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aroworlds · 5 years ago

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The Vampire Conundrum, Part Two

When Rowan Ross is pressured into placing an aromantic pride mug on his desk, he doesn't know how to react when his co-workers don't notice it. Don't they realise he spent a weekend rehearsing answers for questions unasked? Then again, if nobody knows what aromanticism is, can't he display a growing collection of pride merch without a repeat of his coming out as trans? Be visible with impunity through their ignorance?

He can endure their thinking him a fan of archery, comic-book superheroes and glittery vampire movies. It's not like anyone in the office is an archer. (Are they?) But when a patch on his bag results in a massive misconception, correcting it means doing the one thing he most fears: making a scene.

After all, his name isn't Aro.

Contains: One trans, bisexual frayromantic alongside an office of well-meaning cis co-workers who think they're being supportive and inclusive.

Content Advisory: This story hinges on the way most cishet alloromantic people know nothing about aromanticism and the ways many trans-accepting cis people fail to best communicate their acceptance. In other words, expect a series of queer, trans and aro microaggressions. There are no depictions or mentions of sexual attraction beyond the words "allosexual" and "bisexual", but there are non-detailed references to Rowan's previous experiences with romance.

Length: 3, 737 words (part two of two).

Note: Posted for @aggressivelyarospec‘s AggressivelyArospectacular 2019.

Romance, too, feels like one of the mechanisms by which a dangerous trans body can be rendered more acceptable to cis folks.

“His name’s Aro,” Melanie says after lunch, showing a new volunteer around the office. She pats Rowan on the shoulder as she walks behind his chair, startling him enough that the clipping path he’s making around a photo of Damien’s head goes veering off to the side. “He does our website, our flyers and the information guides we send out. Aro like from the Twilight movies!”

Introductions once only encompassed Melanie’s habit of overly-stressing pronouns when referencing him—a dysphoria-triggering reminder that she doesn’t think him masculine enough for people to assume it. Isn’t that bad enough without her also getting his name wrong?

He sighs, frustrated. Complaining about this, when trans people are in desperate want of a working environment free of outright antagonism and discrimination, feels unreasonable. Hell, Rowan knows aromantics who’ll revel in being named “Aro”, so isn’t his hurt just pettiness? Isn’t this why he’s no longer welcome at home, a man too intolerant of his family’s mistakes? How many times did they tell him that his harping on about little things demonstrates a concerning lack of gratitude for their acceptance?

His co-workers do seem to believe in Rowan’s masculinity; he shouldn’t take that for granted.

Instead, he feels like he’s failing at being both transgender and aromantic.

After a fair amount of editing, he places Damien’s image in the brochure mock-up and exports to PDF. The office will make suggestions, some useful, some ignorant and some so absurd that Rowan will laugh with his friends later on, but that’s fine. He can’t expect otherwise in a workplace where everyone considers him possessed of unknowable ability with computers. They’re good people, in the main, and they care about their work.

It’s just complicated, and Rowan hates the feeling that complicated is the best cis people will let him get to a normalised acceptance.

“Aro? An Arrow fan called Aro? Really? Do you like comics or are you one of those people only into DC TV?”

Rowan looks up from attaching his PDF to an email to find the volunteer sitting on a creaking office chair and crab-walking it over to Rowan’s desk. “Comics?”

“Oh, good.” The volunteer sighs as if in relief. “I mean, the TV show? It isn’t terrible—better than most of DC’s movies, at least—but I’m so tired of people who call themselves fans but have never touched a comic book.”

Rowan glances at his journal cover, ponders its possible similarity to the show’s motif and nearly bursts out laughing. He’s never read a comic and doesn’t plan on doing so. He prefers indie podcasts and audiobooks on account of increased representation and greater ability to sew and cook while listening. “I’m not an Arrow fan. Sorry.”

Another show about cis people possessed of everyone-should-pair-up amatonormativity?

Hard pass.

“You’re not?” The volunteer gapes, waving his hand towards Rowan’s cluster of pride mugs. Three, now. Only one contains coffee, which feels like a terrible oversight. “Is this a joke, then? Are they getting you arrow stuff because of your name? Like some office thing?”

Aro.

His name is not Aro.

Rowan once thought the concept of snapping a mere storytelling device, something as ludicrous or impossible as “glittering eyes” or “romantic interest that lasts after getting to know someone”. At best an experience had by people without a brain that doesn’t devote most of its time to screaming alerts at the prospect of anything dangerous. Absurd, irrational, void of any real-life relevance.

Not even with his family has he felt this chilling, all-encompassing moment of enough.

He looks back at his computer, attaches a second PDF file to his email and, before he considers pesky things like consequences, clicks send. Then Rowan climbs up on his office chair, steps up onto the desk and whistles like a country boy who owned a border collie prone to sneaking off the property and rounding up the neighbour’s sheep.

Everyone in the office gapes up at him with a motley assortment of parted lips, unblinking eyes and, in Melanie’s case, the pointing of a long, vermillion-polished fingernail.

Up high, the room reeks of nesting rodents and the popcorn ceiling desperately wants refinishing.

Now Rowan’s brain tells his limbs to shake and his chest to heave; of course, he thinks as he shoves his hands behind his back, anxiety kicks in after he’s neck-deep in it! “My … my name is Rowan. I chose it.” He looks at the vent on the opposite wall, fighting to sound collected. Is that black mould? “Dad told me if I rejected my deadname, I was rejecting them. That I was being cruel and selfish. I earnt my name!” He stops, gasping for breath like a hooked fish—which, given his terror, feels far too appropriate a simile. “My identity is aro, short for aromantic, like being queer—one way of my being queer. So ... there’s a PDF booklet in your inbox about aromanticism. Read it! I’m proud of being aro, but you need to call me by the name I chose! It’s Rowan!”

He jumps down off the desk. The creaking laminate and the thud of his dress shoes, a little too large for Rowan’s feet, sound abominably loud in the sepulchrally-quiet room. Heading past giddy into faint, but pushed on by a heedlessness of the “this can’t possibly get worse because I’m going to be fired” variety, Rowan snatches up his satchel and reaches into the side pocket to pull out his handful of print leaflets. He drops one in the lap of the gaping volunteer, tosses the rest on an empty desk for luddites who prefer paper, and returns to his chair.

Seven sets of speechless eyes bore holes through his skull, shoulders and spine.

Rowan jams on his headphones, opens his no-romance metal playlist and turns his music up to a volume just short of deafening before queuing new posts to the project’s website.

When he invented the God of Trans Men as flippant rhetoric to cope with Melanie’s questions, is it right to pray to him?

***

Two hours later, doing his best to radiate an aura of do not disturb on pain of your bloody death, Rowan fights to pay attention to the last event write-up. Leaving early means asking permission and walking down the row of desks, risking stares and comments; he instead corrects Melanie’s idiosyncratic punctuation. Didn’t Melanie go to school at a time when they taught more than English comprehension? How doesn’t she know when not to use an apostrophe?

There’ll be consequences. Warnings? A formal discussion in the private office the supervisors only use for interviews? A request that he undergo counselling? A strong recommendation for psychiatric assessment? Firing? It isn’t like they can’t throw a rock and hit thousands of people under the age of forty with general computer skills and design ability who aren’t prone to standing on desks to make unwanted announcements.

No. Focus on the damn comma splices.

Should he ask his psychiatrist for the soonest possible appointment? New meds?

A tap on the shoulder makes Rowan’s head threaten to brush the probably-asbestos-riddled ceiling; he gasps and yanks off his headphones, trembling.

Melanie stands beside his chair, holding out her phone in its glossy pink case. “Those words that are underlined? Can I click on them to find out what they mean, like on a website? Like ... al-lo-sexual?”

“Hyperlinks in an interactive PDF—the file on your phone—work the same way as on a website,” Rowan says without thinking: in the last three months, he’s been asked this ten times. “If you click on those links, they’ll take you to a glossary at the end of the document with definitions.”

Damien sits facing his usual computer, his head tilted as if watching out the corner of his eye.

Melanie smiles the expression of a woman in an alternate dimension where Rowan doesn’t engage in embarrassing outbursts. “You’re so good at all this stuff, Rowan.” She stresses his name just enough that he can pretend she didn’t. “Where did you learn it all?”

He once tried to explain his philosophy of clicking on things only to realise that while the concept of generational divides requires excessive generalisation, a difference exists in terms of his willingness to fearless experimentation with electronic devices and programs. “School. Uni.”

“You’re so lucky. School was nothing like that when I was a girl. You have so many more opportunities now. And identities.” Melanie sighs and pushes a wisp of grey hair back from her eyebrows. “It’s good, it really is.”

Rowan blinks, startled into silence by a rare glimpse of validation stripped of performance and demonstration.

He hadn’t thought anyone here capable of it.

“It says that some people feel repulsed by romance? Are you like that? Should we do something? Do we need to not talk about romance in the office? Like, if I describe my daughter dating her boyfriend, not that I want to, is that bad? Do we need to hold a meeting? Damien—Damien—”

Damien turns, wearing the blinded look of a rabbit frozen in a spotlight. “Yes...?”

For how long has Damien worked with Melanie? For how long has the office rolled with Melanie’s interruptions and proclamations, her meetings called about the slightest of issues? For how long has the office accepted Shelby’s incessant reminding and Damien’s inability to surrender event photography to someone who knows how to modify their flash settings? Isn’t there a chance that they’ll tolerate Rowan’s occasional moments of desk-blathering?

A trans aro should be able to sew a patch on his bag reading “aro” without provoking cis weirdness. Since when does someone read a new word on his bag and assume that’s now his name? Isn’t that another over-the-top demonstration made by awkward cis people trying to prove their acceptance, something that’s never made Rowan feel safe?

Even when he’s aromantic, he never gets to avoid cissexism.

He slides his hands between the seat and his legs, aware of Melanie’s once again drawing the office’s unbroken attention. “I, personally, don’t care if people talk about their romances,” he says, certain that Damien needn’t answer Melanie about meetings, “but I do care when people assume I must want one. I do care when Sh … some of you just keep asking if I’m dating anyone.”

Rowan long set aside the need to bother with romance. He isn’t aromantic in the way most people first think of the word, as he does fall in love, but it describes his frayromanticism nonetheless. Why put himself through the inevitable messy, angry break-up when his partners don’t understand why what started as romance ends up to him as a friendship? When dating isn’t without trans-related challenges, why force himself into a type of relationship that he knows won’t last?

Romance, too, feels like one of the mechanisms by which a dangerous trans body can be rendered more acceptable to cis folks, in the same way it sanitises his equally-threatening bisexuality. If queers are holding hands and exchanging rings, just like cis and heterosexual couples, they’re safe.

He wants to be normal, but not that normal.

Melanie surprises him again by nodding. Opaque red only colours the corners of her lips; the worn centres reveal the brownish-pink beneath. “Like how we now don’t assume everyone’s—what’s the fancy word you use for not being you?”

“Cis. Yeah.”

“At my first job, I never dared yeah my elders. Can I ask what’s this a-sexual thing? Not-sexual? That’s a thing that can go with your a-ro-manti-cism? Am I saying it right? Is that something people can be?” Melanie grabs the volunteer’s vacated chair and wheels herself up to Rowan’s desk. “Tell me about this. Please.”

Damien gives a theatrically deep sigh, winks at Rowan and turns back to his keyboard.

Rowan’s tangle of feelings bewilders him too much to be simple relief, but he doesn’t appear to be at immediate risk of losing his job.

***

“We need to have a meeting!” Melanie announces ten days later, striding up to where Damien peers over Rowan’s shoulder to approve the touch-ups on a series of scanned photos. Rowan grasps the want to have a section on the website showcasing past events, but surely Damien’s film-camera predecessors weren’t all unable to take decent pictures? “Today. Perhaps before lunch?”

“Do we?” Damien doesn’t bother to turn his head. “What’s the number on the urgency scale, remembering that whiteboard markers aren’t a five?”

“I’m aro-ace.” Melanie stresses the words, beaming with the confidence of a child presenting a new finger-painted masterpiece. “I didn’t know, but I definitely am. I’m aromantic and asexual.”

“I’m glad for you.” Now Damien faces her, scratching his shock of unruly brown hair. “I don’t know why this needs a meeting? Do you want something addressed?”

Rowan leans back in his chair, too startled to do anything but watch. Melanie’s interrogation of him about all things a-spec over the last few days left him certain that she was questioning, but he didn’t expect this announcement—or Damien’s reaction to it.

“I’ve been reading, and I sent around a list of links everyone else should read, too. We must do something about our website. And, of course, everyone should know I’m aro-ace, and then let people ask any questions. Then we should consider changes to our submission forms, and then...”

Already, Melanie has done more to integrate her identity into the office and its projects than Rowan ever dared risk. Why, then, does he feel as though he’s being pressed inside a metal suit three sizes too small? Shouldn’t the end result be worth enduring a staff meeting in which she announces she’s aro-ace? Melanie being Melanie, she’ll gladly answer questions about aromanticism. Doesn’t that give Rowan everything he wanted—ability to be out as aromantic but someone else’s dealing with allo nonsense?

Matt’s right.

Rowan’s just a coward.

Damien nods at Rowan. “What do you think about that?”

“Uh...” Rowan draws a delaying breath, fighting against a brain too bewildered to be useful in forming comprehensible speech. “Uh … you’d have to run form changes past someone higher up, wouldn’t you? We have to ask about everything else? But...”

He doesn’t name Melanie a friend, but fellow aromantics aren’t common enough that Rowan will reject a companion—even if they’re cis and have subjected him to half a year’s discomfort, anxiety and alienation. He slides his restless hands under his legs, biting his lip against the sickening realisation. Melanie’s enthusiastic fearlessness may make this office and program better for him as an aro, but how can it answer all the attitudes that made Rowan fear coming out in the first place?

If he’s a coward, doesn’t he have reason?

“We do need a meeting,” he says slowly, his heart pounding in his chest like blast beats in death metal. “On better integrating marginalised people into our office. Because the way you emphasise my pronouns, Melanie, or the way Shelby reassures me five times that I can correct her … that doesn’t make me feel safe. It makes me feel reminded. Different. Too visible. And that’s why...”

“You ended up standing on a desk?” Damien asks with the gruffness of a middle-aged cis man trying to sound gentle.

“Yeah,” Rowan mutters. “That.”

Melanie clasps her fingers to her lips. “Oh! I didn’t mean anything by it! I just wanted people to get it right!”

How many times has he suffered through well-meaning people explaining that in response to his saying that they made him uncomfortable? How many times has he heard people justify their actions as though good intent always mitigates bad impact?

“You’re … you’re still making this about you! The only answer I want or need from you is thanks for telling me, Rowan, I won’t do it again! That’s all! Not your reasoning, not this effort to justify! I want to know that you hear me, that you’ll acknowledge that your intent however good still made me come home crying from dysphoria, and that you’ll stop because I don’t want to put up with it anymore! That’s all!”

For the second time in less than a fortnight, a chilling silence envelops the office.

“We need a meeting,” Rowan says breathlessly, reminding himself that at least this time he isn’t standing on his desk, “discussing how to include marginalised people in our office. Discussing all the microaggressions. Maybe you need to find … educators, trainers who come in and do this. I don’t know. I’m just so tired of never feeling safe or normal, never feeling like I can say anything because this isn’t hate and at least you’re not my parents! Like I don’t ever get to have anything better!”

He stands up, unsure what to do past fetching himself a distracting cup of coffee.

Maybe, then, he’ll be able to survive the way Melanie looks at him—as though he just ran over her puppy.

She just came out, and he did run right over it.

“I’m sorry.” Rowan sags onto his chair, leaning forwards to grab his satchel despite the unpleasant giddiness. “I’m sorry. It’s wonderful, Melanie, that you now know who you are and that you can come out. And it’s amazing that you’re doing things already, when I needed like six months just to get used to my knowing I’m aro. I just...” He reaches inside the satchel and pulls out a rough oblong shape wrapped in white tissue paper. “Here. I’m sorry.”

He, an allo-aro man, screwed up an aro-ace woman’s coming out. Shouldn’t he know better? He wants to laugh, wants to cry, wants to curl up in a ball and hide under his desk. Even now, when he’s trying to get what he needs as a trans man, he’s being the worst kind of aromantic!

Her lips pinched, Melanie takes the present in her hands, worrying at the top piece of tape with her long, pink nails.

“We’ll have a meeting.” Damien runs his hand through his hair as though he doesn’t quite know what to do with himself. “I’ll talk to the heads about … sensitivity training, I suppose this also is. Would you be willing to write me an email outlining some of these behaviours and any ways we can make this office safer for you? Is that an appropriate thing to ask of you?”

“I don’t mind,” Rowan says. As long as he doesn’t go ignored, he’ll send a few emails—and he already has a few blog posts on which to draw. “Thank you.”

“Do you … want anything, now? To talk privately to me or anyone else? Or to a senior supervisor? Or someone with the government body? Can I do or arrange anything else?”

“Coffee. Please. And … and then to go back to fixing photos as though absolutely nothing happened because I don’t … do this sort of thing.” Rowan heaves a shaking sigh, pushing aside the thought that nobody can have failed to observe this. “Thank—thank you. I’m sorry. Thank you.”

He notices Damien gesturing at Melanie, notices that Rowan’s aro flag mug leaves with both and returns a few minutes later—now distracting from the office’s musty odour with its rich bitterness. He takes a few sips, but only by throwing himself into his work can he survive the gibbering, chattering thoughts building into a crushing tsunami of what the hell. Why did he do that? Why—no. Photos.

The soft clunk of crockery hitting laminate makes him look up.

Melanie leans against the edge of Rowan’s desk, her hand resting atop her new orange, yellow, white and blue aro-ace flag mug. “I’m sorry. Thanks for telling me.” She draws a deep breath, tapping her nails against the rim. “I didn’t know I could … that there’s an explanation, until I read your booklet. It described me. Things I didn’t realise about me! Things I’d been feeling! But … I’ve been learning about things like micro-aggressions. I didn’t know I’d been doing them myself. I’m sorry. I’ll keep learning. And thank you for my cup.”

“I know,” Rowan says softly, thinking back to the day when he realised the words “aromantic” and “frayromantic” describe him. A belated voicing of confusion and alienation; the naming of a constant sense of difference from the world. Revelation, understanding, explanation. “I know. I’m sorry, too. I don’t like … scenes. Or asking people things. I’m an anxious coward. So it just...”

He waves his hands, trying to mime an explosion.

Melanie, wide-eyed, jerks her head. “I couldn’t have said anything if you hadn’t done it first—and I wouldn’t have known to say anything if you hadn’t! And you’re asking us to do things knowing that we don’t understand, which must be frightening at least. You’re brave. And you shouldn’t be sorry.”

Rowan stares at her, unsure what to say in response. Never has anyone in his life freely offered such a sentiment. Never has anyone offered him something so generous without subsequent critique of Rowan’s intolerance for and impatience with their struggles to deal with him, praise softening the following reproval.

Brave.

His throat tightens and his eyes blur.

“Would you work with me on a proposal to put together for the submission forms? Damien insisted that I work with you, if you want to.”

“Uh … yeah?”

Melanie grabs a stack of papers from her desk and a chair. “I’ve gone through the old forms and highlighted passages. Do you want to read through and see if there’s anything I’ve missed or anything that should be left?”

He nods and takes the papers. Is this an alternate universe, the world flung upside down? Or, if people possess a minimum of decency, can he make needed change by addressing his problems instead of letting everyone talk over him? Can he build a world where he doesn’t endure cis or allo microaggressions by believing that their inconveniences aren’t worth more than his discomfort?

If his co-workers doesn’t object to correction, if they’re willing to make changes and investigate training, is the problem one of Rowan’s overreaction?

Does that mean he can talk to Matt the way he spoke to Melanie and Damien?

“Is something wrong?” Melanie asks, frowning.

Rowan shakes his head and plucks a pen from his frayro mug. “No.”

For the first time in a long time, that’s mostly true.

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silver-imagines · 6 years ago

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Bad Liar (Mysterio x Reader)

"Oh, hush, my dear, it's been a difficult year And terrors don't prey on Innocent victims Trust me, darling, trust me darling It's been a loveless year I'm a man of three fears Integrity, faith and Crocodile tears'

- Bad Liar (Imagine Dragons)

Summary: Aiming to live up to her sister’s legacy, a whole lot of trouble is in heading for (Y/n), trouble in the form of a Blue eyed devil.

