't have any control. it is dripping out of her. the sound of his voice when he says "oh, scully." and how quickly she responds "it's okay. i'm fine."

it's that kind of childlike grimace in him, the same man who flinches away from dead bodies and stares at the ground before his father. and she's so fast to try to restore order. it's okay. i'm fine. don't worry, i'll clean it up. i'll make it go away. when she disappears into the bathroom and sees an apparition there herself...i think she decides to go to the hospital because she just needs space, honestly. she's scared. he offers to drive her, to go with her, twice. asks, "you sure?" and she says, twice, "i'm fine."

elegy builds to two separate climaxes: the first, when mulder comes to scully's apartment. but before that, we see scully in karen kosseff's office, the same therapist that she had gone to in irresistible, and presumably has kept a relationship with in the years since. she tells karen that she's been diagnosed with inoperable untreatable cancer, and when karen asks, "you've kept working?" she answers, "yes. it's been important to me."

she's taken aback when karen asks why, is surprised at the question, and tells her "agent mulder has been concerned. he's been supportive, through this time."

KOSSEFF: Do you feel that you owe it to him to continue working?

SCULLY: (quickly) No. (pauses) I guess I never realized how much I rely on him before this...his passion...he's been a great source of strength that I've drawn on.

KOSSEFF: What happened last night, Dana?

SCULLY: I saw something. I, I don't know what to trust. If I saw it because of the stress, because the image had been suggested to me or if it was a suggestion of my own fears.

KOSSEFF: Your fear of failing him?

SCULLY: (exhales emotionally) Maybe.

this is such a rare admission from scully. first of all, she's being confronted. this is not normal. it is not normal to work to your death. it's like bill tells her, a couple of episodes later, "what are you doing at work, getting knocked down, beaten up? what are you trying to prove?"

(she hadn't even told bill about her cancer. she'd been sick for months. she thought she was going to die in memento mori, she knows she's going to die sooner than later. and she instructed her mom not to tell her brother. from the moment that mulder said "i refuse to believe that," it really was only going to go one way.)

she's being confronted. why are you working? (for mulder). do you feel you owe him? (no, i need him).

she's really alone. she's sick. like, she's really sick. she spent the last case in the hospital. she's having a hard time keeping up. she's thinning, and bleeding, and struggling. but there she goes, every day, at every hour. monster chasing. telling him she's fine.

(so much conflict comes from the way that mulder's ignorance perfectly enables scully's repression)

when he shows up, late, at her apartment, he comes in a mile-a-minute, about how he needs her "help" on the case, before asking her what her doctor said. (her answer, of course, being, "i'm fine.")

he tells her that everyone who has seen an apparition, was dying. every person who reported a premonition, was near death themselves.

SCULLY: Harold Spuller is dying too?

MULDER: Well, that's what I need your medical opinion on.

SCULLY: Well, what if he isn't?

MULDER: I would be very surprised. What is a death omen if not a vision of our own mortality? And who among us would most likely be able to see the dead? 

this is one of the most hauntingly isolating moments of the series...he has just told her that she is going to die. and he doesn't know, that that's what he said. she is forced to process it, completely by herself. and she doesn't believe in ghosts, or "premonitions," but she knows that he is right. (when is he not?)

("maybe harold is sicker than we thought he was.")

the second moment that this episode builds to, is the final confrontation between mulder and scully. after the murder is solved. after harold dies.

SCULLY: I saw something, Mulder.

MULDER: What?

SCULLY: The fourth victim. I saw her in the bathroom before you came to tell me.

MULDER: Why didn't you tell me?

SCULLY: Because I didn't want to believe it. Because I don't want to believe it.

MULDER: Is that why you came down here, to prove that it wasn't true?

SCULLY: No, I came down here because you asked me to.

MULDER: Why can't you be honest with me?

SCULLY: (defensively) What do you want me to say? That you're right, that, that I believe it even if I don't? I mean, is that what you want?

MULDER: Is that what you think I want to hear?

SCULLY: (softly) No.

they come really...close here? to talking about it? she almost baits him several times this season. she spends so much of this arc thinking...maybe, this will be it. maybe if she fucks off on assignment, gets a tattoo with another man, he'll say it. maybe if she calls him out for never celebrating her birthday, he'll acknowledge why this is the year he did. maybe if they spend a friday night with a bottle of wine, they'll talk. maybe if she tells him, those things you believe are death omens? i saw it. he'll know.

i can't remember which one of you said that all of their arguments are just how to love each other. she doesn't want to believe. but she's there, because he has asked her to be. even in all of their repressed denial, there is no escaping what's happening. it hangs over both of them.

i love the moments in this arc where she just snaps. in this scene when she says, what do you want from me? do you want me to just believe you? and her quiet resignation, when he makes her answer her own question. no. she knows that's not what he wants.

MULDER: (his voice softens) I know what you're afraid of. I'm afraid of the same thing.

SCULLY: The doctor said I was fine.

MULDER: I hope that's the truth.

SCULLY: (whispers) I'm going home.

"i know what you're afraid of. i'm afraid of the same thing."

except, no, he doesn't. and no, they are not.

but she knows what he's afraid of, just as her therapist had known what she's afraid of ("your fear of failing him?") and so she dodges his admittance with reassurance. she's fine.

that last scene, when she goes out and cries in her car, and she sees harold's ghost in the backseat. she is so alone. she's working on her deathbed. they don't talk about it. she's afraid, and she's not fine, and she is going to "fail" him because she cannot keep herself alive for him, and she can't avoid it. it's in the backseat. it's in the bathroom mirror. it's bleeding out of her.

[goodluckclove]

My Medical History: A Comedy of Errors

This is long as shit but since it's finally sort of resolved itself I figured it'd be worth documenting. Strap in, folks.

Me, age 12: I have Experiences

Doctor: You're schizoaffective you need many pills.

Me: Sure, I guess.

Me: Dad I experience these kinds of things being schizoaffective.

Dad, also schizoaffective: Huh I relate to none of that.

Me: Should we look into that discrepancy further?

Dad: Nah.

Me: Mom I forgot to take one of the seven medications I'm on for over a month and felt no effect from not taking it. Is there a chance I'm potentially on too much medication?

Mom: You need to take all the pills the doctors give you.

Me: I'm on more Seroquel than both you and Dad combined and have been since I was 13 is that bad?

Mom: No it's normal and good, actually.

Me: I have nothing to compare this too and if I disagree too hard with you I might be left to fend for myself in the wilderness like a newly-stray cat.

Different Doctor: I don't think you're schizoaffective because you were way too young to show signs when you were diagnosed.

Me, age 17: Oh? What do you think I am?

Different Doctor: No idea. Moving on!

Therapist: You aren't bipolar.

Me, age 18: What am I, then?

Therapist: Probably nothing. It really doesn't matter.

Me: I don't know what to do with that information.

An additional doctor: Yeah, I agree with that doctor you saw almost a decade ago. I don't think you're bipolar.

Me, 26, very tired: Okay.

Additional doctor: You're too traumatized for me to diagnose, though.

Me: Uh-huh. That's - fine. I guess.

Additional doctor: Here are some anti-psychotics though.

Me: These anti-psychotics make me throw up at least once a week can we switch to a different kind?

Additional doctor: Eh I don't know. They're not making you psychotic so it's probably fine.

Me: cool okay

Me: Hey I was on 900mgs of Seroquel from ages 13-21 do you think that could be a bad thing for me health-wise?

A doctor, at some point: It is a medical improbability that taking that much of that medication for that long didn't give you diabetes.

Me: Great. Love that for me.

Me: Therapist I need a diagnostic I'm losing my mind.

Therapist: I'm reading your diagnosis and you actually don't meet the basic clinical criteria for really any mental illness.

Me: ??????? cool

Therapist: You might have ADHD though.

Wife: You absolutely have ADHD.

Me: Can I get treated for ADHD please?

New psych: I can't treat you for ADHD if you're diagnosed as bipolar.

Me: I have had multiple doctors say I'm not bipolar. I have a diagnostic that says I'm not bipolar.

New psych: Someone at some point said you were bipolar.

Me: I was 12.

New psych: Either way. Also this diagnostic you took says you have BPD.

Me in my next therapy session: Hey uh Therapist when were you going to tell me I have BPD?

Therapist: You...don't? You don't have that.

Me: My psych said the diagnostic you sent her shows I do.

Therapist: She apparently doesn't know how to read the diagnostic then because that's - um. Incorrect.

Wife: You need to stop telling new psychs you were ever diagnosed bipolar it's clearly making them biased.

Me: That feels like denying medical people medical information they need for medicine.

Therapist: I agree with Wife actually.

Me: You - really? Fuck. I mean, okay.

Me, in an intake appointment: I was never diagnosed bipolar.

Current psych: Uh okay.

Me: I'm lying.

Current psych: Oh. Oh?

Me (Sobbing): I'm so sorry I'm lying I just lied.

Current psych: It's okay. You're - um -

Me (Weeping, shame spiraling): You seem so nice -

Current psych: Wow. Wow you are struggling.

Few Sessions Later

Current psych: Yeah you could have ADHD. Probably wanna be careful though because ADHD meds can cause mania in bipolar people, so even though you haven't really shown any signs of bipolar or schizophrenic symptoms we should still air on the side of caution.

Few More Sessions

Current psych: Ah yeah you're super ADHD. That makes sense and surprises nobody.

Me, 27, lying face-down on the floor: rad hooray for medicine.

[hismercytomyjustice]

Today’s therapy session went a little like this…

Therapist: You have to feel and acknowledge your feelings.

Me: no, 💖

But in all seriousness… Yet again found myself being like “Yay, the OCD spirals have been almost nonexistent lately!”

Only to, in the middle of talking to her about something, realize “…oh shit, my drive for perfectionism is another OCD spiral isn’t it..?”

My Therapist: ദ്ദി(˵ •̀ ᴗ - ˵ ) ✧

GODDAMMIT.

But I also found out last week (when I finally saw a psychiatrist at my therapist and doctor’s behest) that the typical dose for OCD of my current meds is 2-3x higher than what I’ve been on for the past like two years. Apparently that dose was more suited to “generalized anxiety” and not, in fact, for “OCD brain ghosts.”

So that’s getting bumped up. And my Adderall is probably going to get bumped up too. It hasn’t been doing much for me for a while now and I’m on a really low dose for it.

The psychiatrist also said we need to figure out whether or not I have autism because that’s going to greatly impact what she prescribes. Basically she wants to help me rather than medicate my brain into submission lol. Which I def appreciate!

I also met with the autism specialist my therapist recommended (whaaaat having OCD means you’re more likely to have autism???) who kept asking me things and was just giving me very “uh huh” looks the whole time accompanied by “Yes, that’s an autistic trait. That too. And that.”

But like, she’s asking me questions to sort out stuff like special interests and I’m just like what qualifies as a special interest and not a hyperfixation or a normal amount of interest? What is a normal amount of interest?

Same with questions like “are you a picky eater.” Like, what does that mean? By whose standards? What is the scale we’re working with here?

It does not help that a good chunk of my family and friends bare minimum at least have ADHD. Because I’m sitting there comparing myself to them and I’m pretty sure it’s a bit of a “Spiders Georg” situation.

Like…what is a normal amount of research when it comes to things you’re interested in? Because I don’t know everything about Mount Everest. But for like a month or so there, I was trying to learn everything I could about it. Wouldn’t that be a hyperfixation then? But I only eased up because I wasn’t coming across much in the way of new info, so IDK.

Same for like…what is considered a normal amount of liking a particular piece of media? Doesn’t everyone have stuff they enjoy and want to learn more about? And like…there are plenty of people who know more about POTO than I do. Not among my immediate friends and family, but I’ve seen them out on the internet. I know they exist.

What’s an ADHD level of sensory issues vs an autism level? And what’s an OCD level of liking things to be the same way vs an autism level? (╯°□°）╯

She can’t give me a formal diagnosis, as she does more like…autistic life coaching, but she did say she has someone she recommends for full blown testing if I want to get a second opinion, so that’s something I can consider.

It would just be the bee’s knees if my OCD didn’t keep sending me into spirals over this. I have had multiple qualified people tell me I probably have it now, and the ONE person who I got an actual assessment from (who never met me because she was just the assessor’s supervisor) is the only one who’s like “eh, not enough.”

Which just keeps sending me in “it’s not autism, it’s just the perfect combo of OCD and ADHD to make people think you have autism” loops.

God it’s so fucking annoying being in my brain sometimes.

Most times.

All the time.

But hopefully over the next few weeks I can get a solid answer on that front one way or another so I can stop ruminating on it. Whaaat reassurance seeking behavior??? In this economy?!

[foster-the-world]

Back to School

We were on vacation so I missed the class dojo message that baby boy's class was having an open house today. I was happy to discover it was during my lunch hour so I could sneak out. I'm glad I went. Got a chance to talk with his teacher and his OT, PT and new speech therapist. I guess he's old speech therapist son is going to be in his class so they switched therapist. Make sense.

He's had a rough couple of weeks so I am very glad to get him back into a normal routine.

His teacher keeps talking about how he doesn't like her. Which I think is an odd thing to bring up. He's an immature four year old. If you give him a cookie he will like you. If you tell him no, he won't like you for roughly ten minutes. Then he's over it. Otherwise it was a good conversation. She knows what she is doing - which is a relief. Every single person who works with him said "he's so smart." Which is what I believe but nice to verify. I'm always afraid I'm secretly entirely biased and missing things. Even though its not like I'm ignoring his challenges. His teacher said she has a range of kids from babyish to very mature. She mentioned baby boy is all the way across the spectrum. Which I thought was spot on. In some areas he's advanced and in others he's a mess. The one-on-one therapist were very clearly glad to have him back. Which makes sense because one on one he's so much better behaved. I asked if push in services would make more sense because he has trouble in groups. They said no. Also good to verify. I mentioned needing to figure out kindergarten. She seemed to imply he maybe okay in a Gen Ed class. But said we will check in in November - which is good to know. They are having another all school meeting with the Director. Not sure I can skip work but I would really like to go.

