#please excuse me while i go into hysterics and lose my goddamn mind

[rapha-reads]

Ever reached such a new low that the realization that you don't even have enough money to print a single page of paper sends you into a hysterical giggle fit?

I'm. What the bloody fuck is my life. I want a refund. Who the fuck involved me in their game of Jumanji, I want out.

[writerpyre]

Fulcrum, C9: The Dark Between The Light

Hey, hey look, it’s a goddamned miracle. A Fulcrum update! Language warnings and distressing themes herein.

https://archiveofourown.org/works/4937683/chapters/42956831

https://www.fanfiction.net/s/9246859/9/Bound-Part-III-Fulcrum

Yes, hello readers, it's been a long while... nearly three and a half years for this fic, if my math is right. Figured out yet again that Boundverse helps me to cope, so this finally got done as a fixation-distraction thing. I'm happy with how it's turned out, so one step more and all that. :)

There are notes on my various sites saying why I'm not actively posting as much, but I am ticking along with things as life permits. Hope this update is enjoyable and starts moving the plot along some. Please feel free to drop a comment etc, as usual. I can't promise when the next will come, but as always, rest assured I will not abandon my babies.

The Boundverse turned seven at the start of March, and heaven knows it's nice to get back to where it began, even if SEVEN years have passed since I first posted, and I'm still attempting to get this first arc completed. Many thanks to LexietFive for her support and beta-ing services, you're amazing.

Anyway, love to you all, and welcome to Chapter Nine of Fulcrum.

The thing about families? They're manipulative, and bossy, and overbearing. Sometimes, you can't fathom how it is that they can be so motivated.

Scott's words - likely intended to mollify and distract me (because he's the epitome of that manipulation; learned at our father's knee, and co-opted for his own purposes) - causes my mouth to drop open. Far from being the thing that calms me down, all I can say I'm feeling is downright anger, surging hot and sick in my gut.

"I- you - What?" I manage. Words are probably taken as me not hearing; not quite understanding in my exhaustion; not that I'm incredulous. I've got to try and calm my temper, because yeah, I'm mad, but it's not entirely their fault...

"We brought the wedding to you." Scott repeats, his expression uncharacteristically smug and yet, wary. "Dad and I sorted it, and the happy couple agreed. Sherry wants you to be there as much as you do John."

"It's the least we could do for her. And you," Virgil adds, his arms still crossed, but his gaze softening from his death-glare. His mouth twitches in amusement. Ass. "She's been there to listen when you've needed someone else, other than family. And we know how much you were looking forward to it. Dad's been doing arrangements for a while. He and Scott let us in on it today, he was confirming details while we were out just now. She and you both need this." He shrugs, and his deep hazel eyes - the green hardly noticeable the majority of the time - crinkle at the edges. "I wish you hadn't bitten our heads off first though, we wanted it to be special."

My lips tighten, and I can actually feel the dry skin on my face cracking as I shake my head. "You… You had no right to do that!" I snap, and the looks on their faces are almost comic in their surprise. Pfft. "You didn't ask me, you didn't consult me… How… How dare you!"

I'm being irrational, and approaching hysterics to boot, but to freaking hell with it. I am so done with all this bullshit.

"John wh-" Gordon tries, but I shake my head furiously, even though it makes my ears ring. "Shut up, Gordon." My second-youngest brother subsides, his lips compressing. Great, that's the second time I've cut him off today.

I don't dare look at Alan.

None of this is his fault, but I know that if I see him and all his innocence and naivety, I'll lose my temper altogether. It's a fuse waiting to be lit as it is, what with everything else that's going on. My inability to control my temper when I feel as sick as I do now is not my best trait.

My hands come up to rake through my hair, and I growl low in my throat as I look between my siblings. I find myself avoiding Dad's gaze. I can't deal with his expression at the moment, even if I'm sure he'll understand my feelings. Closing my eyes momentarily, I pinch the bridge of my nose. I feel nauseous and tired, and suddenly, I just want to cry, in that dry way that never really gets anyone anywhere. I know I'm probably confusing a hell of a lot of things, and I hate making excuses for myself, but I know that in this case, I have a perfectly good one.

