#ive gotten to a point now where i just wish my attempt worked so i’d never have to remember any of this

[godspouse]

i would put this under a read more but im on mobile so i will be crying in the tags for a moment !

[youre-killing-me-fandom]

Parkner week 2020 Day 1: future au

This trope was not my own idea. Also, this is my first time writing fanfiction so it’s probably terrible. All constructive criticism is welcome. 

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The last thing Tony Stark remembered was the white-hot pain of the stones' power rushing through his body followed by the peaceful relief of feeling nothing as his surroundings slowly drifted away. 

Yet there he was, standing inside of a building that looked strangely similar to the Avengers Compound though at the same time, completely different.  

"Tony… you've been gone for over ten years…" said Pepper slowly with tears in her eyes. 

Tony's eyes widened in shock. "What year is it?" 

"2036"

Tony's mind had to take a second to process what he was hearing. He had been gone for thirteen years, which means Morgan should be almost eighteen, Peter 29, and Harley 30. His kids grew up without him; his baby girl was an adult; Peter and Harley had graduated for Christ's sake, from both high school and college. Tony couldn't have held back the sob he let out even if he tried.

"Oh Tony…" she gathered her husband in her arms. He buried his face in her neck and let out heart-wrenching sobs. His tears were beginning to dampen Pepper's neck when she started to run her fingers through his hair in a soothing manner. 

"They were devastated, you know," Pepper began, "Everyone was, but it took them longer to finally accept that you were gone." 

Tony raised his head and furrowed his eyebrows in confusion, "Who?"

"Harley and Peter," replied Pepper, "Harley locked himself in your lab for days on end and wouldn't come out until someone went in and forced him to get some rest. Peter wouldn't eat and hardly got any sleep from all of the nightmares he was having. It finally got to the point where Helen had to hook him up to an IV after he passed out once. That was when I told them both that you wouldn’t want them doing this to themselves. After that, they started to make progress.” 

Another wave of sorrow hit Tony like a brick wall. His boys were so upset over his death that they neglected their own health. How many times had they willingly allowed themselves to be hurt because of him?

"But they got better," continued Pepper, "They were able to find comfort and start looking after each other." She let out a chuckle. "They were practically attached at the hip. Still are." 

That made Tony smile. He was glad that they got along. He always wanted to introduce them but never got the chance to before the Blip happened. 

"You should see them. You'd be so proud. They're both helping me so much with Stark Industries. I honestly have no idea what I'd do without them," said Pepper, as she wiped away the remaining tears left on his face.

"What about Morgan? How’s she?" 

"She's amazing," said Pepper. Tony tried to make a comment about how of course she is, she’s his daughter, but Pepper just ignored him with an eyeroll.  "Peter says she's the perfect combination of you and me with your brains and my business skills. God only knows one day the three of them are either going to take over the world or destroy it." 

Tony let out a snort, "That sounds about right." 

···································

They continued to talk about everything he'd missed for over an hour when Pepper let out a startled sound, “I forgot to tell you-"

"Hey Pepper, do you know where my..laptop...is…" said Harley as he walked in before making eye contact with Tony and tapping his watch, which turned into a repulser that was aiming straight at the older man.

“Harley?” Tony asked in wonder, tears threatening to spill again. Harley looked different from how he did when he had last seen him, but that was, without a doubt, him. His dirty blonde hair had grown long enough to reach just above his ears, and, Jesus, was he tall. The blue-eyed boy looked like he reached a height of about 6’3”, a full two inches taller than Tony himself. He was about to say more but was cut off by a startlingly hard voice. 

"What the hell are you doing here?" yelled Harley. Pepper jumped up in alarm at the younger boy's harsh tone and stood between the two of them, getting in the way of the repulser's shot.

"It's not him, Harley." Not who? Tony thought.

Harley’s narrowed eyes never left the other man as he replied with a snarl, "Tony’s dead, so who else could it be?" 

"It's not, I had Friday check to make sure it wasn't an illusion. Do you really think I wouldn’t think of that?" said Pepper, her voice laced with accusation. 

Harley looked at her for a second before reluctantly lowering his gun “No...but then how-”

“Your guess is as good as mine. He said the last thing he remembers is using the stones against Thanos before ending up here.” 

Tony watched them talk back and forth for another ten minutes while he processed what just happened. What did this person do to make him so hostile? Before he could stop himself, he voiced his confusion. 

Harley stopped arguing with Pepper and turned to him with a sigh, “You’re really you, aren’t you?” His eyes searched Tony for any hesitation while he waited for an answer. 

“Of course, who else would I be? Seriously, what’s going o-” 

He was cut off by someone throwing themselves at him and wrapping their arms around him in a firm hug. “God, I missed you, old man.” 

Tony relaxed in his grip and returned the hug tightly. “Missed you too, kid” 

It took them several minutes to rein in their emotions and let go of each other, their faces wet with tears. Neither of them were ever really good at emotions, both preferring to make sarcastic comments rather than state their true feelings.

“So, you never answered my question,” stated Tony. 

Harley looked at him in confusion, “What question?” 

“Who did you think I was?” Tony both wanted to change the subject and satisfy his curiosity, but Pepper and Harley gave each other a worried glance before tentatively turning back to him. 

“It’s a, uh, long story,” Harley said, “A lot happened while you were gone," but as he raised his arms to start explaining, Tony noticed something. 

“Hold on a second...Is that a wedding ring?! You're married?!"

“Oh, well, I guess,” The blonde boy sheepishly rubbed his neck. 

“What do you mean you ‘guess?’” Tony cried, “Who is it? Do I know them?” 

Harley looked overwhelmed, but it was obvious that Pepper found this all amusing due to the bright laugh she let out. “I told you he would go crazy if he ever found out. Just wait until he hears who it is.” The boy glared at her for a second, wishing she wouldn’t encourage the older man. It wasn’t that Harley was afraid to tell Tony about his husband, but...he was kind of afraid to tell him about his husband. Both Harley and Peter knew that Tony had seen them both as sons, and they had mournfully speculated on multiple occasions what his reaction would be; however, now that he was given the chance to find out for himself, he was hesitant. Would Tony be mad at them? God knows that neither of them would be able to deal with their pseudo-father's rejection very well, especially Peter. 

“Well, you see, it’s-”

“Tony?” Tony’s head shot up at the sound of his name.

“Peter! Wait, it's not-” Harley tried to reach out to the other boy, but he fearfully jerked away from the incoming touch, eyes wide. When he saw this, Harley’s blue eyes softened into something akin to hurt and a small sympathetic noise left his throat. 

“Peter, sweetheart, you’re ok, you’re safe. It’s not Beck,” spoke Harley softly, as if he were talking to a frightened animal, but it didn’t seem to work.  Peter began to hyperventilate the longer he looked at the scene in front of him. In an attempt to block out the illusion, he quickly shut his eyes and covered his ears, trying to defend himself against the more than likely painful experience he was about to have.

“Pepper, get him out of here!” snapped Harley, and it didn’t take long for Pepper to grab Tony’s arm and pull him out of the room despite the boy’s rude tone. At this point, Tony was very confused. He thought Peter would be ecstatic to see that he was back, not fearful. And who is Beck? The name is vaguely ringing a bell. Is that who Harley thought he was? What did he do to Peter that would make him have a panic attack the moment he thought he saw him?

Once he and Pepper were out of sight from the other two, they came to a stop. “What the hell was that all about?” Tony demanded. 

Pepper let out a long sigh, and in that moment, she looked very tired. "Do you remember Quentin Beck?" 

The second Tony heard the man's full name, memories of a brown haired man screaming at him rushed to the surface of his brain. That psycho was who everybody was so defensive against? Tony remembered the project they were working on. Beck was brilliant, but he had proven himself to be unstable when he tried to use an experiment with their work on an unsuspecting intern. After that, Tony had stopped the partnership between them and wrote up a contract that said Tony got full rights to the product and Beck would only get part of the credit since Tony had done most of the work anyways. He really hoped that didn't result in consequences for his protege. 

But unfortunately his hope ended up being dashed when Pepper began to explain all of the things Beck had done to Peter in Europe as revenge for what Tony had done, from revealing his identity and framing him for murder to hitting him with a speeding train (of all things), all while psychologically tormenting him with illusions of his worst fears and most traumatic experiences. Apparently while Peter was on the run as an international criminal, Pepper and Happy had sent him to stay with Harley to lay low while they cleared his name and did damage control. 

Tony couldn't believe what he was hearing. His son had gone through hell and back in the wake of his death and Tony wasn't there to help him.  Peter must've felt so alone, not to mention all of the PTSD he must've gotten from the whole ordeal.

Pepper saw the combination of anguish and fierce protectiveness on his face and assured Tony that yes, Peter had been through a lot, but between Harley, Happy, May, Morgan, and herself, he was able to mentally recover for the most part. He still has nightmares and panic attacks about what happened but he is now able to put the suit on and protect New York despite what happened to him as Spider-man. 

Tony still had so many questions, but before he could voice any of them Friday’s robotic voice said, "Mr. Keener wishes me to tell you that you may make your way back to the living room."

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

As Pepper slowly led Tony back to where the boys were, she cautioned, "Just give him some time. One of Beck's favorite things to torment him with was you."

Tony's anger flared once more. How dare Beck hurt his kid like that. It's a good thing he's dead because he definitely wouldn't be alive for much longer with Tony here now. 

When they finally re-entered the living room, what Tony saw made him freeze. Peter wasn’t cowering against the wall anymore but was now standing in Harley’s arms with his face buried in the taller boy’s chest. Harley had his head rested on top of Peter’s chocolate curls as he serenely swayed the both of them back and forth and murmured something Tony couldn’t hear. He looked over to Pepper to see if she was seeing the same thing he was, but she was just looking at the two with fond eyes before quickly glancing in Tony’s direction with a smug smile. He raised his eyebrows at her in question but she just gently shook her head and cleared her voice to grab  the others’ attention. 

Peter and Harley both looked up, startled, before de-tangling from each other minus one hand. The former looked at Tony with hesitation and asked, “Is it really you?” 

“Yeah, bud, it’s me,” replied Tony, trying to put as much sincerity in his eyes as possible. 

When Peter heard that, he let out a sob and let go of Harley’s hand as he threw himself at his mentor. Tony was quick to meet him halfway in a bone-crushing hug, securing his arms around the boy as he turned his face into the younger man’s temple. Peter was openly crying with his head tucked into Tony’s neck, the tears on his face soaking the older man’s skin, “I missed you...so much,” hiccups breaking apart his speech. 

“God, I missed you too, kid,” was all Tony could say in response. 

It felt like hours before they let go of each other, them both trying to make up for the years they didn’t have together. When they finally took a step back, Peter went back to Harley’s side and grabbed his hand again, seeking comfort from it. That was when Tony noticed the gold band on his ring finger as well. “What the hell?! You’re married too?!” he shouted. 

Peter, Harley, and Pepper all gave each other a look that lasted a little too long, and Tony felt like he was missing something, “What?” 

“You really haven’t figured it out yet?” replied Pepper with a touch of humor in her voice. 

“Figured what out?”

“I guess I never actually told you who I was married to…” chimed Harley, “It’s, uh, it’s Peter. Peter’s my husband.” The couple gave each other a look full of love and adoration before turning back to Tony to see his reaction.

Tony’s breath was knocked out of his lungs, “Holy shit, seriously?” He always knew the two of them would get along together like fire takes to oxygen, but he never imagined this. Though now that he thinks about it, it kind of makes sense. The boys are very similar with their love of science yet are complete opposites personality-wise. Harley is rough around the edges and prefers to avoid discussing feelings or showing his true emotions, much like Tony does. While Peter, on the other hand, is soft-hearted and does his best to think about everybody else but himself. Together, they seem to complete each other, picking up the slack in one part of the other’s life that they weren’t aware was weighing them down. 

This time Peter spoke up saying, “Yeah, uh, we’ve been together for over ten years now. About four years ago Harley proposed to me and we got married two years later.” Tony’s heart dropped at the thought of missing their wedding. 

“They were both pretty upset about you not being able to be there, so we set up a chair in the front with a picture of you sitting on it,” added Pepper. 

Tony tried to will away the tears that were threatening to spill again but a few of them ran down his cheeks anyways. He was touched by their gesture and walked forward to engulf them both in a hug that they returned, “I’m happy for you, boys.” The two of them seemed to relax at that, but by then, everyone in the room was crying. 

“I’m glad you’re back,” whispered Peter with a smile despite the tears running down his face. 

“Me too, kid, me too.”

[fvckyouimaprophet]

in an unsurprising turn of events, i’m late joining in on the first day of @swottypotter‘s 10 days of healing mini-fest, but here’s my submission for day one: anniversary. 

four times remus remembers anniversaries, and the one time sirius beats him to it.

I: “It Was a Dare” (1977)

Sirius hunches his shoulders forward. “Fuck. It’s cold.”

“You’re the one who insisted that you didn’t need to bring a cloak.” Remus sits comfortably in his and wraps the fabric tighter around his shoulders. “Need to go down?” He hands Sirius the joint, and the glimmer in his eyes says what he won’t—I told you so.

“Sod off.” Sirius snatches it from Remus’s fingers and puts it to his lips. The tip burns bright orange, stark against the gray stone of the Astronomy Tower, and when he pulls back, Sirius lets the smoke waft out slowly and circle his head.

“Don’t you think you look cool?” Remus laughs and leans in for a kiss. Their lips meet, slightly parted, and Sirius flicks his tongue over Remus’s lower one and breathes out slowly. He watches, transfixed, as Remus’s eyes flutter shut, his face half-lit.

His scars shimmer, nearly iridescent in the moonlight, and before he can stop himself, Sirius reaches up and runs the pad of his thumb gently across one. He starts just under Remus’s right eye and crosses the bridge of his nose. When his finger settles on his left cheek, Remus pulls back. He breathes out a faint stream of smoke—passed between them—and flushes.

"You look beautiful,” Sirius says. The high cradles him, and he teeters forward and presses a kiss to Remus’s forehead.

“Lightweight,” Remus teases, and he takes the joint back and lights it. Remus has never been able to sit with a compliment, so it comes as no surprise when he changes topics. “It’s our anniversary, you know.”

“Remus, we started dating eight months ago,” Sirius says. “I know you’re high, but surely you haven’t forgotten that.”

“Not that.” Remus rolls his eyes and a small bit of smoke comes out from his nostrils. “Our first kiss.”

“The first time we kissed was last year at Hogsmeade. James and Lily were on a date, and Peter had fucked off with Mary, and you said we should go to the Shrieking Shack, and—”

Remus cuts him off. “Nope, the first time we kissed was third year.”

Sirius scrunches his face up, ready to protest when it hits him. “It was a dare! That doesn’t count.”

“I could tell that you liked me.” Remus smirks and stubs out the joint. “You couldn’t look me in the eyes for two days after that.”

Sirius huffs and does his best to meet Remus’s look with a glare of his own, but he isn’t able to last long before he falters and nudges Remus lightly with his knee. “Fine. Maybe you’re right.” When he laughs, he sees his breath, and he shivers. “Now, can we finally go back?”

Remus chuckles and stands up.

II: “Technically, It Was Just Before Midnight” (1978)

"Well, I’m headed to bed. You two lovebirds behave,” James says, waggling his eyebrows at them.

They wish James good night, and when he disappears up the staircase, Remus turns and gives Sirius a sharp look. “You told him about last month, didn’t you?”

“I had to tell someone. I can hardly look at the Common Room the same way. You on this couch, begging—”

“I was there. We don’t need to relive it.” Remus doesn’t meet his eyes, but from the red tinge on the tops of his ears, Sirius is certain that despite his words Remus is thinking about it. After a moment, he rubs the back of his neck and clears his throat. “I’m surprised everyone’s gone to bed so early,” Remus says, glancing around the empty Common Room.

It’s not his best attempt at changing the subject, but Sirius lets him have it, knowing that the moment they disappear upstairs into the dormitory it won’t matter. “Yeah, it’s a bit unusual.”

Sirius dips a hand under Remus’s jumper and runs his fingers across Remus’s stomach. Remus lets out a breathy whine, and his head falls back against the pillows. He arches just barely into Sirius’s touch, and Sirius smiles, indulging as he traces his gaze up Remus’s legs to his torso where his skin is barely visibly just above the waistband of his trousers and to his neck, seemingly longer than usual as he tilts his head back.

Sirius leans forward and when he kisses the skin just at his pulse point, Remus reaches out, fingers curling around Sirius’s robes.

Before Sirius can think of what to do next, the portrait swings open, and he pulls back and composes himself just as two fourth year girls come into sight. His heart pounds against his chest, and when they disappear with hardly a glance thrown their way, Remus and Sirius double over laughing, and Sirius can’t shake the electric feeling that they’ve gotten away with something again.

“We should stop before we get in trouble,” Remus says, and he reaches into his robes. “Besides, I wanted to give you your anniversary present anyway.”

“You’re a day early.”

“Technically, it was just before midnight that you asked me out." Remus reaches into his pocket.

“Technically—“ Sirius scowls. “You’re insufferable.”

“Then, I suppose you don’t want your present.” The grin on Remus’s face lets Sirius know that he’s proud of whatever he’s hiding, and he hesitates.

“I just want to say that you’re taking advantage of my hatred of mysteries,” Sirius says and sticks out a hand.

“I know.” Remus gives him a victorious look before pulling out two rectangular pieces of paper and setting them in Sirius’s hand. 

He barely reads the words before he jumps up. “Fucking hell.” Sirius glances over at Remus and back down at the tickets in his hands. “Are these real? Am I really gonna see Bowie?” He lets out a whoop when Remus nods.

“You’re going wake people up,” Remus says, but Sirius can tell that he’s too excited to care. He stands up and wraps his fingers around Sirius’s hip, pulling him closer.

Despite himself, Sirius pouts, thinking of his present to Remus, locked in his trunk. “You know, it’s not fair. I put a lot of thought into what I got you, but now it’s gonna look like shite next to this.”

Remus rolls his eyes. “I’m sure I’ll love it. Now kiss me, you idiot.”

III: “Warmer” (1979)

Sirius wakes up to the smell of coffee and the feel of something heavy against his stomach. He blinks, his sight temporarily bleary as he adjusts to the light of day, and a full tray of food comes into sight.

Steam rises over the waffles and bacon, and narrows his eyes as he glances over at Remus. “What is this for?”

Remus glances upward at the ceiling and folds his hands in front of him. “Can’t I just be cooking my boyfriend breakfast to let him know that I care about him?”

Sirius raises an eyebrow and pulls himself up until he’s sitting, careful not to spill any of the coffee. He takes a sip before answering and hardly bites back a satisfied sigh. “Well, I know it's not the anniversary of the first time I told you that I loved you because you already sprung that one on me last year,” he says. 

“You don’t have to be bitter just because I have a better memory than you. Now try the waffles while they’re still hot.”

Sirius grumbles and cuts it, glancing at Remus all the while. “It’s not that I have a bad memory. You just have a freakishly good one.” He takes a bite and softens. “You’re such a good cook.”

“It probably has something to do with not growing up around a bunch of rich snobs who left the cooking to their House Elves,” Remus teases.

“Can’t argue with that.” Sirius takes another bite and does his best to think. “Are you going to make me guess?” Remus smirks. “I don’t know. First time I copied your homework.”

The smirk disappears, and Remus rolls his eyes. “You have to be a smart-ass about everything. No, this is actually meaningful.”

“First time hanging out—just the two of us—without James or Peter.”

“Warmer.” Sirius sets it down the utensils and does his best to rack his brain. Seeing his effort, Remus relents, taking pity on him. “The first time all of you came with me to the Shrieking Shack.” Remus sits on the edge of the bed and looks down at the floor. “I remember feeling so touched. I couldn’t fathom the idea that anyone would make that much effort to help something as monstrous as me.”

“Remus—” Sirius reaches out and places a hand gently on Remus’s arm.

“I know what you’re going to say. I’m not monstrous. For a while, even after that, I didn’t believe that you really saw me that way.” He turns and looks at Sirius, his lips quirked up in the slightest of smiles. “Who would’ve guessed that Sirius Black is actually a softie beneath it all?”

Sirius sets the tray of food on the nightstand and tugs Remus down on top of him. “I believe you’ve been sworn to secrecy about that,” he says. He nips at Remus’s lower lip before soothing it with his tongue.

“Syrupy.” Remus chuckles into the kiss, and Sirius hooks a finger into a belt loop of Remus’s trousers. He kisses his way up Remus’s jaw until he finds the spot just behind his ear that makes him melt.

“On a scale of one to ten, how mad would you be if I didn’t eat breakfast until after I’d fucked you?” he asks.

Remus glances over at the tray of food and then back at Sirius. “Four.” Sirius cups Remus and drops his lips to the spot where Remus’s neck meets his shoulder and sucks hard enough that Remus breathes in sharply through his nose. “Oh, just fuck me, but you better not expect breakfast from me anytime soon.”

Sirius grins. “I can work with that.”

IV: “It Makes Me Feel Like a Terrible Person” (1980)

Sirius leans over the balcony, staring vacantly down six stories to the people passing by on the street. 

He doesn’t remember the last time he’s smoked back-to-back like this. He ashes his cigarette in the tray and lifts it back up to his lips, closing his eyes and trying to push out the buzzing in his head by repeating the words in his head. Breathe in. Breathe out. He only gets to a six-count before he coughs, his throat raw.

When he reaches for the glass behind him, he misses and hears the sound of shattering glass instead. "Fuck.” Sirius pulls out his wand. “Reparo.” He watches the shards come together. He picks it up, staring at the smooth glass, and a surge of anger passes over him at the thought that there are no cracks, no signs of what just happened.

Sirius opens his hand and watches glasses fall again. This time, when it shatters, a shard flies up and hits his leg. He stares at a moment, watching as the blood wells up, beading before dripping down.

The glass door to the balcony slides open. “I heard something breaking.  Are you—” Remus’s eyes fall to the cut on Sirius’s leg, and he pulls out his wand, casting a few quick spells to close the cut, mend the glass, and clean the mess.

“I could have done that myself,” Sirius says. It comes out gruffer than he intends to, but Remus doesn’t flinch.

“You’re thinking about Regulus, aren’t you?” Remus asks. “It’s been a year since you found out that he—” Remus doesn’t finish the sentence, but he doesn’t have to.

Sirius nods and glances away, hating the way his chest tightens. “I hate him,” he says. He looks down at his cigarette, ash nearly down to the filter, and crushes it against the ashtray.

“I know.” If Remus has more to say, he bites his tongue. Instead, he stands behind Sirius and wraps his arms around his waist. His chin falls to Sirius’s shoulder. His hair tickles Sirius’s neck, and when Sirius breathes in, the scent is warm and familiar.

It’s enough to set him off, starting in the pit of his stomach and spreading until his body feels numb. He trembles and sinks against Remus as he lets down a deep, raspy breath. The tension leaves his body as he sobs, and he truly feels the weight of it.

"How many people died because of what he stood for?” he spits out. “I think about him, and then I get sad, and it makes me feel like a terrible person for even caring.” 

Sirius braces himself—ready to fight—waiting for Remus to coddle him and tell him that he’s not or that the fact that he cares shows a goodness within him. But Remus doesn’t. He turns Sirius around and presses a kiss to the corner of his lips, and when he looks at Sirius, his gaze holds all the words he can’t find.