Word count: 2.9k+

Hahaha guess who came back from the dead ! Me! This is the first part of what I expect will be a miniseries at the least, hopefully you guys enjoy it!

(Y/n) followed behind Fury and Hill, sharp eyes assessing the damage around them in the small Mexican village. Rubble, pieces of broken glass and wood, torn pieces of clothing, the classic aftermath of a tornado.

“This is merely a tragedy, not our kind of problem.” Hill announced, not knowing why there were investigating a natural disaster. “Locals claim the cyclone had a face, now that seems like our kind of problem.” Fury replied to her. Scanning the scene, (Y/n) spotted a young child, no older than ten, sitting on the ground with a bleeding knee and an old lady trying to help him.

Wasting no time, she leapt over the pile of rubble, kneeling down besides the kid and pulling out the small med kit out of her utility belt and helping the kid, completely oblivious to the cape clad hero that appeared out of nowhere.

He recognised her, of course he did, she was a regular face in the Stark Tower. He knew about her comings and goings, she was essentially an Avenger, well, more of a behind the scenes Avenger. Sort of like Black Widow but she operated at a more secretive level.

Seeing her in that Mexican village, his heart rate jumped, fearing that she would recognise him, and he’d be exposed, exposed for the fraud he was.

But it seemed like the stars and heavens were in his favour, and she looked right over him, not recognising him, gun out of the holster faster than he could blink with an intense ferocity that mirrored his rage for revenge. Her and Hill’s actions mirrored each other’s, both revolvers pointed straight at him as he raised his hands.

She was rather close to Stark, he’d heard him mention her name a couple of times, but Quentin struggled to remember, but whatever it was, all it mattered was that she didn’t recognise him and at this realisation, a devilish plan began to formulate in his mind as he thanked himself for keeping a ring on his finger, he’d make them all pay for the dead man’s sins.

“My name is Quentin Beck! I’m here to help!’ He announced, trying his hardest not to smirk.

_____

‘Mr Beck, if you would follow me, Director Fury would like to talk to you” (Y/n) announced, straightening her back, pulling her arms behind her back, standing up tall in front of the blue-eyed hero. He gave her a swift nod and she began to lead him through the maze of hallways.

She was different from what he had expected, in the time he had been here, the only words that had left her lips were short, one worded response. Perhaps it was the age that matured her mind, or the events of the last five or so years but whatever it was, it certainly made his job a little harder.

You see, every hero had their damsel in distress, Stark with Potts, Thor with Jane, the list could continue but Mysterio, he didn’t have a lady, and it would be a step up if his so-called damsel was basically an Avenger no?

______

“Peter!” (Y/n) gushed, ruffling the younger boy’s brown hair as he engulfed her in a tight hug, she hadn’t seen the kid for a while, not since the funeral.

“Ms (Y/N)!!” The younger boy beamed back at her, feeling relieved upon seeing a familiar, almost familial face. Quentin observed the pair interact, Peter telling her all about his plans for the trip and how Fury shot his friend with a tranquilliser. His eyes were set on (Y/n), she was almost an impossible book to read, the only advance he had made was the day he initially met her and all he could do now was give her long, calculative glances.

“Do you reckon you could talk to Fury for me? I really, really need this break, I, Mr Stark is gone, (Y/N) I can’t, I’m not ready for this” Peter rambled. The older girl felt her heart sink, he had suffered so, so much at such a young age. There was just too much responsibility on his young shoulders, shoulders that weren’t ready to carry the weight of the world yet. He was just a kid. Before she could respond, Fury appeared out of nowhere.

“Mr Parker, if you’d follow me.” He announced, his loud voice booming in the room, alerting every one of his presence and (Y/n) nodded and turned towards Peter, giving his warm hands a soft squeeze, knowing there wasn’t much she could do and gestured for him to follow the Director.

Peter gave her a dejected look before following Fury into another room, leaving the pair alone in the large space. Quentin quickly returned to the holographic map on the desk, pretending he hadn’t been staring at the (h/c) girl.

“Why have you been watching me?” (Y/n) soft voice echoed through the room, causing Quentin’s head to shoot up. She had noticed, of course she had, there was a reason she was one of the best in SHIELD, she never missed a detail. Of course, when she noticed a pair of blue eyes following her

It was working.

“I uh, I don’t know what you mean.” He replied, leaning back against the table as he faced her, she was no longer in her SHIELD uniform, but rather black jeans and a baggy grey hoodie.

“Don’t pretend to be naïve, I’ve seen you, you’ve been watching me, I'm a trained spy, I know when someone’s watching me Mr Beck, this got anything to do with that night in Mexico?” She asked, folding her arms and leaning sideways against the pillar, eyeing the blue-eyed man. He dropped his head as he fidgeted with the gold band on his middle finger, drawing her eyes to it.

“I uh, I should have apologised earlier Ms (Y/n).”

“Yes, maybe, but that doesn’t answer my question, why have you been watching me?” She continued, slightly enjoying the fact the hero was getting flustered.

“You just, I uh, you remind me, you remind of my wi- of someone I knew’ He mumbled. (Y/n) straightened up, a clueless expression taking over usually emotionless face and she tilted her head sideways.

“Whatever it is, just keep your eyes to yourself Mr Hero.” She chuckled, standing her guard, it wasn’t in her nature to let any of her emotions take control of her.

“Who are you? Director Fury called out, aiming his own gun towards the cape clad man. Ushering the old lady to take the kid and leave the scene, (Y/n) stood up, keeping her gun still pointed towards the mysterious man.

Luscious brown hair, a scruffy beard, light coloured eyes, she couldn’t judge the colour properly from this distance, a gold armour and a red cape, was this another Asgardian? Thinking that this would be another New York situation, she rolled her eyes, an action Quentin didn’t miss.

“My name is Quentin Beck, I’m here to help!” He called out, raising his hands in the air, praying they wouldn’t shoot him thinking he was the bad guy, but like come on, how much more obvious could it get that he was the hero? He had a cape on for crying out loud.

“You’ve got five seconds before we shoot!” Fury called out, knowing better than to be naïve and believe everyone he encountered.

“I’m from another Earth, these creatures, the Elementals, they destroyed my Earth, and now they’re using portals to attack the other Earths, and this was the wind one.” He explained, coming closer to the trio. Fury nodded, amused at the explanation and motioned for him to continue.

‘I know where the next one will strike, the Water Elemental, it’s the same coordinates as the attacks on my Earth.” He continued to explain, hoping that they would believe him. Fury motioned for Maria and (Y/n) to lower their guns and they reluctantly did, still being alert in case the situation went south as Beck continued to explain.

Another Earth, creatures called Elementals, the loss of his Earth, tear from Thanos’ snap, what a story. He was in the middle of explaining the next Elemental’s attack when a strong gush of wind appeared again, in the shape of the large animal.

“Stand back, you don’t want any part in this.” Beck yelled, flying upwards as green mist surrounded him, shooting green laser beams at the creature. Hill and Fury dove to the left side, taking cover under a half-broken stone building, whereas (Y/n) dove under the protection of a half standing wall.

Beck continued to fight the wind creature, shooting lasers at it, as the ones around it took cover. (Y/n) knew shooting at it wouldn’t help so she stood her ground, staying crouched next to the broken wall, constantly keeping her gaze on the scene, instantly spotting the same young kid she was helping before, crying as he tried to limp away, barely away from the battle itself.

Seeing her options, she crouched down, gun drawn as she moved along the length of the wall, reaching the end and waiting for the opportunity to cross the empty field. Seeing that Beck had gotten the creature down, she made a run for it.

She was so focused on the child in trouble that she didn’t see the large rock that came flying her way, hitting her on the side of her abdomen, knocking her down. She groaned in pain, feeling blood seep out as her shirt began to turn red. Grunting, she got back up, making it to the small pile of rubble the child was hiding behind. “Shhh, it’s ok’ She spoke, hugging the kid as he cried in her arm, no one else was dying on her watch, certainly not this young kid. Wrapping one arm around his torso and one around his head, she kept him close to her body, making sure to shield him from any rubble that flew at them.

Beck defeated the creature, well, of course he did, but he couldn’t keep his gaze off of the (h/c) haired girl, her shirt was obviously covered in blood in the abdominal region, a small cut decorating her left cheekbone as she limped over to walk the kid back, out of the rubble.

She really was something, this was going to be fun

________

It was in the late hours of the night that the Director announced for them to disperse, knowing that the next predicted attack wasn’t until a week later. Excusing herself, (Y/n) made her way to the bathroom, grabbing the first aid out of the cabinet, she sat down on the edge of the small tub, groaning in pain she lifted the hem of her shirt, exposing her wound.

It was now covered in dried blood, she hadn’t gotten the chance to clean it up all day, Fury had assigned her on the clean-up of the village and when she got back to base, it was nothing but more discussion with Beck.

“Ah fuck.” She groaned, feeling the alcohol burn the wound, it was pretty deep because as soon as she cleaned the dried blood off, it started bleeding again. She had been so focused on the wound that she had forgotten to lock the door and the minute she pulled her shirt off, the door opened wide.

Quentin’s eyes widened as he saw her, sitting on the tub, a massive gash on her stomach, her shirt off, just in her sports bra. “Oh I’- uh, I must have forgotten to lock the door.” She mumbled, grabbing the towel on the counter and pulling it over her stomach.

“It’s ok, I-I should have knocked” He replied, his eyes scanning her, toned arms, glowing (s/c) skin, her hair no longer tied up but rather a mess on her shoulders, dried blood on her face and all over her abdomen.

“Do you need help with that?” He asked, pointing towards her stomach, there was no way she’d be able to bandage herself easily. He was no longer dressed in his hero outfit, but rather in sweatpants and a black tee. “I wouldn’t want to bother” She replied, not wanting to bother him as her gaze fell to the floor. “Ah it’s alright, here, don’t think you can do it yourself” He gave her a soft smile, and she handed him the disinfectant.

He crouched down in front of her, his blue eyes fixed on her stomach as he moved the towel away and began to apply the disinfectant. “It’s a deep cut” He remarked, continuously wiping the dried blood that was all over her abdomen and the sides of her stomach. Her face began to warm up under his gaze, it wasn’t everyday someone saw her half naked.

“I wasn’t going to let the kid get hurt, I’ll live” She chuckled, as he looked up to her, giving her a good view of his blue eyes. Brown hair, light skin, a scruffy beard, plump lips and most of all, eyes bluer than the ocean, actually no, they were lighter than the ocean, more like when the sun shone on the ocean and it twinkled a light blue, yeah, like that colour.

“I admire that, wait, I never actually got your name before.” He awkwardly chuckled, putting the bottle of disinfectant away as he threw the used cotton in the bin. “(Y/n), (Y/n) Romanoff.” She replied as he placed the ointment on her wound.

Romanoff? As in Natasha Romanoff? Holy shit, she was the Widow’s sister?

Shaking off his surprise, he continued to apply the ointment, causing her to hiss from pain. “That’s a beautiful name (Y/n).” He replied, beginning to bandage the wound. “Here, raise your arm up a little more.” He instructed her and she nodded, lifting her arm around so he could wrap the bandage around her waist, his face coming in close contact with her chest, causing his ears to turn red, hey, just because he was evil doesn’t mean he wasn’t human. Finishing up the bandaging, he looked up at her face, seeing the cut on her cheekbone.

“Here, there’s another cut.” He smiled at her, holding up more cotton and disinfectant and moving towards her cheek. She hissed again in pain as he placed the disinfectant on her cheek.

“Shhhh, its ok, almost over” he spoke softly, blowing air onto the cut to soften the stinging as she flinched. He finished up and placed a small band-aid on her cheek.

“Thank you for the help Beck.” She smiled, giving his shoulder a soft pat. He gave her a smile in return, leaning forward, placing a hand on her other cheek as he placed a kiss on her forehead, “Take care (Y/n)’ He mumbled against her skin, before getting up and leaving the wide (e/c) eyed girl alone in the bathroom, with a tinge of red coating her warm cheeks.

_____

“Hey kiddo, how’d it go with Fury?” (Y/n) asked, she had been given the job to escort Peter back to his hotel along with Demetri.

“I said no Ms (Y/N)-” He began but she cut him off. “How many times have I told you not to call me that, geez you make me sound old Peter, it’s just (Y/N)” She chuckled, allowing him to continue.

“I said no (Y/n), I just, I need this break, I really do, he, I-” He stuttered, not being able to find the right words to put his feelings into words.

“I get it Peter, we all need a break, but you’re so young, you have so much to do than to be dragged into this mess.” She gave him a weak smile, giving him a soft pat on the back, earning death glares from Demetri.

“Thank you for understanding.” He replied, leaning into her shoulder as she put her arm around his shoulder. “How’s the trip been going?” She asked him, rubbing his shoulder. She could still visualise Peter from the funeral, bloodshot eyes, messy hair, a loose tie, he had been crying that entire morning, she found him in the backyard, all alone. She had offered to fix his tie, to which the young boy agreed to with a weak smile. At that point, she had only known Peter for a little while, she had initially met him during the Sokovia accords situation.

She had sided with Tony on that situation, but she was fiercely against him bringing in a 14-year-old kid to make his point. He was just a kid, and he had literally picked him out of his life and put him into a situation that even the grown-ups around him couldn’t comprehend. And of course, then came Thanos, the mad Titan. One minute she was in Wakanda, fighting along with her sister, and the next, she came back to a world where she no longer existed.

‘It’s good Ms- (Y/n), there’s this girl I really like, and I, I’m th-thinking of con-confessing’ He mumbled, playing with his hands.

‘Peter that’s amazing!’ (Y/n) gushed, ruffling his hair as his face heated up, the younger boy’s face broke out into a massive grin, his pure smile melting her heart.

She couldn’t remember the last time she felt so happy, but alas their boat ride came to an end and she big farewell to Peter with a hug as he entered the shabby hotel his schoolmates were staying at.

Nat would be proud of her, she always had a way of making (Y/n) smile, and if she could make an innocent boy like Peter smile, she was content with herself.

AN: Slow start but I promise it’ll get so much better! I have some (hopefully) great things planned! Got any other requests? Shoot them through!

#spiderman imagine #spiderman x reader #mysterio x reader #mysterio #spiderman ffh #spiderman far from home #mysterio imagine #quentin beck #quentin beck x reader #quentin beck fanfiction #marvel fanfiction #marvel #spider-man far from home #quentin beck imagine

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infiniteglitterfall · 5 years ago

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Hi! I have atypical autism and I’m having trouble at work. I feel like no work place is working out for me because of my diagnosis. I’m uncomfortable around my colleagues, I’m quiet, I don’t know when to speak or what to say etc. I’m sad, mad and frustrated that this ruins every work place for me and I don’t know what job would fit me. I’ve never told my bosses that I have atypical autism and I don’t want to do it either. I want advice on what I should do

this is a great question! I didn’t know what atypical autism was, but I googled it and it sounds like they came up with this because they can’t call it asperger’s anymore? “a subthreshold diagnosis, presenting with some symptoms of autism but insufficient to meet criteria for a diagnosis of childhood autism (or autistic disorder). Alternatively, atypical autism can be diagnosed when there is a late onset of symptomatology.” Aka DDNOS, apparently. From my perspective, it doesn’t sound different from any other autistic experience. FWIW. I think they tend to base their diagnostic labels more on how we seem from the outside than what our experiences really are. just my onion It sounds like you’re struggling with social anxiety, in that special vicious-cycle kind of way where not knowing how to interact with people makes you more anxious, and that makes it harder to interact with them, which makes you more anxious....? The nice thing about vicious cycles is that you only have to knock out part of the cycle to make the whole thing fall apart. Like: if you didn’t feel anxious about not knowing when to speak or what to say, it would be easier to figure out when to speak or what to say. Which, in turn, would give you less reason to feel anxious about it, et cetera. Or, if you knew what to say to them and how to hit it off, you would have fewer triggers for your anxiety, which would then make it easier to.... you get the idea. There are a lot of things that help with social anxiety. I am going to give a shout-out to medication, first of all. There are a lot of life hacks and therapeutic techniques that help a lot. And for yeeeeeaaaars, I didn’t realize that I really had anxiety, and also, thought that I “should” see if I could manage anything myself before “resorting to” meds. Turns out, medication saves me a TON of spoons, which I was previously using to “manage” depression, anxiety, and ADHD. You would not BELIEVE how much more energy and just general functionality I had when I finally got my meds right. OMFG. It can be a pain in the ass to find the right medication, especially if it means first having to find a medical practitioner that can help you and then having to explain the situation. Sometimes you find something that helps you right away. Sometimes you have to try different things to find something that works well enough. Sometimes you get the fun of “doesn’t work for me AND has bad side effects for me.” (OTOH, when looking at side effects, always remember that you might not get any of the side effects.) IMHO, the hardest part of finding the right medication is that a lot of practitioners don’t know how to track whether it’s helping you or not. Or whether it’s helping ENOUGH. Like: I got on anxiety meds that were starting to help, but which were making my ADHD meds not work. I tried a bunch of other things, and finally got Vyvanse to work for my ADHD. But I managed to FORGET that my anxiety meds weren’t doing anything, for a full year, until things got really bad and I was like “wait a minute... these should be helping????” And I did some research, accidentally found a competent psychiatrist, and found that Cymbalta worked for me... but even then, if I hadn’t found decent tools for assessing if it was enough, I would’ve stopped at like half the dose I actually needed to be on. This post is gonna be long as it is, so I’m gonna reblog to add different tools you can use to gauge what’s working, and which will help medical professionals understand what you’re experiencing. (Because tbh, they’re often just plain ignorant about this shit.) You do not necessarily have to go to a psychiatrist to get medication for anxiety, social or otherwise! My partner’s OBGYN prescribed him depression meds. My family doctor was willing to prescribe stuff for depression and anxiety, but only if it was something that didn’t potentially interact with ADHD meds. My chosen brother’s doctor was asking EVERYBODY, after the 2016 election, how they were doing and if they needed depression/anxiety meds. (And they’re in North Carolina!) He had never really thought about it before, and in fact, when he started taking them, his social anxiety got so much better that he was doing shit like going back into the store to tell them they’d given him too much change. He was the one who got me to think about taking them. He had a little kid, and he was like, "I’m doing this for my family.” Ok, medication aside: Some kinds of therapy are really good for figuring out how to interact with people. I’ve been learning a lot about different modalities, and I would recommend finding someone who does what’s called “relational therapy” or “relational-cultural therapy.” Basically, relational therapy is ALL about learning how to interact with people and have better relationships of all kinds. It’s very connected with issues of marginalization: people who are into relational therapy learn about how marginalization, and abuse, affect us and our relationships. Like, how we can internalize a ton of shame, just from being autistic and being devalued by the people around us. Even just from existing in a world that doesn’t value or understand how we communicate, and how we experience things. And it’s really good for identifying that stuff, healing from the struggles of trying to interact with people, and learning how to relate to people in a way that works for you. I found an organization that explains it pretty well (”Are you anxious when it comes to social situations like the workplace?... If we are depressed or anxious, inevitably it can be traced back to tension or breakdowns in relationships, or an inability to connect”), has a blog post in the sidebar called “Signs of Aspergers In Adults - Sound Familiar?” and apparently does therapy globally via Skype. I have never used them, I don’t know anything about them, I just googled “relational therapy” “online therapist.” (Shockingly, tho, that blog post not only links to one by an actually autistic person, but is very positive about autistic traits. I’m impressed so far. And I’m sure there are other options out there, too.) Lastly (as far as Things That I Personally Know Work go), I’ve gotten a LOT of recovery around social anxiety, and learned how to build relationships at work, from 12-step programs. The reason it works for that, as far as I can tell, is: • It’s a peer-led model, where everyone is equal. (this was huge to me, because I really struggled for a long time with feeling like everyone knew better than I did and had more of a right to talk about anything than I did, and therapy was a tough way to deal with things at that point because I saw the therapist as A Professional who’s In Charge.) • There’s a lot of emphasis on the fact that the newcomer who just walked into the room has as much of a right to give input in a business meeting, or to volunteer to help out with something that doesn’t require specific experience, or to share what’s going on with them, as anybody else. • Everybody there has gone through the same stuff as you, and anybody who’s helping you is showing you what worked for them, not what they were taught would work for people. That can be a pretty big difference, especially in terms of being able to relate to them and share personal things with them. • Working the steps involves a lot of writing about your fears and resentments, and looking at, basically, what has and hasn’t worked for you, and why it hasn’t worked. Really, what you're doing there is seeing where you can reclaim your power. And then you deal with a lot of shame, and get to discover how much you’re like other people, and how much you’re equal to other people, and that you’re a good addition to the world. • You also connect with your intuition, when working the steps, and develop a better sense of what’s intuition and what’s fear/anxiety. That, and sharing in meetings, REALLY helped me get a sense of what to say to people and get comfortable saying things. (A lot of people shorthand what I’m calling “intuition” as “god,” but it’s very much supposed to be a nonreligious idea of “god.” and IME, it’s basically your intuition, whether your belief system says that’s god talking to you, or a psychological thing, or a mystical force, or what.) Plus, 12-step stuff is free, which I’m very much in favor of lol. And most 12-step orgs have phone meetings and online meetings, so you don’t even have to go in person if that’s a barrier. (and in a phone meeting, they might not even know you’re there!) The tricky part can be figuring out which 12-step groups are good in your area and what might work for you. Because they range from Alcoholics Anonymous to, like... what’s the most obscure one I can think of? ARTS Anonymous, I guess. (it’s for artists who are stuck, it’s not saying art is an addiction) But if you wanted to try 12-step for this, I would say that Emotions Anonymous is really good for dealing with all sorts of emotional and mental health stuff. (and holy shit, they have an app????) Adult Children of Alcoholic and Dysfunctional Families has, iirc, a good book, (as well as all the meetings and whatnot) and most people probably qualify for that. If you have any experience with sexual assault, abuse, harassment, or being cheated on, COSA is good, and you end up working on all your other relationships and emotional stuff along the way.

