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thescarletwitchsapprentice · 4 years ago

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A Pure Soul: Nearly Taken (Yandere!Wanda Maximoff x ADD!autistic!reader)

*Not my GIF.

Summary: The day (y/n) comes back to the compound after being told all those nasty things takes a toll on their mental health and self-esteem. Unfortunately it gets to a point that Wanda hoped it would NEVER reach.

Request?: Still none.

Word Count: 3,456

Warnings: Ableism, eugenics mention, r-word slur, attempted suicide, attempted overdose, hurt and comfort.

Notes: This is a sort of “in-between scene” from “A Pure Soul.” The rate of suicide is 3 times higher in autistic people because of the world’s lack of understanding and willingness to accommodate us. Plus being told the world would be better off without you, along with people looking for ways to make sure we’re not born....that’s gonna take a toll. So it makes sense for these feelings to emerge.

=============================================

You know that the world isn’t very kind to the disabled.

You know that the world wishes people like you wouldn’t exist.

But that doesn’t make what happened hurt any less.

You were out shopping when you ran into your best friend from high school. Except....this friend wasn’t the same as you knew them. No, instead they showed you their true colors.

“Oh hey, (y/n),” they said.

Tone has never been your specialty.

“Hey!” you exclaimed happily as you were looking through the books at your local bookstore. “It’s been so long since I’ve seen you! How are you?”

“Better. How’s the treatment coming along?”

This confused you.

“Treatment?”

They nodded.

“For that disease you call autism.”

This struck a chord, and it struck HARD. How could they say something like that?!

“D-disease?!”

They smirked.

“I mean, it just makes us humans lives harder to be around your kind.”

What?!

“What the hell’s gotten into you?!” you exclaimed. “I thought you were my best friend!”

“Oh?”

They pretended to wrack their brain.

“Oh! Yeah, I was such a great actor in that part. I should get an Oscar. Here’s the tea; I lost a bet and had to be your best friend for those four hellish years. I can’t believe they wanted me to suffer that much.”

Your heart began to crack. It was all....an act?

“You took my high school years away from me, made me miserable. I could’ve won prom royalty, but no one voted for me because I associated myself with your species. I’m glad you’re out of my life now. You’re nothing but a burden and the world would be so much better off without you. Why not do us that favor?”

Your heart shattered. You were so plagued with shock that you didn’t notice them push you to the ground and spit on you before walking away with a satisfied chuckle. For the next few minutes, you couldn’t say or do anything. You were just frozen to the spot, their words bouncing around your head.

Finally you were able to feel both the physical and emotional pain. Pursing your lips, you got up, kept your head down, and quickly left the bookstore, trying not to let the tears fall.

===============================================

In the elevator, heading up to your floor, you can barely form a new thought. All you can think of is that hurtful interaction.

Burden, your kind, your species, disease....

It all hurt.

And the worst part is that you can’t help but think that they’re right.

But your thoughts are jolted by the elevator bell. As usual you find the Avengers hanging out in the lounge. Nat and Clint are chatting with Wanda. Tony and Peter are working on homework. You can barely see what the others are doing.

Almost instantly, Wanda’s eye falls on you. She has a smile on her face, but it falls when she sees you, as she instantly knows that something is wrong.

“(Y/N)!” she whispers worried.

She rushes over and gives you a gentle hug, but you practically squeeze the life out of her. The other Avengers also come to your aid.

“What happened?” Wanda asks you.

You gulp as she and Nat lead you to the couch.

“I....” you begin as you sit down. “I was out shopping....and I ran into my best friend from high school....”

You tell them the entire interaction. Shocked looks are nearly all around by the end.

“That’s seriously messed up,” Nat says in a mix of disgust and anger.

The others nod in agreement, except for Wanda. Instead she begins to tear up.

“My sweet angel,” she weeps softly as she hugs you closer and pets your head. “Oh, my sweet, sweet angel. None of what they said is true, not one bit of it. You’re an absolute joy to have around and you’re one of the kindest souls I’ve ever met. You bring so much to the Avengers and to our lives. Autism is not a disease. It’s a part of who you are, and I wouldn’t change it for the world.”

“Wanda’s right,” Peter nods. “You’re wonderful, (y/n). You’re one of the best friends I could ever ask for.”

“And you bring a lot of new perspectives,” Nat adds. “You came into our lives when we needed you the most, especially Wanda.”

They all take turns giving you words of comfort and encouragement as well as letting you cry. Wanda stays the closest to you, to no one’s surprise, hugging you tightly. Her embrace is exactly what you need right now; so warm and loving.

Tony, though not the most emotional person, does feel sympathetic and even angered at the person who said that to you; even though you’re on the opposite side of the Accords, he decides to get your favorite food for dinner. It’s not the greatest gesture of sympathy, but it’s definitely something. After that, you take a nice, warm shower and get into some fresh, soft pajamas. Wanda’s waiting for you in your bedroom, and surprises you with some soft socks that match your pajamas.

“I removed the fabric tags too,” she tells you.

Your heart melts a bit more for her. How someone as kind, attentive, and loving as her could ever be considered a terrible person is beyond you. You let her put them on your feet and they feel amazing. You wriggle your toes in them, smiling.

“You like them?” she asks you.

“I love them,” you giggle before turning to Wanda. “And I love you.”

She smiles and gives you a kiss on the forehead.

“I love you too, my angel.”

The two of you spend the rest of the night together, cuddling up close with one another, watching sitcoms, singing quietly. You doze off in her arms.....

But that doesn’t mean it’s over.....

==============================================

You’re not someone who easily forgets how things make you feel, and what that person said still makes you feel like shit. Now whenever you go out, you’re worried that you’re going to run into them. You keep your guard up and walk as quickly as you can. Every outing feels like a fight for survival, but you try to stay strong so that you don’t bother the others. You try to keep a smile on your face. You need to be strong.....

.....But even the strong reach their limits.

It’s a little after you found out they became catatonic. You’re at a coffee shop, nearly empty, when someone else walks in. It’s a friend of that person. You keep your head low as they place their order; four cups of black coffee, extra hot. Your anxiety is increasing, but you don’t want this person to think you’re weak. You keep your back to them, hearing the door open again.

The other person is called for their order. Maybe you can finally get out of here.

The next thing you know, you feel something steaming hot being poured down the back of your shirt, on your head, thrown in your face, (which you luckily cover most of with your arms) and splattered on your arms and legs. Standing up, you cry out in pain as you whirl around to see 4 people from high school, among them the friend of your former best friend.

“It’s your fault my best friend can’t function, you retard!” the friend snaps as they push you around roughly.

“No one wants you on this planet,” spits another.

“You’re nothing but a parasite!”

“You just weigh people down!”

“You’re an embarrassment to society!”

“Why don’t you just end this?”

“It’ll be better that way!”

“Your birth was a mistake!”

By this time, you’re hardly a thread’s width away from a meltdown and you look at the cashier for help, but nothing. You try to take out your phone to call for help, but you end up slipping on the coffee, falling to the ground hard and in an odd position, hearing a crack. Pain surges through your body as you look at your arms; burn marks are beginning to form.

After they kick at you for a bit and spit on you, they leave. You look up at the cashier.

“Why....didn’t you help?” you whimper with a whistle in your voice.

No answer.

They don’t help you up either. Crawling to the door, you use a nearby booth to bring yourself back up to your feet. Suddenly you feel an intense surge of pain in your left leg, and not just from the burns. You look to see that it’s swollen and turning reddish-purple. You reach into your coat and get out your phone only to discover that it’s dead. Wanda’s going to be worried sick....you hate making her worry, and she’s been worried sick these last few weeks to the point where it’s taking a toll on her; so on the way back, you decide to take one worry out of her life for good.

======================

It’s dark when you get back to the compound. And lucky for you, the elevator is closed for repairs. You limp up the stairs, finally reaching the compound. As quiet as a dust mite, you open the door, biting down on your lips to keep yourself from crying out in pain; unfortunately, your lips took some burn damage as well. Limping to the bathroom, you shut and lock the door. You search the medicine cabinet and find some pills.

“This should do the trick,” you whisper.

You try to quietly position yourself on the floor so that you won’t hit your head. You want to be able to pass as peacefully as possible. But something gives in your left leg and you fall, letting out a loud cry of agony. Realizing your mistake, you quickly fiddle with the lid of the bottle as you hear footsteps rush in. You finally get the lid open and begin to pour out the whole bottle into your hand, hoping to get it in in time--

Click!

The lock turns scarlet, clicks, and the door swings opens.

“(Y/N)!”

A terrified Wanda immediately snatches the pills and bottle from you with her powers. She makes them disappear before heading to your side, tears already flowing from her eyes.

“My sweet angel.....” she squeaks as she kneels in front of you gently taking ahold of your hands. “I didn’t realize you were feeling this terrible. I’m so sorry things have reached this point.”

You look away guiltily.

“No, I’m sorry....it’s my fault. I never said....anything. You....you’ve been so stressed these past few weeks....all of you. I didn’t want to make it worse on you, so....I just kept quiet.”

Wanda shakes her head.

“You have nothing to apologize for, (y/n). It can be scary, but there’s no shame in reaching out. We all need help sometimes.”

Other footsteps rush in.

“What happened?” Nat asks. “Did (y/n)---?”

“Almost,” Wanda gulps. “We need to get them to the emergency room.”

“I’m fine,” you lie.

“Are you fine?” Wanda asks.

You realize that it’s pointless to lie, and you shake your head.

“No, I’m not....”

“Then we need to take you to the emergency room.....”

That’s when she sees the burns and leg.

“Especially to treat these.....what happened?”

As they carry you to the car, you tell them about the run-in at the coffee shop, them pouring the hot coffee on you, how they were telling you all of these things, how the cashier did nothing to help, how you heard that crack. Both of them are disgusted and horrified at those monsters.

“I don’t care what they say,” Nat tells you as they get you inside. “I’m glad that you’re here.”

“I am too,” Wanda agrees as she gets in the front seat. “We’re here for you.”

“But.....my autism.....”

Wanda gently takes ahold of your fingers, careful to avoid the burns.

“My angel.....I can only imagine how isolating it feels to be in a world that’s not made for you, but your autism is part of who you are. It’s what makes you unique. If the world refuses to accommodate for people like you on their own, we’ll help them to see that they need to, and we’ll help advocate with you.”

Nat nods as she starts the car up and the three of you head for the ER.

“I....I feel selfish worrying you like this and even attempting....I just thought....you’ve been so stressed and I thought it’d be better to take one worry out of your life.”

“You have nothing to feel selfish about,” Wanda assures you. “What you did wasn’t selfish. You’re in pain, and wanting to do something to stop that pain isn’t selfish. But there are better ways to deal with the pain, and I want to help you with those. (Y/N), I can say with 100% certainty that I’m glad to have you in my life, through the good and the bad.”

Tears flow down your face as the three of you silently drive to the ER.

=============================================

It takes several hours for you to be treated, along with a few more hours of consultation for your mental health. Some of the burns are treated through surgery, so you have to stay for a little over a week to make sure you recover and stabilize. Your leg is put in a cast, and Wanda comes to visit you everyday. You feel much better with her and Nat.

A psychologist comes in to discuss a safety plan with you. You decided to ask Wanda if she’d come and discuss it with them. She said yes and Nat also decided to help. You all work out what works in terms of coping mechanisms, people you can talk to, calming techniques, etc,. The psychologist also recommends regular counseling. Wanda asks if there are any remote options for counseling, as it’s going to be difficult for you to get there with your leg, (Also, she’s a little worried that the therapist might try to take you away from her, but she does show concern for your leg) and to her relief, there is.

You’re discharged after about a week, but you’re not to be left alone for a few days to another week or two, just to be sure. Well, it’s more of Wanda’s recommendation than psychologist’s orders, but the psychologist also thinks that that could be a good idea. You’re not really complaining; it’s more time to spend with Wanda. And she’s certainly not complaining either.

For that time, especially, she makes sure you know that you’re loved, wanted, valued. She practically dotes on you; as if she hadn’t been doting on you before, she’s especially pampering you now. The other Avengers also get the 411, and decide to help. If you need pain or sleep medications, one of them brings the proper dose to you. They take turns spending time with you and getting to know you more. If they need to go out on a mission, Wanda volunteers to stay with you, but if she’s absolutely needed there, she entrusts your care to Vision, a robot who’s exceptionally caring. You and Wanda regularly discuss possibly adding him to the relationship, but you’re not sure if she’s being serious or not.

On one night, Wanda’s caring for you. After applying the prescribed cream on your burns, she helps you find an oversized t-shirt to wear as PJs.

“This one’s softer than the others,” you note.

“I went looking for a shirt with a softer material than normal,” she tells you as she prepares a small dose of melatonin for you, one that you’ve been taking to combat the nightmares of those events in the hospital. “I know how much it tends to make you feel discomforted if there is one. I also made sure it was a tagless shirt.”

You smile and sigh.

“I don’t know what I did to deserve an angel like you, Wanda,” you tell her.

Hearing this she smiles and blushes.

“If anyone’s the angel, it’s you,” she says as she gives you the melatonin. “You’ve been there for me even when I’m at my absolute worst.”

“So have you.”

You take the melatonin before Wanda brings you your toothbrush and toothpaste. You brush thoroughly before spitting it into a cup that Wanda disposes of.

“You know, I could go to the bathroom and do this myself,” you tell her kindly.

“I know,” she sighs. “I’m just worried, my angel.”

“What if I wash my face tonight with the door open?” you suggest.

Wanda gives this a little thought and nods.

“I can work with that.”

Using your crutches, you walk to the bathroom where you sit on a stool in front of the sink. You wash and dry your face before heading to the bed with Wanda helping you get tucked in.

“You’re seriously an angel,” you tell her. “I don’t think I’ve ever met someone outside of my family that’s been as concerned about my well-being as you.”

“And you’re too sweet,” she smiles again as she finishes getting ready for bed herself. “If anyone’s the undeserving, I don’t deserve you.”

“No, it’s the other way around,” you say.

“No, I’m certain I’m right.”

You giggle.

“Wanda, if we try to prove one right over the other, we’ll be going at this all night.”

She smiles as she goes over to the other side of the bed.

“Well, I know you’re an angel,” she tells you as she gets under the covers. “You came to me in a dark time, and you shone a beam of sunlight through the shadow.”

The two of you look at each other as the fairy lights hang above you. Of course you’re looking at the bridge of her nose, but you can’t help but glance up at her eyes a few times; one time they catch you, and they are stunning. They’re like emeralds to you; vivid, entrancing, mystical. Just a single glance, and you know there’s so much to know about, so much to discover, and you become lost in them.

“I’m so proud of you, (y/n).”

Wanda’s gentle voice echoes against your eardrums and dances around your mind, soothing you into drifting even more. But then she boops you on the nose, making it twitch like a bunny’s and snapping you out of your trance.

“Huh?” you ask, looking lost.

Wanda giggles.

“You are too cute,” she tells you. “I was saying that I’m so proud of you for pushing through all of this. It’s not the easiest thing to do, and.....well.....I’m glad you’re still alive, my sweet little sunbeam.”

You blush upon hearing this and turn away, but Wanda gently redirects your face forward.

“There’s no need to hide, my angel. I want to see your lovely face.”

At that moment, you begin to feel drowsy and bring yourself closer to her.

“I don’t think I’ll ever be able to thank you enough, Wanda,” you sigh.

She brings you in closer and you melt into her embrace.

“Being with you, and you being safe and happy and alive.....that’s the only thank you I need.”

Leaning in, she kisses you gently on your forehead and you shyly return one on her cheek.

“Goodnight, my angel,” she tells you as she brushes a strand of hair out of your way.

“Wait,” you say as she turns to switch the lights off. “Will....will you sing me those lullabies again? Please?”

“Of course,” she smiles.

Turning the lights off, she returns to embrace you and softly sings the Sokovian lullabies her parents used to sing to her. As you drift off to sleep, you don’t know what’s going on in her mind. What’s going on with her mind? Her master plan, of course. Tonight’s the night she will finish what she started. Those monsters at the coffee shop messed with the wrong person. For the past few nights, she’s been paying them visits, doing the same things she did with your former best friend, and sending subconscious suggestions for them to gather in one place, thinking they’d be safer together. And now they have.

Tonight she’s going to make sure their minds are gone for good, but not before making them feel the pain and agony she imagines you felt. Her anger with them is in full throttle, so it’s going to be even worse for them. Telekinesis, fear projection, hypnosis, inducing extreme fear, she’ll do whatever she has to. Wanda will not leave until they’re nothing more than hollow husks, shadows of their former selves. With how they’d been acting on those nights, and how much Wanda has done so far, it won’t take too long.

Because no one-and she means no one-gets away with hurting her precious angel.......ever.

#cw suicide attempt #yandere x reader #yandere wanda maximoff #yandere wanda maximoff x reader #yandere marvel #wanda maximoff x reader #yandere avengers #wanda maximoff #scarlet witch #yandere scarlet witch #wanda maximoff x autistic!reader #autistic!reader #marvel imagine #avengers imagines

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teaboot · 4 years ago

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Hey I just wanted to ask you something I don't know if its personal so maybe I'll start with me, my psychiatrist told me that I have asperger's syndrome and like my mom keeps asking me like what does that means because I think she sees people with autism as stupid and I'm at the top of my class so she feels like it's a mistake, I personally go mute for months sometimes except for like oral tests, and idk I forget about having a body and so I hit onto walls when I'm focused on something but *

"...*is not so exaggerated like I'm pretty functional I just forget that there are walls and doors and that I can't just transport me to the other room or so,I mean I feel like I'm just trying to find what my "weird or autistic" traits are to justify the diagnosis,I didn't asked my psychiatrist to elaborate on that and so I was wondering, what would you say that your autistic traits are?Also just in case,I know that autistic people can be hella smart and I think that you are really wise I admire you"

Thank you so much, that's very sweet of you to say!

Honestly, I'm sort of in a similar situation- My parents' reaction was to say, "you're too smart to be autistic" or, "Everyone of ~your intelligence~ is a little weird in the head, anyways", and then. Expect me to live up to all the positive stereotypes without ever getting bogged down by the negative realities?

This might not be very helpful at all of me to say, but as an adult who grew up in a rather unpleasant environment, there really isn't much help for a number of things except getting old and independant enough to move out, and then just accepting that their perception of reality isn't open to negotiation. You can try debating it, or meeting them on common ground with scientific basis, but in my case....

....well. There's just some things I now know not to talk about at family gatherings.

I'm sorry, I know that's probably not very helpful or heartening to hear.

As for my personal grab bag of symptoms? I tend to hyperfocus on personal projects. When I'm really invested in an art piece, I often forget to eat or sleep or drink, and the only way I've learned to snap out of that is that if my hands are shaking or I'm falling over a lot, I probably need to eat something and lay down for a while, because otherwise- and yeah, not the healthiest motivator- otherwise I might start fucking up my hard work.

I also get overwhelmed by overlapping noises- if two people are talking at once, even if one is on a radio or TV show, I can't hear either of them and it stresses the shit out of me. White noise, like in malls or assemblies, also tends to burn my energy pretty fast.

Things like leaf blowers, people whistling indoors, and emergency sirens are physically painful. Repetitive noises like a bouncing rubber ball, sniffling, dogs licking things, and low-frequency vibrations from massage chairs, earthquakes, distant bass music, and some fluorescent lighting systems are impossible to ignore, which ranges from irritating to distressing, depending on my headspace du jour.

I hate bland food with a passion. It tends to make me nauseaus. I like lots of spice, lots of sugar, lots of sour and hot and acidic. I love strong flavours, and if I'm cooking for friends and family I often have to remind myself to tone down the seasonings for them.

Some textures make me genuinely ill, too- most types of meat, fat, and other animal bits result in.... Bad times for all. Polyester towels suck ass. Microfiber cloth. Thick cotton knit material. Any fabric covering my forearms. Thin, elastic denim. Vinyl. Polar fleece.

On the flip side, I looooove woven cotton blankets. Cotton sheets, cotton bedding- cold, heavy duvets are good, too. Acrylic, so long as it doesn't get damp. I have.... Perhaps a little bit of a problem here, as I do... Maybe, possibly, get a little impulsive with buying rugs, throws, and blankets when I come across one that feels right.

