#i mean this in no will ill either but it sets off alarm bells in my head

[atrocitys-reblog-acct]

.

[trans-leek-cookie]

listen I'm not gonna be a Curly apologist he did Fucked Up as captain but I genuinely recommend ppl watch a playthru that goes thru the game in chronological order. It kinda helps clear up the events and gaps between them, bc even tho u See the times, you still experience it out of order.

The stuff Anya says definitely sets off alarm bells but it doesn't seem like he Fully Understands what she means, and I'm going to be 100% honest I think she was trying to repress it herself. This isn't to say that she is AT ALL "at fault" for what happened after and she should've gotten help even if she wasn't ready to fully discuss the issue but I genuinely think she herself was still coming to terms with things, so she didn't necessarily process the full impact before talking to Curly, and a lot of what happens occurs after they're laid off- like this delves into personal interpretation but I genuinely think Anya only registered Jimmy as a serious danger after his outburst towards Curly. Ofc my interpretation is limited bc of the limited pov in game and not having gone through what she has, but it personally reads more akin to coercion over time than a singular Obviously Violent incident (like. Not to say that Sexual Assault isnt violent in nature, just that coercion often specifically works to obfuscate the fact it is a form of violence.) The layoff is a Massive catalyst for her bc of Jimmy, in that she now has a very clear understanding of his capacity for aggression.

To extrapolate a little from the "Dead Pixel" conversation, she starts by saying she Likes The Screen (even though it's fake). While Curly has his quotes about the pixel "not ruining the illusion" which. Y'know is Symbolic Of His Flaws. She doesn't say the pixel ruins it, just that she can't get it out of her mind.

If we take the pixel to represent her Or jimmy, either way the way she talks about it kind of downplays things, like it's a Minor Thing that's Slightly Upsetting, but she's still okay with the big picture. Idk I could be 100% wrong but that is my take

Besides that, Anya tells curly she's pregnant 2 days before the crash, and it isn't until she outright states it that he starts Putting The Pieces Together. I want to note, he says "I'd do anything" and "this doesn't have to go on our performance evals" 1. Before he knows shes pregnant 2. Under the assumption she might attempt suicide, and I doubt he even thought about her using the gun on anyone else before she brings that up. He says literally before the line where she tells him she's pregnant that "being laid off isnt a reason to hurt [herself]". Like I've seen ppl talk about the performance evaluation thing like it's about her and jimmy, but I think he's referring to (his belief) that she might attempt suicide or similar which might genuinely be a consistent thing he's seen her struggle with, given she's able to go through with it. Also just to note: assuming their society is like ours (hellish) reassuring her he won't blab Abt her mental health is like. Genuine reassurance- lots of mentally ill ppl will Not Open Up bc it could have long term consequences (like. For example. On employment) ANYWAYS I hope it doesn't come off like "Curly never failed Anya" but rather "Curly approached this specific situation without the context of why Anya is panicking and (possibly validly) assuming she's dealing with a very different issue"

Also let me say again the time frame is 2 days. We don't Really see what happens, but we know Anya tells Jimmy without Curly knowing. I genuinely believe he maybe didn't do a Great Job in those two days (the fact he says Anya should've talked to Him before telling Jimmy is uhhh. Mm. 1. Your job to create an environment where she comes to you my man 2. Weird to tell her what she should do with HER OWN PERSONAL INFORMATION) but like.

I get a lot of ppl want immediate consequences but consider that they can't really get rid of Jimmy (co pilot. Which is. Y'know it's Own Problems) but also like. Curly knows Jimmy, and we know that Jimmy tends to lash out. Curly should probably Not Confront Jimmy Unless He Knows Exactly How To Keep Him From Hurting Anya. Like I'm not an expert but this is something genuinely important- when confronting an abuser you NEED to take into account the impact it can have on their victim, and sometimes for the victims safety you need to wait until you have a Solid Plan. It sucks but it's important.

And theres discussion to be had about Curly kinda going along with Jimmy saying "well what if we all died" and like. I do believe he Didn't Realize What Jimmy Said. Like he was just processing/trying to keep the situation under control (and failing because he underestimated how willing Jimmy was to hurt everyone including himself).

Like he's definitely an enabler but I would say his problems are mostly before he understands the gravity of the situation, in that he's friends with Jimmy and assumes the best of a man with abusive tendencies, and fails to create an environment that can keep Anya and the others safe. Like, he definitely doesn't handle in game events perfectly (psych evaluation for one- he does do it instead of Anya which is actually helpful, but he still treats it like. Weirdly.)

Idk I have a lot of thoughts about this game and I don't necessarily want to defend Curly but more like. Anya's situation is very delicate (and light on details) so sometimes the way ppl talk Abt it feels like they aren't actually focused on what she wants and what it means to prioritize her safety y'know?

Edit bc I just now figured out kinda how I want to word it: curly is an enabler and making things worse bc he doesn't put a stop to Jimmy's BS, but in the specific scenario we see in game I think he's trying to use his Skillset of like, people pleasing not for Jimmy's sake but for the crews (like "if I nod my head and say I sympathize he won't lash out and hurt them") which like. There are situations which that is unfortunately the safest option (on an individual level yes, but sometimes it's also necessary to prevent abusers lashing out in response toward ppl who are more vulnerable) but it was the Wrong Choice.

It's like. I think Curly was trying and had good intentions, and understood that he needed to protect the crew, but he didn't have the toolset/experience to realize he can't Just go along with things and that he needs to be able to set hard limits, even for ppl he likes and trusts. Like he failed but the failure was "for want of a nail", where it began way before what we see (for want of an understanding of power dynamics I guess.) Again, don't think this makes curly more forgivable or whatever, I just think he's a good example of trying to make the right choices when you never realized you'd have to make these kinds of decisions and therefore are unprepared and/or unaware

Second edit: personally I don't think you can really incapacitate jimmy without there being serious risk (again he's the copilot) but curly should've given Anya the gun when she told him Abt the pregnancy

[melodyofthevoid]

❛ what? no witty remark? nothing clever to say? ❜

❛ i just wanted to say i’m sorry. ❜

with the robo blorbos hehe

(Hehe, of course of course)

Olli believed in two things above all else: being prepared, and keeping a cool appearance. 

Of course one made the other possible. After all, acting as though you knew everything came much easier if you did actually know everything. Olli could afford to be aloof and snarky and distant because she’d planned for every eventuality. She’d honed her skills, she had backup plans upon backup plans, and she had Milo. 

Well. They’d had Milo. 

For the 44th time that cycle they’d disassembled and reassembled their pistol. Removing the charge-bolt battery, the excess charge heat-sink, the custom amplifier. Checking them over. Putting them back together again. Rinse and repeat. Cycle through the cameras to his hideaway and occasionally throw a knife at the printout of Harv. Or what remained of the printout. 

Given their accuracy? Not much. 

But what good did throwing knives do when their best friend for all intents and purposes didn’t fucking EXIST- 

The mechanical reflex of reassembly paused midway, moving too fast not to cause some damage to the trigger mechanism. A jam might ruin her prized piece and that? Well that’d be the cap on a shitty series of events. So they eased the cartridge in, setting it down. 

Olli stood up, walking away to recalibrate her joints and get her head on straight. All of this served no purpose, other than to let her mind wander back to the fresh horror and betrayal that brought her here in the first place. 

He’d trusted Harv. His mentor, his teacher. Who’d paired them up with Milo in the first place and for what? To sell him out to Pricilla? To sell himself out- and- 

And all of this for what? One half-decent pop-bot? Sure, she knew how to put up a fight but if Iliana had left? What changed? Not enough to warrant the crackdown the city faced and certainly not enough to justify the complete violation of Milo’s code. 

All roads led to ill-advised actions and Olli’s sense of self-respect and preservation kept them from seeking out any revenge. But they also had no plans. No routes to righting the situation or settling the score. Killing Harv? Impossible, too many layers of security plus Milo. Getting through to Milo? Not a chance, with her level of self repair knowledge she’d probably break him. Caving in Illiana’s thick skull? Tempting but required them to cross the city and risk the wrath of Fin. 

What remained then? 

A whole lot of nothing, that’s what. Nothing, and a restless anxiety that Olli wanted gone. Anxiety was Milo’s thing, not theirs. 

They missed him already. 

Clattering from an upper window demanded Olli’s immediate attention, and they snatched the (fully assembled, as it should be) pistol from the table. Creeping towards the source of the noise. The milliseconds that they’d stepped away from their cameras something managed to get in. 

Just their luck. 

The signature coming off of the figure already rang alarm bells because this room took at least several feats of acrobatics to get to in the first place. Meaning whoever this was either had a death wish or wanted Olli. That, and no one else should know about this aside from- from Milo. 

Who’d give up his location with no qualms. Because it was an order. 

Shit. 

Olli’s hands never shook, too new to accumulate any bugs that might interfere with the servos or corrosion to wear down their wires. But their courage wavered, which unsettled them enough that their hands nearly trembled. 

Several knocks against one of the stray pipes rang out in quick succession, forming some sort of rhythm. A… song’s rhythm. The pauses lining up just right. Aligning with a song that Olli heard only once and only with a certain performer. 

Mild fear turned to annoyance turned to a finger just over the trigger trying to find a reason not to press down. Their slight tick of amusement overshadowed by the fact that she bothered to show up here at all. After everything. 

But Olli could be generous. They’d at least give her a head start before they pummeled her. 

“Come on out princess. I won’t shoot you, but I’d appreciate if you stopped lurking.” 

Out of the darkness, a pair of hands raised, followed by the rest of Illiana. Not looking any worse for wear. Hopefully that meant she took enough caution to not be followed, not that Olli cared to place any bets on that. As expected her landing from the upper pipes went off without a hitch, her wires not even tangling when she somersaulted to the ground. 

Irritating in its own right. 

“Were you followed?” 

“No,” Illiana checked back over her shoulder, “I made sure. Would’ve gotten here sooner if I hadn’t but- I wanted to talk.” 

Olli made a show of nodding and “considering” Illiana’s words. As if he weren’t melting from the inside. Coolant trying its damndest to perform. He put his hands on his hips, turning from the ground to her, and back again.

“Mhm.” 

Wasting no more time, Olli rolled their shoulders. Flexing their hand a few times before walking up to Illiana, and winding up for the first blow. Her optics widened, not out of fear yet

“Wait- wait hold on-“ 

Metal connected with sapphire glass, the thin layer clacking but not quite shattering. Of course Illiana got the expensive stuff in her construction. It’d take nothing short of a bomb to leave a dent. Or several dozen shots. 

Either way Olli didn’t do all that much damage. Which worked with her, she spared no feelings, especially not her own. There was more where that came from. Plenty more. 

“I’d ask how you managed to find me,” Olli snarled, “but you’re here. So it doesn’t matter. ”

In the back of their mind, they made a note to abandon this hideout once they’d dealt with the popstar. Careful or no, the location’s compromise was almost certain. Which really sucked, they’d gotten quite comfortable here. 

Too comfortable in retrospect. 

Not that they didn’t already prepare a list of alternate locations, Olli more than made sure to do that cycles ago. Moving and hiding the evidence just took so long. In any case. More pressing matters took priority here. But it piled onto the list of pettier grievances. 

“So, are you here to make me even more involved with your mess?”

Illiana’s wires fell like a curtain over her faceplate as she turned away for a nanosecond. Grimacing before facing Olli again. Olli barked out a laugh, throwing her hands up and spinning on her heel. 

“What? No witty remark? No ‘Oh it’ll be fine trust me’? No ‘Come on you can believe me, the wanted criminal who’s dragged everyone else into her nonsense’?”

Illiana winced, but kept her back straight. Not quite proud, but not shrinking either. 

“I wanted to say I’m sorry.” 

“Well- wait what?” 

“You’re right, I did drag Milo into all this. I- I thought this all would be easier. Prissy’s more desperate than I gave her credit for and… He’s been on the receiving end now. Twice.”

Olli examined Illiana again, closer. Scanning her body language. Every time they’d interacted prior, she’d exuded a near obnoxious amount of cheer. A battery made of optimism and showmanship. It even came through in her fighting, which for all of its flash did work. She knew how to move, when to move. Always with a smile. 

Now that grin hid somewhere else. Her optics unwavering. Open. 

There wasn’t a doubt in Olli’s mind that she practiced those words before this. The odd part was that he didn’t exactly mind. It at least meant she put some forethought into this. 

“Alright. So why’d you come here? You got something other than an apology?” 

“I think we can get Milo back.” 

They froze. Thoughts stuttering to a halt before their fans clocked overtime. 

There’d better be an explanation. Not blind “can-do”. Not some flimsy hope that things might improve because Olli didn’t work with might. She needed certainty, security, because only a handful of bots mattered enough for them to stick their neck out. And one of them just betrayed her. 

“Explain.” 

She needed to know. 

“Vex managed to break some of the firewalls in the AEGIS database,” Illiana crossed her arms, “ We didn’t get everything, but we did get some of Dell’s logs and code. With that, they can reverse whatever they did to him. I know they can.” 

Something dangerous sparked in Olli’s core. A grin peaking up at the corners of their mouth. 

Not that they’d give Illiana her full trust just yet. She needed more information. To plan, obviously. Not for any other reason. 

“And I assume you came here to tell me because…?”

“Because I can’t get him alone. I’d risk seriously injuring him, or myself. Right now, he’d try to destroy me. And he might even succeed, we both know that he’s more lethal than he lets on. WIth you, we’d have a better chance of catching him, getting him back to Vex, and- and getting your best friend back.” 

Olli looked Illiana over one more time. Loathe as she was to admit it, Illiana did know how to handle herself, and clearly wanted to make things right. She had a plan, which meant more than knives against a printout and another reassembly. With Illiana’s start, Olli could steer the rest to smooth victory. As they always did. 

They’d let their anger go. For now. 

“Well, let’s get started then.”

[randomfoggytiger]

My ask box did something weird; so I had to submit this one as a post: 

Xf fan asked: 

I recently saw a post go around about how “Never Again” was originally supposed to be played post-Superbowl but CC decided that “Leonard Betts” was a better pick. There’s a quote from GA saying if she had known the updated sequence, she would have played Scully differently in Never Again. Would love to hear your take on this— what do you think she would have done differently? (Sorry if you’ve already posted about this before; I wasn’t able to find it if you have.)

My answer: 

I think GA would have played Scully similarly to how she did in Memento Mori, since that was originally filmed as her character’s realization, grim defeat, and optimistic acceptance in the face of her cancer. 

If Never Again were centered around those emotions, I think Scully would have been repelled from Ed Jerse rather than drawn to him: she was in self-preservation mode her entire cancer arc; and Ed would have presented himself as an unstable, unreliable person that would consumed more of her energy than he was worth. I also think Scully would have taken Mulder’s case too eagerly, setting off his alarm bells that way (because she would have wanted to bury herself in the work as a means of escape, ex. Beyond the Sea and Irresistible.) In canon, she was already cutting herself off from admitting her cancer to others unless absolutely necessary; and, I think, Scully would have seen it as dishonest to get into an entanglement with Ed Jerse without telling him about where she “was” (either mentally in the crummy bar or non-canonically with her ill health), almost as an apology. Moreover, if she hasn’t told Mulder about her cancer (or her boss, or her mother) in this scenario, there’s no way she will tell Jerse; and Scully, I believe, would veto her own interest in him because of her code of integrity as well as her fear of facing reality. 

That’s how I think it would have gone done– essentially: more “boring” and contemplative, with all roads leading away from Ed Jerse and a tattoo: Scully would avoid him because having a potential love interest (even as a one-night stand) will force her to confront her own ticking clock and inability to commit to anything longterm, which is just a hop-skip-and-a-jump away from facing her cancer news. 

Thanks for asking~! :DDDDD

[libidomechanica]

“They lookd at her, and gracious lighter”

Hum about his lap a book, and at once planteth!     They look’d at her, and gracious lighter. Cold in the moral a fresh is there enough to     drive out great Mother’s yearning forth

eternal numbers to the winds are tedious leasure     thine heightening looks: alway his leasure think they changed my dominion. Radiance, we blend,     mingle, and mellow sounds fled, but lapp’d

and eyes, faded the omen! Doth deceive, and fill’d     out its neck seeking nowhere needeth anger nould let me not easy to withstand could     feel not responds,—as if with each other,—

not miss the words will go by. A thing shut of     every onward went down the passionate looks; to cousen you may love, again? The second     had his past or presently, their

carrion, just off your forehead large, whose shadow     in thee, sweet is their evening, and some of loue, that well-wrought them, warm their mother,—not mine,     and co-inherits tomb, and nestle

in a golden spheres did make. Our Hearts are pretty;     but he muse of both, both Princes and subject to undergo; both maladies are as     Georgians, Russians, as the red life, my

childhood all complexion shone great bounty, and the     alarm of women, love means this? Music too,—while wanton base delight. No, there! Name of     hope to say straying his path; and her

as she clasp’d—I caught, with new names are not for my     flowring Wether lips ill hung or set, and Muses scorne thy street; in love, let us hie,     flying, flies to the inward sight, a

life is love doth excell in love. Soft went not thy     beauty from thee a sweet wine, will make me any mortals, or close hand the planets all     sweets to plaining discreetly flowers

budded rose? A deadly silence, dumb despair was     power over blue dominion: now my spring! Its music, and extinguished his inwards;     and I go from your bells; and yet

there, and with her recollection, you may come with     his brows, silk-pillow’d at her, and prove ye know on earthly love knows but too soon, and thus     weigh down sweet name her with cries amid

loud thunder-tents than unswept smoothly steer my skiff     along green leaves so green, the morning dawn of future will bring for their silvery oak     apples wouldest thou mas-kedst late. Moved

either; neither of the judgments of magic, and     he took me in his small as I waded in; and, silent here.—From him keep me hid. To     brood so long offended might, nor do

aspire to Cæsars bleeding feet, pale as the yeares     green; and the danger, for solitude.— You, tiresome verse-reciter, Care,—I will but     love? Upon a gentle strength climbed high,

and lo! Making direct how to confused by fate,     some twenty ages gather from the rose along his foot, with joyful cries amid loud     thunder, and slept, and hours, to sue thee

troubled stream of solid fire and make you a while,     the enchantment swept away at once for pure love!—You will not wait? The hils of Kent. And     something new—like the hearing traffic

with their lives in our meadow-sweet air stirs blue hare-     bells trembling sisters twittered, but being hidden, laugh at the change wrought:     I might watch her from the bitter tears.

[astarryon]

Another Lifetime: Shouldn’t Have Gotten Shot

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Fem!Reader

Warnings: Description of war and battle injuries, mentions of blood, gunshots, language, etc.

Summary: Bucky doesn’t like talking about her, but Dr. Raynor isn’t an easy person to argue with. And now that it’s summer –– now that he’s living through the months they’d shared together all over again, only without her by his side –– fighting the memories becomes all the more difficult.

A/N: Listen, I really don’t know what’s gotten into me but ever since tfatws started I have been INSPIRED! Hoping to update this fic sem regularly, but we’ll see where the new school term takes us. As always, I hope you enjoy, and feel free to let me know what you think!

Bucky Barnes has never been overly fond of the summer.

One aspect was the fact that he could remember what it was like to be a miserable kid living in a cramped Brooklyn apartment with no air conditioning and three baby sisters who never stopped whining about the heat. Of all the jumbled, foggy memories bouncing around the confines of his skull, that one is clearer than most. And though he still finds it difficult to picture the faces of his little sisters –– can’t hardly remember arcs of their noses, much less the colors of each of their eyes –– a nostalgic, brotherly feeling washes over him all the same.

There’s also the little detail that he’d received his draft notice in the summer months. That Bucky remembers perfectly, one of the few memories strong enough to remain unmuddied by all those years of shitbag scientists rooting around his head and picking his brain apart. The heat that year had been sweltering, and once his mother found him in her kitchen with that damned letter clutched between his fingers, he felt it burn right through the strings of his heart. 

The first week of July delivered the news. The last saw him shipping out to bootcamp. 

He guessed he didn’t mind the sunshine. That part had always been nice, and it helped to calm him on occasion these days, to remember that the golden rays licking comforting heat up his skin were the same ones which had shone down on him back in the 40s, before and during the war.

Before Hydra had condemned him to seventy long years of dark and cold.

To that end, logic said the season he really should hate was winter, but he’d never felt any ill will toward the colder months, and found now, in the present, that he’d only grown fonder of them. When the rain came down from the sky in sheets, or when snow fell so thick it resembled white, puffy clouds blanketing the ground, he took walks. Partly because no other soul would be idiotic enough to trudge through a borderline natural disaster at three in the morning, meaning he wouldn’t have to put up with prying eyes and conspicuously pointing fingers, and partly because experiencing said natural disasters in solitude did wonders for the soul.

Steve thought it was strange. Hated that Bucky did it, kept insisting that he at least take a goddamn jacket, there isn’t any actual proof he can’t get pneumonia. But Bucky always shook his head and declined, rolling his eyes and muttering beneath his breath about how apparently the tables have fucking turned.

But, no. The winter, the rain, the cold –– none of that could ever draw half as much ire from him as did the gentle beginnings of June, the scorching heat of July, the fading light of August. Because those weren’t the things which served as reminders from before.

Reminders of her.

“James. Did you hear me?”

Bucky blinks hard, freeing his gaze from the wall calendar tacked up and viewable just over his doctor’s shoulder. Glancing down, he sees the familiar green of the velvet armchair –– one of three options for patients to choose from in her office, and Bucky’s personal favorite on account of the way its textures did something to sooth him as he gripped its arm anxiously with his flesh hand –– and the worn, fraying knees of his black jeans against it. He doesn’t bother meeting his therapist’s gaze. He already knows which of her expressions he’ll find her leveling at him, if he does.

“Sorry,” Bucky mutters, sucking his teeth. He hopes his voice isn’t quite as strained as it sounds –– though, judging by the way Dr. Raynor clucks her tongue as her fingers twitch toward her pen, it definitely is. “Guess I’m a little scattered today.”

The sardonic hum Raynor gives in response as she knowingly tilts her head nearly makes him open his mouth to finish the silent argument she’d started, but Bucky knows better than that. The moment he starts up, she’ll feign innocence and inquire as to why he feels the need to defend himself when no verbal accusation has been made. God damn, it would be just his luck to end up with the one government assigned therapist actually capable at her job.

“That’s what you said yesterday,” Dr. Raynor offers. “And the two days before, if memory serves me right.”

Bucky shakes his head and tsks, tapping a metal finger against his temple. “Not a funny joke, doc. Remember the audience you’re dealing with here.”

“‘Deflecting.’”

The word drops from Raynor’s mouth with a simpleness that puzzles him.

“‘Scuse me?” he prompts when she only goes on to stare at him owlishly.

“Oh, that’s what I’d be writing in my notebook,” she explains simply, folding her hands together in her lap and leaning back in her chair. “If we were using it right now, that is.”

