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medicallyinevitable · 4 years

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Medically Inevitable

Chapter 15:- Hopeful Happenings

Characters:- Arielle Valentine, Ethan Ramsey, Ines Delarosa, Kyra Santana

Pairing:- Ethan Ramsey x Arielle Valentine

Warnings:- Slight mentions of cancer

Word Count:- 1700+ words :)

General PoV:-

As the sun shines bright in the late morning, Arielle parks her car and heads straight towards Edenbrook’s locker room, a to-go cup in hand from Starbucks instead of Derry Roasters not wanting any chance to bump into Dr. Ramsey, despite knowing that he’s her boss. Making her way to the nurses’ station, she picks up her charts and textbooks and heads toward the cafeteria.

Arielle’s PoV:-

You keep at your textbooks, scouring the pages for anything that could explain Nigel's symptoms, and the tidal wave of self-doubt doesn’t help either. You let out a sigh, "Maybe Dr. Ramsey's right. Maybe I really don't belong here..."

"Mind if I join you?" A cheery voice snaps you back to reality.

You turn around to find Kyra. Dread fills in you as you see her. "Kyra, what are you doing here? Is your cancer back? Is something wrong?", you start asking.

"Woah! Dial down the doom and gloom there, Dr. Sob Emoji. I'm in remission." Kyra beams.

"What?! Oh my god congratulations! I’m so happy for you!" You envelope her in a warm hug which almost melts all your tension away.

"Just had another check-up. Will be coming a lot for those," she catches you up with her remission plan as you two sit. "No offense but I definitely look in better shape than you!"

"Ugh I know. I'm exhausted.” And just like that, all the tension fills your mind as you give her the details. " My shift ended like five hours ago, but instead of going home I am sitting here and reading till my eyes bleed."

"You should probably get that looked at." Kyra's face morphs into something serious but genuine as she continues.

"Look, I don't want to be that cancer survivor… but it did make me realize that life is too short." You give her a sad smile knowing how painful it must have been for her.

"We only get so many chances you know? But maybe you need that lesson more than I do," she continues after pausing for a moment.

"Is it that obvious?" You raise your brows.

"Let's chalk it up to my incredible intuition." Kyra smiles," Anyways there's an amazing ice cream shop nearby. They make an triple chocolate gelato that's literally to die for," she jokes, " You can take my word for that." "Why don't we visit that place? It'll give you a distraction and a much needed break."

You look at her and then your textbooks, not understanding what to do. All you can see is blurry lines. the words and concepts swim around in your very exhausted brain. You close the textbook with a slam after your answer is crystal clear.

"How can I say no to chocolate gelato!", you say dramatically.

"That's more like it!", Kyra beams. The two of you collect your belongings and make your way out as you tell Kyra everything about the dilemma with your latest patient.

"This place is pretty cute.", you say as you look around.

"Try nauseatingly adorable. I want to make it tiny and keep it in my bookshelf," Kyra replies. You laugh.

"You collect tiny shops?" You ask as the two of you made your way to the counter.

"I collect many sickeningly adorable things," she laughs before turning her attention to the boy behind the counter. "I’ll have the large Death by Chocolate please. And my absurdly attractive friend here will have…”, she nods for you to continue.

You roll your eyes at her before placing your order. You take a look at their menu before deciding to have the same one as Kyra as it's the most chocolatey one.

“I'll have the same.", you smile at the server.

The server scoops your gelato into two big cups and slides them across the counter while Kyra rummages through her bag for her wallet.

"I'll pay.“, you say getting your card out.

"No way!", she stops you by swiftly taking your card from you. You whine but to your dismay she doesn’t budge.

"This was my idea. Besides I didn't get out much during recovery. I've got months of dining-out budget to blow."

The next minute she's handing the cash to the server and then guiding you to a booth. As you two take your seats, Kyra hands you your card.

She takes a spoon full of her Death by Chocolate and sighs blissfully.

“Mmmmmm…”

You smile at her antics. "That good?" You ask before taking a bite.

"Orgasmic. I never used to eat junk food before my diagnosis."

She takes another bite and you take your first. You can't help but let out a moan as the chocolatey silkiness melts on your tongue. Kyra smirks and gives you a smug look.

She then continues, "I was super into exercising and calorie counting. I never did anything I wasn't supposed to." She smiles sadly. "And I still got lung cancer. At my twenties!"

"You must have been so strong!", you reply.

"Everyone keeps saying that but-", she pauses, "I don't know. I just went to the doctor to see why I was breathing weird."

She sighs. "Then suddenly I was going for all these tests, and then I had cancer."

She laughs humorlessly. "Life went from jogging and juice every morning to chemo and puking."

You can almost feel the pain as she speaks about her experiences even when you’re aware you’ll never truly understand.

"But I didn't do anything," she says, " Those things had to happen , and I had good insurance, so I did them. And it's not like I had any alternative."

"I think you should give yourself more credit.”, you reach for her hand and squeeze it in a comforting manner.

"You faced death with a smile on your face. I'll always remember you cracking jokes on the way to surgery-", you stop for a second before adding,"You are the strongest person I know Kyra."

Kyra blushes, a little embarrassed. "Well you can laugh or you can cry and I chose to laugh.”, she shrugs with a smile on her face.

"And like I said, I don't want to be that cancer survivor but it does put certain things into perspective."

"That kind of clarity must be nice.", you reply.

"Well yeah, you have to get some kind of consolation price for nearly dying, right?" She then shakes her head.

”But enough about that. If we keep talking about this you'll always see me as a girl who beat cancer."

"I'll never, Kyra." you say truthfully. "That's not how I see you."

"Oh yeah? And how do you exactly see me?" She asks playfully.

"I think you are inspiring."

A blush creeps on her face as she’s caught off guard, but quickly retaliates with a sassy reply. “If you keep giving me compliments then I’ll never let you hear the end of it.”

“We’ll see about that.” You both dissolve into fits of laughter as Kyra fills you up on the hospital gossip...

“What wait?! Seriously?! I can’t believe it!”

“Me either, but you know how gossip is!”, she replies with a shrug.

Just then your phone chimes. You pull it out to see it’s a reminder for your shift.

“Crap, I have 10 minutes till my shift.”

“Oof, you better hurry!”, she replies.

“We should do this again, this was really nice.”, you say as you gather your things.

“We should! Besides there would have to be 12 different things wrong with someone to turn down Gelato!”, she jokes.

“..12 different things wrong….. oh my god, Kyra, you’re a genius!”

You scramble to your feet and quickly throw away your cup.

“I like to think I am but what did I do?”, she asks.

