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senju-sekhmet · 4 years ago

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The Leash (Part 8)

Summary: Your rescue was supposed to be as smooth as these missions can be. However very quickly, Tobirama faces off against an enemy that has no form, color or smell - and time is running short, very fast. Unless he figures out what truly holds you hostage, your life will be lost. Warnings (for the finished work): Blood, illness, descriptions of heavy injuries and graphic violence, torture (both depicted and implied), needles, morally grey territory, human experimentation, panic attacks, character death, angst with a happy ending ~6200 words (this chapter, finished work: 80.000) Previous: Part 1; Part 2; Part 3; Part 4; Part 5; Part 6; Part 7 Read on AO3! Disclaimer below the cut! Updated again, yAAAY!!

DISCLAIMER! Next part of the split! a bit longer. and not as soon as I hoped, gosh dangerit. But! Hopefully I’ll get the next one out a lot quicker. This chapter is a little bit special as I tried to incorporate something of a real intensive care take into what is happening as well as my own... ideas about how they'd deal with it all. Let me know what you think! Other than that: enjoy my very self indulgent work, filled with my own headcanons and angst galore. Let me know what you think and thank you so much for reading!!!! ______ It took him a moment to get his bearings again. Hashirama’s back was turned towards him, he was sitting in a chair by your side. The setting sun’s red light illuminated the room in warm hues Tobirama might have appreciated were it not for the sheer sense of dread he felt budding inside of him. The dreary exhaustion was swept away as he stepped closer slowly. Peripherally he picked up a weak pulse of chakra with sensor skills - nothing uncommon for him if he came close enough to a source. Usually he had to actively tap into his sensory skills in order to pick anything up, but if the signal was strong enough, it almost forced itself upon him. Right now, it most likely was your body. As Tobirama rounded the bed he saw your face: pale - paler than before, he was sure - and sweaty. You were taking shallow, hushed breaths while the odd whimper escaped your lips every now and then. Truth be told, Tobirama only remembered you trashing and writhing the last time the withdrawal had set in - now, you simply squirmed, sometimes.

Your expression was far from peaceful though. It was a grimace of sheer pain. Jaw taut, a frown etched onto your forehead and the eyes so tightly, your skin was in wrinkles.

Hashirama was holding your hand, his eyes were closed. An epitome of calmness next to your misery. Tobirama didn’t want to disturb his concentration lest he’d cause you even more torment so for a moment, he stood by the other side of the bed, helplessly witnessing your suffering. The dread had become the painfully familiar constriction of his chest again, every beat of his heart stabbed as he could only let his shoulders hang low.

It was wrong. He should never have agreed to let you suffer like this. The promise you had him make was a hollow echo in his ears. You probably wouldn’t want him to berate himself like this. But how couldn’t he? How couldn't he, when this was the result of the decision? Of course, the cruel logic behind this was clear to him - painfully so.

But if these past few days had been anything but logical every so often.

Hashirama cleared his throat, slowly. “Tobirama,” he greeted, quietly. He didn’t open his eyes.

Tobirama jumped at the opportunity. “How is she?”, he demanded swiftly, keeping his voice low but making no effort to stow back on the urgency.

Hashirama didn’t respond directly, which only served to irritate Tobirama slightly. “It’s difficult,” he began finally, “Initially we were able to stave off the brunt of the withdrawal by sealing her chakra away,” Tobirama’s blood near froze in his veins, his eyes widened slightly, “But it’s been picking up since. Her blood pressure has been dropping and I’ve been noticing signs of inflammation primarily along her blood vessels but also the heart and lungs." He paused momentarily, uttering a hum of ponder. "The reaction overall is similar to sepsis at this point. Likely the body trying to clear out the leash physically now that her chakra can't interact with it anymore.”

Tobirama couldn’t help himself now. He had to know - to see - with a fine tremor in his hand and a raspy breath he took a step closer to grasp the blanket that covered you and pull it lower, very slowly. As lightly as he could. You stirred as the cloth moved, a feeble shudder of your weak body, but no more. On your chest he could already make out the ink markings of the chakra seal on your bare chest. The sight stole alone his breath momentarily. He violently swallowed down the lump in his throat.

He had believed seeing you weak, tortured, a shadow of your former self - that was one of the worst parts about all of this - he had been wrong.

This. This was worse. It all painted a new horrible picture for what it implied.

There were more seals on your glistening skin - both of your arms and your heart, each of them with a parchment in their center that had been soaked in herbs whose smell each he knew well. Tobirama recognized these: one was stabilising your cardiovascular system both through the seal’s effect itself but also by letting the herbal agent be applied transdermally. The fact you already bore it - the Ione on your heart to make it pump stronger - was a grim sign. The other two were strong pain and sedation medications. Were anyone other than his brother here, he’d probably have refused to wait any longer with the next dose.

He pulled the blanket back up again and crossed his arms in front of his chest as if that helped to reinforce his broken, guilty resolve about all this. “Tell me more,” he requested firmly, eyes never leaving your gaunt face now. This is the only way, he kept telling himself.

“Mito and I drew the chakra seal. It is temporary and can be opened and closed, I’ll show you later. When Y/n gets the next dose and is in her lucid phase, we can open it again for her comfort,” Hashirama consoled quickly. Whether or not he had taken note of what Tobirama had done, he didn’t care right now. It was a slight relief. Maybe you hadn’t felt any of it. Maybe.

“She’s rather still, anija,” Tobirama whispered, now with more worry and firmness. "You sedated her?"

His brother hummed affirmatively. “We … were forced to, indeed.” The hesitance was clear in his tone.

“I see.” Tobirama’s in turn was grave. His next question he blurted out before he was even sure whether he wanted to know the answer. Who was he kidding? Of course he did. “I surmise otherwise, she wouldn’t be still enough to be monitored like this,” to put it lightly. He didn’t have the stomach right now to utter: Otherwise you’d be screaming from the top of your lungs and writhing like you were on fire.

Just like the last time you had been in withdrawal.

Just like the prisoners had explained.

Hashirama appeared to be grateful for Tobirama’s rare show of more neutral words. “You are correct.” The admission didn’t hurt any less for it.

“What about the other seals?” Tobirama demanded then, though of course Hashirama would know that Tobirama was aware of what they did. What he really wanted to know was how bad off you were. For all Tobirama knew, you might be carrying more of those already.

“I was forced to draw these a bit ago as the physical symptoms started to kick in worse again,” he replied evenly. “I first tried oral medication, but the effect was too weak. And administering it was ineffective.”

By ineffective, he meant impossible. You probably quite violently refused anything. Tobirama’s eyes widened slightly at the implication though. It meant your condition was worse enough that without these seals - the seal on your heart to support your cardiovascular system, really - you’d most likely be teetering on the brink of death than life. His hands bunched the fabric of his black shirt. “Exactly how much support does she need right now?” he demanded now, still not daring to step closer.

Hashirama gave a low sigh, but still did not open his eyes nor move his hand from yours. “It’s bearable. Due to the seal, the disruption is impairing her dormant chakra only, but it is not fighting back of course. The symptoms are being caused by her body’s physical reaction which we’re controlling with the medication and the other seals, for now. I’m simply monitoring. It’s just the three seals, Tobirama.”

He was not calmed down at all. “Still, you’ve already been forced to draw this to improve her cardiovascular situation.” Tobirama stated flatly, the neutral kindness gone. He started to paint a pretty dismal picture of your situation without even having examined you already.

Hashirama noticed, too. “And we can still increase the support of these seals. The fever is being kept in check, and while I admit her body is reacting physically, for now it is mostly symptomatic of the withdrawal rather than an actual damaging inflammatory reaction. I’d wager we even have a little bit more time before we have to give her the next dose of the leash.”

It should have served to put him at ease. And yet - “As if that should be our only concern,” Tobirama shot back, voice suddenly caustic. Your pained grimace was testament to the fact you were walking through hell once more and here he was, deliberating how long he could prolong it.

His stomach roiled as his breathing became jittery again. He had to close his eyes lest his brother witnessed his possibly glistening eyes; or at the very least the obvious pain in his glance. It wasn't as though he wanted to hide it - he just needed to be alone with it.

Hashirama was a very understanding person, after all.

And because of that he picked up on it nonetheless. “Y/n wanted this, brother.” It was all he said. Tobirama didn’t want to hear anything, anyway. There was nothing anyone could say about all of this.

Another concern hit him then, distancing himself quickly from the biting cynicism that rose up inside of him. “What about the amount of chakra overload? The seals will aggravate that,” he subconsciously stepped closer, more and more wishing to just see for himself how you really fared. Nonetheless his tone was demanding again.

“That is correct,” Hashirama agreed quickly, but calmly. “And I won’t lie, we are pushing the limit here. But given our options, it is the safest route. It is manageable right now however.”

Tobirama frowned and wondered if he truly did agree with that statement. Following blindly - even his brother’s no doubt superior medical expertise - just wasn’t in him. Especially when it concerned you. “Overload symptoms would be similar to what she is experiencing now, though," he countered tersely.

Hashirama inhaled deeply. “Which is why we’ll need to continue to watch carefully, even after she gets the dose. It’s not a perfect solution, but so far it’s working. If it happens to become too intense, then we know to cut the interval shorter again to lessen the needed seals.”

The words caused a sudden surge of ire through his dismal demeanor. All of this sounded more like experimentation rather than a real course of action. Not that his brother could know any better, but it still didn’t make him appreciate it any more. He forcibly took deep breaths in order to not snap again, but the ire was a welcome distraction from the utter despair that had taken over.

Hashirama opened his eyes then finally and his dark eyes gave him a warm glance. Tobirama instantly frowned, concerned it may hamper with his focus - but before he could speak, his brother did. “Take a seat, look for yourself. I know you want to.”

He didn’t have to say it twice. Tobirama grabbed one of the chairs swiftly and placed it on the other side of your bed, taking a seat then. Gingerly, he took your hand in his and closed his eyes to let his chakra meet your network and begin to examine you.

It was a mess. The first thing he noticed was the complete absence of a chakra flow - it was frozen in its tracks. And while before there certainly had been the many injuries you had yet to properly recover from, now there was a war raging in your body. Manageable. That was the word Hashirama had used. Tobirama himself would not go beyond that, if even. There was hardly a part of yourself not affected by all this; anywhere he looked he found signs of inflammation, microscopic injury in the tissue that was attacked, torn down and at the same time, rebuilt. The picture was similar to sepsis, as his brother had said indeed: your own body’s reaction to the leash was, ultimately, killing you. The leash itself seemed to cause damage on its own, but it was minor compared to the damages your own body was doing to yourself by trying to fend it off. At this point it was just a matter of time until that got too bad. After all, it already had begun to cause a capillary leak on a scale that required outward support to keep your blood pressure up. Your heart rate was elevated for compensation, and your organs each showed signs of damage due to said leak as well as the inflammation itself.

His focus needed to be extremely sharp to even make out traces of the leash in the rush of your frantically beating heart - intense scrutiny that surely wouldn’t go unnoticed by you. He withdrew quickly. Tobirama knew the leash would be latched - branded, almost - to your blood at this point. That easily explained why no part of your body was spared - just like in a real sepsis. Though he noticed the heart and lungs seemed to be affected more, too, as Hashirama had mentioned - examining them closer, he found the reaction here was particularly bad. Your lungs, as the extremely thin tissue of the alveoles were extremely affected by this - again, just like in sepsis. It was a matter of time until breathing problems would ensure. Your heart, as it strained to fight for a stable blood pressure while being inadequately perfused, suffering tissue damage on a microscopic scale, for now. At the very least, this might affect you immediately - but Tobirama found none of these damages couldn’t be healed, either.

Just not now.

Frankly, he hadn’t expected to feel better after this, exactly. However to witness the battle that was going on inside of you - one you were losing, ultimately, always - it added a new dimension to the sorrow and heartache he was feeling. Even though right now he felt the hum of the seals that had been painted on you and their effects - strengthening you - he felt nothing but helplessness to bear witness to your suffer firsthand and do nothing but to figure out how to prolong it. It didn’t just hurt his heart - it wrenched it around, tore at it. He didn’t want to do this.

Promise me.

He had promised you.

With a broken sigh, he withdrew and slumped back in the chair, eyes on your gaunt, pained face. His vision was blurry.

“Tobirama,” Hashirama’s voice startled him. With this dismal sight and the lingering extortion from his shadow clone stunt, which his body certainly had not forgotten, concentration was becoming touch and go as his thoughts circled in dark places. “The sedative will begin to wear off, soon. For the next dose, I’d rather she be more awake to ensure she can swallow it properly.”

Tobirama closed his eyes and already knew how this would go down. Another one for the list of things he’ll have a hard time forgiving himself. But he had to. He had to. Slowly, he rubbed a palm over his face. “Very well,” he replied, seeing reason in this too, of course.

They sat in silence for another two hours, almost. During the time, your writhing had picked up slowly - from a flex of your legs’ or arms’ muscles to weak movement. Slowly but surely sounds were picking up too - huffs or grunts at first, but later on there were quiet groans and incoherent mumbles mixed in. You never opened your eyes. Hashirama ended up increasing the heart’s seal’s intensity somewhat, all of which Tobirama watched while he monitored you diligently. He felt absolutely crushed in every sense - physically, emotionally, mentally. But sleep never came to his mind. The least he could do was be here with you, even if you might not notice it. But if anything were to happen - he’d be here. He’d sleep when you did. A little. And then continue to work once his condition allowed it again.

“It’s time,” Hashirama announced finally. “Her blood pressure has been sinking continuously and the damage that is caused by the withdrawal ultimately is becoming too intense now. I don’t want to push her beyond this.”

What a relief. Tobirama already had procured the next dose of the leash previously. Administering it now wouldn’t be as simple as the last times, however. With a heavy sigh, he rose to his feet, as did Hashirama.

“Y/n,” Tobirama spoke softly, placing a hand on your shoulder. “Can you hear me?” It was worth a try. Though he had little hope for it.

And he was right. Your reaction was lackluster, only a low groan as your head trashed to the other side.

“I’ll open her jaw,” Tobirama instructed his brother, numb now. Devoid of any emotion but to simply do this swiftly. “Hold her head.” Hashirama nodded and already seized each side of it with his hands, which you responded to by uttering yet another tormented moan.

Tobirama’s heart was hammering in his chest again - at this point he had just waited for that to happen, and his breathing was nearly as raspy as yours when he took another step closer to seize your jaw in the dreadfully familiar way again. Once more utter horror overcame him for having to do this to you. It grew worse when he felt how you were trying to trash your head to the side, but your movement was pitiful at best. “It’ll be better soon, Y/n, I promise,” he whispered brokenly, though he knew you couldn’t hear him.

Tobirama was tormented by how easy, compared to last time, the pressure behind your mandibular bone made it protrude, enabling him to shift the grip slightly to force your mouth more open with his thumb on your chin. A shiver ran down his spine. The hand that held the vial containing the leash shook slightly. You protested louder in what definitely was an even more painful groan, a sweaty, trembling hand reaching for Tobirama’s on your jaw. “Don’t,” he pleaded instantly, desperately.

Don’t make it worse.

Swiftly, he poured the leash into your mouth and shut it quickly before you had a chance to cough it back up. With pressure on your cricoid, the constriction of your airway was forcing you to swallow it before the breathing trouble became too uncomfortable. It was brutal, Tobirama knew. But it was the safest way to ensure you really drank all of this. Immediately, he and Hashirama withdrew from you.

You stilled completely.

Time for the next act of this nightmare, whose end was approaching way too fast and yet not fast enough.

_______

As per usual, Tobirama ensured you’d sleep for the terrible psychotropic effects of the drug. However Hashirama noted it was better to use a sedative this time, as they needed to avoid any use of chakra on your strained body for now. He agreed reluctantly - by this point he knew it couldn’t interfere with the leash’s effect, in any way. Besides, Hashirama also stated he needed to monitor you further - especially watch for signs of chakra overload as well as controlling the seals. Likely, your cardiovascular situation will improve enough to be stable on your own.

Tobirama nearly shouted at his brother when he used the word ‘likely’. If he thought it was just likely then they had gone too far. And just as likely Tobirama felt like smacking his brother for sheer stupidity right then. He didn’t of course, ultimately and begrudgingly yielded to his brother's expertise. However it didn't stop him from sternly reminding him about how fragile and susceptible your mind was due to every sensation heightened -

"Be careful," he warned, rather, threatened. "Do not agonize her unnecessarily."

Hashirama rolled his eyes. "I'm doing what I have to. No more and no less, brother." Despite everything, he remained calm.

It provided little comfort, but he saw no option but to add it to the list of necessary things they had to do to you. Tobirama’s frustration was palpable at this point.

Nonetheless, all of this just showed it was time to rest, as much as he hated it. Sleep was inconvenient, but needed alas. And once more he found himself at your shared home, alone. Luckily enough, the exhaustion was great enough to claim him quickly after he had laid down, but the forlorn feeling was seeping through every crack. With every passing day, this house felt colder and lonelier. The burden he carried strained him to a point where numbness was spreading inside of him. He felt spent, at the end of his wits. His sleep was dead, dreamless.

And a little longer than he wanted it to be. He woke again with a startle - his gaze sought out the clock mounted on the wall right away. It was somewhat past midnight. Damn. You should be awake by now. He rubbed a hand over his face to wipe away the last traces of sleep before he washed himself, got dressed and teleported to your room right away.

_______

The withdrawal was one of the worst things you had ever gone through. It easily was on par with some of the torture you had suffered.

It had begun as you remembered it - you became weaker with each passing minute. Then came the dizziness. Your consciousness slipped in and out. An ache settled into your bones, your muscles, your nerves, that was all too familiar - dim, at first, but it increased more and more. It wasn’t long before it felt like molten lava rolled through your veins, alongside your nerves, through your lungs with every breath you took - you were being burned out from the inside slowly, cruelly. Split apart and yet not dying.

You wanted to scream. You wanted to writhe away, shake it off, rip your skin off, do anything - but you couldn’t. Something held you suspended in darkness with proverbial chains winding around you tightly, everything else was black nothingness. Nobody to hear your screams, nobody aware of your agony - all by yourself in a hell that wasn’t ending. At first, you were trying to tell yourself this was what you wanted: you had to give Tobirama - yourself - more time. Otherwise they’d run out of this damn murder drug before they could recreate it. But this? This wasn’t worth living, was it?

Had the chains around you not seized your throat, you’d have begged for someone to kill you. End your misery.

I’m sorry, Tobirama.

Forgive me.

You circled around these two sentences over and over again while the torture wasn’t ending.

Peripherally, you had been aware - at first, when the withdrawal had begun to set in - of someone’s chakra inside of you - Hashirama, you realised, dimly. It had made sense. Tobirama would need to work. Try as much as you wanted to, but you couldn’t work around the dizziness and the pain that had been roaring through your systems at that point already. And just as lightly you realised something was done to you - but no more you could distinguish what it was. It eased the pain, somewhat. Briefly. You wanted to thank him yet couldn’t form words; either it was exhaustion or another side effect of the withdrawal. Were it not for your dreary state you knew you’d be overrun by panic due to the helplessness. You simply had to trust those around you.

But that had gone out of the window piece by piece as the symptoms became worse and worse. You felt your grip on yourself losing as pain became your only reality.

Suddenly though, it was all over. The pain was gone as though it had never existed. You nearly screamed in joy.

And another terribly familiar sensation kicked in.

The nightmares.

They had given you the next dose of the leash - you had lived, you dimly realised. Part of you wanted to cheer, but of course you wouldn’t get to do that. With all you had just gone through, this time around, the bizarre horror trips you suffered from during the first phase of the leash would gladly take inspiration from now.

But the usually crystal clear scenarios were muddled images at best - red hot iron being pressed into your flesh agonisingly slowly. Darkness, loneliness. It still was frightening - but not as precise as it usually was. Perhaps the leash had done permanent damage to your brain. Who knew. In a twisted, grotesque way you were thankful.

Your perception of pain had become extremely skewed.

Someone else was lingering, though. A presence. They were watching you - you knew - and you didn’t like it. Nothing came from them, but you knew better than that. Presences like this greatly unnerved you. It couldn’t mean anything good.

Soon, you, the nightmares, everything - faded into dull sensations only. After that, a warm nothingness overtook you and you finally were allowed to sleep.

When you opened your eyes again, the room was dimly lit by the nightstand’s lamp. Someone was touching your hand - you turned your head slightly to find Hashirama next to you. Still, you had blink several times before you truly recognized him; truth be told you felt like a giant rock had rolled over you. Distantly you were aware of the fact he was monitoring you - his chakra was but a shadow in your system, so light, almost unnoticeable. Something else was bothering you though - but you couldn’t put your finger on it. Missing - something was missing. Quickly, you realised what it was: your chakra. You couldn’t feel your chakra at all - the sluggish, tardy sensation it had become was gone.

Instantly, panic settled in and your breathing picked up. “I- I can’t,” you began, voice raspy. Moving your jaw was as though you had to force it through jelly or something equally gooey, the muscle wouldn’t quite obey you. But that didn’t matter. Your chakra - where was your chakra? You wanted to get up, but your arms wouldn’t obey you - your pulse picked up rapidly and breathing was getting difficult again.

Hashirama shook his head, “We had to seal it off, don’t worry,” he explained swiftly, already pulling the blanket down with his free hand. In utter horror you noticed there were seals drawn not just on your chest but your arms as well. Your heartbeat was through the roof by now as your panicked gaze kept looking everywhere. He put his thumb, index and middle finger right on your sternum where the center of what you recognized belatedly was a rather complex chakra seal was located. His fingertips glowed for a moment, then he twisted his wrist.

A second later, your beloved, useless chakra was back.

You gulped and swallowed past the lump in your throat, trying to even out your breaths again. He put the blanket back over you again and regarded you with a smile, though you could easily tell his warm gaze was burdened with worry. Unlike Tobirama, Hashirama wore his moods on his sleeve. “How are you feeling?”

You blinked a couple times again, still reeling from the sudden burst of panic. Then, after a deep breath, “I’ve… been better.” To put it lightly.

He frowned sympathetically. “No doubt about it.”

You didn’t want to wait any longer. “How long… how long did we gain?”, you desperately hoped this exercise had been worth something. At all.

His smile became more mirthful. “Six hours.”

Your eyes widened slightly. Frankly, you were unsure if you should be happy or horrified by that. To you, it had felt like an eternity. And yet six hours was a huge gain on what the interval had been before. A good result. The suffering - had been worth something. Your gaze wandered to the ceiling, nodding to yourself slowly. Trying to convince yourself of this at least.

“Y/n,” Hashirama began again, now more somberly. “I won’t lie to you. I don’t know how long we can keep this up. It took a toll on you, which I am sure you are feeling right now.”

“You can say that again,” you croaked weakly, yet again testing the movement in your legs. Your toes wiggled a little. It was an achievement. Then you sighed and in what pretty much was a snap decision, you spoke up again. “Promise not to tell Tobirama,” you muttered, already feeling guilt taking a stab at your heart.

Hashirama’s frown deepened. “Promise.”

“The withdrawal is… All of this - it’s about one of the worst things I’ve ever gone through.” you shared, no more than a mere, haunted whisper. You couldn’t look at Hashirama. “And by now, I think I’ve experienced a lot.”

Hashirama hummed deeply.

“I don’t want Tobirama to know that. He will refuse to keep stretching the interval, b-but-”

“You wanted to say it.” Hashirama finished your sentence before your voice broke. “It’s alright.” He squeezed your hand lightly. “I’d wager he knows, truth be told.”

A sob broke past your tightly squeezed lips, but you nodded. Of course he’d know. You couldn’t imagine him not checking in while all of it had happened. Most likely some of your plight had gone through to the outside. And the first withdrawal had been a harrowing experience for all of them.

“You’re stable, though,” he spoke up again in a less grieved tone. “It’s no surprise you’re feeling rather weak right now. The withdrawal is quite… violent towards the body.”

“So long as it’s worth… as it’s worth all this,” you gulped, nodding. To yourself, mostly.

Hashirama smiled warmly again. “The time gained is invaluable. I’m afraid we can’t do much to heal you, yet, though.”

Just as you wanted to reply you witnessed a flicker in the shadows near the door. That had stopped startling you a long time ago - well, when you weren’t in the middle of a breakdown, that is. You couldn’t help but smile with how Tobirama lurched over instantly. His white hair was tousled, glistening even - he must've fallen out of bed into the bathroom and then teleported right over. A quaint sight - the man was punctual, sharp and kept in perfect shape.

Hashirama regarded him with raised eyebrows as he stood by the other side of your bed, mustering you through narrowly-lidded eyes with a distressed expression. He already took a breath to speak up, but you beat him to it with a quip that’d surely answer his question. “That’s fine Hashirama, I won’t be able to get up either way and Tobirama won’t need to lecture me about moving too much anymore.”

Tobirama shut his mouth immediately and scrunched his face like he had just been forced to drink some extremely bitter tea and regarded you with a look as if you had been the one to make said tea. Already, he crossed his arms. For a hot second, you worried you had gone too far - doing this in a high stress situation like this always carried a risk. But Tobirama knew you. And you knew him.

“You’re doing better.” He simply stated then, unimpressed, just raising an eyebrow.

Hashirama raised his arm to hide his face with his sleeve slightly as a chuckle shook him.

Tobirama’s hawk-like stare shot to his brother briefly before it settled back on you. “Enlighten me with some context, maybe?”, he then demanded, only slightly exasperated. He was holding back, you knew.

“I just explained the toll the withdrawal has taken on Y/n to her,” Hashirama supplied, having regained his composure again.

Tobirama regarded him with a concerned look then instantly, dropping the unnerved demeanour. “Toll?”

“Exhaustion mostly, Tobirama,” you decided to intervene before he worked himself up more. The way he gripped his black shirt again was telltale. “I can’t do more than wiggle my toes. And my fingers, maybe.” You tentatively tried it out - they stretched just fine. “What a relief,” you murmured ironically.

Tobirama’s frown grew softer again as he watched you test your limits and the corners of his mouth turned down slightly. “Y/n,” he whispered, and you could feel how much more he wanted to say.

Hashirama cleared his throat again. “We’ve painted four seals on you, in total,” he spoke up again, catching your attention immediately as he then explained how they strengthened your heart and blood pressure. “Now that you’re awake again I’ve brought down the support from them to a very low level because you’re doing so well. The exhaustion is from the immediate reaction mostly. I won’t deny, you did suffer damages there - but none of them great enough to warrant additional concern.” His gaze wandered to his brother while he spoke, well aware he was listening just as intently. If not more. Tobirama’s frown had deepened again.

You nodded. Medical jutsu were really not your forte, but you did know quite a handful of seals and could already guess as to how these worked. Which also told you they had been scraping the proverbial barrel here: normally, these things would be easily managed using chakra based methods, normally. “I surmise you’re using seals because I’m constantly teetering on the edge of chakra overload still with how I keep getting additional… problems…”

Tobirama snorted. “Some of which you wouldn’t have if you rested.” Hashirama chuckled again, this time at your expense. You took it in stride. Tobirama continued then. “You’re right though. We must avoid it as much as possible.” Hashirama nodded to that.

“Ultimately, should your condition worsen during withdrawal, we’ll have to overstep that boundary. But I’m very much trying to avoid it. It’s additional stress you don’t need right now.” He did sound quite serious about it. You gulped. Chakra overload was nothing to sneeze at.

But then again you felt like you had just about dipped into every kind of torment available as of now. What’s one more?

Hashirama ended his monitoring then and gently slipped away, both inwardly and outwardly. “I’ll get some rest now. You’re stable. And while I know Tobirama is very, ah, adamant about this-”

“Anija,” the growl came instantly.

“-you really need to get as much rest as you can. We’ll see to support you more using any non-chakra based means which is going to entail some medications. I’ll… see you soon again,” he finished with a sorrowful smile that managed to soothe you and at the same time filled you with dread.

You swallowed. “Thank you, Hashirama.”

He nodded and left the room quietly.

Tobirama sat down on the side of your bed as soon as he had shut the door, taking your hand in his and stroking your skin gently with his thumb. “How are you really doing, Y/n?”, he inquired, the timbre of his voice gentle enough to let his concern truly show.

You gave him a brave smile. “I’ll manage, Tobi,” that, you knew. You knew you had to. Though you felt like breaking into tears when you said it.

You didn’t fool him for one second. His breath caught momentarily; his grip became firmer and you felt his chakra graze over your network, covering it warmly. You couldn’t help but sigh contently when he did; the sensation never failed to comfort you. But his expression remained distraught, to say the least. He knew you well enough - what your avoidant answer meant. It was kindness not to inquire further. And maybe protection, too. You didn’t want to speak more about this. Or think of it.

It’d come around again soon enough.

“You’re not taking good care of yourself,” you chided then softly. “I’d ruffle your obviously wet hair, but I can’t right now.” You cracked a weak smile.

He clicked his tongue. “It’s been a pretty intense day, Y/n,” he countered evenly.

“I think I can count the days you left the house in such a hurry on one hand, Tobi,” you replied, not bothering to keep the sorrow down any longer. It saddened you to see how all this took its toll on him - your problems, your condition. Of course you’d do the same for him in a heartbeat - and just as well, you were aware what your sight made him feel. But it just hurt.

His eyebrow arched up again slowly. “When I’ve got such urgent business to tend to, I will run the risk of being seen with wet hair, but I’ll face it bravely,” he countered sarcastically, eliciting a little chuckle from you. There was no changing his mind anyway. His lips drew into a lopsided smile of his own, too.

Finally, you sighed quietly. “Don’t let me keep you, then.” You dreaded being alone. But it couldn’t be helped.

His smile faded and his eyebrows furrowed again. “I can stay, Y/n.”

“No, you can’t,” you replied with more resolve, “Because then all the time we gained won’t matter. Soon. Just a bit longer.” You weren’t sure if you were telling him or yourself that.

He must’ve picked up on it, because his other hand grasped your arm too and stroked over your skin gently while his gaze had turned decidedly sorrowful. “I’ll be back soon to check on you,” he promised quietly, but you could guess on the fierceness behind that. It eased your budding sense of dread, somewhat.

“Thank you,” you whispered, “Can you…,” you swallowed, blinking. The request made you feel so silly - shameful, even. But you couldn’t help it.

He tilted his head when you didn’t finish your sentence. “Yes…?”

“Can you please leave the light on? And… don’t close the curtains,” you finally whimpered meekly, avoiding eye-contact now. This alone was a confession to what you could only perceive as weakness due to your recent trauma, but you couldn’t deny how much you needed it right now.

Tobirama’s mien turned more sorrowful, but he nodded. “Of course, Y/n.” He sat on the side of the bed a moment longer and simply shared your connection - a gesture you were immeasurably grateful for. It was you who ultimately nodded and decided it was time he left - despite the ungodly hour.

“C’mon, then.” You tried another brave smile. _____ author’s notes: Some explanations: 'cardiovascular' means pertaining to the heart and the blood vessels, i.e. blood pressure and essentially keeping the body's organs supplied with nutrients, and more immediately important, oxygen. 'sepsis' is a real thing! it's when the body's own immune system causes such a strong reaction in the whole body to an infection it starts to damage its own organs. since reader isn't infected, it's 'like' sepsis. there are also real life complications of different diseases that can, in fact, cause a sepsis-like condition! 'capillary leak' is something that ties in directly to sepsis. because of the body's immune response, the blood vessels start to 'leak' fluids into surrounding tissue. every had an infected body part? splinter in your toe, hand? got red, big, swollen? well, that's the same thing. it's not good when the body does it everywhere! but it does make sense because by 'opening' the capillaries, the white blood cells can get out and do their job in the tissue. hooo boy, that was a lot more than i ever thought i'd explain, oopz. thank you so much for reading as always!!!

