#it’s grief over sharing o’clock because….

[sainteddie]

.

[middlingmay]

“Honey, have you been crying? What is it? What’s wrong?” buck x bucky?

Hello! Do you know you're my very first Anon ask in my inbox? Thrilled to have you!

Anyway, I had fun with this one. Please enjoy this wee Modern Gale/John, with echoes of a past life. I hope you like it, and thanks for being so patient with me :)

“You look just like my friend Buck from Manitowoc.”

The kitchen table was cold, but it barely registered against the chill those dreams left behind

God, John was so damn sick of those dreams. He was so sick of being paralysed by sleep and being force to watch the same reel he’d dreamed of time and time again flicker through his head.

He had no choice but to watch these two men meet over and over again; to watch a friendship roar to life through immediate unbounded affection and unfurling gestures of trust. He watched as smiles helped to alleviate the hardest days of basic training; as quiet moments together gave them a space to sort out their thoughts away from the rest of them; as spirited discussions led to better strategies, better leadership, and endless respect between these two men.

He watched as physical affection grounded the men when they needed it most: arms thrown over shoulders, hands squeezing thighs, gentle chucks to the chin.

“Don’t you die on me before I get over there.”

John had to watch something in Bucky change after that first combat flight.

“I got a nickname for you and it ain’t Buck!”

No. No one was Buck. Why couldn’t he just say that, though? John tried to yell at Bucky as he dreamed - tried to scream at him - just tell him!

“I don’t feel a thing.”

In these strange and awful dreams, John had to watch Bucky lose his men and go out of his way to get himself hurt because it was the only way he could let himself acknowledge the pain without crumbling to dust underneath it.

“We’re gonna get through this. Come on. Don’t you stop believing that.”

John had to watch Bucky package away all his fears, his frustrations, his doubts, and hide it all the way out of Buck’s sight. He’d believe enough for the two of them. He’d get them both out of there if it killed him.

“London. Let’s do it up. Paint the town red.” “Maybe next time.”

John had to watch Bucky watch Buck dance away with Meatball - so utterly ridiculous and endearing and he feels the grief start to flare to life in his chest. Don’t go. Don’t you goddamn leave him again. Go up with him. Fly with him. Don’t let yourselves go alone!

“Did he have a good game?”

John had to watch Bucky lose Buck all over again, and saw the angry, violent grief wash over this man and drag him down, passed the man he used to be; down in the esteem of his men; and down into enemy territory and the horrors he had to feel and flee and flee again.

Until:

“Do any of you know if Buck made it?” “John Egan! Your two o’clock!”

John finally got to see Bucky feel the smallest flash of incandescent joy as he realises Buck is alive and he might be able to keep his promise after all. But soon after, when time starts to pass in the Stalag, he has to watch Bucky spiral, and he sees Buck watching and trying to keep the men and himself together so they can keep Bucky together. But it’s like keeping water in a cracked vase. John had to watch Buck witness Bucky lose himself until he was so unrecognisable that he hurt Buck and Buck punched him -

And John had to watch that awful march in the cold and the dark, and see the terror both Buck and Bucky feel when the other stumbles or slows.

And then it’s the night in the village when Bucky sacrifice the only two things that kept him breathing - Buck and his freedom - without a second thought. So long as Buck got out. John had to watch Bucky throw himself at the German with the gun and knock the rifle away because he couldn’t risk a stray bullet.

“Go! Get out of here!”

And when John finally got to see Bucky and Buck reunite, all they get to share is a handshake, which they clutch to like a lifeline, and later a flask. Then he’s watching Buck and Bucky go their separate ways until Bucky is at Buck’s back as he gets married -

“John? You in here, baby?”

John returns to the present, and his eyes latch onto the sleepy posture, messy hair, and concerned gaze of his husband standing in the kitchen doorway. His Gale. Who pads over on bare feet and John feels the heat of his long, strong hands cupping his cheeks.

John always felt overwhelmed by his love whenever he looked at Gale, but tonight he burns with a love, a desperation, that feels more than his own; more than he could fit into one lifetime. And the edges of the dream still toe the boundaries of his consciousness.

“Honey, have you been crying? What is it? What’s wrong?”

John only feels the tears now, as they roll fat and slow down from the corners of his eyes. His nose stings and his throat feels thick.

He whispers brokenly, “Buck…”

Gale’s face crumples as he recognises the name. John only ever calls him that after those dreams. Those awful, heartbreaking dreams of Buck and Bucky, gifted the joy of knowing each other, loving each other, and torn apart time and time again.

Gale grabs handfuls of John and switches places, so he can sit down and gather and tuck John into his lap, until all of him is curled and curved and protected in his embrace.

Buck might not have been able to do this for Bucky, but Gale can do it for John. And be grateful for the privilege.

He places slow, heavy strokes down John’s side as he shakes.

After a time, he mumbles against Gale’s chest, “Do you think they ever got to be happy?”

See, John is convinced they were real, Buck and Bucky. Gale has even offered to look them up, see if he can find some kind of record in the archives. But something about getting that confirmation, seeing the faces of two men that John sees as echoes of them - it's too much. He doesn't want to know.

“I don’t know,” Gale answers truthfully. “But right here, now, we can be happy enough for both of ‘em.”

[marengogo]

Well Well Well … - 4 : JK: “Hello Dear My Brides …”

Listening to the whole album DIM by the GazettE

[Music is a very big part of my life and I’m MOSTLY INCAPABLE of writing without music, so I just thought I'd share what I am listening to while writing this]

–🐺–🐺–🐺–

My day was amazing. I witnessed the happening of the “Hope-Cole World”. I successfully texted, unbothered, friends, family and my lovely S/O. I worked peacefully, for once this week, quick and pleasant meetings, with no bitching emails and no gen Z causing problems 😬😜😘🫰🏾. The day finally ended in a night of debauchery with my bff and now that I finally got home, it is stupid o’clock, and instead of sleeping, perhaps just like JK, I’m allowing my deep thoughts/inner self or whatever you wanna call them to take over and do as they please; because why not? 

Thing is, to people like myself, “Stupid o’clock” is a very attractive place to be in. It usually is a period of time belonging to the beginning hours of the following day, but because most people are usually sleeping, it doesn’t actually feel like the following day has begun, meaning that for a couple of hours, you feel like you are kind of in a limbo, where time has stopped ant this, to people like myself, who feel like we have no control whatsoever over our time, people who feel like we are constantly running out of time, this temporary limbo, feels extremely comforting. 

This limbo feels like we can finally have some sort of control over our own time. Yet, as one of those people, I have finally come to realise and accept that my perceived sense of constantly “running out of time”, is the main cause of my insomnia and today’s life has made me wonder if perhaps JK also feels the same? … Who knows right? But actually, this is just me rambling and heavily projecting.

So let’s leave my insomnia and losing-time-paranoia aside for a second. As you might have read from the beginning of this blog, where I always tell you what I am listening to, I am currently listening to the GazettE’s album DIM. I started listening to the GazettE a good 15 years ago, at least. Back then, they became all I listened to for a good couple of years. Presently, I do still love them, also got to see them live in 2019, however, I only listen to them occasionally, cause the GazettE are not your everyday happy-go-lucky band. No. They are a band you listen to when you have angst, so much angst you could “sell it for a living”. 

So, yes, I am angsty. And, yes, JK’s live made me angsty. JK’s respectful regards towards those who are causing him harm made me angsty and made me think of the GazettE’s song DISTRESS AND COMA in particular. Hence, until I let this angst out, I will not be able to sleep, though I will most likely end up falling asleep from exhaustion, and most likely wake up feeling like I hadn’t slept at all which what's the point? So allow me to address how I perceived JK’s not-absurd request, through this particular song, which I feel describes the scenario quite perfectly, at least it’s beginning.

DISTRESS AND COMA (which is in the album I am listening) begins like this:

🎶Until your distress sleeps

Fill me up with your grief

Until your distress sleeps

Until your distress sleeps

Fill me up with your grief

Until your distress sleeps🎵

This part I associated with JK being awake at Stupid o’ Clock for his own reasons. What ALL these reasons are exactly we will never know unless he tells us directly. However, feeling like you “you don’t want to sleep” when you are clearly sleepy, in my personal experience, is sort of like trying to battle with yourself in order to stay awake, which you might think of as being directly opposite to insomnia, however if you keep at it for long enough, you’ll end up distorting your regular sleeping pattern, which eventually will lead to insomnia (as you will feel like sleeping during times when you are supposed to be awake, and can’t sleep because of work, while consequently end up being awake during times in which you are supposed to be sleeping).

The song then continues:

🎶Hello dear my bride,

何を見ているの (what are you watching?)..🎵

After this, Ruki (the GazettE’s vocalist) begins to talk about his relationship with his “bride”, which isn’t a bride in the sense of a female partner he married, but a particularly tragic symbolic figure. In the same way, when JK so candidly and honestly spoke to us about his “boxing stalking incident”, he was talking to someone with whom he had a deep connection, someone with whom he promised he’d walk together for better, for worse … kinda like a bride. So it felt to me that, like in this song, JK was talking to us and nonchalantly started the live, as always, by saying “Hello dear my brides, what are you doing? … 

From here on, Ruki goes on talking about the toxic-relationship he has built with his “bride”. How he doesn’t mind getting hurt and hopes that the resulting scar will not disappear; as long as they are both able to finally fall asleep, he’ll gladly take on his “bride’s” DISTRESS AND COMA instead. But here is where JK is trying to change the song. He still wants to be a vessel for his “bride” to be able to sleep and not be distressed, HOWEVER, in a healthy way, as they both are at a point in their relationship where neither needs to get hurt, neither needs to lose sleep, neither needs to be scarred.

Having to actually hear JK address this made me feel like shit. NGL.

Not even going to address the perpetrators cause nothing I can say can ever express just how much I despise you. NOTHING.

His tone wasn’t angry, it wasn’t condescending, nor demanding. And although he wasn’t crying or pleading, the gentle and calm demeanor with which he asked for his privacy to please not be invaded, hurt so much more than it would have had he resorted to any of the aforementioned manners. It hurt, it hurt, as an empath, it hurt so fucking much.  

It hurts because he shouldn’t have to say this. And we all know that. It hurts because the person that stalked him can't call themself ARMY. And we all know that. It hurts because he is trying to be understanding, and find a solution, amicably, because he always feels a connection to ARMY and perhaps he feels like it is his duty to try and reach out. And we all know that. Reason why it hurts knowing that there are people out there who never gave, don’t give and will never give a fuck about any of these. And we all know that, as I am sure he knows as well. 

But I guess that sometimes, even if you know it may be futile, you still want to give it a try? And in JK’s case I’m sure he was aware that maybe it was going to work and most likely not, but at least he would have tried, so at the very least, he’d have no regrets, right? And if his effort did end up failing, if, for example in this case, the once-a-sasaeng-still-a-sasaeng keeps being a problem, then maybe he’d have to resort to the more drastic measures, which he was trying to avoid. 

Something tells me, that even though in my opinion they’d deserve all of it, he’d still feel sorry about it, but ultimately he’d make peace with it, because he’d know that, like everyone else, he is also human and he has the right to basic things such as being able to enjoy a bit of privacy. But then again, he’d cross that bridge if he got there, I guess. For now, the important thing to JK is perhaps that he thought it was worth for him to try and express himself, to vulnerably open himself up to us for better or for worse, and perhaps this had nothing to do with his insomnia, or perhaps it did, as always, we’ll never know, REGARDLESS OF ALL MY RAMBLING, I’m actually glad that he lost the stay awake battle! though that beautiful candle ended up becoming a bit triggering 😬 …

So I apologies for confusingly waxing poetic over this, imma now try and go to sleep myself.

Always respectfully yours 🙏🏾💜,

Marengo. 

[fastcardotmp3]

hii! 18, 20, 29 for the ask thing? ^-^

hello!! thank you for asking! <3

18. What’s one of your favorite lines you’ve written in a fic?

ooh this is a tricky one because I have the memory of a goldfish when it comes to things I write as soon as I post them, but I'm very attached to this bit from always; never again-

Robin doesn’t know why it triggers her whole body to be overtaken with overwhelm, maybe the feeling of being understood, of being heard in the way Steve might have heard her had it been someone else and he had been here.

Then again if it had been someone else, Robin wouldn’t feel like this, this wave of physical hollowness, such intense overflowingness. It is a presence, this absence, so loud in its lacking that she can feel it expanding, expanding, expanding in her chest cavity until all there is to do is for it to burst.

20. What’s a favorite title for a fic you’ve written?

I gotta stand by my guy someone else's favorite song 🫡 I love a title whose meaning becomes clear over the course of the story and I think this is the closest I've gotten to achieving that. grief is found in someone else's favorite song! love is found in someone else's favorite song! you know!!!

29. Share a bit from a fic you’ll never post OR from a scene that was cut from an already posted fic. (If you don’t have either, just share a random fic idea you have that you don’t plan on getting to.)

this is a short transition scene from a fic I started, like, early last fall before metamorphoses devoured all my time and energy, and I have no idea if I'll ever return to it (probably not) but if I do, it's gonna get revamped to hell and back. I like this scene though! (which is, perhaps, why it's such a similar premise to the hair-cutting scene in meta fjsdlkfj don't LOOK at me)

The heat of the west coast gets to Eddie in August and, in a fit of frustration and the after effects of a you’re supposed to be dead you should have died why aren’t you dead nightmare and just plain old sweat, he takes a pair of kitchen scissors and cuts his hair off at his jawline. 

And then he cries. 

It’s jagged and he can’t get it even with the state of the curls and the state of his shaking hands and there’s hair filling the sink and Jonathan and Argyle are asleep in the next room because it’s, like, three o’clock in the morning and Eddie is having a nervous breakdown apparently because he should be dead by now and his name isn’t Munson anymore, no matter how much his friends ignore that fact, and it’s so fucking hot in California in August. 

It’s Jonathan who finds him in the morning, still sitting on the bathroom floor below a sink filled with chunks of haphazardly chopped hair and a pair of scissors resting on the tile by his hip and Eddie’s not crying anymore but he very well might start all over again when Jonathan just looks at him, breathes a quiet oh, and then disappears for no more than two minutes before returning with Argyle. 

“Oh, dude, short’s gonna be such a good look on you,” Argyle smiles sleepily as he drags Eddie to sit on the lid of the toilet and takes possession of the scissors in surprisingly agile hands. “Argyle’s salon is open for business.” 

He’s gentle and that almost makes Eddie cry and Jonathan brings him a cup of tea which really isn’t Eddie’s thing but that too is enough to have his throat closing up so he just shuts his eyes and waits until Argyle pats his shoulder and says, “all done, man,” before he looks at himself in the mirror. 

Shaggy enough to not have to relive the trauma of a middle school buzzcut but still kind of an awkward length, it is at the very least less suffocating in the summer heat. He looks in the mirror and runs a hand through those wild curls gone untamed by the lessened weight pulling down on them. 

Eddie Arda looks back at him.

[englishstrawbie]

Serendipity (38/?)

Fandom: Station 19, Grey’s Anatomy

Characters: Maya Bishop & Carina DeLuca

Summary: A chance meeting at a bar leads to these two idiots falling in love. Follows canon and fills in the gaps of their relationship that we didn’t get to see on screen.

Also @ AO3. 

* * * * * * * * * * 

Fratellino

But in all the sadness, when you’re feeling that your heart is empty, and lacking, You’ve got to remember that grief isn’t the absence of love. Grief is the proof that love is still there. - Tessa Shaffer

The room is pitch black, as one would expect at almost four o’clock in the morning. Not even a sliver of light from the outside world makes its way into the bedroom. Carina lies on her back, staring up into the darkness. Her head hasn’t stopped pounding since Owen and Teddy delivered the news of her brother’s death, despite the double dose of Tylenol she took when they got home. It is not just her head that hurts: her shoulders ache from being so tense; her back is sore from sitting around for most of the day – in the car, at the hospital, by his bed; her legs have that weird restless leg syndrome, like she could run for miles even though she is zapped of energy; and there is a tingling in her hands and feet that won’t go away no matter how many times she curls her fists and toes.

She sighs heavily into the silence. Beside her, Maya sleeps peacefully, a soft snore escaping from her every now and again. Carina is envious that she is able to sleep so easily when it evades her.

Andrew has been dead for five hours.

She keeps thinking about how she has to live the rest of her life without him, hundreds of thousands of hours without her baby brother in the world.

It can’t be real, and yet the pain in her heart tells her that it is true.

She waits for another hour to pass before she gives up on sleeping and slides out of the bed, pulling a sweater over her head and padding out into the apartment. She sits on one of the chairs, her feet curled up beneath her, and pulls a blanket over her legs. She turns on the television and flicks through the channels. She has never watched tv at this time of the morning and settles on a home renovation show. Not that she is really watching it; she is too tired to concentrate and her vision keeps blurring as her eyes grow tired from the glare of the screen.

She drifts off for ten, maybe twenty minutes. It is an uncomfortable sleep, her chin resting on her shoulder, and when she wakes her neck hurts from the funny angle. She rubs it gently, but it provides little relief.

She should make a list, she thinks, of all the things that need to be done. Bailey promised that he would stay in the hospital morgue until a funeral home could collect him, sparing him the indignity of being just another body in the make-shift morgue they had to build for their Covid victims. There would be no service, except for her and Maya perhaps, to say goodbye.

He wants to be cremated, she knows that. He hates the fuss of a traditional Catholic funeral, finds them long and tedious and too sad.

“I want to go out with a party, where everyone smiles and laughs because I lived instead of crying because I died,” he said once, not long after they buried Mama.

He wants Pink Floyd’s Wish You Were Here played instead of the usual hymns. Carina thinks she should do a reading of the same poem that she read at Mama’s funeral. She will have to organise for it to be streamed online so that Papa and their family in Italy can watch it, which means making sure she gets the time difference right.

There will be no wake to organise, no memories will be shared. She will mourn alone.

A light at the other end of the hallway captures her attention and she looks up just as Maya emerges, pulling a robe around her body as she walks towards her.

“Hey,” Maya says softly, leaning down and pressing her lips against Carina’s hair before sitting in the empty chair next to her. “Did you manage to sleep at all?”

“A little,” Carina lies, twisting her body towards her. “I was just thinking about all the things I need to do to plan his funeral.”

Her voice shakes, full of disbelief that she even has to say these words out loud.

“I can help you with that,” Maya says. “You don’t have to do it all by yourself.”

Carina musters up a small smile, grateful to have Maya by her side in all this. Maya reaches into her pocket and pulls out Carina’s cell phone, holding it out to her.

“It started buzzing about ten minutes ago,” she says. “I think people have started to hear about Andrew.”

Carina takes it from her and looks down at the sea of familiar names on the screen. Jackson, Jo, Maggie, Link, Schmitt. She doesn’t bother to open them, she knows what they will say.

She still needs to tell Papa but that is a conversation she isn’t ready to have right now.

“Shall I make you some breakfast?” Maya says.

Carina shakes her head. “I’m not hungry,” she says, even though it has been twenty-four hours since her last meal. “I could do with some more Tylenol though.”

She watches as Maya goes into the kitchen to pour her a fresh glass of water and retrieve the packet of pills from the counter. Carina pops two into her mouth and swallows them, then gulps down the rest of the water. She knows her body is dehydrated, which probably isn’t helping her headache.

“How about we curl up on the couch, see if you’ll sleep a bit more?” Maya suggests.

Carina doesn’t have the energy to object. She doesn’t really know what to do with herself anyway, so she nods, letting Maya take her hand and lead her to the couch. Maya plumps the cushions – not that they need it – and brings over a selection of berries and pastries on a plate.

“Just in case your appetite comes back,” she says, and Carina knows it is her way of taking care of her.

Maya stretches out on the sofa and Carina curls up beside her, wedged under Maya’s arm against the back of the couch. Maya pulls a blanket over them, thick and fluffy to keep them warm. The newly plumped cushions are soft and Carina feels herself becoming drowsy. Maya’s hand strokes her hair, the slow rhythm lulling her towards sleep.

It is somewhere between being awake and being asleep that her brain turns off its defence mechanism and her body and mind are hit with pain and loss all over again.

‘Stop,’ she wants to say. ‘Please don’t.’

But there is nothing she can do to stop the wave of grief from crashing over her. She doesn’t get the words out before her body convulses and a sob escapes from deep in her chest, echoing around the apartment. It takes Maya by surprise and she jolts awake from the near slumber she was in.

“Oh Carina,” she says, her voice oozing sympathy.

She tightens her arm around her, her other hand stroking her face, wiping the tears that cascade down her cheeks.

“I know.”

She doesn’t know. She still has her brother. They might be estranged, but he is out there somewhere and she has hundreds of thousands of hours left of her life to get to know him again. Carina doesn’t have that any more.

She cries until her eyes run dry and her chest hurts. Every part of her body is screaming out in pain and she needs it to subside, just for a little while so that she can get some rest but her head betrays her the moment she gets too comfortable.

Maya’s embrace is too warm, too comfortable, too soft, so she extracts herself from under her arm.

“I’m going to shower,” she announces abruptly.

“Okay,” Maya says, sitting up and dropping her feet to the floor so that Carina can shuffle around her.

She leaves her cell phone behind, already annoyed by the constant messages. She knows she should be touched by the outpouring of sympathy but she can’t cope with other people’s grief on top of her own right now.

