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winterscaptain · 4 years

Text

enough.

Aaron Hotchner x Gender Neutral Reader

a/n: here’s a little thing i put together to fill in some holes. it takes place the first week of aaron’s recovery at home, about halfway through his month-long medical leave following faceless, nameless.

words: 2.5k warnings: description of wound dressing, canon-typical injury, language, brief body image mention (scarring)

summary: “not taking your pain meds doesn’t make you captain america. it just makes you stupid, and in pain.” in other words: healing is annoying and certainly non-linear.

masterlist | a joyful future masterlist | requests closed!

You knock on his door, takeout in your hand. “It’s me!”

After a minute of silence on the other side of the door, you take your keys out of your pocket and start to open the door. “Don’t shoot me. I’m using my keys.” You move to open it, and the chain is in place.

Damn it, Aaron.

Then -

Is he okay?

“Aaron?” You call through the gap in the door. You leave the keys in the knob and pull your phone out of your pocket, hitting the first number on your speed dial.

You hear his phone ring, a smack, and both from down the hallway and through the speaker (with an echo): “Hotchner.”

“I’m here with dinner. Open the door.”

His voice is thick with sleep. “You have a key, right?”

“The chain is on. I’m surprised I didn’t trip the alarm.”

He makes a little dissatisfied noise and hangs up. You can hear him plant his feet and amble down the hallway.

You smile a little at him as he approaches the door, almost looking inconvenienced as he shuts it, removes the chain lock, and opens it again.

“Are you seriously upset that I brought you food?”

He shakes his head and steps back, letting you in before closing it. “No, sorry. I just didn’t mean to fall asleep.”

You take stock of him as he turns his back on you and sits on the couch, settling with a slowness that looks painful. You set the food down and then return to lock the door. It’s easier for him to answer your question when you’re not looking at him.

“How are you feeling?”

A sigh. “Alright.”

You look over your shoulder as you slide the chain lock back into place. “Don’t lie to me. It won’t work.”

His head is in the takeout bag as he answers, still avoiding your eyes. “I’m sore and I can’t sleep at night and everything is healing slower than I want.”

There we go.

You sit beside him. “Do your dressings need to be changed?”

“I got most of them earlier, and Jess came over to help me yesterday, but there are a few that need to wrap around and I can’t -” He stops with a huff. “I can’t reach without -”

You put a gentle hand on his shoulder. “I got it.”

His jaw is tight, shaky. “Thanks.”

“First,” you say, grabbing one of the boxes, “food.”

There’s a grateful little pull of his lips as you dig in. The news is on, but you pick up the remote and change it to some ridiculous reality TV program.

“I was watching that.”

“No you weren’t.”

He wasn’t.

You avoid his exasperated eyes as you set the remote on your side of the couch - farther than he can reach without stretching.

You eat together in silence, the trainwreck on the television only marginally holding your attention. When you glance at him, you catch the side of his face twinge when he reaches for his glass of water.

“You know, not taking your pain meds doesn’t make you Captain America. It just makes you stupid, and in pain.”

He levels you with a glare.

+++

“Stop squirming.”

“Sorry.”

With gentle fingers, you tape and tuck gauze around one of the wounds on his ribs. He flinches, a little pained noise leaving his throat.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” Your fingers flutter for a second before setting back to work. Reaching blindly behind you, you grab the roll of gauze wrapping. “Hang on for just a second - this isn’t going to feel good.”

He takes a deep breath (as deep as he can, anyway, considering his injuries), and you begin wrapping the dressing around his ribs, passing the roll from one hand to the other. He grits his teeth whenever it pulls the right amount, and your lower lip disappears between your teeth.

“I’m going to tuck it in front so you can reach it, okay?”

He nods, his eyes closed.

You’re sitting on his desk while he’s perched on the edge of his chair, his arm resting along the back - up and out of the way. This is the only place in the apartment he’s comfortable removing his shirt.

Every other room has a mirror or a big window.

“Okay, one more.”

You’ve saved the hardest one for last, but it has to go in that order. It’s the one just above his collarbone, right off the hollow of his throat, that needs the most attention and frequent changes.

You tip his chin with the tip of your finger, giving you more space to work.

Gingerly pulling at the tape, you remove the soiled dressing. Aaron’s breath comes as deep as he can through his teeth. When it quickens, you stop.

You readjust so he can keep his head where it is and you can sit in his eye line. He meets your eyes with a tight jaw.

“What can I do, Aaron?”

He closes his eyes again and tilts his head further to the side. “Just keep going.”

The tears come unbidden into your eyes as you continue your work, but your hands and breath are steady. You can hear him match his breath to yours and you’re thankful for your relative composure.

The wound still looks wretched - angry and red and black and blue and weeping - but it’s not infected.

You hold a towel up and he gingerly presses it to his chest while you reach for the wound wash, hiding your face from him.

“Thirty seconds, thirty seconds,” you assure him. “Do you want me to count?”

He shakes his head. “Just do it.”

You shoot a gentle stream of the solution across the open tissue, held together by more stitches than you want to count, both internal and external. Anguished noises leave his chest through his teeth and you know he’s trying to suppress them with unsteady breath. His eyes are shut impossibly tight, and you can see unauthorized tears gathering in the corners.

This is always the hardest part, and you’ve never gotten through it without crying. You hate how much he hurts. It’s like you can feel it yourself, the sting, the bone-deep ache, the throbbing.

Tears fall down your cheeks, some landing on your shirt and others wandering down your throat.

Even then, he knows you don’t pity him.

If he thought that, he wouldn’t let you anywhere near him.

You wash and dab, wash and dab, until the wound is clean and fluid-free, apologizing the whole time. You throw both the wash and gauze to the side and reach for fresh wrapping while swiping at your eyes.

Fuck.

“Just a second.”

You’ve touched your face, so now you have to wash your hands. Again. You leave him and go into the kitchen, wash and dry your hands, and return to him.

He catches your eyes before you settle back down. There’s something behind his eyes you can’t name, and it sends something flying around your body.

You always feel a little guilty for your tears, but he understands. He thought for a moment, in the beginning, about what he would do if the situation was reversed.

After scant seconds of consideration, he had decided he could never be as composed as you, as vulnerable and open as you. He could never offer to clean and dress your wounds - the thought of causing you pain of any sort, even helpful pain, was unbearable.

Besides that, he would be so angry that you were hurt at all and wouldn’t be able to keep his hands steady.

At the very least, he would probably scare you with the intensity of his fury. Anyone who ever laid a hand on you would be subject to a wrath comparable to that of God.

And Aaron’s mom is Catholic, so he would know.

There is not a moment where he takes your execution of this particular task for granted. He knows how difficult it is. He thinks, perhaps, that this is the bravest act of love he’s ever seen.

But could you love him?

Love?

No.

Too old. Too broken. Too divorced. Too married to work. Too poor a father. Too many other things that make me wholly undeserving.

He couldn’t, wouldn’t, subject you to himself.

He’s satisfied loving you in silence. He’d done it for a while now, he realized, after his conversation with Haley.

It would have to be enough.

It would have to be enough to watch you carry on with your joyful, vibrant life.

It would have to be enough to watch your face light up for someone who loves you, who puts a ring on your finger and makes you happy.

It would have to be enough to spoil your children if and when you became a parent, to hold the title ‘Uncle Aaron’ instead of ‘Dad.’

It would have to be enough to know you would outlive him and die loved.

It would have to be enough.

You pick up your tools again, using three fingertips this time to tip his head to the side at the temple. He almost smiles.

“What?”

He shakes his head the barest amount and raises his eyebrows. “Nothing.”

With a roll of your still-watery eyes, you get back to work, folding and pressing the gauze to the wound with a light, even pressure. You try to ignore Aaron’s hiss as the smile dissolves off his face, replaced by restraint and pain.

Holding the pad in place with one hand, you take the tape, hanging the roll on your thumb while you pull with your other hand. You tape all around the perimeter of it, gently warming the adhesive against his skin.

“Alright. Almost done.”

You have him hold the end right under the wound while you stand to better get around him. Once, like a sash, around his shoulder and across his back and under his other arm, once around his ribs, repeat.

Again, you tear and tuck it in front so he can reach, and gently pat it into place.

When it’s low-profile enough to disappear under his shirt -

“Finished.”

You turn and gather everything into the little bin that lives under his bathroom counter before he can say anything. He watches you, and you can feel his eyes at your back.

The first time you came to visit after he got home, he was worried you’d look at him differently, was worried you’d pity him.

He shouldn’t have.

You showed up at the door looking at him just the same way you always did. He wasn’t sure quite what way that was, exactly, but it was the same.

The first time you offered to help him with his dressings, he refused outright. It was only when you saw that a wound on his left side had ripped a little and bled through his shirt that you wrestled him down and took care of it.

Harder still than exposing his pain? Taking off his shirt. You’d reached for the top button the first time and he flinched like he’d been burned.

He refused to meet your eyes.

“What on earth are you so afraid of?”

He opened his mouth as if he was going to raise his voice at you, but then snapped it shut, his jaw working. His eyes were trained on the carpet.

“Hey.”

He looked at you somewhat reluctantly.

“It’s just me.”

I know, he thought, that’s the problem.

“This,” you gesture to his general torso area, “is not going to scare me or freak me out. What does freak me out, however -” You point at him with a packet of sterile gauze. “- is the thought of you trying to do this on your own, ripping your stitches, you not going back to the hospital, getting infected, going septic, and having a generally bad time.”

He finally speaks, the barest bit of sarcasm in his tone. “That’s quite a reach, isn’t it?”

You shoot him a withering look. “If you can look me in the eye and tell me you’d willingly go back to get your stitches fixed every time you ripped them, I’ll leave you alone.”

He won't meet your eyes again, looking like a guilty child as his eyes wander to the corner of the room with a bit of a squint.

You made your point rather elegantly.

You pass him his shirt over your shoulder and he takes it, slipping his arms into the sleeves.

His ridiculous number of button ups were coming in handy, especially considering the increased risk of stains. You’ve soaked more shirts in peroxide in the last week than you care to count.

Occupational hazard, I guess.

You pick up the little bin and take it back into the bathroom, your fingers tracing over the framed photos of Haley and Jack in the hall as you pass.

There’s one of you and Haley, too, at some sort of summer function where you were all together. If you aren’t mistaken, Jess took the photo as you and Haley lounged in lawn chairs, laughing.

Another one of the two of you sits on the dresser in Aaron’s bedroom. You’ve never seen it.

It’s another Jess-capture. Haley has Jack in her arms, kissing him on one cheek with a smile while you press a kiss to the other, eyes shut tight. One of your hands rests lightly on Haley’s arm, the other makes bunny ears over Jack’s head. The boy’s face is all crinkled like he hates it, but Aaron knows that photo was bookended by a screech of laughter and many, many giggles.

+++

You bounce into the office in the morning, looking no worse for wear even after spending the night on Aaron’s couch.

Hey, it’s a comfortable couch.

The pair of you stayed out on the couch watching bad movies far later than you meant to, but it’s alright.

Not the first time that’s happened.

You could neither confirm nor deny that Aaron slept, but you saw, through his open bedroom door, that he was still and quiet for most of the night.

“You look chipper this morning,” Penelope notes.

You shrug. “I slept well last night.”

“How’s Hotch?” Emily asks.

You make a little wavering noise. “About how you’d expect, but alright.”

It’s later in the day when Dave pulls you aside and thanks you, wrapping you in his arms.

You lean into him and you’re almost frustrated, but not surprised, when tears press at your eyes again. It seems you’re made of them, these days.

“We’re so lucky to have you.”

You shake your head, burrowing into his shoulder. “Other way around.”

He pulls back and kisses you on the cheek, patting your other one affectionately before offering his hand to you. “Agree to disagree?”

You roll your eyes and shake on it.

“Sure, Dave. Sure.”

+++

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specialagentsergio · 3 years

Text

all we can do is keep breathing || chapter two

summary: Spencer’s doing better, but recovery isn’t linear, and some scars run deeper than either of you knew.

pairing: spencer reid x gn!reader

category: angst (eventual happy ending)

content warnings: swearing, drug abuse & addiction, substance use disorder, ptsd, descriptions of panic attacks/ptsd episodes, recollection of past bullying, unhealthy coping mechanisms, yelling/fighting, negative feelings towards other team members, body image issues

a/n: i was so taken aback by the response to chapter one--i didn’t think anyone would even read it tbh. thank you all and thanks for being patient with my lack of an upload schedule. i'm so sorry the word count is massive again. you get tummy appreciation, though, because 1) we all love spencer’s tummy, and 2) i personally gained weight when i was in residential treatment and it can be a bit of a mindfuck lol.

a/n 2: repeated disclaimer that i'm not a doctor, psychologist, psychiatrist, etc., just a direct care staff, past rtc patient and trauma recovery enthusiast. the horse therapy is pretty much entirely based on my own personal experience from nearly a decade ago, so don’t expect it to be an accurate portrayal of equine-assisted psychotherapy.

word count: 7.3k

song: you will be found from dear evan hansen

fic masterlist || masterlist

He’s been looking forward to the start of equine therapy since he got a spot in the program. But instead of being excited the morning of, Spencer ends up crying for an hour straight.

The day started off fine. It wasn’t hard to get up with the horses to look forward to, and he was able to get an extra plate at breakfast, so he could keep the pancake syrup from touching the eggs and sausage. Art therapy was a few hours later. He’d started to actually enjoy the pottery project—the recreational therapist had brought him a box of disposable gloves to use so the feeling of drying clay on his hands was no longer a problem.

Everyone’s projects were coming out of the kiln today and the next step was painting them. He’d been planning out the design and colors he wanted to use since the project started and was excited to finally start applying it.

Then he dropped his item, it broke into pieces, and he burst into tears.

He’d fled the room on instinct alone and curled up in a corner of the hallway, pressing his knees to his forehead. He was upset about the pottery, and upset that he was so affected by it breaking. He felt stupid and silly for crying over it, which only made him cry harder.

He heard distant laughter and he clapped his hands over his ears. He was being laughed at again for being a crybaby. He didn’t want to be a crybaby. He wanted to stop crying, he just couldn’t. The goalpost was cold against the bare skin of his back, and his wrists were starting to burn from the ties.

I want to go home. Just let me go home, please, I’ll do anything. Let me go, let me go--

“Spencer, it’s okay. You’re safe here. Can you repeat after me? I’m safe here.”

Safe here. Safe here.

Art therapy was over by the time he came out of it.

He has lunch at his therapist’s office instead of with the group. Lara asks what his flashback had been to.

He picks at his food. “It happened a long time ago. I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Alright. Can you tell me how it felt instead?”

Spencer isn’t really hungry, but bites into his sandwich to stall for time. She doesn’t rush him. Eventually, he asks, “Do you know what alexithymia means?”

“No words for feelings,” she replies.

He nods. “That’s all.”

Lara opens one of her desk drawers and pulls out a composition notebook, which she then hands to him.

“What’s this for?”

“I want you to start trying to notice your feelings and sensations throughout the day. Make some kind of note, even if you don’t exactly have the words to describe it.”

He sighs. “Why?”

“Just noticing what you feel can help you develop emotional regulation,” she explains. She’s always been honest with him about the why of what she wants him to try and do. “It’s going to help you stop ignoring what’s going on inside you.”

I don’t want to do that.

“I know you don’t.”

“I didn’t mean to say that out loud,” he blurts. “That either. I—god.” He quickly takes another bite of food before he can say more.

“It’s fine. I didn’t expect you to like it,” Lara says with a small smile. “I’m sure the thought of confronting what you’ve been suppressing and avoiding is scary. But getting better requires you to do a lot of scary things.”

Spencer wants to protest. Being strapped to a chair in a shed and dosed against your will is scary. Your mother being diagnosed with Alzheimer's is scary. Being sent to prison for a crime you didn’t commit is scary. Feeling things? That’s not scary.

Isn’t it?

He tries not to think on it too much.

Despite the unpleasant thoughts running through his mind, Spencer finds himself nodding off on the van ride to the horse ranch. His eyes unfocus, his blink rate slows… and then he jerks back awake at the sensation of his head falling forward.

A frustrated noise escapes the back of his throat. He’s sick of feeling tired all the time. He’s getting enough sleep in theory, but still finds himself drowsy at least once a day. It’s to the point that he’s regularly wearing his glasses instead of his contacts to keep his eyes from feeling quite so dry. He pushes them back up now as he tries to tune back in to his surroundings.

“… don’t get how seeing some horse is supposed to make me feel better.” That’s Aiden’s voice. He’s Spencer’s new roommate. He wasn’t happy when he found out he was getting a new one, having much preferred having the room to himself, but it’s been okay so far, mostly because they keep out of each other’s way. Aiden seems uninterested in making friends, and that suits Spencer just fine. Lara’s been encouraging him to talk to fellow patients instead of just the direct care staff, but he’s resisted it. The last time he befriended someone, they ended up--

Spencer’s fine with the two of them keeping to themselves.

Melanie, one of the staff accompanying them, is leaned over the back of the middle seat as she talks to Aiden. “Well, I couldn’t tell you why exactly, but I’ve seen this program help a lot of people in my time here,” she says. “Spencer?”

“What?”

“You’ve been reading a lot about horses, right?” At his nod, she continues, “What have you found out?”

“Equine-assisted psychotherapy lacks the rigorous scientific evidence to demonstrate if it provides benefits in mental health treatment. Horses have been used to aid in psychiatric treatment since the 1990’s, though,” he says. He intends to stop there, but can’t stop himself from continuing. “It doesn’t necessarily involve riding, but may include grooming, feeding, and ground exercises. The goal is to help the client in social, emotional, cognitive, and or behavioral ways.”

He can feel Aiden’s eyes on him and takes a breath before meeting them. He knows all too well that his infodumps aren’t always well received. He doesn’t want to be friends, but would prefer for his roommate to not view him with disdain or annoyance. But Aiden looks interested, and says as much--”that’s interesting.” He looks like he wants to say more, but doesn’t, and there’s silence between them for the remainder of the drive. It’s not uncomfortable, though.

When the van pulls into a parking spot and everyone starts to get out, Spencer begins to feel nervous. He’s read everything he could get his hands on, but as a relatively new therapy, there’s no standard program; it varies by facility, so he doesn’t know exactly what to expect. He’s been looking forward to this, but what if it turns out to be a bad fit for him? What if the people here don’t like him? What if the horses don’t like him?

