#Anyway. I keep blaming Grey for this but honestly Black's feeding a lot to me and blaming it on Grey

[blackvahana]

Alright, slightly more normal today. I can step back and understand the total - no I'm not normal today I lied

ANVD has been driving me up the wall because it's not physical enough. Grey looks at astral realms, peruses them like a magazine section in a bookstore... Bored. Anchored to time and space, but not truly in them. A week or so ago I wanted to write out the thoughts I had on the difference between astral realms and astral, I guess, planes though realms are tied to planes, talking about the difference between the overlapping versions of spacetime as we're a part of (Earth and other planets, the celestial bodies we see, and so on) and individual pocket realms such as those through trees that fae use. My understanding is two different versions of time and space inverted. One centres on specific location, one inverts location - realms have a where but it's a different kind of where. There's a map upon which things are forced to be created and a creation that can be made of things forced to exist or... I still don't know how to word it over here.

Either way, Grey's absolutely only interested in spacetime that exists on all planes and that defines all planes - see, this is what happens here and what happened last time I started trying to describe it, I unrelatedly to the difficulty of the discussion started losing my ability to speak after attempting to broach the topic. I'm not even on the topic of realm vs here-known spacetime anymore and my internal voice is growing distant and train of thought scattering

[smol-and-grumpy]

Something Just Like This - CH30

Pairing: Dean Winchester x Reader

Summary: Dean Winchester, mobster boss. He’s a little cocky, a lot ruthless and more often than not, short tempered. But he’s also, Dean Winchester, a war veteran and hero who suffers under a shit ton of PTS. He met her in a bar and thinks it’s fate that brought her to him. Little does he know why she’s really here.

Warnings: Fluff, angst, violence, gore

WC: 3974

A/N: Hi, I wanna thank you all for staying with me and this story. I have received a rather not very nice comment about this. As in their opinion, I stretched it out pointlessly and there’s too much sex, and that I should please go back and edit out the unnecessary parts. I just don’t know what happens to don’t like, don’t read. But yeah, can’t lie that it was kind of a discourage. Nonetheless, I’m sticking to my story, because it helped me keep myself sane in quarantine. So here you go. Hope you enjoy this chapter.

SERIES MASTERLIST

Y/N’s awake before him, Cuddles is already gone but Bubbles’ still lying next to her. She takes the little cat and walks out, closing the door behind her. She feeds Cuddles, sits down with Bubbles to see if the little baby would eat and the cat does, which is a relief, really. While she waits to see if Bubbles will throw up again, she turns on the coffee maker. The noise makes the three of them jump. 

When she sees that Bubbles can hold her food in, she makes coffee, takes the mugs into the bedroom and climbs to bed with Dean, she places the mug on her bedside table and begins to nudge at his face, rubs her nose along his scruff. It’s scratchy but soft, just the way she likes it. She then kisses his jaw, the corner of his lips, his cheek, his nose. 

“It’s too early,” Dean mumbles, his eyes are still closed.

“It’s not.”

“Ah, it’s not because you say it’s not.” He turns and buries his face into his pillow. 

“Exactly,” She kisses along the skin that is visible, his ear, the nape of his neck. “And I made you coffee.”

Dean tilts his head up, opens up his one eye, it’s a little red rimmed from sleep. “What did you do?”

“What?”

“Or what do you want?”

“I’m offended. Just because I made you coffee doesn’t mean that I did something stupid or want something?”

“Yeah, it does.” Dean chuckles before reaching his hand out to grab her and pull her to him. “What is it?”

It’s her turn to bury her face into the pillow and she mumbles. “I have to go meet my cousin today.” 

“You have a cousin?” 

Well, how can she say that she didn’t know about it until last night either? 

“Yeah, my aunt makes me go meet him. He came over from England and is in town for a short while.” She lies, hopes Dean buys it. 

“When are you meeting him?” He kisses the nape of her neck, his scruff scratches at her skin. She welcomes the burn. 

“This afternoon in a café. Just thought you should know so as not to be mad at me again.”

Dean chuckles and manhandles her around so she’s lying on top of him. “Baby, I’m never mad at you.”

“Annoyed.”

“Yeah, I’ve been annoyed.” And then he pauses before he adds, “This afternoon, huh? I don’t have anything scheduled. Why don’t I come with you?”

She honestly doesn’t know what to say to that. How can she say that she doesn’t want him around? That Ketch could expose her? She can’t even text Ketch to blow it off because she foolishly deleted his number and blocked him too.

“Yeah, sure.” She says instead, doesn’t know why but the thought of having Dean around will probably make her feel better? It’ll at least keep her from spilling Ketch everything she knows and make it worse. 

  *

  Dean and her are sitting at the table, decided to go there before for lunch and now they’re having coffee and waiting for Ketch. 

She’s glad Dean agreed to go eat there beforehand but she has never seen Ketch and it would really be embarrassing if she wouldn’t even recognize her own ‘cousin’. 

Linda did give her info about him though, it was after they talked last time that she sent Y/N a brief profile. 

“There you are!” 

She looks up at the man who’s smiling brightly at her. He wears a suit, complete with tie and all, dark grey, white shirt, black tie. There’s an expensive watch on his wrist and a ring on his pinky which, she thinks, is weird but to each their own.

“Hi,” She says, stands up and there’s a short confusion of how she should greet him but he takes the lead, kisses her cheeks and pulls her in for a hug.

One that doesn’t seem to end and she hates that. Dean’s clearing his throat audibly and Ketch releases her with a grin that signals trouble.

This is going great.

“Ketch, this is Dean—”

“—Winchester, I know,” Ketch extends a hand and adds, “I saw your face in the newspaper a couple of days ago.”

Ah. What a liar.

Dean takes Ketch’s hand and there’s a small smile on Dean’s face but she knows that expression too well. It says something like he doesn’t know where to categorize Ketch yet. Dean wants to play nice but he can sense that’s something off about that guy. She can’t blame Dean, she’s weirded out herself.

They sit down and Ketch orders a coffee before he starts to talk, and my god, that man can talk.

Occasionally Dean would look at her, his eyes pleading for her to end this madness.

“What are you doing for a living?” Dean asks Ketch and she doesn’t know if it’s out of genuine curiosity or if it’s a way for Dean to show that he’s polite. 

