#all of this spurred by how I told my therapist I should probably clean the microwave and she told me to do it and will hold me accountable

[naamahdarling]

WE ARE. This division is not natural and is deliberately cultivated in order to keep people relatively powerless. It takes more money to run a unit like that, which ensures a steady source of desperate labor, especially in the system where wages are artificially suppressed, and it puts money into the hands of corporate entities as people have to purchase and repurchase the essentials of a household instead of sharing them. It isn't even subtle. This fragmented family model is of immense benefit to the extremely wealthy and the people who are already in power. When people talk about eroding families and social ties being the downfall of America, they usually mean women having bank accounts, queer kids, and divorce, when what they really should be looking at is whether there are enough resources for your sister to babysit your kids every day in the summer because she doesn't have to have a job. You know?

It doesn't matter if it is family groups or friend groups, found family, adopted family, it literally doesn't matter. We need other people and the fact that our society is structured to keep us apart and sometimes deliberately punishes efforts to pool resources is deeply fucked up and makes me so so furious.

Literally my only problem with any of this is the significant overlap in the Venn diagram of large, close-knit families and familial abuse. Hence why I think children should have a great deal more autonomy than they do, and that their existence as legal entities should not be as dependent on adults as it is, it should not be as overshadowed by the assumption that parental custody is the same as safety.

That's the big, glaring hole in all of this, and I'm not sure what to do about it? But I know that it probably looks like the way I was raised. We sheltered kids and young adults and sometimes outright whole ass adults both short and long-term, either for a few days or a week here and there or for a long continual period of time. My mother always made extra food, there was always an extra place set at the table, and the doorbell ringing around dinner time not only happened more often than not, it was openly welcomed. (Okay, not everyone was well LIKED, some were just sort of tolerated, but they never got turned away, and it was nicer to have them there than not.) After I moved out, it was several years before I could sleep normally without hearing laughter and cold drinks being poured in the background.

This sort of thing is immensely helpful for disenfranchised people trying to get back on their feet, or for children who would otherwise have poor adult supervision or inadequate care. Usually not even do to parents being pieces of shit, but due to parents being so busy the child would be left alone for an advisable periods of time. The kids who stayed with us a lot mostly had loving homes, but all of them had single parents.

I tell people about this, about the way I was raised, and they think it's crazy. It isn't. I believe it is a lot more common in poor, rural communities, where people have a lot of "cousins" or "foster brothers" or "sister's kids". The only people I've ever known who haven't expressed surprise at it were either poor, or people of color, or both. Mostly from the South, but some from impoverished urban communities elsewhere. And it was a lot more common in the past. It was common for people to go and visit friends for 2 or 3 weeks at a time, to just go drop in and check on their neighbors every few days and expect to be invited in, for a child of one family to move in with another family who had more room.

My mom was a piece of work, but my grandparents were dust bowl farmers and oil field laborers who knew what it was to struggle, my mom spent her early years either on a farm or moving around through oil country, and of all the rancid shit she did, rejecting other people because of their circumstances and not offering hospitality to a hungry person who came to the door sure as hell wasn't one of them. I had a bad example in so many ways, but that wasn't one of them. I am really grateful for that.

You know what? You know what I think?

I think that if we lived as we were meant to, in larger intimate ("extended family") groups and with more shared labor and time to do it (UBI NOW) people like me would not feel so useless and burdensome because there would be people around to help and to do what neurodivergent people can't while making valuable space for the neurodivergent to do what they ARE good at.

The way we live right now, all right, the way we live right now forces units of two adults to be able to do EVERYTHING or PAY to have someone come do it for them. I have to do the housework. I have to do it! But I am having to do a million different things and most of them I am not good at. I suck at them.

I wouldn't feel like shit, okay, if I had more than one other person around who was not a child and who could do the things I can't, like do the yard and cook and do repairs and basic maintenance; and someone else to split everything else that I like but is too much for me. It would free me to do what I am good at and enjoy. Cleaning, as in the sink and toilet, the windows, the blinds. Taking out trash. Folding, hanging, and sorting laundry.

But because all the shit I can do often relies on other shit being done first, and I can't do or have trouble doing those things, the shit I can do often can't be done. And even the shit I can do, I can't do ALL of it. So I can't keep up, and things get very bad.

We aren't meant to live like this. We are not meant to live like this.

That thought hurts so much because being able to flee the birth family is integral to survival for so many people. I'm so afraid that living in larger family groups would create more opportunities for, say, queer kids to be isolated, rejected, bullied, and abused. But if we gave people enough money to survive, and stopped considering children the property of their parents with no system in place to help them escape bad situations except a system that is often just as bad, just different.

I'm aware that communes and collectives aren't all that successful and are kind of a joke. I don't mean that. I mean a fundamental shift to multigenerational families where taking in "strays" (which my family did) is also normalized so people escaping abuse into existing households was accepted, with these families centered in maybe a couple of different larger residences so not everyone has to buy and maintain their own fucking washing machine and vacuum cleaner, and so people can benefit from large group meals that yield leftovers, and so child and elder care can also be centralized.

Then disabled people and the neurodivergent and sick and injured people, and pregnant people, and grieving people, would not have to either labor through all those stressors or consign themselves to living off an unlivable pittance or being put under legal guardianship.

I'm not saying anything new. I'm just really mad right now because I can either do laundry or clean the sink but not both, and I really think we could improve society somewhat by making it so I did not have to choose.

[sohotthateveryonedied]

Always By Your Side

Read here on AO3!

Summary: 

The kid looks horrible, full offense. Tim is wearing one of Dick’s old Hudson University sweatshirts which just about swallows him, hanging a full inch over where his fingertips end. His hair is tied up in the messiest bun Jason has ever seen, and there’s a purple welt on his chin big enough that a helicopter could use it for a landing pad. His lip is swollen, blood still crusted over where Tim’s teeth must have torn it open on impact. Big yikes.

“If you’re here to raid my fridge, then you already know it’s bad pickings. I haven’t been shopping in weeks.”

“That’s not why I’m here, actually.” Not the only reason, at least. Multitasking is key when you’re a semi-contract killer who needs Sundays free for tea time with Alfred.