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blurglesmurfklaine · 5 years ago

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Cornelia Street (3/?)

A/N: oh my god they were quarantined

yes. It’s one of those fics.

AU, obvs

I’m posting as I go and idk how many parts this is going to be, likely won’t be very long but I literally don’t know what I’m doing and should i be starting yet another WIP? definitely not but fuck it lets fucking go

Title is from T-swizzles Lover album, I’m OBSESSED

Summary: Three years ago, Kurt and Blaine went on a disaster of a date and never quite got off on the right foot. Now, just before they graduate from NYADA, there’s a national outbreak and they’re both self-quarantined in a mutual friend’s apartment.

Read On AO3

On Tumblr: Part 1, Part 2

Part 3

Kurt has the art of avoiding someone he’s sharing a confined space with down to an art. Blaine stays in the bedroom most of the time and the morning stiffness in Kurt’s joints from sleeping on the couch is well worth not having to interact with his roomie. He spends the first few days decompressing from the stressload of his schoolwork, social media, extra pampering, the usual.

This is enough to keep him entertained for a few days, but the first few hours of day four drag on like molasses.

Kurt lies on the couch, flippantly scrolling and cycling through the same social media apps over and over again until he’s seen every tweet, every snapchat story, and every. Single. Facebook. Post.

This routine is fine when he has a full and busy life, but it can’t be all he does. He’s going stir crazy.

It’s this boredom, he tells himself, that motivates him to knock on the bedroom door. Because he’s a generally social person, and he’s certain that even the likes of Blaine Anderson could offer him some temporary entertainment.

“The living room TV doesn’t come with Netflix,” he explains when a confused Blaine opens the door. “And my social media feed is dry, so you can either let me in on whatever you’re watching, or you can deal with the consequences of not doing that. I should let you know, I have a brother, and I can be very annoying.”

Blaine hums, looking Kurt up and down. “I also have a brother who can be ridiculously annoying, so I suppose I can’t risk it.” He speaks carefully, but Kurt has a sneaking suspicion that Blaine’s just as out of his mind bored as he is and would appreciate the company.

He opens the door wider to allow Kurt passage in the room.

Blaine moves towards the bed, where he’s clearly made some sort of quarantine nest for himself—the blanket is puddled near the head of the bed where Blaine was lying, a few books scattered by where his feet would have been, a bowl of half eaten ramen abandoned on the nightstand.

Kurt… doesn’t quite know what to do. He starts for the computer chair by the desk, but Blaine waves him away. “You can just sit next to me,” he says dismissively. “That’s Sam’s gaming chair, and it is just absolutely hell on your lower back. I wouldn’t wish it on my worst enemy.”

He raises an eyebrow, crosses his arms. “Is that what I am to you?”

Blaine looks at him like he’s genuinely surprised by the remark. “What? I… No. Not at all.”

“Really?”

“Look, Kurt, I know we have a weird history and we don’t particularly get along, but I don’t hate you.”

Kurt eyes Blaine up and down for a second, assessing him for any signs of deceit. He finds none, pulls the cover back and slides underneath it. “What are you watching?”

“Let It Snow. It’s a Netflix Original. It just started, do you want me to rewind it?”

Kurt waves a hand. “No, that’s fine.”

On screen, two teens are trudging through the snow towards a building with AFFLE TOWN on top of it.

“If the train made you feel real, Waffle Town is gonna blow your mind.”

In the movie, the cheerleader character kisses the other main red-headed girl in the bathroom, but acts like nothing happened when the rest of the squad comes in.

“Oh, she’s totally not out of the closet yet.” Blaine murmurs.

“What? But she said she was, at the beginning.”

“I mean, yeah, but there has to be some sort of twist.”

“Hm. Seems like you have this movie all figured out.”

“I mean, movies like this are supposed to be predictable on some level. Let’s be real, we watch these movies because no matter what happens, no matter what misunderstanding there is, you know everything’s going to be okay.” He looks at Kurt, and Kurt’s heart does not skip a beat. But objectively speaking, Blaine is ridiculously adorable, and maybe he has a teeny tiny reaction when Blaine says, “You know that the right people will end up with each other.”

About twenty more minutes in, all the different storylines have been introduced and Kurt realizes why this movie seems so familiar. “Oh my god,” he says. “This is totally just a teen version of Love, Actually.”

Blaine chuckles. “Oh my gosh, you’re right!”

They both laugh out loud at the end, when the crappy best friend realizes she’s been crappy and gives the red-head a little speech.

“If you and Beyonce were trapped in a house that was on fire and I could only save one of you... I would let Beyonce die.”

The movie draws to a close and Blaine leans back against the pillows, obviously satisfied with the ending. “See? Happy endings rule. They’re a little cheesy, a little predictable, but that’s what I like about them.”

Kurt smiles and looks over at Blaine. “Yeah, me, too.”

When the movie ends, Blaine excuses himself for a moment to go grab a drink from the kitchen.

When he finishes his glass of water, Blaine heads to the hall closet, clamoring around for that stash of board games Sam keeps for game nights. He finally finds it and grins a bit, pulling out Battleship. This should keep them entertained for a while.

He stops dead in his tracks, just outside the room, when he hears Kurt in a heated conversation on the phone. “No, Adam. I meant it, this time. We’re over… I know there’s a national crisis right now, that’s why I’m at—don’t… stop… will you let me—! You always do this! Stop talking over me! Oh my god, if you’re not going to listen, then this conversation is over.”

Blaine silently backtracks a few steps when he hears Kurt sniff, then after a minute or two, starts walking again, making sure to slap his bare feet against the hardwood floor so that Kurt hears him coming and can take a second to compose himself. He rattles the battleship game for extra measure and says loudly down the hallway, “So I found this battleship game in the closet, thought it might be a good way to pass the time.”

Kurt still looks a little lost in thought by the time Blaine is back in the bedroom. “Uh, sure, yeah. Why not,” he mindlessly agrees.

It takes them a few minutes to set everything up and figure out logistics. As a gesture of goodwill, Blaine insists that they both sit on the bed for this activity. He still feels a little bad for… whatever Kurt is going through right now.

They’re well into the game when Blaine decides to tug a little more on the thread that will unravel Kurt Hummel.

“J1,” Kurt grumbles.

“Miss,” Blaine responds. “So… I thought I might’ve heard you on the phone earlier,” he says, and Kurt’s hard gaze pierces through him. “Everything okay?”

“Why do you care?” Kurt snaps.

Blaine felt his own defenses rising up. “We are going to be stuck with each other for days on end, so excuse me for trying to be a decent person.”

Kurt de-bristles himself. “Sorry,” he murmurs, shaking his head. “Sorry… I um… my ex is trying to get me to go stay with him. But I know he’s just going to rope me into getting back together again and I just… I’m done. Sorry,” he repeats, lifting his knees and wrapping his arms around them. “I don’t know why I’m telling you all of this.”

“It’s okay,” Blaine says, mouth twitching. “We’ll chalk it up to social distancing. Speaking of, I know why I’m self-quarantined, why are you? If you don’t mind me asking. Why not go home like everyone else? B4.”

Kurt sighs. “Hit. My dad had a heart attack back in high school. Left him in a coma for a while. Then he had a cancer scare last year, so his immune system isn’t the strongest. I can’t risk taking anything back to him. J2.”

“I’m sorry to hear that… Hit.”

“Thanks. What about you?”

“C4. Kind of the same thing. My aunt has lived with us pretty much my entire life. She's pretty much my second mom. She’s diabetic, and a year ago she needed a kidney transplant. If she even gets so much as a cold, it could mess with her anti-rejection meds.”

He doesn’t get a response for a while and Blaine looks up to find Kurt staring at him. The other boy blinks, like he himself has just noticed his fixed gaze.

“Um, hit…” he says, looking back down at his board. Blaine thinks he might see a hint of a blush crawling up Kurt’s neck. “J3.”

“Miss.”

“Miss? That’s impossible. J1 and I2 were misses.” Kurt snaps his head up, narrowing his eyes at Blaine, but there’s a playful light that wasn’t there earlier. “Are you cheating?”

“Maybe,” he teases, evading the question because it actually is a hit. In fact, it’s the winning move. “Maybe I just don’t want this game to be over so soon.”

For a moment, Blaine wonders if his comment was too close to flirtatious territory. But then he thinks, so what if it is? There was a reason he agreed to be set up with Kurt freshman year, and after half a conversation with him, Blaine is definitely intrigued, to say the least.

Kurt’s lips curl up into a smile. “Alright… I don’t want to go back to being bored either, so how about this? We each move one of the small pieces and the first one to get a hit wins.”

Blaine agrees, taking one of his small pieces off and moving it.

“I’ll start us off,” Kurt says. “You mentioned you had a brother. What about the rest of your family? A6.”

“Miss. I’ve only got the one, thank god, because he is a handful. My mom is a total goofball, gives the best advice. I love her to death. My dad is the essence of I hate everything except my family. He can be a total grump sometimes, but I know he’d do anything for us. G7. You?”

“Miss. I mentioned my dad. My mom passed away when I was eight.” Blaine’s eyes glaze over with sympathy. “She was… she was really something. I miss her everyday, but I’m also really grateful that my dad found someone as wonderful as my step-mom. They got married my Junior year of high school, and I got a brother out of it. He drives me up the wall sometimes, but I love the big lug.”

Kurt tells Blaine all about the ridiculousness of his high school show choir, his relationship with his dad, and the bullying he endured in high school. In turn, Blaine confesses some insecurities he has about being a musical theatre major, about how he absolutely adores his kooky aunt, and his love for harry potter.

The game takes longer to finish than it should since occasionally they get so deep into conversation that they forget about playing the game. Eventually, it’s nearly two am, and Kurt decides to call it quits.

“Alright,” he says. “I’m calling it. I’m never gonna fund that darn ship of yours.”

“You’re right about that,” Blaine agrees. Kurt had actually hit his piece about three turns in, but again… Blaine wasn’t ready to say goodnight yet.

Kurt snorts out a laugh and rises from the he’d, stretching his arms high over his head. “I’ll see you in the morning,” he groans.

Blaine has no idea what compels him to say this, but he does. “You don’t have to sleep in the living room.”

Kurt freezes and gives Blaine a look.

“I just mean…” he swallows. “I’ve had the bed enough nights. Time to pay my dues. I can take the couch tonight.”

He hops off the bed before Kurt even has the chance to protest.

“I… um, thanks,” he gives Blaine a shy smile.

“I’ll see you in the morning, Kurt.” He returns the smile—more than just a nicety at this point—and turns around to head to the living room.

He can’t keep the dazed grin off his face when he pulls out his phone to text Sam.

Part 4

#klaine #glee #kurt hummel #blaine anderson #wow look at me im writing!#i honestly hate the format of tumblr but its too late at this point lmaoooo

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abcsofadhd · 6 years ago

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On being diagnosed with ADHD in midlife

@campfiresbeerandcoffee got diagnosed with ADHD in their early 50s and I asked them to share their story.

It’s kinda long but its a damn interesting read about a person’s experience with ADHD and a late diagnosis. It’s VERY well written and I’ve only spaced it out and bolded it for better readability.

Remember, it’s really NEVER too late to get a diagnosis.

I’ve known people with ADHD most of my life. I knew what it was, obviously. It was that boy who was socially inappropriate and weird, the one who got angry too fast, who touched oddly, who couldn’t sit still.

It was the squirrel brained women I knew, that changed jobs, were super smart, had multiple competencies and could instantly grasp systems, but had so much drive they were always up, always working, always learning. It wasn’t ME.

It didn’t even occur to me that I had ADHD. I wasn’t a problem. I sat quietly in class, lost in my own thoughts, doodling. I could focus for hours on books, on coding, on the grains of sand on a sunny beach. I certainly didn’t have an attention disorder.

My dad died in my 2nd year of uni. I didn’t do well. Well meaning counselors said I was high strung and should avoid all sugar and stimulants. Are you kidding? Caffeine kept me sane. Eventually I changed majors, and managed to graduate with a BA.

I even managed to get into grad school, and did entrepreneur things too. But eventually I crumbled again and didn’t finish my thesis. I had anger issues. I was high then low. I would rage and weep. I’d spend weeks in apathy, when I had everything I wanted: a business, a wife, wonderful family. But it was a long dark bleak tunnel every day.

Then I heard a radio show on chronic depression and recognized my symptoms. Got some help and medication, and managed to co-found a company. The anti-depression meds helped, settling on Wellbutrin eventually. But things were still hard.

I got a straight job to help my wife start her career. I worked in an office, coding and structuring information systems. Prestige, recognition, it was great for my ego, good benefits and fair pay.

10 years in this high performance position I crashed from accumulated stress when my mom died. I was prepared with Wellbutrin and counselling and even so I burned out with major depression and anxiety and ptsd symptoms.

Took 3 years off work before I dared to take a job with minimal responsibility. In that time I had full on major ADHD symptoms but didn’t recognize them. I couldn’t say what I did all day.

I couldn’t make a list, couldn’t go in the store. Couldn’t read. Couldn't feed myself. Couldn’t clean. Couldn’t listen. Just- floated in a fog of stress and anxiety. Developed skin issues, auto-immune issues, insomnia, eye twitches. Couldn’t even sit at a computer screen. I was completely useless. Couldn’t leave the house.

Eventually tho, as I worked through what I thought was PTSD, learning to accept the new broken me, I was able to watch a full 20 minute sitcom. Success! I was elated. Who could I tell? Who would celebrate that as an achievement? Yay, you watched TV? Pffft.

But I was thrilled. And I could go to the store. Maybe even buy a few things. Often I’d just sit in the parking lot. But increasingly I could do some things around the house. Walk the dogs. Buy milk. So I accepted when opportunity offered me a lower-stress job related to my interests.

At my new job, I learned to make eye contact again, slowly re-learned to do simple math again. Cashing out would take me over an hour. I tried so hard to remember names and orders. Failed miserably. Tried to accept the new no-brain me. Found comfort in routine tasks. Developed coping strategies for memory. Accepted that maybe my purpose was to be a heart not a brain. My whole self-worth was always being the smart expert. Now I was busted. But that was ok, because it had to be!

Medicated with prescription cannabis and started seeing big improvements in depressive symptoms. That led to being able to exercise. Exercise helped immensely. So I was bringing in a bit of money, I was leaving the house and interacting, and felt much better.

Met a co-worker who told me about her ADHD. I understood completely. Had my first “a-ha!” moment when someone asked me how was it that I understood her. Oh. OH! Other people don’t understand her, and I do. Why?

But, I couldn’t be ADHD, surely? My coworker was classic ADHD in the way I then understood it. Changing topics all over in conversation, but I’d follow right along? We’d chat for hours after work. I grew to admire her strategies for getting things done, her tenacity, her acceptance that she could do things differently.

And as I admired her force-of-nature engagement with the world, her acceptance of herself, I started to be open to the idea that there was more to ADHD than I thought. I really didn’t think I was ADHD, but how was it I could understand and keep up with her? And when I asked her about it, she looked at me like of course I probably had ADHD, and she thought I already knew?

So after working with her for 2 years I started to read about ADHD, because I was experiencing a little less stress and could focus to read again. But I hadn’t found out yet about the emotional dysregulation. I just knew I was functioning again, kinda. And so I embraced the feelings. I chased them, like an addict, seeking to feel good again.

And boy did it feel good to let myself feel. I’d learned to build a box around my emotions, because I was always too sensitive, too happy, too sad, too worried. At my coding job, I just lost myself in matrices and code and denied my emotions. My coworkers had affectionately called me Mr. Roboto. That hurt. But that was the old me. Now, I was going to LIVE and FEEL HAPPY, and it was great. I was elated.

I partied and made new friends and drank too much and got stoned too much and talked too much and in my exploration I left such wreckage around me. I was oblivious at first. But when I saw what I’d done, I was in torment. If I couldn’t be a brain, and I couldn’t be a heart, then what good was I? I desperately wanted to be ordinary, but I didn’t know how, and I was going to lose everything.

And then as I tried to get a handle on my behavior, some ADHD memes popped up on social media, and then they popped up with a funny story and I related. And again. And again. And I couldn’t ignore it anymore.

Your blog specifically woke me up to the emotional dysregulation aspect, and following that thread of research made my likely ADHD undeniable. So I did the predictable thing and denied it for another year.

Finally I went in for assessment because if I had it, I couldn’t let my kids go untested and if I was going to ask them to try, I had to start with me. Doc didn’t even blink. Basically said, of course you have ADHD.

This has been everyone’s reaction, when I share my diagnosis with my friends: “Are you really surprised, really?” Yes, dammit, I am! It’s surprising and hard to hear, yes, you are in fact broken. But it’s also freeing. I can stop beating myself up. I can get appropriate help. I can try meds.

I am terrified of stimulants, because I’m super sensitive to caffeine, and even Wellbutrin was unsustainable for me, causing too much jitters. But I’m taking my Vyvanse and being hopeful. If it doesn’t work out, there is a non stimulant option.

I know meds won’t solve everything. I know that I have so many of the strategies already, I recognize them in the ADHD forums, and books. But maybe meds will leave me enough energy to address things. Maybe I’ll be able to Get Things Done.

This medicated hopeful happiness does feel a bit like mania, I’ve learned to be distrustful of my happiness. But if it’s going to be helpful, I’m going to try it. It’s early days.

I’m reading Gina Petra’s Is It You, Me, or Adult ADD? Stopping the Roller Coaster When Someone You Love Has Attention Deficit Disorder. And it’s wrenching. I knew my latest crisis was hard on my family, but I didn’t realize it’s been the whole marriage, it’s been my whole life, school, college, career, midlife! It’s enlightening but hard to read testimonials from people living with untreated ADHD partners, and recognize myself in their stories. I had no idea of the extent ADHD was contributing to my personality and behavior.

My wife and kids deserve to be off the rollercoaster. I also deserve to be happy. I want to look forward to each day again instead of waking up knowing I’m going to fuck up again.

So it’s not a comfortable place to be, here in the spotlight. But it sure as hell beats being in the dark and blindly flinging myself in a new direction. It’s revealing. It means taking personal responsibility.

But it also means hope. Hope that it can be better. Hope I can stop hurting the people I love. Hope I can be the person I want to be, the person I’ve been on occasion. It means hope for sustainable stable relationships and jobs.

#adhd #actually adhd #adhd tag #abcs of adhd #diagnosis story #adhd story

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low-budget-mulan · 5 years ago

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Hi! How often do you run into psychiatric patients during work as an EMT? I'm doing psych right now and we had a 12 yo girl whose mom had her in porn at 6mo-9mo and I just want to scream at 1. these people who are pro-porn and 2. the mom is clearly mentally ill, but still what the effffff. So how do you deal with these patients?

