#apparently after a year with this therapist i never mentioned my finger picking until this week

[youremyonlyhope]

Living with Body Focused Repetitive Behaviors

Me: *Is super stressed over life.*

Trichotillomania: Time to pull some hair! C'mon. You won't even notice you're doing it. It'll make you feel better.

Me: NO. *Spends 4 days putting hair in a mini twist protective style* There.

Dermatillomania: Hey. Your hands are free. And restless. And dry... Pick your skin. Bleed. Bleed.

Me: Stop! *Starts up a new crochet project to keep hands busy.* Ok cool.

Onychophagia: Hi hi. Your nails are.... perfect biting length... you should do that.

Me: Noooooooooooo *Paints nails.*

Dermatillomania: Oh look, you got some nail polish on your skin. Pick it off... now pick some more...

Me: SDJAKFDSJFKLDKAFDJKLAFJDKSAKLFDASL

[young-dumb-and-vaccinated]

Idk if your requests are open but could I request a Hannibal x reader who has an emotionally/verbally abusive older sibling. If you're not comfortable or if it's too dark you can ignore this :)

Anon, I had an emotionally abusive older sister figure growing up. I would be fucking honored. I hope you like it!

(Gender neutral) y/n gets some unexpected advice from their new therapist after things got physical with their verbally abusive older sister. 

Trigger warnings: verbal and emotional abuse, reactive abuse, mention of suicide, implied use of r-slur

At first, you hated that you had to see a therapist. Just because you were the first one to throw a punch, you were designated the violent one. The unstable one. The one that needed to be straightened out. As if nearly two decades of your sister's completely unchecked psychological torment was supposed to just roll right off your back. But she'd been asking for it since the day she learned to speak, and you both knew it. You only regretted not hitting her harder.

Dr. Lecter's office was spacious, overwhelming and cold. Impeccably decorated, but not so much in the way of welcoming. You couldn't begin to picture yourself opening up to whatever kind of person kept their office as dark and frigid as a morgue.

"My sincerest apologies for making you wait, [F/N]." A low, accented voice greeted you from behind. The man hurriedly strode across the room and took his place behind the desk. "I'm Dr. Hannibal Lecter, it's nice to meet you in person."

Your gaze fell, mostly because the therapist was just as intimidating as the room. "Hi. I'm [F/N] [L/N]. But you already knew that."

"Perhaps we can begin by clarifying why it is you're here?" Dr. Lecter asked. His tone wasn't accusatory, but confused.

You put your hands on your knees and sighed. "I punched my sister in the throat."

"Did she deserve it?"

He probably expected this question to catch you off guard, but you had an answer.

"She did." You nodded.

"Oh?" Dr. Lecter raised an eyebrow. With a look, he urged you to elaborate.

"I had just gotten these new shoes." You began. "These really nice cuffed ankle boots that I've been eyeing for, like, months. And I was wearing them around the house, y'know, to break them in. Well, apparently, she didn't like the sound they made on the hardwood, so she said 'Jesus [F/N], since you clearly crave attention so much, why don't you go kill yourself?'"

"And she said this..." Dr. Lecter narrowed his eyes. "Because your shoes were making noise against the floor?"

"So I was about to say 'sorry' when I realized that I didn't do anything." You continued. "So I just went about my business. When I didn't apologize, she got up into my face and started telling me what a waste of space I was. Then I just decked her."

Dr. Lecter's mouth turned up into a slight grin. He crossed the room and took a knee beside you. "Make a fist for me."

You balled your hand up into a fist, tucking your thumb under your fingers.

"Oh, no. That won't do at all. You're going to dislocate your thumb that way." Dr. Lecter clicked his tongue. "Come now, dear. Give me your hand."

He took your hand and gently guided it into a proper fist, with your thumb awkwardly resting over your fingers.

"There we are." He whispered. "Next time, try that. And if she hits back, don't be afraid to use your nails or teeth."

"Thanks, but," You laughed awkwardly. "I'm pretty sure my mom sent me here so there wouldn't be a next time?"

"Your mother is dreadfully naïve if she thinks there won't be." Dr. Lecter took a seat in the chair across from yours. "She clearly sees no problem that her oldest child is encouraging her sibling to commit suicide."

You leaned back in your chair. "But what about 'violence is never the answer'?"

"I try not to limit my practice with meaningless platitudes." He smiled. "You've heard 'sticks and stones may break my bones'..."

"But chains and whips excite me." You finished, not stopping for a moment to consider if your 50-year-old ambiguously European therapist would understand a reference to Rihanna.

He paused for a moment, then laughed. It was strange to see this six foot tall, terrifying man laugh, but it happened. You did that. "That's not the way I've heard it go."

"I feel so dumb." You threw your head back. "It's a song."

"I have to say, I like that version better." Dr. Lecter said. "The reality is, my dear [F/N], you are only a perpetrator as long as your sister is. What you're engaged in is known as 'reactive abuse'. While it can be dangerous in its own right, it often manifests as a form of self-defense."

"That..." Your voice trailed off. "Actually makes me feel a little better."

"Don't let anyone tell you what you did was unjustified." Dr. Lecter instructed. "And, more importantly, don't tell yourself it was unjustified."

"Thanks." You said, weakly.

“And in the meantime,” Dr. Lecter continued. “You need to make sure when you hit her, you don’t break your fingers in the process. Do you understand?” 

“Loud and clear.” You nodded. 

“I feel that’s probably enough time spent on your worthless sister, don’t you?” He settled into his seat. “Tell me about yourself.” 

He broke you open like like an egg. Soon enough, the hour was over and you didn’t even feel it pass. But you were refreshed and ready to take on the world with a new understanding of your station in life. That was, until you saw your sister waiting for you in the lobby. 

“Hey fuckface, mom sent me to pick you up from suicidal freak daycare.” She said, slouching in her seat with her legs crossed. 

You took in a breath, falling back on your old, horrifically ineffective coping skills. 

“This is a private exit for my patients, Miss [L/N].” Dr. Lecter scolded, putting a protective hand on your shoulder. “And I would appreciate it if you did not use that language in my office.” 

The sudden presence of an actual adult snapped her into shape. She sat up and uncrossed her legs. “Of course. Sorry, sir.” 

“Now apologize.” Dr. Lecter demanded. 

She said nothing. 

“Miss [L/N], I find it terribly offensive that you felt entitled to insult both my practice and my patient.” He broke the silence. “You would do well to apologize.” 

“I’m sorry you feel that way.” She muttered. “Can I please just take them home?” 

You felt yourself tense up. Dr. Lecter squeezed your shoulder comfortingly and leaned in to your ear. “Remember what I taught you, [L/N].”

You took a few steps forward, Dr. Lecter watching from the threshold. 

“Are you waiting for an invitation?” Your sister scoffed. “I don’t have all day, you little reta-” 

You heard the collision before you felt it. You launched your fist straight into her jaw before she could finish that word. A dreadful crunch filled the air. 

You pulled your hand back, a rush of endorphins flooding your mind. Your knuckles felt a little sore, but the pain faded quickly. Your sister’s pain, however, would last quite a while. 

You looked back at Dr. Lecter and shook out your hand. “You were right. That is better.” 

[arambleaway]

Okay, so like Ace Attorney recently ate my brain. And I have never played any of the games. This is the true potential of the internet at work people. Anyway.

I keep thinking about my very specific images of Phoenix Wright, Miles Edgeworth, and the relationship therein. This is gonna be a long one because I can't be assed to make it more coherent than the mess it is in my brain.

So. Phoenix is obviously from a very loving and supportive family except they absolutely loathe the law and law professionals. Phoenix is trans and his family is super supportive, allowing him to express himself even from a young age. Unfortunately, Phoenix's new teacher isn't so great. Is actually a bit of a piece of shit and has been isolating Phoenix and so the poor boy has spent the first couple months of being out being harassed by his teacher and classmates. And that is part of why the trial sticks with Phoenix so much. Because Miles stands up to not only the students, but the teacher and all of the vitriol they've been leaking as well. And he doesn't just drop Phoenix after. He still wants him around and as a little kid that shit sticks with Phoenix far longer than it does with Larry and Edgeworth. Also, unfortunately, if you've got one asshole teacher, you've likely got a few nearby, so Phoenix's family does their best to support him and they offer to transfer him and do what they can, but Phoenix as a child is afraid to move and never see Edgeworth or Larry again so he doesn't. And then when he starts writing letters, he finds he can't stop because they become confessionals of a sort and a place where he doesn't have to be on guard and can know that the person he is writing to is accepting of his identity even if he does wonder from time to time if maybe Edgeworth no longer accepts him.

Anyway, then canon, yada yada. Lets talk about Miles now. Miles is depressed, okay. And he writes that note (you know the one) completely literally. But here's the thing: Miles knows the trauma of finding dead bodies. Has probably seen the mess they leave, and doesn't want to cause more harm than he already has. So he writes the note and packs the pills/blade/etc into a suitcase and takes a flight to Europe where no one that knows him will have a chance to stumble upon him. The turnabout is this: on the plane over he gets into an argument with his seat buddy. Its no one important, but the key info on him is that he is in therapy and sort of off hand brings it up and Miles, who was not raised with a pleasant idea of therapists and such starts an unholy row with him, blatantly projecting his own insecurities and perceived weaknesses on this poor man. The flight attendants have to separate the two and the man spends the rest of the time in first class. Miles spends the rest of the flight getting dirty looks from everyone else. By the flight's end he is frothing at the mouth and the man's assertion that therapy is not something for the faint of heart has been burrowing under his skin. He gets off the plane and rather than immediately commit he thinks he might as well make the source clear and winds up at the empty von Karma estate. He spends the night with a blade on his wrist and voices in his ears. But he doesn't move.

He falls asleep and he wakes from a nightmare he can't recall and it is noon the next day. He doesn't eat, he doesn't move. He just lays there and thinks. He thinks about Phoenix, Franziska, His Father, von Karma, all the lives he's sent to prison after measuring them against a false scale, and he thinks of the man on the plane. He thinks of the things he said, the ring he noticed on his finger, and the husband that was brought up at some point in their altercation. He thinks a lot about what it means to be and Edgeworth and what it means to be a von Karma. He picks up the blade and he puts it in his suitcase. He starts to research Therapists. Because he is going to have the best therapist in the business if he is going to do this. (He just kinda goes for the one with the most academic accolades that is willing to do home visits or move of some shit, anyway) Miles Edgeworth starts therapy and it goes horribly. Miles hates it viscerally and he doesn't feel like his therapist understands. (Which they don't. They keep trying to convince Edgeworth to see and actual trauma specialist and find someone that he clicks with rather than coming back to them). His therapist is worth their name though, and Miles is actually hospitalized due to being a danger to himself. For all that he loathes this, it does eventually allow him to meet with an actual trauma specializing therapist and finally maybe understand what the big deal is. He still hates it, but he finds the therapist that actually suits him and things get a little better.

The first thing is he stops living in the von Karma estate. He admits its a bad place for him to be at the moment and so he moves closer to his therapist and gets a rental flat. Second he gets a new wardrobe. He's been using his stuff left at the von Karma home and all of it is his flashy very "von Karma" wear. So he goes and gets new suits tailored in his preferred style and he pays for them and wears them because he realizes he likes them and not because he is trying to emulate his Mentor. This step is especially a big deal because it is the first moment where he is able to really define who "Miles Edgeworth" is outside of the confines of the courtroom. In all this, of course, he is also figuring out who he is within the courtroom as well. After committing to his therapist and recovery, he goes back into Law in Germany and really tries to define why he still wants to be there. I like to think he spends some time in small courts as a defense attorney assistant while trying to redefine his place. Anyway, eventually Miles decides he wants to remove his old stuff from the von Karma estate. He might move in his new stuff but for now it is merely removing the old, giving him the space and option of a new start. In clearing his stuff he winds up in the storage space on the household and there he finds an old suitcase.

The suitcase is Miles's from when he first came to the household. Von Karma had told the staff to pitch it when they first arrived and apparently whoever was on duty that day was kind enough to save it for later. Miles has a bit of a breakdown on seeing it and has a rather sharp set back in his improvement. He finds himself staring at the knife again. Because he never put it away. He still doesn't. But he doesn't touch it, just looks. Miles fights his way back out of the hole and in doing so removes all of his things from the estate except that little suitcase. Its the last thing and he opens it to slowly deal with the contents. Most of it is children's clothes, some expired toiletries, but buried in the deepest part of the case, wrapped lovingly in an old bowtie is his Father's defense attorney badge. Miles doesn't have a breakdown this time (yay!) but he does spend the next week unable to sleep for the sheer intensity of his nightmares. He carries on though. He slowly and surely patches together who exactly Miles Edgeworth is and what he wants to stand for. And that little gold badge stays folded in the bow tie and tucked in the deepest corner of his latest suitcase. He throws out the knife.

Once again back to canon, he returns doesn't tell anyone shit, and slowly relearns Phoenix Wright and what that man means to him. Hazakura temple, all the gay vibes, until the disbarment era. Lets stop by Phoenix again, shall we?

Phoenix is disbarred and for the first so many years he is genuinely friends with Kristoph Gavin. None of this "oh i always suspected shit", he believes in Kristoph, because that's who Phoenix is. At this point Edgeworth is still in Europe and a large part of that is so that he can continue with his therapy. But he does drop everything to talk to Phoenix once he hears the news. He immediately knows that something is up because Phoenix would never and he believes in him more than anyone else and he is offering to do everything in his power to make this better because Phoenix is worth it and Miles love-- woah. that's a new emotion. what the fuck is up with that. So anyway Miles realizes that he has some less than platonic feelings and he wants to run back to Europe and his therapist and figure out what it all means, but above all Wright is his Friend dammit and he owes him so much. But on Phoenix's side, he sees how far Edgeworth is offering to go and he turns down all of the things that would cause Miles's life to be disrupted. He does accept the knowledge and shoulder to lean on that Edgeworth offers, but Edgeworth doesn't need to move continents or anything. Besides he has Kristoph here to help. And Miles kind of hates all of this situation, but he knows that he truly doesn't have the kind of knowledge and pull to really be of service not to mention his new discovery is not doing his health any favors. So he goes back to Germany and Phoenix stays with Kristoph.

Now Miles is in Germany figuring out how to manage complex emotions and romantic relationships, while Phoenix is working with Kristoph, who becomes Kris, who could maybe be more except Phoenix isn't sure it would be fair to him since he has become more than a little hung up on Edgeworth since he came back from Europe. And because when Edgeworth asks him to Europe he jumps with no forethought. He gets Kris to watch Trucy and jets off to spend time with Miles. They do their amazing duo routine and Edgeworth comes away from the encounter knowing that yes, he very much would like a romantic relationship with Phoenix. Okay. Now how to go about it. Meanwhile Phoenix gets back and sees Trucy and this is when he realizes that Kristoph is dirty. Trucy tells him about something she saw while she stayed with him and something clicks and Phoenix has a mild breakdown because of how much danger he just realizes she might be in. He calls Miles at some point during this and Miles talks him down. He falls asleep and in the morning he doesn't shave. He smiles and gets Trucy to school, then sits in the office and tries to figure out where he goes from here. That afternoon there is knock at the door.

Miles Edgeworth does nothing half way and has flown to Phoenix just to be able to help him figure out the next steps and comfort him. Phoenix is officially gone for this man. The two talk and scheme and eventually hatch their mad plan to rebuild the entire fucking system. Miles will use his distance to research and provide information, Phoenix will keep an eye on Kristoph and start building what he can here. In all of this Trucy's safety comes up. Phoenix actually considers sending her with Miles. Miles puts that idea to a stop real quick, though he does mention doing more visits and such. Trucy is very happy to hear about this and demands to go every time. Phoenix says something along the lines of it being more expensive for two people to fly and joking that it would be cheaper if they just let him keep her in his suitcase. This is how Miles Edgeworth returns to Germany with a solid plan for the future and one Magician more than planned. Trucy obviously sneaks into his luggage and somehow makes it with him to Germany. In doing so she finds the badge in his bag, and despite the intense scolding she gets, the two are finally able to really connect and bond as Miles opens up to her a bit about his Father and what he has gone through.

Eventually Trucy gets back where she belongs and despite a few more hijinks over the years things progress via canon. Edgeworth and Phoenix have both accepted their feelings but have yet to act on them as neither is in a position to properly be with the other as they wish. So they flirt and argue and love each other intensely as only the best of friends and trauma buddies can. It all pays off and Kristoph is arrested. Phoenix is innocent, but he is unsure about going back into law. In this case, Kris was kinda the last proof of where blind belief will get you and it isn't just a façade, Phoenix is a lot bitter at the larger world and himself. So he isn't in the greatest place mentally, and Edgeworth sees it. And for the first time he thinks about reaching out to someone. Especially because this is Phoenix not just a random stranger on a plane. Then he finds he has the option to take the Chief Prosecutor position, and he finds himself staring at his Father's badge. He thinks on the years and his growth, and he talks with his therapist. And he decides to move. He takes the new position and seeing Phoenix struggle so close he finally shares about therapy. Not all of it. Nothing really just that he goes and has since the year-they-do-not-speak-of and that he is looking for a new one in the city and maybe Phoenix would like to help him. Because he values Phoenix and his opinions. Phoenix does eventually wind up in a therapists office and it is a mess, but it helps.

The two reconnect more strongly than ever and shortly thereafter Phoenix agrees to take the Bar again. Miles supports him in this and watches as he struggles and groans but makes it through. And at the same time he watches him heal a bit from the atrocities of the past 7 years. When Phoenix passes he is over-joyed and that night finds him holding his Father's badge and slowly thinking. Turning the idea over and over he can't bring himself to ignore it. He walks up to Phoenix in the office the next day and with all the drama of a marriage proposal give Phoenix his Father's badge. Apollo starts to realize exactly what sort of shit he signed up for. Especially when Miles turns up a couple weeks later and attempts to strangle Phoenix with his own tie and demands having the badge back because What The Fuck. An Orca. You Absolute Dumbass.

This is the point where my ideas dry up. Because where I leave them is pining idiots that are actually doing pretty ok. I figure they eventually get their shit together, but only after inflicting immense suffering on their co-workers and the legal system as a whole with their obvious pining and flirting. I barely know Apollo but watching him suffer is just more amusing than it should be. Also Miles is Autistic and it actually is part of what allows him to bond with Trucy.

[iam93percentstardust]

Any kidfic recs where they have a lil kid but not a teenager? 🥰 Love ya!

Definitely! Kidfics tend to be very hit or miss for me since child development can be very hard to get right but the ones that I do like, i tend to positively love and frequently reread

You didn’t specify a ship so I went with Stevetony, Winteriron, and Stuckony, but I’ve separated them by ship so you can easily pick and choose which ones you want to read:

Stevetony

Of Strippers and Snow Shovels by @betheflame

Tony has some questions about what Peter's dad does for a living after Peter draws an ... interesting picture about why his dad is his hero.

Practically Perfect in Every Way by @betheflame and @hogwartstoalexandria

Tony Stark is a lot of things - billionaire, former playboy, professional philanthropist - but a few years back he added two more titles: widower and single father. As Peter keeps growing, Tony can't seem to keep a nanny. Thankfully, his employee James Barnes has a solution.

Art therapist Steve Rogers is really tired of living grant cycle to grant cycle, but is wary when he gets an opportunity from his best friend's boss to be his child's live-in caregiver. He hates Bucky's boss. But then he meets the kid and then he gets to know Tony and then...

And then they all live happily ever after.

Rockabye by @bladeofthenebula27

Cute alphas didn’t appear out of nowhere to help ruined omegas. That was a widely accepted fact.

Tony Stark had always known his life wouldn’t be easy as a genius omega in an alpha’s world. But not even he predicted getting knocked up and forced to move to a small town in the middle of nowhere.

