#do you have any idea how hard it is to get your disability recognised enough to get those badges???

[disabled-dragoon]

"You don't need a parking badge if you're not in a wheelchair. Your taking it away from someone who actually needs it"

Resident wheelchair user and qualified driver here to tell you that anyone who says this is wrong and and I will personally ram their kneecaps for you 👍 [thumbs up]

The issue is not that the spaces are being "taken away" from people who "actually" need them

The issue is that there's not even enough spaces in the first place

[mothra-mcyt]

☾ "Don't worry i'm here now." ☽

platonic!Philza x reader

!Trigger Warning: aftermath of physical abuse, blood!

Summary:

After your biological angry father thought taking his anger out on you physically was the best idea, you ran out of the house. Not knowing what to do you called the person that would be able to comfort and help you most in that moment. Philza Minecraft.

2.2k words

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Moving your legs as fast as you could you felt rainwater slowly drench your feet. With every sharp breath you took in you could feel your lungs more hurting. The tears streaming down your face blurred your vision making it hard to see where you're going but you could care less.

The only thing on your mind right now was getting away. Away from the danger that is at home.

What you didn't expect was to see your dad standing in front of you, brows furrowed in anger and beer bottle in his hand when you came home. You couldn't understand much about what he was shouting at you about but when he stomped down on your ribs while blaming you for loosing his job you began to understand what he was so raged about.

Thinking back to it you put your hand over where you know a boot formed bruise would probably form in purple colours.

You came back to your senses when you slipped in a puddle and slammed down onto the ground. A groan left your mouth feeling the already strong pain intensifying.

Trying your best at wiping away the tears forming in your eyes again to look around you saw where you ran.

The train station where you met Wilbur, Tommy, Phil etc. for the first time. Immediately memories started running through your head of seeing Tommy sprint out of the train, running up to you and hugging you as tight as he could. Or of Phil trying to hold you and Wilbur back from trying to steal a pigeon.

At the thought of Phil your eyes started to water again.

He always was there for you, always making sure you took care of yourself.

Never was mad at you when you made a mistake.

He was always so nice and gentle, you didn't want to bother him with your family problems.

None of you talked about it but both of you knew he was basically your father figure.

"Maybe i should call him...but wouldn't i just annoy him i did that... fuck it."

Thankfully you remembered to grab your phone when you started sprinting through the front door onto the sidewalk in a panicked state. Carefully taking it out of your pocket a curse left your mouth. The water of the rain soaked through your pants making your phone wet. Praying to whoever is out there you hoped that it wasn't broken.

A sigh of relief left your mouth when your phone screen lit up showing your familiar background image.

"Dammit. Only 23% left."

Unlocking your phone you immediately went to your contacts. Tapping on Phil's name you were about to press on the call button but you hesitated.

"Is this really a good idea...what if he's busy right now..."

Not realising it your finger accidentally pressed on the call button. Panicking you were about to stop the call but Phil already picked up.

"Hey mate what's going on. Why did you call me?"

Completely frozen you tried to think of a way to get out of this situation but before you could say anything Phil's voice started coming out of the phone again.

"Wait a minute. I hear rain. Are you outside?! It's in the middle of the night! Why are you outside?!"

"I- I'm sorry Phil. I don't know. I don't know anymore."

"Where are you, Are you okay?!"

"I'm at the train station Phil. The one where You, Wilbur, Tommy and the others met me for the first time."

You tried to your best to hide the fact that you were crying in your voice but apparently it didn't work well enough.

"Isn't that like really fucking far away from your home? Also are you crying? You sound like you're crying. Are you okay mate? Please talk to me."

Not being able to stop yourself a sob left your mouth. When you tried to open your mouth again to answer him just more sobs came out.

"Fuck shit okay i'll drive to you. Stay out of the rain and try to get somewhere warmer. I don't want you getting fucking sick. Just go to the toilets or something okay. I'll be there as fast as possible. Stay on the ca-"

It broke off before he could finish. Confused you looked down through blurry vision at your phone clutched in your hands. The screen was black. Frustrated you shoved your phone back into the front pocket of your hoodie.

"Of course the battery had to go empty at this exact time."

Mumbling to yourself you pulled the hood over your head before you went back into the rain to get somewhere warmer. Hoping that your memory for once wasn't gonna betray you you started to walk in the direction where you remember the toilets being.

Thankfully there was a single gender neutral bathroom stall so you don't have to worry about someone coming in and hearing you crying.

Pushing down the handle you stepped into the bathroom. It was bigger than a normal stall would be because it was also for disabled people. The floor looked like it was cleaned not long ago. There was some graffiti next to the door looking like someone tried to scrub it off but gave up.

Stepping to the sink you glanced up into the mirror to see how much of a mess you looked like.

There were obvious marks of a hand on your neck from where he choked you. It may have been only for a few seconds but it was still strong enough to make you shiver just from thinking back to it. Some dried blood that trickled down your forehead from where the green glass beer bottle crashed into your head. If you looked long enough you could see a fading handprint at your left cheek.

"Damn i look like a fucking mess."

Turning on the sink you looked down at your hands. There was some blood on your fingers from when you wiped away the blood running from your nose. Holding them under the water you immediately flinched away feeling how cold it was.

Taking a deep breath you put them under the stream again and started washing the blood away from your hands away first. Forming them to bowl you held them under the water. Knowing this is not going to feel great you splashed it on your face. Immediately regretting your decision you gasped for air.

Feeling it slowly running down your face you took some papers and dried the remaining water and blood off of your face. After throwing them in the trash can you looked back up into the mirror. Even without the scabs and dirt you still looked like a mess. With a sigh leaving your mouth you made your way over to the toilet and sat down on the closed seat. About to put your head in your hands you jumped when you suddenly heard a voice from outside the door.

Slowly starting to recognise the voice you quickly stood up.

"Da- Phil? Is that you?"

Raising your voice only a little to avoid other people other than him hearing it you stepped closer to do the door to listen more closely.

"Yeah it's me, i'm here now. Can you open the door mate? I wanna make sure you're safe."

Hesitating for a moment you slowly wrapped your fingers around the door handle. Carefully opening it you stared down at the ground making your hair shadow your face in hopes of hiding how much of a mess you are or maybe because you weren't able to look him in the eyes, too ashamed to let him see you in this state.

"Can you please look up at me?"

Tears started forming in the corners of your eyes when you looked up at him. You were surprised at seeing how much worry and concerned was showing on his face but also at how shocked he looked.

"Who . . . who did this to you?"

Not being able to hold it back any longer sobs started leaving your mouth. Tears started spilling when you felt Phil wrap his arms around you and pulled you in a tight embrace. Gripping the back of his shirt you felt him putting his hand against the back of your head. He pushed your head against his chest making your tears soak up the fabric of his shirt but he could care less right now.

"Take your time don't worry. I'm here for you and i promise i won't let go."

Slowly starting to calm down again, eyes dry from crying so much you still didn't wanna let go. This is the most comfort you ever felt in your entire life you were sure. But knowing you sadly couldn't stay like this forever you carefully pulled your arms back and stepped back a little. You tried wiping away the remaining tears but it only resulted in your cheeks getting even more wet from your rain soaked hoodie sleeves.

"Let's first get you to somewhere warm and safe. My house is closer so i'll just drive to my place if that's alright with you mate."

Seeing you nod was enough was enough of a response for him so he wrapped his arm around your shoulder and started walking to the exist. Or at least you thought it was in that direction. You don't really remember anything from before you went in the bathroom stall leading to you realising you probably dissociated the whole way here. Probably better that way.

After a while of just trusting Phil with where you two were going you stopped next to what you presumed was his car. Stepping in front of you he opened the door of the passenger seat and let you get in. Closing the car door you immediately relaxed feeling the warmth around you.

When he got in he quickly glanced over making sure you were okay before he started driving. You didn't really remember much from the car ride besides him asking you if you were okay every other 5 minutes to which you always responded with a small nod. Knowing at some point he's gonna want a better response from you but for now that was enough to satisfy him thankfully.

Slowly coming back to the real world you looked out of the window to your left and saw Phil's house. You don't really remember much from when you were here the last time one of the things that was still in your memory that it was bigger than you expected. But it felt comfortable and like there was put a lot of thought and detail into his home.

Jumping a little in surprise at Phil opening the car door he tried to help you out of the car but deciding to ignore him you started to get up.

"For fucks sake just let me help you you stubborn child."

A sigh of annoyance left you but you took his hand and let him take you out of the car.

"I'm gonna be honest Da- Phil i thought i was the one who was going to have to help you out of the car since you're becoming so old-"

"Shut!"

A giggle left you making him give you an obviously joking annoyed look. God you missed these interactions so much. Not like you two stopped having them they just felt a lot better in person rather than over discord or when calling.

Letting him walk to the door you stepped under the roof and waited for him to open it. Glancing behind you one last time you saw that the rain was still going strong but now you wouldn't have to worry about it anymore. Cautiously you stepped into the warmth of what you would love to call home and let Phil close the door.

Bending down you took off your wet shoes. A feeling of disgust went through you feeling how soaked your socks were. Standing up straight again you looked around confused because you didn't see Phil anymore. Immediately panic started rising in you. Feeling your heartbeat getting faster you quickly stepped further inside.

"Phil?!"

Trying your best to hide the anxiousness you heard the quick footsteps of a concerned Phil letting you know you failed miserably at it.

"You okay? What's wrong? What happened i was just getting dry and more comfortable clothes for you."

Slowly tears started forming and when you tried to speak your voice cracked.

"I- I don't know. I just thought maybe maybe you left because i-"

Noticing you starting to panic he put his hand under your chin making you look up at him.

"I am not going to leave you. I am not going to hurt you. No matter what i will stay with you. If you need something i will be there to help you. If you're ever sad i'm there to comfort you. No matter how long you cry i won't let you go until you're feeling better."

Not knowing what to do you rubbed away the tears that were about to fall.

"Thank you. Thank you so much Da- Phil-"

"Don't worry you can call me dad."

Registering his words the corners of your mouth went up forming a smile.

"Now come on. Here are better clothes to wear. Don't want you getting sick."

Masterlist

[anyoneseenadam]

Hiii. if you're still taking requests can you do a azriel one? (Can't get enough of him🤭🥰) can you witte one where azriel gets really badly hurt on a mission and barely makes it back and the reader freaking out and being really worried.?

pairing: azriel x reader (acotar)

warnings: angst, graphic descriptions of blood and violence, sad shiz but happy ending

a/n: this isn’t as angsty as I planned but it’s a lil, pls comment if you like it and tell me ur thoughts <33

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Azriel had promised you the mission would be quick. In and out were his exact words.

You should’ve known better than to trust him when he spoke so casually about breaking into a palace in the human courts, you should’ve known that something would go horribly, inconceivably wrong. But when he smiled at you and held you against him, swaying from side to side you were too lost in his easy lies to care.

You had started going on more missions with him recently. While you weren’t a spy, you had an incredible knack for lying. Cassian joked that you were just a brat but even he couldn’t deny that you were talented when it came to batting your eyes and pressing a hand gently enough on a soldier’s arm that they would bend to your every will.

You and Azriel had also discovered that the most effective torture method was to trick whoever you had taken into a false sense of security, you would use a gentle tone and motherlike care to make them feel safe. And then they were always willing to speak, believing that once Azriel stopped his ministrations they could fall into the safety of your arms.

It was a good tactic and even Azriel was impressed when you first tried it. But that never quelled his protectiveness, the way an arm would find its way secured around your waist as soon as you had secured the information you needed, or the way he kissed you fiercely in his shadows when he was tired of watching men flirt with you.

The truth was you and Azriel were so completely in love, no amount of flirting could ever take you from the gentle but possessive grip of your mate. In some ways that’s what kept you going, knowing that at the end of the day you didn’t have to plaster on a fake smile and sweet voice.

At the end of the day, in the warmth and comfort of your share home you were yourself. You could wear the same jumper for weeks straight and laugh at crude jokes. You could do your makeup at 3am and then turn to your half-asleep mate with a pout, whining until he caved and let you do his makeup too.

But in the end, your complete devotion would come back to bite you in the ass.

It was your fault, or so you believed. If you had just kept your eyes on the general with bad breath and a crooked nose you wouldn’t be in this mess. But when he got to close your eyes flickered to were your mate stood, concealed in shadows, and through all the generals personal hygiene faults, he had been trained to notice subtle looks that gave you away.

He had grabbed you so tightly that you couldn’t help but yelp, drawing Azriel’s attention to you. And while you had disabled the general quickly you now had hoards of guards chasing you out of an area that was guarded against winnowing.

Azriel hadn’t wasted a second. You were his top priority and so he had abandoned the plan and grabbed you as quickly as he could, gathering you into his arms as he flew to the exit. You had spluttered apologies to him as he flew, your eyes trained on the guards chasing you, the guards who were now drawing bows.

Azriel was quick but the arrows were quicker. You threw your hands out, trying to bat off as many of them as you could with the limited power you held. But as concentrated as you were on the ones directed to his wings, you didn’t see the one aiming for his lower torso until you felt it graze you from where it left his body.

He grunted as you swore, finally out of the barriers as he winnowed to as close to home as he could. But while injured that wasn’t easy and you found yourselves standing in a wooded area, Azriel dropping you down much more roughly than usual, swearing as he leaned against a tree.

“Okay, okay I can fix this, you’re going to be fine.” You spoke, mainly to yourself as the panic inside you grew. You scanned the area, spotting a cave not too far off, not wanting to leave Azriel in the open when you had no idea what could be in these woods.

“C’mon baby, let’s go this way.” You slung an arm around him, just above the wound and began making your slow trek to the small cave. As soon as you had him sat down, you knelt in front of him, tears in your eyes as you cut open his top, so you had access to the wound beneath.

“Why are you crying sweetheart?” you heard him ask and you rolled your eyes, wiping away the stray tears.

“Why do you think dumbass,” you said, forcing a smile when he huffed a laugh.

“You can’t be mean to me right now,” he complained as you set about cutting off both ends of the arrow so you could remove it safely, wincing when he hissed, gritting his teeth.

You finally had both ends cut off and went to pull it out, removing your shawl and preparing to press it against the wound that was spouting far too much blood. You looked up at him with your hands pressed shakily against his wound and saw his skin was pale and sweaty, his eyes drooping as they tried to close. He fell forward slightly but you held him upright with your shoulder, panic rushing through you, white hot.

“Azriel c’mon no, none of that. You’ve got to stay awake baby, you’re too heavy for me.” You begged; your hands pressed tightly against his wound as you let the tears fall freely. You eventually had to pull away, moving him so he was leaning against the cave wall, taking extra precaution to ensure his head didn’t get hurt.

His eyes cracked open when he felt your blood-soaked palm press gently against his face, glassy and barely present.

“Hey, hey I need you to stay with me, okay?” you tried to smile, wanting to offer him any semblance of comfort.

“Always baby,” he whispered, and you smiled, pulling your hands away slightly and smiling when you saw the wound healing externally already.

“What are you getting me for solstice?” you asked, wanting to keep him awake and speaking.

“Not telling.” He muttered and you laughed.

“You have to, we have to talk about something.” You joked, pulling a hand away just long enough to wipe your eyes as you focused on his face.

“I had a few ideas; nothing seems good enough.” He muttered and you laughed.

“Tell me.”

“Well first I thought a necklace, books, maybe art supplies or something but that’s all boring,” he whispered, and you smiled, nodding.

“If it’s from you it won’t be boring,” you smiled, hands still pressed tightly against his wound.

“Well I also thought I could get you your own truthteller, maybe one with a pink handle.” He joked.

“Well you know full well I would love that, maybe baby pink with little white hearts on it,” he smiled at you, his head lulling slightly forward. You reached up to him again holding his head gently in your hands, before you lay him down, covering him in the rest of your shawl.

“You plan that then, I’m going to go get wood and we’ll start a fire okay, keep you warm.” You stroked his face gently, pressing a kiss onto his forehead.

“Be safe,” he grabbed your hand as you stood to leave,

“You first.”

--

Your luck apparently ran out as soon as you looked at Azriel, given as soon as you walked out the cave the heavens opened, and you were soaked to the skin in the seconds. You grabbed as much wood as you could straight away, throwing it into the dry cave.

You then ventured further out, finding a rabbit, and killing and cleaning it out as quickly as you could, practically running back to the cave. You knelt down, starting a small fire, and removing your now dirty and completely soaked dress, ringing out your hair.

You then moved back to Azriel, brining him closer to the fire as you cooked speared the rabbit over it, cooking all the meat you could salvage of its small body.

“You’re so cold,” he muttered, pressing his nose into your bare skin as you shivered, moving even closer to the fire.

“Ah you know what they say, cold hands, cold heart.”

“I don’t think that’s the-“

“Shh,” you muttered, curling into him as you pressed together trying to steal some warmth from each other.

“If I get ill I’m going to kill you.” You whispered into his neck, and he chuckled, clenching his teeth when he moved to soon and your head shot up to him.

“Are you okay? Am I hurting you?” he shook his head, tightening his arms around you.

“No you’re alright,” he whispered. You lay there for a while longer, Azriel’s body limp, all his energy going into healing the deep wound in his side. Yours on the other hand was tense, ears perking up at any sound, half expecting a pack of rabid wolves to come eat you the second you allowed yourself to relax. When the rabbit was finished, you picked it apart, feeding it to Azriel gently, determined to get his energy back.

He was still so pale and no matter how hard you tried, nothing could quell the nausea in your stomach. Every time you looked at him when he closed his eyes your heart dropped, your anxiety telling you that this might just be the last time you ever see him.

You didn’t sleep all night, instead staying pressed against him, shivering in your undergarments as your dress dried by the fire. You regularly checked his pulse, temperature, breathing and whatever else you could, too afraid to take your eyes off of him for even a second.

By the time the sun finally rose, Azriel’s complexion had evened out and the wound in his side was puckering into a pink scar. You were beyond relieved, fussing over him when he woke up like the mother you often pretended to be.

You pulled your dress back on and stumbled to a near-by river to collect him some water, picking a species of berries you recognised along the way, and actively ignoring the cough you had developed over night.

You got back to the cave and almost cried in relief when you saw him sitting up, smothering the burning embers that used to be your fire. He looked over to you as you padded in and swore, standing to come to you.

“You look like shit what happened?” he asked, worry coating his features.

“Hey! I spent all night looking after you asshole,” you shoved him gently but he held tight, holding your chin in his slender fingers as he forced you to look at him.

“Shit it was raining last night,”

“Yeah?” you asked as he shook his head.

“That’s why you were so cold, c’mon let’s get you home you’re ill.” He muttered as you wildly protested.

“I’m fine, you need to rest,” you pointed at him, but he brushed you off, gathering you in his arms to winnow home.

“We can rest together, at home, in bed.” He stated, not leaving any room for argument so you relaxed in his arms, your head pressed against his shoulder.

“Okay,” you conceded, your voice small as he smiled down at you.

“Thank you for looking after me darling,” his voice was filled with sincerity, and you snuggled closer into him.

“Anytime.” You whispered as he winnowed you away, only vaguely aware of the feeling of him placing you down on your bed and curling around your back, arms tight and secure.

[missymurphy1985]

Surprises

You and Cillian are on your babymoon, 4 weeks before your first baby's due date. You think you've got lots of time.. your baby has other ideas...

Warnings - childbirth, swearing

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Cillian lifted your suitcase out of the car and carried it into your holiday home in Kerry, you were on strict orders not to lift a finger. 36 weeks pregnant with your first child together, you sighed, trying to remind him you were pregnant, not disabled, but he wasn't having any of it.

"Can I get out of the car now please, your baby is using my bladder as a trampoline!" Cillian laughed and opened the car door for you, taking your hand to lead you out carefully.

