#and seeing this just induces the shittiest fucking feeling

[girlierest]

Lmfao squarely reminded as to why I should stay out of the gnshn fandom/xlmi.

[daisukekambehateaccount]

negativity ahead be cautious

is feeling indescribably shitty every single day even more so than normal for the past three months seasonal depression even if there are only 2 seasons in your country

[bluejayblueskies]

can i be gentle?

Words: 7.1k

Relationships: Jon & Tim, Tim & Martin

Tags: Canon Divergence, Tim Lives, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Whump, Post-Unknowing, Injury Recovery

Warnings: suicidal thoughts/ideations, blood, injury, hospitals and hospitalization, survivor's guilt, body horror, minor gore, gun and knife violence, mentions of death, mentions of canon-typical worms, implied child abuse, meat, alcohol, swearing, crying, smoking

Ao3 link in source

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Tim aches. It’s full-body, radiating through his arms and back and legs, and he wishes more than anything that he could go to sleep, to chase away the pain for at least a little while. It feels like he’s been hit by a bus.

 Or been on the receiving end of several kilos of C4 igniting all at once. But that metaphor’s a bit too on-the-nose, in his opinion.

 He should be dead. He should be dead. 

 (Does he wish he were dead? He hadn’t cared, in those few moments of clarity before he pushed the button on the detonator and the colors solidified into black nothingness, whether or not he would wake up when the smoke cleared. It’s hard to tell. He’d attached so much of himself to revenge, before, when it was easier than feeling everything else bubbling up underneath, and now that it’s been ripped away from him, he doesn’t know what emotion should be filling the gap. Probably relief.

 He doesn’t feel relieved.)

 The nurse is speaking to him. Her lips are moving, but he can’t hear her. His ears ring and ring and ring, and it sounds like spirling, mocking laughter.

 They do some tests. Blast-induced hearing loss, the pamphlet they give him proclaims. Prognosis is good. Most patients recover in 6 weeks. Hearing aids can help with high frequencies.

 His ears ring and ring and ring, and he’s alive.

 He’s alive.

 Jon is not.

 .

.

.

 “It’s because of him, you know.”

 Martin startles badly at Tim’s voice. Tim wonders if it had been too loud; the ringing in his ears is incessant, and every word spoken sounds as if it’s coming from a very, very far distance. He moves a bit further into the room that they’ve placed Jon in, his hands shaking where they grip the wheels of the wheelchair they’d given him. Hard to walk when your leg is shattered. And some ribs as well. 

 Martin says something, Tim thinks, as he’s turning. His eyes are wide and rimmed with red, and he’s looking at Tim expectantly. Tim sighs, then winces as the motion sends tendrils of pain through his ribcage. “I can’t hear you, Martin. Either speak up—way, way up—or just… move your lips more or something. I don’t care.”

 “What?” Martin enunciates, and it’s so ridiculous, Tim wants to cry.

 He answers anyway.

 “Me. Being here. I’m alive because… because of him.”

 It was stupid, thinking he could protect Tim from an entire building collapsing on top of them. But his hand had gripped Tim’s wrist and he’d pulled him to the floor and he’d covered Tim’s body with his own, so when the shock wave had hit, Jon had gotten the worst of it.

 Tim refuses to feel guilty about it. He does anyway. Because they’d argued, and Jon had stalked him, and Tim had cultivated his anger and fear into a simmering ember deep in his chest, but at the end of the day, Tim wasn’t supposed to survive.

 Jon was.

 Tim swallows, hating the bitter taste in his mouth, and says, “Do you… do you think he’s going to wake up?”

 Martin says something, too softly for Tim to hear. His mouth twists into something small and pained, and he looks at the floor.

 It’s answer enough.

 Tim doesn’t ask again. 

 .

.

.

 They arrest Elias a few hours later, after Martin’s collected himself enough to bring his plan to completion. Tim’s only regret is that he isn’t able to see the look on Elias’s face as he’s dragged away.

 Knowing Tim’s luck, he’d probably have just looked smug.

 The name Peter Lukas crosses Martin’s lips, spelled out in exaggerated motions when he visits Tim again. Tim thinks, absurdly, of the hydra. Cut off one head, two grow back.

 Lukas probably won’t be better. Knowing their luck, he’ll be much worse. But Tim thinks of the way Melanie had shaken after she’d come out of Elias’s office, of the haunted look in Martin’s eyes when Tim had asked how his plan went, and can’t find it within himself to care.

 .

.

.

 They release him from the hospital with a hefty prescription of pain meds, small plastic hearing aids tucked in each ear, and a thick folder of discharge papers. Martin’s there when they do; the bags under his eyes are dark and smudged, and he nods mechanically as the nurses talk to him, outlining Tim’s care regime for the next few weeks. His eyes keep flicking to the side, to the corridor that leads to the long-term care section of the hospital. Wordlessly, Tim reaches over and takes Martin’s hand in his, giving it a single squeeze before holding it tightly.

 Martin lets out a breath through his nose and squeezes back.

 “Do you want me to, er. To take you back to yours?” Martin asks once they’re out, his voice on the softer side of muffled and overlaid with that constant ringing but audible enough now that he doesn’t have to shout. 

 Tim feels something almost like embarrassment curling in his stomach. “I, uh. I don’t have a place anymore.” Tim drums his fingers on his thighs, looks at the ground, and says, “I canceled my lease. About a week before we left for Great Yarmouth.”

 There’s silence between them—or at least, as close to silence as Tim can get right now. Tim thinks Martin says something, a word or two brushing up against the edges of what the hearing aids allow him to hear, but he can’t grasp any of it. So, Tim looks up at Martin, at the pinched, pained expression on his face, and says, “Don’t pretend like you didn’t know.”

 “Know what?” Martin says bitterly. “That you never expected to come back? Yeah, I got that part. I even got why, you know? Doesn’t make it better, though. I didn’t want to lose you, Tim.” Martin pauses, then says, so quietly Tim can barely hear it, “I didn’t want to lose anybody.”

 “Yeah,” Tim says. But that’s not how this works. We were never going to all survive. Everything is fucked, and it still is, and it always will be.

 “I’m sorry,” he says and finds he means it. Then, to clarify: “For hurting you. And… and for Jon.” He doesn’t elaborate on that point. He doesn’t know what he would say even if he tried. “But I’m not sorry for going, and I’m not sorry for pressing that button. If I would have died, I wouldn’t have been sorry for that either.”

 “Right,” Martin says slowly. “But you didn’t. And the Circus is gone now, so do you…?”

 “Do I still want to kill myself?”

 Martin winces.

 “Hey, your question, not mine,” Tim says, holding his hands up in a defensive gesture. After a moment, his hands drop back to his lap, and he gives a small shrug. “Don’t know. I knew I would do what I needed to in order to destroy the Circus, and I did. Thought I would die in the process, but I didn’t. I’m still trapped in the world’s shittiest job, and I don’t really…”

 Tim shrugs again. “I don’t know,” he repeats. Then, because it feels true: “It was never… it was never the dying bit I was chasing, you know. I didn’t do this because I thought it would be a good way to get killed. I did it for Danny, and that’s it. Plain and simple. So if you’re asking if I want to die, the answer is no. But I can’t guarantee that I won’t make the same decision again if I have to.”

 Martin’s quiet for a long moment. Then, calmer than Tim expects, he says, “Okay.”

 “Okay,” Tim echoes. Then, with a levity that only feels slightly forced: “I suppose it’s back to your place, then. Just be sure to buy me dinner first.”

 Martin doesn’t smile at that like he used to, but his face does soften a bit. His voice is lighter when he says, “Oh, I will. Within your dietary restrictions, that is. Which means no alcohol.”

 Tim groans. “You’re no fun.”

 “Uh huh.”

 They begin the commute back to Martin’s flat, and the atmosphere between them grows more lighthearted than it’s been in months. Tim feels something warm and familiar curl in his chest, and he realizes just how much he’s missed this. It’s not quite easy conversation, not like it used to be, but it’s nice all the same.

 Tim’s ears ring, and his entire body aches, and he still feels a numbness in his core in the shape of suspicious glances and calliope music and a face he can’t remember, but for the first time in a long, long time, he allows himself to smile.

 .

.

.

 Tim doesn’t visit Jon often. At first, it’s the guilt, acute and cloying and weighing him down. Then, it’s old hurt and stale anger, resurfacing and driving away any passing thought of Jon that isn’t tinged with bad memories and broken trust. After that, it’s just habit.

 It also hurts, if he lets himself admit it. To see Jon lying there, motionless and clad entirely in white, the heart monitor attached to him reading out a constant horizontal line even as his eyes move in small, jerky motions behind his eyelids. 

 See? a part of him whispers. He’s not human. Maybe he never was. Maybe he was always a monster, and you just never noticed. It wouldn’t be the first time.

 A newer part of him, one that gets more prominent by the day, recognizes that even if Jon isn’t human anymore, he never would have chosen this. This stasis, this half-death. Not what came before, either. That part of him remembers the way Jon’s hand had gripped his tightly as they’d opened that trapdoor, and how it had continued to do so even as the worms had begun to bite into their skin. He’d tried to protect Tim then, too, putting himself between Tim and Jane Prentiss. For all the good it did, when the worms began to come from all directions. But Tim remembers the way the terror and pain in Jon’s eyes had been tinged with sadness, with a silent apology as he gripped Tim’s hand hard enough to bruise and they both accepted that this was it.

 It hadn’t been, in the end. And now it is, with Jon all-but-dead and Tim still here, wheeling his way into Jon’s hospital room for the first time in weeks. 

 He’s halfway in before he realizes he’s not alone.

 “Oh,” he says. “I… I didn’t know you’d be here.”

 Martin lets out a sharp, jagged laugh. “Where else would I be?” he says, and it’s tinged with something bitter and broken that takes Tim a bit off-guard. It’s become almost routine now, for Martin to visit Jon, and usually, he comes back looking drained but otherwise fine. Sometimes, when Tim asks him for status updates on our resident medical mystery, Martin even manages a small smile and responds, still dreaming.

 Martin scrubs a hand across his face, and Tim realizes belatedly that he’s crying.

 “Martin?” Tim says carefully, moving a bit closer to where Martin’s sitting. “Are you… did something happen?”

 “No,” Martin says, his voice catching in a way that indicates that something very much did happen. “It’s fine.”

 “Is it…?” Tim pauses, worrying his bottom lip between his teeth. “Is it about Jon?”

 Martin’s laugh this time is more like a whimper. “Nope, he’s- he’s the same as always. Still asleep.”

 Tim moves closer but doesn’t say anything. The clock ticks rhythmically in the background, and he waits. Patience has never been his strong suit, but it’s been something that’s been required of him as of late, and he’s getting better at it.

 He likes to think he’s getting better at a lot of things.

 Martin doesn’t speak again for a few minutes. He stares at his hands where they rest just shy of one of Jon’s, his fingers restless against the sheets, coming up occasionally to fiddle with the thin black ring that rests on the middle finger of his right hand. Then, so quiet Tim almost can’t hear it, he says, “My mother died today.”

 Oh.

 “I’m sorry,” Tim says. They’re empty words, but they’re better than the good riddance and about time and you’re better off without her sitting on the back of his tongue, begging to be released. He doesn’t think they would be appreciated right now, no matter how true they might be.

 “Yeah,” Martin says. He’s still staring at his hands. “They called me a few hours ago. She… she passed away in her sleep. Natural causes. From- from her illness.” He falls silent for a few moments, his fingers twisting in the sheets. Then: “I… I think I should be sad?”

 Tim studies Martin’s face—the tear tracks down his cheeks, the unhappy set to his mouth, the way he’s shaking ever so slightly where he sits. His face is one of grief, but Tim doesn’t ask. He waits for Martin to continue, and after a moment, Martin says, “She was the only family I had left. She- she was my mother. I took care of her, I- I did my best to be a- a good son.” He takes in a shaky breath, curls his hands into fists, and says, “I haven’t seen her in months, you know. I- I visited at first, but she… she never wanted to see me. So I just stopped going. I’d call, every Saturday, but it was the same every time. She’s resting. She doesn’t feel up to talking right now. Call later, and we’ll see what we can do.” 

 Finally, Martin looks at Tim, and the guilt in his eyes is so acute Tim can feel it cut through him to his core. “I should be sad that she’s dead, but… but all I can feel is relief. And that hurts. I- I don’t know… why am I relieved? God, she was right, I- I’m horrible, no wonder she- she never wanted to see me, I- why can’t I- I can’t—”

 Martin cuts off with a wet sob, and all at once, Tim understands.

 “It’s okay,” he says, and he collects Martin’s hands from the sheets, holds them tightly in his own. “You can feel however you like, it’s- it’s okay.”

 He squeezes Martin’s hands, just once, and repeats, “It’s okay.”

 He knows Martin won’t believe him. But still, he sits, and Martin cries, and he says, It’s okay.

 It’s okay.

 .

.

.

 The hearing aids are a permanent fixture in his ears now, as most people have full hearing restoration after six weeks apparently doesn’t include him. The tinnitus is still particularly bad some days, but they help with everything else. It’s not perfect, but it’s a small price to pay for living, he supposes.

 He’s not sure when, exactly, he decides that he’s glad he’s alive. But he does. 

 He wishes he hadn’t been able to hear at all, when the Flesh attacks. He wishes he hadn’t been able to hear the wet, sticky sounds of things that shouldn’t be able to move without bones slipping through the vents, shattering the relative peace they’d begun to cultivate. He wishes he hadn’t been able to hear the pops of Basira’s gun, bullets burying themselves in things that barely flinched at the contact. He wishes he hadn’t been able to hear Melanie’s screams of anger, the responding screams of pain from things with too many eyes and teeth and limbs as her knife carved a violent path through them.

 There are yellow doors and hands slick with blood and a sudden quiet as the last of the twisted, mangled creatures falls, sliced neatly in two in a way that’s just a bit too clean. 

 Melanie is breathing heavily, but her hands are steady and her eyes are hard with something raging and violent. When Basira reaches tentatively for her knife, saying, “It’s over now, Melanie. We’re- we’re safe,” Melanie stiffens but doesn’t resist.

 “This isn’t right,” Tim says after Melanie comes back to herself in bits and pieces, enough to shudder at the blood coating her arms up to the elbows and mutter something he can’t quite catch before disappearing into the toilet. “None of this is. God, can we ever catch a fucking break?”

 “We can deal with it later,” Basira says. She’s calm, but she can’t quite hide the tremor in her voice. Her Al-Amira is splattered with viscera. “Right now, we need to make a call. Get this cleaned up.”

 “What,” Tim says bitterly, “so we can continue hiding away in the Archives? You’re the one who said we should start sleeping here. Should have known it wouldn’t be safe. It’s not like it was before.” 

 He rubs at one of the small circular scars on the back of his left hand, his skin crawling with a phantom itch that makes him vaguely nauseous. 

 “We stay here,” Basira says, leaving no room for debate. “We make the call, and we stay here.”

 Tim makes a low, frustrated noise, and bites out, “Fine. Because Basira always knows best. Whatever.” He unlocks his wheelchair and says shortly, “I’m going outside for some fresh air. The smell of rotting meat is making me sick.”

 Basira doesn’t follow him.

 Martin does.

 They situate themselves just outside the glass doors, and they don’t say anything for a long time. Martin still looks vaguely ill. His face is pale, and his hands are fidgeting at his sides. His fingers are resting on his ring, twisting it back and forth, agitated. His shoes are stained a glistening red.

 Finally, Martin tilts his head back so it hits the wall behind him and says to the air above him, “Is it horrible that I wish Jon were here?”

 Tim snorts, anger still bubbling under the surface of his skin. “Because we’d have done so much better with our own flavor of spooky bullshit?” He bites out a bitter laugh. “Maybe he could have compelled them to explain exactly why every single monster out there has a personal vendetta against us. Working for an eldritch horror of voyeurism doesn’t give you much in terms of an offense.”

 “Stop,” Martin says sharply. “You know what I mean.”

 Tim does. He’s just not particularly inclined to wax nostalgic about the power of friendship and comradery when he’s got bits of meat stuck in his hair. 

 Still, he finds that he means it when he says, “I wish he was too. For what it’s worth. Which isn’t a fucking lot, but it’s what we’ve got.”

 “Yeah,” Martin says. His hand brushes against Tim’s, and they fall back into silence.

 The police arrive, followed closely by the ECDC. It’s a messy affair, even messier than the last time Tim had been in this situation, and Tim wants nothing more than to get away. Forever.

 He doesn’t make any jokes this time. He just nods in the right places, and when they’re finally released and he and Martin return to a flat they haven’t seen in weeks, he can feel weariness cutting through him to the bone.

 When he wakes the next day, Martin’s gone. His note, stuck to the door of the fridge, says, At the hospital. Be back around noon.

 It’s ten in the morning, and the sunlight is bright as it streams in through the kitchen window.

 Tim digs out the bottle of rum that Martin keeps tucked in the back of his cabinet and pours himself a drink.

 .

.

.

 “Peter Lukas wants me to be his assistant.”

 Tim looks up from what’s turning out to be quite an impressive doodle of the little figurine of a frog in a top hat he’d purchased back in research from a charity shop and says, “Absolutely not.”

 Martin sucks his bottom lip between his teeth, holds it there for a moment, and then says, “I don’t know if I have a choice in the matter, really. It’s… it’s not safe here anymore.” Quieter: “He said he can help. Off- offer protection.”

 Tim audibly scoffs at that. He sets down his pencil and notepad and crosses his arms across his chest. He can already feel a headache coming on. (More than the usual, that is. He’s almost able to tune out the constant ringing in his ears now.

 Almost.)

 “What’s he going to do, isolate them to death? It’s not like the Lonely’s any better of an offensive force than the Eye. We’re doing just fine without involving him.”

 “Are we?” Martin’s voice is hard and a bit choked when he continues, “We’re living down here because it’s not safe to stay outside for too long. We’re still finding bits of- of flesh in- eugh.” Martin shudders and folds inward on himself. Quieter, enough so that Tim has to watch the motion of his lips to make out the words, he says, “Jon’s not waking up.”

 Tim feels something inside of him twist. “We don’t know that. We don’t know what’s happening with him.” A touch bitterly—old habits die hard, he supposes—he says, “Maybe he’s just not done going through his monster metamorphosis yet.”

 “Tim.”

 Tim sighs. It’s a profoundly weary sound. “Yeah, yeah. I… I miss him too, you know.”

 He’s surprised to find that it’s not a lie.

 “Right.” A small, shaky smile crosses Martin’s face, and he says, “I- I suppose they’re right, then. Distance does make the heart grow fonder.”

 “Somehow,” Tim says, “I don’t think whoever coined that phrase had this situation in mind.”

 Martin’s smile fades as quickly as it had come, and Tim feels a pang of guilt. “Sorry,” he says, pushing away from the desk and wheeling across the room to where Martin sits. He hesitates, just a moment, before placing his hand on Martin’s where it rests on his knee. “I… I suppose I’ve forgotten how to be lighthearted about all of this.”

 Martin nods. It’s a small motion. He’s silent for a long moment; Tim squeezes his hand and says nothing. Finally, Martin looks down at his hands and says, “It’s been four months, Tim. Nothing’s changed.” He pauses again, his mouth pinching around the edges. “I… I visited him today. I begged him to wake up, to- to do anything to indicate that he’s even still there. I don’t know why I expected him to answer. It’s not like anything’s different now. He- he’s never going to wake up, Tim.”

 Martin’s voice cracks, and he repeats, wetly, “He’s never going to wake up.”