(Disclaimer: THIS IS THE ONLY BAD PARENT!BRUCE FIC I WILL EVER WRITE OKAY I SWEAR I ALWAYS AVOID THOSE KINDS OF FICS BUT I’M SALTY THAT THEY NEVER ADDRESSED BRUCE PUNCHING TIM IN COMICS SO I HAD TO DO IT MYSELF.)

It doesn’t take long to break into Tim’s apartment. Record time, actually. In less than ten minutes Jason is sliding up the window to Tim’s kitchen and climbing over the sill, easy peasy. He should really talk to the replacement about his lack of security against fellow batkids. “Timbo?” he calls, closing the window and re-locking it. “You here?” He’d better have the right place. It’s so hard keeping track of everyone’s safehouses these days, and Jason is not eager for a repeat of what happened the last time he got it wrong. That old lady looked scared to death when Jason crawled in through the air duct, covered in blood that was only thirty percent his own. (The lady was super understanding when he explained the situation. She even fixed up his stab wound with her sewing kit and made him some freshly squeezed lemonade. Jason drops by every couple of weeks to check in on her and her cats.) But Tim is the priority now. “Come out, come out, you little shit.” Jason crosses the kitchen toward the living room, then stops and backtracks. He opens the fridge for a beer, momentarily forgetting that the kid is a hopeless health nut. Jason resigns himself to a package of deli ham only two days past the expiration date. It smells fine, so it must be safe to eat, right? Of all Tim’s apartments, this one is by and far the nicest, barring the expired deli meats and un-Jason-proof security system. The living room is pristine with white sofas and a glass coffee table, making the whole setup vibe more like a hotel suite than an actual home. Definitely not Jason-proof. He sits right in the middle of the fancy sofa, kicking off his boots. “If you get mud on my carpet, you’re cleaning it up.”

Jason looks up at Tim in the doorway and grins. “Don’t I always?” The kid looks horrible, full offense. Tim is wearing one of Dick’s old Hudson University sweatshirts which just about swallows him, hanging a full inch over where his fingertips end. His hair is tied up in the messiest bun Jason has ever seen, and there’s a purple welt on his chin big enough that a helicopter could use it for a landing pad. His lip is swollen, blood still crusted over where Tim’s teeth must have torn it open on impact. Big yikes. “If you’re here to raid my fridge, then you already know it’s bad pickings. I haven’t been shopping in weeks.” “That’s not why I’m here, actually.” Not the only reason, at least. Multitasking is key when you’re a contract killer who needs Sundays free for tea time with Alfred. “Just leave whatever data you have here and I’ll look it over in the morning.” “Again, not why I’m here.” “Then can you just tell me whatever it is so I can go back to bed?” It’s five in the afternoon. “Well, jeez, kid. You don’t have to rush me out the door.” Tim’s eyes flit to the ground and stay there, giving the impression of a puppy put in his place. “Sorry.” Jason eyes Tim carefully. He takes in the timid stance, the way Tim wrings and twists the sleeve of his sweatshirt until it’s stretched beyond saving. He clearly hasn’t showered or even bothered tending to his face, like keeping the wound fresh is his way of punishing himself. “You doing okay?” “Fine, why?” “Because you look like shit, that’s why.” “It’s been a hectic few days. I’ve been meaning to crash for hours.” “How about that bruise you got there? Looks nasty.” Tim touches the bruise as if he forgot it was there, biting back a wince. “It’s fine. I got it on patrol and haven’t gotten around to icing it yet.” “Must have been a big guy to do that kind of damage.” Tim’s eyes narrow. Jason eats his ham, a picture of innocence. “If you’re trying to get me to circle around and ask you about your problems, then I’m sorry, but I’m really not in the mood to play therapist tonight. You can stay here as long as you want, but I’m going to bed.” He turns and starts toward his bedroom. “You’re really not going to tell me who gave you that bruise?” Tim stops, a shudder running down his spine. He doesn’t turn, not yet. “Did Barbara tell you?” “I can’t believe you didn’t. What, did you think this would all go away if you just kept quiet about it?” “There’s nothing to talk about. Nothing happened.” “My ass nothing happened. Bruce hit you last night. He hit you over nothing.” Tim whirls around, fists clenched. “So? I get hit all the time. Am I supposed to have a breakdown every time someone punches me?” “Getting hit by a criminal and getting hit by your dad are not the same thing, and you know it.” “I’m a big boy, Jason. I can handle it.” Jason leans forward, forgetting all about his rancid ham. “You realize how fucked up this is, right?” “Oh, give me a break—” “Hey. The adult is talking now. Our father nearly shattered your jaw a few hours ago and here you are, hiding from him like it was your fault.” Not that Jason blames him for not wanting to be near the manor after what happened; he wouldn’t either if he were in Tim’s place. Hell, he was in Tim’s place. “You weren’t there, Jay. You have no idea what happened.” “Oh, yeah? Enlighten me, then. What gives that asshole the right to put his hands on you?” “The fact that I shouldn’t have gotten involved in the first place! Bruce was dealing with enough as it was without me making it worse.” “Only if you call trying to help someone ‘making things worse.’ From what Babs told me, you didn’t do Jack shit to deserve what he did.” “I don’t care what Barbara told you. I was there, I know what I did wrong, and I’ve accepted that.” “Except you did nothing wrong.” “You have no idea what you’re talking about.” Tim’s voice is raised, his eyes narrowed. “You didn’t see how upset Bruce was. He wasn’t himself. I should have seen that and backed off, but I didn’t. He was hurting and angry, and...I provoked him. It was my own fault.” “Do you have any idea how insane you sound? You tried to help him, and he punched you in the face for it. I know you’ve dealt with this exact situation a million times, you know the protocol.” Tim rolls his eyes. “This is completely different.” “Why? Because you’re not a minor? Because Bruce isn’t your father? Or maybe because you threw the first punch? Oh, wait. None of those are fucking true.” “What do you want from me? Do you want me to start crying, call up child services and tell them that my adoptive father gave me a little bruise because I was being insubordinate while we were all dressed as vigilantes? Will that magically ease your conscience?” “I want you to stop fucking covering for him,” Jason says. “You know that there’s no excuse for a parent hurting their child.” “I’m not a child!” “Sorry to break it to you, pal, but you fucking are! And Bruce? He’s your father. It doesn’t matter if you’re twelve or seventeen or thirty—his job is to be a fucking parent to you. And instead he punched you so hard Babs said you were unconscious for a good thirty seconds.” Tim crosses his arms and leans on the wall. He doesn’t try to come closer or sit on any of the furniture, keeping his distance from Jason. “You’re blowing this way out of proportion. Maybe those rules apply to normal people, but we’re different. Violence and anger, that’s how this family communicates. Hell, Bruce and I spar all the time and you’ve never lectured me about it being abuse until now.” Jason runs a hand over his face, thoroughly done with this shit. “I can’t believe you’re still trying to rationalize this.” “Because it’s a rational thing!” “Is it?” “Yes.” “Would you ever hit him?” “It wouldn’t be the first time.” “No, I’m not talking sparring or some stupid teenage angst-fueled outburst. I’m asking if you, Tim Drake, would ever intentionally hurt Bruce in a way that would do damage. Even if he did something shitty to deserve it. Would you hurt him?” Tim hesitates. He bites his swollen lip. “I might. If I were really angry.” “We both know that’s bullshit. The guy’s got a hundred pounds on you and your hand would probably shatter if you tried to sock him in the face, but you still wouldn’t hurt him.” “So?” “So, he knows you’re a twig and he beat the shit out of you anyway. That’s not fucking okay.” “It wasn’t on purpose,” Tim says, but he’s losing momentum by the second. He looks years too tired for this conversation as it is. “It was...instinct. A spur-of-the-moment reaction. It’s not—I mean, he’s Bruce. He would never hurt us intentionally.” “He already did.” “And I’m perfectly fine. It’s not like he punched Damian or Cass, just me. He knew I could take it, and he was right. I’m fine. This bruise will heal up in a couple days, and then we can all forget it ever happened.” “I won’t.” “Why not? Why are you being so goddamn uptight about this? It has nothing to do with you, anyway.” Jason can feel his eyes smolder Lazarus green as he surges forward and hisses, “It has everything to do with me.” Tim flinches. It’s not major, barely even counts as a real flinch, but it happens. Tim flinches away from Jason, and the anger dissipates as quickly as it came. Jesus, what did Bruce do to this kid? Jason sits back, takes a breath, tries to make his voice gentler. “Bruce hurt me too, okay?” Tim’s expression doesn’t change but for a twinge of his eyebrows. “It was a misunderstanding, but...he hurt me. Badly. I was out of commission for two fucking months. Probably would have died if it hadn’t been for Roy.” That gets a reaction. Tim’s mouth drops open and he flounders for a moment, like he can’t put the two things together. Bruce attacking Jason? No results. Does not compute. “What—why would he do that?” “It doesn’t matter. What does matter is that, as irritating as you are, you don’t deserve to be treated like that.” Like he has any right to be saying this. Tim still has the scar on his neck from when Jason’s brains were made of gruel. “Not by a parent. Not by someone you’re supposed to trust. So this is me looking out for you, alright?” Jason reaches into the inner pocket of his jacket and pulls out a crumpled paper. “I know you’ve got your own setup for when you need time away from the manor, but these are all of my addresses and phone numbers. If something like this happens again, I want you to call me.” Tim takes the paper but protests, “It’s okay, really. I don’t need—” “Yeah, yeah, you don’t need to be coddled. I get it. But keep it anyway. And if you start feeling unsafe at the manor, you call me and I’ll take care of it. I already gave Damian, Cass, and Duke copies too. Just...look out for yourself, alright? All of you. Look out for each other.” Tim folds up the paper and slips it into his back pocket. “What about you?” “The old man and I are…” That’s a whole other can of worms Jason really isn’t in the mood to unpack right now. “It’s still rocky between us. I’m keeping my distance. But for you guys, I don’t care. If one of you needs help, I’ll be there. Got it?” Tim blinks, and lucky for him, Jason is courteous enough not to make fun of the tears he is clearly holding back. “Thanks, Jay.”

