#mentions of past loss

[jacksprostate]

Treatise on why No, the doctor just giving the narrator of Fight Club (full name) his requested sleep medication or sending him to therapy would not have Fixed Him

Firstly, saying giving him the insomnia meds would’ve fixed him ignores the reason he has insomnia in the first place. He is so deeply upset by his place in society that he literally cannot sleep. Drugging him to sleep would not change that. That, of course, is the easy, quick response.

But with regard to therapy? The biggest flaw is that it ignores a central tenet of the book. Part of what tortures the narrator and drives him to invent Tyler is that his feelings about this collective, systemic issue are constantly reduced to a Just Him thing. His seatmates ask what his company is. He’s the only one upset at the office. He gets weird looks if he says the truth of what he does. People will do anything in their power to pretend he is the issue, as an individual, because it is far scarier to consider the full implications of the systemic issues implied by what he is saying. Everyone treats it as if the issue is him, so he goes insane. He does anything to get someone to say, holy shit, that’s fucked up, what you’re a part of is wrong. In an attempt to feel any sort of vague sympathy and catharsis, he goes to support groups to pretend to be dying, because then at least people don’t habitually blame him for his anguish. 

Saying therapy would fix him ignores that his problems are not individual. They are collective. It’s the reason the entire story resonates with people! Something deeply, unignorably wrong with society, where people would rather blame you for bringing it up than try and address it, because it feels impossible. I don’t blame people for this, really, because it IS scary. It’s terrifying to sit and feel like you’ve realized there’s something deeply, deeply wrong, but if you say something, people will get mad at you since it’s so baked into everything around you. Or, even if they agree, it’s easier to deal with the dissonance by pretending it’s individual.

And it’s not like that’s not the purpose therapy and medications largely serve, anyway. Getting into dangerous territory for this website, but ultimately, the reason the narrator was seeking medication was because it’s a bandaid. A very numbing bandaid. For these very large, dissonance causing problems, therapy does very little. Medications do what they always have, and distract you with numbness or side effects. It’s a false solution. He is seeking an individualized false solution because he has been browbeaten with the idea that this is an issue with him alone, when it's plainly clear it's not. 

Don't get me wrong. Obviously he has something wrong with him. But it's a product of his situation. It is a fictional exaggeration of a very real occurrence of mental illness provoked by deep unconscionable dissonance and anguish.  There is a clear correlation between what happens and his mental state and his job and how isolated he is. 

The thing is, even if he were chemically numbed, I do think he would’ve lost it regardless. Many people on meds find they don’t fix things. For reasons I’ll get into, but in this case because even if numbed or distracted, once you’ve learned about deep, far reaching corruption in society, it’s very hard to forget. Especially if, in his case, you literally serve as the acting hand of this particular variety. He’s crawling up the walls. 

So why do people say this?  Well, it's funny I guess. Maybe the first time or whatever. But also, often, they believe it, to a degree. Maybe they've just been told how effective therapy and meds are for mental illness, they believe wholeheartedly in The Disease Model of Mental Illness, maybe they themselves have engaged with either and have considered it successful. Maybe they or someone they know has been 'saved' by such treatments. 

But in all honesty.... What therapy can help with is mentality, it's how you approach problems. For issues on a smaller scale, not meaning they are easier to deal with my any degree, but ones that are not raw and direct from deep awareness of corruption; these are things that can be worked through if you get lucky and get an actually good therapist who helps build up your resiliency. But when your issue is concrete, something large and inescapable? It's useless. At best it can help you develop coping mechanisms, but there is a limit for that. There is a point where that fails. To develop the ability to handle something like this requires intense development of a comfort with ambiguity and dissonance and being isolated and a firm positioning of your purpose and values and and belief in wonder and all the other shit I ramble about. The things that the narrator lacks, which lead him to taking an ineffectual death knell anarchist self-destruction path. Therapy, where the narrator is, full of the knowledge of braces melted to seats and all the people that have to allow this to happen? It fails. 

And meds — meds are a fucking scam. We know the working mechanism of basically none of them, the serotonin receptor model was made up and paid its way into prominence. We have very little evidence they're any better than placebo, and they come with genuinely horrific side effects. Maybe you got lucky. I did, on some meds. On others? I don't remember 2018. The pharmaceutical industry is also known for rampant medical ghostwriting, and for creating 'off-label' uses for drugs that have gained too many protests in their original use, then creating a cult of use to then have 'grassroots' campaigns for it to be made a label use (ie, legitimize their ghostwritten articles with guided anecdotes). 

The DSM itself is basically a marketing segregation plot. It's an attempt to legitimize the disease model by isolating subgroups of symptoms to propose individualized treatments for subgroups that are not necessarily all that separate. But if the groups exist, you can prescribe more and different medications, no? Not to mention, if you use the disease model, you can propose that these diseases are permanent, or permanent until treated, considered more and more severe to offset and justify the horrific side effects of the medications. Do you know why male birth control doesn't really exist? Same reason. They can justify all the horrible side effects for women, because the other option is pregnancy. For men, it's nothing. 

And they're not bothering to invent new drugs without side effects. When they invent new drugs it's just because the last one got too bad of a name, or they can enter a new market. Modern drugs don't work any better than gen1 drugs. They still have horrific side effects. At best, the industry will shit out studies saying the old one was flawed (truth) so they can say this new gen will be better (lie). They're doing it with ssris right now. 

Fundamentally, the single proposed benefit of any of these drugs is that they numb you. To whatever is torturing you. It's harder to be depressed if you can't feel it, or if you just can't muster the same outrage. Of course, there is people who find that numbness to be helpful, or worth it. But often, it's stasis. For the people who have problems that can be worked on, it serves as a stopgap to not actually work on said problems. The natural outcome of the disease model is stagnation for those whose need is to develop skills and resiliency. It keeps them medicalized and dependent on the idea that they're diseased and incapable. Profitable. Stuck in the womb. 

I’ve been there. It’s easier, to wallow, and resist growth because it’s difficult and painful and unfair and cruel and you can think of five billion reasons to justify your languishing. But don’t listen to anyone who tells you you’re just permanently damaged, no matter how nicely they word it, no identity or novel pathologization, no matter how many benefits they promise, especially if they swear up and down some lovely expensive medications with little solid backing and plentiful off-label usage and side effects that’ll kill you. Some days it feels like they want us all stuck in pods, agoraphobic and addicted to the ads they feed us to isolate the markets for the drugs they’ve trained us to beg them to pump us with. Polarization making it as easy as flashing blue light for go, red like for stop, or vice versa. I worry about the kids, for fucks sake. That’s a bit dark and intense, and I apologize. But I want you (generic) to understand, there is a profit motive. Behind everything. And they do not mean well. They do not care about your mental health or your rights or your personhood or your growth. They care about how they can profit off of you.

