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ylangelegy · 2 months ago

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all its milk teeth ♾️ minghao x reader.

“i'm only the hostel 'till there's a house that you like.” # day two of (the)8 days of minghao.

☆ includes: situationship, angst, more prose -ish than anything. this is inspired by & heavily references NIKI's Milk Teeth. word count: 1,400+

When you first met Minghao, he had been running.

Not in the literal sense, no, but it might as well have been. Back then— at the start of your little arrangement— he had just been desperate for some sort of escape. Somewhere to go when there was a litany of toomuchtoomuchtoomuch clanging around in his head.

He wasn’t looking for sex or vices. He wasn’t even looking for you specifically.

But that’s how it ended up anyway, and that’s how you find yourself on the hood of his car at the godawful hour of three in the morning.

How long have the two of you been out here? You’re not quite sure.

You just know it’s one of those evenings. Minghao had texted around dinnertime. An innocuous Are you free tonight?, which was always the beginning of your undoing.

It’s a familiar routine. He picks you up, lets you choose the radio station. He’ll drive in relative silence. It doesn’t matter where to. The settings are almost always the same. Empty parking lots, secluded parks.

Tonight, it’s one of those cliffside parking lots that overlook the city. The lights of Gangnam glitter underneath the two of you.

If you were a lesser person, you might’ve teased Minghao about the whole thing being romantic. But there’s no room for romance here. Not between you two.

A gust of wind sends loose leaves flying past you. You can’t help the shiver that runs down your spine.

Minghao, who had been staring up at the stars, notices. He glances down at you with the ghost of a boyish grin.

“Cold?” he asks. You shake your head.

The howling wind has your teeth chattering mere minutes later.

“Maybe a little,” you finally admit when Minghao shoots you an exasperated look.

He lets out a huff of laughter. When he extends his arm, your foolish heart skips a beat. For a moment, you assume he’s going to pull you towards him.

Instead, he peels off his jacket.

“You don’t—” Have to, you mean to say, but Minghao’s already dropping the article of clothing onto your lap.

Underneath his outerwear had been a plain white tee, one that you doubted to provide him sufficient warmth. You open your mouth like you’re going to protest some more, but Minghao beats you to the punch line.

“I dragged you out here,” he says dismissively. “It’s the least I can do.”

The least he can do. You mull those words over for as you think of the many other things that Minghao could do. Put an arm over your shoulders, for instance. Call you in the daytime. Put a name to whatever this thing is.

As it is, you know nothing on your wishlist is about to be ticked off. And so you do the next best thing: You pull on his jacket, letting the warmth of it wash over your chilled skin.

Minghao glances at you. He doesn’t look like the type of guy who’s having a sudden epiphany. Those cliché I like how you look in my clothes, so I must like you scenes. No, he’s just— checking to see if you’re doing good.

Once he’s gotten his supposed answer, he’s already looking back up at the night sky.

A fulfilled obligation. That’s what that had been, you think bitterly as you tug his jacket just a little more snugly around your frame. Nothing more, nothing less.

When you first kissed Minghao, he had called you a thief.

He had muttered the accusation against your lips— the word a low rumble from the back of his throat. You had pulled away, eyebrows creased in confusion.

“Stole my heart,” he joked with the slightest upward curve of his mouth.

You had thought it was the sweetest thing in the world.

Now, though, you’re not so sure.

As you pad further into your apartment, Minghao lingers by the entryway. Already anxious to leave? you almost tease, but you’ve long since learned your lesson about teasing him for his tendencies. He’d punished you for it, once. Had been inaccessible for weeks.

He came back eventually. The two of you don’t talk about that time anymore.

Wordlessly, you peel off his jacket. Your hand pauses midway into hanging it over the back of your armchair; you’re looking at Minghao, waiting for him to decide.

He glances at his wristwatch.

Then— “Can I stay the night?”

It’s funny, how he still thinks he has to ask. Instead of holding his jacket out to him, you drape it over your chair.

“You know where everything is,” you say quietly. The spare toothbrush behind the bathroom mirror. The change of clothes in the back of your cabinet.

He toes off his shoes, finally, and walks over to you. It’s quick and chaste— the way he presses his lips to the crown of your head. His hands don’t quite touch. They linger instead, bracing at the side of your arms.

Your eyes flutter close. You don’t have the time to relish in the feeling because he’s already heading to your bathroom to clean up for the night. One empty kiss and, suddenly, it’s not as bad as it seems.

Pathetic, a voice in the back of your mind hisses. You don’t know who the voice is referring to. You? Minghao?

Both, you decide inwardly. Both of you are pretty pathetic.

When Minghao first left, you thought it would be the last time.

The last time you saw him, that is. But then he came back, and every instance after that— every hurried exit, every walk of shame— had you hoping that would be the last time he’d leave.

You’re no longer naive enough to think that he wants more out of these rendezvouses. You know what you are to him. A trial run. A stopover. You know that; you know better now.

Still—

There’s something about the way Minghao looks in the morning.

It always gets you. The sunrise streaking through the blinds highlights the honeyed shades of his skin, the pink of his plush lips. That’s nice and all, really, but what has you hook, line, and sinker is something much more harmless.

A sleeping Minghao is a Minghao who doesn’t have a care in the world. A sleeping Minghao doesn’t have that itch to bolt, that urge to escape into situationships that offer the most temporary of reliefs.

He looks peaceful. He looks like something that could be yours.

As the sun rises further into the sky, Minghao stirs slightly in his sleep. You have the urge to do something. To keep the fear from embedding.

Instinctively, you shift forward to press a kiss to his forehead. He relaxes immediately; it makes your heart ache.

You opt to not wake him, instead leaving him under the covers as you make your quiet way to the kitchen. You don’t overthink it. Flour, eggs, milk, butter.

Minghao drowsily shuffles out of your bedroom right on time.

“Pancakes?” he grouses, one hand rubbing over his face.

A grin tugs at your mouth. “Yeah. Did you want yours with bacon or eggs?”

“Ah…”

The small sound is all you needed to hear, to know what was to come.

“I might actually skip breakfast,” he tells you. He sounds genuinely apologetic. Somehow, that makes things worse. If he were a little more cruel or unkind, then maybe your door wouldn’t always be open a crack for him.

“That’s fine,” you say coolly as you lay out the completely pancakes on a plate. “More for me, then.”

Gracefully, Minghao doesn’t double down. He doesn’t try to present himself as something he’s not. He’s a runner. He’s run from everything in his life, and you are no exception.

He changes back into last night’s clothes— shrugging on his jacket, pulling on his socks. You don’t walk him to the door; you stay at your spot on the dining table, where you’re already cutting into your stack of one-too-many pancakes.

There’s no kiss goodbye, no text me when you get home. You feel a twinge of something, because you know Minghao is capable of it. He has so much love to give, so much devotion that he can dole out.

There are reasons why he can’t, of course. Excuses and justifications that all fall flat in the face of a cold, hard fact: Minghao wants to date. He just doesn’t want to date you.