#tobirama #tobirama senju #tobirama x reader #tobirama senju x reader #sekhmet writes

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stillebesat · 5 years ago

Text

Scales (7/7)

Sanders Sides: Logan, Deceit, Virgil, Roman, Patton Blurb: Deceit hadn’t expected his absence from the Mindscape to be noticed by the others…until Logic knocked on his door. Fic Type: General Warnings: Shedding (snake style), Minor Injuries, Minor Pain, Touch Starvation, Death Talk Taglist in Reblog.

To Catch Up: Prologue Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5

Epilogue

Despite Roman’s loud proclamations that they could all stay awake and watch three movies in a row without a problem…both he and Patton had dozed off on the other couch halfway through The Lone Ranger, the two of them so entangled in each other that in the light coming off the screen, Logan had no idea which limbs belonged to which Side.

Though he was sure if he’d given the two a closer study, it would have quickly become obvious. Just like it’d been obvious the exact moment Roman had fallen asleep because the beach scene he’d created had fuzzed and faded before snapping back to their far more comfortable Living Room.

After that point? Well...Logan hadn’t been paying close attention to what was happening around him, not even to the movies Virgil had selected to watch after the first had ended.

How could he, when Lyal was currently using his lap as a pillow?

The move itself was an unusual one for the Lying Side. By his nature, Deceit was...well, deceitful. He hadn’t even told them his real name yet, and with how similar he was to Virgil in learning to trust them...it had been unthinkable that he would allow them to see him with his guard down this soon.

Trust was a two way street and Lyal...was like the feral dog that came close only for food and not much else.

And yet...Logan lightly ran his fingers through the Lying Side’s hair, marveling at how soft it was now compared to how waxy it had been hours earlier. He paused, gently fingering the dark horn no longer than an inch and three quarters poking through his now blonde highlights, careful to not prick his fingers on the sharp tip.

Why a horn? Logan chewed on the bottom of his lip in thought. Why the dyed hair for the matter?

It was a curious phenomenon for both the former Dark Sides considering Virgil had never fully lost the purple sheen in his hair after Thomas had dyed his own for the first time.

Neither he nor Patton or Roman had had such changes happen for longer than Thomas himself experienced them. Did these permanent alterations to their hair, and furthermore to potentially Lyal’s new horn, only extend to the Dark Sides? To once they were revealed and accepted by Thomas?

Logan nodded to himself. He would have to keep notes the next time one of the Others appeared and catalog any changes that that Side experienced---

He frowned, trailing his fingers down the new scales that shimmered like stars under the light of the projector on Lyal’s cheek.

Lyal’s scales had only changed because Thomas was growing to accept him.

But…Deceit wasn’t the first Dark Side to get accepted by Thomas was he?

“I’m glad.”

Logan jumped at Virgil’s unexpected voice, wincing as Lyal made a noise of protest at his movement.

Shoot. Had they woken him up?!

“Mmm?” He asked, attempting to sooth Lyal back to sleep by running his fingers through his hair again.

He’d seen Patton do the same thing to Virgil on days when his anxiety had him twitching at every little sound. From his observation, running fingers through another’s hair would have an eight-two percent success rate in lulling him back to sleep.

Lyal mumbled under his breath, reaching blindly up with his scaled hand to grab onto Logan, his talons tickling his skin there as he pulled it down to his cheek.

Logan’s heart skipped a beat as Lyal softly sighed, mouth quirking up in a small smile as he nuzzled Logan’s palm, curling up closer to him.

“He trusts you.” Virgil whispered.

Logan swallowed, feeling his cheeks heating up as he stroked Lyal’s scaled cheek with his thumb, eliciting another sigh from the former Dark Side. “It...appears so.” He quietly agreed, looking up to meet Virgil’s shadowed eyes.

Virgil raised an eyebrow, giving him a small smirk as he raised his hands so that Logan could see them clearly in the light coming from the screen where An American Tail was playing. ~That’s big. Deceit trusts no one.~

No one? Logan shook his head, his free hand raising in denial. ~Falsehood.~

Virgil quietly scoffed as he slid off the arm of the couch, curling up so his feet brushed against Deceit’s. He reached over to pull a blanket over the both of them. ~Why would I lie?~

Wasn’t it obvious? ~Because he called you A.n.n.i.e.~

Virgil frowned, the shadows under his eyes growing darker. ~So?~ Deceit hadn’t given any of the others nicknames like that. It had only been recently that he called them by their names outside of videos instead of by their titles.

Yet Virgil hadn’t reacted at all to Lyal’s nickname for him. Had called him Dee in return. Logan could gather that there was something more there. Yet with how little Virgil was willing to talk about his time with the Others...Logan doubted he would gain an actual answer tonight.

There were still facets to Anxiety that they were discovering every day. Where he’d compared Lyal to a feral dog, Virgil was definitely much more like a feral cat when it came down to it. “That indicates a level of trust there too.” He said, keeping his voice low.

Virgil shrugged. “We...haven’t been--” He grimaced, ducking his head, fiddling with the blanket covering their feet.

Logan stilled, holding his breath. It never did him well to push when Virgil was...well anxious, about something. It had taken him quite a while to realize that. Hence why he’d offered to teach Anxiety sign language. So that Virgil could express himself when he found it difficult to speak aloud.

~I’m glad you checked in on him.~ Virgil finally said, glancing to Roman and Patton sleeping on the other couch.

Logan forced back the surge of disappointment that welled within him.

Trust was a two way street, he reminded himself, and Virgil was...extremely cautious. Apparently the only revelations he’d be getting tonight were the ones regarding Lyal’s scales.

~Me too.~ He responded, offering Virgil an understanding smile when the Anxious Side glanced at him. He could wait, despite how much he wanted to know the answers now, for Virgil to reveal more when he was ready.

Virgil visibly relaxed, the shadows under his eyes growing lighter as he watched Lyal sleep. ~Don’t tell him. But seeing him like-~ He gestured to the side of his face, eyes flickering to Logan with a weighing look. ~It scared me.~

From how the other two had reacted, Logan was pretty sure Lyal’s appearance had scared everyone. Including himself. ~Same.~ He admitted.

It had been disconcerting to enter Lyal’s room and see him so...vulnerable. Deceit had always held himself aloft from the others. Never appearing to show weakness beyond the fact that he struggled to tell the truth more often than not.

To find him in such a state, with half his body looking like, as Virgil had stated, a mummy. Had been disconcerting. ~I’m glad we got to him in time to help.~ Logan said before moving to trace the scales on Lyal’s exposed shoulder.

Who knew what would have happened had he not gone to see him? If Lyal had been unwilling to open the door. It was something he didn’t want to think on, but would need to consider for the future.

Virgil raised an eyebrow. ~We? I think you mean you. The rest of us didn’t realize anything was wrong.~

Logan grimaced. ~True.~ It was a failing of theirs. To let, as the saying went, sleeping dogs lie. Virgil had ducked out before they realized anything was wrong--no. Before they had understood how important Anxiety was to Thomas as a Side.

Perhaps that was why Lyal had been quicker to let down his guard while Virgil still struggled on occasion to do so.

They’d learned from their mistakes with Anxiety to help Deceit sooner...but still hadn’t managed to assuage the original ones they’d made in the first place.

Logan shrugged a shoulder, glancing down to Lyal to make sure his movement hadn’t disturbed the sleeping Side. ~But we all helped him in the end. I was just the catalyst.~

Tomorrow, once Lyal was awake and Logan had established that there were no ill-effects from the new shedding process, he would have to sit him down and ensure that these circumstances would not occur again.

He’d done the same for each of the others after Virgil’s acceptance, therefore it wouldn’t be much different to do the same to Lyal. Truthfully, he should have done so right after Deceit gave them the temporary name to refer him by. No. Right when he first revealed himself to Thomas was when he should have taken action.

But with how untouchable Deceit had always appeared to them...how quick he could be to silence them...it made sense why Logan had subconsciously put it off.

And with how quickly Lyal had returned to speaking mostly in lies tonight...Logan was ninety-two percent certain his notes on what symptoms to look for when the next shedding event approached would not be fully accurate. He couldn’t always pick up when Lyal was lying. So, until he knew Lyal’s compulsion to tell falsehoods wasn’t as strong...it will be a bit of guesswork on his part. Especially since Logan strongly suspected that the next shed would be a new experience for Lyal too. The normal symptoms may not occur--perhaps he should pull Roman aside too to gather notes of what he knew of the Dragon Witch’s sheds as potential indicators to watch for.

Virgil quietly snorted, shaking his head. ~He trusts Y.O.U. Logan. That’s a big deal. I’ve never seen him--~ He gestured to the sleeping Side. ~Relaxed like this.~

Logan adjusted his glasses, unsure how to respond as his chest fluttered at the compliment.

Lyal trusted him.

He could only hope that he could keep that trust in the coming days as they helped him with any further changes that might happen in the next series of sheds.

After all, Thomas hadn’t fully accepted Deceit yet. That meant there was potential for there to be more alterations to look out for.

However. He couldn’t let Virgil wave away his own contribution to today’s events. “While I may have convinced him to come out to us...it was you, Virgil, who realized why Lyal was struggling with his shed.”

It’s obvious isn’t it? It’s because you’ve been--

Don’t you dare say accepted!

Obvious. Logan smoothed down his tie. Obvious.

Obvious enough that Lyal had known what Virgil was talking about without him needing to finish the sentence.

Accepted.

The scales had changed.

And yet, as Logic, he hadn’t realized that that was the issue.

Virgil pulled his legs up to his chest, wrapping his arms around them. ~It’s nothing special~ He bit his lip as he again glanced to Roman and Patton. “I’m...not….unfamiliar….with...the concept.” He admitted softly.

Logan leaned forward despite himself, his heart thrumming in his ears in anticipation at the unexpected information. “You’re not?”

It’s surprising isn’t it? What changes when you’re accepted.

Hadn’t Virgil’s eyeshadow gotten darker after they’d gone to find him? Hadn’t his hair been a slightly different shade compared to the other’s plum pigmented pili? Perhaps his unease at the time hadn’t been from just trying to figure out how he fit in in their new dynamic.

Perhaps...as a former Dark Side….Virgil too had experienced changes to himself.

Changes that he’d dealt with alone, judging by how he kept checking in on the others to ensure they were still asleep.

Logan bit his tongue, watching the indecision wash over Virgil’s face.

He, Roman, and Patton had progressed a lot since Anxiety had come into the picture...and yet….it appeared they still had a long way to go in getting Virgil to fully trust them.

“Are you...okay? It’s not hurtin--?” His fingers twitched against Lyal’s cheek, tracing the edges there, trying to figure out how to word his question in a way where Anxiety wouldn’t go on the defense as Virgil stiffened, curling up in a tighter ball.

Lyal had been tense as well. Reluctant to say what was actually going on when he’d first walked into his room. Reluctant to let the others know what was happening to him. Logan could only imagine that Virgil’s stress would go off the charts and that he would shut down if Logan pressed too hard too soon.

“If...you ever need assistance, Virge….with anything.” He said, slowly stretching out his free hand palm up to him. “I am here to help however I can.”

Hopefully his actions with Lyal tonight proved that. Proved that Logan was capable of helping the former Dark Sides adjust to...things.

The black under Virgil’s eyes twitched as he studied Logan with an intensity similar to when Anxiety had first seen Deceit in shed, while in the semi-darkness the fabric of his hoodie seemed to...move like a--a--.

Logan blinked, but didn’t break eye contact. A trick of the light? Or something more? It had almost looked like something was trying to push away from Virgil’s body...was it a hint that Anxiety’s own acceptance...was still a work in progress?

Or was he just seeing things? The flickering light from the TV did cause shadows to dance constantly around the room...

Virgil exhaled, moving to brush his fingers over Logan’s in a blink of an eye before he pulled back, curling back in on himself. ~Thanks.~ “I’ll...keep that in mind, Lo.” He said, turning to watch the movie, though Logan doubted Virgil was actually taking in what was happening on the screen. His hand flashed. ~maybe soon.~

The signs had been quick...almost invisible in the semi-darkness.

Soon?

Perhaps more progress had been made than he originally thought if Virgil was willing to admit that much.

Logan ran his fingers through Lyal’s hair, again circling the horn. “Whenever you need me, V.” He whispered with a nod. “I’ll be there.”

End.

#Scales #stillebesat #Sanders Sides #Deceit #Logan #Virgil #Logic #Anxiety #shedding tw #minor injuries tw #minor pain tw #touch starvation #death talk tw

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mallowstep · 4 years ago

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I just thought about this

Do you think the Clan cats might ever have some form of PTSD from eather witnessing another cats death in any form like in battle or another disaster or even killing another cat themselves

I really do want to expand on this

okay matthew from the end of this post here it turns out i have a lot of thoughts and talked for like, almost 2k words about this. sorry. there's a tldr at the end.

hmmmmm

my official answer is, "sure, anything is possible, especially if you want to explore that."

my more rambly answer is...kind of.

we're just going to jump straight in with serious cat talk here, but cats? those mofos are killing machines. they are highly efficient hunters. kind of like people and creating things.

on the other hand, cats are also huge cowards who don't like to fight. hence cat and mouse: the cat doesn't want to go in for the kill unless they're sure they can execute it.

i like to think of them as a very krav maga idea: "we don't fight unless we absolutely have to, but once we go in, we go all in."

so...on one hand, "do cats experience ptsd from killing each other?" feels kind of like asking, "do humans experience ptsd from making things?", and yet, that's clearly extremely reductive.

it's also worth talking about what ptsd is. it's easy to think of ptsd as equivalent to trauma, but it's not.

trauma is, well, traumatic events, ptsd is one possible response. most people who experience trauma do not develop ptsd.

(there's also c-ptsd, but i'm getting to that.)

ptsd is, basically, an overactive adrenaline response, basically. it can look similar to depression and anxiety, but it's not the same. things like flashbacks and triggers are not exclusive to ptsd, or even any specific mental illness. it's normal to experience ptsd-like symptoms after a traumatic event. that's a traumatic response.

ptsd is, instead, the unhealthy extension of that, in time, and possibly severity.

before i go any farther, i just want to say, this is not to say you need to have ptsd to have trauma, that you can't have ptsd/trauma if XYZ, etc., so please, give me the benefit of the doubt here. it's always tricky to word these things in a way that is both clear about what i mean and not harming people.

mental illness is always a tricky subject. trying to fit a sum of many symptoms into boxes will never work, but i am going to lean on it as a tool to categorize and discuss experiences in a general sense.

i also want to mention c-ptsd, or "complex post-traumatic stress disorder." this is a debated diagnosis, in that where it fits into mental illness boxes is argued and it's yet to be included in the dsm, but for now, it's sufficient to think of it as ptsd's fraternal twin.

c-ptsd develops when trauma is prolonged, and there's little/no chance of escape. think kidnappings and child abuse.

it shares a lot of symptoms with ptsd, but it has its own unique cluster of symptoms, especially surrounding relationship issues.

right. we can rule that off for things cats typically experience from battle. but i still want to talk about it.

but ptsd is in reference to human reactions to trauma, which is fine! all warrior cats are at least a little anthropomorphised, or it wouldn't be fun to read about.

okay, before i lose the thread, circling back to my point, the conditions for ptsd are a prolonged response to a traumatic event. i, personally, don't think that your everyday warrior is going to experience this. some amount of battle is normal for cats, yeah?

but i do think ptsd/ptsd-like conditions are quite possible. i'm going to move into a discussion of various characters, now, and i'll put that under a read more.

okay, let's examine a few different cats, starting with mudfur.

why mudfur? because he chooses to be a medicine cat specifically because the battles of being a warrior are too much for him. does this mean he's experiencing ptsd? no, i don't think so. we never see any indication of him having flashbacks or hypervigilance. mind, i have

okay sorry you uh

i took a break to read mothwing's secret

see i've been putting it off bc i knew it was going to make me feel things and lord it did

phew

well i was going to talk about mothwing but first, back to mudfur

i can now confirm that we don't see any evidence of ptsd in him. trauma, maybe, but not ptsd.

which...checks.

next cat, ivypool.

but my ivypool, not canon ivypool, because i gave ivypool ptsd.

if you haven't read it, hedera helix is my canon compliant ivypool series, and you can get the Deets there, but i think "fair is the night" is the piece to focus on here. specifically,

The dark is the same, and the heat, and the way she slinks through the shadows, trying not to take notice. The way every pawstep is echoingly loud, and how she can't catch her breath or find her thoughts over the noise. All that's missing is.

Him.

Maybe Ivypool does still dream.

She hisses, her belt bristling, tail lashing, and raises her paw, claws extended.

what's going on here is that she mistakes tigerheart for hawkfrost.

yes, she has ptsd.

she also has c-ptsd in my writing, but i don't want to talk about this at the moment, because ivypool is complex, and i don't feel like bringing dovewing into this. but no, this is her having ptsd from her (dark forest) mentor trying to kill her. a cat she, at least on some level, trusted turning on her and attempting to kill her.

so for ivypool, it's the unexpected that traumatizes her.

which i think makes sense: cats don't generally expect to be attacked by those they trust. which leads me into...

character three: bluestar.

now, bluestar is complex because of the dementia, but i think it's pretty easy to say: tigerclaw (a cat she trusts) betrays her, she gets hypervigilant and stops trusting people.

i'm deliberately going short on this because i'm at almost a thousand words and uh,, i just want to talk about mothwing.

mothwing. my baby. my beloved. my beautiful.

fuuuuck okay so i should not have read mothwing's secret because this is going to turn into me writing mostly about that, but i actually knew 90% of what was contained in it through moonkitti videos + doing research for various mothwing related projects.

i think the only thing i learned was the moonkitti scene about bees is actually completely canonical, as written, and that it was possible for me to love mothwing more than i already do.

usually, i'd want to also talk about willowshine, but i'm going to keep my focus on mothwing. willow my love is going to come up, but i'm keeping my focus tight.

mothwing! onto my purpose: mothwing and c-ptsd and religious trauma.

she will get her own essay i have a document titled "mothwing and religious trauma" but with trope-bingo i've been writing the essays less, so bear with me.

anyway. i'm not waffling, i'm just trying to set up a good starting point so i don't ramble past the purpose. and i think...the scene with mudfur and mothwing near the end is what i'm honing in on. (spoilers, duh, but also, you don't need to have read it.)

so mudfur comes to mothwing after the battle, and she turns him away. he doesn't understand, but i do.

religion has been used against mothwing her entire life. her clan used it (inadvertently) to keep her from her purpose, hawkfrost used it to maintain his control over her, and mistystar used it to again keep her from her purpose and passion. (and yes, i have strong feelings about what this does to willowshine, but i'm trying to stay on-topic.)

and then, the first tangible proof she has of starclan is the dark forest. and her brother. attacking the nursery. and her.

and then mudfur has the audacity to say, "yeah sorry we don't know anything! but like why are you still rejecting us?"

(makes me want to rewrite the ending of "if you love me any, let me know it now" actually, i'm angry. not going to, but i want to.)

adfskjl mothwing is my new purpose for existing. i may actually consider changing my blog title from "in this house we lovewing dovewing" to something mothwing themed. i love her. expect a mothwing focus sometime soon-ish.

right, so, i don't think mothwing's perspective needs to be explained here. but...she is very self-aware of her position. she struggles with it. she doesn't want to talk to willowshine about her beliefs — she's grateful when willowpaw just accepts it and doesn't discuss it with her.

mothwing as a character has always been appealing to me. but. again, trying to keep focused, her brother is manipulative and cruel.

(i'm not saying abusive because i don't know if he really is. i'd want to do a proper analysis for that, not just ramble in a blank document for a while. he's toxic, but i try to reserve abusive for abusive characters. i think he is, but i don't know how i would defend that, ergo, i'm avoiding it for now.)

just. her whole life.

she spends a long time trusting others, looking to starclan for answer and salvation, and it keeps letting her down, and others keep using it against her, like a weapon. there's a lot to mothwing, but i'm really trying to stay on topic.

before i get to my closing arguments, some honorable mentions for characters i didn't talk about, but could have:

squirrelflight

feathertail, stormfur, and mistyfoot

dovewing

briarlight. okay she's such a good honorable mention i just have to explore this for a second, but the scene in bramblestar's storm where she's afraid of falling trees is good. i don't know, she seems fairly functional, but she's definitely not "over it."

anyone captured by twolegs.

tawnypelt

bramblestar. before you gasp, he too trained in the dark forest and was manipulated by hawkfrost and tigerstar.

probably a lot more.

so anyway, if you hung around for nearly 2k words to listen to me talk about cat trauma, here's my closing statement:

i think ptsd in clan cats is definitely going to be a thing, but i think, more often than not, it's not going to come from the battle. we looked at several examples where the incident happened during a battle, but i think it's the betrayal that's more shocking than the actual fighting.

i didn't address ptsd from cats killing each other, other than mudfur, and that's...frankly that's because i don't know. it is very hard for me to sympathize with those characters long enough to think critically about it.

like, i can write villain pov, but i don't think i can actually say, "what if XYZ feels bad for killing someone?" even if i was going to write about like, firestar killing scourge, i don't think i could.

not in this context, anyway.

similarly, i think a lot of what we'll see is trauma. cats are already extremely vigilant, and while it's possible to get hypervigilant cats, i'm not sure how often it's going to come out. cats are good at hiding physical pain, ipso facto, i imagine they're good at hiding emotional pain.

which isn't to say that they...you know what? you know what? if you want to come argue with me about human ptsd, you can do that on my main. but i'm talking about cats, and i say that they probably don't experience ptsd because they probably shove away a lot of the external symptoms, and that's mostly how we identify ptsd. this is not an end-all be-all, nor does it apply to people, but i don't know how to begin couching this, and i'm tired.

alright, well...

tl/dr: yes, trauma and maybe ptsd occur in clan cats, but i think it's more likely to be from betrayal than fighting.

dkjl this was a lot if u have follow up qs or just wanna discuss this my ask box is open! <3

#ask #anon #mine #essay #trauma #ptsd

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snowdice · 4 years ago

Text

Finding the Time to Study Fic 2 [Day 34]

Here is my starting post for today’s study break stories session. See this post for more details and feel free to send me asks to keep me going! It’s been a lot of fun so far! I will reblog this post with the story as I write them today. I’ll be constantly looking for ideas of times and places for Janus to have missions, so feel free to send in any you can think of at any point!

If you are a new follower or just don’t want all of these posts clogging your dash, please feel free to block the tag “study break stories” as all posts and voting about it will go there. You can still see the finished product of the story even if you are blocking that tag as I will not tag the edited chapters with “study break stories” but with the tag “folds in paper.” See edited chapters below. None edited chapters are under the cut.

My Masterpost Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 Part 7 Part 8 Part 9 Part 10 Part 11 Part 12

I also have a playlist on youtube (because Spotify didn’t have one of the songs I wanted). It’s short, and not really for serious listening, but I had fun with it.

Just going to be casually researching today since I finally have my head above water when it comes to school! Yay!

Chapter 13

The room stopped shaking after a moment. “Ow,” Pat said. He seemed a bit stunned but was still moving at least. He carefully maneuvered himself into a seating position. “Ouch. Owie.” He reached up to poke his own nose. “Ow!” Janus slapped his hand away when he got there. A bit of blood was already trickling from his nose and there was a small cut over his eye, but it wasn’t bleeding too much.

Janus pushed him so he was leaning slightly forward and produced a pack of time appropriate tissues from his pocket. He pulled one out of the package and offered it to him.

He took it and pressed it up against his nose to try to stop the bleeding. He seemed mostly alright though Janus imagined he’d have plenty of bruises down the line. The power in the museum flickered and Janus looked up. Now that he was listening, he could hear people panicking in and out of the museum.

“We should probably get off of the stairs,” he suggested.

“Yeah,” Pat agreed. Janus helped him to his feet, and they climbed back up the steps. Janus looked around and found an employees only sign a few feet away. Usually he’d not risk that as it could get him into trouble he didn’t want to be in, but considering the earthquake that had just happened, he could probably play it off as panic.

He ushered Pat into a small room and found a chair and table. He had Pat sit in the chair and pulled out another one of the tissues to dab at the blood coming from the cut over his eyes. “Here,” he said. “Hold that there. I’m going to go see if there are any bandages about.”

Pat took the tissue with the hand not already holding one to his nose. “Thanks,” he said.

Janus nodded and got to his feet. The lights flickered once again but didn’t stay off for now. He didn’t know how long that would last.

He couldn’t see anything that might hold bandages in this room, but there was a second door. “I’ll be right back,” he told Pat, exiting through it.

The lights flickered once more as the door closed behind him and he cursed. When they came back up Janus’s eyes immediately fell on a man. They both froze.

“Remus!” Janus hissed the second their eyes met. “What are you doing here?”

Remus blinked at him for a moment. “Hi. Janus,” he said. “I… come to France for… tea sometimes?”

“There isn’t any tea back here.”

“So, there isn’t…” he said. There was a moment of silence. “Uh, so I actually cannot talk to you right now.”

“What do you mean?” Janus asked. Remus grimaced in a way Janus had never seen from him before. It immediately set off alarm bells in Janus’s head. “Oh my god,” Janus said. “Oh my god. You’re not from the same time as me.”

“Oh, you have no idea,” Remus mumbled.

“Holy shit, you’re looping?!”

“It’s… not looping if I wasn’t here the first time.”

“Remus, we spend more than 12 hours a day together most of the time. The only thing worse than this is if I looped back to this time myself.”

“…Yeah. Anyway, I need to leave now.”

“Please do.”

He turned to go, but then stopped. “Oh, and,” he reached into his pocket and tossed something at Janus. Janus caught it.

It was Band-Aids.

“Oh, shit,” Janus spat at the clear use of foreknowledge. “I hate this. I hate you. I’m going to kill you the next time you see me.”

“Sure, Jan.”

“Go.”

He did, slipping into the next room while Janus took a deep breath and then turned back to the door behind him. He schooled his face before Pat looked up. “I found some Band-Aids.”

Pat nodded and Janus came over to squat next to him.

Janus opened the box and Pat looked down. His eyes lit up with sudden joy so intense that Janus felt like he’d just gotten a punch to the gut. “Kitty Band-Aids!” he exclaimed. Janus bothered to actually look at the design on the container, only to note the cartoon cats on the front. Pat was almost vibrating off his seat. “Look they’re all so cute!” He grabbed the container from him to inspect the different designs printed on the back with glee even as a bit of blood was still trickling from his nose.

Janus took the box back gently and guided the wad of bloody Kleenexes back to his nose.

“Which would you like?” Janus asked.

“Oh, they are all so cute,” Pat cooed. “Um, how about that one!” he pointed. “Or that one! Or that one!”

“Pat you only have one cut.”

“But they’re all so cute!” Pat said, tongue tucking into his cheek. He contemplated the box again. “Let’s do the black one,” he finally settled on.

Janus selected one of the Band-Aids with a black cat wrapped around a pink ball of yarn and staring back at them with wide green eyes. The think looked like it had partaken in one two many doses of catnip, but Janus didn’t mention that.

Instead, he just carefully unstuck the backing from the Band-Aid and motioned for Pat to remove the tissue from his forehead. He smiled at Janus as he drew back.

Janus cleared his throat. “How’s the nose.”

“It’s slowing down,” Pat replied. “Thanks.”

“No problem,” Janus replied. They met eyes for a second before Pat looked away back at the box of Band-Aids.

“Oh,” Pat said. “There’s a grey one. I didn’t notice.” He pointed to it. “I should have used that one.”

“Do you like grey cats?” Janus asked.

“I like all kitties,” he said, “but one of my roommates loves grey cats. He had one when he was a kid and thinks of them as good omens. Seeing one always brightens up his day.”

“A friend of mine has a grey cat,” Janus said. “She’s much more tolerable than him.”

Pat laughed a bit. “Don’t be mean,” he said.

“Oh, he deserves it, don’t worry.” Janus considered him for a moment. “Here,” he said, pulling out one of the Band-Aids with the grey cat on it. It did, actually, look a lot like Diesel Fuel.

“But I don’t…”

Janus just shrugged and stuck it on his cheek where there was no wound. Pat giggled and touched it with a finger. Janus stood back up.

“Can I have another tissue?” Pat asked.

“Sure.” Janus handed a tissue over to him and he crumpled up the bloody ones in his hand.

“I think I’m good to keep going,” Pat said, putting the new tissue under his nose. “The nose will stop soon.”

Pat got out his iPhone and directed him back out of the room. They checked the second floor and didn’t find anything and so went to the third floor. The second they arrived in the room that Pat’s phone was directing them too, Janus knew that it must be right. There was a strange, distorted whirling sound and the entire room was shaking slightly like they were standing next to a railroad track.

“I’m guessing this is it,” Pat said.

Janus nodded and looked over his shoulder at the screen. They both cautiously walked towards where the little dot was on the phone.

“Is that it?” Pat asked, pointing at a small device on the center column in the room. Janus reached forward to flip the switch on it. The whirling stopped and the room settled. Janus’s time piece vibrated as it came back online. They waited for a few moments. “I assumed… time distortions would be more…”

“They are,” Janus said. “This one is artificial.”

“What does that mean?”

“It’s a simulation,” Janus said. “It causes similar symptoms to a time distortion, but it’s not actually fracturing time at all.”

“That’s good, isn’t it?” Pat asked.

“I don’t know,” Janus said. He took the piece of tech of the wall and carefully stored it in his pocket, “but someone’s trying to get our attention.”

Chapter 14

Janus didn’t feel comfortable leaving France 2027 just yet, still weirded out by the strange turn of events. So, he and Pat ended up sticking around for a couple of hours. They looked through the art museum for a bit, but Janus was having trouble focusing on the pieces, and Pat eventually suggested they get some air. Janus agreed considering the museum would close for the night soon anyway.

They wandered around the downtown for a bit. The people seemed to jump back from the strange weather and earthquake that afternoon rather quickly, and there were plenty still about to blend into.

Pat was snapping photos every so often like a tourist which Janus shook his head at but allowed because even with the outdated phone it almost made them blend in even more. It also might stop any questions about Pat’s weird way of speaking French. They could just say he was an overeager tourist who watched too many old movies.

“Ooo!” Pat said. “We should get crepes.”

“Why?”

“You can’t go to France and not eat crepes.”

“I assure you, you can,” Janus said dryly.

Pat shot a pout at him and the next thing he knew he was in a small crepe shop.

For Janus, choosing something was easy. He just ordered the first thing he found on the menu which seemed to be a standard one with ham and eggs. Pat on the other hand seemed to be struggling greatly, and Janus had to gently push him to the side to let some other customers order first.

“What should I get!?” Pat asked. “They all look so good! I could do strawberry preserves or maple syrup or just sugar!”

“Or you could get one that is actually food,” Janus suggested mildly. “I don’t think you need any more sugar judging by how you are acting.”

Pat rolled his eyes. “You sound like Lo.”

Janus made a note of the name ‘Lo’ even though it surely was a nickname.

“But, since you’re insisting, I’ll get something healthy. I’ll have the strawberry one. That’s a fruit!”

“It comes with a cream cheese filling,” Janus pointed out.

“And it’s fruit!”

Janus shook his head and stepped up to the counter. “One ham and cheese and one strawberry preserve, please,” he said to the cashier as he was not allowing Pat to order in French and accidently say something stupid. He forked over some euros.

“You don’t have to pay for me,” Pat protested when he saw that.

