#But ideation is pretty damn normal at this point | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

keilemlucent · 4 years ago

Text

pretty eyes & starshine: i

(NSFW)

hawks | takami keigo x reader

ao3

part i || part ii || part iii

beta’ed: @shadowworks & @keiqos (thank you!! 💞)

word count: ~9.4k

Keigo surrenders to losing himself in the blank-walled, temporary home he inhabits. He finds familiarity in the routine of aches, pains and pills.

You’re his only solace.

warnings: bodily trauma, medical trauma, PTSD, dissociation, suicidal ideation, alcohol as a coping mechanism and graphic description of sustained injury

a/n: oh wow so here it is, big sad fic :’^) part one!! it’s canon divergent from manga chapter 296 onwards.

this one has been a long time coming. please mind the warnings!! this fic deals a lot with trauma and mental illness in tandem. the warnings are going to change with the coming parts, so please be mindful. i don’t wanna get too sappy, but this piece has been my Baby for the past few months, and i’m excited to finally share. that being said, enjoy loves 💞

Everyone is fucked up after the War.

There is no kindness in an aftermath like this one, not so soon, and certainly not with dried blood of old comrades and mud still caking under its metaphorical fingernails. The world was in shambles, and every hero is along with it.

There is something horrifying about being at the center of it all, Hawks, no, Keigo thinks solemnly, all too often.

He’s used to the attention he’s getting, touches and poking and prodding by near strangers. Except, he was used to exclamations of how great and powerful and remarkable he was. Now, all the attention he receives is followed by little sighs and sad, broken eyes.

He’s sure he looks equally as sad; Keigo had been nothing but an empty shell since the War had ended and he’d been carted off to his hospital room. Numb despite all of his burns.

It’s the shock, he tells himself, he’ll snap out of it any day.

Any day.

...

And it is any day.

He wakes up to screaming from the next room over, agonized wails that pierce the air as his morning nurse enters. She’s over-worked and haggard while checking his vitals with a forced smile. They don’t make conversation with him much anymore, and Keigo doesn’t have the energy to try and force it. There isn’t enough in him to pretend that he’s okay enough to banter with folks.

If he still had his wings, he would’ve wrapped himself up tight in the plumage and let himself rot away in some corner. He’d let the dissociated numbness fade, however long it took, and then succumb to whatever psychological wounds revealed themselves.

Waste away, all alone.

But he doesn't have that luxury. He is in an overcrowded hospital with swarms of civilians and heroes, all stuffed in one place because the world doesn’t have the time to differentiate between the wounded, nor the space or resources to give different resources. Though, Keigo is a special case, hence why he’s had healers coming to him for the past three weeks since the War trying to coax his body into genesizing a new pair of wings.

The Commission’s hospital has all the bells-and-whistles that a medical professional could need, but Keigo, and so many others, are facing problems that don’t have good and easy roads to healing.

That’s assuming healing was even possible.

Keigo is convinced, has been convinced, that there is no way to come back from the War, nor the absence on his back, nor the shouts and cries of pain that echo around the hospital like a new genre of music that Keigo so desperately wants to scrub from his brain.

Things change, it’s inevitable. Everyone falls eventually, and he was just used to flying.

It’s a harder descent.

...

Keigo doesn’t meet you on any day, he meets you on a lonely night.

The evenings and early mornings were the most peaceful at the hospital. Most folks, three weeks after the end of it all, had serious enough injuries that they had to be somewhat sedated to sleep, either for physical or mental pain keeping them from sleep.

It’s morose, Keigo thinks, quietly and privately, but he craves those hours. All he hears then is the hum of air vents and beeps of his own medical machinery. None of the audible agony of the folks he was sworn to protect.

He’s slept most of the day, not lucid enough to do much else, and the nurses haven’t been giving him sedatives unless he asked (though he always did.) Without forced quiet, he’s antsy, fingers twitching and flaring the new (and growing) pains rooted in his (empty, isn’t that horrifying—) back.

He rouses himself, adjusting his scratching hospital garb (thin sweats and a cheap crew neck with the back almost entirely cut away). With his IV pole at his side, he resolves to take a few laps and quiet himself, hopefully.

(Keigo would need sedatives, he always did, but it was nice to play pretend that he didn’t. It made things easier for a precious hour or two.)

His laps are usually quick, despite how much his body aches when he walks. So much new, burnt tissue that needed to learn how to move, how to live again, kept him throbbing and gritting his teeth.

Masochism be damned, he keeps at it during his sleepless nights. Physical therapy wasn’t an option when the world was caving in with him at the epicenter.

There’s a common room at the end of the foyer of identical (filled) hospital rooms, just a collection of stuffy, uncomfortable couches that face an aged TV and a wide bay of windows. It’s rarely used, just a formality for when the space of the hospital had regularly hurt victims and heroes. When it wasn’t bearing so much weight.

Sometimes, he would stop to idly regard the mostly barren world around the hospital. Far from the cities, a little hideaway for heroes and their loved ones to heal in privacy. Other than sheer distance, there is a thick, organic shield around the complex. It’s a towering forest, man-planted with identical types of trees in perfect rows.

It’s grim in its predictability.

(When did he get so fucking pensive?)

(Oh yeah, too much time locked in his goddamn skull.)

He hadn’t been planning to have any inner musings that night.

But, that night, he notes that he is not alone.

On one of the hard couches, you sit, with your own IV-pole companion and injuries, an arm carried in a monochromatic sling and set in a hard cast.

You turn to him, blinking wide eyes at him.

There’s a single lamp on, and the light dances in your eyes with its own unexpected rhythm.

Something compels Keigo to smile, cocky, like he used to, and greet you with a little wave, and a finger to his lips.

Your expressions melts, a hand going over your mouth to stifle a giggle.

It’s like you’re pulling him after that, he finds himself resting across from you.

You must look like a pair, he realizes. You’re greasy, he’s greasy. He’s got a fine layer of built-up stubble that shouldn’t be called anything other than impressive peach fuzz (not that Keigo’s seen it, he’s felt it. The idea of looking in a mirror makes him sick to his stomach. Though you don’t have any pseudo-beard, you’ve got your own unkempt look and feel that makes you two kindred without sharing a word.

It feels comfortable, warm.

“Hi,” you speak first, voice soft and gentle. “Can’t sleep?”

“Nah, who can?” Keigo replies, shaking his head. “But what about you? Midnight oil doesn’t burn without a cause, you know.”

Your expression is also painful in the way it’s so open, yet worn (most everyone had locked up by now, the ones in the hospital and Keigo imagined the ones outside of it too.)

“I like the sky— the stars are pretty.” You sigh, wistful. “I watch for shooting stars.”

The thought, the significance of that obvious wanting, makes something pang deep in his chest. Childlike hope in a place like this, foolish as well as frail.

“Trying to get a wish?” Keigo clicked his tongue. “Smart.”

“No, no— wishing doesn’t... suit me, right now.” You snorted, shaking your head, the light in your eyes dancing, “I just think they’re pretty.”

Keigo blinks, unable to stop the way his eyes widen.

Your posture reads nothing but earnestness and vulnerability, so freely given (so undeserved) without a hint of pullback.

“What do you want to be called?”

“... Excuse me?” Keigo is not used to his thoughts being interrupted in the blanket of dark that he feels most comfortable in. Your words shock him enough with their meaning, let alone the way you’re so brazen.

“I, uh,” You stumble on your words. “I know who you are, but I also saw that whole broadcast, which I’m going to easily assume you don’t want to talk about. But, I don’t know how much you want to be called ‘Hawks’ at this point either.”

His mouth is dry.

“So, I ask instead,” You lean forward, your IV line pulling the slightest bit and you wince. His discomfort must be very fucking apparent, because you backtrack in moments. “... Or, neither. I can call you something else, too.”

“... A nickname, for someone you don’t even know?” Keigo, Hawks, whoever he is now struggles with words. There’s too many, and they’re all too fast, and he doesn’t have his wings to catch up to them or outrun them—

“Yeah, why not?” You shrug with a lazy smile. “I’ll call you... pretty eyes. How about that?”

Keigo does have pretty eyes. They’re gold, light and glittering amber in the lowlight. Before he, ya’ know, lost them, and when things were good, but awful, but normal, he darkened the organic marks around his canthi with liquid eyeliner. He liked makeup, prettied himself up and accentuated all the good he had. Preening.

None of that is left, just what organically was on his skin, and he hasn’t seen it in its raw state in years, and like fuck if he was going to look in a mirror just to figure out if his natural eyeliner was half as good as that by his own hand.

“Sure, that works,” He relaxes, mirroring your expression like the practiced... pro he is. “What do I call you, starshine?”

You roll your eyes, but nothing about you fades as you tell him your name, something that calms and fills him, “But, you can call me starshine if you want. Sounds nice.”

It’s sweet.

So, Keigo greets you.

“Nice to meet you, starshine.”

...

That’s the first time you kept each other’s company. Most of it is quiet, you truly do just want to watch the stars. Keigo did with you, tracing the shadows of clouds and moonlight with his eyes.

(Occasionally, his gaze shifts to you, regarding your figure with the same care for only a moment before returning to the sky you both miss.)

Eventually, the quiet heat of it puts him half to sleep, and he bids you goodnight.

You wave goodbye, rising as he away.

The light isn’t in your eyes anymore, and your warmth feels a little too far away.

...

The next days are long.

He slips into that shell-state again, where he’s a husk that stares emptily at the ceiling as the Commission tries to piece him together to a fraction of what he once was.

They fail, each time, because no healer they’ve brought can regenerate quirk-formed appendages, but he commends their efforts all the same. It’s out of desperation, sure, but he’s heard whispers of the new generation. In recalling his own sidekicks, he isn’t as scared for the future.

(Everyone else’s future. He’s so terrified of his own that he turns extra numb if he thinks about it.)

Selfishly, he just wants his wings for himself. They’d keep him plenty company. If he ever did get them back, he’d fly somewhere, faraway and alone to live out his days under his feathers and feel as empty as he wanted.

They fuss over him all day, not knowing those desires. They are private, and he only puts on his old, self-confident bravado so they don’t lock him up somewhere to have his brain picked and to fill the new holes with pill-shaped gauze.

As established, Keigo was content to rot.

(He can’t fully parse all of his feelings and they consume him.)

The healers for the week all failed, doing nothing but making his back bow and burn. It’s painful. Obviously, trying to stitch a body back together, or rather making a body make when it was so tired of creating—

(Feather after feather after feather, for how long?)

He’s glad his sessions are in a different room, a spare, horrifyingly metallic exam room across the hospital. It reeks like iron and isopropyl alcohol, but Keigo doesn’t mind. The filmy paper that rolls from the exam table gets soaked with his sweat as opposed to his familiar bed dressings.

Not to mention, it’s nice, not having to hear his neighbor’s screams and pleadings to God, any god, for reprieve. Calming.

(He feels less guilty. Less like it was his own hand that scarred up their bodies. If he can’t hear them, he only thinks of his own agony under ‘helping’ hands.)

His body is exhausted at the end of each day, and even his restlessness fades with the necessities of his body.

He doesn’t see you, and practically forgets about you.

It’s a week or so later when he takes one of his strolls, and finds you tucked away into your nook, dimly lit and with a blanket over your lap.

Keigo feels it as he nears you, that comfort that your expression bleeds into his very soul. Even as he watches your healthy hand nervously toy with the thin knit in your lap, it doesn’t dim you.

The lamplight dances in your eyes as you nod to him, “Fancy seeing you here, pretty eyes.”

“You’d never know it, but I live just down the hallway— me,” He touches his chest proudly, surprised by his own jest.

You gave a fake gasp, mirroring him easily, “Never knew I had such a well-known soul in my neighborhood. Forgive my transgression.”

Bending at the waist, as much as you can with your right leg extended, straight, you choke on laughter.

Keigo follows you in it, giggling, genuinely giggling, high and light and girlish like he’d never heard from himself before.

He snapped his mouth shut, thickly swallowing and shaking his head.

“No need to be shy,” You assured him with an affectionate turn of the head. “You have a lovely laugh.”

“Now you’re just flirting with me, cute.”

Your head tilted farther, confused, “I’m simply being kind to you.”

Why didn’t he have the snark to reply to that? Probably because he was half-dead and on painkillers for nearly a month. He’d beat himself up about it later, maybe.

There wasn’t an ounce of malice in your tone, just earnestness that tugged at his own insecurities.

You backpedaled. “How was your day?”

Keigo takes a few moments to respond, shaking his head without mind to the way his too-long hair flops in his face.

The banter isn’t forced, but it’s not welcomed yet.

As comfortable as you feel to him, Keigo isn’t comfortable.

“Same old, same old,” Living hell. “Boring, mostly. Painful, but dull. It’s crazy how much hell smells like cheap disinfectant, huh?”

You agree, quietly, “I’m pretty sure there’s many hells in this place.”

Keigo doesn’t know how to respond, so he doesn’t.

You both regard the stars again with growing reverence. Specks of light dance back in your eyes as you both settle into the hard cushions like they were made of goose down and Sherpa.

...

Your conversations are... disjointed, to say the least.

There’s an inability for words and phrases to flow between you. There’s starts and stops, stalls like an engine that putters on tarry oil without ever truly firing. There are good feelings, still, safety in silence before words as you stargaze together through the comfort of a window.

It should feel disarming, to be so far from the sky yet have no way to reach it. And it is, but Keigo can swallow the reality these days. It’s easier when there’s someone on the mend close by, sharing in the discomfort of a rawed mind and the comfort of a yellow-toned fluorescent bulb.

It’s unspoken kinship. Keigo never had time for it in the past, but now it was all he had. There had to be some cruel irony in it (as if there wasn’t enough in his life), but he couldn’t make himself mind.

Everything he’d once excelled at, everything he had was gone. He was barren and stripped (don’t think about it—), exposed to the elements in all the worst ways. At least the hospital was clean and safe, relatively.

It feels safest with you near.

Sure, your conversations were clearly that of two horribly broken people, but that wasn’t new or surprising. It simply was.

“Do you know constellations?” You ask one night, a colder one, where you’ve got two blankets over your lap.

Keigo thought for a moment, “A handful, but I never took to stargazing, you know?”

You don’t relate, just chew your lip, the light of the dim lamp dancing across your irises.

“Can I show you some?”

“...Constellations?”

“What else?” You crack a smile. “Come on, pretty eyes.”

Whatever you’d like, he’d do.

He can’t refuse, he’s already getting weak for you.

Shifting, Keigo joins you on your typical couch for the first time. Your IV poles, thrumming and humming their own rhymes harmonize, quietly and mostly imperceptible.

You regard him even more warmly, so close, a little smile playing on your lips.

“What’s your sign?”

Keigo deadpans, “What?”

“Like... astrology. What’s your sign?”

You wiggle your eyebrows, knowing the double-meaning of your words.

Flirting again.

Since when had he been so bad at it?

“Capricorn,” He huffs back. He keeps his back off the stone-like cushions of the couch— his scarring had been itchy the whole day prior— so itchy—

You tap the plastic-y fabric gap between the two of you, grabbing his attention, “Hey, pretty eyes. Stick with me, let me show you where that one is.”

So, you do.

Your light-filled eyes trace the sky’s nighttime freckles, searching until you find what you’re looking for.

“There,” Your finger raises, tracing the patterns in the air. “That’s Capricorn, can you see?”

Not really, the stars are just a meaningless smatter. If there’s some sort of pattern he’s supposed to find, he comes up with none.

“Not in the slightest,” Keigo rolls his eyes. “Show me again?”

You don’t reply, but rather scoot a bit closer, mirror his hunch and pose with precision and tiny adjustments.

He doesn’t dare to breathe as you carefully grab his arm, extending it. You lay your cheek over his bicep, watching from the closest view to his own that you could.

“Do you see now?”

The only starlight he sees is right in front of him, soft cheek pressed against atrophying muscles. Sharing your heat so graciously as you would so easily come to, you chatter about the stories that are written in the stars, by all cultures, for so long.

Keigo hears, but he’s far more focused on how he wishes you were even closer.

...

After that night, you always share the same couch.

You face forward, right leg always extended and stiff-looking. Keigo doesn’t mind, hardly notices. He faces you, fragile back bandaged and kept away from the unforgiving grit of the uncomfortable couch. It looks a bit uncomfortable, the posing of it all, but with the words flowing easier, neither of you mind.

You keep showing him stars, the constellations you can remember and see in the night sky.

Keigo makes fun and crafts his own, connecting new dots and winding stories about them.

“See those three there?” He guides your hand, close enough to share your breath. “That’s the comb of the chicken. Star comb, if you will.”

You snort, rolling your eyes and pulling your hand from his grip, “There’s no cock in the stars, pretty eyes. Chickens can’t fly anyways.”

You both freeze.

Keigo’s mouth goes dry—

Chicken can’t fly.

As much as you’re both learning to be human again, there isn’t talk of your injuries. Maybe, there’s mutual curiosity (you’ve been here two months. just for a broken arm, why?), but like fuck Keigo wants to broach the subject.

“S-sorry,” you stumble over your words, physically retreating. “Shouldn’t have said that.”

It is a fact, chickens can’t fly, but Keigo isn’t a chicken. He’s a debauched, defamed hero whose home is the same set of a milky white, hospital ward walls. Once, a real hero, before the war, before selling his morals just for a chance at rest, before blue flame— burning—

“Pretty eyes,” Your voice trembles, shaking and lonesome. “Come back here, now. Come on.”

You’re holding his cheeks, unkempt nails pressing (blessedly) a bit too hard into his cheeks. The heat of you is so close, almost scalding him, but he wants more of it, more of the heat that doesn’t burn—

“You’re okay, pretty eyes, s-see?” You hold yourself together, jerking your head to the wide window and glittering stars. “We’re just stargazing.”

Keigo’s has tears leaking down his face, but neither of you acknowledge them. You release him, quietly spinning another tale about a hero hung in the cosmos. He thanks you for it silently by tugging you into his side.

(It was the first night you really touched him.)

(The light in your eyes was so close, he wanted it all for himself.)

...

They’re running out of healers to try.

From the weakest to the strongest quirk, no one could revive his dead wings. There was no root to push from the scar tissue, nor resolve left in Keigo to try and make new pins and feathers sprout.

His back isn’t fertile. It’s just as poisoned as the rest of him.

...

He wonders where you disappear to during the day. He takes his strolls then, too. Waves to nurses these days, not charming, just friendly, trying to make a little brightness.

There’s one day where he asks one of the nurses he knows best for a pair of scissors.

She looks at him, worried, “Don’t tell me we need to put you on psych watch.”

“What? No,” Keigo shakes his head, shaggy hair quivering around the frame of his face. “I just need a bit of a haircut.”

“... We can ask the Commission to bring someone in—”

“I can do it myself.”

She doesn’t argue with the firmness of his voice, rather, she hands him a pair of safety scissors with bright purple handles. They’re for a child, but Keigo’s fine with that. They’d do.

When he was younger, and in a pinch (and so poor he tried to eat grass and lick scraps from metallic packaging of discarded junk food wrappers) he’d cut his hair with his own feathers.

Safety scissors would be even easier.

It did mean that he had to confront his own visage, which he had gotten too good at avoiding.

The bathroom in his room is small, it would’ve been claustrophobic if he was still carrying a twenty-five-foot wingspan.

But, he isn’t. It was just him and the scars on his back that he definitely wasn’t ready to see.

He’s caught glimpses of himself over the past weeks, but nothing substantial. No view that would’ve given himself time to scrutinize over his imperfection.

The dull hospital mirror reveals too much about him. It feels too vulnerable, makes his chest tighten, as he stares himself in his ‘pretty eyes’.

Purple stamps below his eyes, probably not from sleeplessness itself, just the sheer exhaustion of living. The one under his left is an odd maroon color, mixing with the scar that is burned into that half of his face.

The skin was once soft, plump cheeks always tended too and well taken care of by expensive skincare products. Now, it’s charred and gaunt. Healing, but still obviously scarred heavy and deep. The weak beard he’s been growing (accidently) is patchy around the thickened tissue.

It bothers him—

It doesn’t look like him in the mirror.

It helps to take care of himself for the first time in a long while.

He shaves with the cheap foam and single blade razor they’d given him in the toiletries pack the first days he was there, while he was still numbed out and half-dead. The metal glides over his skin, stripping away the numbness just a little. The stubble and cream slide down the drain and away.

His hair is different. The waves had for so long been pushed back and held that way with the winds of his flights. The longer, feathery patches now hang around his face, dangling down and mingling with the too-long sections that curl over his ears and down his neck.

Wetting his hair, he cuts away what he can.

It’s blunt, messy, and not elegant.

All the same, the trim feels good.

Though, his mood goes sour when the screaming starts for the day.

The far wall of the bathroom was shared by him and his shrieking neighbor, and he took great care to never shower when they were singing their awful chorus. It grates on his ears; he should’ve been a bit empathetic to their suffering, but he didn’t care that much. It was so regular, that the screaming that might’ve once sent each one of his feathers (don’t think about, don’t fucking think about it) sharp as the razor in his hand, didn’t bother him in the slightest.

Just a poke at his temple, a jab and a drop of water that irks him more than anything else.

It is a... somewhat pleasant distraction. He can focus more on his fellow patient than his own haggard appearance, the scar, the lack of red at his back—

It’s all okay, ‘okay’, until the patient starts babbling.

“M-make it stop!”

Keigo stills.

A scream tears through the drywall. Even without his wings, it makes him thrum, far-too sensitive.

“Help!” The voice yelps. “HELP!”

There’s a thud and thump from the other room.

“Please, please!”

Keigo’s heart stutters in his chest, and the razor falls from his hand, clattering into the sink.

“MAKE IT STOP!”

It’s you.

It’s your screaming and shrieking that’s burrowed in his ears. It’s your voice that’s trembling in desperation that has him running out of his room, nearly pulling out his IVs as the pole teeters and follows behind him.

Why are you screaming?

Why have you always been screaming?

A nurse is trying to stop him, urging him to settle but he can’t. There's an urgency in his chest he hasn’t felt since back before and he has to heed it. He needs to.

He pulls his forearm from the nurse’s grasp, hissing in his own pain, muscles pulling and aching with disuse but he doesn’t care.

The nurses drag him back from your door, and they almost have him, almost have him on the ground.

And then he smells burning—

Cloth.

Flesh.

And something in him snaps.

He clocks the nearest nurse with a tight fist, ignoring his atrophied muscles and kicking with everything he could muster.

They release him, probably out of shock. (He’d been such a model patient, so complacent and quiet until then.)

Then, he stumbles into your room, and sees you, and wants to die.

...

There’s plenty of times in his life where Keigo felt like an animal. When the Commission first got their hands on him, they took to studying and picking his quirk about to figure out the most efficient way to rebuild it to their needs and uses. Now then, he felt very much like an experiment, only half-human. He was too young to really ‘get’ it, but the feeling persisted.

Sometimes, he felt similarly when he played celebrity. The talk shows, the modeling and media felt hoops he had to jump through just to get a decent night’s sleep. It was an additional job aside from heroics, one he excelled at and entertained him. But that didn’t mean each flash of a camera didn’t suck him dry of a bit of his dignity.

He was sure you had to be feeling similarly.

You’re writhing and arching in your bed, curls of smoke rising from your papery hospital gown. Every machine in your room is screaming with you, bloody and loud and angry—

And scared. Keigo recognized well, and it drove pins into his heart to realize it was you.

It’s even worse when he realizes some part of you is burning.

At your bedside, he freezes.

Nylon straps wrap around your wrist, around your cast, and keep you held tight to the bed. You’re tied down, held to the plastic bed frame as you wretch and scream.

You don’t even notice him.

The smoke rises from your burning hospital gown. He rips it away, tears the burning section away with his shaking hand. It’s crass, and Keigo sees a bit too much. The gauze wrapping your leg below is burning as well, in little veins of char that burns black and smoldering.

Keigo tears it all away, he tears and tears—

And then he sees the wound.

He was trained, once, to see this type of horror and not bat an eye. That training was gone, and all that remained was his starshine with a writhing, molten wound.

Keigo is numb as the nurses drag him back to his room, trying to decide if he prefers the apathy and numbness to injury that his old heroism gave him, or the blinding pain of empathy when someone you... care about is hurt.

He can’t decide which he’d rather suffer with.

...

You appear in the common room a few nights later.

Keigo still takes his walks in the late evening, even if you aren’t there. If anything, he needs them more. He’s restless, always listening for the screams or howls from the next room over. His annoyance towards them was gone, and all that remained was a concern that knotted in the pit of his stomach.

There’s a sigh of relief on his lips when he finds you, nestled into a pile of blankets with your IV pole, watching the stars with sad eyes.

He joins you on your couch, cracking a decent joke that you don’t respond to.

Then, there’s silence.

It’s as loud as the stars are bright. The expanse of sound is filled by the hum of the cold air and distant beeping.

“I’m sorry,” Your voice shakes. “You shouldn’t have seen me like that. It’s not... Easy to look at. Or, I imagine it’s not.”

Keigo wants to rip the apology from your tongue and burn it.

“No, please, it’s alright,” He’s begging too much. “I get it.”

As much as he can, anyways.

You’re quiet again, biting your lip so hard it must be close to breaking skin.

“Can we... talk about things?” You ask, softer. “I can’t keep pretending.”

“...’Pretending’?” Keigo knows, but he selfishly wants to hear you say it.

“Well, you didn’t think I’ve been here for two months for my bum arm, right?” You laugh weakly. “And I’m well-aware that you don’t have wings.”

We just don’t talk about it.

“It’s nicer to look at the stars and pretend everything’s fine,” Keigo lays the statement down and regrets it.

Your fist tightens, jaw clenching.

And there’s more silence.

It’s deafening to Keigo, he wants to speak, scream, but you’re quiet next to him. He can fill voids with his voice so, so easily, yet he turns in on himself.

“I know, it’s all hard,” Tears drip down from your words, though your cheeks remain dry. “I know, but there was a War two months ago, and we’re still holed up in a place like this, and we never talk about why.”

You turn to him, light dancing slowly in your eyes. Your lips part to speak, but no sound comes out.

“... I didn’t want to ask.” Keigo speaks, gaze shifting down to your leg. He questioned why a broken arm would keep you here, but you can’t just ask that. “It’s bad form to ask a stranger about their injuries unnecessarily when they’re traumatized.”

“But we’re not strangers, not anymore.”

Keigo can’t disagree.

...

You had been in a conbini when Gigantomakia tore through your little suburb. It was a few miles away, but the ground shook as if the goliath was just outside the automatic doors.

Your demon was near, though.

It was a man from the PLF who tore into you so badly. Just some random, emboldened civilian who ascribed to Destro’s ideology hard enough to think about taking out his frustrations on ‘weaker-quirked’ individuals.

That meant the young couple getting slushies in the corner, the old man behind the cash register, and you.

(You’d told your roommate you’d be home quick to help her study—)

(Your roommate is dead, under several tons of rubble.)

“The old man died before the heroes even started trying to rescue anyone. The couple was begging each other to hold on, but only one of them lasted. He died within a few weeks of being taken here.”

There was just you.

You’d hardly been touched by the man, the fucking villain, who’d set his mark on you. But it was more than enough to leave a writhing scar.

Keigo asks to see it, and quietly, you oblige him.

You’re in a gown, you always have been. The hem of it is pulled up by your visibility shaking fingers, and slowly reveals the scar in the lowlight of the ever-present lamp. He’d seen it once, but that didn’t change how startling it was.

It’s molten.

The skin is gnarled, twisting and scarred worse than anything Keigo’s ever seen. It was like the gore of a torn flesh was frozen over your right side, from your calf, to your thighs to your pretty hips—

“It goes higher, but that’s not exactly couth to show you,” you joke, but neither of you laugh.

“... It’s not moving anymore?”

“Oh, yeah. It calms down, when it’s dark. Nighttime and all. It stops being so ornery.”

Keigo has a laundry list of questions, but with the expression on your face that just bleeds exhaustion into the air, and the fresh burns from the restraints on your wrists, he keeps quiet.

Maybe, three months ago, he’d jabber on about the injury, try to gode some information out on the villain, profile him, track him and beat the tar out of him for touching you—

But this is the present, and Keigo is a wingless soul. All he has is a prescription for painkillers on a rigid schedule, and the awareness that you both appreciate each other.

Keigo scoots to your uninjured side, lifting his arm up and around your shoulder. It hurts, it fucking hurts, but he doesn’t mind.

You tense for a moment, turning to him with wide eyes, scared like he’s never seen.

Then, you melt into him.

...

Keigo’s busy with healers the week, though none speak his language, literally. They’re international, foreign aid that’s been flown in to try to pick up the disaster of a society that’s been left in the wake of the War and the dissolution of Tartarus.

None of them make progress.

As much as it burns (haha) him to his core, he’s accepting the reality, slowly but surely.

...

Endeavor visits him.

It’s the morning after a particularly sweet night with you. You still sit together in the starlight, though you’ve run out of constellations to show him. It’s less quiet than it used to be, just little banter that flows between the two of you. It feels more genuine than his old bluntness, welcome after so much odd tension when you first started enjoying the heat of each other’s presence and the far-off stars.

You’d taken to spending time together during the day as well... As much as you could. Strapping you to your bed was for your own safety. Your broken arm had snapped the first few days at the hospital because of the severity of your spasms and flares. The nurses keep you wrapped up, but Keigo drags a chair close to your bed and talks to you as much as he can.

It helps you relax.

Though the days fill with tension as you try to negate the inevitability of your molten scar coming to life, nights remain calm.

And so, so sweet.

You’ve taken to tucking into his side, telling him little treasured facts about the cosmos. It’s easier to guide his eyes like that, as your cheek rests over his collarbone.

It lingers with him, the feeling of your casual touch, so tentatively offered and so graciously received.