I'm going to start this off by saying that those parents should be reported to CPS. That is absolutely disgusting and I would not let those monsters anywhere near a child. If you have not contacted the proper authorities yet then please do so now because their child (children?) Are being abused and absolutely nobody deserves that. Especially an innocent child. If you have actual evidence of the abuse and the evil things that the parent did then those kids should be taken away and locked up never to see the light of day again. Pieces of shit.

We run into psych patients on the regular. Whether it is a person who is having a psychotic episode, a person who is suicidal, a person who cant take care of him/herself, or a person who just has some sort of addiction where they are self medicating to forget about their problems (either drugs or alcohol. Sometimes both). It is all part of the job. Each patient is different. I've had psych patients who wanted complete silence. I've had psych patients threaten to harm/murder/rape me. Hell, just a couple days ago one tried to attack me in the back of the ambulance on the way to the hospital. I've had psych patients who just wanted someone to talk to. And I've had psych patients that I didnt even realize were potential psych patients until after the call was over. You have to be able to assess the situation and from there you can move forward in patient care. I'll give you a couple examples of times situations were handled well and times they were not and how I decided to act/treat my patient.

1.)

We had a 911 call for a behavioral overdose. Sheriffs were already on scene (good). We get there to find a high school aged girl. She was alert and oriented (AO). Her whole family was around plus the sheriffs, plus the fire engine, plus the fire medics, plus me and my partner. There were too many people. We are trying to talk to our patient and figure out the whole story but she isnt really talking. I turn to the fire medic (they technically are in charge of medical calls, so what they say goes even if it's wrong and stupid) and say let's get her loaded up and he agrees. We walk her to the gurney and load her into the ambulance. Typically we allow one family member/friend to ride along with a patient especially if the patient is a minor. Unless the patient is a psych patient. And heres why. Once the girl was in the back of the ambulance and away from the hoards of people she started answering our questions. She told us everything that happened leading up to this point and why she did it and how she was feeling. I gained her trust by talking to her and separating her from what was causing her anxiety and other feelings that werent good. During the transport I realized she just needed to be distracted. I was monitoring her closely with the medic and got all the medical information I needed. So we just talked about school and plans for college. We talked about her favorite tv shows and how I spelled my name wrong for 13 years. That's all she needed. But not everyone needs that. This is an example of a good call.

2.)

I will start this off by saying I can be sarcastic. Which is not always a good thing. Okay so. This was a transfer call for a man on a legal hold. We were taking him from an emergency room to an actual psych facility where the remainder of his hold would be carried out. This guy was extremely tall like over 6 feet and used to be in the military and still worked out a ton so he was pretty muscular. I just so happened to be driving this day. While my partner was getting his report I went to go get a set of vitals to make sure he was stable and nothing was wrong. Before I can even get them this dude is making all sorts of racist remarks and how he doesnt want to go to whatever psych hospital we are taking him to because "its associated with a certain kind of people if you know what I mean." Then goes on to say hes not going (which tbh if you're on a hold it doesnt matter if you want to go or not. You have to go until you are psychologically cleared). I explained that because he was on a hold he had to go and I wasnt the one who set up the transfer. I literally am just the driver and I go where my dispatch sends me. He then responds with "well what if I fight you" I realize I wasnt going to get my vitals and that this guy was going to be a problem. I walk over to my partner and tell him what's going on and that we need to use restraints (which I rarely use because who wants to be restrained?). At this point we now have sheriffs there to help us get the guy on our gurney and to protect us if this guy freaks out. We get him on our gurney and I put the restraints on. After putting on restraints you have to check for a pulse in the extremity and make sure they can still wiggle their fingers/toes. So I ask him to wiggle his fingers and he flips me off. Me being the sarcastic person I am and without thinking I responded with "oh thanks. I havent had that in a while. Could I get another?" The dude then threatens to rape me and becomes very agitated. I messed up. We de-escalated the situation thank goodness. But I could have handled that situation better. I knew he was already agitated and a dumb comment like that could have easily been the breaking point for him. Dont do something stupid like that.

3.)

We had a transfer for a woman who was on a hold. This was out of one of the worst hospitals I know. Literally the hospital that killed my grandpa. I already hated being there, but how the staff treats patients both medically and professionally (if you can even call it that) was absolute shit. I hated this hospital even before my grandpa was a patient there because of how incompetent and rude the staff was. Sorry I got distracted and ranted, but the backstory is relevant. I go to try and get a report from the nurse who knows absolutely nothing about this patient. Cant give me any history. Doesnt know what meds (if any) were even given. And gets annoyed when I ask for an actual report. Not just the "oh yes that lady is on a hold. She can talk but is being selectively mute. And you're taking her to this place. K bye." At this point I realize I'm going to get nothing from this 'nurse' and I just look through the packet. I go over to the patient who is just sitting there on the bed staring off into thin air. I realized that any loud noise or sudden movement scares her. So I slowly inch my way to her and introduce myself. I tell her I'm there to take her to a different hospital where the staff will be able to take care of her better and where she can get the help she needs. In that whole interaction I got her to say maybe a couple words. And they were basically what's going on. I realized the staff at this shit hospital did not tell her what was happening. Nobody told her she was being transferred. They literally just left her to sit in her own feces because they couldnt be bothered to do their job. Before I even touched her I told her everything that would happen. I walked her through the entire transfer process and let her know what was going on. Then once we were ready to actually start getting her onto our gurney before I made any movement I told her exactly what I was doing. She was completely fine with me. Once we get her to the psych place we finish up our transport and are about to leave she grabs my partners hand says "are they going to be nice and take care of me here?" My heart broke. I told her that yes she would be taken care of and that she wouldnt be ignored here as I know this hospital has great staff. She smiled and let us go.

By assessing the situations and the patients you are able to figure out how to handle your patient. Ive learned from my mistakes and I've learned from my coworkers who have been around longer than me. But always be cautious as a patients mood can change at any time. Even if you dont do anything to trigger it. A patient will go from happy and smiling to trying to punch you in the face. Know your surroundings. Be ready to react because things can change in an instant.

Addition: any sort of illegal activity I will report to the proper authorities. I have reported hospitals, families, and nursing home for neglect and other forms of abuse. If you are sure then ask someone who knows more. I usually ask the supervisor I trust or my coworker who's been doing this for 20 years.

#long post #ignore the errors #i just got off work and am typing this on my phone and my brains not working

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sirro85-blog · 6 years ago

Text

Humans are Space Orcs

Part 5

Kneeling on the floor of the shuttle beside Kovac's body Wolf ripped open the medical kit and pulled out the TPAK needles and looked at the laminate instructions. He couldn't hear Panther over the screaming in his own head. Grabbing the first of the needles he unscrewed the cap and pressed his fingers into Kovac's chest, counting ribs, pointing his finger at the appropriate site he put the needle against the skin and pushed, it punctured the skin and drove into the muscle, once it was secure he drew the needle out and made it safe, nothing happened he checked the instructions again. Tissue embolus, snatching up the syringe he drew air into it and connected it to the needle. He depressed the plunger and when he detached the syringe he was rewarded with a prolonged hiss of air. He repeated it on the other side of the ribcage.

Knickers who had been trying to ventilate Kovac looked up with relief as Kovac drew a shallow breath. He drew two shuddering breaths and his breathing again started getting shallower.

Becca stared at the shuttle as it landed, behind her susserations passed through the unit as the whisper repeated themselves. "Kovac is dead?" "Kovac is dead!" Kovac can't be dead" "Kovac isn't dead!" "Kovac is dead" "Kovac..." "The Major..." her hands shook and she fought the urge to vomit. Her mouth was dry, her eyes burned, she had a metallic taste in her mouth and the tip of her nose seemed to tingle.

The doors to the shuttle opened, Wolf stepped out, a bound and gagged Flet chained to him and Panther. Gray, Ocampo Hemming and Richards stepped out. Then came a stretcher, beside it was Petra pale and tired looking. On the other side was Knickers who was staring at the Major's face till she stepped aside to let Dana and Staff King assess him. Then she looked up till she found Becca's face in the crowd.

"Massive left sided pneumothorax with resultant lower right atelectasis, hypovolaemic, query 2 minute episode of apnoea, sats 97 on 15 litres" Petra rattled off as Frank ran alongside the trolley.

Becca could still hear Petra talking as the doors swung shut on the med-bay. Wolf appeared at her side and gently steered her away from the crowd of soldiers into the side room. She managed two more strides before her knees gave way. Wolf guided her into a chair as she opened her mouth to scream and no sound came out. Trembling violently she felt Wolf's arms wrap tightly around her.

How long she they stayed like that Becca didn't know, but eventually she looked up to see Sergeant Panther, Captains Dorman, and Gillespie sitting in the room, standing leaning against the wall were Sergeants Fluke and Webb. Becca realised she was squeezing Wolf's arm with both hands, her nails had dug deep enough to draw blood from his wrist. Her fingers ached as she unclenched them. Wordlessly Panther poured her a glass of rum and passed it across, Becca downed it in one.

The door opened and a sombre looking Dana walked in, she looked at Wolf and then Dorman before crossing to stand infront of Becca.

"He's stable, we've repaired his lung but during the surgery...His heart stopped, he was down for nearly a minute. We'll have to run some tests when, if he wakes up."

Becca nodded numbly and tried to speak, she cleared her throat and tried again. "Thank you Dana, where's Frank?"

"Draining his last bottle of Courvoisier XO, I don't think he liked the part where the Major died." Dana's tone sounded angry.

"The problem with being the sort of man that earns love and loyalty like Kovac is people get upset when you die on them." Dorman said calmly, "I keep telling him he should try being unlikable like me."

"Does that mean I'm in command as senior officer?" Asked Gillespie, he winked at Becca and then Panther, "I think I'll reinstate prima nocta."

"Alright but Panther would break you little man," Becca said with a half-smile.

The officers began to talk and laugh, Dorman sent out the sergeants to talk to the men.

"She blames herself," Wolf said looking after Panther, "he was shielding her when he took the bolt."

Two days later Staff Sergeant King was glaring at the Major as he blew into a tube, "until I discharge you I am your commanding officer, I am emperor, king, high priestess and the Lord thy God, you can charm me all you want you mangy Scotch git, you are recuperating properly and doing your exercises."

"I'd tell you to get your oral fixation examined Frank but if blowing on this tube ten times a day will make you happy I'll do it. I will not be waiting over a month to heal naturally, now give me the AHMs so I can get on with my plan or I'll convince Angie to sneak me some, you know she'll do it too, and she'll take Petra down with her."

"If you have any kidney function left when this is all over I'll be amazed. Once this is resolved, I want you to come in for physio and a full medical check up."

"Once this is done I'll even let you check my prostate," Kovac grinned again.

The following morning Kovac laid in his bed while his officers sat around the room, Kovac asked about the prisoner.

"She seems willing to listen to us, I think she believes we can be manipulated." Dorman answered.

"I get the impression she is a little startled by the effectiveness of our raid and her capture. Our success has her worried."

"A huge success if you discount the Major's little problems," said Becca with a sneer.

"Everyone makes a fuss, i got injured. Hardly a fault of the mission, overall it was a complete success." Kovac replied.

"A complete success!? You fucking died!"

"Everybody makes a fuss," Kovac responded drawing a laugh from the others, Becca scowled.

Humans have a strange tendency to react to situations at a seemingly disproportionate level, small splits to their skin or a small shock can leave them "literally dying" an example of hyperbole. Kovac needing to be resuscitated on the operating table meant he said the injuries he had sustained, weren't ones he would reccomend.

The only thing bigger than a human's flair for the dramatic is a human's ability to down play something.

Kovac entered the room where the hostage was held, she eyed him as he crossed the room and as he sat in a chair she spoke.

"Major Radovan Kovac, formerly of the United Nations Galactic Defence Force then of the Galactic Council Defence Force and now leader of the human mercenary unit known as the Dark Horses, born Glasgow, Scotland in the year..."

"Impressive, you're Lorastayil claimant to the position of heir to the throne of the Flet Imperium, current prisoner to Major Kovac and judging by the speed of your heart, terrified of me no matter how calm you pretend to be," Kovac interrupted.

"My heart rate?" Lorastayil asked.

"The clip on your nose is taking measurements for us," Kovac raised a hand to silence the Flet. "Listen Kitty, we had a plan, it was simple, we use you to get to the rest of the royals and then we take all four of you out, we slip away into the darkness and watch as the rest of the royals fall apart trying to claim the top spot on the rubble, it would work. Believe me, I know how to topple governments I've done it before and Wolf, he's done it even more than me.

You know Wolf, he's the one that makes your heart skip a beat every time he glares at you, he has that effect on people."

Lorastayil stayed silent but her eyes never left Kovac's face, "however," Kovac continued, "while I'm sure pulling our plan off correctly would have been an end to this I'm not sure we would have achieved it without some losses and I've already lost one soldier over this, I'm not prepared to have another die to keep me alive, ironically it took dying to formalize my thoughts on this."

"The Flet Imperium," began the Flet.

"Oh do be quiet, the "Imperium" is barely two systems across and the only reason you get to keep it is because nobody wants it, everytime you've gotten expansionist the GCDF has slapped you down with one hand. You're a rogue state and the royal family makes you an easy mark to the sort of units that Wolf and I used to run, if I didn't care about collateral damage I'd break your little civilisation to teach you a lesson."

The Flet glared at Kovac and the Major held her gaze, "I have a plan however, one that keeps you alive, keeps my soldiers alive and puts an end to this."

Struggling to contain her anger Lorastayil stayed quiet for a few seconds before asking, "and what is this clever plan?"

"You take me back to Venita all the way to your capitol Genetry, we walk into the Royal Palace and you give me over to the Queen as your prisoner, you earn your place as heir apparent and the royal family win public support, I'm executed and my men are left alone. Now my men won't be happy about this, but because I'll do this voluntarily it'll hopefully take the edge off enough that they don't seek revenge."

"You'd die willingly?" Lorastayil asked her tone doubtful.

"No, not willingly but I'll accept it, better me than one of my men, that's the trick of being in command, my duty is to them, my leadership is the service I give them." He gave a sigh, "do you accept?"

"I have a choice?"

"Of course, I could always torture you till you agree to my first plan and we break your civilisation, not much of a choice but a choice none the less."

Kovac couldn't have successfully moved Lorastayil onto a shuttle secretly without assistance from Wolf, it appeared that Wolf was fully informed of the plan because as Kovac boarded the Shuttle I witnessed the two pause, shake hands solemnly and then part with a nod. An interaction I had never seen between the two of them before.

Unlike the human home planet, the Flet planet of Venita had developed as almost entirely a rainforest, since industrialisation much of the planet's growth had been cut back but it still retained it's verdant appearance. Even the capitol city of Gentry had a lot of green spaces. And in the centre, shining in the sunlight was the Royal palace, it's direct translation to human would be "glass" although the building was built from quartz.

Kovac walked with his head held high, for all appearances enjoying the view of the rain wet building gleaming in the sunlight. Kovac looked out of place in the light, bright building, wearing dark military fatigues his booted feet rang loud as he walked down the hallway. Around him walked his guards, soft footed and silent, despite their height and mass being greater than the human's they seemed diminished by him, or perhaps that was only my perception.

They paused before the great door to the hall, Lorastayil suddenly intense as she stared at Kovac.

"Do you want to die human? You seem at great ease."

"No, no I don't, I wish this could have worked out another way." He looked around, "it's beautiful here," he remarked absently, "I don't want to die but none of us choose how we die, even those poor souls who take their own life do so as a symptom of a disease often as not, the only thing you get a choice over is how you face your death. I'll stand on my own two feet and look it in the eye thank you." He gestured to the door, "shall we?"

The Flet Imperium is a culture devoid of much of the trappings of power that other civilisations cultivate. Pomp and ceremony; grandiose displays of power and privilege are not seen in the Flet royal court. In brief order Lorastayil was welcomed back, Kovac introduced and sentenced to death.

Kovac grinned up at the Queen and with a sudden movement had darted past the two large Kitty's that were nominally his guards.

"You know, I have read something of your culture and your laws, something the humans have known for Millenia 'know your enemy' a concept not respected by your finer military minds." Kovac stopped several feet from the throne, his guards closed in but hesitated to restrain him.

"For example, I know that Flet instinct will always be to trust in your claws not your hand held weapons, which puts the two guarding me at a disadvantage, while they are still suppressing the urge to resort to claws, I can instinctively fight with anything, in my reach...ask me about a pineapple sometime." As if to illustrate this point Kovac moved.

He sprang to his left into the nearest guard knocking it off balance, he butted his forehead into the side of its jaw with enough force to cause rotation of the head, the Flet spilled it's weapon and stumbled back. Kovac snatched up the dropped power lance but knowing he lacked the appropriate number of limbs to fire the weapon didn't pause in his movement but instead threw it hard as he could at the second guard who was still fumbling with its own power lance. The Kitty stumbled back and Kovac followed up with a flying knee to it's sternum knocking it flat.

As suddenly as he had moved he was still again, Kovac spread his arms wide as more guards converged on him.

"You see when I say I know you, I know you, so when I say I demand trial by combat, I know you are obliged to meet my demand and decide my fate inside the 'ring' as it were."

The Queen watched Kovac and gave a silent yawn, the Flet equivalent of a smile. "You may think you know us Major, however the demand for trial by combat is only something I'm obliged to honour if you are a subject, and that little display was designed to provoke me, provoke my anger but not all Flet are slaves to their rage." She raised two arms and then with another silent yawn gestured at her guards, "kill him."

Kovac backed up quickly out of the semi-circle of approaching guards, Lorastayil was watching him as more guards entered. Kovac produced a small curved blade, seemingly from nowhere and looked at the Flet heir.

"You know I rather liked the idea of meeting death while standing, but what I think I've always known is I'm going to go out kicking and screaming and fighting all the way." He looked around at the guards who were raising their power lance and I saw his weight shift.

Shots rang out, not the muted pop of a power lance but the sharp crack of human rifles. Several of the Flet guards dropped to the ground, Kovac was already moving towards the nearest Flet when Captain Wolf led the assault on the rear of the guard unit. From my vantage point of multiple awarenesses I saw Captain Becca kneeling just inside the entrance to the hallway and taking aim at the Flet queen. Sergeant Panther flanked by Barbie and Buckets closed in on one of the heirs, rifle shots ringing out everywhere.

Kovac my have been wrong about the precise laws and customs of the Flet but he wasn't wrong about their instincts, caught by surprise many of the Kitty guards dropped their power lances, instinctively wanting to use their own claws when provoked. Those that held onto their weapons were still slow in responding with fire themselves.

Kovac had already attacked the two nearest Flet his karambit knife slashing open throats and major blood vessels as he burst through the circle.

Captain Dorman led his troop in through the side entrance and more shots echoed through the hall. Kovac grabbed Lorastayil and forced her against a wall, the larger being letting the smaller human manhandle her. Their frantic conversation lost to the gun battle.

Moments later the hall fell silent, as the last Flet fell, two humans were down but both were moving, Petra and Angie moved between them and Sergeant Webb organised a stretcher team. Captain Becca began shouting orders and Sergeant Panther led the soldiers of 2 Troop out of the great hall.

Wolf reached Kovac and looked down at the dead Lorastayil, "She declined my offer of peace," Kovac said with regret in his voice. Looking up at his captain Kovac gestured around, "I thought you understood my reasons for not doing something like this?"

Wolf pulled Kovac across the hall his men closing in around them, "Oh I did, but the idea that a man was willing to lay down his life for the protection of his soldiers, well I have this feeling that sort of man is the sort I'd like to keep alive."

In the distance explosions boomed out as Captain Gillespie's mortar unit laid down sporadic fire across the military barracks.

"Your men were in agreement when I told them what you planned, apart from Staff King, he says he's saved you enough recently and stayed behind."

They hurried onto the extraction ship and as Captain Dorman counted his men back on Kovac looked around at his soldiers, his expression unreadable.

Captain Becca approached him and the ship went silent as she reached him and then punched him in the face.

