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whump-town · 4 years

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In His Eyes

Warning: abuse, mental health, lots of talk about food and starvation, hospital, suicide attempt, suicidal ideations, cutting, and self-harm, cursing, and it’s just very dark

Listen, this might be a little much. The themes are dark and it’s far from a happy story

Main Characters Are Aaron Hotchner, Jessica Brooks, and Haley Hotchner

Probably OOC but I don’t care

His pulse is slow against her fingers but there. She calls 911, sobbing. Choking around the weight of his name on her tongue. Will they let her back this time? To hold his hand? He gets nightmares. He won’t like being alone. “He’s--He’s twenty-two,” she rasps, brushing his hair from his eyes. “This is his first year of law school.” And he’s so fucking smart. She needs them to know that. He’s kind. Always remembers her favorite foods and makes her laugh. He’s just a kid. They’re just kids and he’s the only person she’s ever loved. So, they have to help. Please, God, just help.

Final warning for themes of abuse, mental health, food, starvation, hospitals, suicide attempts, suicidal ideations, cutting, and self-harm

Word count: 9,137

For as long as Jessica Brookes has known her brother, he’s had the thin scars marring the pale, milky flesh of his arms. The first time she’d seen them, she was sixteen too old to play stupid but too afraid to call them what they were. At the time, he hadn’t been her brother. In fact, to the world, he had been no one at all. A ghost that walked the halls of their high school with his pained, sluggish movements and seemingly unseeing eyes. Sweaters dripping down his skinny frame and jeans that were made to fit someone nearly double his size. But, for what little credit it’s worth, no one had ever said a thing about him. He was no one. Nothing.

Haley had seen past all of that. Of course, she had. Haley had never loved anything whole. She drank from cracked plastic straws for fear of what would happen should she leave them behind. Thrown out, that’s what. The world has no use for a straw that can not do it’s one feasible job. Not to Haley, though. Their father used to call her Saint Haley, the patron saint of the discarded. And naturally, Haley clung to the idea of Saint Jude. Another lost soul, seemingly just like her, out there to collect others. A reminder that even the lost aren’t alone and that they may not be as lost as they think. And so how could any of them be surprised when Haley, who hung the moon and stairs, brought home her own lost being? Stumbling in clothes too large for his lithe frame and stinking of booze and cigarettes.

Aaron Hotchner has no place in their home. Jessica had been unwavering in this. Look at him. A semester ago, he’d been kicked off the track team for pot. He can’t even go out and get drunk with everyone else. He smokes cheap cigarettes out behind the Miller’s barn and, thought no one could prove it, they all blamed him for the dead birds and cat half-buried in the woods by the school. How could it not be him? With those large, trembling hands and his inability to stay away from trouble. How many fights had he been in this year? How many times had Jessica come from one of her classes to find the student body surrounding his bowed back as he sat over the hips of another boy, mercilessly beating him? So, how could that dirty boy be worth her sister? If she’d asked him, he’d answer her with the same thought Jessica knew better than to speak around Haley. He doesn’t.

So, how could any of this add up? Aaron Hotchner like a straw bent with damage has good in him too. Jessica had never seen the other boys. The way they pick and preen at him. Smacking his head and kicking at his ankles. Calling names at his back. The teachers never do a damn thing and why should they? He’s not the smartest kid in their classes. He sits in the back. Turns in mediocre work. He doesn’t get encouragement. “I know you’re capable of more than this, Aaron.” No, he gets sighs and shaking heads. So, when he takes action. Thrown to the end of his line, he is the bad guy. Because Aaron Hotchner is just the kid no one likes. His father’s name is the only thing keeping him from getting expelled. No one ever cares to see how he flinches from his father’s touch or the pain in his eyes when new bruises form across his body. Because they don’t care. But Haley. Haley cared and her love had been her one and only rebellion.

Jessica had been the sort to fall for the beauty of rebellion, not Haley. Her first boyfriend had been a biker, a senior who would break her heart. Rolling with anger at her father’s words, that she might be too young to know anything about love, had fallen head over heels for a girl in her biology class. And while she hadn’t given a thing to her senior ex-boyfriend of three months, she gave everything to that girl. Sarah Halls with her bright brown eyes and soft blonde hair. Which had effectively taken much of the heat off of Haley and Aaron. While that had not been the intended outcome, Jessica hadn’t minded taking it for his little sister. She’d found it entirely worth it when Sarah broke up with her a year and a half later. Which, to a heartbroken sixteen-year-old, had been everything. Years and years to which she could never get back. So she did what broken people do and spiraled into every self-destructive tendency she could think, that she could buy.

And Aaron had found her. Sweet Aaron with those thoughtless brown eyes and haggard discoloration over his exhausted face. She had slapped him when he first attempted to collect her. Sloppy drunk, high, and convinced that the world should just end right here. This misery she felt unmoving and forever. Despite what could be assumed about his body beneath those oversized sweaters, old and worn year-round, he is strong. While she kicked, crying, and distraught, he had lifted her into his arms and taken her. One arm under her legs and the other braced against her back. Not so much as a blink, not a frown, or scowl of pain. He had simply looked to Haley, waiting for her to direct him. Slowly, shocked by both of them, Haley had opened the car door and allowed Aaron to place Jessica in.

She’d never forget that night. The way he’d crouched on the floor in front of her bed and wiped her make-up away while Haley held her. His eyes, she discovered, were not unseeing. Darkened with his focus, she could see every thought cross through his mind. The kind, gentle strokes of the rag in his hand over her nose and across her lips. Loving.

“Aaron?”

He had startled as if expecting her to be past the point of cohesiveness. She knew, later, he hadn’t even known that she knew his name. What had she called him in the months since Haley brought him home? Had she ever really looked at him? Allowed herself to even think about learning to love him with even a fraction of the devotion Haley has? Now, those eyes darting between hers, he hums. As he often does.

Gently, slowly (with the same apprehension she’d watched Haley show each time she reached for him) Jessica places her clammy palm to his cheek. He stiffens beneath her fingertips but doesn’t avert his gaze or move to pull away. “Thank you,” she whispers, dragging her fingers against his cheeks. Here, she can see more than she needs to. The deep scar on his cheek and another that runs with his jaw. How each movement of the rag moves the sleeves on his shirt just enough to allow her a hint of what lies beneath. The skin of his wrist raised. Scarred.

She looks back at his face. Haley and Aaron may only be slightly younger than her but they seem like babies here. Now. “I’ll still kill you if you hurt my baby sister,” she whispers, closing her eyes with a smile. She hears his soft puffing laughter as if a hand in his chest squeezes his lungs tightly to stop any real noise. And she realizes she’s never heard him laugh. Real, deep, unhinged. Haley squeezes her stomach and she’s pulled back to them.

When Haley is sixteen and Aaron seventeen (Jessica nineteen and struggling through the second and last year of college), his father dies. Mopping up her tears with a coffee-stained napkin, Jessica’s attention had quickly been turned upside down. How could she waste her worries on Sociology when all she can see is Aaron's skinny little wrists and the scars on his face. The bruises up and down his back. Skeletal, sweet Aaron. She returns home as quickly as she can. Though she out-right refuses it the first time, her best friend gives her money for the bus fare. Her father could not spare her the money. She’s only in college because of a scholarship, they just have the money to spare. No matter how many times Haley called, voice thick with tears, and promising things were okay there at home could Jessica stand to believe her. So she took the money.

She arrived back to their silent quaint town on Tuesday to find Aaron had been in the hospital since Saturday. Refusing to eat or move. Restrained like an animal. She might have thrown a fit. Maybe she should have. The nurses stand at the doors of the intensive care unit and inform her that the floor has strict rules. That Haley can not come back. They don’t allow minors onto the floor but had they not broken that very rule allowing Aaron in? So, why not let the rules slip one more time? For Haley, for Aaron, unless they really want to watch that boy die. Is that what they want? And still, they declined her. Sensing the end of the nurse’s patience Jessica had pulled herself together and succumbed. Fine, yes, she’ll go back. Just her.

And there he is. Sweet Aaron. With those eyes and the bruises. The hospital gown leaves nothing to the imagination. She’s nineteen and he’s seventeen. Children. Too young for the pain of life and the coil of death. It isn’t until this moment that she realizes she loves him. There had been a time when she thought it was even crazy that she might love Haley. So, she’d been startled and hesitant with the idea of being inclined to love Haley’s future spouse. And it would not matter if Haley and Aaron broke-up today, she would still love him. As she suspects Haley would too. Because Aaron is a fighter and there’s something about him that just draws you in. Perhaps it’s the surprise he exhibits when you’re kind to him. Taken aback by gentleness and love. Never understanding how you might have come to love his thoughtfulness. Him.

“What are you doing?” The room is silent. There is no need for a heart monitor, just the IV fluids snaking into the back of his hand. Her father had told her about the doctor’s threatening an NG tube which, at seventeen, he doesn’t have the legal authority to deny. So, if this tirade of his goes on he’ll have to suffer through the procedure. But she knows not to waste her time on a speech about his actions and their consequences. Aaron isn’t stupid.

The moons of distress under his dark eyes look daunting on his handsome face. He’d grown into his body while she was away and it had made her proud to see. Her mother’s apple pies had done wonders for him. Having a steady place to come home to, even if it’s the couch in their living room, had transformed him. Now, he takes a moment to understand her. All the weight he’d put on melted right back off. “I’m tired,” he answers. It requires a breath that pulls his shoulders to his ears. His thin, pale lips parting.

She wants to scream at him. Of course, you’re tired! When was the last time you ate? The last night you slept through? But she looks back at those eyes, little mirrors filled with tears, and she leans down and kisses his forehead. It requires no thought, no hesitation to pull him to her. To wrap her arms around him. He pushes his head against her chest, face pressed into her sweater. “I’m sorry,” he whispers thickly. And with her eyes closed, she apologies too. For not coming back sooner. For not being here when they needed her.

“I know,” she answers, running her fingers through the back of his hair. He sleeps and she stays right there. He wakes a few times. Mouth too dry to speak but those dark eyes are always seeing. Always taking in every bit of information he can. She doesn’t leave. Sometimes she’s reading from textbooks. Stalking around the end of his bed with a phone in her hand, angrily speaking to whoever it is on the other end of the line. He looks up and finds her sleeping a lot. Her long legs pulled onto the chair with her and he wished he could move. Find the strength to wake her and move her to the bed.

His mother never comes. Sean calls but it’s bitter and Jessica can see how upset Aaron is getting so she hastens it’s end. Those calls stop coming when Jessica can properly defend that they only make him worse. Proof that getting better isn’t linear even though she wishes for it to be. She just wants Monday when he eats a snack and laughs at her silly joke for Wednesday to come and him still to be light. Not wrapped like a tight coil, arms around his stomach and crying in pain. But health isn’t linear and Aaron has never done anything the easy way.

Three months. For three months after his father’s death, Aaron sits in that hospital. He spends a month in the ICU and two more in general. Seeing Haley both helps and impedes. Jessica finds herself parenting the both of them. Leading Haley to show her when Aaron needs them to step in versus when it’s just best to leave him to his own devices. Because it looks cruel but he needs the silence. Slowly, he finds his feet once again but he’s fallen behind in school and if he wants to graduate on time he’ll have to spend all summer making it up.

But that wasn’t the problem with Virginia summer’s.

“Aren’t you hot?”

Wearing his signature long sleeve, Aaron goes without comment to help Roy dig the ponds up. He hasn’t spoken since being released but he didn’t speak too much before. It’s hardly noticeable to anyone but Jessica and Haley but they both have their own problems to attend to. Jessica is once again taking their heat with her larger news: she’s dropping out of college. So, Aaron’s silence has taken the back burner.

Looking down at his clothed arms, Aaron shakes his head. Continues digging.

Jessica looks up from the porch, waiting for the moment she needs to step in. Legs outstretched on the wooden swing, Jessica looks at the words on her book but takes nothing in. She’s pretending to read. Her father pushes Aaron some more. Offering a tank top or even just a white t-shirt.

“It’s too hot for all that nonsense,” Roy comments, motioning to Aaron’s worn sweater.

Before Aaron can even start doing his rapid, panicked blinking Jessica clears her throat from the porch. “Stop patronizing him, dad.”

Roy huffs but lays off.

For that exact moment, she’s the hero but she’s just a coward. Too afraid to allow the conversation on. Perhaps she should have let her father push him a little more. Make Aaron realize what he’s doing to himself. What he’s doing to all of them. Things aren’t what they used to be. He’s not alone. Can’t he see that?

No. He can’t see that. What he sees is a family he’s not a part of. Painfully reminded around every twist and turn just how alone he is. On Christmas the traditions of theirs that he stumbles over. He’s never decorated a Christmas tree or baked an apple pie. Haley does it without blinking, smiling to encourage him along but he just doesn’t know.

They change. He graduates on time and a year later she does too. With Jessica right there, always encouraging, and positive they both go to college. Haley falls for the science of psychology and Aaron falls head over heels for political science.

For four years its as if that boy never existed. He gets a second wind. A new chance.

But the damage is there and habits are so hard to beat.

Haley comes home early from class. Tuesdays usually mean her days don’t end until nearly seven at night. She’s got study hall and a sophomore that she tutors in Chemistry. Today, the kid had canceled their appointment, and the snow forced her home. Coming in, she’d been excited to find his coat already on the rack. Eagerly she’d torn through their tiny apartment to find him. He wasn’t in the kitchen, despite that being his favorite room in the house. He seems to always be making something, perpetually hungry. The living room had his things, briefcase open, and papers a mess. He can’t seem to think in clean rooms, always has to dirty them up. Their room was barren, not even his half of the bed disturbed. Leaving the bathroom.

Knocking against the solid door, she eases the doorknob open when he doesn’t call out. “Aaron?” Something deep had ached in her chest when she saw the living room. The papers wrong or maybe his shoes discarded almost looking tripped over? Desperate. The apartment felt desolate, cold. Stepping in her breath catches in a gasp, “Aaron!” Sinking to her knees beside the tub, she pulls him up. Moving his face from where he’s so dangerously allowed it to sink into the warmth of the water. Clutched in his hand, submerged beneath the water, a single bottle of Advil.

He’d bought it only two weeks ago. She’d been there, right beside him. Budgeting has been hard and she could see the apprehension in his face when they’d stopped near the aisle. She had mistaken it for fear that they didn’t have the money to waste on something like Advil and now she can’t help but wonder if he’d wondered something else. Would Advil be painless? How fast would it be? But she’d taken his hand and squeezed it, reassuring him a bottle of Advil would be okay. He was getting headaches, bad ones. She assumed he was just too worried to admit he needed them. She hadn’t thought he was suicidal but when has she ever been able to hear the thoughts racing through his mind?

“Aaron,” she runs her knuckles across his sternum. No. No, she hadn’t thought he was suicidal but had she ever really thought he was okay? Don’t be stupid, she’d think, as she sat in the library late at night. Reading books, consuming every bit of knowledge she could obtain without ever admitting to herself that maybe, just maybe the man she’s loved since she was fifteen might be suicidal. Not Aaron who lights up rooms and loves picnics and, on more than one occasion, has woken up to climb onto the roof and watch the sunrise. But maybe he’s not in love with life enough to want to stay here. “Aaron,” she calls, her clothes as soaked as his. “Wake up, baby.”

At the hospital, they give him so much medicine that she can’t even think straight. The whites of his eyes all she can see as a nurse guides Haley through what they’re doing. “It’s a seizure,” the nurse says, unwavering as she watches Aaron’s body jerk and shake. Everyone works around him but no one touches him. Simply moves things away from where he might hit them. “Tell me about him.” She puts herself between Haley and Aaron, averting Haley’s gaze so she doesn’t have to watch the staff move him. Hurt him.

Haley struggles to come up with a thing. “When we were seventeen he--he stopped eating,” Haley manages. Maybe, that will help? “He was hospitalized. He almost died.” Suddenly, all Haley wants is Jessica. Her sister to pull them out of this mess like she always does. Protecting them.

The nurse shakes her head. “No,” she clarifies. “No, tell me about him.”

About Aaron. “He loves blueberry pancakes,” she chokes, an inappropriate laugh forcing its way up. “Really loves them.” She smiles and the nurse nods, smiling too. It’s easier to think of him like this. The boy who used to climb up a tree outside her dorm to wave at her from her window. “He will make himself sick eating them.” His childhood had been so bleak, so bland. He’d known only oatmeal as a breakfast food. The first time her mother made them, he’d eaten so many he had been sick and she’d sat right by his side rubbing his back. “Still,” she adds with a shake of her head. “To this day, twenty years old and he still makes himself sick eating blueberry pancakes. Like--” she starts to cry. “Like he’s afraid you’ll take them away.”

Standing in that emergency room, Haley wonders how much of what she knows about Aaron is true.

“Has he tried to do this before?”

He wants to be a lawyer. A better man than his father putting away the bad guys and fixing the system. He’ll never graduate. No one wants a suicidal lawyer. She’s torn between morals. He’s spent the last few years fighting for this and this one silly mistake could unravel it all. Just a silly mistake. “No,” she chokes. “No, he’s not-- he’s not suicidal. He gets migraines.” She looks up from the tiled floor. “He had a migraine. That’s all. He forgot how many he took and I wasn’t there. I should have been there. He was just confused. I told him to take a bath. Really, he was just confused. That’s all.” Haley had never been good at lying.

They leave her, after that, perhaps having realized they won’t get anything from her. The truth will not come from her, not today. She ignores the tired look they give her when she asks for a note to give Aaron’s professors. So that she can get his work or maybe just make sure he’s not being too penalized. And again, as the doctor signs, he asks if Aaron’s ever done anything like this. “This--this accident.” And she knows exactly what he’s doing. Trying to guide her to the right answer. Her answer is solid. No. Never. And she leaves him to go sit with Aaron.

The nurses come in and out. Looking but never saying. They move over his body and he lets them so long as she is there. Within reach and she always is. She finds magazines and books and spends too much of her time convincing herself that if he’d meant it, she would have noticed. That everyone else is wrong. If the signs are there then it’s not that hard to notice! Fuck this cognitivie dissonance. She’s smart. She would see.

Right?

He’s just smoking more because he’s stressed out.

Normal college students struggle to balance a sleep schedule.

Aaron is always withdrawn.

He’s moody because he’s not sleeping.

These signs aren’t meant for him. They mean nothing. And she repeats it again and again until she starts to believe it. The signs don’t mean anything.

Now, she stands with her back to Aaron. Her arms crossed on her chest, finding the courage to dare them to question her. What lie will she conjure for the fresh cuts on his arm? Not even healed. Probably done last night in the bathroom with the kit he taped to the bottom of the sink. With the razors she pretends not to see wrapped in toilet paper. But she’s afraid to say something. They’ve been together for half a decade and he’s only just now started sleeping without a shirt. Only just allowed her to see his body. The cuts and the scars both from his own hand and his father’s.

But they don’t say anything. Perhaps it’s too taboo but no one says anything.

The signs mean nothing. He smokes because he always has. He’s withdrawn because he always has been. Aaron is and always has been these signs. So, he’s fine.

He’s fine.