“I used to work for the MI6.” Ketch says matter of factly, like it’s no fucking big deal. “But now I’m a solicitor. Or as you Americans say, lawyer.”

Dean nods. If the mention of the MI6 did throw him off, he doesn’t show it. “And what are you doing in America?”

“Oh, you know, visiting my relatives,” Ketch nods at Y/N, “And I’m looking for a job. Looking to stay, actually.”

“Your mom will be heartbroken.” She mumbles. How fucking dare he uses the meeting to try to get in while Y/N told Linda that she’s got this.

“Yeah, but I’m not the first one who breaks her heart, am I?” Ketch looks at her, raising an eyebrow. It’s a dig at Linda’s and their relationship that has become straining, she knows.

“Anyway,” Ketch goes on, “I was wondering since you’re here, Dean, maybe you know of any openings in your organization?”

So this is what it was about, isn’t it? He really does try to get in? Will probably try to destroy her life and Dean’s before she can finish her mission? Not on her fucking watch. She’s fuming on the inside.

Dean sets his coffee down, one of his hands goes under the table, rubs at her thigh, as if he knows her distress. “I wouldn’t know about it. Ms MacLeod is my Head of HR. She’d know. Maybe you could contact her.”

Ketch looks at Dean, perplexed. As if he doesn’t get rejected often.

“I thought maybe, you know, we’re family.” Ketch adds.

“Oh, stop that bullshit Ketch, we are not! I barely know you and then you come here and want to meet me just because you want a job?” She’s outraged, feels stupid because she made Dean come here and there’s someone sitting across from her that could blow off her cover within a blink of an eye!

“Babe, it’s okay.” Dean squeezes her thigh. 

“It’s not, Dean! It’s not okay. I didn’t know he wanted to ask for a job. I’m— Let’s go.” She stands up, leaving Dean to catch up to her. “And Ketch, if you want a job, get one yourself.”

Dean fishes out a bill from his pants and leaves it on the table. Y/N’s already walking out. 

*

“I hate my family.” She breathes out as she leans her head against the car door, feels hot and uncomfortable all of a sudden, “I’m sorry, I didn’t know. I don’t want you to think that I’m using you for my family's gain.” 

“Baby, really, it’s okay.” Dean tries to calm her down, his hand finds her thigh, stroking it up and down. 

“I feel so foolish.” 

“You are not. You’re being nice and sometimes, people tend to take advantage of that. I’m used to it, actually.”

“I don’t want my family taking advantage of you.”

Dean chuckles, “I think I can handle it fine myself, you really don’t have to worry about that.”

Her bra stabs at her sides, that damn thing, seriously. Everything feels too restrictive right now. 

Y/N unhooks her bra on the back, slips out of the straps and pulls it out through the arm of her shirt. She feels so much better now.

Dean’s forehead creases when he sees it. “What did you do?”

She shrugs. 

“How is that even possible?” 

She laughs, “You’ve never seen someone do it before? You’re shitting me.”

“Well, sweetheart, usually I take them off or the woman does it, you know, more gracefully.”

“Yeah yeah, I’m not graceful, I get it. Bras are overrated anyway.” She bunches it up and throws it to the floor.

Dean has to laugh, “Yeah, they are. Your tits shouldn’t be covered by anything. Except maybe my hands.”

He says it in that straight face of his that makes her face flare up.

  Y/N’s taking a bath to relax from Ketch and Dean has brought her a glass of wine, almost changed his mind on going out for that meeting when he saw her there, with foam on her head and a smile decorating her pink cheeks. Felt a strong urge to jump right in too, but he’s really got to go, Cas would give him hell if he would show up too late and that would definitely happen if he would stay next to the tub for too long.

So he steals a kiss before he tells her that he’ll see her later. And it’s hard. Hard to walk out from a wet and naked girl in his tub. He does it nonetheless, someone has got to be the reasonable one around here and today’s his turn.

He walks out, and takes his keys when he hears the doorbell.

They never have someone ringing the doorbell. At least not when they didn’t order anything and he knows he didn’t but maybe she ordered something before taking a bath and forgot to tell him.

Dean opens to Ketch.

“Hi, uh, I just wanna come and apologize for making a fool out of myself. Is Y/N here?” The man looks behind Dean, then and really, Dean doesn’t know what it is but something about Ketch irks him very much. 

Against his better judgment, Dean opens the door wider, letting Ketch step in. He is family after all, right? He lets Ketch follow him inside. “Yeah, she’s still taking a ba—”

The blow to the back of his head knocks Dean out of balance and to the side, his body hitting the wall close to the entrance. He did not see that coming.

Dean turns around, his vision is blurry from the blow. Before he can even react, Ketch’s right fist connects with Dean's face. Once, twice, three times, sending him on his side, his body hits the floor with a dull heavy thud. 

Yep, definitely didn’t see it coming. 

He tries to get up, but there’s a blow in his stomach, feet kicking at his ribs, it punches the air out of his lungs. 

“You fucking son of a bitch!” Dean growls, and tuns on his stomach, kneels up a little. He sees splatters of blood on the floor. There’s another kick, right into his middle, making him feel nauseous.

  Y/N hears the bell, and thinks it’s weird because she didn’t order anything and she doubts that Dean did, knowing that he’ll be out until late at night.

With a weird feeling in her guts, she gets out of the bath, wraps a towel around her, and secures it with a knot.

She tiptoes out of the bathroom and when she reaches the bedroom, she hears a thud of something heavy hitting a wall. 

There’s noises like someone’s grunting before there’s another thud and this time, she can feel the vibration of the flooring beneath her bare feet.

Instinctively, she runs to the closet, retrieves a gun from the cabinet, has to punch in the code twice because her hands are shaking. 

Y/N breathes relief when it opens and she quickly grabs the gun Dean has bought for her. Probably not really bought it, but what does it matter now.

Clicking off the safety, she draws it, walks slowly to the bedroom door that’s standing ajar. Dean never closes it when he knows that she’ll be alone. Knowing that she likes it when the cats can come in and bother her.

There she sees it, Dean’s on the floor on his knees, his one arm braced on the floor while he holds his stomach with his other hand. His face is bloody and in pain, there’s a cut above his left eyebrow. Dark red blood splatters the floor.

Standing above Dean, is Ketch. He has a crooked grin on his face. 

“You fucking son of a bitch!” Dean growls and Ketch only laughs, kicks Dean some more.