Some things can’t be hidden by @s-horne

“What?” Peter sat up in the booth, suddenly alert. “Dad, what is it?” He followed Tony’s eyes right to a man in the doorway of the restaurant. A big, blond and young man that even Peter could admit was attractive.

“Is that him?” Peter asked. “He’s young.”

“He’s 32,” Tony argued, though he was still pale and didn’t shift his gaze.

“Have you actually seen proof of age? Because he looks young, Dad. Like not that much older than my age. Have you checked his ID? There are some good fakes out there, just warning you.”

“Will you be quiet?” Tony hissed, lifting his hand and waving to the man. “He is perfectly legal, thank you very much.”

Peter watched as the guy lit up as soon as he noticed Tony, awkwardly dodging the lunchtime crowds as he tried to make his way over to their table.

“Hi,” he said when he reached them, a beaming smile on his face. He made a motion to kiss Tony before his eyes flickered to Peter and he changed his course, pressing his lips to Tony’s cheek instead and stepping away quickly.

Adventures in Babysitting by @s-horne

Bucky babysits Peter for the first time on his own. There are cuddly toys, tears, cupcakes, and bedtime stories.

It Takes a Village (or a team of superheroes) by aven_garde

Three months after the Chitauri attack, Tony received a phone call that changed his life. (Or, the one in which a group of remarkable people come together and balance battling villains and raising a child).

In Trouble Deep by @festiveferret and @sirsapling

"Whoever did this has a reason, and Stark needs to be with someone who can protect him. He won’t exactly be able to protect himself like this.” Fury looked at the baby consideringly. “No, it’s you, Steve. Besides, he likes you. Suck it up, soldier, you’re stuck with him.”

Tony, Please by @festiveferret

Steve is doing just fine nursing a painful crush on his most captivating client. That is, until his babysitter has an emergency and drops Steve's six-year-old daughter off at his work. Somehow, everything goes off the rails.

like-like by nanasekei

Morgan doesn’t really know Captain America.

And honorable mention cause even though it’s just a pregnancy fic right now, I’m holding out hope for a sequel with a baby:

Baby’s Breath by @s-horne

Wow. Tony’s mind went blank when his eyes moved involuntarily and focused in on where Nurse Rogers was pointing something out on the computer screen. It was nothing, really. It was a blob roughly the size of a jelly bean. The picture wasn’t even clear. It was black and white and so ridiculously grainy that Tony couldn’t see clearly.

Oh. Actually, the reason he couldn’t see clearly was because of the tears in his eyes.

“Wow,” he said, voice breaking on the short words. “That’s…”

“Your baby. Right here.”

Tony fell silent again, just taking it all in. That was his baby. His child. A whole little person living inside of him, ready to grow and stretch and make his body do all kinds of weird things. Nine months of his baby inside of him and then eighteen years of them living in Tony’s house.

Somehow, it already didn’t seem like long enough. Seeing it on a screen wasn’t enough either. Tony wanted to reach out, to trace the tiny image with his fingers and try and feel what little extra he couldn’t inside of him.

After a long moment, he licked his lips. Shit. He was having a baby.

“Steve would love this,” he breathed out.

Winteriron

High Noon in Sandbridge (part of the Nights in Sandbridge series and does rely on some of the other works in the series, so make sure you read those first if you haven’t already) by @tisfan and @27dragons

Life is pretty good for Bucky and Tony these days. The restaurant is doing well, and they’re happy with their little family. Then Bucky’s sister meets an untimely end and Bucky and Tony are suddenly guardians to a niece they’ve only met a handful of times. Their attempts to make a home for the bereaved child are complicated by Tony's mother, Bucky’s ex-lover, and the man who claims to be Billie’s father. But whatever her parentage, Billie is a Barnes through and through -- stubborn and hot-tempered and not remotely interested in making a life in the one place that her mother had sworn never to return. Will she ever learn to call Dockside and Sandbridge home?

Place in Your Heart by potrix

They try to hide it, Bucky can see the effort they all put into making him more comfortable, but Bucky isn’t stupid, he knows they’d rather have him somewhere else, somewhere far away from their home, the place where they’re supposed to feel happy and safe.

The Long Way Round by potrix

“Maybe we shouldn’t see each other anymore,” Tony blurts out in a rush. “It’s—I think it’s for the best. If we stop.”

It takes a moment for the meaning of the words to register, but when it does, Bucky turns cold, stomach sinking. “Are—are you breakin’ up with me? Tony—”

“You didn’t do anything wrong,” Tony hurries to reassure, reading Bucky’s mind. “You were perfect, Bucky, I swear you were. Are. This. It’s not. It’s really not you,” he says with a small, humourless chuckle, “it’s me.”

Bucky looks at the tense line of Tony’s shoulders, at the sad set of his mouth, the defeat in his eyes, and he knows it’s the truth. Or, at least, what Tony believes to be true.

 Or; sometimes, people mean well, but that doesn't always mean they know best. Bucky and Tony, unfortunately, have to learn that the hard way.

Letters to a Soldier by CityofAngels

When Peter Stark, son of the famous tattoo artist Tony Stark, signed up for a program to write letters to a soldier, he didn't know what Bucky Barnes would change in his and his father's life...

Boys Will Be Boys by NotEvenCloseToStraight

When Peter and Harley can't stop fighting at school, Dad!Tony and Dad!Bucky meet up to try and figure out a way to keep the peace between their kiddos, but end up falling for each other instead.

Stuckony

‘Til the End of the Line by Avengers_Whore

“Steeeeeve!”

“There’s the lil devil now,” Bucky murmured fondly. “Lemme see ‘im.”

Steve laughed and nodded his head, walking out of the kitchen and heading towards the bedroom. He opened the door and sighed when their omega was nowhere in sight on the bed. He made his way towards their closet and opened the door, pointing his phone at the brunet curled up in all of the clothes.

Fennel Root & Super Soldiers by @betheflame

Peter hasn't stopped crying for weeks and Tony is nearly at his whit's end. Thankfully, Steve and Bucky have a plan.

Forging Bonds by Huntress79

Just when Tony thought that his relationship with Steve and Bucky is safe and stable, he learns of a son he apparently has. How will “his” soldiers react to the sudden addition to the household?

[golden-barnes]

Divinità

Prologue: Salvezza

Bucky Barnes X F! Reader

Description of the series: Au! Divinità. A deity. A goddess. One that Bucky has only seen 3 times before and now he can’t get Y/N out of his head. So he decided to put an idealized version of Y/N in his books. But what will happen when he gets to meet the real Y/N? Will you still be his deity?

Summary: (Salvation) The three times Bucky has seen Y/N and how his life changed because of that.

Warning: Curse words, grumpy Bucky, ptsd attacks and war mentions

Word count:1.5k words (I think that’s a lot for a prologue but I got carried away) 

A/N: I (loosely) based this off the Dante Alighieri and Beatrice Portinari story but with a modern twist. This is my first series in years, so I am a little rusty but I am very excited about it.

Past:

The first time he saw her: 

James Buchanan Barnes hated the center. And he made it goddamn clear that it was the worst and that he rather be anywhere else than there. After coming home from his last tour, with one less hand, Sam and Steve decided it would be for the best that he went to the Military Rehabilitation Center. He understood why they wanted him to get help and it wasn’t like they forced him, he truly wanted to get better. He was grateful that they cared about him so much to help him. And the center helped him a lot. He was getting fewer nightmares. The nurses were nice. He likes his physical therapist, even though he thinks that she underestimates him. But he is making some progress, more than anyone in the center. The food is decent, a lot better than what he ate when he was stationed. He liked going to the small library that they had in the center. There was a little park next to the center that he likes to go for a run in the mornings. He was finally starting to feel normal, or rather as normal as he could possibly get. 

His psychologist, on the other hand, is a nuisance. It wasn’t that he is a bad guy, it’s just that Bucky hates talking about himself and he swears the psychologist is out to get him.Sam thinks that he is just being dramatic but he still claims that he hates him. He recommended (even though Bucky says that he ordered him) to keep a journal. To fuck with him, Bucky decided to write some random things. They were borderline poems but Bucky would never admit that. In one of his journal entries, he wrote  about some french fries he ate in Belgium. One time he just rambled about a blue bird. Doc wasn’t pleased with that one in particular.

“You have to write about your feelings, Mr Barnes. That is what the journal is for.” He reprimanded  him in one of his sessions. But Bucky wasn’t going to go down without a fight. That is until today.

His session with the irritating physiologist started normal. The whole "How do you feel Barnes?" and "did you have any nightmares last night or any anxiety attacks?"  Which the answer was yes. He didn't particularly wake up on the right side of the bed. Meaning that this session was getting on his nerves more than usual.

Then there was a knock on a door before he could answer the doctor's questions.

"Excuse me, doctor. The director told me to come get you. Apparently there's a situation in the lunchroom." From the door emerged the most beautiful person he has ever laid eyes on. Her presence just filled the room, in a way he has never seen. It was as if she was radiating calmness. For a few minutes, all of his worries and his fears just vanished. His mind was only focused on her. On the way her eyes were warm and made him feel comfort. On the smile she was giving him. Oh that smile. He knew that he was now addicted to it and would do anything to see it again.

“Behold, a deity stronger than I; who coming, shall rule over me.”

 Was the first thing that came into his mind when she left the room with the psychologist. That night when he wrote in his journal, he wrote about her. 

A month later;

The second time he saw her

Veteran’s day in the center wasn’t as fun as a lot of people think it is. It would be crowded with family members. Kids would bring their toys to show them to their grandparents. There would be a cookout outside for all the vets and their families. Even fucking games, there were little challenges and shit for the families to have fun with. The ruckus was too much for Bucky. Bucky always made it a point not to celebrate this holiday.

 “First of all, it’s dumb. If you wanted to do something for the veterans, maybe you should give the centers more money to operate. And, I don’t know, make more fucking centers. Second of fucking all, why make so much noise? Seriously, can’t we have ONE silent holiday?” He once told Sam and Steve. To which Sam replied with a “stop being such a grumpy motherfucker”.

This year, he decided to hide in the library instead of his room. He wanted to finish this new book Steve brought him in peace and quiet. And since the library was on the other side of the rehabilitation center, he knew it was gonna be his little safe haven. What he didn’t expect was to see her there.

He stopped at the entrance, astonished and amazed. With a flowy flower dress and peonies in her hand. She was looking at the books that they had. Running her fingers over the spines of the books. Why would she have flowers? Why was she here? Was she staying?

She turned around to see him and gave him the same addicting smile that she gave him the other day.

“I thought I was going to be the only one here. I was just looking at the books. Don’t worry I’m going to leave.” Bucky swears her voice is like honey to his ears. His senses were overpowered by the smell of her perfume. Was that vainilla? Or was it cinnamon? He couldn't guess. He was stuck there. He couldn’t talk or move. She gave him another warm smile, one that made her eyes crinkle a bit. Bucky would bet anything to have her permanently smile like that.

“Oh before I leave, here’s a flower. Happy veteran’s day. Thank you for everything” She gave him one of her peonies. Their fingers slightly touched and Bucky felt a small shock. He probably looked super dumb to her. With widened eyes and his mouth slightly opened, he probably looked like an idiot. Damn it Bucky, she might think that you are a creep. 

She smiled again and pointed at the door. Fuck, I haven’t moved from the entrance. She can’t pass. Way to go Barnes! 

“Thank you soldier.”She winked at him. But little did she know that he wouldn’t stop thinking of her wink. 

Another one for the journal, I guess. He thought letting his mind run wild with the image of her.

Two months later; 

The third time he saw her

James Buchanan Barnes was consumed by two thoughts. Number one, he had finished all his physical therapy and his nightmares and panic attacks were less, but he was much better at dealing with it. So that means that it was his last week at the center. He was so happy. He has already said goodbye to all the nurses, his doctors and he even said a nice goodbye to his insufferable psychologist, who he in the end grew to like. He was packing all his things and was waiting in the reception area for Steve to pick him up.

His second thought was her. He hadn’t seen her since that Veteran’s day where he acted like an idiot in front of her. Fucking damn it. But he couldn’t stop thinking of her. Almost every night since then, he kept writing about her. It was like his brain was trapped in a box, captured until he wrote out everything he could about her. He never even formed a formal conversation with her, but he still couldn’t help but think about her. About how her presence soothes him. How her smile filled him with joy. How the flower she gave him was the most important thing he has ever received. Hell, he learned how to press flowers and made it into his bookmark. 

“These last entries were really good Mister Barnes. It is like something I would see in a poetry book.” His psychologist once noted. And he couldn't help to agree with him. She had become his muse. And I don’t even know her name.

His train of thoughts was interrupted by the sound of the door opening. As if Bucky called her with his mind, she appeared. With the same heart melting smile and the brightest aura. The receptionist even smiled when she saw her. She walked in, and the room got lighter. Can a human glow? Because Bucky thinks that she is glowing, as if small specks of glitter were emanating from her body and reflecting back at him. Did it make sense? Not one bit, but Bucky couldn’t describe it any other way. 

“Good morning Y/N. I was beginning to wonder when you were going to show up again.”  Y/N let out a soft chuckle at the receptionist’s words. She reached to sign in the sign in list. 

“Buck! Hey buddy, ready to go?” Steve had walked in and Bucky hadn’t even noticed

“Ye-yeah. Let’s go” Grabbing his bags, he started to walk out the center. But not without giving Y/N one last look.

If salvation had another name, Bucky would bet his life that it was Y/N.

[irrlicht-writes]

the path we choose to walk on pt.4

So this is it. Part 4, everyone. The last part! We made it to the end! Wooo! (now I have to focus on my bang again) Thank you for being with me. I hope you enjoyed the ride. Tell me what you thought! Tell me what you liked! Tell me what you hated! (be nice though) @misha-moose-dean-burger-lover @cass-said-i-love-you @professorerudite @insertdeeplyrics anyone else want on the tag list?

PART ONE | PART TWO | PART THREE

Ao3

Part 4: let the good times roll

Sam and Eileen gift a painting set to Castiel one day. Dean isn’t sure why but they say it’s because he saved their baby. Later Cas admits to Dean that he barely remembers what happened.

As it turns out, Castiel sees the world vastly different than Dean. Dean’s no art critic, nor could he detect a masterpiece in the making but to him, Cas’ pieces feel alive. There is a certain aspect to them.

Castiel paints mostly with his fingers and the faces of the people are wonky at best but still, they stare right into Dean’s heart.

“They are dead,” Cas says, “but with this, they’re alive. There was a world people cannot understand today. You have changed so much in so little time and yet it remains – you will always look at the world with wonder in your eyes.”

 Charlie helps them sell Cas’ art online. They sell somewhat well and Dean thinks that Cas is happy that he gets to help. Cas had said that he would’ve like to take a real job, but Dean shut him down very quickly.

Nobody would want to hire Cas – first, Cas didn’t even properly exist. And second; there would be too many days where Cas would have to stay at home. Any employer would only allow so many sick days and Dean is afraid of sending Cas to a therapist.

Even though he knows that they all probably need one, how would you even start explaining?

“Yeah, roughly 15 years ago I set off with my brother to find our dad and now our son turned into God. Oh and also we picked up this literal angel as our best friend and all of us – our son concluded who by the way was fathered by Lucifer – have died several times and then we just kind of went going.”

Yeah. No.

Not to mention all the additional bullshit Castiel would have to unpack. Dean’s been in a mental constitution once; he doesn’t really have to go there again. And he certainly doesn’t want Cas to go there – also, again.

The bees are still on Dean’s mind. He doesn’t need a repeat of that.

And anyway, the paintings are selling. And in time, they might even be able to ask for more money. Dean doesn’t really hold out hope but who knows?

 Two years after Maria is born, Sam and Eileen get married. Dean knows that they’ve been discussing marriage for a long time and have never been able to decide whether it was for them or not. But then Eileen proposed and here they are.

“She asked me to accompany her with the ring shopping. I think she just wanted to use me for my fingers,” Cas says to Dean and Dean smirks.

“Do you think Jack’ll show up?”

“I don’t know. I’ve told him; and I’m sure he knows but whether or not he’ll actually show up... it would be good to see him again. But even if he can’t make it here, he’ll be watching over these two.”

They are about to begin the ceremony and Dean’s excited to be the Best Man. He’s never thought he’d get to be that for real so it feels like a dream. Maria’s supposed to be the Flower Girl but she hasn’t shown up yet.

“Cas,” Charlie rushes over to them. Cas blinks up at her, tilting his head.

“Maria doesn’t want to walk, she’s embarrassed. Do you think you can help her out?”

Maria has gotten overly attached to Cas in these past two years and Dean believes it’s just infatuation. After all, who could look into these big blue eyes and not fall for them? Dean, however, is a little bit upset over the fact that she likes Cas better than him. But he’ll just wait until Maria will appreciate cars. And that’s when Dean will win.

“Of course,” Cas replies, “come on, Miracle.”

Miracle has essentially become Castiel’s therapy dog. She follows him everywhere and makes sure he eats and drinks enough. She loves Cas to pieces and anyone who even looks at the angel wrong gets growled at.

Dean watches them walk away and gets his phone out. He knows that there is a photographer here that films things but he wants that piece for himself. And he has to go up there anyway, so he might just go now anyway.

It takes five more minutes before Cas was apparently able to convince Maria to come out – and even then, she’s getting carried. She’s holding the flower basket close to her chest and Cas encourages her to throw the petals down. Dean’s heart melts at the sight of them.

Cas stops next to the pew where Claire and Kaia are sitting and basically tells Maria to throw flowers on them. Claire laughs and playfully shoves Cas away from them. Jody and Donna are also getting petals thrown in their face. Everybody is smiling and Dean’s happy that he’s filming this.

Maria is giggling and throwing petals all over the place. “She was so stiff before,” Charlie whispers in his direction.

“She wasn’t even looking at me and now look at that. How is Cas’ gayness softer than mine?”

“You’re just intimidating.”

“Cas is an angel!”

 Eileen is beautiful when she walks down the aisle. Sam next to him exhales and has the biggest smile on his stupid face.

“Mama so pretty!” Maria proclaims loudly while clapping her hands.

“Yes, she is,” Cas replies a little quieter. He has her sitting on his lap and he has a flower in his hair. Apparently Maria was supposed to give that to her mom but she had decided that it was for Cas, so now he was wearing the flower. It does fit him, Dean thinks.

The ceremony itself goes over without a hitch even though Sam almost breaks down crying twice. Dean was expecting more, if he’s honest. Maybe Sammy practised with Cas – apparently Cas is the solution to every problem.

Later, at the party, Dean holds an embarrassing speech about Sam and after, Sam dunks his head into a pie. This is fair, because Dean definitely deserves that. It’s all good, though. Cas laughs and wipes Dean’s face clean and Maria – still in Cas’ lap – giggles like it’s Christmas.

Dean dances with Eileen and Sam dances with Cas and Maria. Charlie’s taking pictures and Dean loves it. Cas can’t dance for very long and he leans heavily onto Sam but he tries his best for Sam and Maria both.

Dean loves him.

And someday, he’ll man up enough to actually say these words. He just needs a little bit longer. And Cas is here to stay. Dean’ll work up the courage he needs and then it’ll be alright.

 Charlie is dancing with Maria and Eileen is sitting next to Cas. She’s taken her shoes off and is likely complaining to the angel that her feet hurt. Cas is holding the wedding bouquet now and Dean knows that Eileen will insist he keep it.

“I wish she would’ve thrown it,” Claire says and Dean wiggles his eyebrows.

“You were hoping to catch it, weren’t you?”

“Shut up.”

 At the end, Jack didn’t show. The party had ended a while ago, but Dean and Castiel are still sitting on a bench outside. It’s a nice night, and Dean doesn’t want to drive home yet. There are no clouds in the sky and the stars are shining bright. Dean reckons that that’s Jack’s doing. He still wishes he would’ve shown his face.