All my cups and bowls are handmade out of clay. I'm OK with smooth ceramics, but stoneware feels happy in my hands. I think of it as a treat, like packing a bit of chocolate with my lunch, or eating a whole bag of popcorn by myself. Again, I.... May go a little overboard when I come across A nice-feeling piece of dishware.

Basically, from what I understand, a lot of folks on the spectrum are under and over stimulated by various sensory inputs.

Me, I gravitate towards taste, inertia, tactile sensation, temperature, and dark lighting, while I find myself avoiding, limiting, or minimizing sound, light, color, oral texture, and smell.

As for more stereotyped behaviors, I find organizing things such as legal documents, filing cabinets, paint swatches, hardware, coins, stones, or colors to be very soothing and almost meditative. I go through special interests fairly often, and have been 'into' things like animals, insects, natural history, and art since before I could walk. I can't explain why they're such alluring subjects, they just make me happy.

I didn't realize until recently that I do stim, as well- I rock, sway, growl, swish water around, hang upside-down, rotate my thumbs, rub fabric, twirl coins, and flex my hands. I also (rarely) seem compelled to jump up and down in circles very fast when I'm particularly excited, or flap my arms against my sides like a penguin.

When I'm overstimulated, I go.... I'm not sure if you could call it 'nonverbal'. I get the feeling I COULD speak, it's just.... Overwhelmingly difficult. Usually I find a dark space or a corner away from people, put a coat or something over my head, cover my ears, close my eyes... Sometimes deliberate eye contact is hard, or I can't say more than one or two words at a time, or I find myself relying more on a hum or a grunt to communicate that I'm listening.

It... Probably all sounds weird to a neurotypical who may be reading, but I'm perfectly happy with myself as I am. I wouldn't change it if I could, except perhaps to minimize some of the more irritating things.

Mostly, my biggest peeve is being treated like a cool new pet or accessory. "Oh, this is my person with Autism- they're great at cleaning, you should get one!"- yeah, that can fuck right off. I'm right here, I can hear you, I'm a person. A little respect goes a long way.

But, whoops, here I've gone on a ramble- you want the best advice I have, though? Become comfortable with the person you are. Accept and seek out what things bring you happiness. Don't get hung up on the negatives. Love your experience, if you can, and don't worry about validating anything- you are who you are, and the words we use to explain ourselves fall so, so short when faced with the complexity of our individual existence.

The way I see it, the day before your diagnosis is the same as today, you just have one more tool to understand yourself with. The decision of how and if you choose to explain this to those around you is entirely yours to decide!

I know this kind of went off the rail of your question. My answers are a little limited. I hope I could help anyways! Good luck!!

#Long post #teaboot

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thechangeling · 4 years ago

Text

The Box

Tiberius Blackthorn had gotten quite good at compartmentalizing. Pretending that things weren't happening, that they didn't effect him. Pretending that he didn't feel. It was almost like flicking a switch. If things got too painful or too real he just turned it off. Closed his eyes and told himself over and over.

This isn't real. This isn't really happening. This doesn't matter. I don't care.

She isn't really dead. I don't miss him. I don't love him. Over and over until the pain stopped. Ty could usually make it last for awhile. Until something brought up an unpleasant memory or feeling and then he had to start all over again.

Being around Kit again was certainly making this worse.

Kit, in true Herondale fashion was in deep trouble with multiple people. As it turned out, he was the first heir and now a bunch of people were trying to either kill or kidnap him. So now a bunch of shadowhunters and downworlders had banded together to help him defeat his enemies and keep him safe. Ty had made a huge fuss to Drusilla about being forced to help. But secretly they both knew that he would rather die then let anything happen to Kit.

So now Kit was here, back in the Los angeles institute and currently sitting at the breakfast table with that vampire friend of his and Dru. She seemed to be very adamantly telling a story and Kit was laughing hysterically. Ty felt his heart turning over in his chest at the sound. He had to fight the urge to smile.

It isn't real. I don't love him. This isn't real.

Having him this close was torture. Hearing him laugh, watching him train, watching him flirt, watching him try not to cry in front of the others. There were so many times that Ty wanted to just reach out and touch him. Run his fingers through Kit's hair, trace the curve of his cupid's bow, hold him in his arms. It was a burning, suffocating ache.

Ty leaned back against his perch up on the windowsill. He had asked Livvy to give him some space to be alone. He was doing a decent job of blending into the background with his black clothing and dark hair. Or maybe they were just ignoring him. Ty pushed away that thought.

Suddenly he felt the weight of someone hopping up beside him. They made no noise or attempts to get his attention. Ty could hear the faint sound of Under Pressure coming out of headphones.

Alyssa.

Alyssa Reyes was the werewolf from Maia's pack who had been assigned to essentially be the scholomance's liaison to the downworld and help educate future centurions about downworlder affairs. She hadn't exactly been happy about this situation and had been pretty hostile towards most of them for awhile. But she and Ty had bonded over both being autistic, and also being queer. He could honestly say that meeting Alyssa had changed his life.

He turned to face her. She was staring up at the sky, mouthing along to the words of the song. Her black wireless headphones were slud over her ears and her dark waves were tied up into a low bun. She was excitedly fiddling with the straps of her white crop top which contrasted nicely against her golden brown skin. He stared at her for awhile, just basking in her presence.

He was sad that she was going back to New York in a week. He was really going to miss her.

Eventually she turned her gaze on him, sliding her headphones down. "You have all the best hiding spots" she confessed with a smile. 'Also I figured it was time to come interrupt your lurking because it was just getting a little sad." Ty rolled his eyes at her.

"I wasn't lurking! I'm literally just sitting here!" He protested worrying instantly that they were speaking too loudly. But everyone else was deeply preoccupied with their conversations and also they were several feet away. He stole a quick glance at Kit again and practically felt Alyssa disapproval radiating off of her. Ty turned back to face her displeased expression.

When Ty had first met Alyssa she was scared and standoffish but had quickly warmed up to him. He often described her as having pure magic in her warm brown eyes, so much excitement and life practicing buzzing out of her. But now her eyes were cold and dark. She seemed angry.

"I have just about had enough of this Ty" she announced. It's clear to me how much you want him, how much you love him, so why don't you just go talk to him already?"

Ty sighed, avoiding her gaze. "I can't."

She flailed her hands haphazardly. "What do you mean you can't Ty? You can. You just won't! I'm so sick of this!" She shouted.

Ty spared a panicked glance back at the kitchen table, but they hadn't looked their way. Still Ty hopped down from the ledge.

"Here, follow me" he said to Alyssa, pulling her off the ledge. She didn't protest. She allowed him to lead her out of the kitchen and into the hallway.

"Look" he began, "I don't want to talk to Kit alright? I'm still mad at him. I'm not just going to let that go." He explained. Alyssa just stared back at him.

There was a long drawn out pause where neither of them spoke. Ty wasn't that concerned. Long drawn out pauses were kind of their thing.

"Ok" she said slowly. "I need to tell you something that you might not be ready to hear. In fact it's probably going to make you really angry. But I need you to listen."

Ty had no idea what to say to that. But Aylssa kept on talking.

"Ty you need to get over yourself" she stated simply.

Ty bristled instantly. Rage flooded through his entire being. Who the fuck did she think she was? And to hear this from Alyssa of all people. Didnt she understand why he was so hurt? Why he was so angry?

Alyssa kept going before he could yell at her, stepping towards him slightly. "Listen to me Tiberius Blackthorn. I understand your pain, better than anyone else most likely. I understand your anger. I feel it to. I feel it everyday. The way the world treats us it's like little jagged cuts everyday, slowly whittling us down into nothing." Her voice broke. Her eyes were brimmed with tears.

"But I need you to ask yourself something" she continued shakely. "I need you to ask yourself, did Kit Herondale really do this? All of this? Is all of this really his fault? Something that we talk about a lot in therapy is putting the blame where it belongs. Recognize what was caused by which person and how much fault really lies with the person you're mad at. I know you don't want to forgive him because you're hurting and your also so fucking stubborn love" she laughed despite the fact that her eyes were filled with tears.

"You refuse to move. And I know why you do that because you think if you move, you will be admitting defeat. Admitting weakness. But you aren't Ty. You are saving yourself" She reached for him but shot backwards, shaking his head. He couldn't believe her. Maybe somewhere deep down he knew that she was probably right but he didn't care. He didnt care about what he knew anymore. All he could think about was the pain he felt.

"Please" she whispered "It isn't healthy to hold a grudge for this long. It isn't good for you. It isn't good for your soul." Alyssa wiped her eyes and stood up straighter, hardening her voice. "I know you're fed up with everything, and the same things keep happening over and over again. But here's the thing. Kit isn't responsible for what Paige did to you or what your father did, or your uncle or anyone else." Ty instantly began to shake at the mention of Paige Ashdown. He could feel all if those instances coming back to him. All of those kid memories he had tried to repress.

Whenever Ty had something horrible and traumatic happen to him. Everytime someone laughed in his face, everytime someone whispered behind his back or called him a slur. Every time someone made him doubt if he was really loved. Every autistic hate crime, every murder, every debate over the concept of his soul and whether it really existed. Livvy's death. Everything that happened that day on the beach. What Kit had said to him. Kit leaving him. He took all of it, all the bad memories, all of the pain and heartbreak. He took it and shoved it into some deep place inside of him. He usually envisioned a box of some sort. He shoved it all inside of that box, shut the lid and buried it.

This isn't real. This didn't happen. This isn't happening.

Ty's entire body was vibrating now. Alyssa put her hand on his shoulder. "Listen to me. Kit Herondale is not your enemy. He isn't trying to drown you or ship you off to an institution or shove you into ABA. And I know what you're thinking, that's a pretty fucking low bar and I know!" She exclaimed. "I know! But we have to start somewhere Ty. We have to start somewhere or else we will never get anywhere. That kid is so fucking in love with you and yes he does not deserve a gold medal for doing so, but he is fighting like hell to win you back."

That much was true. Kit had been trying to talk to him all week, but Ty kept brushing him off. It wasn't enough, he always told himself. It wasnt enough. He wasnt actually sure if Kit really loved him. He just refused to believe it.

Ty shook his head at Alyssa, his fingers fluttering at his sides. He began to hit his hands against his thighs to ease some of the tention he was feeling. Alyssa squeezed his arm, taking a deep breath.

"I know you are sick and tired of explaining the same things over and over and answering stupid questions and always having to make adjustments and put in the effort when everyone else doesn't try. I am too! Believe me! But I think at a certain point you need to ask yourself if you can forgive him for not knowing?" She asked. "Can you forgive him for being ignorant and making a mistake and breaking your heart because you've hurt him too? Can you accept that he is not perfect?" She dropped her arm down and stared him directly in his eyes. "Because neither are you. Ty I know you dont wanna hear this, but you live in a very privileged bubble where most people let you get away with murder because you're a man and you're white, while those same people condemn me for being rude and intolerable." She said pointedly.

Ty bit his lip. He felt like he should argue with her but he knew she had a point. "You're a shadowhunter!" She glared at him. "You're a shadowhunter and your people have committed so many atrocities against mine. You and your family spent most of your time ignoring all of this and only focusing on helping your brother and sister. You joined an organization that has a history of doing terrible things to downworlders!" She shouted.

"Well so did you!" He shot back even though he knew it wasnt really the same thing. "And by the angel Ali if you really hate me that much then why are you even here?" Alyssa just shook her head at him and rolled her eyes. "Because I don't hate you genius. I could hold these things against you, but I don't. I forgave you for not knowing. As long as you acknowledge it and try to work on making things better, which you are, then I can let it go. Because like I said Ty, we have to start somewhere" she pleaded. "

"You have to be brave and let it go."

Instantly Ty sucked in a breath. He recognized the words she had used perfectly. They were from a song.

Their song.

Tears instantly gathered in his eyes. He let out a shakey exhale and she smiled sadly at him.

"Because right now all you're doing is hurting is yourself." Alyssa said with a shrug.

Ty squeezed his eyes shut for a moment. "I know" he whispered. He opened his eyes again, she was staring at him sympathetically with those warm eyes. "I just dont know how to do this" he admitted. "I don't know how to deal with all if it. I don't think I can."

Alyssa looked confused "Deal with what exactly?"

Ty took a deep breath. "The box" he exhaled. Alyssa looked even more confused. It was a little funny.

So he decided to tell her. He told her about the coping mechanisms he had been using since he was a child. He told her about the box and how many things he had buried in it, and what they were. She cried and held him tightly to her chest. He let himself cry along with her.

He cried for that kid who had the door slammed in his face, that kid who had his interests mocked and spat on. That kid who had his heart broken over and over again long before Kit Herondale. That kid who never felt accepted or like he belonged, not even with his own twin. He cried for Livvy. He cried for that kid on the beach who lost everything. Who wanted to apologize to Kit and make everything right because he was so fucking naive and stupid, and Magnus Bane told him to go away.

So he did. But it hadn't solved anything.

He also cried for Kit. His Kit.

Ty pulled away from Alyssa, wiping at his eyes. "The worst part is it's not just my pain that's in there. I put all of the stuff with Kit in the box too" he confessed. "Like I mean the stuff that's happening right now. He's in a world of danger and I can't feel that because if I feel it then I'm afraid it'll break me."

Alyssa contemplated this for a while. "I know Ty, but you have to face it. All of it. You have to open the box or else you'll never get through it." She said sternly.

Ty leaned up against the wall if the institute. When he spoke, it sounded like it was coming from somewhere far away. "Every bad thing that happens to him feels like it's happening to me. Everything from when he was younger. When he was alone." Ty was making an effort not to cry again.

"I want him to know that he'll never be alone again. Not as long as I'm alive."

Alyssa looked at him incredulously. "Well then don't you think you should tell him that?"

Ty didn't answer her, just stared ahead. He still needed to think. Alyssa seemed to understand that because she spared him one final glance and then walked towards the kitchen.

"I'm gonna go eat" she announced. "Come join us when you're ready."

And then she left Ty alone in the hallway with his thoughts.

You have to open the box.

This is real. All of this is real.

You have to open the box.

@older-brother-kit @zafirafoxx @idontgetit-whydoihavetosaymyname @ti-bae-rius @anxiousbookenthusiast @emiikas @eutony-in-whisper

#tda #the dark artifices #kit x ty #tsc #twp #the wicked powers #Kaitlin's oc #tiberius blackthorn

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alarawriting · 4 years ago

Text

52 Project #30 (Writeober #15: Mortality): Everybody’s Happy As The Dead Come Home

Ever since my mother died of breast cancer a few years ago, I’ve been making time to go visit my elderly father about once a month. That may be conjuring up the wrong image in your head, so let me clarify. My father’s over 70, but he still has a lot of the energy he had as a younger man. He works as a consultant for the big corporation he spent his entire adult pre-retirement life working for, for about three or four times as much money, and he enjoys it. He’s got an active social life, spending time with friends he had shared with Mom as a couple, and new friends he’s made from his bereavement group or his consulting work. And my sister, the baby of the family, lives with him, and my two younger brothers come to visit him a lot more often, since they live a lot closer than I do. So if you’re imagining a lonely, stooped old man pining away in a house that smells like stale cat food – that’s not my dad, and I can’t imagine it would ever be.

I arrived late on a Friday night, as usual. My sister met me at the door, and actually looked me directly in the eye. Stephanie’s autistic; she never looks anyone in the eye. “Eleanor,” she said, and that was another strange thing, because she almost never calls anyone by name… unless she’s doing it for emphasis. “When you find out, don’t say anything about it,” she said.

“About what?” Most of the time Stephanie makes sense, but every so often she says something that sounds like her mind has jumped ahead in the conversation without realizing all the missing pieces she never bothered to say.

“You’ll know,” she said. “And you’ll want to ask ‘why’ and ‘how’, and I’m telling you that you can’t do that. Don’t ask any questions. Just come talk to me after you’re done.”

“Done with what?” I asked.

And then a voice called me from the TV room. “Lennie? Lennie, is that you?”

Only my mom and dad are allowed to call me Lennie. And that was a woman’s voice. I froze in place.

“Go see her,” Stephanie said, and headed off to her room.

I turned toward the TV room, slowly. “Lennie! Come out and see me!” my mom’s voice called.

I didn’t know whether to be terrified, or to start crying and fling myself into her arms. I walked very slowly, very cautiously, to the edge of the kitchen, where I could see my parents in the TV room. Both of my parents. My dad was smiling.

“Lennie!” my mom said, standing up. She hadn’t been able to stand up without help for months before she died, but here she was, standing up easily. She didn’t look any younger than she had when she died, but she looked healthier. The extreme thinness she’d suffered from at the end after it had metastasized and she’d barely been able to eat was gone; her flesh was filled out, her skin as taut as you could expect from a woman her age, and healthy-looking. Pale, but her natural paleness, not the weird, sallow, almost yellow color it had been at the very end.

“Mom?” I whispered.

“Come here. I need a hug,” Mom said, sounding exactly like she always had – joking, but there was always that note of truth under it. She didn’t wait for me to make my way to her – she never had, not until she was too ill to get up – but came straight for me and gave me a hug, and she smelled like herself. Not like a rotting corpse, not like ozone or nothing or whatever a ghost is supposed to smell like.

When I was a kid, my brother Jeff and I watched the miniseries version of “The Martian Chronicles”. In particular, he was always impressed (and terrified) by the part where the astronauts meet their long-lost loved ones, who turn out to be Martian shapechangers luring them to their deaths. I always wondered, if the people they saw on Mars were dead, how did they fall for it? How did they not know that dead people could not somehow be on Mars?

As I held my mom, who’d been dead a few years now, I understood. They’d wanted to believe. I wanted to believe. Stephanie had warned me not to ask anything – no “how are you not dead”, “how can you be here”, “why are you alive,” nothing like that. I assumed that was what she’d meant, anyway.

“Mom, I’ve been trying to trace some of my past that I’ve forgotten. Do you remember the name of my third grade teacher?”

“Huh.” My mom seemed to be thinking about it. “I think it was Mrs. Wilder, but I’m not a hundred percent sure. Second grade was Ms. Jenner, right? And fourth was Mrs. White?”

“Yeah,” I said. I didn’t, in fact, remember my third grade teacher’s name, and neither did my dad. The Martians in the story had been telepaths; they’d been able to perfectly impersonate the astronauts’ loved ones because they could read the astronauts’ minds. Now I had a piece of information whose answer I didn’t know, and no way to easily confirm it unless Jeff remembered; he was only two years younger than me and had had some of the same teachers. But some of the people I had friended on Facebook were high school classmates, and a tiny number of my high school classmates had also been with me in elementary school, and might remember my third grade teacher’s name.

“I haven’t seen you in so long,” my mom said. “What’s going on in your life?”

“Oh, you know,” I said. “Things are going okay. Mom, if I’d known you were here I’d have brought the kids.”

“You can bring them up next time,” Mom said.

This was so weird. My mom was definitely dead. I had seen her body in the coffin, lying in state, looking nothing like she had in life. But here she was, impossibly, and I was holding an almost normal conversation with her. “Have Jeff or Aaron come over since you’ve… been here?”

“Jeff was here last weekend,” Dad said. “And Aaron lives next door, so he’s been over nearly every day.”

My grandparents used to live next door. When they died, my mom and my uncle inherited the house. My uncle bought out my mom’s share and rented the house out, and my youngest brother ended up renting it. My other brother lives in an apartment down in the city; I’m the odd one out, living in a completely different state, with a husband and kids.

So all of them had known, and none of them had told me. I expected Stephanie and Aaron to never tell me anything, but I was more than a little irritated with Jeff.

“Let me go drop off my stuff,” I said, since I was still carrying my bag.

I went back to Stephanie’s room, which used to be my room, a long time ago. The boys used to room together, but my room was too small for Stephanie to share with me, and she had needed a lot of space of her own… so they’d converted the loft in the garage into a bedroom. It had never been warm in the winter, though, so as soon as I moved out, Stephanie had moved in.

Stephanie was, as usual, on her computer. I shut the door behind me. “Okay. What the hell is going on?”

“She’s not the only one,” Stephanie said, without looking away from her computer. “I’ve been doing research. They’re all over the place. There’s no explanation yet, and apparently none of them will talk about it. I asked Mom and she said I was really rude, and sulked and was really passive-aggressive.”

