#I’m always saddened that she passed away from cancer before she could do any more

[always-a-slut-4-ghouls]

I see those Etsy listings for earrings with “your favorite book cover” on tiny books and I’m always super tempted (when I have money) but I can’t think of any single novel that would qualify as my favorite (after the age of 14) and while I now think i have a favorite series, i don’t have a single favorite book in fiction. I can however think of two non-fiction books that I absolutely adore but I’m not sure if that would be a weird request or not 🤔

[moral-turpitudes]

To the Moon:

A/N: Totes cried while writing this but it’s fine.

Trigger Warnings: Angst, Descriptions of Character Death, Drinking, Pregnancy, Cancer, Fluff, Grief, etc.

Word Count: 4,225 

Characters: Thomas Shelby x Female!Reader x Anna Shelby (OC?/Daughter)

Request: “Hi this is my first request and it’s an angsty Tommy x Reader where the reader is an old flame and they didn’t work out but Thomas still loves the reader anyway, and she sends him a letter out of the blue. Apparently the reader got pregnant and had a kid but she’s really sick now and doesn’t want her kid in an orphanage. It could end in fluff but doesn’t have to.”

Requested by: @wierdestmoppet​

A/N: Get ready for some sad shit. I saw the request and this is what my mind jumped to lol. I wrote this to be set like around Season 1-ish btw.

Summary: Life and death have a way of revealing the truth within us, and it can cause things to happen at the most unexpected times. This is especially true for Thomas Shelby as he realizes not even he can stop death.

Part 1 | Part 2

“Dear Thomas,

How are you? It’s been a long while and I hope you and your family are doing okay. I know this may be out of the blue, but you know I’ve never been much for planning things. You also know that I prefer getting straight to the point, so disregard any smudged writing in advance. I’m trying to keep the tears at bay while writing this, but I figured I’d burn any bridges while I still can.

I know we parted in anger but I’d love to know if you’d forgive me for how I acted. When I left during the months after you had gotten back from France, every fiber in my being wanted to stay there with you, but I couldn’t. I had no one besides you and your family and it made me feel worse, like a burden. I was so scared you’d send me away if I told you then...so I made that decision for you and I know it destroyed you.

I don’t think I’ll ever forgive myself for that, and now of all times I’m sitting here wishing I could be back there in that dirt-covered town, walking by the cut with you just like old times...but I can’t, not in this life anyway.

It saddens me greatly to know I’ll never see your face again, but for the sake of time I’ll be blunt. A couple weeks after I left, call it karma if you will, I fell more ill and went to the doctor. When I left, my suspicions were confirmed. I was pregnant.

I fought the urge to call you though and I regret that to this day, but I’m writing this now to hopefully make up for it.

I had not been with anyone else the whole time you were deployed. But if you can think back, you’ll remember our time at the Garrison and how you’d brought me home. That night stuck with me for nine months, Thomas. I had a beautiful baby girl who I named Anna. And the best part is that she has your eyes.

With all that said, I know this is a lot to take in, but I have one dying wish. You see, I’ve been diagnosed with cancer and the doctors said I have only days left to live. I’m...I’m trying so hard not to cry because I don’t want to wake the poor girl, but I can’t go on much longer and she deserves a good life...One that I can’t give her. I’d love for her to not have to go to the orphanage, as it would break my heart. So I’m asking you to do probably one of the hardest things you’ve had to do in some time, my love. I’m asking if you’d be willing to take in our Anna?

I’ve always wanted her to meet her father, and I wanted to wait until she got older to do so...but it seems life had a way of throwing off those plans as you can see.

I just wanted to let you know in case a lovely little one year old shows up at the shop soon. I’ve sent my friend here in London to take her to you after I pass. I know you may not love me anymore Tom, but I hope that whatever love is still in your heart, you can give that to our daughter. And that you can also find a place in your heart for forgiveness, I know I have.

I’m not expecting anything else, but I truly wish you the best in life, both for you and the family. I’ll think of Anna and you when I sleep tonight. That’s about as close to being in heaven as I can think of.

With all my love,

Y/N Y/L/N”

Thomas set down the letter, hands shaking as he slid his finger over the dried ink that was smudged in various spots by her tears.

He sat there with his head in his hands, tears silently falling from his eyes as the memories came flooding back.

He had just gotten the business in line, and had a good thing going with his family. Even securing a legal betting license, but just as he’d known all his life, he couldn’t get his hopes up when it came to love. Every woman he’d ever loved seemed to have an expiration date, and this one tore him to the core.

As he sat there, the rain pattered on the windows of his office at the shop. The sound only fueling the rage inside him as he came to terms with the letter.

He had thought she’d moved because she found someone new or thought she’d gone off to find a job somewhere perhaps. But he didn’t expect this. After all, he still loved her. He was never good at showing it but he truly did love her and now she was being ripped from him without even getting to say goodbye.

He took a shot from his glass at his desk and threw it in frustration, shards exploding on the ground like tiny specs of glitter.

As he watched the shards shimmer in the dim light, he remembered the fancy envelope. Frantically picking it up and seeing a small picture hanging out of the corner that he must’ve missed before.

It was of Y/N holding Anna. Y/N had a weakened look to her as she sat on the steps of her apartment in a light green dress. It was her favorite color after all, and he knew that.

She had the brightest smile despite her frail state as well and it instantly caused him to smile too. When his eyes landed on his daughter it only grew and he felt his throat tighten as he cleared his throat, trying to keep his emotions at bay.

She indeed had his striking blue eyes though, and the beautiful color of her mother’s hair. With tears threatening to fall, he noticed she had her smile too, thanking whatever gods above that she didn’t get his toothy grin.

As he admired the picture, he remembered seeing the date and a phone number scribbled on the letter, her handwriting noticeably declining compared to when she used to write him long ago during the war.

Without a second thought, he called her number hoping she’d answer. His heart stopping for a moment as he heard static on the other end before it picked up, a faint voice saying “Y/L/N Residence.” in response.

“H-Hello, I’m sorry it’s late but this is Thomas Shelby. Is Y/N there?” He asked, his voice trembling as he wiped tears from his eyes.

“I never thought you’d call...” She said.

“You sound...different.” He said.

Y/N laughed, and he swore he could feel his heart pound at the faint sound of it.

“Death does that to ya.” She said, making light of the situation.

“Y/N...I-I got your letter. I know we don’t have much time...but I love you. I do. I-I love you so fucking much okay?” He said frantically, sitting down at his desk.

“I’m not dead yet.” She lightly chuckled.

“I know...just wanted to let you know I do love you, and that I forgive you. For everything.” He said quietly.

“I thought you’d moved on Tom...But I love to you too. I’m so sorry I’ve put you through this...” she said, breathing heavily.

“Don’t you worry sweetheart. You’ve done nothing wrong. I-uhm...I haven’t moved on. I could never move on from you, Y/N...” He said, her name on his tongue like a spark. He hadn’t said her name so often in ages.

“Did you get the picture?” She asked.

“Yes. You’re beautiful. Anna is too. Beautiful just like her mother.” He said, holding the picture in his hand.

“I was so excited when she opened her eyes. I’m so glad she has yours.” She said, her voice fading a bit as she reminisced.

“And I’m glad she has your smile my love. Can’t have her running around with a smile like mine aye?” He joked.

“Oh stop.” She chuckled.

He laughed lightly as she continued, her breathing audible over the phone.

“I’m happy the letter got to you when it did. I was trying to hold out for you both.” She said, her voice thickening as tears welled up in her eyes.

“I’m happy it did too. You’re the strongest woman I know. You know that right?” He said, wiping his own tears from his eyes as he heard her crying.

“I want our Anna to grow up strong too. Have you considered my offer?” She asked.

Thomas hesitated, his hands were shaking more than they had when first reading the letter.

“Yes. I-I don’t have a nursery yet, but I’ll be able to get things sorted in no time, alright love?” He said.

Y/N sighed with relief. “Good...you don’t know how happy that makes me. I’m...I’m holding her little hand right now. She’s got a firm grip just like her daddy.” She said, sniffling.

“Good. She can rough house with Finn when she’s older.” He said.

“Just...protect her Tommy. She’s so sweet. I love her so much...” She said, her voice weakening.

“I love you, to the moon and back you hear me? Is the nurse with you?” He asked, noticing her voice changing.

“Y-yes. My friend is too. Told her to bring Anna as soon as I go. I-I’m so scared Tom...” She said, her voice cracking as she cried.

“And I love you to the moon and back too sweetheart. I just wish I could have you here with me.” She continued.

“I know you’re scared Y/N. Just hold Anna’s little hand and listen to my voice...okay? Everything will be alright. I-I promise.” He said, his own voice cracking as more tears ran down his face.

“I’ll always protect our daughter. And I’ll tell her how much you meant to me and how much you loved her. I’ll always love you. Always, to the moon and back aye?” He said.

Her breath shallowed as she answered, the last of her strength fading as she spoke.

“I love you both. To the moon...and back.” She said, taking a final breath before her eyes closed and her body went slack, including the finger that her daughter was clutching onto while lying beside her in bed.

The line was silent as Tommy listened. His heart nearly broke when he heard Anna’s cries, and her friend and the nurse sniffling as they helped around the room.

“M-Mr. Shelby? This is the nurse. I know this is hard...but would you like her ashes or would you prefer her to have a traditional burial? She never got the chance to specify.”

He wiped his tears on his sleeve and looked out the window as the rain fell, the moon shining brightly as he gazed up.

“Traditional burial. She needs to be where she’s loved. My family will be in touch as soon as we can.” He said.

“Alright. We recommend doing it soon, tomorrow perhaps. Her friend just left with Anna and will be by your shop in the morning.” She said.

“Uhm...yeah tomorrow is fine. Bring Y/N to the fields and we’ll take care of the rest. I’ll be here at the shop when Anna gets here.” He said, his mind feeling like it was about to explode.

“Alright. I will see you tomorrow Mr. Shelby.” She said.

“Alright.” He whispered before hanging up the phone.

He frantically strode over to his whiskey stash, downing a good portion of it before he ran to the shops bathroom. The mixture of suddenly ingesting all that alcohol and his frazzled nerves taking its toll.

When he composed himself, he freshened up as best he could and splashed cold water over his face, trying to wash the memories and the rush of the alcohol away.

As he made his way back to his office, he thought to call everyone. Even if they were sleeping, this was the one time he truly needed everyone in the family.

“Polly? It’s me. I’m going to need uhm...a crib...and a funeral lined up in the fields. Can you bring the crib here to the shop? I-I guess I’ll need anything baby related.” He stammered.

“Holy mother...slow down please! What are you talking about?!” She asked tiredly through the phone.

“It’s Y/N...yes...her....she left me because she was pregnant and she had the baby and she’s mine. Her name is Anna and she’ll be here in the morning. Y/N she uhm...she died. I just talked to her as she passed alright? She ended up having fucking cancer. She wrote to me and...and it was her dying wish that I take care of Anna for her. I need everyone here. This is the one thing I can’t do alone, Poll.” He said frantically.

Polly stayed silent as she processed what was said, he could hear her sniffling as she spoke.

“Christ have mercy....I’ll call everyone in. You try to get some sleep even if you’re lying on the shop floors. You can’t take care of your daughter drunk like that. I can hear it in your voice.” She said before hanging up.

Polly quickly got ready, waking up little Finn and sadly explaining to him what happened. Together they gathered an old crib from when Ada stayed over with Karl a couple nights, and she found some baby food and diapers.

Next on her list was to call Ada as she had more things at the ready, and she and the rest of the blinders were just as shocked as the news rolled in.

2 hours had passed and Tommy had forced himself to lie down with his coat draped over him on his office floor. The half empty bottle of whiskey smashed to pieces from when he’d gotten off the phone with Polly.

His eyes were blood shot and moving rapidly under his closed eyelids, dreams of coming to save Y/N from the inevitable somehow threatening his mind as he watched her disappear like a ghost. His eyes flew open though as he heard the shop doors close. His tragic slumber interrupted further by numerous heavy boots on the floor.

He sat up slowly, trying to smooth out his hair and putting his coat on as the draft from the cool night air crept in through the creaky floors and window sills.

He sat there on the floor, not having the strength to get up as Polly and the rest of his blinder brothers came into the dark room.

“Tommy...Polly told us what’s happened. I’m so sorry...” Ada said, holding a large bag of everything baby related that she could find. Little Finn held a small crib and Polly had a blanket in her arms as well as a small bag of food.

“Everything was fine a couple hours ago, I was just ‘bout to go home then I saw the letter on my desk...” He said, wishing selfishly that he could turn back time.

“Look mate...we have your back. Just tell us what ya need done and we’ll do it. It’s a family meeting after all.” John said, nervously biting the toothpick in his mouth.

“I...I spoke with the nurse. She said they recommend having the funeral tomorrow. We’re having it in the field like we usually do. It’s what she would’ve wanted probably. I couldn’t let them burn her and stuff her in some urn. She deserves better. God damn it...” He said putting his head in his hands. He’d always been the one in control. He’d always had a solid plan, a solid mode of attack, but this was something he had no control over. Just as much as life had control over death. It was all out of his hands.

“I’ll go get Johnny Dogs and the Lee’s help with all that, you stay here Tom.” John said, kissing Esme goodbye as he went out into the night.

“Oi, brother do you want me to go with him? I promise I won’t do anything this time.” Arthur said, crouching down by his brother and placing a hand on his shoulder.

“I don’t care, as long as Anna gets here safely and as long as Y/N can have a decent place to be buried in. That’s all I’m on about now. Fuck the rivalries, for one day.” He said. It wasn’t like him to stop condoning a lot of violence, but perhaps this made him have a change of heart.

He glanced at the photo she sent him, his eyes glossing over as he held it in his shaking hands.

“She has my eyes.” He said, his own filling with tears that not many of his family had seen in so long.

“She’s beautiful.” Polly said, sitting by him on the floor. Little Finn helped set the crib down and Esme and Ada helped clean up the mess Tommy had made.

“She is...” he said.

Around 4 hours later, John and some of the Lee’s returned and told them they’d gotten everything set up and Tommy had met with the nurse. She was dressed in a black dress and a black coat, and holding a silver necklace with a light green stone in it. It was Y/N’s that Tommy had given her before he went off to war.

“She wanted you to keep this, to give to Anna...she thought maybe as an 18th birthday gift would be nice...” She said, wiping a tear from her eye.

“Thank you. I’ll keep that in mind.” He said, putting the necklace in his jacket, clasping the button on the small pocket so it was secure.

As the night blurred into the morning, Polly and Esme napped in the chairs as Tommy rested his head at his desk. Finn and the rest all finding places to doze off to in various corners of the shop.

As much as Thomas hated everyone sleeping uncomfortably, he knew it was good they were here. He needed the support whether his pride liked it or not.

It was around 6 am when the nurse arrived again, letting him know Y/N’s funeral things were all set up. And it wasn’t long after that a small car pulled up. A woman with blonde hair and a black dress getting out quickly as she reached for the little girl.

Her faint cries were heard as Thomas watched from the doorway, alert and ready to do what he had to do for the coming days, and eventually years.

“Hello Mr. Shelby. My name is Jess. I was a good friend of Y/N’s. Here’s your daughter. I hope she’ll be a comfort to you.” She said quickly as she handed her to him.

He nervously cradled her into his arm as she squirmed in defiance at first. The new person holding her making her only want her mother more.

“Hey...hey...shhh. It’s alright love. It’s okay. Daddy’s here. It’s okay.” He cooed, carefully swaying a bit as he held her. As she adjusted to her new surroundings, she gradually stopped crying, her bright blue eyes opening and landing on her fathers face. Tears were coating her cheeks as she looked up at him in silence, curiously as she took in the man holding her.

“It’s okay. I promise.” He said, gently wiping her tears as he carried her inside.

Polly and the girls gasped quietly so as not to startle her too much. But she cried nonetheless, the new people overwhelming her. Tommy cooed again and gave her his finger to hold, helping her out of her crying fit.

“You’re a natural Tommy. Must’ve been all the babysitting when we were little.” Ada said, as she watched her niece slowly stop crying.

“I can only hope so.” He said, looking down at his little girl. John and Arthur and the others came near as quietly as they could, watching as she had a death grip on Tommy’s finger.

“She’s a strong little bugger. Finn you’ll have to show her the ropes ya know.” Arthur said, Finn looked on curiously at his new niece and nodded.

“Not till she’s older. We have to protect her alright, Y/N will strike me down if we don’t.” Tommy said, smiling a bit as he wondered where her soul was now.

“How about we let you be? We’ve set everything up in your office, so it should suffice until later today when you can take her home. The funeral is at noon. So everyone get home and get ready and meet at the field.” Polly said, before patting Thomas’ shoulder. He was in shock at the nights events, but his daughter luckily helped him from spiraling too far down.

The hours leading up to the funeral were spent trying to feed and change her and having Polly come back early to show him the ropes. Anna was dressed in a small black dress and wrapped in the soft blanket Polly had brought, her cries echoing throughout the shop as everyone gathered their things.

“She’s gonna be a little hell-raiser, I already know.” Polly said.

“Good. Maybe she can take over this place someday aye?” Tommy said, placing his cap on as Polly nestled her into the car with her.

“If she wants to that is.” Polly said, closing the door and looking at the little bundle. Tommy started the car and drove off towards the fields, the bonfire sending smoke into the air upon their arrival.

Tommy stopped the car and closed his eyes, taking a deep breath as he sat there.

“Are you alright? We can take a minute if you need it Tom.” Polly asked, putting her hand in his shoulder.

He wiped a stray tear from his eye and ran a hand over his face before looking back at his little girl. Her eyes wandering over him as he sat there.

“No. I’ll be fine. We’ll be fine, we just have to say goodbye that’s all.” He said, getting out of the car and gently picking up Anna.

She protested at first, her eyes welling up with tears as she looked around, but they stopped once she saw her fathers face. He was grinning slightly at her and stroking her hair, trying to make sure she was alright.

“She’s okay. She’s probably bloody overwhelmed, poor thing. It’ll be like that for a while, but you can do this Thomas.” Polly said, walking towards the field.

“We can do this right Anna? We have to say bye to mummy alright? It’ll be okay my love.” He said, her cries stopping as he walked with her in his arms and towards the wagon and the bonfire.

The smoke invaded everyone’s lungs as the flames grew around the wagon. Everyone who knew her back when they dated coming together to say some nice words or to offer up small prayers.

Tommy couldn’t say anything, fearing he’d break down, but he stood there holding their daughter, throwing a rose towards the flames and silently thinking of her. Hoping she’d watch over them while she was up there.

As the ceremony ended, he wiped a stray tear away and carried the little girl around the remains of the fire, trying to think of a plan for their new life.

Anna mumbled as he sat with her on a nearby log, giving her rose petals to play with from one of the leftover bouquets.

“Those were your mums favorite.” He said, hearing her mumbling in baby babble.

“M-mama.” She said lightly, looking out at the fire. Thomas felt his throat closing as she said it, wishing nothing more than to bring her back.

“Yes love...Mama is gone but dads got ya now love. She loved you so much...” He said, tear running down his cheek as he kissed the top of her head. She looked up at him as he held her on his lap, still gripping his hand like a security blanket and smiling like Y/N.

Over the next couple months they both grew used to each other’s company. She was babbling more and not crying as much, but she could always sense something was missing. Thomas was home more now than he’d ever been, always keeping an eye on her and taking her to the shop when he’d go to work. Everyone loved her though, as they all took turns watching the little girl.

“She’s doing so well. I know Y/N would be proud, Tommy.” Ada said, patting his shoulder as he stood at the window, looking at the night sky.

“She would aye? I’m seeing more of Y/N in her each day. Only a matter of time before she takes Finn out though.” Tommy said smirking.

“I can’t wait to see that.” Ada said, slowly walking away to do her paperwork.

Tommy walked in his office to see Finn playing with her, giving her random toys as she sat up in a chair, and watching her throw them to the side as soon as she saw her father.

She smiled her little smile and threw her hands up towards him as he walked to her, crouching down and scooping her up as she giggled.

In the silence between them he’d often look up after the long day and see the moon, hoping Y/N would be looking back at them from up there, and he’d whisper to himself that they were alright, hoping in some way she’d know they were.

Tag List:

(If you’d like to be added/removed just shoot me an ask!) :)

@msbzowy, @nofckingfighting, @aranoburns, @sighonahurricane, @ugly-crying-over-bucky-barnes, @gaytommyshelby, @wowjeena, @fifty-shadesof-tommyshelby, @inglourious-imagines, @thebloodyshelbys, @tsolomons, @blinder-secrets, @reveparade, @shelby-fanatic, @ta-ka-shi-ma, @psychkunox, @peakyxtommy, @captivatedbycillianmurphy,@dreamwastakenx, @lovemissyhoneybee @thomashelbyswhore​

[fieldsofmoonshine]

Remember Me

Pairings: Elijah Mikaelson x Fem!Reader

Warning: funeral, cancer, death

Notes: this is kinda sad boi hour, elijah spends the day remembering you after you’ve died kinda thing

Word Count: 2064

Elijah leaned against the doorway, watching as you were listening to music loudly in your earphones while putting on makeup. Your mouth as slightly opened as you focused on applying your mascara, flinching every time you brought the tip closer to your eye.

The bright yellow sundress you had picked out for the day still hung on the wardrobe door as Elijah woke up, the suit he was wearing had for a second left red indentations on his skin which healed as he stood up. His eyes stopped at the dress, a sudden wave of feelings weighing down over his chest, knowing that you’d never get to wear it again.

Elijah walked over to the dress his hand bunching the fabric tightly in his hand while he smelled it, closing his eyes as he could recognize your perfume still present in the fabric.

You were sitting in a bench, leaning your head back to look at the sky, the sky was painted in a strong red burn mixed with the white and pink clouds it looked like a painting. Elijah was sitting beside you, one hand thrown around your neck like a pillow while he looked at you, smiling at your amazement at the sky.

“Don’t you two look disgustingly happy,” Klaus strolled into the courtyard with a grin as he watched you two. “Never seen a sky before Y/N?”

“Fuck off,” you answered, not even looking at him.

“I think you’re adorable,” Elijah stated and leaned down to place a kiss against your now blushing cheek.

“Fuck off,” you repeated, this time a mumble as you looked at Elijah.

“I’d prefer not,” he answered. “You could come with me.”

“As I said, disgusting,” Klaus muttered as he watched you blush deeper but answered with a yes, following him up to his room. “At least lock the door this time!”

“Elijah?” Freya knocked on his door, she sounded hesitant, saddened as she waited for a few seconds before opening the door. “Are you coming?”

“This is what she wanted,” Elijah told Freya absently while keeping his eyes on your dress. “The party, the people, down to every little pebble... I want to honor her wish— but all I truly want is to stay right here and bury myself in her dresses and shirts and every stupid little thing she left here.”

“We miss her too, and honestly I’m pretty sure none of us wants to celebrate her death,” Freya stepped inside and placed a arm around Elijah’s shoulder, which he didn’t even react to. “But she told us— very clearly— that we can cry and be miserable at any time but not today, she wanted us to remember her as she was—“

“Happy, fearless, smoking a cigarette while looking at the man she loved after a good round in the hay,” Elijah continued and chuckled slightly. “I don’t want to forget it, that feeling of being loved by her... it’s something extraordinary about it, like you’re drowning and she just pulls you up and you never want to be without her again, yet here I am.”

“Come on, if we leave now I won’t tell Nik you’re wearing the same suit as yesterday,” Freya teased him, noticing the small tug of his lips as he nodded wrapping an arm around Freya’s waist. “He’s been drinking, I never thought they were that close.”

“Niklaus has a funny way of showing he cares, with her I guess it was by endlessly mocking her,” Elijah looked down the hall with a frown. “You know, he fought harder about treatment with her than I did, he said something about making sure she’d be Izzie Stevens. How she’d managed to get him to watch Grey’s Anatomy I never understood.”

Freya chuckled lightly and stroked his arm as Elijah let go of her. “One day, Elijah, than we’ll mourn.”

Elijah sat beside you, looking at the wall above the doctors head, scanning some of the documents. You had been in for a regular check up and mentioned some recurring headaches after a fall down the stairs, (which was actually you ending up in the crossfire of some vampires arguing), and after some testing and scans you had been told to call someone, if you needed it. And you called Elijah, thinking it’d be something like a concussion and you’d need a ride, but no instead you two had been taken to meet an oncologist.

“How long do I have?” Elijah was torn from his focus on the wall. “It’s bad right? You have that look in your eye, like she’s only started her life and now she’ll die, so how long? Five years?” The doctor was about to answer but you cut her off again. “It’s shorter, right? Three? Two? Do I even have one?”

“With treatment, statistics give you a year, some live five but—“

“I am dying, anyways?” You filled in, getting a nod in response. “What’s the treatment?”

“We start with surgery, then chemotherapy and you’ll have to take medication,” you looked over at Elijah who had placed his hand on yours squeezing tightly, you imagined he wasn’t really listening anymore either. Vampires, werewolves, witches, hybrids, ex’s. Somehow you two had been through it all together yet neither of you had thought of this, a glioblastoma. A brain tumor.

“And this will give me, a year?” You asked.

“Some get more some less.”

“My grandmother died from cancer, when I was 15,” you leaned back slightly. “The last thing I told her was that she looked sick, and she answered that she was and that she’d wished she had rejected the treatment because she would die anyways. All she wanted was a little more time— I’ve had time and if I get a year where I can’t really live, I’d rather go sooner.”