They get married at the end of the next semester. He’s had months to recover but the body isn’t so quick to forgive. His voice is rough from where they had to intubate him for so long but the therapist all assure them that with time his voice will lose its rasp and he’ll sound like himself again. His classmates poke at him for his “time-off” and he’d prefer they think him a spoiled brat off partying than what he really is. A disaster. One misstep away from trying again.

He never voices this. He doesn’t tell the therapists or Haley.

“I want to apply to the academy.”

Marriage is not even marginally the hardest thing he’s been forced to understand. He knows what he’s doing when he makes Haley his sole beneficiary-- asides from his textbooks which he wants to go to Jessica because she’s still bitter he “wasted” himself with the bitterness of law. But marriage is easy. Giving himself is second nature. He never thinks about the little things she clings to. How he always remembers to put the seat down and cooks dinner or washes the dishes. He’s not normal.

But this sudden change of pace takes her by surprise. “The-- The academy?” At first, she thinks of films and actors and actresses. That sort of academy but bitterly, sickly she remembers how close they are to Quantico. About David Rossi & Jason Gideon, who he met two weeks ago and hasn’t stopped talking about since. There’s a flush to his face, excitement she hasn’t seen in the longest time. And she wants to say yes but she can’t be certain this isn’t some new method he’s found to hurt himself.

He nods, shoveling corn and green beans into his mouth. Happy, she realizes. He’s happy.

“It’ll be in the fall so I’d have a few more months left with the District Attorney.”

No. She wants to say no so badly. The last thing they need is a gun. As if she doesn’t already check the knives over, counting and recounting the razors he uses to shave. Convinced he’ll try again. But she can’t say no because she doesn’t have a good reason. They’re financially stable. She’s working at a school only down the street and joining the academy won’t be taxing. It’ll be a bit of a money cut but he’s not making bank with the DA anyhow. He’s too smart to fail the courses but, as twisted as she knows it is, she thinks he’ll get hung up. He’ll need a physical and have to pass psych evaluations. There’s no way they let him through.

“Okay,” she decides, returning back to dinner. It kills her to see him smirk and celebrate while she sits certain that they won’t allow him in. There she plans what she will do to protect him of the recoil. Of what will, undoubtedly, occur. A safety net that he can fall into.

But the call comes and the cake she’d been making-- vanilla with rainbow sprinkles and blueberry pancakes cooling by it’s side-- to console him turns into a celebratory one. He’s done it. Training and evals, passed. Made records won awards. She’s got herself one hell of a federal agent.

Jessica comes down, smiling and with a bag in hand. She hates this development nearly as much as Haley but is much better at hiding it. “Look at you,” Jessica mumbles in amazement. She turns him over, fingers finding his hardened muscles through the sleeves of his sweater. Looking for something, anything to clue her in one what’s happening behind his dark eyes but all she sees is happiness and she can’t help but wonder how long that will last. “You were nothing but a scrawny kid and they’ve turned you into a man and a half.”

There it is, that half-strangled puff of laughter. He smiles, dimples, and chin, and whole face. A man, she is reminded, not that fifteen-year-old prone to drinking in the woods and getting knocked down in the halls. He quit smoking that month and Haley did too. For once, he started taking care of himself. Not as if he never had before but suddenly there were just things he did that he had never before.

He stopped cutting. Which had been harder than losing the cigarettes. She only noticed in passing and could never really pride him on the achievement. Never draw attention to it. But she’d see the scabs healing when he wrapped an arm around her bare hips. Eventually, there were no scabs. Only scars.

“I love you,” she reminds him because she’s not sure if this will last.

And his eyes always twinkle just a little when she says it. Pleasantly surprised each time. “I love you too.”

He gets posted in Seattle and as they’re preparing for the move she watches him closely. As it turns out, she’s the one afraid not him. The world seems to open up, right then, for him and selfishly she thinks about everything she’s just left behind. No, she realizes. It’s not selfish. She worries about him, he worries about her. She’s worried about herself and he worries about himself. It’s a balance and no good things come without a little give.

Seattles is okay.

She tutors a young boy with epilepsy that has fallen behind do to a spout of recent hospitalization. He reminds her so feverishly of Aaron that she naturally takes to him. His name is Sam and his hair is blonde and his eyes the same soft brown as Aaron’s. He’s smart and funny one day and sad and silent the next. The last decade she’s spent living at Aaron’s side has made her ambidextrous to this behaviour and she doesn’t blink.

Aaron spends his days folded into case files, not all that different from when they were in Virginia but he’s lighter. They both are. He doesn’t seem even bothered by the rain. Smiling each time he comes in soaked to the bone to chase her around, shaking the rain from his hair onto her.

One night, she rolls over and attaches herself to his back. She’s antsy and he’s an insomniac so she’s not too surprised when he tangles his fingers with hers over his stomach and hums to answer the question she hasn’t asked yet. Breath ghosting over the back of his neck, she asks, “Do you still want to have kids?”

He chuckles, turning slightly so she can see the silhouette of his nose and lips as he answers her. “Mmm, ten.” Slowly, moving her legs and twisting, he faces her. So that his forehead is against hers and kisses her. “Wanna make one?” he asks teasingly, fingers skimming the skin peaking out from under her shirt. “I hear it’s pretty easy.”

She hits him but deepens the kiss, allowing her hand to slide over his hips and squeeze his butt. It makes her laugh and he just shakes his head. “I want to talk about kids,” she reminds him, breathlessly as his hand snakes up underneath her shirt to cup her bare breast. “Not ten,” she whispers, pulling his head closer as he kisses her neck. “One or two. At least one boy.” He hums and she doesn’t even need to consider if he’s listening or not because he always is. “We could adopt.”

He smiles, placing a hand on both sides of her head, completely overtop her now. She whines a little as he sits up, extracting his body from the tangle of hers. “We could foster even more,” he offers, because he’s thought about it. “Have a few, adopt a few, and be one of those sweet old couples that fosters every kid they can find.”

She squints her eyes at him reaching up and bopping his nose. “You have a savior complex,” she whispers. Which they both know isn’t true. He’s a helper, a watcher. What else would you have him do? He’s never been one to sit by. But she thinks about it. Long after that night and later that night. When she rolled over and he’d fallen asleep in a massive tangle like he always does. This man doesn’t know how to exist without creating a mess. His desk is never neat and he can’t sleep without one half of his body stuck in the sheets.

She considers having a child exactly like him. With his exact brown eyes and those dimples. Adopting one that slowly becomes a part of them. Learning there little habits. A child with hair to dark to be Aarons but too light to be hers that like dancing around the kitchen with her and has that soft, strong way of speaking that Aaron does. Kids. With him.

They aren’t compatible.

She knows she shouldn’t have pushed when the scabs come back. It’s not bad, well… The cuts are small and low in number but she knows they’re there long before she sees them. He starts to sleep in long sleeves again. She sees them when he’s in the shower. Three or four on each arm and he’s been wearing the shirts for a month so it’s not that bad. He’s certain done worse. He’s just got a lot of pressure on him at the moment.

She lets it go.

“I haven’t had my period in a while,” she says over dinner. She told herself to wait for those cuts to heal but they never do.

He chokes on his food. He hasn’t been eating a lot and she thinks he might be smoking again. Which she would point out but she might just be paranoid. Sam got sick last week, had a seizure that she had seen, and she’s a little ashamed to admit she picked it back up to soothe herself. Unsure and unable to tell Aaron about it. How could she? It had nearly scared her from the topic of children, what would it do to him.

“How--” his voice cuts off. He doesn’t mean “how”. He knows exactly how. They talked about children and have been careless. Two scared people hoping that if they pretend to not want this with every burning fiber of their beings they might get it. He can’t remember the last time he used a condom and her birthcontrol has suddenly disappeared from the bathroom sink.

“How long?”

She puts her fork down. “Three months.” They’ve been trying twice that long. “I have a test,” she tells him, trying to hide her excitement. His eyes meet hers and she reads him like her favorite book. “I could take it.” Their lonely kitchen is filled with the sound of scraping chair the two of them fumbling to move.

“Oh.”

It’s negative.

Aaron’s mouth is dry, he doesn’t know why he’s so disappointed.

“We can keep trying,” she soothes, trying not to shake or cry. Even though she wants to throw that stupid test against the wall. Tears fall down her cheek and she looks up to see his own gather.

He shakes his head.

Jessica comes down the next week and pretends not to notice the return of the long sleeves. Aaron greets her with a smile and kisses her cheek. Telling her about everything but that test. The hope so swiftly taken from them. She takes Haley to a clinic. They count her eggs and smile, assuring her that she’s young, healthy, and her eggs are in fantastic shape. She should consider herself lucky, it should be easy for her to have children.

Easy.

Clearly, they have never met her husband.

His sperm count is low. Enough that the doctor’s face falls a little as he explains their options. It’s still possible to do this on their own but they shouldn’t be ashamed if things need a little help.

“It’s nothing to be ashamed of.”

But he is ashamed and he counts out each offense on his skin.

Sam, the boy she tutored, dies shortly after they learn all of this. His little body just couldn’t take all the stress.

Haley feels selfish but she’s glad she was no where near him when it happened.

A week later, Aaron comes home, hangs his coat on the rack and sits down on the edge of the couch. “I saw David Rossi today.” His eyes are haunted by the dark circles under them. She notices them but the people in his office never seem to. They comment his quick work and sharp mind which is why Dave had been so quick to accept him. Aaron’s curiosity has always been the brightest burning part of him. “He wants me to move back to Virginia. Take some profiling courses. Join his team.”

Aaron has read everything about the Behavioral Science Unit he can get his hands on. So, by extension, she also knows a lot about them. Every time he finds something worth excitement he finds her to recount each detail. He wants this, she knows.

She’s making muffins, trying to keep her mind off of Sam. When he tells her this, what David Rossi wants from her husband she’s furious. Fuck that man. What do they care about him? They have a life here. But… they really don’t. The lease on their apartment is ending and she keeps trying to decide if she really wants to renew it. Sam is dead. Aaron has a job opportunity.

“Do you want to move back to Virginia?” she turns, to him. Pressing her hips across the oven and watching him.

He looks down at the floor. Does he? He hadn’t really considered that. Does he want to work with David Rossi? Yes, very much so. So, he nods. “I want this,” he says.

She brushes the wet dough on her hands off on the apron on her chest and moves across the kitchen to him. Placing a hand on both sides of his face, she kisses him. “Okay,” she whispers. “Then lets go.”

David immediately loves him.

I work too slowly.

I get too attached.

I’m only good with victims.

I am not a good profiler.

But David sees that spark. The yearning for more, fire hissing and popping and Dave is eager to throw gasoline on him. To see him rise and consume them all. “You’re a bright kid,” Dave commends, one afternoon. They’re having dinner on the way home. Dave has no girlfriend or wife to call so he’s very content to get a little tipsy and let Aaron drive him home. Aaron is wondering what Haley’s doing, Dave thinks this is adorable.

“Um,” Aaron can feel a deflection on his tongue but Dave covers his hand with his own.

With far too much seriousness for a tipsy man he says, “alright. You’re next lesson is acceptance, alright? I give you a compliment and you say--” Aaron just stares back at him. “You say thank you, Dave.”

He nods his head.

Dave blinks. This goddamn kid, he swears. But he’s so enchanting, charming in his youth. Bashful but always looking, watching. Dave wants nothing more than to see him smile even more. To see him grow steady and assured in his abilities. And that it almost taken from him. A sniper in some case that feels more like a movie, something that happens to someone you’re only lightly attached to. That you gasp at but forget about in a day or two. The blood that just sprays, thick and heavy and hot. Dave’s never lost an agent.

He’s lost men but that was war. This isn’t war. It’s just profiling. His people aren’t supposed to die and the kid-- fucking Aaron, his Aaron, almost died.

“You must be David.”

Dave is sleeping in the room when she comes. A thin little thing with straw blonde hair and a very scorned looking face. Aaron has gone on and on about her. She’s beautiful and he can see, immediately, why Aaron’s so drawn to her. As stupid as it is, he smiles when he sees her. So tiny and yet drawn up like she’s ready for a fight.

“That must make you Haley.”

She hums, a habit he finds cute. Humming fits Aaron well. He’s a silent man but not Haley. Aaron had told him they had been together since they were kids, high school sweet hearts. It must be a bit of Aaron’s spite she has drawn up as she walks through the room to stand at her husband’s side. Stoic.

The worst is yet to come.

The shot had been surprisingly clean. Aaron would need a sling and to keep his arm delicately strapped to his chest to allow his shattered clavicle to repair. He wakes two hours later, to the soft hum of Haley and Dave whispering over him. He’s not coherent and he’s in pain and falls right back to sleep the moment Haley takes his hand. A softly sighed “oh” on his lips as his eyes shut and he’s gone again.

Dave doesn’t say anything about the scars. He knows about them. (Do you really think they’d let anybody into the FBI without making notes in files, annotations for men like David Rossi to read and re-read a dozen times as they consider allowing men like Aaron Hotchner onto their teams?)

“Haley?” The second time he’s distraught. Panicking. He remembers the warmth of his bath, the Advil bottle in his palm. “I’m sorry,” he whispers, just as he had when he woke the first time, all those years ago. “I won’t do it again. I’m sorry.” He remembers thinking how uncomfortable he was in the tub. How he wished he had a pillow or was shorter so at least his knees could sink in. That he could see his clothes plastered to his skin.

He mistakes her momentary confusion as disbelief and he grows agitated. Gasping in pain but twisting and pleading. “I-- I--,” his sentence is cut off by his strangled cry. He moves his hips the wrong way and his shoulder is pressed down into the mattress.

It breaks her heart just as much this time as it had last time. To see his face pinched in pain and confusion. But she is shocked in place.

Dave stands, grabbing Aaron’s unrestrained hand. His hand wrapping completely around until his finger rest against the inside of Aaron’s wrist. His hand engulfing Aaron’s. The scars moving under his touch. “You’re okay,” Dave assures him softly. He smiles, priding Aaron when he manages to whisper Dave’s name in soft shock. He pats Aaron’s cheek, “there he is. My bright boy. How are you? You okay?”

His sense come back to him. The memories slipping into place. “Hurts,” he rasps. Gradually, his body calms and he stops kicking out against nothing. “My arm hurts,” he whispers, his eyes full of tears as he looks between them. Trusting one of them will stop it. One of them will help.

Haley leans down and presses a kiss to his temple, brushing her fingers through his hair. “You’re okay sweetheart.”

Sweetheart. He hums, turning into her touch. She never calls him sweetheart.

She wipes his tears away and Dave says nothing. At that moment, she doesn’t know him to well but eventually, she’ll learn that his silence in that moment was new. Dave never shuts up. She’ll crave that silence in his company. But he’d been thinking, watching and she’d been preoccupied. He was taking in what he was seeing to stored for a later date. Though he had thought for theory not practice. How wrong he, in fact, was.

He retires a year later. Aaron and Haley are just getting the courage to try again for a kid.

When he returns he’s thoroughly surprised to find things haven’t entirely changed. The bits that have changed are encouraging.

“How much do you know?” Morgan asks him one night, a little too tipsy to be having this conversation. But he’s been sitting on it for months and he’s got to know. It’s his job to protect the team and while he and Aaron always seem to butt heads, he won’t leave him out of that equation. “About… About Hotch.”

Not Aaron, anymore. He’s a whole new person. The Unit Chief, strong stoic and up until that moment Dave had even thought hidden. His little secret tucked beneath those multi-layered suits. Evidently not if Morgan knows. “Should we be discussing this?” he asks. It’s an answer within itself. If he knows they shouldn’t be discussing it then he knows about it.

Morgan understand this. He pops a handful of nuts in his mouth, chewing them thoughtfully. “He’s important to us,” Morgan says after a long while.

Dave nods. “He’s important to me too.”

Neither fully explains where they stand. How much any given member of the team knows.

Spencer Reid isn’t stupid and even if he were, he’s not oblivious. He’s never seen the scars on the inside of his superior’s wrist. Never seen any of the scars for that matter. There’s still something about Hotch, nameless and without a good proper name, that Spencer cues in on. Self-destructive with control issues. They never talk about it. It’s safer that way.

It hurts Penelope to think about for too long. She’s seen the scars but she’d known what to look for and she’d looked. Even though she knew what she would find and knew it would hurt. Though she was never made to be the silent observing type, she doesn’t mention them. But sometimes she places little goodies in his go bag so that when he finds them he’s forced to be reminded that he’s loved.

JJ knows the signs now. She was too slow the first time. Now she wears that burden around her neck each day. There’s something so raw about Aaron Hotchner but she doesn’t think he’s suicidal, not anymore at least. Maybe in another life, at a different time. Today, tomorrow, yesterday… he’s okay. But she’ll keep vigil. She watches.

Though Emily hates his guts when she first arrived, she’s found herself close to his side over the course of the last few months. Enough to know more about him than the others. Maybe not because he tells her but because she’s simply there and it’s hard to hide things once you allow someone else that close.

The divorce doesn’t come by too big of a surprise.

Neither does Haley’s reaction.

“I need to ask you to do something for me,” Haley whispers.

JJ is rocking Henry when Will comes in with the phone and she’s honestly surprised it’s taken Haley this long to get around to her. “Haley,” she responds, wondering if Haley is out there someplace rocking Jack. “You know you don’t have to ask.” JJ and Haley had gotten along great when JJ first joined. JJ was the only girl on the team and Haley knows how Hotch can be.

“He doesn’t mean it, honest.” Haley had defended. Referencing Hotch’s more elusive if not silent nature.

JJ had brushed it off, “oh no. He’s a sweetheart.” And was and still is. He very well was probably the only person who didn’t give her a hard time.

“I know Aaron isn’t taking… all of this well.” That is an understatement. He’s not doing anything drastic but starving away in his office running on caffeine and random sandwiches one of them forces him to eat isn’t thriving. “Can you just look after him? I would-- you know I would but we can’t do this--this balance if I am always there to catch him. That doesn’t change anything.”

JJ closes her eyes, leaning her face down to Henry. Allowing the soft scent of baby and lotion to soothe the anger and pain she feels swelling up. “You know I will,” she promises. “He’ll be okay, Haley. We’ll get him through this.” The call ends shortly after that. Haley asks about Henry and JJ about Jack. And the two part. It’s better that way.

The divorce is the easy part.

Foyet attacks and nine new scars find their way on his body and suddenly they all know that those aren’t the ones they need to worry about.

“Emily, Em--Emily.” She’s sleeping in his guest room, curled under the warm sheets. A cat, he thinks dizzily, as she stretches and hums sleepy at him. Arching her back and stretching her back and arms out like he’s seen plenty of street cats do. The kind that aren’t bothered when you come marching through their alley.

She winces at the light but finds him. The apprehension on his pained face and the dark, wet rag he’s holding with his left hand over his right.

“I-- There was-- It was an accident,” he stumbles.

The wet rag she realizes is soaked in his blood. Crimson. She wakes quickly, suddenly cold. Throwing the blankets off her legs. He just stands in the doorway, leaning heavily to the side. “What did you do?” she demands, afraid to look and see. Afraid to see. She covers his hand with hers, pressing against the wound. Her mind turns this over slowly. His blood dropping in fat drops by their feet. “You have to go to the hospital.”

