#aha ha vulnerability is agonizing

[desertedcorridors]

Morning Person

I woke up at 7:14 again today. I’ve always wanted to become a morning person. Not the ones that wake up at dawn to go running or get a headstart on the workday, but the ones who wake just in time to lay there, that brief juncture in the almost-day when the light is golden and still innocent, pliable enough to mold, when the tendrils of sleep take their time loosening their hold. I like to think I can cut through this softness like butter, run my hands through it, pack it into a little cube and pocket some for night. Of course, I’ve never been a morning person. I wish I was. I never wake up in time. 

I can’t remember the exact moment I decided I couldn’t stand to sleep in my own room anymore. Springtime in Lahore means dusting off the ceiling fans in mid March. I had started sleeping horizontally on my bed so I could be directly under the cool air. When I woke up one morning I found that someone had filled my bones with cement and suspended me in a sunbeam. I’m not sure what made that particular day so defining. It wasn’t a new feeling, this heaviness in me weighing down my mattress. It wasn’t even an oh, there it is again feeling. When I think of the word constant I try to rack my brain for emotions, people, anything to remind myself that I am wanted, that I am anticipated. Nothing comes to mind. Nothing except the familiarity of my own expendability. When you have hollow bones it’s inevitable that someone will want to anchor you like a bird to a cage. I tired myself out a long time ago. I’ve never been one to fight back; it’s one of my mother’s favorite things about me. That morning I felt strange, like I was intruding on an intimate moment between the sun and the eggshell white of my walls, like I wasn’t meant to see the behind the scenes. I was acutely reminded of the feeling of walking into a room you don’t belong in, the heads of strangers swiveling around to look you up and down before returning to their business. I felt shame prickle through my scalp in a wave. My room aglow with the yellow filtering through my curtains, childlike and pure, my body a deadweight, supine and useless, lips cracking in the recycled air, I looked at the clock. 7:14. So this is it, I thought. This is what I’ve been waiting for. I wanted to go back to sleep with a desperation so intense it numbed my toes and curled my fingers. My room looked beautiful and alive and determined to set me on fire. I felt its smirk against my throat as it settled its weight on my chest and pressed me into the bed. I thought, leave it to me to turn beautiful things evil. That night, blanket and pillow in hand, I knocked on my mother’s door. 

The sun rises differently in my mother’s room. When it wakes me up at 7:14 again, it has the decency to look apologetic, remorseful. I decide to have mercy. Next to me my mother is folded into the cocoon of sleep. I tamp down my envy and inch closer. When she puts an arm around me and strokes my hair I fake my breathing. I tell myself I can cry later. The intimacy that lives confined in this hour of undiluted quiet is too pure for someone as polluted with guilt as I am.  I’m supposed to say something in this moment, I know I am. Sometimes I think I’ve spent my whole life trying to find the right thing to say. One day I’ll wake up and my lips will be gone, the top of my throat sealed shut. I’ll know I deserve it, I’ll know that only people with things to say deserve voices. I have nothing to say. With my face turned into the mattress I can almost convince myself I’m here simply because I was bored, not because my loneliness is a clawed hand around my ankle, not because I’ve made a villain of the sun and my room and time itself and fear is a wave cresting outside my window.  I can almost convince myself that my self loathing is contained in the room I’ve left behind. In this new room where the sun is more forgiving and my mother’s arm is a shield I cower behind, I can convince myself I’m safe. The ticking of the clock mocks me. 

I can feel the wave catching up to me.

Once, in a fit of desperate rage, I thought maybe I could outsmart time. That night I didn’t sleep till 5am, until my eyes were begging me for release. I thought surely this would mean I would sleep in until noon at least. When I woke up the next morning, wide awake and smug, the light was all wrong. It was too bright and the room was too humid. I looked at the clock. 7:14. I could feel the sun shake its head in pity, felt the clock narrow its eyes in annoyance. I conceded. As I lay there, limp and exhausted, I began listing all the adjectives I could think of to describe the light at 7:14. Soft. Supple. Ethereal. Tender. Tangible. Ephemeral. Blinding. Desolate. Lonely. Desperate. Gone. Desperate. Desperate. My head started hurting.