Once in the shower, she washes yesterday’s trauma from her body, removing every trace of blood and sweat that may have lingered. She dresses in a pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt, letting her wet hair hang limply around her shoulders, not caring about her appearance.

When she finally emerges, Maya is at the stove, scrambling eggs in a pan. Two pieces of bread pop from the toaster and she puts the simple meal together, placing it on the table and looking expectantly at Carina, hoping she will eat something.

Carina feels a child-like petulance growing inside of her, unwilling to do what she is told, but she knows that if – no, when – the roles were reversed, she did the same for Maya. She sits obediently at the table and tucks into the food. The toast is dry and the eggs are too salty (or so she tells herself) but she swallows a few mouthfuls to appease her girlfriend.

Maya’s own empty plate sits on the side and she grabs two mugs of coffee, placing them on the table and sitting down beside her.

“Is there anything you want to do today?” she asks.

Carina’s shoulders drop. “I should call my dad, but I… I don’t know what to say.”

“What if we went for a walk?” Maya says. “Get some fresh air, it might help clear your head and help you sleep?”

“Maybe,” Carina says non-committedly.

She doesn’t like the thought of bumping into anyone they know, of someone asking how they are in polite conversation and having to tell them that her brother is dead.

Murdered.

“I really should call the funeral home and make plans,” Carina says, a small frown on her face. “They’re busy and I don’t want him to have to wait.”

Her voice catches in her throat as she talks and she feels the few mouthfuls of eggs she has just eaten threatening to make their way back up. It is stupid, it is not like Andrew is going to know, but she knows and she wants to do right by him in his death, even if she couldn’t do right by him in his life.

Because that is what she keeps thinking. She failed him, she didn’t keep him safe like a big sister should do.

“Okay,” Maya says, reaching into the cupboard behind her and pulling out a notepad and pen. “Let’s make a list.”

Maya jots down all the things that Carina has thought about – the songs to play, the poems to read, and the memories for his eulogy. She writes down the names of all the people who need to be told and their contact details so that a link to the live stream can be shared at the right time. Maya scans her phone for the names of some local funeral homes, Carina picking out the ones she knows are good.

Carina picks up her cell phone to call the one at the top of the list, but her hands are shaking too much and tears prick her eyes. Maya places her hand over hers.

“You don’t have to do this today, it can wait until tomorrow.”

Carina nods dumbly. She knows she won’t be able to get the words out today, it is hard enough to think it let alone say it out loud.

“Maybe a walk would be a good idea,” she concedes.

Before they can make a plan, there is a knock on the door. Maya squeezes her hand, then stands and grabs a face mask from the pile they keep on the console table, hooking it over her ears. She opens the door just a little so that Carina can’t see who it is.

Carina hears the murmur of voices and eventually Maya steps back to let their visitor into the apartment. Amelia steps inside, a bag of junk food from the grocery store in each hand. She walks straight over to the table and drops them unceremoniously on the table.

“I know we’re in the middle of a pandemic and I’m not supposed to hug you, but I took a Covid test and it was negative, so I’m going to anyway,” she says.

Her short stature means she doesn’t have to lean down too far to envelope Carina in a hug. She smells of baby powder and it brings a small smile to Carina’s face. She responds by putting her arms around Amelia, letting her hold on for longer than either of them would normally allow before pulling back.

“I’m gonna go take a shower,” Maya says.

She looks at Carina for assurance that she will be okay with Amelia and Carina gives her a small nod. Amelia starts to empty the grocery bags on to the table, while Carina gathers up the two mugs.

“I’ll make a fresh pot,” she says. “Maya… I love her, but she still hasn’t learned how to make a decent coffee.”

With two steaming hot mugs in front of them, Carina surveys the mountains of sugar-filled treats the cover her table, her eyebrows arching.

“Whenever bad things have happened in my life, I usually go for the stronger stuff,” Amelia says. “But it never ended well and I don’t want that to happen to you.”

She pushes a box of Twinkies towards Carina and leans back in her chair.

“It sucks, losing a brother,” she says. Her eyes glaze over as she thinks about Derek. “They’re supposed to always be there, to be our partners in crime until we get old. And when they’re gone, there’s a loneliness to that which doesn’t come when you lose a parent or a grandparent.”

Carina is reminded of all the loss that Amelia has suffered in her own life. There is an odd sense of camaraderie in knowing that she is not the only one to have lost a sibling so suddenly, so tragically, even though she wouldn’t wish this on anyone else – friend or foe.

Amelia takes the box of Reese’s peanut butter cups and tears open a packet, taking one and offering the other to Carina.

“Derek hated peanut butter,” she says, looking at the confectionary in her hand and taking a bite. “He hated the way it stuck to the roof of your mouth. But he was always that kid that would say yes to a peanut butter and jelly sandwich if it was offered to him, because he didn’t want to be rude.”

She rolls her eyes at Carina, who smiles as she takes a bite into her own cup. It is not the kind of thing she usually eats, even though Maya always has a box in the cupboard. It is sticky and sweet.

“I remember when Andrea came to America with Mama, the first thing he sent to me was a packet of these,” Carina remembers fondly. “He said they were the best thing he’d ever tasted – which of course upset the family, because they pride themselves in making the best cannoli in Sicily.”

Amelia chuckles.

“The first time I came to visit them, he snuck a box into my room before dinner and we ate them all. Mama didn’t understand why we weren’t hungry when she took us out for pizza a couple of hours later.”

She feels tears welling up in the corners of her eyes and blinks them back.

“Scusa.”

Amelia waves her apology away. “Don’t be sorry about being sad,” she says. “You’re allowed to be sad for as long as you want. There’s no timeline on this.” She grows wistful. “I miss him even more now that Scout is here. That kid is so much like Link, but sometimes when he cries, he screws up his nose and he looks just like Derek.”

Carina lets the tears fall down her cheeks. “I feel…” She shakes her head. “I don’t even know how I feel, just numb.”

“That’s normal,” Amelia says. “It’s normal to be sad and upset, it’s normal to be smile and laugh at the memories, it’s normal to rage about all the things he’ll miss. Because there is no normal, not really.”

She leans forward and grasps Carina’s hand in hers.

“There is a light at the end of this very dark tunnel,” she says. “You just can’t see it yet. And it might be a while before you do. But it’s there, I promise.”

Carina nods. “Thank you, Amelia.”

“Well, you’ve done enough for me,” Amelia reminds her with a smile. “I just wish this wasn’t the reason for me returning the favour.”

“Me too.”

Amelia’s visit does her some good. She stays for an hour and they talk and cry and laugh, and it helps to forget about the shock of the last twenty-four hours for a while. It is still there, the grief, bubbling under the surface. It doesn’t go far, but she makes the most of the respite while she can.

She skips lunch, blaming the sweets and chocolate that Amelia brought round, and they go for a walk around the park in the afternoon. Carina doesn’t say much, too caught up in all the thoughts in her head. Still, Maya was right, the fresh air does her some good and she sleeps for an hour on the sofa when she gets home before the bad dreams come.  

As she comes to, she hears Maya on the phone.

“A week at least. I spoke to the Chief, we agreed that, with Covid protocols, it wasn’t a good idea to bring someone else into the bubble. Will you cover for me while I’m off?”

Carina frowns. Maya wasn’t going to work this week?

She sits up and lifts her hands above her head, stretching her aching limbs. The movement catches Maya’s attention and she looks over her shoulder.

“I gotta go, Andy,” she says. “I’ll call you tomorrow.”

She ends the call quickly and grabs a glass of water, walking over to the couch and giving it to Carina, who gladly accepts it and takes a large gulp. Maya perches on the table in front of her.

“You’re not going to work tomorrow?”

Maya shakes her head, no. “The Chief’s letting me taking a week’s bereavement leave,” Maya says.

“You don’t have to do that…” Carina starts to say, but Maya is quick to cut her off.

“Yes, I do,” Maya says. “I’m not going anywhere.”

It is the same promise she made yesterday and she hasn’t broken it yet, always there when Carina needs her.

“Thank you,” Carina says quietly.

Maya offers her a small smile. ��I still have take-out from yesterday, do you think you could eat some?”

The thought of food is not appealing and Carina’s stomach feels twisted into knots, but it is practically empty and she knows she should eat something.

“Sure,” she says.

She manages half a plate, which is more than either of them expected, followed by two more Tylenol and an early night at Maya’s insistence, hoping that sleep will come easier tonight.

It doesn’t. Maybe it is because, this time, it is Carina evading sleep instead of sleep evading her. The wave of emotions that hit when she gets too comfortable, too soft, is overwhelming. She wants to sleep but doesn’t know how or where, so she stares into the darkness again, her only company her memories of their childhood in Italy.

Her limbs become restless in the early hours. She doesn’t know what time it is, but the urge to get out of bed and move is too big to ignore. She slips out from under the covers, careful not to wake Maya, and creeps into the apartment. She doesn’t bother with the television this time, but instead tunes the radio to some generic station that plays pop music she doesn’t usually listen to. The lyrics are about falling in love and breaking up; some are about unrequited love, some are about lost loves. None are about dead brothers and she is grateful about that.

The couch is too soft, so she lies on the floor of the hallway, wishing for sleep that never comes. It is where Maya finds her a little while later.

“I’m just trying to sleep,” Carina says before Maya can ask her what she is doing.

After a beat, Maya lies on the floor, her head next to Carina’s with her feet pointing in the opposite direction.

“What are you doing?”

“Trying to sleep too,” Maya says plainly.

Carina sighs. “You should go back to bed.”

Maya doesn’t speak, but her hand scrambles around in the dark until it finds Carina’s. She links their fingers together, giving them a gentle squeeze.

They stay there for an hour, maybe two – Carina has stopped counting time by now – until she drags Maya back to bed. Even if she can’t sleep, Maya should.

Maya tries to fight sleep, to stay awake until Carina sleeps too, but she falls into a slumber around six o’clock. Carina drifts off too, for twenty minutes or so and only a light sleep. Still, it is better than nothing.

They have another slow day at home. Carina avoids calling her dad, but does call her Zia Alice to tell her. It is a hard phone call to make and she doesn’t know how she gets through it, but Maya stays by her side, holding her hand, as she tells her about what happened. It is another loss in their family and she wonders if they should be hardened to it by now, but Alice wails down the phone at her and it takes all of her strength to keep it together. At least Alice agrees not to tell Papa, not yet, not until Carina has spoken to him.

She feels drained afterwards and pushes the notebook away when Maya asks if she wants to call the funeral home. She knows she should, but there is finality to his death that comes with making those kinds of plans that she isn’t ready to face just yet.

Her cell phone is still alight with messages of love and sympathy. She hasn’t read them yet. At one point, she threatens to delete them, but Maya persuades her to keep them.

“You’ll want to read them one day,” she says. “To know how much people loved him.”

She is right, of course. Instead, she leaves her phone behind when they go for another walk, taking the same route around the park as yesterday. The sun shines and it feels weird, wrong almost, that it should be so warm and sunny when everything about her life feels so bleak. She hides her eyes behind her sunglasses so that no-one can see the dark circles and red rims that give away her trauma.

“When we were little, our grandparents used to take us to the park near their house. It had this swing with a big round seat… I don’t know what they’re called,” Carina says. “It was big enough for both us and we would sit on it side-by-side with our arms linked together in case one of us started to slip.”

She smiles sadly at the memory.

“I can still hear Andrea’s squeals of joy as Nonno would push us. Nonna used to scold him, tell him that he was pushing us too high, but we loved it. It was the first thing that Andrea would beg to do whenever we visited.”

She stops walking suddenly. Her chest rumbles and she chokes back her tears, not wanting to fall apart in public.

“I just… I can’t believe I’m not going to hear him laugh any more. He had such a beautiful laugh, like Mama’s.”

Maya slips her hand around her waist and steps closer.

“You want to take the short cut home?”

Carina shakes her head. “No. I’m okay. I just need a minute.”

“Take as many minutes as you want,” Maya says.

Carina dips her head and rests it on Maya’s shoulder, taking a deep breath to steady herself and recognising a familiar scent. Her lips twitch, threatening to smile.

“You’ve been using my shampoo again?”

“Why else do you think I asked you to move in with me?” Maya teases.

The smile breaks through, lighting up her face briefly.

They finish their loop of the park and head home. Carina feels drained again and lets Maya cover her in blankets on the couch. She sleeps for a little over an hour this time, woken up by shrill ringing of her cell phone. She jolts awake, blinking a few times as her blurred vision clears, and looks towards the source of the noise.

Her cell phone stops ringing just as she reaches for it. Next to it is a note from Maya, letting her know that she has just popped to the shops for some fresh ingredients for dinner. Her cell phone starts to ring again and she looks down, a surprise name staring back at her.

“Arizona, ciao,” she says when she answers.

She rubs her eyes. Her voice is still a little sluggish from her nap and Arizona picks up on it.

“Sorry, did I wake you?”

“It’s okay,” Carina says dismissively. She doesn’t know what to say next, she knows why Arizona is calling and she falls silent, waiting for Arizona to offer her condolences.

“I heard about Andrew. I’m so sorry, Carina,” Arizona says.

“Thank you,” Carina says.

“He meant a lot to me, I hope you know that,” Arizona continues. “I hope he knew that too. He helped me so much when he moved in. I was so lost after Callie and Sofia left and he stopped me from wallowing, just by being there, by making dinner and watching trashy television with me.”

Carina smiles. “He always had a soft spot for The Bachelorette. He made me promise not to tell anyone.”

Arizona chuckles. “He was a special one. To me and so many.”

“I know,” Carina says softly.

“You know, when my brother died, my heart was broken into pieces. Timothy was my ally in so many ways and I didn’t know how I was gonna live the rest of my life without him as my cheerleader,” Arizona says. “I know you know how that feels.”

Her words make Carina’s heart ache, her eyes filling with tears.

“And it never goes away, not completely. When Sofia was born, when I got married, the plane crash, my divorce – I missed him so much. I mean, I always miss him but there are moments still when he’s the first person I want to call and I hate that I can’t.”

The tears fall down Carina’s cheeks and she can’t stop them.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t call to make you feel worse,” Arizona apologises.

“I don’t think that’s possible right now,” Carina says through her sniffles.

“Yeah, I know that feeling,” Arizona says. “I guess my point is, don’t be afraid of those feelings. They’ll hurt, some days more than others, and sometimes it will feel unbearable, like you’re right back here in the worst of your grief. Don’t be afraid to feel it, Carina, because pushing it away will only make it come bouncing back harder.”

Carina wipes the tears from her cheeks with the back of her hand.

“Thank you, Arizona,” she says. She takes a deep, shaky breath to regain her composure. “How is New York, are you happy?”

“I am,” Arizona says. “Sofia loves being back here, and…”

She trails off, leaving an awkward silence between them.

“And Callie?” Carina prompts.

She already knows that Arizona and Callie are back together, happier than ever according to Jo, who heard it from Alex – before his sudden disappearance.

“We’re good,” Arizona says. “And you? Do you have… someone?”

Carina smiles when she thinks about Maya. “I do,” she says. “She’s a firefighter – the captain, in fact.”

“And she’s taking care of you?”

There is a protectiveness to her voice that Carina can’t help but find endearing.

“She is, very much,” Carina says. She hasn’t stopped taking care of her since the aid car rolled up outside the hospital.

“Good, I’m glad,” Arizona says.

From her end of the phone, Carina hears the familiar beeping of a pager.

“Shoot, I have to go,” Arizona says. “Look, I know you have people in your life who will take care of you. But if you ever wanna talk, I’ll listen.”

It is a sweet gesture, even if Carina knows she will never take her up on it. They haven’t spoken since Arizona left for New York and they probably never would have if it hadn’t been for this tragedy. It would be an odd friendship, built on her brother’s death, and Carina doesn’t want that.

“Thank you, Arizona.”

She hits the red button to end the call and keeps her cell phone in her hand, pulling up the messages that have been flooding in over the last two days. There are forty, maybe fifty messages from her friends and colleagues – some numbers she recognises and some she doesn’t – all offering words of sympathy and support. She reads them one by one, each message making the tears fall harder and faster. He was so loved and cherished by so many. It makes her happy and sad all at once, and it is too much for her.

Maya finds her curled up in a ball on the couch, her face buried in her knees as she sobs uncontrollably. She drops the groceries on the floor and rushes to her side, scooping her up in a hug, her arms strong around her.

“He’s gone,” Carina murmurs through her tears. “He’s really gone.”

She feels Maya’s hold tighten.

“I’m here, I’ve got you,” Maya soothes in her ear, letting her tears soak into her shirt.

Carina wonders how long it will take before she cries all of her tears. She is a doctor, a scientist, she knows that she will never run out of tears – that’s not the way a body works. But there has to be a point when the tears don’t come. With Mama, it was many weeks later before she had got through a day without crying – which only made the tears come back when she realised it, because she felt so guilty at not remembering to be sad.

“Did the bad dreams come back?” Maya asks.

Carina shakes her head. “No, I was reading the messages on my phone. Everyone was being so lovely.”

“People being nice made you cry?” Maya says.

Carina smiles ruefully. “It feels like everything makes me cry at the moment.”

Maya tucks Carina’s hair behind her ears. Carina leans into her touch, closing her eyes and pressing her cheek into the palm of her hand, taking comfort from her warm skin.

“You wanna help me make dinner? It might help to have something else to focus on for a while,” Maya suggests.

“That sounds like a good idea,” Carina says.

Maya doesn’t force her to make conversation as they prep the food and it is a welcome relief to have nothing to think about except chopping vegetables. She pours them both a large glass of Chardonnay as Maya stands in front of the stove making dinner. Her shoulders feel so tight that it feels like someone is pressing all of their body weight on top of her and she hopes that the wine will help her relax. Despite being one of her favourite bottles, it tastes acidic and burns her tongue, as if her taste buds are betraying her.

She helps herself to a small amount of the risotto that Maya has made and it tastes good, but sits heavy in her stomach. Still, she clears her plate and she knows that it makes Maya happy to see her eating.

“Is there anything you wanna do tonight?” Maya asks. “A movie, perhaps?”

“Sure,” Carina says. She doesn’t really care, but at least a movie will fill the silent apartment.

Maya insists that they watch it on her laptop in bed, hoping that if Carina finally succumbs to sleep then at least she will be somewhere comfortable. She chooses something light, a romantic comedy set in London, and Carina distracts them from the happy ending by telling her about her travels there just after medical school.

The glare of the screen was probably a bad idea because, despite the exhaustion she feels, she still can’t sleep. She tries the kitchen floor that night, the oak flooring harder and more uncomfortable than the soft rug in the hallway. It is where Maya finds her in the morning, staring up at the pots and pans that hang above the small island. She doesn’t say anything about it, just accepts it, like it is becoming the new normal, leaving Carina to wonder if she will ever sleep properly again.

The numbness is starting to fade and she is overwhelmed by the guilt she carries instead. She should have stopped him from getting on that train, she should have insisted they wait for the police. She should have stayed with him as he made his way through the train station, she should have got to him sooner. She should have been able to save him, instead of freezing and panicking when she saw the stab wound. All these things she should have done, but didn’t, and because of that her sweet baby brother is dead.

The guilt makes her angry. The sound of Maya’s footsteps, echoing between her ears, irritates her. The pounding from her treadmill as she exercises reverberates through the apartment and she wants to tell her to go out for a run if she wants, but she doesn’t because she selfishly needs Maya near her right now.

She moves before Maya turns on her blender to make her morning smoothie, knowing the loud whirring will aggravate her even more and she doesn’t want to snap at Maya, when she has been so lovely these last couple of days.

“I’m going to shower,” she announces, hauling herself up to standing.

“Do you want me to make you break…”

Carina doesn’t hang around to answer her question. She heads into the bedroom and closes the door behind her, exhaling deep and long. She is so exhausted, she doesn’t know what to do with herself, like a child who refuses to nap and is on the verge of a meltdown.

The tiles of the shower are cold and strangely inviting, and she sits down in the corner, resting her head on one wall and closing her eyes. It’s too uncomfortable though and doesn’t help her sleep any easier.

Maya comes looking for her when she doesn’t hear the water running.

“Hey,” she says softly, leaning against the door frame.

Carina doesn’t lift her eyes, knowing that Maya will be looking at her with love and empathy. “I know this looks crazy.”

“Not any crazier than finding you lying in the hallway at three a.m.,” Maya says.

“I can't get comfortable anywhere.”

Maya wanders into the bathroom and leans against the shower door. “You want to give the bed or the couch another shot?”

“Too soft.”

She can feel Maya looking at her, bemused. She lifts her head off the wall and glances up at her.  

“When something is too soft and nice and comfortable right now, it makes me want to cry,” she explains, “and I can't cry anymore because it's exhausting and it gives me a headache; and I'm already so tired, but I can't fall asleep, and sleeping is the only thing that will turn off the crazy guilt screaming in my brain.” She sighs. “So, I'm in the shower to try to fall asleep.”

“Carina…” Maya scolds her lightly as she crouches down near her. “None of this is your fault.”

The voices in her head tell her otherwise. There were so many things she did wrong that day, that she knows will haunt her for the rest of her life.

“You want to scream?” Maya asks. “Would that make you feel better?”

Carina read an article once about how screaming releases the tension you carry in your body and that the endorphins that follow will mask any pain you are feeling. She would do anything right now for the pain to go away.

She nods.