For those struggling with immovable, society problems, like the narrator grappling with how his job fits into and is accepted by society while his rejection and horror in the face of it does not, it can work about as well as any other drug addiction. Your mileage may vary. From what I've seen, recovering from being on prozac for a long time can be worse than alcohol. They put kids on this shit. They keep campaigning for more. Off label, again. A pharmaceutical company’s favorite thing to do has to be to spread rumors of someone who knows someone who said an off label use of this drug helps with this little understood condition. Or, in the case of mental illness, questionably defined condition. And like, damn, I know I'm posting on the 'medicalization is my identity' website so no one will like all this and has probably stopped reading by now, but yall should be exposed to at least one person who doubts this stuff. Doesn't just trust it. Because I mean, that's the thing right?

It's so big. What would it mean, for this all to be true? Yeah, everyone says pharmaceutical companies are evil and predatory and ghostwriting, but to think about what that really entails. Coming back to the book, everyone knows the car lobby is huge and puts dangerous vehicles through that kill people. What does it mean if the car companies all hire people to calculate the cost of a recall and the cost of lawsuits? No one wants to think about the scale that means for people allowing it or the systems that have to be geared towards money, not safety like they say. Hell, even Chuck misses the beat and has the narrator threaten his boss with the Department of Transportation. And shit, man, if every company is doing this, you think Transportation doesn't know? That they give a fuck? You're better off mailing all the evidence to the news outlets and hoping they only character assassinate you a little bit as they release the news in a way that says it's all the fault of little workers like you, not the whole system. Something something, David McBride, any whistleblower you feel like, etc. 

So I don't blame you, if your reaction is "but but but, that can't be right, people wouldn't do it, they wouldn't allow it" or just an overwhelming feeling of dread that pushes you to deny all of this and avoid thinking about it. Just know, that's in the book. That's all the seatmates on the flights. That's all his fellow officemates. It's easier to pretend, I know.

But think about, how the response fits in with the themes of the book. The story, as a movie too. What drives the narrator’s mental breakdown? How would you handle being in his position? How would you handle being his seatmate? It’s easy to say you’d listen. But have you? Have you had any soul wrenching betrayals of how you thought society worked? How about a betrayal by the thing that promised to be the fix of the first? Can you honestly say you wouldn’t follow that gut instinct, saying follow what everyone says, that person must just be crazy, evil, rude, cruel, whatever it is that means you can set what they said aside?

For a lot of people, they can do that, I guess. Set it aside. Reaching that aforementioned state of managing to cope with the dissonance and ambiguity and despair is very hard. The narrator made the Big Realization, but he couldn’t cope. He self-destructed. Even when people don’t make the big realization consciously, they’re already self-destructing. It’s hard to escape it when it feels easier than continuing anyway. When it feels like the only option,

Would therapy fix the narrator of Fight Club? Would meds fix the narrator of Fight Club? No. He knows too much. All meds will do, by the time he’s in the psych ward, is spiritually neuter him. A silly phrase, but really. Take the wind out of his sails. 

Is he fixed if he doesn’t try to blow up town? If he just shuts up and settles in and stops costing money? If he still can’t cope with the things he’s unearthed? Do you see how this is a commentary in a commentary in a commentary?

Fight Club is an absolutely fascinating story because of this. The fact that it addresses the fallout of knowing. The isolation. The hopelessness. The spiral that results from a lack of hope. This is, I think, what resonates most with people, even if not consciously. Going insane because you’ve discovered something you wish you could unknow. It’s a classic horror story. Should our society be lovecraftian evil? I don’t think so. 

Do I think changing it will be easy? No. Lord knows a lot exists to push people who make these sorts of Realizations towards feelings of individuality and individualized solutions and denial and other distractions and coping methods. And to prevent people who make One realization from expanding on it and considering further ramifications. Fight Club itself gets into this; the isolation of men being a strict part of the role society shapes for their sex leaves them very vulnerable to death fetishes, in a sense, and generally towards self destructive violence. It helps funnel them away from substantial change and towards ineffectual change. Many things, misogyny, racism, serve to keep people isolated from one another, individualized, angry, and impossible to work with. Market segregation; god knows even appealing on those fronts has become such a classic ploy that companies do it now, the US military frames its plundering that way, etc. 

I’ve wandered a bit but ultimately, my point is this: Fight Club is a love letter to the horrors of critical thinking, and the importance of not falling into the trap of self destruction and hopelessness in the face of it. The latter is why Tyler was an anarchoterrorist instead of anything useful. The latter is why it was a death cult. It’s important to work through the horrors of critical thinking so you can do it, and stand on the other side ready to believe in each other. It’s worth it.

[thehappiestgolucky]

remembered the only dragon quest game i played that also just happens to have so. so much death

[simmyfrobby]

What are your top 3 nhl teams with the best vibes?

ooh ok. yea. fun. love this. im going to declare all my biases upfront: im a pens, bruins & wild fan so obviously my nr 1 is:

minny

they have flower. they have kaprizov. they go on homoerotic little holidays together. they have two deweys and one foligno. their captain is pretty and everyone is short. every game is somehow embarrassing. even if they win. especially if they win. 11/10 cant lose.

nr 2: philly

i dont follow them or root for them but i will have nightmares about the dog mask every day for the rest of my life. also they made drysdale come hang out w them during the all star break and that was cute. also the conga line. hardass coach but we stay silly. 9/10 solid vibes.

nr 3: yotes

jason zucker lives there.

[hunter-sylvester]

Adrian Greensmith play a character that has a mom challenge.

[satsuha]

u know im back on my bullshit

[turtleblogatlast]

Leo: *keeps sacrificing himself and getting hurt*

His family: YOU'RE HURT!!!!!

Leo, seeing they're safe: Tis but a scratch! :)

(I cannot stop thinking of Leo brushing off his injuries like the black knight from Monty Python and the holy grail. He'd do anything for them and anything to assure them that all is fine even though that is not the case. He'll keep doing it, though. Mikey may be many doctors, but Leo is Dr. Hope.)

[ cw: injury mention / self sacrifice mention / ]

I keep missing asks I am so sorry 😭😭

YEAH I imagine Leo as like

The type who is super dramatic over the smallest of injuries, but if he’s actually hurt, it’s all “well what can you do lol” especially after the invasion because he’s already known much worse and barely even made a sound during that.

