#But all of that is meaningless in the sense that he’ll just wallow in his own self pity as he continues to do the exact same thing

[sepublic]

i love it when a villain is given positive traits not to make them look better, but to make them look worse

no "aren't they actually nice deep down? don't you feel sympathy towards them?", but "wait so this asshole was capable of good all along? and actively chose not to do it because it gets in the way of their goal / because they don't see this specific group of people as deserving of the same treatment / because they're too deep in the lies they told themself to justify it / etc? they're evil not because they're incapable of anything else, but because they choose to?"

[arrogvnces]

     it happens in one day. she’s there on his birthday, then it ends, and she leaves his life for good. he tries to get used to it. he tries to pretend like it’s not tearing him apart inside, like he’s not secretly looking for her in every girl that stops by his bed. little by little, day by day --- he begins to succeed. classes start back up and his mind is filled with new, exciting things and suddenly there’s not enough hours in the day for him to think of her. it’s not that he’s completely forgotten. it’s not that it doesn’t hurt. but he’s tired of wallowing in his own misery. tired of waiting for the magical solution to their dilemma, as if he’ll grow up in a day and stand up to his father tomorrow. if his coping mechanisms are meaningless hook-ups and drowning under homework, who’s going to call him out for it? 

     the beginning of his semester takes a turn for the weird in the middle of human anatomy class, when a face from the past takes a seat next to him. her hair having also been dyed black, he almost doesn’t recognize mina. they exchange an awkward nod, before the class begins and suddenly they’re too focused taking notes to care about the other’s presence. it’s only when they’re paired for a project that he’s forced to acknowledge her again, a small friendly smile on her lips while his remain in a straight line. they make plans to meet up after class is over, neither willing to leave it until the last minute. 

     at the coffee shop, it’s almost a journey to the past. their table is swallowed by papers and books, coffee mugs and napkins, sinclair sitting on the floor while she crouches over to the her shiny new laptop, typing furiously fast on the keyboard. they only speak to each other when necessary, exchanging ideas in the quiet of the corner they’re holed in. after three hours, his neck begins to hurt, as the words stop making sense and the moon is already settling into the night sky. he takes one look at her, as she continues to write and plan with just as much fervor as several hours ago and jealousy bubbles up in his chest. he’s always hated how she’s several steps ahead of him, always able to do more and learn more. he doesn’t notice he’s staring, until she catches him in the act, frowning then sighing. he looks away, but sees from her fall back into her sofa chair, staring at him. 

     “you still hate me, don’t you?” she asks, words carrying in the silence. it’s his turn to frown, though he doesn’t answer her right away. 

     “i’ve never hated you,” he answers, looking down at his fingers. “maybe i should have. it would’ve saved me a lot of trouble.” 

     “i already said i’m sorry for what i did, last year,” she reminds him, and he huffs. “i meant it, sinclair. even if you didn’t believe me, i meant what i said at that party. i never should’ve tried to win you back, i was just desperate. nothing was going right in my life and i thought if i could have you back, then maybe things would start making sense again. i was wrong.” 

     he shakes his head, tired of all these stories. they seem so far away, yet they remain in his life, no matter how hard he tries to get rid of them. “how do i know you’re telling the truth? you also swore to me you only wanted to be friends, back then. what if this is another one of your ploys?”

     “you just have to find it in you to trust me,” mina says, simply. “trust that i don’t love you anymore. you’re not impossible to get over, you know. eventually, love ends. mine did.” will hers? is the first thought into his head. he banishes it as soon as it arrives, hating himself for even thinking it. of course it will. he is just one man. 

     “it doesn’t matter, and i’m over it. let’s just get this project done as soon as possible and we can both walk our own ways.” he begins stacking his books, mentally tired and in need of a good shower. he hears her sighing, without making a move to pack her things. she’s still looking at him, when he glances up. 

     “it’s just. . . i think it’s a shame,” she comments, fingers interlacing together. “i was glad to hear you were coming back. i never believed in you following your father’s footsteps. and i guess. . . i was kind of hoping you and i could be friends. actual friends, this time around, not friends with the hope of something more.” 

     “why would you want to be friends?”  

     “because you’re a good friend to have. you care, you’re always there in times of need, you’re funny and when you let loose, you know how to have a good time. plus you’re rich.” she offers him a grin that he doesn’t return. she sighs again, though the smile doesn’t completely let off. “honestly, i think you need someone like me in your life.” 

     “really?” he questions, not entirely sure of her affirmation.  

     “i bet none of your friends care about the same stuff we do,” she nods to herself, sitting a little straighter. “they probably encourage you but then switch topics when you start rambling, or tell you to stop being such a nerd. i bet you’re dying to have someone to tell about this cool hemispherectomy you saw the other day, someone who will understand the words you use and actually contribute to the conversation. you’re the type to share the things you like, and i’m the only who’s willing to hear it.”

     he doesn’t reply, only continues to put his things back into his backpack, absorbing her words. he remembers simon not so gently refusing to go the science exhibition with him, claiming he can’t be seen hanging around boring places like that. he can’t deny some of the truth in her words, but he doesn’t have it in him to trust her. even if there’s nothing left to lose this time around. if she truly still had feelings for him, there would be nothing keeping her from going ahead and saying so. maybe. he stands up. 

