#and the one she prescribed (again without having a conversation with me) has dizziness as a main side effect!

[feliraeth]

why are both the meds i'm on ones that have dizziness as the main side affect. i have pots

[spencers-renaissance]

Trees and Seas Have Flown Away, I Call it Loving You

Summary: Derek says something hurtful, but it happens to lead to just about the best thing that's ever happened to Spencer.

Tags: hurt/comfort, fluff, angst, making up, bullying, angst with a happy ending, autistic spencer, coming out, getting together

Pairing: Morgan x Reid

Word Count: 3.2k

Masterlist // Read on AO3

Spencer is having one hell of a morning. He’d slept late, a significantly rare occurrence for him, and the metro had been delayed and diverted, leaving him to walk a decent chunk of his journey into work. To top it all off, he’d left his pencil case at home, leaving him stuck with cheap office supplies on a paperwork day. 

He hates days like these, when his mood is so seriously affected by events beyond his control, and he knows he’s just going to continue to fester in his own self-prescribed misery if he doesn’t take some drastic steps to change the way he’s feeling. 

After a moment of staring into space as he considers his options, he decides on a few deep breaths to try and calm himself down. Surveying the mess on his desk after opening his eyes, he tackles that next, sorting through case files that can be filed away and organising the notes he’s currently working on as well as rearranging his personal items to stop them taking up so much room. Already feeling better, he takes a few sips of water and some painkillers for the headache he can feel coming on, and locks eyes on the break room. His mid-morning coffee is due.

Elle and Derek are chatting at the counter when he pushes the door open, and he smiles at both of them. He’s still getting used to being around Elle. She’s so confident and intimidating that he’s not really sure if she likes him that much, and it definitely doesn’t help that she reminds him of the girls he used to go to school with, the ones who found it amusing to laugh at the much younger autistic boy, hiding his stuff and calling him names, standing by and laughing when the older boys would beat him up. 

He tries very hard with her, though. Maybe this would be a good opportunity to build more rapport, he thinks, so he listens in while he refills the coffee machine’s water. It’s definitely got nothing to do with how much he wants to climb Derek Morgan like a tree.

Derek looks over and catches him up in that thoughtful sort of way that always gets Spencer’s stomach fluttering. “Elle’s just telling me about the hot date she had on Saturday,” he winks, nudging her in the side. “He seems like a catch.” He sips innocently at his coffee and Spencer realises belatedly that he’s being sarcastic and watches for Elle’s response. God, he wishes conversations weren’t so damn convoluted.

“Oh, fuck off, Morgan,” she says, rolling her eyes. “You’re just jealous because I got laid and how long’s it been for you? Months?”

It’s Derek’s turn to roll his eyes, looking over at Spencer in a way that has him flushing pink. “Come on, Greenaway,” he laughs, “you know full well I’m not exactly lacking in that department.”

Elle gives him a dubious look, before raising her eyebrows and sipping her coffee. “Whatever you say,” she says in a patronising tone - the kind that reminds Spencer of an adult indulging a fantastical child. Derek laughs again, tapping lightly on the underside of her mug and causing it to spill over her hand a little. Spencer envies how easy it is for other people to elicit such a beautiful sound from Derek’s mouth; the few times he’s intentionally made Derek laugh he’d felt like he won a trophy, the sort he’d frame in a cabinet and show off to visitors, giving them a tour of the limited map of Spencer’s victories with a proud smile on his face.

He watches the exchange a little awkwardly, not knowing how to respond to these two very dominant personalities discussing an area he’s not overly familiar with. Unfortunately, they don’t ignore him forever and Elle looks over at him, her intense, fiery gaze already stirring up nerves in his stomach. “Anyway, what about you, Reid, when was your last hot date?” she teases, and he cannot for the life of him figure out if it’s friendly or malicious. 

He flounders for only a second, cheeks heating up steadily, before Derek interjects. “Oh come on, Elle,” Derek scoffs. “Not sure Reid’s whole ‘twink aesthetic’ thing is quite what women are after, is it, pretty boy?” 

Instantly, humiliation bleeds into his veins. His stomach swirls and he feels dizzy, completely out of his depth as his face reddens even further and he starts to sweat. The playful nudge that digs into his side doesn’t do anything to bring him out of the protective trance his mind’s gone into. “I--” he tries, but he’s cut off by Elle clearly growing bored of the conversation and pushing off the counter-top to leave. 

She turns around for a moment as she heads towards the door, walks backwards a few steps as she delivers the final, devastating blow. “Hey, you never know, Reid,” she grins, “maybe the whole virgin genius thing will win them over instead.” She chuckles to herself as she leaves the room, door swinging closed behind her softly, leaving Derek and himself standing there in a vacuum.

Today of all days. It’s been a long time since the last time such a crushing level of humiliation was burning inside him, but he remembers the emotion like muscle memory. His body knows exactly what to do as his gut swirls and his head spins, sweat beading on his skin as though the very little self-esteem he had left is leaking steadily: the stopper that had been keeping the small amounts of confidence he had inside him degraded and dissolved by his coworker’s careless words, nothing there anymore to stop it leaking out of him. 

It’s not new. But the sting is so much more visceral when it’s shocked into him by two people he considered friends and one person he was hopelessly, desperately in love with. It feels exactly like high school and university did: the toleration of his presence for intellectual reasons, for everything Spencer had to offer, but ultimately the social rejection of him as a human being when it actually came down to it. He was useful to the team for as much as he could give them. And that was it. 

Derek takes a sip from his mug as Elle leaves, but he doesn’t notice Spencer’s completely frozen state until he tries to move on to another topic. “Spencer?” he asks, obviously concerned at his non-response and completely oblivious to his inner turmoil. “What’s wrong?”

He can’t find the words to respond, but he does manage to meet Derek’s eyes and he just stares at him for a few seconds before he shakes his head and looks away again. Derek’s clearly confused, but that only makes it worse. Is he overreacting? Or is Derek just truly that oblivious to the cruelty in his words, to his feelings? 

Feeling the tears burning in his eyes and adamantly refusing to cry in the middle of the breakroom, he turns around and hurries to the bathroom without saying a word. 

⭐️

He barricades himself into a stall and sits on the closed toilet seat as tears steadily spill down his cheeks. This is exactly the reason he hasn’t told a soul at the FBI -- how would a group of alpha personalities who were likely the most popular kids in high school, likely would have bullied him if they’d attended the same school, that he was gay? 

The humiliation stings more coming from Derek. Such negative association with his sexuality had proved himself right: this was a secret he needed to keep quiet. It just hurt so badly that the man he loved seemed so dismissive, so rude about something so integral to his being, and the allusions the entire exchange had to previous traumas had him struggling for breath through the steady stream of tears. 

It takes him a few minutes but he eventually manages to calm himself down. He splashes some cool water onto his heated skin and tries his hardest to breathe deeply, even though it feels almost impossible at first. Usually when he gets worked up and has a meltdown or a panic attack he’s able to talk himself out of it after he’s calmed down a little; able to rationalise and apply logic to the situation, which tends to illuminate either an overreaction or a clear path through the problem.

That coping mechanism is not applicable, though - Derek and Elle truly hurt his feelings and there’s no way around that. Instead, he just tries to push it to the edge of his mind. He thinks through the quantum physics problem he’d started at breakfast, and the logical progression through the formulas and rational reasoning he has to use brings his heart rate down and he feels at least a little calmer, even if the twisted knot of dread and grief and pain still sits heavy in his stomach. 

He’s just solved the physics problem in his head when the door swings open and he can hear Derek’s signature tread on the bathroom floor. “Spencer?” he calls quietly, pausing as the door closes behind him for just a second before making his way to the end stall. “I know you’re in there.”

“I am in here,” Spencer confirms, resenting how weak and watery his voice sounds. 

Derek sighs heavily. “I didn’t get it until I talked to JJ,” he admits, speaking through the door. “I was confused why you suddenly acted so strange so I asked her what she thought was up. I thought it was all friendly banter. To be honest, I didn’t even realise what I’d said until I was explaining it to her. But you gotta understand, pretty boy, I never meant to hurt you. I’m so sorry.”

Spencer squeezes his eyes shut, but the tears still escape anyway, spilling down his tears in an expression of silent grief as he listens to Derek. He takes a deep breath in through his nose and swipes the tears away from his cheek with his fingertips before unlocking the door, revealing the most apologetic expression he’s ever seen. It doesn’t make him feel much better. He still meant what he said.

He smiles weakly. “Don’t worry about it,” he says, and his voice sounds so vulnerable, it’s giving him away. 

Derek’s expression doesn’t ease at Spencer’s forgiveness, he doesn’t smile and consider the issue done and dusted, he frowns harder, eyes desperate. “No, don’t dismiss it,” he says. “I hurt you, and that was wrong. I shouldn’t have said what I said, and Elle shouldn’t have either, okay, kid? I’m really sorry.”

“I know, but I’m used to it,” Spencer says, trying for a light tone and missing the mark by an embarrassing amount. 

“Well you shouldn’t be,” Derek frowns. “If you’re so used to it, though, then why did this affect you so much? I’ve never seen you lose your cool like that.” He looks genuinely confused, and combined with the sorrow smothered across his features, it’s a pitiful sight. 

“Don’t push, Morgan,” he warns, looking back down at his hands. His back hurts from his awkward, hunched position on the cold porcelain of the toilet. 

“Seriously, Spencer, I--” Derek looks completely bewildered, caught off guard by the way he clearly expected this conversation going and the road it’s actually taken. 

“I’m gay, alright?” Spencer interjects, loudly. He looks up fiercely into Derek’s eyes as he says it, but the fight quickly drains out of him and he looks down at his hands again, tensing automatically in fear of his reaction. 

Derek doesn’t say anything though, so when Spencer eventually looks up again, he finds a strange expression on his face. Not mild disgust or confusion or awkwardness, but relief and fear and frustration. 

“Spencer, I--” He cuts himself off as he shuffles his feet and looks away, but Spencer doesn’t miss the mournful tone as he realises the true impact of his words, how they must have hurt him. “You’re gay? That’s… why my comment was so hurtful, I’m so sorry. I never wanted to imply any kind of homophobia, I mean… I’m bisexual,” he admits, the same fear Spencer had felt swirling in his stomach written on Derek’s features. 

“You are?” Spencer replies, surprise colouring his tone. He feels a surge of hope rise in his chest and he forces himself to tamper it. Just because Derek likes men absolutely does not mean he likes men like Spencer. In his experience those kinds of people tend to be fairly rare. He stands up from his uncomfortable seat, meeting Derek’s eyes properly for the first time since he entered the toilets.

What he means to do is give him a hug, or maybe have some sort of conversation on a more equal playing field. He does not mean to kiss him. 

But when all of a sudden Derek’s lips are on his and Derek’s hands are cradling his cheek and waist so gently, surely it would be rude not to kiss him back. So he does. Far too passionately for a public bathroom in an FBI building, by all accounts.

They break away eventually, and Derek immediately panics. Spencer can see it rise in his eyes and body language, so before he can say anything he pulls him into the stall properly, shutting the door behind them and kisses him again, more gently this time. It’s the most confident thing he thinks he’s ever done, and he’s damn proud of himself because he does not want to go another day without Derek kissing him as tenderly as he is right now, without his hands roaming up and down his sides, without the careful brush of his fingers against the side of his head as he pushes a strand of hair back behind his ear as they pull away again. 

“You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to do that, pretty boy,” Derek whispers, and Spencer can feel the gentle brush of his breath against his lips.

He’s lost for words again, but in a completely different way from just minutes before, and he absolutely cannot believe this is happening. Today of all days. 

“Me too,” Spencer confesses, smiling slightly as he allows himself to convey the vulnerability he’s feeling on his face instead of building up a wall in front of it as he usually would. It doesn’t take long for reality to set in though. “But we are in an FBI building and we could definitely lose our jobs for this.”

“Right,” Derek acknowledges, looking up as he puts a bit more space between them, as much as the tiny stall allows. “Later, though, we could maybe do this… not in a government building?” 

Spencer’s always wondered how it feels to be on the receiving end of Derek’s romantic charm and charisma, and it’s rather overwhelming. Derek’s smiling cheekily as he interlocks their hands and waits for an answer and Spencer’s finding it a little hard to breathe again.

“Like… a date?” Spencer squeaks, face flushing again -- though admittedly in a much more pleasant manner -- as he prays he hasn’t got the wrong idea.

“Yes,” Derek smiles, “like a date.” He pauses and takes a breath, grinning wider for just a second before he suppresses it slightly and looks back at Spencer. “How about… I swing by your place at 7 and we head to that new Italian place you’ve been talking about?”

“Really?” Spencer asks, face open and vulnerable and honest. He hopes to God that he’s not being mocked right now. It’s happened before. He’s not sure Derek really understands the amount of trust he’s placing in him, the burden that might bring. 

“Yes, really,” Derek chuckles, bringing a hand up to rest at the side of his face again as he thumbs gently over his cheekbone. “I’m gonna wine you and dine you, baby, just you wait and see.”

Spencer knows he won’t be able to speak without squeaking embarrassingly again, so he just nods emphatically and beams at Derek. 

“I’ll see you at 7, then, pretty boy,” he winks, pressing a brief kiss to his lips. “I’ll be counting down the hours.”

⭐️

Taking care to exit the toilets separately, they return to their desks, filling out the paperwork left over from their most recent case. Spencer is certain that more than one coworker picks up on their shy, knowing looks, shared over the top of coffee mugs and cheap printer paper,  but he can’t find it in himself to care. The very thing he’d craved for almost three years, since he first stepped foot in the bullpen and was introduced to Derek Morgan, was within his clutches and he was going to hold on to it no matter what it cost him.

Things feel different almost immediately: ‘pretty boy’ is infinitely more affectionate, the previously platonic touches are lingering and meaningful, Derek’s completely unnecessary paperwork consults seem more affirming and reassuring than ever. The idea that he could possibly spend the rest of his life with Derek Morgan’s hands on him, his passionate kiss on his lips, his compliments and nicknames warming him from the inside out, feels almost dizzying. He knows he’s smiling stupidly, he also knows that JJ and Elle are smiling knowingly, but he just doesn’t care.

He drives himself home and dresses in his smartest suit as soon as he gets back, even though Derek isn’t due for another 30 minutes. For reasons he refuses to acknowledge, he tidies his apartment while he waits and then takes a seat on his sofa, tapping his foot in anxious anticipation. By the time he hears a knock on his door, his heart’s in his mouth and his stomach is fluttering wildly, but that all fades to irrelevancy when he locks eyes with Derek.

“Dr Reid,” he says calmly, smile providing a soft kind of light to his face and Spencer wishes he never had to look away. He passes him a beautiful bouquet of flowers, and Spencer knows enough to recognise it’s a curated bunch, not a hasty supermarket buy but a thoughtful, purposeful trip to the florist. 

“Wow,” Spencer says, and he absolutely tries to fight down the emotion rising in his throat but he isn’t quite successful. He takes the offered bouquet and examines them in closer detail, tracing an index-finger along the petal of a yellow daffodil. “New beginnings,” he whispers as tears spring to his eyes. He stares at it a little longer before looking up to meet Derek’s softened, deep brown eyes. He’s still in disbelief that someone would go to the lengths of researching the language of flowers for him, knowing it was something that he liked. “Thank you.”

“New beginnings,” Derek repeats, taking another step closer, “love me, desire, wisdom, and affection returned.” He lifts a hand to rest on Spencer’s cheek again and looks deep into his eyes for just a moment, conveying all he needs to with one look, and leans in to kiss him.

⭐️

Aaaaand this is the conclusion to my 12 Fic Challenge! Thank you to everyone who supported my fics through this journey, I can’t believe all the amazing things it’s led to and I’m so happy that this is the fic to end it. I’m so excited for what’s next in store, so stay tuned! <3

@strippersenseii @criminalmindsvibez

[ao3bronte]

Unseen Scars by @ao3bronte Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8 Fandom: Miraculous Ladybug

This is my seventh prompt for @badthingshappenbingo ! Please reblog and enjoy!

Neglect/Abandonment (7/8)

It’s not unusual for Nathalie Sancoeur to delegate the various staff members at her disposal to contend with Adrien, especially considering her own...precarious condition at the moment. Since being promoted to M. Agreste’s head assistant ten years prior, she’d been nothing but diligent in her duties and meticulous in her management. 

Except…

Nathalie grimaces and slumps over in her office chair, fighting off another painful migraine. She has enough on her plate as it is, so when faced with something as straightforward as another one of Adrien’s school related illnesses, Nathalie simply thought nothing of it.

Upon having Adrien’s bodyguard deposit him onto his couch in his bedroom three days ago, Nathalie had sent for the family doctor. Despite the short notice, D. Débile arrived within a few hours and prescribed an antiviral without so much as a second glance at the half-asleep boy and ordered Adrien to stay in bed for at least a week to stop the spread of illness to the rest of Paris.

Not that he’d been cognisant enough to hear it, of course. Leaving a note by his bedside with his instructions was a more than sufficient way of communication with Adrien, and Nathalie had done so promptly. Washing her hands scrupulously, she’d left the room immediately after to deal with the mounting responsibilities of being both an assistant by day and a magical cohort by night. 

Adrien would find his way under the covers of his bed eventually.

Meal deliveries were scheduled at 8h, 13h and 19h. Servants M. Simon and M. Dubois were supposed to rouse Adrien, compel him to take his medicine and eat his food promptly, then leave the boy in peace. Nathalie did not want either domestic to contract the illness and spread it to the rest of the staff; she couldn’t fathom the additional headaches she would have to contend with should half her personnel call in sick.

Nathalie’s communication with M. Agreste about Adrien’s physical state is to the point, as always. She relays that Adrien has caught an illness and has been prescribed medicine and seven days rest. Gabriel acknowledges this by asking her to rearrange Adrien’s modelling commitments for the following week.

Done and done. She has far more important things to accomplish.

She looks in on him only once on the third evening, cracking open the door and peering within. He’s sitting and hunched over on the edge of his bedside, dry heaving into the waste bin. She recoils and shuts the door, tapping on her iPad to schedule a cleaning in one half hour.

~

Plagg had long shoved Marinette’s empty container of soup under Adrien’s bed by the time one of the Agreste household maids had come into the bedroom to clean up the mess that his wielder had made on the floor. 

His regurgitations hadn’t exactly...hit their mark.

(And it isn’t that he hasn’t seen his fair share of human’s being gross, but at least he’d been just as drunk as his former wielders when they’d inevitably indulged in too much Roman wine.)

Plagg spends the next several minutes peeping from the covers at the foot of Adrien’s bed, watching from the dark as the maid cleans the bathroom and the area around his bed. The woman only looks slightly puzzled at the wadded-up pieces of cling film piled on his nightstand and finishes cleaning within ten minutes, shutting the door as quickly as she came.

Plagg taps at Adrien’s foot, giving him the green light.

“Ughhhh,” Adrien groans, rolling over onto his side now that the coast is clear, “Why is it so bright in here?”

“It’s not,” Plagg floats from beneath the duvet and hovers in front of him, “So do us both a favour and close your eyes.”

Adrien purses his lips, “Did they even teach you about bedside manners where you came from?”

“Hardly,” Plagg rolls his eyes, “I’m the embodiment of chaos and destruction. I don’t need manners.”

“If I could think straight, I’d make a joke about switching kwamis again. I’m sure Tikki wouldn’t be this mean to me.”

“You’re not wrong about that,” Plagg admits, tugging his whiskers, “She’s a coddler. Disgusting.”

“I could use a little coddling,” Adrien murmurs, rolling onto his back and draping his forearm over his eyes, “Plagg, can you believe Ladybug was in my room last night?”

“And the night before that,” Plagg rolls his eyes as Adrien flings his arm across his body and gapes at him in horror, “You were dead asleep for that bit. I wasn’t.”

“Oh no, please don’t tell me I embarrassed myself.”

“You didn’t throw up on her, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“Oh thank god,” Adrien groans, shuddering as he closes his eyes against the lamplight filtering down from his desk, “Can you turn that off for me, Plagg? I’d do it myself but...I don’t know what’s wrong with me, honestly. I feel dizzy and kind of...merde, it begins with an n…”

“Nauseous?”

