#it NEVER fucking ends with cooking it's so miserable and time consuming and overwhelming for me. even making a sanwich pisses me off so bad

[vehal]

wish cooking didnt take 3000 steps cuz idk wtf im gna do when i live alone .

yes i do im going to starve

[stones-x-bones]

Pretty Weird Problems || Milo and Bex

TIMING: Last Night PARTIES: @wickedmilo and @inbextween SUMMARY: Bex runs into Milo on a midnight walk and the two decide to stop skirting around what they both already suspect. CONTENT: Domestic abuse mentions, internalized homophobia, Medical blood

Bex was having a good day, and good days usually led to good nights. She’d opted to go for a walk through the Commons, enjoying the fact that it was no longer so flooded. They’d even managed to get the fairy lights that lined the gazebo working and Bex cut across the field to stroll over to it. Mina was busy this evening and Bex had needed a distraction, and what better way to distract herself than taking a nice, long walk. She’d...walked really far, actually. It was strange how free she felt. She’d rode the ferry across the canal and walked all the way from the station to here, without missing a beat. Being normal felt so-- normal. No aches in her body, no fear about being seen, no worries about having to go home and wondering which set of hands was waiting for her. No, she could just go out and do what she wanted, live her life. Live the life she’d always wanted. She finally had everything she wanted. 

She wondered if it would all go wrong at some point. That was something that would happen, especially here, especially to her. But, for now, she’d enjoy it. She circled back around the gazebo to the little rock archway and started down, when she heard a familiar voice. It was hazy through her drunken mind, but she recognized it. Moving quickly through the brush, she turned and came upon the boy that had helped her out not too long ago, by swiping a bottle of alcohol for her. She beamed, she couldn’t wait to tell him she was normal. And if she could get what she wanted, maybe he could, too. “Milo!” she called out, waving, “It’s Bex. What’re you doing here?”

Milo had been on the phone to Rio, talking about next to nothing as he cut across the common in a bid to make it home. There was plenty of time before the sunrise was due, but sometimes it was a nice change of pace to sit in the apartment he shared with Harsh. They would cook together, or watch tv, or even pay Summer and Quinn some attention. The older vampire had become a comfort, though he would never admit that out loud. When things were beginning to overwhelm him, he felt safe with Harsh. He felt capable. White Crest, as always, had other plans for him though. And despite having just left Orion’s home, he begrudgingly said goodbye, ending the call as he turned to face whoever had called his name. Slipping his phone back into his pocket, it didn’t take him long to notice Bex. She looked decidedly more upbeat than the last time he had seen her. He wasn’t sure whether that was due to the lack of alcohol in her system, or something else entirely. Glancing up at the sky, as though double checking it was dark, he caught her eye again with a quizzical grin. “How could I forget?” He teased, crossing the distance between them both so that she would no longer feel the need to shout. “What are you doing here?” He countered. “Isn’t it a bit late for a walk?” 

“No, I don’t really think so,” Bex said, shrugging. She looked back up and to the sky, fading quickly from sunset oranges to nighttime blues. “I mean, maybe, but the Common is pretty well lit and safe at night. Usually. Back when the portals were open, it sure wasn’t, but that’s all over now! Just a strange bit of gravity fluctuations and occasional snowfall,” she pointed out, grinning. “And I guess the constellations are all whacky, but there’s not much we can do about any of those.” Even if everyone else she’d talked to had been rather distressed about it all, she was finding it hard to be. Not when everything felt good, great. She brought her eyes back down level with Milo’s and smiled. “If you’re worried about me, you don’t need to be. And I uh-- never properly said thanks for last time.” It was still a blur in her mind, stumbling drunk in the park, then being walked back to his apartment and laid in a bed. When she’d woken the next morning, she’d crawled out of the apartment, wincing under harsh sunlight and pretending like she wasn’t curious about his ‘don’t look in the fridge’ rule. Her curiosity had always seemed to be a bane, but like this, it felt more like a boon. Asking questions didn’t get her in trouble anymore. At least, not with her parents. “You never answered my question-- are you just out for a walk, too?”

It wasn’t the first time Bex had said something Milo struggled to keep up with. He only knew about the portals through the experiences of others. Whatever was happening with gravity, and the weather hopefully wouldn’t affect him. Deciding not to ask too many questions, lest he accidentally tempt fate and start floating up towards the sky, he laughed quietly. “White Crest can be really fucking weird.” He muttered, glancing up at the stars himself to see if he might notice any difference in their arrangement. “I mean… it’s probably better to just ignore it, right?” He was only half serious, but it had proven to be a rather efficient coping strategy. Especially when he was faced with the supernatural, things he still didn’t understand, or feel familiar with. Turning his attention back to Bex he was glad to see she seemed to be taking the same approach of acceptance. If something happened to them, they could deal with it. Until then, how was worrying going to help? Returning her smile, he hurried to brush off her thanks. Taking her home to sleep off the alcohol had been far easier than first anticipated. As predicted there was human food in the fridge which he had encouraged her to eat before sleeping. And she had been more than respectful of the boundaries put in place to stop her from finding anything distinctly vampiric. “We’ve all got our shit to deal with.” He shrugged, letting her know he wasn’t about to baby her because she used alcohol to deal with her baggage. Wasn’t he guilty of doing the very same? 

“And I trust you.” He added. “If you say you’re okay, you’re okay.” It was the very least he could offer her. He had been told so many times that he had problems, even after adamantly denying the fact. It was important to feel heard, to know you could trust the person you were with. “I mean- you look okay. Good-” He corrected himself. “You look good.” He caught her eye, his smile growing in response as he properly took her in. There was something different, a weight that seemed suddenly absent from her shoulders. “Your question? Oh-” He laughed, pushing his glasses further up his nose. “I actually just left a friend’s house, so kind of? I’m supposed to be walking home, but if you’re up for some company I wouldn’t mind a midnight stroll.” He prompted, secretly hoping she would take him up on his suggestion. He wanted to know why she looked so content, what had compelled her to call out his name. “You can tell me about how miserable it was trying to get home with your hangover. That can’t have been fun.” 

“I don’t think ignoring it is really the right answer, no,” Bex said, wringing her hands together, “but knowing what you can and can’t handle is probably a good idea around here.” Her eyes went back up to the stars, and the distress they’d originally caused her was still there, floating just above their heads, millions of billions of miles away. Stars didn’t move. But she had to remind herself that that also meant she wasn’t capable of moving them, either, and therefore nothing could be done. Especially when she didn’t have magic anymore. And she didn’t want it anymore. She smiled. “True, we do, but, like, sometimes we can help each other out with our shit, you know? At least, I’d like to be able to be someone who can help others out, like how you helped me out. It was-- nice, not having to go home for a night.” And it was nice, now, to be able to go home to a life that didn’t threaten her every moment she did something wrong. “Well, thanks, then. For trusting me.” Not many people did, in that way. She’d always been too naive, too ignorant, too “out of the loop” as far as the supernatural was concerned. 

She let out a gentle chuckle, in stark contrast to the ridiculous laughter that had consumed her while she’d been drunk. “It’s fine, I know what you mean. I feel good, too. But sure! Yeah, I wouldn’t mind the company. I was just gonna kinda walk around here, maybe towards the lake. Where the night takes me.” Even if she’d been reminded several times that the lake was dangerous and now, without her magic, maybe even more so. She didn’t really care, though. “Oh, god, please don’t make me recount that tale. It was miserable. More so because it was so damn sunny out. I’ve never hated the sun more so than that morning. Or...afternoon. I don’t remember what time it was, just that once I got home I slept the rest of the day.”

Milo laughed, unable to help himself. Despite strongly suspecting Bex was more than human, or at the very least somebody who knew about the supernatural, the idea of her being able to help him with his problems didn’t quite feel believable to him. Even his closest friends couldn’t take away the pain or the trauma. And apparently there was nothing he could do about the constant thirst for blood. “No offense, but I’m not sure what you could do to help me with my shit. Ignoring it has proven to be a pretty reliable mechanism.” Maybe not always, but on the few blissful nights he had been able to drink and forget, he almost, almost felt normal. Human again. And that was as close as he seemed to get to being genuinely okay. A smile tugging at his lips despite the bitter nature of his thoughts, offering Bex a place to stay had been the obvious course of action. He hadn’t considered the fact that he might be helping her beyond ensuring she was safe. “Oh, I- it wasn’t a big deal, you know?” He brushed off her comment with a shrug. “I just- you didn’t want to go home so… I wasn’t about to make you.” 

Watching her carefully, curious to understand why trusting her was something she felt the need to thank him for, his smile began to grow. He really did enjoy her company, he wanted her to know that. “You don’t need to thank me for trusting you.” He insisted. He figured he should probably thank her for trusting him too, for not going through his things, or trying to look inside of the fridge. But that would only draw attention to the strange rules he had put in place, and he wasn’t sure that would be a very smart move. “I’m glad you’re feeling better.” He added, hoping she could see he was being sincere, while simultaneously diverting the conversation. It didn’t take a genius to realise she was going through a lot, and everyone deserved a break from their struggles, regardless of how they managed to achieve that temporary escape. He laughed again at her reaction to her hangover being mentioned. But this laughter came easily, it was a product of good company. Of memories that were tinged with underlying emotion, but happy on the surface. He could look back on them with a strange sense of fondness. “Yeah, me and the sun don’t exactly get along.” He admitted. “I’m sorry about the blackout curtains, I guess they can make it pretty disorientating when you leave the apartment during the day…” Shit. He realised too late that he had essentially done exactly what he had been trying to avoid. Maybe he hadn’t drawn attention to the fridge, but he had just reminded her the entire apartment existed in a perpetual state of darkness. Nice one, Milo. 

