#it’s more so about the feeling of loss/grief & overwhelming guilt of knowing you failed someone very dear to you

[daeyumi]

Broken oaths and forgotten dreams 💧

[subzeroparade]

What do you think about Gehrman and Maria? Do you think he was the one to create the Doll? And why she is like this? I always felt like Gehrman couldn't stand her when she became aliv acted soulless while looking like Maria. Themes of trying to return the dead person and making things only worse are so 👌

There have been some good discussions about this already, and I want to be as nuanced as possible on the spectrum of Gehrman is a creep to -> Gehrman's intentions with the Doll are irreproachably pure. I think the Doll is exactly what it would be if we slap a Victorian material culture reading on it: a mourning doll. A object made to carry social meaning, in this case the act of working through grief.

Shoving the rest of this under a cut for length.

I read Gehrman and Maria's relationship as a pretty intense platonic love: devoid of eros, or physical intimacy, but driven more by the familial/committed love of pragma (long-term companionship) or storge (instinctual, unconditional love of a parent for a child); or the kind of unquestioning devotion of oneself to their mentor implied in guru-bhakti if we want to change cultural metaphors. I like the idea that Maria was deeply isolated when she came from Cainhurst and that Gehrman acted as her warden - which implies an age difference - and eventually became her teacher/mentor, bolstered by a strong, familial undercurrent, keeping with the idea that her safety and well-being remained his responsibility.

Which is why it seems plausible that her sudden death would drive him to create something like the Doll in an act of intense, guilt-tinged grief (gone somewhat awry, if you subscribe to the idea that Flora animates the Doll because it feels pity for Gehrman? It's a way to keep him chained to the Dream? It's a wee bit sadistic? Take your pick.) There are a multitude of ways to read the Doll's overt femininity and domesticity (again, you don't need to be a Victorianist to understand the obvious juxtaposition of the Doll's visual and material cues of femininity and Maria's overt masculinity in her actions/presentation). In part I like to read Gehrman's decision to craft the Doll in this way as a (failed, desperate, contrite) way to retroactively safekeep the idea of Maria. The only way to have kept Maria from these horrors and their consequences would have been to literally shackle her to her femininity - implied by the Doll's dress and domesticity, the sphere of the home, servitude, and so on. But the real Maria would never have agreed to such a thing, or wanted it - and so we get this kind of twisted, penitent object of what it would have taken to keep Maria safe. The Doll is a reminder to Gehrman of what he could not do, a shadow of what Maria never was. If you've experienced intense grief after the loss of someone close, you know that grieving never works the way you think it will. You know that you might suddenly reject things associated with the departed, or cling to certain things without reason or logic, or be overwhelmed with absence and try to fill it in the worst possible ways. I think all these apply here. Grieving is messy and hideous and never-ending, and I think the Doll is a perfect sort of allegory for that.

And I think Gehrman telling you to use the Doll "as you please" can be read with a fair amount of nuance, too. For me it speaks to a sort of ill-concealed disgust at what he's made, even as it was supposed to be in the loving image of one of the people he cared for the most - and should have protected but failed to do so. His own reminder that it's not Maria - it barely does justice to the memory of Maria, if we're being honest - and so it's an object, to be used. As you said, the idea of "trying to return someone from the dead and making it worse" - yeah. It's not galvanism and she's not Frankenstein's monster, but we're not so far away in the repertory of Victorian horror tropes, either. The Doll is peak unheimlich - with an all-the-more icky double-meaning when you take into account the unheimlich's origins as an idea meaning not homely, here applied to an object meant to evoke the Victorian ideal of domestic womanhood.

I also think, in the timeline, that the creation of the Doll was one of the last things Gehrman did before he agreed to whatever "deal" was made with the Moon Presence to evoke the Hunter's Dream. In that sense the Doll represents a failure in the grieving process, an inability to forgive himself, and the slow whittling away of his willingness to keep living in this waking world that took Maria from him. It's one of the ultimate ironies of Gehrman that make him such an interesting but classically tragic character: I feel he's one of the characters most intimately accepting of his own mortality. He's tired, he's ready to die, and he's okay with that - but of all those people he loved and tried to protect, he's the last one left "alive", so to speak, if you consider his inner circle by the time we get to the game.

I have no idea if that answered your question but that's all I got right now. Thanks for coming to my ted talk.

[whump-me-all-night-long]

The Jewelry Box: Carnelian’s Undoing

my contribution to Spiral Day, started by @brutal-nemesis

Did I cry while writing this? Absolutely, it was like Niagara Falls over here. This is probably one of the most emotionally draining pieces I’ve ever written. It took me several different sessions, spread out over quite a few days, to get it completed. It’s also one of those where I feel like it’ll never be really and truly ready, so here it is anyways. I hope y’all enjoy it because this was one piece that I was extremely nervous to post and share.

Taglist: @newbornwhumperfly @unicornscotty @itsleighlove @whump-scribbles @getyourwhumphere @skunkandgrenade @penny-for-your-whump @lektric-whump @just-a-whump-lover @thelazywitchphotographer @restrainthenmaime @angstyachesplus @lilbitwhumpy @leaderofthebeanarmy @aquard-skaii @whumprincess @thatgaysnail @finaldreams1106 @reveriedeludesme @kemonoinuzuka @circlingravens @whumpasaurus101 @spicy-wendigo @femmewithadhd @wafflestakethecake @lonesome–hunter @as-a-matter-of-whump let me know if you want to be added/removed!

CW: thoughts of death, like so many thoughts about death, that’s basically the entire piece, acceptance of death (not in a suicidal way, more in a “I’m okay with dying” type way), beating, painful wound cleanings, noncon touching (nonsexual), implied death (but no real death), referenced grief, intimate whumper, creepy whumper, pet whump, being sold, noncon drugging, please please please let me know if I missed anything, this is a rather heavy piece and I want to make sure everyone can read it as safely as possible!

Masterlist

-

He was laying there, unable to move, every single inch of his body aching, a pain he’d never experienced before. Distantly, as if from another life, he heard screams, sobs, pleas that went unanswered. He wanted to move, to get up and comfort the person that had become his entire world, but he was stuck; he couldn’t move a fraction of an inch, no matter how hard he tried.

Soon enough, the horrible sounds of grief and guilt and death were replaced by the shallow, near-silent rattle of his own breath and the pounding of blood in his ears. He knew there was something important that he needed to do, something that he knew his life depended on, but he couldn’t remember what.

So instead, he just stayed there, his broken body sprawled out on the hard floor, blood pooling out from under him like a halo of death.

-

There was movement around him, stirring him from the half-conscious daze he was in, delirious from pain and blood loss. He blinked slowly, vision so blurry he couldn’t make out a thing, surprised to find his eyelashes meeting something wet.

Am I crying? When did I start crying?

A hand in his hair pulled his head up, the part that had been pressed into the floor feeling damp and sticky. Dark eyes met his own glazed gaze, and he saw the flash of teeth. He would’ve flinched if he could, but he couldn’t. 

“Hey there, sugar,” a low, soft voice said. “You took your punishment so well. Played your part like a champ. Now my sweetheart’s breaking, all thanks to you. I knew you’d be absolutely perfect.”

For some reason, he started crying harder at that. No, he thought, I didn’t want to do this. You made me do this. He can’t break, not now. 

Not over me.

The other dropped his head back down, and he went back to drifting, letting all the thoughts fall out of his head.

-

He woke next to the tap tap tap of footsteps. Blinking groggily, he tried to sit up, tried to get up, but the pain lancing through his body prevented him from doing more than rolling over a couple inches. 

A shiny shoe resting on his cheek, pressing his head down, kept him from attempting it again. A face settled in his line of sight, and his lip curled.

The Jeweler stared at him for a moment, a pleasant smile on his face. “Hello, sugar,” he said, removing his foot and replacing it with his hand, which stroked his face in a way that made him want to push him off, but his body was still not responding to him.

He swallowed several times before cracking open his mouth. “What-” His voice was rough and hoarse, sending a cough through him. “What did you do to, to me? Where- where is he?” Panic started overwhelming him, crashing over him and pulling him down, drowning him.

He couldn’t remember anything. He had been in his cell, whispering with his world, and then there was nothingness, blankness, emptiness. Tears pricked in his eyes, and he took a shaky, shuddering breath that ended up sounding like a sob. 

The Jeweler moved his hand to comb through his hair, still softly smiling. “Shh, shh,” he soothed. “Don’t you worry your pretty little head about any of that. You don’t need to remember any of this. What you need is to forget. You’re going someplace new, and you’re leaving all of this behind. Okay, sugar?”

He tried to shake his head, but it was barely more than a twitch. No, no I don’t want that. Please, don’t kill me, don’t make me leave, I can’t leave him, please.

The Jeweler laughed softly. “My silly sugar,” he said, voice dripping with condescension. “Just relax, okay?”

“Please,” he managed to whisper before his head was set back down.

The Jeweler stood, grabbing something out of his line of sight. When he did see what it was, the fat tears rolled down his face even harder. The large needle, filled with a menacing amber liquid, came close to his neck, piercing it easily with him weak and nearly paralyzed. His mouth opened to whine softly at the cold flooding into him, before it withdrew and was left alone again.

His eyes found the Jeweler and he sobbed, begging, “Please, not this, anything but this.” He just smiled.

-

He didn’t so much as wake up next as he did rise to consciousness, suddenly and roughly. Hands, too many hands, were touching him, grabbing him, manhandling him.

A low groan slipped out of him as he tried and failed to open his eyes and he heard a muttered curse. 

“It wasn’t supposed to wear off yet, was it?” someone asked in a hushed voice.

“Who cares?” someone else responded. “It’s not like it’ll remember any of this anyways.”

He whimpered and the hands resumed their work. He could feel them harshly cleaning out his wounds, bandaging them up. The people surrounding him were thorough, his gently throbbing muscles telling him that much, and it felt like an eternity before they were done.

He sighed as they set him back down, ready to slip back off to oblivion, but then they were back, pulling at his clothing, taking it off-

He yelped as the cold air hit his sensitive skin, struggling against the hands. Weak as he was, it barely affected them, but he still heard several more curses as flailing limbs knocked into them. A backhanded slap had him stilling, though, knocking all the fight out of him and leaving him even more dizzy and disoriented than he was before.

He let them pull new clothes onto him, although they felt less like clothes and more like scraps of cold, thin cloth that barely covered him. He shivered and whimpered, high in his throat, face burning, desperately wishing he was anywhere else in the world.

Another voice joined the fray, this one too painfully familiar. “Is he ready?”

A chorus of “yes, sir”s followed, and then hands grabbed at his arms, lifting him up and dragging him along. His head rolled wildly, completely out of his control.

After what felt like an eternity, he was dropped yet again onto cold floors, crumpled in a heap. He whimpered as his head knocked against the hard tile, eyes struggling to stay open. 

Distantly, he heard the Jeweler barking orders. He let the words wash over him, floating around him, unable to pierce his drug-induced bubble of semi-consciousness. 

Instead, he let his thoughts drift back to him. The him that had started all of this, that he’d known since day one, that had helped him and held him, guided him and encouraged him. The him that had loved him. The him that he had loved.

It took him several moments to realize that he was crying again, silent, salty tears dripping down his face, causing the small cuts littering his skin to burn faintly. He knew he was about to die. He wasn’t scared. Angry, yes. Sad, yes. But scared? No, he wasn’t scared of death at all.

He used to be scared of being stuck in this hell on earth for the rest of his life, of never escaping, always stuck in this stasis. Now, he was scared of leaving him behind, not knowing what was going to happen to the person he was about to die for. Wherever he went after this, he didn’t want him to follow very quickly.

No, he wanted him to escape, to forget, to live. He wanted him to find someone else, someone new, to make him happy, who understood and forgave. Maybe one day he’d tell this new person about the old one, the one who had been sacrificed to get him there. 

There was only one regret he had. The one thing they’d sworn never to say, he wished he had said. And he wished he had heard it in return.

I promise, if I make it out of this, the first thing I’ll do when I escape - when, not if - is find you and tell you that I lo-

He was yanked out of his thoughts by hands grabbing him, lifting him. One last tear rolled down his face, into his hairline. He took a deep breath, one of his last. He felt ready to die. He didn’t mind dying, not for this reason.

He wondered, vaguely, how he would go. Would it be a bullet? Fire? Knife? Poison?

It was none of those things. 

He was placed inside a large wooden box. His hands were easily tied behind his back with what felt like silky ropes, and his ankles were forced together with the same material. A cloth gag was placed in his mouth, securely fastened around his head. He blinked slowly, confusion evident on his face. This wasn’t how this was supposed to go.

Somewhere above him, the Jeweler stood, seen through flashes of dark hair and pale skin, sparkling teeth and bright eyes. He reached down into the box to cup his cheek, stroking a smooth thumb over his skin, pressing lightly into a blooming bruise there.

“Just a bit beat up, right, sugar?” he said, almost.. gently? “By the time you get there, you’ll be nearly back to full health, I dare say.” There? Where was there? “Just close your eyes now, and stay calm, alright? You’re doing such a good job here, making me a wonderful sum along with a new business associate. You’ve really been the perfect Jewel for me, sugar.”

The hand withdrew, and he almost found himself missing the warmth of it when the light above him was cut off, something large being placed over the top of the box. It wasn’t until a painfully loud whirring sound started that he realized that it was the lid, and it was being drilled down, secure and unable to be broken.

Then the box was being lifted into the air and he went rolling as much as he could, unable to stop himself due to his restrained limbs. There was a hard thump and he banged his head against the side of the box, immediately losing consciousness.

-

When he woke up next, he was still in the box. It seemed like it was in some sort of plane, gliding smoothly through the air, occasionally tilting to one side or the other. He breathed in a ragged breath, most of his memories coming back to him. As he struggled to pull himself up into somewhat of a sitting position, he remembered three things, three very important things:

One. His name was Carnelian. He’d all but forgotten the name he had before that. The name that mattered was Carnelian.

Two. He was supposed to be dead, but he wasn’t. Instead, he was being sold, shipped off to God knows where, to God knows who.

Three. He had to get back to Sapphire. He had to find the love of his life again, rescue him and tell him that he loved him.

[prof-peach]

Hello professor, I have a pretty heavy question I’m afraid, but I’m running out of people to ask, so I’ll try my best to keep it PG13.

It’s my Mienshao, Daisy. Up until recently, she and I were members of a police task force tasked with rooting out illegal Pokemon smuggling rings and underground high stakes tournaments. We’ve been partners for a long time, me and Daisy, we grew up together, and I dare say we made a great team. But then things went wrong.

For the sake of security I can’t go into too much detail, but we were participating in a raid when we got ambushed. Someone must have tipped the smugglers off, because they were waiting for us when we got there. During the firefight, there was an explosion, a gas tank got set on fire by a charizard, I believe, and Daisy and I happened to be close. She got out with a few minor burns and scrapes, I... Did not.

I’ll spare you the gory details, but I have been confined to a wheel chair ever since, and I am due to be fitted for a prosthetic leg next week.

I won’t lie, the transition has been hard for everybody, me, my friends, my family. My other Pokémon have been hovering around me like over protective nannies for weeks. But I think out of all of us, Daisy has been taking it the hardest. Half of the day she spends locked to my side like a bodyguard, threatening to punch anyone that gets too close into oblivion. And the other half, well...

She’s started putting herself through some kind of hellish self training routine. Doing katas until she all but collapses from exhaustion, running laps for hours, fighting every Pokemon she can convince to fight, wild or trained. Daisy’s always been tough, and she’s always loved training, but this... This isn’t training, it’s a death march. I’m getting extremely worried, and that’s not even everything!

She’s stopped eating her favorite foods, deliberately choosing ones I know she hates, she won’t let me pet her anymore, she just steps out of reach, trying not to look at me. But most worryingly, she’s started cutting off her whiskers. She’s always been so proud of her whiskers, she groomed them every day, always got grumpy when I teased her for having a big ol’ mustache. Now anytime they get longer than an inch, she slices them off with her claws and throws them in fireplace, like some kind ceromony.

I’m almost certain Daisy feels guilty for coming out mostly unscathed, when I didn’t. She’s always been a bit protective, even before we joined the police, and she’s saved my life multiple times out in the field, but now she feels like she’s failed me, I think. I’ve tried to convince her that it wasn’t her fault, but that only seems to redouble her efforts. I’m terrified she’s going to burn herself out if she keeps going like this, and I don’t know what to do.

I know this is a pretty heavy question, but I I’m not sure who else to ask. Is there anything I can do to convince her that she doesn’t need to hurt herself like this? Or, something? Just anything to help! Losing my leg was jarring, but losing Daisy would be unbearable!... I just... I just want my best friend to be okay.

I am sorry for what you’ve been through, I cannot begin to understand what it’s like to be in your shoes, but like all recovery, physical or mental, this will take a fair bit of time to get past, you both may never fully return to how things were, but it can get better and you can both return to a full life together with work and dedication.

I’ve certainly seen Pokemon go to extreme lengths after dangerous incidents to protect their loved ones or themselves, in this case it would be wise to assume your pokemons suffering with a hefty bill of PTSD, and needs some actual therapy to handle the feelings and thoughts they’re having. We have facilities to accommodate that if you’re local to Johto, but most Pokemon centres will be able to put you in contact with reliable and certified practices to begin unravelling the issues that now plague Daisy.

That she considers herself to have come away reasonably unscathed is not true, yes your life has physically changed, but she needs to step back and take a look at her life too. Everything’s different now, and more specifically how she’s treating herself and handling her feelings. If that’s not trauma and injury, I don’t know what else it could be. You both came away with damage that day, physical or not. The first step is to help her see that, and to begin to understand that despite this all, you can both continue to move forward together if you can overcome the injury together, it is an event you shared, and you two can aid each others recovery with time and care.

There’s some seriously gifted therapists out there, those who study for years and can help far more than me, they’ll take time to break down the events, and start to really get into the feelings that your partner is going through. The cycle for Daisy right now comes around to self-punishment, and seems to be stuck on a loop. She needs time and space to process her feelings of guilt, grief, fear and loss, facing them instead of burying herself in her rigorous training. While it is difficult to discuss, you two have a strong bond that means you could talk with her. Try to remind her who’s truly responsible, she may be blaming herself, which is pretty common in these situations, but at the root of it, you were doing your routine job, and the bad guys, the Pokemon smugglers and goons are to blame. THEY caused the issue, not her, and while it may not sink in right away it’s worth saying, and sticking to. You said you told her that it wasn’t her fault, which is the gut reaction, perhaps giving her a logical target instead of herself will work better for now. Reiterating the true issue, and taking the heat off of her may help with other tasks such as self care, later down the recovery road.

Her guilt will feel terrible, but it kind of works as a protector, keeping her distanced from the worse, more overwhelming feelings of helplessness and powerlessness. In fact the guilt that masks this all will slowly make things worse over time. That underlying intense emotion below the guilt is what you both need to work through, but more than anything, she needs to face it, in her own time, come to terms with it, and eventually (hopefully) come to an understanding that life is an endless cycle of events, things will happen, but you have to pick yourself up and turn the lemons into lemonade. She could have lost you that day, that you came away with your life is a miracle, and now you two get more time together because of that. Luck isn’t something that runs out, it’s not like there’s only so much of it to go around, it is like wining the lottery. Sometimes 20 people win, other times no one does. It’s hard to accept, but there’s no greater order to stuff that happens, but when we can come to this conclusion, it’s oddly freeing. I’ve seen a fair few Pokemon in a symilar state who can move on when they realise there’s an odd randomness to the world and everything that goes on.

This is a job for someone with far greater skills than I, but you must help her by also looking after yourself, laugh when you can, show her that your life is still very full, and that you have loved ones, and joy to share with others. You mentioned that you’re due a prosthetic, and though the transition will be long and no doubt a little difficult at first, getting yourself back on two feet (kind of) will show her, and your other Pokemon that you’re willing to move forward. I think there’s a lot to be said about talking during this all. She wants to fight, to be strong, if this is how she’s going to cope, fine. If she’s out training, sit with her, spend whatever time you can by her side, as she’s taking this the hardest. You don’t have to say a thing, just try to do your best, without putting yourself in too much discomfort or pain. Reminding her who would be devastated if it had been her who got hurt, if she was not around, may help ground her back in reality a bit. You both got granted a gift that day, you came away alive, if she works so hard she burns out, that gift was wasted. She can use her kindness, and strength to help you, she can pass her knowledge and skill forward, but it’s hard to help others, and do your best if you’re exhausted beyond reason. Kind of like trying to give people bread from a basket but the damn basket is empty yknow? You got to take time to refill so you can help those around you again, so you have some bread to give. I know, probably sounds a little dumb but it’s always been the way I remember it.

Another very useful thing I’ve found with trauma survivors would be meeting others who have been in the same position. There’s plenty of support groups for both people and Pokemon who have been through events that left them in a difficult situation, emotionally and physically. Even here at the lab we have many species who have been left without limbs, with life changing damage, and a lot of them also have the emotional trauma too. She would probably do well to spend time with them, you can send her to a resort to retreat and recoup erase, mix with others who were just as angry as she is now, or you can take time to go with her to groups to interact with others. It’s one thing to have humans help, but it’s a whole other level of connection when Pokemon can help their own. They bond quicker, trust faster, and generally are more open to listening when it’s coming from a place of mutual experience. If she had time to talk to pokemon who actually lost their trainers, or parts of themselves, she may find some peace, even if only temporarily.

Don’t mention the whiskers, and where possible don’t offer her foods she actively likes, but also not ones she actively dislikes. Just for now. Start the ball rolling with just plain simple things that are neither good or bad. Indifferent is better than bad right now, the punishment she’s inflicting on herself will need addressing further, so contact a therapist, they use Rotom or porygon to translate from poke-speech to human language, and the repair can begin with a registered professional. My advice is not sound proof, I certainly feel like I have missed something important, it’s a big response, but it’s a start in the right direction, and should you come up to any further issues, message back and update us with what’s going on. With work you two will be on track to recover. Remember, patience is the biggest thing here, you two have history, and a therapist will no doubt take the sessions as a pair, and work with you to help Daisy feel less guilty over time. I hope you both find peace, and that both of you repair in due time. Good luck with the new leg, a step towards recovery for sure.