 Then, Martin’s crying, heaving sobs that overtake him completely and have him hunched over, dripping salty tears onto the back of Tim’s hand. “Hey, hey, hey,” Tim says, leaning forward as far as he’s comfortably able to and wrapping Martin in as hard of a hug as he can manage. He rubs his hands in circles across Martin’s shoulderblades, feeling Martin’s shaky breaths against the side of his neck, and says, “It’s okay. It’s okay.”

 He repeats it, again and again, as Martin cries into his shoulder and says, over and over, words thick with grief, “He’s dead, Tim. He’s dead.”

 “It’s okay,” Tim says. Maybe if he says it enough times, he’ll start to believe it.

 Eventually, Martin’s body stops shaking and he pulls back, the tear tracks on his cheeks already beginning to dry. His eyes are red-rimmed and glistening, and he looks tired, grief apparent in every line of him.

 “I said I’d think about it,” Martin says, in a voice rubbed raw and hoarse. “When Peter called me. I- I said I’d think about it. I- I don’t know why…” He cuts off, makes a small, distressed noise, and says, “What do I even have left? If- if this can help, what- what do I have to lose?”

 Tim feels a pang of hurt flash through him, but he suppresses it. He squeezes Martin’s hands, gives him as wide a smile as he can without breaking, and says, “You have me. And I’m not leaving—you’re stuck with me. So don’t think for a second that if you take Peter’s deal, I won’t be there still. I’m like a bad penny, or, I don’t know, a- a fungus or whatever. The point is, you’re not going to get rid of me. Whether or not you decide to work for Lukas—which you shouldn’t, by the way, in case I haven’t made that abundantly clear—you’re not going to be lonely, okay? Not on my watch. I can be very persistent when I put my mind to it.”

 Martin looks at Tim, eyes wide, and another small, hiccuping sob escapes him. “You really mean that?”

 “Yes, Martin,” Tim says, exasperation and fondness filling him in equal measure. “Christ, just because things got… rough for a bit, it doesn’t mean I stopped caring about you. Honestly, don’t know if I could. You’re a very lovable person, you know. It’s not like being your friend is a hardship.”

 Martin laughs a little at that, his voice still thick with tears. “Well, when you put it like that…”

 Tim gives him another smile, and this one feels easier. Like it would be harder not to smile. Still, he’s careful with his words when he says, “So, then. What are you going to do? I’ve made my opinion more than known, but…” Tim swallows around the lump in his throat and continues, “It’s your decision.”

 “Yeah,” Martin says, barely more than a whisper. “Yeah.”

 Peter calls again. And when Martin hesitates for a long moment before giving a quiet yet firm no, the relief that sweeps over Tim is enough to make him feel weightless.

 .

.

.

 Two months later, as a man who smells of death shuts the door behind him, Jon takes a rattling breath and finally opens his eyes.

 .

.

.

 “Tim?”

 Tim raises the hand that’s not holding a rather large bouquet of white daisies and baby’s breath in a half-wave. “Hi, boss. Been a while.”

 The look Jon gives him is half-shocked, half-nervous. “I… I suppose it has. Six months, apparently.”

 Tim makes a sound of affirmation before wheeling himself fully into Jon’s hospital room and letting the door swing shut behind him. “You know,” he says, allowing a blanket of levity to fall over him, “when we said you should get more sleep, this isn’t exactly what we meant.”

 Jon just stares at him for a moment, face blank and eyes wide. Then, a laugh escapes him, a small hiccup of amusement. “Yes, well. I can’t say that I feel particularly well-rested.”

 Tim imagines what it must have been like, to be locked in a dreamscape stasis for six months. He can’t say that the idea sounds particularly relaxing. “Yep, sounds about right. Guess we can cross ‘spooky coma’ off our list of possible cures for sleep deprivation.”

 Jon folds inward on himself a bit, hugging one arm to his chest and gripping the other tightly. “Right,” he says, his voice small. He looks away from Tim, focusing on the small window in the corner of the room, and says, “I… I’m sorry, Tim.”

 Right. Jon still thinks Tim hates him.

 Tim lets out a long, weary sigh and makes his way to Jon’s bed. He practically shoves the flowers into Jon’s hands; Jon takes them, more out of surprise than anything, white petals tickling the bottom of his chin. “It’s been six months, Jon. You’ve been… honestly, a bit dead? No offense. And I’ve been alive. And we both know it was meant to be the other way around.”

 Jon opens his mouth, and Tim holds up a hand. “Don’t. I know. I already hear enough about it from my therapist, I don’t need to hear about it from you too. The point is that I’ve… I’ve had time to think. And some of the things you did, I can’t forgive you for. But some of it…”

 Tim shrugs. “Martin would always go on about how it wasn’t your fault. About how you were suffering just as much as us. And maybe I didn’t believe it because I was already angry, or maybe I didn’t believe it because all I could think about was finally getting a chance at the revenge I’d chased after for years. But then you were gone, and the Circus was gone, and I just… didn’t have anything left for the anger to hold on to.”

 Jon clutches the flowers tightly in his hands, looks down at the petals. “But you were right,” he says quietly. “A- about me.”

 Tim casts himself back six months and sifts through a metric ton of bitter remarks and angry assumptions. “You’re going to have to be more specific.”

 Jon lets out a slow, shaky breath. “About me not being human.”

 Oh.

 “Jon—”

 “Do you know what I was dreaming about?” Jon cuts in before Tim can say anything else. “I- I don’t remember, not really, but… but I can guess. I… I Know, somehow, that- that they were the same dreams, over and over and over again.” Jon takes one of the flower petals between his fingers and rubs it back and forth, a nervous gesture. “I started having them soon after I took this job, you know. Naomi Herne was the first one, and I- I didn’t understand why. Every night, she was trapped in the fog, forced into her own grave, and I would try to move, because it- it felt like I should have been able to, but it- it never worked. So I… I stopped trying after a while. I would stand and watch as she relived one of the worst experiences of her life, every night, and I- I couldn’t do anything to stop it.”

 Jon crushes the petal between his fingers. “She was the first one, but- but there are so many more now. Lionel Elliott and Jordan Kennedy and- and, Christ, Georgie—”

 Jon makes a small, unhappy noise. “I don’t know when I realized that they could see me in their dreams too. That in trying to help, I- I’d just made myself another source of terror.”

 Jon falls silent for a few moments; the quiet is filled by the familiar tick tick tick of the clock in the corner. Then, so quietly Tim has to focus on his lips to catch the words, he says, “I… I think I made a choice. Before I woke up. I don’t… I don’t know what it means for me, not really, but I know it means that I’m worse than I was before.” He lets out a bitter laugh, devoid of any humor. “So, you were right. I’m just- just even less human now.”

 Jon falls silent again, and for a few moments, there’s just tick, tick, tick. Tim rolls the words over in his mind, looks at Jon’s pinched, unhappy expression, and says, “Okay.”

 Jon looks at him then, his brow furrowed in confusion. “Okay?”

 Tim shrugs and repeats, “Okay. You’re not human. I’m not going to pretend like that thrills me or whatever, but it’s… honestly, it’s a lot less of an issue for me now than it was back then.”

 “I- I don’t…” Jon trails off with a frustrated noise. “What?”

 Tim sighs. “A lot’s changed, Jon. Things have… well, things have kind of gone to hell. Honestly, we could use a few monsters who are on our side for a change.”

 Jon blinks at him in stunned silence for a few moments more before saying, bewildered, “... Right. Uh, I- I suppose I shouldn’t ask how you’ve been, then.”

 A wry smile cracks across Tim’s face. “I’ve been just peachy, thanks for asking. Blow up one Circus and suddenly every spooky monster out there wants to kill you. It’s been one big, long, horrible sleepover in the Archives. But hey, at least Elias isn’t there! Now we’ve just got Lukas, and if one or two staff members disappear every once and a while, well—that’s just how it is at the Magnus Institute. Nothing to be concerned about. Sometimes, we still go out for drinks.”

 “Tim,” Jon says flatly. The exasperated expression on his face is so familiar—so Jon—that Tim feels a tension he hadn’t known he’d been holding slip away. 

 “Yeah, yeah,” Tim says, waving a hand absently in Jon’s direction. “Point is, I’m not disappointed or angry or whatever that you’re back in the land of the living.” He pauses, and then, more sincerely: “Martin’s not the only one who’s missed you, okay?”

 Jon’s lips part into an O. Then, his mouth twitches up into a smirk, and he says, “Mm, you’re right. Basira did stop by earlier, and then of course Georgie, and I bet even Melanie—”

 “Unbelievable. And here I was nice enough to come all the way over here, to bring you flowers.”

 “Mm, they are very nice flowers.”

 “Damn right they are.”

 Jon smiles then, a fragile thing, and says, “Thank you, Tim. I… I’ve missed you too.”

 Tim could point out that Jon had been asleep for the majority of the time in question. But he knows that’s not what Jon means. So instead, he offers Jon a smile in return and says, “Be honest: more or less than the Admiral?”

 Jon shoots Tim a flat, unimpressed look. “Tim, don’t be ridiculous. Of course less than the Admiral.”

 .

.

.

 Tim’s been out of the wheelchair for a week when he finally manages to make his way to the roof of the Institute, still learning how to maneuver the crutches he’s moved on to. He swears he can feel every motion of the pins and the rods in his leg—skin covered with even more scars for the collection—as he finally heaves himself through the door and into the cool night air. 

 The view is just as good as he remembers.

 There’s the faint smell of cigarette smoke hanging in the air, and Tim’s entirely unsurprised to see Jon silhouetted against the glow of London, leaning against the wall that rings the roof with his back facing Tim. The cigarette glows a dull red as he raises it to his lips and breathes in.

 Jon doesn’t say anything, even as Tim painstakingly makes his way over to where he’s stood. Tim props his crutches against the wall before leaning his weight heavily against it, arms crossed atop the wall in a mirror image of Jon as they both look out onto the city below, humming with life and light.

 Finally, after a particularly long drag of his cigarette, Jon says, “I’m going to get Daisy.”

 There’s no room for argument in his voice. But that’s never stopped Tim from trying anyways. 

 “I thought you were done doing stupid shit that’ll get you killed,” Tim says, turning his head to look at Jon. Jon’s staring forward, but Tim gets the distinct impression that Jon isn’t looking out at the city at all.

 “It won’t kill me,” Jon says quietly. He moves his hands as he talks, surprisingly competent sign language that he’s begun using tentatively in his conversations with Tim. When Tim had asked him where he’d learned it, Jon had been quiet for a long moment before telling him that he hadn’t.

 Well. At least the Eye was being useful for once.

 “Yeah, whatever,” Tim says. “Dead or not, you’ll still be gone. You know people who crawl into that coffin don’t come back.”

 “I don’t—” Jon cuts off with a frustrated noise. After a moment, he continues, “I have a plan. I- I read a statement, and it said that I would need an anchor. A- a piece of myself to keep here. I can find it when I’m down there, and- and use it to guide me back.”

 “Right,” Tim says dryly. “Because our plans have always gone so well.”

 “What would you have me do, Tim? I- I can’t just do nothing.”

 “Why not?”

 Jon affixes him with an expression that’s half-affronted, half-stunned. “Tim.”

 “What? Jon, we barely know Daisy. She tried to kill you. No, don’t give me that look.” Tim jabs a finger in Jon’s direction. “You know I’m right.”

 “I…” Jon trails off. After a moment, he hugs his arms to himself, his snubbed-out cigarette still smoldering slightly on top of the wall. “I know. But I… I still have to go. I… I’m still going to go.”

 Tim exhales slowly and says, “Right. Suppose I should have expected that.”

 There’s silence between them for a moment. Then, Jon removes his hands from his arms and signs as he says, quietly, “Why don’t you hate me?”

 Tim stares at Jon for a long moment before saying, “What?”

 Jon sighs and repeats, the motions of his hands larger and more emphatic, “Why don’t you hate me? Basira and Melanie, they- they keep looking at me like I’m some… thing, and- and maybe I am. No, not… not maybe. I’m not… I’m not human anymore, and I- I know what you said, but what happens when I—?”

 Jon cuts off with a small, choked noise, like the air’s been sucked out of him all at once. Weakly, he signs, “I’m so hungry, all the time. What happens when I… when I can’t take it anymore? When I- I become dangerous, a- a monster, will you—?”

 Jon’s fingers curl into fists, and he drops his hands to his sides, angling himself away from Tim and staring at an arbitrary point in the distance. “It’s better this way,” he says, loudly enough that Tim can make out the words above the hum of London at night and the ever-present ringing in his ears. “I… I don’t want to go. I don’t want to lose this, to- to lose you and- and Martin. But maybe it’s better than becoming something that will hurt you.”

 Jon won’t meet Tim’s eyes. Carefully, Tim reaches across the space between them and takes Jon’s hand in his, uncurling Jon’s fingers gently in an attempt to release some of the tension. Slowly, he says, “You know, I… I shouldn’t be alive right now. Back after the Unknowing, when I woke up in the hospital, I… I didn’t want to be. It was supposed to be whatever it takes, and to me, that was always going to mean my death. Revenge and poetic justice and all of that. I should have died, but I didn’t. And… and you did. And it’s not something I feel guilty about, because we both made the same choice in the end, but that… that doesn’t stop me from feeling, sometimes, like it was my fault somehow.” He lets out a sharp laugh and says, “Well, I was the one to actually blow the place up in the end, but, you know.”

 Tim holds Jon’s hand carefully in his like it might break otherwise, the mottled texture of the scar tissue firm against his fingertips. His eyes find the thin white line slashed across Jon’s throat, the stark white bandage poking out from the collar of Jon’s shirt where it covers a fresh scalpel wound in his shoulder, the pale pink spots that pepper Jon’s skin in a mirror image of his own. He can’t see the splash of jagged scars across Jon’s back, a memory of shrapnel and white-hot explosions, but he knows they’re there. “You asked why I don’t hate you?”

 When Jon nods mutely, Tim says, “I just… ran out of reasons why I should. I still wanted to, but…” He shrugs and gives Jon a wry, humorless smile. “We’re all just stuck in the same shitty situation. And I guess at some point, I just decided that you hadn’t chosen to be here any more than I did.”

 “Oh,” Jon says, barely audible. 

 Tim takes Jon’s other hand in his, squeezes them firmly, and says, “And I’m sorry. Not for- for how we used to be, because I think the blame for that falls pretty evenly onto both of our shoulders, but… but for everything else. For what’s happened to you. Figured I’ve spent enough time feeling sorry for myself, I might as well extend you the same courtesy.”

 Jon’s fingers tighten around Tim’s, and he mumbles something Tim can’t quite catch. Then, he extracts his hands from Tim’s and signs, shakily, “I’m sorry too. For everything. But for what it’s worth, I… I’m glad you’re here. That you’re not dead. I- I know it’s been bad and- and I wish I could fix that, but I… I don’t know if I can.” Jon’s eyes when they meet Tim’s are sad but determined. “But I can fix this. I- I can get Daisy back. I can find my way out.”

 Tim looks at the firm set to Jon’s mouth, the furrow of his brow, and says, “Okay. But I’m going to hold you to that. Otherwise, I might have to go in after you.”

 Jon looks horrified. “Tim.”

 Tim holds his hands up in a placating gesture. “Hey, come back in one piece and we won’t have to worry about it.”

 Jon opens his mouth, then closes it again. There’s a long pause before he finally says, decidedly, “I will. I- I promise.”

 Don’t make promises you can’t keep, Tim wants to say. Instead, he shuffles closer to Jon and leans against the wall again, crossing his arms on top of it and looking out over the city. “Good,” he says softly. 

 After a moment, Jon shifts to face the city as well. His arm brushes against Tim’s, and Tim lets that point of contact ground him as he looks up and up and up at the stars above, pinpricks of light on a satin black sky. 

 “Thank you,” Jon says, just loud enough for Tim to hear. 

 Tim moves his hand to cover Jon’s where it sits on the wall and squeezes once. “Yeah.”

 They stand there until sunlight begins to tickle the edges of the horizon. And when Jon gives Tim’s hand one last squeeze, the other holding the lid of the coffin open, and says, “Be back soon,” Tim believes him.

 .

.

.

 Three days later, Jon climbs out of the coffin with dirt caked underneath his fingernails and a thin, sharp hand clutched in his. “Tim,” he says, and Tim ignores the pain in his leg as he lets his crutches drop to the floor and hugs Jon tightly.

 “Looks like I’m staying above ground after all,” Tim jokes, his voice light even as his words come out wet and choked.

 Jon’s laugh vibrates against Tim’s chest. “Yeah,” he says, burying his face in the fabric of Tim’s shoulder to hide his smile. “Yeah.”

[theonewiththefanfics]

Because Hearts Get Broken - I Know That You’re Scared (Part 2/3)

Continuation of ‘Because Hearts Get Broken’ - see my masterlist for it :)

Synopsis: She’s trying to move on. He’s still hoping for a chance

Pairing: Harry Styles x fem!Reader

Genre: angsty, bruh, but with a sprinkle of fluff and a hopeful (??) ending

Warnings: swearing, emotionally distant mindset... can’t think of anything else, really. 

Word count: 3656

Heartbreak isn’t loud. Y/N doesn’t even know if it had a sound what it would be like. Like glass shattering against the ground? Or maybe like a book being ripped and shredded apart, memories of time spent together ruined. Or maybe it'd like the crackle of a fire, as it slowly but surely crept up and turned everything into charred remains before it became nothing but ash and was carried away by the winds.

        No one in her family talked about feelings. If they did all they received back was ‘suck it up. That’s life’. After that, it was time to move on. So, when she got together with probably the most open-hearted person in the world, it was almost laughable.

        Y/N had always been the friend others went for advice, relationship or not, but she herself never asked for one, simply because she didn’t wanna bother anyone. Not that she thought the others were bothers. It’s just having grown up in a household where emotions were basically suppressed, opening up was quite impossible. 

       Then came Harry. Perfect, impossible, loving, sweet, kind, ridiculously open Harry. God, she just wanted to punch him because no one should be that nice. 

        January 2nd, 2020 he’d called her up, having gotten Y/N’s number from Sarah (after ages of pleading, because as much as Sarah sometimes couldn’t handle drunk Y/N, she’d defend and protect her until the very last breath), and they set up a coffee date.

        Slowly but surely, they spent more and more time together and seeing as her job had her based in LA for a while, visiting Harry was no problem. Then the pandemic hit, and on March 18th the whole stay-at-home order was issued in California. 

        Y/N was in a panic. She was meant to leave LA in ten days, and the hotel her company was paying for had been paid until the 28th. With all flights getting rapidly cancelled, she was scrambling to get one, but even her firm was unable to get her a seat. That’s when Harry had called up, his tone a worried, urgent mess as to if Y/N was alright and what her plans were.

        Of course, him being him, he immediately offered her a place to stay.

        “We don’t even need to stay in the same room, there’s like five other guest rooms you can take up,” he tried to joke, and ease her tension.

        “Fuck, Harry, just rub it in how rich you are.” Y/N cackled, and when she heard him laugh in the background, her heart did that stupid fluttery thing she’d grown so used to. 

        It took a little persuasion from Harry’s side, and reassurance at least seven more times, that Y/N wouldn’t be intruding on his space, and he was more than happy to spend the quarantine with someone else, instead of being alone, and that in no way her taking over a room or two would limit him and his own artistic endeavours. So, apprehensively Y/N packed her suitcases, grabbed an uber, wearing a mask the whole time, and drove to Harry’s place.  

When Y/N saw the gated community and the palace he was living in, the inside of her cheek was practically bitten in half. They’d barely been together for three months, and now she was basically moving in with him, but given how it was either live with Harry in a fucking mansion or walk across the country to New York, she took the first option. 