“Yes! Nauseous,” Adrien’s lips quiver and he takes a raspy breath, “Is there a way to like, reboot your brain? Because I feel like I’ve forgotten half the French language which, you know, sucks. Because I speak French.”

“Really? I hadn’t noticed,” Plagg responds, the snark in his voice not matching his expression as he turns his eyes towards the time, “Whatever you knocked loose in there, it’ll come back. It’ll just take a while.”

Adrien shifts his arm enough to expose one eye, “But how long is a while?”

“I don’t know,” the kwami shrugs, “A couple weeks? A couple months? I have no sense of time, I’m a god.”

His wielder sighs, “You’re no help.”

“Says the kid who just asked me to turn off a lamp,” Plagg grouses back, hitting the switch with his paws. Adrien’s bedroom is blanketed in the blessed darkness of early evening and he can finally open his eyes without fighting off the headache that threatens to split his skull in two, “You’re welcome, by the way.”

“Thank you Plagg. You’re always so kind to me, even when you’re kinda not.”

“Yeah yeah,” Plagg waves him off, “Now get some rest so you can heal that thick skull of yours.”

Adrien sighs his agreement with a tired smile and Plagg only returns the gesture once his kitten’s eyes are closed firmly. Sitting back on his sternum, Plagg waits until his wielder’s breaths have steadied before he takes a weary breath of his own.

This has been the first lucid conversation he’s had with Adrien in seventy-two hours; every other attempt at banter had been a nightmare. Between the stuttering, the forgetfulness and the random bouts of sobbing, Plagg’s anxiety had been threatening to skyrocket through the roof. After all, the sputtering he could deal with. After a round or two of catnip, he certainly knew the struggle of trying to string a sentence together. 

But the sobbing bit?

Plagg shivers at the thought, burrowing against Adrien’s cheek as he settles deeper into his pillow. Plagg has never been particularly competent at managing his kittens and their inevitable moods, but the fact that Adrien has been rocketing through every hue of emotion every time he wakes up is enough to make him want to start throwing up too.

Concussions, as he was finding out, were awful.

[spooniemumoftwo]

This is me!

Have you ever heard of ME CFS? Do you know anyone with ME CFS? Have you ever heard the phrase ‘counting spoons’? 

Having read a huge number of blog posts on ME CFS over the past few years, this is my own answer to some of these questions. Please bear with me – this has been a work in progress for a while now.

Me – Could I have M.E?

As a teenager, and even recently, I never imagined that I would find myself writing about my experiences of life with a chronic illness, and yet, here I am. I am 33 years of age, a wife and mother to two beautiful children, and I have a diagnosis of Myalgic Encephalomyelitis (ME CFS). 

Over the past few years, I have come to realise that ME CFS is something you can’t fully understand or describe to someone unless you have the experience of this debilitating illness yourself.

Where do I start?

Over the last three years, there have been ups and downs; life has been interesting, and the learning curve I have found myself travelling on has been almost vertical at times. I am not there yet.

Back in Summer 2017, I woke one morning to find I had no voice at all. This was unusual for me but not the first time it had happened. Things had been busy and a little fraught with two small children, whilst I was also working almost full time, so I thought nothing of it. I now suspect, as do the consultants I have spoken to since, that this was my body’s way of fighting the Chicken Pox virus, as my youngest came down with Chicken Pox two weeks after I first lost my voice. A week without my voice went by, writing notes for my husband to ignore as he felt appropriate, and giving my children 'the look' instead of telling them what I was thinking, and I spoke to my GP who diagnosed me with Acute Viral Laryngitis, and prescribed me three weeks off work and TOTAL voice rest, much to my husband’s delight and amusement. Three weeks later I returned to work, having slept all day for at least two of the three weeks I’d had off work. I was shattered. I never imagined returning to work after only three weeks off would be that tiring, but I did it. I underwent a further six months of speech and language therapy sessions (ironic considering my own role as a speech and language therapist) to help me work on my returning voice and my worryingly limited breath support, something I had only noticed since losing my voice.

Nearly twelve months on, in April 2018, I found myself signed off work again, this time with suspected Labyrinthitis. I experienced dizziness on and off, and again, I slept for most of the time I was off work. I was finding it hard to put sentences together, and felt like my whole body was being held down by a weighted blanket. Three weeks off work again and then I returned to work and my usual routine, with a promise to myself to take things easier this time. The dizziness continued but not enough for me to be off work, so a referral to a cardiologist followed to check it was nothing cardiology related. A 24 hour ECG followed by a 32 day ECG test demonstrated nothing significant, and therefore this was put down as yet another symptom I had no answers or reasons for.

By August 2018, I realised I had spent the majority of the summer term in schools telling myself ‘if I can make it to the summer holidays, I will be okay’ and yet, there I was, at the start of the summer holidays, and I hadn’t allowed myself to slow down at all. I have always, even as a pre-teen and a teenager, worked towards the school holidays, and continue to do so as an adult. I recall, as a teenager, regularly sleeping for the first one or two days of a school holiday, or suffering with a cold and feeling generally unwell for the first few days after allowing myself to slow down or to relax, and yet, here I was, putting the same pressure on myself as I always had. This time, however, I did not allow myself to rest. I knew what would happen if I did.

August 2018 saw me celebrating my own mini achievements regarding my engagement in a Couch to 5K running programme. I have never been sporty, and running was my least favourite exercise. However, for some reason, in 2018, I decided I was going to make myself enjoy running! I soon found running gave me time to myself with my thoughts, (unless accompanied by one of my chatty little people who often wanted to go with Mummy on a run) and running was my 'me time'. I managed to complete my first ever continuous 20 minute run in the middle of August, a very small achievement for many, however for me this was huge! I was becoming a runner, or so I thought. I only ran once more that month, and haven't managed a run since…

The summer holidays passed by and at the end of August, we celebrated my eldest child’s 5th birthday. I will never forget the call we received first thing that morning, to tell us that my grandfather had sadly passed away in the early hours of the morning.  On my daughter’s birthday. I held myself together and threw all of my energy into celebrating my daughter’s special day. I was heart broken, and yet, as always, my children came first, and always will. The day after, we hosted a party for our daughter as we had planned. I could think of any number of places I would rather be, than hosting a children’s party, but for my children, ensuring they were happy, and maintaining the usual normality, especially things they had looked forward to, was essential. After we had cleared up, and the children had been put to bed, revelling in the excitement of the day, I took myself off to the gym, and pushed myself to run as far as I could.  I managed a 35 minute continuous run, telling myself “it was just for you, Grandad!'’ I was exhausted, mentally and physically. Running had allowed me time to myself to clear my head and my thoughts on many occasions prior to this, however that night, I was broken. I could do no more. My head hurt, my legs hurt, even my breathing was draining me.  I was done.

Two days later, I lost my voice again, and this time, I listened. I listened to what my body was saying, and started to put a few of the pieces together in my story. I have always pushed myself as far as I could push, but I was spent. Emotionally, and physically, I had nothing left. I spoke to my GP in view of my previous significant voice loss, and was instantly told to take some time off work to recharge and rest my voice. I reluctantly agreed to take a week off to recharge before going back to work.

A week later, at the start of September, I saw my GP, accompanied by a very good friend, to make sure I gave the facts and was honest about what was going on. We talked about everything. With the support of my friend, I listed all of the symptoms I had been experiencing, and yet not acknowledged, things I was finding difficult - sensitivities to light and noise, complete physical exhaustion, difficulties concentrating, poor spatial awareness - there can only be so many times a person can walk into the same photocopier in the same position on the same day. (My record was five times one day.) I described the difficulty I had in expressing myself and communicating with others at times, and my concerns about the slightly narcoleptic speed at which I could fall asleep and still feel totally unrested when I woke up, no matter how long I slept for. I raised my concerns and questioned whether I could possibly have some signs of ME CFS, however my GP said that at this stage, she did not feel I had ME, and that there were a huge number of reasons I was feeling as I was at that time. She was right about that, there had been a lot going on. I reluctantly left the doctor’s surgery with a certificate signing me off work for four weeks, and I was under strict instruction to rest completely, and not to return to work within the next four week period. I have never taken time off work willingly, other than for the usual expected absences due to the usual common illnesses, and therefore this went entirely against my work ethic. But this time, I had to - I was spent. I had no idea what was wrong with me, and how long it would last.  I was worried and totally exhausted.

A month later, I returned to my GP to try and persuade her I was ready to return to work. We talked about how the last month had gone, how I was feeling, and what my thoughts about work were. I tried to list the positives to show I was feeling better but what were they? I was sleeping all of the time other than when I had to be awake to do a school run, or to look after my children, which I had been doing mainly from the sofa whilst they amused themselves in my sight. I was finding it difficult to carry out simple and regular tasks such as showering, which left me incapacitated and lay on my bed for some time before I could continue with the day. Cooking and preparing meals were a challenge, as this involved me being upright for longer than was comfortable. Having a conversation on the telephone was exhausting, and yet talking to someone in person was strangely slightly easier. I was often disorientated and a slight change in plans left me confused. On really bad days, I frequently could not have a conversation without losing what I was saying, and found it difficult to think of the words I wanted to say. My mind went blank. None of this made sense. I was 31 years old and generally healthy. What was wrong with me? I sounded like I was making this up and began to doubt myself. My GP informed me that she had been thinking about me, and had spoken to a colleague of hers for some advice. She advised that after some thought, she felt a referral to a specialist in Chronic Fatigue may be worthwhile, as it was possible that some of my symptoms could be signs of ME CFS. That made me anxious. I had suspected that this may be the case for me for a while, but to hear a clinical professional confirm my suspicions and want to investigate further sent chills right through me. How and why was this happening? We agreed that I would be referred to the consultant specialist, and I left the appointment with another four weeks off work, and a hope that I would return to work after another month, IF my energy levels had increased sufficiently.

Another month later, I returned to my GP, and despite me still experiencing significant fatigue, I was desperate to return to work and some normality. My GP reluctantly agreed to a phased return to work which would be monitored closely by her. I returned to work, initially for two half days a week, with a view to being back to my normal thirty hours a week by the end of December. I was still exhausted. Each day was a huge challenge, but it felt so good to be back at work! I tried to take things as easy as possible, as I was mindful that I needed to read the signs and listen to what my body was saying. I didn't feel like the person I was before, and yet just being 'me' again, in my usual workplace was a tonic.

In February 2019, I saw a consultant specialist in chronic fatigue, accompanied by another amazing friend. We talked through everything, literally everything! For a whole two hours, we discussed things I was able to do and things I couldn't do. Things I enjoyed and things I didn't. We talked in detail about my childhood, family history and medical history. I was referred for a sleep study to rule out sleep apnoea, and was advised that if the results of this study were unremarkable, then yes, I would be diagnosed with ME CFS. Otherwise, the diagnosis would be sleep apnoea. I felt sick, but with support from my friend, my husband and my family, we talked things through. But there were still no answers.

I am so lucky to have an amazing family and so many loyal and caring friends around me who know me better than I know myself at times. I can't express my thanks to each and every single person who supports us. Those who are there for me, to listen, advise and give the best hugs, and those fabulous friends who just know what to say and do when its needed. Those who try to understand what's going on, and those who know me best! My amazing family and friends regulate me and aren't afraid to tell me what I need to hear, despite this often being the harsh reality that I can't see (or don't want to!). I am often told to rest and that I need to put myself first, but that's not how I work, or it’s not how I've worked in the past anyway. I know I unintentionally frustrate the people I am closest to with my stubbornness and drive, and my reluctance to 'give in or give up', and I am so grateful for the support of so many people.  

I finally received my appointment for my sleep study at home at the end of May 2019. I was shown how to fit the oxygen tubes, oxygen monitor and all the gubbins that go with it and was sent on my way. Honestly, the sleep study was not the best night of sleep I've ever had...it turns out I'm a little more claustrophobic than I thought I was. But, by the following morning, the test was done and the equipment was safely returned to the hospital. My pending diagnosis was in their hands now. I received a letter at the start of July 2019, to say that I didn't have sleep apnoea, so there it was. A diagnosis of ME CFS.  Mixed emotions flooded me...relief that I wasn't going to have to wear a mask to sleep, and yet dread at reading the words I knew would be in my next letter from the consultant! On 25th July 2019, my letter arrived in the post. It simply said 'I can confirm that this patient has ME CFS. I will refer her to the local ME service for support'.  I was numb. 

So many questions!

How will this affect my children? What will happen next? Where do I stand with work? Will I need help? What does the future hold? All these questions filled my head. Many questions remain unanswered even twelve months on from receiving this letter. With no cure or successful treatment for this, I felt a mixture of panic, sadness and dread and telling my husband the results we didn't want to hear was hard. How would I be able to be the wife and mother I so wanted to be with this chronic illness? My children are still so young. My husband didn't sign up for this! This all felt so unfair!

Since my diagnosis, I've been supported by the local ME CFS service and their advice has been invaluable. The learning we have done as a family about the illness, the symptoms themselves and life as we know it, has been intense. I am able to recognise some of my triggers and my responses, though these constantly change and have increased in severity lately, but my husband, family and close friends will agree that I'm still pretty rubbish at really listening. I cannot seem to take it all in.  I am on overload.  I am a giver naturally...I don't come first in my head. I think of everyone else before myself - my children, my family and my friends. That is just me.  But it wears me out.  

My children

When I was diagnosed with ME CFS, my first thought was not for me, but for my children. This is not how I imagined parenting my own children. I felt a huge sadness that this would mean they had to grow up more quickly, to understand things a young child shouldn't have to, and that we may not be able to do all the lovely things we did when I was a child. I made a promise there and then...ME CFS wasn’t going to stop me doing things with our children. Our promise to our children even then, was that they would come first and that my husband and I would get through this together. This is not my children’s problem, it is mine.

My husband and I agreed very early on, not to give our children the details but just to explain, when needed, that Mummy just needed to rest. This worked for a while and kept questions at bay. I recall one lunchtime when I had prepared a 'picky lunch' at the request of our three-year-old son. I had laid on the sofa while they ate and watched a film. My daughter, aged around five at the time, touched my arm gently and gave me a crisp she had found, saying “Mummy, please have this heart-shaped crisp. It will give you more energy”. Wow!! I'm not sure how I held the tears in...I was completely taken aback! Without telling her anything other than that Mummy was sometimes a bit tired, this little sensitive soul had put two and two together and made her own conclusions. I knew we had to tell her a bit more now, if anything, to make sure she wasn't making her own ‘wrong’ deductions. 

We have recently been introduced to a fabulous book which has been integral in our challenge of giving our children the facts they need whilst not giving them too much. This book, 'Supercharged Superhero' by Gemma Everson has been written to help children understand why a parent with ME may not be able to play all the time, and that they can have fun in different ways with their family. We love this book, and my children often ask if we can look at it again. We've spent many hours reading through the story, chatting about the pictures and thinking of our own ways to have fun which I can join in with too. Find out more about ‘Supercharged Superhero’ and get your own copy of this gorgeous book.

The Journey so far – September 2020

My journey through diagnosis and learning to adapt so far has been uphill. There have been some huge changes I've had to make to my lifestyle, specifically our pace of life and my priorities. Having never been able to say 'no' to anyone or anything in my adult life, my major challenge is to start saying ‘No, no, no!’ Such a simple word, and yet I just can't do it! Others always come before me; my family and my friends, and yet I know I need to work on this. I know I unintentionally drive my husband and close friends to distraction...they know me better than I know myself often, and I am always being told to slow down, or to put me first, but I can't. Only when I have no option otherwise.

I spend my life falling asleep without planning to. I rarely see the end of a television programme or film. As a family, we often plan to go out on adventures in the mornings or early afternoon, as my more unpredictable time of day is usually mid afternoon to early evening. With careful planning, we do go out and make memories as a family of four, and we have lots of fun together. 

Everyday, I spend huge amounts of energy putting a brave face on to hide what I'm really feeling inside. I can’t do this anymore! I feel like most people only see me in a disguise, only my close friends and family know enough to understand what's really going on, and many of them can read me like a book. Conversely, I am constantly told I look really well, when in reality, I can barely stand up some days!  When things are really bad I can't easily hold a conversation, and I often focus all my energy on getting to the end of a day, an hour, a meeting or some other mini target I've set myself. I am wishing time away just to ‘get through’.  My illness is an invisible illness, and it is called that for a reason...it IS invisible!

On paper, my symptoms are fairly mild in contrast with others who have the same diagnosed condition. I am able go to work four days a week still, I am able to take my children to the park or on carefully planned day trips, I can still do some of the things I do for me, to allow me to be 'me', although these ‘things’ for me, are usually the ‘things’ I cut out if I need to slow down - leaving no time for Me!  

The Present and the Immediate Future   

In recent months I have seen a huge flare of my symptoms and have been much more debilitated than previously, but I am hoping this is just a blip in my journey. Working from home and home schooling two young children during the Covid 19 pandemic has not helped.  Life has been a bit mad for us all lately, hasn't it?! I can only imagine how people feel, who have much more significant symptoms, and I try to empathise with those whose symptoms are much more severe than mine. ME CFS is so varied and different for each and every person diagnosed with it!  

ME CFS is not well understood.  As it is ‘invisible’, others do not know I am suffering symptoms that often debilitate me. I cover it well by pretending I am ‘ok’ until I finally crash and burn at home. This is my reason for sharing my story, living with this condition, to promote awareness so that others may benefit from learning about how it affects a person and how people can make allowances. It is not going away!! Maybe I was ‘given’ this condition because I am naturally a strong person who is ‘driven’ to come through everything, no matter what. I do not know. I know that sometimes, I just can’t and I am worn out ‘pretending’. So I have chosen to share this and maybe I can make a difference to someone else. Acknowledging symptoms is just the start. Getting a diagnosis is paramount, and getting the right help is vital for any kind of future.

You've got this far, well done! Look out for how my story unfolds. Until then, we must stay positive!

XxXx

#chronicfatiguesyndrome #chronicfatigue #mecfs #me #myalgicenceohalomyelitis #cfsme

[weeo]

At least, the leaves were golden (1/2)

I did a little something for the @peakyemergencyresponsefic. This is my entry for Episode 1. It’s in two parts. The second will be my entry for Episode 2, so it should come shortly.

Pairing : Tommy Shelby x Grace Burgess

Summary : It’s not a good idea to mix morphine and alcohol, but why would Tommy Shelby care? Tommy needs help, but he doesn’t know how to ask.

Gif Credits : This gif doesn’t belong to me. Credits to the creator @peakyblinders1919.

Warnings/Tags : Suicidal Thoughts, S5 spoilers, Hallucinations, Drug Use, Drug Addiction, Drug Abuse, Alcohol, Strangulation, Asphyxia, Tommy/Alfie (mentioned), (briefly), (really briefly)

AO3 link

Tommy stared out his window, glassy eyed as he swallowed thickly around a glass of whiskey. Outside, the tree’s leaves rock in the breeze, illuminated by the golden rays of the sun.

It looks like it’s warm outside. Or maybe it’s not. I don’t really know, actually. My body hardly feels anything other than cold lately.

I wasn’t really looking at the leaves. Only partly. I looked, but I wasn’t seeing. I wasn’t seeing anything. I was drawn into the void. Unlike the leaves, I could distinguish that well.

It’s astounding how life loses its interest when we allow ourselves to contemplate the void that eats us alive.

Tommy swallowed the last sip in his glass, pouring himself another straight away. He takes a small bottle from his pocket, drinking a portion of the liquid straight from the neck. The aggressive bitterness twists his features, and he drinks all his whiskey in one gulp, trying to cover its unpleasant taste.

The doctor prescribed the morphine. It seems like I didn’t only need glasses after all. Do I still take it because of the pain? I don’t even fucking know. Do I pay another doctor more money to give me a second prescription without any question?

I don’t remember what it’s like to be hurt, or maybe I remember too well. I don’t know. I don’t fucking know anything.

Tommy refilled his drink, sipping it casually.