"No." I say, opening my eyes again. As if repeating the word is going to sort anything whatsoever. "That was out of line." I croak. "You don't get to decide for me, none of you get to make that sort of choice."

"But…" Scott cuts in. If not for the anger coursing through me at the sheer arrogance of them, I would feel sorry for him as his mouth moves. Unmasked shock is painted across his face, and my chest aches. "Just... listen, John. We thought it would-"

"You thought it would help me." I both cut him off and finish the sentence for him, wincing as the words snag down my throat with the bitter deadpan of it. "You assumed it would help me. You didn't ask me. You didn't even consider my thoughts on the matter, you jumped in, and stamped all over what I actually want."

Scott makes a strangled sound in the back of his throat; neither he nor Virg look well. Gordon raises an eyebrow. Well, it seems he's unamused. Alan and Dad are silent. My attention is brought back to Virgil as he just shakes his head.

"What do you want then, John?" he asks in exasperation. "We're not mind-readers, no matter how much you might think we are." Well that freaking stings. "You don't tell us much of anything that's going on in that big brain of yours. And you're not listening to a single thing we're trying to say either, you know. It makes it really hard to work you out."

I feel myself tremble for a moment as I try - unsuccessfully - to rein in my frustration; not only with what I'm dealing with existentially, but that it's so hard to make myself clear to people when I'm not within the easy realm of professionalism. Even my family. Always. Goddammit.

"Do you know how damn tenuous everything is for me right now?" I demand. "None of you are stupid. None of you. You know me, you know what goes on with all this." I sweep my arm in an all-encompassing approximation of urgh. "We've all been through this before. Everything is just so fucking uncertain; I am well within my rights to not know what the hell I want if I need to." My breath hitches and I hug my legs tighter; addressing my kneecaps rather than see the expressions on my brothers' faces.

"I… I want desperately to see Sherry get married." I whisper. "But do you know how much it hurts just to see my reflection in the mirror right now?" I swallow harshly, plucking at my pyjama shirt. "This… trainwreck I'm living, I'm in no shape to be dressing in a suit of any description. Everything hurts, my hair's falling out, my skin is so dry that just sitting here in bed makes me want to claw it off. I'm a skinny, walking scarecrow, and I'll…"

I cough, trying to dislodge the globby ball residing beneath my tonsils, sucking in a deep breath. I let the words run free. I can't bear to see their faces. I've kept so much of this to myself, it feels horrible and anxiety-inducing to realise that I'm speaking any of my stupid, petty-sounding fears. But they're so real it makes my soul hurt.

"I… I'll be the centre of attention… Sherry should be the star of the show, herself and Sky." I shake my head. "It's… overwhelmingly kind that you've all helped them do that for me... Arrogant," I smile wryly, a spasm. "Though kind all the same. But… Cancer… It's visible now, there's no fucking denying it, and I'm not…" I bite my lip, relishing the sting. "I'm not ruining my best friend's wedding, turning up looking like a walking corpse because of this. I'm just so unwell right now, anything could happen, and it'll make everything memorable in the wrong damn way." I manage, forcing the words out. "I can't do that to her… I won't."

"But John," Alan says, as my voice trails off. I feel nothing but tired. Always so fucking tired... "We didn't say anything about you actually going. Just that we were bringing it to you… you're jumping to conclusions!"

I rub my face, and just shudder, because I realise it's true; I've jumped the gun and not listened. I've gone haring off on my own little train-track of doom and not read between the lines. Not even metaphors are going to help you now. Moron.

I know immediately, exactly what my family have done to help. Even with their own pressures and me and my issues, and everything else that's going on… I snort in frustration and amusement, and a cough tears through me. I shake it off forcibly, even though it hurts. I cover my face, tears pricking at my eyes. For the umpteenth freaking time since this hellride began, I can feel my insides shrivelling as my lungs constrict even further atop them.

