#depression kicking my ass n I don’t have much meds left

[viewsfromthevoid]

The depressed urge to delete all my socials & disappear off the face of the earth

[rosiesramblings]

A Real Smile

WC: 2.2k

Fandom: Criminal Minds, ler!Spencer, lee!Reader

TW: Talk of depression and anxiety, general mental health problems

A/N: Okay I just want to say I tried to make it OBVIOUS in this fic that tickling does NOT fix or cure mental illness. Like, not even close. However, as someone who has struggled with this stuff for at least 8 years, having a solid support system DOES help. That's really what I wanted to portray in this fic. I love you all! And I hope you enjoy.

“What are you doing?” Reid’s voice jolted me out of my focus, and I forced my face to relax from the aggressively fake smile I had been wearing.

“Um. Paperwork?” I purposely misinterpreted the question, twisting nervously in my spinny office chair.

“I meant with your face,” Spencer said. He strode across the bullpen and hopped up onto my desk, fixing me with a stare that I knew from past experience meant that he wasn’t going to drop this until I told him.

I sighed, looking around to make sure nobody was eavesdropping. To my surprise, there was nobody else in the bullpen. Hotch’s light was still on in his office, but other than that it was completely deserted. I glanced at the clock, and oh my god it was almost half past nine. Shit. I really hadn’t meant to stay this late. At least nobody else was around to notice my weird coping mechanisms.

I looked up at Reid. “You can’t laugh,” I said.

“Why would I laugh?” he asked genuinely.

“Because it’s… silly at best, embarrassing at worst,” I explained.

“Ok. No laughing. Now what was that face? It looked like you were in pain.”

“So, I read online that the action of smiling, even if it’s a fake smile, triggers the release of happy brain chemicals. If I’m being honest, depression has been kicking my ass lately, and when it gets like this I fake smile when I’m doing paperwork for especially hard cases to try and trick my brain into thinking I’m happy,” I said, staring resolutely just past Reid’s shoulder, not making eye contact.

He didn’t say anything. I panicked.

“I know it’s dumb and that the fake smiling thing was geared more towards normal people who are having a bad day and probably doesn’t actually do much to help people with major depression and generalized anxiety disorder but I figure it’s better than nothing or moping alone at my desk all day and -”

Reid puts a hand on my shoulder, stopping my ramble in its tracks. “Woah, Y/N, it’s ok. I don’t think it’s weird at all. I just… why didn’t you say anything?”

“Say anything about my fake smiling? Probably because I don’t think -”

“No, I mean, why didn’t you tell anybody on the team that you’re struggling?” Reid asked, voice impossibly gentle. His hand is still on my shoulder, and it’s kind of all I can concentrate on. It’s been so long since somebody just - touched me? Which sounds so stupid and pathetic and anyway, he asked me a question.

“Um. Well I didn’t tell Hotch or Rossi because I don’t want them to think that I can’t do my job. And I didn’t tell the rest of you because I’m just used to dealing with this on my own, I guess? It honestly didn’t even occur to me to say something.”

I risk a glance at Spencer’s face and he looks devastated. Jesus. It’s like I told him his dog died or something. I scramble, trying to figure out the best thing to say, not having the faintest idea how to fix it.

“It’s really not that big a deal, Reid, I promise. I have an appointment with my psychiatrist soon, I just have to buckle down and get through these next few weeks until she can adjust my meds,” I say. “In the meantime, I just… try and find little ways to make it better. Hence the fake smiling.”

Reid still looks sad. He hops down from my desk and stands next to my chair. “According to the current research, an embrace would offer more of an increase in endorphin production in the brain than smiling, fake or not,” he says, the fingers on his left hand rubbing at his sweater sleeve.

Unbidden, tears sprung to my eyes. I blinked hard and tried for a teasing tone to cover it. “Dr. Reid, are you asking if I want a hug?”

My voice cracked. Goddammit.

He just raised his eyebrows and opened his arms.

I heaved a breath out, hard. “Ok, ok, just… give me a minute. Cause if you hug me right this second I will cry,” I said, tugging my hands through my hair and staring up at the ceiling, trying to get a handle on my emotions.

Spencer just nodded solemnly. “That would be counterproductive.”

I gave a half-laugh. Then I stood up, shaking out my arms, before looking at him and squinting. “Wait, are you sure? I know handshakes aren’t your thing so isn’t a hug worse-ah!”

Without preamble, Reid grabbed my hand and yanked me toward him, wrapping his arms around me.

Oh. Oh.

His sweater was soft and warm, and my head fit perfectly underneath his chin. One of his arms ran up and down my spine softly, and the other one held me tightly to him. I let out a shuddery breath as I relaxed into his embrace.

This was the safest I’d felt in a while.

“You might be onto something with the endorphins thing,” I mumbled into his chest.

Spencer’s laugh rumbled through his ribcage. The best feeling. “I have an IQ of 187. I’m usually ‘onto something’.”

He rocked me gently back and forth, and I let my eyes flutter closed. 

Only to stiffen and stifle a laugh when Reid switched from rubbing my back to running his fingers across my shoulder blades. I pressed my lips into a line, trying to remain as natural as possible. I didn’t want the hug to end, and I really didn’t want Spencer to find out how much that tickled.

Reid’s voice was suspiciously neutral when he next spoke. “You know, it’s not just hugs that release endorphins,” he said. 

I hummed, hoping that he was planning on going on a tangent that would distract him from asking about the sudden tension in my body.

“Things like high fives, pats on the back, cuddling, all these activities cause so-called “happy brain chemicals” to flood your nervous system.”

“Huh,” I said, barely listening as his touch on my shoulder blades seemed to lighten and become even more unbearable. Don’t move. Don’t move. Don’t move. Don’t - 

“Actually, there is one more activity that helps the brain produce endorphins,” Spencer continued.

“It’s been observed in other species, including chimpanzees, rats, and bonobos, and can induce a fight-or-flight response, which actually reduces stress levels.”

“Oh yeheah?” Shit. Hopefully the giggle was muffled by his sweater.

“Mhm. So I guess we should probably see if it helps you, since the benefits are so clearly so immense,” he said, his fingers still dancing across my shoulders.

“Okay,” I said, proud that I kept the laughter out of my voice.

“So tell me, Y/N… are you ticklish?” Fuck.

“WhahahaAHAHAT?” I burst into laughter when he suddenly lowered his hands and dug deep into my sides.

Spencer just laughed with me. “Unfortunately, knismesis, what I was doing to your shoulder blades earlier, hasn’t been studied in this context. However, gargalesis, this squeezing that I’m doing,” he demonstrated enthusiastically, making me shriek. “That has been proven to give those mental health benefits.”

“Reheheheheid,” I giggled.

“Yes? What seems to be the problem, Y/N?” he asked pleasantly.

“Yohohou’re - yohohohou’re - gohohohd, please go somewhere ehehehehelse,” I said, my face burning as I realized I didn’t really want him to stop.

“Your wish is my command,” he teased, picking me up and sitting me on the edge of my desk, where he had been moments earlier. He backed up, put a few inches of space between us, and I frowned, thinking he was done. Instead, he reached between us and vibrated his hand over the skin of my belly.

“Ahahahahahaha! Wahahahait, not thehehehehere,” I begged. My hands tried to grab his, but he was too fast and I was too uncoordinated.

“Actually, you didn’t specify. All you said was, and I quote, ‘Please go somewhere else’,” Spencer explained.

Nononononohohohohoho,” I laughed, squirming and knocking my cup full of pens to the floor.

“I have an eidectic memory, Y/N. If you had asked me not to get your tummy, I would remembered,” Spencer teased.

“Dohohn’t cahahahall it thahahat,” I snickered, pressing my face into his shoulder in embarrassment.

“What? Big, bad, Special Agent Y/N L/N is flustered by the word ‘tummy’?” Reid asked, moving his other hand up to squeeze at my ribs.

“Spencer! We’re ahahat wohohork! Don’t - don’t teASE,” I yelped.

“Hotch is the only other one still here. Nobody’s gonna see you,” Spencer said gently. “Plus, I’m pretty sure that Hotch would agree with me that you haven’t laughed nearly enough this week.”

“Ohohoho my gohohod,” I giggled, giving up on trying to stop him and fisting my hands in the back of his sweater, desperate to hold on to something.

“Ah, thank you! Easy access to your underarms,” Reid smiled, worming his fingers there and lighting my nerves on fire. 

I tensed my shoulders as I laughed, knowing that putting my arms down would undoubtedly make it a thousand times worse.

“Tell you what,” Reid said diplomatically. “Since you’ve been such a good sport about this, and because I am a merciful and benevolent god,” I snorted at him. “If you tell me your worst spot, I’ll only tickle you there for a little bit and then we’ll be done.”

My voice pitched up an octave. “Whahahahaat?”

“Your choice, Y/N. We can stop soon, or I can keep going until you’re literally just a puddle of giggles on the floor.”

Oh, this was so not fair.

“Well? I’m waiting,” Reid said, digging into the tops of my ribs and making me cackle.

“Ugh - fihihihine, fihihihine! It’s my hiIHIHIHIHIPS REHEHEHEID NO!” I screamed crazily, shocked that no night security guards had come running.

“Good choice, Y/N. Would it help if I counted down?” Deftly pressing his thumbs deep into my hip bones, he took me apart as casually as if we were having lunch together.

“IHIHIHIT WOULD NOHOHOT,” I laughed.

“Hm. I’m going to anyway. You can do it, just ten more seconds…”

“REEHEHEHEID.”

“Nine…”

“YOU SUHUHUCK.”

“Eight… seven… six… five…”

“SPENCER PLEHEHEHASE,” I gasped, absolutely losing my mind.

“You’re doing so well! Four… three… “

“THIHIHIHIS IS A WAHAHAR CRIHIHIME.”

“Oh, don’t be a baby. Two… aaaaaaand one!”

With that, he stopped kneading into my hips and rubbed a firm hand up and down my back. I just stayed where I was, arms wrapped around him, face hidden in his sweater, laughing and waiting for the ghost-tickles to go away.

“Ohohoho my god… my sihihides,” I giggled, feeling the wonderful ache in my lungs of having had a good laugh.

“Feeling any better?” Spencer asked cheekily.

“Mahahaybe a little,” I mumbled. I considered my next words. “Definitely not cured, but the world does seem a little less… horrible.”

“Good,” Spencer said simply. 

We sat in silence for a minute, enjoying each other’s company.

“Listen,” Spencer said, pulling back and looking at my face. “You absolutely don’t have to tell anybody else. I certainly won’t. This is your business, and if you want to keep it that way that’s fine. But, telling the team might help. A lot of us struggle with mental health stuff sometimes. You might be surprised by the support.”

I hummed, considering.

“I am, however, absolutely going to tell them that you’re ticklish,” Spencer grinned. “I’m sure they’ll take advantage of the information. Nobody has to know that it helps your depression.”

I whined, mostly just putting on a show, “Seriously?”

“Definitely. These next few weeks before your psych appointment are going to fly by,” Reid said, tweaking my sides and making me squeak.

The (real, tickle-induced) smile slowly faded from my face and I looked at him seriously. “You’re a good friend, Dr. Reid.”

“So are you, Agent L/N.”

I pushed myself off my desk. “Okay. We have both been here for entirely too long. Want to come back to my apartment for a movie or something?”

“Sure! I’ve been on a major Wes Anderson kick lately,” Spencer said, walking over to grab his messenger bag.

Just then, both of our phones buzzed. “Oh, please tell me we don’t have a case,” I begged, tossing my stuff into my bag as Reid looked at his screen.

He grinned. “Nope, no case. Although, you might find a case preferable to this.” He flipped his phone towards me and played the video that was just sent to the BAU group chat. 

The unmistakable sound of my laughter filled the room and my face burned as I watched Spencer-from-five-minutes-ago wreck me in third person on the the screen. The angle of the shot made it pretty obvious that it was filmed from the doorway of Hotch’s office.

“Hotch!” I squealed, covering my face with my hands.

“Well, that’s one thing checked off my to-do list,” Spencer laughed.

“Oh my god… I’m turning off my phone,” I said, even as embarrassing gifs from Emily and Morgan and a bunch of rainbow hearts from Garcia flooded my notifications.

“C’mon,” Spencer said, throwing his arm around me. “I’m sure you’ll live this down… in a few years.”

I stuck my tongue out at him as he walked us toward the elevator. This time, the smile stuck onto my face was a real one.

[twdeadfanfic]

Where’s my mind

Daryl Dixon x Reader

Summary: Reader has manic-depressive disorder, and she has run out of meds, which makes it hard to control it, and hard to control the way she feels and the way in which it changes, no matter Daryl tries to help. Angs, hurt/comfort, sad  one-shot, inspired by the prompts  Maybe you should fuck yourself” and “There’s nothing wrong with you”, Requested by @feartheendlesssummer

3334 words

I hope I did the requests justice, I tried...

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You hummed as you sorted things in one of the cells of the freshly cleared cellblock, getting them ready to become rooms. You didn’t notice Daryl walking past the cell, and he stopped when he heard you, walking into the cell, a tiny but smile on his face.

“You seem in a good mood.”

You looked up when you heard his voice and smiled. “How wouldn’t I? We found this place, it’s safe, it has fences and walls…” Sure, you still needed to clear more areas and whatnot, but it was the best thing since you lost the farm. “It’s all we hoped for.”

“Guess so.” Daryl nodded. “What were you singing anyway?”

“I don’t sing, I hum. Let the singing to Beth and Maggie.” You shrugged. “Just a song I used to like…what’s your favourite song.”

“Dunno.”

“Come on, think harder.” You giggled.

“Why you care?” Daryl grumbled and you let out a sigh.

Even though you both had been friends for a while, getting to know Daryl and have him sharing things about himself was still like pulling teeth most times, no matter how much you wanted to know him better. He was your favourite person, you were sure, he’d become so during that horrible winter, no matter than when you met back at the quarry you could hardly stand him. A lot had changed since then.

“Just…I told Beth what was my favourite song, and she and Maggie sang it for me…thought they could do the same for you.” You shrugged, feeling a bit silly now. Daryl seemed shy but he gave you a small smile.

