#ignore the tear tracks down my face. I have a normal response to grief

[wooshofficial]

Instead of dealing with my problems I’ve been playing Spiritfarer, but considering that Spiritfarer is Spiritfarer I am, in some way shape or form, dealing with my problems

[fnf-brain-rot]

the grief between two powers

Note: This story is based off of the scenario of CosmicCove's "I didn't think it would end this way" on A03 where Pico goes through with killing Boyfriend. This is my spin on how they would handle it. It's kinda sad.

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Unbelievable..

Her parents had the audacity to actually go through with killing the one being on this god-forsaken planet that made her so unconditionally happy. She almost couldn't process the rage building up in her chest from the mere thought of ever seeing their faces again.

And they won't.

A snarl rested permanently on her face as she replayed the scene over and over again in her head. Boyfriend dropping onto the cold concrete, his blood splattering against it from the hole in his chest. All because he was so caring. So sweet.

"Hey Pico! Long time no see! What are you doing here man?"

Pico...

"Pico.." The name seeped between Girlfriend's teeth like venom from a snake. The anger she felt was so intense that she couldn't even hide her purple skin and sharp claws. So what if someone saw her like this? It didn't matter. Not anymore.

For them to know each other, most likely knowing what person he was taking out of this world, and to still go through with it. And for what? Money?

She found herself stumbling aimlessly through the city, but not so much so. Her surroundings showed the train tracks they were waiting for.. Pico... at.

That bastard..

The gleam of her red irises cut through the darkness of the empty lot, and she walked over to her.. deceased Boyfriend's blood spatter. Her anger almost faltered. She almost dropped to her knees and sobbed like she had before, overwhelmed with grief.

Then she smelled it.

It wafted up to her nose, subtly, but she quickly sniffed it out again.

His scent.

Pico's scent.

It hit her like a truck, the sudden desire for bloodshed. For revenge. She followed the path between the dark alley it came from, making her way to him. She was going to make him regret even stepping foot of his house this night. She was going to make him hurt.

________________________________________________________________________________

He wasn't faring much better himself.

Pico felt the regret. He knew what he did was wrong, but shit, most of what he did was wrong. It wasn't wrong in the normal sense though. Boyfriend.. He didn't even hesitate. He shot him almost automatically.

He figured if he didn't think about it, it wouldn't haunt him as much, as if Cassandra's voice wasn't already taunting him from beyond the grave.

He just tried to relax on his worn down couch, in his empty, lonely little apartment. He tried to avoid looking at the gun he set on the table. The same gun used to take Bee's life. The same gun sworn to protect his own.

Pico clasped his hands on either side of his head, staring blankly at his sock covered feet pulled onto the couch.

Ha.. He shot him and didn't even say hi. Barely even looked at him.

Moments of the past flashed in his mind, like a flickering slide show of old memories. When they dated back in middle school. Sure it was a long time ago, and middle school was ass. But who helped him through it? Boyfriend.

Bee would purposefully make himself look stupid if Pico did anything of equal value, so he would never deal with anything alone. He would always come over to hang. Nene and Darnell.. They loved him like a brother. They laughed together, cried together, fought together.

They would have graduated together.

Probably even live together.

if not for...

Pico's thoughts were cut short by the abrupt sound of shattering glass. He shot up from the couch, grabbing his uzi off the table without a second thought. He pointed it toward the door of his bedroom, his blank eyes focusing on the open door.

He could see the silhouette of a woman.. It looked non human. Not the first time he dealt with monsters, however the aura of this one.. It was so intense, like he could suffocate in it.

He cocked his gun at the sound of creaking floor boards, watching the purple demon slowly reveal herself. He damn there had a heart attack.

"You.."

As if they could read each other's minds, they both spoke, but he could feel the malice in her stare alone. "You.. You're.. " He was flabbergasted, taking a couple steps back, though his leg hit his broken coffee table. Girlfriend began to advance, clenching her clawed fingers into fists. "You son of a bitch." Her voice was low, almost in a whisper. "You fucking knew him!!"Her voice came around quickly, bouncing against the thin walls in projection.

"Look I.." Pico began to speak, but lost his words. He did know him. He knew him so well. "I.. I know." He breathed out, slowly lowering his uzi. He looked away, but quickly looked back as he heard her boom with laughter. "I'm sure you know why I'm here then?" She smiled a little. She had teeth that could easily tear flesh apart, and he was sure that's what she wanted to do to him.

"Listen, I'on wanna fight you, jus-'"

"Too fucking bad!" Girlfriend spared not another moment talking if it meant she could have the head of her Boyfriend's killer. She rushed at him with a speed he hadn't seen in a while. Pico quickly kicked out the leg of his coffee table, causing it to topple over, and giving him an easier way to jump over to get behind it.

He could try talking to her, but he was sure she wouldn't stop until she's claimed his life. The gun was knocked from his hand in a blur, and he felt a pain against his chest. She scratched him. He grit his teeth and made more space between them, but the apartment was only so big. "So you can murder but you won't fight, huh??" Her growl assaulted his ears, and he tried his best to pin point her. She came up on his right, lunging at him full force. He grabbed both of her wrists, his back pressing against the rotting wall behind him. She snarled and bit at the air, as if trying to bite his nose off, but he managed to push her off, kicking her in the leg. She buckled from the force, and he slipped out from under her.

Fine, she won't stop. He'll just make this easier for himself. He slid back over to the coffee table, snagging his gun and hopping back up in one swift movement, making a dash for the bedroom. He doesn't do well in small spaces, so he'd just make more room. He dove feet first out of the window, almost not catching the loud thumping of Girlfriend chasing him.

he made sure to grab the emergency ladder on the side of the building to lessen his impact, rolling and stumbling into the dirt. It was only three stories, he's jumped from higher. She launched herself out the window after him. She damn there flew. "Shit.." He took a moment to breath. he couldn't call Nene or Darnell, his phone was inside.

He ran through the trees behind the complex, using the darkness to mask his presence as he usually would for a hit. "Oh Pico! Why delay the inevitable?" She rolled into the dirt under the trees herself, ignoring the ache from such a hard fall. Pico hid behind one of the trees as she scanned the area, then hopped out and fired a shot into her leg, specifically her calf.

She roared out in pain, gripping her dirtied dress with one hand, but she continued fairly well, using her less dominant leg to move in the direction it came from. Pico held his breath, quickly shifting around the trees. She was so sensitive to the sounds, the rustle of leaves, ruffle of sweatpants. before she knew it she was shot again. her other leg. they buckled under her weight, but she refused to fall. Pico ran at her from behind, using this opportune moment to subdue her, but without warning, she turned and grabbed him by the neck.

She moved him so he was in front of her, and slammed him into the dirt below him. "Figured you would be sharper than that.." He choked against her strong hold, gasping desperately for the air she deprived from him. She squeezed so hard he was convinced his neck was about to snap. Without another option, he fired two shots in her stomach, which made her gasp and let go.

She scooted off to the side, clutching a hand to the wound, black ooze pouring out of the holes. Pico took this moment to regain his breath, rubbing a hand along his already bruising neck. He coughed and sputtered, and she did the same. "I...I'm sorry.." His voiced rasped through their moment of silence. She could only let out a growl in response. "Sorry won't bring him back." She scoffed, beginning to move again, crawling back over to Pico. She grabbed him by the collar of his shirt, and punched him right in the jaw. he deserved that.

She punched him again. He deserved that. Again. he deserved that too.

the taste of iron flooded his mouth. "You fucking.." He felt wetness against his shirt. He couldn't tell if it was from her tears or his. She dropped him back on the ground. He could only let out shallow, uneven breaths when she collapsed against his chest, beginning to sob quietly.

He allowed her to. He even let some tears of his own fall.

She wanted to kill him, consume his soul, damn him to Hell for eternity. She couldn't. All she could do was cry. It wouldn't bring him back. Nothing could bring him back.

[kingreywrites]

Unravelling

Words count: 5978

Eugene Appreciation Week Day Four: AU

AU: The Snap from Avengers: Infinity War (but not a crossover, so no Thanos!)

Summary:  At first, Eugene thought that they had won. One second, he was laying on the ground, weak and drained, and the next, he was getting up suddenly, seeing the other Coronans do the same. He tried to find Rapunzel, because surely, she was responsible for the victory, but his eyes landed instead on Zhan Tiri, towering above them all and cackling.

Warnings: Temporary character death

Read on ao3

@fishskiin

At first, Eugene thought that they had won. One second, he was laying on the ground, weak and drained, and the next, he was getting up suddenly, seeing the other Coronans do the same. He tried to find Rapunzel, because surely, she was responsible for the victory, but his eyes landed instead on Zhan Tiri, towering above them all and cackling.

"Don't you see, Rapunzel?" It said, its voice chilling Eugene to his very core even as he scrambled to his feet. "Now that I have the sundrop and the moonstone, I hold the universe in my palm. I can hurt, I can heal, the world is listening to my every whims!"

A shape appeared behind the demon's head but it grabbed her - it was Cassandra, who had tried and failed to knock Zhan Tiri out and was now hanging upside down in its tentacle, as Eugene had done earlier. He got a glimpse of Rapunzel as she screamed Cassandra's name, and ran toward the stairs, trying desperately to get to her, taking notice of her long but brown hair.

"You know what else I can do?" Zhan Tiri continued gleefully. "I could wipe life off the face of Earth with only a snap of my fingers… But where would be the fun in that, if no one is there to suffer from it?" It laughed just as Eugene was close enough to see the horror mirrored on both Rapunzel's and Cassandra's eyes.

Zhan Tiri raised its arm, letting Cassandra down harshly, an awful smile cutting through its face.

"Let's only do half of it," Zhan Tiri grinned and snapped its fingers, releasing a wave of energy that brought everyone to their knees.

Eugene coughed and, when he opened his eyes, Zhan Tiri wasn't here anymore. He got up again and ran to Rapunzel, who seemed to be frozen in place.

"Sunshine? Are you alright?" he asked frantically, his hands going to her shoulders.

"Eugene," was all she could choke out, her eyes going to the crowd under the balcony.

Despite his worry, Eugene also turned his eyes toward them when he heard worried exclamations - just in time to see Quirin trying desperately to reach Varian as the kid disappeared into dust.

Eugene choked out Varian's name, his heart beating in his head loudly as Zhan Tiri's word echoed in the wind. Let's only do half of it.

Right before their eyes, friends and family were disappearing, but they were both frozen to the spot. Rapunzel was trembling under his hands but Eugene felt too much like he was floating, unable to wrap his head around this horror, to be capable of comfort.

"Eugene," Rapunzel whispered again, something so wrong and fragile in her voice that his eyes automatically went to her. "I- I don't feel so good."

She collapsed against him and, as he lowered her to the ground, Eugene felt like he was being strangled.

"No, no, no, no Sunshine," he pleaded, taking in her pale skin with burning eyes, "don't do that to me, please, Rapunzel-"

"Eugene, I'm sorry," she choked, her hand going to cup his face like he had done to her a long time ago - and, if he thought he was reassuring her at the time, he now knew that it was the opposite. Her hand was cold and weak on his cheek and he hated it, hated the contact, hated the meaning she was putting into this because she couldn't leave, not like that, she couldn't-

Her hand disappeared from his cheek and he watched numbly the dust, realising that he hated it even more. His tears were falling down on her now, inhibited, but he wasn't like her - he didn't have any last minute miracle, any lingering super power, he was just Eugene. Plain old Eugene, who couldn't save her.

"Rapunzel," he begged as she smiled, something sad and resigned in her eyes that he hated.

"You're my dream, Eugene Fitzherbert," she said, present tense, but it still sounded like a goodbye.

"You're mine," he sobbed back, but there was only dust under his tears now.

------

The kingdom was in shambles. Zhan Tiri was on the run, armed with infinite powers and the capacity to hide where time and space didn't exist, making any search pretty difficult.

King Frederick was gone. Princess Rapunzel was gone. Queen Arianna now reigned alone, Eugene acting as Captain of the Guard, right hand man, next in line and a shit ton of other jobs that he focused on as long as he could ignore his emotions on the current situation.

Ah, and he was now King of the Dark Kingdom. (He hadn't even known his father a year, but like everything else, he took that thought and shoved it far away in his mind, right in a little box where he couldn't see it. The box was overflowing.)

"We need the manpower to track down Zhan Tiri," he argued, frustrated as Arianna stayed carefully blank in front of him, seated alone on the throne.

"We need the manpower to rebuild Corona," she answered firmly.

"We can rebuild when we've brought everyone back! Which is why finding Zhan Tiri comes first!"

The problem, when you were constantly faced with global magical threat, was that it was difficult to accept something as final. Turning into dust? Please, they nearly turned into birds and were fine; Eugene just had to find Zhan Tiri, kick its calamari ass and everything will be fine, as it always was! And for that, he needed all the help he could get, if only Arianna would listen to him. Her face was hard and sunken with grief.

"Eugene, our kingdom needs to be protected and our citizens need to have their homes rebuilt. I will not send the few men we have left on a wild goose chase-"

"So that's it?! You've lost faith already?!"

"Captain," Arianna growled, something he never heard her do, "do not question my faith."

Eugene gulped, and closed his eyes. A flash of Rapunzel crumbling into dust before him made him open them again quickly, and he tightened his fists so hard that, without his gloves, his nails would have pierced through his skin. The silence between them was heavy, until Arianna sighed, looking smaller and older on the throne.

"You can have a small team working on it, but the priority is reconstruction, alright?" she proposed and the weary hope in her eyes was enough to make him crumble a little inside.

"Yeah," he breathed, shoulders slumping, "thank you, Arianna."

She smiled, a tiny, fake, entirely unconvincing smile, and he gave her the same in return, both of them not okay but with too much responsibility to truly let it through.

------

"Come on in," Eugene called absently as he poured through old documents concerning anything to do with the moonstone, the sundrop, Zhan Tiri or anything, really, that could matter right now. The moon was high in the sky, and he had been doing this well into the night, but he had too much to do the day and too many nightmares to escape anyway.

The door to this office opened and closed, and he heard an anxious intake of breath but, instead of saying anything, this person waited. Eugene sighed and raised his head, his eyes widening when he met Cassandra's (which were back to normal and, in a way, that was destabilizing).

"I've been told you wanted to see me," she finally said, squaring her shoulders.

"Yeah, tomorrow morning, not at whatever hour this is," he answered without too much heat, closing the useless book he held.

"You're not sleeping."

"Are you?"

She didn't answer. He didn't break the eye contact.

"Why did you want to see me?" she asked, lowering her gaze to watch her feet. She wasn't as confident as he remembered her but, clearly, the situation could excuse some of the differences.

"I'm making a team to chase Zhan Tiri down, and you'll be part of it," he announced, his Captain tone accepting no contradiction. Cassandra stiffened at the order, clearly uncomfortable, and Eugene felt guilty because he knew Rapunzel would be angry at him. After the whole moonstone debacle, his Sunshine would insist on making Cass the most comfortable possible, encouraging her to be herself and follow her dreams or something. And, honestly, when Rapunzel had faith in someone, Eugene never managed to stay angry for long - he had missed Cassandra and, while he couldn't excuse everything, he could move past it if Rapunzel did.

Rapunzel was not here, however. He was, this situation was and he needed Cassandra as the soldier he knew she could be.

"I- I'm not sure… Me?" she mumbled, her right hand going to cradle the other.

"Don't," Eugene warned, sensing immediately where her mind was going. He walked to her, too close for both of their comfort, his face hard as he poked her shoulder. "This guilt you're feeling? Shove it. Or better yet, turn it into anger or whatever fuels you to be stronger. You," he poked again, satisfied to see a dangerous look flash through her eyes, "you are one of Corona's strongest asset right now so, if you want forgiveness, work for it and help me bring everyone back."

She pushed his hand away and nodded, immediately raising herself to her full height to glare at him. He'd have smiled, if he didn't feel like there was a hole in his soul. In some part of his mind, he realised that burying their feelings until they exploded must be unhealthy but, for all their griefs, Cassandra and him were scarily similar when dealing with serious situations. They'd break later.

"Alright, Captain," she nodded, the word foreign on her tongue when it concerned Eugene. She swallowed against the lump in her throat to no avail. "Let's bring everyone back."

She went to sit and opened one of the books in the pile. Eugene wished Rapunzel could see it, could see how Cassandra was willing to listen to him even as it went against every of her instincts, because she wanted to save her - and he realized that Rapunzel would see it once he brought her back. He sat down too, and took another book.

------

It was weird going out into town to see that, as much as everyone wished it didn't, time was still passing. Some families were luckier than other - it was true both of those who lost no one, and those that lost everyone in one go - but all of the Coronans were just that, Coronans. They raised up when life brought them down and, right now, there were collective efforts to rebuild effectively.

Eugene was still surprised to see the genuine concern they held for him, now that Rapunzel was gone and that this whole fiasco happened at the start of his career as Captain of the Guard. They didn't resent him, apparently, when they had every reasons to, and Eugene was incredibly grateful for it.

It had been two weeks since the Snap. They were now used to see him travel into town to help them, Eugene being careful of what he agreed with Arianna - and she was right, he could see. Corona couldn't wait for a still unknown miracle, the subjects needed help now. And, after all, he didn't want to sleep much anyway, so it was a win-win.

Today, he wasn't stopping to help, however; he had a clear destination in mind.

He got down from Maximus, petting him gently because he had been the greatest horse and friend a man could ask for - and Eugene could see how sad he had been, having too lost his closest friends. Pascal was gone, too.

He went to knock and the door opened immediately.

"Hello, Quirin," Eugene smiled feebly, seeing in the shadows under his eyes a mirror of his own grief and exhaustion. "Sorry for not coming earlier."

"Ah, don't worry Captain," Quirin sighed. "We went through a lot of- of Varian's notes, and we found a lot of interesting material to find Zhan Tiri," he announced as Eugene went inside, barely stumbling over his son's name anymore, but not able to hide the deep-seated grief he held.

As awful as the comparison was, father and son had a very different way to deal with loss. Quirin was a quiet and efficient kind of devastated, though his red-rimmed eyes betrayed the way he spent his nights. Varian had been angry and loud, ready to destroy everything if it meant getting his dad back. Though, Eugene saw in Quirin's determination that they were lucky he didn't think Corona was responsible for the situation; something told him that he would stop at nothing to get his son back either.

They walked toward the lab, and Eugene felt a bittersweet kind of ache at seeing Angry pouring so silently over some papers. Catalina was gone, but she wasn't. At the very beginning, when Eugene realised that she was alone, that even Lance was gone - and that was its own can of worm he didn't want to open because Lance had been the only constant in his life since he was a kid and now, he wasn't here anymore - he had proposed that she sleep at the Castle. He wasn't sure it was a good solution, because the castle was huge, empty, and half-destroyed, but Angry needed help and he cared about her too much to let her go somewhere he didn't trust.

Thankfully, Quirin had come forward, tears still in his eyes, and asked if she would prefer to come to his own home.

"You already visited a lot of time," he explained, talking directly with her instead of Eugene which he knew the girl would appreciate, "and you're my son's friend, you're always welcome in our home."

So that was how this arrangement came to be. Angry raised her head at the noise and looked carefully at Eugene - he had been by but he hadn't stopped here in four days, so he understood some of the worry she displayed, especially now that everyone she cared about left her. Unwillingly, but to an orphan with abandonment issues, it was the same devastating feeling anyway - Eugene knew something about it.

"Hey, Angry," he smiled, going to put his hand lightly on her shoulder and she let him. "Quirin tells me you've found useful things?"

She looked up to him, looking so mature now, as if it wasn't two weeks but two years that had gone - and it certainly felt like it. But her little hand brushed against Eugene's for a second, before she launched herself in a explanation, and perhaps they weren't okay, but at least Eugen knew they'll manage. For now.

------

Faced with the doors to Rapunzel's room, Eugene felt sick. It was one thing to convince himself that he could fix this; another to be in front of the reality of her absence. He could practically hear her laugh inside, talking to Pascal about one thing or the other; could practically see her painting inside, with paint she didn't notice on her nose, so beautiful and bright that she made him light up inside each time. His hands hovered above the handles, trembling, and Eugene nearly turned back.

But he was here because he knew he would find her here.

Slowly, he pushed the door open, Rapunzel's bedroom more somber and grey than he had ever seen it. On her bed, her back to him and hunched on herself, was Queen Arianna.

Eugene swallowed harshly at the sight, unsure if confronting her here was the best idea. Her shoulders were shaking and, in her hands, he could see clearly Rapunzel's journal - for a moment, he wanted to cry too, but he didn't allow himself this privilege. He had to fix this, and Arianna was avoiding him, so here he was.

"Hello Eugene," she said quietly, her voice breaking.

"Hello Arianna," he breathed, guilt churning inside his stomach.

"I won't be able to avoid this conversation forever, will I?" Arianna laughed, but it was an empty sound. Still not looking at him, she put Rapunzel's journal carefully on the bed, and brushed her tears. When she met his eyes, the determination in her green one was so much like Rapunzel that Eugene felt like he was choking. He was still standing stiffly, but he had left the Captain uniform for this conversation.

"I- Cassandra found the device we needed in Demanitus' lair and, thanks to Xavier and Varian's notes, we managed to make it work," he reported carefully, before taking a big breath. "We can find Zhan Tiri."

The announcement didn't bring joy, because joy was something they both lacked these days. Arianna was still looking at him, every bit of the Queen she was, but with something of Rapunzel he couldn't face. Eugene closed his eyes tightly, before coming out with it.

"James - the ex-Captain of the Guard - agreed to take charge once again considering the situation. Cassandra will be going with me, and that's all, so Corona will still have all the manpower it needs but-"

"You're leaving," Arianna finished gently, her hand going to fiddle with her necklace. "Well, chasing after this monster, in any case."

"Yes," Eugene croaked, "I am."

She got up and suddenly, Eugene found himself wishing that she would scream at him. Scream that he was abandoning her, abandoning the kingdom he had swore to protect when he became Captain, scream that he should have saved Rapunzel when he had the occasion, not nearly one month later - scream at him all the things he already thought about himself, all the reproaches he wanted someone to throw at him. He wished for someone to blame him at least half as much as he blamed himself, because, then, he wouldn't feel so empty all the time.

It was unfair to expect that from Arianna. Grief was an old friend to her, and anger had never been her refuge.

She walked toward him, the purple sky illuminating her features and Eugene had to force himself not to take a step back when faced with the tangible emotion she exuded.

"I've lost a lot, Eugene. The world lost a lot. The kingdom, my kingdom is suffering, and I need to be strong for everyone, but I was wrong to think that I could stop you in your endeavour."

She raised her hand when he seemed about to protest, and got closer to him. He was taller than her, but didn't feel like it right now, not when she seemed to hold the universe on her shoulders.

"I've lost my husband. I've lost my daughter, for the second time." Her voice broke and tears gathered in her eyes while Eugene stood helplessly, unsure of the point she was trying to make even as he wished fervently he could do anything to ease her pain. She had done so much for him, and now he was helpless to comfort her. Arianna composed herself, her hand going to cup his cheek gently. "Don't make me lose you too."

Eugene exhaled all the air in his lungs with a "oh", his eyes warm and tingling as he realised that, in the middle of the worst loss of her life, Arianna was worried about him, wanted to protect him - was, to him, the only mother he ever knew. He was trembling, or she was trembling, he wasn't sure, because he abandoned all pretenses and swiped her in a crushing hug that she returned desperately.

For the first time since the Snap, Eugene cried.

------

As much as he wanted to just up and go, it took nearly a week for Eugene to be able to leave. Mostly because he helped the reinstated Captain of the Guard with the strategy the kingdom should adopt given the current situations, and also because they still needed more information before being able to. As surprising as it may sound, the Captain and him worked really well together, and Cassandra's help had too been invaluable.

"Fitzherbert," the Captain had called after him, a few minutes before their departure.

"Yes?"

"This," he gestured to the uniform Eugene had worn not too long ago, "is not permanent. I'm not un-retiring, we clear?"