        As much as Harry loved on her, pretty much shagging her brains out every possible second, and loving on her until her cheeks hurt from smiling, the anxiety about the whole situation never left.

Harry was worried about his mom and sister, Y/N was scared of what was happening in New York. So, when the state boarders opened, immediately, although reluctantly, she flew back to her apartment and her dying plants, but never forgetting to FaceTime with Harry. But they couldn't stay away long from one another.

        Which is why they decided, given how she was able to work from home now, and Harry could do so as well, they’d fly over to one another every two weeks, quarantine together for the next two weeks, and then fly to the other place. Her boss actually loved the idea that Y/N was so willing to go back and forth between the two cities, so all her flights were written off as business expenses, not to mention when she said she wouldn’t need a hotel, he was more than thrilled to let her be in LA whenever she wanted, as long as her work got done.

        It seemed funny to her now, that before Y/N couldn’t wait to get back to the sunny state of Cali. Now when she had to fly over (which was just a couple of times since the breakup), going through JFK security made her sweat, and landing was a vomit-inducing action. And the last time she’d gotten back to the home-base state, she’d actually thrown up, Harry’s last words ringing in her ears.

        It’d been three weeks since Sarah’s New Year party, and three weeks since she’d spoken to him although he still kept calling. Every morning she’d wake up to a couple of notifications of missed calls, and each time she’d listen to the messages; it was all the same – I miss your voice. And every time she’d listen to it, her thoughts were exactly the same. You could say it was almost pathetic as to how many times she’d listened to his albums, just to hear him sing. Almost like he used to do right before she fell asleep.

        But Y/N had no one else but herself to blame for it. She’d been the one to call it quits, she’d been the one who walked out of his apartment, and the one who decided she wouldn’t fight. 

        Now, she was sat by her small magazine table, documents spread out in front of her as if a tornado had rolled through, while an apple and cinnamon candle spread its delicious scent through the air. 

        Y/N would only admit it once because, well, the proof was all over the apartment, but she was very lazy when it came to taking away the Christmas décor. It made her feel warm and comfy. And it reminded her of Harry. How when she’d woken up after their first date, already in the new year, he still had colourful fairy lights strung across the curtain rods, giving everything a soft, cosy glow. 

        He’d also been the one who convinced her that a real Christmas tree was so much better than a plastic one. 

        “Yes, it’s a hassle,” he’d said through slurred words as they’d slinked away from the partying crowd after the countdown was done, and each of them had taken three shots of vodka. “But it’s so worth it. Smells like a fucking forest in your room. Like proper Christmas!”

        And although she’d spent this holiday season alone, Harry had been right. Just like he’d been right about Y/N.

        She tapped her pen against the glass surface and readjusted her position on the floor.

        “This is the periodic table, noble gases stable, halogens and alkali react aggressively,” Y/N hummed as she highlighted the incorrect parts of the paper in front of her. “Each period will see new outer shells, while electrons are added moving to the right.”

        Just as she was about to start off the second verse, her doorbell rang, and her stomach gurgled in response.

        “Ugh,” she groaned to herself. “Pasta come to fuckin’ mama.”

        But when she opened the door, she wasn’t greeted by the Uber Eats delivery man.

        “Harry.”

        Y/N was taken aback. She didn’t expect him to visit her, especially not so soon and especially to fly out to New York (as much as he was most likely there to do other stuff as well, her gut told her he was there for her). 

Sure, she hoped that one day they could be friends, if not acquaintances, he was too important of a person for her to lose completely from her life, but that was looking like five years into the future.

        “I bring gifts.” He raised his hand where her boxes of food hung in a paper bag. “Can I?”

        “Uh, yeah, of course!” She shook her head to clear it from the shock and allowed Harry to enter into the warmth of her apartment and escape from the cold January air.

        “I was on my way up when the delivery man came in, and I recognised by the boxes it was yours.” The smirk on Harry’s face was something Y/N loved to see, but usually, she liked to also wipe it away. Preferably with her own lips. 

        She let out a small scoff, not waiting to see if he followed inside, as she scurried to the adjacent kitchen and grabbed two plates, while he opened up the white cardboard containers and allowed the delicious smell of spaghetti Bolognese as well as a carbonara waft into the air. Y/N had wanted to eat the latter at some point during the night when the munchies hit, but she supposed Harry was probably hungry as well. “Maybe there’s someone else here, who likes Italian.”

        “Probably, but only you would order from the shittiest Italian restaurant just because they have pesto and parmesan bread.”

        “Hey!” She slapped his arm. “They’re not shit. They provide me with everything I need – calories, carbs and bread.”

        “What more does a person need?”

        “Exactly!”

        Both of them let out small chuckles and then settled down on her couch to dig into the meal. They ate in silence, and despite Y/N’s initial shock, it wasn’t uncomfortable. In fact, they were sitting pretty much shoulder to shoulder, as she watched Harry re-read the spread-out articles on the table and use her marker to tick some stuff that could use re-wording. He had a knack for words, after all.

        “I uh…” He wiped his mouth with one of the napkins provided by the diner before clasping his fingers together and looking at the woman sitting next to him, as she slowly set her empty plate on the small cupboard beside the sofa. “I was hoping we could talk.”

        Y/N hung her head. She should’ve known he wasn’t here to just check-in and have some dinner. “We already did. Twice might I add. What makes you think this time the ending will be different?”

        “Third times the charm?” Harry let out a little laugh, and she rolled her eyes. “Look, I didn’t wanna leave everything the way I did. I – I said some pretty shit things.”

        Y/N fiddled with her thumb. ‘I had,’ Harry’s words echoed in her head. ‘Only she didn’t trust that I loved her the same.’ “Nothing that was untrue though.”

        “See, that’s where I think both of us are wrong.”

        That was not what Y/N thought this conversation would be whatsoever.

        “I – “ He cleared his throat. “I know I said I didn’t think you trusted me that I loved you enough. I think you know I did – do.”

        If Y/N still had any food in her mouth she would’ve choked on it, as she bit back the rising lump in her throat, but instead of interrupting him, she let Harry continue. “And honestly, it’s not your fault that it fell apart, ‘s my fault too. I pushed you to do something, you didn’t want to, weren’t comfortable with, when you told me not to… just because I wanted to feel important, ‘nd because I wanted to get a role in your life you weren’t ready for yet. And I’m sorry for doing that. I should’ve never forced you.”

        “Harry…” Y/N was at a complete loss. “I – I don’t really know what to say.”

        He took her left hand in his and clasped it, finally able to properly say what'd been eating away at him. “During the New Year party, I didn’t go about it the right way. I was just – I was just still so hurt, and I wanted you to hurt the same because… it didn’t seem like you cared at all, which I know you did… I know you loved me, and…” He took in a deep breath. “I hope that you still do. At least enough to give us another chance. We can take it at your pace,” he instantly added, knowing how she’d react, expecting the sigh and the almost tired and resigned ‘Harry’ that escaped her lips. But he’d say everything on his mind. “You can take how long you need to feel like you can trust me with what’s bothering you.”

        “Harry,” she repeated, but it didn’t seem like he was about to stop.

        “But I think we can do it, and we can do it right this time. We know where we stand, we won't make the same mistakes.”

        Y/N’s hand came to rest against his cheek, and he practically melted, engulfing her palm with his as to not let her touch leave his skin for even a second. “Are you even listening to yourself?”

        “Look, I know, you’re scared, and the thing is, so am I. I don’t want it to end like that or end. Period. But I do want to try again.”

        And if nothing but to humour him Y/N asked, “And if it does end the same way?”

        “It won’t.” He was so sure of it, she had to laugh.

        “Harry, the big difference between us is – you like to talk about your feelings. You like to go through them and stuff. I don’t. I feel… icky when I even think about talking to someone of what I feel. We’re just too opposite.”

        “Opposites attract.”

        “No,” she pointed a finger at him, stifling her laughter, though Harry seemed not to be hiding his smile. “Do not use science against me.”

        He raised his hands as if in surrender. “I’m not, I’m just supporting my point with facts. Scientific facts, that you can’t argue against.”

        “I mean…” Y/N shrugged her shoulders. “I dunno… Maybe it was a good thing we ended it when we did. It was ten months – almost ten – amazing months, but… can you imagine if we’d gone so far as to think about moving in together, and then it fell apart? That would’ve been a whole different kind of a mess.”

        “Do you love me?”

        Y/N sighed, resting her cheek against the couch while she smoothed away his brown locks from his face. “Of course, I do. Don’t think there will be a time in my life I don’t.”

        “Then that’s all I need.”

         “Is that really enough for you?”

        “Yes.”

        And there was no lie in that single word. Did he want for Y/N to feel comfortable enough with him that she talked about whatever concerned her, however small? Of course. But he also wanted her to be comfortable enough to be herself. If that meant her keeping things to herself, and trusting Harry to support her decisions, it’d be enough.

        Her Y/E/C eyes hadn’t left his green ones, and they only widened as he leaned forwards and pressed his forehead to hers.

        “Haz…”

        Fuck, how he’d missed her calling him that. It wasn’t an exclusive nickname by any means, but when it came from Y/N’s mouth, it was the sweetest sound in the universe.

        He was her Haz when he broke a plate, he was her Haz when she threw her head back as pleasure exploded through her body, he was her Haz when he took her hand in his to quell her anxiety, and he was her Haz when he gave her tissues as they watched a movie, and she couldn’t help but cry each time a dog or cat died (or a dragon, but he was a sobbing mess as well because ‘Dragonheart’ messed with them both).

        His lips were so close, and just as they skimmed over her own, Y/N’s phone rang making her physically spring back, eyes like saucers.

        “S – Sorry,” she stammered, scrambling to find the annoying device between the cushions. It was Sarah’s name that lit up her screen.

        “Hey, what’s up?” Y/N started, voice trembling and shaky. God, when had she suddenly gone so out of breath? And why was her head so dizzy, as if she’d just gotten off a rollercoaster?

        “Yeah, he’s here,” she replied, eyeing Harry. “Yeah, just a sec,” and Y/N handed him her phone with a quiet ‘why’s your phone always dead?’

        ‘Didn’t know it died’, he said, but that was untrue. He’d turned it off so this sort of a situation wouldn’t happen; so a call or text wouldn’t interrupt him at the most critical moment. He had to give the universe a proper talk once he was done.

        “ ‘Ello?” 

        Seconds of silence passed, and Y/N didn’t like how weird it was, so she took the empty plates and put them in the sink to soak.

        “Now?”

        She could see the frustration rise in Harry as his forehead creased, and he let a hand rake through his hair. “Fuck’s sake… yeah, I’ll be there in ten. ‘S alright,” he sighed. “Not your fault Sarah. Tell Jeff not to worry, and that I’m not dead.”

        With that, he pressed the red button and ended the call, drumming his fingers against the screen. God, he really didn’t want to leave. Not now. Not after he’d been so close.

        “Uh, work?” Y/N asked, arms crossed in front of her as if she was protecting herself from the answer. 

        “Yeah, sorry. I uh a meeting from tomorrow got rescheduled for tonight, like right now because there was some sort of an emergency from the label’s side."

        “ ‘S alright, I get it. Showbiz never stops.” Y/N motioned to the door. “I’ll walk you out.”

        There were a couple of times in his life Harry wanted to give himself a beating. Once when he was six and Gemma had told on him after he’d broken a favourite vase of their mothers, he decided to get revenge and destroy her favourite plushie. He’d never forget the tears Gem had cried, and how absolutely heartbroken she’d sounded. He vowed although he was the little brother, to never ever let anyone hurt her like that, and if someone did, they’d meet their maker sooner rather than later.

        The second time was when he was still a teenager, One Direction on the rise, and it had gotten to his head just a little bit more than it should’ve. He’d gotten really messed up at a party (which Harry shouldn’t have even been at). The disappointment on his mother’s face as she scolded him through FaceTime was gut-wrenching enough to make him promise to always know the limit.

        And Harry guessed this was the third time.

        He could’ve said no to the meeting. Jeff was there and so was Sarah and Mitch. The three of them could handle it for him. It’s not like he would mind much whatever they came up with if it had given him the time to settle things with Y/N. 

        “It was great to see you, Harry.” She brought him out from the thoughts as she unlocked the door and opened it for him, bringing her jumper sleeves over her palms to hide from the cold outside air. “Really. I – I missed you, and honestly, I’m glad we got to talk. I uh well, take care. And say hi to Sarah from me please.”

        “I – “ he took hold of Y/N’s wrist before she could turn away. “I’m holding a small concert in a week. Here in uh in New York. It’s for charity… I want you to come.”

        “I umm… I’ll have to check if I’m free, but yeah. I will. Thank you.”

        “ ‘S no problem… Sarah missed you like crazy now that you’re not in LA as often… ‘n yeah. Anyway. I’ll put your name on the guest list, so just bring some ID, and they’ll let you backstage.”

        “Okay,” she whispered and gave him a small, genuine smile. “Thank you. I’ll really try to come.”

        “Yeah.”

        And he was going to go without doing anything else. Harry truly was. But as he released her wrist, going to the stairs, he gave Y/N one last glance back, and it was like his feet had a mind of their own, as they carried him back to where she stood by the still open door, grabbed her by the waist and pressed his lips to hers. 

        He expected Y/N to push him away, but to his very huge delight, she didn’t. Instead, her fingers wove through his hair and her legs almost on instinct rose so he could take her by the thighs, wrap them around his middle and press her against the doorway. 

        The groan that Harry swallowed from Y/N only ignited the fire that’d been burning ever since he met her, but it wasn’t the destructive kind, like the ones that leave nothing but charcoal behind. It was warm. Safe. Like the light of a fairy light. Like the embrace of home.

        “Come to the show,” he muttered against Y/N’s lips, as they broke apart, and he set her down on the ground, not letting go until he was sure she was steady on her feet. “I’ll wait for you.”

        With that, he left because if he didn’t, he’d make sure Y/N would be unable to walk for a week.

        And Y/N watched him retreat while her brain fought with her heart.

        What was it he’d sung in ‘Golden’, as he’d twirled her in the sea of bodies and glitter a little bit more than a year ago? ‘Loving is the antidote?’ 

        Maybe love was the antidote to her fear.

        She closed the door.

        And smiled.

Tags (crossed out wouldn’t take):

Everything tags: @lumelgy @palaiasaurus64 @supernaturalbaesduh @breezy1415 @crazy--me @thatawkwardlittlefangirl @sea040561 @staryeyedgirl @deathbyarabbit @s-c-a-r-e-d-po-t-t-e-r @reblogger-not-a-blogger @m-a-t-91 @dalilx @i-need-a-hero-i-need-a-loki @maladaptive-ninja-returns @averyrogers83 @in-the-end-im-still-trash @gallifreyansass @dewy-biitch @avxgers @unlikelygalaxygiver @magicwithaknife @ollyoxenfrees @bnhvrdy @tvwhoresblog @celebsimagines @thatkindofgurl @sj-thefan @teenwolflover28 @lestersglitterglue @im-squished

Harry Styles tags: @sarcasticallywitty15​ @breezykpop​ @girlboss99​ @harrystylesdoesntknowiexist​ @alliyjane​ @sirtommyholland​

A/N: I’ve been listening to ‘Fine Line’, ‘The Periodic Table Song’, ‘Welcome to the Christmas Parade’ (Welcome to the Black Parade mix with All I Want For Christmas) and ‘Rasputin’ Boney M remix exclusively... I feel like a complete crackhead... :D

Decided to tag also those who wanted a part 2 but didn’t necessarily ask to be tagged :)

P.S. I guess there will be a part 3???

P.S.S. if you wanna be added to a tag list drop me a message :)

[glennjaminhow]

“You’re only getting away with pampering me because I don’t have enough voice left to tell you to go away.”

Christmas Eve 2009 Philadelphia, PA 7:30 PM

‘Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the apartment, not a creature was stirring, not even a Dennis.

Because Dennis is curled like a cat on the sofa, soft green blanket pulled up to his chin. He’s half-asleep, listening to the crackle of the portable fireplace and watching the snowflakes fall, encasing Philly in a beautiful white glow.

He moved the couch earlier to face their fire escape and give Dennis a better view of the world outside, the world he’s been cooped away from for the past two weeks while he recovers from double ear infections that turned into laryngitis a few days ago. Mac isn’t sure how it’s humanly possible for one dude’s immune system to be so unbelievably shitty. But, given how little Dennis eats and how generally weak his pussy ass is, his germs have gotta be like ten thousand times more germy than the normal person’s germs.

Mac doesn’t get sick because he never gets sick. He’s got the body of an ox. A strong, buff ox.

Anyway, Den’s been going crazy around here, bored out of his goddamn mind. They’ve watched all their DVDs four times each. They’ve marathoned Lord of the Rings and Indiana Jones and the Alien and Predator series twice, all with the captions on because Dennis still can’t hear for shit. Seeing him with cotton balls stuffed in his ears has been real entertaining, but first the dude can’t hear and then he can’t talk. He’s congested and cranky and not even a patented back massage from yours truly can help. Fuck, Mac even tried giving him a handy, but Dennis just scowled and pushed Mac away. Same goes with kissing or dry humping or nibbling at his neck like Dennis likes.

Which Mac guesses he understands. Dennis isn’t feeling good, so hand jobs and stuff can’t feel good either, right?

So that’s why Mac’s been waiting on him hand and foot, serving him bowl after bowl of steaming chicken noodle soup and fluffing the pillows behind his head. He’s been keeping the apartment blazingly hot, to the point where it’s 80-something degrees in here, and he’s taken up just wearing boxers and sleeveless tees in December. He makes sure Dennis takes regular baths to wash the toxins off his skin, all while shampooing and conditioning his hair because Dennis sure as shit isn’t going to do it by himself while he’s feeling like this.

“You’re only getting away with pampering me because I don’t have enough voice left to tell you to go away,” Dennis wrote in his notebook a couple days ago after his third fever-induced bath that day, showing it to Mac; Mac just rolled his eyes and ran his fingers through Dennis’ hair instead. Eventually, Dennis settled in for the afternoon, falling asleep with his face buried in the crook of Mac’s neck and snoring so painfully loud that Mac nearly smacked him but didn’t have the heart to.

The last two weeks have been a pain in the ass, but not because of Dennis, not really. Sure, the guy’s whiny and irritable, but given how fucking sick he’s been, Mac is honestly surprised he hasn’t been 8,000 times more of a dick. He guesses it’s because at first he couldn’t hear himself enough to insult Mac, and now he can’t verbalize it.

But the shittiest thing about this experience is that it’s Christmas, and Dennis is sick, and Dennis hates Christmas enough as it is. Mac went all out with decorating this year, but that’s only because he’s been cooped up too, seeing as the gang doesn’t exactly function the best without them around. Who knows what the hell they’ve been doing since Mac and Dennis holed themselves up in their apartment, but he doesn’t care. He’s been trying to make the holidays special. He gracefully put up 7 mistletoes, hanging them in places he knows he’ll be able to kiss Dennis whenever he wants. There’s a Christmas tree – fake, but still – and lights and that garland shit that tracked little pieces of paper shit everywhere.

It’s Christmas Eve, and Mac figures it’s time to put his plan in motion.

He finishes plating the pancakes and eggs. He puts a couple dots of maple syrup in the middle of Dennis’ pancakes, knowing he’ll throw an absolute bitch fit if there’s too much; Dennis won’t even touch pancakes with too much maple syrup. Mac drowns his in syrup because it’s so fucking good, but Dennis is like a different species, and Mac wants to make tonight special for him. He makes Dennis’ coffee just the way he always does – a ton of French vanilla creamer and a pinch of sugar. Mac takes his black because he isn’t a pussy.