"You bastard! She screamed, I nearly lost you and the first thing you did in response was try and get yourself killed!?" She drew back her fist again but Wolf and Panther restrained her, men laughed and Kovac pinching his bleeding nose approached his officers.

The time for awkward thank yous was later, they were still in Flet space now.

"The Frell sent us pass codes they...happened to have," Dorman said to Kovac's unasked question. "Once we were inside their airspace they have almost no security."

"Major have we started another war? What will happen next?" Gillespie asked, loud enough for the soldiers to listen in.

"Maybe, but I don't think so, I think the political powers will enjoy the loss of a faction from their halls of power and I think that whoever finally claims the empty royal throne, they'll be slightly grateful to us for getting them there and if not...they'll think long and hard before they decide to fuck with the Dark Horses again."

The End.

#humans are space australians #humans are insane #humans are space orcs #humans are weird #humans are space oddities #space faerie #space australia #space orcs #earth is a deathworld #this is why i call kovac daddy #kovac

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justasmalltowngeek · 6 years ago

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So let's talk about bullying

It isn't like it is in the movies. Everyone experiences it differently and either survive it... or they don't.

For me, bullying was more of this insidious entity, small things that at the time were not particularly unique or could be written off as 'kids being kids.' But like all things that are 'no big deal,' over time it became one.

I was this weird little girl who snuck books to recess and got scolded by teachers for it. I was reading poetry anthologies for fun when I was eight. I wrote my 5th grade creative writing assessment about pokemon and got an A. I read Jurassic Park when I was eleven and understood everything.

I was friends with the librarian, guidance counselors, and the school nurse throughout my public school career. Because otherwise I had no friends until my sophomore year of high school. My twin sister was put in different classes (to promote "independence") and wouldn't talk to me at school even when we were together because she got made fun for daring to talk to her own fucking sister.

I had my own strand of cooties that the other kids would call "Sabrina Germs." They would run away screaming when they saw me coming and would pretend to be spreading Sabrina Germs to the other kids if I touched someone. This started when I seven and there were kids still doing it ten years later in our senior year.

Once, I brought a stuffed animal to play with during recess and left it to the side while I played on the jungle gym. By the time I returned, my classmates had taken it and buried it underneath a tree. When I complained to a teacher, she told me it was my fault for bringing a toy to recess. She didn't so much as tell the others to not do it again.

When I was eleven, a classmate kicked in my bathroom stall door, chipping my tooth and giving me a busted lip and black eye. My parents filed assault charges on all three girls thought to be responsible, despite the principal practically begging my father not to because it would go their record until they turned 16. My dad's only response was to yell "Good!" and frogmarch me out the door and to the police station. The only reason a parent had been called at all was because I spent over ten minutes wailing about wanting my mom and dad. I spent 6 months at risk of my front tooth dying because neither the school or the girls' parents were willing to help cover the cost of the surgery needed to fix it. To my knowledge, those girls were not punished any further and one of them moved to a new school not a month after the incident.

I once mentioned in passing the possibility of me moving up to Ohio with my mom should she and her boyfriend at the time get married. General consensus was "Thank god; I can't wait." I also mistakenly believed at the time that my family had lived in florida until my sister and I had turned 2, and had moved to Tennessee then. Several classmates said they wished I had stayed in florida.

When I was 13, a so called friend told me to my face that I was going to hell for not believing in God and so were my parents for daring to raise me to make my own choices about religion. She then acted like nothing happened and was confused as to why I stopped talking to her for a year. To the day we graduated, she never understood why I was so offended and insulted. No matter how many times I tried to explain how hurtful it was to hear that from someone I called a friend.

It was that year, at 13, that my Persistent Depressive Disorder (also known as dysthymia) reached a point where it could have been easily diagnosed, though I had been showing symptoms since I was about 10 years old. Unfortunately, at the same time, my sister was diagnosed with leukemia, and my depression was swept under the rug as a reaction to her diagnosis. They thought my dropping grades were a cry for attention instead of the depression, despite the fact I'd never gotten anything less than an A+ in english and was suddenly failing.

My classmates interactions with sister improved as a result of their sympathy for her, but did not extend to me. The summer before our first year in high school, I decided to shave my head for charity and as a show of support for my sister. I was repeatedly mistaken for a boy by teachers and called a dyke and/or a lesbian. My sister once had to defend me when she overheard girls in her class mocking my shaved head, asked them if that meant they had a problem with her own lack of hair. They of course said "no it's just that Sabrina looks so awful", to which she told them to shut up, because if they had a problem with a sister showing her support for a sick sibling, they obviously had one with her. My sister and I had such different appearances that most of the school had no idea we were even related, let alone twins.

It took until my senior year of high school before my parents even thought to put me on medication, let alone send me to therapy. It was only when I began skipping my university classes to the point where I ended up dropping out that things were really brought into focus. When I revealed to my therapist my thoughts about how I wished I could just stop existing, that I wouldn't be too upset if a truck ran me over while I was crossing the street. How I would never kill myself because I didn't want to do that to my family, but it would be okay if I died in an accident.

People say that 'kids being kids' have no lasting effects. That its just them having a bit of fun. No one ever wonders what the subject of the ridicule might think.

I have a form of long lasting depression, I have to force myself to look others in the face, let alone the eyes; I spent over a year attending weekly therapy sessions while also taking antidepressants. I'm finally up to biweekly sessions but my dosage has been increased to better handle my anxiety. I will be needing my meds for years, long after most people with depression would, possibly for the rest of my life.

Everyone's experience with bullying is different. Some people don't survive the wounds it gives them. There is no such thing as temporary pain, only the scars it leaves behind.

#depression #anti bullying #bullying #mentions of violence #smalltowngeek #geek central #geek problems

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girl-next-door-writes · 8 years ago

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Invisible Touch

Characters: Leonard McCoy x Reader

Summary: There is something about you that everyone feels instantly at ease, well, nearly everyone, but is there a reason you are having trouble winning over the cranky medic?

Word Count: words

Prompt: Invisible Touch - Genesis

A/N: This is for my 800 followers celebration as requested by the lovely @distinguishedqueenofbooks who picked a song that instantly created the story in my mind. I hope you enjoy this one sweetie.

Space. The thought of space used to terrify him deep down to his very core and yet here he was. He had forged out his own little bubble with people who he considered friends and so far, his head had not exploded and he hadn’t contracted some weird alien disease that made his limbs inflate and his internal organs boil. All things considered Leonard McCoy didn’t completely hate his life. He might even go so far as to claim he liked it on very rare occasions. He had a nice equilibrium going and everything in his little life made sense. He knew Kirk would get restless and cause some chaos, that Spock would be highly logical to the point of annoyance, that Scotty would have some contraband hidden somewhere in his office and that the best vodka could be liberated from Checkov.

Making his way to the mess he was very nearly jovial, a good mood that lasted right up until his eyes landed on the newest recruit. His heart rate increased and he felt a heat flood his body, a sense of lightheadedness clouded his vision for a fraction of a second and as he watched her laughing with Kirk his heart stuttered at the sound. “Shit.” He grumbled with a frown, swiftly turning on his heels and heading towards the med bay. This was not good, not good at all.

Bones had done well avoiding her. Not so well with the not thinking about her but he was certain if he could just avoid any contact then this infatuation would pass. This had become his mantra and sitting across from Jim enjoying a glass of whiskey he was practically muttering to himself out loud. “So, have you met our latest crew member? Star Fleet said she was the best but I had no idea. It is official, we have the cream of the crop here on this ship. When they told me we had to have a communications and diplomacy officer I thought they were crazy but I’m telling ya Bones, that girl could charm the entire Romulan fleet if she had a mind to.”

“So you said.” McCoy answered curtly. He knew you were charming, he had seen that in your interaction with Jim.

“You seem more tense than usual Bones, wanna tell me what’s wrong?” Kirk watched his friend over the top of his whiskey glass with just the hint of a smirk.

“I don’t trust her.” Leonard eventually huffed out causing Jims brow to furrow in confusion.

“Who?”

“This wonder girl of yours. You say she has this ability to take in everything she sees and make people practically fall over themselves for her. You sure she not some sort of empath or something? She just seems false. Nobody is that nice and lovely all the time.” He practically spat out the last few words and Jim raised an eyebrow as he contemplated what his friend had just said.

“Perhaps, but I like to think I’m a good judge of character and maybe she is just one of lifes nice people.” Jim shrugged and downed his drink. Bones highly doubted that. Happy people were suspicious and he was determined to prove that she shouldn’t be part of this crew, that she should be sent back as soon as possible.

It wasn’t just Kirk who was talking about the new C and D officer and Bones felt like he was surrounded by her. Hell, even Spock had noted his admiration for her much to McCoys consternation. In a moment of weakness he had looked up her medical file and although he didn’t really know her at least he had a little more than just a name. Somehow she had managed to crawl under his skin inspite of his best efforts to avoid her and that irked him. How dare she show up on his ship all mysterious and charming and beautiful and turn his world upside down. He already had a person who caused chaos, he didn’t need another.

Leonard was roused from his sleep with an emergency call to the med bay. There had been a diplomatic meeting on the surface of the planet below that had apparently gone south although that wasn’t a surprise where Kirk was involved. Frowning, he stormed into the bustling med bay and grabbed the latest PADD. Glancing at it his stride stuttered for the briefest of moments when he realised who he was about to treat. Pausing on the other side of the curtain he took a deep breath and was about to enter when he heard someone muttering. “I swear to god if he wasn’t the fucking captain I would kick his ass. I totally had the situation handled and then he has to open his stupid mouth and stick his size nines right in there like a dick. Hell, I can smooth over peace talks but I can’t cure fucking stupid arrogance.” McCoy smirked as he pulled back the thin material and amusement danced in his eyes as he saw hers go wide when she realised he must have heard.

“I find sticking him with a hypo helps some of that frustration.” He drawled looking back down at the notes in his hand. So she wasn’t all sunshine and rainbows after all.

“I’m… I’m sorry about that. I know he’s your friend and I would really appreciate if you didn’t mention all that to anyone.” She looked up at him with such pleading that if he hadn’t been falling for her before he definitely was now.

“Of course not. Doctor/patient confidentiality.” he assured as he began to scan her. Taking this opportunity to really look at her he knew his initial assessment had been correct. Beautiful, smart and the ability to cuss like a sailor. Maybe he had a little room in his bubble for someone like her after all.

Tags: @deanxfuckingadorablexwinchester @nea90sweetie @knittingknerdy @feelmyroarrrr @vintagevalentinexx @goody2shoessmut @cojootromuelle @palaiasaurus64 @littleblue5mcdork @littlenerdgirl16 @rosa-kirk

#myfic #Something I wrote #800 celebration fic

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joeybelle · 8 years ago

Text

Starlight - Chapter 17

Relationship: Cassian Andor x OFC

Rating: Mature

Tags: Romance, Pre-Rogue One, Adventure, Hurt/Comfort, Foul Language

Read on AO3

The storm gradually dropped in intensity and the weather went back to the ever present fog and drizzle. It was a nice change, Cora thought as she looked out the med bay window. It was almost peaceful. After the incident with the main generator they didn’t have much time to waste, with people working around the clock to fix the affected systems and the med bays busy caring for the wounded. As the storm died down, they started cleaning the debris on the landing strip and now she could once again see ships leaving the hangar. It seemed that everything was going back to normal.

But Cora wasn’t calm at all. In fact she was stressed as fuck. She had been informed a couple of days before that the council would be evaluating her time in the Alliance, and based on the result of that assessment, they would decide if they’d take off her bracelets, setting her free. They would finally be deciding if she was one of them or not. And today was the day when it would all be announced.

And Cora hated it. She hated being reminded that she was different from everyone else. Most of the time she didn’t even remember she had the bracelets on, since she never left the base anyway, but it was a thing of principle: as long as she had them on she was still a prisoner that had agreed to help in the med bay in exchange for limited freedom, and not a full member of the Alliance. She hated that they still didn’t trust her. She was doing her job as well as she could, she always did what they asked of her, and she had risked her life on two missions now, so it hurt being reminded that she didn’t belong.

And today she would have to stand in front of the council and see the disdain in their eyes as they decided her fate. A bunch of bureaucrats with sticks up their asses, who never once made any effort to get to know her and see where her loyalties lie, would stand in a circle and dissect her life and speak about her in absolutes. She felt like she wanted to choke every one of them.

But she had to admit that she carried some of the blame too: she always thought of the Rebellion as them instead of us. She guessed this stemmed from her time in the Empire where for years she tried mentally distancing herself from what was going on around her. You can’t be blamed for their actions if you’re not part of them, her brain seemed to tell her. But one of the side-effects from thinking like this was that now she felt like she didn’t fit in anywhere, or at least, that is was safer not to belong.

Still, she was a part of the med bay staff and she was loyal to them. The Rebellion in general may not have been her top priority, but she cared about her friends and if the cause was important to them, it would be important to her as well. And she knew that in this case they would take her side, even if she was pretty sure no one would ask them.

She also knew that Doctor Crane would speak in her favour, no doubt about that, and his voice actually mattered. Maybe Mon Mothma would be on her side. On the few occasions they met she had been friendly, but Cora could never tell what the woman was thinking. Still, she hoped she and Bail Organa would be her allies, since they both seemed rather reasonable, and Cora never felt any sort of animosity from him. She figured Cassian would be on her side as well, but since he wasn’t part of the council, she didn’t know how much his opinions mattered.

It was funny how much things had changed between them. A few months back she considered him to be her number one enemy, but right now he was… well, something else. She wondered if they’d value his opinion less in this case if the council knew, especially Draven, that they had been a little more than friendly on certain occasions.

She knew it didn’t matter that much, even though she sometimes hoped it did. Cassian seemed like the kind of person that wasn’t that easy to influence, whether you were trying to threaten him or butter him up. Besides, she wasn’t the first one he fucked, and she won’t be the last. Something as trivial as this would never change his opinion on someone, and they probably knew that.

“Cora!”

She jumped, nearly dropping her coffee cup on the floor when she felt a hand on her shoulder. “Cassian, scare me like that again and I’m locking you up in the recovery ward for a month,” she threatened, unceremoniously shoving his hand off her shoulder.

“I tried knocking and calling your name a couple of times, but you didn’t answer,” he said, and Cora instantly regretted yelling at him.

“I’m sorry,” she apologized, looking down, embarrassed by her moodiness. “I was just a little distracted. Shouldn’t have snapped at you.”

“You’re becoming mellow, Doctor. I remembered you being a lot more feisty,” he joked, and Cora felt once again the urge to punch him.

“Don’t tempt me, Andor…” she warned, pursing her lips.

“I’d love to do just that, but we have to go,” he said, the whole playful atmosphere dissolving into thin air. Anxiety took hold of Cora once again, a cold shiver starting to climb up her spine. “The council has already gathered in the War Room.”

“Did they send you to fetch me?” she asked, wondering why they didn’t just send one of the guards like they usually did when there was any administrative meeting taking place. Maybe he volunteered.

“Sort of,” he said, and it made Cora think that she had guessed right. She smiled, despite the nervousness. They didn’t let him leave the base after he recklessly landed in the middle of the storm, so Cora had gotten quite used to seeing him around in the past few days.

There was a small change in the way he behaved, she noticed. He was a little more friendly towards her, a little more open. He would sometimes stop and ask how her day was going if they bumped into each other on the corridors and they weren’t in a rush. It was never more than a few words, and it was a lot less than the usual interactions between Cora and most of her friends and acquaintances, but it was a pleasant change from just ‘hello’ and nothing more. It made her think that she now belonged to the select few people that he had more than just a professional work relationship with. And that made her happy.

“You look a little pale,” he said once they left the med bay. The corridors weren’t as crowded as they normally were, and Cora assumed everyone was busy in the hangar below.

“I’m a little stressed,” she admitted. There was no point in lying just so she would seem cooler, because she was sure Cassian never once considered her to be cool. So she chose to be honest about her turmoil.

“There’s nothing to be worried about,” he told her in a reassuring tone, but it did nothing to calm her nerves.

“I know,” she replied, making an effort to stop her hands from nervously playing with the hem of her tunic. “The logical part of my brain knows that, but for some reason, the other part of it has decided to panic. And guess which one is winning,” she whined, her heart beating faster than it was comfortable.

Cassian chuckled and they entered the elevator. As soon as the doors closed after them, her anxiety reached peak point and her breath started to hitch. Luckily, they were alone so no one saw the colour drain from her face as the cold feeling in the pit of her stomach started to grow and take over her body. Her vision turned blurry and she had to stumble forward and hold onto the elevator door for support, fighting a wave of nausea.

At first, she didn’t notice the elevator stopping, just Cassian’s arm over her stomach stopping her from collapsing on the floor. He pulled her close to his chest, letting her rest her weight on him. Cora tried calming down, telling herself that she wasn’t going to have a full blown panic attack right then. Slowly, but steadily, she managed to get her breathing under control and her vision became focused once again. The elevator doors didn’t open so she figured Cassian had stopped it between levels giving her a little time to regain her composure. She felt thankful for that.

“Everything’s gonna be fine,” he cooed in her ear, his facial hair lightly grazing over her skin. “Nothing bad can happen, you’re not going back to the cell. Worst case scenario, they’ll leave the bracelets on and your life will continue like nothing had happened.”

“I know. I just don’t wanna be there,” she said, her voice faltering, but feeling a little better in Cassian’s comforting embrace. “I don’t care what they decide, just do it and send it to me in an envelope. I’m tired of people questioning my intentions and judging me for who I am. They’ve done it enough. I know they don’t trust me and I don’t care, just leave me alone. I’m tired of interrogations.” She sighed and looked at the floor. “I’m tired.”

“They’re not going to interrogate you,” he tried reassuring her but he sounded a little doubtful and Cora could feel it. “It’s probably already decided. There’s not going to be any questioning.” She placed her hand over his and intertwined their fingers. He had lied when he said that his hands were always cold, because right now she could feel his warmth in the palm of her hand.

“Then they should just leave me alone,” she said and turned her head a little to take a better look at Cassian. This was the closest they’d been since their time on his ship, if she didn’t count the time when she got scared in the warehouse and latched onto him, so Cora allowed herself to just melt into his frame. She should be ashamed for having a meltdown in front of him, she thought, but right now she didn’t care. She could force herself to be strong, brush him off, but truth be told, she needed the emotional support. She’d been alone for so long and lately she felt lonelier than ever. And if this stolen embrace in an empty elevator made her feel better she didn’t care if she appeared weak or needy in his eyes. So she leaned her forehead on his cheek, taking in the familiar feeling of his stubble scratching her skin. After all, he’d seen worse meltdowns from her and didn’t run away screaming. “Can’t we just… not go?” she pleaded.

“I’m afraid not,” he said, and seemed genuinely sorry. Cora knew this would be the answer, but she had to try. There was a tiny part of her that hoped Cassian would save her, the same part that had trusted Cassian so long ago to take her away from the Empire. “But I will be there with you and if you want to leave, just give me a sign and I will take you out.”

“Thanks,” she said with a smile, and wondered if he’d actually do it. It would be so funny seeing him tell them to fuck off and just grab her hand and run. Unrealistic, but funny and for a moment she wished he’d really do it. It would make her feel like she was just as important to him as he was to her.

Cora knew that time was ticking and even though she would have loved to just stay frozen in that moment, they’d eventually have to get going. She shifted a little in his embrace and felt his grip on her loosening. Still, she didn’t let go of his hand, and he didn’t seem to want to wiggle free either. She inched closer to him, letting her lips brush over his jaw, a ghost light touch that held in itself all of her longing. She felt him shiver and move to meet her lips, his breath warm on her skin, his scent subtle and familiar and so intoxicating. But then he changed his mind, and placed a kiss on her temple, right above her eyebrow.

Cora smiled, as his lips lingered on her skin a little too long. She let go of his hand and pressed a button putting the elevator in motion once again. “We should get going,” she said, breaking the spell.

Cassian let go of her and straightened his posture, becoming Captain Andor once again. Cora passed a hand over her tunic, straightening the fabric, still feeling a tingling sensation in the place where his arm used to hold her. She wondered, as the elevator came to a halt, if rejection would always taste this bitter.

A quick peck on the tip of her ear, right before the doors opened, was something she would have never expected from Cassian, not in a million years. She covered her ear with her hand, throwing him a bewildered look. How? And why? He looked pretty relaxed, save for the tiniest, smuggest, grin in the corner of his mouth and Cora felt she urge to elbow him in the ribs. Luckily for him, the doors opened and they were once again in public, so Cora made an effort to control herself.