[soukokuwu]

Hi I’m really sorry I know you’re probably busy and don’t just do urgent fics for anyone but this one’s quite urgent, um if it’s not triggering for you of course, could you please do Chuuya walking in on his S/O s*lf h*rming? It doesn’t have to be long, just something comforting please, again I completely understand if you can’t it’s just a bit urgent, either way thank you I appreciate it ❤️

in your head.

     genre. angst (fluff at the end ofc)      warnings. self harm, blood      synopsis. all of us have breaking points, but you have a saviour in the form of love.      word count. 1.4k      author notes. no, dw anony <3 i’m perfectly okay with writing this, you gave me a chance to vent a little too so thank you as well, and i hope this is ok!!

some days you think you’re strong enough to take it; all the rage, all the frustration, all the pain. some days you break and let them consume you. it’s natural, you’re only human after all. what’s dangerous about the latter is the possible extent to which it breaks you. because one moment you find yourself completely fine, feeling like you have the strength to take on the entire world.

other days, before you know it, you might already be half a step into the abyss.

today is one of those days.

you can’t explain why; it just is. is it because you’ve spent too long in the light? you’ve spent too long of a time shoving the thoughts into the back of your mind so in the end it all comes spilling out anyway? what’s worse then — breaking every single day a little bit at a time, or just crumbling into ashes all at once?

not that the answer matters. because you still hurt. everything’s screwed up, and no amount of effort will change anything, will it? no amount of trying will ever get rid of the loss, the grief, the guilt you feel. and you’re caught between two lines: to keep living and torturing yourself (which you think you deserve), or to just end it all and return to the beginning of life itself in death? the latter is a form of escape, though. do you really deserve it?

you can’t really explain the turmoil that goes on in your head. but it irritates the heck out of you. it hurts, and it will keep hurting. but it’s not like you can shut off your thoughts just like that.

maybe this is why the razor cuts deeper and deeper as you go. because the more you think, the larger the amount of pain you need to translate from emotional to physical. at least with physical pain, you’re distracted enough not to think.

how long has it been since you’ve done this? way too long. you’ve had your own personal crutch — your boyfriend. and immediately you feel an overwhelming amount of guilt rush over you. it isn’t alleviated when the next moment, you can hear his footsteps rushing over to you, the thumping all you can hear. or is that the drumming of your heart in your ears?

you don’t know. you really don’t know, you barely know anything.

all you can say for sure is that there is an unsightly amount of blood on the bathroom floor. you can’t even remember how long you’ve been sitting here piling slit on top of slit on top of slit. your arm is sore, and your fingers are sore too. you don’t even realise how much you’re crying until you turn to look at your boyfriend and all you can see is his striking orange hair all blurred into one with his face and those cerulean eyes.

and you cry even more because you think he doesn’t deserve this — he’s been so good to you. he doesn’t deserve having to worry over someone so pathetic, right?

but as always, he always seems to know what to do. and no, you don’t mean the fact that he’d thrown the razor aside the minute he got to you, or the fact that he disregards the blood staining his pants as he tries to clean your wounds.

it’s how he doesn’t pile on your guilt. no mention of “what the fuck did you do” or “what happened” because he doesn’t want to make you feel more overwhelmed than you already are. all he does is let you calm down as you nestle against his chest while he wraps your arm in a bandage, slowly, carefully, gently.

“i don’t deserve you, chuuya,” you let slip. you’re a little drowsy, and he knows it. after all, you’d lost a lot of blood. he makes a mental reminder to get the mafia doctor in to see you as soon as possible, but for now he has to put your emotions first. besides, he’s confident enough in his skills that you’d be okay for now, as long as you get some water in you and rest.

he smiles at you, poking your nose with his gloved finger before hoisting you in his arms and carries you to the bed. he doesn’t even care about the stains that get on his sheets. he just wants you comfortable. it’s not chuuya’s first time dealing with difficulties. although, this is the first time he’s seen your harm yourself. don’t get him wrong, though. he’s internally panicking, but he can’t show you that. it’ll make things worse, wouldn’t it?

honestly, he finds it weird how he knows what to do in this situation. how he doesn’t let his fear take over him. not that he lets himself ponder about it. he’s more concerned with what you’re upset about. but you both know — you’re not one to share so easily. even if he is your boyfriend of a year.

you’re amazed, actually, at how patient he is with you. considering he’s not much of it in anything else. never once has he actually pressured you to share anything. he’s asked you about it, but he’s quick to assure you that you don’t have to say a thing you aren’t comfortable with saying.

“you know, i’m so scared,” chuuya confesses as he sets down the glass of water on the nightstand after you take a big gulp. he sits himself next to you, and you allow him to wrap an arm around you, getting under the sheets, making you feel all warm and cosy.

“i’m so scared of losing you,” he explains, fingers now twirling your hair. “and i don’t know what’s going on in that pretty little head of yours, princess, but can i be selfish this one time and ask you to please, let me share that pain with you?”

you don’t miss the slight quiver in his tone. he’s close to cracking, but he’s trying not to — just for you. and maybe he’s not the best person to try and ‘cheer someone up’, but oh god, to you? his patience and understanding is more than enough. and he’s never once failed at it.

chuuya hugs you tighter now. you can smell the faint hint of cigarettes lingering on his skin, and while you’re normally not a fan of it, oddly enough, it smells like home. your home.

no man is an island. and it’ll probably take more than anyone can imagine to make you feel okay again, if it’s even possible at all. but sometimes people lose sight of what’s important. sometimes, some people try — and that’s already more than what you can ask for. because not everyone has the patience for it.

“i love you, baby,” he whispers as he plants a long kiss on your head, “i love you and i would do anything for you. so just — just stay with me as long as you can, okay?”

never any sign of pressure. and you can feel the slight minification of the hurt you thought would never let up. right, that’s right. because in a world where no one owes anyone else a thing, sometimes a simple show of effort is a treasure in itself.

“chuuya, i know i’m not easy to be with —“

“you’re worth it, though.”

you giggle a little at how quick he is to assure you of that. it’s only miniscule, but you do feel your mood lightening a little.

“shut up,” you chide, embarrassed, burying your head in his chest, hearing the slight quickening of his heartbeat. “i know i’m not easy to be with, and i know you never ask anything of me, so i promise, chuuya. i promise you, i’ll try.”

you don’t even have to ask him anything, but you know that even if sometimes you fail at it, if sometimes you just break again and have a similar moment, that he’ll still be there for you, to assure you that you’re never alone.

“it’s you and me against the world, princess.”

tags. @yokelish @gogolparadise @fyowyn-writes @animatedarchives

[shootybangbang]

[Talking Bird] 17: In which beans are ruined

[Ao3 Link]

At the mention of Trelawney, Arthur dimly recalls a scrap of half-remembered conversation from last year, when he’d idled with the man in a Lemoyne saloon while waiting for a mark to arrive. The first flicker of your existence, passing him by unknown. Like the brief touch of a licked finger through candle flame: deceptively benign, with just a whisper of the burn to follow.

Somewhere between his first and second glass of whiskey sours, Trelawney had mentioned the burgeoning demand for opium in Chinatown. A former contact of his had recently left the high stakes poker circuit to get in on the profit, and he’d lamented the loss.

“It’s a shame,” he’d said, absently swirling the ice cubes in his emptied glass and regarding the swirling wood grain of the countertop with a pensive, faraway look. And for once, the sentiment had sounded genuine. Knowing him, the man was grieving a lost business opportunity more than anything else, but it’d been a long time since Arthur had heard him even bother to feign emotion for a stranger. “She’s not suited for smuggling in the least. Can’t say I can see this ending well.”

Less Trelawney’s gift for prophecy and more stating the obvious, now that he knows exactly who he’d been talking about. Prickly disposition, clueless when it comes to violence, and far too trusting of strangers. The cavalier attitude of someone who’d never been exposed to serious conflict and who, having since been exposed, lacks even the conviction necessary to put a bullet in the man holding her hostage.

And far too delicate besides.

When you’d pulled the blanket down your shoulders to untie your braid, Arthur had tilted his head back just enough to catch an eyeful of your backside. A pretty thing to put to paper: the wet swathe of hair draped over your shoulder, the faint shadow of your spine a dark curve flickering with the shifting of firelight. Soft, dappled lines wrapped in the body of someone who’s caused him nothing but grief in the past weeks.

The view had confirmed something he’d already been suspecting: your lack of threat to anything larger than a rat terrier.

Judging by your physique, you’d probably struggle to lift anything more than fifteen pounds. Maybe twenty, on a good day. A veritably pathetic amount of muscle tone with none of the etchings that rough living leaves behind.

Some foreign high society girl fallen on hard times, he guessed. But oddly, none of the clumsy caution people of that strata have when confronted with any sort of real work. You’d fallen into the rhythm of whittling bark off the cottonwood branches too comfortably for someone unacquainted with physical labor, handled the knife with a deftness that comes only from rote repetition.

“I knew Trelawney had connections to some gang out west, but I never thought…” You shake your head slowly, dazed by the absurdity of this new development. “Did he know? When I sold them those bonds, did he realize they were yours? And why—”

“Nah, he wouldn’t have known. I, uh… wasn’t too keen on tellin’ folk I got robbed by a woman.” He rubs the back of his neck and lets out an embarrassed huff. “Told ‘em the whole thing was a bust.”

Looking back, he may as well have told them the truth. The lie hadn’t done much to salvage his pride, and had prompted weeks of jibes at his own expense. Snide little asides from Micah, overt ridicule from Bill, and the painful ordeal of Sean.

“Gettin’ sloppy in your old age,” he’d quipped. “I’ll tell you what you need, Morgan. You need to let someone else hold the reins for a change. Someone quick on the uptake, someone young and hot-blooded and—”

“Get back to me when you’re done complimentin’ yourself,” Arthur had replied, already walking away.

“Wait, Morgan — take me with you next time you ride out! I’ll scout somethin’ out, and we can…”

Sean had been insistent as a mosquito and twice as annoying, but ultimately bearable so long as he had a beer in his hand or a pillow over his head. His own head, though he’d been sorely tempted otherwise.

No, what had really driven him to leave camp had been Dutch.

Dutch and his put-upon fatherly air, all stern mouthed disapproval and downward sloping shoulders. His pointed observations of Jack’s tattered jacket, well on its way to becoming a patchwork Ship of Theseus. Pearson’s dwindling supply of seasonings, so scarce that the stews have become bland to the point of near inedibility. The stocks of medicine running low, bandages boiled so many times that their fibers have since frayed to a cobwebbed consistency.

“I know you’re doing your best, son,” Dutch had sighed, casting a weary eye over his threadbare kingdom. “God knows you’re the only man I can depend on to get anything done around here. But folks are… well. Folks are struggling.”

Arthur’s eyes had slid momentarily towards Dutch’s tent, resting on the golden gleam of the gramophone and the crisp cotton sheets laid across the bed. An unbroken sea of white, with not a stitch out of place. And not twenty feet away, Hosea’s shabby lean-to, the older man’s bedroll bearing the same disjointed array of colors as the rest of the camp’s accoutrements.

Dutch always did have a taste for the finer things in life. A level of refinement proportionate to the depth of his ambition, which in earlier days had been tempered by kinder, simpler ideals. Feed those that need feeding. Shoot those that need shooting. Robin Hood-esque, with a western (and occasionally lethal) twist. Evelyn Miller had been a fixture even then, but in those halcyon years Dutch had not yet twisted the author’s words to the tottering worldview that he’s since constructed.

The gang’s nascent success had bred standards and attracted new followers. A ragtag flock all too eager to nourish their leader’s growing, malignant appetite for grandeur.

“Just one last score, and we’ll be clear of all this… this manmade rot.” Dutch said, gesturing in the direction of Blackwater. “But for now, we’ve got to play their game. Get our hands dirty for the time being so we can wash ourselves clean of all this when we’ve finally got the means.”

Arthur had departed under the pretense of retrieving the missing bonds (impossible) or locating some cache of similar value (near impossible), but in truth he’d done so primarily for the preservation of his own sanity. More and more these days, he’s been seeing cracks in the foundation of the man who’d given him this life, dragged him out of the gutter and set him with a previously unwavering sense of purpose. And it feels treacherous — traitorous, even — to take any of it into question.

But as always, the open road and the unabiding sky of the prairie settled him into a different mindset altogether. The cycles of flora and fauna in untouched wilderness exist completely separate from the artifices of men, with the legacies of countless tiny lives encapsulated in the fine grit of the dust to which all things return. And in that certainty comes an overwhelming comfort. Everything else seems trifling in the wake of the vast perpetuity of nature.

A few days spent wandering would do him good, he’d decided. Spend some time away from all the trappings of civilization, then rob some poor sap on the side of the road so as not to return empty-handed.

And then you’d ruined his plans entirely by literally walking into him as he’d been passing through Strawberry.

“Well,” you say, offering up a small, nervous smile. “What now?”

What now, indeed. Arthur pinches the bridge of his nose and closes his eyes. “Guess we take a visit to Trelawney’s,” he replies, already dreading the inevitable embarrassment of explaining the whole sorry situation to the man. “And if it turns out you’re tellin’ the truth, I’ll give you a ride from Rhodes to St Denis.”

You frown and furrow your brow. “Rhodes?”

“Yeah, Rhodes. Trelawney’s got a caravan there on the outskirts of town. You didn’t know?”

“You can’t take me to Rhodes,” you say automatically, as if stating the obvious. “I mean… look at me.”

“You’re a woman?” he asks stupidly.

“I’m an Oriental, you moron. And Rhodes is a fucking… it’s a fucking Raider town.”

“You’d be with me. I’ll keep you safe.”

You shake your head and set your mouth into a grim, flat line. “That’s worse. They might think we’re together. And they don’t take kindly to miscegenation.”

Your words have to them the quality of a veil being drawn back, exposing a corner of this country’s ugliness he’s not often been privy to. A familiar knot of guilt tugs at his innards, accompanied by the unpleasant, impotent sensation that surfaces each time he catches the ungracious stares of the crowd when walking into town with Tilly by his side. Each time he hears the practiced courtesy in a shopkeep’s voice drop away when the man turns away from him to address Charles. Each time he watches Lenny reread for the thousandth time the letter from his dead father, the creases in its paper worn so deep that it would have long since fallen apart were it not for the boy’s careful, reverent handling.

“You know those big plantation houses just south of Rhodes? They hire Chinese sometimes to work the fields. Cheaper than sharecropping, apparently.” The look on your face is drawn and bitter. The bite in your voice suggests something personal, the sting of an injury not yet healed. “One of the boys got involved with a white housemaid. He’d saved up for train tickets to Philadelphia, and they were… he was going to marry her there. Wanted an August wedding. The number eight’s lucky for us, you see. So August 8th, 1898… he thought it was all very romantic. Used to make this stupid joke that he wished he’d met her ten years earlier. Raiders strung him up in an oak tree a couple weeks before they were set to leave.”

Arthur’s tongue lies silent and heavy in his mouth.

You take in a deep breath that rattles with the failing determination of someone struggling not to break their composure, then look to him with a desperation so absolute that it seems almost indecent to witness. “Why don’t you just leave me here? Keep me tied up if you have to. Come back for me when you’re done with Trelawney.”

In the short span of time that he’s known you, you’ve made enough of an impression to warrant several conclusive classifications. A haughty, pampered little thing. An ineffective liar. A self-destructive fool — but not stupid. Definitely not stupid.

The sheer idiocy of your suggestion indicates a fear so deep that it’s completely severed you from your senses. Just a frightened little bird caught in a trap, scratching and clawing for the narrowest possible opening for escape.

“You’re tellin’ me to tie up a woman and leave her in the middle of nowhere? May as well just hand-deliver you to the wolves. No,” he says firmly, trying to shake off the unwanted pang of sympathy. Dutch had been right about one thing — the gang did need money, and he sure as hell wasn’t going to let this opportunity for it slip away out of misguided compassion for a woman who’d literally robbed him as he’d bled out. “I’ll tell you what we’ll do. Soon as we near Rhodes, I’ll tie you to Boadicea the same way I did when we left Strawberry.”

You blink and utter a disbelieving, “Excuse me, what?”

“Reckon they’ll treat us both a hell of a lot nicer if they think you’re a bounty. Gives me plenty excuse for keepin’ you in one piece, too.”

Your face ventures on a quick journey through the five stages of grief. The grief in question being for the loss of your dignity. The blank look shifts to a glare. You open your mouth to spit out something no doubt acerbic and very rude, but a flash of uncertainty crosses your face and you quickly bite your tongue. Then you lower your head and squeeze your eyes shut. When you finally open them again, there is a defeated resignation in them that attests to a lost mental argument.

“You better ride slow if you don’t want a repeat of this morning,” you say wearily.

Arthur shrugs. “Can’t throw up if you got nothin’ in your stomach. We’ll just skip feeding you breakfast tomorrow.”

To his relief, the atmosphere lightens to blessed, familiar hostility. You tell him to go fuck himself. That you’ll literally fight him for the apples you know he has tucked away in his saddlebags. That maybe you’ll throw up anyway purely out of spite. That he’s a miserable piece of shit who you wish—

A sudden flash of lightning illuminates the outcrop for a fraction of a second, painting everything beneath it into harsh shades of white and black. It strikes as sudden and violent as a fiery whip crack, leaving behind it the bittersweet scent of burnt grass and a curl of grey smoke like a departing ghost. Its near-simultaneous clap of thunder drowns out your last sentence with an ear splitting boom so encompassing that the vibration of it seems to rattle down to the bone. The silence that follows has in it the anticipatory hush of the void prior to Genesis. You shatter it with a quiet but appropriately placed, “Jesus Christ.”

The land outside is hedged low in the horizon, and the vastness of its sky swallows all else. It crowns as its dominating feature the movement of its anvil-shaped clouds. They shift leaden and portentous, translucent bellied and lit up by the jagged tongues of lightning darting throughout quick and sporadic as pale dragonflies. Roiling violet like the murky blood of some vast organism, pulsing membranous over the prairie with a fury of near biblical proportions. And below, the buttes with their strange eroded shapes like scattered islands in a black sea of grass. In the torrential dark, their silhouettes flash ivory with every strike of lightning only to sink back into the hushed umbra of night.

There is a muted look of awe on your face, as if witnessing for the first time the true scale of a storm. Something that before now had been glimpsed only through the gaps between high-shuttered buildings. Tempests caught in concrete snares and, not unlike the men that build them, diminished until they are but a feeble whisper of their former selves.

“It’s beautiful,” you murmur. “I never knew rain could be like this.”

With a jolt of displeasure, he finds that the soft expression on your face renders you unexpectedly pretty in the fire’s flickering light, the amber reflection of it bright as copper in your eyes. A gentle chiaroscuro, the smooth line of your cheek and shadowed hollow of your throat the anchor points to which his eye is drawn.

You shuffle a little closer to the outlook’s rain-veiled edge. The roughspun blanket, still drawn tightly around your shoulders, shifts. Arthur quickly averts his eyes, but even so is met with a sliver of bare skin that runs neck to navel. The subtle outline of a breast, the mild fishbone curve of a rib.

And all at once he’s unbearably, disastrously hard, filled with a painful but directionless longing — not just for intimacy, but for the simple reassurance of another body pressed close, skin to skin and breath to breath. A kind of tenderness he’s been deprived of for so long that the memory of it brings not warmth but the brittle cold of hoarfrost. Absence like a thick pane of ice, the things he’s lost visible just underneath.

From the periphery of his line of sight, you’re but an indistinct blur in the vague shape of a woman. How appropriate then, that you should be the focus of this formless arousal. And how infuriatingly pathetic. He hadn’t lied when he’d said you weren’t his type, and yet here he is, his cock stiffer than it’s been in months at just the suggestion of a woman’s naked body.

In desperate search of both distraction and something to obscure himself with, Arthur pulls back the front flap of his satchel and fishes out your blue notebook. He glances briefly in your direction, already anticipating your angry shout of indignation — but you’re far too occupied with watching the progression of the storm to so much as glance in his direction.

The notebook’s contents are far more legible than he’d initially assumed. Most of the foreign characters seem to be either names or places, which makes it possible for him to pick out the main thread of most sentences.

Its first half consists of what looks like a ledger. Neatly organized columns with foreign characters and numbers that he hasn’t the slightest idea how to parse. When he flips past it, a slip of paper scrawled with the same strange, flowing text flutters from the pages and alights delicately into his lap. Arthur picks it up, and as he examines it, it occurs to him that he has no idea how to orient it.

Prior to this, he’d only ever seen Chinese characters painted on the roadside food stalls accompanying railroad workers on their long trek westwards. A strange, complex syllabary. He’d once read somewhere that each word of the language had its own unique character. A sort of pictograph that, when studied, relays its meaning to those who knew how to read it.

He scrutinizes the slip of paper in his hand, but finds himself unable to pick out even the vaguest of resemblances. The corner of the paper bears a square seal of red ink, inset with an intricate consortium of straight lines. Curiosity spent for the moment, Arthur slots the document back in place.

The rest of the notebook looks to be an odd mixture of field observations and long, ornate paragraphs about various landscapes. A few pressed wildflowers, field observations of city flora and fauna, crudely drawn animals reminiscent of the scattered petroglyphs he’s found carved in long-abandoned settlements. An earmarked passage describing the wetlands bordering St Denis, full of strikethroughs and hastily added phrases squeezed into the margins. Another describing what sounds like Cotorra Springs.

“The amber fields are dotted with sprigs of larkspurs and wild flax like blue-violet stars,” Arthur reads aloud.

You turn to face him so quickly that your wet hair arcs through the air like an ink-stained brush, scattering water droplets that sizzle and hiss when they fall into the fire. Wild-eyed as a spooked horse, but frozen into a horrified silence as he licks his finger and traces the rest of the line across the page, continuing, “And even further north, viridian-blue pools from which rise plumes of white smoke, the water still and clear as glass. Hills of black obsidian —”

You scramble towards him and, while clutching the blanket around your shoulders shut with one hand, slap the notebook out of his grip with the other. It lands perilously close to the fire, but you snatch it up without giving a second thought to the nearness of the flames.