“Don’t be mad at him,” Castiel says while leaning on Dean’s shoulder. “You know he doesn’t do that well with a lot of people.”

Yes. That is true but still – he hadn’t even come to congratulate Sam? He also still hadn’t come to meet Maria yet. Dean wonders what work a God has to do. Didn’t Jack say he wanted to be hands off?

“Don’t you miss him?” Dean asks.

“Every day,” Castiel replies.

Castiel raises a hand towards the sky and Dean sees a shooting star. But the star stops after it passes Cas’ hand.

Castiel retracts his hand and there’s a golden orb floating above his palm.

“What’s that?”

It glows brightly and it’s almost too much for Dean to look at. It compels him in the same way it tells him to stay away from it. Where did it come from? Why is it here? What’s it going to do?

“Divinity,” Castiel quietly replies and closes his hand, making the orb disappear.

 *

 “Dean, really?”

Dean sighs. He knew it was a mistake to talk to Sam about this. But he knows that Charlie would’ve squealed in his ear and honestly, Claire is still a bit too young for this to talk about it. And yeah sure, Eileen would’ve been an option but even after all this time, Dean still hasn’t improved on his signing skills.

“I know it’s stupid.”

“I didn’t say that. But have you even choked up an I love you?”

Dean is quiet.

“Oh my god, I knew it. Dean, you can’t just propose like that!”

“...shut up.”

He pockets the box inside his jacket. He doesn’t want to propose right now anyway. It’s more like a promise to himself, that one day he might be worthy of this. If – when he’ll find the words one day, he’ll be good enough for Cas. He can be.

He will be.

For Cas, the best thing that ever happened to him.

For Cas, who still thinks he’s barely tolerated.

For Cas, who sees the world as more than it is.

For Cas, who loves so much and has never been loved in return.

 Their first kiss doesn’t quite happen as Dean would’ve imagined it – not that he had ever been imagining it in the first place.

Cas is watching Dancing With The Stars and he’s really fascinated. Apparently, he’s never danced before. Dean’s never told him about Garth and Bess dancing in front of the window. He wonders how they’re doing now. Maybe they’re dancing right at this moment, while Sam and Castiel are finally asleep?

“Dean, please?” Castiel’s blue eyes are pleading and Dean has a hard time saying no. Cas always asks for so little and Dean’s always liked dancing when he got a chance to do it – which sadly is not often. So he sighs and stands up from the couch, offering his hand up to Cas.

“Might I have this dance, milady?”

Cas blinks at him in question, and then looks at the outstretched hand. At last, there’s a smile stealing itself across Castiel’s face and he gently takes Dean’s hand and hauls himself up.

“Of course, my lord.”

Dean chuckles and pulls Cas flush against him. It’s been a while since they were this close together without one of them on literal death’s door. Cas is alive and warm under his hands and Dean starts swaying. He’s never danced a real dance, much less so with another man. But it’s not like Cas could dance at all, so it’s okay. And besides – it’s not about the skill, it’s about the experience. And Cas –

Cas is laughing. It’s a happy laugh and he enjoys himself. It’s truly a sight to see. It’s rare to see Cas so relaxed and Dean feels more than privileged to witness this much less be the cause of it. Dean swirls Cas on the spot and as the swirl ends, Cas stumbles forward against Dean’s chest. Dean holds him tight and it’s a good feeling.

Cas’ hair is brushing against Dean’s chin and he feels calm. He gently puts one hand on Castiel’s cheek and Cas nuzzles into it. Castiel’s hand is loosely laying on Dean’s chest and the volume of the TV playing in the background is already fading away.

Dean’s in love.

He’s in love with Castiel.

He gently directs Castiel’s face upwards and looks at the big, blue, blinking eyes.

He doesn’t understand how he got to be so lucky.

Dean bends down, just a little, and ever so gently presses his lips against Castiel’s mouth.

It’s a quiet kiss, one that doesn’t require anything.

“Dean,” is all that Cas says afterwards but Dean quietly hushes him.

“Shh,” he replies and kisses him again.

It’s easier than anything else he’s ever done.

He doesn’t remember why he was ever afraid of this.

This, right here, is where he’s meant to be.

With the TV running in the background, in his shitty apartment, in worn-out clothes, with a dog sleeping in her bed, kissing Castiel.

Sometimes things are just easy.

Dean holds Castiel tight and thankfully, Castiel doesn’t speak.

It’s the most comforting silence and Dean cherishes it.

He’s in love.

 *

 It’s a soft thing, after. Nothing changes and yet, so much is different.

He kisses Cas in the morning before he goes to work; in the afternoon when he returns; when they make dinner; when they watch TV.

It’s the easiest thing in the world.

And yet, Dean knows that Cas wonders.

I know you don’t love me.

But Dean does. He just can’t say it. If he did, then – then what would John say? Dad would judge him for this. Dad would call him a girl; and a fairy; and tell Dean that Dad hadn’t raised a gay son.

 He’s still thinking about this in bed. Next to him, Cas is fast asleep, holding onto Dean’s arm. Miracle is snoring in her own doggy bed.

“I love Cas,” Dean says toneless into the dark room and is instantly overcome by anxiety. Somehow, even after all these years, he expects John to bust through the door and expose him and nail him to the cross or something.

He turns to his side and looks at Cas. The angel looks so relaxed in his sleep and Dean gently pats his hair. Cas mumbles a bit and burrows closer to Dean as if to seek warmth. Dean puts his free arm around him and pulls him as close as possible, tucking the angel under his chin.

He doesn’t know what to do. Cas deserves to be told. But whenever Dean thinks it might be the right time for it – then there’s John standing in the distance, observing and judging him. Dean knows he just has to do it, that he just has to push through. Dad is dead and nothing can happen anymore. But this fear is far too ingrained inside his brain. Maybe writing a letter would help? But somehow it doesn’t feel like enough.

Dean needs to say it.

He has to say it.

But he can’t.

He can’t.

For all his bravery, for all his courage – he can’t.

 “A bird learns to fly when it falls.”

Cas is not in bed when Dean wakes up.

“Water will whittle away the mountain.”

Cas is nowhere to be found inside the apartment. Miracle is quiet.

“A flower will break through the concrete.”

Dean panics. In his panic, he runs outside.

“Long after its death, a star will remain in the sky.”

 Outside it’s foggy.

But there is Cas.

Cas is standing outside, barefooted, and Dean is rooted to the spot.

There are golden orbs floating around Castiel.

Divinity, Cas had called them.

“Cas,” Dean breathes and the angel turns around.

“Hello, Dean.”

 “What are those?”

“I’ve told you. Divinity.”

“Yes, I know, but what are they?”

“A burden shared is a burden lifted. Ever since I woke all the way back before time existed, a great many stars have died. And still, some remain in the sky. Did you never wonder where they go?

Their physical form shall burn from velocity, but what about the stars? What about them? Who catches them? Where do they go? Shall they forever be lost in space?

I was lost too, you know. I was lost ever since the start. Sometimes I think I remember. Sometimes I think I remember an all consuming light in the dark. Sometimes I think I remember the beginning before it ever began. Sometimes I think I remember the void, the naught.

And then, just as quickly, I lose it again.

Why did Father abandon us?

Why did He create so many of us, if none of us mattered?

Come with us, the stars whispered to me, we have no answers but mayhap we shall find them.

Why did the stars exist, if only to die? I didn’t want them to be lost and so I collected them. I found them in the void and I took them with me for I thought I might find a purpose within them. And in time, they started finding me. I became their haven, their destination.

But still, I was lost. Each time a star would find me, I think I can see the light in the void again, the end after the end. But soon these memories are gone, too, and I can only hold on to scraps. And I wonder.

What if I don’t remember at all? What if what I see are just fragments from the stars, showing me what they saw in their last moments?

Dean, you must know: time is not linear. What happens before will happen after. The end happens before the start and sometimes the beginning happens in the middle. This time, this life is just one stream amongst them all.

Some stars tell me of the end; and others tell me of the start. Maybe some tell me of the middle. And maybe some tell me of all, and all I get is the light in the void at the start.

I’ve wondered.

Why am I broken?

Why am I, of all the angels, the only one that’s cracked?

What went wrong?

Why was it only ever me? Why wasn’t perfect like the others? Why weren’t others cracked as I was?

Why was I the only one that’s ever looked to the stars and collected them?

What if Father never made me?

What if – what if I was created by something else?

And if so, what was it? And why? And why did Father allow me to continue existing? Did He perhaps just not notice? Did He perhaps just not care? Did He perhaps just think me merely another insignificant angel that He needn’t pay attention to?

What broke the connection?

Why am I the only angel to love you?

Was I whole before, perhaps, but if that was so – what shattered me? What put me back together? Where did the missing pieces go?

The light I remember in the naught – what is it? Where does it come from? Why does it matter at all, why do I care if it lights up the void or not?

Why do I cling to a light that does not matter?

I –

I’m lost, Dean.

Amidst the stars, I am lost.

From here on out, where do I go?”

 Dean reaches out.

Castiel is standing there all alone, surrounded by what remains of the stars – surrounded by divinity.

He takes Castiel’s hand.

“Go with me,” he says.

“I love you,” he says.

Amidst the stars, Castiel smiles.

Dean thinks he can see the light that Castiel spoke about.

It’s a soft, shining light and it’s free.

 *

 “I don’t know if I can.”

“Why not?”

“It’s a big thing, Cas, you know? What if I fail?”

“Then we’ll fail together.”

 Dean buys a corner lot. It’s very expensive. But he has a dream. He doesn’t want to work construction forever. He deserves to be happy. And Cas is here. Cas is here, and Sam is here, and Eileen is here – and everyone is here.

He’s not alone and he can rely on all these people. They want to help him; they want him to be happy. He can do this. For the first time in his life, he can do something solely for himself.

For the first time in his life, he doesn’t have to depend only on himself.

 *

 Sam hoists Maria out of the car seat. He wants to go and help Eileen out of the car but if he did, she’d kick him in the shin.

“Are there no balloons?” Maria wants to know. Sam looks up. True, there are no balloons outside.

“I’m sure Uncle Dean’s got some inside, sweetheart.”

Maria grins from ear to ear and hugs her monkey toy harder. Cas had given it to her just a few years ago. It hadn’t even been her birthday; he had just wanted to give something to his niece. Sam is glad that they get along so well. But sometimes he debates: should they tell her that Cas is an angel? It’s not a problem right now, but he and Dean and Eileen will start aging one day while Cas will not.

But, ah well, it might be best to cross that bridge when they’d get there.

“Hunter’s Rest is a nice name,” Eileen says when she finally steps next to Sam. Sam just nods. It’s true. Sam had kept suggesting Roadhouse, in Ellen’s and Ash’s and Jo’s legacy but Dean had always refused. Dean hadn’t wanted to be a copy-cat of what they’ve been.

Dean wants something that’s his own.

And Sam couldn’t be happier for him.

It was a long road, getting here, and even now he could scarcely believe it.

But the Hunter’s Rest is officially opening today.

He smiles at Eileen, takes both his girl’s hands and enters Dean’s bar.

 “Uncle Dean!”

Maria yells as soon as she spots her uncle and throws herself at his middle from across the room. Dean laughs and catches her. He lifts her up and holds her on his hip.

“How’s my favourite tornado?”

She giggles and hugs him tight.

“Where’s Uncle Cas?”

“He’s still in the back, sweetheart. Be nice to him today, okay? It’s not a good day. But I know he’ll be happy to see you, so why don’t you go say hello?”

Maria nods with a solemn expression on her face. She knows about Uncle Cas’ bad days. She shouldn’t be too loud on these and she has to understand that he might not want to play as much with her. She loves Uncle Cas. She wouldn’t tell this to anyone because she knows Uncle Dean would be upset, but Uncle Cas is her favourite. There’s a glow about him that she can’t explain to anyone, but it draws her to him.

Uncle Dean puts her on the ground and she goes to find Uncle Cas. When she finds him, he smiles at her. He looks tired and sick, but he glows so brightly today.

“Hello, Maria,” he greets her.

She steps closer and climbs into his lap.

“I love you,” she says and Uncle Cas hugs her tight.

 “Looks good, Dean,” Sam says to Dean in the meantime. Dean grins and pulls his brother close. He nods at Eileen who waves back.

“How are we coming along?” he asks her and she rubs her stomach.

“Good,” she replies, “the doctor says it’s two.”

“Two, huh? Man, Sammy, you dog!”

Sam laughs and Dean slaps him on the shoulder.

“Maria was really hoping for some balloons,” Sam says and Dean shrugs.

“I have some in the back, but I don’t know if I should hang them up. It’s gonna be a few hours still until official opening, you know?”

“Are Charlie and Stevie coming?”

“Yeah, Charlie’s gonna help me set up the music. The others are coming too, but Donna can’t make it. Some important thing came up but she’s gonna drop by in the coming days.”

Sam nods.

“There should be balloons,” Eileen pipes up and Dean sighs deeply.

“Fine,” he says then, “but y’all are helping me with that. I ain’t the only one blowing these things up.”

“I overheard,” Cas says as he’s rolling out of the back in his wheelchair. On his lap, there are Maria and a big load of balloons.

Dean sighs. “Why am I being set up?”

Castiel smiles at Dean. “Because balloons make everything better. We should’ve gotten glitter, too, you know? We’ll help, Dean.”

 “Bad day, huh?” Sam asks him while they are placing the balloons. Dean nods.

“Last couple days actually. Yesterday was the worst; he wouldn’t even get out of bed. The day before that, he spent almost all day puking into the toilet. But he’s getting better now, I think. It’s just – I know that he’s sick. I know that these days happen and that they’ll happen again, it just – it just fucking scares me, y’know? Knowing that there’s nothing I can do, no spell to find to cure him or anything – it just makes me feel so helpless.”

Sam puts his hand on Dean’s shoulder.

“Dean, you’re doing great. What you’re going through – what you both are going through – is extremely stressful. I can’t even imagine. I can’t imagine all the hurdles you had to go through to get here. How scary it has to be to wake at night and see Cas being sick again. I’m proud of you, Dean. I really am. You’re holding it together so well and if – if you ever have to break, I’m here for you. We’re all here for you. You’re not alone. You’re never alone, Dean.”

Dean huffs out a laugh and turns to hug his brother.

It’s true.

Their lone journey is over.

They started with just the two of them.

But they’re never going to be alone again.

 *

 “I love you,” Dean whispers into dark hair.

“I don’t know when I fell in love. I don’t know when I realised. But I love you. I love all of you.

We’ve endured a great many things, you and I. We fell and rose together, we burned and crashed together. And in all this time, you weren’t even supposed to be there. But you were. You fought and clawed your way back to me every single time, and I’ve never even said thank you. I never once appreciated all the pain and misery you had to endure just to get back to me.

No matter what, you were there. You were there for me and Sam when nobody else was. You stayed by your side since the very beginning and you overturned everything you believed in because you started to believe in me. You had faith in me, the man without faith. And through you – you became my faith. I believed in nothing, I had faith in nothing – except you. I had faith in you. When you were gone, so was my faith gone. And when you returned, you brought it back with you.

When we met, you told me that good things do happen.

For so long, I didn’t believe you. But you were right. And know what? That good thing that would happen to me was right in front of me. And we didn’t know. Neither of us knew. Who could’ve imagined?

A man afraid of flying and an angel afraid of falling.

We really did meet in the middle, huh?

I’m sorry, Cas. I never did right by you. All your life you thought you were wrong because you weren’t like the others. You always believed that you needed to atone for your sins someway. And I – I didn’t help you. I made you think that you were expendable, that you weren’t worth anything. And I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, because I was wrong.

You’re worth everything. You matter so much, Cas – to me, to Sam, to the world. I’m sorry that all of us have fallen short. I’ll make it up to you. I’ll make it up to you for all eternity, because I love you. If you’ll have me for whatever reason, then I’m yours. And I’m never going to let go. If I lose you, I will stop at nothing to find you again.

It’s you and me. Now and forever.”

“Look for the light,” Castiel whispers into the darkness.

“Look for the light and you’ll always find me there.”

 *

 At the end of a long, long life, Dean opens his eyes.

Above him, there’s nothing but endless stretches of blue sky.

Dean sits up and looks around.

He’s in an onion field and he stands up.

He turns to the side and sees him there.

 There’s a trench-coat angel standing in the onion field, surrounded by the golden orbs of stars.

The wings behind him are magnificent and have the colour of a rainbow.

 Dean starts approaching him.

Behind the angel, there is a massive tree.

 “Hey, Cas.”

“Hello, Dean.”

[afewmarvelousthoughts]

The Call Pt. 1

Summary: Marie is not crazy. She isn’t. Or she hopes she’s not. But the happenings that follow a mysterious phone call begin to make her hope otherwise. 

Warnings: Suicidal ideation, maybe mildly creepy

A/N: Well, if you’re tagged it’s because you said you were interested in taking a peek at my original content. This is the first half of a short story I’ve been using as kind of a warm up/playground for a few weeks. Kinda hate the title (so if you’ve got suggestions hit me with them) and am open to literally all feedback!  (If you want to know when I share original content lmk!)

“I’m not crazy. I know how this sounds but I am not fucking crazy!” 

Funny enough, I’m also not an idiot. I know that screaming I’m not crazy at 4am after tearing my room apart to find a picture that apparently doesn’t exist implies otherwise. But still-

“I’m not crazy, Alex.”

“Ok. You’re not crazy.” 

The way he’s looking at me really makes me wish I was. 

“But Marie, what you’re asking me to believe-“

“Is crazy,” I say, collapsing on the edge of the bed. 

I stare down at my hands. There used to be a scar on the left one, thick and rope-like carving a path straight through the center. The original wound had cut to the bone. 

I know it was there. 

I know because I remember how it didn’t hurt at first. It was like a dull warm sting, too many nerve endings cut to make my brain register what happened. I remember how I was fascinated by the blood welling, dark and thick and so different from any time I’d seen my own blood in my short 13 years. I remembered the drip, drip, drip. 

And then I remember screaming. 

“Marie…” He takes a deep breath, pacing away from the bed. 

I don’t move, don’t respond. Just run my fingers over where the scar should be. 

Another thing I remember is the choice I made that resulted in the scar disappearing. I remember that conversation, both sides of it like two images superimposed on one another. 

Somehow, remembering those disparate, impossible, things so clearly only makes me more certain that I am not insane. Which may actually make the whole insanity argument stronger…

The first phone call happened on a random night in December. I was baking, trying to recreate those Levaine Bakery cookies and, honestly, not sucking at it. 

I was not drinking. 

I was not on drugs. None that I wasn’t supposed to be on anyway. 

Everything was normal. 

My phone rang with a number I didn’t recognize. Usually, I would have just ignored it but the area code was from my home town and I know far too many messy people back home to ignore an unknown call on a Friday night. 

If someone was dead, I didn’t want to find out through a voicemail. 

“Hello?” A muffled voice responded, warped by a shoddy Bluetooth connection. “Wait, sorry hold on.”

Fucking useless $100 earbuds. 

“Hello?” 

“H-hi… Hello.” The voice on the other end was clearly a kid, a little girl. I didn’t know any kids save for my nephew and he was eight months old so children should not be calling me. 

“Yes?”

“Hi, ma’am,” the girl paused, clearly restraining a giggle. The line crackled in a way that sounded odd but I assumed she was just muffling the mic. “Did you order a pizza? This… This is Pizza Hut.” 

I stifled a laugh of my own. Who knew kids still did prank calls. I thought those died off with the landline. Amused, I played along. 

“No, I didn’t order a pizza.”

“Oh, well, I guess we called the wrong person. Sorry!” The kid hung up. 

I shook my head and reconnected my earbuds. As far as prank calls went, I had my criticisms on their form but hoped they enjoyed themselves. 

