#I’ve never done this before but I have a feeling in my gut that 2024 is gonna be a special year

[lacebird]

Lads send me help and tips on how to do tarot card readings pls, I’m gonna do it with me friends for new years and I wanna know how it’s done

[sabraeal]

Sic Semper Monstrum, Chapter 10

[Read on AO3]

Obiyukiweek 2024, Day 2: Foxtrot

Written not only for Obiyukiweek but also for @sepalina, the last winner of the holiday raffle! It was never supposed to take so long to finish all of these but HERE WE ARE 🤣

The Marshal’s office might be the finest under the fortieth floor, but as nice as it is, Shirayuki has to admit: she’s getting sick of it.

“Sit down.” He already is, sparing her no more than a curl of his fingers as he pores over the tablet in his hand. “I’ve taken the liberty of arranging some tea.”

Making her mug appear was magic the first dozen times he managed it, but over that last two weeks, it’s turned from treat to trick. Just another one of the hundreds of ways the Marshal can pull the dome’s strings, closing and opening curtains, making tea mugs and pilots appear out of thin air. Maybe for his next trick, he’ll saw Zen in half too.

Shirayuki takes her seat, but she declines to take a sip. A detail that draws the Marshal’s interest; he glances up, setting aside the tablet with a hum. “All business today, I see, Dr Lyon.”

“We’re both busy people.” He is, at least, and it’s not as if he can tell how many hours she’s spent staring at the drop ceiling panels rather than academic journals lately just by looking at her. “I didn’t imagine you called me in here to catch up.”

Not when he’s had her in here every other day for the last seven. Shirayuki’s gotten more oversight in the past two weeks than she’s had the whole two years she’s been under this dome, and every last bit of it’s been about—

“The report on Obi’s postmortem.” Izana shifts in his chair without so much as a creak. “I haven’t seen it yet. Was wondering where it might be, in fact.”

Her palms press to the chair’s arms, steadying her. His mouth curls, too knowing, with every stretch of her knuckles. “I’m not done with it.”

“Is that so?” His eyebrows arch toward his hairline, like two terns taking flight. “It’s been several days, Dr Lyon. How unlike you.”

“My analysis” — is protected by doctor-patient confidentiality. That’s what she wants to say, at least, but this isn’t private sector, where the most dangerous piece of machinery one of her clients could get behind is the car they drive home in. No, this is the PPDC and all these people are soldiers, rated to handle ordnance that could take out whole cities, and—

And Obi had pointed one of them right at CIC. “It’s taking longer than expected.”

And would probably never be done. One session was hardly enough to get the broad strokes of something so…complex, let alone declare whether he was mentally fit enough to climb back in a Jaeger. And Obi didn’t seem to be in any rush to put himself back in the Conn-Pod— let alone her couch.

“Then give me your opinion.”

“Excuse me?” Shirayuki blinks. “It would hardly be professional to—”

“I am not interested in your professional integrity, Dr Lyon.” No, of course not; the Marshal’s made it supremely clear that his only concern is whether there will be two bodies strapped into Rex Tyrannis when the next siren blares. “I am interested in your expertise.”

“But it— it’s all conjecture,” she sputters, an indignant flush struggling its way over her cheeks. “There’s no possible precedence for me to base an opinion on…just…just…gut feeling!”

“You sell yourself short, Doctor.” Sharks smile with more sincerity than the Marshal smirks. “Around here, they call that instinct. All those rangers— they live or die by it.”

With his three-piece suit and hair longer than the regulations that ban it, it’s easy to forget: Izana Wisteria used to be one of them. “I can’t—”

“Tell yourself we’re having a friendly chat, if you have to.” His hands fold neatly over his desk, impatience in every twitch. “But for God’s sake, Doctor, tell me something.”

Her mouth works, trying to conjure some other excuse— integrity, ignorance, anything that might buy her another day, another week before she has to label Obi a lost cause or ready for action—

But when her eyes close, the lids bleed plasma blue, just the way they had in the CIC. “If I were treating a patient in the private sector, I would say they were experiencing chronic, coherent, and vivid auditory hallucinations, possibly consistent with a trauma of some kind, either physical or psychological.”

“You think he’s experiencing a break with reality.” The Marshal doesn’t so much move as lengthen, the space between chair and desk yawning into a chasm with only a tilt of his chin. “Schizophrenic. That’s what you would call it, isn’t it?”

His teeth snap around the word, steely enough to make her toes curl.

“That’s only one out of a dozen possible diagnoses.” Though certainly the top of a very small list. “And even with a typical patient, the lack of other obvious and intrusive psychoses would make a schizophrenia diagnosis hardly past muster.”

“A typical patient, hm?” One elegant brow raises. “And what about our dear Major, then?”

“With Obi…” She licks her lips, one knee crossing tightly over the other until she half twisted in her seat. “With Obi, I’m not even certain it is a psychosis.”

His head tilts. “Explain.”

Shirayuki clears her throat, nerves making her voice threadier, higher as she says, “There is an observable phenomenon found among rangers that have drifted for a prolonged period of time with the same copilot, a…synchronicity that extends past the initial Neural Handshake and into their everyday lives. You might be familiar with the term ghost drifting.”

The Marshal’s mouth curls at a corner. “Intimately.”

“Right, well, some people might find themselves reaching for a snack that they can’t stand simply because their copilot craves it, while others report a…heightened awareness of their partner’s emotions— or sometimes even thoughts— without them being expressed verbally.” There were its skeptics, of course, but most of those papers came from the private sector, from professionals who has never set foot on a hangar deck but wrote analyses of works of those who did, calling them sentimental at best and intellectually compromised at worst. The sort of baseless, armchair speculation that could be cured by five minutes in any dome’s commissary. “There’s not much independent study on the exact mechanics of it, but there’s theories based on casual observation from data collected from K-Science. That at some point the brain stops thinking of the other mind as a foreign entity but some other part of itself, and when the Handshake is over and the Pons completely disconnects, it experiences the copilot’s body as a, er…”

“Phantom limb?”

“Yes, exactly.” Shirayuki does not smile so much as relax, the corners of her mouth naturally settling more up than down. PPDC may not see much human conflict— few soldiers do nowadays, not when there’s a much more extraterrestrial threat looming on the doorstep— but it’s still military. As much as the branches might love to butt heads, jockeying to be the biggest, buffest kid on the world’s playground, amputation’s always been the great equalizer. “Except— ah, I don’t know if you know the science behind it, but…?”

Izana opens a hand, magnanimous. “Assume that I don’t.”

Ah, right. With the other branches, their soldiers still get to go home after a failed engagement. The most Rangers can hope for is for the kaiju to take them out quick before their Jaeger becomes a titanium coffin on the ocean floor. “I’m sure it comes as no surprise when I say that the amputation process is traumatic— not just for the patient, but for their body as well. Multiple organ systems are cut— bone, muscle, skin, blood vessels, and, most importantly, their nerves. They all heal over time, but it’s the nerves that take the longest. So when they get stimulated— ah, like when a patient moves, or twitches, or even just gets an itch— the sensory fibers will report what they should be feeling, rather than what they do. It’s…it’s neural feedback, with nowhere to go. No, wait, more like…with no place to come from.”

“And this…is what you think the Major is experiencing?” It’s impossible to tell what Izana thinks; his face might as well be a mirror for as much as she’s getting off of him. “That it’s all…neural feedback he’s interpreting as his dead copilots.”

“No. Yes. Ah…maybe.” Sweat prickles under her arms and behind her ears, itchy and off-putting. Distracting, which is the last thing she needs to be in front of a man who might as well be a tank of starving piranhas considering his potential to chew up her professional reputation and spit it out. “That’s all theoretical. And it certainly seems plausible, it just…it doesn’t seem to account for, ah…”

He raises a brow. “I am patient, Dr Lyon, but I don’t have all day.”

“Right, it’s just…the phantom limb phenomenon seems to explain what we see when both partners are…extant. But when one dies— especially when they’re in the drift when it happens…” Her shoulders don’t so much shrug as twitch, flinching back from the unknown. “You’ll have to forgive me, there’s not much data on this, since…”

Since most Jaegers don’t make it back home with solo pilots. And the ones that do, well— the PPDC is still military. As far as most Rangers are concerned, psychiatrists are the enemy. “It seems that what remains of them continues to…drift with their copilot. Even after they’re disengaged from the Pons.”

“Are you trying to say that there is an actual ghost in the drift?” Izana leans back in his chair, shadows gathering in the sharp, patrician planes of his face. “That Obi is being haunted by the crew of the Hachimaru?”

“Not haunted.” Her tongue tangles, science and speculation at a roiling boil in her mind before she stumbles out, “Just…what if while they were in the Neural Handshake, they never let go?”

“Does that bring us back to the phantom limb, then?” The Marshal has never posed a question that hasn’t been half an interrogation too, but even Shirayuki has to admit he seems…interested. Invested, even. “A reflexive reach for the familiar? Neural impulses with nowhere to go?”

A shrug is never an answer— it’s a placeholder, an um or a hm in physical form. A pause right before the threshold of discovery, a stalling tactic to keep from facing what lays beyond just not thinking about it. And yet, it’s what Shirayuki does now, trying to keep the rest of her from squirming under the searing light of Izana’s attention. “It’s as likely a theory as any, at least. And in line with the current conclusions being drawn in drift research. It’s just…”

The Marshal’s brow curves in an arc too elegant for a man whose office is so far below the bay it can’t even have windows. “Just?”

There’s an itch this theory doesn’t quite scratch, a niggling that won’t stop pulling at her sleeve. “I don’t know what happened with the Hachimaru. I mean— before what Obi can remember. There’s nothing in the PPDC database on it” — or at least, none that she is cleared to see— “but everything we’ve been told…I mean, child soldiers? The training? There wasn’t even supposed to be a base in Osaka. There’s no telling what was done to those kids, let alone what long-term effects it could have had on their psyche.”

Or their bodies. Or even— even the drift. The implications of who Obi is— what Obi is—

“I’ll see what I can find.”

Shirayuki jerks back as Izana rises from his desk to pace the room. “Pardon me?”

“I’m sure you know my arms have a much further reach than yours, Dr Lyon.” His mouth slants into a smirk; wry, she thinks at first, but when he turns his head, it reads rueful. “If there’s something to find, I’ll find it. And if there isn’t…”

It’s him who shrugs now, but not to say, who knows, but rather— I’ll find it even so. “Now if you’ll excuse me, doctor, I should be getting myself down to the infirmary.”