He traces his own constellations over your gown, mindful of the flesh beneath that heats beneath his palm when he gets too close.

After one of those wonderful, early nights, Enji Todoroki enters his room with all of the gusto one would expect. Which is not very much, but the sheer presence of him is enough to make Keigo quake.

Just like the little boy from Kyushu, Keigo regards him with stars in his eyes.

The hero, not a speck of flame on him (thank god) pulls up a chair near his bed. Keigo sits cross-legged and cocks his head to the side.

“What brings you to my neck of the woods, number one?” Keigo smiles.

“Number fifteen.”

“... What?”

“Since my injuries, I’m mostly on bedrest,” Enji replied, folding his hands on his chin. “I’m number fifteen now, and that number will more than likely just drop. I’m not much of a hero with only one lung. I’m planning to officially retire at the end of the month.”

Keigo’s chest goes tight and it feels like he’s joking. He tosses on a tight smile.

“This is hardly time for a pillar—“

“I’m no pillar. I never was,” Enji sighs, running a hand over his scarred cheek. “The kids can handle this.”

Keigo breaks so easily these days.

“That’s not fair—” He had been tossed into this all too early and god it fucked him up—

“Hawks,” Enji sighed. “There’s hardly anyone left to fight. They’re either dead, missing part of themselves, or gone.”

“So, you’re giving up?”

“If I didn’t, I’d die.”

Coward.

No, just honest and smart.

“Since when are you this selfish?” Keigo’s own words surprise him, but he doesn’t back down. “And this wordy, number one? You’ve changed.”

He spits the last phrase like an insult. He hates himself for it and would hate himself even more for it later.

Enji’s face remains solid and unwavering. The twitch in his brow is the only indication that Keigo’s words were even heard.

“Since we lost, Keigo. Things have changed.”

Keigo knew, of course, but it didn’t stop the anger from rolling his belly.

“Oh, like I don’t fucking know,” If Keigo still had his wings, they would’ve been extended and fluffed, angry as the pinched skin of his forehead.

This was his hero, he couldn’t be giving up too—

“Rest, Hawks,” Enji stand up, “You deserve it.”

Seems Endeavor really died. Enji’s face is worn, his expression neutral and jaw slack. He looks hollowed out and empty, not an ounce or morsel of fight left in him, even for a flightless bird in need of some encouragement.

There’s more to be said, but Keigo’s too angry to listen and Enji doesn’t have the energy to try.

Whatever news the old hero had come to bring was left undelivered.

...

You settle together the next few nights, both so damn tired, even though you’ve done nothing other than lay around a hospital for so-many weeks.

The air always vibrates between the two of you, that comfortable warmth shared between mingling breath and senses. Light dances in your eyes, twisting and bouncing like something otherworldly.

(Maybe it is.)

Your fingers lace together, held in Keigo’s lap. You trace the others hand in relaxing little lines and shapes, trying to soothe each other’s wounds, always.

“One of the doctors said the scar might start shrinking,” You break the tender silence, nosing into his jaw in the same way an affectionate cat would. “They’re not entirely sure, but it’s been stable for a few days.”

Keigo’s feathery (don’t think about it) eyebrows shot up, “That’s amazing, and there’s only a few spasms this week, too.”

(He kept good tabs on you, he had to.)

You hummed in agreement, a sad smile playing on your lips as it so often did.

With a quick blink, the light bouncing in your eyes faded, and the world felt a bit colder.

“I don’t know what I’m gonna do when I get out of here,” You pressed closer to him. “There’s shelters, and some cities are taking refugees, but I don’t—”

Your jaw clicks shut, brow furrowed and mood soured.

(Keigo, mind you, is still focusing on the lack of light in your eyes and the chill of the air in the room.)

Something stirs, deep in his gut, but he doesn’t say anything. How Keigo used to have such a mouth, he didn’t know. These days, all he can is act, like somehow the loss of his wings came with the loss of his tongue.

Tugging you by the waist, mindful of the tender scar, he pulls you close, internally resolving.

...

She, the main Suit, visits him.

(It’s his last visitor at the hospital.)

There are no trumpeters, guards, or the like. It’s just the haggard president, matching Keigo with his dark circles and creased with new wrinkles and far-more grey sections in her slicked back hair.

The air stands still as she pulls up a chair, burying her head in her hands.

She, the Main Suit, has never been one to inquire as to how he is. Many of the others at the Commission were sweet, kind to him in youth, but she was all business.

Some things never change.

She breaks the silence of the room, “... do you want to be done, Hawks?”

The cords in his chest tighten, gaze going sharper.

He doesn’t answer.

They meet each other’s gazes; twenty years of fucked-up emotion being shared between the pair of them.

“We’ve done everything. Every healer, every quirk, every treatment, conventional or otherwise,” she’s too soft. “There’s nothing left to try.”

He knew that, he had to know that, right?

His throat feels sticky as he swallows down bile, the scars on his back burning anew. It’s somatic, it has to be, but his flesh crawls and writhes just like yours. His starshine. He hates the way his mind is racing, just as fast as it always has, but his body lacks the ability to keep up.

He grounds himself in the thought of you, his starshine. Your body. Your heat.

His narrow pupils refocus on the light tremble in her shoulders.

“I’m being honest, so I’ll ask again,” She meets his gaze, grey eyes as soulless and full as ever. “Do you want to be done?”

“Well, obviously I can't fight—”

“I mean it. All of it, Hawks. Maybe a few media appearances, but all this... shit. You’ve done enough.”

You’ve done enough.

The words bounce around in his skull.

“Do you want to be done?”

Done with being a hero.

That’s all he’d ever been, right? That is him, he is Hawks, for fuck’s sake, no one other than Dabi (may he rot and die and immolate in hell) even called him his actual name in years.

Keigo is Hawks.

His mouth is dry, and he tries to ignore the tears pricking his eyes. He’s not sure why he’s beginning to cry, and definitely not sure why tension is draining from his shoulders as he sighs out an answer.

“I’ll be done.”

You’ve done enough.

...

Hospital beds are a hot commodity, and now that Keigo had thrown in the towel (along with everyone else) to stop trying with his wings, he was to be discharged within a few days.

(“Just a few more days to adjust your body to your new medications—”)

He’d stopped listening after that.

...

Your last night together is so bittersweet, you taste it on each other’s tongues.

You have an episode early in the day. Your screaming wakes the floor, the burning smell of flesh cementing that it was you.

Keigo’s only half-lucid when he shoves into your room, holding your hands while nurses desperately try to administer pain medication.

It’s too much for you, the crawling edges of the scar once again consuming you in the molten, glowing amber veins of heat that tore through you so terribly.

You sleep the day away. Keigo stays with you for much of it, stroking the bones in the back of your hands.

...

He fucks you for the first time, that night.

His own IVs have been removed, he’s to be discharged first thing in the morning—

And he wants one more night of stargazing, please, please—

(Why’s he clutching at you so dearly?)

But you’re not in the common room.

Rather, you’re under a few thin blankets, eyes tired and lightless. Your arm is out of its cast, laying over the bed clothes. It scares him shitless at first as he tentatively enters. It’s you though, and the moment you see him, it’s like a flame, a good one, heats the room full and wide. A few specks of light dance in between your irises as your skin crinkles in a gentle smile.

You both know he’s leaving tomorrow.

The knowledge settles in the room like a weight that neither of you can move. So, Keigo takes to it and does what he can.

As opposed to his normal perch next to his bed, he sits beside you, removing the restraints on your wrists and helping you to sit up.

Keigo fishes around in his pocket, pulling out a folded square of paper and placing it at your bedside. It’s his phone number, an odd detail. Relationships usually shared far-earlier.

But there is nothing linear or normal about the two of you, or the situation you both sit and stewed in.

You both are making peace with it at your own pace.

The bed creaks as you move to sit beside him, legs dangling from the bed. There’s gooseflesh beneath your gown, the boring pattern obscured by the darkness of the room, but the molten lines of the scar ever-visible.

“I’m glad you’re getting out of here.”

But I wish that you weren’t leaving.

His hand finds your waist, careful like he always is, but so giving in the same breath.

“I am too. It’ll be nice to be.”

But I’m going to miss you.

It’s inherent, and has been forever. Since the moment you both stargazed in the common room and watched the worlds high above twist and shine without regard to your own hells, you’ve been ensnared in the other and neither of you have a want or need to let go.

Even with the inevitably of progress.

Keigo drowns in these thoughts, and has been since Endeavor visited and he was reminded of the harsh reality just outside of their tree-ringed prison. The reality he has to return to—

He presses his lips to yours, more desperate and needy than he had before.

Keigo had taken his share of you before, little pecks and the rub of the bridge of his nose over your jaw and cheeks. He had been a bit greedier with his hands, uncaring of the eyes of the night nurses when he’d touched you in the common room.

But he’s insatiable that last night.

The sheets of the plastic bed are too scratchy, they’re too harsh for you, and it burns Keigo to his core as he lowers you down. He cradles what he can, as your fingers latch onto his clothes (real clothes) and tug him as close as you can get.

The machines in your room cry, but they’re forgotten.

You nip at his bottom lip, dragging yours across his clean-shaven jaw before laying into his neck with kiss after kiss. His muscles shake, holding him over you, both of you atrophied but uncaring.

You suck a deep, throbbing bruise on the fragile skin of his neck. It’s something dark that won’t fade for a week. The thought stirs something in his chest, a white-hot feeling that wants to crack his ribs and consume him. He doesn’t give in, he can’t—

“Stay with me, pretty eyes,” you whisper, so sweet and gentle as you push floppy strands of hair from his face. “Stay here, just for a little while longer.”

The reminder jolts him back, back to you, and the way your body (so tired, but unwavering) jumps and rolls under his touch. He’s a glutton for attention, always has been, but your particular brand and sounds keep pulse hot and hard.

Shaky fingers pull his shirt over his head, sweaty palms push the gown over your hips. By the starlight, you’re both seeing too much of each other, but this is a goodbye, there’s no time to dwell on the discomfort.

Keigo tries to be careful as he adjusts your legs, tries to be mindful of the raw skin and flesh that makes you whine and half-writhe. You clutch at him, still trying to pull him closer despite the proximity and heat, like you need him as opposed to just wanting him.

There’s no fanfare in it, just more rushed kisses and the swirling of fingertips over covered clit. You catch each other’s gasps in the mingling of breaths you share. It’s choking, suffocating, yet entirely not enough. You beg, quietly, for more. Your fingers latch onto his wrist and urge him to help pull your panties off and away.

More, more, more.

By the time he slides into you, you're still tense, but so is he, and in a pile of tension and fear and wishful-thinking, you both come undone, and undone, and undone—

...

Keigo leaves the next morning.

The press is there, flash bulbs blinding him after so long with just fluorescents and starlight. He manages an easy wave or two, no autographs or gleaming smiles, just business and numbness that he needed to hold onto, so he didn’t fucking break.

He slips into the Commission’s car and leaves behind the hospital, you, and its wall of man-laid greenery and prays to forget it all quickly. He has enough to mourn.

...

Keigo wants to off himself when he arrives back at his penthouse.

How can he not?

His ‘home’ (if he couldn’t even call it that) is a dusty, time capsule of everything before. Before he got fucked up with the League, before the PLF, before the war, before Jin—

Every untouched bit of his life from when it was a few, precious fractions better stands unturned. A discarded jacket, wing slits visible and frayed. Scattered dead feathers that make his skin crawl. Memorabilia too, old merchandise that he never cared much about, but he definitely didn’t need to be seeing it now that ‘Hawks’ had burned up and died.

All disgusting reminders.

Something burning fills the base of his skull when his gaze fixates on one of the old plumes. He reaches out to touch the spine of it, instinctually expecting a little jolt of feeling from it, like he always had.

But there’s nothing. It’s dead, decaying, and so is he.

The reality of it breaks him, quick, hard and hot. He burns alive a second time.

He clears the liquor cabinet while blaring music from his over-priced stereo system loud enough to make his ears ache and throb. The music isn’t drowning anything out, but it’s better to pretend.

He finds a bottle of old pills and downs them with a few swigs of expensive whiskey and lets go.

...

When he comes to, he’s staring into a smashed mirror, with his own nails crusted in blood from thin welts in the skin of the scar on his face.

Much to his chagrin, he hasn’t forgotten anything. The memories of blue flames, red feathers, and the smell of your skin mixed with isopropyl alcohol feel brighter than ever. He grounds on them as he sobers up, latching onto the pain of his scar tissue and the solace you gave.

And won’t ever give him again.

Something in him wilts as he defeatedly goes to his phone, arranging any number of things to get him the fuck out.

...

The penthouse is sold, his more important belongings gathered in bland boxes.

And he leaves. There’s no sentiment holding him there, not anymore.

Fukuoka is gone and some distant memory as he drives (yes, he forgot that he had that skill) him and his things to his new home.

His penthouse had been immaculate. Crisp interior design, new shapes and colors that were on trend. He was hardly home to appreciate the modern beauty of it, but he’d received enough compliments from random hookups to know that it landed aesthetically.

But honestly?

Who the fuck cared?

His penthouse had been sold to the highest bidder and far behind as he arrives at his new, high home in the sleekness of his far-too fancy, disused car.

...

He gets a call from an unknown number, another one, on some snowy day, deep in winter.

Keigo debates answering it. He almost lets it slip to voicemail. The only calls worth answering are the handful from the Commission that he has to heed, or the odd one from Rumi, Fuyumi, and on occasion, Endeavor.

Not random numbers, he has no patience for it.

Yet, he answers it lazily.

“Washed up hero, how can I help you?”

“P-Pretty eyes?”

His heart stutters in his chest, he swears—

“Starshine?” He sounds breathless, the air leached from his chest as he white-knuckles his thighs.

He’d given up on you contacting him, yet there you were, or at least your voice, mechanical and high bouncing around preciously in the walls of the cabin

There’s a moment of silence, nearly, just your light breathing that receiver picks up.

Your voice trembles when you break it, “Y-yeah, it’s me, I’m sorry it’s taken me so long to call—”

You don’t need to be sorry; he would wait for you forever, and then some.

“I d-don’t actually have a phone? Mine got trashed, uh, back then. I’m on the hospital’s line.”

Keigo hadn’t really considered that, he’s slipped the paper with his number on your bedside without a thought.

How much had you lost?

“No worries, chickadee,” Keigo is sure his smile is audible. “Why call now? Miss me too much?”

He had no idea.

You laugh, though it soured as you spoke, “I get discharged tomorrow.”

Keigo’s heart seizes again and he’s sure he’s going to go into cardiac arrest.

“The guy who gave me the scar and all? He fucked up a few other people, word eventually got here. Once the scar stops... glowing, it rests. If you make it until then, you’re good.”

And alive.

“The whole injury is stable, has been for a week now,” Surprisingly, there’s no relief in your voice. “They need my bed, so they’re releasing me.”

No, no, no.

Where will you go?

Keigo doesn’t say it, but the question hangs in the air and is quickly answered.

“They got me a spot in one of the shelters close by... It’s only a couple hours by train!” You try to sound happy, but it’s so hollow and unnatural; it makes Keigo physically sit up.

No, no, no.

That won’t do.

“... What won’t do?”

Keigo hadn’t realized he’d said it out loud.

Something is buried in his chest, something warm and molten, like the old veins of your scar, just kinder and better. It’s full of urges, so seldom used, selectively as needed throughout his career as a hero.

The need to keep something precious safe.

The thing hasn’t thrashed in months.

Yet now? It’s practically screaming.

“Pretty eyes?” You sound scared through the phone. “A-Are you alright? I can call back—”

“No, don’t, do not.” Keigo lets the flame fill his chest, welcoming it. “You’re not going to that shelter.”

He has something to protect.

“I don’t have another choice—”

Someone.

“You do.” Keigo keeps his voice even, the muscles in his back writhing. If he still had his wings, they’d be puffed out and large. Impassioned with feeling he finally let breath between his ribs. “I’ll come get you, tomorrow.”

“... P-Pardon?”

He doesn’t hesitate, and for a moment, he starts to feel like his old self.

“Come home with me, starshine.”

++++++

thank you for reading, hope you enjoyed!! 💗

look out for parts 2 and 3!!!💞

ko-fi

#salem writes #hawks x reader #hawks #takami keigo #takami keigo x reader #hawks x you #takami keigo x you #hawks fanfic #hawks imagines #my hero academia #mha x reader #anyways tag wall #enjoy loves #smorch

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before-we-get-started · 4 years ago

Text

Dream Come True

Colin Shea x O/C Corinne MacAdam

Multi-Chapter Story - Complete

Summary: Colin Shea and his band Rock the Cradle are finally making it big - until something unexpected happens. When he meets a girl that makes him reconsider his player ways, he thinks his life may be coming together, until she blows it apart.

Warning: Bad language, smut, suicidal ideations - no one under 18, please

Disclaimer: This is a pure work of fiction and classified as 18+. Please do not read if you are underage. I do not own the character of Colin Shea; the rest are my original characters. By reading beyond this point, you understand the disclaimers as posted.

Chapter Seven

Cori and Seth fell into a very comfortable rhythm, meeting for dinner, going for walks, catching an art exhibit, getting coffee. He was great company and she felt truly at ease with him.

Her job was starting to pick up. Ms. Robbins was ready to start entertaining. Cori found a confidence she didn’t have when she started, and she credited it to her rebirth – new place, new job, new boyfriend. She felt better about herself than she had in months.

In the meantime, Colin’s life was about the same. Lots of gigs with the band, lots of girls, but the one he wanted was out of reach. He and Cori had spent a few evenings together, a couple of times on the rooftop when he was writing songs. She’d giggled at some of his lyrics until he got them straightened out. The problem was, all she wanted to talk about was Seth. He was amazing. He was great. He was outstanding. He was smart. Colin hated him. He was everything Colin wasn’t or ever would be. He was established and well educated and a grown up, all the things that Colin wasn’t.

One evening when she’d invited him for pizza, they watched the Red Sox game on TV and started talking about when they were in high school. Then Cori shared a couple of college stories, but her mood took a turn and she wasn’t so talkative.

“Ok Debbie Downer, what just happened? I was telling you about how I got taped to the top of a flagpole for high school football initiation and then suddenly, you tell me about college and you’re quiet. What’s up?”

She looked so cute tonight. She had on jean cut-offs and a pink sleeveless button up blouse that tied at the bottom, cut low to show the swell of her breasts and with just enough skin visible around the waist that Colin had to shift a couple of times to get comfy on the couch. Her hair was pulled back with a few tendrils hanging down. She had a smattering of freckles across her nose from being in the sun and her eyes were particularly gorgeous. He kept looking at her from the top of her head to the sweet pink toenails on her bare feet and each time, his breath would hitch in his throat.

“I told you about my fiancée, right?”

“Yeah,” he said sadly.

“Well I started seeing him my senior year of high school and we stayed together during college, even though we went to different schools.”

Colin took a swig of beer. “I think I know where this is going,” he said.

“Yeah. He cheated on me. Of course I thought it was the end of the world, except I didn’t even know what that was yet.”

“That’s tough,” said Colin and she let out a laugh.

“Colin. Seriously. For you, it’s incomprehensible. I know you probably think it was stupid that we even tried to stay together.”

He looked a little hurt. “Hey, I respect people that want a relationship. I think it’s hard at that age, with all that temptation, but I know it can be done. Would it be my choice? Hell no. But it meant something to you. So what happened?”

“I was pretty devastated, but he was very remorseful. He came all the way to see me at my school and apologized profusely. He told me it would never happen again. It took a while but I took him back and eventually, I trusted him again.”

“You must have felt like he was worth giving another chance,” he said.

She sighed. “I thought he was, the best. When we graduated, we got engaged. I could see all of it – the wedding, the house with the white picket fence with kids running around. He and I were so compatible.” Her voice dropped off at the end.

He hesitated. “Do you want to talk about the rest? You don’t have to –“

“No, it’s ok. We had our rehearsal dinner at the hotel where we were getting married on Friday night. We parted for the night and wouldn’t see each other until I walked down the aisle. As I was leaving the bar, I noticed he’d left his credit card. I took it up to his room, excited that we’d get one more kiss. I was so stupid.” She felt the tears coming.

He could see it too. He moved toward the couch to try and get closer to her. “It’s ok,” he said softly. “We can stop.”

“No,” she said a little sob escaping. She took a deep breath and sighed. “I caught him in bed my very best friend. And when everything was said and done, he’d had girls all along. He’d never been faithful to me, not even in high school.” She wiped a tear away from her eye.

He was suddenly overwhelmed by feelings – rage at this guy for hurting her, sadness because she was sad, protectiveness because he didn’t want her to hurt anymore. Her tears truly broke his heart. He knelt down in front of her chair and started to put his arms around her, until there was a knock at the door.

“Great,” she muttered, wiping her eyes. She stood up and made her way to the door, gathering herself as she went. She looked through the peephole and let out a little squeal, opening the door. “Seth! You said you wouldn’t be back until tomorrow!”

He swept her up in a hug, lifting her off the ground, then planted a soft kiss to her lips. “I got an earlier flight. I didn’t want to be away from you a second longer than I had to be.” He kissed her again, this time more deeply and urgently.

Colin suddenly felt incredibly conspicuous. He stood up, dropping his beer bottle in the trash can. Seth eyed him over Cori’s shoulder.

“Hey Seth,” he said with a half smile.

“Colin, hey,” he said.

“Well, I’m gonna get out of here so you two can enjoy the night.” Colin stepped around them and walked out the door as Seth lifted Cori again, kissing her as he shut the door behind them. He stood there for just a second. It was jealousy this time, but there was something else – longing, maybe. He was really smitten with her. In fact, if he was really honest, he was falling in love with her.

This was dangerous territory. Time to take evasive action. He ducked into his apartment and changed, then headed to the bar down the block. Time to find a companion for the night, to make him forget that he wasn’t going to be with the girl he really wanted.

“Colin, you guys have to do this.” Cori was pacing around her apartment, talking with her hands, full of energy.

“I don’t know. It’s not what we normally do.”

“It’s a great way to get your name out to people who wouldn’t normally go to Rap’s or some of the other places you play. And it’s really good money.”

He was leaning against her kitchen counter, beer bottle in hand, the other rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah, but this is different. This is a big, stuffy old people event.”

She leveled him with a look. “It is not,” she said. “My job is to broaden the net for her fundraising. She has plenty of big stuffy events for old people. She has to widen her demographic. She says if they’re having fun, they’ll donate. I know lots of young people feel like they are a charity, but it’s my job to bring them in so we can teach them about our foundation.”

He shook his head and sighed. “I don’t make any decisions for the band, we do it as a group. I’ll ask them.”

“Make sure you tell them how much she’s paying,” she said with a smile.

“That’s what worries me. I know they’ll say yes.”

“Why is that so awful?”

“It’s not awful, it’s just – I don’t know, I never pictured us being that kind of band.”

“The kind that makes money?”

He shot her a look. “No,” he said forcefully, “a band that kind of sells out and plays just stuffy events.”

She crossed her arms and gave him an angry look. “Colin. Are you crazy? The biggest names in music play private events all the time. One of the attorneys at Seth’s firm just paid huge money for Maroon 5 to play his daughter’s 16th birthday party. You think Adam Levine was like, ‘oh man, I’m compromising my principles.’ No, he took the money and probably even said thank you.”

He smiled a little, he knew when he was beaten. “Fine. Give me all the details and I’ll talk to them at practice.”

“Great!” she squealed. “You guys are so hot right now, getting you at an exclusive event will be huge. And the venue is so awesome. I promise we’ll take good care of all of you.”

He smiled, trying to hide the fact he’d love to work with her. “Oh, hey, I meant to tell you – Rap’s is closing early Wednesday for an employee appreciation and we’re going to play a set. I thought you might want to come, it won’t be so crowded and crazy.”

“Mm,” she said, taking a sip from her water bottle. “Thanks, let me check with Seth and I’ll let you know.”

“Oh, the invite is just for you. Since it’s employee appreciation, they told us we could each ask one person.”

“Wow,” she said, “I’m your plus one? I’m moving up in the world!”

“Damn right,” he said confidently and they both laughed.

“Alright, count me in. I’d love to come.”

He felt a swell of excitement – he loved every minute he spent with her. He was lucky her boyfriend didn’t mind him hanging around as much as he did. Some guys would get all possessive, but Seth seemed fine with it. Thank goodness.

“Alright, I’m out of here. And thanks for including us in the benefit. I don’t think I even bothered to thank you before I went full diva.”

She laughed, a sound he had come to love. “Well, if you’d said no, it was on to U2. I’m sure they wouldn’t mind being sloppy seconds to Rock the Cradle.”

He grabbed his left pec, laughing heartily. “Bono should be so lucky.”

For just a second, he had an impulse to kiss her. She looked so good, he loved that he made her smile so much. But he stopped himself – he had to do this right or he’d blow it.

“Ok, see ya later gator.”

“Bye,” she said seeing him out the door. As she closed it, she thought how crazy it was that she’d ever been interested in him. She’d always have a thing for him, but he’d never see her the way he saw the swarms of girls that were all over him at a gig, or the ones that nuzzled up to him at parties or the ones that were lucky enough to enjoy a sunrise with him. He’d always be out of reach for her. She was lucky that Seth had come along when he did or she’d spend a lot of nights staring through the peephole, wishing she was with 6A.

On Wednesday, she worked a little late so she went straight from work to Rap’s. The doors were locked and a guy was posted with a guest list. He opened up, saw her name on the list and let her in. He directed her to the green room where the band was prepping.

She came to the door and knocked softly. “The groupies are here!” someone shouted from inside and they all hooped and cheered. The door was opened by a guy she recognized as the drummer. She shoved her hand at him. “Oh man, it’s just Cori.”

She giggled. “Sorry to disappoint you!”

“If you’re looking for Colin, he’s in the bathroom squeezing into his leather pants. He’ll be out in a minute.”

She laughed as he led her to a table with some food and drinks.

“Help yourself,” he said.

“Thanks!” She grabbed some veggies and fruit and a bottle of water and found a chair by Kevin. The other guys were coming and going, getting ready.

“So,” she said, “is it good to be back at it and so busy?”

“Yeah,” he said. “There was a time I wondered if we’d get back but we did.”

“Yeah, Colin told me,” she said.

He looked surprised. “Wow, he must really like you. He never really said much to anyone. I just wish I could find out what really happened with him. Something he just doesn’t want to talk about.”

Cori knew he thought she knew more than she did, so she played along. “Yeah, just crazy. Thank goodness he was ok.”

“Oh yeah, he took a really hard hit. I was terrified. I thought, here we were playing hoops like we always do, and in just a second, he was flat on his back not breathing. Leave it to Colin’s dumb ass to die while he’s showing off a killer dunk.”

Cori’s breath caught in her throat. She tried not to show her surprise.

“We were lucky someone knew CPR. He was so upset we missed the meeting with the record company. Between recovering from being hurt, having a horrible concussion and missing out on that opportunity, he was so down. Colin is never down, but he was almost too far to reach.”

For a second she felt guilty – she’d wondered if it was drug or alcohol related. How could she have thought that about him?

“Good news is here we are, back in the swing. I hear you got us a high-end gig.”

“What? Oh yes, did you all discuss?”

Kevin let out a laugh. “There’s nothing to discuss! It’s great money and exposure, we’re doing it.”

“Oh good! I’m so glad,” she said, still reeling inside about what Kevin had told her. Just then, her golden rock god emerged from the bathroom. He was truly born to front a rock band. When he saw her, he broke into the most beautiful smile. She felt that pull of desire in her belly, but tried to look as normal as possible.

“You made it,” he said.

“Of course!”

Someone stuck their head in the door behind him – “five minutes.”

“That’s my cue. Have a great show, break a leg or whatever you say to a band.” She giggled.

“Thanks Cori.”

She made her way to her seat and sat through an incredible set. All the bar’s employees were having a ball, dancing in front of the stage and partying. She nursed a drink and spent her time watching him. He was so beautiful. He had a good voice, not the greatest but no one would ever notice because his stage presence was incredible. He had the crowd in the palm of his hand.

When it ended and the lights came up, the crowd swarmed the stage. The band’s guests emptied out of their tables and climbed up, hugging their significant others and chatting with the crowd. Just as Cori was about to walk towards the stage, a tall, dark haired girl strode in. Cori stopped and looked at her. She was breathtakingly gorgeous. Long legs in a short skirt, crop top that showed off her tanned skin, her hair perfect, large gold earrings dangling from her ears. She had on designer high heels and as she walked by, Cori caught a whiff of what she was sure was expensive perfume. She walked right up to the stage and looked at Colin, and he froze for a second, then reached down for her hand and pulled her up. She wound her arms around his neck, leaning in to say something to him and then laid a kiss on him that was pure fire.

Cori suddenly felt out of place and was grateful she had a clear shot at the door. She left quietly, no one any the wiser. She walked the few blocks home, locked the door and went in to prep for bed. She looked at herself in the mirror. She’d come straight from work so her cardigan and skirt weren’t cool at all. She looked frumpy compared to the glamour that Colin was kissing on stage. Her phone rang.

“Hey baby,” she said to Seth.

“Hey, you’re home.”

“Yeah, I left soon as the band finished.”

“I figured they’d have a big party after.”

She thought about the great time Colin was having with the gorgeous girl. “Nope, no party, just came home.”

“Aw, well I’m glad you’re home safe. We’re still on for Friday, right?”

“Yes! I’m so excited, I can’t believe you got us a table at Basile. You’re the best.”

“I fly in about 7 and I’ll head straight from the airport, should be there by 8 no problem.”

“Great, I can’t wait.”

They said their goodbyes and Cori pulled on a sleep shirt and crawled into bed. The last thing she thought about was her sexy rocker neighbor and how no matter how much she wanted him, she could never have him, not even a little of him.