And so he settles for this charade, this cheap imitation of a relationship. You mumble “take care” and he gives you an appreciative nod in response.

When he leaves, you know it will not be the last time. You stay at your table until the pancakes have gone cold.

Minghao comes to you to quiet the screech of toomuchtoomuchtoomuch in his head.

He leaves you with your own mental chorus of not enough, not enough, not enough.

#minghao x reader #xu minghao x reader #the8 x reader #minghao angst #the8 angst #minghao imagines #the8 imagines #svt x reader #seventeen x reader #svt angst #seventeen angst #minghao fanfiction #minghao fanfic #ylangelegy the8 days of minghao #( oww. Ow )#୨ৎ penned by ylangelegy #୨ৎ muse .ᐟ svt

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ukiyoebirds · 10 months ago

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This is probably the most angsty thing I have ever made. My angsty inner twelve year old is appeased.

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writingforstraykids · 11 months ago

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I owe you a kiss - Pt.2

Pairing: Minchan x femReader

Word Count: 3133

Summary: Minho and you work out a few methods to help Chan acknowledge his feelings, good or bad. Both you and Minho have nothing but Chan's best in mind, slowly realizing how insecure Chan truly is...

Warnings/Tags: fluff, angst, domestic life, husband!channie, husband!minho, anxious!numbish!channie, soft!minho, emotional hurt/comfort, soft fluffy shit

A/N: Dedicated to my girls @kai-lee08 @atinyniki and @sona1800 since you related to the first part so much💕

PART ONE | PART THREE

The next morning, Minho wakes up to you, planting kisses all over his face. You poke his side, giggling as he makes a cute protesting noise. "Wake up, sleepy," you tease him. "Channie and I made breakfast."

"I'm tired," he whines softly, feeling the jetlag hitting him full force.

"Minnie, it's 2 pm, come on," you say, and he shoots up in shock.

"What?!" he asks with wide eyes, head turning as he hears Chan chuckling. He's leaning in the doorframe, arms crossed in front of his chest, and watches him amused.

"She's right, if you don't get up now, you won't be able to sleep tonight," he tells him, and Minho falls back into the pillows, groaning, and closes his eyes.

"Come on, Channie made pancakes," you say, and Minho squints at you. "With chocolate chips."

"Fuck you," he presses out before pushing himself up, ignoring your succeeding giggles.

He joins you only shortly after, wearing one of Chan's signature black sweaters and his glasses. His hair looks fluffy, and you can't fight the urge to run your fingers through it. Minho melts into your touch with a soft hum. "Chan's right, you're such a kitten."

Minho's ears burn up as Chan smirks and hands him his plate. "Stop it already."

"Okay, this is the first step of our getting better program," you announce, and Minho glances at you, amused, taking the first bite. “Cherish every bite. Take the flavor all in and focus on how it feels against your tongue. Focus on the temperature and texture," you say.

Minho chokes on his pancake as he can't hold himself back from laughing at your serious face. Tears shoot to his eyes as he coughs, covering his mouth with his hand. Chan drops his fork and quickly steps next to him, patting his back forcefully. Minho winces at the impact and waves him off, still laughing. "Y/N!" he whines as he's finally able to breathe again.

"What?" you ask, confused. "I was doing some research, and they said it's a way to focus on what you're feeling again."

"Why would you-" Minho breaks into a fit of giggles again, burying his face in his arm. "Why would you say it all serious like some instructions on how to-."

"Lee Minho!" you protest loudly, knowing where this is heading.

Realization hits Chan's face, and he has trouble holding back a laugh. "Min, you can't be serious, why-" he fails and laughs as well.

"I swear I hate you two," you groan softly as they giggle but can't fight back a smile at that sound. Your boys being happy is all you want, after all.

"I'm sorry, honey," Minho snorts and shakes his head at himself before continuing to eat. "But she's right, try it out, Chan."

Chan exchanges an amused look with him before taking another bite and chewing more slowly now. Minho cracks up once again, seeing Chan's partly focused but also disgusted expression. Chan almost spits it all over the table, meeting his eyes, quickly covering his mouth.

"Nice texture, love?" Minho asks, and Chan makes a protesting sound, smacking his arm gently.

"Fucking hell, forget that. This isn't working with you two massive toddlers," you laugh and roll your eyes at them. "Minnie, do you have anything planned for today?"

"No," he shakes his head.

"Great, I'm taking the two of you to the beach," you nod.

"On second thought, there's something I really have to -."

"Min," you say firmly. "I know you can't swim, but you have us."

"Ugh, fine," he groans, giving in as he sees a hint of excitement in Chan's eyes. Sometimes, he forgets how much his husband loves the sea.

Just as you're about to leave, Minho gets a call from the company. He joins you again with an apologizing smile. "I'm so sorry, but they want to do the interview that would've been scheduled for today online now."

"Aw no," you pout softly.

"I'm sorry," he pouts right back at you, cupping your face and kissing your nose. You giggle softly, and he smirks succeedingly. "I'll join you later, okay?"

"Okay," you sigh softly.

Minho turns to Chan and flashes him a gentle smile. "You two have fun, alright?"

"Alright," he nods and gently caresses his cheek. "Drive carefully, okay?"

"Promise," he smiles softly.

You watch him leave before turning to Chan and glancing up at him. "You're still in the mood to go to the beach?"

"I'm not in the mood for anything right now, but that probably won't change for a while," he giggles and meets your eyes. "I'm all yours today; we can do whatever you want."

You smirk and gently grab his hand, smiling as he lets you. "We should get going; we can go for a swim now as well, with Minnie coming later."

Chan helps you spread the towels on the sand, chuckling as your hair keeps on landing in your face due to the soft breeze. You smirk at him and put down your bag at the edge of the towels to keep them in place. Once you have everything in place, you take off your dress and throw it onto the towels, smiling at Chan. “Come on, angel.”

Chan chuckles at your eagerness and takes off his shirt, throwing it onto your dress before taking your hand and letting you pull him down to the water. You chicken out for a moment as the cold water hits your feet but Chan is having none of it and lifts you up, making you squeak in surprise. He walks you into the water, gently lowering you down with him.

You smile softly as he lets you stay close and wrap your arms around his shoulders more casually. Your eyes travel up his face, starting at those plump lips you love kissing so much up his nose before meeting his soft chocolate orbs. You lift your hand and very gently caress his cheek, thumb brushing his cheekbone. Chan’s eyes search yours, almost looking a little puzzled, but deep down, you can tell he relaxes at the feeling. “Hey there, beautiful,” you smile happily.

“Stop it,” he mutters softly, blushing a little at your fond gaze.

“This is nice, isn’t it?” you ask, and he hums lowly, not knowing what to say. “We haven’t had much time outside the house together lately.”

“True,” he nods and mirrors your smile as you brush back his damp curls. “Haven’t had much time in general lately.”