He hangs at the back of their group of ten—six patients and two staff—as they’re led to a shaded area. They’re introduced to the program director and assistants, and are given an overview of what they’ll be doing over the next six weeks. They won’t be riding the horses, just doing groundwork (he’s not sure if he feels relieved or disappointed). Then he learns that intention of this specific program isn’t just for the horses to help the clients—the clients are to help the horses as well. The animals all have the gentle temperaments suited for therapy, but also have their own struggles. A lot of them were adopted out of poor situations.

They’re led to a circular corral next and spaced equidistantly around the edge. Spencer’s heart rate picks up as the horses are brought in—the animals will be picking their therapy partner, the director says. As they’re let off their leads a jolt of anxiety runs through his body, making him twitch slightly. This feels uncomfortably familiar to school P.E. when teams were picked. No one wanted him then. What’s gong to happen if none of the horses want him, either? He looks down at his shoes.

But just a few moments later, he hears his name, and looks up to see one of the horses approaching him. “Looks like you and Chance are our first pair,” the director is saying.

First?

Chance is almost entirely black, save for a spot of white between his eyes and above his nose. His size is a little intimidating, but his demeanor is gentle. One of the assistants comes up to Spencer and instructs him to hold out his hand so the horse can sniff it.

His hand trembles slightly as he lifts it. Warm breath hits his fingers as Chance sniffs at it. Then the horse presses his nose completely against his hand. The moistness would usually bother Spencer, but for some reason it doesn’t. Instead, a smile slowly spreads across his face. The assistant tells him he can pet Chance now. He runs his hand up and down the horse’s snout, and despite the slight coarseness of the hair, finds it soothing.

The horse shuffles closer when Spencer is given his lead to hold. A startled laugh escapes him when Chance presses his nose into his neck. He pats his head a few times, then takes a tiny step back. He’s thrilled that at least one of the horses likes him, but feels a little crowded by the large animal. To his surprise, Chance seems to understand, and takes a step back of his own.

He absently pats his horse as he watches the rest of the group pair up. He still can’t believe he was picked first.

The rest of their time with the horses is very simple. They’re taught how to lead them, and after practicing in the corral, they take the horses back to their paddocks. Spencer’s disappointed to say goodbye already, but understands the need to not overwhelm the horses or even themselves. “I’ll see you next week,” he finds himself whispering to Chance.

There’s ten minutes left in the session, and it’s spent with the director telling them more about each horses’ specific background. Chance was poorly treated by his previous owner, mostly kept locked up in a small barn and not properly cared for. He has many talents and abilities, the director says. He needs to learn that he didn’t deserve to be treated the way he was, and be told that he is brave.

Spencer rests his chin in his hand and stares out the window on the drive back to the treatment center. He knows from his reading that horses are emotionally intelligent creatures, but he’s still… well, amazed by how the horses all picked who was most similar to them out of the group instinctively.

He feels more understood by an animal he’s interacted with for twenty minutes than he has by a person for months.

Before bed that night, he chews on the stem of his pen cap, thinking over the events of his day. Slowly, in a manner that could almost be described as cautious, he picks up the empty composition book Lara gave him and opens it. His hand hovers over the blank page for a few moments, then he puts pen on paper and begins to write.

---

You made dinner reservations for his visit this Saturday. You’re getting ready for it when there’s a knock on the front door.

“I’ll get it,” Spencer calls from the living room.

You return to fixing your hair up. You’re not expecting anyone, so it’s probably just a package or a neighbor. But just a few moments later, you hear Spencer raise his voice.

“No! No, I don’t—don’t touch me, please.”

You’re only half dressed, but hurry out to the living room anyways. When you round the corner, you immediately see what the problem is: JJ has dropped by unexpectedly.

It’s not that Spencer doesn’t want to see his team. They just bring memories with them, and he had decided shortly after his birthday that he wasn’t ready to confront that yet.

He’s standing a little ways back from the door, staring at JJ while she looks back with hurt on her face. “Spence--” she starts before she sees you.

At Spencer’s side, you place a hand on his arm and he takes a step behind you. “JJ, what are you doing here?”

She struggles to keep her eyes off of him as she answers. “(Y/N), I’m sorry, I just—Will and I made cookies with the boys today and we had a lot of extra, so I just wanted to drop some off for you. I—I didn’t know Spence was here. I didn’t mean to--”

You hold up a hand to stop her. “It’s okay, JJ. You couldn’t have known. You were just trying to do something nice.”

She nods, relieved at your understanding. “Yeah. Yeah, I….” She blows out a breath, then holds out a plastic wrapped plate of cookies to you. You take it from her with a quiet thank you. Then she looks back to the man that’s essentially hiding behind you as best as he can, despite how tall he is. “Spence, I’m sorry. I didn’t realize you wouldn’t want me to touch you.”

There’s a tug on your clothing as he curls his fingers into the fabric on the small of your back. You tilt your head to look at him, but his gaze is on the floor. “You…” he glances up once, then looks back down. “You should ask next time,” he says quietly.

“Okay,” she replies, just as softly. “I will.”

You bite down on the inside of your cheeks to hold back a smile. Spencer often struggles to advocate for his needs, especially with his friends and colleagues, in fear of being a burden or more of a nuisance than he thinks others already perceive him as. He did it a lot with you when you first started dating. It took a lot of time and reassurance that yes, you really did want to know his wants and needs, for him to open up. Telling JJ to ask before touching him may seem small from the outside, but it’s a big deal for him.

After a rather awkward silence, JJ speaks again. “Well, um, I should get going. Just… let us know if you need anything, okay, Spence? We—the team, we’re all here for you.”

“That’s rich,” Spencer mutters behind you and you freeze. You recognize that edge to his voice. It’s usually accompanied by sharp words and remarks that he’ll regret later.

Please please please tell me JJ didn’t hear that.

“I’m sorry?”

Fuck.

“I hate to rush you out, JJ, but we have dinner reservations, so--” you try to interject but Spencer speaks over you.

“I’m just saying, why should I believe you’re here for me when you weren’t last time?”

JJ’s eyebrows come together. “I… don’t understand, I’ve always--”

“No, you haven’t!” It’s like Spencer can’t get the words out fast enough, the way he keeps interrupting before either of you can finish a sentence. This is clearly something that’s been weighing on him. You just wish he was unloading it onto his therapist rather than poor JJ, his best friend outside of you, who’s just trying to be nice. “Ten years ago I was shooting up in police station bathrooms and Emily is the only one who said a damn thing.”

His grip on your clothes tightens, forcing you to take a step back. You move the plate of cookies to one hand and reach back with the other, circling it around his wrist. “Spencer.”

Realization dawns on JJ’s face and she crosses her arms. “Spence, I couldn’t--”

“You couldn’t.” The little laugh he lets out derisive. “Yeah, I’ve heard that before.”

You don’t know where all this is coming from or what he’s referring to, but JJ does, her expression hardening.

“You know what would have happened if the higher ups found out,” she says. “I was protecting your job. We all were.”

“You shouldn’t have!” he cries, emotions other than anger seeping into the words. “This damn job is one of the worst things that’s ever happened to me! I got anthrax poisoning, I still have issues with my knee from being shot. I nearly died from a shot in the neck, and let’s not forget, I was framed for murder by a psychopath I arrested, who then kidnapped my mother while I was in prison! Oh, and what else? Oh right, this job is the reason I’m a fucking addict in the first place!”

JJ’s clearly trying to hold back tears now, but one slips out and your heart aches for her. You close your eyes briefly and take a deep breath, then speak quietly but firmly. “Spencer, you need to leave the room.”

You can hear him breathing shakily behind you. “(Y/N)--”

“Now.” You squeeze his wrist and he finally lets go of your clothing. He takes a few steps away, stops, turns back and opens his mouth to say something, but at the look you give him, shuts it and continues on his way out.

A sniffle draws your attention back to JJ, who’s looking up at the ceiling and swiping at the tears sliding down. “Sorry,” she mutters. “I shouldn’t have come by without giving you a heads-up. I’ve just made things worse.”

“No, JJ, don’t be sorry. It--” There’s thumping noises from further back in the apartment so you step forward and shut the front door behind you. She has her arms wrapped around herself when you turn back.

“It’s not your fault,” you continue. “You were just trying to be nice. You’re a good friend to him. He’s just… everything is really raw for him right now, if that makes sense?”

She nods, wiping at her eyes again.

“It’s, uh, not an excuse, though,” you clarify. “That’s not what I’m trying to say. You didn’t do anything wrong. That was all him, so please don’t blame yourself.”

JJ is quiet for a bit, staring at the floor. Then she says, “I should get going.”

“Yeah, that’s probably for the best,” you agree quietly. Realizing you’re still holding the plate of cookies in one hand, you lift it slightly and add, “Thanks for these. And, um… I’m so sorry about that.”

She shakes her head and glances at the door. “Don’t be. Like you said, it was all him,” she murmurs.

You know she’s right, but you’re still barely able to stop yourself from apologizing again as she descends the stairs. You can’t help but feel like you should have done more, stopped him somehow, even though you don’t know how you could have. The way his behavior changed… it was like he wanted to get it all out, and when Spencer Reid wants to say something, it’s nearly impossible to get him to stop.

The apartment isn’t quiet when you walk back in. There’s the scraping and clatter of a desk drawer, followed by frantic footsteps and the thud of books falling off the shelves. You know what he’s doing, and you know he won’t find anything, so you just lock the front door and continue on to the kitchen to put the cookies away.

You lean on the counter and cover your face with your hands. It doesn’t matter if you mess up your hair or face, or anything, really, because you’re not making it to dinner anymore.

You stay like that for a while, eyes closed, trying to think of a place to even start with Spencer after all of that. When the sounds of him tearing through the apartment stop, you lift you head back up and promptly jump—he’s staring at you from the nearest doorway.

“Jesus, Spencer--”

“Where’s my stuff?” he asks, and the seriousness in his tone of voice makes your anxiety spike. You know exactly what he means by stuff.

“It’s gone. What did you think was gonna happen?”

“Yeah, but it’s…” he trails off and his expression puzzles you. It almost looks like he’s confused. “It’s all gone.”

Ah. “Yeah, well, I know you think you’re sneaky, but you’re very much the opposite when you’re not sober,” you reply. “Finding your hiding spots wasn’t hard.”

He drops his gaze to the floor, frowning. “I don’t like it when you move my things,” he says quietly.

“I don’t like it when you use,” you counter.

He visibly flinches, then his hand tightens on the door frame. “I’m not going to—to take it, I just want to hold it. Where’s my stuff?” he repeats.

“Holding it, right,” you sigh.

“It’s comforting,” he argues.

“Even if I believed that, it wouldn’t matter, Spencer. I threw it all out. There’s none here.”

The humming noise he makes is angry, and he rocks back and forth on his feet in an agitated manner. “You shouldn’t… I don’t….”

I don’t have the energy for this. It’s a thought you feel terrible about as soon as you have it, but it’s the truth. Lara had cautioned you before his first visit that he was going to be hypersensitive to disappointment and frustration until he learned how to cope with the feelings he’d been using the Dilaudid to block out. Unfortunately, the information, while useful, didn’t always make his emotional extremes easier to deal with.

You run a hand down your face. “Spencer…” you start. You’re not sure what to continue with, but you don’t have to—for whatever reason, that sets him off.

He tears his eyes away from the floor to glare at you. “Don’t—don’t touch my things ever again!” Then he turns and all but runs to the bedroom, slamming the door behind him.

You suck in a breath and drop your head to the counter. The marble is cool and you thump your forehead against it gently a few times, focusing on breathing in and out slowly to calm down. When you’re ready, you walk as quietly as you can to the bedroom door and press your ear against it to hear the unmistakable sound of Spencer sobbing into his pillow.

Part of you wants to go in and comfort him, but you suspect that you’d just make it worse right now since some of his frustration is directed at you. And truth be told, you’re frustrated with him, too. So you retreat to the living room, flopping down on the couch and pulling out your phone to call the restaurant to cancel your reservations. Doing so is more upsetting than you expected; a few tears of your own slide down your face after you hang up. Before you know it, you’re calling Tara.

“Hey, what’s up?” she asks you.

“I…” You swallow down the lump in your throat. “Spencer’s… we’re having a bad day. If you’re not busy, can I talk to you about it?”

“Of course,” is her gentle reply, and you pull yourself to your feet, moving to the farthest point away from the bedroom in the apartment so Spencer won’t overhear.

“He got angry when you told him you got rid of everything?” she guesses when you reach that part.

“Yeah. He told me that he doesn’t like it when I move his things. I already knew that; that’s why everything else is where he left it. I think he was mostly just caught off guard that I knew all his hiding places.”

“If he’s having a trauma response to seeing JJ, he’s not going to be thinking clearly, either,” Tara points out. “I wasn’t there, so I could be wrong, but from what you’ve said, it sounds like she was some sort of trigger for him.”

“That’s more than a fair assessment. It’s just… confusing,” you say. “He wasn’t like this with her when he first got home from prison. He actually spent a lot of time at JJ’s house before his relapse. He’d go over and hold Michael when he couldn’t sleep. Why is seeing his best friend suddenly such a bad thing?”

“I don’t know, but it doesn’t have to make sense to us. It only has to make sense to the traumatized part of the brain,” she explains. “He may not even know why himself.”

“Hmm.” You ponder it for a moment. “I think I’d find that interesting if I wasn’t living it.”

Tara laughs out loud at that. “Yeah, I’ve found that to be rather commonplace sentiment in the field of psychology.”

You take a deep breath and let it out slowly, feeling calmer. “Thanks for listening,” you say. “I feel better now.”

“Anytime, (Y/N).”

You exchange goodbyes, making plans to catch up properly over lunch next week. You hang up, then tiptoe back to the bedroom door. It’s quiet now; Spencer seems to have stopped crying. You knock softly. “Honey? Can I come in?”

When he doesn’t respond, you try the door handle. It’s unlocked, which is a good sign—he’s upset, but not upset enough to completely shut you out. You open the door just enough to look in.

Spencer’s on the bed as expected, huddled under his weighted blanket. His back is to the door and you see his shoulders shuddering in the little breaths that follow him crying. In your experience, he usually seeks out comfort before this stage, often having the breakdown itself in your arms or stumbling into them halfway through. This is a bit of uncharted territory. You know that after outbursts of negative emotions, he tends to need reassurance and touch from someone to help him decompress and feel better. You just don’t know if that’s going to hold true for this kind of reaction. A trauma response, Tara called it. You hope it will, because you don’t know what else to do.

“I’m going to come in now,” you tell him before taking a step inside. You leave the door open behind you so he won’t feel trapped, then slowly approach him, looking out for signs that he doesn’t want you near—tensing muscles, slight rocking, shaking his head—but he stays still.

Once you sit down on the edge of the bed you can see his face. His eyes are puffy and his cheeks are red and raw from wiping away tears. A few are still slipping out, sliding sideways down his face and dropping onto the wet patch on his pillowcase as he stares blankly at the wall across the room.

Hesitantly, you reach out and touch his arm as lightly as you can. He takes in a deep breath, but does nothing to suggest that he wants you to remove it. After a few moments to ensure that he’s okay with touch, you start running your hand up and down his back. He whimpers a little in response, closing his eyes and titling back into your touch.

“Are you okay?” you ask softly.

You don’t get a straightforward answer. He chews on his bottom lip for a bit before speaking in a scratchy voice. “Can you…?” he mumbles, lifting his head up slightly from the pillow, then dropping it back down. You don’t know what he’s asking for until you see some of his fingers poking out from under the blanket and the stroking motion they’re making.

You maneuver across the mattress to sit against the headboard, jostling him as little as you can, and he shifts to place his head in your lap. When you start carding your fingers through his hair, his eyes flutter closed and he lets out a little sigh.

“What’s going on?” you ask once the tension has faded and his body has settled fully into the mattress. He just shrugs and you press your lips together to hold back a sigh. You’re familiar with him going nonverbal and you know that he can’t help it, but it’s discouraging. One of the main things he’s been working on is being more open about his emotions. It’s been a welcome change to not have to pry things out of him. But he seems to have gone right back to old habits tonight and it’s… well, it’s disappointing.

The silence carries on for a long time as you continue to run your hands through his hair. He’s so still and relaxed that you think he may have fallen asleep until he takes in a deep, shuddering breath and clears his throat. “I… I want to go back,” he whispers.

“Back whe--” you start, then your heart drops as you realize what he means. “Oh.”

Your hands fall to your lap as he sits up and clambers out of bed, muttering, “gonna get changed.” He shuts the bathroom door behind him—for whatever reason, he’s not always comfortable with you seeing him changing or in the shower anymore—and you sit still for a few moments, processing what he just said. After over a month of listening to him express his desire to come home—begging you, even, in the beginning—you were unprepared to hear the opposite.

You shake your head slightly to try and clear it, then follow his lead, leaving the bed and changing out of your fancy clothes, trying not to think about how much you had been looking forward to wearing them to the restaurant.

Spencer remains quiet for the drive back to his treatment center, staring out the passenger side window, legs pulled into his chest. He mumbles a quick “bye” to you when you check him back in—no hug or kiss on the cheek like you’ve grown accustomed to. Instead he turns right back to the nurse and staff member running the process and asks, “Is Matt working tonight? I need to talk to him.”

At least he wants to talk to someone, you tell yourself as you leave, trying to soothe the sting caused by the fact that the someone isn’t you.

---

The next time you see him is six days later, on Friday evening. You’ve only talked once since Saturday, over the phone on Wednesday night, and it wasn’t a long call. He was upset about the horse therapy appointment being canceled that afternoon because of the weather—it had rained hard all day—and didn’t say much else. He ended the call before the ten minute mark, saying that he was tired and wanted to go lie down.

He also didn’t request a visit for the weekend—he either didn’t think his treatment team would approve it or he just didn’t want one. So you’re visiting him at the center today. You’ve brought dinner with you—you cooked one of his favorites yourself—but before you eat, you’re having an appointment with him and his therapist.

Spencer glances up only briefly when you enter the office, quickly looking back down. One of his knees is bouncing.

You sit down on the other side of the couch, looking between him and Lara in the chair across from you. “So, um, what’s going on?” you ask.

Spencer looks to Lara and she gives him an encouraging nod. He takes in a deep breath before speaking. “I… I wanted to talk to you about what ha—happened last week,” he says quietly, keeping his gaze on his lap.