“Okay, then scream.”

She leans back, but she is too tired and can’t summon the energy to do it.

“Your brother died, Carina,” Maya says. “You’re allowed to wake up the neighbours.”

She doesn’t care about the neighbours. She would wake the whole apartment block with her cries if she could.

“He didn't die,” Carina reminds her. “He was murdered.”

The words make her feel nauseous and she swallows the thick bile that rises to the back of her throat.

“Scream,” Maya encourages her.  

She tries, hitting her head against the solid tiles behind her a few times to garner the energy, but her throat is dry and her chest aches from all the sobbing, and she just can’t do it. All she can do is cry – again.

Maya comes into the shower and sits beside her, wrapping her arms around her. Carina indulges her for a moment, letting the comfort wash over her, until she feels the familiar throbbing in her chest.

“Too soft, too soft,” she says, rejecting Maya’s help and training her eyes on the wall in front of her.

“Okay, I’m sorry,” Maya says.

She walks away and Carina knows it is because she doesn’t want to make her feel worse. If only she understood that she is the only thing making her feel better right now. Carina closes her eyes and leans back against the wall behind her. It is cold and hard, just like she feels inside, but still sleep doesn’t come easily. She can hear Maya moving around in the kitchen and gets up slowly, her back sore from too much time on the hard floors of their apartment. She wanders out into the kitchen where Maya is making eggs again.

“Thank you,” she says quietly. It doesn’t feel like enough, but it is all she has to give right now.

Maya pauses on the way to deliver her breakfast to the table, leaving a soft kiss on her cheek.

“It’s okay to not be okay,” she says kindly.

It has only been three days, after all. Carina sits at the table and pushes the eggs around the plate, her stomach churning at their smell. She takes a bite of dry toast. She thought she was getting her appetite back a little yesterday, but today her stomach is twisted into knots and the food doesn’t settle well. She notices the notebook on the shelf, the one that lists all the things she hasn’t done to give her brother a funeral. It serves as another reminder of how she is failing him.

“I’m gonna go change the bed, maybe some fresh sheets will help,” Maya says. She is running out of ideas of how to help. “You okay here?”

Carina nods absentmindedly, her eyes moving away from the notebook but not meeting Maya’s. Her phone chimes and she pulls it out of her pocket. It is a message from her cousin, offering his condolences. It beeps a few more times as a series of photos come through and she opens them, curious, only to have her breath taken away by the image of her brother’s smiling face looking up at her. They are photos from the last time they were all together as a family, her cousin’s wedding four years ago. There are candid photos of Andrew chatting to family and dancing with friends, his eyes bright and his smile wide across his face. There are photos of her Nonna and uncles she will never see again, and they bring tears to her eyes. The last one is a photo of the three of them – Papa, Andrew and her – laughing during the after-dinner speeches.

Her heart drops.

She still hasn’t told Papa. She doesn’t know how she is going to tell him, how to even begin to explain what happened and how his child ended up dead.

He was away at a conference when Mama died. He got home a few days later and Carina went to his house to tell him. She thought he had taken it okay, he was upset but they had been divorced for ten years by then. Except it had triggered an episode and the next day the police had turned up on her doorstep with him in tow, incoherent and manic. He had passed the alcohol test, so they didn’t want him taking up space in a station cell, and he had been able to tell them where his daughter lived.

What if that happens when she tells him about Andrew? What if, this time, the police don’t pull him over and he gets into an accident? What if he hurts himself or someone else? She can’t have that on her conscience as well.

Panic flares up inside of her and she rushes to the spare room, pulling out a suitcase and heading into the bedroom, where Maya is in the middle of changing the bed sheets.

“I have to go to Italy,” Carina announces, flinging the suitcase onto the half-made bed.

Maya looks up at her, confusion across her face. “What?”

“I have to tell my dad and I think the best way to do it is in person,” Carina says.

She walks towards the dresser to pull out some clothes, not paying attention to what she is choosing.

“Carina, take a breath. Let’s talk this through,” Maya says calmly, but Carina isn’t really listening.

“…because I don’t know how he’s gonna react to the news and I just need to be there in case he goes crazy or something.”

All she can see in her head is the image of her dad, hanging limply in the arms of two police officers. She drops the clothes haphazardly into the case, then goes to find more.

“Okay, there are no flights to Italy right now,” Maya points out. “The border is closed there and here. And even if you could get there, we're in a pandemic, remember?”

Carina stares at her as she starts to make sense of what Maya is saying. But if she doesn’t go to Italy, how is she going to escape all that haunts her?

“Okay, yeah, I have... ahhh! Okay, I feel like there's so much that I have to do, and I don't even know how.”

It overwhelms her and she marches out into the hallway, with Maya close behind her.

“Okay, what do you want? What do you need? What can I do?”

“I have to organize the funeral, I have to contact his landlord,” Carina says as she paces up and down the hallway, unable to keep still. “I have to call the bank to sort out all the details and paperwork. I have…” She sighs. “I have to tell my dad. But what I want to do right now is scream. I want to scream until my throat hurts more than my head and my stomach and my chest. I just want to scream so that some of this pressure goes away.”

“So scream,” Maya says. “Do it, let it out.”

“I can't,” Carina cries. She has tried so many times and every time she fails, and she doesn’t need to feel like any more of a failure.

She knows that Maya is trying to help her but everything feels too hard and she craves the solitude of their bathroom, brushing past Maya and making her way back into the shower.

“I can't, I can't, I can't,” she mutters.

She sits on the cool tiles, her brain buzzing and her heart thumping in her chest. She tries to control her breathing, a long inhale and a slow exhale.

‘Five things you can see,’ she thinks to herself.

The tiles, the bottle of shampoo, the crumpled towel on the floor, the mirror, the trash can.

Four things you can touch.

She goes through the steps, the calming technique helping reduce her stress and anxiety. She drops her head to one side, resting against the wall and closing her eyes, willing herself to sleep. She just wants to sleep but the floor of a shower isn’t exactly conducive to it.

That is the point, being somewhere uncomfortable to stop the warmth and cosiness of her bed from lulling her back into her grief. She tries to sleep for an hour, eventually giving up.

When she wanders back into the apartment, Maya is in the kitchen again, making a sandwich.

“Did you sleep?” she asks.

“No, but I tried in the shower, like a lunatic,” Carina says, sitting down.

“Well, I got everything sorted out with the funeral home,” Maya says, as she delivers the sandwich to her seat at the table.

It takes Carina by surprise. “You called them?”

“I called everyone,” Maya says. “I did the whole list. I did all the things.”

She says it so simply, like it’s not a big deal but it is. Carina feels her heart flip, in a good way for the first time in days. Because as strong as she wishes she was, this loss more than any other has shaken her foundations and when she wonders how she is still standing, she always comes back to the same answer.

Maya.

And every time Carina thinks she is as much in love as she will ever be, Maya does something else that takes her breath away.

“Thank you,” she says, fighting back her tears. “No-one has ever done that for me.”

She sees a small frown crinkle Maya’s forehead.

“Any chance you could call my dad for me too?”

She knows it is cruel not to have told him yet. She tries to tell herself that it is because she is worried about him, and that’s not a lie, but she knows the real reason why she hasn’t done it yet. She’s afraid of what he will say, she’s afraid that he will blame her as much as she blames herself.

She watches as Maya walks over to her, grabbing a spare stool and sitting beside her, leaning her arms on the table.

“I wish I could,” she says.

Carina wishes that too.

“That's one you got to do on your own.”

“I know,” Carina says. “I'm so scared to tell him.”

Saying it out loud doesn’t lighten the burden at all.

“I know,” Maya says softly.

The smell of the sandwich makes Carina’s stomach turn. Or maybe it is the thought of telling her dad that makes her feel sick.  

“I'm gonna try again,” she says, standing up from her seat.

“To sleep?”

“To scream.”

She walks into the bedroom. She doesn’t bother with the shower floor this time, instead she sits on the edge of the bed and grabs a pillow. She holds her body tight and takes a deep breath, opening opens her mouth and pressing her face against the soft pillow.

All that escapes is a pathetic whimper.

Her pent-up grief and sadness and frustration sits heavy on her chest but she doesn’t have the energy to expel it.

She can’t sleep, she can’t scream, she can’t find the courage to call her dad.

She puffs out her cheeks and exhales, running her hand through her hair and noticing how greasy and full of knots it is. She stands up, the exhaustion making her a little dizzy, and she reaches out to rest her hands on the bedside table to steady herself until her head stops spinning.

She strips herself of her clothes, dropping them on the floor, not caring for once about the wrinkles it will cause. She steps into the shower and ducks under the running hot water, washing away some of the tension in her limbs. She rolls her head in her neck, immersing her face in the water, letting it cleanse her skin of the tear stains on her cheeks.

She thinks about that morning when she bumped into Andrew in the parking lot, how he had given her that typical DeLuca stubborn glare when he told her about Opal and his plan to follow her. She kept telling herself that she couldn’t stop him, that he was too wilful, but maybe that was just an excuse because she was too afraid to upset him, to make him feel unsupported just like before.

She forgets about all the times she told him to wait for the police and all the times he pushed on anyway. All she remembers is driving him around the city, chasing a woman they knew could be dangerous and leading him to his death.

She doesn’t know what is worse, the grief or the guilt. It is like they are conspiring against her, battling to see which one can weigh her down more.

She turns the shower up to its hottest setting, letting the water burn her skin until it is bright red as a way of distracting herself from the thoughts in her head. She stays in the shower for as long as her body will tolerate, then steps out in the cool air of the apartment. Her skin prickles with goosebumps, her fine hairs standing on end, and pulls a towel around her to stay warm.

Once she is dry, she covers herself with moisturiser to soothe her dry skin. The massaging motion helps her to relax a little. She dries her hair and dresses, pulling on a pair of jeans and comfortable sweater, before heading out into the apartment.

Maya is at the far end of the apartment doing push ups in the living room. Apart from a couple of gentle walks, she hasn’t been able to indulge in her normal exercise routine lately and Carina knows that she is probably feeling claustrophobic being stuck indoors all day.

She hears Carina coming and looks up, stopping her workout and rising to her feet.

“You showered.”

“Mmm. I was already there and I couldn't sleep, so, um...” She sits on the edge of the couch. “I didn't want to call you when I was in the car with Andrea because I knew you would talk me out of it and tell me to make my brother stop. Tell me that it was dangerous. And you did…”

She takes a shaky breath.

“And you were right. And I still think…” She can feel herself getting worked up, becoming breathless as she talks. “I feel like this is… Why? Why didn't I stop him?”

She stands up, feeling boxed in as Maya walks towards her and she backs away from her. “This is… this is all my fault. This is… I…” She struggles to find the right words until they spill out of her mouth. “My brother is dead because I'm an idiot.”

“Hey, hey, hey, hey, hey. Listen to me,” Maya says sternly. “None of this is your fault.”

“Whose fault is it then? Who am I supposed to blame?”

She needs to blame someone, to be the focus of her anger – and she convinces herself that she deserves it.                                                                

“Blame me!” Maya says out of nowhere. “We have to get some of this off of you. I will take it. Blame me. I should have gotten to you sooner, I should have been there. Blame me.”

It is the most ridiculous thing Carina has ever heard.

“Maya, this is not your fault,” she says, walking past her.

“Then why is it yours?”

Carina spins to face her. “Because I let him on that train! I did that.”

What can’t Maya see that?

Maya grabs her arms and guides her to sit on the couch. “Give me the guilt, okay? Give me the blame. Give me the part that stings the most. Okay, let me hold on to it for a little while.” She looks up at Carina with her bright blue eyes. “And when you're feeling a little stronger, you can have it all back, I promise.”

Carina can’t see it for the beautiful gesture that it is. It is too soft and the grief threatens to consume her once again. Her body turns rigid and she trains her eyes on the fireplace in front of her, refusing to look at Maya.

“Too soft, I’m sorry,” Maya says, standing up and walking back into the kitchen.

Carina focuses on her breath, in and out, in and out, willing herself not to cry. She hears Maya clearing away the sandwich she didn’t eat at lunch time and focuses on the clanging of plates and cutlery as she fills the dishwasher.

She can feel herself pushing Maya away. Too nice, too kind, too soft.

She doesn’t want to, she wants to cling to Maya so hard because she is the only thing that is keeping her hanging on right now.

She gets up from her seat and wanders over to the kitchen, her shoes light on the floor. She sidles up behind her, resting her hands on Maya’s hips and her chin on her shoulder.

“I’m sorry.”

Maya twists her head a little, glancing over her shoulder.

“Maybe you should let yourself feel soft for a while?”

“I can’t,” Carina says. “It hurts too much and I can’t figure out how to get it all out. So it’s better to not feel anything at all.”

Maya spins, staying in her embrace, and rests her hands at the top of her arms.

“You wanna go for another walk?”

Carina shakes her head.

“I need to call Papa,” she says slowly. “I don’t want to, I’m still scared about what he’s going to say. But it’s not fair that he doesn’t know.”

She knows it is not helping, having it hanging over her head. At least it will be one thing ticked off the list.

Maya nods. “You want some space?”

“No,” Carina is quick to say. “I… Can you stay close?”

Her voice is flooded with vulnerability and she blinks back tears.

“Of course,” Maya says. “Whatever you need.”

Carina takes a deep breath and pulls her cell phone out of her pocket, scrolling through her contact list. Her finger hovers over Papa’s name and her leg jiggles nervously.

“You can do this,” Maya says softly.

Standing still feels unnatural so she walks through the apartment, pacing up and down near the couch as she finally hits the call button and raises the phone to her ear, listening to it ring. It is almost eleven o’clock in the evening in Italy but she knows he never goes to bed early.

“Carina,” he answers his phone with her name, his voice flat. Not cold, but not warm either.

“Papa, ciao,” Carina says, but before she can get the words out, he launches into story about his current research project and the success he is seeing in his experiments. He sounds a little manic, which makes her heart drop, but she perseveres, trying to interrupt him. He talks over her, like he does so often, and it takes a while for her to get the words out.

“Papa, Andrea è morto.”

Her voice cracks when she says it. The line falls silent for a moment before he says something that hits her like a punch in the gut.

“I know, Carina. Someone at the hospital called me a couple of days ago, I guess my name is on his emergency contacts list.”

Carina is stunned. He already knew?

She waits for him to ask her about what happened, to know what it was like for Andrew in his last moments on this earth. She wants him to ask her if she is okay, to tell her that he loves her. He rarely says it, not since she was a little girl, and these days it comes with an emotional manipulation. Still, it is all she needs to hear right now.

What she gets is a kick in the gut.

“Look, I have to go, I’m in the middle of writing an article and I don’t want to lose my train of thought.”

“Okay, okay,” Carina says despondently.

“Just tell me how much the funeral costs and I’ll pay it.”

Like that is all she needs from him.

“Si, ciao.”

She hangs up, still in shock, and turns to look at Maya.

“He heard.”

“What?”

“He heard that Andrea died two days ago and he didn't call me.”

She turns away from Maya, feeling the anger growing inside of her. She has been living in her grief for the last three days when it could have been shared with her father. She has spent hours worrying about how to tell him, what to tell him, and how he might react – all for nothing, because he already knew and he didn’t bother to call her to make sure she was okay.

The rational part of her brain knows that his Bipolar is affecting the way he reacts to his grief, but Carina isn’t feeling very rational right now. She feels angry and frustrated, like she wants to break something, like she wants to scream.

She opens her mouth and tries again but still nothing comes out. Instead, she thumps her fist against the wall, and again, and again.

“Hey, hey!” Maya says, coming up beside her and grabbing her wrist to stop her from hurting herself.

Carina struggles against her but Maya is stronger. Her other hand slips around Carina’s waist.

“He left me to grieve alone,” Carina cries.

“You’re not alone,” Maya reminds her. “I’m here.”

Carina sighs, her body deflating. “That… That’s not…” she struggles to find her words. “I know.”

She doesn’t know how she would have got through the last few days without Maya’s constant presence. But Maya didn’t know Andrew, not like Papa and her family, and she needs someone who can share that grief with her.

“I just don’t know how to make it go away.”

“What?” Maya asks.

“All of it. The pain, the guilt. It’s too much in my head, in my heart.”

She taps her chest with her hand as tears run down her face and she wipes them away with the sleeve of her sweater. Her body sags and she leans into Maya’s body.

“I’m so tired.”

“I know you are,” Maya says softly, kissing her temple. “Why don’t we go out? Being cooped up in here probably isn’t helping.”

Carina starts to shake her head. All she wants is to cocoon herself away from the outside world.

“Please? I have an idea that might help.”

Carina can hear the concern in her voice and relents. She will try anything that might help her sleep.  So she nods, slowly, as Maya grabs her car keys and insists on driving them somewhere else.

Carina sits in the passenger seat, staring out of the window and watching the world go about its daily business. She doesn’t pay attention to where they are going, her focus on the people living their lives like normal. She doesn’t know what normal looks like any more, because a world without her little brother – the other half to her whole – isn’t normal.

They haven’t gone far when Maya pulls into an empty space outside of the fire station.

“What are we doing here?”

“You’ll see,” is all Maya says.

Leaving Carina confused, Maya gets out of the car first and walks round to the passenger side, opening the door and holding out her hand. Carina is too tired to object, so she takes it and lets Maya lead her into the station, pulling on a mask as she walks. It is quiet; the reception desk is empty, so is the captain’s office; the ladder truck and aid car both out on a call.

Maya leads her into the barn and around the back of the engine.

“What? What are we doing?” Carina asks wearily.

Maya doesn’t answer as she opens the door and climbs into the driver’s seat. Carina’s eyes roll.

“Okay, Maya, I'm not a child,” she grumbles, removing her mask. “I don't need a fire truck ride to feel…”

Better, is what she is about to say when, all of a sudden, the siren wails. Carina has never heard it up close before and it pierces her ears, making her wince.

“Maya!” she cries out, covering her ears with her hands to shield her from the noise.

“Scream” Maya says.

“What?”

“Scream!” she repeats.

Carina looks at her dumbly. “I can’t.”

She has been trying for days but it never comes.

“Do it!”

“No, I can't,” Carina says. She is holding back, she knows that. Keeping the grief inside, wallowing in the guilt, it is like a punishment. The moment she lets it all out is the moment she will have to accept what happened and start to forgive herself.

Suddenly, Maya lets out a loud, long scream.

“I can’t do it,” Carina says, defeated. She is not ready to accept it just yet.

She turns and starts to walk away from her, but Maya keeps screaming. She feels a rumble in her chest, as if all of the grief and anger and frustration and sadness is about to force its way out of her. She takes a deep breath and clenches her fists, and lets out the fiercest scream she can muster. The tears come as she screams again and now they are both screaming, drowned out by the siren. She screams louder, like she is trying to match it. Her chest burns but it is a good pain this time because she feels the pressure releasing with every breath, every cry. She hits the palms of her hands against the fire engine, letting the tears fall.

Maya opens her arms and she collapses into them, letting the warmth of her embrace swallow her. Maya may not have known Andrew very well, but she knows her, and she knows exactly what she needs to let the grief out. She loves Maya completely in this moment and it feels like the light at the end of the tunnel is cracking through just a little bit.

She sobs into Maya’s sweater, holding on to her so tightly, only soothed by the quiet murmurings in her ear. They sway until Carina stops trembling and even then Carina refuses to let go.

The siren brings Ben to barn to find out what is going on and Maya waves him away, but not before he climbs into the engine to turn off the siren. Silence falls around them.

“The team’s on their way back, ten minutes out,” Ben says quietly, before slipping away.

Carina pulls back, her eyes flaring with panic. “I don’t want to see anyone.”

“You don’t have to,” Maya says, taking her hand again. “Home?”

Carina nods, takes a step forward and, with her free hand, cups Maya’s face and draws her in for a soft, light kiss. Salty tears trickle down her cheek and onto her top lip.

“Thank you,” she says in barely a whisper, resting her forehead against Maya’s. “Thank you.”

“I love you,” Maya says.

Carina feels herself smile. “I love you, too.”

The car ride home is quiet. Carina feels exhaustion wash over her, her eyelids drooping. Her body craves the soft mattress of their bed for the first time in days.

“Are you hungry?” Maya asks as they step inside the apartment. “You didn’t eat lunch, you must be starving.”

Carina shakes her head. “No, I just want to try to rest.”

“Why don’t you curl up in bed?” Maya suggests. “I’ll bring you some tea, maybe that will help you fall asleep?”

Carina leans forward and kisses her cheek, then wanders down the hallway. The bed is freshly made from this morning and looks inviting. She kicks off her shoes, but doesn’t bother to undress before crawling under the duvet. She curls up on her right side, buries her face in Maya’s pillow and hugs the edge of the duvet. She feels warm and comfortable, and she feels herself drifting into a slumber.

The memories don’t come this time, the nightmares kept at bay as she finally lets the softness back in and succumbs to sleep.

[derangedrhythms]

I'd love to know if you have any quotes on grief / pain / woundedness. (preferably prose but poetry works too!)

"The great griefs come to us disguised, long after, as ghosts, when we believe them far removed, it is then they come, slip, unrecognizable, anguishing, in incomprehensible forms, changed into vertigo, into chest pains [...]"

"The worst part of grief is this grief that doesn’t let itself be suffered, this absolute, infinite, indolorous suffering."