She tries to keep calm, tries to breath. That fucking son of a bitch, for real!

Taking one last deep breath, she steps out but holds her gun steady, points it towards Ketch.

“You tracked our car.” She says calmly. She’s not dumb, can put two and two together. But also because she doesn’t have any other explanation on how Ketch could know where she lives. Not even Linda knows it because they don’t track phones of undercover agents. 

“Aw, Y/N no guns please, I didn’t use mine.” Ketch lifts his jacket, showing her that his gun is still in his holster. “Well, that’s a lie, I did for the first blow but I didn’t shoot. I need him alive, you understand, don’t you?” Ketch sounds so fucking arrogant and it makes her blood boil.

Dean’s wincing on the floor between them. And it hurts her, it physically hurts her to see him hurt. 

“Shut up!” She hisses, has tears in her eyes. There’s so much going on in her mind, she doesn’t know what’s right and what’s wrong anymore. All she knows is that she wants Ketch to stop hurting Dean.

“Lower your gun, darling.” Ketch is still looking at her with a shiteating grin on his face. “You wouldn’t shoot me. You don’t have it in you, am I right?. How would you explain to my mo—”

The bullet goes right through the crease between his eyebrows. 

She doesn’t know why she pulled the trigger. Doesn’t know why she killed Ketch. Fact is that she didn’t want to hear him say more, fact is, that he invaded her life. Fact is, that he hurt Dean and by doing it, he — by proxy — hurt her too. And there’s no way out of it. Ketch already knows too much. If she doesn’t do it, Dean will and she has to answer too many questions that Dean will be throwing at her. Questions she doesn’t even have answers to herself. She doesn’t want to face them yet. Not when she still has time left that she could actually enjoy with him.

She killed a man. 

The realization hit her like a freight train.

Not only a man. A special agent. A Fed. 

One of her own. 

Linda will never forgive her.

The Bureau will never forgive her.

She’s no better than Dean. She’s now in this as much as he is. This life has consumed her, and there’s no way of getting out. She isn’t even sure now if she even wants to get out at all.

Letting herself sink down to the floor, she leans the side of her face against the door frame and starts to cry. Her hand slowly releases her gun.

Her vision is blurry and she closes her eyes for a brief moment, thinking about all the consequences of her action. When she opens her eyes again, Dean’s right in front of her. He’s in pain, she can see that but nonetheless he crawled over the floor to be close to her.

His hands cradle her face as he places a kiss on her forehead, thumbs brushing at the tears that streamed down her cheeks.

“You okay?” He asks her, and there’s a split in his lips and blood at the corner of his mouth. 

He’s hurt more than she is but he still asks her if she’s okay. 

She does not deserve that.

Unable to answer, she sits still and that prompts Dean to get closer, he sits up, grunting loudly as he does. And then he holds her face firm in his hands, lays his forehead on hers. Their noses touch. 

“Baby, I need to know if you’re okay.”

She nods but cries some more. 

He kisses her lips and she kisses him back, pours every sorry she can not say into the kiss.

Dean then pulls her towards his chest, lets her cry into it. “I guess I have to call for a clean up, huh?” 

Y/N nods again and then out of the corner of her eyes, she sees the two cats slowly coming out from under the sofa. They walk towards Dean and her. She smiles and Dean lets go off her, grunting when he adjusts himself. He takes Bubbles, places the cat on her lap while he holds Cuddles. 

It dawns on her then, after she strokes the cats for a while that she didn’t ask if he’s okay.

He’s been asking her twice and she wasn’t even the one who took the beating!

“Are you okay?” She finally asks and Dean breathes out, pulls the corner of his lips up to a little smile.

“Never been better.” 

“Liar.” She mutters, then adds, “I need to check if anything’s broken.” Sitting up straight, she lowers Bubbles back on the floor but the cat stays close, watches her as she cradles Dean’s face.

“Baby,” Dean’s holding his breath when she skims one of her hands over his ribs, flinches as she touches him, “I can’t believe I’m saying this myself, but I’d rather you don’t touch me right now.”

She purses her lips. “But a kiss is okay?”

“That’s always okay.” He smiles a weak smile.

 *

 Y/N helps Dean after, throws his hand over her shoulder and walks him over to the couch before she calls for Sergei. 

“I’m gonna call Cas,” He grunts some more as he settles into the couch.

She walks over to the door and leaves it open for when Sergei comes up. 

Turning around, she avoids looking at the dead body of Ketch on the floor. 

“Do you want anyone to know about your cousin?”

She frowns at first before it dawns on her that he’s talking about Ketch. Hopes that he didn’t see her hesitation, “No.” She then says, “No, I don’t.”

Because it’s the truth. If possible, she’d like to avoid anyone ever finding out.

“Okay.” Dean nods.

There’s a knock at the door and she leads Sergei into the apartment. The man doesn’t even bat an eye when he sees a dead body on the floor. She guesses that he’s not paid to ask questions.

She leaves Sergei and Dean in the living room, disappears into the bedroom and thinks about calling Linda.

Y/N doesn’t call though. Maybe, she thinks, maybe it’s better when she acts like she doesn’t know anything at all. 

 *

 Sergei helps Dean into bed and Y/N props up the pillows before undressing him. He grunts out in pain as she makes him sit up a little to get his shirt off his shoulders. He’s already half asleep by the time she pulls off his socks. 

She’s been given two different kinds of painkillers by Sergei and he tells her exactly when Dean should take which pills over the next three days. Thankfully nothing’s broken. 

Cas arrives with a couple of men later and they immediately start with the clean up. Nobody said a word. It’s like everyone knows what they're doing and she has the feeling that it’s not the first time that they’re doing this.

Y/N takes the cats and closes the room to their bedroom. The workers are being loud but Dean’s even snoring a little by now, unfazed of what’s going on around him.

The cats immediately jump onto the bed, lay themselves around Dean and she couldn’t not take a picture of them together like this even if Dean’s face is bruised. 

There’s a band aid that holds his skin together above his eyebrow instead of stitches, the bruise on his cheek already starts to turn green. His lips are swollen and it hurts her to see him like this. It physically hurts her heart.

She wonders how long it’ll take Linda to piece two and two together on Ketch’s whereabouts. How long it’ll be for Linda to knock down the door and arrest her and Dean. Wonders if Linda even knows that Ketch was trying to forgo her commands and contact Y/N directly just because he wants to play a fucking hero. Because honestly, she can’t imagine that the thing Ketch pulled off was in Linda’s interest. Not when Y/N’s so close to the finish line.

