#this image appeared in my mind and my prescription bag was there

[tarczar]

A horrible idea really.

[kyberphilosopher]

Androphobia

Requested? No Word Count: 7014

An Android attempts to offer comfort to someone with sleeping trouble.

Androphobia [an·drow·fow·bee·uh]; Fear of or aversion to men. A related concept is misandry, the hatred of men, but not necessarily fear of them.

  * ✭ ˚ ✧* ･ﾟ * ✭ ˚･ﾟ✧*･ﾟ  *

Every woman or female born member of society has experienced an off putting encounter with a man. 

This is not to be entirely blamed on men- not as a whole, no. But individuals, the ones you run into on your way out of the grocery store, the ones who stop you on the streets, they are the ones to blame. Some women have the guts to tell them off. Not an easy task with the given anxiety, but one to take pride in for the capability that comes with it. Some women stay quiet, rush away as fast as their polite feet can take them and hope someone will see the problem. They usually don’t. And some women are outliers, tricking their ways out of interactions with these men one way or another, and to them I take my hat off. 

There are men who are easily construed as monsters, when in the dead of night their silhouettes flash beneath the tallest of streetlights. And there is no reason to not believe them as such right then and there, for as spoken by our Lady Galadriel, “the hearts of men are easily corrupted.” And any look into statistics will back up this fear, any personal experience, any hug that’s gone on just a bit too suspiciously long, any catching of those wandering eyes and it’s easy to feel in your heart that men are not to be trusted. They are not to be confronted, nor left alone with, and they will jump at the opportunity to put down anyone for the validation of other men. 

This is the reality of women and men in 2021. It is the same for several in 2039.

 * ✭ ˚ ✧* ･ﾟ * ✭ ˚･ﾟ✧*･ﾟ  *

You step out of your old, dusty car. Chips of the dark red paint flake away as the raindrops hit it. Above you, the gloomy, warm gray clouds roll against each other in different shades and sizes, high above the skyscrapers and the stress of the world.

Gathering your belongings for the day, you shut the door with your hip and shoulder everything. Then you make your way towards the Police Department, your work, with the heels of your shoes scuffing against the parking lot. 

Across the way, you can see Detective Reid, who rubs his brow while he does his usual slamming of the car door. There’s no point in looking for Hank at this ungodly hour, he’d never be in on time. He’ll probably park his car next to yours as usual- a little too close so it’s hard to squeeze into your own and pull out without causing his vehicle damage, but you never say anything. Not because you are one of the people who feel threatened by Hank as a man- It’s more because you trust Hank as a person, that you’d never bring up the obvious annoyances he places upon you and everyone else. Though, once you had tried. 

(“Cars parked a little close, don’t you think?”

“Shut the hell up.”)

The inside of the Department is bustling. A female Android brushes past you briskly, the others at the front desk all seemingly click clacking away in their own brains. Even months after they’ve gained independence, it’s not uncommon for you to remember how they were before. How still and lifeless they were. And looking back on it, it was awfully sad. They seem busier now, more alive and fast. A strange image, in your mind, but not an unwelcomed one. 

You reach your desk in the lobby, on the right side of the room slightly separated from the officers. You’re a psychologist, so it’s not plausible for you to be seated next to bias. Instead you’re in your own corner, with a rather cluttered desk on the top and empty rows of drawers. You do, however, keep a small japanese cherry blossom tree on the top, courtesy of Hank, though his has all but fully withered at this point. 

And then you’re ready to start your day. Pull out your chair, click your pen and type away reports and notes on the computer to send to the detectives. You don’t have any meetings scheduled today, so there’ll be no need to prepare questions or anything of the sort. Just an easy day. 

And then...

As you and I, the dear reader, have already discussed, finding men to be generally scary is an easy task. And even though you are smart enough to know that it’s simply not possible to truly believe that every man or male presenting individual is terrible, or has done terrible things, or has experienced the desire to do something terrible, there are times where you can’t help the cautiousness. You can’t help the flinch, the distrust, the physical distance, the hand in your pocket grasping for anything to use in self defense. Seeing men like Detective Reid in power, brutish and given guns and easily agitated, certainly doesn’t help.

So when you swish your chair around and come to a stand, your heart drops. You’re looking into the presence of someone tall, with broad shoulders and a strong chest. A man. 

[Sort of.]

“Good morning, Doctor L/N.”

“Connor,” you breathe out, eyes flitting down as you attempt to quiet the thump thump thumping of your heart in your throat. “I- I didn’t-”

“Your heart race has increased. You appear stressed, Doctor L/N.”

He cocks his robotic head to the side, his eyebrows creasing as the literal gears in his head turn. 

“You just startled me,” you admit, grabbing the back of your chair and moving it over as an excuse to create a bit of distance between you and the [possible] threatening force. “What is it, Connor?”

Now, for context, you and he were not considered close. You’ve spoken a few times, though never as friends, only friendly. You remember seeing him last Winter, when he would stand out in the snow outside the station, just gazing up after Hank had already returned to his own home. You remembered how he was different from the other Androids, besides being more advanced to begin with. You’d never said anything about that. It was obvious the only person it would’ve really mattered to, Hank, was already aware of this. And Hank liked Connor. There was no point in interfering. 

In Connor’s eyes, you could really do no wrong. You were smart, intelligent, and diligent in your work. Your job had been threatened by the presence of Androids for years by the time Connor had showed up, but it still appeared that they wouldn’t have done your legacy justice. But despite this, interactions were scarce. You were not friends. You were friendly. And you were always on your guard. 

“I was hoping to hear your thoughts on a case Lieutenant Anderson and I have been working on,” Connor tells you. He’s always made efforts to keep eye contact with people, and the tilt of his head tries to follow your eyeline to do so. But it’s never to any avail. “I apologize for the abruptness, but the thought only occured to me last night and I think it could be a good one.”

“Yeah, sure,” you answer. “I can help with that. I’ll get the details from Hank when he comes in.”

“No need,” the Android quickly assures you. When you look up to him for a brief second, you can see his tongue sway against his bottom lip, creating the softest of imprints. His dark eyes glitter like a beatles in the catch from the light above. 

He produces a light, manilla colored folder lined inside with papers. “I hope you’ll find all the details you need here,” he explains, offering the file to you. 

You take it after a moment, watching his thumb let go in the softest, most normal way possible. 

“Thank you, Doctor L/N,” Connor smiles. “I’ll go get you your morning coffee.”

Connor is like a dog in that way. Not in an insulting way, or an obedient way. In a kind way, in a warm way. With his chocolate eyes and the dimples when he smiles, it’s hard not to want to just believe that he is incapable of hurting anyone or anything. Especially a woman. 

But when you snap back to reality, you can see his male form. His set back shoulders, the robotic strength, the fact that he was programmed to execute any task he so desires. And then you’re right back on edge, wanting to step back from him until you’re sure you can take a full breath. 

It’s easier when he’s taken himself away. You can see him through the glass walls in the kitchen, waiting for the pot to heat up. Doesn’t seem so bad from far away, like most of them do. 

You return to the chair and open the file. At first, your eyes flit to the pictures attached at the top- one of a woman that looks so familiar, another of a man whose angry brows cover his eyes. Then they move to the written report, and something clicks. 

The woman in the picture was an acquaintance from college. The man next to her was the main suspect, and apparently her lover.

* ✭ ˚ ✧* ･ﾟ * ✭ ˚･ﾟ✧*･ﾟ  *

“Morning Doc,” Hank waves tiredly. Then his tone changes slightly. “The fuck are ya doing at my desk for?” 

You push yourself from your lean on the edge of his property anxiously. “I read the report on your case. The Carla Rodriguez one.”

Hank sighs in his classic sigh, tired and grumpy from the morning and being alive. “What about it?” he questions, rummaging through his large bag of prescription pill bottles he’s brought with him every day this year. You suspect Connor has something to do with this.

“I had a... personal relationship with the victim,” you begin, crossing your arms. “I knew her.”

Hank looks at you, bewildered. “You were sleeping with my victim?”

“What? No. What? I- anyway. Carla and I were in college together.”

Hank’s face changes. He leans back with high raised brows in the way he does when processing something. 

“The boyfriend did it. I remember him from back then, I think. Real angry guy.”

“You’re sure you know what you’re talkin about?” Hank questions you, though not in an insulting way. You know it’s anything but that. 

“I’m sure. I can tell you what you need but you know I can’t testify. You won’t be able to use my bias in your report.”

“But the bias is the whole point.”

Your eyebrows shoot up, along with your shoulders. It’s the universal symbol for ‘I don’t know what to tell you’. 

“You talked to Connor about this?”

“Well, no. I- he wanted my opinion but I didn’t tell him this part.”

Hank glances around. “Where's he at anyway?”

You shrug again. You’re thinking about the disposable coffee cup on your desk, left there by Connor a few hours ago, that you’d never brought yourself to touch. 

“Run it by the Android before we do anything,” Hank advises you. “Nutjob’s got this whole system in his head.”

“Yeah,” you mutter as Hank seats himself. “That guy’s weird.”

“Tellin’ me?” Hank groans. 

And the rest of the morning you spend avoiding Connor, thinking at your desk, barely doing your job while you let yourself get lost in thought. You’re not usually like this. You’re very professional at work- you love this job. The thrill, the learning about criminals and their rehabilitation- it makes you feel so tranquil. Complete, even. 

But knowing a victim, knowing the perpetrator, still adapting to the change of Androids looking happy for once, knowing Hank pretends you’re the child he lost- it... it...

You snap your drawer shut. 

What’s wrong with you today? 

You huff out dry air. When you turn ever so slightly, you can see Hank at his desk, eyes already on you with concerned and empathetic brows. Seeing him calms you down a little, at least makes you feel more in the real moment. After a moment, you turn back straight. Then you smooth back your hair, and open a your file again. 

“Doctor L/N?”

You look up slowly, recognizing the boyish, sturdy voice of Connor. Sure enough, there he is. Tall, looking down at you with his warm, brown eyes. They remind you of an excited, loyal dog. Yeah, you think, Connor seems like a dog person. 

And then you catch the sharpness of how broad his shoulders are, how little effort it would take for him to kill you, or pin you down, or come at you in the dark. 

“Can I speak with you candidly, Doctor L/N?”

“You...may,” you say slowly. Connor begins to squat, until he is level with your eyeline, though he’s over on the other side of your desk. From your view, your cherry blossoms pink petals stand out against the paleness of his skin, and then the darkness of his hair. 

“I heard what you said earlier to the Lieutenant,” he begins. 

Truthfully, your eyes flicker around his face, mostly between his lips and his nose and his eyes. They’re all so realistic. Well, obviously that was the point in his creation, but still. They’re so human. Connor is human. Even the way he seems to move his mouth, like his lips are just a little dry, is human. Such a strange detail. Perhaps you would never have noticed it if he hadn’t gotten this close. 

“When?” you question. 

“About 3 hours ago, about the file I gave you.”

Your eyes snap away. Connor’s own eyes follow your movement. 

“I know that this must be difficult for you-”

“Connor,” you sigh, slightly exasperated, but still holding it together. Your eyes close like you can’t bear to look at anything in the present moment right now. You must be trying to pretend that you’re somewhere else. “I’ll be alright. This was in my job description.”

The Android’s eyebrows knit for a split second, confused. “Overseeing the psychology behind your friends death was in your job description?”

And it’s a genuine question from him. That’s what makes it so hard to contain your laughter, no matter how frustrated or overwhelmed you are right now.

“Yeah,” you finally muster with a light chuckle. “Apparently.” Then you’re back to business. “This is my job. I’ll be alright. Thank you for your concern.”

“I just considered that, since you’ve been on the news before, the suspect could know that you’re involved.”

“So?” you ask, slightly more snappy than intended.

“He may know you’re here and subsequently attempt to cause you harm.”

There are two conflicting sides in your brain right now. The first one says: Now think about this. How could he harm you in a place full of cops? It’s not like he knows where you live or anything. How could he even find that out? When they bring him in, he’ll be in custody the whole time. Gavin won’t let him out of those handcuffs. Everything will be just fine. 

And the other part? It shows you a dark, masculine figure, looming over you. Police department or not, he is there. He will cause you grief and harm, do something so terrible to you you could not even fully imagine it enough to anticipate yourself. 

And, despite your better judgement, and to your full awareness, you listen to the second half. 

“Okay, so,” you breathe out. “So what are you saying?”

Connor’s eyes draw to his left in a stutter, his mouth parting as if he’s in consideration. “The Lieutenant and I had talked about... having you stay in a... safer place.”

Your eyebrows pinch together. “What do you mean by that?”

Connor looks so human in this moment. it’s so apparent, and piercing in this exact second. The details in his eyes, slightest of blemishes on his cheekbones. 

Connor leans in, his eyebrows raising. Subconsciously, you lean back ever so slightly in response. 

“We were thinking of taking you to the Lieutenants place.” He sees your eyes widen, getting ready to give a vocal response. “It’s a very safe place,” Connor promises. “I can assure you there are many rooms to your liking.”

You take a minute, looking the Android right in his warm, hopeful, perfectly symmetrical eyes. “Connor, I’m not interested in having this discussion right now.”

“It’s just-”

“Back off,” you snap. It’s assertive. Something you don’t usually do towards masculine presenting beings. 

As soon as you say it, you regret it, however. The person across from you just looks so heartbroken, almost. His big brown eyes, the ones that remind you of a loyal dog, are looking right at you. How could you not feel bad for snapping at Connor? Sweet Connor, who doesn’t take pleasure in hurting people no matter how much you convince yourself he does. 

* ✭ ˚ ✧* ･ﾟ * ✭ ˚･ﾟ✧*･ﾟ  *

The Carla Rodriguez murder case went on for two more days. Her boyfriend, unfortunately, was not yet found. Hank was working on obtaining a warrant based on your instincts that would give him access to search family members houses for the man. Things were becoming focused. 

Each night you went home, you struggled to sleep. You did in fact, find out that Connor may have been onto something when he suggested the consideration of safety. You indeed stayed up later than usual, using both locks on your dirty apartment door for once. It was hard to fall asleep. Whenever you did, it became all too easy for you to imagine a solid, big, broad shouldered figure standing over the foot of your bed, waiting to strike. 

A man, as usual. 

Ironically, you did feel better when Hank- a man- would come into the station. And then there was Connor, who was somewhere between a puppy and a wolf, half following Hank, half fully capable of loading and discharging a gun. Connor made you feel safe too, but only by association. It felt bad to think about him after the snapping that occurred Thursday, but it could’ve made you feel worse to act unprofessionally in the work place. It was best you try to forget it, and try to forget that Connor has unlimited and invincible memory. 

On Sunday, you and Hank had your weekly scheduled lunch. Nothing fancy, just fast food from a food truck by the train tracks. You’ll both probably get burgers, except Hank will try to add lettuce and some vegan bullshit to convince you he’s sticking to his diet. Of course he will. 

You throw the keys to your locker in the backroom into your desk drawer, and slip it closed. Across the floor, Hank is already ahead of you, tugging on his crappy jacket and somehow standing patiently and grumpily at the same time. 

“Ready to go?” you ask as you approach him, your own jacket in hand. 

“Yeah, just waitin’ for the kid,” Hank replies casually. 

“The kid?”

“I’m ready to go, Lieutenant,” the enthusiastic voice of Connor rings out. He has one of those voices where you can tell when he’s happy and smiling too, and he is in this very moment. 

Nobody ever joins you and Hank. You knew Hank had taken Connor to the truck before, but that was just between them, and this was just between you. An odd decision on Hank’s part to make such a change. 

“Alright,” Hank calls back. Then he turns to you, the smallest of knowing grins on his face. “Ready when you are, Doctor.”

You just nod your head and start walking out to Hank’s car, unsure of what to do think. In the end, you decide to just not think at all. 

“What are you doing this for?” you’d ask Hank as you were walking, when the Android known as Connor was out of earshot. 

“What? You got a problem with Connor?” You shake your head no. “Well good. Because besides bein’ a freak he’s perfectly fine.”

Yep. Thanks, Hank. 

The drive over is silent, besides Hank’s music. You like his taste, but it doesn’t make you feel less tense around Connor. On the other hand, Connor is completely oblivious of said tension. You can see him in the rearview mirror, smiling and looking out the window every now and again. 

Once arriving to the scene, Connor gets out first. You click your seatbelt away, about to pull the handle open when you notice Hank hasn’t moved at all. 

“You coming?”

“Mm,” Hank fake thinks, flipping through his cd cases. “Nah.”

“Well then... well then are you even hungry?”

“I got food back at the office,” he sighs, not even looking up at you. “Indian from last night. Gonna wreak havoc on the ol’ plumbing.”

“Then what did you bring me here for?” you question finally, developing a tension headache from how often you’ve been knitting your brows together lately. 

Hank looks up and over, an almost offended expression on his face. You can see it in his wide old eyes, the angry eyebrows, the slightly opened mouth. 

“Because I’m trying to create a warm and loving social circle.”

“You one time told me die because I ate your jar of pickles!” you cry. “Oh my god- Hank, is this about me and Connor? Is that it? You want us to get along?”

“Yeah, and what if I do?” Hank turns to you fully, putting an angry hand on the steering wheel to clutch something. 

“It doesn’t matter!” you exclaim. “It literally doesn’t matter at all!”

Hank is quiet. You can see his beady, angry eyes on you, his jaw clenching. “Get the fuck outta my car,” he says at last. 

“Gladly,” you mutter. You open the door and slam it closed. 

Looking across the wet, rainy street, you can see Connor looking up at the sign of the food truck known as Chicken Feed innocently. You breathe out, feeling the heat from the previous ‘discussion’ beginning to melt away. 

Okay, Y/N, you tell yourself. Just go talk to him. 

You begin your walk across the street, hearing the light tapping of the rain hitting the asphalt all around you. His back is getting closer and closer. You still have a chance to turn around. 

“Hey, Connor,” you say lightly. 

“Hello, Doctor L/N,” Connor greets in return warmly. 

“Whatcha... thinking about eating, there?” you ask, both of you knowing damn well Androids can’t eat. 

“I’m not sure,” he admits. Then he shrugs, and very genuinely says, “I guess I could have some french fries.”

“Alright. I’ll get you some.”

And you do. And you feel so stupid while ordering it. The guy in charge, Gary, looks at you with an ‘are you sure?’ expression on his face, but you only continue with the order, confirming that, yes, you are sure. Then you and Connor sit next to each other in silence, waiting for your food to be ready. You pretend to be very interested in a stain on one of the back menus for about three straight minutes. 

“Here you go,” Gary hands you the food. You take the bags and speed off immediately to an umbrella by the place. Even though you’re essentially powerwalking at about 6 miles per hour, it doesn’t feel fast enough in the moment. Connor is right there beside you the whole time. 

“Here’s your fries,” you mutter, pushing the bowl towards him. 

“Thank you,” he says, formally. Then Connor just stares down into the bowl. 

“I appreciate you paying for this meal, Doctor L/N,” Connor decides to say after another moment. When you look up, you can see he’s leaning down ever so slightly so that he’s closer to your height, and making pretty sturdy eye contact. It’s moments like this that you think you’re talking to Connor’s social programming, and probably not him naturally. 

“You don’t have to call me Doctor, Connor,” you breathe. “We’re not at work right now.”

“I apologize. How would you like me to address you then?”

“Well... how would you like to address me?”

Connor thinks for a moment. You can tell because his led is switching between yellow and white. Then the beginning of his eyebrows start twitching, along with the corners of his mouth, just like a human would when they have several thoughts on the tip of their tongue but none of them seem just right. It’s cute when he does it. 

“You can just call me Y/N,” you rush out in an attempt to save Connor from quite possibly exploding. 

He does the twitching once more, then looks up to the top of the umbrella without moving his head. “And, is this outside of the workplace or in it as well?”

“What would you prefer?”

His led goes yellow again. He looks back to you. “That depends whether or not you consider us friends, Doctor L/N.”

This takes you back. You’re silent, stunned, looking at him with slightly widened eyes for a few seconds- maybe a whole minute- before you make the decision to look at your burger and change the subject. 

“How’s been adjusting to life as a free man?” you ask, unwrapping the foil from your warm food. 

Connor adapts to the subject change after a few seconds, and you know that he’s seen right through you. “It’s strange,” he tells you, deep in thought, but sincere. “But, people seem happy.”

“Are you happy?” you prompt further, biting a big bite into the meat. 

Connor thinks again. He thinks a lot. “Yes,” he decides. “I suppose I feel alive,” he admits. It sounds like a confession, and when he turns his head to look over to you, he sees your eyes are already on him. “Are you happy?”

“Am I happy?” you repeat in question. “I... guess I am, overall.”

“Do you enjoy working as a criminal and forensic expert?”

Now it’s your turn to think. You swallow down your bite. “Yeah, I think so. It’s what I’ve wanted for a long time. And now I have it, and I’m comfortable and all. So yes... And you? As a detective?” You bite into the burger again.

“Well, it is what I was created for,” Connor tells you, with an almost charismatic, joking tone. It looks like he’s smiling a little, too. Cute. “I think so. Working with Lieutenant Anderson has gotten better.”

“God, I remember when you first came in,” you roll your eyes. “Hank was all in a mood. One of the grouchiest days for him. But he likes you now.”

Connor watches you pull the burger away from your face. He’s thinking again, but also admiring your features from up close. He doesn’t usually get to do this with you. The proof is in the lack of response to the ‘would you consider us friends?’ question. 

“You know,” Connor says, and you can hear the sincerity in his voice for the millionth time. “I really admire how talented you are in your line of work.”

You feel heat in not just your cheeks, but in the rest of your face as well, as if you have a very sudden fever. You decide to keep your face down, trying to naturally make it not look like you’re using your burger as a shield. “Thank you,” you respond. 

The heat begins to subside, so you look back up to him. “I admire your...” and you can’t finish the sentence. Not because you can’t think of anything to admire. You know you had a good one in mind to say to him. But when you look up at his boyish face, with the innocent smile and the comforting eyes and the most human details in his skin, you lose your train of thought. 

It seems too late and rude to continue by the time you regain it, so you just decide to leave it and eat your burger as quickly as possible. 

“Are you done with your fries?” you ask, as Connor looks down at the untouched basket.

“Yes, thank you.”

You don’t even look into the waste of 2 dollars as you speed walk to the trash can and dump it full of everything. Then you hop across the street, Connor right behind you.

Getting back into Hank’s car makes you roll your eyes. It’s not that you’re mad with Connor anymore so much- not that you would describe the feeling as mad in the first place. You’re not even sure you’re ‘mad’ at Hank so much anymore. It’s more like you’re in the area that you previously had a yelling match in, so all that energy is still there. So stupid.

“Hey, you two,” Hank greets, though to you it sounds condescending.

“Hello,” Connor chirps back.

You just shoot Hank a glare.

“How was lunch?” The old man prompts, holding your eye contact knowingly the entire time.

“It was fine,” you tell him.

“Fine?”

“Yeah,” you practically seethe. “Just fine.”

* ✭ ˚ ✧* ･ﾟ * ✭ ˚･ﾟ✧*･ﾟ  *

You stay in your house for another two days. Sleeping has become far more difficult, though you’d never openly admit it. Hank can see it in your face. There’s dark circles under your eyes, far more noticeable than before. Your eyes are dragging themselves down, along with the rest of your body which seems to be in a constant slump. 

You’re like a zombie. You’re just carrying yourself around, mindlessly doing your tasks while you try not to nod off at work. Hank hasn’t said anything. He just watches you from afar, not knowing how to apologize because he’s never been able to pull himself into one. 

Connor hasn’t said anything either. Hank’s pet has continued his daily routines around the precinct, going where he’s told and sitting on the other side of the older man. You haven’t been observing them much lately. Been a bit too preoccupied with the threat of sleep paralysis to do anything that you find matters in a social sense. 

Carla’s case is still open. Her boyfriend is still out there, watching and waiting. Maybe for you. Maybe for some other innocent woman. You keep picturing him towering over you, his shoulders looming, strong jaw twitching with anger. Those masculine brows, defined with the intent to strike at you. Kill you, like your old friend. 

Finally, on the fourth day of little to know sleep, you fell asleep at your desk. Completely zonked out, your head slumped against the surface, squishing your cheek in the process. Connor jumped up from his seat, Hank following shortly after. But there was no threat, you were simply resting. Once the two realized this, they calmed a little. Hank opted to send Connor over to you to check you out, crossing his arms as he got ready to observe. 

The Android creeps over. Your breathing is steady. So is your heartrate. You’re not in shock or anything at all. You’re not even hurt. 

“Y/N?” he prompts lightly, now crouched to be close enough to your ear so he can whisper. His chocolate eyes glance around the precinct, looking for anyone who might have noticed you to try and save you some embarrassment. Then he glances towards the Captain in his office, and he knows he has to hurry himself so you don’t get caught and reprimanded. 

“Doctor L/N?”

No response. Connor looks back at Hank, who shrugs his shoulders nonchalantly with little help. 

“Doctor L/N, you have to wake up,” he tells you, poking the back of your slumped shoulder. 

You were asleep, yes, but apparently not very deeply. You stir from your slumber, raising your head and your mousy appearance to look over at Connor with confused eyes. 