The silence is the worse. Being alone with your thoughts and your emptiness. The voices fill it. And I want them to. I never seem to know what to do, but they tell me.

I know they’re not real. Grace. John. Freddie. Greta. Mum… But I couldn’t be alone anymore.

—–

Tommy closes his eyes, emptying the vial into his mouth. A fire crackles at his feet, but he can’t feel its warmth on his cold, clammy skin. It’s coming from inside. The warmth of an embrace. It releases the knot that is constantly tightening in his chest. Habit blinds him, leaving him unable to tell when his muscles are tensed, until the morphine frees them from this forced embrace.

The sensation is divine.

The claws holding him desperately in the world loosen for a few moments.

“Tommy, you’re here often lately.”

Opening his eyes again, he finds himself leaning against Grace’s chest. Her hands loose around his neck, as they hug quietly.

Hugging you is like embracing the ocean, Grace. If it feels too difficult to swim, I could always sink in your arms, until I drown.

Yet, each time we meet, I try to finally bid farewell. Then, when she appears in front of me and her voice lulls the sadness in my gaze, I no longer know how to say goodbye.

“I missed you too.” she murmurs in his ear, her hands tightening delicately the grip on his neck.

“I was here yesterday.”, he mumbles faintly, drawing a deep breath.

“But will you tomorrow? I know that you’ll leave me one day.”

“That’s the problem, Grace. I don’t know how. I fucking don’t-”

Tommy chokes on his last words. He’s out of breath and can’t finish his sentence. A tear runs across his face and he can’t close his mouth again. His lips are trembling more and more, as the flood of tears threatened to spill down his cheeks.

I was hugging you while crying. Sometimes, I’m sure I was.

“I just want you to feel better.”

“Do you think I can?” Tommy desperately sobs between his words. His breath is quivering and it’s starting to be a difficult task.

“You could feel like that forever. You just have to trust me.”

Tommy tracks Grace with his eyes, watching as she stands and her hands clench around his throat. She’s in front of him, tilting his chin higher, forcing him to look her in the eyes. His tears cascade across his cheeks and damp her hands as they press tighter.

“My poor love… Do you want the pain to stop?”

He stares at her wordlessly.

On a sudden impulse, Grace’s grip strengthens, her hands closing like iron around his neck.

Tommy chokes, gasping desperately.

The softness in Grace’s stare shifts to a perverse pleasure and her hands never falter. Pressing tighter and tighter. Tommy is dizzy by the strength and falls backwards off the wooden log. It was so dark but while blinking, he discovered he could still picture the Prussian soldier face, who strangled him in the tunnels.

When he comes back to his senses, Grace has disappeared. She’s nowhere to be seen, but he’s still breathless. He can’t remember how to breathe. He gets up quickly, but a striking nausea hits. He has to catch himself and cling to a nearby tree. His legs feel numb and he’s back on his feet with difficulty.

Is that what happens when you die? I thought it was more like embracing an old friend. I can’t die right now. The only thing I could leave to Charlie is gone, because of fucking Michael. Fucking Michael who wants my place, doesn’t he? He’d be way too happy.

The stretch between his campfire and house seems monumental, and impossibly challenging. He pauses frequently, leaning against trees in order to stay standing, fruitlessly trying to catch his breath, gasping desperately as he choked. When he finally nearly reaches his yard, he can distinguish a blurry figure coming towards him in a hurry. He doesn’t know if he can’t see properly or if it’s the huge amount of tears blurring his vision.

“What happened to you, Tommy?”

Johnny Dogs grabs him by the arm trying to keep him stable and moving in the direction he was heading to.

“What are you doing here?”, Tommy managed, air carving through his throat as he struggled to breathe.

They’re walking quicker thanks to Johnny Dogs’ help and finally reach the mansion yard.

“It’s dawn. We had to meet at dawn.”

A wave of nausea hits Tommy full force.

“Fuck.” is the last word that escapes Tommy’s lips before his legs give out. Johnny tries to catch him, but can’t hold him. Tommy falls heavily in the middle of his yard. Before his head hits the ground, he wonders for a second : Was he even real?

Notes : That was mostly Tommy and his sadness. Most of his symptoms in this fic are also symptoms of an abuse of morphine mixed with alcohol (difficulty to breathe, dizziness, nausea, clammy skin, paranoia, unconsciousness, etc.).

Thank you to @shelbydevilment for our conversation about morphine, it helped a lot <3

I also want to thank my amazing beta reader @tinypinetrees that makes everything she touches more beautiful <3 

You can now read Part 2 here.

[lcmulder]

Introducing... me!

Hi!

Before I start writing about all the interesting stuff I wanted to introduce myself first. My name is Lisa, currently 27 years old and living in Tilburg, the Netherlands. I’m currently listening to Heartbreak Weather by Niall Horan. Yes, One Direction and all those boys are still a guilty pleasure of mine. No shame here. Actually saw Harry Styles live two years ago and I was thoroughly impressed. Okay, drifting off... Back to it!

Small disclaimer: my English is pretty good, but don’t be too hard on me when it comes to using all the grammar correctly. I’m trying :-) 

As you can see from my profile picture: I love yoga. I discovered my love for yoga when I was in a really bad place mentally. Around 5 years ago I started getting really bad panic attacks and other anxiety symptoms like strained breathing, heart palpations, a really really painful back and shoulders, dizziness and more. Quick summary: I had a pretty tough childhood where I didn’t feel a lot of security and I was anxious all the time, afraid of all the things that could happen to one of my family members. 

But, I went to school, graduated, went to university, got my law degree within three years and went for a master’s degree, which I achieved. And I felt great. I had amazing friends, I was living on my own (with roommates) since I was 18, I had a job and an amazing boyfriend.

Everything was fine until I got my first panic attack.

I was 22 years old at the time. Ready to start a new chapter in my life: finding a new place to live and a job that could pay my bills. Life had other plans for me. My body just stopped functioning like it should. I didn’t just have panic attacks. I couldn’t even walk outside for half an hour without feeling like I could fall over right there on the sidewalk. Thankfully I could live with my dad at that time. Because I couldn’t work to earn money. I really couldn’t. My body prevented me from doing so. 

If you’re still reading this: thank you, you have such patience! I promise it won’t be much longer.

I went to my physician but he blamed stress. But I didn’t understand: I didn’t feel stressed at all! I even went to see a neurologist, but she couldn’t find anything. Slowly I came to realize it must had something to do with my mental health. I went to see a psychologist and started taking anti-depressants soon after that. And you know what? It got better within just a few weeks. The conversations with my psychologist really helped me face my demons from my past. In combination with the anti-depressants I didn’t have any panic attacks anymore. Which was great.

I would find out sooner that this was just the beginning.

During those difficult months I decided that I didn’t want to have a career in law. Quickly, I got an amazing job at a non-profit organization. I started working there in October 2016 and I left in November 2019. In those years, after one and a half year of taking them, I gradually stopped with the anti-depressants and I was completely off them by October 2017. I was scared about what would happen if I was off them, but I felt fine.

Three months later I didn’t feel so fine anymore and I felt like all my symptoms were coming back. I didn’t wait for that to happen and immediately went to my physician where I asked for a reference to a psychologist. He also prescribed anti-depressants again. I went to group therapy (cognitive behavioral therapy) every week for 15 weeks straight. Slowly, I got better again. The medicine I was taking was a different story though. I didn’t help me like last time. Thankfully I got to see a psychiatrist who helped me find the right medicine and dosis. 

Fast forward a year later and here I am, writing this blog for anyone who wants to read it. I’m doing okay. I actually started lowering my dosis of anti-depressants last week and it’s going well. I have an amazing new job with great colleagues. I’ve found my great love and we’ve been living together for two and a half years. We also started our own business around that time. So besides working for an employer, we work at developing our own business, just the two of us. And yes, that’s going great. We can separate our private and work life pretty well.

So why tell you this whole story?

Because it’s one of the main reasons why I got into yoga, meditation and a holistic lifestyle. Moving my body and flowing with my breath always helps when I’m feeling down. And I care about our planet and the people on it. A lot. So I try to live as sustainable as possible to minimize my bad footprint on our beautiful planet. I went vegan on January 1st of this year to minimize it even more. Sometimes I slip up, but I haven’t eaten any meat or cheese since that day (I stopped eating meat a few months before that). 

“The coming to consciousness is not a discovery of some new thing; it is a long and painful return to that which has always been.” Helen Luke

This isn’t a story about someone falling down, getting back up and all was right again. No, I’m still struggling daily. I have really bad days. But I also have amazing days. I laugh a lot. I’m funny as hell. I’m trying to find myself, who I am, what I want to do, where I want to be. 

I want to leave you with a quote I found in The Book of Awakening by Mark Nepo, which I highly recommend!

Akiba

When Akiba was on his deathbed, he bemoaned to his rabbi that he felt he was a failure. His rabbi moved closer and asked why, and Akiba confessed that he had not lived a life like Moses. The poor man began to cry, admitting that feared God’s judgment. At this, his rabbi leaned into his ear and whispered gently, “God will not judge Akiba for not being Moses. God will judge Akiba for not being Akiba.” 

- From the Talmud

[mamabearcat]

The Importance of Ramen 5

I really wanted to get this chapter done in time for the friendship themed day for Inuvember. Not sure if I’ve missed it or not, I’ve totally lost track. But this chapter is all about friendship. It’s time to stage an emotional intervention, InuCrew style.

The Importance of Ramen  Ch 1  Ch 2  Ch 3  Ch 4  

On FanFiction.net if you’d prefer; my name is Daisy73 over there.

Kagome opened her eyes, struggling to focus. Everything looked blurry as she fought her way to consciousness. She could hear the crackle of a fire, the occasional pop of the kindling in the flames a comforting familiar sound. She felt strong hands shifting behind her back, helping her sit up. The room suddenly tilted crazily, and she felt nauseous, sweat breaking out on her forehead. Her lips clenched shut as she felt her stomach roll. After a few moments it settled, and she leaned floppily like a rag doll against the hands and solid warmth behind her. An object appeared in front of her face. Squinting, she struggled to work out what it was, trying to get both her eyes and brain to focus.

“Kagome, you need to drink this.” She vaguely recognised Sango’s voice, although it sounded weird, like she was talking through a hollow tube. Kagome shook her head, trying to focus, and when the ringing buzzed in her ears, she wished she hadn’t.

“Wah?”, Kagome answered incoherently. She blinked her eyes rapidly, nose crinkled in frustration that she couldn’t get the room to stay still.

“Kagome, you need to drink this tea. It’s the one Kaede prescribes to combat the side effects of blood loss.” She felt gentle hands tilting her head and felt the edge of a cup against her lips. She forced herself to swallow the mouthful of warm liquid as it trickled over her tongue. It was so bitter it made her want to retch.

“That’s so gross”, Kagome muttered, shivering in revulsion and poking her tongue out of her mouth repeatedly as if in the hope that it would get rid of the taste.

 “I know”, chortled a deep voice behind her. She could feel the rumble of Inuyasha’s contained laughter against her back; she must be leaning up against him. “I always tell you that, and yet you still make me drink it. You gotta learn to take your own medicine Ka-go-me”.

“Bite me, dog-boy”, Kagome grumbled, her eyes screwed tightly shut, still struggling with the mouthfuls of foul liquid that Sango was helping her to swallow. She could hear a chuckling Mirokou somewhere to her left and felt tiny comforting pats on her knee from little hands; at least Shippou wasn’t making fun of her. 

“My otousan always said that the worse a medicine tasted, the faster it would cure you. You’ll feel better in no time Kagome”, comforted Shippou. Kagome snorted in amongst her efforts to gulp down the bitter liquid. Her own mother had fed her a similar fib when she was younger to get her to swallow medicine, but she wasn’t about to say anything disparaging about a memory that Shippou chose to share about his father. She did her best to smile in his direction, although it felt more like a grimace.

“Where are we?”, she asked after having finally worried down the last of the disgusting tea.

“After assisting the village head man in the matter of an evil spirit that was lurking in his storehouse”, began Mirokou, ignoring the ‘pfft’ noise coming from Sango’s direction, “he was so kind as to offer us the use of a hut they offer to visiting dignitaries”.

“You’re slipping monk”, teased Inuyasha. “No one’s been in this hut for ages. It reeks of dust and damp. I’d say somebody died in here years ago, and it hasn’t been used since.”

“No matter”, smiled Mirokou. “The use of it is free, the roof has no leaks and is keeping out the storm, and we’ve been able to use the firepit for cooking”. Kagome looked as he gestured towards the flickering fire, where a metal pot hung from chains on a tripod over the flames, its lid rattling gently over the simmering contents within.

“I should probably check the stew”, agreed Sango. She carefully lifted the lid from the pot and all of them sniffed the rich aroma appreciatively, even Kagome. Although her stomach still felt unsettled, the nauseous feeling was rapidly being replaced by a gnawing hunger.

Kagome looked around the small hut. Now that she had been sitting up for a while, she was able to pay more attention to her surroundings. She was sitting in her sleeping bag, with her back resting against Inuyasha’s chest, his longer legs stretched out either side of her. Looking down at her clothes, she realised that she was wearing a fresh clean t-shirt, and the bandage on her upper arm had been changed. Her bottom half seemed dry also, and with a slight flush of mortification, she hoped Sango had been the one to change her clothing. She felt comfortable, even though her wounds still throbbed a bit, especially the one on her thigh. She would have to get up and walk on it soon, so her leg didn’t get stiff. She couldn’t afford to slow everyone down; they needed to get back to the shard hunt tomorrow, especially since… the sudden memory of who they had met in the bamboo forest had her stiffening, and she grabbed Inuyasha’s hand that was resting on his thigh.

“Kagura! Inuyasha, have you…” Her sudden movement made her head thump, and she felt dizzy and sick again.

“Kagome, you need to eat first. You’ll get sick if you don’t”. Inuyasha’s grip on her hand was firm.

“No, no, we need to talk about Kagura; have you told everyone about what she said?!” She could feel her heart rate increasing; they needed to plan. For Kagura to come and warn them about a possible threat from Naraku it must be really bad! She felt a prickling in her scalp and a buzzing noise in her ears, and knowing it was a sign she would possibly pass out, she bent herself forwards, breathing heavily.

“Oi, Kagome, calm down!” Inuyasha’s warm hand on her back was soothing; she could feel Shippou hugging her feet through the sleeping bag. His anxious jittery movements made her realise that she was frightening the little fox kit, so she forced herself to take deep breaths until she felt less wobbly.

“Sorry everyone”, she said more calmly, sitting herself up gradually. “I just suddenly remembered, and it made me freak out a bit.” She bit her lip at the concerned look that passed between Mirokou and Sango. Everyone had enough to worry about without adding her to the list. The whole reason she was pushing her training was so that they didn’t have to worry about her anymore. She sat up straight and plastered a smile on her face. “I’m good now.”

Sango approached Kagome with a tin mug full of thick stew; meat and vegetables flooded with thick gravy. She looked from the mug back up to Sango, and down to the stew again.

“Wow, how long was I asleep?!”

“Coupla hours. Now, eat. I didn’t go hunting rabbits in the rain for you to turn your nose up at it”, Inuyasha rumbled grumpily. He shuffled himself backwards, so he was leaning against the wall of the hut, then pulled on the sleeping bag until he dragged both it and her over to lean on him again. “Eat wench! Or do I have ta get Sango to feed ya like a pup?!”

Sango giggled at Kagome’s disgruntled expression as she served out stew for the rest of them. The little hut was silent for a while, apart from the crackling of the fire and distant rumbling of thunder, as everyone enjoyed their dinner and then had second helpings of the rabbit stew.

Kagome was the last to put down her empty mug with a satisfied sigh. Shippou and Kirara were already asleep, Shippou starfished on a blanket near the dying fire, his small rounded belly rising and falling accompanied by tiny snuffling snores. Kirara was tucked into his side, her twin tails resting primly over her eyes and nose. Mirokou and Sango were exchanging cheerful banter while they tidied the cooking equipment away, and Inuyasha seemed to be happy to stay silent behind her, Tessaiga propped against his shoulder.

Her belly now pleasantly full, Kagome didn’t feel dizzy anymore. In fact, apart from still feeling a little tired and the throbbing of the wound in her thigh, her body was feeling pretty good. What a shame that her brain continued going into overdrive. She hadn’t been awake for the entire conversation between Inuyasha and Kagura; had only woken when she felt him hunch over her and growl protectively. They needed to discuss and analyse what Kagura’s message might mean. Was it a trap? Was Kagura trying to divert their focus from Naraku by hinting at a fictional foe? Or was she trying to be their ally in her own roundabout way. She twisted her hands together in her lap nervously as her thoughts bounced around, the worried look shared between Mirokou, Sango and Inuyasha going totally unnoticed.

Mirokou cleared his throat. “Kagome”, he began carefully, trying to get her attention.

“Mmm?”

“I… that is, we”, he continued as he gestured to include Sango and Inuyasha, “can’t help but notice that lately your mood seems a little…” He faltered as Kagome narrowed her eyes at him, but continued bravely, “tense.”

Kagome snorted. “Ya think?”, she mumbled, eyeing him intently. “In case you hadn’t noticed Mirokou, these are quite stressful times. They don’t call this time period the Sengoku Jidai for nothing.”

Mirokou nodded. “Yes, that is quite true. But, if you’ll forgive me for pointing it out, there seems to have been a definite increase in the intensity of your emotions lately.”

“We’re worried about you Kagome”, added Sango. “Inuyasha said that you haven’t been resting properly when you return to the future to attend school.”

Kagome delivered a swift elbow to the fire rat covered ribs behind her. “Oi!”, Inuyasha protested, grabbing the uninjured arm that delivered the blow, “it’s for your own good, stupid! When you go back to the shrine, whaddya think everyone else does. They stay at Kaede’s and get some sleep and relax. They don’t spend hours and hours training on top of schoolwork and shrine stuff without sleeping!”

“You don’t understand…”

Sango knelt beside her and held Kagome’s twisting fingers gently in her own. “We understand better than you might think Kagome. Do you think I became a taijiya overnight? That Mirokou learned to wield his shakujo and his abilities as a monk without patience and practice. That Inuyasha was born knowing how to deliver a sankon tessou with his claws?”

Kagome’s bottom lip trembled at the kind look on Sango’s face. “But that’s why I have to train harder. I can never catch up. You’re already so good at this, all of you. I just get in the way most of the time. You waste time rescuing me when we should be chasing jewel shards. Demons target me because they can sense I’m the weakest in the group.”

“Bullshit”, growled Inuyasha behind her, dropping his head to rest on top of hers and wrapping an arm around her waist. “That’s crap Kagome, and you know it. Demons target you because you’re the one carrying the fucking jewel shards, no other reason. And who said you needed to catch up. We’ve already talked about this. I said that I would always be around to punch the fuckers first, remember?”

“But what if you’re not?”, whispered Kagome.

“I believe I also said that we could ask Sango for help to give you some pointers on self-defence, if you wanted. That didn’t mean work yourself until you were half dead. Kagome, you’re doing too much. You’re gonna burn out, and then where will we be?”

“Minus a shard detector”, sighed Kagome.

A look of exasperation passed across Mirokou’s usually calm face. “Kagome, I am totally supportive of your will to improve your abilities, but this must stop. You are more than a shard detector to us. You are our comrade, our friend, and it is painful for us to watch you struggling like this.” His face softened. “I sense there is more to this than just a need to be able to defend yourself.”

Kagome looked from Mirokou’s calm smile to Sango’s kind expression. Inuyasha pulled her against him firmly; she could feel his steady heartbeat pulsing against her back. She knew that they weren’t going to leave this alone, that they would keep pushing gently until they got an answer. She looked down at her hands, still clasped within Sango’s.

“I have to improve, to get better, because this whole mess is my fault. I’m the one that shattered the jewel. I’m the one who spilled that evil far and wide. Every time a village gets taken down by a demon with a jewel shard, that’s my fault. Every innocent child that gets killed is my fault. I have to be faster, contain the bloodshed, stop this before more families are broken apart.”

