#also i had a rash for five years and the doctors did nothing

[mountedhistory]

I'm really concerned at how little western medicine practitioners know about health, after being used to Chinese and homeopathic medicine. They know a lot about illnesses, but they just aren't interested in finding root causes or prevent them. If it can't be fixed with a pill, they can't help you basically. (Of course I use them for completely practical matters, but they are not coming anywhere near me with their pills)

Had a consultation with my doctor today and mentioned something my Chinese doctor recommended, which helped me a lot. I said no to pills which had some very nasty side effects, as I later learned. She just looked at me like I was completely crazy.

[ank01-fan]

Skin smooth enough for social media could burn you - Mint Lounge

You have successfully subscribed to Mint Lounge newsletter. Till 23 March, Aparna Trevedi indulged in a “hobby”: trying all the cosmetic products her favourite beauty influencer endorsed on Instagram. In six months, she had spent around ₹30,000 on serums, creams and lotions. “I knew she (the influencer) used some (photo) filters but I wanted that glassy skin,” says the Mumbai-based architect, 25. “I was on Insta for over half a day and ads (for skincare products) kept popping up…there are so many things available... How do you stop the temptation?” The outcome was mixed. An under-eye cream that promised results within a week did nothing. A shampoo helped fight hair loss but resulted in dry hair. Then, in early February, an anti-ageing serum left Trevedi with rashes. “That was the first time a product the influencer talked about didn’t suit me. It was confusing because she and I have the same skin type, and my friends’ skin (they also tried the same product) was also fine.” Also read: One Instagram face, please It didn’t stop her, though: The influencer had 275,00-plus followers for a reason, she told herself. On 23 March, Trevedi followed yet another recommendation: a face mask. It left dark patches and she had to see a dermatologist. “When the doctor told me I have burnt my skin, I felt like slapping myself. She (the influencer) might be endorsing the right products but clearly many weren’t suiting me,” says Trevedi. She unfollowed the influencer and started rationing time on Instagram. “The dermatologist said to me, ‘Social media is not the place to go for skincare,’” she says. In Shillong, Dianne Hasan’s skin doctor told her something similar when she had a sudden breakout of acne after using an anti-ageing cream she saw on YouTube. “In all of my 35 years, I never had acne but after using this cream twice, my face was covered with pimples.” Dermatologists say a growing number of consumers, especially women in the 18-45 age range, seem to trustingly, and unthinkingly, use products they see influencers promoting on social media. The problem seemed to increase during the pandemic, with people keen on beauty tips turning to influencers for guidance in a market awash with products. What's trending? Kashish Kalra, head of dermatology at the Max Smart Super Specialty Hospital in Delhi and owner of Dr Kalra’s Skin Clinic, describes these as a “social media skin problem”. Over the past two years, at least two people have been visiting his south Delhi clinic daily with complaints of acne and extreme redness after using a product they saw on social media. “While living in the confines of their homes, people have gained a lot of knowledge about different ingredients and serums but they don’t know what works for their skin. They are using products because they are trending,” says Dr Kalra. He mentions a patient who watched a YouTube video and tried a chemical peel, which is generally done under medical supervision. “The peel she had used included 30% of a particular chemical which should have ideally been around 5%. Her skin was burnt completely. When I asked her why she did it, she said she wanted skin with no blemishes and this method seemed quick.” Rajesh Shetty, periodontist and implantologist at the Dazzle Dental Clinic in Bandra, Mumbai, was surprised when he got a call from a 25-year-old, asking if he could increase the length of his teeth by 3mm. He gets such “strange requests” at least five-six times a month. “People have got a diamond stud fixed on the side (of the teeth) and it has permanently disfigured or created a hole in the tooth, but they don’t want it to be rectified because it looks nice in pictures.” He, too, has seen an “unprecedented increase” in the number of patients who come with complaints after learning about a product online. A big reason, he says, is that campaigns don’t explain the technique or the way a product should be used. “Many influencers who are promoting these products don’t study the product they are offering. In an Instagram reel, it’s not possible to explain things at length.” Malvika Sitlani Aryan doesn’t agree. A digital creator with over 550,000 Instagram followers, who posts reviews of skincare and beauty products regularly, she says she starts using the products at least two weeks before posting about them. Aryan, who recently walked the Cannes film festival red carpet, says: “I have had accidents as well. Once a product was so fragrant that it resulted in acne, so I didn’t promote it and gave my feedback to the company. You have to be transparent about your work and what you endorse, otherwise I will lose whatever I have built. And most importantly, skincare is subjective. What works for me might not work for you and I always say that.” It’s not that brands are not transparent about ingredients. “It’s so competitive right now that you have to be transparent,” says Mini Sood Banerjee, assistant director and head of marketing at Amorepacific India, an arm of the South Korean cosmetics company that oversees popular brands Laneige, Sulwhasoo, Etude House and Innisfree. As a L’Oreal spokeperson told Lounge: “With deeper penetration of social and digital media usage, consumers are also choosing products depending on current viral trends, influencer recommendations, and word of mouth. Beauty brands are doing their due diligence, educating the consumers on the product efficacies, ingredients, and usage via influencers, and experts on digital platforms, and in offline stores to help them make an informed choice.” Adds Banerjee: “To stay ahead in the game, you have to study trends, and see what works. What’s also important is educating the consumer.” Spend that extra time The problem is that the customer doesn’t spend the extra minute to read the fine print, says Geetika Mittal Gupta, aesthetic physician and founder of the Isaac Luxe skin clinic, which has a presence in Delhi and Mumbai. Over the past two years, she has started getting at least three patients a week with complaints of itchy, dry and peeling skin after they have experimenting with products. “I never had such patients before the pandemic. People have their micro labs at home now and do a cocktail of products, which ruptures their natural skincare barrier. With more brands, more influencer marketing and the pandemic, it’s a mess really.” It’s not just a big city phenomenon. Kiran Tirthani runs the Dermaway Skin and Laser clinic in Gujarat’s Gandhidham. Since October 2020, she has seen a steady rise in people with “social media skin” complaints. “I see at least 10 cases a week where a patient has had an accident with a skincare product. People just don’t get that trending retinol can dry their skin if it is sensitive.” A common culprit, she says, is the anti-ageing cream. “It’s no longer about fairer skin because they have realised that’s something they can’t change.... They want clear and wrinkle-free skin. And so, they are now invested in vitamin C serums, actives, peels, laser. People are buying cosmetics and skincare products and services now like they are shopping for clothes.” The other problem is the use of skincare products that include steroids. “We prescribe some medicines (in the form of lotions) for skin diseases like eczema that result in making the skin lighter (they actually make the skin thinner). Since it makes the skin clearer, people continue to use it without prescription,” she says. Chemists, too, don’t insist on prescriptions for skin products. This is something the government needs to pay attention to, says Neha Meena, a dermatologist at Jaipur’s Central Hospital, North Western Railway. “Almost 20 years ago, the government banned products with steroids but they are still available.” Of the 10 patients a day she sees with problems related to social media-promoted skincare experimentation, at least one confesses to using a cream with steroids. While brands must raise awareness about their products, she adds, consumers too need to be more vigilant, for social media can be “very misleading”. Aparna Trevedi, still yearning for “glassy skin”, would agree. Do’s and don’ts of skincare Product overuse may cause irritation and redness, leaving a filmy or greasy residue on your face in some situations. “Everyone should prioritise quality over quantity when it comes to their skincare routine. A pea-sized amount of any form of retinol or eye serum is usually the holy grail, whereas a quarter-size (of a coin) amount is more than enough for a face and neck cream. Following skin layering is important,” says Geetika Mittal Gupta, aesthetic physician and founder of Isaac Luxe skin clinic. Keep your beauty routine as simple as possible, says Blossom Kochhar, chair of Blossom Kochhar Group of Companies. “Cleanse, tone, moisturise. The Indian skin is, believe it or not, made for more natural products. And always, before buying a product, read up enough about it and check if it works for your skin.” Also read: L’Oréal Paris' head on how to be a 'sustainability pioneer' source Read the full article

[equestrianwritingsstuff]

Inspired by this prompt by @primarybufferpanel

Hero getting summoned to the hospital. Turns out villain has them listed as Next Of Kin

Warnings: hospital setting, motorcycle crash, mentions of bombing.

~

"Hello. I am here for...," Hero looked down at the piece of paper where she scribbled down the information that she spontaneously received only an hour before. "Civilian?"

"Civilian," the receptionist tapped some unknown words into her computer, squinted her eyes, and looked up at Hero. "You are his cousin, correct?"

Well, um...

That was not what Hero expected to hear.

"Uh yeah," Hero shook her head slightly. She hoped the movement would be interrupted as worry or shock not downright confusion.

Maybe she had to rub it in a little. Make it seem like she really was this civilian's family.

"What happened?" Hero feigned a high-squeaked voice. Maybe she sounded like she was crying, maybe not, but either way the receptionist gave her a kind look.

"Motorcycle accident."

Hero slowly nodded her head, pleading with it to link two and two together. Who did she know that rode a motorcycle?

Who did she know that even had their driver's license?

Heros were not required by law to have driver's licenses. It was mainly because many heros began as teens, but still had to drive around. Hero furrowed her forehead. She had no other friends other than her team.

"Wow, uh..." what was one supposed to say next? She never did this before. All her hero friends care for each other in base. "How bad is it?"

"Mm," the receptionist glanced at her computer again. "It says here that he is in a medically induced coma and is in critical condition."

Coma? Medically induced coma? Oh gosh, it must be bad- horrible even.

"Oh wow," Hero breathed, for once actually concerned.

"Well. Why don't you go. He is in the ICU currently. Room 11."

Hero hurried down the corriders and down the elevator. She ran trough the ICU, nearly missing Room 11.

She just suddenly had this nauseating sensation in her stomach.

Before she busted into the room, she looked at the files.

Severe head trauma, broken tibia (displaced fracture), road rash

Hero gulped and tentatively pushed the door open. Immediately the stench of disinfectants and the beeping of moniters hit her. Hero scrunched up her noise and walked towards the bed.

And there he was.

Villain.

Hero screamed, short and surprised, before she sunk down to her knees and grabbed onto her nemesis's limp hand.

"Villain? Oh, oh my gosh." The tears were unstoppable as Hero clung to Villain's hand. She just stared at it, too scared to look at the injuries or wonder why the doctors put him in a coma.

She made tiny circles with her thumb. Villain didn't respond. He was completely unresponsive.

Hero finally built up the courage to look up at Villain. He had a tube in his throat with some sort of breathing tube also attached to his face. Those tubes fragmented out into other tubes until he looked like Frankenstein.

His bruised, bare chest had heart pads all over it, watching over his weak heartbeat. He had many other moniters on him.

"What happened to you," Hero croaked, drawing herself to lean over him. "What happened-"

"Hero."

The hero turned around, her puffy face visible as a henchman walked in.

"Henchman," Hero regarded the man who entered the room with a concerned face. Not mad or suspicious like they were enemies, but as a source of comfort and information.

"There was an accident," Henchman answered Hero's unasked question. "We were being chased by Other Villain."

Henchman walked over to the other side of the bed and grabbed his boss's hand.

"Hey bro. Wake up for me will you?" Henchman spoke with such tenderness that Hero was drawn to him. "You don't get to be resting when the rest of us are working-" a small chuckle. "Your words, you know."

Hero sat back down on a chair that she just realized was there. She grabbed Villain's other hand and listened to Henchman's speech.

"Remember when your mum bought you your first gun. You were, maybe fourteen? That was five years ago; anyway, you were jumping with excitement when you showed me and the guys. And we were so jealous." Henchman chuckled again, squeezing Villain's hand tighter. "It was a D7 Scarecrow. $15,000."

Hero parted her mouth and resumed the small circles.

"And then, when you turned fifteen, you got into your first fight. Street fight, nothing special, but that was when you decided to become a villain. To protect other homeless kids from those street thugs."

"Become a villain to protect people," Hero asked, astounded.

"You heros don't patrol the alleyways. People are starving, dying daily."

"But Villain was- is... is- a full-fledged murderer. He is a criminal," Hero pointed out.

"Hmm," Henchman replied. "People change, Hero. Villain took a wrong turn."

The two remained silent for a while. Whether it was minutes, or hours, both Henchman and Hero kept themselves in their thoughts, drifting off periodically to the beeping sounds of the hospital.

That was until Henchman spoke.

"Villain was going to ask you out."

"W-what?" Hero stuttered, glancing down at the frowning face to the tear-stained face of the henchman. She didn't even realize that he started crying.

"Yep. We had it all planned out."

"Planned out?"

"Mhmm," Henchman replied. "Villain is not a simple guy. He wanted to it be extravagant."

"That's quite vague. What was the plan?"

"A bomb."

"A bomb?!"

"Or a firework, I dunno. He was gonna drop it over the woods. Apparently when it was supposed to go off, it would erupt into 'Will You Date Me Hero'. He was also gonna kidnap you to find on top of that abandoned parking garage. So you would see it." Henchman snorted, a mixture of tears and laughter. "It was so stupid."

"Yeah," Hero gave a half-smile. "I can imagine maybe ten ways that plan would've gone wrong."

"Would you have said 'yes'?"

Hero was silent for a moment. It would be very unheroic if she dated a villain. She would lose her job, her reputation, and maybe even her freedom. But, given the circumstance, it would be cruel to blatantly refuse and say, "No, I would never date a Villain."

Because that would just be wrong. Wrong and very rude.

"Yeah. I might've, I don't know," Hero sighed and rubbed her eyes. "Yeah. I just- yeah."

"Hmm."

Hero brought her hand up to Villain's face and brushed the hair out of it. He was so bruised and pale.

"How did the accident happen?"

"I dunno."

"You don't know?"

"That's what I said."

Both were again at a loss for words.

"I hope he wakes up," Henchman's voice cracked.

"Me too," Hero sighed. "Me too."

[scapegrace74-blog]

Ginger Snap, Chapter 6

A/N  Well, here it is.  The last chapter of Ginger Snap.   As an unplanned fic inspired by a vanity license plate, I’m happy with how it turned out.   There will be a short epilogue posted in the next week or so.  In the meantime,  thank you so much for coming on this unexpected ride with me!   This chapter’s themed title is Fire in the Belly.

Previous chapters are best enjoyed on my AO3 page, because I have a bad habit of going back and editing them after they’ve been posted.

The next five months were some of the most difficult of my life.  

After our talk, Frank and I agreed that it would be best that we parted ways.  The Southside flat was close to the university, plus I’d never truly felt at home there, so it made sense for him to keep it.  Fortunately, we’d never combined our savings and I still had money tucked away from my time as a medical resident in Boston.

Geillis wanted me to move into her sprawling Murrayfield home, at least temporarily, but I knew that I needed a place of my own.  To stand on my own two feet, as it were.   Which was how I found myself moving my few belongings into a modest Morningside walk-up as the rest of Edinburgh celebrated Hogmanay with fireworks and drunken revelry.

I scheduled the written component of my medical licensing exam for February.  This was likely foolhardy, but I’d already wasted enough time.  As a result, almost every waking hour was dedicated to studying.  The flat remained an empty box whose naked beige walls bore witness to my rudimentary existence.

Geillis called regularly, reminding me to eat and to occasionally step outside for a breath of fresh air.  Returning up the high street from one of our weekly coffee dates, a bright flash in a shop window caught my eye.

I stopped and stared as the afternoon sun lit the vase like a shard of stained glass.  It was a profound shade of blue: the colour of a field of indigo, of the night sky in a Byzantine icon, of Jamie’s eyes when he laughed.  It sat on my windowsill, filled with the season’s first daffodils, as I pored over practice exams.

***

“Geillis, I passed!  I fucking passed!”  An elderly woman seated across from me on the bus muttered under her breath about vulgar Sassenachs, but I was too elated to care.

“Of course ye did, ye brilliant disaster.  Now I can brag tae the neighbours I have my own personal physician.”

“Not so fast, Duncan.  I still need to pass the clinical exam, and that’s no small thing.”  My gut twisted just thinking about it, but unlike the written exam, there was little I could do to prepare.  Either I knew how to perform as a doctor or I did not.  The long months since I’d last treated a patient loomed like a large shadow over that question.

“Och, yer bum’s oot the window Claire,” my friend dismissed blithely.  “Ye’re gonna do great.  When do ye head down tae yer homeland, then?”

“May first.”  The practical examination took place in Manchester and needed to be scheduled three months in advance.

“Sounds like ye’ve got some time on yer hands.  Whate’er are ye going tae do with yerself?” Geillis asked in a singsong voice.

Fortunately for me, spring was Edinburgh’s most pleasant season.  Its many gardens and laneways erupted in carpets of buds and blooms.  The air smelled fresh and green, like biting into a tart apple.  I took long walks and fell in love with the city I now called home.  There were secondhand bookstores to explore and a weekly craft market where I gradually amassed an assortment of items that made my flat feel like a home.  With each passing day, my existence felt more and more like a life; one I defined for myself.

I also started to explore my options for employment, hoping for a job offer from one of the city’s hospitals that was conditional upon my successful completion of the licensing process.  It was to that end that I found myself walking down the corridor of The Royal Edinburgh hospital after what I hoped had been a rather successful interview with the deputy director of surgery.

“Claire?”

I recognized her voice immediately.  Before turning around I closed my eyes and sent out a fervent appeal to the universe.

“Jenny, hi.  How are you?”

She looked just the same, her straight black hair such a contrast to her brother.  Next to her stood a man, but not the man I had conjured the moment I heard her voice.  I was unclear whether that meant my prayer had been answered or not.  Seeing my gaze stray, Jenny jumped to introductions.

“This is my husband, Ian.  We’re here fer treatment on his leg.”

“Nothing serious, I hope.”  

“Jes a fitting fer a new prosthetic.  Jenny keeps beatin’ me o’er the head with the old one, ye see.”  I laughed, instantly liking his easy-going manner, so in contrast with Jenny’s intensity.

“Ye must be the Claire I hear sae much about,” he went on, and I wondered what had been said about me in the Fraser household.

“Nothing bad, I hope.”

Ian smiled warmly.  “Only good things, I promise ye.”

“What brings ye tae the hospital, Claire?” Jenny interjected.

I explained how I was in the process of qualifying to practice medicine in Scotland, provided I could pass my exams.  Jenny and Ian were both delighted, congratulating me as though I’d already accomplished my goal.  As we spoke about Wee Jamie’s latest exploits and the ongoing growth of Ginger Snap, I couldn’t help notice that Jenny was staring at my hands.  At my left hand in particular.  Finally, I couldn’t resist temptation any longer.

“And, how is Jamie doing?”  I tried to sound casual, but I was certain my faltering voice betrayed me.

“Very well,” Jenny replied.  “Busy, as ye can imagine, but he thrives on chaos.”

I nodded, trying to be satisfied with the news that he was well.  It was the most I could hope for, really.  Jenny eyed me shrewdly before continuing.

“He’s a good man, my brother.  Any lass would be verra lucky tae have him.  I’d like tae see him settled, but he refuses tae be rushed.  Says the right woman is worth the wait.”  She paused before adding,  “I reckon ye ken wha’ he means.”

“Yes,” I breathed.  “I know exactly what he means.”

***

I took the overnight train from Edinburgh to Manchester.  It meant I was likely to arrive at the testing centre deprived of sleep, but I rationalized that most of my residency could be characterized as one long evaluation under similar conditions, and I hadn’t killed anyone yet.  Still, as the velvety darkness slipped by outside my window, studded by the lights of passing farms, my doubts got the better of me.

I texted Geillis, looking for moral support.  For once she didn’t reply immediately.  There was one other name on my laughably short list of contacts.  I deliberated for all of a minute, but the late hour and creeping panic made me impulsive.

Hello.

Best to start with something innocuous, rather than the slightly more revealing “I miss you.  I think about you every day.”  A reply bubble appeared immediately after I hit send.  At least I hadn’t woken him up.  A small tempest stirred in my gut.

Arsonist.  Hello.  How are you?

I tried to picture him.  Was he at home?  Working late?  Or, in a scenario that played out far too often in my mind, on a date?

I’m alright.  Well, to be honest, I feel like I’m going to puke and cry.  Not necessarily in that order.

Och, lass.  Do you need me to come over?

Damn it, this man.  I had done nothing to deserve his unswerving loyalty but mislead him and then disappear for months on end.  And yet here he was, willing to come to my aid on the flimsy pretext of a late night text.  Guilt and tenderness warred for possession of my heart.

That may prove a bit difficult, Jamie.  I’m on a train to England.

There was a long pause, and then a two letter reply.

Oh.

I realized at once that he’d leapt to the wrong conclusion: that I had left Edinburgh for good.  I rushed to correct the error.

I’m taking the second stage of my examination to practice as a NHS doctor tomorrow.   It’s all hands-on situations, and the licensing facility is in Manchester.

Arsonist, that’s wonderful news!  I’m so proud of you.

I blushed, then leaned my heated cheek against the chilled pane of glass.  It had been a rash impulse, but this conversation was exactly what I needed.  I wasn’t alone in this.  Geillis and Jamie were in my corner.

What has your stomach in a twist, then?

What if I’ve forgotten what to do?!  It’s been almost a year since I’ve so much as used a stethoscope, Jamie.  The exam is eighteen real-life situations and you’re given eight minutes to respond to each one.  Not a second longer.  I’m just...  what if I fail?

And there it was.  The kernel of fear that lived at the heart of everything I did.  What if I failed?   What if my best wasn’t good enough?

Claire, listen to me.  You’re a doctor, just as I am a chef.  It wouldn’t matter if I had not set foot in a kitchen in ten years, I would still remember how to cook, and I know that it’s the same for you.  I believe it with everything in me.

On some level, I knew that he was right.  But it still comforted me tremendously to hear it from someone I trusted.

Alright.  That helps.  I should let you get to bed.  Thank you for talking me off my ledge, Jamie.