“What happened?” you strain, stretching. Connor detects a bit of drool on the corner of your lips. 

“You fell asleep at work,” Connor explains slowly. 

“I did?” you squint, obviously still out of it. 

“You have... drool on your lips.”

You wipe the left corner. “The other side,” Connor gestures lightly to his own lips. “Yes. You got it.”

“Was I out for long?” you look around, adjusting to the so very bright lights of the building. 

“No,” Connor answers in that sweet, sweet voice of his. “Maybe a minute, or two.”

“Oh,” you say, your eyes wandering around. 

* ✭ ˚ ✧* ･ﾟ * ✭ ˚･ﾟ✧*･ﾟ  *

That night, it rains. 

Thunder echoes, with  ripples of light from the lightning that bears across the sky like great claw hands. 

You watch the view out your window from the middle of your bed for a long time. You’re curled up in a ball on the blankets, not even under them. You’re just there, watching the sky that reflects in your eyes. 

A sudden stir in you gives you a change of heart. Something you can’t explain to the fullest extent, something not even I, the one in charge of relaying all that’s happening to you, could explain the exact feeling. It’s like the snapping of a rubber band at 2:15 in the morning. 

You can’t stay in this apartment anymore. Not even two locks are enough to protect you. Not your kitchen knives, or the gun given to you from the department for self defense. None of it seems like enough, because all of those things are used after something happens. They don’t prevent it. 

You’re in a hurry. The comfiest pajamas you own are soaked in the salty rain water and protected only by the simplest of winter coats you own. It’s nice, though not appropriate for the current weather of course. Your hair gets drenched fast. Every individual drip that falls from the tip of your nose is felt, like you’re more hyperaware than usual. 

Now you’ve arrived at a house. A one story, fairly inexpensive home with a garage and recognizable old car out front. As you approach, you can already hear the barking of a dog, see a neighbor turn their lights on briefly to observe you, and feel the shivering of your knuckles as they tap on the door sporadically.

Come on, Hank, you think.  Please protect me. Please do this for me. 

And, believe me, Hank Anderson would’ve done it had he been awake. But he hadn’t been, and so he didn’t answer the door. Instead, the door swings open, and inside you see an Android. 

A tall one, with soft facial features. He has long, dark eyelashes framing dark eyes, surrounded by dark hair. He’s clean and clear cut, very put together. It’s Connor, Hank’s pet that you’ve never been able to get the hang of knowing. And he’s as shocked as you are. 

Your drenched hair, shivering body, distant look in your eyes. Though, Connor’s unsure of how he would appear if he had to show up to anyone’s house at 2:34am. Probably unwell. Probably a little bit like you. 

“Doctor L/N,” he says, though it seems mostly to himself. His parched lips barely move, though you notice how pink they look in comparison to everything else right now. 

“Can I come in?”

Connor is still for a few seconds, obviously still processing your appearance. For what, you don’t know. Must’ve been one of the few things he’s simply unable to calculate. But then he moves himself to the side, and you carry yourself in. 

As soon as the door closes behind you, everything is so much warmer. You haven’t been to Hank’s place in months, but it still feels as homey as it did before. It’s cleaner than it was a year ago. There’s more pictures on the walls, more clutter lining the shelves. He’s starting to care about things again. That’s good. 

“What are you doing here?” you suddenly ask, turning around to face Connor. 

That’s right- what is he doing here? He and Hank couldn’t be living together, could they? Or is... or is it that Hank is pretending Connor is someone else, too?

Connor’s led goes yellow, then blue, then back to yellow. “Lieutenant Anderson has offered me a place to stay until I’m ready to go on myself,” he explains, though the way it looks at you makes it seem like Connor doesn’t want to tell you this. Like he feels the need to explain himself. 

“Are you alright, Y/N?”

You wipe your face, smearing your leftover makeup from your eye with the rain water. It burns, but you can’t feel it over the cold. “I uh- um... I’ve been having trouble- trouble sleeping.”

Connor’s lips close, and he looks at you in understanding as you stand there, now feeling your own pressure of having to explain yourself. 

“Just like... at my place I can’t- can’t sleep. Not a lot of it.”

Connor knows he shouldn’t, but it’s right there on the very tip of his tongue. It’s so close to just spilling out, until finally it does, all at once. He’s too curious to try and stop it. “Why?”

“I just- I can’t-”

You’re looking everywhere. The floor, the wall, covering your eyes with your arm or your hand, shifting back and forth between feet, making a soggy spot on the floor from your dripping clothes. 

“Can’t sleep.”

When you look up to Connor again, you feel better. Still panicked, but like you’re not in trouble. His eyes are so soft. They’re so human, and comforting. He looks at you like he understands, and like he’s not upset. You can see why Hank would pretend he is who he is now. But there’s no one for you to pretend who Connor is. He’s just Connor. And he’s better than you. 

* ✭ ˚ ✧* ･ﾟ * ✭ ˚･ﾟ✧*･ﾟ  *

Connor lets you wear one of his sets of identical clothes. It’s a grey t-shirt and blue pajama pants. Your hair is still wet, but Connor doesn’t say anything. He lets you sit on the couch and watch one of Hank’s basketball recordings while he goes to make tea. 

He brings it to you and sets it down on the coffee table in front, but like days ago, you can’t bring yourself to touch it. Connor’s made himself a cup too, but doesn’t drink it. It’s deadly silent, the only light coming from the faint glow of the tv, the only sound coming from the biases of those annoying sports commentators. 

“Connor?” you whisper hoarsely, turning your body to face him. 

He looks over at you, at full attention. Such a soft boy. 

“Do you think I’m afraid of anything?”

Connor’s led goes yellow. It flickers in circles until finally he says, “What do you mean, Y/N?”

You look down at your hands. “W-when I try to sleep, I see someone,” you say, not bearing to look at anyone from that gender for a moment. “He never leaves me alone. I feel like I- like I’m seeing this thing everywhere. I can’t avoid it. It won’t leave me alone.”

“What is it?” Connor prods gently, leaning in in that innocent, but curious way he does. 

You open your mouth like you’re going to answer, but then your mouth goes dry. Instead, you just shrug your shoulders in a weak attempt of lying. 

“Um... why are you still awake?” you ask instead. 

“Androids don’t need to sleep,” Connor explains to you. “We just power down to conserve energy, but I don’t need as much as others.”

A light puff of air escapes your nose in time with the flickering of the corners of your lips. “Sounds like you’re bragging,” you tease for a second. 

Then it goes quiet.

“I don’t think you’re scared of anything,” you hear Connor’s voice say clearly. “At least, not that I’ve seen. You’re very diligent in your work.”

You take the compliment. It warms your chest for a moment, but the pit inside you is not so easily gotten rid of.

Your nails scrape against each other, breaking while you pick at one of your index fingers. “I think I have like... this fear of men. Fear of something.”

Connor’s led goes yellow.

“Androphobia, also known as the fear of male presences, affects nearly one third of the current female population.”

Connor watches you continue to pick at your nails. The memory of you standing at the door step, shivering like a kitten, drowning in the rain water stays on his mind. “Is this what you think you have, Y/N?” he asks, though this time it’s far more soft.

It sounds like he really cares.

You look up to him, your eyes glossing over from stress and the incoming wave of tears you can feel in the back of your throat.

“I can assure you, Doctor L/N, you are safe here,” Connor continues, holding eye contact as he speaks. “I won’t let any kind of harm get to you.”

The tears in your eyes seem less violent now. Like they’re disappearing already. And that’s how the story ends, in fact. With you, looking up at Connor, seated on Hank’s couch with your hair dripping around you- him promising not to hurt you. It ends on the silence that follows, right between the stare the two of you share.

  * ✭ ˚ ✧* ･ﾟ * ✭ ˚･ﾟ✧*･ﾟ  *

This is the first thing I’ve proof read. Also one of the longest things I’ve written somehow? It was fun. I apologize for any mistakes as English is not my first language.

[simmerandwrite]

strangers - steve rogers x reader

Warnings: mentions of sexual harassment and non-consensual touching, swearing.

Word count: 4870

Pairing: Steve Rogers x Reader

Summary: When your subway ride home takes a turn for the worst, you hope a stranger in a coffee shop will help you out.

Notes: If you saw a snippet of this the other day, here’s the full thing! I wanted to tackle some ‘in need of saving’ tropes and this just sort of happened. I’ve never posted straight up on Tumblr before but I’m a bit lacking in my experience with reader fics, so I figured this was a good place to share it. no beta, any mistakes are my own! If you like it, let me know - thanks for reading!

—

Steve Rogers liked his days off. Not that he had a set schedule week to week anyway but when things aligned correctly, he could do whatever he wanted. No world saving, no training, no report writing, no meetings.

He had scoped out a small little coffee shop in Brooklyn where he liked to spend these quiet afternoons. Usually with a book in hand (he had so many books to catch up on) or some music loaded to his phone (Nat was currently educating him on 90s punk rock) or a notebook and pencil. People watching served as wonderful inspiration to sketch.

He sipped his cappuccino, eyes tipped downward at the book ahead of him on the table. He was interrupted just moments later as someone dropped into the chair across from him.

Now, Steve wasn’t intentionally hiding out at this hole-in-the-wall cafe. But he did put on his laughable disguise still - a beaten up Yankees cap and his prescription-less thick framed glasses. He liked the anonymity. That didn’t always stop people from recognizing him.

As he opened his mouth to question the person who was suddenly joining him for coffee, she slid her phone across the table to him. Her hand shook. His eyebrows flexed into a curious frown as he looked at the screen displaying a plainly typed note:

‘Do you mind if I sit someone is following me home sorry to disturb you’

—

As if your day hadn’t been absolutely terrible enough, you spotted the gremlin of a man on the subway watching you again. You knew he worked somewhere in the same office building as you because he always trailed a few paces behind you when pushing through the revolving doors in the lobby. It wasn’t uncommon to see the same people on the same subway line at the same time every day, but this man’s presence had become an unwanted downside.

He was always there. Worse than that, he seemed to be always watching you. Today, it was even more obvious that he was following you.

When that thought first occurred to you, it had been really easy to shrug off. He was just a guy taking the subway. But when he happened to be on the later train with you one day, an uncomfortable feeling settled in your stomach.

And now, as the car was filling up even more after the second stop in DUMBO, he had moved to stand and put himself even closer to you.

You had been going through so many Next Steps. God, that phrase was the bane of your existence. Next steps, next steps..

Maybe you could tell him to fuck off. You could make an appointment with Leanna in HR and see if there is a way to figure out the name of this guy - though he didn’t work for your company so that was likely going to be a dead end. You could start taking the bus to the village before grabbing the train. Maybe you could Uber home some days instead of taking the subway. Not that you could afford that but this guy was..

You stiffened immediately.

This guy was touching you. In the midst of the crowded subway car, he was pressed against you entirely. And was he.. His hips were moving against your leg and.. Wait, that was two hands on your hips now.. Hot breath whispered against your neck and -

Fuck.

You threw yourself through the mob as the train came to a stop. With hurried feet you ran onto the platform and up the stairs, doing your best to weave through the flow of people, like a fish trying to make it upstream. You tried not to be obvious but as you snapped your head over your shoulders to look back, you saw him there again.

He was smirking. No, snarling.

Next steps, next steps.

You joined a sea of people crossing the street, taking your first left to try and steer yourself into a particular direction. You were still a far walk from your apartment but with this man on your heels, you didn’t want to lead him anywhere near there.

You grabbed your phone from your jacket pocket, unlocking it quickly and scrolling through the contacts. Surely there had to be someone you could call but even then, what could they do? Offer advice?

It didn’t occur to you until then but would it be valuable to call the cops?

Despite the late day sunlight, you suddenly felt very aware of the emptiness of the sidewalk on that side street. You needed to be around people. It definitely wasn’t logical to be anywhere near alone with this guy and -

It sounded like his footsteps were getting closer. With a panicked gulp, you yanked on the door of a little hole-in-the-wall cafe. Your eyes scanned the space quickly once you were inside. You probably shouldn’t sit alone, you couldn’t run to the bathroom if you aren’t sure where it is or if you needed a key. There were too many variables.

You needed something. Next steps..

You spotted someone sitting at a small table near the window and without thinking, you sent out a silent prayer to whoever might be listening and you rushed over. The man was clearly alone, a half consumed ceramic mug of coffee sitting to the right of his book.

Swallowing hard, you quickly typed on your phone and slid it across the table to him after you sat. You tried your best to stay very calm and hoped that he would play along. God, what if he didn’t play along and -

Behind you, the door chimed once more and you desperately wanted to see if it was that man - if the gremlin had followed you inside. You clasped your hands together in your lap and forced a smile on as you looked at the stranger sitting across from you.

Despite not knowing him, there was a familiarity about his appearance. Behind his thick glasses, soft blue eyes searched you carefully. His eyes flicked to the screen once more, stiffening in his chair as he looked past you towards the rest of the cafe.

With his right hand, he reached into the inside pocket of his coat and took out a small notebook and a pen. He scribbled something quickly and turned the page towards you.

Are you hurt?

You shook your head quickly. He offered you a tight smile and wrote once more.

Buzzcut, grey jacket?

Your eyes blew open wide and you tilted your head into a nod.

I’m Steve

He flipped the notebook closed and extended his hand across the table, palm facing up. He leaned forward just slightly, meeting your eyes with a reassuring smile. “Play along.”

Your eyes flicked to his hand and you slowly unclamped your own, grabbing his on the table instead. He was doing an impressive job splitting his attention between you and his surroundings, eyes scanning the room. He squeezed your hand very gently, brushing his thumb against your knuckles.

“Tell me about your day.”

You sucked in a hard breath. You weren’t entirely sure what his strategy was but something told you this guy was in your corner. Though despite that, you could feel another set of eyes on you.

“Uh,” you started quietly, letting the air escape your lungs. “Surprisingly, I didn’t think it could get worse before I got on the subway after work. I had a review meeting that was not great and we had a free catered lunch that was not vegetarian friendly. Missed an important email and deadline and… well, here I am whining about it and interrupting your day. Listen, I’m going to-

You moved to stand up but Steve shook his head, grasping your hand. “Give it a few more minutes, I think he’ll give up and leave.”

His words were casual but had an authoritative tone. Once more his eyes left you, looking towards the front of the cafe. He raised his free hand and motioned to one of the baristas. You weren’t certain if this was the type of place who served people at their seats but clearly he had a comfortable rapport as the young girl approached with a warm smile on her face.

“Hey Tia, could I get another?”

“Anything for you?” The barista turned her head as she asked, pony tail moving from side to side.

“Uhm.” You paused and thought. You certainly had no desire to even consider a coffee order when you felt someone’s linger gaze boring into you. “A decaf con panna, if that’s possible.” The girl confirmed it was with a nod then left the table side.

“Con panna?” Steve’s lips pulled into a curious smirk. Something about his smile calmed you.

“Espresso with whipped cream on top,” you answered. “Short and sweet.”

“I’ll have to try that next time.”

Steve sure had a soothing smile. When his thumb stopped tracing against your palm - when did that even start? - you felt an empty sadness about the loss. Wow, what did that even say about your standards when a stranger was brushing his thumb against your hand that you were so grateful for? Well, it was a thousand times better than someone rubbing his -

You winced at the memory, biting down as you clutched your bottom lip between your teeth. Though that shameful feeling hadn’t disappeared, you managed to keep it at bay. But now, it seemed to have left an image you were unable to blink away.

The sweet smell of whipped cream and the shuffling of paper cups broke you from your trance. You reached for your bag to fish out a few dollars but when you looked up, Steve was waving a hand to stop you.

It’s not that you didn’t appreciate his kindness. You did. You really, really did. But given the last half hour, you still had a hard time settling your nervous mind.

“Thanks, Tia.” Steve’s eyes were jumping around the place as the barista grabbed the cash he offered. A loud stomp of footsteps drew their attention as the Subway Gremlin saddled up beside the table.

“Sorry to be a bother, darlin’ - any chance I can borrow your phone?”

You couldn’t help but look at him. Though his words were directed at the barista, he made a point to glance over at you.

You felt Steve’s hands grip yours. When you looked towards him, his eyes were very carefully watching the man. How did he manage to -

“Sorry, we don’t have a dedicated line available to customers.” Tia politely shook her head, pointing towards the door. “There’s a CityBank up the street that can help you, I’m sure.” She shrugged and headed back to the coffee counter.

The man stood still, opening his mouth to argue.

Steve sat back, shoulders broad and steady. “Did you need directions there? I think it’s just two blocks. Maybe 500 paces.” His tone was flat. “Just out the door and you’ll be on your way.”

You kept your eyes on Steve. He kept his stare directed at the man. Finally, after what felt like hours of waiting, the man moved his feet. He turned on his heel, though not before stopping to look at you again.

“I will see you tomorrow, dar-

Steve released your hand and pushed his chair back, standing quickly and grasping the man’s shoulder.

Steve towered over him. “You have five seconds.” The man pulled away from Steve’s grip then finally stomped away. You kept your eyes tightly shut until you heard the chime of the bell indicating the movement of the door. Then, you collapsed onto your arms on the edge of the table.

Steve, meanwhile, headed to the door and kept watch for a few more moments to ensure the man actually departed from the area. Then, he stopped at the counter and exchanged a few words with Tia before returning you.

You were still doing your best to encourage the floor to open up and swallow you whole. How had this even escalated? The worst part was your mind seemed clouded with doubt. This man, you hadn’t even interacted with him before. Why was he suddenly so invested in you? To a point where he might follow you home? Were you just another target or had this been intentional?

You considered yourself a fairly observant person and yet..

You twisted your hands together in your lap and tried to consider what was going to happen now. Next steps, next steps..

“Hey.” Steve returned to his chair. Your eyes flicked up towards him, noticing he was sliding a bottle of water towards you. Your sad little espresso and whipped cream treat was deflated next to it. “Are you okay?”

You reached for the water bottle, twisting the cap open and taking a long drink. “I don’t know.” Chewing on your bottom lip, you shook your head. “No, actually. I’m not. It somehow feels like my skin is on fire and my lungs are failing me and I’m sweaty but I’m not and - and -

“Hey, hey. Look at me.” Steve spoke so calmly and evenly. “Just take a slow breath with me, okay?” You closed your eyes once more and followed his instructions as he walked you through a few breathing exercises. “That’s great, you’re doing great-

When he stopped speaking so quickly, you opened one eye to look over at him. His cheeks were a warm shade of pink and his mouth was twisted into a frown. “What?”

“It just occurred to me I didn’t get your name.” He paused, as if to consider his next thought. “Although, given what just happened with that man, you are under no obligation to tell me anything about yourself. I just.. I’d like to help.”

His genuine concern for you was surprising. You allowed a small smile to stretch across your face. “You’re very nice, Steve.”

You gave him your name and he smiled back, repeating it to himself. “It’s nice to meet you.”

Your smile turned downwards when you looked towards your phone. “I should probably get going. Again, I’m really sorry for dragging you into this mess but I appreciate the… solace.” You took a deep breath and pushed your chair back, pausing to tip the lukewarm espresso into your mouth. “I owe you one.”

You winced when you heard yourself and sighed. Why did you say that? This stranger, this friendly, broad shouldered, tall, handsome stranger who’s day you interrupted, did not need your weird backhanded flirting. In fact, even though every signal in your brain seemed on edge after, well, everything, the only thing that seemed to ground you now was the kindness of Steve. So you tried to will yourself not to ruin it with any additional commentary.

You weren’t entirely sure what had driven you down this particular street into this particular cafe and towards this particular man. But, you were certainly grateful. “Actually, do they have gift cards here? I’d love to buy you one to say thank you and -

“Are you going to walk? Wherever you’re going right now?” When you looked over, you saw that Steve had stood, too. You saw his eyes move towards the door and the far windows up the street where the man from the subway had gone. “I don’t want to overstep but I hope you’ll let me walk you home. Or far enough away to have cleared his radar.”

“I feel like I’ve already wasted enough of your time, Steve.” You truly felt worse and worse for interrupting his afternoon.

“Please, I insist.” Steve tilted his head, half a smirk on his lips. “You just said you owe me one, so. I’m cashing in the favour.”

“The favour repayment you’re cashing in is.. you doing me another favour? Do you know how favours are supposed to work?” Admittedly, you knew you would feel a lot safer having someone walk home with you. And something about Steve made you feel very secure, his presence like a comforting shield.

“C’mon,” Steve replied with a laugh, nudging his head towards the door.

When you stepped onto the sidewalk, you stopped to think. “Let’s go this way.” You turned to the right and Steve followed, staying on your shoulder closest to the street. You walked in a comfortable silence - which made you nervous at first. Then, as your steps fell into a pattern, the quiet soothed you.

You pushed your hands into the pockets of your jacket as you turned down the next block. You looked over at Steve, who turned his head towards you as you shifted. “You didn’t ask anything else about the man.. Who followed me.”

A quiet hum came from Steve. “I didn’t think I should. You seemed shaken up enough.” He shrugged, peering down at you through his glasses. “If you want to talk about it..”

“I work in this big office building in Midtown. The Clifton building?”

Steve motioned his hand diagonally. “Little bagel place downstairs? That’s right down from The Avengers tower, isn’t it?”

You nodded along. Right. Stark Tower was The Avengers Tower, now. It was the most iconic landmark on that block. “Yes. Actually, I work on the 40th floor, which makes for a great angle to see Iron Man coming in.” Your smile was fleeting when you continued on. “It’s a huge building. I work in human resources for this pharmaceutical company.. But there’s a law firm in there, too. Insurance companies, start ups.. Hundreds of people in and out all day long. Yet, that man on the subway has managed to..” You stopped yourself before your chest got too tight. “Let’s just say I’ve seen him around before.”

“Do you know his name?”

“That’s the thing!” You couldn’t help but laugh now, shaking your head in dumbfounded confusion. “No. I have no idea who he is. But he often gets on the same subway line as me, watches me from across the crowd then today..” You stopped and dragged a hand down your face. “It’s a sad truth but I would say most of my friends have been.. Touched inappropriately on the subway before. I guess it’s a weird right of passage or something..”

“Wait - what?” Steve stopped in his tracks and reached his hand out to grab yours. You stopped and looked up at his eyes, somehow both soft and dark with concern. “He touched you? What do you mean?”

You raised an eyebrow, wondering if his ask was authentic. When you saw the disappointment in his face, eyes flooded with something you couldn’t quite pinpoint, you realized his reaction was genuine. You opened your mouth to explain but suddenly it seemed impossible to find the words.

Steve let go of your hand as he absorbed your lack of response and reached for his phone. “You can file a police report, right?”

“No, no.” You stopped him, placing your hand on his as he held his phone. “Trust me, that’s just paperwork that goes nowhere. Without the guy's name, absolutely nothing would come from it anyway.” You shook your head. “It’s fine, really. I might just adjust my work hours and change my route home for a few weeks. Maybe he’ll give up.”

Steve muttered something to himself, shaking his head. His face shifted from concern to something else, like his brain was working on a different trail of thoughts. He spoke your name quietly, drawing your attention to him again. “I’m sorry that happened to you.”

Steve’s kindness was a strange contrast to the entire experience on the subway. How one man could have such questionable intentions while another apologizes with sincerity for it was nearly jarring. Although, it did suddenly occur to you that Steve was just as much of a stranger.

“The worst part is.. men like that sever any opportunity for trust in other people. Especially blind trust. Like me telling you, a stranger, where I work and walking you to where I live. Funny enough though - every wire in my brain should be telling me not to and how it was a bad idea but.. I guess there is something about you.”

Steve sucked in a breath, eyes wide as he considered his response. “When you walked into the coffee shop, you could have asked the barista for help or tried to hide out in the bathroom. But you sat next to me instead. How come?”

“Honestly, I don’t know. Like I said, there's just something about you, Steve.”

You walked in silence again, feet falling into a pattern once more. The sky was growing darker, the air cooler. After crossing the street again, you looked at him. “How do you feel about Prezio being traded to the Orioles?” You reached out and tipped up the brim of his Yankees hat. “A tragedy, right?”

A quiet laugh escaped him as he tipped his head. “I think it was a huge mistake. Don’t you think we’ve had a hard enough year as it is?” Your silence was filled with baseball talk instead and it seemed to put both of you at ease.

“This is me.” You stopped outside of a short apartment complex, pointing a thumb to the door.

Steve smiled, one hand in the pocket of his jacket as he studied you. Was this it? After the wild rollercoaster of emotions you had spilled onto him in the last hour, parting with nothing else seemed empty. Lacking. He opened his mouth and closed it, once then twice.

Finally, you cut in. “Thanks again, Steve. Really. If you hadn’t played along and scared him away.. well, I’m not sure where I would be right now. It means a lot that you cared enough about a stranger to make sure I was safe.”

Steve sighed out your name. “I’m sorry your barometer for kindness is so low.”

You sighed. “Yeah, me too.” Part of you wanted to do something. Say something else. Linger a tiny bit longer. But your feet shuffled and your hand reached for the door. “Have a good night, Steve.”

—

“I need a favour.”

“Well, good morning to you, sunshine. Did you lock yourself out of your computer again? FRIDAY can help with that.”

“Tony, this is serious.”

“Okay, okay. I recognize that scowl. How can I help you?”