You don’t know why exactly he wants to do it here, with his therapist, but wanting to talk about it at all is a good sign.. “Okay. I’m listening.”

“Right, um. Seeing… seeing JJ, it--” he stops abruptly, and his hands tremble slightly as he runs them down his thighs. “Sorry, doing… doing this is making me really anxious.”

“Take your time,” Lara says and you nod in agreement.

“Okay.” He runs his hands through his hair a few times before continuing. “Se—seeing her brought up emotions and, and memories I wasn’t ready to, um, confront. It… it really tri—triggered me.”

“Yeah, I could tell,” you say quietly.

Spencer grimaces at the words. He lifts his hand, puts it back down, then lifts it again and rubs at one of his eyes. “I…” he starts, then fixes his gaze on the floor and goes silent.

“(Y/N).” You tear your eyes from him and look at Lara. “Is there anything you’d like to say to Spencer about Saturday? Maybe what it was like for you?”

“Oh. Um.” You chew on your bottom lip for a moment. You’ve worried about how what you say could effect him since his relapse—one of your biggest fears is saying something that would drive him to use. But it’s stressful to keep up with, and with his therapist is probably the best place to start ridding yourself of your new habit of… well, of walking on eggshells around him.

“I think it would be good for him to know,” Lara says.

“Alright.” You lace your fingers together in your lap. “I guess it was just… startling to me. JJ’s your best friend and you’ve never acted that way to her. Or anyone, really, other than your father.”

Spencer stays silent, but flinches at the mention of his dad.

“Do you have anything to say to that?” Lara prompts. He shakes his head, so she looks back to you. “How did seeing Spencer like that make you feel?”

You take in a deep breath and let it out slowly; you’re a little scared to say, not wanting to make him feel worse. “It was… distressing. Especially when he got mad at me for getting rid of his Dilaudid. I know he doesn’t like having his things touched without permission but I don’t think it was reasonable to expect that I wouldn’t have done that.”

Lara nods. “That makes sense. But our feelings aren’t always logical.”

“Yeah, I understand. I guess I just wish he would have told me what was wrong instead of being silent--”

Spencer finally speaks up then, in protest. “I couldn’t help it!”

“I—I know that,” you argue back. “I just—I’m just telling you how I felt.”

He looks away, folding his arms and sinking further into the couch.

“Spencer,” Lara says gently. “You wanted to know how (Y/N) felt, remember? And we talked about how you were probably going to hear things you wouldn’t like.”

You blink, taken aback that this was his idea. And with that comes the realization of just how long it’s been since he’s asked how you’re feeling. Thinking back, you realize that the last time you had a conversation that wasn’t only focused on his feelings and well-being was the day you found him asleep and tied to his mother. This… it’s Spencer before prison.

You’re drawn out of your thoughts by him sighing and muttering, “Yeah, I remember.”

“Alright. Anything else?” Lara asks you.

There’s a lot else, you’re discovering, but you’re not sure you can unpack it all right now. “Maybe…” you say. “Maybe he could just tell me what I can do to help when he’s… triggered?”

“I don’t know,” he says dully, and when he catches the small frown on your face, insists, “I don’t.”

“Yet,” Lara adds.

He sighs again. “Yet,” he repeats.

“I know it’s frustrating,” she says. “Your solution to these kinds of feelings before was denial or using. A solution, not just a problem,” she emphasizes. “I want you both to try and think of it like that, and get comfortable with the fact that it’s going to take awhile to overcome those habits.”

A solution, not a problem. It’s… weird to think of his addiction that way, but you can try, so you give her a nod.

“Yeah, yeah,” Spencer mumbles. But behind the defensive body language, he just seems tired.

He seems to relax a little when the meeting wraps up and it’s only the two of you in one of the rooms used for visits. He remains quiet, but when you place the plate of food you dish him across the table from yours, he slides it back and sits in the chair beside you. “Sorry,” he whispers as soon as you take a bite of food.

“For what?” you ask once you’ve swallowed.

“For yelling at you on Saturday,” he says quietly. “I was upset but I shouldn’t have yelled.”

His leg is bouncing under the table; you put your hand on his knee to still it. “Apology accepted,” you say softly.

He shakes his head slightly. “You don’t have to. I was awful to you on Saturday.”

You frown at his skewed interpretation of events. “Spencer, you really weren’t. You yelled at me, yes, but other than that, you were fine.” And you’ve said much worse when you’ve been high.

“I ruined dinner. And don’t say it’s not a big deal,” he adds before you can speak. “You mentioned it every time we spoke in the week leading up to it. You were really excited about it, and I ruined it.”

Spencer’s read you like a book—that was exactly what you were going to say. “Yeah, I was really looking forward to it,” you admit. “And it sucked to have to cancel the reservations. But there will be other dinners, and it’s not like you did it on purpose.”

“But what if I did?” His voice is so quiet that you wouldn’t have heard him if he wasn’t right next to you.

“What do you mean?”

“I just mean…” he rocks slightly in his seat, which you immediately recognize as one of his self-soothing behaviors. You move your hand from his knee to his hair, lightly running your fingers through the curls covering the nape of his neck to try and help. His head tilts forward a little at your touch and after a brief silence, he continues. “I just mean that self-sabotage wouldn’t exactly be something new for me.”

“Oh.” You take your time considering it; he won’t believe you if you give in to your knee-jerk reaction to protest the negative feelings he harbors towards himself. But he grows agitated at your silence, rocking a bit harder and rubbing at his eye. You tug his hair lightly without really thinking about it in response.

“I’m just thinking,” you assure. “You deserve an honest, thought-out answer.”

After taking a deep breath, he nods. “Okay. I understand. Maybe you could just, uh… to help c--comfort…” He swallows and his voice drops back to a whisper. “Could you do that again?”

“Do what?”

“Um, pull… pull my hair. You did that a few moments ago. Please?”

You almost want to tease him—a year ago, you would have. But he’s been so timid and unsure when asking for any intimate touch other than cuddling since he got back from prison. You don’t want to discourage him from asking any more than he seems to be discouraging himself.

“Of course, baby,” you answer softly, and do just that. He closes his eyes and drops his head onto your shoulder. “As far as the self-sabotaging goes, you’re… not good at lying to me,” you muse. “And after six years with you, I feel like I’m pretty familiar with all the ways Spencer Reid self-sabotages. This never even crossed my mind until you brought it up, so I don’t see that as being what happened.”

You can’t tell if he believes you. A neutral “okay” is all you get from him, but at least he’s not outright disagreeing.

You gently pull his hair a few more times. “You should eat before it gets cold and we have to heat it up again.”

He takes the suggestion, picking his fork up, but you’ve never seen him less enthused about eating one of his favorite foods. He’s only cleared half of his plate when you’re done with all of yours.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.”

You can’t help but sigh at the habitual response, and consider your next words carefully. “Spencer, I don’t mean to be pushy, but you told me you were working on not dismissing people’s concern for you when they express it.”

“I am,” he mutters, but doesn’t say anything else, just continues to push his food around his plate aimlessly.

“Well, is something wrong with the food?” you ask. “Did I get the texture wrong, or--”

“No, no,” he interrupts, shaking his head. “It’s not the food. The food’s great. It’s… it’s me that’s the problem.”

Your eyebrows come together. “I don’t understand.”

“I…” He starts to blush. “I’m not eating it all because I think I need to lose some weight.”

“Don’t you dare,” you say immediately without thinking. He makes a startled noise at the same time you clap your hand over your mouth. You definitely don’t want him to lose weight, you just hadn’t meant for it to come out like that.

On the day he came home and agreed to treatment, you’d seen just how underweight he’d become as you helped him unbutton his shirt. The stark outline of his ribs against his skin had been scary, and you had no desire to see that again. It was a relief when he started to gain back what he’d lost in prison and afterwards. And you were happy to see him continue to put on even more than that.

You clear your throat. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to say it like that. You were just so skinny when you got here. You look good like this.”

“I’ve never weighed this much before,” he says, and the distress in his tone makes you think that this is a fact that has been bothering him for a while. “Some of my clothes are getting too tight.”

“We can buy you new clothes.”

“But we don’t know how much longer the insurance will cover my stay here. Residential treatment is expensive. We don’t need to be spending extra money on clothes when I could just lose the weight instead and not need them.”

“Hey.” You put your hand on his cheek. “I don’t want you to worry about money. The insurance is covering it for now. If they stop, that’s a problem to deal with when we get there. Just focus on getting better.”

He looks away from you, down to his lap. “I should still lose some weight,” he says eventually.

“Have you medical staff told you that?” you inquire, raising an eyebrow.

“No,” he admits with a sigh.

“Then you’re not allowed to worry about it,” you say firmly. “Finish your dinner.”

Spencer hesitates, but picks his fork back up. The corners of his mouth turn up just slightly when he starts eating again, telling you that despite his fretting, he’s happy not to stop himself from eating as much as he wants.

He seems to be in a much better mood at the end of the evening than he was when you arrived, though a bit more subdued and quieter than normal. He also appears to be very tired. It’s only 7:30 but he keeps yawning. He denies dozing off with his head on your shoulder while you were talking after dinner, but you’re sure he did.

During your parting hug, he nestles his face into your neck just like he always does when you’re sleeping in bed together. “Try and get some good sleep tonight,” you encourage, smoothing your hands down his back. “And Spencer?”

He pulls back to look at you and you settle your hands lightly on his waist. “I meant it, you know.” You squeeze slightly. “When I said you look good like this.”

It takes him a few moments to catch onto what you’re implying; when he does, his eyebrows shoot up and his breath catches. “Oh. O—okay. I’ll, um…” he glances down shyly. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

“You better.” You look over your shoulder as you leave, and the small smile he’s wearing prompts one of your own.

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

tell me what you thought here!

i'd like to put it out there that i don’t hate jj and i really hope it didn’t come across like that. i hadn’t even planned that scene; it just wrote itself. i promise it’ll be resolved before the end of this fic.

another shoutout to the book The Body Keeps the Score for helping immensely with the planning and writing of this. i literally have pages of notes from it.

you can also find irl pictures of spencer’s therapy horse here.

all we can do taglist: @thatsonezesty13 , @jhillio , @elitereid

general taglist: @calm-and-doctor

#spencer reid x reader #spencer reid x you #spencer reid fanfic #criminal minds fanfic #criminal minds self insert #spencer reid #angst #my fic #tw substances #one day i'll write something that's short

78 notes · View notes

rueitae · 6 years

Text

For Plance AU Week 2018: Canon Divergence

This was my very first concept for a Plance fic, so fitting it's the first one I post for this event. Diverges ambiguously after season 4. I took some leaps and liberties with some plot points to be able to share this first part.

~~~~

“I’ll ask one more time, Miss Holt. Where are the boys who disappeared with you?”

Anger wasn’t even close to describing the mood in which Pidge found herself. Furious was probably closer, bordering on enraged at the irony of the entire situation.

Hundreds of planets and billions of people liberated from the Galra Empire. She was a hero, a literal defender of the universe. Voltron and its Paladins were the leaders of the coalition against Zarkon.

But a the lack of trust and respect from her own people? It stung more than she wanted to admit.

“I’ve already told you,” she said, glaring at the high ranking Garrison officer seated by the end of her hospital bed. “Hunk is still stuck in outer space. So are Shiro and Keith. You need to let me go so I can help them. Zarkon still has them. Every minute you keep me here is less time they have!”

The officer crossed his arms and leaned back into his chair. Pidge attempted to imitate him, but emitted an agitated growl at the reminder that her left wrist was still handcuffed to the bed.

A flight risk. They weren’t wrong, at least now that she was recovering from her injuries.

“And this… Zarkon. He’s related to the alien that was found with you?”

“Lotor is only as much of a threat as you make him out to be,” Pidge fired back. “Back him into a corner and I promise he’ll me more trouble than you want.” She paused, took a breath and tried to present a calm, unified argument. “Look, lives are in danger. The universe is literally at stake here. Earth included.”

The interrogation party whispered amongst themselves. Had she her paladin armor and not just a hospital gown, eavesdropping would have been a piece of cake. It only added to her fury.

The officer stood abruptly. “That’s our allotted half hour for today. I’ll be seeing you tomorrow, Miss Holt.”

“You said my mom was coming. Where is she?” Pidge demanded.

“Still on her way,” the officer responded neutrally.

Pidge knew that if they had wanted Colleen Holt present, she would have woken to her mother’s face two days ago after minor surgery. “You’re just scared she’d have everything figured out by now, ‘cause she’s way smarter than you lot,” she glared.

If he was bothered by the jab, he didn’t show it. “Rest up. Should your recovery continue to go well, you’ll be transferred to Galaxy Garrison later tomorrow for quarantine and debrief. Then you’ll be allowed to go..”

It wasn’t until she was alone in the room that she allowed herself to laugh. It was hilarious. There was a time in her life, before the Kerberos mission, that she’d had free reign at the Garrison. Then she was kicked out for seeking truth. Then she was a student. Then she left - kidnapped by an alien spaceship.

Now she was back on Earth - not by her own choice, technically - and they wanted her back at the Garrison.

Laughter turned into tears awfully quick. She’d promised to return with her brother and father. As much as she wanted to see her mother again, she didn’t want to do so empty handed.

The door opened suddenly and she quickly made an attempt to dry the tears. She hadn’t been expecting anyone besides the hospital staff or the Garrison officers, both of whom had been hounding her every second of the day. The last thing she wanted was for someone to see the tears and have a long chat about emotions, because honestly, she had more important things to do.

Namely finishing the long range communications device hidden under her mattress.

The door closed behind a single medtech, dressed from head to toe in a white hazmat suit.

Pidge glared. “What do you want?”

“Whatever the lady wishes. I am at here to grant you what you most desire,” the tech said, with a flashy, low bow. He took off the headgear, but Pidge knew who it was before the first sentence had left his mouth.

“Lance,” she began, a little higher pitched than intended. “You shouldn’t be here. If they catch you too, our chances of getting back to space goes down to near zero.”

Lance waved a hand in nonchalance as he walked over to her bedside and examined the handcuffs. “You seem a lot better now, so I figured now was as good a time as any to make our move.” He frowned and scratched his head in thought. “I had a plan, but I didn’t think they’d lock you to the bed. If I had my bayard, easy peasy, but they’ve got them locked up downstairs. I need your help to get them out.”

“And your plan was to sneak in as a medtech?”

“Well, the idea was yours originally, right?” he responded with a smile.

She quickly considered the situation, a bit embarrassed that he had remembered her suggestion when they had first found Shiro under similar conditions. She soon came to the same conclusion as her teammate. Despite the weirdness that came with being back home, it took a mere moment to fall back into paladin mode. It didn’t matter where they were or the odds against them. They could come up with a plan and execute. “Do you have a place to go once we’re out of the hospital?”

Lance flashed her a confident smile. “Of course. Ready to break out?”

“Absolutely,” she agreed.

~~~

“Sorry, Gorgeous, coming through. Gotta head down to the morgue. I’m the life of the party down there.”

Pidge could hear the girl giggle cutely and it took every fiber of her being to not break out of her role as the dead body and groan. Once they were both back on the Castle, Lotor in tow, and wormholing to Zarkon’s central command with a fleet of rebel ships and the Blade of Marmora on board - then she would give him his just dues.

Then once they had all their friends back safely, she might apologize for it.

There wasn’t much else to do while having to be still and silent, so she ran the scenario through her head a dozen times. Each and every time the apology included a kiss on the cheek.

She wasn’t sure if she hated that or not.

They eventually stopped, but it took a few moments for Lance to speak.

“Okay, Pidge, showtime. There are two guards at the end of the hallway. Once we’re through, our bayards and your armor are protected by a ten digit access code.”

“Child’s play,” Pidge responded. She sat up and lifted the sheets off her head so she could survey the area. “I’m ready when you are.”

Lance ripped off his headgear, a playful grin plastered all over his face. “I’ve always wanted to do this.”

Pidge wasn’t going to deny that while this wasn’t forming Voltron, it was kind of exhilarating. “Do it. We don’t have time to waste,” she said professionally.

Lance braced his hands on the back of the bed and pushed with all his might, taking a few steps with it, then lifting himself onto the bed behind Pidge.

The guards at the end of the hallway caught on, but not quick enough to stop the careening hospital bed headed straight towards them.

“Hey wait, you can’t come in here!”

“Halt!”

The momentum carried the bed and the two paladins right through the swinging double doors with a crash.

Lance jumped off and went to work blocking the door with whatever he could find. Cabinets, tray tables, etc.

The bed, with Pidge still on it, slammed into the far wall. She maneuvered it to a vault with the Galaxy Garrison logo and set to work right away. It took longer than usual, without her own computer and subsequent programs, but the lock itself was digital and that was enough to get into from memory.

“Bingo!” she declared as the vault opened and the familiar gear greeted her. “Lance, catch!”

The very moment the red bayard landed securely in Lance’s hands, it shifted to its mid-range form and he set to work sealing the door shut with a continuous beam of energy. “This is totally my favorite new thing,” he said as the door melted, then hardened to reinforce their position.

“It's a glorified laser pointer. We fly sentient mechanical cats. I am really more surprised how the rest of us don’t have one.” Pidge felt instantly better as she activated her own bayard and cut herself free.

“Hm,” Lance thought aloud. “I wonder if the mice would like it.”

“If Coran kills you for destroying hallways I am not vouching for you.”

“Hey, I’ve got way better aim than that! My precision is legendary.” He finished his work and dramatically turned to face his teammate, flashing his trademark smug smile. “You forget, I’m the team sharp- Pidge! Seriously now?!” Lance abruptly stopped mid-sentence with a look of horror.

Pidge was hastily trading her hospital gown for her much more secure and far less revealing paladin armor. Scrunching up the black undersuit to her chest, face red from both anger and embarrassment.

“What did you think I was going to do, Lance? I need my armor. Turn around before my bayard makes contact with your face,” she said, glaring with murderous intent.

No additional prompting was needed. He turned to face his makeshift barricade, bayard at the ready to fire. It was another moment or two before he spoke again. “Sorry, I seriously didn’t think you were going to start changing.”

Pidge wasn’t finished gripping, but the black undersuit was now secured over an acceptable portion of her body, so she stepped out from the minimal cover she had from the bed to zip it up. “You are so lucky we have a universe to save.” She left the threat ambiguous.