Quickly, I fell back into my baking rhythm, my audiobook of the week keeping any further exploration as to why kids would bother with prank calls when the internet existed at bay. At least until the book paused, accompanied by an off-putting crackle in one earbud.

“Motherf-“ My phone ringing interrupted my expletive. 

I looked over, it was the same number. 

I don’t know why I answered. Maybe I was getting soft after 30 years of being, by default, a cold bitch—I had been crying at far more commercials recently. Or maybe the novelty of a prank call was too good to pass up. 

“Hello.”

For a moment there was silence. Then, someone breathing. Something about it made me feel uncomfortable. Not in the whole, I’m calling from inside the house, kind of way. More like the feeling you get when you almost fall asleep at the wheel, the adrenaline rush of waking up just in time. 

“Hello?” The breathing quickened. “Look, kid-“

She started speaking. Rather, she started making sounds, gibberish with the inflection of words. After a string of them, she paused. 

“Uh-huh, well then,” I said choosing to humor them. 

This was followed by another string of gibberish. Only this sounded more frantic, there wasn’t the undertone of laughter. They stopped. 

“Kid, are you ok?” I began to worry. 

“Em raeh uoy nac?” She said with the inflection of a question. I realized suddenly that this may not be the same person. There was something similar about the voice but it didn’t sound as young as my pizza prankster from earlier. 

“Look, this is just getting weird. Don’t-“

“On!” The person yelled into the phone. “On! On! Esaelp!” The voice cracked, a stifled cry sending chills up my spine. 

On… On… On… Something clicked. 

No. This person was saying no. 

Maybe I am crazy. Because the moment I realized the words were coming to me backward they righted themselves and the person began speaking in the proper direction. 

“Please, don’t hang up.” She took a ragged breath, “Please.” 

Sitting on the edge of my bed now, staring at my scarless palm, I could still feel her desperation. 

“Marie,” Alex knelt in front of me, eyes wide and pleading. “I have known you since we were 15. You’re my sister and I love you.” He takes my hands in his own, sighing, “You’ve been under a lot of stress recently and that-“

“Jesus,” I pull my hands back getting to my feet, and push past him. In the doorway to my bathroom, I pause, turning back to face him. He now sat on the floor with his back against my bed. 

“I’m just saying, maybe it’s all been too much. That’s all. There isn’t any shame in that.” 

“I know there isn’t. Don’t you think I, of all people, fucking know that?!” 

I mean for fucks sake, I was the head of HR at my company. I had a bachelor’s in counseling and a master’s in communications. Not to mention years of therapy under my belt. I understood what stress could do to someone’s mind and I understood that this wasn’t that. 

“Ok,” he holds his hands up in surrender. “Ok. Sorry. I know you know. But you want me to believe you’re really ok when you-“

“I don’t want you to believe shit. You asked me what was happening. I’m just telling you.” 

He studied me, trying to find something to hold on to, some way to believe me. 

For a moment I studied him too. Burning this image of him into my mind. 

This was real. He was real. Just like everything else was real. 

On that first night, the shock the voice on the other end of the line sent through my whole body was unlike anything I’d ever felt before. 

“Please be there,” she begged. 

Our own voices always sound weird when we hear them played back. Something to do with the way sound travels through the body. The way it resonates in our bones. It’s easy to not even recognize our own voices when we hear them. 

“I called this-“

“You called this number 10 minutes ago,” I cut her off, my unease giving way to anger. “What do you want? If you’re in trouble-“

“I called this number when I was eight,” that edge to her tone was too familiar. “I’m 15.” 

“Hilarious, kid. Find something better to-“

“0606.”

“Yup, that’s the last four digits of the number you just called. Owned by a woman who is very-“

“Those are the last four numbers of the cell phone I got when I was 13.” 

“Very funny.” I had no idea who had put her up to this but I was over it. “I’ve had this number for 17 years.” 

“I always thought it was funny because I remembered those numbers ever since I made that prank call. Funny that they’d be the last four of my own number.” Her voice had a disconnected quality to it. I rubbed my finger over the scar on my palm, a nervous habit. 

“Kid-“

“Wait,” she cut me off, something which was starting to wear on me. “You said 17 years. How… how old are you.” 

“Thirty,” I answered automatically. 

“Wow.”

“Yeah. Ancient to you I’m sure.” The timer went off for my cookies. “Look. If you’ve sated your gen alpha need to dip your toes into the nostalgia pool-“

“So, I don’t do it.” 

“Do what?”

“On April 13th, 2006 you decided you would kill yourself you your 16th birthday.” My heart stopped. “Maybe you don’t remember that…” 

I remembered it. 

If I tried I could remember the way my room smelled. I could remember how my hands didn’t even shake as I wrote those words in my journal. I could remember sitting on my bed, picking up my phone…

And calling my own number. 

I looked down at my phone. I’d only paid attention to the area code before, nothing more than a passing glance. Now I realized, it was my grandparent’s old landline number.  

She continued, “Anyway, I just called my own number to-“

“Leave a voice mail,” I said finishing her thought. It was my substitute for a note, something that if they found they found but if not then fuck them. 

“Yeah. But instead of it going to voicemail, you answered. My phone is sitting in my lap but you answered. And I remembered your voice from when I was eight and…” 

“What the fuck,” I breathed. 

“I don’t know…”

My head was spinning. I had never spoken to anyone save for my therapist about my intention to end my life when I turned 16, so it seemed unlikely someone was playing a cruel joke. But it was even more unlikely, or rather completely fucking impossible, that I was currently speaking to my 15-year-old self.  

“Look,” I sank to the floor of my kitchen, sliding my glasses up so I could massage away the tension headache building between my eyes. “Clearly, you’re not me. But it’s pretty obvious that you’re in a bad way.” There was silence. 

“Kid?” 

“I’m here,” the voice was so small. 

“I don’t know what you’re going through, but the best advice I can give you is the same advice that my best friend gave me when we were your age. ‘If you can’t find any other reason to keep going, just do it out of spite.’” 

To this day, do it out of spite, was the motto we lived by. I embroidered pillows for us with it, we signed off letters to one another with it when he took a year to wander Europe with his ex, hell we got the word ’Spite’ tattooed on our wrists in the other’s handwriting when we were 19—thanks to Alex’s terrible handwriting people always asked me why I had ‘Sprite’ tattooed on my wrist. 

She snorted. 

“I know it sounds oversimplified but-“

“No. I’m just not into listening to people who don’t take their own advice,” the anger in her voice was searing. 

“What do you-“

“Alex Cameron, said the same thing to me yesterday.” My ears started ringing, my whole body tingled like a limb when you’ve sat on it for too long. 

“Then,” she took a shaky breath, “he killed himself.” 

My smoke alarm began to scream, the smell of burnt sugar seeping from my oven. 

tags

@wonderlandmind4 @coffeebeforewater @empty-fromthestart​ @this-kitten-is-smitten @saundrasays​

[florenceandthemachine]

TUMBLR FUCKED UP SOME OF MY ASK POSTS I AM SO SORRY ANYWAY 

@buckleydiazs​ asked:

talk to me about eddie and chris asking buck to move in, pls and thank u 🥰

Their first unplanned night together starts off with a text message.

Ironically enough, it’s not even a message between Eddie and Buck—it’s between Buck and Maddie. Eddie is all smiles as he pulls his truck onto the highway, Buck in the passenger seat, laughing easily at some story Eddie was telling. It was nice. It was easy, easier than most of the relationships Eddie had ever had before, but that wasn’t surprising—at least, not anymore, not with Buck.

Once Buck had gotten the stick out of his ass, Eddie realized how easily the two of them would get along almost immediately. Buck was... well, he was a far better person than Eddie was, and Eddie would be the first to admit that, but Buck seemed to be oblivious to the fact that he could basically out shine the sun with one of his big toothy smiles.

Their relationship was unique, certainly; they had survived things that went beyond the real of “regular people”; tsunamis, earthquakes, bombs, and most stressful of all (weirdly enough), a lawsuit. somehow, the lawsuit was the straw that broke the back on their friendship—Eddie had finally pulled his head out of his ass, realized how miserable his life had been without Bucky, and asked him out on a proper date a week after Buck's first call back on the team.

Though they spent a lot of time together as friends, and that had only grown after their first official ‘date’, they had been carpooling out of necessity for the week—Bobby had been good enough to match their schedules up while Buck’s Jeep was in the shop—and Eddie insisted that it wasn’t too much of a detour to shuttle Buck back and forth to work.

The mood in the truck was easy and light, and Buck was still laughing when he pulled his phone from his pocket, tapping at the screen a few times—and like someone had switched on a vacuum, the good mood was sucked through the window in less than a second.

“It’s Maddie. She says Taylor Kelly is at my apartment complex. Apparently there was a pretty big drug bust in the building across the way, she has her van camped out in our lot.”

And, well, Eddie wasn’t about to tolerate that, wasn’t about to tolerate anything that made Buck unhappy, anything that could suck the joy out of him in an instant, for reasons that he chose not to dive too deep into. He focused instead on the problem (and yeah, Taylor Kelly was a problem with a capital B), and what he figured was the easiest solution.

“Oh. Well, then you’re staying at our place tonight.”

As expected, Buck started up a whole litany of protests. It was a little sad, Eddie thought, how eager Buck was to talk himself out of a good time, and if he didn’t have the backup of a year of knowing Buck as well as he did, Eddie might have actually taken his ramblings at face value.

As it was, though, he had an ace in the hole. A surefire way to get Buck to shut up and accept some good in his life. He didn’t like to play it, but he knew that he had to as soon as Buck mentioned “I’ll just stay at the firehouse tonight, it’s really no issue, I’ll order take out, and—”

“Buck, it’s fine. Chris has been begging me to invite 'his Buck’ over for dinner for a week now anyway.”

“...oh. Okay.”

Was it wrong for Eddie to use his son so easily, knowing that Buck was as wrapped around Chris’ finger to the degree that nearly rivaled himself? Probably. Could Eddie bring himself to care? Nope.

Especially not when Chris basically launched himself into Bucks arms, completely overjoyed that Buck was here for a “surprise sleepover”. 

Dinner had gone off without a hitch, with Chris easily dominating most of the conversation, rattling off facts, figures, stories from school, information about his friends, and Buck had eaten it up. 

Eddie had found himself staring at Buck—more than once—with a little bit of a dopey look on his face, he was sure, as Buck got more and more animated, making Christopher laugh, telling stories of his own, and he hadn’t even bothered to look away when Buck caught him staring.

Buck was a blusher. Eddie loved it.

Now, though, Chris had disappeared to brush his teeth and put on his pajamas, and Eddie and Buck were working in companionable quiet as they started to clean the table.

"You know, if Taylor being at my apartment means I get to spend the evening with my two favorite guys...” Buck said with a smile, closing the fridge as he leaned against it, keeping an ear out for Chris as he turned the faucet in the bathroom on. “...I’ll have to invite her over next time.”

Eddie shrugged, gesturing vaguely with a spoon, though he couldn’t keep the smile off of his face as he rose a brow. “Buck, you know you don’t need excuses, right? You’re allowed to like this. I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but I am as wrapped around your finger as you are Chris’s.”

Buck was blushing again, and that was all the encouragement Eddie needed to step forward, his arms wrapping around Buck as Buck started to speak again. “You... you know the feeling is mutual, right?” he asked, and Eddie felt himself light up. “And I... don’t really want to wait for a next time to spend some time with you either.”

Buck wasn’t sure which God was on his side, but either way, he was immensely thankful that Chris didn’t barge in until long after Eddie and Buck had separated, even if they were still breathing a little heavily.

--

The next unexpected visit, it turns out, was only four weeks and three planned dates later. 

Buck had had many a sleepless night after the tsunami, but after the lawsuit, his nightmares had become even worse, more intense, more real. There were nights where he had to tell himself, ten times, that Chris was okay, that he was alive, and then there were nights like tonight, where he let the fear outweigh the guilt and he called Eddie.

(It was probably telling that he was never afraid of his own death—only Chris’. If he had a therapist, he would probably bring that up, but... well, therapy had never been a great idea for Buck before.)

To his credit, Eddie hadn’t let it ring even twice before picking up. 

“Buck, Chris is okay. He’s okay. You saved him, Buck, and I can never thank you enough for that.”

“Ed—he was right there, and I lost him, and I—”

“He is okay. Buck, seriously, he’s okay. Here, you should come over. See for yourself?”

“What? No.” Buck may have been coming out of a nightmare, but even then, he knew not to risk disturbing Eddie more than he absolutely had to.

“Buck, whatever thoughts are swirling around in that head, you better, get your admittedly very attractive ass over here right now.”

...well, he couldn’t argue with that. 

Eddie could feel his heart break when he opened the door, though, and got an armful of puffy eyed, apologetic Buck in response. They quietly made their way over to Chris’ room and then to Eddies own, where he made no short work of Buck’s apologies, kissing him soundless every time he tried.

At the end of the night, Buck wasn’t sure what had helped him sleep better—seeing Chris alive and well, or spending his night in Eddie’s arms, wrapped up tight enough that he couldn’t break free even if he tried.

Not that he would.

--

“Hi Buck!”

“Hi Christopher!” 

Buck was all smiles as he swooped in to scoop Christopher into a big bear hug, leaning over to kiss Eddie’s cheek as he let Chris back down to the ground and they started walking back to the car. “How was school, buddy?” He asked, easily going into idle listening mode as Eddie’s hand slipped into his. It was an early release day for Christopher, and he had all but demanded that they spent the afternoon hanging out together—and it was moments like these that reminded Buck about how lucky he was, swinging his hand in Eddie’s like a teenager as they walked back to the car, Chris eagerly leading the way.

Honestly, if anything, the fact that a date night for Buck was now spending a night at the museum with his boyfriend and his kid (instead of in a club, or at a bar, or doing something he probably wouldn’t remember the next day) really was a testament to his own personal growth. No drinking, no drugs, no questionable sex with questionable people in questionable locations—just a nerdy firefighter and his kid.

Dinner consisted of hot dogs and pretzels and soda, and somehow Chris was outpacing them on energy as they wandered through the exhibits. Buck never quit being amazed at just how much Chris knew—hell, Buck was an adult and he still didn’t know the difference between a Monet painting and a Manet painting—but Chris was like the little brainiac Energizer bunny, his energy only weaning after they got home and demanded Buck read him two whole stories for bedtime, and Buck was feeling selfish enough to allow himself a few moments with Chris, sleeping on his shoulder, before he tucked the boy in for the night. 

“I’m gonna get going.”

“You don’t have to, you know?”

Eddie kept his voice low as Buck slid Chris’ door shut, his arms finding their way around Buck’s waist on autopilot, easily masking the twinge of annoyance he felt when Buck had the audacity to look surprised.

“What do you mean?”

If he ever met that Abby chick, he was going to give her a piece of his mind. 

“I mean you don’t have to leave. You can stay, sweetheart. I… well, I want you to stay, but I always want you to stay, so I’m a little biased. But you can stay as long as you want, whenever you want.” 

It was better, he hoped, to be direct, because Buck obviously didn’t get the hint after so many subtle cues. Hell, Eddie had given him a key after their third official date, and all Buck had commented was how glad he was to have it, in case of emergencies. Unfortunately, the fact that Buck seemed dumber then a box of rocks didn’t seem to count as an emergency. 

His argument seemed to be well received tonight, at least, because Buck smiled shyly as he looked up to Eddie, his own arms sliding around the other males shoulders. 

“You’re sure I won’t bother you and Chris, right? You really want me to stay tonight?”

“Of course I do.” Eddie said. For the rest of your life, he managed to keep inside. 

--

“Buck, you know you’re always welcome here, right?”

“Yes, Eddie.”

“And you know we love having you here, and we generally hate it when you leave.”

“I get it, Eddie.”

“So you know—“

“Eddie, will you please let me in?”

If Buck wasn’t soaked head to toe, standing on Eddie’s doorstep, he’d probably start to think that the universe was playing a cruel joke on the both of them. It was certainly playing a cruel joke on Eddie, to be honest—they had finished a particularly grueling overnight shift just three hours ago, and he had all but begged Buck to come and get some rest at the house while Christopher was out with Carla that day, and Buck had politely but firmly refused, not wanting to trample on any of the time that he got to take for himself. It was driving Eddie crazy, to be honest—he had really thought that they had made progress on that front, that they had finally gotten to the point where Buck didn’t think he was intruding, or interrupting, or distracting, or whatever. He really had thought he had made his stance clear—that he always loved spending time with Buck, period. 

Well, he was certainly never one to back down from a challenge. 

“What even happened, Buck?”

“The pipe burst in the apartment above me. I got soaked through in the middle of a nap.” 

“Oh, Buck.”

“It’s not funny, Eddie! I was trying to be considerate!”

“Baby, I’m not laughing. I’m just very distracted by how good you look soaking wet.”

“Eddie, I swear to god—“

“Do I look like I’m joking?”

“….oh. Oh!”

--

“I meant what I said, you know?”

“Hmm?”

They had gotten down to the lazy, delighted moments of the evening, standing together in the shower, Buck slotted easily into Eddies arms. They were taking advantage of the last twenty minutes they had together before Chris came home, and needless to say, neither of them were exactly jumping at the idea of wearing pants again.

“We love having you here, Chris and I. And we really do hate it when you leave because you think that you have to, or you think that you’re intruding, or you think… well, whatever else that you’re thinking.”

“Eddie…”

Buck turned in his arms, pushing his wet hair back, but Eddie smothered any chance of a self depreciating comment by pressing their lips together. He didn’t pull back until he knew Buck would be breathless, panting, and dazed, and it probably wasn’t fair to fight that way, but Eddie couldn’t handle another comment about how much of a bother Buck perceived himself.

“You’re home to me, Buck. Chris too. He loves you and he looks up to you, and you drive me crazy thinking that you could be anything but welcome in our lives. Buck, I want you to move in with us. Stay. Forever.”

There was a time and a place where Buck’s self doubt would have run rampant faced with a confession like that—hell, Buck 1.0 wouldn’t even have allowed a relationship to get that far—but somehow, looking up at Eddie, nothing could be more perfect. 

“You’re home to me too, Eddie.” He started, softly, a smile on his face. “And if you and Chris really wouldn’t mind—“

“It’s not just that we wouldn’t mind, though. It’s what we want. We want you to live with us, sweetheart.”

“… well, I’ve never been good at denying anything my Diaz boys want, have I?”

--

(Over dinner, Buck had nervously approached the topic with Chris, because no matter how sure Eddie was, Buck had to hear it for himself. 

Chris got so excited he almost threw up. 

Eddie considered everything about that night as a win—but the best part of all was the price, Buck, beautiful Buck, waiting for him in his—no, in their bed.)

[spidercakes]

First off, I love all your abo rica (and everything else you write). Would you mind writing something about an angelic little omega peter who mob boss or biker tony takes a liking to. I just love the contrast of cute innocent little peter in skirts and scarred tough tony in leather.

Thanks :) I went with mob boss Tony because I’m a real sucker for that trope. I went in kind of a different direction with this, so I hope you like it!

Warnings: underage (Peter), infidelity, mentions of stony but like no actual stony.

*

Tony doesn’t bother listening to Sam and its not because he doesn’t like the guy, he’s actually pretty funny when he isn’t in therapist mode. Its because he doesn’t give a shit about Steve and yeah, that might be an asshole thing to think but its true. Steve doesn’t give two shits about him either, its just that he decides he’s a traditionalist when it suits him and apparently that means trying to save their tattered marriage like either one of them have a genuine interest in that. Tony isn’t a fucking idiot, he’s pretty sure Steve and that irritating best friend of his have been fucking around for years and Tony can’t exactly be mad about it when he’s got his own thing going on.