"I've missed out on so much…" I choke, wincing at the pressure on my aching ribs. I press my left hand against my side as my chest constricts against my volatile emotions. "Scott's birthday, a proper Easter - for all we know that could've been my last - and I was stuck in fucking hospital, coughing my lungs out for it. Now this… It's too much. This… this isn't fair. It's just not fair!" I hate the way my voice cracks. None of them can think of anything to say. I don't blame them, really. I still can't look at them.

"Can you guys go?" I wipe my eyes with my pyjama sleeve, clearing my throat abruptly as I address my knees again. "Please? I need to think and… and process, and I just… I just need to rest. I'm sorry." I manage.

"Alright, John." I can hear from Dad's tone that he's using his Look to ensure that no-one argues. My father's good at that.

None of them say a word, but I hear their footsteps; keeping my head down to stave off the waves of anxiety until I hear my bedroom door close. Blessed silence.

I let out a sharp breath, coughing slightly past the burst of discomfort that flares in that damned right side. I scrub my eyes with one hand, clutching my sore stomach with the other. I feel like crap, but I also want to get dressed; ignore this trash cycling in my brain and feel as much of an approximation of normal that I'm ever going to get in the current circumstances.

Take a breath, Tracy. In and out.

In the everlasting, wise words of Nike: Just do it.

##

Getting up and trying to get organised for the shower is more of an exercise in patience and sheer stupidity than I'm willing to admit to. Especially when I can barely stand upright, and my body is determined to drop me on my ass if I don't keep one palm planted on the wall or some other close-to-hand surface. Ooooh, the determined, not-particularly-helpful internal monologue proclaims. Punning!

Thoroughly and grimly amused by my brain interjecting random statements on said internal monologue - both of which are instrumental in actually making the damn thing happen, coincidentally - I do my level best to convince my wobbly knees to take my weight as I survey my room, wondering if it's worth trying to cross from one side to the other to get to my case of clothing, or head straight to the bathroom with my toiletries bag, put these things back on - damp as they are from sweat, and gritty: gross - and then come back to change into the fresh things.

Oh, the choices you gotta make when you've got limited reserves of energy.

I decide on the take-the-clothes option, and wobble over to my bag to fetch the sweatpants I had on yesterday, plus a fresh cotton shirt and boxers. My hoodie can wait 'til I come back, as I know I'll only find myself overheating in the steamed-up bathroom, but I do grab my pump-bottle of Aqueous Cream, knowing I'll regret it heartily if I forget. Because of the erythema that comes hand in hand with the radiation treatment - unchanged in more than seventy years, despite scientists (like Brains') best efforts to the contrary - my skin is irritated, sore, and easily aggravated by the friction of my clothes. Due to this, it is therefore further exacerbated by the use of something even as normal as your generically-sold, yet good-quality bath soap, even those designed specifically for sensitive skin. Sucks to be me, but there it is.

My feet are cold as I stumble across the hardwood, my twisted ankle stubbornly protesting the pressure with little flinches of pain aimed up the outside of my leg. Biting my lip anxiously, trying to shove the previous conversation from my mind, I pray that Dad won't decide to come back and try to talk to me, because he will protest this absolutely. He'll probably argue that I'm not strong enough.

After last night's escapades, and the one before, I'm not positive I could voice my disagreement without lying through my teeth. I don't blame him in the slightest for wanting to keep me within whatever precarious state of wellbeing we can call this - but I need to do something for me that doesn't involve someone ordering me around and telling me what to do to achieve it; helping me do something that I've managed to do without any help, for most of the past fifteen-and-a-half years. Might be stupid, but us humans can be so very, very stupid. Just ask me and my brothers, for example.

Tracys. We're all very particular brands of danger-magnet asshole when it comes down to it.

##

It takes me the better part of an hour, and I'm a shaking, sore and miserable mess by the time I stagger back into my bedroom, but I'm finally clean and ready for a goddamned nap.