[carefulfears]

the biggest thing about elegy is that it takes all of that unspoken isolation of this arc, and it slowly lets the audience in. the first thing that mulder says about the apparitions, is that they seem to be an "omen." an impending prophecy. and carefully, throughout the episode, both the audience and scully are waiting to see, not who the killer is, but what is being foretold. when they're going over records, and scully's nose starts bleeding, it's the one thing that they can't ignore. she wasn't even there in the previous episode. she was in the hospital. alone. they don't talk about it. she's "fine." she has "always been the strong one." just like in irresistible, years earlier, she does not want him to know how much she is struggling. but she doesn't have any control. it is dripping out of her. the sound of his voice when he says "oh, scully." and how quickly she responds "it's okay. i'm fine."

it's that kind of childlike grimace in him, the same man who flinches away from dead bodies and stares at the ground before his father. and she's so fast to try to restore order. it's okay. i'm fine. don't worry, i'll clean it up. i'll make it go away. when she disappears into the bathroom and sees an apparition there herself...i think she decides to go to the hospital because she just needs space, honestly. she's scared. he offers to drive her, to go with her, twice. asks, "you sure?" and she says, twice, "i'm fine."

elegy builds to two separate climaxes: the first, when mulder comes to scully's apartment. but before that, we see scully in karen kosseff's office, the same therapist that she had gone to in irresistible, and presumably has kept a relationship with in the years since. she tells karen that she's been diagnosed with inoperable untreatable cancer, and when karen asks, "you've kept working?" she answers, "yes. it's been important to me."

she's taken aback when karen asks why, is surprised at the question, and tells her "agent mulder has been concerned. he's been supportive, through this time."

KOSSEFF: Do you feel that you owe it to him to continue working?

SCULLY: (quickly) No. (pauses) I guess I never realized how much I rely on him before this...his passion...he's been a great source of strength that I've drawn on.

KOSSEFF: What happened last night, Dana?

SCULLY: I saw something. I, I don't know what to trust. If I saw it because of the stress, because the image had been suggested to me or if it was a suggestion of my own fears.

KOSSEFF: Your fear of failing him?

SCULLY: (exhales emotionally) Maybe.

this is such a rare admission from scully. first of all, she's being confronted. this is not normal. it is not normal to work to your death. it's like bill tells her, a couple of episodes later, "what are you doing at work, getting knocked down, beaten up? what are you trying to prove?"

(she hadn't even told bill about her cancer. she'd been sick for months. she thought she was going to die in memento mori, she knows she's going to die sooner than later. and she instructed her mom not to tell her brother. from the moment that mulder said "i refuse to believe that," it really was only going to go one way.)

she's being confronted. why are you working? (for mulder). do you feel you owe him? (no, i need him).

she's really alone. she's sick. like, she's really sick. she spent the last case in the hospital. she's having a hard time keeping up. she's thinning, and bleeding, and struggling. but there she goes, every day, at every hour. monster chasing. telling him she's fine.

(so much conflict comes from the way that mulder's ignorance perfectly enables scully's repression)

when he shows up, late, at her apartment, he comes in a mile-a-minute, about how he needs her "help" on the case, before asking her what her doctor said. (her answer, of course, being, "i'm fine.")

he tells her that everyone who has seen an apparition, was dying. every person who reported a premonition, was near death themselves.

SCULLY: Harold Spuller is dying too?

MULDER: Well, that's what I need your medical opinion on.

SCULLY: Well, what if he isn't?

MULDER: I would be very surprised. What is a death omen if not a vision of our own mortality? And who among us would most likely be able to see the dead? 

this is one of the most hauntingly isolating moments of the series...he has just told her that she is going to die. and he doesn't know, that that's what he said. she is forced to process it, completely by herself. and she doesn't believe in ghosts, or "premonitions," but she knows that he is right. (when is he not?)

("maybe harold is sicker than we thought he was.")

the second moment that this episode builds to, is the final confrontation between mulder and scully. after the murder is solved. after harold dies.

SCULLY: I saw something, Mulder.

MULDER: What?

SCULLY: The fourth victim. I saw her in the bathroom before you came to tell me.

MULDER: Why didn't you tell me?

SCULLY: Because I didn't want to believe it. Because I don't want to believe it.

MULDER: Is that why you came down here, to prove that it wasn't true?

SCULLY: No, I came down here because you asked me to.

MULDER: Why can't you be honest with me?

SCULLY: (defensively) What do you want me to say? That you're right, that, that I believe it even if I don't? I mean, is that what you want?

MULDER: Is that what you think I want to hear?

SCULLY: (softly) No.

they come really...close here? to talking about it? she almost baits him several times this season. she spends so much of this arc thinking...maybe, this will be it. maybe if she fucks off on assignment, gets a tattoo with another man, he'll say it. maybe if she calls him out for never celebrating her birthday, he'll acknowledge why this is the year he did. maybe if they spend a friday night with a bottle of wine, they'll talk. maybe if she tells him, those things you believe are death omens? i saw it. he'll know.

i can't remember which one of you said that all of their arguments are just how to love each other. she doesn't want to believe. but she's there, because he has asked her to be. even in all of their repressed denial, there is no escaping what's happening. it hangs over both of them.

i love the moments in this arc where she just snaps. in this scene when she says, what do you want from me? do you want me to just believe you? and her quiet resignation, when he makes her answer her own question. no. she knows that's not what he wants.

MULDER: (his voice softens) I know what you're afraid of. I'm afraid of the same thing.

SCULLY: The doctor said I was fine.

MULDER: I hope that's the truth.

SCULLY: (whispers) I'm going home.

"i know what you're afraid of. i'm afraid of the same thing."

except, no, he doesn't. and no, they are not.

but she knows what he's afraid of, just as her therapist had known what she's afraid of ("your fear of failing him?") and so she dodges his admittance with reassurance. she's fine.

that last scene, when she goes out and cries in her car, and she sees harold's ghost in the backseat. she is so alone. she's working on her deathbed. they don't talk about it. she's afraid, and she's not fine, and she is going to "fail" him because she cannot keep herself alive for him, and she can't avoid it. it's in the backseat. it's in the bathroom mirror. it's bleeding out of her.

[unforth]

The last couple hundred years have seen society, especially wealthy, western societies, increasingly distancing themselves from the visceral, immediate experience of death. Death is to be hidden and shunned, grief to be pushed aside and made brief. This has been made possibly by improvements in health care, but also by the ever-growing emphasis on the nuclear family and the greater space between people and the sources of their food.

On a smaller scale, as we've had more space to store belongings - as homes have grown and the number of people living within them have decreased - it has been easier for people to acquire and retain belongings over long periods of time. This has led to phenomenon where people buy things they absolutely adore...and then do not use them, as they have the space to store them and they've grown afraid of the damage that will be done to their things if they use them.

Though the second is of course on a smaller scale, the lose of a beloved object still involves a grieving process, and therefore is a less severe analogy for the loss of a loved one.

I posit that the two phenomena are in fact that same phenomenon: that a fear of loss of all kinds, the limiting of space for experiencing loss in our lives, and a dissipation of the skills that enable one to grieve loss in a healthy way, have resulted in our current culture where it is safer to ignore death, and safer to preserve our favorite objects unused, than it is to risk loss.

In this essay, I will...