A couple years back when my migraines got really bad, I went in for an MRI. I remember the frustration I felt when the doctor said there was nothing wrong with me, the desperation of wanting her to stick a label on the issue and file it away as a problem solved. I wanted her to tell me what I already knew: that the migraines came from the same heaviness that pressed me into my bed every morning. I wanted her to stick her hands in her white coat and tell me not to worry, there’s a very simple solution to this, we’ll send you into emergency surgery and hollow your bones out again and then you’ll be as good as new. Instead she told me to take it easy and stay hydrated. On the way home the sun was white hot. I’ve always found it weird that when I have a good day, I go to bed with a headache. It’s important to note here that a headache is not a migraine. I never understood these headaches; maybe they came from laughing too hard, or smiling for too long. On these days I think my heart pumps blood differently, like it’s so relieved to find a reason to beat again that it works overtime to compensate for all the days I let it sit in my chest and harden. I like the idea of giving my poor heart a purpose, the way it trips over itself trying to butter me up. When I hold two fingers up to the side of my throat, my skin feels alien, the veins underneath pounding out a code of don’t let us forget this feeling again. I send back an apology in advance. I can’t remember the last time I got a headache.

Tonight my dinner congealed like wet sand on my gums. But it’s night, I thought, I’m supposed to be okay, at least for now. I dared to look at the clock. 7:14. Is nowhere safe? There was a time when I didn’t know how to read clocks. There was a time when I chided myself for never waking up before noon. I don’t know when I started being afraid of the sun. I don’t know how to stop. 

[thisisallthehattersfault]

“If you want to keep something a secret, don’t talk about it in public. You never know who might be listening.”

Theme: Aha! -- Imogen Heap

Edward Balthazar, son of Edgar Balthazar, The Aristocats

Patient, methodical, and systematic to the point of being neurotic, Edward is happiest when life is a series of clear, coherent answers arranged in neat little boxes. He often agonizes over a problem until it’s been simplified to his satisfaction, or else outright rejects overly-complicated ideals. Philosophical and religious debates, as an example, infuriate him. Rather, Edward has a very strict black-and-white view of the world, and can be quite stubborn about deviating at all from this mindset.  His obsession with answers has led to a distinct interest in secrets, lies, and hidden things, driving him to dig up as many skeletons as he can. This makes him an excellent spymaster, second only to Anthony Tremaine when it comes to gathering information on the various Isle inhabitants. His network of eavesdroppers was passable before, but since joining the Unseelie he’s managed to spread his web over nearly the entire island, learning about events almost as soon as they unfold. Edward’s binary way of viewing the world means he puts his allies on a pedestal and everyone else in the mud, making him overly critical and disdainful of those he considers beneath them. He’s dismissive of emotional reasons and reactions, believing them to be a waste of time, and hypocritically ignoring how much of his motivation comes not from cold logic but from a deep, genuine loyalty and affection for his friends. His aloof, pretentious, judgmental nature can make it hard for him to connect with people, but he does crave love and companionship as much as anyone else in the world. He hides this deep, vulnerable yearning behind a veneer of intellectualism as a defense mechanism.  The cane Eddie uses adds to the image he’s created for himself, but he does genuinely need it, after a childhood injury left him with a limp. When threatened, he can typically talk his way out of the situation, but he’s been known to use the various blades hidden in his cane as a last resort. He most often gets violent with Miles, because he’s in love and very, very angry about it.

[merrysithmas]

this is extremely random, but id like your take on the matter. if theo got asked if he was a virgin when he was in school (after vegas) what do you think he would say? do you think he would a) tell the truth (very unlikely) b) lie and say he forgot (i dont even remember man i was fucked up aha) c) lie and make up a fake woman and fake story or d) (and this ones my absolute fav hc) he steals boris' losing his virginity story (i was trying to get some cig nd then we went back to her car aha )

I think he’d lie sheepishly or just stoically and unamusedly Not Answer. I don’t think Theo masters the art of Supreme Bullshittery until he’s older and then can on a dime smarmily bold-face lie to people while looking them straight in the eyes. Interestingly, that’s a talent he develops once he gets back to New York. It is a New talent for him — an interesting coping tactic he develops post-Boris that he didn’t have, need, or want before when he had Boris. Hmm. An interesting thing indeed.

But yeah LMAO your idea that he steals Boris’ losing virginity story is hilarious. Esp bc it’s coming from like a tiny street urchin child that looks like he should be in James and the Giant Peach. I can see him blurting that out to Hadley and she’s like Riiiiiiight. Lmao.