Eugene could only nod, his throat dry, because he hadn't even thought they would want him back, considering the absolute disasters that happened during his short time. He was grateful, more than they could imagine because he had liked being Captain - he had liked the trust they were giving him and he had liked to be useful. He was glad it wasn't over yet.

As he told Arianna, only Cassandra and him went or, more precisely, both of them plus Max and Fidella. Eugene had worried about taking Maximus with him, considering this horse was the best guard in all Corona, but the same Maximus had decided for them that he would go with, and Eugene had never won a single argument with him.

They took the balloon for the long distances and that was the start of their search for Zhan Tiri.

The Demanitus’ device they managed to activate thanks to Varian's work was a radar that allowed them to get an idea on where Zhan Tiri was hiding thanks to the sheer energy the demon emitted, now that it possessed the powers of both the sundrop and the moonstone - but they soon realised that Zhan Tiri was playing with them. It lured them from places to places, appearing long enough for them to know that it worked, before disappearing - or worse.

"You’ve got to stop doing this," Cassandra muttered, tightening the bandage around his arm painfully. Eugene grunted, but didn’t bother answering, the pain a good distraction from the glare she was throwing him.

He yelped when she hit shin hard with her boot, before scowling at her as he took his arm from her hands. It was bandaged enough, anyway, and he didn’t have to justify his actions when she was the one he protected with this move.

"Eugene," she had said when he mumbled that he would go get something to eat, "you can't save them if you're dead."

He didn't answer, again, but that didn't stop her words from hitting their mark. He knew he had to do better.

Time passed quickly, and too slowly at the same time, until Eugene realised that it had been three months since the Snap and that he was still expecting Rapunzel to appear from time to time. Or Lance, or Catalina, or his Dad, or each and every person that he lost at the same time - his mind couldn't wrap itself over it so he just… didn't. Denial was his middle name, these days.

He had, quite ironically, started a journal, where he detailed precisely moments of their travels so he could tell everything to Rapunzel when he saw her. He knew she would appreciate it. Sometimes, it wasn't so much descriptions as it was letters, to them, the ones he lost - most often to Rapunzel. Sometimes, he only wrote "I'm sorry", because saying anything else would break him and he couldn't be weak - he couldn't let them down again.

Cassandra and him talked, a lot more than he expected. At first, he had asked of her that she recount to him every moment she spent with Zhan Tiri, a desperate attempt to find some kind of clue about what it could want. From there, she was the one who went into more personal territory, telling him about her choices and her regrets. He couldn't find it in himself to extend the same trust, because he couldn't conjure the force to talk about their lost friends except as if they had all went on an unexpected trip.

But he did try, with Cassandra. He told her about the things he had trouble forgiving her. Then, he told her about things he had trouble forgiving himself for. Little things, but that was better than nothing.

On Rapunzel's birthday, he said nothing. Not a word, not a joke, he barely made any noise at all. Thankfully, Cassandra left him relatively alone - something that Rapunzel would have never allowed, but that he wouldn't allow from anyone but her. On her birthday, he wrote about the proposal he had been imagining since his own real birthday - since he found out Rapunzel had a ring for him. He wrote about taking her on a boat, and putting the ring in a cupcake for Pascal to reveal. He wrote about how he imagined she would shut him down, if she still wasn't ready, and he wrote about how he imagined she would accept, if she was. He wrote about how much he loved her, but not how much he missed her, because there were already tears running down his cheeks and he didn't think he could stay silent if he did.

He remembered telling her that they should stop doing their birthday tradition of being put in mortal danger, but now he wished for these moments back because, at least, in the end he knew she was alright.

He shut the journal down.

Thankfully, Rapunzel's birthday only lasted a day. Lance's birthday too. Edmund's too. Catalina's, Frederick's, Varian's… He hated birthdays again, now.

It had been a year, since they went after Zhan Tiri. They had come back to Corona once or twice, the balloon a good mode of transportation and owl a great message carrier, but despite all of their efforts, each time they found Zhan Tiri - nearly once every three days - the demon easily knocked them down and disappeared again. It was playing with them, and Eugene still couldn't see what was the point of it all.

No one in Corona dared to tell Eugene that maybe it was hopeless, but he could see in their eyes that it was what most thought - one of the reason they didn't come back more often. Cassandra understood. They argued, but, in the end, they were made of the same stuff, and they had the same goal.

Eugene still missed Rapunzel so much it felt like a missing limb, but he was clinging to this pain, clinging to his grief as if it was new, because he refused to mourn. Mourning was giving up, and he couldn't. He couldn't understand how Arianna and Frederick lived eighteen years through this, eighteen tears thinking that Rapunzel might be dead but never giving up hope. Each day made him quite aware that he wouldn't last eighteen years - not when only one broke him this much. Soon, there wouldn't be any pieces of him that could be picked up.

Finally, they found the solution in their beginning: the eclipse. Exactly one year after the Snap, some kind of poetic irony Eugene didn't want to think about.

Whatever Zhan Tiri did to get away each time, whatever great power it possessed - the day of the eclipse, Zhan Tiri was weakened. Once that Eugene and Cassandra understood that they needed the sundrop and the moonstone in its arms to touch, it was scarily quick to defeat this demon that took so much from them.

One year. One year of pain and grief, for it to be over in less than an hour. Eugene would have laughed, if his heart wasn't beating so loudly inside his ears as he watched the glowing stone floating in front of them, a beautiful mix of the moon and the sun's powers.

It wasn't over yet.

Maximus neighed worriedly but Eugene ignored him as he got to his feet, ready to take this stone and turn everything back as it should be. It was a hand, however, that stopped him.

"Eugene, this- This could kill you," Cassandra said, a question she couldn't ask between these words. 

"We didn't come this far just to turn back now," he answered plainly, no doubts lingering in his mind. "And if I can't bring them back…"

He didn't finish the thought, but Cassandra heard it loud and clear. This was their last chance, their last hope; if this didn't work, then… They had one year of grief to catch up on. She didn't think she could survive it, and she definitely knew he wouldn't. She had seen him unravelling, more than anyone. He had a journal full of stories dedicated to ghosts he couldn't let go of.

"Then, let's do it together," she announced firmly, her own decision taken. Maybe, at least, they wouldn't die - maybe she could save Eugene, even if she couldn't save anyone else. She hoped it wouldn't come to that, but she was tired of losing people because of her mistakes.

He looked about to protest, but nodded in the end. They approached the stone, pushing against the ring of energy encircling it, her hand gripping his sleeve. Eugene wondered what Rapunzel would think, now that both of her favourite people in the world got along - she would be overjoyed, he knew, and he couldn't help but smile at the idea that he would see her soon...

One way or another.

They grabbed the stone, together. They looked at each other but couldn't really see, blinded by the energy coursing through their veins. Eugene was the first one to talk - he sang the healing incantation, and Cassandra followed suit.

Flower, gleam and glow

Let your power shine

Make the clock reverse

Bring back what once was mine

The words were heavy and clumsy on his tongue, nothing of the grace he remembered Rapunzel having. He thought back to this night, at the campfire, when she healed his hand - thought back to this day, this smile, this woman who changed his life forever.

Heal what has been hurt

Change the Fates' design

Save what has been lost

Bring back what once was mine

He was begging at this point. Who, he didn't know, but for the first time since he hugged Arianna, he let himself feel the possibility of a world without his dad, without Lance or Varian or all his other friends - without Rapunzel, and he begged, because the pain in his heart was too great to consider even living in this reality.

What once was mine, they both finished, and the power exploded out of their hands, toward the sky, sending them both flying.

Maximus shook Eugene awake, one more second away from outright licking him - which would have disgusted them both. Eugene gasped, sat back up quickly, his eyes darting to Cassandra - seeing that, thankfully, she was also getting back up. Then, he looked around him.

There were flowers that hadn't been there before. A bird was looking around, apparently a bit dazed, before he took off - but Eugene was sure that all the birds had fled when the showdown with Zhan Tiri began. There was life, when there had only been half of it before.

Eugene flop back down, and laughed so hard he cried.

------

Getting back to Corona was the most stressful journey Eugene had ever been on. He almost started to write in his journal, until he realised that it was his way to talk to Rapunzel when she was not here - but she was now. He would see her soon, it was merely a two days journey in the balloon; he didn't need to write anymore. So he fidgeted, instead, his mind running with the best and the worst scenarios for their return. He also thought about those he had left in Corona - about Arianna, being back with her family; Quirin, finally reunited with his son; Angry, being hugged by both Catalina and Lance after a year apart. Had it been a year for them? He didn't think so, but he'd only know for sure once he was back. He wondered what Rapunzel must think, now that she surely had been briefed on the situation. Was she worried? Nobody knew where they were, exactly, or how they won against Zhan Tiri so, for all she knew, they could be hurt. All the more reason to get back as soon as possible.

Cassandra, for her part, was nervous but also worried. Half of Corona still thought of her as the crazy moonstone lady that put them in the clutch of Zhan Tiri, and she didn't want to know how they would react to her. Eugene threw her a knowing glance, but didn't think he could reassure as well as Rapunzel would surely do once they were back.

Because they would soon be back, and he would soon see her. Was he giddy or queasy? He wasn't sure.

They saw Corona well before the were above it, and Eugene popped his fingers so much Cassandra nearly worried he would break them. Then she was two busy biting her lips to make any kind of comment.

Neither of them were ready for the applause.

As the balloon got closer to the castle, they heard cheers and claps. Eugene peered over the edge of the balloon and saw that a lot of Coronans - a lot more than when he left - were gathering on the streets and cheering them on, some going as far as calling their names. Eugene smiled, and said nothing as he saw Cassandra get more emotional beside him, this acceptance more than she expected - even if it was deserved. Maximus headbutted him and Eugene petted him, a little absently because the were only moments away from landing.

Moments away from seeing them again.

In the yard, they were met by the wide-eyed stares of the guards and Eugene felt something lift in his heart when he saw that Conli, who had been turned into dust, was back. He was even more surprised when they called him Captain, before crowding him and Cassandra. The Captain - James - went to hug his daughter, but Eugene, as touched as he felt, really wanted to run to the throne room, because he felt that was where he'd find her.

He extracted himself and ran toward the stairs leading to the front door, not even having the awareness to excuse himself. They'd understand.

Eugene arrived in front of the door and, as he lifted his hand toward it, the doors were thrown open.

His eyes met Rapunzel's green ones. She hadn't changed a bit, except for her hair that was now short again and- and-

Eugene threw himself at her, bringing them both to their knees as he hugged her as tight as he could. She wasn't light, she wasn't dust, she was a sure weight against him that he knew like the back of his hand. She breathed his name, and he laughed weakly, tears making their way silently to her dress as he buried his head in the crook of her neck.

Rapunzel's right hand was tracing circles on his back as an attempt to sooth him. Eugene briefly opened his eyes and saw, from the corner of his vision, Cassandra standing awkwardly to the side, a shy but genuine smile on her lips. Eugene shifted, raised his hand to her - and she took it, nonplussed.

He pulled her into the hug. Rapunzel beamed, he could feel it on the skin of his neck, and he closed his eyes again.

Which was why he didn't see Lance get closer to them until he was hugging all three of them, his arms massive and familiar and safe. It was like a dam broke open and, suddenly, Catalina, Angry, Varian all jumped on them. Then, there was Edmund's arm settling on Eugene shoulder, and the flowery perfume Arianna always wore appearing to his left, with Frederick's rumbling laugh to accompany it. More people came, and maybe Eugene couldn't breathe, maybe there was still something in his heart that would never be completely fixed, but they would heal because they were home.

They were all home.

[rosethornewrites]

Fic: the thread may stretch or tangle but it will never break, ch. 6

Relationships: Lán Zhàn | Lán Wàngjī & Wèi Yīng | Wèi Wúxiàn, Lán Zhàn | Lán Wàngjī & Wēn Qíng, Lán Zhàn | Lán Wàngjī/Wèi Yīng | Wèi Wúxiàn

Characters: Lán Zhàn | Lán Wàngjī, Wèi Yīng | Wèi Wúxiàn, Wēn Qíng, Wēn Níng | Wēn Qiónglín, Granny Wēn, Lán Yuàn | Lán Sīzhuī

Additional Tags: Pre-Slash, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Secrets, Crying, Masks, Soulmates, Truth, Self-Esteem Issues, Regret, It was supposed to be a one-shot, Fix-It, Eventual Relationships, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, wwx needs a hug, Nightmares, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Filial Piety, Handfasting, Phobias, Sleeping Together, Fear, Panic Attacks, Love Confessions, Getting Together, Phobias

Summary: When Wei Ying wakes, they have a long-overdue conversation.

Note: See end.

AO3 link

Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5

———

Lan WangJi stirs naturally at mao shi, confused by the feeling of someone against him at first. Wei Ying is still curled in his arms, his face pressed against his chest, one hand fisted in his robes. 

When he tries to disentangle himself, it’s more difficult than expected. He finds Wei Ying’s other hand is clinging to a lock of his hair, and both fists tighten at the movement.

Then Wei Ying stirs, jerking back immediately and yelping, “Dog!” as though still trapped in his panic of the night before.

Lan WangJi finds himself pulled part way with him, as Wei Ying neglects to release his hair.

“Eliminated, Wei Ying,” he says softly, watching the bleariness of sleep slowly fade from his eyes.

Thankfully, the remnants of last night’s panic fade with it, and Wei Ying lets go of his hair, wincing in sympathy as he realizes he’s pulled it.

“Sorry,” he murmurs.

“There is no need, between us,” Lan WangJi gently reminds him. “I did not realize you were afraid of dogs.”

Wei Ying flinches, and he realizes the fear is strong enough that he reacts to just the word.

“Wei Ying?”

He keeps his tone soft, a request, but one that can be ignored if he so wishes. Instead Wei Ying sighs, and reaches down to pull up a leg of his trousers, revealing flesh marred by old scars.

“The other one is the same,” he says. “And they go higher. Living on the streets means fighting dogs for food. You learn pretty quick they’re mean.”

“How long?” Lan WangJi asks, trying to keep the horror from his voice. 

Wei Ying shrugs, rolling his trousers back down. 

“I don’t remember. A few years. I didn’t keep much track of time. Too young when my parents died, and no one really knows exactly when that was.”

He can see Wei Ying shiver, and wraps the blanket around him.

“It’s only mao,” he tells him. “You can sleep longer.”

That gets a grimace. “Not likely to sleep. Even if you got rid of that damn thing. I’m surprised it didn’t give me nightmares.”

“Of your childhood?”

Lan WangJi knew he had cried out about dogs in his fevered sleep, but that was during a fever. Though, perhaps, after trauma…

Wei Ying shakes his head. 

“I never told you. In Nightless City, when Wen Chao took me for ‘questioning’...”

He trails off, his mouth a thin line, and draws the blanket around him tighter.

“When I didn’t have information on the missing Yin Iron he put me in qi-suppressing chains and tossed me in the dungeon, in a cell with a very hungry dog. So big its teeth were level with my face.”

Wei Ying smiles, but it’s without mirth.

“Said if I was still alive in the morning, all would be forgiven.”

Given what had happened only hours ago, Lan WangJi doubts Wei Ying, even with his qi, could have fought effectively. Wen Chao wouldn’t have known of his crippling fear, but had not expected him to survive regardless.

He remembers that morning, the blood on Wei Ying’s skin, the rips in his clothing, and his show of flippancy. But he also remembers he had been quieter after that, putting on a mask of carelessness, but also careful to toe the line.

Suddenly Wei Ying’s fear of dogs in the delirium of fever has a new context.

“You survived,” Lan WangJi comments.

Wei Ying laughs shortly. 

“Only thanks to Wen Ning. He knocked it out with needles, and gave me energy boosting medicine and herbs to stop the bleeding. I was able to save some of the herbs. That’s why I had them in the cave.”

For a moment, silence stretches between them, and Lan WangJi reflects on the scene Wei Ying had caused at the banquet, his anger and grief at Qiongpi Path. Wen Ning, who had also saved Jiang Cheng from Wen Chao after the fall of Lotus Cove, who had sheltered them.

Wen Ning, who the Jins and many of the other sects would, and had, happily killed. Just as, he suspects, they would Wei Ying, particularly with the prize of the Stygian Tiger Seal. Jin Guangshan’s obsession with it bothers Lan WangJi, with his zhiji now unprotected by a sect, alienated from the cultivation world.

“I would have died in that dungeon,” Wei Ying comments, “a warning to all of you to behave, if he hadn’t stepped in.”

Lan WangJi tries not to imagine it, but he can, all too easily. Instead of Wei Ying joining the line at indoctrination and complaining of hunger and boasting of his glorious scars, his corpse being dragged to be dumped in front of them.

Wei Ying’s death would have crushed him, he thinks. With his brother missing and father and uncle injured, his sect decimated, the promise to Lan Yi broken… to lose Wei Ying at that point would have destroyed what was left of his sanity.

Lan WangJi, too, owes a tremendous debt to Wen Ning.

“But maybe they wouldn’t have attacked Lotus Pier, then.”

It’s barely a whisper, one so filled with grief and guilt Lan WangJi is reaching for his arm, gripping it through the blanket, before he realizes it, imaginings of Wei Ying’s bloody body in various states of brokenness on the steps of Nightless City haunting his mind. He can feel the tension in his body, as though Wei Ying is on the verge of shattering.

“Wei Ying. They would have attacked regardless.”

“They were just going to make it a supervisory office at first. If I was punished.”

Lan WangJi isn’t sure he wants to know what that entailed, but he asks anyway.

“Punished?”

Wei Ying shrugs. “My hand. It would’ve prevented the massacre. I think Madam Yu was going to do it, too. But then they mentioned Lotus Cove becoming the supervisory office.”

He feels a chill at the idea of Wei Ying mutilated like that, of having never heard him play the dizi, of the pain he would have accepted for the sake of others. This image, so quickly on the heels of the previous… He knows Wei Ying would have given his core anyway, even with such an injury. 

“Wei Ying, they only would have started with your hand,” he says softly. “They would have come back and wanted more.”

He receives no response, and he knows nothing he says will convince Wei Ying that the fall of Lotus Pier, the deaths of the disciples and Jiang FengMian and Yu ZiYuan, perhaps even the war itself… None of it was his fault. Worse, he knows Wei Ying would feel any loss on his part would be acceptable, that Wei Ying always feels thus.

But he can’t help himself, and can only try anyway.

“You lost enough in the war, Wei Ying. Wen RuoHan was to blame for the fall of Lotus Pier, not you. Likely he was only defeated because of your contribution and sacrifices.”

Wei Ying had been avoiding looking at him, but his gaze lifts to meet his finally. His eyes shine as though he is on the verge of tears, and there’s a tightness in his jaw. He had this look months ago, during the hunt when Jiang YanLi defended him publicly against the ugly accusations of Jin ZiXun. He truly isn’t used to being defended, to being valued.

Lan WangJi takes a moment to collect himself, to find words. 

“I wish you had not suffered as much as you did. I wish you did not suffer still. You do not deserve to suffer, Wei Ying.”

Normally he would expect Wei Ying to be flippant, to make light of everything, but for once his zhiji has let himself be open. Lan WangJi can only hope it means he has regained his trust, but it could simply be the early hour and weariness following the panic of the dog spirit. 

“‘A candle illuminates others at the cost of burning itself up.’” He tightens his hold on his arm. “You cannot shoulder the burdens of the world yourself. Let me help you.”

Silence stretches between them for a short while.

“Lan Zhan, do you think you can help me?”

A year ago, the question would have been asked in a hard voice, defensive. Now, Wei Ying’s voice is so small, as though he wonders if anyone can help him. It tears at Lan WangJi, reminds him of how very late he is, reminds him of when he asked Wei Ying to let him help before, and failed to see it through.

He can find no words to answer; instead, he decides to let his guqin speak, let the music speak, and hope his zhiyin truly understands. He lets go of Wei Ying’s arm and manifests his guqin, begins the gentle melody of “WangXian.”

Wei Ying relaxes by increments as he plays, easing to lean back against the wall of the cave. Lan WangJi runs through the song twice, then stills the strings, dismisses the instrument, and waits quietly.

“I remember where I heard that now,” Wei Ying says, breaking the silence left in the wake of the music. “The cave. After we fought the XuanWu. You sang for me.”

“Yes. You were ill from your injuries, from infection.”

Wei Ying hums softly, his eyes closed as though remembering.

“I think I asked what it was called, but I don’t remember the answer. I must have passed out.”

So he truly hadn’t heard; his behavior upon his reappearance had been unconnected to what Lan WangJi had thought was his confession.

“You were delirious with fever,” he tells him, hedging. “Do you know the significance of the Lan forehead ribbon?”

Wei Ying frowns at him, clearly confused by what appears to him to be a change of subject, peering at him through the dusky gloom of the cave.

“Something about restraint. No one’s supposed to touch it.”

Lan WangJi sighs softly.

“‘To regulate oneself,’ more precisely. Only family and cultivation partners are permitted to touch it.”

There’s a minute change in Wei Ying’s expression, but he can’t quite see well enough in the dim lighting to tell what it is. He pulls a talisman from his sleeve and activates it, lighting the candles that line the cave on small juts in the stone.

“Do you remember the Cold Spring cave?” he asks, pressing on, watching his face.

Wei Ying is silent, but his brows knot. It takes less than a minute for him to realize, his lips parting in shock.

“We bowed,” Wei Ying whispers, his voice hoarse. “That was a handfasting? I didn’t know. You never said.”

Lan WangJi doesn’t know how to reply, so says nothing.

“Why didn’t you?” Wei Ying looks confused now. “It’s not… We never… You can have it annulled.”

He tries to find the words, anything that would help him convey what he means, but speaking is not his forte, especially with Wei Ying trying to point out the marriage is technically not valid because it was never consummated, which isn’t the path his mind needs to embark on at the moment.

“I did not wish to,” Lan WangJi finally says. “I still do not.”

Wei Ying stares at him, looking frozen, as though the words have paralyzed him. He still looks confused, uncertain. Lan WangJi returns to the music.

“The title of the song is ‘WangXian.’”

Wei Ying’s reaction is a small intake of air, almost a gasp. Emotions flit across his face too fast to decipher, before he hides it in the blanket.

“Lan Zhan.”

His voice is muffled and rough.

“I can’t cultivate to immortality anymore, Lan Zhan. The resentful energy… you were right, when you said it harms the body and mind. I don’t know if I’ll even… if I’ll even have a mediocre lifespan. I’ll leave you.”

Nowhere in what he has said, Lan WangJi realizes, is a rejection. Rather, it’s an attempt to convince him that Wei Ying isn’t good enough, isn’t worthy. To remind him that Wei Ying accepted a shorter lifespan and pain to help his brother. As though his selflessness would ever make him unworthy. 

Lan WangJi reaches out, grasps Wei Ying’s arm under the blanket again. It is still painful to be reminded of the fleeting time they’ll have, but at the same time it makes what he has to say more important, makes the idea of wasting any more devastating.

“Then I will find you again in your next life, and every life thereafter if necessary,” he promises.

He recognizes the sound Wei Ying makes in response as a choked sob, and pulls him close, into his arms.

“You deserve better,” Wei Ying mumbles against him, still hiding his face. “I’m not—”

“Wei Ying,” he interrupts, not willing to hear his zhiji put himself down. “I want only you.”

Wei Ying’s breath hitches, and he finally looks up, his face wet, his lips trembling. Lan WangJi abandons decorum, reaching to card one hand in the hair below his ear, curling his fingers at the nape of his neck, and leaning in to kiss him.

This first kiss is clumsy, as he isn’t quite sure what one is supposed to do with one’s lips, and it doesn’t seem Wei Ying is entirely clear on it either—but Wei Ying is reciprocating. He’s reciprocating, and Lan WangJi’s heart sings with the understanding that this is truly not rejection.

When he pulls back, Wei Ying looks startled, flushed, maybe even shy. But he doesn’t seem to be crying anymore, which Lan WangJi counts as a win.