"Watch your step, there's rocks all over the path y/n..."

"Cill for the love of God, how many times have we been here? I'm fine, now let me go pee before I do it all over this rocky path, yeah?" You loved how caring and attentive he was being, but it was becoming really overbearing after 8 months.

"I'm just worried about you..."

"Baby I'm fine, the baby is fine, and my legs work just fine, thank you.." you kissed him lightly and walked to the toilet on the ground floor. Okay, it was more of a waddle, but close enough. He had good reason to worry. His ex wife had suffered terribly during both her pregnancies, and he was watching you like a hawk, terrified you'd be the same. You hadn't though, you were strong as an ox and took every day in your stride, enjoying every second knowing it was likely to be your only pregnancy now Cillian was 45 and you were 34. This one certainly wasn't planned, but was very much looked forward to.

Once Cillian had unpacked, and you'd eaten dinner, you were lazing on the sofa watching TV. Your legs hanging over his lap, him gently rubbing his fingers over your swollen ankles.

"Have you decided on names yet?" You questioned.

"I can't choose, I thought you were deciding?"

"Okay, how about we each write a list of our favourites, and we'll go through them one by one?" You went to grab a pen before Cillian glared at you and went to get it himself. You chuckled, how dare you move so heavily pregnant!!

Once you'd written your lists, you sat next to each other of the sofa and began to read from them in turn.

"Sofia."

"Nansy."

"Jacob."

"Daniel."

Each one getting a grimace from the other.

"This is hopeless," you threw the pen down in a huff. "We've been doing this for months, how is it so difficult to choose a bloody name??"

"Baby neither of my boys had names til they were born - we chose days later for them. They just came to us. There's no rush here I promise." You smiled thinking of Aran and Malachy, how excited they were for the new baby you were yet to name. You decided not to find out the gender, you wanted the surprise.

"I'm beat, I think I'm heading to bed. Are you joining me?" You lifted yourself off the sofa, with Cillians help.

"No I'm gonna finish this film, it looks good!"

"Cillian, it's Batman. You're in it. Of course it looks good!" He laughed as you waddled your way to the bedroom, telling you he'd be there soon.

On the way up the stairs, you suddenly felt a pain in your lower abdomen. Thinking it was another Braxton Hicks, you paused on the stairs waiting for it to pass.

"Y/n what's wrong?" Cillian was at the bottom of the stairs. He'd heard the stairs creaking, then stop suddenly so came to check on you.

"Just a Braxton Hicks contraction babe, they started in the car on the way over here. Perfectly normal, totally irregular, all is fine, don't worry."

"Why didn't you tell me it was happening??" He started to come up the stairs to you, worry all over his face.

"Because they're nothing to worry about - just a normal part of my body preparing for the real thing, stop panic- ahhhh...." You felt another. Sharper now, all over your belly.

"This ain't normal y/n, come back downstairs. Let's just keep an eye on these for a while, yeah?" He took your hand and led you back to the living room slowly, watching your every move. You rolled your eyes and followed him, knowing arguing was pointless. These were just Braxton Hicks. Weren't they?

Sitting you back on the sofa, Cillian grabbed his phone from his jacket slung over the arm of the chair in the corner. Opening the pregnancy app on his phone he clicked on the Contraction Timer option.

"Now tell me when you feel it, and then when it stops, okay?" He'd barely got the last word out when another hit you, you froze in pain, gripping onto your belly, breathing until it passed.

"Baby? That one really hurt..."

"Okay, let's see about the next few okay? Just breathe. I knew this was a bad idea, coming out so late on..."

"I've still got 4 weeks, there's plenty of time!"

"Yeah I'm not so sure now babe.. let me know when it happens again."

"Fuck... Now... Oh my god...." You found yourself moving forwards, legs open and your hands grabbing the coffee table. "It's gone..." 15 minutes passed with Cillian holding your hand in one and running your back with the other, monitoring each contraction you felt.

"Y/n these are coming every 5 minutes, and lasting 2minutes each time.. I think we need to get to a hospital.."

"No.. these things take time, we don't need to rush. I don't want to get there and be sent home okay? I said in my birth plan I wanted to be home as long as possible..."

"Yeah, birth plans don't always go to plan y/n."

"Cillian don't, just let me be yeah?" Your eyes glistened with tears, fear surging through you. Cillian kissed the top of your head gently. "I'm sorry... I didn't mean to snap.. I'm scared Cill! I'm really fucking scared!"

"I know, so am I and I'm not the one doing the work! It'll be okay, okay? I'm here, and we're going to meet our baby soon... Just breathe, yeah? In... Out... Look at me. In... Out..." He was breathing with you trying to calm you down. It was working until another contraction hit and you cried out with the pain. He held you close, rubbing your back.

"How far apart now?" You grimaced, feeling it pass.

"Still 5 minutes. Lasting 2. It's been like that for 30 minutes. What do you want to do babe?"

"Run me a bath?" Cillian sighed. He was desperate to get you to a hospital and be checked over but your glare told him to follow your lead. You knew your body better than him right now.

Cillian carefully lifted your body into the bath while he stroked your hair and whispered in your ear.

"I'm going to teach him how to play football.. he'll have his own little Liverpool kit before he's walking y/n..."

"Oh it's a boy is it? See I can see you learning how to plait hair and play tea parties on a Saturday afternoon!" You giggled.

"It's a boy, I'm telling you. I only make boys, y/n!" Another contraction, but the warm water eased the pain enough for you to focus more on your breathing. Cillian reached a hand in and held your belly, feeling it tighten and wishing nothing more than to take the pain away from you.

"Okay, make the call yeah? Just call our midwife and let her know what's happening." You nodded to Cillian, finally accepting that this indeed was happening. Your baby was on its way.

Cillian kissed your head and dialled the number for the hospital back in Dublin, it suddenly feeling so very far away right now. Ending the call, he turned back to you.

"She's calling the hospital here in Kerry to let them know to expect us - she said with the contractions the way they are there's no rush if you want to stay home a while. But she warned the second they're 3minutes apart and lasting longer, we need to go, okay?" You agreed, before another contraction hit with some urgency. The water not helping the pain of this one. With it, came a popping sensation and a gushing feeling between your legs.

"Cillian, I think my waters have broken!" You were panicking again until Cillian leaned his head against yours breathing with you again to calm you.

"Time to get out of the bath, come on." He lifted you out and wrapped a dressing gown over your shoulders but another contraction hit you before you left the room.

"Fuck.. Cillian, Jesus.... I can't walk..." your breathing becoming louder and more laboured.

"Baby I need you to walk, we've got to get to the car..."

"Okay... Okay... Get the bag.." Cillian led you to the bedroom where the ready made hospital bag lay waiting, he insisted you took it with you just in case. Wrapping the dressing gown over your bump, you grabbed his arms tight as another wave of pain gripped you. He could feel how hard your belly contracted and brought you into his arms, running his hands firmly down your spine as you cried into his chest.

"I don't think I'm going to make it... I can feel the baby moving down... Cillian..." He looked at your panicked face and paled. He recognised that look, he'd seen it twice before. This baby was coming now whether he liked it or not.

Leading you to the bed he lay you against the pillows gently.

"Fuck... Okay I'm calling an ambulance... Wait there y/n."

"The fuck you think I'm gonna go Cillian??! Disneyland?!" You gasped as another wave of pain took you. "Fuck don't leave me! Please!" Cillian had the phone to his ear talking to the ambulance service. Nodding to whoever he was talking to, he opened your legs and went to grab towels from the closet in the corner of the room. Y/n was panting now, screaming with the pain.

"Cillian I can't hold it!! I need to push! Baby please!" Cillian looked over and saw his baby's head starting to crown between y/n's legs. Feeling a sudden surge of adrenaline, he took charge.

"Okay, push.. come on that's it! Keep going you can do this baby.. push!" You beared down with all your strength, the burning feeling taking your breath away. You could hear the operator on the phone giving Cillian instructions.

"The baby's crowning y/n, don't push... Just pant with me through it.. okay??" He panted with you, one ear on the phone, one eye on his baby, one hand in yours as you squeezed the life out of it. You couldn't hold back a scream as your baby's head finally broke through. A moment's respite, before another contraction hit.

Cillian moved to between your legs quickly, the operator constantly giving instructions. He put the phone on loudspeaker.

"Okay... Y/n look at me. Push! Just a few more and he's here, come on baby..." You looked into his eyes, feeling the strength from them and bore down once again. Cillian was between your legs, listening to the operator as they guided him through delivering your baby. Two more hard pushes and the room was suddenly filled with the sound of your baby's loud cry. You flung your head backwards, completely breathless, as you burst into tears at the most beautiful sound you'd ever heard. Within moments, paramedics had arrived, bursting through the open front door downstairs.

Cillian was in shock, in his arms he held his daughter, the most beautiful, perfect little girl he'd ever laid eyes on. He took one of the towels and cleaned her off as best he could, and lifted her onto her mother's chest, tears rolling down his cheeks. Y/n looked down at her baby, still sobbing.

"A girl... Cillian it's a girl!"

"You did it.. you fucking did it y/n, I'm so proud of you... She's perfect..." He kissed your forehead as the paramedics found their way into the room to check you both over.

Giving mum and baby a clean bill of health, they allowed you to remain home with your baby. Even though she was 4 weeks early, everything was completely fine. Once you'd managed to clean off and relax back in bed in the guest room (Cillian promising to clean the main bedroom the next day), your daughter gently suckling at your breast hungrily, you finally took in just what had just happened.

"Can you believe it? Can you believe that just happened Cill?"

"I told you bringing the hospital bag was a good idea, didn't I?" He smirked at you.

"Ashlyn Rose Murphy." You didn't know what made that name come to you but it did.

"Perfect. I love it. And I love you. Both of you.. so, so much.. thank you for bringing me our girl... Thank you.." he kissed your head and took your daughter once she'd finished feeding, holding her close to his chest. "Now you sleep mama. Ashlyn and I are going to finish watching Batman Begins."

You chuckled and lay down in the bed, sleep coming very quickly following that evening's activities.

@queenshelby

[tartagilicious]

little light > gojou satoru

→ synopsis | a man who can see far too much is in love with a woman who can see nothing at all. (blind!reader)

→ genre | angst + fluff

→ word count | 1.5k

→ warnings | descriptions of blood, ptsd

→ note | I binged this show in two days and the only things I retained are that curses are bad and gojou is hot. this is my first time writing for him so I hope he’s in character enough !

“look at me."

his voice is gentle, patient with the distress that paints your features. blood runs over your skin like sweat, leaving a gruesome sheen as you grasp unsteadily for him. gojou gives you his hands without a second thought. the sight of you so frightened leaves him breathless.

“look at me. please.” he repeats, urging you on as your lip quivers. your entire body shakes as you say,

“i can’t."

your sudden sob startles him, hands gripping yours tightly. the words confuse him. he means to ask you, but the moment you raise your head, any question he might have had dies in his throat. for the first time, gojou satoru is left completely speechless.

dark blood pools unforgivingly into bright irises, physical evidence of your bad run-in with the special grade curse he’d just dealt with on your behalf. but as he stares at the way the red covers the expanse of your eyes, he feels hopeless. something in him breaks as your fingers tighten around his.

you wail softly as your nails leave angry half moons in his skin. he doesn’t mind the pain.

“...i can’t see you."

almost a year after the battle that had cost you your sight, your eyes had settled into a cooler gray tone, the vessel that had originally bursted settling low — useless for all but a story.

you tell your tale as one of advice, a lesson to someone who could perhaps benefit from your mistakes. a preliminary caution to anyone that might ask why you wear two eye patches. but gojou doesn’t miss the way your shoulders square, nor the way you take a few seconds too long to catch your breath every time you inevitably share it.

as someone who had stayed close to you during your recovery, gojou believed he could tell it just as well on his own by now. though the story still never ceased to make him sick; to bring up the image of your shaking form and blood-soaked face; to remind him of how it felt to lose a part of someone, a feeling he’d tried so hard to forget.

but there were things neither of you could truly forget, impacting your lives in ways that were simply unavoidable: not only as a human, but also as a jujutsu sorcerer. while handy with your usual method of choice, there was an undeniable disadvantage you had when faced with the threat of a curse.

instead of throwing yourself into the fray as you once had preferred, you were now forced to succumb to a disability that impacted the very things that grounded your soul.

but it’s with gojou’s guidance that you’re still able to hold a weapon at all.

it’s his voice that finds you when you begin to panic, to let the frustration of blind get to you.

“you fight with that thing on willingly when I don’t have a choice?"

“that’s not fair! you know the blindfold is just a cosmetic choice, don’t you?"

you can hear the way his lips purse in the playful tone of his voice. his footsteps pad lightly on top of the dirt of the training ground as he takes a step back, giving you a chance to loosen the grip on the weapon in your hand.

you resist a groan. of course you know it isn’t, but you choose not to say anything.

“I’m waiting for the day someone comes and knocks you off your pedestal, satoru. unless you enjoy the feeling of fighting blind?"

he hums. “thrilling, isn’t it?"

you let out a laugh of disbelief. “masochist."

it’s his rough fingers that intertwine with yours that keep you grounded in moments you feel like letting everything go.

too many nights do you find yourself sitting awake in a cold sweat, the residual shapes and colours from your dream fading as a vast nothingness takes its place. the frustration is heartbreakingly fresh as you silently beg for another moment of clarity, only to receive no response.

a sob bubbles up in your chest as you try hard to suppress it. the world feels as if it’s suddenly crumbing around you before you feel a limp hand reach over to catch yours.

gojou doesn’t say anything, but you know he’s awoken and looking at you.

carefully, you let your opposite hand find his shoulder as you twist to lay into him. he takes you without qualms, holding you close with one hand on your back while the other doesn’t leave yours.

after a few minutes of quiet cries, a finger trails up and down your back in a soothing nature.

“nightmare?” he asks.

you shake your head, letting out a strained breath.

“..I dreamt that I could see again."

gojou is silent at this. his hand squeezes yours tightly.

“I don’t—“ you cut yourself off, pursing your lips as to fend off another onslaught of tears. “I-I keep… I keep forgetting what your eyes look like—"

a sob tears from your throat as you curl around him. in that moment, gojou is almost glad that you can’t see the forlorn expression he wears.

but above all, it’s his unwavering support and will to stay by your side. had he not been there in that moment, there’s a part of you that doubts you would have found the will to make it out at all.

“i think i want to wear a blindfold.” you speak quickly, as if embarrassed, but the words pique your boyfriend’s interest immediately. gojou covers his cerulean eyes for his own reasons, but the idea of extending his odd custom to you is exciting.

hearing him sit up straighter next to you, you shift away, face heating just imagining the expression on his face. it’s exactly as you think — the grin stretching his lips is so wide it transcends the boundaries of nature.

“ah,” gojou hums, the child-like laugh that escapes him as he rises infectious. gojou carefully lends you his hand. the simultaneous absence and ever-flowing presence of infinity from beneath them mind numbing.

“you’re a good student, you know;” he gushes as he normally does, but the small hint of sweetness that lines his voice is like a quirk reserved for only you. “to follow in your teacher’s footsteps."

“think what you want, but do you know how hard it is to put on two eyepatches while blind?"

you say this, but can’t resist a laugh as he pulls you forward into him. gojou lands a chaste kiss on your forehead as he sets a comfortable pace you rely on him to keep. you trust him more than anyone to do so, just as you always have.

“well then,” he lets go of your hand when you reach your destination, recognisable as his office by the warm smell of wood and spring breeze through a cracked window. “allow me to be the one to make it easier."

gojou takes your wrist and puts what you assume is a blindfold in your hand. you poke around at it clumsily for a moment, trying to find the opening in the pool of fabric. when you can’t, he doesn’t become impatient. instead, he teases you and takes your hand in his, guiding you to the right places.

from there, you’re able to discard the eyepatches you wear, baring your eyes to the daylight. your innate senses don’t seem to pick up the way gojou stares at you, gaze swimming between glancing from your smile to your eyes. he’s prideful in the notion you’re able to smile in such a way again.

as you slip the fabric over your eyes, it bunches around your ears and fits awkwardly at the neck. but your smile is dazzling nonetheless, as if you couldn’t be happier.

“this will help, I think.” you say, still busy adjusting the fabric as you think aloud. “with my sight completely restricted like this, my other senses should be able to grow even stronger."

perhaps you’d never noticed, but goujou is already well aware of the way you’d adapted in the recent months. whether in the way you immediately resort to touch to identify things, or how you’re able to hear virtually anything — it sets a small buzz of hope aflame in his chest to have been able to witness such changes.

“stronger senses, huh?” gojou’s tone is suggestive as he pulls you in by your waist, head tilting down into yours. “does that mean what I think it does?"

when you laugh and string your arms around his shoulders, he smiles along.

“pervert."

anyone only listening to the conversation might assume you’re losing patience with the man in front of you, but the grin on your face is unmistakable. what your eyes can longer show seeps through in the gentle way you pull him down for a hug, and is returned in the arms that hold you tight.

[pi-cat000]

BNHA: Kakashi dimension hops crossover (2)

Summary: Kakashi gets dumbed into the My Hero Academia universe through random plot devise.

Characters:  Kakashi Hatake

Fandoms: My Hero Academia and Naruto

WARNINGS: Mentions of violence/injury

... PREV / NEXT

...

Life in his hospital bed passes slowly while he waits for his chakra to replenish. Always a sluggish process for Kakashi. With nothing to do, nowhere to go and a significant lack of motivation to find either, there is a lot of time to think. Too much time. With what was shaping up to be the fourth great shinobi war, there was no time for reflection or resting. To suddenly have this much downtime thrust upon him is throwing him through a loop. And he doesn’t even have his periodic trips to the memorial as a distraction. If only Sakura could see him now, resting and recuperating like a good injured shinobi.

Doctor Wada, the ever-attentive physician, returns a few more times to ask more questions and offer more reassurances. He seems set on his theory that Kakashi’s yet to be properly identified quirk was the cause of his memory problems. Kakashi runs through a sweet of memory and vision tests. A baseline for later testing when his eye is healed he is told.

“The police have a few questions regarding your situation. With your permission, they would like to conduct an interview,” says Wada on Kakashi’s third day of being officially awake, “Of course, as your doctor, I have the final say in the matter so if you would rather wait just say the word.”

Kakashi gives another bland smile, “Ah, you are too kind.” Police…as in, an authority the dealt with civilian conflict? “I think I’ll answer their questions. Wouldn’t want to stall an investigation.”

He had been wondering when or if he would be investigated. How similar would it be to Kohoha’s internal police force?

“Humph. If you think you’re ready for it.”

He maintains his smile. It was as good an opportunity as any to continue gathering information with the bonus of breaking up the monotony of waiting in a hospital bed for his injuries to heal. Doctor Wada spends the rest of the check-up muttering about pushy police officers and how underappreciated his medical opinion was.

..

The two men that come to question him are wearing matching uniforms which are very telling of the sort of organisation they belong to. White and dark blue. Not made to camouflage or reinforce. Restrictive seaming around the arms, preventing any extreme movement. Their shoes are sturdy but inflexible with heavy soles. Manurable but not designed for any excessive combat. Not a uniform you would give a force intended to physically subdue threats. Whereas Konoha’s police force was comprised mainly of genin and chunin, these men were closer to civilians in pure physical ability. Ah, but he is beginning to suspect that this was the norm here. The people here were softer in a way that was hard to define. 

Kakashi watches them approach, seated upright in his bed, hands resting loose in his lap, aiming it create an impression harmlessness. One good thing to have come from agreeing to this interview was getting his own private hospital room. Now there was no one around to raise an alarm if something went wrong and he was forced to act.