Also poor Theo he’s soooooooooo deeply repressed the concept of losing his virginity must be a huge staggering minefield in his brain considering he gave it up to Boris, a dude, and he’s Not Gay, and kansksjsj his whole life Boris is the guy he lost his V-card to like - can you imagine them seeing one another 10 years later, young adult Boris: peppy be-ringed criminal syndicate ringleader staring at this grown young adult Theo dressed to the absolute nines, oozing status and propriety, and thinking how once upon a time he had this prim pressed suited person’s total vulnerability under his thumb?

Two terrorized kids fumbling around in the solace of each other’s intimacy, dark rooms and small hours, locked eyes and racing hearts and Theo nodding okay and Boris, brutal little Boris who no one loves or trusts seeing that —that allowance — and thinking okay back. Seeing that and thinking he’s worth something. Even in his drug-addled brain and in the morning after, the years after, reflects on it and realizes back when people (even his own father) treated him like a disposable piece of garbage someone thought he was something special — special enough to give him that permission. Commit him to eternal memory. Theo’s first person. Permanent ink. Back when Boris was all ratty teenaged bluster and bravado — compulsively proud of himself for racking up a notch on his belt, deep inside he knew that it was just an ugly adolescent varnish over some real priceless moment, simply waiting to peel and reveal itself to him.

That’s something adult Boris and Theo can never put behind them and always sizzles right on the edge of acknowledgement during their every convo. That vulnerability and trust Theo gave to Boris — and how Boris feels he betrayed it. How he swears he’s going to make it right so Theo can look at him the way he did before. Because he can’t get those eyes out of his memory — the ones Theo, shell-shocked and terrified, finally gives him again when Boris pushes him out of the car in Amsterdam. I’ll meet you in a few days, he says, agonized in pain in the driver’s seat.

Okay, say Theo’s eyes, finally, that whole-heart giving, stuck to him like glue, too scared to move, and Boris has waited all these years to see that expression again but he can’t even look. Distracts himself with the heinous traffic. Wants to give himself something to fight towards as the blood loss makes his toes cold and his vision slant strangely as the snow falls. Go! he commands instead, startling Theo to action and winces sharply once he turns his back and gets his footing on the ice.

[hardlyfatal]

gary’s writing workshop: lesson 1: kintsugi, or how to make all criticism constructive

The tough thing about writing is that you have to be bold enough to think your work is worth reading by the public, and also have the humility to accept criticism so that you can improve and be better. You need to be strong enough not to crumple like a used tissue when you receive negative feedback.

The primary, inescapable truth about writing: you won't get better until you acknowledge and accept that you need to get better. That's it. If you think your writing is flawless, you're wrong. If you think you've done a perfect job, you're wrong. If you think there's no way it can possibly be improved, you're wrong.

That's not to say it's bad. Just that it's not perfect, that there is always going to be more you can do to tweak it closer to the ideal. To get there, you have to think critically about your work, instead of through a veil of trembling sensitivity and frail ego. You can't be defensive, but approach it with the knowledge that, despite the discomfort or even pain, the process will make you stronger and better. Kintsugi!

There are two kinds of negative feedback, and two classes of people you’ll get it from. The first kind is when something is factually, empirically wrong. Problems with your SPAG1, anachronisms, and continuity fall into this category – there’s no arguing with “you spelled something wrong” and “people in the Middle Ages didn’t say ‘okay’ “ and “in chapter 1 you said X but in chapter 2 you said Y”. Either it happened or it didn’t.

These are valid criticisms and must be considered and addressed. Yes, even if the person saying them is a complete dick and puts it in the cruelest possible terms. Just because they're a cruel dick doesn't mean they're a WRONG cruel dick. The only thing you can do is correct it. I personally tend to thank them, because even if they’ve been dicks, they still did me a favor in pointing out an error. I improved because of them. That’s worthy of thanks. Kintsugi!

The second kind of feedback is subjective, because you’ve failed to satisfy the reviewer’s expectations in some way. Maybe the story’s premise doesn't do it for them. Maybe they hate the trope you've modeled the plot around, or how you're presenting the characters. They think your pacing is too slow and things need to be snappier. Your dialogue is stilted. Maybe they simply don't like your style.