He finds himself relieved when Wei Ying softly teases him, that he’s moved away from the brooding and seriousness that has plagued him since they woke. He’s been pulled out of his melancholy depression, and there’s a kind of power there—Lan WangJi did that.

“You stole my first kiss,” he murmurs, his voice almost coy. “You’ll have to take responsibility.”

“Mm,” he agrees. “I did when we were fifteen.”

Wei Ying’s startled laugh is like music to him, and he pulls him gently down onto the pallet to kiss him more.

All else can wait.

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

AND THEY WERE HUSBANDS. I’ve been thinking about this chapter for a couple weeks now. Glad it’s finally written.

“A candle illuminates others at the cost of burning itself up” is a Chinese proverb I felt fit in this situation.

[thethoughtsfromthreeam]

California

Pairing: Agent Whiskey/Jack Daniels x OC

Warnings: Torture

A/N:  This story is consuming me.  I’m currently just starting Chapter 14, so that means if I keep my schedule the way I am, y’all gonna have this for the next month.  Also, I have been having a lot of fun with the Agent/Non-Agent/Admin Staff code name stuff.  Maybe a little TOO much fun.

Reminder: I haven’t seen Kingsman: The Golden Circle, so I’m just using the Wikia, IMDB.com, some gifs, and my own weird ass brain to make up this whole ass story.

Tag List:  @zeldasayer , @romanticgumchewer, @tarrevizslas , @coolmaybelateruniverse , @the-feckless-wonder, @lavenderl3mons , @pascalisthepunkest [please message me to be added or subtracted]

[PART 1]  [PART 2]  [PART 3]

 Part 4 

Gone

In the wee hours of the morning, Ginger ran through the halls of HQ and jumped into the elevator, willing the damn thing to hurry up.  When it finally dropped her off on the eighth floor, she rushed down the hall to Jack’s apartment, using her master key to open the door.  When she ran into his room, she started calling his name.

“Whiskey!  You have got to get up!  GET UP NOW!” She was practically screaming in her panic and she shoved at his shoulder.  The sudden noise startled Jack and he shot straight up in bed as if he had been launched by some unseen force.  When he turned to Ginger, confusion mixed with a little irritation sprang up on his face.

“What in the hell, Ging?  It’s what? 3:00 a.m.?  What the hell are you doing in my house?”

“No, it’s 5:00 a.m., but that doesn’t matter, you have got to come with me!” She was pulling his arm and he was forced to throw his legs over the edge of the bed, thanking the lord he was wearing pants for once. He stood up and Ginger grabbed his hands and kept pulling.  But he wasn’t taking another step until he got an answer.

“GINGER!” He shouted and she stopped when he put his hands on her upper arms.  “What in the damnation is going on?!”

“Its Sirah!  She’s gone! She’s gone!  Oh god, Whiskey, she’s gone!”  Her tears started up again and a small part of her was ashamed at her behavior. But her best friend was missing, possibly dead, and the hole in her heart ached terribly.  She wanted her back.

Jack yanked his hands from her arms and stumbled back.  Ginger’s words stole his breath and he wasn’t sure if his heart was even beating anymore.  He had been punched in the gut thousands of times, but not even one felt as terrible as this did.  Without a second thought, he ran from his apartment and he could hear Ginger running after him.

He made a left in the hall and headed for the stairs – the elevator was going to be too slow – and taking steps two and three at a time, he ran down to the fifth floor.  A few times he stumbled but caught himself with Ginger’s loud gasp ringing in his ears.

When they made it down, he slammed open the door and headed right for the board room, passing agents and staff who stopped and stared.  The normally put together Agent Whiskey looked a damn mess. When he ran into the room, he noticed that Tequila and Champ were already there, flanked by two other agents. Normally one for manners, Jack ignore them in his haste.

“WHAT THE HELL DO YOU MEAN SHE’S GONE?!”  He bit back the rest of his comment when he realized he was yelling. He took a deep breath and then a second when he felt Ginger’s hand on his forearm.  He had to get himself together if he was going to save her.  He had to listen.

“Whiskey, well over four days ago the safe house West Coast was using on the California case was blown up.  The tracking devices confirmed that Malbec and Sirah were the only agents in the house at the time and since the explosion, Sirah’s device has been silent. West Coast dispatched agents immediately and they found Malbec dead from a single gunshot wound to the head. Sirah was nowhere to be found.” Champ struggled to speak as he gripped the back of his chair until his knuckles were white.  She had been gone almost five days and West Coast just notified HQ on the situation.  He wasn’t sure what was driving him more now, his grief or his anger.

Like Whiskey, he took several deep breaths to remain professional and to get through this, but it was damned hard.  All three men had grown fond of Sirah in their own way – Tequila felt brotherly affection, Champ saw her as a daughter, and Jack. . . .  Well, Jack loved the hell out of her.  

“We found Agent Sherry dead, also from a gunshot wound.  Same gun was used in both shootings.”  Tequila added.  “Everything at the house and in Sherry’s car was destroyed, by fire for the former and by a person for the latter.  Evidence shows that both women left the house with files and paperwork, but nothing was found on the scene when agents arrived.”

Both HQ and West Coast believed that the suspect in the California case was behind all of this because reports from the three agents indicated they were narrowing their list and were close to identifying them.  But without all the new information from this phase of the case, any chance they had of finding Sirah in time was slim.  The room grew heavy with negative thoughts until Ginger gasped.  They turned to look at her.

“No, not nothing. . .“ She turned on her heel and started towards the door. “Sirah uploaded reports and some additional stuff to a database every other day like clockwork.  It’s not everything since they couldn’t completely secure the safe house, the rest of it she kept on a microdrive.  

“She’s always been so regular about it, I’ll admit I stopped checking her reports about a week ago, just having Kefir process them directly.  But I bet everyone one of you that he has everything organized and we can start from there!”

She ran from the room and the rest of the agents followed her.  Tech specialist Chai jumped a mile in her chair at the sudden explosion of noise and people in the office.  Without a word, Ginger sat at her computer and let her fingers fly across the keyboard.  Multiple file windows opened and her eyes darted left to right as she read the dates on the screen.  Tequila was right behind her doing the same thing when he spotted the most recent date.

“There!”  He pointed, “wait, it says she last uploaded information last night!”  Ginger clicked on the file and opened the report. It was sparse and contain no attachments like her others had.  Together, Ginger and Tequila skimmed the writings before he stood backwards with his mouth agape.  Jack and Champ looked at him curiously.

“I don’t think Sirah wrote this and I don’t think she uploaded it.  There is something about this that don’t sound like her at all.”  Tequila leaned back down and read the entry again and he looked at Ginger, who nodded in confirmation.  “Yep, someone’s fucked with this.  I don’t know if they did anything to the rest of her reports, but someone’s trying to throw us off her scent.”

Chai spoke up suddenly, “All her old notes through five days ago were printed out for physical records by Kefir.  He would process them weekly, so we have her originals.”  She pointed at the box sitting on the specialist’s desk.  Tequila walked over and grabbed it.

“Chai, call Saki, Toddy, and Pisco.  I don’t care if you wake their asses up, I want them down here immediately.” The even tone Tequila normally sported was replaced with a hard glint and he looked at Champ and Jack with a single question in his eyes.

Champ squared his shoulders; his agent was out there, and he was going to find out who took her and kick their ever-loving ass from the Sierras to the Blue Ridge.  He looked at Tequila and Jack and both nodded back to him.  They were heading to California.

---***---

Sirah woke up groggy, barely able to see anything through her swollen eyes. The shackles binding her wrists dug deeply into her skin as she moved, and she struggled to open her mouth it was so dry.  Suddenly she was drenched in water and she gasped loudly before crying out from the pain jolting through her body as she jerked forward.  It was almost too much to handle.

“Where is it, agent?”  The voice was back.  She wasn’t sure how long she had been where she was, but she knew in between her bouts of unconsciousness that his voice was always there.  She struggled to stay awake, to listen, but the fight was so hard. If she could just sleep a little longer. . .

A fist suddenly slammed into her face and she could feel the back of her skull crack against the wall.

“WAKE UP!”  The voice screamed.  Her head lolled forward in response and he grabbed her chin, yanking her head upwards. “Fucking tell me where the microdrive is at and I’ll let you go.”

Even through the fogginess of her brain, she knew he was lying.  She shook her head and croaked, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Like hell you do, you stupid bitch.  You’re going to tell me where the hell that goddamn drive is at and then I’m going to kill you like I did that bitch Malbec.”  When she didn’t respond, her captor drew his leg back and kicked her in the ribs.  Her breath and the voice both left her.  Before she could even recover from the most recent abuse, hands began to take the shackles off her wrists.  She felt herself being picked up and dragged away to another location.

They entered a room with a blinding single light and a long table. They threw her down on the hard surface and handcuffed her legs and arms to the edge.  She couldn’t help the whimper that escape her mouth as searing pain shot down her leg and throughout her back.  She didn’t want to show weakness, but whatever grasp she had on her actions was weakening.

“Now, Sirah, tell me where the microdrive is at.  I’m done playing around with you.”  The small part of Sirah that hadn’t given into the circumstances suddenly rose to the surface.

“Oh, we were having fun?  I hadn’t noticed.”  Her voice held a smirk even if her face didn’t.  If she was going to die, then so be it.  At this point, death would be a welcomed end to this ordeal.  The voice didn’t respond but she heard the snap of fingers.  Suddenly, her face was covered in cloth and before she could react, water was being poured on her head.  She was so weak she could bare fight back.  When her captor realized this, he demanded the procedure to stop.

“Take her back, I’ll find another way to get it out of her. Besides, it’s no fun if they just sit there and take it.  Torture should be fun.”  He laughed and she could hear the cruelty in his voice.  The cloth was removed and so were the handcuffs.  She felt herself being dragged back to wherever they were holding her and suddenly, one of the captors stumbled as they entered her jail cell. They nearly dropped her, and the jarring movement brought fresh waves of pain.  She was once again shackled to the wall.  She smiled wryly over that.  She can’t even move, what was the point?

[marvel-ous-shitposts]

You Were On My Side, Even When I Was Wrong

(Part one: All the Trees Change In the Fall, part two: For Staying Back and Watching Me Shine)

Peter Parker was having a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day.

Scratch that, it was much, much longer than a day. (One might even wager that it was a no good, very bad life, but Peter tried not to think about that. It was too depressing.)

The most recent reasons why his life was shit were less depressing and more irritating. It was the first week of senior year, and somehow he already had three failed assignments in two different classes, that new AP biology teacher- Dr. Connors- had it out for him, he’d lost another backpack while stopping some girl from jumping off the Queensboro Bridge, and Happy and Aunt May were somehow still dating.

He explained all this to a very patient Mj, as she pulled him through Flushing Meadows by his hand, nodding and “mmhmm”-ing sympathetically. They were in the park to take pictures for Mj’s art class, and she had claimed that Peter “was just better at photography than her,” although he suspected that she was just lying to give him an excuse to come along. She probably hadn’t expected that Peter would be in this bad of a mood, but his animated ranting didn’t seem to bother her.

He was in the middle of detailing that he was just tired of being nice, he did want to go ape shitt, when he froze.

He barely had time to process the loud, screaming warning bells of danger that blared in his mind before he shoved Mj out of the way, her shriek compounding with the sudden sharp pain in the back of his neck.

Not even bothering to check what hit him, he spun around, emboldened by adrenaline, to find himself face to face with an absolute whack job.

The man, who was wearing nothing but a weird assortment of animal furs and a loin cloth, was pointing a rifle at Peter and laughing maniacally.

“Hello spider,” he spit, a gleeful ring to his tone.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” was Peter’s intelligent reply, his heart beat quickening.

Loincloth-man’s smile widened. “Don’t deny it, spider. I am a hunter. I know how to follow tracks.” He hissed the last word, waving a piece of paper in his free hand. It took Peter a second to realize what the paper was-

“Hey! I got a zero on that assignment because of you.” His words were slurring around the edges, and he stumbled forward.

Peter couldn’t hear loincloth-man’s response, some gloaty nonsense about a tranquilizer dart in Peter’s neck, because he was too focused on the sound of running footsteps from somewhere behind him. His vision was tunneling, mostly focused on the rifle pointed straight at his face, but he thought he saw something moving out of the corner of his eye.

“You were surprisingly easy to hunt, spider,” loincloth-man said, and then Peter could’ve sworn he heard MJ’s voice yelling, and a commotion exploded in front of him as he watched something tackle the man in the loincloth, and there was a very loud noise and a very bright light and then Peter’s shoulder stung.

He swayed for a second, his mind slowly connecting the dots before adding: “I’ve just been shot” to his list of no good, very bad, and then more importantly, “I didn’t even get to finish my conversation with MJ.”

He could hear her calling his name, and he managed to mumble out an “I’m gonna go feral,” in response.

Then he tipped gracelessly into the abyss.

Somehow, Peter knew he would wake up in a forest. He did know how he knew, and he didn’t really care, but he felt satisfyingly vindicated when he opened his eyes to some funky, ethereal trees.

He was not prepared for what, or rather, who, else he would see, but to be honest he wasn’t entirely surprised either.

“Oh great. Fabulous. I’m dead.”

“Woah kid, who pissed in your cornflakes?”

As nonchalant as Peter pretended to be, Tony’s voice still struck some deep chord of grief in Peter’s chest. Ignoring the pain, he pressed on. “Well I guess if I’m dead I can’t fail AP Bio. But still, I got killed by a man wearing a loincloth?! I’m gonna go absolutely batshit. And anyway-“

“Peter, slow down,” Mr. Stark cut off Peter’s irate tirade. “You’re not dead.”

Peter froze, swinging his angry stare until he looked Tony dead in the eyes. “Are you. Fucking. Kidding me?”

Peter was almost too caught up in his own anger to notice the confusion and concern that flashed across Mr. Stark’s face. “Kid-“

“You mean to tell me,” Peter cut him off, “that I got shot by some guy not even wearing goddamn pants, and instead of dying like a normal person I la-dee-daed off to have some fucking fever dream hallucination?”

Tony looked stricken for a moment before replying, his voice low. “Pete this isn’t a hallucination, I am really here.”

Peter rolled his eyes.

“Kid I promise you, it’s hard to explain, but it’s me.”

Peter didn’t respond to that, keeping his glare fixed on some point beyond Mr. Stark’s head.

“Peter, what is going on with you? I’ve never seen you this angry in all the time I’ve known you.”

“Well you didn’t know me very long.” The words just slipped out of his mouth, and with them traitorous angry-tears that Peter had been trying to keep a lid on.

Realization dawned on Tony’s face. “Kid-“

Peter was really crying now. He shrugged, looking away. “Everything just sucks right now, Mr. Stark.”

He kept his eyes trained on a single tree as Mr. Stark pulled him into a tight hug. “I’m sorry, kid.”

Peter sighed “I know. It’ll be okay.”

I’ll be okay

And when Peter woke up in the medbay with tears on his face that he couldn’t explain and the remnants of a dream he couldn’t quite remember, he looked over at MJ curled up on the chair next to him and smiled.

Ok, so maybe not everything sucked.

[stealinghero]

Ahh I'm shy to ask T . T Maybe you could write a story where Goemon's s/o went on a heist and was pronounced dead by authorities but after like three or four months come back and is like- 'Babe I had to fake my death for a bit. I'm sorry.' I'm curious to know how you think this samurai man would react. Mayyyyybe a little NSFW at this end? ~ , ~ Hhhh androgynous s/o??? Still loving you're writing- congrats on 200 posts! Really excited to see what's to come.

Don’t be shy!! I don’t bite (unless you want it) and LOVE getting asks. No matter what it is! ^___^

It’s weird writing Goemon. On one side he’s pretty easy because he’s chilled and on the other side he’s very intricate with his words and actions. I even put in the hint of a bit nsfw, because he IS a little dirty shit if he really wants to.

I hope you enjoy:

1. denial

2. anger

3. bargaining

4. depression

5. acceptance

Those are the 5 steps of grief. He had gone through all of them. Some were more intense than the others, some longer than others. It would be a lie to say it didn’t hurt anymore. To say it didn’t shred his heart into small pieces whenever his thoughts betrayed him and he felt himself breaking down.

Everything was a potential trigger. A scent, a gesture, even a word. Food didn’t taste the same, his laugh was hollow – just as he was.

Something was lost that day, a spark remained in hope. Then the announcement. And the spark went out.

He had tried to end it. This life didn’t make sense anymore. Why should he want to live in a world without them? But still, he had waited. For a sign, a whisper of the grass, anything. Nothing came. No angel flew down from Heaven to tell him everything would be alright. No Buddha appeared and taught him a lesson about reincarnation and the suffering you had to endure beforehand.

Just Lupin and Jigen. Their preaching was different and had helped him more than any God could do. They sat next to him, they drank with him, they listened to him.

Not even once they were gone too far from him. He would miss them, sure. He would feel even more alone than he was now. But how can a broken man break even more? One time they would leave him forever. And there was nothing he could do.

Once he had sworn to protect his love. And he had failed.

Once he had sworn to forever love them. He still did and it killed him slowly.

Once he had sworn to build a happy family with them. But no one was here now to call family.

And once he had sworn to never lose hope. And he had lost it.

 It was a normal day. He took a shower and had some small breakfast Lupin had prepared. He didn’t complain about the western style of it. Nothing tasted good anyway. Why eat rice when it tastes the same as a pancake and shit?!

He took a breath and sipped on his tea as the doorbell rang.

The both men looked at each other. Jigen was out but had a key. Why should he ring? Fujiko would just call Lupin from the outside to let her in. Who would ring?

Slowly, ignoring the adrenaline in his blood, Goemon got up and went to the door. Lupin was right behind him, his gun in his hands.

 “Hi.”

This time he took a deep breath and he could Lupin behind him do the same.

The face, the body, everything was right. And if his comrade could see the person, it had to be real.

“Can I come in?”

“Do the dead make home visits now?” Lupin tried to joke.

“I had to vanish for a time. Zeni’s bloodhound was on my trail and almost got me,” you told the two men before you.

Lupin scoffed and put his Walther away.

“This boy still has to learn the rules. Come in.”

You went past Goemon, who still stood unmoving.

“Where were you? Come on, at least a letter or something would’ve been nice.”

“I know. But Yata’s a real bitch. He’s better than the old man himself sometimes. If he wasn’t chasing the wrong person right now,” you had to laugh and followed the thief into the living room.

“We were worried…” Silence followed as Lupin watched you with a stony face, nodding in the direction of the still frozen Goemon.

“I was just gone for a few months. You do that stunt every few years.”

He stuffed his hands into the pockets of his jeans.

“I am not declared dead.”

You went pale.

“What?”

“The police declared you dead. You died in a chase in Rome when you were pinned between two trains.”

Slowly you remembered that stunt. Yata had chased you down and almost arrested you. On the other side of the tracks Zenigata was already waiting… Yes, you had gone a bit too far to kill a civilian in order to fake your own death. But you had succeeded and fled.

“I survived?”

“We thought you were dead!” he shouted at you, which hurt more than any beating.

“I had to do this!” you shouted back.

“And you never once thought about us, right?! Hey, your plan was great but the execution was sloppy. Try to talk to Jigen…. And him.”

Your gaze followed his outstretched finger and landed on Goemon, who still stood in the hallway in front of the open door.

Your heart skipped a beat and not in the good way. Why did he look so pale? And he had lost a few pounds. His cheekbones were more prominent than ever making him look haunted and almost like death itself.

You took small steps to reach him, not wanting to startle him.

“Hey.” It was all you could say now.

He turned around to you and let his eyes wander as if to make sure you were really standing in front of him.

“It’s me,” you reassured him.

He shook his head.

“You’re dead.” His voice was hoarse as if he hadn’t spoken for some time. Knowing him, you knew it was a possibility.

“I’m not. I faked my death.”

He moved his hand as if to touch your cheek and you felt how much you longed for his touch. But something in you also was too afraid. He seemed to be so… frail?

With a sigh he let his hand sink before he could touch you and took a step forward. Instinctively you hugged him and were shocked when he let his forehead rest on your shoulder. He didn’t cry, he didn’t say a word, he just stood there in your arms and took careful breaths.

You felt like you needed to say something, but the words wouldn’t come. No matter what you would say, it would be stupid. Slowly it dawned on you how the three must have spent their last four months without you. As Lupin had said, they had thought you were dead. Goemon had thought you were dead. Gone forever. And now you stood here before him without any warning and with an empty brain, too useless to even say you were sorry.

“I am glad you are back.”

His voice so close to your body shook you from your realizations. You hugged him more tightly, pulling him even closer.

“There is no reason to live without you.”

Tears began to run down your cheeks as you listened to him.

“It was impossible to meditate without your breath to listen to.”

You swallowed any response and allowed yourself to just be in the present.

“Even the food wasn’t the same.”

Here you had to stifle a laugh. When he lifted his head to look at you, he was met with your lips pressing on his.

“I missed you, too.”

 The first night with him was like the first night ever. He took hours just to undress you and watch your every move. First he just watched you, then he slowly dragged his fingers over every inch of your body. At the end he explored your skin with his lips and tongue, as if he wanted to use every sense to get a grasp at you.

You felt your and his arousal at this exploration, but you stilled your body and let him do it in his own pace. He needed to know you were back. He needed to know you were his again.

He sat on his heels and looked at your body as one.

“You truly are back.”

You nodded, feeling a bit uncomfortable naked under his intense gaze.

“And you are still mine.”

Again you nodded, happy to see him crack a small smile.

“Prove it.”

You grinned at his invitation and got on all fours. Slowly you crawled over the bed to him and kissed him gently. His fingers ran through your hair and grabbed a handful, yanking you back harshly.

“You know what happens to bad people who fake their own deaths. ”

You didn’t know. But the lustful sparkle in his eyes and his teeth on your throat made you imagine a few things. The night was far from over…

[awakaru]

So, since the Hell Month is over and I'm in an okay space, lemme tell y'all about it!

[[MORE]]

Mercy had a fever for the first time in forever, so she got paranoid and got tested for the covid. Which led to her having a couple weeks off since she couldn't go back without the results.

During that time, we stayed with Chi for a solid week to protect her from a guy she lives with that felt entitled to her. I was gonna stay longer, but there was a covid scare and I was sent home.

A week of normalcy followed. The day after our next D&D session, shit hit the fan.

First off, Gordo started shit with the guy he rooms with. Full blown screaming and condescension followed, and Mercy felt the need to call and check up on me cuz she was worried I was the one being yelled at. That's totally normal and not a trauma response /s

So Fred left with his shit in the pouring rain. I had just gotten TikTok so I was drowning out my anxiety with funny MHA skits and D&D things.

Mercy apparently went to get food to get things back to 'normal', so we all got some chicken.

I tried to stop a fight between Mercy and Gordo, cuz the latter was listening to conservative bullshit and it was bothering the former. I told him not to be rude after she left, and he followed me into my room to continue the convo that I just tried to end. He was pulling his passive aggressive shit so I sent him off by closing the door in his face. He left.

Apparently Mercy heard me raise my voice and followed Gordo outside. I don't know for sure what happened cuz I was still inside, but it got to the point where Gordo started fucking screaming so I went to investigate. I got there in time so see Mercy black out and beat the shit out of him. So did Gordo's friend Joey, who me and Mercy very recently had a falling out with cuz he's ignorant.

She even tried to choke Gordo out. At that point I was fed up with his shit so I told her to do it cuz he deserved it. But she stopped, and I had to lead her back inside, not without saying she "can't debate with a fascist". Cuz that's what he fucking is.

She got to our bedroom and proceeded to burst into tears and have a panic attack, I think. I tried my very best to calm her down. She said we had to go. Like, GO go, as in not come back. I was okay yeah fair, and reached out to Chi to see if we could stay for a bit. She said no cuz of the covid scare, so I called one of my D&D friends. She said yes, so we started packing.

Around this time I had Mama on the phone cuz she could not come home yet but didn't want to leave us alone in case something happened.