“I’ll explain later!”, you yell.

“Ookay…” You rush back to the hospital, typing out a message on your pager as Kyra sits there in utter confusion.

“Well I guess I could get another scoop of gelato…”

————————————————————

An hour later, you take a deep breath before entering Nigel's room to find Ethan and Ines already inside.

“Well what are you waiting for?”, Dr. Ramsey says. Pushing back all of your invading memories of him, you continue with your explanation.

"I spent the last two days trying to figure out the one thing causing all of Mr.Platt's symptoms.”, you say as you stand beside Nigel's bedside.

"And?", he asks. For a split second, you can see a slight look of hope in his eyes, but it passes as quickly as it came, leaving you to believe it was a mere delusion of yours.

"That's when I realized nothing was causing all of them-" But before you can continue, you’re interrupted by Nigel.

"Are you calling-", he burps, “me a liar?", he asks, rude as always.

You control the urge to roll your eyes. He could've at least let you finish your sentence.

Ignoring him, you continue what you were saying," Mr.Platt has been experiencing tingling and hair loss but also cold sensitivity and some hearing problems." You pause for a second before continuing,"All of which point to hypothyroidism caused by Hashimoto's disease easily treated with levothyroxine."

"Go on." Ethan orders in his usual cold bossy tone.

"I couldn't fit in the constant burping and the chest pain… because it was completely separate." You explain. "I ordered a barium swallow X-ray and detected a hiatal hernia in the esophageal hole through the diaphragm."

"The treatment?", he asks, motioning you to continue.

"I have already booked a laparoscopic surgery to repair it.”, you answer with a touch of pride.

"Good work Dr.Valentine." Ines smiles at you.” You return it with a nod and a tentative smile.

"So ... I'll be cured?" Nigel asks.

"Yes-“, you calm yourself down before you rip him apart and then continue.

"You'll be good as new." you say instead with a forced smile.

"Good... because I don't want to spend a -" he burps, " second more in your hopeless company."

Your blood boils at this point as you bite your lip to control yourself. “The audacity! Ugh, he's a patient, Arielle. You have to be nice to him.”

"Mr. Platt, might suggest viewing this as a new lease on life. Perhaps a life where you don't make everyone around you miserable.”, Ethan's stern voice retorts, shocking you and Ines.

“No way...he did not!”

"Dr. Ramsey!" Ines exclaims with a shocked expression on her face, which you’re quite sure your face resembles.

"I'll report you! I want to talk to your manager," he says more angrily than before.

"Go ahead," Ethan says with a sarcastic smile." Maybe she can't talk to you like this but I sure as hell can."

You look at Nigel who looks like he's about to say something but just then Bryce struts in. He winks at you playfully as he passes you.

"Someone called for a laparoscopic surgery?"

"Oh great, first Barbie and now the damn Ken doll!” You don’t even attempt to hide the disgust on your face as you roll your eyes.

By the time you’ve finished your consultation with Bryce, Ines and Ethan have already left the room. Pleased with yourself, you take a left in the hallway without noticing Ethan standing leaning against the wall.

"Rookie..." His velvety baritone voice calls out, pulling you out of a haze.

Wincing, you stop dead in your tracks as the memories of the previous day replay in your mind. Still embarrassed with your encounter, you turn around but never meet his eyes. You’re sure you look like a kid, standing before him with your feet crossed, one hand fiddling with your hair as you bite your lip.

"So, you figured it out in the end. And you kept things professional.”, he nods, barely visible.

"I guess I just needed a… push.”, you reply in a timid voice laced with embarrassment.

"Maybe you aren’t so hopeless then.", he says.

Unlike yesterday, his voice isn’t filled with disappointment and malice.

So mustering up some courage, you look up to meet his eyes. Relief washes over you as you don’t detect a hint of disappointment in his eyes. He isn’t smiling but something in you tells you he isn’t angry. You don’t realise you’ve been staring into his oh-so blue eyes until his pager beeps, shaking you out of your reverie.

“..Uh- I’ll see you around, Dr. Ramsey.” You can almost swear that you see longing etched into his chiseled features as you lose yourself in his eyes once more.

“Likewise, Valentine.” With that, he turns around and stalks away.

You sigh and lean against the wall, the events since you started your residency swirl around like a hurricane filled with memories.

“What the hell am I supposed to do now?”

******************************************

And this concludes Season 1 of Medically Inevitable!

Authors’ Note:- Hey everyone, hope y’all enjoyed this chapter! As you’ve probably seen before, this is the last chapter of Season 1! Season 2 will be out soon, as soon as we work out the kinks and pump out a few chapters with different moodboards and title themes! Season 2 will be much more eventful, more drama, angst and shocking cliffhangers mixed in with the string of festivities that Thanksgiving and Christmas bring! Stay tuned and check our blogs and Instagram’s (same handle) for more updates! And lastly thank y’all so much for all the support, we are extremely grateful.

Love,

@drariellevalentine & @mysticaurathings

#ethan ramsey #ethan x mc #open heart fanfic #ethanjonahramsey #playchoices #open heart #medically inevitable #ethan jonah ramsey #ines delarosa #harper emery #modern au #thank you for the support

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doyelikehaggis · 4 years

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Rowing the Rarepair Rowboat: Barry Allen x Iris West x Leonard Snart (The Flash)

Requested by @wonderdoves

He's not allowed to go anymore. It's all Barry hears in the lecture he gets from Joe when he brings him back from the prison again. Third time this week, he catches, refusing to look at him. Have to stop.

"No," Barry says flatly. And then he's running up the stairs and slamming the door to his bedroom shut. It's not his bedroom. It's just some guest room, currently holding the poor foster kid he had to take in.

True to his word, Barry doesn't stop. He wants to see his dad. He knows he didn't do it, no matter what anyone says. But apparently Joe swayed the prison into not letting Barry visit. Makes a point of telling him as much at breakfast, as if he can sense his plans.

Barry doesn't say a word about it, just eats his cereal in deliberating silence. And as soon as he's done and on the path to school with Iris, he takes a left turn in the wrong direction.

"Barry," Iris says, making him pause to look back at her. Her expression's confused, but her eyes are full of worry. "Where are you going?"

"Anywhere," he says, shrugging. Then he takes off.

He's never exactly been the fastest runner. Still, Iris doesn't try to follow. It's good, he wouldn't want to get her in any trouble. He doesn't care the same for himself.

No one questions the little kid wandering the aisles of a store, no one paying enough attention to see him slipping candy bars and strange little juice things barely the size of his hand into his pocket as he goes. Not when he actually has money to pay for the two things he sets on the counter when he's done.