“So we’re not worried about Mom turning into a Martian shapechanger or vanishing, we’re just worried that she’ll get mad?” To be fair, making Mom mad had always been a thing worth avoiding at all costs. “When did she come back?”

“I don’t know exactly, but presuming that she came to see me right after she came back, it would have been Monday around 3 pm.”

“And no one told me? You have my email address!”

“…It just didn’t feel right, telling you something like this in email. I felt like I should wait for you to be here.”

“And Jeff didn’t? And Aaron didn’t?”

Stephanie shrugged. She still didn’t look away from her computer. “They probably felt the same way.”

“Does Dad… know? Like, does he even remember that Mom is dead, or does he think this is normal?”

“I didn’t ask him.”

I sat down on her bed. “Steph, I’m asking you to make an informed guess. Has he said anything to you that would either suggest that he’s aware this is abnormal, or that he isn’t?”

“I don’t read minds, but I haven’t heard anything from him one way or the other. He’s very happy, though.”

“I got that impression,” I told her. I went to the guest room, which used to belong to the boys, opened up my laptop, and sent Jeff a question on Facebook about my third grade teacher.

Mom appeared while I was debating whether or not to also ask him why the hell he hadn’t told me about her. “Lennie, don’t hide in your room. Come out and talk to me and your dad. You need to catch me up on your life!”

Part of me wanted to break down crying. Part of me wanted to run to the car. Part of me was annoyed the way I always used to be annoyed when my mom wanted to spend time with me and I had stuff to do. And part of me hated myself for being annoyed by my mom for any reason at all. She was back from the dead and I wanted to hide in my room? But I wanted to hide in my room because I wanted to do research to figure out if this was really my mom or not. And what had Stephanie meant by “all over the place”? People all over the place had returned from the dead? Why wasn’t this all over the news?

What I said was, “Okay, mom,” and I went out to the TV room to talk to her.

***

Here I was, having a completely mundane conversation with a dead woman.

Yes, my husband was doing well at his consulting business. Yes, my oldest daughter was doing well in college. My youngest daughter had a rough spot a few years ago but was doing better. The daughter in the middle was putting a lot of time into her music, and was getting really good. I didn’t mention that my oldest daughter had gotten a diagnosis of autism like her aunt, or that my middle daughter was failing all her subjects because all she cared about was music, or that my youngest daughter was openly bisexual and dating a nonbinary teen in her class, because those would be fraught topics around here. My mother would be openly disapproving of the failing in school – as was I, but I wasn’t here to listen to a lecture about what I should be doing differently to make sure Rhiannon passed her classes – and she’d be what she thought counted as supportive about the other things. Are you sure it’s a good idea for Janie to have an autism diagnosis on her medical record? Lots of people will discriminate against her, just ask Stephanie, it’s not a good thing to admit to the world. And if Lori wanted to date a person who claimed to have no gender, good for her, but was she sure it was a good idea to admit to the world that she was bi when the world is so prejudiced? Blah blah blah. No. I wasn’t going there, not with my mother back from the dead.

All the questions I wanted to ask. How? How was she back? Why? Was there an afterlife after all? What was it like? Are you absolutely sure you’re not a telepathic shapechanger who wants to eat us? Is anyone else coming back or is it just you? But I couldn’t do it. My mouth wouldn’t make the words, and I felt like Mom being alive was a soap bubble that might burst any moment. If I said she was dead, would she disappear? I couldn’t take the risk.

Now I knew why Jeff and Aaron hadn’t told me. The compulsion not to talk about it, the fear that talking about the circumstances of her death and her apparently-no-longer-deadness would cause her to stop being no-longer-dead. I wouldn’t be able to tell my husband about this, or my kids, not unless they came here. Not without feeling like Mom might disappear if I did.

Which was probably how Stephanie had gotten away with it, in the beginning. If this was some kind of emotional pressure, something emanating from the presence of a dead woman... Stephanie was typically immune to emotional pressure. Or pretended she was, anyway. She hid behind her monotone and her face that barely expressed anything until she couldn’t, and then she’d go and have a meltdown in the bathroom. But she wanted to please Mom. We all wanted to please Mom. So if Mom had told her she was rude for mentioning the death thing, Stephanie would be unable to mention it again. Because she wouldn’t want Mom to think she was rude.

This felt very much like I was in an episode of the Twilight Zone. Dead mother back to life, check. Weird inexplicable pressure not to talk about it, check. But Mom clearly remembered things that had happened shortly before her death, and showed no evidence of knowing about anything that had happened since, unless it was public knowledge. She talked about interests the girls had had three years ago, interests they’d all outgrown since. She talked about my plan to remodel my own garage – I had completely forgotten that was even a thing we’d planned at one point, because I’d lost my job shortly after Mom died and then the money wasn’t there for the remodel. She didn’t know I was working with my husband in the consulting business now, which a telepath would obviously know because it dominates my life nowadays. Obviously a Martian telepathic shapechanger would have to pretend not to know things that supposedly happened while they were dead, but if I’d forgotten about the garage, what were the odds a telepath could pull it out of my head? There had to be more accessible thoughts in there, after all.

I didn’t know what to ask Mom. How do you feel? That was always a good one, back in the day, because Mom’s chronic illnesses meant there was always something she could complain about, but she wouldn’t do it until she was asked… she’d just quietly resent the fact that no one had asked her. But did dead people still feel things? Would that intrude on the topic I wasn’t supposed to talk about? What’s going on in your life? Oh, nothing much, Lennie, I’m back from the dead, how about you?

So I talked about myself. I was learning to work leather and I’d made myself a wallet, but I left it at home, I could bring it to show her next time. I was also learning to repair dolls. The girls had all abandoned theirs and I felt bad about it, so I was cleaning them up and repairing them and putting them in dioramas. Mom was very interested in both topics, and asked if I could repair some old dolls she had up in the attic. I was pretty sure I’d already done it – if it was the dolls I was thinking of, Dad had given them to me right after Mom died, and they were the ones I’d learned on. But was it safe to talk about? Dad wasn’t saying anything; had he forgotten he gave me the dolls, which was entirely possible, or did he think it wasn’t safe to talk about either?

I’d wanted for three years to be able to tell my mom that she was wrong about all the weight loss advice she’d given me because now it had come out that scientists had never proven that fat made you fat and the low-carb diets were probably better for you than the low-fat ones, but I didn’t know if she could still eat. Also, my mom was back from the dead and I wanted to start an argument with her about a topic I’d always hated when she talked about? Didn’t I have anything better to do? That really kind of made me a shitty person, didn’t it?

When Mom had been dying, I couldn’t talk to her about the future. I didn’t know how to bring myself to talk about things she’d never see. I’d never known how much my conversations with her consisted of me talking about future plans until I couldn’t any more. Now I couldn’t talk about the future or the past, at least not the past three years, and large parts of the present had to be left out too, because I didn’t know what would remind her that she was dead and make her go back to her grave. Even though, logically, I knew that was unlikely to happen because Stephanie had done it and had just gotten a rebuke that that was rude.

At the same time… I knew I had to say something that Mom could talk about, because if I just talked about myself all night, later on she’d probably make some passive-aggressive remarks about how everything always had to be about me. In desperation, I asked her if she’d seen anything good on television lately.

“Oh, I haven’t been watching anything in a while,” Mom said. “It’s been so long since I felt well enough to go anywhere, so I’ve been going for walks, and your father and I have been taking trips to museums and historic sites. We’re going to be going up to Boston next week.”

“I have a client up there,” Dad said, “and they want me to do a training thing. And I was telling them, no, no, Boston’s too far, but I remembered how much your mom loved Boston, so I asked her if she wanted to go and she said yes, so now we’re going. We’re going to fly, though. The days I was willing to drive that kind of distance are long over.”

“You could take the Amtrak.”

Dad made a dismissive gesture. “It’s gotten so expensive. Flying’s actually cheaper.”

“When are you going?”

“Next Wednesday we’re going to fly up there,” Mom said, which said something about her opinion of the future, at least. “Your dad’s got his presentations to do on Thursday and Friday, and I’ll wander around the city, and then we’ll spend Saturday seeing the sights together.”

“There’s this fantastic restaurant I went to last time I was up there on business,” Dad said, “and I checked their web page, and they’re still open. So we’re going to go there.”

So Mom could eat. Or Dad wasn’t afraid of talking about eating with her, anyway. Maybe ruled out vampire, but Martian shapechanger was still on the table.

I didn’t literally believe my mom – or the entity that appeared to be my mom – was a telepathic shapechanger from Mars like in The Martian Chronicles. But it was obvious that something so far outside the norm that it was only imaginable by making references to fantasy and science fiction was happening.

I tried, very carefully, “How have you been feeling, Mom?”

“I’m great!” She laughed. “I haven’t felt this good in ages. Sugar’s under control, I can see pretty well, none of the usual aches and pains… I’m doing pretty good!”

Did she remember she had died of cancer? Did she even remember that she’d died?

It was 2 am before I got to go to bed.

***

6 am and I was up and out the door before there was any chance of my mother or father being awake, assuming my mom even slept anymore. But at the very least, she was in her bedroom with the door closed and no view of the driveway I’d parked my car in.

Do I sound like a terrible daughter when I tell you I’ve never visited my mom’s grave? I haven’t been back there since the funeral. I always knew my mother wasn’t really there – that if any part of her had still existed in any form, it wasn’t trapped in a coffin under six feet of dirt. It made it somewhat difficult to find the graveyard, though, because I couldn’t remember where it was, or its name, or which church it was associated with, and it wasn’t exactly like I could ask my mom. When I finally found the place– it wasn’t that hard in the end, my parents live in a small town and there aren’t many graveyards – it took me half an hour to find her grave.

It seemed undisturbed. But if Mom had been back from the dead since Monday, that would have been time to fill in a grave. I went looking for the caretaker.

They get to work early in the graveyard caretaking business, I guess; I found him pushing a lawnmower over on the other side of the graveyard.

“Can I help you?” he asked.

“This is going to sound stupid,” I said. “But I got an email from a jerk I used to know in high school claiming he was going to dig up my mother’s grave, and I just wanted to make sure nobody’s touched it.”

“Nobody’s touched any of the graves, ma’am,” he assured me. “Aside from a couple of funerals we’ve had this week, no one’s done anything to disturb the ground here at all.”

“Thanks,” I said, “that’s reassuring. He was talking like he was actually going to do it, but I guess he was all talk.”

“Well, if anyone comes by and disturbs any of the graves, we’ll have them arrested,” he said.

I had my answer. My mother had not climbed out of her grave. Which seemed impossible anyway, now that I knew enough about the funeral industry to know exactly how hard it would be to smash a coffin open, let alone dig through six feet of dirt. I couldn’t rule out her turning immaterial and floating out of her grave, but my mom had seemed very material and biological when she’d hugged me. I’d always thought of ghosts as something that were almost never solid enough to interact with the world, if they even existed.

***

If I was going to get up this early, I was going to get a pancake breakfast at the diner. My parents still think sugarless cold cereal is a reasonable thing to eat for breakfast. They were always night owls; I made myself breakfast and school lunch every morning but the first day of school, every year after about third grade. I was also a night owl, once I didn’t have to get up for school anymore, but I used to make my girls a lunch every night and store it in the fridge for them. Now they’re too old and too cool for Mom lunches. They’re eating something, but it might be cafeteria food, lunch they pack for themselves, or for all I know sandwiches from 7-11 or Starbucks with their allowance.

The point is, I hardly ever get a nice breakfast, because I am hardly ever willing to wake up early enough to cook myself one, and my parents certainly weren’t going to. So I went to the diner.

Normally I don’t talk to anyone at a diner, beyond smiling at them and telling them my order in an upbeat, cheerful voice because waitresses get too much shit from too many people for me to add to it inadvertently. Also because I don’t want them to think I’m eating alone because I’m a sad, lonely bitch no one would love; I want them to know I’m doing this because I really, really enjoy not having to socialize. But today I had something I needed to know.

“I’m a writer,” I told the waitress, “and I’m doing research on ghost stories in the area. Have you heard anything, you know, Halloweeny or spooky? Ghosts appearing, dead people walking around, poltergeists, that kind of thing?”

“Can’t say I have, but I’ll ask around, see if any of the girls know any good stories,” the waitress told me.

And then she took my order back to the kitchen, and I surfed the net on my phone while I waited, and then I got my pancakes, and I ate them. I was chasing the last blueberry around on the plate when another waitress approached me. “Stacy told me you were collecting creepy stories for a book?”

“From the local area, yeah.”

“I don’t know if this is the kind of thing you’re looking for, but… my cousin says that a lady on her street, her husband died a few years ago? But she just saw the guy walking with the lady down the street, having a conversation like the guy never died.”

“Do you think you’d be able to give my email to your cousin and have her reach out to me? That sounds like exactly the kind of story I’m looking for.”

“Uh, sure.”

I gave the waitress my email address. This was probably going to come to nothing; I doubted the waitress would even remember to give it to her cousin. But it’d be really good if I could get the details from someone who knew more about it.

***

Jeff’s more of a morning person than I am. I got a response on Facebook, but I had to wait to get back to my parents’ house, where my laptop was, to read it. On mobile, Facebook will only let you read messages if you have the app, which tells Mark Zuckerberg exactly where you are and what you’re doing with your phone, all the time. I don’t have the app. Sometimes this means I can’t read messages on mobile, but I prefer that to having an evil data empire know everything about my movements.

My parents weren’t awake when I got home. Or they were still in their bedroom. They used to do that a lot. Mom’s desk was in there, and Dad had a laptop… which he usually used on Mom’s desk, since she died. I wondered where her machine was, and if she had made a thing about it once she came back.

“I’m not sure I remember what your third grade teacher’s name was… I can barely remember my own third grade teacher. Were they the same? I can’t remember. I think my own teacher’s name was… Wil-something? Wilber? Wilkins? You’d be better off… well, you’re at the house now, or are you back at your home? Kind of important to know, because I could give you some advice about who to ask, but it’d be a different thing if you were at Dad’s house.”

He meant, “You’d be better off asking Mom, but I don’t know if you know Mom is back from the dead or not.” I was pretty sure, anyway.

I responded. “I’m at Dad’s house. Wondering how I’d be able to tell the difference between someone who’s real and a Martian shapechanger. Could the name have been Wilder?”

Five minutes later I got my answer. “Mom isn’t a Martian shapechanger. It was the first thing I thought of, so I checked.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” I asked.

That answer I didn’t get until half an hour later. “I… just didn’t feel right, talking about it in an impersonal medium like the internet. I know you have a cell phone and I probably even have your number somewhere, but I remember you’re not the biggest fan of actual phone calls, so I didn’t want to disturb you.”

I replied with my phone number and the message “Call me.”

And then I had to sit by my phone, doing nothing important, nothing that would engage my attention in any serious way, waiting for him to call. Which took twenty minutes, despite the fact that I could see that he was online.

Finally the phone rang. “You raaaaang?” I answered in my best parody of The Addams Family.

“I’m pretty sure I must have, or you wouldn’t have known to pick up,” Jeff said. “Of course, I might have buzzed. You could have your phone on vibrate. Or maybe I sang, depending on what you have for a ringtone.”

“’You saaaaang?’ doesn’t have the same je ne sais quoi to it.”

“Wow, how long has it been since I heard someone put je ne sais quoi in a sentence? I think we’re old. I think that’s an old person expression now.”

“What’s going on with Mom?” I asked, quietly, in case anyone might be in the hallway to hear me.

Jeff sighed. “I don’t know what is, but I can tell you what isn’t,” he said. “Stephanie confirmed that she eats, sleeps and goes to the bathroom normally, and I confirmed all of that for myself. The toilet in their bedroom is still broken enough that they don’t flush it unless they have to.”

I winced. That was a level of detail I could have done without. “So, not vampire or undead. How did you solve the Martian thing?”

“On Monday, Dad woke up and she was laying next to him in bed. If the goal was to kill him, it would have made more sense to do it then, before he woke up, than to put on this whole elaborate performance.”

“You’re taking me too literally. I’m not worried about aliens trying to take our family off guard so they can kill us. There’s any number of things they could be up to, and they don’t have to be aliens. Invasion of the Body Snatchers. The Stepford Wives. My Little Pony.”

“…My Little Pony?”

“There’s creatures called Changelings that feed on love. They impersonate ponies and take the love that other ponies feel for the ones they’re impersonating, as food.”

“Kind of psychic vampires mashed up with Martian shapechangers.”

“Yeah, but without the telepathy, so they’re not as good at it as you’d think. It’s a children’s show; they have to telegraph to the kids that these aren’t the real ponies. In real life, anyone who did something like that would be more competent.”

“How much verisimilitude do we need, though? She’s got moles in the same places Mom had moles. She’s missing a toenail just like Mom. Things I didn’t consciously think about, things I might not have remembered if you asked me to describe Mom.”

“That just means that if it’s not Mom, it has the ability to rummage deeper into our memories than we’re consciously aware of. That’s why I asked you my third grade teacher’s name. I genuinely don’t remember. Mom would, I’m pretty sure. Dad wouldn’t and Stephanie and Aaron were both too young.”

“I’m not sure I remember, but when you said Wilder, that sounded like it could be right. Do you know anyone from elementary school? Some of them went to high school with us.”

“I have some Facebook friends from high school, and maybe one or two went to the same elementary we did, but I haven’t been able to locate any actual people that I remember from elementary school. They don’t have a Classmates.com thing that works for elementary—”

“It says it does.”

“It lies, there’s nowhere to enter your elementary in your profile. All it lets you put in is high school, and it’s from a drop-down, not even freeform.”

“Huh. Guess I never tried it. I’m still in touch with anyone I cared about from back then.”

“I literally don’t care about anyone from back then, but that makes it hard when you’re trying to figure out your third grade teacher’s name.”

“If she can probe our memories,” Jeff said, “then nothing you or I know, or ever knew, would be safe. You’d have to come up with something to ask her that Dad wouldn’t know, or me, or Aaron, or Steph, or yourself, but that you know Mom would know and that you know someone else who would know it too.”

“I could ask Mariana for something.” My mom’s close friend and high school classmate was one of my Facebook friends. We don’t generally communicate directly with each other, but I follow her posts.

“That’s a good idea.” I heard the sound of a whistling teapot in the background. “That’d be my hot water for my oatmeal. If you get anything from Mariana, can you tell me about it?”

“Yeah.” I’d wanted to tell him about the story I’d heard in the diner, but no one got between Jeff and his oatmeal. “I’ll talk to you later. Probably online. Voice is making me paranoid.”

“I know what you mean. Do you need me to come up this weekend? I could make a day trip tomorrow.”

“That might be a good idea. I want to talk to Aaron, do you know what schedule he’s on?”

“He works nights now, so you’ll want to get him around 2 pm or so.”

“All right. Enjoy your oatmeal.”

“I will!” he said, putting a ridiculous amount of emphasis into it as a joke.

***

Before I could finish writing a message to Mariana – before I could really start, honestly, because how could I explain why I needed what I needed without admitting Mom was back from the dead? – someone knocked on my door. It was Mom. She was wearing one of her usual kind of shapeless but colorful nightgowns, and her hair was not brushed, so it was kind of a wreck. I noticed for the first time that it was grey. Mom had always dyed her hair since she started going grey, and it had still been auburn when she’d died. I’d never seen it fully grey. “Your dad and I are going to the arboretum,” she said. “Do you want to come?”

“Since when have you been into trees, Mom?” My mother had always been fascinated by history, and to some extent natural history like dinosaurs, but I’d never seen her express an interest in nature per se.

“I never was, much,” she admitted, “but the world is so beautiful. I was always more interested in the way humans shape the world than the way it came out of the box, but things like arboretums, Japanese gardens, zoos and aquariums… they’re made of nature, but they’re made by humans, and they say something about the people who chose to make them the way they are. And you know that your dad has always enjoyed nature.” My dad was interested in science, in general, and considered the natural world part of that. He was not exactly the kind of guy who would go camping.

In the past, I would have said “no, thanks.” I was never all that interested in nature myself, certainly not trees – maybe beautiful rocks or interesting landscapes, but looking at trees wouldn’t have seemed interesting to me. I still didn’t care much about trees… but my mom was back from the dead. I’ve gone much stupider and more boring places than an arboretum with her in the past, and now… if this was really her, if she was really alive again, I was going to spend all the time with her that I reasonably could.