[skullrock]

the partners, chapter ten - Steve x Reader

chapter ten - how soon is now?

series summary: you and Steve are police apprentices at Hawkins Police Station in the fall of 1986. you get along famously, but there’s something Steve is hiding, and there is an unknown evil lurking in Hawkins. [friends to lovers, angst, hurt/comfort, fluff]

chapter summary: In the aftermath, you and Steve find comfort in each other. 

warnings: swearing and an overwhelming amount of fluff

word count: 2k

a/n: here’s the Spotify playlist that goes with the series, and you can catch up here. this is it, folks. we have the epilogue left. if you stayed with me this entire time - thank you. this is my first longfic and it was a blast. thank you for the kind comments and interactions with this story. it means everything to me. one more chap to go babes. hope you enjoy this one <3

===

Steve has a lot of housekeeping to do.

He talks to your parents on a payphone at the hospital once a day. They’re in Europe and it’s taking them a while to get back, so they communicate this way. It’s awkward and weird for Steve to introduce himself, stumbling over his words – “Hi, I’m Steve Harrington. I’m your daughter’s partner. Like, at the station? But we also – we might – yeah. Anyway, she’s hurt pretty bad.” They tell him how much they appreciate him though, and he figures he’s had worse “meet the parents” scenarios before.

In between waiting to see you and sleeping on the floor, Sam Owens takes him into an empty conference room within the hospital. Steve tells him everything – the gut feeling that something was off about the Chief, the meddling of the evidence, the underground base, the bar, the building permits, everything. Owens nods solemnly as Steve speaks. It’s a lot to get through, and by the time Steve’s done explaining, his throat hurts.

“It’s taken care of,” Owens says simply, patting the top of Steve’s hand. “And we are looking into other properties to make sure they aren’t infiltrated, too.”

Steve nods. He doesn’t know if he can even trust Owens right now, but he’s too exhausted and worn to put up much of a fight.

“Are you doing okay?” Owens asks.

Steve doesn’t know how to answer. He leans back in his chair and lets out a long breath. Finally, he says, “I haven’t been doing okay for a long time.”

Owens nods sympathetically and pulls out a paper pad and pen. “We have some of the best therapists in the country, if you’d want to take a look at the programs. I’ll give you the information.” Owens pauses to write, then looks back up with a smile. “I’ll prescribe you some Ativan, too. Just to take the edge off.”