My stupid, stupid mind won't let me though, it never really does when there's too much stuck in it, and my really super-old fallback of recalling complex mathematical algorithms from memory does absolutely nothing when I'm in this state. I've managed to successfully drown out the previous conversation with my family through application of the amount of effort I exerted in order to get myself through my washing and shaving routine unhindered (yes I made the decision to shave; my skin didn't really thank me for it, but who cares?), but I know that once I stop moving again, it's probably not going to stay stuck in the corner of my mind for much longer.

Using a drone for me to see my best friend get married isn't the worst thing they could've come up with, but it's the principle of the thing, and it being them telling me, not Sherry having the choice or option even, of telling me herself that's the problem!

Some might say I'm jumping the gun, but honestly, the fallback to earlier technologies, especially something as robust and as generally unobtrusive of one of the now-outdated, later-model Syntax drones from the 20s isn't going to cause much of a hassle. A camera hooked up to my laptop, a comfy spot for me, and the ability to see my friend get married to her soulmate and the future father of the many, many children she'd assured me they'll be having… not the worst state of affairs I've ever been involved in. It was just the way my family had gone about it: not even giving either of us the choice in the matter, taking that ability to anticipate and execute it ourselves, was in my opinion, quite rude when it came down to it.

I groan as I sink down onto my mattress, feeling damp and sticky and gross despite the shower and change of clothes. Who am I kidding? I'm being a baby, and I need to suck it up and admit it, at least to an extent. But honestly, they know better than to spring things like that on me, especially at the moment! For crying out loud, I could be dead by the end of the year for all we know, and they're keeping stupid things from me that they'll know I'll obsess about! It comes from the kindness of their hearts, but at the same time, it really freaking pisses me off when they go and do things like this on me, however well-intentioned.

The injustice of the entire thing rankles every single freaking day. It's the 2050s, and they've not found a reliable cure for cancer, any cancer. Not just mine. There's still always the chance that it's going to return, no matter what you do, how well the treatment works, and in my case, even being past the supposed five-year-guarantee mark makes no difference on whether or not it'll come back. And with my history of heart weakness due to my previous rounds of chemotherapy, and the subsequently obviously-heightened risk when it comes to treatment of any kind, plus the lungs and the current renal and gastrointestinal challenges, well… Let's just say that in my case - which is obviously the only one that matters to me right now - nothing is guaranteed, even with this possibility-for-success-with-a-clinical-trial carrot dangling in front of my face. There's always something, lurking around every corner; unable to anticipate anything, all but expecting the reality that anything even with the smallest margin of succeeding always runs the risk that it's just going to fail anyway.

Conversely, nastily; the unpredictability of it all tends to come back and bite you in the ass at the most inconvenient times, much like my irritating idiot siblings, after I've told them to go the hell away.

"What do you want, Virgil?" My eyes roll reflexively towards the ceiling as I catch him suddenly lurking outside the now-open door; his sandy hair in a sad attempt at his usual spikes. It's too long to try styling it right now, I note absently, but try telling him that. "I don't want to argue about it." Nevermind he or someone has opened that door, ignoring the hard-and-fast rule that has always existed since forever, wherever we've lived. "Freaking knock next time would you?" I grip the edge of the bed as the sarcasm bites in my chest, and I swallow convulsively against the rising nausea as I stare at my knees again. Fucking Radiation. That shower was a bad idea. I huff out a breath, trying not to actively tremble.

'Wasn't me, for starters," Virgil ducks his head around the doorframe, locking his gaze with mine warily. Eye contact. Not a bad sign... "Was Dad; he came back up while you were showering, but he wants to know if you feel like lunch?" He raises his hands, eyes wide in his suspiciously-pale face. "Don't shoot the messenger." Ok… so that's some possible approximation of a white flag. Apparently. So it seems that pretending nothing has gone down is the game right now, for Virg at least. I can work with that. He's probably like me and feels too shitty for this crap to go on with the intensity it started with. Nevermind he's like me and has always been the figurative, if not literal peacemaker out of the five of us boys.

It beats having another fucking meltdown, sure, but I'm under no illusions that Virgil's apparent willingness to let the argument go for now will force the rest of them to let me hold off on the 'discussion' that I know I'll be subjected to later; resultant sulking aside.