“Don’t think I have a favourite one.”

“Well, if something springs to mind just tell me.” You grinned again.

“Okay…gonna see if Rick needs me to do something.”

“You work too much! Just relax for a day…look at this place” You waved around at the sturdy walls. “We’re safe. This place is perfect. I think things are going to go great for us for now on. I can feel it!”

It felt so good, finally having hope again. You thought Daryl was going to roll his eyes at you or something, but he just smiled at you, reaching to pat your arm before leaving.

*

Of course, you shouldn’t have had hope. You should have known by now that nothing could go well in this world. Everything you wished for always turned into ashes, nothing ever went right while everything that could go wrong, went wrong. You’d been so stupid. What was the point on trying to find happiness in this world.

Hershel had been bitten, and Rick’d been forced to cut off his leg. You’d found people in that prison, convicts who didn’t seem friendly at all. And endless corridors and rooms full of walkers. This prison wasn’t heaven, now it seemed like hell, but you were trapped in it because the outside was just a deeper level of hell. There wasn’t hope anywhere.

“Hey, you okay?” You had been so lost in your head you didn’t even notice Daryl walking into your cell until he sat down next to you on the bed, squeezing your shoulder ever so softly. “Y/N?”

You shrugged, still hugging your knees to your chest as you looked at the wall in front of you without seeing it.

“Hershel’s going to be okay. He’ll get through it.” Daryl reassured you and you didn’t say anything. It was a miracle he’d survived the bite, sure, but what was he going to do missing a leg? How was he going to run away when needed? You couldn’t still think that any place in this world could be safe enough, not even this prison…you didn’t say it aloud though, as it seemed too cruel.

“Those convicts, they could murder us in our sleep, same with walkers, they’re everywhere,” you said instead. It was true too.

“No, we have the cellblock closed, there’s always someone on watch. The convicts won’t dare, and walkers can’t get in.” Daryl assured you and you just shrugged. They’d find a way, they always did. “We start clearing the walkers tomorrow.”

You shook your head. Someone was bound to end up dead doing so, you could see it. Maybe everyone. You’d been losing people slowly but surely. There wasn’t another outcome. But none would listen to you. There was no point.

“I’m tired,” you murmured, shifting to lie down on the bed.

For a couple of minutes, Daryl didn’t say anything, just looked at you, before getting up from the bed. “Okay,” he whispered, reaching out to brush his knuckles over your arm ever so softly. In any other moment, that gesture would have made you beyond happy, but right then, you didn’t even notice it.

*

You were ashamed of yourself. Everyone’d been working all morning while you did nothing but mop in bed. Even Hershel was working, missing leg and all. Rick had kept up the plan to clear other cellblocks, and what was the point on saying it was crazy, none would listen to you. None ever did. None cared about what you thought, about the sensible thing. So you didn’t even bother to say anything, and just kept mopping in your cell.

But you were done with that. You were angry at everyone for never listening, for ignoring you, for getting in risk without thinking it twice, as if they didn’t care who they left behind. You wouldn’t be surprised they didn’t care about you, though, it seemed like so half the time. They all were so close…had you every fit in? You didn’t think so, not now that you thought about it.

But why would they care anyway? It wasn’t like you contributed to anything, you did nothing, and today was just another proof. There you were doing nothing. Over everything, you were angry at yourself for that, more than you were at the others. You had to move your ass and do something. There was a cellblock they hadn’t cleared yet, you could see it from your small window. Taking your knife, you made your way to it.

You got into the cellblock, closing the door behind you, the sun that came through the small windows dimly illuminating the place. It didn’t seem to be any walker there, but when you hit your knife against the metal railing you heard their growls, and soon several of them poured from the corridor that led into the cellblock.

You charged against them, viciously sinking your knife into their heads with anger and frustration, not caring that soon they were too many for you. You barely registered the door opening and then Daryl rushing in, putting down walker after walker with the knife too until he managed to close the door of the corridor to stop them from getting in.

“Are you crazy?!” He all but yelled at you, and you didn’t know if he looked more angry, worried, or scared.

“What if I am!” You snapped back, wrapping your arms around yourself, and Daryl just scoffed, shaking his head.

“What was that, what were you thinking?!”

“You wanted to clear this place, didn’t you? That’s what I’m doing.” You shrugged, considering just walk past Daryl and go for the walkers again, maybe lock the door behind you so Daryl couldn’t follow you. You didn’t want to see him. You didn’t want to see anyone. You just wanted to kill the walkers. Wasn’t that what everyone wanted?

“You can’t go alone like that!” Daryl shouted at you in disbelieve. “They would have killed you!”

“What if they did?” You snapped back. Would have been a great loss? Sure nobody thought that. You weren’t even sure if you think it yourself. Daryl just looked at you, seeming dumbfounded and at loss of words, and you scoffed, turning over and rushing out of the cellblock.

“Y/N! Y/N, hey, wait!” Daryl ran after you and somehow it just made you angrier. “Maybe you should-”

“Maybe you should go fuck yourself?” You snapped, glaring at him, ready for him to snap back, to yell at you, you welcomed it. But he didn’t. Daryl just stared at you, seeming taken aback, but he didn’t yell, didn’t say anything at all.

“What? You got nothing to say all of a sudden?” You kept pushing. “I don’t need you babysitting me, I don’t need you pretending to be a hero and coming to save the day, I just don’t need you!” You yelled at him and you knew he was angry but Daryl looked down and didn’t say anything, didn’t yell back. Some part of your mind registered that you’d hurt him, and remorse pierced through your heart painfully, but you couldn’t stop. “Leave me alone, I don’t want to talk to you, I don’t want to see you, I don’t want anything to do with you!”

With that, you turned around again and rushed away, hiding into the first unlocked watchtower that you could find, away from everyone.

*

You felt horrible. You couldn’t believe you’d yelled all that to Daryl. He’d been trying to help, as always, you didn’t deserve it and yet he always took care of you, and you paid him like that. You were the worst. You didn’t deserve anyone’s care, and you didn’t deserve that group. You did nothing to contribute, you were just dead weight, and now you were rude to them too. You didn’t even know why they hadn’t kicked you out yet. Or how Daryl hadn’t snapped at you or yelled at you. Maybe they didn’t care enough. It’d be normal.

Daryl was right, those walkers would have devoured you, but he should have let them do it. There was no point on you staying with that group, they didn’t deserve to have to deal with you. If they didn’t send you away, then you would. Maybe that way you’d do at least one helpful thing, maybe you could do right to the group at least for once.

But you needed to apologize to Daryl first.

You found him sat down on top of a table, smoking, and when you approached him he didn’t look at you. He must be angry at you, you would, probably he wouldn’t want to see you ever again. You deserved it.

“I’m sorry…” You apologized weakly, feeling tears in your eyes. “What I said before…I’m sorry, it wasn’t true, I didn’t mean it.” You wished so much Daryl didn’t believe any of those horrible things you had said. “I’m really sorry.”

You expected Daryl to snap, to yell at you, to tell you to leave him again and never talk to him, but he didn’t, he just nodded. “Okay.”

“Okay?” You frowned, confused. It wasn’t okay. “I was horrible. Why aren’t you yelling at me?”

Daryl just shrugged. “Don’t want to…”

“Then what do you want?” Maybe he didn’t care enough to yell, maybe nothing you could say could bother him, because you were nothing to him. Maybe. You still felt like you needed punishment, though, and yet he wasn’t yelling how horrible you were. Maybe all he wanted was you to leave him alone.

“Just…just want to know what’s going on with you.” Daryl finally looked at you but you averted his eyes, feeling a lump in your throat. You were the worst and yet he was kind. You didn’t deserve it. You needed to leave those people, stop being a weight, stop making them worry about you. It’d be better if you weren’t there.

“I…I…just wanted to say sorry.” You whispered before rushing to retreat into the watchtower again.

Once it was dark outside, you left your hiding spot and walked to a spot on the fence that you knew you could open, hoping whoever was taking watch wouldn’t see you. It took you a bit but you found the spot, that tiny opening in the fence that Rick had closed with wire. You began trying to unwrap it, cursing under your breath as it was harder than you’d thought it would.

“What’re you doing?” Daryl’s voice made you jump and you turned around to find him right behind you, though you hadn’t even noticed him. “Where you going?”You just looked at him like a deer in headlights. “Y/N?”

“I’m leaving,” you finally managed to say, turning away from Daryl to fumble with the wire, though your fingers were shaking too much.

“Where to?” Daryl asked you without trying to stop you. Maybe he didn’t care. Or maybe he knew you weren’t getting even close to opening the fence.

“Away.” You tugged at the wire, frustrated, but it didn’t relent.

“Why?”

“What’s the point on me being here?” You snapped, hating how your voice broke. “I’m good for nothing, always been. I’m just a weight for all of you, you’d be better without me here dragging all of you down. None deserves to deal with my shit…and you less than anyone.”

“Quit saying bullshit,” Daryl replied, voice soft despite the harsh words.

“It’s not bullshit, it’s true!” You rubbed your eyes thought tears fell down your eyes anyway. “I’m a mess…everything’s wrong…none of you deserve to deal with this, just no.”

“There’s nothing wrong with you.”

More tears fell down your eyes at Daryl’s words and you shook your head. “You know nothing.”

“Then tell me.”

You shook your head again, rubbed your eyes, and began fumbling with the wire again. “I’m leaving, everything will be better without me here, you’ll see.”

“You know I’m not letting you.” Daryl grabbed your arms, pulling you away from the fence, but you flinched away.

“What you care!”

“You know I do. Everyone does.” Daryl looked down before locking eyes with you again and reaching out her hand. “Come on, let’s go back inside. You need to sleep.” You shook your head, chocking out a whimper.

“I know what I have to do.”

“Alright then.”

Before you knew what was happening or could do anything to stop it, Daryl was grabbing you again, and you yelped as he threw you over his shoulder, turning back to the cellblock.

“What the hell!” You kicked your legs but Daryl just held them tighter and when you punched his shoulder he just ignored you. “Daryl! Let me go!”

“You’ll wake the ones that are asleep,” was the only thing he said, though it silenced you. The idea of the others seeing you like this, seeing the mess you were, it was too shameful. If someone was awake and show Daryl carrying you like that while you cried, if he told them everything you’d done that day…everyone would think all kinds of things of you, and you deserved it but you felt tears in your eyes again anyway.

“I’ll walk. Let me down, I’ll go back to my cell, I’ll go by myself.”You begged. “I’ll do.”

Daryl seemed to think it for a couple of seconds but then he stopped, letting go of you but pushed you towards the cellblock. When he looked at you, though, his face softened, and he let out a sigh before reaching out to gently wipe your tears with his kunckless. “Come on.” His hand in your back guided you gently but firmly into the cellblock.

To your relief, everyone seemed to be inside their cells, and Daryl walked you to yours, gently pushing you inside. You looked at him but didn’t know what to say, and Daryl opened his mouth as if to say anything but didn’t, leaving the cell. You sat down on your bed, suddenly feeling numb, though a noise outside your cell caught your attention.

Daryl had taken his sleeping bag from the perch in which he slept and had placed at the corridor outside your cell. Not knowing what to do, you get into your bed, curling onto yourself, that feeling of numbness getting bigger, taking over you.

*

When you woke up the next morning, you were hit by the events of the day before. You were beyond ashamed. You couldn’t believe you’d been like that, the things you had said, the things you had done and tried to do. What have you been thinking? You pulled the sheets to cover you up to your head, hiding. You didn’t think you could ever leave that cell again…why would everyone think of you? What would Daryl think? You were such a mess. You were embarrassed you had thrown yourself at walkers like that and then tried to leave…though who knew, maybe you should have done it…

“Y/N,” Daryl’s voice called for you softly, but you didn’t move, and you felt him sitting down on the bed. “Y/N,” he tried again, this time tugging at the sheet carefully to uncover your head. “Are you gonna tell me what’s going o with you?”

You didn’t even know how, and tears filled your eyes again. “I’m a mess. Everything’s wrong with me.”

“There’s nothing wrong with you, told you so.”

You shook your head, curling onto yourself, your back to Daryl. You couldn’t face him. You didn’t want to leave that bed ever again. You thought you might be asleep again and dreaming when suddenly you felt Daryl curling up next to you and tentatively wrapping his arm around you.

“What are you doing?” You couldn’t help but whisper in shock.

“Sorry,” he muttered, quickly pulling away and trying to get up, but you were faster, grabbing his arm.

“No, please. Stay.” You pulled at him to make him lie down next to you again and Daryl let you, so you curled up again, keeping Daryl’s arm around you.

“Talk to me,” he told you quietly. You didn’t even know where to start.

“My mind is a mess. My brain is all messed up. It’s been, for years now. Just…don't have medication anymore…” You’d been raiding drugstores, pharmacies, everything you could, but a couple of weeks ago, you finally had run out of it. “So I can’t help…all of this. I’m a disaster. I just don’t even know how I feel half of the time, I can’t control it…” It seemed now that you had begun talking, you couldn’t stop yourself. “I hate it, but I don’t know what to do, I just can’t help it, I can’t stop it. I’m a disaster.

“You ain’t,” Daryl whispered back. “What can I do?”

You couldn’t help your sad smile at that, and you placed your hand on top of Daryl’s, lacing your fingers with his. “Nothing. And I…I just don’t want anyone to have to deal with this shit…so maybe it’d be better if I weren’t here.”

“No. Not happening,” Daryl said firmly.

“I can’t stop it, Daryl, I can’t help it. Can’t tell you I won’t be like yesterday again.” You turned onto your back so you could look at him. “I can’t tell you it’ll get better because I don’t think it will. And I just…I don’t know if I can handle it.”

“I’m sorry that you have to go through all that.” Daryl’s arm held you a bit tighter. “But you got me, and everyone else. Whatever your brain says, we care for you. I care for you…you ain’t gonna go through this alone. I got you okay? I ain’t gonna let anything hurt you, not even your brain.”

You smiling sadly, trying to believe his words, no matter you couldn’t, it was sweet. Most of you still felt like you didn’t deserve it and yet…yet you wished you did. You snuggled closer to Daryl, repeating his words in your head, trying to believe them, because you knew you were going to need it.