Janus glanced back at him. “I was afraid you’d try to pay in francs,” he said dryly.

It looked like Pat was about to stick his tongue out at him, remembered that Janus had criticized him for that earlier, and then just scrunched up his face in displeasure as though that was any less childish.

They waited for their crepes to be finished and then went to eat them outside near a water fountain.

“I can pay you back for the crepe,” Pat said after they sat down. “I do actually have euros.”

Janus waved him off. “It wasn’t that expensive.”

Pat hummed. “Well, in that case. I insist on paying for a wish for you.” Janus raised an eyebrow. “In the fountain!” Pat clarified.

Pat set aside his crepe to dig in his pocket for a couple of coins. “Here!” he said handing one over.

Janus glanced over at the fountain. “No.”

“Oh, come on,” Pat beseeched. “You have to want something. I’ll even throw it in for you, but you have to make a wish first!”

“No.”

“Please!”

Janus sighed. “Fine.” He popped the rest of his crepe in his mouth. “I wish for a crepe,” he said after swallowing.

“You just had a crepe, silly.”

“But I liked it, so I want another one.”

“We can go back and get you another crepe.”

“Ah, but I’m not hungry anymore.”

Pat crossed his arms. “You’re just being difficult on purpose.”

“Not me,” Janus said putting hand over his heart. “I would never do something like that.”

Pat glared at him, but then snatched the coin out of his hand. “Fine!” he said. “One crepe wish coming right up.” He hopped up with the two coins and darted over to the water fountain. Janus turned to watch him go but then happened to catch sight of something out of the corner of his eyes.

Pat’s phone.

He didn’t pause in his movement, completing the turn, but as he watched Pat close his eyes, presumably to focus on his own wish, Janus snuck a hand out and grabbed the phone without looking. He slipped it into his own pocket.

Pat came back over after throwing both coins in the fountain and didn’t even seem to notice that his phone was missing, picking up his crepe to take another bite. Just to make sure, though Janus decided to distract him. “What do you think of your crepe?” Janus asked.

“I like it! It’s sweet, but not too sweet. There was a crepe place across the street from my apartment in college, but they always put a bit too much sugar in the dough, I think. I’d still eat them, but these are much better.”

Janus nodded and kept up the light conversation until Pat was finished.

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“Well,” he said then, getting to his feet. “It seems that nothing else is going to happen regarding the time distortion. I should be getting back.”

Pat hummed. “I should too. It’s movie night!”

“I probably should arrest you,” Janus noted.

“In the middle of all of these people?” Pat asked mildly.

“Touché,” Janus said.

Pat gasped and pointed at him. “Pun!” he said. Janus blinked at him. “Because we’re in France! That’s French!”

“…Goodbye Pat,” Janus said, turning to walk away from him.

“Goodbye… wait I still don’t know your name!”

Janus stopped to look back at him for a moment. “Like I said,” he replied. “Elvis.”

“Fine,” Pat said. “Au revoir, mon chéri.”

“You never stop, do you?” Janus asked.

Pat giggled. “Considering I don’t know what you mean, I imagine I’m just getting started.”

Janus actually left then, walking off towards the alley he’d first arrived in. In some ways, the mission had been a bust, but in others it had gone very well.

He felt for the weight of the phone in his pocket before pulling up the display screen on his timepiece to go back to the TPI.

It had gone very well indeed.

Chapter 15

The first thing Janus had done when he’d returned to the TPI was hand over the timebomb to Khalid who sent it to forensics. Within the hour, forensics got back to them that it was the same timebomb as 2999 and that it had never exploded, but simply been diffused. Which meant, blessings on blessings, everyone got to go home that night.

Not that Janus went home, no, he ended up falling asleep on his desk somewhere between 3 and 4am, but at least he wasn’t sharing his space with anyone. He’d been trying to hack the cell phone all night to see if it had anything he could use, but he honestly had no idea what he was doing. All it seemed he could do was play some annoying song over and over again about never giving someone up. At around 2am, he’d finally broken and sent off an email, though, he’d continued to try to mess with it after that.

He got woken up by Lena coming into the office at 7am, and noticed he already had an email response asking when Janus wanted to come in.

“Now?” he sent back.

“…Do you sleep?” was the immediate response. “And yes.”

His wrist buzzed as an appointment in 5 seconds downloaded to his timepiece. He selected the coordinates and landed at Cultural Outreach. The receptionist blinked up at him and then back down at the screen on his desk. “Oh!” he said. “I didn’t see this appointment. I think Professor Eran is in his office.”

He didn’t stand to escort Janus this time, so Janus went ahead and went down the hall to Virgil’s office himself.

He knocked on the door and while he was waiting for Virgil to open it, the infernal contraption once again started to play the same stupid song.

“I didn’t even touch you!” he spat, getting it out and tapping on the screen.

“Jonas Brothers dude again?” Virgil asked causally upon opening the door.

Janus shoved it at him. “Make it stop.”

Virgil took it and fiddled with it for a few moments before it stopped with the song. “Oh my gosh,” he said scrolling through something on the screen.

“What.”

“What maniac sets a custom alarm for every 30-60 minutes for a week that just plays ‘Never Gonna Give You Up’? Oh, and one ‘It’s Not Unusual’ on Saturday. He’s mixing memes at an alarming rate.”

“Can you. Just. Make it not happen. Anymore?”

Virgil smirked at him. “Maybe.” He turned around to go back into his office.

“Virgil,” Janus growled following him in.

Virgil just laughed. “What do you want to know about it?” he asked. “Just a fair warning… the song means he… likely was aware someone would steal it.”

“Of course, he was,” Janus groaned.

“But I’m sure we can still get something out of it.” Virgil started tapping at the screen again. “Okay, let’s see. It’s an iPhone 5, and someone jailbroke it.”

“What does that mean?”

“Tampered with it so they could install non-company approved software,” Virgil explained.

“Well I figured that since he was using Google Maps to track time distortions,” Janus grumbled.

“I think I have something,” Virgil said to himself while digging through his desk. “Ah ha!” He held up some sort of cord. “This will let me hook it up to my integrator.” He slotted the cord into the bottom of the iPhone and then crawled under his desk to fiddle around with some other things. “There we go,” Virgil said popping back up. “It might take a few minutes. Running the program any faster might overheat the phone.”

Janus nodded and sat back to wait. Virgil grabbed the phone and started to play around with it a bit even as it uploaded all of its information to his computer.

“Weird,” Virgil said after a moment.

“What?” Janus asked, sitting up straighter.

“There are exactly two contacts. Fewer than I’d anticipate for a regular phone from the 2010s. More than I would expect from one clearly not being used as a phone.

Virgil glanced to the side, and it must have finished the download because he unhooked it from the computer. “I have a 21st century phone network adapter,” Virgil said. “It transfers call back to whatever date the phone says. Do you want to try calling one?”

“It’s worth a shot,” Janus replied.

Virgil dug back into his desk for a small device that he plugged into the same port he’d plugged the earlier cord. “Okay, which contact do you want to try first?” he asked. “One has ‘Ro’ with a crown, red heart, and a gold star emoji. The other has “Lo” with a book, blue heart, and Milky Way emoji.”

“He mentioned a Lo,” Janus said. “So, try him first.”

Virgil nodded. “I’ll put it on speaker.” He pressed some buttons before setting the phone on the desk between them.

The phone rang three times before with a bit of a crackle, it was answered. “Salutations,” a voice said, voice sounding a bit scratchy as though he had only just gotten up.

Virgil motioned with his head for Janus to speak. “Are you ‘Lo’?” he asked.

The man hummed. “To some people.”

Janus… didn’t quite know what to say to that, or even what questions he should ask.

“I’m assuming you’re the man that stole my associate’s phone.”

“Your associate?” Janus fished.

The man made an amused hum. “I believe you were calling him ‘Pat’ on your last adventure.” Janus could hear something being placed down on the other end of the phone. Before Janus could respond, he heard what sounded like an old keyboard being typed on. “Now,” Lo said. “I have to admit, I am surprised you were willing to oblige me so thoroughly by plugging the phone into your system. Let’s see…”

The screen on Virgil’s lit up bright blue all of a sudden. “…shit,” said Virgil.

“Well,” Lo said, “it seems you were clever enough not to plug it into the TPI system, which is disappointing, but…”

There was more clicking on the other end. “Hmm, interesting music tastes for the 4000s,” he said.

“I’m an anthropologist,” Virgil spoke up.

“Ah, yes, I can see that,” Lo replied. “Virgil Eran, senior professor at Silver Mountain University, a vetted member of the Cultural Outreach program, and searched the phrase ‘How to eat sushi without making a cultural blunder and making everyone hate you and losing your job because what kind of shit anthropologist doesn’t know how to eat raw fish right’ which you then shortened to ‘How to eat sushi’ and proceeded to search 52 times in the last 48 hours.”

Virgil went a bit scarlet around the ears. “Dude, did you really have to out me like that?” he hissed at the phone.

“My apologies,” Lo responded. “From my personal experience, don’t dip the rice parts in soy sauce, and don’t add too much wasabi. Overall, most people will be understanding of mistakes, and you will certainly not be fired or ostracized for handling food incorrectly. As long as you are not acting intentionally disrespectful, and I image you will not be considering your clear anxiety over whatever outing you are planning to attend, you will be fine.”

“Okay,” Virgil said. “Good point, but counterpoint, what if you’re wrong and everyone hates me forever?”

“Is it the lunch meeting today at 11:30am?” Lo asked, “because I can see that a Professor Boris Laden has attended the event multiple years in a row. Considering he is a philosophy instructor, has no Japanese heritage that I can see, and I have found a photo of last year’s event wherein he has placed his chopsticks vertically in his rice, and he has yet to be fired or ostracized, I would postulate that your fears are unfounded.”

“Yeah but… okay, I really don’t have an argument for that one, except maybe I’m a piece of shit and everyone is looking for a reason to hate me.”

“Considering your many impressive accolades in your field, I would argue that ‘a piece of shit’ is not a good descriptor of you. Not to mention the fact that you are often a highly requested member for different committees in your department and outside of it.”

“Oh, but is that because people like me or because I’m an anxious mess and make sure events go off without a hitch?”

“From experience, disorder with people you enjoy the company of is far more tolerable than order with people you do not. Which explains my current living situation and the lack of finished dishes in my sink. Therefore, I would assume the former.”

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“A lot of assumptions,” Virgil commented, but he was smiling slightly.

“Assumptions based on data,” Lo argued back lightly.

“You really came in here, hacked into my computer and smacked my anxiety in the face, huh?”

“Glad to have helped.”

“Y-”

“Are the two of you finished?” Janus interrupted, finally getting sick of the two of them.

“Not nearly,” Lo said. “I have gained access to an entire network of a very large university and will be sorting through the data for a long time.”

“Ugh, right,” Virgil groaned, “and you got access through my integrator.”

“I doubt they’ll be able to trace it back to you if you don’t tell them.”

“Nice try,” Virgil said dryly, “but not likely. I’m telling them about you immediately so they can work to kick you out.”

Lo laughed. “Fair enough, but I’ve already gotten plenty of information at this point. Including the fact that you work with the TPI and scheduled an appointment with an Agent Janus Picani this morning set to start a few minutes before this phone call. So, hello Janus.”

“Bastard,” Janus shot back.

“And goodbye Professor Eran. It was a pleasure.” He hung up.

Virgil sighed and ran his hand through his hair. “This is going to be fun to explain to both of our bosses.”

Arc II What We Do to Each Other

Chapter 16:

As it would turn out, Janus and Virgil did not get in trouble for hooking up the old phone to Virgil’s integrator, mostly because it wasn’t really a mistake on their part. The phone cleared all virus checks that the tech people both from the university and the TPI ran on it. The phone should have been clean and should not have caused an issue.

In fact, they were still trying to pin down the code on the general university server. They could tell that something was mucking about on the system but what or how was a mystery. This also meant that there was no telling what information had been compromised and considering how many things Silver Mountain had its hands in, that was… a bit worrying.

Another worrying thing was there was suddenly more activity of late at the TPI. There were more time distortions popping up every day. Usually they would be few and far in between. There had been 3 total recorded the year before, but over 12 in the last week. Some of them were fake like the one Janus had investigated, but some of them were real. It painted a distressing picture and also was a drain on their resources. Khalid was actually looking to advertise positions to hire new recruits which was something she rarely did as she liked to keep appointments to the TPI in house.

They’d even loosed the number of field agents needed for each mission and Janus and Remus had been splitting up just to get everything done. Today, he and Remus had thankfully only two missions scheduled for the day.

“Are we going together or separate today?” Janus asked Remus.

“Think they’ll burn me at the stake for being a witch if I go alone to either of them?” Remus asked.

“I don’t know. Probably. I think we’re getting a bit late into the 1700s for that in Cuba, but I have no idea about Mesopotamia.”

“Let’s just go together. I did not like almost drowning yesterday because I was the only stranger in town when the weather was going wonky.”

“Surely it isn’t because you opened your mouth. Ever.” Janus said dryly.

“How was I supposed to know he was the local clergyman’s son?”

Janus rolled his eyes. “On second thought,” he said, pushing a button on his desk to choose Cuba as he next mission, and standing up. “I don’t want you coming with me.” Yet, he did not protest when Remus also signed up for the Cuba mission and he waited for him by the office door before going to talk to Rhi.

Rhi was a bit frazzled when which meant quite a bit as she was usually incredibly put together. Remus didn’t even seem inclined to tease her today.

“Okay,” she said once they’d closed the door behind them. She flipped through some documents on her desk. “Picani and Clockson. Camaguey Cuba 1755. Do you know Cuba?”

“Uh,” Janus said. “Yeah?”

“Like you’re reading the things, right? I don’t have to babysit you, right? You got it? The Seven Year War was happening, but it won’t affect you much as it hasn’t really hit Cuba. It’s the middle of the Camaguey Carnival. Everyone will be everywhere and there will be chaos so as long as you don’t really fuck up you should be fine. Um…apparent races.” She looked up at them and studied them each for a moment as thought looking at them for the first time despite having known them for years. “It’ll work. Go to costuming.”

“Shouldn’t we…” Janus said, “sign things?”

“…Yep,” she said, fiddling with her desktop and then sending documents over to their side to sign.

Janus and Remus both did before sending them back.

“Great. Good.” She stood and grabbed some things from behind her. “You can go.” She sat back down as they took their things and Janus noticed a message pop up on her desk. She looked up at Remus looking exhausted. “What?” she asked.

“Just open it,” Remus said.

Rhi tapped it and a photo opened.

“I got her a new mouse toy!” Remus said happily as Rhi looked at the picture of Diesel Fuel attacking a cloth mouse.

“That is… appreciated Agent Clockson,” Rhi said. “Now get out.”

They did, leaving to get their costumes on and checked. Costuming was just as busy and frazzled as Rhi had been and they actually had to wait for decon because there’d been a mix up with the agents leaving before them. They landed in Cuba without issue. Janus could already hear the festival in full swing outside the small building they’d were in. Remy was standing there with a very not time appropriate mug of coffee.

“Sue me,” Remy said when Janus raised an eyebrow at it. “Please just… get in and out without causing trouble. Seriously. I don’t want to have to deal with that on top of everything else.”

“We’ll do our best,” Janus assured.

Remy pulled his sunglasses down to look at him. He looked exhausted. “God please do more than your best.”

Janus nodded tightly. “We’ll be in and out,” he said, already glancing at his timepiece. It had been disguised as a golden bracelet which made it a bit harder to actually use, but wrist watches wouldn’t be invented for more than a century, so they’d have to make do. “The time distortion, if that’s what it is, should be in the middle of town. Let’s go.”

He and Remus exited the building onto the packed city street.

Janus was immediately bombarded with all types of sights, sounds, and smells. There were many colorful articles of clothing and costumes as people went every which way along the street talking to other members of their community, playing instruments, and dancing. There was the sound of people speaking Spanish, still mostly almost pure Castilian Spanish with perhaps a bit of influence from Taino as the Haitian revolution had yet to push the Creole language over to Cuba. People must have been hard at work cooking different dishes for the carnival as many different spices wafted through the air. It was sticky hot considering it was the middle of June in the tropics and Janus was immediately sweating despite the temperature appropriate clothing he’d been outfitted with.

He glanced around their immediate area, just scoping out the crowds. His eyes were immediately drawn to one person near them.

“Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me,” he said out loud when he saw Pat. Remus looked in the direction Janus was.

Even if Janus didn’t recognize him the moment he laid eyes on him, he probably still would have ended up staring as he was the only person in the area who clearly did not know how to do the dance he was attempting.

Remus snorted and Janus shook his head in secondhand embarrassment. “Well, would you look whose boyfriend’s here,” he said to Janus. Make that firsthand embarrassment. “Has anyone told him the Mambo wasn’t invented until the 1900s and also that’s not how you do it?”

Chapter 17

Pat stopped dancing the moment he saw Janus approaching him, but he still bobbed cheerfully ( and unrhythmically) to the music. “Hi Janus,” he said pleasantly.

“You just have to rub it in, huh?”

There was a flash of confusion across his face, but then he smiled. “Well, I know where in our relationship you are. How was France?”

“You’re a bastard.”

“You stole the phone,” he laughed.

“You stole the bomb,” Janus countered, “and you wanted me to steal the phone. You booby trapped it.”

“No,” Pat correct, putting a finger up. “We have security on my phone because in high school I once forgot it in the school locker room and long story short, the three of us ended up in a lake. So, then Lo made sure I always had some sort of tracker on it. When I started time traveling, he updated it and when I met you we updated it again in case there was ever an opportunity like that. Lo calls it using our weaknesses to our advantage.”

“He’s a bastard too,” Janus growled.

Pat just laughed.

“Is someone talking about me?” Remus asked, stepping over to them. Janus rolled his eyes.

“Oh,” Pat said, blinking at Janus’s partner for a moment. “Remus.” He hesitated slightly. “How are you doing?”

“Me?” Remus asked. “Uh, I’m doing good. A little stressed out with work, but fine.”

“Good,” Pat said with just a little too much heartfulness to it.

“What?” Janus asked, eyes narrowed at Pat. “What is that?”

“What is what?” Pat asked. He met Janus’s eyes briefly and it made panic surge up Janus’s spine because the look Pat was sending him wasn’t one that said he was playing dumb. It was a warning.

Oh, Janus did not like this. That look told Janus Pat had some foreknowledge that he absolutely could not tell Janus about without messing up the timeline spectacularly. This was why this mess the two of them were mixed up in was so bad, but it seemed Janus did not have much of a choice when it came to Pat.

Despite how bad of an idea he knew it was, he still wanted to push, because whatever Pat was hiding could be very, very bad and it had to do with Remus. There were so many reasons Pat could be acting like that around Remus, but the worst ones were definitely the ones on his mind. Death, injury, illness. They were all possible especially in their line of work and especially with how time was being screwed with right now. And Pat knew. He knew exactly what the answer was, and oh did Janus want to push.

Experience knowing what worse things could come out of having foreknowledge made Janus bite his tongue.

“So, what are you two doing here,” Pat asked, and Janus unhappily let him change the subject.

“Oh, like you don’t know,” Janus replied.

“I don’t know,” Pat said innocently.

“There’s another time distortion,” Janus said, “and while you didn’t know what it was the last time I saw you, I’m pretty sure you do now.”

“Oh, I didn’t know there was a time distortion here. I can help you if you like,” he offered sweetly.

“Oh, yeah, sure. Then why are you here?”

“I wanted to see if I could find the Flying Dutchman,” Pat told him.

“And so you went to Camaguey?”

“Uh huh.”

“One of the farthest places from the ocean in Cuba?”

“Is it?”

“I don’t trust you.”

Pat just shrugged. “Well, if you don’t want my help finding the time distortion, I’ll just be on my way then.”

“Wait,” he said when Pat went to turn away. Pat paused. Janus turned to Remus. “Remus, do you think he’s bullshitting me so I let him wander off and do whatever the hell he’s doing, or do you think he’s bullshitting me into letting him come with us.”

“Hmm,” Remus said, looking Pat up and down. Janus could immediately tell he wasn’t going to get any helpful answer. “Well, if we’re going with the how much do I get to see his, admittedly very sexy, ass criteria.” Janus pinched the bridge of his nose. “Letting him leave now means instant gratification and a nice full image when he turns away. However, letting him go with us means many more opportunities to get a glimpse, but they’d probably just be glimpses. So, yeah that’s a tough call.”

“You didn’t even bother to give me an actual hidden suggestion with that bullshit,” Janus groaned. He glanced at Pat only to see him hiding his very red face in his hands. Janus blinked. “Oh,” he said. “You got him, Remus.” Janus was surprised. He’d expected a bit more tenacity for someone with Pat’s personality. Of course, Janus was used to Remus, so that perhaps had some effect. Pat made a muffled distressed sound behind his hands and Janus raised an eyebrow. “You really got him.”

Pat flapped one hand around while still using the other to completely hide his face. “It’s just. His face. Saying that. Is weird.”

Janus could not say that he didn’t feel a slight spark of joy at seeing Pat flustered. After all, Pat’s weapon of choice had often been flirting with Janus in the past. However, he still smacked Remus on the shoulder when it looked like he was about to continue with something likely far more inappropriate. “We are here for a reason,” he reminded. He turned to consider Pat and squinted at him. “You’re coming with us, I’ve decided. I don’t want to let you out of my sights. Don’t,” he said empathically turning to Remus as the man opened his mouth once more.

Pat had mostly recovered, though his cheeks were just a bit pink still. “Yeah,” he said. “I’ll go with you. Where do we start?”

Janus glanced at his timepiece. “It’s not showing up on our trackers yet.”

“It messed with your tracker last time,” Pat pointed out.

“I know,” Janus said. “Which means it could be another fake one or whatever is causing it hasn’t started yet. If things start going wrong, but it still doesn’t show on our radar, it’s almost certainly a fake one, but some of the fake ones haven’t blocked our technology.”

“Here, I can check,” Pat said.

“Please don’t pull out an iPhone,” Janus begged.

Pat stuck out his tongue at him, and then smiled. He reached for the bracelet on his wrist and twisted it back and forth a few times before pressing his palms together. He glanced around them quickly to make sure no one around them was watching and then peeled apart his palms like he was miming reading a book.

“What the fuck is that, and how do I get one?” Remus asked immediately. It was innocuous, whatever it was. If someone from this time caught a glimpse of the display, they’d likely assume it was a trick of the light, but staring right at it, Janus could tell it was a map of the surrounding areas with a softly glowing blue light marking their current location. Janus could see no screen or origin of a hologram. It looked like the image was drawn onto the man’s palms, but as he watched, the image shifted to zoom out.

“There doesn’t seem to be anything major yet,” Pat said wiggling his fingers a bit. The display changed slightly to some sort of colorful overlay Janus did not understand. Pat hummed. “Did you two come from that building recently?” he asked nodding at it.

“Yes,” Janus replied. “How do you know?”

“There’s sometimes a slight temperature change when people time travel,” Pat explained. “I can read it on here.” He tilted his head. “There also seems to be a big enough temperature change in a church a few blocks away that could indicate time travel. Want to check it out?”

“We might as well,” Janus agreed.

“And if it’s nothing, we can get drunk on the communion wine!”

“He’s going to get immediately struck by lightning,” Janus said.

Chapter 18

“If we see anyone,” Janus said as they entered the church. “You keep your mouth shut. Do you understand me? Remus, do you understand me?”

Remus immediately turned to Pat. “You know, I didn’t grow up Catholic,” he said to Pat who looked at him in confusion. “So the first time I ever entered a Catholic church, you can’t blame me for being a little confused about the whole cabinet thing with a wall between them. After all, everyone was singing about glory to god and what not. So I…”

Janus slapped him. “This is why you were almost burned at the stake yesterday.”

“Excuse you,” Remus said, putting his hand over his heart. “I was almost drowned.”

“You were almost drowned?” Pat asked, his voice seeming legitimately distressed.

Remus shrugged a smile on his face that caused a Pavlovian migraine to start up behind Janus’s eyes. “It’s one of the hazards of the jobs, and really it would have all been worth it if I’d actually gotten to drown in that man’s…”

“We’re in a church!” Janus cut him off switching from Spanish to Swahili in the hopes that no random passersby would be able to understand him in this time and place. “Don’t talk about lewd sex things. Don’t talk about sex at all. It’s a Catholic church!”

Remus continued to speak in Spanish with no regard for anything. “But not talking about lewd sex things takes away 3/4ths of my personality,” he pouted.

“More like 9/10th,” Janus grumbled, “and the other 1/10th is just normal stupid.”

“Hey, you shouldn’t be mean,” Pat scolded, in fucking English for some reason, “but Remus, honey, you probably shouldn’t be saying things like that right now.”

“No, no, he has a point,” Remus said switching to English.

“He’s my partner, I have the right to call him stupid,” Janus insisted.

“And I love you too!” Remus said in Greek because he was really, truly, stupid.

Pat looked between the two, but then seemed to accept it, dropping the concerned expression for a slightly amused one. “If you say so.”

“Can I… help you?” A voice asked. All three of them whipped around to see a young boy looking at them and seeming very confused. Which was fair considering that to his ears, they’d just been speaking nonsense.

“We’re here to pray!” Remus claimed, then he turned to wink at Pat and said under his breath in Swahili, “to that ass.” Pat went immediately bright red again, which was doubtlessly Remus’s aim. Janus subtlety stepped on his foot while smiling at the boy.

“Oh,” the boy said. “Okay.” Thankfully, he didn’t seem interested in questioning the random strangers in front of him further. “I’m going to go back to the celebration now.”

Janus smiled at him. “Have fun,” he said. He waited for the boy to leave through the front door before slapping Remus on the back of the head.

“Ow!” he whined sounding far too pained for how hard Janus had actually hit him.

Janus rolled his eyes. “Let’s just start investigating,” he said.

“Sure, sure, you never let me have any fun,” Remus said, pulling up his wrist and spinning the golden bracelets on his arm. “Hmm…” he said.

“What?” asked Pat.

“Either I put on the wrong jewelry this morning… or my timepiece isn’t working.”

“Well, then I’m guessing we’re in the right place,” Janus said. He turned to Pat. “Your stuff still working?”

Pat brought up whatever device was on his hands. “Yeah,” he said, “and it looks like something is just starting.” Just as he said it, there was a violent crash of thunder.

“Well,” Janus said. “We should probably find the source and soon. Which way?”

Patton glanced around himself and then motioned with his wrist. Suddenly there was a 3D display of the church in front of them.

Janus could see immediately where the problem had to originate. There was a swirling mass of some sort of energy centered at the top of the bell tower of the church. As he watched, he saw the picture of the church glitch out a bit. He had a bad feeling about that.

“Is there something wrong with your display?” he asked, or more hoped.

Pat shook his head slowly. “I don’t think so…” The room seemed to shift suddenly underneath their feet. It felt a bit like time travel, but also wrong. The picture on the display flickered harder, part of the building fracturing and dissolving before appearing back in place. The room settled after a moment, but Janus’s stomach did not.

“Whatever is going on,” Janus said, “We need to stop it right now.”

Pat nodded. “The quickest way up would be that way,” Pat said pointing. The display closed as he did.

“Then, let’s go,” Janus said.

The world was eerily calm as they all started off in the direction Patton had pointed out. In fact, it was almost too quiet.

“Where’s the nearest window?” Janus asked when they came out on the second floor.

Pat glanced at his hand. “There should be a couple a few feet that way.” Janus nodded and left them standing there. When he glanced out of the first window he came to, it appeared to be night. Yet, when he walked to the next window, he saw daylight.

26606

“Time is fracturing,” Janus informed them. “We need to be careful.” This time distortion was much more intense than any of the other ones the agency had been tracking down over the last few months. It had also come on much faster. Usually there was some time between when the time distortion began and it started having extreme effects on the environment. He was suddenly very glad that he and Remus had not split up today. He was even glad for Pat’s company, no matter how aggravating he may be sometimes. Not to mention, he was glad for the man’s technology that seemed to circumvent whatever was blocking Janus and Remus’s timepieces.

He backed away from the windows and returned to the others.

“Whatever you do,” Janus said. “Don’t let anyone be in a room alone.”

“I know what time fractures are this time,” Pat promised.

“It was as much for the idiot as it was for you,” Janus said.

“You accidently bring a bubonic plague infested rat to 900BC one time and you never live it down.”

“I’d say I should put a leash on you, but you’d twist it into something disgusting.”

“Probably,” Remus agreed.

“Where next?” Janus asked, ignoring him.

“That way,” Pat said.

They walked together to the door he’d indicated. “Please don’t be bullshit,” Janus prayed. He opened the door and immediately got bowled over by a stream of salt water.

#not writing #study break stories

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onceuponaloonatic · 4 years ago

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the first drabble i write in months and it’s angst oops 🤧🤧

tw: vomit, alcohol poisoning, underage drinking

When Daehyung was allowed to spend the night at Sae’s house for the first time, he thought it was going to be amazing. Both Mina and Tzuyu were gone for the night and Sana had let Saya and Saki invite Yujin and Eunji over so she had extended the invasion to him as well. He had jumped at the opportunity, even if Sana had said he was only allowed to stay the night if he stayed in the guest room with the alphas. He wasn’t excited about spending the night with Saki and Saya, but when Sana went to sleep he realized all the girls didn’t intend on keeping the promise they had made to their mother. Yujin, Saya, Saki, and Eunji had found a party they all wanted to go to and they said if he wanted to stay in Sae’s room they would come wake him when they got back. He had immediately agreed and gone to Sae’s room. Nothing really too physical happened, but he did enjoy playing games with Sae until they fell asleep cuddling. It was so far a perfect night. Until his phone rang.

He thought it was a bit weird, no one typically called him at two thirty in the morning. It was even weirder when he realized it was Saki. One of Saya’s friends had driven the four of them and had agreed to be their designated driver, so he wasn’t expecting them to need a ride or anything. He thought they would be good.

Sae woke up at the ringing too, whining and burying her face in Daehyung’s shoulder, telling him to make it stop.

“It’s your sister.” Daehyung groaned. “Should I answer it?”

“Yeah.” Sae yawned. “Answer it. Knowing Saya’s friend she probably got drunk and they need a ride.” “Okay.” Daehyung groaned. “Saki what the fuck?” He started the conversation.

“Daehyung… Daehyung hey.” “Yeah you called me.” Daehyung could tell Saki was intoxicated, the way her voice sounded was a dead give away.

“Hey can you drive now?”

“Yeah do you need a ride home?” “No… S-Something is wrong with Saya.” Saki sniffled, and Daehyung could tell she was crying. “We gave her water and tried to stop her but but something is wrong- Eunji says we need to take her to the hospital.” “Woah slow down what happened to Saya?” He asked, now much more awake. “W-We think she drank too much and and-”

“Okay, I get it. Keep her upright and make sure she can breathe, I’ll be there as quick as I can. Do you want me to wake up your mom?” “No, no she’ll be so mad. D-Daehyung will Saya get in trouble if she goes to the hospital, what if she gets arrested we’re underage-”

“Hey no, her life is more important than dumb shit like that, and the law reflects that. I’ll be there soon, bring plastic bags though I don’t want her throwing up in my car.”

“Okay… Please don’t tell Sae- you know how she is she will freak out and get super anxious and and-”

“I know. I’ll be there soon, who is the most sober?”