The only negative reaction I had was with the health care person. My husband, who complains about no one, also got a bad vibe. It was a general feeling but specifically her thoughts on his asthma won't work for me. The conversation wasn't going anywhere so I said "oh, don't want to hold you from other parents" and jetted out. Anyway, she is right that we need to take him to a Pulmonologist. Just waiting on all of these Sept/Oct Neuro Psych/Dev Ped/Cardiologist appointments to be over. Also, assuming he will get another nonstop cough in October/Nov so can take him then. Maybe better for the doctor to see it in action.

[lavender-teardroplettes]

You should do Miguel and Si hcs (Weathering Feelings VN)

Since idk how many people have played it I’ll suggest doing so before reading this post since it’ll contain spoilers!

Hcs under the cut!:

This one’s a little more interesting than most to me due to the nature of the game and Miguel looking at the PLAYER and less so the stand-in he has for you in game, gets a little meta in the best ways in my opinion. UwU

Si would find the general idea for the game really cute assuming the download page is a little different from the irl itch page and doesn't include any spoilers. It would be neat if the moment he downloads it the page is gone since it's meant for him and no one else. (though this is an open mc headcanon even if it wasn't Si, I just think it's a neat idea). While he knows games aren't the same as getting real therapy, sometimes it's nice to harmlessly vent to a game just to get it out.

I think he'd play a "normal" route where he wouldn't notice anything off about the game just yet, not hitting the right flags right away and putting the game down for a day or two before booting it up again to try and get a new route with one of the other Doctors before going back to try and do a better route with Dr. Nubloso....only to get him again even after picking different answers. Weird...but he thinks "maybe I have to hit a flag first and clear his route first." He does better the second time around, but now things are getting...weird, and he notices that the game sprite seems to be looking directly at him.

Once he gets to the part where things get really weird and Dr. Nubloso starts talking about going into the game files before the route ends, Si gets really spooked and closes the game again. He's surprised and a little shocked at the change of pace in the story, but he also can't help but be a little curious about what would happen if he did delete the file. It's also around 2-3 am at that point of time, so he also thinks that maybe he fell asleep or misread something in his sleepy state. He sleeps on it, opens the game again, and plays through one more time to make sure, once again giving different answers, and once more getting the Cloudy Day therapist.

Once he confirms the weird ending and the request of deleting the file, Si looks around in the game files before finding it. His curiosity gets the better of him after a little debate with himself, and he does. Now....When he boots up the game again he is NOT expecting to see Miguel at all, and he certainly wasn't expecting to be talked to directly. He almost yelps and turns off the game again, but something pulls his attention to the new development and tells him to stop and hear him out. Maybe he's overacting and this is just really good...specific writing? So he plays on, almost exhausting each available line of dialogue Miguel has for him, even replaying them a few times before Miguel acknowledges what he's doing and gives him the whole 'oh, you're testing me and my loyalty' speech. And...he has to admit, he does feel a little bad for the character by that time....that is until he hits the nsfw route and gets WAY MORE flustered than he should've been. And yes....he played both routes. ovo

By the end of it, he gets the ending where Miguel resolves to break out of the game for him, and he's left confused when all that loads after is a glitched screen. He does some more digging in the files and finds some "easter eggs" from Miguel, getting flustered at two of the special pictures hidden in the files. Curiouser, Si- seemingly out of a whim- decided to read the game's script...and his stomach drops when he notices little notes hidden in the game's files from Miguel- even down to the nsfw scenes. Before he can really react or fully process that this could be real, there's a knocking at his door..... Miguel came to find him just like he said he would. :)

That's all I really have for now since it's been a hot minute since I thought about how this would work given what we have with the current demo, but as you can see it's a really fun premise to play with!

[generative-sorcery]

God, i'd do so well as the protagonist of the inn sanity game.

"Robin, I know we aren't supposed to be trusting anyone, but, you know, the old man nextdoor is completely chill, how about we invite him over? I know, food supply is already low, but you know just as well as me that we can survive without even for a week! And it's not like we won't have any food at all, have you seen how many supplies i found? We can't just let him rot in there i'm certain he'll start getting famished if we don't share, c'mon let's go"

"Hey, ghost lovely white lady my wife? I know we're in a rough position right now, me not remembering anything about you, but... can you maybe, please, tone down on the killing aspect? Don't you remember how much time we spent together on couple counseling trying to get you over murdering and me over my disgust for human corpses? we were both doing astonishingly good, that's what the therapist said! What do you mean you don't remember? What about the priest? Don't you remember that one evening after the sermon where... we... invited him for dinner, and he told the joke about... how jesus couldn't heal lazarus and had to resurrect him once he died because jesus was God born as man, and not a doctor? Wait... doesn't it mean that both of us have amneisia about ourselves? Oh, how wonderful it is that our love for one another has stayed! But please, can you not kill that priest guy, or can you maybe even help him with survival? He was always such a great friend to both of us, we can't just let him die!"

"My lovely ghost wife, i have wonderful news! I've just found out that our long-lost daughter, she... she's alive! Yes, i also didn't remember i had a daughter at first, but... just... just look at her! She has your... body curvature, yes! She said that i look just like her father, who she doesn't remember very well, since i left you... i'll tell you both about why i've done this, just... not yet, okay? I'm... i'm just so happy that you both are here, this is the greatest day of my life! All that trouble which caused me to leave, it's all over now, we can finally live like a normal family again! You, my amnesiac ghost wife, our astranged daugher, and me!"

(In case you think the protag couldn't bullshit to this degree, trust me, i fooled actual people who are not demented and stupid ghosts into thinking that i remember them and that i'm super glad to see them)

(As for the pale beast- well, the priest has a gun, right? If we gather our forces, there's four living people and a ghost who is at least not a hallucination that only a single person has, at least one spear can be fashioned out of chair legs, the razor and the duct tape found in the hikers' room, it might have supernatural strength and intense bloodlust but c'mon we used to be able to fell fucking mammoths wirh nothing but pointy rocks on long sticks don't you remember?)

[theconqueringchicken]

The Stress of Accessing Gender Care

It took me years to decided to have any type of gender care and the process of accessing it is really stressing me out.

I met with my provider in summer after waiting about a year and a half to establish care. I told myself I was going to treat my PCOS and get on birth control or other hormones like I was supposed to but the words stuck in my throat. I told her I couldn't do it, that getting care to be more properly a woman felt like going in the wrong direction, and I wanted to try testosterone therapy.

She was very supportive and so said we should schedule a longer appointment to talk more about that. I was expressionless, tense, and closed off throughout. I wasn't ready to talk about the what I want. I have been holding it in since I was a teenager hoping the desires I have would go away.

No one wants to hear about it. It's not even something I can talk to my trans relatives about. One told me to come back and talk when I knew what I was and what my pronouns were and not before. Another told me that I just needed to learn to be a woman properly and my problem was lack of guidance and community. Step by step aigot pushed back into the closet.

My therapist's first reaction was "There's a lot of ways of being a woman. Maybe you just need to find the right one." Basically asking if I've tried not being trans. Oh yes, I have, for 15 years. Subsequent conversations were just as unproductive.

At my next doctor's appointment we talked briefly about health risks and why I wanted to try HRT. Never mind I'm already facing those risks from PCOS. My body is already making enough T to give me extra body hair and stop my periods for six months at a stretch.

I didn't know how to articulate why I wanted HRR. I've never talked about it and I feel so numb from depression and am so used to repressing these feelings they just slip through my fingers.

I only know that they are there. A pang of jealousy when I meet a trans man, a stab of shame when I don't meet a standard that was never meant to apply to me. A burst of pride when I push my body. The secret, desperate joy when I started growing chest hair and facial hair. The deep wrongness of being too feminine or completely masculine.

I can clumsily say what I feel but I do not know why I feel it.

I told her I was never normal, being a girl never fit, and if someone had offered me HRT when I was a 14 I would have taken it without a second thought.

She listened though I knew she didn't understand at all and I thankex her though I knew it wasn't what she was looking for. I was no less closed off to her and to myself.

Heading home I finally let myself feel happy. It was such a a fragile feeling, like a soap bubble floating along beside me, and if I looked at it too hard it might burst and all my fears would come crashing down on me again. Letting myself believe that HRT was a possibility for me felt like asking for disappointment or humiliation but I let myself have that hope,to pretend to believe in it just for a little while.

Then the gender limbo began. I was supposed to have an appointment scheduled with an endocrinologist but no one ever called me back. I felt this spark of panic and paranoia. Was someone trying to hook up my care? Like the person at the front desk who angrily snatched my ID out of my hand when I used my chosen name and not my given name?

After two weeks I called to ask what was going on. That day the entire phone system at the clinic went down so I got up and I went in person and was assured they would get back to me asap. They did not so I called them.

I asked about the scheduling and they told me it was being held up because they didn't have my new insurance information. Then, after another week it was being held up because they needed to do "information gathering". They did not specify what information they were gathering or why it took more than three weeks.

The next week I got another call telling me that they still had not scheduled anything and had no idea when they would be able to fit me in. So I made an appointment with a different provider and started the whole thing over again.

I had so much anxiety about keeping that appointment. I could feelyself panicking as I headed out the door and then when I reached the clinic I felt excited and relieved and so so glad I came. Then I was told my appointment was at another clinic. There was no time to get there on the bus so I just had to go home.

I told the receptionist that it was okay, that's just the way it goes sometimes, and then I went to the restroom and cried quietly on the floor for a few minutes. I kept myself together as I left and walked past the weirdos prowling around the clinic. Then I made the call and told scheduling I couldn't make my appointment and they told me that there never was an appointment and I started crying all over again.

I cried half the way home, then got junk food and a face mask, and made up my mind to fill my day with chores and crafts and go out later so I wouldn't be stuck at home. Yes, I am aware, getting the address wrong was my fault. That really doesn't make me less miserable.

This whole process has been so exhausting I don't know how anyone even does it. I don't know how people in the UK deal with all the wait times and all the nonsense.

I don't know how folks in the US copewith finally getting that prescription and then finding out that a pharmacist can just refuse to fill it because they hate transgender people.

I don't think what I've been dealing with personally is bias, it's just that healthcare is a shambles and has been for years. It's so stressful and it must be for everyone. I hope your journies are going better than mine.

[alpydk]

Recovery

Possibly the most self indulgent, self insert, cringe, comfort fluff I have ever written and you know what? I don't care.

Yesterday I went to the city. I had an interview for a course that went well. I did not have a panic attack at all. I was, by all accounts, normal. And so this is for me. My own pat on the back.

Word Count - 2283 - CW - Agoraphobia, Anxiety, Sickening levels of comfort and fluff

The last time you left the house you broke down within thirty minutes, the car halted, the engine left running. Your friend didn’t know what to do or say as you struggled to breathe, the tears falling from unfocused eyes. You could only whine between sobs that you just wanted to be who you used to be. 

You had tried pinpointing where the fear had come from: EMDR, medication, exposure therapy. None of it had worked, and you had instead found yourself slowly becoming worse. It started with flying, and then a long car journey across the country. Soon all sailing was out of bounds, easy to avoid away from the coast. The train to the therapist’s office had once been a time to unwind, watching a series on your phone. Now it was a half hour of muscles tensed and a tight knot in your throat that refused to budge. 

Mindfulness became travel sickness meds became anxiety medication that you never spoke of to others. You were functioning fine. There was nothing to worry about. So why did your heart pound without reason? Why did you repeat to yourself that you couldn’t do it as the wheels turned? Why did you feel as if all eyes were constantly on you, judging you?

Now it was time for another regular check at the doctor’s office, another set of questions you’d rehearsed answers to, another prescription given from what felt like a randomly chosen lucky dip of pills. The supposed miracle cure everyone had assured you would be effective. They’d said it about the last ones too and the ones before them as well. Oh, the side effects will just be temporary. They might have been, but the memories were permanent, the increased anxiety long lasting. 

The doctor would walk in, mumble something under his breath, the scent of coffee and hand sanitizer seeping from his pores. He’d part listen to what you had to say before tapping a few keys, considering what options were available for ‘hysteria’, not that’s what was written, of course. It may well have been with how dismissive he was. You knew what to expect because that’s what had happened so many times over, just another pit-stop on the slow ride down to rock bottom.

“Hey there. I’m Dr. Chase.”

The voice is young, clear. The scent of coffee and hand sanitizer mild against the ocean salt of his unblemished skin. Now it is you that struggles to listen to everything as you take in the sight of him, the clear blue eyes, the soft lips that you know will brighten up a room if they just curved into a smile. Hysteria – uncontrollable emotion or excitement. You’d let him write that in your file. Hell, you’d even live up to the meaning, if only for his acknowledgement.

“Sorry, your regular doctor’s retired. I’m gonna be taking over from now on. You doing alright there?”

You nod and answer his questions as he goes, lost in the way he moves around the room. Even when sitting still, a pen is being twisted between his fingers or his foot is tapping a tune you know only he can hear. You wonder if he’d sing with his unmistakable Aussie accent. What music would he enjoy most? Possibly the classics. Or would he be stuck in his own teenage angst era like you are? He can’t be much older than you, surely?

“I’m sorry. What?” He’s been waiting for your answer, you realise, his gaze patient. He’s listening, paying attention. You’re not a burden, not an inconvenience in his day. Finally, someone cares, notices.

“You’re flying? Where to?”

Had you mentioned flying? You couldn’t remember as you’d watched him lean over to pick up the pen he had dropped. Shameless, terrible behaviour as you’d imagined what lay beneath the lab coat. Firm thighs you could pin yourself around, a trail of dark hair you’d follow with your fingertips. Flying. You mumble out a reply, hoping your cheeks don’t match the red pen now being held in those lips. “Europe. A convention there.”

