#also this might just be my adhd talking since i occasionally get the urge to change something
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im tempted to switch to firefox but i like safari and it links really well with my everything else from the fruit company
#it has much better extension support and the devtools are possibly a bit better in places?#also this might just be my adhd talking since i occasionally get the urge to change something#it's the reason i moved from vscode to helix and using the terminal full-time when working#that was so much time sunk lol#lizabeth talkabeth
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Hi! how about one where Levi and his fem s/o sleep together for the first time and reader finds out that Levi sleep talking about how much he loves her and that he's very lucky to have her in his life. The next morning when they wake up reader teases him about it and he's very embarassed? Thank you so much, Iâm sorry for my bad English. I love youâ¤ď¸
A/N: Hello anon! đThank you so much for requesting, this idea just had my heart melting and I loved it because I sleep talk all the time (when I actually manage to sleep) so it was fun to write based on experience (curtesy of my sis & friends telling me about my sleep talk endeavors). Iâm sorry itâs taken so long for me to get it out to you, my ADHD has been really out of control lately. I really struggle with it sometimes, so I hope I didnât keep you waiting for too long. Iâve also been having horrible migraines on and off for the past couple days so thatâs what the beginning of the story was inspired by đ
. Thank you so much for your patience, I really appreciate it. Also your english is absolutely fine, love! I hope this is what you were looking for! â¤ď¸
đSong Recommendation:Â âThe Ghost on the Shoreâ By: Lord Huronâ đ
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đĽWoman of My Dreams đĽ
(Y/N) knew she was supposed to be working, helping Captain Levi with his massive load of paperwork, but she couldnât focus for the life of her, too distracted by the pained look on her captainâs face. He mustâve felt her watching him, because he glanced up at her, his eyes distant and slightly glazed but narrowed, silently telling her to get back to work. She scowled at him and turned her gaze back to the stack of proposals in her lap, chewing on the end of her pen as she attempted to refocus on the words in front of her. Despite her best efforts, her mind kept straying back to the raven-haired man at his desk, his occasional grunts and annoyed sighs alerting her to his struggle.
(Y/N) was always in awe of her boyfriendâs work ethic, constantly left wondering how someone with so much stress could still manage to push forward. He never seemed to fail at anything he tried, and he constantly pushed his mind and body to the limits, foregoing the need for rest and food in favor of getting everything done in one night. But while that part of her would always be proud of him and his ability to do so much, another part of her hated it. She hated how heâd sacrifice his own health for the sake of others, pushing himself until his body nearly shut down. Tonight, was one of those nights.
She knew Levi had a horrendous migraine. He was usually prone to the headaches that seemed to crack the skull open, but this one seemed particularly awful. He was constantly massaging his forehead and his eyes were unfocused and filled with pain. Tiny whimpers and groans would occasionally escape him, showing her just how much it was affecting him. Levi was usually able to push through the pain and suffer in silence, but this migraine of his seemed intent on making him as miserable as possible. He hadnât finished more than two pages of work since they had started, and it was clear he was nearing his breaking point.
Knowing his preference for powering through the pain, (Y/N) usually left him to his own devices when he had a migraine like this, trying to make his life easier in more subtle ways like bringing him tea and helping him with more paperwork than usual, but this time, she refused to ignore it. It was clear he was too stubborn to admit he needed to rest and someone had to look after him and make sure he didnât kill himself.
Setting the remaining reports off to the side, (Y/N) stood from his couch and made her way over to her lover. Before he could react, (Y/N) leaned over and snatched the pen he held from his grasp, throwing it behind her so it could land randomly somewhere in the office.
â(Y/N)! What the hell?â Levi snapped, his voice raspy and filled with exhaustion.
âIâm tired of watching you work yourself to the bone. Come on, letâs get you to bed.â
Levi shook his head, â(Y/N), Iâm fine.â
(Y/N) crossed her arms, âLike hell you are. Now, stop being stubborn and step away from the desk.â
âDonât forget who youâre talking to, (Y/N),â Levi said darkly with a huff. âI am still your captain.â
âWell you wonât be anymore if you overwork yourself to death,â (Y/N) retorted. âAnd donât forget who youâre talking to. Iâm your girlfriend, which means itâs my job to worry about your wellbeing, especially if you refuse to do it yourself.â
Levi glared at her, but he was secretly touched by her sentiment. It had taken him a while to get used to the feeling of being loved and cared for, but once he had, he had grown greedy for it. He never showed it, still uncomfortable at the idea of being vulnerable around others, even his own lover, but he would always love how she doted on him, how she made him feel like he was worth something. That if he died, he wouldnât just be mourned because humanity had lost its strongest soldier. He would be missed, remembered for the man he was rather than just how society had painted him to be. His eyes roved over her usually kind face, now twisted into a frown as she glared right back at him, refusing to back down without getting him the rest he needed. He honestly didnât know why he was being so stubborn, he knew she was right, but he still struggled to accept her help, almost feeling weak for succumbing to something as trivial as a migraine.
As if she could read his mind, her gaze softened and she let out a gentle sigh. Moving around his desk to stand behind him, she leaned down and laid her hands on his shoulders, squeezing and massaging the muscles with her firm fingers. Levi was embarrassed by how quickly he reacted to her touch, immediately leaning back into her grip. His head lolled against the back of his chair and his eyes closed in bliss, temporarily ignoring the blistering pain in his head.
âFeel good?â
Levi hummed.
âSee? Accepting help doesnât make you any less of a man. Getting the rest and relaxation your body needs doesnât make you weak by any means. Everyone needs the proper energy to take care of themselves, you especially. Youâre too important to lose, especially to something as pointless as self neglect. So please stop working tonight, for me.â
Levi was silent for a moment, fighting with himself over the urge to finish his work anyway or fall victim once again to your undeniable charms as well as the insistent demands of his own body. Just as he was about to open his mouth, ready to attempt one last refute, a fresh wave of pain washed over him, making him gasp. A hand flew to his head, his teeth gritted in pain as his very skull seemed to throb. Through the haze, he vaguely felt (Y/N)âs hands tighten on his shoulders and knew there was no way he was going to get out of this. Once she had made up her mind about something, there was no changing it.
For once, Levi didnât fight it when (Y/N) guided him to stand from his chair, biting his tongue to keep from gasping in pain as the sudden movement made his head split. He stumbled and started to fall, only to be caught by his lover, the strong woman bearing his entire weight as if he were nothing but a feather. A light blush made its way to his cheeks despite the pain that was starting to make his vision blur. He knew he shouldnât be shocked, she was in his Special Operations squad for a reason, but she never failed to impress him with her unexpected strength. (Y/N) walked slowly and carefully, making sure to avoid jostling him as she made her way to his bedroom. Nudging the door open, (Y/N) picked her way over to his bedside and pulled the sheets back before gently easing him onto the mattress, ignoring his protests when she began stripping him of his uniform.
His blush got a little darker as she worked on removing his clothes. Their relationship wasnât new, but it hadnât been very long either, and they still hadnât crossed the boundary of physical intimacy yet. He knew she had no ill intent, but it still didnât stop him from feeling relatively shy at the thought of her seeing him without his uniform.
(Y/N) felt butterflies in her stomach with each article she removed, but she shoved down her embarrassment and awe at his breathtaking form and focused on making him as comfortable as possible. She stopped once he was finally stripped to his boxers and neatly folded his uniform to place on the lone chair in the corner of his room, knowing it would bother him all night if it was thrown around half-hazardly.
Leviâs soft groan of pain brought her back to his bedside, and she quickly shimmied the blankets out from under his legs so she could throw them over his body, taking the extra time to tuck him in as comfortably as possible. As soon as he was nestled beneath the soft blankets, (Y/N) moved to his bathroom to get him some water, holding the glass to his lips for a few sips to help lessen some of the pressure in his head. Finally, she left to grab a small bucket to place beside him just in case he had to vomit in the middle of the night, knowing it might be difficult for him to reach the bathroom if he was dizzy and disoriented.
Placing her hands on her hips, (Y/N) surveyed her work, nodding once she was satisfied with his set up. Flashing him a sweet smile, (Y/N) turned for his bedroom door, her eyes soft and full of love as she watched him.
âGoodnight, Levi, I hope you feel better,â She said, opening the door and stepping through it.
â(Y/N).â
(Y/N) paused, her hand on the edge of the door as she peered back around to look at him, âYes?â
âStay with me. Please?â Levi asked, the blush on his cheeks getting even darker as he averted his gaze.
(Y/N)âs eyes widened in shock. She and Levi had been dating for nearly six months and yet he had never asked her something like this. She knew they were going at a slow pace, she knew Levi struggled with expressing his emotions, but she had always been content to go at whatever pace he was comfortable with, knowing he was still very new to the idea of a relationship. It had taken him several weeks for him to even get to the point of treating her differently than the other soldiers on his squad.Â
She had never doubted his love for her, even when her friends had seemed skeptical in the beginning. She could see it in his eyes, but it had taken him a long time to be able to express those hidden feelings physically and vocally. She didnât mind, she was fine with being patient and had waited for him to come to her, allowing him to have the time he needed to find his words and indulge in discovering his own love language. It was fun in a way, a little adventure between the two of them. It made every new sign of affection from him mean so much more than normal; every head pat, every kiss, every hug, making her feel as if she had just conquered the world.
It was because of those experiences that she was able to understand the importance of this moment. Her shy, reclusive, severely touch-starved boyfriend asking her to share his bed with him, exposing that vulnerability to her, albeit innocently, was a huge step in a new direction for him.
The thought made her nervous, not wanting to impose on his personal space or make him uncomfortable with her, but it also filled her with immense pride. He trusted her and only her to be around him when he was at his most vulnerable.
Swallowing her anxiety, (Y/N) nodded and shut the door again. Picking her way across the room, she quietly maneuvered her way to his bedside and slid beneath the covers beside him, trying to make as little noise and movement as possible to avoid causing more pain to his head.
Levi grunted a little as he shifted onto his side, facing away from her while she reached over to the bedside table to diffuse the lantern flame, bathing the room in darkness. Levi felt (Y/N) shift until she was laying on her side, facing his broad back, the covers pulled up to her shoulders.
âGoodnight Levi,â (Y/N) murmured.
âMmm, goodnight,â Levi muttered, the pain in his head coupled with her soothing presence making him drowsier than normal.
(Y/N) smiled when she felt Levi fall asleep, his light snores and gentle breathing filling the otherwise silent air. She was glad he was finally getting some rest, but she knew she would be up for a while. She had had insomnia for as long as she could remember and knew it would be a long time before her brain would shut up long enough for her to get some rest. It was that shared trait between her and the Captain that had allowed her to get close to him in the first place, late night talks with tea leading to moonlit confessions on the roof of their headquarters.
(Y/N)âs smile widened at the memory, and how uncharacteristically nervous the normally stoic Captain had been when he had turned to her that fateful night and practically spat his feelings at her. She knew how hard it had been for him to admit them to her, and she had a small inclination to say that Erwin and Hanji may have been the ones to force him to do it, but that just made the memory all the more special to her. It showed her that he really did care for her, that he was willing to lower his carefully structured walls and bare his battered heart for her alone. It was why it didnât bother her that he didnât shower her with compliments. It was why she was never disheartened by his lack of physical or vocal affection.Â
Sheâd be lying if she claimed she didnât get a little lonely sometimes, and she couldnât say she didnât sometimes wish he could call her beautiful without hesitation, but she didnât let it get to her. She loved him, and she knew he loved her, so sheâd wait for however long it took for him to grow comfortable around her, even if that meant she had to reel back her own feelings for a while.
Closing her eyes, (Y/N) was trying to coax sleep to take her when a sudden quiet murmur made her open them again. She waited, wondering if she had imagined the noise, when she suddenly heard it again. It was soft, and very quiet, but it was no doubt the voice of her lover, muttering something. She knew there was no way he was talking to her, he wouldâve spoken louder than that if he was.Â
The thought made her stifle a surprised giggle as she suddenly realized that Levi was talking in his sleep. She knew heâd be embarrassed if he found out she was listening, but she couldnât help herself, her ears straining to try to catch some of the words. Silence settled over the room once more for a moment, nothing but the distant sound of the wind blowing outside filling the air, but soon enough, the murmurs started back up again, more recognizable words spilling from his lips the longer he talked to himself.
âNoâŚ, thatâs notâŚmmm.â
âS-Stop that!â
âMmph, no⌠Iâm not...â
(Y/N) stifled another laugh as Levi started getting feisty in his sleep, turning to face her with a slight frown marring his features. His eyes were still firmly shut, confirming that he was indeed sleep talking, but the argument he was having with some unknown person in his head seemed to only be getting more intense.
âThatâs not true!â Levi suddenly shouted, his voice raspy and muffled by his pillow.
âWhatâs not true, Levi?â (Y/N) whispered, deciding to tease him a bit. She knew he would probably be annoyed later, but this was a once in a lifetime opportunity, she wasnât about to pass it up.
âThatâs not true.â Levi said again, his voice lowering in volume but hardening in tone, âOf course I show affection!â
(Y/N) brought a hand to her mouth and bit her knuckle, trying to keep her giggles from waking him up, âOh, really? When do you usually show affection?â
Leviâs frown deepened and his jaw tightened, âI show affection when Iâm with (Y/N).â
(Y/N) blinked, not expecting her name to come up in this midnight conversation. Lowering her hand from her lips, (Y/N) sat up to rest on her elbows, her eyes sparkling as she looked down at her sleeping lover.
âHow do you show (Y/N) affection?â she asked, curious to see what he would say.
Levi let out a quiet, defeated sigh, his frown disappearing into an expression that looked unexpectedly like guilt.
âListen, Hanji, IâŚâ Levi trailed off for a while, the air thick with (Y/N)âs curiosity. So, it was Hanji he was talking to in whatever dream he was having. The thought spiked her curiosity even further, making her heart pound in her chest. It wasnât uncommon that Levi would be annoyed with Hanji, so the argument at the beginning of his dream made sense, but he almost never talked about his relationship with anyone but Erwin, not trusting the energetic scientist to keep from teasing him and spreading rumors about them. She knew they were together of course, that was impossible to hide from her, but he always denied her details whenever she asked.
âShit⌠I⌠I canât believe Iâm about to do thisâŚâ Levi muttered, a slight scowl reappearing on his features.
âDo what?â (Y/N) whispered.
Levi took a deep breath, his fingers curling around the edge of the sheets to squeeze in his fist, as if he was being forced to do something unpleasant, âHanji, I need your help.â
(Y/N) had to fight to hold back a genuinely shocked gasp. Even when he was just dreaming, she had never imagined in her entire life that she would hear that sentence come out of his mouth. She suddenly wondered if she was the one dreaming, and this was just some elaborate scene her brain had made up.
âUm, sure, Levi, what do you need help with?â
A deep breath rattled from the depths of his chest, âHow do I... show (Y/N) proper affection?â
âWhat do you mean?â (Y/N) asked breathlessly.
Levi grunted in his sleep, his knees rising beneath the sheets to curl against his stomach. âDo I really have to explain it, Hanji?â
âYes.â
âFine, you idiot,â Levi grumbled, âI just⌠I just donât know how to show her how much she means to me. Iâm so fucking lucky to have her. Sheâs been so patient, so amazing, never complaining about my inability to be romantic, but Iâm tired of being unable to be there for her. Iâm tired of looking around at the other couples around us and seeing how loving they are, only to know that I canât do the same for her. Iâve had enough of treating her like a normal cadet on my squad. She deserves so much more than that, she is so much more than that. She shows me every single day that I am loved and cared for, and it makes me sick that I struggle to do the same.â
(Y/N) had her hand back over her mouth again, this time to stifle her sobs instead of her chuckles. Her eyes were lined with silver as she gazed down at the love of her life, her heart thundering pleasantly in her chest. While it was true that she had never had a problem with waiting for him to get more comfortable with her, she couldnât deny the feelings of elation she was feeling with every word that poured from his mouth. It didnât matter that he was asleep, it didnât matter that he didnât even know he was talking to her. All that mattered was that he was finally saying the things she had secretly burned to hear for months.