Then it's back to wandering through the streets of the city, but at least he has chocolate now. It's not what he would like to be doing, but it's better than being at school and abiding by all of the dumb rules they're trying to enforce on him because he's "out of control" according to his teachers, and Joe, even the headmaster.

But around comes lunch and he's bored, so he finds himself slipping through a gap in the fence into the playground. He spots Iris. Alone. She's just sitting on the ground, back against the wall, flipping through homework.

It brings a small smile to his face. Approaching her, he sits down beside her unnoticed until he taps her knee with one finger.

She startles and her head whips up, eyes wide. But then she sees it's him and her features relax. Not too much, he notices; she still seems tense.

"I didn't think you were coming," she says, but her voice gives away that she's glad he did.

He starts to respond, mouth opening, but he's cut off by quick and heavy footfalls rounding the corner they're tucked behind.

A couple of boys. One's who have never liked Barry, and Iris through association. He can already tell that this isn't going to end well by the looks on their faces when they come up short and realize they're there.

In all honesty, Barry doesn't catch much of what happens. He's gotten used to tuning insults out that his brain just sort of automatically does it on its own. But he hears the words "mommy", "dead", and "orphan", and none of them are used with all that much sympathy.

Next thing he knows, he's on his feet and swinging for the closest one. His fist makes contact, hard, and he just keeps going. There's blood, he thinks, but he can't figure out where it's coming from as they end up on the ground.

There are rough hands pulling at his shoulders and he thinks Iris' voice is there somewhere. But all he can focus on is the bubbling anger that's been boiling inside of him for weeks now, at the man who really killed his mom, the police, Joe, even his dad for not fighting to see him.

The other boy isn't fighting back, he registers faintly, his hands pushing at him instead to try and topple him. Then a fist makes contact with the side of his face and he falters, thrown off balance.

It's long enough for them to shove him off. His elbow scrapes off the ground and his head hits it with a thud that makes a dull pain shoot through it. But it doesn't feel so bad. It actually feels good. Even the stinging in his hand.

There are shouts now, deeper, older voices. More footsteps hurrying in their direction.

He tilts his head, catching a glimpse of the boy, being carefully hauled up by his friends. There's dark splotches on the ground, and when Barry manages to look at the boy's face, he finds it covered in red. Blood streaming from his nose, his forehead, his mouth, even the back of his head. And he's crying. Kind of screaming, actually.

Barry feels a hand taking his and he looks to his left. He finds Iris next to him. Holding his hand. His hand that's scraped at the knuckles and covered in someone else's blood.

Her eyes are wide and terrified and shining more than he wants them to ever. But she swallows and just holds his hand a little tighter with a smile. One that says I'm with you. No matter what. Even after that. It makes him feel a little less lost and alone.

Security cameras. How did he forget to avoid the cameras this time? Because he's eleven, and it just didn't really cross his mind.

But they did. Joe has to talk to other police officers because of it. And because of that kid. A broken nose, concussion, and some damage to his mouth. They said he was lucky there was no permanent damage to his eyes as well.

Barry feels a little stir of regret. He just snapped. But the kid started it, and he didn't even want to be at school in the first place. He wanted to see his dad.

Joe's talking to the principal, too. The parents aren't happy. The store owner isn't happy. Barry hears him try to come to his defence; he's eleven, he's a kid, he's traumatised and grieving, he's in pain, he just needs help and support.

Maybe he's right. But Barry doesn't want his help. He doesn't want his support, because he won't give it to him where it matters most. He still doesn't believe him.

This isn't the first time he's been in trouble.

"He's been caught stealing before," the store owner says.

"He's violent and aggressive and is in fights far too frequently," the principal says.

"He's broken school property." "He's damaged store property." "--public property." "Truancy." "Vandalism." "Theft." "Fights." "Hospital."

"Acting out." "Scared." "I can help him."

"Pressing charges." "Needs discipline." "Out of your control." "Just a foster kid."

Barry chews on the inside of his cheek, biting it until he can taste blood. Iris is silent next to him, but he can feel her fear. Not his own. He's not afraid.

"A juvenile detention facility will just teach him a lesson that he needs to learn. It'll be better for him."

The hearing goes through. A couple hours of community service. It could be worse, Joe reasons. Barry doesn’t say anything.

Cleaning graffiti from windows is his punishment. Barry doesn’t entirely think that this is an eleven year old’s job, but apparently complaining about it will only make it worse. Not that he cares either way, but it at least gets him out of that house.

It’s working in silence mostly, the other kids scattered out in the vicinity, doing other jobs. The supervisor is around somewhere, but not close by, fortunately. It’s actually kinda boring. Right up until--

“Psst. Barry.”

He glances around for the source of the familiar voice, and he finds it. Iris’s head, peeking out of an alley on his left. He relaxes, starting to smile, then hesitates.

“What are you doing here, Iris?” he asks, trying his best to sound disinterested, and with real suspicion. A touch of bitterness. “Did your dad send you here to keep an eye on me?”

She looks hurt. “No. I told him I was going to Dinah’s house to study. I just wanted to see you. You’re always in your room.”

Barry softens, and he lets himself smile this time. Iris then glances at the graffiti-ed window and her face scrunches.

“That doesn’t look fun,” she notes. “At all.”

“Wanna give it a go?” he jokes.

Iris scoffs. “And do it all for you? I don’t think so.”

Barry rolls his eyes, but he laughs. A laugh bubble up out of her chest as well, and it makes his heart skip a beat. As if it’s a few months ago, when everything was good and fine. It feels so familiar.

Then his eyes dart off to the side and he catches sight of a group of boys making straight for him, and he knows he’s in for it. Especially since the leading boy has a black eye and bruised face, and his nose looks a little wrong in some way. And he looks pretty intent on revenge.

“Go,” Barry quickly tells Iris, who’s eyes are wide now that she’s spotted them, too. But she shakes her head. “Run, Iris,” he hisses. “Run. Please.”

She listens. He watches her take off out of the alley and down the street. The boys pay her no mind; she’s not the one they want. Unfortunately for him, he can’t even run away this time unless he wants more hours of service.

Barry swallows, but stays where he is, tilting his head up. A bad move, he decides, because suddenly the kid’s on him and he’s just given him access to land a blow on his jaw.

It hurts. A lot. It throws him enough that he doesn’t have time to react before the boy’s throwing another punch, straight to his stomach this time. It winds him and he doubles over. Then it’s punch after punch, the sharp kick of a shoe. He doesn’t try and fight back.

