#n sugar cloud makes me feel things. i see the world with all its backwards upside down.. theres nothing wrong with being the nicest girl in

[penguin--person]

relistening to ride the cyclone and im feeling things

[daaedoodles]

Building walls (just to tear them down) | 1, Blood Sugar

A/N, TRIGGER WARNING for brief mentions and implied self harm, eating disorders, abandonment issues and emotional neglect. 

One minute she’s standing in front of a patient with Dr Halstead, and the next, the world feels like it's spinning at a hundred miles an hour.

Then it all goes black.

Next thing Sarah knows, she’s coming back to consciousness, lying down with the strangely stiff sheets of the hospital bed beneath her fingertips. She winces, screwing her eyes shut, the damned white overhead lights far too bright. Reese raises a hand to pinch the top of her nose bridge as what just happened sets in.

You have got to be kidding me.

Her eyes flutter open and leaning over into her vision is Halstead, in all of his golden hair and scruffy glory. He narrows his eyes, furrowing his brows as he stares.

“Reese? You okay?”

Letting out a baited breath, her eyes flicker open, blinking in response to the sudden change in brightness. “What happened?”

“You-” Will pauses, stepping back as he grabs the blood pressure machine cuff, pressing the velcro closed around Reese’s upper arm. “Passed out.”

Sarah Reese lets out a sigh, rubbing her temple as she feels the cuff around her arm slowly begin to squeeze at her flesh, then release. Then she feels her pulse in her upper arm, beating like a drum against her skin. The sensation clouds her mind, the steady rhythm of her heart reminding her that she’s still alive- And that she passed out, again. Except this time, people saw her- and when people know they always get worried.

You should’ve been more careful.

“121 over 86, you’re all good.” Dr Halstead announces, snapping her out of her thoughts.

“Mind taking off the cuff?” He gestures to the blood pressure machine as he walks purposefully to the end of the bed, hastily snatching up a clipboard with what she presumes are her files. Sarah reaches up, tearing the velcro straight off of the cuff and sliding it off of her arm roughly.

“I’m so embarrassed.” She grumbles as she places the cuff on the table atop the machine, reaching up then to touch her head briefly.

Will glances up from the papers to look at her, “Don’t be, you fainted.” His eyes return to the clipboard as he flips a page, scanning its contents before flipping once again.

“Yeah, right on top of that poor gymnastics teacher.” She turns to him, a sense of urgency and frustration in her voice before it softens, “Did he say anything?”

He tries to conceal the mischievous smirk playing at his lips as he brings the clipboard down, looking directly at Sarah. “Only that he was very impressed with your dismount.”

She narrows her eyes at him, a slight tinge of both disgust and confusion on her face. Will breaks into a cheeky grin, causing Sarah to smile and shake her head at her co-worker's rather silly attitude.

“Reese, your EKG and BP are normal, so I think what we’re looking at-”

“Is a vasovagal syncope, right?”

He nods gently, “Probably. Just gotta figure out what the trigger is.”

Sarah glances at her shoes, pushing herself up with her hands to adjust herself into an upright position, releasing a breath as she speaks. “Okay.”

“You know, maybe blood sugar.”

She snaps her head up, folding one hand over the other in her lap as she notices he’s offering her a hand to get up. “Let’s get you some orange juice.”

“Yeah.” She says in response that was barely a whisper, taking his hand and sliding herself off the bed. For a brief moment, Dr Halstead’s brows knit together - the normally charming and chirpy student doctor’s usual bubbliness having crumbled away in a split second.

Sarah’s vision is still fuzzy, her grip on Will’s hand travelling up to his shoulder as he navigates her through the busy ED towards the break room. Her knees threaten to buckle and crumble beneath her weight as the world continues to spin, she feels like she could fall at any moment, but instead Sarah shuts her eyes tightly and keeps walking. By the time she realises it, they’ve made it to the door and Will is pushing it open and guiding a dizzy Sarah through. She lets go of him, coming to a stop infront behind a chair that’s seated at a round table. Struggling to plant her feet into the ground, she tries her best to steady herself, just hoping the dizziness would pass.