Levi sighed, âI just love her so damn much. Sheâs the woman of my dreams, and I donât think I can go one more day without her knowing thatâŚâ
Swallowing the sob that threatened to crawl past her lips, (Y/N) brushed his raven bangs to the side and leaned down to give him a sweet kiss on the forehead.
âBelieve me, Levi. She knows.â
The small smile that appeared on his face made it impossible for (Y/N) to hold her tears back this time, the warm, salty liquid sliding down her cheeks to land with soft taps on her pillow. Despite the fact that his eyes were still closed, (Y/N) gave him a watery smile of her own and reached over to wrap an arm around his waist, pulling herself closer to his warm chest and curling into his body.
âI love you too, Levi,â she murmured before closing her eyes, the smile still on her face as she fell asleep easily for the first time in years.
____________________
Levi could feel himself slowly being dragged back into consciousness, but for the first time since he was a little boy, he didnât want to wake up to the slightly more bearable hell of the day. Usually, what little sleep he got was riddled with nightmares, screams of his comrades as they either begged him to save them or blamed him for their early deaths. He was usually plagued with dark, bloody thoughts and visuals that made him wake in a cold sweat, his stomach swirling so violently he was occasionally reduced to emptying the remnants of his dinner in the middle of the night. He never enjoyed being tired or facing the titans day after day, but at least the real world kept him busy with training and paperwork, keeping his demons at bay.
But today felt different. He felt warm, comfortable, as if the sunâs rays were cuddling him in a warm nest. He felt content and unafraid of closing his eyes for the first time in years. A part of him was suspicious of the change, tempted to open his eyes and find out what was making him feel so comfortable, but the bigger part of him didnât want to leave this unexpected bliss so soon, afraid that opening his eyes would chase away the feeling before he could truly relish in it.
He sighed through his nose, nuzzling his pillow in an attempt to coax his mind back into the warm embrace of sleep when a sudden movement against his bare chest made his eyes snap open, ready to rip someone to shreds. His stinging words immediately died on his tongue when his silver gaze snapped to the (h/c) haired lump nestled against his skin. Ah, that explained why he had slept so well, even with a migraine, which had thankfully disappeared overnight.
Levi couldnât help the smile that curled at the edges of his lips, the look in his eyes softening as he watched his love sleep against him. An innocent, giddy sense of wonder filled him at the sight of her, his heart pounding in his chest. He had never had a woman fall asleep against him before, many people finding him too cold and standoffish to find comfort in him. But here she was, the most gorgeous woman in the world, cuddled up against him as if he were a warm pillow, her hair splayed out over his chest like tangled silk.
She was so fucking beautiful. He couldnât get her out of his head. The past few months had been the best he had ever had, his life now full of love and happiness and soft laughter. As he stared at her, his heart about to burst out of his chest, Levi couldnât help but reach out to her, his fingers brushing her cheeks ever so softly, making his skin tingle with how soft she was.
His hand immediately drew back when she scrunched her nose cutely, her eyes squeezing shut as her mouth opened in a wide yawn. A part of him felt sorry for waking her, but as she opened her glittering (e/c) eyes to look up at him, the other part of him felt more satisfied at seeing her cute expression.
âGood morning,â (Y/N) mumbled, her sleepy, raspy voice sending a jolt of something electric down his spine.
âMorning,â Levi said, unaware that his own deep, husky morning voice was making (Y/N)âs stomach flutter with early morning butterflies.
âSleep well?â (Y/N) asked.
âSurprisingly, yes,â Levi said, moving his arms from around her body so he could stretch them above his head with a satisfying crack.
âIt sure sounded like it.â
Her comment made him pause and glance at her, the mischievous look in her eye making a wave of nervousness course through him.
âWhat do you mean?â
âOh, nothing,â (Y/N) purred, causing his anxiety to spike, âI was just unaware that you talk in your sleep.â
Levi froze. He talked in his sleep!? He didnât know he did that! He supposed it was normal for him to not remember the event, and he had never slept beside another person in his life, aside from his mother when he was a toddler, so it made sense that he had been unaware of this unexpected habit, but that didnât erase the anxiety that swirled in his gut.
âO-Oh?â Levi asked softly, cursing his stutter.
âMm hm,â (Y/N) said, her smile only widening as she watched his reaction, her eyes glittering playfully.
âUm, what did I say? It better not have been something stupid,â Levi muttered, trying to fight the blush that threatened to rise to his cheeks. He almost didnât want to know, but with the way she was smiling at him, it looked as if he had said some revealing things.
âWell, you were arguing with Hanji for most of it,â (Y/N) said, watching with a deviant smile as her boyfriend relaxed, an obvious expression of relief on his face.
âTch, I do that when Iâm awake, idiot.â
âYou also said you were head over heels in love with Eren Jaeger.â
(Y/N) couldnât hold back her laugh when Levi started choking on his own breath, his sharp inhale of shock getting caught in his throat.
âIâm sorry, Iâm sorry!â (Y/N) said with a cackle, smirking even more at the dirty glare he threw her as he coughed, âIt was a joke, I promise!â
âFucking hell, bratâŚâ Levi muttered, covering his face with his arm.
âYou did call me the woman of your dreams, though,â (Y/N) said quietly once her giggles had subsided, a light blush dusting her cheeks despite herself as she recalled the wonderful memory.
Levi didnât choke this time, but his eyes did go wide, his lips parting in shock. He knew she was being serious. Immediately, Levi was filled with a confusing blend of joy and horror, happiness that he had finally gotten the chance to tell her his true feelings about her, even in sleep, and horror that she had found out in the way she did, while he was unconscious and having an argument with Four Eyes about god knows what. Levi couldnât fight the blush that rose to his cheeks, his skin stained red as embarrassment washed over him.
He didnât know what to say. He was floundering, trying to think of something, anything to either confirm his sentiment or try to divert the conversation, but nothing was coming to mind. His brain was blank, nothing but the pounding of his heartbeat in his ears overwhelming his senses. Suddenly, a soft hand grasped his wrist, gently tugging on his arm until he had removed it from covering the silver eyes she loved so much. Leaning over him, her eyes were glazed with unshed tears as she locked her gaze with his, showing him all of the emotions she couldnât put into words before leaning down to kiss him.
He unintentionally let out a groan when her lips met his, his tongue immediately reaching out to dance with hers as they tasted each other, slow and sweet and loving. When they finally parted, both of them gasping for breath and smiling as if they had just found the way to world peace, Levi saw that a few tears had escaped to stain (Y/N)âs cheeks.
âI love you, Levi Ackerman. I love you for you and all of your little quirks, and I always will.â
Levi felt himself get choked up, but he swallowed past the lump in his throat, focused on making the goddess in his arms feel the same way she made him feel.
âI l-love you too, (Y/N), y-you really are the woman of my d-dreams.â
Levi hated that he stuttered, but he let out a sigh of relief as he finally managed to push the words past his lips. (Y/N) choked out a joyful sob as pride filled her chest like a roaring lion, making her skin glow as if she were something from a fairytale, taking Leviâs breath away. Sitting up, Levi met her half way for another soul-searing kiss, his heart calling out her name as he allowed himself to relax with the kiss, melting into her affection as if he were dipping into a warm sauna, his heart throbbing for the woman who was his entire world.
#captain levi x reader#captain levi fanfiction#Captain Levi#levi attack on titan#Levi fanfiction#levi#levi heichou#levi ackerman x reader#levi ackerman fanfiction#levi ackerman#reader insert#xreader#x reader#reader x levi#attack on titan#attack on titan x reader#attack on titan fanfiction#aot levi#aot fanfiction#AoT#snk fanfiction#snk x reader#snk levi#snk#snk imagines#shigeki no kyojin#request#levi x reader
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Do You Understand?
Chapter 1/9 - Link to MasterList in reblog
Summary: Connor knows he isnât the most.. knowledgeable... about emotions but that didnât mean he didnât understand them ever. If they werenât going to take him seriously then he wasnât even going to try interacting with them anymore. What could possibly go wrong?
Tw: Iâm placing all possible tws here that could apply to the story. Possible ableism (this is not explicit but what Connor goes through can be similar to it), dissociation, very emotionally harmful coping mechanisms. Self worth problems. Trauma responses that go unnoticed. Please let me know if I need to add any more.
This started as a vent fic that extended outward into comfort, it gets worse before it gets better.
Notes: This is my first multi chaptered fic, Iâve never done this before. I did write the whole story in entirety prior and scheduled the other chapters to slowly release. The original vent was honestly quite different than what ended up being written, and I donât know how it turned into this huge thing.
Also: There are no ships in this, this is all platonic. The only relationship status is that Hank is Connorâs dad even if they donât quite acknowledge it.
Also also: This is Connor Pov. We mainly focusing on his thought processes throughout and they arenât particularly healthy. (Connor also has ADHD)
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Connor knew he had trouble expressing and understanding his emotions. It wasn't a secret. He'd often find people looking at him with confusion, and sometimes wariness, with his lack of response to many things. He was a prototype. Sure he had one of the most advanced social relations software to date, but Cyberlife cut corners with the amount of articulation his face could produce, his current model wasn't meant to live long and to be disposable after all.
It doesn't help that he also just didn't know how to express what he was feeling in the limited ways he could. He "lived" most of his trial runs and current time in severe denial out of fear of deactivation so he'd rather ignore them than process them. It wasn't healthy but it was safe. Familiar.
That didn't mean he couldn't feel. He felt lots of things like guilt, hatred, fear, the occasional spark of joy. Too many things sometimes, in fact, that led him to having a nasty habit of adamantly ignoring it all, manually storing it away for later to keep his composer and stay in fully functioning order. Sure this led to people often ignoring his own desires and doing things that severely hurt him with no mention from him. But he was fine. He chose this after all.Â
However, even with all the quarantining and ignoring, he couldn't help the anger that bubbled under his skin and in his throat right now.Â
"Hank, I understand that you're angry but-"Â
"You think you understand? You don't understand a shit, Connor! How could you?! I get you're your own person and everything now, but I never see you express anything beyond mild displeasure!" Hank yelled back. Connor was glad they were at Hank's house at least to provide some sense of privacy but saying he felt unhappiness at being yelled at was an understatement.Â
Connor went to open his mouth in defense but Hank cut him off, "Of course you don't understand! How could you ever understand any emotions! You keep acting like a-" he suddenly went quiet, but Connor knew.Â
"Like a what, Lieutenant?" He asked, making sure to keep his LED a yellow slow turn, but he couldn't help how sharp his voice came out, how his eyes hardened to a fine point.Â
They stared at each other for several tense seconds before Hank seemed to deflate a bit and looked ashamed.Â
"Like a machine," he spat out, still tense and upset but his fury gone.Â
Connor simply nodded, quarantining what he could to not lash out and stood up silently.Â
"I will be taking Sumo out for a walk to allow for us to take a breather before we both do something we regret. I will return," he said, shoulders tense and voice strict. His movements felt stiff as he tried to hold himself back from continuing this fight, grabbing the leash and patting his side to call over the old dog.Â
"You can't just run away-" Hank tried, stepping closer as if to grab Connor's arm to stop him. But Connor's ice cold glare, almost threatening posture and clenched fists seemed to stop him. They kept forgetting that Connor wasn't just meant for integration but also intimidation, he once was a deviant (killer) hunter after all, and he can be intimidating when he so pleased. Hank seemed to suddenly remember the rumors of Gavin getting his ass handed to him by Connor in under a minute flat by how he backed away uncertain.
Connor left and came back a bit over half an hour later. Hank would apologize and Connor would accept it, even if that anger still simmered deep inside, and they'd go back to joking and discussing work matters like nothing happened. Friends sometimes fight after all. It was fine.
Despite how much Connor hated those accusations of him being incapable of understanding, they. Kept. Happening.Â
Not just with Hank but others as well. The people who he thought were his friends, the Jericrew, even Nines the RK900, kept pulling the same shit. Connor knew they all experienced deviancy differently than him, Nines also had the gift of a face with full articulation that he couldn't help but envy, but it irked him every time.Â
"Let's switch topics for Connor..."
"Oh I should have talked about this with someone else..."
"It was rude of me to assume you understand-"Â
"Oh.. Sorry I know you don't understand-"
"You know he doesn't understand-"
"He won't understand-"
"He can't understand-"Â
Each time he heard that word, understand, Connor felt that broiling anger rise just a bit more. Each time they never even asked how he felt before the assumption, he felt his trust disintegrate bit by bit. He was a master of masking his emotions to get the emotional responses he wanted, but even he had a limit when anytime he saw his friends he felt nothing but hateful bitterness below his false pleasantries. He even stopped willfully hanging out with all of them, even Hank, as it grew harder to fight down the urge to scream and yell and make them understand.Â
It all came to a head during a meeting with the Jericho leaders, Nines tagged along as well as he said how much he missed seeing him outside of work. They were discussing how to handle the androids that still had severely negative responses to humans after all this time since the revolution. He was in the middle of talking about a solution of creating areas in New Jericho that would absolutely not allow humans and could run independently when North rounded on him.
"I'm sorry," in a very much not sorry tone, "but how am I supposed to take your option any bit seriously when you don't understand any of these androids' struggles mister 'my best friend is a human'."
"North-" Markus warned. The others even tensed up staring at Connor.
"No seriously. He could never understand their struggles," North plowed forward with no hesitation.Â
Connor felt something snap inside of him. He felt his LED burn bright red, his back straighten, fists clenched, and his features shift into that bitter anger that he tried his best to keep under wraps. He could see how everyone grew more than just tense but wary even; he even saw a flash of fear in North's eyes.Â
They insisted he was nothing more than a machine who didn't understand. That he'll forever be Cyberlife's pet (killer) deviant hunter. So he'll show them the hunter that was conditioned, threatened, who thrived on his own anger and fear through every grueling training session. The side that he kept pushed down as much as he could.Â
He couldn't help the bitter laugh that came out of him, "understand... You know what? I'm starting to think I fucking hate that word."Â
He knew he was scaring them with how North backed away quickly and the others started coming forward as if to protect her from him. His anger worsened at that but a small part of him felt a bit of twisted satisfaction at how they're finally treating him seriously. He could even imagine Amanda whispering praises for being the threat they wanted from the back of his CPU.Â
"Has it never occurred to you that I might have problems with humans as well?" His hands expressed where his face couldn't, trying to contain the energy thrumming in his body, "has it never occurred to you what I might have gone through hm?Â
âOh wait. You never asked. You only accused. Have you ever thought about how my serial number has a 54 at the end of it? Did it ever occur to you that I have to exist with the memory of 53 deactivations constantly and the fear that I might be the 54th for merely breathing wrong? Who do you think did that? Who do you think reminded me day in and out that I was nothing but an expendable machine made to kill, to never ask questions because it meant deactivation or my internals torn out while I was awake. Humans. Humans did that but no, just because I trusted Hank not to do the same, I don't understand?"Â
He knew he was slowly growing erratic and unstable with how aggressively his hands moved and the way everyone backed away from him. The way he loomed over them with his presence didn't help their nerves he was sure. Or how he slowly stalked towards them as if a predator was cornering its prey. But he couldn't help it, the thrumming pulse in his core needed to come out and by hell was it coming out now.Â
"Not only that, but I apparently don't understand emotions too! I may be a deviant but emotions? They're off the table!" He couldn't help the second bitter laugh, a tinge hysterical, "no no. None of you took the time to ask me how I was handling these emotions and instead just assumed I didn't feel them! Because I'm âjust a machineâ. This guilt, fear, and self hatred I feel every waking moment? Lies because I'm just a machine. Even this anger I'm expressing right now? These are lies too aren't they? The nightmares I get of my countless deactivations and the numerous deaths that stain my hands? All just my programs malfunctioning because I'm just. A. Machine."Â
"We didn't... Connor we didn't know-" Nines started, his sadness and fear clear as day on his face like how they wanted Connor's to be. The others were solemnly nodding along too as if this would appease him.Â
"Because you never. Asked. Because none of you ever truly fucking cared!" Connor roared in response, slamming a fist down on the metal table next to him. All their eyes snapped and starred at the large dent he knew he left behind but he didn't care. He let himself breathe heavily, taking a second to find himself and his self restraint again.Â
And just like that, he locked up those pesky emotions like everyone expected him to. He knew the people before him didn't actually desire him to show any negative emotions just like them, they proved it just now with how they're looking at him. He took one final deep breath, fixed his tie and let his face slip back into its emotionless mask except the cold, closed off glare didn't leave. He even felt that that was going to be a permanent feature now after today and couldn't help the internal chuckle at the irony how he finally was showing the emotions they desperately wanted him to show.