     “i get it, you still resent me,” she continues, holding one hand up in the air when he opens his mouth to contradict her. “you do, and that’s fine. i did a shitty thing, i’ll take it. but sinclair, people change. you did. why can’t i?” 

---

     the following months took a turn for the unexpected. he ends up invinting mina to go with him to the exhibition, making good use of his second ticket, trying not to dwell too much on what it means that henri gave them to him and he chose to go with the one person most responsible for their fate last year. he doesn’t want to admit but he ends up having more fun than he would’ve going alone. there’s something new about mina, a lightness that wasn’t there a few months back. he doesn’t know what or who could’ve unlocked it, but he’s glad to be experience. they come out of it pleased and a little less tense, and despite his better judgements, as something a bit closer to friends. 

     his routine builds itself slowly but surely, september and october coming and going at the speed of light. by the end of it, his days are dictated by a tight schedule mixing studies, friends and late night pleasure. his reputation around campus reaches his ear and though it makes him cringe it doesn’t stop him from continuing his journey through yale’s cheerleaders, debate team, alpha phi sorority and the women in science club. simon calls it his ‘manwhore’ phase. he laughs along, wondering in the back of his mind what she thinks of it. they have a strict rule, never once mentioned out loud, to not speak of her. it makes it easier to ignore the hole in his chest, but sometimes he misses it. no matter how busy he is, or how many people he’s surrounded by, his eyes remain glued to the door, wondering if maybe by some luck she’ll walk through it. 

     he doesn’t have to wonder where she’ll be on the night of the thirty-first, simon dragging him out despite much complaints to a halloween party across campus. he didn’t feel like going out of the house, the day tasting bitter in his mouth and the thought of putting on a costume seeming even less fascinating. but his friend had shown up at his place with ‘the perfect costumes’, promising to take his mind off of his memories with booze and girls dressed up in skimpy outfits and suddenly the thought of staying home alone was too depressing to bear. so they adorned their costume, laughing all the way to the party, trying to make this one better than the previous ones. 

     the house is already packed by the time they get there, though it’s a lot less suffocating than the previous ones he’s been too. mingling with the crowd, sinclair sneaks in his third drink of the night, looking left and right to find a familiar face in the crowd. he finds one in the shape of mina, dark square sunglasses hanging on her face, a black fitted suit hugging her slender frame. behind her, calvin stands half a head taller, the same outfit hanging off his broad shoulders. 

     “men in black,” sinclair says, matter-of-factly. “you look nicer than he does.” it earns him a chuckle from her, and a roll of eyes from him. he still doesn’t quite understand why they hang out together as often as they do, but maybe it’s not for him to understand. only to survive through.

     “and you are. . .” she trails off, scanning him up and down. he snaps his fingers for simon, standing a few feet away. standing side by side, mina giggles. “oh, jack and rose. i like your hair, simon. you should wear it like that more often.” she reaches out to touch his wig, and simon grins. 

     “thank you, thank you,” he has to speak louder over the music, his voice already used to these conditions. “you look very chic, yourself. i can’t believe you got calvin to match, though. the last girl who did that was hen--- i mean, you look hot. let’s do some shots!” he turns away in a hurry, avoiding sinclair’s gaze but it’s too late. his eyes are back on the front door, waiting for it to open. 

     “don’t look so desperate,” calvin addresses him, a drink appearing in his hand. “it’s unbecoming.” 

     “don’t use big words,” he retorts, stepping out of their corner to go further into the living room. “it’s unbecoming.” 

[tonystarktogo]

Sooooo. If @ifdragonscouldtalk and @thecitylightshow are to be believed my last headcanon was very angsty. Which is funny because that was supposed to be the fluffy part of the ‘verse. So. Let me introduce you to Civil War: The Futures Passed Version.

(Yes, there be angst. I’m serious, this particular loop doesn’t have a happy ending. Also I haven’t worked it all out so a lot of the details will be glossed over.)

Imagine Tony waking up maybe eight years in the past, right before he first encounters the Avengers. And it’s okay, this is great actually, it worked and he’s got so much time to save Steve’s life now and this is Good. Except Tony forgot how they started out. Tony forgot what they used to be--five messed-up people who didn’t trust themselves nor each other and it’s. It’s hard.

It’s hard to face Phil whom he mourned at least four times, only for the bastard to pop up alive at an opportune moment. It’s hard to watch Natasha’s--he’d forgotten how much he missed her, forgotten how much losing her had hurt--badly hidden derision when she looks at him.

Meeting Steve, the man he’s spent the past year and a half mourning, his best friend, who bled out in Tony’s arms, exchanging the same callous words--it’s devastating.

It was the first time too, in a way, but back then Steve was the personification of his daddy issues, not--well.