God, Peter. They ran into each other totally by accident and Tony had been in a bad mood too, so he’d been prepared to tell off whoever ran into him but then it was Peter. And he’s so soft and sweet and he was wearing this pretty pink skirt that made him look a little younger than he actually is and he’d been smitten right away. Peter less so, it took him a little work to win him over but he’s not opposed to that assuming he actually cares enough to put in the effort. Made it all the sweeter when he finally managed to get Peter into bed and fuck, he’d been perfect. Everything about Peter is perfect.

“-Tony,” Steve says, probably not for the first time if the way he’s glaring at him is any indication.

“What?” he asks, disgruntled. Not to give Howard any credit but he’s glad he all but forced Tony to make Steve sign a prenup now. Fuck if he deserved half of everything Tony built. That, and he’s pretty sure parsing out half of the assets he acquired committing crimes in court would be something else.

“Are you even listening?” Steve snaps.

“Not really,” Tony tells him honestly and isn’t that what Sam said the other day? Something about honesty being important? Pretty sure he’s choking on his words now.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” Steve asks, clearly pissed.

Tony rolls his eyes and turns to Sam, “you know what I think? Steve here hates failure, refuses to admit he’s failed even when he’s shat the bed real good. I think he’s playing at being a traditionalist because he doesn’t want to admit this relationship is fucked seven ways to Sunday because that’ll mean he has to admit he didn’t do something right.”

“Is everything a joke to you?” Steve asks, eyes narrowed.

“Funny things are,” he says, shrugging.

“Like our marriage?”

“Yeah, fucking obviously. What the hell else would you call this shit,” he says, waving a hand around the room, “that you’ve set up like you haven’t been fucking your best friend for years?”

Steve turns bright red and Tony knows he’s pissed him off good this time. “Well maybe if you showed me a modicum of affection the way he does I wouldn’t have cheated on you!” he snaps.

“Maybe if you were worth a modicum of affection you’d get it,” Tony mumbles back.

“Oh holy shit- this is not going to be professional at all but shut the hell up, both of you. Steve, what the fuck? Tony is right, you just want a way to stick it to him because you know this relationship is done and you don’t want to admit it until it blows up in a way you can’t deny anymore. And Tony, you’re a million miles away even when you’re sitting right in front of people no matter how much you care about them. You ever want a relationship to work you need to get out of your head and stop pushing everyone who gives a shit about you away. And get a god damn divorce, you two are wasting my time when I could be with patients who aren’t assholes like the pair of you,” Sam tells them, shaking his head.

“Thanks for the advice, I’ll file the papers this afternoon,” Tony says, all but fleeing his seat because he's already late to pick Peter up and he doesn’t like leaving him waiting. Besides, Sam already told him he was a bad choice in therapist anyway- he knows them both outside of the who therapy thing, apparently that makes things unethical or whatever. But Steve insisted on account of what other therapist knows all of Tony’s business? Thankfully for him this finally wen bad enough for him to get out of it entirely.

*

When Peter spots him he grins, all but running over to hug Tony. He hugs him back tightly, burying his face in Peter’s neck and scenting him lightly. He lets out a soft moan, curling into Tony with no care that they’re in public. “Hey, baby,” Tony murmurs, “missed you.”

Peter pulls back and smiles, arms wrapped around Tony’s neck. “I missed you too,” he says like he didn’t see him this morning when he’d left the hotel room. He lets Tony pull him off towards the elevator, laughing when he unceremoniously removes a bellhop from the elevator before pushing Peter inside of it and up against a wall. Tony’s kisses are fast and frantic and they make Peter want more, leg lifting up to curl around Tony’s waist. Tony lifts it a little higher, hand running up Peter’s leg to his ass before he squeezes.

“Sorry I was late,” he murmurs into Peter’s mouth as they get to their floor.

He shrugs, shoving Tony out of the elevator and toward their room. They barely make it inside before he’s pulling at Tony’s jacket and Tony is pushing him towards the bed. “Someone’s in a hurry today,” he murmurs as Tony lays him out on the soft bed.

“Told you I missed you,” Tony says, hiking his skirt up around his hips. Peter grins as he spreads his legs- he knows how much Tony likes his skirts, especially the short pleated ones even if he doesn’t much care for pink. But Peter doesn’t really like red so he gets to suffer with what Peter likes. He moans as Tony presses two fingers into him, head falling back against the fluffy mattress as Tony smiles down at him. “Move in with me after you graduate,” he says and Peter huffs a little.

“What?” he asks, having a hard time concentrating through Tony moving his fingers just right, just the way he likes.

Tony leans in and scents him, teeth nipping at his neck. “I said move in with me,” he murmurs.

Peter smiles as Tony’s teeth graze his neck again and he tangles his hand in Tony’s hair, directing his head where he wants it and moaning when Tony licks at that sensitive spot under his jawline. “Mm, already moving in with Ned and Liz,” he says. MJ decided to go to school halfway across the country so she gets to be the odd one out.

“You’re trading me in for two roommates?” Tony asks, lifting his head just enough to look offended.

“Baby, I already agreed and no, no, no don’t stop,” Peter tells him, grabbing his wrist before Tony can pulls his fingers out al the way. “Don’t want you to stop,” he says, pouting at him. “Besides, pretty sure your husband would notice,” he points out.

“Yeah, filled for divorce so that doesn’t matter. You’re moving in with me,” Tony tells him, leaning back in and licking at his neck again. “Its non negotiable,” he says playfully.

Peter laughs, back arching a little and he lets go of Tony’s wrist, satisfied that he’s not going to leave him high and dry anymore. “Mhm, so you think. Its a year, you can manage,” Peter tells him.

Tony shakes his head, “oh, but I really can’t. Need you around, baby. You make me happy.”

Its soft, genuine. Peter frowns for a moment because he hadn’t taken that divorce comment seriously. “Are you actually leaving Steve?” he asks. Because he assumed he wasn’t, MJ has already told him like a million times that he’s never going to be more than the mistress and he’s fine with that, really. But if he can get more...

Tony nods, “yeah, baby. I only stuck around as long as I did to make sure I had my shit together legally. Would have moved you in forever ago if not for that and you aunt.” Yeah, May doesn’t really know about him so that’s for the best probably.

“And you want me?” Peter asks, not meaning to sound as confused as he does.

“Baby, you’ll find that I don’t put my time and effort into things I don’t want and I’m selfish, I’ll take everything you’re willing to give me,” Tony tells him, leaning in and kissing him softly.

“A collar?” Peter asks tentatively. They’ve never talked about it and Peter never brought it up because of the whole mistress thing, he kind of assumed this wasn’t built to last even if he was in way over his head forever ago. God, he loves Tony. Probably always will.

Tony grins, “I’ll get you a collar to match every damn outfit you own if you want that. Anything you want at all Peter, I’ll give it to you,” he says, eyes soft and caring and Peter wiggles in happiness.

“I love you,” he blurts, maybe stupidly but the thought is fleeting.

“I love you too, Peter,” Tony murmurs.

[vhenadahls]

bend but never break

Rory Stern, a civilian contractor on the Normandy, has her physical examination from Dr. Chakwas. The doctor takes one look at her chronic pain and gives her the first answers she’s had in seven years.

G, 2100 words.

(This is a fictionalized account of my own getting diagnosed with hypermobility spectrum disorder!)

Rory steps through the airlock, breathing in the familiar recycled air of the Normandy’s CIC. It hasn’t been long since she’s been on the ship - she was here just last week, doing the final pre-shakedown calibration of the drive core’s integration with the cooling system - but she wasn’t carrying a duffle bag then. And there were people at various stations around the CIC, but not like this. A lot more swearing at code, then, compared to the current introductions and shouts to old friends and salutes. Not everyone who’s going to be on the shakedown cruise is on the ship now, either, but it’s certainly got a different feel than it did with a bunch of nerds in coke-bottle glasses just like hers.

Those glasses slide down her nose a bit, and she smiles. Okay, everyone else’s weren’t bright blue, but still.

She steps aside to let someone in uniform with a cart full of supplies past, then heads purposefully down the center aisle. She’ll know his name eventually, and the thought of knowing everyone on a ship again sends a thrill down her spine. The galaxy map isn’t turned on, of course, but she still looks over as if it might be before heading down the stairs. Her right hip twinges as she walks down, and she huffs in frustration when she’s on level ground again. Already acting up, apparently. Maybe it’ll prefer artificial gravity the way she does, but she’s not hopeful.

The elevator, still just as slow and irritating as before, takes her down to the crew deck, and she finds the bunk she’s been assigned. Someone else will be sharing with her, of course, but there’s a footlocker just for her, and she’s able to fit her few belongings into it. The familiar lack of creature comforts and even personal space is a friendly reminder that she’s on a ship again. She’s been planetside far too long.

Once her things are packed away neatly, her next stop is the med bay. Other people are bustling around and familiarizing themselves with the ship’s layout - no one wants to get lost during shakedown - but she’s been here for years working on interfacing the Tantalus drive core with standard (and not-so-standard) Alliance tech. And that means skipping that step, and getting her introduction to the ship’s doctor over with.

Sighing again, she takes the elevator back up, mulling over what to say. I’ve had chronic pain in my shoulders for seven years, it’s been appearing in other joints, they always say it’s unrelated. She snorts. There’s not a snowball’s chance in hell that this military doctor with a battalion of marines to take care of is going to take a second glance at the achy civilian engineer.

The mess hall is a bustle of activity, with marines stocking their gear lockers and crew members squaring away food, medical supplies, and other necessities. Rory weaves her way through the chaos towards the med bay. It smells clean and sterile, even more so than the rest of the ship. A woman with chin-length grey hair leans over the desk to the left of the door. She looks up when the door slides open, giving Rory one of those bland doctor smiles.

“Hello,” she says, reaching out a hand to shake. “I don’t believe we’ve met. I’m Dr. Chakwas. You are…?”

“I’m Rory Stern.” Rory shifts from foot to foot after shaking the proffered hand, trying not to belie that her hip is bothering her. “I’m a civilian, one of the engineers who’s worked on the Normandy the whole way through.”

Nodding, the doctor turns back to her desk, swiping a finger over her datapad. “Ah yes, I remember that name. I believe I was looking at your medical record earlier…” she trails off, focusing on what’s on the datapad. She gives it a decisive tap. “Yes, I remember now. It says here you’ve been suffering from chronic pain in your shoulders for about seven years now, and your hips and knees for some of that time?”

Sighing inwardly, Rory nods. Yet another doctor who’s just going to treat the description in her file of years-long pain as just a random note. Another doctor who’s going to be less likely to treat her properly. She tries not to get lost in memories of the string of physical therapists acting like she doesn’t want to get better, trying not to hope that Dr. Chakwas will be any different.

Dr. Chakwas is talking again, so Rory drags her attention back to the present. She studies the way the cabinets are built into the wall to avoid looking the doctor in the face. “We’ll definitely take a look at that. But first I have to do the standard physical exam, which I’m guessing is why you’re here?”

Rory nods again.

“Hop on up on this bed here, then.”

The doctor goes through the standard physical health checks - vitals like blood pressure, heart rate, weight, height. But after that, and after recording all that data into her datapad, she sits back on her stool with the pad and a stylus poised as if to take notes. “So your file has some descriptions of your pain, but I’d like to hear it from you and see how it compares to this.”

“Okay.” Scrolling back through her memories, Rory tries not to roll her eyes. Thirty-one years in this body, seven with the pain, and barely anyone listening. The one doctor on a ship of soldiers isn’t going to care about the chronic pain of a random civilian any more than anyone else is.

“My first year of grad school, towards the end, I started having issues with my left shoulder.” The words spark a sliver of pain in the shoulder, almost like a sense memory. She rolls first that shoulder, then the other to prevent them feeling uneven. Her neck complains, but she tries to stretch it more surreptitiously. “I figured it was just weak from sitting poorly at a computer console all the time. I tried to sit better or prop it up. Didn’t help. I finally got some physical therapy and exercises that seemed to help, but the way the school health system worked I couldn’t keep going. The pain was fine for a while, but it comes and goes, moreso if I do stuff like carry bags with that arm. I went to a chiropractor for a bit, and they did some sort of nerve test? I never really understood the results from that. But I kept getting bounced around between physical therapists and stuff. I don’t remember when it got as bad as it is now, but I can’t wear a messenger bag, or stand for long, or lie on that side for long.”

Dr. Chakwas is nodding along, sometimes scribbling new notes on her datapad and sometimes crossing something out. Rory squints, trying to make out whether she’s crossing out her own notes or old notes from previous doctors.

“My hip is more recent. And my back, I guess, I can’t quite tell. That’s been maybe two years, and often affects my right knee I think? Sometimes my hip feels like it catches when I walk. I did physical therapy for a little while for that, but it didn’t seem to be helping. And sometimes my elbows and hands hurt, and maybe my wrists? I haven’t really had much physical therapy or anything for any of those, though. It hasn’t felt worthwhile, because I’ve been trying therapy for the other pain and not really gotten anywhere.” It all comes out in a rush, and when she finishes she realizes she’s massaging her right wrist. Her instinct is to stop, to move her hands apart and put them in her lap, but she lets herself continue. Maybe the self-comforting motion will endear her to Dr. Chakwas.

A minute passes without words, the only sound the doctor’s stylus on the datapad. Eventually she looks up, tapping the stylus against her chin thoughtfully. “You mentioned a nerve test. Have you had other tests done?”

“Hmm, let me think.” She squints in thought. “I’ve had a lot of blood tests done for various things, but I’m not sure anything was for this. Or maybe there was, and there was one positive value but it wasn’t indicative of anything? And I think there was an MRI once. But everything seems to have come back normal.” There definitely was an MRI, but you couldn’t pay her to remember what it had been for. And it’s not like any of the tests had helped.

More tapping, then Dr. Chakwas puts her datapad back on her desk. “Okay. I have a thought, and I’d like you to do a few quick movements for me.” She reaches out one hand, bends her wrist down, and presses her thumb back towards her forearm. It’s about two or three inches away. “Can you do that? As far as you can.”

Rory does, sticking her right arm out in front of her and pushing the thumb back until it touches her forearm.

“And the other hand?”

She does, touching the two together again, wondering what this has to do with anything.

There’s what looks like the beginning of a smile on Dr. Chakwas’s face now. She picks the datapad back up. “Extend your left elbow for me, all the way, then the other, out to the sides. As far as you can again.”

One after the other, she stretches her arms out to her sides.

“One last thing. Can you put your palms flat on the floor when you bend over, with your legs straight?”

Bending over, Rory flattens her palms on the ground. “Wait,” she says, tilting her head to look up at the doctor. “Are my knees straight already? I can’t do it if I push them back any further, to lock them.”

“No, you’re fine.” She takes another note on the datapad. “You can stand up now, and sit back on the bed if you like.”

Climbing back onto the bed, Rory has a brief moment of embarrassment realizing she’s using her hands to support at times when it seems her core muscles should be able to handle it. But once she gets settled, she looks back up at Dr. Chakwas - trying to keep herself from getting too hopeful that these weird new tests will say something, trying not to get too cynical.

“Do you know what double-jointed means?”

There’s a twinge in her right hip, so Rory shifts to sitting cross-legged on the bed before answering. “It means there’s more of a range of motion in a joint than normal, right?”

“Yes, that’s it.” That’s definitely a smile on her face now. “You’re hypermobile. Double-jointed. Your ligaments and tendons are looser than normal, so you’re prone to overuse injuries, especially when your muscles are weak. With pain, it’s hypermobility spectrum disorder.”

“What?” Rory’s mouth drops open in shock. She’s certainly sitting up straighter now, leaning forward to listen.

Laughing lightly, Dr. Chakwas nods again. “Your joints like to move a lot. You might’ve gotten frequent sprains as a child, or felt more flexible than others. But now you’ve got so much pain going on, and we need to start working on building your strength up. There’s a physical therapist here on the Normandy -”

Rory wilts. It’s not even worth trying to hide it. Dr. Chakwas notices immediately.

“I know you haven’t had great luck with physical therapy before, but please try this. His name is Sergeant Patrick Travers. He’s used to working with stubborn marines who think they’re invincible - and our very stubborn pilot - so you’ll be a nice change of pace for him. You can usually find him in the gym on the crew deck. Should I send him a message that you’ll be along to see him?”

The doctor sure is pushy, but it’s not for nothing. Rory muses over that word hypermobile before nodding. “Yeah, I’ll try it.” Maybe she even will. She’s got a lot of research to do first.

“Great.” Dr. Chakwas slides her stool back towards her desk. “That’s all I need from you now, I think. Do you have any questions for me?”

“I think I’m good for now.” Rory hops down off the bed. “But I’ll swing back by if there’s anything else I think of that I need some help with.”

“That works. Please do see the physical therapist, Ms. Stern, I think you will find it valuable.”

Rory doesn’t answer that, but when she gets to the door and it hisses open, she turns back. “Thank you, Dr. Chakwas. Thank you very much.”

“You’re welcome, Ms. Stern.”

[silvcrlining]

finley, self-para: back to the beginning

Finley had only lived in the Valley for a little over a year. DC shouldn’t feel that different to them when they come back, but it does. Something about that angers them, but they can’t quite place it, so they sigh, lean back against the park bench, and pull their hat-- a beanie with a T-Rex stitched onto the front-- further down their head.

“They’re not selling ice cream because apparently ‘it’s winter and no one wants ice cream during winter,’ so I got us some hot chocolate.”

They glance up as Levi, their stepfather, comes bumbling down the street from the hot chocolate stand in front of the Smithsonian, wearing a similar beanie with a triceratops on the front along with a goofy smile. He takes a seat beside them, handing them one of the styrofoam cups.

“We’d get hypothermia if we got ice cream.” Finley mumbles, staring down at the line of steam that rises from the cup. It had been three days since they had hitched a ride on Sloane’s van so fae could drop them off at their parents’ house. Three days of catching up with their family, plastering on a fake smile, pretending everything was fine. Three days until Levi all but forced a stepfather/child bonding day. Early on when him and Finley’s mother were still just dating, he had tried to bond with the Martin siblings by taking them out to a museum every other weekend and getting ice cream after.  Finley had left soon enough for college, though-- guess he wanted to make up for lost time. And dinosaurs were cool.

“But we’d have ice cream. I think that’s a fair exchange.”

Finley lets out an exhale of a chuckle that dies as quickly as it came. They sit in silence for a few minutes, taking sips of their drinks, letting their bodies warm up against the chilly weather.

“So... do you want to talk about it?”

They hold back on reacting, “About what?”

Levi glances at them out of the corner of his eye, takes a long sip, “Jillian... that’s her name, right?”

“... Mom told you?”

“Reese might have overheard your conversation... She might have mentioned a thing or two.”

Damn it. “Hm.”

Levi is a therapist, which means he’s patient, which means he never pushes too much. “You don’t have to talk about it if you’re not ready.” Finley appreciates it, but it also irritates them. He knows what he’s doing. Reverse psychology little--

They settle into silence once more. It’s comfortable enough; though Finley and Levi never got to spend too much time together before they left for college and then for Stardew Valley, Levi was a people person, in a similar way that Finley was. He was friendly, caring, genuine-- it was hard not to like him. But among that comfortable silence, there’s an underlying tension. Finley hasn’t slept that much lately, and they haven’t stopped thinking about Jillian, and they haven’t talked to anyone about it. And they want to. They’re tired of being in their own head. They finish their hot chocolate and sigh.

“... You know Mom and Dad were high school sweethearts?” They mumble, looking down at their lap and picking at a loose thread on their jacket. David, their biological father, who they haven’t seen in quite a while.

“Mhm, they were.“

“For the longest time, I thought they were-- not made for each other, but, like... something like that, you know?” Their brows furrow, “But they weren’t, and that’s... fine.” He’s a piece of shit, anyway. “And then they got divorced, and...” They pull at the thread, snapping it from the fabric, “... Mom just fucking... lost herself.”