Sango stared at Kagome in dismay, letting go of her hands. “But Kagome, how can you think that? It’s Naraku’s fault!”

Kagome kept her gaze lowered, her brown eyes clouded by tears. “Not all these demons are given shards by Naraku. Not all of it is his fault. I’m the one who brought the stone back to this time. I’m the one who shattered it. It’s my responsibility.” A low growl behind Kagome hardly gave her a warning before she was suddenly spun around by strong hands to look into Inuyasha’s scowling face.

“Wench, did you create the jewel? Did you ask to be reborn with it? Did you make yourself come back 500 years to the past?”

“No, but…”

“Then it’s not your fault stupid.” Inuyasha glared at her in frustration. “Fuck, Kagome, if I’d known that this was the sort of rubbish filling up your head, I would made you talk about this months ago.” He grasped her smaller hands in his, shaking her hands gently at every word to emphasise them. “You need to let this go. It’s not helpin’ you get better, it’s eatin’ you alive. You wanna turn this into a guilt competition, all of us could probably trump you with stuff we’ve done in the past.”

Sango murmured her agreement. “Kagome, the past doesn’t matter now. We need to keep our heads in the present, otherwise we won’t work together well as a team.”

“But if I hadn’t split the jewel…”

Mirokou touched her shoulder to get her attention. “Kagome, let me propose an alternative for you to consider. Imagine if Naraku had retrieved the whole jewel at the beginning, before you met the rest of us, before you had got to know Inuyasha better and began training with Kaede. Naraku would have been unstoppable. The world as we know it would have been covered in darkness already, with countless lives lost. You shattering the jewel, mistake though it was, has given us a real chance of defeating him.”

Sango embraced her shoulders gently. “I could never regret meeting you Kagome. In my heart you are like a younger sister to me. We have been through so much together and are likely to go through much more.”

Kagome burst into tears. Today had just been too much. Sango continued to hug her shoulders, Mirokou patted her back gently, and Inuyasha rubbed his thumbs comfortingly against her hands.

“You are my family”, sobbed Kagome. “Sango, you are like a sister to me too.” She breathed in shakily. “Mirokou, you’re like an older brother, one I need to warn my girl friends about”. She giggled shakily at Sango’s snort of laughter and Mirokou’s mock aggrieved expression at her comment. She smiled tearily at the small pair snoring by the fire. “Shippou is like a baby brother and son combined, Kirara is a friend I can always count on, and Inuyasha, you…” She looked up at the amber eyes, still focused on her with concern. “You… are…” She couldn’t stop the blush that rose in her cheeks, and could only gaze into his eyes, hoping he could guess at what she couldn’t bring herself to say when they had an audience. She watched the colour rise in his own cheeks as he continued to hold her hands and return her meaningful look.

“Yeah, wench. Same”, he replied softly.

Mirokou coughed behind them, and the spell was broken. Inuyasha dropped her hands, tucking his own back in his sleeves, turning his gaze up to the roof of the hut. Sango gave Kagome’s shoulders a conspiratorial squeeze, which Kagome chose to ignore.

After a few moments, Inuyasha looked back at Kagome with a fanged grin, now that she was calmer. “Your mother said as much, ya know. That you were trying so hard because you thought of us as family.”

Kagome sighed. “You already have so much pain to bear, between the three of you. That’s why I didn’t want to add mine to it.”

Sango smiled at her. “Well, now I hope you know better. When you’ve recovered from your injuries, I’m hopeful that you will show me the self defence techniques that you’ve been learning in the future. I am always interested in adding to my range of attack and defence. Perhaps we could spar together, now and then, when we stop for breaks.”

“And if you would permit me, perhaps we could combine our skills to work on building defensive barriers together”, added Mirokou. “Kaede and I have done so in the past, and it makes sense to add this to our abilities in pursuit of Naraku.”

Kagome smiled at both of them, wiping away the tears with her good arm. “You guys are the best”, she beamed at them.

“So ya know what that means, wench.” Kagome turned her face forward to look at Inuyasha, perplexed. “When you go back to the shrine, just do ya schoolwork. We can work on the other stuff while you’re here.”

“What about my archery practice?”

“I’ll just paint a bullseye on Shippou – I’m sure you’ll get faster results practicing on a moving target”. Inuyasha gave her a toothy grin as Kagome swatted him hard on the arm. “Okay, okay, you can practice a bit. But ya gotta promise me you’ll sleep.” His face grew more serious. “I mean it wench; I can get away with it, but humans gotta sleep. You got hurt today, and I don’t want that to happen again because you’re too tired to pay attention.”

“Okay”, she smiled. Kagome yawned, taking herself by surprise. “Are we going to discuss Kagura’s warning?”

“Tomorrow, after you’ve had a good night’s sleep, and I’ve checked your wounds again”, answered Sango. “And after you’ve eaten breakfast and drunk some more tea”, giggling at Kagome’s groan of dismay.

“Don’t wanna”, she pouted, as everyone made ready to get to sleep.

“What’s that thing you say to Souta? Sucks to be you!” chuckled Inuyasha. She glared at him before moving in her sleeping bag, ready to crawl away from him closer to the fire. When his arm pulled gently on her hand, she looked at him in surprise.

“You could stay here, with me.” Kagome looked at him, open mouthed. He flushed, suddenly looking past her, to the fire. “Uh, I mean, you shouldn’t be moving around on that leg. It took Sango a while to get it to stop bleeding when we finally got here, and I don’t want you to feel sick again.” They both chose to ignore Mirokou and Sango snickering in the background.

“Okay”, she agreed with a smile. Inuyasha shifted so that his legs were out straight and helped her snuggle down so her head lay pillowed on his thighs. Her thoughts drifted back to the night she had done the same for him, the first time she had discovered his human night fighting against the spider head demons. The night he had told her that she smelt nice. 

“Kagome”, Inuyasha began uncertainly, “do you feel… better… about what was worrying you? About the jewel I mean?”

Kagome sighed. “Yes and no”, she answered. “I still feel responsible for shattering the jewel”, she looked up at Inuyasha’s face as he grunted in annoyance, “but, I feel better about having shared it with everyone. I know we all have different reasons for wanting to defeat Naraku and get rid of the Shikon jewel, but if we all work together, I know we can do it.” 

“Alright, go to sleep wench.”

Kagome yawned again and closed her eyes. The storm had died down, and she could hear gentle rain pattering on the thatched roof above. Mirokou poured water on the last embers in the fire pit, and the hut became dark, lit only by faint shafts of moonlight filtering in through the reed mat that covered the doorway.

As she heard Sango and Mirokou’s breathing become more regular as they slipped into sleep, Kagome felt Inuyasha’s clawed fingers carding through her long hair, hesitantly at first, and then as she made no attempt to stop him, more firmly, scratching against her scalp lightly. Kagome smiled blissfully against her hakama covered pillow, rubbing her cheek against the rough fabric. She dared a small kiss to Inuyasha’s thigh before she drifted into sleep, not quite sure if she had imagined Inuyasha’s whisper, “Sweet dreams, my Kagome.”

[whentommymetalfie]

Deep end -part two

A/N: second and final part! And a huge thanks to everyone who’s left feedback on the first part, I’ll get to responding soon, I’ve just been completely wrapped up in this. But know that it’s very much appreciated <3 <3 

Part one

Wordcount: 6200

Warnings: mental breakdown, disordered eating, mentions of drug use

AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15300168/chapters/35496216

As he drives back to the office, Alfie tries to gain some sort of control of himself and the onset of conflicting emotions. He’s pissed, alright. That cold detachment is Tommy’s absolutely worst side; it’s hard to love him when it comes out. Though isn’t that the thing with love? You don’t just love people when it’s easy. Not just some fucking reward after they’ve been especially good in bed, or when they’re giving you tender looks across the breakfast table. No, you love them all the same when they’re being stubborn little bastards. And he shouldn’t have let Tommy storm off. Because that boy has the capacity to do an astonishing amount of damage to himself in a very short amount of time. And if Alfie let’s something happen to him… Fuck, he’ll never forgive himself.

The office is empty. And the discovery leaves him standing helplessly in the middle of the small, dark room, at loss with what to do for a moment as he feels that all too familiar unease crawl in his guts. If Tommy isn’t burying himself in work to cope, he’s doing something far worse.

Despite doubting that Tommy would seek out other people, the Garrison with its promise of whiskey is the next place he checks. Grace states that she hasn’t seen him in days, but solemnly promises to call the house if he shows up, and additionally offers to knock him over the head with something and keep him there if need be. Alfie honestly considers picking her up on that offer.

Leaving the pub, Alfie makes his way to the house instead. A tiny, naïve part of him hopes that maybe Tommy just gave up and collapsed in bed. But the bedroom is as empty as the office and he resists the urge to pick up the nearest object and hurl it into a wall. His eyes lands on the nightstand, and a very unwelcomed thought enters his mind.

Tommy wouldn’t… he’s not that fucking daft.

Right now, he is.

The drawer is empty, the bottle of morphine nowhere to be found.

A spike of fear rushes up his spine, making the adrenaline flow through his veins.

Fuck. Fuck-fuckfuck- He sets off down the stairs again, trying desperately to block out the pictures flashing by in his head.

When he parks the car outside the stables, the evening dusk has turned into an inky darkness. The air is cold enough to sting in his lungs as he walks over the empty yard, a pale moon serving to light his path slightly.

“Tommy?” he calls out as he enters the large building, despite knowing he’s not supposed to be loud around the horses. The jittery fucking creatures… There’s no answer of course. Walking up to the white horse, the one Tommy usually rides, Alfie heaves a sigh.

“Maybe you could be a bit useful for once and tell me where Tommy’s at, how about it?”

The horse only gives a loud huff in response, breath turning into white puffs of smoke in the cold air.

“Figure this should be a mutual thing,” Alfie mutters. “Always looking out for you isn’t he? Think it’s only fair you do the same.” He looks into the large, dark eyes. The horse blinks at him, before throwing its head back in what could be interpreted as a nod. But it’s not of much help.

He takes a walk around the stables, feeling utterly aimless in his search now. In spite of this, he looks through every corner of all the buildings, the stalls, storage rooms, even the hayloft. And as he’s climbing that fucking ladder, muttering curses under his breath, he fights to keep the panic at bay. If he doesn’t find Tommy here, the only remaining place to search is every single fucking alley in all of Birmingham.

How long does it take for someone to freeze to death?

Grunting in pain as he heaves himself up onto the floor, Alfie finds himself in a surprisingly spacious room. The ceiling sits high up over his head, and the moonlight shines in through a large window, tinting the stacks of hay blue and grey. It ignites a tiny flicker of hope for some reason. It seems like the sort of place Tommy would like –high up, airy. Quiet. Close to the horses.

“Tommy?” his voice doesn’t echo here, muffled by all the hay. It’s comforting, somehow. But he receives no answer. He navigates carefully between the large piles of hay, scanning the little corridors they form. But there’s no sign of Tommy.

There’s no point. If Tommy doesn’t want to be found, Alfie won’t find him. Least of all here, with the myriad of possible hiding places. He takes a moment to just stand there and breathe, head cradled in his hands. Fuck, he can’t think… His breathing is too loud, drowning out all the thoughts…

Out of options, and with a heavy weariness having replaced the adrenaline, Alfie returns to the house. He needs help.

He finds Arthur in the kitchen, seated by the table with a glass of whiskey. Taking a quick glance around the room, Alfie realises he’s the only available option right now.

“Where the fuck is everyone?”

“Pol and Ada are upstairs with Finn, think John and Esme-“

Alife has already stopped listening. “Tommy hasn’t come home, has he?”

“Thought you were supposed to handle him?” Arthur mutters, looking down on the paper in front of him.

“Well, that was the fucking plan, wasn’t it, but I can’t find him. And-“ he cuts himself off, suddenly doubting whether he should tell Arthur about the morphine or not.

“Did you check the stables?” Arthur wonders, eyes still fastened at the paper.

“Of course I fucking did.”

“Maybe he just needs to sulk for a while,” Arthur offers then, but a wrinkle has appeared between his eyebrows and he closes the paper to look up at Alfie

Alfie hesitates for another second, before realising he’s got no other options. He closes the door and lowers his voice. “Doctor prescribed me a bottle of morphine,” he says. “I don’t use shit like that. Prefer the pain. So it’s full. And it’s gone now.

Arthur gets out of his chair, jaw set tightly and eyes sharp.

“We’ve got to find him,” he states. “I’ll call some of the blokes. Get them out looking.” He snags the glass up from the table and empties it. “Fucking knew something like this would happen.” The words are followed by a headshake. “First that thing at the hospital and now this… Wound so tight his fucking spine is about to snap.”

Thank fuck Arthur can pull himself together when it counts. Alfie gives him a crooked grin, allowing himself to feel relieved, just for a moment.

“Just look at the two of us…who would’ve thought, eh? Finally agreeing about something.”

Arthur lets out a humourless chuckle.

“I’m sure that tomorrow you’ll say something inappropriate and shit will be back to-“

The sound of the front door opening cuts their conversation short, and Alfie immediately sets for the hallway. He almost walks straight into Tommy who’s unsteadily making his way towards the stairs. Tommy recoils at the sight of him, hand shooting towards the handle of the front door.

Without a word, Alfie takes a firm grip around his arm and pulls him into the kitchen with its warm light, to get a better look at him. A dizzying mixture between relief, worry and anger makes his heart beat a staccato in his chest.

“Did you use any of it?” he asks brusquely, cradling Tommy’s face between his hands as he searches his eyes for any signs of the drug. Reeks of whiskey, he does, but the pupils aren’t dilated at least.

“No,” Tommy hisses as he rips himself loose and takes a step backwards, staring defiantly at him. He pulls out the small bottle from his inner pocket and slams it down onto the kitchen table. It’s still full.

Arthur takes one look at them and leaves the kitchen, giving Alfie’s shoulder a light slap in passing. “Just wake me up if you need to, yeah?”

Then it’s just the two of them.

Struggling to control the now towering rage, Alfie turns to face Tommy. He looks absolutely feral, eyes bloodshot and wide –too large in the gaunt face.

“Right, now, we’re going to talk. Whether you fucking like it or not,” he states and closes the door. Tommy’s eyes snap to the lock. His right hand clenches into a fist where it hangs by his side.

“Nothing to talk about,” he mutters and makes a move to walk past him. Alfie grabs him, fingers closing tightly around the bony shoulders.

“You’re not leaving this fucking kitchen until you tell me what’s going on with your head,” he spits. “Is this how it’s going to be now, eh? You running away to sulk somewhere while I just fucking… drive around all of Birmingham looking for you? Half convinced I’ll find you dead in some alleyway?”

“Let go of me.” Tommy grabs his wrists, but Alfie refuses to budge. He’s not backing down this time.

“You fucked up today, you realise that, don’t you?” he says, unable to keep the rage from his voice. “And you’re going to keep doing that until you start putting yourself back together.” Hands still on Tommy’s shoulders, he stares him down. “Not even going in to see your little brother, who fucking worships the ground you walk on, that’s a shit thing to do.”

“I know!” Tommy snaps, eyes just as cold as the hands gripping Alfie’s wrists. But there’s a frenzied glint to them, building under the icy surface. “Unless you haven’t noticed, that’s what I fucking do. I fuck shit up.” He takes a shaky breath. “I nearly got you killed- and now Finn…“

Alfie’s hands drop uselessly to his sides, and Tommy backs away from him, arms wrapping themselves tightly around his ribs.

“What are you on about, eh? Think that car accidents are beyond even your control.”

Tommy’s gaze has turned to the floor, and his voice is low as he speaks. “I didn’t come with him,” he says, swallowing thickly. “I promised, but I- I was so tired, I just needed to- to sit down for a while, so I said I couldn’t…”

“What?” Alfie struggles to make sense of the incoherent muttering.

“I promised we’d go to the stables.” Tommy’s eyes shift to the door. Back to the floor. Anywhere but Alfie’s face. “And he went alone and if I’d gone with him, this never would’ve happened.”

Leave it to Tommy to believe himself responsible for every single misfortune in the world...

“That boy runs around half of Birmingham alone on a daily basis,” Alfie reasons. “Climbing fucking trees and fences and God knows what. No one could’ve known this was the day when people just lost their fucking ability to drive a car.”

Tommy shakes his head, nails digging into his arms as he begins to pace the kitchen floor.

“I should’ve known… But I fucked up. Just like I fucked everything up with Changretta,” he mutters, seemingly more to himself than Alfie. “Should’ve… should’ve kept more weapons in the house. Should’ve known something like that would happen…

“Where the fuck are you getting all this from?” Alfie can’t come up with something else to say right then. But Tommy doesn’t even seem to hear him, continuing to mutter quietly to himself as his nails dig into his arms, bloodied knuckles whitening.

“I can’t do anything right… God I’m so fucking stupid…”

Fuck, Alfie can’t take any more of this. “Tommy, sweetheart, what are you talking about?”

Tommy’s head snaps up, and he stares at Alfie with wide eyes, as if he only now realises he’s not alone in the room.

His eyes shift to the door and he tries to get past Alfie again, moving quickly this time. Alfie just barely manages to grab his arm.

“Let go of me.” Tommy tries to wrench himself out of the grip, but Alfie refuses.

“I can’t let you go anywhere in this fucking state.”

“You can’t keep me here,” Tommy gasps. “You can’t just- just lock me up.

“I can’t watch you do this to yourself,” Alfie says, struggling to keep his voice steady as Tommy fights to get loose. But he can hear it crack. “Over and over again.” He snatches Tommy’s other wrist, trying to gain eye contact. “Why is this so fucking hard for you? Why won’t you just fucking talk?”

Stop pushing, a voice screams in his head. You’re going to break him. And despite Tommy’s frighteningly weak limbs and how easy it is to hold him still, it’s the hardest thing he’s ever had to do.

He doesn’t want to do this anymore. He wants to tell Tommy that it’ll all be alright, wrap him up in a hug. Tell him he doesn’t have to talk…  Just stay there with Alfie. Promise to not hurt himself…

“Let go.” Tommy is pleading now, desperation clear in his eyes. If you let him go now, you’ll never get him back. “You’re hurting me.”

The words make Alfie release the bony wrists, as if he’s burnt himself on the pale skin. But he’s still blocking the doorway.  

Tommy stumbles until he’s backed himself into a corner, and there’s nowhere to escape. He stands there, lips pressed together and his whole body shaking as he cowers against the wall.

“Did something happen that you haven’t told me about?” Alfie feels like he’s pleading too, now. “Did Changretta-“ Fuck, he can’t even bring himself to say it out loud. “Did he hurt you? Is that why you won’t talk about it?” You’re a fucking coward, Alfie Solomons…

Tommy shakes his head, his nails leaving red marks as they rake down the back of his hand.  

“What is it then?” Alfie takes a step towards him, halting when Tommy flinches and presses himself against the wall. “I can’t help you if you don’t fucking let me in.” Still shaking his head, Tommy hides his face behind his hands, every muscle wound tight.

Alfie is out of soothing words right then. He’s watching someone drown, but is unable to even get into the water himself. And Tommy just stands there, breaths coming in frantic gasps and arms trembling.

“Fucking say something, Tommy!” he finally shouts. Desperate. Helpless. “Why are you doing this to yourself? Just- fuck, what’s going on with your head?”

“I don’t know!” the words tear from Tommy’s throat as he screams them at Alfie from behind his hands. “I don’t- I don’t know-“ It dissolve into a wordless cry and he sinks down onto the floor, curling inwards on himself as he clasps his arms around his head.

Happy now? You broke him.

The scream turns into sobs. “I can’t do this, please, I can’t…”

Finally regaining his bearings enough to move, Alfie sits down next to Tommy, wrapping both arms around his shaking frame and pulling him close. Still cowering under his arms, Tommy curls up tighter into the protective ball. Wanting to shut the world out. Or maybe just desperately trying to hold himself together. Alfie resorts to simply lifting the tightly wound ball of limbs into his lap.

“It’s alright, love. I’m here,” he whispers shakily, trying to swallow down the lump that has formed in his throat.  “I’ll always be right here. We’ll get through this, yeah?”  