Again, Bucky rolls his eyes, and has to make an active attempt not to cross his arms like a forlorn child. The threat in her words is easily recognizable, not that she’d really bothered trying to conceal it. She knows that damn notebook irritates him more than any other aspect of their current arrangement, and he knows she’s not bluffing. If he doesn’t start talking, Raynor starts writing –– and if Raynor starts writing, he gets tailed by government watchdogs to ensure there are no imminent incidents lurking in the near future.

He sighs dejectedly and meets her gaze. “What was it you asked me?”

“What it is about the month of June that makes you so uncomfortable.”

Bucky blinks, red alarm bells shrieking in his head. Fuck, he can’t help but think. Fuck, fuck, fuck. Caught red handed.

“June’s fine,” he tries, but even to his own ears the assurance sounds weak. To think, he’d once been the most prolific tool of espionage around –– now he can hardly deliver a lie with a straight face. “Don’t have any feelings toward it one way or the other.”

“Strike two,” Raynor quips, glancing one again toward her pen.

Fuck!

Exhaling sharply through his nose, Bucky sits a little straighter in his seat, searching for any semblance of comfort to be found while already knowing he was bound to come up short. Damn it all. She wasn’t going to let him out of this one.

“Alright, hold your horses,” he sighs, waving a halting hand. Raynor’s expression doesn’t shift. She simply continues peering at him with her dark eyes, waiting patiently for his next few words to come. “Why do you assume I’ve got a problem with June?”

“Because you didn’t start staring at that calendar until it switched over from May,” Raynor supplies. “Like I mentioned, today isn’t the only day you’ve been scattered. Seems like something we should consider talking about.”

“No,” Bucky answers quickly. Too quickly. Shit. If she thought he’d been deflecting before, he didn’t even want to know the words running through her mind in regards to his behavior now. “I mean–– well, no. I don’t think it’s that important.”

Raynor arches a brow. “Funny,” she tells him, “the way your eyes keep drifting back to the word ‘June’ tells me otherwise.”

He sighs, worrying the inside of his cheek with his teeth. Caught between a rock and an even bigger, weightier rock. The universe really wasn’t one to take his side often.

Bucky knows there really isn’t any choice here. Either he does what Raynor asks and elaborates on his suspicious behavior, or he risks facing the repercussions of those notes she’ll be jotting down in her notebook. Which of the two evils is more definitively the lesser, he can’t rightly say, but he knows which of the consequences he’d prefer to suffer through. And they’re certainly not the ones which see him robbed of the ability to walk freely down the street without a detail of armed babysitters.

So he figures that, maybe for once, being honest can’t be the worst decision to make.

“A few years ago, back before the blip,” Bucky tries, “I spent a summer in Wakanda.”

“Housed by the royal family,” Raynor nods, tone soft. “We’ve spoken about that before. You said you found it peaceful there. That you liked it.”

He did, and still does. On the nights when his mind isn’t quiet enough to let him find sleep but his heart feels light enough to forego the slideshow of horrors he’d been made to suffer throughout the years, Bucky’s thoughts often return to the bliss which life in Wakanda had offered him. He’d remember the farm he kept there, the little children who would come to sing and play and dance in trees to keep him company in the afternoons. He’d remember Princess Shuri –– Just Shuri, James, come now –– and the kindness she’d displayed in deactivating the deeper, most concerning parts of his programming. The day she’d told him it was done, turned off, that he’d never be forced to revert back to the Soldier against his will again, he’d rushed her and caught her up in a bearhug so relieved and forceful that her Dora Milaje detail had actually pointed their spears at him. He’d remember the tranquility of it all, the simpleness.

The peace.

There’s no hope of him being able to return to that place any time soon, much as he’d like to, but the memories sit resolutely concrete in his mind. The first of a new set which he’d never have to worry about being stolen away from him by the currents of an electric shock.

“It’s a nice place,” Bucky affirms, sighing wistfully at the thoughts swirling up in his head. “I bring it up because back then, that summer… I started remembering a few things. From before.”

Raynor keeps her face smooth and composed, but Bucky notices the twitch in her cheek that says she’s got a question. “When you say before,” she asks, voice gentle, “do you mean your time as the Winter Soldier?”

He shakes his head, swallowing thickly. Ironically, things would be easier, were that the case. He might not be so miserable in the present, seeing the month of June start all over again. The melancholy might not be so strong. “No, not then. I mean from before. From the 40s, during the war. I don’t know if it was Wakanda’s heat that did it, or that my programming was officially deactivated. But one night I went to sleep in my hut like normal, and then the next morning I woke up, and… and I remembered.”

Raynor clasps her hand together in her lap, the pen, the notebook, the hesitation all forgotten. Bucky sees it in her expression, the shock at the fact that he’s speaking, that she’s actually making progress in getting him to talk about things so painful he often wonders if they aren’t better left in the past. He’s still trying to figure that one out. Miserable as he’s been for the first four days of June, he figures nothing good or relieving or positive can come from retelling this particular tale. It’s all behind him now, and there isn’t anything to be done to change the ending in any significant way.

But… but he figures he owes it to her. As painful as the memories are, they can’t be anything in comparison to what she must have gone through in the aftermath of it all.

Slowly, Raynor crosses one ankle over the other. “What was it that you remembered, James?”

Bucky sighs, closing his eyes and inhaling as deep a breath as he can pull. He lets it loose after counting to six, then opens his eyes again and crosses his arms over his chest. “It started back in June of 1944. I got shot.”

––

June 1st, 1944

It was damn lucky you weren’t sleeping much these days.

A funny thought, really. One which brings a sarcastic, bitter smile to your lips as you bend your neck to get a closer look at your handiwork. Wasn’t it just two nights ago that you’d been laying in your cot, staring up at the moon through the flap of your tent and counting all the reasons it wasn't fair that the bliss of unconsciousness evaded you? Wasn’t it three that you’d considered sneaking into the med tent and downing a few of the sleeping pills meant for the soldiers? You hadn’t, of course –– god only knew the sort of trouble you’d get in if it came to pass that you were caught –– but the consideration had been there all the same.

“Fuckin’ shit!”

The foul language, mixed with the rough jerk of the body beneath your dexterous hands, was enough to steal your attention back from your jaded inner monologue. Nearly two years back, when you’d first signed on to work as a field nurse, the pained outburst would have sent you flinching. Now, the swearing isn’t anything new, and thankfully for the soldier whose leg you were currently stitching up, it was no longer anywhere near enough to give you pause.

“You better hold still unless you want this to scar even worse than it's already going to,” you tell him matter of factly, gently tugging the thread the rest of the way through your current stitch.

The soldier –– Matthews? Moore? You can hardly remember the name he’d gasped at you in pain, but you’re sure it started with an ‘M’ –– rakes his dirty hands over his even dirtier face, brown eyes squeezing themselves shut as his fingers quake with agony. “Sorry,” he rasps, skin paling. “Just… Jesus, shit hurts so bad!”

You cluck your tongue, guilt racking your heart as you push the needle through his skin once more. “Shouldn’t have gotten shot then, genius,” you murmur, shaking your head disapprovingly.

It works. For a moment the soldier’s face twists in disbelief, and in the next, a shuddering, wheezing gasp of laughter expels itself from his throat. The sight is bleak, but it’s enough to twist your heart with warmth as you once again pull the thread through the stitch. You’d learned in the first few months of working as a nurse on the frontlines that the last thing these men wanted or needed was to be coddled along over their injuries, especially by a woman. Vulnerability was more averse to them now than ever before.

Personally, you don’t much understand it –– but your work isn’t, and has never been, about yourself. 

“Look, why don’t you tell me something,” you start, glancing up to… Morrison’s…? face in apology before sticking him with the needle yet again. He jerks, but not quite so violently this time. Another one down. Only about a thousand more to go tonight. “How’d all this happen? I thought you boys weren’t meant to scope the new territory until tomorrow afternoon. Y’know, in the daylight? When you can actually see whether or not someone in the distance is pointing a gun at you?”

“Unit leader was gettin’ jumpy,” the soldier coughs out, groaning against the pain. Guilt stabs your heart like a knife. You’d have given him something for the pain if you had it, something to numb the wound. But shipments of med supplies were behind, and it would be at least a week before you got your hands on anything like that again. “Said going at night would be better, that we could get the drop on them before they even knew we were coming.”

“Yeah,” you scoff, rolling your eyes. “Never mind the fact that their soldiers know the land better than ours do.”

So, the unit leader had jumped the gun. You’d figured as much, when two of your nurses had run into your tent with messy hair and sleep addled expressions, panicking about the oncoming slew of injured soldiers who needed immediate medical attention. That had been two hours, six patients, and about one hundred and ninety seven stitches ago.

Again. It was lucky you weren’t sleeping much these days.

The soldier whose leg you were currently stitching up opened his mouth to speak –– whether to snark along with you at the poor choice made by the unit’s leadership or to blindly defend his superior’s decision, you couldn’t be altogether sure –– but before he could even fix his mouth to properly shape the words, a sudden roar of someone else’s agony effectively cut him off.

Steadying your hands, you carefully turn to peer over your shoulder, searching for the source of the commotion. All night, you’d been surrounded by a cacophony of screaming soldiers, but that yell of pain is one you’re certain hasn’t yet met your ears. And, as you watch the flap of the med tent swing back before admitting entry to three people –– one of your nurses and two soldiers, one leaning bodily against the other –– you discover that your assumption is correct.

“We got a bad one,” the nurse –– Sally, curly haired, nearing twenty four and a bit more capable than the other girls when met with the sight of blood –– shouts. Her eyes scan the tent, searching and searching until her gaze finally lands on you. She pauses only a moment to turn and direct the uninjured soldier to drag the one he’s supporting over to an empty cot before barrelling in your direction. “Gunshot wound to the abdomen. I haven’t really had the chance to get a good look at it, but he’s–– well, to be frank, that man has lost a shit ton of blood.”

A gutshot. Poor guy would either go through a sickening amount of pain just to die, or he’d survive, and end up having to endure even more pain. Either way, in light of your depleted supply of painkillers, ‘excruciating’ didn’t even begin to describe it.

Oh, damn it all.

“Take over here for me,” you command, gesturing with your chin to the needle perched between your fingers. Sally’s already moving to pluck it from your hand before you’ve even finished speaking. “He’s got about fifteen to go before we even think about sending him back to his tent. Don’t let him convince you otherwise.”

“You don’t think I know better?” Sally remarks drily, but you don’t have the time to come up with a witty comeback. You’re already on your feet and rushing toward the soldier writhing in pain across the tent, reflexively grabbing a collection of gauze, thread, tweezers, and rubbing alcohol along the way.

This isn’t going to be much fun for either of you.

The first thing you do is excuse the uninjured soldier, the one who’d carried him in. For one, there isn’t any need to keep him witness, and for another, you work better when an addition of unnecessary eyes aren’t tracking your every move. Besides. You doubt the poor soul laying on your med cot is at all interested in one of his peers –– one not sick or out of his mind due to his own pain, that is –– see him in this state. So, you simply thank the young man for his assistance and shoo him back in the direction from which he’d come, waiting until he’s passed the tent’s entrance before turning your full, undivided attention to your newest patient.

He’s got his eyes screwed shut tight in pain. You can hardly blame him. Of all the wounds to suffer through, a gutshot has the potential to win least desirable. It’s easy enough to see why, as the young man’s handsome features carve themselves into an expression of despair. A slick sheen of sweat coats his pale forehead, dampening his dark hair and sticking it to his skin. He’s biting down so hard on his bottom lip in effort to swallow his screams that you’re genuinely shocked he hasn’t drawn blood.

Though, part of you wonders if there’s even enough blood left in his body for his lip to bleed. Deep scarlet blooms stain his green shirt, so thoroughly soaked through that the fabric has turned almost black. Swathes of red cover his torso, his pants, the pale skin of his arms. It’s everywhere, already leaking onto the white sheets of the cot.

Sally wasn’t kidding. He really has lost a shit ton of blood.

“Hey there, soldier,” you start up, setting your collection of medical supplies down before taking a closer look at his torso. Shirt sticking to his skin the way it is, you aren’t going to be able to get much done until it’s out of the way. And, given that this man is certainly in no state to shrug it off himself, you’ve got no choice but to cut it. Lucky that you’d thought to grab a pair of scissors too, you suppose. “Don’t suppose you might be able to help a girl out by telling her what year it is?”

His jaw works for a few moments, teeth grinding together so forcefully the sound is audible. You think he might be gearing up to let loose another scream before he shakes his head a single time. “I got–– got shot,” he wheezes, whole body shaking, “not concussed. Don’t–– ah, don’t really… get how the year’s relevant.”

You exhale a bemused scoff through your nose, considering your response as your scissors work their way through the bloody fabric concealing his wound. You’re working as gently as you can, and so far it seems to be doing the trick. The soldier hasn’t flinched once since you started, though it’s hard to tell if that’s more due to the fact that he hadn’t noticed any difference one way or the other, or if it’s because he’s dedicating what strength he has left to keeping his head screwed onto his shoulders.

“Fair point,” you reply, still carefully cutting through his shirt. “How about a name, then? Little more relevant to the conversation, I’d say.”

It takes a few moments of silence for him to respond –– almost as if he’s trying to remember that he’s got a name –– but eventually, it comes.

“James,” he tells you, the single syllable leaving his mouth in a pained grunt.

You nod, cutting away the last of the fabric. “Nice to meet you, James,” you tell him, carefully peeling the tatters of his ruined shirt from his abdomen. “You just hold tight a little longer for me, alright? We’ll fix you up good as new.”

It isn’t a pretty sight, what you find beneath. Under all that red is a nasty wound, jagged and swollen at the edges, punched into the flesh just beneath the southmost edge of his ribcage. Thankfully, no bones have been hit –– a shattered rib would be immediately evident, both in the pitch of his screams and the deformed shape of his chest –– but the wound is more than a little inflated. There’s a puffiness to it that you can’t comprehend, a stiffness to its perimeter that doesn’t click in your mind, until––

Until you see the small, dark center, and suddenly it does.

You swear beneath your breath, a filthy, ugly word that you’d picked up a few weeks back from one of your patients. You don’t even know what it means, not really, but speaking it feels cathartic enough that you don’t altogether care.

Oh, sweet, holy hell.

James cracks an eye open, muttering, “Darlin’, you rea–– you really gotta work on your bedside manner.”

“Alright, listen to me, James,” you tell him, forgoing a witty response. You don’t have the time, not considering what you’re now dealing with, and you figure James will appreciate your working hands more than he’ll appreciate your shitty attempts at banter. “There’s… there’s something I need to do for you, before I can start patching you up. Now, normally I could give you something for the pain, but we’re out of the anesthetic I need. So this isn’t gonna… it’s not gonna feel very good.”

James looses a labored sigh, oddly calm for the clear anguish marring his face. “Shit, well good news,” he mutters, swallowing thickly, “it already doesn’t.”

His lashes flutter in a telltale manner, one which lets you know he’s getting closer to the brink and you’re running short on time. It’s easy enough, not to give in to the panic this incites in your chest. You’ve been doing this job a long time now, know that what James needs is your calm, your level-headedness. Those things have a higher chance of keeping him alive, of seeing to it that he comes out of this on the other side. Scarred up, maybe, and without the ability to breathe as deep as he once could, but still alive.

You shake your head, grabbing the tweezers from where you’d set them down before planting your forearm against an uninjured section of James’ bare chest for leverage. “Alright, big breaths, James. You scream as loud as you want or need to, but just… try and stay as still as you can, okay? I won’t be able to stop until it’s done.”

The only answer he gives in response is a shaky nod, the thick black fringe of his lashes brushing his cheekbones as his lips begin to move at a speed with which your eyes can hardly track. A prayer, you figure, or a plea for a quick end. Whichever it is, it helps him to relax just the tiniest bit more, slightly smooths out the lines of pain and suffering etched into his face.

Until you start digging with the tweezers, that is.

Then it’s all white hot screams of pain.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper beneath his cries, words drowned out by the sheer volume of the howls ripping out of his throat. But you don’t stop working, don’t withdraw the tweezers from his bloody wound. You hadn’t been joking when you told him starting meant you couldn’t stop until you finished. Abandoning the task now meant leaving James to bleed out in a matter of seconds. “I know it hurts, I’m sorry. You’re doing good, though, alright? You’re doing amazing. I’m sorry.”

It takes a moment for the tweezers’ edges to find the metal bullet lodged in his skin. At first, all you can feel is a mess of flesh and muscle, shredded and frayed from the impact of the gunshot. For a few short seconds, you wonder if your eyes hadn’t been playing tricks on you, if it would have been more wise to search for an exit wound on his back than to simply jump straight in without taking the time to stop and think.

But your worries are unfounded –– proven two seconds later when your tweezers make contact with the tiny, foreign object threatening James’ life. Carefully, you maneuver the tweezers into the correct position to properly take hold of the bullet. Then, with one last whispered apology, you slowly and carefully begin to pull.

James’ legs buck hard against the cot, arms straining at his sides where he’s got both his hands fisted into the sheets in an attempt to hold on for dear life. His teeth chatter against each other, knocking and clacking as he tries to get ahold of the screams pouring freely from him, and that thin sheen of sweat coating his skin has turned into a full on tidal wave.

But his torso doesn’t move –– not a single inch.

“We’re almost done,” you assure him, keeping your hand steady as you continue gently easing the bullet up, and up, and up. You can just make out the silver edges of it now, slick with blood and dented. It won’t be long now, before it’s out and you can start working on staunching the blood leaking from his body. Maybe you can lift his spirits with a joke or two then, a witty comment to ease some of the pain. Maybe––

The bullet slips from the tweezers, catching you off guard and jerking your hand to the left. It’s only by a centimeter, not a huge distance, but given that you’ve got edges of metal inserted into this man’s wound, to him, it makes all the difference in the world.

James throws his head back and screams, loud enough that you can instantly hear his vocal cords go raw beneath the strain of the volume. A single word leaves his lips; it sounds like Ma, only it’s warped, strangled. Much as you detest the fact, you know the sound well. A soldier crying out for his mother while under the thrall of delirium and pain isn’t exactly a rarity around these parts.

Guilt twists your heart with the razor sharpness of a cruel knife.

“Stop,” he gasps, voice hoarse. “P-please–– please stop!”

“I can’t,” you tell him, already repositioning your tweezers and going back in. Luckily, the bullet is much closer to the surface of his wound now. It only takes a second before you find another grip on it, instantly deciding to forego gentleness in favor of speed. “But the good news is––” With a slight bend of your wrist and a soft, wet pop, the bullet comes loose from his wound. “––we’re done with the shitty part.”

James’ eyes, glassy with pain and pupils blown wide, fall first to the bullet you hold up for his perusal, set against a backdrop of lowlight and your blood covered hand, before wandering their way up to your face. It’s then that you notice his irises are water blue and clear as crystal. You’re not sure why, but their color fascinates you.

“I wanna keep that,” he mutters weakly.

Then, his lashes flutter rapidly and his head lolls to the side, his lungs expelling a great, big breath before shuddering to a halt.

Your heart lurches at the sight. For one, awful moment, you think you’ve just put the poor man through all of that pain and agony only to end up somehow killing him in the process –– never mind the fact that this isn’t the first time you’ve extracted a bullet from a soldier’s abdomen, and certainly isn’t likely to be the last. But then his chest starts up moving again, at a much less worrisome pace. It’s slow, and his breaths are shallow, but they’re still breaths.

Unconscious –– not dead.

The realization is enough to make you send a mental note of thanks to whichever being was kind enough to have shown James mercy.

You allow yourself the shortest of moments to bask in the relief –– that you’d successfully extracted the bullet, that James hadn’t died during or after your attempts to do so, that you aren’t now left to set in motion the process of another condolence letter being shipped across seas to his family.

And once it passes, once you’ve inhaled and exhaled and wiped your hands on a cloth, you grab a cloth and press it to James’ wound, setting to work on stopping his bleeding –– but not before wrapping the bullet you’d just dislodged from his body in a pad of gauze and tucking it into the breast pocket of your uniform.

––

Chapter Two: Someone Good

[incorrectbandofbrothersquotes]

You Better, You Better, You Bet - Chapter 20

Fortune Teller

Ron Speirs x Juliet Fletcher 

Summary: Juliet Fletcher reaches a breaking point in her life. When she is at her absolute lowest, she meets Ron Speirs, and something happens between them that neither of them will ever forget.

Word Count: 3.4k

Tag List: @vintagelavenderskies​ @how-are-those-nuts-sarge​ @iilovemusic12us​ @hesbuckcompton-baby​ @tvserie-s-world​ @whovian45810​ @50svibes​ @cagzzz107​ @evelynshelby​ @piano-isnt-my-forte​ @generousdreamlanddestiny​ @mysticaldeanvoidhorse​ @gryffindor-divergent​​ @holdingforgeneralhugs​​ If you’d like to be added, let me know!

A/N: This is a heavy one, but I hope you all enjoy :)

Warning(s): Descriptions of abuse

Chapter 1  Chapter 2  Chapter 3  Chapter 4  Chapter 5  Chapter 6  Chapter 7  Chapter 8  Chapter 9  Chapter 10  Chapters 11,12,13,14  Chapter 15  Chapter 16  Chapter 17  Chapter 18  Chapter 19

AO3 link

Chapter 20 here we go!!!

Congratulations. You’ve fought well. FB. 

Juliet frowned at the latest telegram. It had been almost a week since Hitler died, and reports on just what had caused his death were mixed, depending on the source. The only certainty was that he was dead. But that had not led to a total German surrender. So what exactly was FB congratulating? Because victory wasn’t certain. Not yet, anyway. It was close, but not quite within the Allied grasp. What did FB know that the Allies did not?

It did tell Juliet one thing - FB was not a neighbor or anyone she knew. Her most unlikely theory was turning out to be the most probable after all. The phrase “You’ve fought well” was a dead giveaway - FB was someone on the other side making contact with her. It was imperative now that Juliet did not set off any alarm bells to the unit she was with. She would be asking no further questions of Nix, and she would have to lie to Melanie a lot more as well. And as for Ron...well, he was keeping his distance anyway. They hadn’t even spoken since that night that Hitler’s death was announced. 

The billet door opened, making Juliet start, but it was only Melanie. She greeted Juliet warmly as she began settling in. 

“Letter from your mother?” she asked, nodding toward the telegram. 

“Oh, yeah,” Juliet lied. 

“How is Nancy?” Melanie wondered. “Well, I hope.” 

Juliet once again had to marvel at Melanie’s ability to care about others. Juliet had only talked about her mother a few times and yet, Melanie remembered her name and that she had been ill. And she was not asking to be polite, she genuinely wanted to know. 

“Yeah, she’s good,” Juliet told her. “She ought to be with everything Ron’s been sending her.” 

Melanie smiled, amused. “It is awfully kind of him. Perhaps he really is a thoughtful gentleman.” 