Bex had never thought that she was all that good at making friends, but that was back when fear had dictated her every move. Fear of if people might judge her for how she was born, fear of if they would find out about her magic (although she hadn’t called it that back then), fear of if she might hurt them or them her. Fear of if her parents wouldn’t approve and they’d get taken away before she even got a chance to grow close. But that was before, and this was now, and maybe she liked the idea of being friends with Milo, because he was sweet and he was helpful, and she liked that she could make him smile in a way that seemed almost relaxed. “Well, if you ever do think of a way, anything, really, just lemme know. I’d like to, you know, pay it back somehow. Even if it’s just a small thing.” She was quiet for a moment, her face drawing pensive for a moment. “It was a big deal, for me, at least. Even if it wasn’t for you.” She smiled again-- whatever the situation was back then, it didn’t exist now. “But we don’t have to talk about it.” 

She perked back up, smoothing her hands along the fringes of her dress. It was one of her dresses that her mother rarely approved of, except at gatherings where she could catch the eye of some rich politico that could help the family. Bex liked it because she felt nice in it and she looked good in it and she’d wanted Mina to see her in it. “Thanks. I hope things are going well for you, too. There seems to be a bit going on around town, huh?” She shrugged, trying not to less the curious questions in her stomach bubble up. Her tendency to run her mouth and ask too many questions had been a downfall for her quite a few times. “Do you like, work overnights or something?” she found herself asking before she could stop herself. She didn’t want to automatically assume anything, but not being out in the sun, having blackout curtains, and an aversion to people looking in the fridge gave Bex a few too many questions. 

Milo wasn’t necessarily touched by the sentiment, many people had said similar things to him in the past. He was touched by the fact that Bex obviously meant what she was saying. There weren’t many people he felt like he could genuinely approach with his problems, but despite only knowing each other for a night, and maybe half of a day, Bex was quickly becoming one of those people. A rather impressive feat, all things considered. “I’m not making any promises.” He teased. “I have, uh- some of my problems can be pretty weird.” His smile faltering as he noticed his company’s expression shift, he fell silent again, giving her the space she needed to feel comfortable. “Oh…” He wasn’t sure what he had been expecting her to say, and the rush of emotion that followed her words was unexpected. Not for the first time he felt the unusual urge to protect her, to keep her safe. Was this the way Dani used to feel about him? Before he changed? Before she stopped loving him? He cleared his throat, feeling awkward in the face of such unguarded honesty. “You know the offer is always there… I mean- if you ever need a place to stay. You know where I am.” He might be taking a risk but he almost didn’t care. Her wellbeing was suddenly far more important to him than being sensible. 

Not failing to notice the way she brushed herself off, seemingly putting the conversation behind her in preparation to move on, he nodded, taking a moment to contemplate her question. “I didn’t notice for a long time,” he scuffed his feet as he spoke, feeling ridiculous for being so oblivious now that he knew how obvious the Weird of White Crest actually was. “But yeah, there always seems to be a lot going on in this town. The chaos has become pretty hard to escape these past few months.” Would he ever be able to escape it again? He tried not to dwell on the question. “But you know… I guess it is what it is.” Lowering his gaze, the phrase never really helped him to feel any better, but every time he uttered it he found a part of him was secretly hoping it might. He only looked back up again when Bex mentioned the blackout curtains, and he cursed himself for being so stupid. Of course she was going to pick up on that. Of course she was going to be curious. “Oh, I… my roommate does.” It wasn’t technically a lie. Harsh worked nights more often than not, only sneaking out for the occasional day shift when the weather was dark, and gloomy. “I think it’s easier just to leave them up, his schedule can be pretty unpredictable so…” 

“Good, you shouldn’t make promises,” Bex said, perhaps a little too excitedly for the topic. It was hard for her to not be happy right now, really. She had everything she ever wanted, and while it wasn’t much, it made her entire life different. Better. “Especially to people you don’t know-- know well.” She caught herself, giving a chuckle at the end of her sentence to try and cover up the slip. “Just cause, you know, sometimes people get weird about that stuff. Especially here. Speaking of which, I was kinda like that, too. Technically I grew up here, but I didn’t ever notice how--” she chewed her tongue a moment-- “strange the place really was until recently.” Until she started leaving her home regularly. Until she’d met Nell in that computer lab. But those details weren’t important. She didn’t even remember telling Milo about Morgan and Nell last time they’d been together, drunk in the park. “And thanks, for the offer. I won’t say it’ll never happen again, but I think I’ve got a good thing going now, so hopefully I won’t have to crash your pad again any time soon.” But in a town like this, she supposed it was a ‘never say never’ sort of situation.

“The offer is there for you, too, you know,” Bex said suddenly, noting the way the conversation shift had turned a bit tense. Maybe not tense, but sometimes people had secrets that they didn’t want to share, and Bex’s curiosity could be seen more as nosiness or digging into things she shouldn’t be digging in. She hated that idea, but people were allowed their secrets, no matter how bad she wanted to know. “Does he? That’s cool. It’s nice that you don’t mind the curtains, either, then. I’m such a morning person. And a night owl. Actually, I don’t really sleep much, but I definitely have never been able to sleep long in the mornings.” Even when she was laying next to Mina, wrapped in her arms. “Are you like, more of a night person, then? The two times I’ve run into you have been at night, which technically isn’t enough for a pattern, but it could be leading to one. No judging if you are! Of course not. It’s just that this place is kind of-- you know, dangerous at night.” 

Milo had only been suspicious until now, but after hearing Bex warn him about making promises he would be willing to bet almost anything on her knowing about the supernatural. But how? She didn’t strike him as a hunter, although Dani had always presented herself as caring, and kind. If she was a slayer, wouldn’t he already be dead? So what? A witch, a mara, a werewolf? Or maybe even a human in the know? He wanted to ask, to sate his curiosity, but he forced himself to hold his tongue. “You’re not the first person to tell me that.” He said carefully, wondering whether she might out herself if he hinted at being a part of her world. Raising his eyebrows when she mentioned taking a while to notice the truth of White Crest, he ran over the implication behind her words. Had she been turned too? Was there any way for him to uncover that information without actively asking her? “I know how that goes.” He admitted, framing his words as casual. “Waking up and realising everything is just… different. It’s not an easy thing to navigate but… we’re still here.” He smiled at her, hoping she was right. He had never been the type to judge others but the idea of her being happy enough to no longer need her crutch was a genuinely nice one. One he was willing to root for. 

Surprised to hear his own offer echoed back to him, he felt his demeanour soften. Every instinct in him was telling him he could trust Bex. It was so hard to remind himself that those instincts could possibly be wrong. “They don’t… they don’t bother me.” He said, debating how far he could conceivably push the conversation before he was being too open, before he was putting himself at risk. “I don’t really sleep anymore… but I used to sleep until noon when I could.” Not that he hadn’t tried more than once to do so again, the best he could achieve was a strange, trance-like lack of consciousness. He hated it. “Oh, yeah… I’m definitely a night person. I always have been… before I started partying I used to study at night.” He laughed quietly at the contrast in activities. “My life would be very different if I didn’t abandon academia.” A soft sigh escaping him, he caught his friend’s eye when she told him the town could be dangerous. He could still remember what it felt like, living in blissful ignorance. He missed it. “Believe me, I know. I kind of found out the hard way… but I appreciate the heads up.”

“Really? Well, that’s good.” Bex nodded slowly. Her suspicion was slowly being confirmed-- Milo knew something about the supernatural. She didn’t know how he fit in, but she assumed he had the same thought about her. How did they both fit in? And who would break first? It would be Bex, she knew that. Being a witch wasn’t as precarious as being something like a zombie or a werewolf. Something that people actively hated and hunted. Witch hunters, for all she was aware, were a rare and unnecessary occurrence. She wasn’t in danger of them. “You should listen to that advice, then. And also maybe even hold off on saying ‘thanks’ too much. My girlf--” the word stuck in her throat, like it always did, and she swallowed it, “--one of my friends told me to try and replace ‘thanks’ with ‘I appreciate that’ or ‘I’m grateful for’. They’re better to say, anyway.” Smiled, trying to brush off the mishap. It was strange to her that possibly telling someone she had magic was easier to swallow than telling someone she was dating a girl. “I think, for me,” she started off, brows knitting together a moment, “it was less waking up and just realizing it and more...finally admitting to myself that things here were different. Like, I’d always known, but pretended I hadn’t. But then things happen and you can’t really deny it anymore, you know? And so I admitted it,” she shrugged, “I think things technically got better after that, although sometimes it doesn’t seem that way.”

She examined his face as they walked and wondered what the strange curve of his brow meant as he answered her. She’d never been good at reading expressions on people, unless they carried anger. She tilted her head in contemplation. “You know, you can always go back,” she said, “to school. College doesn’t have an age cap.” Sometimes she’d wished she’d been able to wait to start college, but not because she was disinterested. But because her life had been messy back then, and maybe if she’d been smarter, had known more about the world, she wouldn’t have fallen into bed with the first girl who cast her an empathetic glance. She turned away, cheeks slightly tinged. “Yeah, me, too. I-- I take it you’re okay now? It-- I mean, physically? Whatever happened. Was it--” had something attacked him, too? Did he also have the sting of scars on his body from an ignorance that had left him vulnerable?