Dr Halstead wanders towards the fridge, his warped figure swaying in her vision as he swings the refrigerator door open, ducking behind it. He snatches up a small can and walks towards her slowly, the can making a soft pop noise as it’s cracked open.

“Well, I’m no Doctor Charles but is everything okay with you?” he asks, offering the can to Sarah with an outstretched hand.

She takes the drink from Will, wrapping a hand firmly around the circumference of the can, knuckles turning white under her grip. “Everything’s great.” Sarah offers with a strained smile.

Reese eyes the liquid inside the can, swaying the can slightly as she watches the orange juice slosh against the sides, leaving pulp clinging to the walls. There’s that faint voice in her head that’s always there, screaming at her, begging her not to drink it; telling her she doesn’t deserve it, that she’s not good enough to eat. But she brings the can to her lips and takes a small sip, sitting down on a lounge chair opposite Will, his eyes trained on her every move.

“The uh- Oh the tuba player living above me?” She begins, pausing to check for some sort of a recognition to show in Will’s face, to which he nods. “Finally moved out.” Reese smiles, wrapping her other hand over the one holding the can briefly before she raises it again, gesturing with it as she begins to speak. “And of course I just got my pathology match-”

He’s going to get concerned, just play it off. You just have to keep talking, Sarah.

“And- oh..” She reaches into her pocket, digging out a crimson box laid in velvet. It fits perfectly in her palm, flat enough for her to press her fingers over the top. Sarah flips open the box, turning it around to show its contents. “Joey gave me the bubonic plague.”

Will blinks at the box, raising his head to meet Sarah’s eyes. “Wow.” He nods, pausing as though unsure of what else to say. “He must really like you.” He offers, pursing his lips and grinning slightly.

She beams, cheeks turning slightly rosy as she presses her lips back together, a ghost of her grin still stuck on her face. “He does.” She turns the box to face her, bringing it towards her with a sigh as she looks down at it once more. The joyful expression on her face seconds ago having been ripped away entirely, being replaced with a hint of woe that puzzles her coworker.

“And he’s very excited about me going into pathology.” Sarah reaches out with her right hand, closing the box gently as she slides it into her pocket, pausing to consider her next words. “We’re both excited.” Sarah declares with a nod as if to try and convince herself.

He tilts his head, his brows furrowed ever so slightly.

Sarah doesn’t miss a beat, recognising the look on his face and rushing to pick off where she ended. “You know, Dr Halstead, I’m sure this was nothing.” She says, a smile that seems too forced to be genuine on her lips.

“Probably.” He responds, lifting an arm to prop up on the table between them. “But just to be safe, let’s order a CBC and we’ll take it from there, all right?”

She nods back, almost too dismissively. “Okay.” Sarah sucks at her teeth, biting down on her lips that are pressed between them as she brings the can of orange juice to her mouth, tilting it to take another tiny sip.

Sarah swallows audibly. “You should get back to work Dr Halstead.” She places the can on the table, drumming the pads of her fingertips against her knuckles, fingers interlocked around the can. She gulps, desperate to remove the residual sour, slightly bitter taste of orange juice that makes her want to gag. She glances up briefly and begins again.

“There’s actual patients out there you need to see. I’m sure it’s nothing I can’t handle.”

He nods, taking a sharp breath and letting out a sigh as he stands, pushing his chair backwards from beneath him. “Get some rest Reese, I’ll let Goodwin know you’re off rounds for today.”

Sarah swallows, her skin sinking and gripping at her collarbones as she feels her saliva slide down her throat. “Thanks.” She looks up at him, sharing fragmented moments of eye contact while she nods at him with a smile which doesn’t quite reach her hazel eyes.

Will reciprocates, flashing a grin back as he pushes his chair back under the table, its silicone feet squeaking against the vinyl. “No problem.” He takes a few steps towards the door, the rubber soles of his shoes shuffling against the floor. Dr Halstead reaches a hand out to the door handle, wrapping a hand around the round metal bar, cool against the warmth of his skin.