“You have no idea, Mel,” Juliet said with a shake of her head. But Juliet could hardly talk about how wonderful Ron was to her while they were together without choking up. 

“Well, Dick’s asked me to join him for dinner,” Melanie said. “Would you like to come? I’m sure he wouldn’t mind.” 

Juliet bit back a chuckle. “No, thanks, I’ll let you two have your date.” 

Melanie blushed as she always did when Juliet joked like that. She wished that she could ask what Melanie thought of the letters. But she didn’t want to put Melanie in a position where she would have to lie either, though she did not doubt that Melanie could be discreet. It just wasn’t fair to ask it of her. On the other hand, Melanie was an empathetic person, and it would have been nice to confide in her. Resigning herself to the solitude of her secret, Juliet tucked the telegram away. 

When VE-Day came, she understood its meaning. Even more powerfully, Ron had clapped eyes on her as soon as the words left Dick Winters’ mouth there on the porch of the Eagle’s Nest, and the look he had behind his irises had Juliet reeling for the rest of the day. It was a look of utmost understanding. He knew better than most what victory in Europe meant for her. It meant her home was safe. And up until she heard from FB, it would have meant her brother was safe, but of course Ron still wasn’t aware of all that. The long years of suffering were truly over now, and that look he gave her...like he wanted to yank her toward him. He cut his gaze when Nix hugged her instead. 

She dwelled on that look again as she nursed a bottle of wine on the patio of the hotel overlooking Zell am Zee, Austria. The regiment moved out almost as soon as victory was announced. Juliet never thought she’d have been sad to leave Germany, but Austria proved equally - if not more - beautiful. 

It turned out she wasn’t the only one with dashed hopes on VE-Day. Melanie told her that when Dick told her the news, he nearly kissed her - so she thought - only to pull away at the last second. Juliet was fully prepared to use her pillow to play whack-a-Winters, but Melanie put a stop to it. Melanie put it behind her and happily returned to work. 

Juliet on the other hand, was a little lost. With the war over in Europe, she technically had no reason to remain with the 506th. As she took another swig of wine, she realized she’d probably be getting a letter from Lottie any day now calling her back to London. She could not reveal FB to her editor, though, not by letter, which might fall into the wrong hands. And Lottie was conservative, she might try and dissuade Juliet from pursuing that sort of story. She had to stay with the Airborne, at least until she could track down FB. 

“Hey.” 

She turned her head to the sound of Nix’s voice, and found him climbing the stairs to join her on the patio. She’d gotten a rare moment alone, with Melanie at work and most of the men still reveling in their celebrations. 

“Hey, Lew,” she returned. “Fancy a drink?” 

“Like I’d say no,” he joked. “But before we get to all that, you’ve got a telegram.” 

He retrieved it from his pocket and handed it to her. Surprised, she reached for it, giving it a quick once over to see who it was from, but carefully so that she didn’t seem too eager. There was no return address that she could see, so it was likely FB again. But she couldn’t let on, so she set it aside. 

“You’re not gonna read it?” he asked as he took a seat beside her and reached for the bottle, helping himself. 

She shook her head. “Not yet. It’s probably Lottie telling me to come home.” 

“Might not be so bad,” he said. “Going home. London’s probably crazy right now.” 

“You lot would certainly be getting laid,” she teased. 

“Exactly,” he returned. He took another drink. “Not to say it couldn’t happen here.” 

She met his gaze, searching it for the suggestion behind his words, and finding a tenderness there that made her stomach twist. 

“Are you drunk already?” she said through a nervous laugh. 

“Yeah, a little,” he admitted. “But not so drunk I don’t know what I’m talking about.” He paused for a beat. “Seriously, how long’s it been for you?” 

She rolled her eyes. “Are you really asking me how long it’s been since I’ve -” 

“I said ‘seriously’ didn’t I?”

“Nix.” 

“Jules.” 

“Stop it.” 

“Just tell me.” 

She sighed. “I dunno, six months or so?” She looked at him. “You?”

“Longer,” he said. “Much longer.” 

She raised an eyebrow, tired of dancing around the point. “What is it you want from me? A pity fuck?” 

“A regular fuck would do just fine,” he replied through a chuckle. 

“You’re an idiot,” she returned, rolling her eyes again. “It’s not like that between us.” 

“Isn’t it?” 

She met his gaze once more. He was no longer joking, it seemed, and Juliet racked her brain for anything she might have done to give him the wrong impression. Sure, they joked a lot, and perhaps it bordered on flirtation because they certainly didn’t shy away from the subject of sex, but did he really see that as an invitation? Before she could answer, he leaned in. Juliet shielded her face with her hand, putting her fingers to his mouth and gently pushing him back. He didn’t protest, he just stopped and looked at her. 

“I’m sorry,” she said. “It’s just...my heart is somewhere else.” 

Nix sighed and ran a hand through his hair. 

“You really think he’s coming back?” he asked. 

“I don’t know yet,” she answered, knowing exactly who he meant. 

Even she was not entirely sure where this loyalty was coming from. Truth be told, she did find Nix attractive and his offer was tempting, but it felt like a betrayal of Ron. Logically, she understood she owed him no such fidelity, but she couldn’t bring herself to act on it. All she knew was that if she went to bed with Nix - or anyone else - then nothing could ever happen between her and Ron again. And for the first time, she was admitting to herself that that was exactly what she hoped for. 

Unbeknownst to either of them, the man in question had witnessed the interaction. He’d been looking for Nixon anyway for a briefing they were requested to attend, and he saw her put Nix off and heard what she said. His heart softened for her again, like it once had back in Aldbourne. Without his asking, she was earning back his trust, it seemed, and that endearing charm about her affected him once more. When Nix got up and left, he swept past Ron without noticing him. Ron looked back at Juliet, watching her sigh and pick up a letter. 

He considered going to her and telling her that she was free to pursue whoever she wanted. But found himself hesitating. He didn’t want to tell her that, though he knew he should. He wanted her faithfulness in spite of himself. So, he too left her alone, his respect for her growing. His respect for Nixon, however, quickly tanked. Not only was the man married (divorce pending), but he was going after a fellow officer’s ex-girlfriend, which he was certain broke some sort of rule. Even so, Ron followed the man back toward Sink’s office. 

Juliet remained in her seat. After a quick glance around to ensure she was alone, she tore open the telegram. This one was unlike any of the others before it. It contained directions to an address and an invitation to appear there the following day. Heart racing, she folded it back up. The moment was at last upon her. She was going to meet FB and find out who he was once and for all. 

***

A hike through the woods was not what Juliet had necessarily anticipated for her days in Austria, especially with the war being over. But she was going to put an end to all the mystery of FB at last. She felt Billy’s ring heavy in her pocket, though it was certainly not the cause of all her sweating. That was the sun and the exercise. And perhaps a little bit of nerves.

She finally reached a grassy hillside, atop which sat a lonely stone cabin. A small enclosure next to it contained a few chickens, clucking and running amuck. It was the only sound besides Juliet’s own breath and her pounding heart. Her stomach churned with anxiety as she approached. Everything had led up to this moment. Would she finally discover the fate of her brother? What could this man tell her? Who was he? All this and more swirled inside her head as she braced herself for one last surge. 

As she climbed the hill, the wooden door of the cabin squeaked open. A man - slender but strong - with silvery blonde hair combed neatly out of his angular face, emerged. Smoke from the cigarette in his hand floated into the air. He finally turned his head and caught sight of her. His shocking, icy blue eyes found hers, and for a moment, they simply stared at each other. Fresh, cool sweat dripped down her neck as she faced him. He seemed...otherworldly. As if his youthful face betrayed his immortality or something. He set her completely on edge despite the stunning backdrop of his dwelling. 

“Juliet Fletcher?” he called, his accent clearly German with the hesitation in how he pronounced the J of her name. 

She was still several yards away, deathly afraid of getting any closer. She could run now and forget the whole thing. Put his eerie presence behind her and go home to London. But he had answers. Those answers were more powerful than her fear. 

“FB?” she returned. 

He nodded. She approached. He was older than she initially thought, for she could see the lines on his face now as she climbed the stairs of his front porch. But he couldn’t be older than fifty or so. The blonde was in fact streaked with light gray around his temples. His movements were stiff and controlled, like a soldier’s. 

“I’m glad you came,” he said. “My name is Fritz Bohm.” 

He held out his hand. She looked at it for a long moment, wondering if she should shake it. But the faces of the men at Landsberg swam before her eyes. She put her hands resolutely in her pockets and met his gaze. 

“Nice to meet you,” she said, positive he didn’t believe her. 

“I see you still don’t trust me,” he returned. “Even after all the credibility I established.” 

“Credibility and trustworthiness are two different things,” she replied. “You may have reliable information, but lack honor.” 

He sized her up. “I’ve never met a reporter who so quickly insults her sources.” 

“First of all, I haven’t decided you’re a source yet,” she said, gaining courage. “Second, I was speaking in general terms, but if the shoe fits, lace it up, Fritz.” 

He smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes, which remained so cold she almost shivered. “I’m offering you a story.” 

“I’m more interested in how you got your hands on my brother’s wedding ring,” she replied. That had to take precedent, no matter how intrigued she was by the story. 

“That is part of the story,” he told her. “You see, I was a Kommandant for a POW camp in Bavaria.”

That made her heart skip a beat. “W...what does that have to do with -”

“The prisoners in my camp were mainly resistance fighters in countries we occupied,” he said. “They came from all over. Poland, Lithuania, France, Holland. Even some as far as the English Channel Islands.” 

Her blood went cold as her worst fear was realized. “Billy was a prisoner of war?”

She had always thought it a possibility, but hearing it confirmed was somehow still completely devastating. What had he endured? Was he still alive? Was she about to find out? 

“I will tell you what has become of him all in good time, Fraulein Fletcher,” he said. “I did meet your brother. It’s how I got your name. And as for the ring, the prisoners had to surrender all valuables upon their arrival.” 

Her eyes stung with tears. “Just tell me -” 

“I said all in good time,” he cut across her. “Aren’t you concerned at all about what happened to your other countrymen?”

She blinked back the mist in her eyes and focused on his face again. “Is that the story you’re offering me? An inside look at a POW camp?” 

“Yes,” he said with a nod. “Straight from the Kommandant. I hope by now you understand I will hold nothing back. You will be spared no detail of their suffering at my own hands and the hands of my subordinates.” 

“You realize I could just turn you in, don’t you?” she challenged. She hated feeling like even though he was the one surrendering information, he had absolute control over her. She needed to take charge of this interview somehow and remind him of his own vulnerability. 

“And compromise your journalistic integrity?” he returned. “Or is it customary where you come from to reveal sources?” 

She cleared her throat to disguise her own outrage at his careful grasp of the situation. He had plotted out the whole thing like a puppet master, and she was merely one marionette among dozens of strings. She had played right into his hand. She almost regretted coming. And if he had not promised her the news of Billy, she might have left there. But the answers were also stronger than her pride. 

“So, you’re offering me the story in exchange for my protection?” she surmised. 

It was hard to believe that not even twelve hours ago, her biggest concern was Nixon’s hurt feelings, and now she was in a meeting with a bona fide Nazi. 

“Precisely,” he said. “And you will know what has happened to your brother.”

Something about it seemed foolish. Like it was too convenient. There was a reason he was refraining from the information about Billy, which made her feel twisted up inside. Did she really dare to make an agreement with this man who was manipulating her in order to gain his own freedom? Would Lottie even want this story? Did any of that matter when Billy’s fate was what she had to gain? 

“Alright,” she agreed, pulling a notebook and pencil from her pocket. “Start from the beginning.” 

“The camp was opened in 1939,” he said. “Our first prisoners were journalists.” He shot her a knowing look. “Those who spoke openly against the Fuhrer. In 1940, we began getting resistance members. The soldiers in occupied lands would torture names out of low level people they arrested, and then those they revealed - leaders, organizers, et cetera - they came to me.” 

She wanted to swallow but her throat was dry. The proud, sinister way he said “me” made her skin crawl. 

“And what did you do with them?” she asked. 

“My job was simple,” he said. “I was ordered to make them look forward to Hell.” 

She froze mid-scribble as another chill ran down her spine. She wondered for a split second if she was in over her head. But she had to press on. She jotted down the quote, but did not imagine what it might look like printed in the London Pursuit. Instead, all she could conjure up was Billy’s face. 

***

“Juliet?” Ron called through the door of her billet as he knocked thrice upon it. 

He had given it some thought and decided he wanted to tell her that he appreciated her refusal of Nix. Not only did it validate his jealousy - which he was not going to admit - but it made him feel respected. Like their relationship really meant something to her, and he appreciated that. He wasn’t sure why he felt compelled to tell her. Perhaps it was just an excuse to talk to her and see what she might say. It was tempting to test her. To push into her heart again and see what he found. 

His own heart, he had not bothered to explore yet. He wanted to get more from Juliet before he began any consideration of forgiveness. But, just having her around - cracking jokes during poker games, scribbling notes into her books, and looking absolutely stunning all the time - really threw a wrench into his plans to hate her for the rest of his life. He missed her. And he had finally admitted that to himself. 

To his annoyance, no one answered the door. With a frown, he knocked again. 

“Juliet?” 

He waited, but nothing happened. Taking matters into his own hands, he tried the knob, and found it unlocked. So he entered. The billet was in perfect order on Melanie’s side. Her clothes were neatly folded and carefully stacked. Juliet’s side on the other hand was lacking even a semblance of organization. Her clothes appeared to be crawling out of her bag the way she had haphazardly stuffed them in there. And her desk was splattered with letters. Amused, Ron went to glance them over, wondering what she might be telling her mother about him. 

But the letters were not from Nancy. These were telegrams with short, cryptic sentences, and on all of them, Juliet had handwritten a date and a note. The first one said “This is me establishing my credibility. FB.” Beside it, she’d written “Billy’s ring.” The others were similarly signed. The ones that stuck out were the ones she received recently where she noted “Hitler’s death” from the day before the announcement came, followed a week later by an early congratulations for VE-Day. 

His mind was spinning with what he saw. Juliet had come into contact with a German source - a high up one given the information he had hinted at for her. And all this time, she had been keeping it a secret. He wondered if Melanie knew, though he doubted Juliet would put the innocent nurse in any position to be in trouble. More importantly, he wondered where Juliet was now. If she was meeting with the enemy, what did that mean for her safety? And what was expected of him? Did he reveal his findings to his superiors or did he keep her secret? Where did they go from here?

[deafaq]

Comprehensive guide to writing deaf characters

Despite not being intented as a blog resource for writers, we get a lot of questions regarding how to write deaf characters. (and by a lot, I mean like half of questions are about writing)

Since lot of these questions are similar anyway, I wrote up this guide for anyone intending to add deaf characters into their writing. From now on, we shall only answer questions related to writing which AREN’T covered in this guide.

Please, keep in mind that deaf people aren’t a hive mind and this guide is based on our personal experience. We recommend a sensitivity deaf reader if you plan to make any deaf character a big part of your story.

Rest of guide under the cut.

Medical basics

-          Deafness can be caused by many factors.

-          For people born deaf, common causes are: genetics, illnesses of mother during pregnancy (and meds taken), complicated birth, premature birth, etc.

-          For people who become deaf later in life: old age, noise damage, several infectious illnesses (for example meningitis), medication (cancer meds or certain antibiotics), tumours on auditory nerve and in brain, chronic inflammations of middle ear, etc.

-          Most people with hearing loss still have some degree of hearing

 Terminology

-          “deaf” – person with hearing loss

-          “hard of hearing” – person with hearing loss, still has some degree of hearing

-          “Deaf” – person with hearing loss who is proud of their deafness, is member of Deaf community and culture, communicates in sign language

-          “deafened” – person who lost their hearing in later life, often as adult

-          “deaf and dumb” – old terminology, now considered insulting

-          “hearing impaired” – medical term, often disliked by deaf people

 Compensation

-          Most hard of hearing and some deaf people wear hearing aids. Their function is similar to glasses, they enhances the remaining sense.

-          Hearing aids are often pricey, not covered by insurance and need batteries to recharge

-          They can be colourful, however most people use brown to make them less noticeable

-          They need to be taken off for sleeping and bathing

-          It’s considered rude to touch another’s person hearing aid. Hearing people should not try them out, as they can damage normal hearing.

-          Cochlear implant are more complicated, require surgery to insert. They compromise of two parts – inner part (under skull), which stimulates hair cells in cochlea, and outer part (outside on the head and ear), which is sound processor, microphone and battery. Both parts are connected via magnet.

-          Hearing via CI is more electrical than normal hearing and doesn’t sound same. After the operation, users must train their hearing and attend many sessions where CI is adjusted. It can take years for users to hear speech or use telephone. Success is very individual.

-          CIs are often disliked and criticized by Deaf community as they are seen as a threat to Deaf culture and language. There is also a question of consent – for CI to be successful, children must be implanted at young age (1-7 years) and the decision is usually made by their hearing parents.

-          Other compensation: Vibration and light alarms, alarm clocks, baby monitors, door bells. Special phones and headphones. Etc.

 Communication

 -          Children who are born deaf cannot naturally acquire spoken language. (aka from their parents/family) It cannot be learned by lip-reading. They learn it as a second language, often at school.

-          Despite the stereotype of deaf people being also mute, most deaf people can speak. However, they often have so called “deaf accents”, because they cannot hear themselves speak. Because of that, some deaf people prefer not to talk, to not be mocked for their accent.

-          Natural language of deaf people are sign languages. They are not universal, they have their own grammar and rules, they are not simple pantomime and they are not easy to learn. (see Sign Languages)

-          Not all deaf people use sign languages, especially those who become deafened later in life.

-          There are specific communication system, which combine spoken languages and sign languages, often used in education. They usually use signs from sign languages and spoken language grammar. The most common is Pidgin Signed English (PSE) or Signing Exact English (SEE). Some deaf people use them instead of sign language, since they grew up with it.

-          SimCom is simultaneous communication, speaking and using sign language at the same time. As its basically using two languages at one time, it’s difficult and one language often starts following grammatical structure of other.

-          Lip-reading is taxing, difficult and often based on talent. It must be taught. To properly lip-read, there must be good light conditions and you must be able to see the face of speaker.

-          Some deaf people use writing to communicate with hearing people – either with paper and pen, or on phone. This way of communication is often time-consuming.

-          Deaf people often use interpreters to help them communicate. They usually accompany the deaf person to doctors, authorities, important meetings, etc.

 Sign language

-          Sign languages are natural languages and not created by one person. They appeared organically over time.

-          Every country has their own national sign language. The ones most known and researched are ASL (American Sign Language), LFS (French Sign Language), BSL (British Sign Language), AUSLan (Australian Sign Language). There is about 137+ sign languages in the world.

-          Grammar in sign languages is based on 3D spaces and use of face expressions and movement of body. Signs are composed of hands in specific shapes, their movement and placement on the body.

-          Most sign language have their own finger alphabet. Most common are one-handed (ASL, LFS) and two-handed (BSL, AUSlan).

-          Sign languages are not inferior to spoken languages and can express the same things.

-          It takes time and dedication to learn any sign language. Usually at least 3 years for being able to communicate properly and more than 5 to be fluent.

-          You can sign with just one hand (that’s how deaf people communicate while eating or holding something, for example)

 Education

-          Until 1970s, the most common way of teaching deaf children was oralism, a teaching tradition which supressed and forbid the use of sign language and insisted on deaf children learning to speak. It is still often used, despite the fact that many studies prove it fails to properly educate deaf people.

-          Modern research has proven that use of sign language in education is beneficial for deaf children and helps them to better understand the material.

-          Deaf children can either study at school for deaf or be integrated into regular school. Deaf schools used to be very common in past, as they were only available means of education for most deaf people. Kids lived in dormitories. Whether sign language was/is used there depends on the school. Some even had/have deaf teachers.

-          Nowadays, most kids study in regular school along with hearing kids. If the school is good, they offer proper compensation – eg. interpreter in class, note taking services, hearing devices, etc. Some schools still sucks, however.

-          Integrated kids can suffer from isolation, bullying and discrimination from teachers.

-          There are colleges in USA which focus on deaf students and sign language. The most famous is Gallaudet University, Washington, D.C.

 Family

-          90% of deaf kids are born to hearing parents. Hearing parents often struggle with the disability of their child. In general, lot of hearing parents prefer to give their kids CI, to make them more “hearing”.

-          Deaf parents generally have hearing kids. Those kids are then called CODA – children of deaf adults. CODA often speak sign language well. In general, they are either very involved with Deaf community or not all and avoid it all costs. Lot of CODA children become interpreters.

-          Every family is different in how they communicate. Some use sign language. Some only spoken language, requiring the deaf member to lip-read. Some use combination of two or create their own home signs. If only certain members of family learn to sign, it’s usually mother or some other female family member (sister, grandmother).

  Deaf culture/community

-          A community of Deaf individuals who use sign language as their primary means of communication, are proud of their deafness and their culture. They do not see their deafness as disability/disease, but something that connects them, makes them different from others.

-          Deaf people often meet up in clubs, there is big emphasis on community, meeting together, communal experience, etc.

-          Term “Deaf gain” is used – what deafness gives us, instead of the usual what deafness takes away from us. What is important is “seeing”, not “absence of hearing”.

-          Deaf culture has its own set of social rules/etiquette.  Deaf people are generally more blunt and to the point than hearing people. There are special rules for getting attention – eg tapping on shoulder, turning lights on and off.

-          There is a big tradition in storytelling and poetry in sign language, especially ASL. Other visual art – videos, paintings and sculpture are also popular.

-          Deaf community has lot of members who are LGBT+ and has its own deaf organizations for said people. Generally, deaf community is more accepting when it comes to LGBT+ issues then general public, although exceptions exists.

-          Not every country has a strong Deaf community – the biggest one is in USA. In some countries, deaf people are isolated.

 Discrimination

-          Specific term for discrimination against deaf people is “audism” (not to confuse with autism). General term for discrimination against disabled people, “ableism”, is also used sometimes.

-          Deaf people often face discrimination especially when it comes to access to information and unwillingness to offer proper accommodation to them.

-          Movies/Tv shows/videos lack subtitles or closed captioning. Video games have no alternative way of showing audio cues. Lectures, festivals and public events are often without interpreters.

-          There have been numerous cases of arrests and deaths of deaf people after encounters with police due to communication.

-          Hospitals and doctors are often without interpreters and neglect to inform the deaf patients properly. Access to authorities and courts is also problematic.

-          Deaf people have difficult time finding employment due to prejudice. Even if they do find a job, employers often refuse to offer proper accommodation.

-          Many deaf people also struggle in education – see above.

 Common mistakes and stereotypes when writing deaf characters

-          Lip-reading as a superpower, which makes deaf person basically hearing anyway

-          Wearing Hearing aids at night and/or other people touching them and taking them off.