“Neither did Min,” you nod and lean back a little to look up at the perfectly blue sky.

“And still you stay,” Chan's voice pulls you from your thoughts.

You frown softly at him. “Of course, I stay.

“Nah, that’s not, of course,” he laughs and shakes his head at you. “You stay with us without complaining once when we don’t have the time we should have for you. We’re away so often, and when we’re home, we’re tired.”

“Which means we’ll stay in the whole day, and I can cuddle you guys. Chan, I chose this when I said yes. I know both you and Min would handle it differently if you could, so don’t blame yourself,” you assure him and gently nudge your nose against his. “I love you so much and all the time we can’t spend together makes our joined times even more special. Just like this here right now,” you smile brightly.

Chan doesn’t know how to respond, but he can tell you’re being sincere. He buries his face in your shoulder and hugs you tight for a moment, humming softly as you run your hand through his hair. “I’m so glad we have you.”

“I’m so glad I have you guys too,” you smile and kiss his head, playing with his hair at the back of his neck. “Let’s get out so we’re all dry before Min gets here,” you suggest, and Chan gives in with a low hum. You pull him back to your towels and sit down with him, not letting go of his hand yet. “Close your eyes, pretty.”

“What?” he asks confused.

“Close your eyes, come on,” you laugh, and Chan rolls them before doing as you said. “Okay, and now?” he asks impatiently.

“Now, take a deep breath and try to relax. Listen to the waves and feel the sun against your skin,” you tell him, voice growing soothing and quiet. Chan does as you say, lying back with you. You gently fondle his hand in yours and turn to watch him.

“Quit staring, creep,” he mutters under his breath.

“We’re married, dumbass. What exactly haven’t I seen before, huh?” you give right back.

“Exactly my point, no need to stare,” he grins and squints his eyes at you, turning to face you.

“What do you feel?” you smile at him, and Chan thinks for a moment.

“Feels warm,” he shrugs, and he huffs at the gently scolding look you give him. “The waves remind me of home,” he goes on. “The sun feels nice…your hand also.”

“See, that’s a lot of positive feelings, right?” you ask, and he nods hesitantly. “Min and I both did some research and found some stuff that might help you feel better…or feel in the first place.”

Chan turns onto his side, facing you now, and smiles softly. “That’s very sweet.”

“Anything for you, Channie angel,” you beam adoringly and sink deep into his eyes.

Chan tenderly cups your cheek and searches your eyes, leaning in a little. You can feel his wedding rings resting against your cheek, smiling at the feeling. “I don’t tell you how beautiful you are often enough,” he whispers, making a slight blush travel up your neck to your cheeks. “Can I…Can I kiss you?”

You blink a little stunned, before nodding quickly. “Always.”

Chan's lips melt against yours, feeling as soft and familiar as ever, sending sparks through your body. His hand finds the back of your neck, fingers threading into your hair, and a soft, weak sound escapes him. Your body searches his, your lips chase his, and you can’t stop yourself from gripping his hair a little tighter. It has been almost a week since he kissed you and you hadn’t noticed how much you had missed it. Chan pulls back after a bit, a beautiful smile covering his lips. “That felt amazing,” he smirks, making you blush.

“Sure hope so,” you tease him lightheartedly and wink at him.

Two days later Minho walks upstairs to get Chan for dinner, a little surprised as he doesn’t react to you calling out for him. He knocks at the door to his home office and lets himself in, closing the door again. Chan sits at his desk, staring into the distance, and the only thing telling him he isn’t completely zoned out is him humming to the tune playing from his laptop. “Channie love?” he asks gently, and Chan snaps out of it, blinking at him confused. “Everything okay?”

Chan is tempted to say yes, but when he meets Minho’s concerned coffee orbs, he gives in, shaking his head. “Not really.”

“How can I help?” he asks, stopping a few steps away from him, unsure if physical comfort is what Chan needs now.

“I don’t know,” he admits and pulls down the sleeves of his sweater.

Minho notices, knowing it’s a habit of his husband when he’s feeling cuddly. He decides to take a different approach and grabs Chan’s spare chair pulling it next to him and sitting down. Offering his hand, he leans back and watches Chan take it, hesitantly intertwining their fingers. “What’s wrong, love?”

“I can’t get anything done,” he huffs, clearly frustrated. “I promised Y/nnie to help her pack before she goes to see her family tomorrow. I also promised Hannie to send over the new track and…,” he trails off, and Minho notices the tears burning in his eyes. “I’m a failure, Min.”

“Oh, baby,” he breathes out and shakes his head. “Come here?” he offers, gently patting his thighs.

Chan glances at him timidly and chews on his lower lip. “I’ll be too heavy.”

“Fucks sake,” he chuckles and cups his face. “I fucked you stupid in less comfortable positions, so move your ass here now for some cuddles.” Chan chokes on his laugh, and a tear spills down his cheek. He gives in and straddles Minho’s lap, burying his face in his shoulder in an instant. Minho soothingly rubs his back and kisses his hair. “You, my hardworking love, are not a failure. You simply need a break from now and then, like the rest of us do. I already helped Y/nnie pack, and Hannie can wait another day, there’s no rush. All the tracks for this comeback are done.”

“Min? Channie? Are you guys coming or-?” you ask, opening the door and frowning at the sight in front of you. “Oh, Channie, what’s wrong?”

“I feel like I can’t keep up,” he sniffles, buried in Minho’s shoulder.

“Keep up with what?” you ask patiently and step closer, exchanging a worried glance with Minho, who seems calm. Sometimes, you really admire him for keeping a cool head when things get rough.

“Everything,” he admits.

You place your hands on his shoulders before soothingly rubbing his arms. “Sometimes, Channie angel, you need a break…and you very clearly need one at the moment. That’s completely fine, and the things you feel are valid. But I can assure you, you’re doing such a good job.”

“We’re very proud of you, Channie love,” Minho agrees, glad that you instinctively chose similar words to himself.

You lovingly run your hand through his hair and massage his scalp, trying to soothe him. Minho rubs his back and leans his head against his, glancing up at you. “Minnie and I thought we’d have dinner now before you guys drop me off at the airport tomorrow morning. We won’t have that much time for breakfast. You want to join us?” you ask, feeling like giving him a choice is the better option now.

“Okay,” Chan sniffles softly and pulls back from Minho, messily wiping his cheeks. He chuckles weakly as Minho cups his face and kisses his forehead soothingly.

Shifting in his seat, Minho turns up the radio after a while to cancel the silence as neither he nor you are sure whether you should talk. Chan is driving, saying something about it easing his mind, and seems deep in thought as he does. Minho and you decided to come along, joining him for an aimless late-night drive. Minho starts humming along to the tune playing and glances up at the dark sky, wondering how the next few days will be with you gone. He smiles to himself as he notices you singing along quietly in the backseat and chimes in gently at first.

“Oh, Min, that’s our song!” you say excitedly, and Minho giggles as he recognizes the new tune: Connected. “I still think it’s so cute you did that, Channie angel.”