Sirius swallows thickly and lets Remus lead them both inside.

V: “It Doesn’t Work Like That” (1981)

"Harry seems happy,” Remus says as he hangs up his coat. "He’s quite a natural on that broom already.”

Sirius laughs. “I’m calling it now. Give it twelve years, and he’ll be winning Gryffindor the Quidditch Cup.”

“You don’t know he’ll be a Gryffindor.” Remus ignores Sirius’s scoff as he heads to the kitchen. “I’m going to put the kettle on. Want some tea?”

“I think I’m alright for now—thanks.”

He watches as Remus moves around their apartment, lost in thought. He knows Remus’s system by now—grab the milk out of the fridge, set the water to boil, pull the mugs from the cupboard, spoon out the sugar into them before adding the water, dip the teabag three times before winding the string around the handle, and finish it off with a splash of milk.

It’s the smallest of routines, but watching it, he feels heart swell in his chest. His hand falls to his robe pockets. “Remus, did you know today’s our anniversary?” he asks.

Although his back faces Sirius, Sirius can see as Remus’s brow furrows and he runs through any possible moments he might have missed. “What of?” 

“When I asked you to marry me.” Sirius fishes the box out from his pocket. Before he can decide whether or not to go on one knee, Remus turns around.

“You haven’t asked me to— Oh.” He stares at the box, gasping when Sirius undoes the latch and the silver band comes into view.

“I wanted to have a big fancy speech prepared, but I’d probably bugger it up just trying to remember it all. And I know today’s just some ordinary day, and you haven’t even finished making your tea, but with the war and all, you never know when it’s all going to go to shite, and if I died without asking you to marry me, I’d probably come back as a ghost just to beat myself up over it. So, will you? Will you marry me?” 

Remus nods frantically, and it takes Sirius a moment to realizes that there are tears welling up in his eyes. “Of course I will.”

Sirius fumbles as he reaches for the ring and nearly drops it before sliding it on Remus’s finger. Between sniffles, Remus laughs, and they step forward and kiss—wet and messy and desperate. His hand falls to the back of Remus’s neck, and he runs his fingers up into Remus’s hair and tightens his fingers.

The world drops as they kiss until nothing exists beyond this moment. And when they pull back, Sirius’s head spins, and his shoulders shake as catches his breath.

They stand, neither willing to let go of the other. “It doesn’t work like that.” 

“What doesn’t?” Sirius asks, and he traces the back of his fingers along Remus’s jaw.

“Anniversaries. It's called an anniversary for a reason. Ann—”

“Means year in Latin. I know. But you always beat me to them. Just for once, I wanted to surprise you.”

For a second, Remus looks as if he’s going to insist, but any fight quickly disappears, and he folds. “Fine, but it’s not fair. How am I supposed to top this?”

Sirius smiles. “Somehow, I’m sure you’ll find a way.”

[myheartrevealedocs]

Untouchable Ch 14- When You Left

Warnings: mentions of death, drugs, injuries, torture, and mental illness

Ch 13 | Ch 15

~ ~ ~

“Lydia,” Hotch greeted as she rushed into the waiting room of a hospital.

“What do you know about his condition?” she demanded.

Hotch nodded for her to follow him farther back into the hospital. “He’s got a mild concussion from where the unsub knocked him out and his left foot is broken. Other than that, his injuries are purely psychological. I got the doctors to allow you to stay here for the night and I ordered the others to go to their hotel rooms and sleep. You should be able to stay with him for the next few hours.”

“Does the team know I’m here?”

He shrugged. “I didn’t think you’d want me to tell them the reason I called you.”

“And what is that reason?” she asked, slowing so that they could speak face to face.

Hotch looked at her sternly. “I know you’re a private person,” he began, “but I hope you don’t make it into a habit of keeping secrets from me, Lydia.”

Had Spencer told him? But he wouldn’t have. Or, if he did, he wouldn’t have blamed her for the secret. So perhaps, Hotch had just assumed. She’d expected that. “If there’s a secret here, it belongs to Spencer, not me.”

Upon hearing that, Hotch’s hostile stance calmed. “I can imagine it does. And I’d like to speak to him about it, but for right now, he needs to see you.”

She nodded. Now really wasn’t the time. “Take me to him.”

Hotch didn’t follow her in, just pointed to the room where he was located.

Spencer had a bandage on the left side of his head and a boot around his left foot. His eyes looked dark and sunken, his hair a matted mess. It was a version of him she’d never seen before. One she never thought she would see.

“Lydia!” Spencer cried as she opened the door. He looked so overwhelmed. She wished more than anything she could take him away from all this. “What are you doing here?”

“Hotch called me.” Lydia did all she could to hide the tears forming in her eyes and smile at him. “I think he’s onto us.”

Spencer didn’t respond to her tease. He glanced outside, likely noticing Hotch’s lingering presence. He was currently pulling out his phone, facing away from the couple.

“Looks like for the next little while we’ll be limping buddies!” She tried again to make him smile. At the very least, acknowledge that she was there.

Something very traumatic happened to Spencer. She could have known that without coming all this way. But Hotch, for some reason, thought her being there would help. And she felt helpless. He wasn’t okay. He was barely looking at her. Barely talking.

So, she pulled up one of the chairs, sat down next to him, and held his hand. Because all she could think to do was let him figure this out on his own. It’s what he was best at.

They were silent for most of the night. Eventually, Hotch disappeared, likely going to get some sleep himself before the team had to fly home.

Spencer spilled a few tears, but stayed quiet. Lydia would hum quietly beside him. She thought he might eventually fall asleep, but he didn’t. His mind was far away, too busy to sleep.

It wasn’t until morning was approaching and Lydia knew she had to go before the others got there, that he spoke.

“I shot him, Lydia.” His voice was a hoarse whisper. “I hate to even pull my gun out, and yet, I shot him.”

“And it’s a good thing you did,” she said. “Tobias was having you dig your own grave-”

“No,” he growled, startling Lydia. “Tobias was a good kid. He saved my life.”

“But he was dangerous.”

Her attempts to reassure him did the opposite. “It wasn’t him! It was his father. He didn’t deserve to die. And I killed him.”

Lydia blinked. Spencer had never seemed irrational to her. He might be upset sometimes, but he never got so angry he was blindsided. “Spence, where is this coming from?”

“I just would have thought that you, of all people, would have more respect for the mentally ill.”

The way he said it felt like he had embedded a dagger in her chest.

“Me of all…?”

“Yes! With everything that happened to your mom and then you! Tobias was a victim! Just like your mother. How would you feel if you found out I had shot your mother?”

He was twisting it.

“And I don’t know what was up with your dad, but no stable person loses custody over their kids, so there’s-”

“What the hell?” Lydia stood up quickly. “What has gotten into you?”

“Oh, did I strike a nerve, Lydia? Really?” He sat up, his IV pulling tightly against his arm. “You know, maybe if you stopped judging other people for their problems, you’d see you have a few of your own.”

She blinked, her face burning in shame and anger. No one had ever thrown her family back in her face so cruelly. Spencer was not like this… right?

“Why is this about me?” she asked, her voice shaking slightly as she tried to stop the burning in her nose and behind her eyes.

“You always show up too late, you know that? I needed you and now that I’m in a hospital bed, you finally show. Sonia had to have a stroke for you to visit your family. And you think Tobias deserved to die for his illness?”

It was all too much. Maybe she’d been wrong about Spencer. All this time, she never would have thought he had this in him.

“I’m leaving, Spencer.” She picked up her bag and threw it over her shoulder. “If you have anything else to add to your tirade, you can call me, okay?”

“Gotta leave before you hit someone you care about, hm?” he accused. “Gotta go be sad about your life and then not tell anyone about it, so that they think you’re normal?”

“Goodbye, Spencer,” she hissed.

Tears ran down her cheeks the minute she got out of the hospital, and for once, she paid no mind to them. Let other people see her cry. She didn’t need their good opinion anyway.

Maybe it was the look in his eyes as he said it, but out of all his accusations, only one stuck with her. I needed you and now that I’m in a hospital bed, you finally show. Something about it tormented her.

He had needed her. Maybe for longer than she thought. She’d been so focused on Sonia, she barely responded to him. And even before that, she’d up and left for California without even giving him a wave from across the lot.

Did she deserve his hatred for that?

~ ~ ~

Lydia didn’t respond to Hotch when he texted her the next morning. She didn’t call him back when he left her a voicemail saying that they were getting on the jet back to DC. She didn’t thank him for the flight back to California.

When Sonia and Beck asked if Spencer was alright, she replied with ‘he’s fine’ and went to bed. She didn’t need their sympathy. Maybe she didn’t want it after all that he had said to her.

And the following day, she said nothing about it, jumping right back into her old routine of taking the twins to school and doing her schoolwork.

After about a month, Sonia was cleared to drive again. She wouldn’t be back at her full health for a while, but her body was stronger than it had been in a while. The only real concern was ensuring that she kept track of her blood pressure so that she didn’t cause another stroke. And as soon as she got this news, she sent Lydia back to Virginia, insisting that she get her life back.

Lydia didn’t have the heart to tell her that at the moment, she never wanted to step into the BAU ever again. Almost a full year she spent with Spencer. Even more time bonding with the team as a whole. And when they were dating, he kept insisting that they hide their relationship, because he was scared she would break his heart.

She’d never even considered that he was capable of this. He hadn’t talked to her the entire month. Didn’t call, didn’t text, didn’t apologize. She had to wonder if perhaps it really was her fault. Maybe he was waiting for an apology from her. But if she was anything, she was stubborn. She’d entrusted so much of her family history to him and he threw it back in her face like trash. Like she was trash. That wasn’t right. Good people don’t do that, no matter how badly you messed up.

Hotch and Gideon both called her. Sometimes asking when she thought she’d be back to work on a case, other times checking in to see if she was doing alright. She didn’t bother answering them. She didn’t even tell them she was back in the city.

She tried to focus on her work, but even in her final semester, there wasn’t enough to do to keep the boredom away for long. A thought started to creep across her mind. Sooner or later, I’ll be out of a job with the FBI. I need to go back there or find another job.

Find another… There was no job that could ever be like the FBI. But as the thought crossed her mind, she realized that it wouldn’t be too hard for her to find work. She was still speaking to her professor about a job at the college. Suddenly, a lot of things were looking good about it.

She’d just spent a lot of time speaking to her father about rebuilding their relationship and learning more about her mother. As a teacher, she’d never miss a holiday with her family again. Rebecca wouldn’t hate her for eternity and Katie and Adam wouldn’t grow up without her. If Sonia’s condition got worse, she wouldn’t feel so far away.

With a heavy heart, she picked up her phone, calling up Hotch’s number. She hoped more than anything that he wouldn’t pick up. Hoped he was on a case, was busy, his phone had died, anything.

“Lydia?” His voice on the other side made her heart rate speed up unhelpfully. She wanted to think she didn’t miss the job, but she did. “How are you? We haven’t heard from you in a while.”

“Agent Hotchner,” she began, formally. “I’m officially resigning from the BAU as a forensic contractor. I’ll be in the office tomorrow night well after work hours to pick up my things and leave my badge. If there is anything you need or want me to do while there, please let me know before then. Otherwise, I’d really rather not have an encounter with any of the team members.”

“What? I- Lydia-”

“I thank you for this job and opportunity, Agent. It is one I’ll never forget.”

And then she hung up.

~ ~ ~

When the doors of the elevator opened, Lydia breathed a sigh of relief. The bullpen was dark and quiet. Hotch hadn’t told anyone she was coming, thank god.

Every step screamed at her to stop and reconsider, but then she remembered Reid screaming at her in her mind and a white, hot rage filled her again. She didn’t need this job. She didn’t need these friends. What she needed was to feel safe in a work environment.

She entered Hotch’s office (empty, surprisingly) and dropped her badge on his desk. Then, she walked down to her desk, eyes glued to the floor so as to not see anyone’s name plates or paperweights that might make her miss them. She brought in a box big enough to carry the few things on her desk: a photo of her and Beck, her name plate, some pens and pencils, and any documents that she needed to have with her in the future.

As she reached underneath her desk for her go bag, the lights flickered on above her and Hotch’s voice drifted from the doors of the office.

“Is there no way I can get you to reconsider?”

Lydia didn’t bother turning to look at him, throwing her bag over her shoulder and making sure that there was nothing left for her in the drawers of her desk. “I told you I didn’t want to speak to any of the team. That includes you.”

“What is it, Lydia?” he demanded, his voice growing closer as he approached. “Has something happened to make you feel unwelcome?”

“You’re the profiler,” she grumbled, picking up her cardboard box and finding herself face to face with her old unit chief. “Agent Hotchner-”

“Hotch, Lydia. Just Hotch.”

She swallowed, not wanting to use the old nickname and give off the impression that she could be convinced to stay. “I loved working for you. But I just��� I need to learn when things are unhealthy for me. I did the FBI thing. Now I need to move on.”

His eyes landed on her belongings, looking at how little she had to pack up after working for them for a year and a half. “Keep in touch, yeah?”

Lydia shrugged, brushing him off. “You’ll probably see me working as a waitress or bartender somewhere nearby.” He gave her a stern look, prompting her to take back her snarky response. “Seriously, don’t worry. I can manage. I always have.”

“What do you want me to tell the others?” he asked, pointing to her now freshly clean desk.

“Whatever you want. Tell them I quit. Tell them you fired me… or you know, whatever you do to stop seeing a private contractor. Tell them I died in a fiery plane crash.” Finally, she stepped around him and marched off. “They won’t remember me in two months anyway.”

She didn’t think he’d be able to hear her comment, but as she was approaching the doors into the BAU lobby, he called out to her.

“Hey, Lydia?”

“Mhm?”

“That’s how you got this job,” he insisted. “You’re pretty unforgettable.”

She shook her head and let the door slam shut behind her.

~ ~ ~

Morgan was the first person to notice the next morning. He had his head propped up with one of his fists, distractedly checking his email and his eyes wandered to Lydia’s desk. His first thought was: I hope she’s doing okay…

She’s been in California a long time…

Doesn’t her picture frame normally sit there…

Wait, where’s all her stuff?

It was deeply startling to see that her desk was clean as a whistle. His eyes wandered around the room, to see if anyone else had noticed or if maybe her stuff had been moved elsewhere, but nothing else seemed out of the ordinary.

He wondered if he should ask the others. Maybe he hadn’t been paying attention and someone had put everything in her drawers to protect them while she was gone. Silently, he stood up, approaching the desk and opening one of the drawers. It was clean. He opened another. Also empty.

Emily caught his eye, her eyebrow raised as if to ask what he was doing, but he simply held up a finger and walked up to the catwalk to see Hotch.

He knocked softly on the doorframe before walking in.

“Hey, Hotch. I just noticed that Lydia’s desk has been cleared out. Did you move it for some reason, or…?”

Hotch had to clear his throat before answering. “Ambers came by last night to gather her things and make her official resignation from the BAU.”

“She what?” he demanded. “Hotch, you weren’t going to tell us that she resigned? What happened?”

“I wasn’t aware she was planning on it,” he admitted. “I spoke to her about it and she seemed pretty adamant that she wanted to be somewhere else.”

“Is she going back to California?”

“It didn’t sound like it. But that’s something you need to ask her.”

“Yeah, I will,” he snapped.

Stepping outside, Emily was already halfway up the catwalk to see what was going on. Morgan didn’t say anything, just dialed Lydia’s number and stood there, clearly upset.

“Hi, this is Lydia Ambers. Sorry that I missed you, but if it’s important, leave a message and I’ll get back to you as soon as possible. Thanks!”

“What the hell, Lydia? You disappear in the middle of a case for a month, you resign without warning, and now you’re not answering our calls? What happened to you, kiddo? I know you wouldn’t just drop off the face of the earth willingly… Call me back.”

As he returned his phone to his pocket, Emily waved a hand in front of him. “Hey, what’s going on? Lydia resigned?”

He nodded. “Hotch just told me. Cleaned out her desk last night when no one was here. Something’s not right about this picture.”

“Yeah, no kidding,” Emily mumbled. “She was so friendly. Has she ever disappeared like this before?”

“No. Lydia’s been working with us for so long now. She loved her job. Something happened. Something big.”

Spencer tried his best not to look like he was eavesdropping, but sat perfectly still so that he could hear as much of what Morgan and Emily were saying as possible. Lydia had resigned. She really had just left the BAU.

He knew he had acted stupid. So… so stupid. He went through these awful mood swings now, sometimes missing her so much he couldn’t stop his tears. Other times he was angry at her for leaving so soon… but maybe that was just his own stubbornness.

He never could convince himself to call her. To say anything to her, really. There weren’t words to express what he was going through right now. Not ones that she would accept, anyway.

He considered himself a murderer. A drug addict. He didn’t deserve her love even if he could gain it back.

Perhaps her leaving was good. He didn’t have to anxiously anticipate facing her again. But she didn’t deserve to lose the life she spent the last year making for herself because he couldn’t stop himself from being an asshole.

How long could this “I’m just having a hard time recovering” act go on for?

~ ~ ~

Not too long, it seemed.

Reid could feel Prentiss’s eyes on him for the next few days, trying to gauge his reaction to the news that Lydia was gone. Garcia too, but he didn’t see her around as often Emily.

As they set out for their next case, he tried to separate himself from her as best he could, but she seemed to want to do the opposite. And with all the stress of escaping her, he started making others suspicious.

First, he snapped at her on the jet, causing Hotch to insist they work together. Then, the station was loud, as the whole city was undergoing major constructional changes. Mapping out the area only kept him busy for so long and he found himself staring at it in order to prevent the others from bothering him. And then, of course, Gideon had to send him to a homeless shelter with-- you guessed it-- Emily.

He did his best to act natural, but every glance, comment, and movement from her was rubbing him the wrong way.

They located Angie, one of the administrators of the homeless shelter, as she handed out food. As she explained to them, how many people were tossed onto the streets as the construction workers tore down apartment buildings and homes, he started getting antsy. Impatient. This was supposed to be a quick interview.

Emily had started to compliment the woman when he lost his temper. “Well, thank god there are people like you who take the time-”

“Do you have a list of everyone who comes through here?”

Both the women looked startled at his interruption, but Angie was quick to comply. “Uh, we have a sign-in sheet, but we don’t force anyone to sign if they don’t want to. Some who do don’t even use their real names. ‘Elvis’ eats here a lot.”

“We would appreciate any lists you have,” Emily informed her.

“Why?”

“Have you noticed anyone who acts unusually aggressive towards the other residents?” he asked, ignoring her question, but she didn’t let up.

“What’s this about?”

“A series of murders in the area,” he responded quickly. “The perpetrator may be a homeless man. Maybe someone who stays here. He may even be in this room as we speak.”

Emily’s head snapped towards him. “Reid!” she hissed.

“Have you noticed anyone who acts paranoid or displays explosive, unprovoked bursts of violence, more than just pushing and shoving-- I mean, someone who really tries to harm others.”

Angie looked extremely overwhelmed. “There are territorial fights over food and places to sleep. The nurse treats people for minor injuries all the time, but no one’s seriously hurt.”

“If anyone does come to mind, give us a call. Thank you.” He handed her his business card, then left, not checking for Emily, who apparently, didn’t follow him.

He stood outside for a moment, watching the homeless pass to get inside. He shouldn’t have done that. It was rude. But he felt like crawling out of his own skin, just being on this case.

Not that he couldn’t have assumed she’d be angry, but the force with which Emily threw open the door as she left the shelter confirmed it.

“There’s a high presence of mental disorders with the homeless,” he noted, hoping to distract her from the issue.

“What the hell was that in there?”

“What?”

“‘He may even be in this room as we speak’?” she quoted. “We have nothing to support that!”

“We’re investigating a serial homicide. Should I have pretended there was no danger?”

“We just left that woman potentially afraid of every man who walks into this shelter!”

He crossed her arms. “Again, until we find this unsub, how is that a bad thing?”

Her face changed from one of confusion to one of disgust. “What is the matter with you?”

God damnit. “What do you mean, ‘what’s the matter with me’?”

“I’ve never seen you act like this.”

“Oh, really? Oh, in the months that you’ve known me, you’ve never seen me act this way?” he snarled. “Hey, no offense, Emily but you really don’t know what you’re talking about, do you?”

“Is this about Lydia?” she demanded. “About her disappearance-?”

“Don’t act like you think you know me!” he said again, his voice raising considerably. “You presumed a lot about me from the start and then you went and told Hotch things you didn’t understand.”

“Told Hotch-? I haven’t said anything to Hotch!”

“Oh yeah? Really, so his wish to discuss my relationship with another member formerly on this team was just out of curiosity? You didn’t perhaps tell the whole Bureau that Spencer had a schoolgirl crush on his friend just to laugh at me?”

“I never told anyone-”

“Whatever,” he interrupted once more. “She’s gone. And frankly, the Bureau didn’t need to waste the money on her anyway.”

Tags: @kris-stuff, @wooya1224, @spencerelds

[incandescent-creativity]

Pre-Games: Olu and Mal

I. the big day

Mal shifts at the back of the crowd and picks at the pants she’s wearing.

“Don’t fidget,” Olu reprimands quietly.

“Easy for you to say,” Mal snaps under her breath. “You like wearing pants.”

“So do you sometimes. Why did you choose the suit when you’d rather the skirt?”

Mal scoffs. “It was hardly a choice. Barely more than tatters now.”

“My condolences.”

The reel ends, and the Capitol representative’s heels click as he moves back to the microphone. He’s saying something, but Maluka’s mind is still turning over. With such long hours in such different parts of the district, she hasn’t seen Olu in months. Now, today, in such close quarters, Olu stands at her side.

They’re just as tall as Mal remembers, which would be comforting if not for the fact that it just means their hand is close for the taking.

It wouldn’t be that weird, would it? Reaping days are exceptional, in the sense that they are exceptions to everyday life. Maybe Mal can’t see them every day while she’s busy with administrative work, and maybe she can’t hold their hand when Olu’s hands are raw from the rough scythes, but maybe today—

“And now, our first name.”

Crushing stray thoughts like dead leaves beneath her heel, Mal holds her breath with the rest of District 9.

II. the reaping

Olufemi prays.

They don’t know who’s listening. They’ve never known. It’s never mattered. Someone is, and that’s what matters.

With their eyes never straying from the glass bowl full of names, Olu prays.

Please, keep us safe. I know that two must be taken, but you have kept us from the jaws of death for so long. To your purpose, I’m sure of it. Let us serve that purpose still.

After all, the families that refuse to take tesserae subsist on the grain bars Olu sets aside for them. A monthly reprimand when the yield is lower than projected, for “unknown reasons,” is a small price to pay to ensure that District 9’s citizens do not starve.

It is a good purpose, and one that Olu intends to continue doing for as long as possible.

“And now, our first name.”

The man covered in green sequins and peacock feathers plunges his arm into the bowl, up to the elbow, and retrieves a scrap of paper.

Please. Your will be done.

“Maluka Samale, please come to the stage.”

The crowd begins to part, and the cameras begin to turn, but the only reason the name sinks in is a quick, brief squeeze of the hand. It is this moment of contact that triggers the realization: Mal—their Mal—is on her way to the stage.