She can hear the sound of the handle being pushed down, the latch of the door clicking into place when it suddenly goes silent.

“Uh- Just take care of yourself, okay?”

The corners of her lips turn upwards, practiced and perfected. It’s a false promise she’s made far too many times over the years. The same sense of guilt she experiences all too often creeps up in her chest, heavy and sinking into the pit of her stomach as she sees genuine concern - or maybe even pity - in his dark eyes.

Compassion fills his eyes, as if even though she didn’t say a word, the conflict in Sarah’s actions were more than clear to him.

“Can't have you passing out on any more patients.” Dr Halstead adds lightheartedly as he swings the door open.

And just like that, he’s gone.

Sarah pushes herself up to her feet, her vision gradually fading as it’s consumed by a blurry darkness that spreads across her view. As it fades, she finds herself pacing the small break room, far too panicked to worry about the glass walls providing little to no privacy to the anxiety that starts to consume her. The world is spinning at her feet, the walls and ceiling looming over her, twisting, deforming and melting into one another. She gulps harshly as she takes a seat again, feeling her saliva grip and rub against the roof of her mouth and down her throat that’s suddenly painfully dry. It only worsens the nauseating feeling that’s beginning to overtake her every sense.

“Just breathe..” Her voice crackles and shakes as she exhales those words in a shuddering breath, hands reaching up to her face to push her fingers through her thick curls.

Her stomach takes a sudden turn, twisting itself into knots in her abdomen and she feels a sudden sickening, sour taste hit the back of her tongue. She cups her hands over her mouth, leaning forward as it surfaces again..

Focus.

The dampened noises of phones ringing and talking, the way the silk fabric of her button down brushes against her spine as she breathes, the stark white light panels hanging from the ceiling and the feeling of the air entering her nose and filling up her lungs- The way her chest seems to collapse in on itself as her body seems to brutally squeeze out every ounce of oxygen left in her with every exhale.

She takes a sharp breath and suddenly reaches out to shove the can away from her towards the centre of the table, the slightly condensed base of the aluminium screeching across the glossy finish on the wood.

Passed out, right in front of one of her superiors, much less Dr Halstead. Not to mention on top of a patient.

It feels like she’s going to throw up, the suffocating feeling rising in her chest as she wretches, her heart jumping into her throat. Thoughts are racing through her mind, screaming and yelling insults into her head-

Desperate, she finds herself shifting to press her hands against either side of her head as firmly as possible but it only worsens. The sound of her thoughts are strangling her, crushing her lungs in it’s powerful grip with every waking moment. She’s doubled over and quivering in her own hands, eyes squeezed as tightly as possible. Sarah pries her eyes open, her vision fuzzy with tears she hadn’t even realised were forming as she stares blankly at the insides of her wrists. They’re cold as they trace down the sides of her cheeks, falling onto the white sleeves of her lab coat and leaving damp, grey patches along the cuffs.

She shakes her head, letting out a noise that almost sounds like a scoff as she shoves her face into the base of her palms. Tiny muffled sobs leave her throat as she buries her face into her arms, her body convulsing with every sound that leaves her body.

It’s just about the millionth time that she’s broken down in this way. It takes more effort with every time that it happens to keep herself together, to get out of bed in the morning, to eat or drink even a single thing, to push through a day of work, to smile at patients and coworkers, do her best with every emergency that crops up, and to deal with the people, much less the children, who inevitably die on her watch. It’s exhausting.

It takes so much effort to even be alive. It’s always been like this for as long as she can remember. She finds herself wondering, too often to be healthy, how she isn’t dead yet.

Sarah Reese spent the majority of her life telling herself to just stick it out, to pull herself together and keep moving, hold her head up high and always respond with a grin on her face. “It would all get better, once she grew up,” she told herself, “once she moved out it she would finally be okay.”

She spent her childhood all throughout primary school, those two phrases being the last slither of hope, as a 6 year old girl would watch as her father and mother began to fight so often she could hardly think back to the last time they’d just spoken without yelling. Then, when her father just packed his things one night and left; not a single call, an email, a text, a letter. And again when her mother stopped coming home and spending time with her little girl, disappearing for weeks and months on end on business trips across the globe.