The numb pain is actually soothing. Like all of the turmoil, the anger that’s been boiling like a brewing storm thundering inside of him, it’s all draining out of him with each blow.

His head’s starting to feel like it’s detaching from the rest of him and sitting up high on a cloud when there’s a shout. For a moment, he thinks it’s just from one of the boys, probably mistaking a laugh.

“Get out of here unless you want me to show you how this pocket knife works,” an unfamiliar voice says, strangely calm, but low in a dangerous way. “Or I can just get my buddy to light you up. How do you like the sound of feeling your skin sizzling and peeling off your bones until you’re just a puddle of flesh?”

The blows stop coming. Barry faintly catches the sound of hurried footsteps, now running in the opposite direction. Someone actually scared them off, he thinks in disbelief. That’s a first.

He cracks his eyes open, and it feels like an effort for at least one of them. A boy comes into sight above him, standing over him. His expression matches his voice. Calm, but something dangerous in the cold, glinting eyes. Like ice.

But he reaches a hand out to him. Barry gingerly takes it, and finds himself faced with Iris appearing at the mystery boy’s side. She’s crying.

“Your girl ran into me, and she was a mess, so.” The boy waves a hand like it’s a good enough explanation for a question that wasn’t asked. He eyes him, then the window. “Ah. You’re the new kid, right?”

Barry’s eyebrows furrow, his attention divided between taking Iris’ hand to reassure her he’s okay. “Uh, new to...to...?”

“The legal system. Juvie.”

The boy raises an amused eyebrow at him. Barry’s finally able to register details about him and notices that he must be a couple of years older, maybe thirteen, fourteen. Probably why the boys ran off. That, and the good few inches he has on all of them, not to mention the threat of a pocket knife that Barry can’t help but glance at his pockets for any sign of now. Just in case.

Barry just stays quiet.

“Thank you for helping...” Iris steps up, raising her chin. She trails off pointedly.

The boy stares for a moment. His eyes that Barry are realizing aren’t just cold like ice, but are the colour of it as well, flick between them. Then a slow smile spreads across his face.

“Snart,” he answers her silent prompting. “First name’s Leonard, but call me that and I will shiv you. Don’t have to be in juvie to carry one on you.”

Iris’ hand tenses in Barry’s, and admittedly he’s a little intimidated. But then Iris laughs. He glances at her like she’s out of her mind, but the pain in his head must be getting to him, because a slight chuckle escapes him as well.

“Noted,” Barry says.

“Does that mean that people call you Leo?” Iris asks, and she’s teasing. She is teasing the older boy who just threatened a group of kids with a pocket knife and clearly knows his way around the legal system better than them. “Or is it just Snart?”

“No one calls me Leo,” he answers coolly, but there’s a quirk at the corner of his mouth. “Besides, I highly doubt I’ll be seeing either of you again. No need to be on an any name basis.”

He turns his stare back to Barry, and something about his expression tells him that his own face isn’t looking so good right now. He winces for him, actually looking almost sympathetic.

“Piece of advice for you, kid,” he says, “run away next time. Or find yourself someone to look out for you. That’s what I did, and I’m still alive.”

He then turns and walks away. Finally, he pulls his other hand out of his pocket, flipping a knife between his fingers like it’s a game.

Iris tugs on his hand, bringing his attention back to her concerned gaze, her hand gently reaching up to his face but not quite touching.

“Come on, we need to do something about this,” she says, and she makes him abandon his window in favour of finding the supervisor.

Barry’s community service is due to end, but apparently skipping out on doing it only lengthens the punishment. He’s sure that stealing a couple more things from a store probably didn’t help.

Breaking the rules of his community service, they say to Joe. Needs more extreme measures. Isn’t learning anything. Not enough discipline. Barry could already feel what was coming.

His community service doesn’t extend, but becomes a two-week sentence to a juvenile detention facility. Joe tried to fight that, too, but he seems wearier. More hopeless. Like he’s slowly realizing that nothing he’s doing is working on him.

And he hasn’t exactly been too happy about Iris hanging out with him when he’s skipping his hours. Or accepting half a stolen chocolate bar from him, waiting around the corner. Barry doesn’t see the problem. That doesn’t seem to help.

So, when the sentence is given, there isn’t as much of a fight. From Iris, there is, but Barry shrugs it off and says it’s fine. He’s only been at the facility a couple of hours, but it doesn’t feel so bad. There’s a room, and food.

And it’s boring.

Then, at last, he gets a sliver of hope that these two weeks aren’t going to be as dull and torturous as they seem. He spots Snart across the room, sat on a table, in conversation with a slightly taller, slightly older, even more intimidating boy.

It’s probably a huge risk to just approach someone in juvie, Barry thinks. So, he does exactly that. Walks right over to them, practically unnoticed by mostly everyone else as one of the smallest people in the facility.

“Hey,” Barry says when he reaches them.

Snart keeps talking, as if he hadn’t heard him. The older boy doesn’t show much acknowledgement either.

Barry considers tapping Snart to get his attention, then remembers the pocket knife, the threat, and just the overall general unspoken rule of not touching anyone in juvie if you want to keep your hands.

He tries again, addressing Snart this time. It works. Snart stops talking, his eyes sliding to him, sharp and like a cat’s narrowing. Recognition flickers in them.

“Beat it, pipsqueak,” the older boy next to him grunts out, menace flashing in his eyes. He doesn’t have the same cold glint, but it’s still harsh, but more blazing, like burning flames rather than ice.

“Well, well,” Snart says, ignoring his friend’s comment. That same slow smile is curving his mouth as he seizes Barry up with subtle disbelief. “Proved me wrong. Tell me you and that girl didn’t get yourself thrown in here for fun.”

Barry chuckles, but shakes his head. “No."

“You know this kid?” his friend asks in confusion.

Snart shrugs, a tilt of his head. “Stopped a couple of kids from killing him during community service a few weeks ago.” He turns his head, smirking at his friend. “Sound familiar, Mickey?”

His friend grunts again, clearly displeased. “It’s Mick. I’ve told you to cut that out or I’ll shiv you myself, Lenny,” he shoots back, and Snart glares.

Mick then looks back at Barry. He doesn’t seem any more eager to have him standing there, but he doesn’t protest as much anymore.

“What’d you do, kid?” he asks. “Set something on fire? Rob a bank?”

“I’m eleven,” Barry says in confusion. “How would I rob a bank?”

Mick shrugs. “Easy. Just--”

“Just, answer the question,” Snart cuts him off, tone somewhat gentle, but sending an exasperated look Mick’s way. He turns back to Barry. “What’d you do?”