Anytime, Arsonist.

As I got ready sign off, another text bubble appeared.

Oh, and Claire?  Don’t burn down their wee laboratory, okay? ;-)

I laughed out loud, muting my phone and reclining my seat.  Outside, the stars shone brightly, tiny fires in the firmament to guide me on my way.

***

It was a lovely late spring day, and the retractable doors to the fire station were open to the warm breeze.  I could hear Angus’ voice as he led a cooking demonstration for a group of young women; a bridal shower by the look of their ridiculous costumes.

“Mind the coriander, lass.  Tis a verra powerful aphrodisiac, ken?  I willna be held responsible if ye canna resist my considerable charms after ye eat yon soup.”

There was an outburst of giggles as I rounded the corner and entered the reception area.  Jenny was on the phone.  She halted mid-sentence when she saw me walk in.  I rubbed my hands down the front of my jeans, trying to stay calm.

“He’s in the storeroom, in the back,” Jenny prompted before I could even offer a greeting.  I smiled gratefully, relieved I didn’t have to make small talk.  I had only so much courage stored in reserve, and I didn’t want to use it all up before reaching my destination.

The storeroom was long and narrow, lit by a single naked bulb and girded with shelves.  Jamie stood with his broad back to the door, his curls absorbing the light like amber.  He had a clipboard in one hand, performing some kind of inventory.

“Jes how many lentils dae ye reckon we need, Janet?  There’s nine cans of them here already, and ye have us ordering ten more.”

I’d almost forgotten how much I loved his voice, the undulating grit and silk of it.  I had to remaster the art of speech before I could reply.

“It’s not Jenny.  It’s me.  Claire.”

He froze, and if it weren’t for the sudden rapid flow of his breath I would have assumed he hadn’t heard me.  My nerves got the better of me and I blurted out, “I like lentils.  You should listen to your sister.”

“Claire.”  More sigh than word.  He slowly turned.  It was when our eyes met that I knew nothing had changed for him.  It was still there, after all these months.  That look that told me I was the map to his journey, the focus to his vision, the reason to his why.  

Hopefully he could read that same certainty on my face.

“I passed my exams,” I began.  “I’m a doctor again.”

“Ye never stopped bein’ a doctor.  This jus’ makes it official.”

“I’m still a disaster in the kitchen,” I continued.  “Last week I ruined two saucepans.”

“Tha’s only a tragedy if ye dinna have someone willin’ tae cook fer ye,” he replied with a strange squinting motion I understood was meant to be a wink.

“I’m still learning who I am.  How to be true to the person on the inside,” I confessed.  This is what had kept me away for so long, worried that I would escape from Frank’s orbit just to be caught up in another.  Jamie never once expected my submission, but that didn’t mean I wouldn’t offer it out of habit.

“I’ll let ye in on a secret.  Sae is everyone else,” he replied.

Without realizing it, we’d both been moving until we were crowded together amongst the dried herbs and canned goods.  My hand rested against the solid metronome of his heart.  Just one more confession to go.

“I burn for you in a way I’ve never burned for anything before.”

There.  It was said.  A thousand wings of rapture beat against the cage of my ribs, clamoring to break free.  Jamie carefully pushed a loose curl behind my ear before cupping my jaw.

“Wee arsonist.  Come, set my life on fire.”

[the-wlw-cafe]

Limerence - A Westenray Fanfic

Rated: T

Summary: Five times Mina remained blind to the true extent of Lucy’s feelings, and one time Lucy was the one unaware.

Read it on AO3!

i.

Lucy is nine years old when she’s first told that how she feels for Mina is considered out of the ordinary.

“When I marry, I want to marry a man who’s intelligent – and kind!”, Mina happily prattles along, her voice airy with excitement, still taken by the wonder of the stories they’d read just minutes before. The legend of King Arthur, old myths of chivalry and bravery, none of those modern novels their parents fret about. It’s still more than Lucy’s governess will allow her, afraid that her young mind might get lost among the pages.

“Be sure to stay on top of your reading then, an intelligent man won’t settle for a dull girl at his side”, Mina’s governess, Mrs Sheffield, replies, not unkindly – never unkindly, Lucy thinks with a slight pang of envy. Then again, someone as bright and kind and good as Mina would not give her governess many reasons to be unkind. It makes Lucy wonder why Mina’s parents would even have a need for a governess, since their daughter is already perfect. Lucky Mrs Sheffield must be envied by all her peers, getting to spend her entire day with Mina.

“What about you, Lucy? Who do you want to marry?”, Mina asks, and Lucy can feel two pairs of eyes burrow into her. Marriage. She can barely think about it without scoffing. She can’t stand any of the boys she knows, boys like Henry, the Fairfax’ son, who likes to pull Mina’s hair and kick against her shins under the table when his parents aren’t looking. If he is what a ‘fine young gentleman’ is supposed to be, she doesn’t want any part of it. He’s rude, snotty and rough. Unlike Mina.

“I don’t think I shall marry”, Lucy says. “I just want to stay with Mina.”

Mrs Sheffield can’t quite hide the way Lucy’s reply catches her off guard. Her features twist into a frown for just a moment or two, before smoothing over again.

“Well, I remember not caring for any of the boys when I was your age, too”, the governess offers. “You’ll change your mind when you’re older. It’s simply a matter of meeting the right man.”

Lucy can barely resist the urge to stomp her feet in an entirely unladylike display of frustration. She knows she won’t change her mind, and she doesn’t care one bit for the way Mrs Sheffield talks over her!

“Don’t pay her any mind”, Mina whispers to her once the governess has turned her back to them. She takes her hand and gives it an affectionate squeeze. “We’ll always stay together, even after we marry.”

Lucy doesn’t answer, because kind as Mina is, she just doesn’t seem to understand what she means, and Lucy doesn’t know how to make her friend see reason. So instead, she uses her sleeve to wipe at the tears that have sprung from her eyes unbidden. She knows herself better than any governess will ever know her, and she knows one thing above all: Never in her life will a boy be more important to her than Mina.

ii.

Lucy is 14 years old and it is getting increasingly difficult to look at Mina. It’s something she can’t quite explain, or perhaps she doesn’t dare to entertain the notion in her mind for long enough to form a conclusion. Either way, there is a strange atmosphere between them now, at least on Lucy’s part, and she prays that Mina doesn’t perceive it as well. Things that were as natural as breathing before, things that should be as natural as breathing have suddenly taken on a new grandness. Whenever they share a bed now she can barely catch a wink of sleep, her focus consumed entirely by Mina’s warmth and every point of contact between their bodies, making her heart race and her breath stutter. Whenever Mina, sweet, unwitting Mina changes in front of her she can feel an entirely unfamiliar heat rise until it becomes too much to bear and she has to avert her eyes. Sometimes she will look at her best friend and out of the blue the brunette’s beauty will steal the breath right from her lungs. Sometimes, her eyes will catch on Mina’s lips, and she wonders what it might feel like if she were to just lean in -

Perhaps Lucy is getting ill.

She fears she might be past any chance of recovery already.

Still, she needs to nip this, whatever it is, in the bud. She has no idea how to do it, but she’s locked herself in her room. She’s been refusing meals and company, because until she’s found a way to contain this, to push it into a corner of her mind so deep it can never come up again, she can’t be trusted around Mina. What if she does something thoughtless? What if, in one lapse of control, she’d find herself acting on her most secret impulses, destroying their friendship forever, branding herself a twisted pariah?

There’s a knock on the door, without the hesitation the servants often display when they attempt to coax her into accepting a tray of rapidly cooling dinner, and gentler yet than her mother’s knock. She knows it’s her before she even has the chance to announce her presence.

“Lucy? May I come in, please?”

She’s completely aware it’s a mistake, she’s aware in her state this might very likely end in disaster, but she is also aware that she will never be able to deny her friend a single wish. She strides across the room, steadily avoiding Mina’s gaze as she lets her in, as if the simple act of meeting her eyes would set her ablaze. Lucy can’t rule out the possibility that it might.

“Why have you been avoiding me?”, Mina asks.

“I’m sorry,” is all Lucy can come up with.

“The least you could do is not avoid my question”, her friend huffs, and even now, cornered as she is, Lucy can’t help how her heart swells with affection for hard-headed, iron-willed Mina. She opens her mouth, but despite usually being so quick to come up with quips it can’t find the words to express what needs to be said.

“Are we fighting? Was it something I said?”, Mina inquires further, her voice softer now.

That Lucy can’t abide by. She can’t let Mina believe this entire wretched situation is her fault, not for a second.

“Oh, sweet Mina, no! It’s me, it’s my fault, I just – it’s just…”, she trails off, cowardly, because even though it’s the right thing to do she can’t bring herself to ruin what she still has left. Lucy can see Mina open her mouth, to question her further, probably, but she seems to think better of it. Instead, she closes the gap between them, taking Lucy in her arms, and Lucy, curse her weakness, readily lets herself melt into the embrace.

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you at a loss for words, Lucy. Won’t you tell me what’s wrong? I worry about you.”

There was no way Lucy could hold the tears at bay now.

“I’m so, so sorry for making you worry”, she sniffles, letting herself be comforted by the familiar smell of Mina’s floral perfume. “And I can only apologize for shutting you out like this.”

“Don’t worry about all of that now. All I care about is your happiness”

“But you make me happy”, Lucy states, quietly. It is the profound truth: She’d never been so miserable in her entire life than the days she’s isolated herself, and these few minutes in her friend’s company seem to have healed her like molten gold seeping into the open cracks on her heart, filling up the empty spaces. Mina pulled back, brow furrowed, both of her hands coming up to gently cup her face, wiping away her tears with her thumbs. Lucy exhales a shuddering sigh.

“If that is true than I’m afraid you’re being very ridiculous right now”, Mina admonishes gently. “Because what you need right now is to not wallow in your own self-pity. You need a day on the town with your best friend to distract you from your murky thoughts, and maybe after you can tell me what weighs so heavily on your heart.”

It’s a wonder how Mina can’t see the adoration plainly written across her face as Lucy takes the hand that’s offered to her, already concocting a completely fabricated story about some young man breaking her heart to placate Mina’s curiosity about her disappearance.

“Nobody makes me as happy as you”, Lucy murmurs, and although the words are only meant for herself Mina picks up on them nonetheless.

“Then you can count yourself lucky that I won’t let you waste away in a sunless room, dearest Lucy. I’ll say, you really are dramatic sometimes.”

You’d understand if you knew, Lucy thinks, forgive me, but I pray you’ll never know.

iii.

She’s been confined to her bed in isolation for days now. At least she believes so, but her sense of time has been utterly shattered by drifting in and out of fevered dreams, with no way to tell the time of the day but from the light – or lack thereof – coming in through the window.

She wishes they’d just talk to her. In the beginning she was at least able to get some information from her mother when the doctor informed her of Lucy’s state in a hushed voice, like the uncertainty of what was happening to her would bring her any peace of mind. Most of the information she got was conveyed by her mother through worried glances, through the tight smiles and reassurances of “it’s nothing serious, you’re going to be up and about in no time at all” meant to bring her comfort, but only accomplished the opposite as she knew all of her mother’s tells. It was obvious Lucy was being lied to.

But it doesn’t matter now, not anymore, since the doctor has forbidden her mother from entering her room for longer than an hour a day, since he is convinced the visits cause Lucy nothing but distress. In reality, of course, nothing is more distressing than slowly watching the angry red rash of scarlet fever creep over her chest and arms in isolation.

In the initial state of Lucy’s illness, Mina did not leave her side at all, and now, after the doctor had to forcibly remove her from Lucy’s bedside more than once, she’s taken to sneaking into Lucy’s room at night. No matter how hard Lucy protests – or tries to, her throat feels too raw and tight to speak more often than not– stubborn Mina cares not for Lucy’s worries of the disease spreading to her, because apparently, the fever has made her quite contradictory: While she sends her friend away during her few hours of wakefulness, in her sleep she’s known to call out for Mina, no-one but Mina. What other secrets her feverish mind may lay bare Lucy does not dare think about, but since Mina keeps coming back to her the thing she fears most can’t have come to pass yet. How strange, she muses, that even as she is getting her throat painted with horribly painful tinctures twice a day it is this she frets over every minute of every waking hour.

She awakes to a darkened room only illuminated by the few candles that have not yet burned down, sunken into a chair by her bedside none other than Mina, sleeping. Lucy’s eyes drift downward to their hands, intertwined even in their sleep, and she can’t help but stroke the palm of Mina’s hand with her fingertips, tracing patterns over her delicate fingers, imagining herself lifting it up to her lips and kissing each one -

With a soft sigh, Mina rouses, and Lucy’s hand jerks back as if Mina’s skin had burned her. Her friend’s eyes dart around the room, disoriented, before settling on Lucy’s face. Lucy shudders inwardly as she imagines what a ghastly sight she must be, skin sickly pale with red splotches creeping up her neck, her eyes glassy from the fever. But in Mina’s gaze there’s no pity, only affection, and it alone makes Lucy want to cry.

“Lucy”, Mina breathes, her voice still thick with sleep. Despite her aching limbs Lucy lifts a hand and pushes against her friend’s thigh, weak but insistent. Keep your distance, she tries to convey. I couldn’t bear it if you were to get ill as well.

It’s a testament to their bond that Mina understands her without issue, even though all she has to say on the matter is “I won’t leave you alone, Lucy, so don’t even try to convince me otherwise.”

A hand comes to touch her forehead, and despite the fever Lucy can feel additional heat rise to her cheeks. Worry is clearly etched into Mina’s face.

“First and foremost, we need to keep your temperature down.”

Mina’s voice, calm and firm, brings her more comfort than her mother’s hushed reassurances ever have. There is a bucket of rags soaking in freezing water next to her bed, she hears it sloshing and closes her eyes, bracing herself for the icy touch.

“This is going to feel very cold”, Mina whispers, and the warning is more than the doctor has ever afforded her. In fact, it’s very likely that they’ve exchanged more words in the last minutes than the doctor ever has deigned to waste on her over the entire course of her illness. In fact, she’s not sure the doctor even knows her name – to him she might be called scarletina since he seems to regard her as nothing but her disease. Lucy gasps at the first touch of the icy rags to her heated skin as Mina carefully places them on her forehead with steady hands. Mina is knowledgeable about these things, she’s knowledgeable about a lot of things a young lady like her has no business being aware of. Her childhood passion for reading has only grown stronger the older they got, they’d soon turned to reading penny dreadfuls in secret, huddled together in bed way after nightfall, both of them trying to keep a brave face and yet almost jumping out of their skin at every benign noise of the mansion at night. Now she’s taken to sneaking into her father’s study, reading every medical journal she can get her hands on. She’d make a fine doctor, Lucy muses. Certainly better than the odious man in whose care she is now, although that might not be saying much.

Despite the burning sensation the cold rags inflict on her she feels her eyelids grow heavy and her mind grow sluggish with exhaustion.

“Mina”, she manages to croak.

“Shhh”, Mina admonishes, one wet hand cupping her cheek. “Don’t exert yourself too much.”

“Stay.”

It’s utterly selfish, but Lucy has proven to be nothing but a selfish creature. She craves the comfort Mina’s presence provides like she craves her next breath.

Lucy eyes have already closed, but she can still hear the smile curl around her best friend’s voice when she mutters: “I’ll stay for as long as you want me to.”

Always. I want you always, Lucy thinks, or maybe speaks. Everything hurts and the difference doesn’t seem to matter anymore.

“Then I’m afraid you’re stuck with me”, are the last words she hears before sleep pulls her under again.

iv.

Lucy would never have thought it possible to be so infatuated with a person that even their handwriting would seem endearing, but nonetheless she finds herself mindlessly skimming through Mina’s scientific notes, tracing the energetic curve of her gs, the elegant bow of her fs, and smiles at all the places the aspiring doctor has smudged the ink in her haste to capture every single ounce of knowledge on the page. It almost feels like she’s reading something private, like she’s intruded on her friend’s journal, but she can’t bring herself to stop. At least it distracts her from her worry.

Mina should have arrived from her studies half an hour ago. Lucy’s let herself into Mina’s room to escape the dreadful weather outside as if it were her own home. Considering the amount of time she spends there, it might as well be. Lucy glances at the clock. It hasn’t been a long time, even though it feels like hours, but Lucy can’t help the gnawing feeling in the pit of her stomach that something might be wrong, that something is holding her up, that something has happened. With a huff, she closes the notebook. Maybe she’s just gotten used to being Mina’s first priority. Is this what she’s come to? Resenting Mina for chasing her dreams, dreams that she might have thought unattainable if it weren’t Mina who was pursuing them? She remembers the pride she felt when Mina told her through tears of joy that she’d been accepted into the medical society, as if her friend’s accomplishments were her own. No, she could never begrudge sweet Mina her ambition, as her drive is one of the most captivating things about her.

She hears footsteps rapidly approaching, a quick, decisive snap of heels that she’s come to associate with no-one but Mina. The door bursts open, and the smile that has snuck it’s way upon Lucy’s lips as it always does in Mina’s blessed presence drips from her face like the rain pelting against the windows as she sees the expression on her dear friend’s face. Jaw locked and eyes facing forward, fists clenched so tight her knuckles are whitening, she wears the expression of someone desperately trying to hold back tears of anger.

“Oh, Mina”, Lucy gasps, rushing to meet her friend, “what happened?”

“What happened?”, Mina hisses, smashing her books down on her bedside table. “I’m tired of being held to an entirely different standard than my peers and being made a fool of should I slip up even once!”

Of course. Men, Lucy thinks, they never miss an opportunity to prove my distaste for them right.

“One mistake!”, Mina rages. “One mistake, and it is grounds for having my suitability for this field of studies called into question! Explain it to me, Lucy, how a man can skip lectures to go gallivanting around town, reeking of liquor when he does deign to show himself only to fall asleep in his seat minutes later, and yet it is I to whom the professor recommends to re-evaluate their goals?” There’s fire in her eyes, and fervour in her voice, and Lucy feels equal parts pity for the men that dare challenge her not knowing the storm that they’ll reap, and equal parts a shameful longing to bear the brunt of her ardour, to be swept up completely by her force. The notion makes the blood rise to her cheeks and she knows she will guiltily revisit it later, alone in her bedchambers. For now, she pushes it aside, focusing on the Mina that is in front of her right now, in need of her support, not the fictitious version that inhabits her inverted fantasies.

“It’s because they are afraid of you. They are afraid of your intellect, your skill, your potential, and they’d rather wear you down and force you to give up on your dreams because they know you’re smarter than the lot of them combined. You threaten them, Mina, you threaten their entire view of the world with them at the top, undisputed. They see your excellence, and it terrifies them.”

Lucy is a bit breathless when she finishes, and she averts her eyes, suddenly embarrassed by her outburst and the palpability of her awe. Still, she won’t take it back, not a single word, because it is nothing but the truth and she needs Mina to know it.

Mina swallows, eyes burning with fierce determination. “I scare them? Good. I shall prove them right.”

And suddenly, Lucy feels quite dizzy. The silence between them stretches on, and, in an effort to fill it, Lucy blurts out the first thing that comes to mind:

“Before you do that, I do believe you’ve earned a little petty revenge. Remember that time I slipped ink into Henry Fairfax’ tea?”

Mina stares at her for a few moments, incredulous, before the tension breaks and she lets out the most endearing snort of laughter. To Lucy, no music could ever reach perfection such as this, and she’ll gladly make herself a jester if her reward shall be to hear this beautiful sound one more time.

“I mean it, I believe it improved his manners greatly.”

“Because he was too ashamed of his black teeth to speak!”

“From what I’ve learned, most men would be twice as amiable if they’d just keep their mouths shut.”

“Tempting”, Mina giggles, “but we’re not children anymore.”

Lucy pretends to sigh in disappointment. “You’re right, of course. It’s time we moved on from child’s play such as this. After all, as a soon-to-be doctor you of all people should know where to procure laxatives.”

“Lucy!”, Mina exclaims, playfully pushing her with just a little too much vigour, causing Lucy to stumble backwards, reaching out towards Mina as not to fall but only succeeding in knocking her off balance as well. For a few frantic moments they stay clutching at each other, swaying wildly like a pine at the mercy of a savage storm, before they find their footing again. Lucy closes her eyes, savouring each fleeting second before Mina will inevitably disentangle herself with a nervous giggle, shattering the strange intimacy of the moment. Yet her friend makes no move to do so. On the contrary, Lucy is startled to feel the weight of Mina gently resting her forehead on her shoulder. She can’t think straight. Her senses are awash with Mina’s warmth, the enticing scent of her perfume, the soothing rhythm of her breathing...she’s close enough for Lucy to feel each exhale warm against the skin of her neck. Is Mina aware how fast her heart is beating? She must be. It’s racing in Lucy’s ears like a pounding war drum. Lucy clenches her hands into fists until she can feel her fingernails painfully digging into her palms to distract herself, to keep herself from doing something as foolish as pressing her lips to Mina’s hair.

“Oh, darling Lucy, I do love you.” She’s so caught up in Mina’s bittersweet closeness that even after she feels her sweet friend’s lips form the words against her neck it takes a few moments for their meaning to sink in, and they bring with them a particularly painful ache. Not as I love you. The words are clear in Lucy’s mind, making her throat tighten and hot tears rise to her eyes.

“Sometimes it really does feel like you’re the only one in my corner as I’m opposing the rest of the world.”

Lucy doesn’t answer, can’t answer, for she fears her voice won’t obey her if she tries. So she settles on holding Mina a bit tighter, extending their embrace just a few moments longer, as to hide the tears are now flowing freely.

v.

“I barely get to see you anymore.”