Barely a teenager, Sarah was left to pick up the pieces her parents had left her in.

Time dragged on, and as the years passed it took more and more of Sarah with it- What was left of her, anyway. Birthdays spent alone with a cake meant for more than just one, gifts that consisted of lazily drawn up checks that took no more thought than a call to an accountant, Christmases and Thanksgiving spent like any other day.

The minutes and hours, then days, months and years that passed her by just wondering, what if?

If she was a better daughter, maybe her parents might come back. If she got the highest grades, maybe her mother would tell her she’s proud. If she got into medical school and became a doctor, maybe, just maybe, she would be good enough for them that they’d finally love her in the way she always wanted.

Soon those thoughts, the needs for love and care her younger self was deprived of, turned bitter with each time she was left disappointed. In her head, a constant screaming and pounding, a neverending barrage of self loathing, chipped away at her mind relentlessly.

If she hurt herself, her parents might finally care. If she stopped eating, her parents might finally care. If she died, her parents might finally care.

Sarah built walls around herself, to protect herself from ever having to face that kind of disappointment again. She’d learnt to keep everyone at an arm's length, going through highschool and college isolated to herself and her study. Her mind was plagued constantly with the same questions.

If her parents couldn’t love her enough to stay, enough to show up, enough to even care at all, then who could? If her own flesh and blood could abandon her so easily, did she really deserve to be loved? Was she good enough?

She found comfort in the anxiety, in the fear and the constant stress. In the thoughts that wouldn’t leave her alone, in the bottom of a pill bottle, in the pain she’d caused herself to be able to run her fingertips over the dozens of purposeful scars that littered her pale skin, in the way her stomach would hurt after hours of not eating, the sharp pains in her chest and the way she felt dizzy and sick all of the time.

It was the only thing that she could rely on, the only thing that stuck with her and kept her company throughout all of it. It was sick, and she knew it more than she wanted to admit.

Her heart was pounding against her chest, her body quivering with every boom, ready to burst at any given moment. The thunderous thudding is nearly loud enough to drown out the sound of her thoughts. Sarah intertwined her fingers, resting her forehead against the base of her thumbs, digging her fingertips into the dips between her defined knuckles.

In for four. Out for four. You’re okay Reese.

The beating of her heart slows as she breathes in and out, meticulously counting every inhale and exhale in perfect rhythm. She tries her hardest to focus on the sensation of her chest expanding with each intake of air, and as much as she wants to deny it, the smell of crappy disinfectant and sharp air fresheners was a comfort, soothing and cool as she takes in another deep breath.

The noise of the door swinging open suddenly breaks her out of her thoughts.

“Reese? You okay?”

Dr Halstead.

“Uh-uh.” Her exhale is hot on the bow of her lips.

She hears the shuffling of his shoes against the vinyl floor, growing louder as he seems to get nearer to her. Sarah opens her eyes, her vision fuzzy as she stares at the insides of her wrists.

“Did it happen again?”

Sarah sighs, parting her lips to answer. “Vertigo.”

“Maybe something is going on.”

Her eyes dart up and to the side, where she sees Will kneeling by her, brows creased and staring at her intently. “We should run some more tests.”

“No-” She pauses, “I know what’s going on.” Sarah shuts her eyes, opening them as she searches for the words she wants to say.

Sarah Reese has thought it through so many times, what to say, what to do, how to act and brush it off and make sure no one worries. But no matter how many times she’s wanted to do it, to just say it out loud, she finds herself again, like the thousands of times before, biting her lip and swallowing her words.

“Pathology.” She releases a heavy sigh.

It’s too hard to say out loud.

Maybe someday she’ll say it. Just not today.

[webcricket]

Looking Glass

Chapter 14 - You Can’t Go Home Again

Pairing: CastielXAU!Reader

Word Count: 1547

Summary: The past, present, and Castiel all catch up to the reader leaving her more uncertain than ever about the future in a strange world.

Miss a chapter? Have a Masterlist Link!