“I guess my friends are much smarter than I am.” Milo was only half joking. Even after suffering at the hands of the supernatural, he was reckless in his behaviour. Without Rio constantly pressing him to stay focused, to pay attention, he would probably be in a lot more danger, and he wasn’t afraid to admit that. “I try.” He admitted, being entirely honest. Trying meant he failed more often than not, but the warning was always there in the back of his mind. A knowing smile tugging at his lips as Bex stumbled over the word girlfriend, it was an act he had seen many times before, and one he knew not to interrupt. That didn’t stop his eyes from shining as he wondered who this ‘girlfriend’ might be. “My friend told me the same,” he thought back to his conversation with Orion. It was the first night he had ever spent in his house, and he held the memories very close to his heart. Falling silent to listen again, he dissected the explanation he was given in his mind. If she hadn’t woken up to a different White Crest then maybe she had been born into it. Surely it took Dani a long time to realise the way she was being raised wasn’t normal. Could it have been the same for Bex? “They did?” He asked quietly, hope lacing his tone as he wondered whether there was a chance for things to get better for him. Maybe one day he could fully embrace being a vampire. It could become what he was and not what someone had made him. 

“Go back?” It took him a few seconds to realise what his company meant. He laughed quietly, shaking his head. “I don’t need to,” he explained. “I got my degree, you know? I did what my parents wanted me to do, even if it wasn’t in the way they wanted me to do it.” Hiding whiskey in his coffee during exams, and skipping out on morning lectures because he was hungover from the previous night definitely wasn’t a part of their plan. Neither was a degree in English Literature. But as far as he was concerned, it was an achievement, all the same. What would he study if he did decide to return? And how would he work around the schedules when the majority of classes took place during the day? Furrowing his brow, he forced the thought to the back of his mind. He had chosen his path, and it had led him here. There was no going back. “Oh- I-” He wasn’t prepared for the sudden change in direction, and his hand absentmindedly moved to rest against the scars on his neck. “That kind of depends on your definition of okay.” He murmured, thinking about Dani, how she saw him as a monster. Then Harsh, who told him he was dead, but being dead was simply an opportunity to start anew. Then Macleod, who insisted with vehement conviction that he wasn’t dead, he hadn’t died. Only changed. Evolved for better or for worse. “How did you find out?” He asked, uncharacteristically bold in his question. They had been dancing around the subject, but he wanted to know now, far more than he wanted to protect himself. Even if he wasn’t quite ready to give up his secret. “That White Crest was different?” 

“They did? Oh, well, then, you should definitely listen to your smarter friends,” Bex nodded. Had she said too much? Did Milo know about the fae? Was Milo’s friend a fae? Oh, she hoped she hadn’t just exposed someone, even if she was curious. But the tone in his voice stopped her short of any other thoughts on the subject, when he gave the smallest response to her announcement that things had gotten better for her. It was hope, and it felt like it might strangle Bex. Should she tell Milo about Erin? Was that her place to? Was his pain anything like hers? Did he need saving like she had? She swallowed. “They did. Get better. But not easily. Not out of nowhere.” She lifted a hand to her ribs-- the injury was gone, but she could still remember the pain. Still remembered what it felt like when her head had hit the dumpster, over and over and over again. “I had help, too. So, if-- just, you know, so you know...it’s okay to accept help, if you need it.” Maybe that was the best answer she could give for now. She clasped her hands together behind her back as they walked and watched her feet a moment, shoes brushing against grass under the rubber soles. 

“Well, you know, you could always go back and do what you wanted to, you know,” she pointed out. “Instead of what your parents wanted of you. But only if that’s something you want to do.” She didn’t much like his answer to her question, either. Things didn’t seem as at ease as she’d thought they were when she first spotted him. She bit her lip, then sighed. “I blew up a computer lab with my mind,” she blurted, suddenly. “Well, not my mind, technically. Maybe? I’m still not sure what magic actually comes from. My mentor says it’s from the soul or the energy inside of us, but if our bodies are our minds, then I guess technically it is my mind. From my mind. So, yeah-- I blew up a computer lab with my mind and after that, it was hard to deny all the things I’d known for so long but never wanted to accept.” She looked over at Milo. “What um...what about you?”

Milo laughed, nodding in agreement with Bex. “I don’t think I would be here if I didn’t.” He admitted. Maybe there was an element of exaggeration to his words, but the information provided by people like Rio, and Macleod was invaluable. There was no doubt in his mind that it might save him one day. Fingers still pressed against the base of his neck, he could feel the scars beneath them. A frown creasing his brow as he listened to Bex explain things were difficult, they hadn’t miraculously changed for her overnight, it was impossible for him to understand what she meant without a little extra context, so he nodded quietly. Letting her know she still had his full attention. “Help?” He asked, curious to know what kind of help. “Do you mean your friends?” Lowering his hand, chewing thoughtfully on his bottom lip, he wondered what things would look like for him if they did get better. It was a vague concept, it could mean so many different things. “I don’t need help-” He insisted, breaking off as he reminded himself she wasn’t talking about his habits. Repressing the instinctive response, he forced down any part of himself that was becoming defensive. Bex clearly wasn’t about to order him to walk into an AA meeting. She was talking about something else. “I mean… thank you. But I think I’m okay… kind of, anyway. I have some good people in my life… when things get weird, they’re usually there waiting for me to freak out.” 

Thinking for a moment, allowing a few beats of silence to pass, he realised with a start that he didn’t know what he wanted to do. For so long he had told himself he was content with working in the comic book store, couch surfing to avoid any form of genuine commitment. Even English Literature had been the easy choice, not necessarily the choice he would have made if he was a different person. If he had more motivation, a determination to do well. “Even if I knew, I don’t know how possible it would be to just go out and do shit.” He shrugged, brushing off his honesty before it could hurt him, before he could dwell on it for too long. But then Bex was distracting him with her own honesty, honesty he had prompted, but definitely not been expecting from her. It took him a few minutes to fully process what she was saying, but when he did he faltered to a halt, eyeing her with an even mixture of disbelief, and satisfaction. “Wait- what?” So not only was she supernatural, she had totally caved first. Was it wrong to feel so smug about that? “You’re a witch?” He asked, despite her just having confirmed the fact. “I…” He trailed off as she turned the question back on him, not prepared to answer it himself. But he owed her, he couldn’t exactly walk away after she had put herself in such a vulnerable position. A soft sigh escaping him, he steeled himself to tell her his own story. Or a part of it, at least. “Someone with fangs decided I looked like a snack… I guess they overindulged because…” He offered her a hesitant smile, revealing his fangs in the way Harsh had taught him to. He tapped one absentmindedly, wrinkling his nose. “Well, I woke up with these.” 

Bex was a little perplexed at his immediate denial of needing help, clearly he needed help-- anyone in this god forsaken town needed help, if she was being honest. But just as much as she’d needed to understand that she couldn’t do things alone, so did he. She wouldn’t push it, it wasn’t a lesson she had the right to teach anyone, when she was still learning it herself. She nodded slowly. “Okay, well, if you do ever need it, just know I’m here. Don’t hesitate to ask. And--” she looked at him sincerely, genuinely hoping he understood that, even if they’d only known each other from two run-ins, she would help him. It was really all she wanted to do, help people. Understand things better so she could do that better. Understand this world. “I’m glad you have people there to help you. Having a support system is always good.” She wouldn’t have survived this town without hers, that was for sure. A subconscious hand ran across her chest. Kyle’s life would have been ruined had he actually killed her that first night. She wanted to make sure something like that never happened again. And it wouldn’t, now that her magic was gone.

“Why not?” Bex asked, not understanding the restrictions Milo might face without knowing what he was. She didn’t want to push, though. She turned away, even as he stopped in his tracks, and shrugged. “I prefer the term spellcaster,” she said, picking at a seam on her dress. And the proper wording would’ve been was a spellcaster, thanks to the wish. She didn’t feel like explaining that part yet, though. His hesitation brought her gaze back up. “I-I’m sorry! You don’t have to answer, I understand--” but then he was answering. Someone with fangs. A vampire. Bex felt her chest squeeze and she swallowed, trying to remind herself that vampires were people, too, and her one run-in with the woman outside the library wasn’t representative of all vampires. She had no reason not to trust Milo. What would Mina say? She shook her head. “Oh,” she answered, finally, “I-- that must be difficult, to-- to adjust to.” A pause. “But,, you know, night school is a thing. And there’s plenty of overnight jobs here. And-- I have a friend who’s also undead. They go to the butchers here to get food and they’re really good about it. And being discreet. Do you-- I mean the blood thing-- do you have enough? Do you get enough food? You drink animal blood, right?”

Milo looked at Bex as she paused, somehow everything she wanted to say was conveyed in her brief moment of silence, and he knew. He understood. “Thank you.” He said, his voice gentle and sincere. They hadn’t known each other for long but he felt as though they had more than a few things in common. Coping mechanisms, and trauma. The kind of things you could bond over. The kind of things that made you want to protect each other. When he had helped her into the bar, when he had stolen her that bottle of vodka, he had recognised something in her. Something that reminded him so deeply of himself. Even without the alcohol it was still there. He could still see it. “Do you have one?” He asked, remembering her mention of Morgan, and Nell. People she had been so sure she would never be able to see again. “A support system?” Making a vague gesture with his hands, brushing off her question as to why he wouldn’t be able to follow his non-existent dreams, he offered her a smile instead of an answer. “Spellcaster?” He echoed, using her correction as a way to move the conversation forward. Away from the things he could no longer do. “Is that personal preference, or just a general rule?” He was reminded of Macleod, the way she hated any terminology that referred to her as dead. 