Tommy winds his arms around Alfie’s chest, burying his face in his shirt as he cries. The sobs turn into something akin to howls, and the fingers that grasp at his shirt are convulsively tight as his entire body shakes. Alfie begins to rock him slowly back and forth, his hand rubbing circles on his back.

“It’s okay, love. Get it out.”

Tommy probably couldn’t stop even if he tried at that point.

It’s just pouring out of him now, all those things he’s kept bottled up so tightly. Alfie’s never seen him cry like this. Barely seen him cry at all, in fact. And then it’s always been somewhat calm, just like most things where Tommy’s concerned. Mostly silent tears that seem to well his eyes by their own volition. Like water seeping through a tiny crack in a wall. This is different. Like a force of nature, detached completely from Tommy’s own will.

It feels like he sits there for hours, hushing and soothing, with Tommy crying desperately in his arms. He whispers soft reassurances, without knowing if they’re even true anymore. It’ll be okay, you’ll be okay…  But mostly, he just holds him. At some point, he’s got tears in his own eyes. There’s so much raw pain emanating from Tommy that it’s honestly overwhelming.

It all comes out in a jumbled mess. Tommy sobbingly rambles about voices in the dark, about moving walls and about being scared, so so scared… it mixes together with memories from the hospital. You can’t die, you can’t leave me, please, please promise that you won’t leave me…

Alfie promises, over and over again.

He doesn’t understand even half of it. Must be a lot of old pain finally bubbling to the surface in that incoherent, fragmented chaos that only makes sense to Tommy himself. I’m sorry, I’ll do better, just give me one more chance I’ll fix everything…But Alfie doesn’t question it. Just grants forgiveness when he asks for it. And stays with him. Maybe sometimes, that’s all you can do.

Then finally, the storm passes.

The sobs die out to whimpers and hic-ups, and Tommy calms down enough to breathe again, falling limply against Alfie’s chest. Alfie can breathe a little easier too. Before he can figure out what to say now, Tommy’s voice comes from somewhere in his shirt.

“Are you going to have me committed?” he whispers.

The question catches Alfie off guard.

“What?”

“To an asylum or something,” the quiet voice continues. “Would be better for everyone. I think… I think something broke inside my head. When I was locked up.”

Alfie rests his chin on the top of Tommy’s head.

“Do you think you belong in an asylum?” he asks softly.

“Sometimes,” Tommy admits, still without retreating from his shirt. It’s wet with tears now “At night. Or… when I’m alone.”

Alfie strokes his hair, continuing to rock him gently back and forth.

“Nah, see, you belong here, don’t you? With me. And your head isn’t broken.”

Tommy tighten his grip on his shirtfront and draws a shuddering breath.

“I don’t know why you put up with me,” he mutters out the familiar words, rubbing his eyes with the heel of his hand as the last few tears spill from them. And fuck how Alfie wishes he could just pluck that thought right out of his head…

“I put up with you, right, because I love you more than I’ve ever loved anything in the entire bloody world,” he answers. He’ll answer this question no matter how many times he gets it. “And that thing I said, back in the warehouse, I meant it. Might have been a desperate move, right, but fuck if I didn’t mean it. I would give everything up for you. In the blink of a fucking eye.”

“Why?” Tommy asks from the confines of his shirt.

One day he won’t have to ask these questions. One day, Alfie will make him understand… But for now, he just holds him a bit tighter.

“Oh, let’s see. Where to start… Because you’re the only person who can keep up with both my brilliant sense of humour and my razor-sharp wit,” he muses, smiling as Tommy finally looks up at him. “And despite your at times questionable plans and decisions, you’re the brightest person I know.” He cups Tommy’s face and runs a thumb gently over the cheekbone. “You have a talent for overlooking all my faults, love. But I assure you there’s plenty of them,” he says softly. “But when I’m with you, there’s no part of me that feels wrong.”

Tommy smiles up at him, a tired and bleak smile, but still a smile. Then he lays his head back against his shoulder and finally exhales, his whole body growing a bit heavier in Alfie’s arms.

They stay in the kitchen for a while longer. Alfie is unwilling to break the fragile peace that has finally settled in the room, or pull Tommy out of the calm state he seems to be in. But eventually, Tommy’s eyes begin to droop, eyelashes fluttering as he struggles to keep them open. And Alfie isn’t sure his still rather sore side can handle carrying him upstairs just yet.

“How about we go to bed, hm?” he suggests. “Just to lie down for a bit.”

He receives no answer, but Tommy slips down from his lap and lets himself be pulled up to his feet.

The way upstairs has never felt this long before, but once they finally reach the bedroom Alfie tucks Tommy in under several layers of blankets, pulling him into a close embrace that Tommy instantly nestles into. And he can finally exhale completely, not realising until now how fucking tired he is. Tommy’s wiry body feels pleasantly relaxed too, the nervous twitches and tense muscles having disappeared with the tears. At least for now.

His eyes fall on the nightstand, and he sighs, knowing he has to ask.

“So,” he begins as he gently scratches Tommy’s back. “About the morphine, yeah? Let’s just get that conversation over and done with.”

Tommy’s eyes fasten on the bedside lamp and the soft light it spreads in the room.

“I just… wanted to not feel anything.”

“But you didn’t take any,” Alfie states, and a long stretch of silence follows.

“I was afraid that I… That I wouldn’t be able to stop,” Tommy finally whispers, and the honest answer causes his heart to twist. “But then I- I don’t know. I just wanted to come home.” The arm wrapped around Alfie’s waist tightens its hold slightly. “To you.”

“See, it’s better then, innit? Pretty sure that could’ve gone in a whole other direction a year ago. Know it’s bloody hard, but… I recon getting better isn’t just something you do once, and then it’s over and done with,” Alfie muses. “More of a… long term thing, I’d say.”

“How you got to be this wise, I’ll never know,” Tommy says, and the little huff of air against Alfie’s chest could almost have been a laugh.

“It’s the beard, love, told you that multiple times. Recon all my reading’s got something to do with it. See, I’m just fucking steeping myself in all sorts of knowledge. Especially lately, what with being stuck in this bed and all.” Tommy hums and huddles a little closer, settling deeper into the embrace. “Austen, eh? Is this the type of thing she writes about?”

“Nah, if anything she’s given me an edge romance wise. Luckily. Got to weigh up for my many flaws, don’t I?”

Tommy raises his head and gives him a tiny, crocked smile as he runs a finger down his temple with a feather light touch.

“What flaws?”

Despite the obvious ignorance in this statement, Alfie still feels his heart grow a few sizes at the words. Taking the hand, carefully avoiding the injured knuckles and raw scratches, he places a soft kiss on the palm.

“How is it that you can see nothing but the good in me, eh? And nothing but the bad in yourself?”

Instead of offering an answer, Tommy buries his face in the crook of his neck, and just breathes. Alfie strokes his back, letting the fingers run up into his hair and softly rake through the tangled locks.

“Can we leave the light on?” Tommy whispers when Alfie reaches out for the lamp on the bedside table.

“Of course.” Alfie lays the arm back around Tommy’s shoulders. With a soft exhale, Tommy closes his eyes, his breathing growing deeper. Alfie looks down at him. The long eyelashes are even darker than usual, a few tears still caught in them. God, his stupid, beautiful boy…It shouldn’t be possible to love someone this much.  

“I know that you’ve felt alone, love,” he mumbles, continuing to gently run his fingers through his hair. “That you’ve got this idea, right, that the whole world rests on your shoulders. But if you just took a step back every once in a while, I think you’d see that you’ve got people around you who want nothing more than to help you. You just got to let them.”

Tommy doesn’t respond, but Alfie thinks he can see a faint smile cross his lips. And that’s enough for now.

…

Tommy sleeps until late in the afternoon the following day. After watching him doze peacefully for the better part of the morning, Alfie eventually goes downstairs to make sure there’s something for him to eat when he wakes up. Preferably something he won’t reject.

As he stands there with flour up to his elbows, kneading a bread dough, Arthur comes into the kitchen.

“How’s he doing? Tommy?”

“Know what, I’m not going to stand here and say it’s fine, because he does that often enough himself. And it’s honestly not fucking fine,” Alfie states, forming the dough into two loaves. “Think you and John have to take on a heavier load with the business for a while. He needs a proper rest.”

Arthur nods, running a hand over his mouth.  

“Yeah, yeah sure,” he says. “I’ll have a word with John.”  He scratches the back of his head. “He doesn’t… he doesn’t mean anything by it. He’s always sort of idolized Tommy. Figure it’s hard for him, dealing with any sort of disappointments. But I’ll talk to him. He’ll understand.”

Alfie hums and goes to wash his hands. “Yeah, he usually catches on to things a lot fucking quicker than you, doesn’t he? Bet this is a new experience for both of you.”

“Glad to hear you’re just as fucking infuriating as ever,” Arthur grunts, but it’s followed by a huff of laughter. “Next time you get shot, why don’t you ask them to aim for your head, eh? Bet that would do a lot less damage. Considering it’s completely fucking empty.”

“Nah, nah, next time, I’ll just make sure to be next to you. Use your face to distract them,“ Alfie retorts, grinning down at the washbasin. “How you and my Tommy -widely known to be the most beautiful man ever having set foot on Birmingham’s filthy streets, mind you- how you two can be related I’ll never understand.”

“And still he’s with you,” Arthur says, and is rewarded by a generous splash of water in the face. He jumps backwards far too late and exclaims towards the ceiling, “When will I know peace?”

Chuckling, Alfie goes to heat up the oven while Arthur grumbles insults under his breath.

Everything is comfortingly normal.

An hour later, the house is filled with the scent of freshly baked bread, and as if on que, the rest of the family shows up in the kitchen one by one. Alfie leaves Arthur to deal with them. John in particular.

“I’m directing any and all questions to my dear friend Arthur,” he states, placing two cups of tea and some bread on a tray. “See, I’ve got someone upstairs who’ll be needing my full attention for the remainder of this day.”

Alfie goes back upstairs with the tea, seating himself on the edge of the bed and reaching out to stroke Tommy’s hair. Slowly, Tommy begins to stir under the hand, and his eyes open a sliver.

“Morning,” he mutters and looks sleepily up at Alfie.

“Afternoon,” Alfie says with a nod towards the window. Tommy’s eyes widen briefly, and he makes a move to sit, sinking back against the mattress only when Alfie’s hand comes to rest on his chest.

“No, you’re staying in bed today. Arthur and John are running shit.”

Tommy gives it another feeble attempt. “But I-“

“It’s not a discussion. See, you’re going to rest your pretty little head on that pillow while I feed you bread. That’s the only thing happening today, alright?”

By some fucking miracle, Tommy resigns to this fate without as much as a displeased huff, sitting up in the bed and leaning back against the pillows. Getting in next to him, Alfie places the plate with bread in his lap.

“Go ahead. Eat.”

“Did you bake it?”

“Of course. Won’t do with anything else when it comes to you, love.”

Tommy begins tearing the bread it into smaller pieces, taking one at a time and chewing each piece for a long time before finally swallowing. While he’s eating, Alfie makes sure to provide some distraction, talking about this and that. He’s had a lot of time to think, hasn’t he, being stuck in bed with his own head for so long, so there’s no lack of conversational topics.

“I need to go and talk to Finn,” Tommy says when he’s finally managed to eat the whole thing. “Apologize.”

“Thomas Shelby apologizing?” Alfie smirks. “Hell really has frozen over, hasn’t it? Must be the weather.”

“Fuck off,” Tommy grumbles and bumps his shoulder against Alfie’s, which he responds to by cradling his head in his hand and kissing his temple.

“Nah, I’m just teasing, sweetie. You’ve had great progress in that area lately.”

The door opens.

“Tommy, look at my cast!” Finn is suddenly standing on the threshold, smiling brightly as he holds his left arm up for Tommy to see.

“You shouldn’t be out of bed,” Tommy points out as he climbs onto the bed, sitting down by the wall and stretching his legs out over Tommy’s.

“I’m not! Look, I’m in a bed now!”

“How’re you feeling?” Tommy asks, giving Finn one of the pillows to lean against.

“I’m good. Well, my head hurts a bit. And the arm. But I actually think it would’ve been well cool if I’d lost the arm instead of just breaking it, ‘cause then I could’ve had a hook hand!“ Finn talks a little about all the possibilities such an item could open up. Patiently waiting for him to finish, Tommy just sits there and listens for a while. Eventually, Finn runs out of thoughts on the topic.

“I’m really sorry, Finn,” Tommy says then. “For not coming to see you at the hospital.” Finn blinks in surprise and then gives a small shrug. “It’s okay, you weren’t feeling good.”

“It doesn’t change anything.” Tommy pauses, searching for the right words. “I got really scared. And sometimes when you’re scared, you do stupid things. And I’m sorry I didn’t go with you to the stables like I promised.” Another stretch of silence follows as Tommy lowers his gaze, looking down at his damaged hands. Alfie gives his shoulder a reassuring squeeze. “I’m not… well, right now.”

“I know,” Finn says. “You need to rest your head. And I need to rest my arm. So we can both rest for a while.”  A pleased grin flashes across his face. “John told me you punched that bloke in the face. The one with the car. He was really nice though, but it was still pretty cool that you did.”

“I’d punch a thousand blokes in the face for you.” Tommy smiles wearily and gives Finn’s hair an affectionate tug. Finn is grinning from ear to ear.

Then he sees the plate with the breadcrumbs, and his eyes snap to Alfie.

“Did you bake?”

“I did- ” Alfie can barely finish the last word before Finn is out of the bed.  

Tommy sits up a little straighter.

“Finn, you shouldn’t-“ his shoulders slump in defeat as Finn disappears out the door, he and sinks back against Alfie’s arm. Alfie presses a kiss onto the top of his head.

“Don’t worry, love, someone will catch him and bring him back to bed.”

“Not sure I could get up even if I tried,” Tommy mumbles and shifts in the embrace, head slipping down to rest on Alfie’s chest. “Fuck, I don’t know why I’m so exhausted.” Resting his cheek against the top of his head, Alfie gazes out the window at the dreary scenery outside, the grey rooftops and grimy bricks.

“How about we go away for a little while?” he suggests, choosing to not point out to Tommy that it’s not such a mystery he’s finally hit a wall. “Think a change in scenery would do you good.”

“Where would we go?” Tommy asks, much to Alfie’s surprise.

“Oh, I’ve got a place in mind. I do distinctly remember promising to take you to the sea. Got a house there, don’t I? We could… go for walks on the beach. Sleep in…” Alfie slides a hand up Tommy’s thigh, giving the inside a squeeze and adding with a grin, “Make love.”

Tommy gives a huff of laughter at the last suggestion –he often does when Alfie uses that phrase. But Alfie likes saying it. Make love. Has a nice ring to it. And it’s his prerogative to say it as much as he bloody well likes. Tommy takes his hand.

“I’d like that.”

…

Alfie wakes up from a spontaneous afternoon nap to find Tommy missing from his spot on the sofa, having previously been curled up right next to him. Someone has removed the book from where he’d let it slip onto his face, and it’s now placed on the table.

Sitting up, he immediately catches eye of him, standing out on the balcony overlooking the beach. Alfie goes to join him, grabbing the blanket hanging over the back of the sofa. He doesn’t say anything, but he knows Tommy can hear him as the wood creaks under his feet.

Alfie wraps the blanket tightly around Tommy’s shoulders, resting his chin on his right one as he tugs him closer against his chest. For a little while, they just stand there. Alfie breathes in the salty air and decides this kind of air should be canned and brought back to Birmingham to give some respite from the appalling smell there.

“We should go inside,” he eventually says and places a soft kiss right under his ear. “You’ll get cold.”

Tommy gives a hum and leans into the embrace, gaze fastened on the waves crashing against the beach.

“Just a little while longer.”

His shoulders feel relaxed under Alfie’s chin, and his eyes are calm.  

“You know, there’s something I haven’t asked you about,” Alfie furrows his brow, watching the dark clouds sail by overhead. “Where were you hiding out at, eh? That night when you disappeared.”

“The stables,” Tommy answers. “There’s… this spot up on the hayloft.”

“Ah, I knew I wasn’t completely off.”

“I used to hide there when I was a kid,” Tommy says and leans his head back against his shoulder, looking up at the sky. “Don’t’ think you can find it if you don’t know about it. It’s right under the window. Used to sit there and… look at the horses.”

Alfie hums. “Did you do that a lot when you were little, eh? Hide?” Tommy shrugs, face getting that distant look to it which conversations about his childhood always bring about.

“I liked it because no one could find me there. Felt safe, I guess.”

“It’s good that you told me,” Alfie says encouragingly. “Then I know where to find you next time.”

“There won’t be one,” Tommy promises, immediately pulling himself out of whatever memory he was lost in.

Alfie turns him around so they’re facing each other, gently taking Tommy’s face between both hands and tilting it upwards. Tommy meets his gaze, eyes unwavering and soft in the light of the slowly setting sun.

“If there is, I’ll come looking for you, love,” Alfie says firmly. “I always will.”

Tommy captures his lips in a gentle kiss.

“I know.”

[sisky-bizz]

If this really is goodbye, then let’s set the world on fire ||2018

JANUARY 8TH, 1988.

To my understanding, was a day of celebration. A celebration of love and life and new beginnings for a small family living in Chicago. On the eighth day, of the first month, and the year nineteen eighty-eight, a baby was born. He was not destined to change the world, or save lives, or to become a legend. He was normal. Painfully normal, born into a normal family, though it was loving and nurturing and protective and proud family. The baby could not begin to imagine the world that would lie outside of the mother’s arms he was born into.

JANUARY 8TH, 2005.

It was on his 17th birthday that the youngest siska should have realized that his life was not as normal as he had once believed. He still wasn’t destined to change the world, yet here he was presented with the opportunity to see it. To travel and visit the world, playing music with the people that he loved. Or at least he had been, until he woke up in the hospital bed and threw up the numerous Ritalin pills he had consumed. The doctors had thrown a label at him, and medication to join it. He wasn’t sure he had fully understood what ADHD had even meant, never mind what the pills could do to him, all that he knew was that they stopped him from feeling like his mind was running at a hundred miles a minute, so he hadn’t fully understood why the fourth one he’d taken had him feeling dizzy, or why the ninth had sent him crashing to the floor of the studio. He’d spent a few days in the too bright, too quiet room, debating how best he could avoid finding himself in a hospital again in the future.

JANUARY 8TH, 2009.

His 21st birthday was the night of bad decisions. His only encounters with intoxication had been prescribed medication, consumed in bulk accidentally once. Until now, the boy had only dreamt of being free to drink alcohol, to experiment with the lifestyle of sex, drugs ontop of the rock and roll he had been promised.

By 21, he had been successful. He had a band, a career that he loved and talent that people could not wait to pay to see. He was admired, and he was dumb. Dumb enough to let his friend make a decision for him that would change his life. Gabe Saporta was a bad influence, and Siska craved every second of his attention. It was his twenty first birthday when Adam took the first hit that would nestle deep inside of his system, an addiction that he would never kick.

JANUARY 8TH, 2015.

/IF I SHOULD DIE AND I AM 27 THEN AT LEAST I WILL DIE A LEGEND/ The 27 club. Hendrix, Jones, Joplin, Morrison, Cobain, Whinehouse. Some people would consider it a tragedy, or stupidity. But not me, no, I call it a normal reaction to a fucked up life – drugs, alcohol, addiction, homicide, suicide. To me, they were legends.

At 27, this would have been a statement, it would have been considered an accomplishment of heroism or defiance. I would have been remembered.

But instead, I was sat in an examination room of Lovelace Mental Hospital, with Dr Aaron Hoskin prodding and probing at the needle marks on my arms, at the burns covering my body with a grimace, a grimace that I would soon grow to know all too well.

JANUARY 8TH, 2017.