Yellow fender of the cab long departed from view down the iron lamp-lit dusk stretch of street, you stand across from home where the driver dropped you. The strap of the bag containing your belongings, all borrowed, none really yours per se, sags loose in your grip; slipping from your fingertips, it drops in a soundless heap on the sidewalk beside you. Eyelids clamped, dampness of disbelief overflowing at the tight pressed edges, you count to ten; when your wet lashes lift it’s all still there – a memory made tangible.

Azaleas flower along the foundation; the deeply green shrubs heave their fragrant burden of pink blooms up toward a wraparound porch unique in the neighborhood for its impractical lack of a railing – a feature you considered a benefit until the afternoon you broke your wrist launching a brand spanking new 10-speed bike on a bet off the side in a daredevil effort to bridge the neighbor’s neatly trimmed boxwood border; the long-knitted break in bone throbs as the recollection races through your mind of the summer spent in a cast frowning longingly at that cherry red beauty of a bicycle gathering dust in the corner of the garage.

There hangs the green shutter, slightly askew, missing several slats, outside your bedroom window. It sways on the hinge just so in a gentle buffet of wind producing a creak so familiar you would know, blindfolded, there’s surely a powerful storm sweeping in from the East. The burgeoning breeze blows loose strands of hair across your cheeks to tickle your nose as if in teasing confirmation of the impending tempest. Texas storms exist both fearsome in destructive potential and astounding in grandeur, and the walls of home always kept you safe from their wrath. A subtle shiver of excitement courses your body at the familiar electricity surging in the air.

Even the cliché fairy-tale white picket fence perimeter surrounding the front yard – whose upkeep you were charged with every summer from when you were old enough to wield a brush and dip it in a paint bucket – sits intact; the pristine white luster of each post gleams, a welcoming toothy smile enticing passersby to step on up to the doorstep and ring the brass bell framed beneath matching brass house numbers to say ‘Hello neighbor!’ and partake of a glass of your mother’s locally legendary lemonade. You can almost taste the sweet sandy grit of sugar on teeth mingling with peels of tart rind swirling over your tongue to quench the thirst of a hot afternoon.

And yet, for all the welcome likeness whose brick walkway looms not ten yards away, you remain a frozen fixture out front. The effect of seeing your lost home – a haven in a world that technically isn’t yours – instead of being comforting, vaguely unsettles; it’s very much like looking into a funhouse mirror, except you’re the one grotesquely distorted in the face of non-apocalyptic normalcy. The slightest tentative movement forward on your part toward the facade seems to skew you to the depths of your soul; it shines a paralyzing beacon into that alcove of your heart that knows coming here, especially like this, at the expense of Castiel’s trust, was a mistake.

Stuck in this dithering delay, you hear Cas’ truck approach before you see it; the squeak of the stiff suspension unmistakably cleaves the otherwise suburban silence. Pulling up to the curb, cutting the cantankerously sputtering engine, squinting at you through the dusty windshield, he climbs out without a word. His stare drifts over his shoulder to the innocuous seeming house so raptly holding your attention as he shuts the door; faint recognition rises in his awareness that this place matches the home he saw sprawling in the smoky vestiges of your memory.

Transfixed by a light switching on and the shadow of a figure moving beyond the illuminated red-checkered curtains of the kitchen – someone clearing dinner dishes you suppose – you inhale a shaky breath and avoid looking at the angel now standing beside you.

The demand for some kind of an explanation resides implicit in his continued silence. He gazes ahead, hands shoved in his pockets, indirectly reproving you with taciturn fortitude.

Tucking your chin to your chest under the weight of your duplicity, deeply regretting disappointing him, you quietly mumble, “I’m sorry. I wanted to tell you.”

He knows you’re not lying; it doesn’t make deceiving him – any of them – okay. Lips a taut line, he still says nothing.

You glance sideways – his stone-faced expression defines indeterminacy. Thunder rolls nearer. Wind violently bangs the green shutter. The hem of his trench coat flutters around the rigid column of his body. Your voice quavers. “Cas, please say something.”