Lance raised his hands in surrender. “I swear I didn’t see anything, Pidge.” He sounded sincere, and more than a little scared.

Pidge took a moment to judge Lance after she donned her chestplate. Her gaze seemed to sear directly into his mind and soul. She opened her mouth to deliver a particularly biting comment to her nervous counterpart.

“We know you two are in there! Come out peacefully and you will not be harmed!”

The two broke out of the moment and came crashing back to reality.

Lance grinned and turned to Pidge, all nervousness lost, radiating all the confidence of a Paladin of Voltron. “I suppose we should make our getaway,” he spoke over the pounding of fists and weapons from beyond their barricade.

Pidge equaled his smug look and activated her bayard. “Let’s blow this popsicle stand.

The two of them found it far more hilarious than it really was.

Three hours, half a metropolis, and several acres of farmland later, the two of them worked together to slide the massive barn door shut, leaving enough room to circulate fresh air around. It sealed them enough from the prying eyes of the outside world and gave them a place to rest for the night.

Lance was the first to drop in exhaustion, after wandering over to a conveniently untied bail of hay. His relaxed nature screamed that he was clearly at home among the farm equipment and that there was no danger here.

“Ugh, I hope we don’t have to do that again for a good while,” he complained.

Pidge wobbled and plopped down next to him, taking off her helmet and throwing her head back to relax. “We can’t stay here long. We’ve got to find a way to get to the Garrison and bust Lotor out.”

Lance gave a deep sigh, closing his eyes for but a moment. When he reopened them, they stared up at the ceiling and it seemed all the universe hid behind them. “We can’t stay here tonight, can we? We have to literally cross the entire country.” He groaned in defeat. “The Castle brought us to Earth, why couldn’t it have dropped us off right where Blue is!”

“The Castle isn’t sentient, Lance. It didn’t actually read your mind and bring us to Earth because of it.”

“Oh really,” Lance demanded, sitting up quickly. It seemed if he were able, he would have picked a fight with the ship itself. “Then how do you explain all the extra weird things that happen on the Castle, but not when we go visit planets or form Voltron?”

“The space mice, obviously.”

Lance didn’t look convinced. “You’re telling me the space mice cause the gravity to turn off every time I enter the Red’s hanger?”

Pidge raised an eyebrow. “I thought you had decided that Keith asked Red to do that?”

He waved her off. “Red and I have an understanding now. He would never.”

She rolled her eyes. “I’m telling you it’s the mice.”

“The mice wouldn’t do that either. If they do anything it’s for Allura, and Allura...wouldn’t….” The unmistakable twinkle usually present in his eyes when speaking about the Altean princess dimmed quickly. “Do you think she’s still okay?” A pause. “Do you think they’re all okay?”

“I don’t know,” Pidge admitted, somber. “They might be thinking the same about us.”

Without another word, Lance turned around and began digging through the hay pile. He quickly uncovered all the elements of his own paladin armor. He took off his hazmat suit disguise, revealing the black undersuit of their uniform. “We’d better get going,” he said as he put on the armor. “Here’s to hoping they never deactivated our Garrison IDs.”

“Doesn’t matter. No way they’re keeping Lotor anywhere near what our old clearance was. Well,” she said with a smug grin, “What your clearance was anyway. But maybe we should go find the Blue Lion first. I wouldn’t cry if the Garrison sustains some major structural damage.”

Lance didn’t respond right away. He shifted uncomfortably as he slid on his left gauntlet.

“Lance?”

“I’m not Blue’s paladin anymore, Pidge. What if she doesn’t let me in? Even just to get back to the Castle?”

“I’m sure she’ll understand. Universe is at stake and all.”

“Yeah, sure. You’re right.” Lance didn’t look convinced despite his words.

Pidge stood up. “First things first. We have a lot of walking to do. Maybe we can hotwire a car!” she finished excitedly.

Lance debated internally for a moment before speaking. “There is an old truck in the barn across the field. It never gets used anymore, but it definitely has the guts for a cross country trip. My brother keeps it in top shape. They won’t miss it.”

There was an uncomfortable silence for Pidge as she processed the new information. “Your brother’s truck? Lance... this farm belongs to your family?”

An equally uncomfortable chuckle was her response. “Something had to prepare me for looking after Kaltenecker.”

“Lance, we are literally a hundred yards away from your family. They deserve to hear from you that you’re safe. This has to be killing you.”

“I’ll say hi once we go rescue the others,” he said shortly. “You’re one to talk. I saw you notice your mom in the hospital parking lot.”

“That’s different,” she protested. “I promised mom I’d be back with Matt and Dad.”

“Don’t you think she’d like to know that you actually found them?”

“Don’t change the subject. I know the lights were on at the house. I know how much you miss them. You talk about home all the time.”

“I don’t want to make trouble for them. Not now,” he said desperately, not looking her way.

“We’re going, come on Lance. We’ve got a long night ahead of us, and we could seriously use supplies.”

Inwardly, Pidge agreed with him. So much. Yet after all their time in space she knew she hadn’t exactly been the best friend she could have been. But this, this was something she could do for him.

Set in her decision, she grabbed him by the wrist to drag him out the door. He resisted. She sprung back into his chest as he resisted.

“Pidge, seriously. I want this more than anything, but it’s a bad idea. Please don’t make this any harder than it already is.” He had to look straight down in order to see her face.

“Our lives are one risky decision after another. Just do this, we’ll be gone and they can plausibly deny that they know where we are.” She had to strain her neck to look directly up at him.

Their wills clashed silently for a few moments before Lance finally gave in with a deep sigh. “Okay... really quick. This is going to be hard to explain to the kids.” He smiled gratefully. “Thanks, Pidge.”

She smiled back. “I’ve got your back, Lance. Don’t worry about it.”

“I thought I’m the one who’s supposed to have your back? I’m the sharpshooter, remember?” he winked.

Pidge blanched, but didn’t move from their close proximity. “How can I forget when you remind us every day?”

“I take it I am interrupting something? Clearly an important strategic meeting.”

Pidge and Lance jumped apart at the same time, startled at the new voice neither were expecting. Like a well oiled machine, Lance sighted his blaster and Pidge activated the electric current on her bayard.

The male figured raised his hands. “Really? I thought we were past pointing weapons at each other?”

Recognition of the voice came to the both of them with such clarity they felt less than competent.

Pidge was the first to lower her bayard. “Lotor?” she asked as if she didn’t believe it.

“Present,” the man in question shrugged.

Lance was having a bit more difficulty with the concept in front of them. Lotor didn’t look like Lotor. He looked distinctly human, from the non-purple skin tone to the sweatshirt and jeans that looked nothing like his typical armor.

“What? How? Why?” Lance babbled.

Lotor emitted a similarly confused aura at the line of questioning. Although it was difficult to really tell what his specific mood was with the sunglasses that covered his eyes.

“I keep forgetting you can do that,” Pidge admitted, suddenly with tired bags under her eyes. “We thought you’d already been taken to the Garrison.”

“I believe I was,” Lotor said with some thought. “But then I left.”

“How do you just leave a high grade military facility?” Lance asked, his arms limp with exasperation.

“I walked out,” he told them, putting his hands down. “Your people are not quite prepared for shape shifting it seems.”

“That’s one less obstacle then,” Pidge said in relief. “Now we just need to get to the Blue Lion.”

“Which is still a few days of driving,” Lance reminded them. He knelt down and stuck his arm into the hay pile before finding what he was looking for. “Ah ha! Catch.”

Lance threw a small metal stick at Lotor’s direction. The prince in exile caught it one handedly as if it were nothing. He took but a moment to analyze it before it easily morphed into his personal sword. “My thanks for holding on to this.” He allowed it to revert back to stick form. His white eyebrows raised quizzically as he attempted to put it away. “Do your belts not have a place to hold weapons?”

Lance did not hide his unimpressed look, which was dampened only by how utterly confused Lotor was.

“No, but it should be able to fit in your pocket. Assuming those are actually jeans and not those fake ones.” Lance took pity and walked over to help sort it out.

Pidge rolled her eyes. Pockets were useful. Earth had to be the only planet where people would outline pockets on pants for fashion and not actually include a functional pocket.

“So, how did you get Earth clothes anyway?” She asked, head tilted to the side slightly as if to figure out the puzzle herself. “And where is your armor?”

“Oh, this ensemble?” Lotor gestured to his outfit, a very neutral expression on his face. “A very kind lady at the ‘sevens elevens’ gifted it to me. She then told me to enjoy my role play after asking for my number. I gave her a fake code, she will not be able to find us.” His eyebrows furrowed in confusion at the phrases, but finished confidently.

“She thought you were LARPing,” Pidge said, mouth open wide in disbelief. She could not help an undignified snort, covering her mouth as though it would hide the fact she thought it was amusing.

Lance wasn’t doing much better. The tears in his eyes showed how painful it was to keep back the laughter.

Lotor either chose to ignore them or just did not care. “I had to leave most of my armor behind. It would have given myself away while tracking your helmets.” He sighed, now with a much more sullen look that quickly took the humor out of the Paladins.

“Should we get going then?” Pidge said, changing the subject and turning to Lance. “Maybe your brother has some more supplies we can use. And maybe a change of clothes.”

“The armor is pretty noticeable,” Lance agreed. “I wonder if the kids are asleep yet. Will they even recognize me? They were so little when I left.”

“You’re not easy to forget, Lance,” Pidge said with a genuine smile. “I’m sure they think about you and miss you a lot. I know I would. We all would,” she amended quickly. Her cheeks flushed.

Lance let out a short chuckle and returned a fond smile. “Thanks Pidge.”

The silence became near deafening.

“I feel as if I am missing something,” Lotor commented, although there was no bite or insinuation that he wanted to know. “You have relatives nearby?”

“Yeah,” Lance confirmed quickly. “It’s one of our farms. My oldest brother and his family live here. We won’t be long, just enough to explain what’s going on and get some supplies.”

“Well let’s go then. You keep saying you want me to meet your family,” Pidge encouraged. She took hold of his hand and tugged him firmly towards the door, once again offering her full endorsement of the plan.

“Wait,” Lotor interrupted sharply before they could reach the door.

Lance narrowed his eyes in frustration. “What? It’s a good plan. I promise you can trust them.”

“I am not concerned about your family, I am concerned about the incoming vehicle,” Lotor said quickly, frantically.

The humans heard it now. It had been forever since either had heard the sound of a gas powered motor, but it was unmistakable.

“Maybe it’s not coming our way,” Lance said softly, worry in his voice. “Or maybe it’s Marco coming home late.”

Rubber tires rolled to a stop on the loose gravel. A car door opened and the group held their breaths and their weapons close as a dog barked wildly, nose sniffing a mile a minute at the tiny crack in the barn door.

“Does your brother have a dog?” Pidge asked.

“No, his daughter is allergic,” Lance whispered back. He kneeled to get a steadier grip for his blaster.

Pidge stood at the ready with her bayard, taser prepped. Lotor stood behind them, sword extended.

The dog nosed his way through the crack in the door and made a beeline for Pidge.

The sight of Bae Bae made Pidge drop to her knees in shock, bayard discarded on the floor.

“Bae Bae!” She exclaimed as the family dog licked her face in its entirety. She held on to his soft fur, running her fingers through his coat and scratching him to return the affection.

As soon as it had begun, Bae Bae focused his interest on the other people in the room. He first barked at Lance, wagging his whole butt in excitement.

He then found Lotor. The alien prince froze in confusion and a rare look of unsureness. Bae Bae ran circles around him before repeatedly bumping him.

“What is that?!”

“It’s just a dog,” Lance said. An amused grin hadn’t yet left his face. “But who drove the car?” he said with concern.

“It’s not just a dog. It’s Bae Bae. He’s my dog, our family dog,” Pidge said, hope rising in her voice. She looked towards the door.

Sure enough, Colleen Holt stood in the doorway, having watched the whole scene unfold with tears in her eyes.

“Welcome home, Katie,” she said through an obviously held back sob. She had barely finished when Pidge closed the gap between them, wrapping her mother in the tightest of hugs. They both dropped to their knees in overwhelming emotion.

“I missed you, Mom,” Pidge began, her head buried in her mother’s shoulder. “I found them. I found Dad and Matt,” she continued hurriedly. “They’re safe, both of them. As safe as they can be in an intergalactic war. But they’re alive and I’m gonna bring them home. We need to get to the Blue Lion to get back to space.”

“Whatever you need, Katie. I’ll get it for you,” Colleen said, running a hand through her daughter’s hair, much shorter than she remembered it. “I’m just happy you’re safe. I’ve been so worried.” She may not have had a clue to what was going on, but it was the solidarity only a parent could give.

Lance looked on the scene with his own tears, knowing how close he was to a reunion just like this.

“Would someone please get this… dog off of me?”

The humans turned to see that Bae Bae jumping up on Lotor with his front paws, doing his very best to welcome him to Earth. The dog had not left the alien’s side and was continuing to bark, yip, and whine for attention.

Lance recovered quickly from his own thoughts at the sight. “Ha. Looks like someone made a friend.”

Lotor returned the comment with an unamused glare.

“Who are your friends?” Colleen asked, voice a bit wary. She still held on loosely to her daughter.

Pidge wiped the tears from her eye before speaking, a soft smile permanently stuck to her face. “That’s Prince Lotor. He’s an alien, but he can shape shift like Allura so he doesn’t look like it now. He helped us get Dad back, and now we’re working to un conquer the universe after Zarkon messed it up.”

“A pleasure,” Lotor said, sounding much more formal than he looked his attention was focused on avoiding Bae Bae leaping into his arms.

“Seriously you introduce him first?” Lance complained, arms splayed out for emphasis. “What about the Voltron bond? Teammates?”

Pidge chuckled. “This is Lance. He’s a Paladin like me. He’s a bit of a goofball, but he’s alright,” she finished with a smirk and playful sparkle on her eye.

Lance feigned dejection, which caused Colleen to chuckle herself. “It seems there is a lot more to the story. Hop in the car. We can make it to your grandma’s place by morning. Tell me everything on the way.” She whistled. “Bae Bae, car.”

Instantly the dog left the confused alien prince and bolted into the car. “Oh, so it is a yupper,” he finally said, the air of mystery lifting fully.

“You can make it up to him in the car,” Lance said, still grinning. “We’ve got a long drive ahead of us.”

“One stop before Grandma’s,” Pidge told her mother. “Lance’s family lives here, we have to let them know he’s okay.”

Lance’s gaze softened instantly. “Thanks, Pidge.”

“Fine by me,” Colleen agreed. “We all have some things to talk about.”

“We cannot stay long,” Lotor reminded them. “The sooner we can retrieve the Blue Lion the faster we can stop Haggar and save the other Paladins.”

Lance took a deep breath. “Good to be home, can’t stay,” he said wistfully.

“It sounds like I have a lot to catch up on,” Colleen said. “Galaxy Garrison didn’t tell me anything about that.”

Pidge and Lance shared a look before the Green Paladin turned back to her mother. “There’s a lot the Garrison didn’t tell you, Mom. Let’s start with Voltron. Did you get my last letter?”

#plance au week 2018 #plance #vld fanfic #voltron legendary defender #my writing #rueitae #yeah so lotor is plance third wheel #didn't see that coming did ya?!#so basically this is the beginning to an ill advised road trip au #hope you like it!

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magioftheseas · 6 years

Text

Star Stitches

Day 2: Eyes (Alternative: Scars)

Summary: Post-SDR2 AU in which Hinata Hajime is swallowed up by the program following the shutdown. Kamukura decides to continue assisting in the recovery of the remnants while keeping the true hopelessness of Hinata's situation under wraps. Komaeda, of course, immediately sees through him.Considering their past relationship, this shouldn't be a surprise.

Rating: T+

Warnings: Mental instability, hospitalization, and some suggestive themes.

Notes: This one is super bittersweet with the KamuKoma being more past than present. Given the circumstances, that’s pretty understandable. Anyway, I actually really enjoy this one. It’s pretty indulgent on my end so there’s a lot of gooey sentimentality and introspection. Yaaaaay!

***Alternate Ao3 Link***

Commission? Donate?

He’s more than aware of how haunted his reflection is. Especially now that they’ve all woken up and his work is more or less finished. But the effects of days and nights of tedium, of tirelessly working those days and nights, constant scans, constant test runs, constant experimenting until finally, finally—

He looks as outwardly dead as he feels dead on the inside.

Unsurprising. Predictable. Boring.

The shadows under his eyes only highlight the gauntness of his face and the piercing shade of crimson that filled his irises. Hiding them with the long locks of black would do little. In fact, such an action could very well be counterproductive.

His hair getting to be this long was an oversight. If he is to oversee the recovering remnants of despair, he must take care of this as soon as possible.

With the situation that befell Hinata Hajime, it would be best to distance himself from the appearance that defined Kamukura Izuru.

There was nothing he could do for his eyes, save for perhaps colored contacts. Perhaps. But getting a haircut would be a very simple task.

The only real concern is how the remnants will handle Hinata’s situation. They already know the basics, but they may be curious about the details. Said details would be troublesome to explain.

Especially when this knowledge would be distressing. Despairing, even.

He...cannot allow that. So, he shall let them believe the best that they can. Grant them a bit of blind hope, as it were.

Truth be told, he believes he can successfully fool the remnants in this manner. Most of them.

Except one.

And this one will undoubtedly be the most troublesome of all.

“Honestly, Kamukura-kun, I’m flattered that you even tried. I didn’t think that would ever be possible. But here it is! You tried and failed! What a remarkable day this is! I truly am so lucky to bear witness to it!”

Komaeda claps and laughs with mirthless delight.

Kamukura keeps his face impassive. There’s no point, after all, in feigning innocence. Such a look would be unfitting for Hinata Hajime either way. And, well...

There had been no point in trying to fool this one in the first place. Truly, I should have known better.

“...you are not going to tell anyone,” he found himself saying. “The others will not believe you.”

“I know they won’t,” Komaeda replies cheerfully. “Even if they hear you talk about how hopeless the situation is, they’ll just assume you’re not trying hard enough. They’ll refuse to give up! And why wouldn’t they? Hinata-kun is their friend, after all.” His smile twists and distorts. That cheerfulness begins to ooze contempt and sarcasm. “They’re such optimistic, loyal people once you scrape away the despair.”

