#i’ve left the house twice since tuesday and once was to go to therapy. and once i got back i was so fucking out of it i just went to bed

[disengaged]

it’s my birthday tomorrow and i’m so unwell i just don’t give a fuck. lol

[sojourner-between-worlds]

Merry Band of Misfits

Fandom: Alex Rider/ Hawaii Five-0

Summary: After an incident, child services questions whether Steve is truly a good fit for Alex. Steve won’t stand for Alex being taken from him of course, and Danny is right there with him.

A/N: This started out as a little angst, a little comfort, and a whole lot of cheese, but somehow it turned into a little cheese, probably a lot of inaccuracy of how the system works, and a ton of angst sprinkled with comfort. What ya gonna do, tho, lol.

. . . .

They were still chasing their suspect through the crowded outdoor market when Steve’s phone vibrated incessantly in his pocket for the third time. His mind immediately jumped to Alex, wondering if he was okay, but he couldn’t exactly answer at the moment. Ready to be done with this chase and praying the call wasn’t anything too serious, he jumped up onto a low, narrow wall. Now moving faster than the man attempting to push his way through, it took less than a minute to catch up. Launching himself off the wall, Steve tackled the man to the ground.

“Oh, just give it up,” Steve grumbled at the still-struggling man underneath him as he wrenched the suspect’s arms around and zip-tied his wrists together. He pulled the man back up to his feet as the rest of his team finally caught up. “Book ‘im, Danno.”

After they had pushed their way back out of the market, Steve finally fished his phone out of his pocket.

3 Missed Calls - Kapi’olani Medical Center

He stopped dead in his tracks, heart in his throat, as he played back the voicemail they’d left for him. It didn’t give him much to go on, unfortunately, but since the woman had introduced herself as a child advocate with the hospital, that didn’t bode well. He didn’t hesitate to call her back.

The other end rang twice before the same woman who left the message, Alana Kelekolio, answered.

“Yeah, this is Commander McGarrett. You called about Alex? Is everything okay?”

. . .

As Steve stormed into the office, he didn’t fail to notice the two people in the room who were clearly not medical staff, but for the moment he ignored them, opting to head straight for Alex, who had stood up as he had entered.

“Hey, you all right, kiddo?” Steve asked, wrapping him in a hug.

“Shoulder hurts, but otherwise I’m fine.”

Steve snorted. “Yeah, that happens when you dislocate it. What happened?”

Alex shrugged his good shoulder. “Got my feet tangled up with Nathan’s fighting for the ball during practice and fell.”

“Yeah, you might need to spice that story up a bit before you tell it to anyone else.” That comment finally pulled a small smile out of the teen as Steve turned to address the other two people in the room. “So we’re good to go then?”

“Not quite, Commander.” A man Steve vaguely recognized as Alex’s social worker stood up and stepped forward. He’d been by the house a handful of times, but Steve honestly had a hard time remembering his name; he didn’t leave much of an impression. Robert something, maybe? Robert Kent? That sounded right. “If I could have a word with you alone?” he asked, gesturing towards the door.

Once they had stepped out and the door had clicked shut behind them, Robert continued. “This is negligence at best, Commander.”

“What do you mean?”

“You are Alex’s only emergency contact.”

“Yes, and here I am. So what?”

“The only reason I am here is because the hospital couldn’t get a hold of you.”

“I was literally in the middle of chasing a human trafficker through Chinatown. What was I supposed to do, huh? Ask him to wait while I answer my phone?”

“And that is exactly why Alex’s case is going to be reviewed.”

For the second time in an hour, Steve felt his heart jump into his throat. “What does that mean?”

“It means I think someone was a little quick to hand you Alex’s custody, so there is going to be some careful thought as to if this is really the best situation for Alex.”

. . .

“I could have punched him, Danny. Was it oversight on my part? Yes, I’ll admit that it was. Initially I wasn’t sure who else to put down since chances are if they can’t get me then they wouldn’t be able to get any of you guys either. So I put it off -- a little too long evidently -- but reviewing his case over that?”

Danny sat quietly, watching as Steve paced, waiting for him to finish.

“I mean, isn’t that a little extreme? Especially coming from a guy who talks to Alex for maybe ten minutes in a month. He doesn’t know anything.” Steve stopped with his back to Danny, a long sigh escaping. “He’s finally starting to settle a little and they’re about to take all of the progress he’s made away.”

“That does seem like a little much,” Danny sighed when it seemed like Steve was done. “Especially for something that’s a quick fix. Did he tell you how soon they’d make a decision?”

“End of the week.” Steve plopped down into one of the chairs opposite Danny’s desk, rubbing wearily at his temples.

Danny nodded. “Okay. I’m assuming you plan to fight this if they decide to pull him, right?”

“You have to ask?”

“If it comes to that, you know I’ll do whatever I can to help. I’ve got your back, babe.”

Some of the tension bled out of Steve’s shoulders at Danny’s words. “I know. I know you do. Thank you.”

. . .

Alex stopped at the end of the driveway, staring at Steve’s truck with a frown. They’d left at the same time that morning so Alex knew Steve had driven himself to work. If it was here, that meant Steve was home already -- very, very early.

Which likely meant something was wrong.

He parked his bike next to the garage and went inside to find Steve sitting on the couch, elbows on his knees, chin resting on his clasped hands, face pensive.

Steve dropped his hands, face softening slightly, when he noticed Alex. “Hey.”

“You’re home early, which is never a good thing. What’s wrong?”

Sighing deeply, Steve motioned to the spot next to him on the couch.

Alex dropped his bag onto the stairs and sat down.

“I already tipped you off, so I’ll just get right to the point. You -uh, you remember on Tuesday when you got hurt at practice?”

“Hard to forget. Go on.”

“The hospital called in child services when they couldn’t get me right away, and that made them...less than happy.”

Alex’s stomach dropped. When he spoke, the words didn’t feel like they were coming from his own mouth. “They’re taking me away, aren’t they?”