 *

 After about two hours, there’s a knock on the bedroom door. She opens up to Cas and wave of something that smells like bleach hit her. It seems like they were trying to make it better by spraying some flower scents around the living room, which actually might have made it even worse. She’s going to have to open the windows for hours to get the smell out.

“We’re done.” Cas says, and steals a glimpse of Dean in bed. “How is he?”

“Sleeping.” She answers. 

“That’s good. He should sleep. The meeting today went well. Just tell him that? Okay?”

She smiles, “I will.” 

“If there’s anything, you know…” 

“I know. Thank you, Cas.”

“Anytime.”

She leaves the door open, but goes back to bed, picks her pencil and her notebook back up. She has to turn on the bedside lamp because it’s getting dark outside, the room lights up in a warm soft glow.

It’s an hour later when Dean opens his eyes. He squints at her. 

“Is this heaven? Am I in heaven?” He mumbles, his lips purse into a smile. 

Y/N replicates his smile, “No, sorry, you’re still stuck with me.”

He starts to laugh but then he flinches in pain. “Baby, no jokes, okay? My body can’t take it.”

“Shit, yeah,” She’s crawling over to his side on all fours. “‘M sorry.”

“Come on,” He says, pats the side of his bed and she goes in, lays her head on his arm. “How are you feeling?”

She chuckles. That’s so typical Dean. He’s the one who’s hurt but he asks her how she’s feeling. She does not deserve him. “Tired. How are you feeling?”

“Like I’ve been beaten.” 

She tilts her head, kisses him on his good cheek. “I’m sorry about what happened. I didn’t know that he would come and hurt you.”

“That’s okay. It’s not your fault.”

She wants to tell him that it is. 

Dean didn’t say more though, didn’t ask her why Ketch holds a grudge against Dean. Why she shot him. Because that’s also Dean. He doesn’t ask questions to answer that he doesn’t need to know. Answer that won’t change his decision. Answers that aren’t relevant on how he lives his life.

She can also guess that he might know. Ketch mentioned the MI6. Dean’s no fucking idiot.

“Can I ask you something?” He says after a while and her heart picks up pace.

That’s it, she thinks. Finally he’s going to ask her and she’s going to tell him the truth and everything will be over. 

“Anything.” She says, because it’s true. At this point it’s all or nothing. She doesn’t want to lie to him any more.

“Why are the cats in our bed?”

CH31

[basilgrimbitch]

Day Two: Swap

Normal high school AU where Baz is new to Simon’s English class but Penny is the one that gets assigned a seat next to Baz. Aka English nerds in love.

Words: 3457

Note: this is unedited and super rushed but its something!

No warnings apart from a lot of swearing. Enjoy!

_____ 

SIMON

“Alright so I posted the seating plan on the class page, did everyone get a chance to see it?”

While everyone scrambles to look at their laptops, I’ve already seen Ms. Possibelf’s seating plan and can I just say… What. The. Fuck. She’s sat me across the room from Penny (honestly fair since we never get any work done) next to some random girl named Trixie; she seems nice enough but so bloody boring. How am I supposed to make it through a whole year of English without Penny? I can hear the complaints layering up in the tiny classroom and I can see the teacher ignoring every single one of them. I don’t think I’ll bother asking for a change. Though, maybe she’ll listen to Penny?

I nudge Penny’s arm, I guess she’s already seen the seating plan too because she makes no effort to look at her laptop and moves towards her assigned seat.

“Surely the fuck not?” I don’t bother whispering.

“I think you mean surely the fuck yes. I’m not failing this semester because you want to tell me a gross story about your arms smelling like Cheetos mid class.” I’m smirking and she looks like she’ll bite my head off. That makes me smile more.

“That was once!”

“It still happened, and I’d rather hear about your smelly limbs at lunch time - or better yet, never.”

We’re cut off by Ms. Possibelf starting the class, or at least trying to.

“You should’ve all written a draft of your persuasive orals over the holidays, now you must refine them and prepare a final copy. These will be presented in two days.”

Okay as much as I’m a clown in English, I’m actually decent at it. I’ve already written and edited my script, so I really have nothing to do. I sit in my seat and glance at Penny, it looks like she’s done too. I’m fairly sure she’s playing fire boy and water girl, she’s playing both parts (because I’m not there) and she’s taking up the entire table, her desk mate looks so uncomfortable squashed into a corner. Who is he, by the way? The name on the roll was Tyrannus, what the fuck kind of name is that? So pretentious.

I open up Instagram on my laptop and text Penny.

Penelope Bunce – Simon Snow

Simon Snow [10:04]: who is heeeeeee

Penelope Bunce [10:04]: who?

Simon Snow [10:04]: the guy ur sat next to whats his name?????

Penelope Bunce [10:05]: got a bit of crush huh :0

Simon Snow [10:05]: oh fk off I haven’t even seen his face,,, whats his name??

Penelope Bunce [10:06]: he said to call him baz

Simon Snow [10:07]: hmm weird but cool name

Simon Snow [10:07]: what schools he frm?

Penelope Bunce [10:07]: idk do ur work Si

Penny stops typing, she looks me in the eyes then turns to speak to Baz, shutting her laptop. That’s such an odd name, right?

They talk, she’s laughing, he’s just sitting there so composed. He doesn’t look bored exactly, just that he’s better than seeming overly excited. Dickhead it is then.

Even though I think I’ve already decided I hate him, I don’t stop looking at them. He’s got long hair, its black and loose just above his shoulder, his skin is this gorgeous caramel that doesn’t need tanning and his eyes, they’re so grey a mix of green and blue I think and – fuck. We’re making eye-contact, not in like oh oops, more like oh shit why is this guy staring at me. He must think I’m a fucking creep. Shit.

It’s not like I care though, he probably thinks he’s better than everyone in this room anyway. But he’s just smiling at me? Fuck that’s a good smile. I think I’m smiling back, I can’t help it. He turns back to speak to Penny, they seem like they’re in deep discussion about something, I wonder what? And suddenly, I catch myself wishing I was her. Um, what?

The rest of the period flies by. Too quick, I think, not that I need more time to work, I just kind of wish… whatever.

