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juniperwindsong · 5 years ago

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Necessary Monsters (3/16)

Summary:

"Brought her in on my shift, they did. Thought she were dead! Pale as a corpse - like there weren't no blood left in her - but twitching, like. The way I used to see 'em back when...You-Know-Who's followers were torturing people left and right. You'd see 'em twitch like that when they'd had the Cruciatus Curse used on 'em too long."

It takes twelve and half minutes to walk the road leading from the Hogwarts grounds into Hogsmeade, then a matter of seconds to apparate outside the Leaky Cauldron in London. Add four more minutes to enter the crowded pub, climb the stairs, and wind down the hall to the room at the very end, and Felix has had just enough time to work himself into a respectable frenzy.

Felix has never been able to pinpoint the exact date he fell in love with Juniper Windsong, so he can't say definitively just how long he's been planning their reunion. But it's been the highlight of his thoughts for almost a year. The perfect evening, carefully orchestrated to show Juniper how he's come to feel about her and persuade her to feel the same. Gone to pieces.

He slams the door, the parade of ruined moments and wasted opportunities building enough furious momentum behind his arm to rattle the frame. Throwing his cloak over the room's mouldy winged armchair, Felix runs his fingers irritably through his hair. He should have been more direct, he berates himself, kicking petulantly at one of the chair's wobbly legs. It gives an indignant "Oi!" and scoots away from him, nearer the fire. He had hoped to let his actions explain his feelings for him, even thought he'd done a halfway decent job in spite of the evening's rocky start. But replaying their conversations in his head, Felix fears he wasn't obvious enough.

Regret beats a heartless rhythm against the inside of his skull as he perches on the edge of the rickety bed. Juniper did want to see him over the summer, he consoles himself, that's something. And she had seemed genuinely excited at the prospect of visiting him. And there was that moment in the common room, their fingers intertwined, faces so close Felix could almost feel the nervous excitement radiating from her. He's positive Juniper had been waiting for him to lean in just a bit more, even imagines her eyes had flicked for a moment to his lips.

Felix falls back against the lumpy mattress with a groan. All that means nothing if she gets herself killed next year. Felix had so hoped finding Jacob Windsong alive would finally put a stop to her amateur investigations. But he knows with a sinking certainty, in spite of her assurances that she wants to leave the Cursed Vaults behind, Juniper will never be able to escape their web while her brother is still caught in it.

And even if she survives her last year of school unscathed, he thinks miserably, there's always her excessive number of male friends. Juniper may have little interest in them now, but Felix knows better than anyone how much a relationship can change in one term.

His brain bruised by the weight of all the things he cannot control, Felix pulls his wand out from underneath him and points it in the direction of his valise.

"Accio," he mumbles.

The bag sails halfheartedly across the room and stalls at the foot of the bed. Felix uses the tip of his shoe to edge it closer to him, his hand fumbling for the catch. He reaches in without looking and, as he does whenever he feels anxious, pulls out a sheaf of parchments wrapped in a leather tie, heavily frayed and dangerously thin in places.

He tugs at the crude binding carefully, toying, as he often does, with the romantic notion of finding a ribbon, preferably Juniper's, to replace the leather. But he's never known her to wear any kind of ribbon in her hair. And anyway, Felix thinks as he pulls out a particularly worn piece of parchment, he doubts a hair ribbon would wrap all the way around their collected years of correspondence. He settles back against the pillow and lets the words he knows by heart soothe its anxiously racing beat.

Since his graduation, Felix has received more letters from Juniper than he can count. This by itself isn't exceptional. He's received many letters, far more than he expected. Former classmates write occasionally with updates on their lives, Barnaby writes regularly for advice, and even his mother sends the sporadic note pleading with him to return home. But it's Juniper who writes with questions about him. Juniper, to whom Felix recounts his days, even the most boring and difficult bits. She has the uncanny ability to read past his affected formality, and Felix soon discovers there's no one else with whom he can truly be himself.

After months of rough tenting with bad food and very few actual dragons, it's Juniper Felix complains to, and Juniper who both sympathises and challenges him to stay his course. When he's forced to kill a dragon for the first time in defence of himself and his team, it's to Juniper Felix relays the entire gut-wrenching affair, complete with the horrid guilt he feels and the nightmares he cannot shake. And it's Juniper who comforts him with words like a balm, that he reads through each night to lull himself to sleep. Her letters become the best part of every month, and he begins counting the days until they arrive.

It's after the end of his first and only relationship, nearly a year ago, that Felix begins picking Juniper's letters apart, studying them as intently as if he'll be tested on their contents. He re-reads everything she's ever written, parsing each word for hidden meaning, anything that might indicate she cares for him as more than a friend or confidante. Some days Felix is convinced he can read love plainly in her words, then the next day he's sure he imagined it. The uncertainty drives him to distraction, until admitting the depth of his feelings actually seems like the less painful option. But it has to be done face to face, Felix decides, that’s the proper way. And after the Quidditch match on which so much of her school reputation is staked seems like the best time; when she'll either be full of high spirits or in need of comfort.

Felix sets the worn letter aside in agitation. It's no good. He's reached a level of anxiety he's only ever been able to soothe by writing to Juniper about it, which he can hardly do in this case.

An idea appears in Felix’s head fully formed, and he sits up abruptly. Why not just tell her in a letter? Felix had convinced himself love was something that must be discussed in person, that the month spent waiting for a response to such an admission would be unbearable. But he's no longer at the mercy of inter-continental post. Her return letter might even reach him before he left England. And he's always been better able to express himself in writing.

Perhaps his prose can do what his actions couldn't and convince her to keep herself safe. For him.

Reinvigorated by this new plan, Felix scrambles off the bed. He pulls parchment, quill, and ink from his bag, and seats himself at the spindly-legged stool in front of the room's token writing desk. A small window looms behind it, the darkness outside transforming the glass into a black mirror reflecting his face, every line quivering with purpose.

Felix dips his quill in ink and pauses briefly at the top of the parchment. The ink drips slowly from the quill tip after one minute, and then another, and then several pass without him pressing the point to the page, as it dawns on him that he has not the first idea how to begin such a letter. Which seems impossible; he's composed snatches of letters like this in his head for a year, waiting for the perfect moment to pen them. But now it's time, words seem to have deserted Felix, just as they did in the common room and out on the grounds.

Because it has to be perfect. That's key. Whatever he writes has to convince Juniper to put aside a quest that's become an obsession, persuade her his love is worth such a sacrifice. And Felix is positive it is. There isn't a person alive, including her brother, who cares for Juniper more than he does. Felix is certain of that.

A small, confident smile flickers to life on his lips, and Felix begins to write. Haltingly at first. But he finds as he focuses on Juniper’s smiling face, the memory of her cheek pressed against his fingers, the words come easier, and it isn't long before he's pouring his heart onto the page. He confesses to the parchment everything he's felt for Juniper since he was seventeen, allowing emotion to choose his words instead of adherence to any literary form. Felix writes until his parchment is exhausted, then leans back from the desk.

He holds the letter close to the yellow candle illuminating the desktop in uneven patches and reads what he's written with a critical eye; and then again, trying to see the words from her perspective. With a slight shake of his head, Felix sets the parchment back down and picks up the quill again, crossing out lines and adding words in, until any ordinary candle would have melted into its iron holder and sputtered out.

By the time the sky outside the window lightens to a steely grey, Felix has finished a draft he likes. Perhaps it would be hubris to call it perfect, he thinks immodestly, but it's certainly close. He folds the parchment with extreme care, as though excess creases may cause her to simply throw the thing away without reading, then tucks it delicately into an envelope and seals it before he can reconsider.

Flushed with excitement, Felix stands, stretching his cramped fingers. The thought of waiting to deliver the letter is intolerable, but, as he glances out the window at the predawn light, he knows the Post Office in Diagon Alley won't yet be open. The rational voice in his head suggests timidly that he ought to get some sleep, but there's too much adrenaline coursing through him and he's itchy for action. He'll wait in the pub, he decides, have a quick bite to eat and then set off as soon as the hour strikes.

Felix tucks the letter carefully into the pocket of his rumpled robes, and walks with a bounce out of the room and down the cramped and winding stairs.

Felix wasn't overly familiar with the Leaky Cauldron before two days ago. Necessity has forced him to rent a room there while in England. His father, astonishingly tolerant up till now of what he considers Felix's "rebellious dragon phase", has made it clear in his last correspondence that a transfer to the Romanian Reserve is the final straw, and until Felix is willing to return to his family obligations, he will no longer enjoy any Rosier family benefits. Namely money and a place to live. Since Felix has expected this since he first introduced his chosen profession to his parents, he's only moderately hurt.

This is the second morning Felix has spent in the inn and pub, but he’s learned he enjoys its sleepy silence as the regulars engross themselves in their papers before ingesting enough food and news to begin chatting with their neighbors. It makes for a pleasant start to the day, and Felix pushes open the door looking forward to a quiet breakfast before he completes his life-changing post.

Instead, a low thrum of excited muttering fills the room, emanating from the fireplace where nearly all the pub’s early-morning patrons, and even its proprietor, have congregated. Tom has not yet bothered to set down all the chairs from their night-time perches on the tables. He's standing just behind a witch in lime-green robes who seems to be the center of the whispering crowd.

Felix seats himself on a stool at the bar, casting surreptitious glances over at the furtive group, trying to catch snippets of their conversation. But they insist on speaking in hushed tones, as if their subject is too dangerous to be discussed at a normal volume. Felix finally catches the eye of the barman, who breaks reluctantly away and trots over.

"You'll be wanting breakfast, then, sir?" Tom asks, his voice friendly, though he continues to shoot longing looks behind him. "It was coffee you took, in't that right?"

"Yes, thank you," replies Felix distractedly. "Is everything alright?" He looks pointedly at the fireplace and Tom's eyes light up with the thrill of the gossip.

"Oh, I'm afraid not," says the barman with enthusiasm. "There was another attack up at Hogwarts school last night!"

All Felix's animated energy freezes in an instant, leaving his limbs stiff and his hand quite unable to lift the cup Tom sets in front of him.

"You mean... someone else was petrified? I thought that was all over."

Tom shakes his head happily. "Not petrified no. Apparently, the student was brought to St Mungo’s. The school professors weren't sure what happened, but they’re trying to keep it awful quiet. Winn," he jerks his chin over at the witch in green robes. "Was on duty and just happened to see them bring her in."

"'Her'?" Felix asks, his throat so dry it comes out a croak. There's hundreds of students at Hogwarts, he reassures his racing heart, there's no reason for it to be -

"The Windsong girl. You know - the Cursebreaker? Her brother's that one expelled some years back, you might remember him - Master Rosier?"

Felix vacates his stool and stumbles over to the fireplace where the witch in lime-green robes continues to murmur under her breath to her captive audience.

"Excuse me," he somehow manages to say.

The witches and wizards around the fire all look up at him.

"Did you...did you say you saw a Hogwarts student brought into St Mungo’s last night?"

The witch called Winn nods vigorously. "Not just any Hogwarts student! Jacob Windsong's sister! The one what's been opening all them cursed vaults up at the school the last few years!" Her voice is subdued but shaking with excitement. She shuffles her chair around to face Felix, clearly pleased for an excuse to retell her story.

"Brought her in on my shift, they did. Thought she were dead! Pale as a corpse - like there weren't no blood left in her - but twitching, like. The way I used to see 'em back when..." She clears her throat and her eyes dart about as if searching for hidden spies, before she continues even lower than before, "Back when You-Know-Who's followers were torturing people left and right. You'd see 'em twitch like that when they'd had the Cruciatus Curse used on 'em too long."

One of the wizards by the fire shakes his head and says something about the mad goings-on of teenagers these days, but Felix isn’t listening. He’s already moving away, lurching between tables and knocking into chairs as if drunk. Ignoring the pub patrons' affronted looks and Tom still calling to him from the bar, he trips out the front door and apparates as soon as his feet hit the pavement.

Felix hasn't been to St Mungo’s since he was a child, and his current visit does nothing to improve his ill-feeling about the place. The lobby is packed, which seems strange to him for so early in the morning. The seats are full of witches and wizards tapping their feet and sighing with poorly-hidden impatience. Healers in lime-green robes walk swiftly to and fro, all headed in different directions, and the queue for the help desk is a dozen people long. There's a sign above it informing those who can read which types of maladies belong to each floor of the hospital. But, Felix realises, since he doesn't know exactly what's happened to Juniper, he has no idea where she might be.

Blood pumps thickly in his head, making the sounds in the lobby seem oddly muffled as though he's underwater. Felix walks briskly to the information desk and brings his hand down harder than intended on top of the counter. The smacking sound has no visible effect on the bored-looking help witch beyond a quick flick of her eyes away from the hiccoughing wizard in the queue and toward Felix.

"I'm looking for Juniper Windsong," he says, his voice shaking with some emotion he doesn't have time to identify.

"Excuse me, sir,” the help-witch drawls tonelessly. "But if you have a question you'll need to queue up like everyone else."

She gives a barely perceptible jerk of her chin at the line of people now glaring at Felix. One woman's entire face is a vivid shade of pink, and a small child standing with his mother seems to have steam emitting from his nostrils. But none of them appear in any immediate danger to Felix, and he turns back to the help-witch belligerently.

"This cannot wait. Juniper Windsong. She was brought in last night."

The help-witch blinks dubiously at him, but something in Felix's voice or face seems to convince the girl her life will be easier the sooner she gets rid of him. She drags a clipboard across the desk toward her with two fingers and glances down at it.

"I don't have anyone by that name here," she announces, her tone still bored but a slight curl at the edge of her mouth.

"Yes, you do! You must!" he insists, now almost shouting. Because if she's not here, then that means....

"Mr Rosier."

A cold, quiet, and all too familiar voice stops Felix's rising panic in its tracks. He whips around to find Professor Snape standing by the entrance to a stairwell. "What are you-"

"Professor!" Felix interrupts, abandoning the help desk and hurrying over to Snape.

"Is it true?" he asks, suddenly breathless. "Juniper. Is she-"

Before Felix can finish, Snape grips his elbow tightly and drags him into the stairwell, slamming the door shut behind them. The Potions Master casts his dark eyes around as if making sure they’re alone before answering in a crisp whisper:

"Kindly do not bandy Miss Windsong's name about in front of so many witnesses. It is important that her presence at this hospital be kept entirely secret. Which is why,” his eyes narrow at Felix, “I must ask how you came to know she was here."

"I - she - " Felix tries to breathe normally, but the air catches against his ribs, constricting his chest. "A healer. In the Leaky Cauldron. She...she said she saw her - Juniper - last night. She said, she was attacked. But-"

"How do you know the person speaking was a healer?"

Thrown by the question, Felix casts his mind back for the details of the conversation that he realizes with a lurch was not fifteen minutes ago. It feels more like hours.

"Tom! He said she was a healer. And she had the robes, the same color green that the healers wear."

Snape closes his eyes briefly, nostrils flaring in forceful exhalation. Felix has seen this look on the Potion Master’s face before when dealing with exceptionally dim-witted students, but whether it’s himself or the healer in question with whom Snape is exasperated he doesn’t know, or care.

"Professor, what's happened to Juniper? Is she alright? The healer said she was attacked, but she didn't say...I mean...she wasn't sure..." Every ending Felix can think of to this sentence causes his throat to convulse.

Snape considers before answering, his words tinged with frost. “Miss Windsong is alive for the moment."

A flood of warm relief washes over Felix almost tangibly.

"But," Snape continues. "she has been very gravely..." He pauses, tongue between his teeth, as if choosing his next word carefully."...Wounded."

"Why? What happened? Is it something to do with the Vaults? Is she going to be alright?" Felix asks every question that comes to his mind all in a rush.

Snape says nothing. He scrutinizes Felix closely, and Felix gets that uncomfortable prickle he sometimes feels around his former head of house, as though the professor can see right through him. He averts his gaze, and stares instead at his ink-stained hands.

Snape's voice, still frigid, but not quite as icy as before, breaks the silence.

"Follow me, Mr Rosier."

Snape turns on his heel and ascends the staircase without a backward glance. Felix hastens to follow.

At the fourth floor landing, Snape throws open the door and proceeds into a corridor crowded with harried healers. Felix, who cuts a much less intimidating figure than the Potions Master, has to push through the lime-green crowd forcefully in order to keep up. Snape turns down a side hall, and then another, longer one, until they reach a deserted corridor with a dirty window marking a dead-end. Snape forgoes the doors on either side, stopping instead in front of the window, daylight just peeking through the streaky glass. He taps the pane on the lower right with his wand, and Felix can hear a very soft click, like a lock being turned. The window swings inward, and Snape and Felix step quickly inside.

The room is small, only slightly larger than the Hogwarts Artefact Room, with no windows and no other doors. There's just enough space for a solid looking bed, a rather high bedside table covered in potion bottles on one side if it, and a chair pulled up to the other. Felix can see the outline of legs tucked under a white sheet lying on the bed, but the rest of the occupant is hidden by the bulky figure in the chair, who stands quickly and revolves to face the two intruders.

The man raises his wand directly at Felix, who flinches, though for once it has less to do with the wand itself and more to do with the heavily scarred face of the person holding it.

"Password," the man grunts. Snape does not bother to conceal his eye-roll.

"Dragon Heart-String,” he pronounces with very slight disdain, and the strange looking person lowers his wand a fraction.

All Felix’s attention is caught up in the man's one electric blue eye that swivels eerily over both newcomers, then rolls right back into his head as if checking on the patient in the bed behind him. He's so distracted by this display, Felix doesn't notice the man's other eye inspecting him suspiciously.

"Who is this?" the man asks in a gruff voice. "I thought you were bringing back one of the trainees."

"It seems as though the healers cannot all be trusted,” Snape replies loftily. “One is already blabbing the attack in the pub."

The other man swears under his breath.

"This is...a friend of Windsong's,” Snape continues.

Felix isn't sure, but he thinks there's a slight pause before Snape pronounces the word 'friend', and a careful note to his words. But he's too preoccupied to give this further thought. The shock of the room's strange guardian has worn off enough for Felix's attention to return to the bed. And as the man steps toward Snape, the head on the pillow becomes visible.

If Felix hadn't known it was supposed to be Juniper, he might not have recognised her straight away. She looks like an entirely different person from the vibrant young woman laughing and flirting with him only hours ago. It's as though all the blood has been drained from beneath her skin, leaving her as pale and lifeless as the healer in the pub described. The only part of her with any colour is the uncountable number of angry red cuts decorating her face and the visible portion of her neck and arms. She's so eerily still Felix would be terrified Snape was mistaken about her condition, if it weren't for the slight twitching of her fingers, curled strangely and lying on either side of her.

Bile rises in Felix's throat and he has to swallow hard to keep from being violently ill. He’s known Juniper to be injured many times before; she’s famous for it. He’s seen her battered by Devil's Snare, half-frozen to death by cursed ice, knocked about by a dragon. But his memories of those admittedly deadly injuries all include her face set in grim determination or flushed with success. Felix has never seen her like this. Broken and beaten on a hospital bed.

"What happened to her?" he asks, his voice hoarse.

"Tortured," the man with the strange blue eye replies matter-of-factly. "Cruciatus curse by the tremors. And the cuts are one of R's signature curses.”

"R?" asks Felix vaguely, fumbling for anything that will keep his mind from creating a mental picture of Juniper being tortured.

The man explains irritably as though this should be common knowledge. "R is the organisation after the vaults. They're the ones have been threatening Miss Windsong the last few years."

"But...how could they get to her while she's at school?" questions Felix, his voice rising. "Surely, there's spells and wards set up to protect the students?"

"Of course," Snape responds coolly from behind Felix. "But it's been well-established that the defences surrounding school grounds can be penetrated. One has to be inside the school itself for the Headmaster's greater protections to be of any effect. And Miss Windsong was found outside on the grounds. Do you have any idea why she might have been out there, Mr. Rosier?"

Felix's knees buckle abruptly. He grabs the back of the bedside chair to keep himself from falling to the floor. If his display of weakness elicits any reaction from the other men, Felix doesn't notice. His eyes are shut tight against the emotions threatening to overwhelm him. His voice cracks as he rasps:

"It's my fault."

"Excuse me?" The man with the swiveling blue eye whips around to face Felix again, normal eye narrowed. His wand is still pointed aggressively, and Felix half wishes the man would just curse him.

"I - she - was with me," Felix tries to explain, nausea churning his stomach sickly. The chair is now the only thing keeping him upright.

"You were with her on the grounds?" the man demands, his blue eye now fixed on Felix as well. "What happened? What did you see? Who else was there?"

"There wasn't anyone. There was...it was...just us. "

The weight of the guilt causes something in Felix to snap. He cranes his neck around searching for the eyes of his former head of house, desperate for assurance that this isn't his fault; that Juniper isn't half-dead because of him.

"I told her not to, Professor, I swear! She wouldn't listen, I couldn't stop her! But...everything was normal. There wasn't anything strange or-or suspicious on the grounds. I didn't - I mean, I - I thought..."

Snape wrenches his gaze away from Felix, as if his pleading is something painful to watch. But Felix is beyond embarrassment for the moment.

"Mr. Rosier," Snape responds, still looking decidedly anywhere but at Felix. “I am all too familiar with Miss Windsong's particularly obdurate determination to do whatever she pleases. However, I think we both know you exerted little effort to dissuade her. And it cannot be denied that you are the reason Miss Windsong was out on the grounds alone last night."

Each of Snape’s words cuts deeply into Felix, like a mirror of the wounds decorating Juniper’s arms. All his defensiveness bleeds slowly out of him, and he sags further against the chair.

"If," Snape continues, "you would like to make amends for your foolishness, then perhaps you would be willing to help us now."

"I - Yes! Of course, anything, what-"

"At the moment, Miss Windsong appears to be under an enchantment of some kind. Discovering what exactly happened to her and who attacked her may enable us to wake her. We need to investigate, but we also need to keep a guard over her. It is not unlikely that whoever did this may return when they realize their work is unfinished."

"I'll stay," Felix answers, a semblance of strength returning to his voice. The idea that he'll be allowed to help is entirely unexpected, but a set task goes a long way to reasserting his focus.

The strange-eyed man looks from Felix to Snape, his face, a map of scars and craters, alight with skepticism.

"You sure he's up to it?"

Snape stares hard at Felix until that uncomfortable prickling begins to resurface, but Felix is determined to keep his gaze, to prove he can be trusted.