Kamukura’s gaze flickers downwards, briefly. And then, swiftly, he removes his contacts. The contacts had been a poor idea, anyway.

Komaeda’s breath catches, but then he clears his throat. As if trying to hide it.

“It’s...really weird, seeing those eyes when your hair’s so short. Maybe you should grow your hair out, Kamukura-kun,” he suggested, almost lightly. “The others might be understanding if it’s just a little.”

“This appearance is more efficient,” Kamukura said. “It lulls them into a false sense of security the more I resemble Hinata Hajime without being exact. However, you know the truth of my perspective on the matter.”

How troubling that is. And yet, it is expectable as well. At the same time...

“I predicted the possibility of you seeing through me,” he went on. “But truthfully, I am not entirely sure how you saw through me so easily. I had worded Hinata Hajime’s situation very favorably without so much as a twitch in my expression. But you didn’t even seem to hesitate on calling those words into question.”

Komaeda twitches a bit, and he brushes back his hair.

“I just had a feeling,” he said. “A lucky guess, you could say.”

He giggles at his own joke. It is a poor façade.

“It was not just that,” Kamukura almost snapped. His eyes narrowed sharply, dangerously, piercingly enough for Komaeda to flinch. “You were confident. You did not even hesitate before calling me out. Why would you be so sure?”

Komaeda shivered, briefly, fisting his hand into the edges of the hospital blanket. Then, he wheezed out a not quite laugh.

“Kamukura-kun,” he sighs, and chuckles warmly and ruefully. “It’s because I remembered you almost immediately when I woke up. I remembered how well I knew you.”

...almost...immediately.

“That should not have happened.”

“I don’t remember everything,” Komaeda said. “But I do remember you. Being close to you. Taking in just the way you looked when you were about to lie for someone else’s sake. And then... You looked at me that very same way when you walked in.”

The briefest slipup. And of course, that had been enough.

“...how problematic. I should have known your situation would involve unforeseen consequences of the simulation’s faulty programming.”

Komaeda’s smile is a rueful one.

“I’m not going to tell anyone,” he said. “Besides the fact that they’re not going to believe me, I know why you’re doing this. It’s distasteful, but—the last thing we need is any of them falling back into that despicable despair. So.” His eyes brighten. “Why don’t we work together? Why don’t we nurture the hope still resting within their broken souls?”

Komaeda offers his remaining hand. All Kamukura can see is all the ways in that this very person is a broken soul, both physically and emotionally.

“We should prepare you with a robotic arm, soon,” Kamukura mused. “But you are not the only one missing parts. At the very least, however, all remnants of her have been scraped off.”

Komaeda beams.

“And what’s left is still a rotted husk. That said! I’m perfectly willing to help you, Kamukura-kun. This is the perfect opportunity for your redemptive arc, after all!”

This isn’t fiction, Komaeda Nagito.

But there was no point in saying that. Komaeda Nagito knew, but it made thinking of the circumstances easier. Easier to be detached from.

“I do not need it,” Kamukura said firmly, but gingerly took the offered hand all the same. “I am only accepting it because you are offering it. It would be more boring to simply refuse.”

“Ehe, there, see?” Komaeda’s thumb brushes almost fondly over his knuckles. “You’re already on the right track, Kamukura-kun. Hope’s Peak would be proud.”

“No, that is wrong.”

Komaeda’s eyes twinkle in response.

Caring for the others is simple, but tedious as one would expect. They all require a level of attentiveness and a heightened perspective. Truly, Hinata Hajime would’ve floundered considerably.

Kamukura does not, and they do not mind, despite how unsettling it might be. It cannot be helped. Though they still worry, they’re all too willing to have hope, as Komaeda said. It is unsurprised. They are already wrapped up in their own troubles, their own relationships. Hinata Hajime was always best suited as a background character. A background concern.

That much he remembers. The simulation had truly been a different experience in several ways for the person inhabiting this body.

But it does not matter. He must focus on the remnants.

That said, it is all still so very—boring. Tiring.

As he had expected.

Even when it came to the person who knew.

“That’s usually how it goes, Kamukura-kun,” Komaeda said. “Recovery isn’t fun. It’s very boring. Very dull. Very dry. Life, sadly, isn’t made of the milestones you see in narratives.”

“That does not stop you from treating it as such,” Kamukura pointed out dryly, squeezing and massaging the other’s thigh. Komaeda blinks at him innocuously. “You are going to need crutches. Likely for longer than the rest. Your tendency poor dieting and nutritional habits really have worsened matters.”

“Yeah... That sounds about right...”

For a moment, Kamukura is distracted by one of the symmetrical scarring on his thigh. These injuries when inflicted had likely needed stitching. It is clear that Komaeda Nagito did not get said stitching.

Thoughtlessly, he runs his fingers over the ruined tissue.

Komaeda flinches and then flicks his forehead.

“At least take me out to dinner first,” he said coldly and kicked him away. “Or have some tact. I don’t ask to feel up your head scars, now do I?”

At that, Kamukura reaches up to touch said scars. Because of the haircut, they had been prominent. He was used to receiving stares for them and yet, at this moment...

“...no, you do not.”

“Because that would be rude!” Komaeda exclaimed huffily. “So you really shouldn’t feel up mine, either! Massages for the muscles, I can take, but no strokes for the scars, Kamukura-kun!”

“Understood.”

What came over me?

Somehow, he remembered as well. And the memory was so much that he forced himself to leave immediately.

He doubted that Komaeda remembered that he had, in fact, felt up his surgical scars before. In return, Kamukura had done the same, fingers brushing along marks that were well-hidden by soft wisps of white.

“The surgeon who worked on you was the same as the one who worked on me,” Kamukura had said quietly. “That is quite the coincidence, I suppose.”

Komaeda giggled, pressing into his hand.

“Well, one could also call that fate, Kamukura-kun.”

“Fate. What a ridiculous and boring concept.”

“Coming from you?”’

Komaeda’s eyes had been bright, shimmering like the ocean’s surface reflecting moonlight.

“...I am not wrong.”

“How unromantic!”

Despite those words, Komaeda had clung to him with a squeal. Impulsively, his arms wrap around Komaeda in return. Komaeda presses up against him, angularities and bone, and yet, soft and warm as well.

There had been a time when he avoided contact. Unnecessarily simulation. Aggravating.

But here, the sensation is different, not unpleasant, especially with the softness of Komaeda’s hair and the warmth of his skin.

He had the scent of centuries old potpourri and decay. A mixed bag of scents, but—it was still Komaeda Nagito.

Komaeda Nagito, who cuddled up against him when they were in bed together. Komaeda Nagito, who clung as though he were a security blanket.

Komaeda Nagito who touched his scars with nothing short of curiosity and tenderness.

“Do they hurt ever?” he asked, those starlit greens twinkling once more. “Hey, Kamukura-kun... Do you ever get headaches?” A smile flickers across his lips. “Is talent so overwhelming that it sometimes feels as though your head will burst?”

“I imagine that if I were ever struck here, it would hurt considerably,” Kamukura answered, and he brushes his hair back so that the stitch marks are covered. “But that would never happen.”

“You should still wear something as protection!” Komaeda exclaimed. “I can let you borrow my parka. I think it’d look good on you!”

Kamukura ruffled his hair.

“You need that more. Do not concern yourself with me.”

“Ehhh? But how can I not?” Komaeda puffs his cheeks. “After all, Kamukura-kun, I—!”

(He does not expect Komaeda Nagito to remember.

Thus, he should not dwell over this.)

He can only pacify for so long. It is inevitable that the remnants grow restless with themselves and with the situation. So restless that they reach out and cling—but he is the only person to cling to.

And he is not the one they want.

“H-Hey...” The mechanic in particular is the most shaken up, unsurprisingly. This one is the neediest of the bunch, aside from the former healthcare committee member. “When is Hinata coming back?”

That said, this one likely has the greatest interest in seeing Hinata Hajime again.

(Aside from Komaeda Nagito, as loathe as he were to admit it.)

They were soul friends, after all.

“Soon.”

“...How soon?”

The mechanic is shaking. He looks close to tears. Troublesome. Expectable, but troublesome.

“Once everyone recovers fully, I shall focus entirely on accessing his files on the program and retrieve him if I have not already done so.” The words are fluid and swift. Practiced. “For now, however, the code is complicated and I have much else to concern myself with.”

“And...” A lick of his lips. “And, uh... You’re really sure you can do that?”

“You have the word of the Ultimate Hope, former as I may be.” Practiced. Precise. “For now, focus on yourself.”

It is easiest this way.

“It is what Hinata Hajime would want.”

Despite that uncertainty, the mechanic’s dark eyes light up a little, a pitiful smile pulling at his lips.

“Aha, yeah... Yeah, he would... He’d probably get really annoyed with me for being a wimp.”

“He would. You are quite annoying.”

“Hey,” he moaned. “T-That’s pretty harsh! Christ, you haven’t changed at all, have you?!”

...Have I?

“Urgh, I really hope you bring back Hinata soon,” he babbles on, rubbing at his temples. “I-I don’t think I can take much more of you...”

Kamukura says nothing. The mechanic freezes up.

“U-Uh...! By that, I mean...!”

“It is nothing,” he said. “Do not concern yourself with it. There is no need.”

“I... Um... Y... Yeah...”

There was no need, whatsoever.

He looks into the mirror again, running his fingers along the deep, dark shadows that serve to make the crimson irises all the brighter. All the more piercing.

He has not been getting much sleep. Restlessness invites restlessness.

He feels dull-minded.

But it is nothing worth concern over. It never has been. He exists only to serve a purpose. Said purpose may mold, but the basic principle remains.

He is nothing more than an intended pillar. Something foundational, to support and to be trampled upon like the very ground.

He understands this. He understands it keenly.

(When he first met her, she used this knowledge to manipulate him. Even though he knows he saw through it, he still...)

Now he understands better than ever.

But, all that said...

He remembers Komaeda Nagito.

“You’ll never be the Ultimate Hope.”

Komaeda had said it with such confidence. It was expected, but also, above all else, it was different. He understood it, but these words, this belief, still belonged solely to Komaeda Nagito. No one else would say such things, not even her.

He understands Komaeda’s reasons for feeling this way, all the same.

But, Komaeda still found a way to surprise him.

“Kamukura-kun...” He still keenly remembers that crooked smile, that innocuous tilt of Komaeda’s head. “Do you know why? More than being artificial, you don’t care about hope at all. Honestly, I can’t tell what you care about. I suppose I could guess.”

“You could,” he replied.

Komaeda laughed.

“Well, then... I think Kamukura-kun cares the way I do about existing, at least.”

Luck is a boring, insignificant thing, and yet, here was a moment that had Kamukura Izuru perk with interest in a way that even she hadn’t managed to accomplish.

“...wrong,” he said, eyes narrowing. “I am not nearly so self-important.”

“Maybe not,” Komaeda hums. “But you certainly do have a purpose of being a mere stepping stone. That said, I have the feeling that you want more than that.”

“You thought wrong,” he said. “I do not care about such things.”

“Is that true?” Komaeda asked. “Or are you just saying that because the last person who showed an interest in your desires was that wretched, hateful manipulative girl?”

He hadn’t said anything to that. He hadn’t anything to say, really.

“Just because you’re nothing more than a tool, just because you were even more used up than intended, that doesn’t mean you don’t still place an inherent value in your own existence and concerns. At least, I assume so.” Komaeda smiles up at him. “I can’t tell for sure. You’re so difficult to read. And so closed off! So cold! You really don’t play nicely with others.”

“Such things are inconsequential,” he said. “Boring. Nothing to concern myself over.”

“Your eyes are so vacant,” Komaeda commented, blinking. “Emptiness is as despairing as it is lonely.”

Emptiness.

“You are irritating, Komaeda Nagito.”

Komaeda laughed brightly.

“I know, I know! I’m just the worst! So obnoxious! It’s really, really despairing!” he exclaimed, grinning. “But, you know, in times like these...”

Komaeda reaches for him.

“Don’t cold, empty creatures like us crave warmth and fulfillment?”

Komaeda’s hand was cold and skeletal like that of a corpse. Komaeda childishly swings their connected hands with a giggle. In that moment, there had been a spark.

A spark of gentleness that he had not experienced before, even as he knew others were capable of it. A vulnerability that was intimate. Open.

As though they were close.

As though they were familiar.

At first, he had told himself that Komaeda Nagito was merely imitating her.

But, she would and never could be like this.

“I think we’re very similar, Kamukura-kun,” Komaeda says it so serenely. “Which is why, even if I detest the circumstances, I can’t help but be drawn to you. It’s...strange. But also comforting.”

His thumb runs over Kamukura’s knuckles. There are countless ways to break that bone. Komaeda Nagito could die to his hands so easily.

That thought—is as gruesome as it is unpleasant.

“What about you?” Komaeda’s eyes are starlit fog. Before despair, before her, before the dark, casted shadows underneath, they must have been pure, sparkling light. And, yet. “Kamukura-kun, how do you feel about all this?”

“I...”

I just...

“Insignificant.”

I just want everything to end.

And, yet. The way Komaeda nods sympathetically, the way that serene smile twists sadly, the way Komaeda Nagito ducks his head... Finally, the way Komaeda Nagito squeezed his hand.

“I understand, Kamukura-kun.”

The rest of the world could give way to decay and ash but this moment was one that clung.

How irritating that was.

How foolish he still is.

He really is still trapped in that cold, gray, empty room.

He lays awake staring blankly at the ceiling for a long, long time.

No matter where his thoughts wander, he cannot fall asleep, all the same.

...how boring.

Kamukura pushes himself up.

He decides to go for a walk.

He is not the only one out and about late at night. Both the gangster and the princess are fond of contemplative nights. The musician will sometimes practice songs, but said songs are quieter than they’ve ever been, the notes shaky and often hesitant.

But right now, she is clearly frustrated. It will not be long before one of the other former remnants checks up on her. The swordswoman, perhaps. The photographer, perhaps, although she will be dissuaded from doing so if the swordswoman arrives first. Either or.

It does not really matter.

None of this really matters.

At least no one is screaming.

The temperature has been dropping as of late. It’s resulted in much chillier nights. Despite that, he does not go outside with a coat even as the cold air nips at his skin.

It hardly bothers him. With a body like this, he’s distressingly durable. So he just walks, surveying his surroundings as he does. Makes sure that no one’s trying to drown themselves in the ocean again. Or the pool.

(He thinks about how much bad luck Komaeda Nagito had with the ocean. He remembers the time he found Komaeda Nagito washed up along the beach, coughing up seawater with a grotesquely painful grin.)

He quickens his pace and shoves those memories far back.

This only causes them to fester.

(Komaeda Nagito covered in injuries and still smiling. Komaeda Nagito smiling up at him as he bandages him up. Komaeda Nagito giggling as he kissed the bruises. Komaeda Nagito. Nagito.)

“You shouldn’t be ashamed of these scars,” Komaeda had murmured while running his fingers over them. “They’re a part of who you are, Kamukura-kun. You should accept that with pride. Aha. Just kidding.”

Briefly, Kamukura reaches up to touch the scars in question. He finds that he’s in front of the pool after all. It hasn’t been cleaned in a while, so the water is murky and dirty.

Good. He didn’t want to see his reflection at a time like this. He didn’t want to see his eyes—

“Red like a rose,” Komaeda had murmured, lashes low. “The color of passion. Of blood. Of...”

A despair-ridden sky.

Blinking, he raises his gaze to stare up at the starlit night sky. Wide, vast, endless. With so little lights on the island, it was all the grander.

...boring...so...

A flicker of light catches his eye. And then, another. And then, several more. And then, all the stars seemed to be falling down. But of course, that was not truly the case.

...ah.

It was a meteor shower.

A mere meteor shower.

Nagito has spoken of these before... Nagito...

Without even thinking, he turned on his heel.

Komaeda Nagito is, as he expected, outside. Not in the hospital, not in his cabin, but outside, bundled in blankets, sitting at a table with a book placed upon it, and blowing daintily at a cup of tea. A wheelchair was folded up nearby.

“Kamukura-kun,” he says as Kamukura stills before him. “Good evening. I wanted to go outside to read, but...” He gives his usual smile, lacking any real humor. “The meteor shower started up—so my attempts were thwarted.”

“...you mentioned that happening to you before,” Kamukura replied. “Do you remember?”

Komaeda blinks those doe eyes back at him.

“Ah, right,” he said cheerfully. “Before coming here, you probably haven’t seen a meteor shower before, have you, Kamukura-kun?”

No, he hadn’t.

“This is my first time,” he found himself admitting.

“Ah, I see.” Komaeda’s smile widened. “Well, what do you think? I’m a bit sick of them, but that’s different for you, isn’t it?”

“It is...different.”

It doesn’t really mean anything to me, either.

And, yet.

Komaeda sips at his tea.

“That’s not much of an answer,” he said. “Why don’t you sit with me? You’re looking like you might drop dead any moment. Aha, just kidding. You always look like a walking corpse.”

At that, Kamukura frowned.

“You should not be the one telling me that.”

They both flinched. Komaeda blinked at him a few times, and Kamukura realized that he was—flustered.

Something about that remark caused a snap. Over a minor comment like that.

Over something like that...?

But then, Komaeda laughs and the sound is a genuine one.

“It’s been a while since I’ve heard you sass anyone,” he chuckles into his hand. “At least, I think it has.”

Kamukura shuffles to the other chair, sitting and keeping his head down.

“...I have been feeling the effects of stress a lot more keenly,” he said. “More so than I am used to. Of course, that may be because I am not under constant sedation. With how busy things are, I simply have not had the time...”

And he has been antsy as of late. But it is something he can handle. It does not matter.

“Your eyes are looking pretty dull,” Komaeda murmured, smile twisting. “Like wilted roses, aha. What a shame. You probably should eat more. Or maybe do yoga. Tai chi? Aikido?”

“...too boring,” Kamukura said lowly and quietly. “It is nothing I cannot cope with on my own. You need not show concern.”

“Mmm...” Another sip of his tea. Kamukura takes notice of the floating tea stalk within it. Because of course.

“It must have been tedious to get here,” Kamukura said. “Why even expend that much effort for something so menial? Were you that bored?”

“Making the tea was easy,” Komaeda chirps. “Getting the wheelchair wasn’t too bad. Rolling down here with the tea and the book went rather smoothly.” He grins. “The hardest part was actually setting up here, ehe. But if nothing else, I’ve got tenacity. It’s not nearly as bad as grasping onto floating wreckage for dear life for days. It was tedious, but I managed! Are you going to praise me for it?”