Levi nods patiently, and if he’s heard this story from his wife already, he pretends not to know, “How so?”

“She... I mean, you know her. She has a strong personality.” Levi smiles at that despite himself. Softie. “But for so long, that was just... gone. And then she tried to get back into dating, which I thought would help, but... honestly, it kind of made things worse.” They couldn’t have known it back then, and maybe they still weren’t fully aware of it now, but it had planted a seed of fear within them that had only kept growing, “It was like she became someone new for every single person she saw... I love her, but it was so hard to be around her back then. I-- Reese and I barely recognized her anymore. I don’t think she recognized herself. It was... it was so fucking scary.”

“Why?”

Their brows furrow deeper, the corners of their lips curling downwards. They’re trying to hold back tears, “I thought I’d lost her.” Finley and her mom never had the closest relationship. Her mother was headstrong, stubborn, bad at showing emotions, and Finley quickly took after her. They butted heads often, but... despite it all, Finley looked up to her. And when she fell that hard, Finley was at a loss of what to do.

Finley has Maisie had temporarily broken up by then. The fear had begun seeping into their relationship-- what if I’m just pretending to be someone for her?

“You and Maisie were high school sweethearts too, right?”

Their shoulders tense, and they rub at their ring finger and huff out a humorless laugh. “Yeah.”

“Were you afraid?” He asks carefully, his gaze settled on them, worry etched into his features, “That you’d lose yourself?”

Finley nods. How couldn’t they? They were a carbon copy of their mother and father’s relationship. The more similarities Finley saw, the more red flags they conjured up in their mind.

“Are you afraid that’ll happen with Jillian?”

They pause, find another loose strand to tug at. “... I don’t know.”

“Well... how did you feel with her?”

Flashes of Finley and Jillian at their house. Their eyes closed as music filtered through the living room, stupid banter exchanged like they always did-- though it felt gentler this time around--, dumb pinky swears, a sudden urge. “Is this fine with you?” muttered in between them in a moment that shifted everything; an answer with a kiss. They melted into it.

“Safe.”

“Is safe good?”

It was October, and in the midst of chaos, they looked to each other for comfort. They let each other into spaces few traversed. They knew each other. They believed in one another. They trusted each other. In the midst of chaos, there was a momentary shelter from the storm in her. In them, together.

“Safe is dangerous.”

Levi’s brows furrow, “Why?”

“Because...” There’s a lump in their throat. Their chest feels tight.

“You’re a frightening woman, Jill.” They mumbled to her on the floor of the vacant general store, a wine drunk smile on their lips.

The two of them, dancing like idiots in the Saloon, recreating a moment that didn’t happen a year ago-- because it was meant to happen now. Finley didn’t think about the people around them staring.

The feeling of Finley’s heart the moment Jillian exited the mines-- when the firecracker they thought could have been snuffed out came out, still shining. Weak, but shining. Relief flooded their body and they drowned in it.

That night in the forest, Finley lending her their jacket after seeing she was cold. Seeing her tiny smile. It smelled like her when she gave it back. They didn’t know why they didn’t mind it. They should have known.

They huff, rest their elbows on their knees and blink back tears, “Because it makes me feel so... vulnerable.” The moment they began to feel comfortable with someone, as much as they did with her, they couldn’t help but the thoughts that eventually came rushing in: it’s not going to work out-- you’re not good at this, anyway-- you’re going to lose yourself-- you’re going to repeat your mother’s mistakes-- just keep your distance-- maybe you’ve already found yourself, and you’re just an asshole.

“And vulnerable is... bad?”

“Yes.” They answer like it’s supposed to be obvious. “That’s when all the bad shit happens-- when you... let your guard down.” The words feel wrong in their mouth now, the guilt buries itself deeper within them. They made her go through that. They made her... the image of Jillian’s face, red from the cold and the anger, her cheeks wet from crying. Finley can’t help it anymore-- they break. They tip their head down until their forehead knocks against their knees. It’s quiet, and then a sob breaks through, “Fuck.” It’s one, and then another, and then another, until they can’t keep the tears from streaming down their cheeks. Levi is silent, his brows furrowed. He rests a hand on their back, rubbing small circles there, and lets them cry.

“I’m so scared.” They mumble through their tears. “I‘m so scared that... I damaged everything beyond repair again, and--” A small sob, “And I... I hurt her so fucking bad. I just keep seeing her face, and...” They uncurl themself. Their hands go up to their face, rubbing at their eyes even though the tears keep coming. “... I don’t know what to do. I don’t know how to fix this. I’m so scared of going back and seeing her, and seeing everyone and knowing they all know what a piece of shit I am now, and... fuck.”

When they lost Maisie, they lost most of their friends here too. And maybe it was selfish of them to be thinking about this too, but they didn’t want to lose their new friends. Though they feel like they probably already have, and the thought sends another pang into their chest. After a moment, they rest their head on Levi’s shoulder, “I don’t know what to do...”

He wraps an arm around them and rests his head on top of theirs, “Well... you go back.”

They sniffle, “And do what?“

“You try.”

Cue the humorless laugh, “That’s what I was doing, and it all went to shit.”

“Oh, is that what you were doing?” He pats their shoulder and turns to look at them. Carefully, he uses his sleeve to wipe away the rest of their tears, “It seemed to me like you were running. Maybe one of us is looking at it the wrong way, hm?”

He retract his hand, and Finley just stares at him, eyes tired, jaw tensing and slackening until: “Can you go back to nice therapist step-dad mode?”

He grins. “That is my nice therapist step-dad mode. If you have a problem with it, you’ll have to talk to my wife about that.” With a small pat to their shoulder, he stands up, beckoning them to follow, “Now come on-- let’s head back home before we get hypothermia.”

-----

It’s the fourth night, and Finley lies in their childhood bed, staring up at the faded glow-in-the-dark stickers on the ceiling. Through their earbuds, the playlist Ben sent them unexpectedly-- this small bit of hope that maybe not everyone hated them-- plays... Yes, they have a box of tissues next to them.

“And what happens if I try and I fail anyway?”

The song finishes, and while they wait for the next one to begin, they start scrolling through their contacts. First, they stop at Dr. Ali’s number. They tap on the message button, write out several versions of the same text, then delete it and go back to their contacts. They go to Ben’s contact and write out a text to him.

[ to: Ben ] thank you.

[ to: Ben | unsent ] i’ll try to come back soon

“Have you taken the time to entertain the thought that maybe you won’t?”

They sigh, go back to their contacts. This time, they stop at Jillian’s. Their finger hovers over the call button for an entire song. And then another. And then another. Their heart thumps against their chest like an alarm. They can’t do it. They lock their phone screen and sigh, turning to the side and curling into themself as the rest of the playlist drawls on. They don’t sleep much. They keep staring at their backpack strewn in the corner, wrap the blanket Malia had given them closer around their body. They listen to the noise of city life outside. They wish it was quieter.

“But what if I do?”

“Then you try again. However many times it takes.”

[beyondconfessor]

Principle Decisions [8/24]

Rating: Explicit

Pairing: Lilith/Zelda Spellman

Summary: It’d been over eight days since she’d seen Lilith, and her eyes had wandered over the therapist’s card twice before she managed to throw it out in recycling. 

N.B.: Also posted on AO3. This is pure fantasy, please suspend your disbelief. Double chapter to be released today :)

Zelda tapped her pen, listening to the meeting drone on as Faustus flicked through his PowerPoint presentation. She hardly cared, outside of somehow managing to volunteer to complete the meeting minutes, only because Constance had turned and looked over at her with big, pleading eyes.

Unlike with Shirley, Zelda respected Constance. Somehow she managed to juggle all of her classes, run the University’s choir and look after her twins.

Both of the twins were being cared for by an au pair at the moment, and with the thought of them, Zelda felt an ache in her chest before she snuffed the memory down. It wouldn’t do well to dwell on things that had long-since occurred.

Her chest still hurt. It seemed to ache over the last week constantly. Even Sabrina had withdrawn from biting comments to just tentatively asking if she wanted a cup of tea.

“––ay my thanks to Zelda for covering Shirley’s classes. As we all know, Shirley has been caring for her dying mother.”

Zelda blinked. She’d thought it was a dying friend? Perhaps she’d been unreasonably cruel towards her then.

No, despite how hard that must be, Shirley was still a raging cow.

“And Zelda has kindly taken over her classes to ease the transition.” There was a polite clap, and Zelda smiled tightly, fingers squeezing around her pen. Although the praise was well deserved, the half-hearted clap from the staff ( though she noticed that Constance’s was genuine) was enough to set her teeth on edge.

Perhaps she was just reading into it. It had been a long presentation, and a longer week, if she was honest.

It’d been over eight days since she’d seen Lilith, and her eyes had wandered over the therapist’s card twice before she managed to throw it out in recycling. She’d felt guilty for her attitude at the end of the session, but the truth was, the woman had overstepped her authority.

What had it mattered if she wanted to press her boundaries, request harder and harder strikes until she was a sobbing mess? As she understood it, it was her services she was paying for. She could ask for whatever she damned like.

The pen made a hole in on the page she was on. Flipping the page over, she began fresh as Faustus enquired if there was anything else on the meeting agenda. Zelda listened as a few members of the faculty enquired as to funding changes that were meant to be released, on top of the request for TAs and GAs, but the discussion was quickly shut down, leaving them to adjourn the meeting.

Tea and coffee were laid out, and the faculty began chatting with one another about the coming end of the semester. As Zelda made her way to the cups, she noticed Constance moving to stand next to her. “Faustus is running another program next year,” she advised, setting the biscuits onto her plate. “I…understand Prudence is looking to be a front runner?”

“I’m not certain,” Zelda said, “But she has the highest marks in my class so that I wouldn’t be surprised.”

“She requested to be your TA, didn’t she?” Constance enquired.

“She did,” Zelda agreed, curious to the sudden line of questioning. “Was something the matter?”

“Do you know much about her?” Constance asked. “Faustus has her in his class and was enamoured by her––until the most recent semester, and now he seems to grow tense at the very mention of her.”

Zelda paused, “Constance, what are you getting at?”

“I’ve never known him to provide such extensive funding for a TA in this department before. Have you?”

Zelda’s eyes narrowed, looking over her shoulder to where the head of the department stood with some of the other professors, laughing over a joke. “Are you implying that he might be having an…affair?” she asked, whispering the word low so no one would overhear.

“No, no. I’m not saying that, not without proof. He’s just…been so distant since the birth of the twins. He’s a proud father…but since the summer holidays, he seems so far away, all of the time. Especially around Leticia, and I just wondered if he was feeling guilty over something.” Constance paused then, embarrassment colouring her cheeks as she stirred sugar into her tea. “Don’t mind me. I’m exhausted. Even with the nanny helping out, the twins take up so much time.”

It was a flippant addition, Zelda could see the root of the issue clear on Constance’s face. She was lonely and certain that her husband was withdrawing because he found someone else.

“I remember how difficult it was with Sabrina. Having two children who need your attention on top of your own work must be difficult to balance. Perhaps you need to find time for yourself?” she suggested. “Have a weekend away?”

Constance nodded in agreement. “You’re right, and I’m just making something out of nothing.” Constance drew in a deep breath and gave a tight smile. “But if you were to see anything…”

“I assure you, I’ll let you know,” she agreed with a nod. “But Faustus has always been devout to you.”

Constance gave a tight smile but didn’t speak any further.

It did leave Zelda with the seed planted in her mind. Although she’d never known Prudence or Faustus to interact, it wasn’t to say that they didn’t. After all, Faustus was their department head, which included overseeing things such as applicants for scholarships. As Zelda understood, Prudence was on a scholarship that covered her classes, textbooks and board while she was here.

She didn’t want to think the worst, but it wouldn’t be the first time that there were rumours of professor-student dalliances across campus. She’d just hoped that Faustus had been above that.

Zelda drew her thoughts away from it as she felt a headache form.

She returned home that evening sore, the muscles in her neck and shoulders felt tight, which was causing a headache to form behind her eyes as she entered her home to the sound of loud arguing.

“––fault! It’s not like…” Sabrina’s voice drifted off as the door opened and Zelda looked up to see her on the stairs, yelling down at Hilda, who was standing in the foyer.

Wonderful.

“What is going on here?” she asked, looking from Sabrina’s tight, furious expression to a baffled Hilda.

Hilda turned on her heel and began stuttering out utter gibberish before she ended up dropping her hands with a shake of her head. Zelda turned and looked to Sabrina, eyes drawing over her for a clue. Her niece was still in her cheerleading clothes, and had her bag slung over her shoulder as she stood defiantly on the stairs, but whatever it related to remained a mystery.

“Nothing,” Sabrina said tightly, giving her Aunt Hilda what looked like a warning before walking up the rest of the stairs and disappearing to her bedroom.

Zelda paused, before looking back to a sister with a sneaky feeling that this was somehow about her again. She wasn’t aware of any charity events, outside of Sabrina’s community service that was completed on the weekends.

Hilda shook her head. “She brought a letter home. Apparently, she’s failing french. She didn’t want me to tell you because she knew that you’d blow-up at her.”

“Blow up at her?” Zelda echoed. “What a preposterous idea. It is, however, a sign that she needs to focus more on her school. I mean, how could she fail french?” Zelda asked. “I speak over a dozen languages for Christ’s sake. Perhaps she’s spending too much time with this cheerleading thing?”

Hilda frowned, looking at Zelda like she was trying to bite back from saying something nasty.

“Spit it out.”

“It’s not like you're there to help her with homework. You just sort of expect she’ll have the same aptitude as you and Edward. Maybe she doesn’t care for language, and there’s nothing wrong with that. She’s doing well with almost all of her other classes.”

“Nonsense. It’s not that difficult, and once she learns one language, it’ll be far easier for her to pick up other languages.” Zelda stated. “Not to mention the college benefits it will bring. Sabrina’s got a talent for many things, but I hardly think she’s going to get a scholarship for cheerleading. It’d be better if she pursued an academic scholarship.”

“She could get it for cheerleading,” Hilda argued. “She’s pretty good.”

“Honestly Hilda,” Zelda said, giving her a look as she passed by. It was like her sister had no idea how the real world worked. Sure, if Sabrina wanted to attend some community college, she could put all of her eggs in cheerleading. Realistically, she needed to focus her attention on school.

Heading to her office, Zelda set her stuff down on the desk. She heard the sound of Hilda turning to the kitchen and starting dinner as she pulled out her computer––newly repaired but at the cost of losing all of the academic journals she’d downloaded––and began the administration work for her classes, placing their grades up to be viewed by midnight.

No doubt, she’d have a dozen emails by morning, begging her to allow a re-do of the assessment or to complete extra credit. Still, with how thinly spread she was between classes, she didn’t have time to oversee any of that, and she doubted Prudence would want to review any of it.

She was halfway through uploading her first year’s marks when Hilda knocked on the doorframe of her office, summoning her to dinner.

“I’ll be right out.”

“Zelda,” her sister warned.

Zelda drew in a tight breath before pausing, pushing up from her desk and following her sister out. She took her seat at the table and gave a soft greeting to Ambrose before noticing that Sabrina still hadn’t come down.

Zelda watched as Hilda gave a glare up the higher floor before serving the food, sitting them one-by-one in front of Zelda, Ambrose, the seat where Sabrina usually sat, and then herself.

When it looked like Hilda was about to sit down, Zelda rose from her chair. “I’ll call Sabrina down, shall I?” she asked tightly, not giving her sister time to speak to her as she walked out of the kitchen. If she had to interrupt her work to come to a family dinner, then by God, her niece needed to attend as well, despite her sour mood.

She rose the flight of stairs, down the hall and then knocked on Sabrina’s door, where she heard an odd noise of shuffling before her niece opened the bedroom door, crossing her arms defiantly. “Yes?”

Zelda blinked. Once upon a time, her niece would receive compliments from her teachers about being well-mannered and polite. ‘A delight to have in the classroom’. Zelda’s eyes narrowed at the disrespect. “I beg your pardon?”

“Beg all you like then,” her niece responded. “I’m not coming down. I have work to do. I already know that you’re going to cut my allowance and refuse to let me see my friends, so why should I come to sit at dinner where you and Aunt Hilda are just going to get into an argument over this.”

Zelda drew in a deep breath, trying to quell the rising anger. “Sabrina,” she began with a steady voice. “Family dinner is something we do as a family. I am asking you to come down and sit with us.”

“Why?”

“Because we’re a family, and we share meals.”

“How can we be a family when you’re never here,” Sabrina pointed out. “And in the few times, you are home you’re always in your office.”

“That’s why we have family dinners.”

“You don’t even take me to and from school anymore, Harvey does! It’s like you don’t care, so as long as I’m doing well at school. The only time you took an interest was when I got into trouble for that fight. Otherwise, you’re too busy to do anything!” Sabrina snapped, her eyes welling up with tears. “You don’t care what I have to say, or what I do so as long as I’m not failing or in trouble.”

Zelda felt her heart clench. “Is that how you feel? That I don’t care?”

“Do you?”

“Do you think I’m working twelve hours a day, six days a week because I want to? I’m doing it because I have a job that’s putting food on the table and paying for the roof over your head. I am working to pay for your education and your extracurricular activities, or did you forget who paid for your cheerleading uniform? It doesn’t come for free, Sabrina. I work to give provide for our family.”

“We have an inheritance. You don’t need to work this hard!”

Zelda laughed, absolutely stunned by her nieces' words. “How much money do you think we have? We could not live off the money for all these years, and yes while it is more than most families have, all of that goes very fast if anything were to happen to your Aunt Hilda or I.” She took a breath, watching her niece scramble for a retort. “What this has shown me is that you have no idea how money works. Consider this me cutting you off. If you want to go out with your friends and see movies together or pay for school excursions, you need to pay for it yourself. I expect you to get a job by the time the winter holidays come.”

“You can’t do that!”

“I can and will,” Zelda said with a glare. “I think it’s time you learnt some financial responsibility.” Zelda turned quirked an eyebrow, watching as Sabrina’s cheeks turned pink with fury.

“I’m not coming to dinner,” she said.

“Fine. But don’t expect the food to be there when you do get hungry. If you want food, you will sit with your family.”

Turning on her heel, she walked away. The door slammed shut behind her, and Zelda considered walking back and having the door removed.

But no, that was not something she felt was fair. Sabrina had been slamming doors since she was toddler, it was an offence she would continue to look past and treat like it was. A toddler throwing a tantrum, and as such, needing to be ignored.

Fury bubbling inside of her. Sabrina’s insolence had gone too far this time. It was clear she needed to be firm and set a tone. If her niece was going to make wild accusations about her not being family, and not needing money, then she could find out for herself how difficult it was when you didn’t have money.

Zelda returned to the kitchen, sitting at the table where Ambrose and Hilda both sat awkwardly across from each other, their food untouched before them.

“Is Sabrina coming down for––?” Hilda began

“Does it appear that she’s coming down? Or did the slammed door perhaps lead you to believe that our interactions were peaceful, sister?”

Hilda’s jaw slammed shut, as Ambrose began to stare down at his food, hands in his lap. Zelda rolled her eyes, picking up her fork and knife and began cutting into the food. If an uncomfortable silence was what dinner would involve, so be it.

All she’d wanted was a family dinner, and now she had anger sitting like a stone in her stomach, burning its way through any enjoyment she could have.

Perhaps she’s snapped too tightly at Hilda, but honestly, it seemed like her sister left her to be the bad person constantly. She was left saying no to Sabrina, drawing lines in the sand whilst Hilda would dally around niceties.

“I’ve decided that Sabrina needs to learn the value of money,” she said. “We will no longer be funding her extracurricular activities, nor her outings. If she wishes to spend copious amounts of money on clothes and dates, she can earn money through handwork, as we did.”

“Well, we hardly worked while we were in school. Father only made us work through holidays.”