Steve nods weakly. Owens shoves the paper towards Steve who takes it and folds it into the uniform he is still wearing. He’s been asked numerous times to go home to clean and change, but he refuses, scared to lose the chance to see you if he’s gone when you wake. Owens leans back in his chair now, hands crossing over his chest. “I have something I want to talk to you about.”

Steve nods again.

“You exhibited… phenomenal skills when dealing with this case,” Owens starts. “Your attention to detail and drive to continue is something to be admired. The willpower you have and how strong you’ve been –“

“I haven’t been strong,” Steve interrupts. “I just… hid the pain very well.”

Owens shrugs. “You’re still a tough son of a bitch.”

Steve laughs.

“Your expertise is something that could really be helpful in the FBI, or CIA.”

If Steve were drinking, he would do a spit-take. “Are you serious?” he asks incredulously, leaning so far forward he almost falls out of his chair. “Me? FBI? CIA?”

“Just something to think about,” Owens says. “If you think you’re interested, give me a call. But before then….” Owens eyes shine. “We need an interim police Chief until we can get someone better in there. What do you say?”

Steve blinks. “Are you asking me to be acting Chief of Police in Hawkins?” Owens nods and Steve scoffs in disbelief. “Bullshit. I’m just a kid.”

“A kid with a hell of a lot of knowledge on all the things that have happened in this town. A kid with the will to keep going and do what’s right.” Owens sighs. “Look, you’re not going to have all the power – you’re just a sitting Chief. You’re already part of the force, so see it as a promotion. Just until we can find someone new.”

Steve swallows hard, his head racing, but he can’t help the smile that curves the ends of his lips. “Jesus.When do I start?”

He can’t wait to see his dad’s stupid face when he tells him.

===

Steve eventually does leave the hospital, because he wants to change and shower and buy you something nice. The thought didn’t even cross his mind until the Party showed up, all sporting either flowers or chocolates or movies for you. Robin and Dustin hug Steve tightly, and Steve’s eyes beam when he tells them of his promotion.

“He even said I could be part of the FBI,” Steve says lowly.

“Congrats,” Robin says. “Now please go change your clothes.”

And so he does, changing into the same outfit he wore the first time you both hung out. He grabs the most expensive bouquet at the florist, knowing full well he was about to be broke, then uses what little he has left to spare to buy you chocolates. He goes for a card but decides that he should probably use his words. Also, you probably couldn’t really read right now, what with the enormous concussion you’re sporting.

He’s sitting on the floor with the bouquet in hand – he insisted it was personally delivered – when the nurses tell him he can see you. He jumps up and pauses – his palms are sweaty, his heartbeat is through the roof, and he feels dizzy. It’s like being on a first date, or something; but he figures that’s what happens when the love you’ve been suppressing for months comes to you in one night.

You’re sitting up in bed and eating Jell-O when Steve bursts in, holding a huge bouquet of every flower known to man and a box of chocolates. If you didn’t know any better, you’d think it was Valentine’s Day.

“Hey,” you say, smiling broadly and taking him in. Last time you saw him was in a dimly lit bar lounge. He looks a lot more handsome here.

“Hi,” he says back. He stills before kicking into action, walking towards you. He awkwardly places the bouquet beside the other flowers people had brought and he sits the chocolates on your tray. “I figured maybe you’d like something that wasn’t hospital food.”

“I don’t know,” you beam. “Hospital Jell-O is pretty good.”

Steve laughs quietly as he sits on the chair next to you. You’re looking pretty rough – sporting a black eye, bruises and cuts over your face, your ribs wrapped up and your legs bandaged. Every movement hurts you and the concussion has you feeling dizzy and downright miserable. But all you did when you woke up was ask for Steve, and now he’s here. The sight of him adds ten years to your life and subsides the pain.

“You, uh,” he says. “Still look beautiful.”

You snort. “Okay.”

“I mean it!”

“Hotter than Mia Sara?”

“Always,” he grins, but it falters. “I need to talk to you.”

You put your Jell-O cup down. “Steve, we –“

“Please.”

You sigh and nod curtly. He sighs as well and runs a hand through his hair before starting. “It’s the worst feeling in the world to know that I got you into this. This was all my fault. And… and if I was just straight with you from the start, you wouldn’t be in this mess.” He swallows hard and fights off the painful feeling in his throat, signaling tears. “I was a dick. A total, complete asshole. And I don’t deserve for you to accept my apology. But I will tell you every single day for the rest of our lives that I am so, so sorry.”

“I’m not mad at you for this,” you say. “I’d die over and over again if it meant saving you and your cute ass.” You pause to let Steve roll his eyes, then continue. “I’m mad that you told me you didn’t love me. I’m mad at the mixed signals. I’m mad that you used to – you used to pick me up and twirl me, hold my hand.” You bite your lip. “Steve, you looked at me like I was the only girl in the world.”

“Because you are,” he says, reaching out and clasping your hand. “You are everything to me.”

“Then why did you say you couldn’t love me? Because you didn’t want me to get caught up in everything?” Steve nods, avoiding your eyes. You laugh. “Steve, here’s the thing. When someone loves someone, they’d go to the ends of the earth for them. When you told me you didn’t love me, it just spurred me on. It made me mad, yeah, but I still loved you. Nothing you could say could change that.” You laugh again and gesture to yourself. “Dude. I’d literally die for you. I almost did.”

Steve can’t stop the tears now, and they feel warm as they run down his cheeks. He shakes his head and squeezes his eyes shut. “I thought that if I acted like I didn’t love you, they couldn’t hurt you.”

“I understand,” you say gently. “I know. But no evil can stop love, Steve. And you’re kind of an idiot for trying to think otherwise.”

Steve laughs sadly. “Calling me an idiot, just like old times.”

You gently grab his chin and tilt him towards you. “If there’s one thing I have learned in the past – however many days I was out – it’s that you’re not an idiot, Steve Harrington.”

Steve’s eyes fall downward. “Then what am I?” he asks quietly, his voice cracking.

“You’re smart,” you start. “You’re brave. You’re strong. You’re funny. You’re caring. You’re kind. Fast learner. Wholesome. Helpful. Inspiring.” You don’t notice that you’re leaning forward until you’re right at his lips. You smile softly. “Devilishly handsome.” You rest your forehead on his, your thumb caressing his. His hand cups your face and your eyes brim with tears. “You’re incredible, Steve.”