Penny, as per bloody usual, is taking her precious time packing her stuff away. I walk up to her table, hyper aware of Baz’s presence there,

“Planning on leaving anytime soon?” I ask, trying to seem as nonchalant as can be, but my eyes keep glancing to him. I think Penny must’ve picked up on it because then she says, all smug,

“But then you wouldn’t get to meet Baz,” she gestures to Baz, who’s raising his eyebrow and smiling a little against his better judgement I think, then she gestures to me and then back again, “Baz, Simon. Simon, Baz. There we go.” He’s full on smiling now. Fuck, how can someone be so pretty?

“So nice to meet you, I’m Baz Pitch.” He puts his hand out for me to shake it – that’s so proper. I’m not even convinced he’s 17. He’s so calm and put together, these are not words you use to describe a 17 year old guy.

“H-hey, yeah, Simon.” Of course, I trip over my words, I’ve always struggled with that but I’m also really fucking nervous for some reason.

“Do you wanna have lunch with us, Baz?” Penny’s throwing her bag over her shoulder, looking at me like she knows what she’s doing to me and then back to Baz with genuine eyes. Penny doesn’t usually get on with people like that, that’s why we’ve been friends for so long, she really doesn’t have other options (not like I do either).

“That’d be nice.” He says, the corner of his mouth inching up, giving his cool exterior away. He’s not a pretentious git, is he? He’s just a boy on his first day of school; that’s fucking daunting.

We walk out the classroom – finally – and Baz starts telling us about himself and his old school. Mainly just answering Penny’s questions. Does he have siblings? Yeah, four half siblings. How come he moved schools? dad moves a lot for business. Oh, is he going to be moving again? Probably not until after high school, by then I could move out anyway.

I’m not usually this quiet. Usually I’m more social than Penny. I don’t know what’s come over me, I wish I could be her right now.

Lunch happens, Baz doesn’t really eat. Not like I was watching him. Well he was sat right in front of me and I just noticed that he wasn’t eating anything. Surely that’s normal.

I finally ask Baz what other classes he’s taking; other than English we don’t share any classes and then I let myself say, “that sucks.” But only because its normal, its not flirting. You can want a friend to be in your class. Penny still looks at me anyway.

But then he says, “I’ll just have to look forward to English,” and my heart melts.

______

I try not to think about Baz right now, in bed, but I am anyway, and I remember him telling me his full name; so naturally I’m suddenly typing it into the Instagram search bar. Aha! He’s not on private, thank the gods of social media.

I start scrolling through his feed, careful not to tap anything of course. There are a few photos of him alone, they’re gorgeous; he dresses so nice. Penny says I can’t dress myself. In one photo from a month ago he’s in this incredible suit, taking a mirror selfie in a bathroom that looks nicer than my whole house. His hair is slicked back (I think I prefer it loose – still so bloody fit though) and his cheekbones are so defined, he’s got that same face he had when we first met today – eyebrows raised, little bit a smirk, beautiful eyes.

I scroll down to the next photo, this one is different. It’s not a hot mirror selfie, its him carrying a little girl – his little sister? – on his shoulders looking up at her with a smile, a real big smile. He’s dressed a bit more casual too, still nicer than anything I own though it’s just jeans and a black button down. I keep coming back to the jeans. How can someone look so good in jeans?

I scroll through a few more photos, some with friends, some more of just him and a few of books he’s reading or places he’s visited. I feel like I know him a little bit better now – less in a stalkerish way more in a… well I can’t think of the write word. I can never think of the write word.

My phone vibrates all of a sudden and I literally drop my phone, so I don’t accidently like anything.

Penelope Bunce – Simon Snow

Penelope Bunce [23:13]: up thinking bout prince charming?

Simon Snow [23:14]: shut up

Penelope Bunce [23:14]: don’t blame u he’s v cute.

Penelope Bunce [23:14]: And smart.

Penelope Bunce [23:14]: you have my blessing

Simon Snow [23:15]: bugger off,, as if he’s even into guys

Simon Snow [23:15]: I was literally such an idiot today he probs doesn’t even wanna be my friend

Penelope Bunce [23:16]: AHA SO U ADMIT IT

Simon Snow [23:16]: did I even have to

Penelope Bunce [23:16]: ofc not. For what its worth I think u have a shot.

Simon Snow [23:17]: sureeeee

Simon Snow [23:17]: fuckkkkk im gonna be so dead tomorrow,, gn love u

I turn my phone off, pull my glasses off chucking them somewhere I probably won’t find them tomorrow and roll over to fall asleep.

______

We’ve got English first period today. I don’t think I’ve ever been this excited for English, but then I remember I don’t even get to sit next to him.

I walk into class and he’s already in there, we make eye-contact – way less awkward than yesterday – and he gives me a nod. Its friendly, it’s nice, it’s already a bit familiar. I give him a little wave with my right hand below the books I’m carrying but then I’m nearly dropping then, and my laptop starts sliding through my arms. It’s a shit show and it’s too early in the morning to embarrass myself, but I don’t get a say do I? As a say good bye to my laptop that is threatening to smash in the ground any second now – and any possibility for anything with Baz – I hear a chair scraping at the floor then not being pushed in. Suddenly, Baz’s hand is on my shoulder; the other grabbing my laptop that’s basically just resting on my belt buckle at this point. I beg myself not to blush, not now.

Baz is laughing. We’ve – he’s – saved my laptop and now he’s carrying it and my books; he insisted I was not to be trusted.

“Alright, special delivery all the way to your seat. You sure you’re okay Snow?” He’s using my last name because he thinks it’s ‘such a waste to not make use of such an iconic surname’. I like the way it sounds on his lips. I think I just like his lips and anything after is automatically perfect. Perfect.

He taps my shoulder, “you okay there?”

“Huh? Yeah yeah, just a bit tired. Didn’t sleep very much last night.” That’s not a lie.

Baz nods and says he’s gonna go get started on the work, I watch him walk away. The school trousers, they’re no jeans but he looks good in everything.

I try to do some work, making cue cards for my presentation, but I keep letting myself look over to Baz. Penny just caught me and stuck her tongue out.

Penelope Bunce – Simon Snow

Penelope Bunce [08:31]: ur staring

Simon Snow [08:32]: am not,, go away

I go back to working on my cue cards after making a show of shutting my laptop in front of Penny. I get through two more cards before I see a pair of shoes approaching my table. I look up and sure enough its prince charming – I mean Baz. He clears his throat and says,

“I hear you’re good at English”

“There’s no way Penny said that,” I laugh.