Steve sighed again. “They want to, but I’m not letting that happen without a fight. I told you from the start that I’m not gonna leave you on your own, and I meant it -- I still mean it. I have a hearing with a family court judge in a few weeks to decide the final verdict.” He wrapped an arm around Alex’s shoulders, and the teen easily melted into his side. “I’m not going to let them take you, Alex. Okay?”

“Okay. I trust you.”

As true as those words were, they still felt hollow on Alex’s tongue. He wanted to believe them but he knew it wasn’t as simply as that either. No matter how much faith he had in Steve, they could still take him away.

And there would be nothing either of them could do about it.

. . .

The hearing was not going well and Danny knew it. Robert Kent seemed bent on removing Alex from Steve’s custody and was bringing up every even slightly questionable thing Steve had ever done, whether it related to Alex’s care or not.

And Danny was done listening.

“And furthermore, it was clearly negligence on Commander McGarrett’s part in failing to list a second emergency contact.”

“Your Honor, I’m sorry to interrupt, but to be honest, none of this is in any way relevant.”

“Detective Williams, this is not your forum, and I do believe I am perfectly capable of determining what is relevant and what is not.”

“Yes, I am aware of that, and I apologize -- I really do -- but if I may, I have something I need to say.”

“I do believe you will already be giving a statement.”

“I will be, but this has nothing to do with what I’ve planned to say, your Honor.”

The judge was silent for a moment before saying. “I’ll allow it, but keep it brief, Detective.”

“Your Honor, with all due respect, if you allow Alex to be taken from Commander McGarrett’s custody based only on what you have heard so far, then you will be making a huge mistake.” He paused, taking a deep breath. Steve was either going to hug him or kill him for this later. “I’ve known Commander McGarrett for a long time now, and I will be the first to admit that I hated his guts back then. I thought he was completely irresponsible and reckless. But here’s the thing: he’s downright terrible at first impressions. So forget the bad first impression you’ve been given here so far today because what you are probably thinking is exactly what I thought, too. But the fact of the matter is, your Honor, that I trust him with my life and, moreover, with the lives of my own children.

“See, first impressions don’t tell you everything about a person. My first impression didn’t tell me that his guy was going to give me a place to belong in a place that I hated and a family in a place where I had no one.

“If the other members of Five-0 could be here right now, I know they’d say the same because Steve McGarrett likes to fix broken things. He has again and again taken the outcasts and the misfits and given them a place to call home. All of us at Five-0 are a family.

“And Alex is part of that family now, too.”

Danny paused; he’d been told to keep it short and he was sure he’d already talked longer than the judge wanted, but he hadn’t been stopped yet either.

“Right now, Mr Kent is trying to tell you from a collection of ‘first impressions’ why Commander McGarrett is unfit to be a parent, so allow me to tell you why Mr Kent is dead wrong.

“In the past eleven months, Alex has gone from withdrawn and emotionally volatile to outgoing and emotionally stable -- as stable as any teenager can be, anyway. In the first three months alone Alex was diagnosed with PTSD, properly medicated to help mitigate symptoms, and started in therapy -- all things that should have happened much sooner but were easily overlooked as he was written off as a ‘problem child’ and quickly passed around between homes like he didn’t matter -- and maybe to those people, he didn’t.

“But therein lies the fundamental differences between everyone else Alex has been placed with and Commander McGarrett: instead of calling Alex the problem, he addressed the problems Alex had, and -- maybe even more importantly -- he has never once even considered giving up on Alex.

“Commander McGarrett may not be the perfect parent, but he is a good one, and he does genuinely care about Alex’s well-being and wants the best for him. One oversight that is easily corrected -- because make no mistake, that’s the real reason why we’re here right now -- should not detract from all the good that has already happened -- and it has happened, your Honor; I’ve witnessed it myself. And that is how I can say with absolute confidence, your Honor, that if you allow this to happen, you will be making a huge mistake.”

Danny sat back down in the eerily quiet courtroom.

The judge cleared her throat. “Thank you, Detective Williams. Your words will be taken into consideration.”

. . .

Alex couldn’t concentrate, plain and simple. Steve had offered to let him stay home from school but Alex had declined, thinking it would be a good distraction. But it wasn’t, and he was seriously considering going to the office and signing himself out for the day. His anxiety was the worst it had been in months so he doubted they would make him stay, but would it really be any better if he went home? He doubted it. So at school he would stay for the long four hours that still remained.

Maybe.

He really wasn’t sold on the idea.

(But, again, being home alone probably wasn’t the best idea either, but those were his only two options.)

He forced himself to take a couple of deep breaths; having a panic attack in the middle of World History would not do.

Somehow he made it through the rest of the class and to lunch, skipping the line and heading straight to his usual table, folding his arms and resting his head on them. Maybe if he could close his eyes and focus on his breathing for a minute then his stomach would dislodge itself from his throat and go back to where it belonged.

“Alex?” The clunk of a tray against the table and the thud of a bad against the floor accompanied the voice.

“Hm?”

“Maybe you should go home, man.”

“‘M fine.”

“Yup. That’s very convincing.”

Alex took a breath and raised his head just enough to glare at his friend. “I’m fine, Koa.”

“Ya know, I actually have to agree with him for once,” Nathan said as he slid into the seat next Koa. “You really don’t look good, man.”

Letting his head thump back down, Alex muttered, “It’s just anxiety. It’s nothing.”

A pause, then, “Alex. Go home. I’m serious.”

Alex knew they were right, but… He pushed himself all the way up, meeting their concerned gazes. “I really don’t want to be alone so school is the better option right now.”

Koa shrugged. “Then call Commander McGarrett.”

“Can’t. He’s in court right now, and I don’t know when he’ll be out.”

As if on cue, his phone vibrated in his pocket with a text from Steve.

Steve McGarrett: Hearing’s over. They’ll call with the decision sometime this evening. Are you doing okay?

Alex sighed in relief; Steve always seemed to know when he was struggling and Alex didn’t feel guilty about admitting it if someone asked first as opposed to him just saying it.

Alex Rider: Honestly not really. Steve McGarrett: Omw

“He’s coming to get you, isn’t he.” It wasn’t a question.