Chan chuckles softly and rolls his eyes at you before giving in and starting to sing with you. Minho watches the two of you, amused, singing the parts he remembers. The next song has the three of you singing at the top of your lungs, fooling around as you do so. The smile on Chan’s lips seems genuine and it warms your heart seeing it. After a while, Chan decides it’s time for a break, and you all get out. You smile as you hear the waves crashing against the shore and take a deep breath. Chan’s hands slip into yours and Minho’s as he walks down to the beach with you.

You all sit down in the sand and Minho chuckles as Chan lies down in the sand. “Channie love, you’ll be covered in sand later. It’ll be all in your curls,” he scolds him lovingly.

“Then you can help me wash it out,” he shrugs and smiles up at him. “If you lie down as well, I might help you too.”

“Nope, I have a better idea,” Minho giggles and rests his head on his chest.

“Smart,” you nod and do the same on Chan’s left.

“You two are ridiculous,” Chan sighs before laughing softly.

Minho gently rubs his chest and turns a little to look up at the sky. “It’s nice here,” he says after marveling at the stars painting the sky above you.

“It’s beautiful,” you agree quietly.

A comfortable silence accentuated by the waves and calm breeze lulls you in. You’re ready to fall asleep right there in the sand when Chan speaks up. “I love you two so much…I hope you know that.”

“Of course we do,” Minho whispers and moves a little on him, planting a kiss on his jaw.

“We love you too, angel,” you smile and softly pat his chest.

Chan gently pats your arms, signaling you to sit up. He stares at the sea for a moment, feeling his mind calm. “I think I need a break. Like a literal break,” he says then, and Minho watches him thoughtfully.

“You mean from the group?” he asks gently, and you can see he’s nervous at the thought of managing without him for a while.

Chan hums softly and plays with the sand between his legs. “I was thinking and…I really miss Australia,” he says, and the silence grows heavy for a moment. “I don’t wanna say home because that’s here with you two, but-”

“It’s okay,” you assure him gently. “It’s your family; of course that’s home too.”

“I just need to get away for a while, sort my head. I know you're doing everything you can,, and you two make me happier than anything else, but-"

"Go home," Minho cuts him off gently, and Chan glances at him timidly. His soft brown eyes are filled with warmth and understanding. “You deserve a break. We'll be fine; I'll take care of Y/nnie."

"And I'll take care of Min," you laugh and exchange a fond look with him. "Seriously, Channie, we'll be okay. We can call or come visit, and you can come back whenever you want to."

Chan looks at you and Minho, stunned. He didn't expect your approval as easily as that. "You're sure?" he asks.

Minho scoots a little closer and searches his eyes before kissing his lips softly. "Very sure, Channie," he says gently. "Don't worry so much about us."

Chan smiles gently and takes both of your hands. "Thank you."

“Just…don’t forget about us over there, yeah?” you ask, not fully able to swallow down your own insecurities and fears.

“Never,” Chan says firmly and flashes you a gentle smile. “I could never forget you two.”

MASTERLISTS | PROMPT LIST | GUIDELINES

Taglist: (Please let me know if you want to be added to/removed from the taglist!)

@mal-lunar-28 @aaasia111 @galaxycatdrawz @kthstrawberryshortcake @channieaddict @soullostinspaceandtime @malfoygalaxies @rebecca-johnson-28

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cheemscakecat · 4 months ago

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I think I solved the “That six-fingered nerd hasn’t been himself in 30 years” line.

People have been wondering for years if Shifty had somehow met Stan during the 30 year gap, or what else that line could possibly mean. But if he could have left the bunker, I doubt he would still be living down there. I think there’s a different explanation.

By that point in the episode, Dipper had already said they were looking for the author, that he had gone missing.

Hear me out: Shifty’s in denial about Ford’s disappearance.

Stanford was so preoccupied with Bill’s betrayal and trying to block him out that he didn’t have time to go back to the bunker. He had been planning to go back after the portal was finished, but obviously the threat of possession and Bill invading the dimension kept him away. Fiddleford certainly wouldn’t come back, even if he had his memories intact.

And then Ford got pushed into the portal.

Shifty wouldn’t be privy to this information, especially if he was trapped in the bunker. Even if there was something wrong with the cryogenic chamber and he unthawed a few months after the initial freeze, he wouldn’t have known.

I think he spent those decades in the bunker trying to dig a way out, but being blocked by the metal lining. That’s why he was still down there by the time Dipper and crew investigated.

It must have felt like the slightly nicer scientist, the one that at least found him entertaining, had abandoned him. Either he meant so little to Ford that he forgot all about the bunker [a possibility if they were only keeping him to be frozen], or Stanford intentionally left him to starve should he ever unthaw.

So imagine someone telling you that the scientist has been missing all this time. For 30 years you’ve been resenting this person for how he treated you and threw you away in a glorified tomb, but now that’s being challenged.

Blaming the scientists for everything was easy to process:

The only time he saw the sun was when he hatched, then Ford put him in a cage underground. With no intention of ever letting him see the sun again, or any live animals.

The only food was canned, and it wasn’t even designed for pets. They just fed him baked beans.

They wouldn’t trust him to look at their faces. Fiddleford hated him and wanted to freeze him. Ford only seemed to like him because he was a “pet”.

It was easy for Shifty to tell himself that these neglectful men left him to die in a metal box underground. That they hated him all along, or saw him as an animal and forgot they left him in the ice chamber.

But Ford’s disappearance called that into question. He knew Ford was the author of the journals, from begging to get to read them. The nicer of the two scientists. The one that was at least hesitant to freeze him in a tube for all eternity, just for being a shapeshifter. The one that was interested in his powers, instead of repulsed.

It would be painful to admit the possibility that Stanford planned to come back. That he might have died 30 years ago, and that was the real reason why Shifty was left alone in the bunker. The possibility that Ford died was a heavy one already. Shifty never saw his parents. This scientist was the first face he saw when he hatched, for better or for worse, Ford was the closest thing to a parent Shifty had.

“That six-fingered nerd hasn’t been himself for 30 years!”

He couldn’t have died, he just… He changed. That’s why he never came back, he just stopped acting like himself!

#Gravity falls #gravity falls theory #ford pines #gravity falls shapeshifter #gravity falls shifty #fiddleford mcgucket #Ford and Fidds owe him an apology #angsty headcanon #angst #Let him go outside and eat real food for once

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pochipop · 4 months ago

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＃OVERWATCH !! ♡ — DON'T WASTE YOUR HEART IN MOURNING ME (MOIRA X READER).

#. synopsis! — left to grapple with moira's sudden departure from your life, you spend a harrowing afternoon reminiscing on the good, the bad, and the deliciously bittersweet . #. characters! — moira .

#. warnings! — angst, liberal use of curse words .

#. word count! — 6.1k .

#. others! — navigation & masterlist .