“I see the colour has come back to your face, Doctor,” he said matter of factly, referring to the blush that had crept over her cheeks. She realized that he was just teasing her. The peck on her ear, the tense moment in the elevator, maybe she was reading a bit too much into his actions. He was just a boy, after all.

“I have to let you know, Captain, that I have a scalpel in my pocket and I’m not afraid to use it.”

His face broke into a smile for just a fraction of a second, before going back to his normal, serious look. “I wouldn’t advise you to do that just before your hearing,” he said in a very professional tone.

“If they know you half as well as I do, I think they’d be grateful. I may even get a medal.”

He smiled. “They don’t know me as well as you do,” he assured her in a very neutral tone, but the playful glint in his eyes made her think she knew exactly what he was referring to.

“Oh, I really hope they don’t, because otherwise I’d really have to question your taste in men…”

He smiled for a brief second, then his poker face was back on, like nothing had happened. Like he didn’t comfort and tease her in the elevator, like he didn’t break her heart and give her hope once again, all in the span of five minutes.

The War Room was just as she remembered it: full of people and holograms of maps and diagrams she didn’t understand. It was where they held the council meetings and the strategy planning and whatever the Rebellion did and she wasn’t allowed to know. They still treated her as a potential spy, so she had no idea what the Rebellion did to fight the Empire. But it didn’t bother her, after all she was used to being a simple pawn in a game of chess she didn’t understand nor cared about. She had always done her job quietly, letting others to decide the direction in which things advanced. And she liked it that way. You’d think that the daughter of an Admiral would have bigger political ambitions, but to Cora being self sufficient was enough.

She took a seat at a table in the middle of the room, exactly under the spotlight. The council was gathered around her, some seated, some standing, she noticed. The setting was familiar, she had been brought in front of them when they asked her to work in the med bay. A lot of things had changed since then, but Cora was still quite apprehensive.

“Good morning, Doctor,” Senator Bail Organa greeted her, his smiling face one of the few friendly ones in a sea of frowns. This didn’t look too good for Cora.

“Good morning,” she replied, flashing the most sincere smile she was capable of. The nervousness was back, but thanks to Cassian she wasn’t on the brink of a panic attack anymore.

She scanned the room before the inevitable questioning. There were some friendly faces, she noticed once again: Bail Organa, Doctor Crane, even Mon Mothma had a reserved smile on her face. General Draven on the other hand had a frown so deep Cora thought it could very well rival the deepest canyon. Most of the other members of the council didn’t seem so outwardly hostile and showed a little more restraint. But that didn’t make her feel any better; for all she knew, they could still be against her.

“I see you’ve gotten accustomed to our med bay quite easily,” the senator said, coming closer to where she was seated. “I am pleased to tell you that your reviews have been very good, both from your fellow colleagues and from your patients.”

Cora imagined them handing out surveys to everyone on base: ‘How would you rate Doctor Enoch’s performance, on a scale from 1 to 5.’ She was pretty sure she’d get a 2 from Cassian, if they caught him in a particularly good mood. But no matter how funny it seemed to her, it meant that they were keeping a close eye on her.

“Thank you Sir, I’m doing my best,” she replied almost automatically. So many years in the army left her with some automatisms.

He seemed a little amused by her rigid reply. “You’ve also taken over some administrative tasks, I am told.” Cora nodded. “And you’ve been on two off-world missions already,” he said, almost nonchalantly, but Cora could see him examining her attentively. “Tell me, Cora - I can call you Cora, can’t I - how have you adjusted to living on our base? Have you made any friends?”

Cora smiled. She was sure they already knew who she had made friends with, exactly when she met them and where and what they did when they hung out, so she wondered what the point was. Were they just making small talk or did they want to see if she was being honest? Either way her first reaction was to tell them to cut the crap and just get to the point because she didn’t have all day, but she realized that this wasn’t the most tactful thing to do. She was at their mercy after all, and if this was the game they wanted to play, she had to play along.

“Yes,” she said, returning his smile. “I’ve made a few friends. Mainly among my colleagues, but I know a lot of people on base. As for living on Yavin, I think the climate’s the hardest to get used to,” she said, and heard a few murmurs of approval in the room.

“You’ve also experienced your first storm…”

Cassian flashed through her mind the moment he mentioned the storm, their time alone in the storage warehouse still fresh in her memory. She did her best to only search for him in the crowd with the corner of her eye, as to not attract too much attention. He was standing on the far side, partially obscured by some of the equipment in the room, and watched quietly.

“Not a great experience, but I like to think I can survive worse.”

“Speaking of surviving, you’ve crossed paths with a pirate ship and an imperial invasion and lived to tell the tale.”

“I think my partners should be thanked for that, since without them I’d certainly be dead,” she admitted.

“The Rebellion is all about teamwork,” he said, “no one expects you to fight on your own.”

Until they do, Cora thought, but she didn’t say anything. In the imperial army you were just one of the many soldiers, no names just identification numbers, but the Alliance was way smaller. From what she’d seen, everyone was doing much more than what they were supposed to do, so she assumed that one day someone would put a blaster in her hand and tell her to go fight the Empire alone. It seemed, to her at least, that that was what they constantly did to Cassian.

“But you did well in those two missions,” he continued. “And that certainly means a lot to us. But, to be frank with you,” (here we go, she thought), “some members of the council are still have some doubts regarding your loyalty.”

“Well then, let me be frank too, Senator,” she said, feeling a tinge of annoyance even though she had been expecting it. “There will always be some people that will question my loyalty, and this has nothing to do with what I do, and everything to do with who I am. I am the daughter of Admiral Enoch, and this outweighs anything I might do, in the eyes of some.” She looked around the room, making sure to linger a little on Draven’s unpleasant expression. “I have a cleaner record than a lot of people on base, and I’m still judged more harshly than any of them.”

“They’ve proven their loyalty to the cause,” Draven muttered, his tone just as unpleasant as his face.

“And I haven’t? I nearly died on two off-world missions. That wasn’t part of the deal I made with you.”

“That was yo…”

“That was my fault how exactly, General?” she raised her tone, feeling increasingly annoyed. “Listen... You’ve already jailed me for who I am, and I’m not going to linger in the past, what’s done is done and can’t be changed. I’m just asking you all to judge me for my actions, just like you do with everyone else, and not by my heritage. Because you can’t chose your parents, but you can chose the path you walk.”

It was silent for a moment, but Cora could see Draven getting ready to throw some more shit at her. After all, he had just started, and he was always pretty vocal during her past interrogations, seeming to take pleasure in accusing her of more than she could have physically done in one lifetime. However, a sharp look from Bail Organa silenced him for the time being.

“And what is your path, Doctor?” Mon Mothma asked.

Cora took a deep breath. If she knew that her freedom would one day depend on her ability to convince a room full of constipated senators, she would have paid a lot more attention in rhetorics class.

“As Senator Organa once said, the only way for me to live a peaceful life is if the Empire is no more,” she said, trying to sound as sincere and as convincing as she could. “I am a traitor to the Empire. I have nowhere to go back to, so I can only move forward. Right now, the Rebellions seems like the only solution for me. And I know I may sound a little selfish when I say that, since I should be thinking about the greater good and saving the Galaxy, but I am a simple person, I’m not a hero who’s going to sacrifice their life for total strangers. But if this is going to bring peace for me and my friends I will gladly follow.”

“Would you sacrifice your life for the friends you’ve made among us?” Senator Organa asked.

Cora never thought about that. Not that she didn’t know in the back of her mind that it was a possibility, she often had nightmares in which everyone she knew died and she was helpless, but she never thought that one day their life may depend on her. Since they were a million times more prepared for war than she was, she always assumed that if they would ever be in mortal peril she’d already be dead. That one day their life would depend on whether she’d act or not was a new and scary thought. Her first reaction was ‘I’m not qualified to handle this’.

“I’d rather not have to sacrifice my life in any circumstance,” she replied honestly, her eyes involuntarily drifting towards Cassian, “but if it were for my friends’ sake, I’d like to think I would be able to do it.”

“So what you’re saying,” Draven opened his mouth and Cora was already expecting the worst, “is that we can only count on your loyalty if your friends are in the game. I’m afraid this fight isn’t just about you and your friends and if we can’t count on you regardless of this, then there is no point in placing any trust in you.”

“General, I think you are misinterpreting my words,” Cora said through gritted teeth, trying very hard to control herself and not tell him to go back where he came from. “Would you have liked my speech better if I fed you pompous lines without substance about the greater good and the sake of humanity as an abstract notion? I am sorry that you think that because I have a more personal approach to this, just like, let’s say, 90% of the people on base, that I am less trustworthy. Almost all of them joined for their own sake or for that of their loved ones, so did you ever question their motives and resolve?”

“They’ve all sacrificed something to get here.”

“I’ve sacrificed everything I had. I had a safe, comfortable life and now I have nothing. Nothing!” she almost yelled, her voice reverberating in the silent room. “It would have been so easy to hand Cassian over to the stormtroopers and earn a shiny medal for it. But I didn’t do it. And honestly, the way you repaid me for it made me wonder if I had made the right choice.” She took a moment to regain her composure. “But you know what? I’d do it again. If I had the choice, I’d do it again. Because I know I don’t belong in the Empire. And if you think I don’t belong here either, then you may be right. I’m certainly not the greatest soldier and I’m not as valuable to the Cause as most people here, but I do my job and I would never betray the Alliance.”

“You betrayed the Empire, why wouldn't you betray the Alliance just as easily?” asked a tall, slender man with a foreign accent.

“Because the Empire has hurt me. It’s a personal vendetta. To see it fall would make me happy. The Rebellion hasn’t hurt me like that yet,” she said, subtly emphasizing the word ‘yet’, keeping her gaze fixed on the tall man. He seemed a little uncomfortable, so she stared at him some more.

Senator Organa cleared his throat, interrupting her staring contest and shifting the focus of the room towards himself once again. “During the past couple of days there have been a few debates on whether or not to remove your bracelets,” he said. “In the meantime we’ve assessed your progress, gotten statements from the people that have interacted most with you. We’ve gotten a pretty good idea of who you are.”

It sounded like a thinly veiled threat. Cora knew she had done nothing wrong, but still she felt like they had found out all of her deepest, darkest secrets. It made her feel like maybe she was guilty of something, she just didn’t know it yet. Maybe they knew she had stolen the cushion.

“We’ve held a vote,” he continued, “and eventually made a decision.”

So Cassian had been right, it was already decided. Then why did they summon her here? What was the point of the whole questioning? They could have just told her the result of the vote and let her go back to work instead of putting her under the spotlight. She speculated that they either did it just for show or the vote had been a tie and they needed something more to help them deliberate, but she wouldn't know for sure unless they told her. Nonetheless, she still felt irritated that they had dragged her there.

Mon Mothma left her place at the edge of the crowd and approached her, as elegant and poised as always. Cora couldn’t help but admire her: she was exactly what the years in boarding school could never mould her into. Beautiful, classy and scary.

“The council has decided to remove your bracelets,” she said, without further ado. “But there are some conditions.” Of course there would be some conditions, Cora never assumed they’d just set her free and wave her goodbye, so she nodded and motioned for her to continue. “You will be fitted a tracker bracelet instead of your cuffs. It doesn’t actively track your whereabouts, but in case you disappear or leave the base without notice it will send us your coordinates.”

“Right… so I’m still a prisoner,” Cora said, crossing her arms and leaning back into the chair, a defiant expression on her face.

“It’s just a precaution, Cora. And it’s a temporary measure,” Bail Organa assured her, but Cora frowned anyway.

“Until when? Since I’ve given you no reason to suspect me, and you still don’t trust me, how can I believe when you tell me that it’s just temporary?” she raised her voice again, almost getting up the chair.

“You have to understand, Doctor Enoch,” one of the older councilmen said, “that the Alliance is a fragile thing. We can’t afford to take any risks right now.”

“Right,” Cora muttered, collapsing back into her chair. She really wanted to tell them she isn’t a time bomb that they have to keep a close eye on, but she held her mouth shut and asked Mon Mothma to continue.

“You will have to get permission and be accompanied by an officer if you ever want to leave the base.”

“What if I just want to leave?” Cora asked, her face devoid of any emotion. She wondered if they’d change their mind if she kept interrupting them. Draven was already starting to change colour.

“I am sorry, that’s not an option right now.”

“I see,” Cora hissed. “Is there anything else?”

“You still won’t be allowed to access the databases or shove your nose into any Rebellion business,” Draven intervened, his interruption just as pleasant and needed as a bunch of warts. “Or contact anyone outside the base.”

Cora suddenly felt the urge to send the Emperor a birthday card, just to spite the general. However, she smiled, and looked again at Mon Mothma who had resumed explaining the conditions to her. It wasn’t that bad, she kept repeating herself as every condition made the frown on her forehead grow a little deeper. Remember where you started from and where you are now, huge difference. But every condition, every restriction they imposed cemented the idea that they didn’t want her there, that she didn’t belong.

“Do you agree to respect these conditions?” Mon Mothma finally asked. Cora was already spacing out and this suddenly brought her back.

“Do I have a choice?” she asked, with a half smile.

“There is always a choice, Cora,” said Senator Organa, a friendly smile on his face.

“Well, not much of a choice when you have to chose between a leash and a cage,” she snorted. “But I accept,” she said. “Gimme the leash, take me for a walk. Do I have to sign anything?”

“No,” said Mon Mothma, seemingly a little displeased by her attitude, “your word in front of the council will be enough.”

“I would like to hereby thank the high council for their generosity,” she said, in a slightly mocking tone, just enough to raise some eyebrows, but not enough to be outright rude. “Thank you so much.”

The meeting ended and everyone scrambled to get out of the room as fast as possible. How rude, she thought, when none of them stayed back to congratulate her, except for Doctor Crane, who also told her that her mouth would get her in trouble one day. Where’s the news, Doc?

Mon Mothma and Bail Organa stayed back too and explained to her a few more details. Cora was a lot less rude towards them now that they didn’t have an audience anymore. She didn’t dislike these people, she just disliked the situation she had been put in, so now that the whole debacle had ended and she had calmed down a little, she went back to being as nice as she could be.

Before she left, she noticed that Cassian had also stayed behind, talking to Draven in a corner. She wondered if they were talking about her; after all, she had been the main event of the day. From the frowns on both of their faces, she could very well be right.

She decided against hurrying back to the med bay, instead she walked as slowly as possible, hoping to see Cassian maybe even for a minute after he got rid of Draven. However, her plan was foiled when an overly enthusiastic Lewella emerged from the crowd, holding two shaved ice cones.

“How’d it go?” she asked, showing one cone in Cora’s hand.

“Ok I guess. They’ll swap the cuffs for a tracker bracelet,” she said, her tone showing her disappointment.

“That’s not so bad,” Lewella tried encouraging her. “I have one too.” She lifted her sleeve to show her.

“Why?”

“Because I once got so drunk I woke up on another planet. They decided they wouldn’t risk losing me once again. And honestly it saved my life twice since then, once when our ship got hijacked and once when we lost control during a storm. It’s not so bad. Eat your ice, it’s getting messy.”

Cora took a tentative bite and was taken aback by the pungent taste. “Is this…”

“Corellian Brandy, yeah!” Lewella seemed very proud of it, but Cora just raised an eyebrow. She should have expected it to be something more than just plain, flavoured ice if it came from Lewella’s hands. It could have been worse, she thought as she took another bite.

“It’s just that...” Cora’s voice faltered and she looked at her feet. “I guessed they’d trust me more after all this time.”

“Baby steps, Cora. You know how slow these sorts of institutions work and how slow they can be at times. If it were only Mothma’s decision, you would have been free a long time ago,” Lewella said, patting her shoulder. “It’s progress. Remember how far you’ve come. Now you’re here, you’re alive and well, so you can wait.”

“Yeah, I guess,” Cora said, absentmindedly.

“When are they taking them off?”

“My shift ends in a few hours, I have to look for Draven then and he’ll take care of them.” Having to meet Draven and interact with him twice in one day was annoying to say the least.

“Awesome! We’ll meet tonight for some celebratory drinks in the dungeons. A ‘getting a little more out of jail’ party.”

Cora snorted. “Thanks, but I’d rather sleep early tonight. I’m covering Alara’s shift tomorrow.”

“Nonsense. I’ve already sent out the invitations, you’re not allowed to miss your own party.”

“You didn’t even know there was going to be something to celebrate and you already organized a party?”

“It could have been just one of two things: good news and we celebrate or bad news and you’d need to drown your sorrows, either way both involved alcohol so why not set it up in advance?”

Cora raised an eyebrow. That was some strong logic, she had to admit.

“Stop trying to come up with excuses. You’re coming and that’s final.” Cora stubbornly shook her head.

“Coming where?” Cassian asked, suddenly appearing next to them.

“Super secret meeting in the dungeons today. We’re celebrating.”

“Ok,” he said, like it was nothing out of the ordinary.

“Are they sending you back?” Lewella asked, and Cora’s heart skipped a beat. She somehow overlooked the fact that now that the storm had ended he would probably be sent away ASAP. She realized that he would be gone once again and felt incredibly dejected.

“Yeah,” he replied, crushing any semblance of a good mood Cora might have still had left. “I’m leaving tomorrow morning.”

“Oh, good,” Lewella said, and Cora wanted to say that there’s nothing good about it. “It would have been shit if you had to leave today and miss the party. Now you can convince Cora to come too, since she’s decided to be stubborn and skip her own celebration.”

Cassian threw her a disbelieving look and Cora defensively crossed her arms. “Don’t you want to celebrate your victory?” he asked, quirking an eyebrow.

“Not much of a victory,” Cora mumbled, but she felt her resolve weakening. Now that she knew he was going to leave in the morning she really wanted to spend a little more time with him, even if that meant going to a party and having to be sociable instead of sleeping.

“You may not see it like that, but I know these people, you won this battle. And you were great in there,” he said, and Cora really wanted to believe him, but she knew that she didn’t handle the situation very well. She had lost her temper and yelled at people, and if it weren’t already decided she was pretty sure she could have never convinced them to set her free. But it was over, it was done, no reason to dwell on it any longer.

“Besides,” he continued, “I still have to teach you how to play Sabacc.”

“Yeah, we have to teach you so I can kick your ass!” Lewella’s face showed so much joy Cora had to wonder where she had that much positive energy from.

“You guys know Sabacc isn’t very high on the list of things I want to learn in the near future…” she tried arguing.

“Bullshit!”

“If you still want to extort money from me,” Cassian suggested, “at least do it in a civilized manner.”

“Blackmail is a very civilized manner, and much closer to my MO than gambling,” she said, shoving a finger in his face.

“As you wish, Doctor,” he laughed. “I’ll see you tonight,” he said, before disappearing into the crowd.

Cora followed his retreating frame for as long as she could. She felt drained of energy already and the day wasn’t over yet. There were still a few hours left of her shift and then a meeting with Draven. And later, the party she really didn’t want to attend. But Cassian was leaving once again, and a brief embrace and a chaste kiss didn’t really fulfill her need for him. So she’d go, spend as much time as she could with him. So when he was gone, she’d ache a little more.

“Do you have dirt on Cassian?” Lewella suddenly asked.

“Maybe?”

“Whatever he’s paying, I’m paying double.”

Previous chapter

Masterlist

#cassian andor #cassian andor x ofc #cassian andor x original female character #rogue one #star wars #starlight

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yumekuimono · 8 years ago

Text

[WinterFrost] Everyone But Yourself Pt. 4/5

A/N: warning for non-permanent injury & a little bit of 30/40s homophobia

if you remember the deleted scene I posted a while back, the new and improved version is in here

They went to the Met for their second date, Loki casting a slight glamour over them both so that nobody would be inclined to recognize them. New Yorkers being what they were, it was unlikely they’d have been bothered in any case, but Bucky was glad for the privacy anyhow. Neither did he argue when Loki informed him that for the spell to extend best to Bucky they should remain in physical contact. He just linked their fingers together with a smile and let Loki lead.