"I believe so," Snape answers. The other man gives Snape a disparaging look before lowering his wand to his side.

"Fine. If anything happens to her, it'll be on your heads then." He crosses the small room in two long strides and looks back at Felix as he reaches the door.

"You. No one is to enter this room without the password. The healers assigned to her know it, and they're the only ones I trust. Anyone else tries to get in, stun them and call for backup. Do you understand?"

Felix nods in affirmation, not trusting himself to speak.

"Do not take this lightly, boy. Miss Windsong's life may depend on your vigilance."

Felix straightens with as much fortitude as he can muster. He directs his words to the man in front of him, but they’re really a promise to himself.

"I won’t let anything happen to her."

Read Chapter 4 | View all stories on the Masterpost

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fightthegods · 5 years ago

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dated — november 2008 - april 2010 located — dorchester, boston type — one-shot

AGE FOURTEEN

Eoin comes to consciousness, eyes blinking and unfocused. Where however long ago, his entire world and body was intense pain, waking up now is met with calm and warmth; a smiling face comes into focus, and a gentle hand presses to his cheek. "Mom?" he asks, his voice cracked and raw.

There's a laugh, "I sure hope not." The face comes into focus; soft, warm brown eyes framed by wild, black, and kinky hair. There's a smile on the girl's face, though it speaks more of amusement than anything else. "Come, let's get you to your feet. Can you stand?"

Oh, but he is lying down, isn't he? Eoin finally manages to tear his gaze from the angel above him to look around at the reality of the world. "What happened?" The question comes at the same time as the memory comes back to him. The walls of the alley are still sizzling under the biting acid, there's the acrid smell of death in the air, and three bodies, unmoving, half-decayed. No, not decayed. Corroded.

The girl gets up from where she'd been sitting and holds a hand out to him for him to take, which he does. There's surprising strength in her as she pulls him to his feet, or maybe he just isn't that heavy. "You got into a fight," she claims as she too looks around at the mess, then turns a little wicked smile on him. "Or maybe a fight got into you. Doesn't matter, you should feel better now."

"Yeah," Eoin stammers quietly, hands moving along his body slowly. Where previously his broken ribs, cracked under relentlessly kicking boots, were endlessly cracked, there's no trace of harm or pain in them now. His face is absent of swelling despite the beating, and the only hint that anything had happened at all is the caked blood where previously there had been excessive wounds. "Thank you. How did you do that?"

The reply comes in the way of a cheeky wink, followed by an equally cheeky grin. "The burning cure," she says, producing a worn zippo from her pocket. The flame of the lighter catches in her open hand and is extinguished once more when she closes it. "Where are your parents?" Eoin can only reply with a frown and a little shrug. The girl studies him for a moment, then, with a nod, she seems to make up her mind about something. "Okay. I want you to meet some people."

There's nothing Eoin can really do as her hand wraps around his upper arm and he's dragged down the alleyway. "I'm Eoin," he says, eyes still glued to her as though she's a mirage and if he looked away, she'd vanish. "What's your name?"

The girl looks back at him when she stops at the mouth of the alley, the mischief ever-present in her smile. "Nachelle."

AGE FIFTEEN

"Stop! Eoin, stop!" Nachelle's voice calls and echoes through the abandoned warehouse they call their home, along with several other kids, both mutant and human. A shriek pierces the otherwise silent space. "Please! Please stop!"

On the cot they share, Eoin has her pinned down, straddling her waist as Nachelle turns and squirms the best she can under his relentless assault. A wicked smirk rests on his face as his fingers dig into her ribs, over and over, pulling yet another scream from her lips. "Call me a dumbass again. Go on, try me."

Nachelle's eyes squeeze shut as sharp laughter bubbles from her mouth, and her head shakes violently. "You're a—” A gasp. "You're a dumbass, Eoin. Please, stop!" This time it's Eoin's turn to laugh, and when his fingers settle, he leaves Nachelle a panting mess.

"Fine," he snickers as he gets off her and lies down next to her. It's a tight fit, as it always is, but neither teenager seems to mind very much. Her head finds his chest and an arm wraps around his waist as she pulls herself into her side and that much closer to him. Eoin's hand drops on her head, playing with her hair slowly.

"You are a dumbass, Eoin," Nachelle repeats when her panting and soft giggles have subsided.

Eoin simply nods. "Mhm. I know."

Silence falls upon the warehouse again, and Eoin doesn't know how long they lie there, her fingers gently tracing patterns on his chest while one of his fingers twists around a piece of black hair over and over.

"I love you."

The words push into the silence slowly, and for a second, Eoin thinks that perhaps he misheard. When he blinks his eyes open and looks down, they connect with hers; no mischief, no laughter in her eyes. She said what she said and she meant it.

They stare at each other for an eternity. She's not taking it back, and Eoin realises he doesn't ever want her to.

"I love you too." Of course he does. How could he not?

The smile that he conjures onto her face with those four words leaves every radiant smile that had come before it but a dull affair. When she crashes her lips against his, he thinks for all its flaws and hardships, his life is absolutely perfect the way it is.

AGE FIFTEEN

Panic clings to every edge of Eoin's mind as he gasps in the cold Boston air, the salt in the air burning into the back of his throat as much as the gas is burning into his lungs. It all happened far too quick for him to comprehend; one moment they're all sleeping peacefully, the next, the warehouse — their home — is invaded by men in dark vests and riot gear, flashlights shining everywhere, blinding them even upon the deafening sound of gunfire.

The gas poured from his hands unlike a manner he'd ever seen gas do; it wasn't wispy, or billowing, but rather thick, almost liquid, like a waterfall of thick vapour unleashed from the pores of his hands. Silence came quick, and the only thing that stopped the unbidden assault from his hands was the fact that he couldn't breathe.

Before he could fall to his knees and succumb, already lightheaded, he's grabbed by the arm and pulled from the warehouse by a hacking and coughing form.

His knees finally find the floor even as another gunshot rings in the air. Nachelle drops the rifle by the police officer's now-dead body before she crouches next to him, wrapping her arms around his shaking and crying form.

"We're okay, Eoin," she reassures him, but her voice is ravaged, and she can't keep herself from coughing no matter how much she tries. "We have to go, we can't stay here. More will come, come on."

"I killed them," he whispers through his panicked sobs, voice just as raw and painful as Nachelle's sounds. "I killed them all. I killed them, I killed them." His body rocks back and forth on its own accord before he's hauled to his feet.

"No you didn't, baby," she says, but her attention isn't on him. The kids that also made it out find their way towards them, some older teenagers like Nachelle, some Eoin's age, and others younger still. "Is this everyone?" An older boy nods his head, still coughing as he watches Eoin. "Don't look at him, Jarod, it's not his fucking fault. Grab the little ones, we need to leave."

The next day, the news reports a warehouse of dangerous mutants has been eliminated, and viewers are asked to keep the officers that died in their thoughts and prayers. Nachelle turns off the TV with angry eyes. They know better than these lies.

AGE SIXTEEN

There's something in her eyes, a challenge, her gaze unwavering as its fixed on him. Eoin looks at the man holding her by the hair harshly. "So what's it gonna be?" the human asks, no, demands, and Nachelle's hand on the man's wrist tightens, her glare going darker.

Eoin has known her for long enough to know what her face is telling him. Don't. Eyes moving between her and the human, he finds his fists clenching by his sides. Don't give in. And she's right, of course. They've fought for everything they have, and under no circumstance are they going to give it up for some mutant-hating piece of shit with a gun and a threat.

His eyes narrow, and maybe there's something about him, a shift in his body, the movement of his hand, that betrays his intention. "Eoin," Nachelle says, just as the pungent smell of acid fills the air and he throws the glob. Intended for the human hand holding the gun to Nachelle's head, the man shifts her in the line of fire at the last moment, and Eoin watches in horror as the acid burns away at her face.

She's silent. The animalistic scream that tears through the air isn't hers; it's his own. The human lets go of her hair, startled, and starts backing away as the gun is aimed at him. In the next second, Eoin's world goes black, and, even as the gun is fired and lodges a bullet into his shoulder, the animal wearing Eoin's skin pounces on the man with unimaginable speed.

When Eoin's rational mind switches back on, he's sitting on the severely mutilated corpse of the human, panting hard. The wailing of police sirens rings in the air, far still, and it can't drown out the murmurs of the shocked crowd that's now gathering in the street near the alley; phone cameras are pointed at him, heads shaking. Monster, some hiss. Mutant scum, others spit. Eoin looks between them, their judging eyes, and then his eyes fall on Nachelle's still form.

There's something in the depth of his stomach that lurches and stills; something in the back of his mind that snaps. With slow movements, he shifts towards her. He can't look at her face; won't. Instead, he digs into her pocket and pulls her zippo from it. The burning cure.

Eoin gets up to his feet and holds up acidic hands with cold eyes. "Move!" he roars at the crowd, even as he approaches them. They part like the red sea, some scrambling to get out of his way more as he walks through them. He should just kill them all.

When the police finally arrive, Eoin is long gone, and whatever was left of the person Nachelle knew died with her in that alley.

#oneshot.#violence tw #death tw

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madscientistjournal · 6 years ago

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The Essence of Sprout

An essay by Professor Caldwell Mook, as told to Nick Morrish Art by Leigh Legler

It is not often that I agree to become personally involved in one of the scientific experiments that I am investigating. Generally, I prefer to observe and deride from a safe distance. However, Doctor Felix Happensnapper’s research into sensory enhancement intrigued me greatly.

Many years ago, as a callow youth living in rural England, I was persuaded to play in a village cricket match. I was allocated a fielding position close to the batsman; a position with the apt name of “silly mid-off.” After a while, I made the mistake of concentrating on a problem of mental calculus, rather than the game in progress. It was the turn of the rival team’s captain to bat. In response to some heckling from the crowd, he swung energetically at the ball which promptly struck me hard on the bridge of the nose.

Interestingly, before I passed out, I clearly recall being able to calculate the velocity and vector of the offending projectile with considerable accuracy.

When I came round, I had lost a large amount of blood and much of my sense of smell. My body efficiently replaced the missing blood cells, but my olfactory nerves were never the same again. I consider this to be a gross design flaw and were it possible, I would certainly have complained to the manufacturer.

Since this unfortunate incident, I have been unable to discern anything but the most pungent aromas and the strongest tastes. Over the last year, I have compensated for this by dining extensively on Goat Vindaloo, a fiery curry dish from south-east India, which even my acquaintances from the Indian sub-continent consider uncomfortably hot.

As much as I enjoy the sensory experience, my new diet has put something of a dampener on my social life, as the after-effects can put be somewhat off-putting to those with a normal sense of smell. I had been searching for a more convenient solution to my problem, so when I heard of Doctor Happensnapper’s work, I put aside my usual skepticism and offered myself as a subject for his experiments.

“We have developed efficient hearing aids, so why not scent aids, taste aids, or even touch aids?” he asked when we met at his Hampshire laboratory.

Although housed in a Victorian Gothic building studded with sinister-looking pinnacles and gloomy towers, the laboratory itself was perfectly clean and modern. I understand that the myriad spider’s webs in the foyer are merely there for effect.

“As you can see, I have been experimenting with a series of sprays, gels, injections, and electrical shock therapies to both enhance and degrade the efficacy of the sensory nerves.”

I am aware that electrical shock treatment is now considered the gold standard amongst para-rational medical practitioners such as Doctor Happensnapper. However, I suggested we begin with more conventional treatments, since their effects are usually temporary and are less likely to cause scarring or memory loss.

The doctor began by offering me a patent nasal spray which he said would fortify my damaged olfactory nerves. I tried it, and within a few minutes, I was able to detect the scent of new mown grass drifting in through an open window. I was delighted by this result and congratulated Doctor Happensnapper on his formulation.

Gradually, I began to detect more smells, both pleasant and unpleasant. The intensity of the experience increased exponentially, and I soon became aware of a strong odor of curry exuding from my skin.

I had for some time wondered if my personal hygiene was suffering due to my poor sense of smell, and I now had considerable evidence to support this hypothesis. I asked his assistant, Nurse Mundy, a large bearded gentleman with little discernable bedside manner, if there was a shower I could use. I followed his directions, but as soon as I entered the bathroom, I was overcome by the stench of chemicals, air fresheners, and drains and immediately passed out.

I awoke some hours later on a hospital bed. Doctor Happensnapper did not appear unduly concerned but made notes on my condition and agreed to use a lower dose next time. He suggested we move on to the sense of taste which, I found, had also diminished as a result of the accident.

Nurse Bundy applied several unpleasant tasting droplets on my tongue to collate what is commonly known as a taste map. From this, the doctor was able to deduce which areas required the most enhancement and which were working satisfactorily.

He produced a viscous gel, which the nurse spread over the relevant parts of my tongue. I suffered a certain gagging reflex, but the taste was not unduly unpleasant. Nurse Bundy then fed me small pieces of food, such as broccoli, chocolate, anchovies, and so on.

My experience of each flavor was indeed heightened, and my opinion of the doctor’s methods was somewhat restored. However, when the nurse returned an hour later to repeat the tests, I found that everything now unaccountably tasted of Brussels sprouts. Now I am not one of these people who detest the noble sprout, but the intensity of its bitter flavor soon overcame all others.

My distress was clearly evident to Nurse Bundy, who attempted to remove the gel with an electric toothbrush. Unfortunately, the spearmint flavoring of the anti-bacterial rinsing fluid only exacerbated the all-encompassing sprout sensation. Overwhelmed by this vegetable excess, my brain again decided that a brief period of unconsciousness was required.

However, when the nurse returned an hour later to repeat the tests, I found that everything now unaccountably tasted of Brussels sprouts.

Once I had recovered, Doctor Happensnapper returned, appearing even more excited by the results of this latest experiment.

“Do you not see what this means? If we can enhance the sprout reaction in a subject who has no aversion to its taste, then surely we can also reduce it in those to whom it is a complete anathema. The boon to mankind and also to my research budget could be immense. Imagine what the Brussels Sprout Growers Association would say if I could make their product universally acceptable.”

I consented to assisting him in his continued research, but only after a suitable fee was agreed, the amount of which I am not prepared to disclose. I was introduced to Doctor Happensnapper’s wife, Ingrid, a tall, emaciated-looking woman with disconcertingly hairy hands and a limited command of the English language. She distilled the essence of sprout from a large cast iron pot filled with the vegetable, which she had been stewing over an open fire.

Once the potion was ready, she wasted no time before passing it Nurse Bundy with a nervous wink and a grimace. The nurse began by applying a high-concentration Emla cream to my sprout taste receptors. He then administered several drops of essence of sprout to each side of my tongue and waited for it to take effect. The inhibiting cream certainly reduced the adverse reactions noted previously but on the left side only.

“I see you are uni-sprout intolerant,” explained the doctor. “You have a tongue asymmetry, which means that half your taste buds are more sensitive than the other half.”

He advised Nurse Bundy to double the strength of the cream applied to the right-hand side. Although I could now no longer feel large parts of my tongue, or my face for that matter, it did even out the taste sensations. However, I did not find essence of sprout any more pleasing to my taste.

It reminded me rather of the cabbage soup my grandmother used to make. Needless to say, visits to her house are not a fond childhood memory. As sad as I was to hear of her unfortunate accident with my nephew’s skateboard and the London Underground train, there was a part of me that was inappropriately overjoyed that I would never have to taste her cooking ever again.

I concluded that Doctor Happensnapper’s scheme to extort money from sprout farmers was doomed to failure. However, I decided not to mention this to him until I was certain his fee was securely in my bank account. I consider that his sense enhancement experiments may one day bear fruit, but I shall wait until his techniques are at a more mature stage of development before subjecting myself to Nurse Bundy’s tender ministrations once more.

On a positive note, my sense of taste remains somewhat improved. I have relinquished my Indian curry diet and have recently developed a fondness for Thai cuisine. I look forward to the renewal of various social relationships which have languished in recent months under the miasma of Goat Vindaloo.

Since the conclusion of my investigation, however, I have been unable to so much as look at a Brussels sprout without shuddering. In the autumn, I am seriously considering taking a sabbatical somewhere in the far east until Thanksgiving, Christmas, and other sprout-related festivities are safely in the past.

Professor Caldwell Mook holds the Mithering Chair of General Negativity at the University of Leeds, England. He specializes in pre-emptive risk analyses for technology that has yet to be invented. Professor Mook regularly offers discouragement and derision to scientists and engineers around the world.

Nick Morrish is an increasingly mad engineer who lives in Hampshire, England, where his eccentricities are considered quite normal. During a long and futile career, he has worked for a number of frankly certifiable, multinational companies. He clings to the last vestiges of sanity by writing serious and truthful stories about the nature of existence. Since no one else seems to observe truth in quite the same way, his work is often mistaken for satire or fantasy.

Leigh’s professional title is “illustrator,” but that’s just a nice word for “monster-maker,” in this case. More information about them can be found at http://leighlegler.carbonmade.com/.

The Essence of Sprout was originally published on Mad Scientist Journal

#Caldwell Mook #Food Science #Leigh Legler #Nick Morrish #Pharmacology

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ladygadfly · 7 years ago

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Reylo Week 2018 day 1: Colours

Shades

Jakku is yellow.

Rey’s earliest memory is yellow sand stretching on and on as far as the eye can see. Yellow so glaringly bright that looking at it would blind you. The relentless sun beating down so hard sometimes that the sky itself seemed bleached out, worn thin and ruined just like everything else on Jakku.

She remembers bottles and glasses of strong smelling amber coloured liquid. Shards and slivers of glass littering the floor.

She remembers a woman’s wrists, mottled a sickly yellow with old bruises, her hands shaking as she drains another bottle and then smashes it over a man’s head.

Madness is a legitimate problem in the desert. The heat drives people to insanity, thirst making people gorge themselves on unclean, stagnant water that has been sitting too long. Rey knows as well as they do that it will make them sick. They can’t stop themselves. They’ll go jaundiced and swollen bellied, parasites eating at their insides, begging for water at the end. To quench their thirst, to ease their fever.

Rey is very, very careful with rationing her water. Very, very careful with cleaning the debris and pus from every little scrape and scratch she receives. Jakku kills. It kills easily and often. And no-one misses you when you go.

Nothing is new on Jakku. Everything is inherited or stolen or scavenged. Children inherit property, inherit prejudices, inherit anger and hate and bitterness. Nothing is good on Jakku, no-one ever leaves Jakku to do great things, no-one becomes truly successful on Jakku. Even the junk merchants are only a few steps further away from poverty than their workers, and they know it.

They’re living in the graveyard of a battle that was supposed to be the end of an empire. It wasn’t.

They pick over corpses of felled destroyers and at-ats. And if Rey comes across the old bleached bones of someone who died in a long ago battle, or some poor scavenger who came before her and took a fall, she takes the time to kick sand over them and think a few words of respect. She can’t do much else.

This place will grind her down eventually. No matter how she rages against it, Rey knows she’s fighting a losing battle. She sees it in the worn husks of women cleaning machinery at the cleaning stations, the thousands of tally marks scratched into the walls of her home. She’s long since lost count. That’s not why she does it any more. She lies in her cot at night, listening to the wind moving the sand and swears she can feel something being scoured away from her. The pain of loss made worse by her total inability to articulate what it actually is that she’s losing.

She has to leave before this place breaks her.

She sits outside the walker and places the rebel pilot helmet on her head, the tinted glass of the visor turning the sands around her a deeper yellow.

She waits.

**** The resistance is blue.

The console lights cast the faces of everyone in the war room with a bluish glow. They look spectral, bright eyed and haunted as they fight desperately with what little they have.

Rey likes exploring the planets they make port on (never for very long), and especially loves the ones with lots of water and life and greenery. Once she goes off to train in a nearby forest, leaving with stern instructions from Leia to keep an active comm link open. She spends a little time moving through her forms, then lies back and watches clouds scudding across the sky. The sky is such a soft blue here. The shifting light and dark as clouds move across the sun and the leaves move in the breeze lulls her into a trance, and before she knows it Poe is on the comm telling her to get back to base.

When Finn asks her what she was doing she replies “Meditating, mostly.” It’s not exactly a lie.

The first time she fires up her new saberstaff the blue beams crackle in such a familiar way that her hands start to shake. She powers it down quickly. The beams are as stable as they can be, Rey had made sure of that. It’s a beautifully made weapon, meticulously researched and designed. Finn and Rose had gone on a special infiltration mission to get her schematics from some old archive on one of the core worlds. The mission was incredibly dangerous, and Rey yelled at them for at least ten minutes before hugging them in gratitude.

Leia looks at her steadily from the doorway of the room they’re using as a makeshift armoury.

“General, I…I didn’t hear you come in.” For a woman leaning heavily on a cane she still moves as quiet as a lothcat, Rey thinks ruefully.

The general gives a crooked smile and makes her way over to the workbench Rey is standing by. She’s moving slower these days, but with no less poise and elegance.

“That’s a magnificent weapon Rey, you should be proud.” There’s a heavy pause. “The beam is very…” Leia trails off meaningfully and Rey swallows, mouth suddenly dry.

“When the saber broke, the kyber crystal split as well. It wasn’t a clean break they…cracked.”

“Luke’s old saber.” Leia murmurs.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t-“

The general waves her hand dismissively. “Don’t apologise Rey. Besides, wouldn’t you need two crystals to make a staff anyway? It’s near impossible to get kyber anywhere in the galaxy these days. The Force knew what it was doing.”

Rey thinks of the throne room, fire raining down around her as she put every ounce of strength into pulling the saber towards her. Of a force at the other end pulling just as hard back.

“I think so too. But I still…I just…I wish it didn’t have to be like this.” To Rey’s mortification she feels her voice break, tears pricking her eyes.

Leia places her hands over Rey’s. They’re cold, and Rey can see blue veins underneath thin papery skin. Blue bloods, she thinks dumbly. They call royals blue bloods.

“Me too, dear.” Leia has tears in her eyes as well. “Me too.”

**** Ben is red.

Rey had read of the process of bleeding a crystal. How you had to force your hate and pain and anger into the crystal until it was corrupted and took on a red hue.

Ben, of course, had gone too far with it and poured so much of his pain into the crystal that it fractured, creating an unstable beam. It was only when Rey began researching how to make her own saber that she realised just how dangerous Ben’s weapon really was. The rather ostentatious quillons were there to vent excess power. Without them they whole weapon would explode as soon as it was activated.