No one said anything as he moved towards the door. There was still tension in the air, fear, anger and confusion swirled in various manners of their eyes. Nines seemed split on treating him like a threat and reaching out to him, maybe even to pity him. Markus also looked like he wanted to say something, but he just looked away in the end. North had fearful eyes but a look that seemed to say 'I was right we couldn't trust him'. Josh held Simon behind him, and he looked almost sad if his distrust didn't say otherwise. Simon refused to take his eyes off the clear fist shaped dent in the table, still as a statue. Connor vaguely wondered if they'd replace that table because of him just like how they so easily replaced him with Nines when given the chance.
No one made a move to stop him from leaving. He couldn't tell if it was out of fear of him showing those (killer) hunter colors again by snapping an arm or if they're realizing just how badly they fucked up. He couldn't tell which choice he wanted more either. He hoped it was the latter.
"You're all hypocrites. To me, you're all no better than them," was the last thing he hissed out before slamming the door closed behind him. He heard the way the frame and wall around the door shook and cracked from the force but again, he didn't care. He wasn't going to play nice anymore if this was how they felt like treating him. He was programmed to be amiable, calm but he was also programmed to be obedient and he knew how that went. A bit of anxiety existed of how much damage he did and how easily he almost lost control back there, but he just ignored it again as he rushed down the hall to leave.Â
No one followed him.
#i write#dbh#detroit: become human#connor rk800#hank anderson#connor rk900#markus rk200#north wr400#josh pj500#simon pl600#connor whump#connor angst#long post
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Summary: Jon goes back to before the world ended and tries to forge a different path.
Previous chapter: AO3 // tumblr
Chapter 17 full text & content warnings below the cut.
CWs for Chapter 17: panic/anxiety symptoms; brief mention of past self-harm (from last chapter); mention of past (canonical) blood/injury; brief allusion to past passive suicidal ideation; brief claustrophobia/Buried themes (in the context of a nightmare); some blink-and-you'll-miss-it internalized ableism re: ADHD (not explicitly stated as such); Jon-typical self-loathing, internalized victim blaming/dehumanization, etc.; discussion of low self-worth, fear of abandonment/rejection, and other Lonely themes; extensive discussion of Jon's statement consumption (so, general warning for restrictive behaviors re: 'eating' and self-hate re: addiction/compulsions); swears. SPOILERS through Season 5.
Chapter 17: Intervention
Even asleep, Jon is a flurry of movement. The muscles in his jaw tense repeatedly as he grinds his teeth; his limbs twitch and jerk and tremble; his fingers curl into his palms, fists clenching and relaxing at random intervals. The quick, erratic motions beneath his closed eyelids are accompanied by gasps and the occasional whimper. Impossibly, he looks even frailer than usual â folded in on himself and shivering despite the thick, oversized jumper engulfing his slight frame.
Martin sits on the floor with his side pressed up against the cot, his arm resting on top of it and his eyes riveted on the few inches of space between Jon and himself. Part of him wants to reach out, to soothe away the varying shades of distress flitting their way across Jonâs face; another part of him, quieter but nonetheless insistent on making its existence known, tugs him in the opposite direction, urging him to widen that handspan of distance between them into a chasm. Something about Jonâs ragged breathing keeps Martin rooted in place, his heart skipping a beat any time the pauses between breaths stretch just a little too long for comfort.
At least heâs breathing at all, Martin thinks with a pang. His hand twitches in an unconscious desire to check for a pulse â some secondary sign to reassure him that Jon really is just sleeping.
At the gentle knock-knock on the doorframe, Martin jumps. The door to Document Storage, already cracked an inch or so, creaks as it swings wider.
âJon?â Georgie calls softly, peeking through the gap. âYou in here? I was just â oh,â she says when she sees Martin. An instant later she notices Jon, tossing and turning on the cot behind him. âWhat happened? Is he okay?â
âHe⌠well, heâs fine now. I think. Just⌠sleeping.â
âWait,â she says, fully entering the room and approaching to watch Jon with genuine astonishment, âyou actually got him to sleep?â
âNot really? He was having trouble staying vertical, so I told him he should lie down until the vertigo passed, andâŚâ Martin shrugs. Heâs still taken aback by the fact that Jon complied without argument. âI donât think he was planning on falling asleep, but he was out as soon as his head hit the pillow.â Jonâs fingers spasm, brow wrinkling as he cringes and curls into a tighter ball. Martin sighs. âDoesnât look very restful, though.â
âOh, heâs always been a fitful sleeper. Even back in uni. He didnât used to be that bad, though. Or â he was, but in short bursts. Not⌠drawn out like this. Heâd usually wake himself up after a minute or so ofâŚâ She frowns as Jon goes taut in a full-body spasm. âThat.â
âI guess the Eye doesnât want the dream to end,â Martin says quietly. Jon twists his fingers against the sheets, gathering the fabric in a death grip. Martinâs hand twitches again, inching just a bit closer to Jonâs. He resists the urge to uncurl Jonâs fingers, to give him a hand to hold instead.
âLast I checked, the nightmares werenât as nightmarish anymore,â Georgie says. âI mean, by his own admission, he treated mine and Naomiâs dreams like social calls.â
Martin tears his eyes away from Jon to glance at Georgie, a puzzled expression on his face. âNaomi?â
âNaomi Herne. He said hers was the first statement he took in person.â
âYeah, back when he was still putting on the skeptic act. And she filed a complaint against him for beingâŚâ Martin smiles and shakes his head. âWell, Jon.â
âIâm not surprised,â Georgie says with an amused snort. âThey seem pretty friendly now, though.â
âWhat, seriously?â
âYeah. They do have a similar sense of humor. She doesnât seem to scare easy, which probably helps. And she has a cat, soâŚâ
âWhat does that have to do with anything?â
âJon⌠has trouble initiating when it comes to having a social life,â Georgie says slowly. âJust wanting to talk doesnât strike him as a good enough reason to start a conversation. He worries heâll just be an annoyance. Itâs like he needs to come up with some concrete justification for reaching out. But Naomi is always excited to talk about the Duchess â thatâs her cat â which means Jon is less likely to feel like heâs bothering her. Which also makes him less likely to talk himself out of sending a text. Plus, itâs a safe, normal thing to talk about, and he loves cats, soâŚâ She shrugs. âItâs good for him.â
âHuh.â
âYeah. Gives her an excuse to stay in touch, too, I think.â Georgie gives Martin a significant look. âLonely, you know?â
âIâŚâ Martin rubs the back of his neck, not meeting her eye. âYeah.â
âAnyway, I thought⌠well, he said the nightmares werenât as bad as they used to be.â Georgie frowns as she watches Jonâs lips twist, his teeth bared as he sucks in a sharp breath. âI donât know. At least heâs actually sleeping. I donât think heâs slept for more than forty minutes at a time since he got out of the hospital.â
âThat was nearly a month ago.â Martin gapes at her, horrified. âHow has he even been able to function with that level of sleep deprivation?â
âThe same way he survived for six months without a heartbeat. And why he has to consciously remind himself to breathe sometimes, and has a tendency to forget to blink, and doesnât have much of an appetite for normal food anymore. Heâs not fully human ââ
Georgie must sense Martin preparing to go on the offensive, because she holds up both hands palms-out, placating.
âIâm not saying that heâs inhuman, either. He might be convinced that heâs more monster than human, but heâs still a person. Heâs just⌠different now, and heâs resigned to that, but he hasnât yet gotten it through his head that there are people who will accept him regardless.â She sighs. âMy original point was that he doesnât have the same physiological needs that most people do. But he still does need to sleep from time to time. Sleep deprivation clearly takes a toll on him.â
âFigures,â Martin huffs, blowing hair out of his eyes. âHeâs always treated sleep as optional.â
âYeah,â Georgie says with a laugh. âHeâs operated on a bare minimum of sleep for as long as Iâve known him. Part casual self-neglect, part allergy to the general concept of resting, and part legitimate insomnia. I told him more than once he should get evaluated for a sleep disorder, but⌠well, you know Jon. And now that he really does need less sleep than the average person, of course heâs pushing the limits even further.â
Martin looks down at Jon and thinks, as he has countless times before: He really does make it so damn difficult to take care of him.
Itâs simultaneously heartbreaking and frustrating, even irritating at times â but somehow, whenever Jon doubles down, it only makes Martin do the same. Itâs become such a familiar dance, a challenge even, and more often than not, Martin wins those contests of will: badger Jon persistently enough, strike just the right balance between expressing worry and wagging a finger, and eventually heâll agree to take care of himself. In the beginning, he would grump and roll his eyes and drag his feet; as time went on, though, he became more receptive to it. Some days, he even seemed to enjoy â albeit in a guarded, almost shy way â being cajoled into sharing lunch or tea or conversation.
Unthinkingly, Martin brushes a lock of hair away from Jonâs forehead, damp with cold sweat. Wishes he could smooth the tension away as easily.
âDid you two talk about things?â Georgie asks.
âSome of it.â
âDo you want to talk about it?â
âIâŚâ Martin bites his lip. âI feel like I shouldnât want to, but I â I sort of do?â
âWell. I have some time to listen.â Georgie takes a seat towards the foot of the cot. âHowâd it go? Bearing in mind this isnât the tunnels.â
âItâs⌠a lot.â
âMm. I can imagine.â
âI mean, heâŚâ Martin runs a hand through his hair with a disbelieving, nervous chuckle. âHe told me he wants to grow old with me?â
âHe said that?â Georgie laughs outright. âGod, heâs gotten even more saccharine than I thought.â
âItâs just â not something I would have ever imagined him saying? To anyone, let alone me.â Martin can feel his palms sweating now; he rubs them on his trousers, hoping to dispel some of the clamminess. âHe just seems so⌠changed.â
âHe is, but⌠maybe not as drastically as it might seem. Rather, this is him, just â without all the walls.â Georgie chuckles, shaking her head. âAnd less of a filter, apparently. Sorry.â
âSorry?â Martin repeats, perplexed.
âHeâs dumping a lot on you all at once. I can talk to him, if you want. Tell him to slow down, give you some space to process it all.â
âI⌠I donâtâŚâ Martin pauses, coming up against an invisible wall between a daunting realization and the explicit acknowledgment thereof. He makes several abortive attempts at speech before he manages to voice the confession: âI donât think I want him to?â
Left to himself for too long, Martin can feel himself start to come unmoored. The truth the Lonely is so loathe to have him accept, let alone speak aloud, is this: he doesnât want that to happen. Not anymore. Being in the presence of others, actively taking part in a conversation, seeking comfort in touch â all of these things still feel grating, unnatural even, but a return to solitude frightens him in a way it hasnât for months. Itâs an old terror, one that he had become numb to since accepting the Lonelyâs embrace. Now, it seems to have returned with a vengeance. The lingering, ambient discomfort that comes with human connection is quickly becoming preferable to that looming fear of absence.
Still, thoughâŚ
âIt feels like â going against my nature, every minute I spend talking to him, to you, to⌠anyone, really. I think I just⌠forgot how not to be alone?â
On some level, Martin wonders whether he ever knew in the first place. Heâs had friends, certainly, but every relationship, no matter how ostensibly reciprocal, has been laced with an undercurrent of insecurity: a loud, nagging voice in the back of his mind, reminding him of the consequences should he allow himself to be too much or not enough. Always primed for rejection, he strove to make himself pleasant, to make himself useful, to make himself accommodating and unobtrusive and easy. Sometimes, he felt like an impostor, fooling people into believing that he was worth keeping around. He was always counting down the moments until someone would see through the façade to the inadequacy within, realize he wasnât worth the trouble, and leave him behind.
âThe Lonely⌠I donât think I want it anymore,â he says, âbut it feels â wrong, to leave it behind. Not me, somehow.â
âHmm.â Georgie drums her fingers against her chin. âI can understand that. Isolation can become so habitual that it starts to feel like home, and anything trying to break through feels like an invasion. You start to feel safer alone, and you deny those moments when you catch yourself wishing things were different, because loneliness has become such a part of you that you donât know who you would be without it.â
âI⌠yeah,â Martin says, taken aback by having it laid out so succinctly.
âIn my experience, it helps to remind yourself that your brain is lying to you when it tells you youâd be better off alone. In your case, I guess itâs your brain and a supernatural fear god or whatever, but⌠unless youâre keen to fight a god, it might be best to start with your brain. Thatâs something you actually can exert some control over, with enough practice. And I think it might make it harder for the fear to get to you if youâre not trapped in the kind of mindset it thrives on.â
âI guess,â Martin says, looking off to the side. Once again, he rests his arm on the cot, his hand mere inches away from Jonâs, sheet still clenched tightly in his fist.
âBut you donât have to take it on all at once,â Georgie says. âIf you have to set boundaries, Jon will understand. And even if he didnât, you still have a right to enforce them. Not to sound clichĂŠ, but you shouldnât set yourself on fire to keep others warm.â
The problem is, of course, that the concept of putting himself first is as alien to Martin as the idea of being⌠well, not lonely.
âI can hear the cogs turning,â Georgie says with a gentle smile. âLook, itâs easier to accept a concept intellectually than it is to actually apply it to yourself. Thereâs a learning curve. But itâs a lesson worth learning. Took me way too long to learn it myself. If it helps, start with â to use another clichĂŠ â âput your own oxygen mask on before helping others with theirs.â Then you can move onto practicing self-care without feeling guilty.â
âWhat are you, a therapist?â
âNope. Iâve just had several years of experience being on the receiving end.â
âO-oh. Uh, sorry ââ
âDonât be. Itâs not something to be ashamed of. Anyway, at this point, I could probably fill out CBT worksheets in my sleep. With enough practice, it does start to become intuitive.â She shrugs. âAnyway, you canât fix Jon, and I donât think he expects you to. You can support him, you can care about him, but you canât make him better. Thatâs true in any relationship, but⌠well, obviously itâs â a bit more complicated in this case.â
âI just⌠I want him to be okay, and I donât know how to help ââ Martin startles when Jon kicks one leg out violently, entangling himself in the sheets as he pulls it back and curls into himself again. Martin lowers his voice. âHe â he was so starving he passed out, Georgie, he wasnât breathing and it was like the hospital all over again and â and I donât think I have any other stories I can tell that would count as statements ââ
âWait, you gave him a statement?â
âY-yeah.â
âI thought he didnât want ââ
âI donât know if he would have agreed if he was conscious, but he⌠he wasnât waking up, and I didnât know what else to do,â Martin says pleadingly, watching Georgie carefully to gauge her reaction. âHe needed a fresh statement. Old statements arenât enough, and he said new ones cause nightmares regardless of whether he takes them in person or not, so we canât just give him new written statements that come in, and I â I donât know what weâre going to do if he gets that bad again.â
Martin remembers the look in Jonâs eyes: glossy, glazed and almost luminous with an alien sort of hunger, but shot through with a terror more devastating than Martin had ever seen from him. The unflinching intent with which he hurt himself; the erratic rhythm of his breathing; the way his dilated pupils swallowed the irises just before he fell unconscious. He was lost to the world in those moments, alert but unresponsive, seemingly unable to hear a word Martin was saying.