Mina’s right, of course. And it isn’t entirely owed to Mina’s medical studies, as much as Lucy would like to pretend it is the case. The truth is this: Lucy has been avoiding her. For her own sake, for her own sanity’s sake, because whenever they’re together now, he finds a way to insert himself into the situation, and the heartache is eating Lucy alive. So she’s been distancing herself, as a way of self-preservation. Best to get used to it now, she reckons, before the wedding, and the children that will follow, and the rift between them that will only grow further and further until Mina will realize that there is no more space for somebody like Lucy in her life.

“I’m sure Jonathan isn’t complaining.”

It’s a low blow and she regrets it as soon as it’s passed her lips. Not for fear of hurting Jonathan’s feelings, of course, but because now his presence is looming over them like a spectre even when he isn’t present. It’s the first sleepover Mina and her have had in weeks, a regular activity among them turned to a once-in-a-blue-moon occasion, and still she’s given him the power to worm his way into it. They’re lying right next to each other, close enough to touch, but there’s still a distance between them that was never there when they were younger. Now, they might as well be continents apart.

“Honestly, Lucy”, Mina hisses, propping herself up on her elbow and turning over to face her. “Must you paint Jonathan’s name black whenever you talk about him? What on earth could he have done to deserve such treatment from you?”

“What has he done? I find myself asking the same thing every hour of every day. What has he ever done for you, besides offering you support in name only, secretly hoping to make a docile housewife out of you yet?”

“You don’t know him like I do!”, Mina shouts, and it’s another thing that’s new between them, the shouting. They’d had fights before, of course, Lucy is convinced that two headstrong and intelligent individuals such as them can’t spend this much time in close proximity without quarrelling every so often, but their fights have become more frequent and more vicious.

“For all this time you’ve been seeing each other, I cannot think of one moment he took a stand for you!”

Not like I do, she catches herself thinking, and shudders immediately. How bitter she’s become. She can see Mina scrambling to come up with a response, but Lucy is too enraged to give her a quarter.

“Pray tell, Mina, what is one thing you admire about him? Hell, tell me one thing you like about Jonathan!”

Lucy slowly watches the anger in her friend’s eyes fade as the fight seems to leave her body and she turns away from her again, her gaze now fixed to an invisible point on the ceiling.

“He’s amiable”, Mina offers weakly.

“Oh, is that what they call a wet blanket nowadays?”, Lucy can’t help but scoff.

“He loves me”, Mina says, even quieter.

So do I, Lucy wants to say, Lucy yearns to say, but of course she can’t. She mustn’t. There are so many words inside her, emotions she’s repressed for so long, and she can feel them bubbling up, only a hair’s breadth away from spilling to the surface and ruining everything.

“He doesn’t deserve you.”

Nobody does, she wants to add, but her heart, her treacherous, foolish heart instead possesses her to say: “No man does.”

In a blink of an eye, the room is doused in an eerie quiet, as the weight of what she has just said settles in. Mina’s head whips around so fast Lucy might have feared for the muscles in her neck if she wasn’t frozen to the spot, panic gripping her insides with an icy grasp as Mina silently regards her with an expression usually reserved for the most difficult of riddles, like she’s a particularly challenging problem to solve. Lucy desperately tries to find a way to backtrack, to claim it was nothing but a silly joke, but the words die in her throat as with one fluid movement Mina leans in and -

Lucy closes her eyes, a soft gasp escaping her. This isn’t happening, this can’t be happening, there’s no way Mina is about to kiss her, and yet Lucy prepares herself for the gentle touch of soft lips on hers.

She’s proven right when Mina instead presses a kiss to her forehead.

Right. Of course.

Lucy would have laughed at herself and her inability to learn if she didn’t feel like crying. Of course Mina wouldn’t want to kiss her, why can’t she just accept it? Why must she torture herself with foolish hope?

The contact lasts for one second, maybe two, before Mina pulls back, completely wordless. Lucy, too, is stunned silent, even more so when her friend blows out the candle on the bedside table before burrowing into her side as if they were children again, sighing softly as she rested her head on Lucy’s shoulder.

“I don’t want to fight with you.”

“Me neither”, Lucy croaks, leaning her cheek against soft brown hair.

She doesn’t sleep a wink that night.

vi.

She’s still holding onto the note as she enters the garden. She’s clutching onto it, balling it up and rendering it illegible. Not that it matters, she’s read and re-read it so many times by now she knows the words by heart. It’s not a great feat by any means, since the entire page is taken up by only two sentences, penned with a shaking hand in great haste:

Meet me in the gardens, urgently. Come alone.

- Mina

Lucy doesn’t want to come. She doesn’t think she can face Mina. But she also can’t stand waiting on her lonesome.

Lucy isn’t stupid, she knows the reason for Mina summoning her to meet her by herself. She’s noticed how they haven’t exchanged more than a few words ever since that night. She knows she’s pulled back the veil too far, she’s shown too much of herself and now this is the end of them. She can’t blame Mina, but it doesn’t stop her from wishing she could delay the inevitable for just one more day.

No man does, she’d said. The only way she could have been any more transparent would be to have physically thrown herself at Mina. She’s nothing but a lovesick, foolish girl, and she’s ruined everything she’s ever had because of one moment of weakness. And now, the moment to reap what she’s sown has come.

She’s so lost in thought she almost runs into Mina quite literally, who’s been rushing to meet her. Lucy takes one look at her friend and regrets it instantly: Her (former?) friend’s eyes are red-rimmed, like she’s been crying, and Lucy can feel the guilt that has been coiling in her stomach since she’s first read Mina’s note screws itself even tighter.

“Lucy”, Mina breathes, eyes wide, her fists clenching and unclenching with nervous energy she can’t seem to hold back. She doesn’t even wait for Lucy to respond to her greeting before words spring forth from her like a rushing waterfall: “I’ve been thinking about everything you told me.”

Whatever tentative flicker of hope Lucy might have had is mercilessly and wholly extinguished.

“Mina, I can’t even begin to tell you how sorry I am -”

Mina holds up a hand and she instantly falls silent.

“Please, Lucy, let me finish. I need to get this of my chest, and I fear that if I stop now I’ll lose the courage to go on.”

Lucy nods, numbly.

“Thank you”, Mina says with a fleeting smile, before visibly steeling herself.

“I broke off my engagement to Jonathan.” The words come out in one desperate rush, and she sighs, deeply, as if a physical weight has been lifted off of her.

Lucy is sure she must have misheard. “You did what?”

Mina doesn’t acknowledge Lucy’s outcry.

“I’ve thought about everything you’ve told me, and you’re right. And I knew I couldn’t carry on like this, I knew it wouldn’t be fair, neither to me nor to Jonathan.”

This is happing. It’s indeed happening and Lucy can’t help the overwhelming elation she feels. She ought to feel sorry for Jonathan instead, or worried for Mina, but in this moment she’s wholly taken by glee. Mina is free of him, they’re both free of him. Somewhere in the back of her head an ugly voice tells her that this doesn’t mean anything, that at the end of the day Mina will always remain unattainable and she will suffer through heartbreak after heartbreak, but this one time the voice is easy to drown out.

“I knew I couldn’t carry on”, Mina repeats, her voice softer now and filled with a kind of tenderness Lucy can’t begin to fathom. Mina takes Lucy’s hands in hers – she carelessly drops the balled up note on the ground – and holds them close to her chest. Her eyes are swimming in tears once more, but her smile is all the brighter.

“Not when my heart is completely consumed by love for another.”

In one sentence Mina has broken her. It’s as if the rug has been pulled from under her feet, leaving her to stumble backwards into darkness. Why does it even surprise her? Why does the notion of Mina, sweet, intelligent, wonderful, beautiful, incredible Mina being loved and desired catch her off guard?

“Do I know the lucky gentleman?”, Lucy asks with a smile that she’s sure doesn’t reach her eyes. She can feel hot tears building up behind her eyes and knows that she won’t be able to uphold this facade for long.

“Do you know- Lucy, you say the silliest things sometimes!”, Mina giggles, too wrapped up in her own love drunk joy to notice Lucy’s pain. It’s too much altogether, and Lucy wrenches her hands from Mina’s grip.

“I hope he makes you happy”, she manages to say before turning away sharply, fleeing this conversation to preserve whatever she has left of her dignity.

“Lucy, wait!”, Mina calls after her, but she pretends not to hear it. She doesn’t slow down, not even when she can hear energetic footsteps following closely behind her on the gravel path. Then, a hand grabs her wrist in a tight grip.

“Mina, let me go-”, she hisses, but she doesn’t get any further than that as she is interrupted by the insistent press of Mina’s lips on hers.

She doesn’t react, can’t react as her entire world shifts on its axis, and she’s still in a daze when Mina pulls back, an indeterminate amount of time later.

“Y-you’re mocking me.”, Lucy croaks. It’s the only possibility that makes sense. Mina knows, she’s found out and she’s chosen to tease her for her inverted, ill-fated, desperate love for her best friend.

“Oh, sweet Lucy”, Mina breathes, looking altogether stricken by the accusation. “Do you really think me so cruel?”

“I don’t know what to think!”, Lucy cries. She’s lost, everything she thought to be true proven false and vice versa, and she doesn’t know if she can trust her senses. She’s half convinced she’ll wake up in her bed any second now, alone, chasing the last remnants of another pleasurable dream.

“Then don’t think at all”, Mina murmurs, her hands tracing a feather-light path over Lucy’s arms, shoulders, and neck, before settling in Lucy’s hair, pulling her closer, slowly, giving Lucy ample time to turn away if she needed to.

She doesn’t, she just closes her eyes and lets herself be pulled in. Their lips meet again, softer this time, and the sensation still comes as a shock to Lucy. She gasps against Mina’s lips, and the breathy sound seems to spur her on even further, she starts moving against her with more urgency. It’s too much for Lucy’s fragile self-control, she can’t hold back anymore, and with a noise somewhere between a moan and a whimper she kisses back with equal ardour, arms looping around Mina’s back and clenching in the fabric of her dress, hands pulling closer, closer, impossibly closer.

Lucy can’t say how much time has elapsed when they finally break apart, breathless, resting their foreheads against each other. Lucy doesn’t dare let go, thinks she might never be able to out of fear the second she does Mina might drift away.

“Lucy”, Mina sighs. “Darling Lucy, I’m so sorry for how blind I was for all this time. You must think me so self-absorbed, to not notice your affections for me, and to string you along the way I did, Lucy, I’m so sorry, I didn’t think…”

Lucy gently brushes a strand of dark hair that must have come loose while they were kissing behind Mina’s ear. Her cheeks already hurt from smiling, she can’t remember a time she’s ever been as content as this.

“Then don’t think at all”, she parrots Mina’s earlier quip with a low chuckle, pressing a kiss to the corner of her mouth.

“I believe we’ve both been blind", Lucy whispers, before pulling Mina into a kiss once more.

[alexthepartyman]

When I’m Saved (Part 1)

AN: This story is a loose and dramatised version based on a true event that happened to me. I have changed names and situations for privacy reasons. This will be a Tumblr and Ao3 exclusive fic. I hope you all enjoy laughing at how much of an idiot I am for getting into this situation.

“I’d like to thank you all for coming in on such brief notice, and I apologise for calling you all in this late.” Section Chief Mateo Cruz greets his tired team after the plane takes off. “You will notice, Dr Lewis is not here. She took a flight out to Peyton, Idaho to be the liaison for the La Byorteaux family. In the meantime, we have Dr Spencer Reid.” 

“What exactly is the situation?” Agent Prentiss asks. 

“Sixteen-year-old Dmitri La Byorteaux was reported missing from Disneyland at midnight, when the park closed. Park security and LAPD are still searching the park just in case he is still there. Dmitri was with his school group, the Peyton Panthers Marching Band and Colour Guard. The LAPD is taking copies of all of their records concerning Dmitri. The band directors are John Tremblay and Mark Wozniak, assistant leaders are Amy Tremblay, Jill Mellencamp, Nicholas Grace, Nicholas Vasquez, Lily Jones, and Arthur Wallace. There are parent chaperones, the one in charge of Dmitri is Ressa Kilburn,” the section chief explains.

“None of them know where he is or can get ahold of him?” Agent Jareau asks.

“No. These girls may know, though.” 

“Adelaide Parker, Tessa Anderson, Emily McClane, Imogen Wilkinson?” 

“His roommates. They were with him for every moment of the trip.” 

“Roommates? Why would they room a boy with four girls? That sounds very strange.” 

“Hello, crimefighters!” Ms Garcia cheerfully greets the team. “I’ve just been through Dmitri’s records that Mrs Mellencamp has provided. He didn’t have a seat buddy on the bus. He was in the back of the ‘orange’ bus, with Imogen and Emily in front of him. And Dmitri is on three medications, two anti-depressants and a thyroid hormone. He is also reportedly allergic to ibuprofen.” 

“Two anti-depressants?” 

“Yeah, fluoxetine and trazodone.” 

“Those two together can create an effect called serotonin syndrome, which is an excess in the hormone serotonin, which is known as the hormone that makes people happy. Symptoms can range from headaches and myoclonus to hyperthermia and a drastically increased heart rate,” Dr Reid says.

“Dmitri’s phone is most likely dead, because I can’t track it.” 

“Does he talk to anybody from the Los Angeles area?” 

“I spotted a few Los Angeles numbers in his contacts. One belongs to a Hussein College. Another is registered to a man named Diego Castro, and yet another is registered to a Jacob Freeman. I’m sending contact information to your mobiles.”

“Castro’s a forty-year-old drag queen. Has the physique to easily overpower Dmitri.”

“Freeman is six feet tall, twenty-one-years-old, also has the physique to overpower Dmitri easily. Do they know each other? Did either of them know Dmitri or each other before yesterday?”

“No. I don’t even think Diego and Jacob know each other now, but I...I just found a picture on Diego’s Instagram, it’s from yesterday, and both Dmitri and Tessa are in it. Diego’s the one hugging Dmitri, the other men are friends of his.” 

“That’s Tessa over there on the other side. And is Dmitri in a wheelchair?”

“Yeah, none of the band records mentioned a wheelchair or a mobility impairment, so let me just get ahold of Dmitri’s medical records…” Typing can be heard through the laptop. “Huh. There’s nothing for Dmitri. At all. Like, he doesn’t exist. I found a Rhys La Byorteaux, though, they have the same prescriptions, same hometown, same last name... same parents… the only thing different is that Rhys is a girl and Dmitri is a boy. They even have the same therapist.”

“Rhys and Dmitri sound like they’re the same person. When did Dmitri start existing?”

“Early 2017. That’s also when Rhys kind of started...not existing… yeah, they’re the same person, records from Dmitri’s clinic show Rhys is a legal name and that he is biologically female, but he is seeking treatment for gender dysphoria and uses the name Dmitri.”

“Oh... he’s transgender? Why weren’t we told of that?” Agent Jareau asks. “I feel like that would be important information to know.”

“I don’t know, but we’re still calling him Dmitri, right?”

“We should, to avoid confusion. How common is that last name?”

“Not very, sir, the only other people I’m finding in America with that last name are the acting brothers and Dmitri’s family... there is a birth certificate for a Luke La Byorteaux, born to Nathaniel La Byorteaux and a Maria Alvez, but I can’t find anything for Luke past 1989.” Agent Alvez looks to the laptop with his eyebrows furrowed.

“Did you just say Maria Alvez?” 

“Yeah, she also kind of went missing, too.” 

“Garcia. Focus on Dmitri.”

“Got it. Dmitri’s medical records look relatively normal until the age of three, then after that, it looks like he’s a frequent flyer in the medical field. He was born relatively healthy for being induced three weeks early, except for the part where his father, Nathaniel La Byorteaux, was removed from the delivery room for protesting when the doctor threw the baby at mother Eva Kelly’s chest, and also for refusing doctors access to newborn Dmitri, who was born anemic.” 

“What kind of father refuses treatment for his newborn child?” Agent Simmons asks. “What started happening when Dmitri turned three?”

“A lot of appointments with specialty doctors, peppered in with ER visits. They referred Dmitri out to an audiologist based on concerns of multiple ear infections and being deaf. They found out he wasn’t deaf by scanning his brain waves when the regular test didn’t work out, and he was developmentally delayed, put in preschool at three, the youngest in his class. He ate a penny, went to the ER to have it pumped out, that’s like the one relatively normal thing that happened to him. Eva Kelly and Nathaniel La Byorteaux voiced many concerns about Dmitri’s never-ending ear infections and the strep throat that he would get constantly, and the frequent nosebleeds that happened nearly daily. He was admitted to the ER many times, covered in bruises from head to toe, bleeding profusely, dangerously high fevers, and they rushed him from the hospital in Ontario, Oregon to Boise, Idaho. CPS was called over concerns of Nathaniel abusing Dmitri, but charges were dismissed once Eva explained that Nathaniel wouldn’t actually beat Dmitri if he didn’t wake up, that was just how Nathaniel woke him up.” 

“What? Nathaniel threatened to beat up Dmitri?”

“Yeah, I wish that was a joke. All of the tests came back that there were no platelets in Dmitri’s system. Anywhere. Zilch. He was given three bags of immunoglobulin and carefully monitored after that. Doctors determined that the only explanation could have been this rare disease called ITP, or-”

“Immune Thrombocytopenic Purpura. The body mistakenly attacks and destroys platelets in the body, which are fragments of cells that help clot the blood when the body is wounded. It usually starts in children after a viral disease, and it usually resolves itself with no need for treatment.” 

“Yes, Good Doctor. Dmitri’s condition was closely monitored after that, and then shortly after his fifth birthday, he was diagnosed with autism by a specialist in Salt Lake City, Utah. He went to the MayoClinic in Phoenix, Arizona for a month to have a splenectomy, and then that August, he and his brother Roger Kelly were nearly killed in a single-car rollover, and more blood bags were needed, both sustained concussions. Dmitri was admitted to the ER again later that month after he reportedly fell from the shelves in his closet during the night, that’s a concussion, and then again after he tipped over one of those old-person motor scooters onto himself, but miraculously, all he had was road rash and a bunch of scratches.” 

“What? Where did he get a motorised scooter?”

“His dad apparently got it after breaking his knee on his stepson, Robert’s trick bike, when he collided with the garden gnome. Robert also split his chin open and had to get five stitches. Again, the garden gnome. No, I’m not making any of this up. Let’s see...no hospital activity until Dmitri got his tonsils removed at age nine, apparently that was the reason he got strep throat five times a year. He went through urgent care all the time for weird accidents, like one time, his face swelled up to the size of a grapefruit because of misusing acne wipes. He went through urgent care at fourteen for a concussion, was sent home, no further testing was done... and then two months later, he was admitted to the ER for a major concussion, tests showed no brain bleeding, he was sent home to recover from it, when to the ER three months ago because he had bled out during a panic attack...He didn’t go to the ER again until three weeks ago, and yeah.”

“How does he behave in school?”

“Uh...Dmitri is mayhem incarnate, constant behaviour issues. He’s noted to be moody, fidgety, stubborn. Quite closed off from his peers, distracted, impulsive. He does his work super fast and is noted to be quite intelligent but breaks the rules. He is known to be very messy, and he is regularly known to be very goofy, often covered in markers and other things.. He argues with teachers a lot, has his phone confiscated a lot, violates dress code a lot, has been involved in weird incidents, has a very filthy mouth, serves a lot of detention for being late, a lot.” 

“He’s a rule breaker. You think he left on purpose?”

“He doesn’t look like he can in that wheelchair. It looks like a park rental. Garcia, check into that wheelchair thing. And check Dmitri’s social media. His emails and text messages, too.” 

“On it. I’m going to update Tara.” The blonde woman ends the call, and the screen returns to a navy blue background. 

“I’m going to call LAPD, tell them Dmitri has less time than we thought,” Chief Cruz says, pulling out his cell phone and stepping towards another section of the plane. 

“How do you bleed out from a panic attack?” Agent Rossi asks. “Kid has got talents.”

“That entire family has talents. A garden gnome?”

“Less talk about the freak garden gnome accident, more trying to find Dmitri. He couldn’t have gotten far if he needed a wheelchair, so someone would have had to carry him out if he got far.” 

“We have to figure out why he was in the wheelchair.” 

“He had a concussion three weeks ago that went mostly untreated, he’s probably still showing symptoms, and he may have developed physical coordination issues rendering him temporarily unable to walk. He may also be extremely dizzy, or his limbs may be extremely weak,” Dr Reid explains. 

“Someone would have had to take him. We should track down Diego Castro and Jacob Freeman, see what they know.” 

“The girls would definitely know what happened to him. We have to talk to them. We should also talk to the chaperones that would know Dmitri the best, starting with John and Amy Tremblay.”

[stevefrommaine]

My name's Steve I am in critical no wed of medical help.

Fast five years have been living hell for me . And out of the ER dermatologist I've been to mayo health clinic I've been to Grady hospital Atlanta countless trips eRS all over the country where I was at work construction I travel a great deal,

To make this short and sweet 3 years ago I was diagnosed with a tapeworm by Dr

North Ridge hospital.

commerce Georgia..

I did the albendazol treatment 2 200mg every 12 hours for 20 days

And still after that I still had complications

I moved back here to my home state of maine where the majority of my family lives.

Dr Oz as I sit here struggling to try to get my message out to you this tapeworm it whatever it it has grown immensely inside me. I have my own ideas what it could be now from hard it's winding and twisting rashes covering my body .

It's rare to have this form of parasite in the United States but have travel overseas Central America South America Aruba the Bahamas Jamaica working traveling so I have been subjected to third world country situations conditions.

Now that I've moved back to Maine I came back before the pandemic was even announced or known of.

Well here's what's going on with this thing I've had blockage in my intestines irritated stomach upset stomach to where I have a bowel movement ain't nothing easier about it I have to dig it out of my button half the time very disgusting.

I've been to four different hospitals up here all of them I tell him that I have something happening down my butt whatever it is comes out of there and a smelly stinky liquid like molasses kind of. But when it comes out it's coming up my body to my head ,after it's stopped or I've crammed tissues or whatever else is at hand into my butt to physically stop it

Afterwards it's noticeable it's not just a puss/snot like liquid,it also has a definite hairlike consistency.thus wraps around my body from my groin to my head,when solidified/dried.