“If I provided you some video footage from a security camera, can we track someone down? Figure out who they are? For full transparency, it’s just a civilian.”

“Sounds like we’re operating outside of the law, Rogers. Can you provide me with more context? I don’t mind the grey area - I just like the drama, too.”

Steve sighed, then reluctantly explained himself. The cafe. Your panicked message. The stalker of a man. The way you dismissed it all as a normal, unfortunate side effect of existing as a woman. His barista friend provided him with camera footage but he wasn’t sure it was enough.

Tony pinched between his eyes. “Men are scum. And I say that as someone in the practice of trying to be better. Recovering scum, if you will. I’ll see what I can do. FRIDAY, how quietly can we get into the security database at the Clifton building?”

—

Although you hadn’t lied to Steve, it occurred to you on your journey home that your guard should remain up. Which is why you had actually allowed him to walk you to your aunt’s apartment, instead of your own. She was happy to see you burst through the door and insisted you stay for dinner. That was a tiny silver lining to the whole mess.

The next day though, the thought of going into work was suffocating. So you opted to spend the day working from home instead, which your boss had been agreeable to, at least. One day rolled into two and you successfully avoided the office building until the following Monday. But then, you needed a plan. Next steps, next steps.

You took an Uber to the office early and left late at the end of the day, leaving out the back stairway and crossing a few blocks to take a different subway line home. It was unfortunate you had to cater your life to the chance you would run into this goon again, but your sense of security was slowly returning. That had to count for something.

Things shifted later that week. There was a sudden new policy sent out to all the staff in your office outlining new building ownership and training about sexual harassment policies.

“It’s a long time coming,” you heard someone mutter out in the elevator as you headed down towards the lobby.

“Guess Tony Stark just wants to own the whole block,” their coworker chirped back, pulling to loosen his tie.

There was even more commotion when you exited the elevator and walked towards the large glass doors. A team of NYPD officers were standing outside, shoving someone in the back of their cruiser. Your eyes narrowed. You couldn’t be certain but from that angle, you certainly recognized the bad buzzcut. Your eyes darted around the lobby anxiously and across the room, a small crowd of suits and officers had formed near..

Tony Stark, himself.

Before you could even try to understand what was going on, you heard someone calling your name. You turned your head and saw someone who looked a lot like -

“Steve?” You took a few steps towards him, pausing to glance from him back at Tony Stark and.. “Oh my god. You’re Steve Rogers. Why didn’t you say something?”

Captain America had walked you home. Hidden behind glasses and a hat. And you always considered yourself observant.

Steve just smirked, shrugging a shoulder. “I didn’t think it was important.”

You couldn’t help but smile. “Should I be thanking you for all of this chaos?”

Steve furrowed his brow in mock confusion. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, maybe I’m extrapolating here but the same day my subway stalker gets taken away in cuffs, Stark Industries buys out this building and mandates a new policy and code of conduct.”

Steve pursed his lips, swallowing back a mischievous smirk. “Here’s the thing. It occurred to me that your best choice of action after that day was changing your entire life to avoid that man. And I couldn’t help but think about how broken that system was.”

You sighed. It had occurred to you, too. While you were relieved to shake the man from your trail, your mind considered he would probably turn his attention to someone else. And that wouldn’t be fair.

“Well, Cap. Job well done. That scum of a man had priors in Jersey, too.” Tony Stark himself had walked to where you and Steve stood. His hand clapped on Steve’s shoulder. “You’re at least going to ask her out, right? I mean, I bought an entire building for you - make a move, pal.”

Steve flushed pink and you couldn’t help but do the same.

“I’m getting a bagel. You want a bagel?” Tony raised an eyebrow from you to Steve again, smiling proudly.

“I’m good. I recommend the poppy seed though!” You called as Tony flitted away, narrowly avoiding a proper looking blonde woman who seemed very tired.

You turned your attention back to Steve. “He seems like a lot.”

“He is.” Steve nodded, motioning his hand. “I know it’s only one thing, maybe a ripple in making a difference but.. I’m hoping one less inappropriate person on the subway can give you peace of mind.”

You smiled again. Though you had seen many appearances by Captain America on the news, seeing the man in person was different. It seemed Steve Rogers walked the walk. After parting ways with him before, though he had crossed your mind, you didn’t anticipate your menial issues leading to this.

“Thanks. Really. Even one person makes a difference.” You reached out and touched his arm. “Thank you, Steve.”

“I’m sorry about Tony, though. His comments about asking you out and.. that certainly wasn’t my goal here.”

“I don’t know. You just did me a huge favour getting rid of that gremlin. I think I owe you.”

Steve caught your cheeky smile and stood up a bit straighter. “Well, in that case, the Yankees are playing the Sox tomorrow night. Tony never uses his tickets and the seats aren’t half bad. What do you say?”

“You’re cashing in this favour to take me on a date? Usually people ask for help moving or a ride to the airport or something.” You let out a dramatic sigh. “Sure. I guess you can take me to the game, Steve. If you ask politely, I’ll probably even hold your hand.”

After work the next day, Steve met you outside and you took the subway together to the stadium. You knew this wasn’t the end of it for you or anyone else worried about their personal boundaries being crossed. But, as you gripped the subway pole and your fingers grazed against Steve’s, you could finally breathe again. For the first time in a while, you weren’t anticipating next steps.

It was just you and the kind stranger from the coffee shop.

[shawtygonemad]

Circle the Drain: Part 6

Dancing With The Devil

Daryl Dixon x Reader

Masterlist

WARNING⚠️: Mentions of drugs, alcohol, sex, mature themes, body image issues, overdose, and basic Walking Dead gore.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: This was a hard chapter for me to write emotionally. It can be triggering for some. This is the heroine overdose scene. I'm sorry in advance.

---------

When I returned to the trailer it was still empty. Everything was where I had left it. There was no sign of Daryl or Merle. My feet led me to the kitchen resulting me drink grabbing the bottle of whiskey from the fridge. I unscrewed the top and threw the lid. I planned on finishing the bottle.

The first swig went down hard causing my face to scrunch up. However, I bared down and continued to drink. While washing my sorrows down I started to pace. My mind kept spiraling on what I did. Why I wasn't enough. Why I was alone. Why no one wanted me.

I had no more tears left to cry as the emptiness set in. The feeling scared me a bit. I just wanted, needed, to feel something. Even after taking a little white line I still felt off. I needed more. Something with intensity. That's when I noticed the glass pipe abandoned on the coffee table. That would definitely make me feel something. I lifted the lid off of one of our decorative storage bins and found Merle's stash. It was a gallon bag filled with prescription pills, other little baggies of powder, but at the bottom was the blue crystals I was looking for.

I grabbed a pinch before adding it to the pipe. With a lighter I set them ablaze and inhaled the bitter sweet smoke. My head instantly felt lighter and buzzing. After a few more hits my body was practically melting into the floor. It felt nothing, but the good kind this time. No pain or numbness. Just bliss. Like floating on a cloud and being lifted straight up to the heavens. My eyes drooped shut as I enjoyed the fading sensation. I was slowly disappearing.

Faintly I heard loud banging on the door. But I was too far gone to notice. My body was shutting itself down. The loud crash of the door being kicked in didn't even phase my consciousness. It wasn't until I felt hands upon my face that lifted my head up did I pry my eyes hardly open.

"D," I croaked softly.

"What did you take," he asked in a panic.

"I don' feel go'd," I slurred as I felt my body start to tingle and tighten up to the point of soreness.

Then the convulsions happened. Daryl cried out in shock and panic. He'd never dealt with someone having a seizure before. All he knew was to get me on my side in the recovery position so I wouldn't choke on my own vomit. His hand placed itself under my head to prevent me from involuntarily injuring myself.

I don't remember much from before that. I'd fade in an out. I would hear Daryl crying and getting angry with someone. I was carried somewhere. There were bright lights and urgent voices. Then nothing.

Out of the darkness came a faint beeping sound. It was constant and something I focused on to bring me back to reality. I groaned as I opened my eyes. After blinking a few times I found myself confused. I was awake, my eyes were open, but I couldn't see. Fear struck me which caused the beeping sound to pick up the pace. That must have sounded an alarm because footsteps could be heard coming towards me.

"Hey honey," a soft female voice with a southern accent said. "Good morning."

"Who are you," I panicked. "I can't see anything."

"My name is Joslyn. I'm going to be your nurse this morning," she sounded kind. "You've been asleep for awhile."

"Where am I," I asked.

"Regency hospital. It looks like you had an overdose from the substances you took," she told me.

There was a knock on wood off to my right side. I turned my head still not being able to see. It could hear the sneakers against the floor.

"Hi Y/N. My name is Dr. Charles. I'll be taking care of you today. How are you feeling," he greeted.

"I overdosed," I frowned.

"It appears so," he gently said as he shuffled some papers around. Probably my chart.

"Is that why I can't see," my voice shook.

"Yes," he solemnly said. "Your body shut down. You've had multiple seizures, a stroke, and internal organ failure. You flat lined for 2 minutes. Thankfully, we were able to bring you back. With some time, you might be able to regain your eyesight."

"I'm sorry to interrupted," a new voice entered the conversation which caused me to jump. "Mrs. Y/L/L just arrived, and Mr. Dixon keeps asking to come up."

My heart skipped a beat which could be heard over the monitor. My stomach knotted and anxiety built back in me. Daryl was here. Why? What more could he want from me now?

"Mrs. Y/L/N can be sent up. Since she's the emergency contact. As for Mr. Dixon..." Dr. Charles trailed off.

"I- I don't think I'd be able to handle seeing him - er.. hearing him I guess," I stuttered.

"Not a problem, dear," my nurse said. "You can accept or refuse any visitor you want."

"Thank you," I muttered. "So, my mom's here?"

"We gave her a call since she was your emergency contact," Dr. Charles informed me.

"I can't believe she showed up," I said in disbelief.

"How is she," the familiar voice of my mother was heard from the door way.

"She's awake which is a good start," the nurse told her.

"We'll give you two some privacy," Dr. Charles said. "Is there anything we can get you before we go?"

"Yeah, you can get that redneck off this campus and away from my daughter," my mom snapped.

"Mom," I groaned, tiredly.

"Well he's the reason you're in here," she said.

"I made my own choices," I told her.

"Yeah, well you never started doing any of this shit until you started seeing him," she snapped.

"It's not Daryl’s fault," I raised my voice.

I don't know why I still felt the need to defend him. Maybe it's an old habit. I used to do it all the time when we first started dating. After some time with me people started to realize he wasn't his last name. He was a kind, dependable, and respectful man. People would even tell me that since we started dating he's come out of his shell. No way this was his fault. If anything, Merle was really the one to blame. However, the only person who deserved to take the wrap for this is me.

It was of my own free will. No one forced me to pick up that pipe. No one forced me to do anything. It was on me. There's no one else to blame.

"Your dad's gathering your stuff as we speak," she softly told me as she pushed some hair from my face. "Seeing you like this... I never want this image in my head again."

"Picking my stuff up?" I asked confused. "What are you saying?"

"You're going to treatment," she informed me. "We're getting you help. Some of the best in the country. It's in Virginia."

"I don't need help," I told her.

"You just had a heroine overdose! You need help. We've already petitioned for it. Now it's court mandated. I'm sorry honey, but you have no choice this time," she softly told me.

I let it sink in. Maybe this was for the best. Lord knows I probably wouldn't have been able to step foot in the trailer again. I can't even handle seeing Daryl right now. How would I go on with my life in the same small town as him? We would be bound to run into each other. My heart wouldn't be able to take seeing him walk around with another woman holding his hand. Leaving was for the best.

I needed time to heal. To work through my issues. Then maybe one day I'd be able to return here to face my past. To face Daryl.

***

Part 7

[flourchildwrites]

It’s an ordinary Tuesday for most of the hospital occupants as well as the passersby scurrying on the street below. As Rei ends her call with a reputable cab company, she gazes out the window to watch their comings and goings one last time. From the comfort of her windowsill, she likes to imagine the colorful lives they lead in contrast to the hospital's endless reserve of rooms drenched in muted earth tones. The exception is, as always, a vibrant arrangement of Japanese gentians that sits in her windowsill, sticking out like a sore thumb.

But this Tuesday is different. Her doctors say that this day marks a milestone in her recovery. For what it’s worth, Rei is inclined to agree. She’s packing her bags to leave the hospital. Unlikely though it once seemed, Mrs. Todoroki is going home.

Fandom: Boku no Hero Academia | My Hero Academia

Relationships & Characters: Todoroki Rei/Todoroki Enji, Himura Family, Todoroki Family, Todoroki Shouto

Genre: Flashbacks, Parent-Child Dynamics, Healing, Hopeful Ending

Trigger Warnings: Implied/Referenced Canonical Child and Spousal Abuse

Rating: PG-13

Word Count: 2,993 words (Complete)

A/N: I'm so excited to share the fic I wrote for @todofamzine! I would like to thank the Winter Dawn mod team for being the best damn moderators I have ever worked with and @robinoxel for collabing with me and creating art of Rei to go along with the fic which you can find here. This fic was written before the recent chapters featuring the Todoroki family were published. I did my best to imagine what might have happened during Rei and Enji's past, and any canonical divergence you see is just that: canonical divergence coming from a simpler time. Flashbacks are in italics. I hope you enjoy this fic!

Home is a curious concept for Rei Todoroki. For the better part of a decade, she’s passed her time in a series of well-furnished hospital rooms with bland walls and bleached sheets. Her accommodations are not so cold as to be unwelcoming: extra blankets and plush pillows are a perk of her long penance, not to be taken for granted in spaces like these. But the walls are nearly bare, every wire is tethered taut, and someone somewhere is always—always—watching.

Oddly enough, she’s going to miss that.

It’s an ordinary Tuesday for most of the hospital occupants as well as the passersby scurrying on the street below. As Rei ends her call with a reputable cab company, she gazes out the window to watch their comings and goings one last time. From the comfort of her windowsill, she likes to imagine the colorful lives they lead in contrast to the hospital's endless reserve of rooms drenched in muted earth tones. The exception is, as always, a vibrant arrangement of Japanese gentians that sits in her windowsill, sticking out like a sore thumb.

But this Tuesday is different. Her doctors say that this day marks a milestone in her recovery. For what it’s worth, Rei is inclined to agree. She’s packing her bags to leave the hospital. Unlikely though it once seemed, Mrs. Todoroki is going home.

What she will find waiting on the other side of the recovery divide is still a mystery.

Rei folds her life into two suitcases. One shirt and a pair of pants lay neatly on top of the open case, but beneath the surface, she allows some disorder. The hairbrush she used this morning is stuffed in the middle. Prescription bottles with rattling pills hide between layers of cloth, and there are deep wrinkles in the fabric below, not unlike the tired lines etched under her middle-aged eyes. She’s almost finished, almost ready to relegate the sterile smell of the hospital to nothing more than a memory, but there’s one last thing to pack.

Some of her photographs are framed; others are faded. A few photos are torn, and still, there’s the odd bit of charring on the edges of one or two pictures, courtesy of young Touya’s wild ways. Rei can’t help but smile at her collection of fond memories.

Her eyes flit to an old, framed newspaper clipping, and echoes of Rei’s glory days wrap around her like a favorite cardigan. In the picture, her stance is commanding; her arms are outstretched. A sheet of ice streams from her fingertips as her pale hair fans out from the force of the chilly blast. The sidekick Frostbyte is strong and vivacious, a match for any villain she might encounter in the small locality she protects. The headline beneath her picture speaks volumes: New Sidekick Frostbyte Freezes Crime Rates!

It’s a warm memory, something Rei wants to tuck in her chest and carry with her wherever she roams. She picks up the frame and places it safely in the top compartment of her baggage. Another image, a picture already tucked in her suitcase, draws her attention.

Rei doesn’t know why she keeps the picture. She isn’t sure why Fuyumi pulled the image from the family albums for her in the first place. Perhaps both Todoroki women are sentimental for what was and what might have been. Looking at the staged photograph now, Rei sees hope in the lineless eyes of her younger self, a blushing, traditional bride in a pure white shiromuku. And there’s Enji by her side, a tall, prideful hero made uncomfortable by the humble formality of the Shinto shrine.

The smile fades from Rei’s face; it is replaced by well-earned worry lines as she glances sideways at the blue flowers on her windowsill. She’ll never know how Frostbyte appeared on Enji’s bride-to-be radar. Neither will she ever be certain if her family, eager to capitalize on her early success as a sidekick and drowning in debt, put her profile into the matchmaker’s hands. Either way, the request was made and answered before the young woman could give her blessing.

Looking back, it feels like their first meeting happened lifetimes ago, as if the entire event is witnessed through a pane of frosted glass. But Rei remembers every detail, down to the tea stains on her mother’s best table cloth and the nervous buzz in the pit of her stomach. The scene plays out as though she is on the outside looking in, forever separated from the optimistic young woman she used to be.

...

The Todoroki family seems pleased.

In between courses, Rei’s mother hisses this sentiment in her daughter’s ear. Her father sits politely through dinner, speaking when spoken to and wearing his deference on his sleeve. Enji appears to be nice, though fixated on his work and the pro hero rankings. His mother and father are cordial, especially considering their lofty status; however, their impeccable etiquette is not important. The Todoroki family fortune is the reason her mother and father agreed to this meeting.

The older couples beam at their children when, somehow, dinner devolves into dessert. Their eager matchmaker announces that Rei and Enji should spend a few moments alone to speak candidly about dating with marriage (and children) in mind. Rei, for one, isn’t sure how to feel. She cannot know how a conversation of this nature is supposed to go.

Nevertheless, she stays the course and flashes Enji an accommodating smile as they take a seat on the bench in her family’s small garden. The summer heat does not agree with Rei, but her favorite flowers, bell-shaped blossoms the color of sapphires, are in bloom. They bring her comfort, and Rei doesn’t hesitate to tell Enji that these are her favorite to jumpstart the obligatory small talk.

He doesn’t respond in kind.

“I saw your rescue in Hasetsu,” the young man observes, changing the topic. “The way you fortified the building with your ice quirk was impressive, and I understand there were no casualties.”

Rei does not reply. She merely nods in assent, wondering if he really wants to talk about the ins and outs of their careers when marriage is on the table. For the first time, she glances upward and looks at Enji Todoroki. Impressive height, flaming hair, and cerulean eyes speak for themselves, but there’s also a hint of something sweet and smoldering in the night air that’s coming from him. There’s no denying that the rising pro hero is, as the tabloid papers are fond of saying, a hot commodity.

But the blush that dusts Rei’s cheeks isn’t only from physical attraction, nerves, or the thick material of her best dress. There are worries and concerns, curiosities that Rei thinks should be sated. Her thoughts spill from her lips before she can catch them.

“Why me?” she asks, bolder because of the plum wine passed around the dinner table. “You’re Endeavor. Surely, you have people lining up to-”

“Did no one speak to you about this before our meeting?” Enji interrupts.

The grin wilts from Rei’s face. “What do you mean?”

Enji sighs. He stands and steps forward; his figure illuminates, outshining the moon. His glow erupts into a burst of hellfire, and Enji’s arms are engulfed. The sleeves of his fine suit are ruined, but he doesn’t appear to care. Rei is startled, yet she only feels a gentle heat radiating from the star before her. Enji’s command of his quirk is incredible.

“Power like this comes with a cost,” he remarks bluntly.

He turns to face Rei, and the blaze surrounding his arms contracts, burning brighter. When Enji grimaces, her eyes widen with the realization that he is overheating.

Rei can relate.

“With a quirk like this, my body can only withstand the heat for so long. I assume that it is the same for you and your ice.”

The puzzle pieces connect as reality settles on her shoulders. Their pairing isn’t about temperament so much as temperature; their powers are polar opposites that cancel and complement. Enji reaches out to take Rei’s hand, and instinctively, she drops her body temperature to combat his blaze. Frost meets hellfire, steam rises, and the garden is flooded with fury. When the cloud clears, Rei and Enji remain hand-in-hand. No burns. No ice.

But it is neither luck nor good fortune. It is calculated equilibrium, a quirk marriage through and through.

...

She remembers that there were three dates, three opportunities to be seen and photographed at hotspots near his agency and hers. Matching stories were crafted for the hows and whens of their contrived romance. While they dated, the Todoroki family lawyers drafted an airtight prenuptial agreement.

The contract arrived on a Friday evening, Rei recalls, along with a small package that contained an engagement ring worth more than six months of her salary. The advice from her mother was particularly memorable.

...

“Answer him,” her mother’s voice pleads. “The sooner, the better. Remember your family is counting on y-”

Rei stops the answering machine. She doesn’t need to hear the rest. The older woman’s lecturing tone grates on Rei’s nerves. The pressure from her father is more subtle, but it’s still there. She isn’t sure where the family debt came from; however, she doubts that the schools she attended were inexpensive. Plus, her mother never hesitates to tell her that she should give them more of her paycheck, though the salary of a sidekick is barely enough.

She rolls her weary eyes and tosses the package on the low table of her small living space. Paperwork spills across the surface; the ring box nearly falls to the floor. Rei wants nothing more than to sink into her futon until her next shift rolls around. But Endeavor is not a patient person.

Rei runs through her internal debate once more.

True enough, Enji will be hard-pressed to find a better match than Rei, not for the ends he has in mind—a child with a combination of their quirks. Likewise, Rei knows that she will never rise as high as him on the hero billboard chart. It’s not that she doesn’t want to make a difference, but her countenance is naturally understated. Rei would like to live a quiet life, helping others and supporting her family.

And someday, she’d like to have children too.

Yet, the possibility of a loveless marriage is a difficult pill to swallow, especially since the concept of romance is nebulous in Rei’s mind. Her parents swear that love can take root and grow with time, and Enji is nothing if not dedicated to his goals. Moreover, Rei is not so naive as to pretend that a comfortable life with a steady income isn’t attractive in and of itself.

One last glance at his profile cements her answer. She doesn’t revel in bargaining for a better future as she slips on the engagement ring and signs her name on the dotted line of the prenuptial agreement. Rei calls her parents to share the news and phones Enji to tell him she’s accepted.

As she lies down on her futon to rest, Rei swears that she will plant a garden at their first home, filled with flowers to admire and founded on promises worth keeping. She imagines pretty blooms decorating a harmonious house alongside the pitter-patter of little feet which grow into the large shoes Enji wants filled. Rei consoles herself: if she does a good job of bringing up the next generation of Todorokis, her children will have the luxury of choosing love instead of a contract.

...

Rei admits that hanging up her hero costume was an easy thing to do after the marriage. It was even easier to watch her hardened muscles soften into feminine curves as life took root in her belly. Her parents were proud; Enji was satisfied. Any lingering doubts were pushed aside by the demands of motherhood.

And when Touya’s quirk proved disappointing, Rei tried harder to fulfill her side of the bargain. She can scarcely remember a time in her twenties when she was not waiting for her child’s quirk to manifest or swallowing prenatal vitamins over an anxious lump in her throat.

Fuyumi was born on a crisp December morning eleven months after Enji declared Touya unsuitable for further training. Like clockwork, Natsuo was on the way after their sweet daughter failed to manifest a fire quirk before she turned four. Then, Rei cannot forget how Enji became impatient. Natsuo had not reached his second birthday when her husband decided that he was also a failure. As Rei thinks back on the arrival of her last child, hindsight’s perfect vision highlights chilling insight.

...

“It’s a boy!”

Strong cries rebound off the walls of the delivery room. Rei breathes a sigh of relief as her body shudders from the efforts of her labor. At the end of her bed, the hospital staff congratulate her on another healthy baby as they pass the newborn to his mother. The comforting feeling of an infant pressed against Rei’s chest will never grow old, and she savors this moment with Shouto, mumbling words of love as she holds him. Deep down, Rei realizes that her fourth pregnancy was hard, and secretly, she dreads what her husband will think if this child also has a head full of snow-white hair.

Enji often tells her that he knew the other children were failures the moment he laid eyes on them. On this subject, husband and wife will never agree, but Rei is content that he leaves their upbringing to her. She’s done her best to temper Touya’s attitude, bolster Fuyumi’s confidence, and keep Natsuo laughing.

Rei glances down at the fresh face of her newborn son and is perplexed by the contradiction she sees between his halves. Trembling fingers weave through his hair. Fine white and crimson strands part down the middle. Yet, Shouto’s hair is not his most striking feature. A pair of mismatched eyes blink up at Rei. One is bright turquoise, and the other is a somber gray.

The contrast is uncanny.

“Heterochromia iridum,” the doctor pronounces as if on cue. “That explains his eyes. Usually, it’s a benign condition, nothing to worry about. Considering his hair, I’d say it’s all genetic, possibly related to his quirk.”

Through a blissful haze of oxytocin, Rei registers Enji’s hand on her shoulder. He laughs in an abrasive chuckle that overtakes Shouto’s cries.

“Finally,” he exclaims, “a masterpiece.”

If the doctor and nurses think Enji’s behavior is untoward, they keep the observation to themselves. Rei is too exhausted to fight the relief she feels. She allows her husband to take the newborn baby from her arms instead of insisting that she nurse Shouto straight away as she did with her other children.

“You did well this time,” he mutters.

Rei smiles wearily at the compliment, but it does not sit as well as she believed it would.