“That’s private,” you hiss, hugging the notebook to your chest the way one might accidentally smother an infant.

“Thought it was fair turnaround, seein’ as you never extended that same courtesy to me,” he retorts.

The memory of that miserable morning after surfaces in him like a bloated corpse too persistent to stay hidden. His billfold emptied, ill-gotten gains vanished, and his journal speckled with smeared, bloodied thumbprints from beginning to end. Above a sketch of a mountain wildflower he’d drawn a question mark next to, the word “crocus ?” written in an angular, jagged scrawl.

“Yeah, because I thought you were going to die!” you argue back. “Figured you probably had your next of kin listed somewhere in there!”

Next of kin. The phrase pierces through like a stitch popped out of place, and Arthur nearly flinches. It’s an unintentional blow on your part, but nevertheless he deflects the only way he knows how. When bitten, bite back.

“Oh that’s real charitable, comin’ from the dope-peddler,” he jeers. “You save this compassion for everyone you fuck over, or just me?”

A clear and unguarded expression of hurt crosses your features. The same you’d worn when he’d had to pry his shotgun out of your hands. Forlorn, helpless as a wounded prey animal. But it passes quickly into a cold disdain, your head raised high again and your eyes hard as flint.

“Do you know,” you say quietly, lip curling with contempt. “I seriously considered cutting your throat when I finally realized who you were. I should have.”

Then you blink, forehead wrinkling as you sniff at the air. You glance at the fire, where his forgotten can of beans is beginning to burn.

Arthur curses. He hastily swipes one of his discarded riding gloves from the grass and pulls it on, then grabs the can and blows on its contents, fanning away its delicate wisp of black smoke.

You retreat to the far inner corner of the outcrop and frantically page through the notebook until you find the red-sealed paper sheafed inside. With a sigh of relief, you slump against the rough granite wall, the tense set of your shoulders loosening as though some secret string stretched taut through the frame of your body had suddenly been cut loose.

A sullen silence permeates the shelter, punctuated only by the grating scratch of metal as he scrapes burnt food off the edges of the can with a spoon.

“You forgot to mention that the whole place smells like shit,” Arthur says finally. He keeps his eyes on the can, attention focused squarely on the arduous task of excavating beans.

“What?”

“Cotorra Springs. Smells like week-old shit. Especially around the pools.”

The rustle of blankets. From the corner of his eye, he watches you tentatively scoot closer. “You’ve been there?” you ask. Your voice is still deeply reproachful, but touched with genuine curiosity.

“You haven’t?”

“No. I’ve just seen pictures. And notes from people who have.”

“Huh,” he says. He scrapes another carbonized mouthful from the can. “Could’ve fooled me, the way you wrote about it.”

You raise your eyebrows. “You think so?”

“Sure.

The corner of your mouth quirks upwards in a reluctant smile that unfolds like the breaking light of a clouded dawn. “Well, that’s… that’s good to know.”

“You writin’ a book or something?” he asks.

“That’d be nice, wouldn’t it?” The smile wilts slightly, and you drop your gaze down to the notebook on your lap. “No. Just a favor for an old friend’s husband. The man fancies himself an explorer, but can barely string a sentence together. He’s paying me to pretty up his notes for him. Half of which I think are made up. There’s some bullshit in there about an enormous rainbow colored pond full of boiling water.”

Arthur laughs. “Naw, that bit’s true. I’ve seen it. It’s a hell of a thing.”

You seem skeptical. He doesn’t blame you. Even after having walked the rust-banded edge of that craterous spring himself, his memory of it still carries with it the preternatural awe of a place half-dreamed. He tells you about the slow gradation of color leading inwards from the rim. Ochre to cadmium, to turquoise, to a deep cerulean with the unreal brilliance of a painted ocean. Steam hanging like a pungent fog. Entire stretches of ground covered in a thick, boiling mud, bubbling ominous as something out of Dante’s Inferno. A constant gurgling of earth and water, as if he were treading upon some living thing in the midst of an infernal digestion.

Halfway through his description, you flip the notebook to a clean page and ask him for a pencil, then begin scribbling down his words with an unceasing, determined hand. This bemuses him. That anyone might find his drivel meaningful enough to commit to paper is a new experience altogether. It’s an odd feeling, but not at all an unpleasant one.

That is, until you begin peppering his narrative with so many questions that it takes the better part of an hour to accommodate them.

What kind of plants grew there?

“Bunch of disgusting slippery shit around the edge. Algae or something. Other than that, can’t think of a single thing that’d lay roots in boiling water and sulfur.”

Did the mud boil like roiling water, or was it more the viscosity of a slow simmering stew?

“More like wet cement, really.”

Were there animals?

“No. Nothing there for ‘em.”

Birds?

“Didn’t see any.”

Insects?

“A shit ton of gnats, but not much else.”

How wide were the prismatic bands around the crater? What was the geology like? Did the surrounding forest taper off gradually in the vicinity of the spring, or was the loss of vegetation sudden and absolute as a drawn border?

“Give me your notebook.” he says, having finally reached the point of exasperation. “Easier if I just draw it for you.”

To his faint surprise, you hand it over without hesitation. He sketches out what he’s able to recall, all the while acutely aware of the madness of the situation. Fucking illustrating an account of his own wanderings for the woman who robbed him while they both sit in varying states of undress. Scribbling out a messy landscape in the same notebook whose contents he’d derided just a little while ago. Focusing all his attention on Cotorra Springs so as to ward away the unfortunate possibility of another inopportune erection.

The mediocre drawing he finally manages to scratch out would have disappointed him under any other occasion. Instead, he feels a warm flood of relief at its conclusion. If this doesn’t shut you up, then nothing will.

Nothing will, it seems. To his immense chagrin, the drawing sparks another round of questions. After silently admiring his work just long enough to spark hope of your satiety, you ask him about the species of the trees. Had he explored the nearby forest? Were there flowers? What season had he visited in? Was the acrid smell of sulfur present even here?

“Look,” Arthur says wearily. “You clearly come from money. Why don’t you just hire someone out to take you sometime?”

You snort at the suggestion. The corner of your mouth lifts upwards into something that’s only nominally a smile, and more the type of grimace that accompanies an old wound. “The only two men I’d trust enough to take me out into the middle of nowhere are dead. And with the money I owe, I can’t… I can’t just… you know what?” you say abruptly. “It’s getting late and I’m fucking exhausted. I’m going to sleep.”

And with that, you tug the blanket tight around your shoulders and huddle against the ground like a felled shrimp. You lay with your back to him, the words left unsaid hanging over you both like an unripe fruit of a question.

Arthur fetches his bedroll and unfurls it close to the fire. A battered pillow emerges from the worn tarp as he spreads it flat. After a moment of contemplation, he picks up the pillow and tosses it in your direction. It hits you square on the head.

Immediately, you sit up and snarl at him. “What the fuck is wrong with — oh.” You pick up the pillow and grasp it tight, as if at any moment he might change his mind and demand it back. Your small “thank you” is puzzled and uncertain.

“I’m gonna put out the fire,” he says. “You try to slit my throat in the dark, I’ll wring your neck.”

But the threat comes out empty and toothless, and judging by the renewed sarcasm in your voice when you tell him you’ll keep it in mind, you seem fully aware of it.

Arthur douses the flames by kicking dirt over the embers, which glow dim and vermillion for minutes afterwards, fading slow to dull, crumbling ash when the heat finally bleeds out of them. The pleasant smell of smoke lingers inside the shelter for a good while longer, but even that dissipates eventually, leaving just petrichor and the crisp, clean scent of early autumn rain.

The worst of the storm has shifted westwards. Water drips in a steady stream from the outer edge of the overhang, churning the ground below to a soup of mud. The cloud cover is still dense, but it’s thinned enough that moonlight gleams through the feathery underbelly in a pale and spattered mottle. With it, he can make out the dim outline of your body, the rise and fall of your chest in a slow, steady rhythm he sorely doubts you’d have the patience to feign.

He lies awake there in the dark for a long while, shuffling through a jumble of discordant emotion. It’s as if the pieces of several sets of puzzles have been mixed together and jammed into an incomprehensible mess, so hopelessly and thoroughly muddled that he can no longer tell where one thing starts and another ends. He sorts his way through it until the rain weakens to a grey drizzle and the drip of rainwater turns from the unbroken stream of a faucet to a series of droplets beating out an abstruse morse code against the ground.

In the end, he’s only able to definitively place a single solid sentiment. Pity.

———

Couple notes:

Arthur's understanding of Chinese is incorrect, but aligns with the assumptions a lot of Western scholars during that time period had regarding it. There was a big tendency to treat it like Japanese, which despite using some of the same characters, uses a completely different structure.

Cotorra Springs seems to be based off Yellowstone. The big boiling rainbow spring is actually real: it's called the Grand Prismatic Spring and seriously does look like something out of a fever dream. Yellowstone also does smell like sulfur in some places, but it’s not so much like week old shit as it is the potent fart of someone who’s eaten far too many deviled eggs.

No algae grows in the spring. It's actually cyanobacteria, but there's no reason Arthur would know this. It does look pretty gross up close.

[thiefakefia]

TKB: Post-Dawn of the Duel

So, because I’m going to be referring specifically to how I choose to write TKB, and how my TKB responds to losing, I will call him Akefia/Kef throughout this post. This is how I write Akefia in my main verse, when dealing with waking up in a new world. I’ve sorta structured this around the 7 stages of grief, but changed the order as appropriate, because it resonates. He is grieving the loss of his village (properly, without the hyperfocus on revenge), and he is grieving the loss of everything he’s worked for. He’s also grieving for his previous view on the world, in a way. He felt he was right, and now in the silence, he has to face what he’s done.

I should probably point out at this point that I don’t subscribe to the idea that TKB was 100% right in what he did. Neither does my Kef (although it takes time for him to accept it). Was his anger justified? Absolutely! Was the chaos justified? Not at the extreme it went to. Not with the innocent people that got involved. I don’t believe it was meant to go that way - and TKB’s confusion as to what was going on when Yami Bakura lets control of him go says a lot to me. He was a pawn - but I don’t believe he’s innocent, either. I think his anger fuelled so much of what happened.

Stage 1: Shock and Disbelief

I mean... what do you do when you’ve revolved your life around a plan of vengeance for so long and now it’s just... gone? There’s a serious sense of shock that goes through him. Everything that’s happened hasn’t caught up with him. He’s not even begun to analyse it - if he was wrong, or right. He’s numb, and lost. 

Stage 2: Denial

He’s already a touch removed from the circumstances, having been possessed for a significant portion of it. The way I write him, Kef remembers the majority of it (but later describes it like he was watching it happen, more than controlling it). That sense of derealisation from it means he doesn’t really believe this is happening. His next instinct is to find a way home and effectively fix it. He doesn’t believe he’s lost - and he certainly doesn’t believe it’s over. He will drive himself positively nuts, trying to find a way back.

Stage 3: Anger

Anger at everything but himself starts to settle in his bones. This is the Pharaoh’s fault- those damn Priests- the Gods- this city- these strangers in the streets. Somebody has to pay for it, and Akefia erupts in violence during this stage. Whilst my TKB has a strong history of violence, his anger reaches a level of pointless overkill. The sense of derealisation continues, and he’s removed from his victims as a result. He’s not seeing them as people, but fictional ghosts in a world that isn’t real, which allows the violence to escalate further. This stage tends to be shorter under a good influence if he meets someone. Seeing just one person in his new world as a real, genuine human being allows him to realise the other people are actual real humans he’s harming. 

Stage 4: Guilt

This is the longest stage for Akefia, as he battles with what he’s done. The reality of living a new life is starting to sink in, and it begins with the guilt for what he did during the anger phase. It’s only then that he starts to analyse his past behaviour, and picks apart the battle and what he remembers of it. Left to his own devices... this is a pretty long struggle where he swings between stubborness of “not my fault” and realisation of “I really messed this up.”. With the help of a friend he feels comfortable sharing with, it’s a lot easier for him to manage the negative feelings that come with this stage. By himself, it delves into “Am I bad person?” to an extreme that isn’t productive.

He will absolutely settle into the conclusion that he’s responsible for everything that happened - even picking apart what he remembers of the connection between Y!Bakura and Ryou and holding himself accountable for the devastation of Ryou’s childhood. If left to come to his own conclusions, he will take on responsibility to an overwhelming amount to a degree that begins to cause panic attacks and a level of anxiety he has never experienced before. There is no fixing those mistakes - and he has no idea what to do with them, or any idea how to conceptualise a new life after this.

He swings rapidly between feeling he deserves the punishment of being dumped in a new, confusing world, and wishing he had just died and feeling he should have.

With assistance, he’s able to parse through a little better. Whilst still taking responsibility for everything involved - and absolutely refusing to accept anyone telling him he isn’t, or that everything he did was justified - he is able to manage his own feelings better with much-needed comfort. He’s able to maintain some level of calm and composure, rather than being completely overwhelmed by his own negativity. During this stage, he’s also inclined to ask vague, often nonsensical questions and get frustrated when the other person is confused. His ability to function around other people is not yet at a level where he can actually verbalise what he’s thinking/feeling properly. 

There is also the added difficultly of feeling he doesn’t deserve assistance and, as he realises more and more that he Done Fucked Up, worrying that this person really shouldn’t be involved with him - and would they if they knew everything he’d done? Akefia, although he will share bits, is hardly the most forthcoming about everything with the majority of people.

The guilt goes on so long because it has so many layers to it. Right from the very beginning, there is a survivor’s guilt from Kul Elna. To guilt for things he had to do to survive before Dawn of the Duel. To the damage he did to Ryou’s life - a completely innocent child. To the innocent people who got swept up in his attempt at vengeance. And in spite of knowing he shouldn’t have let it get that far... the guilt at feeling he failed his village, even so. It, frankly, would take a professional to sort it through with him properly - but Akefia will never do that much to his own disaster (frankly). I know I could personally go deeper into this but I feel like I would never stop!

Stage 5: Depression

I mean, I think this is self-explanatory given what he goes through with the grief stage. That’s a LOT of emotions to swallow, and it causes him to become withdrawn and depressed. Akefia, who has never wanted to laze in his life, who has always enjoyed being outside and hates feeling trapped... now wants nothing more than to retire to bed, pull a blanket over his head and block out the world. Having previously only woken up crying with nightmares, he now finds himself prone to random fits of tears.

He never ‘gets over’ this stage, so much as it becomes episodic as he learns to feel things other than anger and frustration, and how to handle those emotions. The depression never fully goes back in its box but it becomes shorter periods of times, days or weeks rather than months where he refuses to do anything but lay down. He becomes disinterested in food, water or any form of caring for himself - which is also very uncharacteristic of my Kef, who has always prioritised surviving over emotion. 

Stage 6: Reconstruction

Akefia starts to see his new life as an actual life - not a prison he’s trapped in. He begins to focus on any connections he’s made and how he can move forward with them. Rather than obsessing over whether or not he deserves them, he starts to search for ways to earn them. This isn’t always healthy for him, and he needs help moderating it as he learns to interact with people around him after a lifetime of refusing to engage with them.

It’s messy, it’s chaos and it’s full of emotion Akefia has no experience dealing with. It’s also... beautiful (to me, anyway). From an intense hyperfocus on vengeance to actually finding joy in life. To enjoying the things he’d considered stupid, and pointless. Whether it’s platonic or romantic, Akefia learning to live a new life with other people in it is not always simple but it’s usually worth it for both parties involved.

Stage 7: Acceptance

Although his past will never be forgotten, Akefia accepts every bit of it as his story. He’s more honest with himself, and others. To the right person, he’ll answer more questions honestly, and he’ll bring up more stories when he trusts someone to give him insight into his own behaviour.

He starts to fully engage in his future, looks to make actual plans and learns more about the world, and people, around him. Instead of only showing interest enough to find a way to survive, he becomes curious and invested in the world around him. He mellows as he begins to fully accept life for what it is - and for what it was. As previously mentioned, he continues to battle periods of depression (and anxiety), and he, unsurprisingly, is traumatised from many of the events in his life. It’s not always an easy life he lives, but he does find his centre, and often a slice of happiness he never thought he could have. 

[ren-thewildone]

TW: Miscarriage

What I have learned so far - 2 months later…

No one told me that even the state of being pregnant is traumatic. I knew labor would be. They told me it is beautiful and it’s a gift. I might feel sick for the first couple of months but it’s worth it. What they didn’t tell me is how it all can go wrong. Maybe they just didn’t want to scare me or maybe they don’t want to remember…

I was pregnant for 3 months.

For the first month, I didn’t know I was pregnant, but I felt “off”.

The second month, I knew I was pregnant, but what I didn’t know was that 3 out of those 4 weeks, the baby was no longer alive but was still in me. My body didn’t recognize the loss.

For the first week, I felt excited and connected to my pregnancy. For the last three weeks of the 2nd month, I felt anxious and depressed but I didn’t know why. I blamed myself for being a bad mom who couldn’t love her child because of my anxiety and depression.

During my third month, I found out about my missed miscarriage and learned that my pregnancy was not viable. The anxiety and depression from the month before made sense now but I didn’t have time to grieve because I had to grit my teeth and decide how I was going to deal with my situation.

I opted for the medical procedure first and during i, I felt the worst pain of my life (emotionally and physically). After all the final contractions ended, I sat alone in the bathroom to let it all subside. I looked down and realized I was holding the baby in my hand. That image is frozen in my mind. All I want is to be able to go back and somehow make it better, but there was nothing I could do. It wasn’t like I could make their pain go away or sit with them while they passed. They had already passed and it was my turn to say goodbye.

It’s not supposed to be like that. That’s not how you are supposed to meet your first child. Your brain, body and soul all know inherently that it was not supposed to be like that.

Two weeks passed and though the pregnancy symptoms were mostly gone and I had passed the pregnancy, I found out I was still somehow fully pregnant. I had likely been carrying twins and only one miscarried to completion. Same news, same month, new cycle…

Once again, I had no time to grieve, I had to grit my teeth and get through making a decision for my situation. I chose to go through the surgery this time and was scheduled for the first available time that week because it was now reaching the point where it was dangerous for my body to continue. The surgery was successful yet there were painful side effects from being intubated that I was not prepared for. Though the pain was different, it was just as severe and left me unable to eat or drink comfortably for two weeks.

Just three months…

This was only what I experienced through my physical body.

I went from being eager and excited to devastated at the loss of not just one, but now two without the time to truly grieve in between…

The flashbacks are unbearable and the grief and shame are overwhelming.

Yet I returned to work immediately and by all appearances, I am functioning as normal. Miscarriage is unfortunately a taboo topic and women often don’t feel comfortable speaking about it. The number of women who came forward to inform me of their similar experiences after the fact was alarming.

Why don’t we talk about the risks of pregnancy more? Why don’t we talk about miscarriages…

I admit that I didn’t talk about it because this type of pain is unique to the human experience. My head was telling me that I had failed as a mom because I didn’t feel connected; I failed as a mom because I didn’t know I had lost the pregnancy; I failed as a mom because I couldn’t even successfully miscarry the first time; and I failed as a mom because when I held my child in my hand, I didn’t even know how to respond…

How can I admit that much failure? How can I explain that level of guilt and shame? How can I know how to ask for help or ask someone to support me in my grief?

I think women don’t try to prepare each other for this grief because it’s not something you want for anyone and if it is their outcome, it’s just something you have to go through…

There is no “fix”, there is only acceptance.

There is no reason to feel ashamed for going through a miscarriage. But it’s also completely normal and understandable to deal with those feelings of shame.

I’m working on forgiving myself for everything that has occurred this year, and I think the only way I know how to start is to stop hiding in the shadows and allow myself to tell my story, not as consolation for someone else’s loss, but for myself.

My story is worth telling and I hope it helps someone else in some way someday.

[zecretsanta]

FIC:

To: @hugepolecat3298

From: @yamibakuraofficial

AO3 LINK

HAPPY HOLIDAYS!!!!

Later on, the night would come back to Aoi in snapshots.

His fists banging against metal, his voice raw as his screams mixed with Akane’s. The heat rolling off the walls of the furnace as he stumbled in. The way what remained of his sister fell to pieces in his desperate grip.  

He would remember the way the boat lurched beneath his feet as the man- the police officer?- grabbed his arms, forcing him back up the metal stairs. The echoing sound of frantic footsteps climbing ever higher. The cold air that stung against his tear-stained face.

The rowboat that was moored to the side of the ship was already crowded with other children, but the blind boy who had taken charge cleared a spot for them before they were lowered into the frothing waves. Vaguely, Aoi would remember the police officer rowing them towards the horizon and away from their brief prison. By then he had gone numb to the world. The frigid night air seemed to sink into his bones the further out they rowed, chilling him despite the coat he still wore.

The children were packed tightly into the rowboat, huddled together. One of the little girls was crying; the one with the pink overalls, who had previously in the night, clung to him in fear when they had found a shark suspended- lifeless- in a tank. Akane had laughed, later, when he asked if she had been scared.

“It’s okay, Aoi-nii,” she had giggled, “she needed it more than me.”

Now, it seemed, no one needed him at all. There was a horrible urge to throw himself into the churning water at that thought - at the idea that he had no reason to continue trudging through the horror story that was his own life. Wouldn’t it be ironic, to freeze to death in the waves where Akane had burned?

The world had never been kind to the Kurashikis. It was a fact that Aoi had made himself comfortable with long ago. He had survived the death of his parents, the death of their grandmother and their subsequent flight onto the streets. He had made it his mission to take care of Akane- to keep them from being separated or sent to an orphanage. The apartment they lived in was small, and he had surrendered the single bed to Akane at the very beginning. He was working any job that would accept a teenager with no experience, and often found himself up at odd hours coming and going regardless. 

Every day was a challenge. Every night he went to bed exhausted, and would wake up the same way. But no matter what happened, there was a light at the end of the tunnel. A single, solitary reason to get up every morning. Akane’s smile was a reminder of why he had to keep going. She was what carried him through the hardships and into the next day.