His eyes flash with something but she knows it’s not remorse for what he’s done. “It was on accident,” he rasps. “I’m sorry.”

She knows. “To the hospital,” she instructs, guiding him through the dark hall. He’s dazed, clearly confused. It takes her a moment to wrap his coat around his shoulder. “Hold it,” she mumbles, wrapping his fingers back around his wrist. Then she’s shoving her own feet into shoes not thinking twice about the fact that they’re both in pajamas and she in shorts. “Aaron,” she stands back up and he’s loosened his hold. The way she says his name shocks him. “Put fucking pressure on it.”

She steers him to the car, guiding him by his hips. By the time she moves to the driver’s seat he’s pressed his head to the door’s cold window, turned a nasty grey color. “Aaron,” she shakes him roughly. Paying no mind to the wounds on his chest that haven’t healed. “Stay awake.” She’s not going to loose him like this. She hits him several more times, it’s one jarring him back to life. She knows she’s hit a few bruises and not healed places on his body but he’s slipping and he’s not going to die in her passenger seat.

“You’re a goddamn idiot.” she seethes. They’re outside the emergency room. She’s pulling his thin grasshopper like legs out of the car, grunting when the rest of him comes with them. His head finds her shoulder and she stops, holding him there for just a second as they both collect themselves. “Are you okay?” she asks softly. The first truly kind thing she’s had to say all night. He nods. “Okay,” she pats his back. “Come on, jackass, we’ve got plenty more fighting to do.”

They won’t let her back with him which she almost hopes causes a scene. But Hotch goes listlessly into the wheelchair and silently allows them to take him away. He doesn’t fight. Which is worse than if he’d begged them to let her come. But he goes, his bloody rag in his lap. Head tilted resting against his chest.

She calls Morgan first. He tells her not to call anyone else. It’s two in the morning and they need the sleep. He’ll be there in twenty minutes. He’s there in ten and when he sees her sitting there he doesn’t say a word, just wraps his coat around her bare arms. They sit, shoulder-to-shoulder, neither saying anything for a long time.

Eventually, he can’t stand the silence. “Did he do it on purpose?” Morgan asks.

She shrugs. She doesn’t know. “He said he was sorry.” The raspy quality of her own voice surprises her. Looking down at her hands, she scratches at her nails. Frowning at the blood she pulls up. They all do things they shouldn’t. He just… It wasn’t on purpose. It wouldn’t… He wouldn’t…

“Emily Prentiss?”

She looks up, surprised to find a nurse standing there. How long have they been sitting here? Not saying a thing. Just thinking. Assuming the worst. “Yes?” She stands, suddenly too aware of how silly she must look. Her night shirt covered in blood and in shorts that show all of her legs and-- only after looking down-- does she realize she’s wearing a pair of Hotch’s shoes.

“Mr. Hotchner is very dehydrated. We’re going to keep him here for the night. You can come back, if you’d like. He asked for you.”

She glances back at Morgan and then at the nurse. “I want to but,” she motions to Morgan, “can we both go?” She can see the hesitation wash over the nurse. “You can ask Hotch-- Agent Hotchner. His name is Derek, Hotch won’t mind.”

The nurse caves with a nod and motions for them to follow her.

He’s in a section marked off by curtain. Asleep with his heavily bandaged hand curled on his chest and the other by his side. They’ve bandaged both, the left with a few bandages versus the heavy gauze of the right. He sleeps but it’s not deep no more than the shallow naps he’s been getting lately.

Emily moves to his left side and waits for the nightmare she know will grip him.

“He didn’t… He wasn’t trying to, was he?”

Emily rubs her thumb his knuckles. “Morgan?” If he was, would he have come to get her? Would he have covered the wound himself, first? Trying to stop the blood on his own? Morgan looks up. “You can’t talk about it. Promise me, you won’t ask him about it.” That would kill him.

Morgan stands in the corner, arms crossed on his chest. “Will you talk to him about it?”

She doesn’t want to. “Yes.” But someone has to.

“If he does it again--”

Emily cuts him off with a scowl. “He won’t.”

Morgan breaks a little, sadden by how vehemently she believes this. “Okay,” he caves. “Okay.”

He does.

#tw mental health #tw food #tw self destructive behavior #tw hospital #tw suicide #tw suicide attempt #tw cutting #tw abuse #jessica brooks #aaron hotchner #emily prentiss #haley hotchner #david rossi #spencer reid #derek morgan #jennifer jareua #penelope garcia #criminal minds #criminal minds fanfiction

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lastsonlost · 5 years

Text

BECAUSE THE CORONAVIRUS IS JUST HURTING FEMINIST AND ONLY FEMINISTS AND ABSOLUTELY NO ONE ELSE...

..........

Enough already. When people try to be cheerful about social distancing and working from home, noting that William Shakespeare and Isaac Newton did some of their best work while England was ravaged by the plague, there is an obvious response: Neither of them had child-care responsibilities.

Shakespeare spent most of his career in London, where the theaters were, while his family lived in Stratford-upon-Avon. During the plague of 1606, the playwright was lucky to be spared from the epidemic—his landlady died at the height of the outbreak—and his wife and two adult daughters stayed safely in the Warwickshire countryside. Newton, meanwhile, never married or had children. He saw out the Great Plague of 1665–6 on his family’s estate in the east of England, and spent most of his adult life as a fellow at Cambridge University, where his meals and housekeeping were provided by the college.

For those with caring responsibilities, an infectious-disease outbreak is unlikely to give them time to write King Lear or develop a theory of optics. A pandemic magnifies all existing inequalities (even as politicians insist this is not the time to talk about anything other than the immediate crisis). Working from home in a white-collar job is easier; employees with salaries and benefits will be better protected; self-isolation is less taxing in a spacious house than a cramped apartment. But one of the most striking effects of the coronavirus will be to send many couples back to the 1950s.

Across the world, women’s independence will be a silent victim of the pandemic.

Purely as a physical illness, the coronavirus appears to affect women less severely. But in the past few days, the conversation about the pandemic has broadened: We are not just living through a public-health crisis, but an economic one. As much of normal life is suspended for three months or more, job losses are inevitable. At the same time, school closures and household isolation are moving the work of caring for children from the paid economy—nurseries, schools, babysitters—to the unpaid one. The coronavirus smashes up the bargain that so many dual-earner couples have made in the developed world: We can both work, because someone else is looking after our children. Instead, couples will have to decide which one of them takes the hit.

Many stories of arrogance are related to this pandemic. Among the most exasperating is the West’s failure to learn from history: the Ebola crisis in three African countries in 2014; Zika in 2015–6; and recent outbreaks of SARS, swine flu, and bird flu. Academics who studied these episodes found that they had deep, long-lasting effects on gender equality. “Everybody’s income was affected by the Ebola outbreak in West Africa,” Julia Smith, a health-policy researcher at Simon Fraser University, told The New York Times this month, but “men’s income returned to what they had made pre-outbreak faster than women’s income.” The distorting effects of an epidemic can last for years, Clare Wenham, an assistant professor of global-health policy at the London School of Economics, told me. “We also saw declining rates of childhood vaccination [during Ebola].” Later, when these children contracted preventable diseases, their mothers had to take time off work.

At an individual level, the choices of many couples over the next few months will make perfect economic sense. What do pandemic patients need? Looking after. What do self-isolating older people need? Looking after. What do children kept home from school need? Looking after. All this looking after—this unpaid caring labor—will fall more heavily on women, because of the existing structure of the workforce. “It’s not just about social norms of women performing care roles; it’s also about practicalities,” Wenham added. “Who is paid less? Who has the flexibility?”

According to the British government’s figures, 40 percent of employed women work part-time, compared with only 13 percent of men. In heterosexual relationships, women are more likely to be the lower earners, meaning their jobs are considered a lower priority when disruptions come along. And this particular disruption could last months, rather than weeks. Some women’s lifetime earnings will never recover. With the schools closed, many fathers will undoubtedly step up, but that won’t be universal.

Despite the mass entry of women into the workforce during the 20th century, the phenomenon of the “second shift” still exists. Across the world, women—including those with jobs—do more housework and have less leisure time than their male partners. Even memes about panic-buying acknowledge that household tasks such as food shopping are primarily shouldered by women. “I’m not afraid of COVID-19 but what is scary, is the lack of common sense people have,” reads one of the most popular tweets about the coronavirus crisis. “I’m scared for people who actually need to go to the store & feed their fams but Susan and Karen stocked up for 30 years.” The joke only works because “Susan” and “Karen”—stand-in names for suburban moms—are understood to be responsible for household management, rather than, say, Mike and Steve.

Look around and you can see couples already making tough decisions on how to divide up this extra unpaid labor. When I called Wenham, she was self-isolating with two small children; she and her husband were alternating between two-hour shifts of child care and paid work. That is one solution; for others, the division will run along older lines. Dual-income couples might suddenly find themselves living like their grandparents, one homemaker and one breadwinner. “My spouse is a physician in the emergency dept, and is actively treating #coronavirus patients. We just made the difficult decision for him to isolate & move into our garage apartment for the foreseeable future as he continues to treat patients,” wrote the Emory University epidemiologist Rachel Patzer, who has a three-week-old baby and two young children. “As I attempt to home school my kids (alone) with a new baby who screams if she isn’t held, I am worried about the health of my spouse and my family.”

Single parents face even harder decisions: While schools are closed, how do they juggle earning and caring? No one should be nostalgic for the “1950s ideal” of Dad returning to a freshly baked dinner and freshly washed children, when so many families were excluded from it, even then. And in Britain today, a quarter of families are headed by a single parent, more than 90 percent of whom are women. Closed schools make their life even harder.

Other lessons from the Ebola epidemic were just as stark—and similar, if perhaps smaller, effects will be seen during this crisis in the developed world. School closures affected girls’ life chances, because many dropped out of education. (A rise in teenage-pregnancy rates exacerbated this trend.) Domestic and sexual violence rose. And more women died in childbirth because resources were diverted elsewhere. “There’s a distortion of health systems, everything goes towards the outbreak,” said Wenham, who traveled to west Africa as a researcher during the Ebola crisis. “Things that aren’t priorities get canceled. That can have an effect on maternal mortality, or access to contraception.” The United States already has appalling statistics in this area compared with other rich countries, and black women there are twice as likely to die in childbirth as white women.

For Wenham, the most striking statistic from Sierra Leone, one of the countries worst affected by Ebola, was that from 2013 to 2016, during the outbreak, more women died of obstetric complications than the infectious disease itself. But these deaths, like the unnoticed caring labor on which the modern economy runs, attract less attention than the immediate problems generated by an epidemic. These deaths are taken for granted. In her book Invisible Women, Caroline Criado Perez notes that 29 million papers were published in more than 15,000 peer-reviewed titles around the time of the Zika and Ebola epidemics, but less than 1 percent explored the gendered impact of the outbreaks. Wenham has found no gender analysis of the coronavirus outbreak so far; she and two co-authors have stepped into the gap to research the issue.

The evidence we do have from the Ebola and Zika outbreaks should inform the current response. In both rich and poor countries, campaigners expect domestic-violence rates to rise during lockdown periods. Stress, alcohol consumption, and financial difficulties are all considered triggers for violence in the home, and the quarantine measures being imposed around the world will increase all three. The British charity Women’s Aid said in a statement that it was “concerned that social distancing and self-isolation will be used as a tool of coercive and controlling behaviour by perpetrators, and will shut down routes to safety and support.”

Researchers, including those I spoke with, are frustrated that findings like this have not made it through to policy makers, who still adopt a gender-neutral approach to pandemics. They also worry that opportunities to collect high-quality data which will be useful for the future are being missed. For example, we have little information on how viruses similar to the coronavirus affect pregnant women—hence the conflicting advice during the current crisis—or, according to Susannah Hares, a senior policy fellow at the Center for Global Development, sufficient data to build a model for when schools should reopen.

We shouldn’t make that mistake again. Grim as it is to imagine now, further epidemics are inevitable, and the temptation to argue that gender is a side issue, a distraction from the real crisis, must be resisted. What we do now will affect the lives of millions of women and girls in future outbreaks.

The coronavirus crisis will be global and long-lasting, economic as well as medical. However, it also offers an opportunity. This could be the first outbreak where gender and sex differences are recorded, and taken into account by researchers and policy makers. For too long, politicians have assumed that child care and elderly care can be “soaked up” by private citizens—mostly women—effectively providing a huge subsidy to the paid economy. This pandemic should remind us of the true scale of that distortion.

Wenham supports emergency child-care provision, economic security for small-business owners, and a financial stimulus paid directly to families. But she isn’t hopeful, because her experience suggests that governments are too short-termist and reactive. “Everything that's happened has been predicted, right?” she told me. “As a collective academic group, we knew there would be an outbreak that came out of China, that shows you how globalization spreads disease, that’s going to paralyze financial systems, and there was no pot of money ready to go, no governance plan … We knew all this, and they didn't listen. So why would they listen to something about women?”

Remember this article the next time a politician brings up the draft again...

because I remember the last reaction.

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rachelkaser · 3 years

Text

Stay Golden Sunday: Big Daddy

Blanche’s Southern gentleman father visits with unusual news. Sophia curses a neighbor.

Picture It...

Sophia and Dorothy meet in the kitchen the morning after a big storm. Sophia is cranky because Rose woke her up, afraid and wanting comfort. All four Girls meet in the living room, where Blanche excitedly explains that her father, who she calls Big Daddy (who everyone calls Big Daddy, in fact), is coming for a visit. She excitedly reminisces about how beloved he was by her community growing up, getting caught in her remembrances of her saccharine Southern upbringing (which Dorothy finds ridiculous). Blanche hurries out to go get gifts for him.

Rose goes out to the lanai, and calls out for Sophia and Dorothy. They find that the storm has knocked a tree down on to their lanai furniture. Their next-door neighbor, Mr. Barton enters and notices the tree. When Rose says it’s fortunate his tree didn’t fall on his house instead, he takes exception to it being “his.” He refuses to move the tree despite Mrs. Barton’s attempts to smooth over the situation. When he makes a derisive remark about “you Italians” to Dorothy and Sophia, the latter gives him the Evil Eye. He’s now cursed until he moves the tree. Mr. Barton scoffs and leaves with his wife.

DOROTHY: Oh Ma, why’d you do that? You just made matters worse with that ridiculous curse. SOPHIA: Ridiculous? The curse works. Believe me. I’ve used it before. DOROTHY: Oh, when? SOPHIA: Baltimore Colts, New York Jets, 1969. Draw your own conclusions.

The next day, Dorothy says she’s confirmed via their property map that the tree definitely belongs to Mr. Barton and he has to haul it away, though Sophia still things the curse will do the trick. Blanche emerges in a mint-colored Southern Belle gown, but when she answers the door, it’s Mr. Barton. He’s convinced Sophia slashed his tires, and refuses to move the tree. Dorothy opens the door in a fury after Mr. Barton storms out, only to see Big Daddy Hollingsworth, in a Colonel Sanders suit with a ten-gallon hat on.

Blanche excitedly introduces everyone to her father. Big Daddy pays great compliments to Rose, who he compares to Dinah Shore (which... yeah, I can see it); and to Sophia, who he praises for her stunning, classical “Eye-talian” beauty. (Sophia: “You need boots to listen to this guy.”) He tells Blanche he has a surprise for her: He’ll be singing at a club the next night. Blanche is stunned, and asks why he’d do that, and he says singing is his “calling.” After he leaves, Blanche worries at his apparently out-of-character behavior, and Dorothy encourages her to talk to him instead of jumping to conclusions.

BLANCHE: I’m sure there’s a perfectly logical explanation for why my daddy’s lost the stuffing out of his comforter.

Big Daddy returns that night, and Blanche is waiting up to talk to him. He effuses about how much he loves singing, and plays her one of his own compositions. It’s a genuinely terrible song that leaves Blanche cringing. When he finishes, she tells him this sudden career change concerns her, and tells him to go home and rest. He reveals that he sold their family home to fund his singing career, and Blanche explodes, forbidding him from continuing with his schemes. Big Daddy takes exception, and yells back until the other Girls come in. He apologizes to them and leaves the house.

Blanche is still upset and tells the Girls her father’s really gone off the deep end, selling the property he spent his lifetime building. As the Girls drift into the kitchen, Blanche is having trouble reconciling that her father is no longer the pillar he once was and has reached an age where they need to start thinking about his mental health. Dorothy and Rose comfort her, with Rose reminiscing about a time her father pulled a tuna-shaped parade float up a hill singlehandedly while dressed as a jar of mayonnaise. Blanche says her dad’s always been there to take care of her, and now she’ll have do the same for him.

BIG DADDY: You know, if there was some rain coming down, and a soft train whistle in the distance, this moment would have the makings of a first-rate country song.

The next night, Blanche, Rose, and Dorothy are off to see Big Daddy’s show at the Sagebrush Club -- Sophia declines when invited. Mr. and Mrs. Barton arrive, and Mr. Barton is a mess, asking to see “the witch.” He begs Sophia on his knees to remove the Curse, as he’s suffered several other inexplicable misfortunes. Sophia agrees when he promises to remove the tree, and he quickly hurries out. Mrs. Barton stays behind to apologize to the Girls and reveals that she did all the “curse” work to get her husband to act right.

The Girls arrive at the rather seedy Sagebrush Club, where Blanche pretends not to know every man present or that there’s a mechanical bull in the backroom. She asks a waiter about their reservations, and he reveals management canceled Big Daddy’s second show after the first show. Blanche goes backstage to comfort her father. A very stereotypical cowboy named Rusty attempts to put the moves on Dorothy and Rose, but Dorothy quickly puts the smackdown on him.

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Blanche enters Big Daddy’s dressing room and tells him how sorry he is that his show was canceled. Big Daddy says he’s just going to have to try again. Blanche asks him why he’s going to continue when he’s no good. He tells her he knows he’s no good, and opens up to her about the real reason he wants to try this: He’d always wanted to have a big adventure, but settled down with Blanche’s mother. Now he wants to try something new, something adventurous. Blanche apologizes for not hearing him out, and sings the chorus of his song with him.

“Excuse me, Rose, but have I given you any indication at all that I care?”

Both the A- and B-plots this week are excellent, and the characters all have some great zingers. Big Daddy, Blanche’s very Southern father, makes his first appearance on the show, and after being talked up by Blanche both in this episode and in previous episodes, he doesn’t disappoint. He honestly wouldn’t look out of place as a one-off character on Dallas.

I find it interesting that both Rose and Blanche have already had episodes where they have to learn how to interact with their parents as adults. Dorothy and Sophia are already on that level, so I suppose it makes sense that those two need to learn how to do the same thing. Outside of Sophia, parents don’t play as big a role in this show as children do, which makes sense considering the Girls are grandparents themselves -- Big Daddy is the only one who will play any kind of recurring role.

BLANCHE: Now listen girls, my father is an old-time Southern aristocrat, who is used to fine manners and gentility. So please, please, please be on your best behavior. *they all look at Sophia* SOPHIA: Why’s everyone looking at me?!