The first year that I remember my birthday for something good. It was celebrated. Even Jack hadn’t bothered with birthdays, sometimes I think I should have questioned why. But right now, I was comfortable in my pjs, Flynn excitedly bouncing on the bed with his hands wrapped tightly around a brightly decorated boy. I was in love, with the boy and his mother who watched happily from the doorway. I am still in love with that moment, and I will cherish it with me forever. I know that I would give anything to have that feeling back, to tell Hayley that I forgive her and beg for her forgiveness in return. But, I can’t change the past, only the future, I just hope that they are happier.

JANUARY 8TH, 2018.

/CAN YOU TAKE ME HIGHER?/                This is the first appointment I have attended in months, since Aaron dragged me to his office himself. But now, Dr Benson is flitting around the office to locate my file, nervous hands flicking through the papers. While his attention is diverted, I swipe a bottle of medication from his desk. He’s new here, and I feel bad for him. I wonder how many patients he has helped, what kind of state’s he’s seen people in. I almost apologize to him as he excuses me from his office.

I find myself visiting the infirmary, hovering around the bed of the blonde girl. She was asleep, and she looked peace and I hoped that she was not in pain. I hoped, but doubted, that the ‘accident’ stated on her charts was true. I realize I’d love to comfort her properly, to hold her hand and cry that I need her to get better. But instead, I take advantage of Dr Prince’s back being turned to swipe a needle and syringe from the tray by Hayley’s bed and excuse myself from her bedside, hurrying back to my own room.

I’d love to say that I was regretting it. That I was nervous for what I am about to do. The truth is, I have done this countless time before, only this time there was nobody left to miss. I would love to claim that I have declarations of love and apologies to make but I don’t. Not anymore. I do wish that Aaron had of made a different decision and sent me back to America when I had begged, that he didn’t need to see this. I hope, that instead, he hears about this in passing conversation and simply grimaces like he did the first time that we met.

Truthfully, 30 years is too long to live. To long to suffer and drag myself through this life. Far too long…

               What is a beautiful life?

               Without a beautiful death?

Adam settled back on the bed once everything was prepared, tying one of the shoelaces from his gifted converse around his arm. He took a breath to settle himself, his teeth clutching around the end of a lit cigarette as he closed his eyes. The movement felt natural as he raised his hand, pushing the head of the needle into his skin. He inhaled sharply, letting the mix of toxins in his system and smoke dancing around him drag him away from his fucked up world…

[5hfanfiction]

One step closer: chapter 2

Camila’s eyelids unstuck, providing her the ability to see again. She found herself situated in a stranger’s car, driven down some street. For a brief moment, Camila was caught up by a storm of panic. Then she glanced to her left, saw a woman firmly gripping onto the steering wheel. Sickness soon came to her.

“Stop the car, please,” she murmured just loud enough for the woman to hear.

“Uh, you’re awake,” the woman let out a puff of relief, “you blacked out for like five minutes. We’re almost at the hospital.”

“Please, I think I’m… I feel sick.”

“Oh. Oh! I, um, I can’t really pull over anywhere here. But hold up,” the woman reached behind her seat, her hand furiously grabbed everything there was until she found what she was looking for. “Take this. I’m sure Andy won’t mind, he’ll understand.”

Camila didn’t take a second glance at whatever object the woman handed her for the sickness won over her gut and she couldn’t hold back any longer. Just when Camila finished, the car parked. The woman walked over to her door and helped her out. They walked to the reception’s desk, “excuse me, I sort of bumped my car into this girl. She might have a concussion.”

“Follow me,” the nurse from behind the desk walked them to a section of tiny rooms where curtain were a thin substitute for walls. There they sat Camila on the bed. Then she was handed an emesis basin for when she felt sick again.

“A doctor will shortly be with you,” the nurse left.

Camila felt a little awkward with the woman who hit her still being around. Didn’t these people, who hit pedestrians, just called an ambulance and forgot about it the next day? Or even if they took the injured specimen to the ER, didn’t they just drop them off and continued minding their own business? It’s not that Camila wasn’t glad she wasn’t by herself, but being with a stranger made her want to rather be alone. She rather wanted Shawn to be there with her. It was a moment when his goofiness came in handy. But he wasn’t there. He barely was there when he was actually with her, physically.

“I’m sorry,” the woman broke the silence.

“Have you hit a person before?”

“No.”

“I heard you kept saying, ’oh, not again’,” Camila smirked, knowing she had caught the woman lying.

“Okay, two times,” the woman rolled her eyes playfully and shrugged.

“Including or excluding me?”

The woman hesitated for a second, “fine, excluding you.”

Camila smiled. Sure it wasn’t something one simply smiles at, not right after it happened at least. Maybe in a few days, “hope your boyfriend won’t be mad.”

“My boyfriend?” The woman scowled her face confused.

“That I puked into his box.”

The woman shook her head softly with a giggle, “sweetheart that was a litter box. Andy is a cat.”

Camila realized how wrong she was jumping into conclusions, “was it-”

“It was empty. I bought it for his birthday actually.”

“Oh, sorry.”

“No worries, we’re even now.”

“I doubt getting hit by a car and puking into a cat’s new litter box could be put in the same category.”

“Let’s not forget it’s a birthday litter box, besides, if I want to be correct you jumped on the road, so.”

“Are you seriously blaming me for this?”

“You did enter the roadway.”

“There were a bunch of bikers passing me.”

“Well, I guess getting hit by a car is much better than getting hit by a bike, sure.”

Their conversation was interrupted by an older doctor.

“Evening. I’m doctor Hernandez, what are the symptoms?”

“I think I had a concussion. I blacked out for a few minutes, then I threw up.”

“What exactly did happen?”

“She hit me with her car.”

The doctor gave the woman a judging look.

“In my defense, she jumped in front of it.”

“I see,” he turned back to Camila, “follow my hand with your eyes without turning your head, please,” Camila followed without any issues his hand. The doctor then light a tiny light into Camila’s each eye.

“Experiencing any sore?”

“My right wrist hurts a little, but nothing I couldn’t handle.”

“We’ll make an x-ray just to make sure there’s no fracture. Your friend here can come with us or wait here.”

“We’re not friends, I really just bumped her with my car,” the woman admits in what kind of relation she and Camila are or actually are not, “but I’ll just wait here.”

Camila was unsure how to feel about the whole situation, while her dizziness mixed into it. She wished to call Shawn, but she suddenly realized she left her phone at home. Camila knew his number by heart, but then what would had he done? Would he come rushing to the ER to pick her up to take her home and take care of her? Or would he just ask how is she doing and leave it at that? Because they would eventually meet the next day and if there was something wrong, Camila wouldn’t had been able to call him, right? Not telling him about it felt wrong though.

Camila is walked back to the examination room, where the woman, whose name Camila still doesn’t know, is still waiting. She’s sitting on the side of the bed with one leg swinging back and forth. When she spotted Camila approaching, she raised swiftly.

“Everything seems fine with the wrist. Drink a lot, rest, I’ll prescribe some painkillers for the headache which may kick in later.”

He disappeared again.

“What now?” Camila had a rush of melancholy fill her. She knew she was supposed to be somewhere and where she was then was not the place. She wanted to stand up and run away.

“I’m Lauren.”

“I’m sorry?” Camila is ripped out of her flow of thoughts.

“I said my name’s Lauren.”

“Camila.”

“Mind grabbing something to eat before I take you home?”

Was it a good idea? This woman, Lauren, hit her. She could had seriously injured Camila. Was it not weird to go grab food after this as though nothing happened? Or maybe it was a way Lauren wanted to make it up to Camila. And frankly at that moment there was nobody else who cared for her. But did Lauren actually care or was it only her way of cleaning her conscience? Guess there’s no other way to find out than cautiously walking down this path of possible new acquaintanceship.

Camila just smiled.

*

*

The whole diner was a bright neon glow in the night. Camila was sure if there was an astronaut in space, right above them, he could spot the place and use it as a guide back down to Earth.

It had a 90’s vibe, except the music that played wasn’t worth a penny. There were those booths with leather seats and pastel colors. They sat in one of those. It was pretty crowded which, taking the fact that it was a small bypass restaurant, seemed to Camila as unusual.

“I was actually on my way to get food.”

“Then you must’ve been destined to end up here, because whatever you’re gonna order it’s going to be the best meal you’ve ever had in your life.”

“Even fries?”

“The fries especially,” Lauren smirked.

Camila and her renewed hunger searched through the menu, but found it quite difficult to pick something. The waitress soon came over to them, to take their order.

“Good evening ladies! Hey Lauren. What can I get you?”

Lauren saw Camila was still indecisive, so she spoke first, “I’d like an extra veggie burger with falafel, fried mushrooms, extra fries, and a tiny slice of that homemade apple pie. And a glass of water.”

Camila was in awe of how much food had Lauren just ordered. Though she was as much hungry, “I’ll have the same,” she said out-of-scape.

“Nice place,” Camila couldn’t stop looking around. The place had something magical, something sentimental gripping her by the mind. She imagined she was in a 90’s movie. Her day was sort of out-of-a-movie. She supposed it could had ended worse, but here she was, alive and fine.

“It is indeed. Now tell me, who is Camila?”

“Can I be honest with you?”

Camila wasn’t sure if discussing her personal life with a stranger was a good idea, an idea worth even considering, but then Lauren was a stranger who’s going to be history tomorrow morning. She was sure they would say goodbye at the end of that day and never meet again. There was no harm in being dead honest with a stranger. Definitely not with Lauren, who seemed to be a correct and humble person.

“I wouldn’t ask you otherwise.”

“She’s a miserable girl.”

“How so?” Lauren scowled her face, probably did not expect that being the kind of description Camila would’d given away.

“She’s broke. Yeah. She has the last twenty dollars in her purse and it’s only the 17th of the month. She’s also struggling to save a relationship she’s not sure is worth the energy saving, since her boyfriend might be cheating on her.”

“Hold up. Might be cheating? He’s either cheating or not, there’s no inbetween, honey.”

“I have this photo of him kissing-or-what this other girl and I don’t know. I didn’t have the opportunity to ask him about it yet. We were supposed to go on a date tonight, but he cancelled.”

“I’d say I’m sorry about it, but if he is cheating, you’re better off without him.”

“But I love him.”

“But do you trust him?”

Camila hesitated. Did she? Those photos flashed in front of her eyes again. They weren’t even of a bad quality. She was perfectly able to identify him on them. And she could’ve sworn she had seen that woman, he’s kissing, before.

“See,” Lauren continued, “the complexity of a relationship is built by so many layers. And trust is one of the basic ones. Don’t lose your vision just because all you ever hear about two people in a relationship is that they are in love.”

Before Camila could give Lauren whatever argument she had up her sleeve, although deep down she knew would be too weak, the waitress arrived with their order.

There was much more food on her plate than she expected.

“Uh, I’m starving,” Lauren emphasized her degree of hunger and dove into her food.

Camila realized she’s not familiar with every taste she has on her plate. Camila cut a piece off the tiny, doughnut shaped, fried things she had lying next to her burger. She couldn’t describe the taste, but her taste buds for sure did have a fiesta.

“I see you’ve gotten to the falafel right away. Judging by your face you’d not eaten it before.”

“What exactly is it made of?”

“Chickpeas. Sometimes they add fava beans too.”

“Interesting,” Camila concluded while stuffing her mouth some more fiesta.

They soon finished eating, while Camila every now and then lost track of time and when she returned into her physical body, she thought Lauren would be shaking and talking to her to snap her out of her daydreaming. It wasn’t really polite, but Camila couldn’t help it. She was distracted by what Lauren said about trust and whatsoever, plus she couldn’t stop making up scenarios of Shawn and that woman doing all the nasty stuff.

“Can I bring you something else?” The waitress is the one snapping Camila out of her own mind.

“Camila?”

“No, I’m good, thank you.”

“Me too.”

The waitress cleaned the table, leaving only their half-empty glasses in front of them.

“I’ll go use the restroom. Be right back,” Lauren left for a few minutes, came back with a huge grin.

“What is it?” Camila asked confused.

“It’s full moon tomorrow.”

“So? Are you going to turn into a werewolf?”

“No, but if you like to look at the stars and the moon and you’re free tomorrow evening, you should consider coming with me.”

“Where exactly are you asking me to go?”

“There’s this independent organization, a group of people who every month when it’s full moon, go to a different location, take their telescopes. Not too many people know about them, but they actually do let the public use their gear and they tell stories and stuff.”

For a second Camila got all excited, because she loved looking at the moon. It was a nice opportunity, but she doubted she was going to be able to make it. She was going on a dinner with Shawn and his family tomorrow. If everything went right, maybe she and Shawn would have an enjoyable evening, kind of a reunion.

Still it was nice of Lauren to suggest something like that. If Camila wasn’t in a relationship, she’d think Lauren was asking her on a date. Wait, was she though? Would she even though she knew Camila was dating somebody? Taking into consideration that Camila’s relationship was actually on the verge of decay, maybe yes.

“I don’t know. I’ll probably be busy.”

“Okay. But here’s my number,” Lauren grabbed a pen out of her backpack and wrote some digits down on a napkin, “if you changed your mind.”

With a smile she pushed it to Camila, who not wanting to seem rude, took it, folded it and slipped into the back pocket of her jeans.

“We should get going now, what do you say?”

“Mm-hmm,” Camila agreed. A sudden wave of tiredness came over her, “let’s pay first, though.”

“It’s fine. I’ve paid already.”

“What?” Camila was outraged, she hated when people paid for her stuff, her food especially, “I didn’t tell you I was broke to get you pay for my food.”

“Slow down. That’s not why I paid for it. I didn’t make that kind of picture of you in my head.”

“Then let me pay for my damn food.”

“Hey,” Lauren shook her head while smiling, “I only paid for your food so you have a reason to meet me and pay for my food next time.”

Slick, Camila thought. Still though. But she moved on from the topic. Guess she was meeting Lauren again, maybe sooner than she thought.

Lauren drove Camila to her apartment. It was what could’ve been midnight or so. Camila couldn’t wait to get home, see if her phone hadn’t blown up by messages from Shawn. She was still supposed to get some scoop on where to meet him tomorrow. Well, technically, today.

“Thank you for the evening, I mean, for the food.”

“Thank you for jumping in front of my car.”

“Can we not do this again?”

“I’ll let it go. Are you feeling okay though? Do you not need me to walk you home?”

“I’m good, but thanks.”

“See you around then.”

Before Camila shut the car door behind her, she turned around for one more comment, “uh, tell your cat I’m sorry about his litter and happy birthday.”

“I’m sure will.”

If she was able, she would had sprinted upstairs. Quickly, she unlocked the door and let herself inside. As she was expecting, her phone was resting on the bed. Surprisingly, for Camila’s disappointment, there were no missed calls or texts from Shawn or anybody for that matter. Suddenly a grey cloud of melancholy shaded her feelings.

She wanted to know what’s up with him. He might’d been just sleeping. Or maybe he was doing something completely different. With that woman. And what was she supposed to call that feeling inside of her? Jealousy? Yes, but based on those photos, it was sort of reasonable. Or was it?

Camila dialed his number but it went straight to voicemail, “hey Shawn. Um, I just, I wanted to let you know I had this accident. A car hit me a little. Nothing serious! I’m okay. I just, I wanted to talk to you. But I guess you’re asleep, so. See you tomorrow then. Love ya.”

After she hung up, Camila remembered Lauren talking about love and those words I love you lost their meaning for her.

  *

*

  Camila woke up to her phone buzzing. She didn’t remember falling asleep at all. She was still in her clothes from the night before. Without checking who’s calling, she answers the phone, just to make the buzzing stop, “hello?” Her voice cracks a little.

“Camila? Finally,” Shawn’s worried voice echoes through the silence of her apartment, “I listened to you voicemail. Are you okay?”

“Yes, I’m all good. Don’t worry.”

“What happened?”

“I uh, it was my fault too, a car bumped into me,” Camila finally admitted she was as much responsible for what happened as Lauren was.

“Where are you now? You in a hospital? Should I come get you?” His concern and will to help gave Camila hope. Hope that he still feels some kind of way about her.

“No, actually,” Camila was going to tell Shawn about the kind of turn her last evening took, but she traced off and decided not to, “I’m home, don’t worry babe.”

“Okay. Are you feeling up to to that family meeting? Or would you rather rest today?”

“I want to go, I’m fine, really,” Camila and resting were two things as far from each other as a fish from skateboarding. She had a class today she almost forgot about, so she was definitely not going to rest today.

“I’ll pick you up around 10 then. Is that okay?”

“Certainly.”

“Good. See you then.”

Shawn’s helpfulness almost made Camila forget about the photos. She was still going to confront him later today. Not right away, but eventually she was going to.

*

*

  Except Shawn, his brothers and father were in a suit, all business men looking. Camila was wearing a sundress, let her hair loosely down. She wasn’t particularly nervous about meeting most of Shawn’s family, she was sure if there was something wrong, Shawn would defend her. If there was a situation needing his defense. Shawn was acting casual, he brought his usual, goofy self. Camila was still looking for the perfect timing to when ask him about the photos she received the day before.

His brothers seemed alright, his father more superficial, superior, snobbish even. She could tell when he looked at her, he was thinking of how much her and Shawn are a non-match. Then he deserves better than Camila. He didn’t have to say it out loud, Camila could read it from his glances. But did she care? Not really. It’s Shawn who’s dating her, not his father. If Camila made Shawn happy then nothing else mattered. But then, did she make him happy anymore? That was the thing which bugged Camila the most. What if she wasn’t good enough for him anymore? She could sense he’d lost that little spark for her. Even though he did seem to care about her, it was different. She was willing to do anything to make it work out, to make it work like it used to between them. And she needed to let this fact Shawn know. There was no mountain Camila wouldn’t had climbed for him, no sea she wouldn’t had crossed.

“I can’t have those leeches suck on my neck anytime I get close to something less usual in the field than they are used to,” Mr. Mendes’ complained about some business inspectors he’d been having at his office more and more often. Whether his business methods were worth a doubt or not wasn’t Camila’s decision or judgement to make, but the way Mr. Mendes spoke, his body language gave off the vibe of the possibility his hands might’d not been that clean.

“I can get you the number of that Boston Bulldog lawyer. He could make them completely get lost,” Luca, his eldest brother stepped in to help out.

“Ugh, let’s talk about something else, let’s not ruin this early lunch,” Mr. Mendes looked at Camila who was somehow unable to force even a bite of ravioli down her throat. She wasn’t sure if it was the whole bunch of food she ate last midnight or her nerves of asking Shawn to talk, so she can ask about those photos.

Camila’s elbow was nudged by Shawn. She must’d zoned out again. Quickly she looked up from her plate just to be met with all the eyes of the table set on her, “pardon me, I’ve had this tiny accident last night and I’m still a little out.”

“Accident? Do you need a lawyer?” The first thing Shawn’s dad thought of was a lawyer. Given Camila’s state of health, how she came off as just okay to people around her, Mr. Mendes really thought the thing Camila needed to be asked was if she needed a lawyer. Not sure what world he lived in, but where Camila came from, people didn’t go to court for every tiny pinch of cheek.

“Dad,” Shawn raised a brow. He noticeable, too, had enough of his father.

“I’m good, but I appreciate it.”

“Shawn says you’re dancing. You also do private sessions?” Kevin asked.

“Kevin!” Shawn raised his voice to shut his brother up. Camila wasn’t going to take any more of Shawn’s family’s hungry looks and words.

“I mean if you’re into ballet, I can show you the basics,” she answered his question cockily.

“Ballet?” He pronounced offended, “that’s too girly.”

“Wow, Shawn never told me how old-fashioned and close minded his brother was,” stroke back Camila while she kept a straight bitch face. Kevin almost choked on his wine. In fact, nobody sitting at their table knew how to respond to that. It must had come as a shock. Besides, what could make a better first impression than emphasizing your ability to spot out assholes?

“You’ll have to excuse me now. I have a class of girly ballet to get to,” Camila removed the napkin off her thighs. She raised from her seat and loosely tossed the crumbled napkin on it. Shawn stood up too. Followed her out of the restaurant.

“Camila, wait.”

“We need to talk,” her mouth spat the words out before her mind could had considered if it was the time for them to be out there or not.”