Instinct has her half out of her chair before she manages, “Has something happened?”

“Ah.” Rueful widens into amused. “So you haven’t heard.”

*

It’s the sort of thing that’s bound to happen in any testosterone-soaked environment; get some young men together, force them to compete for a few coveted opportunities for promotion— and, most importantly, recognition— and it’s inevitable that tempers flare. The Academy’s major export is big egos, and the dome is the pressure cooker the PPDC puts them under, trying to see which will crack first. That Obi’s gotten himself in a dust up now isn’t so much a surprise as it is that it didn’t happen before, but…

She didn’t think it’d be Mitsuhide who put him in the infirmary.

“They’re both there, if you want to get right down to it,” Yuzuri informs her with no little relish, warming up for what will undoubtedly be an entertaining— if not extended— bout of complaining over commissary chicken and rice. “Lowen may have gotten in the harder hit, but I gotta say, that guy gave as good as he got. The major’s covered head to toe in bruises, and none of them are in comfortable places.”

“Is there a comfortable place to have a bruise?” Suzu asks around a mouthful of pudding— eaten first, no matter how many times Shirayuki’s insinuated dessert is supposed to be a treat for finishing a meal, not just sitting down to one. “I’ve gotten a couple in some pretty inaccessible places, and I don’t know, they always seem to hurt more than just like, my elbow, or even my leg.”

“That’s not the point, Suzu.” Yuzuri flicks her ponytail over her shoulder, unconcerned by how much of him is caught in the spray. “There’s not a single guy under the dome that hasn’t thrown down with the major and been dismantled for the trouble, and here Obi goes, deciding to go bare fists against him with no ref, no rules. He should have been wheeled out of the gym in a body bag, but the guy doesn’t even have a concussion.”

“Woah.” His eyes blow wide, mouth rounding to match— or at least, it tries; Suzu snaps his teeth shut just as they all are reminded that pudding isn’t liquid or solid, but a third, utterly different state of matter, beholden to its own rules. “I’ll have to tell him—”

“Don’t you say a word about it!” Yuzuri waggles a warning finger at him; her implied menace more effective at stopping Suzu in his tracks than if she’d laid hands on him. “Sure, I’m impressed as hell, but if that guy gets one whiff of positive reinforcement on this, he’ll be unlivable, and you know it!”

“Aw, but—”

“Nope! You figure out some other way to make your bromance blossom or whatever” She huffs, taking a desultory bite of the world’s saddest salad. “I refuse to have him hovering around, asking me to tell him how cool he is again. I’ve got my hands full just convincing him he can pee without me holding his dick for him, god.”

The fork jitters right out of Shirayuki’s fingers, landing on the tray with a clink they might be able to hear all the way in the hangar. “Is he really that bad?”

“Huh? Oh, no.” Yuzuri waves her off, scraping out a laugh. “If that was the case, I’d be enjoying this nearly food-like meal in a doggy bag at my desk. But they’re both fine— Obi just likes to see how far he can push this whole invalid shtick before I kick him out for a little peace and quiet.”

Suzu blinks. “How long do you think that is?”

“Twenty-four hours on the dot.” She spears a tomato, letting it bleed all over lettuce and croutons before she puts it behind her teeth. “If he hasn’t fallen into a concussive coma by then, he’s not my problem.”

“Unless he finds another way to hurt himself,” Suzu offers, thoughtful. “The Rangers are pretty good at that.”

Yuzuri sighs hard enough her bangs flutter. “Don’t remind me.”

“But he’s all right?” Shirayuki clears her throat as they turn to stare at her. “I mean, both of them. They’re…fine?”

“Well, obviously I can’t say uninjured, but it’s all just bumps and bruises.” Yuzuri’s shoulders twitch toward a shrug. “They’re in the infirmary more out of an abundance of caution than any real concern. And in Obi’s case, well”—she snorts, shaking her head— “he’s enjoying the idea of being waited on hand and foot. I’m just lucky the Marshal wanted a word, otherwise I’d be fending off spoon-feeding requests all dinner.”

Shirayuki blinks. “The Marshal’s still down there?”

“Oh yeah.” There’s a vengeful slant to Yuzuri’s grin, enough to send a shiver down her spine. “He told me to take a whole hour before coming back. And to smell the roses on the way down.”

Suzu lets out a long whistle. “Someone’s in trouble.”

“Multiple someones,” Yuzuri corrects. “Big trouble.”

Shirayuki’s stomach twists, tying itself not just into worried knots but discovering wholly unknown polygons of anxiety. It’s hard to handle Izana seated, even at his friendliest, but Obi— Obi’s stuck in one of the infirmary cots, the Marshal no doubt looming over him, unleashing the full force of his wrath. Oh, she’s run the gamut of Izana’s displeasure in the year and change since she’s come under the dome; she’s weathered his frustration, and impatience, and sometimes downright civil hostility. But mad?

She swallows, nearly choking on the heart lodged in her throat. Mad is something else entirely.

“Too bad,” Suzu sighs, finally scooping up a spoonful of rice. “I’d been hoping to stop by his office and show him the new projections. Now that we’ve solved the rounding error—”

“Wasn’t it a variable?” Yuzuri reminds him, too sweet. “A whole number you completely left out of your precious—”

“—ROUNDING ERROR that Ryuu discovered,” Suzu continues, undaunted, “I think we’re really starting to see that there’s a marked decrease of interval length, followed by an increase of kaiju—”

The table rattles as she stands, half-eaten rice making a liar out of her even as she says, “I think I’m finished.”

Yuzuri glances down at her tray, mouth pursing as she takes in what’s left. “Are you sure? The food actually looks halfway decent tonight. Better than this salad, at least. Should have just taken the lumps with those calories instead of—”

“Yeah.” She can’t eat when her stomach taking more tumbles than an acrobat, no safety net on this bout of nerves. “I just…”

Don’t know what a concussion will do to someone like him, is what she wants to say— what she should say as a professional, as the person who’s being pinned handle his condition long-term. But what she means is, I can’t just let him deal with Izana all on his own.

“I have a thing,” she says lamely. “And some paperwork. I’ll, uh, come back later if I get hungry.”

“Uh-huh,” Yuzuri hums, utterly unconvinced. “Sure.”

Suzu only nods as she slips out from the bench, adding, “Say ‘hi’ to Obi for me.”

*

Worry dogs her heels with every stride she takes down the quiet corridors, the metallic echo of her steps chasing her around every corner. It’s eerie at this time of night; the dome buzzes at most hours, day and night having no meaning without windows to help mark when one rises and the other sets, but with dinner served up hot and ready, only the PPDC’s most essential personal stay at their posts, waiting for the next shift to relieved them.

Shirayuki should be relieved too; going toe-to-toe with the Marshal is the sort of event that some enterprising officer could sell tickets to. With halls this bare— and the only spare set of eyes being Mitsuhide’s, who could probably make a career out of taking other people’s secrets to the grave— she’s practically guaranteed to keep this tête-à-tête private, and yet—

Yet she turns the last corner, and suddenly her slip-ons’ soles might as well be magnets for all struggle it takes to lift them an inch off the floor. It’s impossible to keep forward momentum, to do anything but stand still and wait, and— and—

Interrupting’s the right thing to do— she feels it, deep in her gut; the same place Rangers say they know when someone will take their hand in the drift, or whether a Kaiju’s going to fight to the death or cut and run once they’re against the ropes. It’s what she’d hope someone would do for her, if she was stuck playing wave breaker for Izana’s storm, but still, still—

She’s not sure she’d thank them for it. It might be nice dreaming of the rescue, but when someone actually rides to it, when they take the whole situation out of her hands and tells her to take a back seat, well…

Shirayuki’s known enough princes not to find that charming. Or at least the ones that think they are, taking choices right out of her hands and calling it kindness. The last thing she wants is Obi see her stride in and think, here we go, another person who thinks they can run my life better than me.

Her fingers curl, nails biting into the fleshy part of her palms. She could go in there still, just— just sit beside him as he took his lumps, but it feels too passive, too much like she’s just acting as witness rather than support, like this whole thing is an official part of his treatment, and she— she—

She sees someone idling down the corridor, just across from the infirmary door. A familiar someone, pale hair flopping as he runs his hand through it, looking just as tortured each time he reached for the door, only to flinch away, like it burns.

“Zen?” His name falls off her tongue before she can swallow it, lips too numb to do more than let it stumble out, more habit than question.

He startles, eyes wild as they dart up, looking for all the world like he’d rather have been caught in the women’s locker room than found here. “S-shirayuki! I wasn’t— I mean, I was just” — hanging around in the hallway, it seems like— “I’d been passing by and I thought I’d, er…”

His chin jerks down the junction of corridors; not the way she came, or the way directly opposite where the hangar sits, but the third option, leading back toward— “You were coming from the women’s bathroom?”

“What?” Zen’s neck swivels, chasing grating and plate all the way back to where the sign reads RESTROOM, a clear stick figure and skirt painted next to it. A strange sign to have in a facility where ninety percent of the population elects to wear BDUs regardless of gender, but Shirayuki supposes it makes its point. “No! I, er…”

It’s habit to wait him out, to let him finish composing his thoughts before she makes any attempt to guide him— but impatience wins out, this time. “Were on your way to the infirmary?”

“Ah…yeah. That’s it.” Red blooms over the tips of his ears, like he’s seen too much sun. “I just heard that Mitsuhide was down here, so I thought that I would, you know, check up on him.”

Her head tilts, and oh, she hopes it looks more curious than confrontational. “You’re here for Mitsuhide?”

“Well, you know, it’s just weird for him to get caught up in something like this.” He scratches at the back of his neck, and Shirayuki would bet dollars to donuts that if she could see under his jacket collar, it’d be sunburn red there too. “A fight, I mean. He’ll spar with the other guys of whatever, but they don’t, you know…”

End up in the infirmary. Rangers are tough by design, not easy to break; once they roll out the Academy doors, they’re combat rated and ready, eager to take down monsters a hundred times their size. A man head and shoulders taller doesn’t give even a cadet pause— not until they end up flat on their backs, wondering how they mistook strength for slow.

But Mitsuhide— Mitsuhide is careful too. He might be a decorated combatant, a seasoned killer of kaiju, but when it comes to squaring up with humans, he might as well be fighting with kid gloves. She’s seen him on the mats before, carefully feeling out the edges of what his partner can take, making sure their spar is a challenge but not a rout.