But now there was nothing. Just the empty, gnawing horror inside of him and Akane, Akane, Akane , playing endlessly through his mind. 

A warm hand slipped into his own, holding tight. It was the sort of grip Aoi’s sister employed to “keep him from floating away into his own thoughts”. But when he followed the line of the arm, he found the other boy from the ship. Light. The one with the clovers, who had helped Aoi wrangle the other panicked children hours ago. 

His mouth was set in a grim line, but his grip was firm. No words were shared between them, and soon Aoi found himself turning to watch the tip of the cruise-liner disappear beneath the waves, taking whatever was left of his family with it. The hand in his own tethered him to their little lifeboat, keeping him prisoner by refusing to let him slip away. 

Later, as the sun began to lighten the horizon, that same hand pulled him onto a cold and lonely beach. Aoi half expected Light to let him go to tend to the younger children, calming and organizing them as he had at the beginning of their ill-fated adventure. But the other boy seemed content to let the police officer take charge. He simply stood at Aoi’s side, letting him tremble as silent tears continued to streak down his face.

The police officer- who had introduced himself to the children as Tanaka- shot them several worried looks, but ultimately let Light handle the crying teenager. He directed their ragtag group down the beach, and Aoi found himself stumbling along. 

The light of day was watery and weak through the overcast clouds, but after being locked on the Gigantic all night it was almost too strong. He squinted through his tears as they carved their way through the sand, shivering in the cold morning air. Aoi’s instincts begged for him to turn around. To find Akane and hold her hand. To make sure she was warm, and safe, and cared for.

But he had failed her. He had failed her and she was gone.

“It will be alright.” Light’s voice came as a surprise. Closer than the chatter of the other children, but softer as well. Aoi felt anger rise in him at his simple words, but only sniffled. He wiped at his tears with the sleeve of his free arm. “I know it doesn’t seem like it right now… but you’ll be alright eventually.”

“Shut up.” Aoi’s voice broke in his grief. “You don’t know what you’re talking about. I lost- I lost my-”

Light’s grip tightened as a fresh wave of tears overtook Aoi, his shoulders heaving with the force of his sobs. Vaguely, he wondered if he would spend the rest of his life crying, or if they would dry up eventually. “I know how it feels to lose someone. Like your entire world is ending.” Light continued to pull him along, voice as gentle as the rest of him. “I lost my father, when I was younger.”

“This is different.” Aoi whispered brokenly. “Akane was all I had left.”

“… Your parents?” Light turned his head slightly, tilting to face him despite not being able to see. Aoi was pathetically grateful, in a way, that his splotchy, tear-stained face was hidden from at least one person. 

“Dead.” He replied, the hazy memory of his mother’s smile drifting through his mind. 

“Where do you live?” Light’s voice was still gentle, though his grip remained firm.

“I have an apartment. We did. I… I dropped out of school. To work.” He admitted. Sometimes he lied to people- told them he was older than he was, to avoid suspicion. Three part time jobs with a face as young as his often got him strange looks. “But we’ve been gone for so long, I probably don’t even have my jobs anymore. And- and no one would know to feed our cat, and-”

His voice hitched again at the thought of the little kitten Akane had politely requested from Santa the previous year. It had been the most difficult present yet- he had scrounged and scraped what meager funds he had to pay for cat food and litter, even managing to find a few toys for his sister to give to the cat. 

She had named him Mochi, because of how fat and spoiled he had been as a baby. The idea of 

him all alone in their apartment brought Aoi to tears yet again. Light gently tugged them to a stop, letting the rest of the group get ahead of them. He reached out, gently patting at Aoi’s arms, and then up to his shoulders.

“I can’t imagine how overwhelming this is for you.” He said softly. “I know how scared I’ve been, these past few hours. Wondering if my sister is alright. And- and I’m so sorry, that this has happened to you.” Aoi brought his hands up, burying his face in them to try and muffle his own sobs. “But I promise, I’ll do everything I can to help you. I’m sure Officer Tanaka will as well- we’ll find somewhere for you, and…”

He trailed off, seemingly at a loss for words. It didn’t matter if Aoi went back to his empty apartment. Not if Akane wasn’t there, as well. He might as well take to the streets, or check himself into an orphanage the way he had so desperately wanted to avoid.

It didn’t matter anymore, after all.

The arms that wrapped around him were a surprise. Light held him close, clinging to him as tightly as he was able. It was the first time in years that Aoi was held and comforted, instead of the other way around. He clung to the other teenager, gripping the back of his coat even as he stained the shoulder with his tears. 

Light’s voice was soft in his ear, whispering meaningless platitudes as he rubbed a hand in circles on Aoi’s back. As the two oldest children in the Nonary Game, much of the comforting had fallen to them. They had taken charge of the younger kids, ushering them through puzzles and down dark corridors in search of an escape. He had held himself together for Akane, and for the other children. He had pushed through and put on a brave face, as he had for the past two years. 

It was nice, for a change, to let himself break down. To be held and taken care of the way he hadn’t been since his parents had died.

For a moment, Aoi didn’t feel quite so alone. 

There was no way to tell how long they stood like that. The waves crashed against the beach behind them as the sun slowly rose. It couldn’t have been more than a few minutes before another figure joined them on that lonely beach.

“Hey… you kids alright?” The gruff voice caused Aoi to pull back, feeling like someone had wrung him dry. His tears were dry and tacky on his face, and the despair was still clinging to him like a spector. The absence of his sister would likely never leave him, but it was as though Light’s embrace had managed to hold his shattering pieces together, if only for a moment. 

Tanaka looked down at them, something like guilt in his eyes. “We found a gas station, up that way. There’s a phone we can use to call your folks…” 

Light nodded, pulling back. A shiver of unfamiliar panic ran up Aoi’s spine at the motion, but a moment later a hand slipped back into his own. “Thank you.” He said politely. He offered Aoi a soft smile, and a moment later he was being pulled forward once again.

Years later, the night would come back to Aoi in snapshots.

It wouldn’t be predictable. Sometimes he could feel when a memory was creeping up on him. On Akane’s birthday, or the anniversary of the game itself. The memories would sometimes leave him shaking in place, regretting what he was unable to save.

But sometimes they passed like a cold breeze. Chilling, and sad. But in the end, all Aoi could do was pull his coat tighter around himself and trudge on. It was easier with another person- sometimes Light, who had been there when it happened, and was always willing to listen. Sometimes Clover, who simply dropped herself into Aoi’s lap when she saw him having a bad day.

It wasn’t all bad, however. There were days like this one, where Aoi was curled up on the couch, legs tucked under him and Mochi in his lap. Light and Clover were across the room, happily bickering over a game of checkers. A fire was roaring in the fireplace nearby, and the empty spot next to Aoi didn’t feel quite so sad. He liked to think Akane would be happy, to see him so comfortable. 

Light seemed to sense someone’s gaze on him, because he tilted his head towards Aoi as his sister explained where she was moving her pieces. The smile on his face was soft and familiar, and Aoi returned it, even though Light couldn’t see.

Moments like these, he didn’t remember the fire and the pain. All he could remember was Light standing next to him at that lonely payphone and the words he had spoken. 

“I promise. You’ll never be alone.”

[beatlejuice64]

Destiel Season 15: A catalog of Supernatural episodes

A catalog of each episode in Supernatural that features scenes related to Destiel. This includes scenes between Dean and Castiel, scenes with other characters that address their relationship with each other, and scenes that allude to Dean’s bisexuality.

Season 15 Summary Analysis

Cas, Dean, and Sam are all grieving Jack’s death, but Cas is reeling much more than the other two. Belphagor’s possession of Jack’s body disturbs Cas more than it does Dean or Sam. Dean’s resentment toward Cas lingers from the previous season, and he is insensitive to Castiel’s acute emotional pain. After finding out the truth about God, Dean has an existential crisis because he’s struggling to feel like their lives have any meaning. Dean repeatedly disregards Castiel’s well-being, and Cas decides to leave after realizing that Dean will not forgive him for what happened to Mary. After spending some time on his own and solving a case by himself, Cas returns to the Winchesters to help fight God with renewed vigor. During a trip to Purgatory, Dean apologizes to Cas for how angry he has been and the two reconcile. Both Cas and Dean’s spirits are lifted when Jack returns, until they find out that Jack will likely have to die to defeat God. As they get closer to defeating God, Dean becomes hyper focused, letting his anger and existential frustration overpower his love for his family, even getting close to killing Sam. Cas confesses his love for Dean, telling him that he’s the “most caring man on Earth.” Dean is devastated by Castiel’s death, but he takes his words to heart and lets go of his anger to embrace a nonviolent solution to defeating Chuck. After Dean dies, he finally feels at peace with himself in heaven. 

My interpretation: 

Cas is hurt when Dean says that nothing in their lives is real. He tries (and fails) to convince Dean that the relationship they’ve built over time is what they can hold onto as real. Castiel is able to let Dean’s mistreatment slide off his back for a short time, but Cas is deeply wounded when Dean shows that he doesn’t trust Castiel’s judgment. Cas reaches a breaking point that is compounded by Dean’s refusal to acknowledge Castiel’s difficult sacrifice of burning Jack’s body to defeat Belphagor. Because Cas has built up a strong sense of self-worth over the last couple of seasons, he knows he deserves to be treated with respect and is not willing to stay with someone who does not trust him. Dean has developed a habit of taking Cas for granted and treats him poorly without realizing the impact it will have. Dean is surprised when Cas decides to leave, but does not stop him from doing so because he doesn’t believe it’s for good. 

Cas attempts to make a life for himself away from Dean, but he can’t stop thinking about him (spending his time fishing because of what Dean had told him about its “meditative qualities”). When Cas is forced to use Dean’s phone number as a back up for his fake FBI identity, Dean takes the opportunity to warn him about Chuck because he still cares about Castiel’s safety. When Cas returns, he and Dean have difficulty being in each other’s company because they’re both still hurt by each other’s actions. When they are tasked with going to Purgatory, Cas sacrifices himself to save Dean from the Leviathans. Dean is afraid he might lose Cas for good this time and prays to him for forgiveness in an act of true emotional vulnerability. He is relieved to later find Cas alive. Cas forgives Dean’s past behavior and appreciates how hard it was for Dean to open up to him.

When Jack returns, Dean and Cas share a caring look that shows that they both know how much it means to the other that Jack is alive. Cas knows that Dean feels guilt for being so close to killing Jack, and Dean knows how hard Jack’s death was on Cas. In that moment, they are happy for each other even more than they are for themselves. When Cas finds out that Jack is likely to die, he tells Dean immediately, having learned to trust him more. Because Dean keeps the truth from Sam, Sam finds it odd that Cas would leave for no reason. Sam is surprised to hear that it did not start a fight between them again because he sees how close they have grown and how connected they have been. 

When going after Chuck, Sam is only barely able to steer Dean away from the path of violence by appealing to Dean’s love for his brother. Dean is not able to fully step away from his anger until after Castiel tells him what he needs to hear—that he is a caring man who always acts out of love. Because Sam is one of the people that Dean has cared for his entire life, Sam is unable to fully understand the burden Dean feels to protect the world, but Castiel has felt a similar burden of protection over Dean that allows them to connect on another level (to share a more profound bond).

When Castiel says, “The one thing I want. It’s something I know I can’t have,” he is referring to wanting a peaceful life together with Dean. This is impossible because of the constant danger they are in (not because Dean is incapable of reciprocating feelings). Cas and Dean have had a close relationship for years but have never verbally expressed feelings of love to each other. They have never gone to that next level of intimacy because being in constant danger has made them afraid of losing it once they had it. Since Cas knows he will die, he is able to let go of his attachment to being with Dean and fully embody the love he feels without fear of being hurt by it. He doesn’t fear losing Dean because he knows his actions will save Dean. Dean’s response to Castiel’s profession of love is to clam up because he can’t handle the thought of losing Cas.

Hearing how Castiel sees him is what pushes Dean to finally let go of the self hatred and toxic masculinity that he has struggled with his entire life. Hearing that a cosmic being thousands of years old chose to reject Heaven and save humanity out of love for him made a huge impact. Dean has continuously struggled to be truly vulnerable and let Cas into his heart because he never felt worthy of that kind of love. Dean’s intense grief at the loss of his best friend is embedded with regret for not getting a chance to tell him how he feels in return. Right before he dies, Dean tells Sam how much he looked up to him for being his own person and not bending to the will of their father, reminding us of Dean’s lifelong struggle with identity. 

In Heaven we learn from Bobby that Cas helped build the new Heaven, and Dean is pleased to learn that Cas survived. Unfortunately, we don’t actually get to see Cas reunited with Dean on screen, but we can assume that they do see each other again. We can only speculate about what their interaction would be like, but I choose to believe that Dean, having let go of his self-hatred and toxic masculinity to embrace his true identity, is finally able to verbally reciprocate romantic feelings for Cas. Reaching this level of self acceptance is the Heaven Dean “deserves.” Jack’s new Heaven allows Dean and Cas to be happy together for eternity, along with the rest of their found family. 

15.01 Back and to the Future

Dean yells at Cas for ideas, and Cas is frustrated that Dean seems to expect him to solve the problem for them: “Cas, come on, man! Ideas! Can you smite our way outta here?!” “No, you saw them—I would be overwhelmed, Dean.” Cas is adamant that Belphagor leave Jack’s body, but Dean insists that they see if the demon can help them. The lingering tension between Cas and Dean from the previous season causes them to argue about the demon.

When the gang reaches the high school, Dean asks Cas how he his, but then walks away before he can finish a sentence: Are you ok?” “Yes, but...” “Good.” Cas looks completely dejected, and Belphagor recognizes the tension: “Wow. Awkward.”

15.02 Raising Hell

Cas apologizes to Dean about not telling him about Jack, but Dean rejects his effort. Cas explains that he’s angry, too, but he still has hope, and he tries to help Dean see why their lives still matter: “Dean, I recognize that I dropped the puck.” “Ball. It’s, uh, dropped the ball.” “Ball, right. I didn’t tell you about Jack, and then after what happened with your mother...” “Don’t.” “You’re angry.” “Yes, I am angry, at everything, all of it!” “All of it?” “This mess, all the messes. It turns out that we’re just hamsters turning in a wheel our whole lives? What do we have to show for it, huh? Tell me you don’t feel conned. God’s been lying to you, Cas, forever. You bought into the biggest scam in history.” “You don’t think I’m angry? After what Chuck did, after what he took from me? He killed Jack! But that doesn’t mean it was ALL a lie.” “Really?” “Chuck is all-knowing. He knew the truth, he just kept it to himself.” “Well, now that his cover’s blown, everything that we’ve done is for what? Nothing.” “Even if we didn’t know that all of the challenges that we face were born of Chuck’s machinations, how would we describe it all? We’d call it life, because that’s precisely what life is. It’s an obstacle course, and maybe Chuck designed the obstacles, but we ran our own race, we made our own moves, and mostly, we did well with that.” “Did we? I’ll tell ya what we do know. Nothing about our lives is real. Everything that we lost, everything that we are is because of Chuck. So maybe you can stick your head back in the sand, maybe you can pretend that we actually had a choice, but I can’t.” “Dean, you asked what about all of this is real. We are.”

15.03 The Rupture

Dean volunteers Cas to accompany Belphagor to Hell. Cas is taken aback by Dean’s bossiness, but he reluctantly goes along with it: “Yeah, Cas will go. You’ve been to hell before.” “Well, it sounds like I don’t have a choice.” “Good. Great. Go team.”

Belphagor notices the disregard Dean seems to have for Castiel’s safety: “You know, your part in all this is, uh, pretty dangerous. I mean, you could die, get trapped in Hell... Your friends might not ever see you again. Funny, ‘cause, uh, they didn’t seem to think twice about it.”

Belphagor tries again to get under Castiel’s skin by suggesting that Sam and Dean don’t care about him: “You are not growing on anyone. Sam and Dean are just using you. Don’t mistake that for caring about you, because I can assure you, they don’t.” “Wow, you learn that the hard way? What is it, Cas, this, uh, seething animosity?” “You’re wearing Jack, who was like a son to me, like a coat. Every second in your presence is intolerable. It’s an abomination. You’re an abomination.”

Cas attempts to comfort Dean but is met with hostility. Dean blames Cas for Rowena’s death and cuts him to the core by suggesting that their failures are always his fault: “Sorry about Rowena.” “You’re sorry... Why didn’t you just stick to the damn plan?” “Belphagor was lying.” “Belphagor’s a demon.” “He was using us. He wanted to eat every last soul to take over Hell, Earth, and everything.” “Yeah, and we would’ve figured it out! After! With Rowena!” “The plan changed, Dean. Something went wrong. You know this, something always goes wrong.” “Yeah, why does that something always seem to be you?” 

Dean looks away after insulting Cas, and there is an awkward silence. Cas is visibly distraught, but not surprised. He confirms that Dean still blames him for Mary’s death and then leaves: “You used to trust me, give me the benefit of the doubt.” “Now you can barely look at me. My powers are failing, and I’ve tried to talk to you, over and over, and you just don’t wanna hear it. You don’t care. I’m dead to you. You still blame me for Mary.” Dean nods. “Well, I don’t think there’s anything left to say.” “Where you goin’?” “Jack’s dead. Chuck’s gone. You and Sam have each other. I think it’s time for me to move on.”

15.04 Atomic Monsters

Sam teases Dean for calling himself the meat man, and they exchange an awkward look: “You gotta stop calling yourself the ‘meat man.’ It doesn’t mean what you think it means.” “Yeah, it does.”

15.05 Proverbs 17:3

Sam is concerned about Cas and tries to contact him multiple times (unsuccessfully), but Dean doesn’t seem to mind his absence: “That Cas?” “Yeah, straight to voicemail, again.” “Yeah, well, we gave him the heads-up on Chuck and Lilith, so what else are we supposed to do?”

15.06 Golden Time

Cas mentions Dean wistfully to someone during small talk: “I had a friend who always praised fishing for its meditative qualities. Wish I found it more relaxing.”

Sam comments on Dean’s lack of motivation: “You know what, Dean? Ever since God got back, you’ve been acting like there’s nothin’ we can do, like nothin’ matters. But we can do this. Man, this matters.” “And that’s why you’re here to kick it in the ass.”

While on a case, Cas is forced to use the Winchesters’ phone number to back up his fake FBI identity. When the sheriff calls, Dean asks to speak to his agent. Cas groans, not wanting to talk: “Hello.” “Cas, Sam’s been tryin’ to call you.” “I know.” “Did you check his messages?” “Nope.” “Right, smart. Why would you? Look, I don’t know if you care or not, but, uh... God—Chuck—is back on the board, so watch yourself. And check your damn messages.” Cas is visibly agitated when Dean hangs up.

While Cas is helping Melly find her son, she thanks him for helping her and recognizes the frustration he’s feeling as burnout: “I needed to step away.” “Burnout’s a bitch, right?” “Yeah. My colleagues and I, we, uh... I guess you could say we had a falling out with management. Well, and each other.” 15.07 Last CallDean goes off on his own after seeing Sam and Eileen happy together, and Sam calls out his odd behavior: “Just hold on. Slow down.” “No, I’m good. I’m good.” “You’re good? What does that mean, you’re—“ “It means I gotta, I gotta get outta here, okay? I just, I gotta... I’m gonna take a drive, clear my head.” “Alone?” “Yeah, you know, you and Eileen, you guys are having fun. I don’t wanna spoil that, you know?” 

Cas calls Dean and leaves a message, frustrated that he isn’t picking up: “Dean, I need you to call me back. Sam is hurt, and I... WHERE ARE YOU?” 

When Dean returns, he and Cas share an awkward moment, and Cas has difficulty looking Dean in the eye. 

15.08 Our Father, Who Aren’t in Heaven

Cas feels uneasy about visiting hell to speak to Michael, and Dean is condescending toward him, implying that he’s a coward and/or useless: “Cas, if you wanna stay here, why don’t you stay here?” Cas responds by angrily glaring at him. 

Dean cuts his hand to provide blood for a spell, and Cas offers to heal his wound, despite the fact that his powers are waning and it’s difficult for him to use them: “Here, allow me...” “Thanks.”

Rowena recognizes the tension between Dean and Cas, who are avoiding looking at each other. She sees right through their denial and gives them advice, encouraging them to make up: “What am I picking up from you two? A wee tiff? Tell your Auntie Rowena.” “It’s fine. Don’t worry about it.” “Boys... fix it! I don’t have many regrets, but the few I do still haunt me. Making Napoleon so short was just bitchy, telling Mick Jagger he had no future when I dumped him, and, well, everything with dear Fergus. Then one day you die, you go to hell, they make you queen, and... you can’t make it right. So fix it!”

Dean and Cas continue to avoid eye contact while they’re in the kitchen discussing Michael. 

15.09 The Trap

When Dean tries to go after Sam, Cas stops him, surprising Dean with his anger: “Dean, will you stop? Just stop being so stupid.” “What?” In Purgatory, Dean suggests splitting up, but Cas refuses, frustrated. Dean reluctantly agrees.

Cas expresses condolences to Dean after they find out Benny is dead, and it leads to a spat: “Well, this place will bring that out in you. Guilt. It was my fault the Leviathan got out. It was my fault we were here the first time. I carry that guilt every day.” “I know you’re sorry, Cas. About Bel, about Mom.” “I was talking about Jack. I already apologized to you. You just refused to hear it.” “Sorry I brought it up. Maybe if you didn’t just up and leave us.” “You didn’t give me a choice. You couldn’t forgive me, and you couldn’t move on. You were too angry. I left, but you didn’t stop me.”

When the Leviathan capture Cas, Dean is upset and tries to find him. Afraid that he might lose Cas forever, tearfully he apologizes to him through prayer: “Cas, I hope you can hear me... that wherever you are, it’s not too late. I should’ve stopped you. You’re my best friend, but I just let you go. ‘Cause it was easier than admitting I was wrong. I don’t know why I get so angry. I just know... I know that it’s, it has just always been there. And when things go bad, it just... it comes out. And I can’t... I can’t stop it. No matter how... how bad I want to, I just can’t stop it. And... and I... I forgive you. Of course I forgive you. I’m sorry it took me so long... I’m sorry it took me till now to say it. Cas, I’m... I’m so sorry. Man, I hope you can hear me. I hope you can hear me.”