Mac carries Dennis’ food and coffee over to their currently misplaced couch. He sets the stuff on the heater and takes in the sight of Dennis, illuminated by the white of the falling snow outside. His cheeks are flushed red, and there’s a shine of sweat on his forehead. Mac will get his antibiotics after food, just like he’s been doing since they switched Dennis’ prescription because the ear infections were resisting them.

For now, Mac shakes his knee gently. “Den,” he whispers.

Dennis slowly blinks awake as Mac keeps rubbing his knee. His eyebrows scrunch, and he opens his mouth to talk, but he knows firsthand no noise will come out; his voice is shot to shit.

“I made breakfast,” Mac says softly. “I know it’s like pretty late, but you need to eat, and it’s Christmas Eve, and I thought, ‘hey, Christmas Eve calls for pancakes!’ I also made scrambled eggs too ‘cuz I know how much you like ‘em.”

Dennis eyes him skeptically.

“They’re not burnt. Promise.”

They’re a little burned.

But Dennis takes the plate anyway. Mac sets a black plastic tray over Dennis’ lap. Mac puts the coffee and napkins there while Dennis settles the plate with trembling hands. He pokes at his food while Mac situates himself on the couch beside him. Once Mac starts pretty much swallowing without chewing because he’s the next level of hungry, Dennis follows suit, daintily cutting up his pancakes and scooping eggs onto his fork.

The only noises heard are the crackling from the fireplace and the scraping of utensils. They’ve been having quiet moments like this a lot more often, and it’s refreshing from their usual lifestyle of kicking ass and planning schemes and drinking till the sun comes up. Since they started hooking up, things have been better, and Dennis seems so much happier.

Mac’s thankful for that.

Dennis slurps his coffee until there’s nothing more than a dribble left in the mug. His plate is half gone.

“Want some more?” Mac asks as he finishes the rest of his eggs. “I got like a shit load left, dude.”

Dennis shakes his head. He looks tired, like he could fall asleep any second. He shivers.

Mac moves the tray to the floor. “C’mere, Den,” he whispers.

Dennis lays his head on Mac’s shoulder immediately. Mac wraps him up in his arms and kisses the top of his sweaty hair.

“T-Thank you,” Dennis forces out, long after Mac thought he’d fallen back asleep.

Mac snaps out of his snow-watching trance; fuck, Philly really is beautiful when it snows.

“For what?” he asks. He wants to tell Dennis to save his voice and rest up, but he doesn’t.

Truth be told, he’s missed Dennis’ voice a lot. Like so much more than he thought possible.

Dennis grabs Mac’s hand and rubs his thumb over his knuckles; Mac practically vibrates out of his skin. “Taking ca-care of me… Loving me.”

His voice is a scratchy, garbled train wreck, and, honestly, Mac can barely understand him, but the words are sincere. Ever since they started banging, Dennis has been more and more open with him. Less angry. More willing to resolve their fights without resorting to low blows and scratches. When they get upset, they talk. They hold hands. They make out. They play footsies under the covers. They just… get each other.

Mac knows this can’t go on forever. Knows he’s living in sin and eventually must go back on God’s path. But these few kind words from Dennis fill his heart with happiness and the sense that maybe – just maybe – this can be sustained.

“You don’t have to thank me, Den. I love you. I want to take care of you.”

Dennis nods and snuggles in closer, tangling their fingers together and nudging the back of his head into Mac’s collarbone.

Eventually, Christmas Eve turns into Christmas Morning. They fall asleep on the couch, Dennis with his head in Mac’s pillowed lap and curled into his stomach and Mac slouched to the side against a mountain of blankets.

Snow continues to fall, and the artificial fire burns as bright as the love in Mac’s heart.

[cosmicjoke]

Further commentary on the ending of Banana Fish (Spoilers):

Look, I understand the controversy and upset surrounding the ending of Banana Fish.  My last post on this topic seems to have pissed some people off, which was never my intention.  But I think maybe I could have worded things a bit better, so I’m going to try again to explain why I feel like the ending of Banana Fish was so perfect.

It’s not a happy ending, and I don’t think anyone, anywhere, will try to tell you that the ending was meant to make anyone happy, or satisfied.  That’s the point.  It’s not MEANT to please the reader.  It’s meant to remain true to its narrative realism.  And in that realism, it’s meant to break the readers heart.  And boy does it do both.

I don’t think anyone would tell you, anyone with any ounce of feeling in their heart, anyway, that Ash didn’t deserve a happy ending, or that he deserved to die after all the awful shit he went through.  I think we can all agree that we would have wanted, if we had a choice, to see Ash have a happy, hopeful ending with Eiji in Japan.  We all agree that Ash DESERVED a happy ending, because he was a good person who was dealt about the shittiest hand in life a person can have.  And despite all that shit, he retained that innate goodness of heart that made him who he was.  He never became a monster, like the people who used him up and abused him over and over again.  That’s what makes him such an extraordinary character that’s deeply loved by so many people. He absolutely deserved to be happy.

But that’s the thing. Banana Fish is a story that deals in reality.  Everything that happens in the story, despite the often extraordinary, larger than life circumstances, is dealt with in a way that is, very often, brutally, painfully honest and realistic.  It doesn’t give us what should be, it gives us what IS.  And that makes perfect sense in accordance with its relation to writers like Hemingway and Salinger.  They wrote stories that dealt in brutal honesty and reality too, and both writers are referenced throughout Banana Fish.  And it’s Banana Fish’s commitment to that brutal honesty and reality that makes it an authentic piece of art.  People want a fairy tale ending, where Ash gets to ride off into the sunset with Eiji and live happily ever after, but at no point in Banana Fish are we given any indication that the story is, at any point, going to delve into the realm of unreality and fantasy, and give us such an ending.  To do so would have been a betrayal of the genuine nature of the narrative. It would have ultimately robbed it of its authenticity as a piece of art, and the story, as a result, would have been left hollow and lacking.  

Banana Fish, throughout its narrative, shows us that terrible things happen to good people, and that good people are often forced into doing terrible things.  It never shy’s away from that cruel, heartbreaking reality, and the ending is no exception.  

It affects us so deeply, and leaves us so upset, because it’s so REAL.  It feels genuine to us, it feels real, because it refuses to betray its honesty for the sake of a happy fantasy.  It remains loyal to the harsh truth of reality, and the harsh truth of Ash’s reality in particular.  Ash is a deeply damaged, broken person, who’s experiences in life are the very definition of cruelty.  Here is a boy who, since the age of seven, has experienced sexual, mental, emotional and physical abuse repeatedly and on a scale truly unfathomable to almost all of us. A boy who was forced into a life of prostitution in order to simply survive on the harsh streets of an unforgiving city.  A boy who, again out of a necessity for survival, has had to kill other human beings. A boy who, out of a desperate situation in which he was forced to choose either to save his soulmate or watch him be murdered by his best friend gone berserk in a mad, drug induced insanity, had to kill his best friend by shooting him straight through the heart.  A boy who, each time in his life that he’s tried to build real and meaningful relationships with other people, Griffin, the girl he liked when he was 14, Skip, Shorter, Eiji, he’s had to watch those people he allowed himself to grow close to either die or almost die, over and over again.  All of that combined creates a level of trauma that’s so far beyond the normal scope or understanding of a regular human being, so far beyond any discernable mechanism for coping with trauma, that to expect Ash to just get over it, for it all to magically be okay just because he moves to Japan with Eiji, is the height of unrealistic, and, again, would be a betrayal of the authenticity the story marries itself to from start to finish.  

Ash’s death is a tragedy, as his life was a tragedy, and the story is a reflection of that.  It stays true to that narrative, and never compromises on it.  That’s the point.  Life doesn’t always have a happy ending.  People that have suffered severe, irreversible trauma don’t always recover, and can’t always heal from it.  People who have suffered in the obscene and brutal ways that Ash has aren’t always going to be alright.  Sometimes it’s just too much.  For Ash, it was just too much.  Too much damage.  Too much heartache.  Too much pain.  Too much loss.  Sometimes we can’t overcome our damage, and that reality presented in this story scares people, I think, because it’s so nakedly honest and unapologetically expressed.

The ending is so god awful painful too because we see, in that moment after Ash reads Eiji’s letter, hope bloom inside him.  For an instant, this belief that maybe he can have a happy ending, when he thinks he’ll catch Eiji at the airport, and maybe go with him.  And in the next instant, he’s mercilessly reminded of that hope’s falsity. Hope springs eternal, but not always true.  Hope and happiness were never meant for Ash.  The chance for that was taken from him before he could even understand what those concepts were.  The thematic arc of the story was telling us from the start that it was going to end in tragedy.

People weren’t meant to LIKE this ending.  It wasn’t meant to make them feel good, or okay with what happened, or fulfilled.  In fact, I’d say, it’s meant to make you feel completely devastated.  As the story reflects reality, so often too does real life end in a way that leaves us feeling lost and confused and heartbroken.  Banana Fish is so good because it stays true to that sense of reality, right until the very end.

The ending doesn’t leave us feeling happy, but it sure does leave us FEELING.  Like any real piece of art would.  The emotions it conjures are immense and, for some I guess, too real. That sense of loss and hopelessness and pain it leaves us with is so effective because, again, it’s so honest. And I guess that because those emotions are so real, and felt so deeply, and with such intensity, it leaves some readers and viewers feeling angry.  Lashing out at a reality which they don’t want to accept.  The irony, of course, is that their hatred and rejection of the ending is testament to just how deeply the ending touched them.  It didn’t leave them feeling nothing, it left them feeling too much, and they then go into a state of denial, which is really just a stage of grief.  A refusal to accept.  You know Banana Fish is a true piece of art for that, in how it conjures sincere feelings of grief and mourning in us for its lead character in Ash.  We CARE about him, deeply.  We want him to be alright, because we love him.

But real art isn’t concerned with placation.  It’s concerned with truth.  So many great pieces of literature have unhappy endings, because that’s the truth of the human condition, and the condition of life in general.  Real art won’t shy away from those painful, awful truths, nor is it afraid to conjure the feelings which go hand in hand with those truths in its audience.  

With all that said, the tragedy of the ending doesn’t demand a feeling of meaninglessness or desolation at all.

Eiji’s love for Ash and Ash’s love for Eiji is still so pivotal and, ultimately, essential in how the story ends.  It’s what allows, maybe not a feeling of hope, but a feeling of peace.

You sense throughout the story that Ash knows he’s going to die.  Like he senses that his life is too fucked up, that he’s been through and had to do too many horrible things for it to last very long.  It’s like the saying of he who burns brightest burns twice as fast.  Ash is burning, and he knows it.  He’s already accepted it as an inevitable conclusion.  He doesn’t actively seek death, but he doesn’t fear, nor fight against it.  At points throughout the story, even, he asks for it, when the horror of what’s happening to him becomes too much.  He knows death is coming for him.  The only thing keeping him from giving in so easily I think is his lack of agency in how he will.  Everything has been taken from Ash, and he doesn’t want to give this last thing away. This choice in how he dies.

Eiji’s love is what finally gives him agency in that decision.

Ash died knowing Eiji loved him, and that knowledge, that certainty that he was loved, genuinely loved by another human being, without any strings or conditions attached, simply loved for himself alone, is what allowed Ash to finally find the peace in death which alluded him in life.  He no longer feels like he has to keep fighting, or struggling on through an endless malaise of misery and pain, because he’s finally found the calm and acceptance which comes with knowing he has this one, pure thing for himself, which nobody, none of his abusers, can ever touch or take away.  With everything else that’s been stolen from Ash, his innocence, his sense of agency, his own body, his own mind, Eiji’s love for him is the one thing nobody could ever steal away.  And that’s, I think, why Ash dies smiling, because it’s that knowledge, that he was worthy of another human being’s true love, that at last shows him that he was a human being himself.  Not an animal.  Not a monster.  He was a human being worthy of love.

Ash’s death is heartbreaking, and brutal, but there’s deep consolation to be had in knowing he spent his final moments with the feeling of Eiji’s love for him alive inside his heart, allowing him at last to feel like a person deserving, worthy of love.

It’s that which allows Ash to finally let go of his struggle, and let’s death’s embrace take hold of him.  It’s his own. Eiji’s love, and his choice to let go of life.

It doesn’t make the ending any less heart wrenching or brutal.  It doesn’t make us any less devastated by Ash’s death.  But it gives us a sense of peace, in knowing, even if we are left feeling lost and heartbroken, Ash himself left life with the fulfillment of knowing he was loved.

[minimalisticmonstermash]

What the Fandom (actually) thinks about the SPN Finale 15x20!

A short while ago I posted a Quiz  [Which Part of Supernatural Season 16 are you?]  and the post has 27 notes, so I thought barely anyone would have taken this, but it turns out actually a couple people did.  And I´m so glad I did put in one free form question: “Would be please be so kind to sum up the finale in 3 words. (Or 333 if you want to...)”  Because the past days I clicked through the notifications on the quiz, which is kind of tedious, but I could not stop cause what people put in there is a mood, a riot, the pure unfiltered truth, eloquent and outrageous in the best way!   And so I collected the answers and tried to roughly group them. Which you can find under the cut. (If someone that took the quiz wants to be tagged or have the commentary removed please just message me!)  Can you guess what the most common 3 words were? 

 The rare acceptance or praise  not that bad  // Not entirely horrible.  //  satisfaction and closure :D  //  good idea, shaky execution, ultimately fulfilling  // epic love story

Grounded Truth & the well adjusted It was something // well that happened

CW & Network aka. put the blame where it (probably) belongs network fuckery afoot  //  Corporate Fuckery Ahoy!  // network bullshit ruined everything  // fuck the cw // Fuck the CW //  Fuck you cw //  cw ships wincest  //   FUCK ROBERT SINGER  // Greed won

Make some Effort (@show) Lazy //  half-assed fever dream  // feverish dream (nightmare)  // Could be better  // Not comprehensible, stupid, low budget  // How did buckleming do better  // Fuck you, spn writers. Could have done better

Hate Crime  A hate crime // literal hate crime  //  The hate crime //  I only need 2 and it's hate and crime // subtle-but-not hate crime // hatecrime to all Homophobia Call Out Straight Gay Chicken// not gay enough // bad unsexy homophobic // Where's my gay? // horrific hetero nightmare // Homophobic queerbait bullshit // no homo shitshow // Bury your gays // silencing, erasing, ugly  //  Homophobic and incestual  // homophobic disappointing stifd // Character assassination and homophobia //  Stinky, censorship, offensive // Disappointingly heterosexual & bland You need to speak  fandom for that  why lamp wtf //  It’s the turbo hell we were all sent to // Wheres the tapes??? Castiel centric  so no cas?  // So no cas? // Needs more Cas // No Cas, pathetic // where is cas // why no Cas // where was cas //  yo a ti  // where was castiel Bless you I released scripts for a reason

Deserving Better! Damn Right! They deserved better // They deserved better // They deserved better // dean deserved better //  dean deserved better  //  dean deserved better // Dean deserves better  //  destiel deserved better // Destiel deserve better. //  Jensen deserved better  //  dumb , idiotic , horrible and #deanwinchesterdeservedbetter

Trash, Shit  & Garbage aka. The scatological truth FUCK THIS SHIT // Shit shit shit // Shit shit shit // total shit //  Shittiest fucking shit// Total and utter shite. //  Piece of shit // Fuck this shit  //  Complete utter shit //   Fucking pointless shitshow // stupid As all fuck // That was shit.  // A shit show  // what a shitshow // An absolute shitshow // total shit show // a shit show // A shit show //  total shitshow lmao // absolute shit show  // A shit show // Rancid shit show  // i would say it's a shitshow but that's mean to shit // Complete utter shit   // fuck that shit //  fuck that shit //  fuck this shit // Absolute fuckin bullshit // fucked up shit  // Utter shit bro //  Distilled horse shit // Absolute horse shit // Absolute Horseshit. 3. //  Absolute dog crap // Piece of crap // pile of crap // piece of trash // Steaming trash fire // Shit ass garbage   //  Gar ba ge // Fucking trash fire // Absolute garbage fire // A dumpster fire //  piece of trash // unfortunate dumpster fire //  Flaming pile of garbage // disaster dumpster fire  // Unsatifying flaming garbage // Dumpster fire on ice. A mess. Underwhelming. Incomprehensible. Oof // I got 2: dumpster fire // Complete. Fucking. Bullshit.   // Complete utter bullshit // utter gross bullshit // Shit fuck shame // hot mess inside a dumpster fire inside a train wreck

Still won´t read any praise here The worst thing  // a complete disaster // so fucked up //  It was terrible //  it really sucked  //  Man it sucked //  Well that sucked  //  Fucking sucked bro  //  it fucking sucked  // it sucked ass it was fucked // Sucked major ass.  // It sucked ass // very not good :(  //  it was bad :(  // Absolutely fucking awful  // The very worst //  bad. bad. wincest...  // Bad bad bad  //  bad poop ending // bad funni yuck // horrendous nightmare fuel  //   A fucking nightmare // worst thing i’ve never seen in my life //  an absolute atrocity  // a fucking disaster  it was terrible // an absolute disgrace  //  Just so awful // Really Fucking Bad // Literally the worst // Real real bad  //  Bad stupid bad  // uhh very bad  // crap bad lacking //  horrible rude worst // awful  //  bad // bad  //  Crap //  wack Ugh. // No  // UGH // Bad, messy, dumb   // Bad terrible worst ugh  // Oof my dude  // deep deep sigh 9000+ epic failure  //  Small dick energy

Demands!  Suck my dick   // Not it motherfucker

Thinking of all of us! We all lost

Summed up in 3 Words               Bitch. Fucker. Ass.    //  Death age heaven  // Dead, married, forgotten  // Sam Dead Car  // Dead, Sad, & Car.  // Dead, Sad, Car  // Slow shambling death  //  burns in hell // Absurd, wtf, huh  //  fucking odoriferous stench.

Not Canon & Fake  &  Insulting insulting. not canon  // Unsatisfying, degrading, noncanonical // Disgusting Insulting Fake // sad, bullshit, not-a-finale // Embarrassing, ridiculous, insulting // disheartening, harmful, horrible // Terrible. Disgusting. Hilarious  //                 Incomplete. Unkind. Nonsensical.  // Traumatising, stupid, horrendous  // horrible incomplete unsuccessful  // Disgusting, disrespectful, unreal

Disappointments & Complaints very big disappointment  //  disappointing, disrespectful, baffling  // An utter disappointment // disappointment of the decade  //  Fruitless, regressive, insulting, disturbing, and all-in-all just disappointing //  the complete unpackage  // supernatural finale clusterfuck  // WRONG, Horrible, Offensive //  poo rehash bad  // Unnecessary character deaths  Betrayal & Inconsistency   Stupid awful depressing poorly written inconsistent betrayal  // Boring betrayal // inconsistent, monotonous mess  //  inconsistent disappointing mess

Denial! Aka. The wise!  Finale? What finale? //   What finale ?  // what finale? //  Finale? What finale? Ohhhh yeah 15x18 was great // you mean 15x18?  // Did not happen.  // What the...what?? // What finale ??? // um.........what finale? // finale? what finale. // what finale? it didn't air yet. last episode that aired was 15x18 pffft  //  what finale :) //  Does Not Exist  //  It never happened  //   That didn’t happen // No, i refuse, there was a finale??? // what finale?? // It doesn't exist  // it doesn't exist // Weird of season 15 to end with 19 episodes and an open ending // what finale? the show got canceled after 15x18  // Finale? What finale? Supernatural isn’t over. I’m not in denial, you are //  an atrocity i've erased from my memory //  I Can't See Suddenly. I Don't Know// Don’t know her.        