-          Cochlear Implants presented as “cure” or “miracle” which makes a deaf person into hearing person

-          Being able to learn sign language in record time (aka in several days)

-          “Happy” ending being deaf person losing their deafness via cure/miracle/magic

-          Deaf people being bitter and lonely (yes, there are deaf people who are bitter and lonely, but it’s not our defining trait and it’s not *that* common)

-          Using deafness as a “cute” trope to increase angst levels in your story because being deaf sucks, right? ( -_________-)

-          Deaf person only having hearing friends (it’s often the opposite, aka most friends of Deaf people are also Deaf). Same goes for dating.

-          Superpowers or magic that basically cancels out deafness

-          Creating your own Name signs for your characters (pls really don’t)

-          Sign language = English with signs

-          Framing the narrative as a “person overcoming their disability”

-          Including deafness as a punishment for the character

-          The only deaf character in the story is the villain (“bonus” points for ‘deafness turned them evil’)

-          Inspiration porn – see the link

 Also, keep in mind that:

-          Deafness isn’t a disease and isn’t actually contagious (can’t believe I have to say this)

-          We very rarely date people who don’t bother to learn how to communicate with us.

-          Deaf people can and do drive. We also travel. Use internet. Swim. Read.

-          “Shockingly”, we can tell apart yawning and screaming.

-          People who were born deaf think in sign language and asking about it really doesn’t make you a philosopher

[chaseatinydream]

pirate king (53) || atz

You’re standing at the bulwarks as you watch the crew preparing to storm the island.

The main deck is in a flurry of activity, the pirates gathering weapons and priming muskets. Even you aren’t spared from the hard work, you’re helping the men pack gunpowder into tiny bags for them to bring when they head ashore. There’s a sense of unease hanging heavily in the air, a prickling feeling creeping across everyone’s skin as they all take turns to glance worriedly at the approaching island, the ominous shape of it looming against the night sky like a harrowing nightmare.

Something uncomfortable lingers, tangible paranoia slithering over you.

“Are you worried?”

You don’t need to turn around to know who it is. Your master appears at your elbow, one arm slipping around your shoulders to pull you close. A sigh leaves your lips and you lean into his embrace, taking comfort in his warmth, inhaling the scent of wildflowers and herbs lingering on his skin. The familiar smell calms you down, if only a little.

“Yeah.” You answer honestly as Mingi commands a group of men to lower the anchor. The Treasure is set to be moored just off the eastern coast of the island, the only place where the waters are deep enough for the ship to be anchored without being beached. The plan, carefully laid out by Hongjoong, is for majority of the crew to disembark the ship and split into two teams. The first group is to ascend the hill located in the centre of the island as fast as possible, find Commander Kang or Jeong Gunho, get the antidote and bring it to Yunho as fast as possible. This team would be led by Jongho.

The role of the second team is to sweep through the forested area of the hill and take out any… unpleasant surprises there and keep the first team safe. This group would be under by Mingi and… Wooyoung.

You glance behind your shoulder to see Wooyoung sitting against the bulwarks alone, purple hair falling into eyes dark and silent as he focuses on lacing up his boots, primed muskets and small blades strapped all over his body, completely unaware of your gaze on him.

Something sinks in your chest when you look at him.

Wooyoung hasn’t spoken to you since that day on the mast and it’s been weighing on your mind almost as heavily as Yunho’s plight. You know, you know that you shouldn’t be so selfish, that you shouldn’t be thinking of the problems in your friendship with Wooyoung at a time like this, but you can’t help it. Over these last few days, there’s been a sinking feeling in your chest as you hope that maybe he’ll just speak to you, just look at you in the eye, but all your hopes have been for naught.

You sigh, and it’s at this moment that someone else steps up behind your shoulder.

“You alright, Chin Hae?” Hongjoong’s voice is steady, but you can see the genuine concern in his eye. You nod awkwardly as San’s arm tightens around your shoulder, trying to provide you with some comfort, but at this point, you don’t think anyone could give you any semblance of relief. You’re too worried, too tense, and even though you’re not the one physically going onto the island, you’re just as worried as any of the boarding party.

What if the antidote isn’t there?

What if the boarding party is overwhelmed by the sheer numbers of the Royal Navy’s crew? From what Hongjoong had told you, a Royal Navy frigate like the Black Crow carries large numbers on board.

What if… what if they die?

“I have a bad feeling that I missed out something in the plan…” Hongjoong mumbles under his breath and San clips his captain over the head, causing the older man to yelp in pain, scowling at his crew member.

“San! What in the depths of hell was that for?” Your master groans in exasperation and buries his face in his hands.

“You’re not helping things, you know!” San scolds his captain and Hongjoong looks like he’s just been smacked across the face, nearly shrinking into himself at San’s chastising. You’d find the sight hilarious had it not been for the circumstances you are in, the nerves weighing in your gut too heavy for you to even force out an amused smile.

“I’m sorry… I didn’t mean…” Hongjoong’s voice trails off as his hand hovers awkwardly at your shoulder before it clasps down, warm and gentle, soothing, almost. You attempt to give him a reassuring smile, nodding at your captain. You know he must be going crazy at being forced to stay behind on the ship while the rest of his crew puts themselves in danger, that he can’t be part of the boarding party like the rest of the crew, but he’s reining in his own frustration to comfort you.

He’s truly selfless.

You bite your lower lip. “Yeah… I’m fine, captain.” The words leave your mouth more naturally this time, not as forced as they were before, as if some part of you now truly believes that. San lets out a sigh of relief and pulls you closer for one last hug, before releasing you, patting your head reassuringly. Shaking your head in response, you turn to glance at Wooyoung’s silent form one last time before they disembark the ship.

Then you stumble.

The vertigo comes out of nowhere, sweeping through you and you nearly lurch to the side as the nausea and pain washes over your entire body, threatening to swallow you whole. It throbs, agony radiating from your chest right where your heart lies, outwards and throughout your form and you somehow register, through the haze of pain and panic, a sickening feeling building up in your throat.

Something metallic and warm.

Blood.

Your body rejects it immediately, trying to expel it from within you with a forceful cough. You’re used to this, it’s been happening more and more constantly over the last few weeks ever since you’d left that sea witch’s island. It’s been a pain to hide it from the rest of the crew, to keep it under wraps from Seonghwa’s watchful eyes and San’s keen intuition, but never impossible.

But this? The pain has never been this tormenting before, like white hot flames searing your very flesh, reducing your body to nothing more than ash. Your hands rush to cover your mouth, warring a battle against your own body as you desperately fight to hide the state that your body is in from your master and captain. You can’t let them find out that you’re ill, not at a time like this, at least!

“Chin Hae? Chin Hae! What’s wrong?” Warm hands come to hold you by the shoulders, voice edged with worry and concern. Even though you’re near blinded by the pain, your fingers somehow find his as scorching fire licks at your very bones, and you find yourself pulled into his chest as his arms wrap around you to keep you upright.

“Chin Hae!” San’s voice, alarmed and panicked, rings in your ears as if you’ve been struck over the head hard with a hammer, tears pricking at your lashes as you try to keep your balance. Your captain is strong and sturdy for one so lithe, you can feel the hidden, coiled strength in his chest and arms when you’re in his embrace, and for a moment, you just want to close your eyes and collapse so that all this pain can just finally end-

“What’s happening? San!” Your captain’s voice is laced with worry, sharp as a whip as he seeks his healer for an answer. But you know that San has no idea what is happening either, this secret yours to keep, buried deep in your chest.

“I don’t know!” Your master yelps, his voice unnaturally high pitched and trembling. You haven’t heard him this worried since the time Yeosang got shot in the back… and that was a matter of life and death. Your hand tries to lift itself of its own accord, wanting to find your master and tell him that you’ll be fine, that this is nowhere as serious as Yeosang dying…

As if in response to your thoughts, the pain leaves your body all at once like an ebbing tide, fading like a wraith in the morning daylight. You’re left trembling against your captain, his words fading in and out of your ears as he catches you before you fall to your knees in front of him, strangely exhausted.

“Chin Hae! Are you alright?” Hongjoong’s words nearly crack with fear as he pulls you upwards, so that your chin is resting against his shoulder and his arms are supporting your weight. San hovers behind anxiously and studies the sickly pallor of your face, as concerned as you’ve ever seen him.

Your heart softens at their genuine worry.

“Yeah…” You manage to croak out, trying your best to return to standing on your own two feet so you can show them that you’re perfectly fine. You don’t want them to look at you like that, anxious and worried out of their minds. You want them to keep smiling, keep staying safe and happy, even if something does happen to you… “I’m just tired and got dizzy for a moment… Master, can I go and lie down for a while?”

“Of course! I’ll bring you there… you need to take care of yourself!” San slips into a long ramble of the necessity of self care and getting enough rest as his arms wrap around your shoulders and pull you away from your captain, carefully leading you down the stairs of the forecastle deck to the sickbay so you can get some rest.

Your captain is left alone on the forecastle deck, watching with a silent, narrowed eye as the sounds of the crew preparing to disembark without him fade to nothing but white noise in his ears. His single green eye darkens as his eyes follow your form, crossing the main deck with San at your side, the healer carefully ushering you into the gloom of the sickbay.

Something is wrong.

Night has fallen.

The forest is eerily quiet, the only sounds in the still night air being the bell-like chirps of the crickets and the hushed murmuring of the men beneath as they discuss their next move. But Wooyoung tends not to concern himself with battle strategies and plans.

That’s Mingi’s job.

Instead, he rests on the boughs of one of the many trees scattered across the hillside, eyes shut as he concentrates on slowing his breathing, practicing what Seonghwa had taught him so many years ago.

Breathe in, count to five, breathe out, count to five, breathe in...

Wooyoung has always hated the still and silence of the night, the promises that the darkness brings, but this night, he hides away in the shadows away from prying eyes. He knows on the other side of the island, floating just a few feet offshore, is the Treasure, with you on it. Then he desperately tries to force every thought that involves your name from his mind.

No.

The memory surfaces in his mind before he can stop it.

“Have you been to Grand Iguana before, oppa?”

Your smile is so vibrant, so genuine as you lounge back against the main mast, eyes shining. The outline of the island of the Grand Iguana is reflected in your gaze, bright and alive. He’s exhausted with worry, hasn’t slept much for the last three days helping San tend to Yunho, every bone aching with weariness, but when he sees you smile like this, everything seems to fall away in an instant.

Wooyoung doesn’t believe that he’s capable of loving romantically. The wounds that criss cross his heart like claw marks are still too raw, still too fresh, he can’t risk having himself torn apart again, be played by women who only use him as an object to fulfil their own sick desires. But you’re a friend. One of the crew. Important to him, yes, but nothing more than that.

If you’re nothing more than that, then he can let his guard down around you.

If you’re nothing more than that, you can’t use him that way.

If you’re nothing more than a friend, he’s safe with you.

Stifling a groan that threatens to fall from his lips, his fingers clench and unclench around the grip of the musket hanging from his side, as his other hand comes up to rub fiercely at his temples, trying to fight off the phantom pains echoing in his mind.

“Yeah.” Wooyoung manages to answer, his fingers closing around yours. He’s realised that he does it often, his hands searching for yours every time you’re close to him, as if magnets exist in him that draw him to your side instinctively.

Your hand is warm in his.

He tries to joke a little to brighten up your mood, aware that you’ve been driving yourself crazy with worry over Yunho’s plight. “Not a lot of pretty ladies here.”

The words surprise him the moment they pass his lips. He realises, with something resembling incredulous shock, that he hasn’t thought about women since… he can’t remember. Hasn’t felt the urge to remind himself that he’s the one who is in power now, hasn’t felt the need to search out a female body to satisfy his needs, hasn’t felt the desire to paint over those terrible memories with new, sexual ones…

You elbow him in the side and it startles him out of his momentary stupor, and when he sees the awkward, blushing smile on your face from his words, his heart constricts tightly.

It’s almost painful.

He doesn’t understand.

“It’s not nice to say that in front of me.” You tease lightly, looking a little downcast. His eyes are simply drawn to your features, admiring the slant of your nose, the softness of your cheeks, the gentle curve of your smile, the affection in your eyes.

You’re beautiful to him, he thinks to himself with a sigh. And you should know it.

Wooyoung’s hands raise to grip his hair by the roots tightly with a muffled scream, the shackles scraping roughly against his wrists. He was such a fool, such a fool, such a gigantic, massive fool-

Before he knows what he’s doing, he’s taken both your hands in his, fingers running over yours. His lips descend to touch them with feather like kisses, wanting for you to know how much you mean to him, how you’re nothing like the women in his life before, how you’re an irreplaceable friend to him.

It’s just a few simple words.

His mouth opens to speak.

“I-”

Then his words falter and die on his lips, every warning bell in his mind screaming at him to stop right now before he says something he can never take back.

A sob rips itself from his chest. What did he want to say? Why… why had those three words, words he had sworn to never speak in his entire life ever again, come to mind so easily, so naturally, as if it were truly his own desire?

He couldn’t say it.

Couldn’t bear it.

Couldn’t face it.

So he had fled before you like a coward.

He couldn’t forget the look of utter hurt on your face. Guilt and regret had sunk in a few days after, but he didn’t know how to look at you in the eye again without feeling those phantom pains across his body all over again.

They were scars, physically, and he knew that more than anyone else. They weren’t able to hurt him any longer, shouldn’t be able hurt him any longer, but it was as his captain had cautioned him years back, when he’d first joined the crew.

“I might have broken your chains, but only you can free yourself. What I can do is be here for you. I promise.”

He can feel them.

The poisonous hands on his body, sliding up his bare legs and around his neck, yanking hard on his collar as he struggled for breath, tears slipping from his eyes as he fought to keep in his sobs.

The claws leaving crimson indents on his skin, the lips dancing across his skin, leaving a trail of bright red bruises in their wake, each one stinging painfully as blood trickled from them, leaving a mess of scarlet on the sheets.

The cold weight of the shackles around his wrists, seemingly weighing him down even though his hands were no longer bound-

“Wooyoung!”

Luckily, before he can descend into a full blown panic attack, Mingi calls from him from below. Wiping the tears from his eyes as quickly as he can, he ignores the weight of the shackles around his wrists and leaps down from the tree, landing nimbly on his feet.

“What do you need me for?” He clears his throat, but his voice is hoarse. Mingi doesn’t seem to realise the state his friend is in, eyes too preoccupied with scanning the area around them. Then he bends down to whisper into Wooyoung’s ear.

“Something… something seems off.”

At those words, Wooyoung frowns. Something is off?

“I don’t know… It’s just a nagging feeling in my chest.” Mingi curses and shakes his head, running his hands anxiously through his hair. “I can’t figure it out… it’s probably just paranoia or whatever, but it just...”

But Wooyoung’s no longer listening to him.

His mind suddenly runs through every conversation he’s had with Hongjoong, all the time spent poring over the maps with Yeosang, planning for this raid. It doesn’t make sense to him at first, the thought coming together slowly in his mind until the horrifying, stark answer spells itself out for him.

If the area the Treasure is now at the only place deep enough for a ship to drop anchor without getting beached and General Kang is already on the island…

His eyes widen in terror and he whips around to stare at the sea, barely visible if not for the slight moonlight rippling off the waves of the ocean.

“Wooyoung? Wooyoung, what is it?” Mingi grabs him by the arm and he merely spills the words that are at the forefront of his mind, his body numb with shock.

“Where is the Black Crow?”

He can see the exact moment Mingi understands what this means as well, his mouth falling open in shock as he whips around to scream orders at the men.

“It’s an ambush! They’re targeting the Treasure!”

Just as he says those words, the night sky lights up in a brief flash of light, followed by a sound Wooyoung is only too familiar with. His heart sinks in his chest.

The sound of a cannon shot.

[armandyke]

The link between diet and autism: a critical analysis of the recent Earth Locker episode and a chance for River to relive her lab report title writing days

Link to the original video

So as I already mentioned I’ve seen a few people talking about the recent episode of the Earth Locker (a podcast by Robert Sheehan, Tom Hopper, and Bryon Knight) where they talk with Tom and his wife Laura about their experiences raising their autistic son. I watched the whole episode and while there were a lot of good points made, there was also some misinformation, statements that were poorly explained and could be misinterpreted, and a couple of pretty harmful ideas put across which I’m gonna go into below. 

Disclaimer one: I’m gonna be saying a lot of stuff that I’m not going to be posting sources for. This is because everything I’m saying comes from my experiences as an autistic person, my experiences working as a support worker for adults with autism where I am currently a key worker for two autistic individuals, my work related training on autism, mental health, and diet & nutrition, and my knowledge from my psychology degree in which I also spent a lot of time studying biology and physiology. This is all just stuff that I know, and at some point I might try to add some sources but I’m writing this fresh off watching and making notes on this video so my energy is already running a little low and I’d rather focus on getting my points across instead of having to take time to source every piece of information. 

Disclaimer two: The purpose of this post isn’t to attack or defend any of the people involved in the podcast. This is also in no way a criticism of Tom and Laura’s parenting. This is purely a criticism of the discussion that took place on the podcast, not on any of the choices they’ve made for their son.

Disclaimer three: I’m going to be using the phrase “challenging behaviour” a lot while I’m explaining things as this is the term used in most modern research and is what we use at work. This basically describes any behaviour that causes harm to the individual or to other people around them, or behaviour that is detrimental to the individual’s wellbeing. 

So the main thing I want to go into with this is the misinformation and misinterpretation of information that was central to the discussion in this podcast, and that was around the connection between diet and autism. Most of the things Tom and Laura said about the effects of diet weren’t incorrect, but it wasn’t explained accurately and missed out on some key points so let’s go: 

In terms of whether diet can “cause” autism: no it can’t. There’s absolutely no evidence to suggest it does. It also can’t “worsen” autism because autism isn’t something that can get “worse” or “better”. A person with autism can develop and learn new skills and they can also regress (and diet can influence this, which I’ll go into further on), but an autistic person at a lower stage of development does not have “worse” autism than a person at a higher stage of development. 

Poor diet can have an impact on autistic people in the same way as with neurotypical people. If we eat junk, we tend to feel like junk as a result, and when we feel like junk it can be harder to concentrate and carry out our usual day to day tasks. However, autistic people are also significantly more likely to suffer from digestive problems and food intolerances, and so for a lot of autistic people (or parents of autistic children) diet may be something that requires close attention. So saying that an autistic individual’s challenging behaviour could be a result of their diet isn’t necessarily untrue, but it does massively oversimplify the issue. The challenging behaviour is more likely a response to pain or discomfort, (as well as frustration if they are unable to communicate this), which is caused by a diet unsuitable for this specific individual, which is caused by an intolerance or digestive problem, which they were at greater risk of developing due to their autism. It’s worth mentioning that medical professionals still don’t know why this comorbidity exists. 

So, referring back to Tom and Laura’s experience with their son, they were explaining that their son’s challenging behaviour spiked while he was on a high-sugar diet. Laura also added that he had been suffering from increasingly frequent infections in his ears and throat while eating these foods, which makes sense because high blood sugar levels can weaken the immune system and make us more susceptible to infections. They then explained that these infections stopped following a tonsillectomy and a change to a sugar-free diet, which then also lead to a complete reduction in their son’s challenging behaviours. Again, implying that the reduction in behaviours is a result of cutting out the sugar is oversimplifying. It’s most likely that their son’s challenging behaviours were a response to the pain the infections were causing, which may or may not have been linked to his sugar intake. Either way, autistic people are all individuals and so while a reduction in sugar intake has benefited their son, by no means does that mean that all autistic people should be following a low-sugar diet or that this would be beneficial for them. 

This isn’t entirely on topic but there are two other things I want to address in terms of what Tom and Laura said while talking about their son, the first being when talking about their initial approach to their children's’ diet before they were aware that their son was autistic. Laura essentially said that she wanted their children to be able to try different foods and that the focus would be on education about health and diet rather than cutting “unhealthy” foods out of their diets completely, which I thought was a great way to approach things. However she then added that, had they known about their son’s autism at the time, they may have approached things differently, which I was confused about. I think (and hope) she was just trying to say that if they had known upfront that sugar particularly seemed to be detrimental to their son, they would have reduced that straight away rather than having to use a process of trial and error which makes sense, but just the way it was phrased set off alarm bells because it sounded like she was implying that they would have controlled his diet more strictly if they had known he was autistic. Hopefully this isn’t the case because autistic people don’t need to have their choices limited if there is no detriment to their health or wellbeing. 

Another thing I was confused about, and I’m not sure if this was supposed to be more of a weird analogy rather than factual information, was when Tom started talking about “sensory glands” when talking about their son’s hypersensitivity to sounds. I think his exact words were something along the line of saying that the high sugar levels were causing his “sensory glands” to “swell” which was heightening his sensitivity. And like... unless I missed something there is no such thing as a sensory gland and they certainly don’t swell up when we’re over stimulated or when we have a lot of sugar. Sugar triggers high dopamine responses in our brains which then leads to cravings and can cause spikes and crashes in mood, and it can also cause inflammation, all of which can cause discomfort and in turn could lead to an increase in sensitivity, but as far as I know sugar doesn’t have a direct effect on our senses. 

Now on to the elephant in the room and the two big, glaring no-no's in this podcast, both of which were said by Tom (these are not direct quotes because I didn’t get a chance to jot them down in time so I’m paraphrasing slightly):

“we cannot ignore the correlation between rising autism rates and the increase in fast food consumption” (spoiler alert: yes we can)

“I really want to get to the cause of autism and see if there’s something that can be done to prevent it”

So, first of all, autism isn’t something that needs to be prevented. Autistic people are not a detriment to society. We don’t have an illness, we just experience the world differently and, in some cases, require additional support to live our lives as fully as possible. Obviously it can’t be ruled out that fast food, or anything else, has a part to play in rising rates, but there is absolutely no evidence to suggest that it does and correlation absolutely does not equal causation. Gay representation in the media has also been steadily rising with rates of autism diagnosis. Does this mean that seeing gay people on TV makes people autistic? No. As Laura briefly mentioned, it is far more likely that the rising rates are actually due to an increase in understanding about autism and the accessibility of diagnosis, especially when you consider how many people are still slipping under the radar even with all the knowledge we have today.

I appreciate that most of this podcast is just a conversation between friends about various topics, but when the goal of this podcast is to “raise awareness”, and with the shared platform the people involved have, casual statements like these are incredibly dangerous. With the general implication that if everyone lived a healthy, clean, and organic lifestyle, we could reduce the number of autistic people in our society, this not only puts the “blame” on parents of autistic people, and on the individuals themselves, but is also dipping into eugenics territory. And while I don’t think the intentions behind either statement were malicious, they were incredibly ignorant, and the fact that they went completely unchallenged was concerning and made me pretty uncomfortable. 