He nods in approval, letting you carry on your explanation, the pen being balanced between his teeth as he takes in each word you say. This is not how the appointments normally go. Usually, they do all the talking. In and out in record speed before you’ve even clocked how uncomfortable you feel.

“You travel a lot, then?”

You bristle in reflex, the mask up, the fortress ready. “Oh yeah, loads.”

“Aha...”

He can see right through your lie. You’re just the same as everyone else, after all. He takes a seat opposite you, sliding over as if he were casually in an office and not a medical room of a hospital funded by millionaires. “Where’s the furthest you’ve been, then?”

He’s reading you under the guise of examination. He takes your arm, placing it in the cuff to check your blood pressure. You’re trying to focus on the answer, going back to days when travel wasn’t a problem but his warm hands on your pale flesh are too distracting. Prague... Or was it Morocco? You can barely remember that far back. In the last ten years, the furthest you’ve gone willingly was an hour on a train.

The cuff tightens. The reading getting worse, you’re sure, as you still have not answered his question. He’s not repeated it. He’s not said anything, but your silence is all he’s needed to work it out.

“Don’t get out much?”

You can only nod. You’re ashamed, a failure of a human. How stupid it is that appointments like this are the highlight of a week? And even then, you know you’re going to be worn out as soon as you get home. Pathetic are the words you’d use to describe it. But not to others, of course. Only yourself. Only you are weak, pathetic, stupid.

That smile brightens up the room. “Don’t be so hard on yourself. It’s pretty common, actually.”

Yeah, it is. But it’s lonely. “Maybe...” You want to change the subject. Don’t want him to see you like that. He’s a doctor, he’s seen it all, but you can’t be remembered like that. Not to him. “So... Checks all good?”

Thankfully, he doesn’t press and gives you the all good to leave, slowly removing the cuff from your arm. His hands linger a moment longer than expected, but you don’t mind, lost in the depths of his eyes. You wonder how it would feel to run your fingers through his hair, to hear his voice as you fall asleep, resting your head on his chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart. Would he call you beautiful or simply show you how he felt? Would he say those three words and most of all mean them?

---

You’re not sure when the current course of meds began working. Maybe it was during a shopping trip where you stepped into a random store you’d never tried before. Maybe it was you started dancing in your living room, not caring that you looked terrible. All you knew was that things were changing. Yes, your creative hobbies had dwindled with the months, your words feeling empty on the page before you, your attention span shorter than the list of tasks completed. But you finally had hope. Hope that you would make that flight.

The trip out that day had been one you’d worried about. An hour of public transport, thankfully alone to avoid the concerns of others, an important meeting concerning your future, and then the confining walls of the city before returning to sanctuary. All your faith in medication and grounding techniques. Halfway... Almost there.... Positive thinking.

You step off the bus, legs shaking, and you hope no one can see the way your eyes are darting around, looking for a safe place to catch your breath. The meeting comes and goes before you even have time to panic; the questions going over your head as you focus more on appearing calm than knowledgeable. But you survive. Now comes the last hurdle: simply getting home.

You stand outside the building, the city a prison surrounding you. Towering concrete monstrosities closing in. The hustle and bustle of the world flows around you, a tempestuous current that drags you along, a feather in a storm.

A hand catches yours, warm and soft, and pulls you from the flood. No longer is there the whirlpool. There are only those pale blue eyes that see through your defences, the smile of golden sunlight glistening through the dawn. There is only him and you.  

“A little far from home, aren’t you?”

Words catch in your throat, not from panic, but from relief. Chase is right. You are far from home. For the first time in months, you’ve accomplished something. You’re exhausted, your muscles and mind aching each in their own way. All you want is to sleep, to shut down as the adrenaline ceases its endless torment. You answer, but trail out, more excited at sharing your achievement with someone. “I did it...”

Now you’re both smiling, the city forgotten around you. Robert keeps hold of your hand and you don’t question it. You don’t question any of it as he hugs you in public, your face buried in the crook of his neck, the saltwater filling your senses. He whispers words of how he is proud of you. This man who barely knows you, yet sees deeper into your soul than any other in your life.

How did this ever happen? Is this the medication? Will you wake up at home having never left the self built confines of your prison? Will you realise that all this is a cruel dream, based on one chance meeting? The doubts creep in, the hope fading, the realisation of the storm around you building. If only it were true...

---

Another day, another appointment. The chemical lighting setting the small room in an uncomfortable white glow. Dr. Chase enters the room, quick to flick through the file in front of him. You can’t bear to look at him after your visit to the city, your mind taking you on a journey before pushing you off the cliff.

“So, how’ve you been?”

You nod, give a dismissal answer, still unable to meet his gaze. “Fine, I guess.”

“Ready for your trip?”

“Yeah.” You’re not. What hope you had has gone and you consider cancelling it all.

He slides the chair between your legs as he had before, the cuff in his hands at the ready. His touch is as pleasant as ever. “Spotted you in the city a few weeks back.”

You lift your head, meeting the inquisitive nature of his eyes. He had seen you? He’d been there?

“Would’ve come and chatted, but you know, wasn’t sure you were up for that.”

Now you’re reading him, this open book in front of you. One that almost seems embarrassed to be admitting this. He’s confident, extroverted, good looking. And yet he didn’t take the chance? The faded wedding band on his finger, the tired lines under his eyes, the light stubble upon his chin, the tinge of black coffee on those lips. What lies beneath the surface, what secrets, what blemishes beneath unblemished skin?

 “You should’ve.” You’re not sure what’s come over you. That was rude, wasn’t it? To make demands of a person in such a way was unheard of from your mouth and yet you meant it. Maybe it could have been more than fantasy, more than a cruel dream.

“I’m here now, ain’t I?”

A warm palm moves along your arm. You try to remind yourself it’s all routine, but it feels different to last time: more intimate, an exploration rather than examination. Your heart is pounding, but it is not the recognisable beat of anxiety. It’s the rhythm of wanting, of longing. It is the tides washing on the shores of distant beaches, the breeze dancing between light cotton drapes. Your hand finds his, fingers entwine, and you can do nothing but swallow the nerves.

He speaks, the quiet lilt of his accent joining the song in your chest. “Have you celebrated?”

Chase’s question confuses you. Celebrated what? Leaving the house? Who does that? “Um...no?”

His thumb strokes the side of your hand. This is celebration enough for anything you might have achieved. A small callous on his finger catches your knuckle and you look down, turning his hand in yours. His hands so perfect, aside from one small mark. How many other marks are there like this upon his body? Hidden truths behind impenetrable walls.

“Violin.”

Makes sense, but now you want more. To know more, hear more. Will he tell you of his family, of being a child, of his hopes and dreams, of the faded wedding band, of his accent and saltwater? Will he let you in? Will you let him in?

“Let me treat you for the evening. A meal and movie at my place or yours. Your choice.”

You’d pinch yourself if it didn’t make you look more insane than you already felt. Was he really asking that? “I’m sorry, what?”

His grin is the only answer you need, his hands placed over your own. Warmth, safety. You know he can’t fix you, can’t save you from yourself. But he gives you that hope back and you know he will be there to celebrate each baby step to recovery. You’ll make that flight. You’ll enjoy your trip, and when you return, he will be waiting.  

Calm ocean waves, golden sunlight, adventure outside yourself. All waiting, just for you.  

[charlies-storybook]

Last First Kiss

John H. Watson shouldn’t have realized his feelings for Sherlock Holmes this way. Getting his suicide note call. John was at the right place at the wrong time.

"I'm a doctor, he is my friend," John shouted, pushing through a mass of bodies that were gathering around the accident while suffering a concussion himself. He was late - half of Sherlock's face bashed into the concrete. John stared at the sight in horror while his gaze was still hazy and blurry due to his head injury.

John was the only one who stayed, watching the scene in front of him, grief-stricken, as the hospital staff picked up Sherlock's bloodied corpse and carried it away. When his eyesight got better and his head didn't echo the ambulance siren, the last thing he saw of Sherlock was his hand hanging lifeless from the stretcher.

Eighteen months, after eighteen months John Watson finds himself sitting in front of Ella, his therapist. Both of them sit in silence, John looks tired and pained.

“Why today?” Ella inquires.

“D’you want to hear me say it?”

“Eighteen months since our last appointment.”

John gets visibly but quietly angry. “D’you read the papers?”

“Sometimes.” Ella answers simply.

“D’you watch the telly? You know why I’m here.” John groans as he ends the sentence, hoping his therapist gets the memo.

But Ella doesn’t answer, instead watches John curiously to continue.

“I’m here because...” John chokes and looks at his lap, he swallows hard not to weep. Ella shifts in her seat and leans forward sympathetically. “What happened, John?”

John closes his eyes, breathing heavily trying to collect himself. He clears his throat and looks at Ella again. “Sher...” He says, his voice breaking.

"You need to get it out," Ella says gently.

John clears his throat again, his voice full of sorrow and tears. “My best friend... Sherlock Holmes...”, he sniffs, forcing his voice through the torture, “...is dead.”

All the weight of the news falls on him as he breaks down and starts to cry.

Three months before, when everything seemed peaceful and normal until John Watson got the dreadful call.

John arrived to St. Bartholomew’s as fast as he could after he learned the attack on Mrs. Hudson was used as a distraction for John.

He was stopped in his tracks a few feet in front of the building by the sound of an incoming call. The caller's ID read 'Sherlock'.

Sherlock watched John pick up his phone call. He was breathing heavily, he stepped on the edge, swinging over the ledge. Sherlock’s breath only slowed down and steadied when he heard John’s voice.

“Hello?”

“John.”

“Hey, Sherlock, are you okay?”

“Turn around and go back.”

“No, I’m coming in.” John requested.

“Do as I say.” Sherlock said desperately before adding, “Please.” Which was wild coming from Sherlock because ‘please’ and ‘thank you’ rarely occupied his vocabulary.

John then turns around and looks everywhere confused. “Where?”

Sherlock pauses and watches John return to the road in front of St. Bartholomew’s Hospital, then speaks urgently. “Stop there.”

John stops. “Sherlock - “

“Okay, look up. I’m on the roof.”

John turns and looks up, his face filling with horror. “Oh God.”

“I-I can’t come down. We’ll... We’ll have to do it like this.”

“Sherlock, what’s this? What’s going on?” John asks anxiously.

"An apology. It's all true." Sherlock sounds like he's smiling but John can hear he's on the verge of tears. "Wh-What?" John tried to cut into Sherlock's monologue. "Everything they said about me." Sherlock continued. "I invented Moriarty."

“Why are you saying this?”

“A note. That’s what people do, right? Leave a note?” Sherlock chuckles, but a tear rolls down his chin.

“Sherlock, no...” John breathes out and takes a step forward.

"Don't come closer!" Sherlock says in a panic. "Fix your eyes on me."

John shakes his head, pulling the phone away from his ear for a moment.

"Goodbye, John. I love you." Is the last thing John Watson hears before Sherlock Holmes swings forward, throwing himself off the roof of St. Bartholomew's.

John is standing near Sherlock's grave, everyone else has already gone home, his hands in his pockets.

“I believe you, I always believed in you. And if I could have one last wish... Please, stop being dead.” And before John walked away, he ended his monologue with: “I love you, too, Sherlock.”

Sherlock saw and heard everything as he watched from afar, hidden in the shadows of the trees that hugged the cemetery all around. John's words broke Sherlock's heart, but he did it for them and their safety. John's, Mrs. Hudson's, and Lestrade's. Sherlock watched John walk away before walking away, too.

Three years have passed and John Watson started visiting Ella more than once in 18 months. Even after all this time, he couldn't get over the death of Sherlock Holmes.

Not only to get over his death but also over Sherlock himself. All those years, he still had feelings for him. He tried going on blind dates, regular dates, and all that jazz. But he failed every time, John saw and compared all of them to Sherlock, putting him in their place.

John gave one last blind date a chance. Something about his date tonight felt familiar - his date looked like Sherlock, acted like Sherlock, felt like Sherlock - no, that's just his head playing tricks on him, surely.

Their waiter arrived asking them if they were ready to order, he started with John. While John was distracted with ordering, Sherlock started to shed his disguise - took off the wig, erased the fake mustache, and took off the glasses.

When John turned back to his date, the waiter was long gone and Sherlock Holmes sat before him. John's eyes were wide in shock and surprise.

"Hello, John," Sherlock said gently.

But John’s reaction wasn’t gentle - he stretched over the table and punched Sherlock instead.

“I guess, I deserved that -” Sherlock said bluntly.

But John didn’t let Sherlock continue as he grabbed his collar, pulling him closer to join their lips in a kiss, at last.

@writeblrcafe

[winderlylandchime]

I cannot believe that everyone can tell that my brother is dumb enough to actually think about making Randy his therapist. Even my neighbor when I told her went ‘oh he would totally be his client if he lived close by.’

Honestly I still can’t believe he is retiring. I’m very happy for him that he is doing something with his life that he believes will bring him joy and stability but fuck does it hurt a little. I think the trouble I’m having is because I’ve seen him on the show/interviews and now podcast so it’s very strange to imagine him being all serious and professional. Hopefully this doesn’t mean we will never see him again. But i hope he has a successful career and that he enjoys it while also helping people.

I feel like Gale probably has to do some normal-ish type of jobs but I feel like he would maybe go for theatre and either teach it or something to do with that. I mean i don’t even know what part of the country the guy lives in so I think that probably has a lot of say in what he’s doing with his career. I did tell my brother that IF anybody were to give us a proof of life for him it will probably be Robert for birthday posts.. Hopefully Robert gets my message from the universe and delivers us some proof of life.