Maybe you could have hope in the future, maybe things will be okay. Maybe you weren’t a mess. Maybe your place was there, with your people. Maybe you weren’t alone, maybe you weren’t a burden. Maybe your people cared for you. Daryl did.

You tried to believe it all, as Daryl kept whispering it to you, making it easier.

 .......................................................................................

I’m sorry if it was all wrong or didn’t make sense, but I tried. At anyr ate, I hope you could enjoy it.

If you have a moment, please drop me acomment and let me know your thoughts.

As always, english is not my mother language, so sorry if there are mistakes.

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[master-sass-blast]

The Moment When the Lights Go Out (Will You Still Love Me at the Bottom of the Abyss?).

Insomnia can suck my whole ass.

Summary: Piotr comes home from a mission to learn that you’ve had an utterly horrible week while he was gone --and does his best to help you feel better.

Rating: T for mental breakdowns, depression, mentions of verbal and emotional abuse, mentions of vomiting, a lot of crying, protective!Piotr being protective, and moderate language.

Pairings: Piotr Rasputin x Reader.

(Author’s note: This is a heavy fic, to be completely honest. Obviously, I’ve listed all the trigger warnings, but I just wanted to emphasize: this is a heavy fic. Yes, it has a happy ending, and yes, it’s mostly focused on recovery and love, but it’s sad. Angsty. Angsty fluff. Consider yourself first and foremost.

Also, Piotr POV. So, there’s that.)

The first thing he sees when the ramp of the jet lowers is Wade running towards him.

Normally, it’d be obnoxious, but the concerned expression on Wade’s face combined with your absence is worthy cause for concern.

And, when Nathan follows, expression equally intense, he panics. Just a little.

“Where’s Y/N?”

Nathan ushers them off to the side so they’re off the ramp and out of the path of traffic. “She’s had a bad week. Really bad.”

If he wasn’t panicking before, he is now. “What? How bad? Where is she? Is Y/N alright?”

“She’s in her room.” Wade grimaces. “We... haven’t been able to coax her out for the past couple days.

Blyad. “What... what happened?” he whispers, unable to fathom what could’ve sent you down such a spiral.

Nathan makes a face that settles somewhere between anguish and murder. “It’s... a long story. We should get you inside, though. Get you checked out and get you to your girl.”

He doesn’t even hesitate. Whatever triggered this episode can wait; right now, you need him. He strides inside, determined to get through the routine checks at the clinic as quickly as possible. Hang on, myshka. I’m coming.

As soon as the medics clear him, he rinses off quickly in the locker room, changes into regular clothes, and heads straight your room. He knocks twice to announce his presence, then opens for the door.

It’s completely dark in the room, save for the light of your phone screen. The curtains are drawn shut, and the room looks like it’s barely been touched.

That’s not good. That’s extremely not good.

He winces when he hears you whimper, then rushes over to your bedside when you start crying. “Tische, myshka. Everything is okay. It’s okay.” He can tell by the texture of your hair under his fingers and the stronger-than-usual smell of body odor that it’s been a couple days since you’ve showered --possibly a couple days since you’ve changed out of your pajamas. “What’s wrong? Why are you so upset?”

You sob out something unintelligible and cling harder to him.

“Okay, okay.” Blyad, she is in state. I wish I knew what upset her so bad. “How about we get you cleaned up, da?”

That, for some reason, just makes you cry harder. “No, I can’t --I’m not--”

His eyes widen when he hears your breathing kick up to ‘panic attack’ speeds and he holds you closer, cradling you in his arms. “Moya lyubov, what is wrong? Why are you so upset?”

“I can’t. I can’t. I can’t.”

“Okay, okay.” He rocks you back and forth, shushing you gently while kisses your forehead. “It’s okay. I’m going to take care of you. Everything will be okay.”

You whimper again. “I don’t feel good.”

He kisses the top of your head. “What doesn’t feel good, myshka?”

“Stomach. And head. My head hurts really bad. And ‘m nauseous. Can’t keep food down.”

He kisses your temple as he rubs his hand up and down your back. My poor myshka. “When was last time you threw up?”

“Two days ago.”

He grimaces. Der’mo. He’s certain he knows the answer to the question he’s about to ask, but he asks it anyway. “When was last meal?”

“...Before that.”

Bozhe moi. Instead of panicking --and, admittedly, he has to tamp the instinct down--he kisses the bridge of your nose and picks you up. “Okay. It’s okay. I’m going to take care of you. Khorosho?”

You let out a small sob, sniffle, then wrap your arms around his neck. “Okay.”

He gets you cleaned up first. He brushes your hair --which takes considerable effort, given how tangled it is--helps you shower off --there’s no way he’s leaving you in there alone, considering how unsteady on your feet you are--then wraps you in a towel and leaves you to sit on the edge of the tub while he gets back into his clothes and grabs a pair of clean pajamas for you.

He can’t fathom what could’ve set you off so badly. You’ve had your rough moments, your episodes, but seeing you so down and worn out and broken...

Blyad, it’s terrifying.

When he walks back into the bathroom, not two minutes later, he finds you slumped on the floor, sobbing. He helps you sit up and starts toweling you off while you cry. “It’s going to be okay, myshka. Deep breaths.”

You shake your head. “No, it’s not! It’s not --I’m not--you’re not--”

“Calm down, lyublyu, please. Take deep breaths.” He helps you wiggle into the clean pajama shirt and kisses the top of your head. “It’s okay. I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.”

That, for some reason, makes what little calm you had left shatter. You give him an utterly heartbroken look and curl into a little ball, shrieking cries muffled by the fluffy bathmat.

He stares at you for a moment, completely bewildered and utterly horrified that he’s caused such a devastating response in you. What happened while I was gone? Why is she so upset? I didn’t... I didn’t say anything... “Myshka. What’s wrong? Talk to me, please.” He lifts you into his lap when you don’t answer and cradles you against his chest. “What happened? Why are you so upset?”

You clutch at the material of his shirt. “You’re gonna leave me!”

He’s still completely lost as to what put you in this state, but he’ll be damned if he isn’t going to do whatever he has to in order to get you out of it. “Nyet, myshka. I’m staying right here. With you.”

“No, you’re gonna realize what an abomination I am and leave me--”

It’s the word choice that sets off the alarm bells in his head.

Abomination.

He knows from handling a few notes left for you by your mother --he’d searched your stuff while you were being evaluated after an episode that was triggered by one; he wasn’t about to let you find something like that again--that she often referred to your mutation --to you--as an abomination.

His eyes narrow. Did she find another note? Or... did she come into contact with her parents somehow? He holds you close and tucks your head under his chin.

He can figure out the specifics later. Right now, his goal is to calm you down and get you to eat something.

He kisses your forehead. “I know you don’t believe me, but I promise I am not going anywhere,” he says softly. “Not now, not later, not ever. You are my whole world. I love you more than anything, myshka, and that is truth. I will never leave you.”

Your whole body shudders and you look up at him with watery eyes. “Why? You could find someone so much better.”

His heart breaks for you at that, and he shakes his head. “Nyet. Never. You are my heart. Moya serdste. Moya dusha. I will never find anyone better than you.” He squeezes you against his chest and kisses both your cheeks. “Let’s finish getting you dressed, and then we feed you. Da?”

Your lower lip trembles and you lay your head against his shoulder. “I guess.”

He gives you some anti-nausea meds and painkillers, then settles you on the couch in the rec room, pulls up Netflix, and goes about fixing you some pancakes.

Granted, they’re not the healthiest option, but he just wants you to eat right now.

Nathan walks into the kitchen as he pours the first two pancakes in the skillet.

He checks to make sure that you’re well occupied by the TV, then waves the older man over. “What happened while I was gone?”

Nathan grimaces and turns his back to the TV. “Somehow, her mom got her cell number. Called her until she picked up, then started bitching about how she’d left and how ungrateful she was...”

He forces himself to breathe evenly as he pours another two pancakes and adds a smattering of chocolate chips. No wonder she is wreck. My poor myshka.

“...and then she hit the bit about her being unlovable, and she mentioned that she had you which meant her mom was wrong--”

His blood runs cold. Nyet.

Not that he minds that you told your mom. He feels no shame for being with you, and he’s perfectly happy to stand as evidence that you are both loved and lovable.

However, he’s gotten good at recognizing unwinnable arguments before they start, and he’s certain that your mother hadn’t believed you for a second.

“--and apparently her mom laughed in her face, said that you were just pitying her, and that no decent man would ever want a, and I quote, ‘abominable freak like her.’”

He’s grateful that he’s not armored up right now, because if he had been this skillet handle would’ve been a goner.

Well, that explains why she was so worried that I would leave her. Der’mo, why can’t her parents just let her have peace? She is adult; they have nothing to gain by harassing her. He sets the plate of freshly made pancakes aside, then steps over to the fridge and pulls out a partially consumed pack of bacon.

As far as he’s concerned, you’ve earned it.

“She had three episodes, one right after the other. As soon as the clinic cleared her, she denied treatment and holed up in her room.” Nathan glances over his shoulder and sucks in a breath through his teeth as he watches you mope on the couch. “It’s the worst I’ve ever seen her.”

Perhaps, if Piotr were a more aggressively inclined man, he’d round up Wade and make the trip out to your childhood home to give your parents of piece of his mind and a final warning to stay away from you, period.

But, then, hitting women without direct provocation has never been his style --and, even then, the only woman he’d ever really hauled off on was Angel Dust, and she had super strength to match his.

Though, that had been a shitfit of a fight, so maybe it really wasn’t the best comparison.

Maybe better thing to do would be calling Mikhail, he thinks as he starts frying the bacon on the skillet. 

His older brother had done his share of questionable government work, and usually didn’t mind pretending to play the role of the Russian hitman when the situation called for it.

But, on second thought, making it look like you’ve connected yourself with the Russian mob is the last thing you need.

He carefully sets the cooked bacon on your plate and adds a banana on the side --your potassium levels were bound to be low after not eating for over two days, and that wouldn’t do you any favors--before pouring you a glass of milk and carrying the plate and glass into the rec room.

In the end, aggression just really isn’t his style. Instead, he’ll focus on doing whatever it takes to convince you that you’re the center of his world and that he doesn’t plan on changing that. Ever.

Though, if Wade disappears for a few days and your parents’ names end up in the obituaries section of some newspaper, he isn’t going to question it.

His next few days are focused completely on you --first priority being getting you to eat, second priority being getting you back into therapy sessions with Alyssa.

It’s hard, but not for the reasons he expected. He expected you to be stubborn. To dig your heels in. To argue and reason and refute.

You don’t do any of that. Instead, you’re almost uncontrollably weepy and unnervingly silent. It’s almost like someone’s reached inside you and ripped out the spark that makes you... well... you.

It’s scary. He’s never seen you so fragile before --and he’s seen you weather panic attacks, breaks from reality, and countless fight induced injuries. You bounce back every time, never staying down for more than seventy-two hours. Tops.

But the persisting dullness in your eyes, the misery of your expression, the hurt in your voice, the way you stiffen and flinch whenever he touches like it causes you physical pain...

He winds up ranting to Ellie about it while Wade takes you out to lunch --they’d both agreed that getting out of the mansion would be good for you, and he needed some time to figure out just how he could help you out of your gloomy state--a couple days later. He doesn’t mean to --he firmly believes in keeping space between his romantic life with you and his mentor-slash-older brother role with Ellie--but it just ends up spilling out anyway.

His mentee, as usual, cuts through everything within a few sentences. “Look, Colossus, it’s great that you want to help Y/N, but you’re not going to be able to do anything. She’s spent the past week convincing herself that you don’t love her, and nothing’s gonna stick until she comes down from that and separates reality from what her mom told her was reality.”

He hangs his head. She’s right. “Then... what do I do?”

Ellie shrugs, expressionless. “You can’t do anything. She’s gonna have to work through her paranoia on her own. You’re gonna have to trust that she’ll land on her feet.”

“Da, but... how do I convince her--”

“You can’t.”

“Ellie--”

“Colossus. She’s not basing her assumptions on reality. There’s nothing you can do.”

It’s a punch in the gut that he knew was coming, but that doesn’t make it hurt any less. He knows, realistically, that there’s nothing he can do; he can’t take your hurt away, there’s no magic thing he can do to reverse the damage that’s been done. It’ll just take time and effort on your part.

Bozhe moi, I wish I could, though.

You get angry and few days after his conversation with Ellie and break through with a vengeance.

He shouldn’t have been surprised that it’d happen whenever you got angry again. You claim that you do some of your best thinking when you’re angry --and, by in large, he really can’t disagree.

He wakes up to the sounds of enraged screaming and the sound of a metal baseball bat hitting a plastic folding table. He stumbles out of bed and over to the balcony outside his room--

You’re out on the front lawn with Wade and Nathan, demolishing rotten watermelons with a baseball bat.

He blinks, then rubbed his bleary eyes. Well... better than her chasing Scott.

He dresses quickly, runs his fingers through his hair until the worst of the bedhead’s knocked out of it, then makes his way to the front of the house.

He catches Nathan’s eye as he approaches and points subtly at you, as if to as Is everything alright?

She woke up pissed, Nathan’s voice says in his mind. Figured it was best to get her out here and let her work her rage out.

Well, there’s no arguing with that.

Wade taps you on your shoulder when he sees him approach, then points at him when you glare at your honorary older brother.

You whirl around, eyeing him, the remnants of the watermelon, and the bat, then tuck the bat behind your back.

He can’t help but grin back when you smile impishly at him. The spark’s back in your eyes, and he can’t help but hope that you’re finally doing better.

“Good morning, honey. I wasn’t doing anything destructive or suspect.”

“Of course not.”

“There are not chunks of watermelon everywhere.” You look down at the stains on your shirt and your impish grin grows wider. “Or on me.”

“Obviously.” He pauses for a minute, then holds his arms out to you, hoping you won’t shy away from the unspoken invitation.

Your breath catches, and then you’re dropping the bat and running towards him. You wrap your arms around his waist and press your face against his chest, clinging to him in a tight --borderline desperate--hug.