Mistakes happen, she knows. Too much force behind a swing or fumbled footwork could send anyone to med bay, looking for a bandaid or a cold compress. Even Mitsuhide’s had his bell rung once or twice, too focused on keeping his opponent on their feet to watch how close their jo came to sweeping his. But for both of them to end up on a cot, well…

It’s concerning to say the least. Especially when the other body in that bay is supposed to be—

“I heard it was Obi in there with him.” Zen shrugs, but it doesn’t look casual. Not a smooth motion, but two pickets rattling up and down by his ears, never quite settling back to where they shoulder. By the pink spreading over his cheeks, he’s well aware. “I just thought that I…I don’t know, that I could…”

Talk to him. He doesn’t say it, but he doesn’t need to: the words are scrawled across his face, written in bold-faced print for anyone to see. Fix something.

“Would you like to talk about it?” It’s reflex to ask, really— one she doesn’t even realize she’s done until his eyes blink wide, jaw slackening to match. “My office isn’t too far down the hall.”

He hesitates, eyeing her warily before he asks, “Unofficially?”

“Of course. As friends.” That’s what she’d meant anyway, she thinks. “If that’s what you want.”

There’s another, longer pause; his eyes shifting away from her to the door and then back again before her nods. “Yeah. I think I do.”

*

Her fingers are already reaching for a pen, palm pressed right against the soft cover of her notebook when Zen says, “You promised.”

The pen rattles back into the holder, knocking aside its mismatched brethren before settling into place.

“Habit,” Shirayuki laughs, suddenly all too aware of herself in space, of how she’s practically hanging over her desk. Of how desperate she looks to categorize his thoughts into neat little boxes, like somehow it might make hers more orderly too. “It won’t happen again.”

“Are you sure?” The corner of his mouth hitches up, a smirk she knows all too well. “I am about to be really interesting, you know. You’ll be itching to put it in my file.”

It would be entirely inappropriate to say, I know. “I promised,” she says instead. “Boundaries are important. For both professionals and clients.”

“Is that what I am now?” He’s smiling still, joking, but there’s no humor in it. “Your client?”

“No, you are what you’ve always been.” It stings as she smiles, folding up her legs beneath her, but sweetly. “My friend.”

His smirk falters into a frown, that direct, almost challenging stare of his foundering to the floor. “Really? I don’t think I’ve been a very good one lately. Not to you.” He sighs, leaning into his hand. “Hell, not to anyone, I guess.”

“Is that what’s worrying you right now? That you’re not being a good friend?”

Zen snorts, sending her a wry look. “You’re doing it again. The therapist thing.”

“Ah! Er…” Heat prickles at her cheeks, and she doesn’t have to see Zen’s grin to know it’s a blush breaking out over them, just as obvious as any of his. “Sorry, force of habit.”

“Don’t worry about it. Honestly, I think it’d be weirder if you didn’t try,” he admits, letting himself relax into the couch cushions. The way he used to before, when it was just him and her and a way to steal time under his brother’s nose. “I don’t really care about the friend thing. No wait, I don’t mean—I do care about being friends, and er, being a good one, but that’s not really my biggest problem right now.”

“It isn’t?” Her head tilts, an invitation. “Then what is?”

He stares at her wearily. “Really?”

“Oh! I really…” Her hands clap to her cheeks, but it does nothing for the heat radiating beneath her palms. “I didn’t meant to that time. I just…it’s Obi, isn’t it? You’re worried about him, even more than Mitsuhide.”

Zen lets his head drop back, pinching the bridge of his nose. “It’s kinda hard not to be. I mean, if you’d seen what I saw in there…”

“You mean in the drift?” Electricity zips through her fingers, chasing her nerves up her spine, and she pitches forward, struggling to keep the eagerness from her voice. “Can I…can ask what happened? When you were in there, in his…?”

Mind. Memories. There’s hardly a difference either way,

He doesn’t lift his head, but she sees the muscles of his neck move, the furrow of his brow implied rather than implicit. “You don’t know? I thought you and Obi had some sort of postmortem or whatever. I figured he’d be your favorite patient by now.”

“No. We never got past broad strokes. I don’t even think I could call him a patient.” It’s strange how relief floods her as she says that— not my patient— and how quickly guilt twists her stomach right after. He should be her patient, she should be helping, she just— just—

Doesn’t want to. Not like that anyway. From the outside. Professionally. But she’s not being given much of a choice. “I think it was too difficult for him to get past all the…commentary.”

“Yeah, I can see that.” He eyes her, almost speculative, before shaking his head. “It’s confusing in there. I don’t even know how he manages to walk and think at the same time, let alone mouth off the way he does. But you know about…?”

“Osaka, and the Hachimaru,” she confirms, the fabric of her skirt dimpling between her fingers. “That there were unauthorized experiments going on with the number of pilots in a Jaeger. That they were all…” Children. She can’t bring herself to say it. “You probably know more than me.”

“Maybe. Not enough. Too much. I don’t know.” Zen sighs, his head rocking forward, bowing over his knees. “It’s just…I don’t want to go talking about stuff that’s really his to tell. But…yeah, there was something with Osaka’s program. Some lack of oversight— or maybe everyone was purposefully looking away, who can tell? But there was seven of them, all packed into one Jaeger, in a big row like— like sardines in a can, and their commander, this woman, she—”

He rubs at his arm, teeth grit. “Let’s just say, she wasn’t a good mother figure.”

“Seven of them?” She’d heard of three— Crimson Typhoon and its triplet pilots— but more than one report had said they were like one mind in three bodies, rather than the other way around. That there was something wrong with them from drifting so often so young. Seven completely different children, forced to link mind in some unregulated daisy chain since before they were even in puberty… “How many of them are…?”

“They’re all in there,” he says, toneless. “Like they never left. Just a whole Con-Pod filled with…”

Ghosts. Shirayuki never was one of the girls who would shiver at a scary story, or see faces in the dark— no point in inventing horrors when there were plenty more real ones lurking just off shore. But there’s no better term for this, these leftover impulses that stalk Obi’s brain stem, or…whatever they were.

“I wish…” Zen doesn’t have Obi’s sharp jaw or Mitsuhide’s square one; his muscles don’t stand out in relief when they flex, but she sees the tension in his throat, the swallow. “I wish he’d just talk to me about it, you know? He saw all my shit and just took it, and now that I’ve seen all his…”

His hand scrapes through his hair, tugging at the ends. “He knows I’m not afraid of him, doesn’t he? That I don’t care? I just want…”

She thought she’d known what yearning looked like on his face, what harsh planes even the briefest touch of it could carve, but she sees him now, mouth twisted so tight it carves new fissures into his cheeks, biting runnels into the corners of his eyes, and she knows— however much he’d wanted her, it doesn’t come close to how much he wants this.

“I don’t know. We’ve talked, but Obi hasn’t really told me what he’s thinking.” And by now, Shirayuki knows better than to guess. “But I think…I think he does. He just…isn’t ready for that right now.”

For being known. For being accepted despite it.

“When he is though,” she adds, carefully picking around the words. “You should tell him.”

“I’m trying,” Zen sighs, sliding further onto her couch. “I’m trying.”

[writinginaforrest]

Guts (feat. a Journey to Bolton Film Festival)

(7th Oct 2024)

This is more like a diary entry than an essay. More anecdotal than what I've written previously. That being said, this is my blog, I can do what I want. In the following I talk about my experiences with my Eating Disorder (ARFID) in considerable detail, if that will make you uncomfortable or distressed, I'd say skip this one. We can catch each other next time around, look after yourself.

I’ve never been to Bolton before. And yet, perhaps I give off the energy of someone who has settled there. It wasn’t twenty minutes after my friend and I stepped off the train that two people asked us for directions, and all we could do was respond in a good-faith bewilderment that we were in fact not native to the area. It did remind me remarkably of a town in Cornwall though. Everything shuttered in the middle of a sunday. Bare streets. A little grey. One of those out-of-the-way places the Government has forgotten about. Still, I couldn’t deny walking down the high street that there were some gorgeous buildings dotted around. 

I walked into the shopping centre, my friend and I got some pictures of the posters for the films showing, and then we eventually found our way into the cinema. There were perhaps seven other people in there by the time the reel started. While I always encourage people to go to the cinema, I can’t help but feel a slight joy when I have a screen all to myself. Maybe it’s selfish. Either way, it was just me, my friend, and these seven other people sitting dotted around this theatre all having a love (or in my friend’s case, being brought by someone who loves) film. 

We saw five shorts:

Pavane (Pauline Gay, 2023, France)

Guts (Margaux Susi, 2023, United States)

Grill (Jade Hærem Aksnes, 2023, Norway)

Heap (Kyle Marchen, 2023, Canada)

An Orange From Jaffa (Mohammed Almughanni, 2024, Occupied Palestinian Territory)

I can’t stress enough how consistently good these shorts were. Dark, Funny, but also thought provoking and cathartic. It made me happy to see a Palestinian film in the mix-up, a small act of defiance against the forces trying to make them lose hope, it looked gorgeous and was written amazingly. Grill was bleak and relatable, Pavane made me think about my mother, and Heap was my favourite out of the group, a real mind-fuck kind of film, and aesthetically brilliant. A sort of shortened Black Mirror. 

But Guts. That stirred up a lot of feelings for me. It was the reason I went to see that particular block of films. I’m a fan of StarKid and Smosh and also Watched all (at the time) Sixteen seasons of Grey’s anatomy in a matter of weeks. Angela Giarratana and Kate Burton?? Opposite Each other?? In a Movie playing in a theatre near me?? Sign Me Up. 

I knew it was about a Girl in recovery. Specifically from an Eating Disorder. I knew Angela’s character was a girl who invited a stranger to dinner because eating with other people is easier than eating alone. I’ve been there. It was only semi-recently that my own eating disorder was brought to my attention. I confided in my friend (the selfsame who came with me to this screening) with a self deprecating chuckle that I’d been eating little other than a couple of slices of toast a day for Three or so weeks. Food has always (and continues to be) a source of anxiety for me. Just as one might be scared of what would happen if they put their hand on the stove (you stand there and imagine the searing pain, the blisters, the burns, it inevitably puts you off the action) I was scared of eating. I was scared of putting food in my body. I was scared of feeling the food in my mouth. Of chewing it. Of actually doing the act. The thought of eating made me feel sick. Fear would wrap an iron grip around my stomach to the point where I’d turn to my trusty loaf of bread and salted butter to get the job done. My friend pointed out with a face twisted with concern that eating that way isn’t normal. Being scared of food isn’t normal. I recounted that it had been this way for as long as I could remember and she informed me that it sounded like I had ARFID. 