“Sure, I’ll go,” I said. “I’ll take my own car, though. Just give me the address.” I always took my own car if I possibly could, because I’d get carsick if I wasn’t the one driving. “Should I ask Stephanie if she wants to come?”

“Sure, you can ask. I doubt she will, though.”

Stephanie, however, surprised me. “Yeah, I’ll go with you. We’ll meet Mom and Dad there?”

“Yeah.” Dad had texted me the address, so I pulled it up in my GPS. “About half an hour from here.”

In the car, she asked me, “Have you found anything out? I know you were looking into the whole Mom thing.”

“Jeff thinks she’s really Mom. We have a plan to get Mariana to give us a question that we don’t know the answer to, but that Mom and Mariana both would, so we can confirm she really knows things and isn’t just reading our minds. And a waitress at the diner said her cousin has seen what looks like someone else coming back from the dead.”

“It’s all over the place, actually,” Stephanie said. “I’m finding reports from everywhere.”

I glanced at her. “Why wouldn’t this be making the news, then? People coming back from the dead!”

“I feel like maybe no one wants to go on the record.” Stephanie looked out the window. “Nothing on Twitter or Facebook. No pictures of dead people on Instagram. I’m seeing things on Reddit and Tumblr – places where people use a consistent pseudonym, not like 4chan, but where that pseudonym can’t be tied to their actual identity. I’ve posted about it in both places, but I can’t make myself tweet about it.”

“Any idea why not?”

“It—” She shrugged, hands exaggeratedly widespread and head canted forward slightly. “It just feels wrong,” she said. “Like… we’re getting away with something. There’s a natural law we’re breaking here. I can post as toomanymushrooms or u/catonahottinroofsundae and no one knows who I am, but if I post as Stephanie Robbins and I tell everyone that my mom Suky Robbins is back from the dead…”

“What if that brought it to the attention of, what, some kind of authorities?”

“Yeah, pretty much. And even if I was just posting under my own name… I don’t have to say Mom’s name. I don’t have to put a mention to her Facebook in a post. But everyone knows my mother’s name, or they could find out from my name if they wanted to.”

“And you think maybe there are a lot of people with these weird feelings?”

“I don’t think so, I know so. A lot of posts explicitly talk about the fact that they can’t bring themselves to say anything in public, or talk about it with their real names on it.”

“Are they all parents?”

“No. It’s all kinds of people. Best friends, siblings, spouses, children… the only pattern I see is that nobody died a long time ago. It’s all, ‘my brother who died last year’ or ‘my aunt who died two years ago’ or something. Longest I’ve seen anyone talk about was a son who died five years ago.”

A thought occurs to me. ��I can add something to your pattern, though.”

“Yeah?”

“You’d expect that, even if everyone with a resurrected relative feels this sense of dread about telling anyone about it with their name attached, because they feel it will, I don’t know, maybe cause the dead person to disappear back into their grave… you’d think somebody would do it anyway because they don’t care. Someone whose alcoholic abusive father came back and they wish he’d go away again, someone’s asshole brother, someone’s former best friend who betrayed them. But so far, no one has. How many people have you seen talking about this?”

“It’s hard to say because no one’s using their real names. Someone might post from their main blog and their side blog, or maybe they have a different name on tumblr vs reddit but they posted to both. But I’ve tracked thirteen separate names, and of those, I can tell for a fact there are at least nine unique ones because they talk about different people.”

“Thirteen isn’t ‘all over the place’.”

“I didn’t mean all over the Internet, I meant people coming from all over. I’ve tracked the UK, California, North Dakota, Ontario, France, India and New Zealand. Nobody’s tagging their posts and no one is willing to contribute to a master list, so it’s hard to find anyone outside of the people I follow or the subreddits I’m in, and I don’t know where everyone comes from. But it’s geographically widespread. I suspect it may also be happening in other places where people don’t generally speak English or maybe don’t have Internet access.”

“And what’s their sentiment? Like, are people frightened? Upset? Excited? Weirded out?”

She took a moment to think about it. “They’re happy. People are happy it happened. Weirded out, yes. But happy.”

“No whacked-out conspiracy theories about how it’s the contrails raining down adenochrome or something?”

“Not from the people it’s happened to. There was one flame war I saw where a religious person was saying that the person whose sister was back from the dead had to repudiate her. She’s not really your sister, she’s a demon from Hell sent to trick you, et cetera. And the person whose sister was back turned out to be just as religious, and they threw a holy fit. Literally. A holy fit.” She giggled. “A whole lot of stuff about how the righteous were coming back and Jesus had granted some people eternal life and this was that, and how dare you call these beings demons when they’re obviously blessed by Jesus himself and you’re the kind of person who would have called for Jesus’s crucifixion if you’d been alive then, and all that kind of thing.”

“Did anyone else who’d had returned people say anything?”

“This was Tumblr. None of the people who have had returns are communicating with each other in any way I can see. I reached out to a few on Tumblr private messaging but no one has answered. The only places I’m seeing conversations about it between people with returns have been on Reddit, because it has a forum structure. Tumblr is more like a whole hanging web of disconnected strings.”

“Still, you’d think that someone would be publishing a news article about it. Even if no one is willing to go on the record with their real name…”

“Maybe it’s not enough people. Nine unique instances, maybe up to thirteen, maybe more in places I haven’t surveyed. It’s not like I have access to literally all of Tumblr, after all. But that’s all I can confirm, and what if there isn’t any more?”

“If anyone came back from the dead I would expect the news to take notice.” I turned onto the final road; the arboretum was at the end of this stretch. “I went to the graveyard today. Mom’s grave hasn’t been disturbed. I checked with the groundskeeper. So either Mom’s body floated ethereally through the grave dirt, and her coffin, or her original body is still in there and whatever she is now, it’s not the same as what she was then.”

“It’s too bad we can’t have her exhumed,” Stephanie said.

“It probably wouldn’t tell us much anyway.”

“She’s younger-looking than she was before. Not by much, and the grey hair hides it, but she’s healthier-looking and less wrinkly. And I don’t see any evidence that she still has diabetes, or that she’s taking any pills at all. I haven’t seen her take any insulin shots, or anything.”

“Huh.” She wasn’t restored to her youth, or her hair wouldn’t be grey and there would be no wrinkles at all. She wasn’t restored to what she was at the moment of death, obviously. She wasn’t restored to what she’d have been at the moment of death without the cancer that killed her, if she didn’t have diabetes anymore. I felt like there had to be a pattern here I wasn’t seeing. I really wanted to talk to some of these other people having this experience.

I pulled in to the arboretum’s parking lot. Mom and Dad weren’t there yet; Dad doesn’t drive like an old man, but he doesn’t drive as fast as he used to, either. “Do they do this kind of thing a lot? Arboretums, parks, et cetera?”

“They don’t usually invite me, and I wouldn’t usually come if they did, so I don’t know. They do leave the house a lot.”

Dad’s car pulled in, and he and Mom got out. For the first time I could remember, Mom was actually moving a bit faster than him. Both Mom and Dad were the kind of people who walked quickly everywhere they went, but for a long time, Mom was slowed down by her various illnesses. Dad was still healthy for his age, but he’d slowed down a good bit since Mom’s death – grief was hard on his health, it seemed – and now Mom seemed healthier than he was.

“Did you know there are people who come here from all over just to see our leaves in the autumn?” Mom said.

I did know that; it was typically a factor in making it hard for me to come visit during the autumn. “I think it’s the mountainsides. There’s leaves turning colors all over the country, but not on mountainsides.”

“In California they don’t even consider these mountains,” Mom said. “They call them hills when they come visit.”

“No respect for the elderly,” Dad said.

“Yeah, these young mountains think they’re all that, but wait 100,000 years and see how tall they are then,” Stephanie said.

We strolled around, looking at the trees, reading what it said on the plaques in front of them. American Elm. Yellow Birch. Eastern White Pine. I’d seen trees just like these my whole life, and a good number of them, I’d never known the names.

“You never think about how beautiful the world is,” Mom said. “We’re all rushing through it, trying to accomplish the next thing. Or entertain ourselves. Read a book, watch TV. So few of us really want to interact with nature.”

“Careful, mom, your hippie roots are showing,” I said, teasing.

“I think if my generation had remembered what we were back when we were the hippies, the world would be better off.”

“We didn’t forget, Suky. The hippies were always big news, but you know as well as I do how many people our age just wanted to go punch a clock, buy a house, vote for Ronald Fucking Reagan… We thought we were the generation that would change the world, but it wasn’t our generation, it was us. People like us, who wanted to see a better world and weren’t content to just live like the sheep our parents were… but there’s people like that in every generation. And they’re always outnumbered by the assholes.”

“Actually, they’ve done a study,” Stephanie said. “The reason generations get more conservative as they get older is that at every point, the poor are more likely to die than the rich, and the rich are more conservative than the poor. So by the time you get to middle age, a lot of the people looking for social justice and diversity are dead. And there’s a lot more dead by the time they’re elderly.”

“I don’t buy it,” my dad said. “There’s entirely too many stupid poor people in this country who are brainwashed into supporting causes that help out the rich people and screw themselves over. They’re not living longer than anyone else in this country. The math doesn’t work.”

“Let’s not talk about politics,” Mom said. “I think we all know there’s something more important we ought to be discussing.”

“Mom?” Stephanie said, and looked at her, which is not a thing Stephanie does very often.

“Suky?” Dad said.

I didn’t say anything. I watched as Mom looked up at a tree and said, “It’s time we dealt with the elephant in the room, don’t you think?”

“Are you going to tell us about—” I couldn’t say anything more. I couldn’t bring myself to make the words.

“About the fact that I was dead, and now I’m not?” She looked at all of us. “I think we should talk about it, yes.”

It felt like there were eyes, watching us. I wanted to yell to my mother, to tell her not to talk about it, that someone might hear… but who? And why would it matter?

“Is that something you’re okay with, Suky?” Dad asked.

“I’m fine, but I’m getting the impression the rest of you aren’t,” she said. “Why haven’t any of you brought it up, except Stephanie, the once?”

“Well, you told me it was rude,” Stephanie said.

Mom sighed. “I guess I did. I’m sorry. This isn’t really easy for me either.”

She sat down on a bench, and Dad sat with her. Stephanie and I sat on a short stone wall around a tree. “I suppose I should start by saying, I don’t really know much more than you do. I don’t have any memories of being dead. I woke up in bed, next to your dad, on Monday morning, and for a while I couldn’t remember how I’d gotten there… I assumed I went to bed the previous night, but I couldn’t remember what had happened the night before. I couldn’t pin down anything I remembered as to exactly when it happened, not in the recent past. And when your father woke up, the shock on his face and the fact that he kept asking me if I was really here made me think, wait, the last thing I remember was that I was in a hospital dying of cancer, so why am I here now?”

“So you don’t remember any kind of afterlife?” I asked.

She shook her head. “I believe I had some sort of existence, but I don’t remember anything about it. When I wake up, I have flashes, feelings that I dreamed something about it, but I can’t hold it in my head long enough to write it down or even talk about it. It just… disappears, leaving behind only the memory that something was there a few minutes ago.”

“You know how unlikely the idea that an afterlife exists is, scientifically, though. Right?” Dad said. “Consciousness is an emergent property of a trillion neurons working together. Imagining that there could be some sort of construct that exists outside the brain and body is like imagining that a video game character could be waltzing around in front of us.”

“And yet I’m here,” Mom said.

“Time travel or a Star Trek transporter with some modifications would make more sense than something supernatural, like an afterlife,” Dad said stubbornly.

“It doesn’t matter,” Stephanie said. “If Mom doesn’t remember…”

“Have you had a medical exam?” I asked.

Mom laughed. “I don’t have health insurance anymore. I’m dead, remember? I can’t even begin to figure out how we’re going to address getting me a legal identity again, and to be honest… I can’t know I’ll be around long enough for it to matter.”

“None of us know that,” I said, “about ourselves or anyone else.”

“True, and it’s going to be hard to travel if I don’t have a legal identity. So I suppose I’ll have to address it eventually, if I last that long.”

“Thank God your state ID hasn’t actually expired yet, or there’d be no way we could fly to Boston. The passport’s expired,” Dad said. Mom had been legally blind when she died, so she’d had a state ID rather than a driver’s license.

“Is there any reason you might not? Aside from the things that could kill anyone?” I asked.

Dad said, “Your mother and I discussed… when she first appeared, I found it nearly impossible to talk about the fact that she’d been dead. When she broached the topic, I could talk about it to her, but I couldn’t tell you kids.” He shrugged. “My working theory is that there’s some kind of alien experiment going on or that time travel is somehow involved, but the fact that none of you kids were able to tell each other about it until you knew the other one knew suggests to me that someone with the ability to directly affect human emotions or thought is, for some reason, making it hard to talk about this. Maybe that means it’s a short-lived experiment.”

“Maybe I escaped from hell and no one wants to talk about it for fear the devil will take me back,” Mom said, but she was laughing. Mom had never believed in hell. Dad was an atheist; Mom definitely had strong spiritual beliefs, but they were kind of a package of woo that included reincarnation and ghosts, even though she’d been raised Catholic.

“There are others like you,” Stephanie said. “None of them have talked about it themselves, but family members or friends have talked about it online, under pseudonyms. I haven’t found any evidence that anyone has mentioned anything under their real names.”

“A lot?” Mom was surprised.

“So far I count between nine and thirteen unique individuals, plus Eleanor heard a rumor that someone who might live in town might have come back. We don’t know any details, though.”

“We need to find them,” Mom said. “I need to find them. I have a second chance at life, and I’m not ashamed of it. I won’t be silenced about the fact that I exist.”

“It might not be the best idea, Suky,” Dad said. “There are a lot more crazies out there than there were when you died—”

“—there were plenty of crazies then, Dee—”

“—right, and even then it wouldn’t have been a good idea. There might be some religious nut job who thinks that if you were dead you should stay that way. Or someone else thinks that you know how you came back, and wants to force you to tell them.”

“Those are valid points,” Mom said, nodding. “And to all of those people who might want to harm me because they think I shouldn’t be alive or they think I know how I came back, I say a hearty ‘fuck you.’ I won’t be silent because there are crazy people in the world. I’m not afraid of death, not anymore.”

“You’re going to risk Eleanor’s kids?” Dad asked sharply.

“I agree with Mom,” I said, standing up. “Nobody should have to keep quiet about the fact that they exist. But I have to tell Will.”

Stephanie made a face. My family doesn’t like my husband. They have justifications, but in the past few years, since Mom died, Will’s gone to therapy and has done a lot of work on himself. Mom was the only one in the family ever willing to forgive anything, though, so I’ve never tried to get them to change their minds.

Mom said, “Well, is he still a total asshole?”

“He’s… been trying not to be. He’s in therapy, and we’re doing couples counseling, and he’s working through a lot of baggage from his upbringing.”

“Why not tell him to bring the kids up and join you here, then. Coming back to life, might as well start a clean slate and see where things go from there. And you’re right, he needs to be involved in the discussion. Your girls, too. They all are old enough to understand what’s going on here, and what could happen.”

“You know I will never stand in the way of anything you want,” Dad said, which is the kind of thing Dad says rather than “I love you”. Things like, “If they ever fail to respect you, I will smite them” – talking about us and our treatment of Mom – or “You have always been my worthy opponent.” Yes. Sometimes my father talks like a comic book character.

“I don’t know if it’s a good idea,” Stephanie said, “but I know you taught me to be who I am to the world and fuck anyone who gives me shit about it, so… same principle. I don’t think you could be you and lie about who you are.”

“And we need to involve Jeff and Aaron,” Mom said. “I’ll call them and get them to come here.”

“We turned off your cell phone ages ago,” Dad objected.

“Dee, we still have a land line. I know we do because I hear it ring, and sometimes you even answer it.”

“Oh. Yeah, that’s right, we do.” Dad shook his head. “This world where everyone carries around their phone in their pocket all the time… it’s strange how you get so used to a technological or societal change that you forget that you did it a different way for 67 years.”

Nothing ever stopped my mother when she wanted something strongly enough, if she believed it was right. I hadn’t even thought of the considerations my father brought up before he talked about them, but I’ve never believed it’s okay to hide in conformity and live in fear. I didn’t think Will had ever believed in doing that, either, and my daughters had grown up going to political protests.

“We need to find out more about these other people,” I said to Stephanie on the way home. “See if we can contact them directly, find out if any of the actual returned people are planning on going public like Mom. We could coordinate if they are. Strength in numbers.”

“The religious right are going to crap their pants,” Stephanie said, laughing. “A Deist who believes in reincarnation, is married to an atheist, and has a gay son, came back to life. Jesus Christ hasn’t got a monopoly anymore.”

“That is probably going to be the most fun part of this going public thing,” I said.

***

So now I don’t know what will happen. My husband’s driving up from home with our girls, my oldest younger brother’s on a train, and Mom’s been looking up contact information for journalist friends she had once, checking which ones are still alive, using Facebook – we never deactivated her account – and my dad’s LinkedIn. Stephanie’s found two other people who have family members who came back from the dead, and one of them’s been willing to talk to her in private messaging on Tumblr.

I still have a hard time telling anyone who doesn’t already know, but it turns out, I can write about it without feeling the pressure, the fear. Don’t know if I can post it, yet. I guess we’ll see. I’m hoping that if I can get more information from more people who’ve been through something similar, maybe we’ll find a pattern, a point of commonality… maybe even an explanation for why we all feel this pressure not to talk about it.

Tomorrow we’re all going to talk about whether we’re going to do this or not, but I know my family. What my mom wants, she gets, if it’s possible and if it’s ethical. My husband and my kids are going to be in favor of her going public, and my brothers won’t stand in her way any more than my dad would. So we’re going to do this. The thing we’re really going to talk about is how to keep ourselves safe when we do.

Everything in the world is going to change. I just don’t know exactly how yet.

***

Obligatory notes because I’m so fucking late with this piece:

I have fucked up royally. I went into this without an outline and about 6,000 words in I realized I had attempted to consume a ball of energy larger than my head. This is going to end up being novel length, most likely. I struggled really hard to find a place I could reasonably end it as a short story, and yeah, it is absolutely not an ending. No followup on the Martian shapechanger thing, new idea is brought in and then treated like it’s the climax, protagonist is almost entirely reactive and passive. As a short story, it’s shit.

Unfortunately I found this out after I was already late. Not going to bore everyone with why this was a week late except that it’s allergy season and I’ve been exhausted lately. So there was no time to try to write something else. I hope you found it entertaining, if somewhat frustrating; it’s shit as a short story because it’s plainly a piece of a novel. Which I’m not going to write real soon because I have like 3 novels ahead of this one in the queue, but if I live long enough it will get done.

It’s kinda cute that story #30 falls on the 30th now because I’m late and story #31 is the last of my Spooky 5 Halloween-appropriate stories. But not cute enough to justify how late this is.

BTW, while this is not as autobiographical as “Radio” from Inktober, it is heavily drawn from real life. I altered some things because this is fiction, but the mother and the father in this story are pretty close to real life. Except that my mother hasn’t come back.

#52 project #writeober 2020 #alara's october 2020 prompt fics #spooky5 #late!

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autisticchicc · 4 years ago

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Unstructured Autism Rant

A/N: For COVID reasons, mask is purely metaphorical in this piece, not an actual face mask, the work scenario was something that happened pre-COVID.

Trigger Warnings: In-depth descriptions of autism-related struggles and meltdowns.

Disclaimer: This is my personal experience with autism, that is not to say that this is the experience of every person with ASD.

“Have I solved your issue today?” I ask the customer on the other end of the phone. I have; I don’t know why I’m asking this. The customer confirms I have, and I wish them goodbye, a good day, and thank you for calling the business. I don’t care if they have a good day, and I why on earth would I thank them for calling us? The entire interaction went on for far too long for my liking thanks to small talk and the customer pushing pointless information about themselves onto me. He told me he was sketching by the riverside, but why do I need to know about that? How do I respond to a piece of information that does nothing to or for me? Upon hanging up, I breathe a sigh of relief. The mask slips off my face slightly as I rub my temples.