They wandered through various galleries, taking their time. Loki snickered at the statues of Greek deities, and Bucky had to admit that he’d absorbed enough of Steve’s nattering about art theory that he couldn’t really complain about not understanding any of the paintings, even if he’d never be enthusiastic about them. They both quickly grew bored of the endless Western European Christian art. Then it became a quest to find the most interesting and obscure artwork from around the world. They ate lunch in the museum and only left when it closed. Outside, they wandered arm in arm down Fifth Avenue, their breaths steaming in the streetlights as it started to snow.

“It’ll be Christmas soon,” Bucky observed. “Do you have a winter holiday?”

Loki turned his face up to watch the snow fall. “Asgard celebrates Yuletide. The whole city is lit through the night, and it is a time of much feasting and merriment.”

“Sounds about right. D’you want anything?”

“Mmm, new daggers maybe, to replace those confiscated from me. Do you?”

Bucky huffed, his breath pluming. “Dunno. We never had the money for anything fancy when I was a kid. I just want you.”

Loki tugged them to a stop and leaned in to kiss him, nose cold against his cheek, but smiling. “You have me.”

They had dinner at a Chinese restaurant, warming themselves on thick hot and sour soup and cups of tea. Then they went home and chased the last traces of cold from each other’s skin, falling asleep in a tangle of limbs.

By the time the Avengers returned and the next mission came around, Bucky felt much better.

Unfortunately, the next mission targeted an illegal arms dealer supplying HYDRA, and word had already gone around that the Winter Soldier was with the Avengers. The team got bogged down fighting a swarm of heavily armed combat drones, and no one but Loki noticed James being separated out from the group until it was too late. The Soldier ran lost through corridors of shipping containers filled with contraband, trying to gain some breathing room to turn on the drones on his tail. And then, just as he reached a dead end, an explosion on his heels drove him hard into the door of a container, the metal clanging with the impact of his head. James crumpled to the ground.

Loki dove. He shifted in midair, coming down hard on the leading drone, his jaws crushing rotors and metal plating. Landing, he shook his head violently, further crumpling the machine, then tossing it aside with a sneeze when his teeth pierced the fuel cell. He growled at the swarm hovering before him as they assessed his threat designation, fangs bared and hackles bristling. Before their rudimentary AI could decide how to proceed, Loki sprang forward again, jumping up the side of a container to bring down another drone. This time when he landed he left an illusion in his wake, bullets and lasers passing through it as half a dozen targeting systems locked on.

Loki killed drone after drone, pulling out all his tricks. He cast illusions, made himself invisible, changed his shape, and teleported, slipping their targeting and taking them down from above, where they were vulnerable. He fought tooth and claw, snarling his defiance. By the time there were none left to threaten James, Loki’s sides were heaving and his mouth and paws bled from multiple lacerations. A bullet had grazed his shoulder. He stood guard over James, waiting for the next wave to come.

Instead what came was Falcon, and Loki held off until he was sure Wilson had spotted them before shifting. Concealing himself from sight, he hid against James, watching as Falcon came to a landing, scanning the area before he knelt at James’ side.

“Hey, Barnes, you with me?”

James took a long moment to respond. “…Sam?”

“Yeah. Looks like you went down pretty hard. Can you tell me what hurts?”

James blinked a few times, frowning, then licked his lips. “Head. Arm. The…the regular one.”

“Okay. Can you follow my finger?” Wilson held up his index finger, waving it slowly before James’ eyes. Then he felt gently at James’ right arm. “Alright, well it looks like you might be concussed, and your arm has a fracture. Hold on, and I’ll be back with a med kit.” He took off, relaying the information into his comm.

When he returned, Wilson efficiently strapped a splint onto James’ forearm. He confirmed the concussion, and dressed the wound on James’ head. Then he wrestled him into a carry, grumbling, “Jesus, you supersoldiers are heavy.” Loki dug his claws into the leather and Kevlar of James’ uniform, clinging on as they took off.

On the quinjet, Sam laid James down flat on a bench. Loki moved silently out of the way for JARVIS’ medical scans as Sam found a heavy orange shock blanket to tuck around him.

“Battle’s almost done, looks like. I can stay to monitor you or JARVIS can do it.”

“’M fine. You can go.”

As soon as Falcon had left, Loki jumped up on the bench, sitting at the uninjured side of James’ head. He was still invisible, but James turned towards him anyway, his eyes closed and face creased with pain.

“Loki kotyenok?” he whispered, his voice heavy and slurred.

Loki rubbed his jaw gently over James’ forehead above one eyebrow, then turned his face back in to nuzzle the spot. James sighed, and Loki laid down to take his weight off of his front paws, letting James lean his head on his back as he settled in to let his healing take care of his own injuries.

Bucky’s head was throbbing, and the bench underneath him was spinning. His arm hurt, and when the team finally clambered onboard, the noise and the bright lights of the ‘jet powering up felt like they were stabbing into his brain. Loki was there though, Loki had defended him. Bucky had watched through swimming vision as a wolf he thought seemed larger than usual had torn through the swarm of HYDRA drones. He wasn’t sure if the part where the wolf kept disappearing and sometimes there were two of them was real or not, but it was Loki, so it probably was. He didn’t want to think about it too hard though, because his head hurt, and he was tired.

Sam got the team to quiet down and the lights around him to dim after a while, which was nice, but he wouldn’t let Bucky sleep. He kept waking him up. Sam explained it was necessary to monitor the concussion, but it still made him irritable. The first time, he opened his eyes expecting to see the black fur he could feel pressed against his face and instead found himself looking at the bulkhead of the ‘jet. He frowned, and made the mistake of asking, “Loki?” out loud.

“Your cat’s not here,” Sam reminded him. Fortunately he seemed to take it as confusion from the concussion.

When Sam had gone, Bucky glanced over to make sure no one was looking and then shifted onto his left side to further shield their view. Loki flicked into sight, blinked at him, and disappeared again. A raspy tongue licked his nose. Bucky smiled and leaned his forehead back against Loki’s side.

At the Tower he still wasn’t allowed to sleep. Sam said he had to be monitored for at least twenty-four hours, but at least he agreed to let JARVIS do it. In reality what this meant was that Loki took over as soon as they were back in their apartment, actually voluntarily interacting with JARVIS to do so. Even after he was off concussion watch, though, his sleep was restless, broken up and never feeling deep enough. He dreamed of being chased, running from HYDRA only for them to catch Loki instead, and Bucky would wake in a terror. When he was lucky, he would need to make sure that Loki was still in bed with him whole and unharmed, and Loki would let him cling without complaint. On multiple occasions though, he wasn’t so fortunate, and he nearly hit Loki, striking out on instinct while still half-asleep.

The second time Loki deflected a fist and folded him into an embrace, gently pinning his arms and murmuring “James” in his ear until he was awake, Bucky couldn’t hold back the tears. “I’m sorry,” he choked out. He wanted to say, “You’re not safe with me,” but instead he found himself curling his hands around Loki’s bare hips.

“I am never in danger from you,” Loki whispered, and Bucky cried harder because it wasn’t true. Even if Loki only meant he wasn’t in danger of Bucky hurting him, just by staying he was in danger from HYDRA, and the Avengers, and Thor finding out who he was and taking him back to Asgard.

He wanted so desperately to say, “Don’t leave me,” but the words stuck in his throat behind all the others he couldn’t say. Eventually, Bucky cried himself into exhaustion.

In the morning, he forced himself to bring it up again. Loki looked straight at him and said, “Yes.” Then he reached out and took Bucky’s hand. “But I take those risks knowledgably and willingly to be here.”

“Oh.”

They lounged around on the common floor for a few days, Bucky idly chatting with anyone who happened to be free, but everyone else was soon consumed with tracking down whoever had ordered the reclamation of the Winter Soldier. Ordinarily, Bucky wouldn’t have minded, but he was supposed to limit his mental exertion while he was recovering, which apparently included reading, and both computer screens and anything more than the lightest of workouts painfully exacerbated his symptoms. All of which severely diminished his options for how to pass the time. The boredom and forced physical idleness threatened to drive him crazy. Bucky suddenly realized what it must have felt like for Steve all those years ago. And while he wasn’t going to be getting into any fistfights he couldn’t win, he did sometimes feel like stabbing something.

Loki was the one who finally got him to rest as he was supposed to, persuading him into lying down on the couch with his head in Loki’s lap and his broken arm propped on his knees. Then Loki would card his long fingers through Bucky’s hair and tell stories. Some days he would simply read aloud, and Bucky would fall asleep to the soothing rhythm of his voice. Other days Loki would spin his own tales, long, fantastic things only parts of which were true, and Bucky would keep himself awake to hear every word. He loved listening to Loki’s stories, and especially to Loki telling them. After one day in which a well-meaning trickster had his lips sewn shut as punishment for his clever words, Bucky made sure to say so.

Loki had a face for when Bucky did things like this, praised things he used to be mistrusted for. Surprised, and quietly pleased, and a little vulnerable. As it turned out, making out with Loki was also allowed, and a very enjoyable use of his time.

In all, James’ injuries kept him off duty for three weeks, and with not much else for him to do apart from occasional therapy appointments, Loki ended up keeping him near constant company. The time that James was usually away that Loki had begun using to search for the Casket of Ancient Winters was now taken up by telling tales to keep James entertained while he rested. Where once he would have resented the interruption of his work, Loki found he didn’t mind. Being with James made him happy. It scared him sometimes, just how much.

He’d never had something like this before, and he knew with growing certainty that he wanted desperately to keep it. And James would notice, in the hours they spent lying in each other’s arms on the couch with their feet tangled together, when too many teeth slipped in, and he would pull back to ask what Loki needed. Sometimes it was to pull James’ shirt off and suck bruises into his shoulder and collarbones. They would fade in a few hours, but he was always careful to leave them where they wouldn’t be noticeable, as much as he might want to the contrary. Sometimes it was just to stop, and be held, and let James stroke his hair. Sometimes he hardly knew what he needed, but that was alright because James was there.

By the time the Avengers had completed their latest mission in all of its drawn-out complexity, Loki had nearly forgotten that he was in hiding. It was strange to be a cat again when they joined the post-mission meal, which this time was large quantities of Thai food. He found himself repeatedly remembering that he couldn’t speak in this form, and having to remind himself of appropriate feline behavior. At least James seemed to be having the same problem, judging from the amount of times he appeared about to say something to Loki only to change his mind.

“Terminator, have you been talking to your cat?” Stark asked.

“I ain’t had much else to do lately since I got exploded into a wall,” James replied.

“You mean getting exploded into a wall was what finally sent you over the edge?” Barton asked faux-dramatically, eyes wide and mouth half full.

“No, I think that’s just what all cat people do,” Sam said, but James sat up.

“Are you questioning my sanity, Clint?”

That prompted a minor food fight, which was ended when Loki batted a spring roll out of the air and ate the shrimp out of it.

Barton turned to Natasha, flinging a hand at him. “The hell do you mean he’s not a birder?”

She just rolled her eyes. Internally, Loki agreed.

It was nearing Christmas, so the Avengers put their activity on hold for the holiday. Stark bought a ridiculously large tree for the common floor, and everyone spent an afternoon decorating it. Loki entertained himself by climbing into the branches and refusing to move, watching haughtily from on high as they were forced to go around him and leave a spot bare of lights and tinsel. Of course he got down as soon as a picture was about to be taken. Rogers insisted on stringing popcorn and cranberries to hang on the tree, although he ended up having to make a second and third bowl of popcorn because the others kept eating it. Loki stole a spool of his string, chasing it across the floor until he could hide it when no one was looking. When Rogers finally noticed, Loki was across the room, casually lying on top of the Hulk ornament that was part of a handmade set of the whole team a fan had sent in, once again refusing to move.

Banner blinked down at him. “You know, Bucky, I don’t think I’ve known a cat that was as non-active as yours yet still made as much trouble.”

James laughed when he saw Loki squishing the Hulk-ornament’s head, but then Thor came over, reaching for him and declaring, “Not to worry, I shall soon solve the problem and free your tiny likeness.”

Loki fled into James’ arms.

On Christmas morning, Rogers dragged James out to a church service and then to volunteer with the homeless. James had complained bitterly about having to get up early on a holiday the night before, but ultimately went willingly. Still, Loki watched amused from the back of the couch as James wheedled extra coffee out of his best friend despite the fact that both he and Loki had been awake before Rogers had arrived so that Loki could transform. Loki used the time they were gone to prepare his own gift for James. The strength of his magic as he crafted the spell took him by surprise, another reminder of the depth of his feelings. He also took the time to surreptitiously rearrange some of the mistletoe Stark had positioned across the Tower.

James noticed immediately when he returned, stopping underneath the sprig that now hung in their entranceway. “Huh.”

“Clint, probably,” Rogers said, smacking a kiss to his cheek.

“Gross,” James complained, laughing. He danced out of the way of Rogers whacking his arm, and started pulling his scarf and coat off.

“I’m not the one that makes the rules.”

“Oh, yeah? Y’know this obviously means you hafta kiss Sharon today, too.” James waggled his eyebrows. “I know she’s invited to the party.”

Rogers blushed bright red, and stammered something about needing to go.

“No excuses!” James called after him as he fled into the elevator.

Loki waited until he was gone before he shifted, coming forward to place a hand in the center of James’ chest, pushing him back the two steps until he was once again underneath the mistletoe. James’ grin mirrored his own as he leaned in for a kiss.

“You were the one who moved that here,” he mumbled against Loki’s mouth.

“It’s possibe.”

After they’d spent longer than was strictly necessary beneath a plant on their ceiling, Loki showed James his present. James ran his thumb over the sigils sewn in black thread into the collar of his uniform jacket, then looked up at him.

“It is a protection spell. It will help keep you safe from injury or harm.”

“Oh. Thank you.” James kissed him again.

James’ present for him was a set of four knives, two small push daggers and two longer ones. All of them had his snake and wolf motifs worked into the hilt and crossguard, the patterns picked out with the help of JARVIS. They were beautiful, and, James assured him, of the highest quality. Loki loved them.

That evening the Avengers and assorted friends and partners gathered for dinner and then to drink bourbon-spiked eggnog while opening presents. Multiple people had thought it would be funny to get Loki catnip, so as a consequence he was happily flopped over James’ chest, purring loudly and getting fur all over the ugly seasonal sweater that Natasha had given variations of to everybody. Thor had a flask of Asgardian liquor, which meant that everyone was at least slightly inebriated by the time all of the presents had been opened, and the suggestion was made for dancing. Which led to a discussion of whether they all could dance.

“Shit no, Steve still can’t dance,” James snorted, scratching behind Loki’s ears.

“That can’t be true,” Sam argued. “I’ve seen him in the field. He’s got twinkle toes.”

“Yeah, but he ain’t got any rhythm. Seriously, Stevie, did those showgirls teach you nothing?”

“Bucky...” Rogers complained, his ears going red. Next to him, Sharon Carter giggled into her drink.

“What? It’s true.”

“Yeah, and you already make my dancing look bad enough. You don’t gotta go pointing it out.”

“How else ‘m I supposed to poke fun at you, oh Star-Spangled American icon?”

“Alright so Capsicle can’t dance, but I’ve heard you were a smooth one, Buckaroo,” Stark put in, lounging against Sam and already assembling the pieces of the kit Sam had gifted to him sans its instructions.

James grinned. “Four time Brooklyn Swing Champ.”

“You gonna prove it to us?”

“Last I checked you need two people for swing.”

“I can swing,” Natasha put in, holding out her hand. “Let’s see your moves, Barnes.”

Barton started a chant of, “Dance, dance, dance,” that Darcy Lewis quickly joined in on, elbowing Jane next to her.

James rolled his eyes, displacing Loki to stand. “Fine, fine, I’ll dance.”

A space was cleared and JARVIS started playing “Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy.” Loki watched as James pulled Natasha up and spun her gracefully around the floor and into several lifts to hoots of encouragement from their audience. James was comfortable with her, and Loki couldn’t stop his tail twitching. It didn’t help that the catnip was wearing off. Both of them were grinning when James pulled Natasha up from the final dip. There were claps and whistles all around.

“Well, that was fun,” Natasha commented, falling back into her spot on the couch.

“We should do that again,” James agreed. “I haven’t danced in too long.”

Loki climbed into his lap, demanding attention and rubbing all along his front until James started scratching his jaw again.

Pepper smiled, watching. “I think you’ve made your cat jealous.”

James scooped him up and cuddled him, nuzzling Loki’s head. “Aw, he knows he’s the only cat for me.”

Stark burst out cackling when it turned out that the sole function of his completed machine was to turn itself back off once turned on.

Much later, after there had been more dancing, and some of the guests had fallen asleep in the common lounge, prompting the rest of them to seek their own beds, James stopped him in their living room. “Were you really jealous of me dancing with Tasha, kotyenok?”

Loki huffed and avoided his eyes.

James pulled him close with one arm around the small of his back. “It’s only some fun between friends.” Lacing the fingers of his other hand together with Loki’s between them, he nudged Loki’s free hand up to his shoulder so that they were leaning into each other. It was much more intimate than the position James had held Natasha in, no space left in between their bodies. James brought his head close to murmur low into Loki’s ear, their temples brushing, “But this is all for you.”

He started dancing slowly, swaying them to imaginary music. Loki could feel the warmth of him all along his front. His eyes closed, and he turned to catch James’ lips, the shuffle of their feet stilling as they kissed. Leaning their foreheads together, Loki could feel James’ eyelashes and the fan of his breath across his cheek, the slight curve of James’ lips that still barely brushed his own.

“I love you, kotyenok.”

Loki smiled. “I love you, too.”

Their third date was dinner. On a day between missions, they took an afternoon to cook together, something fancy that they wouldn’t otherwise make. As with most things, their experiences were vastly different, but somehow they balanced each other out and made it work. Bucky remembered various bowls of soupe à l’oignon from across France during the war, but this one was by far his favorite.

Loki returned from setting the table just as Bucky finished pulling the soup out of the oven where the cheese had been browning, slipping his hands around Bucky’s waist to embrace him from behind. When Bucky turned his head, intending to say something, Loki captured his mouth instead in a kiss. Bucky returned it, leaning back into him. Tilting his head against Loki’s, he sighed.

“James?” Loki murmured, kissing his jaw.

“Dunno, it’s just…” He searched for words. Finally he sighed again and twisted in Loki’s arms, looping his own around Loki’s waist and tucking his face into his boyfriend’s neck. He couldn’t help but smile at that, and Loki rubbed his cheek over Bucky’s hair, a vaguely feline gesture both affectionate and soothing.

“Times have changed, I guess. We didn’t ever talk about this kinda thing when I was a kid. It was… Well, a fella could get sent to jail for liking other men. I always figured I’d have to deny that part of me and just go with girls ‘cause I was lucky enough to like them too. But now I’m here and it don’t really matter. I can kiss you right in public if I want, an’ the Supreme Court says anyone can get married, and I just…never thought I’d get to see anything like this.”

Bucky fell silent, just breathing for a while.

“Dr. Nabavi told me it’s not considered an illness anymore, being gay. Or whatever. But sometimes I can’t help still worrying I’ll come off wrong or something, and people’ll know that I’m sick. An’ then I do something so stupidly domestic like kiss you when we’re cooking dinner and I don’t know how I’m not shouting it all over the rooftops because I can.”

Loki’s arms tightened around him. “Do you want to reveal our relationship?”

Bucky huffed. “You’re still hiding, though.”

“Even I cannot hide forever. And I do rather want to claim you as my own.” Loki’s voice carried amusement, and Bucky hid a smile in his shoulder. Loki turned to press his lips to Bucky’s hair. “We can begin to discuss ways to reveal my presence safely, if you would like.”

“Mmm. Later, though. For now let’s just eat dinner.”

Loki woke on the morning of February 15th to thin winter sunlight and James’ skin sleep-warm against his own. They’d stopped bothering to count their dates by this time since living together blurred the line anyway, but last night would definitely have qualified, after James had quit teasing Rogers long enough to send him off to his dinner with Sharon Carter and they had declined to join Natasha’s action movie marathon. James shifted against him, his left arm settling cool at Loki’s lower back and his fingers starting to tease gently through his hair. Loki smiled.

“Good morning.”

“Morning.” James’ voice was scratchy from the night and still mostly-asleep. His fingers moved to rubbing circles just behind Loki’s ear.

Perhaps it was a side effect of spending so long as a cat, but that felt heavenly. Loki let out a quietly contented moan and settled closer, relaxing completely. If he had not already been disinclined to move, this would have convinced him.