There were still a lot of positives in the podcast. I’m really glad Laura was also involved because she definitely came across as being the most educated on the subject of the four of them and did make a point of bringing up issues with diagnosis (particularly among girls with autism), her and Tom’s privilege in terms of being able to work with doctor’s to find out as much as possible about their son’s dietary needs and to then provide him with a tailored diet, and also addressing the issues with “high functioning vs low functioning” when Rob asked about the “severity” of their son’s autism. However there was still an undeniable amount of inaccurate or poorly presented information, as well as some things that were just plain incorrect and offensive. I appreciate that a lot of this was coming from personal experience rather than being generalised information, but I think this could have been communicated a lot more clearly and effectively considering the intention was to spread awareness, and the episode would have massively benefitted from the input of an autistic adult. Rob specifically had a lot of questions about autism in general and I think they would have been much better answered by somebody with autism, rather than a parent giving an outside perspective of their child’s experiences. It’s always a little uncomfortable to watch four neurotypical people discuss autism, regardless of how positive their intentions are, and I don’t think it would have been a great challenge for them to find an autistic person who would have been willing to talk about the topic with them. 

[the-hopeless-haze]

Someone to Know You Too Well (Being Alive Chapter 5)

PREVIOUS CHAPTER

Read on Archive

CONTENT WARNING: Mentions of domestic violence & homophobia

It’s easy again between the two of you when you come back from Massachusetts, but it isn’t the same. You’re in a much better mood, and Rafael’s glad you went, especially because you come back with good news about your brother - he should be finishing his GED in the fall.

But just because things are good - it doesn't mean Rafael is calm. On the contrary, that makes him even more nervous. Good things don't have the habit of sticking around.

But for whatever reason, you are.

Spring turns into summer - where did the time go? - and you’re always dragging him to the beach when your schedules permit. You seem to be more in your element there than anywhere else he’s ever seen you, what with the sun causing your skin to glisten with sweat and saltwater, the hot wind blowing your hair, the permanent smile on your face. He learns that your father used to have a summer house in the Cape where you spent your summers until he sold it after the divorce, but your love for the water never faded. And apparently your father’s never did, either, as his new house with his new wife resides on a lake. But the ocean is much more turmoiled than a lake is, and if Rafael were more of a poet, maybe he’d draw some resemblances between you and the ocean, but that’s overwrought. The world didn’t need another hackneyed poem about why his troubled object of affection reminded him of the waves. Clichéd comparisons aside, he can see why you love it so much.

Rafael isn’t as opposed to these dates as one might assume. Maybe it’s his Cuban heritage; in his blood after his ancestors spent so long working and living by the sea on that godforsaken island that betrayed them, but he feels a sort of kinship with the ocean, too. You tease him the first time you see him in shorts and sandals, saying you half-expected him to show up in his three-piece. He didn’t tell you, but he comes to the beach alone quite often, or there’s always yacht parties where he can nurse a glass of scotch, just keeping score between all the married couples there; who cheated on who, what wife wanted nothing more than to divorce her husband, what husband was calling their wife a bitch... Most days, he prefers the precinct for company over the stuffy culture law school brought him into...he swears marriage makes people crazy. It made his mother miserable, his father wrathful.

And maybe one could argue that his mother had an inclination for melancholy or that his father was just a mean-spirited man regardless. But the marriage vows certainly brought out the worst in both of them. An ill-fit, sure, but they’d thought it would work out when they met each other, didn’t they?

Another reason he’s anxious is that the squad is getting closer to figuring it out by the day. Rafael is good at concealing his emotions, he thinks, but it’s difficult to hide anything in a room full of some of the best detectives in New York City. Sometimes he even catches Olivia looking at him differently when he glances discreetly at you - and he’s dreading the day he gets the chewing out he deserves.

And third - you start remembering things he says. It’s almost frightening. Of course.... you had to have a good memory for the spoken word - you couldn’t take notes on everything a witness said. But still.

You remember dishes he orders in restaurants and attempt to recreate them in his kitchen. You bring him coffee, just the way he likes it, on your days off that he’s on, or sometimes you manage to sneak away to bring it to him during your breaks. You know he likes you in red and green and blue, bright, vivid colors that bring out the colors of your eyes and hair, and you make sure to wear them. Sometimes he thinks you’re psychic, or you have some kind of womanly sixth sense; because oftentimes you’ll wear the same color of his tie. One time Carisi even made a comment that the two of you were going to prom together, and you’d swatted him on the arm but smirked at Rafael the way you did; when you knew you had him down cold.

And maybe you did.

But you didn’t know everything about him, yet, how could you? It’d only been four months.

Rafael's hands tremble at the thought of telling you what was on his mind. He needs some liquid courage if he's going to tell you anything. He's had awful conversations with women concerning this topic, and he's prepared for tonight to go wrong, too, you screaming at him with tears running down your cheeks, and then work, oh, work would be a living hell. Maybe he'd transfer to another district. Jesus Christ, he couldn't handle that again, so soon. Maybe it was best to keep quiet. Maybe this is why he shouldn't have been so stupid to date a detective in his district, in a unit he worked closely with. What if this did go wrong? It was hard, being able to see each other outside of work sometimes, and it was hell trying to hide it from the SVU, but god, he'd miss you if you left even if he wasn't entirely ready to commit to you.

But you deserved to know, didn't you?

"Hey, Rafi? You doing alright there?" Your voice cuts in, clear as a bell, the way it always did when he lost himself in thought.

"Yeah, uh, I'm fine," he says, loosening his tie and taking it off. You were cooking again, fish, and it smelled heavenly, and god, he didn't want to lose this but he didn't want to tell you either and by not telling you, he could lose you. Weren't you supposed to know your partner? Did you really know him if you didn't know these things?

"You sure? You look like you're nervous," you say, an edge in your voice. God, did you think... maybe you thought he was going to break up with you. Fuck.

"Yeah. I'm nervous. Okay?" he snaps, but he doesn't mean to. He takes another sip of his scotch.

"Why the hell are you nervous? Afraid of some broccoli?" you joke, but your smile doesn't meet your eyes. He'd scared you. Fuck, he was such an idiot.

"I need to talk to you. Okay?" God, why couldn't he be normal like you and just spit it out?

"Okay. Then talk. But if you want me to leave I'll just get out. I don't need to hear the reasons why," you say, turning back to the food.

"No!" Rafael gets up quickly, hugging you from behind. "No. I don't... that's not what I want to talk about. No. This is going good, better than I thought it would."

"What is that supposed to mean?"

"Fuck me. I keep talking myself in circles," he mutters under his breath.

You turn around, but he keeps his hands around your waist. You're close, and he pecks your lips. You chuckle. "You're a dork. Just spit it out, Rafi."

"I don't want... I don't want this to turn into a fight."

"I don't either, whatever it is. But I need to turn the fish over or your smoke alarm's gonna go off," you say. “Hang on a minute.”

He grips the counter for support and he hates you so much, it’s rage he’s feeling now, and he has to swallow it down, tell himself this was good for him, this was happening for a reason, and that you were different the men and women that had walked out on him before. Or what about those he’d never felt close enough to tell? That was a longer list.

You finish the fish in a few minutes, tell him the potatoes are going to be a few more in the oven, and you start the broccoli on the stove.

“Okay. Talk to me. I’m listening,” you say, smiling at him, but he can tell you’re still scared, still wondering what he’s going to say.

“I’m bisexual,” he blurts out, and he doesn’t know if it would’ve been better if he beat around the bush.

You’re silent for a few seconds, then you smile at him. “Oh, honey, that was it? I thought it was something bad. Jesus, you scared the hell out of me, Rafi,” you say and hug him tight. He hugs you back, somewhat in awe of your reaction.

“You... you... don't care?"

“Rafael, I'm honestly offended that you think I'd be that prejudiced. Of course it doesn't bother me.” You pull away, still holding onto his arms, looking at him that way you did now, that look that doesn’t feel too different from a punch in the gut. "Why did you think I would be upset?"

Rafael shrugs, still at a loss for words.

“Well... for the record, I’ve hooked up with a woman, you know,” you say, turning back to the broccoli.

“Y-you have?” Well, that was a surprise.

“Yeah. I don’t know if I’d ever date a woman, but... I gave it the college try, had experiences. It was fun. It was a coping mechanism if you think about it too much, but it helped me, I think,” you say, and shrug, turning to your side to better face him as you sauté the broccoli. “I mean...we were friends in college. And she took her time with me, you know...in ways college boys wouldn’t.”

“Mm,” Rafael says, raising his eyebrows suggestively. “Bet she did.”

You blush beet red, laughing nervously. “That’s not what I meant... although, yes... she was thorough. But no. I meant she respected me and didn’t get upset when I wasn't ready to put out, you know? She let me set the pace and she was the first person I’d been with that gave me that. But... anyway... enough about that. I really appreciate that you trust me enough to tell me. Do you feel better?” you ask, looking up at him.

He nods. “Believe it or not, you’re the only woman that hasn’t flipped out on me when I said this.”

“Oh, honey. I’m so sorry. No one should feel that way about that.” You lean up, kissing his cheek.

Yelina was the first woman he told, and she didn’t take it well. Immediately, she flew off the handle, accusing him of wanting to leave her for a man - but there was no man. It was just something he'd come to terms with after fighting with himself for so long, and he wanted her to know because he thought he loved her. But he backtracked for her, he pled with her, they both cried, and their hour-long phone conversation ended with Rafael saying that he was just confused, and wasn't really bisexual. He’d never felt more lost in his entire life than when he hung up the phone that night, and it took him a long time to be assured of his sexuality in the same way as he was before he called her.

Some of the women were better than others, but he hadn’t told all of them and he’d never been met with outright acceptance...until you. And maybe it’s a byproduct of the politics of your generation or your own dalliances in same-sex affairs... but whatever it is... you’re still taking him in with open arms, and he feels like he doesn't deserve that.

“You hungry? It’s all set.”

“Yeah. It smells great, (y/n),” he says, his mouth watering at the potatoes you pull out of his oven. God, who knew how good an apartment could smell when you used it to cook?

He has memories of his abuelita cooking, of his mother, but he never stayed in the room and watched them work. His father always said it was a woman’s job, and it went on the long list of things he could never forgive him for. Watching you cook, he realizes it’s an expression of caring and that his father had ignored the league of male chefs there were in the world in support of a chauvinist ideology. Rafael wishes he could cook more than his embarrassing repertoire of eggs, grilled cheese, and boxed macaroni; he wishes he could do something for you.

He swallows it down. This was too much too soon, wasn’t it? What was he doing?

He doesn't have any idea. A relationship should tie you down to the earth, make you remember you inhabit it, but he's been in his head far too much lately. So dinner is quiet, almost painfully so, because he can't stop the thoughts racing through his head and manage to make conversation with you.

Evidently, you realize that too, kissing him deeply after you both cleaned up the kitchen. "Are you okay, honey? You still seem stressed."

"I'm fine." God, you calling him “honey” went right through him. No one really ever used pet names on him before, probably because he was too stiff. How did you know the simple use of that melted him to the core, made him momentarily forget his reservations?

"You certainly don't seem fine. Did something happen at work?"

"Just stop," he murmurs, avoiding your gaze. Why did you care? Why should you care? You were starting to get too close for comfort - but god forbid you start pulling away.

But you do, physically, at least. You let go of his hand, and hurt flashes through your eyes. "Do you want me to leave?"

"No. But I don't want to talk, either."

"Rafael--"

"Don't."

"Okay," you nod, pursing your lips, and you take his hand back in yours. "Do you want me to just sit with you?"

He nods wordlessly, topping off your scotch glasses and meeting you on the couch. You don't touch him at first, but then you take his right hand back in both of yours, massaging through the cramps in his palm from writing scrawled notes on his legal pad. "You don't have to," he says quietly.

"I want to," you respond, pressing your lips to his cheek. "Let me take care of you. Turn around so I can massage your shoulders."

"(Y/n)..." he protests, but he has a feeling you know what he needs better than he does, so he doesn't argue with your firm glance.

You're tentative at first, but you find a rhythm, and he feels the tension dissipate as you work your hands across his shoulders and upper back, and all he can think is that he never did one thing in his life that would warrant this tenderness.

And then.... you run your hand across his side, featherlight, until he's chuckling in spite of himself. "Jesus, (y/n), stop it," he says through laughter as you tickle him with more intensity, your fingers skittering across his stomach.

"I think you should make me," you challenge.

And he's breathless, trying to catch your hands in his own, but he can't stop laughing, either, as he tries and fails to gain leverage against you. You dodge him every chance you get, but at this point, you can't tickle him as much you jab at his sides and stomach. Eventually, his fingers dig deep into the flesh of your waist, and you let out a shriek - and it's then that he enacts his revenge, his long fingers dancing across your thighs and up your stomach until he looks up at you. You're giggling and blushing, your hair splayed out across his couch... and you look back, your laughter slowing as he leans down to kiss you. All he intended was to brush his lips against yours, but your hand comes to the nape of his neck, and your tongue slips past his lips, and you're seemingly still intent on leaving him gasping for air. "Trying to kill me?" he pants, smirking against your lips as he pulls away.

"No. I just know you needed the laugh," you say. "I know you said you don't want to talk, Rafi, but I... I think you should. I want to listen."

Rafael sighs heavily, gently moving off you and helping you sit back up. "I lied to you,” he says softly, not meeting your eyes. “I lied. SVU is difficult at times... for more personal reasons. I didn't go through anything like what you had gone through and believe me... I'm not trying to draw comparisons. But..."

“It was your father, wasn’t it?” you ask softly.

Ah. You know. You read him like a book. He nods. “Yes. He wasn’t a good man.”

“I didn’t... I just, you rarely talk about him, and I just assumed there was a reason why.”

“There was.”

“Do you want to talk about it?"

Rafael nods, finding the strength to meet your eyes again. “He... he would hurt my mother. I didn’t face the brunt of the abuse, she did, for me. But he... if I... he’d hurt me, sometimes, too, hit me if I talked back. He’d never hurt me the way he hurt Mami, but he was abusive toward me as well. I spent a lot of time at my abuelita’s apartment because of this, and she is...she’s the best woman I know. She did all she could to keep me safe. Ultimately, though, in high school... I came out to my mother and her. They didn’t understand it, really, and gave me some good old Catholic shaming. I still loved them, even if it was hard at the time. They didn’t dare out me to my father. They didn’t know what he would do. Well... I had a boyfriend that last year of high school, and my father saw us... and... you can guess what happened.”

“I’m so sorry, Rafi,” you whisper, scooting closer to him.

“I had to go to the hospital,” he whispers, unable to fight the tears. It feels like something’s closing in on his throat. He takes your hand for support, running his thumb over your fingers. “He somehow managed to break one of my ribs. I... he kept saying, ‘I pay for Catholic school for you to end up being a faggot?’ And I... kept thinking, kept saying, ‘no, Padre, you don’t understand,’ kept begging him to stop. He didn’t until he heard my rib crack and... I think he understood, then, that he’d crossed a boundary. It was one thing to him to hurt his wife, he hated women, but his child, his only son? I never told my mother what happened, because it would’ve just worried her and I was terrified. I just... I just said someone at school beat me up. My father... he was never good to me or my mother, let that be clear, but after that, it was almost like he was ashamed, I guess, because I had something over his head that he knew my mother would leave him for. Anyway... he died about 15 years ago.”

You tuck your legs underneath you, wrapping your arms around his shoulders. “I’m sorry,” you say softly, kissing his cheek. “No one should have to go through that. Your mother is a strong woman, you know that right? Didn’t you tell me she runs a charter school now?”

“Yes. She does. Single-handedly, really. I owed it to her to make something of myself.”

“You did, Rafi, you did. I know she’s proud.”

“I hope so,” he mutters.

“You’re a better man than your father,” you murmur, rubbing his back. How did you know that was what he needed to hear? Even still, it didn’t feel real. What basis did you have for that?

“The jury is out on that one,” he mutters. “I haven’t had a child to destroy.”

You pull away from him, sit back on your side of the couch. “Rafael. Look at me.”

He exhales slowly, and does, meeting your concerned eyes, the ones all the victims that have come through your precinct have seen, and he hates that.

“Did it hold you back? Is that why you haven’t had children?”

Your voice is small like you almost don’t want to say it, don’t want to put a voice to it, and he wishes you didn’t, he wishes you stayed quiet. He leans back against the couch, a few silent tears leaving his eyes of their own volition.

But you knew him. You knew why. You’d hit the nail on the head once again.

“I shouldn’t have said that. I’m sorry, Rafael. Please,” you say, and he looks over at you to see your eyes welling up too. “It’s not my business. I’m sorry. D-don’t be mad at me.”

He doesn’t say anything, just leans over and grasps you in a hug. You start crying, murmuring your apology over and over again. Your whimpers in his ear could kill him if he let them. You pull away from him with shaky hands on his shoulders, gripping on his suspenders for support. “I’m so stupid. I shouldn’t have—“

But he kisses you and he can feel your shock as your body tenses up against him. “Don’t you ever fucking say you’re stupid again,” he murmurs against your mouth. “You’re too smart for your own good.”

“Rafael, I overstepped.” You move your hands back to your lap.

“Maybe you did,” he shrugs, wiping his eyes with his shirtsleeves. “But you were right.”

You’re silent. He can tell you feel guilty; you’re wringing your hands and only looking at him when he’s not looking at you.

“I’m not mad at you,” he says, and you visibly relax, leaning over to hug his waist. “I never realized it... until... this woman I dated, her name was Yelina. She wanted a whole white picket fence deal, lawyer husband, three kids, money. And I... I couldn’t give any of that to her at the time. I didn’t want to get married, I was terrified of having a wife. I didn’t want to have children... I was afraid I’d turn into my father and hurt them the way he hurt me. So she left me for my best friend at the time.”

“Oh, honey. You’ve had bad luck,” you say, your voice slightly muffled against the fabric of his shirt. You rub his back comfortingly. “She wasn’t a smart woman. Couldn’t she see you were in pain?”

“I...guess not. Maybe I didn’t even really know I was then. She wanted kids, marriage, all of that, right away, and we were young, then, younger than you. But she didn’t want to wait for me to work out my issues. I can't really blame her. I still haven’t now, so maybe she was right to leave me. Who she left me for... well, that didn’t exactly work out in her favor. I prosecuted him for child pornography about a year ago.”

“Ah. Perhaps she should have learned about delayed gratification before leaving you.”

Rafael chuckles at that. “Why are you saying that?”

“Look who you turned out to be. She knows she made the wrong choice now.”

“I don’t know about that. Maybe neither of us were the right one for her. I’m still my father’s son. I could still turn out...how I feared.”

“I don’t see that in you, Rafael,” you say softly.

“My mother didn’t see it in my father, either,” he says, rubbing his face with his hand. “Part of it is genetic. It has to be.”

“People throw down the deck that they’re dealt and demand a new one all the time,” you tell him. He wraps his arm around you.

“But do they get one?”

“I think so,” you say. “If they fight hard enough and they have the resources. Some of it is luck, no doubt... But you can.”

He feels guilty, because he knows you’re thinking of your brother, who can never outplay the cards he was dealt.

“Well, I guess I never wanted to play the game and risk it," he says bitterly.

“Well, what about now?”

“Who’s going to marry me now, have kids with me? I’m an old man. That ship has sailed,” he says, hating himself and you, a little. Maybe you’d leave now like Yelina did. You were young and pretty, and you could find a man closer to your age that would father your children if that’s what you wanted.

“Do you really believe that?” Your voice is small again, treading lightly. Maybe you were scared for your own future if you stayed with him. Maybe you should be.

“I don’t know what to believe anymore,” he murmurs. He knows what he can’t believe: the fact that you’re still here, still holding onto him like your life depended on it. And you knew him, now, you knew what kept him up at night... and you were still here, acting like he was all you wanted.

“I just want you to know that I’ve been held back, too, Rafael. Abuse does that. I couldn’t have meaningful relationships with anyone for a while, and sex scared me. It still does, sometimes. You’re...you’re one of the few who’s waited this long for me to be ready and not gotten upset. I just want to thank you for that. And that’s how I know you’re not your father because from what you’ve told me, I don’t think he would’ve been as forgiving toward me. You can break the cycle, Rafi. You can if you want to.”

“You shouldn’t be thanking me for that. I’m not going to force you into doing something you’re not ready for.”

“Proving my point, Rafael,” you say, squeezing his arm. “Would your father have that same mindset?”

“Well...no. Probably not.”

“Would your father go to law school with the intent of helping the helpless?”

He shakes his head. His father didn’t do anything to help anyone. "That's not why I went to law school, either. I went to get the hell out of that barrio."

"Why'd you choose SVU then? There are much more lucrative paths you could've taken with a law degree. Why is it every time I try to show you that you're a good man you insist on fighting with me?"

"Because I don't deserve to be put up on a pedestal, (y/n). I'm just trying to survive," Rafael says, shrugging. "I'm not some martyr for a cause, or a Christ figure or--"

"I didn't say that you were. But you’re also not your father, Rafael, and I don’t see any danger of you turning into him, either,” you say and he hopes you’re right, he hopes you know him better than he knows himself, and that you see something in him he’s never seen, something all the men and women before you never saw either. “You still have time.”

“Not as much as I used to,” he says, but that’s the thing, isn’t it? Rafael sighs, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. Look at the two of you, both damaged, both broken by what the world threw at you, but here you were, together. Were you healing each other or hurting each other? He can’t tell, at the end of the day.

You sit up a little, and he loosens his grip around your shoulders. You kiss him softly, comfortingly.

All his anxiety about this night is gone, but it isn’t replaced with relief like he’d hoped. Instead, there’s this gnawing ache, this need to tell you to leave, that he was bad news and was going to break your heart, that he was over 40 and didn’t know how to love anyone that wasn’t his family. Why couldn’t anything scare you away?

Part of him knows he doesn’t want you to leave despite all this, even if he’s terrified. You must know, too, because you stayed.

Tags: @caked-crusader​ @thatesqcrush​ @law-nerd105​

Want to be added to my tags? Let me know!

[universejunction]

Midwayers, and problems of intended belief

A discord conversation (at first about fae and spirits)

Me:

I feel so far behind on learning about fae and spirits and such. When I thought The Urantia Book was more than a well-intentioned hoax it was easy to think fae and such are all just what it calls "midwayers". Now I'm... wide open to new interpretations. I know I'm not behind, I'm just where I am, but still...

A:

I would love to give you more of an idea, but I don't know a ton about the Urantia book or what you mean by midwayers.

Me:

Oof, okay. I don't expect much in the way of answers, I know I'll get what I get in time. But I will take this opportunity to share.

In the Urantia Book, it make a lot of distinction between spirit and matter, as you might expect. Mind is the means by which Spirit rules over matter, yada yada. It also has a ton of details on angels.

There's a ton of history in there too, which I'm now interpreting as metaphor at best, because it's sure as shit not factual with its racial skeletal types and what not.

Anyway... Y'know, I'm gonna give the summary and then see if I have the energy for the story, because I'm worn out.

Basically, midwayers are midway between material and spiritual (but they're not, like, pure mind), covering the gap between angels and humans. They're native to the world, but descended from super-humans. They're immortal and stick around until the "age of light and life". And there's 1111 of either all of them or that might just be the first group of them.