He wraps his arms around you and kisses the top of your head as he holds you. “I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

When you finally relax against him, he smiles, relieved.

You’re finally turning the corner.

Later that night, when you’re both rinsed off from the day and cuddling in his bed together, you hit him with a question that makes the relief from earlier in the day evaporate in seconds.

“Piotr... do you love me?”

His heart squeezes in his chest. Is she spiraling again? Bozhe moi, she was doing so much better this morning. “Of course. Why would you even ask? Do you doubt it?”

Your mouth presses into a thin line, and you sit up. “If... if you ever fell out of love with me--”

“Myshka, I would never--”

“Piotr. Please.”

His teeth click as he shuts his mouth and he nods. Relax. Don’t talk over her.

“If you ever fall out of love with me --or if you ever find yourself unhappy with our relationship--promise me that you’ll tell me. That you wouldn’t just keep going on with things out of pity or assuming that it’ll get better. Promise me, Piotr, I need you to promise me--”

He smiles softly at you as he understands what you’re asking. “I will always be honest with you about my feelings. No pity. No assuming. I promise.”

The tension drains out of your face, and you smile wearily at him. “Thank you.”

He draws you down onto his chest, rubbing your back with one hand while he uses the other to smooth your hair. “I love you, myshka. You are my world. Moya dusha. Moya serdste. Moya lyubov’.”

“You’re my world, too. And whatever else that Russian meant.”

He chuckles at that. “It means... my soul.” He kisses your temple, not missing the way you flatten your body against his torso. “My heart.” He moves his lips down to your cheek, pressing a soft, slow kiss there. “My love.”

You beat him to the last kiss, mashing your lips against his and rocking your hips back and forth.

He lets out a soft moan and wraps his arms around you.

“Make love to me,” you whisper, soft and sensual, in his ear. “Please.”

He groans and rolls so you’re on your back and he’s positioned over you. He presses himself flush against you and murmurs against the spot below you ear “With pleasure.”

You snort. “No pun intended?”

He smirks against your neck as he starts pushing your shirt up your torso. “Never.”

Your phone rings a couple days later, while you’re out on the back lawn with Wade constructing who knows what for who knows why.

He almost smiles and shakes his head when he realizes you’ve left it inside, but the start of the smile slips away when he sees it’s a blocked number. His eyes narrow as he picks up the ringing device. I wonder... He hits answer and lifts the phone to his ear. “Ya sluchu vas.”

The caller is silent for a moment, and then a woman’s voice says “Oh, I, ah, must’ve called the wrong numb--”

“You are Mrs. L/N, da? Mother of Y/N L/N.”

Another pause. “Who is this? How do you know that?”

He stares out the window at you and Wade, watches you smile and laugh. “Her boyfriend. I’ve heard many stories about you.”

A laugh this time, sharp and condescending. “Look, I don’t know what my daughter’s done to con you into pretending to be her boyfriend--”

“I find myself wondering why you keep harassing her,” he says. He’s not fond of cutting people off, but he knows a futile argument when he hears it --Wade’s taught him well. “She is adult, she is out of your hair, and it is clear you don’t want her. Why keep trying to find her? Why hire bounty hunters to kidnap her and bring her back to you?”

Another silence, this one more nervous than the other ones. “You can’t confirm that.”

“You still have not answered question, Mrs. L/N. Why keep harassing your daughter if you do not want her?”

“And what makes you think that?”

He leans against the counter, staring at the kitchen wall while his mind works. “You call her ‘abomination.’ You lock her in her room, let men hunt her with guns.”

“No one can confirm that.”

“I would disagree --as would the several telepaths who have met her.”

Another silence, quickly broken by a shaky breath. “Mutants are a perversion of God’s creation.”

“And what happened to love, kindness, and goodness?” His eyes narrow when he hears your mother suck in a breath. “You know it’s wrong. And yet, you do it anyway. What, because no one could ever prove it? No threat of legal retribution? Though, I suppose that is different now.”

“We both know the courts will never believe a mutant.”

“Perhaps not.” He glances over his shoulder and watches Wade laugh at something you said before turning around again. “Perhaps they are not necessary.”

“And just what does that mean?”

“There are many who love your daughter, Mrs. L/N. Many who would not hesitate to do whatever it takes to make sure she feels safe and loved.”

“Are you trying to threaten me?”

“I am merely stating facts. When you beat down on those weaker than you, you will always find others willing to protect them. You have to decide whether it is worth risk to keep beating.”

“Or what? You’ll track me down and kill my husband and I? And our entire town?”

“Nyet.” He stands up and walks to the other side of the kitchen so he can watch you and Wade. It’s a relief to see you happy again; he doesn’t want anything to change that. “Did you know that you can track location of callers? Technology now, it is amazing. You can even track them back to home address, if they call on landline.”

A sharp gasp. “I will not--”

“I doubt your daughter would ever tell her friends where she grew up. Unlike you, she is kind.”

“You listen, you insufferable--”

“I think you should listen for change, Mrs. L/N.” He lowers the pitch of his voice and glares at the floor as rage bubbles in his chest. “I have had to watch your daughter put herself back together after the way you treated her as child --and again, after you called her. She may mean nothing to you, but your daughter is most precious to me, and I will do whatever I have to so she feels safe.”

“How dare--”

“Not just anyone can access location of callers. Unfortunately for you, I know someone who can.”

“So what? Never call my daughter again, or?”

His gaze lifts from the floor and he stares out at you. “I have many friends, Mrs. L/N. Many who hate you for what you’ve done to your daughter. I can only imagine what they’d do if they knew where you lived.”

“You wouldn’t dare.”

He shrugs, even though no one can see him. “Perhaps. Perhaps not. You have to decide if risk is worthy.” He lets that hang in the air for a moment, then growls “Don’t call her again,” before hanging up and putting the phone back where you left it.

He closes his eyes, rolls his shoulders, and sighs.

He doesn’t like threatening people. It doesn’t come naturally to him the way it does to Wade or Nathan. He prefers encouraging people to be better over terrifying them into submission.

But, for you, it’s worth it. Some people can’t be reasoned with, after all.

He smiles as you and Wade walk inside, relieved to see you happy again and relieved to know that he’s done what he can to keep you safe.

Epilogue:

“Darling love of mine.”

He turns, pet name ready on his tongue, then freezes when he sees you holding up your cell phone.

“Care to explain to me why the battery seemed so drained when I picked it up from the kitchen this morning? Or why it was warm after it had been on the counter for half an hour? Or why there’s a call recorded between my phone and a blocked number?” You smile at him knowingly. “My mother called this morning.”

He knows it isn’t a question. “Da.”

“While I was outside with Wade.”

“Da.”

“You talked to her.”

“I did.”

Your eyebrows raise as you roll your eyes. “That had to be an experience. My condolences.”

“It was,” he agrees as he pulls you into a hug and kisses the top of your head. “I told her to leave you alone.”

“After encouraging her to go to therapy and be a better person, I’m sure.”

He smiles at your good-natured teasing. “Something like that.”

You sigh and smooth your hands over his chest. “My protector. What would I do without you?”

“You’d manage, I’m sure.”

“Perhaps. But it’d be so much lonelier without you.”

“On that, we can agree,” he murmurs before he tips your head back with his fingers and kisses you gently. As his lips move against yours, the mild strain of talking to your mother fades away into intangibility.

You’re better. You’re safe.

That’s all that matters to him, in the end.

[sofreakinmanyfandoms]

The Nice Guy - Part 3

Here it is, all. Part 3 of 6.

Word count: 1986

Warnings: Mentions of depression and attempted suicide

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

“Hi.”

At the soft voice, you looked up from your spot on the couch and saw your best friend standing in the doorway. You would regret giving him a key if you were currently capable of feeling emotions.

When you didn’t respond, Clint came over and knelt in front of you. You tried to ignore him in favor of snuggling deeper into your blanket burrito, but he pulled the edge of the blanket away from your face.

“Did you quit your job?” he asked.

All you could muster was a nod.

“Are you taking the semester off?”

Another nod.

“Have you told the school yet?”

A head-shake no.

“All right, here’s what I’m going to do.” His voice was so soft and comforting you were suddenly near tears. “I’m going to call the school and tell them – I’m still your emergency contact, right?” A nod. “Okay, good.  I’m going to call them and tell them you won’t be taking classes this semester. They’ll give you a week to move out of your apartment. Then I’ll call Nat and Bucky, and they’ll come over and the three of us will pack up your stuff and move you in with Nat and I. You won’t have to worry about rent; we’re covering it just fine.”

“Thank you.”

It was a broken whisper, but it was a reply. Clint closed his eyes briefly before locking them back with yours and stroking a hand through your hair.

“Anything for you, love. We’re gonna help you get through this. All of us.”

There turned out to be a lot of shifting in the housing department. Sam wasn’t doing so well on his own either, so Steve became his new roommate and Natasha and Bucky got an apartment together, freeing up Nat’s old room for you to move into. Clint waved off your question about rent now that he and Natasha weren’t splitting the cost.

“Don’t worry about it,” he told you. “I run errands for the lady who owns this building and she gives me a discount on rent in exchange. I’ve got it covered.”

---------- 

Nat pulled Clint aside during the moving shuffle when you were nowhere near hearing range.

“Are you going to be okay living with Y/N?” she asked him.

“Of course I will be. Why wouldn’t I?”

“Because you’ve had a crush on her for twelve years and you’re taking a semester off to take care of her? Don’t deny it, I saw the paperwork on the kitchen counter.”

Clint sighed and hung his head, hand coming up to rub the back of his neck. “I know that even if she were interested in a relationship with me someday, it won’t be anytime soon, but I can’t leave her alone like this. She’s drowning. Riley meant as much to her as he did to Sam, and Sam grew up with the guy. He was about to propose, asked me to help him find a ring she would like; we were going to go a couple days after the accident. She needs someone to help her through this, and if I have to basically be the gay best friend to help her out, I will, no hesitation.”

“Just don’t get hurt,” Natasha said softly, reaching out to rub his arm. “I care about Y/N, but I care about you too. If it gets to be too much, we can swap things around with the roommate situation. Bucky and I talked about it, although I told him Y/N might end up needing a female roommate. Either way, we’ll make it work, but don’t let yourself get in too deep because you feel obligated. You have a tendency to care for people at the cost of your well-being.”

“Guilty as charge,” he grinned ruefully. “I’ll be careful, I promise.”

“You’d better be.” She pulled back and changed her tone to something more playful. “If you’re not, I’ll have to come over and kick your ass, and that would interrupt my extra time with Bucky, which I am very much looking forward to.”

“I’ll be careful.”

----------

“How many days since you last showered?” Clint asked when he got home from work.

You sighed. He was always checking in with you, making sure you were drinking enough water, eating properly, actually doing your laundry and putting it away after instead of just recycling anything that didn’t smell too terrible.

“I don’t know. Maybe three or four?”

“Right. Change.”

There was no point in arguing, so you dragged yourself to your room to change into your bathing suit before meeting him in the bathroom. It hadn’t taken long for Clint to figure out that even when you didn’t have the energy to clean yourself, you could still soak in the tub. He’d started running hot baths for you which you would take in your suit while he passed you your facewash or worked shampoo through your hair. It was both annoying and incredibly comforting how much effort he put into making sure you were taken care of.

“Clint,” you asked after your bath as you stepped out of the tub and wrapped yourself in the towel he passed you, “why do you do all this?”

He bit his bottom lip and took long enough to reply that you thought maybe he wouldn’t.

“I know what depression is like, and I know you need time to mourn, but I’m not going to let temporary depression become something long term. Not for you.”

You ducked your head. He hadn’t told you and Natasha about his depression until he had finally reached rock bottom, lying in a hospital bed after attempting to take his own life. After that you had both done your best to help him, staying with him through the therapy and doctor’s appointments, making sure he took his meds every day, and trying your hardest to give him reasons to smile while not letting him feel like a burden. The two of you had even refused to drink once you hit twenty-one since he couldn’t mix alcohol with his medication, a show of support your whole friend group had adopted. Having seen the toll the bad years had taken and knowing that he still had to be on medication to keep it from coming back, you felt a burst of warmth knowing that he was doing his best to keep that from ever happening to you.

“Thank you.” You surprised him by wrapping your arms around him and burying your face in his chest, before you realized that you were still soaked. “Oops,” you said, pulling back to look down at his wet clothing, “sorry.”

“Anything for you, love,” he replied with a smile, pulling you back in for another hug.

----------

It was October before you realized that while he left most days for work, Clint had never mentioned classes. You swore to yourself and paced the living room, waiting for him to get home. He was your best friend! Had you really been so wrapped up in your own world of pain that you hadn’t realized what he had given up for you? You’d been getting yourself worked up over it for two hours when you finally heard the door open, followed by Clint’s cheery, “I’m home!”

“You dropped out.” Your roommate looked confused as you launched into his face and started lecturing him almost before he could shut the door behind himself. “You’ve gone to work but not to class. I’ve never seen you working on homework.” Realization struck his face, but you continued. “You shouldn’t have done that, Clint. You were on scholarship. You shouldn’t have given that up for me. I’d have been fine.”

“Y/N, relax, it’s okay,” Clint cut in before you could continue your rant. “I filled out some paperwork when I made the decision. As long as I start again next semester, I won’t forfeit my scholarship. I had to fill out the same paperwork for you, by the way, but you don’t seem worried about potentially losing yours.”

“Oh.” Your prepared argument suddenly seemed irrelevant, but there was still a question lingering in your mind that you needed answered. “Thanks. But…”

“But what?” he asked, pulling you into a hug. “I don’t regret it. It’ll just take me a little longer to graduate, same as you. That’s worth it if it means you’ll be okay.”

“That’s not it,” you said, pulling back. “It’s just…when I realized you took the semester off, I started thinking about everything. You pay the full rent. You make sure I’m eating. Hell, Clint, you run me a bath and wash my hair when I can’t get up the energy to shower! That’s not normal ‘I’m your friend and want you to be okay’ stuff, that’s…” Please, please deny it… “That’s ‘I’m in love with you’ stuff.”

Clint’s silence spoke volumes. “Damn it. Why?”