"What! (one can’t even suffer one’s suffering) one can’t even eat the bread of suffering, and drink one’s own tears? Amongst the unexpected discoveries that await us, the most unexpected is this one, that reveals to us what we call mourning: the worst part of mourning is that we must mourn grief. (One can’t even enjoy one’s own suffering.) All is less, all is much less, and therefore much more, than what we had imagined."

"Once the wound closes up we speak of it no longer, but we never forget it."

— Hélène Cixous, Stigmata: Escaping Texts; from 'What Is It O’Clock? Or the Door (We Never Enter)', tr. Catherine A. F. MacGillivray

"I separated myself from too much hurt. Even now, there is a close association in my gut between feeling and pain. Logically I recognise that feeling is, often is, pleasure and delight. Nevertheless, at an instinctual level, at a level outside of logic, feeling is pain."

— Jeanette Winterson, from ‘Gut Symmetries’

"Anything, anything would be better than this agony of mind, this creeping pain that gnaws and fumbles and caresses one and never hurts quite enough."

— Jean-Paul Sartre, from ‘No Exit’, tr. Stuart Gilbert

"An immediate weight of despair and loss pressed on me until I was suddenly, unalterably, concave with grief."

— Hannah Kent, from 'Burial Rites'

"But what if pleasure and displeasure are so intertwined that whoever wants as much as possible of one must also have as much as possible of the other - that whoever wants to learn to 'jubilate up to the heavens' must also be prepared for 'grief unto death'?"

— Friedrich Nietzsche, from 'The Gay Science', tr. Josefine Nauckhoff

"The lullaby of grief enveloped him..."

— Toni Morrison, from 'The Bluest Eye'

"I admit the wound."

— Clarissa Pinkola Estés, from 'Women Who Run with the Wolves"

"Moving on, as a concept, is for stupid people, because any sensible person knows grief is a long-term project. I refuse to rush. The pain that is thrust upon us let no man slow or speed or fix."

"Grief felt fourth-dimensional, abstract, faintly familiar. I was cold."

"MAN    I agree. It changes all the time.

BIRD    Grief?

MAN    Yes.

BIRD    It is everything. It is the fabric of selfhood, and beautifully chaotic. It shares mathematical characteristics with many natural forms."

— Max Porter, from 'Grief is the Thing With Feathers'

"I bare a wound, and dare myself to bleed."

— Theodore Roethke, Words for the Wind; from ‘The Dying Man’

"My rest might have been blissful enough, only a sad heart broke it. It plained of its gaping wounds, its inward bleeding, its riven chords."

— Charlotte Brontë, from 'Jane Eyre'

"So you must not be frightened [...] if a sadness rises up before you larger than any you have ever seen; if a restiveness, like light and cloud-shadows, passes over your hands and over all you do. You must think that something is happening with you, that life has not forgotten you, that it holds you in its hand; it will not let you fall. Why do you want to shut out of your life any agitation, any pain, any melancholy, since you really do not know what these states are working upon you?"

— Rainer Maria Rilke, from Letters to a Young Poet, tr. M. D. Herter Norton

[lastdr3am3r445]

If You Ever Forget You Love Me

Genre: Hurt/No Comfort Pairing: Hawks x Reader (GN as long as you don't mind the mention of strappy heels?) CW: Implied Sexual Content; Implied/Referenced Character Death; Missing Persons; Missing in Action; Grief/Mourning; Sad; Sad Ending; Casual Sex (not explicit) WC: 2,835

“The investigation into the disappearance of Number 2 Pro Hero, Winged Hero: Hawks is ongoing, we now cut to footage of the press conference hosted by Police Chief - “

You sit curled up on the couch cycling through the same newscasts that had been going on for weeks, Ohayo Nippon, 11AM News, 5 o’clock news, again at 8, and eventually passing out to the 11PM broadcast over a half eaten cup of noodles that you picked at more out of obligation than appetite, only to be woken again by your dreams.

You could feel the breeze thrown by his wings as he flew through your open window, and after an eternity and an instant all at once, the way dreams are, you could smell the sizzling grease of sausage and fried eggs, and practically taste the cinnamon and butter over the french toast before you walked into the kitchen to see the morning sunlight cascading through the window and refracting through his feathers as they stretched away from his shirtless form. You opened your mouth to speak, but, alarmingly, no words came before he turned to look at you with his trademark sideways smile, broken up by a resonant ‘Good Morning, Kid~”.

Then you were awake.

You never knew when you would wake up, if it would be the middle of the day, or dead of night, but you always awoke with a start, jolting upright as though electrified. You cursed those dreams, not just because they woke you at all hours of the day and night; not just because they carelessly rent open the wound his absence left in your heart, so that it bled, dripping and oozing icily until it pooled in the pit of your stomach for the rest of your waking hours; but because those dreams did not even remotely resemble the reality that was your life with Hawks.

First of all, Hawks was a terrible cook. “The Man Who Was a Bit Too Fast” also applied in the kitchen. Cooking required precious time and care, which he did not have. Moreover, he could not be convinced that, if the instructions read “bake at 160 degrees celsius for 20 minutes” that he could not simply raise the temperature to 320 degrees and be done in 10. A fact which spawned two thoughts in your mind: first, you were grateful that ovens could not heat to that high a temperature, and second, that at no point in the near future should you take up ceramics as a hobby.

Lastly, even if he could somehow manage to boil water without setting the kitchen ablaze, that would require that he ever be home to do so.

By the very nature of his chosen, or perhaps, predestined profession, he was frequently called away on one dangerous mission after another, which made his penthouse, lavish as it was, more of a storage unit for his things than a home.

That was, until you.

You threw the blanket from around your shoulders and all but lept from your place on the couch, the slouching divot that had grown around you as a result of the constant weight being pressed into it left behind. You seemed to move on your own, striding with some unknown purpose through your shared, vacant home to that hateful kitchen, pristine white stone counters glowering at you as you ducked beneath them, wrenching open the razor sharp custom cabinetry and snatching the box of garbage bags, neatly dented and creased from weeks of everyday abuses.

The kitchen glared after you as you retreated from it, marching into the vast expanse of the bedroom the two of you pretended to share, tossing your companion box aside carelessly as you continued your forward motion into the “His” portion of your “His & Hers” closets. You hauled armfuls of his clothes from the rods, hung neatly, untouched on haughty maroon velvet hangers, as many as you could possibly carry. You waddled with your parcel to the previously undisturbed bed spread, flopping the articles down on top of it.

Trip after trip, pile after pile of suede, leather, cotton, jersey, denim, all formed a valley in the center of the mattress as you built up the mountains that made up its circumference. You stared at the landscape you had created, hands trembling at your sides with the white hot anger that scalded the interior chamber of your chest, a choked sob boiled to your lips before you collapsed into the center of the bed.

You briefly wondered who was making such a scene, and for what, before you were reminded by the burning ache of your muscles as they were wracked with sobs; the aborted, strangled sounds occasionally punctuated by shrieking, wrathful wails as your fist collided with the plush mattress again and again, yielding much too easily to satisfy your mournful rage.

“Until you.” How ridiculous. You were not the exception to the rule, you were the rule. Captive in a refrigerated container with all the rest of Hawks’ things, waiting to be emptied out and auctioned off when they finally decided he was dead.

Your cries ebbed into gulping gasps and sniffles, filling your nose with the scent of shampoo, febreeze, fabric softener, and somehow, beneath it all, amber wood, geraniums, and Mediterranean waters. The bastard hadn’t been here in 23 days, 17 hours and 30 minutes, and still managed to cling to every goddamned surface. He was either dead, or dead to you, and you didn’t care if there was a difference.

You started ripping his shirts from their hangers, casting broken ones and whole ones alike into the same haphazard pile as you shoved his clothes into bags, wishing desperately to crawl in with them and slowly suffocate on the scent of his cologne.

You pulled a simple black v-neck out of the mound, ran your thumbs over the worn out seams, pressed the fabric to your nose and inhaled deeply, the familiar scent curling around you heart and causing its wound to ache and fester, before you pulled the article over your head, threaded your arms through the too-big sleeves and let the threadbare cotton hold you in his place.

That would have to do, for now.

You folded your arms around yourself, pinching and rubbing the fabric of his sleeves like a child might with a tattered blanket, before pulling yourself to the edge of the bed, and letting your bare feet touch the long chilled hardwood floor. You padded down the hall, and wandered thoughtlessly into your own closet, still clutching your sides as though you would fall to pieces were you to lose your grip.

Perhaps you could find some stray article of his that had found its way into your wardrobe. You chanced allowing a hand stray from your side, and when you did not come undone completely, you poked and prodded your array of hanging items until your eyes came to rest on a small black box. It was rigid and straight, with a silvered frame cradling a crisp, blank, white label, and an equally sharp, flat lid sitting atop it. You grasped it easily between your fingers, so narrow was the box, and walked it back out into the now bedraggled bedroom.

You sat cross-legged in the middle of the bed with the box sat gingerly on the mattress in front of you. You delicately traced your fingertips over the edge of the box before tucking your fingernail beneath the lid, flipping it onto its back at its base’s side.

Once the lid was off, the box exploded with color, filled to the very edges with paper cranes. You considered them a moment, as they looked back at you expectantly, before you went to work, taking care with each one, lining them up methodically in a spiral around you, never one without a pair, not a single one without a mate. When you came to the end, you had one crane remaining that did not have a partner, one with glossy red paper, whose wings were nearly perforated with age. You decided to keep him right next to you, seeing as you two were not so different; both without a mate, and coming undone.

At the bottom of the box lay a stack of more colorful paper of all different sizes. Under the watchful gaze of your avian audience, you pulled the stack into your lap, that all too familiar scent wafting up from the pages, the sound of the pages whispering to each other, as though the words on them threatened to come to life.

The first several notes were small scraps, torn from some larger pages that had been long since forgotten.

The first read:

Key’s under the mat, lock the door behind you.

Thx - H

The corner hosted a discolored ring, faded and bubbled where condensation had dripped and puddled around that glass of ice water so long ago. You reminisced on your fateful meeting that night, the low light of the lounge, the piano droning jazzily in the background, rubbing elbows with some old geezers at a work event that had you wishing you were anywhere but there. That was, until he was there; all charisma and magnetism and electricity, like he knew everyone there by name, everyone except you.

You could see him so clearly, his eyes fixed on you as the crowds gave way to him so that he had the straightest shot to you. That was when your dance began, this tug of war, a battle of wits, neither of you sharing any meaningful part of yourselves, but still somehow captivating the others interest. You intrigued him, and with a flick of his gloved fingers, cocktail after cocktail would appear in front of you. Like two binary stars, you whirled around each other, and the last thing you recall about that night was your collision; his lips and yours, your body and his bed, Him and You.

Then you woke up. Somehow that “Walk of Shame” had seemed markedly less shameful as you gulped down the water, pocketed the note and stumbled out of the condo you now shared, strappy heels in tow.

The papers crinkled in your hands as you slid the memory away, trading it for a new one. This shred was larger than the last one, and read simply:

It was nice seeing you again. You know what to do.

Thx - H

555-5683

You smiled at the faded numbers, long since burned into your subconscious, reminded of your chance second meeting at the supermarket. You remembered remarking at him snarkily that you were surprised the Number Two hero did his own shopping; how smooth he had been, turning the tables on you.

“Heroes gotta eat, too! And what about you?” His voice terminated in a husky whisper, “Care for a bite? Of food, that is…”

Second verse, same as the first.

You reached for your pocket and pulled out your phone, still smiling. You were well past the need to dial the numbers, pressing instead the bright, grinning circle that denoted his contact.

Hey! You’ve reached Hawks’ phone. You know what to do!

You chuckled warmly at his choice of words, like the note in your hand really did come alive, until a pang crept into your chest at the thought that he may never answer your call again.

Shaking the thought from your mind, you thumbed to the next page in your lap, notably newer than the previous two. At its bottom corner, there were two rough spots where some tape had lifted a layer of fiber.

Why don’t you stay a while? I’ll catch ya later!

-Hawks

You remembered feeling giddy. Giddy that he had given you a key, that he had invited you into his life, and given you a place amongst his collection of things, however temporary. Little had you known then the impact that would have on you.

The next note was a small blue square that used to be tacky at one end, which read:

The blue ones are YOURS ! Now you can stop stealing mine ;p Love ya, Kid. -Keigo

It had been stuck to the bathroom mirror. He must have noticed that you had not brought your own hair care products, or that he had seemed to be running out much more quickly than he had before you. He was perceptive that way. Having your own products, however, did not, in fact, stop you from making use of his. You never understood how he kept his hair so perfectly windswept. It had to be the wings.

That note also marked the first time he told you he loved you.

The next thing in your stack was a piece of hefty card stock. On one side, a glittering blue ocean that read “Greetings From Okinawa” in bubbly orange letters, and the other, beneath muddy postmarks, was a letter:

Hey Kid! Didn’t think you could get rid of me that easily, did ya? Just writing to let you know I’m safe and sound! This mission will be over soon. I can’t wait to see you… The picture doesn’t do it justice, but the water here is incredible! I have to bring you here one day. I love you, Kid. Don’t you forget that! P.S. I found these shells on the beach, they reminded me of you.

Stapled beneath the post-script was a tiny plastic bag, foggy with creases and folds that concealed the delicate, tiny pink sea-shells inside. He had always loved sending you tiny things, a habit which you liked to think was the bird part of his quirk, no matter how much he insisted it didn’t work like that.

He made it a point to give you something every day. When he was away on missions, he would send home postcards like this one. While he was home, he would mark his trail through the house in stickies and post-it notes, the usual, “I’ll be late for dinner”, “Don’t wait up!”, “I love you!”, all for you to find when you woke up.

When he didn’t have any updates to share, when he just wanted you to know he was thinking of you, he would leave you a tiny paper crane, right on your bedside table. Sometimes in beautifully crafted origami paper, other times in discarded metro tickets, whatever he could find, but he always found something to show you he had been there.

This was it. All you had. Your whole love story, reduced to postcards, sticky-notes, scraps of paper, and these stupid paper cranes.

You picked up the tiniest, most lonesome paper crane that had been your companion through your memories. If you had looked down, you might have noticed the ink on the notes bleed and spread as your tears rolled over your cheeks, down your chin and onto the stack below you.

“How could he leave you?” You asked it, voice breaking.

“He just left you all alone… What are you supposed to do now?”

You set him down on the bedspread in front of the empty box, and brought your hands to cover your eyes as the air chilled your tear-streaked face.

“What am I supposed to do now?..”

The wind groaned against the balcony, throwing the doors open, setting the cranes aflutter across the bed. Startled, your eyes shot up, and silhouetted against the early evening sky was a familiar, winged, windswept blonde.

“No.” you brought your fingers to your lips.

“Hey, kid..” he whispered.

“No way…” You shook your head swiftly, the words caught in your throat, “You’re not here. You’re not real.”

He stepped towards you, “I know, just, let me explain..”

“Explain?” You shot up from the bed and stormed across the room to meet him.

“I don’t need any explanation from you !” You gritted, jamming your finger into his sternum; uncertain if he winced because you had hurt him physically or emotionally. At this point, you weren’t even certain you cared.

“I know..” it was his voice’s turn to break, “I’m sorry, kid… I’m so sorry…” he tried to close his arms around you, only to be met with a shove to his chest.

“Don’t fucking touch me!” You screamed.

“You think you get to just fucking disappear! Drop off the face of the fucking planet! And then just come back from the fucking dead!” Your fists collided with his chest at even intervals; hot, angry tears boiling up and over despite how hard you tried to choke them back.

The last time your hands connected with him, he wrapped you up in his arms, and closed his wings around the two of you, and he overpowered you; stronger than your sheets, stronger than his clothes; so strong that, for a moment, you allow yourself to get lost in him, feeling your tears melt into his chest.

“I know… I know… but I’m here now. I won’t leave you, again. I’m not leaving. I promise.”

Then you woke up.

[liloelsagranger]

Night shift - finally a new Rocketshipping-fanfiction

My dear friends,

it’s been a while since I last posted an entry. Let me tell you why and what, besides Covid-19, made me pause from publishing fanfictions over the last couple of months. Of course, Switzerland was very affected by the pandemic and still is today. We had numerous lock-downs or as Swiss people call it “slow downs”. My mother got very sick last year, I almost lost her. The doctors said she would only live two or three more days, but my mom is a fighter. She had to stay at the hospital for months, she endured countless medical examinations, had to take meds and slowly learned to live again. I’m so proud of my mother that she was strong and determined to get better. When she turned back home, I started to take care of her and I hate to leave her on her own, even if we’re talking about half an hour or less. Right now, she’s doing quite good, actually, we’re on vacation and she makes a great effort to participate in life in Italy. She’s my role-model! She will never be the same as before, but she won’t give up, she wakes up every morning to make progress. I prayed for her and her well-being, I prayed every single night she might get another chance and now we’re here at the beach and dining in fancy restaurants. It’s been a horrible year for everyone, a year full of sorrow, tears and desperation, a year where I was constantly afraid, the hospital would call me with some bad news, but she did it! She survived and she fights for her life! So proud! Good news is: I passed my doctoral exams and I’m officially allowed to call myself Dr. phil. des. Melanie C. but that won’t ever stop me from loving Team Rocket so here it is - a brand new Rocketshipping-fanfiction for you guys. LOVE YOU! Night shift

Chapter 1:

It was past ten o’clock when that miserable looking guy entered the diner. He inconspicuously sat down in the farthest corner of the café and immediately hid his face behind the menu card. Nevertheless, Jessie the waitress could make out the pathetic expression on his face, how he was cowering like a whipped dog. She had seen quite a bit in this diner. Drunks, thugs, addicts and other needy people who asked for a sympathetic ear, compassion and understanding, but that guy was different. He suffered terribly, but did not dare to communicate, instead he hid from the world so as not to attract attention and quietly endure his fate. Jessie had to do something about it. Of course, she didn’t want to play the Good Samaritan. She knew the tricks of the men who entered this diner. Most of the time, they told the waitress tall tales, hoping to be comforted, whatever they meant by that. But this young man did not make a shady impressionHe was well dressed, looked well-groomed, and Jessie was especially struck by his bright emerald green eyes, the only thing in his face that had not yet been veiled by grief and sorrow. She decided to do something about his displeasure.

“Did you have a rough day?” she asked while disinfecting the table.

He looked briefly into her eyes and nodded. “That’s one way to put it,” he answered, the gaze immediately lowered again.

This would be a taciturn conversation, but Jessie didn’t give up easily, she was a natural at making even rocks talk.

“Listen! No matter what happened, I’ve seen or heard some things. If I can help you in any way, my name is Jessie and I’m in charge of this table today. Let me just get the gum out from under your seat and get you a cold drink. What would you like?” She pulled a spatula from her apron and rubbed away the remains of the spoiled brats that marred her diner.

‘Wow,’ the young man thought to himself. ‘A strong, self-confident woman who lends a hand herself and who’s not above cleaning up dirt.’ Their eyes met briefly, and he forced a wry smile.

“You know, kid. You can’t rely on anyone. If you want to get everything done, do it yourself and don’t trust anyone. This world doesn’t give you anything for granted!” She briefly wiped the back of his chair before disappearing behind the counter and pouring the young man an ice-cold Coke.

“I have rarely seen you so concerned about a customer. Normally you show yourself aloof and only take the order, so as not to get involved in embarrassing conversations. Must be a really great pike, this pathetic creature in the far corner. Could it be that you’ve got a tiny crush on this guy?” For Eddy, teasing his best friend was the greatest pleasure. He didn’t know her like that. Jessie usually resisted any kind of small talk. This was due to her dark past, when she had repeatedly fallen for advances from men who were never looking for a steady relationship, but for a quick fix. Eddy had witnessed this bad time of his friend, how her heart was broken, how she was badly played with, and how she was simply dropped like a hot potato. Jack was the worst example of them all. While Jessie was already hearing the wedding bells ringing, he was making love to the women of the Strip and deceiving Jessie night after night with other broads. Jessie was devastated when she found out Jack was cheating on her. She was furious, not even at her lying boyfriend, but at herself for having been so stupid as to trust a man.

Jessie gave Eddy a light pat on the head. “Don’t be silly! That time is over. I can take care of myself, I don’t need male support for that. I’m a big girl, I make my own dough, and I keep my head above water pretty well. No, not a chance, I’ve sworn off flirting.” Nevertheless, she caught herself as her gaze wandered to the young man in the corner. “Oh yes, this time is definitely over,” Eddy smirked.

“Jessie, could you bring us a side of fries, please?” Misty’s order echoed throughout the hall. The twenty-year old waved her hands. She was used to speaking loudly, almost shouting, to attract guests to her daily water Pokémon show. Sometimes she walked up and down the streets of the Strip all day in the blazing hot sun, trying to win people for her underwater attraction. As an excellent student, she could have taught at any college, but she had decided early on to get into show business and make her living doing what she really loved, joined by Dewgong and Starmie. Her parents had not agreed with this decision at all, it was wasted talent, they had claimed, and had summarily turned Misty out the door. Since then, she had been struggling through life on her own, but could always count on Jess, the diner and her two best friends, Ash and Brock, young people who were also not favoured by fate.