And as for my brothers collection of purses: it’s not a very big collection, he only uses it for “special occasions” like two weeks ago when he went to a mechanic for his car or a doctor check up but i think he has like 5. Two of them i know are small sized black ones (enough only for a wallet/keys/phone) because he made me buy him one for his bday. And I know one of them is a screaming yellow color because ‘sometimes you need a pop of color’. But the reason he actually started using them was because 12-15ish years ago, his friends and him were going to Pride and none of them decided on an outfit that had pockets. So one day he was at a mall and he found a purse with a rainbow on it (i teased him that it was pride merch but he swears it was a sign from the universe) so he bought it for Pride so that him and his friends could put their wallets/keys inside. I wish i was joking when I say that the hetero himbos who went to pride just to accompany me, treated this accessory as if he was the biggest genius they ever met. My brother actually said to my mom ‘yooo why didn’t you tell me about this luxury? There’s so much space for stuff in here! I can even put snacks in here.’

As for the qaf dvds, one of our cousins actually does have them but he forgot about that and tbh I think she is waiting to tell him because she knows he would try to steal them. But I wouldn’t put it past him to actually succeed in finding them on ebay or something, he is stubborn enough.

The funny thing is, dear sweet anon, Randy would kind of be the perfect therapist for your brother since all his angst right now is about QAF and one of the few people with actual answers is Randy.

My biggest fear about Randy as a therapist is less than people have seen him naked and having very realistic simulated sex on Showtime and more that on the podcast he gave his opinions about pop culture and he's such a snob! I don't want my therapist to think less of me because I have brain rot for a TV show or I like a musical that's not (gasp!) Sondheim... and he totally gives that vibe on the pod.

I do think Gale lives in LA. Or at least that's what I last heard. Which means there's a million ways to make money that's entertainment industry adjacent.

I love that your brother and his hetero himbos accompanied you to Pride and brought a communal purse and then marveled at it. Without for a moment considering why their outfits didn't have pockets and why most women's clothing doesn't have pockets. And why purses are necessary at all. (TBH I carry a big mom bag because I have anxiety and what if I need... water, advil, a bandaid, a hairbrush, a protein bar, a change of clothes, etc while I'm out?)

I think the DVDs are definitely available on eBay! They might just cost an arm and a leg. Just typing that I feel like I'm dooming your brother to an accident involving his arm and/or leg. Tell him to be careful!

[another-whump-sideblog]

Masterlist

"Can you explain this gap in your resume?"

"I was abducted and tortured for years."

The interviewer stares at her. Waiting for her to reveal it was a bad joke. But it's not. She stares back.

"...Okay. Uh, I think that's all I need, thank you."

Ema is not going to get that job. She's not going to get any of the jobs she's applied for since she escaped.

"You don't have to tell them what happened." Tom said. "You can lie. They won't know."

But Ema doesn’t want a job where she has to hide what happened. She also doesn’t want a job where everyone knows what happened to her. She doesn’t want to talk about it or think about it and she doesn’t want other people to talk about it or think about it, but she doesn’t want to hide it.

She doesn’t really want a job at all, right now. She always wanted to be a music teacher at some middle or high school, but her music hasn’t been very good lately. It’s been better, since she embraced that her music doesn’t have to sound beautiful, but it’s not near a quality where she would feel comfortable teaching others.

And she’d have to go back to school, anyway. She doesn’t have the money for that. She had scholarships, but they definitely don’t apply anymore. She’d have to get new music-based scholarships, and she can’t play music the way she used to, so she can’t go back to school.

Her life goal, the thing she’d been working towards for so long, is now impossible. Every job interview is a reminder that this is not what she wanted to be doing.

“What would you say is your greatest weakness?”

“I’m really bad at handling conflict and stress. I shut down.”

“Ah. Well, it was nice meeting you. We’ll be in contact.”

Ema will be lucky if she gets a rejection letter. Tom says that if she can’t work after what happened, that’s okay, and he can help her through the long and difficult process of getting disability payments. But that would require a diagnosis, and a diagnosis would require seeing more doctors or therapists and talking about what happened and, if she tries to get a PTSD diagnosis, how often she relives it, and then people will ask if she really can’t work or is just being lazy and all of that sounds worse than any job interview or possible job. So she tells him it’s fine.

“Can you lift 50 pounds or more?”

“No. I can’t reliably walk in a straight line either, and my grip strength is very weak.”

Ema has been feeling better since she started focusing on getting more of the vitamins she’s deficient in, but those things haven’t changed. They become more and more noticeable the more she tries to go back to living a normal life.

When not sending out her resume and attending job interviews, Ema has been spending a lot of time at a nearby music store, playing horrible music, trying to pretend she can still be the person she always wanted to be. That he didn’t ruin her entire life and body permanently and she’ll never be okay again-

The first time an employee came and tapped her on the shoulder, she was terrified they were going to kick her out for spending hours there without buying anything. But they just said hi, complimented her playing, and went back to work.

Over the course of weeks, the two spoke a few times. Nothing too deep, just small talk. Ema has learned that the employee’s name is Tina, that she’s 17, that she’s saving up for a car, and that she’s always chewing spearmint gum. And despite Ema never telling her, Tina has picked up on the fact that Ema doesn’t have a job, but needs one.

“Ema! Guess what?”

Ema doesn’t like being interrupted while playing, but she forces a friendly-ish smile. “What?”

“My co-worker is quitting! You could work here!”

“Oh, I’m not… I have a big gap in my resume, and I don’t have a degree, and I have neurological damage, so I have bad balance and grip strength. And I’m horrible at dealing with conflict. I doubt anyone will ever hire me.”

Tina pouts. “You don’t need balance or grip strength, it’s just the desk admin job. And I know what questions they ask in the interviews, and how to handle rude customers, so I can help you practice.”

Ema… wouldn’t hate working at a music store. But she shouldn’t get her hopes up. “I don’t have any experience with that.”

“It’s an entry level job, you don’t need experience. You should probably tell them you know how to use Excel, though.”

“I don’t.”

“Find a video online, it’s not that hard. And I can help, I have to use Excel for some of my projects at school.”

Tom’s been telling her that there’s nothing wrong with a little white lie in an interview or an application. And she knows the employees here already, if only a little, and she likes this place a lot. “Maybe. I guess it’s worth a shot.”

Tina grins. “That’s the spirit! I need to go do my job now, but I’ll give you some tips for the interview later, okay?”

Ema nods. Tom will be happy to hear that she’s willing to actually try, this time around.

A future is opening up in front of her. Not the big, all encompassing one from when she was a kid, where she became a teacher and won awards and learned to play every instrument in the world. A smaller one, where she goes to work at this desk admin job, then comes home and calls Tom to hang out if she feels up to it.

Everything she ever imagined her life would be is impossible now. Now, she starts to imagine something else.

[mariamariquinha]

like a tattoo (Will Miller x f!reader)

Summary: Two people looking to feel something beyond the void of indifference.

Word count: 12.5k (let’s not talk about it ‘kay?)

Warnings: Bad words, mentions of death, violence, blood, mentions of military service, angst, PTSD episodes, mentions of partial deafness and use of ASL, alcohol consumption and trauma. Small reference to smut, but nothing to worry.

INSPIRED BY: Like a Tattoo by Sade.  

Author’s Note: I wish I could say I LOVED this piece. My self-esteem hasn't been the best lately, so I hope that's good, at least. Oh, and yes, I checked, but if there’s typos or something, sorry.  

Like... No one asked for it. I know. 

MINORS DO NOT INTERACT!

Join my taglist! Don’t forget to reblog, comment and like! As always, I would love to know what you’re all thinking! ❤

-------------------------

You had lost part of your hearing in your left ear in Africa. The eardrum had suffered too many injuries and after years, the diagnosis of 60% loss of hearing in that ear was inevitable. The other one just wasn't as bad because of sheer luck, but it wasn't like you didn't always have to speak louder than necessary because of that.

Then came the shoulder.

The thing wasn't as mobile as it used to be - Dr. Murphy said that you still could have a normal life, be independent, that the big scar wouldn’t be a big deal for a ‘pretty girl’ like you. In fact, that scar didn't change your life at all, but you'd still have to ask for help getting things from higher cabinets or supermarket sessions.

And then, when you looked in the mirror after you showered, the scar changed your life. For a few seconds, but changed, like a phantom pain that made you hiss, massage the area and sothe a discomfort that didn’t exist anymore. It happened. The therapist said it was okay - the new part of your new life. Deep down he could be using sarcasm; there was a tattoo of one of John Lennon’s lyrics on his forearm. Probably not the biggest fan of your lifetime work.

When you took the initiative to get a hearing aid, a part of you wondered if it was really necessary. After an entire career using your body as a tool for something, just to be able to spend a good part of the pension mending tendons and putting on apparatus to live more decently - it kind of had a bitter taste of starting over that you didn't like very much, but it must have been just a matter of time.

The new part of your new life.

While waiting in the doctor's clinic waiting room, you started to feel a little anxious, sometimes staring at her door, sometimes at the TV. You tried at least five different magazines and stopped when the receptionist started to give you a side-eye, which made you stare at a page on hereditary deafness for five minutes just to have her forget about you. It worked - not for that reason, though.

It wasn't a cliché to recognize a person who'd been the same as you: the guy literally had a Delta Force tattoo on his arm. He was alone, talking quietly to the same receptionist who couldn't disguise the smile stretched across her face. Well, who were you kidding? Delta Force or not, it seemed feasible for the day to get better with a tall, blond, blue-eyed, tan-skinned guy being nice to you. And judging by the way she'd acted since your first visit there, he really must have been her type.

You weren't able to hear most of the conversation, but you did take your eyes off him when he took a seat on the other chair, oblivious to your presence as he sat there, both hands on his own thighs and certainly too tight in that tiny seat. The TV went on with the newscast and you decided to turn the page on a reading you still weren't paying attention to - no one spoke and the silence remained the same.

Being really honest with the place in general, you could tell that the concept was calm, receptive. All painted in white, with posters about mental health, community outposts, psychology clinics, that sort of thing. You used to ignore them all most of the time, because even with the federal government logo at the bottom, God knew military pensions were as mediocre as their attempt to pretend they cared about how many veterans turned hermits with psychotic streaks. Two-hundred dollars per visit with a therapist and they kept telling people to follow the light or whatever shit they say.

Of course that all made you kind of cynical, but with time, you started to look at the posters with other eyes. The meds, the walks, the new job at a security company to type in computers… Having a mediocre life helped. It reflected in the time Dr. Hanks mentioned the hearing aid. After so much time pissing and shitting in cans or holes in the middle of nowhere, 'quality of life' seemed like a pretty pathetic term, but you gave it a shot. Suddenly, pathetic could also be peaceful, and that equation made sense.

“Marines?” It was a stupid question that came more like idle talk than real doubt. You looked up from the magazine, the guy's voice distant but not imperceptible, and even then you hesitated because he was really talking to you.

That made you frown. The receptionist, on the other side of the room, averted her gaze as soon as you two shared a glance.

He hadn't asked that for the first time.

“... Yes,” You answered after clearing your throat. “Second Lieutenant.”

“Oh,” The guy raised his eyebrows and gave you a sympathetic smile. “My name is Will.”

He was really introducing himself? Well, all in all, the least you could do was answer back, and that was what you did. With a handshake and nothing more than a single nod, you said your name as well.

“What's your grace in Delta Force?” The tone of the question made him scoff, then scratch the back of his neck.

“Captain.”

“Mm.”

And that was the end of it. Captain Will Miller there, you with your Second-Lieutenant title here, and no one dared to bring any more of that natural fellowship between people who just… had the same job for quite some time. If you literally didn’t listen to him the first time, divided between paying attention to the pages and to whatever was going on in your surroundings, he didn’t make it a thing. The receptionist watched the scene and sent you another glance.

Condescension in the purest form and face.

Dr. Hanks called you right after the new silence settled in the space. You went dutifully and dodged Will long enough to catch her at the door to her office, which was closed discreetly.

The device was discreet, small and transparent, as she promised it would be. You stared at the object from a distance at first, the thing in her open palm while you just looked at it without the attitude of touching in any way. She was technical in explaining everything: ranging from hygiene to battery life or care so it didn't break, going through the benefits of having one of these as if needing to reassure you again.

When she offered to put it on, you hesitated. With you not being a big fan of physical touch, Dr. Hanks had one of her hands hovering on your shoulder, waiting for you to let her with almost immaculate patience.

It was weird at first, not really uncomfortable but… weird. The plastic behind the ear must have been a different fitting process than the inner part, and you made a micro grimace with the hearing aid attached. She didn't turn on right away, wanting to make sure you were okay with everything. When you nodded, nothing seemed to have happened - she pressed the button and waited expectantly.

“This was supposed to ha-Oh.”

Using the dramatic words, perhaps the nostalgic ones, it had been so long since you could hear 100% well that hearing your own voice so clearly was like going back to a lifetime ago. Indeed it was. You gripped the gurney you were sitting on with both hands and nodded a few more times, even though no one was saying anything.

“Everything is pretty intuitive from now on. You’ll get along fast.”

Your therapist was talking about transformations and certainly you wouldn't know how to explain what it felt like to be in that condition, even if it wasn't the end of the world. Still, when you left that room, any hint of your intentions was hidden by your hair, as well as the manual and charger for your hearing aid tucked inside your purse.

Will wasn’t there to testimony your realization, nor anyone else. You left as quiet as you came, subtly giving silent steps towards the door and facing the exposure of your senses at the same time, like a muffled sense of emotions stirring in your gut. The sensation was more palpable on the sidewalk, on your walk, on the car door being closed - like being submerged for a long time and sticking your head out of the water.

You gripped the steering wheel of the vehicle for a long time, brows furrowed and eyes fixed on your fingers. The same fingers that turned on the radio and made a song echo in the space of the car, loud enough that you have to turn the volume down.

Turn the volume down.

Huh.

The new part of your new life.

--------------------------

It was like everything was in slow motion. All of a sudden, you had the reaction of jumping to the side, of falling into the sand and still feeling it in your fingers. Then nothing. Hot blood oozed from inside your ear and wet your uniform, a growing buzz made you dizzy and that same sand seemed to be swallowing you.

You never forgot the first time, nor the last. You didn't forget the losses or the conquests, much less how the African sun could be so much more cruel and overwhelming than that of Florida. Three pills solved that question - before there were six. And even if your memory failed and you forgot certain fragments of your life as a result of whatever your mind was afflicted with, you still knew the function of each one.