“Just stole some stuff,” Barry says flippantly, brushing it off. He pauses. “And... I sort of vandalised a cop car.”

Both of them light up, interested. Mick laughs, and Snart looks fairly impressed.

“All right,” he says, nodding, then throws a glance around, “and, uh, your girl?”

“Iris isn’t here. Just me.”

Barry can’t help but notice the flicker in Snart’s expression when he mentions Iris’ absence, almost as if he’s disappointed.

“Does just me have a name or am I gonna have to keep calling you pipsqueak?” Mick asks.

“Oh, it’s Barry,” he answers.

Mick’s eyebrows draw together. “That short for something?”

He’s clearly asking for a reason. One that Barry is not going to give him to him considering the nicknames he’s sure he probably already uses on Snart.

“Nope,” he says, shaking his head. “Just Barry.”

The answer’s accepted without question.

“Alright then,” Mick says. “I’m Mick, and that’s Len. Though, personally, I recommend you call him Leonard. He loves it.”

“You do remember that you have to share a room with me, right?” Snart asks him, the implications clearly there. “You really want to be pushing that one knowing that?”

Mick glares, looking like he very much wants to. But he doesn’t. He presses his lips together and breathes a sigh out through his nose, but says nothing else on the matter. A wise decision by the sounds of it.

“Okay,” Barry says, grinning. “Got it. Guess we’re on an any-name basis, then.”

Snart--or Len, Barry decides--catches his eyes with a knowing look. He’s smiling, almost secretive about it. Then he’s rolling his eyes but motioning for Barry to join him on the otherwise empty table. He does, and Mick starts talking again about something or other. Juvie could be worse, Barry decides.

Visitation isn’t like it is in the proper prison. Instead of being separated by panels of glass and having to talk through a phone, there’s a room filled with soft chairs and two-seated couches in four rows with a table in between each seat.

Barry sits across from Joe and Iris. Joe keeps looking around like he’s unsure about something, questioning, searching. Barry just focuses on Iris the entire time. They talk, they laugh, it’s surprisingly nice. Then again, every moment with Iris is usually.

When Joe excuses himself for just a second to go and talk to one of the guards, or whatever reason he gives that Barry doesn’t listen to, he feels someone drop down beside him on the couch. Iris’ eyes widen.

“Was wondering when we’d finally meet again,” Len says.

Barry rolls his eyes, but turns to him, shoving his arm. “You’re not allowed to be here. Isn’t Lisa missing you over there?”

“She’s talking to Mick,” Len says, as if that’s practically the same thing.

“Wait, you’re in here, too?” Iris blurts out, over her inital shock already. She then aims a light kick at Barry’s foot beneath the table. “You didn’t mention him!”

Barry starts to open his mouth, but Len’s beating him to it, feigning a gasp.

“You didn’t mention me yet?” he asks. “I’m hurt, Barry, truly.”

“I haven’t had a chance!” Barry says in his defence, and quickly waves a hand between the two of them. “Iris, this is Len, Len, this is Iris. There. Happy?”

Iris quirks an eyebrow as Len suppresses an amused smirk.

“So dramatic,” Len jokes, addressing Iris with a shake of his head.

She nods back, her laughter kept in her mouth, even as she says, “He always has been. I don’t think he can help it, but I’ve gotten used to it, and it’s now one of the reasons I love him.”

Barry’s heart jumps. Love. It means a lot of different things, he reasons, but his heart still grows and beats a little stronger when he catches her eyes and she smiles that cute, happy little smile at him.

“Yeah, I can see why,” Len agrees softly. Then, when Barry looks at him in surprise, he rolls his eyes and gives his knee a nudge with his foot. “Though you’ve been a real pain since you got here. Honestly, can you go one day without getting in trouble?”

Barry grins. “But where would the fun in that be?”

“All right, I’ve been leaving you with Mick for too long, you’re gonna start setting fire to things soon.” Len turns to Iris. “Would you be willing to commit a minor offense to get thrown in here and take him off my hands? I’m going to go crazy.”

Iris laughs now and she shakes her head. “Sorry, boys, but I plan on staying out of here if possible. I’m not so easy to corrupt.”

Len’s eyes narrow, but the smile stays on his face. Sly, secretive, curious.

“Perhaps,” he says. “Or maybe you just need to see that there’s fun to be had in a little corruption. It’s not all bad.”

“You’re in juvie,” Iris says blankly, raising an eyebrow.

Spreading his arms around them, one on the back of the couch, Len replies, “And it’s not so bad. We’re having fun, aren’t we? I’m just saying.”

“Do not get yourself thrown in here,” Barry says to her, laughing. “This is enough. Seriously. I’ll be out before you know it.”

Joe starts to come back over, and Len makes his exit. He only lingers long enough to wave a goodbye to Iris with a wink and promise Barry he’ll see him later before he hops back over the couches, settling back down beside Mick across from a girl about the same age as Barry and Iris, and an old man.

So, Barry was a little bit off when he said he would be out in no time. He accidentally gets into a fight, and his sentence is lengthened by a couple more weeks. And it kind of just keeps happening. It’s not intentional, obviously. But he will admit that juvie isn’t all that bad. He has Len, and even Mick.

Time just passes. It doesn’t even really feel like it’s been a year and a half. But it has. And as the months have gone on, Joe’s grown more reluctant to let Iris visit. He says it’s affecting her. Making her distant and constantly worried about him, finding it hard to concentrate in school. Acting out.

Of course, he says none of it to Barry’s face, but he overhears him saying it to his probation officer. When asked why he thought it was better if she visited less when it clearly makes both of them happy. But Joe’s firm. He stops Iris from coming. So, Barry eventually refuses to see him, too.

He’s a little more miserable, to be honest. But Len’s there, cheering him up, at least. Mick’s... well, Mick.

But Barry’s probation officer talked to him a couple of weeks ago, bringing a little bit of news. Bad in their eyes, of course, but very good in his.

He’s not allowed to see Iris the day she’s brought in, letting her get settled into her room first. Just down the hall from him. Apparently juvie in Central City doesn’t care about separation.

But the next day, when they’re forced to go to class, he finally sees her and takes the seat right next to her. She lights up right away.

“Really, Iris?” he asks jokingly. “I know you missed me, but Len was kidding when he said you should join us.”

“No I wasn’t,” Len says from the seat behind him with a grin, shaking his head.

Iris smiles. Something that people wouldn’t expect from someone on their first day in a juvenile detention facility.

She shrugs. “What can I say? You made it sound fun.”

“What did you even do?” Barry asks, leaning across in his seat. He catches Len doing the same, shifting just a little, his curiosity obviously piqued as well.