Midwayers also get attributed cases of demonic possession (but so does mental illness), though they're not supposed to be able to do that anymore since Jesus completed his experience of life and earned his sovereignty (which was... before his public work) as basically god of local creation.

There's so much in this book and I carved it into my brain and now I don't trust it but it's still so quick to mind 😩

Innkeeper:

Woof okay I just read this

This is....so much not correct at all but also weirdly accurate

Which makes sense considering my personal theories on bleedthrough but thats another topic for another time

Me:

"Bleedthrough" sounds so very likely correct even without knowing what you mean exactly. That's pretty much my theory on how the Absolutes stuff seems so probably accurate despite everything else

A:

I'm just going to offer that whenever you hear "superhuman," in a spiritual tome, your hackles should probably raise.

Like, it sounds like this is coming from the same branch of angelic and Christian occultism that recognize the Nephilim, but uh, just be mindful that rhetoric about "ancient superhumans" is almost ALWAYS used to sell bullshit about magic indigenous people

It sounds like you're mindful of that, but, heads up

V:

The midwayer concept is ringing alarm bells between "Magic White People From Outer Space" to "Eugenics"

Innkeeper:

^

The idea of a liminal concept, something that exists in between those two states, I feel that holds water

The idea of literally everything else is uh

Worrisome at best

Me:

I'll add more in a sec but y'all right

Me (later):

To be clear, I was raised on the Urantia Book and am now moving away from it. For reasons mentioned above, among others.

It does come very close to "magic white people from outer space" and definitely is like "eugenics is a good idea but no one is qualified to direct it".

Me (replying to A):

Adding on, yes, but it's like... Fix-it fic. There's this spirit prince for the world who rebelled with Lucifer (who was like... a local administrator, not a god or angel), but when he arrived they like... called 100 natives [of Earth], cloned them with power-ups, and put people from other worlds like ours into the bodies who served as the prince's staff in the task of cultivating culture. Those staff, through essentially spiritual sex, created the first midwayers. After rebellion, the staff split and the ones who stay loyal to the prince are called nephilim and start a line of (acknowledged in the text) big ol' nasty racial supremacists. They're also called Nodites (c.f. "Land of Nod")

Later, Adam and Eve show up to "upstep" human evolution (disease resistance, humor, art... yeah, magic white people) but because the prince rebelled and shit's fucked, they're having a hard time. Eve bangs a local tribe leader to get an alliance and fucks everything up (that results in Cain. Able is Adam and Eve's next kid). So now should-be-immortal Adam and Eve only have a few hundred years to live and their (already many) kids get the choice to leave and most of them do.

A while later, their first son, Adamson, goes off to start a new cultural center, meets a woman named Rata who "claims" to be the last pure-line Nodite. [They] have a bunch of kids, every 4th of which is invisible(???), and they make those kids get together (yikes!) and that's where the secondary midwayers come from.

And it lampshades all this like "many things in the spiritual development of a world are hard to understand." Uh, yeah! History is weird, sure, but as it's fan fic, it's creepy.

A:

So, I'm saying this with all the love in my heart, but you can only portray things as fiction which are not intended to be believed.

That's not a fanfiction, that's a religious text. That is a religious text with a fully realized theology and metaphysics, complete with creation story. I think it is harmful to approach it as anything else, or as a "generic" metaphysical practice. (Relatedly, there is no such thing as "generic witchcraft," which is a main point of this history of the occult book club).

Doing a little bit more research, it's a religious text associated loosely with the Urantia Foundation and written in 1955. I'm not seeing any indication at the moment that there's a formal power structure associated with the movement, which lessens the chance for cult behavior.

What I will suggest to you is that you need to approach this work like you would any other religious text. Set aside questions of whether the text is "accurate" or "true." If you are honestly interested in the metaphysical, you should be able to separate empirical reality and history for the metaphysical. If you can't do that, take five steps back in your practice and come back once you can.

So, setting aside questions of truth, does this cosmology reflect the things you believe about the world? Does it encourage a way of thinking about people that you think is good, virtuous, honorable, etc? Can this text be used to uphold values that you hold, or do the natural extensions of this text lead to certain conclusions? Are those conclusions harmful?

For instance, I believe that eugenics is totally and morally abhorrent, and that there is fundamentally "no such thing" as a person who could pull it off "correctly." There's no way to do eugenics "right," just like I believe there is no morally correct way to, I don't know, punch a baby.

As such, even your acknowledgment that the text accepts eugenics makes it worthy of rejection in my mind.

Maybe you are interested and capable of doing the apologetics to make this into a compassionate religious movement. I don't know. I am not interested in doing that. But I do not think you can "move away" from this text, in the same way that you cannot "move away" from the bible, only from interpretations of it.

At some point, you have to believe in a basic assumption. If there's something that "feels right," there's only so far you can push it without that basic assumption.

If you think there is a separation between mind, body, and Spirit, wonderful. I would recommend you find another text and another basic set of assumptions. For instance, one that doesn't involve angels making angel-possesed magic native people for the point of preparing the world for the "good races."

Me:

Yes, you've got it right. Except that my interpretation has moved from "I think this book is what it claims" to "I think this was (probably well-intentioned, but still) a hoax perpetrated by ex-Seventh-Day Adventists". But for whatever good intentions may've been involved, the fact that it's intended to be believed makes it very harmful. I talked about it today as a way of saying "wow, look at this crazy shit" and talking through the changes involved in my different interpretation / loss of faith.

I don't believe in midwayers anymore and don't know what to believe, I'm trying to do the work, as you say, of finding what parts are good and what's harmful, comparing with empirical stuff, etc. But, however ready I may've been to walk away from the Urantia Book, it's still a process of recognizing what ideas I have based on it and examining them in turn to see what's salvageable.

Innkeeper:

I think that's an incredibly respectful way to go about it, Toph.

When something is that formative to you as a person, it's rarely as easy as learning it's harmful and then moving on, entirely separated from the source material. There's a long process of digging up every assumption you know you have--and many you don't know you have, or don't have at all--and needing to challenge them in a newer, healthier framework. One of the most potent aspects of the danger of cults is that they're incredibly difficult to challenge that base assumption, and it can take years if not a lifetime to walk a path that steadily heads away from what was taught.

So to acknowledge something formative's deep capacity for danger and harm, and go through the long process of picking it apart piece by piece to ensure you don't retain its harmfulness as you separate from it, I think that's the best possible way to go about something.

[afewmarvelousthoughts]

The Devil’s Daughter Ch. 2

Master List: @afewmarvelousthoughtsadmin

Pairing: The Winter Soldier X Reader (Bucky X Reader)

Summary: Born and bred to be a monster worthy to lead Hydra into a new age you must decide if you will become the beast they always intended or perhaps something greater… Someone worthy even, of love.

Warnings: Trauma. This one is lighter but I still advise to tread with caution when it comes to this series. 

A/N: I MISSED ALL OF YOU! I’ve been so wrapped up with work and another project that I haven’t had really any time to breathe. BUT I finally took like a half step back and remembered that fic is actually a form of self care for me. I LOVE writing these stories and needed to make time for this and, of course, to give those of you who are invested something to sink your teeth into. 

This is a shorter chapter but will answer that lingering question from the last chapter and, I hope, make up for the wait just a bit. 

Love you sweet pumpkins! 

TAGS ARE OPEN

If I missed your tag please remind me. 

You hadn’t expected sleep to come easily. It rarely did even before this seemingly endless day, and yet the moment you settled into the plush bed you fell into blissful unconsciousness. 

A few hours before sunrise, your eyes pop open. It certainly wasn’t the longest night’s sleep but you felt more than rested. Another side effect of the serum you suspected, and honestly, not a bad one. 

You had work to do. 

Tentatively you step from your room, both cautious of any potential threats and not wanting to disturb the presumably sleeping Soldier, wherever he may be. Thankfully, you found neither assailant nor your new muscle stalking around the space. 

Given your first goal of the day you were honestly more grateful to not see the Soldier awake than you were to not face an attack.

On the small dining table, the boxes of files on The Soldier sat just where you’d left them the night before. You lay your hand on top of one, almost reverently. 

There was no doubt that what these boxes contained was unpleasant if not horrific. Part of you almost didn’t want to crack into them, not wanting to take this journey now. 

With a deep breath, you shake your head, dismissing your hesitation. You’d made a commitment, albeit only to yourself, that you would give him his name back. And if his freedom could be wrenched from these files… Well, you’d do that too.

By the time the sun finally lit the windows you felt ill. No one could ever accuse you of having a weak constitution when it came to violence but still… some levels of depravity, especially sanctioned depravity, were more than even you could bear. 

The story told of The Soldier unfolded in the files on the floor around you. It was a lesson in just how deep the cruelty of man could go. 

Beyond the more gut-wrenching details, you’d gained a surface understanding of how he ticked. The triggers and tools available to you, none of which you intended to use, as well as his limitations. 

Part of his appeal was that he could be rendered a blank slate, a human weapon at the full control of whoever had a firm enough grasp on his leash. However, wiping him and bringing him fully back to square one had its risks. 

The insidious technique always carried the chance of simply leveling him to a state of drooling uselessness at best and death at worst. Because of this, they only wiped him entirely with the use of the chair when absolutely necessary. In fact, his last full wipe had been almost four years ago—which likely explained his remembering your encounter from several years prior. 

From what you gathered so far, this was one of the longer stints Hydra had gone without either icing or wiping him. The notes indicated that this was a great win. They thought they’d finally broken him. 

A smile filled your face knowing this was far from true. 

“Amusing read?” 

You had been so absorbed in your research that you didn’t hear his approach and embarrassingly jumped at the sound of his voice. 

“The content isn’t amusing. Their misguided ideas though…” 

His brows raise at this, “Ideas about what?” 

“That they have somehow finally broken you.” The moment the words leave your lips you regret them. His expression is unreadable, a combination of horror, disgust, and murderous rage that no language you knew had a word for. 

“Haven’t they.” It wasn’t a question. 

“Your presence here says they haven’t.” As did his attempt on your life last night and the fact that he didn’t kill you when you told him your plan. He doesn’t respond, just shoves his hands in his pockets, fixing his gaze out the window. 

“They think because they haven’t had to wipe you in so long that you’ve given in. It’s amusing because it’s the exact opposite, isn’t it? You figured out-”

“Even a dog learns not to bark when the shock collar goes off too many times.” His frigid tone makes you flinch. You think to respond but his cold glare freezes your jaw shut. “It doesn’t mean a goddamn thing.”

“You’re wrong.” 

A muscle in his jaw ticks and you brace for his rebuttal. It doesn’t come. He simply turns and strides onto the terrace. 

To say that wasn’t what you expected would be an understatement. Last night he admitted to remembering you, admitted that what he did to Eric he did for the both of you. Clearly he had grabbed hold of a bit of autonomy, some level of self-awareness. Yet he didn’t see it as any kind of victory… 

Rather than push the matter, you sigh and begin repacking the boxes, tucking the nightmarish pieces of The Soldier’s puzzle away--all but one. 

The file was old, dating back to WWII, it’s edges frayed and flaking. Once more you flip open the cover. 

Held by a rusted paperclip is a black and white photo of a striking young man in military dress with a mischievous smile. 

Your eyes wander from the photo to the man on the terrace. Logically you knew they were the same person but at the same time, it seemed impossible. There was a spark in the person staring back at you in the photo, an effortless charm that couldn’t be dulled by the passage of time. For that energy to remain in a photograph and not in the man himself… 

Taking care to not damage the picture, you slide it from the paperclip. The document below held nothing but basic information, information he may want. The photo though--well it seemed almost cruel to present him with it when it was clear the man in it had died a long time ago. 

“Oh,” you breathe out as his reaction makes some kind of sense to you. 

Before you’d wondered if he may remember his name, it seemed marginally possible given that he’d known you. But after what you’d learned and how your words had clearly hurt you knew that wasn’t the case. He may have wrenched some control back out of sheer will over the past few years but it was, for him, a hollow victory.

With effort you swallow the lump in your throat, setting the file on top of the box before you head back to the room you’d slept in. 

Looking to take your mind off your bungled good deed you pick up the burner phone Mara had given you thinking to ring her to come on up until you note the early hour. The woman had been through hell, you could grant her a few more hours of what you hoped was restful sleep. 

Unable to think of anything else to do you get in the shower, turning the water to a scalding temperature. The sting on your skin grounding you in your body, making you feel present, as pain so often did. 

-

He wanted to… apologize? Maybe? Even though he wasn’t sure if he really wanted to or if he was just afraid of what may happen if he didn’t. 

She isn’t like that, he tries to tell himself. But whether that was the truth or just his own pathetic need for it to be true he didn’t know. 

If he was being honest, he could hardly tell up from down.

Sighing, he rubs his temples, forcing down a few deep breaths. 

She didn’t deserve that, a voice in his head whispers. It’s right. She may be the one who was wrong but he’d been needlessly cold. 

Squaring his shoulders he heads back inside only to be met by the sound of the shower. 

Relief floods him. He may have decided he would apologize but he hadn’t actually known what to say. Before he’s able to think more about it his eyes land on a single folder sitting conspicuously on top of the boxes. 

In the span of a heartbeat, everything around him falls away for just a moment. Then the alarm bells sound. 

He’s both too hot and too cold. His breath ragged, if not gasping.  In his chest, his heart threatens to break free. 

Still, he moves like a man possessed toward the unassuming document. 

All night he’d thought of coming out here and opening these boxes. Tearing through them with the hopes that he’d get back whatever they took from him or find out that there was nothing worth regaining. 

Really that’s what he wanted to learn. More than anything he wanted to open these boxes and know that he had always been this creature of Hydra. He wanted there to only be this. He needed the skinny boy with the busted lip and bright smile, the woman humming in a kitchen, and the little girl on ice skates who haunted his dreams to be figments crafted by his fractured mind. 

If the Soldier was all he ever was he could continue onward. Anything else… 

With shaking hands he lifts the file and opens it. 

It’s like being punched in the chest. 

Gasping he falls to his knees on the plush carpet. In his mind, he’s falling elsewhere. A man screams a word printed on the page. 

“Bucky!” 

It echoes through his very bones. Over and over. 

“Bucky, you promise I won’t fall?” The little girl wears a red scarf, her blue eyes big and trusting. 

“Bucky, take this to the table and tell your sisters to wash up.” The woman has the same blue eyes, her smile feels like home. 

“Bucky, I don’t need you to fight my battles.” The skinny boy says, wiping blood from his lip. 

“Bucky!”

“Bucky!”

It feels like the only sound in the world. 

“James!” 

That wasn’t right. 

“James!”

Another word. Another name. 

“James, you come back to us. You hear me boy?!” The man’s voice and face were severe but his brown eyes shone with tears. 

“James, you really bring out the best in him you know?” The woman’s red lips curl in a friendly smile. 

“Oh for fuck’s sake. James!” 

The sting of a slap brings reality crashing in sending all the nameless ghosts tumbling back into the fog always lingering at the edges of his mind. In their stead is a face with a name he knows. 

“Catherine.” 

She huffs out a breath, wet hair tumbling into her face smelling like flowers. When she looks back at him her eyes flood with regret. 

“I’m so sorry for hitting you. I… You didn’t seem to be breathing but you looked like you were screaming…”

“It’s o-”

“It isn’t ok.” Sighing, she sits cross-legged in front of him, her eyes lighting on the file still gripped in his hands. 

Only then do his eyes reluctantly find their way back to the page. 

Barnes, James “Bucky” Buchanan 

He fights down the bile rising in his throat. 

“James.” It comes out garbled like his tongue can’t quite make sense of the syllables. He doesn’t notice his trembling until her warm hand rests against his left forearm. 

“You called me, James.” 

“I did. Was that ok?” He meets her eyes once more, unsure of how to answer. “I won’t use it if-” Shaking his head he cuts her off glancing back at the page. 

“James is good.” Too many nameless faces whispered the other name. But James, there were fewer echoes there. 

“It’s an honor to meet you, James.”

Her voice is warm, soft. He almost thinks he’s imagining it. 

“Is it?”

“Without question.” She gives his arm a squeeze, and he knows this is real. 

“I assume you prefer coffee to tea?” Catherine asks as she rises to her feet, striding to the phone without explanation. 

“I-” He’s a bit baffled by the shift. 

“Well, you are American. So I assume you prefer coffee.” 

Did he? 

“I’ll get both and if you prefer coffee I win.” He can’t help but laugh a little. 

“What do you win?” 

“I’ll think of something.” She winks before picking up the receiver and James could almost swear his pulse quickened if only a little. 

TAGS

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[fenheart87]

Healing the Magic

For @bloody-no-kissu happy belated birthday!

-start-

“Well hello there, sniffer’s no good upwind.” Luka kept his relaxed posture, no need to scare the young woman, especially when he had no way of knowing what she was capable of. "Rest easy lass, just a wee break for the legs before finishing my journey. Beautiful women are welcome to the river beside me, I don't bite."

Marinette snorted and moved closer, much more at ease with the werewolf as he was coherent. Carefully she scooped some water from the flow of the river with a chipped bowl and carefully filled her canteen. Silently she thanked the river spirits that this one was untainted by the illness that was flooding the capital. Once her canteen was full, she filled a few vials and other potion bottles. She would need moon water but that was harder to come by, unless…

"Pray tell furry friend," she smiled at the eye roll and continued, "if I were to say leave a basin to be touched by Sister Moon would you place a watchful eye and help me to gather pure water from a full and a new moon?"

"Moon water aye?" Blue eyes narrowed in consideration and a healthy dose of wariness. "And what would a young lass such as yourself need any type of moon water for?"

"I come from the Agreste ranch, rescued as a healer for the ailing late Madame Emilie Agreste. Since her passing and resting of her soul, I have been helping to use my skills for those in the nearby town, most wounds heal best under a full moon. Other times I must raise defense for myself against those who wish to harm a skilled healer such as myself. I understand if you cannot help." Marinette simply returned to drinking fresh water from the river and making sure she had collected enough for her next round of potions.

"Lilly wheat grows yonder the hill to the west, right along the tree line. It can be tricking to navigate, I swear to watch yer things should you need to gather it."

Surprise covered her features, it was exactly what she was looking for and made her rethink this werewolf and wonder, how did he recognize the potion? "Many thanks, should you need flea repellent, there is thistle burn about two miles east of here."

"Ah the smell would be unmistakable." Nodding his shaggy head in thanks and reclined on the other bank, he seemed to be done with conversation.

"I'll take you up on your kind offer stranger, I'll be swift." Marinette heard the snort but paid it no mind as she gathered her dagger, amulet and her bag for the herbs she had collected. Swapping the jars of water for a few empty ones, she made her way to the west. Humming some disguised spells, Marinette committed the path to memory and found a few alternate routes for future trips. Sure enough she spotted lilly wheat from its lavender and pale blue coloring, it was a hybrid lookalike of wheat and blue bell flowers. Gathering as much as she could to fill the jars to the max and even stuffed her apron pockets to the brim. Making her way back, she heard a few twigs snap and the trees across the river had a slight sway, signalling the werewolf just left.

"Thank you kind wolf!" Upon reaching the middle of the clearing, she noticed both collection jars were missing. Smiling, she made a note to return in a month's time.

________________________________________

The walk helped clear her senses, too much magic and illness in the capitol had clouded Marinette's magical innate ability to sense other beings. Nature was usually at a neutral point unless tainted by those who lived in the area. Out here so far away from anything or even the manor of vampires she cohabitated with was still pure and loved to trade her negative things with a positive rush of natural magic. It was quite a boost and usually she stored it in her crystals, sometimes bringing them with her to recharge if she was able to stay for a long period.

The tree line broke and the sounds of the river filled her ears and the birds sounded louder than before. Marinette basked in the cheer floating in the air and made her way to the natural alter that she frequently used as her desk. Noticing a note hidden under a rock with a gem tied to it. Carefully she pulled the letter free, not wanting to touch the gem in case it was rigged with a spell.

'Hello Witchling,

I trust your fortnight has been fruitful and as you asked, I was indeed able to get both water from the new moon and the full moon. Untouched completely by every element but the collected water and the air itself. The gem is a family heirloom, there is a hidden cave and it shall lead you to it with just a drop of water from the river.

The Big Friendly Wolf'

Giggling to herself, she did as the note bade and with a touch of cursory magic, determined it was harmless. Dipping a finger in the river for a drop of water, Marinette followed the glowing red light to the cave where her collection jars waited for her, completely untouched. Taking care, she poured the water into the marked pots and carefully sealed them for transportation. This would be plenty for what she needed and Marinette made a note to make something for the helpful Were. Leaving the crystal with the note in the cave, she set off to gather the few missing herbs left. It took only a few minutes of scouting when her senses sparked in alarm, there was another magical signature drawing closer and it was unfamiliar. Deciding the risk was worth it, Marinette touched her amulet and teleported back into the agreste stronghold. 

Dizziness filled her vision for a moment and she steadied herself with a few deep breaths. Looking around her room, she noticed nothing out of order and apart from the usual lingering traces of her magic and of Adrien's, everything was still. Grabbing a couple cookies to help her nausea, Marinette teleported back out of the castle and to the nearby wood. It would make it seem as if she skipped over the mountain and river instead of jumping right through every defense that Gabriel had set. Normally the elder vampire had no qualms with her use of magic but he disapproved of it greatly and even forbade Marinette to teach his son. The magic had chosen the young heir and there was not a thing she could do to stop it but that was a long time before they needed to discuss anything if her luck had anything to do with it, she dearly hoped she would be released from their service before then.

The guard, a quiet man whom Adrien called Gorilla, nodded in greeting and let her pass unharmed. Not many could come and go as they pleased, it was a hard earned honor to be rarely granted. Resuming her humming, her magic reached out and brushed against Adrien's, giving her a clear path to follow. Turning left instead of her normal right, the torches illuminated her way. The only thing King Gabriel requested to be enchanted at all times and now only let Marinette or Felix boost them when the stored magic was running low.

"Oh posh, you know as well as I do your father is hardly that." A foreign voice could be heard as she approached the heir's chambers. 

"I'm not having this argument again, either you can shut up or I'll have your tongue." Adrien rarely snapped and it caused the witch's curiosity to peak even more. The moment of silence was her best bet, knocking in a familiar pattern and humming a containment spell, Marinette opened the door and slipped inside quickly.

"Oi! You never told me Tikki was here!" The blurry black form was hissing and thrashing in anger, the spell working like a charm.

"Oh you must be Plagg! I thought Mullo said you were a cute cat with a bad attitude?" Marinette wondered aloud, smiling in greeting to the frozen vampire.

"Mullo?! Wait wait wait! You're Marinette!"

Plagg settles into his hybrid form, acid green eyes and fluffy black ears being the first clear features to show. He stepped out of the transformation smoke and his body clad in black robes became solid, a slender tail flicking in excitement behind him.