Where things are matters of opinion – and choices of trope, issues of awful dialogue, and dragging plots are opinion – you need to really, honestly look hard at them, without a veil of ego and self-protection keeping you from seeing what's going on. Why would the reviewer say the dialogue is awful, or that the plot drags?2

It could be that what they consider a lagging pace is merely their impatience to get to the payload; they want to see the fight/smut/revelation scene and all the world-building or slow burn romance is no more than dawdling on the way to the fun stuff. OR it could be that you’re rehashing the same shit three times and need a kick in the pants to see that it only needs saying once.3

Regardless of what conclusion you arrive at, you’re going to have aha! moments, bursts of clarity for issues that you couldn’t perceive on your own but needed someone else to present them, or different wording or metaphors or whatever, in order to see what the problem is. These epiphanies can be hard to cope with. You might feel chagrin, disappointment, irritation, even anger. They’re all valid emotions, and you’re allowed to feel them. Just don’t drown in them. Give them a few minutes to run their course, and then move on to address the situation. You don’t have time to mope forever, you’ve got more chapters and stories to write.

On to the classes of reviewers you’ll have. One class is that of your readers. It can be frustrating to receive valuable feedback after you publish. If it’s a SPAG issue or something likewise easily dealt with, it’s NBD – you just make your correction and hope no one else noticed. If it’s something stylistic, you shrug and move on, as not everyone will appreciate your writing ‘personality’.

If it’s structural, however, it can be devastating, because the entire story can hinge on something you have now learned is problematic. It can even kill your inspiration and motivation to continue the story. That happened to me about eight years ago-- someone pointed out a major issue that I had somehow just… missed. I was over 70,000 words into that story and I just couldn’t manage another word of it, after that. Talk about disheartening.

This type of thing is what makes the second class of reviewer, the beta, so incredibly valuable. You should always take seriously any feedback and advice provided by a beta. If you’re lucky, you’ve found someone who isn’t afraid to really give you the business. You want to root out as many problems as possible before you publish. A good beta is worth their weight in smut.

But it’s one thing to cope with the embarrassment you might feel to have a reader point out an error, and coping with that from someone with whom you’ll be having an ongoing relationship. With a reader, you can just take their criticism and apply it and move on; your contact with them will always be somewhat limited so your discomfort is fleeting.

A beta, however, is someone you have to speak to again, at length, after they’re pointed out what a dolt you are (though probably in far nicer language). It can be daunting to continue dealing with someone who has caught you with your pants down, so to speak. Writing can be very self-revelatory, and when we put it out there and it gets pooped on, we can feel vulnerable and rejected.

But… we are not our writing! We are not our plot holes, or our wonky grasp of SPAG, or our tendency to tell rather than show, or our aversion to ‘said’ as a speech tag, or any of the other million problems we can have as writers. When our betas tell us something is wrong with any of these, fortunately, it’s not a statement on our quality as people.

And, just like who we are as people, nothing we write is over and done forever. Everything can be fixed, tweaked, improved. In this digital age, even after publishing, the story isn’t set in stone. We can always nip in there after the fact and tidy up, twitch it into position, repair what isn’t working. Kintsugi! So what is Kintsugi, anyway? And why does it pertain to us? It’s the Japanese art of repairing broken pottery with lacquer dusted or mixed with powdered gold, silver, or platinum. Philosophically used, it treats breakage and repair as part of the history of an object instead of a method of disguising it. The cracks and dings become beauty marks instead of flaws, because of the story they tell.

In terms that mean something to us in particular, it’s Jaime’s stump and/or gold hand. As people who love him in a particular pairing, and are fans of his character in particular, we see the stump and/or prosthesis as a symbol of the agonizing redemption process he has undergone, and how he had to break before he could be fixed.

Similarly, we can approach our flaws with an open heart, as opportunities for growth. We can be eager to find them, because we know we’re going to conquer them and improve because of it. We can breathe through the discomfort and embarrassment knowing we’ll come through it stronger, both as writers and as people.

Example:

Just today, one of my betas, the unsinkable Mikki, came at me with a contention that I was writing Brienne OOC.

(Note: She was her usual lovely self, not hostile at all – this is just a timely example of dealing with subjective criticism and how to consider and absorb it. But do keep in mind the “sometimes even assholes are right” thing from above.)