Avoidant Restrictive Food Intake Disorder. I won’t spout the facts at you but it’s pretty much what it says on the tin. Being aware of it has helped me in a way. But it’s so incredibly present. The other day I simply could not decide what I wanted to eat. I ran through the options in my head and the thought of consuming those things filled me with the familiar dread. There it was again. Instead of deciding what to eat, I let the wave of dread take me and I lay in my bed for an hour and a half, on top of the covers and staring at the ceiling. I had to self regulate. I had to calm down. It had been a good day, and then everything fell apart. 

Guts said so adequately what I had been struggling to verbalise. Hearing Angela speak the things that I needed to remind myself of (Jan Rosenberg’s writing perhaps is the direction I should be tipping my hat to in this regard) made my heart feel a certain way. 

And Jesus Christ that’s why I love movies. 

[batsplat]

i really want to hear your opinion on this. I feel like some people underestimate pecco a lot. most of the people I’ve seen on here are talking like it’s certain that marc will do better than pecco next year, but I’ll be surprised if it’ll be actually like this. pecco has way more experience on the ducati and nobody understands the ducati like pecco does. see race weekends like assen or mugello, he’s literally unstoppable and I feel like he’s even holding back. plus pecco is 26yo and he’s in his prime and probably will be for at least two more years before the decline inevitably begins, and he’s injury free! but the real advantage he has over marc, in my opinion, is that he literally lives under pressure and he already knows that marc will try to hit him on the track and above all mentally. he knows what he is getting into. when he talks about wanting to maintain harmony in ducati it’s because he’s already aware that marc will ruin it. like yeah ppl r saying a lot that marc is going to destroy pecco and all that, but right now the facts state that pecco is a 2 times wdc back to back (probably 3 by the end of this year) and right now on the ducati he’s the best rider of the grid. marc won his last wdc in 2019, it’s been years since he won, and he got his arm fucked up in the process. so yeah marc will try everything to destroy pecco but he needs to be careful to not destroy himself in the process. (this is not marc hate, I’m just tired of seeing people understanding pecco)

first of all, I'm broadly with you on a lot of this, anon, though I wouldn't quite as far as to say I'm predicting pecco to beat marc. second of all, I do think I have a bit of a problem where I have my rational sports brain - but I also have the other less rational bits of my brain. and some of those irrational bits are currently stuck in this mode where I have two different fundamentally contradictory mindsets that are kinda... mental blocks in terms of me predicting what will actually happen next year

mental block #1 is 'you've been following sports all your life and you know how this goes'. like, I've kinda been conditioned to think if you aren't a wunderkind, one of the talents of the century, already a megastar when you were in your nappies bla bla, you're basically fucked? certainly fucked when you are going up against one of those prodigies. you may get close and trick everyone into thinking it's actually possible, but... idk. this is a mindset that broadly stood me in good stead when I started watching motogp, like you just don't bet against fuck you talent. something like 2017, I never really thought marc was going to lose that title. so when I look at marc and pecco, however much I rate pecco there's a bit of my brain that automatically goes 'yeah but marc will win anyway'. it's that kind of... sometimes things that look slim differences in sports, margins that should be small aren't actually small at all, and in a way the end outcome feels like it was always kinda inevitable. I get that same sense when I'm watching 2005 last lap duels between sete and valentino - these are situations where you both parties should have a decent shot, but somehow you know that if you ran the simulation one hundred times, it'd basically always go one way. it's the illusion of competitiveness. one guy's always got something a little bit extra in the back pocket

mental block #2 is that it's actually been really fucking long since I've seen marc win and there's been a lot of false dawns on this front. I thought he'd win the title in 2020. I kinda thought he'd win the title in 2021. I was at least open to the possibility he'd win it in 2022. okay, in 2023... but you could still go 'yeah but he's finally physically fit now' (or, well, you could until the first race weekend was done). and honestly? gut feeling, I was feeling pretty bullish about 2024, partly because I didn't think the gap between the bike specs would be this noticeable. so by now it's a bit? you know, I kinda need to see him win again to believe it? which he probably does too, just a touch, and that makes it a completely different proposition from all those other titles... within this sport in particular, it's really not that easy to recover from years in the wilderness. you never really know if he can get close to handling the field like he did in his prime until he does it again. and... however impressive I've found him this season, which I really, absolutely have, I still haven't seen that from him. I also feel like currently... the magic is still there but his pace is so fragile, and that used to be the really scary thing about him - the relentlessness of his pace. this year, it's one lap pace, it's weekend to weekend, it's how sometimes he's slower in races than you thought he'd be - and yes, there are all these other explanations, but... well, again, if the bike is holding him back, if it's the ducati adaptation period, then that's all well and good. but I'm not really going to feel that's true until I actually see the next step

now obviously both of those things can't be true - and the fun thing about next year is that I don't actually feel it's a done deal. because, yes, people do underestimate pecco. and also because, yes, there's still some real question marks about the version of marc we're getting. just look at this sachsenring situation... obviously 'someone could get injured' is quite a depressing way to look at future title fight permutations, but you can't really treat it as a certainty that it won't happen, no? I feel like one element of last year that doesn't quite get the attention it deserves is that pecco was winning that title a whole lot more comfortably before a bike ran over his leg. the race right after that was misano, where pecco had won the two previous years and there's zero reason to believe he couldn't have done so again rather than take two laboured p3's. that's not a title fight anyone's primarily remembering as an injury arc (cf too the le mans crash) - but it clearly did play a big role and could easily have been decisive, without actually taking out one of those two contenders of competition. marc used to win his titles with a whole lot of throwing himself down the road to find the limit of his bike, but he can't afford to do that any more (if he ever could). we still need to see what version of marc we're getting, if we're getting a version who can just be fast anywhere come sunday - or a very good version of marc who isn't quite that. who knows exactly how much worse the gp23 is than the gp24! who knows how much more there still is to come in terms of ducati potential from marc! we have rough indications, but it's far from definitive. maybe one of them doesn't click at all with next year's bike! we'll only know when we see it play out!

and yet I still expect deep down that marc wins that. it's just kinda supreme belief in his fuck you levels of talent, the belief that he'll figure it out somehow because I've seen him do it so many times. and of course, the other big problem is we don't know what version of pecco we're getting! I have talked before about how historically unusual pecco is as a champion in many ways, which for me always makes it quite tricky to figure out what he'll do in basically any situation. like, where is his ceiling? is he still going to get better? is he going to get his act together? my problem is that I feel like I enter every single season going 'yeah I reckon this year pecco will get his act together, ugh he's going to dominate the field' and then it's just a bit? is this just who you are as a rider, or is this something you can still change?

the thing is, with my fullest respect to pecco's titles, however much I enjoyed those train wrecks, obviously you cannot do this against a version of marc marquez that is remotely up to scratch. like, you just cannot. pecco cannot do a 2022 and expect to win the title. against an even slightly serious version of marc marquez. on the same bike. pecco can't really do a 2023 either. I'll give him a pass for some of those late season results, but if you're chucking it down the road that often early on then, yeah, no

that being said... low key if you ignore all the little numbers, this year is actually a serious title fight...?

like I am always aware that acknowledging this could make them both dnf five times in a row but...? there's one sunday race one of them haven't won, and cota is its own thing. everything else...? whisper it softly but this is a good title fight? 2022-23 were sort of accidentally good because everyone's errors and runs of good forms and performance trajectories just kinda coalesced so you got late season drama, but this? consistent high level of performance from both blokes, decent wheel-to-wheel action between both title rivals at several different races (definitely more than in 2015 and everyone remembers that as a classic, also on course to be more than in 2013 and most years 2007-12). idk, at what point do we just have to acknowledge these guys are pretty good at what they do? sure they're on the strongest bike, as are the vast majorities of blokes who win titles historically. but bastianini's reasonably highly rated and he's not even gotten particularly close to winning a sunday race this year on the exact same bike - one p2 on merit snagged on the last lap and another one less on merit when vinales was highsided to the moon for mechanical reasons right ahead of him. yes, the title contenders have had some howlers... pecco's portimao and catalunya sprints were... well, y'know, and martin's jerez race and mugello sprint were also... y'know. but apart from that?

idk man... we can cry over photos of casey on his gp7 all we like, but at the end of the day these twits have come out with some class performances these last two years. and at a certain point you've just gotta hand it to them. they've become more experienced at how to manage a title fight, which is how you get a version of martin this year who is still fast but is less likely to phillip island it. some of those performances late last season were great! for every martin qatar and pecco india, you also get a martin thailand and a pecco indonesia. maybe they'll stop chucking it down the road so often, or maybe they'll keep chucking it but so will marc, because these days they have ridiculously many opportunities to do so! I also think it's worth pointing out that minus some questionable early season form from pecco, those two are basically always on the pace! they're always there or thereabouts! that's how marc used to kill his title rivals, not necessarily by winning a bunch of races but by making sure he was always picking up points - because he didn't have any truly slow weekends. these guys don't either at the minute! we are seeing them actually get better in front of our eyes, it's great

the other stuff... oof, I don't know what pecco's prime will end up being - remember, actually he's low key already edging out of title-winning age. he's now 27. this century, only two riders have won titles when they were older than 26 - valentino twice and jorge once. obviously, that's partly happenstance, and you don't suddenly get struck down by 'being washed' lightning when you turn 27... plus on the flip side, I also think the fact that pecco has only reached his prime relatively recently means he could have quite a few more years to go. who knows! who knows if marc being increasingly more breakable becomes a big factor! recovering from injuries gets tougher the older you get and the more knocks you've taken! on the other point, the ducati is a bike pecco knows very very well and has a lot of time riding... but broadly speaking I do trust marc with a year's worth of experience get as much out of that bike as he ever will. just the fuck you talent again. we don't know what that performance level looks like, but I don't think it'll be a question of familiarity any more at that stage