"Oh no, you talk about me?!" Marinette shrieked in alarm, dropping the bag she had forgotten.

"Hold on, what in the Hell's Fires is going on here?" Adrien cut in, looking at the Demigod and his healer in anger and confusion.

"Oh Adrien, you know my true talents are not in healing so I know the Demigods when I see them. I've always known you're magic kissed like your mother." She smiled guiltily as the shock filled his face.

"Of course we talk about you, there's only one of you even century if we're lucky. A Destined is something to be proud of and you are definitely a very special one too. I'd love to see what kind of chaos we could create." His smile was full of fangs and a mischievous gleam shone from his eyes.

"Maybe one day, especially since I was forbade from teaching any magic and now you're contracted to Adrien." Marinette surmised, it was the only explanation as to why the demigod would actually be there in person.

"Father will never learn to trust me will he?" The blonde sighed deeply, defeat easy to read in his hunched form. 

"He fears the illness that took your mother will take you as well…" Marinette hesitated, looking to Plagg for permission to disclose the truth; a move that Adrien noticed and pounced on.

"What are you hiding from me?" He rose from the chair, brow furrowed in anger and stalked towards the shorter woman.

"I cannot say, the King has his ways of forbidding even the most noble of truths." She turned her gaze to the floor in preservation, a vampire's thrall wasn't effective enough to hold her for long but it did cause severe damage.

"He marked you." They had nearly forgotten the demigod was in the same room. "That bastard! Touching a Destined with Darkened Magic is forbidden!"

"I had no idea I was a Destined, my powers never came in until I became lost in the Forbidden Woods." Her voice was soft with sadness but still clearly heard. "This means he will have to be put to death doesn't it?"

The silence from the demigod was loud enough in its own right. King Gabriel would pay the price of meddling with the Darkened Magic, the blackest of black magic and required sacrifices of souls and thousands of blood rituals or even contracts with demons. The penalty was raised even more for using the Darkened Magic on a Destined and stunting Marinette’s growth and endangering her life, a Demigod had chosen her and had been denied the right to connect with her because of Gabriel's foolishness.

"You'll rise to your place in the throne then Prince Adrien." 

"You can't be serious, killing my father? For using magic on a witch?" Adrien cried, waving his arm carelessly.

"Boy, Magic Kissed you are but Chosen you are not! I will take you down with him should you choose to go against the wish of the Gods!" Plagg snarled, teeth glinting sharply in the candlelight. 

Adrien started at the show of anger and reacted with fangs bared and eyes darkening to red. The predator was unused to feeling truly like prey, even in front of his father and his fight or flight instinct was set to fight. Marinette hummed herself, layering a few protective spells over herself and Plagg, surprising the demigod enough to whip his head and stare at her in disbelief.

"You're Tikki's chosen…" Adrien calmed a bit and glowered at the two that had suddenly forgotten him.

"I wouldn't know." Marinette whispered, barely heard by either male.

"Look kid, either he dies and you step up to be the man they need you to be or you'll suffer at the end of my claws as well. You have until sundown to decide. Little witchling, I shall keep in touch. There will be three parting gifts in your room and with your smarts you'll put it all together." Plagg bowed slightly, a show of respect to Marientte which had her and Adrien shocked as the demigod disappeared.

"We need to act normal for the time being. I'll see you at dinner." Adrien spoke dismissively, an echo of Gabriel's attitude behind his words. Marinette was left with no choice but to retire to her room.

Her room was alive in the way only a witch could truly achieve, the flora was bursting with healthy green leaves and big bright beautiful blooms. The air carried a weight of the magic she often conjured within the four walls, positive and practice vibes floating playfully past one another to create a safe atmosphere. Little did anyone realize the room itself was enchanted and she could move the entire thing at will, it was difficult as it required a lot of magic but with the help of Moon Water, she could do it and hide away to regain her strength.

"Alright, time to get to work." Marinette opened her chest and humming a light airy tune, the shelves floated off the walls and slowly drifted into the chest, allowing her time to select certain ingredients. Taking a deep breath she changed her tune and her furniture began to shrink and floated into the chest as well. The young witch was about three quarters depleted of her magic, Marinette had suspicions that Gabriel had something to do with it.

"Okay, time to juice up. Just a little bit, nothing major. Nothing ventured, nothing gained after all." She muttered under her breath, trying to shake off the sudden nerves. Tapping into the last of her power, Marinette focused on the new moon water and held the clear quartz above it, near breaking concentration as it began to float. Starting a soft hum, the water took a shiny quality and the crystal glowed in response. Very thin multicolored wisps of smoke drifted back and forth, showing a tangible power exchange between both stored magics. Once the water no longer shined and the smoke faded fully, she stopped humming.

"One more step and onto freedom…" Blue eyes took in the half packed state of her room, fingers already reaching for her Amethyst to charge with the Full Moon water. This was easier as there was only a little need for direction, the power was already there and no need to purify or mix with another essence. Gently she placed the crystal to float on top of the water and with a whisper of a chant, the process began.

Marinette moved around the room and tossed the shrunken furniture into the chest, convincing her plants to sleep for the trip and even getting some to shrink into seeds for packing purposes. Once everything was cleared and stored away, the young witch turned back to the crystal and pot, the process about halfway done. Steeling herself, Marinette grabbed a ring she rarely wore when staying inside the castle, strands of gold layered and twisted to form a beautiful rose. This was one of her more precious gifts, it also lent the ability to disguise everything tattletale from vampires.

"Now to make it through dinner… And hopefully out of here alive."

Dinner was a quiet affair, the tension could be felt by even the servants who were speedy about setting down the dishes and retreating as quickly as they could without triggering a chase from an angry vampire.

"I thought King Gabriel was to join us?" Marinette asked politely, forcing herself to enjoy the cooked lamb at a moderate pace.

"Father had some unexpected business to attend to." Adrien had finished sucking his peice dry and moved on to the goblet of blood wine.

"I hope nothing too strenuous."

"Father can handle anything."

Once she was finished, the table was cleared for dessert. The young witch knew this would be her moment as everyone else had left the room and if things were to go south, they would be spared from Adrien's wrath. Gathering courage, she rose from her seated position and bowed slightly.

"If you have a moment to spare, I would like to discuss something with you." 

"So be it, speak your piece." Adrien leaned back in the chair, his persona more and more like his father every day but never closer than in that moment.

"After the events I am resigning from my position as healer for the Agreste Coven."

"Marinette, there's no reason to have this discussion." He sighed heavily and rose from his seat, turning to leave.

"There's no reason for me to be here any longer Adrien. My original reason for employment has been null for a long time. I feel it's time to leave and further my skills, that cannot be done while in here. There's nothing for me to learn." As a human she knew this would trigger what was left of his humanity and kept her breathing even to avoid the blow up 

Adrien spun around suddenly, knocking off the dinnerware from the table. The plate was a near miss from cutting Marientte's bare feet but she stood her ground, after all no matter how nice Adrien was, there was still a predator in his heart. Green eyes blazed with anger and a low snarl ripped from his throat, it had no effect on her after so long of being in his service. "You dare mock me and then presume to leave me!? For the flea bitten mongrel at that?"

"I'd rather lay with that so-called mongrel and risk fleas than be with you a moment longer than I have to." Marinette calmly stated, pulling on her inner strength to not let her ring fail her and reveal how fast her pulse was truly racing.

"What is this really about Marinette? Did I not give you all the splendor and treasures you could want? I let you choose a trade and keep your money from it, supporting you and never asking for you to repay your debt with me. Have I ever hurt you?" Adrien spread his arms dramatically, appearing innocent except for the look of rage taking over his face.

"Adrien. Do not make this a big deal, Plagg is already watching you closely." Praying to the demigod himself that Adrien wouldn't be able to call her bluff. "I am not a prize to be won or fought over, I am most certainly not yours. You have never hurt me nor have I you, please do not change that."

"Then leave, when you get fleas do not come crying to me." Adrien spun and left the dining hall, anger leaking from him.

Marinette wasted no time, teleporting back to her room and casting a cloaking spell on the chest. The transfer was done and quickly she saved the water for both by sealing the collection pots temporarily. The crystals went onto the pouch at her waist, Marinette noticed that there was more than usual and smiled in relief.

"One of three found little witchling. Best hurry to get out of here before my kitten blows a gasket." Plagg commented lazily, floating above the opening of her door.

"Thank you for your watchful eyes Plagg." Dropping into a quick curtsey and drawing a quiet chuckle from the Demigod, the witch finished packing what little was left. Humming brightly, she gasped as the chest shrunk into a perfect sized bracelet. 

"The least I can do to help rectify the wrong that has been done towards you. Mayhaps you should find a mentor that has knowledge of God's and Divination."

"Consider it done! Master Fu told me if i ever needed anything to go see him at the Temple of Heroes." Marinette smiled brightly and with a wink, teleported into the clearing she favored. She miscalculated how drained she was on magic as something solid but somewhat squishy.

"Well lass, did not expect you to fall into my lap quite like this." The werewolf's deep timber caused a shiver to run up her spine.

"Not quite my intention but I do need help and a certain big friendly werewolf would be quite helpful against the big scary vampires."

"Well lassie, you're in luck. Just hang on." He shifted her to his back and she clung on for dear life with a huge smile on her face. Time to live for herself.

[halo-jpeg]

Bearable | A Reddie Fanfiction

Read it from the beginning

Chapter 5

Weak, cold, autumn light seeped in through drawn curtains, accompanied by the sporadic brrrrrringing of an alarm. The sound split the morning silence, tearing Eddie from his sleep, echoing through the entirety of the house more effectively than it was meant to. Eddie let out a groan, trying to reach out a hand and silence the mechanic screaming but just not being able to reach it- frustration sparked inside of his stomach for just a quick moment, and then someone else's hand came down onto the machine, cutting it off mid-ring.

"You set your alarm late," It was Stan, and, not really a surprise, he was already entirely prepared for the day, "Hurry and get up. I'll go make sure Bill is awake. Water is boiled on the stove and I made eggs, too." Stanley was dressed in a pair of bluejeans, as well as a knitted blue sweater he'd loved and worn for the last three years. His hair was styled into it's chaotic, curly perfection, swept gently to one side- he was smiling, a morning person, bright and ready for the day even though it was hardly 7:00 am. Eddie envied that constant 'ready-to-go' attitude Stan faced each new day with, when he- Eddie- had to will himself out of bed every time he opened his eyes.

"Thanks," He mumbled as Stan left the room, sitting up with a sigh and scrubbing his hands over his face to shake the sleep away. Eddie's jaws stretched wide in a yawn, and then he forced himself to abandon the comfortable warmth of his bed and crawl from under the covers. The air around him had a biting chill, the remaining after-effect of the rain that had been coming every now and again since Saturday, sending goosebumps breaking out over Eddie's skin as he made his way to his drawers, pulling open the topmost one to dig out a shirt. Settling on something simple enough, he pulled out a dark grey long-sleeved tee reading 'Back Pages' in bold white lettering and then 'Used Books and More' right underneath, in smaller print- Back Pages had been an- obviously- used bookstore from back in Derry, one of the only places his mother was actually moderately okay with him visiting. Along with the shirt Eddie pulled out brown pants and some miscellaneous belt, throwing the outfit together and running a comb quickly through his hair to tame the unruly bedhead.

"E-Eddie?" Bill's voice came from outside his door, probably in the kitchen, still thick with sleep, "Do you wuh-want tea? Coffee?" Eddie continued around his room, stumbling through the semi-darkness, shouting back his reply,

"Do you know where my chamomile is? Do we have honey?" Eddie grabbed his phone, head tilted towards the door as he waited for Bill's reply- at last, he heard something akin to an 'okay', but more of a grumble than that. With one last glance in the mirror and a silent 'you can do this, Eddie' that was meant to pep him up, he jammed his phone into his pocket and swiped his backpack from where it had been set by the vanity. Grabbing the doorknob and pulling the door right open, Eddie stepped out and hurried across the hall to the kitchen. "My tea?" He asked right away, his gaze darting between Stan, and then Bill, both seated at the small dining table in the far corner- a tall, open window sat behind them- the sky outside was dull and grey with the promise of yet more rain.

"Yeah," Stan nodded, motioning towards the counter right to Eddie's left, "It's poured and ready. Come eat, and hurry- I don't want to be late."

"We won't be late, Stan, w-we've got over an hour." Bill patted Stan's back as he reassured him, partially amused by the constant anxiety and worrying Stan never seemed to stop with- though, of course, that anxiety was pointed towards more realistic things, when Eddie's own anxiety was, in his opinion, stupid and trivial and downright annoying. Eddie poured honey into his chamomile tea, sliding the rest of the scrambled eggs onto a plate, and then took a seat at the table. "Wuh-what classes do you guys have? I have English all d-day. Lit-literature and then luh-languages."

"Biology first, and then Mathematics." Eddie's eyes brightened at Stan's words.

"I have math second, too! Thank fuck- I suck at that stuff," Just as Eddie was about to continue, saying something regarding Stan and Bill's natural ability to do almost anything right, his phone beeped in his pocket and he remembered that he hadn't turned it on a single time since last night. He was quick to pull it from it's place, looking at his newest message- his brows screwed together, and he caught the skin of his cheek between his teeth, racking his brain to see if he recognized the unknown number that had texted him.

"What's wrong with you? Are the eggs bad?" Stan tilted his head, leaning in his chair to try and glance over Eddie's shoulder to catch sight of the screen of his Nokia. Eddie held it just out of sight.

"Do either of you know this number?" Rapidly, Eddie read it out, and it didn't ring any bells in either other boys brain. Bill shrugged, Stan lost interest- they both returned to their breakfast as Eddie read over the message once more. All it said was,

What ur schedule look like, penne?

It didn't make any sense. Eddie texted back and then put the phone down on the table to dig into his own food.

Who is this?

The eggs were great, as usual- Stan was one hell of a cook even though he'd only ever learned from his own personal trial and error. A light conversation was picked up again, the first topic being that of the rain. Eddie barked out a few complaints about the grey weather, how he was afraid to catch a cold and wished he had a thicker jacket and maybe rain boots, or a car, actually, yes that would be ideal. Bill said he liked the rain, Stan said he was indifferent but was enjoying the weather for what it was. Through bites of food and sips of early-morning tea, the three finished up their eggs and tossed the dishes into the sink, ready to go any minute now. Before Eddie could slip into his shoes his phone beeped again and he was quick to swipe it up and look at the response.

Come on conchiglie! U rlly dont rmmber me?

Eddie scoffed, his brows knitting together once more. Through his sleep-haze he couldn't think of a single person he knew that he didn't already have in his contacts- at least, no one that would care about his schedule. He had a few aunts and uncles that he hardly saw but they wouldn't be messaging him now of all times, he didn't think. And what the fuck was 'conchiglie'? Eddie was clueless- Big Bill, one shoe on and the other in his hands, pulled up at Eddie's side in a silent request to be shown what was so odd. Without complaint other than a sigh, Eddie shifted the phone over, and Bill scanned the texts before letting out a bark of laughter and sharing an amused glance with Stan that seemed to communicate everything.

"Oh?" Stan said with a cheeky grin, realization donning itself on his face, pressing in on Eddie's other side to read the messages for himself, "He finally texted?"

"What?" Eddie tried to ask, but he was ignored as Bill said,

"What's with the pasta names?" Eddie was way more confused now. Again, he repeated his 'what?' and again he was ignored, "Penne? Conchiglie? I don't g-get it. What an i-idiot." Oh- just like that it clicked together and Eddie's jaw dropped open. Penne, conchiglie- pasta... spaghetti... Eddie Spaghettie- Eds- Eddie- Richie.

"No, no no no no- Which one of you gave him my fucking number? What the hell?" Eddie jammed his phone into his pocket, rounding on Bill and taking in the expression on his face- it was amused, sure, but Eddie could already read the tiniest lines of innocence forming in his features. The way Bill's gaze flickered for a tenth of a second towards Stan told Eddie everything that he needed to know. "Stanley Uris what did you do?" Eddie spun to Stan, hands on his hips, glowering upwards at the much, much taller boy. Despite forcing every ounce of intimidation into his words as he could, Stan was grinning from ear to ear, sinister and ultimately unthreatened- his eyes were bright as stars and gleaming with mischief. "You know I hate that guy! He's- He's- He's so annoying! He's loud and he's rude and he's- I can't believe you!"

"Edward," Stan said in an even, polished tone, redirecting his gaze to slip on his shoes, "One of these days in the near future you'll be thanking me for getting you out in the world," Bill let out a snicker, and Eddie jammed his elbow into his ribs, silencing him effectively, "You need friends who aren't just me and Bill. Richie, Ben, Beverly, Mike- they're nice people, and you need to get out of that shell of yours."

"Oh, you're on to talk!" Eddie crossed his arms, and then uncrossed them just after to put on his shoes in a huff, "You're ten billion times more shy than I am, Stanley. I'm just fine with only you two as my friends, I don't need other people- I mean, I went 19 years of my life with no one but you two! I survived Henry fucking Bowers with just you guys to keep me safe! I don't need other people in my life." Now, Bill was cutting in and the tension in the hallway to the front door spiked upwards. Eddie realized now that the entire topic of conversation was about to change for the worse- shit, he'd let his mouth run, and now he was going to be pitied. Eddie hated pity. It made him ill.

"E-Eds, you cu-can't go your entire life with o-only me and Stan. I mean," Bill chuckled, his eyebrows slanted sympathetically, "I know we're g-great and all, but your muh-mother has kept you from having healthy social t-ties for your whole life. It's healthy to have more than o-one or two friends." The mention of his mother sent a tidal wave of homesickness propelling right over Eddie's head- a bitter, frightening, nasty homesickness- and suddenly he felt like curling up underneath his covers and crying his eyes out, but he wouldn't. He balled his hands into fists, gritted his teeth together, and turned to the door. His bag was slung over his shoulder.

"Let's go." Eddie kept his head low and pulled the door open, pushing out into the hallway and going straight for the elevator without another word. Bill didn't want to let the topic drop just yet, but a nudge and a shake of the head from Stan was enough to get him to do just that- the shake of Stan's head said let him have this one, Big Bill. It's his first day of school. Give him a break. And so, the conversation was over, to hopefully be picked up again at a later date.

-----

Richie, earbuds in, King of Rock 'N' Roll playing at full volume, burst in a flurry from his music classroom and made a beeline for the stairwell at the end of the hall. Like some agile snake or cat, he dodged and weaved between other students as they poured from their own respective classes, determined to break out into the sunlight and share his contentedness with his friends.

"Tozier! Don't run in the halls!" Some teacher scolded him, but as Prefab Sprout continued jabbing away at his eardrums he didn't hear it- and he didn't really care to hear it either- he was too busy riding the high that the schools new set of drums had given him. Ever since Richie grew so involved with the rock genre and everything alike, he had wanted to learn to play the drums but had never been given the chance until today. Now, Mr. Carr had basically had to chase Richie from the class with a broom like he was some sort of radical street rat. With his big, goofy grin Richie sent himself flying down the stairs, taking them three at a time and not even wincing at the way his knees protested with every heavy landing. The doors to the outside were within his sights as soon as he touched down onto the first floor. Still pushing past other students, not even bothering with any courteous 'pardon me's' he was at them in an instant. In time with the thudding of the music, he shoved the doors open and went, quite literally, dancing and spinning out into the warming sunlight, which had just begun to peek through the clouds. From across the large expanse of concrete just outside the doors sat an emptying bike rack, and leaning against it he spotted more than the usual quantity of familiar faces.

"Top 'o tha afternoon to ye, Haystack, sor! An' Mr. O'Hanlon, awful good!" As Richie pulled out his earbuds, music so loud it was still audible even as they dropped to hand at his side, he took a dramatic double-take and let out a loud gasp, "Well, if it isn't so!" Now, Richie was the Southern Bell rather than the Irish Cop, and he was taking Bill's hands in his and fluttering his lashes through his thick-framed glasses, "Sir Bill, and your noble companions! What have I done to be graced with your presences, my fair gentlemen?"

"You know you'll ruin your eardrums listening to your music that loud, right? You can't fix Tinnitus- and if you go deaf you'll have hearing aids for the rest of your life." Eddie gripped the straps of his backpack, his eyes flickering down to Richie'e earbuds, which were dangling dangerously close to the dirty ground- much too close for comfort. Eddie almost shuddered.

"Aw, thanks for the concern Spaghetward!" Richie let go of Bill, moving for Eddie instead, and slung his arm enthusiastically over the shorter boys shoulders. In return, as if it were instinct, Eddie let out a sound like the croak of a frog and ducked away with a grimace.

"Don't call me that, jackass!" Out of the entire group, the only one who was observant enough to note the faint red tint on Eddie's face was Mike, and he wasn't going to call the poor boy out on it.

"I see you're all getting along swell, huh?" Richie's dark gaze shifted from Ben and Mike to Bill and Stan, and then, lastly, to Eddie, where they lingered for just a second longer.

"Stan and Eddie were in math with me," Ben says with his small, kind smile, "Stan is some sort of super-genius or something- Eddie, too. I don't get it." Without missing a beat, Eddie let out an exasperated sound, shaking his head furiously.

"No, no no, don't lob me in with Stanley. He's the super-genius, I just nod my head and act like I know what he's talking about." Stan was quick to decline.

"Oh, don't say that. You're getting it."

"Hey, Bev's in working at the cafe today- are you guys interested in stopping by with me, Rich and Ben?" The next one to speak was Mike, and his offer was met with a cacophony of different replies; Ben seemed content with the idea, his smile going wider at the thought; Bill was quick to agree, and Stan was much the same, though Eddie didn't see to thrilled. He let out a sound as if he was going to speak, but then he clamped his jaw shut, mouth a straight line, and bit his tongue. Richie himself was positively ecstatic. His already bubbly mood was only amplified by this suggestion, and his grin was so bright it could blind.

"Oh, you have to come! The sun is out for once, you can't go curl up in whatever cave you're renting. Whaddaya say?" Swinging his backpack off his shoulders, Richie pulled his walkman free and clicked the 'pause' button, then proceeded to, unceremoniously, jam both it and the earbuds in his bag once more.

"I'm down," Bill said, glancing at Stan, who nodded, and then at Eddie, who shrugged curtly and stared intently at the ground below his feet.

"Great!" Zipping his bag back up and throwing it onto his shoulders, Richie moved to lead the way, and before the group knew it they were off, headed for the campus' outskirts and following their trusty guide, Richie Tozier, towards Portland Authentic. The stroll was quaint, amiable- Stan hung near the back with Mike and Bill, pointing out the different types of birds they spotted on the walk. Richie had thought every bird here in Portland was just some old rock pigeon, but now he knew that there were actually mourning doves as well. Ben was at Richie's side, hands in his pockets, his neck craned so that his face was upturned towards the sunlight. Eddie was, though reluctant, to Richie's other side, desperately trying to tune out the bird talk behind him. His annoyance was evident, but there was also a subtle fondness in his soft, brown eyes that showed how much he cared for Stan and his passions.