I heard the guy who /just had a fight with Gordo like AN HOUR AGO/ come in to his fucking defense, first berating Merxy and then me. After he finished with me, Joey came in and threw his drink at me! Because I dared to tell my "brother" to go die, in an effort to get to leave me alone. But I knew there was no point explaining myself so I told him to go die too after telling me I was a stupid bitch and that he hated me 🤷🏽‍♀️

So at this point, me and Mercy continued packing, cuz the boys went for a walk or some shit, who cares. We had Mama on the line for a while and then we said bye after we left the house.

So me and Mercy are homeless now. Our D&D friend could only put us up for a single night, so we fell to our last resort: Yami, my "bestie".

But I would not call them that. We havent been all that close since that huge fight we had like, two years ago. But I wanted to help them, cuz they have a young son and I wanted to try to make his life better in whatever small ways I could. That's a post for another time, though.

They agreed to let us stay til we got our shit together, and that we were welcome there. But I sure as hell didn't feel welcome. They were saying basically from Day One that they were gonna make sure we were uncomfortable so we wouldn't get complacent 😑 Nevermind the fact that me and Mercy were dealing with a huge sense of loss and grief!

We didn't even last a full week, guys. Every day was some sort of altercation, and I had had enough with their "my way or the highway" attitude. So the day they woke me up to drag me into their room to prove a point, I knew it was gonna go poorly. And it did!

I won't even mention what brought this on cuz honestly it's not important, like at all. All that matters is that I was Done™ and on the verge of shutdown as they explained why I "didn't need to be right all the time". I tried my best to exit the convo but I guess they needed to have the last word so they kept on going. But I was already done so I just walked away, and then hell broke loose.

It escalated to the point where I straight up told them we weren't friends, and that led to them basically disowning me =3= And they proceeded to call me the "anonymous person living in [their] home".

Sooo, at this point I'm homeless again cuz there ain't no way I'm going back to that toxic environment. I was allowed to hang at my D&D friend's place again, and during that time Chi managed to get a yes from her sister-in-law for me to stay with them. I picked Mercy from work, had her grab my essentials, and we drove all the way to Chi's. So I live with her now.

Now at this point Yami had been removed from my life almost completely, except for one thing: our weekly D&D game. I had invited them to play a few months ago and they've been a permanent player since then, along with their son coming to guest play sometimes. But after this final fallout (we actually had a falling out like a month or two ago at this point too so like yikes) I sure as hell didn't want them there.

Me and Mercy are the only OG players at this table; we've been there from the very fucking beginning. We went through two location changes and general party changes as well. This game helped me keep track of time and helped keep me sane through many shitty situations in the last few /years/. No way were they taking this from me.

So, this Monday, we all gathered at our table. I was super fucking anxious, to the point where I had to take off my glasses and hide behind my hat. They were "being cordial" but that passive aggressive version where they make pointed jabs that sound like small talk. It was infuriating. But I didn't fall for their bait.

Our DM put us in a meeting. I explained the bare details needed to clarify the situation, and we proceeded to try to compromise. Yami would not accept any. "If I can leave emotions at the door, so should they," they said. "They need to act like adults."

Mercy started packing up, and so did I cuz I just wanted something else to focus on. But I never had any intention of leaving. Our DM brought up since compromise apparently wasn't working, then he would have to rule this in favor of seniority. So I stood my ground. And Yami had no choice but to accept the ruling, and was taken home.

Knowing that things were tense, our DM took us to Chili's to relax, with a short detour through Lowe's while we waited for seats. I had not felt so calm in a looong time, or so exhausted; shifting from being a night owl to a morning person and back to a night owl was having a toll on me. But I was so glad that I didn't let them take this group from me.

Now, Mercy is trying to find a place for us so we can actually start saving up for our eventual move out of state, and also not further inconvenience Chi and her family, whose home I currently live in. I wish I had any sort of ability that would make making money online an option for me, but I was always so afraid of sharing creations that I know that's not an option now. So, if we find a place, I'll defs have to find a job, which I'm not looking forward to at all tbh. But I'm safe for now, so I guess that's something.

[facethroughthemirror]

A Little Less Dramatic

[ hey @fanvsfic I’m late to lunch with my mom and grandma so I can post this today enjoy it ]

Crossposted on ao3

Relationships: Donald Doyle/Emily Grey, Vanessa Kimball/Agent Carolina Additional tags: Suicide, Doyle Lives au

Over an hour after landing at what the rebels have termed “Crash Site Bravo” finds General Doyle still in the back of the pelican, perched on a bank of seats with his unarmored head in his gloved hands. The ache from where he’d hit it in the fall caused by the transport being jolted by the explosion has subsided, but the throbbing in his ankle. He can’t bring himself to look down at the discarded helmet at his feet, or at any of the plate armor he’s wearing. Not yet.

It’s war , he tells himself quietly. These things happen. Not everyone makes it back. He’s seen it happen countless times, hundreds of soldiers whose names he had never known slain on the battlefield, scientists and medical staff massacred by Charon’s mercenaries, each and every leader of the Federal Army before him either evacuated or dead, including the man he’d worked for most of his adult life before the... abrupt promotion. Good god, he stopped keeping track of names years ago. There were too many of them after a while to even keep track of. He doesn’t even know how many of them had died for nothing but the benefit of a businessman somewhere beyond Chorus’ skies, sacrificed for someone else’s gain.

And as much as it pains him, he can’t help but resign himself to the thought that maybe Armonia had been just another one of those sacrifices. That everything -- every one -- that Chorus had lost was for nothing. That it wouldn’t matter in the end.

No one’s been by to check on him. He assumes it simply to be due to no one noticing that he’s gone, though he finds it just a bit more comforting to think that it’s perhaps out of a kind of respect, or even more likely out of a somewhat mutual depression. Though he suspects that it’s entirely to do with the loss of Armonia, and not at all with the loss of...

“Oh dear…”

“What is it?”

“Are you ready?”

“... I’m afraid I won’t be joining you after all!”

“... What?”

“... there’s no longer a way to overload the reactor from the control panel with enough time to leave. But, I can still trigger an explosion! I’ll just have to do it manually!”

“... manually?! No, you don’t, just--just stay low, we can come to you.”

“I’m afraid that just won’t be possible! I appear to be surrounded, and there’s just no time for anyone else to get down here without tipping off Charon that something’s not right!”

Emily was a doctor . A non-combatant. He knows she can likely count the number of times she’s fired a gun on one hand, maybe both of her hands, and her standard-issue sidearm (that came with being an officer and as strongly as Emily objected to carrying one, there just wasn’t anything either of them could do about that) was in such a pitiful state of disrepair that it was hardly safe to use -- she’d had plans to convert it into a tranquilizer gun, he’d discovered. She should have never been down there in the first place. She should have left Armonia with her staff and patients, long before she could have ever even had the chance to suggest this. He should have told her to leave the city, she would have listened -- need to keep up appearances, after all, she wouldn’t have blatantly protested or outright disregarded an order where the others could have seen her do so.

The whole thing had been her idea, once they’d realized that Charon would leave the city if they knew that he had. She’d been trying to buy them time, she’d been meant to lead the mercenaries around, lose them, and then overload the reactor controls and slip out of the city before the reactor blew. They’d switched plate armor, so that she’d be able to not only catch the pirates’ eyes, but pass as him from a distance, while moving quickly through the city. She was several inches shorter than him, and was noticeably slighter, so it wouldn’t be enough to fool someone up close, or to trick Locus if she crossed paths with him, but it would buy them the time they needed. She would keep the mercenaries distracted, lead them in circles. They’d switched her hardlight shield into his armor, it ran better and covered a larger area, standard issue for Federal medical personnel in order to shield patients in the field, and he’d given her his better-maintained sidearm, so that she’d have a fighting chance should she be cornered.

It feels… almost unreal. He… still can’t believe it. It had all been going according to plan, but then…

“Emily -- Y-You can’t--!”

“I’m sorry, General Doyle! I know it isn’t perfect. Oh... there we are. The timer on this detonator barely lasts a minute. You need to get out of the city while you still can!”

Kimball throws her weapon to the floor of the Pelican as she speaks, shouting now, even though the other general knows it won’t do any good. “Damn it, Grey! Don’t--”

“Chorus needs you both. When this war ends, they’ll need skilled leaders more than they’ll need another doctor. You’re no good to Chorus dead!”

He just stands in quiet shock, gripping hard on a grab bar close to the bay doors as he hears that cheerful voice on the other end of the line, so matter-of-factly explaining, rationalizing, her situation as if it was a simple lab experiment. He can hear Kimball shouting over the radio, but a private message over his own comm. line drowns her out.

“... I’m so sorry. If there were any other way…” He hears her breath hitch, hears her voice shake. And it breaks his heart to know that there’s nothing he can do. “... look in my left-side storage pocket. I left you something just in case. I love you.”

He doesn’t have time to answer her, doesn’t have time to tell her that he loves her, doesn’t have time to say goodbye or anything else: there’s a deafening roar of an explosion, one that shakes the transport. But he isn’t sure if it’s the impact or the grief that snatches his knees out from under him and sends him crashing to the floor .

Emily’s “just in case” had turned out to be the very same things Locus had brought him after the massacre at her outpost, just about. Except, she’s left him both of her identification tags, with her ring neatly dropped onto the ball chain and hanging beside them.

“… Doyle?” a voice asks from somewhere outside his vision. He tucks the tags back into the pocket from whence they’d come: he doesn’t want anyone to see them. “… oh, you’re still in here.”

Tired blue eyes crack open finally at the sound of someone calling him, catching sight of the helmet at his feet. He closes them against the tears as they start again, and he swallows. He knows that voice. He knows precisely who’s speaking to him, and he also knows full well that he can’t exactly ignore the speaker. But he just can’t bring himself to look up. It takes a great deal of effort simply to speak aloud.

“... unfortunately.” His unconscious choice of words spikes emotion in his chest, but he swallows it, shuts his eyes against it. He can… he can deal with that later. “... do… do you... er… do you need me for something?”

Vanessa is quiet, the silence heavy in the air between them. For that long moment, he’s sure she’s about to begin shouting, telling him that of course she needs him for something. But she never does. Instead, her response is quiet. Almost… concerned. “... It can… wait.”

“... ah… are… erm… are-are you certain?”

“... yes.” Her footsteps approach his position slowly. Carefully. Once she stops walking, he hears the sound of a helmet seal breaking, and feels her sit down next to him. When she doesn’t say anything further, he finally forces himself to open his eyes again, to turn his head and look at her. Vanessa’s face, so young still but aged prematurely around the eyes by the stresses and horrors of war, is normally tired and sort of angry-looking, or at least, it has been the few times he’s seen it. And she still looks tired now, but… the anger is gone. Her curly hair is coming out of the hurried little bundle she appears to have put it into to keep it out of her face. He can see the very badly-faded lock of what was once ice-blue hair that hangs somewhere in the middle of the right side of her head, it’s come out of the bundle completely and is hanging down away from the other fugitive tendrils.

“... Sarge told me you two seemed close,” she finally says.

“... closer than he knows, I believe. I… spent quite a lot of time in her medical bay, after all, quite, er… quite prone to fainting spells. We… got to be… yes, quite… quite close.” He swallows. “... I shouldn’t have let her go. She never should have been out there, she… she should have left with her patients.”

“... you heard her on the radio. I… really don’t think you could have said anything to stop her.”

“You’re… entirely right. Emily is… w-was … a very willful individual. One of the many things in my life I had absolutely no control over. But that… always seemed to work in my favor. If I’d managed to find my spine for two minutes maybe I could’ve… talked some sense in her…”

Kimball’s hand settles on his wrist, and he pulls his hand away. As a reflex, he stands, shaking his head wordlessly, intending to physically move away from her -- from the conversation. He doesn’t get far on trembling knees and his sprained ankle, though, and winds up crumpled on the floor of the pelican about three feet closer to the bay door than he’d started. And it’s there that he stays.

Good god, he’s pathetic.

Kimball’s beside him in a moment, but doesn’t move to touch him yet, just stands beside him and waits for his next move. When he doesn’t make one, she takes a knee beside him. He finally manages to look up, face lined with years of worry and etched deeper with fresh sadness, eyes tired and empty and heartbroken, brimming with restrained tears. He can’t manage to say anything yet -- just stares. Stares, then turns his eyes almost sheepishly to the floor.

Kimball sighs. “… Look. I… I don’t… I didn’t know Doctor Grey as well as you did. So… I’m not going to sit here and pretend to know what she’d really want. But… if you two were that close, then I can promise you that she wouldn’t want you to think that way. She wouldn’t want you to blame yourself. I understand how hard this is for you--”

“ Do you.” The statement -- absolutely not a question -- is uncharacteristically harsh. The bark of a much larger dog than he’s previously shown himself to be. And it absolutely does not come with an immediate retreat and profuse apology, though neither does it come with an aggressive posture. It’s more addressed to the floor than to the other general. “ Do you understand.”

“Yes, I do!” Kimball snaps back. “You’re not the only one who’s lost friends because of this war.”

… friends. Right. Of course she couldn’t have known: he and Emily had been very careful to keep that information private. If anyone has figured it out, he’d’ve assumed it was Agent Washington: most of the soldiers at the outpost avoided Emily like the plague and probably assumed that he, while possibly afraid of her, felt bad for her that she was so isolated.

He doesn’t correct her. It doesn’t matter now.

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

“Ducking out early?”

He stops in his tracks as he makes it to the door, and turns over his shoulder to see Vanessa leaning against a wall not very far from him, a cup of coffee still gently steaming in one hand. He just gives a bit of a nervous chuckle, reaches up to rub at the back of his neck. “… and here I thought I was being quiet.”

“You were. But I know you by now.” She stands straight, taking a long sip of her coffee, and makes her way closer to him, which isn’t hard, considering that he doesn’t move. “I’d offer to make you some eggs, but I get the feeling you’d say no.”

“H-Huh?”

“Nothing. You got somewhere to be?”

“Ah, er… well, I… yes, I do. But… but I--” He’s caught. He knows he’s caught. He’s got no excuse. So he just slumps. “I’m sorry, I don’t mean to just… disappear like this…”

Vanessa laughs , and of course it’s not malicious. It never is, with her. At least not to him, not anymore. They’ve… come quite a ways in the several months since the war ended. “You at least gonna tell me who it is? I feel like you owe me that much.”

“I-I…”

“I’m joking . What you do once you leave here is your business.”

He stammers further, as if looking for an excuse even though one isn’t required, but eventually shuts his mouth and looks down, clears his throat to reset his stammer. It’s been dreadful these past few months, after so many years of speech therapy and an entire adult life with little discernible trace of the horrible thing. But… well, he’d been warned that the stress and trauma could bring his speech impediment back.

He is, however, thankfully spared from answering as Vanessa continues to speak. “… I’m happy for you. You know that, right?”

“Ex… e-excuse me?”

“You’ve been… down. Really down. I’ve noticed. And I get it. You… we’ve all been through… well, a lot. You, me, Chorus… and… you know, some people haven’t been able to come back from that and be happy and connect with people again. It’s good to see that you’re finally getting back out there.” There’s that teasing smirk again. “Even if it means I get to see less of you.”

“ Please don’t say it like that. I…”

“Like what?”

“Like this is your apartment and… a-and I’m sneaking out after something illicit !” It’s quite a bit louder, and quite a bit harsher, than he’d like, but the jokes -- and he knows she’s joking -- have made him uncomfortable for quite some time, and… well, today of all days he just… he really, really can’t take it. In his frustration, he twitches, his fingers flex, and he drops his helmet to the floor with a loud clatter that snaps him out of his moment of unprompted rage . “… I-I… I’m so sorry, I…”

Vanessa is, of course, unfazed. “Doyle, I’m gay . You very much aren’t my type. Well, you’ve kinda got the right hair color, but otherwise--”

“I know that! I…” He just shakes his head. He knows that. He’s known that for nearly a year now, since he first caught her eyeing Agent Carolina while the former freelancer was making use of the weight room at the training facility. “I-I know that. I’m sorry. This… this is just a very… strange day. For me, I… I’m very sorry. I… I need to go. I, er… finished the last of the major projects I’d been working on, those are on my desk.”

“Cool. I’ll get to them in the morning, I’m about done with mine.”

“There’s no rush.”

“… mind if I ask what you’re headed out to do?”

“… not at all. I…” He pauses, stoops to pick his helmet up, and straightens again, tucking it securely under his arm. “… it’s… ah… anniversary.”

“Anniversary?”

“Yes.” He doesn’t elaborate beyond that. It’s another brief moment before he turns away from her, and puts his helmet on, with shaking hands. “… good night, Vanessa.”

She doesn’t say anything further, simply watches him leave. Once the door closes behind him, he’s off down the back staircase -- he’d normally take the lift, but that’s not… he’s better going down stairs than up them. It also allows him to avoid people. Not that there’s anyone left in the building at this hour, he and Vanessa are almost always the last to leave.

He sees a familiar, teal-armored someone lurking in the lobby once he emerges from the stairwell, and he gives her a polite nod. “Hello, Agent Carolina. Er… waiting for Vanessa?”

She gives a noncommittal sound of acknowledgement.

“She should be down soon, but I can key you into the lift if you like.”

“… I’d appreciate that. Thank you.”

He nods a bit, tosses his head toward the lift and turns to lead her to it, keying in the code and letting her in in order to send her up to the offices. Once he bids her a good evening and the doors close, he sighs, and turns to head out of the building.

The walk home is short. Of course it is, his apartment -- they’re all in apartments, even him and Vanessa, it was… it was the most efficient solution to the housing issue -- isn’t far from the offices. Not a long walk at all. Not quite enough time to let his thoughts run away from him. His apartment is in the basement of the building, so there’s no zoning out in the lift and staring into space while his mind runs unchecked. Just a short flight of stairs down into the basement hallway, then a few more feet to the only occupied apartment on this level -- there’s an empty one across from him, no one’s cared to move into it, it reminds a lot of them of the barracks, and he understands that. It’s not at all why he found this one comforting, in fact, it makes his skin crawl just thinking about it that way, but it had been the sense of solitude that had come with it.

And there it is. Once the door closes, all the sounds that come with existing beyond these walls cease entirely. No traffic noise, no humming of industrial ventilation keeping air moving through the hallways. He finally lets out a heavy, exhausted sigh, letting the tension drop out of his shoulders as he leans back against the door. It takes him an inordinate amount of strength to reach up and remove his helmet, and even more to reach and set it down on the table beside the door.

It’s slow going to change out of his armor, but he manages it. Manages to start dinner too. He’s not sure how much of it he’ll eat, but he’ll try. He’s just sitting down on the sofa when the chirping alert tone of an incoming call comes in from the radio console on the end table. He considers not picking it up, letting it ring out. But he doesn’t let it go, he reaches over and taps the button to answer. “Yes?”

“ It’s me .”

“Hello, Vanessa. Did I leave something at the office?”

“ No, uh. Look, I feel bad about… you seemed upset with you left. I just… wanted to make sure you were okay .”

“Oh. Yes, I’m. I’m alright. Just a strange day, I told you.”

“ … Carolina and I are going to get some dinner, if you want to join us .”

“Ah. Already in for the night, actually. Thank you, though.”

“… what um. You mentioned an anniversary. Anniversary of what, exactly? ”

“… I… well, er…” He swallows. He’s… very carefully avoided discussing this with Vanessa. He’d had no reason to do so. When he speaks, his voice is… different. Far more tired than he’d sounded before, an incredible feat, really. “… did you know I was married, before?”

“… uh… no, you, um. You never mentioned that .”

“Mm. I asked her to marry me while I was having a panic attack. I-I thought one of us would die before we got the chance.” Doyle’s laugh is humorless, more like a scoff as he realizes how stupid it must have sounded at the time, though his fear would prove itself to be real several years later. “She probably shouldn’t have agreed to it.”

Kimball remains quiet for a moment, which he expects. He doesn’t hear Carolina in the background, but he knows she has to be there. “… do you want to… um… tell me about her? ”

“I don’t want to intrude on your evening, Vanessa. If you’ve plans with Agent Carolina, then you should keep to them.”

“ It’s… um, it’s okay. No, we… we can wait a minute. You um. You sound like you need to talk. ”

“I’m alright.”

“ Not even a name, huh? ” Her joking tone is back, and normally, it’d be… sort of welcome. But it isn’t. “ Come on. Some good memories to balance out the sadness, huh? ”

“… well, you did meet her.” He reaches up and closes one hand around the identification tags he’s kept wearing even after the war. One of them is his, the other Emily’s. Her ring settled right alongside them. “I’d be surprised if you remembered her quite as fondly as I do, though, no one really seems to.”

“… who was she ?”

He pauses. He’s not sure why the question stings so much. “… right, I didn’t think y… y-y… didn’t think y-you did. I’m… not surprised. Emily could be… a bit off-putting. I admit that.”

“Emily? … wait, Doctor Grey?”

“Mm.” He leaves that answer as it is for a moment. He hears Vanessa make a small sound of acknowledgement, but she doesn’t speak. His grip tightens around Emily’s tags, so much so that it shakes. “... she deserved so much better. ... she wasn’t always l… wasn’t always li… l-like that. I… I di… didn’t… didn’t realize there was something wrong until it was… far too late to stop it. She deserved someone who could have helped her… before she got so bad. Perhaps if she’d been in her right mind--”

“... I don’t think she’d be very happy to hear you say that ,” Vanessa says, thankfully cutting him off before he can really finish his thought. “ I think she’d be insulted to know you think she must have been out of her mind to do what she did .”

“You… y-you’re very right.” Doyle shuts his eyes again. Good lord, he’s absolutely awful. How can he think so poorly of Emily. And what’s worse… what’s worse is the part that he’s forgotten in his grief. That his voice cracks and shakes on admitting, even after the usual throat clearing in order to stop himself from stammering. “... her greatest fear was that she would lose her mind entirely, you know.”

“… I think that’s a perfectly rational fear .”

“… as did I,” he simply says. “… I’m… dreadfully sorry to have ruined your evening, you had… you had plans, didn’t you?”

“ … no, it’s… i-it’s okay. I don’t mind. You’re upset, and you, um… it’s not a problem .”

“No, I… you should enjoy your evening. Well, er… a-as much as you can after dealing with me, anyhow.”

“ Wait, no, it’s--it’s fine, really .”

“… thank you for listening, Vanessa. I didn’t realize how much I needed to… ‘get that off of my chest,’ as it were.”

“ Hey, listen, it’s still early, Carolina and I can come get you, you can come have dinner with us. I don’t feel right leaving you alone like this. ”

“No, thank you. I’m not much for company right now. I… think I’m just going to go to bed.”

“ Doyle, wait-- ”

“Good night, Vanessa.”

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

Doyle doesn’t come in on time the next morning.

Doyle is never late to work. In fact, he’s always early, settled into work for the day by the time Vanessa makes it in. So to see no trace of the man in the building after the rest of the staff is mostly in in the morning is jarring and almost frightening to begin with.

Vanessa has her suspicions.

Something about the dark office, the empty desk, the memory of just how tired Doyle had sounded on their call last night makes her feel sick and worried. She remembers how he’d very uncharacteristically snapped at her before leaving work the day before -- he’d apologized, true, but still… and last night had been… a hard date for him. Something’s wrong. She knows it.

But she waits. She waits five, ten minutes before she can’t stand it anymore. She doesn’t bother with a call. She just rushes from her office and down the back stairs, because taking the elevator will take too much time. She barely stops to apologize to Matthews after knocking into him on her way out the front door, and it’s hell to push upstream through the foot traffic for the two blocks between the offices and Doyle’s building, but she manages it.

His building had chosen to go for non-powered doors, far easier to build than the heavy steel sliders, though with far less security. Which is useful for Vanessa, considering it only takes her two minutes to break the damn thing off its hinges.

She’s only been to his apartment a handful of times, and every time, she’d noted how bare it was. Hardly looked lived-in. She’d thought that it was because all he did was go to work and then come home to sleep, he didn’t take days off. He didn’t have a lot of time for decorating. But now… she’s not so certain that’s the real reason. Now… it sort of feels like he didn’t plan to stay long.