Selective serotonin reuptake inhibitor. A sedative to sleep, but another pill to wake up. Clomipramine for panic attacks. Aspirin for shoulder pain. A bottle full of vitamins to whet your appetite because you had lost yourself in a self-destructive diet.

You didn't like waking up again from a nightmare, restless in bed and sweating. With the clock showing six in the morning, you felt a bitter relief knowing that at least it was close to your regular time, but it didn’t make you more ready to get up.  In the darkness of the room, you hugged your legs and caught your breath in silence - just five more minutes.

----------------------------------

You studied ASL when you were discharged from the Army - a year, maybe two. It was a guarantee you made to yourself, a touch of optimism your therapist encouraged, in case things got worse and you felt the need not to feel even more dependent on people. For a while, it was like relearning how to live in the world - as a normal person or… just as a person. Perhaps it was too much to ask to be normal as well.

In your first job interview, you knew that this would take you away from any possibility of 'normality'. Your boss, a chubby guy named Gordon, had seen your resume specs and asked you two questions: 'Do you have a certificate of partial deafness?' and 'Can we use you as a reference in our diversity program?'.

You agreed to everything - you needed the salary. And the good part, at least, was that you didn't have to worry about exposure because that program existed in an Instagram post and two posters in the lobby of the building. On two occasions, you were asked to translate for a client who wanted to hire security services there, and then at a small event for the associates.

That being said, your uncharacteristic reactions to what had happened that day were consistent with the… uncharacteristic situation. Gordon had had enough of the patriotic juice when he came to you with a smile on his face, talking about an event for security consultants who were mostly veterans like you. There was going to be some kind of grant, maybe another idea for a job placement program for re-socializing veterans, and you were going to be the face of the company.

You looked in the mirror three times; changed clothes about ten. And then you ran your hand through your hair, felt the hearing aid in your ear, and ran your palms down the understated dress you'd last picked out. It was a little worse than being willing to take a bullet for your country - it felt like selling yourself out for something that didn't even matter that much. Still, you went. By taxi, of course. And after taking your medications because, dammit, you needed to leave right by the time you had to take them.

A good anti-anxiety drug used to slow everyone down - that's what happened with you. Gordon didn't pressure anything when he found you at the event quieter than usual. He would insinuate you into a conversation circle but he kept doing all the communication, leaving you with just the smiles and head shakes. This lasted an hour, tops, and after he decided to leave you alone for a bit, you found yourself by the delicacies table with a glass of water in hand.

“I know you, don't I?”

Look, three months seemed like long enough for none of that to be destined to happen, of course, and you wouldn't believe it if you were told, but you were surprised all the same. It felt like the kind of odd coincidence that didn't happen much in your life in general - meeting again in ordinary places, remembering unfamiliar faces. Well, you had a name: Will Miller. A function. A feature. A place to relate him to. And then he was there, consciously keeping a distance from your sitting posture in a corner while holding a single tidbit with both hands.

You nodded.

“Captain.”

“Second Lieutenant,” Will recognized with a smile. “Having a pleasant night?”

“I've been worse. You?”

“Well, I would say that I should create more boundaries in my good fellowship with my friends.”

It made you smile too - truthfully. He, in his slacks and button-down shirt, took a step closer and you let him, deciding that at best, you could interact with someone who looked as uncomfortable as you did.

“And who is your friend?” You asked.

“Santiago Garcia. Do you know him?”

“Not by name. What company does he work for?”

“His own. It’s a small business, growing little by little. He's into this networking thing or I don't know, investing,” Will shrugged and pointed to the chair beside you, silently asking to take a seat. Again, you let him.

“Do you work with him?”

“Oh no, no. I’ve lost a bet and he kinda… You know, I’m not the most social guy you’ll ever meet. He’s trying to hype me up, go out more.”

He sounded a touch ashamed by the assumption, as if he still needed his friend’s backup at that age. You didn’t see that as a bad thing - you, of all people, understood this kind of situation. That made you raise your eyebrows and sip your water with an expression of recognition.

“I won't say it's cool, but at least you have the bet excuse.”

“You don't,” Will stated with an amused face.

“My boss likes the pomp of having me at the company.”

“Republican?” He raised one eyebrow.

“With a touch of Democrat. When it’s convenient, like bringing the only person who can talk ASL and uses this,” You pointed at the hearing aid, unaware of how Will frowned at your answer easily. Considering how tired you are, you wouldn't think that if he asked, it would be an inconvenience.

Before he can do that, however, a guy catches both of your attention. He approached him casually, and you deduced that the man must be the said Santiago.

“I thought you slept on the table, man,” Garcia said, easily turning to you. “Or…”

Will was quick to intervene in whatever hint was on the tip of Santiago's tongue, saying his name and suggesting a more formal greeting. He did so with a looser smile, which seemed to go with a much more laid-back personality than Will's in that regard.

“So you are the girl Gordon was talking about?”

“That depends on what he said.”

“Nothing but that you were the best employee he has,” Santiago measured your reactions with a sly smirk, one that grew more with the way you scoffed.

“Pleased to know.”

“Hey, maybe it’s true. The guy's kind of shrewd in his opinions of… us, in general.”

You engaged in a brief conversation on the subject and, in the middle, you realized that Will was following everything quietly, munching on the delicacy that until then had been forgotten. He didn't seem out of place with the situation, or even concerned, as if he preferred to play a supporting role at any possible opportunity. Santiago seemed much more apt to make small talk for the sake of good looks - this was still a professional event, after all.

But as soon as Will left to go to the bathroom, he took on a more stealthy posture, as if he were about to tell you a secret.

“Will you be free Saturday night?”

What?

“... I guess, yes. Why?”

“His brother Ben is going to have an important fight. You could pop over there, go to the bar with us afterwards to get some drinks. Since I know he's not going to ask you that even if it were to save his own life, let's just say I'm making the process easier.”

You processed the information with confusion, but not because he had made the offer - because you hadn't seen it that way until that moment. Going into criteria about your love life would be kind of pathetic, even stupid, and as much as Will was a very attractive guy, you didn't even consider the possibility because… Well, you barely knew him. It sounded too forward.

But maybe that was something you didn't have the malice to understand so quickly anymore, because Santiago looked at you with some regret before shrugging.

“You can say no.”

“I certainly can.”

“But I'm not saying that as a way of putting pressure on you or anything. I mean, it's not like it's a date.”

“You don't seem to be giving the right signals about this,” And curiously, you said that with a little smile on your face. He reflected the action as if he'd been caught in his own trap, sighing in faint defeat. “Anyway, I'll thank you for the opportunity but decline the invitation.”

“I messed up?”

“With me? No. I don't think this is the approach your friend would take, that's all. And I'm not looking for that kind of thing either.”

“Busy.”

“Disinterested.” Which was your cue. With a pat on his shoulder, you left the place (not before picking up a bunch of delicacies in the process) and looking for another occupation among the people.

For a good part of the night, when you went up on stage next to Gordon to translate his speech and do what you really went there to do, or even when you went back to interacting as little as possible until you could leave, you saw Will again only once. He had a serious, steady expression, and Santiago must have stayed somewhere different because you didn't see him anymore. You didn't want to wonder if that conversation had somehow affected the mood of the evening, if Garcia had even mentioned what happened or made up some excuse or if Will had even asked about your absence.

You were uninterested anyway, as you said, taken by the urge to go home, sleep and hope for Gordon's feedback to be short, in false hope that he, for once, would be less sensationalist. Yeah, that would be it. One less thing on your to-do list.

Except when you stood outside, hugging yourself in a coat as you waited for the cab, you involuntarily looked to the side and saw the same Will approaching, visibly determined to head your way. You looked at the street, then at the clock - where are the taxis in this city?

“I need to apologize,” Straightforward, without hesitation or loops around the subject. Will had both hands in the pockets of a denim jacket that didn't match the rest of his outfit, looking at you fearlessly. “I don't want you to think I had ulterior motives at some point.”

“That’s okay.”

“No, please. Santi has a different way of acting and he was invasive.”

You considered him for a moment, just to tsk and turn your face away before meeting his eyes again, overcome by the will to assume that it was really what you thought.

“... Yeah, he was unnecessary. I don't know if the guy likes to do this or whatever, but I haven't given any signs that I'd like to go out with you,” Harsh, you could admit, but he didn’t act with offense, just nodded his head in agreement.

“I know, I know. You’re right. I’m sorry.”

Honesty. You particularly had a bittersweet taste about life that made you kind of blind to the parts where someone would actually come up to you and apologize for something like that. A man, mostly. But here was Captain Will Miller, looking like a sorry dog ​​for chewing his owner's shoes, disposing of an obligation that might have gone unnoticed.

“Don’t worry, Will. Just… good night. Forget it.”

Again, he nodded and walked away with a discreet murmur of 'goodnight', going back inside or out to the parking lot, you didn't want to notice too much. Still, as he left, you stared at his back with a rigid expression, partly filled with indignation at Santiago's intrusion. He didn't look back - you preferred it that way. Then you blinked a few times, turned to the street as if that would make a taxi appear suddenly and thought about how many big excuses you would give to Gordon for not making this shit happen again.

I’m not getting paid enough for that, you thought inside the car that appeared ten minutes later, arms crossed and eyes fixed exclusively on the city landscape.

-------------------------------

You weren't exactly very tactful or altruistic, but when Dr. Hanks mentioned that she needed volunteer help to raise funds for the clinic, you only thought of two things:

1. You had a moral duty to help.

2. It couldn’t be worse than Gordon's idea.

Again, you weren't the most generous of people, but wasn't that the point - an entire day selling cakes and dealing with sugar-enhanced kids at a fairground? It felt a little like hell. Still, you gathered strength because you were helping Dr. Hanks, after all, and her generosity could be repaid with good deeds - especially because she gave you a good spot at the information booth, with nothing more than one single kid asking where they could find balloons in the shape of a dragon.

What Will was doing there was a mystery to you, though.

And he came nonchalantly, unaware of your presence as well, but then he stopped by right in front of your booth, eyeing his phone, in time to catch your eyes when you turned to him. Your mouth was open to say something generic like you say to other people, but it closed together with the emergence of a confused expression.

You frowned. He too.

“Yovanna said I should talk to you about this,” Will said first, pointing at the sign above the tent.

“Yovanna?”

“Dr. Hanks.”

“Oh,” You raised your eyebrows. “And what information do you need?”

“I actually came to help. You, I suppose. She said it was either that or face painting the kids, so… Let’s say I’m not a Picasso myself,” He gave you a tentative smile, scratching the back of his neck. You tried your best to look or sound sympathetic too, but your own smile was obviously way more frigid than his.

“... Seems like easy math. Come in.”

Unlike the other times you've had the convenience of meeting casually, Will has shown no interest in bringing up the subject. You instructed him to write his name on one of the tags and stick it on his chest, then over the flyers that had basic information about the event itself. He knew how to listen very well. It was even strange to think that, logically, he should be the one giving orders. Anyway, Will was a dedicated 'student' and after a while, he had all the material memorized.

When you started interacting less with people and he suggested you use this chance to get something to eat, you went. It's been a while since you've had a hot dog like that, with so much childhood flavor, and then you found yourself buying another one for Will, accompanied by a bottle of water and a small box of homemade chocolates.

“Well, you let me out for lunch. I think it's more than fair that I let you do the same.”

And he smiled again, truthfully, with the same honesty he used back then while apologizing for his friend, and accepted the hot dog.

As it was already getting late, that middle ground between lunch time and late afternoon, you two started to be without occupation soon and, with that, the silence occupied by information for people became more boring. Hesitantly, you held out the box of chocolates and didn't look up when you felt him fish one out - it was only after that that you decided to speak.

“I didn't know her name was Yovanna,” It took Will a while to process that you were talking to him and so you looked at him with raised eyebrows, waiting for a response, after seconds of nothing.

“It means ‘to be blessed by God or something’.”

“Really?”

“Mm-hm. I’ve researched,” He said it while biting the candy. “But I never know how to pronounce it. I think it's Italian.”

The boredom of the day made you seriously consider this useless information: she didn't look Italian. How to pronounce the name Yovanna. Were there inflections? Did the ‘Y’ have sound? And Will considered this for a while too, because suddenly you two were quiet, munching on chocolate and thinking about it - you could tell he was.

He looked at you first. This yielded a discreet laugh, such was the stupidity.

“I just met her as Yovanna. That’s why we don’t go with last names and all,” Will used these words as if wanting to justify the casual tone to refer to her.

“Volunteer work?”

“Kinda of,” You didn’t mean to poke through his personal life asking questions, but since he was willing to say them, you could hear it without a problem. “I used to give talks to seniors and she went to one of them. We ended up helping each other out in some way. Her wife makes perfect meatballs, so I kind of stick around.”

You scoffed at the last sentence, seeing the teasing smirk on his face.

“Then you get the meatballs yourself. Spoiled.”

“How long have you known her?” That was the first question truly directed at you, and for a moment, you found yourself surprised at how easy it was for him to turn the subject your way without bringing a rant of how close he was to Dr. Hanks.

“Since I started my treatment, so… A year, maybe?”

“I think you will need more than a maybe to have the meatballs.”

“... Damn, you’re right.” You feigned defeat with closed eyes. “Bye bye, meatballs.”

From all the confusing context from which that event situation came out, you and Will talked as if none of that had happened, as if they had found each other after the basic introductions in the waiting room. No one brought it up, though, which was for the best - living in the shadow of an embarrassing situation while kids passed by,  unconscious in their parents' arms with sugar smeared all over their faces, smothered in fatigue, seemed pathetic.