Colin kept an eye on Cori as soon as the band finished. He wanted to sweep her up and spend the rest of the evening with her. When Claire suddenly appeared in front of the stage, he couldn’t believe it. She’d appeared just as instantly as she’d disappeared from his life. She was the one he thought might be for good, and he’d allowed himself to fall hard for her. Then, just like that, she was gone. He’d awoke one morning to find a note next to the bed. No explanation, just “Thanks,” and she was gone. Now, here she was again, and her timing was horrible. He looked up just in time to see Cori slip out the front door.

He stayed for the party, Claire catching him up on her travels and telling him she’d missed him and just had to see him. She saw on the internet that they were playing at Rap’s tonight and even though it was a private party, she talked her way in (she was used to always getting her way). He drank too much and took her back to his apartment. He didn’t know that across the hall, 6C couldn’t sleep and was up when she heard voices. She’d peered through the peephole at them, Colin’s hands all over Claire as he fumbled with the door, where they’d fallen into 6A and closed the door behind them. Knowing he was home safe, Cori crawled back in bed and finally fell asleep.

The next morning, Ms. Robbins had an early appointment and told her not to come in until 11. She’d made up for the sleep she lost the night before and was stepping out the door when Colin appeared at his door.

“Hey,” she said.

He hesitated, then “Hey.”

“You guys were great last night.”

“Thanks. Hey – I need a favor, a big one. Can I come over?”

She looked at her watch. “Sure, I’m going in late today, I have plenty of time.”

He walked into her apartment clad in only his boxers and laid down on the couch, arm behind his head.

“What are you doing?” she said with a laugh.

“Waiting.”

“On what?”

“For Claire to leave.”

Cori looked perplexed. “Wait – why don’t you just ask her to leave?”

“She’s not awake yet.” He said all of this as if it was perfectly normal.

“So wake her up.”

“Well, we were up pretty late, I wanted to let her sleep. But I don’t want to be there, I just want her to go.”

She thought about this for a minute. “Why?”

He sat up on the couch and pulled a throw pillow over his crotch, resting his arms on it. “Remember when I told you there was one girl I thought was the one?”

“Yeah.”

“That’s her.”

Cori raised her eyebrows. “I understand. She’s stunning.”

“Yeah, and she knows it,” he grumbled. “She’s the worst. The whole time we were together last night, all I could think was how she’d unceremoniously dumped me, never called or texted, then just showed up last night. Like everything was fine.”

She sat down on the chair. “A normal person would’ve said, ‘hey Claire, I was really disappointed in how it ended and I don’t want to be with you anymore.’”

He thought about that for a minute. “I mean, maybe. That never entered my mind. She looked really good last night and we had a few beers, probably too many. But that’s it, I’m done.”

Cori shook her head, processing all he’d said. “So let me get this straight. You really, really liked her, she broke your heart and dumped you on your ass, you don’t hear from her for a long time, she shows up out of nowhere and now you want her to disappear without saying a word to her.”

“Yep,” he said, popping the ‘p’.

“But she was ok to fuck last night.”

Colin flinched at the words. He’d never heard Cori use any language like that. “Jeez Cori, where did that come from?”

“It came from someone that got dumped by an asshole who also wanted to come back – again – but I had enough dignity to tell him to go fuck himself instead of setting myself up again.” She could feel the color rise in her face.

“Look,” said Colin, “I think these are two different situations. I never thought about marrying her or anything, I just really liked her.”

“So that’s what ‘the one’ means to you? Someone worth fucking more than once?” Cori could feel her temper spiraling out of control, but she wasn’t completely sure why and she was flying without a net.

He looked down at the floor, then back at her. “I’m sorry if you’re offended –“

“I guess I’m offended that she treats you like shit, shows up out of nowhere, jumps on stage with you and you bring her home and can’t get enough of her. I saw you when you were trying to get in the door while you were attached to each other. So she’s worth another shag even though she treats you like shit and I’m not worth fucking at all. I can’t believe I’ve actually been comparing myself to these girls you sleep with. How stupid am I?”

He was speechless. What did she just say?

“Cori, hold on a minute –“

“No,” she said, standing up. “You need to go. Go across the hall and grow the fuck up. If you don’t want her there, tell her. I’m not letting you hide over here. I’m just another girl for you to use. I guess I should be happy, at least I get to see you once in a while. As soon as we sleep together, you’d disappear. I’m lucky that I have a mature boyfriend who respects women and doesn’t just see them as a good time. You’re no better than my ex.”

He swallowed slowly, not sure what to say. He couldn’t believe what he was hearing. She did have feelings for him. He didn’t think that was possible. How could she, she was way too good for him. On the down side, she was comparing him to the ex that cheated on her with her best friend. Not great.

“I mean it. Go. Get out of here. Just go.”

He stood up from the couch and hesitated in front of her.

“Go,” she said with venom in her voice. He did as she said.

Cori was so hot, she started fanning herself. Her fists were balled up and she was grinding her teeth. She looked at her watch and saw that she’d better head out or she’d be late. She made sure through the peephole that Colin wasn’t around and hurried out and down the stairs.

#chris evans #chris evans fanfic #chris evans fanfiction #chris evans angst #what's your number #dream come true #comics #colin shea fanfic #colin shea fanfiction #colin shea x ofc #colin shea x original fictional character #what's your number fanfic #what's your number fanfiction

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occasionalrpmemes · 4 years ago

Text

Will Wood: the Normal Album Sentence Starters

lines taken from the 2020 album. edit as desired. tw: violence, disordered eating, gender dysphoria, mental illness, substance abuse, suicidal ideation, death

01. Suburbia Overture: Greetings from Mary Bell Township! / (Vampire) Culture / Love Me, Normally

“Trick or treat. Merry Christmas.”

“Howdy neighbor!”

“Thank you Jesus!”

“It don’t look like survival, but buy now or die.”

“You’re not alone.”

“The lights are on, but no one’s home.”

“Takes a village to fake a whole culture.”

“Home is where the heart is- You ain’t homeless, but you’re heartless.”

“It’s the safest on the market.”

“You still gotta watch where you park it.”

“Give me your half-life crisis.”

“I can tell that you know where paradise is.”

“Parasites don’t care what your blood type is.”

“A snowflake only matters in a blizzard.”

“Everyone knows that nobody knows that.”

“Well, word gets around on hit number stations.”

“Smile and wave, boys, kiss the cook, live laugh and love, please pass the pills.”

“It’s only culture. It’s only culture. It’s only culture.”

“Didn’t they want your blood?”

“Why apologize when you turn blue and cold?

“Hey, fuck your culture.”

“Do you know the difference between blazing trails and slash-and-burn?”

“Hey, you’re only mortal.”

02. 2econd 2ight 2eer (well, that was fun, goodbye)

“The devil made me do it, but I also kinda wanted to.”

“Forget bored stiff, I got rigor mortis.”

“My third eye’s open and I like what I see.”

“If you knew what I knew, if you saw what I see- ”

“But I got facts and I’m not afraid to use ‘em.”

“I’m getting better one forever at a time.”

“If sick is defined by what’s different, well then pull the plug out and let me die.”

”Who I am, I choose through all the things I do.”

“If it rhymes, it’s true, but I hate poetry.”

“Well that was fun, goodbye.”

03. Laplace’s Angel (Hurt People? Hurt People!)

“Have you ever died in a nightmare? Woke up surprised you hadn’t earned your fate?”

“Have you ever felt like Atlas, threw your back out on the axis, and collapsed and threw the planet away?”

“Nobody dies agnostic.”

“Nobody dies agnostic, but we still dial 9-1-1.”

“Am I really that bad?”

“Whatever you think of me, if you were in my shoes, you’d walk the same damn miles I do.”

“With my head up in the clouds, I can see so much ground.”

“From up here, you look like ants in a row.”

“It doesn’t take a killer to murder. It only takes the reason to kill.”

“The difference twixt fate and free will is whether you’re singing.”

“You wash your hands of where you’ve been until you flood the second floor. Neatly fold your skeletons, but still can’t shut the closet door.”

“The only ones in need of love are those who don’t receive enough.”

“You could break an angel’s fall, and ignore the Devil’s call.”

“It’s a small hell after all.”

“Man, no more than animal, is made of moral chemicals.”

“If you were in my shoes, you’d see I wear the same size as you.”

04. I / Me / Myself

“I’ve been feeling lightheaded since I lost enough weight to fit back in my skin.”

“Am I pretty now?”

“For some reason, I find myself lost in what you think of me.”

“I wish I could be a girl, and that way you’d wish I could be your girlfriend, boyfriend.”

“Am I pretty enough to lie to?”

“Just little old me in a big, big world.”

“I’ve been feeling lighthearted since I gained enough weight back to cover my bones.”

“You’ll be walking out early, but the show must go on.”

“No, I know that I’m wrong. But I love how you’re on my side when I cross that line.”

“It’s been a point of contention between myself and this body that they stuck me in.”

“The privilege of being born to be a man.”

”I am quantum physics; my witness brings me into existence.”

”Am I pretty enough to love back?”

“Am I pretty enough to fucking die?”

“I wish-”

“Don’t you think that there’s a chance that you could live without it?”

05. ...well, better than the alternative

“My daughter’s growing up. She’s gonna be a lot like me, but I don’t wanna be at all like me.”

“I don’t wanna be at all like me.”

“You’re telling me I’m holding up eleven fingers.”

“Stranger things than death can happen.”

“Everybody knows that nobody knows that.”

“Everybody’s in on everybody’s business.”

“This isn’t my first Christmas, I know mistletoe when I see it.”

“Baby, could you play along with me?”

“Baby, would that be alright with you?”

“When we find out what’s wrong with me, could you tell me how I’m right for you?”

“Could you tell me how I’m right for you?”

“Could you tell me if I’m still pretty?”

“If they could see the future back when times were simple...”

“If everyone’s sick, well then, nobody can catch it.”

“Everybody’s all up in my god damn business.”

“This isn’t my first kiss.”

“It’s better to be lost than loved, now, isn’t it?”

“Everybody’s all up in my motherfucking business!”

“This isn’t my first anything.”

“After all of that’s been done to me, could you tell me how, could you tell me how, could you tell me—”

“What’s so wrong about what’s wrong with me?”

“I’m just trying to do what’s right by you!”

06. Outliars and Hyppocrates: a fun fact about apples

“Did you know that the hole in the apple didn’t come from the outside in? It was eaten from the core and out to the skin, and that’s why you’ll never find the worm in it.”

“The disease is defined by its treatment.”

“You people make me sick.”

“Who’d want to be human anyway?”

“Why’d you come into this world or come out that way?”

“Isn’t it funny? Well, not "ha-ha" funny, but y’know, funny.”

“I doubt that you would even if you could change.”

“You think it makes you special, but it makes you strange.”

“The things that make you special are the things that make you strange.”

“I am the shadows cast aside by gallows, and you the red-hot sky.”

“And if you’re believers, then why would you grieve for the dead, instead of a devil that you never prayed for?”

“Too weird to love, too scared to die. Too alien to take you home.”

“Who’d want to belong to anyone?”

“I mean, what do people even do?”

“If you love me, let me let you go.”

“Five more minutes, please? You wouldn’t believe the dream I just had.”

07. Black Box Warrior - OKULTRA

“Bless the torpedoes!”

“For what? For what??”

“For what it’s worth, if it was going to kill you, boy, it would have by now.”

“There’s no more looking back, it’s looking up or looking down.”

“Wonder if Christ-Consciousness would charge a cancellation fee.”

“Auf wiedersehn! Au revoir!”

“Hello, welcome. Why don’t you take a seat? Get comfortable, relax, take a second if you need to.”

“Now, what’s bothering you?”

“Well, why don’t we start at the beginning?”

“Growing up, how was your relationship with the fundamentals of conscious existence?”

“Did you die before your day?”

“You got a better idea? It’s about the best we could come up with.”

“What, you think ideas spread because they’re good? No, they spread because people like them.”

“So here we are once again. Holding, as it were, a mirror up to your mirror.”

“I guess it’s just something people do!”

“You learn to be an animal instead.”

“I never did think you better than this.”

“It’s you who are the problem. Not the things you do, but something sick inside.”

“Boy, you really is defective.”

“Offer up your innocence, please ignore the side effects.”

“You’ve lost your mind and almost lost your life before, so you’ll be fine!”

“Why would you want to look back? I mean, it’s no good looking back. So try to look forward now.”

“For what it’s worth, if they were gonna get you boy, they would have by now.”

08. Marsha, Thankk You for the Dialectics, but I Need You to Leave.

“They could prescribe you any illness you’d like if you define the terms of your ailments.”

“A crow don’t know the smell of carbon monoxide.”

“How many years have you been on that couch?”

“Your draw a line in the sand where it ends and you begin, but the tide rolls in, so who knows?”

“A little identity never hurt nobody, but lately you’ve been focusing too much on yourself.”

“How many milligrams of you are still left in there?”

“Back in my day, we didn’t need no feel-good pills and no psychiatrists. We just drank ourselves to death. And god damn it, we liked it!”

“What’s a symptom, what’s a flaw, can it be both?”

“Well, I suppose that’s an answer.”

“Would you give up your humanity for just a touch of sanity?”

“They’ve discovered a cure for the symptoms of being alive. It’s a painless procedure with a low rate of failure, but very few patients survive.”

“And a little conformity never hurt nobody, but lately I’ve been worried that you’re losing yourself.”

“What’s my prognosis?”

“Disease is in the eye of the beholder.”

“Tell me ‘so it goes.’”

“Better safe than sorry, and we both know the danger.”

“So doctor, could you run another test?”

“If our harmonies don’t sync, we can change our voices.”

“Don’t heed no evil wills of moral nihilists.”

“Don’t you make me waste my breath.”

“GOD DAMN IT!”

“Does aspirin kill you with the pain?“

“You’re not your thoughts, you’re not your brain, you’re just the character you’ve made.”

“What seem like separate body parts come together to believe they’re you, and not just chemistry.”

“It’s not the way that you were raised, or what the advertisements say.”

“It’s not what you pay for, what you pray for, what you want, or what you say.”

“Something tells me that you need, forgive me now if I misspeak--”

“Something tells me you prefer to be sitting there flipping through those old issues of People.”

“Well, that’s our time. See you next week.”

09. Love, Me Normally

“In lipstick on the mirror are the lyrics to my obituary.”

“Crossing my eyes, dot my T’s.”

“I was delivered holding scissors.”

“I live deliberately, I’m a quitter.”

“I never agreed to participate in this game.”

“Won’t follow my dreams, cause they all got me waking up screaming.”

“I’d rather be normal. Yes, so normal.”

“I suggest that we keep this informal.”

“A normal human being wouldn’t need to pretend to be normal.”

“Well, I guess that’s the least that I owe ya.”

“C’mon, c’mon, and love me normally.”

“If I could live in third person, well, I don’t think life would be much worse than it is.”

“Is it courageous or escapist to leave the quarantine when you’re contagious?”

“It may just be a cold. And besides, I don’t wanna get old.”

“I drank myself to death to be the afterlife of the party.”

“When the afterparty came, I was rolling in my grave.”

“Now, this is the part of the song where I talk to my audience.”

“There’s something I want from you hepcats tonight.”

“I want you to look to your left. Look to your right. Your twelve o’clock, three o’clock, six o’clock, nine o’clock, rock around the clock tonight–”

“I want you to find those points of no return, those singularities, those burning rings of fire in the beautiful pupils and the beautiful eyes of the beautiful boy, girl, neither, both, or in-between that you brought with you tonight. And I want you to tell ’em how you really feel!”

“Jam that square peg in the round hole in their hearts!”

“You love them exactly the way that everybody else is.”

“I was nothing before, so I couldn’t have asked to be born. I’ll be nothing again, so what am I between now and then?”

“Is there nothing to fear? Cause shit’s getting weird.”

“So to God who made this man: you better have one hell of a plan.”

10. Memento Mori: the most important thing

“If you’re lucky you’ll be surrounded by the ones that you love, when the lights in your eyes fade and life flashes by.

“One day you’re going to die.”

“Heaven, hell, nirvana, nothing, no one knows how it ends.”

“Rest in peace— or pieces.”

“Read your horoscopes, your palms and tarot cards. But either way your destination ain’t very far.”

“You could drown, or choke, or burn, or be hit by a car.”

“What doesn't kill you makes you stronger, but something will eventually.”

“One day you’ll look back at the life that you lead. No more future left to fear that you’ll have the past to regret.”

“But your worries will be over if you truly realize— one day you’re going to die!”

“Take it away, hands!”

“In the fabric of time and in the vastness of space, a billion amounts to nothing in infinity’s face.”

“Your life never mattered, so who cares if it's a waste?”

“Well, one day you’ll be not even a faint memory.”

“You’ll never know what it all means.”

“Just keep this in mind: that everything and everyone goes with the passage of time.”

“No need to fear, ’cause when it’s here, you won’t be alive.”

“Try not to think about it!”

“So if you only have one chance, you oughta try your best to live as you like.”

#rp memes #sentence starters #dialogue prompt #writing prompt #wwattw

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bubonickitten · 4 years ago

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Summary: Jon goes back to before the world ended and tries to forge a different path.

Previous chapter: AO3 // tumblr

Chapter 17 full text & content warnings below the cut.

CWs for Chapter 17: panic/anxiety symptoms; brief mention of past self-harm (from last chapter); mention of past (canonical) blood/injury; brief allusion to past passive suicidal ideation; brief claustrophobia/Buried themes (in the context of a nightmare); some blink-and-you'll-miss-it internalized ableism re: ADHD (not explicitly stated as such); Jon-typical self-loathing, internalized victim blaming/dehumanization, etc.; discussion of low self-worth, fear of abandonment/rejection, and other Lonely themes; extensive discussion of Jon's statement consumption (so, general warning for restrictive behaviors re: 'eating' and self-hate re: addiction/compulsions); swears. SPOILERS through Season 5.

Chapter 17: Intervention

Even asleep, Jon is a flurry of movement. The muscles in his jaw tense repeatedly as he grinds his teeth; his limbs twitch and jerk and tremble; his fingers curl into his palms, fists clenching and relaxing at random intervals. The quick, erratic motions beneath his closed eyelids are accompanied by gasps and the occasional whimper. Impossibly, he looks even frailer than usual – folded in on himself and shivering despite the thick, oversized jumper engulfing his slight frame.

Martin sits on the floor with his side pressed up against the cot, his arm resting on top of it and his eyes riveted on the few inches of space between Jon and himself. Part of him wants to reach out, to soothe away the varying shades of distress flitting their way across Jon’s face; another part of him, quieter but nonetheless insistent on making its existence known, tugs him in the opposite direction, urging him to widen that handspan of distance between them into a chasm. Something about Jon’s ragged breathing keeps Martin rooted in place, his heart skipping a beat any time the pauses between breaths stretch just a little too long for comfort.

At least he’s breathing at all, Martin thinks with a pang. His hand twitches in an unconscious desire to check for a pulse – some secondary sign to reassure him that Jon really is just sleeping.

At the gentle knock-knock on the doorframe, Martin jumps. The door to Document Storage, already cracked an inch or so, creaks as it swings wider.

“Jon?” Georgie calls softly, peeking through the gap. “You in here? I was just – oh,” she says when she sees Martin. An instant later she notices Jon, tossing and turning on the cot behind him. “What happened? Is he okay?”

“He… well, he’s fine now. I think. Just… sleeping.”

“Wait,” she says, fully entering the room and approaching to watch Jon with genuine astonishment, “you actually got him to sleep?”

“Not really? He was having trouble staying vertical, so I told him he should lie down until the vertigo passed, and…” Martin shrugs. He’s still taken aback by the fact that Jon complied without argument. “I don’t think he was planning on falling asleep, but he was out as soon as his head hit the pillow.” Jon’s fingers spasm, brow wrinkling as he cringes and curls into a tighter ball. Martin sighs. “Doesn’t look very restful, though.”

“Oh, he’s always been a fitful sleeper. Even back in uni. He didn’t used to be that bad, though. Or – he was, but in short bursts. Not… drawn out like this. He’d usually wake himself up after a minute or so of…” She frowns as Jon goes taut in a full-body spasm. “That.”

“I guess the Eye doesn’t want the dream to end,” Martin says quietly. Jon twists his fingers against the sheets, gathering the fabric in a death grip. Martin’s hand twitches again, inching just a bit closer to Jon’s. He resists the urge to uncurl Jon’s fingers, to give him a hand to hold instead.

“Last I checked, the nightmares weren’t as nightmarish anymore,” Georgie says. “I mean, by his own admission, he treated mine and Naomi’s dreams like social calls.”

Martin tears his eyes away from Jon to glance at Georgie, a puzzled expression on his face. “Naomi?”

“Naomi Herne. He said hers was the first statement he took in person.”

“Yeah, back when he was still putting on the skeptic act. And she filed a complaint against him for being…” Martin smiles and shakes his head. “Well, Jon.”

“I’m not surprised,” Georgie says with an amused snort. “They seem pretty friendly now, though.”

“What, seriously?”

“Yeah. They do have a similar sense of humor. She doesn’t seem to scare easy, which probably helps. And she has a cat, so…”

“What does that have to do with anything?”

“Jon… has trouble initiating when it comes to having a social life,” Georgie says slowly. “Just wanting to talk doesn’t strike him as a good enough reason to start a conversation. He worries he’ll just be an annoyance. It’s like he needs to come up with some concrete justification for reaching out. But Naomi is always excited to talk about the Duchess – that’s her cat – which means Jon is less likely to feel like he’s bothering her. Which also makes him less likely to talk himself out of sending a text. Plus, it’s a safe, normal thing to talk about, and he loves cats, so…” She shrugs. “It’s good for him.”

“Huh.”

“Yeah. Gives her an excuse to stay in touch, too, I think.” Georgie gives Martin a significant look. “Lonely, you know?”

“I…” Martin rubs the back of his neck, not meeting her eye. “Yeah.”

“Anyway, I thought… well, he said the nightmares weren’t as bad as they used to be.” Georgie frowns as she watches Jon’s lips twist, his teeth bared as he sucks in a sharp breath. “I don’t know. At least he’s actually sleeping. I don’t think he’s slept for more than forty minutes at a time since he got out of the hospital.”

“That was nearly a month ago.” Martin gapes at her, horrified. “How has he even been able to function with that level of sleep deprivation?”

“The same way he survived for six months without a heartbeat. And why he has to consciously remind himself to breathe sometimes, and has a tendency to forget to blink, and doesn’t have much of an appetite for normal food anymore. He’s not fully human –”

Georgie must sense Martin preparing to go on the offensive, because she holds up both hands palms-out, placating.

“I’m not saying that he’s inhuman, either. He might be convinced that he’s more monster than human, but he’s still a person. He’s just… different now, and he’s resigned to that, but he hasn’t yet gotten it through his head that there are people who will accept him regardless.” She sighs. “My original point was that he doesn’t have the same physiological needs that most people do. But he still does need to sleep from time to time. Sleep deprivation clearly takes a toll on him.”

“Figures,” Martin huffs, blowing hair out of his eyes. “He’s always treated sleep as optional.”

“Yeah,” Georgie says with a laugh. “He’s operated on a bare minimum of sleep for as long as I’ve known him. Part casual self-neglect, part allergy to the general concept of resting, and part legitimate insomnia. I told him more than once he should get evaluated for a sleep disorder, but… well, you know Jon. And now that he really does need less sleep than the average person, of course he’s pushing the limits even further.”

Martin looks down at Jon and thinks, as he has countless times before: He really does make it so damn difficult to take care of him.

It’s simultaneously heartbreaking and frustrating, even irritating at times – but somehow, whenever Jon doubles down, it only makes Martin do the same. It’s become such a familiar dance, a challenge even, and more often than not, Martin wins those contests of will: badger Jon persistently enough, strike just the right balance between expressing worry and wagging a finger, and eventually he’ll agree to take care of himself. In the beginning, he would grump and roll his eyes and drag his feet; as time went on, though, he became more receptive to it. Some days, he even seemed to enjoy – albeit in a guarded, almost shy way – being cajoled into sharing lunch or tea or conversation.

Unthinkingly, Martin brushes a lock of hair away from Jon’s forehead, damp with cold sweat. Wishes he could smooth the tension away as easily.

“Did you two talk about things?” Georgie asks.

“Some of it.”

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“I…” Martin bites his lip. “I feel like I shouldn’t want to, but I – I sort of do?”

“Well. I have some time to listen.” Georgie takes a seat towards the foot of the cot. “How’d it go? Bearing in mind this isn’t the tunnels.”

“It’s… a lot.”

“Mm. I can imagine.”

“I mean, he…” Martin runs a hand through his hair with a disbelieving, nervous chuckle. “He told me he wants to grow old with me?”

“He said that?” Georgie laughs outright. “God, he’s gotten even more saccharine than I thought.”

“It’s just – not something I would have ever imagined him saying? To anyone, let alone me.” Martin can feel his palms sweating now; he rubs them on his trousers, hoping to dispel some of the clamminess. “He just seems so… changed.”

“He is, but… maybe not as drastically as it might seem. Rather, this is him, just – without all the walls.” Georgie chuckles, shaking her head. “And less of a filter, apparently. Sorry.”

“Sorry?” Martin repeats, perplexed.

“He’s dumping a lot on you all at once. I can talk to him, if you want. Tell him to slow down, give you some space to process it all.”

“I… I don’t…” Martin pauses, coming up against an invisible wall between a daunting realization and the explicit acknowledgment thereof. He makes several abortive attempts at speech before he manages to voice the confession: “I don’t think I want him to?”

Left to himself for too long, Martin can feel himself start to come unmoored. The truth the Lonely is so loathe to have him accept, let alone speak aloud, is this: he doesn’t want that to happen. Not anymore. Being in the presence of others, actively taking part in a conversation, seeking comfort in touch – all of these things still feel grating, unnatural even, but a return to solitude frightens him in a way it hasn’t for months. It’s an old terror, one that he had become numb to since accepting the Lonely’s embrace. Now, it seems to have returned with a vengeance. The lingering, ambient discomfort that comes with human connection is quickly becoming preferable to that looming fear of absence.

Still, though…

“It feels like – going against my nature, every minute I spend talking to him, to you, to… anyone, really. I think I just… forgot how not to be alone?”

On some level, Martin wonders whether he ever knew in the first place. He’s had friends, certainly, but every relationship, no matter how ostensibly reciprocal, has been laced with an undercurrent of insecurity: a loud, nagging voice in the back of his mind, reminding him of the consequences should he allow himself to be too much or not enough. Always primed for rejection, he strove to make himself pleasant, to make himself useful, to make himself accommodating and unobtrusive and easy. Sometimes, he felt like an impostor, fooling people into believing that he was worth keeping around. He was always counting down the moments until someone would see through the façade to the inadequacy within, realize he wasn’t worth the trouble, and leave him behind.

“The Lonely… I don’t think I want it anymore,” he says, “but it feels – wrong, to leave it behind. Not me, somehow.”

“Hmm.” Georgie drums her fingers against her chin. “I can understand that. Isolation can become so habitual that it starts to feel like home, and anything trying to break through feels like an invasion. You start to feel safer alone, and you deny those moments when you catch yourself wishing things were different, because loneliness has become such a part of you that you don’t know who you would be without it.”

“I… yeah,” Martin says, taken aback by having it laid out so succinctly.

“In my experience, it helps to remind yourself that your brain is lying to you when it tells you you’d be better off alone. In your case, I guess it’s your brain and a supernatural fear god or whatever, but… unless you’re keen to fight a god, it might be best to start with your brain. That’s something you actually can exert some control over, with enough practice. And I think it might make it harder for the fear to get to you if you’re not trapped in the kind of mindset it thrives on.”

“I guess,” Martin says, looking off to the side. Once again, he rests his arm on the cot, his hand mere inches away from Jon’s, sheet still clenched tightly in his fist.

“But you don’t have to take it on all at once,” Georgie says. “If you have to set boundaries, Jon will understand. And even if he didn’t, you still have a right to enforce them. Not to sound cliché, but you shouldn’t set yourself on fire to keep others warm.”

The problem is, of course, that the concept of putting himself first is as alien to Martin as the idea of being… well, not lonely.

“I can hear the cogs turning,” Georgie says with a gentle smile. “Look, it’s easier to accept a concept intellectually than it is to actually apply it to yourself. There’s a learning curve. But it’s a lesson worth learning. Took me way too long to learn it myself. If it helps, start with – to use another cliché – ‘put your own oxygen mask on before helping others with theirs.’ Then you can move onto practicing self-care without feeling guilty.”

“What are you, a therapist?”

“Nope. I’ve just had several years of experience being on the receiving end.”

“O-oh. Uh, sorry –”

“Don’t be. It’s not something to be ashamed of. Anyway, at this point, I could probably fill out CBT worksheets in my sleep. With enough practice, it does start to become intuitive.” She shrugs. “Anyway, you can’t fix Jon, and I don’t think he expects you to. You can support him, you can care about him, but you can’t make him better. That’s true in any relationship, but… well, obviously it’s – a bit more complicated in this case.”

“I just… I want him to be okay, and I don’t know how to help –” Martin startles when Jon kicks one leg out violently, entangling himself in the sheets as he pulls it back and curls into himself again. Martin lowers his voice. “He – he was so starving he passed out, Georgie, he wasn’t breathing and it was like the hospital all over again and – and I don’t think I have any other stories I can tell that would count as statements –”

“Wait, you gave him a statement?”

“Y-yeah.”

“I thought he didn’t want –”

“I don’t know if he would have agreed if he was conscious, but he… he wasn’t waking up, and I didn’t know what else to do,” Martin says pleadingly, watching Georgie carefully to gauge her reaction. “He needed a fresh statement. Old statements aren’t enough, and he said new ones cause nightmares regardless of whether he takes them in person or not, so we can’t just give him new written statements that come in, and I – I don’t know what we’re going to do if he gets that bad again.”