Next comes it next defense I call it.à liquid sweeps thru till it soaks what just came out prior and I'm telling you it's like it's super glued to my skin I can show you a dozen or more diagnosis,s of me being

Delusional parasitosis for 5 years now this thing is progressively gotten worse bigger and covers more of my body than ever before you tell me what it is tracks up my back in my shoulders to the back of my head up and twist around my head usually a figure 8 pattern it looks like somebody put a mask on me whatever it is my worst enemy.. its probably one of the best tailors in existence.

I'm thoroughly in disbelief that how could somebody doctors not see the signs and symptoms I'm showing them yet they ignore me and send me on my way only get worse me.

I truly apologize for stumbling and babbling on my typos and I'm trying to word this best I can but Mr Oz as we should just speak to my mouth is full of full of s*** my nose back my head hurts between my eyes I'm trying to get this s*** off the more I try to get it off bigger please help me my name is Steve so I can post some pictures I will show you whatever this is it comes out of my butt man cuz I'm on my butthole it's big it's like the freaking cows tongue and now when it comes out it don't just come out silently it effing hurts and it's headed for my face I've been in a constant battle literally since November 20th 2020 from a failed attempt of a colonoscopy. I wasn't prepared I wasn't having clear bowel movements yet the doctor went ahead with the procedure and tried to shoveling the camera up my butt and what he did was open up a can of worms because since that day this has not stopped coming out of my butt.

If these pictures don't show you anything I've got plenty more .

My head constantly has a throbbing pain between m eyes in my eyes all around my ears and the majority of my scalp is infected ,

Dr Oz I'm running on empty here and not sure how much more I can take .

Please if you can't help me send me the right direction I've made appointments to see specialist for the past few years only to have them canceled or move to later date and still I suffer I'm walking to the ER blood coming off my face only to have a doctor sit there and look at me and say so why are you back here today same problem like seeing bugs on your skin. I've never mentioned that I seen bugs crawling under my skin I said I had a tapeworm why can't someone help me I'm in Portland Maine .

I'm not begging for help I'm pleading

Steven Guy Dolloff

My cell#207-364-6347

[cordonia]

Ethan + MC: “PUSHING DAISIES” AU: P2 

[Read Part 1]

Summary: Ethan Ramsey made the rash decision to bring his best friend back to life after she was attacked. But one person who doesn’t know of his gift watched Mariana die, and her future has been completely derailed by his choice to revive her. 

Warnings: This is less lighthearted than the show. Death, mention of physical attack and injuries. Also Pushing Daisies (2007-2009) is one of the best shows ever so this is your warning to watch it.

Word Count: 2700

The laws of reviving the dead had seemed quite simple to Ethan Ramsey, once upon a time. 

A life for a life, always equal in consequence. 

One touch after bringing them back, and they are dead for good. 

The patient revived is not alive nor dead, but simply exists in between. 

Never tell anyone they were dead to begin with. 

The revived can die again, steer clear of danger. 

There had been two instances in his entire life when those rules had become glaringly apparent to him, like a trial run to his own gift. The first pet he ever owned was a boxer that he called Jenner who met an untimely fate at two years old. Before life had introduced Ethan Ramsey to coping with death, he met his own ability to reverse it. 

Jenner was twenty seven years old and didn’t look a day over two, the most loyal companion he would ever have. Animals were far brighter than humans, and Jenner had never come physically close to Ethan in all of those years. It was a level of intelligence he believed most humans lacked.

He knew objectively that one day he would feel Jenner’s fur against his fingertips again, but it never felt like the right time. His furry friend was still happy and quite strange after all of that time, who was Ethan to take that all away from him? 

The second instance where he was faced with those rules was the night his mother left. She had packed her bags and booked a flight to the city where her parents still lived. Ethan followed her outside, hoping to beg her to come home again, and instead watched a Honda Civic barrel into her as she crossed the street. 

He knew he could bring her back, and he did, but just like Jenner had run off after being revived, his mother followed suit. Jenner came home to him one day and had never left again; his mother did not. He knew that she was out there somewhere without having aged a day since she left, and probably not a single clue why. It terrified him, but she had never reached out and he wasn’t sure she ever would.

In present time, Ethan didn’t feel as though the rules were quite simple anymore. Mariana was supposed to be dead, Bryce Lahela had watched her die. But he couldn’t submit her breathing body to the morgue for an autopsy, and he couldn’t quite send her home. Other than his mother, he’d never kept another human being alive like that. 

“I’m going to look like a sleep deprived resident for the rest of my life.” 

The statement came after a lot of silence and a few questions that Ethan answered almost robotically. For something he never talked about with other people, nor fully understood, he still felt like a walking pamphlet. 

Mariana sat cross legged in a chair in Ethan’s office, bandaging her own head as Ethan stood behind her to make sure she was successful. She was wearing clean scrubs and had tried to brush out some of the blood matted to her hair. Ethan had to get her out of the hospital with as few people noticing as possible, but not before he convinced June to stitch her head. 

She would heal, he just didn’t know how fast or what she would feel the longer that she was back. She seemed to be numb for the time being, but if Jenner could yelp when rounding a corner too quickly, a hole in Mariana’s head would eventually catch up to her. 

“Technically speaking, you don’t have a life. You have as long as you can keep yourself out of harms way, and yes, you will appear to be twenty-eight.” If he were not himself, perhaps someone even funny, he would have remarked that most people would kill to look her age forever. 

“I would ask if I’m going to be alive for eternity, but I couldn’t even keep myself breathing long enough to turn twenty-nine.” 

“I’ll keep you safe,” he blurted out, not a promise but the base for one. He would do everything in his power to take care of her, he just didn’t know what that meant, yet. Technically speaking, she could be killed again, by more than just his touch. 

“I know I can’t go back to Boston, I need to stay and find who wanted to hurt me. But if I don’t age... I ever really can’t go back, can I?”

“If you went back, you would stay for maybe five years before your appearance would be noticeable to those close to you. Another five years after that and I’d assume people would start asking serious questions you’d have to run away from.” 

“And if I stay here?”

Ethan didn’t know what to say, he only knew what he wanted to say. She couldn’t stay anywhere for too long, and he didn’t know how easily he could jump around the map with her. If she even wanted him to follow her; he couldn’t stop thinking about the lonely life he had set up for her. He was responsible for the situation she was in, she hadn’t asked for it. Though, as any would expect, she hadn’t asked him to take it back either. 

“You could finish your residency at Delarosa, experience being a fellow even. But eventually... You’ll have to lay low, change your appearance some and maybe you could find another hospital to work at before--”

“Before I’ll never get to be a doctor again.” 

“I don’t know what’s possible until we cross that bridge.” 

When June finally snuck into his office, she didn’t bother to look at him, avoiding speaking to him completely. She didn’t ask for an apology because there was nothing Ethan could say that would make up for risking her life. She was used to him stressing her out, but she hadn’t seen him take risks. Not like that. 

“You can’t feel anything?” June questioned, pulling on a fresh pair of gloves. Mariana nodded with a small shrug. She began examining Mariana’s head, grimacing at the damage. “This is so not my job,” she whispered to herself. 

Ethan sat back on his desk and watched his friend’s face, searching for any hint of pain even knowing that she was okay. Whatever okay meant. 

“I’m sorry you have to be a part of this.” Mariana looked genuinely sorry, and Ethan only felt guilty knowing the blame was his to bear.  

“There’s not much else to do here,” June replied. “So, I heard you’ve been working for Edenbrook? I worked there up until four years ago, I remember you starting your internship here in Delarosa. I envied you, I shouldn’t have left.” 

It was no secret that June wasn’t challenged enough in Delarosa, but she did like her life there and Ethan knew it. He had the same complaints, the same desires to leave and never come back. But the partnership they’d created together was something to be proud of. They had left six anonymous tips in the last year that had led to arrests. 

It was a mostly crime-free town, a community with few people who sought to wreak havoc. Every community had outliers though, and Mariana was proof of what they were capable of.

“I like it there, but my best friend is switching to Mass Kenmore and I don’t have anyone else there anymore. My only other friend tried to sabotage me and if I wasn’t so lonely, I wouldn’t have caught him before it was too late. I was just trying to finish my residency before I came back here.” 

Ethan didn’t know things like that, they had spoken so rarely since she left. Of course she had come home a few times and they’d gotten coffee or tried to fit in time for a movie. It became difficult after they kissed, the more they talked, the more he felt the distance between them. At the time, he couldn’t have left and or asked her to reverse the life decisions she had made for herself. 

For a long time Ethan would have done almost anything to have her come back home. There had been a few times where he even dreamt of it and it only left him under a spell of depression for days. All of those times he wished something would bring her back, he never considered it would happen this way. 

If it were possible to go back and wash himself of every wish and dream, he would. What if he had hoped so fiercely that the universe traded her beating heart for it? Irrational, yet anyone who knew of his power would say rationality was subjective. 

“I got offered a whole department to leave Edenbrook, and two years later they took it from me. I guess I have a different department now, but I miss the city.” June had told everyone that story to remind people that she could have been anywhere, and yet she chose to go to their hospital.

“The city is exciting, but there’s something nice about the pace here. My neighbourhood is my family, there was always someone to have my back.” She looked up at Ethan and smiled halfheartedly, a glossy look to her dark eyes. He knew she was trying not to cry, and he wanted so badly to reach out for her hand. 

“Did you and Ethan meet through the hospital then?” 

“No,” Ethan said gruffly, but June didn’t look up to acknowledge him. 

“I was applying for med school at the library, just sitting in one of the comfortable chairs. He kept glaring at me from a table, so I finally asked him what his problem was.”

“You took my chair, Mariana,” Ethan interrupted. 

“That’s exactly what he said to me, too. We only lived a few streets apart so I’d seen him around but he lives in the whitest part of Delarosa so I didn’t actually know him. It turns out that before I was born, our mothers had been best friends.” 

“How in the world did he wind up as a friend and not someone who makes you want to cross the street when you see them?” 

Mariana laughed, and Ethan was more grateful for June than she would ever know. 

“I asked him to help me pick what schools to apply to. I never would have gone to Westley, I thought it was too close to home. But the stories he had... he made me want it badly enough that I went. He helped me with every single exam, and we watched every medical documentary known to man.”

“Don’t forget about the sharks,” Ethan reminded her. 

She smiled and he knew she was thinking of the same memories. How could anyone forget three hours of a shark live feed? He could still feel the pillow hit his head, thrown with no warning when he had asked why all hammerhead sharks are “actually baby”. Her response was just as unhelpful as he had expected and the pillow was thrown twice. 

“He must be a different person outside of work, because here, he makes a habit of ruining my day.”

“At least I’m consistent,” Ethan retorted quickly. Not that he had a right to argue.

“He’s not different, it’s just all circumstance. If you saw him at an awkward dinner party, you’d see him brought down a notch.”

“Do you have proof?” June looked suddenly amused.

“The stories speak for themselves. My parents have gatherings with their friends and I finally had dragged Ethan to one. He tried to keep up and my cousin Isaac wouldn’t stop correcting his Spanish.” 

“Who raised a seven year old to be so judgemental?” It took everything in his power not to roll his eyes. Ethan Ramsey did not roll his eyes, but Mariana’s cousin reminded him of how persistent he had been at that age. Worthy of the annoyance.

“Have you not noticed that the population of Delarosa is prominently Puerto Rican? You’ve lived around here your entire life and a seven year old was embarrassed for you.” June didn’t hesitate to interject.

“He’s better than I’m giving him credit for,” Mariana said with a grin. “I don’t know entirely how to speak it either, just far better than he can.” 

“Does my father look like the kind of person who teaches his son Spanish? I had to teach myself through full time university.” 

“I’ve tasted your father’s cooking; I’ll wait to hear it from his own mouth that he didn’t offer you lessons.” 

She could genuinely die and still frustrate him all within five hours. 

June finished cleaning and stitching the wound before Ethan could defend himself again.

“I don’t know how this works, but your head will hold together for now. I should probably look at it again soon. I brought discharge papers, saying you insisted on leaving despite the severity of your injuries.”

“Have the cops arrived yet?”

“I told them she was unconscious, they’re going to come tomorrow and find her gone. The first place they’re going to go is her family’s house.” June gathered all of her supplies and handed Ethan the papers. “So come up with a story of how she miraculously survived or take her somewhere until you do.”

“I’m not sure what to do about Lahela, I don’t think he’ll believe some story. He’s a better doctor than that and he already works around us enough as it is.” 

“Bryce? Why was he anywhere near Trauma? He was a surgical intern when we started here.” Mariana’s interest peaked at the name of an old friend, it was clear as day on her face. 

“Dr. Lahela is where the excitement is, this hospital is more flexible than Edenbrook,” June explained, followed by a long sigh that didn’t even begin to convey the extent of her exhaustion. “I’ll talk to him, but you should get out of here soon. If anyone sees her walking around, they’re going to think we’re either incompetent doctors or that she wasn’t attacked at all.” 

After she left, Ethan and Mariana attempted to plan their escape with little idea of where they were even headed. Every solution was unbearably temporary, and Ethan was putting her at risk no matter what option they chose. 

“I think it’s best you stay in my spare room and tell your parents I’m taking care of you while you heal. I know they’ll want to see you, but not until you’ve taken a reasonable time to repair. If anyone thinks you’re okay the day after being attacked like that, the police won’t investigate at all.”

They hadn’t spoken about her being attacked yet, all he knew was that she never saw who hit her. How many times? With what kind of weapon? How much did she feel? Some part of him that believed in good things happening to good people would disintegrate if she answered those questions.

“Will you have to come right back here?” 

He was convinced he could hear her heartbeat quicken, she looked petrified at the idea of being left alone. It wouldn’t look ethical if he broke a seriously injured person out of the hospital and then took a few days off. ‘Ethical’ was often a grey area for him when he had the ability to revive dead bodies. Fuck it. 

“I’ll be there with you, I promise. I’ll grab you a cap and a mask, and then we need to leave before my replacement questions why I’m still here.”

“I wish I could hug you right now.”

Ethan gripped the doorknob tightly, the cool metal almost numbing his skin. The second he opened it, he was officially facing the most reckless scenario he had ever put himself into. It seemed tragically fitting it was all for her. How did they go from sharks to a flood of devastation?

He looked back at her and reminded himself that the fact that she was even standing was against many, many odds. However, he would let every seven year old in the world bully him for a chance to hug her.

“Welcome home, Mariana.”

Note: I know it’s probably boring for me to develop a whole story here but the next chapter will be from our MC’s point of view and should be sweeter and a fresh perspective for the story...

Tagging: @ethandaddyramsey @binny1985 @openheart12 @bellcat2010 @edith-eggs1 @missmiimiie @queenofspades6 @schnitzelbutterfingers @longneckramsey @queencarb @kaavyaethanramsey  @ethxnrxmsey @jooous @blazerina @choices-lurker @itsgoingnuts @lilyvalentine @aworldoffandoms @choices-love-affair @nooruleman @junehiratas @mrsdrakewalkerblog @perriwinklenerdie @edgiestwinter @togetherwearerapture @dl-thewriterperson @interobanginyourmom

[nikkyshows]

Day Three: Flight

Forewarning that I did this one in a weird way. I didn’t want to do flight like flying, so I did it as a flight of stairs. It made it more of a challenge. I also rewrote this this morning so that was fun. 

Warnings for me not being a medical expert so this may not be 100% accurate. Person thinking lesser of themselves because they have physical therapy, having a disability and hating how it limits them. She grows, though, and has a little arc in here.

*****

Jule lives on the third floor of her apartment complex. That is a meaningless, simple fact to most. Something they store in the back of their minds and never really consciously remember — it’s just a fact they know. Nothing they think about. Nothing that plagues them.

Not like it plagues her.

It wouldn’t have, once, didn’t, but time brings change and change made an enemy of stairs. A foe that steadily grew more and more undefeatable. See, to get to her apartment, she either has to climb the two flights, or wait for the usually crowded elevator. Taking the stairs hasn’t been a choice for her for months.

Since she got diagnosed. Before that, even, because she’d spent too long believing it to be something superfluous on her end. It came on slow. She’d attributed it to her lackluster lifestyle, her lack of exercise, and she had believed that. For a while. When it got worse, she’d assumed a weird sleep position, an off day.

Then it just… kept happening, got worse. She developed a rash that first appeared around her fingernails, then splotched on her face, then on her elbows. She thought it was her moisturizer. She swapped it, the rash stayed.

Finally, she admitted something was wrong.

She got diagnosed. Dermatomyositis. Muscle weakness and rashes. Not just her getting older or having bad skin or a new allergy she hasn’t figured out. A condition. An inflammatory disease.

One that was making her take immunosuppressants, go to Physical Therapy in an attempt to dissuade the weakening of her muscles as much as she could.

Stairs, though, were still a difficulty. Not undefeatable, yet, but more of a challenge then it was worth. What victory was it if it left her collapsed on her couch, not feeling her knees?

She misses her childhood, her teenage years, when she was a young adult. Stairs were no issue then and a closed elevator was only an annoyance. Not a chain tying her to a cage.

She hates physical therapy. It’s something she’d always tied to people who were learning to walk again for some reason — long comas or synthetic legs. She doesn’t need to know how to walk. Wasn’t in any accident that shredded her knee or busted her shoulder. She— she looks fine, aside from the rash.

Every time she went to an appointment, she swallowed her pride. She told herself that maybe if she goes enough, does well enough, puts up with it, then maybe she’d get better. Maybe going now was her ticket to not going in the future.

It probably doesn’t work that way, but she tells herself that platitude every time she has to go.

It’s empty, of course. What does she know about her condition that the doctors don’t? But it’s one of the few it accepts. It’s how she convinced herself to go every time — if it wasn’t going to fix her, then why bother? Let her suffer, worsen. Who cared.

She didn’t have family to fret over her, to grieve over her, to inherit all the riches she didn’t have.

So her hatred of stairs was a private thing. Her ripping at a wound that doesn’t exist, moaning over the choice she never took but lost. She used to take them quite frequently, didn’t notice how much until she couldn’t do long flights anymore.

They became her nemesis. The fun kind, usually, that you only rib mercilessly at.

Except, of course, on the days that it truly hurt her. Some days she aches to feel the burn in her legs from running up the stairs too quickly. There’s life in that feeling, and it’s not one she will ever feel again.

It’s the nostalgia that hurts. She’d always hated stairs, in truth, but only as an inconvenience. Not as something to fear, something she couldn’t conquer.

She tries to climb the first flight, sometimes, her knees shaking like an earthquake. It always ends the same. She leans too hard against the elevator wall and has to drag herself to her door where she only tries to make it to her couch.

Her eyes water sometimes, the throw on her couch itchy on her face. She wrinkles it in her fists, shaking, and wonders what it is about stairs that’s impossible. The rest of her day is fine, doable. But a set of stairs over five and she’s crying like a six year old with a scraped knee.

She smashes her fist into the couch. She makes a mental note to tell her Physical Therapist — as much as she dislikes it and her, by extension — how difficult it was to climb a set of stairs. Surely there was something they could do for that.

Surely she could learn to do it again.

Surely she wasn’t less just because it was hard.

*****

Jule had a little journey! She learned to accept herself. It’s good for her, originally, she didn’t want to, but I tweaked how I write this a bit so she could. This wouldn’t be good if she didn’t grow, so I did what I could in 600ish words.

[mitterstorm]

Dance For Me

Chapter 1

“Finally we are here today to seek and to receive comfort. We would be less than honest if we said that our hearts have not ached over this situation. We are not too proud to acknowledge-

You couldn’t take it anymore, just by standing here listening to that preach addressed his departure. Your knees feel weak and your eyes burn, but you refuse to make a scene, taking deep breaths while clenching your fists is helping you calm down.

Still, it’s not enough.

You want to scream again just as you did when you saw his body limp against yours, scratch your arms in attempts of making the pain and hurt go away. To drift your mind from these ugly feelings.

A sick way of coping indeed, teensy bit of self-harm ain't going to kill you. It helps you somehow, preventing yourself from breaking even further in a public place like the cemetery.

Finally, you regain control of yourself and shift back to the preacher. Unfortunately, he concluded, now you have to prepare for the worse.  

Henry, who is your most precious friend, is dead. His body was being carried away in the concealment of a coffin; he said his last farewell to you early in the morning when you ate breakfast with him, offering your company so he wouldn't feel alone, regain some strength by appreciation itself.

Something was up that morning; the old fart was more talkative than usual and flashed a smile here and there. You are at fault for not noticing from the start. You should have been more perceptive and observant; you are keen on people after all, especially when he gave you that look as if he was parting ways with you. He didn’t fight death, accepted it as embracing a hug from an old friend. That thought alone fills your head with doubt.

Was he even happy when he left?

 Did he feel satisfied with the life he lived?

 Were you enough?

 Fuck, you never would've imagined his passing will affect you this much.

<<You old geezer, why were you so kind to me? Why did we let ourselves get attached?>>

The time is near, you will eventually have to confront him with all of these people staring at you, but you need to be strong for sake. You are what’s left of his loved ones. Linda died long ago. They never had a chance to procreate and bring a new life, Joey went mad or something along those lines.

Just like the rest of the crew, and he didn’t make any friends while he was on service for the military. If he did, they were dead. He didn’t like to talk about it.

<<I tried to make you happy, make you feel at ease as you did for me>>

Yet he kept secrets from you, of course, you respected his wishes and didn’t pry any further.

However, it stung.