Zelda placed her knife and fork down, taking the napkin she cleaned her fingers and face and then looked to her sister. “Perhaps you did not, but Edward and I both worked at the school. Edward worked with the librarian if you recall. And I assisted Mr Rutherglen.”

“‘Assisted’,” Hilda said, making air quotes. Zelda stared at her. Where on earth had such disrespect risen from today? Sabrina was one thing, but Hilda?

“Did you have something you wanted to say, or did you prefer making veiled comments?”

“Just that…we all knew…” she said trailing off. “That you and Mr Rutherglen, you know?” she implied as if Ambrose wasn’t well aware in the ways of implication.

“That we were what?” Zelda asked because the anger was curling inside of her, and if Hilda continued to dance around the words, she was going to slap her.

“Sleeping together, sister. Not that it mattered. I mean, in retrospect it was absolutely horrible to form his part, he was over a decade older than you, but it’s not at all your fault, just that obviously he…paid for––“

“He certainly did not!” Zelda snapped. “We were not, as you say, sleeping together.”

“Zelds, it’s fine. It was decades ago now, and Edward saw—“

“I have no idea what he thought he saw, but we were not sleeping together. For Christ’s sake, he was married, Hilda. With a daughter.”

“Because we know that’s stopped a man before,” she said, commenting out of the side of her mouth. “Look, if you say nothing occurred then fine, I believe you.”

“You do not. Otherwise, you wouldn’t have said a damned thing,” Zelda snapped before taking a breath, feeling a wave of dizziness struck her. “Rutherglen took an interest in me due to my language aptitude. Never had anything sexual passed. He often remarked how he hoped his daughter would grow up to be like me.” Zelda felt her chest tighten, thinking on it.

She hated how Hilda was trying to taint the memory of one of the few teachers who had taken an earnest interest in her for no reason other than to mentor her into a path of her choosing. She couldn’t imagine why Edward would have thought they were sleeping together. He’d always been sure to keep a professional distance with her.

Except once. When she’d been crying about––

Zelda paused the thoughts and pushed them away. It didn’t matter. There had been from so long ago, and Edward was dead.

Not finishing her dinner, she set the napkin down on the plate and stood up, walking away. Nausea settled in her stomach. Had Edward truly thought that of her––Hilda had, easily. Is that what was to them? A girl who slept with her teachers for money and extra credit?

She returned to her office, pulling the door tightly shut behind her and sat at her computer, feeling the hollowness consume her.

Why did it matter what a dead brother thought of her? Of what a sister who earned minimum wage cared? It was nothing new. Certainly, others had thought it of her. Throughout her undergraduates years, she’d had similar rumours thrown about her. It shouldn’t matter.

It didn’t matter.

She continued to upload the grades, feeling the numbness of the task take hold until she came to the last one, realising that it was all done and nearly midnight.

Exhaustion pulled at her and then Zelda was making her way to bed, clicking lights off behind her and making her way up the stairs. Hilda’s light was off, Sabrina’s light was off, Ambrose’s light was on, but that wasn’t unusual––at least his music was off.

She changed into her pyjamas, completed her night skincare routine despite the exhaustion pulling at her, and then climbed into bed. But despite the exhaustion itching at her eyes in the darkness as she clicked off the lamp, her mind buzzed as she traced over old conversations between Edward and Hilda.

Did the university think the same thing? Did Shirley whisper amongst the staff, behind her back, gossiping about how she slept her way into position?

Zelda stared into the darkness, feeling the discomfort creep over her. It seemed that the more she had tried to grow as an adult, shape herself into something of sophistication, the more people were determined to think that she was just some wanton hussy.

Perhaps they always would. Perhaps there was nothing after this.

Thunder seemed to roll outside, threatening a great storm.

She drifted into a restless sleep.

_______________

[gvbejvmes]

Drabble: The Present

Title: Fridays with CeCe Rating: PG-13 Characters: Gabriel James-Michaels, Bella James-Michaels, Constance James, Miss Alison, Andrew James, Maxxie Turner, Jonathan James-Michaels (mentioned), Velvet Starr (mentioned), Tommy “Kid” Kidderro (mentioned) Relationship: Implied Gabriel James-Michaels/Jonathan James-Michaels, Andrew James/Maxxie Turner, past Andrew James/Velvet Starr Warnings: Implied drug use and child endangerment, mentions of canon murder and incorrect medical diagnoses  Summary: Twice a month Bella had a playdate at social services.

Twice a month Bella had a playdate at social services. She called it her ‘CeCe Day.’ He or Jay would take her down there, and she would bounce excitedly in their arms as she told them about all the things she wanted to do while she was there. It was always on a Friday, and it was always four hours in the morning. When they picked her up, she would either chatter on and on at 100mph about what she and her CeCe had done or she would be mopey because her CeCe showed up late or forgot about their playdate. Mostly she loved Playdate Days. Gabe, on the other hand, despised them.

While he and Johnny called them ‘Playdate Days,’ they’d never actually explained to Bella what they were. They would when she was older, but for now, she was too young to understand. All she knew was that her Mommy’s name was CeCe (well, Constance, but she chose to call her CeCe), and she had a standing playdate with her every other Friday. She never asked why it was always in the same room. And she never asked why Miss Alison, their caseworker, was always there. She only knew that she only got to see CeCe in a certain place at a certain time - the specifics didn’t bother her yet. Bella was three months old when Gabe got the call from social services asking if he could take custody of his granddaughter; she didn’t know any other life than this one.

Like most ‘Playdate Days,’ Gabe arrived a half hour early to pick Bella up. He didn’t know why he did it. Sometimes it was because he was already in the area and didn’t want to stray too far away. Other times it was because he had a bad feeling in the pit of his stomach. Today it was a combination of the two. He still needed to go to the art store to pick up a couple of brushes he had custom ordered, but something in his gut had told him to stop by the social services building first.

Instead of going in right away and sitting in the waiting room, he went around to the back of the building to the designated smoking area first - and that was when he saw her. 

Constance James was skinny in a way that didn’t look natural. She had definition around her collarbone and chest that reminded Gabe of bird bones. It was like her body didn’t know how to retain fat or muscle tissue on that part of her body. She almost looked concave, but Gabe wouldn’t go quite that far. Her skin didn’t sit quite right on her bones - like she’d lost weight too quickly and her skin tried to conform to her body, but failed. It didn’t hang, but it didn’t look entirely normal either.

Her long blonde hair was streaked with black dye and was pulled back into a severe ponytail at the crown of her head. A cigarette was dangling from her lips as she texted rapidly on her phone. Her nails were short, and the cuticles looked picked at. Chipped nail polish caught the sunlight as her fingers moved across the screen. 

She must have seen him approach because she suddenly groaned and put her phone away. “Did they call you?” She asked as she pulled the cigarette out of her mouth. Her foot was pressed against the side of the building, which made Gabe think of a flamingo for some reason.

“Should they have called me, Connie?” He asked his daughter as he pulled out his own cigarette and lit up. He leaned against the wall near her, knowing better by now than to try to have direct eye contact with his estranged daughter.

She shrugged and took a long drag of her cigarette. She looked better than the last time he had seen her. A lot of the time she ducked out before Gabe could get a good look at her. Today she was wearing jeans that actually fit without falling off her hips, and a thick gray sweater that fell off her shoulder, but that looked like it was the style and not the size. She looked healthier than the last time he’d seen her. Of all the things to have inherited, she inherited her mother’s terrible parenting and her grandfather’s temper and addiction.

“I dunno. They always seem to call you when I fuck up.” She admitted. “Ari kicked me out of the room.”

That was going to be a fun conversation with the case worker. He nodded and took a drag, using the time to think about what to say to that. “She prefers being called Bella.” He finally settled on.

Connie finished her cigarette and dropped the butt onto the ground before pushing off the wall. “No, you prefer Bella. She’s three. She’ll answer to any name I call her.” And with that his daughter started walking back towards the street. “I’ll see you when I see you.”

He watched his daughter walk away before finishing his cigarette and sanitizing his hands. There were so many things he wanted to say to her, but they both knew she wouldn’t listen.  Pushing all thoughts of his daughter away, he went inside to pick up Bella. And sure enough, as soon as he walked into the waiting room, the receptionist led him into a conference room to wait for the caseworker.

“Mr. James-Michaels.” Miss Alison greeted him.  And it was Miss Alison. He’d tried just calling her Alison once and she nearly bit his head off. His husband said it was a Child Services/Social Worker thing and to just roll with it. 

“Miss Alison.” He greeted in return, watching as she sat down at the table across from him. “I ran into Connie outside.”

The younger woman’s face paled. “Did she tell you what happened?” She pulled out her tablet and Gabe knew from experience that she was pulling up their file.

“Just that Bella threw her out of the room. And that she’s trying to make ‘Ari’ happen.”

Miss Alison sighed. “I put in a call to the judge. We may have to terminate her visitation for a couple of weeks.” It looked like she was looking for the best way to explain to Gabe what happened. Technically there was video footage, but Gabe hated watching it and Miss Alison knew that. 

“Miss James has once again refused to follow the rules of visitation. She was thirty minutes late, she insisted on referring to Bella as Ari, even after both myself and Bella asked her to refrain, and she once again told Bella she was going to buy a house and take her away from you. It was at that point that Bella screamed and asked her to go away. We escorted Miss James out immediately. It’s become very clear that the current arrangement is not conducive to Bella’s wellbeing. You and your husband will likely get a summons within the next week or so with a court date to meet with Judge Murphy again.”

Before Gabe could respond, there was a knock on the door, and one of the assistants popped their head into the room. “Sorry, Bella kept asking me to call you. When I let her know you were already here, she demanded to see you because and I quote ‘the connatution says so.’” And he looked like he was trying so hard not to laugh.

Gabe rolled his eyes. “That she definitely got from my husband.” He dug around in his satchel and pulled out a package of freeze dried apple slices and tossed them at the assistant before pulling off his beanie and tossing that to him as well. “Those should tide her over until I’m done in here.” He promised. “I have to go over my and my husband’s availability for the next couple of weeks with Miss Alison.” 

By the time Gabe finished his conversation and went to the other room to collect Bella, she was standing by the door, coat on and his beanie shoved down over her wild hair. “Took you long enough, GG.” She complained as he signed her out and carried her out of the building. “You dunno what I had to deal with today.”

His granddaughter was definitely three going on forty-seven.

After going to pick up his custom brushes, they headed over to the Collective so they could drop them off in his studio and because there were some orders he apparently needed to authorize. As soon as they walked inside, Bella told him she wanted to watch ‘the spinning’. He had no idea what she was talking about, until they walked to the classroom and he saw Maxxie running his beginning pottery class. Bella scampered off to sit near Maxxie and watch him move his clay around. Somehow he had a feeling she was going to wind up covered in clay - again. Shaking his head, he walked out of the classroom to find Andrew James sitting at the reception desk.

His son was twenty-six years old and all dark hair and tan skin. There was something about his hair that reminded Gabe of how his hair had been when he was his age. It was long and hung in his eyes - all the damn time. He was broad-shouldered, but was constantly hunching in on himself. It was like he was trying to make himself smaller everywhere he went. If he had to describe his son in one word, it would be skittish. 

He spent years on medication he didn’t need after he claimed that he saw aliens take his aunt away. It wasn’t until he was older that he finally saw a therapist who saw his story for what it was: a way for his brain to comprehend a horrible thing he’d witnessed. Unfortunately by that time, he’d already spent years on medication he never needed and the side effects were irreversible. Thankfully the worst of it was memory loss and shaky hands.

“What are you doing working today?” He asked curiously as he gestured for his son to let him onto the computer. His son had been working at the Collective since he moved to New York. He’d made it clear he didn’t want any handouts, but he’d connected so well with the others at the Collective that it was strange to think about him working anywhere else. “I thought you refused to work on days Maxxie and Velvet were working.” 

He’d dated both Velvet and Maxxie and now tried to avoid both of them whenever he could. His relationship with Velvet hadn’t been all that serious. As soon as he found out Velvet slept in a coffin, he was out. Maxxie, on the other hand, had been very serious. They’d dated for six months, which was the longest he’d ever seen his friend in a relationship. It had ended badly, to say the very least. He wasn’t entirely sure what happened between them, but fire had been involved somehow. 

Drew made a face as he perched on the desk, shoulders hunched over and ankles crossed. “That’s not true.” He lied. “I traded shifts with Kid. He had his first GED prep class today.”

Gabe smiled at that. It had taken Tommy long enough. He pulled up the order he needed to review. There were still things he needed to do up in his office, but knowing that his son was working made him want to stay downstairs with him for as long as he could get away with it. 

“CJ texted me.” Drew said after a long moment. “She wanted me to talk some ‘sense’ into you.” 

He rolled his eyes. “And how’s that going for you?” While Connie didn’t talk to him, she still talked to her brother, but mostly only when she needed something. Drew, for his part, didn’t take sides. He loved his sister despite her faults, but he also knew how she was and what was best for his niece.

Before Drew could respond, Maxxie’s voice came from the classroom. “Pookie! Can you come get your little sister?! She’s throwing clay on the ground.” And nothing about that surprised him except for…

“Pookie?” He mouthed at his son, eyebrow raised. Maybe there was more to Drew working today than just taking Tommy’s shift.

His son blushed as he hopped off the desk. “That’s the part you’re focusing on? Not the fact that he keeps calling my niece my sister?” He grumbled out. “I’ll watch Bella; just go work.” He waved a hand in his dad’s direction. 

As his son disappeared into the classroom and he could hear Bella squealing in delight, he couldn’t help but to mouth out again: “Pookie?”

[penninstitute]

CASE #0140719

Statement of Emma Livingston, regarding her colorblindness and her artist neighbor. Original statement given July 19th, 2014.

Everything I see is a shade of grey. Trees are grey, the sky is grey, et cetera, et cetera. I was born like this, unable to experience color from the moment I was born, but it never hindered my ability to function as a human being. 

I can tell colors apart by the different shades, but it truly is quite hard to when some are so similar. I know yellow is lighter than red, but in my eyes, red and blue look almost completely the same. Well, looked. 

I’ve come to learn what colors look like. I know red is warm and blue is cold. But I came through to this knowledge in quite a… strange and rather scary encounter. I mean, I wouldn’t be writing this if I didn’t think it was that bad. But I saw color. And not with those fancy glasses that they make nowadays. But with my own eyes. 

I recently moved to New York for a job. I’m just a simple temp, but I wanted out from my parent’s home in Alabama and to move in with my girlfriend, who my parents despised. I think they despise me too, especially now that they know I have an interest in women.

My girlfriend and I lived in a surprisingly decent building for the price of the rent. It was homey but a little tired looking, but nothing a little bit of redecorating couldn’t fix. We had a neighbor to our left, a little old woman named Belinda, who was probably more of a mom than mine ever was. She made Ari and I cupcakes every other week. Ari is my girlfriend, by the way. Belinda was a sweet woman. She isn’t dead or anything, but Ari and I don’t live there anymore. I’ll get to that soon.

The apartment to our right was empty for about six months after we moved in. Apparently a single mom lived there, but moved out to live with her family in Florida after the death of her nine year old son. Tragic accident, I heard. But this isn’t about that woman, but the man that moved in.

He was weird. I don’t like to be rude, but he really was. Ari told me his pale skin had an almost green, sickly tone. She said his hair was a strawberry blond, whatever that means, and had blue eyes that were puffy and red as if he was always crying. He looked like a disaster to her, and also to me. I felt pity for him.

Oh, I should mention his name too, shouldn’t I? I think it was Frank. Frank Cyrus. Or Sylvester. But I’m pretty sure it was Cyrus. From my limited interaction with him, I learned he was an artist. He worked as a curator at the Met, he said, and was often so inspired by all the works there that he incorporated a lot of things in his own work.

I appreciate art as much as I can. I can look at a painting and appreciate the handiwork or realism gone into a piece of work. But I can’t exactly appreciate the use of color in something like the Mona Lisa or whatever.

Frank would show Ari and I whatever knew creation he’d make whenever we’d see him. It wasn’t very often, but we’re good neighbors, and we try to communicate as much as we can with our neighbors to let them know that we’re good people.

But something about Frank made me want to not be nice to him. I know, I know, it’s really mean of me to just dislike someone because of their vibes or whatever, but God was he unsettling. One time, I was coming home from work, tired and in pain from my new heels I got for my birthday. 

The hall was quiet, the fluorescent light illuminated the decades old carpet and the paint that began to peel from the walls. A light that was just above Frank’s door was burnt out which unsettled me even more.

As I pulled out my keys, movement in the darkness caught my eye. I blinked and shook my head. It was nothing, probably something in my head. I fumbled with placing the key in the lock, now that my hands began to shake with unease. 

The voice from the darkness is what made me drop them. It sounded like Frank. But… different. Something was off. 

“We should call Edward to fix this light, shouldn’t we, Emma?” Frank asked. 

“Y-yeah, we should,” I said, in an attempt to not sound alarmed. But I was pretty alarmed. I bent over to pick up my keys, only to see them not there. There was a familiar jingle to my right. 

I turned to see Frank holding my keys in his hand. It looked wrong. It.. It looked like how in movies, hands look when smashed by a hammer or something. It was so strange. It made me feel nauseous. 

“You dropped these.” He smiled widely and stretched out his arm. I heard a sickening pop in his elbow. His wrist made a soft click as its fingers bent unnaturally to dangle the keys between his thumb and index finger. I gingerly accepted them from him. 

“Thank you, Frank.” I gave him a quick smile, shoved the key in the lock, and bid him a good night. My heart beat thunderously in my chest as I closed the door behind me. I’d never had such a peculiar encounter before in my life. When I told Ari about it, she almost got up to go have a very strongly worded conversation with Frank, but I stopped her. Maybe I should have let her. 

A couple weeks passed and I hadn’t seen him. I was thankful, but there was something in the back of my mind that made me feel bad for Frank. I don’t know why. 

It was about two weeks ago when it happened. I had a day off that day, one that I was going to spend lounging around the house as I awaited Ari to come back so we could have a date night. There was a soft knock at the door around five. It was odd, as Ari didn’t get off until five-thirty. I guessed she might’ve gotten off early, and I eagerly hopped up and headed to answer the door. But when my hand closed around the doorknob, turned, and pulled the door open, no one was outside. I blinked and furrowed my brow. 

I leaned my head out of the doorway and looked around. Nothing looked amiss. Then there was a creak of a door slowly opening. Frank’s door. I don’t know what came over me in that moment, but with a sudden urge I stepped out of my apartment and walked to the entrance of my neighbor’s apartment. It was pitch black in there, and I know that this next thing sounds so stupid. Something an idiotic horror movie protagonist would do. It’s a decision I don’t even remember making.

I walked into the apartment. As my foot touched against the wooden floor the dim lights flickered on. I didn’t touch a switch at all, it just… happened. I looked around the living room of Frank’s apartment, which seemed so strangely bare. Only a television and a couch, nothing more. I remember I called out for Frank, but I didn’t get a response. Every feeling flowing through my body was telling me to get out of there but I just… couldn’t. My body was almost moving on its own. I slowly drifted towards the bedroom, my heart pounding heavily in my chest. When I pushed open the door, my eyes almost popped out of my skull.

Color. It was full of color. I don’t know how else to explain it. There were canvasses everywhere, on the floor, on the walls, even on the ceiling. Colors. I felt nauseous, it was so… overwhelming. But it was beautiful. There’s no other way I could describe it, I’d never seen anything like this before. Can you imagine going through life without seeing such beauty?

My eyes flashed across the room, taking in each grotesque, surrealist painting. The imagery itself was unappealing to me, hideous bodies bent in unfathomable ways, patterns covering all of them or behind them in the background. But the use of color astounded me and left me sobbing in the doorway. I don’t know how long I spent standing there, crying, trying to name all the colors I saw. But my attention was interrupted as I saw him.