so where does that all leave us? do I really want to be making motogp predictions this far in advance? yeah, sure. if I had to put money on it, I'd still back marc, I think? but I really do hope we get a proper fight, and I really do think we might! I'm far from convinced in writing off pecco. basically *grabs the crystal ball, aka checks the races we've literally just watched* let's say pecco absolutely dogwalks the field at a few circuits. like maybe a mugello, an assen, a cute qatar, even a catalunya now he's faced down his demons (though maybe jorge on that aprilia goes bye bye at montmelo). then give marc his races where he laps the field twice in cota and sachsenring. and we're going to get a few classic duels, for the fans. if those duels happen at the mugello's and catalunya's of this world, pecco's might be in deep shit. if they happen at the misano's and aragon's and maybe even jerez's, we can get something going. they both have at least one silly early season crash (also kinda tradition for marc outside of his peak peak seasons lbr) and everyone gets to call pecco a bottler and crank out the good ol' crashquez. and then hopefully we can massage those numbers enough that pecco isn't crashing three times to marc's one and we actually get a proper title fight. and hopefully they don't get injured too badly. I've said this before, but I could easily see a title fight where pecco wins most of the big duels but his inconsistencies let him down. if his bad days are p3's, however, or if marc himself is a bit flaky at times, then we're suddenly having a very different conversation (also don't feel that comfortable in writing off aprilia/ktm and their respective star riders, especially in year two of the factory ducati partnership)

one thing about pecco (that you do also bring up anon)... if there's one trait in his competitive makeup that most reminds me of marc, it's his resilience. he's very good at bouncing back, he's very good at dealing with adversity, a lot of the times he's at his best when he's under ridiculous amounts of pressure... if anything, he's worse when he has reason to feel confident. it comes through both in what a class defensive rider he is and how good he is at dealing with title fight pressure. if there is ever a time where he mentally gets his act together at the very start of the season, surely it's going to be when he has the famous marc marquez in his garage. if that doesn't do it, literally nothing ever will. and listen, knowing marc will try to mess with you isn't quite the same as being able to stop him from messing with you. wanting to maintain harmony doesn't mean your chances of maintaining harmony are necessarily great. but... you know, pecco got his first ever win by defending against marc lap after lap, facing essentially the most stressful situation imaginable with the 93 on his tail. marc made him a better rider that day. marc might make him a better rider next year too... you never know

[38sr]

Welp, I Got Laid Off

Hey, everyone. I know I’ve been quite radio silent this month and well a lot has happened haha. As you’ve read from the title, yes, I’m no longer working at Marvel Studios due to layoffs. Although I was informed of this very early November, my last day was last Friday and this month has been a whirlwind. I know when reading something with layoffs in the title there’s gonna be a lot of questions expressing confusion and shock (I did the same thing these past few weeks). Some of y’all might be thinking: Woah wait! What’s gonna happen to the show you worked on? Rest assured, the production will aired as planned so please do support Spiderman Freshman Year once it’s out on Disney+ in 2024!

Why did this happen? Hmm, honestly I wish I knew too haha. Even if I had the full scope of what was happening, legally I wouldn’t be able to share that information. But I won’t lie that it really did suck when I got the news and it felt like the rug got pulled right from underneath my feet. I’m confused. What does this mean for the second season that was announced at SDCC 2022? I’m confused as well buddy! But again, I can’t say anything about what will happen to Sophomore Year (whether I had that information or not). If you want to see more of the show and same the same crew, please stream the fuck out of the show once it comes out while also supporting the insanely talented team that created the show. Watch parties, fanart, hashtags on social media, the whole gambit! Even though I don’t know what will happen in the future, I feel like our production is in a special situation where fans can really make their voices heard if they really enjoy the show and want more. That’s just my personal opinion tho haha. Whatever happens will happen so don’t take my word for it. What about you? Are you good? Have you found another job? Mmm, I’m doing a lot better than I was 3 weeks ago haha. Am I still upset about the situation? Of course. From my perspective, it really did feel like it came out of left field and unprompted. But I can’t change the past and have to accept what’s done is done. I’ve cried all the tears I could about it and I’m doing better now. As for if I’ve found another job yet, I’m lucky enough that I had freelance already on the side which will keep me afloat for a few months until I find another full-time gig. But yeah, I’m good.  Even though it’s not really the circumstances I would have chosen, in a weird way I see this as an opportunity to 1) finally take a rest after working non-stop since 2020 and 2) make use of the free time to further produce a current personal independent project I’m working on. 

While it sucks I lost my job, I want to welcome this change that might open a new door of possibilities that I might have never thought of doing before (or I have but never had the guts to go through with it). I don’t know. Life is weird...but I’ve just always notice for myself change always happens when I am comfortable and need a new challenge (and I will admit I was comfortable on Spiderman since it was an amazingly run production). I don’t know where I’ll go next....but all I can say is that I’m gonna look forward to the next chapter after I  stuff myself with all the NY-only foods once I go back home for holidays haha.

[copingmechanism1899]

July 31, 2024

Hmm… it’s been a while. But now I’ve got to change. A big thing this summer: therapy. I’ve done the one-on-one thing before, but this is some group shit.

Now don’t get me wrong, I think group stuff can work for some people, and I like the handouts we get (I like having notes on paper, visible in front of me). But… most of my problems are with people, so being with people isn’t my favorite.

There are some “characters” there, but they come and go. And we’re not supposed to become friends or anything so it’s fine 90% of the time. I just, don’t talk to anyone during breaks. Sometimes people will say something and I’ll respond, we’ll have a lil back and forth, but that’s about it.”

During groups, I do my due diligence, answering questions when asked, and sharing when all of us are told to say something. I have a bit of a problem where I don’t like silence, and so when the therapists are at the front and say “Anyone? I can’t really read the vibe of the room if nobody says anything,” I sometimes say stuff even if I’ve already gone. And I fear that makes me seem like I talk lot because I also hate when people can’t stfu.

But I digress. I’m a people pleaser and a pushover so every time I open my mouth it’s a little game of “am I talking too much? Is everyone annoyed? Do they think I’m trying to make it about me?” Haha… fun inner monologue.

Schedule wise, I was at the all day “PHP” (9:30-2:30) for a while, and have since been moved down to “IOP” (9:30-12:30), so, nice. I’ve not really had a summer of freedom since before highschool. From going into freshman year of hs, into sophomore year of college, I was doing summer school. And after that, every break I was in a cast/boot/wheelchair, unable to walk.

Last summer was the first time I didn’t have summer school. I thought that I would actually do something fun, then buckle down next summer and get a job or something. But I didn’t. Sucks, but what can I do. So I thought, “maybe this summer.”

But nope, I come home, and not even a week later I’m in therapy for most of the day. (Not to mention all the dr appts I was catching up on before that as well.)

Overall I think it’s going… fine. It’s not as painful/cliché as it could be, and I think what they’re teaching is good. In theory. And that’s the problem. I’m not sure that I can use what I’m learning in the moment.

This past week, I actually went out of state with family to visit other family. And yeah, it was fun, and stressful. But overall, no thoughts. And if you asked, I’d say I had fun and list the stuff I did.

But in hindsight, there were probably someone moments where I could have used some of the skills I learned. But they never even crossed my mind.

I’m very forgetful, and another example of that is I had a convo with the therapist, and she suggested “journaling”. And gut reaction: how in the dork diaries is writing in a little glittery book from justice going to help me?

But I know “journaling” can be different. I know a lot of people do poetry (i fucking despise poetry), or just write down to-do lists or what they did that day. So I figured, hey. I’ve already done this, right? I’ll just go back to tumblr.

Whatever, she asked me to do this, when? The 16/17th? And this is my first time doing it. Yikes. Not too hot on the consistency train. But it’s a step right? They say “trying is doing” so they’d count this as a win (even if I wouldn’t).

Feels like a cop out, like I’m doing it just to do it, it feels disingenuous. But I feel worse saying that I’m not doing everything I can (no matter how stupid) to get “better.”

So I’m going to therapy, I’m taking my (newly prescribed) meds, and I’m trying so f*ing hard to “be open” and talk with my mom.

Yeah, that’s another can of worms. But it’s getting better ig. I still feel like if I’m not doing something productive, that I’m failing and disappointing people, but that’s a personal thing.

I need to working through that, but therapists aren’t there to tell you exactly what to do. And that sucks. I want someone to tell me how to not be scared of the (very near) future full of unknowns and uncertainties. Nothing is guaranteed, and I’m terrified that I’ll make the wrong choice (or that I already have), and that I’ll be a burden or a failure.

Yay, rumination (that’s something I learned about haha…). Great start to this journaling stuff.

[taylorgraymoore]

January 8, 2024

A week since my last entry. Well, that’s probably healthy. Not like I haven’t been working on this, though—for that week, most of which was taken up by 2-9:30 evening shifts, I was working on the Montreal content. Wake up, write, go to work, come home, write, go to sleep, wake up, write… etc. I got sick of it and needed to step away. Now I can take steps back again.

Since yesterday have started thinking about my short story collection as a whole work, too. It is absurd, oversized and pretentious. I want to put a quote from Journey to the End of Night in as an epigraph, and it is so long that I doubt anyone would consider publishing it as a debut work. On top of that, most of the stories don’t even make conventional sense. But it’s my work, the way I want it, and that makes me happy. 

What else did I do? I did do a couple other things.

Last night, went to Bimini’s for a friends birthday, last minute. I abandoned a lamb chop and a bottle of wine, because it was his birthday and I hadn’t seen him for ages. Getting there was a trial—I hate number seven bus, I hate it passionately, and no further comment—and the experience I had with the establishment itself was lukewarm figuratively and literally, but it was good to see Alex. We went to the Woodstove Festival in Cumberland together in 2022. We set up a little table on a street corner and sold my book, gave out free coffee. A wonderful experience, that. He once did an illustration to go with a poem I got published in an online journal. It will always be good to see Alex.

Today, the weather got truly miserable. It snowed a little bit in the morning, although it did not stick. The rest of the day was simply miserably cold. I was on till at work the first half of the day, and my exterminates went numb from being so close to the door. I had been going to have salad for lunch, but I caved and got Chinese BBQ on rice because I needed to eat something hot. The rain had mostly slowed by the time I finished, and was on my way to have dinner with Aby at Nuba in Kits. It was even pleasant, if chilly, to walk from the 99 stop at MacDonald to the restaurant at Balaclava. Food was fantastic; conversation was fantastic—I was a bit sleepy, especially at first (waking up at seven after a week of evening shifts that half force you to sleep in until nine is not fun), but I perked up with tea and lamb kebab in me. Always good to see Aby.

Got home, looked at narrowboats to rent, with grandpa. The two of us are going to England and going about the canals later this year. 

Now I’m here. It’s 11:30 and I’m too tired to be writing. I have said that before: this is often when I do end up getting this done. I’ve written it for the sake of writing it. A written word is never wasted.