“Eunji.” “Okay, ask Eunji to text me you guys location.” Daehyung hung up, quickly getting up and looking for his car keys. “What’s going on?” Sae asked, rubbing her eyes. “Saya just tripped and Saki is freaking out a bit, and they need a ride. I’ll go get them and check on Saya, I think they are all freaking out because of the alcohol.” “Okay.” Sae yawned. “Call me if it’s serious.” “I will.” Daehyung kissed her cheek before leaving the room. He found Nico, Haeun, and Hina all asleep in sleeping bags in the game room. All three of them had fallen asleep hours ago, before the four of them had even left. They were all dead asleep still, but he couldn’t help but think about if something like this would ever happen to Haeun. He really hoped it didn’t, but she was a lot like Saya in a lot of ways. He hoped whoever she was with called him. He knew Kihyun wouldn’t be great in a situation like this. He would probably freak out and do about everything wrong.

He left quietly, as not to wake anyone in the house. Of course, he knew what was probably wrong with Saya, and that time was of the essence. Alcohol poisoning could get really serious really fast, and it was the first time he had ever been in this position. He had learned about all of it through a friend when someone else in his class had experienced something similar, it was scary though. He knew some of the symptoms through research after that event, and it sounded like she might have it from his understanding. After getting the address from Eunji, he drove as fast as he could. There weren’t many people out at two thirty, so it didn’t take him too long to get there. Eunji had texted him they were upstairs in a room with Saya. He pushed past the crowd of teenagers and ignored multiple drink offers and pushed his way up the stairs. He found them quickly, Saki holding Saya up and she threw up in a bucket. “Daehyung’s here.” Saki commented. “Come on Saya.” Saya didn’t say anything as Saki patted her back. Once she was done Saki tried to help her up, but it ended with both of them almost falling. Eunji was holding Yujin in the corner while she was sobbing. “Okay Eunji help me with Saki, Yujin is it okay if Saki hugs you.” Daehyung went to help support Saya. He reached down and picked her up bridal style. “Hold a bag for her.” He told Eunji, who grabbed a plastic bag. “Okay. Saki I’ll trust you with Yujin. Eunji make sure she doesn’t throw up in my car.” Daheyung explained, moving all of them slowly. He pushed past the crowd again, bringing Saya to his car. He put her down in the backseat, having Eunji sit next to her. Saki helped Yujin into the seat next to Eunji and went to the front. “Okay, we’re going to go to the hospital. Eunji, can you call their mom please.” “Don’t call mom.” Saki choked out. “Call Sai.” “Your mom is going to find out-”

“Sai.” “Okay. Eunji call Sai. Tell her what’s going on.” Daehung sighed, starting driving. He drove slowly, trying not to jostle Saya too much. Saki’s leg was bouncing in the front seat as he drove.

“Hi Sa Unnie it’s Eunji, yeah sorry it’s late but we think Saya might have alcohol poisoning. Yeah we are taking her to the hospital right now, yeah Daehung was driving, no he didn’t drink any. No Sae isn’t here. Yeah she can breathe but it’s pretty slow. She can’t hold any water down or any kind of liquid. No Saki insisted on telling you and not your parents. Okay, we should be there soon if you want to meet us there. Yes Saki is drunk too.” Eunji sighed. “Okay yeah. Meet you there.” “I don’t think you should go in Saki.” Daehung sighed. “You too Yujin, Saya is protected by law from getting in any trouble but it would just be best if you two stayed in the car. Eunji you should be fine. You seem mostly sober.” “Saki made me run up and down the stairs to get Saya water, I’m good now.” Eunji sighed, holding the bag for Saya as she gagged. “I think he’s right babe.” “But-but-”

“We keep you updated.” Daehyung nodded. “Keep an eye on Yujin. She seems like she needs it, okay.”

“Okay.” Saki sighed. “Good girl.” Daehung nodded, pulling into the hospital parking lot and following the signs to emergency. Once they were there, he pulled to the front and parked, leaving the car on for Saki and Yujin. He went to the back and carefully lifted Saya up, making sure Eunji got her ID. When they went in, they immediately had a nurse come up to them. They explained what was wrong and she quickly got Daehyung to carry Saya to the back. Since neither of them were related to Saya by blood, they made them wait in the waiting room.

Sai arrived not too long later, the alpha clearly freaking out as she went to the back. Daehyung took the opportunity to check on Saki and Yujin. Yujin had fallen asleep while Saki looked like she was almost there too. “Hey, they took Saya back but they said we brought her in time.” Daehyung told Saki, checking on her. “That’s good.” “Hey have you had any water?” Daheyung asked, bending down to see how drunk she still was. “No.” “Let’s get you some okay?” Daehyung found a water bottle on his car floor and handed it to Saki. “Drink all of this please.” “Okay.” Saki yawned. “Good. You can go to sleep whenever. Sai is here, she has Saya.” “Are you sure?” “Yup, things will be okay.” Daehyung was right in the end. Saya was even discharged a few hours later. After pumping her stomach and giving her an IV, Saya was doing much better. She was half asleep while Sai stayed with her. The hospital insisted on calling their parents since Saya was underage, and Daehyung had convinced them to just call Sana. He knew she was the least likely to be mad, plus she was the only one in town. She answered before Saya was discharged, and agreed to come finish up the paperwork. Saya was completely good by that point, they were keeping her for observation by the time Sana showed up. She was clearly tired as she signed the paperwork. She thanked Daehyung and told him to take Eunji and Yujin home while she handled Saya and Saki. Once he was gone she turned to Sai.

“Thank you for coming baby.” Sana hugged Sai. “Of course, Dae was the real hero in this situation though. Eunji too. She called me.” “Why didn’t she call me?” Sana sighed.

“I think Saki was afraid of you getting mad at Saya.” Saki was asleep in a chair while they waited the full time for Saya to be released. “But-but-”

“Don’t take it personally mom. Tonight was just a lot for all of them. Saki especially. She will be hung over as fuck and probably really upset when she wakes up” Sai sighed. “They all did the right thing though. I’m happy that Saki called Daehyung and he brought her here in time before anything bad happened.” “So, should I punish them?” Sana asked. “They did do the right thing in the end.” “I don’t know your mom.” Sai laughed. “Maybe just punish them for going to a party and sneaking out, but tell them they did the right thing.” “Maybe..” “Or something like that, I don’t know. Ka-san probably has the best idea of what to do.” Sana glanced over at Saya as she slept, her heart shattering at the sight of her little girl in a hospital bed.

“Your right…” Sana sighed. “I’m just glad nothing bad happened.” “Me too mom.” Saya looked over at her two sleeping little sisters. “Me too.”

#twice #misatzu #minatozaki sana #myoui mina #chou tzuyu #saya #saki #sae #daehyung #saehyung #sai

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the-darklings · 5 years ago

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—𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒐𝒏𝒍𝒚 𝒑𝒆𝒓𝒎𝒂𝒏𝒆𝒏𝒕 𝒕𝒆𝒏𝒅𝒆𝒓𝒏𝒆𝒔𝒔;

pairing: john wick x f!reader x santino d’antonio

word count: 12.6k+

summary: You’re so tired of being haunted all the time.

warnings: swearing, angst, ptsd/trauma symptoms.

notes: a very late birthday present to my wonderful friend @ilikecheesecakeforbreakfast who is the OG Team Santi and the proud captain of the ship. Thank you for always putting up with me, rascal. You’re the best. :’)

children of ares series: 01 | 02 | 03 | 04 | 05 | 06 | 07 | . . | 09 |

gif credit (x)

Your shaky fingers wrap around the crystal glass, going for the bottle in front of you. There is no telling what it even is. Brandy? Bourbon? Whiskey?

It doesn’t matter at this point. Your skin is frigid but your insides burn.

You had pushed right past Santino who was clearly caught off guard by your blunt, choked words, going straight for the drinks table. Despite the chill deep in your bones, you find that the penthouse is as open and as welcoming as always.

The glass in your hand shakes so badly you fear for a moment that you’re going to drop it. But it’s not like he doesn’t have another dozen to replace this one with and yet—

His larger hand suddenly wraps around your wrist from behind, stilling you, and you flinch at the searing heat of his skin. Your wrist looks pathetically fragile in his grip. You’ve never considered your hands as weak before, not even before Tokyo. But now you do. Your fingers fold tighter around the glass and you suck in a sharp breath.

“You don’t like hard liquor, amore,” he states, his words carefully neutral. But his voice is wrapped, heavy.

You tug your wrist free and chuckle. It sounds a touch manic and your forced smile wobbles. “Well, why not,” you whisper wetly, turning the glass from side to side before finally placing it back on the table with a jarring clatter. “Might find it—”

“What happened, cara mia?”

Your eyes lift to his. You laugh this time; it sounds miserable and strangled and you step away from him, ashamed. It’s so good to see him again but you can’t stand the look in his eyes. It’s eerily similar to the look he often wore before and during Chicago. That calm rage is when Santino is at his worst. At his most dangerous.

“I killed him,” you force out, your voice frayed as you wander further into the room. The fireplace is lit—warm and inviting as always—but you feel numb to its soothing embrace. “I killed him, Santi. Shot him right in the head. And I felt nothing—I—I feel nothing. And now they will come and—the debt is unpaid, they will kill me…or…or…”

You hear him step closer to you but can’t find it in yourself to look at him. Instead, you focus on your hands. The grooves and the ridges, the lines and the dips. You see blood on them even though there is none.

There is so much blood on your hands that you can wash it away but it still clings to you.

“No one is going to kill you,” Santino tells you, quiet and calm, but his words are laced with an icy sort of finality. Like that fact is an absolute and he will not consider anything else. “And no one is going to harm you either, cara mia.”

Your head shakes at his words and you hate how powerless you suddenly feel.

“There are rules, Santino, the High Table—”

He cuts the remaining distance between you in two brisk steps, his hands coming to grip your forearms firmly as he pulls you closer. Your eyes jump to him and you see his calm demeanour beginning to crack too. His stare is hard, unforgiving.

“Fuck the rules,” he hisses, his words sharp with fury. “And fuck the High Table.”

His grip on you tightens when he notices your attention dropping from him, still lost in your head. In the terror of your own vulnerability.

“Look at me,” he insists, strained, but when you don’t, his hands release you and he cups your face instead, pulling you even closer till the only thing you can look at is him. The heat of his hands against your skin burns into you and you stare at him, suspended and startled. “Look at me. I swore to you that night, no? I swore that I will never allow anyone to ever harm you again. I swore, (Name), and I do not do so lightly.”

The severity of his expression eases somewhat when he notes the way you tremble before him. His thumb brushes delicately against your cheek, lingering, while his eyes flicker over your expression slowly. Devouring as always. You see his anger buried deep, simmering just beneath the calm he tries to force into his face but fails. His jaw keeps clenching, and you can see something close to worry in that restless tick.

“If anyone tries to take you from me,” he whispers, low and resolute, and you feel a shiver crawl down your spine as his eyes search yours. “I will burn this city to the ground, do you understand? I will never let them touch you. Hm, yes? Come here.”

You practically collapse against him, your forehead pressing into the crook of his neck. Dry sobs leave you but tears don’t come. Santino is warm and unmoving as always, and you bury yourself in the safety of his arms, gasping and afraid. You feel one of his hands come to rest on your head, smoothing his fingers over your hair while his other wraps around your shoulders.

“Shh, amore. Nothing and no one will hurt you here,” he hums, his voice thick with wrath he no doubt wants to unleash, and his grip only tightens when he feels your arms wrap around his waist. Desperately so. “You are under my protection. Oh, amore mio. No one. My word to you. Word of the old Camorra.”

Word of the old Camorra.

Their own internal version of a binding Marker. Only to be given out by the head or lady of Camorra and the heirs. Rare and powerful as jewels.

You shudder in his embrace, not saying a word.

You’re not sure how long you stand there, wrapped up in his arms like it can shield you from everything.

But for the first time in your life, you allow the sensation of being someone else's priority to soothe your restless mind.

It takes you an hour to get out of the shower.

The process is…difficult.

After Tokyo, simple things like showering became hard, and baths are still unbearable to this day. You can’t submerge yourself into the warm depths without the horrifying sensation of being forced underwater clawing up from your past.

You hate the feeling of losing control, the feeling of teetering too close to the edge again. Despite your less than savoury mental state, Santino insisted that you need to warm up, and you both hate and adore the amount of faith he has in your inner strength.

You’ve been forced to stay at the penthouse a few times in the past. Mostly due to injuries, and Santino has more than prepped his home for the possibility of you staying again. It used to make you feel terrible because it always seemed like he was waiting for you to reach out and come home to him. Now, it just makes you feel grateful that you have some form of shelter away from the world. That he keeps his door open to you despite the dozens upon dozens of times you have rejected and pushed him away in the past.

For a man who is so proud and so easy to sway towards resentment, he is unfailingly patient with you.

“Men like my brother are not capable of love. But if they find it—”

Gianna’s words crawl up from the deepest recesses of your mind and you swallow, your throat dry. You have chosen to wipe them from your mind in the past. Back then you rebelled against the very notion. It was easier to convince yourself that something between you and Santino hasn’t fundamentally changed since Chicago—that it’s still simple lust and playful teasing between you with his intentions clear and easy to see through.

Standing in the doorway to the lounge, you watch his profile for a moment, and think that nothing is easy between you anymore.

His hair is a mess. You wonder if he has been running his fingers through it again while he waited, and the usually combed and neat curls rest in a disarray. The round curve of his chin and jaw are familiar to you too. He sits on the sofa like a king; legs folded, spread out, and arms extended elegantly, a drink in one hand while he absentmindedly turns his Camorra ring. Even relaxed he doesn’t lose that edge of arrogance that is so integral to him as a man.

When have you stopped resenting that? Did you ever?

Santino and John couldn’t be more different and yet it makes you wonder how, exactly, you are able to find common ground with both.

You are under my protection.

You can’t help but marvel at the simplicity of it all. How easily he has sworn himself as a Camorra’s heir to your protection. But it makes you wary as well. Santino is vicious and he is volatile. You believed him when he said that he would make New York bleed for you and it worries you. He’s been so focused lately. Steady. He took Gianna inheriting the seat well, perhaps too well. Then the attack on you both. Now, this. Something will give and soon.

Santino has only one true love.

Power.

Is there anything he won’t give up for it?

You can’t help but wonder if that’s why—even after all these years—you still hesitate.

If John left you for love, what is to stop a selfish man like Santino from leaving you for power?

How many times can you be left behind before—

His attention remains focused on the flickering flame as you continue observing him from your spot, and you can’t help but wonder what put him in such deep thought.

He blinks suddenly, seemingly coming back to the present and his head turns in your direction.

A slight smile greets you. “Ah, feeling better, cara? You took a while.”

You shuffle inside. Tired—no, exhausted. It seeps into the very soul of you but you’ve been unable to shake the sense of hyper-vigilance. Every second seems so precious yet slips through your fingers too quickly.

“Shower was…difficult.”

His expression falters at your confession, and then his features smooth with every second that passes. There is no pity in those bright green depths, just an old understanding.

You approach him and try not to cringe under the quiet intensity of his stare as his eyes follow you. From this close up he looks tired, the bags under his eyes more prominent, and you feel a stab of guilt. What’s the time? 3am? Later?

Exhaling, you sit down beside him, staring at your knees.

The emptiness inside your chest throbs and your fingers twitch in response.

Santino shifts and you glance at his hand beside yours. He turns his fingers around, palm facing upwards, and it rests like that; a silent offering.

Your own features fall, soften, and you don’t think there are any words in any language either of you knows that can express the depth of your gratitude for his offer.

Carefully, you place your fingers in-between his and he gently folds them around yours.

He holds your hand in his like it’s something important—precious—to him and your eyes flutter closed.

He doesn’t say anything for a long time, and you bask in the comfort of his touch for a while longer. His thumb traces small, tender circles against your skin but when you finally glance at him you find his expression drawn, solemn. Focused on the bruises, on the swollen knuckles.

“Tell me what happened.”

You’re grateful that he doesn’t phrase it like another order he’s so used to giving others.

You swallow twice before finding enough strength to open your mouth and begin speaking.

Then, you tell him everything.

From John to Tarasov, and all the things in-between.

It pours out of you like a river, swift and untamed.

Santino doesn’t say a word the entire time you talk.

His silence stretches on even after you’re done, and as long minutes start adding up so does your unease.

He places his drink back on the table, not releasing your hand, and finally, his head turns in your direction. His expression is carefully devoid of anything that may hint at how he feels but the coil of his back muscles is rigid.

Santino simply gazes at you for another minute, his stare burning, and then his eyes settle on your neck. On the scratches that after your long shower must be looking especially tender. “And these?”

His voice is sharp enough to cut yet somehow even lower than usual.

“Perkins,” you choke out, tightening your grip on his hand when you see the way his expression comes undone for just a second. In that split, you don’t see a man you know but the Smiling Shark instead. Camorra’s unruly wildcard. Bloodthirsty and dangerous as the first time you met him. “Tarasov sent her. She attacked me in my room. Got some hits in before I finished it.”

You can almost hear his teeth gritting together. He reaches out, his fingers delicate against your throat as he ghosts his fingertips over the deep gnashes. With every second that passes you can see his fury mounting, twisting his expression into something unforgiving.

“That woman? After I told her what happens if—”

You place your hand on top of his when he touches the silver chain around your neck, and his eyes jump to you. “Winston took care of it. She broke the Continental rules. We won’t be seeing her again.”

Despite your words, a slight sneer still lingers across Santino’s expression, and he lifts your connected hands to his lips, pressing them lightly against your damaged skin.

The iciness of his stare suggests that the gesture is more for himself than you.

“That makes her, hm, rather lucky, then,” he murmurs, barely audible against your skin before lowering your hands. You keep your fingers on his, if only to hold him still. “I would have not shown her similar mercy.”

Exhaling unsteadily, you shake your head a little before tightening your grip on him, and lean your cheek against his shoulder for a moment.

“You’re very bloodthirsty, have I told you that?” you try to banter but it comes off flat. Santino breathes deeply beside you, barely restrained and your eyes close. His warmth sinks into your cheek through his shirt and you inhale his cologne; something warm and heady, a spice that unlike with most scents you encounter, you don’t try to analyse. “You’re angry at me too.”

He doesn’t hesitate. “Yes, amore,” he says. “I am.”

“I’m sorry—”

His grip on you constricts before loosening. When he speaks next, it’s an effort to stay calm, you can tell, “I do not need nor want an apology from you,” he informs you flatly. “That phonecall—”

Your head lifts and you know your expression is as devastated as you feel. “I just thought that it would be easier.”

“Easier?” he repeats, his lips twitching into a cool, cutting smile. “Tell me, cara mia. Who exactly would it have been easier for? You?”

Your head turns away from him, stung. You’re so tired. So tired. You don’t want to fight with him too. Not when these might very well be your last moments together. Everyone, always, wants to fight and you just want—

His hand comes to cup the side of your jaw, turning your face back towards him, and you feel the coolness of his Camorra ring caress your skin. His eyebrows are furrowed and he stares at you seriously.

“Do you truly think that if were the end—” he cuts himself off, swallows, and you notice his jaw twitch. His expression is grave and his voice a low drawl. “You misunderstand my anger, cara. If it had truly been the end, you would have robbed me of my only chance to say goodbye. You would have been lost to me because of him.”

Oh.

“This has nothing to do with him.”

It surprises you when he releases his hold on you and rises to his feet abruptly. His hands slip into his trousers and he wanders closer towards the fire, leaning his forearm against the mantle as he stares at the flame. He chuckles, harsh and disbelieving, and it sounds almost cruel.

“Ah, but it is him, it’s always him,” he notes so quietly you barely hear him. His lips are twisted into a smile but it lacks joy, lacks the easy charm you know him for. “After everything that he has done. After all the hurt he has caused. He still thinks he has any right to drag you back—”

He curses in Italian, coarse and muffled, and you only manage to pick out a few words before he turns away with a shake of his head and a loud sigh. He leans his palms against the mantle and silence reigns between you.

You stare at his back wordlessly but Santino clearly has nothing left to say on the topic—nothing that he knows won’t upset you further, at least. Turning your head to hide your expression, your lips tremble before you nibble on the soft flesh to keep steady.

His silence hurts.

But what did you expect?

Santino has always resented John for leaving you for Helen—an outsider, someone unworthy in his eyes—and his reaction shouldn’t surprise you.

You were angry too after all. Angry that John would ask you to place yourself in such danger for his revenge.

When all is said and done, it’s your life that’s now on the line. John is out. John is free. There will be no consequences for him. In the eyes of the High Table, John would have done nothing wrong. But you knew the risk when you took it. Tarasov was not an idiot. He never truly trusted you because the priest was right. Deep down he must have always known that you will try to betray him in the end. The moment you were free of the contract he likely would have killed you himself. Simply for knowing too much, simply so that no one else can employ you to gain power for themselves—namely Santino.

The risk was worth it.

Anything to get rid of Tarasov once and for all.

Rising to your feet with a feeble swallow, you turn to go.

“(Name).”

You stagger to a stop at the sound of your name. You can’t identify the emotion in Santino’s voice but there is an edge to the way he calls for you that tells you he wants you to stay.

“I’m tired,” you mumble without turning around. “You should get rest too. Goodnight, Santino.”

There’s blood on your hands, in your eyes, in your mouth—

“Give her another round,” Kishi orders from somewhere in the distance, his voice twisting with a perverted kind of joy at your suffering. “Make her bleed like a pig. Make her cry,” he drags the last word out in a sing-song voice and cackles.

Tarasov’s face appears in front of you, his lips contorted into a malicious, brutal sort of sneer before he wraps his large hand over your face, smothering you.

You writhe desperately, trying to free your hands or legs, or anything but you are bound as always. Helpless and abandoned and you scream in terror, thrashing even more wildly.

But then—suddenly—over Tarasov’s shoulder, you catch a glimpse of an achingly familiar face.

He stands half-swallowed in the shadows as he observes what’s happening before him, and you jerk in your seat, trying to reach for him.

John only looks at you though, something close to pity in his eyes. Similar to the way one watches a suffering animal, as if wishing they could be put out of their misery already.

Your ribs crack.

You scream his name, muffled and incoherent, over Tarasov’s heavy fingers over your face. His weight keeps pushing down and you’re choking, choking—

Please, I love you.

John smiles slightly, a glimmer of a loving dream, and turns away from you—

You wake up howling.

Something—someone, is shaking you, and you snarl, throwing yourself at them blindly. With their hands still on you, they drag you down with them, and you grapple to wrap your hands around their neck the moment you hit the ground. Your legs lock around them so they won’t be able to throw you off and you breathe harshly, gasping for breath. Your fingers wrap around the curves of a warm neck, and you feel a steady, strong pulse beat beneath your fingertips.

Bright green greets you.

His lips are moving, his fingers gentle around your wrists even when your own tighten around his neck further, your nails sinking into his skin.

You—

You know him.

The roaring in your ears subsides, stripping away the thick taste of copper on your tongue too.

“Santi?”

“Are you expecting—ah—another man in your room, c-cara mia?”

Your expression crumbles, your grip loosening and you feel disgust rip through you like a bolt of lightning. You’ve tried—

“Oh God,” you mumble, and try to force oxygen into your lungs but they only cramp up tighter, making it near impossible to breathe. “He was right—he’s right, there’s nothing left. I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. He’s right, I’m dead to the world—”

You pull away from him, crawling backwards, and feel sick to your stomach. Santino rises at once, his expression tense as he reaches for you. His hand pauses before he can touch you though, and he hovers it over your shoulder, hesitant.

“Let me,” he requests, urgent but soft, and you only shake your head, curling away from him. “Count with me, amore. Uno, due, tre…”

“Q-Quattro,” you choke out, and your chest tightens further, causing you to muffle a gasp of pain. Copper stings your tongue, and you realise too late that you’ve bitten your inner cheek, making you flinch again. “I can’t. D-Don’t touch—”

His fingertips graze your bare shoulder lightly and you suck in a sharp breath, shivering on the floor, and your eyes fly to his. For a second you’re suspended, hardly breathing before you hiccup, gasping for more oxygen. You feel cold all over and it makes you feel pathetically small. It makes you feel hollow and empty of anything but nightmares from your past that are happy to wrap their arms around you and choke the life right out of you.

It feels like that cramped flat in Moscow. Your parents dead, dead, dead.

It feels like Tarasov’s office. Your cheek and shoulder throbbing, throbbing, throbbing.

It feels like that pit in the outskirts of Tokyo. Your soul and body being crushed, torn apart, and shredded.

There is nothing left.

For how much longer can you keep pretending that there is?

“Come with me.”

His hushed voice cuts through the suffocating silence and your pained pants and you look up at him. His fingers rest gingerly on your shoulder and it amazes you that he can still bear to touch you after you just attacked him as you did.

“I can’t.”

Santino’s expression cracks, darkening, and you think that he looks almost angry.

“Yes,” he whispers, his voice and expression equally steely. “You can. I know a woman who can do anything she puts her mind to.”

His fingers release you, and for a moment you can’t help but think that he’s going to stand up and walk away. Leave you here alone on the floor.

He doesn’t.

Santino does stand—still dressed in the same clothes as before, even though his shirt is more creased now—but instead of walking away, he holds out his hand to you, stern and expectant.

He’s not going to pull you up and let himself be used as a crutch.

He expects you to stand up on your own.

Because he believes that you can.

Your throat bobs; once, twice.

It takes you four tries before—fingers sunk deep into the bed covers—you finally manage to stagger to your feet. Your knees shake like you’re a newborn fawn and breathing takes twice as much effort. The sensation of being suffocated won’t drop no matter how hard you try to remind yourself that you’re fine.

You sway unsteadily but Santino grabs your hand in his, moving closer, and you stand like this for a while. He’s calm even though his gaze is stormy, and you are shivering and panting like you’ve just ran a marathon. You can feel your loose t-shirt sticking to your back from the cold sweat clinging to you, and shiver despite the fact that the room is warm. Your heartbeat thuds like a drum against your ribs and your fingers clench firmer around his.

“There she is,” he notes mildly, his voice silk, and when your eyes flicker up to him you see his chin tilt upwards. It’s an arrogant, haughty tip in his demeanour you have seen a hundred times in the past, but his eyes gleam with quiet sort of pride. “My sea on a stormy night, hm? Come with me.”

He steps closer, carefully twisting his arm to loop around yours and you stay silent, clinging to his arm as he guides you out of the room. It’s a tedious process but he makes no comments about your slowness—the last thing anyone who knows you associates with you—as you cut through his apartment together.

If someone told you almost six years ago when you first met him in that church and pressed a knife to his throat that you will end up like this…

You would have laughed in their faces.

Santino D’Antonio.

Over the years he has proven to be exactly what you expected him to be, and yet completely different too.

A stinging, sharp pain grinds into your chest as you walk and you focus on putting one foot in front of another, still clinging to his arm. You’re so focused on the test of strength, you don’t notice Santino leading you up the staircase before he pulls the patio door open, pulling you out into the frigid morning air.

The terrace is a sprawling, massive space and in the distance, you can see the pool reflecting the light. The shadows from the pavilion are well known to you too—there’s been plenty of times in the past when you, Santino, and Ares have enjoyed drinks there while planning your next job.

Even though it’s still dark outside, New York City is never quiet and the symphony of traffic noise washes over you as does the brisk breeze that comes with being this high up.

A quiver rolls across your limbs and you gulp the freezing air regardless of the fact that it makes your throat and lungs ache harder.

“Look up.”

You do.

The vastness of the sky opens up above you. From this height, you feel like you can reach out and touch the horizon. The stars are not as bright here as they are in Naples but it’s still a comforting sight. New York is your city. Perhaps not by choice but by fate.

“You are not in that pit anymore,” Santino speaks from beside you but you simply stare up at the sky. “You are here and you are free, amore. That man, Tarasov, they both may have hurt you but where are they now, hm? Dead, cara mia. By your hand. You outlived and outsmarted them both.”

“I feel nothing, Santino,” you whisper weakly, choked. “Tarasov is dead and I feel so fucking numb—”

Your voice cracks, and you finally lower your head, the back of your neck aching from craning your head too far back.

“I don’t want my last hours to be spent back in that headspace,” you croak, your voice trembling. “I thought—I thought I overcame it. I’ve been—it’s hard but I’ve been better.”

For once, Santino doesn’t offer anything in reply. You feel his focus on you but he remains silent and you’re grateful because he understands your need to voice this. That you need to let this manic terror out somehow.

Tarasov cracked you, Kishi crushed you, but John shattered you completely.

The latter always hurt the most. Because he was the last person you ever expected to damage you the way he did. It hurt the most when you fell by his hand even if he never caused physical harm. It crippled something deep inside you, and no matter how carefully you’ve glued yourself together over the years—and you don’t know if you would have managed if it hadn’t been for the man beside you, Winston, Ares—it still haunts you.

You’re so tired of being haunted all the time.

“I hate seeing you like this,” Santino’s voice slices through the quiet and the whistling wind suddenly. The morning chill is merciless and you press closer to him as you listen. “It makes me want to steal you away.”

“Paris?”

He turns towards you then, and you glance at him from the corner of your eye too. “No, cara. Just home,” he murmurs lightly, and something about the simplicity of his words catches you completely off guard, somehow pains you even more. “Get Gia to cook us some Ribollita. We can sit on the terrace and enjoy some white wine after.”

You can almost taste it. Can almost smell the sunshine and the sea salt in the air. Feel the warm breeze instead of the chilly one. Can almost step back in time to last year and those three days where the world outside did not exist. No Tarasov, no debt, no ghosts or chains.

Just sunshine, just laughter.

To a time before now—the now that is so very complicated.

“How is she?” you ask instead, your voice still hoarse, knowing full well that you don’t have a reply to his earlier statement.

Santino hums under his breath, thoughtful, and his eyes sweep over the already lively streets below. From this angle, he looks like a god simply gazing down at his subjects. His edges unpolished, almost wild, but as deadly as always. It’s odd, but it’s here, at this moment, that you look at him and see a Camorra boss for the first time. Not during past jobs, not during negotiations or galas or family meetings—but here, now. It startles you so much that you fixate on him for a while longer, lost for words.

“Missing your company,” he divulges at last with a glimmer of a grin, and you blink rapidly, trying to focus on his words. “She enjoyed your stay.”

The wind blows again and you sigh, finally being able to feel the freshness filling your body. The previous frenzied terror has retreated for now and only the weak shell remains.

You search for words, for the memories of that visit, and try to glean happiness from them.

“I got you drunk on cheap wine,” you state dryly, faltering, but a smile wants to twitch your facial muscles and the sensation brings you some comfort. “Hardly something to enjoy.”

Santino blinks, and again, and then gives you such affronted look you almost laugh.

“You…” he begins, and stops, and then peers at you before frowning with that petulant twitch of his lips. “Did not get me drunk.”

Your own lips twist; something awkward but genuine in its teasing. “You were hungover as a skunk the next day,” you remind him, a touch smug, and delight in the way he narrows his eyes like you’ve called one of his suits ugly. “That family meeting you had to attend the next morning was a misery, don’t lie.”

He looks so offended that you can’t help but laugh slightly, your tiny smile stretching wider.

You feel his eyes track the motion intently and his own lips twitch into a smug little smile.

“Ah, there it is,” he notes, satisfied. “Better?”

Your head lowers with a nod, and when you look up at him again you simply gaze at each other for a moment.

You want to believe him—want to let him in.

You want to. So badly sometimes.

But where would you even begin?

Everyone you’ve ever loved in your life you have lost.

You can’t—

“I would love to go back to Naples, too, but when the High Table comes—”

“Then I wish them luck, cara mia,” his voice cuts in, and it’s almost as chilly as the wind dancing around you both, and this time your shiver has nothing to do with the temperature outside. “They would never take you from my home. I’m Camorra.”