Olu cannot breathe. Everything freezes up at once. Is this punishment? A prayer recognized for its selfishness, and thus realized through the taking away of their only companion in life?

By the time they think to volunteer, and ensure Mal’s safety, she is on the stage.

I’m too late.

Tears threaten to dampen round cheeks, but there is still one tribute to call. Then the visitation hours will start, and one last moment can be had between them.

A seed of resolve hardens in their heart. I will not let Mal away from me again.

The Capitol peacock already has his second slip of paper.

“Nora Collins, please come to the stage.”

Despair replaces resolve. The Collinses were the first family to approach Olu begging for an alternative to tesserae. Any other granarist would turn them in for attempted theft, they said, but Olu had a kind heart, they could tell. Would it be possible to spare some of their next harvest?

Nora, the Collins daughter, had grown up hale and strong as a direct result of the system they had devised together. She matured from a dead eyed child into an adolescent with the quickest weaving fingers around, and Olu watched it happen.

I cannot let her go to the Games.

Before the girl can take even her first step towards the stage, Olufemi fills lungs that call out over entire fields with the last free air they may ever know.

“I volunteer as tribute.”

All eyes turn to them, and they feel the weight of the crowd once again. An intimate knowledge of procedure and an increasing anxiety to escape the mass of people drives them forward.

“An unexpected twist here in 9!” the Capitol man narrates. “Here comes our lovely volunteer now—and just look at those shoulders! I think we have a contender here, folks, I daresay we do.”

He offers a hand to help Olu onstage, and they accept. Holding it delicately, he guides them both over to the microphone at center stage.

“What’s your name, tribute?”

“I am... Olufemi Abdalla.”

Turning away from them smartly, the Capitol man gestures for Mal to take his other hand. He lifts the two hands he has up in the air, though Olu’s slips out due to their height, and makes one final announcement:

“The tributes from District 9: Olufemi and Maluka!”

III. the visit

If I could have leapt off that stage and tackled Olu to the ground when Nora’s name was called, I would have.

As things went, all I could do was watch. They never even hesitated—as soon as her name was read, their voice spoke up. Credit where credit is due; they sounded strong. All confidence, no weakness. I’m not surprised the Capitol dude called them a contender.

That initial impression won’t last very long, though. There are no cameras in the visitation room, so nobody seems them hug the Collinses and put on a watery smile for Nora, but I don’t think Olu has it in them to be anything other than what they are: a good person.

Settling against a wall opposite their little gathering, I try not to be bitter. Unfortunately, I knew it. I knew that dumb heart of theirs was going to get them in trouble eventually, I knew it from the day I discovered their haphazard attempt to smuggle grain foodstuffs from their quota to the needy.

Their stupid “production” never would have gotten off the ground if it wasn’t for my insider access to the records, fudging the numbers to make sure they weren’t missing as much as they actually were. Olu would be stuck with the hard labor of the fields—there’s no chance of promotion with those numbers—but they also wouldn’t hang.

And now we’re tangled in another mess.

Maybe they could have managed it on their own if it were just the Collins family, but Olu never figured out how to say no to the other folks that approached them. People took to calling them Angel as a codename: “Go and see the angel if you’re in need of food.” “The angel will help you.”

If they’re an angel, what does that make me? Hiding in the background, covering tracks, lying on every paper I fill out every day?

A shadow falls over me, and I look up to see Olufemi approaching.

I drop my arms out of their somewhat aggressive position across my chest. “What?”

They freeze, a minute tic I’ve seen before that means I’ve completely misinterpreted the situation.

Hesitantly, they answer, “I... they just left.”

“So?”

“So, wouldn’t you like to trade spots to afford you a bit of privacy, as you did for me?”

I smile and shake my head, but I can’t force myself to put any warmth into it. “Nobody’s coming to see me off, Olu. My people are long dead, and I’ve pissed off everybody at work at least once before.”

They shift their weight back, now awkward with the weight of what I said. “Ah.”

“Yeah, I know. At least it simplifies things, right?”

“Of course,” they say delicately.

Letting myself slip down to sit on the floor, I sigh. “God, I wish I had a drink.”

Olu folds their long legs and drops to the floor, as well. Perfect posture, as always.

“I’m sure they’ll have alcohol on the train.”

“They better.”

IV. the train ride

Unfortunately, my prediction regarding the train’s alcoholic stores is an accurate one.

Mal proceeds to get “properly plastered” over dinner. I’ll admit that the wine is incredible, the finest I’ve ever tasted, but I sip at it only to complement the meal. She downs cups of it like its sole purpose is to intoxicate her.

As a result, I am the one to take her to her quarters. I suppose the Avoxes could, or perhaps the Peacekeepers, but I can’t convince myself to find either of those appropriate. The Avoxes have enough cleaning to do in the dining car, and the only danger Mal presents in her current state is to herself.

The doors slide open smoothly, to reveal a room decorated in dark tones. The bed has a dark grey duvet and its posts are made of dark wood, and the rug is a plush navy blue color. Even the lamps and lights along the wall are muted.

“Finally, a place that isn’t so fuckin’ bright,” Mal mutters as I guide her towards the bed.

“I didn’t think the rest of the train was too bright,” I say by way of making conversation.

“It was,” she says, with all the confidence of a child. “This is nice, though. Like you.”

I’m unsure whether she means that I am nice, or I am dark, but I suppose she is right either way. Regardless of meaning, it seems an appropriate moment to withdraw my hands from her arms. After a brief pause to ensure she doesn’t immediately fall over, I start setting aside extra pillows and pulling back blankets.

“You takin’ me to bed, angel?”

I huff out a laugh at the codename turned nickname. “In a sense.”

“Awesome,” she mutters. “You’re sexy as fuck.”

I could handle the first comment, but this second one prompts heat to my face. “Sorry?”

“Ah, don’t apologize. I’m just glad you’re finally actin’ on it.”

I’m running out of pillows to keep busy with. “On what?”

“On our undeniable chemistry,” she answers, using a tone that implies I should have known this already.

“I mean, fuck,” Mal continues, “I’ve been trying to hold your hand for, like... years. Figures I’d have to get reaped for it to happen.”

This last sentence is muttered, and the sorrow that overwhelms me over our circumstances closes my throat. All I can do is step back and gesture an open arm to the ready bed.

Mal dutifully crawls in, brushing a hand against the skin of my arm in thanks as she goes. Perhaps it is just her recent words echoing in the room, but the touch does incite nerves in my stomach and chest. Hasn’t it always, though? Or is that her point?

“Olu,” Mal mumbles, one arm up in the air. “Stop thinking.”

This command, at least, is familiar ground. “Sorry.”

“You don’t have to sleep with me,” she promises. “I’m clearly not all... here.” A yawn interrupts her speech.

“Clearly,” I say gently.

“But I wasn’t kidding about sleeping with you. I mean—”

She buries her head into the dent of the pillow for a second, and a frustrated noise is muffled by it.

“I do want you to sleep with me, but like, sleep next to me. I don’t... want to wake up alone like I have every day, for years. This place already sucks. I don’t need that on top of it all, you know?”

It appears that Maluka has forgotten that I also live and wake up alone, but all that means is I understand the loneliness she is speaking from. And as such, I can hardly deny her.

Adjusting the blanket she is under one last time, I circle over to the other side of the bed and crawl in beside her.

next

[your-worst-knightmare]

I’ll Love You (As Misfortune Loves Orphans)

The Gotham wind howled at the rooftops. Away from the constant noise of traffic, it almost sounded like the cry of a mourning woman. Gotham was mourning, but for what? the loss of her innocence, or perhaps what her children had done to her. The wind was harsh on those autumn nights, and was cold and unforgiving. Gotham’s children knew that chill better than they had known full stomachs and warm bones. It was cold, it certainly was at the heights of those lonely rooftops, and yet– yet all Jason felt was heat. 

It built inside of him like a a roaring furnace, fuelling him. Not to fight a crusade for Gotham. Jason lived and breathed Gotham, and he knew that her saviour was not one man fighting symptoms of a virus that had long since taken root. He wasn’t that man. God, no. 

He was not as frivolous as that. He was the protector of those not able to protect themselves from the symptoms of Gotham’s disease. He was rage. It warmed him, burned him as he grappled from building to building. He was immune to Gotham’s icy howls, if only for tonight. 

Tonight, he was taking down one of Gotham’s drug trafficking rings. Well, taking out. He wasn’t going to kill anyone– he had obliged to the Bat’s rules to play nice– but he had not consented to no explosions. That would thoroughly set back their progress and give the Red Hood some time to convince them to play by his rules. 

Jason dropped to the ground silently, slipping pat perimeter guards. There weren’t as many as usual tonight, so he had less to worry about if things went south. The few guards that had noticed him were quieted with the butt of his gun to their heads. He made his way around the compound, planting explosives as he went. After planting the last one, he decided to make himself known to give the guards some chance of coming out of that compound alive. If they didn’t, well, collateral damage. 

“Awful weather we’re having, am I right?” he called, swinging into the guards’  line of sight. The noticed him immediately, shouting at each other to call for backup. He let them chase him, let them get too close before he vaulted away again. It was almost a game, and hey, if he was saving these poor dolts while doing it, why couldn’t it be? His job was done, and he figured that toying with some goons once in a while wasn’t a crime. “I noticed you’ve got some heating in this place. How much does it cost at this end of the city?”  

His response came in the form of a bullet grazing his shoulder. Jason growled. Fine. He’ll be serious and leave. They had more than enough time by now. “I hope you fools like the present I left ‘ya.”  He pointed his grapple at the nearest rooftop and sailed away, gunfire peppering his departure. 

Then, three things happened at once. Or rather, in such close proximity to each other that it seemed like it. One: Jason activated the detonator. Two: A bullet ripped through his abdomen– a lucky shot.  Three: He fell. The ground raced to meet him, and he met it, with a sickening thud. 

Now a different fire ran through him, alongside the rage that previously burned. This was blinding and invited dark spots to dance in his vision. It was consuming, and there was nothing other than its presence. It was agony, and it was deafening as it screamed at him. Jason cursed under his breath. The goons had gotten lucky. Thankfully, they didn’t seem to be following him. He grunted, pushing himself against the alley wall. That brought a whole new array of colours into is vision. He bit out more curses through the pain.

Once situated as comfortably as possible in his situation against the alley wall, he sucked in some air. He needed to assess his injuries and work from there. That’s what B always said to do. The most pressing matter was his side. His hands were sticky with blood from pressing the wound, but it didn’t help much. The liquid still spilled onto the floor of the alleyway, creating a growing puddle. That definitely was not good. His vision still was hazy, but he suspected it was from blood loss rather than a concussion. He tried moving his legs, only to let out a fresh string of curses. Ow, that was not happening.  Yeah, not a good idea. His best guess was that his left leg was most likely broken. 

He needed to get medical help. His bike– which was parked several blocks away– was out of the question. No way could he use a grappling hook with so much blood loss. He really wished he’d finished installing that comm unit in his helmet– he could maybe call someone for help. But that wasn’t an option. He was stuck in an alleyway, with a broken leg, alone and bleeding out. Just great. 

His eyes flitted up to the sky. It was clear and cloudless, not that you would be able to make out any stars in Gotham’s polluted air. But the moon. The moon was bright against that dark drapery of night, and its slivery glow cast onto Jason’s injured body. It didn’t help his headache. He tried angling his face away from it only to hiss in pain. 

Jason groaned. Well, he couldn’t just sit here and go quietly. He steeled himself and gripped the wall in an attempt to stand up. It was dizzying and hurt like hell, but he grit his teeth and stood. Good, he thought. Now, one step at a time. One, two. One, two. One– he fell to the ground with a crashing thud. 

Well, isn’t this a fun day, he grumbled. He regrettably (because ow) crawled back to the wall. He needed to get someone’s attention. Hell, he was desperate at this point. Superman would even do. Was he off-planet?  It was worth a try. He tried speaking but was cut off by a bout of coughing. That did not make his side any happier. He opened the front of his helmet the let himself breathe. Sucking in all the breath his lungs could hold, he yelled. “Superman!” 

Jason waited. Nothing. Wonderful. He pressed his head against the cold concrete of the alley wall, trying to clear his head. If only he weren’t so tired. Two minutes, he promised himself. Two minutes to rest before he tried again. 

He closed his eyes. Of course, he knew that if he drifted off completely, he may not wake up. If that were to happen, Jason wondered who would be tasked with writing his second obituary. He’d better be getting a new headstone for what it’s worth as well. 

His train of thought came crashing to a stop when he heard a familiar low rumble. An engine, he realized. Aw hell. Those goons might’ve finally tracked him down. He cracked an eyelid open to catch a glimpse of the new visitor. He didn’t see anyone. Wait, no– he craned his neck, finally sighting the vehicle. 

The Batmobile. He never thought he’d be so happy to smell its nasty fumes. B must have used the rockets on the back. Speaking of which, where was the Dark Knight?

He opened his other eye to find Batman. Jason let out a breathy chuckle. “Hey, B-man.” God, talking hurt. Batman grunted. 

“Let’s get you in the car, Jay-lad.” 

With hissing and cursing thought would have cost him fifty bucks in Alfred’s swear jar, the two made it to the car. “‘M gonna bleed all over your seats, B,” Jason warned, if not a little weakly. Batman ignored him. He braced himself as the car pulled onto the main streets, rocketing towards the Cave.  

_______________

Jason must have passed out at some point because he woke up in the damp air of the Cave. The cot he lay on was all too familiar from his Robin days, but he was secretly a little grateful that he didn’t have to take care of himself. Thankfully, his side had been cleaned and bandaged and his leg set while he was out. He figured that Bruce must have slipped some sedatives into the IV that stood beside him. That would explain why his head felt so light, and his eyes felt so heavy. He gave into its lulling numbness and slept. 

Bruce was with him the next time he awoke. He looked like he’d been sitting there a long time, which was silly. Bruce clearly had better things to do. “How are you feeling, Jay?” 

He shrugged or tried to, rather. Either way, Bruce got the message. “How’d you find me?” he croaked. 

“I saw the explosion. Heard you a few minutes later.” 

“How’d you know it was me?”Bruce stopped. 

“Jason, I’d know your voice anywhere,” he said, carding his fingers through Jason’s hair. 

Jason couldn’t find the incentive to berate him for the action. Silence filled the cave once again as Jason thought. Was the Cave always this gaping? “Why’d you come?” he finally asked. His voice was as quiet as the dark crevices of the Cave.  

“What are you talking about?” Bruce countered, looking bewildered. “Why wouldn’t I come? You’re my son, Jay.”

 “But the whole thing after… after I came back… and with Tim…” He studied the wrinkled fabric of the blanket that covered him, trying to hold back the tears that threatened his vision. “I tried to kill all of you, Bruce. How could… how could you want me back?” His final words came tumbling out.

“Oh, Jason…” Bruce murmured, enveloping the boy in his arms. They might have had their differences, but when all was said and done, at the end of the day, Jason was his son. “ You know, there’s this quote Dick likes to say,” he started. He cleared his throat dramatically and continued in his best impression of what had to be Stitch. “ ‘Ohana means family, and family means nobody gets left behind or forgotten.’” 

Jason groaned into Bruce’s shirt. “You’re the worst.” 

Bruce chuckled, hugging Jason’s head closer. “I mean it, Jay. No matter what happens, I’m not going to stop loving or worrying over you.” 

“It’s not me you should be worried about B,” Jason said, suddenly mischievous. “I think I might call Disney to sue you for copyright violations.” 

“You wouldn’t do that, would you?” Bruce feigned a look of betrayal.”Because I can and will buy Disney if that’s the case.” 

Jason flopped back onto the cot, a grin shining through the tears that still lingered. “Nah. On grounds of loving you and all that.”

“Get some rest, Jay,” Bruce said, patting his son’s shoulder. “You don’t have to, but  I’d appreciate if you stayed here for a while, at least until you heal up.”

The boy considered it. Then he remembered: Alfred’s cooking his whole stay? Hell yes. “Okay, I’ll stay.”  

Bruce smiled. Misfortune might love his children, but he loved them more. 

[mari-beau]

PSA: IF YOU HAVE HAD COVID & SEEK MEDICAL FOLLOW-UP, KNOW YOUR PATIENT RIGHTS TO REFUSE UNNECESSARY TESTS

ESPECIALLY IF YOU ARE SUBJUGATED TO THE AMERICAN HEALTH SYSTEM

IF YOU HAVE CONCERNS ABOUT YOUR COVID RECOVERY, DO SEEK MEDICAL ATTENTION!! IT IS IMPORTANT. YOU COULD HAVE SERIOUS COMPLICATIONS.

BUT DESPITE ALL THE MOCKERY AND DERISION FROM THE MEDICAL FIELD, DO SOME RESEARCH YOURSELF (FROM LEGIT MEDICAL AND SCIENTIFIC INSTITUTION’S WEBSITES/SOURCES)

DOCTORS ARE JUST PEOPLE. AND A LOT OF PEOPLE ARE NOT THAT SMART. (AND YOUR DOCTOR IS NOT NECESSARILY SMARTER OR MORE CAPABLE OF UNDERSTANDING THE VIROLOGY AND BIOLOGY OF YOUR SITUATION THAN YOU ARE). QUESTION THINGS. MAKE THEM EXPLAIN AND JUSTIFY THEIR ACTIONS.

MAKE THEM LISTEN TO YOU!

MY STORY HAS BEEN PLACED BELOW A BREAK

Because TRIGGER WARNING for people with Hospital/Medical PTSD

I tested positive for COVID-19 well over a month ago. I got moderately sick. I did not need to be hospitalized (thankfully). And was able to manage it with cold medicine. It was in my lungs. I had a high fever that cycled on and off for days, cough, shortness of breath, fatigue. By day 11, I was recovered enough and deemed no longer infectious by Public Health’s certified nurses (who know and understand COVID guidance/pathology).

It still took me awhile to completely bounce back. And surprise-surprise, my work is extremely stressful (I work for a local Public Health Department, the ones tasked with doing all of the non-direct patient care pandemic work, such as case investigations, quarantining, helping the public, inspections, answering every single question of every single member of the public). So it was taking me longer to be at normal levels of health. And I was noticing I’d be fine for days, but when I started to get a little worn down from work, I’d start coughing again.

My coworkers were concerned and had one of our nurses encourage me to seek follow-up in case I had a secondary infection as a result of my COVID infection, such as bronchitis or pneumonia. I tried calling the practice where my doctor used to be (living in rural area, the doctors maybe last a year before leaving), but the receptionist said they had no providers until following Monday (I was calling on a Wednesday). She was also baffled by my spiel:

“I tested positive for COVID-19 on November 24. I was cleared by Public Health on Dec. 4. I feel fine most of the time, but when I get tired, I start coughing again. I would like to be checked out to make sure I don’t have bronchitis or pneumonia or lung damage.”

I’m not so sure what’s so difficult about that. I had to prompt her... Should I call back on Monday then to see if I can get checked out? 

My coworker used to be practice manager for that group of practices. And she was like WTF? and called over to confirm that they had no provider covering the practice through the New Year’s weekend. 

But to be honest, it wouldn’t have mattered if I’d gotten through to them, because come to find out, the whole “Health Systems” conglomerate in our region funnels anyone who has had COVID to the Main Hospital ER. My mother’s doctor, who she asked to follow up because she is older and had concerns about complications, was likewise sent to the “COVID unit” in the hospital, despite the fact that she was no longer infectious and in recovery.

Anyway, the nurse at work encouraged me to get checked out that day. So I called the Urgent Care. Again, the receptionist was baffled by my spiel. As was the nurse she had speak to me. The nurse informed me I had to go to the main hospital.

Fine. I thought. I’d just get my lungs checked out and get it over with. If I had a secondary infection, they could give me a steroid inhaler or stronger cough medicine or something. 

WRONG!

I show up to the Hospital, they funnel you through precautions (which is great). I give my spiel to the receptionist, adding on how I tried my primary care and urgent care, and they told me I had to come here. They give me to intake person, who asks me the standard questions and checks my vitals.

My heartrate is high.

I have panic attacks in hospitals. I can’t even visit people in the hospital. It’s not a conscious issue. And it’s completely outside of my control. I can attempt to manage with anxiety coping mechanisms, but to be honest it doesn’t work. 

I inform the intake nurse/doctor/whoever that my stress levels have been high from work, specifically Monday I was in the call center getting verbally abused by our wonderful community members all day long. And that I have panic attacks in hospitals. And was likely in early stages of panic attack. He replied to me that was on Monday and it’s Wednesday (someone who had no clue how anxiety works). And I of course sounded perfectly calm then, because part of how I cope is trying to keep my shit together and not freak out.

They admit me for having a high heart rate. (BECUASE DOCTORS DON”T LISTEN, ESPECIALLY TO WOMEN).

SO, SUMMARY SO FAR: I HAVE BEEN ADMITTED TO THE HOSPITAL FOR HAVING PANIC ATTACKS IN THE HOSPITAL WHEN I JUST WANTED SOMEONE TO CHECK MY LUNGS.

They stick me in a negative pressure COVID room because I had COVID a month ago (and they don’t seem to understand I am no longer infectious, or how viruses work; yes, some people remain very sick and infectious longer; I meet all the criteria of no longer being infectious). 

I have to change into hospital gown, etc. Doctor checks my lungs. Everything sounds fine. My 02 stats are 100%. 

I SHOULD HAVE BEEN RELEASED AT THIS POINT. I SHOULD HAVE REFUSED ALL FURTHER PROCEDURES AND TESTS. BUT I HAVE HOSPITAL-INDUCED ANXIETY AND AM IN NO STATE OF MIND TO QUESTION ANYTHING BECAUSE I’M BARELY KEEPING MY SHIT TOGETHER. NO WONDER I’M FUCKING TACHYCARDIC.

Next up is the nurses, come to hook me up to the heart monitor and EKG. 

AND DO THE ONE OTHER THING THAT CAN SEND ME INTO A FULL ANXIETY ATTACK. 

They ignore me when I tell them they need to use a pediatric needle on my veins. All of my mom’s family has small, hard to find, fragile veins. THEY BLOW OUT TWO OF MY VEINS IN ONE ARM WHILE A LAB PERSON IS TRYING TO DRAW BLOOD OUT OF MY OTHER ARM. 

I AM FINE WITH VACCINES/SHOTS. AND IF THEY CAN GET A NEEDLE IN AND DRAW BLOOD QUICK, I CAN KEEP MY SHIT TOGETHER. I HAVE NO CONSCIOUS FEAR OF NEEDLES OR BLOOD. BUT IF THEY MESS AROUND WITH MY ARMS TOO LONG, IT SENDS ME INTO FULL HYPERVENTILATING, CRYING HYSTERICALLY, LEG THRASHING PANIC ATTACK.

ALL THE WHILE, I’M APOLOGIZING TO THEM. AND HATING MYSELF FOR MY REACTION. 

The nurse keeps trying to comfort me as she blows out another vein in my arm for an IV I DID NOT NEED. I keep saying “I’m sorry. It’s stupid. It’s so stupid I get like this.” As I’m sobbing and hyperventilating. 

The nurse gives up after blowing out several veins in my arm when doing the saline wash. (This does not pardon me, but only buys me a reprieve). 

Lab Guy exits with some blood he managed to get out of one of my arms. 