“I was just skipping too many days of school...” she says, fiddling idly with a pen, “...stealing too much from the same store...but in my defence...I missed the chocolate you kept stealing for me, and it’s really not as much fun without you.”

Barry grins. “So, what you’re saying is, you missed me.”

“Maybe,” she says, rolling her eyes. She then points a thumb back at Len, adding, “But it’s his fault, too. If he hadn’t interrupted every one of our visits just to tell me what you guys have been up to, I wouldn’t have felt like I missing out. Or like I should be rescuing one of your from the other. Still haven’t decided which one needs it more.”

Barry scoffs, but Len’s smirking, a happy glint in his eyes. It’s a rare sight, one that Barry sees now and again. It’s how imagines he must look when he gets that heart-skipping feeling around Iris.

“Definitely me,” Len drawls. “I’m going out of my mind, Iris. Mick’ll agree with me, won’t you, Mickey?”

Mick groans from two seats in front of Iris, turning to look back at them over the empty one between them. “Stop dragging me into this. I’m tired. And I don’t care. Kill each other, please.”

Iris raises her eyebrows and looks at the two of them. But they both laugh and just wave it off as Mick slumps in his seat, his arms crossing.

“You’ll get used to him, if you stay long enough,” Len says. “He grows on you. Eventually. As do I.”

“Eh, he’s alright,” Barry says when Iris looks just at him.

“Rude.”

Barry leans back in his seat, grinning at him upside down.

“Kidding.”

Len’s eyes narrow. Barry had once thought they looked like cold, harsh ice. Dangerous and terrifying. They still kind of do, as does Len in general. But it’s like a softer ice now, in the middle of melting but not quite there. But slowly getting there.

“So, Iris,” Len turns back to her, a mischievous look replacing the feigned glare, “tell me, do you like heists? Because, you definitely need to for this to work. Barry, Mick, and I are already planning our future for once we get out of here, and there are many heists involved. Are you in?”

“So much for subtle,” Mick mutters. Len ignores.

Barry shrugs helplessly when Iris shoots him a questioning, almost disbelievingly amused look. They’ve talked about a couple of heists. Jokes. Maybe. The ideas aren’t so bad, and at this point, Barry isn’t sure what his future’s looking like. Maybe bank robber is his destiny. Hell, maybe they could break into Iron Heights and get his dad out.

A genuinely thoughtful look crosses Iris’ face as she hums in consideration.

“I’ve never really thought about it,” she admits. “How high are our chances of being caught? Because, my dad’s a cop, and I really don’t think it would be good if he caught us.”

“Not to worry about that,” Len says. “I always have a plan.”

Iris takes another moment, pausing. “All right. If it’s a good enough plan, and if Barry’s in, then sure.”

“I’m in,” Barry says, grinning. “Let’s rob a bank.”

“Why does stealing from the CCPD seem like our dumbest idea yet?” Barry whispers, but he keeps walking, careful not to make a noise in the deserted hallway.

He glances at his watch. Seven minutes left. He can make it in and out in seven minutes. As long as he’s fast. He can do fast.

“It’ll be fine,” Len assures him through the comms, his voice that soothing calm. “Just get to the lab. You remember where it is, right?”

“Yeah.” Barry turns the corner and spots the big sliding doors. “Right here. Okay, so, I go in and--”

“And you find the evidence,” Iris finishes for him, confirming. “They can’t afford to pull any of our fingerprints, or hair, or just any DNA off of it. Grab whatever they have on us, then get the hell out. My dad’s going to be there in six minutes, forty-three seconds.”

“Okay. Got it.”

Barry reaches up, flipping the little switch on the side of his goggles. Everything quickly turns shades of blue and orange and yellow. No red. No human heat signatures nearby, and none in the lab.

He slides the door open and walks in, flipping the switch back. Setting the gun in his hand down on the nearest surface, he quickly looks around the lab. It’s immaculate, not a thing out of place.

“Thank you, Mr. Albert,” he mutters under his breath. Makes his life a hell of a lot easier if he’s not having to rifle through a mess of papers and other pieces of evidence.

Instead, it only takes him thirteen seconds to locate exactly what he’s looking for, and another sixteen to carefully pull the evidence from the machine mid-test. Thirty-two to find the file, swipe it, and stuff it in his bag, which he keeps away from all surfaces. Eleven to grab the two other items of evidence they have against them, and then twenty-four to delete the digital file and the half-run tests. Not a single thing left to indicate there was even a case in the first place.

Stepping back, he closes up his bag, grabs his gun, then makes back for the door. “Okay, we’re all good here.”

“Wait, Barry, see if you can find the evidence from the Laurdon case as well,” Iris says.

“Good idea,” he says, quickly recalling their uncertainty over whether or not they had accidentally dropped something at the scene.

He backtracks, heading back over to the case files. There’s a flash of light from the corner of his eye and he glances over at the windows. Probably just lightning, he reasons, or some part of the launch tonight. The particle accelerator finally being turned on gave them the perfect opportunity to clear their tracks since nearly everyone is over at S.T.A.R. Labs to watch it.

Finding the file, he flips through it. One bit of evidence, still being processed.

Barry sets the file back and quickly moves over to the shelves. It said something about a chemical test that he remembers trying out a good few years ago. It’s just a matter of finding the right one.

Fortunately, it’s not so hard. He grins, triumphant as he spots the beaker up on the second highest shelf, filled with a red liquid and a tiny strip of fabric.

He reaches for it when there’s another flash outside, brighter this time. For a brief moment when he looks back at the windows, he thinks he was right in it being a storm. But then he takes in what he’s seeing. The lightning isn’t coming from the sky. It is, but it’s like it’s being controlled by some beam shooting up into the sky right from S.T.A.R. Labs.

Confused, he takes a step towards the window, then falters, glancing back at the shelf. The air feels like it’s filled with static. That’s not a good sign.

“Barry?” Iris’ voice asks.

He’s going to respond. But his eyes fix back on S.T.A.R. Labs just as something happens. He can’t even explain what; a surge of powers, but accompanied by a bright light, shooting out from the building and sweeping all over the city. Coming straight towards him.

His eyes widen, but when it hits, he just feels the hairs on his arms and the back of his neck stand up. The lights go out. Every light, not a single dot within the whole expanse of Central City.

“Barry? What the hell was that?” Iris asks, alarm in her voice now. They felt it, too.

“Barry,” Len says sharply. “Answer.”