And the abject horror on his face when he commanded Martin to stay awayâŚ
âHe was⌠he was so scared. Of himself. He doesnât want to hurt anyone, but he â he canât think straight when heâs like that.â
âShit,â Georgie says, pinching the bridge of her nose.
âI think working in the archives gives some immunity? Iâve given a few statements, before we knew how all this works, and he never showed up in my nightmares. Timâs or Sashaâs, either, as far as I know. And I actually⌠well, I donât actually mind giving him statements, to be honest? Itâs â hard, to relive it, but itâs⌠cathartic, too. To get it all out, to be able to actually â describe it in words. Maybe Iâd feel differently if I came in off the street â or was approached â and I didnât know him, and wasnât protected from the side effects, but â as it is, I would be fine giving him statements when he needs them, and thatâs not â thatâs not a huge sacrifice on my part, is what Iâm saying. But I donât⌠I donât think I have any more stories to give.â
âOkay,â Georgie mutters to herself, rubbing her temples. âOkay. We⌠weâll figure something out. Obviously, Jon needs to be part of that conversation. Maybe Daisy, too â Jon seems to trust her.â
âWhy would he trust her?â Martin asks, incredulous, almost incensed. âShe kidnapped him. She â she slit his throat, she was going to ââ
âI know. I donât really understand it either. But supposedly sheâs changed a lot, and sheâs an Avatar like he is. I get the feeling he might want her there.â
âFine,â Martin says in a clipped voice, even though fine seems like a wildly inaccurate descriptor to him. âWhat about Basira? And Melanie?â
âMelanie⌠with Jonâs permission, Iâll invite her, just so sheâs not out of the loop, but I doubt sheâll take us up on it.â Georgie frowns, rubbing her jaw absently. âAs for Basira⌠I donât know. Something Jon saidâŚâ
âWhat?â
âIâmâŚâ Georgie pauses, tilting her head from side to side as she deliberates. âConcerned. About how Basira might approach the situation.â
It takes a few seconds for Martin to work out the implication. When he does, he pales, mouth going slack.
âYou â you donât think sheâd hurt him?â
âI donât think so,â Georgie says haltingly, âbut thereâs a chance she might put the option back on the table if she thinks heâs too dangerous. She wouldnât like it, but⌠well, she seems utilitarian. I think sheâll do whatever she thinks she needs to do. And even if she doesnât threaten him directly, I stillâŚâ She sighs. âJonâs not in a good place right now, mentally. Frankly, I worry about exposing him to anything that might encourage a better-off-dead mindset, even if itâs just⌠perceived condemnation.â
âGod, thisâŚâ Martin laughs, high and stressed. âThis entire situation isâŚâ
âI know. But weâll figure something out. And in the meantime, make sure to take care of yourself too, alright?â
âYeah,â Martin says, only half-listening.
âI mean it. Jon cares about you. He wouldnât want you to run yourself into the ground on his behalf.â
Before Martin can respond, Jon jumps in his sleep again with a strangled gasp. Flinging one arm out, his hand brushes against Martin and seizes a fistful of his sleeve. Tightening his grip, he tugs on Martinâs arm to bring it closer, practically hugging it in a vice grip. Almost instantly Jon calms, tense muscles relaxing, pained expression going slack, a relieved sigh shuddering out of him as he nuzzles into the crook of Martinâs elbow.
Martin can feel his cheeks burning. He shoots a preemptive glower in Georgieâs direction, daring her to laugh â but she only smiles.
âWell, Iâll leave you to it,â she says, rising to her feet. âText me when heâs awake, will you?â
âY-y-yeah,â Martin stammers. âIâll â Iâll see you later.â
He barely notices her departure, instead staring down at Jon with a vague sense of wonder. Jon holds fast to him like heâs a lifeline, and Martin can feel him breathing warm and steady through the fabric of his sleeve. The cold sweat on his brow seems to be evaporating now. Martin shifts his position to more fully face the cot. As he reaches up with his free hand to brush away the hair clinging to Jonâs forehead, a slow, shy smile begins to spread across Martinâs face.
It wonât be long before Jon succumbs to another fit of tossing and turning, but in the meantime, Martin simply watches him with faint awe and renewed affection. Heâs never seen Jon look so at peace, and he takes the opportunity to memorize the sight.
When another shard of the Lonely shatters and crumbles away, Martin is too preoccupied to note its passing.
With a startled yelp, Jon sits bolt upright. Gulping down air in deep, ragged breaths, he looks wildly around the room, not taking anything in: itâs all visual noise, smudges of loud colors and sinister shadows, all of it closing in and bearing down on him.
Something next to him â close too close too close â moves abruptly, rising up and looming over and settling down beside him. Jon cringes away, only to find that his legs are pinned together by something, restricting his movement, and thereâs dirt in his mouth, and dirt in his throat, and dirt in his lungs, and he cannot breathe, cannot breathe, cannot breathe, cannot breathe â
âJon,â comes a voice â somehow both close and far away. âListen, youâre â youâre okay, youâre safe.â
Trapped in that liminal twilight haze between sleep and waking, Jon gropes blindly for a handhold, an anchor, something real and solid and â
His hand collides with something soft, warm â wool, his mind supplies, and then:
âŚwool is able to absorb nearly one-third of its weight in waterâŚ
He shakes his head to chase away the stray scrap of trivia, digging his fingers into the fabric to ground himself.
âIt was just a dream,â says the voice again â a kind voice, a safe voice â and Jon takes a shuddering breath, like a drowning man clawing for air.
Then a hand closes over his, and that light pressure is enough plunge Jon right back below the surface. He thrashes violently, desperate to break away from the throbbing litany of too close cannot move trapped held pinned in place screeching metal crushing in and down and down and down and Karolina beholds her encroaching fate with tranquil acceptance and the Archivist feels her skull crack and her chest cave in and her lungs collapse and still she smiles and she watches as the Archivist flails uselessly for an escape that does not will not cannot exist and the door bulges and splinters and explodes inward and the deluge rushes in and the Archivist is drowning, drowning, drowning â
The hand draws back, the pressure lifts, the train car finally collapses, and the last remnants of hazy sleep begin to disintegrate.
âS-sorry, I didnât mean to â itâs â itâs just me, Jon.â
âMartin?â Jon chokes out, tightening his grasp on Martinâs jumper â wool, warm, soft, safe â still bunched in one hand. He reaches out his other arm to find a second handhold.
âYeah. I â I wonât hurt you.â
Safe.
âI know,â Jon says groggily. The tension drains away and he sags against Martinâs side, breathing in slow, deliberate swallows. ââM sorry. Dream.â
The first time heâs slept, truly slept since leaving the hospital, and of course it had to be while Karolina GĂłrka was dreaming. Of course.
âDo you⌠want to talk about it?â
âBuried,â Jon mumbles, face partially burrowed in Martinâs shoulder. Self-explanatory, he figures.
âOh,â Martin says in a broken whisper. Jon opens one eye to see an expression of helpless pity on Martinâs face. âThatâsâŚâ
ââS okay,â Jon assures. âIâm okay.â
Reluctantly, he releases his hold on Martin and leans away. When he stretches â partly out of habit, partly to reassure himself that he can â thereâs still something pinioning his legs. A spark of panic tears through him before he realizes that itâs just the sheets, tangled hopelessly around his lower half. With some difficulty, he manages to extricate himself and kick the blankets away.
âHow long was I out?â
âCouple hours.â
âHave you just been sitting here the whole time?â Jon frowns apologetically. âYou couldâve woken me.â
âWake you when you were actually sleeping for once? Uh, no. How are you feeling?â
âBetter,â Jon says simply. âIâd like to know how youâre doing.â
âIâm â fine,â Martin says. Jon raises an eyebrow. âReally, I â I am. Iâm more worried about ââ
âMe, I know. And Iâm worried about you. I⌠donât think youâre just âfine.ââ Martin gives a noncommittal grunt. âI really would like to know where you are in all this. How youâre faring. How I can help.â
Martin remains silent, lips pressed tightly together as if to seal them.
âI know I was â distracted, earlier, but I⌠I really do want to help,â Jon tries again. âPlease let me help?â
Something finally gives and Martin slouches with a sigh.
âIâm⌠still trying to figure it all out,â he says slowly. âI donât know what Iâm feeling most of the time, besides⌠worried, andâŚâ
âLonely.â
âYeah,â Martin says with a wistful smile.
âYou donât have to be,â Jon says quietly.
âI know.â
âIâm not â Iâm not trying to ââ Jon sighs. âI just⌠I need you to know.â
âI know,â Martin says again.
Jon bites back the nagging impulse to ask all the questions itching on his tongue: Have you decided what to do about Peter? How Lonely are you now? Do you need closeness or distance? What should I be doing, or not doing? What can I do to take care of you? Where do we stand?
What do you see, when you look at me?
Jon looks away and shuts his eyes.
âIâm sorry you had to see me like that, by the way. It wasnât my intention to frighten you. Or toâŚâ He swallows, fighting back the nausea rising in him. âTo compel you.â
âItâs alright ââ
âItâs not,â Jon says brusquely. He makes a conscious effort to soften his tone before he continues. âI donât want to be the thing that frightens you.â
âYouâre not,â Martin says with a bemused frown. âI know you didnât mean to use your powers on me.â
âYou were afraid. I couldâŚâ Jon closes his eyes again and forces himself to say the words. âI could taste it.â
And the Archivist in him savored it.
âI wasnât afraid of you, Jon. I was afraid for you. You looked terrified, and in pain, and you were hurting yourself, and I didnât know how to help, and then I didnât know if you were going to wake up, and⌠thatâs what scared me.â Jonâs skepticism must show on his face, because thereâs an intensity to the words when Martin reiterates: âNot you. Never you.â
âNever say never,â Jon says with a brittle, self-deprecating smile.
âIâm serious, Jon.â
So am I.
âI⌠I think we need to talk about where to go from here,â Martin says after a moment, averting his eyes.
âI agree.â
âYou do?â Martin looks back to him, blinking in surprise.
âYes,â Jon says, adjusting his position to sit cross-legged and pivoting to face Martin fully. âThe others need to know what happened. I canât be trusted not to hurt anyone ââ
âNo, thatâs not what I ââ Martin sighs. âIâm worried about what could happen if things get that bad again.â
âThatâs what Iâm saying. I came dangerously close to â to relapsing. We need some plan in place, some way to keep me contained so that I donât ââ
âStop, stop, stop,â Martin says, holding up a hand. Jon tilts his head, bewildered. âIâm not â Iâm not talking about keeping you contained, Jon. Iâm worried about you. This goes beyond a compulsion you can beat with enough willpower. You were starving. You⌠you could have died.â
âWe donât know that.â
âExactly! We donât know, and I donât want to find out.â
âWell, yes, but ââ
âNo âbut.â There has to be some way to keep you fed without hurting anyone. We just need to ââ
âMartin, terror and suffering is the entire point. Thatâs what sustains it. Mine, my victimâs, doesnât matter as long as it hurts.â Jon laughs, hollow and bitter. âItâs not like thereâs an ethical way to â to harvest trauma ââ
âWe donât know that for sure,â Martin says fiercely, âand Iâm not ready to just give up. I would hope you arenât, either.â
âIâŚâ Jon busies himself with tucking a flyaway lock of hair behind his ear, using it as an excuse to break eye contact.
âPlease, Jon.â
Martin takes his hand, prompting Jon to look up again. A familiar guilt rises up in him, shame at always being the one to put that expression of desperate worry on Martinâs face.
Itâs enough to make him agree, albeit in a whisper, âOkay.â
âRight,â Martin says, giving Jonâs hand a brief squeeze. âGeorgie and I were talking while you were asleep. She wants to be part of the discussion, so long as youâre alright with it.â
âOf course. We should probably tell Daisy and Basira as well.â
Martin appears to hesitate.
âI was thinking the three of us can meet first,â he says carefully, âand then we can open up the discussion after.â
âWhy?â Jon observes the slight concavity that forms as Martin chews the inside of his cheek. âMartin?â
âGeorgieâs worried about Basiraâs reaction,â Martin says abruptly, âand honestly, so am I.â
âShe needs to know.â
âI â I know, itâs justâŚâ
âWe have so few allies; we canât afford secrecy and mistrust. AndâŚâ
And of all of them, Basira is the one Jon can trust to do what must be done if things go wrong. If he goes wrong.
âBasira is a strategist,â he says. âSheâs good at viewing a problem from multiple angles, considering all the variables, predicting potential solutions and outcomes and then weighing them with a⌠pragmatic eye.â
âThe pragmatism is what worries me.â
âI want her there,â Jon says simply.
âOkay,â Martin says, but Jon can tell heâs not thrilled about it. âWhat about Daisy?â
âYes,â Jon says, not missing a beat. At that, Martin somehow manages to look even less thrilled.
âAnd Melanie?â
âI⌠Iâm alright with her being there, but I donât want her to feel pressured. Sheâs dealing with enough as it is.â
âOkay. I can let everyone know, but I think you should get some more rest before ââ
âNo.â
âJon ââ
âI need to confront this now. While Iâm still⌠in my right mind,â Jon says, plucking absently at his sleeve with his free hand. âSober.â
For a brief second, Martin looks ready to argue, but then he capitulates with a sigh.
âOkay,â he says, releasing Jonâs hand and standing up. âIâll⌠round everyone up, I suppose.â
âThank you,â Jon murmurs.
Martin glances back several times as he leaves the room. Jon waits until heâs out of sight before he puts his face in his hands, sighs, and tries to brace himself for a conversation he dreads almost as much as the Coffin.
A short time later, the group â minus Melanie â convenes in the tunnels, five chairs arranged in a loose circle with a sixth left empty off to the side. Sitting almost directly across from Jon, Basira watches him with eyes narrowed, arms folded, and mouth pressed into a firm line.
âWhat do you mean you âalmostâ relapsed?â
âMartin suggested reading a new statement that came in earlier this evening,â Jon tells her in a straightforward near-monotone. Pushing through the discomfort it brings, he forces himself to meet her eyes when he speaks. âI agreed, without informing him that reading a fresh written statement has the same repercussions that taking a live statement in person does. I was going to feed, knowing that it would hurt an innocent person.â
âBut you didnât,â Martin says emphatically. âYou stopped yourself.â
âOnly because Helen pointed out the cognitive dissonance. Took a monster to remind me not to be a monster.â Jon scoffs. âEven then, I almost did it anyway.â
âBut you didnât,â Martin repeats.
âWhat about next time?â Basira asks, unimpressed. âWhen you get hungry again, what then?â
âThatâs what weâre here to discuss,â Georgie says, assuming the role of mediator the moment she notices Martinâs scowl deepen. âWe need to find some way to keep things from getting that bad in the first place.â
Thoroughly unnerved, Jon squirms in his seat. Basira has had him pinned under her stare for several minutes now, and she seems unlikely to cut him free any time soon. But what right does he have to object to scrutiny, given what he is?
âWhat did you do with the statement?â Basira demands. âThe one you were going to read?â
âI⌠asked Martin to burn it.â
Her eyes flick to Martin. âAnd did you?â
âN-not yet ââ
âBurn it. As soon as weâre done here.â She shifts her attention back to Jon. âIs there an alternative to new statements?â
Jon doesnât miss a beat when he answers, matter-of-fact: âNo.â
âJon,â Martin and Georgie say simultaneously, with the tenor of a reprimand.
âIâm not â Iâm not trying to be difficult,â he replies, finally breaking eye contact with Basira to look down at his hands. âItâs just⌠reality. Iâm an Archive dedicated the curation of statements â of fear.â
âYou never actually explained what that means,â Basira says. âYou being the Archive.â
âItâs⌠hard to put into words.â
âTry.â
Jon sighs, taking a moment to collect his thoughts.