When your lips meet, it feels like everything lost has been found. It feels like the missing pieces are finally set into place. Like the void within your chest has been filled. It’s warm, gentle, adoring. Steve’s thumb caresses your cheekbone and he melts into it, a smile forming on his lips. He feels like everything is right. He feels like he’s home.

When you part, you both can’t help the comically large smiles that form on your face. Steve’s thumb continues its course on your cheekbone as he whispers, “I’ve wanted to do that since you first walked into the station in that stupid blue uniform.”

You shake your head. “Bet you tell all the girls that.”

The next kiss is passionate, hands touching wherever they could reach. It’s intoxicating – Steve is a better kisser than you thought. Your hands tangle in his hair and you pull him towards you. Despite the dizziness in your head, you continue – it’s been entirely too long of a wait. He gets up, ready to climb on top of you, when a voice behind him shouts, “Excuse me!”

Steve whirls around and finds a nurse, arms crossed, and eyes narrowed. “What do you think you’re doing?”

“Uh, I’m – helping her – with her Jell-O.”

“Helping her with something, alright,” he huffs. “Hands off. I don’t care if you’re her partner or not.”

Steve blushes deeply and you do, too, biting your lip and trying to hide your bashful smile. Steve sits again, grabbing an unused pillow on your bed and using it to cover himself. Yeah, it’s probably a bad look to get a boner when the girl you love is lying in bed, concussed and broken, but this is Steve. What can one expect? The nurse checks on your vitals and gives you some painkillers, leaving with a stern look towards Steve.

You look to him, holding his hand again. “What now?”

Steve sighs. “Now you sign about a hundred documents saying that you won’t tell anyone what you saw. And then you get better and we both go to therapy.” Steve smiles softly. “And then after that, I have a thousand dates to take you on.”

“Just a thousand?” you tease.

“I’ll take you on more if you’re good.”

There’s a comfortable silence. You both just want to be near each other, hear each other’s breath, the rustling of clothes. 

“Steve,” you say quietly, playing with his fingers. “I love you.”

It’s music to his ears. Softly, he says it back. “I love you, too.”

“Partners?” you ask.

Steve smiles. “Partners.”

===

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[pronouncingitwang]

wtgfs | 2.5K words | basically a redo of mag94 with more crying and cuddling | for tma h/c week day 6: cradled

Georgie wraps her braids and changes into her pajamas, feeling—not fear, or apprehension, because that’s not possible, but perhaps, less excitement than usual. She normally doesn’t notice her heartbeat, but tonight, she does. It’s stable, but the fact that she checked in the first place is another bad sign.

“You said you wanted to tell me something,” Melanie says as Georgie gets under her blanket.

Georgie nods slowly, then realizes that Melanie can’t see it. “Yeah. I did.”

“I… I might’ve misread you, but it sounded serious?”

Georgie’s heart continues to beat, slow and steady. “A little.”

“Do you want to start?”

“Sure.”

“Talk away, then.”

“Okay.” Georgie shifts into a more comfortable position, then closes her eyes. “You know how I graduated from uni a year late?”

“Yeahh,” Melanie says, slowly. “You said it was for mental health?”

“Right.” Georgie blows out a breath. “Which was true, definitely, but… that’s not the full story. It’s, well…”

The last time Georgie did this, it was with Jon, the Eye drawing the words out of her like sap from a particularly juicy tree. This time, there’s nothing spurring her forward but her own determination. “Blood from a stone” is a far more apt simile.

“Uh, basically, my first year at Oxford, there was some stuff going down with the med students—or wait, I should probably start by saying I had… a friend named Alex… Or… no… that’s not it, either. God,” Georgie groans. “Why is this so hard?”

“Probably because talking sucks,” Melanie says. Georgie laughs, and Melanie adds, “I could… I could hug you while you told me? If that- Would that help?”

Georgie considers it, thinks about burying her face in the scent of Melanie’s citrus shampoo, so different from the antiseptic and decay of the Oxford medical building, thinks about feeling the strength of Melanie’s arms around her as she whispers out her story. “Yeah. Maybe.”

It takes a lot of shuffling around to get into the right positions, especially since Georgie’s vast collection of pillows include a body-sized one that forms what’s practically a wall between the two of them. Melanie sniffles a little as Georgie moves a few pillows to the nightstand, and Georgie makes a mental note to buy some allergy-friendly/dust-resistant pillowcases soon. Then, there’s getting into the hug. At some point Melanie grabs Georgie’s boob, which is… something to revisit. Eventually, though, they’re settled properly, Melanie’s arms around Georgie’s waist and their legs tangled together.

“Ready to try again?” Melanie asks, in a voice Georgie’s pretty sure is meant to imitate her therapist’s. She appreciates the effort to sound soothing.

“Yeah. Okay. Rewind. So, my first year at Oxford…”

Even with the hug, it’s still not as easy as it was with Jon. With Jon, Georgie was practically in a trance, but here, she has to form every word herself, relive every image. It’s like… if the first time was Georgie walking through a fog-lined street, her boots crunching uncomfortably against the ground, the second time is Georgie walking through the same street, except the fog is gone and it turns out she’d been stepping on bird bones or something equally crunchy and awful the entire time, and every step she takes, Georgie has to watch the bones break under her feet and cane. Not only that, but she cares more about Melanie’s opinion than Jon’s. As she stumbles forward, Georgie forgets details, has to backtrack, and leaves a lot of modifiers dangling in the process.

But in some ways, this is also easier. Easier because the background sounds are Melanie’s breathing and occasional vocal stimming instead of the dead whir of a tape recorder. Easier because the main physical sensation Georgie’s experiencing isn’t her skin prickling from Jon’s intense gaze on her face, but the increasingly firm circles Melanie is rubbing into her neck.

“And… now I’m here,” Georgie finishes, inadequately. “The end. Or, I guess, the End, with a capital E, according to Jon.”

Georgie feels Melanie swallow. Then, “Georgie… you’re saying you lost—”

Georgie had figured that that part would call for more explanation, but luckily, she has an explanation prepared. “My ability to feel fear, I know, not necessarily a bad thing—”

“—your best friend,” Melanie finishes, and Georgie stops breathing. Oh.

“What?”

Melanie shifts against Georgie. “Alex Brooke, right? You said… you said she was your only friend at Oxford, and you said you never saw her again.”