I have mixed feelings about all the Montreal stuff I counterfeited over the last week—it was written so long after it happened, it isn’t real in the same way this is. I can sense the difference in timbre. But I had (have) the gut feeling that it was important to get it down when it was still fresh enough that it could be counterfeited at all. I’m proud of the work. Maybe I’ll do something more with it one day. Maybe if I go to Expozine another time and have a table, I’ll self-publish it as a book—sell people a book about Expozine at Expozine, how does that sound.

I’ve written enough of it that there are no true gaps left. The last couple of days need to be fleshed out, but something is there of them. A full continuity of events, and I feel confident enough that I could come back to it and finish the work later without much important being forgotten. There’s also the entry for the 9th, when I saw Cali, that I want as sort of an epilogue. That one will probably involve more artifice. Too soon to think about it—I want to spend time with other projects for now. 

[needloveandpositivity]

It's been described as the worst year of my life packed into 3 or 4 months. And it has been. 2020 was so good for us. We grew closer in our relationship. I knew quarantine was either going to make or break us, and we are doing so well together. I love him with all my heart. But there's so much going on, I'm so exhausted.

We became really close with his aunt and uncle over the summer. We visited often, they came to visit here, it was a good relationship. His aunt became a confidant for me. We could talk about anything. Then his uncle decided to fuck off. Left with no warning. They had 1 fight and he was gone. Aunt was heart broken. My man went to pick up uncle, because my man has a huge heart. It felt like we got shoved in the middle of their separation. Aunt vented to me often about uncle. Trashing him left right and center. I didn't really like him in the first place, but he's family, I gotta tolerate him. But it's so hard to stay neutral. Not even a week after he left, he started seeing another woman. A woman who he had already cheated on aunt with in the past.

I did my best to keep aunts head level, so she wouldn't call, text, email, what ever this lady to try and ruin uncles set up he had. She was so angry. So bitter. And I understood 100%, I think her feelings were justified. He left her. Again. 3rd time he walked out on her because she was trying to help him sort himself out.

My birthday, I get a text message, my man's great aunt had passed away. The woman that uncle was living with passed away suddenly in her sleep. She wasn't a super healthy woman, I understand she had cancer and diabetes, she had basically given up. But she seemed to be doing well, all things considered. We had just seen her the weekend before, she was happy, joking with us. And suddenly, gone. In a text message. We went to see my family that weekend, my dad and my brothers birthdays are all around mine as well, so we were going to celebrate together. I let my parents know, my man's great aunt has passed away quite suddenly. No response. No, "I'm sorry for your loss" no "wow that's terrible, my condolences" nothing. Just oh, yeah I overheard your man say it to his mom earlier. Thanks.

I had 3 weeks off work between contracts. I tried to use that time to organize the apartment, sort things to sell/give away, but Toronto was shutting down again for lock down, so I couldn't really do much with the things I didn't want anymore. So I'm still sitting on those boxes.

The 3rd week, my man's mom came to visit for a few days, which was nice. Her and I get along really well. We went to pet smart, went for a walk, hung out, it was nice. But she left in the middle of the night, no text, no explanation. Just gone. I woke up the next morning looking for her, assuming she went out to smoke, and I couldn't find her. She must have noticed I was active on Facebook, because she messaged me like 20 minutes later, said her gut told her to go home, so she did. At like 3am.

Like a week or 2 later she starts getting all distant, hardly responding to me, not giving me solid answers about Christmas plans, just keeps saying what ever. I asked her if something was wrong and she just kept saying no. It was like this for like a week or two and she just kept getting more and more snippy with me. So I finally asked my man like is your mom mad at me or something. But he's like no no she's fine she loves you why would she be mad at you, what could you possibly have done? And that's what I was wondering too, like, what can I do? What have I done?

Finally, she tells my man that she was upset with me, she thought I didn't want to see her on Christmas. That she was just an after thought. Because I offered to see her all day on December 26th. She took offense to December 26th because in her mind, December 26th is the left over day. The day that people who don't matter get. In my family, December 25 and December 26 hold the same value. We always switched back and forth with my moms family and my dads family for Christmas day and boxing day. This Christmas, with the covid rules and everything, my dads family was going to visit on the 27th, just a few of them, and mom's side was going to do Christmas day, since it was their turn anyways. So the 26th was completely free, and I wanted to give MIL our undivided attention. No rushing to another dinner, she gets the day. But she didn't want that. She wanted Christmas day. But she wouldn't communicate that to me so that we could arrange that for her.. so she thought I didn't want to see her. That she didn't matter. And she got all angry and distant about it without just telling me.

We finally got it sorted out, Christmas was super messy, my moms parents were being over the top about Christmas plans, they ended up canceling everything, and we ended up being able to see MIL on Christmas day after all. The whole time we were down there, I was anxious and uncomfortable. Trying to please everybody at the same time, and it was never enough. Nobody was ever satisfied by the time we could or could not spend with them.

Then, the 27th in the evening we had Christmas with my man's dad. Uncle was there. With this new woman. No heads up, we just walked in, and there she is. No introduction or nothing. Just hey welcome to Christmas dinner, have a seat. Like what? He knew we still spoke with aunt. He knew how heart broken she was. And now flaunting this new girlfriend at us???? I felt completely disrespected. Like he did it to get a rise out of me. Like he did it so that I would tell aunt and put fuel on the fire. He did it to make it hurt for us to tell aunt.

I was so excited to finally go home.

January 4th. One of the worst days of my life. I'm working from home, any normal day. And I get a text message from my best friends son. My best friend has tragically died of a stroke this weekend. I can feel my soul being torn to shreds. I screamed and cried for hours. I was able to calm myself just long enough to send an email to my boss, let him know what happened and i will be signed off for the rest of the day. My mom gave me a call as soon as she found out, one of her friends found out because she used to work with my best friend. She called me, and immediately she knew that I knew. I told her who told me, and I sobbed. She didn't stay on the line for very long. Just told me that if all I'm going to do is sit there and cry, then she's going to go because she had things to do. I wanted to tell her to fuck off right then and there. But I just said k and hung up. I called my man so he knew I wasn't working, that I wasn't okay. He hurried home that afternoon.

January was a rough, rough month. I felt right on the edge of crying every single day. I couldn't make phone calls without bursting into tears. I spent so much time just staring at the wall. I smoked so much weed just so I could get through an hour without crying. My eyes, my nose, my throat, my soul hurt just existing. Weed gave me that temporary relief.

Just when I started pulling myself together, making it through a day without sobbing, my dad texts me. My great aunt has passed away. At this point, I don't feel anything anymore. I don't want to cry, I don't want to feel. I'm just angry all the time. It's either nothing, or angry. There's no in between.

February I start to realize I'm really not okay. And I haven't actually been okay for a while. I haven't done laundry properly since well before Christmas. The apartment is a mess. And more and more often I'm thinking about walking out into the street just to hope someone will run me over. Then maybe someone will notice and understand how very not okay I am. Maybe I'll die? Is that really the worst thing that could happen?

I finally called my doctor when I started having some really physical symptoms. Thinking about my best friend, thinking about aunt and uncle fighting, thinking about MIL, thinking about anything remotely stressful or disappointing would make me shake. Like an uncontrollable shiver starting deep in my chest. Come to find out that's called heart palpitations. I've also been having these attacks, Ill be sitting on the couch, or fucking sleeping, and I'll wake up with a pain in my lower abdomen, super dizzy, nauseous, light headed. I sit in the bathroom and wait to either throw up, or pass out. Neither happen, and after about 20 minutes it subsides, I'm exhausted and I go back to sleep. My heart rate gets so high, so consistently during this time that my fitbit has started recording it as exercise.

I'm scared, obviously, that something might be seriously wrong with me. The nurse that I speak to on the phone doesn't think there's anything to worry about. She says it's just anxiety, she will book me in next week to be put on medication. At this point I'm not entirely convinced it's "just anxiety", so I made an appointment with a counselor. Even if it is "just anxiety" this is far more intense than i have EVER experienced in my life, and I've been diagnosed with anxiety/depression since I was like 13.

My mom doesn't care. I told her what was happening and she just said, I'm sure you're fine. I am super duper absolutely not fine. I haven't thought about dying in YEARS. The last time I thought about it was when I told my parents I was bi and my mom tried to leave. Went upstairs, packed a bag, and walked out the door. My dad chased her down and got her to come back in but like, what the fuck.

I'm almost 1 week on trintellix, I have to get bloodwork done this week to make sure these fun, awesome, never before seen symptoms are in fact just anxiety, and I see the cousellor next week to hopefully figure out what's going on and how to get through this.

I have plans, goals. My man and I are talking about getting married in 2022. Talking about buying a home in 2024. Children? Maybe. But I'd like to be around here to meet them.

So, here I am. I have people who listen, but I feel like I just rant at one friend way too much, and she's sick of me. Another friend that changes the subject when I get sad. Another who has told me she's sick of people venting to her, because she has her own mental health to deal with. And my man doesn't know how to help me. He tries, he really does. But he has bad days too, and I cannot help him while I'm down here. I can't pick him up while I'm still down.

I just need someone to listen. Someone to hear me rant and vent and get things off my chest. Because if I don't, I know I'm going to drown down here.

If you're willing and able to reach out, please do. If not, this will be the blog that I journal in, I guess. Where I write down everything that I want to talk to my best friend about. I know she can't respond, but I'm sure she's up there watching me, and I hope she's reading this to know that I'm trying. I'm getting help. I'm trying to get better, so I can do better.

[greensagephase]

Spark of Wisdom (Michael Langdon x Reader)

Request by @moneyismysavior

“Maybe a pregnant imagine with Michael Langdon? The ups and downs of throughout the pregnancy and all fluffiness in the end when their baby arrives?”

Warnings: None

Word Count:2024

Summary: Reader and Michael Langdon are expecting a baby. They go through ups and downs, face Michael’s fear and celebrate the arrival of their baby.  

-Spark of Wisdom-

You wash your mouth with water, trying to rinse the bad taste of vomit off your mouth. You sigh, wondering what is it that made you sick. The truth was, you had not been feeling good lately. You felt as if you were getting tired for no reason on random days.

“Darling?”, you hear Michael’s voice coming from the bedroom just as you finish drying your face.

“I’m in the bathroom”, you call out to him as you place the towel away before stepping out of the bathroom.

Noticing your pale face, Michael rushes to you and takes your hand with a worried look on his face.

“What’s wrong? Are you sick?”, he asks you as he cups your cheek softly.