“I’m sorry about them. Don’t take anything of what they’ve said seriously. This is kind of the reason we don’t do sunday dinners with my family.”

Camila needed to be gone, fast, “Shawn I don’t care about your family. What I do care about on the contrary is us.”

“Us?”

A woman was trying to enter the building but they were standing in his way, “excuse me,” so Shawn held the door for her, which gave Camila an opportunity to chicken out of the situation, for she could feel her insides gotten too tight. She wasn’t ready to confront him. Not on the street. She wasn’t ready to fight. Frankly, they never had a big fight before. Small arguments yes, but this was different.

“Wait, please,” he caught up, which didn’t make Camila happy. He made her turn around to face him and the second their eyes locked tears found their way to the corners of her eyes. She took a deep breath for it was no time for crying. “What’s going on? Did something happen? You know you can tell me.”

Her lips disconnected, but no sounds came. She took another deep breath, “I need to go. I can’t be late. We’ll talk later.”

“Camila! Is it my family?” Shawn yelled across the street, Camila could hear him scream even when she had entered the metro station. He seemed to care about Camila. Maybe those photos were fake. And he’s really in love with her. And if she showed him the photos, he’d think she was too dramatic and jealous and childish. Maybe he would get mad that Camila didn’t trust him. She did though… or did she? She remembered what Lauren, the stranger hitting her with their car, told her last night. Camila tried to name all those other layers which made up the relationship between two people. Then her mind popped the thought, that maybe Shawn was being concerned about her and her issue she wasn’t willing to discuss with him, because he was indeed cheating. And wanted to know if Camila knew, if she did know something.

She shook her head. It wasn’t an option, Shawn cheating on her. He was her goof ball, who always knew how to make her smile. Who could come up with any solution to whatever problem she had. And he loved her, she knew that.

  *

*

  “I can’t believe they let the rookies apply. We couldn’t apply for any play when we were them last year. Why can they now?” Melissa complained about this year’s christmas play applications, while getting done the pre-class stretching.

“I’ve heard the dean’s nephew is among them, so,” Aliah shared some scoop. She noticed Camila not really being present. “Hey,” she was able to grab Camila’s attention.

Camila faked a smile, “hey.”

“Everything good?”

Camila was going for the yeah, sure, but then she popped a “nope.”

“Wanna talk? Let’s grab a coffee after practice.”

“Okay,” Camila wasn’t going to talk about the thoughts bugging her concerning Shawn. She was a big girl, she could figure it out herself.

“Ladies,” their professor asked everyone to finish stretching, it was time to start class, “Let’s do a two reps of the moves from two days. You better remember them, if not… you don’t want to find out what happens if you don’t. Chop, chop,” she skipped to the side of the hall, watched the girls trying to chase themselves across the floor, fiercely throwing their bodies into the air, all while perfectly scoring the placements of their limbs. In the background played one of the professor’s favourite compositions.

Camila was surprised she didn’t mess up any of the moves for she wasn’t able to get completely her mind into it. At one point, when she was high in the air, like a lightning struck through her mind to go and call Lauren. But she shook it off.

After the class was over, after taking a cold shower, Aliah dragged her and her friend Normani, who was a senior student, to get coffee and “chat”.  

They were sitting by the window, Camila found the life on the other side of the window more interesting than the conversation she was listening to.

“And I told him he was insane, but he still drove seven hours and we get to spend the whole week together,” Normani talked about how much her boyfriend is whipped. How sweet, Camila thought. She was wondering if Shawn would do something like that. Drive even through the whole state to be closer to her, to be with her.

“What about you, Camila? You’re still with Shawn, right?” Aliah asked. Still? How long has it been? Only a year.

“Yeah, we’re still rollin’,” she giggled nervously. She wasn’t going to spill tea on how she has the suspicion he’s cheating. The three weren’t that close friends to be talking about something like that.

“He from here?”

“Yes, born New Yorker.”

“So, I heard there are ten spots for the Christmas play, are you going to try out?” Normani turned the conversation back to something school related. Camila was bored. She went back to studying the happening on the street. There was nothing interesting happening. People rushing to get to their business, every now and then a yellow car stopped, somebody got in, somebody got out.

Wow, Camila’s eyes caught a figure on the other side of the street and she couldn’t let her sight release them. She wasn’t sure if she was seeing right, but she had to make sure.

“Excuse me, I’ve gotta go, I just remembered,” but she never finished her excuse of storming out.

She ran across the road, luckily no car scored a bump into her. Subtly, she started walking a few feet from a blondie who was engaged in talking to some another woman. Camila could had sworn the blonde woman was the same one who was in the pictures with Shawn. She wasn’t sure where she was headed with following her, but she didn’t have any other idea.

When she got to crossing a narrow alley road, she heard the motor of a motorbike coming from the alley. She supposed she was going to be able to get to the pavement before the motorbike got to the main road, but how wrong she was.

The vehicle stopped what not even an inch from her. Camila swiftly jumped back.

“Watch out, dude! Can you not see there’s people crossing?”

The driver stopped the motor, then took off their gloves.

Camila was outraged, “are you at least gonna apologize? You could’ve hit me?!”

The driver’s helmet came off and for Camila’s surprise it was a familiar face, the one she’d for a brief second thought of earlier.

A huge grin formed on Lauren’s face, “hey, you. Need a ride?”

“Are you doing this on purpose?”

“What?”

Camila just motioned at the motorbike.

“Again, you’re in my way, honey,” Lauren winked, which for some reason made Camila blush, even embarrassed.

“I was busy, um,” Camila traced off, not wanting to say out loud she was stalking the potential lover of her boyfriend.

“Anyway, are you free tonight?”

“Um…”

“Or have you already forgotten about my suggestion of star and moon hunting?”

“No, definitely not! I just,” Camila was browsing among a whole two page list of excuses why she “wasn’t feeling like going”, but all of them sounded too generated. But in all honesty, she couldn’t name one good reason why she couldn’t go out with Lauren. Maybe talking to Shawn was one, but she could’d already seen her starting the talk, then changing her mind half-way and ending up having sex with him instead of communication.

“Nevermind. Maybe next time, then?” Lauren already drew a conclusion, since Camila took ages to speak up. Lauren started putting her gloves back on.

Camila reached out, rested her hand on Lauren’s, “do you happen to have an extra helmet?”

[the-record-newspaper]

The killing of Rhonda Hinson Part VII

Rhonda Hinson’s East Burke letter jacket

By LARRY J. GRIFFIN

Special Investigative Reporter

The human capacity for deception—both self-deception and subterfuge in dealing with others—is limitless.  And divining the innermost desires of other human beings—even those we live with every day—is far more difficult than most of us believe.  Our vision is obscured by many things, not least our willful blindness to truths that would hurt us if we faced them.—Greg Iles in Cemetery Road

 On Monday evening December 21st, 18-year-old Mark Turner was transported to the emergency room of Frye Hospital in Hickory via ambulance.

He was admitted at 11:43 p.m., complaining of back pain that surfaced around dinner time and had worsened over the ensuing six-to-seven hours.  It was noted by the attending physician that he had persistent back problems attributable to an old football injury.  

Fourteen years after Rhonda Hinson’s death, Mark ascribed his back injury to a more exotic salacious activity, in a statement given to Detective James Pruett.  But his girlfriend in 1981, Jill Turner-Mull, recalled Mark’s explanation to her:  “He told me he had hurt his back playing basketball that Sunday [December 20th], as it was very typical for him to play with his brothers and friends.”

After tests were completed and medications prescribed, Mark was discharged by the attending physician at 12:55 a.m., December 22nd and remanded to the care of his mother, Barbara.  One of the medications that Mark took home that early morning was Flexeril—a muscle relaxant to treat skeletal muscle conditions, such as pain, injury, or even spasms resulting from strenuous activity. Possible side effects include dizziness and drowsiness; however, mental confusion is rare, and impairment of short-term memory is ostensibly non-existent.  

Earlier on that Monday, Rhonda had driven to work at Hickory Steel in temperatures befitting Winter Solstice.  It was already dark, on the ‘longest evening of the year,” when she returned home to Valdese.  When she walked into the house, her mother, Judy, knew that something was wrong.  

“…Rhonda seemed upset when she came home…It was snowing and Greg got here before she did. When she came in, she had a very pretty potted plant.  I asked where she got it and she said, ‘Don’ [her supervisor].  Greg looked at her kind of funny and Rhonda said he gave everybody one.  ‘When you get home, you will see your Mom has one just like this.’  He left just after this.  I asked why he was in such a hurry and she said he was tired.  He had exams before he came home for Christmas and had lost a lot of sleep.”  

Ice had formed on Burke County roads overnight, making morning commutes treacherous on the morning of December 22nd.  Rhonda decided not drive her Datsun to work in Hickory; instead, she made arrangements to ride with co-worker and Morganton resident Wayne Chapman.  She told Mr. Chapman that she would walk the half-mile to the Mineral Springs Mountain on-ramp, which merged onto Interstate-40 E, and wait for him.  

“…I told her to just stay at home,” Judy Hinson recalled.  “Even though she worked part-time since she was 14-years-old, she was always looking for an excuse to stay at home from work—that is until she went to work at Hickory Steel.”  

Since employed, Rhonda had not missed a day’s work at her three-month-old job, and that Tuesday would not be the exception.

“Well, she started out the door to meet her ride with little more than a sweater on. I said, ‘Rhonda, you’ve got to wear a coat.  It’s too cold to just wear what you have on.’  She said that she didn’t have a coat to wear.  She told me that Greg had her East Burke letter-jacket, and she had left her gray, hooded sweat jacket in Mark Turner’s car, when they went shopping to buy Jill a Christmas gift.  

Rhonda Hinson’s sweat jacket

“I’ll just wear Robbie’s jacket,” Rhonda informed her Mom.  

“No you won’t either; Robbie will need his coat,” Judy responded to her daughter. “So she walked downstairs and found a multicolored jacket to wear that morning to meet the Chapmans.”

Rhonda walked out of the door, passed her Datsun parked in the driveway, turned right onto Hillcrest, and down the hill toward Douglas Avenue.

“At the end of the street she stopped to talk to Joann and Donald Glazebrooks,” Judy recounted.  “Donald said he kidded Rhonda and told her she was going to fall.”  Mr. Glazebrooks took note of the multicolored jacket she was wearing that frosty morning and would later identify it for authorities.

As Rhonda continued southeast up the Eldred  Street incline toward the interstate, she was seen by a couple in a pick-up truck.  They stopped and offered her a ride.  Normally, she would have not accepted the offer, but she noticed they had a poodle.  “Well, that was it; Rhonda thought that since they had a poodle, then they could be trusted,” Ms. Hinson laughingly recalled.

The couple, who identified themselves as the Gladdens, conveyed Rhonda to the interstate.  As she started to exit the pick-up, Mr. Gladden said, “You’re not getting out!” Judy explained.  “Rhonda told me—in one of the several conversations I had with her that day while she was at work—that her heart sank.  ‘Suddenly, I remembered the warning you gave Robbie and me about not getting into cars with strangers,’” she told me.  

Mr. Gladden quickly quieted her fear; “It is too cold for you to stand outside and wait for your ride.  We will wait right here with you until it comes.”

 “And they did—they sat there until Wayne Chapman pulled up,” Judy related in an appreciative tone.  “They were a really nice couple; we met them later.    

Around lunchtime, Rhonda called her mother to ask if she had gone shopping in town to buy an outfit for her to wear to the company party that Tuesday evening.  “Robbie and I decided to drive into Valdese in Rhonda’s car parked in the driveway. Well, her Datsun was a ‘straight-drive,’ and I had a terrible time trying to change the gears—thought I was going to really mess up the transmission.  So, we went back home, parked Rhonda’s car in the lower driveway, and got into my little Datsun—that is also a straight-drive—but I was more accustomed to how mine changed gears.”

“I told Rhonda I had brought her home four outfits and she could choose from them what she liked.   She was happy and in a great mood,” Judy remembered.  

Greg McDowell drove to Hickory Steel at lunchtime to take Rhonda to lunch.  She exited the building accompanied by Tonya Benge [Fetherbay], a co-worker and one of the celebrants with whom Rhonda would later attend the company Christmas party. Tonya looked across the parking lot and notice Greg waiting for his girlfriend in a blue Chevy Nova.  She also observed that the front of the car had apparently sustained damage at some juncture.  [According to Civil Court Records, the McDowells owned a 1976, four-door Chevrolet Nova.]

Barbara Turner, Mark’s mother, also saw Greg that day at K-Mart in Hickory. She surprised him as he was purchasing condoms.  In the course of polite conversation, Ms. Turner told McDowell that Mark had injured his back and was resting at home.  Mark informed his mother—upon her returned—that Greg had indeed been by their Indian Hills home.  He and another of his brothers had been laughing about McDowell being caught, by their mother, as he was buying condoms.  Mark indicated that Greg was really embarrassed about the whole incident.  

Darkness had fallen as Wayne Chapman pulled into the Hinsons driveway at 5:30 p.m..  Rhonda jumped out and ran inside to get ready for the Christmas soiree.  The party was to commence at a Hickory American Legion Post around 7 p.m., and she had less than an hour to dress and drive to Sherry Pittman’s [Yoder] at 2015 4th Avenue, NW, in Hickory.  However, four minutes after she walked into the house, she placed a three-minute phone call to Greg McDowell.  

“[Rhonda] seemed very excited about the party,” Judy observed.  “…She tried on all the clothes I had brought home and finally chose what she wanted to wear.  She said she liked all the clothes and when she was in the bathroom, we decided we would keep all of the clothes for her for Christmas.”

Twelve minutes after the initial call with Greg McDowell, he placed a call to the Hinsons’ residence to talk with Rhonda—5:46 p.m.—the call, once again, lasted about three minutes.  Twelve minutes later, Greg called again, at 5:58 p.m., and talked for another three minutes. Each time, Rhonda took the phone into her bedroom to talk with him in private.

“She came out of her room and said that Greg was attempting to ‘guilt-trip’ her for going to the party without him,” Judy reported. “But she told me that she was going anyway.  ‘I am not going to let it bother me,’ Rhonda told me.  “…I asked her what she would do if Greg and his parents were there, and she said I will just come back home.”

At Rhonda’s request, Judy placed a one-minute call to the Pittman residence to tell Sherry that her daughter would be on the way to her house as quickly as she finished dressing.  “After I called Sherry, I went in to help Rhonda dress.”

Ms. Hinson vividly recalled what her daughter was wearing that evening when she left for the party.  Rhonda selected an acrylic, wool, and polyester blend plaid skirt with orange coloring—size 12, a beige blouse, a dark orange sweater, and brown shoes.  “Everything she wore that night was brand new.”

After she dressed, she applied make-up for only the second time in her life.  

Jill Turner-Mull had spoken with her best friend by phone earlier that afternoon.  “She asked me to go to the Christmas party with her.  Well, I told her that Mark and I had plans for that evening, and I didn’t really want to go to the Hickory Steel party—she really didn’t seem too excited about going herself, it seemed to me.  But I will tell you, that decision not to go with Rhonda has haunted me to this very day.”  

That was the last time that Jill Turner-Mull would hear the voice of her best friend.

“After she dressed, I told her that she looked more beautiful than I had ever seen her,” Judy explained, her voice breaking with emotion.  “As she was going out of the kitchen door, she asked, ‘Mom, are you and Dad proud of me?’  Well, the question took me by surprise; I responded, ‘Why Rhonda, of course we are proud of you!’  She said, ‘You didn’t think I could do it—work and pay all my car payments; I haven’t missed one.’  She was proud of that fact.”

By that time, Father Bobby, had managed to drive Rhonda’s Datsun to the upper driveway so his daughter wouldn’t get her shoes dirty.  He sat there for a few minutes and talked with her.  “I told her that there was some sand or dirt in the floorboard of her car, and she needed to clean it out,” Bobby Hinson recalled.  “And we just talked for a few minutes.  Finally she laughed, ‘Dad I have to go; I am going to be late!’  So I got out so she could leave.”

Rhonda backed out of the driveway onto Hillcrest.   She beeped her horn three times and turned around to wave at her Mom and Dad.  That was the last time that they would see their 19-year-old daughter alive.

Rhonda Hinson had slightly more than six-hours to live.

[enthusiasticclouds-sally]

Visions of the Past || One-Shot

Writing Task: A One-Shot Free-For-All

Trigger Warning: Fire, Burning, Incest (but not really like very very very tiny little hardly there at all tbh), Death, Panic

Featuring: Daniel and Sally’s dad!! 

Extra added warning: This shit is really long!!!! Way over the 1,500 word limit just so you all know xD

Summary: Sally gets a vision from the past while in her sleep. There is time hopping involved shown through italics those are her past events. Her past gets dove into a lot here!!!

Sally had been lost to sleep's deep slumber and it's darkness of peace, or so she thought she had been. The silent blackness that had lulled her body into quietness was beginning to break apart and form into colors of varies shapes right before her sleeping eyes. Her surroundings morphed into a parking lot it seemed, but one that brought about an aching dread down her spinal cord, cold and frigid. In front of her stood a car, black and so familiar the only one around… a vehicle Sally had seen time and time again.

Her heart seized tightly in her own chest as fear began to climb up her throat squeezing her wind pipe. Sally knew what was going to happen, she had been here before. Her legs forced themselves to life walking limply towards the direction of the vehicle each step a frightening burden.  

But in a shadow of a second the vehicle began to burst into flames. 

Screams began to pierce into the scene puncturing sharp at Sally’s inside. It was Daniel, her Daniel, she was reliving this all over again. It was his agonizing pleads for help that ripped at her chest. There were hot vicious red flames raging chaotically every where, and the fire, it seared over his skin, each tormenting lick of the flames scorching over her own flesh at the rate it did Daniel's. The pain— his agonizing torment she felt all of it. His each desperate gasp for oxygen clenched at her own lungs, constricted them until she was nothing but knees scraping the ground. The thick fumes of smoke clung close to the back of her friend's throat, her own wind pipe crushing shut sucking away the ability to breathe. 

He was dying, the flames swallowing him without remorse, without mercy and she was forced to see it all, forced to feel each and every torturous sensation again in a paralyzing terror.

Sally's head was dropped low, her eyes looking at the ordinary boring pale tiling of her classroom floor while the hood of her overly-sized hoodie was covering her fiery red locks. No one noticed, of course, no one hardly ever noticed when Sally was around. She was an invisible wall flower unless a vision came into play and then suddenly the whole school knew she existed and not in a good way.

She was the town freak when she became visible.

She was waiting for their teacher to step in and start another boring class (it was history she believed?) staying quiet against the hustle and bustle of teenagers filling up the room and finding seats.

"Hey, you're Sally, right?"

Sally's heart had but all stopped in beating, her body frozen on her chair. ....was she hearing right...? Had somebody spoken to her?! She forced her head to dip up her eyes now falling over a boy with light blue eyes and dark shoulder length waves for hair. He'd be the rocker/punk type guy if Sally had to add a typical stereo-type to him. Her eyes were bug wide open in shock as the redhead took a moment to look over both her shoulders. Nope, it was her he was talking to alright and she didn't peep a single word from her lip sewn shut mouth.

The boy obviously noticed the shock. "I-it's nothing bad. I just well wanted to say hi. I'm Daniel, by the way, I guess an introduction would be nice, huh? Probably should’ve started with that one."

The boy then extended a hand for which Sally only stared at still barely moving a muscle. She couldn't touch. She would see his secrets, his worse moments the ones from the past and the ones yet to come. She just... she couldn't have that right now.

Daniel seemed to have gotten the hint as he sulkily left the redhead's side taking a seat a couple of desks behind her. Class had presumed, had gone by as dull as normal until the last couple of minutes when Sally heard a voice in her own head.

I'm sorry if I scared you, or anything. I never meant to do that, it wasn't my intention. I just, I wanted to meet you. I'm like you.

Sally immediately turned around her eyes falling over Daniel wide and in pure unbelieving shock. He had already been looking at her with a soft smile on his features.

The school bell rang. The pair hardly parted from the other from that day forward.