Blues fixed on the lighted window, irises reflecting the shimmers of lighting piercing the churning clouds overhead, he asks in a curtly clipped cadence, “What I don’t understand is how you coerced Rowena into going along with this charade.”

“It wasn’t like that-” you falter when his regard inclines to you. Unlike his stoically set features, his eyes aren’t unreadable; the hurt of your betrayal dims their brightness. Feeling the coolness of their sustained scrutiny prickle your skin, you look at the ground to avoid the pain and reproof. “When I brought her the feather, she asked where I was from. You know, small talk.” A self-recriminating shrug over how quickly the stupid little thing snowballed into this mess. “I-I told her.” A stutter. “When she did the location spell …” An earnest glance upward. “I-I didn’t know she was going to say it, I didn’t-”

“No, you didn’t, did you?” Jaw flexing, his mouth thins further; a subtle flare of the nostrils discloses the unsuppressed anger. He shakes his head slowly as he speaks, “Didn’t stop us from taking an unnecessary detour. Didn’t think about the lives you put at risk by saying nothing – not just Sam and Dean pursuing a potentially dangerous archangel on their own, but the entirety of this world if we failed in the task.”

You step backward, shrinking from his condemning manner.

He seizes you by the upper arm to inhibit your withdrawal and spins you, forcing you to face him.

The firm clasp of his fingers borders on being unkind in roughness; it reminds you of the other him. The gesture compels you to meet the dejected glaze of his eyes where a flicker of fire flares within that dark glower when you choke out a startled whimper.

Fingertips digging into your flesh, he growls, “Y/N, the people in there – they aren’t your family. That’s not your home. You don’t belong here.”

Tears springing at the cruelty of his words – and the harsh reality of them – shuddering bodily with a sob, you yank your arm from his grasp. Stumbling into the street, you catch your balance slumping against the bed of the truck.

Bending to pick up your discarded duffle, he makes no motion to comfort you. “Get in the truck, we’re going-” He stops himself before referring to the bunker as home; it’s not yours – thoughts diverting to Heaven’s current angel-less predicament and its imminent demise, a part of him still resolutely believes it’s also not his, not exactly. He glances once more toward the mirror of your remembered home.

The first fat pellets of rain begin to spatter the surface of ground so desiccated by drought they bounce. Brilliant white energy unleashes in a blinding flash above. A shocking peel of thunder cracks the atmosphere.

Prying open the passenger door, Cas carelessly tosses the bag into the foot well and circles to the other side.

Ducking from the onslaught of rain, shivering in the cold slick of wet saturating your skin, you clamber numbly up into the seat and tug the door closed.

Observing your form huddled in the seat as far from him as physically possible, realizing his callousness was perhaps in part redirection of his own frustration with a sense of belonging, he gazes at the mud-streaked glass for a moment, heart aching for you, but not quite knowing how to apologize. “Y/N, I-”

Before he can utter a missive of remorse, you sniffle, “Are you going to tell Dean?”

Too worried about where you went, whether you were safe, tracking you through the cab dispatcher, and ultimately presented with your subterfuge, he hadn’t planned that far ahead. Anticipation of Dean’s antipathy again agitates his ire over the situation. Any softness of compunction he feels dissipates – he’s done defending you to Dean. “You mean, am I going to tell Dean he was right about you distracting me from the mission?” He cranks the ignition and shoots you a scowl. “No, I’m not going to tell Dean.”

For an instant, the warmth of relief wraps your trembling frame. The feeling is transitory.

“You are,” he grumbles. Revolving the steering wheel, revving the engine, he swerves the truck wide back toward the highway and the direction of your penance.

Twisting to peer out the window through the waves of windblown rain, you watch the house and hope disappear; it occurs to you that the angel is right, you don’t belong here, and what’s more, you can never go home again – it’s lost forever to you; and now, you fear, you’ve lost him, too.

Next: Ch. 15 - Rifts

[shattered-catalyst]

Three times.

I wanted to try something a little different here. I wanted to try writing first person perspective!! Wow I havent done this in YEARS.