âThe Archive is more than â paper and files and tapes. The reason it needs to be housed in a living mind rather than a mere building is because the statements themselves have a living quality to them.â He crosses his arms, brow furrowing as he struggles with his phrasing. âThey need to be immersed in a steady supply of fear. A shelving unit, a filing cabinet, a hard drive, a cassette tape â those canât provide the ideal habitat that they need to thrive. The Archivist is ââ
ââ simply a battery, a ready source of constant terror ââ
He cuts the Archive off with a frustrated snarl, digging his fingernails into his arms.
âHey,â Georgie says gently, âyouâre alright. Take your time.â
Jon has to spend a few minutes counting breaths before he feels ready to try again.
âWhat I was ââ He cuts himself off preemptively, half-expecting the Archive to intrude again. Once he realizes the words are his own, he clears his throat to recover from the false start. âWhat I was trying to say is â without a living consciousness to contextualize them, the statements are just⌠stories. When I consume a statement â read it, hear it, doesnât matter â I See the events play out through the victimâs eyes. My lived experience of it is essential to the recording and preservation of the story. I need to be able to recall how it feels, not just summarize the major points of interest.â He sighs again. âAnd⌠thatâs also the point of reliving the events in the nightmares. All of it is to keep the memory fresh. To keep the story â the fear â alive.â
When he looks up to see all four of them staring at him, he begins to rub his arms absently, increasingly self-conscious. He can feel the semicircle grooves leftover from where his fingernails cut into the skin.
âSo⌠yeah,â he finishes awkwardly. âThe Archive is defined by the statements and the fear that embodies them. The Beholding always hungers for more, and the Archive is a⌠a receptacle for all of its knowledge. The continual curation of new statements is what sustains it. Without that, it withers.â
âAnd dies?â Basira asks.
The question isnât unkind, per se, simply businesslike: an eagerness to discover an answer heedless of whatever messy emotions it might elicit. Jon understands that impulse all too well. Not for the first time, he wonders whether Jonah had a secondary, hidden motive for recruiting Basira: a backup Archivist, in the event that his first choice be unable to endure the process.
âI still donât know if it would physically kill me,â he replies, âbut the hungrier I get, the more I forget myself. Iâm liable to do things that I wouldnât normally do, monstrous things.â He huffs. âAnd at the same time, giving in to that hunger will also make me more monstrous over time. It seems like⌠either way, I â I canât avoid losing sight of⌠well, me. The human part of me. Whateverâs left of it.â
And wouldnât losing himself be a death of sorts?
In a way, Daisy died the moment the Hunt recaptured her. What she became was her, undoubtedly, but only a small piece of her. The creature that Basira eventually killed⌠it was an echo of all the hated, feared parts of herself that Daisy had tried so hard to starve out. The rest of her â all the things that altogether made her Daisy â had long since been burned away.
If Jon didnât manage to find a way out of that doomed future, he suspects that his ultimate fate may have been similar: all the fragile scraps of himself that still belonged to him, every sliver of personal identity, every shred of humanity crushed and buried beneath an ever-swelling ocean of dispassionate knowledge. The Archive would have carried on expanding and curating until, one day, it would have either collapsed under its own weight or simply run out of things to catalogue, then to waste away â but by then, it would have borne no resemblance to the original owner of its ravaged vessel.
Some endings play out in merciless increments. Jon has witnessed â has caused â more than his fair share of pointless, drawn out suffering. It would have been only fitting for his end to follow a similar path.
âWell, shit,â Basira mutters.
âWhat about statements given consensually?â Martin asks tentatively. âThe one I gave you seemed to satisfy the Archive, or â or however you want to call it. And in the past when Iâve given you statements, they never gave me nightmares, soâŚâ
âAnyone aligned with the Eye has a measure of protection from the Archivist,â Jon answers. âI was never privy to Timâs or Sashaâs nightmares, either. Once Melanie and Basira started working here, their dreams were cut off from me as well. And⌠last time, Daisy ended up signing an employment contract after returning from the Buried. Same result.â
âIs it just the archival staff, or any Institute employee?â Basira asks.
âI⌠donât know,â Jon says thoughtfully. âIf I had to hazard a guess, I would say that itâs restricted to those most strongly connected with the Eye. Archival assistants, primarily. Possibly the research department, or at least those individuals who are the most⌠compatible with the Beholding, so to speak, though Iâm not positive.â
Now that the question has been posed, Jon craves an answer.
âBut â but experimenting isnât worth the risk,â he says, mostly in an attempt to dissuade himself from pursuing the matter any further. Heâs pleasantly surprised to hear the confidence in his own voice.
As if satisfied with that answer, Basira gives a tiny nod. Jon doubts itâs meant as a vote of confidence or as approval, but her posture does relax somewhat. He doubts that she trusts him by any stretch of the imagination, but for the moment she seems to have decided that he isnât an imminent threat, at least.
It feels remarkably, disconcertingly like passing a test he didnât realize was in progress.
Georgieâs eyes are fixed on the floor, her chin propped in her hand and a contemplative pout on her face. Martin has his lips pressed together, as if biting back an objection. Daisy is the only one looking directly at Jon. She hasnât said a word since Jon gave his confession, but now her head cocked slightly to the side, as if she's weighing her words.
âI have a lot of stories from my Sectioned days,â she muses. âI could ââ
âWhat would you say if I told you that you should go hunt a few monsters?â Jon says immediately.
âIâŚâ Daisy stalls for a moment, and then gives a resigned sigh, understanding. âI would be worried that I wouldnât be able to stop at a few,â she says grudgingly. Her shoulders slump as she adds, âOr at monsters.â
âExactly.â
âBut wouldnât it be different?â she asks, perking up again. âThe prey doesnât consent to the hunt. The fear is taken, not freely given. But a statement â that can be consensual.â
âThe Hunt cares about the terror of the prey in the moment. The Eye cares about the terror of the victim in the retelling. The consent aspect is only relevant in terms of whether and how it influences the fear. The fear is all they care about, and I doubt anything benign can come of consuming the fear our patrons want, consensual or no.â
âDo you remember what I said about harm reduction?â Georgie has been sitting quietly with her thoughts for so long, Jon startles at the sound of her voice when she rejoins the conversation. âWe need to keep you from getting so hungry that it changes who you are, and new statements are the only way to satisfy that hunger. Correct?â
âWell, yes, but ââ
âNo âbut.â According to you, right now your options are statements or starvation.â
Struck with a fleeting impulse for petulance, Jon has to swallow a biting retort. Itâs an old habit, hackles rising at having his own words turned against him â something for which Georgie has always had an aptitude. Between an impressive memory, an analytical nature, and a tolerance for confrontation, sheâs never been shy to speculate on whatâs really going on in Jonâs head at any given moment. That ability to dissect his motivations and insecurities and cognitive distortions â it used to feel like being flayed alive, all the vulnerable bits of him exposed and shoved under a spotlight.
Itâs probably fair to say that his inability to weather that level of scrutiny was a big factor contributing to their eventual breakup: his guarded nature was incompatible with her more straightforward approach to relationships.
âI realize itâs not ideal,â sheâs saying now, âbut taking statements given with informed consent seems like the most ethical choice.â
âIt isnât just unideal, itâs â itâs ââ Jon puts one hand over his eyes, rubbing his forehead and fighting back the urge to shout. âThis isnât a solution.â
Itâs still feeding the Eye. Itâs still capitalizing on other peopleâs trauma. And the stories Daisy has to offer⌠Jon has to wonder how many of them feature Daisy as a victim or a bystander, and whether those outnumber the ones where she herself is the object of fear. Heâs taken statements from Avatars before. Some of them were indeed stories of experiencing fear firsthand. Others, though⌠the fear threaded through the statement came not from the teller, but from their victims.
Jon isnât keen on siphoning off the secondhand terror of Daisyâs prey. Maybe he canât afford to be picky, but if thereâs one thing heâs learned, itâs that lines have to be drawn somewhere.
âWe can keep looking for a better alternative,â Georgie says, âbut for now⌠think of it as a stopgap measure.â Sensing Jonâs continued aversion to the idea, she continues: âIf your own wellbeing isnât enough to convince you, consider how you starving would affect other people.â
âIt might make me more dangerous,â Jon says quietly.
âI mean â maybe, I guess? But thatâs not what I meant.â At Jonâs blank expression, Georgie sighs. âWhen you suffer, it hurts more than just you. You have people who care about you. Theyâre sitting with you right now.â
âStill, I â I canât ask that of ââ
âOh, come off it, Sims,â Daisy says, rolling her eyes. âYou crawled into hell to drag me out when all Iâd done was treat you like prey. And even after seeing what it was like, you went back in and brought me back a second time.â
âYes, but ââ
âIf I sign a contract to work in the archives, itâll stop you showing up in my dreams, right?â
âYes. Iâm â Iâm sorry, again, about ââ
âAnd itâll keep new nightmares from cropping up if I give you more statements?â
âWell, yes ââ
âThen whatâs the problem?â
Jon opens and closes his mouth soundlessly several times.
âI â I â I donât want you to sign yourself over to the Beholding just so I can â treat your memories like a â like a snackâ â Jon flings one arm out in a sweeping gesture, supplementing the disgust with which he says the word â âwithout facing any consequences!â
He looks around at the others, arm still outstretched in the air, waiting for someone to back him up on this. When no one does, he huffs a bewildered chuckle and withdraws his arm to comb his fingers through his hair instead. Why is he the only one making a fuss about this? He thought he could count on Basira at least to raise an objection, but sheâs just staring off to the side, apparently lost in thought.
âI was already considering signing a contract anyway,â Daisy says. âBasira said you had a theory that the Slaughterâs effects on Melanie were slowed by her connection to the Eye, yeah?â
âYes,â he admits cautiously.
âWe were thinking â maybe itâll do the same for me with the Hunt.â
âDid it help last time?â Basira cuts in, as if sheâd never tapped out of the discussion.
âIâm not positive,â Jon hedges. âIt was a theory weâd considered, yes, but itâs not like we had much of a sample size to test that hypothesis.â
He wishes heâd thought to ask these kinds of questions after the world ended, when he actually had a chance of getting the answers. In his defense, he had a lot on his mind â and itâs not like he considered the possibility of coming back in time to actually make use of that information.
âAnd it didnât entirely silence the call of the Hunt,â he adds, looking back to Daisy. âYou still deteriorated the longer you refused to answer it.â
âHm.â Basiraâs contemplative expression returns as she withdraws to commune with her own thoughts again.
âWell, itâs not like Iâm going anywhere anyway,â Daisy says with a shrug. âBasiraâs trapped here. So are you. And I donât think I can be trusted to leave here without giving in to the Hunt again. I have nothing to lose by signing a contract, andâŚâ
Her eyes gravitate towards Jonâs throat. Mechanically, he reaches up to adjust the scarf around his neck, to ensure the scar there is covered. At the guilty expression on Daisyâs face, Jon has to look away.
âIf it can help,â Daisy continues, âthen I think telling some stories is the absolute least I can do after⌠everything.â
âHow many do you have, do you think?â Georgie asks, once again settling into problem-solving mode.
âDonât know. Several. A couple dozen? Maybe more, depending on how far we can stretch the definition of a statement.â
âI have a handful as well,â Basira says, her tone wholly unreadable. âNot many, but⌠a few of the things that happened while you were dead should count as statements, I think.â
âI â I couldnât ask you to ââ
âIâm not offering; Iâm just inventorying all the options on the table,â Basira says with an air of finality.
Curiously, Martin seems to tense at Basiraâs words, shifting restively in his seat and looking askance at her.
âHow much time does that buy us, do you think?â he asks, throwing brief, surreptitious glances in Basiraâs direction. âHow long would a few dozen statements last you?â
âI⌠I donât know,â Jon says, still altogether uncomfortable with the idea. âIf I ration myself, then â a while, hopefully? Hypothetically? ButâŚâ
Heâs loathe to elaborate, but when did keeping secrets and denying reality ever help?
âLast time, it kept getting progressively worse. I needed to feed more and more frequently in order to stave off the hunger. The side effects of abstaining grew more severe. I want to hope that it will be different this time. Maybe giving in to the hunger in the first place only encouraged the Archivistâs⌠evolution. Whet my appetite. Itâs possible that refraining from hunting will⌠I donât know, slow the process? Maybe? B-but at the same timeâŚâ
He trails off, lips parted, unable to say the words.
âJon?â Martin prompts gently.
âItâs⌠Iâm sorry, but I â I have trouble being optimistic about it. Coming back didnât⌠it didnât reset the Archivistâs progress. Iâm the product of what Iâve done up to this point, even if Iâm the only one who remembers any of it. I still have all the marks. And⌠the Archive fledged and thrived in the apocalypse.â
âMeaning?â Basira leans forward, watching him intently.
âThe Archive is accustomed to a feast, not a famine. Millions of statements filtering through every moment without pause. Even when humanity started dying off â when there was less and less fear to go around, when even the monsters started to decay in that place â the Archive was still sated, because I could See everything. No matter how few and far between those pockets of terror became, as long as fear was being suffered somewhere, the Archive had a steady source of sustenance.â
It wouldnât have lasted forever, of course. Everything has an ending. But that had still been a ways off when Jon left that place.
âI probably would have been one of the last things standing, by the end,â he says softly.
âAnd you think the hunger will be worse this time because you arenât used to being hungry,â Basira says.
âMore or less,â Jon mumbles, shamefaced. âComing back to the past, to now⌠there was no transition between plenty and want. I â the Archive â was just⌠dropped into a â a habitat it was never adapted to survive in. Itâs like a⌠like a non-native species, as far as this reality is concerned. Like taking a fish out of water and expecting it to evolve lungs on the spot.â
âHm.â Basira cups her chin in one hand, running a thumb slowly over her lips as she thinks.
âI plan to ration myself as strictly as possible, of course. I just want to establish the possibility that things might â escalate, at some point.â
âIf it comes to that, we can deal with it then,â Georgie says. âIn the meantime, we should justâŚâ
âTake things one crisis at a time?â Jon tries to temper his bitterness with a weak smile, without much success.
âI mean, yeah, basically,â Georgie says. âBut in order for this to work, you need to be honest with us.â
âI â I am, I ââ
âIâm not accusing you of lying, Jon. I just mean⌠well, you have a long history of ignoring your own limitations, and ââ
âYouâre not good at taking care of yourself,â Martin interjects. His cheeks go pink and he tosses an apologetic glance in Georgieâs direction. âS-sorry, I didnât mean to interrupt.â
âNo worries,â Georgie says. Martin looks uncertain until she grins and, still making eye contact with him, jerks her chin in Jonâs direction. âBy all means, go on.â
Emboldened, Martin turns his attention back to Jon, who meets his eyes with no small amount of apprehension. If Martin is intent on compiling a laundry list of examples of Jonâs poor self-care â and judging from that worryingly familiar look on his face, he is â then he has ample material to choose from. Jon barely has time to brace himself before Martin launches into his lecture.
âYou used to forget to eat. You never took lunch unless I hassled you. I had to nag you to go home at night.â Heâs counting off on his fingers now, Jon notes with dismay. âYou went through most days fueled by a maximum of four hours of sleep and frankly alarming amounts of caffeine. You insisted on coming back to work, against medical advice, immediately after almost being eaten alive by worms.â
Jon opens his mouth to speak â and promptly shuts it again when Martin gives him what Jon can (with equal amounts of affection and dread) only refer to as that look.
âYou could barely walk. I had to threaten to forcibly remove you from the building before you agreed to go home. You spent the next several weeks sneaking â hell, limping around down hereâ â Martin makes a sweeping gesture with his arm â âwhere we found your predecessorâs murdered body, and ââ
âYes, yes, okay,â Jon interrupts, hands flapping anxiously. âI get your point.â
âI also had to threaten to withhold the Admiral from you in order to get you to go to the clinic to have your third-degree burn treated,â Georgie chimes back in. Jon glares at her; she looks far too entertained by the proceedings.