Sally awoke drenched in her own sweat, her lungs scorched on fire halting the ability to breathe properly. Her chest was tight, burning in a searing pain. Her throat was dry and gasping for sharp mouthfuls of desperate air. Panic was seizing her body in swirling waves, and her head was piercing in white-hot pain. She dropped to her knees, her fingers clutching on to her t-shirt for dear life.

She could still feel where the flames had charred Daniel, the sensation lingering over her own skin scalding and unbearable. The room was becoming dizzy and blurred. His screams were puncturing her ear-dreams, tears stinging behind her pupils running down her cheeks in streams.

Sally curled herself up into a fetal position, breath after agonizing breath filling the stark emptiness of her lungs, but constricting her chest even tighter.

All she could do though was remain in spot.

It had been years since that first day Daniel and Sally had met.

He was in her room now, had slipped in right through her window without so much as the awareness of Sally's father.

He had learned to be good at that.

And Sally was glad that he did. Those nights that he snuck in were always her favorite ones. His company brought her light, made her laugh, made her remember that she was alive that life it was meant for so much more than locked doors and mind eating visions that left her terrified.

He was sitting at the bottom edge of her bed looking at her, a look Sally had memorized down to the most minute details. It was the look that told her he was in her mind, gliding through her thoughts and easing in her memories.

"You really have to stop snooping through my head."

"But I enjoy being in there." Was always the reply day in and day out with the most gentle of smiles that Sally became to learn made her heart melt.

"You shouldn't... it's weird. It's its own morbid little world with these awful, jaded memories and thoughts. It's a bad place. You really shouldn't." And it was.

"It's unique." Was always the counter. "So different from everyone else’s, your imagination it's soothing to stay in. You create these worlds unlike anything I see in anyone else’s head. It’s so far from ordinary. Your mind it comforts me, it takes away the hard parts of my telepathy. It’s the reason I can stay sane. I've told you this before, Sally." And he has everyday and everyday Sally looked down so that he didn't see how his words affected her, how they made her heart squeeze and skip a beat.

"And your memories... they aren't your fault." His eyes softly leveled down with her, his face inching closer. "And your dad, he's an asshole that shouldn't be given all the time you give him in your thoughts. " They were entering this conversation again.

"I'm sure he means well.... he has to have his reasons." Was all she said in a meek, uncertain voice eyes never making contact with Daniel's because she knew what she was going to see behind those pupils.

Anger. He was protective, always so protective of her when it came to the topic of her father.

"He's an asshole that stays bitter and angry in his wheelchair every single damn day. He doesn't mean well, Sally. I have told you this. Look at what he has done to you!”  His voice had risen a level laced in anger. He was talking about the drugs, the prescribed medications given to her by the psychiatrist her father forced her to see. He saw her a freak too, believed her visions were demonic something that needed to be rid of. But the medications, all they did was leave her hazy, left her brain in a cloud of numbness and Daniel always noticed that, was always in her mind to wake her from them.

“He’s dimming your light. He’s killing every part of you that makes you who you are.” His voice softened now.

"You don't have stay here. You can leave. You're old enough, these walls don't have to be your prison anymore, he doesn't have to be your prison. You can leave. You can go you can... you can come with me. Be with me, Sally. It'll be different. It will never be this. I promise I will never let it be this. You can be you with me, every single piece of you."

But she couldn't, and her eyes told him that as she looked at Daniel. He was so close to her, she could smell his scent, strong and crisp like an autumn morning. His eyes looked at her with such warmth, determination, love. She was scared of that, always so frightened of it. Her fingers tingled with the desire to softly feel his features, and gently touch his unruly waves. They always did. That... that could never be though. She could see something. She would hurt him, would hurt herself.

"You know that I can't... I-I can't leave him alone. There is no one to care for him... he-he needs me. Even if you know something more that I don't I can't.... and if I were and if I left with you it would be..." dangerous. I can't be touched. I'll be with you but you won't ever be able to touch me... that isn't fair to you. It isn't. You deserve so much more. I want you to have so much more.

She didn't have to say the words out loud she knew he was in her head. He always was.

But she should have said yes that day, she should have left...

Everything began to soothe down. Breathing had stopped being painful, but her eyes were still flooding in tears. Tears that made her heart heavy and sink in deeper behind her chest wall. She had sat up now, knees tucking themselves under her chin wrapped tightly by her arms and pressed up against her chest.

It was too much to bare, to relive the death of her dearest friend all over again. Daniel had been her everything the reason why in a point of her life made it okay for her to smile, to even live, to see herself as someone other than the freak of the town.

His death... it was too much to bare. She had loved him.

Sally placed her head on her knees and sobbed. She sobbed flood of tears, heart-wrenching tears that pierced at her chest. Tears at what could've been and didn't, tears for the way fate had so cruelly taken him from her.

Tears until she didn't have any more tears left.

It was the day of the funeral. Sally was dawned in black, the soft fabric of her dress barely registering behind the dazed grief that was taking over her.

Her warning... it hadn't been enough.

That day at the park, when she finally felt Daniel's touch for the first time, felt his embrace the pressing of his lips over her forehead... that had been the last time she had seen him.

He had died. The same way she had foresaw it on that day at the park. Her warning hadn't been enough.

Tears were now staining her features, blotches of red and pink marking her skin. She missed him, she couldn't do this, not without him. Everything felt so hallow and empty inside, but it was the day of the funeral. She had to see her friend one last time even if in death, she wanted to say her final goodbyes.

Sally forced her legs to move walking out of her bedroom towards the front door when she heard the presence of her father coming in from the living room.  His eyes were cold his features flaccid and icy. He stared at his daughter for a moment the silence between the two thickening.

"You are heading to that funeral aren't you?" His voice had no emotion to it. He didn't care for Daniel, he never did. He was probably glad that the boy was dead.

Sally didn't bother breathing a word. She didn't have the strength for this, not now.

"You shouldn't. He was a waste of time. I never wanted you around that wretched boy."

"You never want me around anyone." Sally finally spoke her own words frigid as ice.

Her father had wheeled himself closer and took a very rough hold of his daughter's wrist, hard enough to leave a bruising mark. "He is better off dead!"

Sally was going to spit something venomous in return a newfound anger burning hot in her veins, but the contact of her father's touch had taken her away. A brand new environment forming before Sally's eyes.

She was no longer in her home, at least... not presently. It was the same building, but brighter filled with life. In front her was a couple a man whom the ginger recognized instantly as her own father, but younger and before the accident that had left his legs paralyzed. In his arms was a woman she was laughing a joyful bubbly sound echoing off the walls. She had fiery red locks that spilled in waves freely over her shoulders and she was beautiful. The woman was filled with immense joy and love, love for the man presently holding her.

He loved her too, loved her more than his own life. To him, this woman was his everything. The reason he breathed and awoke in the mornings. 

Sally knew this woman though. She had to be her mother. Her mother before she was pregnant, before Sally had been born. She knew not because she had seen her before, because she never had, not even in pictures, but because the woman... she was a mirror image of herself. Her eyes, her laughter, her built, her hair...

It was then when the images in front of her began to swirl in distortion, new figures forming into shape until Sally was brought back to her home, only this time it was the home she knew. The prison in which she grew up in. Her mother was not around only her father locked up in his room alone. He sat in his wheelchair his eyes obsessively fixated over a picture frame he held in his hands.

Sally could feel a deep desire brewing inside of him, an uninhibited lust raging in his veins simmering his blood. It was potent, Sally could feel the heaviness of it, could feel the unrestraint wildness of his attraction.

It felt wrong, it was eating him alive.

The redhead didn't know who was the woman in the picture, her steps inching closer to steal a look from behind. What she saw brought a sense of horror unlike anything she had ever experienced in her life.

The woman in the picture, the source of his desire, his obsession, it was her. It was his own daughter.

It was then when Sally had returned to the present. A dreadful chill running down her spine as she looked at her father with wide eyes filled of terror. She immediately ripped her arm away from his hold losing her balance in the process and falling on the ground when she did so. The room was spinning, everything was fragmenting into sharp jaded pieces in front of her.

He couldn't... her father her own father he-he couldn't.

But it had all made sense. The need to keep her locked to this house, the need to keep her away from everyone else except himself and why he had never spoken about her mother or shared pictures of her. It was what Daniel had tried to warn her about all along.

She half-hazardly brought herself up on her two legs in a panic, her feet weakly running to her room where she locked the door in an instant. Her entire body was shaking a sudden wave of nausea hitting her gut in full wrenching force. It brought her to her knees, bile violently hurling from out of her mouth and landing on the floor.

Vomit was now splattered over her dress, tears running uncontrollably down her cheeks. She couldn't... she couldn't go to the funeral not anymore. She had to-she had to leave. She had to run. Sally sprung into action her legs moving, running around her room in a whirl of panic packing everything and anything in sight.  

Sally didn't go to the funeral that day, she missed her final chance at a goodbye. Instead on that day, Sally ran away.

It was that guilt that now weighed heavily inside of Sally's chest. Her tears had settled, her body going numb against the pressing of her knees. She felt tired, her arms going limb and eyes beginning to droop. Everything around her was seeming as a blur. Her body felt heavy almost as if a ton of bricks were sitting over shoulders.

There might as well should be it was how heavy her guilt was feeling.

She was drowning it, but had sobbed away all the tears she had left in her. She should have said good bye to him that day....

He was her Daniel, the first person she ever loved, the first person to show her love in return. He had accepted her when no one else did and she hadn’t... she didn’t say goodbye.

He had loved her and she never spoke her final goodbyes, never told him she had loved him too. 

It was the last thought that tormented Sally’s mind before her exhaustion had swept over her and forced her into a cumbersome sleep. 

[tsaritsa]

your heartache is not forever

this fic can also be found at ff.net or ao3

have some hurt/comfort with a dash of angst!

Riza Hawkeye had never been fond of hospitals as a rule of thumb – the smell was always too astringent, too strong – and if she was being entirely honest, she was terrified of needles. It didn’t seem right that you could shove a piece of thin metal into your arm and just leave it there without some sort of awful repercussion.

On that note, it was why she was trying her best not to flinch as the doctor began to stitch her right cheek back together – she couldn’t actually feel anything, as the woman had numbed that part of her face – but it was a very strange sensation to feel her skin being pulled by thread and pierced repeatedly.

It was not right at all.

There was a snip and the doctor pulled pack, inspecting her handiwork. “It should heal cleanly, provided you don’t bust it up again.” The older woman stared at Riza, eyes narrowed. “It won’t, will it?”

Riza shook her head, trying to ignore the increasing waves of dizziness and nausea that came about whenever she moved her head.  She certainly wasn’t going to give the officer the option to be near her if she could help it. She was exhausted and sore and a little disorientated – but above all she was embarrassed.

Fisticuffs were not a common part of military day-to-day life, contrary to popular opinion – punching people just made for more paperwork and nobody enjoyed extra bureaucracy, particularly when it wasn’t their fault. Of course, none of that really mattered, Riza thought, watching as the doctor made some illegible notes on her clipboard. None of it did, really – not when bureaucracy turned into court-martial.

Point of the matter was that Riza Hawkeye had been sucker-punched by an unruly private during a routine training activity over the private’s inability to accept the criticism given to him. Riza didn’t consider herself a particularly harsh critic, not when compared to the sergeants’ she had during her time at the training academy – but apparently it was too much for the young man. The male ego was so fragile, she considered as the doctor took out a torch and began to examine her eyes. All it took from her was a sharp comment about what was lacking in his parade rest for him to lash out – quite literally.

It had been a few years since she had been punched with actual intent – regular spars with the Colonel aside – and speaking of the Colonel…

His reaction was no better, in her opinion.  She could vaguely remember shouting as she had been knocked down – but the snap of his ignition gloves cut through the ringing in her ears as clear as day – and then Havoc had appeared by her, profanity spilling from his mouth like an oil slick and warm hands keeping her head still as he tried to inspect the damage done to her face. She had tried her best not to cry but she could feel the stinging of salty tears in her cheek and it was hard to keep her breathing even – everything was blurry and loud around her, the ground was shaking and Havoc was in the middle of it, steadfast, calm and composed. She had never been quite so grateful for him in that moment – at least he knew how to respond in a dignified manner.

In all the confusion Havoc had quickly pulled her away from the chaos that had erupted on the parade grounds, careful not to jostle her as he all but carried her back into the main administration building, yelling for someone to call for an ambulance. At the time she had thought the man was overreacting – but now she could feel the ache settling into her bones, and the unnatural warmth of her right cheek. Riza wasn’t out of shape by any stretch of the imagination – but the punch had come out of the blue, and with no adrenalin to temper the blow she knew in the coming week that the pain would only become more acute.

The doctor pulled back and jotted down a few more notes down on the clipboard next to her. “From what I can see you got off lightly – the gashing aside, of course. You’re lucky; any higher and you might’ve ended up with a fractured eye socket.” She gestured to the wound. “What did he get you with anyway? A hangnail? A simple punch shouldn’t tear the skin like this.”

Riza laughed – and immediately regretted it, pain shooting through her nose and temples. The anaesthetic was very local, apparently. “Not quite,” she managed. “I think he had a signet ring on.”

The doctor tutted sympathetically. “That would certainly do it. Make sure to keep the wound clean – an infection there could prove dangerous. Do I need to write you a prescription for antiseptic?”

Riza nodded carefully, trying her best not to hurl as another wave of dizziness washed over her.

“Alrighty,” the woman replied, ripping a piece of paper covered with what looked like chicken scratches from a notepad and placed it on the table next to the bed Riza was sitting on. Even Edward had better handwriting than this woman’s. “Take this to the pharmacist and they’ll sort you out just fine. You got someone to take you home?” the doctor queried, standing up and stripping off her gloves, throwing them into the bin by the door.

“Yes,” Riza replied quietly, leaning back onto the bed, the world suddenly a lot calmer at a forty-five degree angle. “I think they’re waiting for you outside.” She had heard voices through the walls, their cadences and idiosyncrasies both familiar and comforting.

The doctor nodded and shrugged her white coat back on, before leaving the room. Immediately there was an increase in volume through the door that was left slightly ajar, and Riza tried her best not to cry again. Already she could feel the pain medication she had been given in the ambulance starting to wear off, and her whole face felt like it had been hit with a truck. It would not do to be overly emotional over a freak incident – and apparently when it came to the Colonel, she was the one who had to act like a rational adult.

Slowly, she turned on the bed, pulling one of the lumpy hospital-issued pillows down and hugged it to her chest, carefully breathing through her nose. She could feeling a headache growing at the back of her skull, dull but consistent. She just wanted to sleep for a few hours – sleeping through the pain would be so much easier than having to consider how she moved her jaw, much easier than controlling her breathing.

There was a soft knock at the door and she looked up to see the entire team sans Warrant Officer Falman file into the room, the Colonel the last to walk in, his brow furrowed something awful.

“Hey guys,” she greeted them tiredly, not bothering to shift from her position on the bed, arms wrapped around a pillow. “What’s scuttlebutt saying?”

“Not much,” Breda replied, sitting in the chair that the doctor had been using, regarding her with a critical eye. “It’s hardly a story to embellish. You got punched by a wanker.”

“Has he done this before?” she asked, eyes flitting to where Mustang stood at the back of the room, an unreadable expression on his face.

“According to Warrant Officer Falman, no. But he’s got a history of pissing off his higher-ups – it’s why he got transferred here in the first place.” Breda ran a hand through his hair roughly, sighing loudly. “Sounds like a real swell guy, doesn’t he?”

“Just peachy,” she replied. “Good to know it was nothing personal.”

Havoc snorted at that, clapping Fuery on the back rather roughly. “You wanna have the honours of telling her?” Fuery shook his head frantically, almost shrinking on the spot.

Riza frowned, trying to ignore the sudden shooting pain in her temple. “Tell me what, Havoc?” she asked carefully, glancing back to Mustang. His face, if at all possible, had twisted even more unpleasantly at this shift in conversation.

“It, uh…was personal,” Havoc answered, rubbing the back of her neck awkwardly. “Man was bitching something awful about you when I dragged you away. It got a lot worse when he was placed under arrest.”

She pursed her lips. “Do I want to know more?” she asked cautiously.

“No.” Mustang spoke up for the first time, his voice sharp and furious. “The Lieutenant doesn’t need any more stress than what she is currently dealing with.” He uncrossed his arms, and Riza noticed that his fists were clenched tightly. “You’ve all seen that she’s fine, bar some stitches.” He looked at Havoc pointedly.

Breda got the hint before his friend did. “Yes, sir. We’ll get Sergeant Fuery to drop Black Hayate off at Lieutenant Hawkeye’s apartment later tonight.” He stood and opened the door, waiting for the other two to leave before shutting the door behind him with a soft click.

There was silence in the room for a while as Mustang leaned against the wall, fists clenching and unclenching while Riza looked at him, waiting. Eventually he pushed off the wall, and sat down in the chair that Breda had vacated, hanging his head in his hands. “The doctor said you could end up with a scar,” he said after a while.

“Wouldn’t be the worst I’ve had, sir,” she replied easily. His head shot up at that and downright glared at her.

“That’s not funny, Lieutenant,” he snapped, rubbing at his face. She had to try to not crack a smile.

Men.

“Of course not, sir,” she replied, shifting slightly on the bed so she could see him better. “Forgive me if I don’t want to focus on the grizzlier aspects of today.”

He relaxed a little at this, the sharp line of his shoulders softening somewhat. “You’re okay though?”

She smiled affectionately and stretched out her hand to him – carefully, he took of his gloves and set them down by her prescription and clasped her hand within his own, kissing her knuckles softly. “It’ll hurt like a bitch tomorrow,” she replied quietly, rubbing her thumb over the back of his hand. “But I think that the doctor’s prescribed me some quality painkillers. Thank goodness for modern medicine.”

He managed a weak smile at that, sighing deeply.

“Was it that bad?” she asked carefully, squeezing his hand. The responding grip spoke volumes and she bit her lip, ducking her head. “I see,” she managed. The whole room was too hot all of a sudden – she could feel hot tears prickling uncomfortably at the corners of her eyes and the familiar tightening in her chest. His thumbs drew constant patterns on her hand as she fought to control her breathing, pain stabbing through her nose with every harsh inhalation.

“I’m sorry to have worried you,” she managed, her voice thick in her throat.

“It’s not your fault,” he soothed, fingers drifting over the pulse point in her wrist delicately. “At this point I don’t think you’ll even need to provide evidence beyond ‘he punched me in the face and it hurt a lot’.”

A watery laugh bubbled out of her and she grimaced at the resulting pain. “At least there’s that,” she replied, a warm smile growing on her face. “I may need to take a couple of days off work as well.”

“Aren’t you lucky?” he commented, moving a hand to her face and very carefully pushed her fringe back from her face, before stopping. “Where’s your clip?” he asked, puzzled.

“In my jacket pocket,” she replied. “I must have landed on it when I was hit – it’s in a few pieces now.”

He let go of her hand for a moment, moving to the end of the bed where her jacket was draped over and fished around in her pockets.

“Roy?” she asked, sitting up a little to see what he was doing.

“Give me a moment,” he said, before walking over to the counter top on the side of the room, and grabbed a sheet of paper and a pencil. There was a minute where he stood scribbling onto the piece of paper and muttering to himself indistinctly before he placed her clip into the middle of the paper. There was a pause before a familiar blue light emitted from the counter top and then faded away.

“It’s been a while since I did something as simple as this,” he admitted, walking back to Riza with her now-repaired clip. “I’m not entirely sure I did it right – if it breaks again I’ll buy you a new one.”

“Thank you,” Riza said, accepting the clip and inspecting it critically. “I’m sure it’ll be fine.” She shifted a little on the bed and patted the empty space next to her.

“Riza, I don’t think-”

“Just a few minutes,” she coaxed. “These pillows are awful. I know for a fact you are far more comfortable.”

“Oh, fine,” he said, a lop-sided grin growing on his face. “This would be a lot more comfortable at your place though…”

“We’ll be going there in a bit anyway,” she replied, gingerly resting her head on his chest as he settled down beside her. “Now kindly shut up for five minutes.”