Dean is elated when he finds Cas alive. He pulls Cas in for a tight hug. He tries to apologize again: “Okay, Cas, I need to say something.” “You don’t have to say it. I heard your prayer.”

15.10 The Heroes’ Journey

Dean has a dream sequence in which he tap dances to “Let’s Misbehave” by Cole Porter. He dances with a lamp and blows it a kiss, then dances on top of the map table while enveloped in light. Sam teases Dean about his relationship with Cas as Dean is holding Garth’s son, who is also named Castiel: “This Cas keeps looking at me weird.” “So kinda like the real Cas.”

At the end of the episode, we see Garth dancing with his wife, and Dean says, “You know, I always thought I could be a good dancer if I wanted to be.”

15.11 The Gamblers

When the Winchesters return home to find that Jack is back, Dean takes Jack’s face in his hand and looks hard at Cas, who gives him a kind smile.

15.12 Galaxy Brain

Dean and Cas share a friendly drink while talking about Jack’s return. 

15.13 Destiny’s Child

Cas displays a deep understanding of Dean’s character while conversing with Jack about Mary’s death: “You know, Dean, he feels things more acutely than any human I’ve ever known, so it’s possible he could work through this. One day he may explode and let it all out, and then breathe deeply and move on.” “How long will that take?” “I don’t know.”

15.15 Gimme Shelter

At a faith-based group gathering, Castiel recounts his experience breaking away from Heaven’s authority: “I do know what blind faith is. I used to just follow orders without question, and I did some pretty terrible things. I would never look beyond The Plan. And then, of course, when it all came crashing down, I found myself lost. I didn’t know what my purpose was anymore. And then one day something changed, something amazing. I... I guess I found a family. And I became a father. And in that, I rediscovered my faith. I rediscovered who I am.” 15.16 Drag Me Away (From You)Sam remarks on how odd it is for Cas to leave for no apparent reason (because Dean did not tell him): “Cas just bailed, I guess. He’s didn’t say anything to you about why he left?” “Not really.” “And you guys didn’t get into a fight or something?” “It’s just Cas being Cas.” “Right.”

15.18 Despair

Cas decides to go with Dean instead of staying with Sam and Jack. When running away from Death, Cas leads a wounded Dean to safety: “I’ve got you.”

When Dean blames himself for the predicament they’re in, Cas realizes that he can save Dean by summoning The Empty, and uses his final moments to tell Dean how he truly sees him: “I always wondered, ever since I took that burden, that curse, I wondered what it could be, what... what my true happiness could even look like. I never found an answer. Because the one thing I want, it’s something I know I can’t have. But I think I know... I think I know now. Happiness isn’t in the having. It’s in just being. It’s in just saying it.” “What’re you talkin’ about, man?” “I know... I know how you see yourself, Dean. You see yourself the same way our enemies see you. You’re destructive and you’re angry and you’re broken. You’re... you’re daddy’s blunt instrument. And you think that hate and anger, that’s... that’s what drives you, that’s who you are. It’s not. And everyone who knows you sees it. Everything you have ever done, the good and the bad, you have done for love. You raised your little brother for love. You fought for this whole world for love. That is who you are. You’re the most caring man on Earth. You are the most selfless, loving human being I will ever know. You know, ever since we met, ever since I pulled you out of Hell, knowing you has changed me. Because you cared, I cared. I cared about you. I cared about Sam, I cared about Jack, but I cared about the whole world because of you. You changed me, Dean.” “Why does this sound like a goodbye?” “Because it is. I love you.” “Don’t do this, Cas. Cas...” “Goodbye, Dean.” “What?”

After Cas is gone, Dean sits on the floor and sobs into his hands, ignoring a call from Sam. 

15.19 Inherit the Earth

Sam and Dean offer to go along with Chuck’s story and kill each other to bring everyone back, and Dean mentions Cas specifically: “I’ll kill Sam. Sam will kill me. We’ll kill each other. Okay? You pick. But first, you gotta put everything back the way it was. The people, the birds, Cas. You gotta bring him back.”

When Lucifer tricks Dean with a fake phone call from Cas, he rushes to the door as fast as he can to let Cas in.  After stripping Chuck of his powers, Chuck assumes they will kill him, but Dean refuses: “Is this where you kill me? I mean, I could never think of an ending where I lose, but this... after everything that I’ve done to you, to die at the hands of Sam Winchester, of Dean Winchester, the ultimate killer. It’s kinda glorious.” “Sorry, Chuck.” “What? What?” “See, that’s not who I am. That’s not who we are.”

15.20 Carry On

Dean asks Sam what’s bothering him after noticing he looks sad: “I’m just... I’m thinkin’ about Cass, you know? Jack. If they could be here.” “Yeah. Yeah, no, I think about ‘em, too. You know what? That pain’s not gonna go away. Right? But if we don’t keep livin’, then all that sacrifice is gonna be for nothin’.”

As Dean is dying, he tells Sam how much he has looked up to him: “I’m so proud of you, Sam. You know that? I’ve always looked up to you. Man, when we were kids, you were so damn smart. You never took any of dad’s crap. I never knew how you did that. And you’re stronger than me. You always have been. ... I love you so much, my baby brother.”

Bobby explains to Dean how Heaven has been improved: “Heaven ain’t just relivin’ your golden oldies anymore. It’s what it always shoulda been—everyone happy, everyone together. ... It ain’t just Heaven, Dean. It’s the Heaven you deserve, and we’ve been waitin’  for ya.” 

When Bobby mentions Cas, Dean is pleasantly surprised. “Jack did all that?” “Well, Cas helped.” Dean smiles, and Bobby raises his eyebrows knowingly. “It’s a big new world out there. You’ll see.” Dean smiles wider.

[justjessame]

The Deal Chapter 51

Our walk back to Negan’s apartments went unnoticed by me. I was still gripped by memories of my little brother.

Walking with my dad and him, when Carl was a precocious three year old Dad holding one of his pudgy little hands, me holding the other. The birthday parties, the cake and presents, but most of all Carl’s wonder each and every year that it was ALL for him. Going to church on Sunday and ending up at our grandparents’ house for dinner. Going to the movies, fighting over which cartoons to watch on Saturday mornings. Him splashing in the kiddie pool Dad put up, and seeing the absolute glee on his face when he splashed me. Barbecues in the summer. And Christmas parties in the winter. Halloween costumes. Thanksgiving at the kids’ table. And now, he’d NEVER get to experience any of it, not even in the harsh reality that was our reality, with his own family.

Negan, without me even noticing, had put me to bed. I was curled in on myself. Fetal position and feeling like the earth could stop spinning, time could stop, just so I could breathe and FEEL what I needed to feel at the loss of my baby brother’s life. His arms wrapped around me from behind and he molded himself against me. Letting his warmth sink through the cold that enveloped me.

“My wife,” he whispered, his chin pressed into the top of my head. “Her name was Lucille.” I listened to him as the flashes of Carl’s far too short life were still rushing through my mind. “She was my REAL wife. And I didn’t deserve her.” I felt him shake his head a bit. “She was a lot like you, Jessi. A giver. Someone who would take away the sins of every person she loved, just to save them from the guilt of their own shitty actions. MY shitty actions.” I felt his lips brush my head. “When I said you weren’t like the others, Jessi, I meant it. You’re more like my REAL wife than any of them could hope to be.”

The images of Carl were flickering slower, a side effect of not living a long life. Him laying in the big bed at Hershel’s farm. His pale skin shining even brighter than the crisp white sheets under him. The bandage over his side, the fear that had crept up my spine at the thought of him not making it. Him in Dad’s hat, looking so proud that they both survived being shot, and my heart was breaking. How he hardened. How cynical he’d become. The loss of his eye. The loss of his innocence. And now, he was gone, because he’d tried to regain his compassion.

I was sobbing and didn’t know when I’d started. Negan’s arm tightened around me, holding me together as I raged and sobbed at the loss of my baby brother. At the knowledge that we would never meet again. That we would never make peace between us. Because the very last image that passed before my eyes was him leaning over Olivia’s body, and the glare of blame I saw on his face. At me. At his big sister who was supposed to make everything better.

Negan held me as I cried myself out. As my heart broke and re-broke, over and over. I didn’t care that Dad hadn’t mentioned me or that he didn’t even seem to notice when Negan mentioned me at all. I couldn’t muster up the outrage at him for dismissing me. All I could feel was loss and pain and failure. Guilt that I wasn’t there. That I hadn’t stood next to Carl as he tried to help someone. That I wasn’t there with Judith to make sure she was safe. That I failed them so damn much by letting myself get lost in my own mind. And now that I was gaining my freedom from the darkness, that I had to FEEL every single pinch of it. Every punch of fear. Every ounce of danger and anger. Every single drop of grief. And it was threatening to overwhelm me, which made me fear that I’d get lost again. Within myself I couldn’t save anyone, and so, I had to fight against the temptation to shut down.

Hours later, Negan was still holding me. Still trying to soothe me as best as he could. Tightening his hold on me if my sobs gained volume, rubbing my arm if I was quiet and lost in my memories, and quietly telling me more of his own past. More about Lucille. More about how he failed her, how he wanted to be sure he didn’t repeat those mistakes with me. We didn’t leave the bed. We didn’t eat. We lay there, him curled around my back as I was curled tight into myself.

Finally cried out, finally exhausted by the grief that wasn’t gone, not nearly, but at bay for a moment, I turned to face him. His eyes were as tight with grief as mine and I knew he’d spoken the truth to Dad when he said he felt Carl’s loss. That he regretted it. That when he asked if his actions had caused it, he truly worried that he had killed him. That it was his fault and that it wasn’t just my pain or anger that he feared, but his own.

Cupping his face with my hands, I leaned forward to kiss him softly. I knew my face was swollen and red. That my nose was no doubt a mess. That I looked like I’d lost my heart, because I had lost a huge piece of it. Pulling back, our eyes searched one another’s. Looking for comfort, for peace that wasn’t easily attainable with so much pain. He kissed me again, sighing into the feeling of my lips on his, and our foreheads met when he pulled back.

“I’m sorry, Jessi.” His voice was rough, as though he’d spent hours screaming instead of hours of whispering all of his own pain and loss. “I’m so fucking sorry that he’s gone.”

I gave a small nod, not ready to speak just yet. Not sure I could without the sobs building again. I brushed his hair from his forehead, and tried to smile. To reassure him that this wasn’t a relapse to the other me. His hand met mine and he linked our fingers.

“I’m not sure you heard me tell you-” He started, and his eyes flashed with more pain. Lucille. He wasn’t sure I’d heard him tell me about her.

“I did.” I was so quiet that I wasn’t sure he heard me.

His lips brushed mine again. “I meant it. Every word.” I knew he meant that he meant it when he said I reminded him of her. “She wasn’t a saint, Jessi.” I guess a flash of worry that he’d put me back on that damn pedestal came back. “She had her faults, everyone does, but she tried her damnedest to see the best in other people. In me.” He sighed. “I didn’t deserve her, I don’t deserve you.”

I listened to him and I could hear the pain in his voice. The guilt that still nagged him about his sins against her. “It’s because you think that, Negan, that you do.” His eyes were locked on mine. “People who think they’re entitled to the good things in their lives, the good people in their lives, are usually the ones that least deserve them.” I shifted on the pillow looking for a more comfortable position and he helped me by sliding his arm under my neck so I was more elevated. “See. I didn’t even have to ask you for that. And there you were fixing it.” He started to speak but I stopped him. “You deserved her, and you deserve me because WE decided you do. That’s all that matters.”

Negan studied me. “How do you do that?” He asked, a sad smile coming over his face. “How do you know just what to say to make everyone feel right about themselves?”

I shrugged. “I don’t know. I don’t think I do it for everyone.” I felt a flash of guilt at how I treated Andrea. “Some people, they just need to be reminded of who they are, and why they matter.”

His thumbs were tracing under my eyes again. And then lower, over my bottom lip. “I want to give you so much, Jessica Grimes.”

“Can I request something?” I asked, staring at him. He nodded. “Make me forget. Just for a little while, Negan, make me forget losing him?”

He leaned in and as his mouth covered mine, I thanked God that he understood. And as our clothes fell away, as our bodies joined, Negan once again gave me what I needed.

[percywinchester27]

@caughtaghostsomehow​ I’m just going to put it all underneath the keep reading, picking things from all of those reblogs cause why not!

Part 27: 

I understand why Max trusts Sam so much... Even after he initially failed him, he still kept his promise later on and he's been keeping it since.

The scene when Sam finds Max in the cell... Oh man.. I was angry at first, just like Sam but then my heart broke for this little boy. Sam and him needed each other. I think they may be soulmates.. The universe destined them to help each other out.

Yep. The reason why Sam is just so insanely careful about Max is because he how what it feels like to almost lose him. And the prison scene changed a lot since it was conceived. But I knew I wanted Max to start out as a physical kid and then grow out of it. He and Sam really were destined.

I'm so glad we got to see how Jody found out about the whole situation and I just love her more after finding out that she helped with the adoption (by the way, I love how thorough your research is 🧡).

I knew Dean would never give up on his brother but it just made me really emotional when he kept calling and Sam finally picked up and the first words out of Dean's mouth were "are you alright?". It got to me for some reason...

I thought it was logical to go to her for a lot of reasons- cause she is a legal writings professor, a close friend AND has experience with adoption as a single parent in the very same state. 

Awww... all the Dean parts get me. ALL of them. Especially here because they are so far and in-between in this story.

But Sam wanted his wife to trust him the same way. Unconditionally. He wanted her to trust him with fixing their life, dealing with their loss and grief and wanted her to trust him with rebuilding their life from before the accident.

This is you using my braincells by the way. Cause later on, someone points this EXACT same thing to the reader

I know I've said this before but it just keeps coming back to this in my head, she knew things couldn't be fixed because as much as she probably trusted Sam with her life, she understands that some things just aren't in anyone's control... And Sam wanted her to believe he could mend the wounds all by himself... It's sad and frustrating but I can't wait for them to have this conversation

I know you’ve read part 30 already and you know they touch on this very very briefly but they don’t really resolve this. It gets addressed specifically eventually. His ‘i could fix us’ vs. her ‘I knew you couldn’t.’ Does such for them though.

Chapter 28

Why do I have a bad feeling about that party?

Because. Same. Braincells. Lol.

I really wanted for someone to say that and Sam certainly needed to hear it and I'm so glad it was Chase who opened his eyes about this. He's absolutely right too, let the woman speak for her damn self instead of assuming how she feels.

Chase was me! Yelling at all these characters for not fucking listening to me haha... remember how I told you that people were suspicious of Chase? Yeah, after this chapter, everyone’s kinda adopted him. 

My emotions have been all over the place lately anyway but reading how Sam needed to compose himself before speaking about his son's death... I swear I don't have tears in my eyes while typing this- that was hard to read.

I'm glad Max knows... I don't know how much of it he understands but he's a clever boy, I'm sure he has at least a little bit better of an idea why this situation is so delicate.

Awww I’m so sorry I made you cry :/ But, well... Sam doesn’t grieve his son’s death the way the reader does. He’s always been more stoic. Besides, he had to deal with two griefs back then not just one... but I am sure it still hurts too much. 

I’ve left it to everyone’s imagination how much Max understands. He knows the concept of death for sure.... but his birth father had orgies at his house. We can all only hope that Max is completely shielded from that since he was using to hiding in closets when there were strangers in the house.

I was surprised by his question too but Sam's response was so... Loving. My heart can't take this.. He's such a great father...

Yep. I mean how else could he have reassured Max? His no lying policy is a great way to raise a child tbh. My sister does that with my nephew. That’s how I know.

Chapter 29

I really like Maddie, she's a genuinely sweet person, I love how helpful she tries to be and that she honestly wants her friend to be happy. I wonder what exactly went wrong during that party for her to look so dejected...

Maddie is nice. I was hellbent on making all of Sam’s canon Exes nice in this series. Cause I’ve had enough of reading the evil ex and current gf pitted against each other trope (Though I’ve never written it myself. Maybe I should and see for myself why it is so alluring lol.) I don’t know, maybe it was little a double prank thingy? Throw the reader in the water and be as mean to Madison as you can?

I really fucking hope that Brad gets what he deserves and that is to be kicked in the balls. Ever fucking heard the word boundary? Consent? I hate people like him with a burning passion and that whole situation infuriated and scared me in equal measure.

Yeah. That asshole needs to go down! His endgame has changed more than anyone elses in the story lol.

The fact that all of it came back to her the instant she hit the water made me sob. She wanted to protect her baby but there was no one there... I just- oh fuck.

Kay that part was HARD to write. All of it. Poor reader!

Was Sam the one to pull her out? If so then I don't even want to think about what would happen if he wasn't there, if they haven't made plans...

The way she started crying for their baby when she found her breath again made me cry even more... I don't know why I feel such a strong connection to this story and characters but I don't want them to ever feel pain like that again. It's heartbreaking 💔

Yeah that was Sam... I mean the pool was visible and all that. I mean of course you know. You read the next chapter. Why am I being a dumbass :/ 

Something had to trigger her trauma. It wasn’t going to come out on its own and And Sam loves her too much to force her to grieve. He barely held it together when she did grieve so well...

PS.: I'm really sorry you experienced drowning, it's a horrible thing to go through. I don't do pools- or really, any body of water, either. There's just something about the idea of drowning that unsettles me more than I can express.

Yeahh... God bless that lifeguard. Seriously. He’s the only one who noticed that I wasn’t coming up. It was night time and the pool was pretty dark so. I am so sorry that you don’t like pools, either. It’s terrifying.

Chapter 30

Firstly, Ria, you’re TOO GOOD to me, seriously! The fact that I could have you speechless is about the biggest complement you could’ve given me.

If you can call it that and at first when she asked him about the ring, I was surprised but my heart just sunk. I don't think either of them were in the right, I don't think they were both wrong either... I don't believe I'm good enough with problem solving to know what advice I'd give them but I do know that I have never experienced a feeling more cathartic than this one when reading. Twenty nine chapters leading to this moment... All the questions and pining and heartbreak. .. And sure, there's so much more they could say and there's so much more you talk about and figure out but as of right now... This is the beginning of the rest of their lives.

So, I think what she meant to ask was why did he just not give up on her, but she was tired and spontaneous and the ring question just tumbled out instead. I tried so hard for all their conversations to sound spontaneous and not rehearsed you know? Where they ended up touching on every aspect of the past? Cause that wouldn’t happen. It just wouldn’t. 

And THANK YOU for saying that. I swear to God, this chapter wouldn’t have made that impact if it hadn’t had a backing of 29 chapters. It would have royally fallen flat. Everyone was invested in the story by now and I was counting on it.

I didn't like how Sam got angry at first because I put myself in her shoes but the truth is, someone needed to get angry about something. One of them had to feel some type of overwhelming emotion to get here and it just so happened that it started with pain and landed on anger.

This is and SPN finale type of dilemma though. Like for the writers, they had to Kill of Dean first cause only Sam had the slight ability to move on. Sam way, I didn’t think the reader would have ever gotten angry first. She is so burdened by her own guilt (undeserved tbh) but she wouldn’t just lash out first. Sam had been angry at the start of the series and absolutely livid in their time apart. I just thought it would be easier for him to get mad first. Not defending his choices or whatever, just why I chose to make that decision as a writer. I would have been plenty mad a reader, too.

But the way they got angry wasn't a bad thing, their anger was based in how much they care about each other. Like the anger I would feel when one of my dogs ran just a little too far from me and a car was coming - took like fifteen fucking years off my ife istg. But I wasn't angry and screaming at them to make them feel bad, I was angry because I was so fucking scared that they would get hurt. The anger wasn't based in resentment, it was based in love. It's the same here and you can see it.

Jesus, I’m so sorry that happened with one of your dogs. Seriously. That sounds scary AF. I’m glad your dogs are okay.

Their anger isn’t destructive. It just isn’t. That much I’m pretty sure of. They’ve dealt with so much shit, and truly love each too much to actually hurt one another with words at this point. And it’s a good 10 chapters of journey where they deal with one issue after another to effing solve it like adults and not teenagers in throes of passion. I was like, nope! Not doing the passionate way. These two don’t get to be smart enough to get into Stanford and then be dumb like that and scream and yell and be jealous or irrational. It added a few chapters, but if I can be patient, so can be everyone else :P

The story she told about the cactus was not only a brilliant way to show her mindset and how people saw her over the years but also so fucking heartbreaking. On one hand you have this coworker who saw her and thought, "that person needs something low maintenance if they can care for something at all" and on the other - you've got this woman who tries her best to nurture this plant and help it grow and it ends up dying anyway.

That cactus one is inspired by real life event. And it seriously broke my heart to go through. Hoping each day that the last pod might live through :/ Like you said her co-worker wasn’t being mean, but it sucks that the cactus died anyway :(

Girl, you made my morning today. I woke up to your love and I just... you had me speechless. That chapter took a lot out of our branicells and I rewrote it so many times just to get it right for it to be respectful, vulnerable and cathartic at the same time. 

But may I ask you, WHY YOU WERE UP TILL 5:30 in the morning to read it? I have a timestamp thingy going for me, okay? I knew what time it was over there! And you gave yourself a migraine crying? OMG! I am so so sorry :/ Gosh. If I knew, you were going to binge it straight, I’d have warned you!

Seriously, Ria! Thank you seems like a small phrase. I will tell you this, I love you! So much!