“… Doyle?” She shakes her head, reaches up and pulls her helmet off when she sees his still sitting on the table by the door. “Doyle, it’s me.”

Nothing.

“Doyle? You home?”

Of course he’s home .

There’s only two doors in the apartment: she knows one to be the bathroom, which also has a door into the bedroom. So it’s this second door she tries when she finds the one to the bedroom locked. And it’s not only unlocked, but slightly ajar.

She had been afraid of what she might see once she reached his apartment. Her mind had given her a hundred possibilities: that lanky figure hanging from a ceiling figure by the neck, the coffin-sized bathtub overflowing with bloody water, a body slumped against a wall with gore smeared behind it and a gaping gunshot wound. Or worse, no trace of the man at all.

So when she sees the shadowed shape of a body in the bed, it’s… both something of a relief, and sucker punch to the gut that knocks all the breath from her body. She’s hesitant to cross the small room and turn on the overhead light, but she does, and it cuts off the third attempt to call the man’s name entirely.

Vanessa knows he isn’t going to answer her.

He left the empty medication bottles on his bedside table. Two of them, both prescribed to him by Doctor Grey, but… obviously a little out of date.

She’s seen her share of dead bodies. But all of them have gone out violently, or in mental anguish that still showed on the corpse. But Doyle… looks peaceful. Really like he’d gone to sleep. No fear, no pain, nothing. Just… peace.

She looks for a note. She doesn’t find one.

She calls whoever she needs to. Reports it. Suzy, the medic-turned-doctor, who Emily had trusted with her patients. Jensen and Smith, they’re… cops now, they have to be called. She stays while they look around, tells them what she knows. What he said. How he didn’t leave a note that she can find. They find he’s holding a set of military ID tags, with a gold ring dropped onto the chain. One of them is his. One of them is Doctor Grey’s.

When they finish up, she goes back to the office. She’ll… have to think of something to tell the people now. It occurs to her to check his office on the way by, check his desk for the projects he’d said he’d finished. She’ll have to clean it out anyway. She finds the files right where he said they’d be, but on top of them is something else: a piece of paper, marked with his flowing, elegant handwriting. Not messy, not hurried. Absolutely clear to read.

I’m very sorry I lied to you, Vanessa. I didn’t want to waste your time with a long goodbye. You had an appointment to keep, I had dinner plans. But if you’ve found this, then I suppose that you already know what those plans truly were.

Do you remember what I said, at the skirmish in Armonia? The outpost that was destroyed? It was our primary command facility, and the location of our field hospital. Where Emily was stationed. After the massacre there, Locus reported it to me in Armonia. He put her ring into my hand, and told me that he’d found her lying in the snow. That she’d already bled to death by the time he’d gotten to her. There was nothing he could have done. I still wear her tag. And her ring, on the chain.

Every time I closed my eyes, all I could see was what I thought she must have looked like by then. And when it came to light that Locus had been lying to us… I was hoping that he’d lied about her too. And he had, which in all honesty came as nothing short of the most intense relief I think I’ve ever felt. I thought back then that I didn’t know how I’d ever get along without her. When you met me in Armonia, I was greatly considering letting you take your shot and end everything. I didn’t want to live without her. I’d considered doing it myself, but I couldn’t have done that to the soldiers.

Please don’t be upset with yourself. Or anyone else. Of course no one saw the signs. I made certain there weren’t any signs to show. I didn’t go a romantically poetic route and go all the way to the old Armonia site and let the radiation get me if the medication didn’t because I didn’t want to be stopped by some soul on the street and distracted. I didn’t want it to be loud and messy, or dramatic. I wanted this to be over. Rather appropriately, I am just so tired. I’ve been an insomniac since I could spell the word. I just want to sleep. This has been months in the making, Vanessa, there was never anything you or anyone else could have done to stop it.

Tell people whatever you like. Tell them the truth, tell them I was too weak to go on, too selfish to live without the woman I loved. Lie to them and tell them the trauma of war took its toll in other ways and I wasn’t strong enough to take it -- well, that part’s sort of true, I suppose. Or don’t tell them anything. It doesn’t matter in the slightest.

Do me a favor, would you, and make sure that whatever happens to me, they leave me with Emily’s things. There was nothing of her to bury but her plate armor, and I’ve had that since it happened. If we can’t be buried together properly, I’d like to do whatever we can .

She doesn’t know how long she spends standing there, reading and rereading the paper in her hands. She doesn’t know how long her radio chirps for before she notices it, and answers, her voice shaky and broken.

“Yes?”

“ General Kimball? It’s uh. It’s Smith, ma’am. There’s kind of a crowd out here, some reporters. Uh. What do you want us to tell them? ”

She pauses. “Don’t tell them anything. Not yet. I want to handle this properly.”

“ Yes ma’am. ”

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

Suzy comes to visit around dinner. To check in on her, mostly, see how she’s holding up, but also to deliver some news.

Preliminary results of the autopsy say that it was the medication overdose that killed him, she’s confident to call it a clonazepam overdose right now. But there’s something else. Sort of an ultimate cliche, really.

His medical records all indicated a rather weak heart. But the heart she’d seen when she’d checked him over had been… different. There had been some swelling, she says, a specific swelling of the left ventricle that indicated something called takotsubo cardiomyopathy . It’s stress-related, and rare, and it mostly affects women between sixty and eighty. Dying from it is nearly unheard of, but if it goes untreated in someone with such high stress, well, it can cause other problems. If he’d ignored it, or had never noticed, it could have contributed to heart failure.

It’s the common name that almost, darkly, makes Vanessa laugh. Some people, Suzy tells her, call it broken heart syndrome .

“The physical broken heart didn’t kill him,” Suzy clarifies. “But by all accounts, it was probably going to.”

[sebbybooks]

Beautiful Sinners

Sebastian Stan x Fanfiction

"I was his exception, and as much as I tried to hide my feelings he was mine." -J.M

Ella's

P.O.V

I am convinced that our wounded hearts were desperately craving for affection the moment that I met Sebastian. Revisiting the scene to where it all began feels like an ode to a dreadful October memory. I didn't mean to want him as much as I did. I tried to ignore the aching sensation I kept locked inside of myself that only Sebastian could set free. As overwhelming and intense it all was eventually it turned into something I know longer could resist. So I caved in. Once again in my life I ignored my better judgement and gave into temptation. The moment we collided we crashed and burned all at once. At times when I pass by I ask myself if it is selfish of me to wonder if when he walks by this street does he think of me too?

I was looking for a quick escape that day, because I had it made up in my mind that I was to leave and to never return. The pain that I felt was unquestionably real and that I was left without a doubt that it was in fact possible to suffer miserably at the hands from a broken heart. Before Sebastian my heart was already given to another, but he had returned it to me crushed within the palm of his calloused hand. I remember vividly sliding into the backseat of a taxi with my forehead pressed against the cold and damp window. Hot tears filled my eyes as I kept my gaze pinned out of the window. I was so focused on leaving I hadn't even realized when the cab came to an unexpected halt. But every part of me felt numb that not even for a single second I bothered to turn my head to see what was happening.

It wasn't until I heard someone curse under their breath as the door to the cab slammed shut. I felt the sudden brush of another body against mine. That is when I turned and I saw him for the first time. I am still not quite sure if I'm grateful that he convinced me to stay or angry with him for not letting me go.

Sebastian's

P.O.V

I don't think Ella truly even knew that I needed her more than she ever needed me. When we met I remember I couldn't run out of that event fast enough. I had to wait until the right moment until no one even noticed my presence anymore. Which was a hard task to do considering Mary kept me under her thumb the entire evening and paraded me around the room like her favorite show pony. It was as though I was constantly scrambling for a breath of fresh air. Granted it was a celebration for the newly engaged couple but it also seemed as though the only person who was miserable was me. The irony from that realization alone was enough to suffocate me.

I had to find a way to make a clean exit because the annoyance and frustration that was festering inside of me was going to cause me to implode. If I were to cause a scene Mary would have griped about it for days and with that in mind I stood up and walked out quicker than a bolt of lightning. Once outside of the building I descended down the stairs adding a more accelerated speed to my pace. I worried that with just my luck someone would spot me and I would have to go back inside. I didn't exactly know where I was headed.

I just knew that I wanted to be far away from that specific crowd of people. I jogged down the sidewalk trying to hail a cab until one came speeding right before me stopping in its tracks right before I found myself underneath it. Still not caring I walked around the cab and climbed into the backseat without thinking or even noticing that someone else was inside.

"Shit. I didn't see that anyone else was in here." I said apologetically, looking between the driver and the women who sat in the backseat who was curled up and visibly grief stricken. The woman looked up at me with tears welling up in her eyes and presumably black mascara smudged underneath her eyes. After our gaze locked temporarily she quickly turned away and bent down to gather her things.

"I can find another taxi." She said chocking back a sob.

"Nonsense!" I yelled. The sound of my own voice even startled me. I lowered my voice and for a brief moment I considered leaving and figuring out a different mode of transportation for my abrupt getaway. "Are you alright?" I asked in a hush tone, leaning in closer to get a better look at her face.

Barely unable to look back at me she shook her head with her attention out of the window she finally replied. "I will be."

"Are you trying to get somewhere? Do you need money?" As soon as I spoke those words I regretted it. It took me a second to see the situation in her perspective and I realized a strange male offering a woman he didn't know assistance or even being the slightest bit overbearing could come off misinterpreted.

"Excuse me?" She snapped. "What are you trying to imply?" She asked through gritted teeth.

"Ahem." The driver cleared his throat to interrupt us and stared in the rear view mirror at the two of us. "Neither one of you said were you were going and I do have the meter running." He added.

"I'll pay it." I answered briskly.

"I don't need your money or your pity." She said to me. Her eyes were puffy and red from crying.I smiled to myself observing her tenacious nature. She looked up at me with hazel eyes that looked like on a normal day a glow of sunlight permanently reflected in them. I couldn't help but feel obligated for her well being as crazy as that sounds.

"You're probably right and if I offended you in any way I am sorry." I muttered, genuinely meaning it. She closed her eyes for a brief moment and let out a sigh that was either a mixture of laughter or more crying. "No I'm the one who should be sorry." She said shaking her head.

"Apology not accepted because it is not necessary." I say offering her an empathetic smile.

"I just need to get out of here." She exhaled her words having a finality to them. "And please lose the pity smile." She mumbled.

I pressed my lips in a thin line to repress any hints of a smile. The more I looked at her the harder I found it to be serious. "Well if you were in my shoes how would you react if it were me in your place?"

Her response wasn't immediate. She eyed me as if she were looking for a flaw. I watched her as she conducted her study of me. My posture stiffened and I straightened my shoulders positioning myself in a manner like a portrait was being taken of me. She remained silent for several minutes all the while the cab was still at a stand still. Never once she met my gaze, but my eyes started to etch her body in memory. She wore a dark green pea coat that couldn't conceal her petite frame well.

I assumed she was tall by the way she kept her elongated legs crossed that barely could fit in cab. Her hair looked softer than silk. A wave of dark brown curls was perfectly trimmed around her face as it framed to the nape of her neck. Any man with eyes would easily agree that Mary was easy on the eyes, but her beauty didn't parallel with the woman before me.

"If I saw a man sitting alone in a taxi bawling his eyes out I would without a doubt run in the opposite direction." She finally said.

"Now I'm offended." I clutched my hand to my heart pretending to be wounded by her words.

"Being a cautionary tale isn't on my bucket list these days." She scrunched up her nose and barely let a smile form across her lips. "You didn't give me your name."

"Neither did you." I quickly responded.

She stiffed out a sigh. "My name is Ella."

"Sebastian." I reached over to offer my hand as a formal gesture. Right away I thought she would reject it and I once again would have embarrassed myself. I was surprised when Ella mimicked in response. "It's a lot of strange people in this town am I foolish to think you're not one of them?" She asked with a raised brow.

Taking her hand in mine I shook it lightly. " I wouldn't go that far as to calling you a fool." I grinned. She rolled her eyes and I could've sworn I saw a genuine smile spread across her face. Her hand eventually slipped out of mine and it was a touch that was so simple and innocent an yet it lit a blazing fire under my skin.

Ella's

P.O.V

Smiling only made me want to cry even more. I tried to choke back the ripple of sadness that engulfed me and was nearly on the brink of swallowing me whole. I should have been halfway to the airport by now. On a flight that would be taking me to my parents house and yet I found myself sitting in the backseat sharing a taxi with a man wearing a suit probably more affordable than the clothes I had stuffed in my duffel bag combined. My day just wouldn't end even though I desperately wanted to be left alone to lick my wounds. Sebastian seemed to be in a hurry to get to where he was going and perhaps I was also a roadblock in his plans as well.

"From the looks of it you are racking up a pretty pricey one way ride to nowhere and I will take no part in helping you pay for." I said, lifting a little in my seat watching the red numbers change.

Sebastian wrinkled his forehead with a look of skepticism written across his face."Hmmm you technically were in here first."

I caught a glimpse of the driver suspiciously eyeing us in the rear view mirror probably wondering what the hell was even going on. "If you really think about it you are the reason it's not even moving. I was on my way to the airport until you had to almost get run over." I said to him.

Sebastian rolled his eyes then sucked in a breath of air before biting the inside of his cheek. "And yet my odds still would be greater being away from that venue." He pointed. I followed where his finger was directing. Bending my neck down a little my eyes fell to what looked like a mini cathedral. "Would could have possibly been so wrong in there?" I asked, still admiring the view. I looked back at him when I noticed he had gone quiet. He was staring down at his hands as the feeling of distaste was written all over his face.

I leaned back into my seat turning my body to face him. My face still felt damp so I raised my hand to my face thinking I would be wiping away the last of my fallen tears. Looking back down at my hands I saw that I had black eye makeup all over my hands. Suddenly embarrassed that I probably must have looked like the human equivalent to a raccoon. I dug around in my purse to retrieve my travel size makeup bag to find my cleansing wipes. I quickly pulled out a damp cloth from the package and rubbed the white cloth all around my face. I pulled out a circular compact mirror to make sure it was all off. Then I heard the sound of muffled laughter coming from Sebastian.

"You could have said I looked ridiculous." I told him.

"You wouldn't look ridiculous even if you tried." He paused. "Besides you look like you had a pretty rough day."

"The sooner I leave the better." I answered quickly hoping his comment wasn't an attempt at flirting. Because I was starting to feel anxious as the sadness laid thick in my throat.

"What's got you in a rush anyway?" He asked, his tone was peaked with curiosity but I wasn't going to change the subject from me to him that easily.

"I could ask you the same question." I did my best to maintain eye contact without driving my attention into a full blown staring contest. I was certain the minute my boyfriend broke up with me there wouldn't be any other guys on my radar for a very long time. Sebastian was no Nate, for Sebastian I would consider that a very big compliment. There was a brooding look in his eyes that I couldn't help but find myself drawn to. Even though I really didn't know him or was even ready to look at anyone else that way. With Sebastian for someone reason I couldn't help it. Heaven knows I tried.

"It's complicated." He replied giving me a weak smile.

"That word has been thrown around a lot today." I sighed with a heavy heart as I remembered what happened less than two hours ago. My boyfriend of three years feelings suddenly became blurred and he wasn't sure what he wanted out of his future. A future that no longer included me in it. It wouldn't have stung so badly if I didn't live with him.

The realization of my situation suddenly hit me with full force when I realized I had no place to go except back home to my parents house. Something I was dreading doing for years. I wondered while packing my bags would they even welcome me back with open arms. I had no choice but to soon find out.

"Is that why you're crying your eyes out in the backseat of a cab?" Sebastian asked.

"You know I'm not going to answer anything you're asking me, because you won't quit beating around the bush." I say, putting an emphasis on my words.

He huffed but he finally relented. "I was rushing out of an engagement party." Sebastian finally admitted.

"What could have possibly been the problem? Were you in love with the bride to be....the groom to be?" I thought of all possible cliches to spout at him.

"I won't deny that he is one handsome son of a bitch, but as horrible as it sounds no I don't have feelings for the bride to be." He looked away shamefully.

"Why would that be such a horrible declaration to admit?" The intrusive words fell out of my mouth before I could catch them, but Sebastian was quick to interject.

"Because it was my engagement party that I walked out on." His tone hardened and his expression grew weary.

I curl my lip. "That is complicated." I pulled my coat around my shoulders tighter. The heat radiating inside of the taxi was strong enough to break off the autumn chill seeping in from outside. The windows were quickly starting to fog up. The thought of Nate crept back into my mind and sent the feeling of unwavering icy chills down my spine.The pang of sadness I felt still existed and was still fresh within me. I wondered to myself how it could have been so easy for him to lie me.

I sensed the breakup coming from miles away. It didn't even take me catching him with another woman for me to figure it out. I quickly turned in the opposite direction when I saw the sight of Nate ravaging her on our bed. I wished he could've just told me it was someone else instead of making me believe I was a damper in his plans. Out from the corner of my eyes I noticed that Sebastian was looking at me with a strange expression on his face.

"I think you should head back inside." I tell him.

"Why?" Sebastian asked while still obviously observing me.

I let out a cynical laugh. "Because you're getting married! That's why, and if you don't feel the same then you should just tell her or is it just too damn complicated?"

"Answer me first?" He asked leaning in towards me. "What has gotten you so upset that you're dead set on leaving?"

The answer was simple. "It wasn't meant to be."

Sebastian's

P.OV

It was something about her that made me want to know more. I was probably an even bigger asshole to let my mind get me that far considering I am engaged to Mary. I had known Ella for less that an hour and yet I never wanted this meeting to come to an end. "This morning my boyfriend broke up with me." She shrugged her shoulders slowly like the pain in her voice weighed down on her. She closed her eyes and stifles out a laugh. "On top of that I lived with him and now I have no place to go except back home to Portland."

It never resonated with me that a breakup would be the cause of her sadness. I guess that it is good that is it never safe to assume anything. Or maybe it was because I didn't want to think that such theory like that would exist with her. I was too busy caught in my mindless flirting which thankfully she didn't seem to notice. I don't know what I was even thinking. Ever since the day Mary told me the news that she was pregnant my conscious has been tearing me apart.

When we weren't together for those two months Mary made the most out of it while gladly throwing it in my face. I don't even know where my head was at when I tossed around the idea that we should get married. At the time it felt like the right thing to do and now I am left feeling frayed because I am not even sure if I am the father.

"If we always ran away from our problems where would that leave us?" I asked Ella, though frankly I was asking myself. She looked back at me with doe eyes that under any other given circumstances I would have gladly been bewitched by.

"But it is easier said than done, am I right?" Ella replied, and I had a hunch that it was meant for me.

"Maybe." I say, turning my head around to try and get a good look out of the fogged window. "Oh and that guy you were dating is a complete jackass for the record. You clearly deserve better."

Ella holds my gaze for a while, her eyes shutting until it looks she is just squinting at me. "You don't know that." She whispered. I wasn't going to tell Ella that she was in fact wrong.

"Do you have a phone I can borrow?" I ask. Ella bit down on the corner of her lips, pulling it up with her teeth contemplating whether or not to trust me most likely. While I did my fucking best not to stare at her mouth. Pulling strands of curly hair away from her face and tucking it behind her ear. Ella reached in her purse and dug her hand around until she pulled out her cellphone. She didn't even ask me why I needed it as she passed it to me.

I scrolled around her phone till I found her contacts and on a whim I decided to put my name and number in her phone. I looked up to see if she was watching me, which she was. I knew something could have been really wrong with me for my sudden attraction to her. "There you go." I cleared my throat as I handed her back her phone.

Ella quickly grabbed it and scrolled through it to see what damaged I could've caused. My hand grazes hers and the feel of it brushing mine again only made me want to find an excuse to touch her again. "What did you do?" Her eyebrows were pinched together in confusion.

"If I go back in there you have to also agree that you won't leave the city." I said, hopefully striking up a deal with her.

"I don't know." She frowned as she shook her head.

"Yes you do!"I tried to make my voice sound reassuring, despite I was scared shitless over the idea that I would be potentially spending the rest of my life with Mary.

"Why do you care so much? We are just two strangers who are looking for a way to get far away from our problems." She says, dropping her phone back into to her purse then zipping it.

"Did you ever think that maybe it's them and not us? We have to stop letting people think they have permission to fuck with our lives." I told her, and for the first time finally hearing my own voice. I lifted up to reach deep into my pocket to pull out my wallet to pass the driver what Ella and I owed him.

"Sorry for wasting your time." I held my arm out with the cash in hand. He turned around and looked at me and Ella then back to me again. "No no just this once it will be on me." He faintly smiled before turning back around to look at the street.

"Think about what I said Ella." I opened the door and stepped out of the cab and the cold air wasn't inviting.

"Good luck Sebastian." Was all that she said. Our eyes met for the longest time and for the love of God I didn't want our gaze to break. I let out an agonizing sigh and let the cab door close.

When I walked back inside I wasn't surprised that the first person who welcomed me back in was my fiancée. She hurried in my direction and if I wasn't mistaken she changed her outfit yet again. Her auburn hair hanging down around her shoulders red strands effortless flowing behind her back. Mary's dress wasn't the tiniest bit conservative in the slightest. Her cleavage nearly toppled out her dress. "Where the hell have you been?" She smiled through gritted teeth.

"Getting fresh perspective." I shoved my hands in my pockets giving the occasional nod and wave whenever guest walked by.

"Am I suppose to know what that means?"

I was just about to answer her until her Mary's step brother approached us. For as long as I have known her I have only hung out with the guy on a few occasions and there's always been people around. From what I do know about him he likes to keep his life private and that he is strangely affectionate with his step sister.

"Why does this happy couple look so unhappy?" His voiced echoed, as he draped his arm around Mary's shoulder.

"Why don't you go find yourself drowning at the open bar?" Mary shrugged his arm away and smoothed an invisible wrinkle from her dress.

"I thought people causing a spectacle was beneath you." He winked at her in which she didn't seem to be offended or bothered by him.

"Shouldn't you be with your other half anyway? That girl was practically your shadow. " Mary taunted him while mustering up a smile. Whatever she was getting at seemed to work and it looked like she got under his skin. The two of them started to talk in front of me and I would have preferred if they had just left. I tuned out the sound of their voices when I heard the notification sound go off on my phone. I pulled out my phone to see that I had a text message from an unknown number had lit up on my screen. I read the message that popped and finally figured out who it was from.

~ Maybe you are right after all. . . .thanks for the unsolicited advice. Ella xx~

"Did someone send you a dirty picture by the looks of that grin on your face?" Soon as he uttered the words Mary shot him and I both menacing glares.

"Don't you have someone else to bother Nathaniel?" I ask, locking my phone and quickly putting it away while making a mental note to text her back.

"My grandmother is the only one that calls me that. I go by Nate man."

{To Be Continued.}

[guysbeingdudesbeingbros]

Grief ~ Blake centric

Prompt:Hey love! Please could do one where the boys are on tour and Blake’s really moody with the others one day because someone in his family passed away but he doesn’t want to tell the boys until Reece/George finally pull him up on his attitude before he breaks and tells them? xx

Blake got the phone call when George and Reece were getting breakfast. He was getting ready, taking longer than the boys like usual. As he went to leave the hotel room, his phone rang, flashing his mom’s contact picture across the screen. 

“Hi Mum!” Blake said into the phone, curious as to why she was calling when it was late at night at home.

“Blake, I have something to tell you,” his mom said seriously sounding upset. Blake felt his heart start to race, he shut the door and sat down on the edge of the bed. 

“What’s wrong?” he asked, his voice shaking a little. He listened to his mom take a deep breath, feeling like she was bracing herself. 

“Your aunt, she passed away tonight,” his mom whispered, making his world stop. Blake felt like he didn’t understand, that couldn’t make sense. Tears filled his eyes and sobs threatened to burst out of his mouth. 