“I--I don’t know,” Barry says. “Something must have gone wrong with the particle accelerator, I think. There was like this power surge, and lightning, and--”

Thunder rumbles overhead. Right above him, actually. Far too close to be safe, especially when he still feels like he’s just stuck a knife in a toaster.

“I’m leaving,” he says.

He moves to make good on that, but stops short at rain pouring into the room. His eyes flick up and find a hatch in the roof. Open, of course. CCPD really has some geniuses on its payroll.

Ignoring it, he moves to head for the doors. But as soon as he steps beneath the hatch, he can feel the shift in the air. The dread and panic already creeping up his spine, latching its claws into his shoulder. The taste of something metallic fills his mouth.

He barely has time to lift his eyes back to the sky to see the bolt of lightning come straight down. It strikes him, and he’s aware, somewhere, of his body being thrown across the room by it. Of his back hitting something hard and metal, of things crashing down around him, and a burning beneath his skin and on it, like acid seeping through into his veins while he’s set alight.

Speeding straight through the doors, Barry then skids to a halt and quickly slides it shut. When he turns around, he’s met with raised eyebrows and pointed looks that he’s all too familiar with.

“Damn it,” he groans, feeling the burn in his shoulder now.

He whips his shirt off, throwing it to the stone floor to stamp the flames out.

“He’ll learn eventually,” Len says wryly, voice coated in sarcasm.

Iris grins from her comfortable position in his lap, legs stretched out across the couch. “It’s been a year.”

Barry groans again, saying, “It’s hard, all right? You don’t know, it’s easy to forget that I can just--accidentally set myself on fire because I ran too fast!”

“I’ve accidentally set myself on fire,” Mick says, and Barry nearly startles, finding him sitting at a table in the corner of the room, drinking a beer. “Wasn’t pretty.”

The room falls silent at that. Barry just looks over at Len and Iris, and they all have a similar thought process of just let it be. It’s Mick. They’ve been used to it since juvie.

“Alright then,” Barry mutters. Then, clearing his throat and in a more audible voice, says, “But anyway. Thought you’d like to know that I got it.”

Iris’ eyes widen, and she perks up, head lifting. Len’s expression isn’t quite as expressive; it never is, but Barry can see the glimmer in his eyes, the spark that comes alive.

“You got it?” Iris asks. “As in, it?”

Barry grins and produces the little leather pouch from his pocket. He holds it up and now they’re definitely both brimming with excitement and amazement, all knowing what’s inside. Even Mick is eyeing it with interest.

“I got it,” Barry says again. He shrugs. “Perks of being a speedster, I guess. Some geniuses they are. S.T.A.R. Labs didn’t even have any alarms in place. I went straight in by them and straight back out with it.”

He crosses over to them and tosses the pouch for Iris to catch, which she does with both hands perfectly. In return, she briefly moves her legs to let him drop onto the couch before she throws them back over his lap.

“Does it work?” Len asks, glancing at him.

Iris is already pulling the strings to open it and tipping it upside down. A triangular device tumbles onto into her lap.

“Don’t know.” Barry shrugs, spreading his arm over the top of the couch. “I haven’t tried it out. I was obviously waiting to get back here to you guys for that.”

Len smiles a little. Then all eyes are back on the device, now between Iris’ fingers as she turns it over slowly, careful. It’s grey and blue and definitely looks like what he was expecting. If he was to build one, it would pretty much be the same.

“If this works, you realize we can go anywhere we want now, right?” Iris says, voice as full of excitement as she seems, looking at the two of them. “Any planet. A different universe, even.”

“So many banks to rob, so many heists,” Len says dreamily, almost mocking.

She shoots him a look and presses her lips together in a smile. “Seriously, though. If this extrapolator is the real deal...”

“Would be pretty cool,” Barry agrees. “So. Let’s test it out.”

Iris holds it out, aiming at the empty space in front of the couch. She hits the centre with her thumb, and it shoots out a small beam of light that quickly expands, becoming a huge glowing blue circle in the middle of the room.

They all stare in awe, even Mick, his mouth hanging open with his beer halfway to it. Barry breathes out in disbelief, then shakes his head and turns to Iris and Len.

“The universe awaits then, I suppose.”

#the flash #barry allen #iris west #leonard snart #coldwestallen #barry x iris x snart #theflashedit #moodboard #aesthetic #fanfiction #the flash au #rowing the rarepair rowboat #myedit*#OKAY SO UM #I GOT A BIT OUT OF HAND #SOMEONE SHOULD DEFINTIELY HAVE STOPPED ME #wonderdoves

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dyker-farmer · 5 years

Text

Ok this was supposed to be a quick draw and a description to go with, that blew into a full chapter and now it's also on Ao3 SO happy reading ig idk

I never see Shane works that don't go all in for romance nor explore the more realistic ugly parts of recovery, and I kind of crave That TM. So let me have at it too with the self-insert whump mumbo jumbo; no romo version.

Set post-8 hearts event, Farmer Uidelsib is two years or so in, full house built and married to Emily. They/them pronouns, same as me.

Diverges from then on, Shane-centric from an outside POV for the most part.

[[MORE]]

Take that can away if you can.

Gulp it down. Chapter 1/2/3/4

There's a few to-know to survive life in society, in the valley; there's no good way to comment on the age nor weight of both resident housewives, you can't say no to Evelyn's homemade cookies- and why would you, you fool-, you do not fight at the Saloon or you'll get no cheese anymore on your pizza and only sparkling water for drinks, and-

And you don't mess with Shane's alcohol related ritual.

Except I did, that night, because you do that, when your two-years long friendship with the guy taught you better than letting his impulses overcome yours, when your buddy is trying to recover from teenage long-lasting into early adulthood, trauma-enhanced heavy addiction, and you know, you know tomorrow he'll feel like absolute shit and question his right to therapy the moment he'll stop his pounding skull from splitting. Wonders what a three-dosage paracetamol can do.

At least he doesn't drink it out anymore.

So yeah, when you're in my shoes, you get that Joja store-bought crap out of Shane's hand, and you brace yourself for the incoming lash out.

The first fractions of seconds are always those to look closely into most. It's only a glimpse, but before the scowl slips on like a well-worn boxing glove ready to strike, there is always this open page I learned I needed to decipher as quick as I could.

Tonight, it's heartbreaking. When I peck his forehead- doting big sibling habits die hard, even when you're actually the youngest of the pair- the eyes I catch looking at me are so confused and bare of any emotion, except for the sorrow that goes beer-soaked tears, it pangs. I get used to the breakdowns, working in the fields I do when I'm off the farm's, but it's not the same when it's a friend.