“Good morning,” The older one of the two starts, politely dipping his head, “Kakashi was it?”

“Hmm,” he smiles, “Morning.” There is a pause like they are waiting for him to give his last name. He doesn’t.  

“Well,” The man clears his throat, “I am officer Takata Toyokazu, currently in charge of investigating the circumstances surrounding the assault on your person.” An ID card, very similar to Konoha’s own ID cards is presented, “This is my partner. We’re from Hosu’s Central Police and we have a few questions if you don’t mind answering them for us.”

“Ah,” Kakashi eyes the ID, lamenting the fact that his sharingan is covered under a swatch of bandages and thus inaccessible without obvious movement, “I am afraid my memory just isn’t all there. Apologies in advance if my responses are lacking.”

He lets a little humour leak into his tone. It was time to do a little prodding and gauged how this place's ‘police’ conducted their investigations.

“Yes. We were informed about your memory problems.” The two share an obvious glance and there is a definite note of scepticism there. “Nevertheless, any information would be appreciated.”

“Of course.”  He easily agrees, shrugging, projecting an air of casual nonchalance.

Takata blinks “Right,” and Kakashi can practically see his brain stalling, “Well, you were found on the corner of First and Eleventh street in Hosu’s Central Business District. Would you say this is accurate?”

Kakashi thinks for an exaggerated moment, “I do remember a lot of people. I think someone called for help?”

“You were picked up in an ambulance yes. Do you remember what happened before that?”

“Hmm, I was attacked…there were a lot of trees.” He nods like he has just delivered a useful bit of intel.

“Trees?” Is the deadpan response.

“You know…tall plants with leaves and a….”

“We know what trees are. So, you were in a place with a lot of trees before you were in Hosu’s business district.”

“Probably.”

“A park maybe? There are a few around Hosu. Do remember anything else. Distinctive landmarks?”

“Ah,” he waits for a beat, “No.”

Kakashi is the subject of a disbelieving squint. “No names. Streets. Nearby locations?”

“Nope. All gone.” He says cheerfully and Takata’s brow twitches into an irritated frown.

“You were admitted with multiple stab wounds. Do you remember how you got them?”

He shrugs, “A knife probably.”

“Well, do you remember anything about who was holding the knife?”

“OH!” The two men startle at this sudden exclamation, “It was a man.”

There are a few seconds of silence. “What did the man look like?”

“I don’t remember that bit.”

This time he gets a very obvious frown. Apparently, realising that the current line of questioning is getting them nowhere, the officer motions to his partner and is handed a large envelope. After some shuffling around, a paper file is produced and flipped upright in Kakashi’s direction. It is a photograph of kunai, shuriken, senbon, razor wire and assortment of other weaponry he carried around on his person. He had wondered what the hospital had done with his stuff.

“These are the weapons found on your person when you were admitted to hospital. All confiscated. It’s illegal to carry these sorts of thrown weapons and knives in Japan.”

He scans the photo with interest. The image has his weaponry all laid out in neat lines.

“Really?” He is not even faking his curiosity this time. No one carried around any weapons at all? That wasn’t just a trend limited to the hospital? 

“Yes.” Comes the short response, “what were you using them for.”

“Oh, I don’t remember,” he says gleefully, “How scary.” And gets another round of scowls. After doggedly refusing to give more than vague answers and misdirection, the two increasingly frustrated men prepare to leave.

“If you do remember anything, please call.” A small paper card displaying a string of numbers is presented to him. “You’ll have to come down to the station and give an official statement once the hospital clears you as well so don’t forget. We’ll  get in contact if any arrests are made regarding the perpetrator.”

Kakashi knows enough about investigations to recognise that one, the two standing next to his bed were searching for some specific information and had found Kakashi’s responses lacking, and two, they had no idea who Kakashi was and knew even less about how he might have gotten here.

In the end, they just leave. No threats. No mind games. No attempts to arrest or move him to a secure location for further questioning. Nothing. Kakashi follows after the pair, pausing behind his door to listen to the two talk just outside his room. Officer Takata is obviously angry going of his slightly uneven breathing.

“That was a waste of time,” he grumbles.

“Do you think he was lying?”

“Oh, that smiley bastard definitely knows something more than he is letting on. Tch. Memory problems my ass…”

The is a pause before the younger man asks, “still think it’s connected to that Hero Killer sighting from a few days ago?”

“If he is telling the truth then no. The stabbing lines up with the Hero Killer’s MO but the target is all wrong. There is no Kakaski with a ‘sharingan’ quirk listed on the Registry or as any Hero, Sidekick or Hero agency employee. If he did have a run-in with the Hero Killer, it wasn’t targeted. Probably annoyed the guy into stabbing him if anything.”

There is the sound of footsteps as the two men begin to retreat down the hall.

“A dead-end then.”

“Yeah, looks like it.”

“What a shame. I thought for sure, what with the extent of the injuries, that this was a Hero Killer case. Perhaps it was another Villain? Or a vigilante maybe?”

“Who though? Hosu doesn’t have any active Vigilantes or big-name Villains. Not ones who go around stabbing people to that extent. You saw the hospital report. The man was seconds away from bleeding out and that head wound was obviously aimed at disabling his quirk.”

“Tch. Without any leads, we have nothing to go on. And if Kakashi is a Villain or criminal himself, there’s no evidence and nothing we can pin him with other than a fine for carrying banned weaponry.”

The voices grow fainter as the two walk further away from his room. They seemed suspicious but not overly concerned with Kakashi’s lies so it is not a huge surprise that nothing came of the interview. Despite their obvious irritation, their response had been ones of mild annoyance and moderate distrust. If either of them had had a kekkei genkai it hadn’t been used. Perhaps, their abilities weren’t suited to interrogation. Kakashi had been obtuse enough that surely, they would have been tempted if it were a possibility. It does conform to a general trend in which people underestimate his threat level, treating him  like a civilian. It was probably for the best.

Kakashi returns to his bed and stares at the paper card with the numbers. Obviously, they expected him to know what to do with it. Something to do with communication. Probably related to the small plastic devices nearly everyone in the building carried and spoke into on occasion. A radio of some sort. He had seen a few with numbers running across them. 

From the exchange, he has a few more points to consider and mull over. Villain. Hero. Vigilante. He knows these terms, has heard people in his ward mention them before and knows they are important in some way.

…

Having a new room meant he needed to relearn everyone’s schedules.  While doing so, he finally pinpoints why the people here feel so off. They lacked a level of…weariness…vigilance…that was both hard to describe and hard to notice until it wasn’t there anymore. Kakashi eyes the young nurse as she enters his room yawning, fixing her hair up as she walks, talking over her shoulder at someone behind her.

He had always thought the civilians of Kohoha lived free from most trouble. Not completely relaxed but still having a calm enough life. Well, calm when the village wasn’t being invaded. Now, he is revaluating that opinion.  When compared with these people, Kohoha civilians were stiff, suspicious, almost paranoid. Konoha’s people had hardiness to them, a useful trait when living in a Hidden-Village. They were especially wearily when it came to interacting with shinobi no matter how banally and harmless the shinobi acted. It was an attitude to be expected when there was a very real chance of deadly injury should the shinobi be unfriendly or unstable. A very real possibility with all the war and ever-present threat of enemy invasion and chakra monster attacks.  

Or maybe that was just his own experience as he never really interacted with many civilians and he his reputation wasn’t great.

“Hello Kakashi, how are you this evening,” The nurse greets him with a relaxed grin. He gives his bland smile and watches as she checks the various medical apparatus around Kakashi’s bed.

“I talked to the ward supervisor about your television. It should be working now.”

“Is it?”

Kakashi knows what a television is…they had a few of them in T&I, used for surveillance, and for a few more for monitoring remote training grounds like 44’s Forest of Death.

“Here is the remote. There are quite a lot of channels so now you’ll have something to keep you entertained.” He stares at the metallic rectangle object. He thinks that there might be a cultural difference between his understanding of a television and the nurse’s because watching an interrogation was never something he found particularly entertaining.

“Maybe it will help jog your memory as well.” The nurse gives him an encouraging smile before returning to her work.

Kakashi examines the object, bemused, “Ah, thank you Ms.”

“My name is Iori Ie I handle this ward on weekday evenings. I’ll be happy to answer any other questions if you have any. Anything to make this transition process easier.” She is sincere in her next assurance, “Just you wait, by the time your injuries are healed, we’ll have you right back up to speed.”

Television is…interesting and somewhat baffling. It’s not that Kakashi hasn’t seen examples of this sort of technology before now, it is just the availability and use he finds strange. Whereas a sensible village might hoard any new technology of its own use, here it is distributed and shared without limit. There was one of these things in every patent’s room! The same went for the information it communicated. Information so undervalued there was almost too much of it. Kakashi gives up trying to make sense of anything a few days into gaining access to the television and its hundreds of ‘channels,’ pumping out a constant stream of information. Some of it was obviously fictional, movies, entertainment, but most of the time it was hard to tell if what he was looking at was staged or if he was misreading a cultural difference. There were ‘channels’ devoted to daily status updates, delivering ‘news’ on everything from the weather, local politics, villain attacks, general crime and everything in between.

One thing he does confirm is that he is nowhere near any hidden villages or even on the continent, maybe not even in the correct world. This place was separate. This village or city as it was called, consisted of millions in a country of billions. There were more people in ‘Hosu’ than there were in the whole Fire Country. A logistics nightmare for sure. No wonder security was so lax around the hospital. Kakashi shakes his head and ends up switching off the television. Never would he have thought that having too much intel could be a bad thing.

“Ms Iori how would I go about getting something to read,” he asks the next day. She seems to be genuinely happy about his sudden sudden request. Kakashi hasn’t spoken or interacted much since waking, to busy trying to gauge whether the people surrounding him were threats.

He ends up with a pile of old manga volumes detailing the heroic adventures of some up and coming Hero protagonist and a stack of thin ‘magazines’ belonging to the nurse’s grown up son. The magazines are full of Hero analysis, speculation, and rumour like some sort of super detailed self-defeating bingo-book.  He just…doesn’t understand why anyone would let this sort of information circulate.

At least now he has a better idea about what a Hero and Villain was. A Hero was this word’s shinobi equivalent- if shinobi went out of their way to draw attention to themselves- acting more like a police force in that they managed threats to civilians instead of taking commissions and repelling external threats. Actually, they were nothing like Shinobi apart from their use of blood line abilities in combat. A Villain was like a missing-nin, hiding among the ridiculously large civilian population…sort of…

He needs to start working on a way home because he definitely doesn't understand this world.

...

NOTE: When Kakashi discovers the internet his brain will explode. 

PREV / NEXT

[mymelodyheart]

Miles Between Us Chapter 12 ~Obstacle Course ~

Previously in Suspicious Minds ...

Caught up in the awkwardness of the moment, Claire bit her bottom lip. "Well, I guess that's settled then. We best get going before Mary does something like bite some poor soul's head at the airport." Claire's attempt to sound cheerful lessened the tension in the air but not the one on Jamie's shoulders. She turned to him and tried to take her bags off his hands, but he couldn't seem to let go. "Jamie ...my bags," she whispered, her hand running up and down his forearm as if to tell him everything was going to be alright.

But instead of giving Claire's bags back to her, he begrudgingly handed them to Christie. They had a few seconds of stare off until Claire's hands on his face forced him to look at her.

"Jamie, kiss me, goodbye?"

He didn't hesitate at her request and sucked on her bottom lip as she made a sobbing noise. That wee noise she made jolted something free inside of him, and he, too, wanted to cry. He couldn't remember wanting to openly cry before. Not like this. He couldn't control it, stealing oxygen from his lungs, but Claire's touches soothed him. 

  If you wish to read this on AO3, here is the link.

If you wish to read this from the beginning:

AO3 link

Tumblr link

"The monster is only scary while it is in the closet.

Once in the light,

you can see its many flaws

and weaknesses.

And often,

we end up laughing,

at what we shield our eyes from

no more."

-Tom Althouse

 Meticulously scanning the busy vicinity, Claire stopped in the middle of the airport's arrival area and whirled on the spot, impatiently tapping her phone against her thigh. Come on, Hawkins, where the bloody hell are you?  Though she and Tom were painfully late, she didn't want to blame their tardiness on Jamie, so instead, she held the gridlock on the motorway and the rain responsible. And whyever not? If it hadn't been for Mary coming to Inverness unannounced, she would be with Jamie right now, making up for lost time and talking about his therapy from this morning. Why in heaven's name had the responsibility of Mary landed on her shoulder of all days? She sighed. It must be another perk of being John Grey's ultra-reliable and never-can-say-no star employee, she reminded herself with an inward groan. 

On the way to the airport, Claire had been quiet throughout the drive and was grateful to Tom for not prodding about what happened. To her relief, he'd just given her an understanding smile and drove. Thinking of Jamie's tortured face when he'd arrived at the cottage, it had taken a lot of willpower on her part to get into the car and leave him by the roadside looking after her with a forlorn expression. His words had played on repeat until she had to do a mental scold to remind herself she had work to do and assured herself she'd see him soon enough. She'd wanted him to be alright before she left to ensure him she hadn't changed her mind about them. Though she'd hurt not hearing from him after he'd disappeared, she knew his actions had been done in consideration of her, and that notion prevented her anger from taking over. Her feeling of abandonment over what he'd done was also tempered with her annoyance at Jenny. Jamie's sister's meddling was just so wrong on all sorts of level. In the middle of Jamie leaving her, Willie checking to make sure she was alright, and Jenny coming this morning, she'd gone back and forth between a place of strength and feeling like a lamb in the eye of a hurricane. But now, as she attempted to find the anger, the rage she'd felt after discovering the newspaper clipping about her house in Jenny's possession and the interference with Jamie's love life, she couldn't find it anymore.

Sensing Tom approaching, she recentred herself and smiled in his direction. "There you are.".

"Any luck?" he asked, coming to stand next to her and looking around.

"Nope," she replied, pressing her fingers to her forehead and massaging a sudden ache as she was reminded of the reason why they were there. "How did you get a parking space so quick?"

"I have my ways." When she arched an eyebrow, he grinned at her. "I have a disabled parking permit."

Claire stopped and glared at him. "Tom!"

He ignored her disapproving expression and shrugged. "So, who are we looking for?"

She shook her head and looked around for Mary once more. It shouldn't be this difficult to spot her because she usually stood out. "An overdressed, attractive petite brunette with loads of attitude," she replied, absentmindedly. "And probably with a trolley full of luggage."

More people walked past them making their search more difficult. She was about to make another phone call to Mary when Tom whistled under his breath. "Weel, weel," he murmured, his gaze ticking past her shoulder and turning thoughtful. "I wonder if the lass walking towards us is yer Hawkins." His lips twisted into a smile. "She looks mighty pissed."

"Wot?" She spun around and drew her brows together as she saw a familiar figure approaching them. What the hell? Is that Mary? It could only be her. The woman struggling with an oversized suitcase on wheels stood out like a mini bolt of lightning in her designer four-inch heels, pristine, skinny white jeans and black fur-lined down jacket. But there was something different about the way Mary looked, and it took a few seconds before Claire realised she had done something to her hair. She nearly gasped out loud. But as soon as Mary made eye contact, Claire immediately braced herself for some telling off for being late. Mary stopped, her mouth opening and closing as if she couldn't find the words to voice her displeasure. Claire schooled her features and met her leaden glare without flinching. "Mary? I hardly recognised you."

Mary's brown eyes prettily widened, and her expression softened as some kind of realisation dawned on her. "Oh! Of course ...you couldn't have." A sound of delight puffed out of her. "I had my hair done in Paris. Now we have the same curls. If only I was as tall as you, we'll probably be mistaken as sisters." She missed Claire's intake of breath as she ran her delicate fingers through her locks. "Do you like it?"

No, I don't! What have you done to your beautiful hair? You look like a poodle! Claire swallowed hard, tilted her head to her side, and contemplated the best way to tell Mary the truth. But she didn't have the heart to say it. Instead, she opted for something closer to the truth. "Well, for starters, it looks unusual. I'm so used to seeing your beautiful straight hair. I guess it will take time getting used to," she admitted. But when a slight frown drifted across Mary's face, Claire felt bad. Taking a deep breath, she laughed nervously as she fluffed her own hair. "Look at these ...after all these years, I'm still not used to mine, and I have a bit of hate relationship with it, especially when it gets humid or when I looked at the mirror first thing in the morning. So bear with me if I'm not much into curls."

It took Mary a long time to respond. "Oh, well," she replied with a subdued smile. "You should have seen John's face when he first saw my hair. He looked shocked." She shrugged. "But in the end, he did say it was beginning to grow on him. I guess everyone's used to my limp, lifeless hair."

Ah, bless John. Claire knew his expression wouldn't have been able to hide what was on his mind, and it wouldn't have bode well for him if Mary had been able to read his face. Mary was their star author whose new book could likely save his publishing company from potential financial ruin, and anyone pointing out her disastrous new hairstyle would probably only result in tantrums and more delays in publication. She sighed. "It wasn't limp, Mary. You had beautiful, straight hair. You have no idea what I would give to have manageable straight hair like what you had." And that was the truth.

Mary perked up a bit and rolled her eyes. "Oh, God, don't make me like you even more."

They shared a slow smile, and Claire was about to make a different compliment that didn't include Mary's hair when Tom cleared his throat and stepped forward, giving them a charming smile. "Ladies, sorry to interrupt, but shall we get cracking? My car is not parked in the most ideal of places."

"Oh, of course, I'm so sorry ..." Claire had almost forgotten about Tom, too fascinated by Mary's new hairstyle. She gave him an apologetic look and turned to Mary. "Oh, by the way, may I introduce you to ..." she trailed off and stopped.

Mary's expression looked like the heavens had just opened up and bestowed them an angel. Her lips moved, but no sound came, but when she did finally found her voice, it sounded raspy. "Is this your Jamie that John was talking about?"

Claire pried Mary's hand from her suitcase. "No, this is Tom. He's offered to drive me here to pick you up."

Tom grinned and offered his hand in greeting. "A pleasure to finally meet ye, Mary. I've read a couple of yer books, and I must say, not only are ye a talented writer but a beautiful one too."

Claire mentally groaned but kept the frustration from her face at bay. Tom must have noticed Mary's reaction and had taken his flirting a notch higher. When Mary continued to stare, Claire gently nudged her with her elbow. "Mary. Shake Tom's hand, and let's go."

Mary shook her way out of her trance and smiled. "Oh, I think this is going to be a very, very interesting visit," she gushed, finally back to her being her old self again. But instead of shaking Tom's hand, she hooked her arm into his, leaving Claire with the suitcase. "So Tom ...can you recommend a perfect place to eat? I'm quite famished and can't work on an empty stomach."

Tom obliged and patted Mary's hand. "Dinnae fash, I ken just the place."

With that, Mary looked over her shoulder and winked. All Claire could do was smile back and hope they would be able to get some work done. Because if not, and there's any more cause to delay Hawkin's books, come hell or high water, she's quitting Dreamweaver.

...........

Two Days Later

Stepping out of the shower, Jamie immediately zeroed in on his phone just in case he'd missed a call from Claire. They'd briefly talked last night, and she'd reminded him of uncle Lamb's arrival, which should be between now and the evening. If all goes to plan with Mary Hawkins, Claire should be coming back too. Hopefully, tonight, he thought with a sigh. It was already late Saturday afternoon, and his work was done for the weekend. Plenty of time left to get his shit together. 