And somehow, even though Tony isn’t trying to change anything yet, knows they’ll survive the alien invasion, he does. He can’t control it. Can’t stop looking at these people who have been his family for more than half a decade, yet look at him like he’s a stranger. He keeps slipping, keeps being caught on the wrong foot, keeps saying the wrong things. 

The jokes the Steve he knows would’ve laughed about, but this one doesn’t. The bickering Clint would’ve gladly joined in but this one doesn’t. The comments that cause Natasha to glower, the amused twitch around her lips missing. The touches and gestures that come so naturally to Tony but Bruce flinches away from as though struck. Meeting Thor hurts the least, perhaps because Tony didn’t lose him, perhaps because Thor is too occupied with his brother’s drama to pay them much attention of any kind.

Rationally Tony knows that these aren’t the same people he left in the future but that doesn’t soothe the sting.

And it doesn’t--doesn’t get better.

The easy camaraderie Tony remembers so clearly doesn’t come. He tries, he tries so fucking hard, but all he seems to do is push them further away. So he stops pushing, stops reaching out, except that doesn’t bring them closer and Tony. Tony doesn’t know what to with this. With these people he knows, he loves, but apparently not enough to know how to move past this.

He tries to accept it. Tells himself that maybe they will never be the team he remembers, maybe that’s a sacrifice he’ll have to make, but at least they’re still a team when disaster strikes. At least Steve is still alive, will undoubtedly find Bucky soon--Tony’s been looking but HYDRA is smart and so far he hasn’t found a single trail to the Winter Soldier’s location--and Tony is gonna keep him that way.

Maybe they won’t be friends like they used to be, but Steve is alive, and Bucky is alive, and they’ll save Bucky again, and it will be alright. It’ll be worth it.

Project Insight happens then, catastrophe after catastrophe, and is over before Tony even realises it. Realises how much he’s miscalculated, how much he’s still relying on bonds that have never been formed. It had never occurred to him that Steve wouldn’t call him at all.

It’s fine. He tries to help from the shadows instead, keeps JARVIS on the lookout, and it turns out to be a good thing, maybe, no matter how much it hurts. Because the one time he gets involved personally again, he almost destroys the world. Ultron should have been the solution he’d been looking for, a last resort to ensure Steve’s survival--not that Tony could tell him that, could he, not that Steve would understand that his nightmare had been made of memories. 

Instead Ultron tries to destroy them and Tony loses JARVIS and Wanda loses her brother. Wanda who had almost ruined Bucky once, in a future no one but Tony remembers--Wanda who had despised him, Wanda who had understood, in the end, when it had been too late already--is welcomed with open arms into a team that remained out of Tony’s reach and.

He’s glad he doesn’t have to stick around and witness it. Or so he tells himself.

He codes FRIDAY in JARVIS’ place, works on the politicians who more and more call for stricter regulations. Dreams of better times, of lips pressed against his nape when he wakes up, of arms around his shoulders and friendly smiles.

Most of the time though, he dreams of blood.

It takes FRIDAY almost ten minutes longer than it did JARVIS to calm him down.

And somehow. Tony doesn’t know what he did wrong. Where he went wrong. But it doesn’t. It doesn’t get better. He’s trapped on a slippery slope that keeps pulling him down and down and down.

He should be working harder, doing more but it’s. It’s hard to get out of bed sometimes. Hard to remember what’s real and what’s not. What used to be real and what not. Hard to face the world when he’s sober.

Hard.

The Accords shouldn’t have surprised Tony--don’t, really, except he should have stopped them, shouldn’t he, had plenty of opportunity he wasted wallowing, and Tony doesn’t remember if loathing always tasted like Steve’s blood on his lips but it probably doesn’t matter.

James still isn’t here, is what Tony remembers thinking the clearest during that meeting with his not-team, he’s supposed to be here by now.

At this point the thought is a dull pain instead of the piercing agony it used to be, because at some point. At some point Tony gave up on that future. Gave up on his future. It’s Steve’s survival that matters, was always about him, wasn’t it, and even that thread loses its meaning with every passing day.

In another show of his own damn arrogance and blinded idiocy, Tony assumes that it can’t get worse. It can’t.

Turns out nothing in the past two years of horrors has prepared him for fighting James. Not the Winter Soldier--he’d used to do that a lot, back in the beginning--but James. James and Steve and half the team that used to be his but never was.

And it’s only when they’re standing in that damned, abandoned bunker in Siberia that Tony realises the irony of it all. Only when he faces off against two super soldiers that used to be the most important people in his world, used to be his world period, that he remembers that day, remembers Steve screaming that he’d rather die than chose between his two closest friends, remembers Bucky’s (in that moment he had been Bucky, in that moment Bucky died) scream. Maybe it was always meant to be like this, maybe not choosing was always gonna tear Steve apart, maybe choosing was always gonna kill one of them.

Tony is almost glad he won’t have to live with the knowledge for long.

But then he sees the tape. And he doesn’t see Zemo’s satisfied smile. Doesn’t see the Winter Soldier murdering his parents. He sees James, shaken after another endless night filled with screaming, refusing to let him close. He sees himself offering to talk about it, again and again, only to be rebuffed.