There were more details about Dr. Hanks (Yovanna, for the sake of this surprising intimate information) friendship with Will, from small parties to being a guest at her wedding with another doctor - cardiologist, her name was Sarah. He said that every now and then he helped as a volunteer, that he was busy with other stuff, but he didn't mention what those stuff were. You didn’t ask. From all the weird amount of situations that painted the small interaction you both had so far, you were more than okay to accept whatever sounded natural to him. A good comfortable environment, that of talking about the things that were there in front of you, palpable. The chocolates, the toys, how the weather seemed to call for rain and how Dr. Hanks had a peculiar preference for starfish.

You liked him. More than you could imagine or believe or suppose or… think. You couldn’t quite catch the last time you had such good impressions towards someone you knew.

It wasn't until the end of the day, when Will was committed to closing up and carrying the boxes of donations to the collection van, that you realized that at no point did you or he mention Santiago, not even that horrible event.

He waited discreetly - simple, like offering to walk you to your car because, hey, we almost parked in the same spot. And you left unassuming, your shoulder acting in bad faith with circumstantial pain by trying to carry some equipment yourself. You spun it around, gave a wan smile at a comment he had made, and covered up your annoyance with the pain to some extent.

“Are you okay?” He gestured to your shoulder, your car already in your field of vision.

“Mm? Yeah. Yeah, just… I have a bad shoulder.”

“Do you need any help?”

“No!” You stopped him before he could go any further, hands mid-air while he frowned at your sudden reaction. “... I’m fine. Sorry.”

“Well, looks like we've already used up our apology quotas.”

Quotas. Why did that make you giggle like a schoolgirl? And why did he look so much more pretty like that, free from the oppression of a foreigner place? He seemed so… Vivid. Real.

Right. Bad shoulder!

“Sometimes it only gives a few stings when I do a lot of physical effort. You know, like I’m a 95 year old woman.”

“We all have our share of unpleasant memories. I collected mine myself, it's okay.”

You didn’t ask why and you couldn’t see Will wanting to answer if it was the case. That made you both go silent for a moment, suddenly awkward from that interaction alone - you massaging the shoulder, him holding the said left hand. No one was looking at each other for a good amount of time, probably ashamed.

“I should get-”

“Would you mind if-”

The two voices got mixed up from having spoken at the same time and it made you scoff, just like him.

“You first, please,” Will had a red color on his cheeks and neck at your suggestion to let him speak first, but then he obliged.

“I was wondering if you wouldn't mind giving me your number? We could, I don't know, do something. Any day. If you want.”

Honestly, out of all the experiences in your life, that was the first time you saw a guy so sure of himself, with all the trappings to get any woman he wanted, visibly embarrassed to ask for someone's number - someone who, between every other possibility, took enough medication to be considered a drug addict, was deaf in one ear and fucked up in one shoulder.

And you could say no, that it would be complicated for two people with such a similar past to relate like that, but… it was Will. He conveyed more than the security of his title because he was who he was and this guy had the serenity of someone who has learned to live with himself.

You weren't just attracted to him. In a way, you could say that you even envied him a little.

“I don’t like fancy things,” Was all you said, tilting your head to the side.

“... What would you consider… fancy?”

“I don’t know,” The answer made him open then close his mouth, posture sagging as if about to be rejected. “I just… like simple things.”

Will blinked a few times, then smiled.

“Is that so?”

“Mm-hm.”

“I’ll try my best.”

“Then take my number and call me when I can see it happen.”

The idea convinced you almost immediately, and you had to quell your anxiety at having taken the initiative so easily. As he typed in his own cell phone number, you hoped it didn't sound so pretentious.

“Won't you confirm?” You asked after seeing him putting the device back in the back pocket of his pants.

“I trust you.”

“It's a good start,” He smiled at your playful tone.

“I'm trying to make up for what happened last time.”

“You're going to have a lot of work, I'm warning you.”

“Worth the effort.”

If you came out of that park with warm cheeks and a faint smile on your face, it was purely for the distraction that day was. Hot weather, children on the verge of a diabetic coma and Will.

Captain Will Miller.

-------------------------------

Bayfront Park wasn't part of your commute to work, or the places you went - you saw it on postcards or in tourist brochures or on TV when they talked about ocean liners, and that was about as much as you could say for the place. You weren't born and raised in Florida, so everything was either new or just indifferent.

Perhaps that was why the idea of ​​a fun fair there took you a little by surprise. It was small, discreet, not very busy but with everything a fun fair would have: sweets, people, fun. And when Will sent you a discrete message asking if you'd like to come over, you found it comical. He really wanted to keep your memory of him on the good parts, the fact that you two had a decent conversation in a place like that and he wished to keep it on tune - not forgetting the hot dogs.

You saw him waiting in the parking lot like he was there for a long time.

“Am I late?” You asked with a concerned tone, hands fumbling to find your phone and check the time.

“No, no. I arrived earlier.”

“Thank God.”

It would be stupid (no, it was stupid) to have those teenage thoughts about how your reactions felt like fire on your skin when another person looked at you, but Will let the laugh die out and watched you warily. And you didn't know how you were looking back at him, but you hoped it was something visibly warm because the guy was, above all, easy on the eyes.

“I didn't know they had one of these here,” You cleared your throat, pointing in the direction of the fuzz and averting his gaze.

“Well, I found out by chance. There aren't usually many children here at night,” Which didn't sound like a tease but made you smile like it was.

He didn't recklessly touch you on the way to the attractions - other than that, his arm bumped into yours every now and then, both covered by the leather jackets you were wearing because the sea breeze could be colder than just chill. As a guide, Will showed you things and quoted anecdotes that made you laugh, and little by little you took the initiative to touch him.

“Damn, I haven't had cotton candy in ages,” And your fingers unconsciously caught on his wrist to stop him from walking.

The taste of sugar melting in your mouth was like going back a few good years, as was everything else in that place. There wasn't a job for you to do or questions to answer, just the possibility of eating junk food while Will was there, doing the same, and letting you get a little excited about something. It let you loose, not enough to make you comfortable with the amount of people coming and going, but enough to let you enjoy a moment you didn't think you would experience so soon.

Well, this was the thing that happened when you experienced a noisy world that suddenly went silent: you got used to sensations that previously went unnoticed and genuinely found comfort in the stillness of speechless attitudes. Will led you, from beginning to end of the tour, and he felt okay about being a curious sidekick, who visibly had questions he didn't ask. When you sat on two merry-go-round horses (a purple horse and a blue unicorn, by the way), it was the first moment you felt that silence perpetuated between you. It was because the merry-go-round controller almost didn't let you go up there, or because the ride’s colored light did justice to the blue eyes he had or the golden strands of his hair.

You had your head resting on your unicorn's staff and you had time, amidst the irritating music of the business, to watch him as he settled on the tiny horse between his legs. Will made a comment about being the first purple horse he had ever seen and looked back at you, his face red with embarrassment.

You didn't say anything, neither did he. It didn't take long before you took the attitude of looking away, the sound of a group of people passing by suddenly more distracting than… whatever it was.

“Does your family not live here?” You must have mentioned something about it at some point during the night, you weren't sure, but it was only fair that Will asked that when he mentioned pieces about himself.

The night was getting a little cooler and he found a table further away, by the water, where you could eat a more proper dinner during the turmoil. You wiped the corners of your mouth as you finished munching on the fries, placing both shoulders on the table.

“No. Doral was my penultimate base, so when I was dismissed I remembered that I liked the climate here and decided to stay.”

“I think I know a guy there. Gil, he works in intelligence.”

“Gil Murray?”

“Yes,” He was nodding at your enthusiasm.

“Of course! We worked together at that time! I heard he had twins with… Oh, I don’t remember her name…” It made you snap your fingers a few times as you tried to remember the name of that short girl who had married Gil, frowning as a way to force your mind.

“Moira,” Will ended your personal torture with a smirk.

“Yeah! Moira… They’re good together.”

“They are,” You noticed, by the small time with him, that Will had the tendency to be very careful about what he wanted to say. He would go quiet, measure your face, then elaborate the phrase. “And Florida reached your expectations?”

It was like a sixth sense, the notion that a person wanted to tell you something but didn't know how. You narrowed your eyes, one brow arched as both your hands hovered over the fries in front of you. He tried to remain neutral, indifferent, but you could tell that wasn't exactly where the conversation was going.

“You can ask.”

“... What?”

“About what you really want to know,” That made him shy and unsure of how to proceed. You didn't feel offended or pressured; in fact, you understood that Will's reticence was valid since you barely knew each other.

He sighed.

“Yovanna told me what happened. Physically, that is,” His voice was so low and collected, as if afraid of your reactions. “Africa, right?”

“Somalia,” Your smile was bitter, not even close to sympathetic but honest. For a moment, you weighed your words while staring at your fingers, absently poking each other. “Unofficial mission, small group.”

“Pirates?”

“Mm-hm. In, out, we managed to clean three or four areas, but…” The grenade came to mind as that unforgettable point. The dark object reflecting in the hot sunlight, a last scream that announced the imminent explosion and suddenly everything became very confusing. “Well, I guess she told you the details. In the end, I was no longer operational.”

“It's the kind of excuse that doesn't need many reports,” Will said in a position of empathy, as if he had the same notes in his resignation letter. You smirked.

“I prefer it like this.”

“Why?”

“I know myself well enough to accept that I didn’t enlist to be behind a desk and I wouldn't want to get used to the idea just because everything went wrong,” You pointed out. “At least not for the government. Less explanation means the easiest way to move on.”

For a good few moments, Will didn't say anything and just sort of left you in the lurch, without a direct answer as to how he was taking it in. He didn't ask about the hearing aid because it was intuitive, nor did he press for details.

It was the second time that silence made you comfortable, just like lying on a cloud.

“... I lost a friend a couple years ago,” The abrupt revelation made you blink a few times, confused if that was what he meant. “We hadn't been serving for a few years and we kind of took a job on the side.”

He explained everything from start to finish. Interestingly it was the first time Santiago was mentioned again and you had a pretty big frown on your face from the moment his name came up: the money, the mission with a stupid plan, Tom's ambition, the almost manipulative context of trust and camaraderie that put everyone, including his brother and a friend who had just became a father, through a near-death experience. Again.

In the end, there didn't seem to be any remorse there, or guilt. You weren't the best at reading people in that regard, but it was clear that Will didn't dispel the bad feelings of what happened in the others; he only needed to be the announcer for it once. Without some sort of back-up advice or rational mantra, just… talk, like you did when he simply asked you.

You didn't think so when you placed your hand on top of his - it was weaker, a little shaky by the shoulder, but one he accepted with a reassuring, generous squeeze. End of discussion.

“I’ve watched a few of your brother’s recent fights,” With your hand now out of his grasp, you raised one eyebrow and smirked, trying to clean the mood. “He should improve his right side.”

Will smiled fondly at that, giggling at your tone.

“Ben is a little gangly, that's all. He's also dyslexic, so we're halfway there in that regard. Any tips?”

Again that feeling hovered in the air, only this time you didn't notice it. The way the silence was replaced by Will's firm voice as he recounted moments of training with his brother and small debates you two had about strategies they could try, all while the space around you became tiny until it disappeared completely.

Completely.

-------------------------------

You became friends. No undertones - friendship.

And that wasn't because you set a limit or he set it that way, it just happened that way. You started going out with him, then Benny, then Frankie, then Santiago, even though those last two appeared at the same time. Unsurprisingly, Garcia was your biggest reticence, which he didn't try to disguise or improve in any way, so you knew he'd move in whenever you felt more comfortable. The subject of the party was never mentioned.

It lasted for months. Good months.

But it was that thing, that middle ground, that always put you in a gray position that was magnetic and… warm. Something you could touch, but you decided not to because it could burn - probably your fault, probably his fault. No, not fault, just… choice. Took you time, observation and attention to notice all the flaws inside of him, the things he tried to hide from people because he made peace with himself.

Benny told you about the rage episodes his brother would have; Frankie, more passive and equally aware of his own circumstances, mentioned how decent he was, how he tried to be that guy next door even if it wasn’t his nature a long time ago; Santiago said the basic:

“He’s a good guy.”

That must have been what drew you to him, the idea that not everything was so flawless and that not everyone should resent seeing someone on another stage of their journey - in the end, it would live with you forever, like a tattoo. You talked more than with the others; not best friends, just people who recognized each other. He invited you to bars, attended events with Yovanna, and shared the recipe for meatballs over dinner with Benny.

You started noticing your favorite things about him. The intellect, the dedication, the effort. Physically, he had fascinating eyes, strong arms, a gentle smile, and steady hands. The hands, yes, that didn't shake for a moment while chopping vegetables or playing darts in a rather dirty tavern that always seemed to be comfortable for the group. And it was like he was always looking for something, rejecting advances from women and sticking to little alcohol because he always drove.

The silences were still there from time to time - when he kept a hand on your back as you two caught a train because you'd had a bit to drink and his car had broken down, or when he'd put Bowie on low volume during get-togethers at his house. He would always smile to himself when Heroes started to play. You’d never asked why.

Will maybe knew you watched him because he watched you. When you vibrated during a Benny fight or risked picking up Samia Morales because she curiously liked you. There was certainly something on your face of discomfort with the girl in your arms that piqued his interest, because whenever you turned to him, you saw the guy looking away.

Sometimes the two of you were alone in conversation, close enough - because then those silences became a brief, unique tension, with that warmth you always associated with him. Nobody said anything about that either. It was a secret. A secret you craved every time you saw each other.

Then came the New Year.

You weren't very festive, at least not on dates in that sense, but at Mrs. Morales’s insistence and the promise of a decent party at a beach bar, you took it. A baggy white button-down blouse because you didn't want to be uncomfortable with the outfit, jean shorts because it was hot, and sandals because it was sure to last for hours - you sat there, had drinks and that was it.

You've had enough to drink; three beers, a glass of sparkling wine and a glass of gin. Everyone seemed comfortable with the idea of ​​getting drunk, if only for one night, and you jumped in because… Well, New Year, right? And that was the first one that didn't include text messages to the family and ear plugs for the fireworks.