I have been repeatedly questioned by doctors and nurses so far about having had another COVID test. I tell them no, since I can test positive for up to 3 months afterwards, it’s quite literally pointless.

THEY GIVE ME ANOTHER COVID TEST. 

My first one when I was actually sick, was just mildly uncomfortable. THIS TIME THEY MANAGE TO GIVE A PRETTY SPECTACTULAR BLOODY NOSE. AND PROMPTLY LEAVE THE ROOM AS I CALL ‘MY NOSE IS BLEEDING’ AFTER THEM. 

I HAVE TO USE THE MASK I WORE IN TO TRY TO STAUNCH THE NOSEBLEED. 

I THINK IT WAS HERE I HAD MY FULL ON PANIC ATTACK. IF YOU HAVE THEM, YOU KNOW WHAT I MEAN BY FULL-ON. I WAS ALONE. (WHICH I PREFER BECAUSE THEY EMBARRASS ME).

A different nurse finally comes back for some other reason (I don’t remember now). I ask her from some tissues. She hands me some paper towels. She leaves. She returns, gives me a washcloth to clean all the blood off my face and neck. Another nurse is with her. 

ROUND TWO OF DRAWING BLOOD & IV ATTEMPT

These ones do better. But I am calmer having just had the full-on panic attack. They have to use veins in my biceps to draw the blood. And finally get an IV in. (Mind you, it’s an IV I really didn’t need). They give me a bag of fluids and some anti-anxiety/sedative to try to bring my heart rate down (letting me go home would’ve worked far better).

They’ve already done the EKG. They put me through a CT scan and echocardiogram. And finally a chest x-ray (which would’ve been in the more necessary scope of treatment/evaluation for my complaint/concern about residual lung damage).

There’s a good wait time in between these.

I was already hydrated. I drink a lot of water. And so I had to pee very badly. 

Because, guess what the COVID test came back positive and they’ve stuck the official notice on the negative pressure COVID room door,  I have to use the little commode chair thing in the room. The nurse puts a little bedpan/measuring catch thingy in it. She takes some of my urine to test (so yet another unnecessary test). 

They give me another bag of fluids. Which makes me have to pee very badly again. I try to call a nurse. My bladder’s about explode. But I’m hooked up to machines and not sure if I’m allowed to leave the hospital bed. She glances in at me. Tells me it’s okay to go. 

I fill up the little bedpan. 

I will have to pee very badly again by the end of this ordeal, and have more than half a mind to go pee/overflow the bedpan into the rest of the ‘commode’.

But finally whatever doctor assigned to me comes back, says everything is fine and I can be released.

Mind you, my heartrate has remained low 100s for hours and hours (a little high for me, but I was in a fucking hospital and having panic attacks and my anxiety was still quite high).

I wait another half an hour for a nurse to come and disconnect me from everything and do a ‘verbal’ discharge. 

SO MANY TIMES I HAD WANTED TO YANK EVERYTHING OFF ME AND LEAVE. I NOW WISH I HAD DONE PRECISELY THAT.

My parents showed up and were waiting for me in the parking lot to drive me home and drive my truck home. My mom said it looked like I had been through a war. She’d never seen me look so terrible.

I went into work that morning feeling worn down from work. And I was coughing a little. I came out of the hospital 8 hours later feeling the worst I have in my life. Worse than when I was feverish and struggling to breath from COVID infection.

The public health nurses at my workplace advised me to file a complaint against the hospital. They agreed/informed me that what the hospital did was medically unnecessary.

I HAVE BRUISES ALL UP AND DOWN MY ARMS. I HAVE BURST CAPILLARIES UNDER MY EYES AND ACROSS MY CHEEKS FROM CRYING SO HARD. I HAVE WOKEN UP EVERY MORNING SINCE WITH A TIGHT KNOT OF ANXIETY IN MY CHEST. MY HEART RATE (WHICH I CHECK WITH A PULSE OXIMETER) HAS NOT RETURNED TO ITS NORMAL LOWER LEVELS. IT HAS BEEN FIVE DAYS.

SUMMARY:

 I HAD COVID AND RECOVERD. I WAS CONCERNED ABOUT POSSIBLE COMPLICATIONS SUCH AS BRONCHITIS, PNEUMONIA OR LUNG DAMAGE BECAUSE I HAVE A RECCURRING SLIGHT COUGH. 

NO HEALTH CARE PROVIDERS UNDER THE CONGLOMERATE THAT IS OUR ONLY CHOICE OF MEDICAL CARE IN OUR REGION WILL SEE ANYONE WHO HAS HAD COVID. THEY SEND THEM ALL DIRECTLY TO THE MAIN HOSPITAL ER COVID UNIT TO DO A SLEW OF UNNECESSARY TESTS AND RACK UP THE HOPISTAL BILL. 

I WENT TO GET A SLIGHT COUGH CHECKED OUT. INSTEAD I WAS SUBJECTED TO UNNECESSARY TESTS AND TREATMENT JUST TO BE TOLD I AM IN FACT PERFECTLY FINE. AND NOW I HAVE TEXTBOOK PTSD. 

FUCK YOU, AMERICAN HEALTH CARE SYSTEM.

**EXTRA REMINDER TO SEEK MEDICAL ATTENTION AND FOLLOW-UP IF YOU HAVE HAD COVID AND ARE CONCERNED. JUST REMEMBER YOU HAVE RIGHTS AND OUR HEALTH CARE SYSTEM’S MAIN FOCUS IS MAKING MONEY**

[district7]

A Mockingjay Joniss AU - pt. 1: i’ve made up my mind (i’m never going back)

11.11.19 

A Mockingjay Joniss AU - pt. 1: i’ve made up my mind (i’m never going back) 

A Mockingjay AU WIP where Katniss reevaluates whether her best future is a path she had never considered. After Johanna fails the Block, it occurs to Katniss that her future is not pre-destined, that she’s done enough, and that she doesn’t owe any one, or any cause, a suicide mission. 

A/N: There are no promises of quality assurance. Also, I make no promises about updates. (If I add that sort of pressure on myself about it, I’ll end up loathe to work on it.) This will likely hold a lot of things in common with other Mockingjay Joniss AUs, namely a return to District 7 instead of District 12, and an emphasis on the pair helping each other recover set against a backdrop of quasi-homesteading. I make zero assertions POV and tense will stay consistent across updates. This is an adventure in pantsting with a general goal in mind, rather than something I’m pre-plotting.

Feel free to send me constructive witticisms, requests, asks, comments, trolling, whatever.

_______________________

District 13 - Medical

Johanna’s limbs twitched, body emitting a mix of grunts and whimpers. Katniss guessed she was fighting in her sleep.

Or maybe running. The morphling line in her IV was a rifle with vicious recoil. Awake, it tricked you into believing pain was farther away and anxiety quieter than they actually were. Helpful. Maybe. Asleep, it made it harder to wake from the nightmares.

“Jo...” 

Katniss nudged her shoulder with a knuckle, leaning forward out of her visitor’s chair only far enough to breach the edge of Johanna’s medical bed. Best to keep out of the way of swinging arms, if Johanna woke up fighting. “Johanna, wake up.”

In response, Johanna’s grunts and twitches ratcheted in intensity. 

Katniss guessed at what she was dreaming. Maybe fighting mutts while they tried to pull her under water. What kind of mutts might the Capitol design for that? Giant fish with fiery eyes, men’s arms, and children’s hands?  Eels with multiple tails which encapsulate you while the monsters drag you deeper into the pressing blackness, down until you finally have no choice but to gasp in water and drown yourself?

The Capitol and its mutts. 

Katniss tried again to wake Johanna, but she only rolled in her hospital bed, tangling herself and her IV line in her bleached, too-white sheets while letting out a sleep-garbled plea.

Maybe not Capitol mutts, Katniss thought. This happened in The Block, the Rebellion’s own customizable mini-Arena. So, Rebellion mutts. Coin and her well-oiled machine could squeeze and fracture a person every bit as well as Snow and the Games could a Tribute. Less horrific and premeditated, definitely. Better justified, absolutely. Without the evil intent, hopefully.  But they could still do it, all the same.

What was it Peeta had said in that interview? 

Once you’re in the arena, the rest of the world becomes very distant. All the people and things you loved or cared about almost cease to exist. As bad as it makes you feel, you’re going to have to do some killing, because in the arena, you only get one wish. And it’s very costly. It costs a lot more than your life. To murder innocent people? It costs everything you are. So you hold on to your wish.

His wish had been for Katniss to live. Katniss’ had been for him to. And here they were. Everyone, except for Cinna, who she’d gone into the Quarter Quell caring about was somehow, miraculously, still alive. Prim. Her mother. Gale. Haymitch. Effie. Peeta might still be mentally disordered, but at least with her staying away, he was progressing well enough to decorate a wedding cake. 

A wedding cake. That image made Katniss grunt. Finnick and Annie.

It wasn’t just those she cared about before the Quarter Quell who were still alive, it was also those she newly cared about. Those two. Beetee.

Johanna.

Johanna, for whom Katniss had experienced the impulse to volunteer as roommate. The one she’d sidled up to as a training partner. The one whose nightmares and traumas she’d been ready-fit acquaintances with. And also the one whose crass, doesn’t-give-a-fuck facade had gone from infuriating Katniss, when they’d first met, to actually making her laugh.

She sat on the edge of the bed and made one last, forceful attempt to stir Johanna, managing to cajole her onto her back and into wakefulness enough that she blinked with hazy recognition.

“Shit. Can’t a girl sleep without being molested?” Johanna was mumbling, voice rough.

“You were having a nightmare.”

“I can see your face, so clearly I must still be having it.”

“Funny.”

Johanna’s lids drifted shut.

“Have to be good for at least something, brainless, or else these wonderful District Thirteen people might decide it’s not worth the cost-benefit to feed me.”

“You’re good at lot of things,” Katniss joked. “Or at least that’s what you’re always going on to everyone about.”

Still with eyes closed, Johanna’s face pulled a smirk. “And wouldn’t you be lucky to experience every last one of those things, Everdeen.”

Katniss snorted and rolled her eyes. “You’re incredible.”

“Most wait ‘till after to tell me that.”

“You know what I meant,” Katniss corrected, refusing to fall prey to the attempt at embarrassing her. She started untangling the sheet from around the IV as something else to focus on.

Johanna peeked open one eye to watch, then wiggled the rest of her arm free from the bedding as soon as Katniss was done, purposefully floundering it through the air until she thwacked her palm against Katniss’ cheek. She pushed her face away with token force, punctuated by a complaining groan.

“Go a-way. Your sickening goodness makes my ass itch. How’s a mentally disordered person supposed to sleep?"

Katniss managed to huff like she was offended, but when Johanna’s hand didn’t move away from her face, she pulled it down to her lap and held onto it, frowning.

“They’re re-classifying you as that again?”

Johanna’s hand twitched in Katniss’.

“What? No. It’s nothing.”

“Johanna...”

“I’m fine, leave it.”  She yanked her hand free. “Aren’t you supposed to be prepping for an assassination mission right now anyway? Why are you here?”

Katniss frowned again at the abruptly acerbic tone, but she’d built up some resistance to it over time, and was tired herself, so she chose not walk into the trap. She was about to lay her own, anyway, after a fashion.

“You mean the suicide mission?” Her voice was a whisper, and she said it only after looking away from Johanna and picking her cuticles for a few long moments.

“What?” Johanna shimmied up into a sitting position, eyes wide and body instantly tense. “What are you talking about?”

Boggs’ words from a group meeting with Coin weeks before had been revolving through Katniss’ mind for the previous twenty-four hours.

Even if we’re careful, we can’t guarantee her safety. She’ll be a target for every-

He hadn’t gotten to finish, because Katniss herself had interrupted him. But she could definitely fill in the blank herself.

“Think about, Johanna. Because since the Block, I’ve certainly been thinking about it. At best, it’s a mission doomed to fail. At worst, it’s a death sentence. I think I’ve slept less than you in the last forty-eight hours.”

“You promised.” Johanna and pulled her arms tightly around her shoulders to make herself smaller. Triggered into a minor episode, she shook her head non-stop, as if doing so could change the reality of what Katniss had said. “You promised you’d kill him for me. I need him to be dead!”

Katniss sighed loudly and stared up at ceiling, fighting her own frustration as well as Johanna’s. Fighting to keep her voice calm.

“I know. I know I did, Johanna. And he will.“ She put a hand on Johanna’s knee to calm her, only to have Johanna swipe it away. But she went on. “We’ve breached the Capitol. We have forces there. Everyone wants Snow’s head. The Rebellion has come too far to stop, and Coin is going to make sure he ends up dead one way or another. But think about it. I’m not a trained assassin, I’m barely a solider. I don’t have an anonymous face. What chance do I really have? I’m a girl with a rifle and a bow. In the middle of a city decked out with Gamemakers’ traps, thousands of peacekeeper who know my face, and tens of thousands of Capitol citizens ready to raise an alert.” She gave Johanna a grim smile. “Those odds are way higher against than we faced in all of our games combined. And my target? One man on the far side of a war zone, almost certainly sealed away in a well-guarded bomb shelter.”

Katniss gave a weak shrug. “Boggs is right. He didn’t call it a suicide mission out loud, but he knows it is. I’ve been seeing it in his eyes, the hoping that I'd see it for myself.”

“Fuck,” Johanna hissed. “I’m so fucking tired of all this SHIT!”

The sudden screaming brought in the medical staff. Johanna shouted wild curses at them, alarming them all the more, but Katniss eventually talked them into leaving. It took long minutes, but Johanna’s shaking slowly evolved to despondent rocking. And then her chin sank to her chest, followed a moment later by a sniff, and then her dragging an arm across her face to wipe at it. Finally, she gripped her skull and let herself fall back flat onto the bed.

“Jo, I don’t know what kind of a life you want to have when this is over, but I’ve made up my mind. I’m not going back. I’ve done enough. We’ve both done enough. We don’t owe anyone. It’s not selfish: We’ve reached the point where we’re no longer necessary. Coin and the other District Leaders can duke it out; it doesn’t need to be Mockingay business. The only thing I want is to live a quiet life where I know Prim is safe and I can shrink out from under the spotlight. That’s what started this for me. That’s the promise I need to keep. The one I made to her on Reaping Day. That I’d live and come back to her.” She added, “You can’t tell me that at least part of you isn’t interested.”

There was more sniffling, and more face wiping. And a few ragged breaths before there was an exhausted response.

“Do you really believe that’s possible?”

“I think Coin will give it to us. She needs popular Victors around after the Capitol falls like a bear needs bees stinging at its nose when it wants honey. At this stage, my quiet exit might be as tempting for her as it is for me. And face it, from her perspective- If I’m right- if I do go, at best my death makes a good propo, except that it comes at the cost of the Capitol claiming credit for killing me. But if I actually succeeded, she risks me having an even bigger voice in Panem’s future. Considering how we’ve butted heads already, that’s not something she’s likely to want. And that puts not just me, but everyone I care about right back in danger.” Katniss had risked sneaking that train of thought into a whispered conversation with Boggs over that morning’s breakfast.

The look he’d given her had been answer enough.

“For once, I’d like the chance to choose my own fate instead of being manipulated into one.”

Johanna continued to stare up at the ceiling.

“You’re serious about this.”

“I have the bone-chilling feeling I need to be.”

“And so what,” Johanna struggled for the energy to push herself up on her elbows, glaring, “this is you asking my blessing to beg Coin to send you, your family, and lover boy back to Twelve so you can have a guilt-free happily ever after?”

Katniss gave herself time to cycle through a slow breath. Being about to say it aloud made it feel more like killing someone than letting them go. But Johanna was impatient.

“I’m sick of this visit, Katniss. Just say whatever it is and get it over with.”

“Fine.” Katniss sucked in a breath. “Peeta’s a long way from being able to go anywhere without a counselor. Maybe things could be different. In the future, after time passes and he’s better and I don’t feel constantly conflicted over what I should be feeling and how much of that is me over what people keep telling me I feel. And-”

“There goes your self-righteous we-really-love-each-other act, princess.”

“Shut up, Johanna! It’s complicated and you know it. And like I said, maybe things could be different. None of us knows that, though. But what I do know is that neither he or I need that sort of pressure right now, and right now is when I need to make a decision for the people who are still within my reach.”

Johanna relented, begrudgingly.

“If you go back to Twelve, you realize he’ll just end up back there at some point. If you go home, he follows. He won’t be able to help it.”

Katniss hesitated, but then nodded sadly. “I know.”

“Is that what you want?”

Katniss didn’t respond. Instead, after some quiet, she reached over to the nightstand for Johanna’s pine bundle, laying it on the bed. Her fingers lingered on it briefly before withdrawing.

“This was on the floor when I came in. Decided you didn’t like it after all?”

“Probably fell out while I was sleeping.” Johanna picked it up and took a sniff, then kept it at her nose to breathe the scent.

“Had you wanted to go back to Seven when this was all done?”

“I...” Johanna’s shoulders slowly sagged. “I don’t know,” she said simply, expression carefully neutral. “I don’t have anything there. Haven’t for a long time. And I haven’t even been able to picture a world that’s that normal enough to even try thinking about it.”

“Well, do. At this point, the three us of would rather go to Seven with you than back to Twelve.” Johanna narrowed her eyes, surprised. Perhaps suspicious. It didn’t phase Katniss. “Haymitch and Finnick have both agreed to help me make the argument to Coin for us.” And when Johanna only continued to study Katniss, without voicing an objection, Katniss hazarded some levity, "And anyway, you’re practically required to say yes: Prim insists she wants to adopt you into the family.”

“I’m not a fucking pet,” Johanna responded, eventually, but without real heat.

“Whatever you say, lumber-woman.” Katniss chuckled at the dirty face Johanna made at that, before standing to leave. “I think we both know Prim's pretty good at getting what she wants.”

“It should be illegal to be that fucking adorable.”

“Yeah,” Katniss agreed, to be polite. “Okay, well, I’m going to go talk to Haymitch. You aren’t laying a string of profanity down on me, so I’m going to run with it.”

Johanna pulled her knees to her chest, making herself small again.

“What is it?”

Johanna shook her head.

“Come on, Johanna.”

“I... don’t want to get dragged there and then dumped, if you guys don’t like it.” A tear raced down her cheek, then another, which Johanna cursed even as she wiped them away. “I... Fuck, I can’t believe I’m saying this. If you tell anyone, especially that stupid head doctor, that I'm saying this, I’ll rip your spine out.”  The tears were still coming. “But I don’t think I can handle having people and then losing them again.”

Again. The weight of that word settled on Katniss’ shoulders.

She struggled with how to respond, in the end climbing onto the bed and letting Johanna curl into her side.

[lgbtqueeries]

A School Project as an Ode to Larry Kramer --32 Million and Counting

TLDR; This speech was a project for a Queer Studies class that I participated in. It is a speech in the form of Larry Kramer’s speech about AIDS activism in 1983 called “1,112 and Counting”  I also wanted to bring into awareness what has changed in the 37 years since his original speech. The audience is meant to be the queer community, just like his was, but also to be open to those that would listen. Due to its nature, it encompasses public health, politics, humanity, and activism. I didn’t intend for this to be the case but as the project progressed we were diagnosed to be going through a pandemic much like that of what those in the 80s experienced. To this degree, I didn’t mean to scare but frustrate the reader, much like Larry Kramer. I wanted my speech to be uniquely mine, but be reminiscent of the effect that he garnered. I plan to post this to my Tumblrs LGBTQueeries and the-unending-kerfuffle as well as my Instagram @one_steph_from_death. I want to place this speech out into the world. Please feel free to reblog and share and comment and chat with me in the comments!

Larry Kramer started his count when the number was 1,112 and counting. In 1983. Think about that again. In 1983. Thirty-seven years ago. He screamed for help then, knowing full well we’d be obliterated as a group unless we stood up. He refused to be forced to die. 

To frame this, a former entertainment star had been elected to the most powerful political seat in government. His staunch political and religious opinions led to the death of innocent people. He could have saved them by using his voice and asserting a need for research, laws, and education, but instead, let them die impoverished and discriminated against. If the hate and violent crimes didn’t get them, the sickness creeping in would. 

Worst of all, as a community, we knew that he didn’t speak for us. We knew that this hate would kill us, yet we still remain silent. We remained silent as the hate trickled into the deepest pores of our community. We let the hate fester, building up and attaching to the difference among us until it finally separated us and dismantled us. We let the bigotry we so desperately try to run from infiltrate our ranks and break us apart into factions. 

They were treated like lepers and untouchables (Barker & Cran, 2006). Hospital workers were nearly absent, just present enough to not be liable for neglect. Visitors were few and gay lovers, if they stayed, were sent away. Imagine that, slipping away in pain as you lose your vision and ability to breathe, your body starts deteriorating as it is filled with cancer and opportunistic infections. Alone. All alone. 

And when you (inevitably) died your casket wasn’t lined in silk with cushions and roses. Yours was lined with plastic and biohazard material. Your brittle, thin body was crumpled up in the discarded sheets and hospital gowns and thrown into a garbage bag. No one was going to claim you, so no point in going to the morgue. Your toes, if you still had them, weren’t tagged, just set aside with all your other hospital belongings.

But the pain didn’t end there. Like the weekly garbage men, bags were taken to empty spaces and distributed into large, unmarked graves (Kilgannon. 2018). A secluded hole lost to history. A supposed bygone of the middle ages, but here to dispose of Jane and John Does. 

If I was to scream like Larry Kramer, to these separated groups, I’d go hoarse within hours. As of 2018, 35 years after his speech, we have lost 32 million people to HIV/AIDS (CDC, 2020).  That doesn’t include the people from the last 2 years. 

We lost 32 million innocent people. 

Yes, we lost gay men and IV drug users but they are still human. They still had the same dreams and aspirations as everyone else. They could have lived to be designers and playwrights just as well as becoming doctors and lawyers. We lost everyone one from, every walk of life. We lost painters, poets, magicians, musicians, surgeons, dentists, lawyers, physicians, firefighters, police officers, farmers, framers, parents, children. Their blood is on the hands of those that slowly took the life from them. The government is not free from their crimes. 

But honestly, that’s not where the frustration and anger ends. Our history is being erased. Purposefully and eagerly. This situation that I’ve laid before your eyes seems to be that of 1983 and the pain of Ronald Reagan. The horror sounds painfully identical to what we deal with today.

  Our current administration has continued some of these misinformed ideas and hateful actions. The Ryan White Fund, a fund specifically created to create a money source for HIV/AIDS research and treatment have received cutbacks and other plans set in motion like PEPFAR aren’t fairing well either. They are better in this term than in the past, but frankly, that’s not too comforting. This fund was the lifeblood for many organizations and they soon will be bled dry (Forsyth, n.d.). This does not take into account the other actions towards queer people in general. This takes into account only one facet of the government that is working against us. What about the judicial branch and the possibility to be tried for attempted murder for not disclosing your status to your partner (CDC, 2019)?  It’s not like you have to do the same for other STIs. “On the count of giving chlamydia to your partner without disclosing your last date of testing, how does the jury find the defendant?” This doesn’t take into account the possibility you didn’t know of your own status. 