At first, I thought, “She’s expecting Brienne to be different, but I’m choosing to adapt her for a modern setting, so of course the character won’t be identical to her canonical self.” So I replied that I was writing her differently because, in the modern AU I’m writing, Brienne hasn’t had the same life experiences that, in canon, resulted in her being far more humorless, touchy, self-ashamed, etc.

Mikki replied with a very insightful analysis of how Brienne’s personality was formed, and how those core characteristics can come through in modern-day!Brienne, albeit in a softened format according to the gentler treatment she’s had in my story. I saw immediately that, put this way, Mikki was entirely correct, and that I’d been going about it without enough depth and consistency.

I don’t need to revamp anything drastically, but to add details here and there – mostly just introspective bits that will add to the characterization in the end, and make her feel more Briennelike. These bits won’t be obvious or attention-grabbing, they won’t change the story significantly, but they’ll contribute to the overall quality.

The upshot of this is that Mikki knows she can tell me when she perceives a problem because I'll take her seriously and won't freak out on her. And I feel comfortable not only receiving her critique but also entering into a discussion about it instead of just blindly accepting her advice and accepting when I'm shown the error of my ways.

Homework:

Think about past incidents of negative feedback. If you’ve had criticism given, even in a hostile way, consider that at length. Are you able to brush off the dross and see the gem hidden beneath? Can you discard the rudeness and find the message hidden within it? Focus on the message, not the delivery.

Once you find it, examine it. Is it pointing out a factual error, or is it subjective? If it’s subjective, is it just because you’ve disappointed their expectations, or because there is valid criticism? Write your response out, if you feel that will be helpful to clarifying your thoughts. 

Endnotes:

1 - SPAG = Spelling, Grammar, And Punctuation.

2 - In future lessons, we’ll be going over many topics – among them natural-feeling dialogue and the matter of pacing – in hopes that you’ll have something to compare their criticism to, gaining the ability to discern whether or not you do have problems with these issues or the reviewer is just a crackpot.

3 - Academic writing is nothing like fiction. Many nonfiction writers have problems with this transition, because they’re used to writing an intro to the premise of their article/paper, then describing the subject at length, then summarizing it all into a tidy package. If you’re coming from academic writing, and someone is telling you your pacing needs work, there’s a strong chance the reason is because you’re trying to write persuasively, when your focus as a fiction writer is to write descriptively. You don’t have to persuade the reader of anything, here, just paint a word-picture for them.

© 2019 to me

[johnhmcintosh]

THE ELABORATE DANCE

-John McIntosh

 When ‘reflections’ of Love appear in one’s life a surge of passion is ignited to appear as attractive as possible to what has been yearned for to complete what has somehow felt lacking. Perhaps a weight loss regime begins, new clothing is purchased, suddenly one’s home is spotless and tidy, makeup and hair is carefully adjusted and even language and perhaps drinking habits may be tempered ... anything to be worthy of the object of affection. It’s like the elaborate dance some birds perform to win a mate. This dance concerns the sense of ‘un-worthiness’ and feeling incomplete due to a core belief that we are a separate being essentially alone and vulnerable.

 When these objects of affection are won it is not long before one recognizes that the emptiness has not been fulfilled and the baton is passed to some other object, be it a person, a possession, an accomplishment or any combination of events designed to fill the agonizing void. When the great AHA comes that we are ONE, not connected somehow but ONE consciousness manifesting many garments to play within, often great laughter is heard within that emptiness.

 Vulnerability and aloneness are our friends and carry enormous power because they represent surrender of the separated love-hate relationship we once danced with. It is that ‘allowing’ that ends the relay-race of performing and pretending where our True Self softly whispers a song of Freedom and we find we have always known the melody.

[tiedtogetherwithadagger]

Derek Didn't Know What To Do But Maybe Stiles Did

Also available on AO3. (Chapter Two here)

Chapter 1/3

Derek didn’t know what to do. Erica was hurt and bleeding and she wasn’t healing. Why wasn’t she healing? He couldn’t breath, he was losing his pack again and he felt absolutely helpless. He didn’t know how to be an alpha. Why he had ever fooled himself into thinking he could do this long enough to turn four teenagers was a question he didn’t have time to think about at the moment.

“Der-ek,” Erica rasped out. There was blood coating her lips, tinging her teeth a greasy burgundy and Derek couldn’t tell if it was coming from her nose or her mouth. “St- sti–”

Stiles, she was trying to say. Derek was struck dumb for a moment. He wanted to keep Stiles away from seeing them like this. This weak. Whether to protect Stiles or himself he wasn't sure. But this wasn’t about Derek. It was about Erica. His beta. If she needed Stiles here, then he would get him here.