...

In retrospect, Rei understands that there was no singular moment that caused the trouble which followed. Rather, it was a collection of compromises that seemed, at the time, to be for the best. Rei gathers the rest of her photographs. Carefully, she thumbs through the small stack and is reminded of all the seeds she and Enji planted in their garden.

Undoubtedly, her children are her greatest love, and she tucks the loose photos in her purse for safekeeping, holding their cheerful likenesses close and the good memories closer. Looking around, Rei realizes that she’s finished packing—all except the vase of Japanese gentians sitting on the windowsill.

Rei prepared for this. She spoke at length with her therapist about the baggage she intends to take into the next phase of her life. Some of it is essential. Never again will she let herself slip so far as to harm someone she cherishes. No more will she suffer the company of people more concerned with ends than means. But when it comes to Enji, Rei is of two minds, torn between the past and the present. Scarred and repentant, he is not the person he once was.

Neither is she.

A brisk knock on the door stirs Rei from her reverie. She turns to address the nurse and is happy to find a familiar face.

“Your discharge papers are ready, and your cab is here, Mrs. Todoroki,” he says cheerfully, already taking her bags. “Are you sure you don’t want your family to escort you home?”

Rei shakes her head.

“They offered, but I want to do this by myself.”

“Fair enough.” The nurse shrugs.

He takes a step toward the windowsill and reaches to collect the flowers when Rei makes her decision. With a gentle expression but a firm palm tilted upward, she halts his kind gesture.

“The flowers stay,” Rei says confidently. “I don’t have room for them anymore.”

It’s a short walk from her old room to the hospital’s front door, but the journey took Rei over a decade to complete. She slips into the back of the cab and passes the driver a slip of paper with the name and address of her new accommodations—a small, refurbished apartment with a low table, comfortable futon, and no answering machine. It's a perfect place for someone starting over.

Rei knows that if she turns around for a last look, she will see Japanese gentians standing guard on the windowsill, but she lets this opportunity pass. As the cab speeds away, Rei commits herself to the good habit of not looking back.

“That’s a nice address, Miss. Where are you headed to?” the driver asks.

It’s been a long time since Rei was called anything other than Mrs. Todoroki. Caught in the small thrill, she doesn’t correct him. She’s grateful for the crowded city’s veil of anonymity and, within it, her second chance.

“Home,” she answers honestly, feeling freer than she has in decades.

[sserpente]

24 little kinks | Doors 18, 19 🎄

“You remember that chocolate advent calendar I got you for December?”

“I do,” he chuckled and pressed a tender kiss to your temple. “You made me display it in the kitchen so I would not eat it all at once.”

Your smile widened. “How about we get another one?”

Loki raised an eyebrow, only now paying proper attention to the sex toy ad. Then, he frowned. It was an odd mixture of disgust, genuine curiosity and even a hint of arousal flashing in his blue eyes.

A/N: I enjoyed writing this door a lot more than I thought I would. I’m gonna go take a shower now, okay?

NSFW warnings: medical play

-

“I’m actually surprised you didn’t figure it out yourself.” You giggled, examining the toy in your hands. “You couldn’t have used it on me, it’s for you.” Loki frowned.

“For me?”

“It’s a masturbator.”

“Yes, that’s what it said on the package.”

“It’s some kind of… vagina… simulator. You stick your hard penis inside and… masturbate.” Loki’s frown deepened. “I sincerely doubt this toy would feel nearly as good as your warm quim, my sweet.”

You giggled once again. “I’m flattered you think so, Trickster.”

-

Christmas drew nearer and nearer. On Thursday, you turned your living room into a gift wrapping factory. While drinking coffee on the sofa, Loki watched you in an interested manner, observing how you tied the bows on every package with skilled fingers and decorated them with chocolate, candy canes and tiny little baubles and at the very same time, desperately tried to find out what you had gotten him to put under the tree but you had told him that you wouldn’t be so stupid as to wrap his Christmas present right before his eyes.

He had even offered to help you but realised quickly he did not have the patience to wrap gifts that were not for you, even though he had quite the talent to make all those packages look rather pretty and presentable.

“Perhaps I should use that feather on you again…” He mused, crossing his arms before his chest.

You suddenly laughed.

“What?”

“I am for some reason imagining you wearing nothing but a red bow… neatly tied around your crown jewels.”

Loki smirked at you, shaking his head in the process.

“I’m almost done, Trickster. Why don’t you go ahead and open our advent calendar in the meantime?” Yesterday’s door revealed a penis sheath with knobs to enhance the female pleasure during sex. You hadn’t gotten around to using it yet though—Loki had buried himself inside you before you could even bring it up again yesterday and you intended to change that tonight.

He returned to you with a medium-sized box moments later, its content rattling when he opened the lid. Your eyes widened. You recognised the metal device immediately. It was vaginal speculum.

An arousing image of Loki, in a white coat, examining your pussy while you spread your legs for him on the sofa flashed before your eyes…

But at first, you’d have to explain to Loki what a gynaecologist was.

“That’s a vaginal speculum.” You stated, both terrified and excited.

“I beg your pardon, a what?”

“My gynaecologist uses it on me to examine my cervix. It’s an annual routine examination, along with a general pelvic exam.”

Loki looked up immediately, seemingly shocked by your explanation. “You let a strange man examine your quim every year?!”

“No, no, no, no, that’s not at all what this is. I mean… technically, yes. But she’s a woman. That examination is important, Loki, it’s to prevent any serious illnesses from developing. Things like cervical bleeding, cystitis or breast cancer…”

“She examines your breasts too?”

“Loki.” You smiled at him. “Are you aware what that toy is for?”

“Very well aware…” He replied, fingering the speculum in his hands. A faint smirk tugged on his thin lips.

-

Loki had done his research and when you came home from doing some groceries for the upcoming Christmas week (including loads of sweets and food he had asked for), your living room had transformed into… into a… it looked like a surgery. Everything was white, your windows covered with white curtains, the carpet to your feet white and cold tiles and the sofa… your sofa had turned into a gyno-chair.

It must have been an illusion—and a realistic one at that. You swallowed thickly. Suspiciously, you took off your shoes and leaned the shopping bags against the threshold. It was then Loki appeared in the living room, his arms crossed before his chest.

But that was not all. He was wearing a white coat.

“You are late for your appointment, Miss (Y/L/N).” Loki said, staring you down in a reproachful manner. “I do expect my patients to be punctual. My time is very limited.”

“How… how did you… and what…”

“I… what did you call it, ‘googled’ it?”

“You used my computer? You used Google?”

“Yes. The picture search, along with some very explicit pornography.” Which must have given him this idea, you concluded.

“Now… are you ready for your annual pelvic exam, Miss (Y/L/N).”

You opened your mouth but no more words would come out. You were paralysed, frozen to the spot—but most importantly, you were growing hornier with every passing second.

“Now, would you mind removing your clothes for me so we can get this examination started…” He pointed to the chair. Damn… Loki was a good actor. Nodding obediently, you still said nothing when you undressed until you were fully naked and then hesitantly approached the chair.

“There is no need to be afraid, Miss (Y/L/N). This is a routine examination.” Loki had meddled with the chair, perhaps even taken some inspiration from the porn he had found. As soon as you sat down on the gyno-chair and put your calves on the leg rests, his seidr took care of restraining you.

Exposed, you looked up at him, your heart pounding in your chest.

“Now, let us see what we have here.” Loki had coated the speculum with the lube from the calendar even though you were sure you didn’t need any. Carefully, he pushed it inside to spread you and moved between your legs to take a proper look at your already swollen pussy.

His fingers probed your lips while you were getting used to the feeling of the speculum inside you. It felt so much different from when your actual gynaecologist did it. Well—now, you were aroused and it was Loki who was performing an… exam on you.

He hummed. He was tremendously good at hiding his own arousal, or his heavy breathing which would have given him away immediately. Oh no, he wanted this experience to be as real as possible for you. That was the point of this toy, was it not?

“Everything looks good so far… however, I do detect a little dryness around the cervical area. Does this feel uncomfortable?” Well, he had made this up. Loki sank two fingers inside you, curling them right at your g-spot. A moan escaped your lips.

“N-no…” You whimpered. “It… it feels good.”

Loki smirked. “Does it now? Does this feel good too?” His thumb found your clit, toying with it teasingly. You squirmed in your restraints.

“I-it does…”

Loki hummed once more as if he were a scientist examining a particularly interesting discovery. “I would recommend at least three orgasms per day, Miss (Y/LN). Consider it a prescription. We have to keep that lovely quim nice and wet so you can keep enjoying sex, no?”

“Of course…” You squeaked out. Doctor’s orders…

“Now I would like to screen your heart rate during arousal. Try to stay relaxed. You will have to experience an orgasm for me for an accurate reading.”

Fuck… you moaned again, eyes widening when he produced a stethoscope, bringing the cold metal to your chest and then began to massage your sensitive bundle of nerves for his purposes. He had you on the verge of orgasm within mere minutes.

Soon, you were gushing all over that speculum, if anything not only because of the bliss he made you feel but also because of his scrutinising blue gaze which never seemed to leave your clenching pussy. You were sure he could see it contract when you came, your whole body spasming with pleasure.

Loki took a deep, almost shaky breath. For the first time, he fought for his composure and indifference as your ‘doctor’. He hummed in approval.

“Yes, that looks good…” He said it as if he had just tried a delicious meal. “But I would prefer to run one last test on you to make sure your vaginal muscles are strong and healthy. To do this, I will have to penetrate you, yes?”

You nodded enthusiastically. Yes. Fuck me, doctor, please. If he could hear your thoughts, he did not show.

Your eyes widened. Only now did you notice that Loki was wearing the penis sheath. “Surely, you understand that, Miss (Y/L/N).” A shiver ran down your spine. You nodded again, moaning when he removed the speculum which was now slick with your juices and instead pushed his cock inside you. The knobs felt wonderful. Loki slid right in, sheathing himself to the hilt and started to thrust into you repeatedly, hard and fast.

You threw your head back as you felt another orgasm building, forming that tight knot right below your stomach to let you experience that pleasurable explosion only Loki could make you feel this intensely. His thumb kept playing your clit like an instrument, every stroke, due to the penis sheath, even more breath-taking than the last and when you screamed his name, coming undone before his eyes, Loki grunted, your once again contracting muscles triggering his own release. He emptied himself into the sheath, making you whimper quietly.

“I expect you to return to my surgery next week, Miss (Y/L/N).” He panted. “You might need a few more treatments before I can be sure your body is well-trained for future sexual activities…”

Your heart skipped a beat. Who were you to object if that was what the doctor ordered?

-

A/N: Doors 20 and 21 will be opened on December 21st!

Check out my blog to find more Imagines and take a glimpse at my first (to be) published novel! Also, if you enjoyed this story, I would appreciate so much if you supported me on Kofi! ko-fi.com/sserpente

[baekchelor]

ａｓｈｏｒｅ[ii]

pairing: bodevan cash x reader genre: Doctor! AU, Romance, Angst summary: After a fall out with your fianceé, and an opportunity to chase your dreams, you embark into a medical mission trip to Namibia where you run into self-taught doctor Bodevan Cash. Love ensues. word count: 3.1k

❝how  foolish  to  believe  we  are  more  powerful  than  the  sea  or  the  sky. ❞                                                                                                         ― ruta  spetys

ONE ｓｅｖｅｎ ｄａｙｓ

◄ ｐｒｅｖ

You really, really hope some patient shows up today. That the doorbell announces the arrival of a doctor seeker. That you will be able to aid someone apart from the hangover teen (also staying at the Shipwreck Lodge Hotel, three cabins left from yours) who came looking for aspirins and serum. That you didn't cross the ocean on a medical mission trip only to crawl back into Ethan's arms drown-and-out —no adventures, no anecdotes, no experiences or anything for the matter.

You groan out loud, a stream of curses following shortly after. It's been seven days since your arrival to Möwe Bay, Namibia. Seven days of only you, your self-destructive mind and Guns N' Roses playing on the stereo (the single thing that has kept you sane).

"This trip was supposed to take my attention away from you," the words are purled and aimed to the exquisite ring around your finger. At the sight of it, your heart drops lower into your stomach. This been useless. You're trapped with your thoughts in the middle of nowhere. The sand dunes were chosen for their location, there was supposed to be no hospitals, no dispensaries, no medical aid...Nothing! Apparently, there's also no patients. Hence, no distractions. Which means? More time to stare at your flipping engagement ring.

Frustrated, you close your eyes and, confirming your hypothesis, the immediate image that triumphs the darkness is Ethan's blue eyes lighting up as you gasped —amidst weeps— at the ring. The one nowadays, you tend to resent.

The memory sends your stomach into knots. How are you supposed to make amends with Ethan's hidden truth if you can't bring your mind elsewhere? Far, far away from the burn around your knuckles each time the ring appears on your range of vision.

Ethan supported your decision to embark on a trip alone. He knows joining Doctors Without Borders was a dream of yours, and that marrying a Surgeon Chief would make it unreachable. The main reason you asked and he agreed, however, was that you went hysterical when Ethan's soon-to-be ex-wife surprised both of you at the hospital, your hospital—the hospital you worked at.

In a couple months, you will take Ethan Gandy as your husband, and he completely forgot to mention he has been married before. Worse than that, really. He didn't think of sharing with you that he still is married.

Ethan and Harper have been separated for six years, way before you came into the picture, and she knew about your existence all along. The divorce has been in the works since your very first date —or so Ethan says —,and Harper doesn't love Ethan anymore, Ethan loves you and not Harper, and by the time you return to Manhattan, their marriage would've seen its last dawn. Nevertheless, you have yet to make amends with it, chew it the enough to swallow it down your throat until you make sure it will settle in your gut and that you won't throw it up.

You need to. Because you love him.

When Ethan proposed, kneeled beside the fireplace at his hometown in Alaska, not once you considered saying no. It felt meant to be. Both valued your career, both spent more hours at the hospital than at home, but both were willing to make it work. You could handle it, you could make love at the examination rooms, most importantly, you wanted to spend the rest life with him, no matter the sacrifices. Because the truth is, before Ethan, you have only fallen in love with medicine, and he quickly became your very own McDreamy.

You met him during your first year as a Resident. He moved to New York for a fellowship in surgery, and he was brilliant, in every way. You admired him from afar, heard all the wonders he pulled on the O.R until one day you diagnosed a weird case of sudden onset of total vision loss that required urgent surgery. You worked together on the case, medical talk evolved into personal questions, winks, shy smiles on the halls up till Ethan stopped the elevator, cupped both sides of your face, and kissed you. He was ten years older than you, and the age difference didn't prevent him from becoming your very own definition of love. If looks could kill, his would make love to you. Ethan yearned for you, you yearned for him —every day, every hour, every minute. From your skin to your bones, you were his.

Ethan was a goodbye you couldn't say, and you feared —especially when he got promoted to Chief— that at some point your busy schedules would force a breakup, a disagreement, or maybe a stupid fight over a toaster. But then one snowy night, he soothed the worries away when he popped the question at a cabin in the middle of the woods, over a cup of Rioja and the most endearing words. The ring was a dream, with engraved diamonds around a sapphire, because several times during your relationship, you would look up at him with stars in your eyes, and whisper how much you treasure the sapphire blue of his orbs.

It is that shade of blue that ascertained you belong wherever he breathed, but the colour turned grey when his wife —ex-wife— came into your life.

Ah, Ethan has a wife.

You force yourself to neglect the ideas aside, though you can't seem to do so. Ethan doesn't love her, he didn't cheat on her with you, yet... it is hard to acknowledge the man you will marry already waited for a bride to walk down the aisle. Ethan promised to spend the rest of his life with another girl, and he did not fulfil that promise once... What makes you think he will keep his vows to you?

"So much for that," you curse again.

"So much for what?" comes a voice behind you, "I'm plainly in urgent need of Corticosteroids."

You turn on your heels, Guns N' Roses play This I Love, and you face a worried looking man. He has long, brown hair, and the bags under his eyes are a shade of plum. Is he an addict? The perspiration over his forehead and anxiety might be symptoms of withdrawal...He isn't puking, though, and he isn't trembling either. In fact, he seems worried, but he is patiently standing at the doorframe, waiting for your response.  

A response you don't seem to form. It could be the song, the waves crashing on the shore, or the fact you only had an Americano as breakfast, but the words have died in your throat, and you're entirely at a loss of action. This weird-looking boy feels magnetic, your body seems made of metal, and there's a force attracting you towards him. Maybe is because he looks out of a movie, with his psychedelic 70's style and the evident social awkwardness aura, but then Axl Rose sings about how he searched the universe and found himself within' her eyes and you realise that the magnet comes from his eyes. They're blue, not sapphire blue, ocean blue and they call to you.

After a second, you clear your throat, "I cannot hand you a drug without a prescription, sir. I need to examine you first."

"The patient isn't myself," he stutters. Hurriedly, he extends a hand your way, "Bodevan Cash."

As soon as your hand gets trapped in his, electricity jolts inside you. To your relief, he cuts it short, shaking your hand briefly. "What are the Corticosteroids for, Mr Cash?"

"Bo. You can call me Bo," right after he finishes, he drags his gaze away from yours. "Shortcut for B-Bodevan." His left foot bounces, anxious, and he's brought up his bottom lip between his teeth. He babbles, and it makes you nervous as well, "Eighteen Year-old. Preeclamptic toxaemia. Twenty weeks of gestation."

You abruptly realise the stethoscope around his neck. Right. He is a doctor.  

"How serious?" you blurt. This is your chance to practice medicine. Finally. "I-I'm an internist. I might be of help."

Bodevan glances at you, questioningly, then he returns his attention to the floor, "Are you a Christian?"

For the first time in seven days, you laugh, "No. I am not." The laughter is a gruff, gravelly thing, the kind of chortle you would have expected from an old man, a lifetime smoker, not a successful young doctor who is about to marry the love of her life.

Bo's face pinched up in a crooked smile, "Good." He grabs your coffee cup, takes a big slurp and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. Then he is out.

Unsure of what is meant to be your next move, you don't follow him outdoor. Not until he asks you to hasten in a very weirdly-worded polite way.

Bodevan is waiting for you beside his combi, which is parked on a parch of grass beside your cabin. When he spots you, medical kit tightly clasped, he runs around to open the passenger door for you. Once you're close by, he offers a hand to help you up. You ignore if the source of the live wires across your bloodstream is the gentle touch of his calloused fingers or the insides of the van. Your jaw drops. It is dramatically different from Ethan's BMW but in a better way. Bodevan adapted the vehicle into an Examination Room, and the work is so well done and complete it even has a couch so the patients can sit at the reception. <<A reception. Inside. A. Combi.>>

The doctor is now at the drivers-side of the van, the window rolled down. He reaches inside and flips the lock. It takes Bodevan less than a minute to hop inside, and even less to ignite the combi and speed across the sand-path highway.

"Moharerwa. Our Patient," he speaks. "She refuses the induced labour procedure."

It all makes sense now.

"You want the Corticosteroids to buy her time," that's why Bo is in such a hurry, probably also why he is anxious. He needs to medicate her corticosteroid to prolong her pregnancy and help the baby's lungs become more mature in little time to prepare it for life outside the womb. And Bo needs to do it fast, or else Moharerwa's preeclampsia will evolve into eclampsia, and she'll perish.

"The baby's life is the priority?" If she's 20 weeks pregnant, there's no other reason why she isn't on an O.R at this very moment, than to gain more time for her premature baby.

"For her," Bo says, his voice an octave lower. "For me, they both are."

You lean against the hood of the truck, not knowing what to say back, and allowing the classical music blasting from the speakers to continue their excellent job of keeping your thoughts away from Ethan Gandy.

And near the possibilities to save lives today.

Twenty minutes later, Bodevan murmurs —you're having a hard time deciphering if he's mumbling things to himself or to you—, that you've reached the destination. Eyebrows knitted, you wonder if the giant teepee in front of you hides a clinic instead of fancy carpets for a picnic at the Skeleton Coast.

"Let's go," he says, briefly meeting your eyes. As soon as you nod, Bo rushes out of the vehicle and into the teepee. You follow suit, every bit of amazed by your discovers. At least ten people are laying on cots, covered by colourful blankets in tribal patterns, and other five people have beelined at the couch inside Bo's combi. There's a wall with porcelain jars labelled with medicine and herbs names, a chest of drawers with mortars and pestles on its surface, and a portrait of Mao Zedong in the middle of it all.

The weirdness of the surroundings amazes you, but your attention is consumed by Bodevan Cash wearing a white coat, concerned eyes as he exchanges words with a red-skinned pretty girl. She must belong to the Himbas. You've read about the tradition of the Himba women apply red ochre butter to their skin and hair each morning. She is gorgeous, and so is the pregnant girl (Moharerwa, you assume) laying on the cot, where Bodevan is leaned into as he continues talking in an unknown language.

The concern in his gaze is familiar. You've seen it in Ethan's features when his patients are on a thin line against the veil of death.

"Tell Rellian to prepare," he instructs, getting rid of his white coat. You don't know if it's a good idea to chase his trace outside, but your feet didn't wait for your decision.

Bodevan takes his tank-top off, brings his hair into a bun and carefully lays down on the sand. He stares at the ocean as if the motion of the waves would induce the same rhythm to his heart. Then he brings his tighs, arms and palms into a lotus position as the salty-foam of the sea kisses his toes.

The last thing you want to do is disturb him, especially now that he's about to go on surgery, but your subconscious has a different plan, and she's made sure to glue your eyes at the muscles of his back, shifting each time he breathes in and out. He utters two words in a language you can't understand and ends his meditation by getting on his feet. Bodevan's palms are pressed together, thumbs close to his chest, and fingers pointing upwards when he slightly bows at the ocean, "Namaste."

He hesitates at your figure waiting for him, and for the tenth time today, he avoids your gaze, this time by looking down at his footprints on the wet sand, the ones that lead straight to you. Bodevan grabs his stethoscope and places it over the left side of his chest. He still neglects your stare, blue eyes dancing from one side to another, as his lips count his heartbeats. Satisfied by the cadence, he nods to himself.

Finally, Bodevan approaches you, "I need to scrub in. Moharerwa has signs of Fetal Distress and Placental Abruption." The sound of his voice is careful, laced with concern, but you're unsure if he's worried about you peace of mind, or his upcoming surgery. "Could you take over the clinic for me? I've rounds to make and six patients waiting to be examined. Peraa will help you out. She's kind of -the n-nurse here."

Kind of?

What he means with kind of?

Each word coming out of Bodavan's pretty lips increase your questions about the workflow in this clinic. He's got a kind-of-a-nurse, and he will scrub in with only his brother to assist him. No anesthesiologists, no scrub tech, no circulating tech, no nurses —because apparently, he's got any, just one that kind of is.

Bo notices your worrisome instantly. "Let me check your heart rate," he untangles the stethoscope from around his neck and places it over the skin of your chest. He explains his modus-operandi, the charts you will take over, and how Peraa can be of help.

Afterwards —and you don't know if he's doing for you or for himself— he goes over the surgery procedure. You swallow, trying to even your heart rate because the number of contractions per minute has increased considerably. Maybe it is rushing out because Bodevan is shirtless, acting all doctor like, and he seems like a flipping genius. He's an expert on anaesthesia, he's memorised the surgery, and diagnosed Moharerwa in a heartbeat. Most importantly, he comprehends the importance of engaging with a fresh mind and spirit, which lots of doctors doesn't. 

Bodevan bites his lower lip, considering for a while, and that's when you know you're doomed.

"It's… faster than average…" slowly, Bo averts his eyes to find yours, lips stretching into a crooked smirk. You, on the other hand, flush a beet red. Saving you from your embarrassment is the fact that he seems as nervous as you (Thank the heavens!). He moves closer, ear tips removed, and his index and middle finger rest over your neck, at the side of your windpipe.

For the first time since you met him, he is gazing down directly at you. There's not a shy look-away, or discomfort present on his body language, quite the contrary. He's grabbed your shaky hands and entwine them with his. But you're no fool, you distinguish what the shape of his mouth is silently counting. You know he's trying to ease his heart rate as well. Bodevan rests his forehead against yours, "Close your eyes, please. A little while."

"Okay," you murmur shyly, casting your eyes downward to the sight of your intertwined palms before allowing your lids to flutter shut.

"Even your pulse, cool down your breathing," he murmurs, but nonetheless shrugs nonchalantly. His hands have freed yours only to travel upside to reach your shoulders, where they hold reassuringly. "There's no pressure, we do what we can, we try, we try hard, but we are not overpowered by the pressure."

Of course, you know that, and you're thankful for his kind words. Moreover, you are grateful because he thinks that's the cause of your uneven heart rate when, in reality, he is the one rushing it. He makes you nervous. Really flipping nervous.

When you open up your eyes to meet his, he's staring intently at you, with the same wildness you've grown accustomed in the few hours you've met him. His eyes are blue like the ocean, blue like a sunless sky. You met a sky without a sun, and a man without floor — a doctor who's clinic is a teepee, who meditates before surgery, who seems to be every medical specialist. And know, although is weird and you don't know what the hell is wrong with you, something in your inside squirms and yells today you found a pair of eyes you cannot live without.