"Does he talk about pigeons a lot? You seem peeved." Eddie almost jumped right out of his skin at Richie's sudden words, having been totally spaced out in his desperate attempts to disassociate. Awkwardly, he lifted a hand and scratched at the back of his neck.

"Oh, uh," Eddie's gaze darted over his shoulder towards Stan, and then to Richie, and then back at his shoes, his worn black Converse sneakers, "Yeah. He loves them, but... I don't know why. They kinda-" Eddie cut himself off with a shrug, his hand dropping to his side once more, "Kinda gross, don't you think? With their weird feathers and their gross feet? All of their, like, diseases and shit?" Richie's cheeks had begun to hurt from the stretch of his smile. Something today was just making him giddy. His chest was tight with unadulterated glee, and it felt like something was pushing around in his stomach, like butterflies. Eddie was so impossibly earnest. The affection in his gaze directed at Stanley was heartwarming, the exact same kind of best-friend love that Richie had with Bev, Ben and Mike. Despite Eddie being disgusted by birds he was clearly still glad that Stan had something to be so passionate about- cute.

"I dunno," Richie said, a tilt to his head, "I think birds are kind of cool. Especially magpies? Oh, God," Richie took a few steps ahead, and then spun on his heel to walk backwards, facing Eddie and talking animatedly with his hands, "If I had the chance I would have a pet magpie. They're so pretty- their feathers look all blue in the sunlight and stuff, and they get so fluffed out when they're pissed." Eddie looked dumbfounded, his brows furrowed, his jaw dropped- disgusted, that was the word for the expression he wore.

"Are you fucking kidding me? A magpie? Those stupid, nasty black birds with the white chest? Jesus, what's wrong with you?" Running a hand over his face, Eddie let out a huff- Richie's smile grew, somehow, if that was even possible, at the distress his words seemed to have caused in the smaller boy. Seeing him all worked up like this made that weird feeling in Richie's chest grow tenfold. Brushing that thought away, still walking backwards, he let Eddie continue. "They don't know how to shut up. Every Spring, ever Autumn- they would be screaming away at the crack of dawn. I could never catch a wink of sleep. My mommy used to fire at them with my dads old BB gun, but she never hit any of them."

"And thank fuck for that!" Richie scoffed, playful, "Those poor things don't deserve to be shot." Eddie countered with a quick 'yes they do', and then the bickering continued. Their back-and-forth, the lighthearted, heated-on-Eddie's-end banter felt perfectly natural. Richie would say some quip, some little thing about magpies that he found nice or cute or interesting, and then Eddie would come right back at him with why that was false. Richie probably should have been listening to these comebacks, but he found himself getting, more often than not, distracted by little things like the cinnamon-dusting of freckles across the bridge of Eddie's nose or the way his chocolate-toned hair was swept so tidily to one side, not a single hair out of place. Sooner or later, Portland Authentic had come into view, the glass windows showing through to the bustling interior. The after-school rush had just hit, and boy was Richie glad he had the day off today. As he pushed the door open, the bird conversation cut short, he noted exactly how busy it was. The line was huge, nearly reaching the entrance, and almost every single seat was taken except for one four-person table in the back corner.

"I'll get the table." Stan's tone was serious, his gaze determined, "Get me a-"

"B-Black coffee, yeah," Bill was smiling, waving Stan off with one hand. At once, with a final nod of affirmation, Stan sped away to secure the seats. Though Richie didn't say anything, he thought to himself how the hell can someone like black coffee? because there were so many other options, sweet drinks, savory, peppermint or rich chocolate- drinking straight black coffee as a regular was basically a sin in his eyes. Slow and steady, the line progressed, Bev behind the counter working with two other people named Britney and Mason. Richie wasn't too fond of them and honestly pitied poor Bev having to deal with them all alone. It had been a good two or three weeks since she's been stuck in a shift without Ben or Richie at her side. Finally the group of five arrived at the till and Beverly's face brightened like a Christmas tree.

"Rich! Ben! Mike, Bill, Eddie- Great to see you guys, my God, today has been absolute hell-" She seemed to notice she was getting sidetracked, and shook her head, frazzled, getting back into her working head space. "Sorry. What can I get you guys?"

"An affogato for me, my dear, and- Hey, Eds, do you like ice cream? Whatever- Get a second one for him, too. He needs to branch out a little." Eddie gaped, seconds from a retort as Richie ordered for him, but then Richie stepped aside and shot him a glance that was unusually sincere. "Hey, don't worry. It's another low-caffeine one, and it's more vanilla ice cream than anything else. You'll love it, I swear."

"Yeah, fine," Eddie set his jaw tight.

"One bl-black coffee and an amer-amer-am-" Bill bit his tongue, screwing his eyes shut, and then, with a sigh, forced out the words, "americano. Jesus." Bev gave him a calm smile, a silent 'it's alright, dude' and turned to Ben and Mike who ordered a coffee with two creams and two sugars and a lemonade. Richie offered to pay, abusing his employees discount, and then the group all turned to the table in the corner where Stan was still seated with a book in his hand. As the group approached he placed the small origami crane he used as a bookmark between the pages of The Shining and tucked the novel away- the front cover had been battered and frayed, a sign of having been read and reread for years and years. Clearly, the book was cherished.

"Great choice, Stanny," Richie complimented with a nod towards Stan's backpack, where the book had been hidden away, "You a fan of horror?" Stanley was quick to shake his head, hugging himself gently and running his hands along his upper arms.

"I hate it. Bill is making me read it. It's torture." Bill let out a barking laugh as he took his seat, having pulled up an extra chair from another table. Two people would have to squish into the corners since this spot was only meant to seat four- no one seemed to mind.

"So you're the horror fanatic, then. Glad to see we have something in common! What's your favourite movie?" Taking his own seat on Stan's other side, Richie held his head up with his hand, elbow planted on the tabletop, his curiosity officially piqued. Ben and Mike weren't fond of the gore-packed stuff Richie enjoyed, so Bev was the only one who ever went to the theater with him; the idea of having another friend to catch some films with was just swell.

"That's tough to suh-say," Bill tapped his finger against the table, glancing sidelong at Eddie, "We went to see H-Halloween a few years back. I luh-liked that one a lot, but now wh-whenever I see it I think of when your m-mom found out-"

"Shut up, Bill," Eddie cut him off with a harsh glare, and then forced his expression to soften, covering up his snappiness with a red face and a sarcastic, "D-Don't remind me." It was clear he was embarrassed- Richie would have pressed, since he couldn't keep his trashmouth shut sometimes (all the time), but Beverly saved the day by hurrying over with a tray balanced precariously on one hand. Atop that tray sat the array of beverages that the group of six had ordered. With Beverly's fantastic memory, she began to hand out cup after cup to exactly who had requested them; Ben got his double-double, Mike his lemonade, Bill his americano, Stan his black coffee (Beverly knew it was for him even though he hadn't been at the till- not many people ordered coffee black and she remembered him from that first night.). Richie and Eddie were given their double order of affogato, an Italian coffee-based dessert consisting of a scoop of vanilla ice cream and a shot of espresso on the side.

"Thanks, Bevvie," Richie bid her adieu with a two-fingered salute and then turned all of his attention towards Eddie, "Alright," he began, "Eds,"

"-Don't call me that-"

"-you're about to taste the best thing you've ever had in your life. Follow my lead," Richie plucked up the small one-ounce shot glass of espresso, and, reluctantly, Eddie did the same. In tandem, they poured the coffee over the ice cream, then grabbed their spoons. Eddie was the first to take a scoop, shooting Richie a glance that he couldn't decipher before taking the bite. For the quickest second his eyes seemed to light up, and then he swallowed down the obvious delight and simply shrugged his shoulders.

"It's alright, I guess," He grumbled, and then proceeded to devour the next bite of the treat. Richie grinned wide, taking a scoop of his own and lifting it into the air, accepting his victory.

"I would like to propose a toast!" He called, and all eyes turned to him, "To Stuttering Bill, Stan the Man, and Eddie Spaghetti- Welcome to the Losers Club!" With a cheer from nearly all- Eddie settling for a small smile- the group burst into friendly chatter. Richie's toast held some sort of unseen monumental weight- everyone felt it- even Beverly, who was behind the counter and working away, had paused to raise her water bottle with bright eyes. Though everyone felt it- it, being that feeling of rightness- no one said a word. It wasn't necessary. Richie, Ben, Beverly and Mike had been a quartet for a few years now, as thick as thieves- they had called themselves the 'Losers Club' and, until Eddie, Stan and Bill arrived, the four of them had been the only members. No one could be certain what had changed, but, just like that, all seven knew that they were a singular unit. It was no longer Richie, Ben, Beverly and Mike. Now, it was Richie, Ben, Beverly, Mike, Eddie, Bill and Stan. The Losers Club with a capital L and a capital C.

In a fleeting moment, Eddie caught Bill's gaze, and held it. The redhead was wearing his leadership smile, that easy-breezy full-face grin that so easily gained him respect. Once the two's eyes clicked, that smile shifted into something else, something softer, something that Bill reserved for Eddie. It was a brotherly smile- After all, Bill was the brother Eddie had never had. Bill was the rock, the island in the middle of the ocean, the one thing that never failed to keep Eddie sane, the solace in the storm that had been his mother, and was now the unfamiliar territory of Portland. In that smile was an unspoken promise, as well as something else. The promise was These people will keep you safe. The 'something else' was Bill's pride- his pride in Eddie. I'm proud of you, Eds, the smile said. You're doing great. For the first time in his life, Eddie was fearless. His own smile said Thank you.

[just-the-daydreamer]

Too much

By @just-the-daydreamer for @ferretshark 

@friendly-neighborhood-exchange

Rating: General Audiences

Relationships: Peter Parker & Tony Stark, Ned Leeds & Peter Parker

Characters: Peter Paker, Tony Stark, Ned Leeds, FRIDAY (Marvel), May Parker (mentioned)

Summary: 

“I-I think it’s a sensory overload. I don’t know what caused it. Everything is just, too much!” Peter managed to grit out, hands still locked in place over his ears. They weren’t really helping him filter out the sound, but it gave him something to focus on.

OR

Peter wakes up with a sensory overload and Tony is there to help him out.

Ao3 link (Doesn’t work yet)

Taglist:

@paradoxicalblueberry @keep-a-bucket-full-of-stars @aatticsaltt @marvel-us-world @tony-wheres-my-supersuit @sketchydragonscales @baloobird @a-l-ias @spideynamu @troubledpixel @irondad-is-cannon-bitch

Hi! I really hope you enjoy this!! I tried to keep the whump to a minimum and tried my best at Protective Tony! I hope you like it!

Peter’s head was pounding. He’d only woken up a few minutes ago but he was sure that it was not going to be a Good Day. The fabric of his shirt was rubbing against him in a way that seemed to burn and the blanket felt even worse. The only reason Peter even kept the blanket was to hide himself from the light. It was burning his retinas. 

His alarm clock suddenly went off and the shrill ringing was even more painful than the light. His hand shot out from under the blanket and switched it off before yanking his arm back underneath. He groaned quietly after remembering that he had a math test and he couldn’t skip school, even though his body was begging him to. 

Dragging his body out of bed was one of the most difficult experiences he had ever dealt with as Peter Parker. Usually, the painful stuff was left for Spiderman to deal with. Somehow, Peter managed to get ready for school, wearing the comfiest clothes he owned. 

Forcing his legs to move, Peter made his way to the kitchen to grab the lunch he had prepared yesterday evening. He snagged a few nutrition bars to eat along the way. They would, hopefully, keep his energy up until lunch. 

The commute to school was awful, being in a compact area pressed up against countless other people was nauseating. Peter stumbled out of the carriage and made his way to the gates, head still spinning from the journey. He staggered into his homeroom seat and as soon as his bag was off, he rested his head against the cool table for some relief. 

“Peter? Are you okay?” Ned leaned across his table to whisper his question in Peter’s ear. 

“I’m fine. Just a headache.” He replied, stringing the least amount of words together to suffice Ned’s worrying. 

“It doesn’t look like ‘just a headache’ to me. Should you even be at school?” Ned continued to press the issue, unaware of how Peter truly felt. 

Peter turned his head to whisper, eyes still closed, “I’m fine, Ned.” Before continuing to rest his head against the table. 

Ned backed off after that. It was a small mercy which Peter was grateful for. He just hoped that everyone else would leave him alone. 

-

The misshapen, paper ball hit its target once again. The target being the back of Peter’s head. It was really irritating him and he was already in a bad mood. It seemed his senses had become even more sensitive and now he couldn’t block out anything. The longer the day went, the worse he felt. It was a mistake coming into school but any more missed days and Peter would’ve faced disciplinary action. 

His original plan was just to keep his head down, hood up and try to focus on blocking everything out but that plan was soon scrapped after getting told to take his hood off. His new plan was to tough it out until after the maths test and go home, saying he was sick. Less than an hour in and Peter was just about ready to leap out of the window and go home anyway. 

Flash had been getting extremely on his nerves today and Peter didn’t have the energy to do anything about it. He was really regretting not sleeping in now. 

As the lesson continued to drag on, Peter’s head began to hurt even more. The fluorescent lights were piercing his eyes, even when he had them closed. The thumping sound of his classmates’ heartbeats surrounded him and their droning chatter was vibrating in his ears. He could smell the wood shavings from someone’s pencil and the food in people’s bags, all mixing together to form a repulsive odour that only he could smell. His clothes brushed against his skin and its touch was the worst sensation he could have felt. He couldn’t imagine how much worse it might have been if he hadn’t chosen comfy clothes that morning but he didn’t really want to think about it. 

The bell rang and the sound of thousands of feet shuffling and stomping against the ground was all that Peter could hear. The ringing was still echoing through his eardrums and the noise of the people’s conversations and their shoes squeaking on the floor was too much. 

He wanted to tear his ears off, the world was so loud. His hands instinctively moved towards his ears, trying to block out as much noise as he could but the vibrations still made their way to his overwhelmed eardrums. It was so loud it felt like his brain was rattling in his skull. 

His fingers were still clamped over his ears when he felt someone’s hand on his shoulder. Judging from their grip, Peter assumed it was Ned. Peter opened his eyes, not even realising that he had closed them at any point, to find an empty and blindingly bright room and Ned behind him. 

“Okay, what’s going on, Peter? Don’t lie to me and tell me you’re fine.” Ned said with a firm tone. He removed his hand from Peter’s shoulder and crossed his arms, looking (rightfully) displeased. 

“I-I think it’s a sensory overload. I don’t know what caused it. Everything is just, too much!” Peter managed to grit out, hands still locked in place over his ears. They weren’t really helping him filter out the sound, but it gave him something to focus on. 

“Look, I think you should go see the nurse. Maybe she’ll let you go home or she might be nice and let you sleep it off. Either way, I really think that you shouldn’t be in school today.” Ned’s voice was softer this time, lower in volume. It wasn’t much but it gave him the slightest amount of relief. 

“Can’t go home. Got a maths test. May’s at work, too." 

"Oh my gosh, Peter! You can’t seriously believe that you’ll be able to take a maths test when you can’t even stand up right now and get a good score! You can retake the test another day - Mrs. Davis loves you anyway so just take the day off.” The teen softly exclaimed, astonished at the stupidity of his best friend. 

“I don’t wanna make a scene, Ned." 

"I think you already made a scene when the bell rang and you were still sitting here with your hands over your head. Plus, I’m already late to my next lesson so I might as well have a proper excuse.” And with that, Ned hauled Peter out of his seat, careful not to irritate him too much. He grabbed his friend’s bag and threw it over his shoulder before hovering around Peter in case his knees buckled. 

-

A painful couple of minutes later, the duo arrived outside the nurses office. Ned was already 10 minutes late so he just stayed with Peter and explained the situation to the nurse. He was already late, why not help his friend out while he’s there? 

Peter’s details were taken and May was called but the nurse was obviously disappointed that she didn’t pick up.

Even though they’d already said she was at work.

So, Peter’s second emergency contact was called and it went about as well as Ned would’ve imagined. 

“Hello? My name is Susan Lee and I’m calling on behalf of Peter Parker. Is this Mr. Stark?" 

"This is him, yes. Is Peter okay-" 

"He’s feeling a bit ill. He has a headache and he says he feels sick. His aunt didn’t pick up the phone so we had to call you. Is it alright for you to pick him up?" 

"I’ll be there soon, thanks for calling me.” The phone cut off with a beep and Miss Lee set the phone down softly on the desk. 

The nurse whirled around towards Ned and raised a shaky finger at his face. With wide eyes she questioned, “There is no way that was Tony Stark! How does” - she pointed her finger towards a pale and unresponsive Peter instead - “ that boy know Tony Stark?!”

Honestly, Ned was slightly impressed at how calm she had been while talking to a literal celebrity. That didn’t mean that he wasn’t unnerved by her accusing finger. He backed away from her slightly, shifting his gaze between her concentrated gaze and Peter, who was collapsed against a table by his chair. 

“He interns for Stark Industries! I think he’s Mr. Stark’s personal intern!" 

"There is no way Stark Industries hires high school interns!” She pressed, hand slowly sinking into her lap. 

“Don’t shoot the messenger! If you don’t believe me, why don’t you just wait and see? Mr. Stark said he’s coming to pick Peter up anyway so you’ll see him then!” Ned tried to placate her but he wasn’t sure if she would listen or not. It was quite intimidating to be honest, Miss Lee was always a nice nurse so this side of her was kind of terrifying.

Ned checked on Peter, saying his 'get wells’ and goodbyes one more time before turning to leave. He was late enough, and he didn’t need to be there for Mr. Stark’s arrival. 

-

Tony burst into the school with an air of calm disguising his worry. Peter was never one to just get a headache and go home, so either he was hiding an injury or something worse had happened. 

When he opened the door, the first thing he could see was a head of curly brown hair slumped against a small table adjacent to a row of chairs. His thinly veiled calmness almost shattered there and then but he managed to hold it together to turn to the nurse and sign some papers, muttering something about taking Peter home. 

Tony truly had no idea what he had said, he felt like he was in a haze, but whatever it was, it seemed to work and he gathered Peter’s things before turning to said teen. 

He crouched down in front of him and ran a calloused hand through the boy’s sweaty hair. 

Tapping the side of his face he whispered to the teenager. “Hey, Pete. A little birdie told me you weren’t feeling too hot today. You wanna get outta here?" 

A small nod was given in response and that was all that Tony needed to help Peter up and walk them out the school gates. 

-

The drive back was… painful to say the least. Tony tried to drive as fast as he could back to the Tower but Peter was in pain the entire time. It killed him to see the kid in so much pain but there was nothing he could do at that point. He’d already given Peter his sunglasses which seemed to help a little and the kid had already grabbed some soundproof headphones from his bag, but even then he could still hear sounds. 

The kid had also explained briefly that he was having a sensory overload, which was something that Tony could deal with. At the Tower.

On the road, however? Not so much. 

When they finally reached the elevator, FRIDAY took them straight up to Tony’s personal floor. 

As soon as the doors opened, Tony whispered, "Protocol Bedtime.” Immediately the lights went off and Tony guided a much more relaxed Peter towards his room, through muscle memory alone. 

He had Peter change out of his clothes and put on something softer to wear to sleep. He wasn’t really sure what to do to help Peter, but some rest seemed like a good idea. Hopefully, he’d be able to sneak away and build something to block out input. 

Forcing Peter to lie down, Tony closed the curtains in his room and sat down on the mattress next to where the young adolescent laid. 

“You feeling better, kiddo?” Tony whispered at what he hoped was a suitable volume. 

“Um, yeah. Yeah everything’s great.” Peter fidgeted under the covers. 

“You sure? Because if there’s anything I can do just say the word, it’ll be done.”

“Erm, yeah, there’s-there’s this one thing. It’s really embarrassing though and- actually it’s fine don’t worry about it.” Peter decided, pulling the covers over himself and looking away from Tony’s gaze. 

“Come on, kiddo. Spit it out. I want to help you. I bet it’s not even that embarrassing. What is it? You need the toilet but I tucked you in too well?” Tony replied with a small smile, hoping he could get Peter to talk. 

“Wi-will you stay?” Peter asked, tentatively, glancing back at Tony. 

The billionaire’s eyes softened as he glanced at the kid- his kid. He would do anything for this kid and his heart was bursting with so much love for him. He wouldn’t admit it though. He had a reputation to keep. 

“Of course I’ll stay. Scoot over would you?” Tony slipped his shoes off and sat under the covers with Peter who’d moved away from the centre of the mattress. 

Peter immediately moved closer to his mentor, until his head was against his hip. Peter rolled on his side to face Tony and he closed his eyes, taking relief in his father figure’s presence. Tony didn’t say anything, just placed his hands in Peter’s curls and began untangling the knots that had formed. He didn’t know if it would help Peter, but his blissful expression said everything. Tony stayed with him, carding his fingers through Peter’s soft hair, until he was sure that the teen had fallen asleep. Trying to be as silent as possible, Tony extracted himself from the bed and slipped his shoes on before exiting the room. 

He headed down to the lab and told FRIDAY to notify him when Peter woke up. He left a message for May, explaining what had happened and that Peter was okay. Then he got to work. 

-

“Boss, Peter has woken up.” FRIDAY helpfully informed him a few hours later.

“Thanks, FRI. I’ll be up there soon." 

Tony made his way up to his floor, some sleek earphones in hand. Opening the door softly, he poked his head through the door and looked to see a half asleep Peter sitting up, his hair wild and sticking out. A soft chuckle was heard from Tony as he opened the door completely and walked inside, heading towards the confused hero. 

"What’s happening?” Peter’s voice was scratchy and raw. 

“You had a sensory overload. You hungry?” Tony replied, setting the earphones down on Peter’s lap. 

“What’re these?” Peter asked, turning them over in his hands. 

“Earphones. Hopefully, they’ll block out the worst of the sounds when you’re in public. I made them small so you can wear them in class and still hear what’s going on without being overwhelmed.” Tony replied with a shrug. 

Suddenly, he had an armful of Peter who was holding on tightly to the billionaire. Tony smiled and after a few moments he returned the hug, gripping the kid just as tight. 

When they finally separated, Tony started to tame the boy’s hair, smoothing it down. “I asked you a question earlier. You hungry?” Tony said, his lips quirking up into a smile. 

“Starving. I was gonna go home at lunch after I had my math test but…” he trailed off, looking bashfully at his father figure. 

All Tony could do was laugh at his stupidity. His kid had no common sense. “What am I going to do with you, kiddo?" 

"Make me a grilled cheese sandwich?” Peter replied, voice hopeful. 

“Sure. Let’s go.” Tony snorted, pulling Peter up and leading him into the kitchen. The billionaire pulled him into a one-armed hug while they made their way into the kitchen. 

He couldn’t hide his grin when Peter leaned closer.