Alex nodded. “Yeah. I’m just...gonna head to the office then. See you guys tomorrow.”

“No, you won’t.”

Alex glanced at Nathan as he stood up. “What?”

“No school? It’s Thanksgiving.”

Alex stared blankly for a moment. “Oh. Right. Forgot. Uhm, Monday -- I’ll see you Monday.” I hope.

By the time he got to the office, Steve was already there, still in his dress blues from the hearing, and it took Alex a minute to realize that Steve must have been headed this way to get him already even as he’d texted.

“So how’d it go?” Alex asked as he settled into the passenger seat of the truck.

Steve let out a heavy sigh. “Well, not as good as I’d been hoping, honestly, but not horribly either. We’ve still got a shot.” He paused, shifting into drive and pulling away from the curb. “So what would you like to do with this suddenly school-free afternoon?”

Alex shrugged, worrying his bottom lip. His anxiety was still through the roof so he honestly didn’t want to do much of anything.

“Did you eat?”

Busted. Once again, Steve always seemed to know. Swallowing around the lump in his throat, he shook his head, stomach still rather queasy.

Expression full of understanding, Steve nodded once. “Okay. I want you to try when we get home though, all right?”

Alex took a deep breath. “No promises on success.”

“That’s okay. Just try.”

“Okay.”

The rest of the ride was relatively silent apart from Steve assuring him that he didn’t need to worry about school or homework, that they would just relax until they had news. 

Once home, Alex changed from jeans to sweats; no need to be anything less than completely comfortable all things considered. Alex sat down on his bed, listening as Steve went down to the kitchen to find something for them both to eat. Simultaneously exhausted and restless, he honestly didn’t know if he’d rather take a nap or run a marathon. His breathing hitched, and he tried to push everything he was feeling into nice, neat compartments. He knew he shouldn’t, that he should just get it over with and deal with it now, but if he could shove it away for only a few more hours, then he wouldn’t have to deal with it at all. (Because in a few hours they would get word that he was staying -- he would be -- because if he wasn’t, he didn’t know what he would do.)

Calloused hands gently pried his apart, and as Alex’s eyes slowly focused on where Steve knelt in front of him, he wondered when the man had even come in. How long had he been sitting here that Steve had had to come up to get him?

“Oh, kid.”

Those two words were all it took to open the floodgates. An ugly, hysterical sob tore out at the same time Steve pulled him into a hug.

Alex wasn’t sure how long they sat there before the knot in his chest eased and the sobs pettered off into hiccups, but he did know that he didn’t feel any better. Wasn’t that what was supposed to happen? But he didn’t, exhaustion settling even thicker in his bones, his stomach still uncomfortably lodged in his throat. If anything, he only felt worse.

“How are you feeling, buddy? Any better?”

“Not really.”

Steve hummed in thought before he said, “Why don’t you come lay down on the couch and watch a movie with me, and we can go from there. Okay?”

He didn’t want to move, but lying down definitely sounded nice. “‘Kay.”

Steve took one corner of the couch, and Alex curled up next to him, head on the man’s thigh. Some Disney movie played quietly on the TV, but Alex wasn’t really paying attention. Time seemed to drag on; it could have been hours or only minutes before Steve asked if he was feeling up to eating. Alex could only shake his head in response and, strangely enough, Steve didn’t push it.

Then finally -- finally -- Steve’s phone vibrated with an incoming call. Glancing at the ID displayed on the screen, Steve murmured, “This is them,” before picking up. “Steve McGarrett.”

Alex sat up. He had thought he’d feel something when the call came, but all he felt was numb.

After a moment, Steve said, “Thank you very much for calling.” As soon as he’d set his phone down, he turned to Alex and wrapped him in a hug. “Remind me to thank Danny by picking up his tab at Side Street next time. Looks like you’re stuck with me for a little bit longer, buddy.”

It took a moment longer than it should have for the meaning of those words to register, but when they did, Alex almost felt like crying all over again. Instead he tightened his grip and breathed for what felt like the first time in weeks. He couldn’t help but think that maybe Steve really had been telling him the truth all along, that maybe it would actually be true this time.

Maybe he really would never have to be alone again.

. . .

“So, a little birdy named Lou told me you might be needing someone as a second emergency contact for Alex,” Renee commented as she mixed up a salad at the counter. “If you haven’t figured someone else out already, you can always put me down, you know; I don’t mind.”

“Really?” Steve asked, glancing up from the pan he’d just pulled from the oven. “I hadn’t figured that out yet, so I’d really appreciate that actually.”

“Shoots, a sista beat me to it,” Kamekona said from the doorway. “I was gon’ offer, too.”

“As was I,” Max added as Steve turned the corner, carrying the turkey to the table. “Given my profession, I surmised it to be highly unlikely I would not be able to get away if called upon.”

“Great minds think alike,” Jerry piped up next. “I mean, I don’t exactly ever have anything I couldn’t step away from if you needed me, after all, and when I work with you guys I’m not really in the field for all the dangerous stuff, anyway.”

Danny laughed as he came out of the kitchen, carrying more dishes. “So, uh, you think child services will be happy now with that many numbers to choose from?”

Steve couldn’t help but chuckle. As Alex came up beside him, he threw an arm around the teen’s shoulders. “I’ve definitely got a lot to be thankful for his year, you know that? So, thank you, guys -- I mean that; it’s been quite a year and I couldn’t have done this without all of you.”

“You don’t need to thank us,” Chin replied with a smile. “We’re ohana; it’s what we do.”

“Yeah, if anything we should be thanking you,” Kono added. “None of us would be here right now without you.”

Steve looked around at the people he called family and realized that Danny had been only partially correct. He may have created a space for them all to belong, but he needed it just as much as everyone else did. They had rescued him just as much as he had rescued them.

A merry band of misfits -- maybe that was just how it was always meant to be.

. . . .

Tags: @diekatimitdemhutohnehut @just-add-butter

[luci-in-trenchcoats]

Broken Like Me (Part 6) - Good Enough

Summary: The reader and Dean end up having their first fight and it leads to an unfortunate situation...