And Tony doesn’t want to believe it. Doesn’t want to believe that all this time, all those years, James knew and Steve knew and they kept it from him. So he asks.

“Yes.” A single word that causes every belief Tony held about his friendship with Steve, the one that used to be at least, to crumble.

“I remember all of them.” A single sentence that renders everything Tony trusted and held dear meaningless.

They leave him there in the end. And Tony hates them. Hates them for betraying him. Hates them for ruining the one thing he’d always thought they couldn’t touch. Hates them, because even now, the only thought that keeps echoing in his head is, at least they’re alive.

He doesn’t try to fight the cold when it lures him to sleep. Eagerly sinks into the darkness.

Grateful. To be done.

But the Loop, once initiated, can not be so easily broken.

(Perhaps the worst part is that Bucky is lying in this ‘verse. He doesn’t remember killing the Starks, never did.)

Yeah I did it. Not sure it’s really worse than CW or if this even makes any sense since it’s mostly just single scenes in my head that I tried to string together but whatever.

[allsurrendered]

NEWS FLASH

Whether we admit it or not, all of us desire to be loved unconditionally and wholeheartedly; all without a second thought. We all have expectations and hopes to be met.

~ We want that someone who makes us feel as what we want to feel, and so much more. We long for that someone that is more than willing to take the extra mile for us. The someone we can lean onto, and to share everything with, both the good and the bad. That someone who’d be the key to relieve my sorrows. Someone to fix our broken, melancholic hearts; someone to tug on our heartstrings to make us realize that: “Hey, maybe living life could actually amount to anything.” Maybe just then, our lives wouldn’t be as haphazard as it is. All because I’ve found the someone that never thought that sacrificing everything they have, in my sake, would be a total waste and a wholly stupid idea.

Honestly, if I didn’t know any better, and you’d come up to me telling me that the paragraph you just read above is possible, I’d say you’d have to knock it off from your daydreaming, and in other words: you’re plainly delusional.

But thank God because we have the news. That this is amazingly unbelievable reality; we already have that Someone.

—His name is Jesus.

Even so, there are times that it is much easier listening to the voice of others than listening to the voice of God. It’s too easy to let yourself believe the tricks of the world. I, myself, was once drowned in the pitch dark sea of lies, the wallowing thickness of its mud deep down. Yes, I did dwell down there. For quite some time.

Until I saw God’s grace that rescued me from the depths of that body of water, that I get to see and experience the light, to walk in and to walk towards it. He lifted me up from that sticky ocean floor that was once clinging unto me in a tight embrace, never wanting to me let go. He finally got back what is His.

He saved me, He won me over, that I came to my senses and realized I’ve been drowning for so long, I’ve forgot what it was like to breathe and to find life— well, it’s not like I ever knew how. It is only then I found out that existing and living holds so much difference. This time around, I became alive.

I am living, now.

As for you and I, news flash, God knows us by our names.

Isaiah 49:1 says:

“Listen to me, all you in distant lands! Pay attention, you who are far away! The Lord called me before my birth; from within the womb he called me by name.”

You may not be perfect, you may be flawed, but God has chosen you. He chose you among the vast amount of people He could choose from; among people more worthy than you will ever be. Regardless all your flaws, He still chose you. Among all, it’s you who He chose, it’s you who is blessed (more than) enough to be here in His presence.

You have to know that you are not an accident, you are chosen. Times come when you are labeled for what the world say about you, without recognizing the reason why God died on the Cross for you: love.

“up-to-no-good. hopeless. meaningless. insignificant. ugly. worthless. silly. ridiculous. outcast. doofus. goner. filthy. dirtbag. dumb. different. freak. idiot. lost cause.”

The world can certainly throw harsh things against you, but you shall not let those words and labels limit whatever is in you.

Instead, listen to and rest on the truth that God chose you, despite your sins, and your shortcomings. Despite our unworthiness apart from Him. The key is that we must always go back to the Word of God, despite of what the world says about you.

• Seek the truth, and you will find the truth. Be comforted and strengthened by them.

Your first coming to this earth may be unplanned, your parents might have not meant to create you, but God did. You didn’t choose to be born, but as you grow, the choice you can make is to be born again. To live in what is right, and to attain the original plan God has for you: to be blessed exceedingly, exercising your rights as a Child of God.

This I say to you who has been given the grace to be called as a Child of God, you have the right to know You are chosen for a purpose. (Exciting, huh?)

People, including those from the Bible, tend to insist their own shortcomings, their own flaws, their unworthiness.

Good news? It’s that even as so, they still can do nothing. They can’t stop God from using them to accomplish His purpose. Others may also go against you, but nothing can stop Him from using you mightily when He says He would. Not even your past wrongs, and your incapabilities; for He doesn’t call the qualified, He qualifies the called.

~ You are called to have a good life, and He loves you so much.

Jeremiah 29:11 says:

“For I know the plans I have for you,” says the Lord. “They are plans for good and not for disaster, to give you a future and a hope.”

Picture this: a triage. According to the internet, Triage is the process of determining the priority of patients’ treatments based on the severity of their condition.