His smile growing somewhat as she hurried to insist he didn’t have to tell her what he was, keeping the information to himself would feel incredibly unfair, but he appreciated her attempt at making him feel comfortable. “No, no- it’s okay…” He did his best to assure her. “You were honest with me… it’d be kind of a dick move if I wasn’t honest with you too.” His hand moving once again to rest over the scars on his neck, he heard her heart rate elevate, but she made no outward move to imply she was nervous. He didn’t enjoy the idea of scaring people, and hopefully it wouldn’t take long for her to realise he wasn’t a genuine threat. But it still hurt, jut a little. “It was.” He agreed. “It is… I mean- I was thrown into this world I didn’t even know was real. The guy who did this to me, he left… I literally didn’t know anything.” A quiet laugh escaping him at the mention of night school, he shook his head. He couldn’t even begin to imagine going back to school. What would he achieve? What would he gain from doing so? This was his life now, and there was no escaping it. “I assume you mean Morgan?” He asked, at the mention of a friend being dead. “You mentioned her when you were pretty out of it… but I know her. I’m pretty sure she hates me.” His eyes shining to let Bex know he was half teasing, he thought back to his last conversation with Morgan and wondered whether there might be some truth to his words. They didn’t exactly see eye to eye. “Oh-” He was pulled out of his thoughts by the mention of blood, caught off guard by what felt like an incredibly personal question. “For a while…” He admitted. “I got lucky. I don’t want to out anyone but I have a friend with a habit of taking a blood bag or two from the hospital... It’s enough to keep me going.” Maybe more than enough, but he didn’t want to make Harsh sound like more of a deviant than he technically was. If he got the man into trouble then their collective supply would be in danger. “Everything kind of worked out…”

“I do have one, yeah,” Bex answered with a nod. For a while there, she hadn’t. Or, well, she’d rejected it, because she thought they’d be hurt by her family if she’d kept trying. They’d all been hurt, anyway, though, so it hadn’t mattered in the end. She’d made the wrong decision. But that was the past, and she couldn’t change that past anymore than she could change the way she grew up. “It was...rough for a while, i tried to do it without them, but it was a mistake. There’s--” she took in a breath, wrapped her arms around herself, “--I learned the hard way that I can’t protect anyone by keeping them away. Even if keeping close means they might get hurt, it-- it’s better that way. It really is.” And she was still learning that, too. Even now, with a normal life, a regular life, she was learning to accept people back into her life, despite the possible threats she’d be introducing them to. She shook her head, grateful for the change of conversation. ‘Nope, just a me thing.” She glanced over at Milo. “I think it’s all kind of the same meaning, but I just-- witch carries a weird connotation for me, I guess. I’m not pagan so I just...don’t feel right being called that.”

HIs next words made Bex’s heart constrict a bit. He was right, it was really only fair of someone to be honest with another if they shared something deep and personal. Her thoughts jumped to Eddie and his confession to her and she bit the inside of her cheek. She needed to tell him. He deserved to know, even if she could barely admit it outloud still. “Oh, I-- i did? So you know about her?” she was surprised, but not too surprised. She loved Morgan, of course she’d talked about her while wasted. She rubbed her hands together. “I-- I don’t think she hates you. I think it takes a lot for Morgan to hate someone. I’d probably know if she hated you, she’s not subtle about it.” It was her turn to falter and pause, and she felt herself take a small step backwards. “You-- so you--” her eyes went to his fangs, then his eyes, his hand still pressed over his neck, presumably where his scars were. She had some of her own, even if they hadn’t turned into a reminder of death. “You drink human blood?” ethically sourced, at least. Well, more ethical than getting it from a warm body itself. Stealing blood from the hospital wasn’t exactly the most moral thing to do, but morality, she reminded herself, was skewed in the supernatural world. She rubbed her neck. “I-- I should probably um, head home, though. It’s getting late and Mina is expecting me back soon.” She didn’t want to things to suddenly feel tense, but she couldn’t help it. She didn’t know how she felt about a vampire who still drank human blood, and she didn’t think figuring out here was the best idea. She liked Milo, she didn’t want to ruin that.

“That’s good.” Milo smiled, remembering how insistent Bex had been when she was drunk, determined to believe she couldn’t let people in. The fact that she seemed to have changed her mind felt important, and he was reminded of her telling him things were better now. Better how? What was suddenly so different? “I think there’s always a risk of getting hurt… or of other people getting hurt. Isn’t that just the nature of friendship?” And romance, though he could hardly say he was experienced in that particular area. “What matters is that you care, and that these people care about you too… that’s all you can ask for, really. Isn’t it?” Staying silent as his company began to explain why she preferred using the term spellcaster, he hadn’t been expecting to understand her logic, even he was determined to respect it. But he did understand. It was so similar to Macleod, and sometimes even the way he felt. Vampire had connotations too, dark ones, and ridiculous ones. Honestly, there was something appealing about the theatrics of sleeping in a coffin. He was almost sad that wasn’t a legitimate thing. 

“I do, yeah. And you might have mentioned her.” He teased, catching her eye with an easy grin. “Only in passing, don’t worry. You didn’t tell me anything you shouldn’t have. You made it pretty clear you were friends, that’s all.” Laughing at Bex insisting Morgan didn’t hate him, he shook his head, remembering some of what was said during their last meeting together. If she didn’t hate him then she was about as close as a person could get before crossing that line. “Ask her about me, see what she says.” He wasn’t being entirely serious, but he had a strong suspicion the zombie wouldn’t have anything positive to say. Not that it mattered. If she wasn’t going to help him then he didn’t give a shit what she thought. Faltering at the sudden shift in the way Bex was looking at him, he saw her gaze flicker from his fangs, to his hand, and he realised he was still touching his neck. Lowering his arm, he retracted his fangs with a surprising level of ease, his own expression shifting too. “I do,” he said quietly, watching her with open concern, trying to ignore the way his heart was sinking. Maybe he was wrong, maybe she didn’t trust him in the way he thought she did. “I- what?” He cursed himself for being so emotional, but he couldn’t stop tears from stinging at his eyes. “I’m not- I wouldn’t hurt anyone... I swear…” He swallowed, unsure what he could say to make her believe him. If she was uncomfortable, he wasn’t about to force her to stay. But did she really want to leave because of what he was?

“Yeah,” Bex admitted quietly, “I guess it is.” Even if she still hated the thought of people getting hurt because of her, for her. But they returned the sentiment, and wasn’t rejecting their help hurting her? It was still confusing, but the one thing Bex did know was that being at Morgan’s, even if it put her and everyone in that house in possible danger, felt better than being alone, trapped in her room where people got hurt because of her anyway. She rubbed her palm against her cheek before folding her arms across her chest again, nodding. “Yeah, it is. And it’s-- a lot. But I know now I can ask for that. And-- I think everyone deserves that.” Even people others deemed bad or evil. No one deserved to suffer alone. She wasn’t even sure she believed her mother deserved that.

“Oh, good. Good. I...can run my mouth sometimes. I’ve been told it’s very unbecoming of me, but I don’t really care anymore,” she said, the last words bitter on her tongue. She swallowed it. Her heart clenched again, at the way Milo was looking at her. She was caught between her own trauma and her want to change, to accept people, to accept this world, and it felt sticky. She hated it there. But she’d forgiven Kyle, and he’d been the one to directly attack her. Fuck, she probably even forgave the wolf that attacked the Moose Caboose, even if everyone around her seemed to think that was wrong to do. “No, no! It-- I don’t mean it like that. I swear it’s not because--” she stopped herself, trying not to let the shame crawling up her throat tinge her words, “I just-- something happened to me. With a vampire. And I don’t want that to, to affect how I feel about you. I really don’t. But it’s-- you know, hard? I don’t think you’re going to hurt me, Milo. And-- and if you did, I know it would be an accident. I promise it’s not because of you. I promise.” She’d promise to a fae, too, but there were none around, and she knew Mina would chastise her for it. She offered a hand out to him, instead, in a show of faith. “I really do need to be home, though.” She held up her phone, “they get worried if I’m late.” Because of the one time she’d been kidnapped by Frank, but that wasn’t important to mention. He was dead, now, and her life was normal. Things like that just didn’t happen anymore. 

Milo had a feeling Bex was talking more to herself than to him, so he allowed her to speak, listening patiently until she fell silent once again. It wasn’t something he considered very often, so wrapped up in the chaotic nature of his life. Friends used to come and go, aside from Dani who had stood by him for so many years. Only now was he beginning to realise how badly he had taken her for granted. Though he had new friends now, friends who weren’t about to abandon him because of something he couldn’t help, a part of himself he couldn’t ever hope to change. She was right. Everybody deserved to be cared for, to be surrounded by friendship, and unwavering support. Offering her a smile when she told him she had a habit of saying too much, he could definitely relate to that. His love of bitter quips, and sulking petulantly about his new state of being had resulted in him essentially outing himself on more than one occasion. “I can relate to that.” He admitted. “But don’t worry, you didn’t say anything you should be concerned about. And you’re right not to care. Screw unbecoming, just be who you are… there’s no point in trying to be anybody else. It’ll only make you miserable.” 