Since Claire had left for Inverness, he hadn't had time to think. His brother had kept him busy with tasks and paperwork, and, on top of it all, he'd been distracted trying to comfort a distressed sister. Jenny had told him what had transpired between her and Claire. And how she'd been out of her mind, thinking she'd ruined their relationship. He'd consoled her, and in turn, she'd apologised profusely for her meddling. Her sincerity had touched him, but moreover, he couldn't help feeling amused at the thought of Jenny finally meeting her match. Though Claire was a gentle and thoughtful soul, he knew she was not the type to be bossed around. And in as much as he loved his sister, he was glad Claire put Jenny in her place and hoped after everything had been said and done, they can all move on from that incident and forgive.

Despite barely having time to be alone with his sometimes chaotic thoughts, he'd still managed to feel anxious about Christie. Jamie learned he hadn't returned to Broch Mordha, which led him to ponder if Christie was spending time with Claire. It was a lapse of insecurity, and that notion had been rubbished straight away since he knew how important Claire's work was to her. So there should be no pressure on his chest or icy tingling along his spine. 

There shouldn't be, but somehow there was.

Jamie was just shrugging into a fresh sweatshirt when his doorbell rang. He glanced at the wall clock and wondered who it was. Claire hadn't given a specific time for Quentin's arrival, and if it had been her at the door, she should've let herself in with the spare key he'd given her.

"Coming!" he shouted as the doorbell rang once more. He took a deep breath expecting uncle Lamb to be standing out there. Bracing himself. he flung the door open and was surprised to see who it was. "Ge- ... I mean Dr Dunsany!"

"Hi, Jamie!" Geneva greeted. "You may call me Geneva, you know ...since we're not in my office. May I come in?"

Jamie narrowed his gaze and looked past her shoulder. He could see Mrs Fitz from across the street pretending to fuss over some leaves in her garden when really he could tell she's prying into his business. There were talks already surrounding Claire being seen with Tom, and it wouldn't do him good if words of Geneva coming to his cottage got around, no matter how innocent the visit was. He gave Geneva an apologetic smile. "I'm sorry, I'm kinda busy," he withdrew, glancing casually at his watch. "I ... there's... I'm expecting a visitor. "

"Oh! But this won't take long." She stood there with laid back confidence that lured most men to look their fill. He neutrally eyed the slim-fitting turtle neck that hugged her breast and tight jeans that hung low, her scarlet painted lips pursed in a pretty pout. "I wanted to talk about the session we had the other day," she added quickly.

Jamie crossed his arms across his chest. "Couldn't this wait until our next appointment?"

She took a cautious step closer, her expensive scent drifting in the air. "I'd rather talk about it now. This is just not about your therapy." Her blue eyes seductively landed on his lips. "I want to discuss something personal too."

"Sorry, personal won't do, I'm afraid. Ye're my therapist."

"Jamie, how long have we known each other?"

"Long enough ..."

She smiled, her hand brushing something away from his shoulder. "What's wrong? Surely your girlfriend won't mind your therapist coming over to check up on your progress, will she? We live in a small place, and we all know each other here."

"Her name is Claire ..."

"And I heard she's with Tom? Is that right?"

He smothered a sigh as he could tell what this was all about. Though Geneva was an attractive lass, he'd always only felt a minor buzz for her, which paled to the mind-blowing reaction Claire caused with just a single look. Where Claire was never more than anything but herself, Geneva always tried too hard. And it wasn't just all physical with Claire. It was their connection to each other's mind and soul. The way she made it easy for him to allow her to see his vulnerability and the way she'd let him in when no promises had been made on his part when they first met. Thinking back to the other day, he shook his head. He'd known the steaming anger that had risen within him when he'd first heard of Claire meeting with Tom and how that rumour almost made him lose his sense of judgement. He could not allow room for any gossip to go around, especially when Claire was away. Geneva should definitely not come in. 

"Look, as ye can see, I'm fine. I dinnae think it's a good idea us meeting like this. Let's keep personal stuff away and keep this professional, aye?"

She took a while to accept his dismissal. Sheer frustration swept over her face before she managed to compose herself. He tried to offer any semblance of an apology, but she cut him off. "I'm the one who understands your condition and how tough it is to live a normal life with your PTSD. And I know better than anyone else right now how to handle it."

Irritation coasted down his back. "There's no doubt you're a brilliant therapist, Geneva. But I am much more than a textbook scenario. Something Claire has always understood."

"But for how long, Jamie?"

"That is none of your concern," he said cooly. "Now, please go as I have things to do."

Her back straightened with steely dignity, and Jamie could tell every movement was measured to create the most dramatic effect. It was another detail he found unattractive and probably why he'd never acted on Geneva's crush for him. "Here's my theory," she began in a low voice. "You're just with her because you needed to fix someone, and she fits the bill. That's what you've been doing all your life - fixing everyone's problem. You'll never be happy, Jamie, if you keep repeating the same pattern over and over again."

He swallowed his anger. "How I choose to live my life is my concern, and if it means repeating the same pattern, then so be it. Forcing me to see things the way you want me to will only piss me off. So while I still have patience, please go."

He took a tentative step backwards, waiting for her to leave so he could close the door. Instead of walking away, she took him by surprise and threw herself against him, looping her arms around his neck and pressing her lips against his.

Christ! Repelled by the assault, he grasped her shoulder and pushed her away. "What the bloody hell was that?" he gritted angrily.

Face red, she squared her shoulders and looked him straight in the eyes. "Mark my words, it's just a matter of time before Claire is unable to deal with your PTSD anymore. I know the pattern, and I've seen it a million times. Most men with this condition end up alone because no one fully understands the extent of what they go through. Oh sure, the people in their lives say they understand but do they really? It's a scary thing for most and an uncomfortable situation to live in. As for me ... I know, and I understand, and I can handle it because I've studied and worked with people like you. And when that day comes, and she leaves you for good, know that I'll be here waiting." 

"Just because you know my history, it doesn't make ye an expert in knowing how my life will turn out to be. And ye don't know a thing about Claire, her heart, her resilience ..."

She snorted in disgust. "You just wait and see." With that, she turned around and walked off. 

He almost choked. Has the lass gone mad? His skin crawled with icy foreboding as he glanced across the street, his eyes searching for his neighbour. To his relief, Mrs Fitz was no longer stood in the garden to witness Geneva's kiss. A sudden ugly thought came to him, and he wondered what Claire would do if she'd been in his position. Jamie shook his head and immediately dismissed the notion. Tom wouldn't dare. Jamie had already made sure, loud and clear, that Claire was off-limits.

When Geneva's kiss drifted back to the forefront of his mind, he grimaced. His first impulse was to ignore the whole incident. But on second thoughts, he should tell Claire in case words of it reached her before he could explain. He wasn't a hundred per cent sure no one had witnessed that weird occurrence, and if someone did, it would surely be tonight's topic on every dinner table in Broch Mordha. Worriedly, he glanced up and down his street and only saw an unfamiliar car and driver on the phone. Probably Mrs Fitz's new guest, he figured. Satisfied with that thought, he shut the door.

Attempting to get his composure back before he called Claire, he headed for the sideboard in his dining area, grabbed a bottle of whisky, and poured himself a measure. He threw back a shot, his eyes watering slightly in deference to the burn that slid down his throat. He was about to pour another one when the doorbell rang. Again.

What does she want now? He slammed the glass down on the dining table and made his way back to the door. This time he was going to tell Geneva to cancel his therapy appointment. The lass was mad, and he hadn't known the extent of it until today. He'd always thought of her crush for him as a harmless fancy, but obviously, with Jenny's meddling, she'd set her hopes up. This time, he's had enough. With irritation simmering in his guts, he opened the door ...

And was met by an imposing figure obstructing the daylight. 

Jamie heard an unintelligible grunt in greeting, and the smell of tobacco invaded his nostrils. He peered at the face, but it was shadowed by a wide-brimmed fedora hat and several days worth of stubble. He blinked to rid the cobwebs threading patterns on his brain and forced his body to straighten to its full height.

"What's that on your mouth?" the man growled.

What the ...? "Quentin?" 

"You got lipstick on!"

Horror swooped in as Jamie realised he was still exhibiting the evidence of Geneva's kiss. He immediately swiped the back of his hand across his mouth and instantly felt nauseated when he saw the smudged scarlet on his knuckles. Jesus! "It's not ... it's..."

"It's not my niece's," the older man finished with a cock of his bushy eyebrow.

"It's not mine either," Jamie retorted without thinking. Ah, bloody fuck! "I mean ... it's not what ye think."

"I would certainly hope it's not yours." Quentin narrowed his eyes at him, taking his measure. Jamie did the same to him. He wondered what the man was thinking, but Claire's uncle spoke again before he got a chance. "Well, are you letting me in, or are we just going to stare at each other like a couple of dafties?"

Who the fuck does he think he is? But he quickly reminded himself this was Claire's uncle, so he slightly softened his stance. Swallowing the sour taste in his mouth, Jamie took a step back and motioned Quentin into his home. "Come in." 

Ignoring Jamie's dark look, Quentin strode into his cottage, but he's brought up short when he saw the whisky and shot glass on the dining table. He plopped his sling bag onto the chair, opened it, pulled out a tequila bottle and placed it on the table. Then he turned around and slid his hands into his pockets. "You and I, lad, are going to talk before my niece arrives." 

Jamie shut the door and eyed Quentin, carefully pondering his words. As he'd suspected, Quentin was very much like Harry but with broader shoulders, an intense darker face, and eyes that seemed to flash with diabolical laughter. It was a face that had probably seen too much in his lifetime. All his mannerisms were large, confident and perfectly balanced, like those of a wild cat, and when he stood in his space like this, he appeared to be a wild animal held in a cage too inadequate for it. His features might be similar to Harry's, but yet, their difference was like night and day.

A scoff rasped his throat. "I've had enough forced therapy for the week, thank ye very much."

"If I didn't know you any better, I would have bloodied your nose after seeing that lipstick on your mouth."

"If ye're dying to punch me on the face, then give me yer best shot. I dinnae have to explain anything to ye. I've done nothing wrong."

"No, you haven't," Quentin sighed, nodding his head. "I saw what passed."

Jamie absorbed that while keeping his features impassive. "And yet ye're still judging me."

Quentin's mouth twitched, but his eyes remained serious. "I'm not."

"Right from the start, it felt like ye've been giving me the first degree."

Quentin disregarded his words with a shrug. "I was just making sure Claire's in good hands. She's all I have."

Jamie understood the sentiment. He would have probably done the same if he'd been in Quentin's shoes. Christ, hadn't he felt like committing murder when he'd first found out about Tom?

"We've met before, you know?" Quentin interrupted his thoughts.

Jamie's head shot up.

"Way before our video chat," the older man revealed. "But I figured you don't remember."

He didn't, so he shook his head.

Quentin took off his hat and slapped it against his thigh before placing it on the table. "Claire recently told me she just found out that it was you and your godfather, ...Murtagh...I believe his name was, who saved her from the car accident. She asked me if I knew." Quentin paused to discern Jamie's expression. When he couldn't seem to read anything, he proceeded. "I admitted I did and ..."

"Ye knew who I was?"

"No. Not until you told me your family name and mentioned Lallybroch near the end of our video chat. I thought Claire would be angry for not telling her, but she didn't say much else except that both of you have been clueless all these years. So if you have any questions about what happened, I'll fill in the void for you if it'll help you move on."

Jamie shoved a hand through his hair. Feeling suddenly restless, he went to the drinks' cabinet to retrieve shot glasses. He grabbed the tequila bottle, uncapped it, and poured two equal measures. "So now you want to diagnose me? Is that it?"

"Diagnose you for what?"

Jamie realised Quentin knew nothing of his condition. Claire hadn't told her uncle. He ignored the question and handed the shot to Quentin. "Why bring it up now?"

Quentin took the offered glass, raised a silent toast with Jamie, and simultaneously threw back the shot. They both flinched at the heat. "I owe you the truth," Quentin replied, placing the shot glass on the table. "Take it or leave it. I've been silent about it for years. Tell me what you remember, and I'll tell you everything you want to know."

Did he really want to know? The past would eventually catch up and come out, that much Jamie knew, so he might as well have it out in the open. Taking a deep breath, he paced to the window and with his back to Quentin, he began recounting what he could remember from the accident. He waited for the white noise or the torture to start swarming in his head, but to his astonishment, they never came. Though the memory of that fateful day was more vivid than ever, its power to hold him in a choke was diminished. The words flowed with ease, and it began to feel like he was describing someone else's story. When he was done, he turned around and saw just in time a shadow passed across the older man's face. He looked like ten years have been shaved off his life.

Quentin took a seat and clasped his hands together. "I lied to you the day when we first met."

Jamie stilled and looked at Quentin. "What do ye mean?"

"I was in Cairo when I heard the news of the accident. I immediately took the first plane out and headed here. I was told Claire was being taken care of by your parents and that both of you were inseparable. When I arrived at Lallybroch, you were holding Claire in your lap like she was the most precious thing." Quentin paused and smiled at the memory before descending back to that sad place in his head. "But when you laid eyes on me, that's when you lost it and started screaming. Claire screamed along with you ...God, it was awful. At that time, it hadn't truly sunk in what happened to my brother and his wife, and it was torture to see you kids in such pain." Quentin shook his head. "You were shouting something like ...I should be dead and that you've seen me go up in flames. You see, I've been told beforehand you'd witnessed the accident, and that's when it occurred to me you thought I was Harry. So I did what I thought was best at that moment ...I knelt before you and fibbed. Only because nothing could calm you down, and I wanted to ease your distress. I pretended to be Harry and told you I wasn't dead, and when you asked how I got away, I made up some story like managing to crawl out the last minute. Somehow that little white lie quieted you down."

"I honestly don't remember that part," Jamie whispered, taking a seat across from Quentin. "But in saying that, all the memories of that day are just beginning to resurface. I'm just starting to remember again. It all began when ..."

"When you met Claire for the second time," Quentin finished for him.

Jamie nodded with a small smile as he watched Quentin stood up and poured them another shot. 

Quentin gazed at him with all the seriousness. "May I ask you a question?" 

"Ask away." 

Quentin pushed the shot glass towards him. "What if, instead of Harry, you were the one that died that day?" He paused and looked directly into his eyes. "What do you think would you have missed in the years that came after?" 

Jamie frowned. "Why would ye ask such a thing?"

Quentin sighed. "Because lately, I've been asking myself the same question every day. I've searched for the answer going back through almost twenty years, and I've come up with almost nothing. Besides Claire coming into my life, I have nothing to show. Of course, there were a few memorable moments when I was granted an acknowledgement of merit for my work. And then there were a few rare occasions I got to spend time with Claire. But between those scraps of time, there's only a grey empty void. The rest of my days were spent going through the motions, keeping a barrier between me and the world. I realised, ever since my brother died, I've been living in fear that the same fate could befall me ... that's why I've never married. So you see now, Jamie, I haven't been living at all. And I don't want you to make that mistake."

Jamie gave a wistful smile. "I see that, and with everything happening, I'm just starting to understand. We all have to walk around lugging a past, getting from one step to the next. Just need a healthy way to release it, as Claire often reminded me enough." When Jamie saw Quentin nodding in agreement, he saw an opportunity. He cleared his throat and straightened himself. He'd just bonded with Claire's uncle, so surely that should mean something. "So ....Quentin," he began nervously, "does this mean ye're fine with me being with Claire?"

Claire's uncle went back to looking like he wanted to rip a head off. "No. I've just arrived after a long flight, and you haven't offered me anything. I haven't eaten in the last six hours, and you're asking me if I'm okay with you being with Claire? So far, all you've done is open the tequila bottle without thanking me for it and nought to impress me."

Ah, shite! Hearing that, he pushed himself to his feet. "I ken a few good places that serve excellent pub grub," he said rapidly.

"Do you not have food in your kitchen, lad?"

"Aye, I do, but since ye're starving, I thought it would be easier if we got something out," Jamie reasoned. "So, what do ye have in mind?"

Quentin glowered at him before slugging back the rest of his shot. "Somewhere where they serve greasy food."

Jamie stopped. "But Claire said yer heart ..."

"The greasier, the better," Quentin growled.

It was clear to Jamie he's still miles away from wholly winning over Quentin. He reckoned he's probably not going to win that battle today, and one plate of greasy food was not going to kill Claire's uncle. Ah, hell! Didn't his ma once said that the way to someone's heart is through one's stomach? There's a chance that this could still work. But before he could say anything, his phone buzzed, and he almost knocked over the chair, trying to grab it. "It's Claire."

Quentin rolled his eyes.

Jamie quickly read Claire's message and smiled. Ah, there's a God after all! He glanced up at Quentin. "She's coming back home tonight."

"I knew that! Now, how about that nosh you were on about."

"Aye ...right ...I ken just the place."

..........

Five Hours Later

"This is a shithole!" Quentin grumbled, slurring his words and shoving his unfinished plate of Bangers and Mash away from him.

Tough shite! Jamie glanced out the window and then looked back at the time on his watch. Damn it! A plate of food each, five pints of lager for Quentin and three pints for him later, still no word from Claire, and if she didn't come home soon, Quentin would drink him under the table. As it was, he's feeling rather tipsy already.

"You know what?" Quentin tipped the bottom of the pint glass in his direction. "Since we arrived here, you kept looking out that window every few minutes. Am I boring you, or is there something interesting out there? If so, care to share?"

Jamie blew out a breath. "Just wondering when Claire's coming home. Haven't heard from her since her last message.."

"Is that why you're looking outside? Does she know we're here?"

"No! Christie is bringing her back from Inverness." 

"Who's Christie?"

"Some bloke."

"So what's outside? You keep looking out there."

Damn, so many questions! Jamie pointed his finger towards the window. "See that red door over there? Christie lives in that building, first floor, window facing the street. We'd know when they've arrived."

"Is that why you brought me here so you could check every once in a while if Claire's arrived?"

The older man was on to him, but Jamie wasn't about to admit it. "You wanted greasy food, did ye not?"

Quentin shrugged without answering. 

Jamie checked his phone again and agitatedly rubbed a hand behind his neck. What's taking them so long? Wicked thoughts were beginning to seep in. Has Claire, by any chance, heard about Geneva's visit and kiss? It wouldn't be an impossibility as rumours tended to make their way out of Broch Mordha. A part of him knew that the alcohol was dulling his reason, so he mentally shook himself. He should have called Claire earlier, right after Geneva left and told her what happened, but of course, Quentin's arrival had interrupted him from doing just that.

"Stop fidgeting. You're making me nervous."

"I'm just worried Claire would hear about that kiss ye witness earlier before I get to explain myself." 

A heartbeat passed. For the first time since Jamie had known Quentin, his tough demeanour slipped, and something akin to amusement flashed through. "Don't worry. If she's heard about it, she would have given you her two pennies worth by now, and that's putting it mildly. Of course ...worst-case scenario, you'll end up with your ears ringing for days after she's done telling you off." He smirked and raised his pint to his lips, his actions revealing he was only teasing. Jamie reined in his frustration and let it go without comment.

Obviously emboldened by Jamie's silence, Quentin leaned forward. "So, have you bought flowers for Claire for when she returns?"

"No."

"Why not? It would help your cause in case Claire heard about that kiss."

Jamie glared at Quentin. "Thanks for rubbing that in. But I dinnae have time. I was too busy entertaining ye. Besides, I bought her fruits. She loves fruits. I even bought her a variety of them."

The older man's eyes bugged out. "She's got you eating healthy too, huh?"

"Nothing wrong with that," Jamie muttered. "She likes chocolates too. I got her a big box of it. Lindt."

Quentin glanced out the window to his side and perked up. "Hey, someone just went through that red door. I don't know what Christie looks like, but it could be anyone."

Jamie followed his gaze, and sure enough, the red door was just closing. He glanced back at his phone on the table, and though he knew he would hear the sound of notification, he still needed to look to assure himself. There was still no message.

"First-floor window light just went on," Quentin observed in a low voice. "That's Christie's place, right?"