<<Now it’s not time to reminisce, there’s nothing to reminisce for me at the moment>>

They called your name to the front; you ran out of time. It’s your turn. Is your first time burying someone, yes, you have assisted other burials besides this one, but now you are who’s lost a loved one. Those past times were favors people close to you had asked a long time ago; they said it felt nice to have somebody there when someone else is missing in their lives. In other words, you were there as comfort. A shoulder they could use to cry and lean on.

Hesitant, you take away from the burier’s grasp his shovel and with a gulp. You start shoveling some dirt into the hole were Henry’s coffin lies.

<<Shit, I can’t stop trembling! Come on, stop being a pussy and get over with this!>>

Despite that, your body wouldn’t obey, it made you look clumsy. No matter how much you lied to yourself.

You are scared.

After burying Henry, your vision goes black.

Waking up tomorrow morning at home without a clue of how you got there made your mind fuzzy.

How fun.

You try to get up, but end up failing.

“Fuuuuuck! Why do I feel like absolute shit! Everything hurts!” These feel just like a hangover. Why does it feel like one? Did you go to a bar once Henry’s funeral ended? How much did you drink?

“Enough to blackout it appears,” You say under your breath. Of course, your dumb ass would go to a bar and get drunk to cope with the pain! An upcoming headache awaits you for being arbitrary, instead of showing apprehension towards the situation and mourn, as you should, your voice of reason zonked out. “I reek of booze. Agh, it stinks”.

No more addressing what happened yesterday; feeling like trash isn't doing you any good. Henry would have called you out on your bullshit.

"Stop whining like a whore and man up, chum! I'll buy you a drink. Later we can relax and cut you some slack, nothing a magsman like myself can't do".

“Ok boomer,” You said in a humdrum tone, at least it made you laugh internally. “lo and behold, this will be a shitty morning-err afternoon, it’s 1 PM, I thought it was too early to be awake”.

That means it’s time for brunch.

Must compel your stomach desires, eat a lot little of food. Therefore, you'll have to leave the bed, go downstairs where the kitchen is; you force yourself out of the comfiness that are your covers. So you walk out of the room barefoot towards the kitchen. You open the fridge faking interest with whatever is inside and close it, then repeat, only that this time you pay a little more of attention.

You grab the water pitcher and pour some in a glass, then look for oatmeal and toss three spoonfuls of it at the water, after that you chuck a spoonful of sugar and mix it. A simple drink full of roughage. It’ll suffice for now.

*Clink clink*

Metal hitting porcelain serves you as a white noise to rearrange your thoughts. Yesterday was hectic and had your mind high wire, you were thinking about the old man; how long have you two been friends? Five or six years more or less, you met each other by autumn at a hospital. On that occasion, you were merely an intern in the middle of their practice and had to change sheets, deliver meals, give them their meds and reassure they took them at the time the doctors had said. Like a nurse or carer (the difference it’s you possess more knowledge than one and can prescribe medication, it was also part of your duty as a trainee assisting the doctors with whatever you could). That’s how both of you came face to face with.

Mr. Stein was sick and injured. He needed to tend some wounds since they required special treatment. Battle scars, you didn’t know at the time, however, as days passed, you became close to him, he told you how he got them; the biggest can be found on his back.  

Unfortunately, a sharp pain arose, preventing you from wandering further in the past. You had forgotten about your headache, which it’s more noticeable now, you are sure there aren’t any pills left.

“I ain’t leaving being this crappy, besides I don’t feel like moving right now…” Your eyelids are heavy and keeping them open, it’s such a pain, so you shut ‘em in hopes of relaxing for a little bit. Leaning your back on the kitchen island while drinking your beverage, its coldness helping you somehow with the throb.

Once again, your mind wanders.

Thanks to it, you know where to find some ibuprofen.

“Are these the ones?” You asked while holding a box for him to see, squinting Henry finally recognized the packet.

“What’s it called again?” He questioned, rubbing his head to ease the ache a bit. His voice raspy because of a dry throat. His normal soft tone replaced by a croaky. He’s clearly suffering.  

“Ibuprofen.” You read aloud as you’ve been asked and turn back to look at him.

“Yup, that’s the one, lass. I know I’ve bothered you enough, but could you serve me a glass of water?”

“You old coot, not a bother at all. I’ll be back with your water in a jiffy”.

The pills are somewhere inside Henry’s studio. You can do that, going upstairs isn’t as demanding as buying them, cuz leaving home means changing clothes that look presentable and aren’t dirty. Henceforth, you don’t feel in the mood for seeing the outside.

“I should stop thinking of how lazy I am and look for those meds…” Talking to yourself it’s quite common, so you ain’t no stranger to these situations.

Therefore, you took a break from your bullshit and went upstairs where Henry Stein used to draw; he passed most of his time in there, secluded from the outside world, before military service, he worked at an animation studio owned by the man he once considered his best friend, Joey Drew was his name if your memory doesn’t fail you.

Your friend called him a bastard, never explained why only responded by saying: “He lost his mind.”

Nevertheless, Henry kept drawing cartoons, and sometimes, he would let you watch him sketch and answered your questions. He carried on with his old comics he left unfinished long ago. The same he had drawn back thirty years ago. The main characters are three little fellas: Bendy, Alice Angel, and Boris. Henry said they animated their adventures and later on, added side characters. The Butcher Gang, if you recall, also consists of a trio: Charley, Barley, and Edgar.

When Henry started storytelling, you felt like a kid back again, he could’ve marked your childhood just as the rest of animators who made those toons while you were a child. Oh, how you treasured these memories, you’ll never forget the time you spent together.

Evoking past times has helped to soothe your headache an itty-bitty, yet you still need to find the ibuprofen.

“Where could it be…” You asked to no one, hoping the walls may respond, even though it’ll never happen.

Seeking everywhere you soon turned the room upside down, papers on the floor resembling a carpet, art supplies rolling across the table (pencils, colors, pens, paintbrushes, blending stumps, etc.) and some books based on anatomy and animation were disorganized on their bookshelves. It all ended after you opened a drawer (this one didn’t need your touch, it was already a disorder) and found what you were looking for, and because of your rashness, more papers fell on the floor.

“Damn, what a mess…” You muttered under your breath a little irritated with yourself for being so careless while searching. You collected the papers and put them in order back again one by one, because of it you grew curious and read some of them, a letter grabbed your attention.

It was one of those fancy letters with a seal and all (what does it say? Seems of importance).

You don’t consider yourself nosy, just interested in its contents.

<<From Joey Drew? Huh, looks like your old buddy send you his salutations after all this time>>

Oh, you had no idea.

Henry knew about the letter, he already read it and did as they told him. The old studio where they used to make dreams come true transformed into a living hell.

‘DEAR HENRY

IT SEEMS LIKE A LIFETIME AGO SINCE WE WORKED ON CARTOONS TOGETHER.

30 YEARS REALLY SLIPS AWAY, DOESN’T IT?

IF YOU ARE BACK IN TOWN, COME VISIT THE OLD WORKSHOP.

THERE’S SOMETHING I NEED TO SHOW YOU.

YOUR BEST PAL, JOEY DREW’.

You finished reading the letter.

*Snrk*

Well shit.

Did you just read a confession or a love letter? Why not both? You don’t know why, but it feels like one.

“Okay, let’s stop right there. I can’t make jokes on circumstances as these ones”.

What could be so urgent for Joey to write a letter after thirty years of silence?

Should you investigate?

<<The letter could’ve been sent years ago! Henry surely read it; otherwise, it wouldn’t be inside a drawer of his studio, though there’s a possibility he didn’t, I doubt it. He must have seen his friend has written message>>

Okay, sure. Let’s suppose he didn’t pay any mind to the damn thing, you can pretend, now the real issue it’s the location. Joey Drew Studios must be closed (or broken down into pieces, you didn’t know if they decided to demolish the whole building).

“Wake up ___! Face reality, you shouldn’t be fantasizing, this ain’t some silly story with you as a heroine…instead of wasting my time, I shall swallow that damn pill and take some zzz’s”.

You left Henry’s solace and went to bed once again after you swallowed the pill with some water. A dreamless sleep greeted you.

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

Bendy’s POV

“ん乇'丂 ムの刀乇”.

Even though he should be celebrating, the Inkarnate can’t seem to find any joy in his being, no emotion tried to overtake him. Why? He doesn’t feel anything. True, he may not possess all the emotions a human has, but anger, joy, sadness, and hysteria weren’t unbeknownst him. There’s no satisfaction nor sorrow towards his creator’s death, not even an ounce of regret. Ok no, he won’t sense any guilt for what happened to Henry, he deserved to die just as much as Joey, but he was grasping straws in here!

How’s it possible to not perceive the slightest of emotion within himself?

The Ink Demon was turning apathetic in regards to the subject; he didn’t have an answer as to why. One thing he’s sure of, his world turned dull no longer exciting as he thought.

It was as if the little dancing demon had opened his eyes for the first time, after all those years blinded by the dripping ink, before that, he only saw what his mind showed him. He finally realized how monochromatic his world truly is.

All is black and white for the demon’s eyes.

A wave of indifference invades his mind and his mind is fuzzy, he dissolves into his inky form and rests.

However, not for much.

“-aHahaHAhahaHahaHAhaha!”

Alice.

That bitch.

He despises her nearly as much as those liars, yet the little devil darling couldn’t give a damn about her right now. Let her laugh all she wants as the malady she’s. The Angel probably got the word, celebrating, unlike him.

Immersing himself even more inside the ink, he found…peace. He can work with that, serenity aids his jumbled thoughts; darkness envelopes him and swallows his body whole.

<<In the end…I feel empty. Is this how revenge it’s supposed to be like?>>

He can’t respond to that, how could he? He doesn’t even know what’s life supposed to feel like.

<<Their imagination cursed us all with life, they couldn’t take responsibility for their actions and show us how to drive through it>>

Back when he was the small little imp everybody loved, there were all kind of colors, unlike now. The studio felt warm in contrast to all the ink that surrounds it now.

The remains of those old days lurk inside the deep abyss as ink creatures, husks who replaced the humans that worked here.

Thinking about it got him tired, Bendy finds himself drifting from consciousness, he’s falling asleep.

“Was it worth it?”

<<Again that cunt>> Despite his thoughts, the Inkarnate didn’t feel irascible towards the narcissist woman. Actually, there isn’t much for him to perceive.

She’s not in here, she wouldn’t dare to step a foot on his domain. The wench had the nerve of placing her cutouts and posters; he destroyed a few just as she did the same. She is communicating with him using a damaged poster with her face.

“I know you can hear me, demon, don’t fake pretend.”

“Wんﾘ りの ﾘのひ ᄃﾑ尺乇?” He hopes to scare her, even though he knows it won’t work while using his beast form for some reason his speech turns nightmarish. Yet he doesn’t wield it often because of how difficult is controlling his instincts. Thoughts become more primal, talking it’s hard after a few hours transformed in it gets tiring, and he can’t measure his own force. He favors his inky form best: practical and gets the job done.

“I don’t”. So she’s just shitting with him, insufferable.

“Then why ask?”

“Spirit of inquiry. Your relationship intrigues me, up there in Heaven, we get curious as to why you didn’t kill him yourself. And don’t even try to justify your actions. You had many opportunities. The little errand boy nearly ends up killing you, he tried the same with me”.

After listening to what the Angel had to said, his permanent smile turned slowly into a frown. It’s never a good thing when the Lord ain’t wearing one.

“…”

“Well?”

The fallen angel is laughing at him.

“Not even you know the reason behind your acts of mercy!” He remains silent, it’s not like she’s wrong, the little devil does not why he was so resilient with Henry.

After that fiasco, she left him be.

Thanks to Alice’s short visit, Bendy finds questioning why she dropped by. They hate one another, true. She has eyes here and there, but it’s to keep him in line, so he won’t cross an inky limb on her domain. Unlike the female cartoon, he does not have any cutouts, posters, plushies, or ink servants near her place. He wants nothing to do with her. That’s why he finds it so unusual, it’s not like her.

Unless…

She fancies something he has.

<<If that bitch knows what’s good for her, she won’t be picking her nose in my business>>

Later he’ll do his rounds throughout the studio, maybe, the imp will find what she’s searching before she does, whatever it may be, he won’t let her have it.

He’ll make sure of it.

Who knows what her deranged mind has planned; he’s tired of the gruesome scenery this place is in, corpses all around, clones of his ol’ friend bring back unsavory images from the past. Oh, Lawrence, he’s a madman, made satanic circles as a way of showing his devotion towards the black devil. Thanks to Sammy, he has eyes in nearly the entire place.

Yes, he’s aware the musician it’s alive, but Sammy Lawrence continues being of use for him.

<<I’ll take care of him when I wake up…>>

He’s exhausted. However, he stays on his beast form sunken in ink.

The demon’s slumber it’s a peaceful one…

.

   .

   .

   .

   .

   Until you enter his kingdom.

 An animalistic rumble shakes the tinted walls.

 He’s coming for you.

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

Three days.

You paced on the issue for three days, until you finally had an answer.

“I’m gonna pay a visit to your ol’ pal, maybe he’s still alive…or not…” You lowered your voice in the last part; Henry called Joey a bastard and accused him of being mentally unstable, you trust his word, but what if…what if he changed? There’s a possibility he redeemed himself and went through a rehabilitation process to help him with his instability.

<<I need to look for the address and from there I’ll see what can be done>>

You googled ‘Joey Drew Studios’ on your phone and within seconds Google Maps showed up, you were going to click at it, but then something catches your eye.

An article and it’s quite old.

‘Joey Drew Studios, also known as the workshop. Is an American corporation and an animation studio of the Bendy franchise, established in 1929.

Founded by Joey Drew and Henry Stein in an unknown full date other than the year of 1929, Joey Drew Studios is located at Broadway, Brooklyn, New York City, New York.

In 1946, Joey Drew Studios was under investigation after reports of hazardous work environments, missing employees, harassment, and excessive back pay, as well the company's danger of being bankrupt, all of which are a result of Joey's mismanagement of the studio. Anonymous employees threatened to make labor unions over the poor conditions, which included unpermitted buildings, hazardous electrical wiring, and a plumbing system prone to bursting. In addition, there were excessive work hours, most of which were unpaid and several animators were unable to see their families in weeks, after being threatened with disciplinary action and termination if they were unable to finish animations on tight schedules.

There were reports of barricaded offices, employees locked up in work spaces, and complaints of crazy malfunctioning machinery. Despite the evidence against the company, Joey Drew remained firm that the studio has done nothing wrong, calling the accusations "preposterous" and "ridiculous", dismissing them as either complaint from menial employees, or feeble attempts by competing studios to discredit Joey.

On August 16, 1959, the law firm known as Snooks, Spitner and Snooks sued Joey Drew, having heard the rumors of Joey's mismanaging of his own workers. 12 days later, the studio was closed down in accordance to legal regulation 11 U.S Code § 1125 (which forbids the misrepresentation of legally established companies) as evident by the bankruptcy report found in Joey's apartment, as well as health and safety concerns directly by the mention of a health and safety board meeting schedule found in the appointment lobby.’

Oof.

<<That’s a lot to take in>>

Why the fuck would Henry’s friend would want to meet at that nightmare show? Has he learned nothing after all this years? And not only that, the sucker it´s/was an abusive prick with his employees!

<<Man, you weren’t joking>>

You fear a screw lose isn’t Joey’s only problem.

<<He sounds like an asshole, I don’t want to put up with his shit...I’ve got enough dealing with people like him on a daily basis. Sure, not everyone it’s an ass and there’s some decent/kind people out there, but handling jerks as the likes of him tires me out>>

Sometimes you aren’t the most patient person, it all depends. But this whole ordeal it’s too much for you.

<<The studio is in the big city, New York it’s fucking expensive. I don’t have the money for travelling that far, I’ll have to bid on my savings and package supplies for the journey>>

Crap. Three days and you didn’t think all of this through! How can you be so stupid?!

Now this looks like one of those impulsive decisions you take for being careless and inattentive.

<<How could Henry put up with me when not even I can stand myself?!>>

You need an adult, that’s what you ought to have beside you.

Your life is such a mess sometimes…

“Before spending money on my idiocy I should read more and prepare myself.” You mutter angrily to yourself.

That’s exactly what you did the next two days, finally you are ready for departing.

You grab your backpack and the car’s keys. “Cellphone in the front pocket, all that’s left is open the door, lock it and call Abby, easy.”

During those two days you made a few calls and went up for gas, it was going to be a long trip from Miami to New York. Sure, it ain’t that extensive, but you’ll be driving by yourself for approximately 20 hours. A place to stay, money, gasoline and food are big girl’s problems. Not counting the money you’ll spend on a cheap motel to rest your head.

“That or make a few stops on gas stations…maybe sleeping in the car won’t be that bad…” The good thing is you have options; you aren’t tied solely to one alternative.  

<<Abby won’t charge me for doing me this favor, another plus>>

She’ll guard the house in your absence and will call if any emergency transpires.

Now, you are free to go.

<<I hope I made a good decision doing this>>

The first 8 hours were a torment, bored and your ass felt numb of sitting for that long, the last time you remained that still was in high school, since you made your schedule. Your feet hurt just as your arms did. You made a stop for eating and going to the bathroom, after that another 8 hours.

Overall, the journey was relaxing, while driving you admired the views offered to you, savoring each sight. It helped you keeping away some melancholy.

You miss Henry, no matter how much you tried to distract yourself with this excursion of yours, the emptiness stays in the back of your mind.

Your wounds are still fresh, you haven’t mourned properly, because you don’t want to. That’s why you are doing this, to keep yourself busy so you won’t think about it. You need it, you ain’t prepared for it yet.

Soon you’ll be.

After a short nap (before that you made many stops, ‘cuz you’re a whining bitch who ain’t strong enough to control her fucking bladder), you started driving again. You have three or four hours left on the road.

Time to listen some music, you activate Bluetooth and connect your phone to the car’s stereo, finally you found a song of your liking in Spotify and play it. You spent the rest of the trip singing along; sometimes you’ll speed up a little bit on the spur of the moment.

Soon you got to your destination, didn’t waste time changing clothes, you collapsed on the bed in the motel and slept for an hour. After that, you washed yourself and got ready for visiting Joey Drew.

“Here goes nothing…”

You regret already coming here, silly you just ruined a change of clothes! Why is there so much ink? You’ll never get out the ink of your shoes, fuck! You have been here for less than ten minutes and all went to shit for you! It doesn’t help this place keeps giving you the heebies-jeebies! Every time you take a step on the creaky wooden floor it feels as if someone is following you, like a slithering sound. The ink splashes keep creeping you out, if it wasn’t black you would think it’s blood, Jesus Christ.

<<Thank God, the lights still work; it would make this place spookier if they didn’t>>

As you venture further deeper into the studio, a beast rumbles, shaking everything around you, more ink drops fall.

At that moment…

…you knew you fucked up.

So you hide.

Your mind provides you one last thought before going high drive

‘WHY ARE YOU RUNNING?! WHY ARE YOU RUNNING?!’

<<FUUU-

[wheredidhiseyebrowsgo]

You guys are the best. Thanks for all of your hard work. Do you know of any fics where Stiles gets shot?

Here you go, @leigh3114! - Anastasia

Sometimes it Takes a Bullet by thisstarvingartist

(1/1 I 1,387 I General I Sterek)

Sometimes, Stiles thought he was just a little too fragile.

Or the one where Stiles gets hurt and the pain meds make him admit a few things in the ambulance.

i wanna see you forever and ever by petwerelizard

(1/1 I 1,416 I Teen I Sterek)

He ignored Stiles for a week when he realized what it meant, and then Stiles had come to his apartment. He had just seemed to known, but he didn’t push it, and Derek was grateful for that. He wasn’t ready.

But he’s ready now.

5 Times Derek Ignored His Phone and the One Time He Answered by occasionalwriter

(1/1 I 4,557 I General I Sterek)

Derek hates cell phones. Stiles likes to call. Derek still manages to get the point across when he doesn't answer but he answers at just the right time according to Stiles.

Stitched Up by SophieTrancy 

(1/1 I 5,954 I Explicit I Sterek)

Stiles Stilinski was very happy, working for the C.A.O. He was damn good at his job and he loved every second of it. But, maybe it was just his luck, he got shot. He got shot and found himself under house arrest for a whole month. But hey, this is Stiles. After one of the strongest heats of his life and long 14 days with nothing to do, he decided to leave his apartment.

Derek Hale had been trying to put himself back together, after the fire. After years of not being able to shift back into his human form, Derek decided it was time to search for his mate. The mate he had to abbandon because of the loss of his pack. Derek still had a long way to go, to try and go back to being that same happy, joyful person he used to be and, maybe he never did go back to that, but at least he'd try. For Stiles. To be the Alpha he had never had the chance to be for his Omega.

But bumping into the boy in a restaurant in New York wasn't how Derek had planned to break him the news. Stiles had never known they were mates, growing up and leaving Beacon Hills without ever finding one. But, suddenly, there Derek was. And Stiles had no fucking clue what was going on.

Olive Oil by orphan_account

(1/1 I 6,863 I General I Sterek)

The prompt read: Can you write a story where Stiles and Derek discover they love each other?

If I Could Go Back To The Day We Met, I Probably Would Have Just Stayed In Bed. by april_zephyr (April_Zephyr)

(6/? I 12,334 I Teen I Sterek)

The teenager only noticed the gun that was pointed towards him when he was shot. A clean hit to the chest. The recoil threw him off his feet and onto his back.

Should Have Looked on Craigslist by Akiruchan

(1/1 I 27,217 I Mature I Sterek)

Derek is rash and self-sacrificing, everything that will one day get him killed. Stiles doesn't want that. He's become too accustomed to a life with Derek Hale in it. To live without, well, it just doesn't seem to be an option.

or...

The five times Stiles' expectations fall short, and the one time he's glad they do.