Masterlist

Pairing: Model!Dean x reader

Word Count: 4,500ish

Warnings: language

Tuesday Evening

“Hey, Dr. Bram,” you said, slipping into his office.

“Y/N. You look like you’re having a better day than last week,” he said.

“Well I haven’t spoken to my parents so I’m pretty great,” you said, taking a seat. He pursed his lips but didn’t say anything.

“So, how’d the essay go?” he asked.

Oh fuck.

“Y/N?” he asked.

“I may have...forgotten to do it,” you said, looking away. “Is that a new lamp? It looks great in here.”

“You didn’t do an assignment?” he asked.

“I’m sorry,” you said.

“I give them to you for a reason, Y/N. Not as a punishment,” he said.

“I know. I was busy and forgot,” you said.

“You’ve never forgotten before, no matter how busy you are,” he said, standing up and walking over to his desk.

“Are you gonna make me quit seeing you?” you asked. He stopped and turned around, coming over to your couch and taking a seat.

“How long have you known me, Y/N?” he asked.

“Four years,” you said.

“In the four years you’ve known me, have I ever said I will no longer see you if you don’t do an assignment?” he asked.

“No. I overreacted,” you said.

“Why do think that?” he asked.

“Because I feel like I lost two of my very few long term relationships I had and I don’t want to screw up and lose another one with you,” you said.

“That’s probably the most straightforward answer you’ve ever given me,” he said, patting your leg as he went back to his desk. “Also from what we discussed last week, you didn’t screw up your relationship with your parents. You had a fight with them.”

“I’m tired of being the bigger person with them though. I asked for a little bit of help, on something I really want and they told me I’m being a child and that I’m ugly,” you said.

“Those are not the words you used last week. You have not seen your parents face to face in a long time and the last memories they have of you, you were not in a good place. They might be assuming that this accident isn’t bothering you as much as it does,” he said.

“They said go to therapy back then because we don’t want to deal with you and your shit,” you said. “You, my therapist, care more about me than they do and you get paid to talk to me.”

“I don’t want to talk about your parents anymore this session. You were happy when you came in here and I want us to get back to that,” he said, grabbing a notebook and pen from his desk.

“So what are we talking about?” you asked.

“I want to know what you were so busy with that you forgot you assignment,” he said.

“It was thanksgiving this week. Shopping, that kind of stuff,” you said.

“I know what you look like when you lie, Y/N,” he said, sitting down in his chair. “You were partially upset last week because you were missing another thanksgiving.”

“I went to a friend’s family’s thanksgiving,” you said with a shrug. Dr. Bram seemed surprised but he was all smiles.

“What was that like? You’ve never had a traditional thanksgiving before,” he said.

“It was...good. There was some family drama and...well Dean’s dad is actually the one that hit me in my accident,” you said. “But once we got over the awkwardness it was okay.”

“Tell me about the day,” he said. You told him what you could remember, Dr. Bram writing a few things down, something he hadn’t really done with you since your first few sessions. “Hm, it sounds like you enjoyed yourself.”

“I did,” you said.

“What else kept you busy? Thanksgiving was only one day after all,” he said.

“I did chores on Friday since my house hadn’t been cleaned in a long time and Saturday I went to St. Louis. Sunday I did a bit of online shopping and baked some. I worked yesterday and went out for dinner and I worked today,” you said. “I guess I should have carved out a few hours for the essay.”

“You have been busy,” he said, leaning back in his seat.

“Uh huh,” you said.

“So is there anything in particular you want to talk about?” he asked. You bit your bottom lip, thinking about it. “You’re wearing a hat again I see.”

“I like hats,” you said. “It is winter.”

“True. But you’re hiding your physical appearance which is why I wanted you to write that essay in the first place,” he said.

“I can do it this week,” you said, Dr. Bram’s head shaking.

“Tell me three things you like about your physical self and I’ll let you off the hook,” he said.

“Okay,” you said. You stared at him, Dr. Bram waving his hand. “You mean right now?”

“Yes…” he said. “Come on. Number one here we go.”

“I like…” you said, trying to think of something that would satisfy him. “Um. I like...can I do this next time? Give me some time to think about it?”

“No. You had time and now I want three things you like about yourself. Go,” he said.

“I don’t know,” you said. “You try thinking of three things on the spot.”

“My hair, my eyes and my smile. Your turn,” he said.

“My hair, my eyes and my smile,” you said.

“Y/N. Focus. What do you like about yourself?” he asked.

“Nothing,” you said.

“That’s not true,” he said.

“I like that I’m smart and creative and decently witty but that’s not physical,” you said. “I’m not pretty and you making me say something isn’t going to make me believe it.”

“One thing then. One thing you like about yourself,” he said. You groaned but he sighed. “For me, Y/N. Just try.”

“I like that I look good in hats so no one ever has to see my stupid forehead again,” you said.

“Y/N, stop kidding around,” he said.

“You don’t get it. You’re a good looking guy Dr. Bram. You’re in your fifties and you’re still a good looking guy. I bet you have always had a nice face and were athletic and were a popular guy. Girls chased you around and all that. Well I’m not pretty. I’m just not. I only ever had friends or boyfriends because my family had money and they’re all gone. I am not someone that anyone wants. How do you not understand that after four years?” you said.

“I want us to take a five minute break. Stay here please,” he said. He left his office, leaving you alone to grab one of the pillows from the couch and punch it. He returned with a bottle of water, setting it down in front of you. “That’s twice now I’ve upset you in the span of fifteen minutes. This is not normal behavior for you, Y/N.”

“You want me to say something I find attractive about myself but I can’t answer you unless I lie and I’m not supposed to lie to you so I don’t know what you want me to do,” you said.

“I want to forget about the assignment for the moment. Just tell me about your weekend.”

“Y/N,” said Dr. Bram, scratching his head at the end of the session. “I’m very confused and you typically don’t confuse me.”

“What’d I do?” you asked, staring at the clock again, Dr. Bram already calling you out on it twice and saying you could leave anytime you wanted.