And wasn’t that just Ben all over. Too much power, too much anger, too much emotion, too much of everything. She wonders sometimes how he doesn’t just fly apart completely with the burning maelstrom going on inside him.

Rey should be frightened. She should run away, send co-ordinates to the resistance of the uninhabited backwater planet they tentatively agreed to meet up on through the bond. They came to talk but within a short span of time they had ignited their sabers and were striking and parrying, Ben giving pointers on how to better kill him. She’s not sure if they’re actually fighting or if they’re sparring, all she knows is this is possibly the calmest she’s ever felt Ben. His rage has subsided and he’s focused on correcting her footwork even as she slashes at him.

The heat within him is still there, but it’s different. Softer, somehow. Rey falters and as she missteps Ben’s eyes snap to hers and she knows. Feels the same heat low in her belly.

Rey catches hold of the front of his shirt the same time he grabs her round the waist. Their lips press together awkwardly, desperately. Neither of them has much of an idea what they’re doing but Rey can’t bring herself to care. Not about the Resistance or the First Order or the Jedi or any of it. Not when every part of her soul is reaching out for Ben, not when she can feel him reaching back.

Deactivated sabers fall to the ground and so do they, tearing at each other’s clothes in their desperation to feel skin against skin. Rey rakes her fingernails down his broad, pale back hard enough to draw tiny beads of blood and Ben moans. He presses bites and kisses down her neck and across her breasts as he pushes across the bond how much he loves her, how he needs her, the sheer intensity of his emotion stealing Rey’s breath.

Of course their first time is like this, this mix of tenderness and roughness, passion and pain in equal measure. How could it be anything else?

When he enters her, she winces. It’s not out of pain, Rey is accustomed to pain. It’s just so strange having someone physically inside of her. Ben stills over her, his face flushed, lips swollen.

“Do you want me to stop?” Ben frowns and begins to move away, only for Rey’s legs to lock around his hips.

“Don’t you kriffing dare.” She manages to grit out, shifting her hips experimentally.

It takes them a moment to find a good rhythm, but it helps when you can literally read your partner’s mind. Ben fucks the same way he fights, throwing his whole being into it. She puts a suggestion across the bond, showing Ben how she touches herself, and he immediately slips a hand between them to rub against her clit in a way that has her positively wailing underneath him.

She reaches her climax just before he does, clawing at Ben’s back and biting his shoulder as the ripples of her orgasm push him over the edge. He shouts as he spills into her, mind blissfully blank.

By the time their sweat has dried he’s apologising, and Rey considers smacking some sense into him.

“Why the hell are you apologising? You know I wanted that right? You did feel how much I enjoyed that? Please tell me you could tell that I enjoyed that.”

“Yes, I could tell you enjoyed that.” There’s a hint of smugness in his voice, but she decides he’s earned it. “I just…I had planned this differently.”

“You planned this?” Rey grins. “What did you have planned? Dim lighting, flowers and romantic music?”

Ben has the good grace to flush. He had, in fact, envisaged something like the cheesy holo-romance scene Rey is describing. “I meant for there to be a bed at least.” He mutters.

Rey’s laughter peals out, soon joined by Ben’s rumbling chuckle. Seeing him so carefree makes Rey feel lightheaded. He looks so much younger when he smiles.

He pulls his cape over them, and for a while they just hold each other. Neither wants to be the one to say it.

“Ben. We can’t do this.”

“I know.”

“It’s dangerous.”

“It is.”

There is another agonising pause.

“What do we do now?”

Ben shifts uncomfortably. The planet is warm but the ground is hardly the most comfortable place to be having this conversation.

“The plan you came up with, we should go ahead with it. It’s very risky but if we pull it off, we can end this war now.”

“And be together?”

Ben presses his lips to her forehead.

“And be together.” Provided we both survive.

“I heard that.” Rey pokes his chest. “I’m not dying on you and you’re not dying on me Ben Solo, not when I just got you back.”

“I assure you sweetheart, dying is the last thing I intend to do.”

**** The new Jedi order is grey.

The first place they go to is Ach-to.

“Well, you showed me the way here eventually.” Ben gives a lopsided grin from the co-pilot’s seat. He’s changed since the war ended, still with his moments of darkness but the light within him getting brighter, strengthened by Rey’s love and a new purpose in life.

Rey just rolls her eyes and punches in the landing co-ordinates.

The caretakers like Ben straight off, more than they have ever liked Rey. Within a week Ben has picked up snippets of whatever ancient language they speak and utterly charms the fish women by making polite conversation in their native tongue.

“Why do they call you The Destroyer?” His eyes are twinkling as he says it, and Rey fully expects the caretakers have told him of every little incident that lead to that ignoble nickname.

“You remember the time I told you about the mirror cave?”

“Don’t change the subject.” Stop trying to distract me.

“That was in that hut.” She points across the courtyard. I’m not trying. I’m succeeding. “They rebuilt it. You want to pay a visit?” She saunters across the open space, pushing across the bond an image of Ben pressing her against the stone walls of the domed hut as she screams his name.

Ben almost trips over his feet rushing to follow her. She succeeds in distracting him. Thoroughly.

When they emerge from the hut a while later, a caretaker narrows her eyes at them from across the way and mutters something. Rey doesn’t understand the words but the tone is universal.

“Ugh, what is she saying?”

“You don’t want to know.”

One morning she leads Ben to the room where Luke had told her the first lesson. They sit by the pool with the mosaic of the prime Jedi, discussing the texts Rey had taken. Ben is working on translating some of the older texts, going into raptures over the beauty of the penmanship and the complexity of the grammar rules of whatever ancient dialect it is written in. Rey understands less than half of it but doesn’t care, simply happy to gaze at Ben as he lights up talking about something he’s passionate about.

She’s reading one of the texts when Ben stands up to stretch his legs. His footsteps echo around the stone cavern, and it isn’t until the silence stretches out Rey realises he’s stopped. She looks up, and sees Ben standing by the platform where she first consciously reached out to the force.

Ben is very still, his hands clenched.

She approaches him cautiously. He’s never hurt her, but he’s still having moments where the darkness overwhelms him. She suspects he always will. He’s had a long run of good days lately and she wants to hold on to that for as long as possible.

She calls out to him softly, and he starts, whirling round to meet her.

“You ok?”

“Luke. He was here. This is where he-“ He breaks off, hot tears spilling down his face, and Rey can feel the agony and shame washing over him.

She wants to say something. She wants to make it better, to take the pain of losing his father and uncle and mother from him. She can’t. She knows Ben will never be free of this, not really. He’ll always be caught between the light and the dark, fighting that battle within himself for the rest of his life.

She just holds him.

It’s a week later that Ben announces that he’s going into the cave. Rey’s first instinct is to tell him not to, afraid of what the mirror might show him, scared that it might shatter what little fragile happiness he’s been able to find.

But she realises it’s not her place to take this from him. She needed to see what the Force had to show her, so does Ben.

It doesn’t stop her from pacing nervously outside their hut waiting for him to come back though. The sky is a leaden stormy grey and the choppy waters surrounding the island are the same colour. She hears one rumble of thunder, then another, and the sky is split with a fork of lightning. The sky darkens and rain starts pelting down. Still she stands outside the hut, shivering, arms wrapped around her as she squints through the storm for a familiar hulking figure. She tries reaching out across the force bond but it’s uncharacteristically quiet, which terrifies her.

She’s just about made up her mind to run down to the cave, her mind filled with images of Ben bloodied and broken, when he trudges up the steps to the gathering of stone huts. His face is hidden underneath his hood. When they get into their hut he hangs up his cloak, takes off his boots, and starts undressing for bed. He doesn’t say a word, his face is blank. Not sure what else to do, Rey does the same, slipping into bed next to him.

The bonds is still silent and when Rey reaches out she finds Ben has closed himself off from her, which he almost never does. The silence makes her edgy, fidgeting until Ben puts a strong arm around her and pulls her to his chest. Finally he speaks.

“I’ve been thinking, about what we were discussing regarding taking the best parts from the dark and light sides in the new order.”

Rey looks up at him. Ben is gazing up at the ceiling, his face no longer blank but serene. The bond is still shut and Rey realises that Ben is keeping something from her, feeling a spike of anxiety as she wonders what he saw in the cave. His eyes are red-rimmed but he seems calm.

“I think that in the new order, we should allow relationships. Jedi should be allowed to love, and marry, and have children.”

He opens the bond finally and Rey gasps. His dark eyes gaze into hers as he lets the depth of his feelings for her flow through their bond. He wants all of those things, with her.

“Yes.” The word is out of her mouth before she can stop it. “Stars, Ben yes.”

He doesn’t seem to mind that she didn’t let him ask her out loud.

**** Their new life is purple.

Rey had insisted that the new training temple be built on a planet with lots of greenery and water, and Ben is more than happy to oblige. When the former resistance had bargained with the Republic to let Ben live, they had agreed on the condition that the new Jedis pick an uninhabited planet on the outer rim to build their temple. Rey is free to come and go as she pleases but it is understood that for Ben, this is a permanent banishment to be broken on pain of death. Considering the alternative, Ben is happy to oblige.

He scours the systems looking for a suitable planet, and when he finds one he comms Rey to come immediately.

When she lands, Ben is standing there with a bunch of small, sweet-smelling purple flowers grasped in his massive hand, presenting them to her with a flourish.

“My wedding gift to you.” He’s beaming as Rey takes the flowers and leaps into his arms, peppering her husband’s face with kisses.

“It’s perfect.” The planet is lush and beautiful, and Rey loves it on sight.

The process of building and establishing the temple is even more difficult than they both had anticipated. Even with help from many of the former resistance and first order members and even some republic workers that Finn somehow manages to wrangle for a time, construction is slow going. People are still wary of Ben, and he tries very hard to hide how it affects him. The stress of the project is making both of them lose sleep, and both have dark violet smudges under their eyes.

Rey has been on several missions to find potential padawans, and they now have a handful of children waiting in a core world orphanage for the temple to be complete so they can begin their training. Both Rey and Ben have agreed that they will not be taking children from their families at infancy, as the old Jedi order did. But both are equally adamant that force-sensitives need to be taught how to harness their powers, both for their safety and others.

It’s several months later than planned when they finally take in their first students, and they’re not remotely ready. Trying to keep the children on task whilst meditating is like trying to herd Porgs, keeping them awake during Jedi history lessons is nigh impossible, and the first few saber form lessons result in several spectacular dark purple bruises on students and teachers alike.

But eventually they fall into a routine. Eventually they feel like they know what they are doing.

So naturally something happens to throw them off.

Rey falls ill. She starts feeling tired for no reason and gets queasy in the mornings. It isn’t until she checks the calendar on her datapad that she realises she’s skipped her last two periods. She’d not had regular periods until joining the resistance and starting to put on weight, and between that and the stress of keeping their padawans from misbehaving she’d lost track. She sends a discreet comm to Rose asking her to make sure a med droid and a test is included in the next supplies shipment.

She’s sure Ben will sense the small life growing within her through the Force some time soon, he’s already caught on that there’s something going on when she starts being very careful what she puts through the bond. It’s important to Rey that she be absolutely sure, and that she tells him herself out loud.

The shipment arrives and the med droid confirms Rey’s suspicion. Really she can feel the life inside her already, but she wants to know it’s healthy before she tells Ben.

She goes to where Ben is trying, and failing, to walk the children through the Shii-Cho.

“Rey, can you come over here? I need to demonstrate…” He trails off. Rey is beaming, practically running over to him before throwing her arms around him to whisper in his ear. He freezes.

Then suddenly his lips are pressed against hers, the padawans making vomit noises at the sight of their two masters, already unnecessarily lovey-dovey in their opinion, making out in the middle of the training area.

“Class is dismissed.” Ben says, barely taking his lips off Rey’s.

Rey knew pregnancy would change her body, but she’s still not happy with the reddish-purple stretch marks that stripe across her belly. Ben kisses them and tells her she’s never looked more beautiful.

The med droid drops another bomb on her at her latest check-up. She’s trying to work out how to tell Ben when he gives her the perfect opportunity.

“Rose sent a message. She’s making a baby blanket, she wants to know if it should be pink or blue?”

“Hmm?” Rey is pressing her hands against her belly, the droid said she should start feeling movement soon.

“You know, pink for a girl or blue for a boy?” Ben in the image of forced nonchalance, she can tell he’s dying to know.

“Funny you should mention that. I just found out today.” Rey smiles. “Tell her to make a purple one.”

“Purple?” Ben frowns. “Why purple?”

“One of each.”

“One of each? One of…” Realisation dawns on his face. “As in, two? We’re having two?!”

“It must run in your family.” Rey laughs.

Ben falls to his knees in front of where she is sitting, kissing her belly.

“Rey you’re amazing. I love you so much I- oh kriff.” He reaches for the datapad and starts typing furiously.

“What is it?”

“I’m telling them to double the amount of baby stuff in the next supplies shipment.” He pauses. “And to include a crate of Corellian whiskey, I think I’m going to need it.” **** Well it's a bit late but here we go. I wrote this last minute and it is unbeta'd so please excuse any errors.

#reylo week 2018 #reyloweek2018 #reylo #rey #kylo ren #ben solo #my writing #guys I am so tired I stayed up so late to finish this

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jordan202 · 7 years ago

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My Boys: Beyond the Horizon - Chapter 10

hey guys, sorry for the long wait with this one.

This chapter focuses mostly on Megan and a situation that I think will ultimately serve to add a lot of personal growth to her. As a teenager, she is just uncovering the world and being challenged is a big, important part of the process of self discovery IMO.

It also has a cute Omelia moment that I just couldn't resist not adding. Cute bubbly Omelia flirting just makes my heart very happy.

As usual thank you @jia911 for proofreading and @bluebelle18 for being the JD to my Megan and always challenging me to do better.

My Boys: Beyond the Horizon – Chapter Ten

JD looked away from the music sheet. For the third time in less than five minutes, he caught blue eyes intensely staring at him. Just like it’d happened in all previous times, Megan looked away quickly, too embarrassed to be caught in the act.

For the past hour, they had been quietly sitting facing each other inside the music classroom. Every now and then, their teacher Mrs. Julian would walk by and ask if they needed any help, but Megan would quickly and politely refuse it, only to immediately go back to studying her own sheets.

But since she couldn’t seem to stop stealing a peek at him every ten minutes, JD could tell she was probably making a big effort to continuously stay in his presence without saying a word.

“You can just ask me, you know,” he decided to break the silence, instantly regaining her attention.

Megan turned her eyes up to meet his, mortified that she hadn’t held back the urge to look at the guy, especially because he’d caught her doing it every single time. Trying not to think about that, the teenage debated with herself whether or not to accept his suggestion. It would be too much of an obvious lie if she said there was nothing she wanted to ask. Megan was usually very good at reading people and she took pride in having a good intuition. Everything JD had showed so far had led her to think he was a terrible person and yet, for the past two days she hadn’t been able to stop thinking about what he’d said in the school hall.

Sighing with resignation, the girl gave in, finally voicing the doubt that had been bothering her ever since.

“Were you really upset about what I said that day at Steve’s party?” she asked carefully, unaware of how adorable she looked when she frowned like that. In her mind, JD wasn’t really the kind of guy who cared about anyone or anything. So the fact that he had openly pointed out he thought she had accused him unjustly could only mean that… well… maybe he had actually been bothered by it?

JD successfully hid his surprise with the question. He lazily tapped a pencil on the sheet while thinking about an answer. He had never been one to lie and usually, the consequences of his excessive honesty didn’t bother him. But for some reason, that annoying girl looked so vulnerable and legitimately concerned with her widened blue eyes that he caught himself measuring his words not to come out too aggressive.

“I guess I was,” he replied sincerely. “You weren’t very fair to me,” the boy added, instantly noticing how she turned her chin up very proudly.

“You treated my friend like garbage!” Megan hissed, the fair skin on her face instantly flushing as made eye contact with him. “What was I supposed to think, that you-”

“Wait, what?” JD unceremoniously interrupted her, “how did I treat her like garbage?” the boy frowned heavily. “Only because I told her I didn’t want to be with her?”

At the same the boy admired Megan’s loyalty to Marianne and understood why she’d take her friend’s side in the messy situation, JD was also aware that the girl probably had been told about relationship only through her friend’s point of view.

Megan went silent for a few seconds. She knew Marianne was no saint and often idealized things too much, but it still didn’t justify JD doing things such as taking the girl’s virginity and then openly ignoring her days after.

“You were horrible to her,” Megan said, noticing a few people around had turned their heads to look because she’d just raised her voice.

“Because I treated her with honesty and truth?” JD replied unaffectedly.

Megan narrowed her eyes, suddenly not as compelled to give him a chance to talk. Did he seriously think he had actually been anything resembling nice to Marianne?

Megan had been there. She had witnessed firsthand how the guy had mostly ignored her friend. After what she’d heard about it and the alarming energy she’d felt in his presence, it really shouldn’t have come as a surprise.

There had been so many rumors… The girl thought back about the day she’d seen him for the first time. Claire had come up with absurd tales about his past and Megan had quickly dismissed them, judging the stories too ludicrous to be true. Over time, however, she’d come to wonder if Claire wasn’t right after all. Megan had never heard or seen anything remotely positive about the boy sitting right in front of her. He was cold, uncaring and absolutely selfish, exactly the kind of person she didn’t want to be around.

And yet, the shadow sparkling in his emerald green eyes made her question whether he was really being truthful or if he was just very good at manipulating people.

Well, not her, Megan decided. There was simply no way he could possibly charm her into believing he was worthy of her time or energy. Not after everything he’d showed. People often teased her about the way she couldn’t see an outcast and not reach out. This was probably just her nature tricking her into thinking she could somehow rescue that estranged boy from his own awful manners. It really was better to stay away and simply focus on the music work she had to do.

Restlessly fighting the urge to find out more and end her agonizing doubts, Megan couldn’t help herself. He’d said she could just ask him. On an impulse, the girl fired the first question that came to mind.

“Did you really take a knife to your old school?”

Megan raised her eyes and met his, immediately regretting having touched such an alarming subject. It had been bothering her ever since the day Claire had whispered that in her ear over the summer. Megan wished she had controlled her impulsivity a little better.

“Yes.”

His direct answer sent a shiver that ran up the girl’s spine.

So, there she had it… Megan had been brave enough to ask and looking into his eyes, she realized that JD really wasn’t lying. His voice had sounded so serious, there were no traces of playfulness in it. Nothing that made her think he felt sorry for doing what he’d just admitted either.

How did JD have the nerve to do such an inconsequent, horrible thing like that and openly confess it without even trying to justify why he’d done it?

“I don’t know how you sleep at night,” the girl whispered in alarm, more to herself than to him, but the boy caught up on her remark.

“I have a clean conscience, thank you for your concern,” JD replied in an ironic, dangerously low tone.

Megan noticed on his expression that his mood had gone from bored to suddenly very irritated. She could tell by the way his jaw was clenched that something she’d said had really gotten to him. And instead of making her feel satisfied, the realization made her feel strangely… agitated?

It didn’t matter, Megan thought. He had just admitted the worst and she was the one who had the right to be angry, not him. Her curiosity about his sudden mood change wasn’t enough to make her want to speak to the boy again.

For the following hour, Megan tried to devote her attention to the music sheet, not really sure how she should work as a team with JD, since after their brief dialogue he had simply pulled out what she later realized was a football playbook and remained focused on it for sixty whole minutes, completely ignoring the subject of the class they were in.

Even though rationally Megan had already decided that the best thing to do was to simply stay away, by the time class was over, she found herself waiting for the other students to leave the room so she could finally speak to him about the subject that had been bothering her. The girl had all the facts, she knew what JD had done. But what she couldn’t figure out was his motivation… And that was consuming her.

“Okay, so…” she started hesitantly, hoping to hold his attention. JD still looked like he was angry, but at least he had stayed back to listen. “Do you really, honestly believe you treated Marianne with respect and honesty?”

Megan could tell by the look on his face that he wasn’t expecting her question. She wondered if his surprise also had to do with the patient tone she was using. It occurred to her just now that this was probably the first time they were talking without shouting at each other or making accusations, but rather calmly and politely holding a conversation where both people involved could take their turn to speak.

JD stood at a distance, carefully examining her face. Megan realized he was probably trying to see if she was being serious or setting him up.

“Look, none of us happy with it, but we are music partners now… At least until Mrs. Julian changes her mind about it, what I hope happens soon,” the girl explained, looking into his eyes. “If we sit together without saying a word for two hours like we did today, it’s obvious she is not going to cave,” Megan wisely pointed out. She was well aware the teacher expected JD to make progress in music class and more than that, after the little scene they had made in their previous class, it was very likely the teacher kept them together at least until they proved that they could work as a team. “And to be honest, I think it’s a horrible prospect to sit here in silence hating each other for the entire semester,” the teenager added with a half-hearted smile. She didn’t like him and they didn’t have to be friends, but at least they should be partners to actually work their assignments or else they’d be at risk for getting a bad grade like their teacher had kindly reminded them. “You think that I judged you without hearing your side of the story,” Megan finally got to the point, seeing on his face that he was intrigued. “I will never know if you don’t tell me.”

JD’s first impulse was to tell her that it made no difference whatsoever if he explained to her his point of view. In fact, he wanted to say that he couldn’t care less what she thought. But before he could control, he heard himself taking part in the conversation.

“Does it really matter?”

Megan didn’t know why, but something in his defensive tone let her know she was being tested.

“Yes,” she responded to his doubt with security. JD had accused her of being unfair to him. Megan seriously doubted he could somehow justify his nasty behavior, especially when it concerned her friend, but since they were going to have to work together, she was kind of hoping he at least had a conscience or something that resembled a redeeming quality.

JD seemed to ponder whether or not to take that conversation forward but ultimately took a deep breath, slowly letting it out to finally answer her question.

“I never made your friend any promises,” he explained. “I was very honest with her, from the start.” On his first week in Seattle, his grandmother’s neighbor had introduced him to her granddaughter and after finding out they were going to the same school, the girl had quickly supposed they could spend time together. “We talked and hung out for a few days since I didn’t really know anyone in town yet…” Megan knew he was telling the truth because it was exactly what her friend had told her. “Marianne was the one who asked me out,” he added, looking Megan deeply in the eyes. “I told her I wasn’t looking for a relationship, I told her I didn’t want anything serious, with her or anyone else,” JD recalled, thinking about the disappointment in the girl’s eyes after he said the words, “it was obvious it wasn’t what she truly wanted but she told me it was fine. That we could just keep it casual and fun.”