“Perhaps you two should take some time to discuss—“

“No,” you answered, squeezing Elijah’s hand to get his attention back to where it belonged. “I’ve decided. Do I need to sign something?”

“Yes, a few papers...”

Klaus had saved seats for Elijah and Freya at the front, looking as miserable as Elijah felt even though Klaus had clearly attempted to clean up for the moment. People were chattering amongst themselves while waiting for the priest.

“I can’t believe she chose a service after all,” Klaus muttered and looked at Elijah who shrugged.

“It’s for appearances, she said something about wanting to be the talk of the town and all her friends and family who hadn’t spoken to her since she moved away from Mystic Falls,” Elijah told him and nodded towards the cluster of Mystic Falls residents sitting on the other side of the church. “She wanted to for once outshine Elena Gilbert and her main character aura.”

Klaus chuckled slightly and looked towards your coffin and shook his head. “I loved her, even though I never told her or you— she was the girl who always saw me as family and the only one I will ever approve for you.”

“She loved you too, that she did tell me,” Elijah informed him and a fond smile spread over his lips. “Sometimes she’d say that had you only been a brunette I’d have a run for my money.”

“I knew she had a thing for brunettes!” Klaus smiled as he looked over at his brother. “Brunettes, suits, and impeccable taste in wine...”

“The ideal man,” Elijah sighed. “I—“

The sound of people talking stopped as a priest walked up to the middle of the church and looked out over the people.

“Today, we have gathered here not to mourn, but to celebrate and honor the life of Y/N Y/L/N...”

You ran down the stairs while holding your hand over your mouth, Klaus and Freya both looked at you as you passed them before making it to the bathroom. The sound of you hulking over the toilet followed only seconds later.

“Y/N?” Freya came after you and gathered your hair in her hands, rubbing your back soothingly. “Should we call Elijah?”

“No, no,” you dismissed her and felt the tears gather in your eyes. “I sent him on Hope duty, he needed some distraction.”

“Do you need painkillers? It’s your cramps right?” Klaus asked from outside, already holding the pills in his hand.

“No, it’s not,” you answered and looked away from the toilet while flushing, the tears were starting to run down your face as you grabbed paper to wipe around your mouth. “I’m sick...” they both nodded, thinking you were getting the flu or a stomach virus. “Cancer, I’ve got cancer,” Klaus stared at you while Freya stopped moving, her hand slowly falling from your back. “Brain cancer actually, which is kinda ironic seeing as we always say I don’t have one.”

“How long?” Klaus asked as he lowered his hand to his side.

“Have I known or how long?” You asked but got no answer as he only looked at you. “Elijah and I were at the hospital two weeks ago, and three to twelve months. Maybe more maybe less...”

“And the treatment, how have you been hiding it?” Klaus asked as you stood up from the bathroom floor and sat down on the toilet with a hesitant frown. “You’re not? You’re not getting treatment?”

“No, it’d would give me a few months in best case but I’ve seen what happens when on chemo, I won’t live a few extra months only to be around,” you told him and felt your heart drop as Klaus only walked away, throwing the painkillers on the ground as he did so.

Damon Salvatore might be the most annoying person on this earth, Elijah thought as he sat in a corner of the room decorated for a party and some were enjoying it to the fullest, like Damon Salvatore. Why Elijah hadn’t killed him? No idea, he should’ve, Elijah thought, back when he had the chance and reason to. Elijah diverted his eyes to the scene where a band was playing as Caroline climbed onto the stage, holding a white letter in her hand.

“Hello, I know most of you don’t know me but my name’s Caroline, I grew up with Y/N and well she was an amazing person,” Caroline smiled nervously as she looked around. “We hadn’t talked in a while when she got sick but when she did she asked me to do something for her, so I am, she asked me to play a recording tonight, so yeah, here it is.”

A click came from the speakers as Caroline connected her phone to them before your voice started streaming from it.

“Hello? I think this is working, it should be. I just wanted to let you all know that I love you, even Klaus, and I want to take one last chance to remind myself,” you cleared your throat, and when you spoke again it was clear you were crying. “remind myself, and everyone else, that being loved in a way that I’ve been by all of you— and mostly Elijah, is something I will never be able to express how thankful I am... so yeah, that’s all, I love you.”

“Dance with me,” you grabbed Elijah’s hand and pulled him of the couch with a smile. Elijah didn’t want to, you knew he didn’t want to but you wanted to, you needed to. Somewhere in the back of your head you knew you wouldn’t get to dance with him next week at the anniversary party you had planned. “I love you.”

“Stop,” Elijah whispered against your ear. “You don’t get to say that yet.”

“I just want you to know that,” you answered, he and you both knew it was more than that. “And you need to know—“

“I don’t need to know anything,” Elijah cut you off. “Not yet, it’s been three months. Not a year.”

“I love you, and when I’m gone, you get to move on,” you stated and swallowed the tears from your voice. “Because you I love you, and you me. You get to move on.”

Elijah didn’t answer, he only stopped dancing and wrapped his arms around you in a tight hug. You felt the first tear drop from his eyes on your head and with a gentle smile you looked up at him, kissing his cheek.

“I love you.”

[scullydubois]

Only the Light: Ch. 21

21/? | AU where Melissa moves in with Scully after Scully’s abduction | angst, msr slow-burn, occasional fluff | currently: mid-s3 (canon-divergent) | T | 4.8k | previous chapters | read on ao3 | tagging: @today-in-fic 

Hello, here is my ‘I didn’t plan for updates to take two weeks, but it always works out to two weeks’ post, right on time. Almost finished with this journey, thank you for sticking around <3

As Mulder helps care for his ill partner and her child, he enlists the Lone Gunmen to investigate the circumstances surrounding Scully's diagnosis. He and Melissa pay a visit to the three men, then Mulder gets an unwanted surprise back at apartment 42.

-------------------

As Scully’s world has shrunk, the amount of love in it has grown. This is small consolation for the hell she’s enduring, but it is the only antidote. She realizes this now that she’s staring down the abyss: all the knowledge in the world won’t save you, and wealth is nothing but a false comfort. What will live on are the parts of herself she’s left with others. Her goal for her remaining time, however long that may be, is to hold tight to those she loves...not to slip away until her heart stops beating.

This is hard when she already feels like less of herself. She’s doing chemo twice a week at Georgetown, and it’s brutal. She knew it would be...her only other choice is to get that gravestone of hers re-engraved. 

Meanwhile, Mulder pushed all other work aside to get in contact with the Mufon women. It only took him one day to do so, but Scully doesn’t know that, and for now, she doesn’t need to know. He’s keeping what he’s learned so far to himself...Betsy Hagopian is dead and has been since shortly after Scully saw her. Penny Northern is sick and not responding to treatment. A handful of other women, abductees like Scully, have developed rare cancers too.

It’s not something he knows how to talk about, such despondency. His world has always hinged on hope. That’s what his work on the X-Files is to him, one big leap of faith toward his sister. Or was, before Scully came along. It’s not that she diverted him from Samantha...no, she turned a very personal quest into something larger than him. Or her, or any one person they worked with. She pared it down to its core value, its overarching mission: the truth. Because the truth may hurt at first, but given time, it heals. And it is the only path to healing. This is what he’s learned from her. And now, he’s got to do everything he can to pass the revitalized world she’s shown him onto her. 

The arrangement falls into place without any friction: Missy handles the chemo run on Monday mornings, and Mulder leaves work early on Thursdays. Emily spends Mondays with her grandma, and Thursdays too when Missy works the night shift. 

Thursdays become something of a spiritual day for Mulder. The hours of approximately 3-10pm are spent doting on his partner--in her apartment, and then his car, then the hospital and his car again, and finally, back to her apartment. Mama Scully brings Emily back around eight, and if Missy’s not home, Mulder gets the honor of the bedtime ritual. The domesticity of it all tethers him to reality, maybe for the first time in his life. He’d give anything to change the circumstances, but it’s humbling to feel--for once--that he belongs on Earth. 

It is on one of these Thursday evenings that Mulder could swear he feels his whole life trailing behind him, leading him to the present. The end of the year is creeping up in its usual fashion, which means the outside world is a blanket of darkness before the stoves of countless suburban homes have even been started. Having settled her comfortably into bed with a pile of pillows, Mulder carries his partner a glass of water and pulls the wastebasket to her side; this is their routine now. 

“You doing okay?” he asks, lingering as she takes a sip of water. It will soon be time to make himself scarce so she can sleep.

She nods, gurgles a garbled affirmation. Mulder turns to go, and her heart leaps to her throat. “Will you stay?” she spews, embarrassed by her need. 

“Of course.” She’s unaware, apparently, that when he leaves it’s for her, not him. He approaches her bedside, lowers himself carefully beside her knees. “Any particular reason?” he murmurs, examining the sunken spaces beneath her eyes.

“I just...wanted to talk to you,” she says, and Mulder thinks there might be a bit more color in her cheeks than there was yesterday.

“Okay.” He leans in and sweeps a strand of hair off her forehead so lightly that Scully doesn’t even feel it. She’s apprehensive about being touched these days, and he has taken this knowledge to heart. She is grateful, and to show the extent of this feeling, she strokes his hand, allows him to take hers in his. He runs his thumb over each finger as they continue. 

He wants to ask what she’s thinking about, what it is that has so graciously extended his stay in this room. But he knows that she’ll get to it, that she has nothing to keep from him now. 

There’s a sincere serenity on her face that he’s never seen. And after a minute or two, she begins. “I didn’t think it could happen--and it certainly doesn’t make much sense-- but right now, I am happier than I have ever been.”

A string on Mulder’s heart, tightened to its prime, bursts without warning. 

She caresses the back of his head. “It’s so trivial, Mulder. So much of what we call life isn’t living at all. Or at least not the important kind.”

He lifts his gaze, eye contact conveying more than he could with words.

“But I’ve thought about the parts of my life that are living, and all of them, in some way, come back to you.”

Mulder shakes his head, feeling too flattered. “That’s not true…”

“You can believe whatever you need to,” she whispers, “but it is the truth, and I am eternally grateful that you happened to me.”

He tries to cough away some tears, which works about a quarter as well as he hoped it would. “Hold on, little lady.” He pats her hand in response to her smile. “I think you happened to me.”

Scully’s chest flutters in laughter. “Did I?” These subtle things have always been so important to them. 

“You walked into my office, remember.”

“Well, I guess it would depend on who changed the most due to the other’s influence then,” she reasons. 

Mulder just gives her a look. 

She smirks. “Okay, so maybe I happened to you, but you…” she chews her lip, and this could be any other day of any other year if she weren’t bedridden. She picks out her words-- “You completed me.”

Mulder spills forward, finding his footing and spinning into the middle of the room. “Holy fuck Scully, are you trying to kill me?”

“We’ve been searching for the truth. That’s the truth, Mulder. I wanted you to know.”

He sets his jaw. He won’t burst into tears in front of her, not when she has all the reason to cry and yet has been so strong. 

“You should get some sleep,” he tells her, hoping to expedite his exit from the room. 

“I will. And it’s okay to be sad, but not for me. My life is as whole as ever.”

He nods, though he doesn’t agree (what’s new?). He knew Samantha for eight years and has been sad for twenty. He’s known Scully for half that--so he gets at least a decade of mourning. 

“Sweet dreams,” he says, resting his hands on the door frame. “I’ll bring Emily in when she gets here.”

“Okay.” She closes her eyes, smiles. “Love you.”

“Love you too, DKS.” He blows a kiss and slips out, heat flooding to his face. This is the first time she’s said that unprompted, and is that what the threat of imminent death does to you? Pries you open? 

He wonders. Whose love is saving who?

-------------------------

The primetime line-up is flickering over the television when Mama Scully arrives with Emily, passing her granddaughter to Mulder like the family heirloom she is. They exchange a few words in short breaths, reserving the air supply for their dear Dana. Mama Scully agrees to come see her daughter this weekend rather than interrupt her much-needed rest now, and Mulder is suddenly single parent-slash-babysitter; the specifics elude him. 

Perfumed with baby powder from her grandmother’s overly enthusiastic hand, Mulder concludes that Em needs neither bathing nor changing. She doesn’t seem very keen on sleep either, seeing as how her little voice keeps calling out Moldy! and her little fists clobber his shoulders. Still, he will keep his promise. He carries her into the room she shares with her mother, stepping lightly lest the floorboards creak. 

As he circles the bed to lay the child beside her sleeping mother, he winces at the mess in the trash can. Good thing he moved it into place though Scully had seemed okay. He hadn’t heard any retching, and it saddens him that he wasn’t there to hold her hair back. He settles Em into place, makes a mental note to rinse the can on his way out. 

Her characteristically light sleep lightened further by her illness, Scully stirs from the shift of Emily’s weight against the mattress. She rolls toward the free side and flutters her eyelids open. Her smile is reflexive. 

“Hello baby girl,” she purrs. She lays a hand against her daughter’s polka-dotted onesie. “Did you have a good day with Grandma?”

Emily answers with some fluttery babbling and gropes for her mother’s nose. 

“I don’t think she’s very tired,” Mulder remarks, hands in his pockets. He smirks. “We should really find out what your mother feeds her.”

Scully pulls her lips into a grin, exhibiting a great deal more effort than she did just moments before. She blinks, rubs her eyes, and seems to go out of the world for a second. Then she sets her gaze on Mulder and speaks dreamily--”Will you tell us a bedtime story?”

“Oh!” Mulder scratches his chin, having expected his dismissal. “Do you think that would help…?”

Scully presses her head into the pillow. “I’m not gonna be able to fall back asleep until she does.”

That is a yes, served with some condescension.  

“Okay, well, let me think.” He perches on the side of the bed. “Regrettably, I did not get my degree in bedtime stories.”

“Just say what you know,” Scully mumbles. “We’re the only ones listening, and the goal is to put us to sleep.”

“I hope that’s not a comment on my conversational skills,” he teases, smoothing the sheets. 

Again, there’s a look of otherworldliness from his partner. She is somewhere else.

“Go on, tell us a story,” she hums, her surprising lack of impatience attributable to an equal lack of wakefulness. 

“Let’s see…” He stretches out, perching on his elbow by Scully’s feet like she did in the first motel they ever stayed in. Emily sits herself up and grasps for him. He laughs, lets her latch onto his fingers.

“There once was a little girl who loved horses and bugging her brother,” he begins. “Now, I’m sure she sounds like just about any little girl out there, but I promise, she was as unique as they come.” 

Scully closes her eyes and tilts her head back to listen.

“She always said she wanted to be a butterfly when she grew up so she could spread her wings and fly. And her parents would scoff and tell her that would never be possible, but she believed. She believed it would happen.”

Emily babbles along, adding her own colorful commentary. 

“I know, I know right?” Mulder muses to the little girl. “The parents were such jerks.”

He tickles Em’s stomach, then remembers that he’s supposed to be helping her go to sleep. He kisses her temple and begins stroking her knee, hoping to achieve a hypnotic rhythm. 

“And so one day, this little girl...well, this little girl got to go on an adventure. She left behind her house and her family, and she got to go up to the sky and see the stars, and it was everything she wished for.”

Scully opens her eyes slowly. Mulder’s focus is centered on Emily, who stares up at him with the awe of a museum-goer seeing the Starry Night. It is as if they are the only two in the room, and this gives Scully great comfort, for she can imagine them having a life after she is gone.

“The girl’s family was sad because they didn’t know where she went. The girl’s brother missed her the most, but it was okay because the girl was happy. She got to fly through the sky like a bird or a plane, and she achieved the dream that her parents thought would never come true.”

Em’s breathing begins to slow into sleep. And thank god, cause he’s running out of story to tell.

“Lay down, little girl.” He guides her onto her back so she can drift off without difficulty, then clears his throat softly. 

“Some say that if you see a light in the night sky, that’s this little girl, floating among the stars, living her dream. And her brother, well, he’s pretty fond of that thought. He just wants her to be happy.”

Silence falls over the room like a throbbing sensation of unknown origin. Emily’s eyelids struggle between open and closed, and Mulder knows she will soon be out. Scully’s baby blues, meanwhile, peer at him with such unflinching intensity that he suspects she has fallen asleep like that. It is haunting, but it becomes much less so when she blinks and he realizes that she’s looking at him, that she heard the whole story.

“Is that what you wanted?” he whispers, half expecting her not to answer.

“It was beautiful, Mulder. Samantha lives on.”

He smiles from his eyes...oh, of course it was obvious, his little tribute to his sister. Scully said to work from what he knew, and this myth is something he’s used to keep himself going since his family realized that there would be no happy reunion with Sam. He’s happy to share his fantasy; such escapes are needed now.

----------------------

Melissa’s heart leaps when she opens the apartment door to an empty living room. The TV drones out its slapstick laugh track, contributing to the ominous atmosphere. She’d expect to see Mulder taking up a restless refuge on the couch, or maybe sneaking a late night snack to Em. Her sister should be fast asleep by now, her little world able to slacken its hold on her. Unless she is no longer afforded such luxury…

Missy rushes toward Dana’s bedroom, her purse still on her shoulder. In the doorway she slows as her eyes adjust to the lack of light. And thank goodness because three silhouettes catch her eye; a medium one buried under the covers, a large one strewn diagonally across the bed, and a small bump barely visible on the far side. A snore of unidentifiable origin is the only disturbance. Missy smiles to herself. All the missing persons are accounted for and well. She can continue with the blissfully bland routine of her night. 

She washes her face and brews some chamomile before settling on the couch with the week’s issues of Mad Magazine and Vogue. Yes, she contains multitudes. She’s up to the Spy vs. Spy comic when Mulder strolls in, yawning. 

“I guess my bedtime story was effective.”

“Mmm.” Missy scoots her mug over so he can prop his feet up. Dana hates feet on furniture, but she’s got a child in the house now, so she’ll have to let go of those judgments. “How is she?”

“Oh shit.” She’s jogged something in his memory. “I meant to grab the trash can on the way out.”

Missy knows what this means. “I’ll get it in a second.”

Mulder nods in silent gratitude, relaxes back into his spot. “She seemed livelier than usual when we got home.”

 It hits him that he said home, not back. And well, it is Scully’s home. What about him? He sleeps on the couch and he doesn’t pay rent...that’s how he lived at Oxford, though he gets the feeling that it’s not as evergreen at thirty-three years old. 

These days, he only goes to his place on Sunday nights to get (what he considers) a week’s worth of clothing--two work outfits (hey, he never really sees anyone but Scully anyway) and one casual outfit that doubles as pajamas. He bought a bunch of fish feeding tablets so all he has to do is drop a few in on Sunday and the fish are set for the week. As far as he can tell, at least. None of them have floated to the top of the tank yet.

“And Em is all good?” Missy confirms.

Mulder nods. “Your mom takes good care of her.”

“I think I know the answer to this, but do you want some tea?” Missy asks, flashing her mug.

“No, no, save it for yourself.”

“Alright.” She flips a page in her magazine. “Just let me know when you’re ready to kick me out. Since I’m kind of in your bed and all.”

“I should be telling you that,” Mulder counters. “You don’t mind me staying here, do you?”

“Not at all.” Missy lays the magazine on the table. “It’s important that you’re around.”

“Really?...For what?”

“For who,” Missy corrects. “Emily needs you to give her balance, and Dana...she just needs you. You’re the safety net under her tightrope.”

“Oh.” This metaphor grounds Mulder better than gravity ever has.

Missy seems to sense this and takes the opportunity to profit off his vulnerability. “So what’s gone on between you?” she asks, an eyebrow arched.

Mulder squints at her. “Huh?”

“I keep waiting for Dana to kick you out or get irritated about you being around all the time,” Missy says with honest simplicity. “But instead, she lets you take her to chemo and fall asleep in her bed…”

“Well, I think the former is more ideal than the alternative, which is that I watch her child,” Mulder replies. “And I fell asleep on the bed, not in it.”

“Okay.” Missy sips her tea, keeps her eyes on him. 

It’s pointless for Mulder to try to keep secrets anymore. He wrings out his hands. “If you must know, when you dropped her off at my apartment after her appointment, we... came to a mutual understanding.”

“Ah.” Missy is not surprised by any of it. Of course it happened. Of course her sister hasn’t mentioned it. 

“Why are you just asking about this now?”

“Cause I expected my suspicions to be proven wrong, and that hasn’t happened.”

Mulder nods, taps absentmindedly on his knee. “Actually, I have something I’ve been meaning to talk to you about.”

“Oh?” She’s intrigued. The enigmatic Fox Mulder, divulging on his own accord. 

“Don’t get excited, it’s not good.” 

Damn. Missy reels herself in. “About Dana?”

“About what happened to her or...what is happening to her. It’s about the Mufon women.”

Missy curls her legs beneath herself. “You reached them?” 

He nods. “Well, Penny Northern’s hospice nurse picked up when I called. She’s got stage four tumors throughout her body that migrated from her nasopharynx.”

“Holy shit.”

“Yeah. Apparently most of the other abductees have cancer too. And Betsy Hagopian--the woman who Scully saw in the hospital last spring--is dead.”

Missy’s gaze drops to the floor. “So the invasive procedures that the abductors did are killing these women.”

“One doctor’s treating them all--he’s supposed to be a specialist--but it doesn’t look like he’s having much success.” Mulder pauses, his mouth partially open.

“What?” Missy presses.

“The Lone Gunmen and I have been looking into him, and we think that he might have been involved in the abductions.”

Missy barrels forward. “You think he did this to them on purpose and now he’s letting them die?”

Mulder nods solemnly. 

“Well, we have to stop him. We can’t let any more patients go to him, especially Dana…”

“I know. I’m going down to see the Lone Gunmen tomorrow after work if you want to join me.”

Missy contemplates. “I have the lunch shift tomorrow, so I could. What would we tell Dana?”

“I’ll say that Skinner is keeping me late to go over some paperwork. You could say whatever, she’s not going to question you.”

“I hate to leave her alone for so long, but...yeah, we have to do this.” She leans back, takes another look at Mulder. “You might just save a lot of women, you know.”

------------------------

Missy feels unseen eyes bore into her as she and Mulder approach the basement entrance of a helter-skelter building. She doesn’t recognize the part of town they’re in, and she doesn’t ask. 

Mulder hits the button on a call box beside the door. Before he can speak, a voice leaps out at them.

“Howdy Mulderoony.” Mulder recognizes it as Frohike’s voice. “Glad to see you made it safely.”

A variety of locks and chains are undone, the door pulled open. 

“Join our ménage a trois,” Frohike says, ushering them in. 

“We can’t stay long,” Mulder tells them, squinting as he adjusts to the darkness of their realm. “You guys forget to pay the electric bill or something?”

“We’re conserving electricity,” Byers says, a shadow in the corner of the room. “It’s good for the environment.”

“I didn’t realize the environment was on your list of concerns.”

“It should be on everyone’s list of concerns,” Byers throws back matter-of-factly. 

Mulder slides his hands into his pockets. “Touché.” 

Ringo comes forward from the darkness, his hair as tressed and greasy as ever. “Well lookie here. Dana Scully in the flesh.”

Frohike inserts himself between them. “You can’t be serious, pool boy. That’s not her, I’d know her anywhere. It is, however, an equally lovely woman.” He takes Missy’s hand and kisses it. “My lady.”

Missy participates with amusement until Mulder brushes Frohike aside.

“Okay boys, lay off. This is Scully’s sister Melissa. And I believe she’s taken.”

Frohike bows. “A lucky man.”

“Woman,” Missy corrects.

“Oh. Excusez-moi."

Tucked in the darkness, Byers scoffs at the childish antics. “Come on, let’s cut to the chase. Lives are at stake.”

“I’m glad to see someone has a brain around here,” Mulder quips. 

Ringo pats Mulder’s shoulder. “Not all of us got a full-ride to Oxford, but hey, I’d say we’ve done pretty well for ourselves.”

“Calm down, Ringo. You’d still be the smartest member of the Ramones.” 

Like an unleashed dog, Ringo lunges forward, and Byers and Frohike pull him back. They are quite used to this. 

“You can insult me, but never speak ill of the Ramones!” Ringo growls. 

Mulder puts his hands up, smirks at the permission he’s been given. “Happily.”

Missy clears her throat, her amusement wearing thin. She’s like her sister in this way.

Mulder gets the memo. “Right. Can the trash talk, we’re here to catch a criminal.”

“If he is, in fact, a criminal,” Byers remarks.

Missy frowns. “Haven’t you proved that?”

“We’re connecting the dots, but we haven’t completed the picture yet,” Byers replies. 

Mulder circles around to Byers’ monitor. “What have you got?”

“This doctor, Scanlon, isn’t just an oncologist,” Ringo begins, as if Mulder asked him. “His name is associated with the Lombard Research Facility.”

Mulder and Missy both give him a look. More, more!

“A high security medical research center in Allentown,” he clarifies. 

“We’ve hacked into some of the security cameras,” Frohike tells them. “We’d have to get in to see for ourselves, but the activity is rather suspicious. The same men, in and out, at odd times. Whatever they’re storing in there, it’s significant.”

“Then let’s get in,” Mulder emphasizes. “You be the eyes and ears, I’ll be the legs.”

Ringo nods. “We’re working on it.”

“We need to observe their weekend patterns before we make any moves,” Byers insists. “We don’t set up our missions to fail.”

“Fine, but as soon as you’ve reached your confidence threshold--”

“We’ll call you,” Ringo promises.

“What are you expecting to find?” Missy asks, frenzied. “Will it help Dana?”