Martin remembers the look in Jon’s eyes: glossy, glazed and almost luminous with an alien sort of hunger, but shot through with a terror more devastating than Martin had ever seen from him. The unflinching intent with which he hurt himself; the erratic rhythm of his breathing; the way his dilated pupils swallowed the irises just before he fell unconscious. He was lost to the world in those moments, alert but unresponsive, seemingly unable to hear a word Martin was saying.

And the abject horror on his face when he commanded Martin to stay away…

“He was… he was so scared. Of himself. He doesn’t want to hurt anyone, but he – he can’t think straight when he’s like that.”

“Shit,” Georgie says, pinching the bridge of her nose.

“I think working in the archives gives some immunity? I’ve given a few statements, before we knew how all this works, and he never showed up in my nightmares. Tim’s or Sasha’s, either, as far as I know. And I actually… well, I don’t actually mind giving him statements, to be honest? It’s – hard, to relive it, but it’s… cathartic, too. To get it all out, to be able to actually – describe it in words. Maybe I’d feel differently if I came in off the street – or was approached – and I didn’t know him, and wasn’t protected from the side effects, but – as it is, I would be fine giving him statements when he needs them, and that’s not – that’s not a huge sacrifice on my part, is what I’m saying. But I don’t… I don’t think I have any more stories to give.”

“Okay,” Georgie mutters to herself, rubbing her temples. “Okay. We… we’ll figure something out. Obviously, Jon needs to be part of that conversation. Maybe Daisy, too – Jon seems to trust her.”

“Why would he trust her?” Martin asks, incredulous, almost incensed. “She kidnapped him. She – she slit his throat, she was going to –”

“I know. I don’t really understand it either. But supposedly she’s changed a lot, and she’s an Avatar like he is. I get the feeling he might want her there.”

“Fine,” Martin says in a clipped voice, even though fine seems like a wildly inaccurate descriptor to him. “What about Basira? And Melanie?”

“Melanie… with Jon’s permission, I’ll invite her, just so she’s not out of the loop, but I doubt she’ll take us up on it.” Georgie frowns, rubbing her jaw absently. “As for Basira… I don’t know. Something Jon said…”

“What?”

“I’m…” Georgie pauses, tilting her head from side to side as she deliberates. “Concerned. About how Basira might approach the situation.”

It takes a few seconds for Martin to work out the implication. When he does, he pales, mouth going slack.

“You – you don’t think she’d hurt him?”

“I don’t think so,” Georgie says haltingly, “but there’s a chance she might put the option back on the table if she thinks he’s too dangerous. She wouldn’t like it, but… well, she seems utilitarian. I think she’ll do whatever she thinks she needs to do. And even if she doesn’t threaten him directly, I still…” She sighs. “Jon’s not in a good place right now, mentally. Frankly, I worry about exposing him to anything that might encourage a better-off-dead mindset, even if it’s just… perceived condemnation.”

“God, this…” Martin laughs, high and stressed. “This entire situation is…”

“I know. But we’ll figure something out. And in the meantime, make sure to take care of yourself too, alright?”

“Yeah,” Martin says, only half-listening.

“I mean it. Jon cares about you. He wouldn’t want you to run yourself into the ground on his behalf.”

Before Martin can respond, Jon jumps in his sleep again with a strangled gasp. Flinging one arm out, his hand brushes against Martin and seizes a fistful of his sleeve. Tightening his grip, he tugs on Martin’s arm to bring it closer, practically hugging it in a vice grip. Almost instantly Jon calms, tense muscles relaxing, pained expression going slack, a relieved sigh shuddering out of him as he nuzzles into the crook of Martin’s elbow.

Martin can feel his cheeks burning. He shoots a preemptive glower in Georgie’s direction, daring her to laugh – but she only smiles.

“Well, I’ll leave you to it,” she says, rising to her feet. “Text me when he’s awake, will you?”

“Y-y-yeah,” Martin stammers. “I’ll – I’ll see you later.”

He barely notices her departure, instead staring down at Jon with a vague sense of wonder. Jon holds fast to him like he’s a lifeline, and Martin can feel him breathing warm and steady through the fabric of his sleeve. The cold sweat on his brow seems to be evaporating now. Martin shifts his position to more fully face the cot. As he reaches up with his free hand to brush away the hair clinging to Jon’s forehead, a slow, shy smile begins to spread across Martin’s face.

It won’t be long before Jon succumbs to another fit of tossing and turning, but in the meantime, Martin simply watches him with faint awe and renewed affection. He’s never seen Jon look so at peace, and he takes the opportunity to memorize the sight.

When another shard of the Lonely shatters and crumbles away, Martin is too preoccupied to note its passing.

With a startled yelp, Jon sits bolt upright. Gulping down air in deep, ragged breaths, he looks wildly around the room, not taking anything in: it’s all visual noise, smudges of loud colors and sinister shadows, all of it closing in and bearing down on him.

Something next to him – close too close too close – moves abruptly, rising up and looming over and settling down beside him. Jon cringes away, only to find that his legs are pinned together by something, restricting his movement, and there’s dirt in his mouth, and dirt in his throat, and dirt in his lungs, and he cannot breathe, cannot breathe, cannot breathe, cannot breathe –

“Jon,” comes a voice – somehow both close and far away. “Listen, you’re – you’re okay, you’re safe.”

Trapped in that liminal twilight haze between sleep and waking, Jon gropes blindly for a handhold, an anchor, something real and solid and –

His hand collides with something soft, warm – wool, his mind supplies, and then:

…wool is able to absorb nearly one-third of its weight in water…

He shakes his head to chase away the stray scrap of trivia, digging his fingers into the fabric to ground himself.

“It was just a dream,” says the voice again – a kind voice, a safe voice – and Jon takes a shuddering breath, like a drowning man clawing for air.

Then a hand closes over his, and that light pressure is enough plunge Jon right back below the surface. He thrashes violently, desperate to break away from the throbbing litany of too close cannot move trapped held pinned in place screeching metal crushing in and down and down and down and Karolina beholds her encroaching fate with tranquil acceptance and the Archivist feels her skull crack and her chest cave in and her lungs collapse and still she smiles and she watches as the Archivist flails uselessly for an escape that does not will not cannot exist and the door bulges and splinters and explodes inward and the deluge rushes in and the Archivist is drowning, drowning, drowning –

The hand draws back, the pressure lifts, the train car finally collapses, and the last remnants of hazy sleep begin to disintegrate.

“S-sorry, I didn’t mean to – it’s – it’s just me, Jon.”

“Martin?” Jon chokes out, tightening his grasp on Martin’s jumper – wool, warm, soft, safe – still bunched in one hand. He reaches out his other arm to find a second handhold.

“Yeah. I – I won’t hurt you.”

Safe.

“I know,” Jon says groggily. The tension drains away and he sags against Martin’s side, breathing in slow, deliberate swallows. “’M sorry. Dream.”

The first time he’s slept, truly slept since leaving the hospital, and of course it had to be while Karolina Górka was dreaming. Of course.

“Do you… want to talk about it?”

“Buried,” Jon mumbles, face partially burrowed in Martin’s shoulder. Self-explanatory, he figures.

“Oh,” Martin says in a broken whisper. Jon opens one eye to see an expression of helpless pity on Martin’s face. “That’s…”

“’S okay,” Jon assures. “I’m okay.”

Reluctantly, he releases his hold on Martin and leans away. When he stretches – partly out of habit, partly to reassure himself that he can – there’s still something pinioning his legs. A spark of panic tears through him before he realizes that it’s just the sheets, tangled hopelessly around his lower half. With some difficulty, he manages to extricate himself and kick the blankets away.

“How long was I out?”

“Couple hours.”

“Have you just been sitting here the whole time?” Jon frowns apologetically. “You could’ve woken me.”

“Wake you when you were actually sleeping for once? Uh, no. How are you feeling?”

“Better,” Jon says simply. “I’d like to know how you’re doing.”

“I’m – fine,” Martin says. Jon raises an eyebrow. “Really, I – I am. I’m more worried about –”

“Me, I know. And I’m worried about you. I… don’t think you’re just ‘fine.’” Martin gives a noncommittal grunt. “I really would like to know where you are in all this. How you’re faring. How I can help.”

Martin remains silent, lips pressed tightly together as if to seal them.

“I know I was – distracted, earlier, but I… I really do want to help,” Jon tries again. “Please let me help?”

Something finally gives and Martin slouches with a sigh.

“I’m… still trying to figure it all out,” he says slowly. “I don’t know what I’m feeling most of the time, besides… worried, and…”

“Lonely.”

“Yeah,” Martin says with a wistful smile.

“You don’t have to be,” Jon says quietly.

“I know.”

“I’m not – I’m not trying to –” Jon sighs. “I just… I need you to know.”

“I know,” Martin says again.

Jon bites back the nagging impulse to ask all the questions itching on his tongue: Have you decided what to do about Peter? How Lonely are you now? Do you need closeness or distance? What should I be doing, or not doing? What can I do to take care of you? Where do we stand?

What do you see, when you look at me?

Jon looks away and shuts his eyes.

“I’m sorry you had to see me like that, by the way. It wasn’t my intention to frighten you. Or to…” He swallows, fighting back the nausea rising in him. “To compel you.”

“It’s alright –”

“It’s not,” Jon says brusquely. He makes a conscious effort to soften his tone before he continues. “I don’t want to be the thing that frightens you.”

“You’re not,” Martin says with a bemused frown. “I know you didn’t mean to use your powers on me.”

“You were afraid. I could…” Jon closes his eyes again and forces himself to say the words. “I could taste it.”

And the Archivist in him savored it.

“I wasn’t afraid of you, Jon. I was afraid for you. You looked terrified, and in pain, and you were hurting yourself, and I didn’t know how to help, and then I didn’t know if you were going to wake up, and… that’s what scared me.” Jon’s skepticism must show on his face, because there’s an intensity to the words when Martin reiterates: “Not you. Never you.”

“Never say never,” Jon says with a brittle, self-deprecating smile.

“I’m serious, Jon.”

So am I.

“I… I think we need to talk about where to go from here,” Martin says after a moment, averting his eyes.

“I agree.”

“You do?” Martin looks back to him, blinking in surprise.

“Yes,” Jon says, adjusting his position to sit cross-legged and pivoting to face Martin fully. “The others need to know what happened. I can’t be trusted not to hurt anyone –”

“No, that’s not what I –” Martin sighs. “I’m worried about what could happen if things get that bad again.”

“That’s what I’m saying. I came dangerously close to – to relapsing. We need some plan in place, some way to keep me contained so that I don’t –”

“Stop, stop, stop,” Martin says, holding up a hand. Jon tilts his head, bewildered. “I’m not – I’m not talking about keeping you contained, Jon. I’m worried about you. This goes beyond a compulsion you can beat with enough willpower. You were starving. You… you could have died.”

“We don’t know that.”

“Exactly! We don’t know, and I don’t want to find out.”

“Well, yes, but –”

“No ‘but.’ There has to be some way to keep you fed without hurting anyone. We just need to –”

“Martin, terror and suffering is the entire point. That’s what sustains it. Mine, my victim’s, doesn’t matter as long as it hurts.” Jon laughs, hollow and bitter. “It’s not like there’s an ethical way to – to harvest trauma –”

“We don’t know that for sure,” Martin says fiercely, “and I’m not ready to just give up. I would hope you aren’t, either.”

“I…” Jon busies himself with tucking a flyaway lock of hair behind his ear, using it as an excuse to break eye contact.

“Please, Jon.”

Martin takes his hand, prompting Jon to look up again. A familiar guilt rises up in him, shame at always being the one to put that expression of desperate worry on Martin’s face.

It’s enough to make him agree, albeit in a whisper, “Okay.”

“Right,” Martin says, giving Jon’s hand a brief squeeze. “Georgie and I were talking while you were asleep. She wants to be part of the discussion, so long as you’re alright with it.”

“Of course. We should probably tell Daisy and Basira as well.”

Martin appears to hesitate.

“I was thinking the three of us can meet first,” he says carefully, “and then we can open up the discussion after.”

“Why?” Jon observes the slight concavity that forms as Martin chews the inside of his cheek. “Martin?”

“Georgie’s worried about Basira’s reaction,” Martin says abruptly, “and honestly, so am I.”

“She needs to know.”

“I – I know, it’s just…”

“We have so few allies; we can’t afford secrecy and mistrust. And…”

And of all of them, Basira is the one Jon can trust to do what must be done if things go wrong. If he goes wrong.

“Basira is a strategist,” he says. “She’s good at viewing a problem from multiple angles, considering all the variables, predicting potential solutions and outcomes and then weighing them with a… pragmatic eye.”

“The pragmatism is what worries me.”

“I want her there,” Jon says simply.

“Okay,” Martin says, but Jon can tell he’s not thrilled about it. “What about Daisy?”

“Yes,” Jon says, not missing a beat. At that, Martin somehow manages to look even less thrilled.

“And Melanie?”

“I… I’m alright with her being there, but I don’t want her to feel pressured. She’s dealing with enough as it is.”

“Okay. I can let everyone know, but I think you should get some more rest before –”

“No.”

“Jon –”

“I need to confront this now. While I’m still… in my right mind,” Jon says, plucking absently at his sleeve with his free hand. “Sober.”

For a brief second, Martin looks ready to argue, but then he capitulates with a sigh.

“Okay,” he says, releasing Jon’s hand and standing up. “I’ll… round everyone up, I suppose.”

“Thank you,” Jon murmurs.

Martin glances back several times as he leaves the room. Jon waits until he’s out of sight before he puts his face in his hands, sighs, and tries to brace himself for a conversation he dreads almost as much as the Coffin.

A short time later, the group – minus Melanie – convenes in the tunnels, five chairs arranged in a loose circle with a sixth left empty off to the side. Sitting almost directly across from Jon, Basira watches him with eyes narrowed, arms folded, and mouth pressed into a firm line.

“What do you mean you ‘almost’ relapsed?”

“Martin suggested reading a new statement that came in earlier this evening,” Jon tells her in a straightforward near-monotone. Pushing through the discomfort it brings, he forces himself to meet her eyes when he speaks. “I agreed, without informing him that reading a fresh written statement has the same repercussions that taking a live statement in person does. I was going to feed, knowing that it would hurt an innocent person.”

“But you didn’t,” Martin says emphatically. “You stopped yourself.”

“Only because Helen pointed out the cognitive dissonance. Took a monster to remind me not to be a monster.” Jon scoffs. “Even then, I almost did it anyway.”

“But you didn’t,” Martin repeats.

“What about next time?” Basira asks, unimpressed. “When you get hungry again, what then?”

“That’s what we’re here to discuss,” Georgie says, assuming the role of mediator the moment she notices Martin’s scowl deepen. “We need to find some way to keep things from getting that bad in the first place.”

Thoroughly unnerved, Jon squirms in his seat. Basira has had him pinned under her stare for several minutes now, and she seems unlikely to cut him free any time soon. But what right does he have to object to scrutiny, given what he is?

“What did you do with the statement?” Basira demands. “The one you were going to read?”

“I… asked Martin to burn it.”

Her eyes flick to Martin. “And did you?”

“N-not yet –”

“Burn it. As soon as we’re done here.” She shifts her attention back to Jon. “Is there an alternative to new statements?”

Jon doesn’t miss a beat when he answers, matter-of-fact: “No.”

“Jon,” Martin and Georgie say simultaneously, with the tenor of a reprimand.

“I’m not – I’m not trying to be difficult,” he replies, finally breaking eye contact with Basira to look down at his hands. “It’s just… reality. I’m an Archive dedicated the curation of statements – of fear.”

“You never actually explained what that means,” Basira says. “You being the Archive.”

“It’s… hard to put into words.”

“Try.”

Jon sighs, taking a moment to collect his thoughts.

“The Archive is more than – paper and files and tapes. The reason it needs to be housed in a living mind rather than a mere building is because the statements themselves have a living quality to them.” He crosses his arms, brow furrowing as he struggles with his phrasing. “They need to be immersed in a steady supply of fear. A shelving unit, a filing cabinet, a hard drive, a cassette tape – those can’t provide the ideal habitat that they need to thrive. The Archivist is –”

“– simply a battery, a ready source of constant terror –”

He cuts the Archive off with a frustrated snarl, digging his fingernails into his arms.

“Hey,” Georgie says gently, “you’re alright. Take your time.”

Jon has to spend a few minutes counting breaths before he feels ready to try again.

“What I was –” He cuts himself off preemptively, half-expecting the Archive to intrude again. Once he realizes the words are his own, he clears his throat to recover from the false start. “What I was trying to say is – without a living consciousness to contextualize them, the statements are just… stories. When I consume a statement – read it, hear it, doesn’t matter – I See the events play out through the victim’s eyes. My lived experience of it is essential to the recording and preservation of the story. I need to be able to recall how it feels, not just summarize the major points of interest.” He sighs again. “And… that’s also the point of reliving the events in the nightmares. All of it is to keep the memory fresh. To keep the story – the fear – alive.”

When he looks up to see all four of them staring at him, he begins to rub his arms absently, increasingly self-conscious. He can feel the semicircle grooves leftover from where his fingernails cut into the skin.

“So… yeah,” he finishes awkwardly. “The Archive is defined by the statements and the fear that embodies them. The Beholding always hungers for more, and the Archive is a… a receptacle for all of its knowledge. The continual curation of new statements is what sustains it. Without that, it withers.”

“And dies?” Basira asks.

The question isn’t unkind, per se, simply businesslike: an eagerness to discover an answer heedless of whatever messy emotions it might elicit. Jon understands that impulse all too well. Not for the first time, he wonders whether Jonah had a secondary, hidden motive for recruiting Basira: a backup Archivist, in the event that his first choice be unable to endure the process.

“I still don’t know if it would physically kill me,” he replies, “but the hungrier I get, the more I forget myself. I’m liable to do things that I wouldn’t normally do, monstrous things.” He huffs. “And at the same time, giving in to that hunger will also make me more monstrous over time. It seems like… either way, I – I can’t avoid losing sight of… well, me. The human part of me. Whatever’s left of it.”

And wouldn’t losing himself be a death of sorts?

In a way, Daisy died the moment the Hunt recaptured her. What she became was her, undoubtedly, but only a small piece of her. The creature that Basira eventually killed… it was an echo of all the hated, feared parts of herself that Daisy had tried so hard to starve out. The rest of her – all the things that altogether made her Daisy – had long since been burned away.

If Jon didn’t manage to find a way out of that doomed future, he suspects that his ultimate fate may have been similar: all the fragile scraps of himself that still belonged to him, every sliver of personal identity, every shred of humanity crushed and buried beneath an ever-swelling ocean of dispassionate knowledge. The Archive would have carried on expanding and curating until, one day, it would have either collapsed under its own weight or simply run out of things to catalogue, then to waste away – but by then, it would have borne no resemblance to the original owner of its ravaged vessel.

Some endings play out in merciless increments. Jon has witnessed – has caused – more than his fair share of pointless, drawn out suffering. It would have been only fitting for his end to follow a similar path.

“Well, shit,” Basira mutters.

“What about statements given consensually?” Martin asks tentatively. “The one I gave you seemed to satisfy the Archive, or – or however you want to call it. And in the past when I’ve given you statements, they never gave me nightmares, so…”

“Anyone aligned with the Eye has a measure of protection from the Archivist,” Jon answers. “I was never privy to Tim’s or Sasha’s nightmares, either. Once Melanie and Basira started working here, their dreams were cut off from me as well. And… last time, Daisy ended up signing an employment contract after returning from the Buried. Same result.”

“Is it just the archival staff, or any Institute employee?” Basira asks.

“I… don’t know,” Jon says thoughtfully. “If I had to hazard a guess, I would say that it’s restricted to those most strongly connected with the Eye. Archival assistants, primarily. Possibly the research department, or at least those individuals who are the most… compatible with the Beholding, so to speak, though I’m not positive.”

Now that the question has been posed, Jon craves an answer.

“But – but experimenting isn’t worth the risk,” he says, mostly in an attempt to dissuade himself from pursuing the matter any further. He’s pleasantly surprised to hear the confidence in his own voice.

As if satisfied with that answer, Basira gives a tiny nod. Jon doubts it’s meant as a vote of confidence or as approval, but her posture does relax somewhat. He doubts that she trusts him by any stretch of the imagination, but for the moment she seems to have decided that he isn’t an imminent threat, at least.

It feels remarkably, disconcertingly like passing a test he didn’t realize was in progress.

Georgie’s eyes are fixed on the floor, her chin propped in her hand and a contemplative pout on her face. Martin has his lips pressed together, as if biting back an objection. Daisy is the only one looking directly at Jon. She hasn’t said a word since Jon gave his confession, but now her head cocked slightly to the side, as if she's weighing her words.

“I have a lot of stories from my Sectioned days,” she muses. “I could –”

“What would you say if I told you that you should go hunt a few monsters?” Jon says immediately.

“I…” Daisy stalls for a moment, and then gives a resigned sigh, understanding. “I would be worried that I wouldn’t be able to stop at a few,” she says grudgingly. Her shoulders slump as she adds, “Or at monsters.”

“Exactly.”

“But wouldn’t it be different?” she asks, perking up again. “The prey doesn’t consent to the hunt. The fear is taken, not freely given. But a statement – that can be consensual.”

“The Hunt cares about the terror of the prey in the moment. The Eye cares about the terror of the victim in the retelling. The consent aspect is only relevant in terms of whether and how it influences the fear. The fear is all they care about, and I doubt anything benign can come of consuming the fear our patrons want, consensual or no.”

“Do you remember what I said about harm reduction?” Georgie has been sitting quietly with her thoughts for so long, Jon startles at the sound of her voice when she rejoins the conversation. “We need to keep you from getting so hungry that it changes who you are, and new statements are the only way to satisfy that hunger. Correct?”

“Well, yes, but –”

“No ‘but.’ According to you, right now your options are statements or starvation.”

Struck with a fleeting impulse for petulance, Jon has to swallow a biting retort. It’s an old habit, hackles rising at having his own words turned against him – something for which Georgie has always had an aptitude. Between an impressive memory, an analytical nature, and a tolerance for confrontation, she’s never been shy to speculate on what’s really going on in Jon’s head at any given moment. That ability to dissect his motivations and insecurities and cognitive distortions – it used to feel like being flayed alive, all the vulnerable bits of him exposed and shoved under a spotlight.

It’s probably fair to say that his inability to weather that level of scrutiny was a big factor contributing to their eventual breakup: his guarded nature was incompatible with her more straightforward approach to relationships.

“I realize it’s not ideal,” she’s saying now, “but taking statements given with informed consent seems like the most ethical choice.”

“It isn’t just unideal, it’s – it’s –” Jon puts one hand over his eyes, rubbing his forehead and fighting back the urge to shout. “This isn’t a solution.”

It’s still feeding the Eye. It’s still capitalizing on other people’s trauma. And the stories Daisy has to offer… Jon has to wonder how many of them feature Daisy as a victim or a bystander, and whether those outnumber the ones where she herself is the object of fear. He’s taken statements from Avatars before. Some of them were indeed stories of experiencing fear firsthand. Others, though… the fear threaded through the statement came not from the teller, but from their victims.

Jon isn’t keen on siphoning off the secondhand terror of Daisy’s prey. Maybe he can’t afford to be picky, but if there’s one thing he’s learned, it’s that lines have to be drawn somewhere.

“We can keep looking for a better alternative,” Georgie says, “but for now… think of it as a stopgap measure.” Sensing Jon’s continued aversion to the idea, she continues: “If your own wellbeing isn’t enough to convince you, consider how you starving would affect other people.”

“It might make me more dangerous,” Jon says quietly.

“I mean – maybe, I guess? But that’s not what I meant.” At Jon’s blank expression, Georgie sighs. “When you suffer, it hurts more than just you. You have people who care about you. They’re sitting with you right now.”

“Still, I – I can’t ask that of –”

“Oh, come off it, Sims,” Daisy says, rolling her eyes. “You crawled into hell to drag me out when all I’d done was treat you like prey. And even after seeing what it was like, you went back in and brought me back a second time.”

“Yes, but –”

“If I sign a contract to work in the archives, it’ll stop you showing up in my dreams, right?”

“Yes. I’m – I’m sorry, again, about –”

“And it’ll keep new nightmares from cropping up if I give you more statements?”

“Well, yes –”

“Then what’s the problem?”

Jon opens and closes his mouth soundlessly several times.

“I – I – I don’t want you to sign yourself over to the Beholding just so I can – treat your memories like a – like a snack” – Jon flings one arm out in a sweeping gesture, supplementing the disgust with which he says the word – “without facing any consequences!”

He looks around at the others, arm still outstretched in the air, waiting for someone to back him up on this. When no one does, he huffs a bewildered chuckle and withdraws his arm to comb his fingers through his hair instead. Why is he the only one making a fuss about this? He thought he could count on Basira at least to raise an objection, but she’s just staring off to the side, apparently lost in thought.

“I was already considering signing a contract anyway,” Daisy says. “Basira said you had a theory that the Slaughter’s effects on Melanie were slowed by her connection to the Eye, yeah?”

“Yes,” he admits cautiously.

“We were thinking – maybe it’ll do the same for me with the Hunt.”

“Did it help last time?” Basira cuts in, as if she’d never tapped out of the discussion.

“I’m not positive,” Jon hedges. “It was a theory we’d considered, yes, but it’s not like we had much of a sample size to test that hypothesis.”

He wishes he’d thought to ask these kinds of questions after the world ended, when he actually had a chance of getting the answers. In his defense, he had a lot on his mind – and it’s not like he considered the possibility of coming back in time to actually make use of that information.

“And it didn’t entirely silence the call of the Hunt,” he adds, looking back to Daisy. “You still deteriorated the longer you refused to answer it.”

“Hm.” Basira’s contemplative expression returns as she withdraws to commune with her own thoughts again.

“Well, it’s not like I’m going anywhere anyway,” Daisy says with a shrug. “Basira’s trapped here. So are you. And I don’t think I can be trusted to leave here without giving in to the Hunt again. I have nothing to lose by signing a contract, and…”

Her eyes gravitate towards Jon’s throat. Mechanically, he reaches up to adjust the scarf around his neck, to ensure the scar there is covered. At the guilty expression on Daisy’s face, Jon has to look away.

“If it can help,” Daisy continues, “then I think telling some stories is the absolute least I can do after… everything.”

“How many do you have, do you think?” Georgie asks, once again settling into problem-solving mode.

“Don’t know. Several. A couple dozen? Maybe more, depending on how far we can stretch the definition of a statement.”

“I have a handful as well,” Basira says, her tone wholly unreadable. “Not many, but… a few of the things that happened while you were dead should count as statements, I think.”

“I – I couldn’t ask you to –”

“I’m not offering; I’m just inventorying all the options on the table,” Basira says with an air of finality.

Curiously, Martin seems to tense at Basira’s words, shifting restively in his seat and looking askance at her.

“How much time does that buy us, do you think?” he asks, throwing brief, surreptitious glances in Basira’s direction. “How long would a few dozen statements last you?”

“I… I don’t know,” Jon says, still altogether uncomfortable with the idea. “If I ration myself, then – a while, hopefully? Hypothetically? But…”

He’s loathe to elaborate, but when did keeping secrets and denying reality ever help?

“Last time, it kept getting progressively worse. I needed to feed more and more frequently in order to stave off the hunger. The side effects of abstaining grew more severe. I want to hope that it will be different this time. Maybe giving in to the hunger in the first place only encouraged the Archivist’s… evolution. Whet my appetite. It’s possible that refraining from hunting will… I don’t know, slow the process? Maybe? B-but at the same time…”

He trails off, lips parted, unable to say the words.

“Jon?” Martin prompts gently.

“It’s… I’m sorry, but I – I have trouble being optimistic about it. Coming back didn’t… it didn’t reset the Archivist’s progress. I’m the product of what I’ve done up to this point, even if I’m the only one who remembers any of it. I still have all the marks. And… the Archive fledged and thrived in the apocalypse.”

“Meaning?” Basira leans forward, watching him intently.

“The Archive is accustomed to a feast, not a famine. Millions of statements filtering through every moment without pause. Even when humanity started dying off – when there was less and less fear to go around, when even the monsters started to decay in that place – the Archive was still sated, because I could See everything. No matter how few and far between those pockets of terror became, as long as fear was being suffered somewhere, the Archive had a steady source of sustenance.”

It wouldn’t have lasted forever, of course. Everything has an ending. But that had still been a ways off when Jon left that place.

“I probably would have been one of the last things standing, by the end,” he says softly.

“And you think the hunger will be worse this time because you aren’t used to being hungry,” Basira says.

“More or less,” Jon mumbles, shamefaced. “Coming back to the past, to now… there was no transition between plenty and want. I – the Archive – was just… dropped into a – a habitat it was never adapted to survive in. It’s like a… like a non-native species, as far as this reality is concerned. Like taking a fish out of water and expecting it to evolve lungs on the spot.”

“Hm.” Basira cups her chin in one hand, running a thumb slowly over her lips as she thinks.

“I plan to ration myself as strictly as possible, of course. I just want to establish the possibility that things might – escalate, at some point.”

“If it comes to that, we can deal with it then,” Georgie says. “In the meantime, we should just…”

“Take things one crisis at a time?” Jon tries to temper his bitterness with a weak smile, without much success.

“I mean, yeah, basically,” Georgie says. “But in order for this to work, you need to be honest with us.”

“I – I am, I –”

“I’m not accusing you of lying, Jon. I just mean… well, you have a long history of ignoring your own limitations, and –”

“You’re not good at taking care of yourself,” Martin interjects. His cheeks go pink and he tosses an apologetic glance in Georgie’s direction. “S-sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

“No worries,” Georgie says. Martin looks uncertain until she grins and, still making eye contact with him, jerks her chin in Jon’s direction. “By all means, go on.”