“But still you…” Megan tried to think of words to express her discontentment with the situation, noticing he had stopped talking to give her the chance to speak her mind. “How is that being nice to her? You knew she was at risk for getting hurt and still you accepted to keep it going when it was obvious she was going to have her heart broken.”

“I never lied to her,” JD raised his eyebrows as if Megan was accusing him of something that didn’t make sense. “She is nice and I enjoyed going out with her, but to me that was it, I was clear about that. When Marianne started to act like it was more than it really was,” JD added, thinking about how clingy the girl had become, calling him and showing up when he was hanging out with his friends, “that’s when I had to be firm with her. So I ended it,” JD wished he had stopped talking then, but against his will, the words kept firing from his mouth. “How is that being disrespectful, exactly?”

“But you…” Megan sighed heavily. The scenario he was exposing didn’t surprise her that much, because it’d become obvious from the start to anyone who was paying closer attention that Marianne had been more involved with their brief relationship than JD had ever seemed to be. Megan remembered seeing how excited her friend always was whenever he was around, and how his façade often gave the opposite impression. When Megan had first seen the guy, he and Marianne had already been together for a few weeks. The girl supposed it was just when things had started to progress differently for each part involved.

But that wasn’t what bothered Megan the most, though. Even though she supposed JD could have been a little nicer on his attempts to stop Marianne’s advances, what had really annoyed the teenage girl was the fact that he had slept with her friend and then treated her like the moment had had absolutely no significance.

Just like Marianne, Megan was also inexperienced when it came to sex. And she just knew that if she’d lost her virginity to the guy she was in love with and he had coldly cast her aside only days after, she would have been devastated.

And very, very angry. Which was why she could relate to her friend’s plight at the moment.

Megan didn’t want to bring up the topic to discuss with him though because she believed she had no place exposing her friend’s personal life like that. Megan had known Marianne for a while now, and they were close. The girl recalled the way her friend had naively imagined that just because she was in love with the guy, JD would treat her the way she deserved to be treated. But he had ended things with her right after her first time, breaking her heart in the process.

“But I what?” JD rolled his eyes, impatiently. Why had he been stupid enough to even consider that the little hothead proudly standing up to him could somehow be any different from everyone else? “Stop looking for reasons to hate me, Megan. You probably heard things about me, decided I am this big villain and now you are desperately trying to hold onto that concept. I get it,” he raised his hands and added before turning around to walk away, “I know you are a spoiled little princess who’s used to having your way but it’s clear on your face you know that you know I did the right thing by being honest with your friend about the way I felt. But believe what you want to believe, I don’t care.”

Megan watched as he left the room. She knew she probably shouldn’t care. The guy was a rude, selfish human being who obviously didn’t care about anyone’s feelings.

“Yeah… I know you don’t… But you just had to sleep with her first, right?”

He still had his back turned to her, but Megan could hear his impatient sigh. He stopped walking and after a while of hesitation, finally turned around to look at her.

“What?” he impatiently asked.

“Before you decided to gallantly offer her your honesty, I mean,” Megan asked with a mix sarcasm and disapproval. “You just had to take her to bed and make her feel humiliated to be ignored afterwards, right?”

Megan knew she should be furious. She knew she should hate how he’d called her spoiled. But they had exchanged so many indelicacies for the past few weeks that it didn’t even bother her nearly as much as his unfeeling attitude towards her friend did.

“I didn’t lie to her to have sex with her,” JD rolled his eyes, censoring himself for not having already walked away like he normally would. “Marianne told me herself she thought we should do it,” he added, looking at Megan with a loathing scowl. “You are so full of yourself, aren’t you?” he asked in a low tone. “So much that you think you’re doing your friend a big favor by fighting her own battles for her when you’re really just labeling her as unfit to make her own decisions,” JD fired, seeing the look of shock on Megan’s face at his accusations. “You think you’re helping Marianne but you are not. How are you respecting her, really?” he leaned over the girl, looking straight into her eyes. “How are you being respectful if you encourage Marianne to act like I somehow owe her anything just because we had sex? She wanted it, I wanted it and we did it. Then I didn’t want it anymore because she was suffocating me after. I never made her any promises, I never signed a contract… On the contrary. I said I wasn’t looking for anything serious.”

“She was hoping that if she slept with you that would make you want to be with her, you stupid jerk!” Megan read the situation clearly now. “Is that really so hard to see?” she asked with a mix or irony and fury. “Couldn’t you just have gone for someone who wasn’t blindly seduced by your stupid act?”

JD took a deep breath, determined not to fight with her again.

“Marianne is a big girl, Megan. Don’t coddle her and act like she was a victim to her own decisions,” he looked into her eyes, seeing his words were infuriating her. “Of course I saw she was into me more than I was with her. But from the moment I told her I wasn’t interested in being her boyfriend and she agreed to keep it casual, why should I be blamed because she didn’t keep her word?”

“Because she didn’t know any better and you should have!” Megan furiously strode towards him, proudly standing up to the guy who annoyingly seemed to have an answer for every one of her arguments. “She was in love with you, how did you ever consider she could have had her better judgment at the time?”

JD saw the rosy color on her cheeks as she defied him, visibly worked up.

“You know… Have you ever thought that maybe you spent all this time convincing yourself and everyone else that Marianne was somehow a victim to me, but in reality, it’s you who constantly sees her as the victim?” JD raised his eyebrows suggestively. Megan had done something amazing by standing up for her friend when she was visibly in a fragile state, but up to this day the girl still seemed determined to apparently bring justice to a situation she wasn’t really directly involved. “As the poor girl who deserves your help and can’t speak for herself?” he added, taking Megan by surprise again. “Yeah, I figured you haven’t,” the boy answered his own question after seeing the look on her face, taking satisfaction in feeling like he’d won that battle against that daring hotheaded girl. “You are not helping Marianne by shielding her from things. Instead you should be helping her stand up for herself if she really thinks I screwed up.”

Megan was alarmed by her own silence. What he was saying was absolutely despicable. It wasn’t true, she knew. She indeed had stepped up for her friend the day of the party, but only because JD had put her in a horrible situation. And even though Megan was well aware she’d had all the best intentions, his accusation still got her thinking. Because it didn’t prevent the girl from drowning in guilt for the way she really felt sorry for Marianne.

Maybe she just had felt too sorry?

Could it really be? Had Megan really acted like a super protective friend, shielding Marianne at all costs and perhaps only contributing to the girl’s already low self-esteem?

No way, Megan realized, swallowing hard. Perhaps on the long run, Marianne would be able to fight her own battles, but right now, she was still too fragile. And Megan was only doing for her friend what she would have liked to have someone doing for her had she been in Marianne’s shoes.

Maybe that was why it bothered Megan so much?

Just like Marianne, she didn’t have a lot of experience. Megan didn’t like to admit it very much, but that bothered her. When it came to relationships with boys, she felt too exposed and vulnerable. And because of it, she could totally empathize with her friend at the moment. One day, Marianne might be fit to defend herself. Until that day came, Megan would make damn sure no one abused her fragility like that dumb jock had just done.

Megan had done what she’d done with the best intentions. She didn’t regret it.

“Still, you walked away and told her nothing had happened,” the girl recovered from the blow, absolutely determined not to let him walk away feeling like he was right. “You’re an asshole and nothing you say can change that. I was there. I saw it.”

JD saw the spark of fury in her eyes and he could tell she was fighting an internal battle. Instinctively, he realized that his words had deeply messed with her, enough to make her rethink her own attitude. But it was the way that her fiery, hot approach had been replaced by a broken, hurt speech that really got to him.

It felt like all of a sudden, an uncomfortable feeling made him sick to the stomach and he didn’t even understand why. JD had seen girls act much worse when faced with his honesty before. Hell, he’d even seen them cry and it still, it hardly ever bothered him. Girls cried for no reason and they had an awful tendency of taking advantage of their fragility to get what they wanted.

But now, the impulsive girl with fiery blue eyes proudly stood her ground, apparently too caught up with her own emotions to remember his presence. JD also went silent as he thought about what Megan had said. It made sense, he knew. He wasn’t a hypocrite to think everything he did was justifiable. Sometimes, for reasons he couldn’t explain, his behavior tended to really hurt people. Enough that he avoided getting close to them as much as he could.

Maybe he should have exploded at Megan like that. But at the same time, it had unexpectedly bothered him that the girl whose loyal manners he’d admired and who he had initially believed to actually be different from everyone else had obviously jumped to conclusions about him without even giving him the benefit of the doubt.

He really thought Megan might have been different... How stupid of him, JD figured. After so many years of people making assumptions about him, he had grown used to it. It didn’t bother him anymore and JD should have known better by now. Why would Megan be any different? She was in the most comfortable place, surrounded by people who really seemed to love and admire her. Why on Earth would she ever have a reason to think her opinion might have been biased, or that maybe, there might be a different version to a story than the one she wanted to believe in?

Girls like Megan were too used to having things done their way. They had the world on a string and more than enough people willing to give them absolutely everything they wanted. Like her boyfriend, for example, JD thought with a scoff. The guy pretty much worshipped the ground she walked on and if he was trying to hide that, he was doing an awful job so far.

Yes, he really shouldn’t care. Megan was too spoiled for own good. She was probably one of those girls who deemed her opinion as the absolute truth, without even bothering to fact check first. JD knew her kind. They were high maintenance and abused the effect they had on guys to manipulate them into doing what they wanted. He was better off as further away from her as possible.

But still… JD couldn’t really ignore the fact that that small brave girl had stood up to him to defend her friend in a way he’d never seen anyone do before. So even though Megan was probably self-centered and obnoxious, he had to admit she at least was a loyal friend.

People were usually intimidated by him, he had long ago noticed that. Yet Megan Hunt had been more than willing to let him have it. At first, he had been impressed and even satisfied. After watching her from a distance and seeing the way she was kind and generous to her friends, JD had to admit that had been how he expected her to be different. But then as Megan had obviously made up her mind about him based on something as despicable as rumors – and judging by her question about the knife she had heard them - JD had to confess he’d felt rather disappointed… But mostly at himself, for having high expectations of her in the first place.

Turning around after giving up making sense of the entire thing, JD hesitated one more time.

“You shouldn’t believe everything you hear,” he advised her.

Megan noticed the way he calmly stood with his hands inside his pockets. His emerald green eyes stared into her with such intensity that Megan felt like he was baring her soul.

“I still think you’re a jackass for the way you treated my friend but...” Megan bit her lower lip, taking one step in his direction. “It was wrong of me to call you out in front of everyone like that,” she admitted, letting out a heavy sigh. Even though the girl still though JD deserved the scrutiny for the way he’d treated Marianne, there had been several ways she could have handled it. Ways that didn’t involve humiliating him in front of their peers and openly making fun of him for things she didn’t even know might have personally touched a wound. Truth was, Megan didn’t know the guy. And she wasn’t interested in being friends with him. But that didn’t give her the right to treat him in a way she didn’t want anyone to be treated. “I was angry with you that you had hurt my friend and I fought fire with fire. That wasn’t very nice of me,” she belatedly realized. A mistake didn’t justify another. It didn’t matter if she thought JD owed Marianne an apology or not. She knew she was only responsible for her own actions. “I am sorry for the way I talked to you… and for the horrible things I said.”

Megan had seen him surprised a few times that afternoon, but just as she apologized, for the first time she thought the boy looked lost, as if he really didn’t know what to say. And that impacted her, because so far, JD always knew what to say.

The boy recovered from the unexpected action and held the Megan’s gaze, studying her expression to see if she really meant it, almost as if he couldn’t believe it. That went against everything he had decided she was. The way he had categorized her and made up his mind about the girl had just been unexpectedly challenged by her heartfelt apology.

“Okay,” it was the only thing he could mutter in response. She was still looking into his eyes and JD didn’t notice how hard he was trying not to break that contact.

It was the first time Megan saw him with his guard low, seemingly unsure of what to do. JD always looked confident and on top of his game, but now he looked more confused than she’d ever seen. Taking advantage of the situation to try to understand the guy a little more, Megan kept looking into his eyes, trying to break past his defenses. Her skills at figuring people out didn’t seem to work so well with him and that really bothered her.

“I have to go to practice now,” he said, finally breaking eye contact with the girl after what it felt like forever.

“Oh, right, football,” Megan reacted a little too quickly, instantly being brought back to reality as well. “Right. And I have to go to French class.”

The girl noticed as he nodded his head affirmatively, looking as if he couldn’t wait to get out of there. JD looked very uncomfortable. She was still trying to make sense of why things had gotten so awkward all of a sudden when, from across the hall, she heard his voice.

“Hey, Megan?”

The girl interrupted her thoughts to look up and once again meet his gaze.

“I didn’t know until it was too late,” JD sighed heavily, hating that he had the urge to tell her that, especially when he’d already decided he didn’t care what she thought. It was beside her point, but he still felt compelled to share the truth, unaware of how important what he was about to say was. “I didn’t know it was her first time,” he explained after seeing the confusion on the girl’s face. Instantly, Megan picked up on the fact he was speaking about Marianne and she was taken absolutely aback by the confession when JD added, “if she’d told me, I wouldn’t have gone forward with it.”

Before Megan could so much as open her mouth to reply, JD had already disappeared through the halls, leaving her only with several new doubts.

“Hey, Maggie,” Amelia asked for her best friend’s attention with a teasing voice. “Do you see that handsome man over there?” she pointed to the tall man with her eyes. “He’s into me.”

The two surgeons were standing next to the nurse station, both updating charts. Amelia had spoken loud enough so that only the two women and the guy approaching them could hear it.

Maggie chuckled with amusement at the same time Amelia received a look of pretend reprimand from her husband.

“What?” she openly flirted with him, biting her lower lip in a very tempting way, “I just called you handsome,” she pointed out. “You have no reason to look at me like that.”

“Right,” Owen tried to keep a serious face but was having a hard time containing the smile that insisted on forming on his lips.

“You’re into me,” Amelia insisted, absolutely determined to pester him.

Owen noticed she kept staring at him as if undressing him with her eyes.

“I am married to you,” he reminded her with his usual practicality.

“So?” Amelia blinked repeatedly as she approached him just enough to be able to whisper in his ear. “Have I told you that you look very hot with that tie?”

“What is it this time?” Maggie asked without taking her eyes off her chart. She and Amelia had been friends for years and she had grown used to the neurosurgeon’s playful ways. “What is she after?”

“Christmas bonus for her department,” Owen answered unaffectedly while checking lab results for the patient he was about to take to the OR. Even though they still had a few months before Christmas, he’d already notified his employees that whichever department showed the best performance during the semester would be granted a bonus check to invest in research at the end of the year.

“You know what I think,” Amelia shamelessly kept her act. She was kidding and they both knew it. As long as she didn’t resort to anything unprofessional such as speaking about their private life in front of colleagues or patients – and Amelia never did – she knew Owen enjoyed their playful banter as much as she did. “I think that Dr. Hunt is very interested in Neurosurgery.”

“I am sure he is,” Owen finally looked up to meet her flirtatious gaze and couldn’t contain his laughter. Amelia was playing games with her words. Owen decided to believe she was talking about their son and he could see her sneaky, witty bribery. Sometimes, he could tell his wife was more interested in playing and winning a challenge than in the actual reward. This was one of the cases.

“Maggie, don’t you think we owe it to the younger generations to make sure they get a good education?” Amelia asked her friend without breaking eye contact with Owen. It was now a game and whoever looked away first would lose.

“I think Tom would be much better off if he pursued a career in cardiothoracics,” Maggie affirmed with conviction.

“You know what I think?” Owen stared into his wife’s eyes, making a herculean effort to keep a straight face. She wouldn’t stop tempting him and he could see her intentions so clearly that it made him want to be alone with her, just so he could kiss away that wicked smile off her lips. “I think Dr. Shepherd here has way too much free time on her hands. Maybe she should go back to work.”

“You know what I think?” Amelia failed at her resolution not to laugh and finally stopped with the silly act, having way too much fun with the conversation, “I think you’re pretty cute.”

“Thank you, Dr. Shepherd,” Owen’s voice sounded serious but his smile and the look on his face translated just what he wanted to say to her.

Amelia saw his loving expression and watched as her husband walked away. Before the elevator doors closed, Owen looked in her direction one more time and the moment their eyes met, both surgeons exchanged a happy, genuine smile.

“You guys are so annoying,” Maggie teased with a sigh, looking from the elevator to her best friend. Owen and Amelia had one of the happiest and nicest relationships she’d ever seen and Maggie felt nothing but proud of her friend for it. “By the way, how are things with Tommy?”

“They’re better,” Amelia shared. Earlier that week, Owen had had an important conversation with their son and Thomas already seemed to be a little more comfortable in his shoes at work. “We haven’t had the chance to sit down and discuss it yet but from what little Owen has been able to tell me, I think Tom really needed that talk.”

“Good,” Maggie was glad to heart it. Thomas was her godson and even though she loved all of Amelia’s kids, she had always felt a special connection to the boy. “He’s rotating in my service next week.”

“Don’t contaminate my son with your nasty specialty, please,” Amelia smiled mischievously.

“I can’t make any promises,” Maggie laughed along. “And how is that thing with Megan and the new boyfriend?” the cardiothoracic surgeon asked with interest. Her daughter and Megan had grown up best friends all their lives and both girls were very close to their mothers. “Claire told me she is dating one of the guys in their group. Has she told Owen yet?”

“Not yet,” Amelia confessed with a lighthearted tone. “Meg is taking him to Lucas’ game on Saturday but she is going to introduce him to her dad and the boys as one of her friends,” Amelia shared. She was the only one in the house who knew about her daughter’s plan and honestly, she considered it a wise idea. If Owen and her sons met Megan’s boyfriend without the heavy weight of what the position meant, maybe they would be able to form a little less biased opinion of the guy before the Hunt boys crucified him, which would invariably happen as soon as Megan told her father and brothers about their real relationship status. “I actually have plans to pick up Megan from school tomorrow. She asked me to go the market with her to buy lobster or something like that… For some reason she is cooking dinner every night this week,” Amelia looked up and met her friend’s eyes. “I think she is really trying to soften Owen before Saturday.”

Maggie had fun with the plot.

“Are you sure she is really your kid?” the cardiothoracic surgeon asked with playful sarcasm. Amelia laughed, agreeing with head. Her daughter had the same sneaky manners as she. “Well, I guess as long as Megan is happy, neither Owen nor the boys have any right to meddle,” Maggie pointed out.

“Agreed,” Amelia replied with heartfelt contentment. “Now, who is going to help me convince them of that? Because that’s a whole different story.”

Maggie stopped what she was doing and processed the question for a moment.

“Good point…” the surgeon added, glad she wasn’t in Amelia’s shoes. “I honestly have no idea.”

next chapter finally brings the answer to the question of “what the hell happened to Lucas, Emily and Amelia five years ago?”

#omelia #owen hunt #amelia shepherd #greysanatomy #myboys #myboysfanfiction #omeliafanfics #omeliafic #amenff

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shannaraisles · 7 years ago

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Rylen Appreciation Week - Day 1

[Read on AO3]

Knight-Captain Rylen, the Templar

"This is insubordination! I am your commanding officer!"

Knight-Captain Rylen looked back at Ser Bevan, Knight-Commander of Starkhaven, from across the wide desk.

The title was a technicality only - there was no Circle in Starkhaven, hadn't been for years, not since the fire that had gutted their tower and destroyed so many phylacteries. Ser Bevan had risen to the rank of Knight-Commander in the months that followed, for his dogged pursuit of the escaped mages and the way he had organized the men and women under his command to escort them safely to other Circles in the Free Marches. Technically, there was no need for a garrison of templars in Starkhaven while there were no mages to protect, but the Chantry had deemed it necessary to maintain them there. To help keep order, they said. What was unspoken was the tacit approval from the Grand Cleric in Kirkwall of the way Ser Bevan had struck terror into the hearts of anyone who dared cross the Templar Order in Starkhaven.

What was also unspoken was the contempt many of Ser Bevan's subordinates held for him, knowing that his actions were built on fear and paranoia. He had modeled himself on Knight-Commander Meredith, and their barracks - once a place of as much contemplation and faith as it had been a military arm of the Chantry - had become a festering sore. In his terror of what might be, he turned a blind eye to knights that abused their position to cause harm to those without influence or wealth; he kept from promotion the moderates that would have curbed those abuses in his name. It was a blessing that he had no mages to terrorize. Rylen had been Knight-Captain long before Ser Bevan was promoted to rank above him, and despite attempts to demote or remove him, none of the charges had stuck. The Knight-Commander was forced to tolerate a Knight-Captain who moderated his orders, who interpreted them kindly when they insisted on punishment for those innocent beyond a reasonable doubt. But there was only so much a man could take, and that final line was there in front of him. He was ready to cross it.

"Then take command, ser!" Rylen countered, his voice forceful but not without respect. "Our brothers and sister in Kirkwall need support. They need lyrium, ser!"

"Supplies are being secured for them through Chantry channels," Ser Bevan insisted. "We will not interfere."

"They've had no supplies sent since before the bloodbath at the Gallows," Rylen ground out, trying to keep his temper in the face of his seething superior. "If even half the garrison there survived, they'll be on short rations, and they've still mages to guard and keep well there. We have a surplus of lyrium ourselves, ser. We've the means to aid them."

"That lyrium, Knight-Captain, is for the use of templars in Starkhaven and no other -"

"Aye, and if that were truly the case, Knight-Commander, you would not have had us on half-rations for the last month! Your punishment for an infraction that did not happen is excessive, and we'll not tolerate it much longer!"

That was the lack of lyrium talking, Rylen knew. They had all suffered for one woman's refusal to back down when Ser Bevan demanded she give up the location of her informant. Ser Giselle had stood her ground, denying their commander the opportunity to take swords into the Alienage to kill an elf whose only crime had been to share a rumor of the Champion of Kirkwall hiding there briefly before leaving the city. Rylen had stood with her; so had many others. They knew their Knight-Commander was walking a dangerous line, had hoped to keep him from making the mistake that would paint them all as murderers. Instead, Ser Giselle had been stripped of her knighthood and turned out of the Order, and as punishment for her integrity, they had all been placed on half-rations of lyrium until such time as Ser Bevan chose to lift the sanction. Even his most loyal templars, the abusers and murderers they had become, were punished, and their outrage had been swiftly silenced in a series of expulsions from the Order. But the sanction had not been lifted, and the Starkhaven templars had suffered together through the headaches, the nausea, the shakes and vivid nightmares. They supported one another and yes, a small group of them had chosen to also support the expelled Giselle, supplying her with lyrium pooled from their own meager rations, to allow her to keep functioning while she laid low among the elves that recognized the sacrifice she had made to protect them from what she now suffered.