Frohike drums his fingers on the desk. “That’s the plan.”

Byers nods. “We can’t be sure exactly what we’ll find, but the connection is clear: Scanlon was involved with the abductions, and he’s exploiting these women for his own benefit.”

Melissa shivers involuntarily. “It’s amazing that you’ve figured this out.”

Ringo twirls a pencil through his hair. “We have a lot of free time on our hands.”

Mulder takes a shot at the mini-basketball hoop they have, misses. “And you’d better use it all to implicate Dr. Scanlon’s ass.”

Frohike does a two-finger salute. “Aye aye captain.”

Mulder thumbs toward the door. “Now we’ve gotta get out of here before the smell sticks to us. Scully will know exactly where we’ve been,” he smirks.

“Can’t argue with that.” Frohike shows them to the door. “Give the lady my regards.”

“Will do.” He turns back, exchanges a serious glance with each man. “Sort this out, boys.”

Just as quickly as they came, he and Melissa step out of the chambers and ascend back into the sun’s dominion. Entrusting those three with the well-being of a woman they love so much is far from ideal, and yet, they’re throwing all their faith into it.

---------------------------

Mulder slides his key into the door of apartment 42 shortly after seven on Sunday evening. He hasn’t been in for a week, and yet a vivid scent of...smoke sticks about the place. And a wrinkled mess of a man to go with it.

The old man lifts his chin. “I’ve been expecting you.”

Mulder is no longer naïve enough to be taken aback by Cancer Man’s ambush. He shrugs and slides his coat off. “Well, you are in my apartment.”

“I’ve heard that your partner is very sick,” CSM says, his steps so clunky that Mulder wonders whether the downstairs tenants will complain. 

“What grapevine did you get that from?...Or are you the one growing the grapes?”

“It saddened me to hear. Agent Scully is a valuable member of the Bureau.”

Mulder nods. “You here to pass on your condolences? Cause I’m pretty sure you could just send a card.”

“I’m here to propose a solution...The doctors say your partner’s sickness is incurable. This is not true.”

“Smarter than the doctors, are you?”

“In this case I am.”

A bitter laugh rises from Mulder. “So I’m supposed to believe that you were involved in sickening Scully, yet you want to save her?”

“We all have our regrets.”

“And I have no reason to trust you.”

“Upon learning about her child, I feel a deep need to intervene.”

“Mmm.” Mulder begins to pace. “And by learning about her child, do you mean when Scully’s ova were removed and fertilized without her knowledge? Because I have a hard time believing that you didn’t know a thing about Emily until Scully got custody.”

“Certainly I did not foresee Emily ending up in her mother’s custody.”

“What was the purpose then, of Emily? To terrorize a woman by taking away her bodily autonomy?”

CSM shrugs. “That’s not my area.”

Mulder scoffs. “Okay you old freak. Tell me how to save Scully’s life or get the hell out of here.”

The wrinkled man folds his hands. “She had a silicone implant removed from her neck. Put it back in.”

Mulder freezes. “Are you serious? That’s your miracle cure?”

CSM nods. “It is the only way to save her life. Removing the implant is what caused the cancer in the first place.”

Mulder steps forward, getting in the old man’s face like a middle-school bully. He’s ready to throw a punch--honestly, ready to kill the man--if need be. He could do it. Easily. He could.

“What does the implant do, Cancer Man?”

“Believe it or not, it is meant as a sort of inoculation. It offsets the negative effects of any tests performed during the...time away.”

“Uh-huh, and what do you get from it?”

“Who says I get anything from it?”

“How else would you know that she had it removed?”

“I am everywhere, Agent Mulder.”

Mulder loses his thinly-veiled calm, wraps his hand around the man’s saggy neck. “You fucking pervert, I’ll kill you! I’ve killed a man before just like this. Tell me the truth.”

“This is the truth,” CSM wheezes, not intimidated by his rapidly deteriorating air flow. His cold, hard eyes stare into Mulder’s. “You wouldn’t kill a man over nothing, would you?”

Mulder squeezes harder, his fingers gripping the man’s pulse. He watches the light drain from his victim’s eyes. All the old bastard does is smirk at him. 

Angered by this more than anything, Mulder releases the man so suddenly that his bony body is thrown into the wall. He keeps his footing, stumbles forward.

“Get out,” Mulder growls. When he doesn’t respond, Mulder pokes his finger at the door. “Get out now!”

CSM dusts himself off and walks out, the pompous smirk never leaving his face. Mulder slams the door shut behind him. 

There are certain truths he cannot escape. If Scully has made him believe in Heaven, CSM has made him believe in Hell.

[piracytheorist]

A Kiss for Good Luck (4/14)

Summary: So this is the story of one born lucky, and one born unlucky. Fate will keep making them cross paths, but is it to bring them together, or to test them? Captain Swan AU.

A/N: Prepare thyselves, here be angst. And warnings. Next update will come on Saturday, then from next week updates will come every Tuesday and Friday.

Rating: T (make sure you’re okay with the warnings) Warnings: This chapter contains minor character death, cancer, child abandonment, and some minor child abuse.

Word count for this chapter: 2.6k (47k in total) AO3

Read from the beginning: Tumblr | AO3

~

Chapter 4: Killian Jones, August 11th 1995 – October 31st 2000

Killian doesn't expect to get the girl's name from two policemen who were searching for her. They say she was sneaking out and that they need to get her back home.

He looks at her as she's leaving; her head is low and she doesn't look back at him.

He steps away from the children still playing. He's not in the mood anymore, he's feels more like... eating something... or running to the bathroom to puke. He's not really sure.

He's certain he knows his first hardship on the difficult trip back to England. While still at the airport in Boston, his mother keeps saying something about an "immigration office" as she talks to his father on a payphone, eventually hanging up angrily. She apologizes to Killian and tells him they'll figure things out soon.

They miss their flight. He's too tired to calculate but he's sure they stay in the airport for more than a day, hardly getting any sleep on the hard chairs of the lobby. He's lucky he's got his mama's lap to rest his head on, at least.

He spends a few good hours trying to remember the girl's name; Liam would be so curious to find out about his younger brother's first kiss, and he can't even remember her name! Anna? Enya? No, he would've remembered such a name.

After even more hours they reach home tired, unwashed and hungry, and for the first time he hears his parents fight.

That same night, still shaken by hearing the fight, he goes to his brother's room. They just sit together, looking at Liam's star light that projects constellations on the ceiling. He thought that, upon coming back, he'd spend hours telling him everything about the summer school, and Boston, and having his first kiss, and flying on a plane... instead they just sleep next to each other, and for the first time he understands why some of his friends had said that they sleep with their parents after a nightmare.

That night is, actually, the first time Killian ever has a nightmare.

It only takes a week. He would later consider it the calm before the storm. Calm, or more like quiet, because his friends don't talk to him much, which he interprets as jealousy because he had the trip and they didn't.

But the storm hits exactly one week after they've gotten back; his mother passes out while coming home from work. Some long hours of Liam babysitting him later, his father brings her home from the hospital.

He's never seen their faces so saddened before.

He has so many questions, ones that fifteen-year-old Liam apparently doesn't. Like, what cancer is, and why it's bad that it's fast-acting. What is chemo and why is it too late for it to have effect? Why does mama have to stay in bed so much?

"How long will you stay in bed?" he asks that out loud.

"A few months," his father says.

Another question; why is mama not talking at all?

"And then you'll be up, mama?"

She looks at him, and tears fall from her eyes. She stands up slowly, sits between her two sons on the couch and holds them close.

Killian cannot explain it, but somehow, he knows. Somehow, the knowledge sets itself in his mind as if it were always there.

That October 24th is the most underwhelming birthday he has had. He's so used to big parties and celebrations and gifts, that a simple cake shared between the four of them around the quiet table feels out of place for a birthday.

They never tell him anything, but it doesn't come as a surprise when two weeks before Christmas his father starts preparing a black attire for himself and the boys.

He takes one black dress for mama, too, though Killian knows someone else will put it on her.

The house is silent when they leave for the funeral, and it feels even more silent when they come back.

Killian has a feeling that it will never stop being that.

This night it's Liam who comes into Killian's room and sleeps next to him.

Time becomes a blur; it's one of the days where Liam sleeps next to him that Killian wakes up early, and father isn't home. He doesn't worry much, he just tries to spend time on the TV. Only one channel has signal, and though normally Killian hates listening to the news, he prefers that over the silence now.

He remembers it's a Saturday, but father still hasn't come home when Liam wakes up and takes up making breakfast for the two of them. Killian offers to help, but he burns his hand trying to make an omelette and Liam, with a patience Killian doesn't think he deserves, takes over for him.

Had Killian known more, he would have realized that on any other day he would be getting stressed and angry. Instead, he feels empty – almost as if anticipating the news that, by two days later, become a reality.

Their father left them. He took clothes and personal documents, withdrew all the money they had in the bank, including Killian's and Liam's college funds, and apparently sold their home two days before he left.

Killian didn't cry at mama's funeral. He didn't cry when the social worker confirmed that father had left by his own choice and left them with nothing. But when they tell him that there aren't any foster families that will take both brothers together, Killian breaks down sobbing.

He can't... he can't lose him too.

"I'll visit, brother," Liam says, his voice shaking. "I will call you every day."

Killian trembles in his brother's arms. He'd rather not have a home than not have him right now. He's all he has left.

But the social workers don't seem to care. They pull Killian away – and damn Liam, why isn't he holding onto him? Why is he letting go?! – and put the two brothers in two separate cars.

It's three long but empty weeks before the phone rings and for the first time, it's Killian they ask for.

Mr. Silver doesn't look happy when Killian reaches the phone – not that he ever looks happy when Killian is concerned. He gives him the receiver with a frown.

"Don't take too long," he whispers at him and Killian fights back a shiver.

"Hello?"

"Killian!"

"Oh, Liam! Where are you? Are you coming? I miss you."

"I know, brother. I'm sorry. They took me to Bristol."

"Bristol?! How?! That's too far away!"

"I know. Maybe I can convince someone to drive me to London."

"I miss you. Please come."

"I miss you too. I'll try."

"Come where, Jones?" Mr. Silver's strict voice is heard from the other room.

"Bollocks," Killian whispers.

"Killian!"

"Oh, shut up. You have no idea how much that guy curses."

Mr. Silver appears in the hall right in front of Killian. "I asked you a question, Jones."

"It's- it's my brother, sir."

"You're not answering my question."

Killian swallows hard. "He- he said he may visit one day."

Mr. Silver snorts. "Not in here. Make it quick, now. I'm waiting for a call."

He doesn't leave, instead he stands there, arms crossed, and this time Killian can't stop the shiver down his spine.

"Killian," Liam's calm voice comes from the phone.

"Yes?"

"Is that man treating you right?"

"Yeah, kinda."

"Does he hit you?"

Killian grabs the phone tightly. He's never heard his brother's voice like this. "No." Not yet, he thinks. He's seen how he pulls at the bigger boys' ears when they aren't behaving.

He chances a glance at Mr. Silver, regretting it immediately. His eyebrows are raised suspiciously and he makes a gesture with his hand towards the receiver.

"I gotta go. Try to- please." He doesn't dare say much with that man so close to him.

"I will. I promise, brother. I love you."

"Me too. Goodnight."

He doesn't get a goodnight back. Mr. Silver grabs the receiver and hangs up.

"Move," he says, picking it back up and dialing.

It takes two more months for Liam to actually visit, but Silver doesn't let them go further than the playground a couple blocks away, with him sitting on the bench across from the swings where the brothers sit.

Killian is still young, but his mind is hardening enough to start knowing better. Silver is not suitable for a foster parent, but maybe it's not a coincidence that the other two boys in the house have already sullied criminal records.

"You're not gonna be like them," Liam says.

"Can't I come to Bristol too? Isn't there room in your house?"

"I've talked to the social worker, but I don't know how this works. She says it's not that easy."

"You're lucky," Killian says, looking down at his feet. "My social worker won't answer my calls." When I do get time for a phone call, he thinks.

"Hey, I'm still here. We may be far, but we're both still here. We'll get through this. My foster father said that when I turn sixteen he may let me help around his brother's gas station. I'll make some money, I'll find a job, and when I turn eighteen, I'll do my damnedest to get custody of you."

Killian feels tears well up in his eyes, but he quickly blinks them away. He can't let Silver see him like this.

Empty weeks turn into empty months, and those turn into empty years. Killian changes foster homes, never getting closer to Liam's, but eventually he gets in some kind of trouble – biting back at school bullies, staying out late, getting caught with alcohol – and he always finds himself back to Silver's house.

It's there that he feels the most empty, the most lost. It's only Liam's occasional phone calls, less occasional visits, and the hope that he'll get a job and get them a home for themselves that keeps Killian afloat.

There are times he wonders how things could turn out like this. He used to be happy. Things used to go well for him, he had a bright future... he had a family, a home. Now he's resorted to just waiting until he's old enough to take some control over his life, no matter how little.

And the more time goes by, the more he feels his patience running out.

Nothing is permanent in his life, nothing is stable. Homes come and go. Liam comes and goes. Having only a miserable plastic bag to keep his stuff in, most of the drawings he makes to pass the time end up in the trash. His mother was the one who encouraged him to draw and hang his pieces all over his bedroom walls. Keeping them now only serves as a reminder of what he's lost.

The only thing he actually treasures is the photo of himself, Liam, and their mother, which he managed to grab just in time while the social workers were urging him to pick up only the essentials from his childhood home. As it almost was victim of being ripped to pieces by whatever bully targeted him, he now keeps it in the most uninteresting place he could have thought of; his math notebook.

After turning eighteen, Liam finally moves in London, but he's working two jobs and only has time once a week, for a few hours, to visit Killian.

Killian doesn't celebrate his fifteenth birthday. Not that Silver would care if Killian had asked for a celebration. And when, just two days later, the police call him to come recognize his brother's body after he was killed in a work accident, Killian finds the lack of celebration so fitting that he actually bursts into laughter. He laughs and laughs until his chest starts hurting and he's on his knees, shaking but unable to call for any help.

Silver is still talking to the police on the phone, shouting at him to stop being a brat. It's Ed, the only boy older than Killian in the house, that kneels down to him and slaps him, getting him out of his hysterics.

Killian struggles to hold on, but his resolve breaks into pieces when the doctor raises the sheet covering Liam's body. He doesn't have any care left about Silver seeing him crying and sobbing like this.

One last broken hope he had, that Silver might give a damn after seeing him so devastated, is gone too after that.

It's just that one time; for the next two years that he stays under that horrible man's roof, he cultivates a cool, careless exterior, while his pillow soaks his silent tears almost every night.

At least, Silver doesn't care much for Killian causing trouble, like trespassing, breaking curfew, or even drinking. He just gives him the ceremonious slap and goes on with his day.

So Killian doesn't think too much before deciding to sneak out and into the Halloween party on the other side of the city that Ella – or Cruella, as the kids in the house call her – the first girl in the house in years, suggests they go to. With his meager savings he puts together a pirate costume, puts a thick line of black around his eyes with the eye pencil he borrowed from Cruella, and together they hot-wire the first car they find and drive to the extravagant villa where the party is at.

At first glance, Cruella scoffs and searches around the house for booze.

"I can't believe there's adults here. What was the point?!"

It's a good thing Killian got an eyepatch. The pencil irritates his eye and he has to wash it off in the bathroom, then cover his reddened, smudged eye with the patch. His other eye isn't done and the eyepatch looks weird on the side it's on, but the lights are so low that probably no-one will notice. He doesn't expect anyone to look at him long enough to notice, anyway.

Like any other party, he feels like an outsider, but he doesn't care. He dances by himself while occasionally looking around to check if Cruella found the alcohol. Instead he spots a girl, probably his age and dressed as a zombie princess, who is looking at him. Like, looking looking.

He doesn't connect the feeling in his stomach with the one he'd felt at that game of spin the bottle so many years ago. He's so older, his mind burdened with such darker thoughts, that right now it's confusing to feel an unknown emotion that isn't scraping away at his soul.

And the girl is walking to him, just as a ballad comes on.

"Wanna dance?" she says.

He just offers his hand. His mouth feels so dry he fears his voice won't come out if he tries to say anything.

He heard the term 'butterflies in one's stomach' before, but he had no clue it would feel like this, so overwhelmingly confusing but making him happy at the same time. The girl is smiling at him as they slow dance, and he reckons, so is he. From the corner of his eye he spots Cruella, holding a cup that most definitely doesn't have a plain fizzy drink or juice in it, but he can't tear his gaze away from the girl. There's something familiar about her bright eyes, whose colour he can't decipher in the red and purple lights.

Her expression is soft; her smile falls, but not out of any sadness. The song draws to an end, and suddenly her lips are on his.

[calitraditionalism]

Arc Three: Chapter Twelve

(AO3 counterpart here.)

The sun was almost at its highest point, pale clouds mottling the sky white and blue, when Fernstar’s patrol came to a grove of trees.

“This’ll be a restin’ place for them,” Boarpaw said, chest puffed out with pride. He and his mentor, Glorypelt, had come back from their far-ahead scouting with the news that the scents of Redheart and a ‘mess of folk’ were clogging their noses in a place with drying ground and bent grass. The patrol had just reached it – they had walked slowly to allow the scouts to ensure their path was the right one, since the wind was starting to blow away the trail.

Now Fernstar nodded gratefully to Boarpaw and Glorypelt, smiling. “You’ve done good work. Thank you. Take a moment to rest while we investigate.”

Scouts, of course, never liked to rest, but Glorypelt guided his apprentice away from the main cluster of scents and let the rest of the Fleet cats sniff around, taking pathways this way and that, following what still remained in the soft, drying earth.

It was a little frustrating, Fernstar had to admit; the grass had not been bent severely enough to give a concrete trail, meaning they had to go on what the wind and sun hadn’t blown away or baked out of the ground. What was more frustrating was the knowledge that Viceroyclaw had brought up, now scratching at Fernstar’s head.

She couldn’t be gone from the leaders’ den forever. It had been several days now, and it would be several days more before she’d return. She would have to give up this hunt and leave it to the Fleet.

But there were questions she wanted answers to, questions that grew in number with every passing hour. Most of them were about Redheart, of course, but there was something Greyleaf had said when the story was reported to Fernstar that was intensely troubling her.

“Because I’ve seen it too,” he’d said.

What did that mean? Why did he believe in this story about StarClan that Redheart had started to tell when it was so transparently untrue?

Unless…

No. Fernstar shook her head. This was clearly something wrong with the two of them. She had seen StarClan’s power herself, during her leadership ceremony.

Cats circled around her, sniffing, as her mind wandered back to the days when she was younger and stronger. Back when she had fought hard for her position as deputy, had been appointed as high deputy, and waited only two or three years before the previous Clast leader had died and she was taken to the Lighthouse by a seer. She had fallen asleep to the crashes of the ocean’s waves just past the cliff the Lighthouse was set on, and when she’d opened her eyes a trail of stars was in front of her. She’d walked on it, too awed to say anything, coming up to a fawn-colored tom who represented the Clast leaders’ ceremony – Mulleinberry, he’d said his name was. He had gifted her with lives of ambition to serve the Clan and a drive to keep everyone safe and happy.

She’d like to think she'd kept good on the promise those gifts implied.

“Fernstar?”

She refocused. Fogpetal and Viceroyclaw were standing in front of her, looking at the little leader with concern and a bit of nervousness.

Fernstar slanted her head a little, indicating that she was listening, and Fogpetal spoke first.

“Viceroyclaw spoke to you earlier about you perhaps going back north,” she said carefully. “I understand that you being absent from the leaders can cause some trouble.”

Fernstar blinked slowly and stayed silent.

“If you like,” Fogpetal continued, undeterred, “we can continue the tracking from here, and you can return home.”

“I’ll stay with them,” Viceroyclaw offered, certainly more nervous than Fogpetal. “And I can send reports back to you. If- if that’s what you think is best.”

Fernstar knew very well that Viceroyclaw had made that suggestion because the alternative – acting as leader on Fernstar’s behalf – terrified her. A smaller, quieter group with a set mission that she didn’t have to invent and improvise on all the time was easier on her.

Fernstar took a moment to think. Not more than a moment. She could decide things quickly.

“Very well,” she said. “That may be best. I trust that you’ll do your duty to the best of your abilities, you two.”

The mollies bowed their heads respectfully.

“I can travel alone,” Fernstar continued. “Keep everyone you can with you. If you meet with any strangers, let them know who you’re searching for. The word will spread on its own after that.”

“Yes, ma’am,” they said together.

Fernstar didn’t waste time. The clouds were thickening on the horizon, and she didn’t care to be caught in the rain if she could help it. With a wave goodbye and a thanks to everyone, she set off as if she hadn’t a thought in the world beyond her duties. But one did pick at her.

“Because I’ve seen it too.”

What did they see?

 ---

 Watching what little of the sky he could see, sitting alone, Greyleaf hated.

It would surprise many cats, if not everyone, to take a look into his mind and see how much hate coursed through his veins. How it soaked into his muscles and the very, very little fat he had on him. How every hair on his body wanted to be bristled at all times, how he wanted to bite and claw and scream to get it out. Fear had been his foremost thought the second he was born into a cold world, wet and blind and deaf. But ever since that fateful meeting with the Runagate, since his first sight of Redheart… slowly but surely, that fear started to burn instead of freeze him. It strained at his eyes, coloring everything with the knowledge he had now with red. It grew teeth that cried to tear apart StarClan and everyone who saw him with pity and contempt, who had no idea of the truth.

Mistface wouldn’t believe him if he said all this, probably. Mama certainly wouldn’t. Maybe no one would. Greyleaf had quickly become very good at containing himself starting from apprenticeship.

It was just a survival instinct at this point. Redheart had responded to StarClan’s truth with grief and determination. A plan that kept her alive. Greyleaf had no plan. He just had hate to protect him. And it’d done a good job so far.

But it couldn’t protect everyone else.

It couldn’t protect Nettlecloud.

“Hey.”

Greyleaf jolted and turned sharply to his right. Flyfang, standing behind him, jumped a little herself in alarm. Far behind her, Mistface and Redheart were whispering with Darkpelt, like conspirers. Laurelclaw, Littlepaw and Beetlefoot sat together, with Laurelclaw huddling like he wasn’t far outsizing the two of them no matter how he was postured. The air was tense, but it wasn’t frightened. It wasn’t hateful.

Greyleaf realized belatedly that he hadn’t said anything to Flyfang, so he cleared his throat. “Hi.”

Flyfang relaxed a little and tilted her head. “You doing alright?”

Greyleaf didn’t know how to answer that. He opened his mouth, but nothing came out. His jaw twitched and he looked down, away.

“You’ve just been by yourself for quite a while, is all.” Flyfang stepped closer with great caution. “Mistface was going to check on you, but Darkpelt wanted him and Redheart for some conversation or another. I don’t know why she didn’t ask for you, you and Redheart work together and all, but…”

Something must have shown on his face, because Flyfang trailed off. She instead closed the distance and sat down next to him, tail tapping nervously. Greyleaf returned his gaze to the thin sunlight, grateful for the shadows of the forest.

“I thought you looked a little stressed,” Flyfang said after a moment. “I know that’s normal for you, but…”

Greyleaf did not care to tell her what he had been stewing over the past few minutes. He just went with what was always on his mind, even just in the back. “I’m worried about my Mama.”

Flyfang’s face softened. Saddened a little, too. “Beetlefoot mentioned she wasn’t doing well the last time he saw her.”

Greyleaf saw no reason to be gentle. “She’s about to die. Cancer.” He squeezed his eyes shut, pain and grief and helpless rage in his chest. “She might be dead now, for all I know.”

Flyfang didn’t say it, but they thought the same thing.

And StarClan might have her.

“I shouldn’t talk,” Greyleaf said suddenly. “Your mother’s been there for a while.”

Flyfang nodded, her voice strained. “She has. Unless she was quick enough to run.”

“We rarely are,” Greyleaf muttered.

The two were quiet for a moment, before Flyfang fully turned to him.

“I have a request,” she said.

Greyleaf looked at her sidelong.

“If you and Redheart and everyone decide to leave…” She shifted a little, anxious. “I’d like to get my sisters before we go. They’re not far from here.”

Greyleaf blinked. “You’d travel with us?”

“I mean, yeah.” Flyfang gave him a mildly humorous look. “You all know the truth and I’ve made friends with a couple of you. And I trust you and Redheart. You’re both smart.”

At this, Greyleaf did half-smile. “Against all odds.”

“And you’re tough,” Flyfang added. “Like, just knowing about this, having no idea what to do, it almost makes me crazy. I have no idea how you two are sane knowing this your whole lives.”

Greyleaf’s smile faded just a little, but it didn’t go away. “I’m barely hanging on at this point, honestly. It’s been a lot of edging along a narrow cliffside, hoping not to fall, for my whole life.”

“Especially with your nightmares.” Flyfang shook her head, voice admiring. “I didn’t think anything of you at all when I first met you at the Clast. Healer, weak, nervous, all that. Did not expect you to be as hardcore as you are. Redheart, I could get, but not you.”

The idea of being ‘hardcore’ made an amused huff escape from Greyleaf. “I don’t know about that.”

“Dude, if any of us had suffered this for so long, I think we’d all go nuts.” Flyfang smiled broadly at him, oddly looking impressed. “And you’ve been at this since you were a kit. I think that qualifies as hardcore.”