“Earlier you said that you don’t find yourself pretty, that no one wants you apart from monetary reasons. Yet, you now have a boyfriend who makes you feel good and to quote you from three minutes ago, wanted. Do you see why I’m confused?” he asked.

“It’s different around Dean,” you said with a shrug.

“How so?” he asked.

“I was very rude to him on more than occasion, I’ve overreacted to something he’s said and I’ve tried to push him away. Yet he respects me and was always kind and doesn’t push me to show him my scars or...I guess a very, very small piece of me, when I’m with him and he looks at me like that, believes him when he says he thinks I’m beautiful,” you said.

“Why do you think you believe him of all people?” asked Dr. Bram.

“I think because he’s handsome and hot and he could date any girl he wanted without batting an eye. But he picked me. I thought it was pity or manipulation or him being cruel when he first wanted to be friends but he really just wanted a chance to know me because I’ve caught him staring a few times and I overheard a conversation I shouldn’t have but he cares about me and he doesn’t want anything back and I don’t…” you said, lowering your head. “I don’t know why he wants me. I don’t have anything to offer him.”

“Maybe he thinks you care about him too. Maybe he doesn’t need you to offer him anything but you’re giving him something regardless,” he said.

“But what am I giving him?” you asked.

“Who knows. Maybe you make him feel wanted too,” said Dr. Bram. You pursed your lips, giving him a look.

“I’m sorry for snapping at you earlier,” you said.

“We’ve come a long way from your snapping days,” he said with a soft smile. “I’d still like to hear you tell me one thing you like about yourself before you go.”

“I like my eyes, the color I mean,” you said.

“That’s good enough for today,” he said, standing up. “I am giving you another assignment though and I would like you to actually do it this week, hm?”

“I’ll do it as soon as I get home tonight,” you said. “What’s the assignment?”

“I would like you to every day starting tomorrow, attempt to do something nice for someone else and something nice for yourself. Nothing big but holding a door open for someone, giving a compliment, that sort of thing,” he said.

“What’s being nice to myself?” you asked, realizing as soon as the words were out of your mouth how horrible that sounded. Dr. Bram gave you a smile though.

“Get enough sleep. Exercise. Eat healthy. Take a long bath. Take an hour everyday to focus on you for the next week. No work. No doing chores or stressing during that time. You got it?” he asked.

“I think I can manage that,” you said.

“Good,” he said. You got up, grabbing your coat from the back of the couch, Dr. Bram giving you another smile as you pulled it on. “Any plans for tonight?”

“I have a date,” you said, throwing your purse over your shoulder. “I-”

“Our session is over, Y/N. You don’t have to tell me anything you don’t want to,” he said.

“Am I going too fast with him?” you asked.

“From what you’ve told me, not at all. It’s normal to want to spend time with your partner,” he said.

“We’ve been dating like four days,” you said.

“I’ve been married thirty years. I still look forward to spending time with her,” he said.

“You never talk about your wife,” you said. “I didn’t realize you’d been married that long.”

“It’s worked out so far,” he said with a smile. “Enjoy your date, Y/N.”

“Hi,” you said when you answered your door for Dean. He stepped inside, patiently waiting by the front door. “Oh, you’ve never been inside before. Uh, hall closet is right there.”

“So how was your day?” he asked as he took off his boots and coat, plopping his hat on your stair banister.

“Boring. A few meetings that could have been emails and some intern misplaced a decimal and freaked out the owner. I fixed it,” you said.

“Sounds thrilling,” he said with a chuckle.

“Therapy was the most exciting part of my day,” you said with a laugh. You didn’t frown for saying such a thing, reminding yourself that Dean wasn’t going to judge you for that. He’d gone to Dr. Bram himself when he was younger after all.

“Does Dr. Bram still take walk-ins?” asked Dean.

“Uh, I’m pretty sure he has an hour slot open every morning for it at 10,” you said. “You thinking about going?”

“Yeah. My dad and I got in a pretty big fight today,” said Dean, rubbing the back of his neck.

“I’m sorry,” you said. “I know you guys were starting to get along better.”

“You handle money and finances right?” he asked. You nodded, guiding him into the kitchen where he took a seat at the table. “He thinks I need to grow up and get a real job but this is a real job. I save my money and invest it and I know modeling isn’t a job I can do until I get into my sixties but if I’m smart now, I can take care of myself in the future, pretty well too.”

“Plenty of younger people nowadays focus on saving and retirement. A lot of us don’t want to have to be working until we’re eligible for social security. Saving and investing is a solid plan,” you said.

“That’s what I said but he doesn’t get it,” said Dean. “He’s never going to get it.”

“I don’t know your dad very well but he does love you. He’s worried about you and what’s going to happen to you. I know you’ll be okay but he’s scared you won’t be. You have to let him come to terms with that you are capable of providing for yourself,” you said. “You’ve done it for years. He’ll come around.”

“I know,” he said, leaning back in his seat, looking around the house. “This is very nice.”

“My parents bought it for me after college,” you said.

“Seriously? That’s pretty nice of them,” he said.

“Well, they sort of forgot to speak to me for like three years when they were on a stupid yacht traveling the world so they figured they’d try to buy me back with a fancy house,” you said.

“You’ve got more issues with your family than just missing thanksgivings I’m starting to see,” he said. “They never came to see you in the hospital either.”

“I don’t want to talk about them anymore,” you said, lifting the lid off a pot. You drained the water and were working on dishing up a few things when Dean started to laugh, walking towards your back window bench.

“You kept him,” said Dean, picking up a teddy bear and holding it up. “The one I gave you.”

“I had a couple of bad nights back then,” you said, carrying the plates over to the table.

“About?” he asked, setting the bear down and taking a seat.

“I had to have emergency surgery like three days in,” you said.

“Are you alright?” he asked.

“Yeah. It was my appendix thankfully. It was damaged in the accident. They thought the swelling would go down but it turned into full on appendicitis and they had to remove it fast,” you said.

“Poor girl,” he said as you took a seat, running a hand over your head. “Can’t catch a break, can you?”