His expression faltering when Bex hurried to insist her sudden desperation to leave had nothing to do with him telling her he was a vampire, he wanted to believe her, but he couldn’t. “No offense, but I don’t know how else you could mean it…” He muttered, letting out a quiet huff of breath. He averted his gaze, avoiding eye contact so that he could stare down at his feet. He should let her go, he knew he should. What use was there in trying to cling to a friendship as new as this one when she was so clearly uncomfortable now that she knew what he really was? Swallowing his emotion, he frowned, hesitantly catching her eye again. “No shit... something happened to me with a vampire too.” He pointed out. “I didn’t ask for this. You think I don’t know how hard it is to get over? Try waking up as the thing that attacked you…” Feeling his shoulders drop when she assured him she felt safe, part of him still felt worried she wasn’t being entirely truthful. But the sentiment mattered, the fact that she was even trying to assure him mattered. Allowing his anger to dissolve, he knew it was too late to take back his words. So he moved on. Caught off guard by the unexpected promise, a weak smile began to tug at his lips. “You know… you really shouldn’t make promises.” He teased, unable to help himself. He couldn’t think of a better way to alleviate the tension. Ignoring the phone as it was held out to him, he gently reached out to take her hand, linking their fingers for a brief moment, hoping to convey everything he didn’t know how to put into words. He was trying. He was good. He was a victim too. “You should, uh… you should get home.” He said finally, ignoring what was left of the awkward tension. “It’s okay…” 

Bex gave a sigh of relief. At least she hadn’t outed Morgan or Nell. She never would’ve forgiven herself, even if it was to someone who wouldn’t use it against them. She’d never had problems drinking before, but those nights had been spent locked up in the library or her room while she cradled the bottle as if it were her only lifeline. She gave a short, self-deprecating chuckle before her lips curled into a thin smile. “Trust me, I know that.” She’d been miserable her entire life because she’d done just that. But things were different now, she reminded herself. Things were better.

Her heart sank, knowing that she’d already done more damage than she’d ever meant to. But Morgan had told her to not just ignore her trauma, that wasn’t good for her. And as much as she didn’t blame the vampire on campus, she still thought about the attack and what Dani had said. She wasn’t going to stop. And if she hadn’t, Bex would be standing with the same pain as Milo, or not here at all. She let him be upset, he was allowed to be upset. She hadn’t asked for any of this, either. She understood that feeling. “You’re right,” she said, “I don’t know how that feels.” But she did know how waking up after being attacked by a friend felt. She did know the fear of thinking she might wake like that, or not wake at all. She rubbed her chest. Smiled enough to try and brush off the feeling. “You can if they’re really important,” she answered. Squeezed his hand back, before pulling away. “I’ll talk to you later, okay? Maybe next time we can just hang out somewhere nice. I know a few good places.” Her phone buzzed again and she glanced down at it. “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t,” she said to him, a small tease, before she waved and headed off back towards home. She wondered what Morgan might think. She wondered what Mina might think. She wondered if, at the end of the day, it mattered. She liked Milo, and she wanted to be his friend. She owed it to him to try, at least.

[aspire-to-the-light]

Some personal thoughts on alcohol

I’ve always been a little scared of alcohol.

I have good personal reasons to be a little scared of alcohol. My father was something of an alcoholic; he’d stay out late at the pub, drive home drunk and yell at my mother (at least until he was given a DUI with me in the passenger seat, at which point my mother made him stop). Many of the people I knew in school started drinking very underage, at not-really-that-secret parties in back gardens and attics and locations which weren’t usually literally ‘behind the bike shed’ but are well described by the phrase. Those alcoholic parties caused problems. This was an upper class kind of thing, so nobody really got arrested, but a lot of girls were repeatedly raped. I was a lonely miserable nerd who never ever drank and I was pretty attached to that because it seemed like it kept me safe.

I also have good non-personal, fairly objective reasons to be scared of alcohol; it’s a fairly dangerous drug. It’s not that inherently dangerous, but the culture around it makes it more dangerous. Many people and spaces will encourage or pressure you to drink more than you really consent to drinking, downplay the risks and fail to implement safeguards, and normalise intoxication to the point that doing stupid things while dangerously drunk seems funny. Plenty of people get hurt or die, all the time, because they got drunk and ended up in fights or car accidents.

Earlier this year I decided to try alcohol anyway, for a myriad of reasons. Partly I wanted to see what all the fuss was about. Partly I wanted to stare the demon in the face, and understand more about this terrible substance that fucked up so many people I knew. Partly I was interested in the general idea of a drug that might make me relax for once in my life, and alcohol was the only really legal one.

So I had three units - an amount I calculated as enough for someone of my body weight to be affected but not be at any real risk of poisoning - of cider, at home with somebody I trusted to take care of me and ensure I didn’t do anything stupid. My sitter was fantastic and made sure I didn’t spend any money, post anything publicly, or send badly spelled emails to any potential employers.

So I washed up all my dirty dishes, because as it turns out, alcohol lowers your inhibitions. I was really fucking inhibited about touching that pile of mouldy plates. Alcohol made me want to clean them all.

And then when it was wearing off I lay down for a bit, and had this incredibly lovely experience of just lying down being enough. See, I have the kind of ADHD where boredom is literally ever-present and must be fought against constantly. I can’t ever just lie down and relax, because I wouldn’t be stimulated enough, so I’d be bored, and I’d get the urge to jump up and run around and sing loudly and do stuff. I can be listening to loud punk rock music and talking to friends while playing a fairly intense video game and still need to pick my phone up and multitask a bit more so I won’t be understimulated. Scrolling social media can provide a sort of brief respite by being hypnotic enough that I don’t care that I’m incredibly bored, but usually I struggle to feel really good and happy if I’m not hosting a party where I’m juggling cooking five different meals, singing along to music and talking to guests about difficult academic problems. I think a good life for me would be, like, a 24/7 high speed car chase with the radio blasting and people fighting hand-to-hand through the car windows.

So there I was, just lying in bed looking at the walls and the ceiling and daydreaming quietly, and.... it was okay. It didn’t take any active effort to suppress my urge to be loud; it was just natural to be quiet. It wasn’t painful to stay still. My brain didn’t itch. The silence wasn’t deafening - if anything it was a pleasant kind of quiet, and I could appreciate the little rustles of carpet underfoot and the breath of air through the cracked window. I didn’t need to get up and jump around and do something, because it was perfectly fine to just be there where I was. The way my lamps honeyed the wood of my cabinets was pretty, and my own thoughts were engaging, and the blankets were warm, and that was interesting enough that I didn’t need to go seek out more.

That was really good, and wasn’t at all like the experience I had imagined. I had imagined alcohol as this thing that strips away your civility and gives you random impulses to do stupid things, with the particular impulses varying from punching people to trainsurfing to lying on the floor giggling depending on unpredictable facts about your brain. It does affect everyone differently, but for me it mostly just magically created the kind of state of relaxation that I’d normally have to work very hard on building the circumstances to achieve.

Okayness with the world has been easier to achieve, I think, since then; I have a better idea of what it feels like, so I know what I’m trying to achieve.

I’d said beforehand that I was just going to try it once, just because I wanted to know, and then never again. It was sort of difficult to admit that I was wrong. Partly because it’s just always difficult, when you’ve been very proud of Not Conforming To Normality for many years, to admit that normal people kinda had the right of it. Partly out of what I think is still a legitimate concern that trying something and finding it good is not good evidence for doing it again if that thing is known to be addictive. It is useful and important to be able to commit to trying only so much of an addictive thing and then stopping.

I changed my mind because I trust myself more than I did before. I was fixed on the idea that I needed to never have alcohol, because that was the only way to ensure I didn’t have a bad amount of alcohol. Sometimes commitments like that are necessary, but only if you have a good reason to be afraid that there’s a slippery slope. I know that I need to play no Minecraft at all today, because if I say to myself “just five minutes” I’ll play Minecraft for hours; I have lots of experience and evidence that tells me this will be the case. I decided I believed in my ability to discern what a sensible amount of alcohol to consume is, and stick to it, and so far I haven’t had evidence to the contrary.

I’ve been able to relax the limits as I learned more about alcohol, in a way that genuinely doesn’t feel like I’m ignoring my commitments as I get addicted; it feels like growth. The first time I tried it I was adamant about a lot of limits. I bought a single can of cider so it would be impossible to have more even if I wanted to. I made sure I had a sitter I trusted. I did not leave my room. I ate beforehand and drank a lot of water during. I did a lot of research on alcohol content and my body weight. I didn’t take my normal medications because I wasn’t sure if there’d be any interaction.

On subsequent occasions I’ve tried alcohol outside the house - again with the same person I trusted to look after me, who held my hand carefully to make sure I didn’t stumble in front of any cars. I’ve tried it relatively unplanned, after an ordinary day where I took my meds (I looked up possible interactions and found none) and did normal things, again with the OK of someone I trusted just to make sure I wasn’t making really dumb decisions. I’ve tried it on a day when I had also drunk caffeine, after I was confident the caffeine had all worn off and I wasn’t having enough of either to hurt me.

I’ve tried alcohol without anyone physically present to take care of me, just friends on a voice call, and had an insanely good time playing video games with some other drunk people who all thought it was hilarious to play the game how it was absolutely not meant to be played. I knew by that point how alcohol affected me, I was fairly certain nothing bad would happen, and I knew I would be capable of calling for help fairly nearby if something bad did happen. I knew I would be staying inside the entire time, and I had water and well-stocked food cupboards.