But let me tell you, Jesus never does triage— Jesus won’t come into the war zone and play eenie-meenie, and pick who He must prioritize saving first; nor would He be choose-y and pick out whom looks hopeless, and whom looks pretty okay and perhaps could just use a couple of bandages here and there. Just as how He came into this world. 

He didn’t come just to choose to save those who “sinned less” and the dirtier ones come after, if not totally kicked out of the picture— NO!

He chooses everyone, and He came to bring salvation to everyone. He came to the war zone to carry you towards the safe zone; right there in His arms, right where His presence is.

He came here to cure the sick, to be the remedy to the wounded. He came to bring hope to this hopeless world. He came for you!

He still chose you despite of your current situation; even your painful past. He will never leave you out.

You may not comprehend everything, but it is already enough to know that He loves you.

It’s actually one of the characteristics of the love of God. It’s surreal, unimaginable, unfathomable. This is why even saying, “it’s the best!” is an understatement when talking about the love of God for you, much more when you know He truly does. Above all.

• As our life’s Good Shepherd, He still left the 99 to chase after that one mere sheep. To reach out to it, to take it in, to reintroduce it to His comfort and love. Yes, it may and does seem illogical, but not until you realize that you are that 1 lost sheep He came to rescue and chase after. He came to find you, to redeem you, to care for you, to take you out from the darkness you brought yourself in.

The bottom-line: you go back to the Lord; the very thing He cherishes, the very thing He waits on. The reason He calls each one there is to celebrate and rejoice. His love for you will never be comparable to any other’s.

Oh, and one more thing to remember: you didn’t find God— He found you. Let that be your peace. ‘Cause He’d do it again. And again. And again.

It is absolutely His perfect will for you to read and know of this Word of His He has for you today. 

This is for you, the greatest news ever: Jesus loves you.

[my-dark-words]

Old Friends

Just for something different. Featuring the Host and Dr Iplier.

A lab coat, a stethoscope and an air of confidence can get a man many places in a hospital, even a busy one such as this.