“Try some of the chicken. It’s good,” you said. Dean gave you a thumbs up after his first bite, asking for the recipe before he pulled out his phone.

“This tastes like it came from a restaurant,” he said, taking a picture of the meal in front of him. He played around on his phone for a moment, shoving it back in his pocket. Your own started to ring a few minutes later. You glanced at it, watching the name Mom pop up. Dean saw it but didn’t say anything and went back to quietly eating. You didn’t answer, another call coming in a moment later.

“Sorry,” you said, picking it up as Dean shook his head. “Hi mom.”

“What size are you? I found the cutest little dress that’d be perfect for a date,” she said.

“I don’t want a dress mom,” you said, rolling your eyes.

“Well you’re on a date now and in a ratty flannel and those awful black legging things. Class it up a little sweetie. The boys like that,” she said.

“How the fuck do you know I’m on a date?” you asked. Dean winced. You pulled your phone away, Dean pulling out his phone. He showed you the picture he’d taken, a little caption on it and he’d tagged you in it too. Thankfully your face was cut out but you groaned at the fact that it took less than five minutes for your mom to see it which meant there was no stopping it now. “Mom, stop yelling at me.”

“Do not swear at me,” she said.

“Sorry. Forget about the dress,” you said, cutting her off. “I have to go.”

“Your mom stalks your instagram I’m guessing?” asked Dean with a smile that quickly faded away. “You’re pissed.”

“Remove the post,” you said. “Now.”

“Why?” he asked.

“I’m not ready to go public and you didn’t even ask if it was okay,” you said, stabbing into your dinner. Dean tapped away on his phone, deleting the post, stabbing into his own dinner when he finished. “What are you so mad about?”

“I wanted to show off a picture of the nice dinner my girlfriend made. I didn’t realize I started the apocalypse,” he said.

“Don’t be so dramatic,” you said.

“You’re the one being dramatic,” he said. “I tagged you in a picture. What’s the big deal?”

“You’re a model. I’m not,” you said. “I don’t want random strangers looking up crap about me.”

“You don’t want anyone knowing anything about you. You don’t even have friends,” he said. “You’re like a shut in and that’s before you even had your accident.”

“Because you’re so perfect,” you snapped back. He glared at you and stood up from the table. “Yeah, running away from conflict is definitely your thing, isn’t it?”

“Don’t worry about me posting another damn thing about you,” he said, going to the front hall. He hurriedly threw on his boots as you watched and grabbed his coat, storming out the front door and slamming it shut.

You sat back down at the table and finished your meal, tossing what he didn’t eat in the trash and saving the leftovers. He was just another stupid guy and who gave a fuck if you ever saw him again. You stormed upstairs and grabbed his sweatpants out of the laundry, taking the hat he left on the banister and ripping the one off your head and clumping them in one big pile. You tore open your front door to leave them on the porch.

And there he was, with a soft face and half parted lips and his gaze went straight to your forehead.

You shoved the clothes in his arms and practically ran inside, his hand on the door just catching it.

“Y/N, wait,” he said, pushing it open as you rushed upstairs. You heard the front door close behind you as you got to your bedroom and locked the door, finding a hat and shoving it over your head. You squeezed your eyes shut and sat on the bed, knees in your chest, hoping he left soon.

But the door handle turned and you forgot you hadn’t fixed the stupid thing. You buried your face to hide it away, a soft hand pushing your hat off, someone kneeling in front of you. You felt your face get hot, tears running freely no matter how hard you tried to force them to stop. Long fingers turned your chin up so you couldn’t hide but you wouldn’t open your eyes. He couldn’t force that.

“Shh,” said Dean gently. Lips pressed softly against your scar and you felt a sob wrack your whole body into a shudder, Dean getting onto the bed and pulling you into his lap. He shushed you and wrapped his arms around you, giving your forehead a few kisses.

It took a long time to stop crying, long after you knew you’d soaked his shirt, long after you stopped being embarrassed. You were too tired to care. He thought you were pathetic. That was the only reason he stayed.

You popped open an eye and then the other, pretty green eyes staring back, no sign of anything other than love in them.

And you started to cry all over for once again thinking so negatively about this man that you didn’t deserve.

“We had a fight. I’m sorry. You’re right. I should have talked to you about posting first. I’m sorry about what I said about you being a shut in and not having friends because that is not true at all. You’re my friend, the first best friend I’ve had in a long time and I don’t want to give you up. I’m sorry, Y/N,” he said.

“You saw,” you managed to get out before you were hiding your face in his chest again, hands fisting in his shirt.

“Saw what? Your scar?” he asked.

“S’ugly,” you said, Dean forcing you away from him. “I’m ugly.”

“Y/N,” he said, both hands on your cheeks so you’d look at him. “You’re the prettiest, most beautiful, gorgeous, downright hot, woman I’ve ever seen. I have never had this feeling I do when I’m with you. I feel like I’m going to explode and it’s home all at once. I so badly wanted you to show me because you felt comfortable with it. I didn’t want this to happen on accident but it did and all I can do is stay with you and try to prove to you that you are even more amazing now.”

“How can you say that,” you said, trying to pull his hands away from your face but failing. “I’m not pretty without the scar and with it I’m hideous.”

“Agree to disagree,” he said, sliding a hand up, tracing over the skin. “I know you hate this but I love it.”

“Why?” you asked, fighting back another round of sniffles.

“It means you’re alive. I got a chance to meet you and now I get to be with you,” he said. “I wish you could see that and it’s okay that you don’t. Maybe someday you will.”

“I wish I could too,” you said, Dean pulling you back into his chest. “I’m sorry.”

“We’re okay,” he said. “We’ll figure out what you’re comfortable with sharing and go from there, okay?”

“Okay,” you said, Dean running his hand up and down your back. He shushed you for a little while longer until he made you get up and told you to take a hot shower. You did what he asked, feeling a bit better when you made your way downstairs, Dean’s two hats and his sweatpants folded neatly on the bottom step. You rounded the corner to the kitchen, the pot you hadn’t washed out yet sitting there to dry, the kitchen a bit cleaner than you were used to seeing. Dean came in through the door to the garage, shivering.