Most recently I had a glass of champagne for New Year, outside of the house, without a pre-designated person to look after me. I was with friends, and I made them aware that I’m a lightweight and checked in with them that they’d be okay with taking some responsibility for making sure I got home alright, and they were. I ate a decent meal beforehand, drank plenty of water, and had a fairly small glass.

I’ve learned that I have not, whatever my fears, inherited some kind of genetic alcoholism. I don’t need absolute, deontological rules to prevent any chance that I might do something stupid. I am capable of not doing anything really stupid, even when my rules allow me to do things that are stupidity-adjacent.

I’ve definitely fucked up with alcohol. I shouldn’t have accepted half a glass of wine when it was offered at a work celebration; I knew I was going home immediately afterwards, but didn’t realise how incredibly overwhelming and intimidating alcohol would make navigating the Tube, and I got quite distressed and had to take a taxi to the rail station. I tried using it as a study drug once, on the theory that I’m inhibited about studying and maybe it would help, and I fucked up by choosing someone to watch me who has severe depression. Her mood influenced my own a lot more when I was tipsy, so we both just kind of sat around and felt miserable and I didn’t get anything done.

I think I’m okay, though, with having rules that don’t try to prevent anything bad from ever happening, but just minimise how bad things can really get. I’ve fucked up with alcohol and it’s cost me the price of a taxi and a half-day of productivity. I learned things. It was okay.

I can still count the number of units of alcohol I’ve ever consumed, but it will be okay if I lose count, because I don’t need to be able to tell people that number to prove I’m not my father’s daughter. I know I’m responsible. It is healthy if I don’t feel the need to prove it.

I have rules about alcohol which I genuinely don’t think I’ll ever relax, no matter how experienced with it I get, and other rules which I’ve added as I learned that some things are bad ideas. I won’t have alcohol in the company of people who I don’t like and trust. I won’t have alcohol with other people unless they’ve consented to taking a little responsibility for me. I won’t have it alone, though physically alone is fine if there’s people connected by voice or video. I won’t have it if someone I respect tells me it’s a bad idea to do that right now. I will not be pressured into having more than I intended to have. I won’t drink it at work, or in big cities, or when there’s a difficult transit system between me and home. I make sure that I have food and verifiably-not-spiked water available, that I know how to call for help and that it’s nearby if needed, and that I don’t have important or difficult tasks that I’m responsible for.

I’m still horrified when I witness things like... I did an internship in the City this summer where our bosses took us for drinks and then people banged on the tables chanting to pressure an intern into racing to drink an entire bottle of wine faster than his supervisor. That was very bad. And I expressed my horror at the time, and frankly I don’t care that I didn’t get the job.

But I like alcohol. So, once a month or perhaps even fortnightly, it’s okay to have a drink. Even two drinks, on rare occasions. I have carefully studied the literature and concluded it is unlikely this is enough to cause me significant harm.

And I’m actually really pleased with this development. It feels from the inside like a healthy relationship to alcohol. It feels okay to let go of some of my younger self’s fearful commitments and rules. I’m proud that I can have this, that growing up around such unhealthy attitudes towards alcohol does not mean I have to be abstinent forever.

Being teetotal fit in with the identity I built for myself, once. I was the good kid in school, the one who never drank and never dated and got good grades and never swore. I think I needed that identity as a crutch when I wasn’t so sure of myself, and as help to resist peer pressure when I wasn’t so good at boundaries, and as a simple way of making choices when I wasn’t good at that either. But it turns out it’s okay to, piece by piece, let go of the entire thing.

I do not think this is grounds to recommend alcohol to everyone. I recently had a pretty appalling experience where someone in my friendship group got drunk and we all made the delightful discovery that excessive alcohol gives him psychotic episodes where he worships a mad death god who wants him to kill people. I have set a hard boundary that I will leave if this friend has more than a couple of drinks because I do not enjoy the experience of a friend giggling while graphically describing exactly how he’d love to slowly murder me. There are people who should not drink, not ever, not even with all the rules and limits that have successfully kept me safe.

It’s just... my experience, I guess, which I wanted to share because I feel like I’ve learned a lot through the entire process. Sometimes things that are scary can be genuinely dangerous, and yet if you navigate them carefully and responsibly, you can extract the wonderful part without ever placing yourself in much danger. Sometimes you don’t need hard rules that wall off the stupid things you could possibly do, if you trust yourself to just not do stupid things. Sometimes taking pride in never being tempted means you’re cutting yourself off from something good.

Alcohol still scares me a little, and that’s fine. It should. Just not irrationally so.

[noxrynne]

I don't really know what it is tbh

Like, the last group of friends I had was back in middle school who I felt close to was probably the last close friends I ever had.

High School I felt too awkward and uncomfortable and scared to get to know anyone. No one really felt safe enough for me to open up to about things, or that I felt like I didn't have enough in common with people. It kinda sucks when everyone around you constantly talks about and has much more vested interest in things that I didn't find really interesting, and the reverse was true: they didn't find what I was interested in all that interesting.

After high school... yeah, I know a lot of people. But that's really it, tbh. I don't feel very close to anyone. I actually feel incredibly artificial to myself and others, I don't really... like, to be honest? I don't know who I really am socially. Any time I meet new people I'm so scared of saying something stupid, saying something wrong, making a bad comment, that it'd start a chain reaction and I'd be ostracized or something. Or mocked, or made fun of. And I get like, between friends teasing is a thing, just sometimes it feels a bit lopsided in about... every case I ever had. Yeah, I forget the names of things so I try and garble up something that might mean *something* yeah I pronounce some stuff wrong here and there, yeah I make mistakes doing things for fun (like, video games). But every time I never really... I mean, it hurts to be teased a lot without really much to counterbalance it. I don't know though, maybe I am an idiot? Maybe my presence is really only tolerated and not really enjoyed? I don't know, but it feels like that a lot. Especially when people all compliment each other, and you kinda hoped to feel included, but instead you mispronounce a name or a word you couldn't quite remember and next thing you know you're kinda being laughed at for it. Again.

And... yeah, I tailor make how I behave pending who I'm around. I know I behave differently with different people, and not just in a "watch what I say" type of way. I'm like... a completely different person in a lot of contexts, I do have a moral and ethical compass I follow and all, but at the end of the day I don't... ever think I've really been a genuine self to anyone. I dunno, maybe it's something I do because I'm scared of rejection. Maybe it's something I do because I don't want to be made fun of all the time and be taken non-seriously all the time. Maybe I miss feeling like I could be good at something, useful even. Frankly, I didn't even realize this was a *thing* some people do until I kinda learned the concept in sociology and realized it's kinda exactly what I do. I mean, it makes me get along with a lot of people? But the cost is kinda... well, they just know a more fraudulent version of myself.

I keep thinking about it lately, how alone I kinda really am. A lot of it is my own fault, I'm... a pretty shitty friend, really. I don't really start conversations because I just feel like no one really wants to hear it, and outside of what I'm currently just... fixated on, I don't really come up with anything to talk about on my own. Even... I mean, and god I kinda hope he doesn't read this because it's going to come out choppy and poorly worded, but... I don't even really feel close to my boyfriend. Not as close as when we were friends. Yeah, we RP practically every night but in a lot of cases I... don't want to anymore. I'd rather just talk, but I don't know what about. I'd rather watch a movie, a show, or just... hang out as... y'know, people. But I feel guilty if I don't RP, and I feel *really* guilty if I don't talk to him even if I'm in a really "I need to be *alone*" mood. Like, kinda regretting, staying up late because I can't sleep type of guilty.

Online I try to make friends, but... I just feel so far removed from everyone. I don't really have interests in common with most of them, and fuck, I'm not doing anything interesting with my life and just about all of them are lmao. If anything I'm just perpetually frustrated at life because I'm fucking terrible at handling pressure properly and (while I get everything in on time, for the most part) I procrastinate so much and the pressure becomes higher until I just start feeling this empty detachment of giving a shit anymore. And I don't like that. I don't really know how to fix it, though, and yeah, that's about school. It feels immature, irresponsible, childish, stupid, but for the life of me I just sit there and stare at my document, my prompt, my papers and just want to cry. I can't think of the next line, the next word, let alone the rest of the thing. I get frustrated, I get upset, I try to do something to drown out that feeling but it doesn't help and I just feel like I'm being irresponsible and I shouldn't be doing anything time consuming/fun for me until I finish my priority.

On top of that, my life experience? It's basically 0. Yeah, I'm fucking stupid. Yeah, I struggle with banks. I struggle with finances. I struggle understanding legal documents. I struggle understanding how to do shit. I struggled, a LOT, with taxes when I had to do them. I struggle driving. I struggle even getting up in the morning. I struggle fulfilling plans. I struggle keeping in contact with people. I struggle opening up, going out, cooking, cleaning properly, my makeup application sucks, remembering my responsibilities, feeling confident and happy and secure in myself. All of my value I derive from myself? Literally just "do I feel like I"m good at this task? Y/N" and that became "Do I feel like I'm good at this game? No? Well then what am I even worth if I can't even have fun correctly?"

I'm fucking 23. I still feel like an overgrown child. I don't like owning up to it because so many people around me are so far ahead. Just about everyone I know currently is independent and on their own, and I'm... still struggling through first year of school. For the sixth time. I'm still struggling with even the idea of living alone, I mean I will be doing that soon? But that's just me staying in the house while my mother works elsewhere. Last time when I went to a dorm? Went to a hotel on my own? I had an entire fucking breakdown. I still feel like shit over that. One time I sobbed, I cried, I couldn't sleep, I felt terrified and scared and alone and hated it. Other time? I just felt overwhelmed, to the point where I just detached. I didn't sleep for a long time, I made a lot of mistakes, I didn't eat, I didn't drink much if anything.