“Temper your voice, twerp!” Jessie couldn’t help but grin. She spread the ketchup bottles around the table, hoping Ash wouldn’t spill on himself and the diner again. His constant companion Pikachu immediately hopped on his shoulder, grabbed a fry and popped it in his mouth. Ash and his Pokémon were carnies. He had trained his friend well and attracted many spectators with his performance. Most of them felt sorry for the guy and tipped generously. That’s why Ash was able to invite his friends to the diner every night, a place that gave them hope where they could experience security. They were convinced that nothing would ever disturb this idyll and that fate, for better or worse, had taken its course.

“Who’s that guy over there?” Brock wanted to know. He had barely sold chocolate and roses tonight. The others held back, but they were certain that their friend was just too pushy with women and that’s why he only collected rejections instead of green bills.

“I’ve never seen him here before. Must be from another area. I can’t tell you for the life of me why he’s wearing a suit at theses temperatures, he looks pretty pathetic to me anyways,” Jessie replied.

“Maybe his car has stalled,” Ash suggested, “and now he was forced to wander through the desert until the tasty aromas from your diner brought him back from his delirium.”

“Or,” Brock interfered, “he had to flee his own wedding because his wife is a real pain in the ass, unlike our sweet Misty,” Brock oohed at his friend. “Forget it, Brock! You and me, this will never happen!” She gave him a gentle poke.

“Enough now with your naïve speculations! Just let him enjoy his drink. We’re closing soon, so get going,” Jessie dismissed their absurd ideas with a wave of her hand, but at this point no one knew how right Brock was.

Dark thoughts hunted the young man. He knew what he would face at home if he was late. Beatings, torture, rebuke, harassment, were just a few words to describe his failed relationship. Unconsciously, he stroked his scarred arms.

“Can I get you something to eat?” Jessie pulled him out of the maelstrom of bad thoughts, of course she had noticed the wounds, but maybe he had gotten those injuries at work. The young man rummaged some coins out of his pants and let them jingle on the table. “Is that enough for a cheese sandwich?” Jessie hated small change, but she would make an exception for him. A friendly smile, a quick nod, and she passed on the order.

“Something’s wrong with this guy,” she whispered to Eddy. “He’s scarred, bruised and pays with penny coins. Possibly a vagrant.” Eddy couldn’t help but grin. “That guy’s been keeping you busy all night, Jess. What’s the matter with you? Are you getting weak?”

The young man could not overhear the conversation between the waiters, but he was sure they were talking about him. He sure made a rather frightening impression, but that was a private matter and not something you shared with a waitress in a diner.

His gaze drifted to the daily paper, which had two faces emblazoned on it: Butch and Cassidy. He had never heard of this odd couple, but according to the news, theses two were causing quite a stir and were terrifying the Strip.

“Oh, so you’ve already spotted them, those two knuckleheads! They keep the Strip in suspense, and heads roll when the taxes don’t add up,” Jessie served him the cheese sandwich and gave him a slight smile.

“Can I get you anything else?” He thanked her and took a hearty bite of his dinner.

The last half hour flew by and the remaining guests left the diner to spend the night on the Strip, as very few had a roof over their heads. Jessie set about cleaning up and Eddy checked the register.

The young man stood up and made his way towards the door. But before he left the diner, he glanced back at Jessie for a moment. A sigh escaped him. What if…?

Jessie returned his gaze and watched him go until the young man disappeared. She walked right up to his table and found a little note on the receipt.

“Thanks for treating me like a human being, James.” 

[scapegrace74-blog]

New Ways of Turning into Stone, Chapter 3

A/N As promised, Jamie returns in this chapter.  He has an appointment to keep, after all.   Because I can’t think of anything more creative, this chapter is entitled “Second Appointment”.  For previous chapters, your best bet is to check out the story on my AO3 page.

The week both crept and flew past, like one of those dreams in which she ran until her lungs burned, but never managed to get anywhere.  Kinetic motion trapped in amber.   Claire never did tell Geillis about her excursion to Corstorphine Hill over the weekend, embarrassed by how it had ended.  

And now it was Thursday.  She’d opted for a protein smoothie for lunch, a meal with no chance of leaving leafy residue between her teeth.  It was likely wasted vanity.  As two o’clock drew near, she bargained with herself to abandon any hope she may be harbouring.  Jamie Fraser had shown no interest in participating in the psychiatric process during his first appointment.  Fraternal obligation had brought him to her office once, but he didn’t strike her as a man who yielded the reins of his life easily.  It wasn’t likely he would return.

When it came his distinctive knock, crisp and insistent, caught her unawares, even though she’d just been staring at his name in her planner.  She hastily pushed the items on her desk to one side, patted uselessly at her curls, and called out for him to enter.

“Good afternoon, Doctor Beauchamp,” he greeted cautiously.  “Miss Duncan told me tae come straight in.”

There was something different about him today.  His clothing, certainly.  Instead of casual wear, he wore trousers and a button down, wet splotches over the shoulders attesting to the fact that it had begun raining again.  And while he still took up an inordinate amount of space in her small office, he seemed... diminished, somehow.  A paler echo of the fireworks display of his first visit.

“Of course.  Please have a seat, Mister Fraser.”

“Jamie, if you will,” he corrected as he settled gingerly into the armchair.  “Mister Fraser was my Da.”

Something about his tone and the fact his laser blue eyes wouldn’t meet her own as he spoke the words caused her to lean into his statement.

“Did your father pass away recently, Jamie?”

A moment, an indrawn breath of panic, and then it was cleverly masked with a wry glance.

“Aye, last year.  An’ yer no’ very subtle, doctor.”

“I didn’t realize subtlety was called for,” she parried.  “You made another appointment, and I specialize in grief counselling.  Why else would you be here?”

Despite the fact that it wasn’t productive from a psychiatric point of view, she enjoyed his reluctance to hastily expose his inner demons.  Too often, her practice required her to work carefully in order to avoid shaping the pliable emotions of her patients.  While obviously hurting, Jamie had an unflinching, unalterable quality that she admired.  Not to mention that the intellectual game of cat and mouse they were playing was wildly stimulating.

“I suppose I enjoyed our conversation,” Jamie teased.  “An’ Miss Duncan’s shortbread.”

With an awkward squint that she imagined was meant to be a wink, her patient rose to investigate the current offerings on her tea table.

“Och, petit fours!” he exclaimed with childlike glee and perfect French pronunciation.  “There was a café none too far from my flat in Paris tha’ made these.  I’d often grab some on my way tae the office.”

He returned to the desk with a small plate of the pastries, pushing it towards her as he settled into his seat.

“No, thank you.  I’ve just eaten.”

Like a searchlight, his bright eyes didn’t miss much.  He glanced significantly at the half-empty plastic smoothie container to one side of her desk.  Rather than chide her for her austerity, as Geillis frequently did, he instead made a show of biting into each of the four little squares until there was nothing left but crumbs.  Her stomach muttered in complaint.

“What did you do in Paris?” she asked as he finished his snack with a contented sigh.

“Oh, a wee bit of this and that,” he demurred.  In response to her exasperated look, he continued, “I started out at the Bourse.  Futures, options, arbitrage, that sort of thing.  I have a good ear fer languages, sae from there I went into foreign exchange.  Import export, and the like.”

“You’re a financier?” she asked, somewhat more incredulous than she ought to be.  She wasn’t certain what she had pictured James Fraser doing for a living, but greasing the wheels of capitalism definitely wasn’t it.

“Was,” he corrected.  “I quit an’ came home tae Scotland last year.”

“When your father died,” she guessed.

“Aye.”

She once again had the sense of standing in front of a locked door that Jamie had no intention of opening.  Rather than hammer uselessly on its stubborn surface, she nimbly diverted the conversation sideways.

“What do you do for work now?”

A slow blink followed by a dawning smile indicated he was aware of her stratagem.

“I’m a carpenter.”

It was rare for Claire to be truly surprised by people.  She made a living reading their unspoken cues.  Twice in the same conversation was unheard of.

“A carpenter?” she repeated as though she hadn’t heard him perfectly well the first time.

“Aye.  Like Jesus, ye ken?”

With a quicksilver grin, Jamie launched into a description of his current occupation, which involved the making of reproduction antiques and custom pieces for clients around Scotland.  She realized with a start that she’d read an article about his business in a popular local magazine.  

International financier.  Self-made entrepreneur.  Tall drink of water.  James Fraser had a lot of things going for him.  And yet here he sat, paying her by the hour to listen to him avoid talking about whatever hardship had befallen him.

She mentally composed a list of the topics he was deftly avoiding with his charming anecdotes.  His father’s recent death.  The reason behind a radical change in career.  Living in the city on account of unspoken ‘family obligations’, even though his verbal reminiscence of the Highlands was so poetic it damn near made her cry.  There was something raw just below the surface of his nonchalance, and her innate curiosity cried out to find out what it was.

“You told me last week that your sister, Jenny, insisted you attend counselling.  But you said that you’re handling matters fine on your own.  Can you tell me why your sister believes otherwise?”

It might have been amusing to see such a large man squirm in different circumstances.  His left hand furrowed through his hair, setting the autumn waves on end.  His mouth, so recently relaxed and mobile as he eagerly shared the details of his craft, froze in a pained frown.  She considered whether she had pushed too hard too soon.

“I gave a lot of thought tae what ye said when we parted last week,” Jamie began at last.  “Tae be honest, it haunted me.  Jen kens me better than anyone, an’ while I like tae complain tha’ she meddles where she doesna belong, the truth is she’s truly scared fer me.  An’ even if I dinna agree tha’ my lifestyle is cause fer concern, I owe it tae her tae try tae sort myself out.  I owe her far more than that,” he finished with a rueful shake of his head.

“What kind of lifestyle has your sister so worried?” she probed.

“Whisky, women and song,” he quipped, before adding, “Weel, I canna carry a tune, but twa out of three isna half bad.”

He tried to smile away the awkward tension that descended on the office, the air ripe with unspoken words.  Claire felt disappointment whirlpool in her gut.  Just another charming rake, after all.  It really shouldn’t matter, and yet somehow it did.  More than she dared to admit.

“Yes, well, the road of excess leads to the palace of consequences, ” she sniffed at last, angry at herself for sounding like a schoolmarm.  What a bore she must seem to him, with her regimented behaviour and rigid morals.

Jamie rose abruptly, and for a half-second she imagined he might lunge at her, or storm from the room.   Instead, he spun around to face the door.  Without a word, he untucked his shirt and began to expose his lower back.

Claire was momentarily stunned silent.  Just as she managed to draw a deep enough breath to censure Jamie for his highly inappropriate strip tease, the golden velour of his lower back transformed without warning into a furrowed landscape of scar tissue, ripples and craters left by some massive trauma.  The air left her lungs on a questioning sigh.

“I ken all about consequences, Doctor Beauchamp,” he stated.  “I live with them every moment of my life.”

Her fingers found the knotted skin, surprisingly warm and mobile beneath her touch.  A shiver shimmered over the unmarred muscle of his flanks.

Before she could find any appropriate words of apology, the office door opened and Geillis stuck her head in.  She barked a cough upon seeing Jamie’s state of undress and Claire’s position, leaning across her desk.  Doctor and patient jumped apart like opposing magnets.

“Sae sorry for the interruption, but yer three o’clock is here.  Should I tell her ye’ve been... delayed?”

Jamie muttered an obscenity under his breath which Claire whole-heartedly seconded.  There was no way Geillis wasn’t going to be utterly insufferable about this.

“Mister Fraser was just leaving, Geillis.”

With a lewd wink and a nod, the door closed.

“Look, Jamie...” she began just as he apologized.  “I’m sae sorry, lass.”

They both laughed nervously.  Jamie finished tucking his shirt into his pants and turned to face the desk.

“I hope this willna cause ye any difficulties with Miss Duncan,” he began, eyes wide with concern.

“No more so than usual,” she sighed. “Geillis is a good friend.  She just... doesn’t know when to quit, sometimes,” she explained.

“Sounds jus’ like my sister.  Perhaps we should introduce them.”

She smiled, struggling to find something else to say to move past the moment.  She could hear Geillis and her next patient conversing just outside the door.  There was no time left for subtlety.

“Will I see you again next week, Jamie?” she asked, giving up on finding a more oblique way of phrasing the question that was reverberating through her mind.

Jamie’s bashful smile dipped towards the floor, causing his hair to fall in front of his eyes.

“Aye.  I’ll even keep my clothes on, if ye ask nicely.”

It was that smile, that hair, those eyes, that carried her through the rest of her week, aloft on the anticipation of something utterly forbidden.

[elfwoodfae]

“Nightcall” Harrison Eo Wells x reader

Chapter - 1

Summary: As the team starts to investigate more about the reverse flash and how to stop him you start to get too close to finding out who he is for Harrison’s comfort. Maybe he will have to do something about it before you expose his secret.

Gif credits goes to the owner, I found it on google.

Warning-this is not proofread.

You had been working at star labs shortly before the particle accelerator accident. You had been an intern working with the team. It had been an opportunity your university had granted you in collaboration with star labs. Dr.Wells had not been precisely fond of the idea, but since so many people seemed to be against the progress for the future, he needed to be in good graces with the city, and helping the university with an internship was the perfect opportunity. Of course all of that changed when the particle accelerator exploded and the fact that you had stayed with him and the small team that he kept spoke volumes. You were actually very useful around and when Barry came into the picture you were helping and staying around even more.

You began to grow close with Dr.Wells and soon a small innocent friendship started to develop between you two and the rest of the team. You would offer to stay and watch over Barry when he was too tired to watch over him for the night, knowing how important the boy was for Wells. The two of you would sometimes stay together through part of the night monitoring him and making sure his vitals remained stable.

Conversation was easy for you two, it was not necessarily the most ground breaking conversations but the ability to understand and enjoy the moment together. Soon you became his confident in a small portion. He would ask you to help him work on certain projects even if you didn’t really understood what it was he was creating. But again maybe that was for the best since he didn’t like to be questioned very often, he would also ask you to bring him any paperwork he may had forgotten or needed to his house.

It all seemed innocent and professional in the eyes of the team but in reality you were developing feelings for the man. You felt his pain, his grief and remorse for the damage he was responsible for, and somehow that made him look more human than any other person you had met. How ironic.

All started to change when Mister Allen as he used to call him woke up. His entire focus turned to the boy and his abilities, and it wasn’t that you didn’t like Barry because in fact you had grown fond of him like the rest of the team, it was just that you missed the little moments you used to share with Dr.Wells alone.

As time progressed and Barry’s abilities started to grow and the threat of meta-humans became more urgent, you found yourself spending most of your nights and days in Star labs with Cisco and Caitlin helping Barry improve his speed and work on solutions to the city problems. But now the common meta-humans that seemed to be creating chaos in the city daily were the least of your problems.

The nightmare in yellow that killed Barry’s mother was making its own rounds around the city for a few weeks now, and no one of you knew how to even begin to search for any clues as to who he was, and that’s where you found yourself in this very same moment in time, brainstorming ideas as to who he may be or what motive he could have to be hunting the Flash.

It was almost five o’clock on a Tuesday, Cisco, Caitlin, Barry and yourself where sitting around, Wells was no where to be found.

“I mean who is he, where does he go?” Barry asked no one specifically, it was evident of his growing frustration at always been one step behind the yellow speedster.

“I don’t know man. For all we know he could be hiding anywhere from Central City to the West Coast.” Commented Cisco. The sound of Dr. Wells’ chair rolling into the cortex made all of you look in his direction.

“Good afternoon Doctor Wells, we were wondering where you had gone” Caitlin commented.

“Just had to get some errands done, nothing to worry yourselves about” he commented giving a dismissive gesture with his hand and a small smile.

“We were actually just discussing theories about the man in the yellow suit” Barry added.

“I actually have a theory I have been bubbling in my mind for a while” you commented. Everyone’s attention when to you.

“Have you guys realize that his lighting , the lighting he produces as he runs is not like Barry’s ? His lighting is red and it never seems to change color at all.”

Cisco made a thinking gesture and went over to the board to write that piece of information down.

“Which means?” He added.

“Which means that maybe he is not exactly like Barry, maybe there’s the key as to why he is so much faster than Barry , no offense” you pointed at him.

“Non taken” he added.

“Maybe if we manage to find out why the energy he produces is red, we could find a way to stop him.” You concluded.

“I mean is not like we can ask him, but it is a good idea.” Caitlin commented.

No one seemed to notice the intensity behind Dr. Wells’ eyes as he stared at you, rubbing two fingers on his lips like he tended to do when he was thinking.

“An interesting theory y/n, he added. You simply nodded.

“I mean I think is worth a shot looking into it, so far is the best lead we have.” Barry added.

“If you will all excuse me I will go and stretch out my legs” Dr.Wells added with his typical sarcastic grin as he rolled himself out of the cortex, it was an occurrence all of you had grown used to.

You were getting too close for comfort to his persona, too close on your theories about the reverse flash for his own liking. He wheeled himself to the time vault and made sure no one had followed him before opening the vault and going inside. Activating Gideon to see the article.

“Good day Doctor Wells,”

“Time will tell Gideon” came his reply.

After checking that everything was still in order he moved to the secret compartment where his suit stayed hidden. Looking at it he decided that maybe it was time the reverse flash payed you a visit, like it had done to Joe, after all you were getting to close to him and it was not the first theory of yours that had the potential of damaging his plan.

@mintchipcupcake @nellethiel-aranel @saltykidcreation

[starkidpotty]

Should’ve Known Better [GW]

After the Second Wizarding War, the wizarding world faces a great recession that puts you and George in financially and morally compromising situations.

Pairing: George Weasley x Reader

Word Count: 3.3k

Warnings: swearing and terrible use of tenses (im sorry for the grammar)

A/N: written for angst prompt #14 for @kalimagik​‘s 1.3k writing challenge!! congrats on 1.3k again!! <3 

You had always been good–exceptional, actually–at writing since your teenage years. Essays you’ve written for work assigned by Professor Flitwick managed you top marks. Hell, even Snape commended your writing from time to time (if he wasn’t too busy taking away points from Gryffindor.) Throughout your years at Hogwarts, you entered multiple wizarding writing competitions and won them all. It made sense to you to seek out a job at the Daily Prophet after graduating from Hogwarts to put those writing skills  to good use. 

Your first year at the Daily Prophet was difficult, to say the least. You were paid almost next to nothing and writing on an empty stomach while worrying if you had enough galleons to pay rent was terrible for your creative process. On top of that, it seems as though whatever piece you made never satisfied your boss, Angel Hornbeam, editor of the Tragedies and Mishaps section of the paper. Each piece you wrote was either sent back with red ink splattered across the parchment with scathing comments on how sophomoric & crass your writing was or outright discarded. You didn’t know what Angel hated more: you or your writing. 

There you were walking down Diagon Alley after a grueling day at work. You made two pieces today–only two pieces–that were immediately thrown out to the rejection pile at the corner of Angel’s office. Roan Staghart, a colleague of yours, accidentally spilled pumpkin juice all over you which Angel pointed out and subsequently prompted her to give you a long-winded lecture on how unbecoming it was to sport such an unprofessional appearance in a place of work. You made your way down Diagon Alley with your path only being illuminated by the lights in the shops you passed.  You were downtrodden and hungry and lonely and unmotivated and uninspired. You thought about the eviction notice plastered to your flat’s door that you received earlier that day before heading off to work. You thought about the empty pantry in said flat, which then reminded you of your empty wallet. Lost in thought and not looking directly straight ahead, you ram your head straight into the open door of Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes. Your arse lands on the cobblestoned path and you’re clutching your bleeding nose with your right hand, while your left provides support. 

“Merlin, I’m sorry!” says one of the Weasley twins as he hurriedly walks toward you. 

“Georgie, go get her some ice.” says the twin to the other behind him, still clutching the door open. 

“Fred, right? Sorry, I’m shite at telling you and your brother apart.” You say while letting out a humourless chuckle, wincing in pain as you clutch your nose. Fred crouches down to your level.

“S’alright, just know I’m the better looking one.” He pauses, “You’re [Y/N], you were in [Hogwarts House], correct? I remember you selling a pre-written essay  to Lee in our fourth year. T’was the only he got an O for, if I recall.” says Fred with a joking grin. George runs back with ice wrapped in a handkerchief which he passes to Fred, which Fred passes to you. 

“Had to make money to buy butterbeer at Hogsmeade somehow.” You answer him as you bring the wrapped ice to your nose. Both the brothers smile at you and you smile back. 

“Fred and I were actually headed off to dinner at our flat, join us. I suppose it’s the least we could do after the damage we’ve inflicted onto your poor nose.” George proposes. 

“I couldn’t impose–” 

“Nonsense!” They say in unison. Fred offers you a hand, which you graciously take. He pulls you up and you walk with them to their flat.  

You were now at the Weasley twins’ shared flat at the edge of Diagon Alley. It was the best meal you’ve had in weeks, not to mention the twins’ presence was a morale booster in itself. Dinner lasted an hour, but the conversations after lasted well into the night. You wondered why you weren’t friends with the twins during their school years. Perhaps if you detached your hand from your favorite quill and parchment, you would have been. Regardless, that night sparked a friendship. 

You were stopping by the shop on your way home from work on the daily and the twins enjoyed your presence so much so they offered you a small, part-time job as a stock keeper as a means to keep yourself afloat while your work your way up the Daily Prophet ladder. They’d come to visit you in their spare time at your dinky flat  on the border of Knockturn and Diagon alley. As hard as your first year at the Daily was, your newfound friendship with Fred and George made it all the worthwhile. While you and Fred remained friends, you and George had begun to engage in a shameless “flirtationship” as you coined–always dancing on the border of friends and being more than friends. Stealing kisses in the shop, holding hands underneath dinner tables, George reasoning out to Fred that you needed help at your flat only for him to spend the night, writing little notes for George before he left in the morning. Everyone around you knew you and George were it, as much as you and he tried to suppress it. One day, George decided to make it real and official.  