Guiding a man with a bloodied bandage around his eyes and giving the impression that he knew exactly where he was going also prevented awkward questions. Hospital staff were busy enough at the best of times, the last thing any of the staff wanted was to get involved with somebody else’s patient, unless help was requested or someone was actively dying. The man with the bandaged eyes muttered constantly to himself, but this didn’t seem to concern his guide, who was perfectly capable of maintaining their conversation on his own. “You don’t know how much good I could do if I could understand the world like you do,” Dr Iplier said, leading his friend by the arm. “… The doctor leads the Host down the emergency B ward corridor, oblivious to the Host’s disinterest in this meaningless topic…” To the casual observer the two men could have been brothers. In another time, before bandages adorned the Host’s face, they could even have been mistaken for twins. “I mean, I only get to see bad things as they’re happening, and only to the subject in front of my nose at the time.” “… wallows in self pity…” “It’s always too late by the time I know what’s happening,” Dr Iplier sighed, “I can never do anything about what I know.” The pair stopped beside a row of cupboards. Dr Iplier calmly started inspecting them for the materials he required, stacking them into a clean and unassuming kidney dish as the Host narrated his actions. “… Nursing manager Stibborns is entering the ward. She doesn’t recognise the doctor, frowns and goes to find a roster…” “That would be our queue to get going,” said Dr Ipiler, guiding the Host by the arm again into a different ward. “You know everything that’s happening and about to happen,” Dr Iplier continued his one sided conversation. “But yet you do nothing. How can you stand it?” “…The doctor apparently has difficulty understanding the meaningless of existence, and how little the experience of any one being matters in the grand scheme of everything…” Dr Iplier nodded casually to two nurses standing by the water fountain, staring at the Host’s bloodied bandages with concern. “… He fails to grasp the concept of all actions having consequences, as the tiny butterfly flaps its wings and the storm brews in Argentina…” “What’s wrong with him?” the younger nurse asked. “Oh, the antipsychotics make him chatty,” Dr Iplier replied quickly, “but he’s fine though. It’s when he stops talking that you need to worry.” “… the wisest course of action when faced will all possible actions and their infinite consequences is simply to do nothing….” “What happened to his face?” the older nurse asked. “Oh, just a little attempted autoenucleation,” Dr Iplier replied, increasing his pace. “Nothing special.” The younger nurse’s face lit up like a Christmas tree. “Oh! Can I see?” Their enthusiasm was quickly curbed by a swift slap on the arm from the older nurse. “Sam! That’s very rude!” “… absolving oneself of moral responsibility and placing oneself outside the narrative…” “Yes Nurse, that is very rude,” Dr Iplier chastised them, “Even if a patient doesn’t appear to be fully aware, you should always talk to them as though they are. Now come along Sir, we’ll get you back to where you belong.” He led the Host around another corner before quickening their pace while nobody was there to watch. “How can you be aware of everything, and yet do nothing?” Dr Iplier asked, not expecting a direct answer. This was usually how their conversations went. “… all actions are equal and pointless when the initiator remains within the story…” “I mean, doesn’t it drive you mad knowing that you could have made a difference?” Dr Iplier paused at the next junction, the tempting aroma wafting down the corridor. “… The doctor remained wilfully ignorant of the absence of meaning in every decision and action, his transparent attempt to guilt the Host into revealing the evidence that he desires was pointless…” “I know we’re not that different, you and I,” the doctor sighed, “but at least I try. I’m always the bearer of bad news, but at least I fricking try.” “… and yet he persists…” Despite the wafting promise of caffeine, Dr Iplier chose the other path, grabbing an abandoned pair of bandage scissors left unattended on a trolley. “I’d rather that than never trying at all,” he muttered. “ … the doctor continues to wax philosophical, oblivious to the pair of security guards walking his way from the elevator…” “Right, in here now.” Dr Ipiler decided, ushering the Host into an empty lavatory. The Host stood perfectly motionless in the small cubicle. With half his face obscured it was difficult to read his emotion, if he had one, and his tone of voice gave nothing away. “I swear, sometimes I think you’re gone,” the doctor said, shaking his head sadly, “and then I get these little glimmers that you’re still in there.” “… a lesser man than the Host would feel outrage at being hastily shoved into a lavatory, but the doctor is fortunate that the Host is both patient and merciful…” Voices came and went outside the door. When it was quiet, Dr Iplier peered back into the corridor. “The coast is clear,” he said, guiding the Host back out. “… a temporary reprieve from the doctor’s indignity…” “Just a few more things. I promise, my friend.” “… friend is not here…” The doctor led the Host back to Emergency Ward A, the primary ward where all new admissions were treated until they were judged to be stable enough to go somewhere less critical. There was always a little more chaos in a ward like this, debris and equipment often pushed to the side of the corridor for a few moments at a time when something dramatic happened, whether that was a patient legitimately dying or just one throwing a tantrum. The doctor led the Host through the ward, with a confident smile and the occasional nodded greeting to other staff in false familiarity. “I miss the old you, you know,” said Dr Ipiler as he casually swiped a packet of sutures from a bench as he walked past. “… assumptions lead to error…” “You probably knew that,” he continued, slipping some iodine impregnated wipes from an ignored trolley.“You can probably look into my brain as easily as you looked into one of your books.” “… as an open book to the Host, though the current idiom is cruel…” “I just wonder sometimes,” Dr Iplier sighed to himself, scanning the ward for other ignored, useful objects, “If I knew what you knew, maybe I wouldn’t always have to be the Bad News Doctor.” “… pushed into the walkway after a minor laceration repair…” Dr Iplier smiled as he spotted a used stitch up kit waiting to be returned to central sterile supply for cleaning, and a happy daydream washed over him. “Perhaps then I could be the happy and charming Good News Doctor for a change.” He froze when a patient in one of the beds began screaming and thrashing on the bed, and a crowd of staff flocked to them immediately. With nobody looking, he quickly wrapped the kit and shoved it under his lab coat. “Maybe I should just give up,” he wondered, leading the Host away from the commotion before he was accidentally asked to assist. “… realisation, however brief…” “Maybe I could retrain as a barista. It’s hard to go wrong with coffee. And I am, after all, very handsome. I bet I could get tipped well.” “… delusions returned…” “See! You do have a sense of humour in there somewhere!” the doctor declared, briefly triumphant before the melancholy returned. “I mean, this is emergency. Probably half the patients here will be dead within the month, and there’s not a thing any of us can do about it, but we try anyway.” He looked around at the emergency ward, which was settling again now the screaming patient had stopped. The Host stood still, continuing to narrate to himself. “It’ll drive me mad if I look at any of them too closely,” Dr Iplier admitted sadly, “too much bad news, and nothing I can change.” “… finally accepting the inevitability of reality…” “At least that one will probably get to walk out of here,” the doctor said carelessly, gesturing to an athletic young man in a bed as they passed before suddenly freezing. “… The Host is unclear as to why the doctor’s sudden concern…” “I’m sorry…” Dr Iplier muttered, tearing his gaze away from the patient, who was starting to draw faster, shallower breaths, “…They’re dying.”  “… every living being in this universe is dying…” “Come on, there’s nothing I can do that the other doctors can’t. Lets get out of here.” “… the doctor’s subsequent assessment is flawed and incorrect. Like many of their kind, the physicians at this hospital are blinded by assumptions, which will directly result in the misdiagnosis and death if this patient…” “What?” Dr Iplier asked in disbelief. “… Autopsy reports will concede that the circumstances leading to the death of Mr Freeman are highly unusual and could not have been predicted…” “What circumstances!” Dr Iplier grabbed the Host’s shoulder, turning him to face him as though it might make a difference. “… this very moment, after months of erythropoietin abuse for athletic edge, a large clot hovers in his right atrium. Soon it will dislodge again, flowing away until it comes to its final resting place…” “NURSE! Get this man into CT, stat!” “… blocking both branches of his pulmonary artery…” “I don’t care if he doesn’t have the usual risk factors! Make this happen!” “… blocking all blood flow to both lungs and resulting in, obviously, death…” “I said SHUT UP NURSE!”