Brilliant. I've got more pressing matters right now though; namely that it's expected that I eat and put forth no arguments into the bargain. I make a face even as my stomach protests in direct opposition. Logically, I need to eat as the freaking dietician sheet and the doctors demand; practically, it's a much harder concept to swallow. Pun not intended.

"Does anyone care if I say no?" I give in and glance at my brother properly. Virgil looks at me as though I'm going to explode again at any minute, but then his inner mediator suddenly emerges and he tips his head with a quirk of his lip. Whoop; under the rug the debris goes... "I'm really not hungry."

"I think they care," He says carefully, "But much as I know you'd prefer not to, it's not going to work." Despite the lightness of his tone, the affirmation of my previous thoughts still feels like an internal gut-punch. Virgil shrugs helplessly.

I feel myself deflate, even as I close my eyes; feeling worse than I had before the altercation, worse than the argument I overheard this morning. It wasn't even Virgil's fault, the argument I woke to; he'd defended me when it came down to it, and that wariness in him… I put that there before, despite him sitting up with me last night. My temper got the best of me, the humiliation overrode it all, and I don't like it. I've apologies to make when I see the others, and I want them to apologise to me and fuck, I just want to go back to bed and hide.

Perhaps it's childish, but I can't take much more of this.

Feeling my gut roll ominously, I take a breath, shuddering as the mess in my chest shifts, making my side spasm. Oh yeah, I forgot; every emotional reaction garners an equal and even more frustrating physical one… Yeah, I need a nap. But food first, apparently, and hopefully not another argument on top of it. I should go downstairs, if I can manage it. I should, but most of me just wants to hide. Fuck. That's not even an excuse, because I should move around if I feel I can, even if I feel as though my legs are jello incarnate.

"Ok…" I say wearily. "What is it, so I can try and convince myself it's worth it? I assume Dad wants to know if I'm coming down or not?" In opposition to my wants of before, I don't want to be isolated up here all day, even if it's half my fault, but neither do I want to deal with the aftermath of my bomb-drop either.

"He does, yeah." Virg seems uncomfortable, probably itching to help me, I assume. Idiot medics-in-training develop that trait super quick. I roll my eyes a little. "Mashed spuds for you, sausage if you think you can stomach it. He says he'll bring it up to you though, if you want."

God, this conversation is getting frustrating again. I don't mind potato; that and sausage I can stand, as long as there's nothing like pepper or salt to irritate my stomach. Crap, do I, don't I? Spit it out, Idiot.

"Yeah, I'll come." The words come easily, even as my resolve forms, and Virgil seems to realise that as he meets my gaze; his arms wrapping unconsciously over his chest. "If the others are down there I don't care, I'm not talking about before." I warn him. "Later, maybe, when I've calmed more. If they push, I won't be responsible for my actions."

Virgil seems to deflate himself this time, in obvious relief that now the objective of his mission up here has been at least half-reached - that I've not blown up at him - and he looks up with an even more exhausted expression to look me in the eye again, a small, relieved smile tugging at the corner of his mouth as he considers his reply.

"Well, Scott and Gords won't like that, but we've all got issues."

I nod shortly, rubbing my aching forehead. "Yeah; they're just going to have to deal for the moment. I know that it's… obvious and all, but I'm exhausted."

"FAB." Virg's grin is full-blown now, even through the exhaustion on him. Yeah, we all need fucking therapy. He looks awful, and I'm suddenly reminded of the fact that Scott and I still haven't finished our conversation from the other night. I'll have to get Dad in on that somehow, both before I research moving out; if I can go through with it in the end of it all… That's if I don't try and deck my moron of an older brother first. Back to Virgil though. Be present Tracy, I tell myself. Goddammit.

"I'll follow you down." I promise, wiping my suddenly-damp face as I suck in a breath of my own, ignoring my throbbing head. "Just, give me a few minutes."

"Sure," Virgil nods and leaves, and I cover my face with my hands, shaking even more as I realise I've gotten through one conversation today without taking someone's head off.

At least I've made up with one of them. Sort of anyway.