[alienaiver]

mentioned snøfle was sick earlier. the bastard ate a 12cm string while my catsitter was in the bathroom yesterday right before i came home. he has absolutely no symptoms or issues whatsoever but im convinced he wont survive passing it, so i havent slept since saturday night and keeping a constant watchful eye on him; hes eating, drinking, playing and going to the toilet just fine (hasnt made number two since right before he ate the string, so im waiting patiently </3)

we have my friends mom on standby to go to the vet in case he gets complications but ive always been somewhat of a hen parent and im pacing nervously around :( i know im 97% over reacting but i cant bear the thought of losing him while i sleep or am out, so everythings on standby rn. i wanna write but my minds elsewhere but it did help a little to draw earlier but hands do be hurty <3 ill reply to ppl asap but my minds uh. cluttered

[diss-is-very-gay]

A little card inspired by a speculated past “hero” GL!Charlie to celebrate the final chapter of Generation Loss! I’m so excited to see how our current hero fares against this new reality :]

[chaaase69]

The day everything smelled like Nickels - Cyphmen/Shadowire

Hi Hello Wazzup, it is I, you until now dead author. Here to bring you all my lastest and greatest fic!

If you’d prefer to read it on ao3 feel free ! Check out my twitter for updates on new writings or more of my silliness <3

no warnings apply, sfw, m/m, cyphmen/shadowire

Most poeple would say that blood distincally smells like pennies, Amir swears it's more like Nickels

He could puke.

The air in the airship was heavy; it clung to his already sweating form. It reminded him of when there was rain coming, dark and heavy. A horrid storm. Yet there was a distinct smell of nickels—nothing like the beauty of rain that he knew. It weaved its way through the heavy fibers of his mask and wafted into his nose, making him want to recoil in on himself. Except he couldn't, even if he wanted to, for the ghost-like man nearly falling apart in his arms kept him from moving. Blue tendrils of smoke wisped their way up and dissipated into nothing. The bandages that normally clung tightly to the man's arms were now missing; they had fallen off or maybe even burned off in the bomb explosion. The spy's ears rang, and the pressure in the cabin only served to make the ringing seem louder. He vaguely recognized the other agents around him speaking, but none of their voices could be heard. He could see the way Viper glanced between him and the falling-apart ghost, eyebrows knitted together in worry. He didn’t have the mind to tell if she was faking it or not. Skye was nearby; she had been holding her healing aura over the two men, but neither gave any indication that it was helping; nonetheless, she still tried.

When the ship landed, he was off, gloved hands holding desperately onto what he could of the spirit. He nearly kicked down the door to Sage’s infirmary. Frantic words of jumbled Arabic spilled from the rattled man. English seemed so far from his mind that the only thing that mattered was getting help. Sage removed the man from the Moroccan's arms, ushering him out as she got to work. The spy stood outside her door, looking at his now empty hands. They were covered in a blue-ish purple liquid; it felt thick and sticky like blood but looked nothing like it. His back hit the nearby wall outside the door, and he slid down it, his hands coming up to cover his face. He could feel a wetness on his mask, but this was not blood. He became aware of the fog covering his blue lenses, making it hard to see around himself. The people rushing around him and asking him questions looked like streaks of light. The words they spoke sounded nothing like any language he knew.

It still smelled like nickels.

Cypher was hardly aware of the next few days; it felt like he was on autopilot. He could only vaguely remember changing out of his soiled suit that night; he tucked it so far into the back of his closet, hoping a black hole would open and swallow away those memories. Brimstone had temporarily placed him on field leave, meaning he stayed holed up as much as he could. He couldn’t bring himself to eat or work on his normal things. His dreams at night were paved in vivid shades of blue and purple as he watched his love be torn apart over and over again by the explosion. It had happened all so fast; he could still hear the echoes of his name being shouted as the blast consumed his voice. "Amir!" He’d often awake in a cold sweat, his nightwear clinging to his body the same way it had that fateful day. Even the air in his dreams smelled like nickels; it made his teeth ache as if he’d just bitten into a cold treat. Except this was no treat, no wonderful memory he’d want to share with their kids one day. This was fear. Anguish. Just like when he’d lost Nora. His days seemed to grow longer and longer as he forewent sleep in favor of not having to relive those memories.

A week later, there was a knock on his door; he didn’t even bother to check who it was, flinging the door open with reckless abandon, his mask skewed slightly to the left from having been hastily thrown on. He prayed it was his ghost, but alas, it was only Sage. Her hushed words led the man back to the infirmary. There was a warning that seemed to fall on deaf ears; it did not matter to him. His love was awake and breathing. Whole. The wooden door pierced the silence as he pushed it open, a wide smile plastered under the mask. Yet the air was so still. His sunshine seemed so dim and empty. Those eyes. The wonderful blue he had spent hours getting lost in felt icy. It was so quiet, you could nearly hear the crackling of his heart. Words bubbled up in his throat, but his lips remained sealed. The ghost turned away slightly, his gaze leaving the spy finally. Cypher swore he could cry. Why did it smell like nickels again?

Those eyes. So full of disdain, as though he wasn’t worth the ground he stood on. Where had his love gone? His ears barely registered the quiet "leave." He blinked once, twice, even three times. His mind was unable to process the words, and it felt like the whole world was shaking. "My love..?" Sage had gently begun to push the man back out of the door, yet he spun around, desperately searching the ghost's body for a sign of a response. "Please…" His voice shook just as badly as his hands did, yet his love did not reply. The healer kept gently urging him out until the wooden door swung shut in his face, leaving him all alone again. Alone. Again. The ground may as well have been spinning with the way he fell to his knees so suddenly. The ugly crack of his knees hitting the tilted floor rang out in the now quiet area. His entire body shook like a leaf trapped in a raging hurricane; the deafening sounds of silence made it hard to find his breath. He doesn’t know when he started running, but did the man run. He ran until his limbs burned with a fire he has since long forgotten, and the door to his quarters slammed shut with a boom.

It was quiet at first; the pain bubbled in the tips of his fingers like he’d just touched a hot pan by accident. The first tear that slipped from his eye didn’t even feel real; he hadn’t let himself feel vulnerable in eons. The pain traveled up his arms and into his shoulders; it reminded him of having to lug around a sniper rifle. It ached in just the wrong way for days, just so his body wouldn’t forget. The pain continued to travel down his side and curled around his legs, like a serpent trying to trap its prey. The burn of running is nothing but a dull ache compared to the constricting feeling of the snake. Then the pain shot up, ensnaring his heart, and that was all it took. A painful wail tore its way through his throat as his eyes leaked; he felt like he was choking from the way his mask absorbed the tears. The searing warmth caused his lenses to fog up, and he ripped off his mask, flinging it hard across the room. The blue lenses cracked softly as they came into contact with the floor. His hands dug their way into his soft, curly locks, tugging hard as his sobs tore through his body. The emotions of everything came crashing down onto him all at once, a giant tsunami of feelings worse than any pain he’d ever felt in his life. The fragile man screamed like it was the only thing keeping him grounded in this God-forsaken reality. It echoed through the corridors of the base, bouncing off the walls like rays of light. Everyone in the protocol felt the spy’s pain that night, and not a soul dared to mention it.