His head snapped up. "What?"

"Oh, look, that's Claire, looking out. I know that hair anywhere."

Jamie looked and saw Claire just in time before she moved away from the window and pulled the curtain. He swallowed the odd lump in his throat. What the hell is she doing in Christie's place? Then it all came rushing in, in full force. He'd left Claire on her own because of his stupid panic attacks, and when he'd finally come to his senses, it was probably too late because Christie had already entered the picture. And now everything that Geneva had told him earlier was coming to fruition. No, no!

A split second later, Jamie burst out the pub's front entrance and ran across the street, Quentin not far behind him.

This cannae be happening. This is the worse nightmare ever. Ach Christ, please dinnae let this be true. Please. She's my lass. Mine. No, no, no. Oh fuck, I need her.

Thunder roared in his ears, and he'd only vaguely managed to process Quentin's remark on his overreaction and something about alcohol consumption. But all he could think of was how he and Claire needed to talk, now. He couldn't accept their relationship was over when it hadn't had a chance yet. 

Jamie stopped in front of Christie's building and looked up the window, shouting Claire's name, while Quentin manically pressed the buzzer for the first floor. A few passersby eyed them warily, and a voice called from somewhere, "what the bloody hell, Fraser!" probably thinking they'd gone off their nuts, but he couldn't give a fuck. His heart hammered wildly, unable to think straight. All he could see was Claire with Christie, together. He groaned miserably, the very thought chilling him to the bone. Oh, please, God no!

No one responded to Quentin's incessant buzzing, and when he tried to yank on the knob, it didn't budge. It remained lock.

Jamie gathered a few stones that he could find on the cobbled street and started pelting Christie's window, roaring Claire's name on top of his lungs. His effort was rewarded when the curtain slid open, and he saw Claire looking down, her hair all wild and loose. But by now, they've also attracted a wee crowd that stood in a semi-circle behind him. He didn't take notice and focused his attention on the woman above.

"Claire Elizabeth Beauchamp! Don't ye dare leave me!" He shouted. "We love each other, remember? I was a prick for leaving ye on yer own when ye came to Scotland to be with me. I promise ye this will never happen again. And whatever problem we have together, we can fix this. Ye understand me?" He fell on his knees, grateful for the pain shooting up his thighs because his heart was breaking into thousand pieces. "I ken I could be a selfless arse, but I'm working on being a better person for ye ...for us. We've only known each other for a short while, but it's enough for me to see that ye're the one for me. Forever. I love ye with all my heart, Sassenach, and I cannae imagine life without ye."

Jamie paused to get his breathing back to normal and give Claire a chance to respond. But she remained immobile and continued to stare down at him. The crowd behind whispered and tittered, probably thinking he'd finally lost all his marbles. He even heard someone murmuring about him having had a bit too much to drink. But he didn't care even when he saw Quentin's shaking head, most likely in disgust at him. A hand touched his shoulder, but he shrugged it off, only focused on getting through Claire. "What do I need to do to make ye, believe me, Sassenach? Ye ken, I'll do anything to prove to ye how much I love ye. Does he ken the things I do? Like ...like what song makes ye smile? I can sing it for ye if that's what it would take." When the silence lingered, except for the hush sounds from behind him, Jamie puffed out a silent curse. "Christ ... I'll do it. For ye, ye hear me? I'll sing that damn song. Just so ye ken, I meant every word I said." 

Then he stood up from his kneeling position and gave Rick Astley a run for his money. 

..........

Hands on her chest, Claire stood inert behind Jamie, listening with interest as he belted out Rick Astley's Never Gonna Give you Up in a scratchy voice. She tilted her head to the side and watched in fascination his stiff, sparse hip movement that went with his song. She'd wanted to alleviate Jamie's suffering and save him from further embarrassment, but midway through his moving speech, she'd caught a glimpse of her uncle. He'd given her a warning shake of his head, telling her to let Jamie finish pouring his heart out. So with a sigh, she stood back and waited. 

Oh, Jamie, Jamie!

This beautiful, rugged giant of a man and former SAS soldier was singing to her as though his life depended on it. How could he think she'd left him? She needed to put her arms around him and reassure him that he's the one for her too and that there's been nobody else but him.

"Jamie!" she rasped. When he didn't hear her, she cleared her throat and tried again. "Jamie! It's me, Claire!"

Jamie stopped and whipped around, his eyes taking her in, in total disbelief. "Sassenach?" he whispered. "It's ye."

Her throat constricted. "Uh-huh."

His head jerked back up to the window and then back to Claire. He looked as though he wanted to believe he was really seeing her but could not see past his fear just yet. "To whom the bloody hell was I proclaiming my love to then if ye were stood here all along?" he asked, throat working with emotion.

"You were singing to Mary Hawkins, Jamie," she croaked. "The star author of our publishing company."

"And what the hell is she doing up at Christie's place?"

Claire grimaced. This was really a sensitive subject, and they were talking about a public figure, and a small crowd was watching them. So she stepped closer and spoke in a low voice. "I think Mary and Tom have a thing for each other. And I have a sneaking suspicion ..." she glanced up at the window above where Mary still stood. "Tom is not going to be please when he finds out it was you who interrupted whatever they're up to."

"James Fucking Fraser!"

It was Tom, wherever he was shouting from. Jamie didn't wait to find out because, in one quick movement, he took Claire's hand and made short work of getting them into the dark alley to the applause and cheers of the bystanders. Laughing, they ran and ran until they were far away enough from prying eyes. And there in the darkened path, its only illumination coming from the full moon above, they found one another once again in each other's arms.

Dear Readers,

Firstly, thank you all for your feedback in the previous chapter. I'm going to keep this short as I still tire easily.

As I've mentioned before, I haven't been well the last few days; hence the delay for this instalment. I hope you enjoyed this one. If there are any inconsistencies and grammar mistakes, I blame them on my medication. Haha! 

So that said, thank you all for the messages on my Tumblr, your feedback and kudos on AO3, and mostly for your patience. Take care always of yourself, and keep spreading the love vibe! X

[scripttorture]

Do you have any advice for self-care to use specifically when you are angry and frustrated by torture apologia? Or even more so when being dismissed when confronting others because they think you are not smart, too emotional, not having enough applicable background, etc. I wanted to keep this general. I know you posted about taking breaks and keeping up your mental health but I could not find anything about ways to deal with anger that don’t involve confronting others, especially if it is culturally frowned upon. Thank you for your hard work with this blog.

Well duck, I uh mostly deal with anger by running this blog.

 I’m honestly not sure that I deal with anger well. I try and I’m working on it but I know I struggle to stay calm and polite when something infuriates me. I’m also a lot better at communicating in a helpful, patient and articulate fashion in writing then I am in person.

 Keep in mind that you do not have to have these conversations every time someone is spouting torture apologia.

 Spreading awareness is great! Educating others is great!

 But (and I really can not stress this enough) it is not your job to correct everyone. It is not your job to ‘fix’ people. It is not your job to persuade others they should care.

 Pick your battles. Engage with people who you think you can have a genuine conversation with. Remember that when you’re talking politics (and torture is political) then the aim is not to convert the people on the extreme ends: it’s to persuade the people who are on the fence.

 And if you really want to engage with people engage about the things they care about. If you’re talking to someone who believes in law and order or justice as retribution then talk about how torture puts police at risk and how it leads to innocent people landing in jail. If you’re talking to people who are concerned with safety in their neighbourhoods talk about how torture can serve as a recruiting factor for extremist groups and gangs. If they’re concerned about public health and the treatment of the mentally ill talk about how torture causes life long health problems and how that takes away from the economy.

 Aim at the level where people are willing to engage with you.

 If people take issue with your level of education or subject and question how you can know this stuff; act like an academic would. Cite your sources.

 ‘Well Rejali who studied this for years and created one of the most detailed analysis of global torture we have-’ ‘O’Mara, who studies the brain and how trauma impacts it,’ ‘Morgan, who put US marines through a mock interrogation with mild levels of stress and found-’ ‘Shalev who studies solitary confinement-’ ‘Sironi who is a psychologist and has interviewed hundreds of torturers-’ ‘Kara who produced the largest data base of interviews with modern slaves-’

 Repressing your anger, tapping it down, is not a good idea. As with most negative emotions it’s healthier to let yourself feel them and work through them.

 It’s also important to recognise that while there are real reasons for your feelings you can not always do anything about them. And there comes a point where you have to deal with that. The things that anger us and hurt us are not always things we can actually personally effect. Changing public opinion takes decades and is the work of thousands of people, not one individual.

 I feel like those of us who are not from the West have a bit of an advantage here, because sitting with that anger and learning when and how to put it aside is something you grow up with.

 Having support helps a lot. Having people you can talk to about this stuff is incredibly important. And I am so grateful to all of the people I know who support me in this: the court journalists, philosophers, writers and researchers who I can discuss this with. I also get a lot from reading about the successes around the world, modern or historical. They’re out there.

 Martial arts have also helped me a lot over the years. Capoeira helped me a lot but given the pandemic it isn’t a great idea right now. But a pair of boxing pads and a willing house mate are definitely a good way to get out some anger. Thumb on the outside of your fist, never inside your fingers. Keep it close to your body, fist at your hip, thumb upwards. Twist as you punch so your thumb faces down as you connect with the pad. Make sure to move your hips.

 Don’t do what I did at uni and try to use a pillow instead of proper pads. You’ll end up bruised.

 Right now, without a decent capoeira group and a lockdown in place, I do push ups.

 If you have a garden dig. Plant young trees, if you’re in the northern hemisphere (it’s the wrong time in the southern hemisphere.) Dig a vegetable patch. Make an area of wild flowers by cutting and tearing out the grass, raking the ground and scattering native plant seeds in the mud.

 Take all the electric whisks out of the kitchen and make a cake. Cream the butter until it feels like your arm will fall off.

 Make a curry from scratch without a blender. I use a granite pestle and mortar and it takes several batches and several hours to grind a proper paste. I’m a big fan of Matar Paneer and it freezes well giving some tasty work lunches for a week or so.

 Make bread. I’m not very good at this but the kneading, layering and mixing all take a lot of work. Which can be a very good outlet. I wish I could give you a paratha recipe but the truth is my skill level is no where near high enough to attempt the best breads. (I buy mine frozen.)

 The advantage I’ve found from all of these outlets is they’re constructive. Boxing and push ups will make you stronger, whatever skill level you start at. Gardening will give you fruit, vegetables or wonderful flowers in a few months time. It’ll give you new knowledge of plants. Cooking any of the things I’ve suggested will give you wonderful food and more skills.

 I always try to find something constructive to do with my anger. I think there’s a tendency to portray anger as bad in and of itself rather then having a conversation about how we act on our anger.

 I also can’t stress enough how writing can help. Fiction is an excellent way to process our feelings and express why we feel the way we do.

 The piece of fanfiction I’m currently writing has one of the characters dealing with a traumatic brain injury. Writing this character struggling to communicate what he’s going through and trying to come to terms with his limits while the people around him are looking at him and saying ‘well you don’t look disabled-’ It’s helped me process a lot of my anger over how I’m treated because of my mental health problems and the dumb, unnecessary barriers that make my life more difficult.

 What’s the root of the anger here? When you know that, you can address it with words. You can construct a story that will explore it. You can see it through the lense of different characters. And that really helps process it.

 I hope that helps :)

Available on Wordpress.

Disclaimer

[catboymingi]

[12:41]

navi/masterlist

pairing: mingi x reader

genre: very slight angst, fluff

word count: 2.3k

warnings: i do not think there are any?

a/n: entirely self indulgent and inspired by a flareup of my very own body rude disease, very soft mingi being a literal angel

it’s better to address your pain than to cause someone else pain, but late is still better than never

maybe you should have told mingi about it when you first started dating, but you hadn’t had an actual flare-up in months then, so it didn’t feel important - especially not when he’d started having issues of his own, being forced to rest and unable to perform with his dance team for a while. it wasn’t a priority, and you hadn’t wanted him to worry when you were fine. and you were still fairly fine when he was finally able to perform again, to do all the things he wanted, when he was so happy again; you just didn’t want to ruin this with a disability that barely even affected you at the moment.

but then you did get a flare-up, maybe caused by overexerting yourself when mingi had asked you to come to one of his practices with him and tried to teach you a little of their newest dance, which you let him even though you knew that it might not be the smartest idea. or maybe it was just because you didn’t have one in amazingly long, and it was just too good to be true, so your body needed to remind you who was in charge. it didn’t really matter either way, because now you were in pain, were exhausted, and, which bothered you most, were unable to pretend that nothing was up.

the first week or two you tried to ignore your symptoms, somewhat successful, but past experience should have told you that that was a stupid idea because it only made things worse, and after like eleven days of pretending you were barely able to leave bed anymore. you tried to play it off as a cold when mingi got worried, but when that cold started lasting more than two weeks he didn’t believe you. and because you still hadn’t told him about whatever shit disease caused your body to act like this for him the logical conclusion was that it was his fault. you seemed to avoid him, spending all your time either in bed or in the bathroom, and your bathroom trips took much longer than they used to. an hour or more for showering, upwards of fifteen minutes to just go to the toilet? it felt like you just wanted an excuse to be away from him. you used to love cooking with him, but now you probably hadn’t even really seen the kitchen in at least a week, and, considering how he didn’t want to spend all his time in bed now that he didn’t have to, probably not him either. it made him insecure, caused anxiety to creep up on him, the fear that now that you didn’t have to baby him anymore, that he didn’t give you a task, a purpose anymore, you’d lost interest. and that fear lingered, made worse by the fact that you didn’t even try to touch him anymore (little did he know that moving at all left you exhausted, left your limbs feeling heavy, that you could barely even rub your eyes without feeling like it had drained you of the last little bit of energy left in your body and left you needing a several hours recovery period), until he decided he had to talk to you.

“y/n?”

the way he sounded like he was calling for a random friend on the other side of the street rather than his girlfriend scared you. you knew you’d not been giving him a lot of attention lately - you couldn’t -, and now you were scared he was tired of you.

“hm?” the fact that you couldn’t even sit up to show him that you were actually listening made you so angry with yourself. you were just laying there as if it didn’t even matter.

“can we talk?”

“what’s wrong?”

getting the words out was hard, but the tall male knew he had to do it sooner or later. so he did it, now.

“do you even still love me?”

you looked at him in shock, unable to fully comprehend what he meant, but as soon as you did you started protesting.

“wha- mingi, i- of course i do, i love you. i love you.”

he sighed, running his hands through his hair.

“it doesn’t feel like it. you don’t even try to spend time with me anymore, at all. is- is it because i don’t need your help like that anymore? are you bored with me?”

had you really given him that impression? that you were bored with him?

“baby boy… come here.” and you opened your arms for him, for a few seconds, as long as you could, before you had to let them sink back to the mattress. and it felt like it was just a poor attempt from you to pretend he was wrong, still without having to put any effort into actually showing him that he meant something to you. and maybe it was childish, but he didn’t want to be the one to come this time. he wanted you to come.

“no. you come here.”

one look at him told you that he meant it. even though logic told you that he’d understand if you explained, that he’d come to you right away, you didn’t want to. you were… ashamed. you didn’t want to be weak now when you’d been strong for him all this time. instead of doing the sensible thing you forced yourself up, out of the bed you’d barely left for who even knows how long now, and towards him. your steps were clumsy, your legs hurt, and you just wanted to cry, but you were determined to make it. so you did, clinging to him for dear life as soon as you were close enough, trying to take some weight off your legs because even though holding yourself up by the arms around mingi’s neck was painful it hurt less than standing without any support.

“i love you, mingi, please don’t doubt that.”

were you crying because of the pain or because you were scared of losing him? you didn’t know, but you were crying. and he was still hurt, he really was, but he also couldn’t stand seeing you cry like this, so he wrapped his arms around you tightly.

“then what’s wrong? why do you never want to be around me anymore? or touch me? this is the first time in days that you initiated anything and i still had to tell you to do that. it feels like you don’t want me anymore.”

now your boyfriend was crying, too, and as much as you wanted to comfort him right there you had to sit down. everything hurt, your arms and legs and head and heart.

“bed”, you practically begged, despising the way you couldn’t even stand for more than five minutes without being desperate to sit down again. he complied, half dragging your weak body to the place you so longed to be.

as soon as you felt the mattress against your legs you all but let yourself drop to the bed like a sack of potatoes, which led to you not exactly laying the way one usually laid in a bed, your legs dangling off the end where mingi was still standing and your body bent kind of weirdly over the crumpled up blanket you had left behind when you’d made your way towards him and which was now causing your upper back to be up in the air while your head was bent down at an awkward angle due to the difference in altitude.

“i’m sorry i’m such a horrible girlfriend”, without as much as an attempt to change positions, which had him slightly worried, “it’s… i love you, and i wish i could be better. but it hurts. it hurts so fucking much.”

“what hurts?” being with him? had he done something? was that why you didn’t want to be around him - because he’d fucked up without realising and never even apologised?

“everything. moving. not moving. breathing. everything hurts, mingi, and i want it to stop.”

it was then that he realised, and he felt incredibly stupid. it wasn’t like he didn’t recognise this kind of behaviour - he’d acted similarly when his pain had been at its worst. it just hadn’t occurred to him that this might be the reason.

“how long?” and now it didn’t bother him anymore that he was the one pulling you into his chest as he laid down next to you - it bothered him that he’d doubted how much you’d wanted, needed that when he felt you relax into his touch.

“i don’t know. a month or two.”

“wait, you went out with me when you felt like this?”

if you’d had the energy to lift your head you would’ve seen the shocked and pained expression on his face as realisation hit him of just how much you’d gone through without him knowing.

“it wasn’t that bad.”

“it got worse the more you did?” it was only half a question, because mingi knew that that was how it was.

“i just didn’t want to keep you home when you were finally having fun again. i didn’t want you to worry.”

“baby…” he didn’t even know what he wanted to say, because there was no good thing to say to that. you wouldn’t have kept him from having fun, but he knew those worries all too well, so he couldn’t even blame you.

“how bad is it right now?”

you wished the way his big soft hand was rubbing your arm did anything to make you feel better, physically, but it didn’t. the only thing that would help right now was sleeping, but even that hurt. the time until you fell asleep, the pressure on your shoulder and hip bone. and instead of an answer your boyfriend got you crying at the hopelessness of your situation and knowing that, no matter what you did, you’d be in pain.

“that bad?” you just sobbed more, and you could feel from the way his body tensed that he was resisting the urge to pull you closer, hold you tighter, because it might hurt.

“is there anything that helps?”

you’d have to shake your head or speak, but you didn’t want to do either. you wanted to fade away until this stopped, but you had no way of telling how many more days, weeks it would be. that was the worst part of it, maybe; knowing that it would get better again, because it always did, all symptoms almost vanishing, but you never knew for how long they’d be gone and how long the next flare-up would last.

“are you comfortable? do you want to sleep? eat?”

replying still wasn’t in the realm of the possible, and it seemed like your sweet boy quickly caught on to that, because he told you: “one tap is no, two taps is yes. does that work?”

you tapped his chest twice, lightly but you did, glad to have found a way of communication with him that wouldn’t take just as much energy as the other possibilities.

“do you want to eat?” one tap.

“sleep?” two taps.

“are you comfortable right now? nothing you’d like me to change?” one tap. it was embarrassing, but your clothes hurt. even though it was just pyjamas they felt too tight, the elastic waistband made you feel like someone was gripping your hips harshly, and while you knew that wouldn’t happen you also wouldn’t be surprised if they left a bruise. the shirt had an uncomfortable neckline and was slightly crumpled around your body, adding uncomfortable little pressure points, and you wanted to get rid of it.