And what if you wished to give blood? Say you’re gay and we’ll even go so far as saying you’re HIV-. They’d turn you away. They’d send you back for 12 months for not being able to prove you didn’t have sex with your male partner for 12+ months. May I remind you that lesbians and heterosexual men and women have gotten HIV and therefore can pass it along? This is possibly a law of Reagan’s 80s, but it’s still in effect TODAY (“LGBTQ Donors”, n.d.).

But I digress. The government is still not free from their crimes and institutionalized hate. I don’t wish to get too political but it is inevitable with the fact we’re all stuck in the past. Again, it’s not where my frustration lies. 

My frustration is formed in the same disappointment that Larry Kramer had. In 37 years not much has changed and that the voice that we have as a community. We gained it with protests through organizations like ACT UP but we’ve apparently been diagnosed with laryngitis because we’ve become oddly silent. HIV/AIDS is not a disease of history. We haven’t cured the earth of this disease. It’s here and stuck to us like your legs to a hot vinyl seat. It affects everyone and intersectionality can increase your risk (CDC, 2019). There’s a reason it’s no longer called “Gay Related Immune Disease”. Yet where the hell are we?

It affects the young and the old. Yet we remain silent, pretending it’s not occurring. 

We can blame it on the straight, cis majority but we are complicit in our own erasure, assimilation, and silencing. 

We let our history fall by the wayside and be covered up with rainbows and pride flags used by businesses in marketing. We let our history be encapsulated by a month handed to us by the majority. 

We let the atrocities that happened be forgotten along with many of the names. 

We isolate those now that are HIV+ from queer-friendly functions, both blatantly and subtlely.

But most importantly we lost our gusto to fight for a better future for the generations that come after us. That’s what stings the most. 

It’s important to remember that this disease is no longer a death sentence. You no longer have to feel the weight of shackles weighing you down towards the underworld. Provided, that is, you have insurance and can pay for your medications. But that is another government issue for another speech. With one pill a day, just like your Flintstones vitamins, you can live a normal life. You can date and with proper precautions, have sex and not pass it along to your partner. Undetectable = Untransmissable (UNAIDS, 2018). 

While this may be a reality for us in our modern-day. I refuse to let those that sacrificed themselves for this cause be forgotten. We lost 32 million people and while I can’t list them all here or scream them to the heavens, I’ll damn well try. Those that came before us, despite their flaws, paved the way for us and I refuse to let them slip away because our government doesn’t like it. Join me in sharing the stories. If you want to see face to face, the humans that we lost, follow accounts like @theaidsmemorial on Instagram. End our silence. If it’s painful for you, imagine how it must feel for the friends and families of those that lost someone of the 32 million. They need your help to speak up. 

We started this with 1,112 and counting. Now we’re at 32 million and counting. Let’s end the counting and start the protesting.

Works Cited

Barker, G., & Cran, W. (2006, May 30). Retrieved from https://www.pbs.org/wgbh/frontline/film/aids/ 

Centers for Disease Control. (2020, January 16). U.S. Statistics. Retrieved from https://www.hiv.gov/hiv-basics/overview/data-and-trends/statistics 

Forsyth, A. D. (n.d.). Powerpoint presentation.

HIV and STD Criminal Laws. (2019, July 1). Retrieved from https://www.cdc.gov/hiv/policies/law/states/exposure.html

HIV by Group. (2019, October 25). Retrieved from https://www.cdc.gov/hiv/group/index.html 

Kilgannon, C. (2018, July 3). Dead of AIDS and Forgotten in Potter's Field. Retrieved from https://www.nytimes.com/2018/07/03/nyregion/hart-island-aids-new-york.html 

LGBTQ Donors. (n.d.). Retrieved from https://www.redcrossblood.org/donate-blood/how-to-donate/eligibility-requirements/lgbtq-donors.html 

UNAIDS Explainer. (2018). UNAIDS Explainer. Retrieved from https://www.unaids.org/sites/default/files/media_asset/undetectable-untransmittable_en.pdf 

[sunriseskog]

comethru- Auston Matthews

Request: n/a this was entirely self induglent bc im sad and ive had comethru by Jermey Zucker stuck in my head for weeks

Word Count: 2,267

Warnings: cursing, angst, dudes being assholes, mentions of tr*ding auston

A/N: ive been on hiatus for a long ass time so any feedback is more than welcome!!!! also i am fully aware that i used this gift for my last post but its hot and i dont care

It had been a little over a month since Auston left. No… that’s not quite right. It had been a little over a month since Auston left Toronto. It had been just barely under a month since you had left Auston.

You weren’t entirely sure who the trade surprised more, but you did know for a fact that it had had a far greater effect on you than it had on Auston.

He had remained optimistic in the beginning. After all, Buffalo is barely a 2-hour drive on a bad day. On a good day, he could probably make it in an hour and a half. But the two of you had quickly reached the conclusion that either of you driving 4+ hours a day wasn’t practical, and it wasn’t fair to whoever drew the short end of the stick, pun intended. You knew he would never ask you to move for him, hell even moving in together had been a stretch for you, but you also knew that there was an unspoken expectation that eventually the both of you would relocate closer to the arena.

Before he had even reached the border, you had managed to convince yourself that this short distance relationship would cripple your relationship before you could even begin filling out the US immigration forms to move with him, let alone actually convince yourself to do it. So you backed off. You knew that trying to exhaust what was left of the relationship would only end up destroying you the both of you more than was necessary, so you let go. You knew it wouldn’t take him long to pick up on the fact that you were becoming distant, taking longer to respond to texts, barely calling him back and conveniently timing your responses with the specific intention of him not being able to pick up. You may have been stupid, but you sure as hell weren’t subtle. You knew that as long you were the bad guy in the scenario, it wouldn’t take him nearly as long to get over you, and as long as you remained in control of the situation, you knew that you’d come out of the tail end of things perfectly fine.

And you were. You were absolutely, positively fine. But that was all you were. You weren’t good or great or doing well, you were just… fine. You were off-kilter, sure, but you were surviving, and that was honestly all you had come to ask of yourself. You were sure that the other shoe would drop soon enough, you had ridden the high and now you were at the plateau, but the comedown seemed to always be lurking around the corner.

One too many sleepless nights in a row had come to significantly impact your sleeping schedule. It had gotten to the point where your boss had come to expect your work day to end at 5 am instead of 5 pm. It was nice, though. To see the city when it felt like no one else could. To have your whole day to yourself, even though it was technically night. Everything was much quieter, and there were moments where it felt like you might be the only person in the entire city to be awake, and you wouldn’t have it any other way. You rarely interacted with anyone, you didn’t even wake up until hours after the last of your coworkers had left the building, and every errand you had to run could be completed via the self-checkout of the 24 hr supermarket a few blocks away from your apartment building. You weren’t lonely by any means, you just so happened to be alone.

Except on game nights. You were never alone on game nights. Luckily, there weren’t very many Toronto residents that enjoyed watching one of their franchise players play in a different teams jersey, but you still couldn’t help but punish yourself by watching his games whenever they were on at the sports bar you frequented. You told yourself that as long as someone else put the game on, and as long as you left with someone new before the game was over, then it wasn’t nearly as pathetic as it seemed.

An issue arose the first time Toronto played the Sabres. You hadn’t checked the schedule, you just knew that there was a game. You also knew that if you were ever alone when a game was on you would curl up with far too much ice cream and a borderline dangerous amount of rum, neither of which were ideal. Immediately upon entering the bar, you knew that it was far too crowded for there to not be a Leafs game on, it was nowhere near baseball season, and the sea of blue jerseys couldn’t be for any other team. An involuntary wince consumed your face as Auston’s name reached your ears, it seemed like every congregation of fans in the entire establishment were talking about him, and a cursory glance at the nearest screen confirmed your fears.

The bad news was that if you stayed, you would have to watch Auston play, which was bound to be painful for any Leafs fan, but this one would hurt you just a little more than all the others— the knowledge that he was just across the city weighed heavily on your shoulders as you pushed through the crowd to find an empty stool somewhere. The worse news was that there was no way in hell a single guy in here would be willing to leave before the game was over, so you’d either have to watch all of it and then fuck the feelings away, or go home and watch all of it and probably end up crying for a majority of the third period. The former seemed like a more viable option at the time.

Now, though? You wished you had just gone home. Because it turns out you were wrong, there was a dude at the bar who was willing to leave before the end, as it would turn out, he was ready to leave before the second period was halfway through. That should have been your first red flag.

In your defense, you had a lot of other shit going on, and your brain was far too preoccupied coping with the stress that the game was bringing to consider the fact that the nice guy who had been paying for your drinks might not turn out to be that nice after all.

On the cab ride back to your apartment, you found out that his name was Sam and he was a lifelong Leafs fan. The two of you bonded over having grown up around hockey without actually playing it, and you even shared a cigarette at the entrance of your building’s lobby. It wasn’t until the two of you stepped into your living room that things took a turn for the worse.

The framed and signed Matthews jersey on the mantle had been more of a joke than anything else, all of your friends thought it was funny while the two of you were together, and you hadn’t had anyone over since the breakup, so you hadn’t found a reason to convince yourself to take it down. The look of disgust on Sam’s face as soon as he laid eyes on it would have been a fairly convincing reason if you actually gave a shit what he thought about you.

“That’s borderline sacrilege,” he commented, gesturing towards the display. You shot him an incredulous look, waiting for him to give any indication that he was making a joke.

“What?” You questioned, not really confused, just wanting to clarify if he was saying. What you thought he was saying.

“You can’t seriously call yourself a leafs fan and still support that guy! He’s a traitor,” He asserted. His over passionate gesturing indicated that he was genuinely this invested in the topic, which should have been your second red flag.

“I mean c’mon, (Y/N),” He continued. “You’re not stupid, are you?”

You couldn’t help but scoff at how pretentious and condescending he was being, without seeming to realize that he was acting like an absolute prick.

“I can assure you, Samuel,” You drawled sarcastically. “I am anything but stupid, but you have got to be absolutely moronic if you genuinely believe that I’m going to let you fuck me after speaking to me like I'm a goddamn child. Your kinks are your business but that's not really my style,” you sneered as you moved towards the doorway in order to invite him to throw himself out so you didn’t have to bother touching him any more than you already had.

“Now why don’t you get the fuck out of my house, dick head,” You spoke as your lip curled and your brow quirked, gesturing through the doorway to drive the point through his thick skull.

“Gladly,” He scoffed, slamming his shoulder into yours as he stepped past you. “Not like I’d want to fuck a whore like you anyways!” He shouted over his should as he started towards the stairs.

“Open your mouth that wide again and I’m gonna have to ask you to chortle my cock, Samuel” You responded, giving a middle finger to his back for your own satisfaction. You had never been one to censor your insults, and over the years they had become more and more lewd. This, of course, had never really presented itself as a problem until you caught the eye of your neighbor as you turned to storm back inside of your apartment. You couldn’t help but wince apologetically at the old woman, giving her a repentant head nod as you shuffled back inside.

You let your back hit the inside of the door, sliding roughly down until your tailbone hit the hardwood floor beneath your feet. Of course, the first substantial interaction you had in over a month would turn out to be a spectacular disaster. And of course, it was because of Auston. Realistically, you knew it wasn’t his fault, you just really really needed someone else to blame right now. You carded your fingers through your scalp roughly, and let out an elongated groan in the hopes that it would satisfy the overwhelming urge that you had had to scream at the top of your lungs for the past month or so.

As you stared at your own intertwined fingers in an attempt to calm yourself down, you couldn’t help but notice that your fingers were shaking. This wasn’t a recent development by any means, but this was the first time that you had noticed it being this aggressive. It usually only happened when you had coffee, which was why you had abstained from it for a majority of your life. As you looked back on what your routine had become, you realized that through all the late nights and later mornings, you had been popping caffeine pills and ordering espressos far more than the ‘one-time thing’ you told yourself it was. The realization that your life had done a complete 180 in the span of 5 weeks began to weigh on you, and it seemed like your mind was consumed entirely by flurries of memories of bad habits you had fallen back into and the lifeless moments you had spent floundering, convincing yourself that you were fine on your own, despite the fact that that was anything but the truth.

It didn’t take very long to find his contact picture in your recent messages. You hadn’t had much of a reason to talk to that many people lately. It took longer to open up the message thread, trying to prepare yourself to view the unbearably awkward finality of your most recent messages to each other. The preview underneath his name only served as a painful reminder that the last time he had texted you was to say that he loved you. And you hadn’t said it back.

You weren’t sure if he was going to respond, hell you went sure he was even going to read it. For all you knew it was entirely within the realm of possibility that he had blocked you a while ago. You knew exactly what to say, surprisingly, that wasn’t the hard part. Of the few letters that you typed, the closer you got to reaching out to him again seemed to calm you down more and more. By the time you tacked on the question mark at the end, your fingers had stopped trembling for there first time in what you could assume had been at least a couple of weeks. You let your phone drop to the floor as soon as you hit send, either he would be here within the hour or his response wouldn’t be worth reading. Those were the only options on the table. Either he was going to come and the two of you were going to get to be okay for a little while, or it truly was the end. If that was the case then you really didn’t want to see what he had to say. You heard your phone vibrate from where it laid just a couple feet away, and as much as the desire consumed you, you couldn’t bring yourself to move to see what it said. So you sat there, and waited to see if you would be able to hear those oh so familiar footsteps ascending your staircase again, responding to your oh so familiar request.

‘come thru?’

[korora12]

Ladybug Week Day 6 - Kitchen Disaster

Day 5 Day 7

Word Count: 4881

The thing about working freelance is that sometimes there isn’t any work to be had. Sometimes you get a tip about a job on a distant moon, so you fly halfway across the system just to find out someone beat you to it. Then you’re stuck flying back at half-speed to a more populated part of the system in order to conserve fuel, struggling to find ways to pass the time that won’t eat through money you don’t have.

“Ruby, where did you put my flamethrower?”

Blake was sitting in Crescent Rose’s common room reading her newest novel when Yang’s voice chimed over the intercom, signaling the beginning of the day’s unrequested excitement.

Moments later, Ruby returned with, “I put it back in the weapons locker. Where it belongs. Should I be concerned right now?”

“No, no need to be concerned. We have everything under control. Right, Weiss?”

“Can’t talk right now, busy,” Weiss responded. A loud crash preceded the intercom cutting out.

Blake turned to look behind her. The kitchen was in a small alcove, just to the side of the common room, where she’d seen Weiss and Yang head about an hour ago. She’d been filtering out their bickering/flirting since then, until she’d heard one of them run out moments earlier, heading towards the cockpit door. Past the kitchen counter, she could see Weiss struggling with some amorphous blob.

Sighing, Blake marked her spot and placed her book down on the nearby table. What were those two up to this time?

Across the room the door to the main battery opened and Ruby stepped through. Her skin and clothes, a pair of overalls and an old shirt, were covered in grease and other unrecognizable fluids. Her hair was being held back from her face by a pair of goggles perched atop her head. “What’s happening this time?” she demanded to know.

Blake thrust her thumb over her shoulder. Ruby’s gaze followed where she was pointing; when she saw the state of the kitchen she ran a hand over her face, managing to dirty it further. “Someone’s losing kitchen privileges for this,” she muttered.

The couple made their way across the room just in time for Weiss to slam a lid down atop a 10-gallon pot. She struggled to keep it in place.

“Are we doing chemistry experiments in the kitchen again, Weiss?” Ruby didn’t get angry about many things, but reckless behavior that damaged her ship was one such thing. After what had happened the last few times Yang and Weiss had gotten bored, the razor edge in her voice was far from unwarranted.

“Of course not. We learned our lesson last time,” Weiss assured her. The pot in her grasp shook violently. “We were cooking, which Yang has assured me doesn’t count as chemistry.”

Ruby didn’t immediately snap at her. “Go on,” she said.

Motes of light flickered and swirled within Weiss, signs of anxiety and embarrassment. “When we were at the market yesterday I saw this strange animal being sold that I’d never seen before. I thought it might be fun to try and cook, so I bought it.” The pot shook again, and Weiss sped up her story in response. “Yang found out about it and thought we could make a stew. It was turning out really well; Yang even said it tasted good when she tried it. Then things might have gotten a tiny bit out of control.”

Blake cocked her head to the side, taking in the whole of Weiss’ being, as if to remind herself that her friend was, in fact, still made of crystal. “Weiss, you don’t even eat food. What made you think experimenting with cooking was a good idea?”

Some manner of sludge began leaking out of the gap between the lid and pot. It was thick, brownish-blue, and it bubbled when it hit the air. “I wanted to do something nice for the crew!” Weiss shouted, and in that moment she lost the struggle with her foe. The lid flew out of her hands, catching her on the head as it went. The contents of the pot followed moments later.

It moved too fast even for Blake’s eyes to track. One moment it was in the pot, the next it had tackled Weiss to the ground and spread across most her body. She only got an impression of colors, mostly purple and blue, before it disappeared again.

Weiss attempted to rise to her feet, but stumbled. Blake rushed forward to catch her before Ruby could try the same; Weiss was a heavy weight for a human to lift, being mostly rock, but Blake was more metal than not, so the weight meant little to her.

“I…not… so feel.” Weiss’ translator was having a hard time interpreting her words. Blake’s own fluency in Atlesian wasn’t serving her much better; every spot on her that the… thing had touched was glowing an iridescent ultraviolet in a shade Blake had never seen before.

“That doesn’t look good,” Ruby said

“We should get her downstairs,” Blake said in agreement.

Ruby moved to help her, then hesitated. “Where’s Yang? If she went to the cockpit to look for her flamethrower, then she should’ve been back by now.”

“Maybe she went to the weapons lockers in storage?” Blake offered. Then another thought hit her. “Weiss said she taste-tested the stew before it turned into whatever that was.”

“Oh no.” Blake couldn’t help but agree with Ruby’s sentiments. “Okay, you get Weiss down to the medbay; I’ll go find Yang.”

x-x-x-x-x-x-x

Of the four members of Crescent Rose’s crew, Weiss was the one with the most medical knowledge. She wasn’t a professional, but she had thorough first aid training for all intelligent species. So of course she was the first one to be taken out when a monster attacked.

Blake knew how to care for FAUNIS, but her knowledge of the other species was limited. Still, Weiss had made sure they each knew the basics early on. She knew materia fed by absorbing minerals and nutrients in a water solution through their outermost layers, and that this made them especially susceptible to what few toxins could affect them.

She tore through the various drawers and cabinets until she found what she was looking for. It was a tube of translucent paste that she began slathering generously on the affected parts of Weiss’ body. The paste was a general antivenin that was supposed to draw out toxins from a materia while also encouraging the body’s natural defenses. Attempting and failing to move Weiss’ arm proved that she’d already gone static as her body attempted to use its own methods to remove the invading substance.

As Blake finished emptying the last of the tube, the door opened. Ruby came through, carrying an unconscious Yang to an unoccupied bed.

“How’s Weiss doing?” Ruby asked.

“Still glowing; still alive,” Blake answered. “Yang?”

“I found her passed out on the cockpit stairs. She’s even hotter than usual. What do we do?”

Blake wished she knew. If Yang had eaten something poisonous then maybe, “Induce vomiting?”

“She’s unconscious,” Ruby countered. “What if she chokes? I’m going to get her an IV and a wet cloth.”

As Blake washed her hands of the residual paste, she wondered aloud, “What kind of creature can poison both a materia and a protean? Their biology is so different; I’ve never heard of anything that could do that.”

“I don’t know,” Ruby replied, talking as she worked, “but I intend to kill it before it gets anyone else.”

Blake nodded in understanding. “How far out are we from Eltanin?”

“About an hour and a half. When I’m done here I’ll go set up the autopilot to land us at our usual dock. Meanwhile, I want all hands on deck for this. Go find our fifth crewmate and bring him here. And get our weapons, too.”

Brake managed to suppress her grimace. She didn’t like the newest addition to their crew, but she had to admit he had his uses. Hunting a mystery monster was one of the few things she could rely on him to do.

x-x-x-x-x-x-x

Zwei had only been with the Crescent Rose for a few weeks, but already he loved it. There were so many corners to poke around in and the new people were so much fun. The long trip here via mail crate had been more than worth it.

One of the new people, the one who liked to play hide-and-seek with him, had picked him up and was taking him somewhere. The sounds that people made were difficult to understand, but he could learn names and this one was called Blake. He didn’t understand what she was saying, but he caught the names “Yang” and “Weiss”, who were two of his favorite people. Zwei had known Yang for his entire life; she was a girl who was always ready to roll around in the dirt or pull on a rope with him. Weiss was newer, but she liked to pamper him with treats and cuddles, and Zwei’s affections were easily bought by such people.

Zwei was rather dismayed to find both of the people in question lying flat on their backs, the stench of sickness covering them. Ruby, his favoritest person in the world, was there too, though she was thankfully on her feet. She gave him only one command. “Hunt.”

Zwei knew how to hunt. As Blake lifted him towards both of the sick girls in turn, Zwei got a careful sniff of each. They were very different kinds of creatures, normally with very different smells (except on the rare mornings where they smelled like each other for a while), but there was something within the stench of sickness that they both shared. An underlying smell that suggested something had done this to them, and now Ruby wanted him to find it.

The moment his paws hit the floor he was off. Out the door and up the stairs, straight towards the food room, a place he normally wasn’t allowed in. He squashed the urge to slip open the fridge and steal a quick bite; there was more important work to be done. And anyway, he’d probably get a treat when this was all over.

A large pot lay fallen on the floor. Zwei poked his head inside. Yup, this was the strongest source of the smell. It must’ve come from inside the pot. He committed the scent to memory, then began to follow it. The trail led him out of the food room, past the couches, and into the large room with all the hanging cords, large pillars, and flashing tables that Ruby spent so much time in.

x-x-x-x-x-x-x

“If this thing hurts my baby, I’m going to kill it,” Ruby said.

“I thought we were already planning on killing it,” Blake countered.

“Then I’ll kill it twice. It’s bad enough that it attacked my crew, I won’t be having it hurt my ship too.”

The main battery, along with the connecting engine room, was undeniably Ruby’s domain. The others didn’t spend much time in either places, usually only poking their heads in if an extra pair of hands were needed. With a crew as small as theirs was, everyone branched out from their specialty and learned other jobs, but Ruby was still the best engineer around. And the captain. And the best shot with the main gun, even if its computers did most of the heavy lifting. And, along with Blake, one of the only people on the ship who could man all the secondary guns simultaneously without a major drop in effectiveness.

Maybe she should delegate more.

The room was huge, taking up about a quarter of the ship’s third level. Thick wires and glowing tubes hung from the ceiling, connecting up to the massive main gun that sat atop the ship, itself about half as long as Crescent Rose. The main body of the gun took up most of the center of the room, surrounded by computer banks and held up by pillars so that it cleared the floor by about a meter and a half.

Zwei was wandering about the room, nose to the ground and following whatever trail he’d found. Ruby followed hot on his tail, eyes casting about and ears straining for any sign of their quarry. Boots on the metal floor made a heavy sound that echoed off the walls.

Movement in the corner of her eye had her whipping Bright Thorn around in its direction. Nothing, just an empty bank of flashing panels.

Zwei’s tracking took him between the central pillars and under the main gun. Ruby hesitated at the edge. Open panels and dangling wires from previous patch jobs reduced the already limited headspace underneath; following him would severely limit her mobility if attacked. She crouched down, following her corgi with her eyes as he darted here and there, trying to follow a much faster prey.