[verannaca]

(One Last) Chance.

whoa, another fic?? someone better stop me

anyway, when i was writing Some Things Change, i’d had this overwhelming urge to delve further into everyone’s feelings and reactions, as disney has a tendency to half-ass human emotion?? there are consequences for actions; this is known. i wanted to explore consequences and how they’re dealt with - delving into Anna and Elsa like this isn’t something I’ve done before, but it was fun. hopefully it’s well done :’)

i’m definitely an anna fan (not just because we have the same weird name); she’s a character that helped me on a personal level when i was in a time of need. i’ve never really related to nor liked Elsa but i do try really hard to understand her perspective, and i like her more now that i’ve explored her character.

this fic is very pro Anna and Elsa! it does not favour one or the other. that said, if you are an Elsanna shipper, leave. This is strictly platonic and sisterly and i don’t want y’all fucking it up lol

Warnings - this fic contains: characters with ptsd, emotional trauma, mentions of neglect including child neglect, mentions of panic attacks, detailed anxiety attacks, mentions of severe loss/death, and details of grief. I know these warnings sometimes sound ridiculously intense compared to what the story really is, but i’d rather be overdramatic than underdramatic. (fic is about double the length of the last one, and it takes place after the events of Frozen2, so this is your spoiler warning??)

Also, I can’t believe the feedback on my last story?? i’m so pleased :’) anyway, i’ll shut up now. enjoy.

Anna had been Queen for a few weeks, but those weeks hadn't been peaceful. She had so much to say, and never the time to say it. Until, one night, it all comes out, and suddenly, Elsa is faced with a horrible reality: her sister isn't okay.

XXX

All she could hear was the sound of ice cracking and shifting. The sounds echoed throughout the ancient glacier; it was deafening. Only barely could the sound of footsteps be heard as she made her way across the ice. She knew it was too late. She was shivering; terrified— she'd never felt the cold before. Her hands were so cold, she could barely move her fingers. Her hair had turned white and her skin was beginning to frost over. Is this the end? 

She had to do this. It's what's right. It has to be. This voice had been calling her for months; it was time to find out the truth. She could've told her sister. She should have told her sister. But she was afraid of frightening her. Afraid of bringing more trouble into her life. 

That didn't work. Anna had to know these things. She had to. She couldn't function otherwise. Her anxiety wouldn't allow it. Elsa knew this, and yet, she kept another secret. 

It would've been fine—Anna was understanding. It all would have worked out, but then Elsa did the unthinkable.

She pushed Anna away. 

Again. 

That was the last time they'd seen each other. They'd fought; Anna was desperate to protect her sister, and in the heat of the moment, Elsa was unable to communicate clearly. She couldn't explain that Anna couldn't come with. That it required magic; that it was dangerous. No. If Anna knew that it was dangerous, she definitely wouldn't have let Elsa go. 

But Elsa needed answers. And now, she was alone. Unable to communicate with the living. She was freezing; dying; alone. Her guilt became overwhelming when she realised that she wasn't going to return to her sister. She had found what she was searching for, yes, but was this sacrifice worth it? 

She couldn't move. It was dark, and so cold. Her legs were frozen; the ice was spreading up her body. Her hand froze in place; with her free one, she called out her sister's name and sent her an important piece of the past. 

And then, she was gone. Frozen solid. Breathless. Dead. 

The look of horror on her face was something that could never be unseen. This wasn't supposed to happen. She promised. 

The glacier was still loud; the sounds of the ice became haunting. It was overwhelming. The voice of the siren that called to her began to fade back in, but that peaceful call turned into a scream. A loud, high-pitched scream. 

A male voice faded in; “Anna! It's okay! You're dreaming!” 

Anna’s eyes shot open and she bolted upright, gasping for air. There was a faint squeak in her voice with each breath she took. She was quickly wrapped in a tight embrace—this wasn't the first time she’d woken up like this. Kristoff had barely been sleeping these days; he'd hold her until she was asleep, then he'd watch her for hours. 

Three years they'd been together, and he'd never seen her so distraught. They talked about this recurring nightmare of hers—there were two of them, set in two different caves. 

She didn't know how she knew that Elsa suffered a similar fate that she herself did three years ago, but she knew. She knew in the moment; she felt it. She knew her sister died alone; that she'd experienced something so intense; something she could have never imagined. And Anna was devastated. It gutted her. All she wanted to do—all she'd ever tried to do was protect her sister. And she failed. 

Elsa was alive. She was okay— she'd found herself. She had decided a few weeks ago to stay in Northuldra; she felt more at home there. Anna was happy for her sister, and more than understanding. She wished her all the best, and spoke to her often. 

But what Anna always failed to mention or show was how angry she was. 

Her fiancé knew. He had to hear all of it, all the time. He wanted to listen, though. He wanted to help her cope. It was important to him. He'd always put her first; to her, he felt like the first person to truly see her. To truly see and hear Anna. 

She'd always been kept in the dark. She was always the last to know about anything and everything. It stung, badly, especially when she discovered her parents met their demise because they were searching for answers about Elsa's abilities—yet another thing that they failed to tell their youngest daughter. 

Anna wasn't selfish. The exact opposite. She put everyone else before her. Always. When they found the shipwreck; when Elsa pulled up those memories, Anna was devastated for her sister. She knew how agonising it must have felt. 

But Anna needed care, too. Those were her parents, too. And their last thoughts; their last exchange was about Elsa. 

It hurt. It hurt more than she would've liked. And even after such a tragic discovery, Anna couldn't resonate with her sister. No, Elsa had to push her away, and Anna found herself alone again. 

And god, was she angry. She had never been so angry. 

How could she be left alone? After everything? Why would Elsa do such a thing?

It was in that cave that Anna hit her low. The lowest she had ever felt. She'd never felt so helpless; so pained. She was reprocessing the loss of her parents; she was trying to not be angry at them, but it was difficult. They left her with nothing. Then, she had to process the loss of Elsa. Her sister; her universe; her other half. The only person that mattered. And that thought hurt her in a different way. What about Kristoff? He mattered; he was her best friend, and she left him behind. And Olaf—the only good thing from her childhood; her last beacon of hope and light was gone. Because of Elsa's decisions. 

Anger. A high level of anger that she couldn't seem to get past. 

To add to it? She had no home to return to. She knew she had to break the dam; she knew her kingdom would most likely be wiped out. 

She cried alone in that cave all night. She clung on tight to the satchel that contained her mother's scarf and what remained of her frozen friend, and she cried. She grieved. She may have slept at some point, but her dreams seemed to fade into reality. Nothing felt real. Nothing felt right. 

And it was in that cave that Anna realised: she was worth fighting for. Yes; Anna was valid. Anna was worthy. Anna would be okay in time. She was more than a spare. She had to see that for herself. She had to stand for herself; trying to put motivation behind destroying her home was impossible. She couldn't get up for that. 

No. She had to get up for Anna. Because Anna deserved better. 

And so, she did. It was too much to handle at times; she fell over her own feet as she struggled to step. But she managed. She found her way out of the cave and tried to do the next right thing. 

She never told Kristoff that she had contemplated her life. He didn't need to know. She was reckless; challenging death. She needed to see how close she could get. It was when she almost didn't stick the landing as she leaped off the falling dam that she realised she didn't want to die. 

Mattias had saved her. And then, she was safe in her lover's arms. 

Just as she was right now. In her bed, in her bedroom, in the home that wasn't destroyed, being held by the person she loved the most, and although her heart was beating too fast and her palms were sweaty, she did feel safe. 

It was just a nightmare. 

They stayed in silence for a while; they'd already discussed these events to the point where Kristoff was beginning to have the same nightmares. But his were about Anna being alone in that cave. He loved Elsa, truly, but he knew Anna was the one who had really suffered. 

So, he held her. He held her until she fell asleep, then he laid her down and held her until the sun came up. 

It was Friday. Kristoff had guided Anna through the morning and early afternoon; he was worried about her well-being. They'd agreed to be completely open with each other, and Anna was able to talk about her deepest darkest feelings, fears, and secrets, and not feel like prey. Elsa was coming that evening for their typical weekly catch-up and game night. The first few times, Anna had been excited to see her sister. They both had so much to share. But Anna was tired now, and Elsa was a reminder of her pain. 

She didn't let it affect their evening. She wouldn't ever dream of making Elsa feel anything negative. She understood. 

But sometimes, she wished Elsa paid more attention to her feelings. She wished her sister could be as loving as attentive as Anna was for her. Sadly, that just wasn't the case. 

It had been storming all day, typical for this time of year. Anna and Kristoff had met Elsa just outside the gates, as they usually did. She greeted them both with pleasant hugs and greetings, excited to see them. Time flew by for her in the forest; the weeks felt like they lasted only a day. 

It was during their reunion that Elsa made a quick comment; “let's get you both inside before you freeze to death!” 

It was a half-hearted joke; a casual comment; completely harmless. Kristoff only noticed enough to chuckle; he and Anna were definitely cold, while Elsa wasn't even wearing proper shoes. The cold truly didn't bother her. 

Anna wasn't so amused. In fact, the comment triggered something in her brain that made her scowl at her sister. Elsa was oblivious as she made her way to the castle, linking arms with the new queen as she walked. Anna forced a smile and went alongside her—now is not the time for a fight. It was just a comment; it was harmless. 

It was careless. 

As they'd began to warm up and make their way down the great hall, a light conversation had begun, though Anna barely said a word. 

Freeze to death. 

She pictured Elsa alone in that cave, turning to ice as life left her body. She pictured herself fighting through a nasty storm before she too froze solid. It sent a shiver down her spine. She could still feel that cold, even after three years. She remembered the sensation in her chest as she began to froze; she felt the ice burst in her heart before the world went black.

There was nothing funny or casual about freezing to death. 

“Are you going to talk to me, or are we already playing charades?” 

Another joke. It was light; pleasant. Anna looked at her sister, who had a warm gaze in her eyes, and a light smile across her face. But that smile faded when she felt the chill in Anna's stare. They slowly stopped walking and stood still, staring at each other. 

“Is everything all right?” Elsa was concerned—she’d realised then just how exhausted her little sister looked. She was beautiful and made-up; her rich auburn hair was neatly tied in a bun, and although she wore no makeup (she never did), her eyes did seem bright and alert. But they were also very tired. Elsa tried to keep the mood light; “it's exhausting being queen, isn't it?” 

Anna forced a smile; “it's not as bad as I thought it would be, but yes. The days are long, and the night's longer.” 

They slowly picked up pace again. Kristoff stayed on Elsa's left side; Anna on her right. He’d remained silent to give them a chance to communicate, though he knew how to read his fiancée, and could tell how tense she was. 

“You do get used to it,” Elsa replied, placing her hand on Anna's. Their arms were still linked. 

Anna side-eyed her sister. She had so much to say, but mentally talked herself out of it each time. It would be so much easier if I didn't love you so damn much. She knew Elsa meant well, and she knew Elsa had suffered much on her own. That didn't change how Anna felt overall, but it kept her from saying something she'd regret. “I think we should keep things simple tonight,” she chimed in. “Maybe cut the evening a bit shorter than usual.” 

Elsa didn't seem fond of the idea, but she also didn't want to intrude. “We can definitely play it by ear, if you like. I have nowhere to be; this is our night.” She pulled Anna a bit closer, tightening her grip around the younger woman's arm. 

Anna pulled her arm back, though, to Elsa's surprise. The redhead instead crossed her arms over her stomach and kept her gaze away from her sister's direction. 

Elsa wasn't a people person, but she knew body language—especially this particular stance. She grew worried. “Are you sure everything's all right?” she prompted, walking close beside the queen. 

Anna nodded distantly, then looked at Kristoff. She took a breath and said, “I have some things to do that I forgot about earlier. Would you please escort my sister to her chambers for the evening?” 

Elsa was quite taken aback. She knew how mature and capable her sister was, but Anna never spoke like a queen when it was just the three of them. Why would she? The blonde looked up at her soon-to-be brother-in-law with a questioning gaze—they exchanged a look for a brief second before he nodded at Anna; “of course.” 

As the redhead began to head off, Elsa gave chase. She took Anna's arm and turned her around so they were facing each other; it wasn't aggressive, but was full of worry. “What's up with you? I'm worried.” 

Anna almost laughed, but she contained herself. “I’m fine,” she said simply. “But I have duties to tend to.” 

She tried to walk away, but Elsa held her tight, desperate for an explanation. “Hey, wait. We promised to communicate, right? Talk to me. Please.” 

Anna raised a brow. Don't be mean, she thought to herself. Even to your sister. But her control was lacking. “You...want me to let you in now? Isn't it a bit late for that?” 

Elsa—and Kristoff—could hear the sting in her voice. “Anna—” 

“You expect me to drop what I'm doing just for you?” She hissed. It was accidental; her tone. She wasn't a mean person; she wasn't rude. But her anger was rising. 

Elsa looked hurt, though her surprise outweighed her pain. “I'm sorry for whatever I did—” 

Laughter. Anna took her arms back; “what you did? Jesus, Elsa, where do I even start.”  

“Anna, maybe we should take a break,” Kristoff suggested, stepping in. 

The sisters both replied with a mutual, “no, no,” but Anna's was a lot harsher than Elsa's. 

“Should we start with the same old bullshit?” 

“Anna—” 

“Or is that history now? Yeah, I suppose we can bury thirteen-years of pain with three-years of companionship. That balances out beautifully. Oh, and how about recent events? That voice that you failed to tell me about? Or maybe that fact that we saw our parents last moments and it was all about you?” 

Elsa had crossed her arms by this point; shoulders raised. Her eyes teared up more as Anna’s voice got louder. Kristoff stayed silent. She needed this. 

“I suppose we also shouldn't then mention that I buried them alone! That they were my parents, too! That I'm not just your spare! But that'd be too much, right?” 

Anna took a step closer to Elsa; her heels against Elsa's flats made them the same height, and they were able to make direct eye contact. 

“You manipulated my love. You wouldn't stop for five fucking minutes to explain what was going on. I needed you just as much as you needed me. And how did you care for me? You pushed me away. Again.” 

“I had to.” Her voice was soft; broken. She was pained—she hadn't seen Anna like this before. Ever. It killed her. Did she really make her suffer alone? How could sweet, happy, bubbly Anna be depressed? Anxious? Lonely? 

“I know you think you did,” her voice was stern, but shaky. A tear managed to escape her eye and run down her freckled cheek. “But you have no idea what you put me through.” She didn't mean to yell; “I thought I had lost EVERYTHING.” 

Elsa winced at the volume, but kept her stance. 

“I had nothing. And you LEFT me ALONE, Elsa! The last time we'd spoken, we fought. That goodbye-hug lost all meaning after you'd forced us into that boat! I was so ANGRY! And not once—not ONCE did you ask if I was okay.” 

“Gods, Anna, I—” 

“NO.” The redhead held up a stern finger, silencing the older woman. “It's my turn. You shut up.” 

“Anna.” Kristoff's voice was gentle and understanding. It grounded her. Pulled her back to reality just enough to make her aware of her words. 

The queen took a deep breath; her finger curling in as she made a fist. She let out a shaky breath, not breaking eye contact with those glossy, ice-blue eyes. “My parents died. I was alone. You were all I had, and I didn't even know what you looked like. I tried so hard to be strong, but that was a darkness I never thought I'd get out of. And then...” she trailed slightly, anger turning to pain. “When I was alone. In that cave. After watching and hearing our parent’s final moments; Olaf, the only friend I had left—because I never thought I’d see Kristoff again after I left him to follow you... He flurried away. I watched him die. I held him as he died, Elsa. And he was all I had left—of my childhood, of my home, of you. And you were gone. Just like mama and papa; you left and were to never return. I thought Arendelle was gone. The dam had to be broken; I couldn't have ever imagined that you would've saved it.” 

Elsa let out a soft, shaky breath. “You had nothing.” 

Anna nodded ever so slightly, pursing her lips to hold back her tears. Her voice was barely a whisper; “nothing.” 

The blonde lost her gaze as she became aware of her tears. She quickly wiped them away, holding her hands over her mouth as she stared at her sister. 

Anna couldn't decide if she felt better. She'd said almost everything that she needed to say. She looked deep into Elsa's eyes, not wanting a response just yet. She wanted her to think. “No matter what, Elsa,” she said softly, “I love you.” 

After a brief moment, the queen turned and walked away. Elsa and Kristoff watched her go, and although the older sister tried to follow, Kristoff held her back. “Give her space,” he said gently. “Let her breathe.” 

Elsa looked up at her friend; “did I say something wrong? Tonight? To trigger this?” 

He shrugged lightly. “Maybe. Maybe it was that comment about us freezing. She's been delicate lately.”

Of course. It had to have been that comment. Elsa placed her hand flat against her stomach as she felt it churn. “I have to talk to her. I have to make it right.” 

“With all due respect,” Kristoff began, holding her attention to keep her from following Anna; “whether it's fair to anyone or not, there is thirteen—maybe even sixteen years’ worth of damage that has to be fixed. Anna loves you more than anything; she'd be willing if you are, but above all else, you have to remember that her feelings are valid.” 

Elsa nodded, though she was rather lost in thought. All those years, she thought she was suffering alone. She thought Anna was being cared for; loved. But she wasn't? She was alone? 

They worked. Their parents worked. They were royals, sure, but they were also dealing with Elsa's magic. Who raised Anna? Who taught her to be queen? Did she truly only have the portraits on the walls to talk to? Was she really neglected for all those years?

It hurt. It hurt more than anything. Elsa brushed away the original plan of a game night—that could wait. Fixing their family was far more important. She knew she had to give it time; she knew she had to think. Things wouldn't be resolved tonight, but she could start the process. She could prove to Anna that she cared. And they'd work at it again next week. And the week after. And Elsa could visit more often. This could work. This could be okay. 

Right? 

XXXXX 

Game night didn't happen. They didn't even have dinner together. Anna had locked herself in her room; something that made Elsa's blood run cold. She'd knocked only twice over the course of four hours, desperate to be acknowledged, but the queen had no interest. She had more to say, but kept her words simple; “go away, Elsa.” 

It wasn't meant as revenge. Anna wasn't trying to be petty. She just needed time. How much time; she had no idea. But at this rate, no conversation was going to take place before the end of the day. It was already long past sunset; the outside world was dark, cold, and quiet. A perfect place for Elsa to think. 

She'd seen Anna open the door for Kristoff; the two disappeared into their chambers a couple of hours ago. Elsa wasn't one to eavesdrop, despite how desperate she was to talk. She couldn't bear to pace around the halls of this massive castle; so, she went outside. She’d made her way down to the water, sitting on the large rocks, watching the gentle waves. Snow was falling rather heavily; the temperature well into the negatives. Her dress was of her own creation, though a new design; her shoulders and arms were entirely bare, alongside a lot of her chest and most of her back. Her hair was still white from the events that took place in Ahtohallan, but it was a small change from the platinum-ash blonde it was before. Despite her thin attire, she wasn't cold in the least. She was shivering, but that was caused by the emotion she was struggling to hold. Tears were streaming down her cheeks, but her cries were silent. 

She loved Anna. More than anyone, or anything. She thought it was obvious. She'd always gone out of her way to make sure Anna's happiness was number one. What she'd failed to realise was that Anna had emotions other than joy. The redhead had always been a little ball of sunshine; Elsa wholeheartedly believed that nothing could dim that light. To find out Anna had been in pain for sixteen years of her twenty-one years of life... 

Agony. It was agonising. Like losing someone you love. Elsa pressed her hands hard into her stomach in an unconscious attempt to stop the pain she was feeling. She still hadn't learned how to handle emotion—she was shut off from humanity for so long, she forgot what it felt like to be human. To just...exist. Anna kept her grounded; kept her real. 

But that whole time that Anna was caring for her, she herself was in pain. She pushed her own feelings aside to care for Elsa, and the blonde had never noticed. She knew Anna was selfless, even before the at-the-time princess sacrificed her life for the sake of her sister and her kingdom. But this was on another level. This was nearly two decades of suffering that she endured for Elsa. 

A sob escaped her throat so suddenly, it startled her. She shrieked and jumped in response, slowly crawling off the rocks and onto the snow-covered ground as she let herself sob freely. She’d hoped that the snow would muffle her cries; the last thing she needed was someone coming to check on her. No one ever checked on Anna. 

The pain of those long years came rushing back. Oh, how badly she wanted to throw open that door and hug her sister. How badly she wanted to sing back to her; to tell her jokes and teach her and love her and tease her. She wanted to grow up with her, and that was stolen from them. She wasn't allowed to be the big sister she'd always dreamed of being. She wasn’t allowed to hold her best friend. They weren't allowed to discover the world together. They never got to roam the kingdom in their teen years and gossip about romantic interests. They never got to explore too far and get in trouble for it. They never got to laugh, or fight, or sing—they didn't see each other. They were strangers. 

And then, suddenly, they were together again. And just as quickly as that, they were apart. That pattern seemed to continue. 

Elsa thought heavily about their relationship; she tried to find the flaws on her side; things that she could control. She’d noticed a pattern of her own; it seemed that every time Anna tried to communicate with her, Elsa ran in one way or another. To Elsa, this was a simple defence mechanism—it was hard for her to communicate. Often times, she needed to take what was said and think on it before she could reply fairly. But to Anna, it was the same story: she was being shut out. 

Elsa realised that she had to work hard to be different for Anna. Not to disregard her own feelings or history, but to meet her sister in the middle. You gave up so much for me; surely, I can sacrifice a few boundaries for you. I can learn for you, Anna. 

She stared blankly across the fjord, though her view was obstructed by her tears and the falling snow. She brought a shaky hand up to her eyes to wipe them as dry as she could; she was a bit surprised that the tears weren't frozen. She'd never truly understood how her power worked; even after her discoveries and the comfort she found within herself, it was still difficult to understand something so otherworldly. 

Anna never struggled to understand. Not once. Their problems were never based around Elsa's powers; when they fought, Anna didn't care about the temperature in the room. She didn't care if the windows frosted over. She wasn't afraid of her sister; Elsa's magic was just a part of who she is. It was that unconditional love and treatment that truly helped Elsa come to terms with herself. Hearing a similar message from her mother only added to that. 

But now, she had complicated feelings towards her parents. If they neglected Anna, how could Elsa forgive them for that? 

They were only human. They did their best with what they had. They tried. 

And they're gone. That’s a history that can't be fixed. And most importantly, that isn't Elsa's responsibility. No; she has her own damage to fix. She can only control herself. And now, she had to make the first move. 