Skies without memories by orphan_account

(27/27 I 39.212 I General I No Pairing)

Stiles accidentally bumps into something he wasn’t supposed to see, and that might wind up costing him his life.After trying to stop a murderer, he ends up missing. With his life on the balance, his friends race against time to find him. When they do, things turn out to be worse than they initially expected. Not only is the murderer aware of Stiles’ survival, he is out to finish what he started, endangering not only Stiles but the whole pack.

As with all my stories, this one has loads of angst, hurt/comfort, friendship and family feels. My favorite stories are the ones that center around the group that has gotten so close over the past years, including my favorite characters of the show.

Skies without Memory is part 3 of my Friendship and Dangerous Skies-series. It can be read as a standalone, but there will be some minor references to the previous stories, especially related to the triangle between Stiles, Lydia and Malia, and past events.

Bullet Holes & Void Souls by scottandstiless

(28/28 I 45,712 I Not Rated I Stiles/Everyone)

Whenever it seems to be going great for the gang, Karma loves to throw some random shit at them. Scott, Malia, Lydia, and Stiles survived the Dread Doctors.. But will everyone survive this? One of the teens is taken down as hostage and used to lure the supernatural to resurrect an old friend, or perhaps a certain 1000 year old spirit once again. Expect Stiles-whump/BAMF Stiles and Emotional/hurt Scott.

Dark Souls by orphan_account

(33/33 I 106,318 I General I Sterek)

That night in the basement has changed Stiles forever. Not only was he abandoned by his friends and left to be beaten up by Gerard, he also has to struggle with the fact that Scott doesn’t really care about him.As pointed out by Gerard.With that knowledge in hand, what will Stiles do when his life and that of his friends is in mortal danger?Things take a surprising turn after that night. Gerard leaves the pack devastated and split up. Scott shows his true colors, as Gerard predicted. But where do Derek’s loyalties lie?What if he decides to push Stiles out of the pack, after seeing the person he loves the most get hurt over and over again? What if he doesn't realize that by doing so, he is also ultimately destroying the rest of the pack?

[whatcouldgowrong-ohthat]

Hurts to be Human Chapter 3

Hey guys!! I have internet!! It’s a miracle!! But because I don’t have it long, I am not having this edited. Just going for it and hoping for the best. o.o But here is chapter 3 of Hurts to be Human!! Thank you for being patient!!!

Warnings: I mean, I don’t really think there are any? I think it’s all good this time around!! 

Please don’t post this anywhere without my permission o.o

No gif because I suck..I’m sorry :(

Chapter Three — Walk Me Home

“Life isn’t picking and choosing where you left off and where you can begin again, Bucky.”

Bucky shifted his gaze from the ground to the man sitting across from him. He was older, fought in Vietnam. He was someone he could relate to. A vet with a rough past, someone who did things they weren’t exactly proud of. It was why Sam recommended him. Hell, it was why he worked as his therapist. And seeing him, the man reminded Bucky of when he and Steve had seen Snow White. He was shorter, on the rounder side with constantly flushed cheeks, a big nose, and glasses.

Thus the nickname “Doc” was born.

It helped that he was also a doctor, but the nickname definitely had nothing to do with that and had everything to do with the Disney classic.

“I know, I know,” Bucky agreed, unclasping his hands and leaning back on the couch. He slouched, still not as short as Doc was in his chair. No, still the man managed to be shorter than him. It was incredible really. Bucky couldn’t help, but wonder — how short was the guy’s torso? It was a thought that crossed his mind at least once every session.

“Bucky, are you listening?” Bucky jerked, blinking when he realized he’d zoned out. It happened only when Doc tried telling him something he didn’t like. They both knew it and Doc wasn’t fond of it. “You do know that you pay me for my honesty and help, right?”

Bucky chuckled, smiling as he ran a hand through his short hair. Still, he wasn’t used to the length. He was used to the mane he had for sixty years. Give or take a few. It was a shield, a barrier to protect him from the outside world. Doc and him had several sessions over cutting it and how that would open Bucky up, provide him with a new level of vulnerability. And now that vulnerability meant a different sort of relationship with Y/N.

Y.N. That damn woman. She had been at the compound for two weeks, constantly working on damage control with the media while Sharon took on the government. They finally took the time to explain to Sam and Bucky what was going on and he didn’t like it. He didn’t like that she had to clean up his mess. She was back. Shouldn’t he be taking the time to learn about the woman she had become? Especially after their last conversation? It seemed playing pretend provided new opportunities to frustrate Bucky. He wanted to go back, not to the way they left things, but back to when things were good. 

And Doc was reminding him that that was not a good idea.

“Believe me, it’s hard to forget,” he snarked back, earning an amused chuckle from the old man. Old man. Bucky chuckled to himself. He was still older than Doc, but he looked far from it. “And I do understand, but…”

“You miss her.”

Bucky frowned, looking away. He wasn’t ready to admit that — not aloud, not to anyone else. If he did, that meant there was a whole new level of admitting, of facing the thing he had walked away from.

“It’s okay to miss her. She was your closest friend after Steve left. And when she did —“

“Thin ice, Doc.”

He quieted and Bucky managed to breath a sigh of relief, his shoulders relaxing in the slightest sort of way. The phrase was a warning, something they had come up with when Doc pried too fast. At first it was something used every week. The initial wall Bucky had, required Doc earning his trust, earning his thoughts and concerns so that they could make progress. He hadn’t actually used the phrase in almost a year. Then again, they hadn’t talked about Y/N in almost a year. 

Drumming his pen on his fingers, Doc tried to tread carefully on the sensitive topic. Silence fell between them in those moments. What about Y/N was safe to discuss and yet would bring about an opportunity for Bucky to open up more? Finally, Doc asked, “You said she has a pet now? Was that something she was initially against?”

Bucky nodded. “H.D. I…when we were together, I always talked about getting a pet. Something to take care of.”

“And something that could also take care of you.” Doc smiled knowingly as Bucky looked up.  Clearly the super soldier hadn’t expected that to be so blatantly clear. “Pets have a way of bringing out a person’s softer side. They’re good for us. It’s why we train them to be service animals. It’s no surprise to hear that was something you were considering.”

Bucky was bitter as he muttered, “She was so against it.”

“Why?”

Frustrated. “Hell if I know. She told me it was because they’re too needy.”

“You sound like you don’t believe that.” 

He sighed, running his hands through his hair. The feeling was a distraction from the topic at hand. At one point in his life, he rarely touched his hair. When he became the Winter Soldier, it was simply to get it out of his sight when lining up a target. Once he reunited with Steve, it became a nervous habit, something he used to bring him back to his reality. The habit, something Y/N often teased him about, was something he still couldn’t break. It was comforting in an odd sort of way. 

“Bucky?”

He looked up, blinking before he finally answered, “No, of course I don’t. This is the same girl that would run up to dogs in the park. She’d beg the owners to let her pet them, Doc. At shelters, she would have as many cats as possible just curled up on her as if she were wearing a ‘welcome home’ sign. Hell, Finding Nemo was one of her favorite movies and she bought a mug with that dog from Up on it. Someone like that doesn’t think pets are too needy.”

“No?”

Bucky hesitated, knowing why Doc was questioning him. He wanted Bucky to think past the rashness of his initial thoughts and assumptions. Though his process was always quick and calculating, it was more often right when he was the Winter Soldier. Now? He was just Bucky.

Even so, he felt he was right. He knew he was right.

“No. Y/N wasn’t avoiding the idea of a pet because they’re needy. It…” He hesitated as the realization finally sunk in, heavy like a hunk of lead on his heart. “She felt broken. Feeling like that, knowing you’re broken, you don’t feel like you deserve to have anything good in your life. Not even something as small as a pet because they…well, they need you, they rely on you.”

“Some people seem to believe they might not be fully capable of taking care of a pet to the extent the animal deserves.”

“Fuck, I’m an ass,” Bucky groaned, running a hand over his face.

Doc laughed, shaking his head. “Far from it, Bucky. You’re human and you’re one of those in the world that has been put through a great deal.”

“But shouldn’t I have realized or noticed? Something?” Doc didn’t say anything, only looking at him. It was frustrating to say the least. “Come on, Doc.”

Doc adjusted his glasses and wrote something down before explaining, “I don’t think so. While we haven’t talked much about Y/N in the past, what you have told me has provided me enough clarity on the subject. The two of you were working through a great deal and relying on each other in a way that eventually became unhealthy. It lacked stability, communication, and openness. Instead, the two of you became lost in yourselves and your own trauma. With that in mind, it’s only understandable that you’d grow oblivious in each other’s needs while sorting through your own.”

Bucky stared at the ground, unable to let go of the guilt that twisted in his gut. They were supposed to be a team and yet he had grown completely oblivious to her and her needs. She had felt broken, shattered, and he never even realized.

—

Bucky’s session had ended not long after his realization. It seemed he always had the best timing when it came to his time with Doc. A miraculous breakthrough followed by the last five minutes and Doc doing his best to work with the time he had. Stepping outside, he quickly took a step back when he saw the downpour that greeted him. 

He truly did have the best timing, didn’t he?

Staring up at the darkened sky, Bucky huffed a frustrated sigh and watched as the cold air tinted his breath. Adjusting his leather jacket, he allowed the rough material to protect him from the chill. Then came tugging at his gloves, keeping his metal arm hidden from onlookers. Always careful, always checking. It was part of his routine. 

As he searched for what he hoped would be a much needed pause in the weather, he noticed the art gallery across the street. It was something new and edgy that Shuri had told him to look into. Apparently it was one of her favorite places to visit when she stopped by. He never did look into it, of course. The only art he really looked at was Steve’s and that stopped a long time ago. No, now he looked not because of the art, but because of who was finishing with a purchase just inside. He smiled, leaning against the brick wall as he watched her. This wasn’t weird, right? Watching her? As a curious and concerned friend?

No, certainly not weird at all.

Today she had worn one of those slouchy beanies he’d often seen this time of year. It was a maroon sort of color, the shade complimenting her skin as if it was made for her. She turned and stepped outside and his eyebrows shot up. Over the leggings and boots, over the t-shirt, barely peeking through, was the leather jacket he’d given her all those years ago. 

It could be a new one.

He brushed aside the voice in his head, searching for the key to knowing whether his hopes were true. She turned, facing his direction, and immediately he couldn’t stop himself from smiling. There, on the corner of the collar, was a red star that matched the one from his old arm. She’d insisted on getting it to symbolize that she wasn’t scared of that part of his past. Everyone teased her about it, but she never seemed to care.

And she kept it.

That had to mean something, right?

“Y/N!” 

She looked at him, that familiar surprise flashing across her features for only a brief moment before she smiled. They had been making progress in their friendship, but it never seemed to go farther than morning coffee or running into each other in the hall. They were friendly, but he wouldn’t exactly call them friends. Now? He had a chance to spend time with her. He had a chance to actually be her friend.

Glancing from one side of the street to the other, he quickly jogged across and joined her side. He noticed the canvas tucked under her arm, neatly packaged away so as to protect it from the weather. A part of him wanted to ask, but he knew better. Y/N was still painfully private, still guarded. He had to show her that she could trust him again.

“What are you doing here?” She was curious, brow furrowed and a breathy laugh escaping her. The last person either of them expected to run into was obviously the person standing before them. 

Bucky gestured to the building he had just left, shrugging. “Therapy. What about you? Since when are you an art fanatic?” He grinned, unable to help himself as he gestured to the rather large piece she held close to her side.

She glanced down at the package, her ears turning a light pink. Looking at him, a sheepish smile and small shrug were her only form of explanation before she finally elaborated. “I was sick of looking at blank walls. Tony didn’t exactly pick the prettiest shade of white to paint the whole damn place. I swear, I was starting to feel like I was in some sort of mental ward.”

He nodded. “Fair enough.” 

Joining her side, the two started walking down the street. Neither seemed to be entirely sure where they were headed or aware of the fact that the rain was giving its best attempts at soaking them to the bone. Instead, they simply enjoyed each other’s presence, as if it were a gift. 

“I can carry that for you,” he offered, finally breaking the silence that had seemingly settled between them. He’d noticed her shift the awkward thing a few times, trying to find a way to carry it. It seemed there was no way.

“Nah, don’t worry about it. It’s not heavy. Just awkward, you know?”

“I figured, but I really don’t mind helping. That’s what friends are for, right?”

Y/N rolled her eyes and begrudgingly let him take the canvas. He tucked it under his metal arm, his free hand brushing against hers as it dropped back to his side. Every instinct in him wanted to reach out, to touch her. Even when they were friends, she always let him touch her. It was his way of staying grounded when he first went through losing Steve. He had relied on it, rarely ever letting her stray far because he craved the physical contact. The feeling, that connection, was what bonded them for so long.

But that was then and this is now.

Now, that urge didn’t feel quite the same. He wanted to touch her, but it wasn’t so desperate. There wasn’t a need or desperation to touch her, to drink her in as if she was the very water he needed to live. Instead, the feeling was subtle, reminding him of the small breeze that would come in when summer transitioned to fall. It was cool, calming — something to be appreciated. When did that feeling change? When did that carnal, overwhelming craving shift into something far sweeter?

“Bucky?”

He looked up, surprised to see Y/N waving a hand in his face. She laughed at the doe-eyed look of bewilderment that came with those bright blue eyes and parted lips. He looked like a child hearing their mother call their name for the fifth time, middle name and all creating that look of a deer caught in the headlights. 

“You alright?”

Clearing his throat, Bucky nodded and the two kept walking. “Yeah, just —“

“Thinking? Was it about your session?”

No. “Yeah.” Really, is lying the best way to get their friendship going? He hesitated. “No,” he corrected.

“So which is it?”

Bucky laughed at the way she raised her eyebrow, knowing if she drew it up any further it would get lost in her hairline. “No, I wasn’t thinking about my session.”

“Then…penny for your thoughts?”

He looked away from her, shrugging. How could he voice how he was feeling? The thoughts in his head? How could he tell her that a part of him missed what they were, but understood her wishes?

Just tell her, Buck. You won’t get very far with someone like Y/N if you aren’t honest. The familiar sound of Sam’s voice reminded him that the birdbrain was basically the angel on his shoulder. He might drive Bucky crazy, but his intentions were true and good, always looking out for Bucky’s best interests. 

You lost her once. Tell her that bullshit in your head and she won’t be sticking around much longer. There it was. The Winter Soldier, a reminder of what he had been. Working with Doc had muddled that voice for the most part, but he and Doc both knew they could never fully rid him of the devil in his head.

It seemed he was always fighting, always trying to figure who was best to listen to. Why couldn’t he ever listen to himself? 

His silence left an impression that perhaps Y/N had overstepped. She ducked her head, rubbing the back of her head as she told him, “You don’t have to share. Sorry for —“

“No!” His panicked voice came out a little higher, a little squeakier, and left a bright pink hue on his cheeks. She looked up, biting her lip to keep herself from laughing. “I — You don’t have to apologize, Y/N.”

“You sure?”

“Positive.” He nudged her gently and was happy to see her shoulders relax. She even knocked into him playfully, something he hadn’t expected. That was a good sign, right? He bit the inside of his cheek before finally telling her, “I was thinking about how much I missed this.”

Confusion. That was the look that greeted him.

Genius. Fuck that birdbrain. Fuck the fact that he could hear the damn guy in his head all the time.

 “Missed what?”

Bucky gestured between them as he elaborated. “This. Us. I missed having my best friend around. I mean, the ‘why’ you’re here sucks, that’s for sure, but I’m really glad you’re back. Does that make sense?”

She smiled. It was brilliant and as bright as the one she offered to everyone else. Slowly, she was letting him back in. Slowly, but just as surely as he was letting her. They needed baby steps and time. Moments like this would certainly help. “I am too. Don’t tell Fury I said this, but I’m glad he found me.”

“Knowing Fury, I think it’s safe to say it was never a matter of finding. He always knew where you were.”

She snorted and he grinned. Y/N never let herself laugh so openly. Not before. Not with him. “Fair enough. You’re probably right.”

“Probably?”

“Okay, you’re completely and utterly right. Is that what you want to hear?”

Bucky laughed, his grin spreading from ear to ear. “Was that so hard?”

Y/N rolled her eyes, shoving her shivering hands in her pockets. It was the only thing keeping her from holding his hand, borrowing his warmth. She didn’t want to repeat history. In fact, she refused to. It wouldn’t be fair to either of them. “You’re utterly ridiculous.”

“Maybe, but then again, you’re the one letting me walk you home.”

She gaped at him. “We live in the same compound, Barnes!”

—

The sound of the door opening and closing caught the attention of one SHIELD agent and one superhero, pulling their focus from the news on the television. The squelch of a pair of shoes and soft thud of a pair of heels signaled exactly who had come back. When did they even run into each other?

Sam exhaled sharply through his nose, earning a look from Sharon. He didn’t seem to notice, instead watching through the doorway as Bucky and Y/N passed through the kitchen. They were laughing and smiling, a level of ease around one another that hadn’t been there before. Neither stopped to check if anyone was home, instead continuing on their way to the dorms. It was then he noticed a particular detail that left him more than a little curious. Both were utterly drenched. “Did they walk the whole way?” he asked, looking back at Sharon. When he noticed her look, he raised his hands in defense. “What, what’d I do?”

“You’re worried.”

“Wouldn’t you be?”

“Oh, I am. I’m just curious what it is you’re worried about.”

Sam frowned, looking away. The arm that was propped on the couch held the weight of his cheek as he tried to find a way to explain this. He didn’t want to come off like an ass after all. “He’s doing good, Sharon. He’s better than he was the last time she was here.”

“She’s better too.”

“I know! And I’m happy for both of them.”

“But?”

Sam’s brow furrowed as he rubbed his forehead. “I’m concerned that they’ll take steps back.”

“What, now that they’re around each other again?”

“It happened before. They were doing good, going strong, then everything got worse.”

“They’ve grown a lot since then,” Sharon reminded him. She shifted, turning her body to face him as she tucked a leg into her chest. “Fury debated bringing her in for a long time because he knew they were doing so good. He doesn’t want anyone backtracking. Especially not Y/N. She means as much to him as Nat did.”

“I know, I know.”

“You’re going soft for Barnes,” she teased, grinning and earning a glare from her teammate.

“I am not.”

“Are too.”

“Am not, Carter.”

“Prove it, Wilson.”

Sam groaned, throwing his head back and staring at the ceiling. The woman was utterly infuriating and usually right. He knew he’d developed a friendship with Bucky after Steve left. And after Y/N left, that friendship grew stronger. He helped Bucky with a lot of his PTSD, brought him to VA meetings, and helped him find a therapist. Everything he could possibly do to help Bucky in the right direction, he was there for. The last thing he wanted was to see his friend spiral again. To lose all that progress over one girl? It didn’t make sense to him. “I can’t.”

“I know.”

“Your smugness is not appreciated.”

“Look,” Sharon told him, earning his attention and pulling it away from the bland ceiling. “They don’t need each other anymore, Sam. Both of them have grown on their own. They aren’t the same people they were and maybe…maybe they just want each other now.”

“They were wrong for each other then. Why not now?”

“The right person at the wrong time is still the wrong person, Sam. Maybe that’s all it was. The wrong time.”

Sam huffed, shaking his head. “I don’t like when you’re right.”

“But I’m always right.” He smacked her with a pillow, earning a squeal and laugh from her. She grabbed the popcorn bowl from the table, tossing it in his lap. “For that, you get to grab the popcorn while I pick a movie!”

He groaned, loud enough for anyone in the compound to hear his clear irritation. “Oh, come on!”

[pisati]

almost feels like it did back in high school. early college. when I posted statuses on facebook asking people if they wanted to go to concerts with me and nobody did.

I posted here, on twitter, and on instagram, asking if it was normal to get deep bruise-like pains on random parts of your body when you pressed on them, and nothing is injured or bruised. I got two votes on twitter, five on instagram (with 35 views). nothing here. I asked two people in person. of those there seems to be a consensus that it’s not normal but I would’ve liked for more people’s thoughts. 

whatever. I’m used to being ignored. talked over. not like anything I do or say matters 

I sent a message to my rheumatologist anyway. I only have 750 characters to try and say what I want to say, and I try really hard to not sound like someone who’s obsessing over tiny details, or someone who’s trying to make something out of nothing. trying to force myself to fit into some diagnosis box. 

I found another list of fibromyalgia symptoms. I feel like I’ve seen it before, but this one goes into some of the even weirder ones, and that’s got me even more curious.

the common ones, obviously. fatigue, brain fog, jaw pain, unrefreshing sleep. possibly tender points, now.

then there’s

- sweatiness (that started in high school/early college at some point) - craving carbs and chocolate (my monthly potato cravings? when nobody else gets that? this month it was potatoes AND garlic bread) - headaches (some from sleep deprivation) - morning stiffness - short-term memory impairment - trouble concentrating - emotional symptoms (alllll the mental illness) - hair loss - unexplained rashes (had these hot, itchy, bumpy, psoriatic-looking recurring ones on my knees for at least 3 years now; they just showed up again this week as they tend to do every few months) - activity level less than 50% of pre-illness activity levels - tender/swollen lymph nodes in neck - night sweats (occasionally) - cold extremities - fainting - inability to tolerate “normal” doses of medications (almost all the antidepressants I’ve been on, and often it’s either that meds barely work or they make me sick) - alcohol intolerance (never been drunk bc I feel too sick before I even get close) - difficulty following complex spoken instructions - word-finding difficulty - difficulty following a conversation when there’s background noise - forgetting how to do routine things (most recently, today I blanked out before typing in the code that I use every single day at least twice a day to lock/unlock my front door. typed it in wrong the first time) - losing your train of thought mid-sentence

those last few do fall under ‘cognitive’ which is also likely being caused by my lack of restful sleep. but like. it’s hard not to see all that and think “ya know? maybe this is it”. some of those could be caused by other things. it’s likely. I don’t want to act like I’m putting together a puzzle with pieces that clearly don’t go together.