“True, she said ‘he thinks he’s better than everyone else.’ But I take it for good reason.” He smiles while doing air quotes, I smile back at him because I can’t help myself.

“Well, I definitely don’t suck.”

“Good. Do you mind reading over my script, please? I feel like it needs a little bit of editing.” He hands over his laptop, “don’t drop this one okay?” he chuckles.

I honestly don’t know how to act around him. I’m the epitome of those ‘act normal’ memes. He hands me his laptop and I start reading. His presentation is on single use plastics and it is so well written, he definitely doesn’t need my help. My neck is getting warm and I hope I’m not blushing at a script on environmentalism just because it was written by a hot guy. That’s pathetic.

But he’s not just a hot guy, is he? He’s smart – so smart – and he’s so kind even if you wouldn’t think so; when he helped me with my books today, I couldn’t help but think back to that photo of him with his sister, so much warmth and kindness expertly hidden under a cool and calm facade. I get to the end of his conclusion and look up in awe but he’s standing just behind me leaning forward waiting for my response. That explains the warmth I was feeling.

Baz doesn’t seem like the kind that would ever doubt himself but if you could see him now, you’d think he cared about what everyone thought about everything; and maybe he does, maybe he just hides it really well.

“Baz.” I make eye-contact with him, finally on purpose, “this… its incredible. I don’t even know why you’d ask for feedback. Your arguments are excellent, and your use of inductive reasoning is really fitting.”

His face lights up, a kind of innocent smile creeps up on his face and for the first time I think I want to kiss him. But even more so, I want to be responsible for more of those smiles. “Really?”

“It’s perfect.”

I look away because I don’t want him to see me blush. Penny is looking straight at us, she gives me one of her reassuring smiles.

______

It’s been two weeks of school; all my classes suck but it’s our last year and soon enough we’ll miss it. At least that’s what Penny keeps saying, Baz agrees with her.

Baz has been spending more time with us; we hang out at lunch time, he’s joined us for frozen cokes a few times in the past few hot days. It’s nice. I can actually talk to him now too.

He’s so smart, smarter than I had thought. He’s not just academically smart, he knows more than just surface level knowledge. Yesterday, on our walk to English he was talking about some article he read on the relationship between sleep deprivation and blood alcohol concentration just for fun. Though its nerdy and just a bit lame, the way his eyes light up when he talks about things he cares about, I’d listen to the summary of a thousand dumb articles to see that again.

Right now, Baz isn’t here though, and all my brain can do is think about him.

“Pennyyyy!” she’s lying on my bed while I do my art homework on the floor, she always comes home with me on Tuesdays, I don’t know when that started.

“Si, I already said no like three times.”

“Why not? Do you not love me?” I asked her to swap seats with me in English. I just wanna sit next to Baz, I can say I need extra help or something.

“I love you of course but I don’t want Baz to think I’m avoiding him, and I certainly don’t want Ms. P to fail me for disobeying her one rule.”

“Just please.” I give her my best puppy eyes and pouty face, “I fink I’m in wuv,” I say mockingly. She

throws an old stuffed toy in my face. I guess that’s a no.

______  

The next day I see Baz at the school gates, he’s holding a cup of coffee and his hair is up in a bun today. Flawless.

“Fancy seeing you here,” how can he look so perfect at eight in the morning. I don’t even feel awake yet.

Baz bumps my shoulder with his and we start walking to our lockers. We talk about the English reading we were set, we’re reading Lord of the Flies and Baz is going on about how he and Penny think the book would be drastically different if it had female characters.

“Golding said he didn’t add girls to avoid sex being a subject.” I say, and Baz just looks at me with his eyebrow raised. I call this the signature Baz look now.

“Oh, come on, as if every single kid on that island was straight.” I choke on nothing for a second. Baz and I have never talked about relationships or sex or sexuality. It’s not really a matter of discussion I guess but hearing him acknowledge the idea of guys being together, I don’t know, it gives me hope. That makes no sense obviously, he’s taking about characters from an English novel not himself and really its more an act of Baz’s resistance than it is a nod to gay rights or whatever. But, still, it gives me hope.

“True,” is all I manage to get out.

We get to English extra early after home room, and I start making my way to my seat. Ever since Baz started hanging out with us outside of class, English is back to being plain and boring, nothing special. So, with my shoulders slumped I mutter a goodbye to Baz as I walk to opposite way to my seat but then I feel something on my hand. Oh my god, its his hand. Its Baz’s hand. On my hand. Pulling me towards him. Its not especially romantic or anything. But its something!

“Hey! Swap seats with Penny, come sit next to me today,” surely this is a dream, I must’ve hit my head. “I need your uhhh help with the essay.” Baz doesn’t help, he just discussed key themes of the novel for breakfast. I feel it again, lingering in my chest, hope. “It’s okay if you don’t want to…” he says a bit quieter now, trying to seem as cool as possible. How Baz of him. Fuck I still haven’t said anything.

“What no no, I want to. I’m just not sure what Ms. Possibelf will say; or worse, Penny.” He pulls at my hand. He still hasn’t let go of my hand. He still hasn’t let go of my hand.

“What? Scared Snow?”

“We’re not in Harry Potter, Baz.”

“True. I’m wayyy better looking than Draco Malfoy and you wouldn’t be a very good chosen one. The worst chosen one who’s ever been chosen.”

I hear myself saying, “what so I’m not more better looking than Harry Potter?” Is this flirting? He squeezes my hand. He still hasn’t let go of my hand.

“You needed me to point that out? I thought it was a given. You’re well fit, Simon.” Simon. Hope.

I hum in response and with one final tug at my hand, he lets it go. I follow him (I’d follow him anywhere).

“Sit, I won’t bite,” He grins at me.

“Yeah but Penny will,” she better not ruin this for me. For us. I sit next to Baz and we start working on our essays. He doesn’t ask for help once.

Penny walks into class, glances at her seat, sees us and walks to my – her – seat next to Trixie.

Penelope Bunce – Simon Snow

Penelope Bunce [08:14]: u win. Enjoy!

I can’t tell if that’s sarcastic or not.

Baz notices I’ve changed my window to Instagram DMs and nudges me, “how come you don’t follow me?”