XXXXX 

She’d cleaned up a bit. She had to gather her thoughts. It was hard; finding the courage was so hard. She got a rush of anxiety every time she thought about knocking on that door again—being rejected by the person who had constantly tried to reach her hurt on a whole other level. What have I done? 

She sighed and shook her head. “No. You can fix this,” she said quietly to herself. Verbal reassurance had always been more helpful for her. It pulled her out of her head, and eased her anxiety just a smidge. “Just talk to her. She needs you. You can do this, Elsa.” 

A knock came at her bedroom door. Elsa turned, surprised; she called a delicate, “come in.” 

A moment passed, then the door swung open and Anna stepped in. Elsa felt her heart leap into her throat, and simultaneously, her stomach dropped. Yet again, she failed to make the first move. “Anna. I was just coming to see you.” 

The redhead seemed surprised, but it was gentle. “You were?” 

Elsa nodded and gently hugged herself; “I mean, I was trying to find the courage to come and see you.” It was difficult to admit for some reason. 

Anna smiled ever so slightly as she shut the door behind her. “Well,” she took a few steps closer and gently crossed her arms for comfort. “Beat you to it,” she half joked. She had changed into her nightgown; her auburn hair fell loosely in an elegant flow half-way down her back. 

“Again,” Elsa said softly, defeated. “I'm s—” 

“I'm tired of apologies,” Anna interrupted, voice still quiet. She’d failed to make eye contact as she spoke. “Words have lost meaning over the years. Certain words, at least.” 

Elsa nodded distantly. She didn't know if she should speak, or listen. 

Anna took a breath then looked at her sister, also defeated. “I didn't mean to hurt your feelings. I've never lost myself like that before,” her voice faded out a bit on that last part. “I didn't mean to raise my voice; it was immature, and I'll make sure it doesn't happen again—” 

“No.” 

The queen tilted her head, slightly taken aback. Elsa's voice was stern. It surprised her. “No?” 

The blonde moved closer, expression showing her desperation. “No, it will happen again, and that's okay. You have every right to be upset and you should never apologise for being human.” 

Anna smiled lightly again. Those words were extra important coming from Elsa. “I just don't want to hurt you.” 

“Your honesty will never hurt me, Anna,” she replied. “That isn't for you to worry about, anyways. You've got to speak up for yourself. Always. Even against me. I want us to be able to talk—gods, I want us to be able to fight and make up as sisters do.” She paused, then continued when Anna said nothing. “Things don't have to be perfect all the time. And things aren't going to fall apart if we have a falling out. We have to learn.” 

Anna’s gaze fell as defeat rushed over her again, and Elsa noticed. It sent her into a panic, but she tried to contain it. Did she say something wrong? Is she missing something? What does Anna need? Is it ruined? Is it over? Anna's going to tell her to leave and they're never going to speak again? No, she wouldn't do that. Would she? If she decides she deserves better; if she decides that— 

Elsa was ripped out of her thoughts when she was wrapped in a tight embrace. Her arms instinctively wrapped around her sister and they held each other close, relaxing. 

“I have spent my entire life petrified that I'm going to lose those that I love, and that's all that seems to happen.” 

Her voice was so delicate and pain-filled that it made Elsa's tears quickly return. She tightened her grip around Anna's petite frame, and buried her face in the crease of her warm, freckled neck. 

Anna stared blankly towards the wall. It still felt weird to be in this room; to be on this side of the door. The weirdest part was that there was someone in that room all along; she hadn't spent those years just talking to a door. There was another lonely little girl on the other side, who lived to hear the voice of her baby sister. 

Anna tightened her grip, too. Tears welled in her eyes, but she swallowed them as best she could. “You were my light, too. The only thing I lived for. The thought of someday meeting you was all that got me through those lonely nights.” 

Elsa’s fingers curled in as she grabbed at Anna's hair and clothes; she tried to contain her emotions, but couldn't, and cried on her sister's shoulder. 

Anna felt her move in her arms; she knew she was crying. It made tears escape her eyes, too. “I know you're broken. I know you've been through hell, too. I just wish we could walk through the flames together.” 

Elsa nodded; “we will.” Her voice was broken and weak; she sounded nasally due to her crying. She held Anna even tighter, if that were even possible. “We will always do this together, Anna, I swear. I'll never leave you behind again.” 

Anna wanted to smile at the thought, but couldn't. How could she believe such promises? The first day they'd spent together, Elsa said the same thing. Together. Then again as they travelled to the forest. Then again as they—

“Prove it.” 

A beat passed, then they mutually pulled out of the embrace. Elsa kept a hold on Anna's upper arms, but the redhead took her own hands back and crossed her arms again. They looked at each other with tears eyes; cheeks red and puffy. Elsa looked genuinely upset, whilst Anna almost looked betrayed; broken and distrusting. 

“Prove it,” the queen repeated. “Don't just say it.” 

Elsa nodded distantly; “I will. But—” 

“No buts.” She shook her head, clearly unimpressed. She wanted to be understanding. She wanted to be soft. But she couldn't let herself. Not this time. “I know you're learning, Elsa, we both are. We've had the same amount of contact with people; the same amount of practice. But I'm not a stranger. I'm not someone you met on the street; I'm your sister. And I know we grew up apart and we have much to learn about each other, but we spent the first five years of my life together, and I want us to be close again. And I know it's not realistic—we were young, but we could still—” 

“Anna.” 

The queen stopped. She’d started rambling. She did that sometimes. It was very Anna. She smiled sheepishly; “sorry; I get carried away.” 

Elsa smiled warmly; “I want us to be close, too.” She thought for a beat, then when they made eye contact again, she continued; “I am sorry; truly. I had no idea. There are so many things that I wish I had done differently; for both of us. I wish I could take all your pain and turn it into something beautiful for you. I wish you hadn't spent so long alone— I'm so sorry for the consequences. For your anxiety and your depression and your fear of abandonment—for everything that affects your daily life, I am so sorry.” 

“You get it,” Anna replied quietly, offering a weak, lop-sided shrug. “You get it because you feel the same in some way. We could understand each other. We could help each other. But I'm so afraid to talk to you sometimes; I'm so afraid that you're gonna shut me out again that I almost don't want to get close to you. I can't handle any more pain. I just can't.” 

Her heart broke again. Anna was right about one thing: they do understand each other. That was one thing that really bothered Elsa, was knowing that the pain she'd always felt; the pain she'd always tried to protect Anna from had been there all along. They really were in the same boat. Elsa gently ran her hands up and down Anna's upper arms, then took a tight hold of her. She looked deep into her aqua eyes; “Anna.” 

The redhead sniffled. She knew what words were coming; she'd heard it all before. It was different this time. Elsa was trying. Elsa heard her, and saw her, and accepted her. That’s a step. But was Anna really willing to give her another chance? 

“I promise from now on we will do this together.” 

Each word was fully pronounced; her tone was stern; she was serious. 

“We will work through this together.” 

One more chance to make things right. It was only fair; Anna herself had been lacking at communicating, too. It was a mutual ordeal. This chance would be for them both. 

“Are you willing to try? To work at it? To truly let each other in?” 

It would be a lifelong healing process. Or so she figured. There was too much history, and surely the future would only be busier. Anna was queen now; she did have duties to tend to. And, she was engaged. She was soon going to be a queen and a wife. She saw children in her future; her near future. It was easy to picture; life with Kristoff was more than ideal; they had incredible communication skills following their engagement. They’d sat down and talked out everything. They were always on the same page, even if they sometimes had disagreements. 

A queen. A wife. A mother. A sister? 

Could she handle all of those responsibilities? Was she ready? She was only twenty-one. Her future without Elsa looked easy, as much as that pained her. It felt easy; the idea of moving on. Building her own family and her own legacy. She was Arendelle's hero; this was her forever home. Did Elsa have a place in Anna's future? Elsa made it clear that Anna had a place in hers. Was that mutual?

The queen looked at her sister, and Elsa looked back at her, awaiting an answer. 

Are you willing to try? 

Anna smiled warmly. “Of course.” 

[thenexusofsouls]

“Why Didn’t You Do More?”- The Superhero’s Reality, and Why It Differs From Our Own

So this is a random rant of mine on the mindsets of some superhero characters and how we, as writers, can distinguish between the way they react to things and the way mundane people might. I do want to say that this will likely not have any solid point to it, haha, I just love to analyze things sometimes. It’s fun for me. So just think of this as a nice mental exercise.

Just for some background, this was prompted by a few conversations with friends, but also partially influenced by a line in a song, Holocene, from the movie The Judge. I recently watched this movie, and it’s amazing by the way, I highly recommend it, but be prepared for detailed and graphic scenes involving the effects of cancer and chemotherapy if that triggers you, as well as some kick-your-feels-in-the-face family drama. There’s a song used a few times throughout it that has lyrics that seem a bit weird and disjointed, but if you really sit down and think about them, there are some themes that stick out that are relevant to the characters. Being stuck in the past, remembering the past as being better than it was, wanting to go back instead of improving the way you are now, lying to yourself about things, and most importantly, accepting failure and loss of control of a situation. There’s a line in the song that I’ve been stuck on lately, namely, “...and at once I knew I was not magnificent,” and it’s really made me think about this concept in the context of the lives of some Avengers.

In the movie, Robert Downey Jr.’s character (who is so very much like Tony Stark if he had decided to be a lawyer as far as personality) has a very pointed, personal, and heartbreaking failure moment. It’s painful to watch his character break down simply for what the failure means for the character and those they love, but also on an emotional level as you think about where the character’s head is at. He was a character who prided himself on always succeeding, no matter what (trying not to spoil the movie here for everyone and probably failing hard, heh). It never occurred to him that he could fail. Some might look at that and just think he was just an arrogant asshole with an ego the size of a planet, and maybe that’s true on some level for this particular character, but in extrapolating his psychology to that of some characters in the MCU, I think there’s a point at which arrogance and a massive ego can become paradoxically altruistic and selfless for characters with abilities that are larger than life. And because the stakes and expectations placed upon them are just as large, that makes things like failure even more heartbreaking for them. As Peter Parker said in Captain America: Civil War, "When you can do the things that I can, but you don't, and then the bad things happen, they happen because of you." There’s not just a feeling of personal failure, but also a feeling of letting down a large group of innocent people as well… perhaps even the whole world, or on the level of Thanos as the opponent, the universe.

I’ve been wrapped up in analyzing this mindset lately, and thinking about that one line in the song, and it’s moved from the character in The Judge to Tony Stark and also Wanda Maximoff and their early failures with Thanos. In pondering their epic failures on a massive worldwide superhero level, the concept of altruistic arrogance, or a selfless ego, is a paradox that I think deserves some discussion. I think it embodies the mindset of a superhero who, while he/she may be human, does not have the same psychology with regard to approaching problems or viewing their life or the world around them as someone without their exceptional abilities might.

When Tony and Wanda fail to defeat Thanos in Infinity War, their failure comes as a painful shock to them, not only because of what’s at stake and the guilt that comes with letting down those they care about, but because they realize in that moment that failure was inevitable, because their best (at that point in time, at least) was always going to be not enough. And they didn’t know it. It’s like being let in on a joke after everyone’s already laughed at it at your expense… and the joke isn’t funny. I’ve been asked by some people in talking about various parts of Infinity War, why did they give up? I’m referring to these moments here, when Tony and Wanda appear to just go limp and space out and just… stop fighting, as they’re being essentially patronized by Thanos:

They’re not giving up, they’re overwhelmed. They’ve stopped for two reasons: 1) they’re legitimately exhausted after throwing out everything they had to offer, and 2) the realization that they were not strong enough even at their best is an arresting and stunning one in a very literal sense. They’ve already given it their all, and now they’re at a loss. Their goal isn’t accomplished, their loved ones are not out of danger, and yet they’re spent, they’re done. That is not something they have ever encountered before.

Let’s back up a bit and look at where Tony Stark and Wanda Maximoff’s minds are at by the time they reach Infinity War. Tony has been haunted by a vision placed in his head by Wanda since Age of Ultron, one that showed him all the Avengers dead and/or dying, in which Steve says “You could have saved us,” and “Why didn’t you do more?” While it is debated in the fandom whether what she showed him was the manifestation of his worst nightmare or an actual premonition of the future or both, its effect on Tony is staggering. From that moment onward, he is preparing to make sure that vision never comes to pass, but unfortunately, he’s got the wrong focus. He believes the way it could come to pass or why it might be possible is if he doesn’t try hard enough, either because he isn’t willing or he isn’t able to tap into his full potential. The fault, he believes, will lie with him and his willingness to go the distance for his friends, or, that he won’t be prepared enough and ready to whip out the full breadth of his power and ability. It never occurs to him that there was nothing he could do to prepare enough for that moment because he was already inherently unable to defeat Thanos then, through no fault of his own. He simply is not going to be strong enough by that time.

So for someone like Tony with a huge ego who I think believes that there is nothing he cannot accomplish if he tries hard enough, and for someone like him who is deathly terrified of being left alone in a world of friends dead because of his failure, coming to the realization that he “was not magnificent,” that yes, he has real limits that in this case mean he is not good enough… is psyche-shattering. His massive ego in believing he was capable of anything with enough prep and determination collided with his selfless desire to protect people he loved (like Peter), and guess what? The great and powerful Tony Stark wasn’t good enough. Imagine how utterly arresting that thought must have been for him. Well, you don’t have to imagine it, you can see it on his face. It’s the face of someone with a literal genius-level intellect suddenly realizing he’s out of ideas.

Turning now to Wanda, she’s lost nearly everyone she has ever loved. Her parents, her twin brother, and now Vision, someone she has fallen in love with, is being threatened. Her first instinct back in Edinburgh is to ask him if maybe they shouldn’t stay out of what’s going on. She doesn’t say that because she’s cowardly or selfishly trying to ignore the plight of others, she’s just terrified of losing yet another person she loves, and quite possibly the last person in her life that she is very close to. Her mindset is to play it safe, because as she learned from her brother, being a protector gets you killed. However, when Vision makes the decision to involve himself, Wanda immediately follows suit, because now she has to be his protector. She is not going to allow another person she loves to die. Bold of her to believe that she had that choice, that it was at all in her hands and within her control to decide that Vision would be safe, and that all it took was her decision to choose to protect him. Wanda is really freaking powerful, and I think that power disturbs her at times. Because of this, I doubt that she had fully explored the limits of her power by that point. I headcanon that she always had in the back of her mind, my limits are far above what I can imagine, and thought that if she whipped out all the power she possible could, she could do anything, destroy anything, kill anyone. It was untested and nebulous in her mind, but not unlike Tony, I think she thought that the potential for failure here was in her not being vigilant enough, not trying hard enough. Pietro died because she wasn’t there to protect him, she believes. So this time she’s going to be there for Vision. Unfortunately, that meant killing him at one point, but ignoring that for a moment, I think Wanda believed that she could hold Thanos back indefinitely and, if necessary, kill him, and it just wasn’t there. The ability, the potential, her focus, her scope at that point would not allow her to do that. It’s not her fault, really, and yet she failed Vision and everyone else. Which brings me to my next point…

Realizing that there was nothing more they could possibly have done to change this outcome, due to their own limitations their egos would not allow them to see before, does not change the level of grief, guilt, and emotional distress that they feel. If anything, it magnifies it. When superheroes fail on this level, they haven’t just let themselves down, they haven’t just let their immediate friends and loved ones down, they’ve let the world down. In this case, the universe. That is an immense amount of pressure to place on a person who, until a short time ago, fully believed that they were capable of stopping this from happening. Being told it wasn’t their fault or anything like that is never going to comfort them, because friends and loved ones are still dead, and everywhere they go there will be reminders of their failure. People who don’t understand may even outright blame them for what happened. When you or I fail at something, we might feel like sheesh okay, I suck, heh… or we acknowledge that it was outside out control and try to improve for later. When Tony and Wanda failed, they had to deal with personal failure, guilt, grief, and the weight of responsibility of so many lives on their shoulders. Wanda was spared a lot of that initially because she got snapped, but Tony was left to deal with it, and we all know how well Tony deals with crushing emotional issues…

Failure for a superhero means more than just letting oneself down, and when their (whether intentional or unintentional) arrogance permits them to believe that the possibility of success is theirs to grasp if they only put in the effort, the distance they fall when they’re knocked off that pedestal is even higher, the impact when they hit the ground even greater. So the listlessness, the thousand-yard stare, the silence (uncharacteristic from Tony to say the least)… you’re watching someone’s ego literally break down before your eyes and have to accept the unacceptable… that their worst-case scenario they 100% could never deal with emotionally in a hundred years is now coming to pass.

Superheroes live in a different reality from us (yes, because they’re fictional, haha, but I’m talking existentially here, not literally). Life won’t let them not think about the larger picture, whether they would prefer to or not. Imagine if you tried your very best, maybe even purposely prepared for some confrontation for years, and you know that there was not an ounce more of strength or power you could have unleashed on the problem… and you still failed. The shame, the guilt, the heartbreak… on top of now having to sit and watch the worst unfold because… you’re now out of ideas. Being a superhero, there’s always something new to try. A new idea, a new power, a new ability, a new piece of tech, a new strategy… Well what happens when this was already plan Z and there is literally nothing left to try? It’s a scary mindset to live in, and when the stakes are that high and the hearts involved are already that damaged (Tony and Wanda have suffered a lot and clearly would have done anything to make sure more death and suffering didn’t occur), it’s the worst time to find out that you weren’t good enough. And that blame that mundane people might place on them? You better believe they’re also placing it on themselves. And maybe that’s where the ego comes back into play. Nope, it was my fault, there was something more I could’ve done, I just didn’t realize it or see it. And that may not have been true, but that’s easier to believe and process, even as painful as it is, than to simply accept that there was no way they were ever going to be powerful enough to defeat the threat in that moment. There was nothing more they could have done. They did everything right, and it wasn’t good enough.

And here we could get into a discussion of fate and predestination, maybe regarding Dr. Strange’s multitudes of multiverses and time threads in which things could have gone differently. At what point did all those threads boil down into the “one” that he saw in which the Avengers won against Thanos? How far back does one have to go in time for there to have been multiple winning options? Or… was this always going to be the single, only option? Was all of this predetermined since time began to culminate in these moments in this exact way in order to be the one winning outcome? How set in stone were Tony and Wanda’s failures, and for how long? Or is it all just randomly shifting with each new decision, each new divergence in the path, like trains shifting tracks? It’s an interesting discussion to get into, but that is a whole ‘nother meta topic for another day, heh.

Alright, I think I’ve ranted on this enough. I hope you’ve enjoyed reading this! Any thoughts or ideas on this yourselves? I would love to hear some other opinions on this topic. I love getting into philosophical and psychological discussions about my muses. =)

[speakingformyself101-blog]

The Death of a Friend

‘Death waits for no man’- Markus Zusak

You can never prepare yourself for death. He doesn’t wait until you’re ready, he could care less about your last goodbyes. It doesn’t matter if your good or bad, young or old, death is indiscriminate by nature. Death waits for no man, and he certainly didn’t wait for my friend Joe, who died before he could truly live.

I first met Joe after packing my bags and flying to China with dreams of becoming a teacher. Having arrived at the school a day before me, Joe and I became fast friends; both from England, freshly graduated, and severely out of our element, we found comfort in the familiarity of each other. Genuine and uncomplicated, the friendship blossomed over our shared endeavour to navigate the unknown. Eventually more friends were added on, and we established our own little squad, unbreakable and ready to take on whatever China could throw at us. We laughed together, celebrated each other’s achievements, and provided a shoulder to cry on.

Grief had always been an ambiguous concept to me; never having lost someone I was close to before, my experience and understanding of it derived primarily from TV. This ultimately made it difficult for me to empathise with others, and aside from the customary “I’m sorry for your loss”, my thoughts didn’t venture much further than that. That’s not to say I was some sort of emotionless psychopath, of course I sympathised for those going though such tragedy; believe me when I tell you I was a blubbering wreck for the full 2 hours of P.S. I Love You. But my emotions always had a shallowness to them, which eventually shifted to scepticism. Too often when I witnessed grief on TV it seemed exaggerated to me; the heartache taken and twisted into a caricature-esque illustration of its original self. I looked at it as an over-saturation of real-life, reserved for the big screen to justify drawn-out movie sequences where the main character screams and rages of the injustice of it all while melancholic piano plays softly in the background

It was only after experiencing grief personally that I realised wherein my derision lied. Oftentimes movies and TV shows will portray a character in denial or anger, but fail to show the mental journey that has taken place within the character’s mind to lead them there. Subsequently, to someone ignorant of the psychological proceedings that occurs internally when processing the death of a loved one, it can seem as if these reactions simply manifest out of thin air, with no rhyme or reason to them. Though I can only speak for myself, this failing stripped the emotions of its sincerity, making it harder to empathise with.

 ‘We begin to live again, but we cannot do so until we have given grief its time.’- Kubler Ross’s ‘The 5 Stages of Grief’ (Denial, Anger, Bargaining, Depression, Acceptance)

In Kubler Ross’s ‘The 5 Stages of Grief’ (Denial, Anger, Bargaining, Depression and Acceptance) he discusses the mental dealings behind the core emotions we feel while grieving, including its reason, importance to the grieving process, and how we move past it.  He emphasises that ‘there is not a typical response to loss as there is no typical loss. Our grief is as individual as our lives’. My experience with grief was similar to others in many ways, yet personal disposition, circumstances, and the nature of our friendship meant that my understanding and relationship with grief was wholly my own.

‘This first stage of grieving helps us to survive the loss’

When I first heard the news from a friend over the phone, I was in another country at the time. My denial didn’t manifest in the form of ‘I can’t believe this has happened’ but rather ‘I don’t believe this has happened’. What I mean by this is that, it’s not that I couldn’t accept the truth, but that I actively choose not to. It created a divide in my head, deep down I was aware that I was only lying to myself, but I did it anyway because there was no other option for me at that point. I did whatever I could to strengthen this pipe dream; I told myself that my friend sounded too composed over the phone (he was in shock), that it was just some sick prank they were playing, that motorcycle accidents don’t happen to 21-year-old’s who haven’t even been given the chance to live yet. Me and Joe worked together, and I remember checking the work chat every day thinking that until they make an announcement, there’s still a chance it’s all fake. The physical distance between me and Joe made it so much easier to create a mental distance between myself and the truth. It became a case of seeing is believing, and until someone could provide me with physical evidence of his death, I would carry on this ruse.