Scrambling for his phone in his pocket, Derek slipped his blood-wet fingers across the screen as he typed in Stiles’ number.

“It’s Erica,” he said into the receiver when Stiles picked up. “We need you here. Now.”

He expected Stiles to start bombarding him with questions but he surprised Derek when he responded with a simple, “Okay. I’ll be right there.”

Derek looked at his phone desperately when the line went dead but he knew that Stiles was already on his way. Erica looked up at him with desperate eyes and Derek brushed her sweaty hair from her face. He tried to slow his heartbeat and get her to match to his own, surprising himself when it started working.

Erica was in severe, excruciating pain and her whimpers still permeated the air. Derek took as much pain from her as he could, but his power was quickly draining.

“I’m here! I’m here!” Stiles ran into the clearing surrounding the Hale house carrying a … duffel bag? There was a god awful smell coming from it. Derek hoped it was something magical to help them and not just his gym clothes.

“What’s in the bag?” Derek asked.

“Potions, herbs, salves, books.” At the look Derek gave him, he said, “What? Deaton’s been teaching me.”

As he talked, Stiles had planted himself next to Erica and started rummaging quickly through his duffel for something. “Aha!”

He pulled out a small vial of dark green liquid, struggling to pull the cap off before handing it to Derek. Stiles moved closer to Erica, reaching out before freezing with his arms outstretched.

“It’s okay, Batman,” Erica whispered to him. Derek heard him swallow before Stiles slowly moved deeper into her space and took her hand within his own.

“I’ve got you, Catwoman. You’re okay,” said Stiles. “Derek I need you to put some of your power into the solution.”

“How?” Derek was getting more and more tense by the second. Erica’s heartbeat was getting weaker and Derek was worried that they’ve already run out of time.

“Hold it in your hands and think about the power you have. Push that into it. Not all of it!” Stiles hurried to add. “Just think of Erica, you’ll know how much she needs.”

You’ll know.

Derek looked at Stiles, eyes searching, and closed his eyes. Stiles could feel the temperature rise and lower in rapid succession in the air emanating from Derek’s body. The liquid in the vial didn’t glow or give an obvious sign of success but Stiles still knew that whatever Derek had done, it had worked.

Erica gripped Stiles’ hand tighter and tried reaching for the vial before collapsing back down, screeching and whining in pain as her movement caused the gash in her side to leak out more blood. “Give it –  to me –” she panted.

Derek gave Stiles the vial, as if him giving it to her would somehow cause more harm. Stiles stared into Derek’s scared eyes for a moment before swallowing audibly and taking a shaky breath.

“I’ve got you, Erica. I’ve got you.” The words were whispered and rushed and Stiles closed his eyes before pouring the contents of the vial down Erica’s throat, hoping against hope that it would work even though he knew it had to.

“Knew you would, Batman.”

In the silent moments that followed, Derek heard every ragged breath scrape out of Erica’s throat. He clutched her ankle, needing to be nearer to her, and gripped Stiles’ other hand. From one breath to the next they waited with baited breath until Derek started to hear the click and crack of her bones tying together. With each bone came an agonized cry from Erica.

It was slow and painful for everyone, obviously mostly Erica. But it worked. The last thing to heal was her skin and Derek looked in wonder as it knitted itself back together. He let his head fall on Stiles’ shoulder in unrestrained relief. He wasn't losing his pack. At least not tonight. Erica would be okay.

“Thank you,” Derek exhaled into Stiles’ hoodie.

“Always,” Stiles said.

***

When Isaac moved into Derek’s apartment after his father’s death, everyone knew there would be an adjustment period. After all, both boys were dealing with incredibly damaging skeletons in their closets. Almost everybody in Beacon Hills knew now that Kate Argent had been the one to start the fire that had killed Derek’s family. And it wasn’t much of a secret among their group that Isaac’s father had abused him for years, although the extent of which had yet to be determined. Derek saw every flinch that shook Isaac’s body when a door shut a little too abruptly, he noticed how frequently he apologized and how often it was for things he had no control over.