He slowly reached up and tucked a loose piece of hair behind your ear. “Because you’re amazing. You’re kind and funny and stubborn and so, so beautiful. But I made my peace with the fact that I had missed my chance and you might never love me back when you started dating Riley. Even if you never feel the same I’ll still be here, I’ll still be your friend, and I still be taking care of you because you’re worth it.”

He sounded so earnest your heart broke for him.

“I don’t feel the same,” you whispered.

“Of course you don’t. You can’t. You just lost someone you loved a few months ago.”

“Where do we go from here?”

He shrugged. “Why do we have to go anywhere? I meant it when I said I’ve made my peace with you not loving me back. You knowing how I feel doesn’t make me any less your friend.”

You tentatively agreed, unsure how anything could really be the same. After two weeks, however, you started to relax. Clint wasn’t treating you any differently or expecting anything more from you than you had already given him.

The start of a new semester came around and Clint lined up his classes with yours as best he could so the two of you could carpool, saving you gas money. He insisted you wait until you knew you could handle your class load before looking for a job.

“Don’t rush back into everything too quickly. Give yourself time to adjust.”

Along with returning to school, you started spending more time with your friends. You hadn’t even realized you had been isolating yourself so much until Steve hugged you and asked how you were doing. Renewed contact led to more group activities and hangouts, and while you were definitely aware of the lack of Riley’s presence, it hurt less as time went on.

One Saturday evening in March after a movie night at Natasha and Bucky’s you started thinking as Clint drove you home. Since your epiphany in October, even though your friendship hadn’t changed, you had started to notice his eyes. They carried a softness whenever he was taking care of you that you hadn’t realized was there before. How many years had he looked at you like that or given you a smile like you were his whole world without you noticing?

By 2 a.m. you finally acknowledged that sleep was not going to come anytime soon. You padded out of your room, intending to get a snack from the kitchen but pausing at the light shining under Clint’s bedroom door. It only took a moment to make up your mind. You raised your hand and lightly knocked.

“Come in.”

Clint was sitting on his desk (a habit you’d teased him about as long as you’d known him) typing something on his laptop. When you poked your head in his room, he set the computer aside.

“Is everything okay?”

You nodded and took a deep breath.

“Can I talk to you about something?”

[coffee-obsessed-writer]

Find Your Purpose Before It’s Too Late

Daryl x Reader / Reader x Carol / Reader x Rick

Part 2 

Song Prompt: The Scientist by Coldplay

Warnings: Language, Depression, Talk of Rape, Violence

Word Count: Approx. 5K (Ugh, sorry again for the long chapters!)

Rick gave you a nod and a grateful smile, “Be careful, but hurry back.”

Daryl jumped into the driver’s seat and waited for Eugene to open the gate. He let out a deep breath of adrenaline and looked over at you. “Never a dull moment, huh?”

“That’s an understatement,” you said, and suddenly found yourself smiling a little. “You really think you can pull this off? Find the meds, I mean…”

Daryl was thoughtful for a moment. He finally looked over at you and nodded, “Mhmm. I do. We,” he said moving his finger back and forth between you and him, “are gonna pull this off. We can do anything if we all do it together.”

 The map was open in front of you, your eyes scanning the coordinates for the area where the industrial park was.

“Here,” you said, pointing out the little red dot on the map to Daryl. “Looks like we can head up 22. If the highway is clear, we may have a chance to get there and back in one day.”

Daryl looked at you and nodded, “That would be a very good thing.”

“Yeah, especially since I left my pack at the house,” you said shaking your head.

Daryl snorted a laugh. “Well, good for you that I come prepared I guess,” he motioned to the back seat where you saw the extra backpack and rifle laying across the seat.

“Guess we’re even now,” you managed to smile at him. “I saved your ass yesterday, and you save mine today.”

“We ain’t even,” Daryl said, now offering a playful smirk, “day ain’t over yet girl. Let’s see who owes who by the end of the day.”

You couldn’t help but find his current demeanor amusing. Since you got into the car with him, any of the shame you felt about breaking down the night before was fading. It was like being around a completely different person than you had known all this time.

Daryl navigated the car per your directions and wound up on a clear highway. Route 22 stretched out before you as far as the eye could see. For twenty miles you had a straight shot, barely passing any cars or walkers along the way. Feeling the car slow down, you looked over to Daryl who wore a look of frustration.

“Damn gas ran out,” he growled and threw the car in park. “I got some more in the trunk. Why don’t you take the rifle and head up to the car up yonder; check the tank.”

“Okay,” you said calmly, yet you felt anything but. Getting out of the car, you retrieved the rifle and slowly approached the car. Every few steps you would turn to check on Daryl, as well as your perimeter for any signs of hostility.

Off in the distance, you heard a lone crow’s cry and looked around anxiously. Other than the slight breeze rattling through the trees and asphalt crunching under your feet, it was completely silent.

As the car came into your view, you saw the passenger door was wide open and a trail of blood and guts emptied onto the shoulder and down the grassy embankment. Looking back at Daryl, you saw he was placing the gas can back in the trunk and getting back in the car. You waited until you saw him driving towards you before getting any closer. With your attention at full tilt, you found yourself slipping into survival mode.

Just like your father had taught you and your brother – eyes up, ears open, finger steady – your gun was raised, finger near but not on the trigger, and took slow, even breaths. Narrowing your focus back to the car, you approached it with caution. When there was no movement inside, you opened the driver’s side door and found the gas release lever.

By the time you had it open and was checking the levels, Daryl had joined you, leaving your ride idling on the highway.

“Anything?” he asked.

“No, not really.”

“Damn. Can’s kicked. We’ll have to look as we go to refuel but it should hopefully get us back.” Daryl noticed you staring at the car. “What? Somethin’ wong?”

“I don’t know,” you motioned to the door being open, “there’s fresh blood here. The car itself doesn’t have a speck of dust. I don’t know… something feels…”

The click of a revolver sounded in your ear and you felt the pressure of cold steel to the back of your head. Afraid to move, your eyes shifted to Daryl and saw he was in a similar predicament.

“I would stay really still if I were you, pretty lady,” a voice whispered too close to your ear. “You to fella.”

The stranger's arm wrapped around you, relieving you of your gun. You fought at first, but the man grabbed your neck, yanking you backward.

“Hey!” Daryl yelled, “Get your hands off’er!”

“Now, we ain’t gonna hurt your girlfriend fella. We just wanna borrow her real quick,” the man sneered at Daryl. He roughly rubbed his dirty hands over your breasts and gritted his teeth.

Daryl’s face contorted into that of a wild animal as he thrashed against the man holding him back. The man who gripped you tightly let out a whistle and turned you around. From up the other side of the highway embankment, two other men came creeping up; each was holding a small handgun and armed with a knife. Both you and Daryl seemed to notice at the same time, and you caught him looking between you and the two new men.

Look girl, your father’s words echoed in your head, just look. What do you see…

You looked the men over and thought it odd they approached with handguns and knives. If they had bullets, why would they need the knives out?

What else do you see?

They were scared.

And…

You weren’t.

Above you the crow seemed to be circling and when it let out another cry, it was just enough of a distraction for you to act. As if Daryl could read your mind, you both lashed out at the same time.

You quickly bent at your waist against the man’s grip and used a forceful blow from your elbow into his crotch, causing him to double over. You grabbed your rifle back from his hand and had it pointed at the man holding Daryl.

Daryl got free and immediately punched the guy across his face, causing him and hiss gun to fall to the asphalt. Daryl was able to kick it away from him, while simultaneously grabbing his crossbow off the ground. The two men that had approached stood frozen staring at their companions on the ground.

Without hesitation, you pointed your rifle at the man who grabbed you and shot him in the head. You could feel yourself moving on auto pilot. In the background, Daryl was trying to get your attention as you raised the rifle to the two men frozen in place. You could feel the tears barreling down your face, but paid them no attention.

Suddenly, the highway melted around you and you could only see the dark and dingy hallways of Grady Memorial. The men coming at you weren’t just degenerates, they were the uniformed cops… they were Officer Gorman. You remembered how it felt whenever you saw him approaching you; the fear of knowing what he wanted from you. In the same instant, you flashed to the stranger’s hand rubbing across your chest.

You felt a guttural scream rising from deep within you. Nothing Daryl could have said or done would have stopped you. You hammered back the trigger three more times. Hitting each of the remaining men squarely between the eyes. The echoes of the rifle rang through the trees, scaring up the remaining murder of crows to take off into the horizon.

Coming back to your true surroundings, you looked over at Daryl who was cautiously approaching you. He was saying something, but your ears were still ringing and fuzzy.

“Hey, Y/N, hey… look at me…” Daryl had his hands on your shoulders, “We gotta go. The sound of the shots will draw more…” you saw him turn towards where the men came up the embankment. Six walkers were now shambling towards you. It was the sight of them that finally broke your trance, allowing you to shake off the last of the haze.

You bent down and picked up the dropped hand guns and ran to the idling car. No sooner did you close the door, did the walkers crash into the windows, leaving streaks of dirt and blood down the sides. Daryl put the car in drive and took off before they could do any further damage, leaving the bloody scene far in the distance.

  You never did look back, nor did you look at him. For the rest of the drive to the industrial park you rode in a silence. You were thankful that it was Daryl there with you because anyone else may have wanted to talk it to death.

You could feel him occasionally throw a glance your way, but not in the way he did before. It wasn’t a ‘are you okay?’ look either. If you didn’t know any better, you would say that he looked proud of you.

“How much further?” he asked finally, snapping you back to the present.

“Should be about ten more miles up,” you said examining the map. Route 22 had been clear all the way up, but there were still a couple rural roads that you needed to pass to reach the park.

“Right,” he said and furrowed his brow. “Look, about that… what you did… you had too.” Daryl’s eyes flashed back and forth between you and the road. “The way you…” Daryl stopped and you looked at him matter-of-factly.

“I will not be raped again, Daryl. I won’t.” Your dead pan stare caused him visible discomfort. “You’re right. I did what I had too. I just wish I didn’t have to.”

You looked back out the window, waiting for him to press you with questions. But he didn’t, not yet anyway. Daryl went silent and didn’t speak again until you pulled up in front of the industrial park.

As if the universe was granting you a break, the path was completely clear right up to the gates of the industrial park. Four different warehouses sat behind the fence, each with a different, nondescript name and logo on the front.

“Great, it’ll take all day to go through this,” Daryl said as he took care of the two walkers behind the fence still dressed in their guard uniforms.

You looked at each one of the buildings and saw something you recognized.

“Nah, it won’t. C’mon I know where to go,” you said and started to climb the fence. Daryl followed close behind you.

He followed you across the empty parking lots towards a building that had a bright yellow and blue symbol, with the letters RGN Inc. written in small block letters below it.

“What is this place?” Daryl asked squinting against the sun as he looked it over.

“This company manufactures certain types of medication. I don’t know about these other ones, but I know RGN makes drugs. Any chance of finding what Carl needs will be in here.”

“How’d you know that?” Daryl asked and you heard the hesitation in his voice.

“My brother took a lot of antipsychotic meds. For a while there I was the only one helping him. So, after a while, you get used to seeing certain labels. That,” you said pointing up at the bold yellow and blue lines, “is a symbol I saw quite often.”

“Good ‘nough for me,” Daryl said as you both approached the door. He pulled it open carefully, and it gave way with no objection.

The smell that hit you as you walked into the building was pungent; a sour mix of rotten food and flesh. You and Daryl started searching the building only stumbling across one or two walkers along the way. Once you rounded through offices, you found the storage area where they kept all the meds that were ready to ship out. The warehouse was stacked top to bottom with boxes.

“We should spread out, look for anything that says antibiotics. We’ll grab everything we can and let Denise sort it out.”

“Nah, stay together,” Daryl said. “I’m not takin’ any more chances today. We’ll go through quick and grab what we can. Come back for the rest.”

Aisle by aisle you found just what you were looking for. Daryl found an old pull cart down one of the walkways and starting piling box after box until it was nearly too full to drag along.

“We got a lot of choices here for Denise. We should get these home and come back for the rest. Now that we know the highway is clear, it’s an easy run. Also, be good to check those other buildings.” You said, taking the handle for the cart and trying to pull it along.

The boxes made it nearly impossible to move, and after letting you struggle for a moment or two Daryl came over and effortlessly yanked it forward. Shaking your head, you lead him through the warehouse and back into the corridors leading to the exit.

Daryl checked the one car that had been left in the parking lot and was able to siphon some gas into the can before heading out. As you were driving back down Route 22, you were nearing the spot where the incident had occurred earlier.

There was enough daylight left that you could see the four men lying dead on the ground. You didn’t want to look but couldn’t help it. One lone walker was still making a meal out of the one who had held the gun to your head.

A sick feeling of satisfaction grew in your gut, and as if sensing your thoughts, Daryl caught your eye and gave you a knowing nod.

“Don’t look,” he said, keeping his eyes on you and not the road.

“Well, you better,” you said and motioned forward towards the highway.

Ignoring your directive, Daryl glanced quickly at the spot where you’d been attacked and then back at you, chewing on his lip.

“What you said before… before we got to the warehouse. That happen to you at Grady.. or before?”

You knew what he meant and only offered a slight nod. Those memories were locked up tight and while you had absolutely no intention of ever talking about it, something about the way Daryl was looking at you, you felt like you could.

“Grady. There were these two cops,” you said hesitantly, then looked at Daryl. His eyes were back on the road, but you knew you had his full attention. “They were the lowest forms of life. They would make the women do… God awful things just so they could eat, or get the medicine they needed.”

Sighing heavy, you thought back to that first time Gorman entered your room uninvited. “If you refused, then they just found you later and got what they wanted anyway.”

“Last night, when you grabbed my arm… I’m just not good with people touching me suddenly. I know that it’s over, that he’s dead. But sometimes I have to force myself to remember that, you know?”

Daryl’s face was hard and angry. He still didn’t say a word, but you knew that if Gorman and Dawn weren’t already dead, he’d pull a U-turn and head straight back to Atlanta to do it himself.

“Beth was okay though,” you said. “Thought you’d want to know that. As far as I know they never touched her other than a hard smack across the face.”