âI was â I was on the lam,â he protests. âI couldnât exactly go waltzing about in public.â
âBut you were perfectly willing to go chasing down Avatars, apparently.â
âIâŚâ
âOh,â she adds, âand today was the first time you actually slept since you woke up from a coma.â
âI was asleep for six months,â Jon mutters, arms crossed, bouncing one heel against the floor. âI think that more than makes up for ââ
âYou tried to pass off a stab wound that required five â five!â â Martin holds up five fingers for added (and unnecessary, in Jonâs opinion) emphasis â âstitches as an accident with a â with a bread knife.â
Somehow, Martin manages to sound as indignant now as he did on the day it happened.
âThat was several lifetimes ago,â Jon says primly. âAt some point you have to let me live it down.â
âIt hasnât even been two years!â
âSeriously, Jon?â Daisy, who has been hiding a smirk behind her hand throughout the entire exchange, finally fails to contain her stifled laughter. âA bread knife?â
âI â I panicked,â Jon says weakly, cheeks burning. âMartin cornered me in the breakroom and it was the first thing I saw, and I just ââ
Martin starts in again. âYou were actively exsanguinating ââ
âTh-that â thatâs an exaggeration,â Jon sputters, watching Georgie out of the corner of his eye to gauge her reaction. Sheâs shaking her head with a faint smile, and Jon⌠well, Jon supposes that playful scorn is preferable to actual scorn.
ââ and you refused to let me take you to the clinic until I threatened to call an ambulance,â Martin finishes.
âI was ââ Jon twists a lock of hair around his fingers as he scrambles for some way to save face. âI would have been ââ
âI think itâs safe to say you have no sense of self-preservation,â Basira says, and even she has a hint of amusement in her tone now.
âThey have a point, Sims.â
âEt tu, Daisy?â Jon says, hoping to garner a laugh â or, failing that, at least halt the relentless bombardment of admonishments. Daisy simply raises her eyebrows and folds her arms, unmoved.
âDo I need to revisit some of the things we discussed in the Coffin?â
âNo,â he says sullenly. When no one else speaks, he continues, somewhat irately: âAre we quite finished with the roast session?â
âFor now,â Georgie says. âThe point is, donât run yourself into the ground just to test the limits of what you can endure.â
âAnd donât let rationing statements turn into just another way to punish yourself,â Martin says sternly. Then he bites his lip, speaking gently now: âYou⌠you deserve better than that.â
I really, really donât, Jon thinks. Having no desire to unleash another lecture, though, he keeps the contrary comment to himself.
âBesides, letting yourself get that bad probably makes things worse in the long run,â Georgie says. âLike walking on a sprained ankle. Maybe you can endure the pain, but the longer you ignore it, the more likely you are to cause even more damage, and recovery takes longer than it would have if youâd just attended to it in the first place.â
âSpeaking from personal experience, are we?â Jon allows a hint of retaliatory smugness slip into his voice.
âYes,â Georgie says, rolling her eyes. âThat ankle is still weak. Which is why you should listen to me. Just⌠try to care about yourself even a fraction of how much others care about you, alright?
Jon sighs. âPoint taken.â
âYou can trust us,â Martin says.
âI â I know that. I do trust you. Iâm justâŚâ Afraid. âI donât want you to ââ
ââ mark me out as something other ââ
ââ getting used to people making polite excuses not to look at me ââ
ââ it wears you down to be someone whom nobody wants to see â I called out again and again but nobody came ââ
Frantic, he covers his mouth with his hand to halt the recitation; the words continue to pour forth undeterred, albeit muffled and likely â hopefully â too indistinct for the others to understand.
ââ I remember shouting, recriminations, and I was abandoned ââ
ââ no one to blame but my own stupid self â blundering in where I had no right to go ââ
A flash flood of restless energy breaks through the dam and then itâs racing through his veins, filling his mouth and his mind with white noise. He kicks one foot out and brings it stomping back down to the ground in a burst of sheer infuriation and near-panic. A crawling sensation travels up and down the length of his spine, a parade of feather-light pinpricks reminiscent of thousands of scuttling spider legs.
The slight whimper that works its way up his throat is thankfully stifled by the hand still pressed to his lips.
âBreathe through it,â Basira tells him.
Irritation flares to life at the reminder, but Jon forcibly snuffs it out before the spark can catch. Basira is only trying to help â and in a way she knows has helped before.
He breathes.
A frustrated noise â something between a snarl and a whine â spills out on his exhale, and he presses another hand atop the first as if it can render him entirely soundless. Before another wave of self-directed fury can take him, Jon coaxes himself to take another breath in through his nose. And another. And another, counting up until the pressure behind his eyes lets up and the static clears from his thoughts â at which point, heâs forced to confront the four pairs of eyes playing patient audience to his outburst.
Like a toddlerâs tantrum, he thinks acidly, burning with humiliation.
âSorry.â Although the scathing edge to the word is reserved solely for himself, he takes another breath before speaking again, lest the others assume the ire is directed at them. âSorry. Iâll try to control it better.â
âItâs fine, Jon,â Martin says. âWe know you arenât doing it on purpose.â
âAnyway,â Basira says, her peremptory tone indicating a return to the subject at hand, âcan we all agree that this is the best strategy for now?â
Jon looks down, tracing the weave of his scarf, focusing wholly on the texture of fabric against fingertips in a vain attempt to distract from the pins and needles still skittering across his skin. It takes a moment before he registers the silence. When he looks up, the others are staring at him. Basira raises an eyebrow, clearly waiting for his response.
âEven if I do agree to this,â Jon says warily, âI still â I know itâs a lot to ask, but I still need to be monitored for any signs ofâŚâ Although the question is meant for all of them, Jon shifts his gaze to make direct eye contact with Basira as he asks it. âCan you let me know, truthfully, if I â if it looks like I might⌠if you think Iâm a danger?â
âJon,â Martin sighs, âyouâre not ââ
âYes,â Basira says decisively.
Martin glares at her, his mouth falling open with a combination of shock and protective outrage. Jon recognizes that expression, and he jumps in before Martin can get a word out.
âThank you, Basira.â
Now Jon is the target of Martinâs glower. He looks offended, betrayed almost, as if Jon took Basiraâs side in a dispute between the two of them. Again, though, Martin doesnât get the chance to scold.
âAlright then,â Daisy says, stretching. âItâs settled. Youâ â her eyes swivel to Jon, their piercing intensity prompting him to sit up at attention â âcome to me when youâre hungry.â
âBefore you cross the boundary into âstarving,ââ Martin says, carving out an opportunity to chastise despite the interruption.
âConsider me a vending machine of horror stories,â Daisy quips.
Jon grimaces and rubs the back of his neck. âDo you have to describe it that way?â
âOh, quit grousing.â With a flash of teeth, a wolfish grin spreads across her face. âWhat, would you prefer I write up a menu?â
Her expression turns solemn when Jon winces and looks away.
âSore nerve?â she asks, suddenly and uncharacteristically delicate.
âAre you sure youâre okay with this?â The question is nearly inaudible, Jonâs eyes fixed on the floor.
âI wouldnât have offered if I wasnât.â
Fearing his voice might crack if he tries to speak, Jon bites down on his lip and tucks his chin to his chest, letting his hair fall to hide the others from view. He shuts his eyes for good measure and swallows hard, determined to head off the tears threatening to gather.
âHey.â Daisy stretches out a leg and kicks his foot gently. Itâs enough to make him raise his head cautiously. âI was just teasing. Really.â
âI ââ It comes out as a croak. Jon clears his throat and blinks several times to dispel the stinging pressure in the corners of his eyes. âI know.â
âIt is⌠so weird to see you two like this,â Basira says with an air of baffled wonder.
Jon notices Martin fidgeting restively out of the corner of his eye. When he looks directly at him, he sees Martin glaring at Daisy with a mixture of worry, suspicion, and resentment.
It isnât surprising; he never really did forgive Daisy for what she did to Jon. Neither did Jon, for that matter, but⌠Daisy was so changed after the Buried, it was difficult to see her as the same person who dragged him into the woods. She was, undoubtedly â she was the first to admit that â but she was remorseful and wholly dedicated to changing her behavior, even knowing it might well kill her. She never asked for forgiveness, never denied the harm sheâd caused, never tried to justify or shirk responsibility for her actions.
What she later became⌠there was nothing left of the Daisy who heâd come to see as a friend. For that Daisy, being reclaimed by the Hunt was a fate worse than death. Worse than the Coffin, even. She would have preferred to die as herself, and on her own terms â and the Hunt stole even that ounce of humanity from her. It made her forget that she didn't want to be a Hunter.
Jon dreads watching her waste away again, but not nearly as much as he fears the Hunt devouring her whole.
âPeople change,â he says, looking from Martin to Basira, hoping those two words can convey all the things he cannot say. They both look unconvinced, albeit in slightly different ways.
The silence drags on uncomfortably long until Georgie claps her hands on her knees.
âYou never answered the question, Jon. Are you alright taking statements from Daisy? At least until we can find a better solution?â
âIâŚâ
He glances around the circle, looking at each face in turn, trying to discern their opinions on the matter. Daisy gives him a reassuring nod. Martin has an almost pleading expression on his face, worrying his bottom lip between his teeth and wringing his hands in his lap.
Basira is⌠entirely inscrutable, much to Jonâs dismay. He didnât expect otherwise, but he still wishes he could get a read on her, determine exactly how she categorizes him now. Probably not as a trustworthy ally. At best, perhaps she sees him as human enough to be suffered to live, but on thin ice and under probation. At worst, she sees him as an irredeemable monster and is simply keeping her opinion to herself for the time being.
Or â no, the worst might be what he was to her last time. She saw him as a monster, yes, and was fully prepared to put him down â like a rabid animal, he thought when confronted with that wording â if he became too much of a danger. It was comforting to know that Basira wouldnât let sentiment get in the way if he had to be stopped. Less comforting was how she saw him as an asset: a dangerous tool to be used and then locked away once heâd fulfilled his purpose.
Granted, he gave Basira permission to use him â asked her to, in fact. It would be unfair to resent her for taking him up on an offer that he himself put on the table. If his powers could be used to help for once, he was fully willing to sacrifice his humanity to do so. After all, he was already too far gone, he figured â and everyone else seemed to agree.
Georgie certainly seemed to think so. Melanie told him outright that he came back wrong. He had likewise interpreted Martinâs avoidance as a comment on his having changed for the worst, at least initially. And he knew from the moment he woke up that Basira saw him as something other, as something more akin to the monsters they were fighting rather than an ally. He understood why they all felt that way, agreed with their assessments even, but it was soul-crushing nonetheless.
But even if he couldnât have â didnât deserve â trust or companionship, he still needed a reason, something to justify choosing not to die. If being wanted wasnât an option, the least he could do is avoid being a burden. An annoyance. If approval wasnât on the table, at least he could convince people that he was worth keeping around. And hadnât that approach always been second nature to him? In a way, he didnât tend to seek affection so much as try to avoid rejection.
Ultimately, though, pursuing that strategy started to feel sickeningly familiar. It wasnât until much later that he realized why: between Jonah and the Beholding â and in all likelihood the Web as well â heâd grown accustomed to being seen as a means to an end, and that made it all the more difficult to see himself as a who rather than as a what. Itâs a distinction he still struggles with â particularly during those times when the Archive makes its presence known.
He might not have much right to ask for trust or approval, but that doesnât change the fact that he craves it â perhaps from Basira most of all. If even her opinion of him can change⌠well, it would go a long way in helping him to believe that he really does have a chance.
âJon,â Basira says, snapping him back to attention.
Shit. How long has he been staring?
âWe need an answer,â she continues.
Jon canât help but wonder if this is another test. If he agrees, will she see it as further proof of his inhumanity, as evidence that he isnât trying to resist? If he refuses, will it make her suspicious, lead her to believe he plans on going hunting instead? Heâs never been skilled at reading between the lines, at interpreting social cues, at deconstructing the unspoken. The best he can do is ask questions and guess blindly as to the right way to respond â and agonize over the repercussions should he get it wrong. Basira has a way of making that already difficult process even more intimidating.
âJon,â Basira repeats herself, growing impatient now.
âO-okay,â he says quietly. âItâs⌠worth a try, I suppose.â
She gives a curt nod. As always, it gives him no insight into her thoughts. He has no time resume brooding, though, as Martin draws his attention with an audible sigh of relief. When Jon glances at him, Martin graces him with a smile â small, almost shy, but genuine. Jon tries and fails to mirror it.
Apparently finished with Jon for the moment, Basira turns her attention to Daisy.
âCome on,â she says, rising to her feet and tapping Daisy on the shoulder. âItâs time for your exercises.â
Obediently, Daisy starts to stand, only for her knees to buckle beneath her. Basira is there to catch her.
âBeen sitting too long,â Daisy grunts, embarrassment coloring her cheeks.
âCan you manage the ladder?â Daisy shakes her head, flushing darker. âThatâs fine,â Basira says, though Jon thinks he can detect a hint of fear â maybe even melancholy â in her tone now. âLetâs just⌠walk for now. Wake your legs up.â
The two of them start off down the tunnel, Basira supporting half of Daisyâs weight as she staggers forward.
âJon?â Georgie says softly.
âHm.â
âTry to cut yourself some slack, yeah?â
Jon really canât afford to do that, but saying so will only start them talking in circles again. Martin leans closer and places a hand on Jonâs knee.
âHey,â he says, looking Jon in the eye with overwhelming sincerity. âWeâve got this, alright?â
âAlright,â Jon responds, and wills himself to believe it.
The three of them exit the tunnel in silence. It isnât until Jon hoists himself through the trapdoor â Martin assisting in pulling him to his feet â that one of them speaks.
âOh,â Georgie says, looking at Jon, âby the wayâŚâ
âYes?â Jon says, apprehensive.
âMelanie asked me to tell you that sheâs ready to talk, whenever you are.â
âO-oh.â
âI know it's not a great time ââ
âNo, I â I think IâŚâ Jon nods. âI think Iâm ready, too.â
âIt doesnât have to be tonight,â Georgie says hurriedly.
âI really am okay to ââ
Martin looks ready to object, but Georgie gets there first.
âOkay, correction: it wonât be tonight,â she interrupts, fixing him with a stern look now. âYouâve had hardly any rest since coming out of the Coffin. I think you should get some actual sleep tonight. If â if â youâre feeling up to it tomorrow, we can arrange something then.â
âFine,â Jon sighs. He knows better than to argue with the combined tenacity of Georgie and Martin.
And he has to admit, he is rather tired.
A little over a half-hour later, Martin and Jon are back in Document Storage.
When he suggests Jon go to bed, Martin is prepared for a protracted argument. Jon acquiesces surprisingly quickly, though, his only condition being that Martin get some sleep as well. It takes slightly longer to convince Jon to take the cot. Martin pulls up a chair and sits at the bedside, refusing to budge as Jon makes his counterarguments. Eventually, though, Jon starts nodding off mid-protest. Itâs only a matter of time before he begrudgingly gives in â but not before demanding that Martin take the better blanket. With an amused shake of his head, Martin agrees to the compromise.
Jon slips between the sheets, Martin leans back in his chair, and for a long moment the two of them watch each other in silence. Jonâs hand rests near the pillow, fingers crooked loosely, palm turned up like an invitation. Martin has the sudden urge to reach out and take it.
Another minute passes before Martin realizes that⌠well, thatâs a thing he can do now, isnât it? Whatâs stopping him?
Slowly, tentatively, he extends his hand, lets it hover uncertainly above Jonâs, fingertips barely brushing. He applies the slightest pressure, giving Jon every opportunity to pull back. He doesnât. Jon interlocks their fingers, curling them over in a firm grasp, and peers up at Martin through his lashes with mingled uncertainty and hope.
âIs this okay?â Martin asks quietly.