The lights cut out.

“Great,” Blake said. “We’re hunting a monster, on our own ship, in the dark. This is how horror stories start.”

“You have night vision,” Ruby snarked back, flipping on the flashlight attached to her gun. “What are you complaining about?”

“I’m just saying.”

Ruby shook her head in exasperated fondness. “I’m more concerned with why they went out. Either this thing is smart enough to intentionally cut the lights, or it’s attacking indiscriminately and getting lucky.” She rose from her crouch, standing back-to-back with her partner as they surveyed the room. “Whichever it is, now I have to kill it twice.”

Lazer fire behind her had her spinning around, Bright Thorn raised and ready to fire. “It came out of the wall,” Blake said, rapidly firing her lazpistol, first along the ground, then up overhead. Ruby tracked her shots trying to follow with her light.

“Ventilation shaft?” she asked.

“Maybe.”

She caught sight of a blur, passing through the circle of light projected on the ceiling for only an instant, but it was enough. She pulled her trigger and the thing dropped, releasing a whine like a deflating balloon as it fell.

If the shot injured it, it wasn’t enough to kill. By the time Ruby’s flashlight was pointed at the ground it was gone, only a small, bulbous part of it momentarily visible speeding away towards the center of the room.

“Zwei, look out!” Ruby called.

A series of barks and growls spoke of a tremendous battle between beast and monster. Ruby caught only flashes of it, as Zwei tumbled with and tore into something that was less of a shape, and more the impression of a mouth on a lump the color of an oil spill. She couldn’t even get a solid grasp on how big it was, with how fast and how much it moved, thought it at least seemed to be no larger than a fully-grown corgi. The thing tackled Zwei, knocking him out of sight. Before Ruby could refocus her light, Zwei let out a loud, pained yip and ran straight towards them, sliding to a stop and collapsing at Blake’s feet.

“Some fearsome monster hunter you are,” she said, scooping him up in one arm, the pistol in her other still sweeping the room. She paused her sweep, turning her attention more heavily on the dog in her arms. “He’s breathing really heavily, and I think I see a bit of blood.”

“Okay,” Ruby said, trying not to let her worry take control of the situation. She could do this. “Let’s fall back for now, get Zwei downstairs. Head towards the hatch at the back of the room.”

There were four ways in or out of the main battery. One was the door they came in through, and opposite it, on the far end of the room, was a door that led deeper into the guts of the ship, towards the engine and fuel tanks. Near the rear door was also a lift that connected all three of the ships levels, as well as a ladder, covered by a hatch, that exited near the medbay on the second floor.

The pair swept the room as they headed towards the ladder. This time, Ruby was the first to spot it. It moved too fast for her to line up a proper shot, but she fired anyway. The sound drew Blake’s attention, and she fired her own gun.

“Keep it away from the exits.” Ruby ordered. Together they managed to herd it towards the center of the room, firing ahead of it anytime it tried to head towards a wall or pillar, until they reached their destination.

Ruby knelt to open the hatch while Blake kept firing, her efforts alone less effective than the two together had been. Her success was marked by a beam of light from the lower level shining into the room. “Go,” Ruby commanded. Blake forewent the ladder, jumping backwards and dropping the entire distance in one go. Ruby swung onto the top rung, firing one last shot as she went, then slammed the hatch shut above her. Embedded in the wall nearby was a lever under a glass lid. Ruby lifted the lid, pulled the lever, twisted, and pushed it back in. A clunk echoed from the hatch.

“That’ll seal off the room. Even the ventilation is locked down now.” Ruby joined Blake on the second level. “It should hold for a bit, but I don’t want to leave it for long. How’s he doing?”

Blake held Zwei out for Ruby to see. His wounds were more visible in the still-active lighting of the hallway. He was indeed bleeding, from a bite mark on his side that was turning a disturbing shade of purple.

“Not you too, Zwei,” she moaned, letting Bright Thorn hang from his strap as she took the dog into her arms. “I’m going to get him set up in the medbay. When I get back, we’ll finish this thing off.”

The hatch above them shook violently, as if something had just slammed into it at high speeds. “Maybe hurry?” Blake offered, sword and gun drawn as she stared down the hatch.

x-x-x-x-x-x-x

When Ruby returned, it was to a changed hallway. Blake was on the floor and the nearby lift was peeled open, the doors bending outwards. She rushed to Blake’s side, glad to see she was still conscious and struggling to her feet.

“Are you okay?” she asked, helping her up. “What happened?” Ruby fretted nervously, checking Blake over for bite marks or blood.

“I’m fine,” Blake assured her, waving off concerned hands, “just dazed. I wasn’t watching my six and it tackled me. There’s no lasting damage.”

Ruby eyed her suspiciously, not failing to notice the difficulty she showed finding her balance again. “You’ll let me know if you start to feel sick, right?”

Blake backed off, finally standing on her own without aid, and bowed exaggeratedly at the waist. “Of course, my queen.”

“Blaaaake,” Ruby whined, “don’t call me that. It’s embarrassing.”

A cute smirk played across Blake’s face. “As you wish, your majesty.”

Ruby huffed, ignoring the blush she could feel forming on her face and not dignifying Blake with another response. “Did you see which way it went?”

There weren’t a whole lot of places it could’ve gone. Aside from back the way Ruby came, or back the way it came, it’s only options for escape were down the stairs to the storage bay or… or down the hallway Blake was pointing at.

Exhaustion leaked out of her in a low moan. “Not life support,” she complained. Why did this thing keep getting into the sensitive parts of the ship?

“Royalty first,” Blake said, sweeping her arm in the direction they were headed.

“You’re a big old teasing meanie,” Ruby said, but she led the way regardless.

The life support room was more like a wide hallway than a room, several times longer than it was wide. It was full of variously-sized criss-crossing pipes, clumped together in places and jutting out of the walls at all angles, and thick, twisted cords of dozens or more wires stretching across the ceiling and walls. They were accompanied by controls and sensors for electrical energy, air circulation, and water filtration, amongst other things. Several large, boxy generators sat at the back of the room, their steady chugging providing both electricity and gravity. The floor was made of removable metal grates, granting access to the innermost workings of the ship.

“Come here, little abomination,” Ruby whispered as she stepped as quietly as she could through the room, the sound of her footsteps largely masked by the noises of the various machineries surrounding her. “Step away from the sensitive equipment and show yourself. I only want to talk.”

The room quieted midstep, the rumble of a generator cutting out. Ruby’s next step pushed her off the ground and sent her floating through the air.

“You know,” she said, just letting herself float freely for a moment. “I’m not usually one to swear, but this thing is really pushing my limits.”

“It’s okay,” Blake assured her, “You can say it, I won’t judge you.”

Ruby shook her head. “No, the moment’s not right.”

Bending down, not that down had much meaning at the moment, she flicked a switch on her boots and was pulled to the floor. She looked at Blake, slowly making her way towards the ceiling. “Where are your magboots?” Ruby asked.

“I didn’t put them on this morning,” Blake answered. “Funnily enough, I wasn’t expecting to get attacked by the Creature from the Black Lagoon today. A better question is, why are you wearing yours?”

Ruby shrugged. “It makes working on the engine easier.”

Blake caught and steadied herself on a thin pipe that ran the length of the ceiling. “So this thing’s probably back by the graviton generator, right?”

“Unless it’s moved already,” Ruby countered. “It is pretty fast.”

“It’s a place to start.” She shimmied along the pipe, heading to the rear of the room. Ruby followed slowly, keeping a careful eye on her surroundings as she went.

Every blind corner or obstructed section of floor had Ruby swinging Bright Thorn around. There were too many hiding spots in this room, even with all the lights still working.

“All clear,” Blake called from up ahead.

If it wasn’t by the generator anymore, then where had it gotten to? Ruby took a step forward, then froze. Whatever she’d stepped on had just squished. She looked down.

Bubbling up through the holes in the grate was a thick, purplish-brown sludge that surrounded and spread out from a burst water pipe. The sludge moved in ways it shouldn’t, rearing up only to slosh back down, spinning about in cyclones and eddies, and forming what looked like grasping tendrils. The more water it took in, the larger it grew.

“Blake!” Ruby shouted, “Shut off water to—” she checked the writing on the nearby pipes, since anything written on the burst pipe was now buried under an onslaught of sludge, “—pipe C126.”

“Where is it?” Blake asked, not able to see Ruby from her vantage point.

“In the floor!”

Ruby didn’t have time to watch Blake take action, too busy herself firing at the sludge monster while putting distance between it and herself. At first it didn’t respond to her actions, only continuing to grow even as Ruby blasted off bits of it. The moment it lost its supply of water, however, it screeched.

It began moving as a single solid creature, once again black with a rainbow sheen, bits of grating stuck inside it as it burst from the floor. It was larger than Ruby now, continuously shifting and oozing as it barreled towards her, as fast as an oncoming car.

“Oh, fuck.”

Ruby ran, racing to regroup with Blake. The thing following her was still fast, but all its added bulk slowed it down to below her top speed.

The moment she was in sight, Blake was firing at the monster chasing Ruby. Sustained lazer fire caused the creature to start to glow from the heat, one explosion of superheated air after another tearing into its bulk. Its wounds bubbled and burst, releasing hissing clouds of steam that diffused light, weakening successive shots.

Ruby ground to a halt at Blake’s side and spun around, bayonet pointed at their foe. Blake, sword in hand, joined her.

Ruby was less durable than her girlfriend, hence her preference for mid-to-long-range combat. In close range, without her cloak, she had to stay mobile, dodging what she could and letting Blake block what she couldn’t. Meanwhile Blake was taking full advantage of the lack of gravity, bouncing around the creature and attacking it from every angle, taking shots with her gun whenever she spotted an opening. Even with that benefit, however, Ruby noticed her reaction time was slower than usual.

Her mobility was enough to keep her in the fight for a bit, letting her hack of bits of the monster even as it tried to crush or suffocate her with its multitude of bulging appendages. But eventually Ruby mistimed a dodge, forgetting for a moment that she couldn’t rely on gravity, and it managed to catch her in the side with a pseudopod cloaked in steam, sending her flying into a bundle of hanging wires.

She was pretty sure she’d just broken at least one rib.

Ruby was tangled up tightly in the mess of wires and getting loose required more than a little wriggling. She screeched in surprise as a few wires came loose, releasing a stream of sparks.

The sludge monster was on her moments before she was completely free. It was smaller now, loose bits of it splattered about the room, but with every bit of mass it lost, it just got that much faster.

It slammed into her, spreading its mass as if to engulf her. Right in front of her face a crack opened up, the impression of a mouth forming, jagged edges loosely resembling teeth.

A frantic, desperate idea popped into Ruby’s head as the mouth drew near. Her hands were still mostly free, so she dropped Bright Thorn and instead grabbed the sparking, severed wires, plunging them into the sludge. A sustained current coursed through the creature, making it writhe and gyrate wildly. It gave one last shake, then, with a sound like the creaking hinges of hell’s front door, it exploded. Bits of it went everywhere; the walls, the ceiling, Ruby’s mouth. It tasted like fish stew, she decided, though it could’ve used a bit more salt.

She spat the sludge out, hoping just tasting it wouldn’t be enough to poison her like Yang had been.

“Ruby!” Blake shouted as she flew to her side. “Are you okay?”

Ruby nodded. “I think so. I’ve never been so glad to have insulating overalls, though.”

Blake shook her head. “Don’t scare me like that.”

“Sorry,” Ruby apologized. Blake hugged her in response, and Ruby screamed, pushing her away. “Nope, not okay. I forgot about the broken ribs.”

Blake looked about ready to smack her for that, but she somehow held back. “Okay,” she said instead. “Let’s get you to the med-bay with everyone else.” She grabbed Ruby more gently this time, fumbling as she did, her usual grace seemingly gone.

“Hey,” Ruby admonished. “You said you’d tell me if you were feeling sick.”

“I’m fine,” Blake assured her. “Just running a bit hot.” Blake pushed off the ground and the two began floating back towards the door. “Do you feel that? Gravity’s starting to increase, which means we’re getting close to the planet. We’ll land safely, then everyone can go to the hospital and we’ll all get better. We’re all fine now.”

Maybe it was the steady ache of her ribs, maybe it was the drawn-out hunt and fight she’d just undergone, or maybe it was Blake’s arms around her, but Ruby was suddenly feeling extremely tired. It was a struggle just to keep her eyes open. “Blake,” she said. “Have I ever told you how amazing you are?”

“You could stand to say it more,” she answered.

“No, seriously,” Ruby said. “No matter what happens, you always step up to the challenge. You always get the job done, with a big ol’ helping of beauty and grace, just ‘cause you can.” Her words were starting to slur, so she rushed to the point. “There’s somethin’ I wanna ask you. You’ve been doin’ it for a while already, but I wanna make it official.”

Blake was silent for a moment. “What do you mean?” she finally asked.

“Will you…” Ruby paused, taking a deep breath to fight off the encroaching weariness, “be my second-in-command?”

Blake sighed, then smiled. “Does this mean I get a raise?”

Ruby laughed. “No. But I can prolly get you a bigger room.”

Blake quirked an eyebrow. “The only rooms bigger than mine are the pilot’s and the captain’s.”

Ruby nodded slightly, too tired to feel embarrassment about what she was asking. “I don’t take up much space. You could share my room.”

Ruby didn’t hear Blake’s answer, unconsciousness finally making its claim on her, but she desperately hoped it was “yes”.

[arcanesupern0va]

Header from ao3commentofday:

Creators: give a “behind the scenes” look at one of your works. This could be things that got removed or changed, the origins of ideas/details, whatever you like!

This is some cut content from when I was struggling to figure out how to start Ch8: What It Is To Burn before I just completely edited the ending and went from there.

The first features a scene of what happened to Scar Rick in the Ch7: Shameful Metaphors. I still hold to this as what happened from Nova’s POV, I just never really had a reason to revisit it. 

The second was just an attempt at finding a way for Rick to kinda... trap her in the house? But it wasn’t like him intentionally trapping her in the house or anything, just Rick things happening that would stop her from leaving. Not sure why I didn’t like it over a reread. I guess it just wasn’t doing what I wanted it to thematically. Who knows anymore? 🤷‍♀️😂 oh and also Morty talks to Nova about Rick and her feelings for him, I really wish I would’ve kept that. Ah well, c’est la vie.

The last is just Rick trying to talk to her to get her to stay. And he’s drunk. And its kinda adorable and yet again, I don’t know why I didn’t like it.

Scar Rick

(1144 Words)

Everything that had happened, from Scar dying to Rick proclaiming he’d rather have the council dead even at the risk of my own safety… It was too much. It was all too fucking much. As I gathered my belongings, packing them back into the duffle I’d arrived with was hard, but I needed time to process. Watching a Rick die, even if he wasn’t my Rick was haunting me. Every time I closed my eyes, I could see him lying there, turning paler by the second.

“Then he dies. I’m sorry Nova.” Riq IV had stated simply from his throne with a shrug. Vicious anger ripped through me, as he spoke into his watch, delivering an order to have C-137, my Rick, assassinated.

“You piece of fucking shit, you have to help me.” I bellowed up at the blue-haired fuck.

“I assure you, he will have a painless death and you can go back to your dimension and get on with your life.” He told me casually. My eyes shot to Scar, looking at me anxiously as his own eyes flitted between the council and me.

“Well, if that’s going to be how it is…” I dragged out slowly, casually stalking forward, gripping the pistol Scar passed me discreetly. “Then, you die. I’m sorry Riq IV.” I took aim, firing as the six council members dove out of the way.

“D-Dammit Nova, stand down!” Rick Prime bellowed from behind his throne.

“Wh-Why?” I demanded. “I’m just regarding his life the same as you regard my Rick’s. NBD, right?” I spat at him venomously. 

“Nova, c-calm down.” Scar said soothingly, resting a hand on my back.

“N-No, fuck you Scar.” I flinched away from him, turning my gun on him. You just can’t fucking trust Ricks can you?

“Nova, there are two fucking council members with you in his sights.” He urged through gritted teeth. “Calm. Down.” His head nudged lightly in the direction of the grand doors where I found two Ricks in white suits, their guns trained on me with no emotion on their faces.

“What am I supposed to do?” I asked him hysterically. “I knew coming here was a bad fucking idea.”

“Give your Rick some fucking credit.” He murmured gruffly. “He’s gotten out of tighter jams than this one.” 

As if on cue, the entire citadel erupted around us. Screams from Ricks and Mortys were deafening as they flooded into the Council Hall. We had been teleported, planting the Citadel in the center of what looked like a large prison. Groflamites rained from the ceiling, and we put our differences aside to take out the immediate threat. Two of the bugs were able to dispatch the Guard Ricks and once I was out of immediate danger I raised my weapon again, aiming it at the nearest Council Rick.

“Nova! Drop the weapon.” Quantum Rick said, approaching me with his own gun pointed at the two of us. “Just, let it go. He was just a Rick. He probably would’ve gotten you killed anyway without a second thought.”

“You know Nova since you’re all alone now, you could always look for a new Rick.” Riq IV grinned viciously as he eyed me wickedly. “I’ve never had the pleasure of a Nova.” 

“And you never fucking will.” Scar growled, pushing me behind him as Riq IV stalked closer.

It happened so quickly. A gun went off, a window broke and Scar groaned. Initially, I thought a bullet broke one of the remaining windows of the council, but as Scar fell to his knees clutching his chest, the true horror of the situation became rapidly apparent. Quantum Rick’s pistol was still smoking as he grinned evilly at me. The other Ricks had formed around him, staring at Scar in disbelief.

“I’ve been meaning to do that for a really long time.” He chuckled darkly. 

The entire citadel shifted, dropping me to my knees as the Ricks around me struggled to keep their balance. I couldn’t stop staring at the Rick who had protected and cared for me as he bled out on the cold marble floor. My distraction offering Riq IV his opportunity to grab me by my arm, Zeta Alpha Rick appearing to have the same idea as he grabbed the other. The citadel shook again, scaring Quantum Rick enough to head for the door and disappear down the hall. The two Ricks pulled my arms in opposite directions like I was a goddamn ragdoll. Quantum Rick returned, shouting at the two to let me go. The surprise caused both of them to reflexively release me and I dropped down next to Scar.

“I’m so sorry.”

I grabbed my things, shaking away the memory as I surveyed the room, making sure I hadn’t forgotten anything. Certain I had collected everything, I pulled the door to the office open, making my way down the hallway to find Morty and Summer watching TV.

“Where are you going, Aunt Nova?” Summer asked coolly. I was surprised that she had even seen me as she hadn’t exactly looked up from her phone. Morty looked up from the couch, quickly assessing me and standing up.

“I have to go handle some things at home,” I told her with a shrug and started walking away. Morty followed me to the front door, his brow furrowed.

“Au-Aunt Nova, wait.” He said, grabbing my arm to stop me in my tracks. “Y-You’re going home? Wh-What about Rick?”

“What about Rick? I just have to sort some things out.” I repeated wearily.

“Wh-Whatever he did-”

“H-He didn’t do anything?” I assured him as I pulled the door opened and the warm summer air washed over me. “We had a bad adventure, but I’m not going home to stay.” 

“Yeah, she’s planning to leave in a bo*uuuurp*dy bag.” Rick slurred, stumbling out of the garage. I rolled my eyes at him, crossing the driveway as Morty berated him. Rick groaned at his grandson before catching up to me. “Nova, wait, I’m sorry-” He started.

“Rick, you’ve done nothing wrong,” I assured him calmly but firmly, I glanced over at Morty, who took it as a cue to make himself scarce. Rick took his absence and opportunity to lead me into his garage and I spared one last apprehensive glance to my house before following him. I suppose I could avoid Ryan for just a little bit longer.

“Nova, I don’t like this.” Rick started again. “What are you going to say to him?”

“I was thinking something like, ‘Hey Ryan, I would really rather fuck the old man next door than you, literally ever again so I’d like to get a divorce.’ How does that sound?” I asked him sarcastically.

“I’m pretty sure you don’t even have to tell him that, you-you could probably just do that.” He grinned devilishly.

Wichgurten

(807 words)

I shook the memory away when a knock broke my reverie. “Au-Aunt Nova?” Morty called from the other side of the door. “C-Can I come in?”

“Of course Morty.”

“Wh-What happened? Where were you guys?” He asked me nervously.

“Nothing sweetheart, just another bad adventure.” I brushed him off.

He caught sight of my packed bag, fear coating his features. “Y-You’re leaving? N-Nova, please don’t go .” He pleaded. “I don’t know what Rick did, b-but you were the one who said he was bad at showing he cares-”

“Morty stop.” I silenced him. “Rick didn’t do anything. H-He probably saved my ass from my own hubris today.” 

“Th-Then where are you going?” He demanded. “Why are you leaving now?”

“Beth said Ryan’s been looking for me.” I shrugged. “I can’t hide from my problems here forever.”

Morty was silent for a moment before looking up at me, his eyes stoic. “You love Rick, right?”

“I-I… N-No, o-of course n-not, don’t be s-silly.” I stammered unconvincingly as he stared at me unimpressed. “I-I don’t know, I think so?” I conceded finally. “It’s been a really long time since I’ve felt like this, whatever this is.”

“S-Since he left?” Morty asked sympathetically.

“I-I’m really not comfortable discussing this with you.” I dismissed him, picking up my bag and securing the strap over my shoulder. “Let’s talk about something else, how’s Jessica?”

“Au-Aunt Nova, I mean this respectfully be-because I love you, but you’re being an idiot. D-Don’t run back to Ryan because you’re afraid of Rick. Love him or not, I saw what Ryans have done to Novas. I-I just don’t want that to happen to you.”

“What are you talking about?” I wanted to ask, but before I could say anything, blast doors were coming up over the windows, blocking any possible exit, save for the door into the rest of the house. Rick stormed in frantically, running his long fingers through his hair.

“S-Sorry Nova, you can’t leave yet.” He informed me, shutting the door behind him.

“Th-The fuck do you mean I can’t leave,” I demanded angrily, pushing him out of the way and opening the door myself to find the house slowly being covered in creeping vines. I slammed the door quickly wearing a terrified look as I turned back to Rick. “What the fuck is happening out there?” I bellowed. “It looks like one of my fucking nightmares.”

“Yeah, you ever pissed off a witch before? I don’t recommend it.” He explained flatly, averting his eyes from me.

“W-Witches are real?” Morty asked horrified as he watched vines cover the window making the room almost pitch black. Rick opened his palm, pressing it directly in the middle to produce a small amount of light. “Wh-Where are Mom and Dad?” He pressed Rick angrily.

“I-I-I-I don’t know Morty! I didn’t see them but I don’t think they were in the house. I heard Beth yelling at Jerry before they got in the car and took off. I haven’t seen your sister though.” He mentioned nervously.

“Summer’s not here.” Morty breathed a sigh of relief as he realized his family was safe, for the most part anyway.

“What do we do?” I asked Rick, doing my best to remain calm. “When have you had any time to be pissing off witches? Did you steal her cauldron or something?”

“N-Not those kinds of witches Nova.” He corrected me quickly. “Witches are a species from the Wichgurten galaxy. They’re sentient fucking plants.”

“Are you fucking kidding me.” I groaned loudly. “What did you do to them?” 