“You really are my kotyenok,” James murmured, amused.

“I like when you pet me.”

James ran the pads of his fingers down Loki’s spine, and he kicked the sheet further down his back for better access to do it again. If he could get the transformation just right…

“Are you purring?”

“Mmm yes.”

James huffed a laugh, and tucked his nose into Loki’s hair, continuing to pet him. Neither of them noted the passage of time, content to stay as they were. Things felt soft around the edges, as though part of a dream, but one that Loki wanted to be completely awake for. After a while, though, James’ hand stilled at his shoulder.

“Loki?”

He cracked one eye open, peering up at James’ frown. “Yes?”

“How long will you live for?”

Loki sighed and shifted onto his side, facing James across the pillow. “I do not know truly. Why do you ask?”

“They did a bunch of tests, when they found Steve and they were defrosting him, to see if they could find out how he survived. They think with the serum, if he doesn’t get himself killed first, he might live for a few hundred years. What I’ve got isn’t so good as his, an’ I didn’t let them do anything so I don’t know for sure, but the best guess is I’ll live about the same. Maybe less by a century or so.” James chewed his lip. “You mentioned once you’re over a thousand.”

“Yes.” He stroked his palm briefly up James’ back and down. “The average lifespan for an Asgardian is five thousand years, but that is dependent upon regular consumption of the golden apples from the Yggdrasil tree which connects the Nine Realms. When a person has become old and no longer wishes to prolong their life, they may cease eating the apples each year and die a natural death in a century or so. There are, however, no accounts of anyone giving them up when they were as young as I am, and my own physiology is…complicated. It may be that my lifespan will be similar to yours.”

James blinked at him. “…You’re giving them up?”

“Yes. I went without them after I fell, and it is doubtful whether I would have received any while in prison. They are very closely guarded.”

“Are you… Is this because of me?” James whispered.

“No. It is for myself. I am done with Asgard.” He couldn’t help smiling then, reaching up to brush James’ hair back. “But I will not deny that it has benefit for our relationship.”

James pulled him into a kiss, heedless of the state of their breath. “I just… I really want this.”

Loki kissed him again. “As do I.”

#fanfic #winterfrost #bucky x loki #loki laufeyson #bucky barnes #sam wilson #Steve Rogers #natasha romanoff #shapeshifter!loki #lokitty #injury #dating #everyone but yourself

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star-trekkin-across-theuniverse · 8 years ago

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Word Count: 1904

Author’s Note: So I had a cool case at work. And this is the result. To be clear, currently, it is not within the scope of practice of a nurse to operate. In any situation.

Imagine Leonard McCoy rescuing you from your crippled Starbase...

“I don’t rightly care, Jim!” You overhead the tall, dark-haired doctor holler across the room. “This is damn barbaric, and there is no excuse!”

Your hackles rose. The med-centre on your starbase had been operating without a doctor for months after the Klingon raid had killed half the crew, including the CMO. You and your team of nurses and techs were barely holding the place together, but it could be so much worse.

“Excuse me, exactly who the hell do you think you are?” You rose to the bait, and when he whirled around to glare at you, almost immediately regretted it. You stormed over to him, and placed your hands on your hips, setting your jaw to prevent yourself from saying anything else.

“Leonard McCoy. CMO of the Enterprise. Who are you, darlin’?” You saw his eyes flick to the rank on your cuff and drew a breath in, standing a little straighter. When the previous CMO had been killed in the raid, his assistant had taken over. When the assistant was subsequently killed and left no more doctors on the starbase, as the senior nurse, you’d been put in charge on a technicality.

“Y/N Y/L/N, Acting CMO of this Starbase,” you replied, meeting his imperious glare with your own. You narrowed your eyes, daring him to challenge you without saying a single word.

“You?” He scoffed.

“What is the issue, Doctor McCoy?” You asked. “I mean, don’t hold back. Please, list every single thing I’ve done wrong, chapter and verse. I’ll look forward to my dishonourable discharge. Since it will mean putting some real land under my feet.”

He was taken aback by your outburst, his shoulders rolling away just as quickly as if you’d physically attacked him.

“This medbay is -”

“Bones, have you looked around?” The man in command gold who’d accompanied Doctor McCoy into medbay interrupted. If it really was Leonard McCoy dressing you down, that could only mean the captain stripes belonged to James T. Kirk. “They’ve retrofitted most of this medbay to function at a near normal level. It’s ingenious. Lt. Y/L/N, you said?” He turned his attention to you. “My understanding was that your chief engineer was killed during the raid. Who made these repairs?”

“We did, sir,” you answered, turning to face the captain. “My staff and I. Once we’d stabilized everyone. Unfortunately the photon torpedo took out our supply cupboard so we’ve been reduced to making do with what little we had. We were able to jury-rig a replicator into a sterile processing unit, but we really need either evacuation or resupply.”

“Evacuation. How many patients do you have?” Captain Kirk asked. McCoy walked down the short medbay, assessing your patients as you spoke to the captain.

“Three. Ensign Rosenburg has been in an induced coma because we can’t treat her wounds with what little we have left, Lieutenant Jenkins is almost finished her final course of dermal regeneration. Ensign Harris needs a revision of an above the knee amputation -”

“Good god, woman, who hacked off this poor man’s leg?” McCoy’s question exploded out of him, causing you to flinch, closing your eyes and turning away from his voice. When you didn’t immediately answer, he stormed over to you, face getting redder with every step. “As near as I can tell, sweetheart, you are a nurse! What were you thinking?”

“I was thinking that if I didn’t amputated, Ensign Harris would die. And in case you hadn’t noticed, Doctor McCoy, there’s less than a dozen living souls left on this starbase. Each one of their lives is precious to me.” You could feel the hot sting of tears at the corners of your eyes, but you were damned if you were going to let the grumpy man make you cry.

“Bones.” Captain Kirk’s tone carried a warning. Doctor McCoy turned away from you and drew in a deep breath, squaring his shoulders before turning back to you.

“Do you have any surgical experience, Nurse Y/N?” You could tell he was trying, very tenuously, to keep his temper.

“Yes, sir,” you replied. “I’m a certified surgical technologist, with a trauma specialty.” The training allowed you to operate under the supervision of a doctor. You’d done most laparoscopic surgeries when required, and suturing when required. Ensign Harris’s amputation was your first, and your inexperience was compounded by the incomplete and inadequate supplies and the nature of the injury. Doctor McCoy led you down the Harris’s beside and pulled back the dressing. The distal femur was exposed, the pores of the longbone blanched. What little flesh remained around the stump was retracted, and pulled away, forming a cliff around the edge of the bone. Ensign Harris watched the interaction between you and Doctor McCoy with interest, but chose to say nothing.

“Explain the relevant history here,” McCoy demanded.

“Ensign Harris had a shrapnel wound that shredded the popliteal artery. I resected the artery, but in order to maintain circulation, it required a radical above knee amputation. I had very little viable tissue to work with. His healing was complicated by incisional infection, which caused retraction of the underlying musculature, leaving the blunt end of the distal femur rubbing directly on the dermal layer,” you explained. “I have been trying to maintain a sterile wound since it reopened, which has been difficult given the condition of the medbay, but I felt that a revision to the injury would be more risky at this point. You can read my operative notes, sir, they’re all filed.” You flicked through the patient charting on your PADD and handed it to Doctor McCoy. He leaned against the bedside table as he read through your charting, and amazingly, the furrow in his brow started to relax. You weren’t quite ready to breathe easily yet.

“It really hurt. She fixed it. It didn’t hurt as bad,” Harris offered. “Until it started hurting again.”

You smiled at Harris before glancing over at Captain Kirk, who was chatting with Lieutenant Jenkins. Jenkins was smiling, and showing off the newly repaired skin on her forearm, pointing at you. You could just overhear her praising you, and could feel the colour rising on your cheeks. Your patients and your coworkers understood what you had done, even if Doctor McCoy didn’t.

“We need to revise this wound -” McCoy began.

“Yes, that’s what I said. But I don’t have the equipment or a safe -”

“Scotty, three to beam up, directly to medbay please,” McCoy interrupted and the unsettling gold glimmer of the transporter swirled around you, pulling you through space by a spot you thought might be somewhere in the centre of your spine. “There’s still Jim and two other patients in MedBay. If you can transport them, and then the rest of the medical team, Scotty.” He flipped his communicator closed and pocketed it.

The medbay aboard the Enterprise was like nothing you’d seen before. Starbase 14 was an old, off-the-beaten-path base, and while it had been up-to-date, it was nothing like the state-of-the-art Enterprise. You forced yourself not to goggle like a hillbilly.

“Scrub up, Y/L/N, you know your way around this man’s body, you can assist.” McCoy pulled you back to reality. You worked in silence, only responding to McCoy when he addressed you. After four long hours, he stepped away from Harris and nodded at the open wound. “Go ahead, close it up. Meet me in my office when you’ve stabilized him in recovery.”

You worked quickly and efficiently, managing the unfamiliar equipment with a practiced ease that came with your combined nursing and engineering skills. When you were certain Harris was stable and comfortable, you approached the CMOs office.

“Shut the door behind you,” he ordered. You drew a strengthening breath as you turned back to close the door.

“Doctor McCoy, before you start, I would just like the opportunity to -”

“You can call me Leonard, Y/N,” he interrupted.

“With all due respect, sir -”

“What you did on 14 was very brave. And very stupid. As Jim would like to remind me, it’s exactly the kind of bravery that built Starfleet,” he interrupted again. “So I’d like to make you an offer.”

“I’m confused,” you admitted.

“Starfleet needs the kind of doctor who can rig a replicator to sterilize tools. Who can look at a man who is bleeding out and calmly assess what needs to happen in order to save his life. Who can jury-rig a dermal regenerator to repair burns to 80% of a patient, even though it was designed for patches no greater than 3% of the skin. Starfleet needs you, Lieutenant Y/L/N. But it needs you as a doctor,” he explained.

“Still confused. I thought we’d determined I was just a nurse.” You drew out the sarcastic emphasis on the last few words of your sentence. Doctor McCoy flinched.

“In a pig’s eye, you’re just a nurse. I flipped through your personnel file while you were closing. You’ve got an incredible record, and you had previously been recommended for additional medical training,” he bit out. “You need to head back to the Academy and take doctor’s training. You should be able to challenge out of a number of classes.”

“You need the endorsement of your CMO to challenge -” you began to protest.

“I’ve already endorsed you, Y/N!” He exploded.

“Oh.” You dropped into the chair across from his desk and rubbed your temples, a wave of emotion crashing over you. Relief at being rescued, fear about Harris’s injuries, concern about your other two patients, worry about the rest of the crew, fear from McCoy’s many tempermental outbursts, and the bittersweet ache of being recognized for your ability. You blinked back tears again, but this time you weren’t as embarrassed, and let the first few fall before dashing them away with the sleeve of your uniform. There was a scraping sound and you looked up to see that McCoy had pushed a tumbler of amber liquid toward you. You tossed it back in one swallow, and as the heat of the liquor spread across your limbs, you felt yourself relax for the first time in months. You almost felt like yourself, and for the first time since Doctor Leonard McCoy walked into your medbay, you realized how handsome he was. And how long your dry spell had been. You pushed the glass back toward him.

“Whoa, slow down there, darlin’,” he laughed. “Allowing you to work on a surgery and then giving you too much whiskey? Jim’ll think I’m trying to seduce you.” He refilled your glass. You took a long draw off it before meeting his gaze with your own and smirking.

“Aren’t you, Doctor McCoy?”

He dropped his glass, jumping as the amber liquid splashed across his lap. His eyes met yours as he wiped his hands off on his pant. “I try not to bed my subordinates.”

“All the more reason for me to take you up on that endorsement offer, I guess.” You winked. McCoy sat back down, a flush climbing neck. He refilled his glass without looking back at you, and then raised it.

“To the safe rescue of the remaining crew of starbase 14,” he offered. You raised your glass in return.

“And to those we left behind. Including Ensign Harris’s leg,” you agreed, and tapped your glass against his before finishing your second glass.

#imagine star trek #star trek imagine #leonard bones mccoy #bones mccoy #loenard mccoy #mccoy imagine #imagine mccoy #leonard mccoy x reader #mccoy x reader #bones x reader

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kristablogs · 5 years ago

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How to evacuate and find emergency shelter during a pandemic

Pandemic or not, it's better to leave before this happens. (Chris Gallagher/Unsplash/)

Follow all of PopSci’s COVID-19 coverage here, including tips on cleaning groceries, ways to tell if your symptoms are just allergies, and a tutorial on making your own mask.

Storm season is here, but the pandemic doesn’t care.

Emergency preparedness will need to look different this year, but thinking ahead and staying informed will help you stay primed and ready if catastrophe strikes.

Assess your risk ahead of time

Before you make a plan, you’ll need to know exactly what disaster risks you face where you live, says Jonathan McNamara, a spokesperson for the American Red Cross.

By staying vigilant about what may happen and when, you can adjust the intensity of your planning accordingly. Find out which disasters may affect your area and how often people near you have had to evacuate or take shelter. Interactive maps like this hazard map from Columbia University can be a good starting point, and the Federal Emergency Management Agency offers free software for those who want to more comprehensively assess their risks.

Factors other than location can put certain populations in even more danger. “People with chronic conditions or those without access to reliable transportation may be more impacted by a disaster,” says Jennifer Horney, a University of Delaware epidemiologist who specializes in disasters and disease outbreaks.

No matter how much risk you face, it’s important to know your evacuation zone. Your local county or state emergency management department likely has a zone look-up tool on its website.

Build your emergency kit

“We’re really encouraging people this year to build two kits: A two-week emergency supply kit and a three-day evacuation supply kit,” says McNamara. Ideally, you should prepare these long before you need them, checking back only to keep your items up to date and ensure that nothing has expired, he says.

Your two-week supply kit should be kept at home in case it’s not safe to leave. It should include things like non-perishable foods, enough water for each person to drink a gallon a day, and one month’s worth of prescription medications. With the pandemic in mind, you should also pack some disinfectants, hygiene products, and masks.

The three-day evacuation kit is more of a “grab-and-go” bag to take with you as you seek shelter elsewhere. If you need to flee your home with little to no notice, you’ll want to have a bag ready to throw in your car. You’ll want extra clothes, masks or other face coverings, cash, and again, one month’s worth of prescription medications.

McNamara also suggests building a digital preparedness kit. Having extra battery packs, chargers, and power adapters on hand will ensure that you can stay in contact with family members, while also keeping your kids placated on their various devices. Keep your essential files backed up in the cloud and on a flash drive that you can always keep with you—originals should be stored in a waterproof and fireproof document bag, or in a bank safety deposit box. It might be good to pack extension cords and power strips, too—power outlets could be in short supply wherever you end up.

Finally, be ready for gas stations to be closed and keep a full spare gas can in your car or garage to get you to your planned shelter location.

Do not neglect other health factors

Storm season always comes with indirect impacts on community health, Horney says. Children may miss vaccines, people with chronic conditions might not make their appointments, various regulatory checks could be delayed, and medication shortages can occur. All these effects will be exacerbated by the pandemic, she says.

The best thing you can do is be mindful of any medical conditions you or your loved ones have, and know the medications everyone needs, says Schmidt. If you don’t have extra meds on hand, make sure you have a physical list with you so that once you get to a shelter you can communicate your needs to the medical personnel on site. It would be good to have a flash drive with your medical history on hand as well, Schmidt says.

Stay informed and connected

If your phone works, you can use it to keep on top of everything. (Nathan Dumlao/Unsplash/)

Keeping up to date with disaster developments in your area will ensure you are not blindsided by warnings and evacuation calls. “The last thing we want—and we see this year after year—is that people do ignore warnings and then find themselves in a very dangerous situation that could threaten their lives,” says McNamara.

To stay informed, look to your local emergency management department. Check their website or Twitter for updates. The Red Cross, ready.gov, and FEMA have a plethora of online resources and guides to help with preparedness and kit-making. The Red Cross also has emergency apps that can walk you through disaster preparedness and sign you up for local emergency alerts.

“Our focus is putting preparedness information right in the palm of people’s hands,” says McNamara. Making evacuation decisions in the heat of the moment can be overwhelming, but looking to authorities for guidance can remove a layer of complication from your decision-making and eliminate confusion, he says.

Know where you’ll go

It’s important to know ahead of time where you’ll go to take shelter. If the time comes for you to evacuate, you won’t want to be scrambling for a place to stay while anxiety and adrenaline run high. The most typical shelter options for evacuees are hotels, public shelters, or with friends or family.

“If you can shelter at home, or with family or friends, we encourage you to do that,” says Shannon Davis Weiner, director of emergency management in Monroe County, Florida. “That is a safe bet, and that is your best bet.” Her county includes the Florida Keys, a 120-mile-long island chain that’s particularly vulnerable to hurricanes.

Heading to your parents’ or best friend’s house may be preferable in more normal times, but the pandemic has made everything more complicated. If you’re considering staying with people you know, find out whether anyone is particularly at risk of being severely affected by COVID-19, and see how that affects your plans.

If you need to seek out a public shelter, it’s important to know where the nearest ones are and how you will get to them, Weiner says. Monroe County, for example, is arranging shelters within its borders and in neighboring Miami-Dade County, for island residents who need to seek mainland shelter in case of more severe conditions—so county residents will have multiple options to choose from.

When considering hotels, keep several options in mind, as they may not be open when you need them, McNamara says. Understand that having children or pets could affect the locations available to you. The pandemic has put financial strain on many households, too, so know where you have the means to travel to or stay. When in doubt, head to a public shelter. Organizers there can then direct you to available open hotels.

Don’t be afraid to go to a public shelter

Shelters evoke an image of crowds huddled together in shared space, a daunting environment in the midst of a pandemic. But emergency organizers have trained for this and are taking the risks of COVID-19 in stride. So if you’ve been to a public shelter before, know that this year will look different.

The Red Cross and other non-profit organizations know what it takes to handle disasters and disease outbreaks at the same time, says Cheryl Schmidt, an Arizona State University professor who trains nurses in disaster preparedness. Schmidt was with the Red Cross in 2009 and 2015 when the organization had to manage hurricane shelters during the H1N1 and swine flu outbreaks, respectively. Shelters this year will likely implement many of the strategies they adopted then, like handing out masks and hand sanitizer and creating isolation areas for people with symptoms of disease.

“You should absolutely not feel scared to go to a public shelter,” assures Weiner. “If it’s not safe for you to shelter at home or with family, then we want you to come to a public shelter.” Convincing people to use public shelters is difficult, even without an ongoing pandemic, but it may be your best bet during an evacuation, she says.

Every person who comes to a Red Cross public shelter will be screened for COVID-19 symptoms, says McNamara. It doesn’t matter whether you are presenting symptoms, have pre-existing medical needs, or are afraid of getting sick—none of that should prevent you from seeking out a public shelter if you need to evacuate. “We want to ensure that anybody who needs to seek shelter in advance of any type of disaster can feel comfortable knowing that there’s a place for them to go, and that it feels safe for all parties,” he says.

Local governments are preparing, too. As soon as you get to a public shelter in Monroe County, for example, there will be a health screening and a temperature check, says Weiner. The county’s plan includes: a face mask, hand sanitizer, and wipes for everyone; more shelter space; additional staff for disinfecting the area; isolation areas and dedicated staff for anyone with symptoms; and more medical personnel, she says.

Anticipate adjustments

“From the Red Cross’s perspective, I can’t think of a protocol we haven’t had to modify,” says McNamara. For example, shelters previously fed evacuees by sending staffers into crowds to pass out food. This year, he says, meals will probably more closely resemble takeout from a restaurant, with prepackaged single-serve meals delivered at a distance.

Another pandemic-specific challenge will be how to safely provide emotional support in a shelter. When close contact can spread disease, we cannot physically comfort each other, says McNamara—no hugs allowed. People will need to figure out how to comfort each other while still staying safe and distanced.

Managing the pandemic in tandem with disaster relief will be a challenge, especially with limited funds and workforce. “Local public health agencies and emergency managers are always trying to find the right messages and the right resources to fill any gaps in knowledge that people have, but the size of those gaps, given COVID-19, may look very different,” says Horney. This year may expose exactly where our system for protecting people is weakest, so it’s best to be prepared.

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