Greyleaf’s eyes lowered to the ground, but his smile felt more genuine. “…Thanks, then.”

“No problem.” Flyfang leaned her head forward a little to look him in the eyes. “Are you a little happier?”

“A little, yeah.”

“Then my work is done.” Flyfang gave a self-satisfactory nod. “I just got worried about where your head was, and I thought you might need a bit of cheering up.”

Greyleaf looked at her, eyes narrowed in a more friendly way than anything else. “You’re not bad at it. Do you cheer up your sisters a lot?”

“Plenty enough.” Flyfang puffed out a sigh. “The Marish are terrible for a kit’s mental health, I’ll tell you. Mosquitopaw and Gnatpaw must be desperate to get out by now.” Her voice quieted a little. “And they have no idea of the real reason why they should.”

Greyleaf wanted to return the favor of positivity, but just as he opened his mouth, Redheart called, “If everyone can gather around!”

The two grey cats looked at each other in surprise, but stood up and joined the others, where they all sat down, watching the conspirators curiously. Mistface had a calmly pleased and, oddly, almost eager look on his face, and Redheart’s eyes were no longer exhausted. Darkpelt’s usual wide eyes and big smile were present where they should be, but there was a sparkle in them that Greyleaf couldn’t define.

“We have a proposition,” Darkpelt said. “And we’d like to share it with you.”

[imjeralee]

Comfort in Despair: Chapter 28 - The Nightmare

Leon x F!Reader

Disclaimer: Do not own Pokemon

Summary:

Galar is rich in folklore and tales of the supernatural.

As a Pokemon Researcher who specialises in ghost types, this is a great opportunity for you to investigate and learn more about the paranormal.

Along the way, you meet Leon (in the most awkward way possible) who becomes embroiled in your adventures.

^ Basically this story is about ghosts :/

Rating: General/Teen

@marydragneell​ here is the latest update

THE NIGHTMARE

…

…

[Waking up to see your bed shaking is a bad sign.]

…

…

Ezra hasn’t woken up.

Pacing up and down the empty corridor, your downtrodden gaze is pinned to the pristine, sterile white floor of the hospital and Leon watches you from his seat before he calls out to you, asking you to sit down with him.

A set of double doors that can only be opened from your side keep the clamouring paparazzi at bay, muffling the noise they’re making and muting the flashes of their cameras.

Leon is only able to stay with you for a short while before he must return to work so you make the most of your shared time together.

The paparazzi are eventually shooed away by the security staff of the hospital and you’re allowed to breathe, knowing that you and Leon are truly alone. Almost immediately, you and the Champion weave your hands firmly together and he loops an arm around your shoulder, murmuring soothing words for you to hear.

You sit and wait for what appears to be an eternity until the door to Ezra’s room opens and the doctor steps out, summoning yourself and the Champion to stand.

The doctor goes through some formalities with you before he explains that Ezra’s cancer has spread, he is in dire shape and he will need to go through an operation soon, if not now.

"We've been trying to contact a..." The doctor leaves his sentence trailing to read off a form on his clipboard. "A Mr Ambrose, but he hasn't responded to our phonecalls."

"Ambrose?"

"It says here he's the patient's next of kin," says the doctor, "we need this form signed."

You ponder slightly then ask, "Is it okay if I sign it instead?"

He nods after checking his list where you are also put down as a next of kin, and you are promptly handed a form which you read over before signing and hand it back to the doctor. Ezra’s fate is sealed; he will not be able to leave the hospital for a long time.

You’re on your own.

“Also,” the doctor says before he takes his leave, “we found the patient holding onto this.”

He hands you a folded letter, pressing it into your palm. It’s addressed to you and as the doctor and nurse leave, their footsteps echoing in the distance, Leon stands close to you as you unfold it, revealing Ezra’s handwriting:

[If you’re reading this, it means I’m dead.  

I was very proud to have you as my student. You learned things quickly and held great respect for everyone you came across. Now I know you have a lot on your plate already, but I am afraid there are two things I must ask of you: number one, Greyson’s cemetery will be formally under your care after my passing as per my will, and two, please take care of Cassie, ie, Absol.

She’s forgetting herself as the years go by, and I would not want her to be alone. She will also take great care of you in return.]

“…Oh, Ezra,” you murmur, before you exhale loudly and shake your head. He was dealing with so much yet he never bothered you with his problems, and he would always go out of his way to assist you in any manner.

“Let’s go in,” Leon says, and you nod; you slip his will into your pocket and Leon offers you his hand once again.

Together, you enter the room; your mentor lies on the bed, his eyes closed. It pains you to see him like this, looking so fragile and weak. Absol lays curled up on the floor by his bed, opening one eye before rising upon your arrival.

She slinks up to you and you pet her on the head affectionately before you sit down by Ezra’s side.

“Ezra,” you murmur, “we did it. We stopped Spiritomb. He’s been captured but he’s so dangerous, he’s been taken away by the authorities. I’m not sure what they’ll do to him. And I wanted to tell you that I’ve started to understand Gengar and I can hear what he says. I can even hear Cassie. I know what you mean now. I can hear them.”

His chest rises steadily under the sheet but from his noisy wheezes and deep, raspy breaths, you can tell he’s struggling with breathing. The amount of machines surrounding him, all the tubes hooked to his arms and wrist do not alleviate your worries. Leon plants a hand on your shoulder as you throw your limp gaze to the floor, your lip wobbling.

“Look,” Leon suddenly murmurs, and you glance up.

Your mentor has slowly opened his eyes into a tiny slit, and to your utmost amazement, his fingers begin twitching, his wrist rolling. His fingers curl and his wrist trembles delicately.

“He wants to write something,” you say determinedly, “do you see any pen and paper lying around?”

Leon searches your surroundings before he spots a hospital’s patient leaflet with enough white space for clear writing. You grab the pen from the clipboard that’s attached to the front of the bed and you slide the pen into his hand, and hold up the paper for him.

Ezra scribbles before his eyes close and his hand goes limp, unmoving. He’s fully unconscious now, and Absol emits a saddened yowl.

Glimpsing at the paper to discern what he had written, there is only word in bold, capital letters: DEIMOS.

“Deimos?” Leon mutters. “What does that mean?”

You contemplate briefly with a hand under your chin, “…Well, if my memory serves me right, Deimos is the name of one of the natural satellites of Mars. The second is Phobos. They’re named after ancient gods and the personification of dread and terror. Phobos and Deimos were twin brothers,” you reply.

Leon looks impressed with your trivial knowledge and crosses his arms with his eyes closed as though in deep thought as you fold the paper up.

Easing yourself off the seat, you lower yourself to Absol’s level, crouching before her. “Cassie, I need your help. Who are Deimos and Ambrose?”

She regards you intensely with her bright blue eyes before she lifts up a paw and licks it for a second. She says, "My dad mentioned Deimos once but I didn't understand what he was talking about. Ambrose....he's from dad's church. You could try asking him."

Cassie doesn't have sufficient knowledge on 'Deimos', you realise, so you say, “And what about Gossamer Cave? Can you take me there? It’s real, right?”

"It is very real, but I can’t take you there," she replies, "I’m sorry. It doesn't reveal itself to everyone, such as myself. If I were to guide you, I'm afraid I wouldn't be able to find it at all."

As you nod, Leon observes your interaction with the disaster pokemon.

“Okay. I understand. Thank you so much.” you reply.

You kiss her on the top of the horn and she purrs; you want to ask her how she became a Pokemon but she emits a loud yawn, exposing her jaws and sharp fangs, then she stretches on her frontal paws and curls up to sleep.

“She’s gone,” you murmur with a helpless sigh, rising to stand with a cloudy expression on your face.

“Are you okay?” he asks.

“...I think so.”

It’s time to visit Graves, who is in better condition than Ezra and has been given a separate room not too far away albeit in a different ward.

The journey is spent holding hands with Leon as you stroll down the corridor, your mind laden with weary thoughts. Leon periodically throws worried glances at you, noticing your quiet demeanour and squeezing your hand affectionately.

Graves’ room is up ahead and as you open the door to enter, Magnolia and Sonia are present, and another doctor and nurse are tending to your unconscious godfather right now. You head over silently and the women hug you tightly; the doctor makes his final assessments and you stand as he explains Graves’ condition to your group.

It’s good news; Graves will make a full recovery but the doctor isn’t sure when he will wake up.

“Don’t worry, dear, the doctor says Inspector Graves will be alright,” Magnolia mutters, patting you gently on the shoulder.

“Yeah, he’ll wake up soon.” Sonia pipes up.

With a nod, you head over to Graves’ side and plop yourself down on the seat closest to him. Similar to Ezra’s situation, it’s odd seeing your godfather so vulnerable like this. However, his expression is not one of pain but instead, an idyllic, tranquil one. He looks peaceful and undisturbed.

“I’m sorry, Uncle Chris,” you murmur.

After the visit, Leon leaves the hospital first; he’s immediately bombarded with the awaiting and impatient paparazzi outside before he takes off on Charizard, having answered minimally to their probing questions with a polite grin. Leon will meet you later after he’s finished up.

You take a Corviknight taxi to Circhester, a town you have never properly visited before for there was no reason for you to go there. The only known attractions you’re aware of are the baths which are an immensely popular tourist attraction, but you pass the structure quickly, making a beeline for the Church, a massive, stone-white building with gothic architecture that stands to the north, its large spire poking out from the horizon. You can also hear the faint ring of the bell.

It’s larger than you had thought, with a massive wooden door held wide open by huge stones placed strategically and as you stand before the wondrous, centuries-old building, you look up and all the way to the spiralling and huge archways and the flying buttresses, marvelling the genius design and intricate sculptures of saints and pokemon which encompasses an Articuno and Arceus that are situated on the east and west segments of the building respectively.

Without further ado, you step in, your footsteps echoing loudly as you enter the nave. The cathedral is alit with smoke from incense and the litany of quiet prayer, and it has also been outfitted to cater for tourists, with several signs indicating the fire exit and even the ‘gift shop’ to the right.

It’s busy today, with several groups of tourists being led by a guide, they are taking photos of the statues and impressive paintings on the walls and ceiling whilst a few, undisturbed locals are praying as they sit in random spots in the aisles.

A few clergymen dressed in the traditional black and white garb stroll up and down but they don’t pay any attention to you and you glance around, wondering how you will find Ambrose.

The clergymen are possibly the ex-coworkers of your mentor and it seems none of them are aware of who you are. It’s best to ask around and so you make your way towards the altar at the end of the chapel where you spot an old man at the altar dressed in the traditional white and gold garb.

A pair of half-moon, gold-rimmed reading glasses perch precariously over the length of his long nose and a few tufts of silvery grey hair poke out underneath his black hat. Beside him, a Mightyena sits on its haunches as it scans the area and as you approach, it emits a growl and the old priest looks up from his book and squints his eyes at you.

“May I help you, young lady?” he asks.

“I’m looking for someone called 'Ambrose'. I was informed I would find him here.”

“And who might you be?”

“I’m a disciple of Ezra’s.”

He blinks sluggishly for a moment before his thick eyebrows scrunch together and he pushes his glasses further up his nose, peering at you for a closer look. “Disciple?”

“Yes, that’s right.”

Confusion sweeps the old man’s face for a second before he says, “I am Ambrose.”

“He’s in hospital right now. Will you go see him?” you ask. Stunned, Ambrose hesitates for a brief moment and you're quick to add, “He has cancer.”

Ambrose blinks widely behind his glasses before he shakes his head. "Oh, Ezra. How unfortunate."

“He mentioned ‘Deimos’. Does that mean anything to you?”

Your response is an alarmed hiss of “Shh, not so loud,” before the old man closes the book he was reading with a slam and hops off the altar; he grabs his walking stick and Mightyena’s leash which is fixed with a collar and the pokemon guides him down the stairs carefully. “Let's speak over here.”

He beckons you to follow him to an empty pew at the front where he ushers you to sit down before plopping himself down.

“Ezra should not have mentioned its name to you," he utters.

“Why?”

“Do you know what Ezra has done?"

"What?"

"I mean the reason why he was thrown out of the church?”

You think it would be wise to hear what he has to say so you merely stare, and he sighs exasperatedly once more.

“Many years ago, a boy was brought to us from the orphanage who claimed that he had been conversing with a creature of unknown origin. It taught him things."

"What kind of things? What kind of creature was it? A pokemon?"

"No. Not a pokemon."

"Then...a demon?"

Ambrose appears conflicted as he grips his cane tightly.

"Unfortunately, he was never inclined to share those details with us," he replies. "Everyone thought the boy was delusional but he affirmed its existence and that it was real, and so we called it the unspeakable horror. Ezra was worshipping this false god, so he was sent to us to be rinsed and cleansed, to save his soul. Gradually over the years, he improved and he learned our teachings instead…and he stopped speaking to this thing and when he was old enough, he took on a wife and had a child. I thought he would be fine but then I was told a demon had targeted him and his family and he allegedly invoked the unspeakable horror he had known since childhood, which resulted in the death of his loved ones. It was a bad time. The church received a great deal of backlash and he was banished from the order. Ezra has lost favour with God, and you should do the same and renounce him and his teachings now, before it’s too late.”

Ezra has never told you about any of this; however, you do know one thing:

“Ezra isn’t evil," you retort, "he’s my mentor and he’s been helping me this whole time. He taught me everything. He’s been helping tonnes of people since you kicked him out.”

“He’s been teaching you forbidden, dark magic. Ezra is a condemned heretic and his methods are unorthodox. We do not speak of him here.”

"Does this mean you can't help me?"

"You may speak to me to absolve your sins."

You sigh heavily. “If you can’t help me, that’s fine,” you reply. “I’ll deal with this myself.”

Ambrose shifts uncomfortably in his seat before he says, “May God guide you along the way.”

…

You leave the church, back to square one and having hit a dead end.

Returning to Wedgehurst, you grab your rucksack and begin to pack some essentials, namely your radio, journal, some talismans and a few snacks. Graves' photo of your parents drop out of the journal which you pick up and scan intently for a few moments, before you carefully return it safely in between the pages of the journal. You leave the bag propped up beside your bed for later.

Afterwards, you make your way to the lab to conduct desk-based research. Unable to shake off the feeling that something bad is going to happen, you head to the bookshelves and begin rifling through any titles that may be of interest and settle them on the floor near your desk.

Once you’ve amassed a few anthologies, you pick up the first book off your pile and flip to the first page. You will be going through every book in an attempt to unearth more information on Gossamer Cave.

You also try to find out more information on the shiny Lucario you had seen several years ago. When nothing fruitful comes from the books, you rifle through papers and journals you have only to come to the same conclusion. Next, you sift through various maps of Galar, tourists leaflets and articles about Galar’s history, legends and folklore.

There is no mention of the cave anywhere.

Once you’ve gone through the majority of the hard copies, surrounded by mountainous stacks and piles of old and itchy books, magazines and other miscellaneous documents, you move online and conduct various searches, scrolling through page after page until your eyes hurt.

You extend your search to include all possible regions – Kanto, Johto, Hoenn, Sinnoh, Kalos, Alola… unfortunately, having factored in major regions meant it would not be possible to complete your findings in one night.

Despite this shortcoming, you can only find legends on ancient, mythical pokemon and their ties to the distinct regions. There is nothing on Galar, the legendary pokemon and any relations to Gossamer Cave.

Perhaps you’re looking at this wrong, you think, so you attempt to find any information you can on Deimos - whether its nature is demonic or not - but all you come across are basic information on the moon and the mythos.

You grab your cup for a sip of your drink but it’s empty - you’ve run out of coffee – grumbling, you rise from your seat, stretch and head to the coffee machine only to see that you’ve run out of coffee beans and coffee sachets. The next alternative is tea but all the Eldegoss tea is gone too. You're out of everything.

Sighing, you return to your desk, yawning; exhaustion has made you weary and your temples are throbbing. You close your eyes, resting your head on your elbows for a quick lie down and you find yourself drifting off to a dreamless sleep.

However, something soft and weighty is propped over your shoulders and flops over your back and you reopen your eyes to see Leon sitting on the spare seat beside you, trying to tuck his cape over you.

“Leon!” you exclaim, eyes wide.

“Hey,” he murmurs, smoothing his large hand over your hair. "Sorry, I didn't mean to wake you."

“It's fine. I shouldn't be sleeping anyway,” you reply, before you fling your gaze to the clock on the wall. "You're early."

“Yep,” he says with a grin. “I can stay with you for the rest of the evening.”

“Really!?”

“Yeah,” he says, before he quickly pulls you into his embrace; you’ve grown accustomed to his hugs, how he envelopes you with his arms and pulls you against him as tightly as possible.

“Thank you,” you mumble into his chest as you snuggle against him. Admittedly, you were feeling very alone today and his presence is very reassuring. You almost want to ask him not to leave your side.

He chuckles as you bury your nose into his neck, inhaling his musky scent and rubbing your cheek against him as affectionately as you can. He rubs your shoulder soothingly before you pull away, nudging your head to the sofa with a smile and you both rise from your seats, wandering to the couch where you both seat yourselves side by side with the cape draped over the two of you, the cape keeping you close together and very warm.

“Any updates on Inspector Graves and your mentor?” he murmurs as your shoulders knock together, your thighs touching.

“No update, but they’re doing okay.”

“I hope they wake up soon.”

“Me too,” you reply with a sigh, closing your eyes as he weaves an arm around your shoulder.

“How did you get on with your research?”

You shake your head. “Nothing substantial. I met and spoke to Ambrose but he can’t help me.”

“What did he say?”

“Just told me a bunch of bad stuff about Ezra. Urgh, I need a break.”

“Yes, it’s very important to take breaks every now and then,” he replies, and you chuckle.

“I think so too; I need a distraction. You’ll do nicely.”

As you rest your head on his shoulder, Leon picks your hand up and in turn, you rub your fingers over his callused skin; it’s from years of pokemon training and battling, and as you gently smooth your fingertips over his thumb, Leon folds his hand over yours and your hands enclose together tightly.

You smile and he carefully observes your reaction; since you’re so close to him, you can hear his heart pounding a little harder and louder than before as his cheeks grow red and warm. Deciding to fan the flames, you huddle even closer to him and then shift to place your hand over his thigh; he tenses up immediately.

“Leon?” you murmur absentmindedly, stroking his thigh before you use two fingers to run up and down his leg.

Leon stares at your action before shifting his glance to you, unconsciously swallowing down. “Y-yes?”

“If my parents were still around, they would have loved to have met you…would’ve loved you in general,” you mutter as you gaze at the tranquil scenery outside. “And Rosie too. You would’ve gotten on so well with them.”

He nods, his eyes glued to your wandering hand. “Hop loves meeting new people and making new friends, I’m sure he would’ve loved meeting Rosie. They would get along like a house on fire.”

You nod, patting him on the knee before you gently squeeze the sculpted muscle of his outer thigh and he tenses up for a second time. “Everything would have been so different.”

“Mm-hm,” he makes a weak noise from the back of his throat as you lean against him comfortably with a sigh.

"I just want them back."

A brief silence spawns, and Leon observes you carefully.

"Do you think I'm...fooling myself?"

"What do you mean?"

"....Every time Graves or anybody else would say that they were dead, I'd...well, I'd tell them off. I'd rebuff them. I'd say my family were still alive and that's it, end of discussion...but I think a part of me deep down knows they're dead. And that they have been, for a long time," you whisper, "there's no way to bring them back, and I can't deal with it because I never knew how. I don't want to accept it because I...it's...well...I-I..."

As you struggle for words, inhaling shaky breaths, Leon wraps his arms around you and pulls you into his chest.

"I can't deal with it, Leon."

Whilst he ponders the best way to reply, you're quick to spring back to your usual self, hastily wiping away your tears and giving him a wide smile.

"Oh gosh, look at me. I...I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to dump that on you-"

"No, wait."

Before you attempt to wriggle free from his embrace, he plants his hands on your shoulders, effectively stopping you and you look up, your gazes meeting. Leon's smile has completely vanished, replaced with a solemn expression.

"You've never had the chance to talk about it, have you?"

You're surprised he's so blunt with you on this occasion and his words make you double-take. "I'm fine, honestly! I made a mistake, I didn't mean to say that-"

He squeezes your shoulders firmly, "Listen. It's okay. You can tell me."

His eyes never leaving yours, you let out a weak laugh from the back of your throat, trying to smile albeit failing miserably and you shake your head, just a little, casually flinging your gaze to the side, then to the ceiling, then back to him. Leon's gaze doesn't shift. You're no longer able to fool him and your mouth falls open a tad, as though you were trying to speak though no words come out.

"I..." you croak out, your voice weak and dry all of a sudden.

When the first tear leaks out from the corner of your eye, you quickly wipe it away.

"Leon," you mutter, inhaling a breath.

He waits.

"...I need to go back to work."

You can tell he is disappointed by your answer, but he nods regardless and says, “I’ll help," before he throws a glance to himself, at his Champion gear. “Let me get changed out of these clothes first.”

He departs from the lab and returns in half hour or so donned in a black hoodie and sweatpants; the change from Champion to lounge bum is so drastic, and upon his return, you've gone back to normal, to your usual self, as though the conversation that had taken place had vanished completely, and you giggle to yourself whilst Leon grins at you timidly.

“What do you need help with?” he asks, and you shift your gaze to two bookshelves in the corner.

“….I haven’t gone through those yet….”

Leon looks undeterred despite your despondent tone, and rolls his sleeves up and takes out the first book from the top shelf. They’re large and old, resembling tomes, with their sleek gold lining. Leon prevents himself from sneezing from the muskiness of the pages and though you’re concerned, he joins you at the desk where you’re going through two books at the same time.

He watches anxiously but you don’t notice, going through page after page, holding a magnifying glass occasionally when the text is too small. Leon settles his book on the desk, sitting opposite you and flips to the first page.

The text is tiny. The words are archaic. It was probably written fifty or seventy years ago, complete with hand-drawn illustrations of strange-looking creatures. He checks the cover where the fine print reveals it's a book on demons.

Looking up, you’ve already covered a third of the books that are propped up in front of you.

He watches you pour through the research wordlessly, completely absorbed.

You’re one of the most hard-working people he’s ever met.

“Did you find anything?” you ask, looking up from your book.

Leon glances at his own book. He had barely passed the first page. “Uh, no, sorry.”

“That's okay, take your time.”

It’s back to reading and as you flip through pages and pages, Leon continuously tosses you worried glances. In a few or minutes, you’ve gone through the first book and shut the cover, rubbing your temples as you close your eyes and you shake your head. No Deimos, no Gossamer Cave.

You reach for the second book and begin to plough through, and Leon has only passed the first chapter of his anthology. He stares as you go through the pages one by one, your eyes glued to the book, scanning the thin pages, fingers blurred with black ink.

“There must be something here,” he hears you utter under your breath, “Anything! Even just one word will do. There must be something that will help me…Come on!”

As you groan aloud with frustration, slumping in your chair with defeat, Leon puts his book down and grabs his chair, carrying it over to your side before he drops it by your side, facing you.

“Hey,” he says, and you cast him a tired glance.

Leon stares at you intently for a while before he gently pulls you into his embrace once again, giving you an affectionate squeeze.

The tension in your shoulders disappears immediately, the mounting frustration, agony and exhaustion slowly ebbing away as he embraces you tightly; with a shuddering sigh, you close your eyes and sweep your arms around him, murmuring a quiet but grateful ‘Thank you’ in his ear before you press your lips gently over his cheek.

...

As the night wears on, Leon returns to Postwick; he asked if you wanted to stay overnight at his (he has a spare bedroom for you) but you declined; you had desperately wanted to, but recent events have made you more cautious than you should be and you don’t want to endanger him or his family.

At home, you have dinner with Sonia and Magnolia, watch some late night TV together then take a shower. It’s been a long time since you’ve spent the night at home, and you and Sonia spend the remainder of the evening chatting until it’s time for bed although the entire duration of your light conversation, a feeling of dread was growing in your gut as the hours passed.

"It's so nice that you're home!" she gushes, "we can go and get our nails done together and go to the beauty salon!"

She continues going on about other tasks you can accomplish together but you mutter, "Hey Sonia?" as you lie on your bed, staring at the bland ceiling of your shared room.

"Yeah?" She's at the vanity table, brushing her hair.

"If anything happens to me, can you look after my pokemon?"

She puts her brush down and turns to you with a huff, hands on her hips. "Of course! But why are you saying something like that anyway? Nothing's going to happen to you." She chastises you with a shake of her head.

"...I feel awful," you murmur, "In fact, I've been feeling awful all day. It won't go away."

"Well, your godfather and Ezra are in hospital, of course you feel awful."

You nod in agreement. That could be it.

"And you're probably tired and not used to being so active during the day." She sighs as she climbs on her bed and stretches in her comfy pyjamas, grinning, “It’s been such a long time since you’ve actually slept at the same time as me, too. This is so nice! You should stay at home more often.”

You nod again and she rolls over to reach for the lamp.

“I’m switching the lights off now.”

“Okay.”

“Night!”

“Goodnight, Sonnie.”

The bedroom is encompassed in darkness at the flip of the switch, and you hear Sonia rolling over to lie on her side with a sigh whilst you lay sprawled on your back under the covers, eyes closed.

Taking deep breaths in and out, it takes a while for your mind to gently ease into soothing, dark oblivion, and you begin to nod off. You listen to the wind howling gently outside, Sonia’s clock ticking on the wall. You think about Jace, Volkner, your mentor, Graves and finally, Leon.