“I don’t know. I’ve been feeling very tired lately and I just vomited”, you say leaning into his warm touch. He doesn’t say anything which makes you think. You have been tired for days now and vomiting. Could it?

“Michael…”, you say and he nods.

“We need to make sure”, he says stepping away from you abruptly. You notice his eyes on your stomach area before he realizes that you have caught him staring. “I have some work to do”, he says and exits.

-----

Michael’s reaction to the possibility of you being pregnant wasn’t good. You were scared suddenly. What if you were and he didn’t want children? What would you do then? Raise the child alone or do something else? These thought race through your mind as you wait for the pregnancy test to give you the results.

“Y/N? Are you alright?”, Michael asks.

“Yes, I’m just-”, you say stopping, anxiety filling your chest. You try to calm down and just breath.

“Y/N, baby what’s going on?”, Michael asks worry. You take another deep breath and open the door. Michael’s eyes scan you up and down as if he’s trying to find anything wrong with you.

“Michael, I’m taking a pregnancy test”, you announce to him just as his eyes land on it, laying on the bathroom’s counter.

“Why… Why didn’t you tell me? I want to be here for this, darling”, he says softly stepping inside the bathroom and engulfing you in his arms.

“Really? It just seemed like the possibility of it made you upset”, you answer, leaning your head into his chest.

“Of course not! Nothing would make me more happy than to have a child with you. It’s just…”, he says trailing off and you pull back to look at him.

“What?”, you ask softly.

“Y/N, you know who I am. I experienced very little… I don’t know if I could- Be a good dad”, he says quietly, looking at you with those eyes. You feel your heart drop at his words and the pain that he obviously tries to hide.

“Oh, Michael. Is that why you reacted like that? You may have not experience those emotions as a child but you have them right here”, you say pointing to his heart. “You have shown me that. I know that you knowing what it feels like to not have someone love you would push you to be the best dad. I know you will be a great dad, love”, you assure him because you know it.

Looking into his eyes, you can see the love he has for you and the happiness that your words have brought him. You get on your tippy toes, cup his face and kiss him softly.

“You are going to be an amazing dad, Michael. I know you will”, you whisper to him in the kiss, and you feel him smile in the kiss.

Stepping away, you both suddenly remember the test. You take it slowly, your eyes meeting his before you read the results. You look down and although you already had a gut feeling, you still squeal at the results.

“We are going to be parents!”, you yell as you show him the results.

Michael picks you up in his arms and spins you around.

“I’m actually going to be a dad!”, he says with the happiest smile.

----

As the days went on, your pregnant stomach started to show. Your cravings got weirder and weirder and often you had them at night. This meant that you had Michael driving in the middle of the night with you in the passenger’s seat to the grocery store. You felt your love for the baby grow each day and so did Michael’s. You were both nervous, being your first child but were excited regardless. Not everything was perfect, though. You and Michael had arguments. You wanted to paint the room a pastel yellow, but Michael wanted a red room. You wanted to buy the beige carpet but Michael wanted the black one. It was silly stuff until the final month of your pregnancy. You could see that there was something bothering Michael, something that he had not tell you. When you were about to ask him he would start speaking of something else, almost as if he knew you were going to. But you were done. You were fed up with his attitude, this baby was going to be born in a month and he needed to tell you what was going on. You make your way down the stairs of your home, careful as always but determined nonetheless. Finally, you enter his office. You watch as he reads a piece of paper before he lifts his eyes to you. You can tell that he notices right away that something is up and puts the paper aside.

“What’s going on, love?”, he asks you standing up to greet you.

“What’s going on? You have been acting so weird these past few months and I can’t take it anymore. I want to ask you and you suddenly need to speak about something or you have to come to your office. It’s always something. I know you can read my mind whenever you want to so I know that you know what I want to know. Don’t give me that look, you know exactly what I’m talking about. You were so in for this at the beginning and now… You are somehow cold when it comes to the baby. I want to know why”, you tell him.

He looks around the room before he sighs. He motions for you to take a seat but you stand your ground.

“Y/N…”, he says and you shake your head.

“Tell me what’s going on Michael. Don’t you trust me? Is it our relationship? What- I don’t know what to think”, you say crossing your arms and he strides to you quickly, standing right in front of you suddenly. He takes your hands and holds them.

“It’s not that, darling. It’s not you or our relationship. The thing is that I’m scared”, he admits.

“Michael, we already talked about this. You are going to be a great dad”, you tell him.

“No, it’s not that. It’s the baby! What if… What if the baby is like me? When I was born, my mother died. If the baby is like me… I can’t, I will not lose you”, he says.

You had thought about it before, and you could not blame Michael. Neither of you knew if the baby would be like him. It never bothered you though, you knew that together you would teach him or her to control their powers and Michael had long ago given up his life path as the Antichrist so you knew he would be with you to help handling that situation if it came but you had to be honest, the thought that the baby could be stronger than you and kill you, had not passed your mind.

You had no reason to. Your pregnancy was normal, like anyone’s else. The baby had a heartbeat, showed up in the ultrasound, kicked when you read to them and did they kick especially when the baby hears Michael’s voice. You sigh and take his hand.

“That had not come to my mind at all”, you say pausing, “but- You still have powers. If anything happens, you can try to bring me back”, you say.

“And what if that doesn’t work?”, he asks clenching his jawline.

“Michael Langdon, I have no doubt in my mind that you can do it. And if you can’t, then that’s how it’s going to be then. You will have our child, and they will always carry a part of me in them”, you say as he start shaking his head no. “It’s our child, please. It’s… It’s the product of our love. If you were to reject our child, you would be rejecting a part of me”, you tell him squeezing his hand. He says nothing but then nods.

“Don’t disturb your mind with these thoughts. Everything is going to be okay. Let’s enjoy this last month before the baby takes over our lives”, you say teasing him hoping to hear him laugh. He gives you a small smile.

“I’m going to protect you and the baby”, he assures you, bending. He kisses your stomach and you immediately feel the kicks.

“Feel that!”, you say excited, grabbing his hand to touch. “The sound of your voice always makes them start kicking. This baby hasn’t even been born, and yet they already love you”, you say to him as he stands up, this time with a happier smile and kisses you.

-----

“Breath, just breath, darling. You are such a fucking strong woman, you got this. I know you do, darling. Just push one more time, come on”, Michael whispers to you squeezing your hand as you cry in pain. You breath deeply but give it your all to the last push. Your tears stream down your face as the room falls silent, your eyes on the doctor as you wait. It feels like you are all in slow motion and that even the sound of a falling pin could be heard at the silence but then you hear it. The cry of your newborn child fills the room and something within you changes. You are a mother. Michael is a father. You are officially parents.

“Michael”, you breath as you squeeze his hand.

“You did incredible, baby. I’m so proud of you”, he tells you before he kisses you.

“Congratulations, it’s a girl”, the doctor says to you both and you look up to Michael. His eyes have a sparkle in them that you had never seen before. The doctor brings your daughter to you, and you are quick to wrap your arms around her softly as Michael cuddles you both.

“She’s so beautiful, just like her mother”, Michael says next to you and you smile. You both watch as your daughter moves her tiny arms around, trying to grasp the new world around her.

“I hope she has your eyes”, you whisper as you stroke her face with your finger softly.

“Look at her trying to open her eyes”, Michael exclaims and you both watch, waiting. You let out a soft gasp, before you smile. “She has my eyes”, Michael says and you look up to see his. You wipe his happy tears away, smiling the whole time.

“I’m sorry, baby. For causing you any stress over the last months”, Michael tells you as he holds you. “I was just so scared that I would lose you but I shouldn’t had forgotten that you are one of the strongest woman I’ve ever known. Thank you for choosing me, for putting up with me, for loving me”, he whispers to you kissing your forehead, “For giving me yet another human being to love.”

“I love you so much Michael”, you whisper to him as you hold his hand and he smiles to you.

“We still need to name her”, he says and you nod.

“I was thinking Athena?”, you say as you look at your daughter.

“Athena… Goddess of wisdom”, he whispers, “She does have that spark of wisdom in her eyes. I love it.” Michael says with a smile.

“Athena Langdon it is”, you whisper as you hold your daughter’s tiny hand with Michael’s arms around you.

[niennavalier]

Len and Barry. No. 8

Oh my god, I’m so sorry this took so long. This took like 4 rewrites and then spiraled to 2.5k. So here this finally is. Based on the prompt: “Your smile is not as bright as it used to be.”

(Also note: Infantino Street doesn’t happen in this ‘verse because I ran with established Coldflash. Also 2024!Barry knows Savitar’s identity)

Light at the End of the Tunnel     2024 or not, Len had been glad to be back home. After getting dropped anytime, everywhere by the Timestream to clean up the aberrations the Legends invariably left in their wake, the familiar sight of home was like a balm to wounds left by the Oculus which he’d never been allowed to let heal. Just snatched up by whatever temporal force apparently existed in the universe because the Legends, for the life of them, couldn’t go without leaving messes in their wake. All before he’d even had the chance to come to terms with what he’d done. He wasn’t sure if that was a good thing or a bad one, but it was a distraction at the very least - less time for him to wonder if he’d be anywhere but trapped in temporal limbo.

     But now he was home. Even if it was home nine years in the future. A future where both Mick and Lisa were off on the Waverider (not ideal, if Len could’ve had a say, which he obviously didn’t). But home all the same, somewhere he could have a chance to pick up the broken pieces of his life he’d left behind.     And that started with Barry. With the fact he’d sworn to keep his word and come home, even though he never would’ve guessed just how quickly shit could go sideways (even before getting sucked into the goddamned Timestream). And hopefully he could get the chance to make up for broken promises. Perhaps in very desirable fashion, if he was lucky.

     What he ended up encountering was far from that, however.

     STAR Labs silent and abandoned, altogether too much like 2046 Star City for Len’s comfort. Enough to give him chills, despite how Barry’s presence had made this place a second home, even to a man who had never known even one. But now dark and dead, a shadow beginning to round the corner.

     “Barry?” he asked, met with an emptiness that looked so wrong in the green eyes he recalled so vividly.

     “Great,” Barry chuckled, long hair falling in his face, a bitter twist to his smirk - the look didn’t belong there, Len knew as much. “The Speedforce is getting me to see things again. Just what I need.” Len honestly didn’t know what to make of that. Speedforce, seeing things…dread began to churn in his gut. What the hell had happened?

     “Think there’s something I’m missing here, Scarlet.”