But it's just... I don't know. I kinda feel like shit around most people since they're all having lives, they're all having a lot more fun together and are a lot closer together, and I'm there trying to become friends and failing kinda miserably at it. And it's not just like, one isolated incident, it's all the time. I've kinda always been that more "outlier" person in a friend group that is kinda there but doesn't really feel too close to anyone and isn't really... that close to anyone. And is kinda bagged on a lot.

And I'm frustrated, and upset. Because I literally... I literally don't know how to just... go out and make friends? Even in class there's like, people who talk to me or try to and I"m just... not great at it. I get nervous/anxious so I start blanking and struggling to think of stuff to say, or even just how to respond, I get tense and even... sometimes I can't even vocalize something in a face-to-face environment.

I feel like a massive fucking loser for typing this. For even having this as a problem when so many people around me seem to be able to do this all so easily. And I just kinda... I dunno, feel like crying I guess.

I just wanted a place to ramble about it, so sorry if you had to read it or something.

[gillasue345]

Desiderium

12x02 Coda fic AO3

Desiderium:  an ardent desire or longing; especially :  a feeling of loss or grief for something lost.

Perhaps there is a limit to the grieving that the human heart can do. As when one adds salt to a tumbler of water, there comes a point where simply no more will be absorbed.

~Sarah Waters~

************************************************************************

By the time Mary closed the journal with trembling fingers, her tea had long since gone cold. She sniffed, wiping furiously at the tears in her eyes, and pushed the journal away from her in disgust. She glanced at the chipped cup in front of her, untouched.

Her body was stiff as she stood up from the desk. The painful ache behind her nipples reminded her that she needed to pump before she went to bed. It was strange, she thought, to produce milk for a baby who was now a grown man. Her body still thought it was 1983, despite all evidence to the contrary around her.

A sob worked its way up her throat, but Mary caught it before the sound could break the silence of the room.

She swallowed the pain like she always had, pushed the anger that had arisen in her as she read her husband’s journal down. She picked up the cup, careful not to spill its contents. She slipped on a pair of old loafers she’d found in the wardrobe of her new bedroom and made her way down the hall to the kitchen. Mary needed something stronger than tea.

The bunker was still much like a maze, but she remembered which room was Sam’s. Out of habit, she cracked the door, glancing in. The light was still on but the room was silent save for the deep breathing of her youngest child. Sam was lying diagonally across the mattress of his bed, his knees bent so that they didn’t slip off the edge. On hand was cradled in the other, his thumb pressed into a deep scar on his palm.

He looked so vulnerable in sleep, so utterly exhausted that another sob threatened to break the peace of his room. Mary reached over, flipping the old fashioned light switch off and plunging Sam into darkness. She closed the door and continued down the hall.

Dean’s room was empty. She frowned, glancing at the delicate watch Dean had given her, hidden in a box of her things he’d kept, including her old vinyl records. It was late enough that she thought Dean would have gone to sleep by now. Mary closed his bedroom door and continued on to the kitchen. Maybe he was going to the bathroom or something.

The bunker was always cold, and Mary wrapped her robe more tightly around herself. She got lost only once, making a right turn and ending up in the “dungeon” as Dean had called it when he gave her the grand tour. Eventually, she found the right hallway, but slowed her steps as she approached the kitchen. Light was pouring into the hallway from its open doorway, and she heard the muffled sound of voices coming from within.

“Dean, please just talk to me. Tell me what’s wrong.” Mary stopped. She could hear the sound of beer bottles being thrown into the trashcan. A lot of beer bottles.

“Everything’s wrong, Cas.” Dean’s slurred voice echoed out into the hall. “She’s back. She’s alive and real and its like she was never even gone. Except she was gone, Cas. She was gone for so long, and I…” Dean trailed off.

Mary pressed her back against the wall. She should announce her presence, cough and enter. Apologize for the life her death caused. But she couldn’t move. Cas—she thought it was Cas anyway—sighed, and she listened to his footsteps as he crossed the kitchen, presumably to join her son.

“Dean—” Cas began, but before he could speak, Dean interrupted him.

“—Cas, she’s not my mom.”

“Of course she’s your mother.”

“No! I mean, fuck, I don’t know what I mean,” Dean let out a shuddering breath. “She’s different, Cas.”

“Dean, she’s just been dropped 33 years into the future. It’s going to take her some time to adjust to that.”

“No Cas. I mean she’s different from the mom I remember. All those memories I’ve clung to all these years… they weren’t real.”

“I don’t understand what you mean. She’s the same person, Dean.”

“No she isn't the same person. She is… Mary. Not Mom. Mary is the hunter, the fighter. Mary… doesn’t cook. I mean… even with that vet, when she told you to hurt him. That’s not the mother I remember. That’s not the mother who made me tomato rice soup when I got the chicken pox. That’s not the mom who used to sing me to sleep and tell me angels were watching over me Cas.”

“But it is.”

“No, that’s like saying the way Sam was at Stanford is the same Sam who’s sleeping down the hall.”

“It may be a… different side of her, but don’t you remember what it was like with Lisa and Ben?” Cas asked gently. Mary wondered who Lisa and Ben were. “Don’t you remember getting out of the hunting life?” Mary’s breath caught in her throat. Dean had gotten out of the life too? Why was he back? Why did her children ever come back to this life if they had a chance at happiness?

“Cas, I drank a fifth of whiskey every night just to stay functional with them.”

“I watched you with them,” Cas said, and it sounded like a confession. Dean didn’t respond. “You got out of the life. And you may not have been happy, but you were content, if not resigned to it. There was a day that I needed your help with Raphael. It was autumn. And you were raking leaves. And I watched you. You looked so… miserable. So lost. But then you went inside, and you forced yourself to smile. You helped Ben with his homework. Fractions. You made apple cobbler. You put on an act. And that night, you locked all the doors and windows, you checked the devils’ trap on the door. You drank four glasses of whiskey and out of habit, checked the obituaries for unexplained deaths. You never really got out.” Cas’ speech hung in the air for a moment. “But you weren't the same man with them either.”

“All the memories I have of her are false,” Dean finally said. “She got out of the life, Cas. And I remember her differently.”

“You have the idolized recollections of a child,” Castiel said. “It’s natural to feel confused when the memory you’ve clung to for so long turns out to be different in reality.”

Dean chuckled, low and deep. “Thanks Dr. Phil.”

“I am not a doctor, Dean.”

"You know, I’ve been trying to recreate her meatloaf recipe for years? Years Cas! And she fucking bought the goddamn thing at the Piggly Wiggly. It’s like everything I know about her is gonna turn out be a lie.”

“I’m sure that’s not true.”

“But what if it is? Cuz man… having her back, getting to know her, it feels like I’ve lost her all over again. And it’s hard to let go of the memories because that was all I had for so long.” Dean started crying, and Mary felt something break loose deep within her chest. His raw grief pierced her like an ice pick to the belly, and she felt her own tears well up in her eyes. She wasn’t sure how long he cried, but eventually his sobs quieted. Mary was paralyzed on the ground in front of the kitchen. She should go to him. She should comfort him.

But Mary couldn’t move.

Dean’s voice cut through the sudden silence. “Yesterday morning, she said ‘he was a great father,’ with such… certainty man, and it…I resented it,” Dean trailed off. He coughed. “I resented her for the first time.”

Cas didn't speak, but Mary could imagine his inquisitive expression, even with having known him only a  few short days.

“He wasn’t a great father. Hell he wasn’t even a good father after she died. She became his excuse for every shitty thing he ever did. We had to stay in crap motels because he was hunting the thing that killed mom. We were always on the move because he had a job to do. He let the job consume him. He drank so much because he was sad. And I think… I think deep down I always resented her for leaving us to deal with him.”

Mary’s eyes, already filled with tears, snapped shut, and she buried her head in her hands. The movement jostled the cup of tea resting on her lap. Cold liquid seeped into the fabric of her robe, staining the nightgown beneath. She gasped.

“And then I felt guilty,” Dean continued. “I felt so damn guilty, because it wasn’t her fault he was such a shit father. She doesn't deserve to be blamed for that.”

“No, she doesn’t,” Castiel agreed.

“But I’m afraid of bursting her bubble. I’m afraid of telling her all the things that happened because then both of us will feel this way.”

“Overwhelmed?” Cas clarified.

“Yeah,” Dean replied. “Because how can I ever get past the fact that the great father she was speaking about was the same one who was off on a bender the first time I got raped by some douchebag motel manager, because the room money went straight to his liver?” The confession came out in a rush, like he’d never said those words out loud before. He probably hadn’t.  He paused before continuing. “That the guy she remembered was the same man who beat me bloody because Sammy ran away in Flagstaff and I couldn’t find him? The same man who told Sammy if he went to college to never come back? How do I break her heart like that? So I pretend everything’s okay. Just like I always do. I push the hurt down and pretend it’s all fine. I eat the pie because that’s what they expect. I make the jokes. I can be that for her, because I refuse to be the one that breaks her too.”

“You can’t keep this bottled up,” Castiel said. “But you don’t have to tell her.” Castiel hesitated before he continued. “You can tell me, Dean.”

There was a long, long pause. “I can’t put all this shit on you, man.” Dean’s voice was soft, quiet. He sounded half asleep.

“You can and you will, Dean. That’s what family is for.”