The relief is short-lived, as one of my co-workers comes over to my desk to talk about something. I take a deep breath and pull the mask back on properly before forcing myself to engage enthusiastically in this conversation. I don’t know this co-worker that well, I know nothing about how she talks, her personality, or her humour, only that I have a huge margin for error in this conversation. I concentrate intensely, trying desperately to make sense of her rapidly changing facial expressions and knowing when it’s my turn to talk. After interjecting at the wrong time on several occasions, I give up and just respond meekly when there’s an obvious gap. I feel embarrassed and awkward, and when she walks away, I kick myself. Why is it so hard to have a simple conversation? I’ve yet to make any friends at this job, and I don’t think I ever will at this rate.

I swivel back to face my two screens and lament the lack of a blue light filter on this software. My eyes ache, and the dog (yeah, don’t ask) on the upper level of the open plan office keeps barking. The occasional trilling of a phone irritates me more than usual as the late afternoon sun glares through the floor to ceiling windows at my photosensitive eyes. I can’t close the blinds because my co-workers love the sun, but I’m rapidly approaching a meltdown thanks to overstimulation, exhaustion, and following vague instructions all day. It feels as though every piece of sensory stimuli is stabbing at my eyes and ears. At the end of my shift I clock out and leave without saying goodbye to anyone. I don’t know them well enough to feel comfortable going out of my way to say anything in the first place.

Upon exiting the building, I cover my ears with my big headphones, the relief that washes over me is immense. All those invasive sounds are gone now, and I can listen to whatever I want. I still feel on edge, still teetering close to a meltdown, so I choose not to worsen it by listening to something that would fuel my anger. Sometimes it’s necessary, sometimes I desperately need to hear the pained screams of Pete Steele, the aggressive guitars and lyrics of Body Count. But today, I need something that isn’t going to give me the encouragement to punch the first person that triggers my rage.

For me, music is transformative and transportive. When I listen to particular songs with noise-cancelling headphones, it’s allows me to go somewhere in my imagination while my body moves to my real destination on autopilot. I decide on an uplifting song by The Knocks and Big Boi, Big Bills. It’s a song that makes me feel like a character in a movie that has just moved to a new city and is pursuing an exciting new life. To an extent that’s sort of true for me, minus the excitement and plot armour. Either way, it’s an uplifting song for me. So much so in fact, that I listen to it on repeat all the way home. If something interrupts the song, like an announcement on the tube or having to pause it, I have to restart it or it’s not the same.

When I eventually arrive home, the transformation happens. The moment my bedroom door closes, and I turn my headphones off, it begins. The outcome of this transformation can be vastly different depending on how my day went. It might be that it was a successful day socially, so I leave my phone out of sight and silently bury myself in a hobby for hours in order to recharge. It might be that the mask comes off and I begin to scream and sob, breaking anything I can to stop myself from self-injuring, burying the heels of my hands into my eyes to block any light. The transformation varies, but it is always the result of the same thing: suppressing who I am.

Much of being autistic and being forced to operate in a society catered to neurotypical people, for me, is suppressing my natural instincts and behaviour. Even when I have a positive day socially, it’s often contingent on how well I assimilated with other neurotypical people in that particular interaction. This is frustrating because not only am I exhausted because hardly anyone accommodates for me, I am also measuring the success of my day on other peoples’ standards. Many of my interpersonal relationships also operated that way until fairly recently, I was forced to behave and communicate the way that other people expected me to rather than what felt natural to me. There is only so many places and so much time I can maintain this act for, and so I was forced to simply cut those friendships off. I am no longer willing to negotiate my needs with people that clearly don’t like me enough to respect my disorder.

The friends I keep are mindful, lovers of the eccentric, embracing that which is different and persecuted for it. Often times I find that the people closest to me also have parts of their identity that mean they must also wear a mask of sorts when moving through society, be it racist society, patriarchal society, or queerphobic society. Our arms interlink on the fringes of an abstract hierarchy, turning away from the status quo and pursuing a life in truth and diversity. One day I’d love for everyone to be able to live authentically, for discrimination, isms and phobias to fade away into the past. I don’t see it happening in my lifetime, or perhaps ever, but I hope it does eventually.

In an ideal world, I would only interact with those aforementioned friends and no one else, but as we’ve established, that is not the world we live in. The reality is, I almost never get to interact with people who accommodate for me. I deal with people touching me without permission which makes my skin crawl, forcing me to take my headphones off when I’m fending off a meltdown, managers who don’t give me the specific step-by-step instructions I need, classmates who don’t understand that I don’t talk because I’m too shy, not because I’m unfriendly, lecturers that forget I can’t operate well in group work and can’t be in classrooms with harsh, fluorescent lights… The list is endless. Even going to the shop is a struggle, because the employees have no way to know. Although Tesco’s have been considerate and ‘progressive’* enough to introduce sunflower lanyards (https://www.tesco.com/help/invisibledisability/), most stores have absolutely no assistance in place for customers with hidden disabilities. I just have to hope that they don’t speak to me and that I don’t end up getting overwhelmed and having to ask anyone for help.

In a lot of ways, this pandemic has meant that I can avoid quite a lot of the scenarios that would usually cause me stress. I no longer work (admittedly, this causes more stress than it relieves), I don’t have to attend class in person, there is little to no in-person socialising, family events are cancelled, seasonal holidays are cancelled, queuing and crowding is no longer allowed (without distancing), etc. That has all been excellent and a relief. But on the flip side, it has given rise to a whole host of new problems. I hate being on camera or speaking in online lessons, there is no way for me to remind the teacher subtly I can’t do group work, masks trigger heat-related meltdowns for me, the financial instability of being unemployed has been a huge stressor, and the lack of government support is utterly enraging.

Overall, it’s been a huge adjustment. The job that I talked about my experience with at the beginning of this rant is long gone now, so many things have changed. I have never dealt well with change, but this year has forced me to. In some ways I suppose you could say this is a positive development, exposure therapy is best at times. I just wish it had been more on my terms and not at the hands of a viral pandemic.

#autism #asd #meltdown #sensory overload #aspergers #autism spectrum disorder #aspie #aspiegirl #women with autism #autism at work #autism at school #school #university #autistic enby #covid #covid19

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iconsumeheadcanons · 5 years ago

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persona characters autism headcanons!

hi im autistic and i started my day with sun so now im !!!!!!!!! some of these headcanons are from elsewhere on tumbr, but i dont know where :((( so i am hoping someone out there knows that n that everybody knows that i love them <3

(also go check out mollypaup and i think hypeswap if you havent already! they post some good stuff autism+adhd hc too!!! i think.. oh! and thieves-in-the-palace!!!)

Joker

there was some artwork from someone on tublr..where they pointed out that he doesnt really talk outside the metaverse so--hes hyperverbal as joker and just near nonverbal as akiren

he stims ALL THE TIME. that phone thing, the pencil thing, the little tappy tap of his foot, pulling at his bangs when hes embarrassed/smug. someone get him a fidget spinner. he’ll prob learn to do tricks with it

he probably sucks at focusing in class, like i know its just the game design but hes always surprised out of his daily “star out the window at the nearby office building” when his teachers ask him questions

mona mentions when the pt is at Wilton for the first time (after they run into shido) that joker eats like shit, and that could have multiple causes at the start of the story of course, but when i first played i thought that joker was a picky eater and that the variety (and amount of food) at the buffet would be an Ordeal...

tho mona makes that comment bc joker looked pale after having a little ptsd moment from shidos voice, but i didnt know that the first time i played

maybe when joker makes a face at ryuji putting so much ginger in his gyudon? joker probably does not like pickled ginger lol

his favortive foods are all spicy, which is why the curry he makes for his friends is always ‘overly spicy’, and why kasumi makes him a curry bento and joker kept going “...?” .... “....?!”

overly reflective glasses have been a great plus for him bc now he never has to make real eye contact every again!

mona Soft. play with Ann hair. maybe Braid. nice

puns (Gorou the Goroumet)

he has so many options to be straight up rude sometimes in game. he probably no clue on his own, which is why he defaults to Not Talking. people probably mention his constant scary face, which is just him being nonexpressive, squinting at all the fucking bright lights, and Tired

executive function who? we do everything last minute folks

high pain tolerance, which is why he was the kid that was always climbing trees in elementary school to get basketballs unstuck from the branches

his sixth sense lets him see treasure and possible places to climb/crawl bc 1. Shiny? Steal it. Steal it Now. and 2. Could i fit in that? Time to Find Out

probalby a bit of a klepto too oops. he’ll return it tho!! but he has to do it dramatically or he’ll die

cant sit properly to save his life

smells and touch are Great, they can keep him grounded when his brain goes off to police or dead rivals or guilt or

if a friend hung out with him and gave him total reigns of the agenda, he would choose to nap on the floor while his friend does something off to the side quietly

hyperfocuses on handy tasks (i.e. lockpicks, coffee brewing, cleaning, his part time jobs) and some things like movies and books. everything else is a tossup

his (normal) navigation app is his most used app bc he still doesnt know where hes going, even though he only goes to the same few places in the city

hates being sweaty, literally cannot stand it. probably double exhausted during the summer

but Needs Compression so hes often Struggling

Futaba

paraphrase from p5d “i have no motor skills so i cant play rhythm games :(” need i say more? (i will regardless)

echolalia all the time, from anime, memes, the PT

those headphones she wears all the time? noise cancelling ear protectors babey

only talks about her interests, “normal” talking is Not Easy, but she is still communicative w others despite her worries. shes not “hard to understand” at all but she feels the anxiety nonetheless

only talks informally, cannot talk ‘politely’ with out imitating someone around her

shes had meltdowns and anxiety attacks in game :( i relate so hard

Technology. thats it

def had an egypt phase that pops up every few months. probably came from yu-gi-oh

has Immune to Bright Lights buff. joker is very jealous

“Time to make like a tree and leave!” and 30 other iterations

video game metaphors are the only ones that makes sense to her

probably relates hard to robot characters in anime for their general androgyny and confusion about human emotions and connections

probably gets told that shes “too smart to be on the spectrum” by teachers >:( she fails their classes on purpose

wakaba’s autistic too that just how it is

the Connection that she establishes with Joker is so Warm. my life goals include adopting an older brother like futaba has lsdkfjslkfj

also eater of 5 foods only, i mean, she brings cup ramen to the beach. i just really admire her...

hides in small spaces for comfort

doesnt she have like uhhhhh hyperthymesia or something like that?

Yusuke

art

his entire social link is learning how humans work, which i relate

talks seriously all the time

“sarcasm? who is that? are you saying I was sarcastic?...how?”

cant remember to take care of his body, and madarame did not help with that either

lot of uncomfortable staring, hes overdoing the eye contact thingy

infodumps all the time, doesnt know hes doing it

needs a lot of support even if he doesnt think he deserves it. no one ever complains about helping him out tho

visual stims my friends

he didnt know that you could look up pictures on the internet but he does know you can stream live videos of waterfalls and fluffy animales!!

I am certainly in the mood

for something salty today.

he and joker are scared of math. numbers do not interact

Yusuke, futaba, and akiren are a trio and i know this bc their first day of non-thievery interacts is Akiren clearing Futabas room w/o permission, futaba hyperfocusing on destroying medjed, and yusuke rearranging futabas figurines so they are more visually appealing

morgana is a support friend for all of them bc igor knows they need it

Souji/Yu

yes, he mostly wears gray semi formal clothes bc parents tell him to, no, he will not changes this

Schedule or Death

“sorry, could you repeat that?” “huh? oh yeah, i was saying that--” “yeah that’d be cool.”

cats, fishing, he just likes to be quiet. you can literally spend a day at the beach just to think if you want, and that is what yu want

has a lot of scripts for things (of which he shares with nanako!) but if he runs out he just stops talking..

inaba is a godsend bc its so fucking quiet and warm

he Yearns to hold his friends hands, but he shies away from a lot of touch (excepting yosuke, teddie, and nanako)

Cooking and Cleaning makes the world better. he and joker vibe together with this

unlike akiren, he strong arms any executive dysfunction into Be Productive or Else. his punishment is feeling the pure anxiety of having to make up for ‘lost time’. (another symptom of his workaholic parents)

writes everything down, notes are very neat, has pages dedicated for bad doodles when hes not feeling his usual Super Classroom Focus

Cannot handle secondhand embarrassment (most often caused by yosuke) and will quietly slip away to random cats or origami folding

hungry, crunch crunch folks. probably needs chewelry bc he used to chew on his shirt collars when he was younger.

cleans up after everyone in the food court, constantly worries about them accidently hurting themselves. likely spends half of group conversations watching peoples hands

he canonically eats expired food, nanako plz help your brother

really clumsy, but people only notice after they decide that he is a cool person

video games are too chaotic for him

exhausted every night from the pure amount of masking he does, if a friend spends the night (or is like yosuke) they will know his more comfortable weirdo self (tho everyone knows hes a weirdo eventually)

hyperempathetic, sometimes just understands animals and children better than peeople his age or older

Yukiko

her jokes

she and souji get in ‘trouble’ together, she and joker commit crimes together

she and chie have to coordinate outfits, its important

actually understands metaphors, but does not understand people

like me, had no clue that creepy kid was flirting with her

she is very angry when she has meltdowns that might involve slamming doors and shouting. her parents call these ‘tantrums’ and ‘unfitting for a polite daughter’ but really thats because her meltdowns tend to be caused by arguments w her family after a long day of school and TV world traipsing

the metronome meme, except hers goes between Loudest Person in the Room to Quietest Pin Drop in the Planet. she is completely unaware of this

her atmosphere brightens when chie appears. that is not only the lesbian energy within her, but also because chie is like her Favorite Person

Cannot wear Pants. No (tho she wants to try it! but she puts them on and her soul instantly squashes)

happy flappy lesbian! watch out!

Naoto

the pouty face. all the time lskdfjlasdkf

hes really snappy sometimes and i love that for him. he and akechi should fight just to see what would happen (please read Bang Bang Shoot Shoot on AO3)

“do not touch me or my hat, thank you”

no one has ever seen him shutdown and no one ever will (except for his grandpa)(and kanji)(and rise)

probably likes certain food textures and will stand for nothing less, probably feels embarrassed about his preferences with friends

constantly jumps between ‘everybody hates me so i should act like them so they dont hate me’ to ‘i refuse to be anything but very comfortable as myself, and i dont care that im making you upset sir’

he and souji are the king and queen of subtle stims, but for unhappy reasons :(

does not make jokes. cannot joke around. understand? yes, do? no.

loose clothes are the only good clothes, but all tags and obtrusive seams will be obliterated by kanji tatsumi

not very empathetic so he probably comes off as an asshole to strangers (like when he throws away his classmates confession letters without reading them) but he tries so hard to sound comforting when his buds are struggling.

his understanding of others emotions/reactions come from his learning as a detective, which seems cold+clinical to others, especially compared to souji, whos completely unexpressive but very introverted people person

Hamuko/Minako/Kotone

big personality!! very people-oriented!! koromaru and her are buddies!! when shes having a real bad time, shes very quiet and expressions turn off

interrupts herself in the middle of conversations all the time. no one knows where shes coming from. her brains is thousands of km ahead of her body

bouncey legs, swingin arms, twirlly skirt, little somersaults! when will she stop? never!

very obvious music stims with her hands and arms! people are like “oh there she goes! happy as usual!” shes listening to minatos heavy metal playlist

switches from exhausted to excited within milliseconds. no one can predict, not even her

SEES has to ask her for context all the time cuz she’ll just continue shit from 2 weeks ago without warning

professionals will assume shes very childish bc of how chipper she is, but she is beyond mature for her age and only feels comfortable enough to have serious conversations if a person has proved themself able to handle it

collects every little thing. her room is a mess and she has to get rid of most of it every time she moves :(

hates cleaning! smells bad, feels bad hhhhhgggg

dont let mitsuru-senpai see her bedroom

gets lost in the middle of conversations with others bc shes thinking about a story connected to one(1) word that was said earlier

no sense of time and place, she just sees her friends and goes “ah, this is the right place, then” but junpei and akihiko are also lost so now theyre all screwed

Minato/Makoto/Sakuya

no talkies, no walkies

his story in the movies is him literally learning how to function around people he cares for

doesnt get jokes, expressions, body language, empathy, subtlety, metaphors, physical contact, or eye contact. aigis is probably the only person he truly understands right away

he is still nice to people because he doesnt see a reason not to be, but also he has very limited energy so only his senpai and old people get his most polite-kindnesses

cannot describe feelings for the life of him. the team wont know hes injured or sick until hes passed out

everything is too loud, time to drown it out with my loud ass music

rocking and chewing stims, ryoji is the first person to point him out for these subtle stims (not accusingly of course, just general pure curiosity and love for the uniqueness of humanity)

likes to cover his face with whatever is available, lives like a bat in a dark dry cave

will wear anything that has pockets and his blue/gray/black palette

sleepy at all times bc he never has much energy

when he was younger he probably needed a lot of support, especially after his parents died, because he wouldnt communicate like a neurotypical and would shutdown for hours in the middle of school without warning. probably missed a lot of lessons and field trips out of pure overstimulation

eating at all times. no preference, just whatevers closest

his meltdowns probalby include humming whining noises and curling up in a ball, which makes people want to touch him, but that is the LAST thing he wants. put a blanket on him! play some music! do not talk and do not expect him to speak

aigis is the only person who can touch him normally bc her hands are cold and he likes cold

never nude, feels mmmmmmmmm without clothes and probalby wears a full robe in the hotsprings

will not do things that take more than one step w/o someone else walking him thru it, which Same

#my writing #p3 #p4 #p5 #persona 3 #persona 4 #persona 5 #ren #futaba #souji #hamuko #minato #vibes straight thru the sun #i sincerely hope the read more works #im so srry for grammar problems #i literally cant read rn

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meta-squash · 4 years ago

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Brick Club 1.3.9 “Joyful End Of Joy”

This title is such a weird choice. This time it’s not a translation thing, but a Hugo thing. He decides not to focus on Fantine’s reaction to the surprise, but on the other girls’ reactions. It’s weird, but I think it also works, because it serves to highlight how unusual Fantine’s reaction really is. The rest of the girls shake off the abandonment pretty quickly, because none of them made the same attachments as Fantine. Her devastation is highlighted by their mirth.

The men keep up the pretense long enough to even turn and wave at the women, laughing. I get the impression they’re giggling at their prank, but the girls probably think they’re just being jaunty. Also, I wish I had a better visual of the area. I imagine them kind of blending in with the crowd, maybe turning a corner or something out of sight, and then heading to wait for the stagecoach.

Again, Hugo shows the difference between Fantine and the others. While Fantine repeats herself with “Don’t be long,” the other grisettes are more preoccupied with what the surprise might be. Also, so far Fantine’s really only had two lines, since one was about the horse, and the next two lines are nearly identical to each other.

“You’d think piles of chains were flying off into the heavens.” I love the visual of this line so much. There are so many visuals in this book that I wish I had the skill to draw. This line’s an interesting one. My first instinct is to say that the metaphor feels backwards? “Piles of chains flying off into the heavens” sounds to me like saying these men that could have held these women down are leaving. But that seems backward. Unless perhaps that’s the opinion of the other grisettes aside from Fantine? My other thought is that maybe it’s not really a good thing or a backward metaphor. These chains which are the men are flying off, but the next ones could be even worse, could leave the rest of them in the type of situation that Fantine is now left in. These specific chains have flown off into the heavens, but that doesn’t mean there aren’t more waiting in the wings.

The fact that Fantine gets the most important, foreshadowing line is interesting to me because it’s a very specific observation. “That’s strange,” she said. “I thought the stagecoaches never stopped.” The group has just spent the last 8 chapters mocking Fantine’s head-in-the-clouds state of being and how she doesn’t notice anything. And yet she notices this little detail and points out that the stagecoaches don’t usually stop. (I like this from the headcanon that she’s autistic, too. Social cues etc are harder to pick up on, but a change in a weird little detail like when the stagecoaches stop is something she notices because it’s wrong but no one else notices or cares.)

Favourite then insults Fantine and says she knows nothing of life and essentially calls her a simpleton while making fun of her observation. What is Favourite’s problem? She’s really the only one aside from Tholomyes who gets actual dialogue mocking Fantine. God, this whole group is so awful. The next line is “Some time passed this way.” I can’t tell if Hugo is saying that some time passed where they were just staring out the window, or if he’s saying some time passed where they were making fun of Fantine. Either way, this constant picking on Fantine is so cruel, from all of them. Especially Favourite and Tholomyes. It seems like Favourite is in the best situation out of all of them, too: she’s the eldest, has her own home, and is cheating on Blacheville with Tholomyes. Maybe she’s guilty and that’s why she’s so aggressive towards Fantine; she’s trying to convince herself there’s a reason she’s doing this thing with Tholomyes. I don’t know.