“I-I should come home, right?” Blake asked after a few moments of his mom trying to comfort him over the phone. 

“You only have one week of tour left, honey. Just finish out and then you’ll be home,” his mom said, hating that Blake couldn’t be home with her. Blake agreed, continuing to talk to him mom and feel upset. 

“Blake! We were wondering what happened to you! You missed breakfast,” Reece said when Blake finally left the room. He spent a long time on the phone, and then he just took a few moments to think. He felt off, like everything was shifted and he didn’t really know what to do. 

Blake didn’t say anything, wearing sunglasses to hide his puffy eyes from the boys. He doesn’t want to tell George and Reece, they are his best friends and he trusts them with everything. But, just telling them would make it more real and they would tell him to go home. Blake didn’t want to leave tour and let the fans down. 

“Are you okay?” George asked softly, noticing Blake’s tension. 

“Fine, just not hungry,” Blake grumbled, brushing past them. Reece and George shared a confused look. 

“What’s up with him?” Reece asked, watching Blake walk towards the van with his head down and hands in his pockets. 

“I don’t know, but he’s in a mood,” George replied, shrugging his shoulders. They let it go, hoping that Blake was just tired and his mood would go away. 

As they travelled to the venue, Blake had his headphones in and was on his phone the whole time. George and Reece tried to talk to Blake, but were ignored every time. 

So they just stayed away from Blake. They didn’t want to make his mood worse, deciding to give him space to work through it on his own. 

“He’ll come to us when he’s ready,” Reece said to George, squeezing his arm reassuringly. George wasn’t so sure though, he just had a feeling there was something going on. He didn’t want to wait to find out. 

Blake, on the other hand, couldn’t get out of his own head. All he was thinking about was his family. Nothing was able to distract him, not even when they were doing soundcheck. George and Reece messed around, doing funny things for Ben to put on their Instagram story. Blake could barely remember the words to their songs though, not having enough brain power to even think about their fans. 

Usually after soundcheck and before the show, the boys relaxed but still messed around. Whether that was playing a video game, watching football, or messing around with gifts from fans. It was a good way to stay calm before a show, while also having fun and excited to perform. 

George and Reece were messing around with a giant inflatable microphone, hitting each other with it. Ben and Tanner were laughing and taking photos of it. And Blake was sitting on the couch in the corner, on his phone again. 

“Blakey, come fight Reece with me!” George exclaimed, trying to get Blake out of his funk. Blake just ignored him, making Reece annoyed when he saw that it hurt George. 

“Blake, what’s the matter? You’ve been weird all day!” Reece asked, trying not to let his frustrations get into his voice. Blake rolled his eyes, grumbling under his breath. “What? Are you angry at us or something?” Reece nearly shouted, not understanding what they could’ve done to make Blake annoyed. 

“Not everything is about you! Just leave me alone!” Blake exploded, standing up off of the couch and storming from the room. Everyone stood there, frozen and trying to process what just happened. 

George went to chase after Blake but Ben stopped him, “Wait, don’t. Just give him some space. I’ll go find him,” Ben said, leaving the room. 

“I shouldn’t have yelled at him, but his mood was just frustrating me,” Reece guiltily said, rubbing a hand down his face. George just gave him a hug, unable to say anything around the lump in his throat. He knew something was wrong and now he was even more worried. 

The show went fine, the boys acted like usual. No one would’ve known they fought before going on stage. Ben found Blake and brought him back to the dressing room right before they needed to go to stage. 

Everything was tense, but okay. After the show, the boys were feeling buzzed from the adrenaline, Blake feeling slightly better but his mood was fading fast. By the time they got the equipment packed and were on the way back to the hotel, his dark mood was back. 

George noticed instantly, picking up on Blake’s slumped shoulders. He nudged Reece to look at Blake, who just nodded. They were very worried, Blake wasn’t one to hold grudges and this entire day was so out of character for him. They wanted to figure out what was wrong and fix it so they could get their happy Blake back. 

Once they got back in their hotel room, Blake was stomping around the room, brushing past George and Reece without saying anything to them. And they finally had enough. 

“Blake! Tell us what’s wrong! You’ve been acting rude all day!” George exclaimed, catching the youngest boy’s attention. Blake paused where he was getting clothes to change into. He turned to face Reece and George, noticing their annoyed expressions. Now they are mad at me? I can’t deal with this now, I just can’t! Blake thought, starting to feel overwhelmed. He knows he wasn’t acting normally all day, but it was hard to pretend to be fine after the news he got. 

“You’ve been in a bad mood all day, and we are tired of it,” Reece scolded, crossing his arms over his chest. Blake looked down at the ground, feeling tears start to fill his eyes. “Just, talk to us! Whatever is going on, we can help!” Reece pleaded, trying to figure out what was wrong with Blake. He had been thinking all day if they had done something that hurt Blake, maybe accidentally excluding him or making a joke that offended him. But Reece couldn’t think of anything. 

George was about to open his mouth and add more to what Reece said, when Blake finally spoke. 

“M-My aunt died,” he mumbled, voice cracking. George and Reece felt ice flood their veins. They weren’t expecting that at all. 

“W-what?” Reece stuttered, not able to say anything else. 

“My mum called this morning t-to tell me, that’s why I was late to breakfast,” Blake cried, finally meeting their eyes. Tears flowed freely down his cheeks, making the boys’ eyes sting in response to see Blake suffering. “I-I didn’t mean to be rude, I just didn’t know how to t-tell you,” Blake sobbed, shoulders curling and almost sinking under the weight of his grief. 

George immediately moved forward, wrapping his arms around Blake’s waist. He felt Blake wrap his arms tightly around his neck, keeping George’s tight to his chest. Breaths stuttered out of his chest, heaving between each sob. George nuzzled his face into Blake’s neck, hiding his own tears there. It wouldn’t help Blake to see him breakdown too. 

“Oh, Blakey. I’m so sorry. We are here, love,” George whispered, rubbing circles onto the small of Blake’s back. Reece joined the hug, cradling Blake’s head against his shoulder. He pressed a kiss to Blake’s forehead, trying to figure a way to comfort Blake. 

“We aren’t going anywhere, B. Just let it out,” Reece said softly, wincing when he heard Blake sob harder. 

That night, Blake was curled up between George and Reece on one of the hotel beds. His head was resting on Reece’s chest, eyes swollen and dried tear tracks covered his face. George was snuggled close to his back, arms wrapped around him to reassure Blake that they were both there. 

Reece was coordinating with Ben, rescheduling the concerts so that they could all go home. Blake needed to be with his family. George was buying plane tickets and getting them a checkout from the hotel the next morning. 

Maybe they didn’t know what happened, and maybe they couldn’t help Blake feel okay just yet. But, George and Reece would be there for him always. 

Wow this was a long one, and it’s pretty sad I’m sorry!

thanks for requesting! much love 

xx

[authorlaragrey-blog]

Rough Draft, First Chapter of WIP

Chapter One

“No, I’m not letting you see her,” Jennifer said. “We agreed before she was even born! It’s not going to happen.”

Sean ground his teeth, the muscles in his jaw tensing. High winds whipped through the hot, dry Mojave, pushing against his body. He took a deep breath before speaking. “She doesn’t have to know who, or what, I am. I just… does she look like me? Act like my mother?” He chuckled, “holy shit, I hope she doesn’t act like my mother.”

“I get it. You lost your mom, now you want to replace that loss with Kyra. But you agreed. We can’t risk it.” Jennifer pulled her straight, brown hair out of her face and into a tighter bun.

“It could be a chance encounter at a diner. Maybe we go to the same movie at the theater.”

“You coming here, even contacting me once, was dangerous. Now you want chance encounters? It’ll grow from there, you’ll want more. Except this right here, just us talking about it in the middle of the friggin’ desert, is dangerous!”

A tiny sliver of moon barely illuminated their meeting space in a patch of sand. The only other source of light for miles in any direction would have to come from one of the camping trailers that housed the members of Jennifer’s Pride. They lay no more than ten yards beyond a dune in front of the pair. The Pride would be asleep by now, probably dreaming of a good hunt.

Sean’s hand twitched at his side; for a moment he clenched his fist. A 9mm was holstered to his right thigh. Every nerve ending wanted to send the signal to draw that gun. He pushed the thought away, his twitching almost subconscious. “I know I’m not handling my grief well here, but she’s the only family I have left.”

“Except she’s not your family. She’s a Waters, not a Mitchell. She’s my family. She’s Malcolm’s family. She’s like us, not you!” Jennifer crossed her arms tight to the front of her body.

Sean could no longer ignore the impulse. He drew his gun without thinking. Before either of them knew how, he had the barrel pointing at Jennifer’s forehead, dead center. The bullet exited the chamber before Jennifer could finish shifting a claw, before Sean could draw in a breath. Silver pierced Jennifer’s skull.

A deafening bang destroyed the quiet in an instant. Jennifer’s body collapsed, blood and sprinkles of silver staining the sand encircling her head. Sean stared at her, his mouth dropping open as he lowered his gun. “Fuck!”

He started hyperventilating, dropping the weapon before grasping fists full of blonde hair at the sides of his head. He paced along the length of the corpse at his feet. “Shit, no. No, no, no! I didn’t mean to… I.” He choked on his words as reality sunk in. A tear dripped down his cheek.

A young female voice broke the brief silence that followed the shot. “Mom?”

It was on the other side of the dune Sean now stared at. If it was Kyra, she couldn’t know he was responsible for this, couldn’t find him here hovering over her mother’s body. He took a last look at Jennifer. I’m sorry.

Sean retrieved his gun, holstered it, and stumbled away in a panic. He headed toward the road where he had parked his bike, hoping the wind would scatter any of his scent that lingered. With any luck, the Pride would never know he was the last to see their beloved alive. A distant roar overpowered the sound of the motorcycle’s engine as he sped down the road.

***

Kyra jumped awake from her unconsciousness. What was that sound? Thunder, maybe? She peered out the trailer window over the head of her bed, searching for clouds. The sky was crystal clear, nothing but bright stars freckled along the pitch black night.

She left her room in the back and walked into the living area. Perhaps something heavy had fallen? Nothing seemed out of place. She shuffled to the sleeper couch with the intention of waking her mother to ask if she’d heard anything. A crumpled mess of blankets and pillows was all that greeted her.

Kyra opened the door, “mom?” No answer. She walked down the steps, letting the door slam shut behind her. The wind blew in multiple directions, blasting sand against her face and into her cropped brown hair. No light bled from the many vehicles and trailers in the camp. She appeared to be the only one awake.

She opened the door to her trailer again, “mom, you in the bathroom?” No response. She walked to the center of camp, her heart rate a little faster than normal. “MOM!”

Malcolm opened the door of his motorhome. He covered a yawn with one hand while stretching the rest of his body. “Kyra, why are you yelling?”

Kyra turned to face Malcolm, her amber eyes opened wide, her breath quickening. “I can’t find her, where would she go?”

“Who, honey?”

“Mom!”

“Last I saw her, she was heading off to bed.”

“Well she’s not there now!”

The wind blew toward them from over the dune behind the camp. The heavy, metallic smell of blood punched them in the face. It wasn’t a wounded animal, nor was it human. The scent was distinct, familiar, too familiar.

Kyra ran toward the smell, closing the distance and scaling the dune quicker than Malcolm could finish stumbling out of his RV. She heard him yelling behind her, warning her of possible dangers, begging her to wait for him. She didn’t care.

The form of a person lying in the sand came into view as she reached the top. Its chest didn’t rise and fall, no movement was evident. The odor of shifter blood grew stronger as Kyra moved toward the body. She grew numb, her breathing shallow and rapid, as she staggered closer.

She dropped to her knees in front of her mother, her knees sinking into the sand as she wept. “Mom?” Her voice cracked as she stroked Jennifer’s cheek.

Malcolm reached the top of the dune. “Is it Jennifer? Did you find her? Is she hurt?” When Kyra didn’t answer, he hastened down the other side. As the image before him became clearer, Malcolm sat next to Kyra, one hand clasping her shoulder while the other covered his gaping mouth.

“Someone did this to her. On purpose.” Kyra wiped the tears from under her eyes. “Someone who knew how.”

An engine revved in the distance. The sound came from the same direction as the main road butted against this patch of desert.

Kyra let out an enraged scream as her bones cracked and reformed. Her fingernails stretched and sharpened into claws while her hands and feet widened into thick paws. Her sweats went from baggy to tight as her body grew, the threads straining against longer, denser muscles. Her teeth became larger and sharper, her jaws expanding to accommodate. Soft, tan fur dispersed along bronze skin, from the top of her head to the tip of her tail. The screaming became a deep, resounding roar as she finished shifting.

Kyra’s vision tunneled in the direction she meant to head. She ignored Malcolm roaring for the rest of the Pride to wake up and join them as she bolted for the road.

That engine, and whatever it belonged to, was at least a mile away by the time Kyra reached the street. She could still hear it blaring from afar, gaining distance at dangerous speed. She bent her head to the ground, sniffing at any tracks or footprints she found. Unadulterated tenacity coursed through her veins. Winds be damned! She would find something, anything, any way to track her target.

A trace of her mother’s blood rested near fresh tire impressions on the cracked, neglected asphalt. A growl vibrated her throat as she bounded forward, following the trail. I’m going to tear them apart!

[youholditalltogether]

On attachment

Excerpt from Chapter 18 - The Girl Behind The Door by John Brooks

Several of Casey’s friends had formed a bluegrass band called the Itchy Mountain Men. They developed quite a following, landing gigs, performing on the radio, and even cutting a CD. Casey considered herself a groupie.

They had a gig at Old St. Hilary’s Church in Tiburon. Built in 1888, a good century before that finger of land became populated with multimillion-dollar homes, it was a simple Carpenter Gothic-style chapel that seated about a hundred people.

They were to play on Saturday, and Casey spent most of the afternoon obsessing over how best to doll herself up for a special night out. Her floor was littered with outfits. She summoned Erika - who was suffering from a virus - for help, only to banish her moments later when she couldn’t magically make Casey look “gorgeous enough.” Casey called off the entire evening, dissolving into tears in her room, and then pulled herself back together.

The show started at 9:00 and it was 8:15. She was supposed to be picked up by her girlfriends at 8:30. The last fifteen minutes were a frantic rush to finish up hair, makeup, and the third outfit, which was also the first outfit - the usual tomato-colored quilted hoodie, skinny jeans, suede boots, and a touch of Eau de Perfume.

At 8:25, Casey’s tears were gone, and she was happy, ready, and waiting by the front door for her ride. Then she blurted out, “You guys should come!”

We were taken aback. For so long Casey had fought to distance herself from us. Erika was too sick to leave the house. I was thrilled to be invited, but what was the protocol? Should I pretend not to know her?

“Dad, you’ll have to take a separate car.”

I was still happy to accept her invitation. “Of course, honey.”

Old St. Hilary’s was full to capacity by the time I arrived. Body heat generated more than sufficient warmth on that cold January night. The air in the chapel was thick and noisy with anticipation as I made my way from the front door to the end of the pews where I hoped to find a seat. I saw familiar faces in the crowd from church or school, all the way back to Casey’s kindergarten class.

I took a seat where I could see the stage and peer over the people in front of me to look for Casey. I caught her at the foot of the stage with her girlfriends, chatting contentedly, falling into them and laughing. It was heartening to see her so genuinely happy. But I was afraid she’d see me, so I ducked down. I didn’t want to embarrass her in front of her friends.

Hidden by the people in front of me, I watched as she broke off her conversation, turned around, and craned her neck in my direction. She spotted me in the crowd, lit up, and didn’t hide her face. Instead she waved excitedly in my direction.

I must have been starved for her affection like a lovesick boy, because all I could think about was that she’d acknowledged me. I contemplated for a moment the years of fighting, the ugliness, the crying, the worrying, and the hurtful words. But all she had to do was acknowledge my existence as her dad in a crowd and I’d forget everything.

She’d be fine.

I felt like the luckiest guy in the world.

Chapter 19 - The Girl Behind The Door by John Brooks

In the days following the horrific morning in January 2009 - just weeks after the concert at Old St. Hilary’s - I’d become obsessed with a single question:

Why?

I drifted through each day and went to bed each night thinking about her, torturing myself with guilt, drowning in soul-crushing grief. Sometimes, as if a protective mechanism in my brain had kicked in, I imagined that this was all a dream. I’d wake up to find her asleep in her room. Then I’d suffer a jolt to the chest.

The Coast Guard called off the search for her body after just two days; something about the currents being too strong - the ocean would be Casey’s grave.

I felt a reflexive gag as I wrote her obituary.

I endlessly relived and dissected the events of the weekend before her death. Erika and I both had been fighting with Casey, starting with something seemingly trivial - a rude remark or refusal to clean up after herself; I hardly even remember. Things spun out of control. As tension mounted between us, Casey had spat out, “Asshole! Motherfucker!” She threatened to run away and live on the streets.

And my response? I got in her face and yelled at her like a drill sergeant, “Good! Go ahead!” I slammed her door, leaving her alone in her room, sobbing convulsively.

Later that night, I passed through the living room on my way to bed. She sat curled up on the sofa, staring hard at the TV, her eyes red and swollen from crying. We exchanged frosty glances.

And that was the last time I saw her.

~

That last ugly exchange screamed through my head. If I hadn’t yelled at her, she might not have been so upset. If I hadn’t ignored her on my way to bed, I might have thought twice, taken back my harsh words, and told her I didn’t mean those nasty things. If I hadn’t slept that extra half hour the next morning, I might have gotten to her room sooner, seen the note, and alerted the police in time.

But I did none of those things.

We’d had knock-down, drag-out fights since Casey was in grade school and they never ended in a catastrophe like this. She’d usually stomp off to her room. There were no clues that weekend that could have shed light on how she’d shifted so suddenly from “infuriated at Dad” to suicidal.

~

Some people suspected that drugs had played a role in Casey’s suicide, but Erika and I had our doubts. Despite our numerous busts, we’d never seen her out-of-control stoned or drunk, and she’d never been to rehab. She wasn’t on any prescription medication at the time and wasn’t out partying Monday night. Early Tuesday morning, she managed to drive the Saab to the bridge. The last video images captured her smoking a cigarette and jogging out onto the pedestrian walkway - not exactly the kind of behavior I’d associate with someone high on drugs. She easily climbed over that four-foot railing and, according to the police report, stood for ten to fifteen seconds before stepping off to her death. What could have gone through her mind in those crucial seconds before she made that fatal choice?

~

Casey’s friends were as shell-shocked as we were. After her memorial service at St. Stephen’s Church in Belvedere, an event that drew an overflow crowd, there was a reception in the parish hall. It was an awkward affair, with other parents struggling for words. It seemed we’d become separated by a glass wall. Was it pity, empathy, judgment, or terror that was in their faces? We couldn't tell. Perhaps the suicide of a child was just too toxic for people to handle. It raised the horrifying specter of contagion.

As the adults drifted away, Casey’s friends circled around us. The collateral damage from her death was etched into their faces. They seemed to be looking for something from us. Perhaps they wanted to talk.

“Do you guys know anything about why she did it?” I asked.

They shook their heads and mumbled a collective “No.”

Why would she have kept her close friends in the dark? “I don’t get it. She was so close to freedom. I thought that’s what she wanted.”

Everyone stared at the floor until her friend Julian spoke. “I don't think that Casey had any intention of going to Bennington.”

Erika and I exchanged startled glances. “What makes you say that” I asked.

“It’s hard to explain,” he said. “I think she just wanted to prove to herself and everyone else that she could get in.”

Julian made an interesting point. But why would someone get what they wanted and then throw it all away?

...

I’d always thought that if someone was bent on taking his or her life, nothing would stop them. But I’ve since learned that suicide is often impulsive - a transient urge. Once the impulse passed and the victim had an opportunity to reconsider, the chances were good that he or she wouldn’t try again.

But Casey did try again. Less than thirty-six hours after she’d sent that text she went back. Her jump - her despair - had not been impulsive. There was something deeper.

...

Chapter 21 - The Girl Behind The Door by John Brooks

A man receives only what he is ready to receive, whether physically or intellectually or morally, as animals conceive at certain seasons their kind only. We hear and apprehend only what we already half know . . . Every man thus tracks himself through life, in all his hearing and reading and observation and travelling. His observations make a chain. The phenomenon or fact that cannot in any wise be linked with the rest of what he has observed, he does not observe. By and by we may be ready to receive what we cannot now.

- Henry David Thoreau

I had the first draft of Casey's story finished by the time I'd met with Dr. Palmer and Dianne. Other than recounting Erika's and my journey to Poland, there were only glancing references to and speculation about the effects on Casey's behavior of her abandonment and adoption. They were never pursued or treated seriously, even after Dianne had raised the issue in passing. It just seemed inconceivable to me that Casey's infancy had anything to do with her later life and death. After all, I reasoned that I had no memory of my own life before the age of seven other than from photographs and home movies. How could she?

...

It wasn't until our coach critiqued my draft that she found the story I had completely missed. It was that glancing reference Dianne made in our last meeting after Casey had quit therapy four years earlier, in the spring of 2007.

Attachment disorder.

...

I sat in my home office in front of my computer and Googled attachment disorder. The first hit brought me to Wikipedia:

Attachment disorder is a disorder of mood, behavior, and social relationships arising from a failure to form normal attachments to primary caregivers in early childhood. Such a failure would result from unusual early experiences of neglect, abuse, or abrupt separation from caregivers in the first three years of life.

Then I searched a related term, reactive attachment disorder, or RAD:

Children with RAD are presumed to have grossly disturbed internal working models of relationships, which may lead to interpersonal and behavioral difficulties in later life. There are few studies of long-term effects, but the opening of orphanages in Eastern Europe in the early 1990s provided opportunities for research on infants and toddlers brought up in very deprived conditions.

...

I searched and sifted through mounds of data and studies from sources ranging from attachment experts and clinicians to blog posts by adoptive parents. A behavioral profile of the adopted child began to emerge.

Emotional Regulation: Because of the absence of the modulating influence of a dedicated caregiver in infancy, the adopted child frequently has a low tolerance for frustration, ineffective coping skills and impulse control, and trouble self-soothing. She can be clingy, hyperreactive, quick to anger or bursting into tears over what others might consider insignificant or nonexistent slightls. It can be difficult to calm her with logic or discipline. She may have out-of-control, prolonged tantrums long past toddlerhood that are disproportionate to circumstances, giving the appearance of emotional immaturity.

Control: Abandoned in infancy, the adopted child has learned early not to trust. Controlling her environment and distancing others around her - especially caregivers - become paramount as a way to protect herself from further abandonment. This can affect her social realm, where she must navigate relationships and read social cues. She may feel threatened by others, have trouble tolerating relationships or participating in competitive games other than on her own terms. She can be a sore loser when things don't go her way. She may have trouble sharing toys, food, or friends, long past what is age-appropriate. She may lack cause-and-effect thinking and blame others for her mistakes. Convinced perhaps that caregivers are unavailable and untrustworthy, she might avoid asking for help. She might be seen as bossy, but not to everyone. She can be manipulative - extremely charming, in fact, even indiscriminately affectionate, toward strangers - but cool and remote at home.

Transitions: Because of her need for control, the adopted child can have difficulties with transitions, especially when they come unexpectedly. She can't easily "go with the flow." Rather, she does best in environments of structure, predictability, and regularity. Changes in routine - such as transitions from the school year to summer, vacations, and holidays - are times of great stress and acting out.

Discipline: Trust, control, and discipline go hand in hand for the adopted child. She may display a pattern of disobedient, defiant, and hostile behavior toward authority figures that goes beyond the norm, giving the appearance of being unduly stubborn and strong-willed. Epic battles can erupt over the most trivial things.

Self-Image: The adopted child whose needs are not met in infancy builds up a pessimistic and hopeless view of herself, her family, and society. She may be uncomfortable with physical closeness or intimacy. She can hear compliments from parents yet feel no association. She's not worthy of love or respect, and may have enclosed her heart in a vault and fought to deny access to anyone who truly loves her. "I love you" can strike terror in her heart. She can't feel love, believe that it hurts, and wants nothing of it. She may manifest destructive behaviors such as self-mutilation, eating disorders, and suicidal tendencies.