The A-plot’s a bit melodramatic, but it’s mitigated by the scene where Big Daddy tries to sing. It’s such an hilariously terrible performance, but I think the funniest part actually comes from the audience. After he strums the final note on his guitar, there’s a beat for the audience reaction, and you can hear one or two members hesitantly start to clap, as if they’re not sure if that’s the expected reaction, but other than that it’s silence until Blanche says her line.

This is one of the final roles of character actor Murray Hamilton. It’s not often I get to say an actor appeared on both of my favorite older TV shows: Golden Girls and Perry Mason. If only he’d also appeared on I Love Lucy, then I’d get the hat trick -- I’m still looking for the actor who was on all three. Hamilton died just four months after the episode aired, which is presumably why the character was recast when he appears in a later episode. He’s very convincing as Blanche’s gentlemanly father, even though he was only 10 years older than Rue McClanahan. Though it is a bit disconcerting that Blanche’s father looks younger than some of the men she’s dated.

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No one says how old Big Daddy is, but presumably since Blanche is in her 50s (she wouldn’t admit that on pain of death, but come on, she has a 16-year-old grandson), he’s got to be in his late 70s, early 80s. While it might be a bit late to launch a career as a country-western singer (who does Beatle medleys for some reason), the message that you’re never too old to try new things and your mental health should not be called into question for it is still a good one.

That said, the part that worries me is when he tells Blanche, almost as an afterthought, that he’s sold his family estate to fund his new venture. Since that’s a property that presumably his four children would have grown up on and that they’re now not going to inherit, it’s actually kind of concerning that he just sold it without making any of them aware of it. I know I got on Kirsten back in the episode about Rose’s will for acting entitled to her mother’s money and getting mad that Rose would have spent it, and I still stand by that.

SOPHIA: Play it safe. Stick with the curse. DOROTHY: Ma, I’ve stayed with you all these years. *Sophia raises her hand to administer the Evil Eye again*

But the difference here being Blanche is more upset that he would do something so impulsive after having spent so much of his life building up that estate -- and I’m with her on that, not because it points to a potential health problem, but because it’s reckless and foolish. And it doesn’t really get resolved. Blanche just agrees to support her father and doesn’t seem to address the fact that he’s now effectively homeless.

One of the funniest parts of the episode is at the beginning, when Blanche is reminiscing about her Southern upbringing and makes it sound like she grew up 100 years in the past -- what with all the sipping mint juleps under an old magnolia and exchanging prize-winning pecan pie recipes. That’s funny enough, but what makes it funnier is that Dorothy and Sophia have about as much patience as you’d expect two Brooklyn women to have for such gauzy nonsense:

DOROTHY: Tell me Blanche, during any of this, would the farmhands suddenly break into a chorus of “Dem Old Cotton Fields Back Home?” ... BLANCHE: I want him to feel right at home. SOPHIA: Then get the Millers across the street to tar and feather their lawn jockey.

The B-plot is what really makes this episode great. While Blanche and her father working out their issues is engaging enough, but Sophia steals the show when she goes to war with Mr. Barton. The Evil Eye she directs his way is nothing short of epic. I also enjoy that Dorothy is just as invested in it as her mother is, getting equally offended at being referred to as “You Italians,” she tries to get Mr. Barton to back down through the power of civic justice and a property map, and when all else fails, echoes her mother calling him “Mouth,” albeit accidentally to Big Daddy.

Also, bravo to this show for fleshing out Mrs. Barton. She appears in two scenes and at first appears to do nothing but try ineffectively to correct her jerk husband. Then comes the revelation that she was actually responsible for all the misfortunes that befell him -- I admire her ingenuity, because that’s the only way a stubborn bastard like her husband would ever apologize to his neighbors, despite clearly being in the wrong.

DOROTHY: Blanche, who do we see about our table? BLANCHE: Oh I don’t know. This is the first time I’ve ever been here. RUSTY: Well howdy Blanche! COWBOY: Howdy Blanche. Ladies. BLANCHE: No, I’m wrong. I think the museum did have its Christmas party here.

By the way, is it just me, or is there a lot of interest in Sophia’s Italian-ness this episode? Not only is her subplot about the Sicilian evil eye (when I was a kid, I thought that was made up -- I’m obviously not even remotely Italian), but Mr. Barton uses it as an insult, and then Big Daddy compliments her “Eye-talian” beauty. Sophia’s Sicilian flavor is one of my favorite things about her, and this episode has some of her best moments.

Out of all the characters, Rose is the one who ends up getting short shrift this week. I’m noticing something from this first season: Whenever there’s an episode where one Girl is left out of the bulk of the story, the writers compensate by giving her a big monologue in roughly the middle of the episode, usually in the kitchen over cheesecake. Once you notice the pattern, it’s impossible to un-notice it -- several episodes in this first season alone have followed this pattern.

ROSE: What on earth do you do with a mechanical bull? DOROTHY: Introduce him to a mechanical cow, Rose.

Still, if Betty White only gets a handful of lines and one monologue this week, she makes full use of them, and it’s especially cute that, unlike Dorothy and Sophia, she seems to enjoy the very Southern-ness that Blanche and her father exude, saying “It’s like being in Gone with the Wind!”

Episode rating: 🍰🍰🍰🍰 (four cheesecake slices out of five)

Favorite part of the episode:

The entire curse B-plot, especially the lines: “I can’t sleep! I can’t eat!” “You can’t sit.”

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#golden girls #stay golden #picture it #stay golden sunday #blanche devereaux #sophia petrillo #rose nylund #dorothy zbornak #s01e24 #big daddy

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unbearablylight · 4 years

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New Year, Old Beginnings

I don’t think I posted... any content last year. 2020 was rough, and my brain did not want to write anything for most of it. But back around November I tried to do a bit of Nano, and then in December I dusted off a WIP I had mentioned a couple times on here a while back. It had a few false starts back then, but I think it’s finally in a place where I’m ready to commit to writing it. I think sharing some of it as I go along will help with that commitment, hopefully.

So, here’s the prologue for The Vestige of an Unwonted Wind.

Prologue: Sleep Like Death

*WC: 4,585. CW: Death, Plague, PG13 “Sexual” Content.*

Hope was difficult to inspire in an empty world.

Princess Aurelia h’Raine walked the streets of Sovran with steady, measured steps. Though she had ignored all advice to stay home and rest, she dared not exert herself more than was necessary. It took every ounce of effort to keep her spine straight, chin up, legs moving. More than once, the facade slipped, and a foot came down a little too heavy, the short sound of her shoe meeting stone echoing across the roofs. Normally it would be swallowed whole by the bustle, lost to the voices and horses and carts. Now the only competition were coughs and low, labored moans escaping houses through cracked windows.

The shops and bars were closed, work and life suspended. Only the inns kept their doors open to offer a bed to those too sick to travel. Many visiting the city had left at the first signs of illness, so that they may be with their loved ones; others had flocked to it, seeking treatment from Sovran’s exceptional healers. But it was hard for healers to do their job when they, too, were unwell. Everyone was.

Even the princess.

She remembered the purple wind as if it were a lifetime ago, but it had been only three days. The streets were full then, children and adults alike venturing out of their houses to marvel at the peculiar happening. No work was completed that day for a much different reason. People chose to stay outside and play in the wind, running and dancing through its violet wisps. Musicians, both professional and amateur, performed on every street corner from sunrise to sundown, while bakers and butchers handed out their wares for free. It was a full day of celebration. The colorful breeze, which felt no different than regular air, was interpreted to be a sign of coming beauty and prosperity, so they rejoiced.

If only they had known. Perhaps it was best that they had not, that they instead had that final day of pleasure before everyone fell ill. It was not as if they could have avoided the air. Even fomoire needed to breathe eventually.

A shiver passed through Aurelia’s body, and she fought the urge to wrap her arms around herself. Purple-tipped fingers tapped lightly against her side as she continued her walk. They were the only symptom of the sickness she had no control over, and she refused to wear gloves to cover them up. She did not want to hide them, as if the illness were cause for shame. The whole purpose of this stroll, her idea, was to appear strong, undaunted, as if certain the fever would break. With no one around to witness her strength, however, there was little she could do. The hope she desired to spread was slipping away.

At last she resigned herself, having tried main roads and tucked-away alleys alike, and turned back towards the castle. Each moment saw her gait become less even. She could hardly wait to be back inside, her shoes off, sitting in her favorite chair by the fire. It was the beginning of The Bloom, and the sun was shining unhindered by clouds, but she could not deny the cold she felt.

The front gates of the castle were open, as they usually were during the day, and as she neared them, she heard a noise from behind her. A crimson dot was arcing downwards out of the clear sky, growing closer and larger by the second. The gouldiae landed mere feet away from her, smoothing his feathers out with a couple brief shakes before straightening and taking note of her. “Your highness,” he said by way of greeting. His eyes flicked to the purple hue of her fingertips. “Shouldn’t you be resting?”

His feathers were untainted, which meant he was one of the lucky few who had not contracted the illness. “I find it hard to sit still when so many are suffering.”

“I understand.” Aurelia believed he did, what with the way he kept looking past her at the gate and fidgeting. Thankfully he had better manners than to simply push right by her. Instead, he fell in line beside her, accompanying her through the grounds to the front door.

“I saw you here yesterday,” she said. “I watched you arrive from my window.”

“As you said, sitting still doesn’t feel good,” he responded. “I wanted to see if I could be of any use.”

“Were you?”

She watched him as they walked. He allowed his eyes — dark, nearly all pupil with a slim ring of yellow — to wander anywhere but to her: straight ahead, around the gardens, down at his feet. “The queen, your mother, her majesty—” Aurelia had to suppress her laughter. He was clearly unused to being in the royal family’s presence. “I was tasked with gathering information.”

They had reached the door. “What did you learn?” she asked. He glanced at her, their eyes meeting only briefly, then his went lower to her fingertips once more. Without a word, he opened the door and waited politely for her to pass through first. She stood, studying him, his gaze diverted once more, then entered the castle.

The barest breaths of warmth reached them from somewhere deeper in the castle, but Aurelia did not abandon her shawl yet. Despite its purpose, the entry hall was the least welcoming room in her opinion. It was ostentation, gilded ornamentation. Silver chandeliers loomed overhead, a red velvet runner spread out in front of them, and expansive, brightly pigmented artworks lined the walls. It was beautiful in an ugly way, the kind of beauty that came out of others’ expectations rather than one’s intentions. Worse was its current abandoned state. The staff was all resting, leaving Aurelia with the task of showing the visitor to where he needed to go.

“Follow me,” she said. “My father likely knows where my mother is.” There was a loud crash from another room, which caused the gouldiae to tense, but she was unfazed. “He’s been… attempting to cook.”

She led him through the halls to the kitchen, where they found the king on the floor surrounded by pots and pans, the result of the crash they had heard. He was sifting through the pile, searching for a specific one. The apron tied around his torso was covered in many a colorful stain, as was most every surface, especially the floor.

The queen was also there, tucked away in what appeared to be the only clean corner of the room, a glass of wine in her hand. “Isn’t it a little early, mother?” Aurelia asked her.

“Perhaps,” Queen Nayeli said, swirling the red liquid, “but it pairs so well with watching your father humble himself.”

“I can figure this out,” Meginfrid assured them from the floor.

Aurelia scanned the ingredients lined up on the counter. “Are you trying to make stew?”

“No.” Her father looked at her. “Should I be?”

“I honestly wasn’t sure what those ingredients were for.” The gouldiae, who had been standing silently in the doorway, shifted his weight, causing a floorboard underneath him to squeak. “Oh. You have a visitor.”

“Your majesties,” he said, taking a step into the room.

The queen snorted. “Always the formalities. Does that look majestic to you?” she asked, gesturing to her husband. The king would have protested, but a couple of pots that had not yet fallen finally gave in to gravity. Their visitor looked unsure of how to respond. “I’m only teasing you. What have you learned?”

He hesitated, once again looking at Aurelia. She didn’t care for the look, the pity it held, as if she were too weak or too young to hear what he had to say. Not that she even needed to, the look said it all. “We’re dying.”

“No,” he said, a little too quickly. “At least, no one knows. The only people who have died were those that were already suffering from another affliction, or the very young or very old. Everyone else is like yourselves: sick, with no signs of healing. No cure has been found yet; the most some healers have managed is to treat a symptom or two, but new symptoms have developed. Tremors, most commonly, but a few people have full spasms of their muscles.”

“Yes, I had noticed those,” Nayeli said. Aurelia was suddenly very conscious of her fingertips tapping against her side. Their purple hue was no longer their only giveaway to her declining health. Her mother wasn’t looking at her fingers, though; she was looking past her to Meginfrid on the ground, surrounded by cookware that should be on shelves. The queen continued, “What of the other matter?”

“There were whispers, assumptions mostly from what I could tell, but the others believe the same thing you do.”

Aurelia had no knowledge of what they were talking about, and her mother’s reaction didn’t help. She simply accepted the statement as if it were the one she had been expecting. “Aurelia, why don’t you show our guest around the castle? Your father and I need to discuss some things.”

Nayeli may have phrased it as a suggestion, but her tone indicated it was anything but. Although she hated to be left out of diplomatic discussions and felt it was her right be involved as princess and heir to the throne, Aurelia knew which battles to pick with her mother. This was not one she would win. “Certainly,” she said, flashing a fake smile. “Come along.” The gouldiae followed her back out into the hallway, closing the door behind them.

“You seem upset,” he said to her as they made their way back to the entry hall. As sick as she was, her anger propelled her to outpace him, and he had to hurry to keep up.

“I don’t care to be left out of conversations,” she huffed. “And giving a tour of a rather large castle is not my idea of a good time when all I want is to sit and get warm.”

“Why don’t we do that then?” He ran around her, cutting off her path so that he could face her. “I could draw you a bath.”

Aurelia calmed herself. She knew it wasn’t fair of her to take her anger out on him. “What’s your name?”

“Cyneweard, your highness.”

“Aurelia will do just fine.”

Instead of continuing to the front, she turned down another hallway, heading for the north wing of the castle. The deeper into the castle they went, the more personal it got. Regular visitors never usually saw beyond the entry hall or the throne room, or the dining hall if they were lucky. Therefore, the other passages and rooms were allowed to be far less formal. Warmer colors took over in the rugs and decorations, illuminated by torches in sconces. Furniture was chosen to be practical and comfortable, and the paintings on the walls were simple and pleasant — some were even Aurelia’s own work.

After leading him up a flight of stairs and to the end of another hallway, she stopped outside a door. “Here we are. Don’t make the water too hot.”

“Where are you going?” he asked.

“It’ll take a few minutes to heat up. I want to check on my brother, he refused to get out of bed this morning.” She turned the corner, but poked her head back around to add, “Don’t get any ideas about going through my stuff.” The stricken look on Cyneweard’s face was better than she had hoped for, and her laughter echoed down the hall.

Her brother’s room was dark still, the curtains drawn, the last embers of a fire slowly dying on the hearth. Aurelia left the door open, the crack providing light for her to navigate by. While she didn’t need to see to know there were a number of toys and gizmos and probably dirty undergarments scattered about the floor, she did need the light to know where they were and how to avoid them. She wasn’t about to repeat past mistakes.

Kalfr, half-asleep, rolled over to face his sister as she sat on the edge of the bed. He shivered when her hand went to his forehead, despite the three quilts covering him, and mumbled, “Cold.”

“Have you been taking the medicine?” He nodded, which was somehow the less comforting answer. “You shouldn’t be this warm.”

“I also shouldn’t be purple.” The bronzed skin of his face, although quite flushed, looked otherwise normal, but she understood what he meant. His fingers and toes had looked the same as hers the day before.

“Really? I thought that was a new look you were trying.” On the bedside table was a cloth soaking in cool water, which Aurelia grabbed and placed on his forehead, pushing back the hair plastered down by sweat. Kalfr tensed, the wet cloth felt like an ice wrap on his head. “Sorry. It’s supposed to help.”

He didn’t protest, rolling onto his back so the cloth wouldn’t slip off on its own. “Have you been twitchy?”

Her right hand tapped softly, restlessly against the quilt. “A little.”

“My leg won’t stop.” She could see it bouncing underneath the covers, but placing a hand on it did little to calm it. “At least it’s not just me.”

There was a comfort there, Aurelia agreed, in not being the only person suffering from this mysterious disease. Whatever was happening, they were going through it together — as a family, yes, but also as a nation. The whole of Halcyon was sick.

Certainly they couldn’t all be dying?

“Try to rest,” she said, standing. “And find a way to cool off, if you can stand it.”

“Call me for dinner.”

“Dad’s cooking.”

“Doesn’t he know we’re already sick?” They both laughed at that, until Kalfr gave in to a deep, rattling cough. “Still, I’d like to be there.”

“Alright. Sleep well.” She waited in the doorway for her brother to close his eyes and fall back into a fitful sleep, then slipped out of the room.

The door to her own chambers was wide open, light streaming in from the north-facing windows. Through them she could see where Bulwark Bay met the Exigent Ocean, the rough waters and powerful waves of the latter easing up as they reached shores and cliff faces. The ocean was dangerous to navigate. Only the boldest, most capable sailors dared to stray too far from land, while regular traders and travelers stuck close to the coastline.

A four-poster bed sat between the windows, its pale yellow curtains drawn to somewhat hide the fact that Aurelia hadn’t the energy to make it that morning. She folded her shawl and laid it on a chair opposite the bed, placed her tiara on the vanity, and made her way into the adjoining bathroom.

Steam rose in curls from the cast iron bathtub that stood in the center of the room, its marbled sides reflecting the light from north and east windows. Cyneweard was stooped over it, testing the water inside. “It’s hot,” he said.

“I can see that.” She took the pins out of her hair, letting the loose golden waves fall down to her shoulders and back. He watched her almost absentmindedly, as if he didn’t realize she could see him, too. It didn’t dawn on him what was happening until her dress was unzipped and falling to the floor.

He bolted upright and turned his head to the side, shutting his eyes tight. “Sorry, your highness.”

“Is that out of respect, or am I that hideous?” He opened his eyes to look at her when he responded, realized again she was nude, and shut them once more, stammering out something of an apology. She giggled. “You’re easy to mess with, but in this case my apologies for unsettling you. I’m used to being naked in front of staff when they bathe or dress me.”

“No apology necessary, your highness,” he said, refusing to open his eyes. “It’s just, I was expecting— You weren’t wearing any undergarments.”

“I also put my father’s shoes on this morning. Twice. The sickness makes everything a bit clouded.” She dipped two fingers into the bath, testing the water for herself. It was the perfect temperature. “How old are you? By your looks I would have put you in your twenties, but your mannerisms suggest younger.”

“Same as you, your highness,” he responded. “Eighteen.”

She nodded, smiling to herself. “That’s it. You’ve never seen a girl naked before.”

“No, your highness.”

“Aurelia,” she reminded him as she walked around the tub, stopping mere inches away from him. She reached up and used one finger to tilt his head down to her. He opened his eyes slowly, uncertainly. “It’s alright. If I’m to die, I’d rather not have the last person to see me naked be an old healer who smelled of branded salmon.”