Bodavan intrigues you, out of extent. You've crossed the globe, travelled from New York to Namibia, have a fianceé, and yet, you've never encounter eyes like his.

"How are you feeling?" he asks.

"Your eyes look like the morning sky," you mumble, every inch a fool. He smiles.

"And yours look like chocolate."  

A pinch of guilt turns your throat into knots. The last thing you want is to "feel you belong" in the reflection of Bodevan's eyes. You don't belong in África, miles away from everything you're close of. You belong with your family, your friends, people you know how they're really like, not someone you've just met. You belong with Ethan. You still had no idea what you were doing here, other than hiding out very temporarily while Ethan took care of his… divorce. After that, you were going to take a plane back home.

Right?

[girlmeetsliv3]

Purgatorio II

Warning: The following story contains mentions of suicide, depression, anxiety, manipulation, abuse, and vivid descriptions of abusive acts. The behavior and mindset of the characters in this series will be incredibly yandere and toxic. This is a work of fiction and doesn’t represent the character of bangtan sonyeondan. Enjoy ~~~

A psychologist had come to visit him approximately an hour after Dr.Kim had left, an hour after the conversation had died down and the two individuals in the room were embraced by silence. There had been nothing to really speak once their thoughts on the situation had been expressed and Yoongi was never a fan of small talk. Neither were you it seemed, for that he was thankful. When the older man with round glasses and too many wrinkles in his forehead entered, Yoongi had to mentally prepare himself for the questions he was about to endure. He quite honestly feared the man because of the power he wielded. If he deemed Yoongi a danger to society he would ensure he never left the plain white walls that surrounded him, incarcerating in a literal prison and not just the metaphorical one he was used to. He was on the brink of a full-on panic attack the closer the man got to the bed and it made him upset of how weak he truly was. Anxiety manifested into a rage, all he wanted to do was pound the man’s head into the wall and inform him that he was perfectly sane. All the racing thoughts and emotions were halted the moment he felt the warmth of your hands enveloping him.

           He had failed to notice you standing up and was curious as to what exactly you were doing. He barely paid attention to the conversation occurring between the psychologist and you, solely focusing on your face and all the expressions you were able to exhibit in a manner of seconds. How he envied you. He failed to notice a question that had been directed at him until he felt a slight squeeze coming from you. “Mr.Min? Is this true?” The psychologist looked at him with intrigue and he recognized that tone of voice, it was one used often by his teachers when they wanted to catch him in a lie. Whatever you had said, he trusted you a lot more than he should truthfully. “Of course.” Yoongi had learned at a quite young age the shorter and less detailed a lie, the sweeter it was. The doctor simply nodded as his eyes focused on Yoongi’s and yours interlocked hands before stating he would sign the discharge papers and bring along documentation for you to sign. It wasn’t until the door closed behind the man that you let go of Yoongi’s hand a breathed a sigh of relief. For some reason he found himself missing the warmth.

           “What did you tell him?” He asked you with curiosity. You turned to look at him with confusion evident on your face, “Weren’t you paying attention?” Yoongi simply shook his head which only served to leave you reeling for answers. You had assumed that since he had cooperated in your lie to the psychologist he must have been paying attention. [y/n] felt her ears begin to heat up with embarrassment. You hadn’t minded improvising and doing whatever it took to help the miserable man in front you, but his desire to know your reasons put you in a tight spot. Min Yoongi was an individual that seemed to hate pity and believed the worst of the world around him, you had once met someone of a similar mindset. If you were open and honest about your intentions would you help him or just provide more of a reason for him to wallow in his own self-pity. Honesty is the best policy…just not right now.

           “I told him that we had a fight whilst you were drunk, and you probably tried to light your cigarette and ended up causing the fire.”

           “So, you made me sound like an alcoholic… Wait, a fight?” His eyebrow quirked.

           “You’re more likely to get discharged if they think what occurred was out of a rash decision, instead of a premeditated one.”

           “You still haven’t answered my question. We had a fight?”

           “I told him I was your girlfriend. They couldn’t get a hold of your parents while you were here and if you have no one to account for you, they won’t discharge you.”

           “My parents are dead, at least to me…”

           “Sorry.”

           “You seem to know a lot about hospitals.” It was the question you expected, but you still couldn’t help the words dying on your tongue. In fear of what would come out if you opened your mouth, you merely nodded and hummed in agreeance. Your evasiveness to all his questions wasn’t helping diminish his growing interest in you – which if he was honest with himself wasn’t all that healthy. Yoongi desired to personally know all of you. Whatever that entailed. You were an enigma and, in a world, so black and white, he desired to know and understand why you were grey. A thought popped into his head – a game of sorts. How would you react? What would you say?

           Another nurse had come inside the room with stacks of paperwork. Bringing along a pen and informing Yoongi of his medication, treatment, and where to sign in order to be allowed to once again enter hell. His signature was thick, and the pen felt heavy in his hand, it was almost as if he was signing a deal with the devil; promising to endure a life of pure and utter agony until the end. Yoongi may have been desperate, but one failed attempt was enough for him. He didn’t desire to build a reputation for himself or never be allowed to leave the ugly eggshell colored walls which surrounded him. Returning to his everyday life was something he anticipated but hoped to delay. Imagine his utter surprise when the nurse turned to you and asked you to sign the document as well, handing you a copy to keep and repeating all the instructions once again.

           “What’s going on?” Yoongi asked his eyes darting between [y/n] and the nurse. “Mrs.[y/l/n] has agreed to be your guardian until you’re deemed stable enough to care for yourself Mr.Min.” He was usually better at controlling his emotions, but the nurse must have seen the quick flash of uncertainty in his eyes as she suddenly turned to you and asked poignantly. “You are his girlfriend, are you not?” As you opened your mouth to respond, attempting to come up with something quick before this whole thing fell apart, you were interrupted by the Yoongi himself. “Oh right, that’s what the doctor said. Sorry baby I forgot.” He was just going along with the plan, that’s what you told yourself as you felt your cheeks heat up. All part of the plan. “Will, that be all?” You asked the nurse, desperate for her to leave. She asked if the two of you had a way of getting home that was wheelchair friendly and when you replied you didn’t she promised to order a cab.

           After she left, the room was once again silent. Here we go. You prepped yourself for more questions, waiting for the next attack. It never came. Yoongi merely sat in silence and stared off into space, all you could do was stare at him. You had time to memorize every one of his features the entire month you had been by his side, but now they looked different. Truthfully he was an entirely different person to what you imagined he’d be like: he had looked so calm and peaceful in his sleep. Now there was a roughness present in everything he did. Someone who had been damaged far too many times and no longer trusted anyone – not even himself. It saddened you and caused another face to flash before you. Bright eyes, light hair, a peaceful face roughened by the world as well. Tears welled in your eyes and you forced the image to the very back of your mind. I won’t allow that to happen, not again.

           “I have to get dressed.” It lacked any sort of enthusiasm or emotion. His voice and expression were robotic as he spoke, it wasn’t until your eyes met that a hint of something appeared in his cold eyes. [y/n] looked around trying to come up with anything that would serve as an article of clothing. Honestly, you had given some thought to getting him something to wear when he woke up but knew that was overstepping the boundaries just a little too much. “I think there is a gift shop downstairs. I can see if they have clothes.” Yoongi winced at the thought of having to wear an overly cringey shirt and ill-fitting slacks, but he relented. [Y/n] reached into her purse to grab her wallet, “What size are you?

           “Extra-large.”

           “What?!” You sputtered.

           “The bandages need to breathe right? Get me an extra-large.”

           “Oh.”

           You could not have possibly dashed out of the room faster. Yoongi couldn’t help but burst into laughter at your reaction. Cute. There wasn’t much to do after you left, so he found himself counting the seconds until you returned. Once he reached twelve hundred, he became irritated. Why had you taken so long? How hard was it to find a stupid shirt and pants? Had you forgotten about him? Had you grown tired of him already? Did you decide he was useless and pathetic and abandon him? Twelve hundred and one. Twelve hundred and two. Where the fuck are you?! His question was answered when you burst through the door, arms filled with two sets of plastic bags with the sign thank you printed on them repeatedly. “What took you so long?!” He tried to hide the animosity in his voice, but you stopped in your tracks when you heard it.

           “It took a while to find pants and I had to pick up your prescriptions.” [Y/n] walked towards the hospital bed and gently placed the bags beside Yoongi being careful not to disturb him. You reached into one of the bags and pulled out a long-sleeved black shirt, as well as some black slacks. It was as if you knew him. Something inside of him swelled at that. He patiently watched as you stared at the clothes neatly folded next to him and pressed your lips together as if in deep thought. Your head tilted to the side and you lightly nodded to yourself, almost as if agreeing with whatever decision you had made. The fact that you were oblivious to all these mannerisms is what made it that much more interesting to him. “I’ll go get a nurse to help you get dressed.” You pointed behind you.

No. “No. I can get dressed by myself.” He didn’t want you to go away again, even if just for a second. He began to pull at the strings at the side of his hospital gown, but [y/n] placed a hand on his to stop him. “Maybe we should get your pants on first?” The tone did not go unnoticed and Yoongi was once again reminded that under the gown he was stark naked. Without waiting for a response, you began to pull off the bed sheets and placed the pants near his feet opening them wide enough to get them through. It was like a mother dressing her sleepy child in the morning, you even asked him to lift his hips slightly so as to drag the pants up. Of course, you did this as your eyes stared at the ceiling and your lips were pressed tightly together in embarrassment.  Had his mother ever done this for him? Did she exhibit the care you did? Is this how you would dress your children in the future? All thoughts were interrupted when you cleared your throat. The pants were now at his thighs and [y/n] had decided that was enough.

Yoongi struggled a bit, but he managed to pull the pants all the way up as [y/n] faced the wall trying not to see anything. Once they were properly on, he undid the laces of the gown and slipped on the shirt with ease. “Oh um, the hospital in providing us with a wheelchair until we get to your place, but then they have to take it back. So, they said it’s probably best to buy one.” The little bit of joy he felt faded again, “Alright. I’ll have one delivered to my place once I get home.” [Y/n] nodded and went to pack up her belongings, tying her hair into a loose ponytail to get it out of her face. Placing the bag on your shoulder you turned around and smiled meekly, “Ready to go home?”

Home. Home was where his demons waited anxiously for his returns. Home is where his passion and failure both lived. Home is where he spent all of his time wallowing in misery. Home is where he hoped to fall asleep and never wake up. Home was where you lived, right next to him. Home was where you were forced to interact since you promised to care for him. Home was where you couldn’t ignore him or abandon him like everyone else had or you’d be held accountable for his actions. Home was you. You were home.

“I can’t wait.”

[daddyslittlejuliet]

Sounds That Scare Dogs — And What to Do About Them

The post Sounds That Scare Dogs — And What to Do About Them by Arden Moore appeared first on Dogster. Copying over entire articles infringes on copyright laws. You may not be aware of it, but all of these articles were assigned, contracted and paid for, so they aren’t considered public domain. However, we appreciate that you like the article and would love it if you continued sharing just the first paragraph of an article, then linking out to the rest of the piece on Dogster.com.

Dogs don’t need to see something scary to turn into puddles of panic. There are tons of sounds that scare dogs, unfortunately. Certain sounds that scare dogs can cause them to pace, drool, shake, shadow you or desperately seek a safe refuge like inside the bathtub.

Some dogs with noise phobias can become petrified with fear even before the dreaded sound arrives, because they pick up on pre-sound warning cues.

“My dog, Rusty, is terrified of the smoke detector in our kitchen,” says Nicholas Dodman, BVMS, professor emeritus at Tufts University’s School of Veterinary Medicine, a board-certified veterinary behaviorist and lead veterinarian at the Center for Canine Behavior Studies in Salisbury, Connecticut. “He has learned that turning on our indoor grill may cause the smoke alarm to go off, so he starts to shake and tremble with fear when he sees us bring out the indoor grill. So, I distract him in another room while my wife, Linda, works the indoor grill. Rusty has learned what we call a behavioral chain, a common occurrence in dogs with noise phobias.”

What are some common sounds that scare dogs?

What sounds scare dogs? Photography ©Sonja Rachbauer| Getty Images

By definition, veterinarians and animal behaviorists use the term “noise phobia” to describe the intense and irrational fear displayed by some dogs to certain sounds. It is important to make the distinction that fear is a normal emotional response to a real or perceived threat or situation, such as dreading the anticipated pain from a vaccination needle. However, fear can escalate to a phobia, an exaggerated and irrational response that can completely emotionally cripple a dog.

Topping the list of sounds that scare dogs:

thunderstorms

fireworks

loud trucks

gunshots

people yelling

squawking pet parrots

security alarms

smoke detectors

But your dog may develop a noise phobia to more unusual sounds based on past experience, such as the wheels of a skateboard, the buzzer on a game show on TV or the popping of bubble wrap used to pad packages.

Sounds that scare dogs are a pretty common problem

Sounds that scare dogs aren’t uncommon, unfortunately. Photography ©igorr1 | Getty Images.

Sounds that scare dogs and escalate into noise phobia in dogs are more common than you may realize. Dr. Dodman estimates that close to 50 percent of dogs have some signs of fear and anxiety to sounds, sights and situations. But there is no study known that breaks down the percentage of dogs with fears or phobias to perceived scary sounds.

“Fear and anxiety rank as the No. 1 issue with dogs,” says Dr. Dodman, who ran the Animal Behavior Clinic at Tufts for more than two decades and is a best-selling pet author. “No one knows for sure, but it may have to do with their physical size, shape, structure, their temperaments and/or environmental influences.”

Most of Dr. Dodman’s canine clients being treated for thunderstorm phobia tended to be large and hairy. He has treated more breeds like German Shepherd Dogs, Labrador Retrievers, Golden Retrievers and Bernese Mountain Dogs for noise phobias than he has for breeds like Greyhounds, Shih Tzus or Dachshunds.

“A dog’s coat is a perfect receptacle for an electric charge, especially dogs with long-haired coats,” he notes. “Things and animals can get statically charged in a storm.”

Signs of fear

Is your dog hiding? He might have a noise phobia. Photography ©Alexandr Zhenzhirov | Getty Images

How a dog reacts to a fearful sound also depends on whether or not his best friend – you — are in the room or the dog is home alone.

“Clinical signs can differ, but if you are with the dog when the noise occurs, the typical behavior is for the dog to go into Velcro mode and be close to you, even press into you as the dog shakes and trembles with fear,” Dr. Dodman says. “But if you are not present to provide solace to the dog, separation anxiety is also usually present. These dogs are in extreme anxious states and tend to vocalize, have accidents on the floor and desperately try to hide or escape what they regard to be a house of horrors.”

Other signs of sounds that scare dogs can include: inappropriate chewing (your shoes, the television remote, etc.), drooling, excessive barking, diarrhea and vomiting, digging (including the living room rug), panting heavily, pacing and displaying “whale eye” — a panicky look in which you can see the whites of the eyes.

Tools to calm a noise phobia

While there is no one cure or one-size-fits-all solution to minimize sounds that scare dogs has or even make them disappear altogether, you do have plenty of tools at your disposal.

For starters, strive to be calm around your dog and avoid baby talk or panicky tones. Dogs are masters at reading our emotional states. And, consult a professional dog behaviorist or dog trainer to help modify your dog’s behavior. Keep in mind that behavior modification techniques build on small but steady successes, and you need to be patient. Never yell at your dog for his fear-related destructive behavior, as your dog could start to associate the loud noises with a punishment, too.

As for products, work with your veterinarian to see if these may aid the reaction in your dog: Anti-anxiety vests, ThunderShirts, anti-static jackets or even towel wrapping your dog to help him feel less anxious or frightened. If your dog is afraid of storms, you can try rubbing his coat with antistatic laundry dryer sheets.

Pheromone sprays and diffusers. These commercial products emit dog-appeasing pheromones that help some dogs calm down in stressful or scary situations.

Soothing music or white noise to help block out the source of the fear-causing sound.

Soundproof a crate or safe room for your dog to go to before a storm strikes.

Some dogs require supplements or prescription medication to help them cope with noise phobias, especially to thunderstorms. The popular go-to medications prescribed by veterinarians include clonidine, clomipramine, fluoxetine, benzodiazepine and Prozac. Keep in mind that your veterinarian may recommend a combination of these drugs or may prescribe for use before a storm arrives to minimize your dog’s response. Go to a holistic veterinarian if you prefer more homeopathic solutions like herbs, essential oils, Bach flower remedies or Traditional Chinese Medicine (TCM).

Dr. Dodman shares one final key bit of advice: Don’t wait to get your pup or young dog treated for a noise phobia. “If your 10-month-old dog is starting to show signs of fear to a sound like thunder, don’t dismiss it and think you can just live with his pacing, because trust me, it will get worse if unchecked. I guarantee that. Get help sooner than later.”

When it comes to hearing, dog ears rule

Dogs have much better hearing than humans. Photography ©Azret Ayubov | Getty .

When it comes to a hearing contest, dogs have us beat, paws down. On average, there are about 12 muscles per canine ear that can be tilted, turned, raised and lowered to zero in on sounds at greater distances and wider frequencies than human ears.

Dogs can hear sounds within 67 to 45,000 hertz range as compared to people who can hear sounds within a range of 63 to 23,000. Hertz (Hz) is a measure of sound frequency or cycles per second.

That explains why your dog can be snoozing in an upstairs bedroom but hear you open a bag of potato chips in the kitchen and come bounding your way.

Thumbnail: © mattjeacock |Getty Images & © GlobalP | Getty Images.

About the author

Arden Moore, the Pet Health and Safety Coach, is a pet behavior consultant, master certified pet first-aid instructor, author and host of the Oh, Behave Show on Pet Life Radio. Learn more at ardenmoore.com.

Editor’s note: This article appeared in Dogster magazine. Have you seen the new Dogster print magazine in stores? Or in the waiting room of your vet’s office? Subscribe now to get Dogster magazine delivered straight to you! 

Read more related articles on Dogster.com:

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Why Do Female Dogs Hump? Reasons for Female Dog Humping

The post Sounds That Scare Dogs — And What to Do About Them by Arden Moore appeared first on Dogster. Copying over entire articles infringes on copyright laws. You may not be aware of it, but all of these articles were assigned, contracted and paid for, so they aren’t considered public domain. However, we appreciate that you like the article and would love it if you continued sharing just the first paragraph of an article, then linking out to the rest of the piece on Dogster.com.

[imagineclaireandjamie]

Thank you, @bonnie-wee-swordsman, for the outrageously perfect song suggestion!

Read the other chapters here.

Our Story

At some point, they start ignoring time.

Claire, whose career so closely monitors the rhythms of human life, stops wearing a watch at home. The digital clock, which rests on a bedside table, is turned away like a spurned guest. A 45-degree angle now arrowing through the black, its numbers an indecipherable mist of light on the wall.

And for his part, Jamie skirts the church on his morning walks. The chimes, echoing from the stone bell tower, are a reminder of something there will never be enough of.

They recognize this for what it is: denial, out of fear. They are afraid of what they’ll see when they wear the watch, pass the church, if they allow the digital clock to stand guard over their dreams: the digits changing, the minutes out-pacing their steps. And they are afraid—perhaps even more so—of what they will not see: an immobile hand, a blank screen. Time stopped, time run out.

If this is truly denial, they tell themselves, then so be it.

It’s the small things that go first. The plot of a favorite film distorts, then takes the shapes of plots from other, less favored films. The frozen aisle moves with every grocery shop, its location found not by memory, but by the increasing chill in the air—goosebumps down skin, the body shaken. And a childhood pet, though long dead, lives and dies in the span of a single day. The joy and grief of it all, so fresh, that Jamie reaches for a shovel, upends the earth to bury a ghost. (Adso sits at his feet, though it’s a different loss he mourns.)

Eventually, the disease consumes other things. Dates: Is Geordie’s birthday on the 20th or the 21st? Directions: Is their new house on Jefferson Street or on Bond? The inertia of Jamie’s life slows with the disappearance of such landmarks, everyday values made so identical that he does not know where to put his faith, his love.

On an afternoon in July, Jamie volunteers to pick up one of Claire’s prescriptions. It is 2PM when he arrives at the pharmacy, approaches the counter with a tied and twisted tongue. Something about the pharmacist—so self-assured in his pristine lab coat—unnerves him into forgetfulness.

“A Dhia. One second,” Jamie says, fumbling through his pockets. He pulls out the receipt he’s put there and reads the reminder note on its blank side. (He cannot attribute the uniformly written letters or the passionately-crossed ts. His, or someone else’s?)

“Fraser,” he finally says. “I’m picking up a prescription for Claire Fraser.”

This is the first time Jamie has forgotten her—she, who is his world, and who is also half of himself. Suddenly, he is desperate to hide his embarrassment, for an enclosed space in which he can trap his wife’s name to prevent it from flying away. The white paper bag, passed to him and labelled just for her, feels wrong in his hands, now dirtied by the betrayal he has just committed.

Jamie does not return the way he came, but drives. By sunset, he does not know where he is, or how he has come to be along this stretch of foreign homes. Here, there is only the lingering sense of his shame—the very thing that has propelled him forwards, keeping his foot pressed adamantly to the gas pedal.

In a moment of panic, he wonders if one of these homes is his. If that driveway, curtained by the beds of purple petunias, should look familiar. But no, this land is flat—and he has the image of a hill, there should be a hill, he lives on a hill, he is sure of it. (He is, in fact, approximately two miles away from that hill.)

Jamie pulls over and shuts his eyes. Says, Focus. Says, Breathe. These are the recommended mantras, but while they have soothed him before, they are failing him now. The path to the phantom hill does not emerge from his mind, revealing itself, but remains at the end of a dark and winding tunnel. No focusing, no breathing to coax it out of hiding.

To call for someone would be to acknowledge the child he is slowly becoming, and by this fact alone, the action becomes unthinkable. Reprehensible. Instead, he repeats Claire’s name to the silver dollar in the sky because that, at least, has returned to him and stayed.

As if summoned, she appears out of the darkness: her blue Ford now behind him, and she behind its wheel. And this—this car, he knows. Remembers well. The scratch on its left side, from a fallen pine bough. The car seat for a grandchild whose photographs are attached to the visor: a mouth covered in icing, a head grazing a penciled notch on a doorframe.

She approaches, slow-footed, and leans through his open window. It is her smell that reaches him first. Then her voice. Then her face—now floating in front of his—dissipates the remains of his confusion. Finally, Jamie breathes.

“Hi,” she whispers, smiling weakly.

“Hi,” he whispers back.

There is, he notices, so much tenderness in her—despite the circumstances, despite him. Him: a grown man who cannot remember his own address, but who can see, so clearly, the Coke stain on the Ford’s floor mat. And her—a grown woman wearing only her robe and slippers, but out in the middle of the night, to look for him.

“Now I may be mistaken,” she says, “but I believe you’re supposed to inform the seeker when you intend to hide. Otherwise that���s an unfair advantage.”

“I’m just trying to keep ye on yer toes, Sassenach,” he says softly, looking at his lap. (The phrase “remotely interesting” appears from nowhere, but—why?)

“Thank you for finding me, Sassenach,” he says instead, and Claire puts her hand on his arm. “You didn’t have to.”

“Well, I did consider letting your other wife come get you. Oddly enough, I can’t seem to reach her. Must be cavorting with one of my other five husbands.”

They both stifle their laughs, chastised by the quiet and the precariousness of their situation; all that it implies. When Jamie sees Claire’s crooked incisor after she lowers her hand, Jamie feels overwhelmed. By his love, by his gratitude. By his luck that she has found him again and again and again.

“So,” she says, gesturing towards her car, “Finder’s keepers?”

When the Ford pulls ahead, Jamie follows. He keeps his eyes on the silhouette in the driver’s seat—the messy curls, the hand that adjusts the rearview mirror (to see him better)—as his wife, Claire Fraser, leads him home.

Claire familiarizes herself with the facts. They are as follows:

In 1901, a man named Karl Deter admitted his wife to a mental institution. Throughout the previous decade, he told the doctors, her condition had worsened, and he feared he could no longer provide adequate care. The woman’s name was Auguste Deter, and she would die five years later at the age of 56. Auguste’s symptoms— memory loss, mood swings, delusions, and insomnia—would become the hallmarks of a then-unknown disease. It would be discovered by her doctor, Alois Alzheimer, shortly after her death.

During her examinations, Dr. Alzheimer would test Deter’s recall. When prompted to repeat his questions—and her subsequent answers—hours later, Ms. Deiter could rarely remember their conversation. One day, upon forgetting her own name, she had simply stated: “Ich hab mich verloren.” I have lost myself.

In the United States, an estimated 5.5 million people currently live with Auguste’s disease. Of these, only 200,000 are, as she was, diagnosed before they turn 65—the age bracket which delineates the standard cases from the “early onset.” Though advancements have been made in the past century, Alzheimer’s is still incurable. The fatality rate is discouragingly high.

When Claire thinks of Auguste and these statistics, it is hard not to feel betrayed. To not demand, fist raised, for remorse or an admission of error. We’ve made a mistake.

And when Jamie loses his professorship, or searches fruitlessly for the misplaced items of his imagination, it is hard to believe that this is where their story has gone. That he, her husband, should be among the 5-percenters and she, his wife, must stand idly by.