Daryl caught your gaze and there was a look of relief that washed over him.

“She helped kill him, you know. Gorman, I mean… She knew what he was. I don’t know how it went down exactly, but I know she was partially responsible. After that I knew that I had to do everything I could to help her. She was strong and did something to save us from that monster.”

“Beth had a way of doin’ that,” Daryl said quietly. “She wasn’t always that way. Took a while, but she figured out how to be strong; to be a survivor.”

“She was lucky to have had you all,” you said and wondered if you had a group like this from the start, how different things would have been. “She was lucky that you loved her.”

“It was my fault she ended up there,” Daryl said quietly. “It was just us out there. We got cornered and I told her to run. I got back to her and she was gone. If I had just kept her with me…”

“Stop. No use in going down that road Daryl. Trust me. Why the hell do you think my head’s been so fucked up these last few months? I can’t stop playing ‘what if’. What if I tried to kill Dawn earlier. What if I hadn’t gone back into the city to look for my brother. What if I hadn’t let a man in uniform convince me to go with him for my own safety? What if… what if Beth hadn’t been at that hospital.”

This time when the tears threatened to fall, you found your resolve and pushed them back. Sitting up straighter in the seat you felt the familiar burn of anger starting to bubble in the pit of your stomach.

“I can’t begin to tell you what it feels like to know that the woman you loved died and I am only here because she’s dead. That kind of guilt is not easy to live with Daryl.”  

For the second time that day, Daryl pulled the car to a stop and put it in park. He turned his attention fully to you, his eyes soft and thoughtful.

“Y/N, you gotta stop. I miss her, I do. Took me a way to get over the fact that she’s gone… but she’s gone. You’re not. Beth would be the first one to tell ya that she’s glad you’re alive and with us. She’d want us to care for you, look out for you…” Daryl trailed off. “Why do you think Carol is always on your ass?”

You shook your head and couldn’t help but crack a smile. Carol was relentless but you were starting to get why. They did care. All of them. Even Daryl… the one person in the group you assumed resented you the most was the one who was now comforting you and telling you it’ll be alright.

“We should get home,” you said motioning to the road again, “I don’t know Rick as well as you, but somethin’ tells me he’s not the most patient man.”

“Yeah,” Daryl smirked as he got the car in gear, “you got that right.”

 Once again making it through the gates as dusk gave way to nighttime, Rick greeted you outside the infirmary.

“You’re back,” he said with a great deal of relief. Peering into the back seat, a smile broke out on his wearied face at the sight of the haul you returned with. “You found ‘em.”

“And then some,” Daryl responded as he opened the trunk revealing the rest of the boxes. “This one over here made it easy to find,” Daryl smiled, gesturing in your direction.

Rick placed his hand on your shoulder and met your eyes with his cool blue ones, “Thank you, Y/N. Thank you…” he pulled you into a hug, and your body stiffened against his. He either didn’t notice or didn’t care. Your fearless leader hugged you gratefully, but more surprising was that you found yourself hugging him back.

Giving Daryl a nod of gratitude, Rick followed Denise, Tara and the boxes of meds back to the infirmary. You caught sight of Daryl glancing at you through his long wisps of hair, no longer with a smile on his face, but couldn’t read his expression. Without saying a word, he reached back into the trunk and pulled out more of the boxes and carried them to the porch.

“Want some help?” You asked, picking up a box.

“Nah, go on home. I got this.” Confused by the sudden coldness you felt from him, you turned and started walking towards the house. Just as you did the night before, you saw the house illuminated and shadows walking past the drawn shades.

Glancing back over your shoulder to Daryl loading the last boxes on the porch, you decided to go back to the gazebo. At least there you could look for the big dipper again. Maybe if you could locate the north star again, it could help keep you on the path of the living.

  Daryl entered the infirmary and saw Denise hovering over Carl. He was sleeping soundly, sweat glistening across his forehead. Michonne was sitting on his other side, brushing strands of sticky hair from his face.

“He alright?” Daryl asked placing the box on the empty gurney.

“He should be,” Denise said without looking up. “Getting the new antibiotics in the IV now. Luckily his fever stopped rising, now we just have to get it to break.”

Daryl walked to Rick who was standing in the corner watching Denise care for Carl.

“You alright?” Daryl asked Rick in somber tone.

“I am now that you guys are back. Everything go ok?”

“Yeah, you know…” Daryl shrugged. “Went like it always does. Bad guys, walkers. Whatever. We got back.” Rick nodded in acknowledgement not needing any more details.

“And the warehouse?” “Stocked. Floor to ceiling with meds. Should take a bigger group and head back out that way,” Daryl said but looked at Carl. “When this one’s better we’ll go. This way you can come too.”

“You seemed to do alright without me,” Rick said with half a smile, clapping his best friend on the shoulder.

“Maybe,” Daryl said, thinking back to the men who tried to jump them. “Rick… Y/N…”

“What about her?”

Before Daryl could speak, Carl stirred at the feeling of a new IV being put in his arm. Rick jumped forward to see if his son would open his eye, forgetting Daryl was even there. As Rick and Michonne hovered protectively over Carl, Daryl slipped out on the porch and saw you sitting in the gazebo.

  “Hey,” he said as he approached you, a newly lit cigarette hanging from his lip. “Can I sit?”

“Sure,” you said and moved over on the bench. “You got another one of those?” Daryl reached in his pocket and handed the pack to you. As the cigarette touched your lips, he was igniting his lighter in front of you.

It had been years since you had one, but that familiar feeling of the smoke cascading down into your lungs felt like a sweet release after the day you had experienced.

“You said somethin’ before that I don’t get,” Daryl said without looking at you.

“What?”

“You said Beth was lucky we loved her,” He turned, meeting your eyes.

“Yeah, okay…What about it?” You asked a little confused as to why that statement, out of all of them, was the one that stuck with him.

“We did… we all did. But it wasn’t like that. She wasn’t just Maggie’s kid sister, she was all of ours.”

“Oh, I just assumed she was your girlfriend,” you said, thinking about the day Beth died and how Daryl had reacted.

“She was just a kid. She deserved more time,” he said, finally looking at you. “But you’re wrong to think what you did.”

A light breeze tumbled through the gazebo causing your arms to break out in goosebumps. Wrapping your arms around yourself, you suddenly felt very self-conscious sitting next to Daryl. His broad, welcoming shoulders were barely grazing yours and for the first time in a long time, the feel of someone else’s touch didn’t make you feel the need to shower.

Releasing yourself, you took another drag from the cigarette and exhaled slowly, watching the smoke be tossed away by the breeze. Turning to face Daryl, his eyes were already narrowed on you, causing a new sensation to stir deep down.

The intensity of his azure eyes fell on top of you and you couldn’t decide if it was a look like he wanted to kill you or kiss you. The way your time with him had been going the last couple days, you thought it could really be either option.

“What?” You said a little annoyed, feeling uncomfortable under his glare.

“Do you got a thing for Rick?” Daryl asked, taking you completely by surprise.

The chill on your skin a moment ago was suddenly replaced by that fire that always seemed to be burning somewhere in you.

“Rick?” You half asked half accused. “Seriously? What the fuck dude…” you shook your head at Daryl and took another drag off the cigarette. “Where did that come from?”

No answer, just a shrug of his shoulder.

“Bullshit,” you said. “Why do you think that?”

“Why’d you think I was with Beth?” He asked and by the look on his face, you knew he was serious in his question.

“The way you talk about her sometimes… the way you looked when she died… I dunno. I guess I just assumed. I don’t ever see you with anyone else, so...”

“Right,” he growled, “and you should see your face when Rick walks into a room. You light up like a damn Christmas tree. He’s the only one who could get you to do somethin’ you didn’t want to do…”

You felt like the kettle that sat on the stove back home; ready for your top to blow from the steam spiraling through you.

“You know what, fuck you,” you said as calmly as possible and turned towards home. Only taking a few steps, you stopped and turned back to face him. “You know, after yesterday and today, I thought maybe, just maybe, you could be a decent guy. You sat there today and listened to me tell you some of the worst moments of my life, and then you turn around and…”

You threw your arms up in the air, unsure of what you could say to convey how angry you felt.

“Despite those assholes that got in the way, I felt like today went really well. We worked good together. We were getting along. Why’d you have to go say something stupid like that…”

Without giving him a chance to respond, you turned towards home again. This time you didn’t stop until you stepped inside.

 The glow of the light over the kitchen sink was the only illumination in the lower part of the house. Any signs of life that were apparent earlier had disappeared and you found yourself alone in the kitchen. Pacing frantically and mumbling to yourself, you didn’t notice Carol walk into the room.

“Shhhh,” she said, startling you.

“Shit!” You said clutching your chest. “Sorry.”

“Just got Judith down. What’s wrong with you? What happened?” Carol asked going into mom mode.

“Nothing. Everyone’s fine. We got the meds for Carl, Rick is there with him now while Denise tries the new antibiotics.”

“Good,” Carol said looking you up and down, “then why do you look like you are ready to kill someone?”

“Fucking Daryl,” you mumbled just loud enough for her to hear you.

“I see,” she smirked, “What did he do now?”

“Just being his usual asshole-y self,” you said, taking in a deep breath trying to calm down. “Sorry, he just knows the right buttons to push,.”

“Hmmm, wonder why that is,” Carol muttered before flashing you a smile. “Look, I’m going to go check on Carl, can you keep an eye and ear out for Judith. She shouldn’t wake up, but just in case.” Carol put the monitor on the counter and grabbed her jacket from the hook.

“Oh, and if Daryl comes home, please keep in mind the sleeping baby while you two duke it out.” She tossed you another smirk on the way out the door, and you found yourself alone again.

When the door opened a minute later, you thought it would be Carol coming back in with more words of wisdom, or another task to keep you busy. Turning to confront her, you found Daryl instead.

His broad frame was merely a silhouette against the door, but you could still see his chest rising and falling in frustration. As Daryl walked into the kitchen, the soft light above the sink cast a shadow across his face, but his eyes still seemed bright and fixed right on you.

“I’m sorry,” his voice cracked as he took another tentative step towards you. “I was a dick.”

You stepped back until your back hit the edge of the sink. You crossed your arms across your chest and wanted to desperately hold onto the anger you felt. But with each step he took towards you, it faded away more and more.

“I don’t always know what to say,” Daryl looked down at his feet. “Most times, I end up saying the wrong thing.”

Drawing in a deep breath he took the last step toward you, placing himself squarely in front of you at the sink. When his hand reached out to pull yours from the clutches of your crossed arms, you gave it to him without argument.

Daryl swallowed hard.

“Reason I ain’t been with anyone was because I didn’t think I could be. For a long time, it was hard to feel anything. When I was out there with Beth, she helped me see that I could… one day when I was ready.”

Your hand felt lost, yet somehow safe being held in his. The feeling of Daryl’s rough fingers on yours was suddenly everything you didn’t realize you needed. You wanted to say something, but the energy Daryl had around him told you that you shouldn’t.

“You’re trying to let us in,” he continued, offering you a soft smile. “You let me in, and I guess when that made me kinda feel somethin’, it scared the shit outta me. So, I did what I do and acted like a dick.”

“Oh,” escaped your lips in a whisper. “You feel something… for me?”

“I know it feels nice to hold your hand,” he said squeezing yours in his. His other hand reached up to touch the side of your face but hesitated. You knew that he was trying to respect your space; trying not to have you flinch from him.

In a split second, you had yet another decision to make. Lean into his touch and confirm the growing ache you felt, or run away… again.

This time you didn’t have to even consider the other options. You leaned your cheek into his touch, closing your eyes and drawing in a deep breath at the feel of him. Your eyes opened just in time to see Daryl leaning into you, inches from your face.

His eyes locked with yours, searching for permission to kiss you. He found it in your expression and leaned in, brushing his lips hesitantly against yours. His mouth opened, ever so slightly to take in more of you, and you happily let him. He let go of your hand and face and let his hands fall to your hips as he kissed you softly. Resting your hands on his chest, he pulled back from you and rested his forehead against yours.

“Daryl…”

“I’m sorry, if it’s too much. I don’t want you to feel… uncomfortable,” he said, sounding nervous.

Your hands started shaking on his chest. Daryl covered your hands with his and held them against himself.

“Is this your way of telling me that you’re ready… now? With me?”

“Mhm hmm,” he nodded, biting on his bottom lip. “I think it is.”

“You think?” You couldn’t help the laugh in your voice.

Daryl smiled, but his expression remained serious. “Yeah, it is.”

He leaned in to kiss you again, and just before your lips touched, the monitor exploded with sounds of Judith from the other room, wide awake and considerably unhappy.

You laughed and leaned your head into his chest. You felt a growl of frustration from deep within him.

“Damn kids,” he said and looked down smiling at you.

“I’ll go,” you smiled and went to walk around him. Before you were out of his reach, Daryl gently grabbed your elbow.