“You shouldn’t think like that.”

“Aren’t you the tiniest bit glad I am?” She stepped sideways into the tub, one leg then the other, and sank down, reclining until only her head was above water. “Why don’t you pick something from the wardrobe for me to wear?” It took Cyneweard a moment to register he was being spoken to; his eyes and mind were slipping from his control, but he regained his composure and left her to her bath.

The warmth of the water enveloped her, and she was grateful her fever had not progressed as Kalfr’s had to a point where there was no relief from the cold. She tilted her head back so it rested on the edge of the basin and closed her eyes. There was no need to wash since she wasn’t dirty; instead, she was free to relax. Sleep had been restless and infrequent the past couple nights, but lying in the heated bath, Aurelia felt she could sleep peacefully, maybe for a few years. A nice long nap. That would have been rude to her guest, however, so once she could no longer feel the chill in her bones, she rose from the tub and wrapped herself in a towel.

Cyneweard was tending to a rather robust fire he had started to heat the bedroom. There was a dress lying on her bed, a simple one, aquamarine in color with a small amount of darker green embroidery for decoration around the neck and down the sleeves. She dropped the towel and stepped into the dress. It was about half on when he finally turned around and noticed her, but he didn’t seem nearly as ashamed of seeing her in a state of undress this time. “I hope that dress is alright.”

“It’s an interesting choice.”

“How so?”

She motioned for him to help her with the back. “Most people like to see me in something more flashy.”

He had no trouble fastening it up. Then, he surprised her by spinning her so they faced each other, bodies pressed together. “I thought it would bring out your eyes.”

Her hands had gone to his shoulders when he turned her, but they slid lower to his exposed arms, feeling the soft down feathers and the cords of muscle they covered. She could feel his hands at her waist, holding her a little too tightly, as if she might lose her balance and fall. His wings were no longer tucked tightly against his back. They had spread ever so slightly, whether from nerves or anticipation she couldn’t tell. Even with the sickness and all the coughing it caused, Aurelia had never felt so out of breath before. She reached for his tunic, grabbing it and leaning into him at the same time as she pulled him closer.

There was a knock at the door.

Whatever spell had captivated them dispersed, and Aurelia took a step back. Cyneweard, desperate to cling to the moment, asked, “Do we have to open the door immediately? Can they not wait for one kiss?”

She straightened her dress out, smoothing any dishevelment. “A kiss would be selfish of me, and dangerous for you.”

“Is it possible for the disease to be spread that way?”

“I would prefer not to find out.” He nodded, understanding, but his hands still hovered around her waist. She took them gently, squeezed them once, then went to open the door.

Nayeli and Meginfrid stood there. Her father was holding a glass filled with a smoking, bronze liquid. She assumed it to be a cup of tea, but she’d never seen tea that appeared to have a thick fog rolling off of it. Without explanation, they passed by her and entered the room.

“Good, you’re still here,” the queen said upon seeing Cyneweard. “We may need your help once more.”

“What’s this about?” Aurelia asked.

Nayeli turned to her, a great sorrow on her face. “Why don’t you sit?”

Ordinarily, Aurelia would have refused such a request, wanting to be on equal footing as princess, but when Nayeli sat on the edge of the bed, she realized this was not a queen making a request of the princess. This was a mother asking something of her daughter. So, she sat next to her. Cyneweard, unclear on whether or not he was meant to sit as well, ended up opting for the chair, moving her shawl out of the way. Meginfrid placed the glass on the bedside table and chose to remain standing there.

They sat there for a minute, mother stroking daughter’s hair with one hand while the other quivered on her lap. Aurelia reached out and placed her own hand over her mother’s, brown and purple-tipped fingers curling together. “We must make an unfair request of you,” Nayeli began. “The world is dying, but we cannot let it be destroyed.”

“You believe the illness is a death sentence?” It was hardly a question.

“It’s accelerating far too quickly, with no signs of slowing or curing.” Her mother looked into her eyes, searching. “You feel it too, don’t you?”

Aurelia couldn’t explain how, but she knew what she meant. From the moment she had first felt sick, there had been something else there, a nagging feeling, or a pit of dread.

A tiny voice whispering: This is the end.

She nodded.

“There are those who seek chaos, believing it to be power. If they find what they are searching for, everything that Halcyon has stood for—” Nayeli paused, the mask of queen slipping further, the crown tumbling off. “Everything good in the world will fall. It won’t matter how many survive the illness. There won’t be any point.”

“What are they searching for?” Aurelia asked.

Her mother’s hand rested on her cheek. “Our little secret.”

She looked between her mother and the cup of billowing liquid. “Have you come here to ask me to drink poison?”

“No,” Nayeli said quickly. “No, the secret must live on. That is a tea infused with powdered dewdrops. Drink it and you will fall into a deep sleep. An unusual sleep. It will be like you’re trapped in a moment. The illness won’t advance, and more importantly, you’ll be unaffected by the passage of time.”

“For how long?”

“That is where his help will be required,” she said, indicating Cyneweard. “We need you to watch over her while the disease runs whatever course it may. Once it’s over, if we are not here to wake her, we need you to do so.”

He agreed without hesitation. “Yes, your majesty.”

“I could be asleep for months!” Aurelia protested.

“It’s unlikely you will be asleep for more than a week,” her mother said. The statement was meant to be reassuring, but the implications were not. She pressed on. “When you awaken, seek out other survivors. Find someone you can pass the secret on to, and if you can’t… Do what you think is best. The world may depend upon it.”

“Not to intrude, your majesty,” Cyneweard said, “but why not pass this secret on to me? Just in case.”

Nayeli stared at him for a few seconds. “I cannot. Can you?” Aurelia did the same and shook her head. “It isn’t a normal secret,” the queen explained to him. “It can only be passed on to someone it believes can be trusted with it.”

“The secret chooses who keeps it?” he asked. “How does that work?”

“I don’t know,” she admitted. “Which is why your help will be invaluable. Guide her to as many people as possible. The more she meets, the greater chance she has at finding someone worthy.”

Aurelia stood and took a few paces away from the bed, staring intently at the fire. Her hands were balled at her side, clutching fistfuls of her dress, to keep them from shaking worse than they had all day. “When I wake, you won’t be here.” She turned to face her parents. “This will be the last time I see you.” Tears hadn’t fallen yet, but she could feel them stinging the back of her eyes.

Meginfrid came over and wrapped his arms around her. “Many goodbyes are said too soon, but they are better than those not said at all.”

She buried her face into his chest, willing him to never let her go. Eventually, he did, only to be replaced by her mother, who squeezed her far too tightly, but she didn’t mind. “I am so proud of you,” Nayeli said. “You are a ray of hope shining on the darkest days. My only regret is not being able to pass Halcyon onto you, but I know you will save it.”

“I don’t know what I’m supposed to do.”

“You will. You always have.”

When her mother finally let her go, she was surprised to feel Cyneweard take her hand. “You won’t be alone. I’ll be right here.” She squeezed his hand, a silent thank you.

The tea waited for her on the bedside table, still smoking. She picked it up and held it, inhaling its mild floral scent. “Are you sure you don’t want to do this?” she asked her mother.

“You are healthier than I,” Nayeli said. “You will have more time.”

Aurelia raised the glass in mock toast, said, “Cheers, then,” and downed its contents in one long gulp. It wasn’t an unpleasant taste — sweet like the smell of morning dew — but she worried if she didn’t do it all at once, she would never finish it. Once it was empty, she replaced the cup on the table.

“You should lie down,” her mother said. “The dewdrops work quickly.”

She could already feel the effects, a light grogginess, a desire for sleep. She climbed into bed and put her head against the pillow. Her parents stood at her side, while Cyneweard watched over her from the foot of the bed.

“Sweet dreams, princess,” Nayeli said.

“We love you,” Meginfrid added.

“I love you,” she murmured back. Then, she remembered something. “Call Kalfr for dinner. Make him something nice.”

“I will,” her father promised.

“You better.”

Sleep tugged at her, pulling her down, down. She could not imagine the world she would wake to, but she could wish it were no different than the one she fell asleep in. So, she wished. She was not ready to say goodbye. Not yet, not for good.

Her last waking thought was one of gratitude, the result of a small attempt to look on the bright side.

She was finally getting that nap.

#writing #writeblr #fantasy #creative writing #wip #vestige #my writing #cw: death #cw: plague #can't believe i started a wip about plague before we had actual plague #guess i did have 2020 vision ba dum tss #anyways here's to hoping i actually stick with this project #happy new year y'all

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thatordinaryoddity · 4 years

Text

UPDATE: Once In A Blue Goddamn Moon

a 💗 Jamie & Dani Fanfiction 💗 [The Haunting Of Bly Manor, Netflix 2020]

written by thatordinaryoddity

Rating: K+

Words: ~9,5k

Genre: Angst/Hurt/Comfort

Status: Complete (will be uploaded in three chapters + Prologue)

AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27475423/chapters/67177879

FF.net: https://www.fanfiction.net/s/13742358/2/Once-In-A-Blue-Goddamn-Moon

Summary: Jamie leaves Flora’s weeding more wrapped up in her thoughts than usual. In all those years, there hadn’t been a day without thinking of her deceased lover Dani. But sometimes, once in a blue goddamn moon, events coincide in an exceptional, odd way.

A/N: Hey there darlings! I hope you’re all doing well!

I’ve just managed to upload my fanfiction on AO3 and FF.net *yay*. In short, here’s the new update, have fun! Next chapter will be out tomorrow, same time, same place(s) - until then, stay awesome!

The Garden Above the City

____________________

Jamie dropped off her luggage and went straight to the kitchen to get herself a cold, clear glass of water. Finally, after what felt like way more than an almost seven hour flight, she was in her usual environment again. To tell from the dawn outside the window, the day had just begun here in England since they had been on a nightplane. A little bit jetlagged, she pulled her cardigan tighter around her shoulders as she seated herself in the dark-green, cosy vintage loveseat. Like some sort of weird compulsion, she checked the water surface with every sip she took from her glass, hoping to see her reflection – as always, even after all this time, even after all this disappointing time.

In hope of getting some distraction from her train of thoughts, she grabbed the remote control for her radio and switched it on. Restless as the past few days had left her, she shifted around nervously on the seat, unable to find a comfortable way to sit. After a few fidgety minutes, the grey-haired woman gave up on finding any rest and decided to make herself a little something to eat instead. In the background, the music from the radio silenced to make room for the daily news. A female voice started talking:

And now to the weather forecast. This Friday autumn morning will be sunny in all parts of South England. It’s supposed to get cloudy with thunderstorms in the evening. Over the weekend, we expect rain in the greatest parts of Britain. Also, a rare Blue Moon will appear this weekend, coinciding with Halloween for the first time in more than 70 years. The full moon will rise in the east at 4.53 pm in the UK on Saturday, less than 20 minutes after the sun sets.

Jamie wasn’t even really listening. It was more like she heard the voice of the radio lady but couldn’t catch what she was saying. She was just tucked so far away in her own thoughts.

After she had eaten her breakfast and unpacked her suitcase, she decided to visit her favourite place in the world – Teddy’s little rooftop garden – one of the few things left to give her soul some comfort.

When Dani left all those years ago, Jamie had been unable to set another foot inside their florist’s shop back in America. Everything was connected to too many memories. There wasn’t a single spot where they hadn’t kissed. Sometimes, Jamie even came across a blonde hair here and there which would leave her as a sobbing wreck for the rest of the day.

She couldn’t even remember what she had been doing all day long during the first few weeks, if she had eaten or not, but she knew she hadn’t been sleeping for more than an hour at a time. She hadn’t even been able to bear collapsing into unconsciousness, because waking up from it to once again face her loss had been torture. She had begun to feel even worse since that one time she had gone to the shop, only to find all their plants dead due to the weeks of unintentional neglect. It hurt so much. All of it felt miserable.

After what had seemed like an eternity, some kind of inner healing had set in. Something inside her had told her she needed to move on. And although no hour had passed without her being reminded of that awful grief, Jamie had managed to move on one day. She had sold the flower shop and also her – their – flat, packed only the indispensables and booked a one way flight back to England. The woman had been aware that she couldn’t stay in America, in that cosy apartment, near the charming florist’s. It had been their dream, their life – and she would have perished had she stayed there.

Fortunately, she’d had some money left over from selling the flower shop and Henry Wingrave’s noble inheritance – he had sold all the antiquities and expensive, century-old furniture in Bly Manor to get rid of “all the old dust”. And since he was one of the only four people to remember what exactly had occurred at Bly Manor, he had decided to split the money between them as some sort of indemnity.

Back in Britain, Jamie had moved into a charming, suburban brick row house on the outskirts of a larger city. She’d been unable to bear living on the landside all alone because her own thoughts seemed too loud in all that silence. Likewise, living in the city centre had not been an option because the rush always unsettled her. Therefore, her current, modest accommodation had been just the right choice in her situation. Yet as the seasons had changed and one year had turned into two, the green-eyed woman had felt that something was missing inside her heart – the presence of a garden, of real flowers and plants. Since her row house didn’t have much more to offer than a few tiny window cills which were far too small to make a suitable home for all of her pot plants, Jamie had decided to search for something else. As luck would have it, she had found just what she had been looking for one day on the empty bus seat next to her while on her way home from grocery shopping. The forgotten newspaper on the seat right next to her had revealed just the right page of small ads:

Retired Gardener needs helping hand with his 40 sqm rooftop garden including a conservatory. All those interested please contact Theodore Campbell under ….

This ad had been more than just written words on the newspaper, it had been the beginning of something great, of something essential for the woman’s soul to find a little comfort and silence after all this time.

The years had gone by and turned her hair a steely gray, and she had gotten used to this new reality. Dani was never gone from her mind, not a single second, but it had become easier to live with all that screaming numbness inside her.

Theodore Campbell – Teddy – who suffered from multiple sclerosis and was confined to his wheelchair, had provided Jamie with so much love and understanding that he had become family to her. Truthful family, unlike those people who were related to her by blood. The elderly woman had shared her story with the old man and he had listened, understood, and remained silent when she had just needed to cry. Thus the little garden above the city had become not only a diversion, a pastime – but instead it had become home to her.

Teddy was 85 years old by now and Jamie visited him at least five days a week. Just as much as she saw him as a father, the old man loved Jamie like his own daughter. His wife had also passed away many, many years ago and the couple never had any children. Somehow, Teddy was a kind of role model for the green-eyed woman, because he himself had been through really hard times and yet, he always had a smile on his lips and another joke to tell every day. When his health began to deteriorate, he became reliant on his wheelchair, unable to attend to his gardening duties all by himself. Unwilling to give up the rooftop garden and sell it to someone who might just turn it into a rooftop terrace, he had place the ad in the newspaper.

Luckily, the pensioner was able to draw from his savings to pay for his treatments and special care, but with that burden and the rather lousy annuity a gardener gets, money was short nonetheless. Despite his financial status, he insisted to pay Jamie for her help, but she had always declined. His company and the garden had always been more than enough compensation for her. That, and the afternoon tea with shortbread biscuits, of course.

“It’s fine Teddy, I’ll get it,” the elderly woman put away her gardening gloves as the doorbell rang. The passionate gardener had spent almost the whole day on the rooftop, nurturing the plants and flowers with care and dedication, as she had been away for almost one week. Utterly absorbed in her work, she hadn’t even noticed that the sun was setting.

“Good evening Madam, trick or treat,” three colourfully dressed up children stood outside the door, gleefully grinning and bursting with excitement.

“Oh hi there, I love your costumes, you’re all exceedingly spooky! Let me see what the secret sweets stash has to offer!” Jamie smiled back at them, rushed into the kitchen, grabbing a handful of chocolate bars and handed each kid a few of them.

At the back of her head, she remembered the radio announcement about Halloween and the occurrence of the rare blue moon this night. If the kids hadn’t turned up in their costumes, she wouldn’t even have recalled that tonight was Halloween. She hardly attributed any importance to holidays like this, always assuming them to be a day like any other, but unbeknownst to her, this Halloween would turn out to be a very special one.

Without the sunlight warming her in the chilly autumn breeze, Jamie decided to lay her work on the rooftop garden down for the day and put on some good night tea for Teddy and herself.

“Ah thank you my dear, you are truly an angel!” Teddy said gratefully, as he took the hot tea mug from her. “You care to join me for a while?” The old man had hoped to be able to spend some time with her because he had noticed that something was especially strange since the moment she entered his apartment this day. Since she had returned from her trip to America for the wedding ceremony, Jamie seemed to be more absent-minded than usual.

“Would you mind if I go outside to the garden? The moon is so pretty tonight and I just want to admire it for a little bit on my own.” With a faint smile she placed her hand on the old man’s shoulder, trying to let him know that he needn’t worry. With a soft nod, he accepted her wish.

The sun had set entirely by now and the clear sky was embellished with its shiny stars already. The full moon tinted the rooftop with all the plants in a pale, silvery light. Despite her brown turtleneck pullover, made from very warm and soft linen, the elderly woman slightly shivered in the cold night air. Nevertheless, she sat down on the iron garden bench, wrapping her elegant, slender fingers tighter around the warm mug. With every sip, the warmth of the tea seemed to spread inside her body, stopping her from freezing any longer. The night was so very calm, and soon, her heavy thoughts, too, appeared to fall silent. Before she knew it, sleep somehow overcame her after a day of hard work and all the mental tension over the past week.

Jamie woke up, trying to figure out where she was for a moment. She didn’t know how long she’d been sleeping there, outside, on the cold iron stand of the garden bench. But somehow, her surroundings appeared to be ghostly silent and the cold night suddenly seemed very mild, more like a summer night really. There wasn’t a noise to hear, not even some distant hustle of traffic, not even the wind playing with the leaves of the plants. The green-eyed woman felt uneasy, odd, somehow dizzy. With one last glance upon the sky to the gorgeous moon in all its glory, she went towards the door leading inside. Suddenly, she was interrupted by a voice. A voice, so obviously real and present, that denying it or blaming it on the wind would have been utterly pointless:

“Jamie...”

She was thunderstruck. It was as if all her body cells, every membrane and every fiber froze to ice. A cold sensation rushed through her body from head to toe, leaving every inch of her electrified. This voice – could it be real? Was it another dream? Suddenly, she heard it again, louder this time, but with the same fragile gentleness.

“Jamie...”

The elderly woman didn’t even dare to turn around, she was literally frozen. A sudden gasp escaped her lungs, when she felt a soft touch on her shoulder. She squinted her eyes, trying to wake up from what she believed to be a dream, but the touch tightened.

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crystaljins · 5 years

Text

Take a chance. | 02

Characters: Jungkook x Reader

Word count: 7.3K

Synopsis: You should have known the second your business partner asked you to plan his best friend’s wedding as a favour that it was going to be nothing but trouble. Especially when it turns out he’s in love with said best friend. And dying of a deadly disease because of it.

Hanahaki!au

Notes: The first three parts of this fic went through at least three different drafts. I changed the approach and character features so many times that this story isn’t even recognisable from the initial draft. But, once I added ma boi Kim Seokjin, this story finally hit a place that I felt I could happily write.

Warnings: Angst. Graphic depictions of vomiting. Mentions of illness and death.