Summary: Taking place between the meeting Rictor thread and the camping thread. Addressing some development that took place behind the scenes as it were. Rictor AU so not same Rictor but a Rictor because the ideas were cute. Like come on gimmie some happy Rictor any day I will fight for happy Rictor.

Excerpt:

I tried to tell him they were not actually apples. Apples come whole and not in bags with water in them and demonic boxes with eyes. I explain it must be a contraption of Lord Mojo’s doing. Rictor’s face turns sour. I may have ruined the food for him.

I was most certainly not prepared for this at all. My telling Rictor about the diner was my way of showing I was somewhat receptive to him entering my world. But now here he was, walking towards my usual booth in that ridiculous brown jacket. His motorbike (which i want) is parked outside, glinting in the sun. Doing a small greeting he sits down a crossed from me like this is no big deal. Nothing different from his regular Tuesday.

“Coffee. Thats all thanks.” Rictor orders with the kind of casual attitude I wonder if I could ever replicate. Where ever this man goes he looks completely natural. It is irritating. It is like NOTHING touches him. Like he IS the very earth itself.Always connected. “Crossword?”

I nod, turning it so he can see it right side up. “Yes.”

He seems slightly,off by the shortness of my comment.  Ive heard I need to start elaborating more when I talk. 

“You uh do those a lot?”

“Yes”

“Ah.” Thank goodness Stacey is back with the coffee, she and Rictor make small talk about the weather before she rushes off to chat with a regular. We sit in silence, Rictor stirring his coffee. Looking much too curious about the types of sugar on the table. I glance up only once to see if he is still there; he is.

“Rosewell crash victim,supposedly. Five letters.” Im chewing my pencil again and I do not care.

He looks confused for a few seconds, before looking down at the crossword. “Alien.”

“Spell it.”

“A-l-i-e-n.” He takes a sip of coffee. Silence passes and I nod to him. It fits.

I take a sip from mine, holding the pencil to paper. “Done by itself. Machine. Starts with M-E-C.”

“Mechanical. M-e-c-h-a-n-i-c-a-l.”

“When you receive money: four letters ends with D.”

“My favorite. “He takes a sip and then gives me a funny look when I express my confusion that that wouldn’t fit the spaces provided. “Try paid. P-a-i-d.”

 We spend a good hour like that. I am surprise he stayed, once the puzzle is finished I fold it. Placing it in my pocket to copy the words down later. 

I stand, he looks at me but I do not make eye contact. Do not want him to see my eyes as I leave. “8 am.”

“What?” Hes halfway after me out the door, holding it open. 

“I come at 8 am. Everyday.”

As I turn to leave I see him smile.

“Rictor, I have eaten two of these happy meals and I do not feel any happier. I believe you have been mislead.” I am concerned now. He is trying very hard for something I am uncertain of. This is the second time I have seen him. His brown wavy hair still new to me. Still fluffy and soft enough that I make sure to have some odd excuse to touch it. I hope he doesnt mind.

Now we are sitting in a fast food place, complete with garish colors and screaming children. It is very, new. He was uncertain.

“Yeah, well the drive thru is packed.” Taking a sip of soda he pokes at the bag of what should be apple slices, but I somehow doubt they are. “Eat.”

I tried to tell him they were not actually apples. Apples come whole and not in bags with water in them and demonic boxes with eyes. I explain it must be a contraption of Lord Mojo’s doing. Rictor’s face turns sour. I may have ruined the food for him.

We come to a bargain he will eat half the not-actually-apples if I eat the other half.

Rictor has taken me to a movie, said it would be good for learning. I insist we sit in the very back so we cannot be ambushed. He seems to find this amusing. The theater was fascinating and the action sequences done quite well, for earthlings. I enjoyed how immersive the experience was and barely touched my popped corn. Rictor did not seem to mind as he ate my cup as well as his own. He seemed quite pleased.

“I only feel the death of the main warrior was a waste of his potential.”

He glances at me as we leave, stopping before we get out of the theater’s gloomy corridor. “You know, they didn’t actually die right? In the movie they died but in real life that dudes still around.”