“Hey, don’t be too long,” Daryl said, his voice gruff and low, “Think we’ve both wasted enough damn time already.”

```````````````````````````````````````````

PART 3

[terresdebrumestories]

Kechibi

✗ TECHNICAL DETAILS

FANDOM: Digimon Adventure 01/02/Tri RATING: General Audiences. WORDCOUNT: 5 758 words PAIRING(S): Pre-Taiyama CHARACTER(S): Taichi Kamiya & Yamato Ishida, with cameos from Sora Takenouchi, Takeru Takashi and Michel Takashi. GENRE: Will you just stop it? TRIGGER WARNING(S): Some l light references to depression and Yamato staying in a psychiatric hospital for a while. SUMMARY:  From: Yamato To: Sora ’got 2nd degree burns from a head in a fire ball last night’ Or: Yamato didn't really think spirits from his childhood stories were real, but if he had he certainly wouldn't have expected to meet one in the French countryside. NOTE: I would have gone further into the comedic potential of kechibi spirits, but I figured this story was already long enough as it was, and I didn’t want to fall into disrespect (since I only did realy cursory research) so here we go.

DIGIOTPWEEK 2017: [Day 1: Coffeeshop AU] [Day 2: Fantasy AU] [Day 3: Profession AU] [Read on AO3]

Yamato swears so hard, once he finally figures out what the problem with his bike is, that a rabbit jumps right out of its hiding spot and into the grazing field on the other side of the road. It can’t really be blamed for it: it’s midnight on a chilly, damp August night, and the poor creature probably thought it was safe from stupid humans who don’t have anything better to do than break down in the middle of the night.

Clearly, it never anticipated Michel Takashi’s ancient relic of a motorbike, or the absolute absence of patience Yamato suffers from at the moment.

 He swears for an unreasonably long time, mixing the few Russian curse words he remembers from high school with the full extent of his French vocabulary, until realizes he’s up for at least two hours’ walk, pushing a bike uphill and, most likely, in the rain. Honestly, at times like these, he almost wonders what’s the point of having enough strength to leave the house if he’s going to end up in these situations.

He knows the answer, of course, and wouldn’t trade the propensity to spiral down into irrational anger or despair for the gaping nothing that were the past few months, but that doesn’t make his present situation any more enjoyable.

 At least he didn’t break down on a dirt trail.

 He’s been at it for about half an hour, earphones blasting a long string of insults vaguely put to music at an unreasonable volume, when he notices a flame in the wheat field to his right. The weather as been awful since he got to France, so it’s unlikely to set the crop on fire, but where there’s a fire there’s a person and, in this case, they’re probably trampling around in the wheat.

Yamato, who needs something to throw his annoyance at, decides to be a proper farmer’s grandson and go kick an idiot’s ass.

 “Oi!” he starts, not interested in how odd that’ll sound to French ears, “you gotta turn your thing off! You’re gonna damage the crops!”

 He has to walk along the field for a bit before he finds the entry path and follows the tire tracks from the tractors into the wheat, stomping more than he walks. Not that it seems to bother whoever decided to get a hot snack in the middle of the night, though, because there’s no movement or sound of any kind, not even when Yamato growls and calls out again:

 “Hé! Piss off before you do anymore damage, dumbass!”

 Still nothing. The wind picks up a little and the flame shivers, but as for the rest Yamato might as well be pissing in a violin—either the bastard is entirely deaf, or they’re ignoring him on purpose. Given the general conditions of deaf people in the country, Yamato’s inclined to believe it’s the later, and bright hot anger clenches his fingers into fists right before he decides to use his grandfather’s tried and true technique: just yell at them in Japanese.

True, the reason it works for Michel Takashi probably is that he’s a super-white octogenarian with the general silhouette of a particularly ill-combed leek, but if Yamato hasn’t let his obvious Japaneseness hold him back before he really doesn’t see why he’d start now.

 (Ironically enough, there is also something viciously satisfying at making himself so other in his country, his culture and origins spontaneously and universally recognized and accepted in a way they rarely are at home. Who knew racist ignorance could do good things for his brain.)

 “Sir!” He shouts, using the lower tones of Japanese to make his voice sound scarier, “could you please put your fire out and leave the field? You’re damaging the crops!”

 The flame grows several centimeters after that, fizzles out, and reappears right in front of Yamato’s knees with a relieved:

 “You speak Japanese! Can you help me? I’m lost!”

 Yamato blinks.

 Pinches his arm.

 Does it again, but harder this time, digging his nails into the flesh for good measure.

 Everything hurts the way it’s supposed to, so he’s probably not sleeping but, despite that, the flame is still here.

 Clearly, he’s gonna need to check out his meds’ notice when he gets home.

 “Can you help me?” The flame repeats.

 It’s got a pleasant voice. Lighter than Yamato’s, maybe a bit too loud, but relatively pleasant.

 It would, of course, be even better if it didn’t come from a fire that gives the inexplicable impression of being a head with far, far too much hair on top of it in the middle of asking a question. For a moment—a couple of seconds, at most—Yamato tries to make sense of it all.

Then he decides he doesn’t have the strength for this mess and walks away, refusing to let himself slow down even when the fire’s voice gets louder.

 “Please,” it yells, far closer than Yamato would have thought, “I’m lost!”

 Don’t talk to it, Yamato tells himself, that’s how people get themselves interned. Just ignore it and it’ll have to stop, eventually.

 Right. Because this is exactly how hallucinations work.

 “I’m lost! Please! I’m lost!”

“Buy a map!” Yamato tosses over his shoulder, heart in his throat as he reaches the exit path.

 He’s giving himself a rather severe mental talk down by the time he reaches the motorbike and starts pushing on the handles. He’s finally lost it, there’s no way around that, but that doesn’t mean he’s got to go and make it obvious, for heaven’s sake!

 “Please! I’m lost, help me please!”

 Yamato screams and lets the bike stumble into the irrigation ditch when the flame touches his calf, searing pain shooting up his leg and sending his heart in overdrive. He whines in pain as he slaps the fire out, a litany of apologies floating in his ears even when he forces himself to his feet and takes off at a run toward his grandfather’s home.

 ***

He doesn’t remember getting home, let alone in bed, but he must have managed it somehow because, when the pain finally gets too much to bear, his eyes immediately land on the old dance trophy that resides on the bedside table of his mother’s childhood bedroom. He hisses and grits his teeth against the pain to sit up...and yells when the movement causes the sheets to brush on exposed muscles.

He’s still swearing by the time he gathers the courage to check, heart racing like it’s going for a gold medal in the fear Olympics.

There’s almost no skin left on the back of his right leg, raw flesh exposed to the morning air like a painfully undercooked steak. There are blisters all over it, one of them almost the size of an egg, and jeans fibers stick to the wound in a couple of places. It could probably be worse, but it’s bad enough to make him dizzy and vaguely nauseous.

He has to grip the edge of the bed with white knuckles before he tries to stand, and when he tries to put a foot in front of the other the pain, sharp and raw like nothing else, catches him fast and hard enough that he yelps and falls to the ground, wincing when the door open to reveal his grandfather standing there with his night gown and a panicked expression on.

“What did you do?” He yells in French when his gaze lands on Yamato’s calf.

“I didn’t do anything, it’s—”

A pained exclamation cuts through Yamato’s sentence when his grandfather plucks the jean fibers out of the burns, and it’s all he can do to get his breath back while Papy Michel chastises him:

“You couldn’t just do that with a knife, could you? You could have set the house on fire!”

“But that wasn’t me!”

He knows he’s lost before his grandfather speaks again. It shows in the way his features go from worried granddad to steely war veteran and, even if that wasn’t enough of a tell, the fact that he reverts to Japanese for the next sentence is a dead giveaway.

“Can you get to the bathroom?”

“Yes,” Yamato confirms with burning eyes, “I’ll manage.”

It’s easier to brace himself for the pain now that he knows what it’ll be like. With a wince, he bites on the pained sound that tries to get out of his throat and pushes himself upright, grabbing his phone on his way up. If his grandfather won’t listen to what he’s got to say, he might as well reach out for people who will.

‘got 2nd degree burns from a head in a fire ball last night’ he texts to Sora, before transferring the message over to Takeru.

It’s a little over seven PM back in Tokyo, so he’s not surprised when Sora answers first:

‘Did your dosage change recently?’

‘np & nothing causes hallucinations, I checked + I was in a wet wheat field. Nothing to burn me w even if I was seeing things’

‘Yikes. How did your granddad take it?’

‘badly’

‘YIKES. Hang in there & phone me when you can. My new pill keeps me up anyway.’

Yamato promises Sora to call her as soon as he’s done getting bandaged—possibly with lunch, too—and does his best not to be too obvious about how much he wants this thing to be over already.

“You know,” his grandfather tries after a while, eyes straying toward Yamato’s phone almost too quick to be noticed, “if you want to talk about this, I can—”

“Sora says hi,” Yamato says, heart in his throat, before the sentence can end.

“What?”

“Sora. My friend from the hospital. She says hi.”

She never had even the beginning of a will to get in touch with Yamato’s family, a sentiment he approves of and mirrors entirely, but mentioning her is a surefire way to cut any conversation short without having to provide an excuse. It’s not that Yamato’s family isn’t trying to support him. They are.

It’s just that they don’t exactly understand one another at the best of time, and neither his parents nor the two grandparents he still has were prepared to deal with the kind of issues Yamato turned out to have. His friendship with Sora, born and forged in the heart of a psychiatric ward, is quite possibly too much of a reminder for them to be fully comfortable with it.

“Good,” Papy Michel mutters with a bit of a strangled voice, “that’s good. Well, you’re all patched up now. Don’t get this dirty.”

Yamato nods and gives a perfunctory mutter about wanting a smoke before he makes his exit to the garden, where he promptly lights a cigarette. He can’t honestly say he needed it right this second, but since he’s here he might as well indulge and settle his nerves.

Besides, it’ll give him some space to answer Takeru’s incoming text.

‘Dsnt that sound lk 1 of grdma Fumikos stories?’

‘wut?’

‘the head ina fire thing. Its a Kõchi story no?’

‘maybe idk’

‘ill check’

Takeru doesn’t really need to check, seeing as his comment actually reminded Yamato of the legend in question, but waiting for more information gives hims something to do while he finishes his cigarette, and it’s as good an excuse as any to stay away from his grandfather for a bit.

The thing he met—the thing he thought he met—was probably a kechibi: some poor sod’s spirit literally rolled right out of them and into a fireball, for whatever reason. It can’t be real, of course, and Yamato feels stupid for entertaining the notion now, but he used to be a hardcore believer when he was younger. Not, as his grandmother first thought, because he was afraid of them, but because she used to say some kechibi were wrathful spirits, meant to exact vengeance on those who wronged them during the day.

The amount of time Yamato spent nursing his resentments, during middle school, hoping he’d generate a kechibi powerful enough to take care of his worse bullies, was probably not very healthy. He can’t say he regrets it, though of course he’s given up on their existence a long time ago now. After all, he may go to a temple on a semi-regular basis, half-because he wishes he’d believe again and half because the atmosphere soothes him, but that doesn’t mean he can’t realize that legends are just that. Legends.

‘how do u explain the burns then?’ Takeru asks when Yamato points that out.

‘dunno. Y do u even want it 2 b real?’

‘either it’s real or u burned urself & fabricated the encounter 2 cover it up. Whether were talking hallucinations or lies I prefer the 1st option’

‘...ngl, so do i’

It’s getting late by now, the butt of Yamato’s cigarette long discarded in the ashtray he keeps on the low wall protecting the vegetable garden, so he wishes his brother goodnight and finally goes back inside for lunch. He answers his grandfather’s questions—in Japanese, for the most part—without lying, though he’s careful not to mention the kechibi, and they spend the next few hours figuring out how to get the motorbike out of its ditch and into a garage shop.

The words ‘please, I’m lost’ float in Yamato’s mind the whole way through.

***

‘You’re a nutcase,’ Sora texts when Yamato finishes telling her about his projects for the night.

‘tell me somthng I don’t know’

‘No, the depression is regular crazy. This is just nuts.’

‘im going now ttyl’

Yamato can almost ear Sora’s disbelieving little snort as he sneaks out of the house and climbs on the mountain b ike his grandfather borrowed from a neighbor on his behalf. She doesn’t let it out as often as he does, but sometimes she’s got enough sarcasm to give him a run for his money and, honestly, the only reason he doesn’t keep texting her is because he has no intention to die on the road tonight.

Still it’d be nice if he could. He’d feel a little less stupid, for one. How else could he feel when he’s on his way to a freaking field in the middle of nowhere just so he can maybe have a—second—conversation with a head in a fireball.

Ridiculous doesn’t even begin to cover it.

The ride goes peacefully. There ’s next to no traffic on the roads as it is, let alone at eleven at night, and the weather finally cleared so aside from the darkness it isn’t that different from Yamato’s usual exploration of the countryside. There’s a sense of trepidation in him his usual outings lack, though.

The countryside in this part of France is dreadfully empty—not even five hundred persons in his grandfather’s village—and it doesn’t even have the decency to make up for it with particularly beautiful landscapes. Yamato had been spending most of his days out so far, but it’s a way to be alone with his thought and away from his grandfather’s worried incomprehension more than a show of appreciation for the place, r eally.

Add a healthy dose of depression to that and, well. That’s all you need to know about Yamato’s current hobbies, really.

There’s a real purpose to this particular trip, though, if only to figure out whether that thing really is real—it can’t be. Legends aren’t real! But then Yamato’s burn, still throbbing under the bandage and disinfectant, is, so there’s that. He pulls into the entry path to the field with a sigh and one last volley of disbelieving insults to his own intellect, and rests the mountain bike down on its handle before stepping onto the tire tracks.

The full moon’s getting near which, if legends are to be believed, make the possibility of a spirit encounter even more likely. Of course, that’d feel a little more logical if he weren’t thousands of miles away from Japan in a field that is painfully, obviously empty—of people and of flame.

Yamato is running a hand over his face with a weary sigh when there’s a firecracker sound, and he jumps about thirty centimeters into the air, shrieking as he lands on his ass and damages a sizable patch of wheat, as well as the butts of his hands, in the process.

“Shit, warn a guy would you?”

The face in the fireball doesn’t have very definite features, except maybe for the ridiculous excess of hair, but it still manages to convey a decent air of contrite confusion as it settles down at some distance from Yamato’s legs. Good. Not only does that mean he won’t get burned again just yet, it should also spare him the mental image of a head bouncing after him like a rubber ball which, as his irreverent conversation with Sora this afternoon attests, is nothing short of ridiculous.