I do hope my doctor has some answers or insights or something. these painful spots HAVE kinda been normal for me for a long time but now it’s occurring to me that it probably isn’t normal. I never thought much of it when I’d scratch an itch and the muscle underneath would hurt really bad afterwards, and that pain would linger. 

it would be nice just to have a diagnosis. but I’m still okay with telling people we’re “suspicious of fibromyalgia”. that’s more definitive than anything I’ve had in 12 years. 

[izzy-b-hands]

The Taste of Blood

So here’s that vampire AU for Sledgefu I talked abt a while back. It falls into the two other AUs I’ve created thus far, Horror Movie and NOLA. This specific vampire one is going under the Demolition Lovers AU tag (because yes, this was inspired by the first MCR album in part.) Title is taken from one of my fave tracks on the Only Lovers Left Alive soundtrack (another inspiration for this AU.)

This is another one that might have some sequels, I’m still playing with the idea based on some other sources of inspiration! In any case I don’t think I can leave it with just this one piece.

My love to all who read/like/reblog!

“I think we should call my dad,” Eugene touched the mirror he was looking into, waiting for his reflection to appear, but it didn’t. “We’re both obviously sick. I mean...I can’t even see my reflection, and I know it’s there. It has to be.” 

Snafu moved behind him and peered into the mirror. “Where? I don’t see mine either.” 

“We’re both losin’ it,” Eugene muttered miserably. He didn’t want to call his dad, hadn’t even tried since he’d left to find Snafu in New Orleans. But he also didn’t want to go to any of the local doctors, and as it was they’d both started to develop an intense sensitivity to sunlight. Even if they’d wanted to see a doctor in town, they’d have to somehow convince one to make a house call at night. 

He moved back to the couch, where they’d both been sleeping for the past week since the trouble had all started, and picked up his glass of water. Neither of them could keep anything down, but they kept trying water in the hopes of at least being slightly hydrated. 

He sipped, and immediately gagged and brought it back up, nearly choking as his stomach contracted violently at the water inside of it. 

“Baby,” Snafu whimpered softly, pulling him gently back onto the couch. “No more water. Just gonna make yourself more sick.” 

“That isn’t possible,” Eugene protested. “We’re sick, so we need fluids. Give me your wrist, we can at least do a pulse check.” 

“Alright Florence,” Snafu sighed and held out his wrist. They’d been doing these checks all week, with their pulses getting fainter and fainter with each passing day. Eugene was worried, but he didn’t know what he could possibly do to try and fix it. Nothing was working, and they both looked worse with every hour. 

“What the fuck,” Eugene spat, and moved up Snafu’s arm, then to his neck, searching for a pulse anywhere. Nothing. 

“Check me,” Eugene said, his hands shaking at the thought of what Snafu was (or rather wasn’t) going to find. 

Snafu did the same, moving from pressure point to pressure point, anywhere, searching for a pulse. “Uh. Eugene.” 

“I know, I know, I know,” he felt like he couldn’t breathe, and suddenly noticed how stiff the air felt in his lungs. The air went in and out, and he was still breathing, but it felt...off. “This isn’t possible. We’re dreaming. Or dead. Or something.” 

“I think we are dead,” Snafu said quietly. “I think I know what’s wrong.” 

“I gotta call my dad, now. Before we pass out and-” 

“Eugene,” Snafu interrupted, and grabbed a hold of his hands, just tight enough to keep him sitting on the couch. “You aren’t gonna wanna believe me. And that’s fine, cause I don’t wanna believe me either. But...you remember how we brought Hugo home late last week?” 

Eugene did. It had been a bit spur of the moment, but they’d been talking to Hugo for the past few months, meeting up with him most nights to hang out. It had always edged up near wanting to bring him back to their bed, but it had taken them until Friday of that last week to finally feel brave enough to ask him to come back home with them. 

“What do you remember from that night?” 

Eugene blushed. There was a lot he remembered, a lot of fun and good things. But he couldn’t remember much after. 

“I know I found a weird rash on my neck. Figured Hugo and you were just overly enthusiastic about the hickeys.” 

Snafu shook his head. “Still got the rash?” 

Eugene moved his collar to show it off. Two small red dots, evenly spaced. 

Snafu undid the first few buttons of his shirt and showed off the same. 

“Okay, so Hugo was a little rough. What’re you gettin’ at, sweetheart?” Eugene laughed. 

“We’ve never seen Hugo during the day. He bar tends some nights, but otherwise he doesn’t work. He dresses like he’s at least five years behind everyone else, and his teeth are...well, you’ve seen them,” Snafu continued. “I...this is everything my family made fun of growing up. All the ‘spooky’ parts of the city that the tourists fall for. But...” 

“But what?” 

“Some folks always used to warn about vampires. The city’s old, and you can melt right into it. Where else would you go if you couldn’t die and wanted somewhere you could just be and party or hide away or do whatever else you wanted?” Snafu asked. 

“Are you saying you think Hugo’s a vampire?” 

Snafu looked at the floor, and Eugene sighed internally over how pale he looked. How pale they both looked. Whatever this was, it was eating them alive. 

“And you think he turned us, but it’s just now...taking full effect or something?” 

“Don’t say it like that,” Snafu protested. “You think I like thinking that this is what it is, what we’ve got? This wasn’t my first option for a diagnosis.” 

“Okay, I’m sorry I just...you know how it sounds. I know you do.” 

Snafu nodded, sighed, and dropped his head into his hands. “There’s ways to find out. I mean...it’ll feel silly, but if we do some of these tests, and then it turns out it isn’t this, then we can move past it.” 

“Fair enough,” Eugene agreed. “What tests do you know of?” 

“Well, we failed the first one. No reflection. Failed the second one. Can’t keep any food or water down. Failed the third one. Don’t have a pulse anymore. I’ve got one more, but you aren’t gonna like it,” Snafu replied. He went to the fridge and pulled out the meat they’d picked up from the butcher on Monday. 

It slowly dawned on Eugene what the test was, and his stomach turned. “Oh no.” 

“Oh yes,” Snafu said, slicing into the meat with a knife from one of the kitchen drawers and draining the little bit of blood that came out into two glasses. “C’mere.” 

“I don’t think I can...” Eugene said. It looked repulsive, thickly settled at the bottom of the glass. 

“It’s old blood, but nothin’ we can do about that,” Snafu said, and handed over one of the glasses. “Bottoms up, darlin’.” 

He tossed it back like a shot after Snafu tossed back his, grimacing at the sensation of the blood as it slid down his throat. 

“Now what?” 

“We haven’t been able to keep anything down, so this should come up too,” Snafu replied. 

They stood at the kitchen counter and waited. And waited. And waited. 

“Jesus,” Eugene whimpered, and dropped to his knees, hiding his head against them as he wrapped his arms around himself. “Snaf-” 

“I know,” Snafu interrupted softly, and pulled him up to standing again. “Come on. Back to the couch we go. We’re gonna be alright.” 

“No, we aren’t,” Eugene heard himself whisper, horrified. “What the fuck, what the fuck what the-” 

“Shhh,” Snafu interrupted. “Can’t do nothin’ about this if we panic.” 

“We’re dead,” Eugene hissed. There was no other way around it. He was walking, talking, feeling the panic but with none of the usual heart-pounding. Because his heart no longer beat. Because they’d fucked a vampire, and now they were dead. 

“I know,” Snafu was alarmingly calm, and it made Eugene itchy to watch. As much as he valued Snafu being able to be cool and collected, he also couldn’t bear to be the only one freaking out. 

“We have to find Hugo,” Snafu continued. “May as well go straight to the source. I know going out sounds like shit right now, but we can do this.” 

They dressed, just barely presentable to be out of the house, and wandered down to the nearest bar. The sun had just recently gone down, but Eugene missed it. If this was all real, and he really had already had his last moment in the sun, then he wished he could have somehow known. He would have enjoyed it more. 

Hugo was behind the counter, working. But he looked like he wanted to jump the counter as he caught sight of them. 

Eugene let Snafu take charge of the situation. He was too weak, too tired to do much more than stand by Snafu and lean against him. 

“Hugo. We gotta talk,” Snafu called across the bar. 

Hugo winced as they stepped up to the bar counter. “You guys look like shit.” 

“Yeah. Feel like you might know somethin’ about that,” Snafu said. “Wanna take a moment in the back room with us so we can sort this out?” 

Hugo sighed. “Fine.” 

He led them to the back room, and Eugene let himself collapse onto the couch in the room with a groan. He’d felt better after the glass of disgusting, sludgy blood, but whatever effect it had given him had worn off. 

“I thought I had drained you both completely. You should be dead,” Hugo said, staring at them in amazement and confusion. 

“We are dead, asshole,” Eugene barked. 

“I mean...not dead like me. Completely dead. Not getting up and looking for blood to drink dead. Speaking of, have you guys been feeding? Because you look awful,” Hugo said. 

“Wow, thank you for again tellin’ us we look horrible after doin’ this to us,” Snafu spat as he dropped into a wooden chair near the couch. 

“I didn’t mean to,” Hugo protested. “I was going to just kill you both. I hadn’t fed in weeks...it was nothing personal, I swear.” 

“Hugo...this is is why you’re still single. I swear to fuckin’ god...” Snafu muttered. “Nothin’ personal. Jesus.” 

“I’m sorry, I really am,” Hugo continued. “Look, I can help you adjust to this. It’s the least I can do, and it’s what my maker did for me. Granted, he was also well off and not bar-tending to pay rent, but-” 

“Boo-fucking-hoo for you,” Eugene scoffed. “I’d say this is the least you can do.” 

Hugo sighed. “Clearly, whatever we had is gone. So I’ll do this. I’ll give you a list of places folks like us-” 

“Vampires,” Snafu interrupted. “I wanna hear you fucking say it.” 

“Vampires,” Hugo said. “Places where vampires like us can meet up for resources, help when you’re new and learning how to feed and how much to feed, things like that. I’ll give you my phone number, but you call me; I won’t call you. You only call if you’re comfortable with doing so or really need immediate help, okay?” 

Hugo grabbed a piece of stationary from a desk near one wall of the back room, and started to jot down the various places and people they could use as resources, and as he listened to the pen scratch Eugene’s heart sank. 

No more sunny walks in the park, or sunsets watched in between making out with Snafu. No more dinners they cooked together, learning new recipes. They’d have to quit their jobs, and find new ones with only night shifts, or they’d lose the house. No traveling, unless they were willing to drive all night while knowing they for sure had somewhere to hide during the day. 

And more killing. If they wanted to survive, there would have to be more killing. 

“For now...give me five,” Hugo said and handed Snafu the paper before ducking out of the room. He returned with one of the other bartenders, who calmly bared his neck to Snafu as he knelt down near him. 

“What the fuck is this?” Snafu scoffed. 

“Dinner,” Hugo spat. “Unless you wanna keep looking and feeling like death.” 

“We are dead!” Eugene screamed, forcing himself up off the couch even though every limb protested the effort. He strode towards Hugo faster than he intended to, unsure if it was his new state of being or his anger carrying him forward. He pushed him up against the nearest wall, and hissed. “We’re dead and it’s your fucking fault and-” 

He was suddenly incredibly aware of blood in Hugo’s veins, and before he could stop himself he latched onto Hugo’s neck, effectively stealing his dinner from within him. 

“Get him fucking off of me!” Hugo was screeching, caterwauling, but Eugene held tight onto him, hating how much he enjoyed the feeling of his now much sharper eyeteeth sinking into Hugo’s flesh, emptying his dead veins of his last meal. 

“Eugene! Enough!” Snafu pulled him away, and Hugo dropped to the floor, whimpering. 

“He deserved it,” he huffed. 

“I know,” Snafu said. “But what good is killin’ him gonna do us, huh? None. Let him live with the knowledge. I guarantee that’s worse than bein’ all the way dead.” 

“Neither of you are even up to my usual standard,” Hugo scoffed, still on the floor. The other bartender was staring at him, but made no move to retrieve him. “That’s what I get for fucking ugly goddamn-” 

It was his turn to hold Snafu back as he tried to race towards Hugo, shouting abuse right back at him, how he was a shitty fuck, how he was lucky they’d even allowed him near them to begin with. 

He dragged Snafu outside, regretting that he’d lost his cool. 

But he did feel better, with the blood he’d taken from Hugo. 

“Here,” he offered Snafu his wrist. “You’ll feel better. If we both feel a little healthier, then findin’ all of these people and places’ll be easier.” 

Snafu pulled him into a dark corner near an alley, and kissed him hard before moving his wrist up to his mouth. The feeling of Snafu’s teeth slipping into his wrist was something else, painful but not so much to make him do more than wince. It was almost erotic, especially when Snafu looked up at him, still drinking, his lips locked against the skin of his wrist. 

Which at least confirmed one thing he’d been mildly worried about, regarding blood flow. He didn’t know how it could still work, but he wasn’t going to question it when he had Snafu with blood on his lips, pulling him close and rutting against his hard cock. 

“Let’s go home,” Snafu murmured into his neck. “We can check out everything Hugo gave us tomorrow night.” 

Eugene nodded, but used a hand to carefully pull Snafu’s face back up towards his, and gently, with just the tip of his tongue, licked the drying blood from the corners of Snafu’s mouth before kissing him. 

He had figured it wouldn’t be a jubilant walk home, but he had expected to at least feel better, having gotten confirmation of it all. But he didn’t. He was tired and hungry despite having fed off of Hugo, and wanted nothing more than to fuck until the morning or until they were both too tired and sore to move, whatever came first. 

By the time they got inside, however, he was only half-hard and he could tell Snafu was just plain exhausted. They dropped onto the couch after making sure the door was locked and the windows were all still tightly covered with blinds and newspapers they’d taped over them, and Eugene knew they’d both be asleep soon. There would be no calling into work; he couldn’t keep his eyelids open let alone get up to go to the phone and call them both in. 

What he could manage was to wrap his arms around Snafu, and try not to cry when he didn’t have the familiar sound of Snafu’s heartbeat to lull him to sleep. But he still had Snafu’s hand squeezing his, and it was just enough to work in place of the heartbeat. 

[iceeckos12]

the rising sun

Johnny wins a golden fiddle from the devil. The devil’s not finished with him yet, though. 

inspired by devil went down to georgia by charles daniels. 

Johnny stares at the golden fiddle at his bare feet. He is pale and shaky, auburn eyes bright under the broad brim of his straw hat, and he is slowly but surely coming to terms with what he has just done. 

(He is a fiddle player, the same way a human breathes air, the same way a fish swims through water, naturally and inevitably. He’s been a fiddle player since he was five years old, scraping his knees on the trash heaps near his house. He’d found the instrument, wood old and scuffed, its bow a pile of scraps and horse hair beside it, and had felt something like a siren call at the sight of it.

The fiddle was too big for him, his arms neither long enough nor strong enough to hold it comfortably beneath his chin. But he found another bow, and sanded and oiled the the instrument until it was smooth as silk to the touch, and he’s been lost ever since. 

Or found, perhaps.) 

He is a fiddle player; the whole town knows that he is a fiddle player. He plays as he walks the roads into town, plays as he nods a polite hello to the passersby, plays as he meanders through the farmers market for fresh vegetables, and only stops playing when the local policemen shout that he’s disturbing the peace with all that racket! But as sure as the sun rises in the east, when the police leave Johnny is playing again. 

The whole town knows that he is a fiddle player, and have tolerated their most musical child with the sort of exasperated patience that comes from the knowledge that they cannot get him to stop. But if they look at this golden fiddle, if they hear the sacrilegious moan of the devil’s tone rise from the strings, their exasperated patience will transform into something more sinister. Because there is no way this fiddle could be mistaken for anything than what it is, with its raucous howling and its mournful keening. 

If nothing else, Johnny is self-aware. He knows his flaws as intimately as he knows every imperfection in his fiddle, knows that he is far too rash and far too reckless for his own good. Case in point, taking a bet with the devil. 

But those flaws are also his strength. He does not waffle or sit on a decision which must be made. He knows that he is keeping this fiddle; he knows that if he does, he will be run out of this god-fearing town, perhaps stoned to death. 

Johnny opens his sack, empty except for a couple of coins, some extra strings, and wood polish, and reverently places the golden fiddle inside. Then he kicks up his bare, cracked feet, chucks his chin with his wooden fiddle and places the bow to the strings, as familiar as an old lover, and heads West. 

-0-

A banjo player stops before Johnny as he plays in the street, his instrument tied across his back. They are of a kind, Johnny thinks, watching the dusty man from underneath his broad-brimmed hat. They look nothing alike, but they were both hewn from the same stone, then given an instrument to sing of the land from whence they came. 

The man, tall, skinny and dark, a slip of shadow, realizes it too. He shudders into movement again, but his path has changed; he folds himself into the crowd that surrounds Johnny with an ease that suggests experience. 

Johnny pauses in between one sound and the next 

(and Johnny does not play tunes, he does not play the reels and folksongs that most fiddlers know. He has never taken lessons, could not tell you the difference between Galway Girl, Red is the Rose, and the Parting Glass. He plays what he likes, strings one sound to the next with the same casual grace as an artist painting an abstract picture, and it is both repels and draws people in equal measure.)

and meets the deep, black eyes of the stranger. He does not speak, merely gestures, calls a silent call that is more compelling than it has any right to be. 

The banjo player slowly pushes his way to the front, slinging his instrument from his shoulder as he walks, does not attempt to tune it because he knows it is still perfectly in tune from this morning. He stands beside Johnny, a short young man with freckled cheeks, bright auburn eyes, and a plain fiddle that sings as sinfully as any demon, and begins to play. 

Mack takes Johnny back to his home and introduces him to the other two members of his group; a tall man with tanned, leathery skin who plays a wicked bass, and a quiet percussionist with oddly slanted eyes, who’s rhythm is steady as a rock. 

They teach Johnny how to play with a group, how to build off another person’s sound like bricks being laid on a foundation. They teach him the jigs and reels he should’ve learned years ago, how they lead into and play off of one another. They teach him how to put the melodies bouncing around in his head to paper, and how to read music, for that matter. 

In return, Johnny is the best fiddle player that’s ever been for them. He draws crowds by the hundreds, packs every tavern they play in, lines their pockets with more money than they know what to do with. And when the mood is right, when the crowd is teetering into blackout drunkenness, Johnny will lift the golden fiddle from his sack and touch the bow to the strings. 

He plays like the devil, People say, shaking their heads, disbelieving that a sound like that could come from such a child, who never wears shoes and is perpetually covered in dirt. But with none of the temptation. 

Not that Johnny cares what they say. He is a fiddle player, and he will play the fiddle, regardless if his crowd likes it or not. 

-0-

It is dark in the tavern, and they have just finished playing. Johnny has just polished off his third free beer and is wandering around the dimly lit tables, absentmindedly pressing the calloused pads of his fingers to the strings of his fiddle. Mack, Jason, and Kai have all gathered at the bar, but Johnny is feeling oddly restless, unable to place his feet down. 

“Johnny,” A voice rumbles beside him, dark and familiar. 

Johnny turns to see a man, as beautiful as he’s ever seen, with thick eyebrows and high cheekbones and black hair that curls raucously about his ears. Johnny has never been aware of his plainness before, but now he is, and he smiles a sheepish grin. 

The man drums his fingers against the table, unreadable. “Sit.”

Johnny stills, and realizes where he’s heard this voice before. “Devil?”

“Sit,” The devil says, an order. Johnny does as he is bid, does not dare look away. 

Then the devil says, a snappish accusation, “You are not playing my fiddle.”

Johnny shrugs, a flush rising to his cheeks. “Wrong crowd.” 

And it had been. There had been a man in the second row who’d had frightful dreams of the war last night, of his dead friends, who had been staring down his breaking point. There had been a woman in the back whose husband had just died of some sickness that the doctor’s hadn’t been able to name. Johnny had gotten through two stanzas of The Parting Glass before the man had broken down into great, heaving sobs, had gotten through one more before the woman had to leave. It had been the good kind of pain for the both of them, though, the soulful kind that every human needs to feel, and the kind only his wooden fiddle could produce.

The devil does not understand this, though. He sneers. “Wrong crowd? As though my fiddle could not play for any crowd.”

Johnny’s fingers tremble, even as they continue to press against the fingerboard. “Wrong crowd.”

The devil is quiet for a few maddening seconds, his eyes gold like the gleam of sun off desert sands. Then he says, “I did not give you my fiddle so you could sit on it.”

And Johnny is aware of his flaws; he is aware of his rash and reckless behavior, and how it will get him one day. He wonders if that day is now when he says, “Come to the tavern in three days, if you like. I’ll play your fiddle then.”

There is a moment of shocked silence, those pale, bloodless lips parted in surprise, golden eyes wide. Then there is a sound like rocks being ground together, which grows until it’s the gravelly slide of boulders down a mountain. Johnny does not realize it is laughter until he sees the devil’s wide grin. 

“Care to make a bet?” The devil asks, sly as a fox and twice as mischievous. “Make another bet with the devil, boy. You’ve beat me once. Let’s have another, Johnny.”

“Sure,” Johnny says agreeably, without pause. Because he gets it, he does. If he gave away his precious fiddle

(When he was thirteen he finally hit his growth spurt, and he grew and grew and grew, but he was not happy about it. His fiddle was not a very large fiddle, made for a person of average height, and if he grew much larger playing would become cramped and uncomfortable, and then he would be forced to get a larger one. And he did not want that; he had rescued this fiddle from the trash heaps, had sanded it and polished it and toiled over it until it was a piece of his very soul.

He did not have much use for any gods—they had never done him much good—but he prayed for the first time, then. That he would not grow tall, that he would remain short enough for his fiddle to be comfortable. 

Ever since that time, when his growth had abruptly halted in its tracks, Johnny has made sure to be respectful of the holy men, and never, ever plays the golden fiddle when he spies them in the room.)

then he would be furious to find out that the person he gave it to was not playing it. It is the devil’s right. 