The explanation baffles me slightly. “Of course, this has been explained to me already. Although the concept is new, I sort of enjoy it. Seeing the same person try on different roles is quite applicable.” At least to his current situation it was. Before he would think it was cowardly to not know your role. Now he questioned everything.

“Just checking.” Rictor seems relieved and puts his sun glasses on, pushing open the heavy doors. Light consumes us. For a moment my breath catches, pupils contracting sharply. I am no longer with Rictor in New York. I am not where I should be. Instantly my chest is heaving and I am stepping backwards. Earth shaking beneath my feet.

 Somehow I end up a few feet from the door, catching my breath in an alcove with fountains for water. I realize after a few heartbeats Rictor has been calling me. But his voice is so far away, I barely hear him over the roar of the crowd. I am not certain what is happening, but I am more than certain that the arena is on the other side of those doors. The long narrow hallway had been unsettling before but now it was sinister and familiar.

The earth is speaking to me in whispers, pointing me where to go. But before I can follow he is there. Rictor reaches to touch me and I feel myself freeze. But he does not strike me, he leans against the wall beside me, his eyes look hurt. I have hurt him.

I dont know how long we stood there, but the earth was still again and I allowed myself to step out to stand by his side. Swallowing a hard lump in my throat I gently joustle his shoulder with my own. Leaving it there to show I was alright with contact now. He seems relieved, but I still feel ashamed of hurting his feelings. It clouds my uemeur.

His gaze goes from me and back to the door. “C’mon.” Wrapping an arm around my shoulder he begins walking us to the door. I resist, stopping him just short of the exit.

“Rictor, I.” I pause unsure how to explain what I need to. The hand on my shoulder tightens and he squeezes me closer. I feel connected again. Solidly grounded to the Earth.

Sighing he looks at the door and then at a group of people watching us. “What the fuck are you looking at buddy? Yeah thats what I thought mind your own damn business!” He turns back to me nose still wrinkled “listen, I dont know whats going on between you and this door.” Unspoken words were: tell me whats wrong.

I look away feeling ashamed, but he wants me to try so I do my best. I will always do my best for him. “The light. It is like entering the arena.” His lips tighten a bit, I am unsure if I hurt him again. But I hope I haven’t.

He holds me a bit closer and pumps his fist. “Then we will enter the arena together. I bet we can knock down some walls. Squish Mojo flat. What do you say?” He sounds so genuine, so positive, so....Odd. I am fairly certain he is forcing peppy bravado. It is, slightly endearing.

Raising a brow at him I frown. “Rictor what is wrong with you.”

“Hahah what ISNT wrong with me.” He rubs my shoulder, other hand firmly on the push bar. “Just close your eyes, and Ill tell you when you can open them.”

I feel that it may be needed to explain to Rictor that I am not an idiot. Although the mere fact I have to do so is irritating. He is standing in front of the diner with me, leaning against his truck. Some beat up thing, I suppose it is in good enough shape that it is reliable. The back is over flowing with things pinned down by a tarp. It makes me uneasy. But Rictor’s neutral smile and relaxed appearance settled the suspicion. 

Abruptly he opens the driver door and clicks a button. “Right, look in my car, this bag broke.” He holds up a bag of starbursts. Economy sized. Tropical fruit variety. I feel my eyes grow wider. 

“I think some went under the seats, y’know? My hands are too big to get under there.”

“Very well.” I get in and began collecting them for him, obviously he did not want them melting in his car. It was very warm out and I noticed that they melted into sticky pools at a certain temperature. 

Rictor gets in, starts the car and stares at me a moment. Fingers tapping the wheel hes looking a bit, thoughtful. Maybe even pensive. Thats a word right? “Make sure you get them all.” He shuts the door and the car pulls out.

 I am totally aware he is distracting me. But there are many candies here and they are going to ruin his carpet. Then he would be disappointed. Why I care I have no idea. But I do. Somehow. I think I will try and accept this feeling and work with it.

“Keep looking.” His voice is lighter, I glance up and see he is staring at the road in front of us. The smile isn’t on his face, but its in his voice I can hear it. I wish I could see his eyes to know for sure....