…

“So, uh, he’s going to have a rough couple of weeks, but he’ll probably live,” said Dr Iplier, wandering down the street as incognito as it was possible for the two of them to be. “… this feel good activity is fleeting and meaningless…” “I mean, he’s going to be in hospital for weeks, but he was going to be in the morgue in an hour, so while the news is bad, it’s not the most bad and I’m counting it as a win.” “… the doctor smiles at his blinded companion, despite the obvious futility of the gesture…” Dr Iplier sighed, but it was a relaxed sigh this time. “Thank you, by the way. You didn’t have to do that.” “… for the first time today the introspective doctor’s assessment was correct…” said the Host in his familiar monotone. “I mean it,” said the doctor, nudging his folded arms gently, “Do you want a coffee? My treat.” “… nudging his arm. The Host…… He…. The Host does appreciate a latte.” “Consider it done my friend.”

[mintchocolateleaves]

Cost of Freedom: (8/??)

Summary: In which both Kaito and Shinichi avoid asking the questions they really want to know, and ask the less important things instead. Prison ! AU

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"I didn't kill them," Kudo leans his head back, voice hoarse as he closes his eyes. He shudders, a cough building in his chest. "I'm telling the truth, I swear."

Kaito struggles to think - The other could be lying, but the way he whispers is too genuine. Or rather, it sounds genuine, and Kaito doesn't want to overthink it, because how nice would it be if it were true? He decides to believe in the ex-detective, it's too much effort not to.

He smiles to himself, laughs under his breath.

Kudo opens his eyes, glances over at him, at the grin that's wormed it's way onto the thief's face. And he pales, well, most of him does - his neck remains splotchy, red and purple spreading across skin like a child's painting.

"I'm not laughing at you," Kaito says after a moment, his own eyes widening. "I believe you, but... just, what're the chances, you know? What are the chances that they'd arrest the wrong man and-"

He falters.

"We obviously need to talk about this," he continues, "but we also need to get you to the infirmary, okay?"

Kudo waves him away, gives a weak smile and rasps, "I'll be fine. Let's go back to the cell."

He grasps at the wall as he stands up, trying to stand on shaky legs. Kaito catches Kudo when he staggers, lifting one arm to settle around his shoulder, using his other arm to hoist him up.

"Don't be stupid Kudo," he says. The tone is not quite scolding, but it's wrapped with concern, is harsh enough that it lets the other know he won't take any nonsense. "You need to double check that it's nothing internal."

When he opens his mouth to respond, Kudo chokes on air. It hurts to hear - he wonders just how much it hurts Kudo, to feel that. Kaito gives him a look that tells him all his arguments are meaningless and that he'll drag him to the infirmary if he needs to.

Or carry him there, it'll probably be quicker.

"It's probably nothing," Kudo rasps when they're halfway down the corridor.

Kaito scoffs, "sure it isn't. It's not like being strangled is a big issue or anything. Of course not. It's not like this would have any future implications at all."

The other boy scowls, but doesn't protest again. Instead, he leaves Kaito to a sullen silence, letting him muse over what he's learnt. Kudo's going to die - which isn't an option, not if he's innocent. That leads to the question, why is the detective in prison in the first place?

Obviously, he's been framed. But why would anyone make it seem as if he's committed the murder of six people, especially when it's so contradictory to who he is as a person? He used to solve murders for Christ's sake - why would someone want to lead the public into believing he's guilty?

Unless...

No, he'll leave the theory until later, will wait until Kudo tells him what he thinks.

It's not coincidence that Kudo was thrown into prison, so there must be a reason behind it, and who better to tell him then the victim himself.

It's not long before they reach the infirmary. Kaito bundles Kudo inside, passes him over to the nurse and explains that he needs urgent care, right now, and that he should probably stay overnight to monitor his symptoms.

Kudo sends him a glance of disbelief, and only gets a shrug in response. His brows furrow as Kaito leads him over to a spare hospital bed, setting him down and looking at his neck. There are little red pinpoint spots - Petechiae - where fingers have squeezed against skin and worry flares in him, hot and boiling like rage but not quite.

"KID... I... Uh... thank you." Kudo mumbles as he shuffles against the sheets, trying to find a comfortable position. His hands bunch the blankets in his hand, and he looks almost as if he is curling in on himself, even if he's not moved much.

"Kaito."

"Huh?"

Kaito leans forward, trademark grin forcing its way onto his face. He says, "I think we're at the point where you can call me by my name. So... call me Kaito from now on, okay?"

Kudo's go wide. "I-"

"I'll call you Shinichi in return," Kaito continues, nodding to himself and turning around. "So, let's succeed with this escape of ours, alright?"

"Y-yeah."

The nurse decides to keep Shinichi in the infirmary overnight, much like Kaito had thought, just to keep watch and make sure the swelling stops without further injury. She hands him some inflammatory drugs, offering him a smile, before leaving them to focus on other patients.

Kaito stays for as long as he can, sitting against the wall. He thinks of different ways of trying to escape, wonders whether Shinichi's 'contact' would be able to get them floor plans, whether they could get him something better to pick locks with than the hair grips that he keeps hidden in his hair.