At the mere thought of the Champion, you smile to yourself as you wonder what exciting things you will do with him tomorrow when he finishes work. Maybe you will have the double date with his friend Raihan and his girlfriend? Maybe you will go camping with him in the Wild Area once more?

With happy thoughts in mind, you roll to your side in a bid to get comfortable and soon, sleep overtakes you.

Your eyes close and as your body grows limp and weightless, your mind ventures away from the bedroom and into the deepest depths and the pit of the abyss, and as you drift to sleep, you dream of a long stretch of road that lies ahead of you, surrounded by two-storey houses with long driveways and huge gardens.

This is your old neighbourhood in Kalos.

“Huh?” you utter to yourself, “why am I here?”

It’s night and it’s raining heavily, wind battering your form. You’re standing in the middle of the road for some inexplicable reason, freezing and trembling from the frigid chilly air; you hug yourself and cautiously glance at your surroundings.

A familiar house lies up ahead.

Stunned, you make your way over and up to the front porch, looking up and around. All the lights are switched off. Everything’s as you remember; mum’s porcelain Politoed garden set are put on display in the lawn. The hedges have been trimmed, courtesy of your father. Rosie’s scooter hasn’t been collected in and lies by the gate.

Dad placed a spare key for any accidents, so you grab it from underneath a Cottonee ornament by a plant pot and you slot the key into the door, twisting it.

The door opens and you step inside your home, closing the door behind you.

Although you have not returned for years, it does not feel that way; you venture into the lounge and peek inside; the sofas, the mantelpiece, the TV…the two leather recliners where dad and Graves used to sit when watching the games…it’s all there.

“I’m home,” you murmur under your breath, before you throw your glance to the stairs.

Sucking in a shaky breath, you head up as quietly as you can and find your old bedroom door, opening it.

The two beds are there, and there are two individuals sleeping inside.

There’s Rosie, who lies on her side, facing you. And then there’s a lump under the covers in the other bed, which you assume is yourself.

Eyes widening, you realise why you have come home, at this time.

“Rosie!” you whisper in shock, before you tiptoe over to her side, “Rosie, wake up.”

She groans and opens her eyes weakly as you shake her shoulder. “….Sissy?”

“Yes, it’s me! Oh god, this is…this is it, I know why I’m here! Come with me. Come with me now,” you hurry inside the room and scoop her out of the bed, into your arms.

Cautiously throwing a glance to the lump in the bed, you breathe a sigh of relief when it does not move, so you quickly leave the room as silently as you can and trek down the stairs.

At the front door, you set Rosie down and she looks around in the dark before she clutches her little hands together and looks up at you, her lip wobbling. She says, “Sissy, I’m scared.”

“It’s okay, Rosie, everything’s gonna be okay,” you reply, pulling open the door for her and ushering her outside into the stormy night with you.

“Mum!! Dad!!” a familiar voice suddenly yells, “Rosie, no!!”

It’s your voice.

Looking up, you see ‘yourself’ standing at the top of the banister, ashen-faced and petrified.

Everything is surreal, and a slither of guilt slides into your gut but as she runs downs the stairs towards you, you pull the door shut in her face and jam the key inside the lock, holding onto the handle as tightly as you can.

You can hear her screaming and fighting with the doorknob, trying to get it open.

Aware she’ll call your parents next, you leave the key in the lock, grab Rosie and begin to hop down the steps of the front porch, heading for the street.

“Sissy, what are you doing?” Rosie exclaims, “Where are we going??”

“Everything’s gonna be okay, Rosie,” you utter as you adjust your grip on her. She is so warm, this cannot be just a dream. This must be real. And if this is real, you’re determined to do one thing: “I’m here to save you.”

Angry footsteps pound after you; you toss a glimpse over your shoulder to see your father rushing towards your direction. He’s too quick, and whilst you’re ecstatic to see your father alive in the flesh once again, his gaze sweeps through you, as though you’re naught a shadow in a thick fog, and he seizes hold of Rosie, pulling her out of your grip. He looks confused.

“Who’s there? Who are you??” he demands.

There’s no time for explanation, you struggle with your little sister as your dad fights back, pulling Rosie as far as away from you as much as possible.

“Dad!! Let go! Let go of her!!!” you scream angrily, but he’s wildly flailing his arms into space as though fighting an invisible assailant which forces you to duck and retreat on several occasions.

Grabbing onto the back of Rosie’s shirt, you cling on as much as possible until the fabric tears and your nails furiously rake against her back.

She emits a startled shriek as she’s finally back in dad’s arms and you topple backwards, staring at your hands in shock. Your father glances left and right, his terrified gaze missing you completely, before he turns and disappears towards the direction of your house.

Looking up, your father has vanished with Rosie.

“Dad, wait!!!”

Scrambling to rise, your feet do not move on their own accord and you’re forcibly pulled away from the ground, your body thrown backwards with malicious force until you collide with a hard surface.

Confused, you’re left to rub your aching head as you pick yourself back up; the scenery has changed, shifting from the street outside your house to the basement, specifically your father’s lab.

You attempt to take one step forwards only to be met with a thick glass, revealing that you’re in a container of some sort.

Throwing your gaze down to yourself, your body has become engorged, clunky and ungainly and it doesn’t take too long for you to realise yes, something is definitely not right.

You try to speak, to say a word but all that emits is a rather low and horrific, demonic screech. Lifting your hands to eye level only to see two large and awkward-looking, grey-skinned palms. In fact, you are not even certain this is ‘skin’ and overall, it is not belonging to a human but a pokemon.

Dusknoir.

Cheerful, muffled humming captures your attention and you glimpse over to see Rosie playing with her dolls at the foot of the staircase.

“Rosie!” you yell, thumping your strange, massive hands against the glass, “Rosie, it’s me!”

She looks up and turns to your direction, cocking her head to one side. “Dusky-nor?”

“Rosie, let me out.”

Instead of replying, she picks up her two pokedolls and forces them to kiss, whacking them together again and again.

You try hard to grab her to pay attention.

“Rosie, let me out. You wanna play, right? I’ll play with you. Let’s play.”

To your chagrin, she does not bat an eyelid and as you glance around the lab anxiously, it’s then you see your father’s poster of morse code taped to the wall. That must be it: Rosie cannot understand what you’re saying.

Tapping on the glass with one of your fingers, you spell out a message, occasionally drawing a dash. Rosie eventually looks up and glances at your direction once more.

“Play?” she says, having understood.

“Yes, let’s play a game. Find a way to let me out,” you spell out in morse code.

She juts her bottom lip out and shakes her head. “That doesn’t sound very fun, Dusky-nor. Why don’t we play tea party instead?”

Before you can reply, the door to the basement opens and a girl enters. It’s ‘you’, again. “Rosie, what are you doing here?” your past self says with a huff. “Don’t come down here on your own.”

She picks your little sister up and off the ground and you watch them converse before the dolls are collected and the two sisters glance at you.

Goddamnit, you weren’t quick enough.

You growl and slam your hands over the glass repeatedly with frustration as they scurry off in a panic in response to your display of anger.

“Wait!” you yell.

The lights are turned off, bathing you in darkness, doom and gloom.

You are alone.

Curling into a ball, you wonder how you got yourself into this sticky situation and how you are going to get yourself out of it. Hell, why are you in the body of a Dusknoir anyway? How did this even happen? Though there are horrific true stories of kids waking up and discovering that they had turned into Abras...

Even though your family are here and you are in the sanctity of your own home, you cannot help but feel very scared and isolated. You can’t be locked up here forever.

Unsure how long you have been stuck here, you begin to feel not quite yourself. Your enlarged stomach is empty of food and your mouth hungers for something to eat. A mere scrap or morsel will do. Perhaps you should attempt to escape, somehow. It wouldn’t hurt to try.

Lifting your hand, you might as well try and carry out one of Dusknoir's attacks, perhaps a simple Shadow Ball would do the trick. To your amazement, a ball of sweeping dark energy automatically begins to manifest and gather from the base of your palm as soon as the thoughts of escaping your confinement arises in your mind and from it, an uncontrollable, powerful blast shoots at the glass container which shatters it entirely.

The action was not without consequence though, and your father suddenly goes flying away from the contraption from the sheer force, smacking into the wall as shards of sharp glass rain over his body.

It appears he had been standing nearby doing some late night research but you weren’t even aware of his presence and now that you've attacked him by accident, you're rooted in your spot with shock.

Time must have passed since you were left on your own and everything has been fast forwarded to a particular crucial moment of your past which must be the event where your father and sister went missing.

Freed from the glass container, you rise into the air.

Dusknoir’s power is impressive; you feel its power surging through your body, the strength it possesses. You could do anything you willed, such as saving your father and Rosie before the incident happens.

Your father groans audibly with pain as you attempt to reach him, but his Sableye and Haunter spring out and begin attacking you to protect their trainer; you did not know that they were also here that night.

“I’m trying to save them!” you growl at the pokemon as you avoid their troublesome attacks. “Stop getting in my way!”

You manage to sweep them up and into your hands, unsure how to deal with them.

The answer lies when a short distance away, the papers lying on your father’s desk gently slide an inch or so from their usual places before they’re completely tossed into the air; a strong wind has whipped up from out of nowhere in the small space of the basement, causing chilly air to spread throughout the entire area. A shimmering, horizontal line appears in the darkness and a gaping hole opens up leading to a swirling vortex of deep purple.

As Sableye and Haunter continue to thoroughly resist, getting on your nerves and ruining everything, you proceed to throw them inside the portal. They are immediately sucked inside and vanish in seconds, their helpless cries drowned out by the blowing winds.

Turning round, your next course of action is to take your father and sister with you; a dim white light hovers from your father’s unmoving body, an inch above his head, shining under the gloomy light of the basement.

You make your way towards him and a little, frightened wail can be heard.

It’s Rosie, but you do not see her, just another light identical to your father's - except hers is a beautiful and bright, shining white light. It's incredibly powerful, and you are immediately drawn to it like a Venomoth to a flame, overwhelmed with the most haunting desire to devour it.

You gingerly pick her up with your massive palm though she flails and struggles.

“Rosie!” you exclaim, “I’m going to save you.”

“No! Let me go!” she kicks and screams for your parents and as your father begins to stir, you also pluck him up effortlessly off the ground.

With your father and sister in your grasp, your breathing begins to grow laboured and your vision grows blurry; your insides squirm and grows hot and you emit a yell as your stomach opens up, your ribs and skin stretching until they snap and tear apart.

It’s Dusknoir’s mouth, and you let out a choked rasp of pain whilst your human hostages continue to struggle.

“What…?” you whimper out, before your hands begin moving on their own accord.

You are not in charge anymore; Dusknoir is back in control and it’s hungry.

“Wait, stop!”

As you tremble and gasp, Dusknoir’s hands continue to move beyond your control.

“Stop!” you yelp, hot tears prickling the corner of your eyes. “NO!”

You begin to feed your father and sister inside your belly, watching them wriggle and flail, their screams muffled before everything goes silent as Dusknoir’s mouth seals shut.

You’re no longer hungry.

…

“Oh god! It was me!” you cry out, “It was me!”

Tossing and turning, you sit up in the darkness with tears staining your face, hands clawing at the sides of your head.

A crumbling static noise captures your attention and you look up; your radio lies a distance from you and whilst you wonder what it is doing here from out of the blue, you head over, bending down to pick it up.

It feels cold and heavy in your hands, and the dial is turned wrong.

Out of habit, you switch it to eighteen ninety eight hertz where the static grows louder and finally, a scratchy voice can be heard:

“-a pocket full of posies, a-tishoo, a-tishoo, we all fall down. Ring around the rosie, a pocket full of posies...”

The voice is unfamiliar to you.

“Hello?” you say, though your rule of thumb is not to respond no matter what you hear. “Who’s this?”

“This is Rosie.”

“No, it’s not.”

“Then it’s me, your father.”

“You’re not my father.”

“Yes, I am. And then on some days...I’m your mother.”

Dropping the radio with fright, you watch it clatter to the ground and the antenna breaks and the screen shatters upon impact, but the voice from within begins to chuckle.

“I’m coming for you."

…and you wake up by a slight tremor underneath your body and a weight pressing down on your chest and legs.

Your eyes open in a snap at the unfamiliar sensation and you discover you're in bed, soaked to the bone with cold sweat.

Inhaling shaky breaths as you come to grips that you are now fully awake and the temperature of the entire room has plummeted, the weight on your body grows heavier and heavier and initially, you're paralysed, numb from the horrific nightmare...but there's something in your bed and you promptly lift the covers up.

A pair of red, glowing orbs dance around in strange circles, weaving and bobbing between the small gap for a split second before you realise they are not circles of light but in fact eyes, and these eyes had been watching you until you had woken up - and the weight disappears in a split second, retreating. The duvet follows its movements, a bump zooming all the way to the edge of the bed before it drops off and the duvet goes flat.

You kick the blanket off yourself entirely, scrabbling to sit up in alarm at what you had just witnessed.

The clock beeps loudly and you whip your head round; the LED screen reads three am precisely.

The tremor returns and you hold your breath, before a second and far more violent quake flings you to one side of the bed.

The bed shakes again and you finally cry out as you glance around yourself in shock and confusion; the bed rocks angrily to and fro, the legs scraping loudly against the floor. The noise is deafening.

In the darkness, your eyes dart left and right frantically as the bed continuously shakes and Sonia stirs, grumbling and groaning from the deafening noise.

You climb out, dropping to the floor and crawling backwards on your elbows. Sonia, now wide awake, rubs her eyes and flips on the switch of the lamp before she emits a gasp of shock at the sight of your shaking bed.

“What’s going on?!” she shrieks with fright before she lets out a loud cry of, “GRAN!!”

As she wails, a dark shadow suddenly flits from underneath your bed and to the ceiling of the room, clinging to one corner.

You daren't peel your eyes off it, your entire body shaking all over with fear as this shadow - initially appearing as a blob, begins to take on the shape of a man - and it springs towards you in a matter of seconds, leaving you no room to retaliate.

Sonia had been gawping at your bed in astonishment whilst you hurriedly evade the incoming attack and roll over to your rucksack, pulling out your khira dagger from within. You plunge the dagger into the body of the shadow as quickly as you can and it writhes for a few seconds or so.

It's too early to call it a victory, as the dagger wavers under your grip before the blade promptly scatters into fragments and the shadow slips away.

Stunned, you gawk at the broken dagger as the humanoid silhouette rises, towering over you. You stare up at this unknown being, your breathing growing laboured before it slams a dark appendage towards your direction. You narrowly escape by making a frantic dash for the door but the floorboards cave in from the assault and Sonia lets out a cry of fright from the alarming sound.

The shadow pursues you furiously, crawling over the wall and over the stairs.

And you yell, "Gengar!"

The pokemon appears, gathering dark energy in his hands before firing a powerful Shadow Ball, yet the attack passes through it completely and the pokemon is left bewildered as the shadow continues in its pursuit. Gengar is quick to react however, and he sinks into the shadows once more.

You throw a casual glimpse over your shoulder, grabbing several talismans from your bag which you had enchanted earlier. Tossing them at its direction, you're dismayed to see that they do little to stop it and the shadow charges through them completely, rampaging down the stairs in its wake.

Nothing's working, and downstairs, you see Cutiefly and Sunkern at the last step before they spot you - and the shadow.

You want to tell them to run away but Cutiefly flaps his little wings, sending a bustling gust of fairy wind towards your attacker's direction whilst Sunken squeaks and throws a barrage of Razor Leaves at it - to your horror, the attacks pass through much like Gengar's, and the shadow lunges at them.

It happened so quickly; their little bodies are juggled in mid-air as the shadow rips through them. Sunkern drops to the ground first, his eyes wide and glossy, the leaves ripped off his head. Cutiefly's fuzzy body follows suit, bouncing over the floor and coming to a rolling stop. A deep puddle of red seeps out from their motionless, mangled bodies, staining the pristine floor.

The sight of your beloved pokemon torn in half in front of your very eyes sends you into shock; your mouth contorts before you unleash an ear-splitting shriek of horror from the back of your throat.

Two weak balls of light rise from their bodies; before you can take a step forwards, the shadow pounces on one and swallows it up and the remaining light, in an effort to escape, darts to the side but is also quickly chased, caught and devoured by the shadow.

It's preoccupied which might give you an opportunity to attack, but a harsh tug on your arm stops you from doing otherwise: it's Gengar, and he's unlocked the front door for you.

"We need to go!" he exclaims.

Sonia arrives at the banister and spotting the bodies, emits a scream. You don't have time to react, and you certainly have no choice but to leave.

Sparing one last glance at the mangled bodies of your pokemon, you leave with Gengar, sprinting out of the house and down the path as quickly as you can.

...

That night, the ghost Pokemon Researcher of Wedgehurst did not return home.

[worryinglyinnocent]

Fic: Indelible

AU-gust Day Twenty-Nine: Tattoo Parlour AU Fandom: Stargate Universe Pairing: Nicholas Rush x Gloria Rush

Rated: T

Summary: Tattoo artist Rush’s latest customer isn’t at all the type he’d expect to be getting a tattoo, and the two of them discuss the paths fate has led them down to meeting in these unusual circumstances.

Content warning: Cancer mention.

Indelible

During his time as a tattoo artist, Rush had long since learned that whilst most of his customers could be fitted into one of several boxes, there were always a few that completely defied convention.

Ostensibly, he knew that you shouldn’t judge a book by its cover. Or a person wanting to get a tattoo by their outward appearance.

All the same, that didn’t stop him from doing a double take when he saw her walk into the shop. 

She was absolutely not the kind of person that he would expect to be getting a tattoo. She seemed too… He didn’t know how to describe her, but she looked completely out of place in her raincoat and sensible boots, with her violin case over her shoulder. For several seconds after she came in, all he could do was stare at her as she looked around at the intricate designs displayed on the walls, built up over years and years of artwork. 

Rush had never thought of himself as particularly artistic. In fact, when he’d first been hired, his boss had been confident in the fact that he’d last less than a day before packing it in. He hadn’t been let loose on skin for much longer than all of the other apprentices, but now, here he was, running the shop whilst still wondering what life would have been like if he’d had enough ready money to finish university and become an astrophysicist as planned. 

Having stared at his latest customer for a good five minutes, during which time she had stopped looking around and fixed her gaze on him, Rush realised that he should probably say something. 

“Can I help you?”

“I hope so.” She came up to the counter and placed a piece of paper down. “I want this tattooed here.” She tapped her left arm, just above the elbow. “Not in that handwriting,” she added quickly. “Something a bit neater and more artistic. Hopefully.”

Learning neater and more artistic handwriting had been one of the hardest challenges of Rush’s career so far, and he had to suppress a laugh at the notion. Still, she was here, and she was a potential customer with a very fixed idea of what she wanted, so despite her appearance seeming out of place in his shop, he would nonetheless help her.

He picked up the piece of paper. It was just a date, three months ago. It should be easy enough. He grabbed the folder of writing samples from under the counter and passed it over to her.

“Take a look through there and see if anything takes your fancy. If not I’m sure we can work up something freehand. In the meantime, I’ll get you booked in.”

Her name, it transpired, as he was getting her details into the computer, was Gloria Miller, and it was once he came to the medical questions that he realised the significance of that date, and why she wanted it imprinted on her skin forever.

“I’ve had cancer and chemotherapy,” she explained. “This is the date I got my all clear.”

Although he had always prided himself on his cynicism, Rush couldn’t help the smallest quirk of a smile as he continued to put her details in.

“Would you be able to do this?” She pointed to a neat script sample in the folder, small and not too elaborate, the individual figures clear and elegant. Rush breathed an inward sigh of relief that she hadn’t chosen one of the fancier scripts. Although numbers were definitely something he had a lot of experience with writing, normally it didn’t matter how neat they were.

“Yeah, that shouldn’t be a problem.” He grabbed a pencil and spare sheet of paper and began to sketch out the design to scale. It would come out pretty small, but Gloria didn’t look to be the type who would want anything too ostentatious. She smiled when he finished, slipping off her coat so that she could hold it against her arm in the correct place.

“That’s perfect, thank you.”

The appointment was set for the following week, and as Gloria left, Rush found that he was looking forward to seeing her again. There was something about her and the way that she’d suddenly dropped into his life from nowhere, at odds at first but soon fitting into place. He shook his head crossly. This was not the time to be getting into ideas of fate and destiny. He was a scientist at heart, for crying out loud, and that meant that everything had to have a logical explanation – no matter how weird and wonderful that explanation might be in the long run.

Still… Maybe there was a logical explanation for Gloria, and the fact that of all the places she could have chosen to commemorate her triumphant recovery, his was the one she had picked.

X

Gloria arrived as expected on the appointed day at the appointed time, and Rush led her through to the back room, getting her set up in the chair and cleaning her arm ready for the ink.

“No second thoughts?”

“None. I’ve been anticipating this moment for five years and even then, I left it another few months to be absolutely sure.”

With her firm conviction and with waivers fully signed, Rush began to get to work. Gloria gave a little gasp at the first scratch but otherwise stayed quiet and completely still as he continued to etch the date onto her arm. Some people looked away whilst their tattoos were being done, not wanting to see the needles or the beading blood, but Gloria watched in fascination as he drew.

“You’re a scientist as well as an artist then,” she said presently.

Rush glanced down at the ink on his own forearms, equations snaking around his skin.

“I was. Well, I still am at heart.”

“What made you change your career? It’s a bit drastic.”

Rush laughed behind his mask. “Money. I couldn’t afford to keep learning.”

“That’s a shame. Do you think you’d go back to it one day, if you could?”

Rush thought about it for a moment as he changed needles. They did say that it didn’t do to teach an old dog new tricks, but physics had always been his first love, and he’d only got into his current line of work by an accident that had kept on giving long after it had first occurred.

“Yes.”

They fell into silence for a while as Rush continued to work on the date.

“What do they mean?”

“What?”

“Your equations. What do they mean?”

“They’re all astrophysical mostly. The speed of light, calculating the distance between Earth and alpha centurai. That kind of thing.”

“All right, now I know you’re actually a scientist and not an artist at heart.” Gloria was grinning when Rush looked up at her. “If you were an artist at heart you’d have constellations, not maths showing how to get there.”

Rush didn’t reply, but he smiled unseen. She’d certainly managed to get a good read on him in the short time that they’d spent together.

At length, the tattoo was finished and Gloria had given it her seal of approval before Rush had wrapped her arm in plastic. He’d just finished reiterating the usual aftercare notes when he realised that he probably wouldn’t see her again after today, and for some reason, the thought saddened him.

“You know, if you have any problems with it, or if you want any more work done, feel free to come back any time.”

Gloria smiled. “I will.”

X

It was about two weeks after Gloria’s appointment that Rush saw her again. She still looked just as out of place standing in the shop as she had done on her first visit, but now he was used to it.

“Hello again.”

It took him a moment to remember that he had a tongue in his head.

“Erm, hi. How can I help? How’s the tattoo?”

“It’s fine. Still scabby, but not infected. It’s going to look great.”

“Right.” There was a long and somewhat awkward pause. “So… What can I do for you?”

“I was just wondering if you maybe wanted to get a drink some time.”

Rush was knocked a little off balance by her question. They’d certainly make a fine pair, her with her sensible raincoat and boots and violin, and he with his equations inked up his arms.

But she was so different, and so out of place, and she’d seemed so genuinely interested in those same equations and the origins behind them.

He nodded.

“Yeah. I’d like that.”

Maybe they could find a place to be out of place together.

[wolfpawn]

Life is a Game of Risks, Chapter 25

Chapter Summary - Tom plans a surprise for Alexianna, but it does not go according to plan.

TRIGGERS - Past domestic abuse, Past emotional abuse, Past sexual abuse.

Previous Chapter

Tags: @damalseer @hiddlesbitch1 @winterisakiller @theoneanna

Request if you wish to be tagged

Tom planned it, saying nothing to Alexianna only that he wanted her and Lily to come over for dinner, and to bring some clothes to stay overnight, that he wanted to watch a movie after Lily went to bed, when she seemed unsure, he insisted he would not force her to stay in bed with him, he simply wanted time with them. The play had taken most of his time over the few weeks, with it ended and with Thor Ragnarok and the associated madness soon to begin, he wished to spend time with Alexianna before that started.

All through the running of the play, she had sent texts and called on occasion, just to ask him how he was and did he need anything, she even came by as she was about to clean the house a few streets over, for no other reason than to drop some cooked dinners, since he had stated that one night, after a show, he was too tired to cook. She had told him she needed to give him something, then arrived with two cooler bags of cooked meals, gave him a kiss and told him to get rested for the next show, Lily, though she would have loved to spend time with Tom, seemed to realise too that it was important not to bother him and hugged him and gave the same orders.

Now he wanted to thank her, so he arranged for them to have a nice night, including ordering a movie she had mentioned she wished she had gotten to see in the cinema in passing. He cooked a roast, ensuring to have the trimmings and smiled at his handiwork. He asked her to be there for five, but by ten past, there was no sign of her or Lily. Worried, he tried ringing her, but her phone appeared to be dead or turned off. He then started to think of different scenarios of what caused her to not come, the most worrying of which was something had happened to herself or Lily, but with no way to contact her, he could not tell. It was almost half past, and with no sign of them, Tom felt his heart sink, he thought at first they were delayed, buses could get caught in traffic, or the Tube could get delayed if there was an issue with the signals; he had thought she would at least contact him, but she had not, he felt hurt. When his phone rang a few moments later, he just ignored it; when it rang again, he cursed and looked at the caller ID, frowning to see her name. Pressing the answer button, he brought it to his ear. ‘Lexi?’