Kamukura blinks at him, and then—

“It is...impressive. Good job, Komaeda Nagito.”

“Eh?” Komaeda blinked once. Twice. Several times. “I... Wow... I didn’t actually think that you would...”

“I mean it,” he said. “Your tenacity shows promising potential for your recovery.”

Komaeda blinked at him once more before flickering his gaze to the ongoing meteor shower.

“...aha... How long has someone said something like that to me? Coming from you, it’s such a strange feeling.”

I suppose that it would be.

For a while, he was quiet even as he watched Komaeda brush back his hair, tucking ivory strands behind his ear. There are scars on his fingers. In the dark, they’re hard to see, even with the flashing meteor shower above, but—Kamukura knows very well every mark that overlays Komaeda’s skin.

They had been lovers once, after all.

...and now...?

“Komaeda Nagito... Nagito... I...” He swallowed. “I am...sorry that I was the one who came back.”

“It wasn’t your fault,” Komaeda said so simply. “It’s not like you wanted to come back. And it’s not like he didn’t want to come back.”

“I... Yes...” His head hangs. “It is unfair, but it cannot be helped. Still, I regret this situation.”

I regret it so much that it hurts, and hurting feels like dying.

Komaeda hums, and he finishes his tea.

“Kamukura-kun,” he said. “If it’s any consolation, there are plenty of falling stars to wish on! You’re the probably only person who can say your wish three times fast enough! Go for it, Kamukura-kun! Go, go, go!”

Kamukura blinks at him, and stares blearily at the sky.

“...wishes...so trite...”

“You say that, but your eyes just twinkled, didn’t they?!”

“That is merely the reflection of the meteor shower.”

“I don’t belieeeeve that,” Komaeda sing-songs. “Just then, Kamukura-kun’s eyes held a spark of desperation! Of hope! My heart skipped a beat so I know it to be true!”

It had skipped a beat. Is that really why?

“Kamukura-kun.”

The chair scrapes against the ground.

“Kamukura-kun,” Komaeda said more seriously, facing him completely. “In times like these, hearts as dark as ours need all the light we can get.”

At that, Kamukura perked. And then, Komaeda smiled.

Just like that, Komaeda turned back to the falling stars.

“I hate those wayward former classmates of mine, but... I should at least wish on these shooting stars for their sake,” he said.

Kamukura frowns.

“Are you going to wish for his return as well?”

It hurts.

“If I tell you, the wish won’t come true,” Komaeda said cheekily. “But for what it’s worth, I’m wishing for Kamukura-kun’s sake as well.”

The words strung a chord of warmth.

“...you really are so sentimental, Komaeda Nagito.”

It’s one of those aspects to your character that I can’t help but...

Komaeda met his gaze and held it. Like the sky, his eyes were of scattered starlight. Starlight, with a smile softened by moonlight.

“Let’s do our best tomorrow, Kamukura-kun,” he chirped. “Let’s pretend that the very night sky is wishing us luck.”

Kamukura blinks back.

“Tomorrow I’ll get some reading, but I want to stretch out my legs more,” Komaeda wiggled his toes. “And Kamukura-kun should help me. If you help, I might just let you kiss my feet.”

“Ah,” he inhaled. “Very well.”

“Don’t touch my scars again though,” Komaeda snapped haughtily. “I’m not quite that comfortable with you quite yet! Even if I used to be, that’s not the case anymore. At least...not for the moment.”

“I understand.”

“And if I fall down, you’re not allowed to carry me back unless I’m unconscious!”

“Understood.”

“And also...! You really should style your hair! I know I said you should grow it out but it—it looks like a rat’s nest, Kamukura-kun! Very uncool! Very gross!”

“...ahhh...”

“It’s long enough to braid. So maybe we should do that from now on.” Komaeda clapped his feet. “How’s that sound?”

“Mm.”

“You also shouldn’t let my classmates take advantage of you,” Komaeda huffed matter-of-factly. “They’re grown. They can handle themselves. They shouldn’t expect so much from you. There’s only one Kamukura-kun in the world, after all.”

“Hm.”

“Only one Kamukura-kun! So we can’t afford to overwork him! It would be really bad if you were overworked so bad that you obtained a status down, right? Right?!”

Kamukura said nothing, but he did make a soft noise. To which Komaeda flustered once he realized.

“D... Did you just snort?!”

“No.”

“You did! You snorted!”

“I did not.”

“You definitely did!” Komaeda exclaimed heatedly. “T-That’s so...childish...! And here I was trying to be nice and helpful since you’ve been doing your best to help everyone...!”

Kamukura definitely snorted that time, and then, Komaeda’s breath caught.

“Thank you, Nagito.”

Komaeda shivered, cheeks pooling with a deep dark red.

“I... You look...really creepy...” He was starting to slur his words. His eyelids were drooping. “When you...smile...”

And just like that, Komaeda Nagito slumped, passing out. He was quick to catch and steady him, of course. Komaeda was unsurprisingly very light.

“...you overworked yourself as well,” Kamukura muttered into his hair, hoisting him up. “Pushing yourself so much for something so trivial and ultimately worthless and then getting so worked up...”

He says all that, and he notices the meteor shower stopping, leaving behind still, twinkling stars that would never move to the naked eye. He then brushes it off.

These kinds of cosmic coincidences are to be expected where Komaeda Nagito is involved.

With all that said and done, he really should carry Komaeda back to his room.

“Let’s pretend that the very night sky is wishing us luck.”

And he should retrieve everything Komaeda brought with him on a second trip. For now, though...

“Let’s do our best tomorrow,” he echoed as he carried Komaeda off. “To face a new day...”

For everyone’s sakes.

#KamuKoma #izuru kamukura #nagito komaeda #KamuKomaWeek #KamuKomaWeek2018 #super dangan ronpa 2 #sdr2 spoilers #scars #kazuichi souda #soul friends #komahina #kinda???#pretty fucking light and honestly not worth tagging #Magi fics

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allenmendezsr · 4 years

Text

The Shingles Solution

New Post has been published on https://autotraffixpro.app/allenmendezsr/the-shingles-solution/

The Shingles Solution

Buy Now

When I got shingles I also got very, very lucky.

Much luckier, in fact, than many people who get shingles – and especially my poor brother, who had it for 8 long months.

He suffered terribly but… he also found out how to make sure it never happened again. Which is what helped me out when I got it.

As a result, my shingles came and went quickly with almost no discomfort. I suffered none of its common complications.

And, unlike many other people, I believe I’m unlikely to ever have it again.

But let me quickly get to the point here because time is of the essence. If you have shingles now it’s vital you act quickly if you’re to be sure that this unpleasant illness doesn’t turn into a years-long disaster.

So my brother was 58 when he first got shingles. He was a tough guy, worked in construction, fit, strong, good-humored.

But after 4 days of shingles, he had faded to a shadow of himself. I’d never heard of the illness at that time. But I saw first hand what it can do to a person.

My brother described so vividly the unbearable itching… the skin so sensitive that he couldn’t even let his clothes touch it… that I could almost feel my own skin tingling.

He wasn’t sleeping – there was no comfortable position for him. The intense itching, the hot pain, and chronic tiredness was grinding him down. He was worn out, miserable, and struggling to just get through the day.

He couldn’t work so he couldn’t earn. He applied creams and ice-packs as per his doctor’s instructions but the improvement was slow and frustrating.

But here’s where it got really bad for my brother. After 3 weeks the scabs across his body were finally drying up and starting to heal. We all believed his shingles were finally healing itself.

Yet while the itching had reduced… for some reason, he was still in a lot of pain.

His doctor was concerned but told him he’ll have to wait and see how things played out.

They didn’t play out well at all.

Because for more than 8 months after the final shingles scab had cleared my brother experienced searing pain every single day.

There were little let-up and only limited relief from pain-killers. Those months were, to put it bluntly, absolute hell for him.

He experienced savage pain day-after-day for nearly 250 days in a row.

It was with him on his birthday, his wedding anniversary, Thanksgiving, throughout all of Christmas and well into the new year.

And yet, as we later discovered, his 8 months of suffering is not uncommon. This is why his doctor had been worried. There’s a name for this specific affliction: postherpetic neuralgia, or PHN for short.

Postherpetic neuralgia – PHN – is the single most common complication of shingles. It’s absolute agony. Most sufferers agree that it is easily worse than the shingles that led to it.

PHN is constant, unrelenting, searing nerve pain. You can do almost nothing to get comfort.

My brother is 6 feet tall, 185 pounds of mostly muscle and he’s worked in some of the toughest working conditions known…. and smiled and laughedhis way through it all. Yet all the while he had this PHN I often saw tears in his eyes, it was that awful.

Not in a million years could I ever imagine my brother crying. And yet… there he was.

The initial shingles attack – while deeply unpleasant – was a cakewalk compared to the horrors of PHN.

My brother’s PHN ended after 8 months – possibly only because of something he did about a week before it ended. And this is something you’d really want to know about – and I’ll explain it in a second.

But when the PHN did clear up we thought this whole horrible business was finally over. What else could happen now?

Something else did happen.

Just when you think you’re in the clear…

11 months later my brother had shingles again.

We looked at him as he told us the news and we were totally lost for words.

That didn’t matter though. Because he had something to say to us. He told us this time it’s going to be different.

This time he was going to save himself from the misery of everything that had happened before.

First, that afternoon, he went to the doctor. My brother respected doctors’ knowledge – even though it hadn’t helped him last time.

But, second – and this was where things would be different this time – he was going to take matters into his own hands too.

His first experience of postherpetic neuralgia (PHN) had been awful. Doctors had been unable to help and he just had to wait it out.

As the pain and exhaustion had worn him down he’d looked for other ways of addressing the misery. And he’d got hold of a shingles treatment program from a natural health practitioner called Julissa Clay.

Julissa’s program was called The Shingles Solution.

The Shingles Solution has a very solid reputation and tens of thousands of delighted followers. Julissa Clay herself is a celebrated and highly respected natural health practitioner who specializes in resolving some of the world’s worst illnesses.

My brother isn’t really into natural remedies. But he’d been in that much pain he was willing to step outside the box in search of something to end the misery.

One problem: he’d got hold of the program way too late. He’d had painful PHN for more than 7 months at that point.

Ideally, you start to follow the program’s guidance in the first days of shingles – while you’ve still got the scabs and itching. Not 7 months later when shingles is a distant memory and you’re in daily agony with PHN.

But the pain wasn’t letting up. So he just did everything the program told him to do.

Incredibly, just about a week later the PHN had melted away. It had faded from about the 3rd day and disappeared completely by the 8th.

My brother was disbelieving, relieved, grateful.

His doctor was happy for him but couldn’t explain it. She admitted some natural remedies do work very well where medicine had failed.

But now, 11 months later here he was at the start of the second attack of shingles. And if my brother knew anything… he knew he wasn’t going to go through PHN again.

Confession time…

He told us something though that we didn’t know. He said that this program had been easy to follow – and clearly had worked – but once his PHN cleared he’d not bothered to keep up with its simple instructions.

And that mattered – a lot. Why?

Because one of the program’s strongest benefits was that it not only resolved itching and pain during shingles… it not only avoided PHN after shingles… it also took away the causes of shingles ever occurring again.

He should have stuck with it after the pain had ended. He wouldn’t have shingles again if he had.

And he knew it.

Getting it right this time

This time he did it right from day one. He followed the instructions in Julissa Clay’s program to the letter.

And his experience of shingles was dramatically different.

This time itching was minimal and infrequent. Nerve pain was mild and lasted days instead of weeks.

He suffered none of the fatigue of last time. He didn’t lose any sleep. He was able to continue going to work. He endured fewer scabs – and they cleared quickly, mostly without scarring.

And when all was clear about 15 days later…. he didn’t have even a hint of PHN.

No mistakes this time

And this time he didn’t make the mistake he made last time. This time he maintained the changes. And 7 years later he’s not had even a whisper of shingles.

In fact, he believes that the virus that causes it has died out completely.

Now all this is good and well. But it wouldn’t be a reason for me to be writing to you today if that was the end of it.

Once again, it wasn’t the end of it. But here’s the twist in the tale.

6 months ago it was me who had shingles.

I went to bed fine, I woke up very much not fine.

But at least I knew what it was. And I knew what to do. My first call was to my doctor. My second was with my brother.

‘Brother, send me that program. Send it now.’

He did. And I did exactly what the program told me. I followed the guide to the letter. I cut no corners, took no chances.

And I saw my shingles out in just 15 days. Which has to be some sort of world record.

But more than that – and I thank my stars for this – I never suffered postherpetic neuralgia (PHN).

The possible weeks, months, or years of intense nerve pain, sleepless nights, and very low moods were what I was most scared of.

I’d seen my brother suffer it all. And I’d read about other people’s experience of PHN and I wanted more than anything to avoid that. And I did avoid it. All of it.

What The Shingles Solution did for me

The program did four things for me. These are essential for anybody suffering shingles right now. They were crucial to my quick and full recovery:

The program cleared up my shingles scabs in record time. They dried quickly and cleared with virtually no scarring.

It reduced the itching to almost nothing – and ensured I had almost no pain at all. Shingles for me was almost a background feeling – it didn’t affect my day to day life at all.

The program stopped me suffering postherpetic neuralgia (PHN) – a fate I absolutely dreaded. I was probably most glad about this. When my shingles went there were no PHN complications afterward.

It has ensured that my first attack of shingles was my last attack of shingles. Even though I was able to minimize my shingles experience I certainly didn’t want it a second time.

I had shingles for less than half the time most other people have it. And I suffered zero after-effects.

If you have to have shingles… this is the way you want to have it!

And do be clear about this: there is nothing unusual about the outcome I enjoyed. I wasn’t some rare, lucky person.

Put plainly, thousands of people with shingles take this natural, evidence-based approach to their illness and get well quickly – with minimal pain and no after-effects.

Others trust drugs and pharmaceuticals only – and take their chances. That – as my brother found out – can end very badly.

How I avoided shingles horror

Let me tell you how Julissa Clay’s program achieves what it does and you’ll see for yourself.

You’re possibly aware that shingles are caused by the varicella-zoster virus.

Remember chickenpox? The varicella-zoster virus has been with you since you got rid of that illness – which was possible decades ago.

Our immune systems beat and then suppress the virus so that it no longer harms us. However, the virus still lies dormant in our nerve cells. Our immune system keeps it in check so that it does us no further harm.

However, if the immune system falters… the varicella-zoster virus reactivates. And shingles are the result.

Most people had chickenpox when they were young. They, therefore, carry the varicella-zoster virus. Many never go on to get shingles. Their immune system wins out and varicella-zoster remains dormant for life, never getting the chance to resurface.

Many others do get the illness. Millions every year, in fact. I’m one of those people. You are too. Basically, our immune system fought a losing battle and the virus has run rampant throughout the nervous system.

If you’re suffering right now I don’t need to describe the consequences of this.

But, as you now realize, it’s not only the suffering we go through in the first 4 – 6 weeks that causes problems. The mix of a weakened immune system and a system-wide attack on nerves is very dangerous.

Shingles lead to complications – with intensely painful PHN its most common complication.

But the illness can also spread throughout the nervous system, attacking organs and causing brain and nerve damage.

There are potentially deadly complications – which include a heightened risk of tumors, poorly controlled blood sugars, degenerative brain disease, leaky gut, metabolic syndrome, heart disease, and liver disease.

We need to beat this illness while we have it. Right now, in other words.

We need to ensure it doesn’t result in ongoing nerve damage – and the ravages of PHN. And we want to be absolutely sure that this time is the last time we suffer the illness.

Acting too slowly – or not taking advantage of the best guidance for beating shingles – can be a health disaster.

How long can postherpetic neuralgia – PHN – last?

What’s truly frightening about PHN is that it can last as little as a few weeks but as much as years.

So 4 to 6 weeks of painful, exhausting shingles isn’t necessarily the end of the story. In fact, for too many people it’s the start of something truly horrific.

PHN can last months or years. Out of every 100 people who get shingles, two of them will suffer PHN for 5 years.

Having seen my brother nearly crushed by it over 8 months I understand why people who suffer its unrelenting pain for years often end up with serious mental health challenges.

Each time you have shingles you run a real risk of PHN straight afterward. Which is one of the strongest reasons I can think of to absolutely not want the illness a second time?

And how many times can you get shingles?

One thing worse than getting shingles is getting it again.

In the US, Harvard’s own researchers have concluded that your chances of getting shingles a second time is about the same as your chances of getting it the first time.

That’s terrible news if you’re already in the middle of your first attack.

Other facts about shingles aren’t exactly comforting.

If you had a bad first case of shingles, or if you’re a woman or if you’re currently over the age of 50… you have a measurably higher chance of getting shingles a second time.

So if you’re over 50 – or intending to eventually be over the age of 50 – your risks are rising with each passing year.

If you’ve got shingles right now…. well, prepare yourself for another hit in due course. And brace yourself for the real possibility that the second one will be measurably worse than this first one.

Except – it no longer has to be like this

We now know a reliable and effective way around all this.

Julissa Clay’s The Shingles Solution has been quietly beating shingles at its own game for years now. Tens of thousands of people who started with shingles have followed Julissa’s guidance. They’ve had a very different experience to the usual horror stories.

Far less itching.

Little to almost no pain at all.

Very fast recovery from the initial attack.

No PHN afterward.

And no repeat of the disease.

Why this works

The weakness of the standard medical approach to shingles is that they focus heavily on reducing the symptoms of the disease – and not nearly enough on obliterating its causes.

This means all too often they suppress the effects of the illness… but leave its underlying cause in place. So, in effect, you remain ill even when it seems on the surface that things are being managed.

The Shingles Solution doesn’t make this mistake.

The cause of shingles is a weakened immune system. Therefore, the program focuses entirely on returning your immune system to its full strength.

So the program did give me very effective remedies to quickly end the terrible itching and pain of shingles. But it also did something vitally important for my long-term health: it completely rejuvenated my immune system. And because of that

I suffered significantly less – and for a much shorter time – while I actually had shingles

my body fought off shingles – and the fatigue, the joint pain, the itching, and the intense pain – in double-time

I suffered absolutely no after-effects – PHN being the one I feared most

And I don’t expect to ever get shingles again – so no fear of going through all this ever again

The program is a complete response to shingles. It powerfully treats the illness while you’ve got it – and you need some relief while you have the illness. But it also protects you from even worse complications – and the possibility of it coming back again.