A simple Google search explained everything about casey. The uncontrollable tantrums and crying jags. Her lack of patience, whether waiting an extra minute in her high chair for some ice cream or, years later, learning to skate or snowboard. Her tendency to be thin-skinned at home with no tolerance for the most benign joke or jab aimed at her . And my reaction to this? Out of sheer frustration, I told her to stop crying and grow up, and act her age.

Great job, Dad.

She didn't handle threesomes well and would stomp home in tears from a friend's house feeling left out or slighted, losing it when something didn't go her way . . . Power struggles erupted over the most ridiculous things - Casey, please put your dirty dish in the sink; Casey, please don't leave your wet towel on the bathroom floor; Casey, please take Igor for a walk. We were stuck in a never-ending cycle of time-outs, withheld privileges, abandoned reward programs, groundings, and empty threats to spend her college fund on a year in purgatory. We resorted to spanking her, even threatening to hit her, violating every tenet of good parenting and giving her more reason to despise us.

And transitions? Maybe Bennington was the last straw. I thought about Julian's theory at the memorial that Casey had no intention of going; she just wanted to prove a point. For all her bluster about Bennington, I could see how she could have been terrified. She was a creature of habit, had never been away by herself (except for the Alaska trip), never shared a bedroom or bathroom. At home, she had some measure of safety and privacy where she could unleash her rages and tantrums without fear of repercussions. At school, there would be no place to hide and unload in private. She'd be vulnerable, exposed.

Her issues with self-image went far beyond teenage angst. She seemed to loathe herself. But in retrospect, it was almost impossible to distinguish among the typical insecurities of a teenager, attachment issues from infancy, and dangerous suicidal tendencies when the symptoms looked so much alike. It would be impossible to treat every single raging, sullen teen moping around the house as a potential suicide risk (indeed, but the risk is nonetheless present!).

I had stumbled upon something big almost by accident, something that had been staring us in the face for years, and everyone had been blind to it. Casey was alone, in pain and unable to trust, and we couldn't see it. In her fragile state, there wasn't enough to live for, not enough for her to stay in the game, to see through the rough patches. Her perception of the future was bleak, hopeless.

. . .

Chapter 22 - The Girl Behind The Door by John Brooks

I scoured Marin County and the Internet for every book and article I could find on attachment. I contacted experts on adoption and attachment issues. Several of them agreed to talk to me about the disorder and what was being done to help the children and their parents. Nearly all of the experts were either adoptive parents who struck out on their own as I did, or were adoptees trying to understand themselves.

I learned that attachment begins with the trusting bond formed between a child and mother or other primary caregiver during infancy. This bond becomes a blueprint for all future relationships. The British psychiatrist John Bowlby, widely considered to be the founding father of attachment theory, says that at birth a baby cannot automatically self-regulate. Her emotional state is as simple as stressed or not stressed. When she is stressed - from hunger, a wet diaper, insufficient sleep, or fear - she cries. She is brought back into balance when the caregiver responds with soothing sounds, gentle touch, and loving looks.

Nancy Newton Verrier, an adoption specialist in Lafayette, California, provided me with her own analogy of mother-child separation. "It's very unnatural to separate babies and mothers," she said. "You can't adopt a kitten or puppy for about either weeks, in order to give the babies time to wean off their mothers, but we give away human babies time to wean off their mothers, but we give away human babies to strangers as early as birth." I never thought of it that way, and yet it seemed so obvious. Why would we treat animals with more deference than humans?

An infant left alone, with no instinctive soothing mechanism, lives in a state of prolonged fear and hyperarousal. Unable to summon help or physically escape, the infant's only protection from this unendurable state is to emotionally withdraw.

Amy Klatzkin is a marriage and family therapist intern I met with at the Child Trauma Research Centre at UCSF/San Francisco General Hospital. She is also an adoptive mother.

"There's only one thing worse than an abusive relationship, even if it's harmful," she said. "And that's no relationship at all, just nothingness."

I saw Casey alone in her crib in the orphanage as Amy continued. "Casey was probably getting sustenance but no connection, not even a tiny attachment. People come and go, and you never know if they'll be back. They're all equally distant and interchangeable to her."

She went on to talk about another kind of separation - the moment the child left the orphanage system with her adoptive parents. There was an element of predictability left behind - familiar sensations, sounds, and smells - for something unknown with two complete strangers. To ease that separation, Ms. Klatzkin offered a good piece of advice: leave the child in her clothes from the orphanage, even if they're dirty or smelly. "Let them have some continuity," she said. "It's our instinct to cling."

In High Risk: Children Without a Conscience, the clinical psychologists Ken Majid and Carole McKelvey wrote: "If a child does not form a loving bond with the mother, she does not develop an attachment to the rest of mankind, and literally does not have a stake in humanity. Incomprehensible pain is forever locked in her soul because of the abandonment she suffered as an infant."

Incomprehensible pain. My daughter. The awful wailing behind her door.

So profound is the effect of institutionalization that Dr. Jerri Ann Jenista, pediatrician and writer in the field of adoption medical health, suggests that all institutionalized orphans be considered at risk for attachment issues.

The longer they stay in the institution, the greater the damage. "We now know that if the child is adopted within the first year, the adverse effects of institutionalization are not too difficult to treat," explained Dr. Robert Marvin, the director of the Mary D. Ainsworth Child-Parent Attachment Clinic at the University of Virginia Medical Center. "But for a child like Casey, adopted at fourteen months, there's already been a fair amount of psychological and brain developmental damage that leads to very unusual behavior." In fact, studies have shown that institutionalized children have measurably different brain structures from those raised in a family. Researchers have found striking abnormalities in tissues that transmit electrical messages across the brain, perhaps explaining some of the dysfunctions seen in neglected and orphaned children.

The effects of institutionalization rarely go away. Parents of these kids find that depression, moodiness, self-mutilation, screaming fits, defiance, and academic struggles can be "normal" parts of life. Some children leave home and break contact with their adoptive families. Job instability, unplanned pregnancies, suicide attempts, and stints in disciplinary, rehab, and psychiatric programs are not uncommon.

Patricia, the adoptive mother of a boy from southern Poland, wrote to me that her son - then an eight-year-old - was at the emotional level of a fiver-year-old. Though he had recovered from early developmental delays, he was still prone to meltdowns, anxiety attacks, and struggles with self-esteem.

An adoptive mother of a girl from northwestern Russia wrote that her daughter was born to alcoholic parents and was unschooled and neglected until she was placed for adoption at age seven. Her adoptive mother received her at age eleven with a range of challenges, from growth deficiencies to language delays and learning disabilities. At the age of eighteen, she had the emotional maturity of a nine-year-old. The slightest provocation could send her into a rage or sobbing fits. Her parents feared that she couldn't be trusted on her own.

Of course, this is, for many parents, only part of the story. As one mother wrote about her troubled daughter from Russia, "She has brought more love into my life than I ever thought possible."  

My reaction to these difficult stories was envy. Their children were still alive. My daughter was dead. I had failed in my first duty as a father, to keep her safe. The information I needed to keep her alive was out there, but it was just beyond my reach. It was in the library and on the Internet.

I had never thought to look.

Chapter 23 - The Girl Behind The Door by John Brooks

If we could turn back the clock, there is so much that we would have done differently. Casey's life didn't have to end so abruptly and tragically.

I now see a very different person on the other side of that battered bedroom door. Not an angry, misbehaving teenager bent on tormenting her parents, but a child suffering unfathomable pain for whom comfort was out of reach.

She tried to speak to us but couldn't get through. We couldn't hear her, couldn't understand her, or tuned her out as the decibels rose. Likewise, we tried to speak to her, but our words neve reached her. Erika and I were desperate to love her but she had trouble letting us in. We reacted to our communication void with frustration, shutting each other out. That was a fatal mistake whose consequences we couldn't possibly know. We had no idea how far out on a ledge Casey was.

On the surface, everything appeared normal; in fact, better than normal. She'd gotten into her dream school, yet that wasn't enough to dent the iceberg of agony that sat below the surface, that she kept hidden from everyone. Only occasionally did she give a hint of her true feelings. Her cries for help were too faint for people to hear, so she weighed the options - live in pain or choose death.

Erika and I were blind from the outset. I thought about the morning we picked Casey up from the orphanage. We were so intent on changing her into some nice, clean girlie clothes that it never dawned on us to ask if she had something she clutched in her crib - a pillow, a stuffed animal, a blanket? For all I know now, we'd left something behind that was indispensable to her, further compounding the distress. To ease the shock of this transition, we should have asked for an article of clothing, a plaything, something she might have snuggled with to keep her company and have something familiar to hold on to, but we didn't.

In their two books, Adopting the Hurt Child and Parenting the Hurt Child, Dr, Gregory Keck and Regina Kupecky note that adoptive parents want to believe that a sound attachment had formed with former caregivers, in a sort of turnkey process that was readily transferable to them. The adoption becomes a cure-all for the child's difficulties.

So it was for us, we thought. Overjoyed at her astonishing progress in our first few days together, camped out in a cramped hotel room in Warsaw, Erika and I became convinced that Casey wasn't a special needs child at all. She had just been understimulated in the orphanage; nothing that two loving parents couldn't fix. We were part of a fairy tale - two able-bodied Americans rescuing a Polish orphan from her caring but impoverished birth mother, who wanted a better life for her daughter.

We treated Casey as if she were our new pet. She was in good American hands. Just feed her, burp her, change her diaper, bounce her around, and park her in front of the TV when Mom and Dad need a rest. Then there were the outbursts.

I know now that adoptive parents who view their children's disruptive behavior as just normal growing pains are ignoring a time bomb. They need to distinguish between the physical and emotional age of their child and adapt their parenting expectations to the child's emotional age, that emotional immaturity I'd read about and, of course, had seen in Casey.

We should have had her assessed. Ray Kinney, a director and staff psychologist at Cornerstone Counseling Services in Wisconsin, spoke to me about the importance of assessment for children who have lived in orphanages. Having seen hundreds of deprived children over thirty-five years of clinical practice, he said that this was a crucial prerequisite to determining an appropriate intervention strategy.

That first night in the hotel room in Warsaw, when she was inconsolable, rocking herself to sleep, we just wanted her to quiet down so that we could get some rest. Instead of parking her in her stroller in front of a blaring TV - something she'd probably never seen before - we should have taken her into bed with us, held her and soothed her. If it were possible, we should have held her for our whole first month together without putting her down. Maybe we would have had a different result. What she needed then was lots of human touch.

From the moment we brought Casey into our home, it seemed as though we did everything wrong. We assumed that the past would fade into oblivion; nurture would prevail over nature. We took our parenting cues from the pop culture experts.

As a toddler, we tried to teach Casey manners, patience, and independence. When she acted out inappropriately and threw temper tantrums, we scolded and punished her. But we failed to see what was at the root of her outbursts, and our reactions only made matters worse. Rather than sending her off by herself, we should have stayed with her, helped her calm down and self-soothe. She needed to know that Mom and Dad would always be there for her unconditionally.

When Casey entered school, we were mystified by what appeared to be a split personality - a perfect angel at school and a defiant, immature brat at home. We consulted family, friends, teachers, and guidance counselors, and were told that Casey was strong-willed and a bit high-strung; she'd grow out of it.

Erika and I felt that we were the problem. We spoiled her. We were inconsistent. We needed to be tougher with her. So we read books such as Raising Your Spirited Child, tried reward systems and used TV, the computer, the playdaytes as leverage for good behavior. We blamed each other for our lousy parenting skills and our inability to get our daughter to mind her parents like everyone else's kids did. We didn't realize that the provocation and aggression we saw in her may have been caused by her anxiety about further rejection, something she may not have understood herself.

Nancy Verrier told me that the adopted child can push for rejection even though that's the opposite of what she wants. She constantly tests her parents to see if they'll reject her, just to get the inevitable over with. As she tests her parents' commitment, often playing into their own insecurities about being good enough, the parents become defensive and retaliatory instead of understanding and steadfast. Their reactions can provoke the very outcome she feared in the first place - being sent to a residential treatment center or boarding school, or being kicked out onto the street.

~

A 2008 white paper, "Therapeutic Parenting," prepared by the Association for the Treatment and Training in the Attachment of Children (ATTACh), begins with the following message: . . . Parenting a child who has a disorder of attachment is the hardest job you will ever have. . . . It requires you to give and give, without receiving much in return. . . . It requires rethinking your parenting instincts. . . . It means making conscious, therapeutic parenting decisions . . . [and having a] constant focus on the deeper meaning of your child's behavior, so that you respond to the causes, needs, and motivations of your child. It is exhausting. It is isolating, as family and friends tend to keep their distance, uncomfortable with the drama that surrounds these children.

Heather Forbes is an internationally published author and consultant, adoptive mother, and cofounder of the Beyond Consequences Institute in Boulder, Colorado. She said that her work is geared toward healing the parent-child relationship, with emphasis on the parents, because she believes that the child's healing process must come from them rather than the therapist. "Parents who are strong in who they are, even if the child is rejecting or defiant, don't have to take things personally and love unconditionally."

Like the other experts I talked to, she urged parents to focus on the child's perspective rather than their own. What is driving my child's behavior? Why is she stressed out and acting this way? No matter how unpleasant the message, parents should give the child free rein to vent, because it's important for her to be heard. Good manners and appropriate language can be worked on later.

"All these kids feel like Casey," she told me. "Hopelessly flawed. They can't be fixed. These feelings never go away. It wasn't that you didn't love Casey; she just didn't get it the right way." In the early 2000s, Dr. Marvin, along with several colleagues from the Marycliff Institute in Spokane, Washington, developed the "Circle of Security," a protocol to diagnose attachment disorder and design individualized intervention programs aimed at attachment-caregiving relationships for both toddlers and preschool children. The process, which takes place over twenty weekly group sessions, is designed to help parents gain a deeper understanding of their children and themselves, and to become more accurate and empathic in reading their children's complex and subtle cues - anger at a parent when the truth could be entirely different, or defiance masking an ability to adapt to a new routine. With a better understanding of their children's behavior, parents are shown how to apply more "user-friendly" attachment techniques.

"Our coaching helps parents shift their focus from stopping undesirable behavior to moving in to calm the child when she's out of control and can't self-soothe." Dr. Marvin explained. For example, instead of isolating the child as punishment for misbehavior, stay with her, acknowledge the upset, let her be herself. Sometimes, on some subconscious level, this behavior may be a reaction to her early abandonment. Adoptive parents need to understand and acknowledge that first loss.

"When parents follow that approach they start to see these behaviors decrease very quickly." He insisted that children, when distressed, respond much better to parents when they take charge and soothe rather than discipline, as one would a baby - the baby that child used to be and, in a way, still is.

Jane Brown is an adoption therapist in Ontario, Canada, who encourages adoptees to explore through playful group activities what it means to be adopted, how to build a self-concept as an adoptee, and how to be in the world. In a safe group, the children are more willing to take risks and model for one another, sometimes participating simply by listening and watching. She gives the youngsters exercises to encourage them to explore their beliefs about what happened to them, how they felt about their birth parents, why they'd adopted a baby, all in an attempt to lower their defenses and get their story out.

~

We'd spun tales about Casey's adoption from the very beginning. When she showed no curiosity about her past or birth family, we took her at her word. It never occurred to us that Casey's rages might've been rooted in suppressed feelings about her early abandonment. We tried to protect her from the pain of knowing about her stillborn twin, but maybe deep down she knew.

We looked at her birthdays through our eyes, not hers. They might have been yet another reminder of loss, not celebration. That would have explained her tendency to sabotage the entire occasion. It was probably Casey's instinct to run from strong emotions, but what she really needed was help from an understanding professional to piece together the narrative of her past and a healthier sense of herself as a whole person.

Ray Kinney claimed that, all too often, parents sugarcoat the adoption story to avoid inflicting more pain on their child. He takes a different approach - helping the child reconstruct her adoption story. She needs to know that her experience was real, and her constant and conflicting feelings about it are appropriate and legitimate. By getting the story out honestly - even if it isn't pretty - the child has a more complete sense of herself.

"They want the whole story, and when they hear it, maybe they can understand what it was like to be in their mother's shoes," he said. "When we let the child understand the trauma she's had. what happened to her as a baby, and how that's played out for her entire life, she can start to gain control over her emotions."

The onset of adolescence, middle school, and high school adds another layer of intensity into the mix. When Casey's tantrums became profanity-laced rages punctuated with I hate you, we tried to control her with endless groundings and withheld privileges until we admitted defeat. The fact that she seemed impervious to discipline we took as a personal failure. But her rages may have had little to do with us. Her inner existence was a toxic stew of fear, stress, loneliness, and self-hatred that she hinted at only on LiveJournal and the message board.

~

Dr. David Brodzinsky, a professor emeritus at Rutgers University, founding director of the Donaldson Adoption Institute, and a coauthor of the 1992 book Being Adopted: The Lifelong Search for Self, wrote about the effects of long-term institutionalization.

For children placed early, the sense of loss emerges gradually as the child's cognitive understanding of adoption begins to unfold. For children adopted later, feelings of loss can be more traumatic and overt, particularly by middle school when the youngster begins to reflect on what it means to be adopted, perhaps associating it with feeling odd, different.

At the extreme, resentment and rage against the adoptive parents may erupt from feelings of shame and guilt about who she is - unlovable - to which she may respond with destructive outbursts. As one adoptee said: "Being chosen by your adoptive parents means nothing compared to being un-chosen by your birth mother."

Dr. Brodzinsky cautions that there is a wide range in the expression of adoption-related grief, from only a slight recognition of pain to something more frequent and intense. Often the sense of loss can be masked by intense anger, denial, emotional distance, and exterior bravado. But beneath that tough suit of armor lies a child who has been deeply hurt by life. She is the most vulnerable and difficult to reach.

Chapter 24 - The Girl Behind The Door by John Brooks 

I began to understand what it might have felt like to be Casey - the baby screaming her outrage from her crib at being left behind, thrust into the arms of two strangers from a foreign country who couldn't comfort her no matter how well-intentioned they were.

She despised them for their lack of understanding, and for being so foolish as to love someone like her. So she put on a show of bravado, suited up her armor, and pretended that she needed no one, especially them. But at the same time, she might have looked at her behavior - something she just hinted at with Dr. Palmer - and asked herself, "What the hell is wrong with me?"

She hid behind that suit of armor, lashing out at the only two people who were safe - her adoptive parents. I'd come to learn that parenting a child who had suffered so much trauma in infancy was completely counterintuitive. The time-tested methods of raising and disciplining a securely attached child that we'd learned from Dr. Spock, T. Berry Brazelton, and Dr. Phil were woefully inadequate for a child like Casey. "Sometimes you have to parent in a way that's good for your child even if it doesn't feel good to you," Ray Kinney said.

Dr. Keck recommended that infants shouldn't be left alone to "cry it out." As I'd heard from others, the parent should stay with her if she was screaming, crying, and inconsolable.

There was that disastrous trip to the Yerba Buena skating rink when Casey was eight. We left her alone in her room to cry it out because that's what she said she wanted. If we'd known better, we would have overridden her.

Erika could have rubbed her back and massaged her feet, cooing in a soft voice the way she did when Casey was younger, chanting a Polish verse that Casey loved as an infant. It was about a little spider sneaking up on her, crawling up her tummy. Erika learned it from her mother, and my mother had a similar verse, but instead of a spider it was a creeping mouse. I imagined Casey's face lighting up in anticipation of what was to come when Erika's fingers would pounce on her neck with the dreaded spider tickle, eliciting her delicious laugh: Ha ha ha!

Dr. Keck wrote that the child should be fed on demand to establish a pattern that her needs will be met and help her develop a sense of trust that relief is there when she's distressed. Day care was to be avoided, if possible, as it could reinforce the pattern of abandonment by the primary caregiver.

Thank God, we got one thing right.

We continued to send Casey to therapists who treated her as they did other patients, repeatedly focusing on corrective behavior rather than getting to the core - until Casey had had enough.

Now I don't blame her. She was right. Their kind of therapy was a waste of time.

Unfortunately, in our blindness, Erika and I were enraged. We saw this as just one more of her infuriating acts of defiance and our failure to control her. We didn't realize that she might have just given up on herself.

Children like Casey have to be treated differently - different therapies, different parenting - if they are to survive and thrive. The professionals to whom we'd dragged her over the years were not equipped to understand, deal with, or even recognize her unique life experience. They resorted to the only treatments they'd been taught. After all, they'd worked for their other young patients. Why not Casey?

A blog post titled "When Therapists Don't Get It," on a Bay Area adoption website, recounted the frustration of an adoptive mother seeking help for her son through traditional therapy channels. She reported that even therapists skilled at working with troubled children couldn't help and may have made matters worse. As I'd heard before, they focused on her son's undesirable behavior, as if correcting the symptoms would cure the disease.

She wrote: "Parents seek out experts because they want to help their child to be happy and emotionally healthy. To constantly go to therapists and be told that what is 'wrong' with their child is the parents' fault is infuriating. FInding a therapist who gets it is the key to helping everyone in the family."

I talked with Heather Forbes about our disappointments with therapists.

"Unfortunately, I hear stories like this all the time," she assured me. "If you don't get to that emotional place - the depth of the heart and soul where she felt rejected - you'll probably never have success."

There are thousands of public and private adoption agencies and attorneys available to prospective parents in the United States, but post-adoption resources are sorely lacking. In the San Francisco Bay Area, the fifth-largest metropolitan area in the United States, with more than eight million people and a large international adoption community, there are only a handful of specialized adoption therapists. I'd learned from my own quest that finding them is a challenge.

If only I could have found someone who truly understood Casey and connected with her in a way none of our therapists had, maybe she would have developed some trust and opened up. If Casey had been willing to participate in group therapy with other adopted teens, maybe she wouldn't have felt so alone, even if she did nothing more than listen. The few clues we found after her death suggested that she had searched for a community of similarly troubled teenagers. She wanted to connect with others. I talked at length with Jane Brown about her adopted daughter from China. When she was nine years old, her psychiatrist put her on a mood stabilizer to manage her violent mood swings. Within a week, the medication took the edge off her rages and her tantrums subsided. Once she was calm, the psychiatrist was able to work on her psychological and behavioral issues.

I'd looked at medication for Casey as a last resort, frightened of the potential side effects. Would things have turned out differently if we had introduced medication to her much earlier than seventeen?

"These kids are forever more vulnerable and reactive to stress, but they can learn to deal with it. Medication can help." Brown said. "Attachment can be a piece of the puzzle, but it may not be the whole puzzle."

There was another thing we did right - the cardinal rule. I learned from Nancy Verrier - never threaten abandonment

.

Not that we didn't think about sending Casey off to rehab or reform school, as other parents had. But my consideration at the time was more practical than altruistic; reform schools are every bit as expensive as elite private colleges.

Perhaps if we had masted just one of the parenting techniques I'd learned about, or used every opportunity to remind her how much she mattered, or responded to I'll kill myself if. . . not with silence, but with an impassioned accounting of an empty world without her, we could have kept Casey alive.

This didn't have to happen.

Ray Kinney told me that the effects of institutionalization never completely disappear. "These kids can learn to not let those wounds control their lives."

Ultimately, Casey might have left home with better coping skills, a healthier self-image, and the confidence that she had two parents whom she could trust to be there whenever she needed them.

[acoolguyscoollife]

Chapter 45: Survivor’s guilt

Tabitha

People cope with grief in many different ways. If I’d been using common sense, I would have been sure to be honest and reach out. But then, common sense tends to not be an easily found resource when it comes to loss. As it stood, I’d convinced the others that I was fine, and hell, I almost managed to convince myself. It wasn’t even that much of a lie. When I didn’t think about Uchen, my mind wasn’t too plagued by memory, but any small thing to ignite a recollection of him was soon followed by many more memories.And of course, with those memories came the one solid thought that punctuated all of them and made a lump grow in my throat. It was too soon. 