Your personal life had improved immensely after your horrendous first year as a journalist. You were dating George Weasley, your pantry was always full now, and you didn’t have to worry about getting evicted anymore. Your work life wasn’t as terrible as before as Angel Hornbeam turned over a new leaf and was much more forgiving at work. You were finally given a small promotion–not a choice Angel made, but by a higher-up as you stayed loyal to the good of the wizarding world–which offered you enough stability to leave the shop. 

The wizarding world at this point in time, however, was not improving. Death eaters infiltrated the ministry and your beloved Hogwarts. They started censoring pieces at the Daily Prophet, much to your chagrin. You couldn’t write or report about tragedies happening as the Death Eaters wanted the media to depict dark wizards as righteous and justify their actions. You moved over to making crossword puzzles for the paper as opposed to spewing lies about Lord Voldemort and his mission to take over the wizarding world. Fred and George had to close down shop for the time being as the Weasleys went into hiding.

Then the Battle of Hogwarts happened. You fought alongside Fred and George, casting spells and charms. Blasting death eaters left and right. You did everything you could to fight against the Death Eaters. But you couldn’t save Fred, nor could George. George was never the same after Fred’s death and neither were you. You were both deeply resigned to grieving and still continue to do so everyday. The sun still rose and set like it always did, but Fred was gone and the world just kept spinning. It left you and George no time to breathe. 

The wizarding world slowly built itself back up after the war, with Kingsley Shacklebolt acting as the Minister for Magic. He’d done a bloody good job of it. He purged out the dark wizards from the ministry and from the Daily Prophet, effectively returning most things back to normal. You were back to writing in the Tragedies and Mishap department, but the wizarding world hit a great recession after the war. People were losing jobs left and right; you knew for a fact that your neck was next on the chopping board if you didn’t come up with a good piece soon. Though George was slowly reopening the shop, with the help of his family, it wasn’t enough to keep you and he afloat. Losing this job would bring your right back to where you were your first year out of Hogwarts and you were determined to avoid that. 

--

It was 3 o’clock in the afternoon, two hours to the end of the work week. You haven’t written anything substantial in a while and your desk was evidence. The brown wood was stained with droplets of stray ink from your quill, but they weren’t as obvious because of the crumpled pieces of ripped parchment scattered across the desk. Your hand was ink-stained and your hair was in disarray. To say the least, you looked a mess. 

“[Y/N], I need you in my office,” Angel called out to you, peering out of her office door. 

You stood up, straightening out your top, trying to look as presentable as possible. Walking over to her office catches the attention of your many officemates. Your stomach begins to feel like a vacuum, sucking in all the air around you, ineffectively trying to get you to breathe. Were your fears getting realized? Was this it for your writing career? So many thoughts raced in your head as you walked–slogged, rather–the distance from your desk to Angel’s office. You reach the archway of her door and she instructs you to close it. You gulp heavily. 

“Yes, Angel? Anything I could do for you?” You anxiously choke out. You feel like your guts are about to unceremoniously find its way out your mouth and onto her office floor. 

Her office was decorated all in black, from her quills to her velvet wallpaper. Angel stood out in the gloomy decor of her office, sporting an all-white outfit. She says it’s a metaphor–tragedies are both light and dark, simultaneously and she wants to embody that. A little pretentious, but she’s right nonetheless. 

“Don’t look at me like that, I’m not going to fire you, darling.” Darling, a term of endearment, but never when it came from Angel’s lips. “I’m close, but I won’t. I have a proposition” 

You look at her intently, your eyes almost bulging. 

“I want an editorial piece on grief and love. I want romance wrapped in despair, topped with angst.” Angel mused. 

“I beg your pardon?” You muster out.

“Write about lost love, the war did just happen–it’ll be fresh, uncut,” Angel pauses for dramatic effect, “Absolutely raw.” She clenches her fist in such a theatrical manner, it's almost comical. 

You stay silent, unsure of what to say or do. Your face must’ve looked bewildered, as she slouches and rolls her eyes. 

“Godric, I want you to interview someone who lost the love of their life because of the war, so to speak. It’ll do wonders for readership. Have you read that muggle story–Romeo and Juliet? Love and tragedy create such a spicy little mix.” She says in response to your look. 

“Wouldn’t that be exploitative, no? Everyone’s still grieving.” You question Angel. 

“That’s journalism.” Angel’s brows are furrowed and you can tell she’s trying to control her temper. “I better have a damn well-written editorial on my desk come Monday morning. May I remind you, you are the last of your colleagues to have either been promoted up or let go. Do you want to be the latter?” 

You gulp, she hasn’t threatened you since your first year at the office. You shakily let out a soft no. She returns with a softly-said good and points you to the direction of her door. 

--

You were on your way home to you and George’s shared flat in Diagon Alley. Your mind was raking itself for who you could possibly call to satisfy Angel’s wants. The gears were grinding hard until you had the aha moment–Angelina. Her and Fred’s relationship was complicated to say the least. They weren’t friends but they weren’t boyfriend and girlfriend, but they didn’t want to see other people. You could no longer recall what they were and with Fred gone, the answer didn’t seem to matter anymore. The “almost” aspect of the relationship would provide the angst–unfinished business, if you will. Fred’s death and the love that could’ve been. You lit up at the ideas forming in your head, but you feel your conscience gnawing at you. However, you and George had to keep the lights on somehow. 

George had beaten you home that night and was eating a packed dinner from Molly on your couch. You hang your bag on the rack next to the door, taking your coat off as well. You walk over to George, plotting your body next to him. Resting your head against his shoulder you say, “How was your day?” 

You each share quips about your days at work, leaving out Angel’s request entirely. A silence ensues and you find this to be the most opportune moment to ask him. 

“D’you mind having Angelina over tomorrow? A light catch-up? Haven’t seen her since, well, y’know when.” You ask George. His face stiffens. 

“Alright, would be good to see an old friend, yeah?” He manages to say. He gets up to write an owl to Angelina. He sends the owl off and within the hour, Angelina’s response comes back. She agrees. 

-- 

It’s the day of your interview-not-interview with Angelina. You are in the bathroom getting ready while George waits by the door for Angelina. Your self-writing quill for note taking and its accompanying notebook are hidden in a cupboard at the corner of the kitchen that could not be seen from the dining room, ready to start writing at your will. 

“Love, Angelina’s here!” George says through the bathroom door. You quickly get out, rounding the corner to get to the living room and see Angelina sat on your sofa. You bring her in for a hug which she happily returns, you feel the guilt creep up again. You try and dismiss the feeling as hard as you can but it lingers like an unwanted guest. Trying to ease your nerves, you invite her to the dining room, where food you cooked in the morning lay waiting. 

Angeline told stories about her life as a bigtime Quidditch match commentator and you entertained her with stories from the Sports department. You were both marveling at how much time has changed things since your graduation from Hogwarts to the war to life now. Now’s a good a time as any, your mind reasons out. You muster what little courage you had and shift the topic over to Fred. 

“So, Angelina, how have you been holding up, since the battle?” You ask her. George looks at you strangely, as he notes the shift and tone in your voice. 

“Uh, well I’m here. Coping. Grieving.” She responds.

“We’re here for you, tell us more.” You say, trying to probe more information out of her. A slimy feeling makes itself known in the insides of your stomach and you try your hardest to ignore it. 

Angelina stays silent and then starts, “It’s been rough, Fred–” The winning ticket. 

“What about Fred? It was a bit complicated before he died.” Cutting her off, you were siphoning as much information as you can. 

“Yes, it was. You know that.” Angelina deflected, but she continued. “I wish there was more time. More time with him.” Her voice grew heavy, but you tried to turn up the pressure.

“Tell me, what would you have done with that time? Were there things you would’ve said? Done?” 

Angelina takes an ugly pause. 

“Well?” You don’t mean to say this in such a crass and impatient manner, but you do.  

At this point, George stands up. He gets uncomfortable and goes to the cupboard to fetch himself a glass of water. As he inches to the cupboard, he hears scratching noises like a quill writing on parchment. He knows exactly what you’re doing now. Opening the cupboard he sees your quill and notebook scribbling away. On the pad is written, “‘A love lost, an almost,’ says Angelina as she begins to tell me about what could’ve been had Fred avoided his untimely death…” George stopped reading. It clicks in George’s head now. It explains the sudden decision to send an owl over to her last night. George’s jaw tenses up. 

He grabs a glass, closing the cupboard, while leaving the quill and notebook in there. He heads to the front of the refrigerator where you’d be unable to see him. It gives him time to rethink his next move while calming down. He knew journalism would be gross, but he didn’t think you’d prey on your friends–especially since you knew how everyone was still mourning the loss of his twin brother. 

Angelina begins to cry from the other room, but you continue to hound her with questions. “What would you be doing now if Fred were still around? Do you still dream of a life with him? What else have you been doing to fill the space? Do you wish there was more you could’ve done?” The words were practically marathoning out your mouth. The guilt in you subsides and all you feel now is a desire to get the truth out of Angelina. It’s as though you were watching this unfold from the corner of the room; it wasn’t you shoving questions down Angelina’s throat, but an entirely different entity. 

“Merlin, will you stop!” Angelina boomed. “I’m leaving. I missed you and George, I really did. But, how dare you. We’re all grieving and if this is your sick at attempt at therapy, I’ve damn near had it.” 

You’re silent and you feel yourself float back to your body, sat in front of a tearful and red-faced Angelina. She angrily gets up, dropping her fork onto the table. She makes a beeline for the coat rack, grabbing her things, and leaves–making sure to slam the door. 

“What the fuck was that, [Y/N]?” George shot at you, as he emerged from the kitchen. He was holding his glass of water with his fingers by the brim, both his arms by his side. The expression plastered on his face was a mixture between disappointed, frustration, and anger. You stay silent. 

“Answer me, what was that?” George repeats again. You still stay silent, you don’t know how to answer him. “Were you trying to make a piece out of Angelina?” 

You look down at your lap repentantly. “Angel said she’d fire me if I didn’t.”

George makes his way over to you, placing his glass on the dining room table. He doesn’t take a seat, instead he looks down at you in anger. 

“She’s our friend. She’s grieving, mourning–like you and me fucking both.” George was fuming, “You were being a prick and I didn’t like it, obviously neither did Angelina. I could say more, but out of respect, I won’t.” 

“George, we have to eat one way or another. I didn’t want to lose any more income than we already had!” You tried very hard to justify your reasons as to why. 

“At expense of a good friend of ours? Merlin, [Y/N].” George rebutted. “I can’t even look at you right now. I know you love writing, I do. I love your writing, in fact. But, this is low. All for what? A few fucking galleons? Merlin.” 

George turns his heel and stomps to the door, grabbing his coat and slamming the door shut in one swift motion. He presumably chases after Angelina to apologize on your behalf. You hang your head, trying to recollect yourself, and think about what to say to Angelina and George. 

You decide right then and there that you were going to quit your job at the Daily Prophet–there was always a need for writers in the Wizarding World anyway and jobs of that sort were probably not as exploitative in nature. Deciding to write a Letter of Resignation later that night, you trudge your way to the door, grab your coat, and run after George. 

--

masterlist here

[master-sass-blast]

Winter Stay-cation.

*insert pithy quip here*

Summary: A massive squall hits New York City. The snow, combined with a deep freeze, brings the city that never sleeps to a standstill once the police issue travel bans. Fortunately, you and Piotr know how to keep yourselves entertained during your impromptu stay-cation.

Pairing(s): Piotr Rasputin x Reader, Nathan Summers x Wade Wilson, and Ellie Phimister x Yukio.

Rating: G for fluff.

Word Count: 3.4k.

Set after “It’s Truly Magical.”

A/N: The movie quote from Day Five is from Alfred Hitchcock’s “Rear Window.”

Taglist:  @marvel-is-perfection, @chromecutie, @girl-obsessed-with-things, @super-darkcloudstudent, @dandyqueen, @leo-writer

“—continuing into the middle of next week, if not longer. Expect heavy snowfall and temperatures below freezing, with windchill taking things below zero over the weekend.”

“Good grief.” You shake your head as you watch the weather report on the morning news. “It doesn’t get that cold when I fly full speed.”

Piotr, your husband, hands you a cup of coffee and shrugs. “January is ugly month.”

You smirk into your mug. “Bet this doesn’t compare to Siberian winters.”

“Not really,” he admits with a chuckle.

“The Chief of New York City’s Fire Department has issued a statement reminding residents to be careful when using their fireplaces and to monitor children and pets.”

“Yeah, yeah,” you quip, “Don’t use fireworks as kindling, we got it.”

Piotr snorts.

“In addition, the Police Department has issued a travel advisory in light of the predicted precipitation and sub-zero temperatures. All none-essential travel is restricted until the cold snap passes.”

“Groovy. Tell that to half the city.”

Piotr grins, shakes his head again, then turns the TV off. “Looks like we will have to keep ourselves occupied here this week.”

You cast a disparaging glance outside –where the snow is already up to Piotr’s knees—then say, “Like we were going anywhere else.”

 ***

 Day One

 There’s an upside to when the “deep freeze” hits. It’s already winter break, meaning there’s no coordinating classes, figuring out how to pick up students that don’t live at the mansion, or having to get up at the balls-ugly hours of the early morning in the stupid, frigid cold.

The two of you wake up at your leisure, around nine o’clock. You laze around in bed for a bit, snuggling and chatting and smooching, then head downstairs for breakfast. You wind up setting up shop at the dining room table, catching up on grading and filling out end of the semester report cards.

“Can you check these for me?” Piotr asks, handing you a stack of essays from his art classes. “I already made content-based marks; I am just not sure about English grammar.”

“Fun fact: most native English speakers aren’t sure about their grammar, either,” you joke with a smirk.

Piotr snorts, then checks his computer clock before standing. “Is about lunchtime. I was thinking soup and sandwiches?”

You nod. “Sounds tasty.”

“Would you like anything in particular?”

“Surprise me.” You make a contented hum when Piotr leans over the table to kiss you, then smile as you watch him head to the kitchen.

You really are the world’s luckiest woman (a sentiment you feel even more keenly when he comes back with a fresh cup of hot cider for you).

 ***

 Day Two

 “We should clean.”

The two of you are sitting on the couch. Your laptops sit on the coffee table, displaying the completed efforts of uploading grades to the online gradebook that the school uses. Two mugs that once contained coffee sit next to either laptop.

You look up at Piotr. You’re tucked against his side, head leaning on his shoulder while his fingers trace designs on the sleeve of your sweater (which is technically his sweater, but that’s neither here nor there). “Huh?”

“We should clean,” he repeats as he scrubs at his face with his free hand. “House could use it.”

You crane your neck to look over his shoulder. “We don’t really have that many dirty dishes.”

Piotr snorts, then raises an eyebrow at you. “When was last time we vacuumed? Or deep cleaned bathrooms? Or washed windows?”

“We can see out the windows just fine!”

Piotr grins and shakes his head. He stands, holding his hand out to you. “Come on, myshka. Clean home, clean mind.”

“I’ll have you know that my mind is nothing but dirty, and I’m offended that you would dare insinuate otherwise.”

Piotr laughs and helps you up. “We can start upstairs and work our way down.”

 ***

 Cleaning with Piotr isn’t so bad. He carries his fair share of the workload, does things to their proper doneness, and is a firm supporter of blasting tunes while cleaning.

“Take! Me! On!” You bounce up and down in time with the beat while you clean the sliding glass doors in your bedroom that lead out to the balcony. “I’ll… be… gone! In a day or two!”

Behind you, Piotr laughs. He’s hauling out a trashbag from the bathroom –no doubt filled with the sheer amount of crumpled paper towels it takes to get the place sanitary again. “I see you are enjoying yourself.”

“Absolutely not. I’m suffering endlessly. I’m going to die any minute now.” And then, to prove you point, you flop to the floor dramatically (taking care to use your powers to cushion your landing).

Piotr lets out a choked gasp, then clutches at his chest. “You keep scared me!”

You look up at him and laugh. “You know I can catch myself! You’ve seen me do that before!”

“Changes nothing!” He lets out a ragged breath, hand still pressed over his heart. “I could have heart attack.”

You giggle, then lift yourself off the floor with a swirl of wind. You land nimbly on your toes before him and wrap your arms around his waist. “Aw, now who’s being dramatic?”

“I fail to see how concern for your well-being is dramatic!”

You suppress a grin, opting to pop up on the balls of your feet and kiss him instead. “I’m very sorry I scared you, baby.”

“Is okay.” He kisses you gently, then gazes down at you with a rueful smile on his lips. “What am I going to do with you, myshka?”

“Dance with me?” You flash him an impish smile, then start bouncing in time to the music again.

Piotr chuckles, then takes your hands in his and bops along with you.

The two of you dance around the room –well, as much as what you’re doing can be called dancing. You sing the lyrics of the song to each other, not sticking to any particular key or tempo.

You laugh when Piotr lifts you into his arms, bridal style, then squeal in delight when he spins the two of you around.

It’s perfect.

 ***

 Day Three

 You wake up to the sound of Piotr’s phone chirping –because, even on vacation, he still keeps a daily morning alarm.

He groans as he comes to, then laughs when you roll over him and shut off his alarm for him. “Well, good morning to you, too.”

You set his phone back on his nightstand, then straddle his hips and plant your hands against his brawny chest. “You’re not making me clean today.”

Piotr smirks up at you, bushy eyebrow raising in challenge. “Oh?”

“We’re spending today in this bed,” you continue. “Just you” –you tap his chest—“and me, and as few clothes as possible. Sound good?”

He pretends to mull it over, even has he takes off the shirt he’d been sleeping in. “Are we allowed bathroom and meal breaks?”

“I’ll allow it.”

“Ah, very generous. Thank you, benevolent myshka.”

“You’re very welcome.” You giggle when he grins –then let out a delighted yelp when he rolls suddenly, pinning you between him and the bed. You sigh as he kisses you, eyes fluttering shut. You arms wind around his neck, holding him against you while his hands smooth down your body.

 ***

 Day Four

 Cabin fever starts setting in between the third and fourth day. There’s only so many chores you can do, only so many papers you can grade (and you’re out of papers to grade, which doesn’t help your case), only so much sex you can have before you’re gonna start losing your mind.

Fortunately, Piotr is well-attuned to you and your mental states –meaning he notices that you’re getting twitchy before you dip into pyromania to keep yourself entertained.

“We should do something fun today,” he says during breakfast. He spreads some sour cream over his plate of blinis, then adds cottage cheese and sausage meat. “Perhaps play some video games. Ellie has been pestering me to play some multi-people games with her and Yukio.”

“Could be fun,” you say before stuffing your mouth full with Nutella-covered blini. You swallow, then ask, “What did she want to play?”

“Ah… she had two. I think… Falling Guys and Among Us?”

A slow, wicked grin stretches across your place. Fuck yeah. “Let her know we’re in.”

 ***

 Piotr, unfortunately, turns out to be none too good at Fall Guys.

“No!” He wails, then flops back against the couch when he gets thrown off a platform and into the slime. “I could not run away!”

“You have to anticipate the enemy’s movements,” Ellie says over Discord. She’s already qualified and is spectating you and Yukio. “Predict their strategy, then counter.”

“I think it is less strategy and more ‘giant hands do not play nice with tiny controller,’” Piotr grumbles good-naturedly.

“Or maybe you got your butt kicked like a scrub,” Ellie fires back.

“I never contested that,” Piotr chuckles.

“Alright,” you say, eyes glued on your pink and yellow striped player. “I’m almost there, there’s plenty of slots left –no, you fucking pigeon! Let me go!”

“Language,” Piotr murmurs between bouts of laughter.

“It’s always a pigeon!” Ellie groans. “Fucking skyrats.”

“Language, NTW.”

You qualify for the next round (no thanks to the damn pigeon, who qualifies, too). Egg Scramble is next, and you wind up facing off against Ellie and Yukio for the win.

“Damn it!” There’s the sound of something hitting the floor –most likely Ellie throwing her controller—when she and Yukio get booted out. “Yellow always loses!”

“Is that it?” you ask while the loading screen plays. “Are we at the final round yet?”

“There’ll be one more,” Yukio says. “To finish whittling down the competitors.”

Sure enough, there’s a round of Tip-Toe –which you get through by the skin of your teeth—and then you and eight other players are sent to the finale.

“Okay, Hex-A-Gone. You’ll want to just hop from tile to tile,” Ellie advises you while the level loads. “It makes the tiles last longer.”

“Don’t be afraid to drop a couple levels at first,” Yukio adds. “You can carve out one of the lower levels, meaning anyone that falls above you will have further to go and will be more likely to get out.”

“I appreciate it, but don’t expect any miracles,” you say, laughing self-deprecatingly.

Piotr kisses the top of your head. “You can do this, myshka.”

You follow the girls’ advice; you let yourself drop down two levels, then start hopping from tile to tile to start carving out the platform.

“One guy’s already out!” Ellie announces. “You’ve got this!”

“Shit! I fell!”