Mary felt her fists clench. Anger flared through her at her son’s words. How could she have been so stupid? It was so much worse than growing up as hunters. John raised them in the life, which was bad enough, but then to neglect them? To beat them? To put them in dangerous situations? This wasn’t the John she knew. But the John she knew was a mechanic. Not a hunter.

The John she knew was strong, stubborn, loving. He was the kind of father who doted on his children. Who made chili hot enough to clear your sinuses, and who burnt the cornbread every time.

Her John wasn’t a cold man so hell bent upon revenge that he forgot to live.

The men in the kitchen weren’t speaking anymore. She heard footsteps coming toward her. Before she could move out of the way, Castiel emerged, carrying the bulk of Dean’s weight on his shoulder as they walked towards Dean’s bedroom. Cas stopped abruptly, staring at her slumped against the wall, with tears streaming down her face.

Dean was too far gone to even notice her there, he leaned heavily against Cas’ side, his eyes half shut as Castiel led the way. Castiel didn't say anything to her.

He returned alone a few minutes later. Mary hadn’t moved.

Silently Castiel bent to pick up the overturned cup, and held out his hand. She took it and he helped her up. Mary winced. It had been too long since she pumped. The ache in her chest had flared to sharp stabbing needles.

She followed Castiel into the kitchen. She saw the waste bin and bit her lip. It was full of bottles. Strewn across the floor in between the island and the stove were dozens of pictures.

She knelt down and picked them up as Castiel put the cup in the sink. He grabbed a bottle of Jack Daniels carefully hidden in one of the large ceramic crocks on the bottom shelf of the pantry and got two glasses. Mary moved over to the wooden table. She spread the pictures out in front of her. Several of them were familiar to her. But most of them were from after she died.

Castiel sat opposite her. He still hadn’t said a word and neither had she. She continued to pore over the pictures. One of Sam and Dean with an older man with a ginger beard and a trucker cap. One with a teenaged Sam awkwardly standing next to a girl with braces and brown hair. One with Dean, his hair long and greasy, leaning over the engine of the Impala, a plaid shirt tied carelessly around his waist as he worked.

Dean, gangly and tall, in the leather jacket she’d gotten John for Christmas last year—no, she reminded herself. The leather jacket she’d gotten John the Christmas before she died. Before she burned.

They were some of the missing pieces she’d been craving.

“I could take that away,” Castiel said, finally breaking the silence.

Mary gripped the pictures tighter to her, defensively. “Take what away?” she asked, rather more harshly than she intended.

“Your discomfort,” Cas said. “From lactating,” he clarified.

Mary crossed her arms over her chest. “How do you know about that?” she asked.

“I’m an angel.”

Mary almost laughed. Castiel was the furthest thing from what Mary considered angelic. “I’m fine,” she replied automatically. “My body just hasn’t caught up to 2016 yet.”

“I can help with that,” Castiel offered. “I could heal your pain.”

“What can you possibly know about my pain?”

“I know you heard what Dean said.” Castiel’s voice was even, calm, but with a hint of accusation beneath it. “He’d be mortified if he found out you heard him.”

“Is it true?” Mary asked, her voice was small and she couldn't meet Cas’ gaze. She stared at the wood tabletop’s uneven stain, picking with a fingernail at a scratch on the surface. “What he said about what happened to him?”

“Yes,” Cas replied. “But I’m almost certain he's never told anyone about it before. The only reason he told me, I suspect, is because he was very intoxicated. More than he’s been in a while.”

“Does he… drink often?”

Cas bit his lip. In a very human gesture, he ran a hand through his hair. “He drinks to forget, but I thought he was getting a little better. Tonight was a… step back.”

“What does he need to forget so badly that he drinks so much?” Mary asked. What had happened to her baby that was so bad that he hid behind a bottle? What else was her fault?

“His nightmares are from his time in hell, mostly. Sometimes he has nightmares about a man with rancid breath and crooked yellow teeth. I try to calm those as soon as I feel them coming on. But sometimes he dreams about his time with Lisa and Ben. Those are the good nights.”

“Ben? The vampire that bitch of letters was talking about?” Mary asked, latching onto the familiar name because she refused to think about her son in Hell. Refused to think about her son being raped.

“No,” Cas said. “Ben Braeden. His son.”

The bottom dropped out of Mary’s stomach. “I have a grandson?”

“Yes,” Cas said. “Dean was never one hundred percent positive, but he was Ben’s father. A few years back Dean made me wipe Ben's memories of him.”

“Why would he do that?”

“Lisa, Ben’s mother, took Dean in after… after Sam stopped the apocalypse. After Sam died, Dean got out of the hunting life. But the hunting life never… really left him. When he went back on the road, Lisa and Ben were kidnapped by some demons. Lisa almost died, and Ben had to do some things no child should ever have to do,” Cas recited the narrative like he was reading an owners manual. “Dean broke ties to protect them. To keep Ben out of the life he grew up in. And he hates himself for it.”

Fresh tears fell, covering the dried tear tracks from before.

“I should have protected them,” she finally said. “I should have warded the house. I should have been more vigilant. If I had, none of this would have happened.”

Castiel reached across the table, grasping Mary’s hand in his. “It would have happened anyway.”

“Then I should have told John before it did. I should have prepared him. Told him about the life so that he could have handled it better. I shouldn’t have hidden behind a facade of a normal life,” her voice raised. She was yelling now, so angry at her own cowardice. “I was such a fool, Castiel.”

“Your life has been predestined from the moment you were born,” Cas replied. “You and John… had to get together. You had to live your life away from hunting. It was destiny.”

“Why?”

Cas bit his lip. “So Sam and Dean could be born. So they could fulfill the prophecy of the apocalypse.”

Mary shook her head, snatching her hand back. It was too much to process. She reached over and took the bottle of whiskey from Cas’ grasp and poured a healthy portion for both of them. Mary downed hers in one swallow, slamming the glass onto the tabletop so hard she almost broke it.

“How do I do it Castiel? How do I connect with them again? Just... last week they were babies. And now… they’re older than I am.”

Castiel contemplated her question, sipping idly at the whiskey she’d poured him. “I think, with Sam it will be easier. He has no memories of you. No real ones anyway. It will be a clean slate. But Dean…” Castiel trailed off.

“He has this notion of who I am. Who I was. And I’m not measuring up.”

“How could you?” Castiel asked gently. “You… his memory of you… You were in many ways a saint to Dean. He isn’t a man of faith. But that doesn't mean he was a faithless man. Dean put his faith into family. Into your memory. Into honoring you, and being brave for you. Being strong because in many ways he had to fill your shoes after you died.” Mary roughly brushed more tears from her eyes. Castiel smiled sadly. “You don’t have to hide your tears from me Mary, I won’t judge you for them.”

Mary laughed. It was a broken, hollow laugh, but the weak smile she gave was almost genuine. “Thank you, Castiel. Thank you for watching over them.”

Cas smiled tightly. He stood up, and clapped a hand to her shoulder. “It’s all going to be okay, Mary.” Instantly, the pain behind her nipples subsided, the heavy feeling in her breasts gone. Cas healed her. Helped her body stop lactating for a baby who no longer needed the sustenance. She pressed a hand on top of his in gratitude.

He left then, his footsteps echoing down the hall. Mary stared at the bottle in front of her and poured another glass.

************************************************************************

The sound of a cabinet door shutting snapped her out of a deep sleep. A blanket wrapped loosely around her shoulders fell to the ground as Mary sat up, groaning at the crick in her neck and the throbbing of her temples. The bottle of whiskey was half empty, and she felt every single drop as nausea rolled her stomach and spun the world.

“Oh god,” she groaned, pressing a trembling hand to her head. “Oh, mistakes were made last night.”

A laugh from the other side of the kitchen startled her. Dean stood at the stove, his back to her. He looked over his shoulder. “Have fun?” he asked, glancing pointedly at the bottle in front of her.

She studied him. He didn't even look hungover. “Did you?” she asked, raising her eyebrows at the beer bottles filling the trash can next to the door.

Dean shrugged. “Needed to let off some steam.”

“Me too,” Mary replied. She stood up and stretched. The familiar ache to pump was gone, and Mary found she missed the sensation. She missed the feeling of being needed.

She moved from the table to the kitchen island, taking a seat at the stool as she watched her son cook.  Mary laughed and shook her head. Dean turned around, a piece of bacon still held in his tongs. “What?” he asked.

“Nothing,” Mary said. Dean shrugged and turned back, pulling the bacon out of the pan and starting another batch. “Dean,” Mary began, and he faced her, expectant and looking a little annoyed. “I just wanted to say… I mean I just wanted to tell you…” She couldn’t find the right words. Finally she took a deep breath. “Sam gave me John’s journal,” she said. “I’m… so sorry.”

Dean put the tongs down. He walked around the island to where Mary was sitting. Gently, he pressed a hand to her cheek.

“You don’t have to be, Mom.” He pulled her into a hug. When he pulled back, tears were in his eyes, welling up like rain drops on a windshield. Mary reached out and wiped them away, just like she always did.

“Mom?” he began.

“Yes?” she replied, wiping away her own tears.

“How do you like your eggs?” he asked simply.

It was an olive branch. A chance for them to start over, to get to know one another without the expectations of who each of them remembered. And as much as Mary wanted to fall onto her knees and beg for forgiveness for leaving her son behind to clean up her mess, Mary took it.

“Fried, medium.”

Dean’s face lit up in the first genuine smile Mary had seen in days. “Me too.”