Ser Bevan snarled at him, his round face reddening with fury. "Are you threatening me, Knight-Captain Rylen?"

"No, ser. When I threaten you, I will have my sword in my hand, and you will have a blade in your own. This is a warning, ser - a reminder that you are not as secure on your throne as you believe."

The Knight-Commander stared at him, and for the first time, Rylen thought he saw the fear in the man's eyes. So he was not as far gone as many of them had thought, it seemed, still enough the man he used to be at some core part of himself to recognize that abusing a garrison of a hundred men and women was not the wisest course of action for a man alone with no coherent Chantry support.

"The supply lines to Kirkwall have been disrupted, ser," Rylen reminded him. "Not only by the explosion, but by the slavers and bandits that have descended on the city. We received a delivery of lyrium ourselves this morning. If we take it to Kirkwall and remain on half-rations ourselves, we can support our brothers and sister there. Without lyrium, what little order they have restored will be lost as they struggle with their own withdrawal. For all we know, they've none left at all."

"And my prayers are with them, Knight-Captain." But Bevan frowned, passing a hand over his eyes as he sighed. "My responsibility is to the Order here in Starkhaven. I will not deprive them to aid others."

"We are already deprived!" Rylen took a step forward, shaking with the effort of keeping his own anger in check. "We have suffered a bare fraction of what they will suffer - it is our duty to lend them aid!"

Ser Bevan drew himself up, his face like thunder. "I am your commanding officer."

"Then you are failing in your duty to the Order, Ser Bevan. And I will not follow a man who sees a problem that can be solved and does nothing."

Rylen straightened his shoulders. He was crossing that line, here and now, and he knew he would likely never be able to walk across it again. But enough was enough. He could not stand by and watch, not when he had the means to help.

"I have already given orders, ser," he informed the senior knight. "The delivery we received this morning has not been unloaded from the carts. I intend to ask for volunteers among our rank to form a relief guard and escort that lyrium to Kirkwall."

"If you persist on this course, you will find yourself no longer a brother of the Order." Ser Bevan's voice was dark with menace, but Rylen could see it for what it was - a last attempt to intimidate a man of integrity whose tolerance he had finally pushed too far. "Think very carefully about the path you are proposing to walk."

Rylen drew a deep breath. "I have been thinking, ser," he answered, surprised by how calm he sounded. He wasn't entirely sure how that was possible; anger was burning inside him at the sheer belligerent ineptitude of his superior officer. "For months, I have thought, and watched, as you ignore the increasing troubles in the world. Troubles that are right on our doorstep, troubles we could help to solve if you would just lift a finger. I have stood by and said little as you follow the path already walked by Knight-Commander Meredith, even knowing so clearly where it will lead. I have seen enough to know that you will do nothing to prevent the madness that is coming over you, and in that madness, you will let the world burn before raising a hand to douse the flames. So I must act, ser."

"Oh, you must, must you?" Ser Bevan was still quiet, but the hard edge of his anger was fading. It was doubtful that anyone had drawn the parallel between himself and the insane Meredith so clearly for him before this moment. The horror of her end at the Gallows, so recent and so raw, was not a path to contemplate lightly. "You believe that you know better than your superiors, your betters?"

"No, ser, not in all things." Rylen set his jaw, gathering his words as he sought to appeal to the flicker of conscience he could see in the other man's eyes. "But I do know this. The world is falling to chaos, and there's not a damned thing I can do to stop it. I swore an oath, ser, an oath to the Maker Himself to protect and serve the people of Thedas. All people, ser, be they human, elf, dwarf, or mage. Aye, I've no power to protect them all, and our wee corner has more peace than perhaps we deserve. But I see a problem I can fix, and I will do it. You may expel me from the Order if you wish, but templar or no, that lyrium will reach Kirkwall."

There was a long silence, both men testing their wills against one another - the old guard pitted against the new; a man who feared the chaos erupting around them and reacted in anger to control what little he could, against the man who needed to mitigate at least some of that chaos and would risk everything to do it. Neither was wholly right, nor wholly wrong, but this could not go on.

Ser Bevan sighed, the anger in his eyes fading as sense returned to his gaze for the first time in months. "The Order is not what it once was, Ser Rylen," he said wearily. "We have lost our way, and I fear matters will only worsen before the Divine acts. But I feel ... glad ... that you have not forgotten what we were meant to be. You are a fine captain, Rylen. A better man than I."

"I am a younger man, ser," Rylen corrected him, his own anger easing as the battle lines were drawn back. "Not a better one. You have done as you thought best, though I regret few will agree with your methods. I must do what I think best."

"And no longer mine to command." The Knight-Commander straightened, reaching for a quill and parchment. "You may take twenty-five from our garrison here, if they wish to go. Deliver the lyrium and offer aid to the Gallows and Kirkwall. I will inform the acting Knight-Commander of your transfer to his command, and arrange for Kirkwall's lyrium to be delivered here for the foreseeable future, for safe passage to the City of Chains under our guard. With Andraste's grace, we may all return to full rations within a matter of weeks."

Relief coursed through Rylen's limbs, the tension in his muscles easing. "Thank you, ser. Maker be with you."

Ser Bevan nodded absently, the quill already scratching over the parchment before him as Rylen saluted and left the office, marching down to the courtyard to address the templars he called brother and sister. It wasn't a perfect solution to the problem, but it was something. And in all this madness, doing something was infinitely preferable to watching the world go to the Void unhindered.

#RylenAppreciationWeek #knight-captain rylen #starkhaven #i have no idea how to tag this #day 1 #obviously #also #authority issues?#maybe #Rylen being Rylen

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sawyernathan1991 · 5 years ago

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Reiki Chakra Meditation Youtube Fabulous Tricks

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#Reiki Chakra Meditation Youtube Fabulous Tricks #Reiki Healing Phoenix

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themurphyzone · 8 years ago

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MML Connect Fanfiction: Contagious

Background: This story is based on something that happened in my junior year of high school. In the United States, more specifically, in Texas, we had an Ebola scare. This took place around the same time the Ebola epidemic went around in West Africa. The virus wasn’t detected until after a flight had touched down in the DFW airport, and that person transferred it to a nurse at a hospital in the downtown area.

A parent of a student at my high school had been on that flight, and was placed on a month long quarantine with everyone else on that flight. The school sent a newsletter home that detailed these events. Bad decision.

People panicked. Not everyone, but enough to be noticeable.

Ebola is NOT airborne by the way.

Now, who do we know who has a condition that causes people to panic and react because they don’t know how it actually works or how to protect themselves?

Mort was the one who believed in aura and vibes, not Melissa. However, she was starting to believe that there was a tense atmosphere in the cafeteria at the moment.

Then again, if the school hadn’t sent home that stupid newsletter, maybe she would’ve been in a better mood. She threw it away as soon as she got home, but she didn’t crumple it up first and her dad saw the bold headline sticking out from the top.

It was supposed to be an apology from the school for the incident at the Meet the Teachers’ Night when Murphy’s Law disrupted Principal Milder’s speech to the parents of the new sixth graders. The parents hadn’t been too happy at getting drenched by the sprinklers after all the ovens in the cafeteria exploded.

She could deal with strangers. However, her dad was an entirely different matter.

“Your safety comes first,” he said calmly. “Maybe you should stay home until this matter clears up.”

Melissa crossed her arms defiantly. “Dad, quit being paranoid. I can take care of myself. You’ve met Milo before. It’s not his fault. It never is.”

He scowled. “Look, he’s nice, but all he has to do is sneeze and suddenly everyone in the room catches something.”

“You can’t catch Murphy’s-it doesn’t work like-ugh! I’m going to my room. You can’t stop me from going to school.”

“She’s staring into space again,” Zack said, waving his hand in front of her face. Melissa grabbed it, shoving it away. “Welcome back.”

“Enjoying your flashback sequence?” Milo asked. “I have to be aware at all times, so I can’t relive my subconscious like you can.”

Melissa managed a weak smile. “It wasn’t the happy kind. My dad and I had a fight. He wanted me to stay home since he heard about the stuff that happened at Meet the Teachers’ Night.”

“That sounds awful,” Zack said. “At least my parents didn’t buy into it. I overheard people talking. They think Murphy’s Law is contagious. Then they tried convincing my mom. You should’ve seen the looks on their faces when she revealed that she’s a trained medical professional!”

Melissa respected Eileen Underwood even more now, though she only met her once on Career Day.

Milo smiled. “Well, now we’re just dawdling. Ha, dawdling’s kind of a funny word when you think about it! Let’s blow this empty cafeteria and head to art class! Onward!”

He immediately crashed into a column.

“Onward,” Milo repeated dazedly.

He did have a point. The cafeteria should’ve had more people at ten minutes before the first bell.

This was more serious than she thought.

First period art was shared between the sixth and seventh grades. While Mort and Lydia greeted them with a cheery wave, a sixth grade group across the room whispered in hushed tones.

They were sneaking glances at Milo. Melissa glared at them, and they quickly became interested in the messy scribbles that couldn’t be scrubbed out of the tables.

The bell rang, but only half of the class was there. All of the empty seats belonged to the sixth graders.

“Where’s everyone else?” Melissa asked.

Lydia shrugged. “Sleeping probably. Or a truckload of potatoes overturned near the school again and it’s causing some backup.”

“Classes get delayed all the time,” Mort said.

True. It wasn’t uncommon for people to run late because something was blocking the way to the classroom. Teachers were aware of this and were usually kind enough to wait up to fifteen minutes before passing out quizzes and tests.

Ten minutes flew by, and only one girl arrived. She cast a nervous glance at Milo and took the long way around to her seat.

“Do I have anything on me? Like a bug, or milk mustache?” Milo asked.

Melissa shook her head. “No.You’re bug and milk mustache free. What is their problem anyway?”

“The school does seem to be acting crazier than normal,” Zack said.

Mrs. Whitaker took attendance and set them in randomized groups for a project that would span the entire week. Milo and Melissa were placed with Dean and Justin, part of the group that had been watching Milo suspiciously earlier.

Melissa silently balked at being separated from the others, though the rational part of her mind told her that she could probably squeeze some information out of them.

“Are we allowed to change groups?” Dean asked loudly, wrinkling his nose in distaste at Milo.

Milo didn’t notice since he was too busy placing random objects on the table while searching for his pencil bag.

“This is a good learning opportunity for you, Dean,” Mrs. Whitaker said sternly. “You can learn a lot from people outside your normal peer group.”

Melissa hid a smile behind her hand. Once Mrs. Whitaker made a decision, it was final.

They received their assignment and Mrs. Whitaker left to grab a few sheets from the copy room.

Justin propped his elbow up on the table. “I learned how our teachers want to kill us by exposing us to Murphy-itis.”

Melissa glared at him. “It’s called Murphy’s Law,” she hissed through gritted teeth.

Next to her, Milo finally found his pencil bag. “It’s whatever can go wrong, will go wrong,” Milo explained as he put everything away. “It’s not an inflammation. Well, it can cause inflammations, I guess, depending on the object.”

He picked up a bag of colorful feathers. It was only partially closed, and a green feather escaped and floated gently onto Milo’s nose.

Milo sneezed, and the feather fell to the floor. Dean and Justin made disgusted faces, scooting their chairs as far away as possible.

“Bless you,” Melissa said.

“Thanks!” Milo exclaimed. Then he saw Dean and Justin applying generous amounts of hand sanitizer to the table and their pencils. “What’s wrong?”

Melissa could understand having a small bottle of hand sanitizer or wipes in a bag. But this was too excessive for her. “Could we keep the table dry at least?” she asked.

Dean shook his head. “We need to get rid of the bad luck before it infects us.”

Melissa scowled. “Do you even hear yourself right now? This is ridiculous and it’s way too early for me to apply a decent logical argument to this mess. Justin, grab the art supplies so we can start.”

“Why me?” Justin complained.

“Because we claim seniority,” Melissa said simply.

“Actually, I don’t think we can claim sen-” Melissa covered Milo’s mouth, winking.

It was petty, but after the way they treated Milo, it was difficult to not feel too satisfied.

On the way to science, Melissa discovered a new level of weird. A lot of masks, gloves, and air freshener were being carried around by the student body. If the administrator walked through the front door right now, she was certain he would mistake them for surgeons instead of students.

Melissa coughed as they passed someone who sprayed pine-scented air freshener in their direction. “Okay, given how many times we’ve been sprayed in three minutes, those masks are starting to look tempting,” Zack said.

“I kind of like the strawberry scent. It’s not that bad,” Milo admitted.

“I’m more of a lemon,” Melissa said. “In small amounts though. Not a fan of strong scents.”

To her relief, the class was full. She could relax now that nobody would antagonize Milo. Well, Bradley would probably make some remarks, but she was used to it.

Thankfully, they were working with Zack for the lab. Melissa put Milo on recording data duty, since they needed the Bunsen burners for one section.

“Darn, forgot the salt,” Melissa said. It was the last thing they needed in the solution.

“No worries, Melissa! I’ll grab it,” Milo said, heading for the supply cabinet. He grabbed the salt, only to trip over a loose electrical cord and knock another group’s solution and Bunsen burner over, which tumbled into an open air vent on the wall.

Mort peered into the air vent, only to yelp upon seeing flames. “Mrs. Murkawski, I think you might want to see this!” he yelled.

She rushed over, her eyes widening. “Unplug your burners, everyone! We’d better evacuate!”

Sure enough, the fire alarm began to wail. The class scrambled for their things and rushed out the door. Mrs. Murkawski followed behind them, carrying her desk over her head. She didn’t set it down until she was at a safe distance.

The other students and faculty poured out, many still wearing their masks and gloves. They gave Milo a wide berth.

When the fire department arrived, they determined the cause was the excessive air freshener sprayed by the students had caused the heat from the Bunsen burner to ignite. The damage was contained to just the math and science halls though.

“Hi, Mr. Chase!” Milo said.

“Dad,” Melissa muttered.

Mr. Chase glanced between them, waving off his fellow firefighters. “Why were your peers spraying so much air freshener in the first place?”

“Because they don’t understand how Murphy’s Law actually works,” Melissa said. “And before you say anything, this was an accident. Plain and simple.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Okay, I don’t have a full grip on Milo’s...condition myself. But you seem to. And I seem to remember a little girl telling me she wanted to be a journalist-slash-queen-of-the-universe.”

“Not in front of my friends please!” she whispered.

Zack and Milo laughed. “You told us that on Career Day!” Zack said. “It’s not new information or anything.”

Melissa folded her arms. “So what are you getting at?”

“Well, the best way to prevent something is to educate someone,” Mr. Chase replied. “Consider it a personal project if you want. You have the resources, the pictures, the theories. You could always interview Milo.”

“That sounds fun,” Milo said. “Maybe we could make a short film too. I know i’m not a very good actor, but it could still be fun!”

Melissa smiled. “Thanks, Dad.”

Mr. Chase gave her a brief hug. “No problem,” he said.

Murphy’s Law wasn’t something to be afraid of. Not when it could bring people together.

And Melissa was going to make sure other people knew it too.

Bonus Author’s Note: So the masks, gloves, hand sanitizer, low attendance, and freshener actually happened at my school. The only thing not mentioned in this story is how sexy Ebola nurse outfits skyrocketed in popularity around Halloween.

I once talked to a girl who came from a different city to have her physical therapy in DFW while the paranoia was going around. She said her peers shunned her because they thought she had Ebola. Milo has similar issues here, even though he sees everything through rose-tinted glasses and it’s Melissa who has to defend him.

The takeaway here is: Disease threatens physical health. If severe enough, it can leave mental scars as well. However, your chances of encountering paranoia and suspicion based on misinformation are much higher than getting the virus yourself.

I apologize if this comes off as heavy-handed. The Ebola panic is one of the most vivid memories I’ve come out of high school with and I just thought it would be interesting to share with you if you’re interested.

#milo murphy's law #mml connect #fanfiction #melissa chase

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sphinxx-eternal · 8 years ago

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Sphinxx Watches Game of Thrones

Episode 7.3 "The Queen’s Justice” Jon’s little twitch of a smile makes everything ok Friendly banter about where you're from doesn't work so well when you were a slave. Jon and Tyrion have catching up to do “I’m not a Stark” * insert well-timed dragon* Their faces after the dragon, omg. Varys knows there's something up. He always knows, Melisandre. “Long list on Dany’s titles” “... Jon Snow… he's King in the North” I just wanna shake Dany and tell her the superiority isn't necessary here. I can't wait to see her face when she finds out she's not the last Targaryen. Dany, please just shut up and listen for once. OH. MY. GOD. Dany, shut up. You've seen the myths and legends. You've seen the magic. Well, Jon ain't gonna take that shit lying down. This is really not going well. When you're already in a mood is totally the best time to receive bad news. I really don't know whether to hate Theon or pity him. I definitely know to hate Euron. Why is any disliked woman always “whore”? Euron really is a dumbass if he thinks Cerci is just going to swoon and marry him on the spot. Please punch him in the face Jamie. We know you want to, and we're all behind you 100%. I'm really not comfortable with calling that thing “Ser Gregor” Ellaria’s face. That's to painful to watch. Cerci is pretty damn far gone at this point. That is extra harsh. How did Jamie not realize she can do what(who)ever the fuck she wants now? Cerci has many flaws. Stupid is not one of them. Jon is the best, most pretties brooder. It is pretty hard to believe. That is, unless you live in a world where dragons exist and a woman can walk through fire. “People's minds aren't made for problems that large” explains literally all the world’s issues. Tyrion is like a wise old hermit this episode. He does have a habit of that, Dany. Wait… does everyone assume Bran is alive? Then why aren't they looking for him?! Oh good, they've started being rational people again. Sansa finally gets to be in charge. I love her so much right now. Ok, so Littlefinger has one piece of good advice. Bran’s cold eyes are seriously disturbing. Addendum: Bran is seriously disturbing. Hey, it worked. Jorah can resume his excessive, awkward pining around his Khaleesi. I hope Sam isn't in too much trouble. Paper mites aren't too bad, all things considered. Why did they even bring up how few ships they had? That's literally the point of dragons. Have we actually seen Casterly Rock before now? Tywin has been dead for a couple years now, and is still paying for underestimation Tyrion. Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck. Euron is the worst. That's a lot of army in the wrong place. How is everyone moving from place to place so quickly now?! Lady Olenna, cynical and snarky to the last. It's interesting to see two people so jaded be frank with each other. Cerci has many flaws. Stupid is definitely not one of them.

#game of thrones #game of thrones spoilers #sphinxx watches game of thrones

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harryglom · 6 years ago

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Present Time (a short story)

It was the weirdest wall in the world.

Clock after clock stacked floor to ceiling. A chorus of tick-tocking and tock-ticking. Old and gold, ornate and engraved, bare and blank, international, novelty and nautical and a cuckoo clock or two. At the centre, the ones with darker edges of black firs and autumn wood matched with one another in a circle. In the centre of this circle were two lines drawn by a set of clocks of brighter colours, of white edges and silvers. Altogether they built a mosaic of clocks and, drawn as one, became a single giant clock in and of itself. A bazaar of sound, it was like being perched inside a beating heart. The display being so intricate, you have to ask, whose got the time?

One might also think to ask: is it safe for a psychiatrist's waiting room to have such an absurd array of clocks? If reality has become fragile to someone in some way as to lead them into his or her care, they probably shouldn't adorn their walls with displays that could be interpreted as a personal affront to a person's peculiarity. Or, at least in my experience of the room so far, a pointed statement of one's own alienation and madness.

The secretary chewed sourly on her pen, sucking and un-sucking in time with each loudly punctuated second. Her eyes were full of contempt, colourless and glazed over by the poison of her own perceived wasted potential. She looked like the ink had been slowly drawn into her lips and, year on year, sapped into her pale skin and made one with her blood. Her name was Irma Loveless and she didn't seem the person who could appreciate the irony of her name.

"Irma?" I said as jovially as I could "The last Irma I met was a hurricane."

She wasn't amused. She stared blankly through me, threw the pen onto the desk and walked across the room to the bathroom down the hall. The door thudded behind her and left me wondering if she makes that same sour face when she's taking, as can only be deduced by her unwavering demeanour, a powerfully hateful shit. Secretary, a word that used to wear its heart on its sleeve. Now pronounced sek-rah-terry, once was secret-ary: a bank of secrets. Is there any more fitting place for such a title than within ear shot of a therapy session? Perhaps the troubles of the world have meddled their way into her life as sullen ghostly whispers. Or perhaps she's just a cunt.

Sara Simmons leaves the doctor's office. A frail middle-aged woman, Sara can best be described as a blonde perm hanging at the end of a mop. She's always jangling her bag and twitching her taut and bony arms looking for something. I don't think she'd know relaxation if it hit her in the face with rohypnol. She used to come in here with her husband until her madness was deemed by the psychiatrist not to be shared. He was a banker, a big guy who looked at the other patients as if there should be a VIP room to separate him from the riff-raff. He was a man with big money, big decisions and a big dick attitude. He had no time for emotions besides a hunger for domination and a suicidal thought or two. Now she comes in alone, twice a week, with an irrational fear of time. I wonder why?

She told me all this last Tuesday despite my best performance of a certifiably anti-social Grade-A nutjob. I suppose for 200 pounds an hour, you've got to make your moneys worth where you can. I'm not a doctor but from the stolen minutes of self reflection she's inflicted upon the waiting room, I'd diagnose her with an incurable case of a terrible personality. She gives me a weak smile before leaving money in an envelope on Irma's desk. She's stopped charging the credit card: her husband thinks she's at brunch with the girls. Like he'd care, she'd say with a sudden vigour, a crack of pained breath splintering the air, hoping someone or something in the universe would challenge her. The last thing she does when she leaves is tie up her navy blue scarf, a cotton stream beneath the frazzled bolts of sun that comprise her hair, covering the air between her shirt and pale throat and I struggle to not momentarily consider picturing a noose.

Mr Peterson would usually be next, waddling in from his time-machine life of waist coats and romantic poetry memorised verbatim, a stanza or two left to linger in the waiting room like a sudden burst of sunlight.

The smiles that win, the tints that glow,

But tell of days in goodness spent,

A mind at peace with all below,

A heart whose love is innocent!