“That’s okay,” Yukio reassures you. “Find a decent mass of tiles and hop, don’t run. Make them last.”

“The pigeon grabbed another player,” Piotr marvels, shaking his head.

“Yeah, well, they both died, so fat lot of good it did them,” Ellie mutters.

You keep going, bounce from brightly colored hexagon to brightly colored hexagon.

“Only four left!” Ellie lets out a whoop. “Holy shit, you’re gonna make it!”

“Don’t jinx me!” you laugh as you dodge another player’s attempt to grab you. “Don’t jinx me!”

“Three left –two! It’s just you and one other guy!”

“You’ve got this, Y/N!” Yukio cheers.

You dive for a clump of tiles –and miss. “No!” You groan, then laugh as your character plummets into the pink slime. “Damn. I’m never going to do that good ever again.”

Piotr wraps an arm around your shoulders in a conciliatory hug. “You did wonderful job, myshka.”

“He’s right. That was really good. The winner fell a few seconds after you, so it was basically a coin toss as to who was gonna get the crown,” Ellie says while the winner’s animation plays on screen.

“Yeah! Great job!” Yukio congratulates you.

“Wanna do another round?” Ellie asks as she flicks between skins and accessories for her avatar.

Yukio laughs lightly. “Baby, we were going to get lunch.”

“Oh, right.”

“Perhaps we can try other game after lunch,” Piotr suggests. “‘Fall Guys’ is okay, but makes me too dizzy.”

“Yeah, sure. Text me when you guys are done eating.”

***

 Among Us doesn’t go much better for Piotr, if only because he doesn’t adhere to the strategy of the game. He does his tasks without fail –which usually leaves him alone, and thus a prime target for killing or pinning a murder on. He’s also a terrible liar, which makes it easy to tell when he is the impostor.

You laugh as Piotr’s little red spaceman goes floating into space. “I honestly feel bad.”

“I don’t,” Wade says (he and Nate hopped on the Discord call when Yukio sent them an invite). “Pay for some acting classes, Chrome Dome! Give us a challenge, at least.”

Piotr starts grumbling in Russian, but it gets cut off when the round starts up again.

(You all still wind up losing because Nate’s the other impostor and racks up bodies like nobody’s business.)

“I’m still waiting for when Ellie and Dad get the impostor role together,” you comment as the defeat screen flashes on your laptop screen.

“What, so we all die in five minutes?” Wade grumbles. “So we can suffer the agony of betrayal and not honoring trust again?”

“It’s just a game, Wade,” Nate sighs. “And I apologized already.”

“Is our relationship ‘just a game’ to you, Natey? I gave you an alibi –and then you shanked me in the shower like rejected prison bitch!”

“Language, Wade,” your husband pipes up, voice world-weary. “Please.”

You all start another round once Wade calms down –which, admittedly, takes a while and a great deal of coaxing from Nathan. You grin when you see that you’re an impostor alongside Yukio –then giggle to yourself when a plan pops into your mind.

You start stalking Piotr around the map. You fake doing tasks alongside him, acting as his shadow as he treks around the map. On the corner of your screen, you watch your kill timer wind down, then wait for the right moment once it runs out, and—

Downstairs, in his art studio, your husband lets out an indignant scream when your character murders his.

You fall back onto the bed and cackle.

 ***

 Day Five

 The squall rages on outside. The world is practically buried in snow. It’s a sea of white outside your bedroom windows, blinding and sterile.

You peer at the swaths of snow blanketing every inch of ground, every tree branch, and every shrub, then nestle further under the blankets. “Ugh. I don’t even want to get out of bed today.”

Piotr chuckles, then wraps an arm around your waist. “How come?”

“Have you seen what it’s like outside? It’s disgusting!”

“I thought you liked snow.”

“I do. That’s how you know it’s bad.” You sigh as you eye the fat, fluffy flakes falling from the sky. “I wish I could, like, go outside. Go to a store or something. Leave the house.”

“Is not safe to drive yet.”

“I know, I know.” You sigh. “Is it bad that I miss the color green?”

“Nyet. Is normal.”

You smile, just a little, when Piotr kisses the back of your head. You roll over to face him. “Can we build a blanket fort today?”

He raises an eyebrow. “What… here? In bedroom?”

“Yeah. We can make it look all pretty, and snuggle in bed, and watch movies, and have sex…”

“Bozhe ty moi.” Piotr snorts, then takes a moment to study your face, your eyes. “You really want blanket fort?”

“Kind of, yeah. I just… I want something new to look at.”

The corner of his mouth turns up in a soft smile. He presses his lips against your forehead. “Alright, myshka. Let’s make fort.”

***

 “When a man and a woman see each other and like each other, they ought to come together. Wham. Like a couple of taxis on Broadway.”

You let out a content, relaxed sigh, then wriggle closer to Piotr.

The fort, admittedly, is simple –but you don’t mind. While you were taking a shower, Piotr assembled the whole thing, just to give you a little surprise.

He’d brought up a couple floor lamps from the main floor, then clipped some fairy lights to them before draping the largest quilt in the house over top to make the room. He’d pinned some throw blankets to either side of the quilt to make the sides, then made the bed and assembled the pillows so the two of you could have a nice, cozy, comfy den to watch movies in.

The recurring, delighted thought of ‘he made it for me; he made it for me because he knew I wanted one’ loops around in your brain like a bumblebee drunk on fermented crab apples. You grin, then loop your arms around Piotr’s neck and kiss his cheek.

He grins, cheeks flushing ever so slightly. “What was that for?”

“You made me a blanket fort.”

“You asked for one.”

“Yeah, but you made it for me. You could’ve just waited until we could both work on it.”

He shrugs, lips curving into a soft, pleased smile. “I wanted to see look on face. You were very happy.”

“Correction: I am very happy.” You kiss the tip of his nose, then his lips. “I love you, Piotr.”

“And I love you, Y/N.”

 ***

 Day Six

 You know it’s bad when you wake up before Piotr.

You look over at your husband, who’s still slumbering away next to you –and sawing some logs, no less—then out at the winter hellscape outside, and decide there’s only one thing for it.

You’re channeling your inner Great British Bake Off contestant and demolishing the kitchen.

***

 Piotr comes downstairs around ten in the morning –which is a miraculous amount of sleep in time for him—but by then, the damage has already been done.

There’s a cake cooling on the counter (you’d found a box of cake mix in the back of the pantry and decided to use it as a warm-up. The mixer is working overtime on a double batch of sugar cookies –plus there’s already chocolate chip cookie dough chilling in the fridge.

You look up from the cookbook you’d been perusing –you were thinking pie next—and flash your husband a slightly sheepish grin as he gapes at the kitchen. “Uh… good morning?”

“Myshka…”

“I made cake.”

“I can see that.” Piotr drops his heads into his hands and makes a noise somewhere between a groan and a laugh. “Why?”

“Because being trapped inside is stressing me out and I want to cope by eating my weight in desserts.”

Piotr sighs, then lifts his head. He eyes the mixer, then the increasingly sheepish expression on your face. “How much is that?”

“In the bowl or in the fridge?”

“Bozhe ty moi.”

“Look, the way I see it, we can share—”

“You have that much correct. We do not need five million cookies.”

“Excuse you, I’m only making three million. Also, do you know where the lard is?”

Piotr’s face scrunches up. “Lard? Why—”

“I wanna make pie.”

He pinches the bridge of his nose. “We already have cake. And goodness knows how many kinds of cookies.”

“But those aren��t pie.” You smile impishly at him. “Plus, like, pie has fruit, so it’s good for you. You like fruit. Think about how good it’ll be to eat something with fruit after all the cake, and the cookies…”

“Or I could just eat fruit.” He sighs, resigned and slightly frustrated, when you bat your eyelashes at him. “I will check pantry.”

***

 Day Seven

 “—as of today, authorities are lifting the ban on nonessential travel—”

“Yes!” You launch yourself into the air, twirling around and pumping your fists before landing lightly on the couch once more. “Finally!”

Piotr laughs and shakes his head. “What, is staying inside with me so terrible?”

“Absolutely not.” You crawl across the couch and into his lap, then give him a loud smooch. “I have enjoyed every single day of your company. However, you’ve got about fifteen minutes before I start repainting the walls out of sheer boredom.”

Piotr bursts into raucous guffaws. He puts a hand over his eyes, shoulders and stomach shaking with each laugh. He sighs, wiping tears of mirth from his eyes as minute giggles slip past his lips. “Well, we do need to restock on food. And flour and butter, since someone decided to open bakery yesterday.”

You pointedly ignore the pies and full cookie jar sitting on the kitchen counter. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

He snorts, then pats your thigh. “Get dressed, myshka. We will go shopping.”

“Fuck yeah!” You zip up the stairs.

Downstairs, you can hear Piotr start laughing again.

[softguks]

angst drabble with jungkook please? HIT ME WITH THE PAIN. COME AT ME BRO. i’m probably going to regret this LMFAO

primroses

order description. Jungkook’s always missing you, it’s just on a rainy day that’s also your anniversary that he’s missing you the most.

customers. jeon jungkook / reader course. angst / teeny tiny bit of fluff :’) total bill. 1.5k words allergies. angst, character death (major), grieving, pain, crying :(

note ! @sketchguk thank you for being there for me during my rambles of how insecure i am about my writing sjwjsjsjjs. if the read more doesn’t work on mobile, i’m sorry :(

— primroses: i can’t live without you, eternal love

Jungkook’s made this trip more times than he count, comes probably every other week or so, and has visited so many times that he could probably get here with his eyes closed —even though that wouldn’t be very smart— but for some reason, today feels harder than normal.

His grip on the steering wheel tightens, the ridges of his knuckles going white as he clenches his jaw, chest heaving with each shaky breath that fills his lungs. The skin under his dark circles is tinged pink, red-rimmed eyes staring out into the distance as he musters you the courage to grow some balls and get out of his car. His legs feel like deadweights, and he can barely get himself out of the driver’s seat, eyes cast downward at the cracks and divots in the concrete. He follows each line and chasm in the asphalt that’s stained with rainwater. The squishy sounds of his shoes against the freshly trimmed, damp grass momentarily distracts him from his thoughts. Drops of dew cling precariously onto the blades of grass, glittering like jewels. He looks for anything and everything to get his mind off of her. His heart feels heavier today, the ache that resounds in his heart worsening with each day that passes.

Tears sting the base of his eyes, pooling in the corners of his doe eyes as he sniffles, struggling to hide the trembling of his body and the quivering of his bottom lip. Pearly, white teeth graze over the plump flesh of his bottom lip as he tightens his grip on the bouquet of flowers in his hand. His feet seem as if they are glued to the ground, imprinted in the soft and slightly damp, muddy patch of grass. Squatting down, he places the bouquet of primroses next to the structure, the pad of his thumb gently brushing against the yellow and pink petals. He glances up at the sky, trying his hardest to blink back the burning tears that threaten to slide down his cheeks.

Carding slender fingers through brown hair, he swallows the lump in his throat, unable to hide the pain that swallows him whole. It throbs in his chest, eating him out from the inside, burning him alive. It hurts, hurts so bad that some days he can’t get out of bed. Some days, his hyungs have to drag him out of bed for him to function. Some days, the most he can do is take a shower and down a glass of water before it all hits him like a truck again, and the pain becomes too much too handle. It’s funny, how bright and full of life he used to be. And now, he’s just a ghost, a husky of a human being, a lifeless soul residing in a shell.

It feels different without you. It feels wrong, it feels weird, and he hates it. It feels wrong to come back to a place he can’t even call home without you waiting with open arms. It feels wrong not to see your pair of shoes placed on the shoe rack next to his Timberlands, without your set of keys plopped in the little bowl at the front entrance, without your smile brightening his day. It feels too quiet, without the low hum of the dryer in the background, the illuminated TV playing softly, the bubbling of a boiling pot on the stove, the padding of your footsteps as you run to him. It feels wrong to sink down into the couch, waiting for you to run from your shared bedroom with lotion in one hand and a blanket in the other. He finds himself wanting nothing more than for the world to swallow him up whole as he barely lives through the days.

It feels wrong for him to fall asleep at night, without you curled up in his arms, the soft snores tumbling from your parted lips, your soft locks of hair fanned out around your head like a halo. He finds himself glancing over to the empty side of the bed more times than he cares to admit, unable to fall asleep because it’s too quiet and too cold. He misses the warmth that radiates from your sleeping figure, the beauty that astounds him when shards of silver moonlight illuminate your figure with a soft glow. It feels wrong to eat dinner alone, missing the warmth and homely feeling of your home-cooked meals. Recently, he’s been eating at the dorms to avoid feeling so lonely and lost in his thoughts.

Performing on stage is the worst. It doesn’t bring him the same euphoric feeling of pure bliss as it used to. He finds himself staring into the distance, at that one spot in the arena where you would normally preside, a proud smile playing across your rosy lips, your eyes bright with excitement. The thrill of it all, the rush of adrenaline, the cheering of the crowd, and the magical warmth that used to throb in his veins is now not enough. It takes too much out of him to sing the songs that were carefully crafted for you, to pour out his heart to someone who isn’t there anymore.

Jungkook finds himself falling deeper and deeper into a hole he doesn’t know if he’ll ever be able to climb out of.

He places the flowers down, next to the engraving in the stone, next to the plaque with your name carved on it. He lets the tears flow freely from his eyes, wide, broken, and blank eyes filled with more anguish than the amount of space in the universe. His heart quite literally shatters at the thought of your angelic smile. His voice comes out in a breathy murmur, soft and soothing as he gently traces the lines on the stone.

“Hey. I-I’m here again. God, this is so fucking stupid isn’t it? I’m sorry, it just-just hurts so much. I haven’t figured out how to live without you. It hurts too much to not see you, to not be able to touch you, to not be able to have you in my life. I love you, I love you so fucking much and if that means pouring my heart out to you on a rainy day, then so be it. You are the light of my life, and you’d probably be scolding me for crying, for dwelling on my feelings, but I can’t help it. I was going to marry you. I decided that I was going to propose on our anniversary, which is actually today.”

The words are falling from his mouth before he can stop them, and he can taste the saltiness from his tears on the tip of his tongue, and yet even the streams of grief aren’t enough to wash away the anguish that envelopes his entire being. It feels as though he’s drowning, the water rising faster than he can fight it, filling his lungs and yet there’s nothing he can do but breathe it in.

“I was going to spend the rest of my life with you, I’d decided, and we’d talked about our wedding, and the color dress you wanted, the flavor of cake we’d decided on, and we decided we were going to have kids. I had the ring ready, I made a reservation two weeks before just to make sure it would be at your favorite restaurant. I bought my suit already, I had the whole day planned out. In fact, I almost proposed to you that day in the diner, at two o’clock in the morning and goddamnit I wish I did. But I’m just too much of a coward and I loved you too much, getting lost in your eyes as you laughed over some shitty joke. It would’ve been worth it, to be promised as yours even if it only lasted two weeks. I’m never going to stop loving you, and I know you hate it when I cry, but I just have to tell you. If only I-“

Another sob tears through his throat, disrupting the peaceful silence that has settled in the quiet field of flowers. All of a sudden, his body is shaking with the sobs that erupt from his throat, the bitter scars and broken pieces of his heart pouring out of him. He waits a few moments, steadying his breathing and piecing himself back together before he continues. He has to finish, he can’t bear to hold onto the feelings anymore. They sit like burdens on his chest as another sleepless night passes, they hang onto the tips of his fingers when he grips onto the tear-stained sheets. He waits until he feels ready to continue.

“I brought you flowers. Primroses. And you’re probably thinking that I’m such a cheesy dork for it, and I am, but they’re primroses because the florist told me they mean eternal love. This sounds so fucking stupid but it’s worth it if it makes you smile. I wish I could see you smile again. But, I have to go now, Jimin-hyung will murder me if I don’t make it to dance practice on time. I’ll see you next week, hm? God, I probably sound like an idiot right now. I’ve always been your idiot though.”

He wipes away the wet patches of salty liquid that stain his cheeks, the skin around his puffy eyes blotchy, streaked with tears. But there’s a small, half-tender half-sad smile playing across his lips when he finishes.

For the first time in a long while, Jungkook smiles a genuine, real smile.

“I love you, I really hope you know that.”

the read more link doesn’t work on mobile, i’m sorry 🥺 thank u for reading pls reblog and leave a comment if you liked it!!

[jinpanman]

beautiful boy - teaser uwu

anticipated post date: sunday, nov 15, 2020 @ idk-what-time o’clock!

pairing: namjoon x oc, namjoon x reader

genre: fluff, angst, single dad!au

final wc: um...it will be less than 15k...

warnings: reader is deceased.

a/n: LMAO ssooo this fic spiraled out of control. pls someone stop me. ‘tis a part of BTS Ghosties Dynamite Dads event soon to come your way! also uwu if you wanna be tagged when this fic drops, maybe, let me know 🥺👉👈💕🌱