“I emptied the garbage. Your garage is freezing by the way,” he said, shaking the cold off of him.

“You cleaned,” you said. He shrugged, taking a dish towel and going to the pot, wiping it down.

“I wanted to,” he said, looking you up and down. “How was your shower?”

“Good,” you said, tucking a strand of damp hair behind your ear. You hadn’t put a hat on, Dean cocking his head at you like he was so proud of you for not hiding again. “I have leftovers if you want. I sort of ruined dinner.”

“That’s okay. I’ll just have a snack at home,” he said.

“Oh, okay,” you said.

“Or I can stay here if you want,” he said.

“Would you mind?” you asked. He shook his head, giving your cheek a kiss as he walked passed.

“I think I will take you up on those leftovers though,” he said. He moved around the kitchen like he was a little familiar with it now, taking the container from the fridge and sticking it in the microwave. You made your way into your family room, settling onto the couch and turning on the TV. Dean came in a few minutes later, scooting you farther down the couch so he could lean back in the corner. He wrapped an arm around your waist, using the other to eat out of the container as you watched. He shuffled around once he stopped eating, throwing his legs up and maneuvering you so you sat with your back to his chest, both arms loosely around you.

“Dean,” you said.

“Hm?” he hummed.

“It’s okay if you post pictures of me,” you said. “Just not-”

“Not your scar, I know,” he said.

“Is it okay if I post them of you?” you asked. He nodded, kissing your temple.

“Your hair smells so pretty,” he said, digging into his pocket for his phone.

“I don’t have my hat,” you said.

“This one is just for me. If it’s okay,” he said.

“Yeah,” you said, giving him a smile. “Just you is okay.”

A/N: Read part 7 here!

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[auskultu]

The Case of a Runaway Flower Child

J. Anthony Lukas, The New York Times, 19 October 1967

Last Friday Pamela Rae Koeppel painted a blue flower on her right cheek. The next day the 14-year-old schoolgirl left home. Last night she was found in a hotel on the edge of Greenwich Village.

After two policemen had staked out her room there, Pamela called her parents and said, “You found my hideout. You’ll get my friend in trouble. I’m coming right home.”

Pamela's four-day sojourn in and around Greenwich Village illustrates the growing problem created by thousands of young runaways, particularly girls, who are flooding the Village area to live as hippies.

Yesterday, several hours before she was found, Pamela’s father, Adolph, called The New York Times in hopes that publicity would not only help find her, but also warn other parents of the difficulties in finding runaway girls.

Interviewed as he paced the white marble corridors of Federal Court in Brooklyn, where he had just finished summing up in a complicated condemnation case, he said: “I’ve got a twitch in my eye, a belt in my stomach, a jury out with my case and a daughter somewhere over there in that jungle.”

Mr. Koeppel and his wife, Rhoda, who live in a 560,000 ranch house in Lake Success, a Long Island suburban community, had reason to believe that Pamela was in Greenwich Village living as a “flower child."

"I asked her about that flower on her cheek when she got into the car for me to drive her to school Friday,” said Mr, Koeppel, who practices law in Mineola, “She said, ‘Oh, daddy, I’m a flower child.’ Where else do these flower children go around here but Greenwich Village?”

Mr. Koeppel also had discovered that his daughter was secretly seeing a youth known as “Chichi,” who lived on West 14th Street and frequented the Village. "I thought she might be with him,” he said yesterday, Four days after Pamela left home, the combined efforts of Mr. Koeppel, his family and friends, the Nassau County Juvenile Aid Bureau and the New York Police Department had failed to trace her.

“We heard from Pamela twice by telephone on Sunday, but nothing after that,” Mr. Koeppel said between nervous puffs on his fourth cigarette since lunch. “I had visions of her lying dead somewhere like that Linda what’s-her-name.”

Linda Fitzpatrick, an 18-year-old girl from Greenwich, Conn., was found murdered on a boiler-room floor in the East Village on Oct. 8. Dead beside her was her 21-year-old hippie friend, James L. (Groovy) Hutchinson.

Since Linda’s death, the Police Department’s Missing Persons Bureau and police stations in Greenwich Village have been deluged with calls from worried parents trying to trace their children.

The police said yesterday that for the first time in the city’s history runaway girls were outnumbering runaway boys, and officials say this trend is apparently accelerating.

Pamela Koeppel’s case may be representative from another point of view. Her parents say she was a "disturbed child” who had been seeing a psychiatrist once a week for almost a year.

Some social workers and psychologists who have studied the hippie movement believe that many hippies have emotional or psychological problems and use the hippie scene as camouflage.

Until a few months ago Mr. and Mrs. Koeppel thought they had Pamela’s problems well under control. Her. psychiatrist apparently thought so, too—she let Pamela take the summer off from her therapy sessions.

“As far as we could tell she went through the summer very well,” Mr. Koeppel said. "She found some new girl friends—I guess there must have been seven or eight in and out of the house during the summer on Long Island—swimming, drive-in movies, dates at the malt shop.’

But Mr. Koeppel said the family, which includes a “very happy and normal” 18-year-old daughter who is a college freshman in New York, began to notice a return of Pamela’s troubles as school approached this fall.

“There were too many highs, too many lows, and at times she was getting to be really low,” he recalls.

In mid-September she started seeing the psychiatrist again, and after a couple of visits, the psychiatrist recommended that she see Pamela twice a week instead of once.

“Naturally we were deeply concerned,” said Mrs. Koeppel, who was interviewed later. “We asked the psychiatrist whether there was any identifiable illness. She said no, but that Pamela was disturbed and needed increased attention. At one point the psychiatrist even suggested a brief hospitalization for a series of tests.”

Meanwhile Pamela was becoming more argumentative at home. "She began telling us that we were watching her too closely, that we weren’t giving her enough freedom.”

At the same time Pamela began showing interest in the hippies and the flower children. She started wearing what her father calls "hippie clothes” and expressed admiration for the “new scene.”