"The guard," Kaito says, when he's certain that the nurse is out of hearing range, "what are the limitations on what we can ask for?"

Shinichi leans forward, glancing over at him. His brows furrow and for a moment, he looks the part of the detective he used to be, eyes narrowed in thought. It's almost nice to see, Kaito thinks, regardless of the fact he usually hates law enforcement and detectives.

He should re-evaluate that, he decides. It might be that he simply hates Hakuba and has been assuming all over teenage detectives are as stuck up as he is.

"Can't be metal," Shinichi croaks, pausing to sip at some water. He winces as he swallows, but otherwise, he doesn't seem to be in too much pain, "it's got to be small, nothing that can't fit in his pocket or under any clothes."

"Hmm," Kaito says. If they can't bring in metal, then guards probably need to go through metal detectors every time they enter the prison. It's not odd, he himself has to go through some every time he leaves the west workshop to ensure he doesn't take anything out with him. Not that he has to worry in the evening, when the power is out. "Can he get the prison's building plans to us?"

Shinichi nods, "It shouldn't be too hard."

"Good," Kaito grins, pumps his fist in the air, "and a pencil."

48 days until March the 3rd and Oto-san manages to get them both a pencil and some building plans. During this time, Shinichi somehow talks a guard into bringing him a torch - 'For the evenings, because I just want to read some nights' -  and Kaito doesn't ask how, because he doesn't quite want to know what the other prisoner has done to acquire it.

He spends the day jittery, feeling like they shouldn't be waiting until lights out to look at the plans, even though he knows that they need to make sure the paper doesn't get confiscated.

In the end, he spends more time outside than he should, bouncing with energy. While Shinichi sits and watches him, he practises acrobatics, reminding himself of the time when he spent days practising front walkovers and dive rolls until his muscles are sore and he's certain that he can perform them without any failure, like he used to at heists.

He repeats back walkovers until he's confident that he won't stumble, before grinning over at Shinichi. When he's finished, Kaito collapses beside the other detective, closing his eyes and settling his breathing.

"You did gymnastics when you were younger?" Shinichi asks. He seems more relaxed around Kaito now, which is nice, if not a little odd with the countdown over his head.

Kaito hums, "I always had to much energy, apparently. Gymnastics was meant to wear me out."

Shinichi lets out a dry laugh, "I can't imagine you without all that energy."

"You've seen me without it," Kaito sighs, massaging his hands from stones have pressed against skin. Even the best spots in the yard aren't rock free - he's lucky that he's not cut into his hand. "I mean, after that phone call I had."

He's still not sure, even after a week of wondering, what Aoko had meant, and while he wants to know how to make things right, every time he thinks back on it, it leaves him wallowing in regret and a strange sense of self-pity. He doesn't feel any different when he's acting as KID as opposed to Kaito, and maybe that's the problem, maybe he's just too involved to find any answers.

"...Who did you call?" Shinichi asks, hesitancy clouding each word.

"A friend," Kaito turns his head away, bites on his tongue, "my best friend. She hasn't really taken well to me being KID."

An understatement, Kaito knows. He just doesn't have the words to explain how betrayed Aoko had looked when he'd been dragged away, the ashy pallor of her skin, the way she'd cried that it was another one of KID's tricks as he'd been forced into the police car, despite his cheeks having been pinched for any masks he could have been wearing.

It had been on that night that Kaito had finally understood why people hated silence - because it's never just quiet. Maybe no one had said anything inside the police car but it certainly hadn't been noiseless. His thoughts had exploded, ricochet against every corner of his mind. The had not been a moment in that patrol car where he had not replayed Aoko's cries.

"I don't imagine that it'd be an easy thing to accept." Shinichi says, and Kaito opens his eyes to glance at him, trying to read the emotions across his face - he's been through the same, Kaito knows, except he's lucky enough to have a few people who understand.

Or maybe they don't. He doesn't know.

"She told me that there's a difference between Kaito and KID," Kaito says, sitting up, "but they're both me, and well... I can't see things the same way she does."

Shinichi purses his lips, "some times people see the things they want to see... but it doesn't necessarily make her wrong either."

Yes, because that helps.

"I don't even know why I'm letting it get to me all that much," Kaito sighs, "it's not like I'm going to see her again. As soon as we leave this place, I won't be able to speak to her again - this isn't something I can come back from."

For a moment, none of them speak, then Shinichi says, "maybe that's why you want to know the difference so much, because if you don't figure it out now... you won't afterwards."

Kaito sighs, closes his eyes, and pretends that it's not stressing him out as much as it is. There's so much he wants to do - he wants to figure out what Aoko means, he wants to come up with a daring escape - but most of all, he just wants it to be the evening, so they can read over the building plans and take one step forward to being free.

"I don't know what she wants from me," Kaito says.

Sometimes it feels like there are more questions than answers, that he's unable to interpret anything that's been thrown at him. In the end, the day is not one of beginnings or endings, just a blur of unrest as they trudge through the in between, waiting for their ideas to come to life.