When the first rays of morning light peaked their way through the windows of the base, Cypher began to stir. Sore limbs and an aching throat throbbed as he shifted off of the floor. Now open, bloodshot eyes scanned the surrounding area as he tried to process why he was here. Then he remembered. His body slinked back onto the floor as if it were a sack of potatoes thrown off to the side. Small waves of tears trickled their way down the sides of his cheeks, far less explosive than the previous night but somehow even more painful. His thoughts seemed to spill out alongside the tears; empty babbles of ‘my love’ and ‘I miss you’ slipped from his chapped lips, falling on empty ears. How he desperately wanted to hold his ghost, squeeze him tight, and pretend none of this ever happened. That mission never happened, the spike never exploded, and Omen never forgot. The meager thought of being forgotten drove yet another spike into his chest, causing him to curl in on himself.

Hours later, the broken boy emerged from his room; tear tracks lined his saddened face. Deep-set wrinkles creased along his lower cheeks and over his forehead, and his feet seemed to drag behind his actual body. He stepped slowly into the common area, his eyes scanning the room of people before lazily heading towards the small counter. His mind was almost blank; he couldn’t bear the thought of anything besides Omen. All he wanted was his Omen. He didn't even acknowledge the stares from his fellow teammates; some looked sad, others looked amazed, and some looked away out of respect. No one had the heart to say a word to him; they were mostly too scared to provoke the emotionally unstable man. Deep down, that destroyed Cypher just a little more, chipping away at what little resolve he was so desperately attempting to cling onto. He ran a weak hand through his now tangled curls, trying to get them away from his face. He despised the feeling of hair on his face. He gave a tired sigh, giving up entirely on making any tea and just leaving the common area, returning to his dulled room.

The space seemed so empty to him now. Small things he looked forward to, like his projects or having new work to do, seemed pointless. His collection of expensive tea, including a special one he has specifically curated for his ghost, seemed like a waste of energy. The light that peaked through the blinds of his small window felt more like a burden than a gift from nature that would light up the room. He begrudgingly closed the curtains more, making sure no light went in anymore. His beautiful mask, which always protected him and kept him hidden away, was just broken and forgotten by now. He kicked it out of the way as he walked past it, slumping his body into his work chair. He let his eyes rest on his desk. There was a single photo resting in the far corner. He grabbed the framed photo delicately, letting his fingers run across the glass. His mind seemed to melt into the warm memory that snuck its way to the surface.

The two had finally gotten their schedules to line up, allowing them to take the day off and forget momentarily about their jobs. It was mid-to-late fall, and the air was just perfectly cool enough that the warmth from walking side by side was just enough (and some nicely knitted mittens from his ghost, which he will deny to all above that he has). The leaves had just begun to fall from the trees; beautiful reds, yellows, and oranges rained around them occasionally as the breeze shook the trees gently. Omen has caught one of the leaves, holding the beautifully golden piece of nature up to Cypher like a giddy child. He will never forget the way his ghost's hands held the leaf so gently, making sure it didn't crack or fall apart as he showed it to his lover. When he opted to let the leaf go, they both watched as the wind picked up and sent the leaf soaring off into new heights. He remembers the way the spirit giggled and pressed just a little closer to him, his free hand now reaching up to caress the spy's face. So soft, gentle, and careful. In love. The ghost gently lifted the spy's mask, but only just enough to see his beautiful lips. He would never push his love past his limits; he knew exactly how far he could go, and they were both okay with that. The touch of their lips against one another was soft, slow, and just right.

Emotions festered in the Moroccan's chest once more, ripping him right out of his beautiful memory. His hand had moved from the glass to rest against his own lips; the weight of his fingers wasn’t right. Too rough and not soft enough—nothing like his lover's lips. It hurt; he didn’t want to hurt. It hurt so bad. Why was he being forced to relive this pain? Wasn’t once enough? It made him so angry. What had he done to deserve this pain and this loss? He had gone through it once already, losing his entire life right before his eyes. He held his dead Nora in his arms, and now here he is again. Losing the love of his life. The thought made his chest seer with intense fury, as if a fire had been lit at the base of his heart, causing it to swell and grow with pure, unadulterated rage. He wanted to curse the Gods above and blame them for taking away everything he’s ever cared about, but he knows he doesn’t believe in them. The world is truly just too cruel to him.

The scream that broke through the silence could break glass. It comes from the bottom of his chest and is raw, pure, and unfiltered rage. The ground below him may as well have been shaking from how angry he felt. His throat stung from how hard his voice came out, yet none of that even mattered to him. His fists balled so tightly that his nails dug into his palms, creating little marks on the inside of the knuckles, some even piercing hard enough to draw blood. Yet he just continued to scream and scream; the might of years and years of accumulated trauma fueled his rage. His voice eventually cracked, and he coughed hard. His throat was on fire, and his mouth felt all tingly. The scream morphed into a high-pitched whistle before fading out entirely into nothing. Even if he had the will to talk, his voice would no longer let him. The man is pulled into the darkness of sleep at some point, the metallic smell of nickels invading his senses.

The next day, Cypher is taken off field leave and placed right into a mission, almost like the fates were taunting him. Laughing directly into his face at the sight of his misfortune. As he boarded the airship for the first time in what felt like forever, he could feel the stares of his teammates boring into the side of his head like they were trying to pick him apart without saying a word to him. One of the lenses on his mask was still cracked, but he did not seem to care whether or not he could see out of it. He sat silently for the duration of the trip; not that that was out of character for him normally, but everyone knew what was going on. They almost hoped he’d talk, wondering if Cypher was even there. When they finally landed, the spy stepped onto the ship without a word. He felt a passing pat on the shoulder from Raze and a simple word of encouragement, which he just ignored. He grabbed his usual equipment and walked off to the site without waiting for a debrief or instruction. He knew his job, and he knew this place all too well. He didn’t need to stick around for mindless conversations.

The spy's movements were slow; his arms felt like there were heavy plates attached to them. He couldn’t get his trips to place the way he wanted, either too high or not high enough. He wanted to toss the flimsy plastic across the site and say, “Screw it; it's not like it matters anyway." Nothing seemed to really matter to him anymore. He settled on leaving the trip just slightly too high and turned to place his camera on the nearby wall. The magnet stuck nicely up in a corner that was slightly hidden but was able to pick up enough of the site for information. He glanced around the barren wasteland of his previous home, the wind blowing slightly, causing the orange dust to scatter around, sticking to his broken lens almost like glue. His gloved thumbs traced along one of his cages as he let his eyes scan the surrounding area. In the distance, he could see the broken remnants of old homes and the way the sun bounced off broken glass and reflected even the darkest areas of the ghost town. A shiver found its way up his spine and out of his fingertips.

The man mosied his way into the garden, letting his fingers trace the dying flowers that lined the ground. When was the last time they had some water? A memory flashed before his eyes, buzzing his senses. He was suddenly hyper aware of the way his own breath stuck to his mask, how his sweaty skin pressed against the all but too tight fabric of his waist coat, and the way his heavy boots were now full of sand and dust that he may never be able to get rid of. He was once again aware of just how much his heart hurt; why was he even on this mission? What was Brimstone thinking? He straightened his back and pulled away from the delicate flowers, letting his eyes wander again. He faintly registered the sounds of his fellow teammates speaking over comms, but the words sounded fake. He removed the tiny earpiece from his ear, letting it hit the ground before he stomped it out under his boot. Silence. Loud silence. Unbearably loud silence. He covered his ears in an attempt to drown out the ringing, but it could not be stopped. Anguish bubbled in his chest once again, and he did the one thing he knew how to do.