It seems like Fantine has never really had stable friendships in her life. These girls have been having affairs with the students for two years. It might be the longest Fantine has every really had a friendly, familiar, consistent relationship with other grisettes outside of work. And it seems like the other grisettes, particularly Favourite, really take advantage of that naivety to mock her.

Why is Favourite the only one so preoccupied with the surprise? She was the one to ask for it properly, to announce it the morning of and get everyone up early, to keep reminding everyone of it, and now to read the letter. Nobody else seems to be as obsessed with the surprise as her. No one else has dialogue mentioning it. She’s like the “leader” of this little group, so it stands to reason that she’s Tholomyes’ counterpart and that would make her be the one who thinks about the surprise kind of in tandem with the fact that Tholomyes is the one orchestrating it. But I still think it’s odd that nobody else seems to care as much as she does. It almost sounds like an insecurity, a point of anxiety for her? Everyone but Fantine seems to be expecting Gifts. I actually wonder now if this is why they are unsurprised by the letter being a parting one. What they think is going to happen is that they are going to get parting gifts; instead they get this letter and a paid for meal. It’s a letdown, but the leaving is expected, I think.

Before I get into the letter, I just want to point out how weirdly classical the line “they desire our return and offer to kill the fatted calf for us” is. The rest of the letter just sounds like a regular letter, but that line in particular sounds like I’m reading Homer or something.

The men start off their letter explicitly pointing out the class differences between the themselves and the grisettes. Despite the fact that Favourite’s mother lives with her, the men obviously don’t see that as similar to their own, rich parents. Hugo says earlier that Fantine is, essentially, a child of France. The students seem to see all of the women in that way, as crude orphans who have been taken in and socialized by Paris. The men then contradict themselves, quoting their parents as calling them “prodigal sons” and then in the next sentence calling themselves “virtuous.”

I can’t find anything on the Bossuet line; I assume it’s a pun that I don’t know enough French and/or Bossuet literature to understand. “Fleeing to the arms of Laffitte,” I assume, means running back to high society, back to rich families and political connections and all that stuff. They’re no longer slumming in Paris with working girls, they’re going back to the safety of the society of banking and politics and all that. I don’t know what the “wings of Caillard” is referencing, because the only Caillard I can find is Gaspar Caillard, whose writings aren’t translated into English.

The gall of them to straight up call the girls “the abyss,” man I hate these men. They see these women as a fun little jaunt into lower society. These women, who are without family (or the same kind of family as these men), who are very poor and probably teetering on the edge of penniless, are the closest these students can get to this “abyss.” I bet they think they did some sort of fucking charity, too, and treated these girls to a “good time” for two years or something before dropping them. Ugh.

“It is necessary to our country that we become, like everybody else, prefects, fathers of families, country policemen, and councilors of state.” Reading this line just makes me feel so disgusted. That men like this, who are slimy and manipulative and selfish and uncaring like this, are the ones who are going to become people in charge of the infrastructure of their local society and who will have power over people in similar positions to these grisettes. It reminds me of Bamatabois, who not only was able to harass Fantine and then get her nearly thrown in prison, but was also a juror at Chapmathieu’s trial. Twice he has the power to decide someone’s freedom; I imagine these law students will have similar positions in their own respective towns. It’s also such a gross flaunting of their social position, telling these women that they have all these opportunities and connections and money to become whatever they want, and these women are left in barely-paying labor positions on the edge of total poverty.

(This is also a really important piece of characterization, I think. It contrasts massively with the students we see later on, who come from rich families (minus Bahorel, I suppose) but who are dedicated to the betterment of others.)

Something I don’t quite understand is the paying for dinner thing? Why? Is it just because they knew maybe the girls wouldn’t be able to afford it? Why do that one niceness with such a cruel prank? Was it like a last “look at us, we can afford one last lavish meal before we vanish” sort of thing?

Favourite is so odd to me. She decides that if this prank was Blacheville’s idea, it makes her fall in love with him. She says “No sooner loved than left,” which makes me think it’s a sort of “you don’t want it until it’s gone” type of thing. But I’m also wondering if it’s a comment on potential cleverness. She only likes him more now that she thinks he’s clever enough and cunning enough to come up with and pull off a joke like this one.

Then the realization that it was actually Tholomyes comes. None of them seem surprised (neither are we). They laugh about it and I assume that, again, the “Vive Tholomyes” is a celebration of his cleverness at this elaborate joke. But they seemed to know that the end was coming, so it’s just a funny and interesting ending to them, rather than a boring goodbye. Also, I wonder if they would have been more upset if the dinner had not been paid for.

I don’t have much to say about that last visual of Fantine crying in her rooms, except for fuck Tholomyes. Also, what a damn bombshell for Hugo to drop on us, spending all that time describing Fantine and then in the last sentence revealing a child.

#les miserables #les miserables meta #brickclub #lm 1.3.9 #les mis #les mis meta

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lilyhoshikawa · 5 years ago

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Futaba headcanons master post time >:3c

Much credit to @a-missing-ache for talking to me a bunch about this girl so I could put this together~! Many of the ideas here were either ideas she had that I adopted, or things that came up in conversation with her.

- Autistic trans girl with depression, PTSD, and psychosis. Experiences paranoid delusions and visual and auditory hallucinations prior to her arc in the game. Prone to suicide idealization and intrusive thoughts. Susceptible to self-harm if her self-hatred goes unchecked.

- Some of her main special interests are computers, video games, and anime. She gets extremely hyperfixated on games that she really likes and will play them basically nonstop. She’ll play Animal Crossing for a full day if someone isn’t there to cut in and stop her.

- The coat she wears in winter is her favorite, it’s a very good texture stim and she likes to rub her face against the fluffy bit at the top. She also likes to stim with arm flaps or kicking her leggies, but she gets nervous about doing this in public.

- She wears her headphones pretty much all the time as a sensory tool. Often times she won’t have anything playing, but the headphones have a noise-cancelling mode that she leaves it on most of the time to avoid sensory overload and feel safer. She basically only takes them off if they need to charge or she knows it’s safe to. She panics when they run out of battery, but she has an additional pair of wired headphones to use when her main pair is charging. She has basically the longest battery life she could get on her wireless headphones, but since she frequently passes out at random times without turning them off or plugging them in they still die fairly frequently on her. She can’t go to sleep without some headphones on playing white noise or a podcast or quiet music from a video game.

- She goes nonverbal fairly frequently, and typically makes use of texting to communicate with others instead. If she’s alone, she’ll often call one of the other thieves (Ren most often) to have them talk to her and ground her, and sometimes speak for her if need be. After her initial arc, Sojiro learns about her texting thing and gets help from Ren with learning how to use a phone to text and starts using it to text her when she needs to.

- Sojiro’s curry is her staple food, and she eats it pretty much at least once a day for the most part.

- She’s a big coffee drinker, and she takes it black. Sojiro previously would make her a cup in the morning and bring some back from his work when he came home at night, with her leaving the room to make her own cup during the afternoon. She finds drinking it relaxing.

- Prior to meeting the Phantom Thieves, she experienced fairly regular hallucinations and delusions, often being convinced that her mother was in her room or was out to get her somehow. She would hear her mother talking to her or see her appear in her room and usually leave in a panic if she could manage to get up. Sojiro did his best to help her but really didn’t have the tools to understand what she was going through. After her Palace, she gains the confidence to be open with him about her experiences and is eventually put on medication to help with them. It doesn’t make it stop entirely, but becomes far less frequent and allows her to live a more normal life.

- She’ll sometimes have panic attacks which usually result in her laying in bed for awhile experiencing suicidal thoughts until they go away, but as time goes on she learns to manage these attacks a lot better, and avoid hurting herself or letting her intrusive thoughts run wild.

- Part of her shyness and social anxiety comes from a mix of autism, dysphoria, and a general lack of experience being out in the world. She’s easily startled and frightened and usually still needs someone to go with her any time she leaves the house. She likes to make herself small, which is why she frequently sits the way she does, and a lot of times she’ll just sit down on the floor, because she likes it there. She’ll frequently ask others to stop if she’s in too noisy of an area and begins to experience sensory overload, sit down on the floor in a quieter place somewhere and recharge.

- After the Hawaii trip, Ren decides to do video calls with Futaba sometimes so he can show her where he is or what he’s doing when she’s not feeling able to go outside that day. If she doesn’t want to show her face, she holds up a plushie or Morgana in front of her end of the screen instead.

- Part of her social anxiety is with presenting well in public, having fits of big dysphoria, and she’s pretty self-conscious about her voice, so she likes to do the texting thing a lot when she gets nervous and also just speak quietly sometimes, especially if it’s with Ren.

- She retains an issue with eating normally and still has a hard time convincing herself to eat sometimes, and will skip meals on occasion. She has a habit of texting one of the Thieves and asking them for permission to get a snack or a meal, and they always immediately tell her it’s okay, and that confirmation is enough for her. Sojiro sometimes takes her and Ren out for ice cream as a family bonding experience and she loves it. It was meant to be a one-off celebration after she recovered but she loved it so much Sojiro decided he had to make it a regular thing.

- She’s prone to taking depression naps, though before she starts recovering it’s less “depression naps” and more “she stays in her room with lights down and her curtains drawn so she has no concept of time and just kinda passes out and wakes up at random intervals with no consideration for what time it is”. She gets better about it but she falls back into weird and irregular sleeping patterns fairly often and she always hates resetting her internal clock. It’s at least easier than going until she collapses for days on end, though.

- She’ll often take naps inside her Persona, Navi, if she randomly gets tired while the group is just exploring and confirms they don’t think they’ll need her for some time. She’ll also sometimes nap in the Mona car. They’re safe, cozy little spaces that make her feel protected and comfortable so they’re prime napping spots.

- Ren has insomnia and Futaba has a really messed up sleep schedule so sometimes when they’re both awake at like 4am they’ll just text each other and sometimes play a game with one another to pass the time.

- She’s still very prone to nightmares and will sometimes wake up in a panic, and if no one is around it sometimes results in a full meltdown and in the worst case scenario she ends up getting hurt, so she tries to keep people on standby.

- She is, in fact, very funny and snarky when she wants to be, and is actually good at communicating her infodumps with humor and casual speech that makes it understandable for the others.

- If she’d not immediately involved in a conversation that involves a large enough group of people, she’ll just zone out until she’s mentioned again or feels a time to interject. Sometimes she’ll start playing phone games.

- She plays trading card games. She sometimes joins competitive tournaments online when she can, but is too scared to go to them IRL. She promises herself she’ll try it some day.

- As a disaster pansexual, she is very prone to developing crushes on any random girl at a coffee shop who’s even the littlest bit nice to her. She’s still got crushes on Ann and Haru, both of whom know it (it’s fairly obvious), but they don’t let her know that.

- She likes to pose, or do silly energetic motions just for the fun of it. She takes joy in just doing a little dance while she’s talking to someone sometimes. She likes to go “nya” also, especially around Morgana.

- She has nicknamed the position she always goes into whenever she sits (usually to make herself feel cozy and safe and also to be as small as possible) the “Futababall”.

- Before meeting the Thieves, she actually didn’t play multiplayer games very much, as even that level of interaction with others intimidated her to some degree. Ren was the first person she ever played video games with, and she kicked his ass at Smash Bros.

- She experiences periods of severe dysphoria during which she struggles to look at herself and often feels hopelessness or despair. During these periods Ren and Sojiro have taken to putting up a blanket to cover the bathroom mirror so that she can still shower normally and wash her hands and go in and out of the bathroom.

- Before her Palace, she would often go days without eating, or only eat once, through a mix of forgetting to eat, losing track of time, and convincing herself she didn’t deserve it. She sometimes relapses on this but is usually good about bouncing back after a day or two.

- The Thieves star making Futaba’s room one of their main meeting places because she feels safe and comfortable there.

- She doesn’t like it when her room is brightly lit up but if it’s pitch-dark with no lights on she becomes extremely anxious and terrified, gets jittery and sometimes has panic attacks or experiences visual hallucinations. Her preferred method is to use the light of her computer to keep the room dim, but bright enough to see everything, or having curtains half-drawn.

- She sometimes forgot to take her meds when she first started on them and this bothered her so much that she eventually began setting five distinct timers for each dose, and sometimes they’ll just all go off in succession when she’s with the group and confuse them all.

- She collects plushies of her favorite anime characters, because it’s merch you can hug!! She loves cuddling her plushies, especially when she’s feeling a bit nervous. They’re a nice sensory feeling, they remind her of her friends, and they feel safe.

- Sometimes when she’s having a hard time sleeping, she’ll invite Ren to come to her room to hang out while she falls asleep to help her feel safe. He’ll often invite Ryuji over for a date or something and she’ll help them set up a video game to play with each other while they’re there. Ryuji initially had a problem of yelling when he lost in the game and waking her up but he got better about it after awhile.

- Every morning around 5-6am Ren wakes up usually due to insomnia or nightmares and he immediately goes to check on Futaba to see if she’s asleep yet, he often finds her in her room on her laptop unaware of what time it is and when she sees him she does a little yell and jumps into bed and he reassures her that it’s ok before leaving and going back to bed.

- She likes to make fun of Ren for having a criminal record sometimes, noting that the hacking she’s done with Medjid is by far more illegal than him beating up a rich abuser once.

- She like spending time with the lady Phantom Thieves because she really likes girls and they all think it’s cute how gay she is, and try to give her tips about it. If Ren isn’t available she opts for inviting one or more of the girls to hang out with her and it makes her feel very good to be around them. Ann sometimes gives her some of her old clothes and it feels super validating for her.

#long post #rambles #persona 5 #futaba sakura #suicide mention #self-harm mention #ask to tag

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pennemac · 5 years ago

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walk through fire for you (just let me adore you)

Chapter 1 ▪︎Even At 3am

Series Summary- This is my first attempt at writing with criminal minds characters! The show has recently become one of my favorite things to write and ramble about. This is a series of works that are written around an autistic Spencer Reid, and his journey's of finding comfort and joy within his team.

Chapter Summary- Spencer finally reaches out when he's struggling with a bout of sensory overload. It takes a whole lot of courage on his part and a good dose of platonic love from his boss to calm him down. (ft. Spencer's stuffed axolotl)

Warnings/Topics- Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Talk of sensory issues, Crying, The beginnings of a panic attack, Platonic cuddling, A good dose of Hotch being a dad through and through :)

I post these on ao3 first! my ao3 is here

Word Count- 1.9k

There's a light pattering of the beginning of a storm outside of the hotel room window, and Spencer is so tired. He has been, in fact, for the last two days, 16 hours, and 43 minutes.

If Spencer was any semblance of normal, he thinks, he would probably be soothed by the little sounds of rain, but he's not. In fact, it's angering him. It's a constant white noise sound, like television static, but worse, because it can't just be turned off by the click of a button. He isn't even entirely sure why it's making him as mad as it is.

The sound itself is even making him acutely aware of the way unfamiliar sheets feel against his legs, and the way his hair won't stay out of his face. It's alot, honestly. With every second that passes, the rain makes him more and more upset. None of his usual tactics of calming down have worked so far, either.

He hasn't been able to read, because his brain felt like it was being drowned out by the sounds of rain against various outdoor surfaces. Music, though he'd never been a huge fan of anything other than soft piano, had also felt as though it was simply accompanying the rain, assisting it in it's attempt to make him breakdown.

It starts out like this, usually. The discomfort, leading into being easily aggravated, but from then it's everything setting him off. Rain, the constant chatter of a room filled with busy police officers, the ticking of a clock, the texture of his pants, or sheets, or any unfamiliarity.

He's been trying to sleep for days, but he hasn't been able to. To combat this, he'd been consuming copious amounts of coffee. This had made him more twitchy, antsy, than he had been before. His hands now, even, shake as he throws the blankets and sheets off of his legs.

The frustration reaches it's peak though, when he has to struggle to pull his socks off of his feet, and tears fall from his eyes as he leans back onto the bed. As he tries his best to just breathe, he remembers how Hotch had separated him from the rest of their team, pulling him aside and out of the crowded room, as if he'd had an innate sense that he hadn't been doing well.

"Do you need to leave, Reid? I won't make you stay here if it's not going to be beneficial for others or for yourself."

He hadn't managed to give a complete answer, just nodding, hands curling into his pant legs. "Go with Morgan to the mortuary. I was going to send him alone but the quiet of a car will do you good."

His boss had moved to lay a hand onto his shoulder, deciding not to when Spencer had visibly flinched. "I am completely serious when I say that you have to stop over exerting yourself. It does nobody any good when you render yourself useless to others."

Spencer had frowned, not exactly happy with being reprimanded, but he knew that Aaron was certainly correct.

"Beyond that, though, I understand. I made an agreement when I hired you into this team that I'd be here when you need me. You have to reach out to someone when it's necessary."

So now, as he sits in the dark of his room, he does his best to remind himself that it's okay to reach out when he needs someone. His hands are shaky as he finds his bosses contact and presses call before he can over think it.

It's answered fairly quickly. "Reid? What's going on?"

"I'm- it's not anything serious I'm just… I think I'm gonna have a panic attack and I haven't slept for nearly three days, I don't know how to stop it."

He knows how weak his voice sounds, and he hates it. His hands clench and unclench in his bedsheets. Tears continue to slip down his face and his shoulders and neck feel tense.

He hears a the rustling of sheets on the other side of the call before he gets a response. "Can you come up here? You know my room number, yes?"

"Yeah. Yeah, I do."

"Okay, come up to my room, then. You're gonna be okay."

He nods, only realizing afterwards that Hotch couldn't actually see it. He tosses his own phone into the open duffle bag by the foot of his bed. The room he's in is uncomfortably dark, and he hesitates for a moment before he moves to reach into the black bag, pulling out a small-ish stuffed axolotl.

It's soft, and the eyes are embroidered, rather than buttons or beads, so they feel nice for his hands to run over. The texture is soft but smooth, and he's grateful that it's that rather than shaggy or rough.

When he's made it up onto the third floor, rather than the second, where his room was, his embarrassment levels had risen and by the time he'd made it up to the door, he heavily considered turning back.

Spencer's grateful when he only has to knock once for the door to open.

Hotch stands in the doorway, and this is probably the only time that Spencer would ever see him in just sweatpants and a soft shirt.

He moves out of the way once he realizes who it is, letting him walk into the room.

His boss moves in front of him, to sit on the large bed in the middle of the dimly lit space.

"What animal is that?" He points vaguely at the pink stuffed animal clutched in shaky hands.

Spencer stands awkwardly across from the bed, his hands fiddling gently with the eyes and the tail of the toy. "It's, uhm… an axolotl. Penelope got it for me cause she knows textures I like and don't like."

Hotch gently sits back to make room for him. He pats the empty space, hoping that Spencer will take the invitation to sit. He does, watching his own hands as if avoiding looking up at his coworker.

"Do you wanna talk about what's been happening? It's okay if you don't want to talk about it, but it can be a good distraction."

He nods slowly, tucking his legs in to sit cross legged. "I- the rain. It's like… t.v. static. I haven't been able to sleep because the sheets are so unfamiliar…"

One hand moves up to hardly brush a tear from his cheek. God, he hates this. Vulnerability doesn't come easy to him, it never has. He knows how tight his breathing is, and that realistically he should start breathing deeper to ensure that he doesn't become light headed but- it's a lot easier to say than to do.

"Can I touch your hands, Spencer?"

The man in question gives an affirmative nod and watches as hands slightly larger than his own come into his line of vision, wrapping around one hand that isn't wrapped around the body of a stuffed animal.

"I know it's tough, but can you breath for me? Just a few deep breaths?"

Fingers flex between Aaron's own, squeezing in what he's fairly certain is an effort to ground himself.

Tears drop down steadily still, and one lands softly on the back of Hotch's hand.

A thumb circles slowly in the dip of where Spencer's hand meets his wrist. "I do hate to seem any kind of strict right now, but… Spencer, I know how hard it is to tell us when you start struggling. What I need you to know though, is that when Gideon agreed to have you on this team, and when I made the decision to keep you here, we knew exactly what we were doing."