This Is how it works

A weakened immune system let the virus get the upper hand. That’s why we get shingles.

A strong immune system – capable of handling whatever comes its way – is the only response to this disease.

Shingles are considered a lifestyle disease.

After all, an immune system doesn’t just become weaker for no reason. There’s a cause. And the cause is specific lifestyle habits that compromise the immune system, meaning it’s no longer strong enough to hold off the virus.

Undo what you’re doing that is weakening the immune system… and you once again have a strong immune system.

None of this is magic. Every single piece of information and guidance in Julissa’s program has years of scientific and research evidence behind it – all verified at university and research institutions across the world.

The Shingles Solution is hard science applied to a distressing and painful disease in a practical, straightforward and completely natural way. And it has absolutely fantastic outcomes.

What is in the Shingles Solution?

For all its power, Julissa Clay’s The Shingles Solution is a simple plan delivered in 2 straightforward phases over just 4 weeks.

Each phase comes with a daily instruction sheet. I knew what to do and when to do it. No guesswork. Just do it and feel the change.

The first 7 days are a little more strict than the rest of the plan – but that’s because we want to quickly see the end of the fever, itching, pain, and fatigue that accompanies the disease.

We adjust back to a more relaxed protocol as soon as you feel better.

But as a result of these gentle changes I enjoyed powerful benefits:

I got quick, lasting relief from the itching and pain I had been suffering from the onset of the illness

my immune system became much stronger so shingles just couldn’t reactivate again

my body was able to remove cells from throughout my body that had been corrupted by the virus

my body was able to repair all those damaged nerve endings

the immunity boost I got reduced the chances of me ever getting the liver disease, heart disease, or stroke

it also protects me against degenerative brain disease

and it acts strongly against brain inflammation, nerve damage, paralysis, and chronic pain

Why a natural approach rather than pharmaceutical drugs?

Our bodies operate powerfully, natural health systems specifically designed to keep you well. ‘Healthy’ is your body’s natural state. It becomes ill because of what we do to it. Make small, beneficial changes and you go back to your body’s preferred healthy state.

Remember: we get shingles from a weakened immune system. And that system didn’t weaken on its own. We did things that caused it. By reversing what we did…. our immune system comes back online, strong, powerful, and able to fight off all kinds of affliction. Including shingles.

Note something important here: it wasn’t pharma’s drugs or meds that caused the illness. So why would those things remedy it? If we behaved our way into shingles then we can behave our way out of it.

This is exactly what The Shingles Solution showed me. And it worked.

What is in the program?

There are several strands to Julissa’s The Shingles Solution. One of them is, of course, food.

Food is nutrition. Specific foods prevent illness, repair the body’s varied structures, and ensure that internal processes run properly to keep us fit and alive. Other foods cause illness, damage the body, and prevent those internal processes from keeping us in the best possible shape.

Of course, when you’re in the midst of a shingles attack and

you want rid of it quickly,

you sure as heck don’t want PHN and

you want to ensure you absolutely never get shingles again…

…your nutrition has to be spot on.

Fortunately, eating well to treat shingles isn’t especially restrictive. I found myself eating most of the foods I used to eat. It’s more a case of eating less of the few things that definitely won’t help you manage shingles and more of the things that strongly fight off the illness.

But knowledge is key here. We can’t use just any ‘healthy eating’ plan.

For example, there are foods you love that you fear you’ll have to reduce… You’ll be happily surprised to discover that, actually, it’s okay to consume them.

There are a few foods generally considered ‘healthy’ that you should actually eat less of. Which surprised me when I first learned it.

Very occasionally there are critical changes you simply have to make. There can be no dilly-dallying because certain foods are very bad for you in the first weeks of shingles. And others are extremely helpful to you. We want none of the bad and lots of the good – at least for a few weeks…

And, again, proper knowledge is crucial here.

For example, there is a particular food nutrient that sometimes is your best defense against shingles… but other times it directly feeds the shingles virus, making it as bad as it can be. Knowing how best to use it is straightforward – and it’s a key weapon in the fight against shingles.

On the other hand, there’s a specific food ingredient that is proven time and again to feed unwanted organisms in the body… which leads them to generate inflammation throughout the body, ruining our immune system. To ensure our current attack of shingles ends quickly and without after-effects absolutely requires that we get this ingredient out of our diet immediately.

And so on.

None of this is difficult – and the program lays it all out for you so you can just follow without worrying about the scientific details behind it. But if you’re going to avoid PHN and future recurrences of shingles you must get this right.

Day by day does it

There are simple daily habits you can incorporate into your life that not only support the fight against shingles right now – but which crucially make any future recurrence extremely unlikely.

Your damaged immunity system is what permitted the shingles virus to reactivate. There are reasons why your immune system is damaged. An important reason is related to nutrition, as already described.

But a critical cause of immunity weakness is underlying tiredness and background stress – which can measurably destroy a person’s health. And this can’t be over-emphasized.

Now, on first reading this I thought, “I sleep like a lamb. I’m one of the least stressed people anyone knew. Ask anyone who knew me and they’d have said the same.”

I quickly found out just how wrong I was.

Turns out that sleep on its own isn’t enough. We need deep, rejuvenating sleep that reboots a worn-out immune system and allows it to become strong again. The recuperative powers of deep sleep are said by many doctors to be better than some medicines.

And stress comes in many forms. Perhaps you recognize some of these in your life: physical stresses and aches in the body; mental or emotional stresses and worries; work pressures and concerns; family matters, being too busy to fully wind down, and so on.

All these work in the background suppressing the immune system and so allowing the virus to come back to life.

Stress is especially dangerous because so many people have been suffering it for so long they don’t even notice it’s there anymore. It’s become normalized to the point that we simply don’t feel it.

In the days after following Julissa Clay’s sleep and stress advice, I not only slept more deeply than I ever had in my life. I also felt an almost religious sense of peace come over me. It’s hard to describe – but wonderful to experience.

Fueling the body properly through exactly the right foods… and giving it the deep, restorative rest it needs… literally transform a person’s ability to defeat shingles.

Suddenly having access to what it needs gives your body a burst of healing that you can almost feel happening.

Months after defeating shingles I am still more refreshed and relaxed than I ever have been in my entire life.

Shingles don’t stand a chance

There’s a number of small, everyday habits that lead to a suppressed immune system – and therefore to shingles. These are normal habits, things that most humans do.

The good news is that each of these unhelpful habits has a perfectly natural, perfectly sensible remedy – which The Shingles Solution explains.

Added together, the effect of The Shingles Solution is to treat the illness you currently have – and its itching, pain, and fatigue – quickly so that you get the relief you so badly need.

Following the program’s simple guidance keeps us from agonizing PHN – and a repeat of the whole nasty illness later on.

The bonus…

But it also makes your immune system bullet-proof, ensuring that anything that an immune system could possibly fight off….is something that your immune system can fight off.

So this is not just a recipe for freedom from shingles. It offers us freedom from dozens of diseases that a malfunctioning immune system – and the chronic inflammation that comes with it – typically give rise to.

And given that immunity and inflammation conditions include heart disease, liver disease, blood sugar imbalances, tumors, and metabolic disease… I certainly feel I’ve done myself a huge favor by taking care of this aspect of my health.

What about you?

So where are you in your shingles journey?

If it’s full-blown or in its early days then timing is everything. Quickly removing from your life factors that damage your immune system pays huge dividends – fast.

Adding to your lifestyle simple habits that enhance your immune system and cause it to ramp up a level boosts that life-giving effect. In short, the body is quick to reward us when we take care of it.

Time is of the essence. Catching the disease as quickly as possible pays off in ways you have to feel to believe. Tackle your condition now. Don’t let intense itching or burning pain ruin the next month of your life.

But, especially, don’t leave yourself open to the agony of months – but possibly years – of postherpetic neuralgia. PHN is one of the cruelest and most painful afflictions known. I saw my brother suffering… there’s nothing he wouldn’t have risked to put an end to it.

Get The Shingles Solution now. The program is fully guaranteed. Do it for yourself.

Few diseases get better on their own. Shingles are no exception.

But with standard treatments over-focusing on symptoms rather than homing in on the underlying, ongoing causes of the illness… we run unacceptable risks with postherpetic neuralgia – and then a repeat attack of shingles later.

I prevented my shingles from turning into trauma by addressing those natural underlying causes. I can’t tell you how glad I am that I did. The shingles attack itself ended up quite mild, faded quickly… and I didn’t suffer any complications afterward.

Protect yourself. Address shingles where it’s actually caused – and literally feel the difference.

The Shingles Solution isn’t just for you!

My brother got this program then passed it on to me. You would do the same for a loved one. Everyone you know who has had chickenpox (which amounts to 99% of everyone you know!) is at risk of shingles.

One-third of Americans get it in the end. When you’ve made yourself well you will be glad you can pass on the knowledge.

Look after yourself and look after the people you love – get your copy of The Shingles Solution now.

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newstfionline · 4 years

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Headlines

America’s fragile child-care system reported at risk of collapse in covid-19 crisis (Washington Post) Child-care experts say they are increasingly concerned America’s child-care system, fragile even before the coronavirus pandemic, is in danger of collapse without substantial help from Congress. The issue affects not just the nearly 12 million children under age 5 and their families who rely on providers for care, but also is a factor in how quickly the U.S. economy can recover from the crisis. Although we hear much more about this concern in regard to the reopening of K-12 schools, the same basic problem holds true for working parents who have young children: If they have to stay home to take care of their kids, they can’t return, or give full attention, to their jobs. Between March and April, 336,000 child-care workers lost their jobs, and thousands of child-care centers and family child-care homes are in danger of closing permanently, according to Hanna Melnick, who co-leads the early childhood learning team at the nonprofit Learning Policy Institute. Melnick wrote that closures of these programs “could lead to the loss of as many as 450,000 child care slots,” which would make it difficult for parents to return to work.

An ‘Avalanche of Evictions’ Could Be Bearing Down on America’s Renters (NYT) The United States, already wrestling with an economic collapse not seen in a generation, is facing a wave of evictions as government relief payments and legal protections run out for millions of out-of-work Americans who have little financial cushion and few choices when looking for new housing. The hardest hit are tenants who had low incomes and little savings even before the pandemic, and whose housing costs ate up more of their paychecks. They were also more likely to work in industries where job losses have been particularly severe. Temporary government assistance has helped, as have government orders that put evictions on hold in many cities. But evictions will soon be allowed in about half of the states, according to Emily A. Benfer, a housing expert and associate professor at Columbia Law School who is tracking eviction policies. “I think we will enter into a severe renter crisis and very quickly,” Professor Benfer said. Without a new round of government intervention, she added, “we will have an avalanche of evictions across the country.”

Looting, fires rock Minneapolis after man dies in custody (AP) Violent protests over the death of a black man in police custody rocked a Minneapolis neighborhood for a second straight night as angry crowds looted stores, set fires and left a path of damage that stretched for miles. The mayor asked the governor to activate the National Guard. The protests that began late Wednesday and stretched into Thursday morning were the most destructive yet since the death of George Floyd, who was seen on video gasping for breath during an arrest in which an officer kneeled on his neck for almost eight minutes. In the footage, Floyd pleads that he cannot breathe and slowly stops talking and moving. Protests also spread to other U.S. cities. In California, hundreds of people protesting Floyd’s death blocked a Los Angeles freeway and shattered windows of California Highway Patrol cruisers. Memphis police blocked a main thoroughfare after a racially mixed group of protesters gathered outside a police precinct. The situation intensified later in the night, with police donning riot gear and protesters standing shoulder-to-shoulder in front of officers stationed behind a barricade.

Subversion by music? (Foreign Policy) An academic’s sifting through the results of a Freedom of Information Act request has yielded a previously unknown nugget of recent history. Tim Gill, a sociologist at the University of North Carolina-Wilmington, uncovered a 2011 plan by the U.S. government to fund rock bands in Venezuela to record and distribute songs as a way “to promote greater reflection among Venezuelan youth about freedom of expression, their connection with democracy, and the state of democracy in the country,” according to a grant application. The roughly $22,000 grant was ultimately approved by the National Endowment for Democracy. U.S. government-funded musical projects are becoming something of a genre: a USAID-funded plan to infiltrate the Cuban underground hip-hop scene was revealed in 2014, and the question of whether the CIA funded a popular post-Cold War power ballad is the subject of a new podcast series.

A return to nuclear testing? (Foreign Policy) The Trump administration is mulling the United States’ first nuclear test since just after the end of the Cold War, the Washington Post reports. Officials say that Russia and China have already begun conducting low-yield nuclear tests, though this is not substantiated by public data. On Wednesday, Drew Walter, the acting deputy assistant secretary of defense for nuclear matters, clarified: There “has been no policy change” regarding live nuclear testing, but the president could order a quick test “within months” if he wanted.

U.S. planning to indict wife of Venezuelan leader (Foreign Policy) The United States is planning to charge Cilia Flores, the wife of Venezuelan President Nicolás Maduro, with crimes that could include drug trafficking and corruption according to Reuters. The move would represent a further escalation in the U.S. pressure campaign on the Venezuelan government, after Maduro and over a dozen other officials were indicted by the Justice Department in April on charges of a drug trafficking and narco-terrorism.

UN: Virus could push 14 million into hunger in Latin America (AP) The U.N. World Food Program is warning that upward of at least 14 million people could go hungry in Latin America as the coronavirus pandemic rages on, shuttering people in their homes, drying up work and crippling the economy. New projections released late Wednesday estimate a startling increase: Whereas 3.4 million experienced severe food insecurity in 2019, that number could more than quadruple this year in one of the world’s most vulnerable regions. “We are entering a very complicated stage,” said Miguel Barreto, the WFP’s regional director for Latin America and the Caribbean. “It is what we are calling a hunger pandemic.” Signs of mounting hunger are already being felt around the region, where desperate citizens are violating quarantines to go out in search of money and food and hanging red and white flags from their homes in a cry for aid.

In Brazil’s shadow, laid-back Uruguay curbs COVID-19 (Reuters) Leonardo Silveira, a bookstore owner in Montevideo, is hopeful about the future as Uruguay begins a gradual reopening. The small country has kept rates of COVID-19 at one of the lowest levels in Latin America, even as the region becomes a coronavirus epicenter. The South American nation of 3.5 million people, known for its beef, laid-back lifestyle and legalized cannabis, has recorded 789 confirmed cases of the novel coronavirus and 22 deaths. That’s around 23 cases per 100,000 people—versus nearly 200 cases per 100,000 in Brazil. With no deaths since May 23, government adviser Rafael Radi described the situation last week as being under “relative control.” Now it is easing the economy open, including a staggered restarting of schools. Some are calling it the New Zealand of Latin America, given its similar population size and number of deaths. Paraguay has kept cases at a similar level but with much tougher measures, including using the military to enforce its lockdown.

A €750 Billion Virus Recovery Plan Thrusts Europe Into a New Frontier (NYT) For decades, even when the 2008 financial crisis threatened to blow the bloc apart, the European Union’s wealthier nations resisted the notion of collective debt. But the coronavirus has so fundamentally damaged the bloc’s economy that it is now forcing European leaders to consider the sort of unified and sweeping response once thought unworkable. The European Commission, the bloc’s executive branch, on Wednesday proposed that it raise 750 billion euros, or $826 billion, on behalf of all members to finance their recovery from the economic collapse brought on by the virus, the worst crisis in the history of the European Union. The plan, which still requires approval from the 27 national leaders and their parliaments, would be the first time that the bloc raised large amounts of common debt in capital markets, taking the E.U. one step closer to a shared budget, potentially paid for through common taxes. For those reasons, the proposal had all the hallmarks of a historic moment for the E.U., vesting greater authority in Brussels in ways that more closely than ever resembled a central government.

India Faces Another Plague as Locusts Swarm (NYT) As if India needed more challenges, with coronavirus infections steadily increasing, a heat wave hitting the capital, a recent killer cyclone and 100 million people out of work, the country now has to fight off a new problem: a locust invasion. Scientists say it’s the worst attack in 25 years and these locusts are different. “This time the attack is by very young locusts who fly for longer distances, at faster speeds, unlike adults in the past who were sluggish and not so fast,” said K.L. Gurjar, the deputy director of India’s Locust Warning Organization. The locusts are flying in from Iran and Pakistan, blanketing half a dozen states in western and central India. Because most of the crops were recently harvested, the hungry swarms have buzzed into urban areas, eager to devour bushes and trees, carpeting whatever surface they land on.

Protesters Say Hong Kong Will Burn (Foreign Policy) Beijing’s announcement of a new national security law in Hong Kong stunned the city’s more than 7 million residents, who see it as a death blow to the “one country, two systems” model—the rights and laws that have protected the territory from Beijing’s despotism since 1997. China’s own rubber-stamp parliament, the National People’s Congress, is expected to pass the law on Thursday—not the Hong Kong legislature. While the details remain unclear, the law will likely lead to widespread arrests on spurious political charges, a crackdown on free speech, and the unleashing of China’s security organs, such as the Ministry of State Security and the People’s Armed Police. At the same time, the Hong Kong legislature is moving to push through a hugely unpopular law that criminalizes the mockery of China’s national anthem, which is routinely booed by crowds in the territory. The mood among young Hong Kongers, who largely do not identify as Chinese, is grim: The slogan laam caau—loosely translated as “If we burn, you burn with us”—has become popular. So too have calls for outright independence, which were rare before the authorities’ brutal response to last year’s protests. The new law means that Hong Kong could be a simmering center of revolt for years.

#headlines #news

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soysaucevictim · 4 years

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Week 5 of everything. Finishing a Challenge, halfway through this Program...

(A bit late again...)

Apr. 11

I woke up some time after 1PM.

The first thing I got to doing was making the second/last Hello Fresh Meal of the week - Lemon Chive Chicken. FINALLY something that went over more unanimously well. Mostly because I could easily not put that lemony sauce on bro’s chicken. I liked pretty well myself (not my top fave, but happy enough for reprisal.)

Much of the rest of the day was spent chatting, with some exercise thrown in.

First. today’s DD. 40 reverse plank kicks with EC (20/20). This was just a fun one to get done.

Last, Day 25 of the 60DoC. Level 3, no rest. Doing it basically in one go was very manageable. Arms definitely felt that one!