Run.

The wind rushed by his ears and down his back; it swirled around his feet and seemed to carry him away. He ran like his demons were chasing him into the pits of hell, into the darkness of an empty building far off in the distance. He slammed hard into a wall that he swore wasn’t there a second ago; his vision spun as he tried to find his footing. Pushing off the wall, he kept moving, weaving in and out of building after building. Bile bubbled in his throat as he remembered the smell of burning flesh from when Kingdom bombed his beloved home and stole his life away. He panted heavily as his body tried to keep up with his intense pace, and his calves burned as he worked overtime to carry his body forward. His breath was sharp and ragged; he had little to no control over it, and the ground spun hard like it was trying to swallow him whole. As the sun began to crash into the skyline, the poor man continued to run, disappearing into the vast wasteland that once held everything he needed. Amir never looked back; this time, the air smelled like home.

--

The ghost wanted to understand what he was missing. Why had that spy looked hurt? What gave him that right? With special permission from Brimstone, Omen was allowed into the spy’s room to explore. The hope was that it’d spark his faded memory and allow him to return to his duties sooner. When he stepped into the dim room, a few things caught his eye—the mess being one, and two being the spilled box on the bed. He walked over carefully, picking up the box to inspect it. While most of the box was in a language he could not understand, he did pick up on the fact that the box seemed to contain tea bags. He lifted one of the small bags to his face, inhaling the scent. It smelled wonderfully of warm honey and mint; there were small undertones of a floral note. The ghost sighed softly as he relaxed into the smell. He was very sure he liked this, but when had he even tried it? Confusion swirled in his mind as he attempted to recount when he had ever had this, but nothing seemed to come to mind. His clawed fingers curled around the tea bag carefully, holding onto it tightly, hoping that maybe it’d eventually spark a memory or two. Small pinpricks of anger dotted his thoughts as nothing came forward. He let out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding and stepped back, glancing around the room more. He saw other boxes of tea, wondering why those ones were still neatly stored away while these ones had been scattered across the bed. He stored those questions away; they were not that important.

As he continued his exploration, he moved to the desk nearby. There was a framed photo of him with the spy. Guilt washed over him momentarily as he looked at the photo before picking it up. What was this, when did this happen, and more importantly, why did the spy even have this? He stared deeply into the picture, his eyes tracing over the spy’s partially uncovered face and then his own hooded figure. His heart ached in a way that he could not comprehend; why was this so special? It vexed him even more that he simply could not recall when or where this happened. Maybe this was just part of his past before the first light, and that's why he couldn't remember it. He used that thought to console his aching heart, but the little points of wrath still did not die down. He made himself a note to try and ask the spy himself later; maybe that would help. The ghost finally decided he had explored enough, setting the photo back on the desk. He did take the tea bag with him for good measure; he’d try a cup of it later to try and jog his forgotten memory.

The lone camera resting on Sage's desk made a small noise as it powered off. The healer glanced over at the gadget, eyebrows raised as she looked confused. She picked up the device and inspected it carefully. She was sure she hadn’t done anything to break it, but then again, she knew next to nothing about how the Moroccan agents' gear worked. With an offhanded shrug, she rested it back on the desk, making a note to let the agent know when he returned to base. She glanced over at the window; rain had begun to gently pitter-patter against the clear glass, and a continuous rhythmic thumping rang into the now silence. It was weird; the rain even seemed to smell like nickels.

[watch-out-it-bites]

[x1tadpole1x]

grand festival splatfest results spoilers below (just in case anybody hasn't seen them)!!

CONGRATS TEAM PAST and good game to everybody!! this finalfest was a blast!!

[bagheerita]

Me, watching "Profit and Loss": uh ma'am 😳 thank you ma'am

[petraforgedyke]

i ordered new pants recently and had to send them back to size down and i know all the Youths are all “oh no T can cause weight gain* whatever shall i do” but nobody talks about like

i lost weight/size and i’m not sure how to feel about it. like i enjoy the shape my body is now, i feel really good in my body on T, but nobody talks about working so hard to learn to love your body as a fat person and working through internalised fatphobia and then. losing weight doing nothing. and feeling a little lost because it’s not the shape you learnt to love?

*implied to be the worst scariest effect of T

[villainousshakespeare]

Therapy Fit for a God Chapter 23

Therapy Fit for a God Chapter 22

Loki/OFC Rated E: Trigger Warnings: Smut, Sex, Oral Sex, Angst, talk of suicide, therapy, unhealthy family dynamics, mention of torture and mind control, touch starved, drinking

Chapter 1, Chapter 2, Chapter 3, Chapter 4, Chapter 5, Chapter 6, Chapter 7, Chapter 8, Chapter 9, Chapter 10, Chapter 11, Chapter 12, Chapter 13, Chapter 14, Chapter 15, Chapter 16, Chapter 17, Chapter 18, Chapter 19, Chapter 20, Chapter 21, Chapter 22

Loki’s plans to conquer and rule Midgard have come to a disastrous end. After being captured by the Avengers, he is being held on Earth. Odin has refused to interfere, and the outlook for the God of Mischief appear bleak. His only hope may lie in one mortal woman, a Psychiatric expert brought in to interrogate him.

Dr. Caroline Thorpe is intrigued by Loki and thinks that more lies beneath his actions than is commonly known. Can she find out the truth before he is shipped off to die for crimes against the Earth? And can Loki bring himself to care?

@yespolkadotkitty @just-the-hiddles @hopelessromanticspoonie @wine-and-whines @arch-venus25 @caffiend-queen @devilish–doll @enchantedbyhiddles @hiddlesholic @i-do-not-fangirl-i-fanwoman @kellatron55 @ladyoftheteaandblood @latent-thoughts @yespolkadotkitty@maryxglz @myoxisbroken @nuggsmum @nildespirandum @pedeka @redfoxwritesstuff @sinfully-lustful-darling @vodka-and-some-sass @wrathkitty @kingtwhiddleston @wolfsmom1 @poetic-fiasco @shiningloki @dangertoozmanykids101 @bookworm-christina @amwolowicz @delightfulheartdream @frostbitten-written @what-a-flammable-heart @tom-hlover @nonsensicalobsessions @myraiswack @loki-yoursaviourishere @ghostypau @ms-cellanies @colorfulfreakstudentpizza @mareebird @colorfulfreakstudentpizza  @szycha22 @chokemedaddyloki @queenofallhobos @just-the-hiddles-reads  @alwida10  @justjoanne242 @chantsdemarins @lovelysizzlingbluebird @lokiprompts @evieplease​

"Loki! Loki, look at me brother!"