You exhale at his words, slow and sad. “But you’re not the head, Santino,” you state, your voice twisted with dismay. “And I’m not in your family. If they came for me, you would have to obey or your life is forfeited.”

The strong curve of his eyebrows knits together, framing his face with an expression you have never seen before. His eyes roam over your features and you shift silently, not sure what to make of it.

“No,” he agrees faintly, his words and expression empty. “You are not.”

It’s impossible to stomach the look on his face. The subtle traces of disappointment and indignation that you seem so good at pulling out of him. You press the now near numb tip of your nose against his shoulder for a second, eyes closed—a silent, genuine apology before you untangle your linked arms and turn to go. You feel his heavy stare follow you as you wander inside on trembling legs, and distantly hear him follow after you.

Rubbing your hands together, you walk back towards the lounge. The clock on the wall reads 06:12am and you sigh, bone-weary and drained. Your panic may have passed but you feel like you weigh a ton emotionally, your limbs limp with exhaustion.

Santino comes to your side, reaching towards the bottle of what you think might be scotch, and your guilt intensifies when the light reveals the red marks on his neck.

“I’m sorry about earlier—”

“Never,” he stops you, lowering the crystal bottle and giving you a sharp look over his shoulder. “You will never have to apologise for that, bella.”

“I’ve seen you kill people for less,” you point out, your words fragile as you fold your arms over your chest. It comes off more defensive than you would have liked, and you realise your mistake when Santino straightens. One of his hands slips inside his trousers and he steps closer. Like a toss of a coin, you feel the tension between you shift, thicken, and can’t help but exhale when he places his hand against the curve of your chin, tilting your head so he can see your expression.

“Yes, and I imagine I will do so again in the future,” he admits unperturbed, and the heat of his palm sinks into your chilled skin pleasantly. “For even less,” he adds after a pause, unashamed.

He leans closer then, and for a split second, you think that he’s going to kiss you. But instead, his lips ghost over your ear. “They are not, however, you.”

With that, he pulls away, turns, and leaves you standing alone in the lounge.

Sun wakes you up.

Light burns beneath your eyelids and you release a muffled groan, trying to block it out as you shift beneath the covers. Your eyes crack open slowly and you blink up at the ceiling, bleary-eyed and disoriented. The familiar walls of the penthouse guest-room greet you and a groan bubbles at the back of your throat. You feel even more tired now than when you first went to sleep, collapsing on the messy bed after being left alone in the lounge.

The room seems to glow with brightness when you shuffle from underneath the expensive cotton that kept you warm. No more nightmares visited you, but you can’t help but think it’s more due to sheer exhaustion than anything else.

You stop by the bathroom briefly, avoiding your own reflection, and change into new clothes after washing up. Your bruised hands appear even worse today and just before you leave, you risk a brief glance in the mirror.

Is today the day I die?

It might be. It’s a miracle you haven’t been sought out yet—that you know of—and it makes you both confused and shackled with dread.

You look exactly how you feel: terrible. Still, alive is better than nothing and you settle for that. There have been days in the past when even that had seemed like too much of a task. Yet here you are.

Still here.

Straightening your slumped shoulders, you tilt your chin in that arrogant manner Santino always does and inhale deeply, your spine a rigid line. Your fingertips dance over the silver chain around your neck, settling briefly on the weight at the bottom and you shake your head, tucking it under your clothes again. The cool tickle of the metal fades quickly and you feel ready to face the day.

Yesterday was a bad day, that much is evident. But today still remains to be seen.

With that thought, you leave the guest room—your room, Santino always insists—and cut through the apartment.

“—what I want to know is how this was even possible,” Santino’s distant and already irritated voice greets you. “I want answers.”

You poke your head in the lounge, your eyes cutting across the open space to the other side where the open plan kitchen-diner stretches with the New York skyline for a backdrop.

He stands with his back to you, clad in a fresh dark moss-green suit and not a crease out of place. He looks out towards the city while he talks, and you can read familiar ticks in his body language that tell you he’s not enjoying the conversation he’s having one bit.

Ares and Roberto are here as well. The former rises from the dining table when she spots you, and Roberto’s face stretches into a slight, relieved smile beneath his beard when you wink at him.

You are as bad as him when it comes to trouble, Ares signs as she approaches. She’s clad in her own dark navy suit today, and you suppress a grin at the pinch of her mouth.

Worried? you sign back with a grin, and she punches your shoulder before wrapping her arm around your shoulder.

No, but he has a habit of becoming unbearable when you are injured, she explains with a pout and you give her a brief, one-armed hug before flicking her nose lightly. She swats your hand, mock glaring, but there’s relief there too.

Still alive, you reassure her, and her eyebrow arches, disbelieving and cautious too as the scar near her eye crinkles.

Santino has clearly filled her in on the seriousness of the situation.

“Oh, and I suppose Perkins just strolled in and tried to kill her under your roof by a happy mistake, then,” Santino’s voice slices through the room like a whip and your head snaps in his direction. “Do not presume me to be a fool, Winston.”

Your eyes cut towards Ares, a clear question there, but she gives you a halfhearted shrug that seems to say you know how he is.

Your grip on her loosens and you cut through the room quickly, coming to stand beside him, expectant. Santino’s eyes find yours and they soften a touch, his eyes sweeping over your features, searching. Your head tilts and you hold out your hand.

A faint frown lingers across the planes of his face before he sighs unnecessarily loudly into the receiver. “She is awake and wishes to speak with you,” he informs briskly and doesn’t wait for a reply before he holds out his phone as an offering. You can only imagine Winston’s expression on the other end. Their dislike for one another would be comical if it wasn’t for the fact that you want them to get on for once. Life would be so much simpler if they did.

Biting back a disapproving grumble, you take the phone from him, pressing it to your ear.

“Winston.”

“Still alive, I see.”

“Thanks,” you mutter, a touch sardonic. “You too.”

You expect Santino to walk away but he lingers beside you and when you glance at him, he stands still, his green eyes simply taking you in. You can’t help but think that he knows. Understands.

Yesterday was a rare moment of weakness, softness, that you no longer show people. He can no doubt tell that the wall is back up again, and the vulnerability of yesterday is locked away once again.

The wall between you is there but his focus doesn’t drop, probing and fierce as always. Sometimes it scares you. Because he looks like he’s going to tear that wall down with his bare hands alone. You’re not sure what, if anything, is holding him back from doing exactly that. If Santino wants something, he takes it. For him, it’s that simple.

He stands with you for another few seconds, thoughtful, before turning away without another word and wandering away, his hands slipping into his pockets.

He looks tired, you realise as you watch him go, and it makes you wonder if he got any sleep last night. Even if you were to ask, you’re unsure if he would tell you the truth. He doesn’t like showing weakness to others, and after yesterday you’re not sure where you stand with him, either. If that openness he sometimes shows still extends towards you.

You’re constantly pushing and pulling at each other, never quite finding the balance.

You are under my protection.

Inhaling, you clear your mind. “Did you find Marcus?”

It’s quiet for a beat before Winston speaks again. “Yes, we did,” he says, and there is graveness to his voice that makes your eyes drop. “Tortured. But the cause of death was multiple shot wounds.”

Your eyes squeeze shut for a breath. “I want him to have a proper funeral,” you voice weakly, your vocalisation heavy with…failure. Marcus lost his life and— “No unnamed graves. I’ll pay for it.”

The distant sound of traffic filters through from the other side and you realise that Winston must be having breakfast on the rooftop terrace again. “The rules were broken,” he notes coolly. “The very least the company can do is handle the arrangements.”

A lump in your throat turns you momentarily speechless and you nod your head, knowing full well that he can’t see you. “Thank you, Winston,” you tell him, your voice thick with genuine appreciation. “Perkins?”

“Early retirement. Occupation hazard, I’m afraid.”

Oh, it would be a lie to say there isn’t a flash of ruthless, victorious sort of satisfaction that rushes through you at that. It won’t bring back Harry or Marcus, but at least those who killed them have now met a similar fate.

“Such a shame.”

“Indeed.”

You bite back a grin at his dry, deadpan tone.

“And Johnathan?” Winston wonders.

You swallow, recalling his worn, pained expression from last night. “Alive.”

His hesitance at hearing that surprises you.

“Good. Well, if Mr. D’Antonio can bear to be parted from you for longer than an hour we need to talk in private,” Winston informs you, and you can’t quite read his tone but it does make you feel oddly uneasy. “Should I expect you for lunch?”

“Yes, I’ll be there,” you reply, though the hesitance in your voice is clear.

Winston bids you farewell before the line goes dead but you stand there for another minute, staring out into the city. The majestic landscape stretches out as far as the eye can see and you allow yourself to soak it in. If the whole “you see your life flash before your eyes” thing is real, you want something good to look back on when the time comes.

Lowering the phone, you turn towards the kitchen. Santino sits behind the dinner table, breakfast laid out in front of him as he reads over something in his hand. A half-drunk glass of white wine sits on one side of him with an empty espresso cup on the other. Sometimes, you can’t help but appreciate the routine, the ease, that comes with being in his space.

Ares stands beside him, frowning down at the card in his hand and you feel your momentary casualness fade. You approach them few steady steps at the time and tense when Santino suddenly slams the white paper on the table harshly. The sound rips through the open space with a loudness of a small explosion and you watch his expression splinter.

“She has some nerve,” he hisses in Italian, and his eyes blaze.

“What’s going on?” you question worriedly, placing his phone on the table and grabbing the card instead. The material feels thick and expensive with a faint scent of perfume tickling your nose—sage, bergamot, grapefruit; and something oddly specific and new to you that you can’t decipher immediately—and you can’t help but think of the High Table. Have they found out it was you who shot Tarasov? Made some sort of demand? “What’s this?”

Your eyes hurriedly sweep over the golden letters.

Oh.

“My darling sister,” Santino begins, his words strangled with rage, thickening his accent. “Decided that it would be apt to invite me to her coronation. And for what? To laugh in my face? As if—”

He breaks off, his mouth twisting into a sneer before he stands, tugging on his suit harshly as he drops the serviette back on the table, pushing past you. You turn, following his swift retreat, and look towards Ares who stands there with an equally startled expression.

She knows what this meant to him, she signs and there’s a sharpness to her movements that betray her own irritation.

Exhaling knowingly, you place the card back on the table and give both Ares and the awkwardly silent Roberto a look. “I’ll talk with him. Make sure he doesn’t kill anyone for looking at him funny today.”

Pocketing his phone, you depart the kitchen, already having a good idea where to find him. Climbing up the grand staircase, you emerge onto the terrace. The brisk breeze ruffles your clothes and hair but you immediately spot Santino in the far distance. His fingers drum against the railing as he stares down at the city below him. It’s a different sight to one from last night. Today he breathes that cold, unpredictable violence instead of calm.

“Dramatic much?” you call out but the way of opening up the conversation.

His grip on the railing tightens and his shoulders shake in a mockery of a laugh.

“Ah, right now may not be the best time, amore,” he replies with a deliberate exhale, his voice flat and biting. “I would prefer if we avoided you getting angry at me first thing in the morning.”

“It had to be done, grumpy,” you point out carefully as you come to stand beside him, giving him a deliberate nudge with your elbow. “You’re still a Camorra heir, even if a Spare. Inviting you is tradition. Gianna may not be the nicest person around but she is proud and won’t go for a cheap shot like this. You know that. Besides, you don’t have to go. I don’t think it would surprise many people if you didn’t show up.”

“Tradition,” he repeats with a scoff, scornful and dissonant. “I just—”

His voice is heavy with frustration, with the damage he tries to bury, and you glance up at him. “I know.”

He’s disappointed and jealous. You may know a thing or two about that.

You reach into your pocket and hold out his phone to him. Santino looks down at it and reaches out. But instead of taking the phone, he takes your hand, cradling it in his larger one.

“Santino.”

A plea and a warning.

“I know,” he echoes your earlier words, hollow, and his voice dips, lowering till it’s almost a whisper; his own plea. “But let me pretend. Even if only for a moment, hm? Would you do that for me, bella?”

Let me pretend that you love me.

Your heart aches.

In this dazzling morning sun, you feel helplessly exposed. In the shadows of the night, it’s so easy to pretend, to forget, to imagine that things are still simple between you. That this something between you doesn’t frighten you. That the way he’s looking at you right now isn’t ripping at that wall between you with enough force to make the foundation itself tremble.

“Vancouver,” you choke out, grasping for something—anything—to say. “You never told me how it went.”

His scrutiny doesn’t drop and you feel his thumb ghost over your knuckles. You hold incredibly still to avoid showing any sign of discomfort or pain but judging by his pinched expression, you fail at your task.

“Small loss of 400k,” he divulges in Italian, absentminded, and continues peering at you. “But we got the shipment back. However, the lead on who ordered the hit went cold. Very…frustrating.”

Only Santino D’Antonio would think a loss of 400k is a small one. But you also know that the whole shipment came closer to being 5 million in value so, in hindsight, you do understand his flippant outlook on it.

“If it weren’t for the High Table looming over me, I would say let’s go on a hunt,” you comment mildly, forcing a smile. But it’s difficult to keep a straight face when he’s tracing the ridges between your knuckles with such measured tenderness. Hands with just as much blood, if not more, on them hold your own carefully and something about it... “I—”

You tug your hand away from his, your expression faltering.

Santino gazes down at his phone blankly for a moment before slipping it inside his suit pocket, his own expression removed. Distant with its coolness.

“I’m sorry,” you murmur, shaking your head slowly and find that you can’t meet his stare. “I can’t.”

You hate the fact that you have to say no to him now of all the times. After what he did for you yesterday, after what you did to him. It’s so unfair and you hate yourself at that moment more than anything. That here, possibly at the end of it all, you still can’t—

You don’t want—

Hope is a dangerous thing. You can’t give him any now.

“Winston asked me to see him alone.”

“I know, cara mia.”

“That’s it?”

His eyes flash and his head tilts. “What is it that you wish me to say, hm?”

“If I never see you again—”

“Do not.”

You don’t know what to say in the face of such a vehement refusal to accept what you both know full well might be your reality.

So instead you step closer to him. The breeze brushes against his curls but unlike last night the unruly strands stay in place. He looks cautious, almost wary, to have you this near but you only lean closer. Your hand comes to rest against his left cheek while you press your lips lightly against his right. The warmth of him is so familiar you linger for a second, warmed by the moment itself, while he stands taut in front of you, still and silent. Breathing softly, you pull back and find his eyes closed, expression serene, and trace your fingertips down his cheek before stepping back and letting them drop away.

Despite not being able to pretend in a way he wants you to, you can still give him this.

You see him swallow just before you turn back towards the patio door and walk away.

I wish we had more time.

“If you plan to kill me, you picked a hell of a spot.”

Winston doesn’t even raise his head, still focused on his notebook as he continues scribbling something down. His handwriting is too elegant and cramped for you to get a good look at what he’s working on, and honestly, you know better than to try and poke around his business.

“Kill you?” he echoes, his voice bored. “People are enjoying their lunch, dear, don’t be ridiculous. And do sit down,” he adds when you don’t move from your spot in front of him.

You don’t want to sit down. It feels like an invisible blade has pressed against your neck, and you can feel it kissing your fragile skin with every second that crawls by. You know how these things go. Winston is in his kingdom and the walls that have always felt like safety—home—now feel like a threat.

Despite your open unease, you move towards the expensive leather sofa opposite to him and sit down stiffly. Your gaze, cautious and wary, sweeps over the dining guests intently. Anyone tries to take you on, and you will split them open. Yesterday’s acceptance of your looming death has seemingly up and vanished, and now there’s just an aloof sort of irritation left behind.

What did you do so wrong?

Killed a man who murdered your parents and then kept you chained to him like a dog for years?

That’s justice, not a crime.

“So, what am I looking at?”

He still doesn’t look at you, and his silence makes you almost fidget with nerves. When has anything good ever come from Winston keeping silent like this? His anger has always come in a different form to what you’re used to. No—his anger is like a chilly winter’s day. When the air is crisp and full of promise that there’s a blizzard coming soon. Almost unassuming in its vicious bite.

“They think it was Johnathan.”

You stare at him. “What?”

The man before you ‘tsk’s and scribbles something else in his notebook. “Trouble hearing at such a young age?”

Oh, he’s annoyed alright. But your heart is fluttering in your chest, and relief starts rushing through you before you can stop it. Does he really mean that? Has the High Table really concluded that it was John?

Did you really get away with killing Viggo Tarasov?

“Winston,” you bite out, forcefully calm. “What the hell do you mean they think it was John?”

Finally—finally—Winston’s eyes lift to you. He regards you coolly over his glasses, his lips pressed into a stiff line. He shifts in his seat, lowering his pen slightly and you hold his stare.

“Well the High Table was made aware of what was happening in New York,” he explains and you know full well that he was the one doing the reporting. As is standard procedure for every Continental owner. “And there is no one left alive to disapprove their theory.”

That gives you a pause. Because it’s true.

Everyone directly involved with Viggo—the man himself, his son, his elite guard—have all been butchered by either John or you. Even Marcus and Perkins are dead.

The only people left alive who know what really happened are you, John, Winston, and Santino. Ares may know most of it too but other than that…

“So they just…assumed?” you wonder in a whisper, almost choked with disbelief, with hope and joy. “Didn’t question it?”

Winston makes a small noise at the back of his throat and his lips twist into a wry, cynical thing. “Of course they did. They found the lack of your involvement suspicious,” he states and watches your reaction. “They asked for a report. I had to tell them the truth. That you were attacked on company grounds, and I told you to walk away which you did. I assume that Mr. D’Antonio had the pleasure of your company for the rest of the night.”

You blink, your eyes narrowing. For him to say that…

“Santino wasn’t back in New York till 1am,” you word as carefully as you can, and your eyes sweep over the diners again, cautious. Of course, if this conversation wasn’t safe for you to have out here in the lounge, then you won’t be having it. Still, it feels like too much of an invite for people to let their ears stray. “That’s almost a five-hour window in which Tarasov died and I’m unaccounted for.”

“Yes, but it seems like signor D’Antonio had enough sense to corroborate your alibi and lie on your behalf regardless,” he says and you feel your heart stutter in your chest, your lips parting slightly in shock. “He may be a Spare but he is still Camorra. His word, it seems, still carries a degree of power.”

Winston’s eyebrow cocks at your stunned expression and his smile is a little too patronising for your taste. “He didn’t tell you,” he assumes and sighs, glancing back at his notes, and you read the subtle irritation there. “That certainly explains why he’s outside my hotel right now and has it surrounded.”

For a moment, it’s silent. The lounge is still a buzz of cutlery and murmurs of chatter between diners but the silence between you is suffocating with implication. Winston watches you, amused, and you kick your brain back into action. Dismayed.

“He’s what?”

You are under my protection.

The phantom of him leans over your shoulder, looming and protective, all sharp edges and that sly smirk, and you feel both cold and hot all at once. What the hell is he thinking? Does he really believe that if it came down to it he could save you from the High Table? What even is his plan? To break down Winston’s front door and paint the walls of Continental with blood?

The repercussions for such a breach of rules alone—

He could be stripped of his power, punished, he—

Insane.

He’s a goddamn insane idiot. He—

I will never abandon you.

“He promised me that he will keep me safe from the High Table.”

It comes out as a strangled whisper.

Winston hums, and you hear the hint of mockery there. “Promised? How quint,” he mutters, and takes his glasses off, placing them between the pages of his notebook. “I do wonder what value the word of Santino D’Antonio holds in today’s market.”

“The word of the old Camorra.”

That gets a reaction.

The man blinks, his face slacking with disbelief—maybe even shock—for a single second before his expression goes back to that familiar impersonal mask.

“My, my. He certainly is full of surprises, isn’t he?” he questions, but you can tell he’s not expecting an answer from you. His eyebrows are still raised though. He knows full well what those words mean. What power they hold, and with them you see understanding overtake his features. If before Santino’s presence outside his door was an annoyance, now it’s certainly still an annoyance but at least with an explanation. “Not that it would have made a difference, I’m sure you’re aware.”

Still reeling from the conversation at hand, you can’t help but bite out an irritated, “What’s with the attitude? Do you want an apology, is that it? You knew I would go after Tarasov. You even told me where they were.”

Winston’s weathered features draw into a deep frown. The blue of his eyes is cutting as he observes you shrewdly for a long moment.

“Yes, I did,” he begins, and you feel your shoulders curl downwards at his tone; reproachful, displeased. “With the hope that you would be smarter about this and help Johnathan to finish it instead of doing what you did. He gets his revenge and you are free of your debt. You both walk away without consequences. But instead, you broke the rules, (Name). Had the High Table pulled on so much as a thread, I would have had no choice but to tell them everything. You missed losing your life by an inch. By nothing more than sheer dumb luck and chance. You, better than most, know that luck doesn’t get you far in our world. You can’t expect to walk this line between both sides forever and come away unscathed every time. Luck always runs out, and when it does consequences follow.”

The void his words leave between you is unforgiving and heavy. The worst part is that you know he’s right. Luck and chance. Death missed you by a hair.

If it hadn’t been for Winston withholding information. If it hadn't been for Santino lying on your behalf…

You would be dead.

It still doesn’t stop the simmer of rage in your gut though. Of pain and helplessness. You’re silent for longer than you would have liked purely because you can’t speak over the swell of emotion inside you.

You want—need—him to understand.

Understand that despite his inherent belief in rules and order, sometimes they bind you from getting justice. That sometimes the righteous thing to do can be the wrong thing to do. That in a world of killers, liars, and thieves, the grey area is all that exists.

No one who lives in this world, who thrives in it, is good.

“Power is a dangerous thing. You have to be willing to lose everything in order to take it.”

Giovanni D’Antonio had at least that right.

The blood on your hands may haunt you, but it has also made you powerful, feared, respected.

You can’t—will not—be ashamed of that.

“After everything he took from me…it had to be me, Winston,” you croak out, your voice a mangled mess. Something flickers across the manager’s expression and the nature of his regard changes. “It had to be by my hand. Consequences be damned.”

Because you would have regretted it for the rest of your life. Revenge is an ugly thing. But you had needed it. It’s true that you could have left Tarasov to die there. Let him meet a miserable, slow end. It would have been easy. But you would have spent the rest of your life feeling cheated out of the twisted justice you’ve craved and bettered yourself for, for years.

“And?” Winston wonders, surprisingly quiet and curious. “Do you feel happy (Name)? Fulfilled now that it’s done?”

Your lips stretch back, baring your teeth to him in a mockery of a smile, off-tilter and twisted. “I don’t feel a damn thing.”

Your hand comes to cover your face and you rub your trembling fingers against your temple, your eyes burning.

“(Name),” he speaks deliberately, and there’s something softer in his voice this time. A tiny shift you won’t have noticed if you hadn’t known him for as long as you have. “Are you well?”

You laugh. It sounds as wrecked, as ruined, as the rest of you.

“No,” you admit because you both know it’s true. Your head slants, your arm dropping from your face, but your sardonic smile remains. “But I have no choice but to go on. It’s not like the last time,” you add upon noticing the deep furrow of his brows.

He peers at you with a look that makes you feel oddly vulnerable, oddly naked under that knowing, wise stare. It’s an echo of a look from years ago. From before Chicago.

“I presume you already know that I could get you safe passage out of the city by sundown if you need it,” he speaks slowly, his scrutiny not letting up, and you lace your trembling fingers together. Emotions bubble at the back of your throat as you stare at each other wordlessly.

“And you think that I should?” you wonder at last, soft and frayed. “Just run away?”

Winston gazes at you for a long minute and you distantly wonder what exactly he sees before him. You’ve never gotten a sense that he pities you—not once, not even when you were at your absolute worst—and despite everything, an ember of affection warms your chest as you peer at him. But Winston is still Winston. He’s as ruthless as the worst of them—perhaps even more so.

“I think,” he begins after a lengthy pause between you. “That for the first time in your life, you get to choose for yourself.”

Your head dips and you nod a little, dragging your hands up and down your thighs till you can feel the tremble subside somewhat. In your head, as always, you count. It helps. The relief of knowing that—for now at least—you are safe is immense too, overpowering almost everything else.

“Thank you, Winston. For everything,” you say to him, serious and soft; an echo of your letter to him. “And especially for stopping me from killing Perkins. For covering for me.”

The man nods his head once, looking a little wary when you rise to your feet. There is instability in your step that you know he picks up on immediately but doesn’t comment upon.

“But I still have loose ends to deal with in New York,” you inform him and exhale, thinking about Santino outside. A shadow from your shared past still lingers and you don’t like the idea of hiding from it. “Besides running now might make the High Table even more suspicious. I rather they don’t poke around further. Like you said…chance and luck.”

The older man places his glasses back on his face and studies you for another charged moment. Winston is not the type to disregard what you want but perhaps for the first time since before Chicago, he’s considering it.

“Be that it may, the offer still stands,” he states and a weak smile blooms across your face.

You’re about to open your mouth and reply when you hear someone walk up—heavy steps, off-balanced, most likely injured—to you. Your head turns and you feel something coil in your gut.

“John.”

He looks better than he did yesterday but obvious pain still lingers across his features. His suit is messier too—as if he didn’t have the energy to smooth out the creases the way he usually does. His dark eyes drink in the sight of you with clear relief and you swallow, trying to steel yourself under his scrutiny. He doesn’t need to know what the events of yesterday have managed to break and mangle inside you.

“Can I talk to you?”

It’s ridiculous how uneasy that question makes you feel. Both ‘yes’ and ‘no’ burn on the tip of your tongue but you can’t force yourself to say either.

“Jonathan,” Winston speaks in a greeting and when your eyes find him, you note his pointed stare. He’s buying you time to make up your mind. “So good to see you back with us again. And so soon.”

“Winston,” John greets back but his stare doesn’t stray from you.

Sighing, you clear your throat and glance back at your old partner.

“Let’s take this somewhere more private.”

Wait for me. We need to talk.

Your phone buzzes almost immediately.

I’ll be outside—Santi

Pocketing your phone with a faint sigh, you turn back towards John who sits on the loveseat in clear discomfort. He tries to hide it but you can read his tells.

“You shouldn’t be up and about,” you state flatly, and it’s impossible to miss your accusatory tone. “You do realise how close you came to death less than 24 hours ago, right?”

John breathes deeply, laboured; an exercise to block out the pain you know well enough. The only painkiller you’ve been able to locate inside his house was aspirin. Hardly the best drug given the circumstances due to its blood-thinning qualities but it’s not like you had any alternatives. In fact, with the wound tightly stitched, aspirin at least gave you some relief that the chances of him developing a blood clot have been reduced.

But watching him struggle with every inhale makes you bite back another sigh and move towards your work desk. Everything is still in place though the general mess from last night has been cleaned up. Your eyes snag onto two letters still sitting peacefully on your desk and you pause. You’ve been so ready to say goodbye. The desperation you’ve felt yesterday had blinded you but you don’t regret it. If you could avoid involving them, you still would. Even at the expense of your own life.

You reach for the two envelopes and input a code on the small keypad as your storage box opens. Inside, most of the spare solutions you’ve made in recent months. The rest sit safe and secure in the vaults underneath the hotel. The Continental is one of the few places you trust to store them.

You place the letters inside, lingering, and grab one of the vials on the side. The pale green liquid inside glimmers and you shake it a few times. Closing the door, you hear the telltale beep of the locks securing and turn back towards John again.

You hesitate for a second before you approach him, extending your hand.

Judging by his body mass, the dosage should be enough.

“For the pain and the swelling,” you inform him stiffly. “I’m still working on perfecting it so you’re better off going back to your room and sleeping this off. It will make you pretty dizzy and drowsy too. But besides Doc’s own work this is the best you can hope for around these parts. Should help with any possible infection too.”

“You weren’t there when I woke up.”

Your eyes shoot up to him, surprised. He holds your stare but reaches for the vial, his touch hesitant.

“Thought the High Table nabbed me?” you wonder with a humourless smile. “No. I left on my own accord.”

He digests your words, and you know that he understands what you’re trying to say. That you left because you didn’t want to stay. That even though he asked, you had the will to stand up and walk out of the door. That now, unlike before, it’s almost easy. Almost.

He gazes at you silently, and for split second you see the John from your dream. The John that always turns away. The John that always leaves. The John that’s always out of reach.

Just John.

“So what are you planning to do now?” you ask after the potent tension between you becomes near unbearable. “Your revenge is complete. I assume you know about Marcus too.”

“Yeah, I saw him,” John replies, and his quiet words are laced with pain. Marcus has been as much of a friend to John as he’s been a mentor. Back in their military days, all they had was each other. You know first hand how much protecting and fighting together binds people. How trust in them becomes an instinct, natural and effortless. “It’s my fault he died.”

“I talked him into it,” you say tightly, and your eyes leave him. It’s hard not to let guilt claw up your throat and steal your voice. “He—it was my fault. I underestimated Tarasov. His death is on me.”

Silence, and then, “I shouldn’t have involved either of you. I’m so sorry.”

Your attention goes back to him and you observe him coolly for several minutes.

The vial in his hand is empty and you smile again; even if it lacks warmth. “So how does it feel? Was it worth it? Your revenge?”

John doesn’t offer you an answer which is an answer in itself. His eyes lower and you notice him touch his wedding band, delicate and loving. A grieving husband. Perhaps it’s no wonder he rushed into this the way he did. When you’re hurting so much nothing else matters. You just want some form of release, an escape. Something to distract you from the misery of your own thoughts.

You know what that’s like.

“I owe you a debt,” he finally voices and you wonder if he realises how empty he sounds. How weary and reluctant. “The High Table—”

“Thinks that it was you.”

John’s eyes snap back to you, and you smile again, crossing your arms over your chest to hide the tremble in your fingers.

“Didn’t Winston tell you?” you question, a bite to your words that never used to be present when you talked. “I figured with the Russians possibly having something to say about Tarasov’s death he would have told you.”

John sighs and shifts slightly in his seat, his fingers ghosting over his wound. The sequence of little movements that just makes him look more miserable. “No, he didn’t,” he admits and you don’t quite understand his expression. “He isn’t too happy with me right now,” he adds wryly.

Your head tilts in confusion but before you can ask him anything else, he speaks, “Who will take over Tarasov’s mob?”

For a moment, you consider pursuing your previous line of inquiry but decide to drop it for now. Winston isn’t exactly happy with either of you at this moment.

Sighing, you consider his question. “Abram if I had to take a guess,” you divulge, and watch him dip his chin in consideration. “He’s the only blood relative of Viggo’s left. Igor may try to claim it but Abram has enough respect and pull to hold the position. Igor also doesn’t know New York the way Abram does. After such a heavy loss they need a strong leader who knows what he’s doing.”

“Does he have the power to call in your debt?”

“No,” you say without hesitation, and your eyes narrow on him. “Only an heir can inherit a debt unpaid. Viggo named his son his heir. He hoped that it would make Iosef step up to the plate. Man up. But, well, you know how well that worked out. Abram has no claim over my debt.”

For the first time since stepping inside your room, you see relief on John’s face. “So you’re free.”

You swallow thickly.

Those words make your skin itch.

Freedom.

A lack of leash does not amount to freedom.

“I—I don’t know,” you whisper and it sounds faint. “I’m pretty sure the High Table has to officially release me first. That’s assuming they don’t uncover any damning evidence that places me at the docks.”

John peers at you but his gaze now lacks that sharp edge. Your solution is starting to take effect. His muscles have started to relax, and the strain of pain that previously lingered across his features has been wiped away.