During my young teens, I was a sucker for the so-called ‘Girl Power’ storyline. Movies that pitted the strong-willed wall-flower against the sheltered and bird-brained female antagonist was my bread and butter. I had always envisioned myself as that strong-willed wallflower, a survivor at the core who could face whatever life throws at her head on, as if anything less would be a weakness. I grew to realise how utterly delusional of a mind-set that was, and appreciate the importance of allowing yourself to be emotionally vulnerable. However with all that said, it still makes me feel awkward to this day when I look back on my reaction to first hearing the news and think about how delusional I must have appeared to others. Eventually you just have to accept that, as Kubler- Ross states: ‘There is a grace in denial’, it is not a weakness one has to overcome, but rather a coping mechanism that allows us to handle only what we can.

‘Anger is the emotion we are most used to managing’

When I returned home, I could no longer deny what was right in front of me any longer; I could see my friend’s absence, and so I was forced to believe it. It was at this point when the beginnings of anger started to kick in. There was no clean-cut shift from denial to anger, one emotional state didn’t suddenly swoop in and knock the other off its pedestal. In his essay, Kubler emphasises that there is no ‘linear timeline in grief’. In my case, anger was born from my denial, it stemmed from no longer being able to keep denying what was now undisputable. I started to project this anger onto other people, getting annoyed when they openly discussed the details of what happened at work. What is there to talk about? He's gone, where was everyone constantly shoving the fact down my throat? To this day I still don’t know the full story of the accident because I was so against discussing it. All I wanted to do was bury my head in the sand, and it seemed like no one was going to let me do it in peace.

My anger started to turn ugly, I remember seeing a post someone made about how much Joe meant to them and thinking: why would you post this? You weren’t even that close to him? It felt disingenuous, like suddenly people were popping up out of the woodworks to add their two cents and make it all about them. I saw this attitude reflected in others around me, the occasional sly comment, a judgemental pause of silence, as if because you were closer to Joe it allowed you to police how others grieve and to what degree.

*Dusts off psychology A-level certificate*

Building any kind of relationship as a foreigner in China is a social experiment in its own right. Unable to communicate with the locals, unfamiliar of the cultural norms, and oftentimes going days without seeing an foreigner you haven’t already met, you begin to heavily rely upon the few friends you do make in China. Add on to this a 6-hour time differences and the Great VPN Firewall of China restricting accessibility to family and friends back home, you find yourself living in a social bubble. This same isolationism can be seen in reality shows like Love Island and Big Brother, which force their contestants into environments with little to no outside communication. The resulting effects is that relationships, both romantic and platonic, develop at an abnormally fast rate; it made the few months that I knew Joe much more potent than was normal. In such a short space of time Joe had carved a space for himself in my life: he was a colleague, friend, and brother all rolled into one. If I was stressed over something I came to him, if I was proud of something I came to him. But this still didn’t change the fact that, in the grand scheme of things, we were only a chapter in each-others stories, and so when it came to mourning his death, an overwhelming sense of inadequacy and guilt began to emerge.

In the same way that I judged others, I was judging myself. I began to question the validity of my own feelings, whether the short time I knew him justified such strong heartache or if I, like so many of the movies I watched before, simply up-playing a role I thought was appropriate. Did I deserve to feel so sad over someone I barely knew? Who was I to have enjoyed his last few months on earth while his family and lifelong friends couldn’t. When I was sat next to his family at the funeral, I felt like an imposter.

‘Acceptance is often confused with the notion of being “all right” or “OK” with what has happened’-Kübler-Ross & David Kessler

I wish someone had told me beforehand that acceptance does not always equal peace, sometimes it just leads to more heartache and depression. The comforting warmth of denial and distracting heat of anger had been rudely ripped away and what am I left with now? The cold hard truth, what a scam.

Accepting that my friend was gone didn’t suddenly make it easier to digest, if anything it made me question everything. Though it seems obvious, it wasn’t his death that was the hardest to grasp, it was the idea that he no longer existed, or at least not in the way he once did.

Kubler describes this stage as ‘accepting the reality that our loved one is physically gone and recognizing that this new reality is the permanent reality’. In the end, no matter what you believe, notions about an afterlife are all well and good, but it doesn’t change the fact that those passed are no longer in the here and now. How can a walking, talking person, with their own thoughts and dreams for the future, now simply be food for worms? How can someone who was previously physical only now exist in the memories of others? I didn’t want the responsibility of keeping someone alive through only my mind and a few pictures.

‘‘There is not a typical response to loss as there is no typical loss. Our grief is as individual as our lives’

If there is one thing I took away from this experience, it’s the understanding that grieving is a fiercely personal act, idiosyncratic to the individual. I witnessed friends who cried for weeks on end after hearing the news, while others did so only once. I saw friends find comfort in the company of others, and those who found peace through solitude. Some gained a stronger relationship with God, whereas some started to question everything that they once believed.  I realised that the cause behind my judgement of all these tv shows was the same thing that made me condemn those who posted their feelings on social media: I am a very private person, and so these open displays of emotion didn’t relate to me. That’s not to say that I didn’t feel the exact same emotions as everyone else did, but when it comes to my emotions, I’m an introvert at heart. I don’t post my feelings on social media, I rarely cry in front of others, and big public displays of affection only make me cringe. If given the option, I will always choose to implode than explode. This ultimately lead me to my third and final revelation: Everyone grieves in their own way, there is no right, cookie-cutter, one size fits all way to grieve. In the end, it doesn’t matter how you grieve or how long for, it’s about allowing yourself to experience the emotion and working through it to one day achieve some form of equilibrium to this new reality.  It’s a journey we all must walk, and one we can only do ourselves.

For anyone who is currently dealing with death for the first time, here are a few websites where you can find support:

https://www.supportline.org.uk/problems/bereavement/

https://www.cruse.org.uk/get-help/helpline

https://www.itv.com/thismorning/bereavement-helplines

[gmariam321]

A Rift in Memory - Epilogue

I wrote an epilogue for my last story, A Rift in Memory. It changes point and view and may not be necessary, but it was still something I wanted to write, and once I started, it came fairly easy. It’s not necessary too read it to enjoy the rest of the story, which is why I’m posting it below for now. Enjoy and thank you!

Epilogue

Ianto let himself into the tourist office with a yawn, kicking the door shut behind him before he made his way toward the counter. After setting down three large coffees and a bag of pastries, he yawned again, adding a neck stretch; he felt tired and heavy, which was starting to feel normal. Flipping on the lights, he took off his coat and hung it up in the back office, started his computer, and straightened up whatever needed to be straightened up, which was not much: he didn't spend nearly as much time upstairs as he used to. With only the three of them now, he was almost always needed downstairs and in the field.

Sitting down at his computer, he reached for his coffee, which was when he noticed the package on the counter; somehow, he'd missed it when he'd come in. Which wasn't a surprise, given how exhausted they all were; he would have missed an elephant standing in the corner. Three people could not do the job of five, especially when they were all still grieving.

The package was addressed to him, but it had not gone through the mail as there was no address, no postage. It was small and covered in brown paper, the neat writing at odds with the sloppy wrapping. Normally Ianto would take the package downstairs and scan it to be sure it was safe; even if it was, it would still be opened carefully, within the containment of the Hub.

It was something Tosh had done for them, with her scanner and her computer and her brilliant mind, but Tosh was gone, and Ianto was too tired and sad to care whether the package was a box of chocolate biscuits or a psychotic alien squirrel. A voice in his head told him to be careful, to stop and remember protocol, but he ripped off the paper and opened the box anyway, morbid curiosity longing for something, anything, to break the dark tedium of the long month since Tosh and Owen had died.

He half expected it to explode, but it didn't, and he found himself staring at it in shock instead. It was impossible, but it was right there, before him, tucked into a mound of crumpled tissue paper: a solid black sphere, a Datiran memory device. It was exactly like the ones they had found in the park, when he and Tosh and twelve others had lost their memories. Three months ago.

As he carefully took the device from the box, Ianto found himself remembering that difficult week. Returning to the Hub after a retrieval with a headache, Jack acting strange all day…only Jack hadn't been acting strange, he had been acting exactly like himself. It was Ianto who had changed, who had lost all his memories of being with Jack. It had been a shock and a surprise, to say the least, to find out he was sleeping with his boss.

It was still disconcerting, thinking of that week without his memories, and how he had felt: from confused to frightened, disgusted to ashamed, sad and curious and more. It had been hard not only for him, but for Jack and the others as well. What struck him, even so many months later, was that he had still been drawn to Jack, even after he'd learned about their difficult history and rocky beginnings. He had somehow, deep inside, missed being with Jack, and it had not taken long to set his feelings of trepidation and nervousness aside and reach out. It was almost as if it was—

No, Ianto tried not to think in terms of fate and cosmic destiny. Especially when dating an immortal.

What had been even more remarkable was watching Jack and slowly realizing—and reluctantly accepting—that Jack had also missed him. Ianto knew Jack liked him, and certainly enjoyed sleeping with him, yet for months he'd assumed it was simply because Ianto was there, close and available and more than willing. It had been casual and fun at the beginning, but nothing either of them couldn't find elsewhere. Even when Jack had returned and asked him out on a date—which seemed to imply something, if only from his uncharacteristic nervousness—Ianto still felt like it wasn't quite a real relationship; they just went out to dinner more.  

Their relationship, however, had continued to evolve, though both of them were blind to it at the time. Even though Jack stayed over, with many of his things at Ianto's flat; even though they went out more frequently, and more publicly; even though they enjoyed quiet normal moments like any other couple, Ianto still believed it was casual, and tried not to let it mean something to him when it couldn't possibly mean nearly as much to Jack.

Only it did.

He'd been wrong, and he'd seen it in Jack's concern, in his patience, and in his eyes when he'd talked about their relationship, sharing the things Ianto didn't remember. It was that more than anything Ianto—both the one with his memories and the one without—had ever expected from a man like Jack.  Even after months together, there were moments when Ianto felt second best, wondering why Jack had chosen him and not someone else, hoping it didn't end the next day when Jack changed his mind—or left. The idea that Jack cared about him in that way had always seemed ridiculous, implausible, impossible. And yet…it was also true.

When his memories had returned, Ianto had found himself with a hell of a headache. He'd also found himself admitting, deep down where he could keep it safe, that he cared about Jack. That he'd missed Jack because he loved the other man more than anyone. He'd not planned on it and certainly hadn't wanted to fall in love, but he had, and knowing Jack felt something for him—and something very real and painful at the idea of losing Ianto—had allowed Ianto to accept it.

It had been hard, though. They weren't the type to talk about their feelings, and after an intense reunion, they had retreated somewhat, perhaps in embarrassment, perhaps in fear. They'd eventually settled into a more intimate relationship, even if most of it remained unspoken and unlabeled, and it had been good. Really good.

And then Gray had come, and John Hart, and they had not only lost Tosh and Owen, but a part of themselves.  Things changed, as they always did.

A wave of guilt washed over Ianto, that he had regained his memories—of Lisa, of Jack, of the others he'd known and even loved. Tosh had not, and now she was dead. Here was the key to her recovery, sitting on the counter in the tourist office, but she'd been gone for weeks. It wasn't fair, like Owen had said the day Ianto had recovered and Tosh hadn't. Thinking of Owen made it even worse, and Ianto dropped the sphere back in the box, seriously tempted to throw it into the bay.

But he couldn't. There were others who had been affected, normal people in the wrong place at the wrong time. Two had died in the attacks on Cardiff, but there were ten other people he could still save now that he had another device. Only the guilt and the shame and the anger and the loss was almost overwhelming. He dropped his head, breathing deep to quell the anger, but he failed, and with a shout, he kicked at the back of the counter—once, twice, shouting incoherently. It wasn't fair. Torchwood was never fair. Leaning on the counter, he held back tears by sheer force of will, which was how Jack found him.

It had been a long month for them. If anything, Jack's guilt was even greater than Ianto's, for it was Jack's brother who had shot Tosh, who had released the Weevils and set off the bombs that had resulted in Owen's second, and final, death. He'd retreated from everyone, even Ianto, and for the most part they grieved in private, on their own. Ianto occasionally turned to Gwen, but she was barely getting through most days himself. And he'd reconnected with his sister, who knew he'd lost a close friend, but nothing else. He wished he could talk to Tosh, or even Owen, but he would never talk to them again. And more than anything he wished he could talk to Jack, that he and Jack hadn't drifted apart, but as with most of their relationship, it was what it was. It had been different after he'd regained his memory, but now they struggled with that closeness, knowing how much it hurt to lose someone. Sometimes Ianto wondered why they bothered, but he missed Jack and held out hope that they would get through this, just like everything else. Even if it wasn't together.

Of course, it was that moment—shoulders shaking with the tears of frustration and grief he would not shed—that Jack came up from the Hub. Ianto snapped upright, running a hand across his face and through his hair, hating that Jack had caught him in such a vulnerable moment. Though Jack looked nothing but worried and concerned, Ianto felt his defensives go up immediately. He did not want to talk about it, not when they hadn't talked about it since they'd lost Tosh and Owen.

"What happened?" Jack asked quietly, hands in his pockets. He seemed to sense Ianto's precarious mindset and approached slowly, openly. Ianto slid the box toward him; he reached in, took out the black sphere, and swore quietly.

"You didn't use it, did you?" Jack asked. "Did it go off, take your memories…" He trailed off at the expression on Ianto's face.

"Of course I didn't use it." His voice was barely a whisper as he stared hard at the floor. "It's not for me."

"Oh," Jack said, even quieter. "Right." Ianto heard him set it down in the box. "Are you okay? Do you want to bring it downstairs?"

Ianto shook his head, annoyed at Jack's clueless concern, his voice bitter. "No, and no, I'm not okay. I'm tired of this—of always losing, always being too far behind, too late."

"Too late?" Jack asked. He was trying to stay calm, Ianto could hear it, but it was lost on him. He felt the hot rush of resentment in his chest again as the pain and anger exploded.

"It's for Tosh, Jack! She sent it back for Tosh, only it's late! It's too damn late!" He lashed out again, slamming his hand on the counter then turning and kicking the chair behind him so Jack couldn't see his face. "Always too late—too late for Lisa, too late for Tosh, too late for my mum!"

After a few more kicks and several moments to catch his breath, Ianto felt a hand on his shoulder. "I'm sorry," Jack said quietly. "I'm sorry I haven't been there for you."

Ianto turned around in surprise. "What?" he asked. "What are you talking about?"

"This," Jack said, motioning at Ianto's clear agitation and the chair now several feet away. "You're upset. You've been upset for weeks, but we've barely talked about it."

"It's not your fault," Ianto pointed out. "None of it."

"It's mostly my fault," Jack said. "Otherwise you wouldn't have bottled it up so much."

"You're not my psychiatrist." Ianto barely refrained from rolling his eyes.

"But I'm supposed to be your partner, your friend, your boss," Jack said with a sad sigh. "As all three of those, I could have been there for you, to listen."

"It's not like I've been there for you either," Ianto said quietly, though he had tried. And maybe Jack had as well, but Ianto hadn't seen it, or wanted it at the time. "We went our separate ways, dealt with it in our own time. It happens."

Jack held out his hand and pulled him into a warm embrace. "Maybe we should stop trying to deal with it on our own. I know I could…well, use the support. I'm tired of going it alone."

Ianto smiled against Jack's cheek. "And you hate admitting that, don't you?" he asked, earning a silent laugh from Jack.

"You know I do," he said. "Because you're not so different. I've lost so many people, but it never stops hurting. And I will always hate losing people." His arms tightened around Ianto's waist, and he felt Jack take a shuddering breath, as if he was trying to hold back tears as well.

"I'm sorry, too," Ianto murmured. "For not being there, for snapping at you. You're right. We haven't talked, and we should stop trying to deal with it on our own." He paused for effect and tried to lighten his voice. "Maybe we should call Martha."

He felt Jack smile this time, and he pulled back to kiss Ianto, short and quick. "Not a bad idea, but maybe another day. Right now, just us. Together."

"Together," Ianto said. He looked away so Jack couldn't see the emotion on his face. It was a word they didn't often use, like partner or couple.  Even though it was the simplest word to describe them, they both shied away from using it. But Ianto liked the word, and he was suddenly so thankful he had his memories back. He had no doubt he would have ended up with Jack eventually, but this felt more real.  

"Come on," said Jack, interrupting his rambling thoughts. "Let's go use it. We'll save all the others we couldn't save, give them their memories back—their lives. Tosh would be happy."

Ianto nodded, still unable to speak. Of course they would save the others, restore what they had lost months ago. And yes, Tosh would be happy—yet it still stung, that Tosh was gone and had never been given the chance to remember.

"I'll grab my coat and all the files we need, meet you back up here in ten, okay?" Jack kissed him, running his fingers along Ianto's jaw. "I miss her, too," he whispered, then turned and hurried back downstairs. He was, no doubt, trying to hold onto his composure, much like Ianto.

He took the sphere from the box once more, which was when he noticed an envelope tucked beneath it. He had already guessed who the package was from, and assumed this would confirm it. A single sheet of heavy paper slid from the unsealed envelope.

Mr. Jones -

You may find this useful in a few months. We'll meet not long after. You'll need it in London, so use it well. I happen to know you already did (or will), but be sure to keep it on you so you have it when the time comes. I'd hate to lose the time we've spent (or will) together.

And so would Jack.

Yours,

The Doctor.

Fastened to the corner was a small, metal square of some sort. It was a dull golden color, with markings on it that did not appear random, but made no sense to his eyes; alien, most likely. It reminded him of a computer chip, albeit an exceptionally unusual one that would never work in any computer he knew. Turning it over several times, he wondered what it was for—and how the Doctor knew he would need it in London. What would happen in London, and when?

Of course, she traveled through time, so the perhaps the better question was why was she telling him? Wouldn't that affect the past? Apparently, the Doctor was telling him something that had already happened for her, which meant he followed through and she was simply ensuring history played out as it should; if he refused, would it create another paradox? Ianto was done with paradoxes, and fervently hoped to avoid another. But would he know when to use the chip? What did he do with it? What kind of computer used a chip so colossal?

Slipping it into his pocket, Ianto stopped and placed it in his wallet instead. For some reason, Ianto believed the Doctor; he would hold onto it and make sure to have it ready should he find himself in London in several months' time. Until then, he would search through the archives when they were done with the Datiran memory device, maybe see if Jack knew what it was. Or perhaps Aran Ford, who had helped them out before with alien tech.  He felt both a sense of dread and a feeling of calm relief, that whatever happened, he would be at least somewhat prepared.

Ianto pulled his coat back on and waited for Jack. In less than half an hour, his life had been upended. Again. It should have felt normal, working for Torchwood, but it didn't. It never did. And he never got used to it, but maybe that was good. If he did get used to the things that happened to him, he knew he would lose a part of himself, the part that cared so much. And he didn't want to lose that, which meant, in a twisted way, feeling the guilt and shame of that week of memory loss all over again was a good thing. Somehow.

Jack came bounding back, coat on and carrying a pile of file folders. Ianto handed him a coffee and Jack grinned. "Perfect. Fuel for the road."

"And breakfast too," Ianto told him, grabbing the bag. He'd leave a coffee for Gwen (and she could reheat it herself), but they were taking the food. They would need it.

"Even better," Jack said. "Ready for this?"

Ianto nodded. "Yes. I'm ready to do something good. For Tosh."

"For Tosh," Jack echoed. "Let's go change some lives."

As they walked to the SUV, Ianto thought about how much his life had changed over the years. From joining Torchwood and meeting Lisa, to losing Lisa and meeting Jack; from saving countless civilians and saving the world, to losing Tosh and Owen; yes, his life had changed in many ways, both good and bad. The bad he carried with him, a burden every day; the good lifted him up, got him through those hard days. Losing Tosh had been bad, but his memories of Jack were good, a treasure he hoped to never lose.

He wondered what the Doctor's note would turn out to be—good or bad. He hoped it was good, but with the Doctor, he knew it could be anything. The small chip was secure in his wallet for the day he would need it. Until then, he was happy with Jack, and hoped they had as much time together as possible to make new memories.

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Author's Note: The end! I toyed with the idea of writing the entire final chapter of this story from Ianto's point of view, but knew it would leave too much with Jack unresolved. And yet there was some of me that wanted to tell just a part of the story from Ianto's point of view, because everything else was through Jack's eyes. So he gets his turn in the epilogue. 

It's a minor detail, but I also wanted to put to rest any questions about the Doctor bringing them another device to help Tosh. She did, but Tosh was already gone. Which may or may not make it even more bittersweet. As for her note to Ianto, please forgive the self-indulgence. If you read my stories, you know I almost never pass up a chance to do something extra for Ianto. Canon killed him and countless stories since explore that loss; I simply prefer to try and tweak canon in such a way that – well, it could have happened, right? If you squint, smile, and nod. And it was always in the back of my head, from the moment the Doctor first appeared. Of course it was Ianto she kept trying not to refer to in the future, traveling with Jack! And while that might be perfectly fine left unexplained, I'm not that subtle. No apologies, unless it's for the ridiculous number of time loops and paradoxes I seem to write. And even then, I can't explain why I am so wildly fascinated with them. Maybe I'm part of one. Don't be surprised to see more. Hopefully the one in this story was a surprise and still enjoyable. Right now, I'm not planning on posting this with the rest of the story. I'm too scared! Plus I not only have a thing for time loops, but also for even numbers, and this would technically be the nineteenth chapter. Of course, I may end up thrilled with it and post it tomorrow, who knows. Until then, I’m hoping to try something lighter and more humorous. Which means I'll end up writing something absolutely depressing, no doubt. Thank you for reading! LLIJ!