Loki did his best to follow Thor's instructions, but his eyes could barely focus as he raised them to his brother's face. It felt as though all of the emotions in the multiverse were screaming inside Loki's head, pushing for a way out of the confinement of his skull. If his head had burst open and rained chaos on the world, Loki would not have been surprised to see it.

"You do not look well," Thor said with dramatic understatement. "I should go get Mother."

"No!" Loki pulled all of his internal strength together to control the riot of feeling overwhelming him. "Not yet. Tell me."

"Tell you what?" Thor asked, face a mask of panic as he struggled to make sense of his brother's brusque demands.

"Everything," Loki rasped. "How long."

"Since you were brought back?"

Loki shuddered as he tried to come up with a reset moment. He remembered preparing for Thor's coronation. He had thought himself a tangle of feeling then, although it could not compare to this moment.

He had been honestly proud of Thor, his brave older brother looking every inch a hero in his new armor and helm. At the same time, he seemed to be the only one aware of how unprepared Thor was for the responsibility about to be thrust at him. Odin was a great war chief and wise ruler, but he when it came to passing on those skills, he had fallen somewhat flat. After all, when all of your edicts are obeyed as a matter of law, why would you expect that lessons bellowed at your sons would not also be instantly absorbed and made into action?

Loki could tell that Thor had not seen the deeper meaning behind Odin's stories of their history. He saw only the glory of victory, not the cost that those victories levied. When Loki attempted to point out these truths to Thor, his brother accused him of cowardice. When he intimated to Odin that Thor was missing the larger picture, he was accused of envy that the crown would not pass to him, that or trite hopes that the weight of ruling would mature his rash brother. As usual, no one took his concerns seriously.

Which led to another emotion - frustration. Why was it always Thor who was advanced, when Loki was the one who saw, who heard, and understood? What was his great flaw that despite his greater apprehension he was forever second best to Thor?

"Since your coronation," he said, deciding it was as good a starting point as ever.

"There was no coronation Loki, you know that," Thor sounded put out by the subject, but Loki couldn't let it go.

"I remember. You entered to great fanfare."

"And do you remember the Jotuns?" Thor demanded. "The Frost Giants that you let in to ruin the day for me?"

A new wave of feeling surged inside him at the mention of their ancient enemies. Loki slid off the bench onto the floor, eyes welling up with unshed tears. Why? Had something happened at the ceremony? He did vaguely remember a plot to postpone the coronation now, only so that Odin would watch Thor spin out of control and perhaps delay for a few decades.

"Loki, you truly seem unwell. I think we need to get you to mother. These unpleasant memories of your breakdown are not helping either of us."

Breakdown? Was that why he had been in the infirmary? Had Loki been so envious of his brother that he had slipped into madness? That would explain why Sif and Fandral had acted so strangely around him, but Loki was sure there was more. After all, he had suffered humiliation and envy his entire life; why should one more instance be of such great matter?

"You said... mortal Doctor?"

It was the last thing he could remember Thor saying before the deluge had begun. As he brought it up now, new emotions rose to the surface, crowding out the pain. Joy, acceptance, fear, and love. He did not know why, but it was as though a healing balm soothed the raw nerve that was his inner self.

"Loki, something is not right."

Well, obviously! Any number of things were not right. But the mortal, this Doctor he was reaching for a memory of. Loki had the feeling that she was more than alright. She might just be the key to everything.

"Thor, you're back!"

"Mother! Thank all the realms! Come quick."

Out of the corner of his eye, Loki saw the dim shape of Friga sprint onto the terrace, and then she was dropping neatly to the ground beside him.

"Loki! What are you doing out of bed?"

A cool hand was pressed to his forehead, but Loki shied back from it. He did not know what had happened to him, but the fear that these barely remembered feelings might be taken from him again caused him to instinctively recoil.

"No!" he gasped. "I need them!"

"Thor, what happened? What did you say?" their mother turned to her elder son anxiety obvious even through the miasma of Loki's haze.

"Nothing! I told him I was glad to see him looking better," Thor replied defensively. "And he was, until a moment ago!"

"Did you bring up anything about his accident? Or the time he was away? Anything that might have upset him?"

"Upset him, no! I even defended him against Sif and Fandral when they wanted to hold the Midgard nonsense against him!"

"They talked to him about Midgard? What did they say?"

"I don't know exactly I only caught the end of it. You know, just about the invasion, the Chitari, oh! And the Destroyer from before his time in the Void."

The Void! The word chilled him as deeply as Thor's mention of a Doctor had warmed. He had known a Void. Had hoped and dreaded it all at once.

"Loki, listen to me," Frigga was kneeling beside him again. "You have been through a great ordeal. A few days ago, you were almost killed by a blast from a solar phaser. It tried to rewrite all of your atoms into something not able to live. If you had been anyone else, you would not have survived. It was only because of your own fluid nature, that you made it through at all."

"Sounds wonderful," he managed to almost joke.

"You needed all of your strength to live," she continued, ignoring his interjection. "All of your energy to rebuild the pathways of your mind and body. We couldn't have you struggling. We definitely couldn't have you trying to work against us."

It made sense. He had studied for a time with Eir, and he knew that will was just as important in these matters as physical metal.

"There are... some things that happened to you," she went on, choosing her words with obvious care. "Unpleasant things, to put it mildly. You went through a very dark ordeal, my precious son. I am only partially aware of what was done to you, and it is almost more than I can bear. If I had the power, I would hunt down the ones who hurt you and make them pay and pay and pay again."

Friga was not often blood thirsty. If she was so open to revenge now, it must have indeed been a horrible fate he was subjected to.

"In order to allow you time to heal, Eir and I went into your mind. We built a wall between you and the memories of torture. It was our hope that when your body had mended, we could lower the blockade slowly, and allow you some memory of the hell you went through but alleviated by our combined magic. I had not expected you to rise so quickly from your sick bed. I'm afraid the mention of the pain it before we could prepare you has brought it all back at once."

"But it was not mention of Midgard that did this to him," Thor said hastily, sounding for the world like a guilty child.

"Then what?" Friga asked.

"It was when I brought up the woman. Caroline. The one who is in love with him."

"In love with me?" Loki gasped.

Thor had mentioned before that he was courting this mysterious woman, and that Loki claimed to love her. He had also said that she had shot him. That all had seemed to match Loki's expectations when it came to romance. He was not without occasional dalliances, he was a prince after all, but at the end of the day no one was in love with him. Certainly not someone he loved in return. But Thor said this woman... Caroline, a lovely name... was in love with him. So why was she not here, and why had she shot him?

"The woman who shot him?" Friga asked, clearly as surprised as Loki.

"Yes," Thor nodded. "Didn't I tell you that part?"

"It appears to have slipped your mind," she said tartly.

"She and Loki formed an attachment. Friend Stark and I found them hiding after she broke him out of prison. At first, I thought he had kidnapped and enchanted her..."

"Thor!" their mother admonished.