“You should be resting,” you remind him and clear your throat, glancing towards the window to avoid his stare. Your folded fingers twitch and you tighten your grip, your nails biting into your flesh even though it strains the bruised skin. “Go back, John. All those years ago, I told you to be happy. Your revenge is done. Go back and be glad that this ended as happily as it did. This isn’t your life anymore. You don’t belong here.”

It’s a cruel thing to say.

But so was I’m sorry. I never planned for this to happen.

So was walking out of that hotel room door knowing full well that the person you are leaving behind loves you more than anything.

You no longer know how to be kind and soft with him and it pains you.

John remains quiet for a long time after that. His expression creases with thought, troubling and deep, if the heavy curve of his shoulders is anything to go by. And when his stare does finally go back to you, as dark and as piercing as it has always been, you feel your heartbeat spike.

“I’m going to find my car first.”

And just like that, you know.

This isn’t over.

. . .

an: so you know when you all said how you want protective!Santi??? WELL HOW WAS THIS, HUH??? ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)

Also sorry if 1) this chapter got a bit heavy but wherein most people would be hyped up and ready to take on the world I kinda felt like all this suddenly piling on top of her would negatively affect V, making her retreat and break down a bit 2) if this reads rougher than usual. this part has been a bit of a struggle to write due to some outside factors and me straight up not having a great time these last few weeks.

As always, I adore you all. Thank you so, SO much for reading this series and being so incredibly passionate about it. To finish this fic is one of my 2020 resolutions and BOI do I have some stuff in the plans for you lot. Hope you all had wonderful holidays!!! See you all next decade~ ;)

#john wick #john wick x reader #john wick imagine #santino d'antonio x reader #john wick fic #santino d'antonio #keanu reeves #riccardo scamarcio #winston #ares #fic: children of ares

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stellarcat52 · 4 years ago

Text

Timeless blue chapter 5

My mind stops functioning halfway though the last few paragraphs. So lady of the lake episode, there were many ways this could have played out that would have been much better probably. (Douxie getting Excalibur alongside them, one of my plans had him learn magic alongside Claire and succeed. Another had him encounter Nari, won’t explain more) so if you don’t enjoy the way this episode went and you want to read one of the other possible scenarios I might write them. Still, hope you enjoy.

Hisirdoux had gotten Krel before getting the others, Krel was feeling somewhat better after what Hisirdoux believed was a night of rest. The prince had honestly been awake all night, something had been bugging him. He had been adding notes to the alchemy book until sunrise, trying not to focus on the strange feeling in his chest.

The group saw no difference in him, fatigue didn’t show, he didn’t bring it up, in fact he didn’t really talk to anyone but Hisirdoux. Douxie found this quite confusing while overhearing their whispers because Krel insisted on referring to both of them as Douxie.

Krel had to be asked personally to join them. Douxie almost asked Archie to steal the alchemy book that Krel was trying to use as an excuse to stay behind.

“Listen,” Krel stooped his grumbling, following behind Douxie on their way through the castle. “I... remember bits of what happened last night, with my past self and you. You’re not alone, and-“ Douxie fades off as Steve’s ramblings of monster trophies gets clearer.

The way there, and after setting up a campfire and such, Krel was mostly reading and marking down things still. Not even Merlin would be able to pry his focus away from it at this point.

“Do you really think Merlin’s plan will work?” Claire and Douxie were talking, on the opposite side of the small ship.

Douxie fumbled a bit with the time map. “We’ve run out of options, and my choices haven’t exactly been working recently.” Krel tensed nearby. “We cannot make any more mistakes. We’ll just have to trust Merlin this time.”

Claire sighs, “I just hope Jim made it out okay.”

Douxie responds with something that makes Steve laugh as they get closer to the cave entrance, and Krel was ready to hit himself. Douxie had apologized, Hisirdoux had helped him, and he was still blaming Douxie for bringing them to the past. Not because Douxie fought with him, not because Hisirdoux had originally bothered him, but because he was stuck in an unfamiliar place and time, and he blamed Douxie despite it not being the apprentice’s fault.

They had entered, while Merlin was speaking to Claire about shadow magic, Krel and Archie had very similar reactions to hearing what Steve’s swimsuit was.

“Blegh. Why does Aja like you?” Keel muttered, the first words he had spoken out loud during the trip itself.

Steve puffed or his chest. “I’m her blond oaf in shining armor. What’s not to like?”

“I could name a few.” Claire adds, rolling her eyes, but smiling.

“We’ve arrived.” Merlin announced.

Claire gasped in wonder. “The lady of the lake is real? I thought she was just a myth!”

“Oh, no. The lady of te lake is very much real.” Douxie pauses. “Though, only Merlin’s allowed to meet with her. Well... ‘Till now.”

“Because her power is beyond your comprehension.” Archie jumped up and flew around the cave. “It is from her waters I originally helped Arthur retrieve Excalibur.”

The group steps up to see a set of faced doors. Krel hangs back a little as Merlin takes the sword, and announces that he is to go inside alone. Krel zones out, some pressure fills the air. Similar to tension, but more physical.

“I won’t just sit here without making things right!” Douxie knocks Krel out of his daze as Merlin opens the doors.

A blue hand lightly grabs the wizard’s shoulder. “Douxie.” Their eyes meet without anger or uncomfortable tension for the first time in a while. “Maybe this isn’t your place to fix things. Merlin knows what he’s doing, I’m sure it will be fine.”

Douxie pauses, and turns back to the doors well after they’ve closed. “Merlin’s magic is uncrackable, we won’t be able to get in now.” His tone isn’t accusing, not blaming Krel for holding him back, but just informing the others.

“Well,” Archie flies over and perched on Douxie’s other shoulder as Krel’s hand drops. “At least we won’t have to see Steve’s birthday suit.”

Douxie smiles and pets his familiar before the words “Too late” leave Steve’s lips. Archie extends a wing in front of Douxie’s eyes and covers his own. Krel decides not to turn around for a while, so he’s left facing Douxie, who eventually does look out from under Archie’s wing.

“Does this mean you don’t hate me?” Douxie still wasn’t looking up, probably due to the fact they didn’t know Steve was no longer in his birthday suit, but also because he didn’t want to meet Krel’s eyes again.

“I-“ Krel inhales. “I should be the one to apologize. I was mad at you for something that you didn’t cause.”

“Oh.” Douxie glances up, but obviously doesn’t like what he sees behind Krel, which is Claire covering her eyes and quietly threatening Steve for good reason. “So.. we’re good now?” He extends a hand, which is met with a handshake.

“Yes.”

They stand in silence for another few seconds before moving. Claire was now glaring at Steve, but his visual was no longer mentally scarring.

They set up a camp, starting a fire with help from Archie and wondering how long it would take for Merlin to get Excalibur fixed.

Krel found it amusing that Steve was attempting to talk the doors open. Merlin had used magic, the only one there with a chance of opening the doors was Douxie. The doors commentary ruined the entertainment by causing Steve to open up about his stress.

“Well he needs a therapist.” Krel commented.

Douxie and Claire start talking about shadow magic, it’s danger, and how they could use it to get inside. Krel was reading over his notes, and using the blank pages to theorize about that strange presence or pressure.

He clicks back into the conversations as Douxie convinces Claire to try, not hiding the laughter the comment on not being a good student brought.

He watched Douxie walk Claire through the steps, the portal appearing, Claire disappearing, and through it all that strange pressure grew.

They got their way in, after Claire, Steve and Archie had entered, Douxie looked back at Krel to bring him too. “Krel? C’mon, you alright?” Of course, te akiridion had no physically symptoms of that massive pressure causing his core itself to feel as if it was a black hole.

“A headache,” he lied, “maybe I should stay out here and guard the entrance.”

“Alright.” Douxie turns back to the portal, closing. “Be safe. And don’t run off without us!”

“I can’t even drive you goober! Go save the past.” Krel faked a smile as Douxie disappeared.

The pressure lifted the moment the portal closed, sucked into the void alongside his friends. The sand met him as gravity seemed to take its toll, the fire crackled quietly as he stares at the cave ceiling, relieved of the strange presence. His core no longer felt in danger, but that meant the others might be.

——

The others were dealing with the “lady” of the lake fairly well. Douxie had retrieved Excalibur, freed the “Lady”, and headed out, to find a very frustrated Krel.

“So much for the headache, your highness.” Douxie grinned as he matched pace with the akiridion. “Though you wouldn’t have wanted to join us anyway. The lady of the lake is this huge tentacle sea monster.”

Keel chuckled, “I would not call that a lady on this planet. Maybe on one I have not visited, but not here.”

“Yeah, how many planets have you visited?” They stood next to each other, talking while in their own little world. Throughout the trip ignoring Claire, practicing making portals, and Steve’s wonderstruck protectiveness over his “monster trophy”.

Archie took perch on the edge of the boat instead of Douxie’s shoulder, he liked seeing his wizard happy, and did not want Krel showing interest in dragons just yet.

Part four Edit!!

#krel #douxie x krel #timeless blue fic #krel x douxie #douxel #krelxie #drel #tales of arcadia wizards #tales of arcadia #toa wizards #should i post this on ao3?#also next episode might be in multiple parts again #i want krel to learn magic #i want douxie to teach krel magic

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bi-rising · 4 years ago

Note

hey I just saw your post about PCOS being a hormonal issue not a gyno one while I was surfing the tag. I was diagnosed a couple months back and all my gyno did was a 2 min ultrasound and then prescribed me birth control. I would like to have actual help and more info on it but I'm not sure who I'm supposed to go to for that. Seeing as you were in a similar situation I'd appreciate your help.

seems like gynos really suck with pcos, don't they? 🥴 warning you now, this is going to be a very long post, because i'm essentially writing out absolutely everything i did and everything i've learned, so strap in for a ride aldksfjasldf

the first thing to do is research, research, research. i spent a whole week constantly on pcos websites (such as pcosaa and this article, tho fair warning, the article does use academic speech so it might not be the easiest thing to read) and watching videos and doing what i could to inform myself. the way you can know if you're looking at a credible resource is how the source defines pcos: does it pose it as a reproductive system disorder? or an endocrine (hormonal) disorder? if it talks about it as a reproductive system disorder, then it's probably wrong.

please note that i am not, obviously, a medical professional, but this is how i understand pcos works. i'll use me as an example just so i can use first person perspective, but it applies to pcos patients in general.

so, my cells are insulin resistant. that means that when i eat, my body releases, lets say, 100 (x measurement) of insulin. because my cells are insulin resistant, they say "hey, i'm only gonna use 50x of that insulin". but they still NEED that 100x to function. so my body releases ANOTHER 100x of insulin, so my cells go "ok i'll take 50x" and so while my cells now have the 100x they're supposed, to i now have 100x insulin floating around.

that extra insulin not only wreaks havoc on many systems of the body, it is the reason why most people with pcos that goes untreated end up with type 2 diabetes. the extra insulin is also converted (or spurs the creation of? i'm not entirely certain on the how here) into testosterone and other androgen (male) hormones. so your body has too much insulin, and now it has too much testosterone, too. that extra testosterone is what fucks with your reproductive system and prevents the follicles on your ovaries from maturing (which is what the 'cysts' are). it also often creates increased facial hair, acne (especially on the 'beard line'), and worse body odor. between the testosterone and the insulin, it's nigh impossible to lose weight.

also note that because your body has to release more insulin for your cells to get an adequate amount, you likely crave carbs and sugars (salty/crunchy things and sweets), and you're likely frequently fatigued, bc your body isn't, well, working correctly and it's taking more energy to perform basic functions.

secondly, take all this information that you know to your doctor. i legitimately wrote down some notes about this process in a little notebook and took it with me so that i wouldn't forget/get too anxious to bring any of it up. i also wrote down the things i had been doing to help up to that point (working out, what my diet was, etc etc) and what i was concerned about. lastly, i also wrote down what medications and supplements i had heard of in my research to see what my doctor thought of them.

my doctor's first 'attack' choice is ozempic--it's a weekly shot that helps to regulate insulin levels and also is pretty good at helping weight loss. be aware though that most commercial insurances don't pay for this, but if your doctor is good, they'll try to work around that so that you're not paying a frankly outrageous amount for it. also look out for sometime this fall, my doc said that the ozempic manufacturers are trying to get ozempic approved for weight loss (it's approved for other things) and that should help bring the price down?? anyway, that's my doc's preferred method, but because of my finances, we currently can't do that.

his second attack, which i'm now on, is metformin. it's a medication mostly used for diabetics that helps with blood sugar levels which, again, is that insulin issue. my mom has been on it for 14 years bc diabetes runs in our family anyway, so it's perfectly safe for long time use and definitely helps with keeping either away from or within the pre-diabetes phase. again, i've only been on it now two days so i can't say anything for me but we'll see how it goes lmao

he also approved of me using omega 3 (fish pills) supplements because they help balance things out in general, not just pcos, and he was good with me using spearmint, too. i'm starting out on one cup of spearmint tea a day and see how that effects me, but i've heard of people having up to two spearmint supplement pills and a cup of spearmint tea a day, too. spearmint is a 'defense', as far as i can explain it: it has (tho limited) research that it lowers the testosterone levels in women with pcos. so while it doesn't help with the insulin so it doesn't attack the source, it can help with the testosterone aspect, aka facial hair, acne, etc. i've also heard of cinnamon supplements and inositol supplements helping, but i didn't get a chance to ask about either of those from my doctor, so make sure if you want to give those a try, you talk about them and make sure they won't interfere with any of your other medications and get your doctor's approval on them, first.

thirdly, ask about what else you can do to help yourself. my doctor stressed the importance of a proper night's sleep, as well as advised to try to cut back on carbs and sugars (IMPORTANT NOTE: some people claim that you HAVE to be on a keto diet to get results with pcos. WRONG. please don't do this. keto diets are entirely unsustainable. and cutting back on carbs and sugars does not mean cutting them OUT, it just means if you want a snack, try reaching for a protein or a vegetable instead of a carb. but don't limit yourself!! please, be conscious about what you eat, and remember that sometimes yeah, a slice of cake or a serving of chips isn't going to kill you or set your pcos back. don't risk getting an e.d. just for the sake of your pcos). he also told me that the best exercise that i personally should do is either HIIT exercises or cardio, and to do at least an hour a day, even if it's 30 mins in the morning, 30 in the evening--and to work up to that so even doing ten minutes a day, then increasing it from there, is healthier and better than jumping straight into a whole ass hour. he also told me to aim for a certain heartrate. i don't remember the formula he used, but for me at 22 (based on age) he wanted me to try to aim for 150-160 bpm. again, especially with exercise, that was what he recommended for me. you're likely different from me, so ask your doctor and see what he says.

fourthly, and perhaps most importantly, DON'T BOTHER WITH A GYNO. all of this that i've gotten done for me was from my family doctor, so just the guy i go to for yearly check ups. see if you can do some routine blood work to give him (or her) as wide of a picture as possible, and then go in and talk with a regular doctor about this. a friend of mine also has a friend who actually goes to an endocrinologist to get her pcos sorted out, so that's also an option. gynos seem to just treat the symptoms; birth control gives you a regular period by helping with your estrogen, but that doesn't decrease your testosterone OR do anything with the insulin. my doc is keeping me on birth control pills just so that i have a regular cycle so we can watch and see if anything else happens to it, so it's okay to stay on the birth control, but ultimately, birth control pills don't do anything for pcos.

i know it's difficult and probably kinda scary/anxiety inducing if you're younger or just have anxiety, but you've gotta advocate for yourself in this case. you have to show the doctor that you know what you're talking about and that you're able to call him out on his bullshit if he doesn't take you seriously. also, if your doctor is helpful, don't be afraid to be frank with him about what your gyno did. like i've said with my experience, i got the validation of knowing that my gyno was wrong by explaining to my doctor how he treated me. you deserve better than what your gyno did, and you deserve to actually be treated as a person and your disorder be taken seriously.

i'm wishing you the best of luck, and i hope that you'll be able to get the help that you need 💕💕💕

#jupe's inbox #medical tw #just in case i guess lmao #long post

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becausewerebatfam · 5 years ago

Text

Our Future (3)

Jason Todd x Reader

Long gone was the memory of the time-traveling boy as Jason continued to f*ck up his chances with you.

Warning: Language and suggestive content.

The occupants of the cave took a collective sigh of relief when you strolled into the cave. Many thought you would not show up when you found out everyone was being called in, including your ex-boyfriend.

Said ex-boyfriend was cooly leaning against the cave wall cross-armed and left leg propped against the wall making the other leg carry the entirety of his weight. It was obvious he was looking your way despite his signature red helmet. This caught a few concerned glances.

“Behave,” was all Bruce said to him knowing very well that the case rested on his shoulders. If he said or did anything to piss you off then they would lose you. This mission relied on your particular set of skills.

“I didn’t do anything!”

“Yet,” Bruce deadpanned.

Jason’s eye narrowed watching Bruce walk away towards you and the others who seemed to quickly embrace your presence. It seemed no one had any sympathy for him. “What am I, the bad guy?” he muttered to himself before getting closer to hear what Bruce had to say about the mission.

For the most part, it seemed Bruce was trying to keep the peace between you two, He managed to plan things out so you only had to deal with Jason a handful of times.

But when you are dealing with a new threat, a new villain, things can get complicated fast.

+++

“Where’s Y/N!” Jason shouted as he narrowly escaped the crumbling building. Ashes littered the shoulders of his jacket as well as Barbara and Dick’s hair.

“I don’t know,” Barbara coughed looking all around. “I lost sight of her.”

Tim and Damian came from opposite sides of the building sporting similar disheveled looks.

“Did any of you see Y/N?”

Damian’s brow furrowed with worry as he looked at the pile of concrete.

Explosives were your area of expertise. Where to buy them, how to make them, components, arming, and diffusing.

“That blast came from the cellar,” Tim deduced as he studied the remains of the building. According to the plan you were supposed to have disarmed the bombs starting from the lower levels and working your way up.

Their attention quickly shifted behind them at the sound of a loud gasp followed by violent coughing. You struggled to get a firm grip of the dock with your leather gloves.

In an instant, Jason was pulling you up onto the weathered wood boards. He kept a firm grip around your waist as you leaned into him struggling to catch your breath.

“Guess I- missed one.”

“Tt, is that all you have to say?” Damian masked his pouting with anger as he yelled at you for being so sloppy with your work. “You could have killed us all!”

“I’m sorry,” you bowed your head forward. The action caused your soaking wet hair to fall forward shielding your face from them. Thankfully it hid the guilty tears that followed as you apologized to the group knowing very well this was all on you.

Jason sighed, “Idiot.” He straightened you up to face them all. “We’re all fine, it’s you we were worried about.” He turned to Damian, “the demon child was worried too.”

“Shut up Todd! I was only concerned-”

“Concerned is another word for worried,” Barbara pointed out. “Besides we got what we came for.” She held out the disk she had managed to take with her.

Tim pulled out a similar one as he expectantly looked to you.

With a cheeky smile, you lifted the bodice of your costume to reveal that you had indeed collected the third one.

“I knew we could count on you,” Dick hugged you. “Even in a life or death situation.”

Jason not so subtly pried The older male off of you as you told the others how you managed to jump off the roof and into the stagnant waters of the pier just as the building was toppling over.

“Stay away from her,” Jason warned just loud enough for him and Dick to hear.

“Relax little wing, at least now you have an excuse.”

Jason couldn’t help but smile thinking he was right. This was the excuse he had been waiting for.

As everyone began to head back you handed your disc to Barbara with no intention of going all the way back to the cave. You were too tired and needed to check for cuts and bruises if you were going to even think about going to work tomorrow. Not to mention the ache you felt at your ankle whenever you put your full weight on it.

You figured some bandages and a good night’s sleep would do.

This is when Jason took action and swiftly picked you up. His movements were swift and careful minding your injuries as he held you over his shoulder. “If you can’t walk just say so.”

“I can walk,” you pointed out before elaborating, “it’s just mildly painful.”

Jason chuckled, “stubborn as always.” A small smile of victory as you did nothing to stop him from taking you home.

“You’re one to talk.”

Your apartment was nearby but the location was very normal. In order to keep your identity a secret, you tended to sneak in through your own window through a back alley.

When Jason climbed onto your balcony with you on his back you had to commend him for managing the scale. “That was impressive I have to admit.”

“Impressive enough for you to invite me in?”

He had always respected your boundaries and kept his distance from your home despite clearly being able to sneak inside himself.

You smirked, “Nice try but this isn’t one of those near-death experiences where I suddenly realize I want nothing more than to be with you.”

There were plenty of times when you two ended up making up over the rush of a near-death experience. Nights when all you wanted was to be in each other's arms appreciating that you got to live another day.

Although you had to admit your heart did skip a few beats knowing that he still cared enough about you to notice the small signs of you concealing your own pain. Or the fact that he put aside his pride to reach out to you first this time around.

“Besides I-”

You were cut off when his big muscular arms wrapped around you nearly crushing all the air out of your lungs.

“Maybe not for you,” he shakily sighed. It was hard to swallow the lump of emotion in his throat. The possibility of tears was very much present. “When the building collapsed and you weren’t there I thought-”

Emotions were contagious. Your arms wrapped themselves around him running soothing circles on his back to assure him you were fine. “Jerk!” You blamed him for the fresh batch of tears.

The thought that he still had feelings for you was more than enough for you to start hoping once more. The shift of his chin from the top of your head to your shoulder started a fire in your belly.

Jason couldn’t hold back much longer. He turned his head pressing his lips to your cheek. “I love you Y/N.” His lips went lower kissing along your jawline down to your neck sending a shudder down your spine.

“I love you too Jason.”

The next day you didn’t go to work. Cuts and bruises be damned, even your ankle couldn’t keep you away from work but it was hard to ignore the ache between your legs. Your thighs and hips burned as you felt the accumulation of three months away from Jason imprinted on your body.

+++

Too bad Jason always had to do something to ruin a good thing.

“Hey!” Roy nearly shrieked as he dodged the fist that came straight at his face. “I’m just saying you might want to start thinking of an apology Jaybird.”

Jason bit down the urge to swing at his best friend a third time. It wasn’t his fault this was happening. Roy’s only fault was pointing out the obvious, a repeat offense on his part but nothing worth injuring him for.

“Don’t you think I know that!”

Roy put his arm around Jason’s shoulders in an effort to relax him. “She really gets to you, huh?”

“I f*cking quit smoking! What else does she want from me?”

Yeah, it was just as Roy thought. Jason was experiencing the symptoms of withdrawal. He couldn’t tell before when he was silently brooding and violent. It took a lot of pestering until he finally hit the nail on the head. “Maybe she just needs some space to- sorry.” Roy quickly backed off knowing how annoyed he was by those particular words.

“She asked me to move in then asks for a break?” Jason’s voice begins to rise at the turn of events. “Who does that?”

“In Y/N’s defense, you did turn her down.”

“All I said was we should think things through.”

“You turned her down Jay,” Roy pointed out matter-of-factly. “Women are complex and read into every word.” The only reason Roy was so confident in confronting his friend was thanks to his knowledge on the subject, not of experience but he had already talked to you when he saw you earlier that night. “By the way, she said if you even go near her, she’ll kill you.”

Jason suddenly became interested in Roy once more taking a step in front of him to stop him from retiring to his room for the night. “She talked to you?”

Roy nodded smugly, “Our relationship is as strong as ever.” The grin turned into a smirk as he thought of a way he could add fuel to Jason’s fire. “We mostly talk sh*t about you behind your back anyway. Now that she’s giving me some juicy details it’s twice as fun.” His eyes went south to Jason’s thighs. “Heard you got a nicely hidden beauty mark and that size truly does not matter.”

Oh, Jason was not amused.

+++

Dick approached you with all the intention in the world to help you out of your mind. Lately, it seemed you were only physically present while your mind wandered. He didn’t need confirmation from you but he knew what particular red hooded person had invaded your mind to the point of madness.

He pulled you out of your thoughts by placing a comforting and supportive hand on your shoulder. “I’m always here if you need to talk.”

Your lips curled into a sheepish smile knowing you hadn’t been on your a-game lately. “Thanks Dick, but I...” You sighed, “it’s complicated.”

“Your relationship or Jason?”

“My relationship with Jason.”

Dick’s arms motioned to a nearby bench offering you a seat and a moment to unpack the emotional baggage.

Another sigh escaped as you settled into the cold concrete bench in the middle of the night. Not a single streetlight seemed to function in a three-block radius shrouding you both in darkness. It wasn’t the best of places to have a heart to heart with a friend or your on and off significant other’s brother.

“Tell Dr. Nightwing all about your troubles.”

“We’d be here all night.”

“Luckily for us, our job requires us to be here all night.” Technically you two were supposed to be patrolling the city and unless you got a call from Bruce or Tim then it would be fine to stick around for a while.

“Why is your brother such an as*?”

Dick shrugged, “I think he died once and came back super murdery... might be related to the problem.” You giggled which is what Dick intended with the joke. “I’m glad that worked. I was going to go with- which brother at first.”

“You know I asked him to move in with me.”

Dick’s eyes widened knowing how particular you were about having your space. It was one of the reasons you and Jason fought. He was very forward, touchy, flirty- had no problem with invading your personal space from day one. Often Dick would hear Jason’s complains of how you never allowed him to stay the night. The times when he was allowed past your threshold were rare.

All you wanted was to confirm that your relationship could turn into something more serious. It shouldn’t have hurt as much as it did, however, you had a lot on your mind lately.

“And the jerk said NO!”

Dick gasped not minding your sudden change of volume rather reacting to the context. “He really said no?”

“Well, he didn’t exactly say no. He said we should think about it.” Whenever you thought back to that moment you almost wished you could take back the vulnerable position you had put yourself in. It was the one time you had lowered your walls and quite literally invited someone into your life. “If Jason doesn’t think it’s a good idea then I don’t see the point.”

Dick was startled by your downcast somber look, he had never seen you this way before. Whenever you and Jason fought it seemed fun. You two seemed to enjoy the back and forth banter never taking it seriously. “The point?” he asked rather cautiously.

“The point of holding onto something that isn’t there.” A deep exhale cleared your resolve. “I always thought we fought because we cared too much about one another but now I’m starting to think they were just warning signs of how incompatible we are.”

“Woah, hold on.” Dick stopped you from walking away. “If anyone is compatible with Jason it’s you Y/N.” He wasn’t saying that for his brother’s sake. He truly felt you two were a perfect match. And what’s a match without a little fire?

You did not look back.

“I don’t think I can patrol Gotham anymore.”

“What?” Dick was dumbfounded by the statement. “So you weren’t talking about ending things with Jason?”

You shrugged, “Perhaps.” If you were right about your suspicions of the past few weeks then... “I won’t be sure until I check... the sooner the better.”

When Dick informed Bruce of your decision to end your patroling of the city he was met with understanding.

Dick gave Bruce a pointed look. “I’m disappointed I thought you would put up more of a fight.”

“What is there to fight over?” Bruce tapped away at the batcomputer without sparring a look. It was only the two in the cave now with Damian and Tim out on patrol and Jason off as an outlaw with Roy.

The screens all showed information on Jason and what he had been up to lately. He was monitoring him, most likely looking for his location.

Aware of Dick’s wondering eyes Bruce let him in on what he was up to. “Jason has taken on a dangerous job. I haven’t been able to locate him in three days.”

“You think he’s in trouble?”

“I won’t know until I find him.”

“I see so you’re in Dad mode, keeping an eye on your baby birds.”

Bruce froze momentarily, “Not exactly.” Before you made your decision to stop patrolling Gotham you had gone to Bruce with your suspicions asking for his help. If you were right and needed to speak to Jason then he would help you find him.

“Then why are you looking for him?”

“Precaution,” he simply answered.

“Why do I feel like you know something I don’t?”

+++

“And the pregnancy test was indeed positive.”

“Aw sh*t...” you muttered. This was one suspicion you hoped would not end up being true. You had put off an official test at the doctor’s hoping the random bouts of sickness would be some sort of flu that came and went but when it came and never went you had to do the responsible thing.

The doctor didn’t quite catch on to your words. To her, it looked like you were simply shocked. Your nervous grin was simply a nervous smile to her. “Congratulations,” she offered reassurance in the form of stats. Letting you know how your unborn child was completely healthy, as were you.

“Thanks,” was all you could offer in exchange.

You walked out of the doctor’s office looking down at the papers you were handed by the receptionist full of information. A smaller black and white glossy strip with three images held securely by your thumb atop the stack.

Engrossed by your new reality kept you from realizing you stepped past the awaiting figure.

“Hey!” Damian shouted following you with a scowl. He wasn’t sure if this was one of your jokes where you pretend not to see him because he’s too short or if you genuinely missed him. When he called your name once more it became obvious it was the latter.

“Huh?” You turned around to face the angry teenager who every day seemed to grow. “Dami I didn’t recognize you.” With his busy schedule and you not being on patrol anymore, there were hardly any chances for you two to meet. This was your first sighting of him in weeks and you were positively glowing at the sight. “You got taller.”

He smirked, “I know.” He wasn’t as comfortable in his normal clothes walking around the city. He didn’t like that he wasn’t being told what was going on with Jason or why you had stopped showing up. “I heard Jason might be in some foreign prison and wanted to check on you.”

“WHAT!?”

“So you didn’t know.”

“THAT STUPID-” you sighed as a line of text flashed back in your mind stating how stress affected the baby. “Dami, how did you get here?”

“I drove,” he jingled his keys in your face.

“Take me to the manor.”

Damian obliged, he drove you straight there in his incredibly expensive sports vehicle. It wasn’t the most comfortable ride but it beat public transportation at this point as you suddenly became paranoid about anything happening to you for the sake of the helpless life inside you.

It wasn’t until you two were in the cave looking for Bruce that Damian thought of asking, “Why were you at the physician’s office?”

“How old are you Damian?”

A single brow rose in question, “Sixteen.”

You decided that was old enough for you to tell him but not as bluntly. “Your stupid brother is going to be a father.”

Damian stopped in his tracks, “Todd!?”

He had nearly forgotten all about the time he met that annoying kid from the future. The way things had been going he thought perhaps the possibility of that future had ended but he was wrong.

“Tt-” Damian eyed your stomach with a scowl, James Todd was indeed going to be born.

Bruce stepped almost out of nowhere, the shadows most likely, at the sound of Damian’s voice. “So it’s true.”

You reluctantly nodded, “Guess so.”

At the moment you were a mess of emotion. It was hard to feel happy when you weren’t on the best of terms with Jason. Yet, you didn’t hate the idea of becoming a mother. All things considered, Jason was physically attractive and intelligent so your child would have that going for him. You did begrudgingly love him as well so perhaps it was time you end your silent treatment.

“I know I told him to f*ck off but...” you shook your head no real ending to your statement in mind. “Do you know where he is?”

Bruce nodded in understanding, “I’ll go get him.”

+++

“Jason,” Batman sternly called out to the red hooded individual before he could run away. The night did little to hide his reluctance to stop. Bruce already knew there were plenty of other places he’d rather be than there.

“I don’t even need to turn around to know that’s you,” Jason turned around to face the man that had been monitoring him from afar. “Am I now going to know why you’ve been breathing down my neck?”

The silence had Jason defensively raising his hands. “I’ve been good, honest.” Well, he hadn’t killed anyone, only bled them near death so they would talk.

Batman gave him a knowing look, “We’ll talk about that later.” He took careful long strides towards and past him leading him out of the jungle. “For now, follow me.”

“What, you don’t think I have better things to do than follow a grown man dressed as a bat through the jungle?”

Batman fetched a remote out of his utility belt. With a press of a button, the sound of an aircraft starting up could be heard. “Do you have any other means of escaping this jungle?”