And when Jamie—driven by a rage he cannot place—smashes a plate against the counter, it is hard to not to want a piece of that nameless fury. To not take some of it for herself and direct it at their fate, the unluckiest of the unlucky, when there is nothing left.

And it is hard, of course, not to feel hateful when he stumbles over her name.

But then, of course—she loves him.

(Oh, how she loves him.)

While Claire sleeps, Jamie goes to his desk and falls into his chair, eager. This chair, a ratty and thrifted thing, has outlived all the other ratty and thrifted things they had purchased after the big house fire. Its cushioned back, as textured and as worn as his own, never hurts his scars when he leans into it, gazing out the window to the Blue Ridge mountains.

He is here to write and to remember.

But the sentences, which had roused him with such insistence, do not come now that he is waiting, ready for them. They have withdrawn in the advent of his intention, sunken in the murky bog of his disease.

Slow, so very slow, to resurface.

While Jamie sleeps, Claire goes to the balcony. A notebook in her lap, a pen that fills the pages. She works her hand into an aching cramp, and it throbs, throughout it all, like a heartbeat.

This has become her usual routine: Jamie wakes, goes to his desk, returns frustrated, then sleeps. Claire listens for his slowed and measured breaths, then rises. That notebook, that pen. That heart, needing more room than her chest can ever give it, forcing itself into her wrist, into her hand.

Not everything on these pages is hers to claim—eggs fried on steaming asphalt, a baby fist pressed to a horse’s mane—but she claims them anyways. An imposition, she knows, Jamie would not mind. And so she takes his stubborn sentences, feeling the pull of her responsibility, and gives them life. Knowing, without having to ask, what needs to be said.

Claire dreads coming home tonight. This night, which is no different from all the others, save for the extra weight she’s given it. Her footfalls, made heavier. The wind, more oppressive. Her awful certainty, like a stone in a pocket underwater.

This night, their anniversary.

It is not the date itself, or Jamie, that she dreads returning to. Even the absence of him, that slow but increasing degeneration, is not what keeps her inside the car, so reluctant to climb the hill.

Rather: it is the absence of herself, in him. Her disappearance somehow made complete in the hours she’s been away, at work.

What if, she thinks, Jamie has forgotten? What if she walks into the house and he looks up from his chair, bewildered? As if to say, “Who are you?” As if to say, “Do you belong here?” As if she had not been the one to discover that chair among the third-hand junk—that very chair from which he is looking up, so bewildered?

These thoughts are always on her mind, but they are more pressing now. The 27 years of their second marriage demand remembrance, enraged at the possibility of her nonexistence. More so than ever, she could not bear his forgetting—no, not on this night. Their anniversary.

As Claire walks towards the house, she sees her. Before the porch—a girl, face shadowed by twilight and raised to the sky. By the looks of her dress and unscuffed Mary Janes, she has come here with a purpose, but that purpose has been abandoned for the fireflies around her head. Her small hands reach out to cup the air, willing the constellating lights into the valley of her palms. Two golden flickers descend, then are sheltered. She moves closer, peeking at the light between the black crack of her thumbs, which she widens and narrows, widens and narrows. Awe, and a command: Stay, stay.

“Mandy,” Claire finally calls out, and her granddaughter looks up. That original purpose slides across her face, though her hands—curved in a prayer-like steeple—still hold the light. (She is five years old and beautiful.)

“Grama!”

“What have you got there, baby?”

Mandy whispers, “Firebugs.”

Her eyes are those of a mother looking at her child. Like Claire’s own, right now, as she looks at her granddaughter. All this wonder in the evidence of something good.

“You’re not s’posed to go inside,” Mandy says eventually, not lifting her gaze. “I’m s’posed to tell you that. Grampa isn’t ready just yet, but Mom will say when it’s okay.”

“That right? And what exactly is he doing in there?”

Mandy giggles, “Secret.” And quiet again, she says, “Do you wanna hold them?”

“I’d love to hold them.”

“You have to be very, very gentle.”

“I will.”

“You can’t squash them.”

“I won’t.”

“You can’t let them go until I say so.”

“Yes ma’am.”

“Okay,” Mandy says. “Okay, okay. Ready?”

“Ready.”

And when the bugs have been safely transferred into her care, Mandy hovering at her waist, Claire feels: Wings like timid kisses against her skin. The cloud of her dread, receding slowly. The promise of—what, exactly? (Hope, she thinks.)

“Is that grandma out there with you, Amanda?” Bree calls from the porch. “You two can come in now!”

Mandy ignores her mother, asking, “Do you think they’re married?” then, “They seem to be very, very married to me.” And because her desire is so plain in her eyes, fixed wholly on these things she has come to love and is so unwilling to lose—stay, stay—Claire keeps her hands closed. 

“I think you might be right,” she replies, and they remain there, silent on the path. The bulbs illuminate each other’s faces and the night.

(Hope: Even in the oncoming darkness, there are these lights worth cupping in the palm of one’s hand.)

He is waiting for her in the doorway, smiling.

He has not forgotten.

They move together, swaying and colliding and fumbling. Jamie’s steps are too clumsy, Claire’s overcorrections too extreme—their own bodily melody, so out of sync with the music. They laugh more than they dance, holding each other up as they shuffle around the room.

“Yer terrible at this, Sassenach.”

“You’re the one with two left feet.”

“Two left feet, my arse! Ye canna take a step without missing my toes.”

“Such wonderful toes. How’s a woman to resist?”

Having fulfilled their duties as supervisor and watchman, Bree and Mandy have returned home to Roger. In their wake is an assortment of dirtied dishes (the meals prepared by Jamie), low-burning candles (purchased and lit by Bree), and scattered confetti on the floor (courtesy of Mandy’s decorative genius). James Taylor sings quietly from speakers which, like the rest of the living room furniture, have been pushed into the corner to avoid unwanted damages. On the mantle, a new blue vase sits flanked by a 25th anniversary card—though the five has been crossed out and replaced by an effusive, bright red seven. Apparently, Jamie had told Claire, “the fools at Hallmark dinna celebrate 27th anniversaries.” That’s why, Claire had told Jamie, she “used her artistic gifts to make something homemade.” (Her masterpiece: Two stick figures holding one heart.)

There’s something in the way she moves

Or looks my way, or calls my name

“Did you know,” Jamie says now, still swaying, “that this is the song I listened to after our first night? I put on ‘James Taylor’ after you left, and I couldna stop thinking about you in that hideous sweater wi’ the—penguins, was it? And the wee sparklies?”

“Is that what you’re thinking of right now? Me wearing an ugly jumper in 1989?”

“Aye, but can ye blame me? It’s a hard thing for a man to forget. Verra impressionable. Perhaps offensive.”

“As I recall yours had a Father Christmas with some vomit—”

“It was beer. And maybe a bit of fondue cheese.”

“As I was saying: vomit in his cloth beard. I’ve had nightmares ever since, and they’re all on your conscience.”

“Well, that was my intention, Sassenach. I wanted you thinking of me while you were in bed.”

Claire laughs, kissing the bottom of his chin before he rests it atop her skull.

“I stand by that jumper,” she grumbles into his shoulder. “A bloody good find.”

And I feel fine anytime she’s around me now

She’s around me now

Almost all the time

They continue dancing until she asks, “So what else are you thinking about?” and Jamie sighs.

“A few things,” he says. “One, that I’d like to see ye in that jumper again. Two, that I’d also like to see you in nothing at all.”

“Sadly, the jumper met its tragic end in the big house fire. May it rest peace.”

“Aye. Gone too soon.”

“But the second thing—well. I think that could be arranged.”

Jamie smirks, tucking an errant curl behind her ear.

“Mostly though, Sassenach, I’m thinking that I’m thankful.”

“Oh?”

“For you. For the fact that there are things I dinna remember, and others that will be lost, too…But that one, the moment I first saw you—I dinna think that will ever go away.”

Every now and then the things I lean on lose their meaning

And I find myself careening

In places where I should not let me go

Jamie begins to sing along, off-pitch but endearing all the same. Claire hums with him, pressed close.

She has the power to go where no else can find me

Halfway through the third refrain, the lyrics—once confident—tumble out of his mouth, muddled. He has forgotten some of the initial sound of her: Claire, drinking coffee on that morning-after. Three Sweet n’ Lows ripped open in one swift tear. I only use two and a half—do you want the rest? And then Claire, beside him, a week later. The winter-bleached Royal Mile and the squelch of her boots as they passed through Carfax Close. Stay with me tonight?

In the silence, Claire feels something come apart inside her, and so she holds Jamie tighter, finishing the lyrics that he cannot.

If I’m well you can tell she’s been with me now

She’s been with me now quite a long, long time

Yes and I feel fine

(Before he takes her to bed, she will ask him: “What if we went back?”)

He finds the notebook five days before they leave for Scotland. One sentence, and already he understands. Claire has placed him here without his knowing, while he sleeps. Joy, anger, sorrow, relief—all of him and all of her, mingling in the space between two lines.

Over 50 pages filled by now, but there are things he feels he ought to add, like: A hand clasping a bare throat, snow all around, and—singing. An invitation directed at his lips, Do you want to come in?, and gold pooled on the floor. Ghosts, too, watching from a church balcony; the acknowledging tilt of his wife’s chin.

With these thoughts in his mind, Jamie takes up his pen, inserts his own truths and imaginings in the spaces Claire has left behind. He tucks each one inside a pair of parentheses, like secrets shared between two people. 

(Like gifts wrapped up in so much history.)

[blazerina]

Here Comes the Sun (Sean x MC)

Author’s Note: This deals a little bit with mental anguish and the basic types of anxiety or stress that happen to anyone after or during a traumatic life event. Just want to say that up front.

Rating; PG-13? (I stink at ratings but there are some mature themes, nothing more than that though)

This is the first time in a while that I’ve entered something into the Choices Creates competition with the prompt of TRAVEL.  Tagging @angelschoices and @hollyashton.  I know this is a late submission so I apologize for missing the time deadline.

I wrote this because there’s just not enough Sean Gayle love in this world.

Hope you enjoy!

–

A wave of ice-cold water ran up and down his spine. He felt his extremities shiver and seize, tensing up one final time before giving in and becoming completely numb. Soon the water was pouring over his head and his breath began to quicken. The same ice water that was freezing his body, began to rapidly fill his lungs and as they tightened with each shallow breath, it felt as if life was being squeezed and pulled from every vein within him.  Somehow, while he was struggling for air and feeling intense, frigid tremors from head to toe, he was also feeling warm.  Strong, penetrating waves of heat were making their way up and down his body, but the hotness was mainly pooling at the top of his head, as if he was sweating, all while he struggled and wrestled with himself beneath the water.

He could hear the blood-curdling screams of his friends at the surface of the frozen lake. All of them were calling for him and yelling out his name. Taylor’s voice was piercing and could be heard louder, longer and above the rest. He could feel her hand slipping over his forearm as he was pulled further and further below the surface. Images of her face flashed like a slide-show in his mind.

Her gentle and bright blue eyes that were such a contrast to her dark hair. Her confident smile that reassured him more times than he could count. The way she absentmindedly brushed her bangs out of her eyes and tucked them behind her ear. This was the last memory and thought that flickered in his mind before total darkness hit.

–

“Taylor! TAYLOR!” Sean sat up quickly, calling out to her, breathing heavily and holding his head. His temples were throbbing. In his sleepy stupor, he laid back down and rolled over in bed. His arms reached out for her, fumbling his way through the empty sheets.

“Why do these dreams keep happening? It’s been 7 years…” he mumbled, knowing in a matter of moments he’d feel her arm, or her body next to him, if he continued to feel around for her.

“T?” He opened his eyes and then let out a heavy sigh.  Looking around the room, he realized he wasn’t home. He was on the road, in another hotel for what felt like the billionth time.

—

One week later…

“Ladies and Gentlemen, on behalf of our airline, I’d like to be the first to welcome you to Chicago. Please keep your seatbelts buckled until the captain has turned off the fasten seatbelt sign.  We will be arriving at our gate in just a moment. If you need connecting information, please check the monitors in the terminal. For those of you staying with us here in Chicago, your luggage will arrive at carousel 8B…”

The calming tone of the flight attendant’s voice woke Sean from his slumber.  He was groggy and shook his head quickly to wake himself up.  “Wow.” He muttered under his breath, realizing he slept for the entirety of his flight.  His doctor had given him a new prescription for his flight anxiety, due to the fact that the medication he had previously been using stopped helping. He travelled too much these days and was on an airplane at least twice every other week. Sean hated using any kind of medicine to help calm him down, but there really wasn’t any other remedy.

Looking around, he stretched his arms above his head, careful not to disturb the person in the window-seat next to him. “S’cuse me.” He nodded, making eye contact with the man on his right.

“Mr. Gayle.” A flight attendant knelt next to Sean’s chair. “I know you were asleep for the flight, but is there anything I can get you before you leave?”

“No, no thank you. I appreciate it, though.” He smiled, and then bent over to reach underneath the seat in front of him for the leather satchel-briefcase that Taylor had given him for Christmas.  He ran his fingers over his monogram “SMG” that was ghost-stamped on the front, and thought of her.  He missed her so much.  He was painfully aware of his need to have her with him, and never felt completely himself unless she was by his side.

He opened the bag and found his phone, holding down the button to turn it on.  He wanted to call her.  He craved the sound of her voice.

“Sorry to disturb you again, Mr. Gayle.” The flight attendant returned.

“I don’t typically do this, especially when I’m working in the first class cabin…” she fixed her gaze to the floor of the plane, not making eye contact with Sean, all of a sudden appearing nervous.

“It’s no problem.” Sean assured her, realizing what she was doing.  The plane lurched to a sudden stop and a clear bell rang out, signaling freedom for the passengers. While everyone began to stand up and gather their belongings, the attendant stumbled a bit into the Sean’s chair.  He steadied her, offering his hand.

“My son would just be so incredibly thrilled if you could sign anything…a napkin, a gum wrapper, anything at all!” She gushed, clapping her hands together, hoping he would comply with her request.

“Sure thing. Uh, let’s see what I’ve got here…” Reaching into the pocket of his sport coat, Sean retrieved his boarding pass.  “Do you have a pen, by chance?”

Working quickly to sign the autograph before more passengers made their way to the front of the plane, Sean asked for the boy’s name and signed the ticket with one of his favorite lines “Every moment matters. Always give your best, Sean Gayle.”

The flight attendant giddily read the autograph out loud and thanked Sean over and over again, following him off the plane, promising that he had made her son the happiest boy in all of Chicago that night.

As Sean walked down the long corridors of the airport, he realized how tired he was.  He felt so alone when he took trips like this.  After everything that happened once the group returned from La Huerta (the interviews, the phone calls, the articles, the movie premieres, the book deals), it was all such a blur.  Before he knew it two years of his life had passed. He was drafted by the National Football League, and played professional football, but only for one-and-a-half seasons.  He blamed his retirement on an injury, but really it was his mind that wasn’t up to the task of playing football anymore.

He was a high school football coach now. He didn’t really know anything other than football, at least that’s what he told himself.  He loved the kids he worked with and really felt like he was able to make a difference. Every year more and more school districts from around the area tried to recruit him to come coach their team. They had all kinds of reasons why they wanted him – they tried to lure him away with more money, more prestige, more access to colleges who could one day offer him an even bigger and better job but he always said no.

He loved the small-town life that he and Taylor had created for themselves.  They lived in a modest home, drove regular cars, and had pretty normal jobs and lives – well, as normal as life could be after all they experienced together.  They still couldn’t go anywhere without someone recognizing them, or asking them “What was it really like?” when they were in line at the gas station, or doctor’s office, of all places.

Even just a few days ago, a large cable news network called both Taylor and Sean, asking if they would be willing to come in for a reunion interview with the rest of the La Huerta gang. Sean immediately said no, while Taylor told them she’d think about it.  She always handled people with more grace and kindness than he did.  She handled everything better than he did. Most of the time, Sean felt like a fraud.  He felt like a fake person living inside his own mind and body.

When it wasn’t football season back in the district where he coached, he traveled all over the country to various speaking engagements booked by his agent.  Some seven years after his return from La Huerta, people still clamored to hear Sean Gayle speak.  He talked to CEOs, doctors, high school students, colleges and universities – he was even a featured as a guest at a mega-church one time – and that totally blew his mind because nowadays especially, he was feeling anything but worthy of speaking from a pulpit.

No one but Taylor really knew the toll that La Huerta took on Sean.  Outside he may appear to be the same positive, hard-working, loyal and sacrificial leader that everyone knew him to be prior to that summer trip from hell; but on the inside, he was crumbling.  The nightmares (or in some cases memories turned dreams) had gotten worse over the past year. The flight anxiety had gone away for a while, but once again returned with a vengeance.  He was suffering from mood swings and he could never find a way to work out or go for a run that was long enough, or hard enough to truly rid his mind of the “what-ifs” that plagued him. Even when he was focused on something happy, something that truly brought him joy…in the back of his mind he constantly heard a voice whispering to him: Remember what you went through. Remember how close you were to losing it all. What have you done with the life you’ve been given? You’ve got to keep working, keep moving, focus on the future and what lies ahead.

 He and Taylor had been together since the moment they made it back to Hartfeld.  She had no family, and was pretty much alone.  His family had taken her in from day one and they never looked back. Taylor stayed by his side through his short stint in the NFL. They soon settled into the home they now shared, and she was the most loyal and constant source of support for him throughout that difficult time as a pro.  To keep her company when he was out of town, Sean suggested they get a pet.  Taylor immediately knew she wanted a dog.  She refused to even look at a kitten or a cat. Because of their experience with saber tooth tigers and Furball, she couldn’t bring herself to do it.  She had an aversion to cats and couldn’t bring herself to be around them.  Yet another weird change to everyday life that their time on the island brought them.  They settled on a dog, a German shepherd. They named him Aleister, in honor of one of their closest friends.

They had not married yet; weren’t even engaged.  Taylor didn’t bring it up, and oddly enough, neither did Sean.  Yet, every morning during their daily phone call, his mother would ask, “When are you gonna marry that girl, baby?”

As far as he knew, Taylor loved the life they were living.  She was a counselor at the same school where he coached.  She had written some books (under a different name, of course – not wanting more publicity) after getting two psychology degrees.  One of her books was about being an orphan or an abandoned child, and another focused on living through a stressful or traumatic life-event. She also took great care of the students she was responsible for, and had worked through a lot on her own, after La Huerta.  

Sean was in Chicago only overnight. His flight landed early in the evening and he was now making his way to baggage claim, where he would meet up with his driver, get into a black town car and be taken to a convention center downtown.  He would eat dinner and rub elbows with important people, speak about the power of positivity and leadership, sharing examples and stories from the island, as well as the gridiron.  He’d sleep in a hotel near the airport and head home the next day.  Everything felt like it was on auto-pilot.  There just wasn’t a lot of passion or emotion behind anything he was doing these days.

While he waited for his bag, he was finally able to have a moment to call Taylor.  The background picture on his phone instantly made his heart ache for her. It was a picture that had been sent to him and taken by another coach’s wife. She wasn’t looking at the camera, and the photo was black and white, but he knew she was wearing the high school colors, maroon and gold, while holding a homemade sign that read “Sean Gayle is my HERO.” She was holding it above her head and yelling passionately, but also smiling with her eyes at the same time.  Sean always marveled at her ability to combine fierceness with gentleness; strength with peace; protection and loyalty, with genuine care and concern for others. That picture summed up everything he loved about her and who he knew her to be.

Often, he wondered what people would think if they truly knew how much he relied on her.  The Sean that so many imagined to be strong, tough, valiant and courageous was weak, tired, scared and helpless without the support, encouragement and dedication of the woman he loved.

Sean exhaled as he pressed her name on his phone and listened to the phone ring…and ring…and ring…he desperately wanted to hear her voice tonight, but wasn’t surprised that she didn’t answer.

When her voicemail picked up, he left her a message, even though he knew he could have sent a text, he wanted her to hear from him how much he missed her.

“Hey – it’s me.  I landed in Chicago, just waiting for my bag.” He paused, his voice about to break and tears pricking his eyes. “I’m sorry for the way I left you. I’m so, so sorry, babe.  You didn’t deserve any of that and I don’t have any excuses.  Please forgive me.  I want to know you’re okay. I know you probably don’t want to talk to me, but somehow let me know you’re doing alright. I’m going to fix this. I promise you. I’m going to get better, and we’re going to be okay, and I’m going to be the man you deserve. I miss you so much. My heart hurts. I love you and I’ll call you later.”

“Mr. Gayle?” A gentleman in professional attire approached Sean just as he ended the call.  “I’m here to take you to the conference.”

“Hey man, thanks. Let me get my stuff and I’ll be ready.” His bag was one of the only ones left on the baggage claim, spinning around. He grabbed it quickly and followed his driver out to the car.

–

“Where are you going?” Taylor asked in disbelief.

“I have a flight to catch.” Sean was furiously digging through a drawer looking for something.

“You’re just going to leave?! Sean! Do you have any idea what you’re saying to me right now?” She was calm, but furious.  He always hated how scary she was when he pushed her to the point where she finally got mad.  The more calm and collected she remained, the worse it would be for him.

“I’m done.” He said, zipping up his suitcase.  “We are not having this discussion again.” He quickly turned on his heel and walked towards the closet, pulling of his shirt and tossing it on the floor.  He rummaged through some athletic shirts hanging up and grabbed a faded gray one.

Taylor blocked the doorway, trapping Sean in the closet.  He shimmied out of his pants and started to put on some shorts, when she startled him. “So this isn’t enough for you?”

He pulled his running shorts up to his waist and snapped the elastic across his middle, dramatically.  With a sigh, he responded, “That’s not what I meant.”

“That’s what you said, Sean. You said this,” Taylor gestured wildly, her arms flailing, “…isn’t enough for you.”

“I need to go for a run.  I’ve gotta be on the road in less than an hour. They’ve got a car coming to get me.” He brushed past her. Taylor glared at the wall, remaining stoic, and silent, but wiping a tear off her cheek with the sleeve of her shirt.

When Sean got back from his jog, the house was silent.  Aleister had not even come to the door to greet him, which was unusual.  He mind raced as he thought about the possibility of Taylor being gone, and having taken the dog with her.

As he slowly walked into the bedroom, he could hear Taylor sniffling.  She was still in the closet, slumped on the floor with her back against the wall. Aleister was curled up next to her. When he saw Sean, he got up and wagged his tail.

“Taylor.” Sean got down on his knees next to her.

“You made it clear that we’re done talking about this.” She almost whispered, taking a deep breath.  He couldn’t help but realize for what felt like the millionth time, how naturally beautiful she was.  Her hair was straight, falling just below her shoulders. She was wearing one of his old long-sleeved t-shirts from Hartfeld.  Her face was now red and splotchy from crying so hard. A few dark streaks of makeup were left around the corners of her eyes.

He reached out to her, pulling his legs out from under him so he was fully sitting on the floor next to her. While he tried to put his arm around her, Taylor shrugged him off and stood up on her own.  Looking down at him, she said, “What’s really sad to me about all this,” she once again gestured enthusiastically with her arms, sure to emphasize the word this, “is that while it’s ‘not enough for you’” she made air quotes when she recited what he had said only moments earlier, “sometimes, no most of the time, it’s TOO MUCH for me.” Taylor looked him in the eyes and struggled with her own thoughts and desires in that moment.

Part of her wanted to hold him and be held by him, but the other part was so mad, so angry, she felt in that very minute, she’d be okay never seeing him again.

“Travel safe.” She stepped over him and walked out of the closet, Aleister following her.  Sean could hear her get the leash out of the front closet and then the front door open and close. Sighing heavily, Sean stood up and started the shower.  He laid out a pressed shirt, fresh from the dry-cleaner, some khakis and sport coat on the bed, next to his suitcase.  “Time to go.” He told himself as he looked in the mirror.

–

The next morning, Sean was back at the airport.  He still had not heard from Taylor and he was beginning to be nervous about what he would find when he returned home later that afternoon.  He text Craig, who was always good about giving him moral support in times like this.

 Sean: I know I put too much pressure on her. I rely on her too much. She’s my everything and she knows that…maybe she’s tired. Tired of me. Tired of us.

 Craig: Buddy! No way! Taylor is totally loyal to you, dude.  It’ll be fine. Say your sorry and don’t be mean. She loves you. Just chill out!

For some reason, Craig’s encouragement was not helping the situation.

While Sean waited for his flight, he nervously tapped his foot, watching planes take off and land in the distance.  He realized he was still tired.  Tired of traveling.  Tired of re-living La Huerta every day of his life. What he meant when he told Taylor “this isn’t enough” is that this life is not what he envisioned for himself. He knew there had to be more to life than the monotony he was experiencing. Sean made the decision that when he got back home, he’d take a break from the speeches and the conferences and the interviews.  He’d ask Taylor to marry him. They’d have a real life; no more emotional outbursts and worrying about each other and if they were “really doing okay.”  He was going to take control of his life and stop letting his island experience still control him after all this time.