READ FIC HERE

~~~

“Daddy can you tell me about how you met mommy again?”

“Yeah, buddy of course. You know I always will.”

Jimin settles on his lap and he tells his son the story of how he and his mother met. Namjoon is brought back to the very beginning of it all. 

Just five years ago, he was here at this very park reading a novel that his pen pal had recommended to him when he bumped into you. His friends had always laughed at his tendency to trip over thin air, but who would have thought his accident-prone tendencies would eventually lead him to the love of his life? In hindsight, he should’ve known better than to walk around nose deep in a book. Before he knew it, he was sent flying to the ground with a sudden increase of body weight on top of him.

He never had time to feel embarrassed because the cup of coffee that was previously in your hand had now spilled all over him. It was a miracle the coffee wasn’t piping hot, but it was still warm enough to have him squirming to get out from underneath whoever this lady was. Their meeting was the classic tale of clumsy boy meets headstrong girl who wouldn’t take no for an answer. The first seed had been planted. You exchanged numbers and somehow one meeting to make up for the spoiled shirt and wasted coffee turned into two meetings which then turned into three… 

Before he knew it, Namjoon fell very much in love with you. It wasn’t long until you revealed what you assumed would make him run for the hills. He later found out it was out of pure preservation on your part. You didn’t want to fall more in love with him if he wasn’t going to stay. That morning you first met at the park, you had only just found out yourself. The news you shared with him didn’t deter him from falling in love, though. In fact, it only made him love you more. You were growing a whole little human all by yourself. How could he not fall in love with another piece of the person that had quite literally swept him off his feet upon their first meeting. Yet again, another seed had been planted within the crevices of Namjoon’s heart.

The seedlings had taken root deeply in his heart and grew so quickly under your nurturing love and care. You were well along your seventh month when they finally bloomed and the petals burst out of his mouth one random day in the form of a question that had been sitting on the tip of his tongue for many weeks. He was on the couch massaging your feet while you were watching a rerun of his favorite show. All of a sudden, his brain chimed with a realization. This was everything he wanted and the only thing that would make it better was… “Marry me?”

Everyone thought he was crazy. To fall in love so quickly with someone he just met? Who was pregnant with another man’s child? He could understand why those close to him were concerned, but Namjoon was never one to allow others' opinions to fill him with doubt. No one would be able to dissuade him from this decision. He knew you were the one for him, and he saw no point in waiting it out just because society said so. You both so wanted a huge celebratory ceremony, but you both also knew you had other priorities. With the blessing of both your parents, the two of you prepared for a small family wedding after your son’s birth.

Jimin was the second best thing to have ever happened to him. Nevermind that he wasn’t Namjoon’s biological son. Nevermind that Jimin took on your surname because you were not yet married. Namjoon could not have cared less. He never thought about it for a second. Even before Jimin was born, Namjoon loved him fiercely. Namjoon knew Jimin was his son.

You had two wonderful years as a family of three. You celebrated his first poopy, his first laugh, his first 100 days, and his first solid foods. You celebrated so many firsts together and Namjoon was on cloud nine. He found himself constantly searching the net for matching family clothes and despite having decent self-control, packages of father-son clothing would quickly pile up at your door.

This, of course, led to you planning for your first professionally taken photos as a family. Jimin was nearing 2 years of age, at that point. The seasons were changing, the weather was getting colder, but you always did love autumn. Namjoon never did understand your fascination with autumn. Since you loved flowers so much, he assumed you would love spring the most.

“It’s all about the sweater weather aesthetic, Joonie. You wouldn’t understand,” you had told him once, twice, several times throughout their marriage.

The matching family clothes he bought on impulse hung in their closet, ironed and lint-free, ready to be worn and flaunted. As luck would have it, the photographer you had your heart set on fell ill right before your scheduled photo shoot and had to postpone. And so there your clothes hung, for several weeks longer.

And then…

And then the worst moment of his life came much, much sooner than he could have ever anticipated. Namjoon never thought that his son's first battle with grief would arrive in the spring of his life.

[thegoodgayshit]

Luz’s mother really doesn’t want to send Luz to camp. She knows once she leaves, there is no going back. But Luz has a knack for getting into trouble, and one day she stumbles into the same type of people her mother would have preferred she avoided. After helping Luz dissolve her high school bully into dust, Eda and Lilith know right away that this kid is just like them - a child of the gods. So Luz hops on a Pegasus and heads to Camp Half-blood, where she embarks on a dangerous quest that makes her both friends and enemies... and she might even save Olympus along the way.

Chapter Thirty: The Brazillian Business Man and his Silk Suit

Luz stood there on the edge of the mountain screaming out for Amity until her throat was raw.

She hadn’t seen where she landed. Beneath about twenty feet below her, there were piles of rocks and some shrubs covering the base of the mountain. Luz hadn’t realized just how deep the tunnel to the cave ran. The portal had been so deep inside the mountain, it was like they hadn’t climbed it at all.

Amity was down there somewhere. Luz kept hoping, praying, that any moment now she was going to climb out of one of the bushes, call out to Luz that she was okay, and they would meet outside the mountain.

That hadn’t happened.

But she kept screaming. Hoping. Praying.

“I don’t understand,” Hestia mumbled from right behind her. Now that the tremors had subsided and the portal had been shut down, she was more willing to stand near the edge next to Luz. “This shouldn’t have happened.”

Luz felt anger rise in her chest so quickly she couldn’t help but spin around on her.

“Of course it wasn’t! She wasn’t supposed to die! Amity always is the one who sacrifices everything for everybody. Couldn’t she for once get to share some of that burden? She deserved better!”

Hestia seemed surprised by her outburst, and Luz knew it wasn’t a good idea to scream at goddesses, but she couldn’t bring herself to care. Amity was gone.

“That’s not exactly what I meant,” Hestia said slowly, thankfully deciding not to take what Luz had said personally. “I meant that she is not the hero in the prophecy who is supposed to die.”

“What do you mean supposed to die? Nobody was supposed to die!” Guilt was beginning to eat its way up into Luz’s chest. She’d promised Amity things would be different, that maybe the prophecy was misleading. Now she finds out that wasn’t true?

Was Amity the wrong one? Even if she was, would Luz be able to handle Willow or Gus dying in her place? She didn’t have to ponder those horrific thoughts for much longer.

“Luz, you are the hero whose life ends.”

Luz was stunned into silence, her whole body freezing up.

“What?”

Hestia is watching her with careful eyes. They were so much warmer now that she’d been freed and Belos had fallen. She seemed to glow, her whole body illuminating a soft sheen. The healthiest nine year old she’d ever seen. She also shimmered with a sort of power, one that made Luz feel weird about looking down on.

But she was hooked onto Hestia’s words, desperate to understand. Hestia’s bright amber eyes flickered between Luz’s own brown ones, searching for something.

“It cannot be Amity who dies. It was her prophecy that foretold a death, but her hands would only bear the weight of the journey. You, on the other hand, are the most important piece to the puzzle. The escape.”

“It takes four…” Luz murmured softly, remembering her own prophecy, and Hestia offered a little smile.

“Yet I only saw two of you here today.”

“Willow and Gus, my companions… they’re fighting off the demigods,” Luz mumbled under her breath, running a hand through her hair. Luz might be a little dense sometimes, but she wasn’t stupid. And right now she was wracking her brain trying to figure out what was going on. “They bought us time to come down here and save you. And… and we did. And Amity’s gone. The prophecy lied!”

Hestia shook her head. “Luz Noceda, you’re quest is not over.”

“No, it’s not.”

Luz turned her head to the sound of the new voice, and at first, she clenched her sword, worried that she had a new enemy to fight. But this… this wasn’t an enemy.

It was a man, with deep chestnut coloured skin and wavy dark brown hair that was styled neatly on the top of his head. He had a chiselled jaw, and a clean five o’clock shadow covering his face. His eyes were light brown, and as Luz examined him closer as he slowly walked towards them, she noticed that there was a tiny slit in his thick eyebrows.

He was wearing an expensive-looking, slim-fit, dark blue silk suit, not dissimilar to the color of the one Luz wore to the fake prom, which already felt like eons ago. In his hand was a winged staff, with two real snakes curling around the ends of it. A Caduceus.

She would have known who he was without her new knowledge of the Greek Gods. Her Mami had always talked about him this way. A very successful businessman from Brazil, who'd she only met because he was vising the country on a work trip.

Her father, Hermes.

If Luz wasn’t so wired with grief, anger, and exhaustion, she might have been excited to meet him.

The messenger god was walking slowly towards them, towards Luz, and for a moment, she saw what looked like hesitance cross his face. It infuriated Luz. He’d been gone for her whole life, never bothering to show up or be there for her, and he chose now to intervene? Now to make his grand appearance?

A week ago, she would have felt honoured. Now, it felt like a slap in the face.

“Hello, Luz.”

She wanted to scream. To whip out her sword and slash Aletheia right across his face. But Luz didn’t have the resolve she wanted. She was upset, hurt, and heartbroken. She didn’t want to be angry at a father who’d never been around. That felt like an overreaction. She didn’t want to overreact. She just wanted Amity back.

“Hola, padre.”

It was colder than her usual tone, and Hermes didn’t miss it. He winced, and Luz felt a tiny twinge of satisfaction in her gut. He didn’t deserve to feel comfortable around her.

“I… know how you must feel about me,” he said quietly, “and I don’t blame you for it. I’m sorry.”

“You’re sorry?” Luz echoed, her eyebrows furrowing in disbelief. “Sorry doesn’t cut it! I’ve been on this quest with just my friends without your help for almost two weeks. I’d been alone my whole life before coming to camp. Now Amity…” her voice breaks, and she shakes her head. “You should have been there. You should have helped me!”

“I have done my best to aid you on your quest,” Hermes insisted, gesturing to the sword in her hand. “I guided you to Peleus’ sword, the first key to the mountain. It’s the same one I enchanted centuries ago for him. I granted Aphrodite’s chariot great speed to get you to Indiana. You asked me to bless your throw in Orpheus’ manor, and I did just that.”

“You left my Mami,” Luz said through gritted teeth, even if her brain was buzzing with new information. “You left me to grow up with her alone.”

“Your mother is a strong, brave, and dedicated woman,” Hermes said with a nod. “I wanted to be there for you, but it was not my place to do so. All demigods must grow up alone, without the guidance of their goldy parents. And you are special, Luz. I could not interfere with the prophecy.”

She looked down at her now-battered white shoes, which had been brand new when she’d first come to camp. She wanted to argue with him. To go on and put Hermes in his place for being an absent father. But she just didn’t have the energy to argue with a god.

Hermes stepped forward, reaching out to her. Luz didn’t push him away. He settled his hands on her shoulders firmly.

“Luz, look at me.”

She looked up and blinked. She’d been wrong about his eye colour. They weren’t brown, but a deep bronzy hue. They were narrowed in a determination she thought was familiar. As she looked on, she realized why. It was not dissimilar to the look Alador had given her right at the end of their one on one conversation.

“"Por favor,” he pleaded, “déjame ayudarte."

Luz swallowed hard. She wasn’t sure how she felt about her father, but at the very least, she owed this much to Amity to do her best to finish the quest they’d started, even if she couldn’t.

“Okay. What do I need to do?”

Hermes was quick to step back and give Luz space, this time turning to Hestia, who Luz had completely forgotten was standing there.

“The portal will not be closed until we can make sure Belos will never be able to activate it again. His soul has reappeared in Charon’s office, just as it did the first time he died. He will be taken across the River Styx for trial, but he had prepared for something like this. His portal is on the outskirts of the Underworld, between the Fields of Asphodel and the River Acheron. Instead of wandering past the line with the dead, he will take a secret passageway back to the portal, and will try to open it again from the inside.”

“That makes no sense,” Luz retorted, “we’ve freed Hestia. The portal just can’t reopen without her.”

Hermes nodded, “you’d be right, usually. But the portal was able to fuse with the mountain and lock in Hestia’s hearth. She could be on Olympus, or on the moon, and it still wouldn’t matter. Her divine essence has fused with it.”

“Okay, so how do we stop the portal from reopening?”

Hestia and Hermes shared a look, and reality hit Luz like a truck.

“Oh.”

“I’m sorry, Luz. But you’ll have to be the hero one last time,” Hestia said softly. “The portal must close.”

And Luz agreed. Amity had fallen down a mountain for this. For all of this to be over and done, and for Belos to never be able to hurt any demigod ever again.

“I’ll do it. I’ll go to the Underworld and close the portal.”

Hermes’ mouth twisted into a smile, something between pride and amusement. “It won’t be easy. You’ll have to get past Belos and his army. But I’ll help you in every way I can. You won’t be alone.”

Luz’s brow furrowed. “What, you’re coming with me?”

“Not quite,” he replied with a chuckle. It was deep and grizzly but also somehow soothing and gentle at the same time. “The Olympians cannot cross into Hades' realm without his consent. But I am not just the god of travellers, you know. I am the god who guides all travelling souls to the Underworld. I did not just come here to guide you, Luz. I came here with a message. There is a soul the pantheon has agreed to spare if you complete your quest and stop this portal from bringing the downfall of Olympus.”

Luz's heart started to race. Did he mean…?

Hermes reached out and placed a hand back on Luz’s shoulder. This one was much gentler than the last, firm grip. It was almost fatherly.

“Amity is not a casualty of this prophecy, Luz. The two of you must destroy the portal from the inside, and stop Belos for good. You’ll find her waiting in line to be judged. But a warning: she won’t be the demigod you once knew. Many in the Underworld need to be reminded of who they are.”

Luz wasn’t worried about that. Amity was the strongest person she knew. When they were together, they were unstoppable.

“She must hurry,” Hestia muttered, rubbing her palms together. It was a weird gesture, she was moving so quickly it looked like she was trying to catch a flame between her hands. “I can already feel my powers weakening.”

“I can’t go without telling Willow and Gus,” Luz said, preparing to turn and sprint back up the mountain path from which she came.

“You must! We are out of time,” Hermes said with a shake of his head. “It takes four to escape, and release goddess caged”. They have their own role to play in allowing the portal to open, and guarding it while you’re on the other side. And… they will need to recover Amity if her soul is to come back with you.”

Luz hesitated. She’d come so far with their help, she couldn’t just… leave.

The hand on her shoulder gave a comforting squeeze. “Luz, por favor, se nos acabó el tiempo.

I will stay here, and guide them while you are gone. I swear it on the River Styx.”

“As will I,” Hestia said with a nod. “I swear it.”

Luz took a deep breath. She needed to get a grip. Besides, after all this, what was one more quest to the Underworld to stop an evil demigod from taking over the world?

Easy peasy.

“Okay. When we find the portal, how do we close it?”

“You will need this,” Hestia said, and Luz realized that she hadn’t just been rubbing her hands together for nothing. In her hands was a tiny flame, and she extended it out to Luz. “One touch with this on the portal and it will open for you and Amity to walk back through. When the power of my hearth has touched both sides, I will be able to use it to burn the connection between us. The portal should fall apart.”

Luz was a little nervous to take the flame, but she was surprised how easy it fit in her hand. There was no burning like she thought, but rather a warm tingling sensation right in the middle of her palm. After a moment, it shrank and shifted into an ambered coloured plastic lighter.

“A warning,” Hestia added, and Luz glanced up at her tone. “Only a living soul may harness my hearth. It is yours and yours alone to carry.”

Luz nodded, gently setting the lighter in her pocket. “I won’t give it to anybody else. I promise.”

“Then it’s time,” Hermes said, and Luz tilted her head to look up at him. “I must allow you to pass into the Underworld. Are you ready?”

More than she would ever be. She shrank Aletheia back into a ring, letting it rest onto her finger. She was going to go down there and bring Amity back if it was the last thing she ever did.

“I am. So, how do I get there? Are you going to lend me a flying chariot?”

Hermes laughed. “Not exactly. Take my hand.”

He extended it out for her, and Luz took it. She was surprised how soft it was for a god, but then was somehow equally surprised when he gripped it tightly, not letting her go. His other hand came down to the front pocket of her shorts, the opposite on to where she put the lighter, and he slipped something inside.

“I need you to look at me and not look away. This won’t be pleasant, but it’s the only way for a living soul to travel through the Underworld unscathed.”

Then, Hermes started to glow. At first, it was oddly beautiful, his whole body lighting up golden around the edges of his suit, like a picturesque model of a Bloomberg business magazine. Then, it got uncomfortable, and Luz was squinting, and she knew right away her eyes were starting to burn as it got brighter and brighter.

It was bordering on painful when her head started to get woozy. “Dad, are you sure this won’t kill me?”

The last thing she remembers is his soothing, deep-throated, chuckle. “Well, I've never done this before, but even so I'm fairly confident it will work.”

The burning got so bright she couldn’t see anything but white, and her whole body tingled like she was burning alive without the excruciating physical pain that should have been paired with it.

Then, there was nothing.

[diyunho]

The Joker x Reader - “Ashes”

After The Joker’s daughter accidentally drowned, his relationship with Y/N fell apart: they were guilty of failing to protect what they loved, blaming each other and themselves to the point of no return. The sole palpable proof of Emma existence is her ashes encapsulated in glass pendants her parents wear and that’s hardly a memento able to help in such a difficult situation. Ashes are not meant to bring people together.

“Happy Birthday, Pumpkin Pie,” The Joker grumbles. “Here’s Charlie: I thought you would like to see him,” he places the purple hippo on Emma’s headstone.

Today his daughter would have been 4 years old. Instead of the usual party filled with laughter and presents he’s at “Eternal Peace” cemetery early in the morning for a different kind of festivity.

J never celebrated birthdays before yet once she showed up in his life the anniversary got a fresh new meaning: Y/N ensured that The King of Gotham was aware of how lucky they both were to have her. And he did learn to care about that tiny being he created who first called him something similar to “dada”, then a cute “da’y” and finally the word he craved to hear every single day until she was gone: “daddy.”

Being a father thought him a couple of things, but the most important was quite stunning: the index finger from his right hand wasn’t only meant for using a trigger; it was also his child’s soother.

Emma would keep it prisoner when she slept from an early age; of course all babies do it although in this case it didn’t go away once she got older.

And he misses that…

A lot.

Actually, he would give up on a robbery or anything that involves him holding a gun if she could clutch to his finger one more time.

That’s how much he misses The Princess.

“Sir, sorry to interrupt,” Frost gets him out of trance. “There’s movement at the South gate. We have to go…”

J snatches the plush animal and follows Jonny on a path behind the crypts when a woman walking on the alley leading to Emma’s grave catches his attention: although she has a red wig and sunglasses on, her disguise doesn’t fool him. It’s Y/N.

She’s carrying a small cake and intensely stares at the pavement, unaware of her surroundings.

The Joker can’t really tell what she’s doing once in front of the tomb, nevertheless he guesses she’s singing “Happy Birthday” while wiping the tears strolling down her cheeks.

He didn’t see Y/N in about 4 months. They went to the cabin by Moon Lake after Emma’s drowning and things were so rough he left immediately. She never followed, called or texted.

J didn’t either.

Why bother? They were guilty of failing to protect what they loved, blaming each other and themselves to the point of no return.

Today is extremely difficult to deal with, especially since the catalyst binding them vanished forever.

The sole palpable proof of Emma existence is her ashes encapsulated in glass pendants her parents wear and that’s hardly a memento able to help in such a difficult situation.

Ashes are not meant to bring people together.

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

After 2 Hours

“Hi,” The King of Gotham drags his feet on the porch and takes a sit on the chair next to yours.

“Hi…” you whisper, surprised to spot him after such a long absence.

Complete silence, then he utters:

“I’m here for the cake,” he points at the sweet treat resting on the wood table: vanilla- strawberry combo, your daughter’s favorite.

“Are you?”

“Yeah, I crave the taste…”

You lean over and cut two slices, sharing Emma’s birthday cake with her dad. It’s really painful to swallow the morsels knowing your baby can’t; it seems J is in the same boat.

“I can’t make anybody happy…” The Clown mumbles under his breath and the randomness of his statement makes you wonder what’s going on in his mind.

“Me neither… Sweet Pea was happy, wasn’t she? She was a happy kid…”

The Joker moves his plate towards you, hissing:

“She was and she would still be with us if instead of flirting you would have watched her!”  

“… … W- what?!...” you glare at him, astonished he has the nerve to pop up and hurt you in such a manner. “Since when talking to somebody is flirting?! Where were you, huh? Where were you??? In your goddamn office plotting more schemes in order to get more money because nothing is enough!” you raise your voice and burst out crying in the next second. “She was ours to protect, the only treasure that mattered! I just… I just took my eyes off her for a few moments, I had no idea my baby was drowning in that pool …” you keep sobbing at the horrible memory, heartbroken. “I could have save her…Why didn’t I…?…”

The Joker can’t understand what you’re saying anymore, yet he doesn’t reply to your accusations or remorseful confessions.

How could he?

He’s equally responsible for Emma’s demise but it’s easier to attack her mother.

You abruptly get up and rush inside the cottage, abandoning J to his own demons. He doesn’t know if he should bail or stay, thus he continues to gaze at the lake numb to everything.

Still… The quietness is becoming unbearable so he finally gathers the strength to stand up and search for you.

“Y/N?...” he shouts. “Where are you?”

Silly question since the cabin is a little area with a kitchen/living room combo, one bedroom and bathroom: easy to find what you’re looking for.

No response but the shower is on which queues him Y/N must be there.

The Joker approaches the bathtub, unwilling to remove the curtain and talk to you face to face.

“It was my fault too…” he admits a fact that tormented him since the accident. “I should have kept an eye on her… I couldn’t predict she’ll sneak out to play by the swimming pool… I would give away a fortune if I could fix it… Do you believe me?...”

You sniffle and cover your mouth, trying to avoid his trap: if you engage, he will probably bite more and that’s the last thing you need.

“I have Charlie in the car; I thought you might want him tonight,” J reveals the true purpose of his visit. “Drop him off tomorrow at 3pm, I’ll be at the warehouse on 17Th Street. You can’t have the toy, it belongs in her room…”

You hear his steps receding and gasp for air, completely crushed by despair: the agony of grief is stronger than any consolation a stupid purple hippo could offer.

But it was Emma’s favorite and The Joker is willing to share a token of what you both lost; now that you think about it… you really missed Charlie…

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

Next Day, 2:05pm

“Where’s everybody?” you mutter whilst entering the code at the gates. Usually there are at least 8 henchmen guarding the fence and no sign of them so far. You drive up the unpaved alley, curiously checking out the landscape: same trees, bushes and trucks you’re familiar with, except you can’t discern a single goon patrolling the perimeter.

You honk to get the crew’s assistance without any success and you wonder if The Joker tricked you; I mean, you should have seen it coming: he is probably attempting one of his convoluted strategies to punish you for the tragic past.

You stop in front of the building, intrigued to notice it appears deserted.

Suddenly, a powerful blast shakes the ground and you watch part of the roof collapsing on the north side; a few windows shatter also.

You jump out of the car, totally confused at the strange occurrence.

“Hello?” you yell. “J???”

There’s smoke coming out of the opened metal door and you hesitantly walk in the warehouse, coughing at the suffocating odor.

“J?...” you scream. “J!!!!!”

A faint knock in the distance prompts your attention.

“Y/N!!”

“J??” you run towards the source of the noise only to find him under rubble next to the south entrance. “Oh my God!” you kneel by his feet buried under bricks. “What happened?!” The Queen frantically removes debris as he groans in pain.

“Explosives, that’s what happened. Shit, I think I fucked up my legs!”

“Where are the guys??!!” you inquire, managing to free his feet enough for him to move.

“I gave them the day off,” The Joker’s explanation puzzles Y/N. “Hurry up, please!! Another detonation will follow shortly!”

“Jesus Christ!” you quicken the pace and push the last bricks out of the way. “Can you stand?”

J rolls on his side, unable to comply.

“No, you’ll have to haul me out of here!”

“Come on!” you place your hands under his underarms and start pulling. “The exit is right there!”

You huff while straining to get to safety as The Clown aims to aid by lifting his body off the ground as much as he can.

“Behind the truck!” he urges once you’re out of the premises and you barely have time to hide behind the vehicle when a second bang levels half of the construction.

“This didn’t go according to plan,” J admits in a low tone, panting a storm after the ordeal.

You asses his wounds, pressing on the ankle and he immediately growls.

“The bone’s fractured,” you wipe your sweaty forehead.  “What plan?”

“It’s actually your fault for all of this; I told you to swing by at 3 o’clock. You’re early!”

“Huh?”

“You were supposed to come when I told you then boom! Before you reached the building it would go up in flames: you would flip thinking that I’m dead and then I’ll show up and ask you to come back home. You would be so excited to see I’m alive you couldn’t refuse. Yet you ruined everything: you appeared out of nowhere, I panicked and messed up: you know I’m not good with this stuff!!”

You can’t even process the plot he’s throwing your way.

“What kind of plan…”

“I just told you I’m not good at this stuff,” he interrupts. “You know I’m not.”

You touch your chest, baffled at the ridiculous story.

“My pendant!” you exclaim when you realize the chain is not around your neck anymore. “It’s gone!” Y/N desperately searches the grass. “My baby, where’s my baby?” you part the green lawn on the verge of crying. “I can’t find my pendant! Maybe I dropped it the building,” you whimper and prepare to flee when J grabs your jeans, firmly holding on.

“Don’t go; the poles might cave in and whatever is left standing will squash you!!”

You don’t comprehend why he’s so worked up and his plea catches you off guard:

“Don’t go! I’ll give you half my ashes, ok?”

The Queen debates on The King’s proposal, conflicted by his candid offer.

After all, if ashes tear people apart, how come they can’t bring them back together?

Also read: MASTERLIST

https://diyunho.tumblr.com/post/153664676321/joker-x-reader-masterlist

You can also follow me on Ao3 and wattpad under the same blog name: DiYunho.