Emboldened, Martin turns his attention back to Jon, who meets his eyes with no small amount of apprehension. If Martin is intent on compiling a laundry list of examples of Jon’s poor self-care – and judging from that worryingly familiar look on his face, he is – then he has ample material to choose from. Jon barely has time to brace himself before Martin launches into his lecture.

“You used to forget to eat. You never took lunch unless I hassled you. I had to nag you to go home at night.” He’s counting off on his fingers now, Jon notes with dismay. “You went through most days fueled by a maximum of four hours of sleep and frankly alarming amounts of caffeine. You insisted on coming back to work, against medical advice, immediately after almost being eaten alive by worms.”

Jon opens his mouth to speak – and promptly shuts it again when Martin gives him what Jon can (with equal amounts of affection and dread) only refer to as that look.

“You could barely walk. I had to threaten to forcibly remove you from the building before you agreed to go home. You spent the next several weeks sneaking – hell, limping around down here” – Martin makes a sweeping gesture with his arm – “where we found your predecessor’s murdered body, and –”

“Yes, yes, okay,” Jon interrupts, hands flapping anxiously. “I get your point.”

“I also had to threaten to withhold the Admiral from you in order to get you to go to the clinic to have your third-degree burn treated,” Georgie chimes back in. Jon glares at her; she looks far too entertained by the proceedings.

“I was – I was on the lam,” he protests. “I couldn’t exactly go waltzing about in public.”

“But you were perfectly willing to go chasing down Avatars, apparently.”

“I…”

“Oh,” she adds, “and today was the first time you actually slept since you woke up from a coma.”

“I was asleep for six months,” Jon mutters, arms crossed, bouncing one heel against the floor. “I think that more than makes up for –”

“You tried to pass off a stab wound that required five – five!” – Martin holds up five fingers for added (and unnecessary, in Jon’s opinion) emphasis – “stitches as an accident with a – with a bread knife.”

Somehow, Martin manages to sound as indignant now as he did on the day it happened.

“That was several lifetimes ago,” Jon says primly. “At some point you have to let me live it down.”

“It hasn’t even been two years!”

“Seriously, Jon?” Daisy, who has been hiding a smirk behind her hand throughout the entire exchange, finally fails to contain her stifled laughter. “A bread knife?”

“I – I panicked,” Jon says weakly, cheeks burning. “Martin cornered me in the breakroom and it was the first thing I saw, and I just –”

Martin starts in again. “You were actively exsanguinating –”

“Th-that – that’s an exaggeration,” Jon sputters, watching Georgie out of the corner of his eye to gauge her reaction. She’s shaking her head with a faint smile, and Jon… well, Jon supposes that playful scorn is preferable to actual scorn.

“– and you refused to let me take you to the clinic until I threatened to call an ambulance,” Martin finishes.

“I was –” Jon twists a lock of hair around his fingers as he scrambles for some way to save face. “I would have been –”

“I think it’s safe to say you have no sense of self-preservation,” Basira says, and even she has a hint of amusement in her tone now.

“They have a point, Sims.”

“Et tu, Daisy?” Jon says, hoping to garner a laugh – or, failing that, at least halt the relentless bombardment of admonishments. Daisy simply raises her eyebrows and folds her arms, unmoved.

“Do I need to revisit some of the things we discussed in the Coffin?”

“No,” he says sullenly. When no one else speaks, he continues, somewhat irately: “Are we quite finished with the roast session?”

“For now,” Georgie says. “The point is, don’t run yourself into the ground just to test the limits of what you can endure.”

“And don’t let rationing statements turn into just another way to punish yourself,” Martin says sternly. Then he bites his lip, speaking gently now: “You… you deserve better than that.”

I really, really don’t, Jon thinks. Having no desire to unleash another lecture, though, he keeps the contrary comment to himself.

“Besides, letting yourself get that bad probably makes things worse in the long run,” Georgie says. “Like walking on a sprained ankle. Maybe you can endure the pain, but the longer you ignore it, the more likely you are to cause even more damage, and recovery takes longer than it would have if you’d just attended to it in the first place.”

“Speaking from personal experience, are we?” Jon allows a hint of retaliatory smugness slip into his voice.

“Yes,” Georgie says, rolling her eyes. “That ankle is still weak. Which is why you should listen to me. Just… try to care about yourself even a fraction of how much others care about you, alright?

Jon sighs. “Point taken.”

“You can trust us,” Martin says.

“I – I know that. I do trust you. I’m just…” Afraid. “I don’t want you to –”

“– mark me out as something other –”

“– getting used to people making polite excuses not to look at me –”

“– it wears you down to be someone whom nobody wants to see – I called out again and again but nobody came –”

Frantic, he covers his mouth with his hand to halt the recitation; the words continue to pour forth undeterred, albeit muffled and likely – hopefully – too indistinct for the others to understand.

“– I remember shouting, recriminations, and I was abandoned –”

“– no one to blame but my own stupid self – blundering in where I had no right to go –”

A flash flood of restless energy breaks through the dam and then it’s racing through his veins, filling his mouth and his mind with white noise. He kicks one foot out and brings it stomping back down to the ground in a burst of sheer infuriation and near-panic. A crawling sensation travels up and down the length of his spine, a parade of feather-light pinpricks reminiscent of thousands of scuttling spider legs.

The slight whimper that works its way up his throat is thankfully stifled by the hand still pressed to his lips.

“Breathe through it,” Basira tells him.

Irritation flares to life at the reminder, but Jon forcibly snuffs it out before the spark can catch. Basira is only trying to help – and in a way she knows has helped before.

He breathes.

A frustrated noise – something between a snarl and a whine – spills out on his exhale, and he presses another hand atop the first as if it can render him entirely soundless. Before another wave of self-directed fury can take him, Jon coaxes himself to take another breath in through his nose. And another. And another, counting up until the pressure behind his eyes lets up and the static clears from his thoughts – at which point, he’s forced to confront the four pairs of eyes playing patient audience to his outburst.

Like a toddler’s tantrum, he thinks acidly, burning with humiliation.

“Sorry.” Although the scathing edge to the word is reserved solely for himself, he takes another breath before speaking again, lest the others assume the ire is directed at them. “Sorry. I’ll try to control it better.”

“It’s fine, Jon,” Martin says. “We know you aren’t doing it on purpose.”

“Anyway,” Basira says, her peremptory tone indicating a return to the subject at hand, “can we all agree that this is the best strategy for now?”

Jon looks down, tracing the weave of his scarf, focusing wholly on the texture of fabric against fingertips in a vain attempt to distract from the pins and needles still skittering across his skin. It takes a moment before he registers the silence. When he looks up, the others are staring at him. Basira raises an eyebrow, clearly waiting for his response.

“Even if I do agree to this,” Jon says warily, “I still – I know it’s a lot to ask, but I still need to be monitored for any signs of…” Although the question is meant for all of them, Jon shifts his gaze to make direct eye contact with Basira as he asks it. “Can you let me know, truthfully, if I – if it looks like I might… if you think I’m a danger?”

“Jon,” Martin sighs, “you’re not –”

“Yes,” Basira says decisively.

Martin glares at her, his mouth falling open with a combination of shock and protective outrage. Jon recognizes that expression, and he jumps in before Martin can get a word out.

“Thank you, Basira.”

Now Jon is the target of Martin’s glower. He looks offended, betrayed almost, as if Jon took Basira’s side in a dispute between the two of them. Again, though, Martin doesn’t get the chance to scold.

“Alright then,” Daisy says, stretching. “It’s settled. You” – her eyes swivel to Jon, their piercing intensity prompting him to sit up at attention – “come to me when you’re hungry.”

“Before you cross the boundary into ‘starving,’” Martin says, carving out an opportunity to chastise despite the interruption.

“Consider me a vending machine of horror stories,” Daisy quips.

Jon grimaces and rubs the back of his neck. “Do you have to describe it that way?”

“Oh, quit grousing.” With a flash of teeth, a wolfish grin spreads across her face. “What, would you prefer I write up a menu?”

Her expression turns solemn when Jon winces and looks away.

“Sore nerve?” she asks, suddenly and uncharacteristically delicate.

“Are you sure you’re okay with this?” The question is nearly inaudible, Jon’s eyes fixed on the floor.

“I wouldn’t have offered if I wasn’t.”

Fearing his voice might crack if he tries to speak, Jon bites down on his lip and tucks his chin to his chest, letting his hair fall to hide the others from view. He shuts his eyes for good measure and swallows hard, determined to head off the tears threatening to gather.

“Hey.” Daisy stretches out a leg and kicks his foot gently. It’s enough to make him raise his head cautiously. “I was just teasing. Really.”

“I –” It comes out as a croak. Jon clears his throat and blinks several times to dispel the stinging pressure in the corners of his eyes. “I know.”

“It is… so weird to see you two like this,” Basira says with an air of baffled wonder.

Jon notices Martin fidgeting restively out of the corner of his eye. When he looks directly at him, he sees Martin glaring at Daisy with a mixture of worry, suspicion, and resentment.

It isn’t surprising; he never really did forgive Daisy for what she did to Jon. Neither did Jon, for that matter, but… Daisy was so changed after the Buried, it was difficult to see her as the same person who dragged him into the woods. She was, undoubtedly – she was the first to admit that – but she was remorseful and wholly dedicated to changing her behavior, even knowing it might well kill her. She never asked for forgiveness, never denied the harm she’d caused, never tried to justify or shirk responsibility for her actions.

What she later became… there was nothing left of the Daisy who he’d come to see as a friend. For that Daisy, being reclaimed by the Hunt was a fate worse than death. Worse than the Coffin, even. She would have preferred to die as herself, and on her own terms – and the Hunt stole even that ounce of humanity from her. It made her forget that she didn't want to be a Hunter.

Jon dreads watching her waste away again, but not nearly as much as he fears the Hunt devouring her whole.

“People change,” he says, looking from Martin to Basira, hoping those two words can convey all the things he cannot say. They both look unconvinced, albeit in slightly different ways.

The silence drags on uncomfortably long until Georgie claps her hands on her knees.

“You never answered the question, Jon. Are you alright taking statements from Daisy? At least until we can find a better solution?”

“I…”

He glances around the circle, looking at each face in turn, trying to discern their opinions on the matter. Daisy gives him a reassuring nod. Martin has an almost pleading expression on his face, worrying his bottom lip between his teeth and wringing his hands in his lap.

Basira is… entirely inscrutable, much to Jon’s dismay. He didn’t expect otherwise, but he still wishes he could get a read on her, determine exactly how she categorizes him now. Probably not as a trustworthy ally. At best, perhaps she sees him as human enough to be suffered to live, but on thin ice and under probation. At worst, she sees him as an irredeemable monster and is simply keeping her opinion to herself for the time being.

Or – no, the worst might be what he was to her last time. She saw him as a monster, yes, and was fully prepared to put him down – like a rabid animal, he thought when confronted with that wording – if he became too much of a danger. It was comforting to know that Basira wouldn’t let sentiment get in the way if he had to be stopped. Less comforting was how she saw him as an asset: a dangerous tool to be used and then locked away once he’d fulfilled his purpose.

Granted, he gave Basira permission to use him – asked her to, in fact. It would be unfair to resent her for taking him up on an offer that he himself put on the table. If his powers could be used to help for once, he was fully willing to sacrifice his humanity to do so. After all, he was already too far gone, he figured – and everyone else seemed to agree.

Georgie certainly seemed to think so. Melanie told him outright that he came back wrong. He had likewise interpreted Martin’s avoidance as a comment on his having changed for the worst, at least initially. And he knew from the moment he woke up that Basira saw him as something other, as something more akin to the monsters they were fighting rather than an ally. He understood why they all felt that way, agreed with their assessments even, but it was soul-crushing nonetheless.

But even if he couldn’t have – didn’t deserve – trust or companionship, he still needed a reason, something to justify choosing not to die. If being wanted wasn’t an option, the least he could do is avoid being a burden. An annoyance. If approval wasn’t on the table, at least he could convince people that he was worth keeping around. And hadn’t that approach always been second nature to him? In a way, he didn’t tend to seek affection so much as try to avoid rejection.

Ultimately, though, pursuing that strategy started to feel sickeningly familiar. It wasn’t until much later that he realized why: between Jonah and the Beholding – and in all likelihood the Web as well – he’d grown accustomed to being seen as a means to an end, and that made it all the more difficult to see himself as a who rather than as a what. It’s a distinction he still struggles with – particularly during those times when the Archive makes its presence known.

He might not have much right to ask for trust or approval, but that doesn’t change the fact that he craves it – perhaps from Basira most of all. If even her opinion of him can change… well, it would go a long way in helping him to believe that he really does have a chance.

“Jon,” Basira says, snapping him back to attention.

Shit. How long has he been staring?

“We need an answer,” she continues.

Jon can’t help but wonder if this is another test. If he agrees, will she see it as further proof of his inhumanity, as evidence that he isn’t trying to resist? If he refuses, will it make her suspicious, lead her to believe he plans on going hunting instead? He’s never been skilled at reading between the lines, at interpreting social cues, at deconstructing the unspoken. The best he can do is ask questions and guess blindly as to the right way to respond – and agonize over the repercussions should he get it wrong. Basira has a way of making that already difficult process even more intimidating.

“Jon,” Basira repeats herself, growing impatient now.

“O-okay,” he says quietly. “It’s… worth a try, I suppose.”

She gives a curt nod. As always, it gives him no insight into her thoughts. He has no time resume brooding, though, as Martin draws his attention with an audible sigh of relief. When Jon glances at him, Martin graces him with a smile – small, almost shy, but genuine. Jon tries and fails to mirror it.

Apparently finished with Jon for the moment, Basira turns her attention to Daisy.

“Come on,” she says, rising to her feet and tapping Daisy on the shoulder. “It’s time for your exercises.”

Obediently, Daisy starts to stand, only for her knees to buckle beneath her. Basira is there to catch her.

“Been sitting too long,” Daisy grunts, embarrassment coloring her cheeks.

“Can you manage the ladder?” Daisy shakes her head, flushing darker. “That’s fine,” Basira says, though Jon thinks he can detect a hint of fear – maybe even melancholy – in her tone now. “Let’s just… walk for now. Wake your legs up.”

The two of them start off down the tunnel, Basira supporting half of Daisy’s weight as she staggers forward.

“Jon?” Georgie says softly.

“Hm.”

“Try to cut yourself some slack, yeah?”

Jon really can’t afford to do that, but saying so will only start them talking in circles again. Martin leans closer and places a hand on Jon’s knee.

“Hey,” he says, looking Jon in the eye with overwhelming sincerity. “We’ve got this, alright?”

“Alright,” Jon responds, and wills himself to believe it.

The three of them exit the tunnel in silence. It isn’t until Jon hoists himself through the trapdoor – Martin assisting in pulling him to his feet – that one of them speaks.

“Oh,” Georgie says, looking at Jon, “by the way…”

“Yes?” Jon says, apprehensive.

“Melanie asked me to tell you that she’s ready to talk, whenever you are.”

“O-oh.”

“I know it's not a great time –”

“No, I – I think I…” Jon nods. “I think I’m ready, too.”

“It doesn’t have to be tonight,” Georgie says hurriedly.

“I really am okay to –”

Martin looks ready to object, but Georgie gets there first.

“Okay, correction: it won’t be tonight,” she interrupts, fixing him with a stern look now. “You’ve had hardly any rest since coming out of the Coffin. I think you should get some actual sleep tonight. If – if – you’re feeling up to it tomorrow, we can arrange something then.”

“Fine,” Jon sighs. He knows better than to argue with the combined tenacity of Georgie and Martin.

And he has to admit, he is rather tired.

A little over a half-hour later, Martin and Jon are back in Document Storage.

When he suggests Jon go to bed, Martin is prepared for a protracted argument. Jon acquiesces surprisingly quickly, though, his only condition being that Martin get some sleep as well. It takes slightly longer to convince Jon to take the cot. Martin pulls up a chair and sits at the bedside, refusing to budge as Jon makes his counterarguments. Eventually, though, Jon starts nodding off mid-protest. It’s only a matter of time before he begrudgingly gives in – but not before demanding that Martin take the better blanket. With an amused shake of his head, Martin agrees to the compromise.

Jon slips between the sheets, Martin leans back in his chair, and for a long moment the two of them watch each other in silence. Jon’s hand rests near the pillow, fingers crooked loosely, palm turned up like an invitation. Martin has the sudden urge to reach out and take it.

Another minute passes before Martin realizes that… well, that’s a thing he can do now, isn’t it? What’s stopping him?

Slowly, tentatively, he extends his hand, lets it hover uncertainly above Jon’s, fingertips barely brushing. He applies the slightest pressure, giving Jon every opportunity to pull back. He doesn’t. Jon interlocks their fingers, curling them over in a firm grasp, and peers up at Martin through his lashes with mingled uncertainty and hope.

“Is this okay?” Martin asks quietly.

As answer, Jon lets out a contented sigh, eyelids fluttering closed as a sleepy smile spreads across his face.

“'Course,” he mumbles, already drifting off. “Always will.”

Martin will follow not long after, slumping precariously to the side, head lolling onto his shoulder, and hand still held fast in a warm, sure grip. It’s a posture that will undoubtedly leave him sore by the time he wakes up, but that discomfort will be overshadowed by the way he feels in these shared, quiet moments: seen, accepted, wanted, embraced.

Anchored, he thinks – and for the first time in months, no thoughts of Loneliness shadow him as he falls to sleep.

End Notes:

Jon: *feels safe for the first time in a literally unmeasurable amount of time and promptly passes right back tf out* Martin: oh no he’s cute

Jon's gotten a SNACK and a NAP now. I hope you're all happy. :P (Just kidding. Every time someone tells me to let Jon have a nap, I am also @ing myself - and Jonny Sims - with the exact same demand.)

(On that note, I find it funny that as I was writing this chapter and finally giving Jon the nap he deserves, he was ALSO finally getting the nap he deserves in canon.)

Citations for Jon’s Archive-speak are as follows: MAG 135; 130/067/066; 032/037.

Next chapter: Melanie gets some actual screentime again!!

#tma #tma fic #long post #the magnus archives

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khiphop-discussions · 4 years ago

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Chillin Homie got hospitalized AGAIN due to depression and panic disorder. (I know this made me easily upset everytime I saw upsetting things while I am recovering but I had to tell this urgently.) I hope he will apologize truthfully for his past mistakes because I am so worried. I don't know what's next and I don't want to get much worse than this. Anyway, how's your past weeks going? ~Queennie (from the deactivated Tumblr account @heart-bleeding-autism-angel)

OK so here are some facts (some of this might be WILDLY triggering so definitely tw:suice tw:suicide attempt tw:suicidal ideation tw:drug abuse and I will put these in the tags as well):

1. Chillin Homie DID apologize for the whole live that he did. He made a whole apology as well as explained why his mental health has been declining. His label Groovl1n apologized as well.

2. Chillin Homie was ALREADY overdosed on that live! He had already taken AT LEAST 35 pills. There’s translation that say that by his own admission he took at least forty (I don’t 100% trust this for reasons I’ll explain in a bit). He only took like...5 on the live (DEFINITELY less than 10). As soon as he spoke on that live, you could hear his slurred speech. I don’t think I’ll EVER forget it. And it’s one of the most prominent things I remember from that live. Slurred speech is a symptom of overdose. I originally thought he might have been drinking heavy but after putting all the pieces together it was the pills. He was OVERDOSED already. He was damn near dying in that live, ok? Had he not posted that story, done the live, and then posted the ig post after the live (not the apology but the one before that that has since been deleted) I’m almost 100% sure he’d be dead right now. Pretty scary. For people who did not watch that whole thing go down (I DEFINITELY did from the story post, to the live, to the ig timeline post, to groovl1n’s update, to his apology), I don’t think you guys understand. This was SOOOO serious.

3. Number 2 isn’t just to garner sympathy because at this point it you don’t feel it then you just won’t. It’s to drive home a point. All of what he said was A) under the influence of drugs B) under EXTREME mental distress C) while he was on the verge of dying. To put this in perspective if you still don’t understand, if he had committed a crime the law would have trouble figuring out what to do with him. He’d likely be committed to a mental health institution of some sort. After that IDK what happens. They can either prosecute once he gets out or drop the charges. But it will probably depend on the severity of the crime and the mental stability after they are out of the mental health facility. Not to say I 100% agree with the law, but I kinda agree here. I don’t know how much accountability I can really give someone who was going through the bolded. This is not like someone getting on IG live fully sober and saying whatever crazy shit. This dude was not in his right mind that night. So I’m not about to keep harping on this someone said during a whole suicide attempt where they were overdosed and tried to take even more because...I guess they weren’t dying fast enough?

4. Back to why I don’t know whether to 100% trust the forty pills figure he gave out. Well, I kinda explained why in number 3. He wasn’t in his right mind so IDK if he knew how much he really took. He may have miscalculated and took even MORE or less or he could be right on the money. Regardless of how many he took, he was definitely overdosed.

I’m gonna be honest. This situation was upsetting for me. Like I said the WHOLE day after that happened I could see his face from that live in my head. I was worried af and I really didn’t know what was gonna happen. This happened at around 11-11:30AM PST. We didn’t get an update until around 6 or 7 PM PST. I wasn’t sure if I had watched his last moments before dying or if he was gonna be disabled in some way or what. That was WILD. Luckily he was relatively ok.

My thing is this, it’s OK to just leave him alone right now. IDK why people keep saying shit? Like why KEEP poking at someone who is suicidal and severely mentally ill. It’s like people won’t be satisfied until he actually dies no matter what he says or does. It’s crazy that people are still trying to bring negativity but then in the same breath are like “I hope he gets well BUT...” no but. Either hope he gets well or not. That “but” implies you don’t truly give a shit (which by the way that’s fine. It’s your right to like or dislike whoever) so just shut up or own the fact that you wanna keep piling on this dude.

My thing is, there’s people in Khiphop that I don’t like but you would never see me keep picking at them during/immediately after suicide attempt. Even in “normal” times I say my piece about whatever happened and then move on. I don’t particularly like to keep dragging it on. It’s not even really productive or useful to keep up with all the news of someone I dislike and think are misogynistic or racist or whatever the fuck.

tl;dr: The man was suicidal, overdosed, mentally ill, and damn near dying. I don’t know if I can truly hold him accountable for much? Plus, he apologized. We can’t even get those from people when they are SOBER and in the right head space these days. It’s cool if people don’t wanna fuck with him cause of his comments about feminists and don’t accept the apology, that’s their business but just leave him alone. What do you get out of keeping on picking at him?

(final thoughts) Overall, I REALLY hope he’s okay and overcomes this. And I’m glad his taking his mental health into his own hands and really trying. Despite ALL this shit going on, he’s REALLY trying. He gave an APOLOGY after one day out of the hospital. When he should have been resting!?! It seems like he’s being responsible as shit for a 21 year old (starting from dropping out of SMTM9 instead of pushing on for the money. That’s a mature ass decision and thought process to know that health > wealth). And he’s truly trying his best to get a handle on all this shit. I’m not gonna lie, I’m kinda scared for him. Especially after being in that live. But I TRULY hope he recovers. He has already beaten anxiety before but now it seems he’s struggling mentally so much worse now.

#asks #chillin homie #tw:suicide #tw:suicidal ideation #tw:drug abuse #tw:suicide attempt #Anonymous

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lettuce-seize-the-day · 4 years ago

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Lemme get this straight - (yeah that's a pun) - the destiel shippers are pissed about the spn ending and the wincest shippers love it. So maybe the couple you ship would have to do something with how you percieve the ending.

I mean kind of yeah, though it's not an even split that's how it's generally swayed. but the ending is the most flawed for dean bc of all the reasons ive written several essays about. for sam, in GENERAL, i don't.....despise his ending (though I don't love it and im not sure it's what I would have picked) but other than blurry wife and shitty wig and being Fine without Dean it's not the worst. But Dean wanted a family!!

Okay yep I'm writing another essay. Not bc you asked me to but bc I'm angry again. Tw for brief references of suicidal ideation (regarding a character).

Yes, between dean and Sam, dean was technically more shown to be inclined to hunting. But it's not that simple. See, from the time he could walk pretty much, his whole purpose was to protect his family. It was put on him by John and all he wanted was his approval, so he raised his little brother and did everything he could for his father's love (which he never really got.) Moving on.

When sam, dean, and John are close to getting the yellow eyed demon and John and Sam are both willing to sacrifice themselves for the cause, Dean says that "if hunting this thing gets you or dad killed then I hope we NEVER find the damn thing." Yes, he hates azazel but what's DRIVING his ACTIONS is his love for his family. This is the mission his FAMILY has chosen, so he goes in full force. And without analyzing, it can seem that dean loves and cares about hunting more than anything. But that's just the way he's been taught to show his love. It's the only way, really. When sam goes to hell, Dean gets a normal life. He doesn't keep hunting, even though honestly? He could. And if he actually cared about hunting itself, he would. But his brother was gone, his dad was gone, his family was gone. His family is everything to him. So what's the point? He needs a new family. Cue Lisa and Ben. Then once sam (F A M I L Y) is back in the game, he's right back on his bullshit (more or less).

Also- he's been suicidal his whole life. But he's never made an official attempt just for the heck of it. The only times that can be argued is when he is about to say yes to Michael in season 5, and after he loses Cas and goes hunting with Sam in season 13. But both times, he only felt it was okay because it was a means to an end. Yes he wants to die but MORE than that he wants to save the people he loves. It triumphs over everything, and those situations, he could use his suicidal ideation to help people, and also finally lay his weary head to rest.

I could keep going but my point is made pretty much I think. Dean only cares abt his family and everything he does, including hunting, is for love. Therefore, having him die while hunting (especially Like That) was a shitty and disrespectful end to his arc. The only way to end it would have been to have someone love and care for HIM, and the ONLY one who could do that was Cas. So, to not even mention Cas except offhandedly by other characters, and to let Dean die the second the last Big Bad is defeated and (according to the thought process he's had all along UP UNTIL this point, or arguably up until the point of castiel's confession) the second that he has no more purpose to serve on earth is.......well, bad. It's just bad.

So in conclusion, yes the shippers are kind of split in feelings of the finale, (also bc of the uncomfy wincest moment when dean was dying, iykyk) but it's more about the individual characters than the ships themselves. Destiel being reciprocated would have been a beautiful, delicious cherry on top for me if dean was given a good fucking ending. But my biggest issue is Dean. Dean fucking deserved better.

#spn #supernatural #dean winchester #spngate #spn finale #supernatural finale

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imnotyogi · 3 years ago

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Today I got a slight talking to as I was apparently rude to a new hire. She was reading the logbook, I tried to get her attention (twice) quietly, someone else tried to get her attention, then I got annoyed at some point and said “hello?!”. Apparently it was loud and rude. I dont even remember it tbh lol. The new hire ended up crying out of embarrassment and....I dont care? But it did send me on a rabbit hole of thoughts. Like how many times people (including one who spoke to me about this) have been rude to me and didnt seem fazed when I brought it up. Or laughed when someone made an insulting comment about me. And only gave a half ass apology after someone else mentioned it (oh the hypocrisy). I dont cry over this shit. I do stew on it and will dredge it up later tho. Then further down the rabbit hole I started thinking about all the times I feel like no one gives a fuck about me because of course I fucking do. I can literally talk about suicide ideation and its a “meh whatever” type of response if theres any response at all from these same people Ive known for years. I have these imaginary conversations that jump off from questions that I know will never be asked because in order to ask them a fuck has to be given and they just arent. A lot of times I worry what would happen to my animals if I were to die via any means. Thats it. Theres not a whole lot of people in my life and I’m so damn defensive that its hard for me to build or sustain any kind of relationship with people. Its very out of sight out of mind. My funeral would be pretty bare if I die before my parents/brother otherwise the state would bury me. I try to be nice and friendly and show I care about and appreciate people but when theres an opportunity to show the same towards me in a way that really matters to me it just doesnt happen. I honestly just want to be close enough to someone that I can cry in front of them and for them to just fucking hug me. I never allow for this type of shit. I shut down emotions and make jokes out of it and people are so damn convinced I dont like hugs. Im just not close to anyone to allow anything but some half ass one arm bullshit. I have to intellectualize shit all the time. Like today, one of the people who talked to me about all of this gave me lidocaine patches and tiger balm for my back. So I, intellectually, know thats a sign of giving a marginal shit. Thats a sign of consideration. But I also know it doesnt go that far. Its not that it doesnt matter but its also not something that really matters to me at the end of the day if that makes sense. Its not something that screams, “Id care if you died” tho i also realize its too much to ask for from someone that im not insanely close to. idk. i cant have one without the other but i dont know how to get either at the same time. But Im supposed to feel sorry because some rando cried? She started yesterday and saw how hectic mornings are and didnt have the wherewithal to notice someone literally standing right in front of her trying to get her attention. Like, she was reading a logbook about what happened on other peoples shifts. Its not that engrossing. Its just fucking stupid. I know things are probablymore annoying than normal because I’ve been working 6 days straight for the past several weeks and its hot as fuck but this is stupid. I could die tomorrow and not a single one of these people getting all butthurt about this would give a single fuck between them.

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hoe-doroki · 4 years ago

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Alright, friends, your local demi is going to take one last bow before ace week is up.

I’m going to talk about myself, because I the lived experience of ace and acespec people isn’t talked about enough and, well, this is the week to talk about it!

Now that that’s out of the way, let’s bring in a good ol’ frame of reference:

78% pure. For those who don’t know this is the rice purity test, where high scores mean you haven’t participated in many “racy” activities and low scores mean you have.