‘Tom, I am so sorry, the Underground was insane, we were stopped between Camden and Chalk Farm for forty bloody minutes, and when I tried to contact you, I realised someone used my data allowance watching Paw Patrol on Youtube.’ His glower lifted. ‘I am so so sorry.’

‘Where are you now?’

‘Outside.’

‘What?’

‘We’re outside your door, the lights are on, but we have knocked three times.’ he rushed to the door and opened it, sure enough, there was a frustrated looking Alexianna and disheartened Lily standing there, rain pouring down. ‘Hello.’

‘Get in, I am so sorry, I did not hear you.’ He ushered them in.

‘I am sorry Tom, I...Oh, Jesus, you had something cooking and everything, I am so…’ He silenced her with a kiss.

‘I am just glad you came, I was terrified something happened one of the two of you.’ Tom took the small gym bag out of her hand and put it by the stairs.

‘No, just public transport.’ Alexianna groaned, ‘That smells incredible, by the way. And, this is for you.’ She handed him a small gift bag. ‘Since you’re finished the run.’ she smiled.

Tom frowned and opened the small bag, pulling out the contents and looking at them, his eyes widening and his smile growing. ‘Wow.’

‘I know you are busy with the Thor tour coming up, but I was hoping before you go that you would want to? I have Elaine booked and everything.’

‘That is why you asked if I was free?’ Tom realised. ‘Of course, I cannot wait.’ He kissed her again. ‘Now, dinner is not as fresh as it was but…’

‘Stop, I literally have not stopped today, we decluttered, so I am starved.’

‘“Decluttered”?’

‘Yes, someone is now too big for a lot of her clothes, and we don’t have the space to hold onto every last hole filled leggings, so we did, you know that game, “Kiss, Marry, Kill”, we played “Save, Donate, Dump.’

‘How did that go?’

‘One bag for the bin, one each to Barnardos, the Cancer Society and the R.S.P.C.A. and one shopping bag of really cute things to be vacuum packed.’

‘You keep some?’

‘Yes, just a few of her favourites or ones that mean something.’

‘Do you think you’ll ever…’ she looked at him, not having a clue as to what he was implying. ‘Have another?’

‘Child?’ Her eyes widened. ‘I don’t...probably not. I don't think I can go through all that again. She was an angel, don’t get me wrong, but it was too hard, going alone like that, Daniel was incredible, but I...no, I couldn’t.’ Tom simply nodded pensively. ‘Did I…? Do you…?’

‘I think it is safe to say, I am not near ready for that, I am too dedicated to work to be any use to a woman at present with a baby.’ he replied.

‘But down the road?’

‘I don’t know.’ he replied. ‘I can’t honestly say.’ Alexianna found herself kissing her teeth as she thought through his words. ‘Why don’t we discuss this another time?’ He placed his hand on her lower back, ‘You lovely ladies need some dinner.’ Tom looked around. ‘Where is Lily?’

‘I’m in the kitchen.’ They walked in to see her sitting at the table excitedly. ‘Mommy, look what Tom got me.’ She held up a plate similar to the one she had at home. ‘It’s the one I wanted.’

‘Wow.’ She looked at Tom, who clearly looked like he was awaiting a scolding. ‘What do you say?’

Lily jumped down from the chair and rushed over to Tom, hugging his legs tightly as she jumped up and down. ‘Thank you, thank you, thank you.’

‘You’re welcome darling.’ She went back to the table. ‘I just got it because I didn’t want you worrying about the plates again.’ he explained quietly to Alexianna. ‘I know it was concerning you.’

Alexianna had to concede it was true, she had been terrified for Tom’s plates when they had stayed the weekend. ‘So, what’s the occasion?’

‘Well, after everything with Hamlet, and how incredibly understanding you were, I thought we would celebrate with a nice dinner, then after Lily goes to bed, you and I can settle down to watch a movie?’

‘What have you in mi?’

‘You’ll see.’ He wrapped his arms around her. ‘But first, how about some roast lamb, baby potatoes in garlic butter and perhaps even some veg?’

‘Tom!’ She looked at him, ‘There’s no need…’

‘No, there isn’t, but I wanted to.’

‘Thank you.’ She smiled.

‘Now ladies, please take your seats and I will get the food.’ He winked at Lily who giggled in return as he brought Alexianna to the table. He organised everything he had readied and soon the trio were eating happily.

When they were done, Tom looked bemusedly at Alexianna, who insisted that she do the dishes since he had cooked. As soon as Lily realised Tom was in anyway unoccupied, she grabbed his hand and pulled him to the living area, demanding to know about his favourite Disney characters.

‘I am not too up-to-date with so many. Why don’t you tell me?’

‘I love Moana.’

‘I like Maui.’ Tom smiled.

‘And HeiHei, he’s hilarious.’

‘He is.’ Tom chuckled.

‘I like Judy Hopps too, she’s a rabbit.’

‘The first ever bunny cop.’ Tom nodded.

Lily beamed in delight at his knowing it. ‘Yep, and Big Hero 6, Baymax is the best.’

‘I have not seen that one.’ he acknowledged. ‘My favourite is Baloo.’ Lily frowned. ‘You don’t know Baloo?’ She shook her head. He rose from his chair and went over to a cupboard and took out a DVD, bringing it back to the couch and showing it to her. ‘Have you not seen this?’

Lily inspected it and shook her head. ‘I have seen that teddy.’

‘That is Baloo.’ Tom smiled. ‘Lexi, what sort of rearing are you giving this daughter of yours, she does not know who Baloo is.’ there was no response, ‘Lexi?’ he walked into the kitchen to see Alexianna looking at him sadly. ‘Lexi, what’s wrong?’

‘I could never watch that movie after…’

‘After what?’

‘I grew up, I stopped seeing you. It literally is the one thing that as soon as I saw anything to do with it, I thought of you.’

‘Was that so bad, thinking of me?’

‘It hurt, I always felt saddened by not seeing you and Emma anymore.’

‘Well, that has been mended.’ He smiled. ‘I know she usually goes to bed at half seven, but I was going to ask, could we perhaps delay bedtime for…’ he checked his watch, then the back of the DVD cover, ‘about twenty minutes, I wish to educate Lily on the Jungle Book?’

‘I suppose once won’t hurt.’

‘Leave the dishes, join us.’ He encouraged, his arms snaking around her waist, ‘they can wait.’ his nose rubbed against the side of hers as his breath ghosted the side of her face.

Alexianna sighed, caught in the moment, the smell of his cologne and the fact that he seemed to know every way to drive her insane. ‘Lily....’

‘Come in and keep her company, and me.’

‘Is this the movie you had planned?’

‘No, actually, but it is a very good one.’ Tom chuckled, continuing to somehow use his nose as a way to seduce her, simply by running it next to or over hers. He kissed her slowly and chastely; when he pulled away, she nipped his bottom lip. ‘Lexi.’ He warned though there was a difference in his tone, lust or some other such thing.

‘Later.’ she smiled, causing Tom to look at her startled. ‘Or am I…?’ She asked worriedly.

‘No, Jesus, no. I am more than willing if you are, I just am somewhat startled you said that. I thought it would take longer to get you confident enough to do so.’

‘It was really good, when we…’ she leant in again and kissed him.

‘This is going to be a very long film.’ Tom groaned as he felt his body reacting.

They watched the film in relative silence, Tom interrupting to sing the Bare Necessities and Lily giggling whenever something was funny. By the end, Bagera gained a new lover.

‘Why him, he is so boring?’ Tom jokingly asked Lily.

‘Cause he’s asponsible. He looks after Mowgli without being silly.’

‘Wait, is your four year old actually choosing the adult and more responsible character?’ Tom asked Alexianna in awe.

‘It would appear so.’

‘She is your daughter, there was no mistake in that hospital, she is definitely your daughter.’ Tom laughed.

‘Hey…’

‘Lexi, I love you, but what used you say about Bagera, that he was “the voice of reason and the only adult in the situation”.’

‘He was, he still is.’

'And that is your daughter’s analysis too, I am telling you, you Hughes women are a lot alike.’

Alexianna smiled at him. ‘Lil, time for bed.’

‘Will you read me the Gruffalo?’

‘Of course.’

‘Actually, Mommy, can Tom read it?’

Alexianna stood staring at her daughter. ‘Lily Darling, that is something for you and your mum, and I don’t know the words.’

‘I brought my book, please Tom.’ She begged.

Tom, not used to glistening tear-filled eyes begging him, looking to Alexianna for assistance. Alexianna just looked at him to gauge his reaction. ‘Sweetie, Tom probably…’ Lily began to sniff as tears fell from her eyes. ‘You don’t get anything for crying Lily.’

‘But I want Tom to read to me, please Mummy.’

Alexianna looked to Tom again, noting the small smile on his face at being asked for. She silently asked him if it was alright, to which he nodded and she smiled defeatedly. ‘Fine, clearly I am not good enough anymore.’ She stated dramatically, earning a laugh from Lily. ‘Go, abandon me.’

‘No Mommy, I love you too.’

‘No, it’s fine, I’ll just have to get over it.’ She held her hand up like a damsel in distress. Lily giggled again. ‘Do I at least get a cuddle goodnight?’

‘Yes, Mommy.’ She rushed into her mother for a hug. ‘Sleep tight.’ She kissed Lily’s head.

‘Are you sleeping in with Tom tonight?’ She asked innocently.

‘I don’t know.’ Alexianna swallowed at that, not sure how to deal with her daughter’s questions on the matter.

‘So I don’t get the bed to myself?’ She frowned.

‘Do you want it?’ Lily nodded. ‘Well I am really been kicked out today, aren’t I? Go on, you better let Tom read to you.’ She instructed the pair to go upstairs.

After a few minutes, she went to the base of the stairs after hearing a high pitched noise from upstairs. Listening, she could hear Tom using his skills to bring the characters to life and Lily’s joy at it. Smiling, she finished the dishes. As she left the plate to drain on the draining board, she felt Tom’s hands on her sides.

‘Are you upset?’

‘A little, I have never had to share my daughter before. Daniel was never asked to read over me.’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘I’m not, as long as you are okay with it.’ she turned and looked at him. ‘I don’t want her to be too much for you, it’s not fair on you.’

‘I actually loved it.’ He admitted. ‘I...I have never realised what it is like to be wanted, but not as I usually am.’ Alexianna frowned. ‘People want photos, autographs and other things from me all the time, you and Lily want nothing of me, and Lily innocently sees nothing but me.’

‘We care about you Tom, you, not the fame or the money. I love how you make me laugh and smile, you make me feel like I can do things I have been terrified to do for so long again.’

‘You wish I didn’t have the money?’

‘No, I am delighted you have the money, you work so hard at your craft, the least that can happen is you are paid well for it.’ Alexianna commented. ‘I am so happy you made it.’ She gave a genuine smile. ‘You deserve it.’

Tom kissed her. ‘I have a present for you.’ Alexianna frowned at him. ‘I planned on giving it to you later, but I think now is the time.’ He walked over to another part of the counter and grabbed a white A4 envelope before handing it to her. Alexianna just stared at it. ‘Open it.’

Still unsure, Alexianna did as he requested, worried by the odd look on his face, a mixture of fear and excitement. She took out the papers, her eyes immediately drawn to the names boldly declaring themselves on the top of the paper before looking down. As soon as she realised what it was she was holding, a sob escaped her, her hand went her mouth and she began to shake violently as tears fell from her eyes fast and heavy.

‘Lexi?’ Tom put his hands around her. He expected many reactions, but sobbing was not one of them, she began to shake more, bent over as she shook from the crying. ‘Lexi, are you alright?’ When she tried to stand straight again, Tom felt almost scared when he realised that her shaking was not from crying, but because she was smiling and giggling like a mad person. ‘Lexi?’

‘I’m free.’ She giggled between the tears. ‘He’s gone, he’s really really gone.’

Tom swallowed at her words, she was so relieved, she was unable to contain her at it. ‘Yes, Darling, you are divorced.’ she erupted in fresh giggles. ‘He cannot come after you. You didn’t have to sign his papers and you don’t have to leave him near Lily, you are free, both of you are.’

‘Thank you.’ She sobbed as she hugged him, her grip akin to a vice. ‘Thank you so much, Tom.’

Tom hugged her close to him. ‘The least I could do,’ He kissed the top of her head. ‘Just promise me you will not let him hurt you anymore. If you hear any more from him, tell me.’

‘I promise.’

‘So, was that a nice surprise for the evening?’

Alexianna looked at him in shock, ‘Wait, you did all this for…?’

‘I thought it would be nice, dinner, divorce, a movie.’ Tom smiled cheekily.

Alexianna giggled. ‘The best kind of evening. Thank you, Tom, you shouldn’t have.’ She curled in against him, inhaling deeply.

‘What are you doing?’ Tom chuckled looking down at her.

‘I love your smell.’

‘You are making me really self-conscious.’ He chuckled. ‘Now, about this movie?’

‘What one is it?’

He grinned widely at her. ‘Guess what movie you wanted to watch but did not get to see is booked on my Sky Box.’

‘What...it’s not on DVD yet.’

‘Nope, but it is on Sky Box Office.’

‘Tom...this is too much.’

Tom erupted in laughter. ‘You are going out with an actor and you see dinner and a movie in his home as “too much” God Lexi, you are incredible.’ He kissed her.

[cyclicallife]

dépression nerveuse

Traveling does wonders for the mind and spirit. Each traveler has such a unique and individual experience, this, to me, is where the power of exploration lies.

It has always been a way for me to reflect. I can step back and observe my life from a different perspective. It has a sort of meditative quality in that I, from that place of outside observer, can sit with choices made or actions taken or even, more importantly, choices at hand. Perhaps it is because when traveling I can just be. I can strip away the layers and titles and personas and simply be. In doing so it is easier to stand back and look at one’s life and look at the past, look at one’s present. Without the smothering layers of what one is, what & how one should be, etc., things become a little clearer.  

My mother, the sweet and generous lady that she is, lumped together not only my graduation gift but my Christmas gift and birthday gift as well so as to allow me to travel a bit. she would say that my graduation gift, when all was said and done with my illness and things stabilized enough, would be a ticket somewhere - anywhere. I think we both held onto the idea of future travel to also hold onto the idea that I would one day return to the carefree, vagabond lifestyle I once lived. Her gift allowed me the chance to rekindle a sense of independence I was unsure if I’d ever have again.

I felt so fortunate; there was this sort of giddy, childlike joy rising up in me. I have a thirst for traveling and, after three years of a life revolving almost entirely around medical appointments and clinics, my great thirst was finally quenched. Naturally, because of said health issues, panic, stress and anxiety, etc. were never too far behind. Mostly, this anxiety and stress issues revolve around my seizure activity. If a place is too busy or overwhelming I become anxious and in turn stressed that the anxiety will trigger a seizure… it’s a bit of a downward spiral unless I can catch it before hand and keep myself calm. At times the anxiety levels were rather acute, though certainly a small price to pay for the ability to travel once more.

However, there was also this other feeling, too. Something that had yet to present itself sent a different swell of fear and anxiety through my being. I felt a nervous tingling that was running alongside the feelings of glee and gratitude. It was emotion thus far unfelt and one I could not label.

My favorite way to travel is walking. City walking is great, but I’m referring to setting out on foot and just… walking.  A lot of the paths I choose are well worn footpaths that often pass through many small villages and cities that are well off the tourist itinerary. These, to me, are where the real culture lies.

During this Trip I set out from a small city in southern France along a footpath used by pilgrims who were walking to Santiago de Compostela, a city in northwestern Spain. On other adventures I have walked different parts of this same route, however those were within Spain.

The term pilgrim might have been used at one time to denote a monk or other such religious devotee trekking hundreds of grueling miles to reach a small shrine or holy site. The modern “pilgrim” however is trekking for a number of reasons and not solely those of spiritual devotion.

I initially went to Le Puy en Velay, a city in southern France, because I had heard about in 2006 while traveling in Spain. A Frenchman told me, “you have to go to my hometown, it is beautiful!” I thought, ‘if anyone speaks highly of their hometown I should probably visit.’ While there I came across a symbol that has guided pilgrims for hundreds of years across various parts of Europe to a city in north western Spain. It was the same symbol, a scallop shell, that I used, that I followed rather, during my many treks to the same destination. The saying “all roads lead to Rome” can easily be said about the numerous footpaths across Europe, all paths lead to Santiago de Compostela.

I believe in such events and other serendipitous occurrences in one’s life. So, with very little hesitation, as per usual with my travels, I packed my rucksack and started out walking.  

Walking is all about allowing the mind to enter that previously mentioned meditative state. The reflection, at least for me, begins with the rhythmic movement of the physical being. After this it seems as though the mind follows suit and the pattern begins to move in a spiritual direction. It is also about passing through quaint little towns and cities, many of which aren’t yet jaded by the onslaught of tourists. I think this is really why I love it.

It is also very hard. I’m not talking about blisters and a sore back, I’m talking about the mental and emotional side effects that the simplicity of walking stirs up. In the past this is precisely why I would walk. To me it is sort of purge. After a long hard semester – walk! After a shitty break up – walk!

However, this time the difficulties were beyond those of a sore back and blisters began to emerge. The darker emotions that ran alongside the glee and gratitude, that which had yet to present itself, the emotions that were thus far unfelt … These are inescapable and they too were in my rucksack.

Somewhere neither here nor there as these treks often go, those things crawled out of and stood before me, blocking the path, blocking any forward movement, any advancement of mind and body. Literally, I was unable to take another step. I could feel everything within me shifting and pulsating as though I had spent the last several miles ascending a peak. I wasn’t sure how to react or what to do. I began to think I had hit a wall. Considering the deconditioned state I was in from my years of relative inactivity, this would make sense. I removed the water bottle from my rucksack’s side holder and took a long drink. After which, I removed my hat so as to run a little fresh water over my head thinking this might revive me and allow me to set out again. As I did so my fingers ran over the scar, the wrinkled creases and little divots where my brain had been operated on. I paused, then I began howling and screaming, “I had fucking brain surgery! I had fucking brain surgery!”

I cracked. I broke down. Right there, right there between somewhere and nowhere in southern France, along an ancient footpath upon which I had spent the entire day briskly walking, I broke. I crumbled slightly and then came crashing down! That which hadn’t presented itself stepped forth, looming over me

The weight of three years fell upon me; fear, pain, both emotional and physical, anger, and despair…

The weight of spitting into the sink and seeing blood.

The weight of the first seizure in Chicago and subsequent diagnosis.

The weight of my MFA studies being disrupted just a matter of weeks before graduation.

The weight of endless nights full of fears, of waking from nightmares, of waking up both enraged and saddened simultaneously,

The weight of looking at myself, at my reflection in the mirror, when I was bald and bloated, a gray form with sunken eyes stood there looking back. A figure trying to come to terms with life, trying to put the pieces together in hopes of making sense of everything.

The weight of my girlfriend at the time looking at me with loving and compassionate eyes, but also fear and longing for me, for us, to begin something that we had barely just started.

The weight of being told that the cancer had returned only six months after initial treatment, six months after my life was gaining stability.

The weight of postponing a course I was set to teach only days from the new of my recurrence.

The weight of a stroke and the brain surgery that followed.

The weight of an entire summer spent in a hospital room, cut off from the world, spending each day and night in a chemo induced nightmare, praying I’d make it through two, back-to-back transplants.

The weight of the seizures returning shortly after my transplant, rendering me a fear filled recluse, scared of walking down the street without being full of Ativan.

Right then and there, I fell apart in every way imaginable.

I cried. I cried so hard and wailed so much that my throat hurt. I don’t know for how long I cried. I heard myself screaming but it didn’t sound like me, it was deep and guttural, animal-like and completely unnatural. I don’t know how long I remained in this state. I was shaking, both from the fast approaching night, but also from the overwhelming emotional release, from crying so much.

After that I must’ve been in a state of delirium, because things are very hazy and not really adding up, time seems very distorted. There are many gaps that will fill in with memories over the coming months I’m sure. I remember an older French couple, Louise and Clément, who must have found me while trekking along. I remember Louise was giving me tea and cookies but I couldn’t hold either one down and kept getting sick. Evidently we had made our way to one of the many hostels that are along the route. There they had wrapped me in a blanket and dressed me in a thicker, woolen shirt. Eventually I was able to slowly sip tea. It began to warm me but I couldn’t yet manage the cookies. I just kept hugging Louise and crying. She must have known that I spoke sufficient French to maintain a dialogue and proceeded to tell me that they had found me only a short distance from the hostel. I was kneeling on all fours, pack still on, in the middle of the path crying and screaming. Through her hand movements and gestures, I could tell it was a little bit more than just crying.

The tea was warming my body and my head was becoming a little clearer. Things started to make a bit more sense. I remember the invasion of emotions and thoughts and how it felt as if they were choking me; I remember physically gagging.

I remember having this desire to tear opened my own body, to open up my chest cavity and remove something, to get it out– to pull out every last bit piece by piece of it, I envisioned strands of hair like substance. Though what it was exactly I didn’t know.

Perhaps it was due to my crying but it seemed I had reached a sort of hallucinatory state where strange and nightmarish events were happening.  I felt as though I was falling but never reached the ground, it was this continuous feeling of vertigo and the constant fear and uncertainty of when or if I would make contact with the ground. In another Hallucination I could just barely move my legs, but they were stuck, being held back by something. These hallucinations were broken up by my sobbing, as if my crying was holding them back.

I was lost in a terrifying, daydream,-like state recalling all these events, when Clément Sat down beside me and said, in English, “we go now to the hospital.”

They put me in the backseat of a car, to whom it belonged I did not know, then they covered me with blankets. I drifted in and out of sleep, only waking now and then to hear them speaking softly. The warmth of the blankets and the sound of French, which I always found soothing, pushed and pulled me from consciousness.

My sleep was tormented by nightmares however, again they were filled with strange hallucinations: of being in a room where my thoughts were echoing, reverberating within the space. I was not speaking aloud but could hear within the room my stream-of-consciousness- like thoughts.

Again I had this desire to break open my chest and pull forth some substance. This was the strangest of all my hallucinations. I could feel my hands both upon my chest and moving within it. I don’t know what I was seeking or what I was hoping to find therein, I just knew I was looking with a frantic desperation for something.

I deduced later on that The Louise and Clément found me just outside of Golinhac. So it would make sense that we went to a hospital Rodez. At the time however, I didn’t know where I was.

They sat with me in the emergency department until I was admitted. I kept holding Louises’ hand. Now and then she would give mine a gentle squeeze so I would know she was there.

Nurses drew several vials of blood and the doctor ordered an MRI. Several doctors came in, shook all of our hands, and then proceeded to ask various questions. Throughout it all Louise held my hand and continued to gently squeeze it now and then.

The psychiatrist introduced herself as formally as everyone else had. We spoke at great length about all that had happened, the feelings and thoughts, my health history, life and family dynamics - it seems the questions were endless.

At this point I was close to tears and had already broken down a number of times during the conversation.

Evidently I didn’t pose a threat to myself or others so they allowed me to stay in the room I was in. After she left I heard her speak with Louise and Clément Just outside the door. When they came in they too said they would be back in the morning and hoped I would be able to rest. Clément had family in Rodez, so they wouldn’t be far if I needed anything.

The following day, one of the doctors entered the room. He said the MRI was fine, which I knew as I had one recently in conjunction with my CT scan for routine cancer screening. The bloodwork was also normal. I knew this as well, but I also knew they were screening for illicit drugs. That didn’t surprise me considering the state I was in upon arrival. Even though many things were becoming clear, I wasn’t entirely sure of what state I was in or how I was acting when I arrived the night before. How was I acting? How did I look upon arrival — how did we look upon arrival? This older French couple bringing in a foreigner into the emergency room sometime in the dead of night. A foreigner who was sobbing and describing surreal, nightmarish like events. A bleary eyed foreigner  undoubtedly speaking mixture of gibberish, French, and English… It only makes sense that they would order toxicology screening.

I drifted in and out of sleep. Louise and Clément arrived and also looked tired, nonetheless, their eyes held such compassion.

Louise Brought in cups upon cups of tea. I’m not sure if she just really enjoyed tea or if she was still concerned that I needed to be warm.

The Psychiatrist arrived sometime later and, as formally as ever, as though she were just meeting us, said good morning and shook our hands. She asked how I was feeling and nodded understandingly when I mentioned how tired I was. She spoke at great length about her theories regarding the night before and the state I was in upon arrival. Much of it was lost on me as my head was still fuzzy both from the events of the previous night and also from the tiredness that seemed to be intensifying. She described it as a nervous breakdown, a dépression nerveuse.  She studied me as though looking for an understanding of her words. I just nodded. I tend to do this, I just nod when the subject of my health, mental or physical, arises. She nodded as well and this became the language we shared.

With that she began asking logistical questions regarding my stay in France. When I told her I was leaving from Geneva on October 23 she looked relieved but also a little concerned. Then she proceeded to ask a number of questions regarding my travel plans. It was evident her feelings were mixed both about my upcoming travels as well as the fragility of my mental health. She kept her gaze fixed upon me. I remember looking away several times only to look back to find her still staring at me with such intensity. This unnerved me. Though, each time my eyes met hers it seemed as if she was trying to understand something, it was a questioning look more than anything. There is so much haziness around my stay in the emergency department, but I am certain about the depth of her attention on me.