“can you tell me what to do? or show me?” two taps. then, you moved the hand on his chest to the neckline of his shirt, tugging at it slightly, hoping he’d get it.

“shirt off?” two taps.

“mine?” one tap.

“yours?” two taps.

“we’ll have to sit up for that, baby. but i’ll do the work. that okay?” two taps, again.

he carefully sat you up, supporting your back with his hand, allowing you to lean your head against him until you had to lift it briefly to fully remove the shirt. then he immediately helped you sink back into the sheets, giving you a soft kiss.

“anything else?” two taps.

“what do you need, love?”

that was a question outside the tap system, and he realised at your complete lack of response.

“more clothes?” two taps.

part of you was embarrassed when he undressed you like a little child, but you were glad he did, and you were glad he didn’t try to make the situation sexual. you wanted to sleep, wanted to be held, and most of all you wanted him to tell you he loved you.

he came back up to kiss you again, shortly and softly, very obviously trying to avoid any kind of effort for you. you couldn’t have been more grateful for him than you were in this moment. you couldn’t have wished for a better boyfriend.

“sleep now?” two taps.

“careful, i’ll pick you up. this isn’t comfortable.” two taps, your way to tell him that he could go ahead, that it was okay.

he lifted you so carefully, putting you so you weren’t laying the wrong way across the bed, and then settled next to you, looking at you with those soft, brown eyes.

“i’m your baby boy, but you’re my baby, too. let me take care of you, too. okay?” two taps and a smile that you were convinced would work better than any painkillers ever could.

“i love you.” one tap.

“i don’t love you?” one tap. the gears in his head were shifting, trying to figure out what you meant, before you could see the figurative lightbulb light up above his head.

“you love me?” two taps. then a soft peck to your nose.

“i know.”

[theanxiousstudentblog]

What I've learned from the first year of university: the good, the bad, and the ugly.

Three years later than expected, I finished my first year of university. At first, admittedly, it didn't feel like much; I submitted my final assignment, logged off of my student account, and went to watch the new series of The Real Housewives. It wasn't until a few weeks had passed that I was finally hit with how much this milestone meant to me and all the emotions that came with finally getting through the first academic year as a university student. This may not seem like a big achievement to some (I remember how in sixth form we were always made to believe that the first year of university was a piece of cake and way easier than A-levels) but, for me, it has been a rollercoaster ride of ups and downs. These emotions and thoughts are what have inspired me to write this post, specifically the feeling that university can be very very different from what you expect.

How I got here.

When I was younger, one of my sole dreams was to go to university. This may have seemed odd to some as I suffered from extreme anxiety when I was younger and actually refused to go to school between the ages of 7 and 9. However, it was never the academic side of schooling that worried me but the social side and being away from my family. I loved learning and I knew that I wanted to take my academic career to the highest possible level I could. The idea that I could pick any subject that I was interested in and do a whole course solely centered on teaching me as much as I could absorb was infatuating to me. It was for this reason that I spent so much effort making sure that I achieved good grades, despite my time off. I had my sights set on a prestigious university in London and in 2018 I received an offer to study there. However, instead of feeling excited about my future, I was engulfed with a feeling of dread. Unfortunately, due to events in my private life, my anxiety which had previously been kept under control by CBT and medication began to skyrocket. I would later learn that I developed complex PTSD (Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder) during this time. For the sake of keeping this blog post to a somewhat reasonable length, I will keep this account brief by saying that these difficulties eventually led to me pulling out of the London university and I decided to go to a local uni closer to home after taking a year off for my mental health (for a more detailed account you can look at one of my previous IG posts published 24/05/20).

Expectations vs...

I was excited for what awaited me at my local university; it was close enough to see my family whenever I wanted but still gave me the independence that I felt I needed to grow. Moving day came and went and it seemed to be going pretty smoothly, albeit some hiccups that came with my anxiety. It is important to note that I gave the university's wellbeing service a heads-up about my conditions before moving in so, at first, I felt confident that if I had any issues they would be able to work through them with me. However, over the next couple of weeks, my anxiety grew and grew, finally reaching its peak when my housemate turned around to me and told me that I needed to shut it about my mental health issues and stop hanging out with her. This triggered a major episode in my PTSD and I suddenly felt like I was spiraling out of control. However, despite my attendance beginning to drop and the multiple times I was having to leave lectures early due to panic attacks, I still sustained a level of confidence that my university would be able to give me the reasonable adjustments that the wellbeing team had spoken to me about before starting the term. Sure, they hadn't got back to my emails with any tangible support in weeks, but they couldn't just leave me like this...could they? All throughout my schooling, I was made to believe that educational settings were environments where any appetite to learn was nurtured and fed; education meant an opportunity to achieve anything you worked hard enough for, despite your background, disability, or start in life. Wouldn't universities be the ultimate conceptualization of this meritocracy?

Reality

Unfortunately, this vision would be quickly shattered by the stark reality of my treatment by my head of department and the well-being team. I go into more detail about this treatment in the IG post mentioned previously, but in summary I was given two choices: I get my attendance back to 100% with no support/reasonable adjustments from the university, or I leave/defer until I was "better". There was no comprehension from the uni that this wouldn't have a definable recovery date; I've been dealing with long-term mental illness since I was a child and it is something I've learned to live with alongside the appropriate support. To wait until I was "better" would potentially mean waiting forever. On top of that, I went out of my way to prove to my department that I was keeping up with my work and had achieved top marks on the most recent assignment but little recognition was given to my current grades. From the weeks since I started at university I'd met multiple people who had little passion in their subject or who were just at university because they thought it was what they should do. No hate to these people (I think the pressure young people face to go to university is a whole 'nother issue in itself) but I couldn't help but compare myself to them. The university didn't care that they had a whole student population of disillusioned young people who were indifferent to their academic fields but drew the line at a motivated student who suffered from mental illness. It became clear this wasn't an environment for people like me who were simply viewed as a wrench in the works. In December 2019, I was given no other option but to drop out of my university.

Starting again and the lessons I have learned

What was the worst blow to my mental health? Being kicked out because of my mental health...Having to leave university was a massive blow to my self-esteem and I began to catastrophize what that meant for my future. Luckily I had my family for support and my mum pushed me to look into the Open University, an institution based on distance learning. I enrolled part-time for the start of February (unfortunately I had missed the cohort to start full-time) and decided to focus on my therapy. This actually worked out great for me as in 2020 I was diagnosed with PTSD and started EMDR so being a part-time student gave me enough space to process the emotions that came up in my treatment. The Open University has been so helpful in making sure my needs are met and I have been so grateful to finally find an inclusive learning environment. It is definitely not how I planned to be experiencing university and I still do feel some disappointment in not getting the full "student experience" but it has also taught me some valuable lessons and given me a new insight into how far our education system still needs to go. These are the things I have learned:

Education isn't about degrees or academic prestige. Education is about a person's desire to learn, whether that be through books or the sheer act of being. Everyone requires different conditions to which they need to learn and thrive, and unfortunately, many academic institutions tend to expect us all to be cut from the same cloth. Despite this, no one can take away your passion to learn, and as long as you're living, you are learning.

There can be no equality without equity. The truth is people enter schooling from all different backgrounds and circumstances and it is not enough for institutions to treat everyone the same. In terms of mental health, many people are quick to say they recognise that mental illness can be just as debilitating as physical illness however until they put the actions and policies into place to make environments more tolerant and accessible then their words mean nothing. This means taking the time to talk to individual students about what they require and realise that the most important thing that a university can do is create a place where EVERYONE can learn. Schooling creates the foundations on which the future of our society is built and the fact that inclusion is barely making it on the blueprint is scary to me.

COVID has shown that in this digital age, attendance ISN'T everything. If only I could go back to that final meeting with my head of department and tell him that in a few months time everyone's attendance would be at 0%! Seriously though, this is a wake-up call to how simple accessibility can be if you just invest in a good digital learning platform that allows for people who can't attend in person to still be included.

You can be an academic and still put your mental health first. Despite what my first university led me to believe, my time at the OU has shown me that you do not have to sacrifice one over another. In fact, it has shown me that my mental health recovery and student journey can work hand-in-hand, encouraging each other along.

But most importantly...

It has shown me that despite the pressure to make your university years fit into a nice, neat package of fun, good grades, and self-enlightenment, it most likely won't happen like that. That's okay, let it go and keep moving.

[jiminiessipabo]

I, Spy (Series, AU)

Chapter Two: The Interrogation 

Pairing: CEO! Park Jimin x reader Word Count: 1.9k Genre: au, ceo!, action, heist Warnings: explicit, smut (eventually), language, violence, drugs

Jimin could feel the smooth, velvety feel of a blindfold tied around his head, blocking any light and sight. He tried to get a bearing of where he was but it was hard without his sight. There was no smell in the air other than metal. He tried to move his hands from his awkward position but found they were chained up and resting on a cool, metallic table. The chains were loud as the clanged against the table. He couldn’t hear anything else. There was no one in the room with him. He was alone.

There were a rush of memories from the night before, or perhaps it was still the same night. He had no idea how long he was unconscious for. He could remember the beautiful red dress he saw you wearing last night. He remembered how he followed you around, danced with you, drank with you and laughed with you. It was one of the best nights of his life. He felt as though he couldn’t get enough of you, but evidently, that was his biggest downfall, trusting a stranger. Moments before he became unconscious, he remembered the look of concern on your face, your hand in his. The alcohol was making him feel hot all over. He remembered looking up at you with a dizzy yet euphoric feeling, you were so beautiful to him and he knew everyone at the event agreed with him, he had watched how their eyes had followed you, just as he had. When you looked back at him, just before he fell, you had given him a smile. He didn’t recognise the type of smile at that moment, but looking back now…He knew you had given him a smile filled with guilt and pity.

You seemed so good, so why were you doing this to him? Why did you drug him? Lie to him? What did he do to deserve such cruelty?

Jimin’s thoughts were broken as he heard the creaking of a door open before a loud slam followed. He jumped, his senses heightened, he listened carefully as he heard the pair of feet tap against the floor, walking closer to him. The second pair of steps belonged to someone wearing heels. He tensed, he could smell a familiar smell, almost rose scented with a hint of ginger. It was you.

“Park Jimin, 23, CEO of Park Enterprises, successor to his father, Park Jaehyun. He has an older brother who works in the Armed Police Force as well,” said a male voice, if he wasn’t in this position then Jimin would suggest he sounds like a man who was earthly, with his deep, guttural tone that was oddly calming. He heard the heels walk around the back of him, two hands resting on the back of the metal chair he was sat on. “I think he is the perfect candidate to use, Y/N,” said the man and also confirming Jimin’s suspicions that it was you. At least you gave him your real name. “He has connections that could make this whole operation quick and easy. It’ll be a simple mission for our team.”

Jimin frowned as much as he could at the man’s words. He was part of a mission now? Were these people part of law enforcement? It couldn’t be the police or he wouldn’t have mentioned Haechan, his brother, the way he had. Jimin wanted to speak up, but the threat that you were giving off, even from silently standing behind him, was enough to keep him from talking.

“Thank you, Taehyung, I will take it from here,” you replied, your voice solemn. You waited until Taehyung exited the room before ripping the blindfold from Jimin’s head, the light immediately hurting his eyes. By the time he had blinked enough to adjust to the sudden lighting he found himself staring across from you, who was now sat down opposite him. His eyes scanned your face, from the minimal makeup, to the now tied up hair, to the black, formal dress you wearing. You cocked a perfectly arched eyebrow at his scrutiny before smirking, amused at the expressions on his face. “Hello Jimin,” you said.

Jimin clenched his jaw, leaning forwards in his seat. “Let me go, now, I am not getting caught up in any schemes you criminals are trying to force on to me,” he said with clear venom in his tone. He scowled as the smirk on your face turned into a full smile. “What is so amusing to you?” He snapped.

You let out a small chuckle and brought his attention to the files on the table. “Haechan knows you’re here, we have surveillance on you 24/7, he watched as you slept in that chair, with no one else in this room to cause any harm to you,” you said, pointing to the left of you and sure enough, in the left corner on the ceiling was camera with a flash red light, showing it was recording. “There were certain rules we had to abide by to make sure your kidnapping went smoothly. I am aware of your allergies, I am aware of any mental health disabilities you have. Your brother is surprisingly very helpful, considering back in the day when I went to high school with him, he was a huge jerk,” you said with another chuckle at the end. Your eyes were narrowed down at the papers in the manila file.

Jimin was stumped by this knowledge. He didn’t know whether to feel slightly safer that his brother was watching him or betrayed that his brother would put him in this position. There is obviously the other thought that this could all be an elaborate lie and his brother has no knowledge of his kidnapping.

“I’m not lying, Jimin, I would never betray your brother like that,” you said as though reading his mind. “Now, I am Y/N L/N, my official title is Recruitment Officer and I work for ARMY, Advanced Reconnaissance for Mistreated Youths. You are still in Seoul, and you were knocked unconscious with a normal sedative, there are no weird enhancements like I know are going through your head-.” Jimin was astounded at how well you knew him after those short hours. “-and you are completely free to go once this meeting is over with.”

Jimin scoffed and lifted his arms up. “I attend a lot of meetings, even at my young age and never once has anyone been chained to a damn table in a containment room,” he replied, his tone edged with plentiful sarcasm.

You smiled and took a key from the manila folder, reaching over to unlock his chains. You sat back and watched as he rubbed at his wrists. You sighed, hating how your firm thought things through. “Jimin, look, I am going to be very honest with you, there is a bad man you are connected to and we need an insider for us. All you have to do is wear a mic piece and a body camera, both well-hidden and continue being nice with this man until we can gather enough evidence on him,” you said, your joyful façade breaking into one of weariness.

Jimin frowned, still looking down at his wrists. “Who is this man?” He asked, his tone betraying his curiosity.

You pulled out a few papers from one of the other manila folders, unclipping two of the pages before turning it around so he could see the face of the man he had come to trust. “Rufus Conway, the American,” he muttered under his breath before looking back up at you. “Why do you want him?”

You pursed your lips, turning the page and pointed at three photos. Jimin gasped, they were photos of- “He is a Kingpin of sorts, he deals in drugs, ammunition, and to our disgust, slavery and prostitution,” you spat out. “That’s three girls that we have recovered from them, two of which are now working with us. They have allowed us to share their identity in order to capture and imprison Rufus Conway,” you explained. You turned the page again. “We have suspicion that he is about to use your company to smuggle more girls over, I would rethink your plans to go ahead with your project, Jimin,” you said.

Jimin gulped and nodded, his eyes still reading the words on the pages. He felt sick, that he was about to embrace a man like this into his company. He looked up at you and saw the sadness on your face as much as you tried to hide it; you weren’t fond of looking at this file. “If I were to help you, what would be in it for me? Safety? Anonymity? Because it sounds like you’re asking me to risk a lot of things for this operation, my money, my company, my legacy and my life.” The entire time Jimin spoke he watched how you took his words deeply, nodding where appropriate and not once arguing or cutting him off. He felt equal to you, almost comfortable with you, just like before.

You placed your hands flat on the table and leaned forwards. “I am prepared to make sure you come out of this unscathed and with a clear conscience Jimin. I don’t want to involve you but we need you, now more than ever. We just need that little push to finally prosecute him. We have the lawyers working on cases already. It’s all ready to be launched. We just need you to be there when he confesses,” you explained as gently as you could. “You won’t be alone either,” you added, smiling at him.

Jimin furrowed his eyebrows, taking your words into consideration. “I won’t be alone?” He parroted, with a tilt of his head. “Who else is going to be with me?” He found himself asking, as though he had already agreed.

“You’re going to hire a new assistant, and you’re going to need a bodyguard. You were just kidnapped, by a man named Al Bbeck, it’s all over the news,” you said, a smile now on your face but Jimin wasn’t laughing.

“You think kidnapping me is funny, uh uh, I am furious that I am even in this position. I want proof that my brother knows I am here, I want to see him,” Jimin demanded, slamming his palm on the table making you jump, he almost felt guilty but his anger was getting the best of him.

You sighed and shook your head, collecting the manila file up also picking up the handcuffs and key. “I hope you agree to do this,” you murmured, not quite looking him in the eye before banging on the door. You looked back just as the door opened, not acknowledging the man on the other side holding it open. “For what it’s worth Jimin, I really would have loved to go back home with you, to really get to know you,” you said with a sincere smile before bowing your head.

The man holding the door open narrowed his eyes at Jimin before slamming the door shut, leaving Jimin to stand in the cold room alone. He eyed the room and saw a bed with a blanket and small pillow on it and huffed. “This is just great, who the hell is Al B Beck as well?” He questioned out loud before snorting at the famous Terminator quote. “Definitely youthful,” he grumbled before sitting on the edge of the bed, his head hitting the wall as he slumped back.

[sserpente]

A/N: Request from @xxinvisiblexx and anon. Enjoy, everyone! ♥

Words: 2091 Warnings: fluff, slight concussion

It was the morning of your big day. The day your loving father had been planning for since you had been born. Your wedding. Your marriage to an ugly and old aristocrat who was known for treating his wives like whores. According to your father, it was the only purpose of your existence. To help him improve his status, to introduce him to the fine world of the rich. You, however, had a different idea of what direction your life would take. So you had planned, for weeks on end and calculating all possibilities and chances.

It was the morning of your big day. And you had long fled your father's home and hidden in a popular hotel for overseas travellers. You knew the owner—and he had offered you a single room for a price that you could actually afford. Then, tomorrow morning, you would board the first ship to England. You had always wanted to see this country... the opportunity was perfect. To start a new life, far away from married life and cruel grooms.

“Excuse me... I am looking for a young woman.”

Your blood froze. You knew that voice. Looking up anxiously, you dared a look. It was him. Your forced fiancé. Out of all places, why would he look for you here? Quickly, you looked away again. He was speaking to a young couple two tables next to yours. It was a little coffee shop attached to the hotel you were in. With your heart beating in your mouth, you hoped he would not recognise you.

 -

Sir Thomas Sharpe frowned. Apparently, so it seemed, it was fairly common for Americans to simply speak to strangers. It was risky for him and Lucille to come back here, after everything that had happened with Edith. He had thought he loved her... and she had proven to him that he did not love Lucille either—at least not in the way she longed for him to. Now, Edith was gone but his blue eyes were wide open. He wanted a wife. He wanted a woman who adored and loved him... without having to poison her. Lucille had not accepted it, not really. But the last thing she wanted was to lose Thomas.

“A young woman?” He repeated incredulously.

The stranger nodded. “My... fiancé.” You shivered when he gave him a detailed description of you. The man he was speaking to... he was English. You could tell by his accent. And then... making your heart skip a beat... he glanced in your direction, matching what he had just heard with what he saw. Your eyes met—your body felt like it had been ignited.

“I'm afraid I can't help you, sir. I have seen no such woman.”

You breathed out, relieved. As soon as your so-called fiancé had gone, you stood, frantically, to hurry back to your room which you did not intend to leave again until your departure to England tomorrow.

It was then you suddenly heard the smooth voice of the stranger speaking directly to you.

“Excuse me... I could not help but introduce myself. Sir Thomas Sharpe, baronet. My sister Lucille and I live in Allerdale Hall in the north of England.”

Oh. A man of royal blood then. You swallowed thickly. Was it safe to trust him and tell him your name?

“I'm... pleased to meet you, Sir Thomas. My name is (Y/N). Thank you. For what you did…”

"You are welcome. He... does not seem like a decent person, if I may be honest with you."

“No, he... my father wants me to marry him. Today... today we were supposed to be wed. I... escaped. I am boarding a ship to England tomorrow.”

Again, Thomas frowned. You were beautiful, you were strong... and you were in need of his help. If he was going to do things differently from now on, he might as well do the right thing to try and make up for the sins he had committed over the last few years.