(Didn’t quite manage my time well enough to get around to doing the CRC. Had intended to wait for arms’ recovery - but... yeah.)

I also recently made a Habitica account with the username norvash_17. In case anyone cares about that.

Didn’t get to bed on time.

Apr. 12

I woke up proper a bit before 3PM.

First, today’s DD. 2′ arm scissors with EC. I counted 229 reps by the end of it - very close to 2/sec. But that pace was no less intense to maintain.

Second, Day 26 of the 60DoC. Level 3, 1′ rest (started at 30″, but decided a bit more rest was a good idea). Sometimes had a few moments to re-orient because it’s mildly awkward switching between seal jacks and jumping Ts (different axis of movement). This was also pretty winding!

Last, Day 25 of the CRC. 3x “chair“ rows to failure. 20-12-8 this time, with small hops counted as reps. Intense, but manageable.

Didn’t get to bed on time, but I did manage to make some art headway.

Apr. 13

I woke up a bit before 2PM.

One of the first things I did was starting on my exercise.

First, today’s DD. 50 forward lunges with EC. Tough, fatiguing, and aerobic... but manageable.

(After eating/digesting some food and watching more Dr. G...)

Second, Day 27 of the 60DoC. Level 3, 1′ rest. By just the first set, I knew this would take some digging in. I was right bushed, calves & quads were almost completely done by the end of it (the DD did suck some juice out of me, too). I like jacks - but split jacks are a bit low on the list (just a step easier than jumping lunges , but v similar in action.).

Last, Day 26 of the CRC. 2x30″ flex hang hold. Same condition of technique as much of the challenge. Even without complete clearance - it’s really intense!

Even though I didn’t get to bed on time, I did get some art headway in.

Apr. 14

I woke up a bit before 9AM.

One of the first things I did was arrange some notes to prepare myself for my psych appointment. It was over the phone, which I was somewhat anxious about. Didn’t run into many severe issues beside a small technical hiccup.

One of the first things I did after that was my exercise.

First, today’s DD. 1′ climbers with EC. I counted exactly 122 reps by the end of, a solid 2/sec. And I had fun with that.

(After dishes, dinner, shopping, and planning my fitness agenda...)

Second, Day 28 of the 60DoC. Level 3, 30″ rest. Calf raises are usually pretty low-key. But today, the calves felt everything. That was pretty fun and brisk - I was a bit tough on my knees, though.

Last, Day 27 of the CRC. 3x “chair“ rows to failure. 20-12-8, same approach and experiences as Day 25.

Spent the rest of my night working on art and chatting a bit. Didn’t get to bed on time.

Apr. 15

I woke up a bit after noon.

First, today’s DD. 1′ side leg raise hold with EC (30″/30″). Very fun and meditative balance work.

Second, Day 29 of the 60DoC. Level 3, 1′ rest. That kicked my ass, especially all the lunges (still glad for the small number of jumping lunge). Probably walked into this a bit under-hydrated, so that wasn’t ideal. But I got through it. Oof.

(After checking in with case manager over phone...)

Last, Day 28 of the CRC. 2x30″ flex hang hold. Similar experience as Day 26, took some digging in the last half of last set.

Then did some dishes. Also shared “Man’s First Friend“ with a friend, we both busted out the waterworks (dogs are too good for us). After some more chatting an some YouTube, I resumed work on art and sent out some WIPs.

Didn’t get to bed quite on time - but hey. Today went well enough.

Apr. 15

I woke up pretty much at 1AM.

First, today’s DD. 40 bridge taps with EC. A fun one, as usual, gotta mind how you roll on the shoulders.

(After some dishes and making dinner...)

Second, Day 30 of the 60DoC. Level 3, 30″ rest. Now this was a workout that inspired bliss in me - I love jacks in general, but a lot of half jacks really does the trick for me. I also chased that feeling with 2x1′ of bouncing on the spot. Calves/Achilles were p much done after that, but I enjoyed myself! =w=

(After an intense family incident, with regard to uncle... but commiserating with friend and binging SaSi with them, helped. I did feel better, eventually.)

Last, Day 29 of the CRC. 3x “chair“ rows to failure. I went for 20-15-10, just to ee nice numbers and try to squeeze a bit more out of me. I did this inordinately late, but I got done. Otherwise, it was a pretty similar experience to Days 25+27.

...

Apr. 16

I woke up a bit after 1PM.

One of the first things I did was set out to cook our next Hello Fresh meal - Tunisian stuffed bell peppers. I personally really enjoyed it. Bro liked it enough to eat his whole plate.

After that, I did dishes and some organizing (bought some shelves for living room, for dad). Then, I went to get some exercise in.

First, today’s DD. 5′ raised arm hold with EC (lateral). That def took some digging in. Arms began to tremble in last minute or so. Eyes watered from the [good] pain - that’s honestly one reason I like this exercise (because somewhat prone to dry eyes.)

Last, Day 30 of the Chair Rows Challenge. 2x30″ flex hang hold. Also took some digging in. But all told, I got through it. It may be worth revisiting this challenge with greater increments (either I lift more of myself up at the height setting I was at or see if higher rings can better facilitate that.)

I didn’t get to bed on time again. Ah well.

Summary of Experience:

I’m still currently working on that 60 Days of Cardio Program, largely enjoying things thus far. But I’ll save full summary when done with it.

I finished the Chair Rows Challenge in April 16. First week, I had the gymnast rings hang pretty low maybe closer to 2.5′ off floor. I managed to start off with 30-15-10, for the “to failure days”.

Then, more securely attached the rings a bit higher (I think around 3′ off ground). Number dropped a bit, but I felt more engagement. I did qualify things based off of feeling my seat lift up (even a little, though there was at least a moment where it was considerably more) It was no less challenging at that level for me.

Ended up with 20-15-10. Looks like I still have a ways to go toward pulling off a pull-up. But I’m working on it!

#adventures with fitness #adventures with hello fresh #adventures with habitica #sharon watches dr. g

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biofunmy · 5 years

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States Are Making Progress on Opioids. Now the Money That’s Helping Them May Dry Up

ST. LOUIS — Bryan Garner was homeless and injecting as much fentanyl as he could get his hands on when he found the Missouri Network Outreach Center, a community center in an old brick rowhouse in St. Louis that connects people to addiction treatment.

Mr. Garner, 51, accepted the center’s offer of assistance and has not used any illegal drugs since January.

“I really feel like, without this place, I wouldn’t be here now,” he said.

But how long the center will survive — and how long Mr. Garner will be able to get free treatment — is in question. The center exists thanks to $3.3 billion in opioid crisis grants, approved with strong bipartisan support, that the Trump administration and Congress have allotted to states since 2017, when a record 47,600 Americans died from overdoses involving opioids. The money for treatment, prevention and recovery is the administration’s most tangible contribution to addressing the opioid epidemic, and a rare example of an initiative that has received almost full bipartisan support in Washington during President Trump’s tenure.

But even as Mr. Trump has started to claim victory over the epidemic, citing “results that are unbelievable” at a drug abuse summit in April, neither he nor his administration’s top health officials have talked publicly about extending the funding beyond next year, when it is scheduled to run out. Many in the addiction field fear that, with opioid overdose deaths finally beginning to level off, and other problems like high prescription drug costs emerging as campaign issues, the attention to treatment will dissipate.

“I’ve been in this field over 35 years, and I’ve never seen an investment like this,” said Mark Stringer, the director of the Missouri Department of Mental Health. “Our plea would be for it to continue.”

The Department of Health and Human Services referred questions about the future of the grants to the Substance Abuse and Mental Health Services Administration, which oversees them. Dr. Elinore McCance-Katz, that agency’s director, was noncommittal. “If I could, I certainly would” continue the funding beyond next year, she said in an interview.

Preliminary data from the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention suggest that opioid overdose deaths dropped slightly in 2018, although deaths involving fentanyl, the powerful synthetic opioid that caused a sharp surge in deaths over the past few years, continued to climb. The final month of data for the year is expected to be released this week.

The grants have been especially crucial in Republican-led states that decided not to expand free Medicaid coverage to low-income adults under the Affordable Care Act, which guarantees addiction treatment as an “essential benefit.” Many of these states have been hit hard by the opioid epidemic, and the grants are their main source of financing for treatment.

But Missouri is quickly exhausting its $65 million share, and other states that have not expanded Medicaid, including Kansas and North Carolina, are in a similar predicament. They have had to spend most of their grant money on medications and doctor appointments — expenses that expanded Medicaid has covered in other states — instead of on other important assistance like housing, recovery services or even naloxone, the overdose-reversal drug.

“When we first heard the money was coming, I remember thinking, ‘Wow, that’s a lot,’” said Nora Bock, who helps oversee addiction treatment programs for the Missouri Department of Mental Health. “Now it’s like, ‘Oh my God, it’s nowhere near enough.’”

Some lawmakers in states that have been hit hard by the opioid crisis are starting to make noise about continuing the funding. Senator Rob Portman, Republican of Ohio, introduced legislation last month to continue the grants through 2024, at $500 million a year. Senator Jeanne Shaheen, Democrat of New Hampshire, has a bill that would increase the grants to $5.5 billion over five years, Both bills would let states use the money to help people addicted to methamphetamine and other drugs, not just opioids.

“My state is a little nervous that Congress is going to say, ‘Gosh, we’ve solved this problem and we can move on,’” Mr. Portman said. “If you take away this foundation we’ve built, the edifice comes crumbling down.”

To qualify for the money now, treatment programs must offer at least one of the three medications that have been approved to treat opioid addiction. Though it is backed by scientific evidence, that approach has nonetheless been rarely used in the past.

But the one-time nature of the grants — they were first authorized in 2016 by President Barack Obama, for two years — makes it hard for states to build out permanent treatment systems. The Bipartisan Policy Center noted that problem in a recent analysis, as did several witnesses at a House hearing on the federal opioid response last month.

In West Virginia, a state that expanded Medicaid but has been devastated by the epidemic, the grant money is “just a patch,” Angela Gray, a public health nurse there, said at the hearing, adding that “without a long-term stable funding commitment and plan, my state will continue to bleed.”

Here in St. Louis, which has one of the highest overdose death rates of any large city, the need is extreme. Even now, only a fraction of the opioid-addicted population is benefiting from the money: about 5,650 people over the last two years, most of whom were prescribed buprenorphine.

The $230,000 that the MO Network community center that helped Mr. Garner received through the federal grant program this year is paying its rent and funding salaries for three full-time and six part-time employees. The center uses funds from another source to buy and distribute clean needles to people who inject fentanyl and other drugs, which the federal government is prohibited from paying for.

The center’s staff members persuade many people who come for needles or group activities to try treatment — 82 in May. They link them to Assisted Recovery Centers of America, a Missouri company that is the main treatment provider under the state��s grant program.

“People come for needle exchange in the morning, get put in an Uber to a treatment site, get buprenorphine that same day and get put in housing that night,” said Rachel P. Winograd, an associate research professor at the University of Missouri-St. Louis, who has helped the state plan how to use its allocation. “But boy, does that soak up money fast.”

Missouri decided not to use any of its grant funds for residential care or group therapy, opting instead for a “medication first” approach that does not require lengthy initial assessments, counseling, participation in groups or drug-free urine samples as conditions for obtaining medication. The lack of barriers has led to better retention in treatment, Ms. Winograd said.

Assisted Recovery Centers, or ARCA, is using grant money to treat about 1,200 patients for opioid addiction in St. Louis and, through telemedicine, in several dozen rural locations throughout Missouri. That is about 40 percent fewer than last year, as the company had to slow admissions to avoid running out of money. It is also providing temporary housing for about 82 of those patients; the state imposed a 45-day limit after it realized how quickly the grant funds were disappearing.

“With the volume we are asked to serve, we will be out of treatment dollars again by the middle of August,” said Suneal Menzies, ARCA’s executive director.

Nor is Missouri the only state that is struggling to keep up with the need. In North Carolina, where one million people remain uninsured, grant money that was supposed to last until May ran out in February. The state is spending $2 million a month through the program and hopes to have just enough to keep treatment for thousands of uninsured patients going through September.

“We’re digging ourselves out of a meteor-sized hole with a teaspoon,” said Kody Kinsley, a deputy secretary at the North Carolina Department of Health and Human Services.

Kansas, too, has struggled. Its grantees ran out of their second year of opioid grant money last fall, months ahead of time.

Shane Hudson, president and chief executive of CKF Addiction Treatment, a treatment center based in Salina that has received more than $2 million in grant funds, said that with Medicaid expansion, “these opioid grant dollars could go much further, and we could afford more skilled staff to provide more of these services.”

The center is already preparing patients for the likelihood that they will have to take on the cost of their treatment eventually, Mr. Hudson added.

While the money has undoubtedly saved lives, many who have benefited from free treatment remain fragile.

One recent morning at ARCA’s clinic on Chippewa Street in St. Louis, Brandi Russell, 37, said she had been receiving buprenorphine through the grant program since January. But she had relapsed on her birthday, in April, after seven weeks of sobriety.

“Fentanyl is everywhere in this area — you have no clue,” she said as she waited to see her doctor. “Dealers will come up to you at the gas station, say, ‘Here’s some samples, let me put my number in your phone.’”

The MO Network recently retrofitted an old ambulance to hand out naloxone and tell opioid users on the streets about free treatment options, including at ARCA. It takes the vehicle out into the community several times a week.

Driving the vehicle past an empty warehouse near the Mississippi River one evening, Aaron Laxton, a social worker, stopped to talk to Albin Martin, 36. Mr. Martin said he had been kicked out of a recovery home 10 days earlier for using fentanyl. He had gone on to overdose twice in the last week, he said, but other homeless individuals had revived him with Narcan.

“They said I was completely cold and blue,” he told Mr. Laxton and Chad Sabora, who helped found the group in 2012. Back then, Mr. Sabora said, St. Louis had a five-month wait for any kind of drug treatment.

Mr. Sabora gave Mr. Martin a card with the MO Network’s phone number. The center gives clients more chances than most other recovery housing options, letting them stay even after they have relapsed several times.

“Don’t use alone, O.K.?” he told Mr. Martin as he climbed back into the mobile unit.

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todaynewsstories · 6 years

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Italy′s ghost towns lie in rubble 2 years after quake | Europe| News and current affairs from around the continent | DW

A pair of socks and a shirt on a drying line stretched across a window may seem like a sign of life amid the silence that still envelops the old town of Visso, two years after a 6.5 earthquake hit the town.

But the laundry is a sign that nothing here has changed much since the night when Visso’s residents — officially 1,200 — were loaded onto buses and taken to hotels and B&Bs on the coast.

The house, a three-story arched building at the edges of the medieval hamlet, is located in what is now a the town’s largest no-go area, the historical center, where nearly every building has been damaged by a series of earthquakes that hit central Italy between August and October two years ago. They left 300 dead, several injured, over 2,5 million tons of debris, and 48,000 displaced. The strongest to hit Visso was on October 30, when the epicenter was in Norcia, less than 30 kilometers (18 miles) away.

Some residents have now returned and live in emergency wooden homes scattered in small settlements carved into mountain flanks along the road that crosses a green valley and leads to the heart of the Sibylline mountains in the Apennine, the mountain range that cuts through the Italian peninsula from north to south.

Every few years, the earth around these mountains trembles to produce a natural disaster: in 2012 it hit the Emilia Romagna region, in 2009 it was nearby L’Aquila. If anything is to be considered a surprise in this latest tragedy, it was its strength, unparalleled in recent decades.

A town in ruins

“They are still working on safety measures,” says Ernesto Martini, a local traffic policeman, as the sound of drilling from a construction site breaks the silence hanging over the old town. Many homes, partly collapsed, still lie in their own rubble.

According to environmental organization Legambiente, as of August, only 40 percent of rubble had been removed from public buildings across the territory affected. As for private buildings, rubble can be removed only once a reconstruction project is approved. These streets speak for themselves.

“With a disaster of this scale, one can expect things to go wrong,” Martini told DW, leading the way through collapsed restaurant signs and fading placards explaining the town’s history in various languages. “But to get everything wrong, you must try hard.”

Visso used to live on tourism, partly built upon the existence of second homes people kept in this picturesque but out-of-the-way part of the country.

There has been a hemorrhage of residents in the past decades, as hundreds of hamlets like Visso across Italy went through gradual depopulation. The earthquake has provided the ultimate incentive for some of the families to move out, as they found work or started sending children to school on the coast.

Martini believes that more should have been done to revitalize the local economy and encourage people to come back.

“The money is there,” says Riccardo Bucci, a lawyer with the organization Fabbrica dei Diritti (Rights Factory), which has been supporting those affected through the maze of decrees and measures adopted to face the emergency and reconstruction.

Italy’s civil protection department and the EU estimated the total damage, including the earthquakes in January 2017, at €23.5 billion ($27 billion).

Read more: Amatrice: One year after the devastating earthquake in central Italy

So where’s the money?

According to an impact assessment report published by the Italian senate last year, Italy allocated a total of €13.2 billion, mostly to reconstruction, over 30 years, with more than half of that expected to be spent between 2016 and 2019. Another €1.2 billion was granted by the EU’s solidarity fund for public expenditure, and €200 million came out of the European Regional Development Fund, in addition to another €200 million to be distributed via grants and national co-financing.

“The problem is how the money was allocated at a strategic level, what they decided to do and not to do,” Bucci told DW. “Given what happened in L’Aquila, where the aftermath of the earthquake was poorly managed, here we have seen, on the opposite end of the scale, a burdensome bureaucratic chain.”

Parts of Visso still look as if the earthquake hit yesterday

But not everyone has waited as long to come back. Some residents, like farmer and butcher Fabio Troiani, never left.

“Welcome back,” says a customer before leaving Troiani’s new store, which re-opened at the end of September in a shiny new wood and iron structure.

“[After the earthquake] there was no one left here other than the police, firemen and security personnel,” recounted Troiani, a towering 60-year-old with a salt and pepper mustache.

“I came back the day after. At first they didn’t want to let me through. But my farm is here, and I never left again,” he told DW.

For the next 18 months, his family of four lived in a caravan alongside 32 other people who set up camp near the sporting club, which provided showers and basic facilities.

As for his actual home, which was subject to minor damages, reconstruction work is far from getting started. “I have given up on the idea of sleeping in my house again,” he said.