I had always told myself that I was guaranteed more time with him, that everything I wanted to tell him about how much he helped me was something I’d be able to do later on. I never considered that I might not have that time after all. As I watched the rest of the group standing amongst the still-smouldering buildings of the town that had just been attacked, I couldn’t help but feel a mixture of emotions undoubtedly similar to what they were feeling, but sparked by something else entirely. Seth’s face was stony, looking down at the ground with a hand on his chin thoughtfully. With what CG had told him, I wasn’t surprised. Amy was still crying, but refused to let herself stop. Despite the tear-tracks running down her face freely, she still swallowed the sobbing and talked to the rest of the group who had helped us. The commander couldn’t look any of us in the eye, as the rest of the group that B had been with were the ones to discuss it instead. B himself was still on top of one of the buildings like had been previously, though now with binoculars and a gaze unwavering from the tower. And CG himself had removed his glasses, staring at Seth with an expression that looked like a mix of worry for him, and concern about his presence. From what I’d heard, I didn’t blame them. I knew that if I just said the right things to them, I could make them see that it wasn’t anything to worry about. That Seth wouldn’t become that gunman, however the events had played out, whether it was somehow a future version or whatever it could be. That CG wouldn’t have to fight his friend. That Aki would be rescued and Amy wouldn’t be alone, no matter what. But as bad as it was to have things remind me of him, the worst times were when nothing should have reminded me of him. The times when I’m needed, and that pit in my stomach returns. For all intents and purposes, nothing about the events that had gone down should have made me think of Uchen, and yet here I was with nothing but him on my mind. No, that was a lie. I had the needs of my friends in my mind too, but I knew I couldn’t do anything about it. I didn’t want to say I was the only one who could help them, but at the same time, I’d been doing this for long enough that if I didn’t, it was going to take longer. But the thoughts just kept coming back as soon as I tried to take a step. It was all the same voice. The same words that echoed in my mind. I didn’t even know him as much as someone who would normally care this much. I thought I knew him, of course I would have. He never had family he told me about, and I never found anyone else to tell. But honestly, I knew him for such a short period of his life, despite how long it was of my own. A quarter of my life, but only five years for him. Yet I still felt like I was the one who cared the most about his death. It felt selfish.

 All the thoughts in my head caused me to barely even see the things I was looking at, the things my mind actually focused on being the moments I’d shared with him, so I didn’t notice that Seth had stopped his pensive gaze downwards and had walked over to me.

“Penny for your thoughts?” He offered with a weak smile, and I winced a little at the fact that he was ignoring the shit he had to dwell on in favour of me.

“I think with the amount of thoughts I’m having, you’d need a lot more money.” I replied, and he chuckled. It wasn’t much, but making Seth laugh even a little was a small comfort. I had sat down on a bench a little while ago, and Seth sat next to me, close enough that his body heat was something that cut through the chill of the wind, however slightly.

“Well, time is money, and I have a lot of time.” Seth said, perfectly countering what I said. At first, I was tempted to dig my heels in and not talk to him, but I recalled how he had helped me get through everything else. If I didn’t talk to him, I wouldn’t have anyone to talk to.

“It’s just…” I began, before realising I would probably need to take a breath to get everything out. “Everything that’s happened, it’s overwhelming me a little. The gunman being who he was, this dimension not being what it should have been, people being kidnapped, CG being shot, the whole predicting the future thing, and Uchen…” It was the first time I’d said his name in this context, and it was starting to choke me up a little. “I thought I was over it, I thought doing everything I could for him, and continuing his legacy and work would make me feel better, but it’s just this constant reminder of him. Every time I get lost in thought about him, it’s like a stinging feeling right in the back of my mind.” Seth nodded, not saying anything, but at this point I was already talking without an end in sight. “I can’t get over this, even after how long it’s been, and I keep thinking about how I deserved more time with him. If I had known the last conversation we had would have been the last, I would have told him everything I should have said from the start. I would have told him that he gave me a meaning to my life, where I’d been wandering without a proper purpose. I’d have said that he made me feel happy with who I was, even when I didn’t feel like I was succeeding. I would have told him he gave me somewhere I could be safe. I’d have told him he was more than family, that I loved him for his kind heart.” I could feel the tears now, and it was starting to hurt to talk, feeling my words starting to reach a higher pitch as I strained to push past the feeling. “But he died thinking we would be able to talk again, that saying goodbye wasn’t something we needed to do. He died because of me. I pushed Untermeyer’s buttons in exactly the way he wanted me to. I could have been smarter and gotten closer, then saved him.” I finally found where the sentence’s end was, but it wasn’t something I was happy with finding out. I felt responsible. I was responsible. I had been the one to choose to not say anything, keeping to myself as much as I had despite knowing the risks. Seth still said nothing beside me, but as I turned to look up at him, he wrapped his arms around me, pulling me close to him and holding me tight. It was the final push of my emotions, causing me to start crying into his shoulder as he hugged me against himself. I didn’t bother to care whether or not anyone else could hear me sobbing, choked cries into the jacket he was wearing that I was most likely making a mess of. The two of us sat there for a moment, nothing audible except the noise of my crying, which eventually died down as I felt nothing more was going to come out. Seth held me for a few more moments, before pulling away eventually.

“Now listen, because I know you’re going to end up doubting what I have to say because you’re convinced of what you’re thinking.” Seth started, predicting me all too well. “What you did was something incredibly brave. You were going to do what you needed to in order to save him. You risked your life to get to him, finding a way to travel between universes despite the danger. Even if you didn’t say everything you needed to, I’m sure he knew, and I’m sure he felt the same way. He took you in, even though he probably didn’t have to.” It was Seth’s turn to speak without an end in sight, and I could feel myself welling up again despite how much I’d just cried. “You can’t blame yourself for what happened. Untermeyer did what he did and was going to no matter what, you couldn’t have done anything. He did it specifically to try and get an edge over you. He wanted to hurt you. It wasn’t your fault to have that happen.” My cheeks were dampened again by fresh tear tracks, but I made sure to not make any noise and instead listen to everything Seth had to say. “But there’s something you need to understand. It’s completely okay to still be sad about this. There’s no right or wrong way to grieve, and you shouldn’t end up letting yourself fall into this pit of worry about the fact that you feel like you’re still focused on it when you shouldn’t be. You’re allowed as long as you want for things like this.” Seth smiled at me again, this time one full of confidence and warmth instead of pretending to be happy. “We’re all here for you, because you’re the glue that brought us together. If Uchen was the one to give your life meaning, you were the one to give my life meaning.” Hearing Seth say that made an odd, unfamiliar feeling build inside me. I knew how much Uchen meant to me for what he did, and knowing Seth felt a similar way towards me was almost like an affirmation of at least some of the things I’d been doubting. He was important to me. Without even really realising, I started to lean towards him, eyes closing as I went to kiss him. It was slightly startling when his finger pressed against my lips instead, and I opened my eyes again to look at him, confused. “As much as I want to do that, I don’t think it’s quite the right moment for it.” Seth raised a good point, despite the fact that I still really wanted to do it. But the fact that I wanted to was most likely exactly the point he was making. I cleared my throat awkwardly, sitting back up straight and looking directly ahead. The two of us sat there for a moment, neither one particularly keen on starting the conversation again. The nagging feeling to be close to him slowly faded as I started to think rationally again, but it was replaced by another nagging feeling, something else I wanted to do.

“Thank you.” I said quietly, unsure that he’d even heard. It had been what I needed to hear, and most likely exactly who I needed to hear it from. With everything he’d done for me, I had to pass it along back to him. “I promise, I’ll make sure that whatever that gunman was isn’t you.” I looked over at Seth, who was still looking ahead, clearly thinking about them again.

“I hope you’re right.” He said, about as quietly as I had. His hands were gripping his knees, and I placed mine on top of his, running my thumb along the back of it in an attempt at reassurance.

“When am I ever wrong?” I said with a smile, and he smiled back at me again, bringing that feeling of being able to help back to me once more. A memory of Uchen crossed my mind again, thinking about how he was exactly the same to me as I was to Seth. But it didn’t hurt as much this time. It just reassured me that I had the best training for being as good as I could be. The time I spent with him was something that bettered me even when I wasn’t even trying to learn. I knew I’d make sure to do the same for everyone else.

[thakurtho]

Coming to terms with death

My rendevouz with death happened comparatively late in life. Usually, kids do exposed to death and I wonder how they process it. I am just grateful that I was old enough to process it. However, it was a journey to really come to terms with it.

My paternal grandfather’s death was the first one I experienced. Throat cancer. I was doing my post graduation by then I think. My parents had moved to Delhi. He had started living with them for proper cancer treatment. He was an avid reader all his life. A political science professor. Towards his end, the glaucoma in his eyes prevented him from reading. That’s when he started losing his battle. He was anyway quite old to fight this battle. But in one of those interactions, I remember him confiding in me and saying ‘I don’t want to die’. I found it strange. He was in his late 70s. He still had that much attachment that he wanted to just live through this painful cancer. It made me think. Are people ever ok with dying?

The second death I experienced was an untimely one. My paternal uncle. A freak medical ignorance case. It changed my father for good because he could never learn to forgive himself for being a doctor but not being able to protect his younger brother from death. But it was the first time I saw my father so broken that he was completely dysfunctional. I had to do things which normally he would have done. He took the call of removing my uncle from the life support after he was declared to be brain dead. He did that from home. He didn’t have the strength in him to come to the hospital. Everyone was a wreck. I went in to the NICU. I stood by my uncle, alone, when they pulled the plug. I did it to ‘see’ death. I wanted to see how life finally leaves the physical form. In his scenario, it was painless since he was gone before that. It was surreal. I didn’t know how to react. I remember being this hyper functional person when he was brought back home for cremation. I had very short bouts of tears. I was mostly running around figuring out the arrangements, making lemonade for all who couldn’t stop crying and ensuring that they didn’t get dehydrated.

My parents dogs died after that. I didn’t go back home for that. I feel bad about that now. I should have. But I am certain I acted with that knowledge then and that little nag is what taught me the lesson in life & death perhaps.

However, it was the year 2015 when I finally came to terms with death.

My maternal grandfather, who I was very close to, hadn’t been keeping well towards the end of 2014. I kept ignoring it for a while - I thought it was the usual old people sick thing. In Jan 2015, I decided to go pay him a visit. He was admitted to the hospital for the first time that day when I landed. I visited him. I played music for him. He asked me to play Marie’s her name by Elvis. I had all Elvis songs aside of that on my phone. I went back after 3 days. I thought he would get better. He hardly left the hospital after that. I remember the last time I spoke to him was in the midst of my theater practise. I was telling him about the play I was doing - Vagina Monologues. My nana was way too progressive for his times. And then, some days later, I got a call saying he is pretty much comatose. I went to visit him in the hospital. He wasn’t there. His body was, but he wasn’t conscious. He would have some bouts of what seemed like visions to me. His face would get twisted and eyes would roll like he was seeing the light. I put my pendant under his pillow in the hope of sending some energy. I left Calcutta. The night I landed back in Bangalore, he was gone. Midway during my flight I suppose. I didn’t go for his cremation. I went 13 days later for the other function that happens. I don’t know why I did it. But I did. Thankfully, my family didn’t judge me for it.

Sometime later, around August, my pregnant cat Leia, fell down my 3 floor balcony. I didn’t realise it. I was in my car, getting out of my house, and I suddenly looked right - for no real reason. And the reason was ofcourse to find my Leia hurt very badly. I picked her up, put her on my lap and started driving straight for the vet. I was beyond myself during that drive. I took Shinoy with me so I could be calm. I couldn’t stop thinking about how I didn’t see her missing. Could I have found her earlier? She got operated. Her children didn’t make it. She couldn’t survive the fall. I was alone at the vet all day through her surgery. I remember coming back to office for a bit, our biggest client till date got closed on that day. I went back. They asked me what I wanted to do with the body. I didn’t know. They said they could bury her by the tracks somewhere. I said ok. I didn’t know if there was anything I could do better. I lived in guilt. Of not noticing that my child was missing that morning when I fed the rest of them.

Later that year in Nov, I moved in to this house that I live in currently. Leia’s sibling, Luke, was an active little boy. I came to this house so that my cats could go out of the house. I found it cruel to keep them in an apartment, particularly after Leia’s fall. But what do you know? Luke got hit by a car and died on the road behind my house. My maid came in early morning shouting Luke Luke to me. She speaks only in Tamil, so I couldn’t really get what she was saying, but I was prepared for the worst in that short walk from my house to the road. There he was, splattered. Hit by a truck, perhaps. I asked her to stand there with him. I went back to my house, picked up an old sheet. I came back and picked him up. I coudn’t take him inside my house because I had other beings. So I opened my car, put him in the boot. I asked my office admin to come home with a rake. And then both of us dug up the small mud patch outside my house and put him there. For months after, I couldn’t drive past that part of the road, but I purposely did, in some twisted way of punishing myself. I would drive past to see how long that blood patch of his would be there on the road. I couldn’t forgive myself for moving into this house, and inadvertently causing his death. I had my other cats on the streets. I couldn’t stop worrying if they would meet the same fate. I felt responsible.

By the end of that year, beings really close to me were gone. I think I came to death then. I realised that I was too small in the scheme of life and death to think I could have caused or prevented anything. I absolved myself of all the guilt. I understood that there’s nothing more natural than death. I was always functional around death before that, but now I know the depth of that loss. It has made me appreciate the depth of that presence. I deeply understand that no physical form will pass before its time. When it does, it just will. We as humans don’t have any control over it.

I saw another very close death 2 years later. An uncle of mine - who had been my mausi’s love for 20 years. I dearly loved that man. He was battling blood cancer. I was making a trip to Calcutta to see him because he was sick. 2 nights before my date of travel, my mausi called at 1am. I dread midnight calls for this very reason. He was gone. I felt a jab of regret - of not making it in time. But the day I landed, was the day he came home for cremation. I stood by my mausi through that entire process - when her own children weren’t there. She was alone. And I realised, that is exactly why I was supposed to come. I absolved myself of my guilt. Truth is, things just happen the way they are supposed to. We need to stop beating ourselves for it. Somewhere between 2015 & 2018, my partner’s dog passed. I ensured I went with him to the vet when they euthanised him, even though his own family was there. I went with him to the farm where we lay him. I can’t take away anyone’s grief. But just being physically present for someone at the time when the body passes, is the strength that they need. I have started prioritising travel for death over everything. Everything else can wait, but that one moment in someone’s life has come. And we need to give it the due respect it deserves.

I celebrate life today. I live with the cognisance that anyone I know can die any day. Do I have unsaid things to them? Do I have undone things? Can I do more with every minute that I share with people and beings? I let my dogs sleep in my bed after this year - realising that someday, they will be gone as well. I might as well snuggle as much I can today. Screw the fur in my bed. I mended my relationship with my immediate family and the people in my family I care about. I have Marie’s her name on my phone. We have put a bereavement leave in our HR policy.

Steve Jobs said live like you are going to die tomorrow and ensure you are doing everything that you love before that, everyday. I do that now. Be present. Wherever my life is taking me, I find reason and purpose. I give it what I got. Everything is ephermeral. All we can do is be present while it lasts.

[awashsquid]

Continuation of The Death of the Moon, all of which is here, for your reading pleasure.  If you enjoyed this chapter or this series, consider buying me a coffee!

--

Rei had been introduced to luxury as a young child; her father being such a prominent political figure had meant that he had flown in prestigious circles, sometimes tugging her along for the ride, a purebred to be poked and prodded and fawned over.  The excessive décor was something she always had an eye to appreciate, but as she had gotten older, she found that the lavishness of it all just felt excessive and left her frustrated with the amount of wasteful spending people would do to fill their own greedy desires.  It was around the time that she was able to articulate this opinion, as well as several other choice thoughts, that her father lost interest in showing her off at fancy affairs.  

Still, the grandeur of the lobby was not lost on her, and she fought the urge to crane her head upwards to examine the gold-leafed crown molding high on the ceilings, lest she gawk like a simpleton.  True to Michiru’s word, the doorman and elevator attendant were most gracious to Rei, ushering her up to the penthouse floor with a level of attentiveness that made her slightly uncomfortable.  She kept debating silently if she was supposed to tip the elevator attendant—on one hand, surely rich people had money to tip; on the other hand, palming cash to him seemed a bit gauche.  Before she had made up her mind, the elevator stopped and its door opened, revealing a lovely glass elevator right across the hall.

“The penthouse suite has its own elevator, of course,” he intoned smoothly as he crossed the hall and slid his keycard in one smooth motion.

“Of course,” Rei muttered, some disdain evident that the attendant was trained to ignore, and she entered the elevator alone, rising a single floor in a great glass box that made little rainbows dance every time the light caught it.  The doors slid open with a light ding onto a parlor decorated in tasteful luxury, clean and bright, but generic enough that it would cater to a wide variety of tastes. (Well, so long as those tastes were extremely excessive, Rei thought, removing her shoes before stepping into what she suspected was a real white fur rug.)

“Michiru?” her voice seemed swallowed by the vast space, a hotel suite bigger than some people’s entire houses, the soft fineries muffling her query.  She called out the name again as she padded forward, the rug sinking delightfully under her feet.  There was a full-sized kitchen to her left and a large living area to the right, complete with a fireplace and large mirror overtop that she realized was a cleverly hidden television set.  There was a hallway leading off of both sides, so she shrugged and tried the one off the kitchen first.  

This hallway led to a full bath, a bar room that could easily seat twenty, stocked with fine liquors and wines, and a fully-equipped office, computer light blinking slowly at her. “Not helpful,” she muttered, turning heel and marching across the penthouse.  One small and empty bedroom greeted her, and she groaned in frustration before noticing a rather ornate door in the hall.  Figuring that would be the Master Suite, she knocked; when she received no response, she entered brusquely.

The room was illuminated with an excess of natural light, one entire wall taken up by floor-to-ceiling windows looking out onto a private hot tub and a stunning view of the city. But more urgently, Michiru was laying on the king-sized bed, dressed in a silk slip and unmoving.

“Michiru?” Rei darted to her side and flipped her dead weight over, her thoughts immediately running to the worst.  Thankfully, she was breathing and didn’t seem to be hurt.  Her eyes blearily opened, and she gave a small, wobbly grin.

“Rei!  So wonderful to see you.  Might I interest you in a drink?”  Michiru moved to sit up and quickly found it useless, so she allowed herself to sink back onto the bed instead.  “I’m afraid I’m going to be a poor hostess; you’ll have to fetch your own.” Her right arm loosely flopped towards a large bar cart, several bottles of wine and wineglasses sitting upon it.

Rei rolled her eyes but crossed to it all the same, not one to turn down a good, free drink, especially when her night was about to be this difficult.  “Geez, Michiru, you really went at it,” she whispered, turning over two empty bottles in her hands.  There was another opened and only perhaps a quarter drunk, so Rei poured herself a glass and crossed to sit facing the bed.

“I am compelled to tell you that you’re drinking a very fine vintage red—”

“Yes, Michiru, I know you’re rich—”

“—but you poured it into a white wine glass.”  Her smirk was the same even when she was drunk, and Rei blushed at the callout.

“Well what does it matter anyway?”  She took a sip and swallowed it hard, trying to tamp down her frustration.

Michiru giggled a little, a hand rising to cover her mouth.  “I confess I’ve never researched.  Something about the bouquet, I think.”

She must be absolutely blasted if she’s admitting she doesn’t know something fancy, Rei thought, eyebrows raised well into her bangs as she took another sip, this one more measured.  “I assume you’re upset.”  Her eyes glanced pointedly at the thoroughly indulged wine cart as proof of her statement.

“Nonsense, this is merely my typical Thursday appointment,” Michiru breezily replied, the smallest slur evident in her otherwise impeccable diction.

Rei exhaled in a short burst, caught between finding the situation funny and heartrending.  “It’s Friday.”

Michiru blinked at her, eyes wide, a hint of bags evident below them upon close inspection.  “Is that so?”  She seemed genuinely baffled as she plucked her watch off the nightstand and confirmed the date.  “Goodness, how easy it is to lose track of time!  They say ‘time flies when you’re having fun,’ but I think it perhaps can speed by just as quickly when the opposite is occurring.  What do you think, Rei?” she asked, their eyes meeting, Michiru’s eyes flashing back to their usual sharpness, deep waters capable of swallowing a person whole.

She snorted in response. “If you want time advice, that’s Setsuna’s bag, not mine.”  Rei swallowed another drink of wine, and the flavor turned sour in her mouth as she realized that it wasn’t Setsuna’s domain any more, all of that having been lost.  Her black hair rippled around her as she shook her head hard, clearing away lingering thoughts, imagining them falling away to leave only a blank slate, her mind an etch-a-sketch in an earthquake.

“You didn’t tell me to come over to talk about time, Michiru.”  Rei sat down her empty glass on the nightstand next to a twin of Michiru’s, a swallow remaining, her lipstick still slightly visible on the rim. “You want to talk about Haruka.”

Michiru didn’t wince but her eyes crinkled shut tightly as she turned her face away, and that was as close to a flinch as she had ever allowed anyone to see.  “There’s not much to say.”  Rei remained silent and unmoving, fighting all of her usual instincts in an effort to draw out further elaboration.  She was rewarded when after a minute Michiru continued, her face still turned towards the windows, eyes gazing outside unseeingly.  “The universe conspired to give me the most beautiful, the most precious gift, in her.  She is—” a steady inhale, to calm her shaking voice “—the best thing I have ever possessed. And I—”  Michiru cleared her throat, and Rei pretended not to notice her eyes going glassy.

“I have this terrible habit, you see.  I feel I cannot touch something so pure, so lovely, without sullying it.  I cannot paint happiness; I cannot play joyful etudes. I am, I think, meant for the deep waters after all, where no one can reach me.  But she did, and what did I do?  Rather than letting her float back to the sunlight, I drug her down, and I drowned her.”  There were tears falling from her eyes one at a time, streaking slowly down her cheeks, and she wiped them away with the back of her hand.  “I only hope I haven’t ruined her completely.”

Next time Minako mentions Haruka’s dramatics, I should bring this up, Rei mused, knowing somehow that she never would, that she would allow this soft part of her friend to remain hidden, tucked away as she had always been.  She couldn’t stop her eyes rolling, though, nor stem her response.  “I think you’re overdoing the sea metaphors a little.” Her tone was gently chiding, the way she used to talk to Usagi when she needed a pick-me-up, and her heart panged as she remembered she would never get to do that to her again.

Not now.  She forced down her grief, pushing it deep within her gut, and continued speaking.  “You didn’t ruin her.  She’s a grown-ass woman, Michiru, not some fancy couch.  She’ll get over it.”  Rei realized that she was being a bit too brusque for Michiru in such a delicate state, and she shifted her tone to something softer.  “I mean, yeah, this hurt her.  But I think she could forgive you.”  Michiru turned her face back towards Rei, a sardonic disbelief coloring her features.  “It’ll take a while, if she does, but I think there’s a good chance.”

“I doubt it,” Michiru whispered, reaching for her wine glass, only for Rei to lightly slap the back of her hand.  She raised her eyes, her mouth open in a most uncouth fashion, as she gaped at her friend.

“Oh hush, I barely touched you.  And you’re cut off the wine for right now, you’ve had enough.”  She crossed her arms and gave her best stern look.  Normally she knew Michiru would laugh in her face and say she would do as she pleased, but instead she assented that she probably had drank enough and retracted her hand.

“This whole thing is a fucking mess, and I won’t tell you it’s not,” Rei stated flatly.  “But Haruka loves you a ludicrous amount, and if anyone could forgive you for cheating, it would be her.  I can’t See for shit any more, and I know you can’t either, but honestly, I think the chances are fairly good that you end up back together.”

Michiru absently rubbed the spot where her wedding ring used to be, unconsciously fiddling with the empty space as she responded, “I do so hope you’re right.”