First, let’s state that I don’t want to put too much stock on this test. Only 3/4 of the questions are about sex and dating while the remaining 1/4 is about alcohol, drugs, and illegal activity. (Part of the reason my score is so high is because I, unrelated to being acespec, don’t drink or smoke.) But, like I said, it’s a place to start.

Stats. I’m a 24-year-old woman. I am cisgender, straight, and demisexual/demiromantic (not asexual or aromantic). I have never had a boyfriend, I have never enjoyed kissing, I have never had sex.

Oof, and right away, I’m embarrassed saying that.

And that’s the whole problem.

(This post clocks in at ~1.6k, so the rest is under the cut. Trigger warning for suicidal ideation.)

Well, not my whole problem, haha, but it is why I’m bothering to talk about this instead of keeping it secret, like I prefer to. I want to dispel some myths that harm the way I view myself and keep me from being honest with others. Because I fear that when people look at me and hear “24-year-old virgin” they assume things about me that just aren’t true.

First thing’s first. The fact that I’m a virgin means nothing except that I have not had sexual intercourse with another person. There are no other assumptions to be made.

It hurts when people are surprised by this. I happen to fall mostly into the barbed categories of American conventional attractiveness, so when people hear that I have never had a boyfriend or that I’m a virgin, they assume there’s something wrong with me. Or that past men I’ve been around have missed an opportunity or something.

This is shitty on two levels. One, the assumption that my stats are the way they are because of some failure sucks. All it should be is a reflection of my agency and the fact that I am the queen of saying no. (In fact, it was my first word.) But then people are assuaged by the fact that I have, in fact, been approached for sex, as though that confirms for them the value that they assumed I had. As though that’s where any of my worth should be coming from.

Two, these assumptions, when flipped, imply that it would “make sense” for me to have my stats if I looked different or was less neurotypical.

Media--as it does--has played a role in these assumptions. I think about the characters who are “later-in-life virgins” and I think of Emma Pillsberry from Glee, who deals with extreme OCD and germophobia. Or Sheldon and Amy from The Big Bang Theory, the former of whom might very well be acespec and is likely on the autism spectrum as well, but who is shown to be very antisocial with many difficulties forming interpersonal relationships and the latter of whom comes from a very conservative family and a mother who ensured she couldn’t learn social skills until well into her thirties. Or the “what if” episode of Friends that basically asserts that Monica would have been too fat to get laid. Or The 40-Year-Old Virgin, which I don’t wish to talk about. (Oof, all such problematic examples)

And yes, these characters are all white (I am not) and that’s a discussion for another post better made by someone who is more of a media expert than me.

These characters are all portrayed to have something that “explains” why they haven’t yet had the privilege of having sex. And we see in movies like The 40-Year-Old Virgin, or a whole host of teen movies, that virginity is something to conquer--especially for male characters.

I don’t look how people expect virginity to look. I’ll be real--I have high self esteem. I think I’m awesome inside and out and I don’t see any reason why I should be shy about that. I know that if I wanted to have sex with a stranger, I could do it tonight (covid notwithstanding--be safe, friends).

And even if I were a different person who had less self confidence or looked different or came from a different background, that wouldn’t mean that I “deserve” to be a virgin or whatever it is media is telling us. Virginity still wouldn’t have a damn thing to do with the other things that make up a person.

So, louder for the people in the back: being a virgin doesn’t mean that there’s anything wrong with me.

Next point. Being a virgin doesn’t mean that I’m innocent, a prude, or that I’m “waiting for marriage.”

Gosh, I’ve been asked if I’m waiting for marriage too many times. Two things. 1. No. I’d rather know my sexual compatibility with a partner before marriage and 2. I’m an atheist. So no.

Also, I am not innocent or a prude.

My lack of experience makes me feel infantilized. It does. That’s a personal issue of mine and, ya’ll, I don’t have many answers for how to overcome it. But I have done what I can to change that.

Guys, some of the best choices I’ve made in my adulthood are the things I’ve done to reclaim my sexuality (meaning sexualness not orientation) for myself. Not gonna get super nsfw here, but I’ve invested in about a dozen sex toys and I intend to buy more. They always makes me feel so much more adult and sexy. And I’ve done things with them that I feel pretty confident that many of my sexually active, allosexual friends haven’t done. This kind of thing isn’t for everyone acespec, but it helps me reclaim my worth as a sexual being, without needing a partner to validate that.

I’m also fully valid to write erotica! I love erotica and it’s another way I take back my sexuality. It is just as valid for me to write as it is for anyone else. I am capable of research--both on my own body and from resources, experts, and classes. I don’t need to have had sex for my opinion to matter.

Oh, and being acespec has nothing to do with my sex drive. It seems that I have a libido that is either average or slightly above average--I’m also a person that the more I’m engaging with my libido, the higher it gets.

This often feels like a curse. I, unlike many, but not all, acespec people, strongly desire sex. Like, I’ve bundled up a 35-pound weighted blanket on top of myself whilst engaging in self-pleasure just to try and make the activity feel more partnered (pro tip: that didn’t work.) The truth is that I’m really sick of having to take care of my libido by myself and would much rather have a partner.

But it’s not easy.

I’ve tried online dating, guys. Many times. I can’t do it. That’s not true of all acespec individuals, but it is for me, at least right now. For me, my demisexuality means that the idea and experience of going out, even on a casual date, with someone I’m not already interested in is nearly intolerable. And my current lifestyle, for many reasons, doesn’t lend itself well to me naturally forming crushes.

I’ve only had one major crush in my life. And it was 10 years ago. So you understand the difficulty.

I hate being demisexual, guys. I do. I wish that I could write this post with the intent of spreading pride and positivity, but I can’t. That’s not where I’m truthfully at yet. I’m lonely to the point of suicidal ideation. I’m too young for it, but I’m already making contingency plans for freezing my eggs or trying to imagine a future where I could be a single mother and...I can’t yet reconcile it. I know that part of this is my dreams being created in society’s image, but all I’ve ever wanted is to be a wife and a mother. And it’s hard to see that future when I can only look at my past and see images of silicone and sexual repulsion.

Remember when I said I’ve never enjoyed kissing? I’ve had more stage kisses than “real” kisses and, I have to say, the staged ones were more enjoyable because at least I wasn’t forcing myself to do them. Forcing myself to try to kiss someone so that I could feel “normal.” Forcing myself to kiss someone just because I was curious about what it was other people were talking about. My first “real” kiss was at 20 years old and it was a night where I forced myself to do a lot of things for the sake of catching up with my peers and I’ve been deeply uncomfortable with that experience ever since, and I can only be grateful that I stopped it as early in the evening as I did.

Everyone’s experience is so different, ya’ll. I haven’t heard a story like mine before, so in no way can I claim it to be an experience that widely represents demisexuality. It certainly doesn’t represent asexuality, nor how queerness (or many other things) intersects with either of those things.

But, at the same time, I’ve never heard a story like mine before. Do you know how helpful it would have been to have been able to see a story like this a few years ago? Ten years ago? It would have been life changing. Because even though, in the middle of all that self-confidence I spouted off about paragraphs ago, there’s this kernel of self-hatred stuck in my teeth, I would have felt validated. I would have felt seen. I would have been able to DM someone who could have told me, hey, it hurts and I know no one seems to understand you, but I do.

That’s to say, if anyone is going through something similar and wants to talk about it, my DMs are always open. I’m no expert, and I bet some of the things I’ve said here aren’t going to hit some people right, but this is my experience. This is the most intimate part of my life. It is a privilege that I’m sharing this with you all, so please, hold it with care. I hope this means something to someone.

Happy ace week, ya’ll.

Oh, and the rice purity test doesn’t mean shit. It’s good fun if you want, but if it makes you feel any kind of way because your number is too low or too high, throw it away. That’s not where any part of your value comes from.

#i promise this has nothing to do with the fact that today is my brother's wedding day #not bitter at all #asexuality #ace week #demisexuality #demisexual #demiromantic #asexuality spectrum #acespec #nobody asked ana #personal #tw: suicidal ideation #tw suicidal ideation #cw: suicidal ideation #cw suicidal ideation

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harrypotterwholock · 4 years ago

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Chapter 3: The plan

Summary:

Angie makes further plans for her suicide, while Remus senses pending danger and asks Professor Snape for help.

~Trigger warning for suicidal ideations~

At the breakfast table, Angie sat down with the other Ravenclaws and took part in the morning conversation. "Did you see Professor Lupin this morning? I met him in the corridor before breakfast when he hurried down the hall. He looked pretty worried," said Millie. "Really? No, I didn't, but yesterday he behaved normally. Strange ..." said a boy whose name Angie didn't know.

"Damn, he's going to do something. I have to get through this day well and then I'll get it over with," Angie thought.

A strange feeling came over her and her gaze got pulled to the teacher's table. Startled, she noticed that Professor Snape was giving her an impenetrable look. His black eyes bored into her green ones, forcing her to look away. She couldn't shake off the thought that Professor Snape was well versed in legilimency.

Troubled by this encounter, she quickly set off for her first lesson: transfiguration with Professor McGonagall. Of all places. She did not feel ready to be humiliated, but could not risk skipping, otherwise a teacher could thwart her plans.

Angie sat down in her usual place at the end of the classroom and opened her book to revise the last lesson. The class had been given the task of turning a turtle into a teapot. It was nothing that Angie couldn't have accomplished at home, but at Hogwarts she just didn't have the concentration she needed.

Professor McGonagall started on a new topic. The students should read pages 40-43 of their textbook first, and then turn a rabbit into a hat. Angie felt the fear of failure come over her. She pressed her fingernails into her forearm until it started to bleed. "Pull yourself together, it doesn't matter whether you can do it or not, tonight everything will no longer matter. Then all the pain and all the fears will be over and you will finally be free."

With this thought in mind, the next few hours passed like a breeze, and she soon found herself in front of the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom. She took a deep breath and entered the classroom. Professor Lupin was talking to another student. When he noticed her, he gave her a concerned look but said nothing. Angie took a seat and unpacked her quill.

Shortly thereafter, Professor Lupin began the lesson. He explained the differences between the various types of trolls to the students and then handed out a worksheet on which diagrams of each individual type had to be labeled. When he got to Angie, he also handed her a small piece of parchment on which was written: "Please come to me after class, we have to talk something over." Angie felt nervous red spots creep up her neck. She had hoped Professor Lupin wouldn't bother her today, but it wasn't in his nature to avoid problems. When the bell rang, Angie waited until all the other students had left the classroom. Professor Lupin approached her in silence and pulled up a chair so that he sat across from her.

"Angie, I want you to finally tell me why these scars are on your forearm. And don't tell me that it was an accident, some of the wounds were still fresh, you can't fool me that easily." Hot anger rose in Angie. Why couldn't he just leave her alone? No other teacher was interested in what was going on with Angie. In addition, his penetrative, caring nature was just unbearable.

"What is it to you? Do you think that just because you are a werewolf and you have some problems of yourself, everyone with scars has a problem? Learn to keep your limits, you are not the school counselor!" it slipped out of Angie's mouth. She immediately regretted her harsh words, after all Professor Lupin was just trying to help her. But still, he had to know when it was enough. "How did you find out?" He gasped. "You are always sick on a full moon and then come back with new scratch marks." "You are really exceptional Angie, do you know that? Not many students have the observation skills and intelligence necessary to recognize the signs and draw the right conclusion. So please stop doing this, you have so much potential. I'm sure you could have a steep career. " "I know you mean well with me, Professor Lupin, but it's really none of your business. You don't have to worry about me, I'm not in danger." Professor Lupin sighed and tugged through his hair. He looked desperately at his student. How could he help her, he could clearly see the pain and weariness of life in her eyes. He was afraid that she could harm herself if he didn't take care of her.

"You can trust me Angie, I won't tell anyone about our conversation either, I swear it to you. It can't go on like this. I notice that you are doing badly and your grades continue to drop!"

With that, Angie stiffened. Grades were an issue that made her very stressed. She closed herself more than she had been before and turned away from Professor Lupin. "Thank you for your efforts professor, but I really have to go to my next lesson, the break is almost over" With these words, Lupin went to his desk and took a bar of chocolate from a drawer. "Take some chocolate with you, you didn't get to eat at all. You should eat a little more in general, you look quite famished." Angie took the chocolate silently and walked quickly out of the classroom. She ran down the hall and threw the chocolate into the next trash can. "You won't hide and cry in a girl's toilet again, pull yourself together and go through the last two hours, then you can finally get rid of all the pain." With that, Angie set off for her next lesson with Professor Snape. When she entered the room, Snape looked at her again with an indefinable look until he finally turned back to his book.

---

Professor Lupin paced his classroom lost in thought. "What should I do about her? I promised her not to tell anyone, but I have to do something, otherwise she will do something to herself. I could never forgive myself!" Suddenly the door to his classroom swung open and Professor Snape entered.

"Good evening Lupin. I'm coming to you on a very serious matter. " "Come in! Is it about a student? " "You got to the point. At the breakfast table this morning I encountered fragments of extremely disturbing thoughts. Apparently Ms.Woods plans to commit suicide this evening. I am normally not interested in the pupils' infantile worries, but with such a serious discovery, I feel compelled to intervene. " "I knew it! I was just thinking about how to get her to trust me. We need to go and stop her from doing something to herself! " "I will not do nothing of the sort. Hereby, I regard this matter as dealt with. I knew you had been watching Ms.Woods for a long time, so you can take care of this problem. " "You have to help me, this is about a student's life!" "It's not my problem if these pathetic hormone-driven teenagers can't control themselves. I will now go to my personal quarters."

With these words, Professor Snape threw back his cloak and strode out of the classroom. "Damn it, I have to hurry. I don't even know where she wants to do it. Hopefully she's not dead yet. " Lupin grabbed his wand and hurried out of the room.

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ninjanonymous · 4 years ago

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I’m pissed off, and sad, and scared, and I have a lot to say right now. This all needs to be said, for my own sake if not for anyone else’s.

Very recently, the Supreme Court ruled 7-2 that employers under the Affordable Care Act are now allowed to roll back access to birth control for their employees, as long as their religion disagrees with it. This ruling was made in the name of religious tyranny, and NOT that of religious freedom. Christian-run businesses can now force their beliefs onto their employees by actively denying them the healthcare that they very much need.

Can you imagine the outrage there would be if SCOTUS decided that it was suddenly okay for a Muslim-run business to break FLSA standards during Ramadan? After all, if a Christian-run business shouldn’t be forced to pay for all ACA-protected aspects of an employee’s healthcare, why should a Muslim-run business have to sacrifice profits when eating lunch during Ramadan is against their religion?

“Oh, but there are federal protections to keep something like that from happening.” Are there? Are there really? The ACA gave employees FEDERALLY PROTECTED access to birth control through their employers, because an employer’s religious beliefs shouldn’t be used to control the freedoms or hurt the wellbeing of others. Now look where we are.

This court ruling essentially dictates that religion can make you exempt from federally-mandated rules for the sake of profit. It puts the employer’s beliefs above the beliefs and wellbeing of their employees. It puts any company’s self-proclaimed God over the law, and allows them to forgo worker protections because, according to them, it’s what Jesus would want.

And where do we draw the line? Should a company that’s run by a Jehovah’s Witness be allowed to deny coverage for a needed blood transfusion? Can a religious company claim that any illness is a righteous punishment from God, and the use of modern medicine to treat it would be sinful? What would that mean for something as devastatingly expensive as cancer treatment? What if the CEO doesn’t agree with vaccines? And really, why even stop at access to healthcare when there are any number of ways that a company could encroach on their worker’s rights in the name of God?

Too many people in this country are entirely dependent on their employers for their health insurance. Healthcare costs in America are the highest in the western world by far, and life-saving treatment is often prohibitively expensive without it. This SCOTUS decision may ultimately deny many Americans their constitutional right to life.

Employers pay private insurance companies to provide care for their employees. This is a blanket expense. They don’t get an itemized bill for the healthcare that they’re covering. They’re paying for general healthcare coverage to be provided by insurance company, and that’s it. The employers are not the insurance companies themselves. They are not the ones processing the claims and choosing which to deny and which to cover. Your medical record is private, protected information. Your employer does not have access to that information under HIPAA. If your employer isn’t allowed in the room with you during your doctor’s appointment, they absolutely shouldn’t be allowed to pick and choose what care you can and can’t receive.

These companies are literally just saying, “see that person right there? I don’t like that they’re on birth control, because I’M a Christian, and that’s against MY beliefs, so now THEY can’t have it.” A Christian forcing their beliefs onto someone else isn’t religious freedom, just like a Muslim forcing their beliefs onto a Christian wouldn’t be. This is religious tyranny the and Christian-backed persecution of women.

And for this specific ruling, it really is that arbitrary. This ruling is a poorly-disguised move to further strip away the rights of women in the name of Abrahamic theocracy. The idea that this decision would save money for these employers is completely asinine, considering good reproductive healthcare and access to birth control reduces long-term costs overall (I will be adding the stats and sources to back this up in a later post).

And here’s an important reminder for you all: reproductive healthcare is still basic healthcare. Taking care of one’s needs regarding their reproductive system benefits their overall health. And even if you disagree with me there, “birth control” is a pretty damn big misnomer. While it is commonly used to prevent unwanted pregnancies, there are a myriad of other reasons that a woman might need it for.

Birth control can control hormonal acne. My own mother was put on it for this reason back when she was a teenager.

It can be used to help regulate one’s mood. A dear friend of mine is on it for this reason. She suffers from severe depression, occasionally to the point of suicidal ideation. I am fucking terrified about what this court decision could mean for her.

It reduces one’s chances of getting uterine cancer. I have a family history of uterine cancer, and it can be hard to detect. They only found it in my grandmother by chance when they were performing an unrelated surgery.

It reduces your chances of forming ovarian cysts. Women with PCOS often suffer from these, and they can be quite painful. My mother had to have a football-sized ovarian cyst removed from her abdomen, and histology found that it contained pre-cancerous cells.

It can relieve symptoms of PMS and PMDD. Again, this is a form of hormonal mood regulation, as well as a means of controlling many of the unfortunate physical side effects of the menstrual cycle. PMS and PMDD are often topics of ridicule, but their symptoms can have a serious negative impact on one’s day-to-day life. I’ll add more information on this later, since there’s a lot to cover.

It can help regulate one’s menstrual cycle. For reasons I shouldn’t have to explain, knowing when blood and viscera is going to start pouring out of your crotch really helps with being prepared to deal with it. It also helps to avoid really embarrassing situations in public, or the need to clean bloodstains out of clothes and furniture. Irregular periods are a gruesome guessing game. I’ve been there. I don’t want to go back.

It can make your periods less painful. Periods happen when, once a month, the uterus sheds its inner lining. As in, the person having their period is bleeding internally, because one of their organs is shredding and expelling parts of itself from the inside. That shit hurts. Many women have reported vomiting or passing out from period pain. For me, the average period cramp can be compared to really bad gas or diarrhea pain. You know, the kind that has you breaking out into cold sweats on the toilet while you silently beg for mercy to any god that might be listening. Fun, right? I’d recon my pain level is about the average, too.

It can be used to manage menstrual migraines. Did you know some women get migraines in conjunction with their periods? Migraines are debilitating. Imagine having them chronically, getting them frequently around the same time every month, then being denied affordable access to the one medicine that was keeping it in check because your asshole boss says that Jesus wants you to suffer. Bonus points if you get fired because the migraines had a negative impact on your ability to work.

It can reduce your risk of anemia. Some women get really heavy periods. Like, crazy heavy, to the point where they bleed so much that it’s unhealthy. Technically speaking, I fall into this camp. I’d hemorrhage to the point of needing a transfusion if I went long enough without birth control. Gee, I sure hope the insurance-throttling company that I work for isn’t run by a Jehovah’s Witness.

Birth control is the only non-invasive way to control uterine fibroids, which often go hand-in-hand with endometriosis. These are non-cancerous growths within or around the uterus can cause uncontrolled bleeding, and may be quite painful in and of themselves. A ridiculously high number of women have this, myself included. Most women that have them have no or very few symptoms. I was not so lucky.

And that’s just a few of birth control’s many uses. And actually, let me talk about my fibroids some more for a second, just so you all have a better idea of what it means to live with this shit. TMI time. I take birth control. I’ve been taking it regularly for about five years now. I’ve never had sex before, and I don’t plan on it any time soon. This is the one and only reason I’m on the pill.

Five years ago, during my freshman year of college, I started bleeding out of the blue. Really, really badly. This “spotting” was sudden, and heavy, and unrelenting. I’d completely bleed through a super tampon in less than two hours, when one of those would last a good eight hours on my heaviest day during a normal period. I had to sleep with towels on the bed, and set an alarm to wake up early so I could take deal with the shed blood before it got too bad, and to give myself extra time for cleanup before classes. After going from horizontal to vertical for the first time in several hours, getting to the bathroom was a race against time and gravity.

I lived like this for a full month. Tampons and pads, for those of you that have had the privilege of never needing to buy them, can get really pricey. Doubly so for a broke college student, triply so when they need to be extra-large packs containing extra-large products, and quadruple-y so when that broke college student is still managing to bleed through those products at an absurd rate. And, it hurt. The pain was worse than usual; the camps were sharper, more persistent, and sometimes it felt like someone was jabbing a big needle into my abdomen and twisting it around. I was taking OTC painkillers constantly, and they barely made a dent in the pain.

The bleeding started just over a week after my last period had ended, so it was way too early for it to be my next cycle. I figured that maybe my cycle was syncing up to my roommate, or some other chick on my floor had some weird hormonal imbalance, and the outside interference from other people’s hormones was screwing with me enough to make my own body act weird. I figured I’d just have to wait out this one bad period, and everything would settle back down to normal. But, two weeks passed and absolutely nothing changed. The bleeding wasn’t slowing down, and I started to get worried that it wasn’t just an abnormal period. I waited a couple more days, then booked an appointment at the health center. It was more than a week until they could see me.

The consensus was fibroids. They couldn’t give me an official diagnosis without an ultrasound, but all signs pointed to that one conclusion. They said that the only way to make the bleeding stop was by taking birth control. I wasn’t happy about it, since my mom had me convinced that birth control would actually increase my risk of cancer (not true, as I later found out), but I agreed anyway. The nightmare was over a few days later.

So, off topic but still related, I had surgery on my foot a couple months ago. It had to be immobilized for a while, and I was put on blood thinners to prevent any clots from forming while I recovered. Birth control pills can actually increase the risk of blood clots, so I made the choice to hold off on taking those for a while, just as an added precaution. Sure enough, only five days later, the bleeding and the pain was back. Again, it had been only a week since my last period.

I still need to be on birth control. It is a medical necessity for me. My fibroids are still around, and I’ll still spot and cramp up if I miss a pill. I’ve recently been told by my doctor that a permanent fix, and my only other option for treatment, is a hysterectomy. I am 22 years old. Most surgeons would never dream about performing that procedure on me, even if it didn’t already come with its own health risks.

And hell, even if it is used just to prevent pregnancies, what gives someone else the right to deny a woman her bodily autonomy? Human beings are sexual creatures. They’re going to fuck, regardless of whatever laws or religious doctrines are involved. We are quite literally built to have sex, and it’s entirely healthy to do so. There are plenty of peer-reviewed studies that go into detail on the matter; just hop onto Google Scholar and see for yourself. And, maybe, preventing pregnancy is a need in and of itself. What if a woman has a condition that would make pregnancy extremely high-risk? Is she not justified in taking birth control to protect herself from grievous injury? If she’s married to a man, does that married couple not have a right to sleep together without fear of one of them literally dying for it? Even by Christian standards, it doesn’t seem right.

This decision that the Supreme Court has made is utterly shameful, and countless law-abiding American citizens will now be denied access to needed care that they otherwise couldn’t afford without insurance coverage. This is truly a loss for America and her people, and one that will cause suffering for decades to come.

#long post #text #my thoughts #scotus #politics #feminism #fuck republicans #fuck conservatives #and fuck the evangelical right #religion #christianity #america #2020 #sorry if i’m not the best writer #fuck #theocracy #angry #fibroids #birth control

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detroitwhatitmeanstobehuman · 5 years ago

Text

Chapter 6 - Shared Loss

Part 6/17 of What it Means to be Human

Word Count: 13,649

Warnings: Swearing, alcoholism, Russian Roulette, suicidal ideation, very suggestive banter (they’re in a sex club in this chapter, kind of expected), hardcore flirting, trauma-induced panic attack.

Genre: Self-insert/Angst

Pairing: OC (Detective Rachel) X Connor

Rating: Mature

Summary: After getting a report of a homicide at an android sex club downtown, Connor and Detective Rachel go out to look for Lieutenant Anderson so they can all investigate. After finding Hank, they depart to investigate the Eden Club and find more than what it initially appears on the surface. But the environment is ripe with opportunities for jokes and teasing, and Rachel takes full opportunity of it, not realizing that Connor can dish it back quite effectively.

First Chapter | Previous Chapter

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

It was actually a pretty fun car ride! My anxiety didn’t even once cross my mind, since I was both texting Bianca and talking to Connor, also about Bianca. I made it a habit to text my sister every day, just so she’d know how I’m doing. Especially since I was living pretty much on my own, now.

She had moved back to Canada after we both lived in Detroit. She had pretty much only lived there because of me so she could help me. It was also the reason she worked at CyberLife before she eventually went back home.

She seemed pretty scared and worried when she heard that I was gunning to be in the police academy here. We both knew it was a tough job, but she also knew it was something I had to do. It gave me a sense of purpose, of making a difference, and I think she knew that I needed to keep myself busy that way.

So, she went back home. And I promised I would text her just so she’d know how I am. As much as sometimes I didn’t feel like it, I always did anyways. I think it helped me avoid some of the worst days. My depression after the accident was really really bad. I couldn’t blame her for being so worried. After all, we were kind of the only really close family we still had, save for cousins.

We’d always been really close, and we only became closer as we grew up.

And Connor was listening intently to me talk about her. Something I noticed about him ever since leaving my house was that he seemed to focus intensely on me whenever I spoke. As if he was trying to hang onto and record my every word. Even when I wasn’t really saying anything in particular, he still seemed to commit it all to memory.

I didn’t really know what to think of the gesture.

We looked for Hank at Jimmy’s Bar, but Jimmy said that he hadn’t seen Hank.

So, here we were at Hank’s house. Connor was standing next to me and started knocking on the door. “Lieutenant Anderson?” The android called. He then held the doorbell, the loud buzzer continuing on as Connor held it. Still no answer. “Anybody home?”

We waited for a few moments before I just shrugged. “Welp, he’s probably drunk.” I said, bending down. “Luckily for us, I know for a fact that Hank -” I then noticed Connor’s absence and looked around, not really seeing him. “Connor?” I called, confused. I sort of shrugged, flipping the doormat up and grabbing the house key, putting it into the keyhole and turning it, his lock giving way without much resistance. I had been at Hank’s enough times to know my way in and know that he wouldn’t really be surprised at my intrusion.

After stepping inside, I was immediately greeted by Hank’s adorable St. Bernard dog. “Hi, Sumo!” I greeted the dog sniffing at me, his tail wagging happily as I bent down to slip the key back under the doormat outside. Hank’s dog was as familiar with me as I was with Hank, as I sometimes dogsat for him. Once I closed and locked the door again, I started petting the dog. “I know, I’m happy to see you too, my sweet baby boy!” I said in that tone of voice I usually spoke to animals with. It was pretty damn near impossible not to baby talk at animals.

Suddenly, interrupting my moment with Sumo, I heard the sound of glass breaking, and snapped my head in its direction, Sumo and I rushing toward it. “Argh!” I saw Connor rolling through Hank’s window into the kitchen/dining room area, my eyes wide in disbelief. Sumo quickly went into attack mode, or at least as much as the sweet pooch could really be in, and went up to check Connor out. “Easy!...Sumo...I'm your friend, see?...I know your name...” Connor assured the dog. As much as I found it adorable how Connor reacted to the St. Bernard, I was more appalled at the fact that he jumped through the fucking window! “I'm here to save your owner.”

“What the Hell, Connor!?” I whisper-yelled at the idiot android.

“I’m sorry.” He said, getting up. “I had to get into the house.”

“Hank keeps a spare key under his doormat!” I informed him, gesturing exaggeratedly towards the front door. “Something I was about to tell you if you had just waited for like five seconds before deciding to break in! Because like Hell I’m having a homemade hysterectomy at his house!”

Connor looked a little embarrassed for a moment. “Oh.” Was all he seemed to say.

As Sumo walked back up to me, sniffing at my legs, I let out an exasperated sigh that was quickly undercut by an amused snicker. “We’ll deal with that later. First we gotta find Hank.” I then looked around. “Speaking of which, where - ?” My eyes then found Hank’s form unconscious on the floor.

And next to him was a revolver, laid on the ground carelessly.

I felt my heart stop and my blood go cold at the sight, and instantly my instincts kicked in as I rushed towards him, kneeling over him, Connor joining me by the man’s side. “Hank!” Oh God, please no! Please don’t be fucking dead! “Hank! Can you hear me?! Please say something!” I pleaded, shaking him, feeling my breaths growing rapid and shallow.

Connor was staying silent, likely analyzing the lieutenant for any signs of danger or injury. “Lieutenant?” He asked, quietly. His seemingly nonchalant attitude put me somewhat at ease, but I couldn’t tell if he was always like that, or if he could portray panic or sadness. Either way, his lack of reaction made me feel better.

Quickly, Hank mumbled and shifted a little, sort of babbling. I let out a sigh of relief and slumped against him. “Oh, thank God...you’re just drunk.” I then quickly recoiled at the overwhelming unpleasant stench of alcohol, almost stumbling backward. “Really drunk! Ugh, Jesus Christ! That is definitely one of the reasons I don’t drink. The other being that I have a debilitating fear of losing control of myself and my body and thus I have an intense discomfort at the thought of being inebriated.”