“A-A couple years ago, I found their planet and they have Ojivardium there, Nova. Ojivardium is an incredible fucking power source, and I may have mined their planet dry.”

“You what?!”

“I needed it more- Look that’s not the point, they finally figured out a way to create power on their own and they found me here- for fucking planets, they’re like goddamn bloodhounds- and they want their vengeance.” He explained dramatically. I groaned, dropping my duffle back to the floor and sitting down at Jerry’s desk in frustration.

“Rick! How are you going to fix this?” Morty asked angrily. “We can’t just stay in here forever!”

“Y-You think I wanna be trapped in here with you for the foreseeable future Morty?” Rick shot back at his grandson.

“What about your portal gun?” I asked, interrupting the two before they could squabble more.

“It's in the garage.” He lamented. “I was fixing the hack job Scar Rick did to it and I saw the vines and I… forgot to pick it up.”

“Rick!” Morty and I shouted in unison.

“I know, I know, I fucked up.” He relented. “I think I have an idea of how to get rid of them.”

I approached the window, inspecting the vines scaling the walls.

Drunk Rick

(533 words)

God fucking dammit Nova.

After killing the entire bottle, I stood up and tried to catch my balance before going to look for Nova. I caught her by the front door still looking morose and pitiful. Her eyes met mine eagerly before she closed them and took a deep breath, apparently trying to will herself to power past me. She brushed past me, knocking my already precarious equilibrium off balance, sending me toppling against the wall. She looked back at me horrified and apologetic.

“D-Don’t worry about it, sweet girl,” I slurred, waving my hand dismissively. “You can run into me anytime you want,” I said with a wink.

“Gross Grandpa,” Summer called from the living room.

“Sorry Summer.” Nova blushed. God, she’s so pretty, like too pretty. Ugh.

“What are you sorry for?” Summer called back, and I could hear her rolling her eyes. “Grandpa’s the one being weird.”

“Sh-Shut up Summer.” I interrupted them, completely uninterested in Summer’s opinion on me hitting on her Aunt. “Nova, can I talk to you for a moment?” I asked her quietly, sweeping my arms clumsily toward the garage. “The garage door will stay open s-so you can flee whenever.”

“I’m not running away Rick,” Nova told me and despite her annoyance, she followed me to the garage. “Make it quick,” she demanded, sitting down in my chair, leaving me to pace nervously.

“I-I just wanted to know what the hell was going on. I-I mean, are you okay? Why are you going home?” I rambled.

“I’m still in shock from everything that happened, Rick,” she told me flatly. “And I’m going home so I can try to never have to go back there again.”

“A-Are you sure you need to do that, right now?” I pressed.

“I’m tired of worrying about it.” She shrugged. “The longer I wait, the angrier he’s going to get, whether he intends it or not.”

“L-Let me go with you.” I insisted, slurring my speech despite my attempts to sound perfectly reasonable.

“Yeah Rick, I’m sure he’d love to see you there too. ‘Hey, Ryan. I want a divorce. I made out with the old guy you really hate for some reason and I liked it a lot more than I anticipated, which I assure you is saying something, so I’m just gonna go do that now, wanna watch?’” She glared sarcastically and I couldn’t stop the smirk forming on my face.

“Oh, you liked making out with me huh?” Goddammit, that was not the part to focus on but yet here I was imagining it as she rolled her eyes and picked her bag back up.

“I gotta go, Rick,” she said, rubbing the spot on the back of her hand, causing a quiet alarm to go off in my arm. “I’ll call you if I need you, okay?”

“Nova, are you sure about this?” I asked apprehensively as I followed her to the garage door. She stood on her tiptoes, pecking my lips softly before grinning despite whatever trauma she must be processing. Her touch sent a sense of calm through me and allowed me to watch her leave without chasing her down and making her stay.

[masterturner]

long drawn out personal post

this is a bit stream of consciousness, so if you’re reading this and trying to make sense of it, im sorry. its okay if youd rather not. its a lot and its emotional labour to even read it probably. it’s been almost a year since the breakup now. every day closer to the anniversary of it, i feel a little more broken. i’ve had two suicide attempts since then, a prolonged IOP thing, and i no longer see a therapist (though i really should start again). im not crying about borderline personality disorder though. this is all breakup shit. still.  im still holding together somehow. i dont really know how, some days. ive gone through the whole cycle of grieving multiple times now, cycling again and again through denial and bargaining and all that, ‘til i reach acceptance and think the hurricane is at its end. then i find i’m just in the eye of the storm, and it’ll soon pass as i get caught up in the winds again. then i do the whole cycle over and over again. thats what the therapists in the IOP said it was. a grieving process. you can grieve the terminus of a relationship the same way you grieve a dead person. it sounds so silly when i make that comparison. they also said that progress and healing are nonlinear and that it’s not really necessarily going to be as simple as passing through the grieving process a single time.  i said it sounds silly. its not silly though. its real, and i have to remind myself of that from time to time. i dont usually talk about anything personal on here, and its a little weird that im doing it now. but i guess im doing it because i dont know where else to do it. i could do it on facebook, but it feels attention-grabby, needy in a way i always feel weird being. doing it here under a little ‘read more’ thing feels less obtrusive and private, but not so private that im completely trapped in my own skull again. i hate feeling trapped in my own skull.  the anxiety bubbled up and got bad again pretty constantly. it got that way tonight. i felt my heart race while i tried to sleep. usually the worst points stemmed from me looking my ex up and seeing how their life was progressing along without me. unlike me, my ex has a drive and interest in the performance of social media that i generally lack. my social media experience begins and ends in shallow ways: i look at cute butts on tumblr, reblog dumb memes and get vague impressions of things going on in the world and such through the sometimes nonsensical things other people reblog. thats about it. my ex, though, shes the kind of person that does things like update her facebook profile picture at least once in a 6 month period, unlike yours truly.  i dont even follow her or have her friended anymore on facebook. heaven forbid i had an instagram to see what kind of stuff was going on there. it always got the worst when i saw her with her new SO. now i get to look at that every time i get the nerve to message her. its literally painful to even look to the extent i have to archive or delete every stray line of text we send to one another afterward.  i was seriously in denial - i talked myself into believing the SO wasnt an obstacle, wasnt a big deal, he was just a rebound and it didnt invalidate me. it didnt make me lesser, and it didnt mean that i was being replaced. after all, what stranger can replace 5 years of memories and experiences together? but i was a rebound too, and that led to a deep and intense relationship. why couldnt it this time too?  i was naive, i think. hopeful and naive, and i really wanted to believe this and that. ‘i know her’ i’d tell myself. ‘i know her, and i know she wouldn’t think this’ or ‘she wouldn’t do this’. but it’s wishful thinking.  maybe a part of me always did know better. maybe i stopped listening to that part of my own psyche because i started to recognize how harmful it was.  it’s kind of messed up how that works though? like... you can be happy with someone, but also be terrified of that day when they realize they can do better. and then it becomes a sort of twisted, fucked-up self-fulfilling prophecy because that thought sucks the life and passion out of you. it’s insidious and slow.  and it’s tempting to look at it like ‘i was right all along, everyone will leave me’, but that’s not really how it necessarily is. thats just the trauma talking, the fear, the part of my mind that’s lazy and resigned to suffering and collapse. it was that fear that made it real. maybe if i’d learned to manage that fear, though, things could have been different. would have been different.  it’s pointless to speculate on that though. the reason i say it isnt to speculate though, it’s because im trying to remind myself that it can apply to right now. the friendships and relationships i have now - few and far between as they may be, stretched thin as they may be, damaged and in dire need of repair as they may be - aren’t doomed to failure just because i’m afraid of loss and abandonment. the collapse doesnt have to be inevitable.  maybe talking like i’ve learned and figured something out from all this will make me feel better. maybe believing it all had a purpose will make it feel like it was worth it. eventually. right now, though, it doesnt.  i’m still so upset. i’m still miserable and i still long for things i can’t have. i miss affection. i miss being touched, even in a plain and nonsexual way. i miss being kissed and i miss being hugged. i miss being wanted, and every day i wonder if ill ever feel that again. and then i get to thinking, would it be enough to feel that from just anyone again? why do i feel so starved for... any kind of affection at all? why do i feel so desperate for something - anything like this? could anyone ever love me the way my ex did? i guess the cynical and plain answer to that is no, but thats okay. and maybe someone else can love me better. and maybe that desperate longing to be loved, cherished, cared about, touched, anything is just a symptom of an addiction that’s yet to pass. kind of a cold and clinical way to put it though, and i dont know if thats really me. yet i dont want someone else because its not enough to just have anyone. my ex left me, and now i still have that feeling of being invalidated, devalued, abandoned, and ultimately replaced. even if someone else came along and professed undying love for me, no matter how i welcomed it, that feeling of being tossed aside would remain. and i dont know how to come back from it.  i hate how much my mind... fixates on it. like... everything makes me think of it. i cant make a status on facebook without wondering if my ex will see it, what she might think. i cant leave my house and go somewhere without wondering, what if my ex sees me? what would she think of what im doing? would she approve, or be proud of me? would it impress her? or would it disappoint her? it saps the joy out of almost everything i do. i cant watch an old show without feeling bad im watching it without her. i cant help but wonder if she feels the same, or if shes gotten over it. and a part of me doesnt want to know the answer to that wonder. does she still listen to mili? coheed? does she listen to ‘old flames’ on repeat like i do? when ‘sweater weather’ comes on, does she think of me or someone else?  even now as i write this, i wonder if my ex still stops to peer at my dumb blog from time to time for a hint of how im doing and what im thinking. and i dont even know if id want to know, because seeing this message in that light casts a pall over it that makes me feel sick. i didnt want my ex to see how not okay i am. i didnt want her to see the part of me that feels so sick still. and i dont want to know that she doesn’t look at this either. so here i am at an impasse, writing words and tossing them into the void of the internet, hoping for and expecting only silence, while also hating and fearing the very same. id like to think that maybe this is a sign i dont care anymore, but i think i know better than to really believe that.  i force myself every day to just... not reach out. not say anything to her thats real or vulnerable - the few times ive talked to her it feels forced and fake. and it feels like ive cut off a limb, because im so used to leaning and relying on her. but i feel like i have to, because expecting that level of emotional labour from someone that has cut those ties with me seems silly and foolish... not to mention selfish.  why? maybe a part of me thinks that by hiding it, i’d win her back someday. or maybe im just afraid of being burdensome and difficult. or maybe i just... genuinely do want her to be happy without me. i wish it was that last one. i wish i could just back off and be happy that shes with someone else that maybe will treat her good in a way that i couldnt, or didnt.  i dont know what i want, though. i know what i dont want though. i know i hate feeling like this and i wish i could make it stop, but i cant. its not really getting easier. i had the borderline shit before this, and i could end up meeting the criteria my whole life for all i know. the breakup is just a massive complication in that whole mess, but i dont know if id even know what was wrong with me if i didnt have that relationship in the first place.  there was a day a few days ago, or maybe a week or two ago (i dont remember) where i wanted to hurt myself (not physically though for whatever reason), and in order to do it, i made myself do something i was starting to break the habit of doing. i browsed her facebook profile and scoured it for anything that’d make it sting again. i succeeded - it didnt take much. a few pictures, a relationship status change, that was pretty much it. my mind filled in the blanks after that because of course it did. it snowballed into full blown catastrophizing. they’re probably madly in love. they’re probably moving in together, if they havent’ already done so. they’re probably making plans to get married. they’re probably this and that and this and that - like it matters. like it affects me somehow.  but it doesnt. not really, not physically anyway. i dont have to look, and its like i hope not looking will make it hurt less. but not looking makes me hope, and hope has bred more hurt than anything else in the past year.  since i last looked her up in that fog of need to hurt myself emotionally, a lot of that dreadful hope i had that i could win her back drained away, and i want to believe that the pain will go away now. i havent talked to her since then. i still think about her. i still dream. i still fear and i still wonder and reflect. but i havent talked to her. is that good? is it bad? is it anything other than what it is? does it matter? maybe someday ill be over this. a part of me yearns for that. and a part of me is afraid to ever let go, because what if love wins in the end and all the time we had together meant something after all?  did it not mean anything if it didnt end up taking the shape i wanted it to take? no, it still meant something, but does that matter now?  i dont know. all i know is that to this day it hurts and... that’s all. thats all i know.  eleven months later and it still hurts. but i guess expecting it to be all better after 5 years of dating is a little unrealistic. i thought we were gonna be together forever. forever is a long time, though, i guess.  she makes it look easy, but maybe it isnt for her either, even if she’s better at making it look a certain way. i have no way of knowing and thats maddening in its own way. if i had the ability to close that distance... hear her out, be there for her, could i do it? could i get over my own fear and hurt to build a connection again? id love to find out. but i cant seem to get that far.  it doesnt matter though. its her life, and she has every right to move on without me. its easy to say ‘poor me’, but theres two sides to every story. a lot of pain that led up to the end. questions i still have that will never go answered, and closure i might not ever obtain.  ctrl+a, delete, backspace. that’s all it’ll take, tyler. then maybe you can sleep.  but no, instead you’re going to post this. for what? why? is it a cry for help? complaining for the sake of complaining?  i dont know. i cant leave it all in my own head though.  but the silence that i get back in response is liable to be deafening all the same  

[redditnosleep]

I Took A Walk For Seven Years

by theoddcatlady

It was August 9, 2010. I was thirty eight years old. My oldest daughter Avis was twelve, and the younger pair, Joanne and John, were nine year old twins. I’d been married for fifteen years. I worked at an insurance firm. And every Sunday, while my wife and Avis went to church and the twins went to my mother’s house, I took a walk.

It was a clockwork sort of arrangement. My wife knew never to push me into going with her, I was an atheist and set on staying that way.

Of course, given what’s happened, my views have changed.

It was just a normal day. Avis gave me a kiss on the cheek and told me to not forget my coat, even if it was an abnormally warm day. I’d say it was maybe sixty five, maybe sixty eight degrees Fahrenheit. My mom picked up the twins. And I started down my walk.

We lived off the beaten path, so to speak. Our road was never busy and most of the area was taken up by farmland. A truck passed me on the road and I waved. I was pretty sure it was Art, although it could’ve been one of his sons on his way to church. Either way, he waved back.

I took a turn to the right onto Hensel. Hensel was a dirt road but it was never travelled except by farmers, and today it was quiet. Good time to collect my thoughts.

Every other time before this, I’d turn back around once I reached Art’s farmhouse, although occasionally his wife would pull me in for lemonade and gossip.

But August 9 would be the day I took the longest walk of my life.

I was passing by the cornfield when I heard laughter. To be more specific, it was a child’s laughter. I paused and looked into the cornfield.

A pair of forest green eyes looked back at me.

The girl looked to be no older than seven, had red hair tied into twin braids, and I assumed she was one of Art’s grandchildren. She smiled broadly.

“Catch me!”

She darted back into the corn and I could hear her giggles slowly fade away.

Normally I would’ve scoffed at going into the field, as I’d have to cross the ditch and I didn’t want to get dirt on my pants. But I felt a little bit of concern, a small child running around the field by herself. So with a jump that I knew my knees would feel in the morning, I jump into the corn field.

Using the sound of her laughter, I started pushing through the corn. The dry leaves scratched at my face and hands, and dust kicked up into my face.

I knew she couldn’t outrun me for long, even if she was a child with boundless energy, I had longer legs.

However, I exited the cornfield in a place I didn’t know.

My house was nowhere to be seen. And there was a light layer of snow covering the ground.

I spun around but the corn was gone, replaced by frosted evergreen trees. The temperature had significantly dropped and I was now thankful that my daughter insisted I bring a coat. I shivered and spun around a few more times, trying to make sense of this dream I’d apparently fallen into and where was that little girl?

“Hey! Mister!”

I finally spun around enough to see her, peering past a branch. She grinned.

“You catch me, I’ll show you the way out!”

That began the chase.

Getting smacked with tree branches was far worse than the corn, the needles tearing at my skin like knives as I pushed past them to find that little girl. Whenever I got lost, I’d hear her laugh. She was having fun. I was not.

The wet snow beneath my feet made it impossible to gain traction, and forget running- I’d slip if I so much as stepped wrong. With every minute I got colder and colder. My teeth chattered so hard my jaw ached.

Then I broke from the treeline into a grassy meadow.

I didn’t expect the change so I ended up toppling over. The grass smelled sweet as honey. A fat bumblebee trundled past my head and landed on a Black Eyed Susan. It was heaven.

But the peace of the meadow was broken by that girl laughing again.

“Awwww, are you already giving up?”

The warm sunlight made her glow, like a tiny angel, but as I stumbled to my feet, I caught something behind those big eyes I hadn’t before.

Malevolence.

She was toying with me and she knew it.

I can’t tell you how many times the environment changed. One minute it’d be across a meadow, then a desert during a sandstorm. I’d have to rely solely on hearing her in places like that. Sometimes we’d be back in the cornfield, and I’d shout for Art to get me out of here but no help ever came. Sometimes we’d be running across barren tundra, where she’d be just out of my grasp.

She wasn’t always a little girl either. Sometimes she was a young teen, with a gap between her teeth and who’d hum sweet tunes. Sometimes she was a ravishing model of her early twenties, with fiery hair and a flirtatious grin. And the times she wasn’t any of those, she was an ancient crone, with a bent back and arthritic hands that clutched to her cane but still managed to hobble away from me.

She called herself Clarice occasionally. Other times it was Lolita, Dixie, Isabella, Hope… I lost count of her names too. A straight answer was impossible. She’d never lie to me though, just avoid answering any of the questions I’d ask her.

So I knew she was my key out of there.

It was in the meadow where I finally got her.

She was a little girl again, and her taunting was beyond cruel this time. She’d stop, pick flowers, and run on before I could grab her. She’d throw the flowers about and sing ridiculous nonsense songs and I knew I couldn’t ever win like this.

So I dropped to the ground.

The little girl stopped.

“Oh, are you really giving up now? You’re sooooo close!”

Nothing. I remained still as I gasped for breath.

I heard her get closer and closer.

“Mister? Are you okay? Do you need a break? You’ve been going on a really loooong time…”

Once I saw her shadow I lunged.

She almost got away but my hand wrapped around her braid and I pulled her back so hard I could’ve snapped her neck. I embraced her in my arms and breathed out, “I got you.”

I’d never felt so successful in my entire life. I’d finally gotten her.

She turned around and smiled sadly.

“Can we play again? We were having fun. You don’t have to go back, we can stay here.”

No way. I was done with this. “Nope. You let me out of here right now or I’m strangling you with your own braids.” A little dramatic, perhaps, but I gripped tighter onto her hair to make clear my point.

She sighed before she kissed my cheek. The same place Avis did before church.

“Okay.”

When I woke up, I was in the middle of the plowed cornfield.

It was spring time, the ground was churned to mud and the water freezing cold. I peeled myself off the ground and began stumbling home.

It was then I noticed how tired I truly was. My mouth was parched as the deserts I ran through. My body was stiff and ached like I’d run a thousand miles, and there was a chance I had. I had one goal in mind though, and that was home. I could finally go home.

Despite tripping through the mud a dozen times, I caught sight of my house and immediately began to cry. Barely able to move, I just pointed myself to the backyard. My wife should be home about now. She’d see me and come to my aid.

Two teenage boys were on the back porch, one was smoking while the other was playing on his phone. I couldn’t recognize either of them. Had my family moved? I raised my hand and attempted to speak, but it came out as a raspy moan.

Both boys jumped out of their skin, the one smoking dropping his cigarette and they backed off. The shorter one raised a hand. “Sir, you’re gonna have to…” He trailed off and his eyes widened.

The eyes that looked exactly like my wife’s.

“… Dad?!”

I passed out on the ground, just a few steps from the back door.

I woke up in the hospital. I’d been cleaned up, had an IV running into my arm, and a woman was sitting next to my bed. Fast asleep. With a tattoo of a bird on her neck. A sparrow, to be exact.

Avis always loved her sparrows.

I’d been gone for a little over seven years. When I didn’t return from my walk, my wife reported me missing. At first law enforcement assumed I’d just ran off with another woman, but when that line of investigation went dry, they realized I’d been the victim of foul play.

Search parties were made. People were questioned. No one was imprisoned. They never found me. And life marched on.

Art apparently died about a year after I went missing. Stroke. The farm went to his sons, who ended up selling the whole property to another family. A family who stayed oblivious to the fact that was the place I was last spotted.

The boys on the back porch were in fact my boys. I just hadn’t been around when Joanne announced he was now James, at the age of thirteen. I wish I could’ve been there to help him become a man.

I apparently had a good replacement though.

After four years and it looked like I was gone for good, my wife met someone new. His name’s Clark. They’d gotten married six months after they met. Clark was a real outdoorsman, hunter, fisherman, and loved to go camping. As I chased a fairy child through her playground, he was taking James and John out on trips every weekend and putting away money to help James afford his surgeries and the like. Clark had two kids of his own, and I was soon a memory in this house. They could survive without me.

Avis was the only one who hadn’t given up on me. She pursued every lead. Every dead end. Every chance that I could be there, she was chasing it. Stubborn girl. My girl. But she’d grown from a girl to a woman since I’d been gone, and it was like talking to a stranger. A strange who had my chin and nose, but a stranger nonetheless.

My wife did want to help me adjust though, and kindly offered the guest bedroom for me while I recovered. I’d apparently been through hell, bones were broken and healed, muscles torn and strained beyond their limits. I was malnourished and could barely stand without my walker, and I just had nowhere to go.

It was not a place I could stay though.

Clark’s kids looked at me like I was some bogeyman that lived down the hall. Clark and I tried to be polite to each other but things became tense as my now ex-wife was struggling whether or not she should officially put down on paper who she would divorce.

I was just in the way.

But the little girl wasn’t gone.

Nightly I’d see her outside my window. She’d peer in, with those big eyes, and mouth the words,

“Come with me.”

I’ve told my wife I’m just going out for a walk.

[pebblysand]

On Children.

Last night, when I posted this - the last 15,000 of a 103,087 words journey - I promised myself I’d talk about it - write about it - later. After I’d slept, after I’d been to work, after I’d processed the thoughts in my head.

I barely slept. Shut the lights out at midnight, woke up at two, then at five and stayed awake after that. I’m usually a heavy sleeper. I think it was the adrenaline.

Today, I spent more time on tumblr and my personal email, anxiously refreshing pages for reviews and comments, than on actual work. I’ll admit it’s insecure and weak on my part, but I guess I am of a generation that is in constant need of validation.

I haven’t felt this happy and excited in a long time but let’s be real, I still haven’t processed shit. Who was I kidding? Maybe, it will help to write this out. I guess I am a writer, after all.

I write that (I’m a writer), and think that’s a weird word, all things considered. It refers to a profession but I’m not a professional, and it is still what I do - like to do - with the spare time that I have. You see, sometimes, I have ideas about things that could happen to people who aren’t real and when that happens, I type them out on a laptop and share them with strangers on the internet. It’s a bit of weird hobby, admittedly, but I like it. I’m okay at it. Sometimes, the thought even crosses my mind that I might be good. It mostly happens when I write things like this:

When she thinks about him, she thinks about them and all she sees is children. A boy and a girl and her pale skin against his cheek, pulling at each other’s hair, laughing, loud, like Nick and Niamh on court benches, school benches, and the autumn leaves scattered around their feet.