As answer, Jon lets out a contented sigh, eyelids fluttering closed as a sleepy smile spreads across his face.
â'Course,â he mumbles, already drifting off. âAlways will.â
Martin will follow not long after, slumping precariously to the side, head lolling onto his shoulder, and hand still held fast in a warm, sure grip. Itâs a posture that will undoubtedly leave him sore by the time he wakes up, but that discomfort will be overshadowed by the way he feels in these shared, quiet moments: seen, accepted, wanted, embraced.
Anchored, he thinks â and for the first time in months, no thoughts of Loneliness shadow him as he falls to sleep.
End Notes:
Jon: *feels safe for the first time in a literally unmeasurable amount of time and promptly passes right back tf out* Martin: oh no heâs cute
Jon's gotten a SNACK and a NAP now. I hope you're all happy. :P Â (Just kidding. Every time someone tells me to let Jon have a nap, I am also @ing myself - and Jonny Sims - with the exact same demand.)
(On that note, I find it funny that as I was writing this chapter and finally giving Jon the nap he deserves, he was ALSO finally getting the nap he deserves in canon.)
Citations for Jonâs Archive-speak are as follows: MAG 135; 130/067/066; 032/037.
Next chapter: Melanie gets some actual screentime again!!
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The Fear of the Dragon Witch (triplets rolorem) Chapter One!!!!!
Word Count: 2762
TW: remus, deceit, swearing, sibling rivalry, I projected on Roman so anxiety, I think thatâs it, let me know if I missed anything!!!
Notes: Well itâs not posted when I said it was, but you know I got distracted so here it is, have the triplets fic weâve all been waiting for!!! Hope you enjoy!!!
Pairings: side logicality, possibly more in the future.
Summary: âyou are the absolute worst!â Roman had a hectic life, he had a full time job basically in theatre, honors classes, major anxiety and ADHD. Oh. And he had two brothers who were minutes apart from him in age. As you could guess, high school is a bit stressful.
âyou are the absolute worst!â
Roman sat on the ground beside a chair that now seated his brother who just smirked down at him. He begrudgingly stood up and looked at his other brother who was watching with calculated indifference. He pouted and went to sit on the other chair, just to fall on his ass again. His cocky brother let out a delighted cackle and he finally sat in the stupid chair before he could recover.
âyouâre an obnoxious haughty jackass and I hope that you choke on deodorant.â
âwow thatâs creative baby bro! oh weâre so pwoud of youuu!â
âfuck off! Iâm literally a minute younger than you!â
âyou two act like toddlers. Hurry up, we have to get going, I donât want to be late.â
âI donât wanna be late⌠blah blah rant rant dick jokeâ
âRemus Iâm going to literally drag you out of the door donât test me.â
âdo it you wonât no ballsâ
Remus very much regretted the next two minutes as he was, literally, dragged out of the house by his ears. Roman also felt secondhand regret as he had to rush even faster to finish getting ready. He ran out the door, locking it behind him, and jumped into the car. He grinned at the fact that he automatically won shotgun because he wasnât mouthing off to Logan. He settled as Logan started driving, fussing with his hair in the mirror, before pulling on his Once beanie. He futzed around with it until it looked right and then stimmed with the hem of his Rent shirt, humming the song his shirt referenced quietly. He shook his shoulders trying to adjust his jacket without using his hands. Regardless of what it said he was not succeeding at being more âchillâ. He was what would have happened if you asked a witch to fill a doll with anxiety and excessive amounts of energy with no coping mechanisms left to spare. Oh, and a love of the arts. He sure did love the arts.
âRo, take this.â
Logan had handed Roman a small box, and Roman looked at him for a moment before opening it. In the box was a Maui hook on a cord, a spinner ring with a bird flying on it, and a fidget spinner designed like captain Americas shield. He smiled then looked at Logan a bit confused.
âwhy are you giving me this?â
âbecause you keep ripping your shirts when you play with them. That shirt was expensive, Iâd like it to last. Theyâre stim toys, a spinner ring, a spinner, and a chew necklace. Theyâre silent and not destructive, I thought it might help.â
ââŚdid you get this yourself?â
âmhmm. Saw them at the mall after work. Why?â
âits nothing, just⌠you didnât have to get these for me lo. You should save your money; I know these arenât cheap.â
âI think you forget that the whole reason I have the job I do is to buy you guys gifts. Mom and Mimi have the whole money thing handled.â
âyeah but-â
âRoman I love you, shut up and let me ok?â
ââŚokâ
âyou guys are grossâ
âand you act 5, whatâs your point goblinâ
When they got to school they all went their separate ways quickly, Roman giving Logan a brief hug before running off. Logan didnât have to walk far to bump into his best friend Virgil and his significant other Patton. He glanced briefly at the chain around Pattonâs neck and smiled seeing they were using their pronoun necklace. He laced his hand with Pattonâs, bringing it up to place a kiss on it then went back to idly swinging. He let out a soft complement for Pattonâs dress then started chatting with his two friends about last nights assignments.
Remus on the other hand found his friends still stalling in the parking lot, waiting for him. He wandered over with a grin on his face, glancing as DamiĂĄn leaned on his motorcycle while talking to Remy. When he was close enough, DamiĂĄn, Remy, and his brother Toby all gave him a smile. Damian threw out a bland shallow insult then kicked Remy before urging all of them to follow him to class.
Roman had to trek across campus to meet up with his friends. He had made a b-line to the drama room, grinning wide as he saw his favorite people doing one thing or another on stage. He saw Valerie swaying around mid-stage with a broom, singing quietly in a voice that was beyond rehearsed, Joan, who was fidgeting with some of the wires on the walls, their SO Talyn sitting nearby and humming a tune, and he saw Terrance, standing on some of the set pieces, fixing up other pieces, all while singing wonderfully to one of the songs from the upcoming musical.
He climbed up the stage offering hellos to everyone and making his way to the ladder center stage, climbing up to adjust the cording for the hook that hung there for a yet to be finished prop. After fully fixing it, he descended and went to the prop corner where all the props, finished or not, sat. He grabbed the giant moon and three different cans of paint and his personal paintbrush set and started coating the crescent with the scattered look of craters with the occasional splash of pure white accenting the light blues and grays and the dark blacks that formed shadows. After about 10 minutes, he heard the backstage door clatter open and he smiled. He turned his head with the rest of them, their eyes all landing on Mr. Sanders who had two drink holders and a donut crate. He smiled back and lifted his arms carefully. Then set everything down on the table near the door.
âcoffee and donuts anyone?â
Everyone walked over in time, to grab their coffee and their donut, knowing exactly which one was theirs before walking over. When Roman finally got up from his project and got his, he grabbed the one in the holder with nothing else, separate due to its contents, and grabbed the Boston crème donut. He took a taste of his drink and smiled; Starbucks had some amazing hot chocolate. He sat back down next to his project and set down his drink, quickly snatching up the blow-dryer to speed up the paints setting process.
The five of them were always there in the mornings, they were in fact, trusted with their own sets of keys for the theater and the smaller classroom adjacent. Well technically 4, as Talyn wasnât actually in the class, but they were consistently there, and was always helping when they could spare the time. They helped before and after school, and they held lunch meetings every day, which would eventually devolve from Important Drama Class Discussion to gossip circle. They would pop by in between classes to see if they could help, they would create sets like magic, not there the day before and completed by the end of the next, they were the committee that helped Mr. Sanders choose the musical for the quarter, they helped grade, they did everything a TA did and more without being asked and without having a TA credit.
The four students all took at least two different classes with Mr. sanders and also had leading roles in their departments. Roman and Joan both lead tech, Joan being the stage manager and Roman being the assistant stage manager, and Valerie and Terrance would aid there if they didnât always have a spot in the musical productions. Most of the time the two of them would sit and run lines for hours at a times, and often Mr. sanders would join them, taking the parts of the other characters they werenât playing. They had a class with just the four of them, and then Valerie and Terrance had an acting specific class, where Joan and Roman shared a technical class as well as a stage prep class.
Roman didnât know how the others had time to do all of it, since they all had super intense classes outside of theatre and jobs on top of it all. He didnât have a job, he had accelerated in middle school, so he was two years ahead in English and math, and a completed second language course, and he had finished his last math credit the year before, leaving him with world history, biology, and a senior level English course, he also had a dance class, but nobody was going to talk about that. He wore a face mask in that class and had the teacher call him a different name because he was embarrassed about it. He was sure if anyone saw him doing ballet that his life would be over. Not even his brothers knew, his moms did though, and they were very supportive. That was completely irrelevant.
The others had just left to help Thomas-Mr. sanders! Get something from his car, leaving him to his devices. He stood up, hot chocolate in one hand, a broom in the other and he started to sing to himself, dancing about the stage with eyes closed in bliss.
âBabe, thereâs something tragic about you Something so magic about you Donât you agree? Babe, thereâs something lonesome about you Something so wholesome about you Get closer to me No tired sighs, no rolling eyes, no irony No âwho caresâ, no vacant stares, no time for meâ
While he sung, he spun around and around, oblivious to the world, even the loud clanking of the door opening. He got louder, more confidant, he leapt over the obstacles he knew were there, as if his eyes werenât shut and he was aware. Valerie and Joan had pulled out their phones, quickly starting a video, not moving other than to let their teacher get a better look. Roman sung with a deep emotion and a vibrato deep in his chest, having perfect form in his singing as well as with his dancing. His falsetto rang out just as strong and he just continued to dance and sing.
âHoney, youâre familiar like my mirror years ago Idealism sits in prison, chivalry fell on its sword Innocence died screaming, honey, ask me I should know I slithered here from Eden just to sit outside your doorâ
And then his eyes opened, and he was glad he had drained his cup because it flew out of his hands as did the broom as the calm bliss drained from his features and filled back up with panic and fear. He pressed to his chest, blindly checking for his book bag, backing up slowly before turning and leaping off the stage and running out the doors, the screams from his friends and teacher calling for him going silent in his ears as the only thing he heard was the blood pumping through his head. He hid in the bathroom stalls, sending a text to Logan.
âHelp help Logan I canât breathe Iâm in the bathroom next to the theater please I canât I canât breatheâ it had an immediate response, shorter than most his texts ever are, a simple âomwâ shot back seconds later, and within 5 minutes he heard the door open and Logan call his name. By then he had been chewing on his new necklace obsessively, and when Logan called for him, he scrambled up and out, throwing himself into his brothersâ arms. Logan held him protectively, calmly waiting for the sobs to quiet. Eventually they did and Logan pulled back to look at Roman properly. Romanâs hair looked stressed and messed up almost beyond repair and his beanie was pulled lower than normal. He frowned.
âRoman what happened?â
âit-its nothin, its real- itâs really dumb I should- I should just suck-suck it-suck it up, it doesnât ma-matter Iâm sorr- Iâm sorry lo I just- I just-â
âRoman breathe. Breathe first. Iâm sure its not dumb if it caused this ok? Just breathe and explain when you can.â
âo-okay. âŚthey saw- they saw me singing. And-and dancing and I canât believe I was so dumb to let them see how am I gonna face them now lo theyâre gonna hate me!!!â
âhey. Youâre making jumps in logic. I know you understand the connection, but I donât okay? How are you getting from your friends seeing you singing to them hating you?â
âbecause! Because! Um⌠I-I donât know, I just, I know they will!â
âRoman what youâre experiencing is a cognitive distortion. Youâve come to the conclusion that you singing will cause your friends to hate you, and I know from experience that if you had any real reason to believe that they would hate you over something this inconsequential you wouldnât have befriended them. Have faith in them ro. Give them a chance to prove you wrong before deciding this.â
â⌠o-okay. Do you, do you really think they donât hate me?â
âI donât know your friends very well, but I highly doubt anyone would hate you for this. Now, when youâre ready, go back to them. Iâm sure theyâre worried about you.â
âyeah⌠yeah okay. Thank you, Logan, youâre a life saverâ
âdonât mention it.â
Roman took a few more deep breaths and gave Logan one last hug before going back to the theatre room. He shyly opened the giant hall doors, feeling like an ant in the huge auditorium. The first face he saw when coming back in was Joan who was sitting on the edge of the stage on their phone, legs dangling off the end. They raised their head at the doors sound and brightened. They sat still however, and then came Mr. sanders. He had rushed forward and met him where he was with an outstretched arm and a smile on his face. Roman took his hand and let out a yelp as he was dragged forward. He couldnât quite concentrate on what his teacher was saying but he knew he was smiling so he hoped it was good.
â-Roman can you sing what you were singing before for me again? Please?â
They were on the stage now, and Joan was nearby with a wide smile. He looked between them and Mr. sanders, and slowly and cautiously nodded. He began the song again, slowly, quietly, but by the time he was at the chorus he was belting out the lyrics once more. His chest felt light, like it was filled with helium and was floating away. His friends all stood grinning at him as he sung, and he was elated.
Imagine for a moment that this was a childâs cartoon, impossible wacky things happen to show emotion. If it were a tv show he would be flying, hair blowing around his head as he was fully submerged by the pure joy of singing. This isnât a tv show however, and so its just a boy singing his heart out on stage. He wrapped up the song, shocked to see his teacher nearly bouncing from excitement.
âyouâre our lead!!! You are a perfect cast!!! You have the perfect range and dance style and I havenât seen you act but Roman youâre it!!! Youâre what weâve been looking for!!!â
âwh-what? No, I, I canât do that! I couldnât get on stage and perform like that!!! I-I didnât even audition! You-you canât just, just give me the part! Mr. sanders Iâm honored but I canât let you-â
âRoman, I know you can do it. Also, itâs quite exactly my job to give kids the parts theyâve earned, and that song was enough to see that you deserve that role. You can still say no I guess, but really Roman, I honestly believe youâre exactly the person Iâve been looking for this role. I would be forever grateful if you took me up on it.â
And what could he truly say to that? To his closest friends who looked so thrilled, so proud of him. He couldnât say no, that would let them down. He looked up at his teacher, the man who would be his mentor for at least another two years after this one and said yes. He agreed and he was terrified. But, singing and dancing made him happy, so he doubted he would end up regretting it completely. He brought his chew necklace up, absently chewing as his peers and teacher cheered. He was going to⌠have a whole lot to explain to Logan and Remus. And mom and Mimi. That will be⌠fun.
Taglist: @fivebyfive-finebyfive @tacohippy56900 @analogical-mess @crookedlyoptimisticdestiny @angels-and-dreams @fandomloverangel @demented-dukey @karmels-stuff
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Itâs Christmas (almost)Â @thisdiscontentedwinter a gift for the amazing you! I hope you like Peter cooking! (also on ao3)
Peter didnât consider it to be a character flaw that he was a man in his 30s who didnât know how to cook. He had a few pretty good reasons why heâd never learned how before heâd reached his 30s after all.
Not the least of which being when heâd been a part of a pack heâd been regulated to hunter rather than chef. While usually hunter just meant he was the one who did most of the grocery shopping he did, occasionally, get to hunt down deer or rabbits for when they had special dinners. That was of course his favorite part of providing for the pack. One of the few times his propensity for violence was not only accepted but also praised.
Now he had been living by himself, surviving on take out and deli made meals.
This wouldnât be a problem except he found he missed homemade meals with a ache he could physically feel behind his breast bone.
Now he only had two options on how to sooth this newest hurt: he could either ask one of his three pack members if they could cook a meal for him or he could learn to cook himself.
The answer was obvious without even calculating in the fact neither Cora nor Derek lived somewhere with a functioning oven.
So Peter bought a cookbook and figured since he wasnât completely helpless he would be able to figure out one of the basics of adulthood.
It turned out Peter was terrible at cooking. He could make sandwiches or any kind of egg but anything more complicated than those he always managed to royally screw it up.
He didnât even know what he was doing wrong that make his pot roast taste like char or his stir fry to be oily when he hadnât even used oil.