“If you don’t mind me asking, do you know where you will be staying?” He asked concerned.

“Oh, no... not yet. I stole a bit of money from my father to afford this hotel for a few days... but... I... I will try and find some work as soon as I arrive.”

“Why don't you come with me and my sister? We can always use an extra pair of hands. I'm afraid I am unable to pay you but I could offer you a room in our manor.”

Your eyes widened. Could it be? Luck? Hope? A decent man? For the first time in your life?

“I... that... that would be... I couldn't thank you enough.” You stuttered.

Thomas smiled and nodded. “Meet us tomorrow at seven o’clock, at the pier. I am sure you will like England, (Y/N).”

 -

“Thomas!” He had had some concerns at first. A young woman—petite compared to the workers he usually hired—could you really be of help? If anything, he was intrigued by you. Your audacity to flee and start your own life, your will to live independently and your cheerful nature whenever you were around him… You were a woman he could imagine marrying one day. Lucille did not particularly like you, of course. She was jealous, worried that he would grow to love you and abandon her; and she had been furious when he had told her about the offer he had made you.

By now, at least she had come to accept you. To her, you were a willing helper, one of Thomas’ lackeys if you will to help him build his clay-mining machine. And even Thomas himself was surprised. If it wasn’t for your hair, the youthful sparkling in your eyes and your cleavage which you only managed to hide in winter when it was cold, he would in fact mistake you for a hard-working and independent man. But he did not. What he saw was a beautiful, strong and intelligent woman he slowly began to feel more affection for than he intended to.

You would not want to marry him. You had fled and settled down in England to run from marriage… he was not going to force you into another now. Besides… you might take it the wrong way if he asked. Would you think he would throw you out of the house if you refused? Would he send you away? Lucille was thoroughly capable of such things. Thomas, however, was not.

Smiling gently, he put down the hammer and turned, joining you at the back of the machine. You had made progress—your ideas had both surprised and impressed him and most importantly… they had helped. No longer was there any need to seduce innocent women to steal all of their money.

It was just… he wanted you. His longing gaze rested on you day in and out, glued not only on your body but also your smile. You were different. Different from Edith and different from everyone else he had ever met. You were his equal in ways other women had never been, not even Lucille. You had enchanted him, jinxed him even.

And little did he know you reciprocated his feelings. You had brushed it off at first. Thomas was your hero. He had given you shelter, an occupation and a new home. He was there whenever you needed a shoulder to cry on and most importantly, he cared. But just because he was the first man who treated you this kindly… that did not mean you had the right to fall in love with him… right?

You had noticed the looks he gave you, of course, felt his hot glances on your body. Electricity rippled through you whenever you accidentally touched while working on his machine and the tension you felt clinging onto your limbs like the claws of a dozen angry kittens set your body on fire.

You were standing on top of one of the shovels, attempting to loosen whatever had caused it to get stuck again—it was a problem you were currently facing regularly.

“Can you check if the cogs around the engine all work? I can’t seem to find anything here.”

“That I will.” Thomas smiled, hesitating for just a brief moment before doing what you had asked. One of his other workers joined him, shifting and trying the gears until he accidentally started the engine. Now it always took a while for it to start running smoothly which in return disabled switching it off again instantly.

It was only then Thomas realised you were still standing on top of one of the metal shovels.

“(Y/N), get down there, quick! Be—“ He did not get to finish his sentence. You let out a high-pitched scream when you fell because of the sudden movement of the machine, your head colliding with the cold and hard metal. You never noticed how you blacked out and landed in the powdery snow beneath you almost lifelessly, not how Thomas shouted your name again so loudly he even alarmed Lucille who came hurrying outside. Panting, he rushed to your side and knelt down, examining your head carefully. No blood. That was a good sign. A slight concussion, perhaps… they would have to call a doctor immediately.

“Lucille!” He began desperately when he spotted her approaching curiously. “Send for a doctor.”

“It will take him hours to reach Allerdale Hale.”

“Just do it!” Thomas swallowed thickly. He never raised his voice against his sister. But you were hurt… and partially, it was his fault.

With parted lips, he picked you up from the frozen ground and carried you inside, ordering his workers to take a break in the meantime. The one who had turned on the machine he would deal with later.

Inside the house, he carried you all the way up to his room and laid you down on his soft and cosy bed, draping the blanket over you to keep you from shivering and hoping to God that your unconsciousness would only last for a few minutes

He was shaking when he sat down on the bed, reaching for your hand and warming it in his palms after wetting a towel in the bathroom and putting it on your forehead to ease some of the oncoming headache you would most likely experience soon. Your hands were almost rougher than his and at the very same time… so soft he longed to cover it with gentle kisses.

About fifteen minutes passed until you finally came about again, moaning quietly. You squinted, nausea and a terribly annoying pain in the back of your head overwhelming your senses in an instant.

“(Y/N)…” Your eyes flew open slowly, meeting Thomas’ worried gaze, your hand comfortably warm in his. “How are you feeling?”

“Like… my head hit your monstrosity of a machine.” You chirped.

Thomas smiled. “Should I get you a glass of water?”

You nodded, waiting patiently until he could bring the cool liquid to your lips and help you drink a few sips.

“Lucille called a doctor. He will come check on you in a few hours’ time.” He paused, looking down guiltily.  “I’m sorry… this should not have happened.”

“Thomas…” It’s okay, you meant to say—but it was hard to focus and move your lips to form proper sentences.

“You should rest a little more. You are not to leave this bed for at least three days, I will make sure of that. Don’t worry about the machine for now. Your well-being is much more important than the clay.”

Gathering your strength, you tightened your grip in his hands, squeezing him gently. “Thank you,” you whispered. “For caring for me.”

“I will always care for you, (Y/N).”

You smiled weakly, already half asleep and almost as if you were still dreaming. “That sounds like I promised you my hand in marriage.”

Thomas chuckled lightly. “That I would love for you to do, darling.” He admitted quietly.

“You… would?”

“Yes.” Returning your smile, he leaned forward to press a tender kiss on your forehead after removing the towel again to refresh it for you. His lips parted, both in surprise and joy when your last mumbled words right before you drifted off to sleep again reached his ears.

“I would… love that, too.”

It certainly was one way to get engaged. Now all he had to do was buy you a ring to slip on your finger as soon as you woke again.

 -

A/N: If you enjoyed this story, I would appreciate so much if you supported me on KoFi! kofi.com/sserpente

[thelifeofkaiblog]

Tomorrow will be a game changer.

•*•*• 16th December 2019 •*•*•

My dad’s mum “Agnes” (85ish) has been emotionally abusive for 50+ years. She had 3 kids: A, B and C. My dad is B and the other two are his sisters (one 2 years older, one 2 years younger). A was her favourite, then C, then Dad. She was deliberately intimidating, very strict, Never happy with him and told him he’d always be useless. A could almost never do anything wrong in her eyes and C got a level of it somewhere between my dad and A.

All 3 had 2 children each. A had “Abbie” (26) and “Aaron” (23). B had me (24) and my brother (21). C had “Carly” (26) and “Celia” (21). Abbie, Aaron and Carly are all joint favourites of Agnes. Then Celia and my brother are next. I’m not even on the board. I don’t know why, but she has always been nasty to me whenever we visited.

She also spoke down to me about my mum and almost tried to make my dad leave her, saying she “trapped” him by getting pregnant with me when they had only known each other for a few months. Even though she had never said she was proud of my dad or even liked him, she still didn’t think my mum was good enough - I think she meant not good enough to be linked to her, rather than not good enough for her son that she didn’t treat very well. I’d say that’s partly why she doesn’t like me, but she has been fine with my brother.

Growing up, we saw her once or twice a year. My dad’s dad “Benny” was nice enough, but her being horrible to me and cold to my mum put us off going. When I was about 12, my Mum stopped going to see them completely, aside from the rare family gathering with A, C and their families. None of my cousins liked me. Aaron and Celia were close, as were Abbie and Carly, but my brother and I were outsiders - though Celia and Aaron were nicer to him than Carly and Abbie were to me. They became bitchy as teenagers and have stayed that way ever since - even my parents find them unpleasant. Celia was lovely, until she hit 15 and started becoming like the other two. Aaron seems to be the only one fairly happy to talk to us when we’re there, though he doesn’t really talk to me.

A is one of those people who puts on a nice exterior, but is quite snobby and looks down on you - like a subtler version of Agnes. C is a bit blunt with her thoughts and feelings, but she’s a pretty nice person. She seems to have a genuine interest in me on the rare occasion we see her, which is refreshing.

Aside from 31st May this year, I hadn’t seen any of them since Benny’s funeral in September 2017. Since I was 13 or 14, my parents gave me a choice whether or not to visit Agnes and Benny because of how Agnes treated me - though my dad was in denial, but my mum wasn’t. She said it’s not fair to force me to go through that every time, even if it was just once or twice a year. Agnes would send birthday and Christmas cards to me, like she would to the others, but she always treated me badly in person and I wasn’t allowed to say anything because it would come back to bite my dad.

On 31st May, I decided to give her a chance, as she was a widow and I was hoping she may have softened a bit with age. I should have known better. She ignored me for the first couple of hours, only talking to my dad and brother - but that was expected and I called my nan (Mum’s mum) to vent and I explained that I’d mentally prepared a speech, just in case she went off on me. My nan told me to try to get through it and stay “invisible”, which was already my plan, so it’s what I did. My nan knows Agnes hasn’t been nice to me, but she didn’t realise how nasty she was - it was mostly denial because my nan tries to ignore the bad in people.

Agnes, my dad, my brother and I went to a pub for lunch. Pub portions are often big. When my brother ate all of his, she said nothing. When my dad left some, she said nothing. When I left a little, she had a dig at me. If I’d have eaten it all, she’d have had a dig at me. I just tried to ignore her. I told my dad in private and he asked if I was sure she’d said something. For once, my brother backed me up and said she did. My dad told me we wouldn’t stay with her much longer, so to try to ignore her.

We got back to her house and she finally started talking to me. She asked about my job. My dad hadn’t given her the heads up that I had to leave my job when my health deteriorated. I sat there like a deer in headlights, not knowing what to say. I looked at my dad, hoping he’d take over, but he didn’t. I explained why I’d had to leave - more frequent chronic pain flare ups and one started up at work (incredibly painful and embarrassing) that lasted on and off for seven days. My doctor wrote me off as indefinitely too ill to work because I was in pain most days, with no pattern, so no reliability for work.

She scoffed and essentially tore into me about how she believes my health problems are all because I’m 7 stone overweight. She didn’t even have to shout it, she was just pushing it on to me. I was gobsmacked and had no idea what say. I looked to my dad and brother, who were both on their phones. I was desperate for one of them to intervene and tell her to shut up. They did nothing. I was being hounded by her about my weight, as though I hadn’t just told her my doctor has signed me off for genuine illnesses and conditions that I’d had for a long time.

I couldn’t hold it in any more. I was holding back tears and I politely, but firmly told her that she had absolutely no idea what she was talking about, she was not a doctor and I was tired of her always picking on me. She denied it, but I told her I’d had enough because she’d been doing it my whole life and I wasn’t going to take it any more. I stood up, turned to my dad and asked him why he was letting her do this to me. I asked him for the car keys and said I’d wait in the car until he was ready to leave. She tried to stop me, but I shrugged her off and told her to leave me alone, then I locked myself in the car.

My dad spoke to her in the house and came out to tell me she was bothered that she’d upset me, but he understood. I told him I felt betrayed that he hadn’t said anything to stand up for me. I cried the 2 hour drive home and, when I got home, my mum was really disappointed that my dad hadn’t intervened. It’s been 7 months and Agnes still hasn’t apologised or called to check on me. My dad has seen her a few times since, so she’s had chances, but she’s convinced she’s right. She’s done more damage than she could ever imagine and doesn’t care. I’m expendable.

A few days ago, she sent Christmas money, as usual. I told my dad I don’t feel comfortable accepting it because of everything she’s done. He understood, but said he wouldn’t said it back because it would be rude. I decided to write her a letter explaining why I didn’t want to accept it and that I’d be happy to explain about my health if she promises to be open-minded. I showed it to my parents to get their approval before sending it. The ball will be in her court once it arrives tomorrow. She either apologised and genuinely makes up for it, or I cut her out of my life. I feel more free, now that I’ve sent it. She doesn’t deserve another chance, but I’m giving her one for my dad’s sake. I just hope Agnes or his older sister don’t give him crap about it. I don’t think his younger sister would because she knows what their mum is like, even if she didn’t get it like I have.

This is my letter....

“Dear _______,

I find this letter hard to write because I’m worried it won’t be given a fair chance, but I have something important to say. I truly appreciate the money you have generously sent me for Christmas, but I am reluctant to accept it.

All I have ever wanted from you is acceptance and understanding. I don’t want the last time we speak to be negative, but I also can’t subject myself to any more insensitive judgement. The illnesses and disabilities I have, along with the constant battle for decent medical care, are difficult enough to deal with, without added negativity from anyone else - especially if they don’t know what I’ve been through and haven’t shown an interest in finding out.

I have always wanted to feel unconditionally loved and supported by you, but the nitpicking whenever I visited has made me feel less than compared to (names redacted - my cousins and brother). Its pushed me away.

I know you may not recognise that you have done this, but my parents have two and keeping the peace meant not saying anything about it for years. You also probably didn’t mean any harm, but it has damaged our relationship and how I feel about myself.

I am very grateful for your gift, but I don’t feel comfortable accepting it. Dad has said he can’t return it, but understands why I’m hesitant to receive it.

If you ever wish to try to understand me and my challenges, I am more than happy to try to explain it, but I’d need you to be open to learning about me without judgement or dismissal. It is much more complex than you believe and I hope you can Sunday accept and acknowledge that because I don’t want this to be the end of our relationship, but I won’t let people hurt me anymore.

I hope you have a wonderful Christmas and a great New Year. Please take care.

Best Wishes,

(My name redacted).

[fontainebleau22]

Oooh could you do a directors commentary for A Scent of Lavender? I'd love to hear one for the scene that starts with ‘I’ll need to pass on this hand,’ and the scene right after from '‘I’ll need to pass on this hand,’ up until 'No harm, then'. And also to hear any background info on how you chose the idea, and what kind of research you might have done for it!

Thank you so much for the ask, and sorry it took me a while to get around to it! I really enjoyed thinking about this, though it’s pretty long.

‘I’ll need to pass on this hand,’ says Goodnight,pushing back his chair.

I agonised alot about the change of tense between the Goody/Billy story (present) and Tess’sstory (past), but there was just no other way to do it that I could find. And,as I said elsewhere, if it’s good enough for Dickens in Bleak House then it’s good enough for me.

MacClaren scowls. ‘Not thinking of quitting on us?’Goodnight’s luck’s been good, or his companions’ attention poor, and he’sclaimed a steady run of pots, but he’s sharp enough to realise that MacClarenhas thrown in several likely hands, encouraging a less wary player to thinkhimself better than he was: he’ll expect to recoup his losses and more as theliquor flows and the evening progresses.

There’s a lotof Deadwood behind this fic, and whileMacClaren is just an extra, for the scene as a whole I had in mind some of thepermanent poker players who figure as extras in Deadwood.

Goodnight holds up his hands placatingly. ‘A call tothe outhouse: I’m not done yet.’

He takes his time out back, then once the game hasre-engaged MacClaren’s attention, he slips back to the bar to find Billy. Thisis one of the many advantages of a partner he’d found; too often before when hewas gambling the drink and the company would go to his head, and what he wonwhile the evening was young he’d lose or drink away later on. Now he can quietlypass a handful of notes and coins to Billy, always clear-minded and precise nomatter how much he’s drunk, and know that they’ll wake up in profit. To hissurprise, though, Billy’s abandoned his station at the bar and is sitting at atable with one of the girls, apparently in lively conversation.

At first he’s simply taken aback: this is the firsttime in the months they’ve spent together that he’s seen his new partner showany interest in female company. But it’s human nature, after all, and Billy’s aman; maybe he’s been holding back since they partnered up. On the heels ofsurprise follows a wave of self-reproach. They’ve always shared a room; theysettled into that early without debate to save money and trouble both, butmaybe Billy’s felt it to be more of a constraint than he liked to consider.

This isprobably my unspoken headcanon that Goody is actually a pretty selfish person,or at least a person who finds little interest in anyone else around him, apartfrom Billy, and at this stage in their partnership his bubble of self-obsessionis just starting to expand to enclose Billy in it.

Their partnership has been lucrative, and they’vemoved from wariness to something he’d like to call friendship: he enjoysBilly’s companionship and he hopes that’s reciprocated. If it raises feelingsin him that he thought were long dead, if he’d like to offer more, much more,mesmerised from that first meeting by his fine-boned face, his dark eyes, thestrength and lightning-fast reflexes he wears so lightly, well, Goodnight keepsthat locked away inside.

OK, here’s why Iwas annoyed with the comments I got about Goody being too passive and subordinateto Billy in his emotions in this fic. There is a power imbalance between them, of coursethere is – Goody is white, educated, respected and if not wealthy himself,comes from a wealthy background, while Billy is poor, a member of a despisedminority, without family in the US and owning only what he stands up in. Ofcourse Goody is going to be incredibly tentative in expressing his feelings,even if he thinks they might be reciprocated: as I read it, he has to let Billy come to him rather than theother way around.

But he’s welcomed their growing intimacy, two againsta hostile world, without thought, and now, it seems, here’s proof he was wrong.

The girl’s not exactly sitting in Billy’s lap:they’re just talking, a respectable distance apart, but even so he doesn’t feelhe wants to interrupt. Looking at her, Goodnight thinks he recognises the girlwho spoke to him earlier, and he wonders, why this one? She’s pretty, as far ashe’s any judge, doll-like, her fair hair curled into ringlets; none of thegirls here are overdressed, but though her clothes are plain – a red skirt andstriped camisole, stockings and boots – there’s something neater about her thanthe others he can see in their rumpled blouses and torn lace. No jewellery,none of them has that, but she’s tied a dark velvet ribbon round her throatthat emphasises her pale colouring.

Gosh, with OCsyou have to describe what they look like! It was actually quite interesting todescribe Billy and Goody as Tess sees them as well, with how wealthy they lookto the fore because that’s her professional concern.

She’s as good as Billy could find in a place likethis, and she’s obviously working to please him, leaning closer with her eyeson his face. May be that’s all it is – a woman who’ll take him seriously. Shesays something that makes Billy laugh, his smile flashing bright, andGoodnight’s honest enough to admit that the tightening in his chest isjealousy; but that’s his problem, and his alone.

‘Your friend there seems to have taken a shine toTessie.’

Goodnight wheels, alert to the mocking edge to thecomment, and finds himself confronting a long-haired man propped idly againstthe bar. At first sight he’s smartly-dressed, exuding self-confidence, but acloser look reveals that his pin-striped suit is shiny in places, the seamsfraying, and the collar greasy.

It’s AlSwearengen from Deadwood! If I’mbeing honest, it pretty much is, though Adams isn’t as ruthless as Swearengen.The suit’s the same, though.

He tips his head back and gives Goodnight aconsidering look. ‘Other pimps might take exception to a Chinaman making freewith their women, but me – live and let live, that’s what I say, right, Amos?’

There is alittle subplot in Deadwood aboutChinese prostitutes being imported for the Chinese community, and I wanted tomake the point that it’s significant Billy is being accepted at this point,even if grudgingly.

The burly barkeep grunts in response: from his mannerhis employer’s used to being agreed with.

And look, there’s Dan Dority behind the bar!

‘Wouldn’t exactly be making free, though, would he?’observes Goodnight, ‘I’m sure your associates would see to that,’ and isrewarded by a splutter as the man chokes on his whiskey.