Louise and Clément lived in Lyon and invited me to stay with them until my departure. They were also comforted to hear I would be leaving from Geneva opposed to Paris or some other airport that would require a lengthy journey.

Breaking her formal manner, the psychiatrist placed her hand upon mine, which was resting in my lap, and said, “It is no wonder this has happened, I am surprised it is just occurring now.” Perhaps that is why she held her gaze upon me with such unwavering intensity, maybe she was trying to find the words, any words, that would help explain all of this to me.

Oddly enough this seemingly simple comment made me feel better. It validated something inside of me. Though still very much unclear, it began dragging things out into the light. Not everything, of course. Events and emotions will present themselves over time, but they will do so nonetheless. Not only will they do so about this particular incident, but in terms of the illness as a whole and the life I have constructed around it. The wall has been breached, this breakdown was the catalyst… it only took a horrific experience and the guidance of two strangers who bravely stood-by never once questioning my emotional or psychological state. Two guardians who seemed to understand the screaming, sobbing and guttural language I was speaking. Two caretakers who continuously  brought me an insane amount of tea!

Her comment let me touch down; the continuous fall, the constant vertigo, began to come to an end. The multiple voices within the room - my own unspoken voices — began to  speak clearly, presenting as one, solitary voice with which I would one day learn to communicate with. My legs incapable of moving, those being held back, shifted slightly - ever so slightly - a barely perceivable amount. The unknown thing I desperately wanted to rip from my chest... this will take more time to understand and come to terms with.  I’m ok with that, I’m patient and am certainly not going anywhere.

She was tagging them, defining them, placing a label on them.

Perhaps when we put a label on something we are forced to recognize it. It is no longer some-thing, but rather, in this particular context of the psychiatrist’s comment, a matter of permission. I am permitting this to happen. I am allowing this to take place. I am relinquishing control. I am letting go.

I’ve always perceive letting go as weakness, the antithesis, of course, being strength. I would stubbornly hold on, I would not be weak, I would hold on and fight to the bitter end to prove it!

Well, my stubbornness led me to emergency room in Rodez, France.

She could have just as easily said, ‘It is no wonder this is happening, I am surprised you’re permitting it to do so now.’

I want labels. I want to define things in order to recognize, grow and heal from them. At least then, when I fight to whichever end comes for me, I’ll know what I was fighting for.

My return… How would I make the journey back to the states? Who would I turn to for help and comfort? Who would watch me and allow me to open as Louise and Clément had? Now, just two days until my return flight was set to depart, with the recent events still very present and raw in my mind and soul, I felt frozen with fear. I felt alone. I felt alone in so many ways. In the presence of Louise and Clément I felt safe and comforted knowing, not only that they were there with me at present to protect me, but that they had seen me in the state in which they had found me just a few nights before.

I wrote to my older who, thanks to the gods, was also in Europe at the time. She had seen me in tears many times over the course of my journey with illness, she had never seen me in my current state. Though the dépression nerveuse allowed for the wall to be breached, I was presented with yet another wall. Advancement is happening, but the process is slow.

Within 12 hours she was in Geneva. She had changed our tickets and arranged everything to ensure our journeys  home would be the same. There is no way I would have been able to make the trip alone. The entire way I held her hand; from Geneva to Heathrow and onward to Boston, I held her hand.

This is a form of letting go. This is relinquishing control. Another part of the wall, or perhaps a wall in and of itself, is permitting others the ability to offer assistance. I am stubborn, as mentioned, it is hard for me to accept this. I have always relied on myself to manage various situations in life as I find others to fall short when called upon. Louise and Clément showed me that self reliance isn’t always possible, there are times when help must be accepted. They showed me that help and care come from a place of unconditional love, too.

Just as Louise held my hand throughout the dark night, gently squeezing it now and then so I would feel her presence, so too did my older sister when she guided me home.

[livelikebrent]

5th Annual Carve 4 Cancer Winter Sports & Music Festival

“And here you are living despite it all.” I’ve read this quote by Rupi Kaur (I adore her words) dozens of times since Brent has passed. Despite everything that has happened, here I am. Here YOU are. Living, carrying on and still standing. When Brent passed away last July, Carve 4 Cancer was the last thing I wanted to think about or put my energy towards. Honestly, I didn’t have much to begin with and I didn’t want to have any additional responsibilities. I was worried. I was worried how Brent’s family, friends and loved ones were. It was natural to shift my emotions and concerns from Brent to these people that were so close to him. I decided to put the energy I did have towards traveling and writing to help with my grieving process. But despite it all, the Carve Crew carried on. The tragic event gave the team inspiration to help ignite #LiveLikeBrent and start the planning process for Brent’s biggest and best winter festival to date. This isn’t a traditional blog entry from a Live Like Brent trip...but it’s still a worthy post.

It was probably around mid-October when I finally came to and was ready for the conference calls, email chains, text messages and solicitation for the February 3rd event. But in the mean time I met with the Crew and we visited Blue Mountain Ski Resort which has become our new home and part of the family. 

After visiting Blue we became inspired. The venue was a complete upgrade compared to our previous years, the staff was giving us an overwhelming amount of support when it was only September. While it was extremely saddening to not have Brent present, I think it’s safe to say that we were all grateful to have one another going into the 5th year for this event and we were going to put our heart and soul into it.

Weeks leading up to the event I think I felt almost every emotion possible. I’d find myself beyond upset that at 28 going on 29 years old I found myself honoring a boyfriend that was no longer on this Earth. No one should ever have to do that. No mother or father should have to bury their son. I relived the last week, days and hours in the hospital I spent with Brent. I found myself angry at times and reminded myself patience is a virtue. I just wanted it to be a perfect and exciting day for Brent’s family, friends and people that would encounter Carve 4 Cancer for the first time. I found myself anxious. I would catch myself in these emotions and try to check myself. I found myself excited looking forward to seeing everyone, to release the new merch and have the event at the new venue. I was stressed and probably any other emotion you could think of to add to the list too. Some people would say, “That’s what putting an event on is like, it’s stressful.” Yes and no. I’ve been planning events professionally for 8 years now and I’m one of the calmest event planners you will meet. I’ve been told by previous bosses that they’ve never seen me lose my cool or physically show stress - especially day of an event. One boss even told me she wanted to see me lose my cool. Sure, some of you may have lost me in a conversation on an event day as I have a thousand thoughts flying through my head like a sponsor I need to check on, or thank a donor for attending, or adjust the placement of an auction item...but I’ve never broken down. But having had this all happen and having this team along side of me has also been helpful. We’re made up of event planners, snowboarders familiar with the scene, handymen and friends that will help wherever it is needed.

I took the Friday off before the event and checked into the rental for the weekend. I wanted to get a day of snowboarding in with a trip to Colorado the following weekend. Plus, we set-up the evening prior. I had not been on my board since winter of 2016 when Brent was somewhat well enough to carve down the mountain. The winter of 2017 was the ONLY ski season he had missed. I know that upset him. But the house we stayed in was awesome with a view of the mountain, hot tub and right around the corner from Blue. Brent and I never snowboarded on Carve 4 Cancer weekends. By the time we got to the mountain to set-up we were exhausted, woke up the next day for the event and then always intended on snowboarding the day after...but always just wanted to go home and relax by that point.

Brent always wanted to help others...in any way, shape or form. I think everyone knows that and that impacted a lot of individuals. When we started planning the 2018 Winter Festival, I started receiving texts, Facebook messages and phone calls on how Brent’s friends could help. Some felt so compelled to get involved...Adam joined the team and created wooden awards for the mountain, Brendan wanted to create the day of event poster and refurbished an old chair lift , Matt offered to have his band, Fake Flowers Real Dirt, perform at the event (they ROCKED it by the way) and our Ambassador program gained several new members. Everyone wanted to help - Brent always wanted more friends to become hands on...I’m glad several decided to because they made the event that much better.

Day of the event Brent would be off shaking hands, kissing babies, interviewing and stopping by the sponsor booths to thank them while I’d be wondering around the event, troubleshooting where needed, checking on raffles/volunteers and trying to capture the day when I could. It was rare that we were together. And if we were together, he was introducing me to dozens of people. But I always made sure we could snap a photo together...

Carve 4 Cancer 2015 - 372 days before re-diagnosis

Carve 4 Cancer 2016 - 6 days before re-diagnosis

Carve 4 Cancer 2017 - 358 days after re-diagnosis

Carve 4 Cancer 2018 - Day 203 without Brent

I was never one to really take a lot of photos. Sure, every once in a while. But ever since Brent got sick we started taking more together. I don’t know how I feel about that. I think it’s a realization I (maybe we) had...memories are wonderful but it’s nice to look back at a photo you may have forgotten about. As technology advances people aren’t “living in the moment” and are staring at their screens. But I think there’s a balance you can find.

Last year’s, 2017 winter festival was a tough one for Brent. I can’t help but look back and reflect on that event now a year later. We had JUST made it back to from being in New York City for about 5 months to Philadelphia. He so badly wanted to make it back home to be at Carve. He was in an immense amount of pain that day, completely wiped, he was highly embarrassed that he needed to use the bathroom so frequently and more so that he couldn’t control his bowel due to his graft versus host disease. He wanted to party with everyone but knew he couldn’t because his body simply wouldn’t allow him to. Regardless, he muscled through it as much as he could. He did that a lot. I don’t think many people realized how much pain he was in or how exhausted he actually was...that’s because he pushed himself to do so damn much. You’d see him and think, “Well, he made it out here and he’s doing XYZ so he must be doing okay or on the upswing.” When you call Brent a “warrior” or “brave”...you really have no idea. I don’t think there’s a word yet for what Brent was because he was so much more than that.

Did I think that was going to be Brent’s last Carve 4 Cancer? No way. When his roommate, Ryan, and I carried him down his apartment staircase on July 5, 2017. He asked me, “Ais, am I dying?” I told him, “No way. You’re going to be fine.” When taking a step back and looking at it...We all knew it was bad. We all knew it was scary. I mean, it was goddamn CANCER. But we all thought it would all be “okay.”

We were all busy little bees the day of the event on Saturday. This year I found myself taking Brent’s place in where I was the one catching up with his family, family friends, people introducing themselves to me, taking interviews while also troubleshooting here and there with the team. 

Photo by Noche Studio

“He would’ve loved the event.” and “He’s so proud of all of you.” are comments we’ve been receiving over and over again. It’s downright sad. It’s bitter sweet. But it’s humbling as all hell to see the love, support and hard work pay off.  I’m confident in those words and will give my entire team an ego boost by saying this was the best damn Carve 4 Cancer event we’ve had...not only in fundraising dollars, but aesthetically, musically (check out Lawrence who blew the roof off of the Vista Ballroom) and everything in between. I mean, we had a beer named after Brent with Yards called Uncle Brent’s Brew! We had Murf Meyer as our emcee! We are a 501c3 non-profit and this year we were as professional as a snowboard/ski charity could be. Not to mention we were published in Method Snowboarding Magazine...

If you didn’t make it out to the 2018 Carve 4 Cancer Winter Sports and Music Festival, I hope we will get to see you next year. Without Brent, I do understand it’s not the same. But you’re support is so appreciated by myself, the Carve Crew and the Evans family. We’re excited to continue to expand Carve and raise funds for the mission. But shredding blood cancers starts with you.

[hellofastestnewsfan]

When a DNA Test Shatters Your Identity

“These are boom times for consumer DNA tests,” Sarah Zhang wrote last month. But what happens when the results are shocking? Many people, she found, have turned to support groups on Facebook as they try to come to terms with surprising revelations about their own origins.

Last year, I asked my dad for a 23andMe kit for my birthday. My mother passed away 14 years ago and I’m an only child (or thought I was). I also got my dad and stepmom kits for fun; they bought another one for my husband. We were going to have a “reveal” party. I got my results first (I cheated and peeked), and was shocked to find out I am half Italian. Neither of my parents has any Italian heritage. Since I hadn’t previously disclosed Italian heritage to 23andMe, a very cheerful dialogue box appeared that asked, “Wondering where your Italian heritage comes from? Click on DNA relatives.” I did and a half brother appeared—and that is when I knew that I wasn’t biologically related to my dad. Because I was worried that my dad would find out the same way I did, through the website, I spoke to him in person that same day. It was the most gut-wrenching conversation I’ve ever had. My father wept, but then admitted that he had had his doubts (but didn’t know how to tell me) due to the fact that he and my mother were separated when she became pregnant.

Many years ago, I had heard a rumor from my mother’s relatives that I wasn’t biologically my father’s child. I was told that she worked at an Italian restaurant and had a relationship with the owner. When my mom was very ill with cancer, I worked up the courage to ask about this. My mother denied it so emphatically and angrily that I felt foolish and ashamed wasting the limited time we had left asking a question that implied she was unfaithful to my father. My family members on my mother’s side are known for being colorful storytellers who rarely let the truth stand in the way of a good story, so I chalked it up to just that ... a fiction. I wish it were possible to attempt a second conversation with my mom.

When I first found out the news, I considered taking a leave of absence from work because I had difficulty focusing on anything else besides the revelation from 23andMe. On a hard day, I feel heartbroken about my mom’s secret. Her illness created an intimacy between us in the final months of her life and I felt that we were able to tell each other all the things in our heart. This news taints that memory and created a fresh bout of grieving about her death.

I’ve since met my biological father, his wife, my five siblings, their spouses and children, as well as other extended family. I found out that I was conceived between my biological father’s first and second marriages. They are just how you imagine a warm, big-hearted Italian family to be: accepting, loving, and eager to create a relationship with me (I realize how lucky I am in this regard). Not growing up with them or knowing them sooner feels like a loss. Seeing a therapist, journaling, talking to trusted friends, and the passage of time have helped immensely. On a good day (and most days are good), I feel a tremendous amount of compassion for my father who raised me, my biological father, and my mother. I’m saddened that she couldn’t tell the truth even at the end of her life—surely she would have known we would have forgiven her. I also have empathy for her, especially after reflecting on the fact that she faced the decision whether to terminate the pregnancy and then carried the burden of the secret of my paternity for the rest of her life. Her childhood was filled with trauma and abuse and I’ve come to accept that she didn’t have the skills to take ownership of her choices.

But, what a surprise to have in middle age!

Kasi Mireles Taylor Aurora, Colo.

Oh my! Talk about timing.

For 66 years I have not only known who my family was, but also done fairly extensive genealogy research.

Three or four days ago it became clear to me that half of those folks have no relation to me. While I’m not devastated that my actual father is a man I’ve never met and didn’t know existed, the news was a gut-punch. I teared up knowing that I had given my name—a name that I was proud of, but a name that I had no right to pass on—to my wife and to my sons.

I’ll not be joining this support group, but there is an odd comfort in knowing that it and its members are out there.  

My siblings are coming to town this weekend to give me a hug and show their support. That means a lot to me. Our mom, my biological father, and the dad who raised me have all passed, so really this changes little. Perhaps the only real change is the new family members that are out there.

Bill Williams San Antonio, Tex.

I too found unexpected results to my 23andMe and Ancestry DNA tests. When I got 23 percent Italian on 23andMe, I thought it was incorrect, so I tried Ancestry and got 30 percent Italian. I always believed I was half Irish, Swedish, and German. I found I have two Italian first cousins I never heard of. My father—who I now believe was not my biological father—had both of his parents born in County Clare, Ireland. I always relished in my Irish heritage. Now I feel left out on a limb. There are no siblings left alive, my parents have passed. I have asked my nephew (my sister’s son) to do the Ancestry test to see if I come up related to him. I am 72 and now wonder, who the heck was my father? Is this correct or was there a mistake somewhere? This interesting test has turned out to be a nightmare. I lie awake at 2 a.m. wondering where the connection is. Very baffling.

Barbara Chance Hammonton, N.J.

I always knew that I was adopted. It was a bedtime story meant to reassure me that I was wanted and loved. But as I grew older, I would stare in the mirror and wonder who I looked like. Did I have any half-siblings? Where were my birth parents? When I married and had children, questions about my nonexistent medical history suddenly seemed more important. After my parents died, I searched for my birth family and found a second cousin who helped identify my birth mother. My birth mother had died just nine months before I took my DNA test. I learned that I attended church in Oklahoma City with her and never knew. (My godfather, who arranged the adoption, was the pastor, but tragically died in a plane crash before I could ask him about my adoption.) My birth mother attended the college football games where I performed in the band’s halftime show. Her aunt bought a house down the street from me.

Once I had identified my birth mother, I used DNA cousin matches to identify my father, who had died in 1993.

Even though my birth family has been wonderful and accepting, I still struggle sometimes with my sense of identity and sense of place. There are huge swings in emotion: elation at having found my birth family, gratitude for my cousins’ acceptance, and a profound sense of loss and grief over two people that I will never meet. I feel the insecurity that I have crashed someone else’s party and don’t really belong.   

Although I was prepared for the factual information that might be revealed and knew that it might not have a positive outcome, nothing prepared me for the emotions that came with even a relatively happy ending. The emotional extremes of having a gain and a loss all at the same time are difficult to express.  

Holly Morgan San Antonio, Tex.

About three years ago, when I was almost 60 years old, I learned through an Ancestry DNA test that my dad was not my biological father. Ever since then, I have felt as if one of my wings had been cut off. I learned that such an event can bring emotions similar to those in the seven stages of grief. At this point, I have reached the stage of reflection.

I do not know if I was conceived during a long-term love affair, in a single moment of passion, or in an act of brutal violence.

“How do you feel knowing that Opa is not your real grandfather?” I asked my own daughter in a text message. Her immediate reply read: “It’s not DNA that makes a family.”

Marian Litvaitis Madbury, N.H.

Because I was about to become a grandparent, I decided to do 23andMe just for full disclosure for the next generation. Never in my wildest imagination did I expect to find that I was only 50 percent Ashkenazi Jewish. Not being able to explain this, I had my sister do the test. She was 100 percent Ashkenazi Jewish. This had to mean my father was not my father. I was shocked and devastated. I had my brother do the test and he came back with a different father altogether.

My mother is 93, with dementia, and initially she denied that my father was not my biological father. But when I had her alone, she admitted the truth.

I am not sure I am glad I found all this out, but it has been fascinating to put the pieces together.

Patty Friedman Chevy Chase, Md.

Several years ago, my dad passed away. He was a secretive man, and I never knew much about his family history. My husband gave me an AncestryDNA kit for my birthday so I could learn more about my father.

Be careful what you wish for, right?

The results didn’t make much sense. Instead of Irish and English, as predicted, my Ancestry test revealed a great deal of Sephardic Jewish and Greek/Turkish heritage. It also yielded a “first cousin” that I didn’t know.

I attributed this to faulty results, like so many people do. But my “first cousin” turned out to be a half-nephew I didn’t know existed, from one of four siblings I also never knew I had.

My father was a complete stranger.

It took me a year to come to terms with the reality, and then nail down who I thought my father might be—then a few more months of background checks and internet stalking to decide if I wanted to make contact.

I sent that first letter on my birthday last year, August 21. It’s been almost a year since my world turned upside down, but in that time I have met my birth father, a new stepmother, a half-sister, and a half-brother; I’ve spoken to another half-brother and know there’s yet another. I am the youngest of at least five.

DNA is unburying all those dirty little secrets. I don’t regret the truth, but truth comes with responsibility. We need to start responsibly handling something so drastically life-altering.

Meg Watt Pittsburgh, Pa.

from The Atlantic https://ift.tt/2PhbCgR

[aquarianlights]

A tribute to a hero. You will be missed. 10.6.2017

PLEASE READ: This is a tribute to one of the best therapy dogs that ever lived who passed away today...

One of my all-time favourite dogs was put to sleep today. I was just informed he passed over the rainbow bridge. He was in liver failure, refused to eat anything, wouldn't climb the stairs to go sleep with his mom anymore, and wouldn't go out to play. He was still mobile and active, but........He's not...he's not here anymore....and although I am having a great day. . .I am extremely saddened by this loss. This dog was as much a part of my life as he was of his mothers. Albeit I only got to see him when I visited Virginia, he has been in my life since I was a kid. This dog was the most amazing dog and he contributed so much to this world. He was a therapy dog for patients in hospitals and he really had a wonderful gift. He knew exactly what to do. . .no one would have to tell him. Usually, the owner goes in the room with their therapy dog and tells them what to do or just monitors them while they lay with the patient or let the patient pet them along with a hospital staff member or the training instructor for the dog program there to watch. But not with Sketch. . .Sketch knew what to do without instruction. As soon as he reached a patients room, he could sense what was hurting on them. We don't know how, but he did. 

For instance, one example...a patient was in partial paralysis and could not move his left arm at all. It was dead weight. Sketch jumped up on the bed with permission, walked on the man's stomach and laid down, and began furiously licking at the man's left hand and went up his wrist and then to his forearm and back down. After a good 5-10 minutes of constant licking, no stops, the man slowly raised his left arm just a tiny bit....just enough to start slowly petting Sketch on the head...and scratching his ear a little bit...the surrounding family burst into tears as the man's paralysis was broken by Sketch. He had been partially paralyzed and fully paralyzed in his left arm for weeks. No amount of physical therapy or medication or splints/braces or time had helped. Nothing. But Sketch, knowing exactly what was wrong and what needed to be fixed, worked his magic. And that family has been sending him and his mom letters and treats ever since. 

Another example was a black man was in the hospital with such severe third-degree burns all over his body that he had received from a group of racist fucking white pieces of shit literally tying him up and taking turns spraying him with a make-shift flamethrower (aerosol can + lighter, I'm assuming). The burns had been somewhat treated by the time Sketch visited. And he was getting to a point where he could actually move a little bit. . .but he was in constant pain and would absolutely need reconstructive surgery after they finished with skin grafts. And if you don't know how painful it is to have third degree burns and to have to have the burnt flesh/anything else underneath that got burnt peeled off layer by layer with a tweezer-like metal object little by little each day, multiple times a day. . .I can't even begin to describe what it feels like. I can't even imagine it myself as I have only witnessed it and not gone through it myself. 

To give you an idea...The worst burn I've ever had was a 2nd degree and it was a small burn and that had to be peeled off, but I did not need a skin graft or reconstructive surgery because it was on my arm and it was small enough to heal on its own. I do have a small scar from it, but it's barely noticeable. But they DID have to peel that little bit of burnt flesh off of me like they would any burn victim and they had to do it in two sessions despite it being the size of a quarter, at the largest, with the same tweezer-like metal objects they used for third degree burns. Even with pain killers and numbing cream. . .that was one of the single most agonizing things I have ever been through. The pain killer they had me on was fucking fentanyl, too. A high dose of it. Which. . .is risky, yes, but burn patients definitely need it. Not the highest, but a high dose. I have only been given IV hospital-grade fent twice in my life. . .and the second time was for a severe optical migraine and it was a lower dose than this and it really fucked me up and took all the pain away. But this was a much higher dose and it started to fuck me up and the pain started to go away. . .but then she applied the numbing cream and I suddenly got this feeling of "Oh no. This is going to hurt." and sure enough, she looked at me and said "I'm sorry, but no matter what, this is going to hurt. Ready? On the count of three...I'm going to peel the first layer off." I nodded, thinking I would just bite down on my finger and bear it coz, I mean, I had the strongest pain killer available in the entire world in me at an awfully high dosage...AND there was numbing cream around and directly on the area. It couldn't be that bad, right? The second she dug in and got hold of the first layer, I let out the most blood-curdling scream I have ever screamed (other than my first and only and last ever pap smear, ofc, due to my vaginismus being so severe) and there were literally waves of sharp, electric pain coursing through my body like fucking fire followed by a wave of the coldest ice you can imagine. Ice that can burn your flesh off. That kind of cold. And then she had ripped off the first layer. . .I was in such severe pain that there were tears gushing out of my eyes uncontrollably, I could not make any sounds except gasps for oxygen, and I was shaking violently from head to foot from the adrenaline and shock I was in. I had to wait over an hour before we could do the second and final session. And that was just for a 2nd degree. A quarter-sized second degree. And, mind you, I have been a professional pain slut. I have a VERY high pain tolerance for things like this. Any sort of external pain is something that I have severely high pain tolerance for. Internal pain is what fucks me up. But, I digress. This man was covered from head (including his face...with all his hair burned off into odd, short, stubby patches) to toe. His entire body looked like an overcooked, completely burnt, piece of meat with lots of red, gooey blood-like splotches here and there. (That is what I was told.) I was also told that they had done almost the entire first layer with him over the past...I forget if it was weeks or a month. I wanna say weeks or even just one week. But they still had a LONG way to go with simply getting all of the burnt flesh/under-things off of him...in order to be able to place skin-grafts. And then when the skin-grafts were placed, they'd be able to start on reconstructive surgery. This was a long, long, long project...and he'd have to have tons of reconstructive plastic surgery for years to come to look even semi like himself again.

This man was in pure agony from a fucking brutal as hell hate crime. In Arlington, Virginia...a very diverse area. As a white person with white privelege, you think these kind of extreme versions of racism wouldn't happen in such diverse areas. . .so I was shocked. But in my ignorance, I am beginning to realize this severe of a hate crime can probably happen anywhere and everywhere. . .regardless of the diversity level. Even in a predominantly POC area. . .even if the whites are outnumbered. . .I bet it can STILL happen there, too. How sickening is that...