Masterlist

1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7

“Thank you for meeting with me today.” The man says as he slides into his seat. He’s wearing dark sunglasses that obscure most of his face and a black bucket hat is pulled low over his brows. Perhaps he is trying to be inconspicuous, but the large trench coat and obvious attempt to conceal his identity just make him seem more suspicious. Not only that, the price tags hanging off his outfit clearly show that he’d only just bought them.

“What are you doing, Jin? Why’d you call me out here?” Seri hisses. She pauses to smile warmly at the waiter who hands her an ice latte topped with perhaps more whipped cream than is strictly necessary before turning back to her obnoxious co-worker. “Why are you dressed… like that?”

“So that I don’t attract attention to myself. Obviously.” Jin scolds. He leans forward to sniff suspiciously at his milkshake before reaching into a pocket in his trench coat and pulling out a large swirly straw. It’s infuriatingly childish. He glances side to side before placing it in his glass and taking a long sip.

“I’m going home.” Seri snaps, making to get up, but an arm shoots out and holds her in place.

“I’m sorry! I’ll be serious.” He promises, even as he takes another sip from the milkshake through the ridiculous straw. He does remove his sunglasses, though. “This is a matter that concerns not just you and me, but Jungkook and our… beloved… boss.” He begins to tear up at the final person on the list, and dabs awkwardly at the corner of his eyes. “We have to help her.”

“Help her what?” Seri questions, attention grabbed. Where her boss is involved, she is all ears. After all, you had given her a job when she’d been unemployed and desperate. And she’s determined to pay that back by being the best employee she could possibly be.

“Help her with her illness.” He confesses gravely. Seri’s eyes go wide as her mind scans through the long list of illnesses her beloved boss could possibly be suffering from. “She’s suffering from Hanahaki.”

The deathly silence that follows is testament to how much both workers care for their boss. The colour drains from Seri’s face while Jin looks down and another tear trails down his face.

“How… how can you be sure?” Seri breathes. Jin shakes his head gravely.

“Do you remember a couple of weeks ago when I lost that bet and had to take garbage out for a week?” Jin asks. Seri nods contemplatively as she remembers the event in question.

“You bet you could down 2 L of milk in one go but ended up spraying it out your nose all over Jungkook’s desk.” She recalls. He nods gravely.

“Well, I kind of tripped when I was getting close to the garbage and the whole garbage bag split open.” He explains. He pauses mid-explanation to take another unnecessarily long sip of his milkshake, one that has Seri twitching in dread and anticipation as she waits for him to finish his story. “And there were these red rose petals everywhere.”

Seri nods, but then frowns.

“But what does that have to do with (Y/N)? We sometimes get petals in or bouquets as samples for future decorations and two weeks ago she was doing that red themed wedding.” Seri points out. Jin nods solemnly.

“Well that’s why I didn’t think anything of it at the time. It wasn’t until yesterday, when (Y/N) brought up Hanahaki and was super shifty and blatantly lying about why it was on her mind that I got suspicious.” Jin admits. “So that night I went home and rang her brother, because he’s actually a doctor who specialises in treating Hanahaki. Just to ask some questions, but he was surprised and thought that maybe someone from our office was suffering from it, because (Y/N) had rung him too,asking about it right before me.”

“That is very suspicious.” Seri admits, and the evidence is starting to stack up. But there’s one vital piece of information she needs to believe Jin. “But who is she in love with, that doesn’t love her back? And how can we help her?”

Jin smiles widely and leans back in his chair.

“I was hoping you’d ask me that, dear, sweet, naïve Seri.” He tells her warmly, and all traces of his earlier tears have vanished from his face. “It’s none other than our resident space cadet, Jeon Jungkook.” He announces with all the dramatic flair of an actor presenting Best Picture at the Oscars. Seri grimaces.

“Jungkook?” She questions incredulously. Up until that point, Jin’s theory had sounded plausible but now it just sounds ridiculous. “You think she’s in love with Jungkook? The same guy I caught trying to sneak in a new printer without her noticing last week because he spilt banana milk on the old one?”

Jin nods, as if it is the most logical and reasonable conclusion to draw in the world.

“Well, not to be presumptuous, but yes. Can you think of anyone else? Also, haven’t you always been suspicious of the fact that they literally built a business from the ground up together and yet there’s nothing there?” Jin points out. Seri seems surprised.

“Why would starting a business together mean there has to be something romantic between them?” She responds. Jin looks mildly astonished before understanding sets in his expression.

“Ah, I forgot you’ve only been here a couple of months. Yes, Jungkook and (Y/N) started this business together. It was probably like… five years ago? They’d been running for about two years when that video of that wedding she organised went viral and then they hired me to handle the extra clientele that came in, so that sounds about right.” Jin says, launching into an explanation. “But their whole story is fresh out of a romcom- (Y/N) met him after her fiancée dumped her for dropping out of some sort of prestigious uni degree or something at some bar and he had some sad backstory as well that I can’t remember and encouraged her to follow her dreams. And then he ran into her again and helped her get her first client and then after two years of struggling to make ends meet that video went viral and here we are today, successful and happy. How can there be nothing after all of that?” He explains. Seri wrinkles her nose- despite her short amount of time working at this firm, she knows enough of the story to know Jin is butchering the story a lot.

What had actually happened, was that you taken a year off law school when your mother’s health had started to decline. Your brother had been forced to financially support the two of you by working ludicrous hours while you cared for her physical needs. Your fiancée, unable to cope with the emotional strain such an event had put on the relationship, coupled with the lack of time that came with caring for a sick relative, had left you. In the end, you had wound up working at a bar and unable to bring yourself to go back to law school after your mother passed away. The very same bar that Jungkook happened to frequent. After confiding in the sad, unemployed drunk boy you thought wasn’t listening over a period of time about your heartbreak and your desire to go into wedding planning instead of law school, it turned out he had been listening. Not only that, but he had a proposal for you- he, a business major, and you, a wedding planner, could start a business together. That way you wouldn’t have to go back to law school, and he would no longer be unemployed and nearly homeless. At least, that’s what she’d been able to glean from snippets of conversation she’s had with the both of you over the past couple of months.

Still, even though his story is still warped the original point still stands: Jungkook is clearly someone who matters to you, a lot. Yes, it was the video that went viral that made your business successful but you wouldn’t have even started this business without Jungkook. Jin makes a compelling argument- the coincidental timing of your chosen conversation topic the day before, and Jin happening to find the rose petals… it is all very shifty. Even Seri has to admit that.

But Jin isn’t done, and his next piece of evidence is perhaps the nail in the coffin.

“And she asked me this morning to start preparing a job ad for a new assistant. She said Jeon Jungkook is officially taking leave as of today- that’s why he didn’t show up and why we were flat out all day.” Jin points out urgently. “And I left my wallet in my car this morning and just so happened to be ducking down to get it, when I saw Jungkook’s car pulling out of the building. Which means he came in to work today! And when I watched the CCTV footage to check-“

“Woah, woah, woah, Jin!” Seri cuts him off in protest. “We aren’t criminal detectives! You can’t just watch CCTV footage of your boss because you want to-“

“That’s not important. What’s important is they had some sort of fight this morning and clearly, it’s because (Y/N) is in love with Jungkook, is dying of Hanahaki and we need to make Jungkook fall for her or we could lose our jobs. And the nicest boss anyone has ever had.” He exclaims, almost out of breath from his rant. Seri blinks. She wants to disagree. She really does. She wants to write Jin off as crazy and perhaps report him to you.

But… what if he’s right? What if you’re dying because your airheaded assistant doesn’t reciprocate your feelings? If he’s right, then they have to help you! She bites her lip contemplatively.

“Why can’t she just get treatment? We could sit her down and encourage her to see a doctor- isn’t her brother a leading specialist in the disease?” Seri points out. Jin shoots her a look like she’s just made the stupidest suggestion in the world.

“Don’t you know what treatment involves? It makes you forget the person who gave you Hanahaki forever. If she forgot Jungkook how can they run this business together?” He cries out. Seri is pretty sure she read something somewhere, back when she was researching the disease for herself that said that the ‘forget your love’ aspect of Hanahaki is just an urbanised myth and only the most severe cases of Hanahaki that have gone untreated for years require such dramatic action, and even those have been able to be successfully treated with just therapy in certain patients, but Jin sounds so convinced and sure of his words that it makes her doubt herself.

“What... what would you have us do?” She asks, rather than contradict what he just said. She cringes as she says the words because she knows she may regret this strongly depending on what Jin asks.

He merely grins.

“I’m glad you asked, dear Seri, because I already have a mastermind plan in place…”

“Yes, I understand that you want all black for your decorations,” You say, desperately clinging on to your patience. “But black roses aren’t really a thing. If you just agreed to the black baccara roses-“

“They’re still red.” Your client on the other end of the phone sniffs. “I want black.”

“Then having them painted is your best option.” You retort. “I told you I’d do my best to give you the wedding of your dreams but I’m not a miracle worker- you can’t grow black roses!”

“Please? It’s really important to us.” He begs. You dig your fingers into the bridge of your nose and sigh.

“I’ll see if I can speak to some plant breeders and see if we can get something closer to black.” You say with a sigh. “That’s the best I can do.”

You don’t hear whatever he says because you are distracted by the presence of Jungkook leaning awkwardly against the door to your apartment. When he spots you, his whole face lights up and he straightens. You wince as he waves enthusiastically. He’s not in his usual crumpled suit- instead he’s wearing an oversized hoodie and a pair of trackpants and he hasn’t even attempted to tame his wild mop of hair. Oddly, he looks amazing in the casual, comfortable look he’s going for.

“You’re here!” He greets. You watch him cautiously like he is a furious bull that may charge at any moment.

“It’s my apartment. Where else would I go?” You point out. “Shouldn’t you be at home resting?”

He nods sheepishly.

“Well… I did take the day off.” He admits. “But I thought you might have had a long day without me, what with no one to replace the vital work that I do, so I brought some supplies.”

You stiffen. You have had a long day, and that is to be expected when you force your business partner to take an unplanned leave. To be honest, you aren’t even sure what half of Jungkook’s duties are. You’ve just always done your thing, talking to clients, make plans, connecting with people, and then at the end you’d have money in your bank account. Jungkook has always handled your marketing and connecting clients and managing appointments while keeping the office running smoothly. Without him, you’d had to answer phones, contact the accountant and fill out complex paperwork between and in the middle of appointments with. Seokjin and Seri had done their best to share the load but even they’d felt the strain by the end of the day.

“I’m not changing my mind, if that’s why you’re here.” You sniff, stepping passed him to unlock the door. He presses in close and follows you into your apartment even though he is not welcome. He looks around curiously as soon as he steps passed the threshold of your home.

“This is a really lovely place.” He compliments sincerely- it should be surprising that this is the first time he’s ever step foot in your apartment considering the fact that you’ve been running a business with him for five years now. Even Seri, who has only been working with you for a couple of months, has visited your home before. But before this whole wedding debacle, Jungkook had always refused. He sidles past you and sets a plastic bag up on the countertop in your kitchen. He glances back at you before rummaging inside. “I realised I have no idea what you like to eat, so I read that interview you did with that bridal magazine a few months ago.” He says, and then he pulls out a block of chocolate, some grapes and a bottle of wine. You squint suspiciously at them.

“Jungkook…” You say slowly, about to ask him to leave your home and take the food with them. Yes, they were all guilty pleasures of yours, but you weren’t about to give him false hope that you would rescind your decision. “I’m not going to plan the wedding.” Is what you say instead.

He ignores you, turning to a cupboard and pulling out two wine glasses. He sets them on the counter and immediately begins pouring out the wine. Then he leans against the countertop beside you and sighs heavily, as if the weight of the world is on his shoulders.

“Why?” He finally asks. He takes a long sip of his own glass, sliding yours toward you. Hesitantly, you accept and settle into a stool next to the counter. “It’s not going to stop the wedding. It’s not going to cure me. And I’ll still be involved in the wedding whether you plan it or not. What do you think you’re achieving by refusing?”

You stare down at the ruby liquid in the glass- your distorted reflection glares back. He’s right. You’re not achieving anything. You’re just sticking your head in the sand and pretending Jungkook’s situation isn’t happening until it magically fixes itself. But that’s all you really can do, right? You can’t force him to get treatment and you can’t make his best friend love him back. These are all doubts that plague you, but if you are anything, it is stubborn. Your blood runs hot with anger at the way he’s trying to pressure you into something you’ve already decided not to do.

“Why are you so desperate for me to plan this wedding anyway?” You question, hopping off the stool and edging closer until he is pressed against the kitchen counter. At this proximity you can count each of his individual lashes and feel the way his breath has become shallower and hesitant. It’s out of anger that you press closer. You’re trying to intimidate him into backing off and leaving you to deal with the consequences of your decision in peace. His eyes flash at the challenge though.

“Why are you so determined to refuse?” He retorts. “Up until the engagement party, you were all for planning this wedding! What, suddenly things get a teensy bit more complicated and you’re out?”

“Finding out my business partner is dying from a curable illness is not a “teensy bit more complicated”, Jungkook!” You cry, the volume of your voice escalating. Any louder and your neighbours will probably call the cops on you. “Why aren’t you taking this seriously?”

“I am taking this seriously!” Jungkook shouts. It’s the first time in all the years that you’ve known him that you’ve ever seen him lose his temper. His whole face goes bright red and the tendons in his neck strain with the force of his shout. “That’s all I’ve been doing! Every, single, damn day, all I can think about is how hard this is! You think I want to be sick? You think I want to be here, begging my boss to plan the wedding for the girl that I love? Why do you have to fight me at every single step- why can’t you just do me this one favour? All I’m asking you to do is to plan a wedding for a friend and turn a blind eye when you see I’m having a hard time- is that so hard to do?”

“Yes.” You breathe, and your eyes have watered and filled with tears at his words. “I don’t want to have to watch your heart break.” You finally admit. Because that’s the real reason. You can’t stop the fast approaching train-wreck that Jungkook has managed to lock himself into. But you sure as hell don’t have to watch it happen. “I don’t want to watch you slowly die.”

Your admission is met with silence and when you shoot a glance at Jungkook, he’s staring at you like you’ve grown a third eye. Abruptly he breaks eye contact and his shoulders hunch.

“Let me come back to work.” He says in a small voice. “I know you think you’re helping me, but you’re just leaving me at home alone with nothing to dwell on but the fact that I’m ill and…” His voice cracks. “That she…” He whirls around so that he’s no longer facing you and is unable to finish his sentence. He changes the subject. “Wow, I didn’t know my boss was so heartless,” He tries to joke, his tone falsely light, but his voice is still slightly shaky. “5 years together and you give me the axe just because I’m a little sick.” He shakes his head and makes a “tsk” sound. “Success has really changed you, (Y/N).”

You recognise now, that his attempt to joke around is his way of hiding, so you aren’t offended. Instead, getting slowly to your feet, you pack everything into the bag he brought with him and walk around the kitchen counter so that you’re facing him. He winces and looks towards the ceiling, perhaps to conceal the way his eyes are wet with tears and red-rimmed. Gently, you take his hand and place the handles of the plastic bag in it, wrapping his fingers around them.

“Jungkook.” You say softly. “I’m not doing this because I thought this would easy or because I don’t like you or because I think your job is replaceable or because I’m trying to punish you. I’m not doing it to make your life difficult. You’re sick, Jungkook, and sick people need rest.”

He stares at you with bewildered, pleading eyes. It is an exact repeat of earlier that morning when you had told him to take time off.

“There are other wedding planners.” You tell him gently. “She’ll live even if I don’t plan it for her.”

He stares down at the bag in his hand.

“But what if I… if she really wants you to do it?” He asks, even as he lets you guide him gently out the door. You don’t notice his slip.

“Well sometimes we don’t always get what we want Jungkook. But as your boss it’s my job to make sure you get what you need. And what you need is some time off.” You say. He seems to register he’s fighting a losing battle as the door swings shut- his hand flies out before you can fully close it.

“What would it take?” He pleads. “Hypothetically. If you could have anything in the world, what would it take for you to do this?”

You grimace.

“For you not to be sick.”

For all your bravado over forcing Jungkook to take leave, it really does make your life infinitely harder. Jungkook is a scatter-brain prone to double booking appointments and breaking expensive electronics, but his job really is irreplaceable- he hasn’t just been an assistant, or receptionist. His job was never as simple as answering phones and calling in the technician when he broke the printer yet again. He also managed the entire business side of things- from organising how much clients would pay for your services, to drafting contracts with them, to the entire marketing side of things, it had always been him to deal with that sort of thing. And it had been stupid and arrogant of you to think you could handle your regular duties on top of his. In your head, you had planned to look for a temporary replacement to work for maybe a year while Jungkook sorted himself out, but you barely have time for your own job, let alone searching for a replacement and training them up on top of managing Jungkook’s duties in the mean time. You’ve really screwed yourself over with such a hasty decision.

Your employees are quick to vocally and aggressively remind you of what a mistake it is to have put Jungkook on leave.

“My keyboard still doesn’t work.” Jin sniffs at you in the kitchenette, repeatedly dunking a bag of chamomile tea aggressively into a mug of boiling water. “I thought you said you were looking into fixing that! I can’t type anything and I’ve had two brides organising a wedding and a mother organising a first birthday party call me in tears because I didn’t answer their emails.”

“Well, you didn’t have to spill orange juice on it now, did you?” You almost snarl- you find your temper becoming shorter and shorter the more stressed and tired you are. It’s getting to the point that you’re hardly getting any sleep at night because you’re essentially doing two full time jobs at once. Jin’s eyebrows fly up, seeming to sense that you’re on the verge of snapping at him, and holds two hands up in a gesture of surrender.

“I’m sorry- It was an accident. But it’s really very urgent.” He tells you, and he sounds apologetic enough that you take a deep breath to release the tension built up in your shoulders and neck.

“I know. I’m sorry for getting short with you- I am trying to sort it out. I just have a lot on my plate at the moment.” You admit, and you feel on the verge of tears. Jin’s expression softens at your wobbly tone and he comes to stand next to you, resting against the kitchenette counter.

“Maybe we should give Jungkook a call.” He suggests gently. You tense, about to scold him for such a suggestion, but he holds up a firm hand. “I don’t know what happened or why you put him on leave, but you’re really struggling. If he does need the leave, then at least keep him around until you find a proper replacement- doing two jobs at once like this isn’t sustainable.” He points out. You wince because if it weren’t for your own stubbornness, you probably would have done as much. But you can’t- your pride won’t let you. You’ve decided that Jungkook needs leave and so he’s getting leave. Even if it kills you in the process.

Jin isn’t the only one- later in the week Seri knocks on your door. She strides in without waiting for an answer and leans in close so the two clients across from you don’t hear what she says.

“I just got a call from the bank- apparently there was an issue with billing that florist we contracted. I took down their number for you to ring them when you’re done with your client.” She informs you, flicking a gaze at the two clients before you.