‘Fair point,’ concedes the man, ‘and money’s whatmakes this nation of ours great, who’s to care whose hands it passes through.’He sticks out a hand. ‘Silas Adams, proprietor. I understand I’m making theacquaintance of the famous Goodnight Robicheaux.’

‘Pleasure’s mine,’ says Goodnight as Adams attemptsto crush his knuckles.

Adams signals for drinks for both of them. ‘On thehouse.’ He raises his glass. ‘Don’t get so many of note passing through here.’

Another ticfrom Deadwood – Al is always pouringpeople free drinks to put them into his debt.

From the corner of his eye Goodnight can seeMacClaren’s glare, but there’s little he can do if the boss is in the mood totalk. ‘Impressive place for a small town,’ he observes: it is striking, thedécor and the games and the girls in what appears to be a glorified tradingpost.

Adams taps the side of his nose. ‘Entertainment’s thebusiness to be in.’ He looks around himself, to see that his underlings arepaying attention: here’s a man who enjoys the sound of his own voice. ‘Honestday’s toil is good for the character, they say. But two things that never goout of fashion are drink and pussy, and the man who sells those won’t ever beshort of custom.’

He relaxes against the bar as he elaborates. ‘When Istarted out here all I had was a shack with a tarp for a roof, and me to sweepthe floor and pour the drinks and run the whores; but I was the only bar intown, and the miners, they came pushing and shoving to get in through the door.So I got a bigger joint, and I sold so much liquor that the company sent up themirror for free.’ He nods at the fancy glass behind the bar. ‘And when moregirls came along, I took them under my care and pretty soon I was the biggestowner in town.’ He strokes his moustache, preening: big fish in a small pond,thinks Goodnight.

OK, Adams getsto spread himself here, but the point I was trying to make is that it genuinelyis an impressive achievement: Adams is boastful, but he has put in the hardwork to make his saloon a success. It’s too simple to say that he’s just anexploitative owner – he is exploitative, but a lot of what he says about beingthe only person who’ll employ a woman down on her luck is actually true, and helooks after the girls well as long as they’re useful to him.

‘Took them under my care’ is also deliberate - it’s an unpleasant thought, but what would happen to someone like Jilly, who’s mentally chllenged, at that period if she didn’t have an employer to take her on, even if he exploits her? (It’s another echo of Swearengen in a way, as he keeps the physically-disabled Jewel on in his saloon, though as a maid of all work and for rather more selfless reasons.) Adams isn’t a nice guy, but he’s neither as brutal as the miners nor as purity-obsessed as the respectable townsfolk.

‘Can a man enquire as to the nature of your businesshere? You and your – associate?’ Adam’s manner is still satirical, butGoodnight senses there’s not much between taking Billy’s money and throwing himout into the street. Or trying to. He smiles: he’ll do this a thousandtimes if it’ll lift a fraction of the burden Billy carries.

‘Entertainment’s our business too,’ he says, and seesAdams stiffen: not a man who likes competition. ‘We’ll stage a few contests, ifthere’s the interest: shooting, fighting. Always men who like to test theirskills.’

Adams narrows his eyes, nodding thoughtfully. ‘Handyin a fight, is he?’ He puts up his fists in a boxer’s stance and feints a fewpunches. ‘My fighting days are long past, but Amos here might be able to giveyour pard a run for his money.’

Goodnight doubts it, in a fair fight: weight’s noadvantage against Billy. But he gets the impression that a fair fight’s notwhat this Adams is interested in.

‘In a fairfight, which Dan and I try to avoid…’ There really is a lot of Deadwood in this scene!

Still, he shrugs. ‘He can try and welcome. We’ll setup tomorrow. Town this size, I expect there’ll be some takers.’

‘And that’s all your business here?’ Adams is lookingat him keenly. ‘Clean out the sapheads and move on?’ What’s he afraid of?

Someone with abetter name than him muscling in on his hard-won business, and once again, youcan’t really blame him.

‘Earn a little, spend a little,’ says Goodnight, ‘wedon’t aim to settle.’

That seems to satisfy him. ‘Long as you do yourspending here at the day’s end, we’ll have no argument.’ He puts his glass downand nods at Amos for another.

‘On me,’ says Goodnight. Won’t do to be in thisman’s debt.

–

It’s a while before he can extricate himself fromAdams’ company, and by the time he does Billy’s gone upstairs; Goodnight startsto head after him, but as he puts his foot on the first step the thoughtfreezes him. Did he take the girl up there with him? He scans the room asunobtrusively as he can, and no, there she is, leaning on the shoulder of a fatman in a high collar. He knows he shouldn’t feel relieved, thumping up thestair and along to their room, but he does.

In their room Billy’s already stowed their gearneatly, razor and soap laid out next to the basin, Goodnight’s bag on the bedby the door; he’s claimed the bed nearer the wall for himself. He’s sittingcross-legged, attending to his knives, running the sharpening stone carefullydown a blade; there’s a plate on the floor next to his feet, empty but forcrumbs, and another on the chest with a hunk of bread and cheese.

I wrote thisscene first just with the conversation between them, and later revised it withall the little touches to show how they look out for each other: at this stage intheir relationship they’re still working out how it benefits them both, in waysunexpected as well as expected, and I wanted to show that as well as theawkwardness.

It’s an easy familiarity that does as much to groundGoodnight as the conversation and backup; too often in the past the oppressivesilence of a grubby anonymous room has driven him downstairs again to drinkuntil he no longer cared, but now he’s warmed by Billy’s wordless forethought.

He hangs his coat on the bedpost and empties thepockets, piling the coins and notes on the bedcover. ‘Come out ahead?’ asksBilly.

‘War stories helped,’ admits Goodnight. ‘Don’t thinkthey were all for my quitting, but the boss here got talking to me at the barso they couldn’t complain.’

‘That Adams?’ asks Billy over the regular stroke ofthe stone; he’ll need them sharp tomorrow, but Goodnight knows by now that hefinds the nightly ritual soothing, honing and polishing, turning each blade inhis hands then laying it down in a neat line: it brings calm to his face andeases the stiffness from his posture.

‘Likes the sound of his own voice.’ He pretends toignore Billy’s glance of amusement. ‘Wanted to sound me out a bit, wonderingwhy we’re here. Think he’s anxious about protecting his turf.’

‘King of a dunghill,’ says Billy dismissively.

This one mademe think of Firefly, when River says ‘Sadlittle king of a sad little hill’ to Badger.

Goodnight stacks the money on the chest next to thebasin and rolls up his sleeves to wash. ‘Seems to have it pretty much sewn uphere, only saloon in town and a couple of heavies to keep it that way.’

‘Wonder if that’s his only business: girl I wastalking to said there’ve been attacks on the road out: couple of times wealthytypes passed through and found themselves looking down a gun a few days later.’

Al Swearengenagain, with his road agents. Really there’s nothing of my own in this fic!

‘Worth knowing.’ Goodnight shucks his vest and bootsand stretches out his legs on the bed, plate in hand: the noise of the saloonbelow is still loud, but he’s had enough of spinning tales and playing up tohis reputation. Drunk enough too.

As he settles to eat Goodnight says carefully, ‘I sawyou talking with her: if you want – I mean, up here, I can make myself scarcefor a while.’

‘No need,’ says Billy shortly; he doesn’t look upfrom his polishing.

‘No trouble for me to take off,’ insists Goodnight.It’s the first time Billy’s given any indication of an interest: if they’re tobe a partnership, best get it all out into the open. ‘Or if you’d prefer we canget two rooms, money’s not tight just now.’ Perhaps he’s shy about it: it’s notas though the subject’s ever come up, and maybe that’s his own fault – he’d lethimself assume that Billy found the same satisfaction in their company as hedoes. But he’s sensitive enough to see that if Billy’s race is enough to causetrouble in a bar then the question of women is bound to be a thorny one. So ifthis one’s willing, maybe in private, it’s not his business to stand in theway. ‘Man has his wants.’

I’m quite proudof this exchange, Goody being delicate with lots of half-sentences.

Billy stands up and picks up his belt to slot theknives one by one into their sheaths. He’s not looking at Goodnight. ‘I don’twant.’

Goodnight swallows down the awkwardness: he’sdetermined not to let this spoil the friendship they’ve built. ‘Money’s there,no problem if you need a little extra to buy her something pretty.’

Billy turns to face him, face set and hard to read.‘I don’t, OK?’ Goodnight can’t fathom why he’s being so hostile. ‘You don’t, doyou? She was making up to you first and you didn’t take her up on it.’

‘Ain’t what I’m looking for,’ says Goodnight, andit’s a phrase he’s practised over the years. He puts down his plate. Plenty ofreasons a man might avoid prostitutes: morality, fear of disease, faith to apartner lost … turning down an advance in a saloon isn’t cause for suspicion.‘But no reason I should put my notions onto you.’

And here’s thedifference between them that’s going to come out later – Goody sees the girlsjust as ‘prostitutes’, women he’s not interested in, whereas Billy sees Tess asan individual. Goody is going to grow into this attitude as he gets to knowthem, but right now his attitude is very top-down; Billy’s is bottom-up, seeingthe girls as people just like himself.

Billy sits down on the bed again facing him. ‘I don’twant to bring her up here. I wouldn’t do that to anyone, make them do it formoney, or because their boss tells them to.’ His fierce expression forbidsquestioning. ‘We were just talking: it’s what she’s supposed to do. About whatwe do, a bit, and about how it is for them here.’

The girls? Goodnight can’t say he’s ever given itmuch thought – girls in a saloon are just part of the setting, young, old, somepretty and some not, all friendly and all available, all to be politelydeflected and check your pockets afterward.

I did wonderabout this, because it seems unlikely to a modern eye – did he really never thinkabout the women? But Goody, as I said, isn’t for me very interested in peopleoutside himself, and most men of that period, insofar as they thought aboutprostitutes at all, either despised them or pitied them. And really what I wantedto do was interrogate our own attitudes as consumers of Westerns – who thinksabout the women in the saloon? The ones in M7 don’t even have names, they’re justwindow dressing for the genre, and we never think about them as individuals:the woman massaging Faraday’s shoulders in the opening scene, the woman in theboots at Volcano Springs, the woman in the coach who Faraday winks at – who werethey? What were their lives like?

‘No harm, then,’ he says, fetching out his notebook;Billy lights a cigarette and stretches out at full length with a satisfiedsigh, and companionable silence fills the room, shouts and music coming faintlyfrom below.

 I really enjoyed the chance to think about this, so thanks again!

[collected-cutlery]

The unfortunate case of seeing is believing

When I realised my illness wasn't going away, that I was disabled, I knew that I would be judged by people more generally. People I didn't know/know well would think I wasn't trying hard enough, that I didn't really need help; I look perfectly fine, after all.

The thing I wasn't prepared for was my friends and family to not believe me. Thankfully, most of them did but years later, some still don't appear to truly. They say they do. They want to understand. They even want to help me. But a few, despite having been talked to at length about what it is like for me day to day, still say things that show their disbelief. Sly comments about how I still manage to have a social life, how ‘lucky’ it is I had energy for an event I planned weeks ago. Repeat questions about some task I've yet to get round to that they clearly think would be so easy for me to manage, even as I tell them what energy I have goes on tasks that are more important to me than that.

Despite how much I try to explain to them, they appear to still judge me based on what they see, not what I tell them. I'm sure if I asked them, they would say they trust me, but what they say gives away that they don't seem to deep down. Since they see the good days, me making an effort to socialise, me saving up my energy for what I have planned, me forsaking other activities to prioritise them, they always see me as being fine, not struggling at all.

They don't seem to take in my words telling them how carefully I have to plan and how I still fail to pace well at times. They ought to know from what I tell them over and over, how I can't just push myself whenever I need to, not for long and not without consequences. Sometimes I am pushing myself too far, just to see them, but there's no appreciation of that. I get mad at them for not listening, because if they did listen they'd have their explanations already.

What bothers me even more is, if they, people who are close to me, the most likely to be sympathetic, will not listen to what my life is like and instead end up judging me, then what hope do I have with other people who don't know me? It hurts so much to have people who know me not believe me and I don't think anything could have prepared me for that. It really cuts deep down to be trying your best to get through a difficult situation, to make your way in life. but to know they think you aren't doing enough. Their comments, subtle and casually said as they are, just reinforces that irrational toxic voice inside that second guesses whether I am indeed doing enough, whether I am as sick as I think, whether I deserve to rest.

I know now that isn't a helpful way to think, but that's the voice I used to listen to when I first got ill, when I thought it was temporary and I had that drive to try to push past it, to keep going no matter what. That’s the voice I listened to when I didn't know what was wrong and blamed myself for not being able to do more no matter how hard I tried. That made me so much worse over time to the point life was one day after another, but not really living - my soul was crushed, I was so desperate for things to be in any way not as hard as they were then. I've gotten past that, to a place where I have a much better idea of my limits and work hard to do what is best for my health. There's always gonna be people who think I'm not trying hard enough, I can usually put that to the back of my mind, but boy, it doesn't help to have those people in my life. About all I can do is minimise interactions with them and recognise their opinions are not everyone’s.

[theblindadventures]

David Blunkett on meeting his new Guide Dog

Former Home Secretary, Lord David Blunkett has been getting to know his new guide dog Barley.

The black retriever/German Shepherd cross is his seventh guide dog since he qualified with his first in 1969. His previous guide dog Cosby died in late 2017.

Lord Blunkett spoke about the experience of learning routes around Sheffield and London with his new companion and the feeling of independence he has regained.

He wrote: “Last November, my much-loved companion Cosby died unexpectedly from liver cancer. Until the final few days of his life, my wife Margaret and I had no idea he was ill. The first sign that anything was wrong came when he didn’t want his breakfast – not natural behaviour for any labrador-cross, and completely out of character for Cosby, who weighed more than seven stone. When the vet told us the cancer was inoperable, I was completely unprepared in many ways.

“Cosby was not yet eight years old, and though the only humane option was to have him put to sleep to save further suffering, my heart broke in the clinic as I held his head to comfort him.

“He was my sixth guide dog in almost 50 years, after Ruby, Teddy, Offa, Lucy and Sadie. On each previous occasion, there had been an overlap, a transition when I’d been able to get to know my new dog while still working with the old one. Sadie stayed at my side till she was 11, before going off to a well-earned rest with a loving foster family. But after Cosby died, I was left without a dog. It came as a shock to realise just how much I relied on my canine helpmate.

“I’ve rarely spoken about the challenges I face in public life without sight. I prefer to highlight what I have to offer, and I’m always conscious that everyone has their own problems, often hidden and sometimes very serious.

“But it might be helpful to readers facing difficulties of their own for me to explain the practical and emotional challenges that have taken me by surprise since losing Cosby.

“Some have been comical: it turns out that the Palace of Westminster is littered with chairs and stone pillars whose existence I never realised while I had my dog to steer me.

“One obstacle floored me, quite literally, when I tripped over it in a parliamentary corridor. On closer inspection, it turned out to be a mobility scooter. You have to laugh, though it was a relief to realise that I hadn’t suffered much harm other than bruises to my dignity.

“Other problems are more debilitating, and perhaps you have to experience them to appreciate how hard life can be with a disability. My friend Frank Gardner, the renowned security editor at the BBC, has spoken of the frustration he felt on landing at Heathrow recently, when his wheelchair was not brought to the cabin door of his plane, but was taken into the terminal.

“The need to depend on the patience and kindness of others evokes complicated emotions. I am grateful for people’s thoughtfulness, but it is also painful for me to acknowledge just how helpless I am without them.

“Friends and members of the public have been wonderful, yet their help served to reinforce my levels of temporary dependency. For me, as with so many blind people, a guide dog removes much of that reliance on others.

“I have great admiration for those proficient in using a long cane, as clearly a dog doesn’t suit everyone. It’s not enough to be blind – you must also be a dog-lover. A working dog is not a pet but it still needs your care, attention, time and love. If you can’t provide that, you shouldn’t take on the responsibility.

“Dogs thrive on routine, and I’m having to relearn some habits... such as going without a weekend lie-in, because Barley needs his breakfast and a chance to go outside. Even on wet and miserable days, a dog needs to be taken for walks. And because he’s not yet two years old, he needs plenty of play.

“It’s the play that’s wearing me out. Cosby liked a bit of fun but he didn’t have endless youthful energy to burn off. Neither do I, come to that. But Barley could chase tennis balls all day and night. He brings them back, but not often in one piece – the temptation to chew them to shreds is too strong.

“He loves a game of tug-of-war, too, with a rope or a toy. My arms and shoulders are sore from it. I’m getting used to him in other ways. Because Cosby was more like a small pony than a dog, I could reach down to pat his back without stretching or letting go of his harness. Sleek, black and handsome, Barley isn’t quite that tall, but he does love praise, even more than a scratch behind the ears.

“When I tell him he’s a ‘good boy’, his very long, bushy tail lashes away like a furry windscreen wiper. I worry about that tail, in fact – he’d better keep it tucked in when we go through revolving doors. He seems confident on escalators, and we are already getting used to using the London Underground together.

“In the capital with a guide dog, I’m constantly aware that we’ll need a convenient patch of grass several times a day. When meetings drag on, there’s always the thought in the back of my mind that the dog might be thirsty, or need exercise. This all has to be planned in advance. It’s not just a matter of putting on the harness and walking out of the door.

“Luckily, we have the Peak District countryside close by for weekend walks, which gives opportunities for Barley to relax and shake off the rigours of the working week. As yet, I wouldn’t trust Barley around sheep: if they scatter, his instinct would be to round them up, which would be dangerous.

“One of my dogs, Sadie, was trained to walk through a flock without distraction – and somehow the sheep understood this, and were not scared. I’ve never understood how that worked. If sheep are usually frightened of dogs, I’m the one who is wary of cattle. “About nine years ago, I was knocked over by an aggressive heifer, and suffered three cracked ribs. So while Barley and I plan to enjoy our country strolls, we’ll be staying well away from the larger livestock.

“Before he came to me, Barley spent more than a year with a very experienced puppy walker called Sue. She recognised at once there was something special about him – ‘He’s a bright boy, a quick learner who enjoys meeting people,’ she said. Apparently he befriended every bus driver in the town, as he practised using public transport.

“Of course, as far as Barley knows, I’m just the latest human in a succession of puppy walkers and professional trainers. It will take him a while to realise I’m sticking around. In that respect, he reminds me of a civil servant in a government department, who looks after a succession of Cabinet ministers and must transfer loyalty from one to the next. The difference is that owners have to clear up after their dogs – whereas ministers sometimes make a mess for the civil servants to deal with.

“As Barley and I get the measure of each other, he will be constantly learning about my routines. It’s a common misconception that guide dogs come with a built-in satnav, pre-programmed with every road map. In fact, they have to get to know their owners’ regular walks – where the street crossings are, the bus stops, the cafes and shops. On every new route, they have to use their initiative.

“A guide dog is trained not just to avoid obstacles, but to stay to the middle of the pavement, and to stop at kerbs and steps. A calm temperament is needed to cope with crowds and traffic, and of course obedience is essential – a dog should not turn a corner or step into the road, for instance, until the command is given.

“That requires exceptional training, but what always amazes me most is how the animal is able to judge height and width, so that I don’t bump my head or shoulder.

“If you see us out together, by all means give me friendly shout, but please don’t distract Barley. He’s got enough to do already. What might not be visible is how he reduces the stress of simply navigating everyday journeys for me. Wherever we go, a dog makes life so much easier than I knew, until I had to do without one.

“Yes, his youthful exuberance is tiring me out. And yes, I’m running out of tennis balls. But he is restoring my dignity and independence to me, and that is a blessing beyond price.”

Original link to website from Guide dogs https://www.guidedogs.org.uk/news/news/#barley