#. alt accounts! — @ddollipop (nsfw), @hhoneypop (moodboards) .

The apartment feels larger now than it did before. It’s quiet in a way it never was when Moira was around, —always with her little tics, tapping her long, ever-manicured nails on the kitchen island or pacing about in one of the rooms. . . She did that latter thing a lot near the end, with more dramatic touslings of her hair than in the time before. For a moment, you fear the downstairs neighbors must be celebrating her departure, and the thought of it almost makes you laugh. The silence is laden with memories in every nook and cranny of this place, and it dawns on you now that it feels much like it did back when she and you were moving the first of many boxes in, ready to start a new life together.

Only this time, there’s no promise of eternal love or any of that other bullshit that she always warned you was a fool’s game to play with.

Moira, Moira, Moira, ever the pragmatic one. . .

There’s a faint scent of lavender-heavy perfume that lingers throughout, reminding you that she wasn’t just some figment of your imagination. At one time, she’d been the love of your life. Or, she was who you thought would take that title, anyway. Nowadays, you just aren’t so sure, and perhaps that’s been the hardest pill to swallow thus far. The scent reminds you of her, —of the way her brows would furrow deeply when she was displeased, of how she always took her coffee black and poked fun at you for the additives you refused to drink it without. It reminds you of her arms wrapping ever so sweetly around your waist, her chin coming down to rest on the crown of your head.

You blink and try to focus on something —anything— else. It’s hard enough to deal with it all, but you’re just torturing yourself with it at this point. Your eyes sweep the room, the cream-colored walls, landing on a painting you’d created several years ago. It was lackluster now in terms of honed skill, but there was something so endlessly passionate about it, so full of vibrance and promise. Reaching out, your fingertips graze the glazed canvas, and it’s like you’re right back there again. . .

The gallery buzzes with excitement, the sounds of light, casual conversation and clinking wine glasses echoing through the wide halls. You stand before your own work, amazed that it’s hanging here in this exhibit of your prowess, even if this gig had been a long time coming. To see it actually displayed here made your heart soar. It was the biggest step you’d taken in your career since moving to this city and it felt so incredible that your sacrifices were finally paying off.

You’re caught up in the whirlwind of congratulations, thanks, and small talk, —but none of that is enough to keep your eyes from drifting over to her; a tall, ginger-haired, sophisticated woman standing a few feet back from one of your pieces, staring at it intensely enough to feel unnerving and intriguing all in the same breath. Dressed in a finely pressed suit the same color of the wine in her glass, her sharp, calculating gaze turns to you as you approach her nervously, feeling small both physically and metaphorically standing beside her.

“I can’t quite tell if you like it or not,” you muse, trying to sound playful, even if the real intent was just to have her offer her unfiltered opinion so you could stop guessing what she thought of it.

The way she was staring at it made you feel like she thought there was some kind of hidden message carved into the paint strokes. When her eyes flicker to you, you notice that they’re different colors, —one red, one blue, both deeper shades, and you get lost in them for a moment before she laughs softly, and you have something else to fall into.

“Oh, I like it quite a bit,” she answers.

There’s an accent clinging to her words, but you haven’t quite placed it just yet. That doesn't stop it from making your stomach twist itself into knots though.

“It’s quite captivating.”

You almost blurt out that you could say the same of her, but you let that sentence die on your tongue before it has the chance to see the light of day.

“I’m glad you think so,” you smile softly, “it was my favorite of the bunch. That’s why I placed it in the center of the exhibit.”

“I’m inclined to agree,” she nods. “How much would it cost to purchase?”

Your eyes widen. It wasn’t necessarily unusual for paintings to be arranged to be sold during these events, but that tended to come with recognition from the local art collecting scene that you just didn’t have at the moment. For you, this exhibit was more about reaching a wider audience and allowing the public to see your pieces than it was making any kind of profit. . .

“Um. . . I— I don’t know, how much would you be willing to pay?” You swallow, at the risk of sounding unprofessional.

She gives the painting another glance over, then turns back to you.

“Does a grand sound fair?”

Your jaw almost dropped to the floor.

“S-Sorry?”

“Two?”

Holy shit. All of this seemed to have gone from zero to a thousand (or two. . .) in the blink of an eye, and you have to take a second to collect yourself, lest you seem anymore clueless than you’ve probably already come across as.

“Does. . . fifteen hundred work?” You dare.

“Certainly,” Moira nods decisively.

You give her your information so she can send the money your way in a few days time when she comes to pick the painting up at the end of the exhibition. And when the time comes, you walk away with one less painting to lug back to your apartment, fifteen hundred dollars richer, and with a new phone number added to your contacts with her name attached.

It was almost funny. Maybe you’d have laughed if you weren’t already on the verge of tears. All of this has really come full circle, and you’re just not sure you appreciate the irony of it all in the moment. Here you are, standing in front of this goddamn painting, the one that had acted as a catalyst to meeting Moira in the first place. . . And it’s back in your possession, because she couldn’t even be bothered to take it with her. As much as you love it for what it represents, there’s a part of you that wants to pluck it off the wall and slam it out the window right about now. Or maybe beating it with a baseball bat or something would feel more satisfying.

Whatever the case, you’re getting tired of looking at it, so you avert your gaze elsewhere and let your back touch the wall beside it. Stupid painting. Stupid apartment. Stupid Moira and her stupid decisions that have plagued your life for the past five years, and those stupidly long nails that traced perfect shapes along your hip at night, and her stupid lips with that goddamn orangeish gloss that always stained yours when she’d kiss you—

“Ugh!” You groan.

All this reminiscing has reminded you of how electric it felt to be in her presence back then, how magnetic she’d been from the start. Those sharp eyes that matched her wit, those clever jokes she’d throw your way (some of which went over your head, admittedly), —and the sweetness of her voice when it came to you. She was kinder with you in subtle way, would place her hands on the small of your back in public, taking care to tuck loose strands of your hair behind your ears if the need arose. You hate that this fallout has left you wondering if it was ever truly affection at all, of if she was simply protecting her own self-image.

You’ve questioned a lot of things about her over the years, but whether or not she was genuine in her love for you had rarely been one. But now, that conversation is back on the table, and it’s woefully one-sided this time.

One text lead to many. At first, it was hard to tell if she was simply interested in you as an artist or if that interest expanded to you as a person, but she quickly put your worries to rest when she began flirting with you in a way that even you, in all your obliviousness, had to acknowledge was more than playful banter between friends. Slowly, your life became intertwined with hers, and looking back, it seemed to happen in the blink of an eye. One late night date at a fancy bar and you were practically groveling at her feet, so desperate for her to see you as her equal. She spoke with you about science and philosophy, —her words acting as a forewarning for what was inevitably to come, even if you didn’t realize it at the time.