But Sketch came into this mans room...and could immediately sense how much agony he was in. Not only was this man in physical agony. . .but I'm sure he was suffering from emotional/psychological agony, as well. I'm sure he now has PTSD from this incident and he will live with that memory for the rest of his life and be reminded of it every time he looks in the mirror. Sketch could sense both sides of the pain. He knew somehow that he could not really lay or touch the man with how much physical pain he was in...but he still got on the bed, making sure to be careful where he put his paws, and positioned himself right by the man between his arm and his body, being careful not to touch either part. He tilted his snout towards the man's arm...and licked the air close enough to where he was SO CLOSE to touching the man's arm that he could probably feel the air pressure from the gentle licks. Sketch slowly wagged his tell and constantly stopped the licking for a moment to give the man a look and look into his eyes and just...connect with the man. And this man began to cry...such passion and love from this dog made this man cry...and realize there was still good in this world. Despite all the pain he was in and the contamination he could receive from touching the dog (strongly against medical advice), he hugged Sketch. He full on hugged Sketch. I don't know if it hurt; I'm assuming it did. But he was not crying or making any sounds of pain. He just shook and hugged Sketch and buried his face in his fur and cried. And Sketch just stayed as still as possible and licked the air close to his head so he could feel the air pressure from his licks. He wagged his tail rapidly...and leaned into the man's hug to make him feel more love... This man requested to see Sketch every time he was brought into the hospital...and he was inspired by Sketch to recover. Sketch helped him with physical therapy...Sketch was there for him when he was getting his skin grafting sessions. Sketch was always there for his patients.

And I say man....but this man was really a boy. Just...a boy who was over 18. Therefore...legally a "man" by societal standards, but...if I remember right, this "man" was only about 19 or just barely 20. Only just beginning his life...still a child...and scarred for life. Healed and given hope by this dog.

Sketch also worked for a children's ward for a while...and stayed with kids who had cancer.

And then Sketch went to schools and aided in his mother's educational programs about therapy dogs and hospital dogs. And then would allow the students to get to know him after the presentation/program/speech. Sketch did many other things, as well. He even went into juvenile detention centers to allow kids in juvie to get what they needed from a therapy dog for a while, each pre-allowed individual getting individual time with him.

He also gave his mother, Anne, hope. She is a single woman in her 60's...living alone...and retired. She is an artist. Sketch was her biggest inspiration and her best friend. Sketch allowed her to make new friends by walks and dog parks. Sketch was family. To her and many others, including me. Sketch is the only dog with poodle in him that I will ever love, as poodles are the only breed I cannot stand.

Sketch was a literal hero. He has saved so many lives. . .and given hope to people in their darkest hours. He has even assisted in nursing people who had attempted suicide back to psychological stability. He would be their rock while they were in the ICU before they were sent to the ward. He would give them hope and love and an ability to fight through the pain of whatever they were going through. He would lick them in the places they hurt the most, lick their tears, curl up on top of them and nuzzle them, wag his tail at their presence, "smile" at them, and allow them to do whatever they wanted with him. Lots of pets happened and lots of hugging. Many suicide-attempt patients actually decided they wanted to live specifically because of Sketch...and wrote letters to Anne (his mother) stating so.

He also went to Alzheimer's home and old people's homes in general and gave them love they desperately needed.

Anne received many, many, MANY letters telling her how Sketch had very literally saved someone's life. . .or helped them to see hope when there was none.

Sketch was a hero. Sketch saved so many lives and he was the best goddamn dog I have ever met. Echo and I have a very special bond that cannot even begin to compete with any other dog. . .but I knew Sketch long before Echo. . .and Sketch has actually helped me through some personal crises of my own. I was going through suicidal thoughts and self harming while I was there once. Sketch knew someone. He was downstairs and he knew. He came upstairs and pawed at the guest room door until I opened it. He absolutely refused to leave until I opened it. He jumped on the bed with me and curled up in my lap and licked my wrists where I had cut myself prior. I didn't want to give myself any aftercare. . .I wanted them to get infected so maybe I would lose my arm and that would push me over the edge to really finally do it. . .or maybe it would be such a bad infection that it would spread to my heart or lungs and actually kill me itself. And I had a bottle of pills beside me on the bed...ready to use... Sketch very literally picked up that bottle in his mouth, brought it off the bed, threw it in the small trash can in the room (which..I needed those meds so I fished them out later lol), and jumped back on the bed and continued to lick my wrist. He made me feel "Someone cares. This dog cares about me. This dog wants me to live. This dog loves me. He genuinely loves me and would be saddened if I died. He would be affected by my death. ...he would be sad if I weren't here anymore... And he is sad now because I hurt myself..." So I got up...he followed me to the bathroom...and I washed my cuts with warm soap and water, sterilized them with some antiseptic stuff that stung, put a layer of neosporin on them, and wrapped my forearm in gauze. And I continued to do so until they healed. And every time I have wanted/tried to overdose since that moment. . .the image of Sketch has popped into my head and I think to myself "...Sketch would care if I died. Echo would care if I died. I have to stay alive for them. I have to." But now he's gone.......Sketch is gone..... He was a hero to so many and affected so many lives and saved so many people... He saved /me/. And...he finally had to be put down. At the age of... over 14 years old (hes a labradoodle so this was a pretty good age for him). I'm not sure how far exactly over, but he was over 14. He would have lived longer if it were not for the liver failure. . .I don't know how he got liver failure. . .but the vet said he wasn't in any pain. And, of course, when you put a dog to sleep, you literally put them to sleep before you actually push the fatal drug in. And the fatal drug works so quickly and so gently that they do not feel it and it makes them go peacefully.

Sketch is now crossing the Rainbow Bridge.....and this is a very dark moment. I could not be anymore heartbroken by his passing.

This dog was very, very special to me and so many other people. I know none of you know Sketch. . .but please. . .regardless. . .keep him in your mind today. Or if you pray to any kind of diety/alien/higher power/yourself. . .please pray for him. Please pray and hope that a better place really exists for the pure, wonderful, kind-hearted, gentle, loving souls like Sketch.

You were such a good best friend to so many people, Sketch. Me included. You saved me. You have always been there when I needed you. And you will be missed. . .forever.

[aleisharapke-blog]

Spanish Love Expressions

Sweetest Day corrects nearby and romantics just about everywhere are actually looking for passion quotes to quote to those they store near as well as dear. Andrew was up upcoming, when he got up to the mic he mentioned, So, I decided to perform this due to the fact that I really love a really good tune about daddy issues. If you beloved this article and you simply would like to receive more info about yellow pages ni (http://ftnez-plan4friends.info) generously visit our website. " He introduced into the track, and also there was actually something concerning this that seemed proper, even though the track was incredibly various from Andrew's own story. Well, that is actually effortless - yes, currently I may possess some hideous mood swings (which does certainly not make the people around me satisfied I make certain!!), scorching flushes, my 'middle aged escalate' is there and also even more, however when that is throughout, I will no more possess time periods every month, not need to think about receiving expectant, and I will definitely only manage to stay my life without the regular monthly tension! This provides some tantalizing meals like Grilled Mahi, Shrimp Jumbo Shrimp Scampi, Spanish Paella, Pot Seared Atlantic Salmon, Cuban Braised Fish, and also Veal Piccata etc I assumed that the tricks I do are going to make folks question and this is actually certainly not so crucial what I claim. I always attempt to teach people on my weblog and posts to become receptive and not to make any limit on their own. 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If you are searching for methods to earn money, try to follow your soul, however you need to still remain useful. I have been all over the world in a lot of magic events and also found a bunch of really good entertainers and also deception artists, however the huge question stays; why carry out some make a living doing this craft, and various other do not. There are actually people at age 25 who have been througn genuine hardships ... like cancer cells or even car crashes where they are actually paralyzed. and also you possessed all of it you possess your appearances and couldnt be happy. They count on their loved ones to validate the selections they make in lifestyle. I was an uncontrollable eater that was aiming to cover it up and offset that weight-wise in every and any way that I can through compulsively diet programs or even bingeing as well as expunging but when it boiled down to it, I was actually addicted to food. Spend a minimum of 10 minutes a day remembering a time when you mored than happy as well as re-live those sensations inside you. Actually, I would say that some of these love quotes possess so much from energy that they may also rejuvenate a dead connection if you utter these quotes to your passion. To make this that bit added exclusive, create some notes in it, reminders and also birthday parties. By declaring and concentrated on satisfied notions, your beneficial overview often tends to bring in individuals to you. These could be composed of some fantastic manuals to read through and bags that she can make good use of. Permit me to present to you my preferred 10 fantastic Cute Lifestyle quotes and also your day up. Seeing you take care of the separation thus effectively will certainly make your ex lover understand he misses you like crazy. Listed below are actually some perform's as well as do n'ts to keep in thoughts if you wish to follow their lead as well as know how to create a person fall in affection along with you. Those crazy emotional states that you experience due to your anxieties need not define you. It is actually not constantly as very easy as understanding just what you really love, and afterwards determining techniques making money doing it. If you enjoy to wash vehicles, you can easily make a suitable living by starting a vehicle washing company. When you will certainly get that something you will truly be actually satisfied, just how lots of times performed you prefer for something and you just understood that. Satisfied quotes move our team to require time to delight in the planet that our experts're in just before it is actually far too late. Create one of the most away from your hanging or even current academic year with the suggestions and recommendations shown within this short article. This will definitely produce him think that he had better receive you back before a few other fella wraps you up for great. Right here is actually a Health and wellness Goal Example: This is June 1st 2010 and also I am actually so happy once I have actually attained my intended objective weight of 75kg. A snack bar dinner with shimmering silver chafing foods for the food items could possibly likewise create a 75th birthday party even more sophisticated. We possess a choice on what to perform about that. So, quit knock, take, knockin' on the saddening girl's door and also opt to enjoy about your partnership and also your life. I'm heading to create a reoccuring consultation in my activity supervisor to plan a trip on a monthly basis - even when I don't have one that commonly. Barcelona-based article writer Peter Religious are going to show you how you may add an authentic, vibrant flair to your communicated Spanish and also you could uncover some even more definitely amazing Spanish action-words as well as phrases certain in order to help you gain the appreciation as well as appreciation from indigenous Spanish speakers alongside totally free weekly Spanish tips over on the Streetwise Spanish website. Some folks point out today I could not more than happy because I am ill, since I perform certainly not have money, considering that the weather is actually as well scorching, given that I was actually ridiculed by a person, due to the fact that I carried out not worth on my own, due to the fact that my youngsters carry out not listen closely to me, because my buddies perform certainly not create me pleased.

[sarahburness]

9 Things Grateful People Believe

*This post was originally published in 2015. This was around the time I decided to create my newly launched gratitude journal, so it seemed fitting to share it again today!

“Gratitude unlocks the fullness of life. It turns what we have into enough, and more.” ~Melody Beattie

My title was a little misleading, at least based on my personal beliefs.

I don’t believe the world fits neatly into some massive yin yang with grateful people on one side and ungrateful people on the other; but rather, we all go through times when we feel high and low degrees of gratitude, and that’s only human nature.

It’s okay to feel angry, despondent, and disappointed. It’s okay to wish things were different—that we were healthier, or happier, or generally less lost in the world.

There’s nothing evolved about ignoring reality or repressing our emotions. But there’s a difference between embracing our feelings and stewing in them.

It might not be possible to be feel grateful all the time, but it is possible to be grateful more often than not.

The opposite was true for me for years, but I’ve shifted my ratio of grateful to ungrateful moments by adopting and reinforcing the following beliefs.

1. Everyone has something to teach or offer me.

That person who cut you off in traffic—she’s likely not a selfish jerk, but rather someone who’s having a stressful day and rushing. Annoying, yes, but thankfully this is an opportunity to practice patience.

That person who broke your heart—he’s likely not a sadistic bastard who took pleasure in your pain, but rather someone who was human and hurting, just like you, and did the best he could. Distressing, yes, but thankfully this taught you a great deal about yourself and what a healthy relationship entails.

This mindset was difficult for me to adopt. For a long time I felt convinced that some people were beyond understanding. And, I thought, like Miley Cyrus, some of them came into my life like a wrecking ball and provided absolutely no value.

I now see that I’ve learned something from every broken heart, broken hope, and broken promise. It’s all helped me become a stronger, wiser, more compassionate person, and the same is true for anyone who chooses to see it that way.

2. There’s something valuable in every challenge.

Just like every person can offer us something valuable, every challenge can contain an opportunity as well.

To be clear, I don’t think we need to see everything as a blessing in disguise. In her book Bright-Sided, author Barbara Ehrenreich shared her resentment for the implication she should see her cancer as a gift. I understand why she felt that way.

This goes back to what I wrote in the beginning—there’s nothing worthwhile about pretending we’re not shocked, saddened, and disappointed by the hardships that come our way. It doesn’t benefit anyone to ignore our natural feelings in the face of trauma and tragedy.

But it is possible to acknowledge that, while some things just plain suck, good things can come from them.

When my grandmother passed away several years back, we all wished we had more time with her. But that began a new tradition for my extended family. Once a week, on the day when my mother previously took my grandmother out to dinner, my aunt, uncle, cousins, parents, and siblings get together for “family night.”

It was a tradition born from tragedy, but one that’s brought everyone closer.

On the other side of loss there’s an opportunity for gain, if we’re willing to seek or create it.

3. Even if I don’t have what I want, I’m fortunate to have what I need.

Very few people have everything they want. True, some may have a lot more than others, but the vast majority of us have hopes that have yet to be fulfilled.

We have dreams, and goals, and ambitions. We want things and experiences and opportunities. We want to be a little richer, for life to feel a little fuller, and to generally get the sense that we’re moving forward, not backward.

Still, amid all the ups and downs and highs and lows, many of us have everything we need, or at least most of it. We have somewhere to live, food to eat, people to turn to, and the ability to pursue whatever it is we’d like to achieve in life.

Those things are not givens. Many people—and you may be one of them—do not have their basic needs met.

I didn’t always appreciate this, because it didn’t seem to make my challenges any easier. But if I didn’t have those needs met, my challenges would certainly be harder.

4. The “little things” are the big things.

If you keep a gratitude journal, you’ve likely recognized just how many touching, fortunate, or fun little things happen every day.

Recently I’ve listed the following in my gratitude journal:

My new adult coloring books, which provide stress-relief and joy

Getting to see the Christmas tree lighting at The Grove with my fiancé and an old friend (it happened before Thanksgiving—which annoys some people, I know, but not me!)

Realizing the new season of Arrow started, and there were five episodes to watch

Taking a hot bath with a mindless (okay, trashy) magazine

Getting a cheap but awesome burrito for lunch

Anticipating a fun family visit for Thanksgiving

The smell of meatballs cooking in my parents’ kitchen

It’s not every day we get a new job, marry the love our life, or bring a child or passion project into the world. Most smiles in life stem from little things, appreciated.

5. I don’t have to have it all or do it all to be happy.

In the US especially, many of us hold the belief that we need to do it all, have it all, and be it all. We can’t miss out. We can’t fall short. We have to keep up, and keep accumulating.

Sure, it’s nice to cross an experience off our life to-do list, and we all love when we’re able to provide ourselves with something that’s caught our eye.

But grateful people realize that happiness comes from accepting and appreciating what is—and knowing that even if we never have or do more, we can live a full and fabulous life.

This doesn’t mean we need to forsake all our goals and desires and grow stagnant. Though I love the movie It’s a Wonderful Life, as I wrote previously, I don’t believe we need to sacrifice all our wants and dreams to be good people.

I do believe, however, there’s something to be said for putting in the effort, surrendering to the outcome, and recognizing that whatever happens, life can be beautiful.

6. Everyone’s blessings are different, and that’s okay.

When you’re caught up in that race to do more and be more, it’s all too easy to look around at who seems to be “ahead” and feel resentful. Grateful people realize that life isn’t a competition, and there’s no such thing as “behind.”

We’re all different people; we all have different talents, interests, priorities, and values; and we’re all on our own path.

What’s meaningful to me might not be meaningful to you. What’s valuable to me might not be valuable to you.

You might feel blessed to have four healthy kids. I feel blessed to be getting a fish tank soon. You might feel blessed to have just bought a new home in the country. I feel blessed to live in a vibrant apartment community in a city.

And you may have things I wish I had (I actually wouldn’t mind a healthy kid or two), but there may be things I have that you want. And that’s totally okay.

We’re all fortunate in our own way, for different reasons. All that really matters is that we recognize, focus on, and appreciate our own.

7. Things can—and will—change.

Every now and then, I look deeply at someone I love and remind myself that they won’t always be here. And I won’t be either.

It sounds morbid, I know, and it sometimes chokes me up to think about it. But recognizing that nothing and no one will be around forever makes it so much easier to focus on the good things and appreciate what we have.

And this doesn’t just apply to people. It’s not a given that any of us will do the same job until we retire, or that we’ll make the same salary, or that we’ll have the health we have now to enjoy the same hobbies.

Try as we may to insure things won’t change—with contracts, and policies, and commitments—things can, and will, change. Nothing nurtures a grateful heart like recognizing this, and acting like it.

8. It could always be worse.

Yes, it’s a cliché, and not something we want to hear when we’re going through a hard time.

I recently found an anonymous quote that reads, “Saying someone can’t be sad because someone else may have it worse is like saying someone can’t be happy because someone else may have it better.”

Knowing that it could be worse does not have to mean denying our feelings. But it does put things in perspective and make it easier to move through them.

After losing both of his legs, my grandfather could have been bitter. Clearly, many people had it “better” than him—they could walk. But he still had his sense of humor, his values, and the people he loved, and that was all he needed.

9. Life itself is a gift.

We live in a world full of teachers—both people and experiences—that enable us to learn, grow, and continually evolve into the people we want to be.

We have many, if not all, of our basic needs met, providing a foundation that allows us to comfortably enjoy life’s abundant simple pleasures.

We may not have it all, or the same things other people have, but we each have countless things, people, and opportunities to appreciate and enjoy.

This moment will never come again, and there’s no guarantee the moments that follow will look anything like this. Knowing this somehow makes the present more precious—even if things aren’t perfect.

And that brings us to this final belief: life itself is a gift.

It isn’t always easy, or happy, but it’s one hell of a ride—and it wouldn’t be without the bumps and turns. At least, that’s what I believe, and because of this, I’m grateful.

What do you believe?

About Lori Deschene

Lori Deschene is the founder of Tiny Buddha and Recreate Your Life Story, an online course that helps you let go of the past and live a life you love. Her latest bookTiny Buddha's Gratitude Journal is available for pre-order now. For daily wisdom, follow Tiny Buddha on Twitter, Facebook & Instagram..

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from Tiny Buddha https://tinybuddha.com/blog/9-things-grateful-people-believe/

[chiseler]

R.I.P., THE MEANEST BOOKSELLER IN THE WORLD

I received a note late last week from my friend Don Kennison informing me Allen Eisenberg had died. As another friend who knew him put it, the news was both saddening and liberating.

There was a time, a quarter century gone now or more, when you could stroll an eight-block stretch of Park Slope’s Seventh Avenue on a weekday morning and encounter six or seven used book sellers set up on the sidewalk. This was before the B&N moved in, before all the indie bookstores were forced out, and before the neighborhood was overrun with semi-literate stroller pushing mid-level investment counseling assholes. If you were a confirmed and obsessive bibliophile, there was no better neighborhood in the city, and those book hunting strolls along Seventh simply became part of the daily routine. If you wanted to push it a few more blocks to the north, you could hit the Salvation Army, and a few more blocks to the south, there was a weird junk shop with what was usually a pretty good selection of used books. But if you were looking for the real treasures, you'd do best to stick with the sidewalk vendors and their folding tables.

See, given the makeup of the neighborhood back then, if the sidewalk booksellers wanted to stay alive, they had to maintain top quality. Although there were always a few classics and bestsellers dropped in the mix, most vendors tended toward the interesting, the obscure, and top-tier 20th century lit. Best of all, though, a lot of them didn’t seem to know what all they had. One bright fall morning Don and i were making the rounds, same as we did once or twice a week back then, when we stopped at a table around Seventh and First, where Don spied a first edition of Klaus Kinski’s memoir, All I Need is Love. The book had been yanked by the publisher almost immediately after its release as the libel suits and obscenity charges started piling up. In the subsequent years, every used and rare bookshop in the world maintained a waiting list of two or three hundred people, all willing and eager to drop $350 or more to get their hands on a copy. This guy on Seventh was selling it for six bucks. Don, poker-faced, paid the asking price, thanked him, and we made it maybe half a block away before the giggling kicked in. Those were the days.

Of all the neighborhood’s regular sidewalk booksellers, none was more notorious than Allen Eisenberg, who over the years came to be generally known (though only behind closed doors) as “Eisenscrew.” Every book collector in the Slope (and around NYU, where he also operated) knew and often feared him, and he was legendary in his own way among every used book dealer in town.

Eisenberg was a thin, bearded, chain-smoking rat-faced man with a harsh Brooklyn accent who always wore a floppy wool cap. He also had a tendency to flip lit cigarettes at children. Eisenberg had extremely good taste in books, always maintained the most interesting selection on the strip, and was blessed with what might be called and extremely poor attitude. If I was picking up some long-overdue fundamental volume for the shelves at home, he’d berate me for not already owning a copy. If a customer (he called them “civilians”) wanted to buy something off his table he considered banal or stupid, he’d loudly and publicly verbally assault them for their degenerate taste, sending more than one would-be customer away in tears. He didn’t seem to care if he made the sale or not. In fact sometimes I got the impression he didn’t want to sell anything, just wanted to keep the books for himself, and only put the rare crappy title out there simply to have the excuse to scream at an idiot with subhuman taste in literature.

If you were a civilian wanting to buy something off his table, he tended to gouge you, and if you wanted to sell him a few rare and treasured volumes, he’d screw you. Problem was, unlike a few of the other sidewalk bookmen in the neighborhood, Eisenberg knew exactly what he had and what it was worth. One time when I was down to my last few bucks with no pending income in the foreseeable future, I reluctantly decided to sell off a few of the treasures from my home library, and hauled a stack up to his table on Third Street. Among the rare volumes was a first Black Cat edition of Henry Miller’s Tropic of Cancer. Eisenberg offered me fifty cents. State I was in, I took it.

So why did I, and everyone else, keep going back to him despite the abuse and the baldf-faced chiselry? Simple. He always had something amazing and unexpected for sale. For me, though, there was a second reason.

Eisenberg was an utterly unique New York character who spit in the face of the stereotypically meek and bespectacled used book dealer. I took his abuse in stride when it was directed at me, found it endlessly entertaining when it was directed at others, and even though he repeatedly cheated me, he did it so shamelessly I had to admire it. In a counterintuitive way, he was a deeply honorable man, I think. The man did know his books, and in one case even slipped me a copy of Miller’s Smile at the Foot of the Ladder for free, with the promise I never told anyone he’d done such a thing.

In the late Nineties he decided to escape the elements by opening Last Exit Books, a little storefront operation just off the corner of Sixth Avnue and Ninth Street, four blocks from my apartment. The selection of books remained as stellar as ever, and the shelf space allowed him to display twenty times over what he could’ve fit on his sidewalk table. What’s more, as sole proprietor, he could reign over his kingdom from behind the front counter like a despot.  I once saw him physically throw a woman out of his store because she had bad taste. Another time e stepped around from behind the counter to punch a friend of mine in the back as he was leaving. Still not sure what precipitated that one.  I even saw him refuse to sell books to people if he felt they didn’t deserve to read them. He was a son of a bitch and an asshole and everybody knew it, including Eisenberg, and in an odd way we loved him for it.

The afternoon I finished the first draft of my first memoir, I was feeling mighty pleased with myself, so decided to celebrate by stopping by Last Exit to pick up something nice. When I proudly told Eisenberg about the manuscript, he asked me how long it was. When I told him, he simply sneered, “No one wants to read that much about you.”

Thing is, he was right, though I no longer remember if I bought anything from him that afternoon.

A few years later he appeared in Bookwars, a documentary about the Giuliani administration’s crackdown on the sidewalk booksellers around NYU, and the city’s sidewalk book trade in general. He was in fine form, and in a review of the film, I refered to him as, yes, Eisenscrew the Asshole. The day after the story appeared, my phone rang. How he got my number I’ll never know. “Hey Knipfel,” an unmistakable voice barked. “This is EISENSCREW...the ASSHOLE.” I didn’t pick up.

That was the last contact I had with him, figuring it best to avoid the store after that. A few years later Last Exit Books closed down. The neighborhood had changed too much. The self-righteous types who’d invaded no longer had time for rare books, let alone such a mean bookseller. After that Eisenberg seemed to vanish completely, though rumors about him continued to swirl—that he’d received a huge inheritance, that he’d become a hermit, that he’d gone completely mad. I’m not sure if any of them were true, but Eisenberg kept coming up in conversation, and whenever he did everyone had some anecdotes to share about the abuse he’d heaped upon them over the years.

The anecdotes started reappearing last week with word of his passing. According to one of his closest friends, Allen died in February of a brain tumor at about age sixty-five. Word didn’t get around until early April because before he died, Eisenberg gave strict instructions to three close friends and fellow booksellers that news of his death be kept secret for a month or two. It’s again unclear what was behind the directive, but some have speculated Eisenberg may have feared his enemies might use the opportunity to desecrate his corpse.

This time when the Eisenberg anecdotes re-emerged, they were shared with a melancholy good humor. Eisenberg was a one of a kind. For all his orneriness, he was an unforgettably colorful character within the unforgettably colorful—and now sadly all but lost—world of New York’s rare booksellers. These days in particular, we could use a few more sonsabitches like him.

by Jim Knipfel