Jason did not.

“Guess it beats public transportation.” He nonchalantly rubbed the back of his neck feeling slightly relieved. “The subway system here must be crazy.”

Once they were seated in the Batplane Jason took his helmet off allowing himself to relax a bit. His mind wandered off to Roy wondering if he had been successful in his solo mission.

He would have to contact him later.

When there was no more work to be done his mind went straight to the source of his unrest. You were the only reason he was going crazy overworking himself. Allowing Roy to keep him busy with sh*tty jobs was in a way essential to him keeping from going crazy with thoughts of you.

“Thinking about Y/N?”

Jason straightened up looking over at Batman’s smug grin.

“Suddenly got the urge to parent your orphan?”

”She asked me to find you.”

The sass was gone as he became genuinely interested in his reason for helping you find him. It wasn’t like you couldn’t do it yourself. “Why would she ask you?”

He could think of one too many times where you would suddenly appear only to drag him out of a dangerous situation. He could be in the most remote of places yet you would somehow find him. A part of him always wondered if you had secretly implanted some sort of tracking device on him.

“Why would you eve help? This doesn’t seem like something Batman would do.”

“You’re right,” Batman nodded. “It’s something a father would do for his son’s sake.”

Jason’s eyes widened startled by the confession. He quickly looked away to hide the hint of emotion.

“You two need to have a serious talk.” Bruce knew Jason’s feelings for you were strong he just hoped he was mature enough to finally admit once and for all.

“I don’t know if you know this or not but you’re not exactly the best person to be giving love advice.”

Silence.

“Playboy Bruce Wayne aside, Batman isn’t doing so well either when it comes to relationships. You have that thing with Catwoman then, of course, there’s that demon child with your baby mama-”

Batman turned giving him a pointed look. We’ll see how well you do then.

+++

“Oh, the joy!” Starfire beamed at you as she finally got to see you for the first time after finding out your situation from Roy. “How long do human females gestate? I can not wait to meet the little one.”

Roy hushed her not knowing when exactly Jason would be back.

You had gone looking for him when Tim informed you that Bruce had brought said Outlaw back to Gotham but it seemed your timing was off. When you arrived it seemed Jason had gone out.

“It’s going to be a while Star. It takes about nine months, by the doctor’s estimations I’m only 12 weeks along.”

Starfire giggled as she continued to stare at your abdomen. When you first entered she thought nothing of your attire but now that she knew your secret she realized the oversized hoodie you wore was meant to hide your protruding belly. “I like the cute belly, may I see it again?”

You nodded grabbing the hem of your black hoodie to pull it up to just under your bust line. Perhaps you were grouchy from the hormones but you did not find anything to be cute these days. To you the “cute belly” as Starfire called it, only seemed like you had one too many beers the night before.

“Thought of any names,” Roy asks.

“All I’ve thought about is telling Jason... I’m worried he might not take it so well.”

“Jason?” Roy asked before breaking out into a fit of laughter. His best friend was so madly in love with you that he was sure this would not be a problem. “You do know he’s whipped right?”

The question was met with an unhappy distant grunt.

Star immediately removed her hand allowing your hoddie to fall back in place while Roy pretended to look away. “Well guess that’s our queue to go. Come on Star.”

You gave them a smile and an appreciative nod knowing they were giving you some privacy so you could hash things out with the father to be.

Star couldn’t help but hug Jason repeating her excitement. “Oh, the joy!”

This left Jason angry and confused but it was quickly forgotten when his eyes met yours. There was something about seeing you in casual clothes that just took his breath away. It made him feel special knowing the you that wasn’t in the suit, the you that wasn’t a vigilante.

“I heard you hung up the cape.”

You nodded, “Doctor’s orders.”

His face sunk as he began to think the worst. “What’s wrong, are you sick?”

“No, not really... it's complicated.” The doctor hadn’t really banned vigilantism but it required many risks that you knew a pregnant woman shouldn’t be taking. If he knew what you did for a living then you were sure he’d be against it. “First I want to apologize for, well-”

Jason knew how hard it was for you to apologize even when you were wrong. In this case, he did not think you had anything to apologize for. He took a few steps forward testing how close you would allow him to get since you were being apologetic and all.

“Don’t hurt yourself,” he teased.

“Shut up!” Your hands went to your cheeks as you felt a warmth spread across them. With Jason so close you realized how much you missed him.

Jason smiled, your voice was music to his ears after being deprived of it.

It had been nearly a month since your lover’s quarrel that resulted in you two taking a break from one another. Although he busied himself he hadn’t forgotten it. “I went to look for you as soon as I could but I guess you beat me.”

You nodded, thankful for his explanation to why he wasn’t here.

“I have something important to tell you but I don’t want to say it until I know where we stand.” You had decided to pour your heart and soul into raising your baby preferably with Jason. However, you wanted to give your child stability, something you two seemed to lack. “I don’t want to keep doing this on and off thing we keep doing.”

You didn’t want to make him feel obligated to stay with you because you were pregnant. You wanted him to stay only if he loved you.

Jason’s heart sank, this was starting to sound too much like a breakup.

“You know I’m not good with expressing my emotions,” you began to feel your eyes glaze over. “But I just need to know-” You cut yourself off as you choked back a sob.

Jason panicked at the sight of your tears wondering if it was okay for him to comfort you. His instincts told him to hold you close, to kiss away your tears, and assure you that he loved you.

Before he knew it his hands were on your cheeks, his thumbs clearing the stray tears. Briefly, he let go to remove his domino mask leaving no room for error as he conveyed his feelings. “I love you Y/N.” His rough lips pressed against your softer ones in a loving chaste kiss. Jason didn’t know how he was holding back from just devouring your lips but it was important for him to show that he could be more than just a passing passion, he could be a reliable loving partner. “I always have and always will,” his lips brushed yours with every word.

“I love you too,” you smiled now dry-eyed.

Your eyes glanced down at how closely you were pressed against Jason. Thankful for the armor that prevented him from feeling your concealed bump. When you tried pulling away Jason only held on tighter trapping your arms at your sides where they had been.

“Just stay like this a while longer.” A hand at the back of your head urged you forward into his chest. He then rested his chin atop your head feeling all the more at ease. He had missed this, the way you fit perfectly against him.

“But I still have something to tell you.”

“Then tell me.”

“I can’t just casually say it.”

“Why not?”

You sighed, “Fine have it your way.”

Jason looked down at you expectantly when you shifted to look up at him. The unreadable expression on your face holding him captive.

“I’m pregnant,” you quickly admitted before in a much louder tone adding, “And I’ll kill you if you ask who the father is, even as a joke!”

Jason’s lips turned into a huge grin. “Are you serious?”

“About killing you? Yeah.” You were finally able to wiggle out of his hold as he subconsciously loosened his hold to accommodate the new situation.

“Do you know how long I’ve been waiting for this moment?!”

You weren’t exactly shocked by his reaction- more taken aback. It wasn’t like your getting pregnant was intentional. You had both been careful but of course, birth control and condoms could only do so much. (Remember Kids: Nothing is ever 100% effective.)

“What do you mean?”

He smirked, “You said I wasn’t Daddy material yet here I am.”

You rolled your eyes in annoyance, ”Is that all you have to say after knocking me up?” Soon you would be subjected to the worst baby daddy jokes ever by the father of your child. But it was all quickly forgotten with the lively laughter of said jerk.

Jason once again held you, this time much more gently than before. “I think this is the happiest I’ve ever been.”

“Me too.”

*BONUS*

You thought it was funny how everyone managed to guess the gender of your unborn child correctly. At first, you thought perhaps Jason had failed at keeping his mouth shut when the whole manor correctly guessed you were due to have a boy. Even more, suspicious when they knew your son was due in mid-August.

“Don’t lie Jason, you told them!”

“I swear I didn’t Babe.”

Damian rather enjoyed seeing how you two fought. Of course with you being pregnant the fights were much less intense with Jason trying to make sure you didn’t get too agitated, for the baby’s sake.

“Do not lie to the mother of your child, Jason.” Damian decided to put the final nail in the coffin. “He even told us you decided to name your son James.”

If looks could kill Jason would be dead... again.

You had only decided the night before to name your son after the charismatic child you had helped years ago. Not once had you admitted to Jason that James was the reason you looked forward to having a son.

Jason had shown a much more caring and mature image in the short time you cared for James. Even back then, it made you think Jason would be a great father.

“That’s enough.” You held Jason’s shoulder as he pinned Damian to the wall. “You and I have to talk.”

“Babe I really didn’t-”

Your index finger lightly pressed against his lips silencing him.

Even Damian got chills from the fake smile you used to mask your anger. He never knew pregnant women could look so threatening. A small part of him wondered if he had gone overboard.

“Let’s go.”

As soon as you turned your back Jason dropped Damian. “You’re having fun aren’t you?” Jason knew all too well that Damian was acting much braver around you these days knowing there wasn’t much he could do without you getting angry at him.

Damian was provoking him.

“But once that baby is out...” Jason smirked leaving the threat to Damian’s imagination.

Damian returned the smirk. “Won’t you be too busy drowning in diapers?”

Jason nodded, “perhaps.” It was true, a baby would make it difficult for him to enact his revenge but the baby would eventually have to sleep. “But did you know babies sleep a majority of the day?”

The two were about to go at it again when your voice echoed the cave.

“Sh*t! My water broke.”

-end-

A/N: I hope the flow was good despite the various time skips. Let me know if you liked it ^^ I’m off to work on my next creation.

Tag List: @avengerdragoness @sarcasmismyfirstlove @butterfly-highflyer @annapointone @call-me-zero-zro @httpfandxms @jasontoddsgunholster @fandomfan315 @chims-kookies

(could not tag) @bad-bitch-khaleesi @assellium

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pentanguine · 4 years ago

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22) What is your sexual and romantic orientations? Are they affected by your gender?

Ah, the million dollar question.

Honestly, short answer, I have no idea. And maybe I’ll never have any idea! Maybe my sexuality and/or my understanding of it will shift every few years as I learn new words and ways of being, or as I have different life experiences. Maybe I’ll never settle down and “figure it out,” because there is no a priori sexuality living inside me like the solution to a puzzle, there’s just complex human feelings overlapping clumsily with a rigid society. Sexuality is totally made up, not because the feelings aren’t real but because the way we taxonomize those feelings is so particular to time and place, and I’m particularly bad at fitting into the structure of the time and place where I live! I’m attracted to people of many different genders, to different extents and in different ways across time, but mostly I seem to be into women, and I am not a woman or a man. This experience is well-nigh impossible to shoehorn into the schematic of modern Western sexual orientation.

I’ve had so many epiphanies about sexuality, and at the time, each one felt like a lightbulb going off and something finally settling inside me. But all of those experiences have shifted over time, and they’ll probably keep on shifting. First I thought I was bi, and then I realized that the thought of being a woman with a boyfriend made me feel bleak, so I jettisoned the idea of a boyfriend and called myself gay; then I realized that I was still attracted to men even if I didn’t want to date them and I read a lot of think-pieces on sexual fluidity; then I realized I was genderqueer and leaned way too hard into being a lesbian to justify my attraction to women (because if I wasn’t a lesbian, it would be Bad!); and then last year I decided I felt much more comfortable calling myself bi and just giving my sexuality the space to sprawl out and make itself at home, even if I do have a preference.

And my actual sexuality changes, too! The more I stop pressuring myself to be a neat little lesbian who was Born This Way, the more comfortable I feel acknowledging that my formative experiences with attraction in middle school involved guys, and not girls. It’s not just that I was oblivious (although I was also that), I was just into guys more often and more strongly, which is the same way I feel about women now. And yeah, it is really, really weird to have your sexuality do a 180 like that! It’s not like it happened overnight, but it does lead to this feeling of disjointedness with my past self, like I jumped through some kind of parallel universe portal and emerged in an alternate sexuality timeline. In retrospect, I guess the best way to describe what I was was a girlfag: I thought of myself as a girl, even if I wasn’t one, but I wanted other boys to think I was a boy, and I liked guys who were pretty and effeminate and possibly gay, because if they were gay that made them “better” to be attracted to. The first narrative for this is that I’m a straight girl who fetishizes gay men; the second narrative for this is that I’m a lesbian who has crushes on feminine, unattainable boys as a proxy for girls; the third narrative is that I’m trans and gay and so duh, I like queer guys.

[A Tangent]

Also, you know what, it’s very important to me to not be a lesbian. Because I’m not. We can’t all be lesbians! And that’s ok!

I am not a man and I am mostly attracted to women and I have a very complicated relationship with my infrequent attraction to men, but that does not inherently mean that I am a lesbian struggling with comp het. Maybe I really am a bi person with a preference. Maybe I really am a genderqueer person with no affiliation or alignment or whatever the fuck to womanhood. Maybe my interest in men is so complicated by my own transmasculine gender that I can’t really access it. Maybe my experiences don’t need to be twisted to fit a Good and Proper Lesbian Narrative wherein I realize that Men Are Bad and Women Are Good and I’m not really attracted to the Bad People, and I’m absolutely willing to reduce myself to being Basically A Good Person so that the Good and Loving Light of Lesbianism will shine down upon me.

Look, lesbians are great. Lesbian is a word with so much political power, so much potential for self-definition and self-realization, and so much more fluidity than people give it credit for. It’s a beautiful word and sometimes I wish I were a lesbian. But I’m not, because I choose not to be. I will be mistaken for a lesbian for the rest of my life. The specifics of my queerness will never be legible to other people, because people will see me at my most visibly queer and think “she is a lesbian,” and they will see me with my hypothetical girlfriend and think “those women are lesbians.” And so while lesbian is a word that could fit me under its umbrella if I so chose, I don’t so choose, because it’s not the most accurate or fulfilling word for my queerness, and I will be lesbian until proven otherwise for the rest of my life. And so, when given the chance amongst friends and fellow queers, I want to prove otherwise.

I’m also ace, which I see as the queer umbrella that covers all of my sexuality and gender under its scope. My feelings on how, exactly, I’m a-spec have shifted wildly between “gray-asexual,” “demisexual?,” and “totally ace” over the years, often multiple times within the same freaking week. Trying to pin down what sexual attraction even is when it’s something you rarely or never experience, and when it’s also something that you approach through a totally different lens than most people, is an exercise in futility. Words like “hot” or “turned on” or just “sex” don’t even make sense to me; I know broadly what other people mean when they say them, but when I try to find corollaries in my own experiences, I either come up empty-handed or with something that’s like a distorted reflection seen through fog.

I’m not aromantic, but the older I get the less I feel like romantic attraction applies to me, so at this point I’d consider myself sort of philosophically aromantic. I know I’m not actually aro, but the kind of attraction that I feel, while very normative (fluttering hearts; swooping stomachs; improbable daydreams; a desire to impress), also has nothing whatsoever to do with emotions or relationships. My body finds other people cute, and my brain tends to agree, but those feelings don’t lead to desire. They don’t go anywhere. Appreciating the experience of being attracted to someone almost never leads me to want anything from that attraction. I don’t know what that is (maybe it’s shyness or insecurity, or maybe it is some kind of queerness), but I do know that I don’t want to push through it and force myself to go through those rituals just because other people tell me I should want to.

I guess a lot of the disconnect for me comes from calling that type of physical attraction romantic, when for me it has nothing whatsoever to do with sweeping romantic emotions or intimate relationships. I’d be tempted to call the attraction aesthetic, except I think that’s what I feel for forests and my friend Jonesy’s fashion choices (visual appreciation with no real attraction), and I doubt it’s alterous attraction because the symptoms seem so commonplace and archetypical. So I assume I do feel what most people, bafflingly, call romantic attraction, and the romance part is just a miss for me because I’m delightfully perverse or something. I just don’t understand why “person I find attractive” and “person I want to be intimate partners with” and “person I want to have sex with” and “person I want to cohabit with” all has to be the same person. The whole narrative of romance just doesn’t make sense to me.

Good god, this got long.

To finally end up at the second part of the question: My genderqueerness is very closely intertwined with my sexuality, to the point where I wish we still had words like “invert” that combined the two and saw them as mutually constitutive rather than at constant odds with one another. Basically, I see myself as being fundamentally bi, but gay both ways: I’m similar-to-although-not-the-same-as women when I’m attracted to a woman, and similar-to-although-not-the-same-as men when I’m attracted to a man. (When I have a crush on a nonbinary person, I’m just really t4t.) At the moment, attraction to women is the most salient aspect of my sexuality, which is often fraught, because I’m a lot more adamant about Not Being a Woman than I am about not being a man. But I’m still gay for women, and I think I come from a long lineage of people with similar experiences (Vernon Lee, Radclyffe Hall, Leslie Feinberg, Rae Spoon, etc). Speaking of Rae Spoon, I think it’s very easy to assume that you’re not into men when you spend so much time being/trying not to be jealous of them. But I’ve learned that it’s possible for something to be both. Maybe when I love men hypothetically but find it difficult to translate into reality, that’s not because “ew, men bad,” that’s because “DANGER, gender bad.” Maybe (radically! shockingly!) I am actually bisexual and I have crushes on people of various different genders, and none of that negates my attraction to anyone else.

So in summary, I guess I’m just queer, with a side of bi (*gestures expansively*) and ace (*shrugs blankly*).

#i left asexuality out of the last part because i feel like i have a whole other post in me about the intersection of ace and gender shit #gqid asks #i'm sorry this is really very long #i've got to stop hitting the really meaty questions on sundays #when i can spend multiple self-indulgent hours just stewing over them #there's so much more ace stuff that i want to talk about but i don't know that i have all my thoughts in order #and some of the ace stuff would be tangential and also kind of tmi #my friends are recapping to me a livestream of a party in this homophobic horse game and i am so baffled and delighted #add it to the list of things that happened in november 2020

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lavender-rebellion · 5 years ago

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The Reality of Existence Chapter one

Masterpost

AO3 Link

Ships: Analogical and Royality

Description: "Thomas looked around his living room and felt a stone in his gut. He had four freshly human sides before him. Four human, terrified, grown adult men who had never lived a day in the real world. Four men who didn’t legally exist, permanently in reality. They were in his care now, and that dormant panic made itself known once more.“ A story about learning to live and learning to love. But also about being roommates, first jobs, being an adult, and that friendship really is the strongest force on earth. They all have things to teach and things to learn, but that’s part of being human. (They have to learn how to do that too, though)

TW for a panic attack and what can be seen as depression symptoms.

Thomas closed the door noisily behind him, letting out a heavy sigh and quickly making his way over in front of his TV, the familiar spot lending him some comfort and he could feel most of the anxious energy fall from his shoulders. He took a moment to take in the new perspective of his living room the spot gave him, before rolling his shoulder and finding the threads inside him. Thomas tugged at the one thrumming with more nervous energy than usual, watching Virgil appear on the stairs nearly immediately. Seems he was waiting for him, which was fair considering that Thomas had been thinking of this all day.

“It’s bad.” Virgil agreed quickly, wrapped up tight in his hoodie with darker bags than usual. Thomas still wasn’t sure if they were natural or makeup, and Virgil always dodged the question. Honestly, he didn’t know which one was more troubling, if Virgil apparently hadn’t gotten a good days sleep ever or if he thought it was a good fashion choice. Speaking of bad fashion choices…

“I knew it, they hated it!” He despaired, running a hand through his hair. Virgil nodded solemnly.

“There is an unusual amount of icky-sticky energy in here.” Patton rose up, hands on his hips. “If I didn’t know better I’d think your name was Vicky!”

Thomas let out a small chuckle at the Fairly Odd Parents joke because while it wasn’t Patton’s best it was clear that he was trying to cheer him up. Virgil sent a tense smile at the other side, who seemed to pick up on the mood and clapped his hands together.

“Alright then, what’s the problem, kiddo? I’ve got my listening ears on and I’m ready to ear you out!”

“It’s his new shirt!” Virgil chimed in, gesturing. Patton looked confused.

“My friends hated it!” Thomas clarified, “I looked awful all day, and they kept sneaking looks at it with this look on their face..”

“Thomas have we not already gone over your cognitive distortions? It was only a few months ago, surely you remember?” Logan rose up, flipping through a planner. He looked up to give Thomas a disapproving look, before returning Patton’s wave and sharing a smile with Virgil.

“Well yeah, but this is different.” Thomas insists, feeling a little silly but mostly like he needs to change his name and go into hiding.

“Look, Thomas, there is only one option and you know it. It’s time to move away to a remote village and become a hermit, never showing your face again.” Virgil cut in, chopping his hands down to emphasize his point. He nodded along, crossing his arms and wondering how long it would take to pack up his entire house and buy a new one. One without internet access, he couldn’t ever go online again.

“Uhhhh….” Patton looked up at Virgil dubiously. Logan shot him a similar look.

“That’s a bit of an overreaction, is it not? We can’t just go into hiding over a bad ‘look’.”

“Watch me.”

“What’s wrong with his shirt, again? I’m lost.” Patton asked.

“And why are you reacting so strongly to this, it’s hardly the worst thing you’ve worn out of the house,” Logan added, and Thomas clutched at his chest, offended. What could he possibly be talking about, and why was he so quick to remember it? Was it recent? Had Thomas just been walking out of his house looking like he got dressed in the dark for ages?

“Not helping, Lo!” Virgil ran his hands over his face, dark bags still perfect afterward which lent weight towards the natural theory..what were they arguing about again? “Anyway, that’s not the point, the point is that Thomas looked ridiculous all day and it’s all on camera!”

Oh right, that.

“OH! That’s right, you were filming that collab today weren’t you?” Patton jumped, clapping his hands together again. “How did that go?”

They all looked over at him, disbelieving, before turning back to the conversation.

“Everyone is going to see my stupid shirt and laugh, and screenshots are going to be all over Tumblr and there will be memes-”

“Are you really that worried about a bunch of 13-year-olds making fun of you?” Logan interrupted. Thomas ignored him.

“-and people are going to think I’m silly and then they’re going to realize that I’m a weird 30 year old who records himself talking to himself and posts it on Youtube-”

“Tumblr is not just a bunch of 13-year-olds, there’s plenty of young adults and adult adults. I mean, we’re on Tumblr, and so is Joan.” Virgil argued.

“Plus 13-year-olds are really mean,” Patton whined. Still ignoring them.

“-and they’re going to stop watching my videos which means I’m going to steadily lose money until I’m making none and then I’ll have to get a stuffy desk job-”

“That’s true. It’s like the John Mulaney skit, ‘13-year-olds are the meanest people in the world because they will make fun of you, but in an accurate way’.” Virgil quoted.

Patton gasped, “Oh I love John Mulaney! He is a very funny man.”

“That’s ridiculous, there’s no factual evidence that 13-year-olds are meaner or more observant than any of the ages near them.”

“Clearly you’ve never spoken to a 13-year-old.”

“-and I’ll spend the rest of my days living in a grey, unfulfilling haze where my coworkers make fun of me and send office emails around full of my earliest vines and those awful screenshots-” Ignoring them, just continue ranting.

“We are both sides, I’ve met every 13 year old you have.”

“And you’re still defending them?”

“Yeah, I’m on Virge’s side in this, Logan. 13-year-olds are just cruel.”

“I’m not defending them, I’m simply saying that there’s no logical reason-”

“There’s no logic in pre-teens-”

“Not even a teen- sy bit-”

“-and that will be my life, mockery and the cold confinement of office routine, no friends or boyfriends and I’ll die alone, without even a cat for company because I have this stupid allergy-”

CLAP CLAP CLAPCLAPCLAP

They all went quiet, echoing the clap and looking over at Roman, who had appeared a second ago while they were bickering.

“How am I supposed to practice my one-man duets if you are all making a racket?” Thomas squinted at the gaudy necklace he was wearing, a giant ruby pendant resting in the center of his chest. While he watched, it flashed a dim red light. Must have been the light catching the gem.

But everyone else glanced at it as well, including Roman. He looked pleasantly surprised.

“I didn’t know it did that. Neat!”

“What on earth are you wearing?” Logan sighed, glaring at the necklace in suspicion.

"Oh, it’s a best friend necklace! The Dragon Witch gave it to me-”

“The Dragon Witch?” Virgil interrupted, looking at him like he was crazy. Roman glared at him, but it lacked any real heat. He placed a hand on his hip and popped it dramatically.

“Yes, the Dragon Witch. We totally patched things up and are now great friends! Honestly, it was super judgy of me to declare her as evil just because she happens to be a dragon and a witch. She can’t help that! And there are good witches and dragons! Like Sabrina, or the characters from Dragon Tails!” Roman argued, waving his hand around. Patton nodded along, looking proud.

“That is so true! That’s so cool of you, Roman! And may I just say it is be- ruby -ful!” He beamed.

“Ayyyyyyy-” Roman pointed at him, looking delighted. Thomas hid his laugh behind his hand.

“That feels ill-advised,” Logan argued, Virgil gesturing at him in agreement, looking baffled. Personally, Thomas didn’t see the problem with it. But they were once again off track, and Thomas’s problem still hadn’t been solved, so he shrugged and decided that there were no real arguments against Virgil’s idea and that must mean it was fine. He turned and moved to grab his suitcases out of the hall closet.

“Maybe you should evaluate why you hate dragons and/or witches because it’s not her problem that you have a bias.” Roman sassed.

“I have no problem with either of those things, I’m simply saying that prior behavior suggests- Thomas where are you going?” Logan cut off, confused. Thomas blinked and jerked his thumb over his shoulder.

“Gotta pack, so I can become a hermit.”

Logan sighed and adjusted his glasses. “You are not becoming a hermit.”

“I’m not?” “He’s not?”

Logan glared at Virgil and Patton. “No, you aren’t. Thomas, I know you remember our conversation about cognitive distortions so I’m not going to bother rehashing it, and instead let’s get to the root of this problem. Yes, you may have looked silly today, and your friends may or may not have noticed it. Your outfit will certainly be in the video, and others may or may not make fun of it. But we both know that is where it will end, and that it is a minor problem. So why are you making such a big deal about it?”

“Yeah, buddy, it’s not like you to make mountains out of mole-hills.”

It was Thomas’s turn to sigh, body slumping out of its tense position. “You’re right- (“I’m always right.”) - I’m overreacting. I’m just worried about Cartoon Therapy.” He admitted.

“That’s the new script you and Joan are working on, right?” Patton wondered.

“Yes! It’s going to be amazing, you are just going to love the therapist, Pat!” Roman gushed.

“But that’s the thing, what if it isn’t amazing? What if it sucks? I’ve never made such a long scripted episode, what if it gets boring or repetitive? What if people don’t like the new characters? I mean it isn’t like I made you guys up, and I don’t write our scripts from scratch-”

“Take a deep breath, Thomas.” Virgil soothed, looking a little frazzled but much more relaxed compared to earlier. Thomas hadn’t even noticed his anxiety ebb into a dull static. He did as he said, sharing a smile with him at the reference.

“Thanks.” He murmured quietly.

“Give yourself some credit, you’ve created characters people have loved before, in much shorter bits. Take your personification of Sleep, for example. He is well-liked and barely fleshed out. I’m sure characters you can take your time establishing will be just as well received.”

“And if you can’t give yourself credit, give some to Joan. We all know they are a creative genius.” Patton added, speaking softly. “The script will be fine, and the characters will be great. All you can do is give your best try when writing, and watch it come to life.”

“For now, distract yourself and allow yourself to calm down. Put on Parks and Recs! It’ll work out.” Roman suggested. Thomas nodded, feeling much calmer than when he came in. He took another deep breath and grinned at his sides.

“Thanks, guys.”

“It was no problem, I a- shirt you.” Patton shot him finger guns and winked, and then-

Just stood there. Thomas’s brow creased in confusion, watching panic slowly bleed into his expression.

“Pat?”

“I-uh,” The others were looking at him in concern now, “I can’t sink out.”

“What?”

“I can’t sink out.” He stressed, and Logan fidgeted with his glasses.

“How is that possible, Patton-”

“I don’t know!” Patton snapped, looking very upset. “I just know I can’t!”

“I can’t either.” Virgil blurted out, his voice layering.

“This is probably nothing. Lets just all take our own deep breaths, close our eyes and focus on the living room.” Logan said, terse. Thomas watched them all do so, fear rising inside of him at an alarming rate. None of them sunk.

“What’s happening?” He asked. They all looked a little crazed, wide eyes darting around.

“I don’t know, this shouldn’t be possible! What could have-” Logan’s head darted up from where it was buried in his hands. “Your necklace!”

Roman jumped, alarmed at the outburst. A lightbulb went on over Thomas’s head.

“It flashed earlier! When you arrived!”

Roman looked even more alarmed, hands going to the chain and frantically yanking it up over his head, tossing it to the ground. There was a split second of relief on all of their faces before the ruby once again lit up, this time with a blinding red light that filled the entire room, too bright to see through. Thomas could hear the sounds of bodies thumping to the floor and he blinked rapidly, trying to clear the spots from his eyes.

Four men were crumpled on the floor (and stairs), but they weren’t the men who were there just a minute ago. They were all dressed like his sides, but it wasn’t his face looking back at him. He could feel his breath hitching in his chest, his lungs empty and his chest burning. He sunk to the floor and curled up, sticking his head between his legs. He could fuzzily recognize this as a panic attack, though he had never had one this severe, and clumsily went through tactics he remembered reading when researching Anxiety. It took him a while, but eventually, he was back to being aware. The men were still on his ground.

In Patton’s place was a man with curly blond hair and a scattering of freckles across his rounder cheeks. He was a bit softer all around, and round glasses lay on the ground next to him. Roman had been replaced with a tanner version of him, a face that was similar to Thomas’s, but his hair was a dark ginger and thicker, his swoop larger than usual. He seemed broader than usual as well, but he was crumpled oddly and Thomas couldn’t be sure. Instead of Virgil, there was a slight man with wild purple hair, lightly curling around his face. It looked like there was a suggestion of freckles on his pale skin as well, but he was too far away and the maybe-freckles were light if they were there at all. His makeup -or not?- was gone, replaced with very real eye bags that were much less severe but still noticeable. And not-Logan was, well, tall. Not giant, but he appeared taller than before, with black hair neatly styled out of his face, which also looked much like Thomas’s own. Actually, they appeared like they could be siblings, and not-Logan looked the most like who he should be. Does that make sense? Thomas didn’t really care, he was still panicking.

Not-Patton looked the least like Thomas, with not-Virgil hovering somewhere between him and not-Roman. There was a strong suggestion of Virgil’s features but they were more…delicate somehow. Like a distant relative of Talyn’s and a less distant relative of his. Patton didn’t look much like him, while Roman could be a cousin and Logan could be his brother. Because that’s who they were, he knew it and he had to stop lying about it. Those were his sides, only they weren’t very side-like at all.

A low groan came from Logan, the body shifting on the floor and pushing up into a sitting position. Thomas froze, looking at the strange frame which suddenly felt like it was sitting much too close to Thomas’s own. He scooted back, tense. Logan blinked the spots from his eyes as well, before freezing. He was looking straight at Patton. Thomas was sure he was just as startled as he was, but then Logan relaxed and leaned back against the wall.

“Oh good, we’re back.” He hummed quietly to himself.

“Uh, what the fuck ?” Thomas blurted, feeling somehow more confused and nervous. Logan nearly jumped into the air, head whipping around to face him, dark blue eyes blinking once more at him. His brow drew down in confusion.

“Thomas? But how did you- maybe the light….no, because we never appear like this with you around…” He muttered. They were both interrupted by movement on the staircase, Virgil righting himself on the steps, holding his head. His face was scrunched tight in discomfort, and Logan’s attention snapped to him.