Her interruption, though bearing bad news, is welcome- she’s interrupted two clients on the verge of screeching at you in rage. There was a mix-up with the venue bookings that you forgot to sort out between the flurry of phone calls you’ve been heckled with all day and they are not pleased. You’re barely holding back frustrated tears while Seri watches on, uncertain how to handle the situation. You take a deep breath, summoning all the professionalism you can access and smile at her.

“I will have that sorted after I deal with these two clie-“ You begin, but they cut you off.

“Don’t bother!” The one on the right, a woman in her late thirties’, snarls. She’s clinging to her fiancé’s arm like a hole might open up beneath her and demons appear to drag her to the depths of hell if she lets go. “We came here because we’ve heard so many good things about your service, but clearly it was all just good marketing- we won’t be coming back.”

She gets abruptly to her feet and storms off, dragging her balding fiancé with her. You take a shaky breath and squeeze your eyes shut, willing the tears not to come.

“Perhaps… I should call Jungkook? He’s really good with this kind of thing.” Seri suggests, and it’s so not the suggestion you need right now.

“Don’t.” You say. “My afternoon appointment just cancelled as you just saw- I’m free to speak with the bank right now.”

Your week carries on like that. You’re at your wits end by the time Friday comes around. You’ve promised yourself that you won’t do anything related to work for the entire afternoon. You’re going to ignore all the deadlines. Your business won’t crumble just because you took a Friday afternoon off, after all. At least that’s what you tell yourself as you take on your final task of the day- carrying a heavy box of fragile but expensive glasses that a client ordered in for clients to drink out of during their reception. You stagger as evenly as you can into the elevator and that’s when it happens- your heel snaps. It’s not a particularly high heel- just high enough that your ankle twists beneath you as it gives. You cry out, bracing yourself to crash to the floor and for the delicate goods you are carrying to shatter.

Only, it never comes. As you crumple to the ground, the weight of the box abruptly vanishes from your arms. Instead it is just you that hits the floor of the elevator with a pained grunt. Confused, you look up to find someone has grabbed the box from your arms before it could hit the floor with you and shatter all the contents inside.

“Are you ok?” Jungkook cries, gently setting down the box and crouching down before you. You’re so shocked that you are speechless. His large glasses are slightly lopsided on his face and he’s wearing a t shirt with a pair of ripped jeans. He’s not wearing the business attire that is required of all your employees- instead he’s dressed casually, like he didn’t plan on coming into the office today.

“W-what are you doing here?” You finally find your voice as he helps you to your feet. You wince as you attempt to press your weight into the foot with the broken heel and crumple back down- no doubt you sprained it on your way down. Jungkook’s eyes are wide with concern.

“Jin called me in for something urgent-“ He explains but he’s too distracted by your injury to provide the full story. “Did you hurt yourself?” He questions. You glance down at your leg- you move your ankle and wince when you find it too painful to rotate.

“Probably just a sprain.” You explain and he nods.

“I’ll help you, then,” He says quickly. “There’s a first aid kit in my office- or there was, if you haven’t cleaned it out yet.”

“Thank you.” You say quietly. “I haven’t touched your things. But you really shouldn’t be here-“

Your words are interrupted by the sudden flashing of the light in the elevator and a screeching noise.

The elevator is stuck.

“That’s your mastermind plan to help (Y/N)? Trapping them in an elevator together?” Seri sniffs, as she realises what Jin has done, watching Jungkook and her boss through the small security camera. They remain crouched down, close to the ground and she can’t see their expressions. “What if they get hurt?”

“Clearly you’ve never watched any kind of romcom ever, Seri.” Jin tuts. “This is a basic strategy- and this is just us getting started! Phase one! We just need to force them into the same space and hopefully the confined space will lead to them opening up! Besides, don’t act so surprised- there’s much more work we have to do than this before Jungkook-”

“Why did you agree to this?” She interrupts, directing her question to the elevator technician who has unscrewed the control panel and is fidgeting with the wires. He pauses, resting a hand on his chin as he contemplates the answer.

“For love.” He answers fondly. “But also, Seokjin here paid me $50 if I made sure they were trapped in an elevator together for the next twenty minutes.”

Seri whirls on Jin, the expression on her face utterly despairing.

“What… what else do you have planned?” She asks incredulously, pale and concerned for the wellbeing of not only her boss, but Jungkook as well. Jin considers her question for a moment, before shrugging.

“It’s a surprise.” He answers with a grin.

“How’s your ankle?” Jungkook asks awkwardly. For the past five minutes after ringing for help with the emergency button and being assured that the elevator technician was already working on it, the two of you had been sitting in a deathly silence. With Jungkook’s help, you had manoeuvred so that you now lean against the wall of the elevator, your sprained ankle stretched out in front of you. Your broken, useless heels are discarded in the corner. Your eyes are shut so that you don’t have to acknowledge his presence and can feign sleeping.

“The same as it was 5 minutes ago.” You answer, without opening your eyes. “Swollen. Painful. Will probably be better in a few days.”

You hear a tapping sound and know that Jungkook is probably bouncing his knee up and down. He has a lot of restless energy and a lot of pens have been dismantled at his desk from his fidgeting and a lot of office chairs have met their end because he’s constantly rocking back and forth. It’s a good indicator for when he’s about to strike up conversation- the noise stops, and he inhales like he’s formulating a question.

“How’s the office been?” He asks. “Without me? Is everyone coping alright?”

Not really. But you’re not about to tell him that.

“They’re fine. The others are urging me to find a replacement and I’m sure we’ll find one soon.” You say. Your sentences are clipped, and your tone isn’t unfriendly, but it isn’t exactly warm either. You’re trying to discourage conversation because if Jungkook inquires more into how your week played out, you may burst into tears. The last thing you want is for him to know what a hard time you are having without him.

He starts to whistle tunelessly, and the sound is annoying, but you don’t want to talk to him. At least he’s stopped asking you questions.

For about thirty seconds.

“What was in the box?” He asks. You open one eye to peer at him. He’s sitting cross-legged in front of you with his back slouched. He picks absently at his worn shoelaces on his crappy, frayed sneakers.

“Glasses. For a wedding I’m planning.” You say. He perks up at the mention of your business.

“Is this the couple who met at the Venetian Glass Blowing Factory?” He asks cheerfully. “I thought you didn’t have time to plan their wedding. How did you squeeze them in?”

You tense- you rang them up and offered your services since a lot of clients have cancelled on you this week following your subpar performance.

“I’ve had a few slots in my schedule clear up.” You admit through gritted teeth. Jungkook looks confused but then his eyes go round when he realises what you mean.

“Oh… that bad, huh?” He asks. He winces. “Not that I’m implying you’re bad! I just didn’t think people would cancel so quickly when-”

“When what, Jungkook?” You snap, patience lost. “When I’m essentially working two jobs? When I’ve been yelled at 32 times this week? When I’ve been getting approximately 4 hours sleep every night trying to organise all these events in between doing your job?”

“Well I didn’t ask to be on leave!” He retorts defensively. His eyebrows furrow together and his lips purse in a slight pout. “You’re the one who insisted I was unfit to work.”

“I know.” You snarl, and to your mortification, frustrated tears fill your eyes and blur your view of him. “I know I made you take leave! I know that everyone wants you back and this office is going insane without you!”

Jungkook’s jaw drops at your outburst but doesn’t interrupt as you continue your rant.

“I know your job is important and that it was going to be hard without you, but I was doing it for you! I wasn’t trying to fire you or spite you or punish you for being sick! I was only trying to help.” You’re full on sobbing now, but you’re so exhausted and emotional and the repressed emotions you’ve been pushing back for the past week are all bursting forth. “Is that so bad? Is it so terrible that I just wanted to look after my business partner? Why am I getting punished for doing the right thing?” You’re in full hysterics as Jungkook starts to panic, realising that he has no idea how to comfort you or calm you down.

“D-don’t cry!” He protests but it’s too late- it’s like a dam has been broken. All the stress, all the misery, all the overtime work has combined, and you feel like there’s an angry tornado of lava where your heart should be. “I know you were trying to help, and I’m really grateful for that- please don’t cry!”

He edges closer to you and doesn’t know what to do with his hands, so he settles for resting them awkwardly on your shoulders. You stare up at him with teary eyes. You’re not a pretty crier by any definition- your eyes have gone puffy and your nose is running and were it any other situation he would have laughed at you. But he has at least enough sensitivity to know laughing at you now would be kicking you when you’re down. Instead he offers you an awkward smile, one that is little more than his cheeks raising and him baring his teeth in an almost-snarl.

You’re so confused at his peculiar expression that you actually stop sobbing. You squint at him for a moment, before a tear-y laugh breaks through your lips.

“What are you doing?” You ask, taking the lapse in your hysterics as an opportunity to wipe away the tears running down your cheeks. His expression softens.

“I’m smiling at you.” He explains. You snort incredulously.

“You look like you’re in pain.” You say. He chuckles awkwardly.

“Hey! I’m trying to make you feel better!” He protests jokingly, relieved that you’re at least no longer crying. You frown.

“By showing me what face you make when you’re constipated?” You suggest and he actually laughs.

“I mean, since that’s what stopped you crying, I’ll take it.” He volunteers. He takes his hands off your shoulders and slumps next to you, being mindful of your injured leg. “Hey.”

You turn to look at him.

“Hi.” You answer. His expression is warm and gentle as he volunteers his next words.

“I never thanked you.” He admits. “For caring so much. Enough to keep it a secret.” He confesses. “And for putting me on leave. I know… I know you were trying to help, and it feels good to know that you’ve got my back like that. So, thank you. So much.”

At his words, an odd, warm sensation blooms in your chest. This whole week all you’ve felt is stressed and guilty, questioning your decision and worrying about Jungkook’s health. But Jungkook’s gratitude is liberating- you feel like a weight has been lifted off your shoulders. He turns so that he’s staring straight into your eyes.

“And I know that you were only trying to help, and I’m really thankful for that but…” He trails away awkwardly and glances downwards. “But it wasn’t your call to make.” He admits. “I know you mean well, but it’s my decision on whether to get treatment, or whether to keep working, or whether or not to be involved with this wedding. You shouldn’t have taken that choice from me.”

The truth of his words hits you like a bag of bricks and leaves you momentarily speechless. Because he has a point- even acting with his best interests in mind, he’s your co-worker. Not your friend or your family or your lover. He’s your equal business partner, capable of making adult decisions for himself. And by forcing him to go on leave, you took that choice away from him.

“As for the wedding… I won’t force you to do it or keep pestering you about it. I should have stopped when you first said no and respected that. That was wrong of me.” He says. “To be honest, I kept visiting you because I thought I could convince you. I didn’t even care how you were doing or whether you were coping- I just made all these excuses to see you so that I could convince you. And I realise now that’s a really awful way to be. You’re not just my boss or a machine that churns out people’s dream weddings. You’re a person who cares a lot about everyone she meets and I’m sorry for not recognising that.” He tells you. His cheeks are tinted slightly pink at his heartfelt confession, and your own cheeks burn too for some reason.

“The truth is… the truth is that Minah doesn’t want you to plan her wedding this much. Yeah, she liked that video of that wedding you did, but if I’d told her you said no, she would have just found someone else. It was me that was being insistent because I wanted someone on my side. You saw how I almost exposed myself at her engagement party… I felt like bringing another wedding planner into the mix is just one more person I have to hide from.” He slumps against the elevator wall and you take notice of the dark circles under his eyes, of his pale skin and his gaunt face… He’s lost even more weight since you made him take leave- earlier he was skinny but still looked healthy. Now he looks ashy and uncomfortable. At this rate he will wither away into nothing but skin and bones. Your heart aches for him again. “But when you found me… when you helped me and you didn’t tell anyone… I felt like I wasn’t alone for the first time in nearly a year. For the first time since Minah started dating Taehyung, probably. And I liked that feeling- I liked the idea of someone like you having my back. Someone who was strong and so determined that she literally built a business from the ground up, and you always call me your partner but really it was all you. And this whole thing with Minah has been so… hard. I thought… ‘maybe I could do it if she had my back.’” He squeezes his eyes shut and you notice the way a tear trickles down his cheek. His glasses nearly hide it but you’re watching him so carefully that you pick up on it.

“I’ll do it.” You don’t even realise you’ve said the words until he’s staring at you with wide, shocked eyes.

“What?” He asks. “Say that again?”

You blink, startled by your own compliance, but then you steel your gaze and make your decision.

“My brother’s a doctor who specialises in Hanahaki.” You say. “He said that if the doctors have already recommended hypnotherapy then conservative treatment probably can’t do much but it may slow the progression.” You explain. Jungkook is still staring at your with confused, round eyes. “If you promise to meet with him at least once a week for some conservative treatment and then you book in for proper treatment once the wedding is over… I’ll do it. I’ll plan her wedding.”

Jungkook’s whole face lights up and he grabs one of your hands, clasping it between your hands. His hands dwarf your own and you feel like he may break your bones with how tightly he is holding you.

“Really? You’d do that?” He asks, and the breathless excitement and relief in his voice almost makes it worth the stress that will no doubt come with agreeing.

“For you.” You clarify. “And only if you get treatment. If Namjoon tells me you’ve missed even one session, then I’m cancelling on her.” You warn. You look away awkwardly. “And I guess… if it means that much to you… you can come back to work. But you have to promise me that if you’re not feeling well you let me know, ok?”

“Deal!” Jungkook cries joyously, throwing his arms around you neck and pulling you in for a bone-crushing hug. “Thank you so much (Y/N)! This really means so much to me. Thank you.”

And it is in that moment, with Jungkook squeezing you tightly to him like you’ll get up and sprint away if he lets go, that the elevator door starts up again like it was just waiting for the two of you to come to an agreement.

And if it’s suspicious that Jin and Seri are both anxiously waiting by the elevator doors on the fifth floor when they eventually slide open and release you, then neither you nor Jungkook notice it.

You’re both too distracted by the work you have ahead of you.

#Jungkook x reader #jungkook angst #jungkook fluff #jeon jungkook x reader #btsboulangerie #writing

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mothsviii · 4 years

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( STANA KATIC + CIS-FEMALE) — Have you seen VIOLET NOVAK? This FORTY-TWO year old is a BOOKSTORE/COFFEE SHOP OWNER who resides in THE BRONX. SHE has been living in NYC for HER WHOLE LIFE and is known to be COMPASSIONATE and QUICK-THINKING but can also be MELANCHOLIC and ESCAPIST if you cross them. People tend to associate them with BOOKS YELLOWED AND LOVED WITH AGE and BOUQUETS OF SUNFLOWERS ( it’s cezera again!)

tw: death, murder, pregnancy, kidnapping

PAST

Valentina and Erik Novak were in their late thirties when they fell in love and while they both dearly wanted a child, it seemed as if it would be too late. However by some miracle, it was not and little Violet Novak came into the world.

From the day she was on, both parents absolutely doted on her. She was the child they never thought they’d have. She grew up spending her days in Motheaters, the bookstore/coffee shop hybrid that her parents had opened up upon immigrating to NY from Croatia soon before she was born. Erik took care of the books and Valentina of the coffee. It was here that Violet discovered her own love of books and within that, a love for music. There were books that spoke of music as if it were magic so of course Violet had to find out for herself.

When she was sixteen however, she was shifted from the world of music and books that she had been brought up in and into the real world or more specifically, the world of motherhood. It had been a fright when she found out that her and her boyfriend’s first time had somehow turned into her actually being pregnant. It felt like something out of a movie. Everything changed after that.

The first thing that changed was her dropping out of highschool when she was pregnant, pretty much erasing the college future her school had been certain she was made for. From there on, it was like a domino effect, The decision to raise the child with her boyfriend was a big one but luckily for her, one that her parents were in support of. While she was certain they were more than a little disappointed in their daughter (they would have had quite big dreams for her), they never let it show. Not after she decided to keep the child at least.

So that was it. James Novak was born and life continued on. She continued working in the bookstore while doing small music gigs on the side (ranging from teaching it to performing at the stores or events of those her parents were friends with) and somehow things worked. At the time, it felt like somehow the pair of them were going to make this having a kid thing work. Or at least that’s what it seemed like.

However that was apparently a complete lie as soon before the pair hit twenty, he announced that he wanted to go to law school. That wasn’t the issue, the issue was that he expected to just leave Violet and James as if he wasn’t his and that would be okay. Safe to say that Violet called him out and the argument that followed was their last one. He was gone fairly soon after.

Soon after he was out of her and Jamie’s life, Violet found out that she was pregnant. She would have contacted him, however he had left no way for too so this time, she was alone. Except for her parents at least.

Valentina Novak was born when Violet was twenty and James was four. Named after her maternal grandmother (you can bet Valentina Snr burst out into tears over this), she was more boisterous then her older brother and as soon as she was old enough to drag him around to play dolls with her, that’s exactly what she did.

So life once again, continued to carry on. Violet lived with her two children in a small little apartment close to her parents and kept with her work at the bookshop as well as her additional music gigs on the side. In an ideal world, she would have pursued her music career quite a bit further however for such a thing, one needed belief that it would work and she never really had that.

She loved the life she had though. Loved the people she met at work and the way she got to surround herself in books for a living. Loved raising her children even if sometimes she wondered if she could even manage, if perhaps they would have been better off with someone else.

PRESENT

Slowly both her children aged out of the home and went to college. First James and then Valentina and suddenly Violet was alone for the first time in over two decades. It was a bizarre feeling. If anything, things felt a little empty. After all, her whole life had been built around her children and suddenly one was at college and the other had already graduated and was doing his own things. God, she was proud of both of them.

Violet’s mother passed away two years ago and soon following that, her father’s health began to decline. Due to this, Violet sold the apartment and moved back to the family home to look after him. It was easier than getting him to move after all.

Death was not done with the family yet however and six months ago, tragedy hit again. Valentina went missing and was soon found murdered near Columbia University. Violet’s little girl who had dreams of saving the world, who lit up every room she walked in, was suddenly gone.

The murderer was found but it didn’t give the closure that they so desperately needed. Valentina was still gone. Nothing would change that.

There was a shift in Violet after that. It was as if the world darkened when her little girl died and her along with it. There is a hardness to her that wasn’t there before. One that only comes with grief and the pressure of needing to be the one that others can lean on. After all, she’s still a mother and she’s still her father’s carer.

EXTRAS

Motheaters is Violet’s baby and is quite a well loved place in the Bronx. It’s a quirky name for a quirky little place and she wouldn’t have it any other way. (There’s a connection there for people who work at Motheaters!)

Despite a deep love for music, she hasn’t performed publicly since Valentina’s death. It’s as if her death took away the little confidence she had in her music. After all, Val had always been her personal cheerleader.

Loves flowers and both her home and her store is littered with them, almost every flat surface having it’s own little vase of flowers. Sunflowers though, they’re her favourite.

Has a tattoo on her ribcage of a hand holding three sunflowers. She got it when both the kids were young as a representation of their little family. James got his own version of it done on his forearm after the loss of his sister.

Absolutely horrendous with time. She’s constantly late to something or double booking herself. If you want Violet somewhere at a certain time, you tell her the time is half an hour earlier.