Selfishly, the Dickensian odd-ball went and died on us. He joined his husband and Byron in the big clouds in the sky and left us behind in a cultural wasteland, adrift like the boss-eyed soldiers wading through the embers of Dresden. Matching craters in the earth and their skin, concave boils of led and blood, where once joy and life resided in. We're all looking, like Byron said, for the moment where the fates change horses.

Irma returned unchanged and motioned me through to the doctor's office. I'll have to rethink my diagnosis of poisoned blood and bowel extremities and go with what is most simple: a cunt, a total and utter cunt. I nod at her and the curtesy goes unrecieved, her eyes drawn to the floor as she slams the door behind. It was a white fire door-- heavy enough that a slam requires deliberate, rehearsed and methodical engagement. Yes, a cunt indeed.

"Oscar, what can I help you with today?" Doctor Mathis says as she pins her round framed glasses onto the thin bridge of her nose. She sits cross legged in a pallid green skirt suit and her silvery blonde hair hangs above the lightly frayed cotton edges of her jacket collar. She is a vision of grandmotherly serenity and she speaks with a honeyed-glass transatlantic accent. "Been too busy being sane to see me?"

This is a reference to our last session, a month prior, where happiness had coursed easy through me like a summer's breeze. I always get hyperbolic when I'm happy and so the usually pointed words of sane and insane avoided by psychiatrists have become part of our regular vernacular. They probably didn't teach her this when she got her PHD but sometimes, for the right patient, we need to be mocked out of our self indulgence. I suppose, not mocked so far as to stop paying 200 pounds a session to discuss nothing but oneself but who am I to judge? I'm the one who is insane.

"It's all starts and stops with me isn't it?" Springs my voice. It's the first time I've been honest all week.

"That's life, Oscar." She says smiling.

"Is that the kind of observation that separates private from NHS?"

"The best lessons, for a case like yours" She adjusts her notepad into a comfortable position under her arm, "are often the simplest."

I've made a game of deciphering my psychiatrists when I get bored of myself. I play detective, scan outfits for clues, ticks and habits, the rings and life around their eyes. Divorced? Former addict? A late-starter? A sexual maniac who feeds off the madness of others? She's the first one who ever picked up on it, grinning with amusement, noticing me noticing her.

"Its hard being watched for you isn't it? Being vulnerable to observation. Those who feel themselves cast outside their lives, feeling scrutinised, often seek control in casting others in the same place." She never stuttered or paused. She simply removed the purple beaded bracelets she habitually played with, the ones I had been not so surreptitiously eyeing up throughout the conversation. The beads rattled for a moment on the table and she leaned forward like a drawn arrow. "Why do you think you feel the need to deflect attention?"

She's always like that, audaciously perceptive in a way only a good psychiatrist can be. Sometimes in doctors offices there is a lot of excess data, the human folly of pinning significance on that which has none, wrapped up in narratives perceived to be influenced by everything but that which has truly influenced them. Once we had core experiences and reactions, simple emotional mathematics. Now we have existential self awareness and who needs it, to end up like Sara Simmons? Yet sometimes something slips through the cracks, strikes a chord brighter than lightning, lingers in the lexicon of your brain, rigidly unforgotten like your worst nightmare or deepest regret. Why do you think you feel the need to deflect attention?

Instead in this session we discuss the pitfalls of self awareness, mindful not to mention Sara after the swift and stern rebuke Dr Mathis dealt me the last time I mentioned another patient in her presence. I perfunctorily professed my regret, admitting that I'm a bit of a bastard. She said outside of these walls that would not count as an apology. There's always something being avoided like the remaining broccoli on a sweet tooth kid's plate. Aimless philosophy and scathing observation are my chocolate pudding. I wonder if beneath the frailty Sara Simmons is the same-- using wellness as a pastime, branding Mr Peterson a poof, Irma a piece of work and me a creep. Little did she know that I am all three.

"I'm sometimes not in control of my thoughts." I spring forth, hoping to jumpstart anything other than auto-pilot conversation. She holds silent with her pen poised. "I've told you before, my brain whirs past me. It's like life is happening over here in one part of my brain and me, the real me, is off to the side."

"As seriously as that first time?"

"No, not as bad as since- no." I corrected myself. "The thoughts are as bad; hurting things. People. Animals. Children."

Even in a place as safe as this, the last word hits me like a knife edged boomerang, severing her pleasantries and my dignity at the throat. I can feel her eyes on me, I know they're gentle but even in her profession she must sometimes be afraid.

"We've talked about moral scrupulosity before. It's very common and not indicative of the rationality of people with your condition." She says "Much as popular culture would have you believe otherwise."

She knows I like horror movies. I used to talk about them a lot when I first came here, that they were all to blame; Freddie, Jason and Jigsaw, and of course Hannibal the Cannibal. They danced in my dreams, finger nails, steak knives and masks, bonfires of depravity ablaze beneath my eyelids. Yet in daylight, my thoughts never showed them holding the weapon. It was never them squeezing the life, bubbling bursting cartoon eyeballs left lopsided, pinning fur-skins to the walls. She talked me down from thinking I was one of them.

She joked: "Very few, in my experience, are."

I suppose it is rather funny in a way, those dark corners of thoughts that never belonged to you. A summer's day, cherry blossom and silver maple seed twisting into your conditioned hair and artisanal ice cream when your brain decides to ponder what that short woman would look like hanging from a tree. A building in flames at the slightest shame of a cracked voice, to think of nothing else but the sound of their screams. Or a man who cuts in line at the coffee shop being crumpled by construction, loose scaffolding, metal bolts and beams where his face should be. I suppose it is rather funny. Unfortunately, it's not for me.

"Commonality doesn't make them less pleasant."

"I'm sure it doesn't. But you've made progress: you're now sure these thoughts are not really you. Surrendering to it, as long as they don't flare up any worse later, is the best you can do."

Surrendering, always surrendering. Surrendering to impulses to run away, surrendering to happiness, surrendering to love and for all the money in the world I can't stand the possibility of surrendering to myself. She leans forward again, closer with her hands on her knees, and gestures for me to open up towards her again.

"Do you know why I keep all those clocks, Oscar?"

"Because you're as mad as us?"

"Because for all my medicine, mental tricks and multiple degrees" She takes off her glasses to clean them again. "I don't have the answers to everything. I have only what we all have-- the present moment."

I look up at her, with glistening eyes that say the honey moon is over. Her eyes are calm, still as the shores of emerald green seas. In the silence, the clock ticks enter the from the other room. It doesn't startle me, it becomes a part of me, my brain ticking forward with it, ready to strike a new hour for my life. Of course, this hour has been and gone many times but it rings true as the bells of midnight every time.

"I think- I think it's time for the medication again."

She assumes next week's time before I go, stands and turns her body in a way that seems to indicate that she would like to prescribe a hug were it allowed. A flash in my brain; a hug that crushes her bones, silvery gold locks torn at the root, blood on her matching emerald shoes. I breathe and smile weakly, my fingers mere inches away from hers as I take the prescription. She holds her hand tight on the paper for s moment as I begin to slide it away. She just nods at me in earnest, a distanced yet maternal motion, like an aunt for a nephew who has grew too old for kisses. That's the closest she can give me. I suppose it's funny in a way.

I heave open the fire door and clear out of Irma's way before she gets to take up my space. I don't make eye contact with anyone on the way out nor skirt my eyes over the weirdest wall in the world. I just glare over the empty chair where Mr Peterson would sit. As I walk onto the pavement, the high trills of bird calls replacing the sterile ticking of the clocks, the world rushes back to me. A flash in my brain, for once pleasant, recalled a poem he once said.

Time, like an ever-rolling stream,

Bears all its sons away;

They fly forgotten, as a dream

Dies at the opening day.

Silvery gold glistens through the shifting trees onto windows of black taxis. I hail one down and, presently, resume my life.

#short story #original writing #original poetry #short #mental health #weirdart #weird fiction #queer fiction #lgbtqart #queerart #new writing #excerpt from a story i'll never write #writers #excerpt from a book i'll never write #free write

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skimmonsfiction · 8 years ago

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Wherever You Go, Ch10

COWRITTEN with @pitkin084 (Pitkin on Ao3)

Read it on Ao3

WARNING: near-death experience(s)

Chapter 10 (Tequila...?):

For a couple of hours, Skye's sleep was actually fairly restful. She'd been so physically, mentally and emotionally spent and then so calm and relaxed with Jemma holding onto her that her body had just naturally shut down to go into sleep mode in an attempt to reset from all the damage and trauma. In the middle of the night, however, her body took a swift downward turn. A fever took hold and she started to sweat heavily. Despite the fever, she was extremely cold and because of it she was shivering so hard her teeth were actually chattering. The wound on her back was a big source of the heat making her sweat. The entire scratch was raised and swollen, hot to the touch and seeping slightly. The longer she shivered and the longer the fever tried to burn her up, the harder it became to breathe normally. Her breath came in rapid, short, shallow bursts and gasps through her mouth, hitching on occasion.

The discomfort pulled her from sleep but when she tried to open her eyes, her vision shook violently back and forth in a blur before a they rolled upward in their sockets and brought her back into darkness. Her arms were limply around Jemma's middle and she couldn't seem to work them quite right, though her nails managed to dig in slightly at Jemma's back in an effort to rouse her. Her legs, which had been tingly and numb earlier, had no feeling in them now, which was more than a little alarming. Skye tried to speak but the words came out choppy and barely audible because of her extremely shallow breathing. Most of the words were unintelligible, but she kept mumbling them even as she fell in and out of actual consciousness. "L-legs," was among them but so were: Banana, something that sounded like 'arthuropurpleosauradon,' something that vaguely sounded like Odysseus, Falling, Freckles, Jemma's name was in there a few times, something stammered that sounded like 'Tie's crooked,' but was very choppy, and a few other stammered words. They were on a random loop. Half the time they were stuttered through her chattering teeth and stumbling choppy breaths.

Skye couldn't open her eyes again but she could feel them rolling wildly beneath her closed eyelids. Her fingers gripped deeper into Jemma's back for a moment before she could no longer actually control them since her shivering was so intensely shaking through her, or at least through her from the hips upward. Skye wasn't sure about her legs because she couldn't feel them or her feet.

Jemma woke to a slight discomfort in her back and frowned when she realized Skye's fingers digging into her were the cause. When she fully woke, she could hear Skye mumbling something, but she couldn't quite understand. "Skye?" Jemma was wide awake now and she pulled back so she could see Skye's face. She was sweating profusely and her face was twitching, sending Jemma into an immediate panic. She hadn't realized how warm Skye was until she saw everything going wrong. "Skye?!" Jemma repeated, this time with more urgency. She sat up and was on her knees by Skye's head in an instant, tapping on her cheek with one hand and gently shaking her shoulder with the other. She wasn't waking from whatever state of unconsciousness she was in and Jemma immediately scanned over her, looking for signs of a known illness. Something was very wrong.

Skye barely registered any kind of movement but she did feel the arm that had been around Jemma's middle as it fell to the bed cushion when Jemma moved. She heard Jemma's voice and felt the tapping on her cheek. Skye fought to open her eyes but was unsuccessful at first. She tried to sputter out Jemma's name but the first time, it just came out as a chattered, strangled groaning sound from her throat. The second time was a strained, raspy, "J-Je-J-Je...mm..." She struggled to make her tongue work and to try and breathe deeper to be able to speak but her tongue felt thick and heavy in her mouth and she had no control at all over the rapid, short, ragged, shallow inhales and exhales as if even her lungs were shivering or spasming. After some shaking, some tapping and hearing Jemma’s voice rise, Skye managed to force her eyes halfway open. All she saw was a fuzzy back and forth blur of darkness and dim orange light from the fire as her eyes not only raced back and forth but rolled all around in different directions. The only other word she managed to stutter out through the strangled grunts was, "Le-le-...l-legs" She had a split second where her wide eyes were just barely still enough to focus on a double vision blurred version of Jemma before her eyes rolled up into her head again.

"Skye! What about your legs?!" Jemma was shouting. She didn't think Skye could hear her and she was panicking, her own heart rate raising rapidly. She shoved Skye's shoulder to get her situated on her back to take a look. She looked up and down Skye's legs. She couldn't see any blood through her pajamas and she would have known if Skye had a broken leg (even though that wouldn't cause this). It didn't make any sense. "Skye, wake up!" It seemed like a ridiculous thing to say, as a biochemist who saw sickness and disease quite frequently, but she said it nonetheless. She needed to know what happened so they weren't flying blind. "Can you hear me?" Jemma shook her shoulders again.

Skye wanted to fall asleep. It was the strongest urge she had; just let her eyes stay closed, curl up into herself for warmth and fall asleep. She needed sleep. That was all, she just needed sleep. Skye couldn’t exactly roll over and curl up, though. She couldn’t even move her legs, so there would be no curling up. Oh right, legs. What did Jemma ask her? Skye gurgled out another strangled groan. “C-c-can’t,” She sputtered. She kept trying to open her eyes and every time she did, they jumped back and forth and rolled into the back of her head, which lolled back and forth between Jemma’s shoulder shaking and Skye’s harsh shivering. Her hands clenched, straightened, contorted in spasm. Muscles in her face twitched. What was she saying? Jemma was shouting something at her. Skye couldn’t make it out. “F-Fe..f-fe-feel,” She was talking about her legs. It took struggling through a few more burbles and grunts, an excess of saliva and her uncontrollable, swollen tongue before she sputtered out, “L-le-legs.”

Being on her back brought new discomfort; the pressure of her weight on the swollen, itchy, hot, painful scratch. Skye’s back arched to try and lift off the pressure but it was only the middle of her back that lifted up. The lower part of her back down by her hips didn’t lift up. Her eyelids finally popped open, pupils dilated so far they engulfed all but a tiny ring of her irises. She still couldn’t see anything due to the blurry nature of her vision coupled with the rapid jerky movements her eyeballs made. “B-Back…” She rasped. She tried to tell Jemma it hurt but she couldn’t get the word out around the gurgled groan that escaped her throat. Each of her shallow gasps of air began to take on a wet sound, wheezing as the saliva coated and filled her throat faster than she could swallow the thick, almost foamy globs of it. She fought as her eyes tried to roll again and kept trying to roll up into her head. Her eyelids fluttered, closed, open, fluttered, opened, closed, fluttered. Her eyes jutted back and forth, up, down, to the side back and forth, up into her head, unfocused. Was this how she was going to die, whatever this was?

"You can't feel your legs?" Jemma was dying to go into doctor mode, to rationalize everything and put her feelings aside so she could focus. It was one of the most difficult tasks she'd ever faced in her life, to not freak out right now. Skye needed her as Jemma, but she also really needed a doctor. So Jemma stopped, took one deep breath, and dove back into the case. She could see now that she was looking that Skye's legs were oddly still compared to her shivering body. Skye said something about her back and Jemma's first guess was that she had an injury to her spinal cord that affected her nerves and that an infection had given her a fever. Naturally this was a terrifying conclusion and Jemma sought out proof that this was not the case immediately. "I'm sorry, just hold on." Jemma told Skye. She had one hand on Skye's shoulder opposite the side she was sitting on and the other at her waist. It took quite a bit of force to move Skye's dead weight onto her side again, but when she did she pulled up the back of Skye's shirt frantically to look for any severe wounds. She gasped when she saw the scratch on her back and how swollen and inflamed it was. She hadn't spotted it earlier as other injuries had taken precedence, but now Jemma was horrified that she missed it. It looked infected, but Jemma found yet again that she was wrong. As Jemma was looking at the wound site, Skye's body started convulsing violently and Jemma yelled in surprise. "Skye?!" She moved back to her face and she wanted to throw up when she saw the whites of Skye's eyes and foamy saliva at the corners of her mouth. Jemma was frozen. She didn't know what to do. She knew Skye was having a seizure and she knew she had to let it finish, but she had never been more terrified in her life. She had almost died herself, but watching Skye like this, she felt more pain in her chest than when she had drowned and she didn't think she'd be able to survive if Skye died. "What is wrong?!" Jemma knew Skye couldn't answer and probably didn't even know, but her hand was on Skye's cheek anyway, not holding too tightly lest her muscles resist and she hurt herself. An infection wouldn't cause a seizure this quickly. Jemma sat back on her heels with silent tears streaking down her face and her bottom lip quivering with a near sob. Her hands were in her hair, tugging at it and trying to get herself to think. She ran through every sickness she knew and then she realized. It wasn't a sickness. Skye had encountered so many creatures in the jungle, there was only one possibility. Venom. Jemma scrambled for the first aid kit and frantically dug through it, tossing away the bags containing supplies she didn't need to open up room for her shaking hands to find what she needed. The small case of anti venom held several vials each for different creatures and Jemma frantically looked back and forth between it and Skye. Pick the wrong one, and she could die, but if she did nothing Skye could die anyway. Her seizure hadn't stopped and her violent jerking continued, but Jemma didn't know. She didn't know if what had bitten or stung her even existed in the real world and had an antivenom in the case, but she had to try. It wasn't a snake. It could be a sea creature since they had been in the ocean, but Skye's back had only been submerged for a few moments and she would have had a reaction if she'd sustained the swollen injury while she was in the water. That left the scorpion. She had no idea if they lived on the island or if the antivenom would even work, but she had no option. She grabbed the vials with the proper labels along with the syringe and hurried back to Skye's side. "Shh, it's alright, stay with me." Jemma stroked Skye's hair as the seizure finally died out and Skye fell still. Her face was a mess, but Jemma didn't even care and she wiped it clean with the blanket and continued. Skye seemed unconscious, so Jemma hoped she wouldn't move again while she was working. She did her best to estimate the dosage she needed and once it was in the syringe, she set it to the side in the case and found her long forgotten necktie in her bag. She tied it around Skye's arm above the junction of her elbow and slowly inserted the needle into Skye's vein and pushed down on the plunger. "Please don't die." Jemma begged. She couldn't lose Skye.

Skye didn’t wake up again for a couple of hours. The sun was getting ready to come up so when her eyes cracked open, everything was shades of blue and lighter than the nighttime darkness she’d gotten used to on the island. She wasn’t profusely sweating anymore but there were beads of sweat on her forehead and her neck still. She’d stopped shivering and her eyesight, though still somewhat blurry, was steadier since her eyes weren’t jutting back and forth anymore. She was wheezing on each inhale and exhale still. She had no idea what the fuck happened. Her head was pounding and she exhaled a small, tired groan. And then she realized she couldn’t move her legs. Her eyelids jumped open and then drooped halfway and her breathing became more labored. A few sounds left her throat but they weren’t the words that she was trying to force out, they were somewhere between a groan, a whimper and a grunt strangled up in her throat.

Jemma's head shot up when she heard the teeniest variation in noise from Skye's labored breathing. She had been sitting next to her, medical kit within reach, the whole night past when Skye had had the seizure. She had done quite a bit of crying. Her eyes were puffy and she had only stopped because she seemed to run out of tears. When Skye started to wake up though, Jemma was back to full attention, eyes and ears alert. Her breathing didn't sound good by any means, but it was still there. Skye hadn't died overnight. "Skye, hey..." Jemma got closer. She could tell Skye wasn't as present as she could be. But she was alive and improved from her post-seizure state during the night. It was something. "Blink twice if you can hear me." Jemma knew she wouldn't be able to speak after such a large scale seizure and still recovering from the effects of the venom. She just wanted to know if Skye's mind was any further along than her body, if she was stuck in her own body, confused and scared.

Skye’s brow creased. She kept trying to move her legs but couldn’t feel them moving. Her arms didn’t work either but that was more that they were stiff and sore from injuries, especially her left arm. Moving them hurt multiple muscles groups. She squinted when Jemma spoke and tried to focus on her face. Everything seemed blurred around the edges. It took a moment or two to sort through Jemma’s words and comprehend what she was saying. She moved her eyelids afterward, blinking them twice before she was back to squinting slightly. The fact that she couldn’t move her legs was really starting to freak her out. She put her left hand on the bed cushion and tried to push herself to sit up but her arm wobbled almost immediately and she flopped back down. Shifting her head, she let out another one of the grunted/groaned whimpers, and lifted her head to look toward her feet. Lifting her head made her dizzy though, so she clenched her eyes shut as she put her head back down. Skye had no idea what happened. She remembered shivering. She remembered her fever. There was some back pain. Skye couldn’t remember a whole lot else about waking up in the middle of the night. If she couldn’t walk in this place, she was as good as dead and, more importantly, how was she supposed to protect Jemma if she was...paralyzed? Skye’s heart began to race wildly in her chest, which made her breathing quick and shallow.

"Don't try to move." Jemma told her quietly. She started stroking from her forehead into her hair again and leaned to her right, where she had a coconut shell filled with water and a wet cloth. She squeezed it into a ball with her free hand to let the excess water dribble back into the shell before she spread it out across Skye's forehead. "Don't be afraid." Jemma's hand cradled Skye's cheek and she leaned over her to deliver a feather-light kiss to her lips. "I know you must be scared, but it's going to be ok." Jemma was going through every form of comfort she knew and she was grabbing for Skye's hand and giving it gentle, periodic squeezes. "You had a seizure. My best guess is that the scratch on your back is from a scorpion. It's the only explanation." Jemma tried not to let her troubled mind express itself in the tone of her voice. The anti venom seemed to help, but she was only guessing here. "It could take a few days to get back to yourself. Do you understand? Blink twice for yes."

Skye struggled to process everything. She felt relief from the cool wash cloth but anxiety at the same time, because of the paralysis. She tried her best to calm down, or to remain calm, but it was a struggle. She blinked twice to let Jemma know that she heard her. Against her better judgement, Skye attempted to shift whatever parts she could move closer to Jemma. One of her hands caught the material of Jemma's shirt as another one of those whimpers escaped her throat. She felt pathetic. What was she going to do for multiple days? What if she didn't actually recover? What if this was permanent?

"Shh, just rest." Jemma came closer and slipped her hand between Skye's hand and her shirt. Tears were spilling over her eyelids and running down over her cheeks. She was infinitely relieved that Skye was awake and communicating and understanding. Her guess seemed to have been close enough to the truth for the anti venom to work and she had faith that Skye would continue to get better.