She was very hush-hush about her working endeavors, but you knew she was employed by Overwatch. That alone explained why she couldn’t divulge all the information of her duties to you, and you were okay with that. The secrecy got worse as time went on. Especially after she was publicly shamed for her “poor regard for the ethics of the scientific community” or whatever. The city isn’t small by any means, but it wasn’t large enough to spare you the fate of being tied to her name. You’d been seen attending various events with her, and many of the wealthy clientele that purchased paintings from the local galleries soon put two and two together. At that point, your paintings began selling at a much slower and much less financially liberal rate.

Moira insisted that it was okay. That it would pass eventually as she became involved with a different organization, —or. . . A different branch of the same organization? You weren’t sure. She never explained much, and you didn’t like to pry. If Moira wanted you to know something, she would tell you. Anything beyond that was best left alone.

Equally mesmerizing and maddening all at once, she insists that all is well. That everything will be okay. That all of this heat on her name is a fad, that once she proves herself, the tides will turn in her favor. . . And you believe her. You take smaller, more intimate jobs and refrain from showing your face at the local galleries for a while, waiting for the heat to die down. She talks you into moving in with her, taking you from your one-bedroom studio apartment to the top of the most affluent building in the city. You tell her it doesn’t feel much like anywhere you could call home, and she brushes your concerns away.

“It’s all the empty space,” she says. “We’ll decorate.”

You do, and somewhere along the line this apartment begins to feel exactly like you insisted it couldn’t. You sleep on sheets that smell like her, bury your face into her pillow to breathe her in when she gets up at ungodly hours of the morning to leave for work. She hangs that painting she bought from you about a year ago by now up on the wall near the kitchen and the living room, and she glances at it often when she sits at the counter. When she manages to make it home in time for dinner, you sit together and eat. . . Sometimes she’s just shy of talking your ear off, and others, she doesn’t say much at all.

She cups your cheeks and insists that everything will be okay when you get overwhelmed. She learns how to be gentler with you, learns how to be more sensitive. You learn how to trust her more and how to avoid stepping on her toes when her days are hard. Sometimes, you convince her to turn that magnificent brain of hers off and watch something stupid on the television with you, —trashy reality TV that she doesn’t really get, but likes to watch you giggle at more than anything else. If you’re lucky, she won’t wake you when you doze off in her lap, she’ll just gently massage your scalp and let you rest against her.

Slowly but surely, the apartment is filled with lots of things. Books, trinkets, little pieces of decor. . . Love. She doesn’t declare it often, but every now and again, she’ll get the urge to remind you. Usually it’s just before you fall asleep, her long arms pulling you against her chest, mumbling a confession so quiet only you can hear it above her heartbeat; like it’s a secret she’s keeping from the rest of the world.

You feel bad that sometimes you wish it was.

“Do you even understand what’s happening?” You ask one afternoon, frustrated and angered by her continued neutrality towards it all. “To me?” You add. “To us?”

Those eyes that you’ve always loved so much flash with anger and a hint of something else, something you don’t really recognize on her. . . Guilt?

“What is there to understand?” She challenges. “My work is important. I thought you understood at least that much.”

“And mine isn’t?” You counter.

“I never said that,” she shakes her head. “I’ve never not supported your career choices, —need I remind you how we met?”

She says that and gestures to the hung painting on the wall. You nearly scoff.

“It’s one thing to support me, Moira, it’s another to be proactive about it.”

She frowns.

“I’m sorry our relationship has caused you so much distress,” she hisses.

“That isn’t what I’m saying,” you bite back.

“Then what exactly are you saying, y/n?” She questions, but you can tell by the way she says it that she’s not really looking for an answer.

You still offer one anyway.

“I’m asking you when enough is enough, Moira.”

Her expression hardens, a shield silently snapping into place.

“Enough is never enough in science,” she says to you, like you’re some underling in her lab she’s giving a lecture to.

There’s a cold, detached sentiment in her tone, —one that makes your heart ache. Because you love her, in spite of all this.

“Progress requires sacrifice.”

You laugh, but it sounds so bitter that you hardly recognize it came from you.

“Sacrifice? You wanna preach to me of all people about sacrifice? —What about us, Moira? What about the sacrifices I’ve made, endless ones, mind you, to be here and stand with you and back the things you do? This kind of mindless complacency because I care, and I only ever want to assume the best of you. But what about me? What about the life we’ve built together? Does that mean nothing to you?”

Moira’s eyes flicker with something you can’t quite place. Regret, maybe, or something like fleeting sorrow.

“Of course it means something to me,” she says softly.

You hurt her, and you can see it on her face. A part of you wants to reach out, take her by the wrist, kiss this better. . . But you don’t. The argument hangs heavy in the air, a chasm widening between the two of you. She turns away and leaves the apartment for a while. It’s nearly midnight when she returns, and she sleeps in the guest room for the next few days. You catch brief glimpses of her every now and again when one of you is coming or going, but there isn’t really anything to say. It’s a stalemate, and you’re both a little too stubborn for you own good.

Moira cracks first after four days, a rare showing of compassion on her part. You come home to a nice, home cooked dinner, and she coaxes you into sitting down and eating with her. It’s not like it takes much convincing. It’s been a while since you’ve seen her cook, but you’re reminded of how much you’ve missed it as you eat what she’s prepared. After some awkward small talk about what you’ve both been up to over the past few days, and you holding your tongue on any snarky quips, she sighs.

“I’ve been thinking about what you said,” she tells you. “About us.”

In the back of your mind, a part of you steels for a breakup. For some dissolution of everything you’ve put your heart into, and somehow. . . It feels like something that was bound to happen. And that’s the worst part. Still, you nod and put your fork down, giving her your full attention as she speaks with careful measure. It’s the first real conversation you’ve had with her in over half a week, and you’re determined to make it count for something.

“My work is very important to me. You must know as much by now. But I do understand your frustrations, and I’m sorry that my career has interfered with yours. There isn’t much I can do about it, but I acknowledge your frustrations, and if I could make this easier for you, y/n, you know that I. . .”

You sigh.

“I do,” you say softly. “I know.”

She nods.

“I also know that I can be difficult to be with at times. I know that I get so caught up in my experiments that I fail to leave time for anything else, but I try. Because I care for you very deeply, and I don’t want to lose you. I don’t want to lose what we have together, what we’ve built. . .”

“I know,” you repeat.

Moira sighs.

“You’re still angry with me.”

“I am,” you admit. “But I appreciate that you’re trying to make things right, and I. . . Should apologize to you too. For what I said. I know that you care about me, and about our relationship, and I’m sorry that I questioned that. It was wrong.”

She seems pleased with this, —more than willing to let it be water under the bridge.

Things admittedly don’t get much easier in the fallout. Not in terms of your career, anyway. Your works are tainted by the woman you call a lover, and your name is blackballed across the community. It’s a constant struggle to reconcile your own morality with the dubiousness of her’s, and yet you really can’t imagine life without her. So you stay, and you sleep in her bed; —your bed. The one you’ve built with her. You stuff it down and vent your frustrations to the walls of your painting room.