Consequences & Emotions (I hope you´re all okay, have a hug!) Oh my god it was awful. Hated it. Made me reactivate in the fandom. And obses over that show AGAIN. Oh, and yeah, yeeted me to a place so dark that I got me some new scars.  // Ymmmmm, fuck the finale. It got me spiraling down back to depression and self harm. Didn't make sence. Badly written. Badly executed (well, except acting) // Never wanted to claw my own face off more than watching that heap of garbage // fuckin hated it // My heart hurts  // Stupid unsatisfying pain  //  slap inthe face // I am unhinged  // Im throwing up  //  I am sad //  i went feral  //  Broke my heart  // hurt my feelings  / I wanna die // i hate it <3  // I hated it  // I hate it //  Extreme rage inducing  // Trauma, It was   // Oh. Oh dear. // Absolute soul crushing, sucked sunshine and joy out of this world and any other possible reality this abomination exists in. It hurt so much I actually disassociated and had a real life horrible week. Luckily anger finally swept in and fan fiction ultimately saved the day. // AWFUL. HARMFUL. DEPRESSING. I HATE IT // Waste of time //  My villain origin story // Destroyed rewatch value

This is unfortunately too true  disturbingly pro-suicide   //   odd lacking empty

Valid Questions:  why’d’ya do that // Why why why

WTF?! What the …  “The popular 3” What The Fuck // What the fuck// what the fuck // What the fuck. // what the fuck // What the fuck //  What the fuck //  What the fuck. //  What the fuck // What. The. Fuck.  //   What The Fuck  //  What the fuck // what the fuck // what the fuck // What the fuck // What the fuck // What the fuck?! // What. The. Fuck. // What the fuck?!  // what. the. fuck. (was that????) // What the actual fuck? // 1. What 2. The 3. Fuck //  'what the fuck'  // The actual fuck? //  What the heck, //// What the heck //  What the heck // what the hell // What the hell? // what the hell

Narative & Character Development That was pointless // Failure of storytelling //  15 years of story and character development down the fucking drain // Fuck character arcs, no free will // Assassination of character  // Lost character development // character development is dead // disjointed alien mess I don't know these characters what the fuck // boring, loveless, characters are ignoring  // Season 1 Finale.  // From darker timeline // Awful Forgetable OOC //  piece of shit all the character development thrown out the window. cas deserved better (also to be with dean cause they are in love)   //  Underwhelming, disappointing garbage, a slap in the face of chatacter development. //  the dark ending //  The Chuck ending we didn't deserve. // a dumpster fire on the level of the GoT finale - all character dev & story arc thrown out. CLOWN VAMPIRES  

The Jokers among us, or those finding a laugh in the grimmest things a comedy  //  Just a joke

Relateable:  AAAA AAAAA AAAA  // AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA

I see what you did there and I love you 333 // 333 // 333  // 333  // 333 variations of the word fuck I especially love you  666

Rebels! 4 words (sorry): they showed their hand  //  The end of hope (that’s 4 words but too bad)

Didn´t watch the Finale  for various reasons  Haven’t seen it,  //  i didn't watch it out of spite  // haven't seen it yet for some reason // didn’t watch it  //  I didn’t watch it but everything that happened because of it activated the decade-old sleeper agent part of my brain that was a spn fan  // I stopped watching spn in the middle of season 12... The finale was awful from what I gathered

Hello Stranger, we welcome you here  I don't actually watch SPN I'm taking this for kicks bro

The Refusal (either of the finale or the  question) Nope //  No thank you // no // No   // No thanks, fuckers // No thank you. // No // This is bullshit // haha what? No  // Please, not this  // Oh god no // noooooo oooo ooo  // ....no. //  No. It sucks // I will not <3  //  no thank you  // no no no  //  no thank you  // Lmao wtf no // Nope. Just no. Refusal is self care!  No, I won't let it hurt me again. //  I can't, it's too bad

The offensive Wig! Party city wig // party city wig  //  party city wig // Homophobic, bad, wig // shitty sam wig // party city wig // Party City Wig // party city wig  // Jared's fucking wig //  bad, homophobic, party city wig // The Wig™ Blurry wife Sam's blurry wife

The Nail / Rebar!�� ( @the-rusty-nail-that-killed-dean  @therustynailthatkilleddean  you are recognized) nailed by dickbar //  rusty nail wins  // Rusty fuckin nail.  //  Nail Dean Death Clown  //  dean got nailed  // Rebar. Cas helped.

All of those  Dickbar, Blurry Wife, Driving for 40yrs,Party City Wig, Drone Shot (cringe) // absolute trash fire garbage, burn the party city wig and the cw down but keep the dog

Those with crystal balls expected i guess // disappointed, not surprised

Puzzled (Yeah me too) or Undecided or Eh i don’t even fucking know // Jggfdv //  Huy  // Meh // Meh // meh  // it was bad ??

Let´s create great fanworks!! free real estate

Defies Categories and is good stuff  everything for nothing. // traumatizing, badly-written, comedic   //  devastating yet obnoxious //  God is dead but hegemonic masculinity is still kicking // maam this is a wendys  // am so glad that I was a whovian. I've dodged two bullets. // F's in the chat // >:((

I´m sorry, I failed you with this quiz quiz was wrong // Dude. Dude you gave me "liking the finale" a minute ago. I assure you; i did not. "You have found peace" bro I haven't known a SECOND of peace since that ill-begotten nightmare of a shitstorm  //  [[“I STILL HOPE UR DAY WAS G”:]]  HOW THE FUCK DID I GET THAT I LIKED THE FINALE PLS OP THIS IS NOT A MARK ON YOU OR ANYTHIG I LOVE U EVEN IF I DON'T KNOW YOU BTU PLS THE DEPRESSIVE STATE THAT I SPENT MY LIFE IN POST-FINALE DOES NOT DESERVE TO BE SHAMED IN THIS WAY I. PLEASE. I DID NOT LIKE THE FINALE. HOW DO I GET A DIFFERENT ANSWER PLEASE

Misha? Was that you? Rancid Nut Work

Particular Stuff Fuck john Winchester  // [[“ Mj”; ]]fucking disgusting shitshow [okay so that was 3 words, but MAY I JUST SAY, c*w was incredibly disrespectful to Misha, Cas, Jensen, and Dean. Misha played a Cas for 12 years, and then he's not even in the finale? and Cas gets mentioned a whopping total of 2 times after he confesses his love to Dean?? and then, Jensen. 15 years of his life on Supernatural. Jensen turned down the role to be Captain America, and his best friend is Dean, the character he plays. But then Dean dies on a rusty nail, never getting to actually live his life? Dean died how he always thought he would- and he died as "Daddy's Blunt Instrument", finishing off his dad's unfinished case. J*hn Winch*ster ab*sed him and Sam mentally, emotionally, and possibly physically too, and does NOT deserve to get a Heaven at all, least of all, a Heaven right by Deans. Dean never got to live how he wanted to and was repressed as fuck, and this is all because of his dad, the resident shit head. And don't even get me started on the queer erasure, and racism. Kevin Tran deserved better. He, after through all he suffered on Earth, deserves to go to Heaven, not be tortured in the afterlife forever. I fully believe that it's just because he was Asian. If J*hn got into Heaven, why couldn't Kevin. Also, not to mention, Charlie, Rowena, Claire, Patience, Kaia, Crowley, Donna, and Jodi, and probably countless of other queer characters who were erased. They were silenced and fuck the cw for doing that. I could add so much more, but for now, have an excellent day and a wonderful year :)]   //  [[“Yellowcollins”:]] hat the fuck was that literally what the fuck. I’m convinced the writers did not watch a single episode they made past season 3. There was literally not a SINGLE character from season 4 onwards in the finale. LITERALLY. NO. ONE. and what about “family don’t end in blood” that they’ve been preaching since LITERALLY season 1??? huh??????? nah fuck 15x20, this will go down and the WORST ending in the history of endings.

[cookie] < for everyone that made it that far ;)  

[emmadonovan]

4:44

It was just past 4 in the morning, all quiet outside on residential Redcliff.

Once she’d calmed her hyperventilating, gotten her heart to slow a notch, she dialled his number.

Hearing him pick up after the fourth ring put a lump in her throat, not having anticipated the moment so soon. 

She sat up in bed, pulling her knees in. Head pounding, eyes heavy. An anchor sinking toward the ocean bed.

“Hey,” he answers, quiet and sleepy sounding.

Her voice came out scratchy, brillo pad on chalkboard. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know who else to call.”

“Are you safe?” He sounds concerned, but calm. Always calm.

“Yeah. I’m home. I’m okay. Just... you know.” He knows. He’s known three years now. “It was a dream.” 

“One sec,” he says, and she hears rustling. The swing of a door. Then there’s the chirping of crickets. He’s outside. Probably sitting on some rocking chair, feet up. “Emma? Talk to me.”

“It’s ...nothing. I’m...I’m fine. I just needed ...”

“Just needed to talk to someone?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, here I am,” he says, humor to his voice, a trained quality to it, like this wasn’t the first time it’s happened. And it wasn’t. “You can always call, you know that, right?” he adds, noting her pause.

Mazie must hate her. He was always helping out he crazy bitch, that’s what she probably called Emma. She’d deserve it, too.

“I know. Sorry if I woke you, I hope Mazie didn’t—“

“It’s fine. I have to be up in a minute anyways. Make the rounds.”

She hears a flick. Zippo. He’s lighting up.

“Thanks for the wake up call,” he says, and she can hear the smile in his voice.

She smiles, but you can’t hear that through a phone, so she forces out a laugh.  It feels hollow and plastic, not hers.

“You wanna talk about it?” he asks. “Or if you’d rather not...” 

“No, it’s just... dumb.” She almost regret calling. “It was about him.” 

Well, duh Emma. Who else would it be about? Allen Ginsberg?

“Tell me about it?” 

“It’s one I have a lot. We’re in like...this white room with no windows. And he interrogates me. I can never remember the questions, but they get more demanding. He doesn’t like my answers. Eventually I’m on the ground and he’s choking me. To death. I can’t breathe, then I wake up and it feels like I actually can’t breathe.”

It’s not even that crazy of a dream, once upon a time having been her actual, palpable reality.

She doesn’t get an answer back immediately, but she knows he’s there. Breathing, exhaling smoke. She can guess what he’s thinking, or close to it. She knows how much Ben hates him. Probably thinking how he wants to squeeze his neck until his eyes pop out. He’s said worse when they’re together.

“I feel like taking 60 Xanax to fall into the kind of sleep where there’s no dreams, ever.” Or just stop, forever. 

“Don’t. Don’t do that,” he says, and he sounds uncharacteristically sharp. 

“I know, I won’t. I don’t even have any.” Just her prescription Klonopin, and a couple Valium. She doesn’t share that information though. “Just saying...that’s what it feels like, sometimes.” 

“I know.” A beat where she hears him inhale more smoke. She wonders if it’s a cigarette or joint, and settles on the former. “You’ve been seeing that therapist, right? I forgot her name.”

“Karen. Yeah. She’s great. She’s helped so much.”

“That’s good. Happy to hear that.”

She thinks of Ben, of where he must be right now, perched outside, looking up at a bright tapestry of stars, in front of endless herb fields. She looks out her own bedroom window, the streetlight just across the road filtering in through half shut curtains, then Tito, fast asleep in his bed. 

“I’m gonna go. Try and get back to sleep.” 

His answer comes delayed, not from hesitation, but maybe because he wants to say something else. “Good idea. You do that.” 

“Thanks, Ben.”

“Anytime.”

 Emma yawns, a pause. “Alright...” she says, acting out sleepiness. Something not right here, despite everything.

“Take care,” Ben says. 

“I will.”

“Alright. Love you.”

“Love you too.”

Emma hung up and set her phone back on her night stand, face down. She’d have a million work notifications and she didn’t want them right now, they’d wake her all the way up. Settling back into bed, she rubs her eyes. Watches Tito sleeping, and replays the conversation in her head. His voice was a soothing one, but something jumped out about it to her.

...

..

.

Fuck.

God, she was such an idiot. The biggest fucking one. Wrapped up in her Tomo induced anxiety bullshit, she’d forgotten about him, and went and talked all that shit about pills.

How could she forget? That was unforgivable. She was the shittiest of friends. She probably scared him, legitimately scared him. 

She pulls out her phone and taps out a text.

Emma: sorry if i scared you Emma: I’m good now. was just having another emma moment. lol Emma: xxx

She got a reply back no more than a minute later.

Ben: It’s all good. Ben: Talk to you tomorrow yeah? After you get some fucking sleep  Ben: :) 

She sighed, a load of relief rolling off her shoulders. She’d apologize to him at some point, find a way to. He didn’t need another worry on his shoulders on account of her. He had enough. They’d both had.

The last things she thought of before drifting off into dreamless sleep were a summer’s day, her mother and her father out on a pool lawn, and Weetzie and Emma and Ben running around with super soakers. Better times and better days. The best of days.

[welllpthisishappening]

All was Golden in the Sky (3/27)

Magic is dying.

Emma knows it. She can feel it, the emptiness rattling around in her, like it’s trying to make sure she disappears as well. What she doesn’t know is what to do about it, because, suddenly, there is a man in Storybrooke claiming she’s the Savior and a seeress certain a prophecy promises the same and the last thing she expects is for her minimal amount of lingering power to pull her away.

To New York City.

And another oddly familiar man with blue eyes and a smile that sinks under her skin and makes magic bloom in the air around her. Things are about to get interesting.

—-

Rating: Mature Tag List: @kmomof4 @shireness-says @profdanglaisstuff @captainsjedi @thejollyroger-writer @winterbaby89 @melsbels @tiganasummertree @jennjenn615 @idristardis @cssns AN: The minions are coming! And they’re snarky! And have good taste in music! Honestly, bonus points if anyone can tell me what they think the second song played in the bar is. Also Will Scarlet is in this chapter, so, you know I’ve got thoughts and feelings about that. I also have thoughts and feelings about you all clicking and reading this mess of words which I continue to be real excited about. Stuff’s starting to get action-packed and vaguely magical. A constant and loud thank you to @resident-of-storybrooke @distant-rose and @bmbbcs4evr for being lovely. 

|| Also on Ao3 if that’s your jam ||

—-

“Holy fuck.” Emma rolls her eyes, but she can’t entirely blame Killian because her own knees are shaking perilously underneath her and it feels as if her heart is doing a very good job of beating its way directly out of her chest.

“C’mon, it wasn’t really that bad.” “Are you kidding me?” “You’re being dramatic,” Emma says evenly, and the lie makes her tongue feel like it’s weighed down by, well, several thousand weights. She’s obviously lost any creativity she had in the last few seconds of instinct-induced magic and it had never been that easy.

She refuses to consider why that is, exactly. It’s an obvious answer anyway.

“Fuck, shit, goddamn,” Killian continues, each curse more desperate than the last. His hand tightens around Emma’s, gripping her fingers tightly enough that more than a few of her knuckles crack and she hisses in a breath, trying to mask her own pain and fear and it doesn’t take him more than a moment to realize what he’s done. He drops her hand like he’s been sparked.

Or teleported downtown. By magic. Her magic.

His head snaps towards her, all wide eyes and parted lips and Emma can hear the pattern of his breathing. Irregular. It makes her lungs ache.

“I’m sorry, love,” he breathes, not sounding quite like him. At least not the him that he’s been since Emma opened her door that morning. His voice drops low, every letter tinged with an emotion that does not make sense at all. And yet...Emma’s brain latches onto it, holding on tight enough to crack a few other things.

Possibly her skull.

Maybe this is all just the lingering effects of the concussion she inevitably sustained last night.

“That’s ok,” Emma mumbles with a decidedly out-of-place shrug. “I probably should have warned you, I just--wait.” She nearly bites her tongue in half when her jaw snaps shut and it’s either a testament to her magic or a sign that she’s the world’s shittiest friend that Emma didn’t realize that she and Killian are entirely alone.

In the apartment.

Where she and Ruby are...living may not be the right word, exactly. God, that’s depressing.

“Ruby said here,” Emma says, and she has to keep licking her lips. She’s panting. It can’t possibly be attractive.

She is not worried about that.

Probably.

“She said here and now and minions.” Killian arches an eyebrow. “Like the cartoon?” “Oh my God, tell her that later, she’ll definitely appreciate it.” Emma exhales, likely doing more irreparable damage to her lungs and she wonders if it would freak Killian out even more if she tried to scratch her way out of her skin.

It feels like there’s a spark underneath, an urge and a power and no amount of fluttering fingers or bobbing on her feet seems to help it. Emma shakes her arms at her side, letting her head rock back and forth as she tries to count inhales again without making it obvious.

It doesn’t work.

That’s disappointing. It seems to be a trend.

“Why would Ruby say here if that wasn’t true?” Killian’s eyebrow doesn’t move. The other one joins the first instead, jumping into his hairline, and his eyes widen as soon as the first notes of music drift up the stairs towards the door Emma has only now just realized isn’t locked.

Or closed all the way.

“They were here,” Killian says, taking a step forward and letting the lock chain fall through his fingers. “And I don’t think they left willingly.” “What?” “Look.” He nods towards the door frame, marks that weren’t there a few hours before. “Are those…” Emma nods dumbly, and maybe there’s a spell to reinforce her lungs or something. Like with steel. Or maybe she’ll just give herself gills. Cut out the lung issue completely. She’ll have to ask Regina. “Those are claw marks,” she whispers, tracing over the ridges with the pads of her fingers. “That’s--Rubes wouldn’t do that. Not here. Not in the middle of the goddamn city.” “You said that amulet helped her control things, right? Made it so she could decide how her transformation worked?” Another nod. Emma can’t actually think of anything else to do. She feels a little frozen.

“What would happen if the amulet wasn’t there?” Killian asks. “If someone took it off?” It’s a shake that time – of disbelief, Emma’s hair hitting her in the cheek when she moves and, really, that almost makes sense, some kind of lame self-inflicted punishment because every thing they’ve done has only seemed to get them further away from finding any sort of solution.

She feels like she’s been tossed in a ditch. And it’s muddy. Her socks are very wet in this metaphor.

“Who would know?” Emma challenges, and now the whiplash of emotions is her own doing. Her frustration turns to anger almost immediately, a blazing burst of heat that scorches its way down her neck and rattles down each of her vertebrae, lingering at the base of her spine like a dull flame. She can feel her eyes widen, an unspoken challenge to a man who’s done nothing but offer to help and can feel her magic.

Probably.

He hasn’t actually admitted to that yet.

She hasn’t let him.

That’s neither here nor there.

“About Ruby?”

Emma nods, a sarcastic noise lingering in the back of her throat. “Everyone who knows that magic is a thing is in Storybrooke. Waiting for us to save all of them. No one here would know, let alone believe it, even if they are minions, I mean that’s--” She tastes blood when her teeth find her tongue again, wincing at the look on Killian’s face. “I’m really freaking out,” Emma mutters, like that’s an excuse. “Sorry for being a dick.” “You’re not, Swan. Blunt, but understandably given the circumstance. And as much as I hate to punch holes in your theory, there are plenty of people out there who would be more than willing to believe that a werewolf is living in a slightly ramshackle apartment on the Lower East Side.” Emma opens her mouth to object – something about no one knowing her and Ruby, but that argument evaporates as well because Killian knew her and that kiss in the library did not feel like a first kiss. It felt like a memory or a want, practiced ease and confident movements. There was no caution, no awkward fumbling or worries about what to do with their hands. It felt like them. As if there could be a them.

Or had been.

Past tense.