#i won't get to use many happy gifs with her so HERE #death tw #murder tw #kidnapping tw #pregnancy tw #codintro

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minervacasterly · 4 years

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~QUEEN ELIZABETH'S FINAL YEARS~

"Towards the end of Elizabeth I’s reign, her face and body ravaged by time, sickness and toxic cosmetics, she was obliged to undergo an increasingly elaborate ritual to preserve the so-called ‘mask of youth’. When she emerged, triumphant, in front of the public court, she was Gloriana once more, bedecked in dazzling gowns, bejewelled wigs and thick layers of white make-up, and could just about fool her adoring subjects that she was still the most desirable woman in Europe. A visitor to her court in 1599 was amazed to see the queen, now well into her sixties, looking ‘very youthful still in appearance, seeming no more than twenty years of age.’

Only in the privacy of her ‘secret lodgings’ at court was Elizabeth’s true self revealed to the handful of trusted ladies who were permitted to attend her.

... the queen was not willing to relinquish the battle for sexual supremacy quite yet. She appeared at court bedecked in increasingly lavish and brightly coloured gowns, but ordered her ladies to wear only black or white. Not all of them were prepared to acquiesce. Lady Mary Howard was one of the most audacious and disrespectful members of the queen’s entourage. One day she appeared at court dressed in an ostentatious gown made from a rich velvet and ‘powdered with gold and pearl’. An associate of Sir John Harington recalled the envious looks that were cast her way, not least from the queen, who realised the gown ‘exceeded her own’. Intent upon revenge, a few days later the queen ordered a servant to steal the dress from Lady Mary’s chamber and bring it to her. Elizabeth was considerably taller than Lady Mary, so the gown was far too short for her. Undeterred, she paraded in it before her ladies, demanding to know ‘How they liked her new-fancied suit?’ When nobody answered, the queen addressed the question to Lady Mary herself, who resentfully snapped that it was ‘too short and ill becoming’. ‘Why then,’ Elizabeth retorted, ‘if it become not me, as being too short, I am minded it shall never become thee, as being too fine; so it fitteth neither well.’

... In the later years of Elizabeth’s reign, her ladies were obliged to spend ever more time applying her makeup and other adornments in order to conceal the marks of age. Although the queen had originally worn wigs that matched her own colouring, these now concealed a head of thinning, grey hair. There is some evidence to suggest that her hair might have started to turn grey when she was still young. A lock of greying red hair preserved at Wilton House is reputed to have been given by Elizabeth to Philip Sidney in 1572, when she was thirty-nine, although another source dates the gift to 1582. Certainly, by 1596, when Elizabeth was in her mid-fifties, her famous copper tresses had faded to grey

...increasingly thick layers of makeup were applied to maintain the so-called ‘mask of youth’, as well as to keep up with Italian fashions. Educated as a humanist princess, Elizabeth had always embraced Italian ideals and influences, and it had not taken long for the fresh-faced beauty that typified her early reign to be replaced by the highly painted visage favoured by Italian ladies. As ever, the fashions at court had been quickly replicated by those lower down the social scale. It was ‘a rare face if it be not painted’, according to a satirical broadside of the period, which poked fun at the lengths that the women of London would go to in their quest for everlasting beauty:

Waters she hath to make her face to shine,

Confections, eke, to clarify her skin;

Lip salve and cloths of a rich scarlet dye . . .

Ointment, wherewith she sprinkles o’er her face,

And lustrifies her beauty’s dying grace . . .

Storax and spikenard, she burns in her chamber,

And daubs herself with civet, musk, and amber.

The queen tried to keep her forehead wrinkle-free by having it regularly pasted with curd skimmed off posset, a creamy drink made from milk mixed with sugar, wine or ale. She also used a cleansing lotion made from two newly laid eggs and their shells, burnt alum, powdered sugar, borax and poppy seeds ground with water. It was believed to whiten, smooth and soften the skin. Once Elizabeth’s skin had been cleansed and treated, her entire face, neck and hands were painted with ceruse (a mixture of white lead and vinegar) in order to achieve the palest possible complexion. This was the ideal for well-born ladies because it proved that they lived a life of genteel leisure, as opposed to the women whose skin was coloured by the sun from many hours of working outdoors. To create a dramatic contrast to her pale skin, Elizabeth’s lips and cheeks were coloured with a red paste made from beeswax, cochineal and plant dye, and her eyes were lined with kohl. Although they helped to conceal the ravages of time, some of these concoctions were so toxic that they did more damage to the skin than ageing ever could.

...In the queen’s favour was the fact she remained in good health, despite the occasional bout of illness – such as during de Maisse’s visit in 1597, when she claimed to have been ‘very ill with a gathering on the right side of her face’. She assured the ambassador that ‘she did not remember ever to have been so ill before’. He suspected that this was merely an excuse for not seeing him earlier, however, and observed: ‘I should never have thought [it] seeing her eyes and face.’ De Maisse was right to be suspicious. Even now, in what was considered old age, Elizabeth was physically agile and still had some of the restless energy that had characterised her youth. A visiting ambassador from Württemberg in March 1595 was amazed that during one of his audiences with the queen, ‘She stood for longer than a full hour by the clock conversing with me, which is astonishing for a Queen of such eminence and of such great age.’ In 1599, when she was in her mid-sixties, Elizabeth surprised the Spanish ambassador with her sprightliness at the dance. ‘The head of the Church of England and Ireland was to be seen in her old age dancing three or four galliards,’ he reported. The galliard was a particularly energetic dance, requiring frequent leaps, jumps and hops, so it was impressive that Elizabeth could carry it off with such aplomb. She was still performing it in 1602, at the age of almost seventy, when she honoured the Duke of Nevers by dancing it twice with him. That same year, another foreign visitor saw the queen walking in her garden at Oatlands and was astonished by her agility. ‘Her Royal Majesty passed us several times,’ he recalled, ‘walking as freely as if she had been only eighteen years old.’ For all her physical agility, there are hints that Elizabeth had started to lose her formidable mental capacity. Like her father, she became increasingly paranoid as age and infirmity overtook her. Even though it had been easily defeated by the royal forces, the Earl of Essex’s rebellion in 1601 had seriously destabilised her and more than ever she sought sanctuary in her private apartments. ‘These troubles waste her much,’ reported Sir John Harington. ‘Every new message from the city doth disturb her . . . the many evil plots and designs have overcome all her Highness’ sweet temper.’

Although weakened by stress and lack of food, the restless energy that the queen had displayed throughout her life still remained. Harington described how she ‘walked fastly to and fro’ when in a fury against Essex, and reported: ‘She walks much in her privy chamber, and stamps with her feet at ill news, and thrusts her rusty sword at times into the arras in great rage . . . the dangers are over, and yet she always keeps a sword by her table.’

Another (perhaps more truthful) account describes the ageing monarch as ‘very feeble and tottering on account of her illness,’ but the author admits that she was nevertheless ‘adorned and bedecked right royally’.

'The court was very much neglected, and in effect the people were generally weary of an old woman’s government,’ reported another courtier. In ever greater numbers, her subjects flocked north to James VI, King of Scotland, anxious to ingratiate themselves with the queen’s likely successor. As Camden noted: ‘They adored him as the sun rising, and neglected her as now ready to set.’ Elizabeth was well aware of this and was tormented that ‘the question of the succession every day rudely sounded in their ears’.

The loss of her subjects’ love hastened Elizabeth’s decline..."

AT DEATH's DOOR

In January 1603, the queen left the court in Whitehall on the advice of her trusted old astrologer John Dee, and moved to her favourite palace of Richmond, to which she could ‘best trust her sickly old age’.

... As the days passed, she continued to slip into a steady decline. Ever mistress of her fate, the queen refused to lie down in her bed or to take any food for three days and nights, instead ‘holding her finger almost continually in her mouth, with her eyes open and fixed upon the ground, where she sat on cushions without rising or resting herself, and was greatly emaciated by her long watching and fasting.’ She angrily dismissed the ministrations of her physicians, and those around her began to suspect that she had simply decided to die. ‘The Queen grew worse, because she would be so, none about her being able to persuade her to go to bed,’ recalled an exasperated Sir Robert Carey. ‘It seems she might have lived if she would have used means,’ another visitor concurred, ‘but she would not be persuaded, and princes must not be forced.’

... In her grief, Elizabeth sought even greater privacy: ‘The Queen for many days has not left her chamber . . . they say that the reason for this is her sorrow for the death of the Countess,’ observed Scaramelli.

Racked by sorrow and weakened by lack of food and sleep, the queen presented a sorrowful sight to the few courtiers who were permitted to visit her. Among them was the Countess of Nottingham’s widower, Charles Howard, the Lord High Admiral. Perhaps softened by pity, Elizabeth heeded his entreaties that she must retire to her bed. As soon as she did so, her life slipped rapidly away. The corridors of the palace echoed with ‘great weeping and lamentation’ as the queen’s ladies ‘passed to and fro, and perceived there was no hope that Her Majesty should escape.’

Shortly after taking to her bed, Elizabeth was seized by a ‘defluxion in the throat’, which left her unable to speak and ‘like a dead person’. The glands of her neck were enlarged and her breathing became laboured. Modern medical analysis suggests that she was suffering from bronchopneumonia, which, in a weakened or aged person, is rapidly followed by pneumonia and often proves fatal. Four days later, Scaramelli reported: ‘Her Majesty’s life is absolutely despaired of, even if she be not already dead.’

On 23 March, however, Elizabeth suddenly rallied. With tears streaming down her cheeks, she exhorted her ministers to care for the peace of the realm.

When the Lord High Admiral asked her if the King of Scots should be her heir, she lifted her thin, wasted hand up to her head and slowly drew a circle around it to indicate a crown. That evening, everyone but the queen’s ladies departed. They watched over her as she drifted between waking and sleeping. Between two and three o’clock the following morning, their royal mistress breathed her last, slipping from life ‘easily like a ripe apple from the tree’."

-The Private Lives of the Tudors by Tracy Bormam

#tudor history #queen elizabeth i of england #book quote

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darlingsdevil · 5 years

Text

The Ballads of Rebirth (Arthur Morgan x Reader)

Chapter 2: “Daffodils”

A/N: Have I mentioned this entire fic came to me while listening to Big Fish the musical?

Masterlist

•••

It had been three months since you had last seen Arthur, and you had come to terms with your husband’s death. You ended up in Richfield, a large city just on the other side of the Grizzlies. Quite literally, there was a mountain between you and your old life.

You saw Arthur in the bookstore when you pulled a book from a shelf, he was there for a split second staring right back at you through the shelves with a shy smile and twinkling blue eyes that dazzled like Flat Iron Lake. It took your breath away and pure joy and panic swelled in your heart every time. He was there at the end of the street, packing up Boadicea, just around the corner of the saloon, but when you blinked and came to your senses, he was gone. You knew it was insane, and you knew damn well he wasn’t coming back from the grave, but still you relished those moments, only if he was there for less than a second. It was like the winds from the Grizzlies had come down and swept him away, and with those winds, your hope. But those winds brought in the spring air, the ones that began to regrow your garden that had froze over.

Time was a wise healer. Arthur’s death was devastating and painful and everyday you felt the aftermath of your past mistakes. You had only recently been married to Arthur, only two months prior to his death so barely anyone knew that you had taken up the last name Morgan. Still, you kept your answers short when people asked you of your life before Richfield “The City of Opportunity”. You feared someone would recognize you, so you stayed from the more crowded areas of the city.

Life had been rough since the gang’s demise but things were beginning to look up, you rode with John for a month until you decided Richfield was where you wanted to be. John had enough on his plate, trying to keep him and his family alive in a cruel world, and he wanted to put as much distance as he could between him and wherever the hell Dutch and Micah were. Abigail begged you to stay a little longer with them, but you declined the offer. Richfield was a good of a place as any other.

Luckily, you were able to find a job at a general store within a few days of getting dropped off in Richfield and you had enough money to rent a small apartment above the general store within two weeks of your arrival there. Richfield was a new industrial city, lots of steel mills, but the people weren’t your average city folk. It was up and coming, so many of the citizens had lived there when it was just a small farming town. The only farms left were the ones on the outskirts of the city, but most of them had been turned commercial.

Richfield was a new start, you only hoped you could leave that old life behind even if you did still hold onto some hope that Arthur was still alive. That small sliver of wishful thinking was waning everyday, the odds of him making it off that mountain were greatly against him and you had come to terms with it then, but after no word from any of your former friends you began to become worried of your friends fates.

•••

Arthur’s cough got better with each passing day. It had been three months since Charles pulled a dying Arthur into Wapiti. At the beginning of his treatment, it was horrible, Charles was sure he would wake up one day and Arthur would be dead, but months passed and he hadn’t died yet.

His coughing was less frequent and with less ferocity, Charles had brought Arthur into the Valentine doctor a week ago, and there had been less fluid in his lungs which was a wonderful sign. Arthur’s body was fighting a hard battle, the recovery was slow and painstaking. The first month was dreadful and he was bedridden, fevers accompanied him frequently creating horrible dreams and delirious moments. He had passed out from coughing the second month once when Charles was out hunting and the healer woman, Mahala had nursed him back to health.

During the second month, Charles decided to begin building a home four miles south of Wapiti. The people of a Wapiti had given them so much already, it would be rude to take more from a group of people who had already lost so much.

It was a small cabin near a lake, but it was strong and sturdy. Wildlife was abundant there. Arthur wasn’t quite strong enough for the move yet, but soon he would be. Arthur claimed he was ready to go, but Charles knew better. Arthur was becoming ansty and the people of Wapiti were weary of his long stay and the people Charles and Arthur used to be associated with.

Charles spoke little of the gang and Arthur hadn’t asked about you, but he sure did think about you. Arthur decided it was the best at the moment if he didn’t seek you out, he would just pull himself deeper into his sickness. It tore at him that he thought this way, that he was so selfish, but it was simply for the best. It was wiser to allow the dust to settle then to kick up even more. Arthur worried for you constantly and he secretly hoped you were searching for him too even if he knew that you presumed him dead. You had both said your goodbyes, and Arthur was fine with being dead to you at the moment.

•••

“Why do you wear that ring? You’ve never mentioned being married.” Lee asked you one day while you swept the floors of the general store. He had no filter, but he never intentionally said something that would hurt you.

“It was my husband’s ring.” You said bluntly, continuing with your sweeping. You stopped to fix a jar of peaches that had fallen over and you remembered Arthur’s secret sweet tooth he had, that only you and Jack had known about.

Lee was taken aback by your short answer, his hands stopped counting the money in the drawer.

“Oh.. I’m sorry, I didn’t know.” His ears burned with shame, cursing his curious tongue.

“It’s alright.” You said shaking your head.

It was late at night, the general store had been closed for an hour. A caravan had stopped during the day, and the patrons were rowdy, they messed up the towers of canned foods and didn’t bother to pick them back up so it took even longer to close the store. The caravan was a mirror of the gang, near 25 men and women, a few children. It was bittersweet to see them, even if they had messed up your store, you knew your group was far from civilized. You longed for the days around the campfire, everyone laughing and smiling, but it had been so long since then, and much had changed.

Lee was a close friend of yours, he was the son of the old man who owned the shop, and the only other worker there. He was playful and teased you a lot, but he was kind and thoughtful. You could tell he was sweet on you, and perhaps you were a little bit as well. It was too soon, Arthur barely dead and you were already blushing around another man. It was shameful.

You finally finished your sweeping, Lee leaned against the counter, eyeing a butterscotch sweet next to the counter. You sighed.

“Just take it.”

Lee grinned like a child, plucking the butterscotch off the small dish.

He turned around towards the front door, locking it with ease. You turned towards the stairs that led up to your apartment. Lee and his father's apartment was directly below yours.

Lee quickly opened the door for you, the stairwell was dim. You hated walking up it, it was steep and rickety. The building itself was one of the oldest in the city, it held heavy memories. Lee’s mother had passed away in the house while giving birth to her second child, Lee’s little sister, Anastasia. Anastasia ran away when she was 17, to marry an outlaw. Apparently, that got her killed. Lee received word of her death a few years ago, he hadn’t seen her since the day she left, he didn’t even know where she was buried. The life of an outlaw never ended well.

Lee never spoke of her much, all you knew was that she was passionate and opinionated, a true wild card and you could tell the outlaw life would’ve done her well. Lee had a strong hate for outlaws and criminals because of it, he still didn’t know about your past and you intended to keep it that way.

Lee’s father was a kind man, he was quiet but you could tell he loved Lee very much. He wasn’t around much, he spent most of his time in his room but occasionally he would help run the shop.

You reached the platform outside of Lee’s apartment. He stopped right behind you, dangerously close. Your heart pounded in your ears. It didn’t help that the platform was incredibly small either. You turned to face him.

“Give me your hand.” He said, almost a whisper. You reached out your hand and he placed a small round object on it, under further inspection you realized it was a butterscotch candy.

You smiled, looking back up at him. He had a shy grin plastered on his face. You were thankful of the darkness of the stairwell, otherwise he would have seen your ferocious blushing.

“Goodnight, Lee.” You kissed him on the cheek, grasping your candy firmly in your palm, and you calmly made your way up to your apartment, leaving Lee flustered on the doorstep.

•••

On a particularly warm day, despite it being fall, Arthur arose from his bed to take a walk around the perimeter. Mahala eyed him cautiously but he simply smiled, something he was becoming better at. Mahala had become close with Arthur, she was like another Miss Grimshaw, a tough love mother to him. Charles was out for the day, and Rains Fall was nowhere to be found. It was quiet in the village.

The sun was bright and the crispness of the air felt wonderful to Arthur. His legs were still tense from lying down for so long, they felt heavy and strange.

Arthur missed the days of hunting, just getting on Boadicea and riding into the sunset. He missed not being watched every second, Mahala and Charles fretting over him every second. He missed the days where he could spread his wings and fly. He was caged at the moment, and an injured bird cannot fly. An injured bird still has the instinct to soar, even if the owners are particularly kind.

But Arthur knew this calm, peacefulness was just what he needed. After a life of running, he needed a place to become grounded for once.

He found himself walking further and further, farther than he’d ever walked before. He found himself at a slow stream, the water trickling over the rocks. The birds sang through the trees and Arthur found himself sitting down next to the water.

He studied the terrain, wishing he would have kept his journal with him. This was a perfect place for a landscape sketch. The next time Charles went into Valentine, he would have to ask for a new journal.

On the other side of the stream, there was a bright yellow flower. It was strange to see, it stuck out against the dark greens and grays of the forest.

“It’s a daffodil.” A voice spoke from behind him, making him jump. Mahala stood next to Arthur, her hands on her hips.

“What would have happened if something attacked you out here? Could you have fought them off?” She asked the former outlaw, glaring at him like she had caught her child with his hand in the cookie jar.

“Well I didn’t get attacked, did I? Besides, I was just lookin’ at that flower. What'd you say it was? A daffodil?” He asked, pointing towards the sun colored flower.

Mahala glared at him before returning her attention to the flower, her gaze softened.

“Yes. The rebirth flower.”

#The Ballads of Rebirth #TBOR #Arthur Morgan x Reader #Arthur Morgan x Female Reade #rdr2 angst #rdr2 #arthur morgan #charles smith #rdr2 x reader #angst #rdr2 fanfic #rdr2 fanfiction

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