Oh, Georgie thinks again, and feels a swell of love and long-buried grief rise up in her chest, oh.

The first few weeks after she woke up, Georgie had been too numb to even wonder what had happened to Alex. The month after that, she’d tried to call her, three times a day, every day. Then, one day, she’d realized that perhaps she should’ve been checking the newspapers instead of her phone. That night was the first time Georgie’s parents had seen her drunk. They’d looked so afraid—something Georgie would never be able to do again. She’d shouted at them until their concern turned to exasperation and spent the next week in bed biting her nails off.

“I guess I… hadn’t thought about that for a while.”

“I’m so sorry, Georgie,” Melanie says. She means it.

“Thanks,” Georgie whispers, for lack of better things to say, and buries her nose further into Melanie’s hair. Her joints are beginning to protest at her staying in this position for so long, but she keeps holding on. Just a few more minutes.

“Do you…” Melanie starts. “Do you miss her?”

“I…” Georgie clears her throat and tries again. “I don’t know,”

“It’s okay if you don’t,” Melanie says. “ I don’t miss my dad most days, and he died a lot more recently than Alex did.”

“Thanks,” Georgie whispers for the second time that night. “I think… I think about her sometimes, but I don’t know if it’s because I miss her, or because… It’s more like… I used to blame myself for going with her instead of- instead of trying to stop her, or pulling her out as soon as I saw how- how fucked up the situation was. And then I spent a lot of time thinking the opposite, blaming her for not leaving well enough alone. I thought, well, ‘Alex already made her choices, and her choices were bad.’ I wished so badly that my younger self had just… stayed away. Let her friend go to her death alone.”

“And now?”

“Now? After you, and Jon, and… Well, now, I don’t know,” Georgie says, and notices, for the first time, that there’s a lump in her throat and that her eyes are stinging. “I don’t”—and then she starts to cry.

Georgie hears the intake of breath from Melanie when she realizes what’s happening, feels Melanie’s thumb stop moving against her neck and just stay there, pressing into her skin. Georgie feels her own throat, choking out various ugly sounds, hears those sounds tear out of her in the form of sobs and ragged breaths. She thinks she might be getting snot on Melanie’s shirt and hair, but she’s shaking too badly to reach for a tissue to wipe it off.

Alex and Jon and Melanie and Alex. She’d failed Alex, or maybe Alex failed her. She’d let Jon stay in her guest room and watched him waste away, and then she’d practically told him that she wished he was dead and to get out of her flat. Melanie—Melanie had wanted Georgie’s help, and Georgie’s help had happened to be what Melanie needed, and Melanie is here and safe, but just for now, and if Georgie fails Melanie like she’d failed Alex she will be so fucking sad, and if Melanie fails Georgie like Alex had failed Georgie, she will be so fucking sad, and if Melanie ends up in a coma or on the run or if they cross each other’s boundaries too much she will be so fucking sad—

The first thing that cuts through the crying isn’t comfort, but a different pain—an ache in Georgie’s lower back that grows persistently harder to ignore. She groans and turns out of Melanie’s arms, back into starfish position on her side of the bed, and Melanie makes a sound of confusion at the sudden loss.

“I moved, it’s- it’s the arthritis,” Georgie explains between one sob and the next, and Melanie says, “Oh, of course.”

—and if either of them grow resentful of each other, then she will be so fucking sad, and if they have money problems or The Admiral dies she will be so fucking sad, and—

Georgie thinks, dully, that crying on her back is very different from crying on her side. Earlier, Georgie could curl into herself, into Melanie, but now, each of her sobs punches upward into empty air. The closest thing to an embrace she has now is her awareness of the potential weight of the ceiling, hanging seven feet above her, out of reach, just like Alex and Jon and maybe, one day—

“Melanie,” Georgie gasps. “Can you… hold my arm or something?”

“Of course,” Melanie responds immediately. Then, “Um, where exactly is your arm?”

“Uh, if you- if you take your hand and go up a little more—”

“Got it.” Melanie says, moving where Georgie has directed her, and for one beautiful second, all of Georgie’s consciousness narrows down to the warmth of those five fingers curling around her skin. Then, she remembers that she’s lying on her bed crying, and the moment is broken. It’s still better now, though, having something to anchor her, something to remind her that she is more than burning eyes and heaving chest.

It takes a while, but eventually, Georgie begins to calm down, her thoughts and breaths slowing down and her muscles loosening. She fumbles for the tissue box and begins to wipe at her face, then passes a few sheets to Melanie.

“I, uh, snotted on your hair a bit,” she explains. “It might be hard to feel, do you want me to get it?” and Melanie nods.

Once they’re all cleaned up and Georgie has fetched them both a glass of water, Melanie turns to her again.

“Is this…” Melanie starts, then stops. “Is this something you want to talk about more, or something you want to be distracted from?”

“I’m… not sure, actually,” Georgie croaks, wiping at her eyes again to catch any stray saltwater. “I just… I wanted you to hear it; I wasn’t really thinking about afterwards.”

“If I had to guess… That sounds like a distraction thing to me? But… I’m not sure what kind of distraction would make you feel better.”

“Well”—Georgie lets out a wet laugh—“you’re already doing miles better than Jon did, at least.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah. To be fair, I didn’t cry when I told him about everything. But all he had to say was something about how he”—she puts on Jon’s posh accent and deepens her voice—“‘couldn’t believe I never told him’ or something.”

“What a wanker,” Melanie says, and unlike the other times she’s insulted Jon this week, there’s actual heat behind it.

“An inconsiderate dickhead,” Georgie agrees. “But,” she admits, “I think I’ve been worse to him.”

“I… I’d say so too,” Melanie replies, but thankfully, she doesn’t push Georgie any further in that direction. Melanie’s fingers flex against Georgie’s arm, a signal that they’ll pick up this thread of conversation later. “Though I still think the real dickhead here is Ms. Trauma Corpse of Medicalville.”

Georgie’s giggle comes out weaker than she expected. “Yeah?”

“Absolutely.” In her most passable radio announcer voice, Melanie cries, “Melanie hates her! Local medical corpse discovers supernatural method to traumatize her girlfriend. Click here to learn more and/or stab that fucker with a cool knife cane.”