It was natural for them both to have difficulties expressing themselves. When Isaac wasn’t timid and afraid, he was angry and loud and snarky. It was fitting, then, that he was living with one of the founding fathers of angry, snarky, emotionally-stunted men.

Derek expected the nightmares. If meeting the boy while he was digging a grave in a cemetery didn’t immediately scream ‘I have troubles that keep me up at night,’ the smell of terror and exhaustion that had clung to him did the job well enough. Isaac didn’t scream himself out of his nightmares. He grit his teeth and looked almost serene even as his eyes clenched tighter. He accepted the pain, wanted it, thought he deserved it, thought he was being good if he was punishing himself. In a lot of ways, it reminded Derek of himself after the fire. Hell, it reminded him of himself two months ago when he first came back to Beacon Hills. But he couldn’t hang onto those behaviors anymore. Not when he was face to face with the damage of it written in every uneven drag of Isaac’s breath.

It was only a week after Isaac had moved into the apartment that Derek started to notice how little sleep the boy was getting. He tried remedying the situation by taking Isaac shopping for fluffier pillows and softer sheets, hoping that it would help at least in a more immediate sense. When that failed, Derek sighed and dialed the number he now had memorized – refusing to look him up by his contact because that would mean admitting to creating one for him in the first place – and waited for Stiles to pick up.

“Hey big guy. What’s up?” Derek refused to admit that hearing Stiles’ voice released some of the tension in his shoulders.

“I need help with Isaac. He can’t sleep,” said Derek. Stiles’ dad was an Army veteran, he probably had at least some experience with PTSD. It made sense for Derek to ask Stiles about what’s worked for his father in the past.

But, of course, instead of that happening, Stiles replied with, “I can come by in an hour? That sound okay to you?”

“Uh – yeah. Sure,” came Derek’s bewildered response.

***

“Do you think maybe it’s the bed?”

Before Derek has even fully opened the door, Stiles has already started talking. He pushed passed a dumbstruck Derek and started walking around the apartment, opening and closing doors and cabinets, peeking through curtains and pushing things around in drawers.

“I mean, he slept in that freezer too, right? Maybe he feels too exposed in a bed. Maybe he needs something more protected.”

“What, like a pillow fort?” Derek asked. It sounded like an actual suggestion and Stiles choked back on the image of Derek with his arms crossed sitting grumpily in the middle of a pillow fort with fairy lights glowing behind him. Yeah, Stiles was a little bit screwed.

Derek followed Stiles reluctantly as they stepped deeper into the apartment, if only to protect his home from further ransacking, and they eventually found themselves standing in the cramped bathroom.

“Um. Stiles. What are we doing here?” Derek was trying to throw his signature glare at him but Stiles was too busy looking at the tub.

“Maybe he needs something smaller. And with walls.” Stiles looked pointedly at the bathtub again and gestured with his hands at it in a way that said voila.

“You want him to sleep in the bathtub?” Derek asked somewhat incredulously – ‘somewhat’ because this was still Stiles, what else could Derek expect. He knew his voice was doing that thing that made Stiles’ eye twitch, so he laid it on thicker. “Stiles.”

There’s ole twitchy.

“Look,” Stiles shrugged. “It couldn’t hurt to try, right?”

Considering that Derek was out of ideas, no, it couldn’t hurt. Derek was interrupted from replying by a sleepy looking Isaac, who came waddling into the room, carrying his big feather duvet and a cluster of pillows bunched up around him and under his arms. He paused in his tracks between Stiles and Derek, suddenly looking so unsure of himself, like he wasn’t supposed to be interrupting them.

Stiles’ eyebrows crease for a moment before he stepped forward and took the oversize duvet from Isaac, quickly setting up a makeshift bed in the tub for him. When he noticed that Isaac still looked nervous, he took the pillows from Isaac as well and climbed into the tub with an exaggerated yawn.

“It’ll be a tight fit but I think there’s enough room in here for you in here too,” Stiles said to Isaac.

Isaac looked up and Derek could see the vulnerability clear in his eyes, but he could clearly see hope there too. Derek gave him a small smile and tilted his head towards the tub in permission before he left to grab some more pillows from his bed. When he came back to the bathroom, Stiles and Isaac were huddled together in the tub, definitely not fitting but definitely not caring, and laughing. Something bright and warm crawled its way inside Derek’s chest and made his cheeks hurt. He caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror and realized that he was smiling.