Frank. On the floor. I don’t know how long he’d been there, I didn’t notice him. He was naked, every inch of him covered in that colorful paint, his body bent in unhuman angles. His spine was twisted, his legs tied into a knot. His face was long, distorted, the jaw crooked, almost resembling Picasso’s “the Scream”. He was still breathing.

I screamed. I ran out of there as fast as I could, my fight or flight, finally kicking in. I sped to the phone and dialled 911.

Ari came home soon and helped me through the police’s questions.

They did find Frank’s body in a similar state as I did, but dead. They said there were no paintings, though. The only paint was the stuff on Frank’s body, painted in patterns. They still don’t know how it all happened, I’ve called the station a few times but never got a word. Nothing on those paintings, either.

I feel like I’m crazy, but I’m not. Ari and I moved to a new building later that week. We’re fine now, I’m fine now. Got a therapist and everything. Ari bought me those colorblind glasses after I’ve rambled about the colors for hours on end. I haven’t touched them. I don’t think I want to see any other colors but those impossible ones again.

FOLLOW-UP NOTES

- Quite obviously, a colorblind individual cannot just suddenly start seeing color like this, which makes me doubt the statement to an extent.

- Ms. Livingston refused our request for a follow-up interview.

- Frank Cyrus did exist, although records on him are minimal (save for an extensive criminal record). He seems to have dropped off the face of the earth.

ARCHIVIST’S NOTE: This statement was rather difficult to digitalize. The scanner refused to work properly, and had to be transcribed the old-fashioned way from paper to computer. When the scanner was used, flashes of headache-inducing, swirling colors would appear on the screen of the computer. Blair and I had to unplug the scanner and the computer to get it to stop.

[areasontobreathe]

The Miys, Ch. 56

This one got away from me.  I meant for it to just be some filler, but it turned into a serious conversation, somehow.  Those wily OCs keep getting away from me.  *Spots one sneaking out the door* Hey!  Get back here!

By the virtue of having to proof the pizza dough, Maverick managed to dash into our quarters with just enough time to shower and change before sitting down with us for dinner.  He gulped down a glass of wine before even reaching for any food, nodding his thanks to Antoine as he handed the glass back. Conor and I glanced at each other, concerned: Maverick rarely drank with dinner, and if he did it was usually sparingly.

He must have caught our glance. “My hands are shaking and my back is a mess of knots from checking – and I quote – ‘everything in the lab that may have had anything to do with the construction of the platforms, along with any equipment that may have interacted with them after construction’.  So sayeth Grey Hodenson.” He paused to stuff a fish-laden slice of pizza in his mouth. “Mmph. Sorry. Hey, Zach.”

“That’s literally every piece of equipment in BioLab 2 and the fabrication lab,” Conor interjected.  “Grey is making you do all that?”

Maverick shook his head. “Huynh is coming down on everyone with this, Con. Grey’s just protecting their technicians and researchers.”

“What about Xiomara?” I asked, waving my hand to grab their attention before glancing at my sister. “I mean, the platforms being unsafe would fall under her department, right?”

Tyche picked up on what I was hinting at. “Does she even know about this issue?”

Conor glanced back and forth between us for a moment. “I – I honestly don’t know,” he admitted.  “I’ve been so caught up in defending myself that I didn’t even think to ask.”

“If Councillor Hodenson knows, would they not think to pass the information on to her?” Antoine asked reasonably.

It was my turn to shake my head. “Don’t you remember on Level One?  Grey gets incredibly forgetful when they’re under extreme duress.  With the recent gravity increase, I don’t think anyone has been sleeping all that well. Derek told me earlier that he’s been having nightmares.  I know the three of us haven’t been sleeping worth a damn.” I gestured between myself and my two partners-cum-guard dogs.

“Surprised you can sleep at all, the way Maverick snores,” Zach snickered, earning a half-hearted glare and the confiscation of a slice of pizza from his plate. “Hey!” he protested weakly.

Still staring him down, I took the biggest bite I could manage of the slice in my hand before sliding the rest of the pizza on the table toward him. “Be nice,” I admonished around my stolen mouthful.  “The point is, Xio may not know about the situation.  I’ll touch base with her tomorrow, first thing.”

Later, Tyche and I were sitting in the living room while the guys were cleaning up and joking around in the food-prep area. “Does he do that often?” she asked, referring to the earlier situation with Conor.

“Hmm? Oh, umm…. No? Not really?” I scrunched my nose. “This is the first time I’ve known him to do it while someone else was here?”  

She looked at me skeptically. “Mon soeur…” she started with the same fond tone that she usually reserved for calling me ‘silly bitch’.

“I’m not lying, you can have Noah check the recordings later. I swear. Yes, he does lose his temper sometimes, but he makes a point to ask me and Maverick to leave while he calms down or warns us before we get home that he had a bad day and needs some time to himself.  I can’t really think of any time that it’s been something one of us did that set it off – usually it’s work or a hydroponic project that gets him that frustrated.  We didn’t even know that he was throwing things until we came back for something once, thinking he was just laying in bed or reading a book or something, and we caught the mess he had made while he was cleaning it up.”

She seemed reluctantly mollified. “I really thought for a second that… Anyway, assuming you are telling the truth – and I will check – it makes sense that he was so upset when you walked in earlier. But if I check with Noah, and he tells me a different story…” She left the threat hanging as she gave me a pointed look.

“Check all you want,” I assured her. “Cross examine, be specific, grill them. If I’m blind to something, let me know.”

Before we could say anything else, the other four joined us.  Tyche left the couch in favor of sitting with Antoine in the armchair, while Maverick took her seat next to me.  Surprisingly, Conor let Zach sit on my other side, in favor of sitting on the floor and resting against mine and Maverick’s legs. It wasn’t unusual for him to do after losing his temper – I wasn’t even sure he realized that he acted like he had to earn back his spot on the sofa – but I hadn’t expected him to do it in front of other people.

My favorite source of never-ending surprise didn’t stop there. “Antoine,” he asked, clearing his throat. “Do you have anyone on staff who, uh, helps with… anger management?” He rubbed the back of his neck in embarrassment when Antoine’s eyebrows shot up.  “I got… mad as hell today, and I was throwing things in front of Zach.  And it’s not the first time I’ve tossed a room ‘cause I was pissed off.” Leaning forward, he shoved a hand through his hair and forced himself to keep talking. “I’ve never raised my voice or threw things at Sophie or Mav, and I try to make sure that no one is here when I do it.  But today… Zach was here, and Sophie and Tyche got home and the door was open, and I could’ve… Even if it had been a accident, someone could’ve got hurt, and – “

“No one got hurt?” Antoine cut in, glancing around with concern. I could see his fingers digging into Tyche’s hip where his arms were around her, his professional façade cracking just a hair at the idea that she had been in potential danger. The three of us who had been there shook our heads, and he pinched the bridge of his nose. “I am well aware that Tyche will likely be checking the recordings to ensure that you are save, Sophia and Maverick.  I will be checking them with her, just to be sure.  And yes, Conor, we do have some people on the Ark who are trained to handle anger management.”  When Antoine removed his hand from his face, I caught him clenching it in a tight fist for a brief moment.

Apparently Conor wasn’t the only one with an unexpected temper. “Antoine,” I said softly. “I already told Tyche, go ahead and check the recordings. Grill Noah. Conor really has always made a point to make sure we weren’t here when he knew he was going to lose it, and he tried as hard as he could to make sure we didn’t realize how badly he was handling it. But I do think he could use some help learning a more… productive? Way to handle things.” I stroked Conor’s hair and smiled slightly when Maverick moved my hand so he could do it, instead. “I did suggest boxing,” I pointed out, glancing up.

“The last thing I want to do is graduate to hitting things,” Conor grumbled.  “That doesn’t seem like a good idea at all.”

“Actually, boxing is an effective outlet for aggression,” Antoine argued. “It has proven to provide a safe outlet for violent urges, especially if it is not an activity you have ever taken up before.  Over time, it reprograms the same physical impulse that causes you to throw things to instead channel that aggression toward hitting something that is designed to be hit, or toward a sparring partner who is consenting to engage and is physically protected.”

“There has to be something else. Something non-violent.”

“Any physical exercise can provide an outlet, but it may not be as satisfying,” our resident therapist relented.  “Running, aerobics, or dance are found to be the most effective due to the high cardiovascular output they provide.”

Conor nodded, taking that into more serious consideration.  “Running sounds better.”

“Awww, you don’t want to start taking dance classes?” Maverick teased, grunting when I elbowed him. “What? You can’t tell me it wouldn’t be a little funny.”

I glared at him as Tyche cleared her throat. “Um, Maverick? Sweetie? Sophia took dance lessons for years.  Believe me, just the stretches will have you pouring sweat when you first start.”

“It takes about the same amount of discipline as martial arts,” I picked up from there. “Precision, and complete focus on what each part of your body is doing at any given time. Not to mention the amount of strength you have to build up, depending on what you’re doing – at one point I could squat close to three hundred pounds. Not for long,” I admitted. “But I could do it.”

“Maybe you should start dancing again,” my sister mused. “It was good for your anxiety.” I tilted my head, conceding her point, but didn’t say anything.

“I am tempted to make the entire ship start taking up more cardiovascular exercise,” Antoine sighed.  “Since the most recent gravity adjustment, the reports of anxiety, paranoia, and insomnia have far exceeded what we anticipated.  As Sophia suggested at dinner, it seems that very few on the Ark are unaffected.”

I snorted before descending through giggles and into outright hysteric laughter.  I glanced up briefly to see everyone staring at me, waiting for me to explain the joke. I managed to pull myself together long enough to gasp, “Ten-thousand-person flash mob.”

One by one, the entire room descended into laughter, the seriousness that had settled upon us temporarily broken by the mental image of everyone on the Ark dancing their hearts out.

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[marlahey]

we stumbled in the dark: part fourteen sneak peek

...hi. 

so I know it’s been about 84 years, but the good news is that part 14 of wsitd is still going (slowly but surely) and the last scene of this chapter is still as vivid in my head as it was last year when I first envisioned the fic. it’s coming, I promise. it was my ride or die shawn bff @bluerroses‘ birthday on the 30th and I gifted her an extra scene from wstid, one that isn’t included in the original fic. @mendesftoakley also asked for a jetlag!shawn thing the other week which I’d wanted to write and then got totally distracted – all that’s to say, here’s a deleted scene that ended up being so massive it’ll probably stay, set in the middle of the night post-part 13.  to everyone who reached out to me after my minor rage freak out re: shawn and the state of his fandom and wsitd, much love. every time I think my love for this boy’s faded to something reasonable, he comes out with tour videos that make my chest ache cause he moves me so damn much. happy belated, to both grace and my darling one. I love you.   new york; now It’s 2:24 am.  You’re wide awake.  Shawn, of course, is fast asleep. His fingers are still curled into the edges of your t-shirt and the part of you that isn’t annoyed at his peaceful slumber aches a little at the innocence of the gesture. Just a boy. You toy with the idea of just laying here a while longer, but now that you’ve thought about it a trip to the bathroom is in order and it’s not as if you’re going to fall back asleep anytime soon.  Stupid jetlag. 

So you get up. You reach for Shawn’s Harvard hoodie tossed to the end of the bed (because it’s closer than yours, obviously, not because it smells like him) and pad as softly as you can to the door. From the bathroom you head down the stairs, following a wash of light into the kitchen.  Taylor whirls around from the open freezer, holding a pint of ice cream and looking guilty. “Oh god, I woke you up, didn’t I? I’m so sorry.” 

“No,” you reply quickly. “I was already up, you’re fine.” Her shoulders relax and Taylor grins a little sheepishly, as though this isn’t her house and she’d be caught doing something illicit.

“Can’t sleep?”

You shake your head. “I don’t get how he’s just...out like a light. So annoying.”The unspoken intimacy is already out before you can even think to take it back, but she just laughs lightly. “His body’s used to it.” Taylor reaches into a drawer for a spoon. “Want some? Mint chocolate chip.”

It’s probably a bad idea, but you shrug and accept the utensil as Taylor gathers another spoon, two shallow bowls and an ice cream scoop. “How was your party?”

Taylor scoops you just enough for a couple bites and you smile gratefully. “It was fine. I mean, good. But I haven’t been out in a while and it’s kinda draining being really social for a long time, you know?” You think of all the times Shawn’s opted to sit in companionable silence with you instead of a last round or a second after party. “Yeah, sure.” “I’ll make you a warm turmeric milk,” Taylor offers. Even the way she twists her wrist to pick up ice cream seems graceful. “Worse case, I have melatonin somewhere.” “You’re not tired?” “Not yet. Takes me a while to wind down. How was your night? You guys have fun?” It’s an innocent question, but a flush crawls up your neck all the same. You shove a spoonful of ice cream in your mouth and “Mhmm!” Taylor’s smille crinkles around her eyes; she doesn’t press you. “Tell me about tour,” she says instead. “What’s been your favourite place? Your favourite show?” It takes a moment of consideration. You tell her about Paris and its glittering lights and birthday sparklers and candles. You tell her about Manchester and Youth. You tell her about Morgan on the barricade in London. You hardly mention Shawn by name and yet he’s there, lingering at the edges of all your sentences and inside your pauses.  Taylor makes you a warm golden milk with turmeric and you drink while you talk. When you yawn, surprising somehow like you’d forgotten how, she presses melatonin into your hand. “Get some sleep,” she says. “I’ll see you in the morning.”  So up you go. Equally surprising is the strip of light at the bottom of Taylor’s guest bedroom door. Shawn’s slouched against the headboard, the blue light of his phone illuminating his face while the bedside lamp casts a long, warm veil over the rest of the room.  “Hey,” you say softly, closing the door behind you. “Did I wake you?”  He shakes his head. “Woke up and you were gone.” Something about the edge of sleep still in his voice makes it sound oddly vulnerable. “You okay? Is Taylor back? I thought I could hear you talking.”  “Yeah, I am. And she is. I couldn’t sleep and she was getting ice cream.” He’s staring a little as you put down the mug of warm milk on the bedside table. “What?” Shawn blinks. “Nothing.” His eyes linger on the place where his hoodie meets your shorts and you flush.  “Sorry,” you blurt, suddenly self-conscious. “It was just closer, I–” “El.” He drags your gaze back up. “I don’t mind. It looks good on you.” Shawn’s smile is tilted in that familiar, teasing way; you roll your eyes, but you let him reach across the bed and pull you closer to him until you sit up facing each other. You let him help you tug the sweater over your head and you let his eyes catch on your stomach, your ribs, the shadowed curve of your breast before your t-shirt falls back down. You turn out the light. Shawn presses his face into the slope of your neck and breathes deeply. “Loonie for your thoughts,”  you murmur, carding your fingers through his hair, kneading gently over his neck with your fingertips until he groans. Shawn’s so quiet at first that you think he may have fallen back asleep sitting up. “Can I ask you something?” In the moonlight he’s more pale than ever. You hum in reply. The hand pressing tiny circles against the small of your back goes still. “About Hannah?” You don’t mean to flinch; Shawn’s grip tightens, just a little. You swallow and speak before he can take it back. “What about her?” Shawn straightens to look you in the eye, equal parts calm and unsure. “You get this look on your face when you talk to her, or about her. Even way back in Ottawa.” The realization that Shawn’s apparently been looking at you since the night you met is disarming, to put it mildly. It’s suddenly hard to focus on the conversation. “I know you guys haven’t–” he pauses– “talked in a while, but...” Shawn reaches forward with his free hand and thumbs gently at an unconscious furrow between your eyebrows. “I still see that look.”  Something like shame burns in your throat. You look down at the bedspread. Shawn waits patiently as you pick up his swallow hand, tracing the lines of its wings.  “I don’t have that big of an ego to think this is all about me,” he continues wryly. “And if you don’t want to talk about it, we don’t have to. I just...” You’re expecting him to tilt your chin up, to force you to look at him, but Shawn ducks his head a little and doesn’t look hurt when you can barely meet his gaze. “I was just wondering where you go when you look so far away.” You’re genuinely stunned into silence. A response, as much as you want to give him one, refuses to surface. And Shawn seems to be able to see the blank panic in your expression, because he just leans forward to press a kiss to your forehead. “Never mind,” he says gently. “Just forget I asked.” You can feel him about to lean back, to give you space, to seek silent permission before he tugs you back beneath the covers so you can actually try to sleep. No disappoint, no malice, no distrust. You think, I am truly and deeply in love with you. You say, “She gave me a marker.” Shawn doesn’t say anything. He folds his hand around yours. “When my parents died the therapist said that routines were good, so I went back to school but everyone was like, weird, you know? And then one day we were supposed to make Mother’s Day gifts but I didn’t know what to do. My teacher said I could make something for my sister, but I’d left my colours at home.” You haven’t thought about that day in a long time. Shawn’s left hand touches your wrist; you follow the lines of his right palm. Comfort; comforted. “Hannah gave me her marker. And then everyone just stopped looking at me and we all coloured flowers. The next day I helped her learn long division and we’ve been best friends ever since.” You try to smile but you’re fairly certain the curve isn’t quite right. Shawn brushes your hair back as it falls forward. The gesture is so familiar now that it feels strange to remember he hasn’t always been doing it, that his touch hasn’t always been a tender, thrilling reminder: you’re here. this is real. you’re alive. His own smile is a little better formed, encouraging instead of patronizing. “Sometimes she’s awful,” you continue. “She can get petty and jealous.” You don’t mean to say what comes out next. “The week before Ava brought me to Ottawa we’d gone to a party and she made out with my one and only real ex boyfriend.” Shawn’s eyes widen, but still he stays quiet. It’s the only way you’re able to keep talking. “She was drunk, and she says she doesn’t even remember. He says she tried to take his clothes off, but he’s also a piece of shit, so…” You let out a tiny, bitter laugh. “And I forgave her, because what else was I supposed to do? And then Ava sent those tickets and you–“ Shawn’s fingers freeze, just for a breath, behind your ear. You try to smile again and it’s like lifting a weight you can only just barely get off the floor. “You were so wonderful and part of me was still so mad at her.” That earlier shame presses a knot in your throat. “And I knew I had to keep the secret but part of me was awful, too. I wanted to. It was something that was just mine, that I never had to share or have her judge or want for herself.” “I don’t think that’s awful,” he says softly. You shrug. Tears slide past your nose. He thumbs them away but doesn’t otherwise move. “I know she didn’t leak the news about us.” Now that you’ve gotten this far you’re determined to finish. “But I don’t know if I can forgive her for the way she made me feel about it. Or if I can forgive myself for letting her make me feel that way.” Shawn’s edges are a little blurry when you finally lift your chin. “I still love her, isn’t that fucked up? What kind of person does that make me?” He doesn’t speak for a long time. You have no idea how one drags themselves out of the emotional hole you’ve dug. Before you can let Shawn off the hook, or apologize for dumping seven years of emotional baggage onto him, he pulls you forward and folds you into his arms. “Do you want me to say something,” he asks, pressing his chin against the top of your head. “Or do you just want this?” The weight of this confession is so heavy that no longer having to carry it alone pulls you off balance. You slip your hand underneath his collar to pull Saint Christopher out. When you can speak without a sob swallowing your words, you let go of the chain. “You can say something.” Shawn kisses the crown of your hair. “You can feel however you want, whenever you want. You shouldn’t have to hide it. And you don’t have to, not from me. Okay?” You can’t reply. You just sniff into the collar of his t-shirt. His hand smooths up and down your spine. “I don’t think that forgiveness is a bad thing, El. Especially for yourself.” You’re shuddering with the effort of breathing normally instead of hiccuping. Shawn just gathers you closer. He doesn’t shush you, but just murmurs softly in your ear, “It’s okay. I’m here. I got you.” You’re still clinging to him when you fall asleep.