Connor then reached over and firmly patted Hank’s face, causing him to grumble and shift even more. “Wake up, Lieutenant!” He willed once again.

Sighing and feeling my heart rate go back to normal, I got back up and leaned against the table, trying to catch my breath, looking over at Connor. “He’s probably gonna need more than that.” I advised the android. “It takes a lot to get him going when he gets that drunk.”

Seemingly taking my advice, Connor nods. Although, much to my shock, he winds up and delivers a hard slap that makes me almost choke in surprise. “It’s me, Connor!”

I couldn’t help but laugh, both because Connor just deadass slapped the shit out of old man Hank, and because I wasn’t expecting him to just slap him like that. “Holy shit, I didn’t mean that much!”

But it seemed to work, as Hank was starting to actually stir, grumbling and groaning even more in his drunken state. Connor wasted no time pulling Hank up to his feet, much to the man’s drunken protests. “I'm going to sober you up for your own safety.”

“Hey!...Leave me alone, you fuckin' android!”

“I have to warn you, this may be unpleasant.”

Hank seemed to regard Connor for a moment before he started complaining again. “Get the fuck outta my house!”

I let out an exasperated sigh and just started pointing at him. “Hank, I know you’re in your fifties, but I will mom the shit out of you, so help me!” I warned him. “Connor’s gonna sober you up, and you’re gonna fucking like it, God damn it!”

“I'm sorry Lieutenant, but I need you.” Connor apologized, pulling Hank’s right arm over his shoulders and snaking his own left around Hank’s side under his other arm. “Thank you in advance for your cooperation.”

“Hey! Get the fuck outta here!” Hank droned on as Connor started dragging him towards the bathroom, Hank continuing to make a series of loud grumbles and noises that I honestly couldn’t help but find hilarious, despite the unfortunate nature of Hank’s alcoholism. “Sumo! Attack!” He ordered, getting nothing out of the dog but a quick bark. “Good dog. Attack!”

As Connor rounded the corner, taking Hank to the bathroom, I shook my head and sighed, heading over to where Sumo was laying down. As soon as I approached, the dog heaved himself back up onto his legs. I quickly sat down next to him, my legs crossed, and let him lay down on me, his large head resting in my lap. “I know, baby.” I said to him, scratching him behind his ears the way he liked it. “Daddy’s got problems, I know. I don’t like it, either.”

From the direction of the hallway leading into the bathroom, I heard Hank’s voice again. “Fuck, I think I'm gonna be sick...” The sound of a door hastily being opened immediately followed, along with another protest from Hank. “Ah! Leave me alone, you asshole!”

I couldn’t hear the rest of it, but I just rolled my eyes and shook my head, electing to just continue petting Sumo. He was a very good dog, and I think he’s one of the few things that keeps Hank still going. But it was very easy to see that he tended to get nervous, and it was mostly because Hank didn’t really take good care of himself. Dogs, and mammalian pets in general, were pretty good about sensing shit like that. And it does affect them. And anytime I would try to get Hank to start taking better care of himself, he’d just tell me to go fuck myself. I never took it personally, but just once I wished he would actually take my suggestions seriously.

Suddenly, I heard the sound of a shower being turned on, and Hank shouting at the top of his lungs. “TURN IT OFF! TURN IT OFF!” Even after the sound of the water had just as quickly ceased, I couldn’t help but laugh a little. “What the fuck are you doing here?”

“A homicide was reported 43 minutes ago.” Connor informed Hank. “We couldn't find you at Jimmy's bar, so we came to see if you were at home.”

I practically facepalmed at Connor’s complete tactlessness. “DUDE!” I shouted at him from the other room. “THE MAN HAS JUST BEEN LYING ON THE FLOOR PISS DRUNK! YOU DON’T JUST OPEN WITH THAT! MAKE SURE THE POOR MAN’S OKAY, FIRST!” I lectured him, still shouting and shaking my head. “Jesus!”

“I’m sorry!” Connor replied back to me. “I’ll keep that in mind for the next time!” It sort of amazed me how he could maintain the same sort of polite and professional tone of voice while raising it. Despite the change in volume, he didn’t sound like he was actually shouting at me.

A small moment seemed to pass before I heard Hank complain again. “Jesus, I must be the only cop in the world that gets assaulted in his own house by his own fuckin' android.”

“Hey, if Connor didn’t do it, I would’ve!” I yelled at Hank. “So, SHUT THE FUCK UP!”

“YOU TOO?!” Hank exclaimed in indignation.

“Yes, me too!” I bit back with. “Because like it or not, I care about you! Because someone has to, so deal with it!”

I knew Hank didn’t really have much of a high opinion of himself. It was one of the reasons his self care was so poor. But like fuck I was gonna let that slide! I considered Hank a good friend, and I sure as Hell wasn’t going to let a friend wallow in his self-loathing and misery.

“You seem to have personal issues.” I heard Connor saying from the bathroom. “You should consult a professional who can help you!”

“Beat it! You hear me!?” Hank shouted at Connor. “Get the Hell outta here!”

I scoffed at him. “Hank, Connor’s right, you know!” I yelled.

I got no answer, so I just went back to petting Sumo. As much as I wanted to join in, the dog has me pinned to the ground with his head, and thus I am not allowed to leave.

That’s just the law of having animals. If they decide they wanna sleep, sit, or lay on you, that’s it. You live there now.

“I understand.” Connor said. “It probably wasn’t interesting anyway...a man found dead in a sex club downtown...” I snickered at him. “Guess they’ll have to solve the case without us...”

“Hey!” I shouted. “If Hank wants to stay home, we can make this case into a fun romp! Wouldn’t be too bad a place for a date!” I teased, a smug grin on my face. I knew he didn’t react to things like jokes or teasing in the same way humans did, but it didn’t make me want to do it any less. It was one of the ways I expressed affection, and I got the feeling that even though Connor didn’t understand it really, he understood that that’s how I expressed myself.

“You know, it probably wouldn’t do me any harm to get some air...” Hank said, agreeing. I couldn’t help but chuckle. There he is. Sumo shifted a bit, though instead of getting up and leaving, he just slumped more onto his side and shoved his face further into my lap. Welp, guess I’m never leaving.

“I’ll go get them!” Connor’s voice rung out. I was confused for a moment, but very quickly my brain pieced together from context clues. Ah, clothes. Fresh clothes. “What do you want to wear?”

“Whatever!” Hank groaned.

A moment seemed to go by before I heard Hank yelling and gasping, and I felt my stomach churn. I’ve always had sort of a weak stomach, and I especially couldn’t really handle vomit. The most I’ve ever had to do was help my sister throw up over the phone after she drunk too much one night. She was very much the sad drunk that night, but at least my sort of nonchalant blase attitude made her feel a lot better. Anytime she’d moan about how she was dying, I would just remind her that she wasn’t dying, and that she was just sad and drunk and that she’d be fine.

Sometimes reacting to something as if it’s not a big deal can help ground someone in reality. Inversely, reacting to other things like it is a big deal can also help ground someone in reality. It just depends on context.

Connor closed the bathroom door, muffling the sounds of Hank’s ordeal and the android slowly approached me. “Is Hank okay?” I asked him.

“He’ll be fine.” Connor informed me. “He informed me that he just needs five minutes. He’s just suffering from alcohol intoxication and his body is forcefully expelling it from his systems.”

“Yeesh!” I grimaced. “I’m very glad I stay away from alcohol. It’s not good and it tastes like urine in a mug. I’ve only ever really gotten drunk once, and I’m avoiding that situation again.”

Connor’s brows furrowed in concern for a moment as he regarded me. “Did something happen?”

“Oh! No, nothing bad happened!” I assured him. “I was in my apartment when I was still living in Canada just after I finished going to university. I was with Frank and a few of my friends from school for a beach day/board game night, and I wanted to see what I’m like when I’m drunk. Needless to say, I’ve discovered that I’m a silly drunk. So it wasn’t horrible and it’s definitely fun to remember, but I don’t think I want to get drunk again.”

“Ah, I see.” Connor said, nodding. “Probably a wise decision.”

His dark eyes then flicked over to Sumo and I saw his lips gently curl into a smile as he bent down to pet the St. Bernard, the dog lifting his head up to sniff at Connor’s hand. “You mentioned that you like dogs.” I said to him, remembering his conversation with Hank earlier at the station.

“Yes.” Connor replied, gently running his hand over the dog’s back and belly. “And I think it would be easy to assume you do, as well.”

“Oh, absolutely!” I answered, giving Sumo a good head scratch, to which the dog groaned and grumbled happily. I could easily recognize the sounds of a dog that was enjoying a good scratch. “But, I love all critters. Well, I’m not a fan of spiders, but I can usually at least appreciate them...when I’m not cowering in the corner.”

Connor nodded and got up, looking over the room. He inspected Hank’s vinyl collection, a set of jazz records.

He then left the living room and walked towards the dining room where we found Hank. I wondered for a moment if Connor inspected my house like that while I was brewing myself tea, learning as much as he could about me through simple observation. He knelt down to examine the revolver on the ground, and I couldn’t lie, the sight of it still made me tense up. “What were you doing with the gun?” Connor called out to Hank.

“Russian roulette! Wanted to see how long I could last...” Hank called out, his voice muffled by the bathroom walls. I let out a sigh, scrunching my face. “Must've collapsed before I found out...”

I heard Connor examining the revolver further, before he put it back down. “You were lucky, the next shot would have killed you.” He said rather pointedly.

I snuggled in closer to Sumo, feeling a darkness creep into my very senses. I knew Hank had...tendencies. He wasn’t suicidal. He couldn’t really pull the trigger. Not knowingly. But he kept testing the limits and leaving it up to chance, hoping somewhere that God would just kill him already.

The kind of man with nothing to live for, but no reason to die. A feeling I knew all too well.

And I knew full well the reason why. Connor had gotten up off the floor and was staring at it. A framed photo of Hank’s son, Cole. He died four years ago in an accident. He was only six. For a moment, I contemplated telling Connor the whole story. But...that wasn’t my story to tell. Whether or not Connor should hear the story was up to Hank, not me. And I had enough respect for Hank not to infringe on that right.

Hank wasn’t the type who was really all that good at expressing his feelings or talking about his problems. He tended to keep that shit to himself. He locked himself off from others, while I was eager to share. I talked about vulnerable things, but...I wasn’t really being vulnerable. Oversharing was just something I did to help me feel more in control. It was just another way to protect myself from my own guilt. My own darkness.

Hank and I weren’t always friends. But we understood each other. There was only one time he really opened up to me, and funnily enough, it was sort of the first time we had properly met.

I had just made detective after graduating from the police academy and being an officer for a while. One of my first cases was dealing with a set of red ice dealers, and I got a tip from a CI that a handoff was supposed to go down in a public park. So Chris and I made our way there early so that we couldn’t miss it. Chris waited in an unmarked vehicle, keeping an eye on things and letting me know if he saw any movement through my walker.

Whilst I was making my way around the place, I saw him there. Lieutenant Hank Anderson, sitting on a bench with a bottle of whiskey in hand. I’d seen him around before, but I’d never really even spoken to him. I sort of didn’t really like him, as he just kind of seemed like an unprofessional, crotchety, old drunkard that didn’t really take his job seriously, yet enjoyed his position of authority anyways.

But when I saw him sitting there on that bench, he seemed so...lost and forlorn. He was looking pretty sombre, and since he was off-duty, this was his time off the clock. He noticed me and gave me a nod. “Officer.” He greeted with a grunt.

“Lieutenant Anderson.” I replied in kind. “And it’s ‘detective,’ now.” He rolled his eyes, and I noticed that there was a place I could sit. I wasn’t sure what compelled me to keep him company, but...I felt like I should. “I’m waiting to see if my CI was right about a dealer making a handoff here. So, mind if I have a seat?”

The lieutenant scoffed. “Yeah, go ahead. Whatever.” He droned.

I was briefly annoyed, but took a seat, being careful not to sit too close to him or touch him. He was definitely distant, I could see it in his pale blue eyes. Looking around, it seemed pretty strange to me that someone like him was just sitting and getting drunk at a children’s playground alone. So in my mind, he was either dealing with some shit, or he was just an old drunk creep. I gave him the benefit of the doubt, however, and decided to gently pry at him. “So, what’s a guy like you doing at a place like this at this hour with a bottle of booze?” I asked him. “Get kicked out of too many bars for roughhousing some assholes?”

He seemed to actually be briefly amused by my attempt at bonding, giving me a weak chuckle. But he downed another gulp of whiskey and shot me a glare. “Why the fuck do you care?”

As rude as that question was asked, I just shrugged. “Why not? Wallowing in misery is a lot less shitty when someone’s there to make sure you get cleaned up, after.” I said to him blankly. “I’m not allowed to be worried about a fellow officer?”

“Tch, what?” He scoffed at me, shoving me a little aggressively. “Do I look pathetic to you? Like a fucking loser? You just sitting here and acting like you care outta fuckin’ pity?”

I’ve dealt with enough aggressive jagoffs to know that responding in kind with aggression just made them angrier. It was just easier and better to diffuse them. “You say that like basic human empathy is a bad thing.” I shot back with a monotone delivery, an eyebrow raised.

He seemed to respond to that neutrally, shaking his head with a scoff. “Whatever.” He grumbled, taking another swig of booze. “It’s not like a kid like you could understand.”

I blinked at him a couple times, not breaking my gaze from him. “Try me.” I said simply.

He was quiet for a moment. But then, to my surprise, he actually started talking to me. He...he told me everything. About Cole. About the truck skidding on the road. About Cole’s trip to the hospital. About how an android was tasked to operate on his son, and...Cole didn’t make it.

I listened intently, responding only when it was appropriate for me to. And...I told him about Frank.

At that moment, we understood each other. We both knew grief and loss, and it affected us in our daily lives. It changed the way we each respectively saw the world. I then heard Chris on the walker about the dealer making the handoff, and Hank and I ended up arresting him and a couple of other dealers that were in the area.

After that, we actually started to become familiar with one another. We were partners on a few cases, and after that, he started getting me on other tougher cases. Even the other detectives were surprised that I was getting “special treatment.” But at that point, we weren’t just colleagues or occasional partners.

We were friends. We could depend on each other and trust each other. We had each other’s backs. And we understood each other better than anyone else in the precinct did. All thanks to that one night.

Distracting me from my thoughts, Sumo quickly got up and walked towards the bathroom, and I heaved myself up onto my feet, approaching Hank. He was wearing something pretty snazzy, if a little silly. But for where we were going, it would work. Hank turned from Connor to me and sighed. “Hey, kid.”

“Hey, Hank.” I replied in kind. “You feeling better now?”

“Yeah.” Hank assured me, looking down at Sumo. “Be a good dog, Sumo. I won't be long.”

With that, Connor and I quietly followed Hank to the front door, my gaze glancing back at the photo of Cole before continuing out the door. “Sorry about the window, Lieutenant.” Connor apologized to Hank. “I really thought you'd been attacked. Of course, CyberLife will pay for the damage.”

Hank scoffed. “Yeah, trust me, I'll send 'em a bill...”

I sort of shrugged as we emerged back out into the nighttime rain. “I tried to tell him it wasn’t necessary, but he sorta jumped the gun a bit. Or the window, in this case.”

Hank groaned. “That barely took any effort.”

“Yeah, definitely not one of my better jokes.” I agreed. “But in my defense, I didn’t have much to work with.”

--------

“Aw...Feels like somebody's playing with a drill inside my skull...” Hank groaned in the front seat. He was in the passenger’s seat while Connor was driving, a wise decision, I thought. “You sure this is the place?”

Connor shrugged. “It's the address in the report.” He replied nonchalantly.

“Right...Okay...” Hank grumbled. I was feeling pretty bad for him. I mean, he did just deal with lying on the floor drunk. And I would’ve offered him some ibuprofen, but I knew that wasn’t a good thing to take anywhere near alcohol. “Let's get going.”

I raised a concerned eyebrow at Hank. “Are you sure?” I asked him. “Maybe you should stay in the car and Connor and I can deal with this.”

“No, no. I’m fine.” Hank stubbornly assured me. “Don’t you worry about me, I’m okay.” He then got out of the car, bumping his head with a mumble, and I followed quickly along. Connor was last and locked the car after we got out.

As we approached, I noticed all the cops outside, and the cool blue club lighting coming from inside, bright pink neon letters spelling out Eden Club. From the outside, it didn’t seem like a bad place to hang.

As we approached the entrance, barred off with a holographic do not enter barrier for police investigations, I heard Hank scoff. “‘Sexiest androids in town’...Now I know why you insisted on coming here!”

The club interior was bathed in violet and blue lights, the cool hues making it pleasant on the eyes, I had to admit. Glancing over at Connor, I decided to have a bit of fun. “Really? I didn’t know Connor works here.”

Hank snapped his head around to glare at me and Connor’s brown eyes quickly darted in my direction. I saw his LED flicker red for a moment, and this time I knew I didn’t imagine it. He seemed so typically composed, but I realized something crucial.

Connor could get flustered. Or at least embarrassed.

And then the widest smirk on my face grew. This was going to be fun.

“Alright, that’s it. You’re staying in the car.” Hank ordered.

“Noooooo! I wanna see Gavin get beat up by sex androids!” I cried at Hank as we started to walk in. “Come on, this is the most action I’ve had in months! Wow, given the context, I really should’ve rephrased that.” I realized mid-sentence before shrugging it off.

“Oh, great! A dead body and an asshole, just what I needed...” Hank grumbled before glancing over at me curiously. “Wait, how do you know that Gavin’s here?”

“He texted me when Connor was at my place just before we came to yours.” I told him.

“Why the fuck do you have his number?” Hank exclaimed in disbelief.

I shrugged exaggeratedly. “I don’t! He has mine! And I can promise you I did not give it to him! Someone else must’ve!” I explained. “And he keeps texting me despite the fact that I have never once responded to him!”

“Then why don’t you just block him?” Hank asked in exasperation, seeming to get tired of my general tomfoolery.

I scoffed at him. “Because he’s a shitpost with feet and I’d miss out on comedy gold. Let me read you the text he sent me.” I cleared my throat and fished out my phone, opening it. “‘It’s a real shame that I’m the best cop ever, or I might make a pretty decent stripper.’ Okay, can we agree that Gavin would make an amazing stripper, but none of us are going to stroke his ego like that?”

Hank made a disgusted sound and then sped on ahead, leaving Connor and I behind. I put my phone away and glanced up at Connor, his LED his usual cool blue. I saw it flicker red earlier, and I couldn’t help but desperately want to see it turn that colour again. Putting on a confident and sly look on my face, I put my hands behind my back. “You know, Connor.” I started, the android looking in my direction. I only continued once we were making committed eye contact. “If you run your hands as well as you run your mouth, you could really spice up business around here.” I said with a deliberate raise of an eyebrow and a very deliberate tone to my voice.

And there it was again, that flicker of red. I have never felt more smug in my life.

But that very quickly faded when Connor’s expression changed into a bold one. “Rachel, did you know that I speak over 3000 global dialects fluently?”

It seemed like a random thing to bring up, but I was actually pretty impressed by that. “Ooooh! Cool!” I complimented. “Think you could help me brush up on my Romanian and my Spanish? I’m quite out of practice.”

But his eyebrow turned up at me, a gesture I was not expecting. “Do you know what that means, Rachel?”

Curious, and also skeptical, I narrowed my eyes at him. “What?” I asked.

And the fucking look he gave me when he leaned in close to me to whisper in a voice I didn’t know he could do nearly took me out right then and there. “I’m quite skilled with my tongue.”

I was not expecting him to actually shoot back at me, and I felt the hottest of shame surge up from my toes to my neck, making me involuntarily clench and arch my spine backwards and curl my fingers inward. I felt my chest tighten, feeling like it was going to explode as I just stared at him, wide-eyed and blinking at him as I stopped in place. “D-d-did you just fucking 1-up me?!” I stammered at him in shock.

And he did it again. He stared me down with that damn look, his smirk just taunting me. “What’s the matter, dear detective?” Oh God, no. He’s learning. I thought, trying to ignore the feeling of being referred to as dear detective. “Frustrated to have your own wiles thrown back at you?” I could feel my breaths getting caught in my throat and my chest feeling light. “That’s what you were doing, wasn’t it? In an effort to get under my synthetic skin, as it were?”

What the fuck was happening right now?! He wasn’t supposed to actually be good at this! That’s my thing! Well, if he thinks he can beat me at my own game, he’s dead wrong. “Ohhhhh, you don’t wanna do this with me, tin man.” I whispered at him low, getting all up in his face. “You’ve started a battle of wills of which you cannot hope to win. You may be a machine, but you are not impervious, and you will quickly learn that my spirit is unbreakable. You will emerge from this a broken man, Connor.”

As much as I was taking this challenge, there was a sense of satisfaction that bloomed within me at the blinking red LED on his temple despite his face remaining confident and neutral. “We’ll see about that, detective.”

Connor had been calling me by my first name since I first told him this morning. Clearly choosing to refer to me as simply detective was a deliberate choice. As if he knew this was only a game between us.

Clearly he did not count on the fact that I’m one of the most stubborn people on the planet, and that I have a natural inclination for competition and a refusal to be bested. Quite simply put, I refuse to lose.

“So we will.” I replied. I glanced down, only now noticing the tie he was wearing. I wasn’t exactly the expert on ties, but I liked them. A lot. And I knew that knot when I saw it. Now, this was totally something I saw on a show, but perhaps Connor would respond well to it. Experimentally, I let my right hand travel up his chest and gripped his tie to gently tug him down towards me. “A single Windsor knot?” I asked with a raised eyebrow. “Really? The easiest knot to undo? Why bother wearing any clothes at all if you were going to make such a brazen display, detective?”

There it was again. That blinking red light I was now very much enjoying seeing. “In this environment, it wouldn’t be out of place.”

“Oh, that’s right!” I teased in a mocking voice. “It wouldn’t be out of place for you to strut around in a sex club like the peacock that you are.”

“To be fair, you did mention that I have the visual appearance of a twink.” Connor bit back with a smug grin. “So yes, perhaps I wouldn’t appear too out of place here.”

I then narrowed my eyes at him, both in disgruntlement and in begrudging pride. “Well played, Connor. Well played.”

“Guys!” Hank shouted at us. “The fuck are you doin'?”

Connor’s attention immediately shifted and he began following the old man as if that conversation just didn’t happen. “Coming, Lieutenant.”

I tried to ignore the feeling I was getting after Connor left, and followed them further inside the club. Getting a better look, my potential anticipation of fun quickly plummeted when I looked around at all the androids in underwear and bras that were being kept in tubes. There were also androids performing as pole dancers in the middle of the rooms, but most of them were just...waiting to be rented. As I approached one, I immediately clung to my jacket and pulled it closer to myself, feeling my blood go a little bit cold. “You alright, Rachel?” Hank asked me, approaching me.

I sort of shook my head with a sigh. “Yeah, I just...I thought this was gonna be fun. But,” I paused, taking another look at the sex android that was just staring at me through the glass, “seeing these androids just on display for everyone to see, waiting to just get used and then put back is...to put it mildly, making me uncomfortably self-conscious.”

“Oh yeah?” Hank said with a scoff. “Why’s that?”

I sort of glared at him with a lazy tilt of my head, very much giving him the really? look. “Because most straight white men look at me like that.” I said very bluntly, not hiding the annoyance in my voice. “Let me tell you, it fucking sucks to have to be constantly hypervigilant of my surroundings, especially at night, just so I don’t end up waking up behind a dumpster because some asshole feels entitled to my vagina.”

“Okay! Okay, I get it!” Hank said, waving his hands. I rolled my eyes. I knew men could be squeamish when “women problems” were brought up around them. Or when they had to be confronted about their privileges. But I knew Hank wasn’t just dismissing me, he just wasn’t really...a sensual person and got grossed out kinda easily. “So, what the fuck was that whole deal with you and Connor back there?”

I sort of gave him a confused look. “What do you mean?”

“You were practically climbing up him like a cougar scoring up some territory!” Hank clarified a bit too bluntly for my liking.

“Ugh, gross! It’s not like that!” I groaned, mock gagging a bit. “It was just playful banter that was in theme with the environment because come on. When else am I gonna have an opportunity to make jokes like these in an appropriate setting?”

Hank shoved me with his shoulder as we further walked in. “Alright, whatever you say.” I could tell he wasn’t convinced, but I didn’t really care. “Just keep it in your pants.”

I rolled my eyes at him again. “Won’t be hard.”

As we made our way closer to who I recognized as Ben who was talking to someone I assumed was the manager. “You're not gonna take my license, are you? I mean, ha, I had nothing to do with this!” I heard the guy say in a very hushed and slimy voice and already I decided I did not like him.

I mean, I didn’t have high hopes that someone who ran a facility like this was a stand-up person. Don’t get me wrong, I have infinite amounts of respect for sex workers and pole dancers and strippers! But it’s no secret that it’s not a safe industry to be in for workers and that management isn’t usually great or even qualifies as the most basic definition of ethical.

Which was why I was very picky about the clubs I went to. Because pole dancers are actually super fun to watch and I want to support them. “The investigation's ongoing, sir, I can't tell you anything for the moment.” I heard Ben say, breaking me out of my thoughts. I noticed Connor regarding the sex androids as I made my way over, and I wondered for a moment if he was just doing his usual observation thing or if he was actually a closet pervert.

But he stole a glance at me, and I looked away just as quick, not wanting him to catch me staring at him.

Wait, why was I staring at him? And why did I care if he noticed?

Deciding not to dwell on that for too long, I decided to just catch up with Hank again and approached them. “Hey, Hank!” Ben called his colleague before glancing over at me. “Hey, Rachel! Heard you got put on the case, too, huh.”

I nodded, a small flush of pride spreading through me. “Yeah, guess they decided that I was too good to leave off the case!” I bragged somewhat jokingly.

“Yeah, don’t get too cocky.” Ben said, gesturing towards a room that was labeled The Red Room. “This one might be a bit of a tough nut to bust.”

I turned to Hank. “See? Ben’s making jokes, too!”

Hank ignored me, deciding just to talk to Ben. “So, how's it goin'?”

“It's that room there. Oh, uh, by the way...” Ben paused, an unpleasant frown on his greying face. “Gavin's in there too.”

“Yeah, I know.” I droned in equal disappointment.

“He texted you?”

“Yeah.” I replied dully. “We’ll head on in. Thanks, Ben.”

I started making my way into the room, the door opening and Hank following behind me. I sensed Connor’s footsteps briskly catching up and ignored the fact that my breath briefly quickened for a moment.

As soon as I walked in, I saw Gavin with his back turned to us, another officer I soon recognized as Chris, and two bodies laid on the ground. It barely took any time for the asshole to notice us. “Lieutenant Anderson, the Detective Slut, and her plastic fuck toy...The fuck are you doin' here?”

I felt a brief rage and frustration bubble up in me before I exhaled it out. “I’m gonna pretend that you didn’t just say that combination of words out loud.”

“We've been assigned all cases involving androids.” Connor replied way more professionally than I would have.

“Oh, yeah?” He said with a condescending glare that made me want to throw him out of a fucking window. “Well, you're wasting your time.” He was looking at the body with a less than appropriate grin on his face. “Just some pervert who, uh, got more action than he could handle.” He laughed, looking directly at me. “Sounds like it’s your kind of Friday night, huh, Rach?”

No way in Hell was I about to take his shit. “Okay, first of all, Gavin, I may be a slut, but I’m a slut with social anxiety and trust issues, so tread lightly.” I warned him with a glare. “And second, you know I don’t have sex with androids. Period.”

“Really?” He was glancing between Connor and I, and I knew exactly what he was implying. And it was making it really hard not to kick him right in the dick. Especially since I was at the perfect height to do so. “Could’ve fooled me.” He said, getting uncomfortably close to me.

“We'll have a look anyway, if you don't mind.” Hank said, trying to ease the tension, getting closer to me.

As Gavin leaned in close, I stood my ground, glaring up at him. “You know, all this is making me pretty frisky. Huh, Rach?”

Blinking at him a couple of times, I replied in the most monotone voice I could muster. “I’m ovulating, let’s go.”

He then gave me a face that I knew meant he was no longer interested. “And, like that the boner’s killed.” He then looked over at Chris and gestured to the black officer to follow. “Come on, let's go...” He said, his eyes focused on Hank. “It's uh... starting to stink of booze in here...”

In a fraction of a second, I had my left hand wrapped tightly around Gavin’s wrist, and I pulled him in close. His groans of pain were audible as I simply glared at him, not breaking my grip on him. “Fuck!” He spat in his strange unique way that sounded more like a sneeze than a swear.

“You’d better watch your damn mouth, Reed.” I warned him, my voice dripping with venom. “Unless you want to be picking your teeth up off the fucking floor. And you and I both know that I can kick your ass with one arm.”

I let him go, and Gavin wasted no time leaving, aggressively shoulder checking Connor as he left, gripping his wrist which I could easily see was going to bruise something fierce. Chris then approached us, nodding politely at us. “Night, guys.”

“Night, Chris.” I replied after him.

After the door closed behind us, I let out a sigh. “Man, the fucking nerve of that guy.” I groaned. “At least he was nice enough to pull out.”

Hank rolled his eyes with a disgusted groan at my joke and I just snickered at myself. I glanced over at Connor and I realized he was staring at me quite intensely, his LED spinning yellow. “What?” I asked him.

“Why did you tell Detective Reed that you were ovulating when it would’ve been counterproductive to rejecting his advances and is also untrue?” I sort of blinked at him in surprise. “I’m not detecting any spike in your ovulation levels based on my vital scan.”

“Oh, Jesus, Connor!” Hank shouted, throwing his arms up. “Can’t you ever just mind your own fuckin’ business?”