“I--” Emma starts and, she’s certain, eventually, she’ll finish her sentences. As it is, the music is getting even louder and--”Is that Freddie Mercury?”

Killian blinks, the pinch between his eyebrows returning. It happens, Emma has realized, when he’s a slightly surprised, like it exists simply to process information, and his hand falls to her waist almost immediately.

He hooks his foot around the bottom of the door, swinging it open and leaning towards the hall with Emma flush against his chest. She squirms, a mumbled I have as much right to see as you do, but that only makes his arm wrap around her, tight enough that she’s briefly worried about the state of her spleen. “God, relax with your feats of strength,” she hisses, pointedly ignoring his sigh of indignation.

“Swan, I’m trying to listen.” “To Freddie Mercury?” “To the music that is masking whatever is happening downstairs.”

She kicks him. Hard. Or, as hard as she can, which, admittedly is not that hard when her range of movement is limited, but Emma does her best and the heat at her spine hasn’t disappeared. It’s like she’s been put on simmer, waiting for someone to flick the burner back on and honestly she really needs to work on her metaphors.

These are just awful. They don’t even make sense.

“Emma,” Killian mutters, and she hears it for the reprimand it is.

“Ok, first of all, you don’t not get to go all alpha-male on me. That is absurd. Out of the two of us, who has magic here?” She waits for an answer she knows she’s not going to get because in the few hours she’s spent with Killian Jones she’s also come to realize that he’s almost as stubborn as she is. Emma grins triumphantly. “And two, what do you mean whatever is happening downstairs? What’s downstairs?” Killian doesn’t respond. Emma kicks him again.

“Swan, I swear to God if you don’t stop assaulting me--” “--What? What are you going to do? Because again, out of the two of us, who is actual law enforcement?”

He scowls at her. “You’ve stolen enough money from that ATM to warrant several felonies at this point, love. And--”

The music grows, blasting like it’s coming from a dozen professional-grade speakers and Emma has no idea what sound she makes, but it doesn’t feel particularly pleasant. It feels like a sigh and a groan and absolute and complete desperation. Her head falls onto Killian’s chest. She’s fairly certain he kisses the top of her hair.

That may be wishful thinking.

“Magic,” Emma says, face pressed into Killian’s jacket. She’s counting inhales again. “That’s magic. God...what the fuck Freddie Mercury.” “I don’t think it’s him personally, love.” “You really love arguing with me, huh?” He definitely kisses her hair that time, a quick brush of lips and squeeze of the hand that never moved away from her. “You never noticed the bar, huh? I suppose you’ve had your mind on a few other things, though.” “What?” ��You think you can do that light thing in your hand again? That was pretty impressive, might scare off whatever werewolf freaks are downstairs.” “Are you speaking in Greek?”

Killian rolls his shoulder, trying to get Emma to lift her head, but she’s definitely the more stubborn of the two. She groans while she moves, twisting her wrist and the ball of light in her palm is warm, a pulse to it that matches up with her own and every inch of her feels as if it’s half a moment away from combusting.

“See,” Killian grins, lacing his fingers through hers and neither one of them bothers to close the apartment door behind them. “Impressive.”

They don’t move the way she expects, which Emma should really be more prepared for at this point, walking towards a staircase she wasn’t aware existed until that very moment. The music gets louder with every step they take, a never-ending loop of Somebody to Love, and voices talking intently.

Emma doesn’t mean to clutch Killian’s hand as tightly as she knows she is, but she’s got an awful feeling in the pit of her stomach. Her chest feels tight, ribs pinching internal organs they should never come in contact with and--

“What is this?” Emma asks, doing her best to keep her voice quiet. They’ve found their way into some kind of back room, stone walls and damp air and Killian’s answering smile should not be that effective. She rolls her eyes again. To combat it, or whatever.

“It’s a bootleggers basement.” “Are you fucking kidding me?” He flashes her another smile – lazy and lopsided and far too confident to be fair. “Would I do that?”

“I’ve got absolutely no idea,” Emma admits. Killian’s shoulders sag. “But, uh...I really don’t think so. I...well, I wasn’t lying to Rubes yesterday, I trust you and I know--” “--I’m not sure we have enough time for you to get sentimental on me, Swan.”

She groans. “I’m trying to be nice. I--well, I did yank you around via magic. And how did you know this was here?” “Not content to assume that I just know everything, huh?” “Killian.” He grins, tongue pressed into the corner of his mouth. “There are dozens of places like this smattered across the city, but especially further downtown where it was easier to get the alcohol off barges near the docks. People willing to do anything for a drink at that point, you know? Plus, places like this are always rife with information. Chatty folk when they’re drunk.”

“What are you saying?”

“You really didn’t realize there was a bar under the apartment you were living in? Scarlet will be very disappointed.” “Like you said, I’ve been kind of busy.” Killian hums, lower lip jutted out slightly. Emma kind of wants to bite it. That feels a little violent. And she should probably be saving any of those particular tendencies for whatever is happening on the other side of the basement wall.

As it is, what’s happening on the other side of the basement wall does not sound pleasant. That’s an understatement. Emma strains to put a name to the noise just barely finding its way to her ears, not entirely sure she wants to because the noise sounds painful and something akin to a whimper and--

“That’s not Ruby,” Emma says, jerking her head around to find all the color has rushed out of Killian’s face. He doesn’t let go of her hand when he dashes forward, pulling Emma with him to press against the wall.

“What the fuck is happening? Are you people insane?” Emma’s laugh is as out of place as it is possible for one thing to be, but the voice sounds less fearful and more furious. She can appreciate that. “I’m going to go out on a limb here and guess that’s Scarlet, right?”

Killian nods, and Emma doesn’t object when he pulls her back against his side – as if that makes any of this easier. “It’s his bar,” he explains. “He’s probably pissed they’re fucking with his juke box.” “Ah, so it’s really not Freddie Mercury, then?” “Unless you’re suddenly capable of reviving the dead with your very impressive magic, I’m afraid it’s just Queen's Greatest Hits.”

Emma sticks her tongue out.

And it’s almost flirting again, almost normal, almost ok, but then Scarlet’s voice turns into Scarlet yelling and pleading and–”No, no, no, just...leave her alone! She doesn’t have anything to do with this. You can...you can take whatever you want. Take the money. There’s not--well, there’s not a ton there, but--” “--You think we want your money?”

“Oh my God,” Emma mumbles, at the new voice joining the fray. It’s a woman, that much she can tell, but she can’t place the tone or the timbre and she’s starting to lose feeling in her left hand. “Killian,” Emma continues softly. He’s staring straight ahead, a tension in his jaw that can’t possibly be good for his teeth. “Hey, what’s going on?” He shakes his head – he must, because that one piece of hair designed solely to ruin Emma’s entire life, moves slightly, brushing over his forehead and drifting towards his eyebrows, and he flinches when her hand lands on his cheek again.

“Do you know who that is?” “No,” he answers, sounding unsure of the word.

“No? I hate to punch holes in your theory, but it kind of sounds like you do. And, uh...you know, if you’ve got some clues as to how to defeat whatever is happening over there, then that’d be--” “--I don’t know, Emma.” She blinks at the sound of his voice, an absolute that makes her magic spark. In defense. Of him. “Huh,” she muses. “Wow, you’re a shit liar, you know that?” “You don’t know me well enough to say that.” “And yet here we are. With my werewolf best friend missing and your roommate being robbed and--”

Emma makes a noise when she’s cut off, a cry of frustration that doesn’t do them any favors in their continued hiding spot, but the howl that comes from the other side of the door is loud and a little feral and there’s more than one.

Her eyes flicker back up towards Killian, his lips pressed together tightly enough that they almost disappear entirely. He presses a finger to his mouth, a silent command she doesn't appreciate very much, until he’s leaning forward, another kiss pressed to her temple and she can barely hear the words he whispers in her ear.

That song is still playing.

“Can you do something about this wall?”

“What?” Emma balks.

“The wall, love. I think we may be able to maintain the element of surprise if we don’t come waltzing through the door.” “God, who is waltzing anywhere?” Killian glares at her. Emma sticks her tongue out. “The wall, Swan. If you can do something about it, get rid of it for a moment--” “--What kind of witch do you think I am that I can’t get rid of a wall?” “I swear, if you don’t stop interrupting me,” he warns, but that’s as much as he gets out before he ducks his head and the kissing is even more out of place than the laughing was. It’s different than the first kiss that might not have been that, not nearly as long because the whimpering is back and Will is shouting again and Emma’s got a growing suspicion that there are several dogs in the bar she didn’t realize was there, but it’s searing in a way that sends a rush of heat and want through every one of her muscles, lingering in her veins and settling into her bloodstream like it’s supposed to be there.

He nips at her lip again, tongue brushing over the seam of her mouth, and Emma squeezes her eyes shut as soon as they pull apart, desperate to brand the feeling into her memory.

She’s got a growing suspicion about that too. It doesn’t feel like she actually has to.

“That was ridiculous,” Emma mutters, drawing a cynical laugh out of Killian. He kisses her again.

“A complex, love, honestly.” She rolls her eyes, but it’s getting difficult to ignore whatever her heart is doing and she winks when she presses her palm flat against the wall behind her.

And everything goes to complete and absolute shit.

Quickly.

It’s efficient, at least.

The scene in front of them is nothing short of chaotic, chairs toppled and claw marks in more than one table and half of those tables are laying on their side. Belle is far too pale to be healthy, a gash in her leg that does not look like it was created by any sort of human. She’s breathing heavily, as if each inhale is a challenge, hair plastered to her head where its laying against the bar floor.

Will – Emma assumes it’s Will, there’s no other man in the bar – doesn’t look much better, shoulders heaving and eyes manic as he tries to move towards her. The woman sitting on the edge of bar lets out a low tsk, tsk at that, holding what appears to be a soda gun in her hand. She slams her thumb onto one of the buttons, a stream of water flying farther than it has any right to and Emma’s going to pass out from a lack of oxygen.

“Breathe, love,” Killian whispers. She doesn’t.

Will sputters as the water continues to slam into his face, trying to pull away, but the water follows his every move and it only takes a moment for the woman on the bar to realize her audience has grown. She perks up as soon as her eyes land on Killian and Emma, a knowing smile that does not look human slinking across her face. She’s a little older than Emma, feet swinging in the air, and arms crossed lightly over the green blazer she’s wearing. The fabric doesn’t look normal though, a shine to it that makes Emma’s hackles rise in self-defense.

She’s got absolutely no idea where her hackles are.

That’s probably more a Ruby thing at this point anyway. Because Ruby, is in fact, not Ruby anymore – crouched in the corner of the bar with another woman staring intently at her. She’s practically salivating, the look of longing on her face wholly abnormal in a string of absolutely impossible things, and the coat she’s got on must weigh at least ten pounds.

It’s fur.

And oddly similar to the fur of the dogs yanking on the leash in her hand.

“What the--” Emma starts, another cut-off sentence as soon as the dog lady spins on the spot. She chuckles lightly, presumably at the stunned look on Emma and Killian’s face, and lets up a bit on the leash. The dogs lunge, jaws snapping and teeth bared and Emma doesn’t think, she throws both her hands up and lets Killian’s arm wrap around her middle and the dogs don’t get any closer.

“Interesting,” the dog lady murmurs, and there’s got to be a better name for her than that. “He’ll be very intrigued to know how well your magic is fostering still, Savior.”

Ruby snarls. As a werewolf.

“Savior,” Emma repeats. “How do you know that?” The woman on the bar takes her thumb off the soda gun, hopping down lightly and Emma’s eyes bug when she realizes she’s not wearing shoes. She steps in every single puddle, a wandering path across the bar until she’s only a few inches away and her gaze doesn’t land on Emma. That’s surprising.

“Captain,” she says instead, eyes flitting across Killian with interest, “I’d say it’s nice to see you again, but that would be a lie, wouldn’t it?”

Killian’s entire body tenses, chin lifting in something that almost looks like defiance. The fingers wrapped around Emma’s flutter at his side, shifting with an energy that makes her wonder what he’s reaching for.

“I have no idea who you are,” he sneers. “What are you doing here?” The woman’s smile widens. “Oh, it took some time, I’ll admit, but that’s mostly your fault now, isn’t it? Ahahaha,” she says with a quick shake of her head and flick of her wrist. The water at her feet flies up, smacking Killian in the face and making him cough. “And please hold all your questions until the end.” “We don’t have time for this,” the dog lady growls, but that may actually be the dogs and Ruby is chained up as well. “We need to make the deal.” “No, no, no, I’ve waited a lifetime for this. I’m going to get what I want.” “You’re delusional,” Killian challenges, and Emma wishes he’d stop antagonizing the clearly magical villain.

She tries to move her hand without drawing attention to herself – an attempt to stop the blood pooling underneath Belle’s knee, but one of the dogs barks again and the dog lady’s laugh is the worst of all of them. It’s far too soft. “I’m afraid you won’t be able to help quite yet, Savior. It’ll take a bit longer for her to bleed out anyway. My darling didn’t bite her too deep, did he?”

The dog in question whines in response, another chomp of his jaws. Belle gets paler.

“What the hell is happening?” Will demands, drawing out every letter. Emma hopes his entire alcohol stock wasn’t destroyed. He deserves more than one drink. “Who the fuck are you people?” “All in good time,” the woman with the sparkly jacket says. That’s still not the right description, Emma’s eyes narrowing as she tries to figure out what, exactly, the fabric is made of. It shimmers and shines, flickering in the light every time she moves, as if it’s retaining water and Emma’s quiet breath of understanding isn’t all that quiet.

“Scales,” she says. “Those are scales.” The woman’s smile flickers.

“She thinks she’s Ursula,” Belle mutters, not lifting her head off the floor. “She’s...the water thing, the scales. Even the music.” “Music?” Will repeats dumbly. “What about the music?” Emma’s brain is firing on neurons she didn’t realize she possessed until that very moment, bits of something that she’s fairly certain are memories but are entirely unfamiliar, slamming into every corner of her skull, desperate to be remembered and acknowledged. She chews on her lip, drawing more blood and that’s probably a bad move with possibly blood-thirsty dogs a few feet away, but she needs something to settle her nerves and her emotion.

And her magic.

The glow in the palm of her hand turns blinding, as if someone deposited a star on her skin. Will curses at the flash of light, the dogs not taking too kindly to it either, but Ursula just laughs under her breath and the music gets louder.

It’s the same goddamn song. “A siren,” Killian whispers, staring at Emma like that should be an answer. It is. She lets go of her lip. “Ursula is a siren. A sea witch, that could control music and send sailors to their demise. She had the power of the seas at her disposal, could warp anything with water if the price was right. It was an old legend that--” “--Well, that’s rude isn’t it, Captain?” He’s going to have to go to the dentist after this. It can’t possibly be good to be putting so much pressure on his molars.

Killian looks up – gaze set and steady, but his fingers are still moving and Emma’s starting to lose feeling in her limbs. “You’re acting like you know me,” he accuses. “That’s not--”

“--Oh, don’t say impossible,” Ursula laughs. “That’s insulting to both of us. And you’re lovely...well, what would we call her?” She nods in Emma’s direction, eyes bright. “Girlfriend is far too dull after everything you did, don’t you think?”

Killian doesn’t respond. Emma’s not sure he can. That’s fair. She’s got no idea what the fuck is going on.

“What do you think, Cruella?” Ursula continues, seemingly content to linger in the villain soliloquy portion of the evening. Emma’s eyes flit around the bar, looking for an escape route or another bootleggers basement and there isn't anything. They're going to have to fight their way out of this – with her magic.

And maybe Ruby. As a werewolf.

The amulet is in Cruella’s hand.

“Fucking hell,” Emma mutters, drawing a curious glance out of Killian. She jerks her head slightly, the villains distracted by impossible relationship monikers.

“Oh damn,” he sighs.

“Yeah, exactly. So, um...thoughts?” “Far too many, honestly.” Emma hums in understanding, but that appears to be one sound too many and the water that collides with her half-opened mouth is sudden and jarring and she can’t breathe. She shakes her head, trying to refill her lungs, but every inhale is just water and her head starts to spin before she can even begin to muster the magic lingering in her.

“I’ve had just about enough of that, haven’t you, Cruella?” Ursula asks lightly, and Emma’s never drowned before, never even come close, but she seems to be on that track now and it is fairly awful.

Honestly.

Cruella nods. “Agreed. Can’t have the lovers conspiring against us again. He won’t appreciate that at all.” “Lovers, that’s a good descriptor for it. What are your thoughts on paramour?” “For the princess?” Ursula hums, a vague sound of interest that sends warning signs shooting up Emma’s spine, a roar of something in her brain that makes her feel like she’s being split apart. That’s probably a byproduct of the drowning.

She can hear yelling and howling in equal measure – Will screaming and Ruby trying to get out of the chain shackled around her hind leg – but Emma can barely process any of that when her vision turns spotty and she doesn’t object to whatever her legs are doing. She assumes they’re just collapsing, not able to support her own weight, and it’s getting annoying to be so consistently wrong.

They’re not collapsing. They’re being dragged.

Killian’s hand brushes the hair away from her face, shaking Emma’s shoulders slightly and she can’t stop coughing. The water is everywhere. “Hey, hey,” he says, rushing over the words as if getting them out quicker will help regulate her breathing. “Look at me. Swan, please. Open your eyes, darling.”

She does. They fly open, in fact, a word she’s never heard before lingering in the minimal space around them. Emma can’t catch her breath – and it’s not the fault of the almost-drowning, it’s that word and the look on Killian’s face, a complete terror that a stranger shouldn’t have and a neighbor shouldn’t feel and lovers makes a hell of a lot of sense.

In a way that is, actually, the complete opposite of that.

He exhales, nosing at her cheek like he’s making sure she’s there still. “Are you ok?” “If I ask you what the hell is happening again, is that weird?” “Probably not.” “Ok, good, that’s good.” “You’ve got to keep breathing love.” “Yeah, I think I’ve heard that somewhere.”

Killian chuckles, the twist of his lips obvious where his mouth is still pressed against Emma’s skin. And, rationally, she knows that there’s no spark that should come along with that, but rational thinking has flown out every metaphorical window she could come up with, so she refuses to try and figure out a reason for the pinprick of magic blooming just under her eye.

It is.

And for, right now, that’s enough.

“So quick to throw yourself in harms way, aren’t you, Captain?” Ursula asks, taking another step forward and kicking at the puddle under her feet. “It’s interesting that that hasn’t changed. Although I suppose it’s just a defining part of your character now, isn’t it?” Killian grits his teeth, tugging Emma flush against his chest. Ursula’s eyebrows lift slightly.

“Interesting,” she muses. “It’s almost as if it’s embedded in your subconscious. Was it immediate? As soon as you saw her? That’s how the stories always go.” Ruby growls, low and aggressive and Emma gets the distinct feeling she knows something. Or, at least, has made several sweeping assumptions.

“You said Captain,” Emma says, finding a bit of courage that may be another piss-poor metaphor. “Why do you think that?” “Why don’t you? Don’t you have your wits about you, your highness?” “Stop saying that!” “Ah, that’s an answer, my dear,” Cruella observes. She’s sitting on one of of the bar stools now, both dogs lying at her feet, a look on her face that reminds Emma of some sort of apex predator. “It’s interesting that you didn’t retain that when you came here.” “What?” "What the hell,” Will mumbles again, and Emma shouldn’t laugh, but her mind doesn’t care. The sound falls out of her unbidden, shaking her shoulders and making her tongue ache and that is disgusting. The water dripping from her hair is freezing cold.

“I’m going to buy you a really big drink later,” she promises. Will salutes. He’s still lying on the ground.