Skye curled a couple of her fingers around Jemma’s hand when it picked hers up from the shirt material. Her body definitely wanted to go to sleep, but Skye didn’t actually want to. Jemma was crying. Skye frowned. She tried to squeeze Jemma’s hand tighter, but she couldn’t make words come out. She wondered how long that was going to last. She had no idea when a scorpion could have stung her. Her back...how had her back been injured? She scratched it when Ward threw her at a tree? Skye closed her eyes. Even though the rag was on her forehead, she leaned into Jemma’s shoulder without thinking about it and within a couple of minutes was asleep again.

"How is she?" Fitz's head popped into the shelter around the tarp about an hour later. He came around the tarp when Jemma waved him in and sat down near their bed. Bobbi had come in to check on them when she hadn't seen Skye in the morning and word quickly spread about the incident. For the most part people were leaving them alone, but the occasional checkins were nice. "Better." Jemma rubbed Skye's temple with her thumb and kissed her cheek. She moved Skye's hand to rest at her side so Jemma could sit up and talk with Fitz. She really was relieved he was finding ways to live with his extended feelings for her. She was sure the outburst he'd had that caused their fight was stress induced. Nobody had a completely rational mind in a situation like this. "I brought you both some food. I don't know if Skye's eating, but I know you should be, and you haven't come out of the shelter..." Fitz trailed off. He took off the backpack he'd been wearing and pulled out a leaf-wrapped package of cooked fish. Jemma had the fruit in Skye's bag, but she hadn't been eating it and hadn't had anything to eat in a while, so the sight of the fish made her stomach grumble slightly. "Thank you, Fitz-" Jemma took the package, but Fitz had finished yet. "I also brought this. For Skye." Fitz pulled a familiar wrapper out of the side pocket of his bag. It was one of the birthday cake flavored bars, probably the last. "I never ate it in the airport. I got my bag back when she and Bobbi went diving. I'm sure Skye would appreciate it more than I would." Fitz acted like it was nothing, but Jemma's smile was wide and her eyes were watery. It was a drastic change from his treatment of her earlier and Jemma couldn't wait to see Skye's face when she woke up. Surely she liked them if she'd brought a whole box of them to Indonesia. It might lift her spirits once she could eat again. "This is wonderful, thank you so much." Jemma opened up her arms and Fitz moved forward to hug her. They'd been distant since the fight and still awkward after Fitz's apology, but Jemma believed that now she and Fitz could go back to being friends like they were meant to be.

It was another hour after Fitz left before Skye woke up again. Ace had come to the shelter, with two water bottles. He was trying to whisper since when he first walked in, Skye was asleep. “Trip says to give these to you for Skye,” He held the bottles out to Jemma. “We opened lotsa coconuts,” He informed her, trying to keep his voice low. “He says it’d be better than just water,” Ace shrugged his shoulders as gave her a bashful smile before he peered around Jemma to look at Skye. At that point, it wasn’t obvious that Skye was awake because she wasn’t quite fully awake. She could hear their voices. Even with her eyelids closed, she knew it was day time from the brightness through her thin eyelids. Her brow furrowed a bit. Her left foot was full of constant intense pins and needles. Her legs from hips to ankle were still numb, she couldn’t feel them, but her left foot was full of pins and needles. Skye tried to pep talk herself into forcing her eyelids open so she could, eventually, try to talk again. Her mouth was dry but her tongue didn’t feel like it was terribly swollen anymore.

"Well thank you, Ace, this is very kind of you and Trip. I'm sure Skye will appreciate it when she wakes up." Jemma made sure to smile at Ace and make sure he thought this was something as simple and easily recovered from as an average cold. She had no idea how he could possibly be feeling as a child going through all of this, but she wanted to help keep him as innocent as possible through the ordeal. Jemma took a sip of the coconut water in her bottle to show Ace she was happy with it, and she put the one reserved for Skye with the protein bar by the bed. It was a kind of hilarious version of the bedside table of a sick person in a hospital. Instead of flowers and teddy bears, there was coconut water and a measly granola bar, but here it was a big gift. She was sure Skye would be happy when she woke up.

Ace smiled at Jemma, but then looked past her toward Skye again. It was weird to see her just lying there instead of constantly up and doing things around the camp. He leaned closer toward Jemma and asked. “Is she gonna die?” He asked.

“Ace,” Mike had been waiting outside the shelter since Ace said he wanted to bring the bottles in on his own. Now he poked his head in as he gave Ace a stern look. He looked at Jemma. “Sorry,” He said. “The more the story circulates, the worse it becomes as people exaggerate, y’know?” He frowned when he saw Skye just laying in the bed, breathing a bit unsteadily after few breaths. He put his hand on Ace’s shoulder. “We’ll get out of your hair, but let us know if you need anything, okay?”

"She'll be better in no time." Jemma nodded at Mike to let him know it was okay. She said the words reassuringly to comfort Ace. He didn't have the intuition yet to see the strain in her eyes as she said it. Ace seemed to be put at ease by the doctor telling him Skye would be just fine, and she waved them off as Mike put a hand on his son's shoulder and led him out. "Won't you?" Jemma turned to Skye with a sad smile and took up Skye's hand into her own again. The fever was starting to come down and Jemma knew she would be in and out of consciousness for a day or so, but she wanted to see Skye better immediately to put her fears to rest.

“You’ave mom voice,” Skye’s words weren’t perfectly clear, they were slow and a good bit raspy but they were there at least as Skye’s hand curled around Jemma’s. It still took her a little while to make her eyes open most of the way, though the lids still drooped a bit. She squinted to try and clear her vision around the edges and before she could really stop it, a stupid smile curled across her lips as Jemma’s face came mostly into focus. “Sooooooo pretty…” she murmured, sounding more like she was a sleepy drunk than recovering from nearly dying from a scorpion venom induced seizure.

Jemma felt a swell of emotions suddenly come up to the surface. She was relieved and happy Skye was awake, flustered at her unabashed statement about what she thought of seeing Jemma, and amused because of her voice and the way she almost seemed hopped up on drugs. It was like seeing her after getting her wisdom teeth out and Jemma was going to act like that was what it was. They could forget for a single moment that all they had been doing since the crash was barely escaping death. "Oh, stop. You're silly." Jemma teased. She playfully tapped at Skye's shoulder with her free hand and gave Skye's hand a firm squeeze.

The dopey grin stayed on Skye’s face. “You are…” She insisted. A moment later, her face fell more serious and her brow creased a bit in confusion. She leaned closer toward Jemma and murmured. “M’foot,” She frowned and looked down toward her feet. Her left one was on the bottom since she was turned on her left side, but her toes were twitching a bit. “Feels like pins,” and needles. Skye’s brain wasn’t exactly firing on all cylinders so it was jumping around a bit. It was hard to talk in full sentences, or in fully coherent phrases but the effort was there at least.

Jemma's brows furrowed as well when Skye's carefree expression dissipated. She was very concentrated as she spoke and Jemma only let go of Skye's hand so she could get up and move a bit on her knees to get to Skye's feet. "This one?" Jemma wrapped her fingers around the foot that was just barely moving and gave it a squeeze. This meant the feeling was slowly coming back from the effects of the venom on her nervous system. She would be ok. Happiness tugged at her heartstrings and the corners of her mouth alike. A joyous little smile splayed across her features and she tickled the bottom of Skye's foot with her fingertips. "Can you feel that?" Jemma didn't even know if Skye was ticklish, but she was going to find out.

Skye’s eyelids flew open wide for a moment. “Stoppppppppppp!!” Skye’s toes and foot wiggled but the rest of her leg and her right leg remained still. She wiggled her toes about to try and evade the tickling and pushed her face into the pillow cushion and let out a few staggered snickers. It tickled, yep, she was ticklish - which was probably a secret no one else knew? - but the pins and needles hurt too. They were fairly intense but no matter how much her foot moved they didn’t subside and the rest of her leg wasn’t full of them. Skye thought that might be a good thing for the moment because if she had them from hip to toe at the moment, it would probably be agonizing.

Jemma's laugh was loud and she was quite amused, but she wasn't cruel and held her hands up when Skye protested so strongly. Her giggles still hadn't died down when she crawled back onto the top half of the bed and laid down facing Skye, hands together under her cheek as a bit of extra pillow. She smiled widely at Skye and couldn't help the bubbliness she felt in her chest. It was a nice change. "You should drink." Jemma seemed to remember her caretaking duties once she calmed back down from her short, giddy high. She twisted at the waist and grabbed for Skye's bottle of coconut water. "A gift from Ace." Jemma explained, holding the bottle in front of Skye so she could see it.

Skye smiled another dopey little smile when Jemma returned. She reached her hand up, movement still a bit stiff and sluggish. She touched Jemma’s jaw for a moment before Jemma spoke and turned. “Tequila…?” She murmured, only half joking. She squinted at the bottle. She could see it was clear liquid but it didn’t quite look like water, though.

"Oh you'd like that, hm?" Jemma gave her a fake suspicious frown, but it broke after a second. She couldn't keep a straight face because of how silly she was acting. "It's not alcohol, but it's still good." Jemma slid her hand under the side of Skye's head to help lift her up enough to take a sip. She held the bottle firmly against Skye's lips so she wouldn't spill any when she drank.

Skye gave her a crooked smirk. A couple of tequila shots after all they’d been through would be much deserved, indeed. If Skye wasn’t as tired, sore and a great deal still heavily out of it as she was, she would have felt entirely pathetic being unable to properly sit up and drink her own bottle of (coconut) water. Her mouth and throat felt extremely dry, though so as soon as the first gulp of the coconut water was down, Skye was eager to chug as much of it as she could without choking. Despite their best efforts, a little trickle of it went down the corner of Skye’s mouth and spilled down her chin but she was too busy chugging down multiple gulps of the rest of it to really care about dribbled bits. She was a little bit breathless by the time she was done drinking through half of the bottle. Just getting through drinking that bit was tiring. She leaned her head against the upper part of Jemma’s arm near her shoulder and slowly caught her breath. She wasn’t wheezing on every single breath but it happened every so often still. “It’d be,” she said between slow breaths. “Better with tequila,” She murmured to make the joke.

"Oh no it wouldn't." Jemma scolded lightly. "You need to stay hydrated." A bit of the doctor in Jemma was coming out and she just wanted to do something, anything, to make Skye feel better, even if that was just helping her drink (not alcohol) and comforting her with soft touches. "You can sleep, it's ok." Jemma laid down completely with her once she capped the bottle and stroked Skye's hair. She kissed her forehead, which thankfully was less warm than the night before.

Skye shook her head. She moved her arm loosely around Jemma’s middle. She had only a vague idea of how much time had passed. She knew it was daytime because it was bright out even inside the shelter. Some of her memories of waking up in the night before the seizure had returned but they were extremely hazy. Honestly, she was a bit afraid of going back to sleep. What if she didn’t wake up? What if something happened and she didn’t wake up? What if Ward and the rest of his crew attacked the camp again? What if she went to sleep and when she woke up again, her foot was back to having no feeling at all instead of pins and needles. “What’f,” she inhaled a slow breath and frowned, her brow creasing. “My legs don’t come back?” It was a little easier to talk now that she’d had some of the coconut water to drink but her words were still slow and sluggish on her tongue. If she didn’t regain her ability to use her legs, she would be a waste of resources and, more importantly, a clear weak link. What would she do if Ward came back for Jemma? She wouldn’t be able to keep her safe and if Jemma was trying to keep her safe in such a situation, she would surely stand the biggest chance of being killed at that point. That was completely unacceptable. Skye frowned as her mind rolled through possibilities, none of them good.

"They will." Jemma assured her. She refused to think any other way. It was the venom, Skye would be back to normal once she worked it out of her system. "The cut on your back isn't deep and there's no spinal or brain injury. Your legs will come back." Jemma used Skye's words to make sure she understood. "Just rest now." Jemma pressed their foreheads together and closed her eyes to try to encourage Skye to go back to sleep.

Skye felt skeptical. She knew they were limited in what they could and couldn’t both figure out and a do in regards to medical incidents. She also knew this place was full of things that didn’t exist in the real world anymore. There was little she could do, however, while Jemma was lying there with her, stroking her hair and trying to ease her back to sleep. Her eyelids closed but her brow remained full of worry creases and the frown was still on her face. Whether it was because of her condition or because it was Jemma that was with her, Skye let out a shaky breath and whispered. “I’m scared.” Under any other conditions and circumstances, Skye would have never, ever admitted this outloud. Ward could have had her tied up and tortured for days and Skye would’ve gladly died rather than admit such a weakness. She spent her life relying just on herself. There was never anyone to admit it to before but herself.

Jemma took a deep breath and held it in her chest for a moment before she slowly let it out, trying not to immediately say "I'm scared too". It was a valid fear that Skye wouldn't get back to one hundred percent, but they couldn't think like that. "We'll be taking that hike to the waterfall in no time." Jemma promised. She held the hand that wasn't across her waist and brought it to her lips between them, kissing around her split knuckles.

Skye fell quiet and let her fingers curl a bit around Jemma’s. “I really did want to take you,” She said after a long few moments of silence, sounding sleepier than before since having her eyes closed was slowly pulling her back to sleep. “Before,” She added, to explain that she meant her previous promise to take Jemma to the first waterfall. “I wasn’t just bullshitting,” She murmured. Things had never really had a chance to ‘die down,’ really. If it hadn’t been for Ward and Garrett’s breakaway and robberies, things might have been calm enough to bring Jemma on the trail, while bringing Buzz along with them perhaps. But everything just seemed to hit the fan all the time. Skye’s fear was that it would happen when she had no way to protect Jemma, or anyone else.

"I know." Jemma breathed. It didn't go unnoticed to her that for the first time since her seizure, Skye's words were clear. Her mind was coming back and Jemma knew her legs would soon enough. She sat up, but only to pull the thinner blanket of the two up over them. She let her legs intermingle with Skye's so that when she could feel again, Jemma would be there too. "I know." Jemma repeated. She kissed Skye's forehead and pulled her close so she could sleep.

Skye struggled to try and stay awake. It was a losing battle and she knew it but she fought it anyway. She could feel the light pressure in her foot when when of Jemma's legs moved. Despite the pins and needles whenever she moved her toes or foot or whenever it touched against anything with even the tiniest bit of pressure, Skye couldn't help but move her foot along the bit of foot or ankle, whatever it was, Jemma had wound up resting against her tingling partially numb foot. Within minutes of the movement, curled up in Jemma's arms, Skye lost the battle and fell asleep, breathing evenly after her muscles finally went slack.

There was a small buzz about the camp about an hour or so after Skye fell asleep again (though it wasn't from Buzz, the dragonfly, who was currently perched on a section of the shelter wall near Skye and Jemma's heads). within a few minutes of whatever people were squabbling over, a knock came to the wall of the shelter next to the tarp and afterwards, Lincoln pushed it aside and leaned through the doorway. "Hey-," he paused and lowered his voice when he saw that Skye was asleep. For a second, he thought Jemma was too with them all curled up together so he dropped his eyes away since he felt like he was intruding. "Hey, I'm sorry to bother you," he said when Jemma looked his way. "We had a problem with one of the troughs. It's fixed now but we're gonna need to go on a run to refill it. Bobbi asked if I'd come let you know," he said. "Is there anything you need that we might be able to bring you from out there" he asked with another glance toward Skye. "Besides water," He clarified.

At first when Lincoln began to explain, Jemma's brow creased with worry, but as he explained that the trough had been fixed, she relaxed ever so slightly. She was frustrated that they seemed to have lost all of their extra rainwater, but maybe that had been the cause of the trough collapse. They needed to be more careful. "I don't think there's anything else I need here. Thank you for asking." Jemma said just above a whisper. She didn't dare even shake her head lest the movement wake Skye up after she finally went back to sleep. "Be safe." Jemma added after Lincoln nodded and started to back out of the tarp.

Lincoln gave Jemma a nod and a small salute. "Will do," he gave her a small smile and retreated, making sure to pull the tarp back into place as he left.

Skye was out cold for a handful of hours. It was mid afternoon when she woke up again. She was breathing easier, though every so often a wheeze still appeared on an exhale or so. She tried to turn her body to roll onto her back instead of her side and was disheartened to realize that the only thing she could feel from her waist down was still her foot full of pins and needles. She sighed and shifted back onto her side, her fear rekindled, frustration growing. She reached up to rub her forehead, her closed eyelids and the bridge of her nose.

Jemma had managed to lull herself into a catnap so she could stay with Skye, but when she started shuffling about Jemma's eyes opened too. She could see the disgruntled look on Skye's face and quickly sought to kiss it away. "How are you feeling?" She asked after the short (but sweet) kiss. She didn't get time to hear Skye's answer, because Bobbi seemed to appear out of nowhere. She pushed the tarp aside and Jemma knew something was wrong the instant she saw what a mess she was.

Skye was momentarily distracted by the little kiss. She exhaled a small sigh and was preparing to lie and say she was fine but Bobbi appeared before she could. "We need to talk." Bobbi looked back and forth between Jemma and Skye, not quite sure who she needed to talk to or both. Jemma looked back and forth between Skye and Bobbi, trying to figure out if she was talking to her. "I'm coming." Jemma said after a short moment. She knew Skye would want to know what was going on but the second she heard of trouble she would want to be trying to resolve it and she needed to stay put in her condition. "Stay here, I'll be right back." Jemma laid a hand on Skye's shoulder and pushed herself to her feet.

As soon as she spotted Bobbi's harried appearance, Skye tried to push herself to sit up. She didn't get far before Jemma’s hand on her shoulder eased her back down. Skye was much too worried to just lay there. She frowned when Jemma told her to stay put, because it wasn't like she could go anywhere without her legs. After Jemma stepped out of the shelter, Skye grunted and ground her teeth as she used both hands to roll herself. Her hips and legs only turned part way from the carried motion of turning her torso. She put her palms down on the bed cushion and pushed herself to sit up. She regretted it instantly as a dizzy spell overtook her. She leaned forward and dropped her head into her hands, clenching her eyes, attempting to both stave off the world spinning and to keep from falling back. While all of that was happening, she also tried to hear what Bobbi and Jemma were discussing.

"Lincoln's dead." There was no way to sugarcoat it. Bobbi told her clearly and without a doubt, but that didn't mean tears didn't make their way onto her cheeks. She was a ruffled mess, sweat soaked and covered in dirt, so the tears made tracks down her cheeks. "What happened?" Jemma surged forward and grabbed Bobbi's upper arms. She was falling apart and melting through her fingertips. Jemma knew Bobbi was among one of those who had seen the most death, but she needed her to pull herself together enough to tell her what happened. "There was a giant snake. I mean giant, Jemma." Bobbi grabbed Jemma's shoulders with equally as much force as Jemma had on her arms. "The size of a bus. Bigger!" Bobbi shook her slightly and Jemma just stood there, eyes wide with recognition and fright. There were more dangerous creatures in the jungle than Jemma had originally thought possible. "I know what it is." Jemma assured Bobbi so she wouldn't have that crazy you-have-to-believe-me look in her eye. Lincoln had been killed and most likely eaten by a titanoboa or something of the like. One more reason Jemma almost hoped Skye wouldn't be able to get back up and go into the jungle. At least without the feeling in her legs she was alive. "We didn't get the water." Bobbi lowered her voice. She didn't want everyone to panic and she needed to pull together the group that seemed to lead things to figure out what to do next. "I'll bring everyone here to talk, update Skye." With that Bobbi was gone before Jemma really had time to process. Another person was dead and they were back to possibly dying of thirst. Somehow she managed to walk back into the tent looking cool and collected. "Skye! You should be lying down!" Jemma's exclamation was shrill when she saw Skye trying to exert herself too soon. She hurried to her side and slowly, also a bit forcibly, pushed Skye to lie down. The last thing she wanted was for Skye to hurt herself.

All Skye heard was ‘Dead,’ ‘bigger than a bus,’ and something murmured about water that she couldn’t quite make out. Her head was still spinning from the sudden way she had pushed herself up when Jemma returned. Skye winced when she shouted. “I’m fine - Jemma! What happened? I can sit, I’m-,” She grabbed onto Jemma’s closest arm to try and stop her from forcing her to lay back down but Jemma was way stronger at the moment than Skye was. She clenched her eyes shut again at the jostling since it made her dizzy again. She forced herself to lean up on her elbows so she wasn’t flat on her back. “Who’s hurt? What happened?” And why wasn’t Jemma going to help? Her mind was running through all the possible people who could have been on that run - Bobbi, YoYo, Mack...who else did they bring with them?? “What’s going on?” Her words weren’t as sluggish as before and they were a good deal clearer than before but Skye still sounded a bit like she had had a good few shots or strong drinks in her.

Jemma wanted to say "it's fine" or "nothing", but she knew that wasn't what Skye wanted and Bobbi would be coming back with the others and they needed to decide what to do next. So she sat down next to Skye and tried to prepare the words in her head. "Bobbi and her team didn't get the water. They came across a titanoboa- it's a giant snake. Lincoln is dead." Jemma sighed. It may have been concerning that she no longer got watery eyes when she heard a person had died. She was ready to move on and continue to help the rest of the group survive. She was hardening and Jemma knew her defenses would melt away eventually, but for now they were useful.

Skye didn't have the control over her fears and emotions that she normally had in place. They were considered auxiliary defenses and her body was more focused on surviving the venom more than keeping herself guarded. Her face fell, her hunched shoulders sagged and she looked toward the tarp door as her brow furrowed. Her eyes watered over, not just because of another death, not just because there was another terrifying predator to add to the list, but because she was relieved Bobbi, Mack and Yoyo weren't on the dead list. Outside of Jemma, she had spent most of her time with them on the jungle treks. They had each other's backs but knew they wouldn't fault each other for running if something got one of them before there was any chance to help. Her eyes shook with the unshed tears as she looked over at Jemma, her mouth slightly agape, struggling for words. "W-What about Mack and Yoyo?"She asked. "Was anyone else with them?" She tried to sort through the haze to compile her thoughts properly. "Are they hurt? Was Bobbi hurt?" Skye hadn't had enough time to check. She didn't think Jemma would have let Bobbi just leave if she was hurt, but she also knew Bobbi was capable of making quick getaways too. She could see the closed off difference in Jemma but Skye was still struggling to organize everything reaching through her mind just then.

"As far as I know, everyone else is fine. Bobbi would have told me had someone been hurt." Jemma saw the panic welling up in Skye's eyes and reached for her hand. She didn't want her to worry even if there were ample things to worry about. It was her time to rest and Jemma felt bad Skye was pulled into this at all, but she also knew Skye wouldn't have it any other way.