The devil pauses for a second, blinks, then continues. “I’ll come in three days. If you do not give me a good show, then I’ll have your soul.”

Johnny thinks about that, then nods solemnly. “Alright. And if I give you a good show, you have to play with us.”

The silence is so profound, so absolute that one could hear a pin drop. Whatever the devil had been expecting in recompense, that obviously had not been it. “You want me to...play with you?”

“You’re good. Almost as good as me.” Johnny says honestly, and raises an eyebrow. “Haven’t you ever wanted to play with someone else before? It’s fun.”

“Fun,” The devil says, rolling the word around in his mouth like he’s just tried a new food and is unsure of the flavor. Then his expression clears and he says, dismissive, “Whatever. I’ll be back for your soul in three days.” 

Johnny smirks back, and blinks. When he opens his eyes, the seat before him is empty. 

-0-

Let us speak of the golden fiddle. 

Let us speak of its golden body, which is shaped so naturally and fluidly that it seems to have been formed from a molten pool, so liquid that it looks like it could melt back down again at any second. Harps of gold would not be so fine, heavy rings with gaudy jewels not nearly so opulent. Gold water off of old stones, ancient and tangible as the earth.

Let us speak of white-gold strings, so pale they are almost translucent and can only truly be seen in darkness, strings which do not so much as resonate as they do shimmer against the bow. The strings of the fiddle are normally made from catgut, sheep’s intestines, stretched, dried and twisted into a shape which is capable of producing song. The strings of this fiddle are not catgut, are no more catgut than quartz is diamond, twisted from the land from whence the devil came, hot and dry and bathed in fire. 

Let us speak of the sound, of the siren’s call which it produces, a demanding shriek which the human mind cannot truly comprehend. If the listener were a demon, or an angel, or anything but a human, they would be able to hear the layering of inhuman tones, the melodies of far off worlds and stories long lost to time. But a human cannot understand it, so a human cannot hear it, and instead finds themselves lost in the sound. When they finally return to themselves they have no memory of what was played, only the wistful feeling left behind, that they have lost something irreplaceable and must follow it to its source.

In Johnny’s hands, the fiddle’s body sits obedient and solid. The strings shimmer like the petals of an African violet, and the sound that they emit is loud and raucous and human and soulful, and the listeners take a little piece of that sound home with them. Well, take is perhaps not the correct word. Johnny gives it to them freely, without strings attached, lets them cradle it close to their hearts. They hear it in their dreams, make a space for it in their memories to look back on when they’re feeling wistful and lonesome. 

He plays like the devil, they say, knowing it to be true but unable to explain why.  But with none of the temptation.

-0-

The devil does not get Johnny’s soul that day.

Johnny finds him after the performance, splayed in his chair, looking as dazed as confused as the rest of the crowd. He grins and says, “Guess you’re playing with me, aren’t you?”

The devil looks up at him, not angry in a furious way, but angry in a confused sort of way, the way a person who does not know what to do with an emotion turns it into something they can understand. “How did you do that?”

“Do what?” Johnny asks, mild but not meek. 

“That is not my fiddle, I know how it plays,” He snarls, rising to his feet. Shadows larger than they should be sink into the wood behind him, suggesting the outline of wings. “That has—it—”

The devil is trying to say, it has a soul, although he does not know it. He has never had a soul, has never loved his fiddle. It had been a necessary tool, a way to bring people  to him, but he has never played simply because he wanted to. 

Johnny has never been anything but a man who loves to play the fiddle, who lives to play the fiddle, who loves every broken, beautiful sound that it plays. He does not know how to do it any other way. And that is why the golden fiddle sounds as it does, all of the inhuman ringing side-by-side with the all-too-human soul of a fiddle player. All of the beauty but none of the siren’s call. All of temptation with none of the strings attached. 

But neither of them know this, and even if they did, they could not put it in words. So Johnny only shrugs and says, “You’ll join us tomorrow, then?”

A deal is a deal, and the devil does not renege upon his. So after a moment of furious, confused silence, the devil nods. 

-0-

The devil slips, unnoticed, into the band that day, and decides not to leave. 

Mack, Jason, and Kai either do not notice the otherworldliness of the new man, or do not care enough to point it out. Either way, when Johnny hands the devil a fiddle (and it differs depending on the day, depending on the mood of the crowd, which one the devil plays and which one Johnny plays)  they shrug and continue playing. They are musicians before they are moral people, and this new musician is almost as good as Johnny, so why ask questions?

The devil does not come every day—he is a busy man, after all—but when he does, the whole town knows about it. His and Johnny’s duets are legendary, the kind that can make a grown man weep like a baby, or a crotchety crone jump up and dance. 

The devil could not say why he returns, only knows that he is looking for something, has been looking for something since that first day when Johnny made the golden fiddle sing. And more and more he finds it enjoyable to play with the young man with auburn eyes and bare feet and a soul made of polished wood and catgut. 

It is this feeling that makes him look at Johnny one day, several years after their first meeting. It is this feeling which makes him take in the wrinkles about Johnny’s eyes, the spots of gray amongst his sandy hair, and finally parse out what it means. It is what makes him frown, deep and unhappy, because that is simply not acceptable. 

“You know,” The devil says carefully, “The fiddle is the devil’s instrument.”

“Of course,” Johnny says agreeably, his ankles folded on top of one another, plucking a reel with long, clever fingers. He does not argue with the devil, has never argued with him, just listened to his infernal opinions and nodded agreeably. Not in agreement, just agreeing that they are there and exist in some capacity. 

The devil frowns. “They don’t let you play the fiddle in heaven.”

Johnny scoffs at that, unconcerned. “I’ve been playing the fiddle for as long as I’ve been alive, devil. I don’t think I’m going to heaven after this.”

The devil thinks about a careful, gentle respect for the holy men that cross the threshold, and about a man who will sometimes sit, though he prefers standing when fiddling, so that the small, wide-eyed children can crawl into his lap and feel every resonant tone in their breasts. He thinks about men who find bright, innocent joy in music, who play selflessly and selfishly as only a musician can. 

He says, uncharacteristically gentle, “Playing the fiddle is not a sin.”

Johnny pauses for a second, his clever fingers frozen above the strings, and then starts up again. The tone of the piece is maudlin now, though, so the devil knows that Johnny is thinking.

“I see,” He says, neutral and unhappy. 

“Fiddlers are welcome in hell, though.” The devil adds as though it is an afterthought. “And someone who can fiddle better than the devil himself! Well. He might as well be a prince.”

“A prince,” Johnny repeats dubiously. 

“Yes,” The devil says, so earnest that butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth. And then, “A prince who could play fiddle all day long. However long he wanted, with whoever he wanted.”

Tempting. Like the golden fiddle when Johnny was not playing it, like the extended hand of a lover. He knows exactly who this is, exactly what this creature is doing. He also knows that the devil does not lie, and he always keeps his promises. 

And more than that, he knows the extent of his flaws, knows that he is reckless and rash. 

And he knows that he is a fiddle player. 

“Devil,” Johnny says, his words like the thick drops of rain just beginning to fall. “I’d like to make a bet with you.”

The devil’s eyes light up. He knows he’s won, that he will have this fiddler’s soul and his clever fingers and his sanded, polished wood fiddle. And he also knows that Johnny faces him with eyes wide open, that he knows what this means, and that he and the devil will make music together until the end of time, and even beyond that. 

“If I win, you get my soul.” The fiddler says, chucking his chin with the fiddle, grinning his wide, cracked grin under bright auburn eyes. “If I lose, you can keep my fiddle.”

The devil laughs, the grinding of boulders down a mountain, the cracking of the tectonic plates as they rub against one another. He has found what he is looking for: a soul to call his own, who plays his instrument like a human breathes air and a fish swims through water. Who has made human a fiddle of gold, has given meaning to a sound which he’d previously thought could only be appreciated by the heavenly host, or the crowds of the damned. 

And he places his fiddle beneath his chin, and prepares to lose one 

last 

time. 

[theawkwardterrier]

things left behind and the things that are ahead, ch. 10

AO3 link here

Drea is the only one of his kids who Steve successfully gets into baseball. Rosie at age six tells him seriously that she has other, more important things to do than watch grownup men get excited about a ball, Em sits patiently through a couple of games that she clearly has no interest in, and Nate, when offered a chance to visit the ballpark for the first time at five years old says, "If you would be happy about it," in such a sweet, guileless way that Steve chokes up and tells him right away to forget about it. (Peggy is only too happy to have him look for someone else to bring - while she knows the rules by now and has watched a few games herself, he thinks that she'd have happily abdicated her seat to any passerby who wanted it. It's fine: she once tried to explain the rules of cricket, and he thinks he might still be comatose.)

But Drea loves it enough for all the rest of them, collecting cards, scanning the sports section each morning as the season approaches, and talking statistics like they're her second language. Nothing much has changed for her since they moved to Maryland: she has a group of boys to trade cards with, her best friends even as she enters junior high, and she's still a solid early choice in a schoolyard or street pickup game.

Steve's too cheap to shell out for Orioles season tickets - they live closer to DC, so getting to Baltimore is less convenient especially for weeknight games, but he's pretty sure that Washington loses their team sometime soon and he doesn't want his daughter getting attached and going through the same heartbreak he did - but he makes sure to take her to a few games a season, just the two of them.

It's a beautiful May Sunday, and the Orioles have just absolutely trounced Kansas City. Steve tosses their hot dog wrappers in the trash on the way out - four of his, one of Drea's - and wraps his arm around her, kissing the top of her baseball cap-covered head as they join the chattering crowd on the way back to their car.

"That was a great game," he says. "I think the O's have a good chance of making the series this year, huh?"

"I'm not very much like other girls, am I?"

It's more momentum than anything that keeps Steve walking. "What do you mean?" he asks carefully, looking down at her. The brim of her cap blocks him from seeing her face, but her shoulders hunch a little under his hand.

"I'm not like Mom," she says. "Or like Emma."

"Well that’s good, because I don't know if I could handle two Emmas. We'd never be able to finish all the desserts." Steve jokes. "And it would be a pretty big coincidence if you were like Mom." Everyone in town is used to the Carters by now, but when they had moved down from New Jersey five years ago, the variation in looks between the children and their lack of similarity to either parent had brought reactions ranging from pity to outright disdain.

"That's not what I mean." Drea starts to walk a little faster, even knowing that her dad can keep up. Her words come out in small, breathless bursts, and Steve aches a little at the bravery it is taking her just to keep speaking them. "It’s just...they know about girl stuff. Mom knows when to wear fancy gloves and pearls and it never looks weird, and Emmy just knows how to talk with other girls. They understand everything without even trying. They like this stuff. The only stuff I like is boy stuff."

"Hey," he says, pulling her to the side of the crowd so he can stop and bend to face her. He peers into the shadow beneath her ball cap, finding her jewel-dark blue eyes. "You're a girl. Anything you like is girl stuff."

She turns away from him. "Yeah, okay."

"I know that Em is a certain kind of girl—" Emma has already requested her own set of mixing bowls for Christmas. Practically the only time she wears pants is in the garden. She used to spend entire afternoons pouring “tea” for a dozen dolls and stuffed animals, signing politely to them as she sipped with an extended pinky. "But your mom put up with a lot during the war, and even now there are plenty of people who say that she isn't doing the things a woman should do. And what about Rosie? She doesn’t exactly fit into a box."

"It's different for me than it is for Rosie." That she says it simply, without a sigh or a teenage eyeroll, makes him sad. Even sadder than that: she's right. As much as he doesn't want it to be, it is different for her than it is for Rose, or Emma, or even Peggy.

"Okay," he says. "You're different than some girls. But that doesn't mean you're doing anything wrong. And I would hate for you to change the way you are or the things you love just because you felt that you had to fit in.” He tries to smile. “Besides, Bucky and the family are coming to visit over the summer and I promised them a good time, which means a trip to the ballpark with the two of us."

This time she does sigh, a tiny hiccup of not being entirely understood or at least of realizing that her father can't fix everything for her. "Yeah," she says again. "Okay."

Steve stands to his full height once again and hugs her against his side for a moment. He and Peggy have changed a lot, but there are some things even more stubborn than they are.

Tonight was supposed to be a date night with Steve, but there’s been a new FBI head for three, nearly four years now, and Peggy is only just getting around to inviting him and his wife for a collegial dinner engagement. Steve very sweetly said that he doesn't mind any of the time that he gets to spend with her, but she knows that this isn't exactly his idea of an enjoyable evening out. She'll have to remember to make it up to him.

"Which one?" she asks Drea, holding three dress options in front of herself. There's a deep, vivid scarlet number, a classic flared black, and a black and aubergine paneled silk with the tags still on.

Drea considers. "The red. Daddy likes it when you wear red."

"So he does." She strips off her robe and leaves it on the back of the chair as she slides the dress over her head, moving to the mirror to do up the last of the zip and smooth it over her hips. Peggy keeps herself fairly trim, but it's been a while since she wore this particular dress, and one never knows how things might have changed.

In the glass, she glimpses Drea, her black hair tangled and wild around her shoulders as always, her knees tented as she tucks nearly her whole narrow body into the white T-shirt she's wearing: one of Steve's undershirts, no doubt. Drea practically lives in them as it gets warmer. If it were prior to Lula-Cat's escape of the previous summer, the beast would surely be purring on the bed beside her favorite Carter, allowing herself to be petted as she got fur all over Peggy's clean pillowcases.

She is almost fourteen, Peggy realizes with a pang, and not only because her children are growing up even more quickly than she had expected. They will have another year of people plausibly believing her to be a late bloomer, perhaps not even that. She, Steve, Drea and her doctor have an appointment soon for a discussion, and Peggy makes a note to sit down Howard with as well. The little tools he's made for Emma - the vibrating clip for her swimsuit for when they go to the beach, the egg timer with its flashing lights - have been helpful, but the things he could make for Drea might be lifesaving.

As she moves to the vanity and fixes her face, traces on her vividly red lipstick with a practiced hand, thinks for a moment and adds pearl earrings and a simple crystal necklace which Steve gave her for their fifteenth anniversary, she fights to keep both the fear and calculation from her face. Drea already looks melancholy enough.

Peggy sits at the edge of the bed to put on her hose and her pumps. She is just about to get up and take in the final product when Drea says from beside her, "Mom, can you teach me how to put on makeup?"

Peggy pauses for just a moment, then asks, "What brought this on?" She allows only a tiny amount of surprise into her voice. It would be unbelievable otherwise, but the true amount of shock she feels at the question would be insulting, would drive her daughter away.

"Some girls at school are starting to use it. And I—" Her voice falters a bit, then comes back stronger, perhaps too strong, as if she's given herself a stern lecture. "I think I should also know how."

"I think you're a bit young for it, and I'm not sure that 'because everyone else is doing it' is a particularly good reason," says Peggy, continuing over the beginning of Drea's protestations. "But if that's what you truly want, I can certainly give you a lesson or two." She sighs, perhaps a bit theatrically. "Goodness knows I'd have liked for Rosie to ask before she made her first attempts."

It works. Drea laughs a little, remembering Rose's early experiments with cheap drugstore eye makeup and vending machine lip color in a particularly revolting shade of tangerine that gave her a rash.

Peggy stands, smoothing her dress one final time and going over to the closet. She takes out a handbag, and riffles through Steve's tie hanger, selecting a red one which will match her dress and coordinate well with the gray suit she had watched him put on earlier.

"Are you ready?" Drea asks, her voice a bit less dispirited than it had been a few moments earlier, and Peggy nods and moves toward her. Drea spritzes the perfume precisely, two sprays that float in the air for Peggy to walk through. She had always touched on her own scent, a bit at each wrist and at her throat, and just a drop or two on a sachet in her brassiere, but then the children had come along, and now this was a particular tradition whenever one of them helped her get ready.

"Be good for Rose," Peggy says as she leaves the room, and Drea calls back, "If she's good to me."

Rose herself is sitting sprawled out in the doorway of her bedroom, scribbling into a notebook. She is in the midst of a hard-fought campaign for presidency of the upcoming senior class, and lately seems to have decided to plop herself down whenever an idea might catch her. Her legs aren’t long, even at the end of her growth spurt, but she’s positioned herself so they stretch out into the hallway and Peggy steps over them as she passes.

"Don't forget about bedtime," she reminds her eldest, and Rose makes a vague affirmative sound before she places a firm full stop at the end of whatever sentence she is writing and, stretching, looks up at her mother.

"What did you say?"

"Bedtime," Peggy repeats firmly. "Your siblings must adhere to it. As should you. I know that school is coming to an end, but it isn’t here yet."

"Fine," Rosie says with a wave of her hand, and Peggy knows that she'll see the bedroom light snap off just as they turn up the driveway. She starts on her way again (if Rose wants to develop poor sleeping habits, that is her responsibility) but then turns back.

"And be kind to your sister," she tells Rose, dropping her voice a bit. "I think she's having a hard time."

"I can make her a Surprise," Rose suggests, and Peggy shudders, and not just because of Rosie's notoriously poor cooking skills. Drea is the only one of the children with clear memories of her birth parents - she was five when they were killed in a fire while out for their anniversary dinner. One of the things she remembers most clearly is the multitude of casseroles her birth mother made: Hamburger Surprise, Tuna Surprise, Potato Surprise... Peggy has no doubt that they were as ordinary, or perhaps as lackluster, as any example of such a dish, but Drea had built them up in her mind, built them up for Nate, who had no memories of their parents, such that she had spent her childhood requesting various types of Surprises for birthday meals or following an especially good report card.

Steve has turned into a good cook and with Emma at his side they can turn out almost anything, but a Surprise has never been Peggy’s idea of fine cuisine.

"Supper is already being taken care of," Peggy says, adding the thankfully for you only mentally. She can smell Sam's Cornbread in the oven now, can hear the airy silence downstairs, punctuated with little sounds that signify Steve refereeing a fight between Emma and Nate, likely about how much spice to add to the chili. "Just be nice to Drea."

"If she's nice to me," Rosie says, and Peggy refrains from lifting her eyes upward and asking why she had been given two daughters who were so similar and yet refused to realize it.

"Everyone's finished their schoolwork, but make sure that Nate’s book report ends up in his bag. And Emma is trying a new recipe for creamed Brussels sprouts - please tell everyone that they must at least taste it. Don’t simply take the whole pot and bury it in the garbage pail, and certainly don’t try to throw it in the woods the way you did the spinach," Peggy tells her shrewdly, but a new idea seemed to have struck and Rosie is back to her notebook again.

Peggy moves on. Rose has minded her siblings before, and Peggy doesn't want to be late to the dinner and cause an inter-agency incident; Howard would never let her hear the end of it. Besides, she and Steve will have an opportunity to discuss Drea in the car over - there comes a point where even a night away from the children is never truly away from the children.

Rosie lets Nate and Emma stay up for an extra half hour to cement herself as a Cool Older Sister. Once they're asleep, she knocks on Drea's door, barely waiting to be invited before she enters.

Drea is lying on her back on her bed, tossing a ball up and catching it.

"Be careful it doesn't hit your face," Rose says, hoping that it doesn't come out mean or bossy the way her words sometimes do when she's talking to Drea.

"It’s never happened to me before.” Drea doesn’t take her eyes off the ball. “Just because you’re still scarred from the Wiffle Ball Incident—”

“You said you wouldn’t ever mention that!” Rose comes in and closes the door all the way. “Ugh, just move over.” Drea groans as she sits up against the headboard, but she tucks her legs up to make room and Rosie takes a seat. “Look, I heard you asking Mom about makeup and stuff. Are people giving you trouble at school? Because I’ll give them a talking to if they are.”

“You’re not queen of the high school yet. No one has to just listen to you when you go blab in their face,” says Drea, jutting out her chin, although they both know that when Rosie gives someone a talking to, it not infrequently involves violence. (There had been a question about whether or not she was even allowed to run for the student council based on the number of detentions and suspensions on her record.)

“You’re my sister,” says Rose, setting her own chin. “And if someone’s making problems for you, I’ll take care of it.”

Despite herself, Drea laughs. “You sound like Jimmy Hoffa.”

“Maybe, but Mom would make sure that I covered my tracks better than he did.” Rose lies back across the bed, legs just long enough for her feet to still touch the floor. She turns her face, her hair fanned around her as she looks at Drea, curled up at the head of the bed. “You know I’m serious, right?”

“I know. But it’s not really someone in particular, it’s just...life.”

Rosie sighs. “Yeah.” She puts out her hand, and Drea scooches down to grasp it. “Life’s hard.”

Sarcasm is on the tip of Drea’s tongue - “Tell me more, oh wise one!” - but instead she stays quiet and holds her sister’s hand until their parents return.

Drea and Steve go with Bucky, Layla, and their kids to watch a blowout Orioles win during their vacation at the end of July - Drea cheers louder than anyone. In August, after they've returned from their own vacation, Peggy sits Drea down at the vanity and walks her a half dozen different beauty products, while Rose comments loudly from the bed. Just before school starts in September, Drea uses her allowance to get a flat iron and gives herself three burns learning how to use it.

The Orioles lose the Series to the Mets, and Drea starts wearing dresses for the first time since she was a child.

It won’t be any help, Steve realizes as she sits down across from him at the breakfast table, settling her skirt self-consciously, sitting up straight and crossing her ankles with awkward politeness, to remind her once more that she doesn’t need to do this. She has a good head on her shoulders, and she’s using it to process everything in the world that tells her otherwise. He remembers what Peggy has said about it, that she’ll come back to herself, she’ll come back to them, when she’s ready. So instead he says, “Hey, kid,” and when she looks up at him, he smiles and tells her, “there’s always next year, you know? Always another shot if we need it.”

And to his relief, she smiles back, the expression familiar, wild-edged and lovely, the same as it’s always been. Hello in there, he thinks.

“Yeah, Dad,” she says. “There’s always next year.”

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