Georgie laughs again, and Melanie continues, this time in a bad American tourist voice. “I visited Trauma Corpse with my family yesterday afternoon, and I have to say, it’s a real piece of shit. The human equivalent of a moldy chunk of cheese, or rice cooked in a saucepan. Zero out of five stars.”

“Would not recommend,” Georgie adds.

“Exactly. And,” Melanie presses on, returning to her normal voice, “what kind of name is ‘Trauma Corpse’ anyway? White people and their ridiculous baby names, seriously!”

This time, Georgie’s laugh is completely genuine. “I agree. It’s disgraceful. Motherfucking ‘Trauma Corpse.’”

“Motherfucking?” Melanie lets out an exaggeratedly affronted gasp. “She fucked your mother, too? A homewrecker on top of everything else? Do Ms. Corpse’s crimes ever end?”

That’s an awful—but distracting—mental image, which was probably the point. “Clearly not.”

Melanie smiles, and then, very slowly and carefully, moves to rest her cheek in Georgie’s palm. Her next words blow warm against Georgie’s wrist. “Seriously, though, Georgie… the evil thing here is The End, and whatever else may have been animating that body. Not you or Alex.”

Georgie lets the sentence linger in the air for a moment. Not Georgie’s fault. Not Alex’s. The thought wraps around her, not quite touching her skin, but warm. Close. Possible.

“Thanks,” Georgie says for the third time that night. She means it.

“God,” Melanie sighs into Georgie’s palm, “I’m not very good at this distraction thing, am I?”

“No, but it’s still helping. A lot, actually.”

“Good,” Melanie says, and chastely kisses Georgie’s wrist.

A slow smile spreads over Georgie’s face at the feeling. Said smile sparks several thoughts that occur to her in quick succession. She considers said thoughts, then performs a quick self-assessment: joints feel better, heart beating steadily, emotions fairly settled except for the part where she is very, very in love.

Finally, after making sure she’s okay one more time, Georgie turns to her side and scoots closer to Melanie. “I’m moving my hand away,” she warns her, and then, “I’m going to press my forehead to yours,” and lastly, “Can I put my hand on your hip? Cool.”

Having gotten into position, Georgie begins to speak, leaning into the Scouse a little bit more because, as she’s learned, Melanie likes it a lot. “Speaking of distracting me… if you really wanted to do that, I have a few suggestions.”

“Oh!” Melanie practically squeaks. Georgie adores her. “Do you mean sex?”

“Yes. I was thinking maybe… you could ride me? If you’d like.”

Even in the dark, Georgie can sense Melanie’s eyebrows rising. “Well… yes, I would like, but… are you okay for it?”

“Hey now,” Georgie says, “just because we’re dating now doesn’t mean we can’t continue to have sex in un-ideal emotional circumstances.” Melanie huffs out a laugh, but Georgie still clarifies, “But yes, I feel good, and I think you’re wonderful, and this isn’t a shitty coping mechanism or anything. Promise.”

“Okay, then,” Melanie says, audibly smiling. “One distraction, coming right up.”

“Emphasis on come—“ Georgie begins, but is cut off rather pleasantly by Melanie’s mouth.

Georgie kisses Melanie back. As she does so, she feels her heart begin to race.

[shadowsfiguresfigments-blog]

A good place to die Chapter 4

Warning: harsh language, violence

I regained consciousness, and it sucked. My throat hurt badly, and my limbs felt like goo, but that didn’t suck as much as the fact that Pennywise had failed to end me.

It wasn’t just me who was unable to kill myself.

A coughing fit made my entire body twitch, and my eyes shot open. I was lying in a fetal position on the washing-machine platform, covered in even more rags. Penny must have tucked me in while I was unconscious. The light had diminished, but I could still see enough to realize that he was sitting on the low wall that surrounded the abyss from which he had crawled almost two and a half weeks ago. It must have still been during the day, but definitely later than when Penny attacked me.

I was still alive.

The clown turned his head towards me, his eyes a weird shade of silver.

“Wha-wha-what… ha-happened?” I was wheezing, and my voice sounded like sand paper.

“Why… am I… I still alive?”

The clown shrugged, the rustle around his neck continuing the movement even when he was sitting still again.

“You weren’t scared. You were happy. I can’t kill you when you are happy.”

I felt drained and disappointed.

“Why?”

“Don’t you think I’d like to know that too?”, the clown spat at me.

“Well, I’m sorry.”

I buried my head between my legs and arms, waiting for my breath to stabilize.

After a while I could feel something touch my hair. I looked up at the clown standing before me.

“Listen, I’m exhausted and you are probably too. I should better go home now. Auntie will be worried,” I murmured, slowly unfolding my body. “I am sorry for what happened. Seems like I’m not the only one who has trouble killing me.”

My joke fell on death ears.

“Anyway, thank you for your effort.” I caught myself feeling somewhat anxious about my next question. “Can I come back tomorrow?”

His eyes turned somewhat more yellow, and his puzzled look became mingled with suspicion.

“Why would you want to do that?”

I wasn’t so sure myself. “I guess I like it here?”

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

I was lying in bed, thinking about the last couple of hours. Of course auntie had made a horrible fuss when she saw the state of my body. I told her I had tripped with the bike because of the new potholes, but I was pretty sure she didn’t believe me. She knew perfectly well that my nice classmates liked to mess with my bike – after all she already had to borrow me money for new tires and breaks, and once even a new saddle. And my accident also couldn’t properly explain the ligature marks on my neck. But she didn’t ask again, and so I could flee to the dark safety of my bed, contemplating the events of the day.

Pennywise had brought me back to the entrance once more, his eyes glowing bright blue. We didn’t talk, but it wasn’t uncomfortable – more like a fatigue we both shared. He even helped me with the brake cables that had been dislodged. He hadn’t answered my question, though.

Obviously he perceived me as a threat, and I still had no idea why. The fact that I wasn’t scared of anything seemed to be part of the cause, but how this would actually affect him was beyond me. He said he fed on fear and bodies, yet he had let that kid go when I visited him. I briefly wondered if he had fed on somebody in the meantime, but there was no curfew in place nor had I heard of any missing kids at school. I tried to be horrified at the fact that I was befriending a monster, but I couldn’t. The only thing that had managed to penetrate the numbness was the slight spur of excitement I felt any time I went down into the sewers. Maybe I should have started taking my meds again.