You glance to the door but make no move to go near it. God, all this shit those walls have heard over the years. . . You don’t even wanna think about what kind of therapy they’d need if they were sentient. It’s almost enough to make you shiver. This entire apartment, for that matter, is like some kind of twisted mausoleum of memories; good and bad. The bed you’ve slept alone in more nights than you can count over the years is the same one she undressed you so many times on, picking you apart like you were perfectly cooked ribs just sliding off the bone, and fuck it makes you so mad that she’s just thrown everything away like this. That couch you’ve cried on out of sheer overwhelming frustration is the one where she urged you onto her lap, the one she covered you up with a blanket on those times she came home to find you napping there.

It’s been three years since that argument was settled at the table. It’s been three days since she sat you down in the same chair, in the same room, at that same goddamn table, to tell you she was leaving. That she didn’t know when or if she’d be coming back. That Overwatch was just too stifling, that she needed to get away, to explore. . . And in the process, she’s left you alone. Again. The echoes of that last conversation haunt the empty space. You’re mad. You’re so, so angry that this is the way she left things, and it’s eating you up like boiling water in your veins.

All that time you’d spent making sacrifices, letting your art be devalued so she could search for some secret key to humanity’s shackles while keeping you chained in this fucking apartment. The chandelier hanging from the ceiling just didn’t fix everything the way it should have for the way it raised the rent of this goddamn place. You check your phone, knowing there won’t be any kind of message or call from her, but silently hoping there might be. That maybe, just this once, she’ll prove you wrong. . . That she’ll just come back and say she’s sorry, that she made a mistake and wants to make it right again.

But there’s nothing. You choke back a sob and train your eyes on the apartment walls again. They’ve seen nearly everything from start to finish, and yet you just don’t feel like you can let them watch you weep now. They held your back when Moira pressed you against them, her hands traversing you with more muscle memory of you each time, and they held it again the night she said she was departing while you slid down it, heart heavy enough to pull you like gravity itself.

Now, these walls bear silent witness to your grief. The silence wraps around you like a cold, unwelcome blanket, frigid on your skin like her hands tended to be. It amplifies every thought in your head, every memory of her, all the things she’s just left behind now like it was easy. Like it was all meaningless fodder for her when to you, it was just shy of everything. It was what you fought for the hardest, what you sacrificed for the most, what you were willing to crawl on your hands and knees for above anything else. It’s hard to believe that she’s gone, just like that, but the absence of her presence now, the absence of her things, makes it all too real.

You let your head tilt upward, catching the barest sight of the painting just up and to your left. The thing that started it all, the beginning of the end, and it feels like such a cruel joke now, —like a reminder of everything you’ve come to lose.

More than anything, you want to be angry. You want to tear this place apart with your bare hands, destroy every reminder of her, every piece of her that still lingers in this god forsaken apartment. . . But you can’t. You just can’t bring yourself to do it, and not just for the fact that the costs will be far too much to repay in the aftermath. Instead, you simply slump further against the wall, letting the tension melt into exhaustion, and letting all this weight crush your spirits in way only something uniquely Moira ever could.

The love you held, the love you received, the dreams you shared, —all of it and more is tangled up in this place, in the memories that permeate every room. You’re surrounded by it, but even if you leave, you know all too well that it’ll just travel with you. There’s no escaping this, and that’s the scariest part. Your hand drifts to your phone again, almost involuntarily, as if by some miracle there’ll be a message from her; something to explain that her hand was forced, that she’s sorry, that she didn’t want things to end the way they did either. Maybe there’ll be a goodbye that doesn’t feel so goddamn final, maybe she’ll ask you to wait for her because she knows you would if she requested it.

But there’s nothing.

Just the same void that’s been growing since she walked out the door.

The tears come before you can stop them this time, a pent-up release of all the emotions you’ve been stuffing down for three days. Anger, sorrow, confusion, frustration, all of it and more, mix together and spill out through your eyes as you curl up on the cold floor, folding in on yourself, trying to feel as small as possible in hopes that you might just disappear altogether.

You can almost feel her hand atop your head in a comforting gesture, the way she used to pet you like a cat because she wasn’t sure what else to do when you cried. You can still hear her voice ringing in your ears.

“We should talk,” she says, a sense of hesitation present which was wholly uncharacteristic of her. . . Moira wasn’t the type to hesitate.She never had been.

Her usual confidence has been replaced by something tentative, and that cut deeper than any words ever could.

“Is something wrong?” You ask softly, because something surely was, even if you didn’t know what just yet.

“Just sit, please,” she requests, and you do, ignoring the sense of deja vu.

“Moira?” You utter, and she cringes visibly at the desperation on your tongue.

“I’m leaving.”

Your mind stills. There’s no way you heard that correctly, or perhaps you just need to clarify what she means, maybe she’s going somewhere for a time, but surely she’ll return, surely she’ll come back—

“L-Leaving?” You repeat after a few moments of silence. “What do you mean leaving?”

She looks to the floor, like she’s searching the grooves of the tiles for the right way to explain.

“Overwatch. . . Has made a fool of me for too long. And I’ve stupidly allowed it for the sake of access to their equipment and their people, but no longer.”

This wasn’t news to you. She’d always shown a slight disdain for her employers, but her relationship with her superiors had gotten notably more hostile in recent months. She spit more venom when speaking of them now, scowled when she saw anything to do with Overwatch in the media. . . But you never thought it was this bad.

“So you’re leaving your job?” You seek to clarify.

“Yes, but. . .” she pauses. “I’ve been presented with an opportunity that I cannot pass up.”

“A job offer?”

“Something like that.”

You frown.

“This is way too cryptic for my taste, Moira, can you please just—”

“I’m going away.”

Another pause, this time from you as you let her words digest.

“. . . going where?” You ask eventually.

“I cannot tell you,” she replies decisively, and for the first time, you’re tempted to ask why.

For so long, you’d been fine to simply accept what she couldn’t divulge to you. It was what it was. But not this time.

“Don’t you think I deserve some kind of explanation for all of this?” You question, raising your voice slightly. “You can’t just tell me you’re leaving, that’s not how this is supposed to work, Moira, we’re partners—”

Her face tightens, uncertainty morphing into resolve. Her tone is pointed as she cuts you off.

“I know it’s not fair,” she tells you bluntly, voice steadier than before. “But this isn’t about fairness. This is something I need to do for myself.” This only makes you angrier.

“And what about me then? The person you’ve, I don’t know, —built a fucking life with? What about me in all of this, you can’t just throw me away and give me no explanation! If you need space, just say that you need space, you don’t need to play a cryptic game with me, I know you! Why the secrecy with me of all people?”

The woman you’ve always known to be so confident now seems so vulnerable before you, and it almost makes you feel guilty for being upset.

“It’s not about secrecy. It’s about protecting you, protecting myself and my work. . . If I told you everything, it would compromise too much. I will not put you in danger.”