“I don’t dance!” You still had the decency to deny Santiago’s invite to join them at the small dance floor, but he knew you would oblige soon.

That lasted for good minutes, bodies moving and throats singing loudly to any music that came up - Will was there, in the distance, visibly well distracted with the amount of stimuli coming from all sides. Someone (probably Benny) said that you were almost wearing the same outfit, as for the first time in a long time Will allowed himself to wear a beach shirt and shorts.

The difference you didn't say out loud, of course, was that you certainly didn't look as good with the first few buttons of your shirt undone, nor with all that sweat just doing justice to skin that got tanner with age - you didn’t have such great attributes. He had all of it and he… Damn, he looked good. And if Will saw you staring sometime during the night, he didn’t comment on it.

Not until the countdown, at least.

“Won't you go closer to the water?” His voice startled you from your spot on the small porch, a few tables abandoned while the rest of the people went to wet their toes in the sea and wait for the fireworks.

“No chance,” You touched your hearing aid with your forefinger, sipping your anti-hangover water as you went back to watching the group in the distance.

For a moment, you thought he was just finding an excuse to say he was going there anyway or convince you, but instead he leaned down next to you on the small stool and kept his mouth shut.

“I won't be upset if you go there.”

“And leave you alone here?”

“As I said, I wouldn’t be upset.”

“But I would,” He shrugged, grinning. “That's not an option anyway, so let's wait together.”

Will didn’t see the smile you had on your face at his statement, nor the way your neck burned at it. Instead, he stared at your fingers - the ‘bad’ hand splayed on the wood for a break, as you liked to call it.

“Did I drink too much or did you paint your nails black?”

“Mm?” You turned to him in time to feel the tip of his fingers brushing your knuckles delicately. “Oh, well… Yes.”

“Yes that I had too much to drink or that you painted your nails black?” He teased without missing a beat, eyes sparkling in mischief.

“Let’s stay with both.”

“Both then,” A nod, his fingers never leaving your skin. “Why tho? It’s New Year.”

“I didn't have time to change it. Besides, traditions are just traditions. That won't give me any bad luck I don't already have,” Another sip, this time a little more unsure from the way he kinda started to massage the area.

“Living with us can be bad luck, I understand.”

Drunken Will always had some assertiveness that made him look a lot like his brother, which you thought was cute. Drunken Will was also much closer, tactile, which could be a distraction especially for you. After the giggles you two shared, he just laid his palm over your hand, looking right at your face with a serious expression.

“Have you made your resolutions at least?”

“... Nothing I didn’t ask before. You?”

He thought about it for a moment.

“Change my car, to begin with-”

“Yeah, that thing is trashy.”

“Which I-Hey! It’s a good car!” Will argued in a funny tone, making you raise your free hand in mocking surrender. “As I was saying, I added some new things.”

“Such as?”

He didn’t react for a moment, averting your gaze for the sake of playing with your fingers, and it felt like he became really lucid all of the sudden. You waited patiently, that silence you felt starting to create a bubble between you two.

“Be braver.”

“Braver,” You repeated. Then, just then, Will raised his eyes to look at you again, nodding his head a few times. “For what?”

It was melancholy, the way Benny's shout that the countdown was about to begin cut through the moment like a knife. The two of you straightened your postures and moved closer to the edge of the porch, a little unsure of where to position yourself at that moment.

Ten…

Your arm brushed against his.

Nine…

“I don’t like fireworks.”

Eight…

“We can move inside if you want to,” He said back.

Seven…

“No, it’s okay. I’ll be fine.”

Six…

You knew he was watching you, seeing if there were any signs of anxiety other than your hands gripping the water bottle with a little too much force.

Five…

Santiago had a bottle of cheap champagne that was probably going to be lost at sea.

Four…

Will got even more closer, his warmth radiating from his body.

Three…

“I’ll turn off the hearing aid for now,” You said in a low tone, finger pressing the button behind your ear.

Two…

Santiago really let it slip at the last second.

One…

“Happy New Year!”

It was automatic, like hugging a loved one or protecting yourself from a spray of water. He told you that, you said it back, and then in a second of impulse you two bumped into each other. His palms covered both of your ears and he was kissing you.

Will Miller. Kissing you.

And there was the silence again, sepulchral, ​​ethereal, as if not even the thunderous noises next door could invade that consummate space. It felt like minutes, maybe hours - and when you broke apart, you realized it was just a discreet lip-smacking, because the fireworks were still in the air and the celebrations were still in the early stages.

Whether it was biological or not, if someone interrupted you at that moment, you wouldn't care, wouldn’t give a single fuck. Will fucking Miller kissed you. Finally. Was it the alcohol or not, your mind was spinning and instinctively you noticed your fingers gripping his shirt. You could… You could just-If it wasn’t for the alcohol, you could… Wait… The alcoh-

“I’m fine,” You took your hands off him immediately, gently holding both of his wrists since he was still holding your face.

Will blinked a few times, as if waking up, then also distanced himself.

“I should-”

“Yeah, tota-”

“Because they may need me to-”

“Mm-hm.”

You kept looking at each other for a beat, measuring faces and standing there like two awkward kids - you almost grabbed him by the neck to keep going, to make that real even if for a few more seconds.

Nothing happened.

Turning on the hearing aid again, you just had the time to turn your head and see the attack coming by the shape of a drunk Benny Miller, hugging your body with such force that you almost fell from the porch. You could see Will over his shoulder, avoiding eye contact, scratching the back of his neck and smiling nervously at the rest of the group.

Your night ended early that day - you had a ride with Frankie and didn't want to overindulge. When you asked why you hadn't seen Will more after the fireworks, he shrugged and said something that sounded way too usual:

“He’s a morning person. He never gets too long on those things.”

And because of that naturalness, that phrase, you couldn't feel the least bit happy about what happened. You thought he had regrets.

-------------------------------

With two weeks of radio silence, you've accepted that maybe friendship time has put you on the back burner just like you did him. That maybe it was already consummated as something friendly, without romantic bias, and that any idea of ​​it had vanished as soon as you unconsciously made that decision.

Well, it was the New Year's hangover period - Benny went to a preliminary fight in New Mexico, big thing, but as far as you know Will didn't go with him; Frankie, for all intents and purposes, was never available as long as it was an emergency or something scheduled, so it was obvious that Will wasn't with him; Santiago was… Santiago. Your boss still talked about him here and there, and there was a chance a contract could come between them, so that was always the beginning and the end of your most casual conversation with the guy during these days. You started to worry. No, you wanted to reach out, to know if he was good, if he felt bad or something.

Will meant something for you - something good. And sometimes you would lay on your bed without a chance of sleeping, as usual, and you would remember that kiss among other things. You hope that, at least, if that was just a drunk reaction, he liked it. That he would remember too and not make this a way to not talk to you ever again or to come with the excuse of ‘we better part ways’. You wanted to be with him as a friend, if that was the case - by the end of second week, you decided that in case things escalated into something romantic, you wouldn't be averse.

Then you discovered you grew fond of him. In love, the rom-coms would say, and you would turn off the TV with a huff, crossing your arms as if this wasn’t already happening; as if you weren’t in love with Will.

You weren't afraid of whatever you felt for him - you were afraid of falling back into old habits, of that fear of… being with people; people you cared about. Because suddenly you had lost friends of a lifetime, the career you were attached to enough to become the only possible one.

In all the years you'd come out of it, the bombs and grenades and guns and pee in empty food cans, it was the first time you'd found yourself in the position of the teenager of years gone by. Inexperienced, anxious, sweaty palms because the boy you liked was going to be your partner during the science project. The normalcy you so longed for, living as if nothing had happened even with all the signs attached to your body and mind, falling head over heels in love with a gentle man who treated you so well, who made you belong with people who carried similar wounds suddenly scared the shit out of you.

It was perpetual. Cruel, even.

With the sun hitting your face, you let yourself float in the middle of the pool. The little waves bounced back and forth on your swimsuit-clad body, touching your skin, then your hair that floated in the chlorine. You couldn't hear much of the conversation going on around the house, courtesy of the natural conditions you had and the water covering your ears. Barbecue at your parent’s - your sister’s birthday.

He called you on your cell phone two or three times, you didn't know about it right away. Your father appeared at the edge of the pool, leaned over and said that a ‘certain Will’ wanted to talk to you. Like every parent, he was concerned when he saw you look at him strangely, then get out of the pool in agitation. You assured him everything was fine, even made a joke about how you've been so inattentive lately that they called you on landline.

Still, you decided to call from your cell phone, wrapped in a towel and sitting away from everyone else under the old tree house they had for your nephews.

Took him three rings to answer.

“Hang on,” Will said on the other end, the noise of things being moved and a brief 'shit' clearly audible in the background. “... Sorry, I was tidying up the kitchen. Or trying to.”

“I can call you later.”

“No! No, don’t worry. I just had a moment and… Eh, better now than ever… You know?”

After all this time, he was many things: determined, faithful, quiet and very intelligent. No adjective, however, still could put him down as apprehensive, so it was surprising to hear him so unsure of what he meant. Yes, you could consider yourself with these attributes - which left the two of you silent for a good few moments.

“Yovanna mentioned you are with your parents,” The words finally left his mouth, making you sigh in relief.

“Short trip, a weekend at the most. My sister is really into birthday parties, so I thought it would be a good idea.”

“Oh, that’s good. Yeah, yeah, very good. How old is she?”

“Thirty-something.”

“Not counting?”

“If I calculated her age, I would end up doing that to mine too. It's a little scary to do that after a while.”

For the first time since it happened, you were laughing together again and it warmed your heart without you being able to control it. Will, after all, has always been on the other end of the line, ready to laugh at whatever shit you throw at him.

“Is that why you haven't made your resolutions?”

You shrugged, looking around the yard and spotting your parents by the back door watching as you sat there, towel around your shoulders.

“Let's just say this is a compromise I don't like to make with myself.”

“Guess I should have thought of that too. I'm sure my year started with anything but the conventional way.”

That made you purse your bottom lip, then bite it. Damn, he could really go straight away to what he wanted to talk about - those weeks of distancing seemed to have done the trick for Will.

“... How did you find out my parents' number?” The change of subject created time for you, something he understood with patience.

“Yellow Pages.”

Because they must be the only people in the entire country who still used it or had a record on it, you thought with a shake of your head.

“‘Course you did.”

“I didn't mean to invade.”

“You didn’t. It just surprised me.”

“I know.”

“Like, of all opportunities you… You know?”

He didn't answer anything for a while, pondering that comment with the calm that only Will Miller could have.

“... I should have done this much sooner, actually. I'm not proud of having made things even more complicated after what happened.”

“We're both in the same boat on this one, Will. Maybe we just made…” A mistake. “A good decision. Wait until we feel ready to move past it.”

“And you are?”

Good question. You were?

“That depends on what we think of it all.”

Another pregnant pause, this one accompanied by a sigh and probably a nod.

“When will you come back?”

“First fly tomorrow.”

“Dinner then? I’ll cook.”

“You? Cooking?” You couldn’t help but tease, trying to ease your nerves at the idea of having dinner with Will under those circumstances.

“You should see what I did with those shitty canned soups back in my day.”

“All right, Captain, but we're not at war.”

“You’re right. It's a little scarier than that.”

Yeah, he was right, and you felt a little unsure where this conversation was going to go. You looked over to where your parents were again and, in a way, hoped they had the solution to that problem like a preschool fight. But no. No, it had been a long time since they had any solutions to any of your problems - it had to do with you, Will and… you. Fuck, you were going to shit yourself.

“‘kay. Tell me when.”

-------------------------------

You had been to so many other Saturday nights at Will's and this was the first time you were afraid to ring the bell. As you walked to the door, you allowed yourself the luxury of walking slowly, taking in the mowed lawn and half-finished project of putting white picket fences around the house. The familiar neighborhood seemed to be asking for these updates. Well, those things suited him and-

“Interrupting?”

Your distraction didn't make you realize that you had unconsciously rung the bell, your finger resting on the button while still looking over your shoulder at the small yard. When you turned around, you saw him standing in the doorway with an amused smile, dressed in his typical clothes (jeans and a Henley), intact as if not a day had passed.

“Since when you-I don't remember these things,” You frowned, probably with a funny face, pointing your thumb above your shoulder.

“The fence?” He leaned into your space nonchalantly to look at that spot, enough to make you take a careful step back - even if it didn’t prevent you from feeling that natural warmth again, or the perfume he wore. “Yeah, part of the resolutions.”

You tried to pretend he wasn't staring into your face warmly, or that you noticed his eyes roaming over every inch of it. Will grinned discreetly.

“Is that wine?” His voice was always that low?

“... Mm-hm. I don't know what you cooked, but… The convenience lady said this 30 dollars Merlot would do.”

“I was thinking exactly about this type of wine when I chose the food,” He joked. “C’mon, it’s almost ready.”

His house didn't look the same as usual, but not because the aura was different, just with what really felt like a space renovation. The living room was in a different light, while the kitchen looked newly organized in a new layout.

“You seem well invested.”

“It's not a big deal. I was already planning to renovate some things around here, it's just a small project,” You couldn’t help but smile while walking behind him, almost melting by the way he was so humble about his achievements. “Next time I'll make a bigger investment, like space for plastic pools and dogs.”

“Plastic pools are nice,” The comment came spontaneously, and when he turned to you, already standing in the kitchen doorway, maybe he expected some expression of humor on your face. Will noticed your genuine remark, and you turned to him with raised eyebrows. “What are we having tonight? Something is smelling really good here.”

“Sicily lemon risotto.”

“... Wow.”

Not that you'd ever doubt that Will wasn't good at whatever crap he wanted, but the risotto got you. The rest was usual: the kitchen organized, the table set, the dishes washed. Will didn't give up his mannerisms and that made you even more in lov-admired. Admired.

“I unfortunately don't have wine glasses,” He said as soon as you took a seat in front of one of the plates.