I was about to feel really embarrassed and maybe even scold Connor a bit, but then I got a better idea. “Well, first off, guys don’t respond well when you break down stuff into technicals. Sort of kills the mood.” I said, stepping up to him. “And second of all, my eyes are up here, pervert.” I teased, walking up to him and grabbing his tie again, but not pulling him. “Try not to get lost in them, I know that can be quite hard.”

“Hm.” Connor said, tilting his head in confusion. “Interesting how you say they’re ‘up here,’ but I actually have to look down at you to see them.”

“Ohhhhh...fuck you, Connor.” I immediately let go of his tie and shook my head, backing off and sort of laughing begrudgingly. I’m sort of used to having short jokes thrown at me, but the fact that it came from Connor somehow made it worse.

“Hey, dead body here.” Hank said, getting our attention and throwing a very pointed glare at me in particular. “Can we maybe focus?”

Connor nodded. “Sure thing, Lieutenant.”

I walked over to examine the body of the guy on the bed, feeling a bit queasy. Even though he hasn’t been dead long enough to smell or even look dead, aside from his eyes popping out of his head, it still never got any easier looking at them.

I glanced over at Connor, who seemed to have decided to investigate the android. He dipped his fingers in the blue blood trickling down her nose, and brought them to his lips, gently lapping at it once. “Whoa! Hey! Hey! Hey!” Hank rushed over in exasperation. “Argh, Connor, you're so disgusting... Think I'm gonna puke again...”

My brain was running on autopilot, generating what it seemed to think was a totally normal completely inconspicuous response. “Yep, super gross. Absolutely disgusting.”

Although, as soon as I said that, Connor locked eyes with me, and I immediately felt my heart jump, and just looked away, blocking my view of him with my right hand. I started breathing heavily as the obscene thought might have crossed my mind a bit...maybe...somewhat...kind of...sort of...You know what? It doesn’t matter. As I walked over to the dead body, trying to avoid looking at Connor, Hank made his way over to the nearby table.

I quickly realized that my heart was still going. It wouldn’t stop. And it was really weirding me out. Why is everything so weird all of a sudden? I then took a good look around myself and reminded myself of where I was currently. Sex club. That’s why. We’re in a sex club, of course things would feel weird.

I was not prepared for Connor to approach me from behind, the brush of his shoulder making me almost gasp in shock. “Are you alright, Rachel?” He asked, dropping whatever playful or teasing tone he had before in favour of one of concern. “Your heart rate has elevated again and so has your breath intake. Do you need to take a step outside?”

I sort of smiled at his concern, turning to look at him. “I’m fine, I’m just...never used to dealing with dead bodies, that’s all.” I assured him, but somewhere inside, that didn’t feel completely honest. But...why? Connor, however, seemed to accept my answer, and I went about examining the body.

The first thing I noticed, aside from the victim’s protruding bloodshot eyes, was the bruising on the neck. It was definitely obvious enough to me that it was clear that he was strangled to death. It wasn’t a heart problem. And clearly, Connor noticed it too, as he got up and approached Hank. “He didn't die of a heart attack, he was strangled.”

“Yeah, I saw the bruising on the neck.” Hank agreed, reading something. “Doesn't prove anything though. Could've been rough play...”

I scoffed. “Not like this, it’s not.” I said, confidentally. “When you engage in breathplay, if you’re gripping so hard that it’s potentially bruising, that’s extremely dangerous. Even gripping hard enough to lightly bruise can cause brain damage. That’s why you really need to know your limits before you try it. The android who did this was choking with the intent to kill. They meant to strangle him to death.”

Hank glared at me. “I don’t want to know how you know that.”

“I’ve dabbled before.” I answered. “Not that hard to figure out.”

I glanced over at Connor and noticed him staring at me, his LED flickering red before spinning to yellow. “We're missing something here...” He said in frustration, walking over to the android on the ground.

“Think you can read the android's memory?” Hank suggested. “Maybe you can see what happened.”

“I can try.” Connor said hesitantly.

“It might be our best bet.” I agreed. “Androids don’t leave fingerprints, so we’re out of luck there, and we can’t really figure out what happened otherwise. Ben was right, this is kind of a tough one.”

A moment seemed to go by before Hank broke the silence. “Driver's license says: Michael Graham.” He said, violently reminding me of the android that I somehow managed to sneak out of the police precinct earlier before I went back home. It was not an easy feat, and I’m really fucking glad I didn’t get caught. But I managed to smuggle him to my house, get him a change of clothes, cleaned him up, and now, Micheal walks a free man. I just hope he doesn’t get himself into more trouble. “A credit card, cash in the wallet...Picture of his wife and two daughters...” Yikes! “I wouldn't want to make that call.”

I sort of let out a sigh. “You know, I think his wife might’ve actually dodged a bullet, there.”

“The only way to access its memory is to reactivate it.” I heard Connor say from behind me. I decided to leave the dead body and approach the android, broken on the ground with blue blood coming out of her nose.

“Think you can do it?” Hank asked, coming up behind us.

“It's badly damaged...” Connor pressed his hand on her abdomen, making her stomach deskin itself, revealing what looked like a panel against grey plating. “If I can, it'll only be for a minute, maybe less...I just hope it's long enough to learn something.”

As he opened her up revealing the wiring and tubes beneath, I grimaced in phantom pains. “Poor thing.” I muttered under my breath. “If I had my tools, I might be able to repair her. Compared to Micheal, she might actually be easier to repair, if I can figure out what’s damaged.”

The two ends of a tube inside were dislodged and separated. Connor carefully gripped them and locked them back together, suddenly spurring the android back to life, her LED a constant red. As she gasped and scrambled away, I nearly fell backwards onto my ass, quickly rolling over so I could crouch beside her. Instantly, my response was to reassure her. “It’s okay, we’re not going to hurt you, we need you to tell us what we need to know.” I said softly.

“You were damaged and I reactivated you. Everything is alright.” Connor said succinctly to the reactivated android.

She seemed to relax, taking in the situation. “Is he...is he dead?” She asked.

I nodded. “Tell me what happened.” Connor ordered.

“He started...hitting me...” She began explaining, her LED going back to spinning yellow. “Again...and again. I begged him to stop, but he wouldn't.”

“Did you kill him?” Connor asked.

She blinked at him for a moment before she answered. “No...no, it wasn't me...”

“Were you alone in the room? Was there anyone else with you?” Connor asked, his tone more frantic and urgent.

“He wanted to play with two girls...” She responded, her breath starting to pick up speed. “That's what he said, there were two of us...”

“Where did the other android go? Did it say anything?”

But there wasn’t enough time, as her facial expression instantly dropped, and her LED started winding down to nothing. She was dead. “Jesus Christ...” I breathed. I had never been so unnerved. It wasn’t like when a human dies and slowly bleeds out. It just...stopped. Mid-sentence. It made my blood drain from my face.

“So, there was another android...” Hank remarked. Connor got up, sighing in frustration and I got up with him, facing Hank. “This happened over an hour ago, it's probably long gone...”

“No...It couldn't go outside dressed like that unnoticed...” Connor pointed out, his eyes still on the android. “It might still be here.”

I shrugged. It seemed logical. “Makes sense, I doubt there are a lot of spare clothes either in here or the local dumpsters.” I said, agreeing. “But it has still been an hour. And it’s not like someone immediately noticed a dead body and a missing android. That’s quite the window of time to make an escape.”

Hank seemed to regard Connor for a moment, the android’s gaze fixed on the lieutenant. “Think you could find a deviant among all the other androids in this place?” He asked.

Connor shook his head. “Deviants aren't easily detected.”

I sort of looked at him in surprise. “Damn, so this is stumping you too, eh?”

“Ah, shit...There's gotta be some other way...” Hank muttered, starting to pace. I was trying to rack my brain for some way to solve this, too. But it was difficult. “Maybe an eyewitness? Somebody who saw it leaving the room...”

“Maybe...” I repeated, still trying to think.

“I'm gonna go ask the manager a few questions about what he saw. You let me know if you think of anything.” Hank said, the door opening behind him as he left.

We followed, seeing no point in staying in the red room. I decided to grit my teeth and try to talk to the manager, seeing as I had managed to think of some decent questions to ask him. But I was definitely not looking forward to dealing with the slimy creep.

He was standing around anxious, reasonably so, and I stayed right next to Hank with my notepad out ready to take notes. “Hey there, just wanna ask you some questions, sir.” I said in a relatively neutral way.

“Oh, yeah. Sure thing, not a problem.” He agreed, shuffling on his feet.

“Did you know the victim?” Hank asked.

“No, I mean he came in maybe two or three times...I mean these guys they don't really talk very much, you know...” The manager answered without much hesitation. So far, so good. I thought as I jotted down a note. “They come in, do their business and then go on their way...”

Hank nodded. “You ever had any trouble with androids before?”

“No way!” The manager said in a way that really didn’t sound convincing and I had to stop myself from giving him a judgy eyebrow. “Well...Once...” I nodded. Ah, there it is. “We lost a model 2-3 months back, bah...same model...Just vanished, we never found out what happened.”

I nodded, jotting that down, also taking note about the potential questionability of that piece of info. “You probably don't have any CCTV in here, huh?” Hank then asked, looking around the place.

The manager then sort of chuckled. “No way...I mean...” He replied. “This is what people appreciate about Eden Club...discretion. They can come and go without a trace.”

“Sure, sure...” Hank said sarcastically. I nodded. Cool, cool, really helpful, ain’t you? I thought, taking another note. “Eh, business is booming, right?”

“Yeah, can't complain...” The manager answered all too eagerly for my liking. “Good thing about androids is they're up for whatever you want, you won't get any diseases and, uh...they won't tell anyone...So, why not go wild?”

I shook my head, taking another note. Gross. “Huh, yeah...Yeah, the more I learn about people, more I love my dog.”

I smiled, letting out a sigh. “Alright, and I’ve got a couple questions myself, if you don’t mind, sir.” I said. “So, the androids are sort of like the staff, right?”

The manager was laughing at me. “I mean, they’re androids. They don’t exactly need to be paid, little missy.”

I sort of glared at him before sighing. “Okay, that’s my fault, I should’ve phrased that question better.” I conceded. “There are staff entrances and areas where customers and patrons don’t have authorization to enter. Do the androids here have that authorization?”

“Well, yeah...I mean, they have to go somewhere between their, uh, sessions.” The manager answered. “To get repairs and checkups, y’know. Keep them in working order.”

I took another note. “So, where would the most prominent places be for the androids to go between sessions?” I asked.

“Entrance to the warehouse, probably.” The manager answered again. “It’s where our models come in and also where we get them calibrated and built, y’know. All that technical stuff.”

That was all I thought was necessary to know, and my notepad looked like this:

Micheal Graham, death by strangulation about an hour ago

The android that was dead in the room was not the one that killed him

Patrons don’t have a personal relationship with the manager, but this one was somewhat of a regular

Only trouble was an android that disappeared around 2-3 months ago, though that seems a bit questionable (needs to be looked into, potentially)

No cameras or recordings

Business is good, so real reason for foul play or some kind of financial scandal

Androids have staff authorization

Android warehouse most likely place for androids to hide

“Alright, I think that’s a good amount of info to at least have something to go off of.” I said to the manager. “Thank you for your cooperation.”

“Oh yeah, no problem!” He said a bit too hastily. “Just, uh, let me know if you, uh...need anymore help.”

“Excuse me, Lieutenant.” I heard Connor say, making me jump a little as he approached us. “Can you come here a second?”

“Found something?” Hank asked.

“Maybe...” Connor replied, less like he actually had something and more like he had an idea and needed to make sure it actually held any water.

I followed Connor alongside Hank to one of the tubes with an android in it, grimacing slightly as I neared it. “Can you rent this Traci?”

I sort of blinked my eyes at the android in surprise for a couple seconds. “I’m sorry?”

“For fuck's sake, Connor, we got better things to do...” Hank protested in disgust.

“I know I was making jokes earlier, but this is very much not the time to get your rocks off, Connor!” I scolded him. “You can come back and do that later after we deal with the murder!”

“Please, Lieutenant!” Connor pleaded as Hank was turning to walk away. “Just trust me.”

Hank looked like he was going to just leave, but gave up and started to work with the interface, actually going through with a purchase. “Hello. A 30 minute session costs $29.99. Please confirm your purchase.” The machine said.

I blinked a couple times at it. “$30 for half an hour?!” I exclaimed. “Holy shit, what a steal!” Hank then slowly turned towards me, his eyes narrowed into the most judgy look I’ve ever seen him give me. “I’m sorry! I guess everyone else has more expensive tastes in sex workers than I do! Excuse me!” I said, backing away and throwing my arms up. I was a cheapass bitch, and I was not about to be ashamed of it. I say, as I actually kind of have expensive tastes that I really have to fight myself on.

Hank then went back to confirming the purchase and groaning. “This is not gonna look good on my expense account...”

The machine then chimed again. “Purchase confirmed. Eden Club wishes you a pleasant experience.”

“Yeah, you're welcome.” Hank grumbled.

The door to the pod opened and the android stepped out to greet Hank. “Delighted to meet you.” I couldn’t lie...her voice was doing things to me, and as much as I didn’t like the thought of sleeping with androids, I couldn’t deny the appeal. “Follow me, I'll take you to your room.”

“Okay, now what?” Hank asked Connor annoyedly.

Connor then locked eyes with me, his dark brown irises swirling with interest as I felt myself prickle under his gaze, and by the way his LED was spinning yellow again, I could already tell he was analyzing me. “Hey, don’t look at me like that!” I hissed at him in slight embarrassment. “I stick to my scruples, but I’m only human!”

Connor raised an inquisitive eyebrow at me. “I didn’t say a word.”

I grumbled and turned away from him. “Just do your thing, you fuckin’ roomba.”

Connor then approached the Traci and grabbed the inside of her arm, his left hand deskinning and his LED turning yellow again, showing that he was taking in information. “Holy shit, Connor...” Hank breathed. “What the hell are you doin'?”

After a moment of Connor just standing there holding onto the Traci, he suddenly turned to the both of us. “It saw something.”

“What are you talkin' about? Saw, what?” Hank asked, his brows knitted together in confusion.

“The deviant leave the room...” Connor clarified. “A blue-haired Traci.”

I raised my eyebrows at him. “Damn, we’ve got a lead!”

“Club policy is to wipe the androids' memory every two hours. We only have a few minutes if we wanna find another witness!” Connor said, jumping my instincts into overdrive.

“Oh, great!” I groaned. “That’s just super fucking convenient.” I let out a sigh as I consulted my notepad. “The manager said that androids have authorization to go into staff only areas. If we check those places, we might find her. They’d make pretty decent places to hide.”

“If we go looking blindly, we might alert the deviant to our presence and lose it.” Connor retorted.

“But checking every android on the chance that they’ve all seen her walking around might take too long and waste time!” I pointed out.

“We don’t have time for this!” Hank shouted at the both of us. “Split up, we’ll cover more ground that way.”

I nodded. “Right. I’ll go look in the staff only areas, you check the androids.”

“Right.” Connor agreed.

“Just let me know if you need backup, Rachel!” Hank called.

“Will do!” I was already on my way, scanning every potential entrance and every room.

Blue-haired Traci, that’s pretty easy to find. So far, I haven’t seen an android with blue hair in here. I thought, wandering around into an offset of the main area that was bathed in more red lighting than purple. “Hey, what are ya doin’ here, Luis?”

Luis! That name shot through me like lightning and I felt my heart start racing as my eyes locked onto where the sound was coming from. “Sorry, I know you’ve got this whole thing going on, but I forgot to tip you.”

The rest of the conversation started sliding off my brain as it started to spiral completely out of control. Glasses...beard...anime obsessed creep look...Luis...I started to breath heavily and tremble, both fear and rage long buried starting to bubble to the surface threatening to drown me. I took a few hesitant steps backward as my mind started to swirl. No...I thought I was rid of him! I thought he was gone for good! But he’s here! And he’s found me! I nearly stumbled. No! No! No! No! No! He’s going to see me and drag me back! I can’t go back! I can’t! Not again! Never again! I can’t ever go back! Never! Never! Never! Never!

--------

“There're androids everywhere! How you gonna tell which one saw the Traci with blue hair?” Hank asked impatiently from behind Connor as he began approaching the Traci dancing on the pole.

Software Instability ^ But he noticed movement from the corner of his eye and saw Rachel, stepping backwards out of the red room, her heart rate spiked far beyond what was typical of her and she was beginning to hyperventilate. She was showing signs of another trauma-induced panic attack, and Connor followed her gaze and saw a man talking to the manager in the red room.

He approached closer and scanned the man to identify him.

Question Luis 🔓

Locate Deviant

--------

I couldn’t stay. Not while he was here. I ran into the blue room and ran through the first staff exit I could find, and it led down a hallway towards a black door that I tore open without any thought. I was too afraid to think about anything else than getting away and hiding. He’ll find me! I thought frantically, gasping for air and feeling my eyes swell.

I found myself surrounded by several androids that weren’t even activated yet. It was a warehouse of sorts, but I didn’t care, I just ran.

I ran and found somewhere to hide and curl up into a ball until this was all over. I nestled myself in the furthest and darkest corner of the room, rocking myself back and forth in my panic.

And suddenly, I heard whispers around me.

“What are you doing?”

“We have to help her!”

“She’s a human! We can’t trust her!”

“But she’s so scared...she’s just trying to hide...like us.”

“How do we know we can trust her?”

“We don’t...but we can’t just leave her here.”

My eyes started darting around wildly, my hand reaching for my pistol as I pulled it out of my holster, my hands trembling as I held it out and pointed it around me. “W-who’s there?!” I stammered, my voice cracking. Not exactly the toughest image for potentially violent androids to see. “Show yourself!”

I heard the sounds of shoes clacking in the warehouse as I saw two shapes step out of the shadows slowly with their hands up. “Please don’t shoot.” One of them whispered.

In the light, I was able to see them both more clearly. They were both Tracis. One had very short brown hair that was more spiked, and the other was the blue-haired Traci. “Don’t be afraid.” The blue-haired Traci said, gently leaning down to me with her hands still up. “We’re not going to hurt you. Just tell us who you’re hiding from.”

With both Tracis showing themselves to me with a gun pointed at them, not wanting to attack me, I let my guard down and put the gun back into my holster and allowed both androids to approach me.

--------

Probing the memory of a working janitor in the blue room, Connor was able to see where the blue-haired Traci finally ended up. “I know where it went! Follow me!” He announced to Hank who was following him along. He made a mental note to pay Hank for all the funds he had to spend on renting the androids just so Connor could probe them, especially the unsuccessful ones.

“Fucking-A. This is crazy...” Hank groaned, shaking his head. “Let’s go find Rachel, first.” He then looked around. “Wait...where the fuck’s she gone?”

Connor began to feel uneasy at her absence. It hadn’t been long ago. “She was going to check all notable staff entrances for the deviant.” He recalled. “When I saw her last, she seemed panicked and frantic. Like earlier, on the highway.”

Software Instability ^ “Shit!” Hank cursed, throwing his arm down. “We’ve gotta find her before she gets herself into trouble.”

Connor looked around the room. “She couldn’t have gone far.” He said, more panic and worry in his voice than he intended to show. “Maybe she’s closer than we think.”

“Well, find out!” Hank shouted at Connor.

Objective: Find Rachel

Connor tried to locate the android with the best vantage point and approached the one he had checked earlier for the blue-haired Traci and failed to locate her. “This one must have seen her come by this way if she has.”

“We’ve already checked this one!” Hank complained.

“For the deviant.” Connor pointed out. “An hour ago. But Rachel had to have come here within the last two minutes, and he was here.”

Hank shook his head and complied, renting the android again. Connor probed its memory once again and saw the blue room as it was when they arrived. Easily, he saw Rachel rush into the staff entrance.

Software Instability ^ “She went where the deviant is.” Connor said.

“Holy shit.” Hank breathed. “We’ve gotta get to her now! She shouldn’t have run off by herself like that!”

“We don’t have time!” Connor shouted, already making a beeline towards the door. “Hurry!”

“Wait!” Hank said, pushing himself in front of Connor before the android could burst through the door at the end of the hallway. “I'll take it from here.” He ordered.

Connor obediently stepped behind Hank, feeling an urgent need to rush in. If Rachel had gotten hurt, Connor didn’t think he could stop himself from doing something reckless, even if he had promised her he wouldn’t. But he was confident that no harm would come to himself, for her sake.

Objective complete

Hank quietly opened the door into the warehouse, and slumped against the wall with two androids was Rachel, breathing deep and trying to steady her heart rate.

Connor quickly identified two Tracis, including the blue-haired Traci who was standing up in front of Rachel head-on. “Don’t you dare come near her!” She threatened.

“She’s our partner!” Hank shouted at her. “Back off!”

Connor saw Rachel’s left hand clasped around the brown-haired Traci’s hand. But something was different. Something was off.

They were both the same shiny off-white that android arms were made of. And clearly, Connor wasn’t the only one who noticed.

Rachel’s left arm was replaced with an android’s.

“Wait...you’re...?” Hank hesitated, staring at Rachel who was now looking at the both of them. “You’re an android?”

“No.” Connor said, seeing where the arm stopped on Rachel’s left. “She’s missing her left arm. It’s a prosthetic.”

--------

It only took a moment for me to understand. When the brown-haired Traci offered her hand to me, I took it. But I wasn’t prepared for how it would feel to be connected to someone else that way.

I felt her fear. Her love. Her care. And her concern. I felt everything she was feeling. And she could feel mine, I could see it in her eyes.

They were crouched beside me protectively, listening intently to me explaining why I was cowering in the warehouse, a detective amongst the deviants I was tasked to take in. I couldn’t say much, but I think they understood.

And then Connor and Hank came into the warehouse and saw me. They were threatening the Tracis and then saw my arm and realized the truth.

“Wait...you’re...?” Hank hesitated, staring at Rachel who was now looking at the both of them. “You’re an android?”

“No.” Connor said, his eyes scanning over her arm. “She’s missing her left arm. It’s a prosthetic.”

I felt my heart get stuck in my throat at the sight of him. “Connor.” I whispered, another set of tears rolling down my cheek.

Hank had his gun on the Tracis and I felt my heart stop. “I’m giving you both one last chance! Step away from her!”

“Make us!” The blue-haired Traci challenged before she charged at Hank.

Connor quickly dashed in front of Hank to engage in combat with the blue-haired Traci before the other Traci let go of my hand, and her comfort, understanding, and compassion with her. Once again, I was alone with the darkness of my own thoughts and in front of me was fear.

Fear for the safety of my partners. And fear for the safety of the androids who had just risked theirs to comfort me. “Wait, stop!” I cried.

But they didn’t listen.

Things were moving too fast and I couldn’t pick out details. But I saw Connor and the brown-haired Traci rolling over the different appliances and examination tables near the exit of the warehouse.

“Connor!” I cried, wobbling to my feet to get to him, but my balance was really poor and I quickly collapsed to the floor as he had. I was definitely in no condition to fight right now.

“Rachel!” I heard him cry back, and I saw him reaching out to me before the Traci was on him again, yanking him away from me.

Suddenly, they both rolled out of the warehouse and I gasped. “CONNOR!” Once again I tried to scramble to my feet to try and reach the android before I suddenly saw the blue haired Traci rush over to help the other Traci up.

I tripped over the ledge as I stumbled forward, landing fully onto Connor. I managed to push myself up and was looking down into his dark eyes, hid LED spinning red.

In only a second, Connor grabbed me and and pushed me up against a nearby box. “Stay here, and don’t try and fight!”

“But you - !”

“No!” Connor insisted sharply. “You’re in no condition to fight, stay there!”

Hank quickly rushed out back into the fight, but was easily outdone by both the Tracis and thrown against the brick wall. As they both rushed towards the fence, Hank shouted at Connor. “QUICK! THEY'RE GETTING AWAY!”

I couldn’t properly walk, so all I could do was watch. But the more I sat there while Connor was dragging them off the fence, the more I couldn’t sit there any more.

I couldn’t let them hurt each other.

They put up even more of a fight against each other, grabbing other instruments in the alleyway. As I stumbled over, Hank glared at me. “Don’t you fucking dare!”

“I...can’t let them...” I managed to choke out as I stumbled my way closer.

As I got close, the brown-haired Traci threw a garbage can at Connor, and before I knew it, he had a gun drawn on them.

I felt my heart stop for a moment, thinking he was going to kill her.

But instead, he lowered his gun and was kicked to the ground. And the fighting stopped. It was only for a second, but I saw it clear as day.

But before I could process it any further, I tripped and collapsed onto the ground with a loud grunt. “Rachel!” Connor cried, quickly rushing over to help me up, pulling my right arm over his shoulder and wrapping his free arm around my waist to keep me steady. “I told you to stay out of the way!”

“I couldn’t...” I gasped, heaving heavily. There was more I wanted to say, but I didn’t have the breath or the energy to. I had completely depleted.

The Tracis stayed, and the moment was at a standstill. The blue-haired Traci was the first to speak, facing Connor directly, the brown-haired Traci behind her. “When that man broke the other Traci...I knew I was next...” She began, with a snarl in her strained voice. “I was so scared...I begged him to stop, but he wouldn't...” She continued, her voice further breaking. “And so I put my hands around his throat, and I squeezed...until he stopped moving...I didn't mean to kill him...I just wanted to stay alive...get back to the one I love.” She looked over at the other Traci, a tender smile on her lips. A sigh escaped my own at the sight. It was both one of relief and one of admiration. “I wanted her to hold me in her arms again...make me forget about the humans...their smell of sweat and their dirty words...” She looked over at me when she said that, and I felt the meaning behind it like a stab in my chest.

The brown-haired Traci stepped closer, addressing Connor as well. “Take care of her.” She said, gesturing to me. “She needs your help.” I swallowed hard, knowing about the conversation I was going to have to have with them after this. “Come on, let's go.” She said to the blue-haired Traci.

Hand in hand, the pair of androids jumped the fence and disappeared into the rainy night. Like that, the ordeal was over. I looked over at Connor, the android looking lost and unsure for the first time I’d really seen in him. “Connor...y-you...” I stammered, causing him to look over at me. “You let them go...”

He blinked a couple times, his mouth agape, but no words coming out. “I...”

“It's probably better this way...” Hank said, interrupting what Connor was going to say before he walked over to me. “You feelin’ okay, kid?”

“Yeah...I just...” I gasped, suddenly pulling away from Connor, collapsing onto the ground as I felt my stomach lurch.

“Hey, kid!”

I barely heard Hank cry out before I was throwing up into the wall of the alley, all the built up anxiety finally taking its physical toll on me. I could barely register Connor crouching next to me, his hand on my back as I kept vomiting whatever was still in my stomach from today.

It didn’t take long for my stomach to stop forcing out everything, and I collapsed onto the ground, exhausted and gasping for air. “We need to get you home, Rachel.” Connor said, his hand firmly gripping my shoulder. “Can you walk?”

I felt like it was a stupid question, but I was far too exhausted to bite back with anything, and my mouth tasted disgusting, the acidity of my stomach acid stinging my throat. “Not...without...losing my balance.” I managed to answer.

Without any hesitation, Connor hooked his right arm under my legs and his left cradled my back as he lifted me up in his arms bridal style with ease. “I’ll take you to the car and drive you home.”

I hadn’t been carried like this in many many years, and it was honestly kind of embarrassing. But...I could barely care. And I would’ve had a worse time trying to walk through the club than just letting Connor carry me through.

It didn’t help that Hank was scolding my ear off. “What the Hell, Rachel?!” He growled at me. “You nearly scared me half to death! Don’t ever fucking run off like that without telling us, first!”

I was too weak to really fight him on it. “I’m sorry...Hank...” I apologized meekly. “I was just...scared that...he’d find me...”

“Scared that who’d find you?!” Hank shouted.

“That’s enough, Lieutenant!” Connor told the old man off firmly. “You need to let her rest! She’s in no condition to argue with you! She’ll explain everything when she decides she’s ready to!”

I was sort of taken aback. Both by his brief aggressive protectiveness and by him considering my own feelings and emotional limits. No doubt, he remembered my reaction to the incident on the highway this morning and how long it took me to be ready to accept Connor’s apology for it. Hank clammed up as Connor carried me through the warehouse.

As soon as we got back into the club, the music was too much and I couldn’t keep my eyes open. I pressed myself further into the crook of Connor’s neck, a gesture I wasn’t sure if I actually did on purpose or not, nuzzling into him as he carried me.

But then, something strange happened as I was being carried through. I could’ve imagined it, because it was so brief and because everything was so much and I refused to open my eyes. But...I could’ve sworn I felt Connor press his cheek into my forehead.

It didn’t take long before I felt the cold air hit my skin and the rain soaking into my pants again. “Lieutenant, I’ll need you to ride in the back seat with Rachel while I drive.” He ordered. “Make sure you look after her while we make our way to her home.”

It was strange hearing Connor give Hank such direct orders, and even stranger to hear Hank comply without a fight. “Sure thing, I’ll take good care of her.”

Connor was standing still for a moment and I could hear Hank getting into the car, opening another door. As gently as I think I’ve ever been handled, Connor slipped me into the back seat next to Hank, the old man buckling me into the middle seat and letting me rest my head in his lap and resting his arm across my chest protectively. “Don’t worry kid, you’re gonna be okay.”

I could only shift and moan in exhaustion. “I know...thanks, Hank.”

The door was then closed in front of me. I then heard another door open and felt the motion of the car moving as Connor got into the driver’s seat and started the car.

After a moment of just the sounds of rain and the car engine working, it wasn’t hard for me to fall into the pit of exhaustion.

The only thoughts I could really hold onto was Connor. Connor lifting me into his arms. Connor telling off Hank just to look after me.

And the ghost of the feeling of his warm soft skin on my forehead.

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

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