A small sob comes from Spencer, and it deepens Aaron's own frown.

"You are an incredible asset to our team. You are the driving force to solving most cases we come across. There's nothing you could do, or show, or say, to us that would make us value or love you any less. If that means this, or telling us you need a break, or letting through more tendencies or quirks when we're working- all of that is good. You do so good, I jus-"

He's cut off abruptly when his hands are shaken away and Spencer all but tackles him into a hug, arms wrapping around his neck and face pressing into his shoulder.

"And here I thought you were always so worried about germs."

Spencer sobs lightly, tears dampening the material under his face. His legs rest on the outside of Aaron's thighs, his weight settled on his legs. The man below him tentatively brings hands around his back to envelope him in a hug, hands rubbing down to ease the tension where he can.

"It's- it's so much."

And this, at least, Aaron can understand. His breathing doesn't even out more than it had, and Aaron would be much more worried if he didn't know that at least in some sense, this would tire him out. So, instead of urging him to calm down as he'd mistakenly done before, when he was less aware of Spencer's diagnosis, he takes a different route.

"Spencer, name 3 things you can feel."

Light sniffles come and shaky breaths still echo in his right ear, but he moves to where his mouth won't be muffled.

"That method of- of calming people down is something they use on kids-"

"Three things, Reid."

He huffs a little bit, but obeys. "Your hands." He shifts where he sits. "The- uhm, the bedsheets under my knees."

One hand goes up to his face, pulling strands of hair back to tuck it behind his ear. "My face is really warm."

Even though Spencer was right, the method of describing different sensory inputs was something people use on children, it was working well enough for him that Aaron wasn't going to stop using it.

"Three things you can see?"

He lifts his head from the shoulder it had been resting on, eyes moving around the room. He looks down slightly. "My hands are shaking." A glance to the left, afterwards, "My stuffed animal is to your left."

"And your lamp is on, but it's… dim."

His voice is soft, and it makes him seem small. He feels small too, body trembling under Aaron's hands.

"Can you smell anything?"

Spencer moves his head in a gesture of affirmation. "Your cologne." He pauses to pull in a deep breath. "Cleaning products, several."

He's breathing is beginning to fade into a normal pace, and there's less shake to his voice.

"Taste?"

"Mint… my uh, my toothpaste. Coffee."

Strong hands move up to his shoulders and neck, massaging lightly into the skin there.

"Hm. What about sounds?"

There's a silence in the room now. Spencer sits up slightly with realization. "The rain. It's not raining anymore."

"Mhm. Maybe the universe listened to you, for once."

He nods softly.

They sit like this for a moment, Spencer relaxing into the pressure of Aaron's hands, his tears slowly to a stop.

"Can I… Stay in here? I don't think I'll be able to sleep alone."

Hotch gives a single nod, and it would have seemed curt, but his face is soft. "Of course."

Spencer moves slowly off of him, fumbling for the pink toy before he lays down completely.

Hotch moves to do the same, but notes briefly the distance that had been put between them. "You can come back over here, y'know."

A tense breath was released and it brings a small smile onto the older mans face as he feels Spencer wiggle back up to his side, one arm laying over his stomach and a head resting against his chest. He takes the opportunity to wrap arm back around slender shoulders, only after lightly brushing stay strands of hair behind Spencer's ear.

"Goodnight, kid."

"Night Hotch."

#criminal minds #criminal minds fic #spencer reid #autistic spencer reid #aaron hotch hotchner #aaron hotchner #aaron hotchner x spencer reid #but platonic #platonic cuddling #hurt/comfort #i love these men

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aroworlds · 5 years ago

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What Makes Us Human, Part One

Moll of Sirenne needs prompts in their girdle book to navigate casual conversations, struggles to master facial expressions and feels safest weeding the monastery's vegetable gardens. Following their call to service, however, means offering wanderers in need a priest's support and guidance. A life free of social expectation to court, wed and befriend does outweigh their fear of causing harm—until forgetting the date of a holiday provokes a guest's ire and three cutting words: lifeless and loveless.

A priest must expand a guest's sense of human worth, but what do they do when their own comes under question? Can an autistic, aromantic priest ever expect to serve outside the garden? And what day is it...?

Contains: A middle-aged, agender priest set on defying social norms around love; an alloromantic guest with a journey to undergo in conquering her amatonormativity and ableism; and an elderly aromantic priest providing irascible reassurance.

Content Advisory: Depictions and discussions of ableism, amatonormativity and dehumanisation, particularly with regards to autism and aromanticism. Please expect additional background references to partner abuse and dysfunctional relationships, along with a side mention of magic causing harm to animals. This piece also includes reflections on non-romantic love's being pushed as a second-best "humanising" quality on non-partnerning, aplatonic and neurodiverse aros.

Length: 4, 946 words (part one of two).

Note: This is the newest entry in my tradition of Not Valentine’s Day Aro Stories posted on Valentine’s Day. No familiarity with my other Marchverse stories is needed, although it does obliquely nod at events referenced in Love is the Reckoning.

You think love is what makes us human, if you must choose one quality?

Moll opens their girdle book and, without looking, sets their fingertip by a word written a third of the way down the page. Gardening. Sighing, they buckle the book closed and drop it back into position at their hip. Sirenne’s greenhouses and vegetable gardens, in their midsummer bounty, gift the monastery a glut of corn, beans and cucumbers; they can start breakfast’s conversation with that observation. The kitchen’s current tendency to add corn to foods and dishes that don’t usually encompass them offers another direction, along with more anodyne comments about weeding and Sirenne’s scores of potted plants. Simple enough, as discussions go.

When will their calling start to feel simple?

True, they count ownership of their red robes in weeks and months, the scar on their shoulder still pink. The brown belt of a novice priest bears the girdle book and a leather pouch, its length crisp and unmarked. Five years of study can’t yet earn the confidence of experience: by logic’s metric, it’s unreasonable for Moll to expect mastery in this new art. How can they compare the difficulty of their new work to the ease they owned in the old? Aren’t they creating their distress by anticipating the unrealistic?

“Fifteen years with the Seventh,” they mutter under their breath as they walk to the serving tables and fill a bowl with steamed rice and quinoa, today drizzled with stewed apricots. A waiting acolyte, standing behind the array of dishes, pays Moll’s murmuring no mind. “It’s only been a little over five, here. Don’t compare them.”

They add another ladle of apricots to their bowl and turn towards their table, tucked to the side of the great hall—away from the clatter of the kitchen doors, close to a window looking onto one of the monastery’s fern-clustered courtyards. Moll dislikes navigating all the chairs filled by guests, acolytes and guiding priests, but they’ll accept that thrice-daily annoyance for the comparative quiet of their corner.

Today, despite the hall’s great arched roof and echoing tile floor, the noise isn’t as bothersome.

Only when they reach their table do they realise why: one advising priest, her red robes belted with green, joins the gaggle of guests and acolytes. Where are the others? Did something happen overnight? The Guide misses as many meals as she attends, but never has Moll seen so few of Sirenne’s senior priests at breakfast. Frowning, they look to their acolytes sitting at the middle of the table. Dare they ask? If something serious has happened, wouldn’t Moll already know? Why risk distressing James by calling attention to something that may lack any import?

Neither appears to mark anything amiss.

“Good morning.” Moll sits opposite James and across from the brown-robed acolytes, working to keep their voice even and low. James regards the slightest abruptness in Moll’s speech as indicative of anger or disgust, and they prefer no further misunderstandings. “I see that the kitchen serves cornbread, creamed corn and corn fritters this morning?”

The acolytes nod vehemently.

James, staring at her plate, pays Moll no attention. She’s a small and delicate woman, pretty as some reckon such things. Fine chains of embroidery decorate the cuffs of her linen shirt and the panels of her grey waistcoat; studs carved like silver roses sparkle in her ear lobes, while matching combs and pins hold back her silky curls. Paint darkens her lips and evens a complexion in little need of it; no callus of pen, needle or weapon roughens her soft fingers. She’s elegant like a fashion plate in a book, but the illusion breaks when Moll looks to her nails, bitten down to the distal edge. A habit, they know, discouraged in the classes of people needful of donning powder and paint before breakfast at a secluded monastery.

Never has she bitten them in public, and she rejected Moll’s suggestion of fidget tools as though offended by their observation of her need. Even their usual use of a weighted, beaded cord while talking drew her ire: it’s manipulative, she said, as though their stimming exists only in relationship to the shame social niceties require nobody mention, to pressure me by using something I have refused in front of me.

She did, yesterday, observe the morning greeting.

“Corn wouldn’t be so bad,” Alicia says, her eyes flicking from James to Moll underneath an untidy mop of red hair, “if they’d do something new with it.”

“Don’t say that!” Ro howls, poking Alicia in the arm. At eighteen, he isn’t much more than a child, gangly and frenetic. Remembering the reasons underpinning his service during meals—to help a guiding priest maintain a casual conversation before their guests—isn’t yet second nature. “They’ll be giving us corn in pudding next!”

Moll suspects they’re meant to learn from Ro’s impulsiveness as much as Ro should from their measured consideration.

Measured consideration is the polite way of saying “rigidly follows rules”.

“Corn custard?” Alicia grins and elbows Ro in the ribs. When he forgets his duty, she soon follows him.

“Don’t even say it! Don’t give them ideas!”

“Corn custard, corn custard, corn custard!”

James sits at the table as if unhearing, her lean hands pushing a piece of toasted wheat bread across her plate. She smells like jasmine, her perfume a foreign, expensive contrast to breakfast’s savoury aromas, Moll’s apricots and the damp, earthy scents of the courtyard. She smells like their childhood.

They hastily swallow a mouthful of their own breakfast, the grains mingling with the sweet fruit, before attempting a direct question. “Do you garden, James? I didn’t have the opportunity before Sirenne, unless I count the Warp’s tendency to provoke sacks of flour into sprouting seedlings overnight? I still know little, but I’ve learnt that I enjoy mucking about with a trowel.”

There: a question and a few personal observations. Isn’t that the mainstay of an acceptable social exchange? Three terms in the Seventh Western Regiment, stationed in the Warp during the Council of Advocates’ last attempt to settle that magic-twisted territory, have left Moll with a lifetime of anecdotes. Many—like the time a crate of fleece-lined coats outside the wards became a bleating collection of violently disfigured sheep—are best left unmentioned during meals, but magical wheat seems safe enough for breakfast chatter.

James, without blinking, pinches off a corner from her piece of buttered toast.

If not for a week’s observation, Moll may have thought her unable to hear or process.

“I hate gardening,” Alicia offers, after another look at James. “Dirt under my fingernails? I’d rather dust or wash dishes or sweep.”

Ro snickers. “Dirt? Of course—”

Moll taps him on the ankle with their bare foot.

“Uh … yes, I don’t like dirt, either. Because I hate laundry. Your hands get all cracked and dry. I’ve still got scars from when my skin split in winter. But when your father’s a launderer…” Ro shakes his head and glances at Moll. “What did you hate, in your old job?”

People who go through my wagons. Officers who refuse to follow needed precautions. The mouldy-citrus smell of warped, decaying magic.

Instead, they stop to think of something others will find relatable: Moll enjoyed the usual army annoyances of polishing boots and mending uniforms. The barracks brats of the Seventh always knew when their quartermaster passed a sleepless night, for they’d wake to find their newly-darned stockings laid out over their gear chests.

“Latrine duty. I didn’t dislike planning or digging, but cleaning up a latrine site isn’t enjoyable for obvious reasons. Soldiers left to unsupervised orders, however, have a marked tendency to the slapdash.”

Alicia, of course, pulls a face.

James turns away from Moll, her pressed lips and deep frown suggesting irritation or disdain.

Anxiety, too familiar a companion, sits as heavily in Moll’s gut as a month’s diet of wheat bread.

They can’t remember a time in childhood absent that pervasive sense of dread, the knowing of their having errored without cognition on how or why. Nor was their adulthood so free—the difference being that Moll had twenty years to learn the rules and rhythms of military life, and service in the Warp excused some of Moll’s habits and provoked similar needs in others. Then the Council surrendered to the Warp and disbanded the Seventh, leaving Moll adrift in a world governed by normal magic and unexplained rules.

Sirenne, where people communicate with clarity and directness about concepts brushed aside as unacceptable, should have offered refuge.

They eat, letting Alicia and Ro carry the conversation against the backdrop of James’s pointed silence. She only makes a few pointed grimaces when Moll speaks, picking her way through half a slice of toast.

After yesterday, they planned to offer James the morning for further discussion.

Today, in the absence of a proper breakfast and animus targeted at Moll, they’d best make it a priority.

When the acolytes clear away the dishes and the hall empties out with priests and guests going about chores or sessions, they stand, round the end of the table and bow at James. “Would you please come and walk with me?”

At first, it felt deceptive to string together words so unrelated to their intent. Honesty, to Moll, means saying what is meant: I want to have a private conversation about your mood and health, to help guide you in following the life’s path best suited to you. Gennifer explained, over several occasions, that while all believers know what a priest of the Sojourner means by “walk”, success rarely results from beginning said conversations with direct utterances of an uncomfortable truth.

They still don’t grasp the logic in that, but Moll now regards the script as a signpost marking the transition from breakfast’s communality to discussion’s intimacy. If Sirenne possesses an agreed-upon willingness to dishonesty between all parties, is it still a lie? A priest’s work doesn’t mean, Gennifer added, a strict adherence to direct honesty, and aren’t they supposed to be challenging the existence of an objective truth? Why should Moll’s regard become the defining metric of falsehood?

Priesthood requires accepting the unfading presence of an existential headache.

James rises, drops her spoon onto her plate with a teeth-jarring clang and follows Moll from the hall—offering, presumably, her consent.

Their favourite courtyard, as always, bears no tag of occupancy. A triangular space jammed between the kitchens and the Guide’s personal wing, it lacks the green softness of Sirenne’s other courtyards, instead beset with craggy planes of rock part-covered by draping vines. While few areas of the monastery don’t feature running water—its movement reflecting the Sojourner’s eternal journey—here a still basin houses pond fish and lilies. Other priests abhor the darkness and stuffiness caused by four walls and the slanting eaves above, but Moll appreciates the yard’s quiet. How do the others listen to running water for hours on end without succumbing to teeth-grinding annoyance?

They murmur the spell for a peach-hued witchlight, palm the resulting sphere and fling it upwards to catch on a trailing cluster of vines by the archway’s apex. “Please, enter.”

James folds her arms, passes under the arch and sits on the bench by the basin, staring at the white lilies clustered along one edge. The toe of her left boot, the leather polished near to gleaming, worries at a crack in the flagstones. “What.”

No lilt, no upturned voice. Probably not a question.

Moll moves to their usual seat. A pillow placed on a dip of the rocky wall provides a safe distance between them and their guests while offering the damp, loamy aura of fern and moss. They still can’t take ordinary nature for granted; they still wake in the night, startled to breathe air that doesn’t smell of rot. “I fear that I have caused you offense or hurt. I would appreciate knowing, if you’d be so kind as to explain, what I did.”

The difficulty in needing to ask people for explanations lies in their requiring them from those Moll has hurt. Some don’t mind, those who understand the cause of their ignorance, but too many become more offended when having to explain the how and why of something Moll should have known to avoid. If a quartermaster is expected to read another’s body language and glean its inspiring thoughts and feelings, guests grant far less leeway to a priest—no matter how much introductory explanation Moll provides about their autism.

They try, where possible, to describe situations and ask questions of other people, but how can they do so here? James is distressed enough to disregard the customs on which she sets such value; while she wasn’t friendly at breakfast, she didn’t direct her expressions at the acolytes. Moll, based on limited evidence, a reasonable assumption and their history, must have caused her mood.

Again.

James turns her head and shoulders away from Moll—almost putting her back to them while remaining seated on the stone bench.

“I apologise.” They bow as best they can from their seated position. “It’s unfair to place on you the burden of educating me after being hurt. I do wish to know how I can avoid distressing you in future, and I promise that I won’t be angered by your explanation. If you wish another priest to assist in—”

James whirls to face them with startling speed, her teeth bared in something close to a snarl. “What, so you’ll write it down in your book of things to remember?”

Talking, however abrupt and disagreeable, provides an entry into exploration. While a variety of considering or responsive silences should be recognised and supported in a healthy exchange, guiding is easier when anything expressive replaces the wall of sullen silence.

Even accusation and aggression.

“I don’t understand,” Moll demurs, letting their eyes rest on James’s face for fear avoidance suggests anger or insincerity. “Didn’t I explain sufficiently to you why I use my book?”

A guiding priest must, inquisitively, engage with their flock’s thoughts and feelings. Curiosity means putting aside judgement and listening, open-hearted, to the twists and turns of a path that lead to their conclusions. Curiosity means offering, as non-judgementally as possible, a more useful direction. Curiosity means listening to and acknowledging another’s criticism of their work. Curiosity means putting aside the last conversation Moll had with a guest about their girdle book … even as bile’s bitter sourness coats the back of their throat and tongue.

James snorts. She holds her chin high above the stiff collar of her shirt, her shoulders set, her hands folded in her lap. Even in session, she doesn’t forgo correctness for comfort. “You think that I haven’t seen you picking something to talk about each meal? Except you didn’t remember to write down what day it is, did you? You just ask completely irrelevant questions!”

What day…? They work through the shards of story James has shared, but none suggest significance of the day, week or season. She spoke, in short references, of a relationship fallen apart and a family taking the side of her partner, citing reasons of financial investment. She spoke of need for a temporary reprieve from both—threaded with the hope of return when her partner’s anger ebbs enough for normal’s resumption—but resentment colours her references to the friend that suggested sanctuary at a monastery. They know of no anniversary that lends one summer day such profound weight.

Perhaps her disdain draws from something she believes sufficiently communicated, conveyed in hints perceived by an allistic priest?

“I find participating in casual exchanges difficult. This book,” and Moll dips their chin towards their hip, “helps me engage in the talk many of our guests find comforting. Perhaps I mayn’t need it in future, but today I do.” Moll closes their fists and opens them, one deliberate finger at a time. Since fidgets provoke James’s anger, Moll possesses fewer ways to direct and manage their nervousness. “I am grateful for a tool that eases my navigation of unsuited customs. Do you have occasions where you would appreciate a tool to help you with something people don’t expect you to find difficult?”

Gennifer gifted them the girdle book a few months after Moll took the brown; the acolytes of Moll’s calling-year spent that evening offering suggestions and prompts. Sorcha and Oki passed the book amongst the priests until a score of hands filled the pages. For the first time in Moll’s life, they found themself surrounded by people more interested in helping them navigate expectations than in using their difficulties to void their position.

If not for the guests, Sirenne should have offered nothing short of paradise.

Even to think this borders on sacrilege.

“You’re a priest. You’re supposed to be…” James stares, shaking her head. “Or maybe that’s why! You don’t even know what today is, do you? It’s just another day to you—away from the real world, thinking you know anything!” Her voice edges on shrill as she leans forwards. “Is that why you all become priests? Because you’re not normal enough for anything but hiding here?”

Moll admits that their calling exists in part because of the similarities shared by divine and armed service. Both offer the comforting limits of hour bells, set times for work and play, assigned clothing, clear expectations around behaviour. While surprises happen, Sirenne and the Seventh provide rules and processes for how one responds; even the unexpected, in many ways, still owns a guiding spectre of regularity.

Structure, Gennifer summarised after Moll’s explanation. You need—thrive in—the structure.

The monastic life also permits and justifies their failure to navigate life and relationship expectations. A priest of the Sojourner needn’t avoid partnering, but such avoidance isn’t unexpected given their remove from circumstances that facilitate such relationships.

They knew, their boots crunching on the driveway’s blanket of fallen leaves and twigs, that this secluded compound will become home.

They knew, during their first gently-interrogative conversation with Gennifer, what new path their feet must follow.

Does that correlate to hiding?

“I was quartermaster for fifteen years in the Seventh Western Regiment,” Moll says quietly. “After the Seventh’s disbandment and my discharge, I was called to begin a new shape of service, in which I am recognised by the Sojourner and the community of Sirenne. May I ask what ‘normal’ means to you?”

It’s crass to draw James’s attention to their bare shoulders, one marked by their god and one marked by the Guide. What does the possession of either mean, anyway, if Moll doubts their ability to serve as called? They open and close their fists, lifting and lowering one finger at a time, until their body feels less likely to slip out of control.