“Huh, I don’t know? What’s your user name?” As if I don’t know.

Baz grabs my laptop, “I’ll just type it in.” I let him because I’m lazy and I like watching him type but then he clicks on the search bar and has the biggest grin on his face. Fuck. He can see my search history, “looks like you already know it.” How could I forget about that?

I must look mortified because he places his hand on mine. Second time today. “It’s all good. I already have yours too.”

Hope.

[limitedrevolverworks]

My Mother 2.0 [2]

[Chapter 1]

Above all else, it’s the silence that that he cannot comprehend.

A deep quiet fills his ears, flooding with a silence so paradoxically deafening. Mere instinct reaches out as best it can, grasping for the slightest vibration it could feed to eardrums sorely starving for that hint of familiarity, but all it can scoop out of the stale air is an utter anomaly it doesn’t know what to make of. The frightening shadow of an indecipherable unknown looms over him, daring his powerless, broken shell to do something, anything about it that he obviously cannot. He could chalk it up to the numbness that seems to envelop his entire being, from the smallest atom to the very thoughts produced by his half-comatose brain, but even in his stupor, the boy knows better. And of all the interrogatives pressing down on him, this one feels the most daunting precisely because he can blame it on himself, rather than some factor outside the scope of his perceptions. It’s a minuscule, vibrant spark of audacity that the very mind culpable for its creation regards it with cautious hesitation, unable to fathom its own ability to birth it. For a time that his diluted consciousness desperately stretches into a seeming eternity, the child refuses to acknowledge the one truth he could process, choosing instead to wallow in an uncertain oblivion that is at least partially of his own making. It’s a long, drawn out, tiresome battle, a silent war fought without weapons, a peaceful, stubborn conflict where nothing happens aside from waiting, waiting.

Waiting.

He doesn’t realize the gradually shifting tide of his struggle until his sole serviceable eye timidly spreads open to brave the unknown sight that has been waiting all along for his acceptance.

Now, the boy finally admits it: that the very unknown he should fear, he very much welcomes far more than anything he’s ever been acquainted with.

And so…

At last…

Time begins to flow anew.

“Hey now, awake alread-D-D-D-D-D-y? Go figure.”

The rapidfire barrage of glitchy reverb is interspersed between words that sound like they’re rattling within a box made of thin metallic sheets. The auditory concoction stampedes its way through the child’s hearing with all the grace of a bombardment and hurting twice as much.

It’s odd, though.

Common sense etched deep inside tells him that the optimal response should involve either lots of thrashing and screaming, or curling into a ball and quietly begging for it to end. There’s the fact that the neural pathways in charge of his muscles are currently fueled with a thick, uncrossable gel paste-like form of paralysis, but that’s not the whole of it. The pain is far from pleasant, yet it conveys a clear message - that he is alive, and not anywhere he would recognize. One of these two conclusions fills him with something akin to relief; the other, not so much.

It’s hard for the boy to decide which corresponds to which. He decides that, for the time being, a better way to keep busy what few of his brain cells are awake would be deciphering exactly what it is that he’s staring at.

Through the fog blanketing his vision, the child sees grey lips, framed by a shade of dull blue well on its way to fading into the latter color. The plated shape gives him the impression that it must be a helmet covering the rest of the stranger’s face, but the two halves hug each other so harmoniously to form a solid mass that he questions this interpretation, despite any other making little sense. He seeks answers in the single black strip cutting into the superior portion: the bright red dot swimming inside it, however, dumps only more questions onto a pile that has already grown rather healthy.

His eye begins to burn, reminding him of such a basic need as blinking that he’d seemingly forgotten in his stupor. The boy’s eyelid trembles: will it manage to arise once more, after it’s fallen? The darkness was daunting, but he felt safe within its embrace. It tasted different from the one he’s grown accustomed to - ah, hold on, that’s not quite right.

As more and more of his consciousness tears itself free from its sleepy cocoon, the child begins to make sense of his own thoughts. He understands that it’s not quite that his unconsciousness felt safe in and of itself - rather, it’s what he feels now, after he’s already gotten out of it. Knowledge informs his less rational side, rewriting his immediate past in light of the present. It’s the fact that he knows what comes after the darkness, that leads him to trust it for the first time his short, young life. And for how utterly fruitless his attempts at making heads or tails of his present predicament may be, he has no doubt that he prefers it to the routine that preceded it.

Lingering for a long, drawn-out second more on the thing that may or may not be a face, the boy tells himself that he has nothing to lose anyway. And in the simple act of blinking once, he perceives the rush of an emotion he’s never known he could harbor.

If he’d ever had any conception of it, the child could relish in his first taste of freedom.

“Do yourself a fa-A-A-A-A-A-vor and don’t move, will you?”

More words come out from a mouth that doesn’t move to spell them. The boy speaks his obedience with silent immobility: at the end of the day, old habits are too stubborn to lie down and let themselves die; he receives a nod for his effort, or lack thereof.

“Not that you can move an-N-N-N-N-yway.”

From the corner of his vision, the boy witnesses what seems to be a shoddy impression of a shrug from a pair of stiff shoulders that must have been made for anything but.

“Had to strap you good in case these aneS-S-S-S-S-thetics failed to do their job, and what do you kno-O-O-O-O-w? Never trust chemic-C-C-C-C-als a couple centuries past their expiration date, kid.”

Peeling off the various layers of noise and glitching haunting it, the voice digs out the impression that he’s been talked to by a woman, despite his eyes’ struggle to acquiesce with this conclusion. If what she’s wearing is a protective suit of sorts, it’s nothing like the ones he’s seen.

Panic threatens to seize him. Could they have transferred him to another research facility?

No! No!

He’d just begun to warm to the idea that perhaps, finally, it had all ended, but now that his lucidity has wrestled back control of his ability to process things properly, he wonders how he even came to that conclusion. His path had never, ever strayed from its repetitive course until that fateful day. Why, exactly, should he believe it to be the case now?

Foolish. Stupid stupid stupid! He dared dream for the first time ever, and he knows that all it did was set him up for greater anguish than he’s ever known. Because now, he has tasted hope. It’s far too late to retrieve the resignation that he cast away at a whim. He’s left himself vulnerable, discarded his fragile shell in the spur of a momentary madness. For all he knows, he’s left himself bare against a realm of suffering that could surpass anything he’s experienced. That is… that is…!