“Are you alright?” Logan asked Virgil, lowly. Virgil nodded, eyes clearing the last of the light and locking with the other sides.

“Fine, Lo. We’re back then?” He noticed the tight line of Logan’s mouth and suddenly Thomas was staring into green. Virgil’s eyes aren’t brown anymore, either, a grey-green color replacing the familiar warmth. They narrowed.

“That’s not right…”

“What is going on?!” Thomas asked forcefully. He doesn’t get an answer, Patton stirring by the curtains interrupting them. He fumbled for his glasses, clumsily shoving them back on his face and opening his eyes.

“Well, that sure was a pain in the neck , very ruby of that Dragon Witch if you ask me.” Patton joked, though it lacked humor. Just like the other’s his body went slack when he noticed the others, but straightened as he immediately took note of Thomas. He absentmindedly noticed that Patton’s eyes were a sky blue. “Why are you in our living room?”

“I-what-” Thomas spluttered. Patton’s attention shifted just as fast as it came, and he let out a little gasp when he noticed Roman’s unconscious form.

“I don’t think he’ll be waking up for a couple of minutes, at least. It appears we woke up based on how close we were to the initial blast.” Logan offered, his eyes darting back to Virgil every so often, who was also watching Roman with concern.

“What happened?” Patton asked, distressed, and Thomas could have laughed.

“That’s what I’ve been fucking asking!” He burst out, earning a startled expression from Patton.

“Language.”

“That is the least of our problems, Patton! You all knocked out and you aren’t you and you’re still in my living room and no one is telling me what’s going on so take your language and shove it. ” He snapped, and his sides reeled back in shock. He felt a little hysterical, he might laugh anyway. It was either that or scream, because one of them was climbing up his throat.

“We don’t know what is going on, any more than you do,” Logan said.

“But, you- you look!”

“This is how we appear in the Mind Space. When you manifested us for the first time you did so with an image in your mind, so that’s how we appeared.” Virgil explained carefully, looking wary after Thomas’s outburst. “In fact, we look like the short’s characters you imagined us as, so while some features you seemed aware we had, like glasses, the rest of it wasn’t originally us.”

What? “So I decided your faces and clothes and personalities, and forced it on you?”

“Not quite. Admittedly, we dressed very similarly before manifestation, and our personalities have been ours since we started existing. You’ve always been aware of those things, just like you’ve always known our functions and of our existence.” Logan corrected.

Patton piped up, though he wasn’t meeting Thomas’s eyes. “It’s just part of being a manifester, kiddo. Well, we assume so, there isn’t exactly a guidebook on it.”

He suddenly felt bad about his outburst, the metaphorical wind leaving his metaphorical sails. “I’m sorry, Patton, I shouldn’t have yelled at you. At any of you.”

“It’s fine! We’re all freaking out, I can understand your reaction.” He was warmer this time, and Thomas sighed.

Roman let out a dramatic groan and made to sit up against the TV stand, body swaying unsteadily as he adjusted to being conscious. These eyes were familiar and comforting, even squinting suspiciously at him. “You aren’t supposed to be here.”

Patton tapped the ground to get his attention and quietly started filling him in on what little had happened, while Logan started looking around the living room.

“Earlier, you said we were still in your living room,” Virgil commented, watching Logan. He nodded, and Logan mirrored it.

“He’s right, this isn’t our living room. The pictures are wrong, and things are displaced. Like, look, your blankets are not on the couch, and my book and our tea are missing from the table.” He pointed out, and the other three glanced around.

“We didn’t sink out.” Patton devastated.

“And we’re in our real forms, which shouldn’t just happen out of the Mind Space,” Virgil added, grave.

“Something is very wrong.” Roman finished.

“Nothing would be wrong if you hadn’t worn a necklace from the Dragon Witch.” Logan pointed out, edgy. Roman looked a mix between guilty, stricken, and offended, and it twisted his face into something that could have been funny outside of the circumstances. Thomas still wanted to laugh, but that might be the shock setting in. Was this shock? He thought for a second and decided it didn’t really matter. But maybe he should get a blanket?

As the sides began some tense arguing, he spotted his phone lying where he dropped it in his panic attack and realized what would help even more than a blanket. He grabbed it and opened up the call feature. (When was the last time he did that, honestly?)

“It was a gift given of good will, I had to wear it! How could I have known she would do this?”

“Maybe because she was the Dragon Witch ?!”

“Listen, just because she’s the only female in the Mind Space doesn’t mean she has to be the villain!”

“No, she’s the villain because she’s evil! ” Virgil argued.

“He has a point though. Why is the only woman in our realm a villain?” Patton offered, hesitant.

“Roman created her. And he accepted the necklace that got us into this mess!”

“Are you saying this is my fault, Virgil?”

“I’m not not saying that.”

“Virgil!”

“What, Patton? I’m not wrong.”

“But you shouldn’t say it..”

“Patton!”

Thomas hung up and clapped to get their attention. They went quiet once more. “Joan is on their way. Maybe they’ll have some ideas on what’s going on.” And they can tell me I’m not going crazy, he thought, but maybe that was preferable to this situation.

For the first time in his memory, they all lapsed into uncomfortable silence, Virgil tossing his hood over his head and withdrawing into himself while Patton wrung his hands, Roman sulked, and Logan fumed. He had never seen them like this, never known them to be this upset, especially with each other. Things have gotten tense, people have gotten upset or argued, but this disconnect? It was new and somewhat frightening. Minutes passed like snails, slow and dragging, leaving a film behind. Maybe that was the shock.

Finally, a knock on the door drew them out of their heads, and Thomas got up to let them in. They were in their pajamas, and it was only then he thought to check the time. Midnight.

“I’m sorry for dragging you out this late.” He said automatically, but Joan waved him off.

“It’s clearly important, and what are best friends for if not traveling across town at midnight when something important happens?” Joan joked, but Thomas could only give him a weak smile. “You said something happened with the sides?”

He gestured them in, running a hand through his hair. “It’s not good. I was just chatting with them after I got home, everything was normal, and then they couldn’t sink out.”

“They couldn’t leave?”

He shook his head, hovering by the door and speaking quietly. No point in causing the arguing to start back up before it was necessary. “Roman came in wearing this necklace the Dragon Witch gave him-”

“The Dragon Witch?”

“Apparently they made up recently. Today, I think, the others didn’t seem to know about it. Anyway, they figured that was what was preventing them from leaving so Roman took it off. But it let out this bright light, completely blinded us. I heard them all fall and when I could see again they were unconscious and in their real forms.” At their look he tried to explain, feeling jittery and uncomfortable. That was the panic. Shock? “They look different in the Mind Space, they said. They’ve never looked like this outside of it, apparently, they actively control the change. They still can’t sink out, and they keep arguing..”

Joan placed a hand on his arm, seeing him start to panic (had he ever stopped, though?) and Thomas lent into the steadying touch. He smiled at them, thankful. Finally, they moved into the living room, where the sides were waiting. If their new appearances startled them, they didn’t react.

“So you guys are stuck.”

“Understatement of the year,” Virgil grumbled, and Thomas gave him a disapproving look.

“Don’t be mean to Joan. They are just trying to help.”

“Sorry.” He looked guilty, but Joan waved him off.

“Everyone is upset and tense, I understand. But arguing isn’t going to help anything so can we leave that for when this really bad thing isn’t happening?”

They all nodded, and Joan clapped their hands. “Alright. So, once again, you’re stuck. You’ve all attempted to sink out after you woke I’m assuming?”

“Yeah. Before I felt a barrier, almost. I didn’t notice it at first but looking back it was definitely there. But now…now I don’t feel anything at all.” Patton answered, looking down at where his hands were fidgeting in his lap.

“It’s like the Mind Space is just gone.” Virgil agreed. Logan messed with his glasses again, looking agitated.

“But that’s not possible, unless Thomas had something severe happen to his brain or…he wasn’t breathing anymore. Clearly, neither of those things have happened.”

“Yeah I haven’t bonked my head recently, and I’m still kicking. I think?”

“You are,” Joan assured him, seeing the distress in his eyes. “So that means you’ve all lost your connection with the Mind Space, most likely. Can you still conjure things, or access any of your Mind powers?”

They all waved their hands around to no avail, looking crazy. Frustration was clear to read in all of their expressions. Joan grimaced.

“And my shadows are gone,” Virgil said, rubbing his thumb under his eye. “I’ve always had them, I don’t..”

“So, no powers, no shadows, no connection to the Mind.” Joan ticked off. “Forced appearances, as well. Thomas,”

He looked up. “Yeah?”

“You once mentioned you could feel the connections to them, like strings tying you together. Are those still there?”

Oh. He reached deep into his chest, where the strings he had used to call Virgil had always lied. There was just empty. He couldn’t recall ever feeling this empty. The tightness in his throat returned, and his face fell. A sob burst from his lips. “No. No, they aren’t there anymore. I can’t feel them, I can’t feel you guys.” Tears welled up in his eyes but he didn’t care, struck by the realization. “It’s all empty. I thought that was shock, but..”

Joan looked upset, and he distantly felt bad about bringing them into this, but now he was crying and he couldn’t stop. He was reeled into an embrace, and he went willingly.

“It might be shock, from having the connection broken,” Joan admitted, before looking over his head. “Do you guys still feel..”

It was clear from how they trailed off that the answer was no. They couldn’t feel Thomas anymore, and that wrung another shaking sob from him. It took him a few minutes to gather composure, but eventually, he straightened from the awkward hunched position he had had to make, making a small wince at the wet spot on Joan’s chest. A glance at the other sides showed that he wasn’t the only one crying though. He wiped his eyes.

“So, you have no connection to the Mind, or Thomas. But you’re still corporeal, I can see and hear you. Maybe….you’ve become real people. Somehow.”

Oh. He had been so wrapped up in what had happened, he never stopped to think about what it meant. The others looked just as gobsmacked.

“That’s impossible, though,” Logan whispered, but it was obvious to himself.

“Let’s test it. Have any of you moved from your spots?”

“I’m just so used to not being able it didn’t even occur to me,” Virgil admitted, getting to his feet. He swayed a bit, but didn’t fall. The rest rose as well. Patton took an unsteady step forward, likely stiff from hours sitting, and when he didn’t hit a barrier he took another. Virgil climbed down the stairs to meet him in the middle, and Roman stepped forward too. Patton’s eyes brightened slightly, and he reached for Roman.

“I wonder…” He grabbed Roman’s arm and pulled him into a hug. Roman gasped, eyes going wide, and when Patton pulled back he gave Roman a wobbly smile, face brighter.

“You felt it, right?” He asked, before gesturing Virgil to come closer and pulling him into a hug as well. Virgil let out the same surprised gasp and gripped Patton tight.

“Everything feels like it’s dialed up to, like, 15. Lo, come feel this!” He held out a hand to Logan, who placed his own on top and wove their fingers together. His eyes widened. Patton released Virgil and moved hesitantly in front of Joan.

“May I?” They nodded and suddenly Joan had an armful of Patton, who was beaming like it was Christmas.

“I can touch you,” Joan exclaimed, looking shocked. While they had always been able to see the sides, they had never been able to touch them before. Their hand had always gone right through them, like ghosts.

Thomas looked around his living room and felt a stone in his gut. He had four freshly human sides before him. Four human, terrified, grown adult men who had never lived a day in the real world.

“Is this permanent, do you think?” He asked.

“I think, Logan said haltingly, unsure, “ That we have to assume it is. Go into this with a ‘worst-case scenario’ mindset.”

Four men who didn’t legally exist, permanently in reality. They were in his care now, and that dormant panic made itself known once more. He couldn’t take care of them. He didn’t have the space, let alone the funds. And again, they didn’t legally exist. And how was he going to explain this? Only Joan and Talyn knew he was a manifester!

He caught Virgil’s eye and could tell he was thinking the same thing, saw him work himself into a similar panic.

“How can we live? We don’t exist in the eyes of the government, we have no papers! And without papers, we can’t get jobs! Where will we live? What will we do?” Virgil echoed his earlier thoughts, and Patton’s face fell. Roman was still quiet, arms wrapped around himself and staring at the ground. Logan looked deep in thought, lips moving silently. The tension in the room was back, and suddenly Thomas felt exhausted down to his bones. He just wanted to sleep, and let everything disappear. Just for a little while.

Joan seemed to pick up on this, and as frazzled as they now looked, standing in the center of Thomas’s living room in their pajamas at nearly 1 am, they once again smiled. “It’s late. Let’s order a pizza, I’m sure we’re all hungry, and then call it a night. We aren’t going to get anywhere tonight. Figure it out tomorrow.”

They all sagged, and while Joan quietly ordered they all moved to sit. The sides collapsed, leaning against each other, on one part of the coach while Joan and Thomas sat on the smaller side. He absently thought how lucky he was his couch was too big, but mostly he thought about how comfortable it was, and once again how much he wanted to sleep. There was quiet while they waited for food, but it was born out of exhaustion instead of anger.

Once they started to eat, however, some energy managed to fill them again, and quiet chatter started up. Roman mentioned quietly to Patton how cool it was to have a full sense of taste, while Joan struck up a conversation with Virgil and Logan on living in the Mind Space. He listened to them talk about the bookcase filled with books Thomas has read, about their rooms and the emotions connected, but only when Thomas was with them or they were feeling heightened. Roman chimed in with talk about his Realm filled with creativity and stories, while Patton mentioned the dog they had conjured and kept for a couple of weeks.

By the time the food was gone Thomas was nodding off, but he managed to get up and gather four sets of pajamas, mismatched and some grabbed simply because he didn’t know what would fit them. Like Virgil, who seemed too small for his pants and instead got a pair of boxers he bought a size too small, and Patton who he had to dig out one of his slightly larger shirts for. He wandered back to the living room on autopilot and took them all up to the spare bedroom.

They took the clothes from him and Patton grabbed a bunch of spare blankets, setting up two beds on the floor. They looked as out of it as him, and the chorus of “Goodnight, Thomas”’s were more mumbles than speech. He closed the door behind him and went back down to Joan, who was dozing on the couch.

“Thank you for coming over.” He said softly, “And thank you even more for being so helpful. I couldn’t have made it through tonight without you, and I’ll never be able to express how much it meant to me.”

“Everything is going to be alright, Thomas.” Joan insisted, and he smiled.

“Yeah, it probably will. But would you do me a favor and spend the night, so I know it’s not all some crazy dream tomorrow when I wake up?”

They took the hand he offered and pulled themselves up, giving him a teasing grin.

“What, you thought I was going to leave? It’s nearly 2 am, you owe me a place to sleep, dude.”

They headed sluggishly to bed, and everything else was tomorrow’s Thomas’s problem.

(tagging @strickenwithclairvoyance because they told me to, and they inspired me. Hope you like it! Let me know if you’d like to be tagged in future chapters! (Also bold of you to assume there won’t be Deceit because he wasn’t ejected.))

#analogical #royality #fanfic #virgil sanders #roman sanders #logan sanders #patton sanders #sanders sides #ts sanders sides #ts virgil #ts roman #ts logan #ts patton

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entwinedmoon · 5 years ago

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John Torrington: Redshirt

(Previous posts 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9)

“I'm expendable. I'm the guy in the episode who dies to prove the situation is serious.”

–Guy Fleegman, Galaxy Quest

After the exhumations of Torrington, Hartnell, and Braine, and the subsequent publication of Frozen in Time, there was a fresh wave of literature inspired by the photographs and findings from Beechey Island. Novels, short stories, and poems either attempted to recreate what had happened to the expedition according to the latest findings or incorporated this new information in some other way. Some feature Torrington, while some just use certain aspects of the findings, such as the remarkable level of preservation or the lead poisoning theory.

I have read only a handful of the many literary works about the Franklin Expedition that have been published since the exhumations on Beechey Island, so I can’t speak for every novel, poem, or other form of literary composition that has come out since then. For the purposes of this post I decided to focus only on works that feature Torrington himself, and even then, I haven’t had a chance to read every work that does. There may be some that have a completely different take on the story and depict Torrington in a way not seen in the works that I will be discussing, but those will have to wait for another day. For this post I can only focus on the fraction of Franklin-related literature that I have been able to read so far, and if I leave out something that people think is a must-read, I apologize. But feel free to let me know what it is, because I love reading new interpretations of the expedition’s story.

(Unless you’re here to tell me about the Marvel comics character Pestilence, a supervillain who is actually Francis Crozier, preserved in ice for over a hundred years. He’s still alive but he’s gone mad and has magic for some reason. And he can possess other people. Pestilence was first introduced in 1986, and yes, him being frozen in ice was obviously inspired by the exhumation of Torrington. Now, let’s never speak of this again.)

I’m going to start with the various novels that have attempted to tell the story of the Franklin Expedition. FYI, there will be some spoilers, but mostly the spoilers will be about Torrington and other crewmembers dying, which shouldn’t really be a spoiler at this point.

Before I get into the specific books, though, I’ve noticed that there are certain themes in many of these stories, particularly involving Torrington. As his illness and death is a known point during the timeline of the expedition, he inevitably gets a mention in many of these works, but since he died so early in the expedition, he rarely has a major role in the overall story. Not only that, Torrington’s characterization is typically absent altogether. He’s generally depicted as a variant of the Victorian waif—pale and thin and doomed to die—and rarely does he get any dialogue or development. He’s first blood, a harbinger of things to come, but almost never a character on his own. He’s simply there to die, like a redshirt in Star Trek.

I have often flipped through books to see where Torrington comes in, wondering if he’ll be given something to do before he passes, and more often than not I have been disappointed. His death is always included because we know he died, and if it were left out it could be seen as callous at worst or inaccurate at best, yet his inclusion sometimes feels more like the author simply checking something off a checklist. Enters Lancaster Sound, check; winters at Beechey Island, check; Torrington dies, check. Sometimes there might be a funeral, where the main characters speak of Torrington as if he’s been there the entire time and wasn’t just first mentioned only two paragraphs ago, perhaps with Franklin orating the first of many eulogies (“We have lost one of our own today, a fine sailor named John [looks at smudged writing on his hand] Turlington…”).

But one thing that Torrington usually gets is a brief mention of his burial clothes. Since we know what he looks like in death, there’s often a description of him in his coffin, perhaps a mention of his youth, small stature, and wasted appearance. His illness usually gets a mention too—and sometimes he gets berated postmortem for going to sea while sick.

Of course, since Torrington dies only seven months into the expedition, it’s not surprising that he doesn’t have much to do in most stories, but I do wish he could at least have a little more of a role before taking his final bow. It would make his death more meaningful if he was a known character and not just a name in a long list of people who are about to die.

For a deeper dive into how Torrington is typically depicted in novels about the Franklin Expedition, I’m going to start with the most mainstream of the books I’ve read—and also the most inaccurate. That would be The Terror by Dan Simmons, a story that posits what if, rather than starvation, scurvy, illness, and lead poisoning killing off the crew, there was also an evil magical bear bent on their destruction. The book was recently adapted into a television series on AMC, and I watched the show first. I loved the show—it was very well done, despite the evil bear—so I read the book. The book…well, it had some good parts to it, but also some incredibly ridiculous parts and some incredibly offensives ones too. I won’t get into a full review of the book, though—I’m just here for Torrington.

Torrington doesn’t get mentioned until his death in The Terror. In fact, the sentence introducing him is “John Torrington, stoker on HMS Terror, died early this morning.” His slow decline from consumption is described, while also saying that he had obviously been in the advanced stages of the disease when he signed up for the expedition. There’s an aside about how ironic it is that Torrington’s doctor had told him going to sea would be good for his health, something that isn’t based on a known fact about Torrington, but getting away from Manchester and into fresh air may have been part of Torrington’s intent when signing up. Judging by the state of his lungs, he probably had difficulty breathing in the thick smoke of industrial Manchester, so it’s not so far-fetched to think he may have wanted a change of scenery to improve his health.

The dressing of his body for burial, descriptions of the clothes and bindings we know so well from the exhumation pictures, and a brief recap of his funeral get described in just a few pages. The image of him in his striped shirt sticks out in the memory of Dr. Goodsir (who is writing this down in his diary), an image that anyone who is familiar with the Franklin Expedition would know very well. But that’s about it for Torrington in this book. His name does pop up a few more times, though, because Captain Crozier has a habit of going over the names of the dead to himself, assessing how many men he has lost at different points throughout the book. Torrington as part of a list of the dead is mostly how we see him in The Terror.

In the TV adaptation, Torrington doesn’t appear at all, because the show picks up after the ships have left Beechey. The men who died at Beechey are mentioned a few times, usually as a group—referred to as “the men on Beechey” or some variation of that—with only John Hartnell being mentioned by name. Torrington, however, does get a visual sort of reference when one of the ship’s boys, David Young, dies in the first episode. During his burial, his coffin accidentally comes open, and his burial clothes look very reminiscent of the famous photos of Torrington.

Alfie Kingsnorth, the actor who plays David Young, looks a lot like Torrington, making this image extra eerie. In fact, I started watching the show because I saw a screencap of the burial and thought it was Torrington. When I realized that Torrington wasn’t in the show, I was disappointed, but I ended up loving the show anyway.

The next book I want to discuss is a novel that tried to do what The Terror did but without the monster. Robert Edric’s book The Broken Lands tells the story of the Franklin Expedition from the point of view of Commander James Fitzjames of the Erebus, third-in-command of the expedition. Fitzjames seems to be a popular point-of-view character since another book I’ll be discussing in this post is also from his perspective. Fitzjames is an interesting historical person, particularly if you’ve read Battersby’s biography of him, although that was published long after The Broken Lands came out. Being from Fitzjames’s point of view, however, means that the story focuses mostly on what happens on Erebus, which means Torrington, leading stoker on Terror, wouldn’t have had much of a role no matter what.

At least in this book Torrington does get mentioned before his death, but only just. When the ships are wintering on Beechey, it’s mentioned that two men become ill, Torrington and John Hartnell. Since Hartnell died only a few days after Torrington, they would have been ill around the same time. However, rather than showing signs of tuberculosis followed by pneumonia as the killing blow, Torrington and Hartnell suffer symptoms that get mistaken for scurvy but then are assumed to be some form of food poisoning. Torrington dies while Terror’s doctor, John Peddie, sits with him, but there’s not much to the scene. He and Hartnell get buried on the same day after a snowstorm delays their burials. Hartnell gets more attention here because of his autopsy, and there’s no mention of striped shirts and bound limbs.

But that’s not the last we hear of them. In the next chapter, it’s discovered that some crewmembers had been pilfering from the canned food supply. William Braine gets flogged for his part in the scheme, and he starts showing symptoms similar to Torrington and Hartnell. Braine then confesses that Torrington and Hartnell had also been involved in stealing canned foods, and the doctors jump to the conclusion that the canning procedure must be responsible for the illness and deaths of these three men. So instead of going with the known causes of death of tuberculosis and pneumonia, in this version of the story the Beechey Boys die of lead poisoning and only lead poisoning. That bothers me not only because it completely ignores the actual cause of death, but because it makes Torrington, Hartnell, and Braine criminals, stealing food from the ship’s stores. I guess this was Edric’s attempt at explaining why these three men had such high levels of lead so early on in the expedition, but this explanation doesn’t work for me because it ignores a lot of other things in a struggle to make certain puzzle pieces fit. I admit, I got a little overprotective when I saw Torrington being accused of something like this and started ranting about it to my sister—despite the fact that I have no idea what sort of person he was actually like, and he’s been dead for over hundred seventy years, so he doesn’t really need me to protect him from purely fictional accusations. But still…

The other novel from Fitzjames’s perspective is North with Franklin by John Wilson. This is set up as a lost journal written by Fitzjames, using some of the known letters and journals written by the real life Fitzjames as a jumping off point. In these fictional journal entries, there’s a mention of a man in sickbay with signs of consumption in August, and there’s an aside wondering why he didn’t inform anyone about his illness prior to setting sail. However, since this is the sickbay on Erebus, this must be a reference to Hartnell, not Torrington. But it’s a hint at what’s to come for both of them. An update on the consumptive man in November confirms that it’s Hartnell, his condition getting worse, and then it’s mentioned that the leading stoker on Terror is suffering the same. Again, Fitzjames wonders why Hartnell and Torrington didn’t mention their condition before setting sail, calling their weakened lungs a “death warrant” in the Arctic. There’s another update in late December about their worsening condition, until they both succumb. Out of the three books discussed so far, this is the most that Torrington has been mentioned pre-death, but he says not a single word.

Torrington’s death, taking place on New Year’s Day, brings down the happy celebrations of the crew. Again, it’s mentioned that Torrington should never have undertaken the journey with his illness, as if it hasn’t been driven home enough that he and Hartnell had probably been showing symptoms when they first boarded and should have reported it. Torrington’s burial clothes get an overview, with his short, emaciated appearance being compared to that of a child. He gets a funeral, with Franklin presiding.

The repeated mentions of how Torrington and Hartnell should have declared their illnesses before sailing on the expedition almost comes off as blaming them for their early demise. Realistically, of course, they probably had noticed some early symptoms before leaving England. But how bad were those symptoms? Were they enough to make them think they had a disease that would prove fatal? Did they realize that they wouldn’t be coming back, or did they shrug it off as just another cough? Torrington had bad lungs anyway, so maybe he didn’t notice when his black-lung-coughing changed into tuberculosis-coughing.

John Wilson wrote another book about the Franklin Expedition, this one for young adults, called Graves of Ice. This book is from the point of view of one of the ship’s boys, George Chambers. Chambers was assigned to the Erebus, so the main action happens on that ship once again, which means Torrington barely appears. Again. William Braine, however, befriends Chambers and gets far more dialogue and development than Torrington or Hartnell in any of the previous books—or this one—combined. Braine actually gets to defend his actions by saying his lungs had always been weak, and he thought the cold might do them good, explaining why he didn’t bother declaring any illness before setting sail. In real life, Torrington probably felt the same way, but he doesn’t get to stand up for himself here. In a prime example of dramatic irony, Braine calls Torrington an idiot for signing up while sick.

Torrington and his illness get mentioned the same day he dies, just shortly before Dr. Peddie informs Franklin of Torrington’s passing. His death gets called a bad omen among the crew. His burial gets a brief mention, but there’s no lingering on the image of his body in its coffin, or any mention of it even. He has no lines once again, nor does George Chambers ever meet him. At least one crewman admits that there are many men on board with lungs as bad as Torrington, as if to soften the accusation that Torrington should have known better, but it doesn’t soften it by much.

In all four of these books Torrington has had zero lines of dialogue. He gets sick, he dies. That’s it. There’s another book, a self-published one that came out this year, that I had hoped may do better by him. That would be Toward No Earthly Pole by Jonathan Schaeffer, which is from the point of view of James Thompson, the engineer on Terror. Being the engineer, Thompson would have interacted with Torrington a great deal, so I’d hoped I would get to see Torrington fleshed out more as a real character, but sadly that was not to be. Torrington does get mentioned more before his death than in other books, but it’s mostly in superficial interactions where anyone could have stood in instead, such as Torrington pointing out a polar bear.

Near the beginning of the story, Thompson gives a rundown of each stoker, giving Torrington a less-than-stellar description as a weakling, saying that, “He comes across as an old man resigned to his lot in life.” But Thompson does remark that Torrington is handsome, which isn’t really that important, but it is mentioned multiple times in the text. I guess the point was to emphasize that Torrington was cut down in the prime of his young, handsome life, but it comes off as a little awkward.

Torrington apparently has no friends in this interpretation of the story, and only Thompson seems to visit him when he gets sick. The day before he dies, Torrington, in a delirium, says some incomprehensible sentences, ending on an ominous “…do not belong here,” a phrase that Thompson initially interprets as meaning that Torrington realized he didn’t belong there, but that over the course of the expedition Thompson comes to think means the entire expedition didn’t belong there. Torrington gets the usual drawn-out illness coverage, unsurprising death, and a mention of his burial. He also becomes an omen that gets mentioned again as the situation grows worse. Even though Thompson would have been one of the crewmembers to interact with Torrington the most, Torrington still doesn’t get much development as a character.

However, there is one retelling of the Franklin Expedition that gives Torrington quite a bit of development. That would be Kristina Gehrmann’s graphic novel Im Eisland (or Icebound in the English version). I previously discussed Im Eisland in my last post about Torrington in art, but now I’d like to focus on the writing rather than the artwork. Torrington is actually introduced as if he’s going to be a major protagonist of the story, and for a time he does play a large role. We get a glimpse of a sweet little romance between him and his fiancée (we don’t know if Torrington was engaged to anyone, but there’s no evidence that he wasn’t either), and he develops a warm friendship with Thomas Evans, one of the ship’s boys, whom he teaches to read. Torrington comes alive as a real person here, and while yes, he does inevitably become too ill to work and dies, as he did in real life, he’s much more than just the first victim of a tragedy. If you’re looking for some good Torrington fiction, Im Eisland is an excellent choice.

But not all Torrington-related literature is a retelling of the expedition. There is a famous story by Margaret Atwood, “The Age of Lead,” which appears in her short story collection Wilderness Tips. I should say upfront that this story is not about Torrington himself. Atwood described her use of him as that of an extended metaphor, as his death is juxtaposed with that of another character’s in the story. But the story still delves into the pathos around Torrington’s death. In mourning for her friend, Jane, the protagonist, mourns for Torrington in a way too. As Jane remembers sitting with her dying friend, she ponders about who may have sat with Torrington in his final days. His half-open eyes are described as “the light brown of milky tea,” and they look back at Jane as she watches a program about him on television. It’s a touching story that asks some emotional questions about Torrington’s death—did he have anyone to comfort him as he passed, so far from home? Did anyone on the ship mourn him, love him? The story might not be about Torrington in the end, but he makes for a powerful centerpiece, and this story treats his humanity as far more present than many of the novels discussed above.

The last piece of literature I’d like to discuss is “Envying Owen Beattie” by Sheenagh Pugh. In a poem that gives Seamus Heaney a run for his money, Pugh lovingly describes the exhumation of Torrington’s mummified body. She compares Torrington to Snow White by describing his being cocooned in ice as “asleep in his glass case.” The reason she envies Owen Beattie is because of an anecdote Beattie had once told that Pugh recounts here, of how when Beattie lifted Torrington out of his coffin, Torrington’s head lolled onto Beattie’s shoulder, and they stared eye-to-eye at each other, Beattie holding his frail, limp body. This leads Pugh to conclude her fairy tale metaphor by saying “how could you not try to wake him with a kiss?” I have to admit that if I had been in Beattie’s place, I probably would have dropped the body, but Pugh romanticizes the moment instead.

While many of the novels that I’ve described above treat Torrington as just another milestone to get through in the story, Pugh brings far more emotion and love to his depiction in so few words. Torrington looks so very much alive, like a princess under a sleeping spell, so why can’t a kiss break that spell and bring him into the present? A sweet sentiment tinged with the sadness that we know he can’t be awakened by a kiss, because it’s no spell that’s put him asleep. He’s too far beyond fairy tale dreams to come back. The tragedy of Torrington’s death gets swallowed by the larger tragedy of the Franklin Expedition’s demise in the full-length novels, but in shorter pieces such as Pugh’s poem and Atwood’s short story, Torrington’s death is given greater thought and respect. Torrington, after all, was no redshirt on Star Trek but a human being. He wasn’t just a name, a check on a checklist, but a man who suffered and died at too young an age. But the tragedy of the individual is easily lost among the tragedy of the group.

Next: My final post, a personal reflection as I ponder just what fascinates us about him after all these years.

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Torrington Series Masterlist

#john torrington #franklin expedition

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