“Ladies and gentleman waiting in the area for flight 1152 out of Chicago, we want to let you know that the flight has been delayed for, it looks like, about 2 hours.  There are some heavy storms approaching our destination and we want to be safe.  Of course we will let you know of any updates and will do our best to get you out of here as soon as possible, but the weather seems to be against us…”

The gate attendant’s voice droned on and on as Sean tightened his fist, frustrated that he was stuck, yet again, in another airport, away from Taylor, when all he wanted was to be home.

–

A few hours later, Sean finally made it on the plane, headed home.  He had a window seat this time, which also added to his grumpy mood.  He preferred the aisle, it was always more comfortable to him.  He felt like he had an easier exit if he needed one.  Once he sat down, he tried to get comfortable and decided one more time he’d try to call Taylor.  He at least needed to let her know when the flight would be landing.

To his surprise, she answered on the 2nd ring.

“Hey.”

“Hi there.” He responded, turning towards the window to try and make the conversation as private as possible, even with someone sitting a few inches away.

There was a moment of silence on the phone before Sean immediately asked, “Did you get my messages?”

“I did.”

“Are you okay?”

Taylor took a while before responding. “I’ve been better. But I’m okay.”

“Alright.  Well, I wanted to let you know I’m on the plane.  We should be landing in about 2 and half hours, then I’ll be home.”

“Mmhmm.”

“Taylor – I love you.”

She exhaled, before responding. “I know.  Travel safe.”

“Travel safe.” That’s what she always said to him.  Before he could respond, she had ended the call.  He knew he had a long road ahead of him if he wanted to make things better between the two of them.

–

Looking out the window, at the clouds the plane was flying through, and seeing the sun that was setting in the distance, Sean began to daydream about Taylor.  Ever since they had come back home from the island, and especially after he retired from the NFL, whenever he’d be down or have a hard day, she would have on hand or be able to recall from memory, some kind of quote about the sun. She would often tell him things like, “Remember, the sun will still shine tomorrow, even if it’s behind a rain cloud, it’s always shining somewhere.”

She had this way of always looking for the sunshine, or positive outcome, in every situation.  Yellow was one of her favorite colors.  She was always begging Sean to take a walk through the park near their house so they could watch the sunset, and she often got up extremely early to sit outside on their back porch and watch the sunrise.  The sun symbolized so much to her; the dawning of new opportunities with each new day; another opportunity to live this life; the promise that life goes on and the world keeps turning even when circumstances and situations make it seem like life is over.

He remembered one particular day a few years ago.  It was a day that that would seem regular and ordinary to her – but one that would forever stand out in his mind.

Taylor was cooking in the kitchen as Sean walked in, sweaty and tired from his last two-a-day practice before school started.  It was his second season as the head coach at Fairview High and he felt a lot of pressure to have a winning season, since the year before had turned out to be quite dismal. Feeling especially defeated and uninterested in talking to anyone, he tried to paste on a fake smile upon seeing Taylor when he entered from the garage.

Music was blaring, as it often was when Taylor was home alone. She didn’t like silence.  She was humming along to “Here Comes the Sun” by the Beatles.

“Of course.” Sean smiled, muttering to himself.  

The meal she was preparing looked like breakfast for dinner, one of his favorites.  He could smell bacon and instantly his stomach rumbled. She was cutting out biscuits she made from scratch, with a circular cookie-cutter. As she pressed the cutter into the dough, she began to sing some of the lyrics to the song out loud:

 Little darling, I feel that ice is slowly melting Little darling, it seems like years since it’s been clear Here comes the sun, here comes the sun, And I say

It’s all right It’s all right

She still had no idea that he was there and he loved getting a little glimpse into her when he wasn’t around.  He leaned against the doorframe and continued to watch her, mesmerized not only by her beauty, but who she was; who she was made to be; all the pieces that made her the woman he loved more than life itself.

As she continued to place the biscuit dough on the baking sheet, he noticed a few patches of flour on her face, and as his eyes traveled down her body, he realized she had some on her rear as well.  She became frustrated with her bangs falling into her eyes over and over again, letting out an exasperated sigh every now and then.

Slowly, he crept up behind her, putting his arms around her waist and lightly kissing her neck, gently and sweetly. She jumped quickly and tensed up immediately as she felt his arms around her, but then relaxed just as quickly, when she realized what was happening.

“Good God you scared me to death!” She turned around, to face him, looping her arms around his neck, but careful not to touch him with dough and flour on her hands.  He smelled so good to her.  She loved it when he came home after being outside at practice.  She knew he had been working hard, and that he was not feeling especially hopeful about the upcoming season.

“How’d it go?” She asked, searching his eyes for the real answer.

“Been better – the kids say their ready but it doesn’t look like it.” He sighed.

“Well, you know what I’m about to say, don’t you?” She grinned, keeping her eyes locked on his.  “You know what song this is?”

Sean smiled, biting his lip, holding back a laugh.  Not laughing at her in a silly or stupid way, but feeling especially joyful and content; happy to know he had someone in his life who had his back no matter what.  She was always there for him, in his corner to encourage him and be there for him when he was at his worst.  She had seen it all.

“I know.  Here comes the sun…it’s gonna be okay…blah blah blah.” He looked down, resting his forehead against hers.

Instinctively, she closed her eyes and pressed herself closer to him, resting her head on his shoulder.  “I love you.” She sighed, hugging him, no longer worried about the mess she may leave on his shirt.

Sean stepped back, and held her face in his hands, gazing at her. “I could not live without you.” He smiled, running his thumb over a patch of flour on Taylor’s cheek.  

“You almost didn’t.” Taylor smirked, raising an eyebrow.

Still holding her face in his hands, he brought her lips to his and kissed her fervently, gently guiding her back, up against the counter. She put her hands down to steady herself, losing her balance a little bit. Breathless, she pushed him away playfully.

“Go on. Get your shower.  Dinner will be ready soon.” She tried to return to the dough on the counter but Sean grabbed her hand.  

“You’re coming with me.”

Pretending to be put out, and frustrated, Taylor sighed and threw her hands up in the air.  “Fine. I guess if I have to…” She beamed as she held Sean’s hand and followed him out of the kitchen.

–

Sean had now been in the air a total of 4 hours and on the plane almost 5.  The weather had turned ugly again and they kept circling the airport, above the storm, hoping it would clear enough for them to land.  If they didn’t get down on the tarmac soon, they would run out of gas, and would have to land somewhere else to fuel up.

He was just about to reach into his bag for more medicine when a voice overhead announced the flight had been cleared to land.  Sean thought, for a brief moment, he had never been so happy.  About half an hour later, he was exiting the plane. He could feel a weight had been lifted from his shoulders when he was finally free from the confines of his window seat and the plane’s cabin in general.  

This time, he didn’t even check his bag as he wanted to be able to exit the plane, get out of the airport and be on his way home as soon as possible.  It had started to rain now, and he had made his way outside to the line of taxis, each one waiting for eager passengers to pay exorbitant amounts of money to get to their destination.  

A few people were in line in front of him.  With a heavy sigh, he watched as a bright green mini-van pulled up to meet him and take him where he needed to go.  He felt like this was a fitting way for this trip to end. It had started on an awful note and would end that way, too.  

“61st and Treeline.” He said to the driver through the window, while he opened the door to climb into the cab.  As he went to close the door, he heard the faint melody of “Here Comes the Sun” coming from his bag.  He set that song as Taylor’s ringtone, the day after he walked in on her singing it.

Standing next to the cab, in the pouring rain, he answered it while asking the driver to “Hang on one minute.”

“Taylor? What’s going on? You okay?”

“I’m great.  But you’re a little wet.” She sassed, into the phone.

Looking around, over his shoulder he held his bag over his head, shielding his eyes from the bright security lights, hoping to see her somewhere.

“To your left.” She instructed him. His face lit up when he recognized her, leaning against her car.  She had parked in the pick-up area, underneath an awning to stay dry.  He sprinted from the cab towards her, not worried in the least if he was making a scene.

She lightly jogged toward him too, laughing as she watched him make his way to her.  “Did you really think I wasn’t going to come and pick you up?” She asked, trying to catch her breath.

It was their tradition for her to pick him up whenever he came home from being out of town. He assumed she wouldn’t be there this time, given all that had transpired in the last 48 hours. “How do you run like this every day?”

Sean laughed and immediately kissed her.  She jumped into his arms and encircled her legs around his waist, not wanting the moment to pass them by.

“I’ve always wanted to make out in the rain.” He told her, again leaning his forehead against hers.

“Welcome home.” Taylor whispered to him, as she kissed him again.

“Home.  You’re right, Tay. I’m finally home.”

[mastcomm]

Dog the Bounty Hunter Is Hunting Alone

PINE, Colo. — In September, three months after the death of his wife, Dog the Bounty Hunter was angling under the Colorado sun at a trout pond in the backwoods of the Rocky Mountains.

The pond was close enough to the highway that trucks mashing down Route 285 would roll down their windows to yell his name. To each passer-by, he raised his thumb and pinkie in a trademark shaka sign of good will.

Dog says he has 12 children, 11 grandchildren and two great-grandchildren. He also says he has had four wives, been convicted of robbery 18 times and captured 10,000 fugitives. And he claims God promised to make him famous.

“I need the attention. I wake up every day and say, ‘Mirror, mirror on the wall, who’s the baddest bounty hunter of them all?,’” he said, with a conspiratorial arched eyebrow before turning serious: “I need love.”

With the pompadour-mullet, jailhouse tats and beet-red tanned skin — lots of it — the only thing missing is the theme song.

Families pulled their minivans over and ran out to greet him. A woman with a graying ponytail and vodka on her breath sidled up as well. “I just want to say I’m praying for you and Beth,” she said, as if consoling an old friend.

Dog squirted fake cheese onto a Triscuit and ate it, then lit another menthol Marlboro and eyed a pickup truck creeping into the parking lot. It’s not all love, he said: “I’m tested once a week, guys looking to see how tough the Dog is. That’s what the Taser is for.”

Behind his wraparound Oakley sunglasses, his blue eyes are marked by deep circles. A cloud of nervous energy comes and goes like a storm. He is 66 and alone for the first time in decades. He is now also without a television contract.

“This is the big moment,” he said, when asked what’s next. “That’s the big question.”

Suddenly, there was a strike on the line. But when Dog lifted his rod from the water, the hook was bare.

The next bite wouldn’t be until hours later, after a Safeway run for supermarket sushi. Back at the lake, Dog finally caught a foot-long trout. Blowing minty smoke, he cackled and reached into the shopping bag. “Want a piece of my spider roll?” he asked, and grinned.

Back in 2004, Duane Chapman, known as Dog, hot-wired a reality revolution with “Dog the Bounty Hunter.” Riding shotgun with his family of bickering bounty hunters, many of whom had done time themselves, viewers were pulled along on fugitive chases as Dog led his crew in pursuit of those who had broken the terms of their bail agreements.

The popular show, broadcast on A&E, spurred what was called a wave of “redneck reality,” bringing America hit shows like “Duck Dynasty” and “Here Comes Honey Boo Boo.” It lasted eight seasons.

Spinoffs and three years on Country Music Channel followed, but nothing matched his success at A&E. Last year, he returned to television once again with “Dog’s Most Wanted,” on WGN America. In it, Dog and Beth Chapman continued to chase fugitives.

This time, she had a diagnosis of throat cancer. So the show became about her last days riding with “Big Poppa,” as she called him. She tried chemotherapy multiple times and quit. “I want to die in my boots,” she said in the first episode. In June, as shown in the season finale, at age 51, she did.

“Beth was adamant, she wanted everything filmed,” said Matt Asmus, the showrunner. “If anyone wanted the camera turned off, it was Dog.”

Throughout the season, as Ms. Chapman loses hair and weight, Dog and his posse continue to slice through the heartland, quoting the good book and catching crooks. But as she begins to slip away, falling into a coma before being taken off life support, Dog’s grip on reality becomes more tenuous in his grief.

“I don’t want to live,” he says after her death, eyeing her pill bottles. The season’s end shows a broken man — the opposite of the hero that Dog spent years building onscreen.

After Ms. Chapman’s death, Dog had a pulmonary embolism. Testosterone supplements had thickened his blood, Dog suspects. He checked himself out of the hospital against advice, pushing “an orderly up against a wall because he wouldn’t let me leave,” he said. “They couldn’t stop me.”

Dr. Mehmet Oz, the doctor and TV personality, flew to Colorado for an intervention.

“Does Dog want to live or not?” Dr. Oz told me. “Dog told me a dream where Beth said, ‘Big Daddy, what took you so long? Maybe she’s waiting, what am I living for?’”

Dog said he has now been chewing ice cubes to lose weight. His 5-foot-7 frame is down to 187 pounds. He is smoking only two packs a day, placing disposable filters on his cigarettes.

But sunblock and quitting tanning salons aren’t happening; neither are prescription glasses. Eating and sleeping well are still issues for him — so is gout — and what he really wants to do is write another book, this one about Ms. Chapman, he said. And he has plans for a new show.

He is working on a pardon from the state of Texas, which could help him realize a boyhood dream: becoming Sheriff Dog. (In 1976, a failed drug deal led to Dog’s murder conviction. Dog says he didn’t pull the trigger — he was in the car — but, according to Texas law, he was an accessory.) He would be a real sheriff, in a real town that needs cleaning up, he said.

Of course, it could be filmed. “I think it’d be a hit,” he said.

At the Fort, an old adobe restaurant with thick bison steaks, Dog’s wolf ringtone kept howling as his publicist called repeatedly. It was the first day of the president’s impeachment inquiry but what was on his mind was TMZ, which was showing an advance clip of Dog’s appearance on Dr. Oz’s show with the headline “Ticking Time Bomb.”

“Ticking time bomb,” Dog repeated while on the phone with his bounty hunting partner David Robinson, discussing plans to hunt down a fugitive from Hawaii. “Biggest bond I’ve ever written,” he said, picking at his quail.

Dog said he would have to pay $1.5 million if he couldn’t catch the person accused of dealing drugs, who had fled to California.

He needs the money, he said. “I’m broke,” he said. Years of medical bills and being the patriarch of a sprawling family took a heavy toll. If he doesn’t get his man, he said, the bank will take his Colorado home.

“I can go,” Dog told his partner. “I’m three hours away, David. Just got a blood clot, that’s all.”

“You’re on the medication, right?” Mr. Robinson said.

“Yeah,” Dog said. “TMZ burned me tonight, I’m on my last leg.”

“How’d they find out?” Mr. Robinson said.

“Rats,” Dog said. “We live in a rat world — ask Trump.”

Dog won’t say who he voted for, but he did attend Donald Trump’s inauguration. He said it didn’t matter to him who is in the White House. “I feel an allegiance,” he said. “I think Michelle Obama would make a great president.”

His other political opinions include: Teachers should be armed to protect students, and he is open to gay marriage and freedom of religion — he wears a skullcap for Shabbat dinners with Marty Singer, an entertainment lawyer.

“I rarely socialize with my clients,” said Mr. Singer, who calls Dog a great friend and “as honest as they come — sometimes too honest.”

Mr. Singer is also worried.

“Dog’s very lonely,” said Amy Weiss, Dog’s manager at Brillstein Entertainment. “I was there at many points in the hospital with him, and it was very difficult. He’s lost, but he knows he must go on and provide for his family.”

“The irony is,” Dr. Oz said, “he’s a man who everyone relies on for advice. He was crutching so much on Beth — how are you going to show up in your own life?”

When Dog’s mother died in 1995, he spent a year smoking crack, he said. Then he sobered up and started dating Ms. Chapman. They had met in 1986 when he posted her bond after she shoplifted a lemon.

They finally married in 2006 — we saw it in Season 3 of “Dog the Bounty Hunter.” Drama became a Chapman family industry. There were public family disputes and I.R.S. fines for back taxes.

On the eve of the wedding, Dog’s daughter Barbara died in a stolen car in Alaska. Months later, marshals stormed his Hawaii home, leading Dog out in handcuffs — a result of a Mexican extradition case against him, eventually thrown out.

The drama with the most enduring impact began when his son Tucker sold recordings to the National Enquirer of Dog using a racist slur. Friends like Snoop Dogg and the pastor Tim Storey stuck by him, but his book “You Can Run but You Can’t Hide” was pulled from stores. Licensing deals crashed. A&E put his show on hiatus. Dog apologized on Larry King and Sean Hannity.

With the distance of a dozen years, Dog is quick to explain that he came up in the jail system. “I thought I had a pass,” he said, repeating a claim that his mother is Native American. “It was a word I grew up using. I was wrong.”

“I’ll never be forgiven for that one,” he said. “Some people form an opinion of me that I can’t change, but you’ve talked to me and I’m not a racist.” He listed the charities and churches he has visited across the country, and said he himself was a poster-boy image of second chances. “That’s something nobody wants to talk about, people just want to focus on the negatives,” he said.

The movement opposing bail as part of a predatory prison funnel system that disproportionately affects the poor and people of color has strengthened in the last decade. Meanwhile, in early 2016, Ms. Chapman was elected president of the Professional Bail Agents Association, which opposes bail and bond reform.

Dog agreed that the American legal system is particularly hard on black people. “Things could change for the better,” he said, adding that committing crimes is a choice but that nonviolent offenders should not be forced to post bond.

“I am the prime example of the system: The bail bond system, the legal system, of crime,” he said. “I’m a second chance. Guys who don’t have job hopes when they get out, why do you think they go back to what they were doing before they were convicted? If I can change, anyone can. But it’s going to be a lot harder now without Beth, that’s for sure.”

At a PF Chang’s the next day, dressed in a deerskin shirt and knee-high moccasins, Dog laid out his strategy for his newest fugitive’s bond. “Because of my health, Beth’s passing, I’m going to get an extension. I have to catch the bastard.” He laughed. “I love it.”

(The judge, acknowledging his health issues, would grant the extension. The pressure would be off, for now. But the house was still on the line. Even with no cameras rolling, he still had work to do.)

“I got out of prison February 6, 1979. That’s 40 years,” Dog said. “They said, ‘You can’t even get a driver’s license, you’ll have nothing.’ I looked in the mirror to shave and heard my dad saying, ‘Burn your birth certificate, I wish you were never born.’ I said: ‘I’m going to change and be the best at whatever I do in the world.’”

A woman came up and asked for a photo. Dog lowered his sunglasses for the selfie as the check came with a tray of fortune cookies. “You’re not allowed to choose your own fortune,” the waiter said.

Dog ignored the rules and then read his fortune: “You will pass a big upcoming test.” He laughed hard, before coughing. His face got redder and redder, but then he smiled. “I better,” he said.

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[shitmytexangrandmothersays]

Kitchen Cabinet Nostalgia

The closest I’ve come to having “my life flashing before my eyes” has been happening in slow motion increments while I’ve been tackling the herculean task of organizing our house since my moving back.  We have lived at 1001 Roland since the Mother’s Day after I turned one, and even in the years I wasn’t living here I still spent a lot of time, so I can't open a cabinet or sort through a stack of papers without getting smacked in the face with memories.  It makes it more bittersweet that I’m doing this alone since Baby (my grandmother) can barely move without getting out of breath, so there are a lot of questions I’ll never have answers to, or I’m afraid of asking and sending Baby into tears, and some answers I’m probably better off without knowing.  I started with the kitchen thinking that was the most practical thing and our cabinets have turned out to be an unexpected treasure trove. The finds read like strange riffs on the old “Baby shoes, never worn” short story however apocryphal that may be. A few highlights with accompanying stories are as follows, apologies that brevity isn’t my strong suit: 

A 1944 Roosevelt and Truman election button, in a fleishmann’s margarine tub full of change. 

A cake tin of things taken from me as punishment when I was a child. Tellingly they were all art materials: a muddied watercolor set used to the dregs, sidewalk chalk, an ink stamp mounted on a the feet of a troll doll.

Also tellingly, a paddle ball toy without the ball or elastic string, that delivered quite a sting to my behind when I misbehaved. Must have worked, Baby says she didn’t have to spank me past age 5. I guess she kept it just in case?

A receipt for rabies shots for Monk from 1982. Monk was the weimaraner Papa found wandering around a gas station and took home, that adored him so much she would eat anything she saw him eating including jalapeños. This won him lots of bets I’ve been told. The dog died before I was born, when they lived in another house, so how this made it to the kitchen cabinet is a mystery.

An ashtray in the shape of a cowboy hat (the wide brim style of silent movie cowboys), rather skillfully made from copper, from my great grandparents. I wonder if they brought it back to New Mexico after one of their road trips to California in a Model T in the twenties. (An aside: two of my favorite pictures from the family album are from those trips I think. One is Mema sitting on the center of a log in the petrified forest with the sun at her back so that she looks like a dark shadow with the silhouette of her wide brim hat obscuring her face, and another where she stands alone in front of a large butte in a desert looking more like a mirage than a person . Both unsettling, mysterious images that always stuck in my mind.)

At least 15 decks of cards and 4 sets of poker chips (there was another whole box full in the storeroom too...) including a deck that was a promotional item from Redman chew depicting a can as a mountain lake with trees all around “Reach for more outdoor flavor”. These were leftovers from the days when every Friday was poker night. I ruined a game one time after I had started to learn my letters, because I was scampering around the table reading everyone’s cards and proclaimed “Granddaddy has three Ks!” 

Screen printed cocktail glasses from the 1978 All American Futurity “The World’s Richest Horse Race.” My grandparent’s horse Clyde (registered name was Jet Railroad)  won a qualifying race that year and won $10,000. It was the horse’s first professional race. I found a copy of the photo finish a couple years ago that Papa had sent to Aunt Bert and immediately framed it, finally some proof of my crazy stories!  Mom said that in celebration Baby got tipsy and rode home stretched out in the backseat of their Lincoln, with her size 11 feet hanging out the window, the trophy in one hand and with the other throwing cheese puffs in the air to catch with her mouth. The trophy sits in our living room still. 

A guide to carpet care from when the house was renovated before we moved in.  Only notable because the cover has a picture of a couple in an expensive looking living room sitting on the couch, attired in very 80s clothes (shoulder pads, teased hair and all) looking on in horror as their robot butler spills wine onto the brand new light gray carpet.  An image that could only sprout up in that time and place.

A pocket sized can of tear gas, in the highest cabinet, next to a bottle of lighter fluid.  Why this was needed, why there, any of that, I have no idea. Baby had never seen it.  She rejected my suggestion that I take it to the police to dispose of it, on the grounds that they might think I had brought it back from South Carolina and I would get into trouble. I rejected her idea of burying it, because how terrible would it be to be minding your business digging a hole and hit a can of tear gas with a shovel? Back it went into the cabinet to befuddle me further when I do all this again in another 28 years. I’m beginning to think between the tear gas and how many guns I’ve found that Papa’s policy was to have a weapon concealed in every room in case the Commies dropped in. 

An empty box from a pharmacy in Fort Sumner, New Mexico with a prescription for a great-great aunt in 1954. Two capsules for rest, repeat every four hours if necessary from Dr. Fikany.  Says at the bottom of the instructions “Be loyal to your doctor, follow his directions with the same exactness we have used in compounding this prescription.” Damn, they didn’t play around.

A xerox of an article in the Amarillo Globe News about the time Uncle Johnny (my great uncle, Baby’s brother) found and returned a wallet containing $1,285 from the floor of the Taylor’s Food Mart.  The article queries “What does one do when one finds a billfold with enough money in it to buy a used car?” Uncle Johnny: “You don’t say nothing. You just make sure it gets back to where it belongs.” I can almost visualize him crouching down as if to tie his shoes and tucking the wallet into the pocket of his overalls. 

My grandparent’s Franciscan Ware wedding china, with a great mid century modern/atomic age pattern of star bursts in blue and green.  Includes a matching ash tray.  I have a picture of Baby and Papa at their wedding shower with the dishes on the table in the background.  If I ever get to the point of reorganizing the china cabinets, the dishes will get a bath and as prominent a spot as the two sets of china from Uncle Ken’s mother. 

A little circle of metal that appears to be a baby bracelet with a delicate pattern incised into the surface, looks to be old and has a clever mechanism to fasten it.  No idea on its origin, it was just sitting on a the highest shelf with globes from light fixtures we don’t even have in the house anymore.  

Every lung function test print out from when I had histoplasmosis at age 12, as well as half the report cards I received between ages 12-18. They are predictable, high As in English and Art, hard won mid Bs in math and science... Stacks and stacks of all kinds of receipts and papers too. My grandparent’s logic was, why throw something away if there’s an empty drawer you can throw it into?

A package of Bridges family photos Aunt Bert sent Papa a decade ago, that i only remember seeing once then wondering where they went.  Great photos of Papa and his nine siblings at various ages, of his parents, him freshly home from the army.  A picture at around age 13-14 that looks identical to one of Uncle Carey at the same age. What a different life would we all have had if he’d never left that valley in Tennessee, and thank goodness his sister had moved to New Mexico for her husband’s lungs and another had followed and worked in the same grocery store as my grandma. 

By the time I finished the kitchen organizing I had taken out 7-8 bags of trash, unpacked and stored about 15 boxes of my kitchen things, taken 3 boxes to the thrift store, stashed away all the oddities and treasures for safe keeping. It took the better part of a week.  I’m left wondering where I will get the “intestinal fortitude” (an appropriate Babyism in this instance) to handle the rest of the house, garage, barn down the street, two city hangars we lease, the tools from the hangar Papa sold about a year ago....