James, her thin brows raised, stares at the basin and its lilies.

Remember your curiosity.

Curiosity, in the Warp, too often became lethal.

“Would you share with me your understanding of priestly service? Guests are often surprised by the differences between the monastic orders.” They try to smile. “I think that speaks to what the Sojourner preaches—that there are many pathways, often contradictory but always leading to the same place, to understand and honour hir. But it can, sometimes, make for confusion.”

Even her criticism, should it encompass substance and clarity, seems better than this wall of vague disdain interspersed with rejecting silence. Other than referencing a date on which Moll recognises no significance and objecting to their use of the girdle book’s prompts, she hasn’t provided actionable critique or evaluation. They forgot—or didn’t know—today’s significance. How can they rectify that without explanation?

James snorts. “That’s what you tell yourself.”

A woman so bound up in observing customs of dress and behaviour must intend her rudeness.

Should they admit defeat and take James to Gennifer for reassignment? Yet if something significant busies the Guide and her advising priests, Gennifer doesn’t need a brown-belted priest running for help with one guest in, comparatively, a trivial circumstance. Surely even a raw priest, who doesn’t need reminder lists for mealtime conversations, will navigate this situation without help? Isn’t this, then, a learning opportunity? If they can figure out how to gain James’s trust, will they make fewer mistakes with other allistic guests?

They draw a series of breaths—inhale, hold, exhale—but the nauseating anxiety now bears the edges of a restless, sweating panic.

“Yes, I do tell myself that,” they say as agreeably as possible. A display of receptiveness may help James feel comfortable with further elaboration, even though they don’t know why she made such a snide comment. “I do wish to better support you. Before I can do that, I need to learn from you. Every priest must learn from their guests; I just have a greater need than some.”

James looks down at their feet, scraping the soles of their boots across the tiles with a sound that sets Moll’s teeth on edge.

Breathe in, hold, breathe out. Exhale for as long as possible. Close fingers one by one, hold, open them again as slowly as possible. Breathe.

“That sound hurts my ears. Would you please stop?” Moll attempts, again, a smile, but even on the best of days and in the happiest of moods such an expression feels forced and unnatural. If only they could project an image of quiet harmlessness! How else do they manage a tension too often read as threatening when their lips don’t move the usual way? “Thank you.”

James stills her feet, staring at Moll with her head tilted as if to suggest that she looks through them to focus on the vine-shrouded stone behind.

“I understand that today has meaning to you,” they offer. Perhaps retreating to the one problem about which James has provided any clarity will encourage movement. “Would you share this meaning with me, so I can offer the specific support you need? I’ve missed your communicating it.”

As soon as the they say “me”, they realise that an allistic priest with an allistic’s intuitive understanding of social interactions will instead have asked an unrelated question or offered a distracting observation on an unrelated subject.

As soon as they say “me”, they know they have handed James all the excuse she needs.

They just don’t know why.

She leaps upright, her hands trembling. “How are you going to help if you don’t even know? How are you going to help me with my partner, when you don’t know why today matters? Why I have to be alone today of all days, and how awful that is—but you just want explanations like you’re a child at their first solstice, too young to know anything! What’s the good of talking to you when you’re just a statue, lifeless and loveless? Look at you—you don’t even have an expression!”

Her brown eyes glisten as though she stands one wrong word away from tears.

Moll opens and closes their hands, one slow finger at a time.

Share, Oki advised every shadowing. Don’t burden them with your pain, but don’t secret your own struggles. Show them that you walk this road because you know theirs.

One word, though, they are hesitant to mention.

Perhaps their aromanticism, the sense Moll has owned as for as long as memory that they don’t desire romantic partnerships, is obvious to others. Perhaps James believes that an autistic, with stiff words and a book of conversation prompts, must be aromantic, both “lifeless and loveless”. Maybe she believes aromanticism accompanies an identity equally misunderstood as a detriment or shortcoming. Doesn’t she believe, at least, that those called to priesthood have surrendered any validating sense of what she considers normal—and, therefore, of value?

Convention, for all that she privileges it, nonetheless sent both sheltering beneath Sirenne’s roof.

“I’m truly sorry that you’re hurting and that today is difficult for you. I will do my best to help you, but the more you’re willing to share, the easier I will find it.” Moll speaks with measured care, pausing between each word in the fight to keep their voice from breaking. Measured means rigid. Rigid … isn’t that another way of saying “lifeless”? “My autism or aromanticism, however, don’t mean we lack humanity in common, or that I haven’t struggled with my family or departures from my road—my own despair and illnesses. I haven’t experienced your precise circumstances, but that doesn’t mean I don’t believe in your struggles or won’t offer a sympathetic ear.”

How can they provide that if she won’t explain her needs?

Lifeless. Frantic limbs and a wild voice, emotion given movement and language, also earns them censure—accusations of immaturity or aggression. Moll’s big, broad body and limbs don’t permit even dangerousness’s suggestion without provoking restrictive consequence. No, they can’t expect her to understand their inability to recollect freedom of reaction, emotion or speech. They don’t expect her to understand that adulthood’s repetition has rendered a seemingly-unnatural control all but innate. Can’t she at least assume that if Moll can master that acceptable state of allistic-flavoured emotional expression, they will?

Loveless. No, they don’t feel in any way categorisable as “love”. They’re not drawn to friends or partners in ways that suit, even non-romantically, the word’s sense of passion and vibrancy; it doesn’t fit their connection to people, labour or place. Their calling to service is too powerful and all-encompassing to be love. Such a general word, often used to describe feelings and actions contradictory to its given purpose, feels ill-suited.

Why must it be a moral failing to use words other than “love” to describe their relationships and feelings? Why must complex emotions be reduced to a binary of hate and love? Why must people replace the pressure to love romantically with the pressure to at least avoid accusations of lovelessness?

“Lifeless” devalues their best attempt to oblige other people’s expectations.

“Loveless”, not synonymous with loathing or disregard, shouldn’t serve as any kind of criticism. James loves. Which of them, today, is the crueller?

Maybe Moll has constrained their feelings for too long to permit a broader, warmer range of emotion.

Maybe their need to match feelings and experiences to words’ exact specifications means they, unknowingly, feel something allistics name “love”.

Maybe the stories that explain and identify love hold little relevance in real life, and people not Moll better accept the chasm standing between idealism and reality.

Maybe the reasoning doesn’t matter: the Sojourner has never required that her followers love.

What if, though, they’re better suited to a trowel or chopping knife than the careful, subtle art of guiding their guests? What if Moll can’t help James because of the qualities they don’t experience or the relationships they don’t desire? What if lovelessness and lifelessness, even best regarded as neutral states of being, render them ill-suited to the work?

“You’re like a puppet—moving your wooden lips, saying the words. But you don’t know anything about … about really being human.” James folds her arms across her body before turning towards the arch, her chin held high. “There’s no point. Not with you.”

No, there isn’t. She needs a priest who won’t make her feel distanced by their inability to share her experiences. One who, in curiosity and kindness, can explore and sympathise with her pain-born feelings and judgements. One who doesn’t feel slapped across the face and punched in the gut by three words: lifeless and loveless.

They understand the process. Pluck out the least-acceptable aspects of aromanticism and autism, disguise them as general qualities society finds objectionable and wield them at the vulnerable—prejudice now concealed under the thinnest veneer of acceptable disregard. Awareness doesn’t ease their hurt.

Wooden. Puppet. Statue.

Inhuman.

She halts at the archway, gesturing in their direction. “See? You aren’t even saying anything now! You’re—”

“Pain!” The word spills from Moll’s lips with shocking vehemence. “You think love is what makes us human, if you must choose one quality? No, humans are pain, not love—the pain of having our worth denied, the pain of injury and loss, the pain of our cognisance of our mortality, the pain of fear, the pain of being overlooked or ignored, even the pain of having our pain denied! Who doesn’t endure against the hurt of being told in word or action that we aren’t worth kindness?”

James stares at Moll in an aghast, still silence.

“You think I can’t know you? If you think, in your pain and ignorance, that I haven’t had someone demonstrate that I’m undeserving of respect, you have done so just now! You sought to strip away my humanity, because you think cruelty will give you back the power torn from you. It won’t. It only makes you cruel. It only envenomates another.” They rise and walk towards the archway, fighting to keep their steps slow and hands loose by their sides. “Because you misunderstand your own humanity, you gave me what makes me as human as you—pain. Will you say it again, now, why I can’t guide you?”

Her lips part as though about to speak, but no sound emerges.

“I have consented to guide you to your rightful path. I haven’t consented to your disrespect.” Despite their efforts, Moll’s bare feet smack against the stone as they step past James into the fern-lined pathway. “Gennifer will assign you to another priest’s care. I won’t spend a moment longer with you.” Just for a moment, they adopt the snapping bark mastered with the Seventh: “Come!”

James moves as though afraid to make the slightest noise, hanging back a few steps behind with the nail of her pointer finger clasped between her teeth.

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normal-thoughts-official · 5 years ago

Text

Thawing From the Middle

Raphael Santiago didn’t like to define himself by his hatreds, but this, he had to admit - he fucking hated the cold.

Good thing Maia’s so warm - and he can be, too, when she needs it.

Read it on ao3

Relationships: Maia Roberts/Raphael Santiago, Maia Roberts/Raphael Santiago/Simon Lewis/Meliorn (mentioned)

Characters: Raphael Santiago, Maia Roberts

Rated: T

Additional Tags: Cuddling & Snuggling, Established Relationship, Polyamory, Daylighter Raphael Santiago, Past Abuse, Asexual Raphael Santiago, Autistic Raphael Santiago (implied/referenced), Abuse survivor Maia Roberts, Pack leader Maia Roberts

Raphael doesn’t like to think of himself as a man defined by his hatreds, even if he knows some people can think of no other traits to define him.

(Only if they don’t know you at all, he can hear Meliorn’s voice saying in his head.

We all know he’s a softie at heart, Simon and Maia had agreed.

The memory makes him smile.)

But this, he has to admit - he fucking hates the cold. It’s as much a part of himself as his own name.

It was the thing he had immediately despised about New York, as soon as he set foot there. In New York, 20°C - sorry, 70°F - was warm. Summer was so short it was less of a station and more a fluke. There was snow.

It was nothing like Guadalajara.

Guadalajara was burning, and loud, and colorful, in all of the best ways. It was hot, and the food was spicy, and midday was filled with the smell of the meals of the whole neighborhood.

New York was cold, like a sensory deprivation chamber. He felt trapped, and numb, and alone. The first few weeks there felt more like death than when he actually died.

And when he did die, well - cold was less of a state and more of a constant, for him.

He’d leave his clothes out on the Dumort roof, during the day, while he slept. They were all black, so they could keep the heat as much as possible; even the few red or green pieces had black cloth underneath, courtesy of Magnus’ tailor.

It did very little to help.

Besides, that’s another thing he’d always hated about the cold - having to wrap himself all around, being barely able to move, the textures all wrong and painful and keeping him sealed from the world, this depriving kind of too much.

It might be why becoming a Daylighter had been such a blessing for him - if he’d never had proof that God was by his side before, this one he couldn’t deny. Being able to feel the sun on his face again - to really feel warm - after almost a century… He could cry just from the pure sense he got that he wasn’t hated, wasn’t renegated, hadn’t been abandoned.

It might also be why he hasn’t taken a jacket with him, today. But that one he has to regret a little bit.

Even under Maia’s very generous pile of blankets, he is shivering. It’s not like they could do much for him, anyway; he has no heat for them to keep.

In his defense, it was warm when he left. And he works in a kitchen, so it’s always a bit too hot in there.

Your job isn’t just cooking and you know it, he can hear Maia say just like she did as she slapped him lightly with a towel, as the both of them finished closing Taki’s for the day. Just bring a jacket with you, she had finished, the annoyance leaving her tone in a single huff, making room for worry - and the painful kind of understanding that made him avert his eyes from her big, beautiful ones.

“Stop looking so miserable, you’re under, like, 10 blankets right now,” Maia says, laughing, in that way that lights her up until even he feels a little warmer.

“Doesn’t help a lot when there’s barely any warmth for them to keep,” he answers.

“You know, I’ve always admired the way you can mumble full sentences like that,” she answers, that same smile still shining in her eyes, and he swears that he can see it even on the little bounce of her hair as she finishes taking off her pants. She’s so lively, every little part of her body bursts with it.

“I didn’t mumble,” he mumbles, flopping his face down on the pillows.

“Sure,” she says easily, in a way that’d be more frustrating than some witty argument, but he can’t even complain because she finally turns off the light and lifts the covers to lay alongside him.

“Jesus Christ, you really are freezing,” is what she says as soon as her body even lightly touches his.

“Sorry,” he answers automatically, trying to keep his distance so he doesn’t freeze her.

“Don’t apologize, it’s fine,” she says, easily, like her skin didn’t break out in goosebumps the second it touched his.

Raphael huffs. “I promise I’ll bring a jacket next time,” he says, sitting up so he can rub his own arms in the hopes he can get some heat. “I’ll just-”

Maia sighs. “I get it, you know,” she says, honestly. “One time I almost froze up because-” she bites her lip.

Raphael turns to her, immediately, a weird sense of protectiveness overtaking him even as he knows she’s fine. “Because of what?” he asks, holding himself back from touching her with his icy hands.

“Because I didn’t want to Turn,” she says, not looking at him. She has one finger playing with one of her curls, twisting around like it’s cuddling with it. Her voice sounds the kind of soft that makes you feel hollow. “The wolf form is very warm, you know. Fur and all that. Way warmer than human,” she says. Then she turns to look at him, the force of her eyes always taking him by surprise for a second, so honest and so deep, “did you ever see me Turn, back when Luke was the Alpha?” she asks quietly.

“I think so,” he says. Him and Maia weren’t particularly close, at the time; never truly were until he had started dating Meliorn, and Simon, and helping her out at Taki’s, until suddenly she felt almost as much a part of her life as the place itself. He fights to bring the memory back, “it was like… you were breaking out of your body,” he says.

It’s true, too. Most werewolf transformations were smooth, almost instant. Maia’s was long, her whole body snapping and twisting like her body was fighting itself. It was painful to watch, and felt even more painful to remember, now.

“It felt like that, too,” she admits. “It hurt a lot. I felt like I was always fighting it. Even when I decided to Turn… It’s like a part of me didn’t want to acknowledge what was happening,” she admits.

Sometimes he forgets that Maia felt like a monster, too. He never got it. Sure, she was a werewolf, but that didn’t matter, in the same way that becoming a vampire never made Simon any less human. It wasn’t really about - the condition.

She nods like she knows what he’s thinking, and takes his hand to plant a kiss on it. It’s ridiculous, but it makes him feel a little less cold. “I didn’t feel like I was in control,” she admits, quietly. “Every time I Turned, I felt like it was being forced. Like it was proof that I still… Belonged to Jordan,” she finishes, quietly.

Raphael hisses, and he doesn’t even mind it. Jordan will always bring out the worst kind of hatred in his heart, pretty much like Camille did. He’s glad they’re both dead, unable to hurt the people he loves anymore.

She smiles again, like she’s thankful for his little display, for how automatically it comes to him. Her hand lingers on his, the both of them drawing comfort from the random patterns their fingers leave on each other’s skin. “After he died, things changed a little bit. I’ve been trying to reclaim my wolf. Make it mine. It brought me too many good things for me to let It belong to him,” she says.

Raphael nods. He can understand that. There’s still a lot he misses, but at the end of the day - he built a family after being a downworlder. Magnus. Cat. Madzie. His clan. His partners. The regulars at Taki’s. He wouldn’t know what to do with himself if he lost them, now. And he wouldn’t have had them if he hadn’t been Turned.

Maia sighs, like the words are tiring her out. “But I get it. I get that need to- pretend it won’t happen. The cold.”

“Thank you,” he says, even if that doesn’t sound like the appropriate answer; it’s the one he feels like he needs to give.

Maia smiles. “It’s come to mean a lot to me, to be able to Turn, and not fight it,” she continues. “And it’s really warm, too.”

He hums for a second, and then it dawns on him. “Is that an offer?” he asks, unable to keep the smile off his face, that wide one that’s just on the edge of laughter.

Maia, who had looked a little drawn, smiles back to him, relaxing back into the conversation. “If you don’t mind that we won’t be able to talk,” she says.

He shakes his head. “I don’t really feel like talking today, anyway,” he says, truthfully. He’s tired, and there’s that buzzing on his head that makes him feel like talking is too much of an effort, sometimes. Like it’s taking him from himself.

“You could have told me,” Maia says, not unkindly, getting up slightly and removing the top she usually wears to bed.

“I can handle it,” he points out.

“I know you can. I’m saying you don’t have to,” she fires back. Her tone is kind, but still cutting in that no-bullshit way only Maia can do. It’s one of the many things he loves about her; she’s very direct, when it matters.

He nods, and doesn’t say anything. She smiles, shimmying out of her panties, which earns her a snort that she fights back with nothing but a swat in his general direction. It’s a testament to how close they are, that Raphael doesn’t mind seeing her like this. It’s always a little terrifying, looking at someone and wondering what it would be like to want them, and feeling his stomach churn just at the thought. But Maia knows it doesn’t mean anything; and it doesn’t mean anything to her, either.

Besides, she’s beautiful, her skin almost as brown and shiny as her hair, making she look like the beginning of a starry night. She’s soft, too, and there’s just something about her that radiates warmth, and safety.

She’s the opposite of Raphael. All light and softness, but with the power to be sharp, and strong, lying underneath.

And then she Turns, and it’s like the midnight sky. Her transformation is smooth now, and mesmerizing to watch. Her fur is darker than her hair, her eyes glowing Alpha green - he’d be lying if he said he didn’t miss the brown, so much more real and beautiful and sweet; but somehow her Alpha green doesn’t look threatening when she’s like this; more like welcoming, and protective. Her fur is just as shiny as her hair, except not as curly. And she’s bigger too, bigger than Raphael - not that that takes a lot, he thinks bitterly - and yeah, she was right. She feels like a furnace, radiating heat.

She wastes no time either, immediately making Raphael lie down again - with a soft nudge of her paw over his shoulder, delicate and careful in that way that fills him with endearment. Then she lies on top of him, carefully so he gets adjusted to her weight. Somehow, looking into her eyes, he knows she’s smiling.

As soon as she settles, he wastes no time, his hands running to her back so he can stroke her beautiful fur. It’s nice that her fur is straighter than her hair, because they can both get the best of both worlds; the careful way he can squeeze her curls and run the tips of his fingers over her scalp, and the longer strokes alongside her fur. He feels warm in a second, the heat radiating from her making him feel full, and real, and home. He closes his eyes, and there’s the faint smell of the spices that still linger on both of them after so many hours at Taki’s, and the warmth from her body, and the perfect texture of her body. He’s enveloped in her, not like he’s trapped, or sealed away; but like they overflow with each other, simple and content.

He sighs, and she nuzzles his neck slightly, and he’s so happy he barely knows what to do with it.

“It’s an honor that you’re comfortable with me like this,” he says, because it’s true, and he wants to say it. He knows how far she’s had to go in order to even be comfortable in her wolf form by herself, much less with other people. “I love you.”

She wags her tail, completely disrupting the covers on top of them, and letting out an embarrassed whimper afterwards. Raphael can’t help it; he laughs.

“It’s ok,” he says, too tired of words to elaborate, but knowing that she knows what he means, anyway. Soon it would be too hot, with the covers over them like this. He barely feels an ounce of cold anymore, and it hasn’t even been a minute.

She nuzzles his neck again, settling against him for real this time, and soon her breaths even and she falls into peaceful, happy sleep. It looks like she’s smiling, and despite his tiredness, Raphael finds himself actively fighting the sleep so he can keep running his hands alongside her, watching over her sleep, enjoying her warmth.

Raphael Santiago hates the cold. But he never wanted to be defined by his hatreds. Not when love beats so loudly inside of him, thrumming with happiness and purpose.

When he wakes up the next day, sunlight hitting his face and a half-awake Maia mumbling because she forgot to close the window, he feels better rested than he has in years.

Centuries, even.

#sh #shadowhunters #maia roberts #raphael santiago #maphael #maiaphael #polycule #fic #maiaphael fic

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