He wants to cry. To scream atop his lungs until his throat will have burned away along with what’s left of his sanity.

Burning…

His throat is burning. He feels a lump in it that has nothing to do with the one born from his desire to cry his heart out. The distraction is a tiny one, yet he clings to it as best he can, a minuscule island in an ocean of self-made terror. He notices now that the noise he was picking up while barely conscious is his own breathing. A ragged, drawn out sound like dusty wind sweeping off a gravelly path. The boy’s eye moves down on its own, seeking an explanation. It can only manage to pick up the vague shape of a cylindrical shape, jutting out of the edge where his pupil meets his lower lid. The woman bends aside so that her masked face can meet his gaze again, her head tilted even further to express what her “face” simply can’t.

“Yeah, that w-W-W-W-W-W-W-ould be the reason why you’re tied like a b-B-B-B-B-undle of rations. I can’t have you thrashing all ov-V-V-V-V-er the place with a tube sticking out of your throat… wait, hold on. Does it hurt? Those painkillers I stuffed you w-W-W-W-W-W-ith are three decades older than the anaesthetics.”

There’s a long, drawn out pause filled mostly with one-sided blinking, and little else.

“Oh! Right! Can’t move! Sorry, this one’s on me. hA-hA-hA-hA!”

For a moment, the boy thinks his… caretaker? Captor? Whoever that may be, the way her voice spazzes out at the end and her whole body shakes, it looks and sounds dangerously close to a seizure. It comes to an abrupt conclusion and a return to her very relative normality, which means… what exactly was that supposed to be?

“That’s a face you’re making there… well, half-F-F-F-F-F a face. Did I startle you, maybe? Sorry, faulty voice m-M-M-M-M-odule. Gave up trying to fix it a couple centuries ago, not worth the has-S-S-S-S-S-S-sle. You don’t find many conversational partn-N-N-N-N-N-ers around these parts, you know?”

He doesn’t, but then again it’s not like he can point that out.

“Anyway, anywa-A-A-A-A-A-y, I’ve just told the IV to inject you with another sleepytime cocktail, so sit tight and relax. You’re g-G-G-G-G-G-oing to be doing a lot of that, honestly, at least until I’m done downloading all this medical training software for the surgery.”

A metal-clad arm raises: at the end of it, fingers lightly curl around a wire that begins somewhere outside the boy’s scope, and ends in a rectangular protrusion connected to a similarly shaped hole in the side of the mysterious stranger’s neck. It makes about as much sense as anything else the child has learned about her, and he’s given up trying to put together all the clues he’s been given into a cohesive, discernible whole.

“I mean, a thracheos-S-S-S-S-S-tomy’s a piece of cake by itself. But anything beyond going stabby-stabby on your tr-R-R-R-R-R-R-achea is a tad more complicated than that. I haven’t half a clue what they’ve d-D-D-D-D-D-one to you up there in that big floaty world of theirs, but whatever it was, it made a mess of your throat. There was enough goop stuck in there I had to spend an hour drain-N-N-N-N-N-ing it to make sure you wouldn’t choke on it. I reckon that when my scanning module’s been updated, we’ll disc-C-C-C-C-C-over that the rest of your body’s even worse for the wear.”

Silence falls anew at the end of a series of informations that the boy tries to digest all at once. Half of his features are still perfectly usable, and could lend themselves to expressing what a metal visage cannot. But the child does not visibly react to the news given to him. His lips do not smile. His eye does nothing but look at the one speaking to him with a half-lidded stare, unsure of what to make of any of it, less of all his worry that this may be a prelude to a nightmare.

The boy is tired. He closes his eye, deciding to thrust himself to the darkness, and the infinitesimal chance of salvation hiding in it.

If he has any hope left in him now, it’s the old, familiar brand that cannot wait for his body to do away with itself.

Sensors that were state of the art back when they were made do their best to try and do what they weren’t built for. The staticity on the little human’s face brings up correspondences with old, untouched corners of her databases. Visual data from times long forgotten by those they begot, visions of broken husks of flesh and bone, deader than the corpses of their comrades. Some of those fallen to the very same iron-cast hands that have done their best to keep a lone boy from biting the bullet, based on what can only be defined a whim.

The automaton born of war kneels besides her guest, and wonders. She does so by sending microscopic sparks across a net of data swimming inside her artificial brain, in search of an act that no medicine or surgical procedure could emulate - a way to heal something other than a body.

Something comes up. A tiny possibility buried among billions of others, at the very edge of her range of intended abilities. Fragments of culture acquired for mere curiosity and to stave off whatever form of boredom a machine could even feel to begin with, knowledge thought obsolete until it came up in this very moment, suggesting a pattern that seems convincing enough to be put into tentative, awkward practice.

Thunk. Thunk.

The child raises his eyelid, startled. A gelid, hard sensation is spreading on his head, where his forehead gives way to his disheveled hairline, right next to where the chitinous substance has overtaken the rest of it.

His view is obscured by something. A shadow that robs his sight of light, only to let him seep through again, cyclically going through the motions while the sharp feeling becomes more defined against his skin. It’s only after the fifth time that the shadow finally relents and draws back enough for him to find its source, staring at him through a red, unblinking light.

“How is it? I’m not entirely confident since it’s my f-F-F-F-F-F-irst time, but apparently headpats are supposed to feel g-G-G-G-G-G-ood for young humans like you.”

Her hand approaches again, stopping short of reaching him. It reels back just enough that he can see the black band where her eye resides, and the mouth whose lips cannot flap, nor curl.

“You want me to stop?”

He hadn’t noticed it before, taken as he was with pretty much everything else assaulting his senses, but… there is something about this voice. Beyond the metallic-sounding raspiness, aside from the occasional slip into an ear-piercing torture, there is a tone about this voice that feels unmistakably reassuring.

It’s a rough, alien-feeling sort of softness.

The boy’s eye lingers on the hand hovering above him, shifting to the person staring back with what he decides must be expectation, then back to the hand.

The lid falls like a curtain, letting the centuries old anaesthetics do their job. If he wishes to protest, he doesn’t make the slightest attempt to show it.

As sleep beckons him back to its thoughtless cradle, the child hears it again. Thunk. Thunk. It’s cold, and hard, so much so that at the epicenter of it he can feel a sharp, prickly pain.

Yet somehow, he doesn’t mind.