“But putting the woman I love in danger is just fine by you?” You hiss. “Don’t tell me you’re protecting me, don’t make this out to be some noble act on your part. What are you so afraid of telling me?”

“The information you’re after is something I cannot disclose to you.”

“Don’t speak to me like I’m a stranger meddling in your affairs, we are partners! We’ve been together for half a decade, we share a home, you can’t just leave!” You shout. “Don’t you think I deserve a proper explanation after everything we’ve been through? After everything you’ve put me through?”

“What you deserve and what I can give you are rarely the same thing, and you know this.”

You scoff.

“This isn’t about you,” she continues. “This is about protecting the things I value, which includes you, whether or not you believe as much right now. If I were to reveal details, it would jeopardize everything: my work, my safety, your safety, and I’m doing what’s necessary to prevent that. I’m not willing to risk it. Because I know you as well, and I know how stubborn you are. I’m doing everything in my power to keep you out of a situation that puts you in harm’s way.”

“And what about the risk of losing me, huh? The risk of losing everything we’ve built together? You’re just walking away without giving me any proper closure, —dropping this bomb on me and expecting me to take it in stride? Just swallow this like it’s not going to turn my world upside down?”

Tears threaten to spill down your cheeks.

“How is this any better?” You demand.

“It has nothing to do with you,” she retorts. “It has nothing to do with walking away from you.”

“Yes it does, because that’s what you’re doing!” You argue.

“I am making a choice that I believe is best for my career and for both our safety. I’m ensuring that my choices don’t put you in danger. You of all people must understand that by now.”

The silence stretches after her words and you feel the weight of them mix with your mounting frustrations.

“You think you’re protecting me by shutting me out like this?” You question, hurt evident in your voice. “By just up and leaving without giving me any real explanation? How is this supposed to make anything better?” “I never said it was supposed to make anything better.”

You laugh, bitter and sarcastic. Her frown deepens.

“I’m not doing this to hurt you,” she tells you in earnest, but it’s hard to believe it in the moment.

What do intentions matter in this case if it hurts you all the same?

“What about us?” You question, voice breaking. “What about the life we’ve built together? You can’t just erase it all and pretend like it never happened. You can’t do that.”

Her eyes flicker with a brief flash of something like guilt, but she masks it quickly.

“My decision wasn’t made to erase our past—”

“Our past?” You interrupt.

She runs a hand down her face in frustration.

“My decision is not about erasing you,” she revises. “It’s about ensuring that my actions don’t put you in a position I can’t protect you in. I’m taking the steps to ensure that my choices don’t harm you.”

“You’re harming me right now!”

“And you can heal from this!” She snaps. “But there’s no guarantee you’ll heal from what could happen to you if I don’t make the choice I’m making right now. I’m taking the necessary steps to protect what’s important, and that includes making tough decisions.”

You feel your hands start to tremble. Because of what, you’re not sure. . . Maybe it’s anger, maybe it’s anxiety, maybe it’s grief.

“Don’t try to justify this to me,” you shake your head. “Don’t try to pretend like you’re doing this for anyone but yourself. After everything I’ve done for you, all the sacrifices I’ve made, you’re throwing everything away like it’s worthless? How is that protection?”

Her gaze hardens.

“You know well and full that I do not make uncalculated decisions. This is no different. I’m making a choice that keeps you safe, even if you don’t recognize that right now.”

“It’s not about what I do or don’t understand!” You shout. “It’s about trust! It’s about being fucking honest with me! You’re not even giving me a choice in this, and that’s not fair! You’re making choices for the both of us alone that we should have been making together!”

“I’m not asking you to like or agree with what I’m doing, I am telling you what’s taking place because I care for you, and I believe you deserve that much,” she states. “But this conversation does not change what has to be done.”

“So that’s just it then?” You question in disbelief. “You’re throwing me away and I don’t even get a say? You’re just gonna up and go and leave me to pick up the pieces by myself?”

The rest is a blur. She gathered her things while you sit around in a daze, pinching yourself every so often, convinced that you’ll wake up and it’ll all just be a nightmare. You’ll tell her about it when you wake up and she’ll tell you you’re ridiculous with a lopsided smile on her face, and she’ll roll her eyes when you wrap your arms around her waist and bury your face in her chest. It’ll all feel better when she kisses the crown of your head and mumbles that she’ll see you when she gets home from work.

But she doesn’t.

“Moira,” you practically whimper as she emerges from your shared room with items smushed into a travel case. “Don’t. Don’t do this.”

She pauses, unable to meet your gaze completely. Like she’s ashamed in all of this, as much as she wants to hide that away.

“This isn’t easy for me either,” she tells you.There’s a twisted coolness to her voice, like she’s rehearsed these exact lines so many times before now.

“But I’ve made my decision. There’s nothing more to say.”

“Please,” you choke out, not caring how pathetic or childlike you sound as you beg for this woman not to exit your life and leave you high and dry. “Please don’t do this, don’t leave, please don’t go, we can figure something out—”

“We can’t,” she shakes her head. “I’m leaving, and I don’t know when I’ll return. I don’t even know that I’ll be coming back at all.”

“But I love you,” you utter in desperation.

“I know,” she says, her voice colder than you ever thought it could be. “But love isn’t enough right now. This is bigger than us, and I can’t ignore that.”

You reach out and grab the sleeve of her button-up shirt.“Don’t do this to me,” you plead.

But when you look into her eyes, all you see is resignation.

“I wish things were different,” she murmurs, her voice softer now, but still laced with that same finality. “But I can’t change what I have to do. This isn’t about us, it’s about something far bigger, and I need you to trust me like you always have.”

“Moira.”

Her thumb strokes your cheek in a tender gesture that feels like a cruel contrast to the words she’s saying.

“You’re stronger than you think, and you’ll be okay,” she continues. “And maybe there’ll be a day when I can come back. But for now, you have to let me go.”

You feel sick to your stomach, hand clutching so tightly around her’s that it likely hurts, but you can’t help it. You shake your head as your throat squeezes and you open your mouth slightly to speak, but nothing comes out.

She pauses in the doorway, her back to you, and for a moment you think she might turn around. But she doesn’t. Instead, she simply says, “Take care of yourself.” The memory fades and you feel hollow. Raw, like the wound has been ripped open all over again. It stings like it’s been covered in salt. You blink, realizing now more than before that you’re alone, on the floor in this cold, empty apartment. The echo of the door as it closed behind her for the last time rings in your ear, over and over, a sound you can’t shake no matter how hard you try. So you don’t. You sit and let it fester. And maybe you’ll wait around for her and she’ll come crawling back some few odd years later. Maybe you’ll move on and search for her in the face of every potential partner you sit across from at warm cafes. As you sit there, the painting looms in your vision, its once comforting brushstrokes now a bittersweet echo of a time when everything felt whole. It’s a reminder of what was and what might never be again and it makes you nauseous just to stare in its tainted direction. But you’ll keep it hung no matter where you go, and you know that. . . Because Moira loved it. And you love her.

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