“My God, Will Miller has a flaw. This is really serious,” You mocked, watching as he put on two regular glasses on the table. “And here I thought that jeep of yours was the worst thing you've ever done in your life.”

“Oh, okay, so we're back with the car insults?”

“Full back, Miller.”

He shook his head with a giggle, eyes set on the bottle in his hand.

“Lucky for you I missed this, Ms. Merlot. Now shut up and let me serve you something decent.”

It was so natural the way he just said 'I missed this', as if every part of your heart wasn't filled with such genuine feeling at the thought of someone missing you like that. You didn't comment, of course, when he came back with the open bottle (in an offhand way, he didn't have a wine opener either) and sat down in front of you, both glasses half empty.

You chatted for what seemed like a lifetime of arrangements, of news that hadn't been told as if those weeks were years and you two old friends who were meeting again after so long. The risotto, by the way, was delicious - the kind you chewed with time and calm because every part seemed really well done. The wine soon went on, on, on… And in the end, it was you, empty plates and full bellies.

Like any other night. Like nothing ever happened.

“Pool party?” He asked. “You could’ve warned me! I was all cocky with my plastic pool while you were enjoying your real one!”

“It's not my pool, Will. My parents are the successful ones. Besides, there's nothing wrong with yours. It is much closer than theirs,” You leaned on the chair, elbow leaning on the backrest.

“Ha! This makes me feel so much better.”

He got up right away, clearing the dishes and refusing to let you help him - the dishwasher was there, he said, and you were the guest.

There it was again: the silence. Comfortable, calm, almost domestic. Will was leaning over as he set up the machine and you sipped your wine with well-built relief, which was gradually replaced by the idea of ​​what that visit meant. You watched him from there for a while, glass in hand and posture relaxed, but then you massaged the back of your neck, leaned over to rest your elbows on the table, in a clear sign of discomfort - confrontation wasn’t your best skill in general. Always willing to take orders silently, or preventing yourself from creating a situation… The words were popping inside your head suddenly, all the things you thought of saying, the conclusions you took an-

“I got confused.”

You weren't looking at him, like you were expecting a blow to your left side. You could tell from your peripheral vision that Will turned to you, that he heard what was said, but you continued to stare at the glass in front of you, gripped tightly between your fingers. Face it like a woman, dammit!

“... We built something, didn't we?” With a lot of effort, you lifted your head, and saw that he was leaning over the sink, arms crossed and face intent. “I always figured it was the best decision.”

“I think we had the best intentions. Do you think it would have worked for so long if I had kissed you the first time we went out together?”

“You wanted to?”

He raised one of his eyebrows, then looked at the closet on his left side for a while.

“Will-”

“Yes.” Just that. “When you looked at me on the merry-go-round, I felt like I could jump off that stupid horse and kiss you. Honestly, the last time I had such intrusive thoughts was when I was about 14.”

Intrusive… That didn't seem like an ill-considered choice of words, as if he'd come to that conclusion with well-fed guilt. It was obvious on his face, in the way he avoided looking at you after he assumed it. You opened your mouth, then closed it again, not knowing what to say.

“I've already gone through the experience. You know, creating feelings for someone and following the script of what it's like to feel infatuation or stuff like that. Didn’t work. I hurt myself, I hurt her and… I don't like the idea of ​​being fucked up enough for history to repeat itself.”

You knew very little about this story, but not because he never wanted to tell you - Will always seemed well resolved with his own demons. The fact that he was there, exposing a wound that transformed the way he saw you, made it all the more clear. There he was, saying he put himself in chains because some voice in his head told him he wasn't good enough, and you understood that better than anyone else because you felt the same way. Always felt the same way.

“Does it scare you? Even though it's me and not her?”

“What scares me is that you took whatever resilience I had about it and you ripped it apart without even realizing. You exposed me to this reality again and I was a coward for not having accepted it right away, for having waited for a party and some booze to show that I…”

He didn’t finish. He couldn’t. And you got it too.

“I'm broken as fuck, Will. Not just physically, I… I'm a mess. Every day I have to juggle being normal again and not having a panic attack because I can't fully let go of my past. Do you think I would be able to give you something so good? That I won't be a stumbling block in your way of living in peace?”

“I was never this close to having peace before I met you.”

Then a little flashback went through her head - to the day at Dr. Hanks's office and how peaceful he looked. At the party, conditioned to fulfill a futile obligation out of morality with friends, determined to sincerely apologize to someone I didn't know. At the charity event, eating chocolates like the world wasn't going to go on the next day. He always seemed at peace with himself, with the consequences of a world that no longer fit together because he had already seen the worst.  

That weighed heavily on you, that admission.

You nodded and stood up, chair scraping the floor. Will didn't move when he saw you approach, or when you were close enough to feel his breath. This only happened when you untied his arms, cautiously entering his space and, without looking him in the face, covered him with a hug.

He smelled like perfume, clean clothes, and shampoo. As Will enveloped you in the same caress, stroking your back, you closed your eyes and breathed deeply into the strands of his hair.

That was the silence you were looking for - the comfort, the softness, the love. Your entire body relaxed, from the caresses to the small kiss he placed on your covered shoulder. When you pulled away a little, he gave you one more discreet kiss on your neck, then on your jaw and one last one on your cheek. It was quiet, in a way, the way you recognized Will's gaze as a mirror - hungry for life. For peace.

You caressed his face and let him move closer for a tentative kiss on the lips, where your breaths mingled as hard as if the two of you had pulled your heads out of the water - a feeling you were familiar with. One of his hands threaded through your hair and accidentally touched the hearing aid. You instinctively tried to pull away, tilting your head to the side, but he shook his head as he ran his fingers along the back of your ear.

“I’m all in. Be sure about it.”

Will didn't undress you, nor did he drag it out into a hot kissing session right away. He said that unfortunately he didn't have time to make dessert and he bought a pudding, but that you could have it the next day. That made you smile.

“Unless you need to be at work early.”

“Fuck Gordon.”

He laughed with you, face hidden on the crook of your neck.

“Yeah, fuck Gordon.”

His bed was so soft, so comfortable. You lay there still dressed, just without your shoes and socks, and he told you what changes he would make to the jeep, which he would not give up on. Sometimes one of you would stop talking and innocently kiss; then, during a monologue, he would run his fingers along the strap of your shirt, parting the fabric of the cardigan you were wearing. You touched the golden necklace around his neck only to see him shiver from the contact.

When things escalated and clothes were no longer an impediment, Will touched the scar on your shoulder, then the others that adorned your haggard body. You, on the other hand, did the same, your fingers gently touching in particular the scar he had on his stomach, uglier and visibly serious. Colombia, you thought, not daring to ruin the moment by asking. He took that hand, placed it on his chest - right on the top of his heart.

Here.

This is where you should really belong.

And you accepted it with a sigh of relief, knowing that perhaps that part of the normality you so much wanted, the peace you chased, was right there, smiling on top of you while reassuring the fact that, in all the places you could fit in, the best one was there - with him.

-------------------------

[cantsomeoneelsedoit]

Ch 29: Under

looking like they just won a game show. Enjoy that Corolla, kids!!

Latla whistles for an orca that comes to save her and Rip with its ginormous tongue (another event Chikara will be describing to his therapist someday). We see down it's throat to assure us that, yes, this is a living biological whale and not a secret base disguised as a whale. Very likely to be an UMA, especially since it has too many eyes. I'll bet Latla really hates how it smells inside the mouth.

She tells Fuuko to save her questions for Rip, who definitely isn't gonna die from the hole Andy put straight through his heart, which raises some questions.

And then Fuuko finally says what we've all been wanting to say:

Right? Her hair is a really cute detail. Obviously, the meta reason is that it covers her up, but it also expands the range of her ability.

Plus, it's probably hard to find a way to cut it. Lasers? Chewing it off?

Andy says that his regeneration is coming back, so Rip's ability must have been deactivated. He didn't say Rip is dead though, and Latla said he won't die, either. What's up with that?

Andy reviews how the team worked together and allowed him to take out Rip with his Crimson Bullet. The team decides to keep Chikara's existence a secret from the Union (which I'm really surprised Tatiana agreed to??) and he can decide if he wants to join after a week of normal life.

The week passes instantly, and we see Andy and Fuuko waiting outside of Chikara's school.

I need to get this off my chest. Chikara's friend has big crazy eye vibes. Is this child OK? Too much caffeine? Extra neurotypical? Supposed to be American? Possible UMA This might be a me problem.

Or maybe this kid has Unmove too, bc looking at him chills me to my very soul. Aright, enough about the kid (for now). I'm watching him, though.

And chibi Rip shows up! He still has on the Blade Runner artifact, and he doesn't even have a scar from where Andy shot him.

Rip's got his hands in his pockets and is hardly even looking at them while he talks. He even starts to say that he'd come bearing gifts! It's like he has no idea why they might still be mad at him, and he let all his defenses down.

But both Fuuko and Andy let him know right away that the fight's not over.

Just standing outside the school, punching children.

Rip is so unlike the other characters we've met.

"You're mad at me for stabbing the girl, right?" <- Yes, duh. It almost sounds like he's talking himself through it. "Why are they mad at me? Oh maybe this reason..."

Did he not expect them to be mad? Well, no, not really, because he's not mad, so in his mind, they shouldn't be either.

Next, he minimizes the fact that Fuuko could've died. Saying "my bad" is for when you accidentally stepped on someone's shoe, not when you attacked them and their friends.

Next, he removes himself further from responsibility by blaming Fuuko for jumping in front of Chikara. It's still his knife that he threw! And besides, if she hadn't stepped in and the knife had killed Chikara, would he still not understand why they're mad at him?

But Andy has him by the collar right now, and as far as we know, Rip is unarmed. He has no idea what they'll do next. He tries to smooth things over by apologizing to Fuuko. "How's the wound? All right, I hope?"

The apology catches Fuuko off guard: "Huh? Uh, yeah. Mr. Ni- Err... I mean, a nice doctor patched me up."

"Ah, Gotcha! Good to hear! Sorry about that!" What?? Is it really so easy for Rip to just flipflop friends and enemies all the time like that?

And since he feels that he's smoothed everything over with Fuuko, Rip continues explaining why he's come.

I think this is the 4th artifact we've seen: Apocalypse, Nyoi Kinko Staff, Blade Runner, and this gun, which causes terrible visions the first time it's held.

Rip says that the image is of God. If that's true, then this is a damn terrifying God. There's also these fire beings doing most of the work while God just looms there.

But there's more! Rip says that the goal of his group is to rule the world in the years prior to the end of the world. Very Mad Max of him.

Then he adds something cryptic:

He finally gives a name to the Negator Hunters: UNDER

I'm a little concerned about putting Rip in charge of deciding what's fair...

He again offers Fuuko and Andy spots in Under, but they decline. He leaves, and poor Chikara walks up in time to hear the end of their conversation.

Masterpost

[sleepyheadscompany]

TW: DID struggles, fear of faking, mention of long inpatient stays

hello!

It’s been a while since i’ve posted anything DID so imma just type I guess.

I’ve been having some of the worst DID imposter syndrome ever and i guess that’s sort of expected for how my system functions.

I discovered my system in 2021 during covid. I was actually in the best place I’d ever been in right before covid. My spiral downward was pretty sharp. My system kicked into action and I wouldn’t really hold front for more than a few days at a time. This would go on for a few months.

I went inpatient for that and similar issues, got out, went in again a few months later and stayed in inpatient mental health treatment for more than 7 months straight and then post hospitalization for exactly a year immediately afterwards. Traumatizing as it was, it made systemhood pretty easy to spot.

I’ve been doing better. My system activity is very much based on necessity. When things are good, my system is pretty much quiet. But once things get bad or I get triggered, things get fuzzy or I might even black out.

Like right now, the last time I remember being triggered and switching was in October/November. (a lot of the time switching happens without me realizing until after i get a date wrong or miss some information) I’m doing pretty normal. It feels too good to be true honestly.

Now. the crux of the issue: was I just faking? Was I just searching for an answer to my problem all those years ago and, like, gaslit myself into believing it? When I first talked to a therapist about DID I didn’t really have social media or know it was a big trend to fake it.

My high school psychology 101 class had a DID unit. That’s how I learned what it was. I didn’t even suspect that’s what it was until a therapist laid out all my symptoms for me and told me I was also severely dissociating. It clicked, I mentioned alters as a possibility, the rest is history.

I feel like my DID is so different to tiktok’s version. (yes, eventually I caved and downloaded tiktok to see what the community was like. I promptly closed out of the app./j) I’m not officially diagnosed, but multiple therapist have referred to what I have as DID. Before that, I never would have actually called it that out of fear. That’s part of it I think.

I’m “medically recognized” is the best way I know to put it. I feel like my experience with systemhood is too different. I don’t have stellar communication with my alters or access to headspace or a little paper that says i’m super extra valid as per a doctor I could never afford on my own.

We don’t have different hand writing or different accents or different IQs as far as I know. There aren’t 100+ of us or even more than 10. I hardly even know what my alters look like?? i mean how do people even know that stuff??? Do they guess???? I can imagine what some look like because they’ve said stuff in passing but i’ve never ‘seen’ them.

I feel all this pressure to pretend like I do have all this stuff because i’m worried someone’s going to harass me if i don’t. Some “your DID isn’t the right super edgy aesthetic” type bs.

ESPECIALLY now that my alters don’t really talk to me now that life is better. Oh and GOD forbid a system have a normal, not agony filled life. I feel more fake than ever bc my DID is ‘wrong’ and it’s not causing me constant immediate distress. I’ve cried and yelled and hurt myself over this disorder. Like ptsd breakdowns with a side of looking in the mirror and not recognizing my own face. But it doesn’t feel good enough.

I’ve ACTUALLY had issues with severe dissociation and derealization and fuge and it’d be really embarrassing for none of it to have been real yk? So i’m worried.

But I guess, in the same vain, I’ve cried and yelled and hurt myself over this disorder. If that’s not real struggle, I’m not sure what is.

-Saturn🪐