Only after her flight from! home did the family discover just how deep that admiration was. This week they picked up a pile of her compositions for an English class at Great Neck south Junior High School. One of them read in part:

“What is a flower child? A flower child is a young person belonging to a new generation which is very idealistic and thoughtful. They believe in love, beauty, peace, understanding, freedom, sharing and helping each other. Flower children are trying to change the world with these ideas.

“They love to express themselves by wearing rings, beads and flowers. Flowers are beautiful because they are part of nature. Flowers are lovely, beautiful, peaceful and don’t do anybody any harm but be beautiful. The flower child is the same way.”

C-Plus on Flower Essay She got a C-plus on the com position, with no comment from the teacher.

The family had several long discussions with Pamela about her attitude. "We tried to point out to her that the flower children and the hippies are not creative persons, not really doing anything useful,” Mrs. Koeppel said.

"Sometimes I felt we were getting through to her,” the mother said, “but I guess we never really did. As hard as we tried, I guess we never really knew Pamela.”

Several times in the last few weeks Pamela told her father she was going to run away.

“What would you do?” she would ask. He replied. “I’d send the police after you.” “Think they could find me?" she would say. "Certainly,” he answered. "Want to bet?” she would say with a little smile.

On Thursday night father and daughter held the last of their discussions.

The following morning Pamla painted the flower on her cheek and went to school. On Saturday morning, Mr. Koeppel wanted her to go shopping with her mother, but the girl said he planned to meet some friends in Great Neck.

“It was the same old double-talk she’d been giving us when he went to meet Chichi,” he said. “I don’t know why we fell for it. We probably should have put her under lock and key.”

Instead, he drove her into own in the family Cadillac they also own a Rambler). At 11 A.M., Pamela got out of the car.

Her long, lustrous brown hair rose a little in the breeze as she said good-by to her father and promised to call him at about 7 P.M., so he could pick her jp for dinner.

From then on her movements were unclear. The father later learned that she railed a friend on the South shore that night and asked whether she could stay at his place overnight. He was not enthusiastic, but about 2 A.M. she apparently arrived by train to the South Shore town, got somebody to drive her to the friend’s house and demanded a bed. She got one.

At precisely the same time—with her phone call now, seven hours overdue—her father called the Great Neck police and formally reported her missing.

The Juvenile Aid Bureau of the Nassau County police said yesterday it got the notification four hours later, at 6 A.M., but apparently the full search did not begin until the following day.

Early Sunday morning, however, Mr. Koeppel called a former law partner who happened to live in Greenwich Village and together with two other friends, they scoured the Village and the East Village by car and on foot, covering Tompkins Square and Avenues A and B.

At 11:30 A.M. Mr. Koeppel called home and discovered that Pamela had called a half hour before. She told Mrs. Koeppel “the mother is making me make this call,” apparently a reference to the mother in whose home she had spent the night. After a 10-minute conversation—in which she said only that she was all right and 'was not coming home—Pamela hung up.

The call was traced to Oceanside, a town on Long Island’s South Shore.

‘Pulled the Troops Out’ “We immediately pulled our troops out of the Village, and all Sunday afternoon we searched the South Shore, again with no success,” Mr. Koeppel recalled. But he did not know then just how close he had come.

For at 7:30 P.M., Pamela called home again and talked with her father for half an hour. She told him she had been in a restaurant in Long Beach, adjacent to Oceanside, that afternoon at 4 P.M. when she saw him enter. “She said she ducked into the ladies room and stayed there until I left,” he said. “I felt like a fool.”

The evening conversation, as the father described it yesterday afternoon, was “a kind of bargaining session” during which Pamela demanded that her parents agree to give her more freedom before she would return home and her father hinted at certain concessions but refused to commit himself.

At one point the father thought he was making some progress. “Look, honey,” he said. “Come home. I’m sure we can work all this out.” Pamela said she would think about it. She promised to call by midnight to let her father know if she was returning home that right or Monday. She never railed.

However, Mr. Koeppel had the phone call traced 10 Long Beach, so Jack Fitzgerald, a detective from the Juvenile Aid Bureau, and an associate spent Monday and Tuesday in the Long Beach area 'checking hotels.

But Detective Fitzgerald und nothing, and yesterday and his associate carried their search again to Greenwich Village.

Meanwhile Mr. Koeppel continued his search. On Tuesday afternoon he, his wife and a couple of friends drove to the Sixth Precinct police station, where they picked up several detectives for a tour of the West Village.

“The cops were so bored by the whole thing,” Mr. Koeppel said, “and when I got out to Washington Square, I realized why. There were more than a thousand people out there, all those crowds coming out of N.Y.U., and I realized we were facing a massive search.”

Later in the evening Mr. Koeppel and a friend made a more intensive two-hour search through the East Village on their own, checking such well-known hippie hangouts as The Cave, the Psychedelicatessen and the Something, on Avenue A, and the Dom on St. Mark’s Place.

“It was then I realized just how hopeless a search it was,” he recalled yesterday.

However, yesterday the Koeppel’s luck changed. In midafternoon. the mother found a scrap of paper with Chichi's name and a number on it. She alerted Detective Fitzgerald, who passed the information on to the Sixth Precinct.

The number was traced to the Alton Hotel at 64 Seventh Avenue, between 15th and 16th Streets. Detective John Stratford and Detective Sgt. Alfred J. LaPerch went to the hotel at 4 P.M. yesterday. They found that a Pamela Jones, who answered Pamela’s description, was registered there.

The detectives waited until 6 P.M., but Pamela did not show up. So they left, leaving word with the desk clerk that if she came in, he should call the Sixth Precinct. Shortly after they left, Pamela came in. Apparently convinced that her flight was now useless, she called her mother and said she would be coming home. Pamela took the Long Island Rail Road home alone, arriving t at the Koeppel residence shortly after 9 P.M.

Last night Mr. Koeppel said: “Naturally we're glad we’ve got our girl home. But it was really just blind luck that we found her. If she’d been really down in the heart of hippieland, it would have been goodbye.”