Or this:

It’s not homesickness, she thinks, it’s just moving on.

I look at those three sentences and I think (because yeah, let’s dive in, shall we? that’s enough of an introduction) that ultimately, this is what all this was about. Those 103,087 words. This fanfiction, as it is refered to, is called Children not because Martha gets pregnant at the end, but because it’s a coming of age story. A coming of age story that involves a couple of forty-somethings who have spent so much time over the last fifteen years working and helping other people grow that they’ve forgot to do it themselves. This fic is as much about the concept of home and career choices and Sean, than it is about Martha and Clive. And sure, it’s about me, too. Because let’s be real, maybe I was going through a bit of a similar thing, at the time I started writing this, and maybe I did Mary-Sue the heck out of it. Who knows?

What I do know, though, is that I love this story. So much. It feels important, and cool, and smart, and funny and the kind of tale that I like to tell. I also know that although I won’t bore you with the details, I wasn’t in great place, this time last year, when I started writing it. Thankfully, I am in a much, much better place now. I frankly thank Peter Moffat, Silk, and Martha and Clive for that. I think this story gave me room to grow, and focus, and believe in myself more than I ever had before. When I started writing it, it was a 10,000 words one-shot that involved Clive breaking into Martha’s flat through the window and a very early version of that last scene in chapter vii. It was cool, too, but not the story I needed to tell.

Then, chapter i came. Chapter i is crap, I know that. I made it a bit less crap by editing it sometime after I posted chapter ii but really, not by much. In its defense, it was written at a time when a) I hadn’t written a word in three years and b) I had no idea what this would all become. I think that when I first published it, I still thought the fic was going to be fifteen to twenty thousand words, two or three chapters at most.

For a very long time, I was terrified of not finishing this fic, actually. I had a lot of comments about that - understandable considering the sad amount of abandoned works on the Silk fandom - and it just made me more anxious very time. That fear did start to go away over time, but surprisingly late, probably around when I was writing chapter ix. Still, I think I still had remnants of that panic up until I actually wrote the words the end at 3 a.m. last Friday. It felt almost surprising that I had, indeed, finished. All the long projects that I’d started before, I’d abandoned, or gotten tired of. At the time, I held it against myself, but coming back to my earlier point, I’ve now realised that they just weren’t my story to tell.

Then, chapter ii came. I like chapter ii. It’s not perfect and would need to be worked on in a future edit, but I like its plot. I like what it says about the show, about Martha as a character and how she breaks down, how we all do, sometimes. It also says something about what often happens to women, sadly, when they do. 

I think this show is important and matters because to me, it talks about something that happens all the time in the legal world and that no show ever touches on. We show the courtrooms and the decorums and the ships, but not happens behind the scenes. Not what I’ve seen. The truth is that when you spend all your waking hours fighting other people’s fights, sometimes, you lose yourself. You breakdown. You burn-out. It’s sort of a premonition but Clive warns Martha about it in the first series, jokingly, sure, but he turns out to be right. That’s what I see in the last episode of series three. As much as I hated the whole courtroom and Micky Joy debacle there, I loved that storyline. I love that she just fucks off. That my ultimate head canon is that she moves to a beach somewhere and opens a café on the coast, pours expressos and chats up tourists all day. Maybe, there, she meets someone. Maybe, she even has a family. But in my head, Children is and always will be a very long AU.

In that AU, of course, she has to stay. And that’s what chapter ii is about, ultimately, about staying when you don’t want to, breaking down and dealing with the consequences. When you’re a woman and you fuck up a bit, the price to pay is sometimes, sadly, very high. So, I tried to show that to the best of my ability. I hope I did a decent job of it. Frankly, I’m not quite sure about how I dealt with the aftermath. I think if I went back and edited, I would probably allow the assault to be more of a recurrent theme in the following chapters. I sometimes wonder if I didn’t deal with it a bit too quickly. But then again, I guess every survivor is different, and there was also a lot to talk about in those next chapters, with Billy and Clive, and Chambers, so I’ll cut myself some slack.

Chapter iii is to me the moment when this fic found its tone and its voice. When Martha and Clive found their voices in my head, too. It was a very difficult chapter to write, I remember, but I think that’s when the fic went from being an extended one-shot to a full blown story, with a plot and character development, and thousands of words, and eleven chapters. That scene at Billy’s grave is one of my favourites.

The one that follows, chapter iv, wrote itself. I barely touched it. I love chapter iv. It’s funny and quirky, and everything I loved about writing those characters I was lucky enough to be able to borrow. I was very insecure about the explicit sex scene in it, but then I felt like that scene was necessary. Again, I didn’t want the only sex in this to be non-consensual. Most often, sex is pleasurable and fun, thank God.

I think when I look back, chapter v is the most personal of them all. Chapter v is what I meant when I said that this fic was about me. Jokes aside, I remember being very nervous about it, wondering if I wasn’t turning a wonderful fic into a horrible, Mary-Sue-d attempt at a diary of my own problems. But then, well, it’s also fiction. My fiction. Because in chapter v, aside from Martha and Bethany’s very short stint, all of the characters are OCs. There’s Martha’s mum (Maureen), and Jo, and Evershed, and Roy. Boy, do I love Roy. Roy is the amalgamation of every man every sixty-something woman in my life has remarried to. He’s not a bad person, he’s just very, very out of tune with current times. Evershed, I don’t have many feelings about. Martha just needed a sounding board. Martha’s mum was probably the hardest to write. She loves her, I think, but I also think they’re very different people. I think they’re linked by what happened to her dad and that sometimes, that gets a bit heavy. And Jo. God, I love Jo. She makes me laugh and sometimes, I wish she was my friend, too.

Again, I was nervous about chapter v and my characters, wondering if people would like them, would like what they said about Martha, about the concept of home, until someone said: "It's like you're writing my life and all the feelings I've had about home and the bar and superimposed Martha Costello on top". I think that’s one of the best comments I’ve ever had on anything I’ve ever written. So, I’m not naming you, you know who you are, and thank you.

Chapter vi was originally very, very long and was then split into vi and vii for readability purposes (I will split xi too, one day, I promise). Yet, in my head, they will always be paired up. 

As I’ve mentioned before, the contents of chapter vii, and especially that last scene with Clive when they decide to “try again”, had been in my head ever since I’d started writing this fic. It was always where this story was going to go and when I published it, it felt good to finally release that, to have it out in the world that yeah, this was going to be that kind of fic, with an argumentative, blond, blue-eyed baby being born the end. Although these two are probably the most important chapters in this fic, I oddly don’t have much to say about them. I guess everything is pretty spelled out in there. Clive and Martha are in love. And they’re going to try for a baby. When I split both chapters, I took the opportunity to put back into chapter vii a bit that I’d taken out in the original editing phase. It’s a scene in which Clive and Martha talk about her father’s disease and she mentions that she took a test, once upon a time (i.e. when she got pregnant), to know if she had it, but never read the results. It’s a letter in her handbag that she doesn’t want to open, but that he wants to read. I think more than the topic itself, it shows how much they love each other, and yet how different they are. Martha got to know about Billy’s health when, in fairness, I don’t think she ever wanted to know. I think she’s the kind of person who only likes to know about things she can deal with or solve. If not, she wants to know late enough so that she won’t have to think about it too much. She’s the kind of person who wouldn’t want to know if she had cancer. Clive does, though. He would have liked to know about Billy; I think it hurt him not to. He would have liked to be prepared.

In my canon, Clive reads that letter and never tells her what was in it. He vouches to keep it to himself, and he does. He likes that he knows, respects her decision not to. He would tell her, if she asked, but she never does. As the writer of this story, I personally don’t know what was on that letter, either. I’ve gone back and forth on it a few times and I really don’t know if she has it. She definitely thinks she does. I think that’s kind of where the smoking comes from. I think she sort of hopes it will kill her before she forgets that it will.

I kind of wish I had found a way to use all of that in later chapters but somehow, after that one, it just didn’t fit within the plot. Maybe it will upon further edits. I don’t know.

Now, chapter viii is cute. Like iv. Still, I wanted it to be mostly about her career and going back to work, rather than about her getting pregnant. I hope that it was. Chapter viii is also where the character of Charlotte makes her entrance and I really like her, I like that she both fits in (through her education, her parents) and doesn’t (through how odd and quirky she is). I think if Martha were to ever go back to work after everything that happened, it would be for someone like that. I like that she’s not Billy, too.

And of course, then, Martha gets pregnant, when she leasts expects it. Because, she had to. As a side note, I love the scene where she "tells" Billy. It feels like a full circle to me.

Circles are not necessarily good, though, are they? ix, oh ix. That, also, unfortunately had to happen. I think Martha and Clive had been very nicely playing house for a while but it just couldn’t go on forever. Mostly, I had to deal with Sean, though. Because Sean, oh, Sean, do I love Sean. Again, this fic, frankly, is almost as much about him and about what he represents (young love, home) than it is about Clive and what he represents. When I wrote chapter iii, I thought I was done with him but then again, when I wrote chapter iii, I didn’t know there would be nine chapters, did I? So, Martha, she couldn’t let go, could she? She had to close that door in order to open another one.  

ix was so hard to write. Mostly because I’m terrible at writing arguments. I had turn it all around for it to make more sense but I feel that somehow, it more or less worked. I guess, you tell me, though.

(As a side note, I kind of like CW’s role in it. She’s not a friend, but she’s not a stranger either. I think that ultimately, she kind of cares about Martha, for some reason. And I love that conversation between Martha and her mum at the end, almost teared up when I wrote it. Again, part of moving on and growing up.)

And then, comes x. It’s a bit of a filler, I’ll admit. A 10,000 words filler. I couldn’t see Clive and her get back together that easily, so things needed to happen in between. I decided those things were court scenes. I was so nervous about those. I’ll be honest and say I have no fucking clue about the UK’s appeals process and probably got it all wrong. I guess that’s the difference between me back when I was still in law school and me now. At the time, I would have done the research. Now, I just don’t care, as long as the drama’s good. If you’re from the UK and thought it was all wrong, my most sincere apologies.

Finally. xi. As I said in my A/N yesterday, there was supposed to be a xii, until two evenings ago, when I realized that there wasn’t. In fairness, I think I’d suspected it for a while. In my head, I’d always thought of xii as some sort of epilogue, with a mix of cute pregnant-Martha scenes and a bunch of more serious ones (the baby’s name, Clive’s priorities shifting). Then, at 3 a.m. on Friday, I understood that a bunch of scenes stuck together do not necessarily make for a coherent chapter. And that I hate epilogues anyway. Finish your bloody story and stick with it, I say. So, the important stuff made it into xi (Clive’s priorities shifting, the baby’s name) and the rest just went to trash. I’m happy with that. In an earlier draft of an outline for xii, I also had a scene about CW prosecuting Brown Hair in an assault case on someone else, but that felt a bit cheap and would have kind of taken away the point I wanted to make with ii, the fact that most of the time, sadly, there is no resolution to these things. So, yeah, I’m happy I didn’t write that in.

I guess I don’t know what I thought would happen when I wrote the words the end after of all this. I think I thought fireworks would be in order, and champagne. Instead, I was alone in my flat on a Friday night, drinking beer and thinking holy shit. I didn’t cry - still haven’t - but I’m not sure all of this has really sunk in, yet, so.

So, what does this all mean? Well, it means that I’ve written a story and finished it. Not a novel, sure, but a story nonetheless, with some characters that were mine and some that I borrowed and it had a beginning, a middle and an end. That feels great. Amazing, in fact, like the top of the world. And yes, in a few years, months maybe, even, I’ll probably look back at this post and think I was full of shit and full of myself. Right now, though, it feels good. I’ve motherfucking done this, you know?

And I acknowledge the fact that there’s still a lot of work to do. Because everything I’ve mentioned I want to make better, want to rewrite (like chapter i, ugh), I’ll do. I’ll let the fic sit, for a while, but I’ve planned to go back to it in a few months (August or September, give or take) and edit. Because frankly, although I love this story to bits, I also know it has flaws. For better or for worse, I’m a perfectionist at heart, so I want to make it the best it can be. That being said, I am very proud of this, nonetheless.

So, yeah, if you’re interested, maybe click again and go back to reading Children this time next year, it’ll probably have changed a bit. If not, that’s alright, please, just don’t hold chapter i against me.

Lastly, again, I’d like to repeat my thanks. To @missmarthacostello for early-fic chats. To @asummerevening for later-fic chats. To everyone who’s read, commented and PM-ed me over the last months and to everyone who will hopefully read and comment and message me in the future. I owe you many. Again, if you have prompts, requests, feel free to PM me, I’m happy to try my best. And lastly, again, thanks to the wonderful @cursedandcharmed without whom, honestly, this would not have seen the light of day. As I said in my A/N, you listened to me rant for a year about something you were not reading and that took place within the universe of a show you were not watching. I can’t thank you enough for that.

So, there. I hope this was somewhat coherent. I honestly tried, to the best of my ability. This fic has taken up so many weekends and hours of my life these past few months that I am unsure as to what comes next, and what one does with so much time on their hands. Again, though, I’ll probably look back at this in a bit and think I was full of shit, so, there’s that.

Thanks again and whoever you are, if you’ve stuck around this long, you have all my love and admiration.

Best,

pebblysand.

[haikumomentsandinspiration]

#healthcarevacation, part IV

Today is Sunday, May 10, 2020: Mother’s Day. (I like that in Turkish, the name of the day is Mothers’ Day—plural. I prefer that.) 

This felt like the appropriate time to sit down and catch up with the documentation of this long journey. 

If you need to catch up, you can read Part I here, Part II here, and Part III here. 

So where were we? Ah, yes. December 2019. The pregnancy/birth guarantee program at Fertty International Clinic in Barcelona, Spain. 

In my research looking for a new clinic after the last failed transfer (and the poor communication after staffing changes at our old clinic), one thing became clear: G. needed to have more tests and analyses done to try to figure out why all these transfers, including a donor egg cycle with two transfers, had failed.

After much struggle trying (in vain) to have Kaiser cover the tests and analyses Gene and I needed to have done, we realized it was going to be cheaper and easier for Gene to fly solo to Spain in November to get all that done. He would come back to SF, we would wait about three weeks for the test results, and then, based on the test results, we would finalize the protocol for me and the embryo transfer. 

Thankfully, G’s results came back normal, everything within expected ranges and levels. So our application to the birth guarantee/shared risk program was officially approved. I would go to Barcelona (solo this time) at the start of my winter break, have a first scan to check my lining, adjust my medication as needed, and get ready for transfer day in about a week. 

On December 10, G and I went out for sushi in San Francisco one last time (we hoped) before pregnancy, and a week later, I left for Barcelona. My first check up at Fertty the day after my flight was mostly just blood work and an initial scan to see how my lining was coming along. The lining was fine, but surprise, surprise: I was getting sick with a cold—December flights/weather change were working their magic on me again. My doctor asked to see me in a couple of days, and told me to keep the clinic updated on my health. Two days later, my cold had gotten worse, but my lining was still all right. I spent the rest of the day looking for a reputable and affordable acupuncturist (the second part being the challenge), and thanks to a friend’s rec, I made an appointment, with a focus not on uterine lining support this time, but on kicking this cold’s ass before transfer day. 

I took it easy that week, feeling no pressure to do any sightseeing since my priority was the healthcare part of this #healthcarevacation without a doubt. I feasted (!) on soup, bone broth, and hot tea and not much else for several days, and slowly started getting better. My clinic decided to keep my transfer day as scheduled: December 27. Meanwhile, Rina joined me again in Barcelona for a few days for emotional support leading up to transfer day (she doesn’t need much of an excuse to travel, especially to Barcelona). 

December 27: Transfer Day! I went to the Fertty for my final blood work before the transfer and to sign some papers. Then, off to fertility acupuncture, and back to the clinic for my transfer. Everything went smoothly; we transferred one embryo this time, with four more good quality embryos left for future attempts/a sibling, so I was feeling good and positive. Besides, their recovery/rest room was the most comfortable one I’d been in in all these cycles at three different clinics. After resting a bit, I went out for lunch, then headed back to my acupuncturist for a post-transfer fertility acupuncture session. Stick, baby, stick! 

I took it easy the rest of the time I was in Barcelona. Went out for a walk at least once a day, but had lazy days for the most part. 

On New Year’s Eve, the woman I was staying with, Renata, and I went for a late lunch at her favorite Brazilian Bistro (she’s from Brazil). And for dinner, we decided to go to my favorite Turkish restaurant, which I knew would be open till late with their regular menu and would not be charging an arm and a leg for a modified menu. After lunch, Renata, another Brazilian friend of hers, and I walked to the beach for a Brazilian ritual honoring Iemanja (Brazilian spelling). We made wishes, prayed, meditated, and threw yellow and white carnations to the sea for Iemanja, then sat together and watched the sunset. I felt so grateful to be invited to join this ritual (this will be my new cultural appreciation vs. cultural appropriation example the next time I teach that class!). Ever since I’ve known about her, I’ve always felt drawn to Iemanja—being a Pisces and considering my home to be the sea more than any piece of land and all. I felt at peace, and all felt right in the world in a way that I hadn’t felt for a while during this long fertility journey. 

I took it easy the next day. And the day after that, the morning of January 3, I had some spotting...very faint, but still spotting. I called G. and cried on the phone. But as he said, we were not out yet. I let Fertty know, too; they said they would up my progesterone dosage and monitor me closely. I had a big lunch and a late dinner that day. Big mistake. I woke up around 3:30 am, nauseated, and threw up twice. In the morning, my spotting had gotten slightly darker, but it was still not heavy spotting and definitely not considered bleeding. I went up from 600 to 800 mg of progesterone a day, and followed the BRAT diet—well, just the R part. The following day, I was feeling better, and finally went outside and played tourist. Surrounding myself with the beauty of Barcelona felt healing. Meanwhile, my clinic told me I could come by the morning before my flight back home for a blood test so they could tell me sooner than later both the result and what the next steps would be. If I weren’t pregnant, I didn’t want to keep taking all those pills and patches loaded with hormones. 

January 7, 2020: pregnancy test day! A year ago today was transfer day at Irema clinic, I noticed. I had a glimmer of hope, but no gut feeling either way. I repeated the lesson I had learned from a guided meditation that had been helping me a ton: there is hope in uncertainty! I distracted myself by finally sitting my ass down and doing some lesson planing for my cultural competence/equity literacy unit. In the middle of that, around 2:30 pm came the phone call from the clinic. “Do you want me to tell you on the phone or do you want to come in?” I didn’t want to go in just to hear “I’m sorry...” and I wasn’t sure I wanted a hug. You can just tell me now, I said, bracing myself. 

And that’s how I found out I was pregnant. 

I don’t remember the exact words the patient coordinator said. I just remember it took a second for it to sink in, and then I started crying while still somehow continuing the conversation and smiling from ear to ear. I finished up my work, and headed to the beach for sunset, which was my plan whether it was positive or negative. Whether I had to celebrate or grieve, I wanted to do it facing the sea. 

I went to the beach, watched the sunset, thanked Iemanja, thanked the Universe, and recorded an “IVF Log” video, which I assumed we would eventually share with our baby. 

At this point, you may have noticed I didn’t call G as soon as I heard. The next day, January 8th, was my flight back, and the day of our first date 11 years ago. The plan was to tell him in person—our anniversary gift. 

When I arrived home, I didn’t let him know I already knew. I didn’t know if he knew that I knew. We had decided on no anniversary presents this year since we had plenty of medical expenses. Turns out G got me a couple of gifts. I would have been upset with him when we had said we weren’t doing presents. Instead, I went to the bathroom, took the pregnancy tests I’d been saving for this day, then went back to the living room, saying I did have some presents for him from Spain. I gave him the couple of small gifts I had gotten for him from Barcelona. Then, I said I realized there was one more thing, and went back and got the pregnancy tests. 

The adventure didn’t end there, leaving its place to a blissful period. I had some bleeding week 7 and week 8, and ended up going in for five ultrasounds in those two weeks, freaking out each time since that’s around the same time in my pregnancy and the exact way my miscarriage had begun back in 2016. Each visit, though, instead of the “I’m sorry...there’s no heartbeat” of 2016, we heard “there’s the heartbeat” and exhaled, immensely grateful. After week 8, all was well, but I remained cautious and scared, and didn’t want to share the news with anyone other than family for a while. 

Then, the month after my return from Spain, of course: a global pandemic! We were handling all the challenges of this fertility journey so well, apparently, that the Universe thought, “Here, how about a global pandemic during your pregnancy in case things seem too easy now?” “Awesome,” I thought sarcastically; “what perfect timing.” Then, I realized: wait...this IS perfect timing. I came back from Spain, and not long after, Spain was suddenly one of the epicenters of the pandemic, one of the first countries that took significant precautions. This pregnancy did have perfect timing for real. I feel for women whose cycles had to be canceled or postponed. 

Today, Mother’s Day, is exactly 22 weeks into my pregnancy—we are more than halfway there to our estimated September 13, 2020 due date. So it feels like it’s a good time to share the news at last.

I want to say that I do not take this pregnancy for granted—especially with the context of a global pandemic and how it has impacted assisted fertility cycles in mind. Each day, I thank the Universe “for this healthy pregnancy—for all the healthy days so far, and all the healthy days to come.” Each time I light a Shabbat candle, I pray not just for my own family and friends’ health, but also for all who are pregnant, and for all who are trying to get pregnant.  I had thought that after almost five years of trying to conceive, when we finally succeeded, we would have celebration and community...and hugs! Instead, we found a global pandemic, isolation, distance from our loved ones, and more than the usual dose of a new parent’s fear of the unknown. Last month, I spent a lot of time crying upon slowly realizing all the things I wasn’t going to get in this pregnancy:

- being pregnant out and about in the world and experiencing what that’s like, even with all its irritations (people trying to touch my belly, people not giving their seat up for me on public transportation...); watching people slowly notice it at work...

- looking at baby stuff in person with G.: “OMG...Look at this one! Isn’t this soooo cute?!?” 

- an all gender (in-person) celebration/party with our family/friends in July or August (silver lining, I guess, is that family/friends who aren’t in the Bay Area can attend the Zoom party now...whatever that will look like);

- going to Turkey in June one last time in a while before the baby comes; being pregnant on a beach in Turkey; going baby stuff shopping with my family in Turkey; eating all the amazing food in Turkey and knowing it was nourishing not just my soul, but also our baby. 

- having my parents’ hands on my pregnant belly, feeling the kicks of their first grandchild; 

- coming back from Turkey with my mom, who wanted to come for a visit before the baby to help us get ready at home; 

- the September visit from both my parents; possibly having my mother in the delivery room, and knowing my dad is in the waiting room, being anxious and impatient; wondering if Rina could make it, even, and if she could, knowing she would be taking some amazing newborn photos. 

Gratitude has been my savior this whole time, and it still is. I know we will have time with my parents, my sister, and my in-laws as they each meet our baby in person eventually, and we will all make beautiful, sweet memories. I know there was a time when there was no FaceTime that would allow a partner who’s not allowed to be at the anatomy scan to still be there virtually. I know there was a time there was no anatomy scan via ultrasound. I could go on. 

There is so much to be grateful for still. Thank you, Universe, for this healthy pregnancy—for all the healthy days so far, and all the ones to come.