Once again I found sleep evading me.

Instead my mind was wandering back to my childhood days here in Derry. My mom had given birth to me at the tender age of fourteen, and the guy who had abused me had married her at sixteen. He wasn’t my real dad, as far as I knew. I was punished for everything I did and didn’t do. He was very versatile - he used his fists, his belt, sticks and whatever else he could find. When I was seven he started groping me. I told mum, and she smacked me so hard I had bruises for ages. As a punishment I wasn’t allowed to eat dinner. Again.

The only brakes I got were when auntie came to visit. She always had a little present for me, which Dad would quickly dispose of as soon as she left. But at least I wouldn’t be hit, and I was allowed to eat my three meals.  Then the fateful day came.

It must have been about a week after I had wondered into the sewers for the first time. Dad and Mum fought again, but it was different this time. Soon they started hurling things at each other. I crawled beneath the table to shield myself from flying tableware, empty bottles and the occasional book. Then Dad reached into his boots, pulled something out and a big BOOM followed. Mum sank to the floor, blood spilling from between her fingers, and Dad stumbled backwards, the gun falling from his hand. Very slowly, he turned around and looked at me. He pulled the table away and yanked me up by my arms. His face was almost as white as the wallpaper as he picked up one of the knives lying on the floor. He raised it high above his head, but before he could plunge it into my chest, another BOOM shook the kitchen. Mum had crawled across the floor, leaving a bloody trail behind, picked up the gun and shot him square in the head.

It took fifteen minutes for the police to arrive. The medics, who arrived just seconds after them, said that I was in shock and wrapped me in blankets. Everything after was but a blur. Days faded into each other. I was constantly moved between facilities, doctors and therapists. It had taken me a long time to figure out what they expected from me. When I finally understood, auntie took me ‘home’ with her, back to Derry. I couldn’t complain, she was very attentive and genuinely concerned. But it didn’t change the fact that I only ever felt like a zombie.

Around 4 a.m. I finally drifted into a light slumber. For the first time in forever I had hazy dreams of silk against my throat, of ghosts and glowing eyes. When I woke up I was drenched in sweat.

Auntie had left a note for me. “Bee is coming over at 6 p.m. I’ll make dinner. Hope to see you there too.” I wrote back that I would come. Bee, as we called her, was a good friend of auntie, despite being almost twice her age. She was a beautiful lady, though her red hair had become considerably greyer in the last year and creases had appeared all over her face. She was kind and caring, which was rare in Derry, and she actually listened to what you would say. As I was ready to leave for school, the phone rang and a nurse informed me that Mr. Shanks would be released in two days and expected his shop to be clean and ready for business.

School was horrible.

Apparently my frequent trips to the barrens had stirred up some drama. Rumors about me banging half the school were flying about, and even girls who had never spoken to me before were hissing “bitch” under their breath when I passed. My locker had been picked and somebody had filled it with used condoms, empty liquor bottles and other nice gifts. Boys were whistling at me and remarking how uninteresting my bony figure was, but that they’d do me for five bucks and the like. The only pleasant surprise was the dismissal one hour early because of a conference.

I felt like a fugitive when I sped away on my bike, heading for the barrens as fast as I could. This time I was going to take my bike with me, because I had a feeling somebody might come looking for it. And the second I had turned around the first bend of the sewer tunnel, I heard voices echoing from the entrance.

“You saw her here?”

“I swear, she was here like ten seconds ago.”

“Stupid bitch.”

“Where’d she go?”

“No idea. You think she went in there?”

“Well, she probably would.”

“Shall we go looking?”

“Through all the dirt? You crazy? I’m wearing my new Gucci.”

I backed away slowly, trying to be as quiet as possible. Only after I had gone on for several minutes I dared to breathe  again.

When I finally reached the cistern I was a little unsure of how to proceed. For starters I parked my bike against the wall, and then called out softly: “Pennywise?” I almost expected to not receive an answer, but after a couple of heartbeats the clown appeared behind the nearest pile of junk.

“I’m not interrupting anything, am I?”, I asked, the tiniest sensation of nervousness building in my belly.

He shook his head, and his bells jingled. “I wasn’t sure whether you would come back, little girl. Since I can’t help you.”

I smiled a little. This weird sensation had begun to come more easily to my face after the last couple of weeks. “It’s still better to hang out with you than stay at any place out there, so if you don’t mind too much…”

He studied me intensely, his eyes the weird in-between silverish shade that wasn’t quite blue and not quite yellow either. “I still don’t understand why you, as a human, would want to be here.”

I thought about that for a second. “Maybe it is because you aren’t put off by me the same way everyone else is. It’s quiet, and I don’t have to pretend to be something I’m not. And you were the first one to actually try to help me with what I really wanted. I know auntie means well and all, but she doesn’t understand me. I don’t think anyone can, really.”

He nodded, and I nestled into the rags on my usual spot. I had brought another book with me, a collection of short stories by Poe, and immersed myself into the beautiful flow of words that painted the most bizarre pictures in my mind. When I was just starving on the vast sea, contemplating the fact that I might have to consume human flesh to survive, a soft touch on my shoulders snapped me back into the twilight of the cavern.

Pennywise stood next to me, his big hand tentatively touching my shoulder. He looked like a little kid scared of dogs and being forced to stroke one.

“Would you read to me?”

I was caught off guard. He hadn’t complained before when I read out loud, but that he’d actually ask for it surprised me very much.

“Uhm, sure, if you want to…”

And with that the big clown sat down at the foot of the pile of junk, facing away from me, his head so close that my feet almost touched his hair.

I quickly skimmed through the book, wanting to read a story from the very beginning, and ultimately stopped at ‘William Wilson’, one of my favorites. As I started reading out lout, the clown let out the smallest of sighs.

 I snapped the book close with too much force, and the sound echoed through the abruptly quiet cavern. A quick glance at my watch told me it was time to go home, or I would be late for Bee.

“I’ll have to go, a friend is coming for dinner”, I explained as I slid down from my seat.

Pennywise turned his face towards me, his expression as confusing to me as ever. His eyes shone in the most profound blue I had ever seen.

“So, uhm… See you tomorrow?”

He blinked, but didn’t move otherwise. I smiled at him tentatively, before I made my way back to the tunnel. Apparently I would have to find my way back on my own this time.