After almost a month of failures he would have given up if it hadnât started to turn into a point of pride. Stiles had brought roast beef sandwiches to one of the pack meets and he had proudly told everyone that heâd made the roast himself.
If Stiles, who oscillated between having the attention span of a gnat or hyper-focusing to the point of forgetting to breath, could make a truly delicious roast then so could Peter.
So he turned to his last resort: cooking blogs.
One google search for âhow to actually cook and make it taste goodâ later heâd gone through five different blog posts and only learned that for some reason bloggers really liked to talk about their kids and perfect lives. It would have been depressing if Peter actually cared.
After two hours of travelling through homebodies trying to convince him to make everything vegan he found a post titled âRecipes made easy for those who are lazy, have ADHD, no time or alternately too much time, know how to cook but want to learn new things, or people who think they canât cook but are willing to give it a try.â
What a mouthful of a title that covered all the basics of people looking at cooking blogs.
The whole blog was written in run on sentences that somehow managed to be both amusing and informative, a very narrow line to walk.
Peter might have also fallen a little bit in love with the author who gave such informative tidbits as âWhy spring for a colander when you could just slap the lid on a pot and up end it over the sink while praying you wonât drop it and/or burn yourself as you tilt the lid to strain out the water but not the noodles.â and âSeriously just toss all the shit into a crockpot and forget about it for 8 hours, except you probably wonât be able to because youâll have to keep trying to remember if you actually turned the pot on or not. (I suggest setting up a live stream camera to be on the safe side.)â
Other than an obvious good sense of humor the writer didnât give any personal information. No name or nickname. Even the profile picture was generic. Peter thought that little touch of mystery just added the the writer's personality.
The third time Peter made macaroni and cheese from scratch â âJust cook some plain old noodles and then toss in a bunch of different kinds of grated cheese and a couple of scoops of sour cream and a bit of crumbled bacon with a little pinch of salt and bake it in the oven for a bit and bam homemade mac and cheese that people will be amazed over.â â he was so proud of his creation he brought it to that nightâs pack meeting.
He set the large casserole dish down on Derekâs ridiculous table that only Stiles ever actually used and pointedly ignored the stares everyone was giving him. He settled down in his chair â the one just off to the side of the stairs that faced the door and the whole of the open living room â and pulled out his phone to feigning nonchalance while he waited for the rest of the pack to ask what he thought he was doing.
Of course Stiles was the first one to speak up. âOh!â he said, sounding excited. âDid you make a casserole?â
He leaned forward over the table to open the dish that had been, very conveniently, placed right in front of him.
Peter watched with a surprisingly strong sense of anticipation as he watched Stilesâ eyes widen and mouth drop open in surprise.
âIs this homemade macaroni and cheese?â he asked, excitement clear on his face.
Peter gave a vague hum of agreement. âIâm trying something new.â
Stiles sprung up away from the table and practically dashed into the kitchen. He came back out only a few seconds later with a paper plate in one hand a plastic fork in the other.
Peter supposed he should be grateful Stiles took out a portion instead of eating right out of his casserole dish.
Stiles scooped up a bite and managed to bring it all the way to his mouth before Scott stopped him with a strangled cry.
âStiles! What are you doing?!â Scott yelled as he threw himself over the back of the couch he had been sitting on. He raced to Stiles and slapped the fork out of his before Stiles could get the bite into his mouth.
âWhat the fuck!â Stiles gasped, cradling his hand against his chest and staring at Scott in shock.
Peter found, much to his surprise, that he had both stood up and let his claws out without a thought. He took one long deep breath and slipped his claws away before sauntering over to the table.
He oh so casually leaned his against it, back to Stiles, crossed his arms over his chest and stared Scott down.
Out of the corner of his eye he saw the front door slide open to let in Boyd and Erica. The both of them slipped past Scott and behind Peter to, no doubt, stand next to Stiles.
Stiles spluttered and yelled again. âScott! Peter's not going to bring in poisoned food when most of you guys don't trust him!â
Scott glared darkly at Peter. âYeah we donât trust him because poisoning is exactly something he would do.â
âWell yeah.â Stiles said. Peter could practically see him shrug. âOf course Peter would poison someone. But heâs not going to use food to poison the pack.â
Erica snorted loudly and said âYeah Peterâs devious but heâs not stupid.â there was a pause before she added with her mouth obviously full âAnd if you paid attention to anything youâd known this mac and cheese is not only totally poison free but also delicious.â
âHey...â Stiles said sulkily. âThatâs my fork.â
Scottâs self righteous expression was replaced with sour resignation. Peter gave him his best fake smile before turning his back on him to look at Erica, who was eating right out of the dish.
Boyd had found another fork somewhere and had stolen Stilesâ plate.
Stiles was glaring at the both of them and Peter felt oddly annoyed.
âYou going to share?â he asked Erica who seemed to almost hunch over the dish.
She just smirked at him and pulled the dish even closer to her, effectively blocking anyone else from taking some.
He stared her down intently while Stiles made indignity noises.
Boyd, smart and dependable Boyd, held out his half full plate and a second fork for Stiles who gasped and smiled brightly before scooping up his own bite.
The loud almost pornographic moan took Peter off guard and the sudden quick shot of arousal he felt was even more surprising.
He heard Erica choking on a laugh and sent her his best blank look that the pack had long learned meant he was fighting back the urge to murder one of them.
Boyd, wise and quiet Boyd, had completely given up his plate to Stiles and had instead decided to try and distract Erica with an impromptu fork fight.
Stiles seemed to be having a small spiritual moment. âDo you know what tastes weirdly good in mac and cheese?â he asked suddenly.
âWhat?â Peter asked gamely.
âTuna and Peas.â
Peter stared at him while Boyd and Erica made simultaneous noises of disgust.
Stiles shrugged apologetically. âItâs strangely hearty.â
Peter hummed in thought. He was certainly petty enough to make something that only Stiles would want to eat. Itâs what everyone else deserved for being rude about Peterâs cooking.
~*~
âChicken alfredo is so easy. Just cook those wormy noodles for a few minutes and toss in some canned alfredo sauce with baked chicken and bam! Food! Or if you want to get fancy pan fry the chicken before adding milk and actual heavy cream. But who really has time for that? (I do. I apparently.) Hereâs how to do it the fancy way if youâre into that kind of thing.â
It continued to amuse Peter how the writer could give easy alternatives and complicated instructions for the same recipe.
His first two batches turned out tasting fine. Not amazing but certainly edible. It was vast improvement from where he started.
He felt an oddly strong urge to both thank the writer of the blog and get to know them better. A combination of emotions he hadnât felt in a very long time.
This might not have been a problem for him if he didnât have an strong suspicion he knew who the writer was.
Tiny hints here and there had given it away. He just had to get confirmation.
~*~
After a month of bringing in different dishes to pack meetings Peter had gotten a pretty good handle on Stilesâ likes and dislikes. Considering one of Stilesâ constant likes was Peterâs cooking in general he was confident in his welcome at Stilesâ apartment so long as he came bearing food.
Peter showed up right in time for dinner and Stiles blinked at him before letting him with only a âIâm not going to turn down your cooking, even if it is surprise cooking.â
Peter smirked at him as he made himself at home in Stilesâ tiny kitchen. The size of it certainly explained the latest post âHow the hell are you supposed to get anything done in a 3 by 3 space: a photo tutorial by me, not a professional photographer.â
Peter had recognized the kitchen in the pictures from when he had helped Stiles move his (un)surprisingly large collection of kitchen gadgets.
âSo whatâs the occasion?â Stiles asked as he poked at the wax wrapped loaf of cheesy bread.
Now that Peter had gotten a better grip on cooking in general he had decided to try his hand at baking. He wasnât very good at it yet but Stiles appreciated bread of all kinds and wouldnât mind that it was a bit darker in some spots.
âOh nothing too special.â he said casually. âI just noticed that your newest post got a million hits. Sounds like something that should be acknowledged.â
Stiles jumped and stared at Peter in shock for a moment before he relaxed again. He rubbed the back of his neck and gave Peter a slightly embarrassed smile.
âWhy am I not actually surprised you know about that.â he said with a little laugh.
He turned back to the bread, pulling off a piece and inspecting it before spinning back to stare at Peter with huge eyes.
âOh my god, did you get all those recipes from me?â he asked loudly, excitement obvious on his face.
âWell your instructions are very comprehensive.â Peter said with a casual shrug.
Stiles grinned at him, obviously pleased about Peter complimenting him.
âThatâs a really fucking nice thing to say.â Stiles said, grin turning into a softer smile.
Peter shrugged again and turned to start pulling dishes down from the cupboard. âItâs just a fact.â he said casually.
Stiles laughed. âWhatever you say. So what you make me?â
~*~
Stuffed full of the potato soup and cheesy bread Peter was slouched down on the couch and making grocery lists on his phone. Stiles was curled up next to him, half leaning against Peterâs shoulder while half watching Leverage, half reading one of the books Peter had given him.
âHoly shit!â Stiles suddenly yelled.
Peter turned to look at him in interest.
âAre you courting me, Peter Hale?â Stiles asked eyes and mouth wide open in shock.
Peter blinked at him in genuine surprise for a moment before past behavior clicked together in his brain. He couldnât stop himself from face palming.
Stiles laughed uproariously and leaned harder against.
âThis is the best thing ever.â Stiles said breathlessly.
âWhich part?â Peter asked through narrowed eyes.
Stiles grinned even harder at him and didnât answer, just leaned forward to give Peter a soft kiss on the check.
âIâm going to milk the shit out of this.â Stiles said in amusement. "I can't believe I didn't realize sooner! You get so pissy when Erica steals food from me that it should have been obvious."
Peter supposed he kind of deserved that respond if heâd gone around trying to give gestures of romance through food and not even realizing it.
Peter raised his arm and Stiles instantly cuddled himself deeper into Peterâs side, tucking his face against the side of Peterâs neck.
âItâll be nice not to be the one cooking all the time.â Stiles said quietly.
Peter felt a rush of protectiveness and fought a sneer at the thought of Stiles always having to be the one to talk care of himself.
He turned his head slightly and gave Stiles a light kiss on the temple. âNot just the cooking.â he promised softly and Stiles shivered against him.
Stiles took a long shuddering breath before fully melting against Peter. Â âYeah, sounds good.â he whispered and curled his hand into Peterâs.
Peter wasnât quite sure how heâd managed to get him and Stiles to this point but there was no way in hell he was going to complain when Stiles was being so shockingly soft with him.
Peter decided that it was immensely satisfying to be the one Stiles felt was providing for him and let himself feel as protective and possessive as he wanted, secure in the knowledge that he had to be doing something right to have earned Stilesâ trust.
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[Big question mark emoji] and any oc of ur choosin !
â A random fact or short drabble! Or make up your own question to ask the OC!
I'll do a couple of OCs bc you told me so much about your own, I feel like a short answer wouldn't suffice
â˘Passepartout falls in love very easily, with all his co-workers, so he tries to go on patrol early in the morning so he'll have more chances to see and talk to the people he likes! That's also the reason why he's the only hero that goes in patrol every day, with no breaks
â˘Songbird occasionally gets the urge to be completely non-verbal, so some days he won't speak at all, and only communicates with grunts or writing. He will pass it off to people as him losing his voice bc he overuses his quirk, but in reality he just doesn't want to say words at all
â˘Ink Girl is NOT a girl! She's a she/they enby. Songbird knows this, but since she doesn't get dysphoric from it, she doesn't risk her wage, and just doesn't inform her employers
â˘Uhhh the Antelope-angel boye? From my other post? He's a detective! And his way of identifying stuff during crime-scene investigation by going at whatever weird substance that might be with his tongue! He has a pretty strong sense of taste and he's a demon so he might as well! It's not like he'll die
â˘Angry Rabbit Boi is a gamer, and also he very angrily DMs a small DnD campaign with his friends, during which he is very prone to slamming his hands on the table and knocking over all the set pieces
â˘The pleasant looking Zomb-person is need that memorizes any fun fact he sees, and will occasionally ramble about anything if prompted. The pink-haired Kitsune person encourages this, since having someone talking is his favourite background noise, and it helps him concentrate (which he has trouble with bc of his ADHD)
â˘Yoshihito is genderfluid, and he shaved off his eyebrows for a bet, but then they never grew back đ¤ He still winders where they went...
#asks#my ocs#Man I actually HAD FUN WRITING THIS CONTENT HOLY-#Pls send me more stuff this is so fun I love making my characters
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I think I might be having a hypomanic episode?
[Self harm TW, no graphic descriptions though. Also some non-graphic sexual content]
I think I might be experiencing the beginning of a hypomanic episode for the first time. I'd really appreciate thoughts/personal experiences from people who are bipolar/have experience with this.
I've had major depressive disorder for 10 years now, but up until this point I could confidently say I'd never had a manic or hypomanic episode. I also have borderline traits (but my extreme moods only last a few hours or a few days at most) and ADHD combined type (but my symptoms are consistent and I'm much more inattentive than hyperactive, I just barely meet the hyperactivity criteria for combined).
Today I realized I'm really motivated to take care of tasks. Like my apartment is a mess and that usually overwhelms me and I shut down, but I've had the urge to start cleaning. I just made appointments for today to get my eyebrows threaded and get a haircut, things I almost never do. I was going to also bring grocery bags and go do my grocery shopping and thinking about all the things I need and how I should get them all and how I could do that AND go in to work and get stuff done, but I realized rationally after a bit that that's really too much to all get done right now.
This is a really bizarre feeling for me. I usually spend my weekends completely unmotivated and lying around doing nothing.
I also don't feel depressed at all after being super depressed for quite a while. I've been in a DBT IOP program and that's been really hard for me and really bringing my mood down. I'm also super anemic from self harm (like pretty close to transfusion levels) and that's made my energy level super low.
I'm also spending money online shopping, though they are reasonable purchases, like I really do need new bras.
Friday night I propositioned a friend for an FWB relationship (some stuff had happened between us but we both agreed that we didn't want to jeopardize our friendship, but even originally I would have actually been dtf but I didn't want to make things awkward) and when he turned me down ("because he values our friendship") I really wanted to go out and find someone for a one night stand and was really close to going to a bar alone to find someone but in the end it seemed too weird to go to a bar alone given that I don't even drink).
I ended up going to a midnight AA meeting instead and meeting a guy and going home with him. I had unprotected sex for the first time in my life. I've had one night stands occasionally, but I've never ever had unprotected sex. He told me he got tested recently and was negative and that's how I justified it to myself at the time. I left something at his place accidentally and I wore his t-shirt home, so I went to the meeting and back to his place again last night as well, and we had sex again, so this was two nights in a row.
I know this all sounds like hypomanic behavior, as does the way I'm rambling on and on, but this has only been going on for a few days so I don't want to sound the alarm too soon if I'm just having a weird few days and in a good mood because of the sex.
I haven't really started any new meds recently. I started lamictal a month or two ago and have been titrating up (just went from 75 to 100), and I've been taking very low doses of lorazepam and klonopin for my panic attacks that started recently due to my elevated resting heart rate from the anemia. I've been sober for 9 months now and haven't been doing any drugs recreationally.
My sleep schedule has been weird but it almost always is. I might be sleeping less than usual and feeling more energetic, but it's hard to say over the course of a few days. I don't feel the exhaustion I should feel for my hemoglobin being this low, but it could be that my body's just getting used to it because I've been repeatedly cutting and dropping back down to this level for like a month now.
Does this sound like it could be the start of a hypomanic episode, or is it all too much in a short span of time? I'm going through a lot of changes in my life and stresses, so it would make sense for my moods to be up and down. But I haven't felt like this since the first few months I took Adderall like 5 years ago (and it was only when I took my Adderall, so it wasn't that the Adderall triggered an episode).
I'm seeing my DBT IOP therapist/psychologist tomorrow and my psychiatrist later in the week, so of course I'm going to talk to them about this, but I'm impatient and hate not knowing things so that's why I'm posting this/asking if it sounds like hypomania or not.
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