"Well, she was tied up," Thor explained. "But in truth she had fallen in love with him. She is quite lovely, and smart as well. For a mortal."

"Oh, Loki, if only I had known!" Friga exclaimed. "When we cleared your mind of the torture, we must have cleared it of this woman as well."

"Caroline," he said, barely hearing his mother.

A hazy image began to form in his brain. A mass of untidy hair. Kind, keen eyes. A smile that formed at the most odd moments. Loki felt his heart begin to beat a rapid pace. Yet, despite his accelerated heartrate, the roiling pain of negative emotions began to ease even more. The warmth her name inspired spread through Loki, allowing him to breath.

"If what you say is true, where is she?" Friga demaned.

"I don't know," Thor confessed. "I was too concerned with Loki. He was so weak."

Loki winced at the description, but he could tell there was honest fear in his brother's voice, so he let it go.

"I thought only to get him back to Asgard," Thor continued. "I suppose Dr. Caroline would have been taken into SHIELD custody. It would have been easy enough once we had taken the Mind Stone away. In any case, she collapsed herself when Loki dove in front of the gun."

"Why would I do that?" Loki asked, of himself as much as of his brother.

"I have been wondering that myself," Thor said with a shrug.

"Oh Loki," Friga looked at him with compassion in her eyes he did not quite understand. "You do love her."

"Yes," he said slowly, not knowing who she was or what had passed between them, and yet somehow absolutely certain that his mother was right. "Yes, I do."

***

"So, this former patient that Stark was talking about - that was the alien who invaded Manhattan?"

"It was more complicated than that, but yes. Loki," Caroline tried to keep her voice steady as she said his name.

"Excuse me for being blunt, but he's not the best advertisement for sanity."

"I can see why you would think that Mr. Murdock."

Caroline could not blame the man for his skepticism. Even without being able to see her haggard appearance, she knew she presented a far from put together presence. And as much as she loved Loki and understood the reasons for his actions, he had come across as a bit unhinged during the whole invasion.

"Matthew is fine," he told her with a lopsided smile that was somehow boyish. "I've never really talked to a therapist before."

"More a go it alone type?" she asked half-heartedly.

"I guess. Although as Stark pointed out, I do talk to my priest on occasion."

"That wasn't just hyperbole?" her attention was actually drawn for a moment.

"You sound surprised."

"I guess I just don't know a lot of people who actively practice religion. The enhanced individuals I've been working with lately tend to not believe in any higher power than themselves."

"Well, in all fairness your last patient called himself a God."

Caroline tried to hide the wince at the comment. It hurt to talk about Loki as though he were just another client. He had come to be so much more than that to her.

"I don't mean to over-step, but it seems like maybe you need to talk to someone more than I do, Dr. Thorpe."

"Do you moonlight as a priest, Mr. Murdock?" she tried for humor and felt it fall flat.

"Matt. And no, my calling was in a different direction. But circumstances have turned me into a pretty good listener."

"Thanks, but I've been self-indulgent enough these past days," she replied, ignoring his attempted at self-depreciating humor. "I don't need to bore you with my drama."

"Somehow I doubt a relationship with an alien demi-god who tried to crown himself king of New York would be boring."

"No, no it was not. Loki was a lot of things, but boring was never one of them."

"Was a lot of things? Past tense?" he was quick, this lawyer.

"That's the million dollar question. You see, I shot him."

"Shot him? With a gun?"

"A ray gun... sort of. Alien tech."

"Is he alright?"

"I don't know. Thor - his brother - took him back to their planet to heal him. That was over a week ago, and there has been no word since."

"But he was alive when you saw him last?"

"Barely," the image of Loki, breath shallow and unconscious, swam in her suddenly tear-filled eyes. "I didn't mean to shoot him. I was aiming for someone else. Someone who deserved to die. Loki dove in front and took the shot himself."

"Maybe he didn't share your opinion of the intended target."

"Oh, he did," Caroline laughed darkly. "Loki would have happily killed the man himself. I had to make him promise me he wouldn't before we came in fact."

"I don't understand. If you didn't want the man killed, then why -"

"Did I try to shoot him?" she asked. "I know this will sound impossible..."

"Dr. Thorpe, I'm a blind lawyer who fights mystic ninjas in my spare time. Believe me when I tell you very little sounds impossible to me."

Well, when he put it that way...

"I was being mind controlled by a magic rock from outer space."

"Okay, I can see how you might think that could sound unlikely," the half grin was back, but there was a kindness to it that let her know he was not laughing at her but attempting to laugh with her.

"Unlikely, but true. It was what was being used to control Loki during his invasion. We were working, along with Tony and Thor, to contain it and remove it from Earth. Unfortunately, I wasn't strong enough to resist it. Before I knew what I was doing, I was pointing the gun at Secretary Pierce and pulling the trigger."

"Correct me if I'm wrong, but you said this... rock... was strong enough to control Loki himself?" Matt was leaning forward in concentration.

"Yes," she conceded.

"And he is some sort of magical demi-god himself. So, it doesn't seem like it should be surprising that you would be unable to resist it. Maybe you need to be a little less hard on yourself."

"I shot the man I love."

"No, you didn't," he objected, raising his hand when she tried to argue back. "You shot a man you despised. Secretary Pierce. At least, I assume you despise him since you said he deserved to die. We'll come back to that in a minute. But you shot Pierce. That was your action. It was Loki's action to keep to your shot from hitting its intended target."

"If I hadn't fired, he would still be here."

"You don't know that. None of us can know what might have been. Maybe you would have killed Pierce and soldiers would have burst in and shot you all. You can't ever be sure. All you can be sure of is what did happen. Loki kept you from doing something you could never take back. His love for you was strong enough to spare you the guilt that would have followed you around for the rest of your life."

"How do you know it would have?" she challenged.

"Because you are a good person. I may not know you well, but even brief acquaintance with you is enough to see that. Vengeance isn't ours, Dr. Thorpe. We don't get to decide who lives and who dies. I've watched making that decision consume otherwise good people, until they become a shell of themselves. My guess is your Loki has seen the same thing. You didn't shoot him, he saved you. Don't take that choice, that action away from him."

As Murdock spoke the last words, Caroline felt them strike something within her. All his life, people had taken Loki's choices from him. His parents not telling him his true parentage, Thor's friends refusing to see how his rule played out before turning against him, Thanos torturing him until he could bend Loki's will to his own. Over and over, he had been robbed of his agency. Was she doing that now as well?

"You've given me a lot to think about," she admitted.

"I'm a really good lawyer," he grinned again. "I know how to make an argument."

"Remind me to get your card before you go," she smiled weakly. "I might need a good defense attorney before this whole thing plays out."

"It would be my pleasure, Dr. Thorpe," he said, placing a comforting hand over hers.

"If you want to keep that hand," a deceptively quiet voice spoke from the doorway, "I suggest you remove it from my Lady's. Now."

I’ve never written for Matt before, so hope I have his voice right! Thank you all who are still here!