Still, the head looks like it sort of feels bad, so Yamato sighs, shifts his mental processes over to Japanese, and says in as calm a voice as he can manage:

“Excuse me, oh Spirit, but what are you doing here?”

The flames around the head brighten, and the vague hint of eyebrows raise up as the head exclaims:

“You speak Japanese! Can you help me? I’m lost!”

“So I understand,” Yamato says, a not-so-small part of his brain still yelling at him to go home and get a grip.

The rest of him figures it can’t be worse than staring at the ceiling and hope for something to come and jump start his emotions back to life.

“Who are you?”

There’s a pause, like the head is gathering breath, and then:

“I’m lost, sir.”

“Yes. You mentioned that. Where are you from?”

There’s another, longer pause, and the flames around the kechibi’s head dim a little before it—he?—tries in a hesitant voice:

“I’m lost.”

“Alright,” Yamato sighs, distantly relieved this thing is managing to irritate him, “let’s try something different. Do you have a name?”

“I have a friend!” the kechibi answers, voice piping so high it sounds more child-like than the adult voice it had before.

It’s not the answer Yamato was aiming for, but it’s a step out of the ‘I’m lost’ loop, so he’ll take it.

“What’s you friend’s name?”

“Koushiro.”

There’s happiness in that one name, like saying it is enough to put the kechibi in a good mood, and a trickle of dread worms its way inside Yamato’s heart. He really hopes he’s wrong about where this is going.

Maybe this Koushiro person is just a close friend.

“Do you know where Koushiro is?”

Pause. Dimming flames.

“...I’m lost.”

Evidently, not the right question to ask. This is going to be tricker than he thought it would be.

At least, he reminds himself, it’s not a wrathful one. He hasn’t believed in literal spirits in a long time—tending to interpret them as energies of some sort more than anything else—but he did grow up with a healthy respect for them. That, and a certain awareness of their potential for harmful behavior, because respecting spirits doesn’t mean pretending they’re only ever nice and fluffy.

Hell, even his mother, who is a practicing Catholic, always told him not to anger any spirit, that’s how well aware of their nature he is.

This one though? More confused than angry. It’s honestly the only thing that keeps him from turning heels and leaving it to its own devices. Instead, he follows his earlier inkling, and asks:

“What’s Koushiro like?”

Look, Yamato isn’t usually the type to compare real life to movies but, one, he’s literally talking to a spirit so the usual rules can suck it and, two, there’s really no other way to describe the way the kechibi glows other than Ghibli-like. It’s like watching a flaming, wild-haired version of Ponyo puff itself up and yell:

“Awesome!”

It’s a good thing it looks so cute, because it means Yamato doesn’t have to fake his little smile when he replies:

“That great, uh?”

“Yes! He’s smart, and he’s funny and he knows how to do so many things with computers! And he’s nice and sometimes he forgets to it so I bring him food and then he smiles and we laugh a lot. He’s a really good friend.”

It’s funny the kechibi’s voice should sound like a child’s. Yamato can’t know for sure tit’s not its real voice—although the head seems large for a kid’s, and it did start out speaking in deeper tones—but even then there’s something so...innocent about the way it sounds. There’s no fear, no embarrassment, no self-disgust here, just pure affection and a fondness that can never be faked.

He sort of wishes he’d get to have that.

“He does sound pretty amazing,” he says, trying to keep the wistfulness out of his voice. “How long have you known him?”

“Oh, forever, I’m sure,” the kechibi replies, head tilting back like it’s looking for an answer in the stars, “I don’t remember not knowing him.”

“That’s quite a long time.”

“Yes, but it’s nice! Don’t you have someone you’ve known forever?”

“Not really,” Yamato shrugs, “my oldest friend is my little brother, but I remember what it was like when he wasn’t there.”

Dimly, in short flashes that mostly consists of the few weeks before Takeru’s birth, but Yamato still remembers.

“Do you like your brother a lot?”

Yamato blinks at the change of topic, in part because he was starting to get lost in his own thoughts, but also because he’d kind of given up on the kechibi extending their conversation topics on its own. Evidently, he just hadn’t found the right angle.

“Yes,” he says, settling into a more comfortable position, “I do.”

“How much?”

Oh well. If he’s gonna hear a kid’s words in a kid’s voice, he might as well go the whole way.

He extends his arms as far as they’ll go before he says:

“That much.”

He really hopes this kechibi didn’t come from an actual child, though. If he’s right, and there’s less an less hold on the hope that he isn’t, then he really hopes it’s happening to someone who’s old enough to mostly bounce back from it.

“I,” the kechibi says, the flames at the side of its head widening like they’re trying to imitate Yamato’s gesture, “like Koushiro thiiiiiiiiiiis much!”

The fire licks at a couple of strands of wheat on the side, and Yamato is halfway to his feet before he realizes nothing caught fire. In fact, aside from the damage he inflicted, it’s like nothing’s happened here at all.

Well, good to know major burns are a human-only experience, he guesses. Could have done without the discovery, though.

“Oh, sorry,” the kechibi says, dimming and shrinking as it talks, “sorry, sorry—”

“It’s okay,” Yamato reassures it, one hand straying to his calf, as if he could have forgotten the wound there, “it’s not so bad, and you didn’t—”

“Koushiro is a boy,” the kechibi shrieks.

Fuck, Yamato thinks.

He was right.

The spirit vanis hes with a loud snap before he can fully figure out what to tell it.

Yamato waits for the kechibi to return for a long, long while, even going so far as to call out once or twice, but to no avail. The spirit, it seems, is either back to its body, or determined not to come back. Yamato could wait it out until morning if he wanted, he’s definitely got the hang of not moving of uncomfortable length of time. That would probably result in his grandfather having a stroke in worry, though, and he’s not so far down that it’s something he’ll let happen anymore.

Besides, even supposing he stays here all night and his grandfather either doesn’t notice or survives the experience unharmed, anyone who lives within in a twenty kilometers’ radius would soon know about how Michel Takashi’s grandson slept in a field. He’s already the local weirdo, there’s no need to add to that.

He calls out for the kechibi one last time, then looks around to make really sure no one hears him when he promises to come back the following night.

By the time he gets back to his bed, he’s tired enough that even his brain can’t keep him awake.

***

The kechibi is already there by the time Yamato makes it to its field on the third night and he thinks, a little stupidly, that he might have to find it a name at some point. It’s ridiculous, really, these things are supposed to be people’s souls, not pets. It feels weird not to have a name to give it, though, so it doesn’t hurt to think about it.

It isn’t a priority though, and as soon as Yamato is within speaking distance of the spirit he makes sure to say:

“It’s alright that Koushiro is a guy.”

The kechibi’s features are a little more defined when he looks up to stare at Yamato. Its hair, still overgrown, is dark brown, a little paler than the stereotypical Japanese black. Its nose is short, its mouth a little too thin but somehow friendly, as if made for smiling. It’s the kind of smile that half begs you to be telling the truth, half asks if you wanna be friends.

If maybe you already are a friend.

Yamato’s Gay Epiphany wasn’t what sent him to the psychiatric ward but damn, he would really have loved it if someone would have put that kind of expression on his face instead of having to figure it out on his own.

“It really is.”

“It’s alright,” the kechibi repeats, its flames growing a little taller, a little brighter.

“Yeah.”

“Koushiro’s a guy. And it’s alright.”

“Completely alright.”

He’s not sure how a disembodied and mostly featureless head manages to make fondness bloom in the vicinity of his heart but, eh. It’s a spirit. They do weird things, like burn people by accident while leaving crops alone or, in this case, flickering and changing colors at a steady pace.

Flick-orange, flick-redder, flick-range, flick-redder.

“That’s funny,” Yamato says after a moment of silence, “your flames.”

“What about them?” the kechibi asks as if having fire all around your head was a normal, every day occurrence.

It probably is to a spirit, mind you, but that doesn’t mean Yamato can’t keep in mind how surreal the entire thing is.

“The way they change color. It’s like a heartbeat.”

“Heart?”

“Yeah,” Yamato replies, deciding to try and circle back just to see if their conversation changed anything, “it’s what you like people with.”

“I like Koushiro a lot.”

The flames don’t widen like enthusiastic little arms this time, but considering there’s no abrupt disappearance either, Yamato decides he’s okay with it.

“Yeah. It’s alright to like him a lot.”

It sort of feels like Yamato should be trying to have this conversation with a more elaborate vocabulary, mostly because the face in the flames doesn’t really look child-like. Sometimes, though, even adults need to get simple words, and this one hasn’t protested the lack of over-three-syllables lexicon yet.

“Jyou doesn’t like Koushiro as much.”

Ah, yes. That’s the fun part, as far as Yamato remembers, the moment he went from a relieved, almost elated ‘this is why it’s not working with girls’ to ‘oh fuck, now I’m even more different’.

There were other components, too, things being straight wouldn’t have changed like, oh, being blond or being socially awkward, or having lucked out at the brain make up lottery—although that point might have been easier to deal with in a different world. The fact remains that, even though his Big Gay Epiphany was, depression aside, a mostly smooth process, that part was particularly hard to swallow.

Still is, whenever it rears its ugly head, but Yamato learned to suppress his gag reflex by now.

God, this metaphor is getting out of control.

“Not everyone likes boys this way,” he says instead of trying to examine that strange train of thoughts.

“Boys don’t.”

“Some do. I do. Some girls don’t like boys that way, either. My best friend Sora, she prefers girls. The person she’s in love with is a girl.”

“I like girls a lot too,” the kechibi says, like it’s correcting a mistake, “and I like Koushiro.”

“Well, you’re allowed to like both. You’re allowed to like any kind of person.”

“Mom will be angry.”

“Maybe she won’t,” Yamato counters, because it’s true. Not everyone gets terrible reactions. “Even if she is, there’s nothing she can do against it. No one can stop you from liking people.”

Yamato has to hide his eyes behind his arm when he ends his sentence, and even then it’s not fast enough to prevent him from seeing spots for the next ten minutes, at the very least. He really, really hope no one was awake to see that, because he’s got no idea how he’d explain it.

Somehow, he doesn’t think ‘sorry, some poor fucker was having an identity crisis in the countryside’ would appease many people.

“I love him so much,” the kechibi says.

It’s quiet and wistful, back to the deeper tones of the first night. There’s acceptance in that, and some relief, but there’s grief, too, and Yamato isn’t quite sure whether the guy is grieving the safety of straightness or the possibility of something happening with Koushiro.

Either way, he’s definitely back in a headspace where he’s aware of the potential ramifications of his recent discovery, and Yamato knows exactly how that feels.

“Yeah,” he mumbles, “I can tell. Sorry.”

This time, when the kechibi pops out of the conversation, Yamato doesn’t bother waiting around before he leaves.

***

When he reaches the field the next evening, he’s almost afraid to find it empty. Sure, it’d mean no more risk of sounding like a complete nutcase, but then again...well, the spirit was the first person he had a real conversation with in this country, including his grandfather. He thinks it’s understandable that he doesn’t want to let go of the connection just yet.

Doesn’t prevent him from swearing blue murder when the kechibi startles him again, though.

Yamato ignores the kechibi’s surprised stare as he slaps dirt off his jeans and checks the state of his hands...yep. Fresh scraps. Damn it.

Then, because there’s only so long he can ignore a pair of big, almost pleading brown eyes in a fireball looking up at him, Yamato sighs:

“What?”

“Why do you keep speaking in a different language? I don’ understand it.”

“We’re in France. If you wanted to hear Japanese you shoulda had your out of body experience back home. Why don’t you ask Koushiro out if you like him that much?”

“He’s aromantic. He told me last week.”

“Ah. Tough luck.”

Brown eyes look down, shadowing a vague hint of pinched lips and, well, yeah. It’s not like there’s anything wrong about the aromantism thing, it’s just inconvenient for the spirit’s love life at the moment.

“It’s not a problem,” the kechibi says, looking like it’s shrugging nonexistent shoulders, “I’ll get over it.”

“Of course. Doesn’t mean the first few days of it are fun. Is that why you’re here?”

“What? No. I’m on vacations with my family.”

Yamato would be lying if he said he doesn’t smile at that. Sounds like the spirit isn’t so lost anymore.

“Anyway,” the kechibi adds with the tone of someone who’s trying really hard to convince themselves, “at least it taught me something about myself. It’s….”

“Kind of painful and coming with a whole lot of unpleasant strings attached?”

Okay, Yamato knows he sounds harsh, here, but this is honestly the easiest part of this whole story so far. He’s had plenty of time to think about the sort of unpleasant reactions people could, would, and did have to learning he was gay.

“If it makes anything better,” he says as he sits down in the grass of the entry path, “you learn to enjoy the cool parts more than you think about the bad ones. Those are only there because people are ridiculous.”

“No offense, but ‘ridiculous’ coming from you sounds somewhat...nice.”

“Just wait ‘til I can handle more than two languages again,” Yamato replies with a shrug, “I’ll show you how mean I can be.”

The kechibi snorts at that, laughter burying itself in the ground next to Yamato’s feet, and the only reason Yamato can think of for that is that the poor guy’s had a pretty stressful week. It’s got to come out somehow.

Besides, it makes him chuckle, too. It’s not actual laughter yet, but it’s been a while since he did that and really mean it, so he figures he might as well enjoy this new step on the path of re-recovery or something.

“I’d like to do that, actually,” the spirit says with one last huff of breath. “I really was lost and you...you got me out of it.”

“Well, my twitter handle’s @yamaNO, if you want to get in touch there. I have a rainbow-filled silhouette as a profile pic.”

“Okay!” The kechibi agrees with more enthusiasm than Yamato feels is needed, “I’ll check you out!”

A second passes.

“I mean, I’ll check IT out. It. Your profile. Soon. Tomorrow. Oh my god this is—I really should go….”

He snaps out of existence before Yamato can ask for his name.

***

Yamato is wasting time around the web the next day, trying really hard to pretend he’s not checking his twitter tab every five seconds, when he gets a new follower notification and a direct message, pretty much in the span of a second:

@tAYYYYYchi: OMG I CAN’T BELIEVE YOU’RE REAL

@tAYYYYYchi: I THOUGHT YOU WERE A DREAM

@tAYYYYYchi: YOU’RE TOO WEIRD TO BE REAL

@yamaNO: says the guy whose Big Gay Crisis gave him a literal out of body experience

@tAYYYYYchi: First of all I told you I’m still into girls so I don’t know what it is but it’s definitely not gay. Second, shut up, dumb face. Third: what are you doing?

@yamaNO: wondering if some1 invented time travel so I can go back & not help u

@tAYYYYYchi: LIES AND SLANDER.

@tAYYYYYchi: Everyone loves me.

@tAYYYYYchi: Clearly, you’re A Big Liar Who Lies.

Well, there’s no denying the guy—Taichi, his bio says when Yamato follows him back—is entirely right about that.

Yamato really , really doesn’t mind.