     A scoff. “It didn’t work then, not when Len died, not with Iris either. It’s not gonna work now.”

     Oh. Shit, Len never should’ve left. Not with what that decision seemed to do to the kid.

     “Barry, frankly, I don’t know what you mean by that, but,” Len let his voice drop to something gentler, more genuine as he stepped closer, “I’m sorry for that. You said I wouldn’t regret jumping on the Waverider in 2015, but I do regret not being here when you needed me. I should’ve been.”

     Barry’s eyes widened, the green conveying a deep hurt through the shimmer of unshed tears. “No…you’re not…”

     Len lifted his hands to Barry’s cheeks. “It’s me, Barry. I’m here.” He leaned forward, their foreheads touching as Barry’s breath caught. “Please believe me when I say I never meant to break the promise I made to you. You have no reason to trust me, but I swear I always meant to come back to you.”

     “…Len?” He heard the tears in Barry’s voice before he ever felt them run down his cheeks. “You’re…I…how?”

     He shook his head mutely. The truth was, Len didn’t quite know - didn’t have a damn clue, really. He was no theoretical physicist; leave that to Raymond and the Professor. What did the logistics matter anyway when he could finally have Barry so close again? “Not sure, but suffice to say I’m here now, and I don’t plan on going anywhere.”

     Without another word, Barry pulled him into a tight hug, sobbing into his shoulder; Len couldn’t deny how wet his own eyes had become, settling into and returning Barry’s embrace.

     For the first time in far too long, things finally began to feel right again.

     It should’ve been no surprise the feeling couldn’t last long. That night had been fine, the two of them falling into bed at an old safe house of Len’s - mercifully kept in decent shape, likely thanks to Mick and Lisa - never leaving each other’s side, as if this would all disappear should they lose physical contact. Given the volatile nature of the Timestream, Len wasn’t ruling that out.     Nonetheless, they’d made it through the night before Len felt that all-too-familiar sense of wrong return. Hearing Barry tell the story of what he’d missed - Savitar killing Iris and turning out to be a future version of Barry all along - Len understood what he felt, knowing how he himself would’ve reacted had that been Lisa instead of Iris. Knowing how he had reacted to the guilt over the lessons his father had taught to her that Len hadn’t been able to stop. It didn’t take long for the story and the guilt to affect Barry, the kid growing more withdrawn, shying away from touch, jarring with memories that felt barely over a year old for Len. Memories of the last night they’d spent together, Barry clinging tight and kissing him deeply, snuggling close in bed and refusing to let go until the last second.

     All jarring not because Barry had withdrawn - the kid knew more than his fair share of trauma - but because of how it’d killed the light in his eyes, the desire to be a hero that Len had always assumed to be a constant, leaving not even a pretense of trying.

     It was what made Len wonder if the Timestream had sent him for a reason, to fix an aberration. If Barry was the aberration. Because the universe needed a Flash, but perhaps Barry was too lost in grief to do anything about it.

     Those suspicions just became more likely as news broke that Sam Scudder and Rosa Dillon had escaped Iron Heights, were probably about ready to begin terrorising the streets as they spoke. All while Barry did nothing - just looked at the screen and scoffed as he walked away. Not a hero anymore, like he’d said in his retelling, leaving the world saving to someone else, if there was someone else. The thought of that was enough to push Len to consider dealing with them himself, not a fan of those two walking the streets of his city. Except that wasn’t his place, no matter how he would’ve loved to see the look on Scudder’s smug face as he iced him. His place was with Barry. He’d seen what his leaving had ultimately done, and he wasn’t gonna make that mistake again. Not that he wouldn’t have taken Mick’s place at the Oculus, but he could’ve tried harder to find another way, or fought the Timestream itself until it let him go back home to rescue Barry. That was his focus now. Scudder and Rosa were thieves first and killers second, last he’d heard anyway; with any luck there wouldn’t be immediate collateral damage to weigh on either of their minds.

     “Scarlet,” Len followed Barry to the kitchen, watching the kid pace his way around the island, “what’s wrong?”

     The speedster paused, leaning heavily into the counter. “Nothing.”

     “Really? Coulda fooled me.” Len sauntered over, maintaining his feigned ease, always the simplest front for him to put forward.

     “Yeah, well, it’s the truth. Not like things can get any worse anyway. ‘S not like there’s something more wrong now than before.” Another scoff. Another bitter smile. “Guessing you think there is something wrong, though.”

     Len’s insides churned the same way they had the night before at seeing that expression, so wrong on Barry’s features. He took his spot at Barry’s side, let his voice soften again with concern he couldn’t keep to himself. He had to get through to Barry somehow, and raw honesty seemed to be the only way. “Your smile isn’t as bright as it used to be.”

     “Guess that’s what happens when you realize you’re not a hero. ‘Cause what kinda hero lets everyone he loves die? First you, then Iris, and Caitlin and Cisco both got hurt all ‘cause of me.” A shake of his head. “I’m no hero.”

     “Barry…”

     “Not like I deserve having you back either, but guess I’m too selfish to let you go. You’re the hero, Len,” Barry’s voice broke there, just for a moment, and even then he didn’t fully recover from it, “You deserve better than just another disaster waiting to happen.”

     “And you realize the only reason I resemble anything close to a hero is ‘cause of you right? Barry,” he reached for the kid’s cheek, cupping it gently, swallowing the small stab of hurt when Barry flinched, even if he didn’t pull away, “all the things that happened aren’t your fault. You might have…catalyzed my decision to go on that mission, but everything that happened there was by my own decision. Nothing you should blame yourself for. Wouldn’t be surprised if Miss West thought the same. Cisco and Dr. Snow, too.”

     “Doesn’t change what happened.”

     “It doesn’t.” No matter how Len wished he could do something about that. Change the past,  if not for the Timestream being irritatingly temperamental about things like that. “Doesn’t make you any less of a hero, either.”

     “Funny, knowing a future me was the one who made so much of this happen.” There wasn’t even acid left in Barry’s words. Just defeat. And that was somehow even worse. This emptiness - Len hated it.

     “Different you, Barry. Doesn’t make this you not a good guy. It’s the thing that annoyed me about you first and endeared me to you later. You have the capacity to be bad, but despite that, you’re unfailingly, inherently good. Never changed.” Len allowed himself a small smile, remembering the first time he’d heard the words now ready on his tongue. “There’s good in you, Barry.”

     Even Barry laughed a little at that, the sound wet as he permitted himself to lean into Len’s touch. His breath shook on its way out as he closed his eyes, a tear slipping onto his cheek; his voice wasn’t much steadier. “God, I’ve missed you, Len.”

     Len could barely keep his own emotions in check as he pulled Barry close, relief flooding his body at how comfortable Barry finally began to feel in his arms. “Missed you, too.” More than Barry even knew, the past few days of feeling so near and so far at the same time bearing the worst kind of ache.

     Another shuddery breath. “I…I dunno if I can be a hero again. Not the way you remember. Not now. People in the city - they keep wondering, but…”     “Then don’t be. Start somewhere else. While back, I remember this stubborn kid who wouldn’t quit believing in me, not ‘til I was ready to start believing in myself.” There was a tightness in Len’s chest - fondness at the memory. “Think it’s about time I repaid him.”

     The months that followed went well, even if the going wasn’t always smooth. Len could still see the way guilt sat on Barry’s shoulders, but it was like the weight of it and the darkness it brought seemed to diminish, the light Len had so strongly associated with Barry beginning to resurface.

     And with that came other parts of Barry’s past life. Cisco Ramon bursting into the Labs after Barry had used his powers for the first time in years - a covert test, Barry not comfortable with working in the public eye yet - and dragging a rather domesticated looking Hartley Rathaway in behind him. (Really, Len shouldn’t have been surprised by that one). The all-too-familiar pain was back in Barry’s eyes then, and Len was ready to step in at Barry’s side, give him the reassurances he’d needed from the start. Except that Cisco never gave him the chance, the engineer too overjoyed to finally see his friend again to do anything but initiate a tackling hug. Len was glad to see the hurt wiped so thoroughly from Barry’s face. Even Rathaway seemed happy for them. If not a bit tired, though Cisco had dragged him along at 3 AM. Now that was no surprise to Len.

     Over time, more people began trickling back into Barry’s life. Some that Len knew - without seeing it, he knew Barry’s reunion with the good detective had been particularly emotional, holding him in his arms that night as Barry fought tears without success. Then there were the others he’d never officially met - Felicity Smoak was likable enough, though the same couldn’t be said of Oliver Queen. Len could play nice for Barry’s sake, but he didn’t get along with the man any more than he had in 2046. And of course there was the rest of the latest iteration of Team Flash; given time, they were even able to get through to the Dr. Snow still present in Killer Frost. The joy in Barry’s eyes at having his friends and family back was more than worth all the odd jobs Len had been forced to carry out across time. Just seeing that, Len found himself feeling truly happy, too, for the first time in far too long.

      Some time later, the Legends even showed to give Barry a proper welcome back to this insanity-filled life they all led. Though Len personally revelled in the varied levels of shock on their faces at seeing him alive and well. At least until Mick and Lisa barrelled at him with their own tackling hugs, calling him an asshole and threatening him to never pull that shit again, or else they’d kill him themselves. They’d gone soft, all of them, working with the heroes. And doing more besides. He didn’t miss the looks Lisa and Sara gave each other, or the way Raymond liked to inch closer to Mick at any available moment. To see his sister and best friend find happy endings of their own and still welcome him back like nothing had ever changed - it was all Len could’ve hoped for, even if Mick and Raymond was something he wouldn’t have ever seen coming.

     Although, to be fair, back when this all started, he wouldn’t have seen any of it coming. But it felt right all the same. Finally.

     It took another couple months after that for Len to realize something wasn’t the same after all. His mission. The Timestream. Aberrations. The thought had slipped his mind almost entirely since realizing why he’d been brought here in the first place. He didn’t know why it occurred to him when it did, laying awake in bed, a sleeping Barry at his side. But every time before, the Timestream would take him away when his work was done, send him off toward another time the Legends had invariably altered (to put it lightly). And up to this point, until he was finished, it would pull at him, an invisible cord in his gut, force him to figure out the problem and its solution in nothing short of record time.

     There was no tug in his gut now, no incessant pull of the Timestream. Like it had released him. Gave him one last job and let him stay at Barry’s side, his last mission complete.

     Leaning over, he pressed a kiss to Barry’s forehead before laying down and cuddling close, savoring the feeling of his happy ending.

     He wouldn’t have it any other way.