Ursula's gaze hasn’t moved from Killian – eyes drifting up and down his torso and flickering more than once to the hand at his side. “Looking for your sword?”

His hand stills.

“Excuse me?” “Your sword,” she echoes, another twist of her wrist and the water swirls around her ankles. “Always prone to action weren’t you, Captain? You know, I think it got worse once she,” her chin jerks towards Emma again, “wasn’t there. It was as if you’d lost your impulse control entirely. Although, well...when one loses someone like that, I suppose it makes them desperate.” “Make your goddamn point! I don’t know her!” “Aw, come now, that wasn’t even close to convincing. You certainly acted like you did, pulling her to safety and simple nothings whispered in her ear. It’s almost sickening.” Emma can see the muscles in Killian’s throat move when he swallows, tongue darting between his lips because he’s breathing through his mouth now too. Belle hasn’t made a single noise in far too long.  

“What do you think you know?” Emma asks suddenly, stepping away from Killian quick enough that she manages to surprise him. Ursula looks impressed. She’s smiling, at least.

That might not be a good thing.

“Swan,” Killian warns, but she shakes her head deftly, not entirely surprised by the brush of fingers on the back of her wrist.

The smile definitely isn’t a good thing.

“Would you like to hear my evil plan, Savior?” Ursula asks, low and menacing and the word siren bounces around Emma’s brain. She nods anyway. “Of course you would. It’s very easy to listen to me, isn’t it?” Another nod. “I haven’t known the Captain nearly as long as you have, but I feel as if I almost know him better than you--I’ve seen what he’s willing to do, just about anything, to get what he wants, and he’s not all that worried about the destruction he leaves behind.”

“Pirate,” Cruella says, and it sounds like a curse. There’s blood in Emma’s mouth.

Ursula makes a noise of agreement. “Exactly. Willing to embrace any darkness, any challenge, all to get what he wants. I admired him for it at one point. That was my mistake.” “What do you mean?” Emma whispers, and it’s disappointing when she can’t make her voice stop shaking. “What did he do?” Ursula’s expression turns triumphant, the music from the jukebox blaring loud enough that Emma doesn’t hear whatever Killian says behind her.

She wraps her fingers around his anyway.

“It all came down to you, Savior,” Ursula explains. “He needed to get back to you and he was willing to do whatever it took. He needed my help, though. Not easy to get here, you see” “How?” “There was a rumor, long ago, of a water that could revive once-dead things. That it could spark life back into anything. Even something as seemingly unimportant as a bean.” Emma blinks. Once, twice, three times. The scene in front of her doesn’t change. She doesn’t really expect it to.

“Swan,” Killian whispers, her own name turning into a plea. “I don’t know what she’s talking about. I’ve never--I’ve never met that woman before. I don’t…” The music grows louder, a thumping rhythm that echoes between Emma’s ears and makes the beams above her head rattle. “No, no, no, Captain,” Ursula objects. “We can’t have that. I won’t have you lying to your princess’ face. It’s unseemly. Listen to the music. I did pick this song out just for the two of you.”

Emma closes her eyes, not entirely in control of herself anymore, listening to the lyrics and the words and-- “That makes no sense,” she growls, more misplaced confidence. The magic in her veins is helpful though, growing, Emma knows, the longer Killian’s thumb keeps doing that thing.

Ursula’s lips twitch. “No? Ah, usually I’m better than that. I suppose it’s because you’ve allowed magic to wither away in this godforsaken realm. Well, no matter.” She snaps her fingers, the jukebox groaning under the force of the magic controlling it and Will curses at the destruction of even more of his property.

Emma’s got to stop laughing.

She does as soon as she realizes what song is playing.

“Is that...Céline Dion?”

“Oh, yes,” Ursula nods. “You see, I need you to remember, your highness. I need you to understand who, exactly, you’re dealing with and I need your pirate to lose you all over again. If only for my own pleasure.” Emma’s eyes are going to fall out of her head. It will be, inevitably, disgusting.

“Jones isn’t a pirate,” Will argues, Ruby’s growl turning into a yelp when Cruella turns her dogs back towards her. “That’s--you’re a crazy person.”

One of the dogs turns on him, jumping forward and sinking his teeth into an arm that’s stretched out across linoleum floor and whatever sound Will makes at that will probably reverberate in Emma’s consciousness for the rest of her life.

“Will,” Killian cries, moving half a step away from Emma. He freezes almost as quickly, though, more goddamn Céline Dion and Ursula’s quiet laughter.

She waggles a finger at him. “I’m afraid we can’t go much further until your princess makes a choice, Captain. I didn’t expect her to have forgotten as well. It’s interesting, but I’m sure he has a contingency plan in place.” Emma wishes this conversation were more streamlined.

“He? You mean the Dark One? What do you know about the Dark One?” she demands, only to be met with an almost amused expression. The music gets louder, nudging at the back of her brain and visions that don’t feel like that – a grand hall and a red dress and a flash of a smile that she’s certain she’d be able to describe in minute detail if asked. There’s green grass and a feeling that comes from, not just being wanted, but being loved, adored and needed and the sun that glints off the sword hilt in front of her eyes is almost as bright as the flash of light that reappears in the palm of Emma’s hand.

Ursula blinks.

“What do you know?” she asks again. Belle answers. Emma’s very glad Belle isn’t dead.

“She said it before, when she was...when they got us down here. She said the Dark One was willing to make a deal with you. Us for you. That’s why the dog lady took Ruby’s...whatever was around her neck.”

Emma needs to control the sounds she makes. This latest one isn’t quite a scoff, more just generic disbelief and something drifting dangerously close to fury. As if she’d just give herself up to the Dark One.

That was not the point of her quest.

God, she hates that she even thought the word quest.

“It’s all different when you don’t know what you are, Savior,” Cruella adds. “But tell me,” she dangles the amulet in the air, the chain pinched between her fingers, “what would you do if I just...slipped this on your friend? And off? And on? I’ve got nowhere to go, you see and I’ve always been fascinated by transformative magic like this. There’s no end to the kind of information I could glean tonight. Although I imagine it would be rather painful.” “You’re at a crossroads, Savior, again,” Ursula says. “The Dark One remembers what you did. He knows you ran, tried to hide yourself in this realm, but he was always going to find you. I made sure of that.” Emma’s mouth goes dry. “How?” “Your pirate. I wasn’t exaggerating. He was desperate for you, a path to the Land Without Magic. A place where, I’m sure, he’d be able to thrive. Magicless sot.” She scoffs callously, eyes turning hard and Emma knows she doesn’t imagine whatever is happening to her jacket. Glistening. Glowing. Magic. “Anyway, you were gone. Most of the kingdom was gone and this one had been left behind. With the Dark One trailing him. Oh, he hates your pirate almost as much as I do.” “Almost?” Emma repeats, the word heavy as she says it.

Ursula winks. “Almost. Anyway, the pirate found me, begged me to lead him to Lake Nostos, so he could find his way back to you. I agreed, on the condition that he’d bring me with him.” “Why? You have magic.” “You’re quite a little genius, aren’t you? I’m sure your kingdom will feel so much safer knowing that they’re in such perceptive hands.” “An answer,” Emma shouts, flexing her hand at her side and the burst of magic that flies out of her is jarring at best. It’s goddamn, absolutely terrifying at worst. It’s the strongest thing she’s ever done and she wasn’t even trying to do it.

The force of it collides with Cruella, sending her sailing off her barstool perch, slamming into the wall with a thud that makes Emma’s heart drop into her stomach. Ruby growls, just restrained enough that she can’t get her teeth on the woman’s throat, and for half a second Emma regrets that. She wants her dead.

She wants them all dead.

For doing something...she can’t remember.  

“I wanted away from my father,” Ursula explains quickly. “He’d been controlling me for years, forcing me to do things with my power...this is not my fault, Savior.” “Whose is it, then?” “His.” She nods in Killian’s direction, and Emma can’t remember the last time he blinked. “I didn’t know that he’d made a deal with my father as well. Wanted squid ink. Helps with the memories sometimes, you see. So I offered to steal it for him. He was very quick to agree, let me take the danger. We were supposed to meet at Lake Nostos.” “And?” “And. My father caught me. He presented me to Jones and demanded a reason for it. The pirate wasn’t shy. He was more than willing to let me go back to my father, used as a pawn in his games. After all, he was already at Nostos. He didn’t need me anymore. Never did get that squid ink, though.”

“You’re making that up,” Emma accuses, part of her rebelling at the sentiment. She knows it’s true. She’s got no idea how she knows it’s true.

Will’s throwing broken bits of chair to try and distract the dogs away from Ruby.

“Am I?” Ursula asks. “Or am I simply telling you what you don’t want to hear, your highness? It always did fascinate me that you left him behind. In fact, I think I might have done him a favor when I took him to Nostos. He forgot what you’d done to him.” Emma stumbles back, not from the words themselves, but the certainty behind them, another push of confidence and nudge at the back of her brain, a magical attempt to drudge up feelings and memories that she isn’t sure she wants to exist.

“I didn’t--” Emma starts, but Ursula’s already shaking her head. “Where’s the sword, then? You said he was trying to get his sword, where is it?” “I’m afraid I don’t have an answer for that, your highness, but if memory serves, it was the most prized possession of our Captain Jones. As the reputation grew, so did that of the weapon. Some people used to suggest it was simply part of him. Or that it had been enchanted to obey his thoughts, as if it could act before he did. You know what I think, though?” “I can’t imagine.” “I think you gave it to him, your highness. And I think he remembered that every day. Even after you left him behind.” “I wouldn’t do that.”

Emma has no idea what possesses her to say that. It’s not entirely true – can’tbe, because he’s a stranger and some man who just happened to live next to the apartment her magic had been drawn to – but it’s not entirely untrue either and the certainty that she’d do...something, anything for the man whose thumb is still tracing out idle patterns on her wrist is only a little overwhelming.

In a powerful, magic-altering kind of way.

Her eyes screw shut as the feeling moves through her, trying to stay upright and grounded and Killian’s muttering something against her, quiet promises that seem familiar and--

“You need to actually hold your blade up higher, you know.”

“Oh, shut up.” “Your highness!” “I said shut up, you’re not even supposed to be here.” “And who’s doing is that, love?” “Are you going to actually instruct or just pass sweeping judgements?”

He nods, twisting the blade in his hand with a smile and the tip of his tongue pressed against the corner of his lips, laughing loudly as soon as Emma’s head snaps to the side. He doesn’t try to stop her, just catches her with an arm around the waist and greedy mouths and --

“Swan,” Killian says sharply, one hand wrapped around her shoulder and his prosthetic resting on her hip and he’s got his back to Ursula. That’s idiotic. “Love, we’ve got to get out of here.”

“Now, we were just starting to have some fun, Captain,” Ursula admonishes. “And I’m afraid I really can’t let the princess go. He won’t be pleased with that. He wants her. Wants the spark of her magic. To restore the rest of his. She can’t leave.” “That’s not going to work.” “Hmm, you really are rather devoted aren’t you? A dutiful knight in shining armor.”

Emma’s lungs are never going to be the same. She’s not sure why, but she glances at Belle, curled against Will’s side with what, at first glance, appears to be a bit of his shirt wrapped tightly around her leg.

They’re both incredibly bloody.

“What did you just say?” Emma snaps, Ursula’s lips curling up at the returning shake to her voice. “Why would you...you know what? Fuck off.”

She waves her hand before she can doubt herself again, a muddled mess of magic and memories and the desperate desire to know what the fuck is going on. Ursula’s body slumps under the blast, knees slamming into puddles. Emma’s not actually casting any spells, a move that would inevitably drive Regina insane, just acting on instinct and desire and the light streaming from the tips of her fingers.

“I need that amulet,” Emma says, nodding in the direction of Cruella and it does not surprise her that Belle moves first. She waves her hand again, freezing the dogs to their spot and Ruby gives a yelp of approval.

“Fucking hell,” Will grumbles, but he follows Belle anyway. Emma watches the scene for a moment – tugging the amulet out of Cruella’s grip and tossing it towards Ruby. She makes a less-than-impressed noise.

“Put it on her,” Killian shouts. He’s stepped away from Emma – a move she’d barely noticed when everything else was happening, a bottle clutched in his hand. It's broken, sharp shards that are probably as threatening as the great, disappearing, maybe didn’t ever exist, sword. “God, Scarlet, that is obvious!” “Ok, ok, not all of us have some kind of backlog of magic knowledge, Jones! Also, some of us are suffering from pretty severe blood loss.” “Oh, I can probably fix that in a second,” Emma says, another promise she likely shouldn’t be making. She may need a drink of her own before she tries.

Killian beams at her. “See.” “Are you guys seriously flirting now?” Belle asks, moving towards Ruby slowly. “Honestly? I mean I knew you were into her, Killian, but--” “--What?” Emma asks. They don’t have time for this. They still have to deal with Ursula. Emma is fairly certain the water on the ground is moving.

“Was that not obvious?” Killian asks. He’s, apparently, taking care of Ursula, crowding in her space with the bottle pointed at her neck and a certain glint in his eyes that makes Emma’s blood run cold.

Like a fish.

Or something.

“It’s not going to work,” Ursula says. “It didn’t the last time. He knows you’ll give in eventually, your highness. You already have.”

“I’ve never actually met the Dark One,” Emma argues. “He invaded Storybrooke--” “--Because you ran. What kind of Savior does that? You ran and you took magic with you. But it doesn’t belong here either. It belongs in our realm, where it can thrive and grow and where it can be controlled. It’s inevitable, princess. He was always going to take over.” “None of that is true,” Killian hisses. He presses the tip of the bottle to Ursula’s skin, a gasp of pain and dot of blood and Ruby is Ruby again. Emma can hear her breath hitch. “Why are you lying?” “I’m not. I just remember what I took from you. And you’re doing it again, Captain.” Her eyes dart down towards his hand, pressure against her neck and a few more dots of far-too-red blood. He doesn’t move. Instead, his shoulders go straight as a board, a determination there that feels like a fire flaring back to life and Emma is seriously the least creative person on the planet.

“Killian.”

Her feet move without much thought to what she’s doing, but it feels like crossing a line she can’t come back from and Emma’s hand doesn’t shake when she wraps it around Killian’s wrist. “Let go,” she whispers, pulling his fingers apart. “It’s ok. I’m--we’re ok, we’re going to get out of here now.” “Are you though?” Ursula counters.

“That’s not much of a move when there’s still all that blood on your throat,” Ruby points out, both Will and Belle humming in agreement. They each have an arm wrapped around her shoulders. Emma isn’t sure who’s holding who up at this point.

“And, incidentally, what bottle did you break to make your very threatening threat?” Will asks. “Because that’s like...you know, you’re going to have to pay for that.” “He won’t stop,” Ursula continues, unperturbed by their return to wholly out of place banter. “He’s coming for you, Savior and he’s coming for the pirate. The great thorn in his side, determined to waylay him. There’s no running from it anymore. It’s a fool’s errand.” “Then I’ve got to be the biggest idiot around,” Emma quips. She yanks the bottle out of Killian’s hand, tossing it on the ground and ignoring Will’s cries of protest about profit margin, grabbing Ruby’s jacket. “Do not freak out when I do this.” Ruby groans.

And their landing is a little off, but Emma will argue it’s because she didn’t know where they were going.

“Are we in my apartment?” Belle asks, a note of impressed in her voice.

Emma nods, panting slightly when she falls back against the carpeted floor. Killian hasn’t said a word. “I certainly hope so,” she mumbles. “Otherwise this is going to suck.” “And after you teased the villain so well.” “How’s the blood loss coming?” “Uh, not great, honestly, but there were ancient sea witches to deal with and whatever Killian was doing and--” She snaps around so quickly, Emma briefly wonders if she’s passed out, but she’s staring at Killian instead, all concern and curiosity. “How did you know what to do with the bottle? That was…” “Barbaric?” Will suggests, Ruby already rifling through cabinets because nothing makes her hungrier than transforming.

Belle shakes her head. “No, that was...habit. And threatening. Like you’d gotten used to that.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Killian says shortly, no room for objection. “You should let Swan fix your leg before you do actually, you know, die.” Will snorts. “Tactful as always.” “And just offering up Emma’s magic now, it seems,” Ruby adds.

Killian must have been holding his breath because the exhale that rushes out of him is far too large for one, normal human to contain. His tongue moves again, eyes falling closed and head dropping forward and Emma’s moving before she thinks. Again. Or still. The tenses are starting to get confusing. “Give me five minutes, ok?” she asks, gaze darting down to the charms around Killian’s neck. He’s started toying with them. Another nervous habit.

“Yeah, ok.” And she’s as good as her questionably-strong-magic word – waving her hands and removing any evidence that either Will or Belle had been bitten by large, possibly demonic dogs earlier that afternoon. There’s far too much to talk about, but Emma’s muscles feel heavy and her whole being feels drained, so it only takes Ruby a few moments of staring to announce--”We’re going to make food, eat food, watch shitty TV and then figure out how to save the world tomorrow, ok?” They agree.

But sleep is a curious thing and Emma’s brain is still racing, even after food and hot chocolate and nearly a full season of a show Belle claims is called Drag Race. She’s frustratingly awake, the soft tick of the clock in the kitchen a metronome designed to drive her insane, when she feels Killian’s stir next to her.

“I’m sorry.” Emma’s lips quirk up. They’re laying on Belle’s kitchen floor. “None of that was your fault.” “That’s not what she said.” “She claimed to be an ancient sea witch with the power to control music and water, I’m not sure we can take her at face value.” “You saw her control the water though,” Killian points out.

“Is this a backwards way of getting me to thank you for saving me from that?” “What? No, of course not, that’s not--” “--Hey,” Emma interrupts, flipping onto her side and her hand just...moves to his cheek. On instinct. Of the unmagical variety. “That was an exceptionally shitty joke, huh?” Killian’s smile doesn’t reach his eyes, but it’s a start. “Kind of...and she said the music was meant to get us to remember, right?”

“Where are you going with this?” “I’ve got no fucking idea, but...as soon as your magic...when it grew like that, I thought I saw...I remembered…” She swallows, fear and longing and the echo of that feeling, like frost on a windowpane, disappearing before Emma can try and contain it. “What?” she asks, barely able to get the word out. “Did you--did you see something?” “Did you?” “Killian!”

He huffs, mouth crashing against hers like it will help him settle or remember even more. She’s dizzy with the rush of it, more than willing to linger in that moment for several moments longer, but the world is a dick and the Dark One is sending minions after them for reasons she can’t remember.

“It was a...there were people and they were going somewhere, sneaking out, maybe,” Killian whispers, Emma’s eyes widening at the same time her jaw drops. “But it wasn’t...it felt like getting ready for something and, I...it was us, Swan.”

[starfire-27-blog]

Shallow Beginnings: Prologue

*Disclaimer; This story has elements of child neglect and verbal abuse, drugs, sexual content, and nudity. 18+ recommended.*

“Really, mom?! More drugs? I thought you said you were done with this shit?” Isabelle, once again, caught her mother snorting coke. She assumed the molly had already been popped, usually Alahna Kaminski didn’t just deal in one vice at a time.

“What? It’s none of your business what I do with my life, little bitch. You’re lucky you even have a roof over your head, I should have left you outside the damn hospital in the rain with all the trouble you’ve caused me. And now you’re bitching at me for taking a few minutes to get my head right? Get the fuck out of my house, girl, and don’t come back until your attitude is better. Fucking whore.”