[whittlebaggett8]

23 tech gifts for women that she’ll love to get, Defence Online

Insider Picks writes about products and services to help you navigate when shopping online. Insider Inc. receives a commission from our affiliate partners when you buy through our links, but our reporting and recommendations are always independent and objective.

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Fitbit

The old stereotype used to be that women wouldn’t like tech unless it was dumbed down, pink, or sparkly, but now, the industry is changing.

You can find tons of excellent tech for women out there that is as stylish as it is powerful.

We’ve rounded up the best tech gifts for women here, including headphones, wearables, accessories, and more.

You can also check out the rest of our Mother’s Day 2019 gift guides here.

Instead of buying a bedazzled fitness tracker or a pair of pink headphones and calling it a day, why not get her the tech gifts she actually wants?

As a woman in the tech world, I’ve looked over hundreds of tech products that are made for women to separate the good gadgets from the bad.

Whether your leading lady wants a pair of excellent headphones that look as good as they sound, wants to track her fitness in style, or craves stylish accessories for her phone that aren’t hot pink, we have a gift for her in our guide to the best tech gifts for women.

Read on to check out the best tech gifts for women:

A phone grip and stand

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PopSocket

PopSocket Grip, available at PopSocket, $9.99+

PopSocket grips make it super easy to hold even the largest of phones no matter how small a woman’s hands may be. The grips stick onto almost any phone case, pop out twice to give excellent grip, and double as a stand when she wants to watch videos. PopSockets come in a multitude of colors, patterns, and styles, so you’ll be sure to find one she’ll love. I have PopSocket grips on all the different phone cases I use because I can’t imagine using my phone without one.

A smart display

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Google

Google Home Hub, available at Walmart, $129 (originally $149)

The Google Home Hub puts all the smarts of the Google Assistant into a smart home hub with screen. That way, she can see visual answers to her questions, the weather forecast, news reports, YouTube videos, and more right on the screen as the Assistant reads back the information. It also has a speaker, so she can play her favorite music. Plus, the Home Hub can control smart home devices.

A piece of smart jewelry

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Bellabeat

Bellabeat Leaf Urban and Leaf Chakra, available at Amazon, $100 and up

Bellabeat has been making gorgeous pieces of smart jewelry for years now, and the Leaf Urban and new Leaf Chakra make excellent gifts. Not only does Bellabeat’s smart jewelry look fabulous as a necklace, bracelet, or brooch, it also packs a lot of smart features. The Leaf Urban and Chakra can track activity, mindfulness breathing exercises, and sleep patterns. It also doubles as a silent alarm so she’ll awaken peacefully each morning.

A smart herb garden

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Amazon

AeroGarden Harvest, available on Amazon, $140.69 (originally $149.95)

Who doesn’t love fresh herbs? AeroGarden’s Harvest herb garden isn’t super high-tech, but it is techy in that it uses hydroponics to grow delicious herbs and other produce quickly without much effort on her part. All she has to do to get her herbs growing is pop the seed pods in the planter, give it water regularly, and add the included plant food now and then. The planter does the rest, providing light on a schedule, moving the water, and alerting her when it needs more. In our tests, we had great success with this garden, and we’re sure she will, too.

A pair of stylish headphones

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Amazon

V-MODA Crossfade 2 Wireless Over-Ear Headphones, available at Amazon, $339.99

V-MODA makes some of my favorite headphones. The Crossfade 2 are wireless, so she doesn’t have to deal with wires or worry whether her phone has a headphone jack or not. These are definitely statement headphones, but they are classy looking and the rose gold accents look gorgeous. Most importantly, these headphones sound great.

A cool, artistic smart light

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LIFX

LIFX Wi-Fi LED Beam Kit, available at Best Buy, $129.99 (originally $149.99)

If her design aesthetic is modern and a bit funky, she might just love Lifx’s cool smart light beam kit. The Kit comes with six light beams that she can arrange on a wall in cool patterns to create accent lighting in her home. In the app, she can choose which colors she wants the beams to display and turn her space into an art exhibit. We tried the Beam Kit and we loved it.

An attractive hybrid smartwatch

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Bloomingdale’s

Fossil Q Harper smart hybrid watch, available at Fossil, $115 (originally $175)

If the women in your life don’t like smartwatches, but they still want to feel connected to their phones, a smart hybrid watch is a great gift to give. The Fossil Q Harper hides high-tech features inside a classic, attractive, simple, analog watch body. You’d never know that this watch is so smart by looking at it, but it can buzz with notifications, adjust to different time zones, track fitness, and wake her up peacefully with a silent alarm.

A gorgeous Bluetooth speaker

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Marshall

Marshall Stanmore Wireless Multi-Room Wi-Fi and Bluetooth Speaker, available at Amazon, $399.99

Although Marshall’s aesthetic has traditionally skewed masculine, its newest Bluetooth speakers have subtle touches that look feminine and rock-n-roll at the same time. The Stanmore Bluetooth Speaker comes in a soft off-white color with rosy gold hardware that is subtle and classy. You can also go for the classic black version if your girl isn’t into light color palettes.

A fitness tracker that’s also a smartwatch

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Fitbit

Fitbit Versa, available at Fitbit, $159.95

The Fitbit Versa is the best-looking fitness tracker Fitbit has made to date. It looks a bit like a more angular Apple Watch and you can choose from a lot of different brands to personalize it to match your leading lady’s style. The Versa has a few smartwatch features and apps, but it’s best at fitness tracking and keeping tabs on workouts.

An instant camera

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Instax HQ/Fujifilm

Fujifilm Instax Square SQ20 Camera, available at Amazon, $159.95 (originally $199.95)

Instant cameras make cute, fun gifts for shutterbugs, and the new Fujifilm Instax Square SQ20 is the latest and greatest one you can buy. Thanks to a nifty screen on the back, she can preview any photos she takes with it before she prints them – that way she won’t waste film on blurry shots. The camera also has 16 different filters so she can get artistic with her shots.

A pretty phone case

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Case-Mate

Case-Mate phone cases for iPhone and Samsung, available on Amazon, $25+

Case-Mate has a huge range of cases for iPhones and Samsung phones, so you’re sure to find one that matches her style. Whether she wants a classic slim leather case, a clear case, or one that’s bedazzled, full of glitter, or covered in real pressed flowers, Case-Mate has an option.

A Kindle Paperwhite

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Amazon

Kindle Paperwhite, available on Amazon, $129.99

Amazon’s new Kindle Paperwhite is finally waterproof, so she can take it into the bubble bath with her and read until the water cools and the bubbles disappear. The text appears crisp and sharp, thanks to the great backlight and high-quality E-INK screen. Amazon has an unrivaled selection of ebooks available for download and she can get free ebooks or borrow library books on the Kindle.

A good-looking smartwatch

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Justin Sullivan/Getty Images

Apple Watch Series 4, available at Macy’s, $399+

The Apple Watch Series 4 is hands down the best smartwatch for women. It comes in several great finishes including a classic rose gold one and she can choose from many different watch band options to suit her style. The 40mm casing is also perfect for women’s smaller wrists. Beyond beauty, the Apple Watch has serious brains, too. It can track fitness, monitor her heart rate and health, and buzz with important notifications.

A light therapy alarm clock

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Amazon

Philips Wake-Up Light Alarm Clock, available on Amazon, $104.99 (originally $139.99)

Waking up to a blaring alarm is hardly ideal, so the Philips Wake-Up Light alarm clock makes a great gift. It uses a colored sunrise simulation to gradually wake you up 20 to 40 minutes before your alarm is set to go off. She can choose between five different nature sounds for the actual alarm, too, so she won’t have to deal with a blaring alarm if the light doesn’t work its magic. She can use it as a bedside reading lamp, too.

A smart luggage tag

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Away

Away x Tile Luggage Tag, available from Away, $30

Lost luggage is an all too common experience but with the Away x Tile Luggage tag, she’ll always know where her bag is. The classic black leather tag has a Tile Bluetooth tracker inside that connects to an app on her phone to show her where her bag is in real time so long as it’s within range of her phone or other Tile members.

A cleaning kit for her phone

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WHOOSH

WHOOSH! Cleaning Kit, available on Amazon, $16.99

Our smartphones get dirty and nobody likes a grimey phone. Luckily, WHOOSH! is here to save the day with its cleaning kit, which disinfects electronics safely. It comes with a cleaning spray and cleaning cloth.

A pair of stylish glasses that block blue light from electronics

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Felix Gray

Felix Gray Glasses, available at Felix Gray, $95

Blue light from electronics can lead to eye strain and make it hard to fall asleep at night, so why not get her a pair of blue light-blocking glasses? Felix Gray makes both prescription and non-prescription glasses that look great and work well to block out those harmful blue rays.

A beautiful wireless charger

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Native Union

Native Union Drop Wireless Charger, available on Amazon, $59.99

Most wireless chargers are boring black or white pucks that are functional but not very pretty. Native Union’s Drop charger is the opposite. It comes in a soft rose or dark graphite color that looks gorgeous. The top has grippy silicone on it in a cool pattern so her phone won’t slide off it while charging.

A camera lens kit for her phone

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Olloclip

Olloclip Lens Kit, available at Olloclip, $99.99+

If she loves taking photos and wishes her phone’s camera could do more tricks, pick up an Olloclip lens kit with a fish-eye, wide-angle, and macro lens inside. These lenses work well and are easy to use. The company even has a universal mount in the works.

A pair of touchscreen gloves that are actually warm

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Nordstrom’s Rack/Defence Online

UGG Faux Shearling Touchscreen Compatible Gloves, available at Nordstrom Rack, $29.97

Touchscreen gloves aren’t always attractive, but Ugg makes some very nice ones with genuine leather and shearling for warmth and style. These gloves will make it easy for her to use her phone no matter how cold it gets outside.

A smart speaker

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Amazon

Amazon Echo, available on Amazon, $79.99 (originally $99.99)

If she doesn’t have a smart speaker yet, the Amazon Echo will be a game changer. This speaker has Alexa inside so she can ask the speaker to play music, answer questions, order products, play games, and so much more. If she has some smart home gadgets, Alexa can control many of those, too.

A pair of truly wireless earbuds

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Master & Dynamic

Master & Dynamic MW07, available at Best Buy, $299.98

When it comes to convenience, truly wireless earbuds are the best. Of all the wireless earbuds, Master & Dynamic’s are the best looking and sounding of the bunch. She’ll love their excellent sound quality, easy connectivity, and classic style.

A pair of great wireless earbuds

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Beats

Beats X Wireless Earphones, available at Amazon, $99.95 (originally $119.95)

If she’s not into big headphones, the Beats X Wireless Earphones are a great buy. They’re comfortable, stylish, and easy to use. The headphones sound great and pair effortlessly with iPhones, thanks to the W1 chip. They’ll also work well with an Android phone, of course, because Bluetooth is universal.

The post 23 tech gifts for women that she’ll love to get, Defence Online appeared first on Defence Online.

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[businessliveme]

Museum of Future Experiences Uses VR for Mind-Expanding Trips

(Bloomberg) — If you find day-to-day reality terrifying, I’ve found a cure. The Museum of Future Experiences, which opened last week in New York’s SoHo neighborhood and runs through the end of August, is the latest millennial “museum” to pop up, but it’s not one for taking selfies in front of colorful backdrops and sharing them on social media. Instead, visitors wear a virtual-reality-inducing Oculus S headset and prepare to have their minds blown.

The museum is the brainchild of Bridgewater hedge fund alum David Askaryan, 32, who came up with the idea after realizing that virtual reality had failed to take off, not because of the actual technology, but because of a business model that mistakenly assumed people were going to buy VR headsets for their personal use.

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mo·fe (/ˈmōfē/): Museum of Future Experiences

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“Most VR companies relied on a consumer infrastructure that isn’t there,” he says. “Virtually nobody has a VR headset at home.” Consumer VR software investments dropped off a cliff in 2018, down 59% to $173 million, from $420 million a year earlier, according to SuperData, a digital games and VR market-research company owned by Nielsen Holdings.

Askaryan’s solution was to create a museum experience—which comes with the cute nickname MoFE—using VR in set locations for short periods of time. He describes it as “a curated cerebral experience blending immersive theater, psychology, and virtual reality for an intimate exploration of individual and collective consciousness.” It’s funded by prestigious tech accelerator Y Combinator; tickets, which are purchased ahead of time, are $50 for an hour.

Kent Bye, host of the Voices of VR Podcast, sees potential in a model that creates spaces where individuals can test-drive VR, instead of buying their own $400 headsets. “More and more people want to be immersed into their entertainment,” he says. “I think we’re going to start seeing more people putting their body into these experiences.”

Especially millennials. A study by Harris Group found 72% of people in this generation prefer to spend money on experiences than on material things. Jeremy Bailenson, founding director of Sanford University’s Virtual Human Interaction Lab and an adviser to MoFE, says VR can be a tool “to help people think about themselves and how they relate to others.”

MoFE is not the first location-based VR experience. Tribeca Film Festival has a virtual arcade and a 360-degree theater, and at the Franklin Institute in Philadelphia visitors can use VR headsets to dive into the ocean or soar through the solar system.

Entertainment destination VR World in New York allows customers to use Oculus or HTC Vive headsets for video games, flight simulations, or movies, starting at $44 for two hours. “I consider VR to be the most impactful medium known to man,” says VR World Chief Executive Officer Leo Tsimmer. “We’re not looking at marking technology or marketing headsets. We’re in the business of entertaining and of creating fun times for friends.”

Gabriela Baiter, founder of experiential retail studio Whereabout, agrees. “I think it’s a result of people just craving human connection,” she says about the trend of location-based VR. “We’re starting to become more interested in getting out there and interacting with other people.”

I’d never tried VR before, and my video game expertise is limited to dodging banana peels in Mario Kart. Askaryan says that’s the point: “It opens up VR to a whole new set of customers.” So on a blisteringly hot Friday afternoon, I arrived with five others to “explore our individual and collective consciousness” in SoHo, itself a land where Instagram photos and Snapchat filters are valued as much as anything visible in real life.

The experience breaks down into roughly four 15-minute intervals. Once inside the loft space, we’re informed—three times—that it previously served as a workspace for Andy Warhol. After a receptionist inquires, rather ominously it sounds to me, if we’re ready for our mind-altering experience, we’re greeted by museum actors dressed in full white lab technician outfits worn under a clear plastic gown resembling a garment bag. It’s mad scientist-meets-futuristic time traveler, a look enhanced by their slicked-back hair. They warn us to inform them if our emotions overwhelm us and we need to take a break.

The actors lead our group to a downstairs room, where we’re seated in a circle with our backs to each other and given a paper and a pencil. We’re asked a series of 21 questions, to which we record our answers like an elementary school spelling test. The inquiries start off simple: How anxious are we on a scale of 1 to 10? (I was a 4 earlier in the day, a 10 now.) Then they rapidly progress into more uncertain territory: Did we regularly converse with any dead family members? Have we had an out-of-body experience? Were we worried about artificial intelligence destroying the world?

We submit these “prescriptions” and line up single file for our personalized VR immersion in the next room. Then we’re seated in partitioned booths and strap on Zorro-style black sanitary masks before the technicians help us situate the clunky VR headsets on our heads.

The images are supposed to be tailored to you, based on answers to the previous questionnaire. I must have done something wrong, because my screen shows a menacing female robotic figure who slowly emerges from a sewer system as she repeats the words “Do you remember the feeling of being watched as a child?”

I’ve never done LSD, but I imagine this is its effect in the mind of someone extraordinarily uncreative. After 10 minutes, the technician comes in and tells us to take a moment to let any insights sink in. I rack my brain for any memories of strangers peering through the window of my childhood bedroom.

I expect another immersive experience to soon follow, but the technicians then lead us to an adjacent room, leaving me to work out this newly introduced trauma with a qualified therapist. The passageway is lined with white gauze that drapes onto a small stage with six orange reclining chairs that look like something a dentist would use for the world’s worst dental canal.

This time they strap a sensor to our chests that could vibrate in sync with our VR experience. For this session, all six of us experience the same virtual reality, which is a walk through an unidentifiable cityscape with glowing orange flames in the distance. The blaze slowly grows larger until it swallows the sky in a tornado of fiery destruction.

The technicians tell us these images are an amalgamation of the group’s inner thoughts. I decide then and there to never see any of these people again.

To decompress from the immersion, we go back upstairs into a sitting area with cushioned beanbags. In one corner of the room is a small table with a single drawer and a gold sculpture of a thumbs-up signal, encircled by clear plastic curtain panels and illuminated by ceiling lights.

Each of us receives a “relic” in the table’s drawer, which is a postcard with an image to commemorate our journey. Mine features multiple colorful birds, looking much more peaceful than I felt.

In a circle, our group discusses the immersion and compares the images we saw with a mixture of daze and confusion. Evidently, I was the only one to see a robotic figure informing me of previously unacknowledged childhood terror—everyone else relaxed in a meadow or flew through white puffy clouds.

The entire experience from start to finish took about an hour, but our time with the VR headsets lasted only a combined 20 minutes. Although I’d expected a bit more time with it, in the end, maybe it was for the best.

Askaryan’s business model has potential—especially for someone who would never dream of shelling out $400 for a headset. But I’ve never been so happy to walk out into the reality of 98-degree heat in New York City.

The post Museum of Future Experiences Uses VR for Mind-Expanding Trips appeared first on Businessliveme.com.

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Long flight tips to have a seamless travel experience

Traveling can be incredibly fun — even if it’s for work — but if you’re going somewhere far away, you have to get through a long flight (or several) before you can begin your trip.

Whether you’re an experienced traveler, or someone about to take your first international flight, here are a few tips that can help you stay comfortable and have a seamless experience.

1. Check which airline is actually operating your flight — not the one you booked with

While you may have purchased your ticket from a specific airline, or seen that listed if you bought the ticket through a third-party website, there’s a chance you’re actually flying a different airline altogether.

Airlines operate partnerships and alliances that mean that you may end up booking a flight on an airline’s partner without realizing it. That can lead you to go to the wrong airport terminal — not a great way to start your trip!

For example, even if you book a flight to Paris sold by Delta, you may actually end up flying partner airline Air France, both of which fly from different terminals at New York’s JFK.

To avoid confusion, be sure to check your itinerary before heading to the airport. There might be small text under the selling airline that says “operated by:” that’s the airline that you’re actually flying.

2. Try to avoid checking a bag — just bring a carry-on, but make sure to check the size

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Checking a bag can lead to all kinds of hassle, especially if you have a connection or your flight gets changed due to weather. Plus, airlines often charge extra fees for checked bags, even on international flights.

Instead, try and fit everything into a carry-on suitcase. Lay out all of your clothes for the trip, and try and cut the pile down to something that can fit in the carry-on. You can also roll your clothes, which helps you fit more and prevents wrinkles.

This way there’s no chance of your bag being lost, and you won’t have to wait around at baggage claim.

If you do end up checking a bag, make sure to bring some spare clothes in your carry-on — just in case.

Read more: Startup airline La Compagnie found its niche as a low-cost business-class-only carrier. Now it’s nearing profitability after just 5 years.

3. Hydrate!

The air that you breath while you’re on a plane can be incredibly dry. Plus, when you’re sitting for hours, it’s easy to drink less water than normal without realizing it.

Before every long-haul flight, I buy a big water bottle in the airport. Along with the water that’s served during the flight, that helps me stay hydrated and feel better when I land. Some anecdotal reports suggest that it can even help you get over jet lag.

4. Dress comfortably

Dressing comfortably is especially important on long flights, even if you’re traveling for work and need to head to meetings right when you land. Performance workwear can be a great option. I usually try to wear comfortable sneakers that I can take off and put on quickly, and performance jeans with a bit of stretch.

If you tend to get cold, don’t forget a sweatshirt or jacket, even in the summer!

Keep in mind that some foreign airlines don’t have individual air nozzles and might keep the cabin warmer than you’re used to.

5. Bring whatever gear you need to settle in and get comfortable

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Whether that’s a neck pillow, a big pair of noise cancelling headphones, travel-friendly moisturizer, or something else, try and anticipate whatever you’ll need to stay comfortable during flight.

A crucial set that many people forget, but that can make or break a red-eye flight: an eye-mask and earplugs.

Melissa Vitale, a New York City-based publicist, always brings a pouch or small bag filled with essentials.

“A small pouch just for essentials needed on the flight,” she said. “For me: my comfy socks, eye mask, face masks, lavender oil, CBD, lip balm, laptop, phone, and AirPods.”

Read more: I took a $120 Blade helicopter flight from midtown Manhattan to JFK Airport — here’s what it was like

6. Don’t rely on the in-flight entertainment!

Many airlines offer seat-back screens loaded with movies or shows, but relying on that for a long flight is a mistake, says Spencer Howard, a travel blogger at Straight to the Points.

“Download your favorite shows, movies, podcasts, audiobooks, or whatever to your phone or tablet the night before, he told Business Insider. “Sometimes in-flight entertainment is great, sometimes you’ve seen it all or don’t find it interesting.”

Plus, there’s always a chance that the plane you’re on isn’t equipped with it, or that you end up with a broken screen and hours to kill.

“Also, don’t rely on airport or lounge Wi-Fi to be fast enough to download what you want just before you board your flight,” he suggested.

On a related note, bring a portable charger with you so that you can power your device in-flight, or simply make sure that your phone is fully charged when you land, suggested Charlie Barkowski, who blogs about travel at Running with Miles.

7. Bring any medications in your carry-on, not checked bags, and make sure to check local laws before your trip

If you do end up checking a bag, make sure to pull out any medications or equipment that you need and bring it with you onto the plane — just in case your bag gets lost.

“Pack all medicines and medical supplies you need in your carry-on, just in case there’s a problem with your checked bags,” Howard said.

Also, just because you have a prescription or buy a medicine over-the-counter in the US doesn’t mean it’s allowed in every country. Do a quick Google search before your trip to make sure that any medicines you’re bringing are allowed.

8. Figure out your visa situation ahead of time

With an American or European passport, you can travel to many countries without needing a visa. In some cases, you can apply for, receive, and pay for a visa in advance.

Other countries, though, require you to apply beforehand, and can take weeks to process. Be sure to check visa requirements as soon as you book your trip in order to know exactly what you’ll need.

9. Be mindful with the on-board booze

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Passengers have been imbibing in the skies since around 1950, according to Air & Space Magazine. However, that doesn’t mean you have to go overboard.

Aside from the obvious problems that can come from becoming intoxicated on a plane, you also risk becoming too dehydrated, or not sleeping properly.

Be aware of how alcohol affects you when you’re flying, and keep in mind that it’s often different than it is on the ground. Some people find a few drinks — and sometimes a few more — helpful on a long flight, some need to keep it to one, and some prefer teetotaling in-flight. Whichever way is best for you, be sure to drink plenty of the water you brought, too!

10. Enjoy the in-flight meals and snacks, but don’t overeat

It’s easy to eat too much when you’re bored, and long flights can indeed be boring. While it’s important to eat meals and snacks, you want to be careful not to overeat. It can be harder to digest during a long flight, so if you eat too much, you might end up bloated and uncomfortable for the rest of your journey.

Read more: An airline is getting slammed for asking a nursing mom to cover up. Here are the breastfeeding policies on 11 major airlines

11. Move around

Make sure to get up and take a walk at least every few hours, and to stretch your arms and legs periodically when you’re sitting.

Long periods of immobility in a seated position can put you at risk of developing dangerous blood clots called deep-vein thrombosis (DVT), especially in your legs, where blood pools when you’re sitting. The easiest way to prevent it is by simply moving every now and then.

12. If you’re worried about motion sickness or get anxious during turbulence, snag a seat towards the middle of the plane above the wing.

The wings are the planes’ center of gravity, so being above them can reduce the feeling of turbulence or motion throughout the flight.

13. Remember that you are your own best advocate

If something goes wrong — and the complicated logistics of air travel mean that sometimes, little things go wrong — try not to stress it. Delayed luggage or missed connections can be stressful, as can dealing with complex airline rules and policies, but a little patience can go a long way.

Be polite and informed when trying to solve problems. If you miss a connection due to a delay and you’re on the line for customer service, pull up Google Flights and look for alternative routings. Having a suggestion ready might be helpful when you get to the counter.

If your luggage gets lost or delayed, it’s an inconvenience, but chances are it will be found and delivered to you within a day or two. Buy whatever essentials you need, including clothing, and save all of your receipts to file a claim with the airline or your travel insurance company after your trip.

14. Enjoy the flight!

Long flights are what you make of them. They can be boring and monotonous, or they can be wonderful stretches of free time during which you can do all the things you can’t normally find time for.

“When else will you have uninterrupted time like that,” asked Joel Farran, a former executive from Chicago who’s flown internationally dozens of times. “Bring a journal and write, make lists, plan or imagine your life.”

Whether its reading a book that’s been sitting unopened on your night stand for half a year, catching up on the magazine that have been piling up, or enjoying some quiet contemplative time to think, write, and daydream, long flights can be a wonderful break from our usual hyper-connected lives on the ground. With an approach like that, you’ll almost be disappoined when it’s over!

The post Long flight tips to have a seamless travel experience appeared first on Tripstations.

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