Skye frowned. She squeezed Jemma’s hand a bit tighter than she intended to. Would Bobbi have been coming to tell Jemma that she was dead if she’d been physically able to actually join the trek into the jungle? Would a gigantic snake follow them back to the beach if it wasn’t completely full with one human devoured? What about the water? What were they going to do about that? Unless they had a big rainstorm one somewhat full trough would only last them so long. Would anyone go back into the jungle with all the animals that they could run into after this? Skye would begrudgingly do it still, but she couldn’t and she couldn’t make other people do it in place of her. She was still lost in an unending panic reel of thoughts when the others arrived at the tent. Bobbi was the first inside and Skye’s eyes followed her immediately, trying to find any wounds she might not have told Jemma about and attempting to assess her mental state by sight alone.

"How are you feeling?" Bobbi ignored the pressing issues at hand to check in with Skye. It was clear that she was upset. There wasn't a person standing in the tent who wasn't, but Bobbi knew Skye personally and knew that even if she hadn't been there, the burden would still find its way to her shoulders. Bobbi came and sat at Skye's side opposite Jemma and gave her shoulder a jovial, but very gentle, shove. Coulson and May trailed in after and looked uncomfortable with the casual exchange, but found places to sit in the sand nonetheless.

“Me? Are you alright?” Skye meant physically. She knew it wasn’t possible Bobbi was alright mentally. Even though Jemma had tried to make her lay back down, Skye had been mostly leaning up on her elbows. She tried to push herself up to sit again, which was entirely a bad idea because every major movement made waves of dizziness wash over her. “What happened?” She asked as Trip, Mack and Yoyo followed inside, squeezing to sit or stand in the bits of extra space inside the shelter. Fitz and Will arrived behind them, likely following the scent of something afoot. They crowded just inside the entrance of the shelter. Skye looked over Mack and Yoyo when they came in but they seemed like they were alright outside of being a bit disheveled.

"I'll live." Bobbi nodded. She gave Skye's shoulder an awkward little pat before Coulson cleared his throat. Jemma moved to sit behind Skye so she could lean against her and not have to try so hard to stay sitting up. Fitz and Will were shooed off with the job of keeping the press (just a few of the loud, noisy people like Victoria Hand) away from the shelter as they talked. "We'll all mourn Lincoln's loss later tonight with everyone. Right now water is priority." Coulson spoke up. He was right about compartmentalizing. They only had so long in here before the group demanded to know what was going on. "How much do we have?" Jemma asked. "About seven water bottles full. Enough for about a third of a day for all of us." Bobbi piped up. This was including the fact that their numbers had decreased to just over twenty. "Don't forget about the coconuts. That adds about five bottles." Yoyo reminded them. It was a good addition but still only bought them less than a day's time.

Skye leaned back against Jemma, muscles sagging in relief at not having to strain so much. She frowned, first at Bobbi’s answer since Skye had used answers like that herself and then at the rather dire water situation.

“There are a lot more further down the beach we haven’t gathered yet,” Trip said. “That will add to both food and water stores,” He said.

“It will, but will the expenditure of effort outweigh its return?” May piped up.

“I don’t think we have a choice,” Mack shook his head gravely. “We’ll have to go back in.”

Skye glanced at Bobbi and then looked around at the others. “How much do we have stashed with the tail salvage?” She asked. She had been keeping track of these things but her brain was still fairly muddled.

"I'll check." Jemma said. "Bobbi?" She looked between Bobbi and Skye and the tall blonde moved to support Skye's weight while Jemma crawled over to her bag and rummaged until she found the inventory composition notebook. She came back and reclaimed her place behind Skye while flipping through pages. "We have about fifty varying sodas. There are fifteen water bottles." Jemma told them. This was the solution, it was just a matter of not angering people when they came up with water and soda that the rest of the group hadn't known about. They hadn't originally used the water because it was emergency storage. They had also lost quite a few water bottles during the siege and the few deaths in the jungle, so it would be good to have the cans and bottles to use for refills as well. "It could give us maybe two days." She added.

Skye murmured an apology to Bobbi , while Jemma went for her book, both because she hadn't been with them when it happened and because of the whole supporting her weight stuff. "So we have time to get back there for a run in the next day or two," Mack reasoned. "While that's happening, we'll be collecting more containers as we go through the emergency supply," Trip nodded, though the grave look of concentration hadn't left his face. "We could do two shifts of runners, the first group can go in the morning, second shift leaves when first one returns," May reasoned. She surveyed the whole group of them while she spoke but paid special attention to Bobbi. She didn't want to force them to go back into the jungle. "The trail through the jungle from the beach is marked, right?" Coulson asked. Mack nodded. "So we could gather a second group and take them along the trail tomorrow. Give you three a rest. You've more than earned it." Skye's brow was creased as she struggled both to take it all in and to try and keep her guilt at bay since sh felt entirely useless to the group in her current condition. "No one's going to volunteer for that after you tell them what happened to Lincoln," she frowned. Except Skye. Skye would have volunteered to do it (and likely would have fought with Jemma over it). Bobbi, Mack and Yoyo still might, but it wasn't right to put that burden on them. "We should probably hold off on breaking out the emergency supply until tomorrow at the earliest," Skye added, trying her best to keep her focus dialed in. They had about a day's worth of water left. They had more food than that and opening the coconuts would add to that at well. "We don't break into the tail salvage for the food until we have to as well." She looked at Trip. "How long would it take you to make more traps to scatter down the beach if you had help?" Maybe she couldn't walk but she would get them to prop her against the shelter wall and she could use her hands. Trip considered it a moment. "If we worked a bit into the night I'd say we'd have at least....four, maybe five by morning to put out for the day?" he answered. Skye nodded. "What other options, any at all that you can think of, do we have at our disposal?" she shifted her gaze around to each of them.

"Hunter has been wanting to go on more treks. He got over the compy scare. He and I can make a run for water. It's almost safer in small groups." Bobbi pointed out.

Skye understood the logic of going in duos instead of groups. It was less to worry about, even if it was still dangerous. "We can make up a second shift when you get back," Mack spoke up after glancing at Yoyo for a nod of confirmation. "We'll spend the morning gathering whatever food we can close to the shoreline to build up our stocks.

Even if their hidden stock would tide them over for a few days they needed to actively work toward a more stable life source. There was a possibility, but as Bobbi glanced at Skye she wasn't sure she should bring it up. The conversation was open though. "The area around the second waterfall is secured by cliffs and dense trees. I think it's worth considering a move." Bobbi's jaw tightened as she said it and she looked around, trying to read faces.

Skye had indeed opened the conversation to any possibilities. She gave a small nod to confirm what Bobbi said was true and reached out to give her closest forearm a reassuring squeeze. "It would likely need some prep work to make it permanent. It currently requires climbing up and through the giant trees that close off to ring the last side." Coulson and May exchanged a glance. Trip seemed to be considering the options. Mack and Yoyo waited, watching the others for their reactions. Skye closed her eyes a moment and tried to force herself not to flinch, thinking about the spider incident and feeling the dull throb in her left arm beneath the gauze covering the scratches Alisha made. She opened them again when Coulson spoke. "Maybe one of us," Coulson motioned between himself and May as he spoke, "Could go with one of your shifts, so we can get an idea of what we're really talking about here," he said. It was clear he felt hesitant. Leaving the beach meant accepting that no one was coming to look for them, that all they could do was dig in and hope to survive.

"You could, but it's much safer to leave expeditions to the experienced until the actual move, if it comes to that." Jemma claimed. she flipped a few more pages across the crude maps of the island they had made and continued to update with new trails and dangers. "Skye, you could draw it instead." Jemma put the composition book and one of the pens they'd found in Skye's lap. It was something she could do to be helpful and they really did need to know what the area was like to make any sort of decision.

Skye looked down at the book and pen in her lap. She picked the pen up as her brow creased and just held the book and the pen for the moment. "Yeah," she nodded, "I'll do that," She could work on drawing it once the conversation was finished. Skye cleared her throat, feeling like many eyes were on her even though she was focused on her lap, and then her currently useless legs. She took a slow breath, sorted her thoughts and looked up. "Any other suggestions in the meantime that will help either with food or water?" she asked. "Do we have enough material to create a third trough to add to what we have for whenever it rains again?"

"The raft from the original hospital shelter is still folded up in the cockpit. It's too torn on the edges to float, but the middle can be used to make a very large trough." Jemma suggested. She didn't like the idea of scrapping the raft for its resources, but the waterproof material was valuable and the thing couldn't exactly get them back to the mainland. "That's good. Trip, you can get Fitz to work on that in the morning while the two double teams-" Bobbi pointed to herself to mean her and Hunter and then Yoyo and Mack for team two, "try to make more water runs. Skye, you draw that clearing. Jemma, you should probably help Coulson and May with rationing the tail supplies." Bobbi concluded. Jemma had somehow adopted the role of inventory as well as doctor, but she would much rather be running math and sorting things than stitching people up, so it wasn't so bad.

Skye hated to feel like she wasn't contributing to the ideas or to the work, but at the same time she still felt weak and worn down with her condition so she was greatly relieved for Jemma and Bobbi for their suggestions and for delegating tasks. She gave Jemma's closest thigh a squeeze when she suggested using the raft for a bigger trough. She knew that couldn't have been an easy sacrifice to offer up. Sure the raft itself couldn't be used to get them off the island, but it was symbolic of the desire and mere possibility of doing so. She gave a small nod as other murmurs of agreement went up around the group. Shortly after the agreements, the others dispersed from the shelter, Mack pulled the tarp closed across the entrance to give them both a moment. Skye set the notebook and pen to the side for a moment and, with a good deal of effort, pushed herself to sit upright so she could look over at Jemma, searching her face and her eyes for signs of distress about the situation, about Lincoln, the snake, the supplies, anything. The closed off way she had shared the information Bobbi gave her, before the others arrived, had startled and worried Skye. "Are you alright?" She asked, holding Jemma's gaze in order to gage how truthful she was in her reply, trusting Jemma would know she didn't mean just in a physical sense.

Jemma sighed. She didn't really know how to answer Skye. She knew she would be skeptical if Jemma told her she was fine, even though she sort of was. Honesty was the only way to go. "Disturbingly, yes." Jemma admitted. She was horrified with herself for not being all that bothered that Lincoln was dead even though he had been a kind person. She was getting used to it and had selfishly only been relieved that those she was friends with had gotten back safely.

Skye was still frowning as her eyes watched Jemma carefully. What freaked her out more than the fact that another one of them had been picked off, this one by a gigantic snake, was the fact that Jemma seemed to be starting to normalize it. She wanted, again, to offer up a promise to Jemma that she would get them off the island somehow, that she wouldn't let them die here. But Skye knew even less now than before how she would accomplish such a thing without the use of her legs. She leaned her weight heavily on one of her hands and reached out to touch Jemma’s cheek and jaw with the other. She closed the gap between them and brought their mouths together for a lingering kiss. She leaned her forehead against Jemma's afterward and watched her through her own tired eyes. "This isn't all there is," she said with conviction, meaning the death, the violence, their current situation of being stranded. She didn't know exactly what was ahead for them but she knew there was more than what was happening to them right now, could feel it in her bones (or at least the ones that weren't still numb). She needed to believe it and, maybe most importantly, she wanted to believe it. It was a back and forth tug of war between them, handing off back and forth which of then played the optimistic one. It changed by the minute as things happened and right now, it was possibly a slight balance between them for varying reasons.

"We should probably face the possibility that this may be it." Jemma sighed. Her eyes flicked down at the bed instead of Skye's face. She knew it was harsh and probably not what they needed to hear, but she was realistic. "At least for now. I don't know about you, but I want this to go somewhere." Jemma gestured between the two of them. "That means we need to survive this. Together. If that means we harden for now I can't say I'm not okay with that." Jemma explained her reasoning.

Skye's lips pressed into a thin line as Jemma laid out her reasoning. she couldn't really fault Jemma for going with the realistic approach. It's what Skye had done at the Waterfall when Bobbi suggested the idea of moving to it. she doubted the group would go for it even if it was a safe viable option. Skye was reluctant to go for it, if only because it really meant giving up on finding rescue. She wanted to move there even less at the moment since she literally couldn't pull her own weight. She leaned up, kissed the side of Jemma's head and, with some amount of shuffling her weight for balance, pulled Jemma against her and into a hug.

"I don't want to lose the real you in the process," Skye had done things she had to compartmentalize that was for sure. She had been doing that for her whole life, for different reasons at different times. Skye had very much lost sight of herself in the jungle fighting with Ward, Quinn and Donnie, to an extreme degree, and she was still recovering from that on top of the physical issues from the venom. But she was entirely aware of how far down the rabbit hole of feral fury she had ventured and it hurt to watch as Jemma slowly started down a path of steely resolve, even if it was happening as part of survival instincts.

Jemma didn't know what to say. She leaned into the hug and took a deep breath as she did so. Skye also had a point, but Jemma didn't know how they were supposed to preserve their original personalities in such an environmental extreme. She couldn't promise Skye she would feel certain emotions, but she made a promise to herself to not allow herself to harden without noticing. She would take the time to stop and let herself feel. To start, she would stay with Skye for another few minutes before she had to go dig up the tail supplies and start creating a rations plan. "The feeling is mutual." Jemma rested her head on Skye's shoulder and put a gentle hand on her waist. They both knew what Jemma was talking about, but she didn't want to say it. She didn't want to vocalize that Skye had killed people because she didn't want Skye to assume Jemma thought it was her fault. She knew it wasn't.

Skye squeezed her arms tighter around Jemma and closed her eyes as she leaned her head against the side of Jemma’s. She knew what Jemma was referring to. She didn’t want to say it either. She didn’t want to think about it, but so far it was always floating around her brain. Mace, Quinn, Donnie, those were directly her fault. Kebo, Alisha, they happened on her watch. She would always have this list on her mind, Skye knew that. She’d find a way to live with it somehow, just like everything else she had learned to live with. She didn’t want to do anything like it again, but, if Ward and the rest of his crew came after Jemma again, Skye sure as hell wasn’t going to hesitate to destroy them. She didn’t want to say this out loud. Actually, she didn’t think she needed to say it.

“Trying my best,” Skye murmured in return, pressed her fingers firmer into Jemma’s back. She turned her head and kissed the side of Jemma’s. After indulging in a few extra moments just holding onto each other, Skye took a slow breath and murmured, “Make sure you allot yourself some of those pretzel snack bags in your rations,” She teased very lightly.

"We'll see. It isn't food we're short on." Jemma replied. She hadn't realized it as a joke until she'd already replied seriously and she felt the humor die in the air. "Is there anything you need? Or want?" Jemma asked. She allowed herself five more seconds before she pulled her head off of Skye's shoulder and broke the contact between them, but only for a moment. She was back into care mode and helped Skye lie back down on the mattress, proceeding to move the blankets up to her waist-to keep her warm from any breeze that got in but not hot from the weather. She needed to make sure she wasn't uncomfortable in any way before she left.

Skye shook her head. “No, I’m good,” she assured. Obviously she was still freaked out by her legs. Her mind still wasn’t completely back in the game 100% and neither were her verbal skills as she still sounded somewhat loopy. She would be better when Jemma returned from her task, of course, but she didn’t need to tell Jemma either of these things because she didn’t want to add to her worry. She stifled a couple of grunts as Jemma helped her lay back down, using her messenger bag stuffed under her pillow to prop her head up enough that she’d be able to sketch out the waterfall area while Jemma was working on inventory and rations. She caught Jemma’s hand before she stood up and pulled it in so she could kiss the back of it quickly. She gave it a quick squeeze and then let go and watched Jemma go before she grabbed up the notebook and pen and tried to figure out how she could sketch the waterfall with her limited illustration skills.

After a long rest of the day of creating an inventory rationing plan and helping deal with the outcome of the group discovering they had been hiding the supplies, Jemma finally came back to the shelter where Skye had been resting for the second half of the day. They had had to manage the supplies and explain to everyone that they were strictly emergency reserves before everyone finally calmed down and gratefully took what was allotted to them. Jemma slipped into the shelter quietly, doing her best not to rustle the tarp as she hoped Skye was asleep. When she looked up and found she was wrong, she sighed and dropped her notebook on top of her bag so she was free to lay down with her. "You should be asleep." Jemma said quietly. She tapped the tip of Skye's nose with her finger and smiled.

Skye leaned up on her elbows when the tarp rustled. She exhaled a sigh of relief when she saw that it was Jemma. Fitz had come by earlier to pick up her sketch so he could deliver it to Coulson and May and after that Skye had heard some of the squabbling about the supplies. It made her feel like shit that they had to field the outrage without her since it had been her plan too, to hide it for emergencies. It was a good thing they’d hid it, considering it would have been halved, at the least, if Ward and Co knew about it. But now Jemma was back.

Skye’s eyes were watery from a yawn as she pushed her messenger bag out from under her pillows and laid back. She shifted her upper half toward the side, muscles around her eyes flinching a bit as she did. She smiled, though, when Jemma tapped the end of her nose, going slightly cross eyed as her eyes followed her finger. Her smile was a little punchdrunk. She was tired but she also didn’t want to sleep. She definitely hadn’t wanted to fall asleep until Jemma was back. She felt too paranoid that something would happen when she was physically unable to go check up on Jemma or the others. “Couldn’t sleep,” Her voice was a bit more slurred than it had been earlier, brain drained and just a bit out of it. The pins and needles had spread, as well, both her feet and parts of both of her legs had them now. While she knew that was a good sign - no, it was a great damned sign - but it didn’t exactly tickle. Every movement at all from the hips down sent shocks of stinging pain through parts of her legs. They still felt heavy and if she was going to move them at all, she didn’t think they would move far. Even if they could, each movement was, well, painful. “I want to wait f’you,” She murmured as she reached out to rest her hand along Jemma’s hip, her movement a bit lazier than normal. “How’d it go?”

"There were a few bumps, but it's all sorted now." Jemma assured her. She shifted in bed so she was on her back, and she pulled Skye toward her by the wrist so she could lay practically on top of her. She pet Skye's hair with the hand wound around her waist and twisted her head enough to kiss her forehead before leaning to grab her book from beside the cushions. "You still haven't read The Odyssey. Would you like me to read it to you?" Jemma hoped the words would lull her into a sleep, and the reading time would relax them both.

Skye was distracted from the pins and needles zaps of pain by how comfortable she felt curled across Jemma's torso, listening to the steady rhythm of her heartbeat. She let out a slow breath as her muscles settled and relaxed. She closed her eyes as Jemma stroked her hair. She dropped a kiss to Jemma's collarbone and as she did, a sloppy smile curled over her lips. She set her ear back down on Jemma's chest and curled her arm around her middle, fingers playing lazily at Jemma's side, where her shirt hem and pants waistband met. "That sounds nice," she hummed. "Your voice is pretty," she nuzzled closer, as if it was even possible to get closer to her.

Jemma blushed. Even when she knew Skye was exhausted and slightly loopy from lingering scorpion venom in her system, she flushed pink at the compliment. She held Skye more tightly for it and let her leg on the side Skye was on brush against hers to get them more tangled in each other. She got a tiny reaction back, Skye pulled back in discomfort if nothing else, but it made Jemma's eyes wide with excitement. "Can you feel that?" Jemma tickled Skye's shin with her toe, this time on purpose.

It was reactionary, her leg shifting away, trying to pull away from the sharp tingles that felt like an army of fire ants stinging her legs all at once. Skye's forehead knitted into a mess of creases and a softly exhaled grunt answered Jemma first before she nodded slightly. She wanted to test her legs out, see of she could feel their movement if she shifted but she was reluctant to set of waves of the pins and needles. "They feel heavy," She grimaced at the sensation from Jemma's toe to her shin and then frowned, entirely disliking the idea of Jemma's touch causing discomfort regardless of whether or not she knew it wasn't really Jemma's touch causing it but the agonizingly slow way the venom was leaving her system. Her legs felt clunky aside from the searing, tingly, jolting feelings. It was good, she knew it was good. It meant she was going to be able to walk again, right? Despite this fact, it was immensely uncomfortable. It wasn't like having just her one foot numb (and ticklish) while she wiggled her toes. It had a radiating effect from her hips down to her toes. "Feels like my skin's crawling with fire ants that can bite deep enough to hit bone," she murmured. Skye wasn't lamenting it, because it might go away at some point and she would be able to get back on her feet again, but between the fiery pins and needles, the pain in her still healing left arm from the scratches and the various other smattering of injuries, there really weren't a whole lot of ways to feel comfortable. Well, when she couldn't focus on just being curled up with Jemma and knowing she was safe as a distraction at least, it was difficult to find any comfortable way to just settle. The times she'd been passed out asleep (which her body had really needed for many more reasons than just because the venom had to work its way out) had been helpful in ignoring the general discomfort.

The general discomfort hadn't been anything Skye had or would complain about anyway, both because she was stubborn and because she was just glad she was alive. This numb, burning, almost itchy sensation was on the forefront of her mind for every muscle twitch or touch, though. It was harder to ignore. Jemma, however, sounded positively excited by the prospect, so Skye kept trying to remind herself that it was a good thing and that, perhaps, soon it would be gone and she would be out of bed and useful again rather than simply a drain on supplies. It was hard to balance her lingering fears about her legs never going back to normal with her hope that maybe she would actually be okay. The part of her brain still haunted by the things she'd done kept trying to creep in and tell her that she didn't deserve to be okay after the things she had done, regardless of their necessity.

Jemma pulled her leg away immediately when she saw the discomfort. Her own face contorted in sympathy for Skye and she rubbed up and down her back a few times to ease her before she went back up to run her fingers through Skye's hair. "Just rest, it'll be ok. Just wait, in a day you'll be back to normal and up on those feet." Jemma promised. The tingling meant she was getting the feeling back in her legs. Despite Skye's pain, Jemma was very glad and relieved. She opened up her book cover, flipped past the page with her name on it, and started to read.

Skye settled against Jemma again when she felt her hand along her back. She exhaled a long breath and her muscles, at least above her hips, eased and loosened to relax and murmured a quiet, grateful, "Thanks, Jem," before Jemma started reading. Skye was in an out of dozing as Jemma read, nodding off a bit only for a muscle twitch in her calf or foot woke her back up. She focused her attention on the sounds of Jemma's voice and her steady heartbeats to distract from the itch and ache in her legs. Eventually, she did finally fall all the way asleep, unable to fight it any longer and much too comfortable lying against Jemma to want to keep fighting.

#skimmons #bioquake #skimmons fanfiction #bioquake fanfiction #wherever you go

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