Ah, so she was already in that deep, huh. Well, so be it. This was nowhere near as bad as it could be; so Isabelle took her advice and went for a walk, trying to clear her mind. Maybe by the time she got back, Alahna would be a little more calm. While she walked, Isabelle thought about everything she wished she could change. Ever since she could remember, they’d lived in this rundown studio house. Her mother was hardly ever in a state lucid enough to fix it, and their landlord didn’t give a shit because he wasn’t getting any money from them. Isabelle didn't know for sure, but her mother didn’t have a job and they hardly had any money so it was blatantly obvious she was paying in other ways. It was made even more obvious how she would sometimes see him around their yard at 6 in the morning; God knows he never did any work out there. Isabelle was just biding her time until she was old enough to move out. She was determined to make something from her life, even though her start wasn’t that great.

Isabelle walked for a good few hours, before returning home. As she opened the door, she said a silent prayer to whatever asshole god existed that her mother would be asleep. Or maybe dead. Of course she should have known better than to expect a break like that.

“Are you kidding?! Seriously?” It wasn’t the first time she’d walked in on something like this, but she was getting pretty god damn tired of it.

“Who the fuck is this one?! He looks half your age. What kind of parent are you, knowing your teenage daughter fucking lives here. What is wrong with you?”

“Sorry, sweetness, my spawn is an uptight bitch. Lord knows where she got it.” Alahna said to her guest. To Isabelle, “If I hadn’t pushed you out of my cunt myself, I would never know you came from me. I’m counting the days until I can legally kick you the fuck out. Just go to bed. It’s too late for children to be up anyway.” Isabelle went to lay down as Alahna lit up a joint and shared it with the random guy. She was probably getting paid for this, Isabelle would ot be the leas bit surprised.

Isabelle has cried every night for as long as she had memories. She woke up every morning praying for a break, a respite, a long lost relative to show up out of nowhere and take her away. Anything.

The next day when she returned home from school, Isabelle didn’t hear banging or senseless talking. She didn’t smell a fresh blunt rolled from the shittiest weed money could buy. She had an eerie feeling when she opened the door to see al the lights off, but she just brushed it off. Her mother was probably passed out on a park bench somewhere. She walked into the kitchen to make a sandwhich with their hard, moldy bread. She was stopped short when she saw a lump on the ground, and a creature she never believed actually existed.

Grim Reaper! As Isabelle looked at her mother in a lump of skin and bones on the kitchen floor, with an open and mostly empty bottle of MDMA on the counter, she had some pretty conflicting feelings...Her mind scattered everywhere at once. What happens now? She still had over 65 days until her birthday. If she ended up in the orphanage...there was little hope of her getting adopted this late in the game, and to be honest, there were younger kids than her who needed loving families. She could take care of herself. That was the moment when she decided. She’d support herself, and stay low on the radar until she was of legal age to be alone. Isabelle had been given plenty of practice taking care of herself with a mother who was in a constant drug induced haze. Then, with that thought, she was a little excited. No more screaming matches, no more walking in on random naked dudes fucking her mother, no more dealing with the kids at school about their run down house. She said a silent thank you to Grim on her way out the door.

On her way to the nearest park in town, Isabelle heard a *crack* as a shot of lightning struck across the sky. Then the thunder rolled in, and rain started pouring down on her. Well, this puts a bit of a damper on her newfound freedom. Having nowhere to go, and realizing she was pretty tired, she laid down on a bench to nap. A short time later, she was woken up by the whimpering and yapping of what sounded like a scared puppy. Opening her eyes, she saw a small furry rat-looking dog staring up at her with a miserable “please help me” expression, her eyes wide, and she was trembling from head to toe, scared of the storm.

“Hello, little one. Looks like you’re all alone out here in this mess, too, huh? Well, we can just take care of eachother, how about that?” With a small *yap*, The puppy seemed to agree with her, and lolled its tongue out of its mouth as Isabelle reached to pick her up.

“Me and you, kid.” Isabelle said as she nuzzled the small puppy close to her. Giving her the name Kooper, the two became inseparable, their bond formed in the worst storm Brindleton Bay had seen since Isabelles’ birth.

65 Days Later

“Alright, girl, we did it!” Isabelle said to Kooper, as they stared at their brand new front door. After the storm the day her mother died, Isabelle woke up to a bright, sunny morning in the park. She contacted some of her school friends, and crashed on couches while trying to finish high school. Eventually, things got hard. She couldn’t keep up with her studies and her two jobs. She dropped out, lied about her age and joined the military. Today, on her official young adult birthday, she received the promotion to stage 3 of the career. She had just finished closing on her very first home. The last 65 days had been a rollercoaster...Isabelle had tried dating a few imes, but she didn’t really have time for it with everything she was dealing with. Because of her past, she was never able to let anyone in. She had a few sexual partners, but none she really considered serious. Other things were far more important to her. Now, as she stared at her first home, she finally started feeling like her lif was coming together. Going into young adulthood with a smile on her face, holding her best friend, she turned the key for the first time.

[spookypastatoo]

Jessie Mack

In late June/early July, I came to be living in an apartment with my old smoking buddy Matt. Matt ran this squat he called “the weigh station”. Nowadays though it was less for the squatters and more for Matt’s buddies from his job at Burger King. It was a pretty fun place to be, we had house parties every night.

About a week after I moved in a couple of my buddies came over to watch the game, and during a commercial I went out for a smoke. While I was out on the porch this punk kid came up and sat down next to me. He introduced himself as Nate, and we exchanged conversation for a few minutes, until he told me that he was supposed to be moving into the squat. Matt never told me anything regarding who was living there anymore.

Nate and I ended up getting along great. Don’t get me wrong, Matt’s a great guy and all, but you can’t have any kind of meaningful conversation with him. Nate was the opposite. I mean, at parties he was awkward as fuck but when it was just two or three of us we would talk for hours about anything and everything. Nate had come from South Boston to visit his girlfriend, who apparently lived about a block from the squat, though no one had ever seen her before. I later found out that this was because she went to a local prep school and was like, insane smart. They met on some dating site for people who love Star Wars and crime shows and all that geeky shit. He was always over at her place and he didn’t take up much space here, so no one really noticed when he was gone.

On the off chance that he was at the squat, we had discussions regarding politics, religion, drugs, anything under the sun. Eventually, during one of our religion convos, I asked him if he believed in the paranormal. He replied that he did. For a little backstory, I’ve been going into haunted houses since as long as I can remember. I’ve always been into ghosts and demons and shit. We talked about this for a while before I decide to pop the question.

“So, has anything paranormal ever happened to you? Like, just anything weird you just can’t explain?” Nate looked at his feet. “I have to go meet my girlfriend. I’ll catch you later, bro.” Even now I regret asking that question.

About three weeks later Nate’s girlfriend broke up with him for reasons I still don’t quite understand. Apparently she was a lesbian or something. You’d have to ask him, I didn’t have the heart to. I came home from a smoke session to find him on the kitchen floor in a crumpled position next to an empty bottle of oxycontin pills. He groggily raised his head when I came into the room. “Guess I didn’t take enough…”

I kicked him in the stomach. Hard. Hard enough to make him vomit up the remains of whatever was in there. I was livid but at the same time, sympathetic. I’ve been that far down before, and it ain’t fun. I gave him a pen and paper and told him to write down everything he wanted to accomplish in life, sort of like a bucket list. Told him no one would ever see it but him, and made him promise that he would stay alive until he had completed everything on the list. Nate hastily scribbled down a few notes, then put the paper in his pocket and stumbled into the living room where he collapsed on a couch in a drug-induced stupor.

As I sat in the chair next to him, I suddenly became aware of an intense curiosity. I had to know what he had written on that paper. I mean, I was fucking baked at the time. But at the same time, his cryptic answer to the paranormal question a few weeks back had been eating away at me, so I decided to give it a quick look to see if it had any clues. Just one look, then I’d put it back in his pocket. He’d never even know. Letting my curiosity get the better of me, I did just that. The paper read:

To The People Who Matter Most 1. My brother. 2. My mentor. 3. Jessie Mack.

Okay, so it was just paranoia. It was a completely average bucket list, and I was just baked out of my mind. I slipped the note back into his pocket and turned on the TV. Still, there was something that struck me as odd about that last one. “Jessie Mack” sounded familiar, like something out of my childhood that I couldn’t quite put my finger on.

I never told Matt what happened. Nate was still asleep when he got home from work. We watched a few movies, including this really strange one called Being John Malkovich, which was Matt’s favorite for reasons I didn’t really understand. About halfway through the movie I looked over at Matt. “Hey, remember Jessie Mack?”

Matt started cracking up. “The fuck kinda parent names their kid Jessie Mack?” I smiled back. “Some parents in Boston, I guess.” Matt couldn’t stop laughing. “I mean, are you fucking serious? Jessie Mack. Jessie fucking Mack. Hey everyone, I’m Jessie Mack, and I’m from Dorchester!”

He was shouting in a faux-Boston accent now. It was pretty hilarious. At the same time, there was something slightly eerie about it, and I started feeling guilty about taking the note from Nate’s pocket. Nate started to wake up sometime later. He was in a lot of pain, but he managed to grin at me while attempting to sit up. Matt was in another part of the apartment, shouting at himself, which was actually pretty normal.

A few hours later we were all just sitting together watching the South Park movie. We watch a lot of movies here. Every few minutes Nate had a little nervous spasm, but nowhere near as bad as he’d been. Matt turned to him. “So about this Jessie Mack. I need to meet this person, she sounds so freakin’ hot.” There’s no way I could have predicted what was about to happen. In a fraction of a second, Nate jumped out of the couch, backed himself into a corner, whipped out his pocket knife, and pointed it straight at Matt.

He was shaking all over. In a barely audible whisper that sounded as if he was gasping for air, he mouthed: “Don’t you fucking come near me you have no idea NO idea what you’re doing no FUCKING clue don’t ever fucking mention her name again.” And with that, Nate vomited all over the carpet and passed out on the floor again.

What happened after that was pretty much a blur. I was trying to find a job at the time so I didn’t get to spend as much time at the house. Nate became extremely paranoid, especially around Matt. He would hole up in his room with a terrified expression on his face, pointing this little BB pistol he had at anything that moved. And knowing Nate, this was odd. Nate was about as big as a bear with facial hair to match and an unusually laid back disposition before all this went down. Matt, on the other hand, was manic all the time.

He’d run around the kitchen screaming “My name is Jessie! Jessie Mack!” at the top of his lungs in his obnoxious fake Boston accent, though it was clearly making Nate’s condition worse. At one point I woke up in the night and heard part of a conversation between Nate and his ex on our porch. He was begging her to stay with him or something, but when she refused, his tone turned from sadness to terror, like the terror of one who has seen too much. She left, telling him he was talking like a crazy person.

Matt kept having strange people over, whom I’d never seen before. Eventually whenever someone I didn’t know came over, Nate and I would go for a walk down the avenue until they left. I never heard much of what they talked about, but at several different times I heard a few people in the living room mutter “Jessie fuckin’ Mack. Holy shit.” Or something to that effect.

This was clearly upsetting to Nate, and every time he heard the name he’d revert to his paranoid, vomiting state. In late August he decided to leave here for good. He was so sick he could barely stand up, so I ended up carrying most of his luggage to the bus station with hi. On our way there everyone was staring at us. I mean, I don’t blame them. You don’t see too many punk teenagers carrying suitcases through some bumfuck town in New Jersey.

As we passed the railroad bridge, a man in a truck threw some kind of gang sign at a group of kids in their early 20s. As he drove by he shouted “Jessie fuckin’ Mack!” and everyone in the group started pumping their fists in the air. Nate emptied his stomach on the ground next to the bridge. We kept running into gangs on the way to the bus station, almost like they knew we’d be out today. Gangs that had been fighting each other for decades, standing out in the open, chest bumping, fist pumping, as if they were unifying against some unseen force. All shouting. “Jessie Mack!”

By the time we got to the bus station, Nate was in real bad shape. I hugged him goodbye, and told him to go find a new place to live, one in which no one knew anything about him or Jessie Mack. He smiled back at me, then managed a laugh. “Funny,” he said. “That’s exactly what they told me back in Boston.” That was the last time I saw him before October.

After that I moved back in with my dad, in this little town about an hour from Matt’s apartment. I got a real job, bought a junk car, the whole works. I even started dating this girl I really liked back in high school. Three months in Matt’s house made me feel like I had aged ten years, but I was finally stepping out into the light. I doubted I would ever see either of them again.

At some point in September, Matt put up some website with some weird mp3 loop of him and a bunch of other people screaming “I am Jessie Mack! Jessie fucking Mack!” Just that, over and over again. Someone told me that Matt was signing his work checks as “Jessie Mack” now. None of his old friends really hang out with him anymore, so it’s hard to verify anything I hear about him these days.

The next time I saw Nate it was mid-October. He had apparently come back to NJ to try to reason with Matt, to tell him to shut down the webpage. The webpage itself had gathered over fifty thousand hits, which was an alright count for the shittiest music in the world. Matt was also selling “Jessie Mack” clothing, which was selling more rapidly than any other local product I’d ever seen.

Nate only stayed for three days, and I was at work for the first two. When I finally saw him, he was standing outside in Matt’s driveway in the pouring rain, looking about as bad off as when I left him the last time. After about twenty minutes of trying to reason with him, we went inside. I didn’t even recognize the place. In the foyer, two of the walls were bashed in. It had always been a dirty apartment, but now it looked as if no one had lived there in years. All over the house, walls were punched in. Any space that still had a wall had writing on it. Most of the writing was in Gaelic so I don’t know what the fuck it said, but there were several references to Jessie Mack being the name of an ancient Gaelic entity and that the English translation of the name was “the descendant of the dark one”. Nate nodded solemnly as if he had known this all along.

There was an old couple, shooting heroin on one of the couches. The woman looked up at her boyfriend, saying “I want to get closer. You don’t even understand. I want to get closer to Jessie Mack.” The man looked up at us. “Matt’ll be home in a few hours. He’s going to play guitar and put on a show for us.” He gestured toward a guitar in the corner, with a broken neck, three working strings, and the words “Jessie Mack” crudely carved across the bottom panel. Nate ran out of the house screaming.

I cornered him in an alleyway. Rain streamed down his face but nonetheless I could tell he was sobbing. “You’re not even fucking real!” he shouted at me. “You live in my head, none of this is real, it’s all just a fucking joke.” I tried to comfort him but he wasn’t taking it. “I know, I know. I’m a fucking crazy person. That’s what everyone says.” We sat together for a few hours and he calmed down a bit, as did the rain.

“I’m done,” he finally said. “I’m done with this. You have no idea how DONE I am with this. I’m going back. I’m gonna be a good person this time. I’m gonna be a vegan, just like Jess… just like this kid I used to know told me to. I’ll go back to school I’ll do anything just someone please make this fucking go away.”

He left the next morning. I never saw him again.

[dandelliongirl]

Anger

and resentment.

I was yelling at people in a meeting today and I have no patience or energy to care about anything. It feels great to be over the hysterical crying phase, although as a side effect I also don’t care about feeding the bunny or making food for myself. Or going to bed on time. Or dressing warmly. I guess this is what they call self sabotage? I mean I’m still doing what I’m supposed to and performing but everything is tiring since 90% of my brain capacity goes to circular thougths and the remaining 10% goes to thinking about how pointless everything is and how I want a medically induced coma.

Wednesday was the worst. I put off my return to the apartment by walking back from the train station slowly. It was the first time in my life that I wished a train ride would never end. I asked my guy to leave the place clean and put his remaining stuff away in a box to be taken up to the attic so that I wouldn’t have to look at it once I got back. Well, turns out he pretty much put all his stuff back into the cupboards and even left his damn pajama pants in the bed. I would like to see him left behind as I leave subtle reminders of myself around every fucking corner. In addition to his stuff being all around the house I found the floors and rugs and sofa were covered in bunny hay and sawdust, the trash wasn’t taken out but rather left on the kitchen floor and the bunny had eaten the strap of my favourite pair of shoes since my guy didn’t feel like watching the fucking pest. (I am probably going to get rid of the bunny in December, taking him in was a huge mistake and I have no interest in his welfare now that he’s destroyed literally everything.) I specifically told my guy that I’d be tired and emotional after my trip and wouldn’t want to start off by cleaning but that’s what I ended up doing while ugly crying. I also ended up bruising my leg from thighs to shins, and hack slashing my wrist with scissors. It’s the first time I’ve actually drawn real blood, I normally just scrape my skin with blunt blades so that it hurts as much as possible but heals quickly without leaving marks. This time I just didn’t care if my wrist got cut off, which was super scary. I couldn’t feel any pain because of the anger and emotional pain I was in. So hey - this started out great. :))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))

Yesterday the desperation and constant crying turned into anger and resentment towards him for leaving me behind, and equally towards myself for being this fucking pathetic and petty. I just genuinely want him to suffer as much as I’ve suffered - and more. I’m a real fucking disney villain, aren’t I? Waking up this morning I still resent him but mostly just want to keep away from him and build a goddamn ice castle to retreat to and not care about the world or any expectations I myself or others might have on me. Let it go, let it go, that perfect girl is goooonnnneee. I know hating him and isolating myself is a psychological coping mechanism to avoid future hurt and I know avoiding him will be the shittiest thing to do but it’s all I can right now and I’m damn well going to put myself first because WHO CARES. With this much anger inside me and nowhere else to take it out on except my own disgusting body and a damn bunny I’d rather just avoid it. I haven’t felt like crying anymore. I purged my FB of old “friends” and posts from way back when. Debated deleting my profile picture but that might go into the category of seeking attention rather than disappearing. I would’ve deactivated the whole profile if I didn’t need to use Facebook for work. I also unfollowed my guy on there because I don’t want to see any of his stuff. I’ve disabled notifications on most of my WhatsApp groups and I’m debating giving up literally everything - which I won’t do but hey..

I still mostly hate myself for being this childish and abusive and sick and dependent and disgusting. I would’ve loved to be the good girlfriend but turns out I am just too selfish and have no energy to pretend that I’m not deeply hurt. I despise myself for letting myself become so dependent on another person. This is why I should be alone and I’ve said it a million times..

In other news, my business trip went pretty well. I was social, I went out on dinners, I got praised for my presentation and made lots of money, I tried to make connections. I stayed at a hotel by myself for the first time. Vienna was a beautiful city that I definitely want to return to at some point.

Yesterday my friend came over to keep me company, play ACNL and bring me mango tea (man go heh heh) and chocolate. I honestly don’t know what I would do without her. I’ve had other friends offer moral support as well but so far she’s the only one who was there for me. It was awesome not having to be alone on the first critical day. She also told me that as long as I’m feeling /something/ I’m doing good.

Today I went to a morning meeting, came back to grab a quick snack and went to the first showing of our newest apartment purchase with my family. Then we went to get some groceries, and had a nice lunch as a courtesy of the contractor of the apartment. My first warm meal. My stomach is acting up like crazy and I’m tired all the time but don’t give a fuck about going to bed or eating properly. Taking a shower this morning was enough to tire me and make me want to go right back to sleep. I want to take time to distance myself from everything. I don’t feel like doing anything. This post makes no sense but I guess it serves its function of being a stream of consciousness type of way to vent.

I have to keep going and I’m going to push myself through. I went to study Japanese with my friend in the evening and she made a point of telling me how strong I was for going and studying with her in the middle of all this shitstorm. If there is one thing I’ll never do is sabotage my academics because I know I’ll never amount to anything without it anyway. I have to keep trying even if it eventually kills me. I’m sure I’m being over dramatic and in a month from now I’ll be a new independent me but hey right now everything is shit?

If I can get myself out of my huge and lonely bed tomorrow I’m going to clean the house. And put up fall decorations. And light candles. And maybe start MEA or play ACNL or Stardew Valley. And hopefully make an actual meal.