When I straighten back, offensive beverage in hand, it's already gone in a flinch, away from the empty space behind the chair and onto the table, as he snarls.

"Wha- giv'me back- 's mine!" I don't know how much he drunk before he met up with me, but from the slurring, it's a Lot. A season and a half into sobriety. That's harsh.

I ignore him and walk behind him, pondering where to put the beer for now.

"Y-you can't just do that! It's my booze I got with m'money, not some- who d'you think you are?-" He sputters indignantly, angry tears fewer than the sad ones but still there. He tries to turn around and grab behind his back, but the wild movement is way off and only gets the chair to nearly topples down. I rush in time to stabilize it, and profit off the moment to set a strong hand on his shoulder.

"I can just do that, 'cus it's my house I got with my money, and I think I'm your pal who knows when you've had enough. Dude, I trust you to be an adult, but minutes before, you were already so torched I had to keep your neck upright so you didn't faceplant into the table, and you nearly just kissed my floor good evening. Not to mention you clung to my arms the whole way from the little entry stairs to the kitchen because, quoting, 'If I don't I'll fall in the hole and won't get up'."

I turn to the fridge again, going to open it, before I think better of it. Likely enough, we'll both forget it was there in the first place, it'll stink up my fridge- it's Joja's- and it'll be money out of Shane's pocket for nothing. I set it on the counter, with the rest of the pack. He'll put it to cool down when he's back to Marnie's. Or he won't, probably.

That's not a worry for now.

When I caught up with him, it was a few feet below my doorstep; he'd probably slipped up trying to climb the three steps up to it, and settled for it. He was nursing that same can, muttering to himself, head down, curled up on himself. Except for that leg sticked out, he probably hurt it when he fell, I'll have to look at that and work on it if it's too swollen. Hopefully that'll spare us from a visit to Harvey's.

Bad memories. Not mine, and it's warm and not raining outside, but. Déjà-vu.

Anyways, he looked the picture of "help I've fallen and I can't get up- and even if I can I won't because Fuck You", and it's been a hassle to have him cooperate. But when I asked if he wanted to leave, he shook his head with a fervor no somnolent drunk should have. That resulted in a lovely streak of vomit down the wall right next to the door. That's also for later. If Eryza doesn't lap it up. Ew. This cat's never predictable.

Now, he's staring at his hands, sitting at my table, contemplating something too far down for me to see- or maybe just zoning out with a sleeping brain. Then he mumbles. "Sorry."

I get back to the table and sit at arm's length across of him. "Nah, 's okay. I don't mind being a helping hand or touchy-feely, must be the frog-eater in me. Not for the helping part." I'd chuckle but my quip falls on deaf ears.

I go to put my hand over his. When he doesn't blink at it, I try and shake a reply out of him, gently. He startles and hawkeyes our joined fingers. When he's finally looking at me, I raise a single eyebrow. He doesn't say anything, but when he pulls back his arm, I let him. We both straighten up, and it's hard to keep up the eye contact.

"So…" There's a heavy air on us. Suddenly, like the last year didn't happen, we're sitting a stride away of each other, and yet it feels like he's all the way back to the forest, looking down at waves.

"Do you want me to do something?" I bend myself a little closer to him, not moving otherwise.

He puts his head in his hands, shivering. Can't tell if it's the AC or his system kicking the alcohol out, or itself, in stress. I think I hear something, but it might as just be his shuddering breath.

"Shane" I insist, voice level, not pressing. "I need words. I want to help, I truly don't mind, but I need words to know what to do." He's never shown signs of going nonverbal before. If he does, I'll improvise. Until then… I need words.

Time ticks slowly as we wait. Then, with great effort and deep fatigue, he drags his palms up from under his nose to his temple, spreading some snot and wet tears across his face from his scrunched shut eyes. Lips trembling but finally showing, that attempt to let out a sound that's not too garbled. He coughs, sniffles a bit, breathe in again, sounding like a sick dog, and blows through gritted teeth before his jaws go slack. Eyes still closed, he whispers, and I have to lower myself some more toward his crouched form to catch it.

"Can I get something to drink…?" His voice is hoarse.

The demand could be comical, if we were into sour humor. And we usually are. But right now, we're not finding the joke in the lines. I stand silently, and as I walk to the fridge again, I let my hand brush his shoulder- same spot as before.

I take a minute to choose, look into the pantry. When I'm back at the table with my items of choice, he's still sitting there, his cheek is cushioned on his arms, face hidden from view. His shoulder, except for the occasional tremor, rise and fall in rythm with his snores. Breaks my heart to interrupt that, but not really. Hangovers are mean bitches with the sharpest nail art on the blackest of boards.

"Psst, dude. C'mon." I rustle his hair backward. He hates when I do that, says it tickles, and it makes him sneeze. So I obligatory do it once a day if I can. Let's say today's my late quota for the last four days I haven't seen him.

He gruffly tells me to kindly refrain from such pleasantries, and raise bleary eyes back up at the table. I can also guess he tried to bat a hand at me, but his coordination is off and he slaps himself lightly on the ear. Then he glares bewildered at his hand for a few seconds, obviously insulted. I profit of this moment to grab a small basin from under the sink, on second thought.

When he brings his attention back to me, I'm sitting again. Between us, a jug of fresh milk from this morning, a small sack of peppers, and a juice carafe sit aside a green glass bottle. There's also some bread, mostly for me to munch on. Because, hmmm dough. He squints at it all, especially at the bottle. Probably trying to read the label.

"Yeah no, didn't get you one of my best wine, not sorry."

"Hot pepper… juice?" He looks at the actual peppers next to it. "With actual peppers?" And then I get the squint too.

"Hmph, I know you like your elongated hell tomatoes, man, what can i say."

At that, a feeble snort.

I decide that it is the highlight victory of my soirée.

"Welp, have at it." I gesture to the half-liter liquor glass right by his left.

He fumbles with the drinks and some splashes around, but I lay back on my chair, arms crossed, letting him do his thing. While I don't hold back from growing downright doting on him when I got to- or even when I don't- I don't see how more devotion right now would be not smothering. He can break my fancy glass cups if he wants and spill my milk, so long he doesn't cut himself or cry over it.

Now, you could be thinking that plain water would have done the trick just fine, if not better, in rehydrating him. Here's the thing, though; going from booze to tasteless liquid, for Shane, that's a sure way to puking his heart out. And I'd rather not have us deal with an acid bile throat burn on top of near alcohol poisoning. Sorry to not spare you the squeamish details, but his oesophagus is pretty sensitive ever since that stomach pumping back at the clinic. Hot fiery hell fruits he can do just fine, with relative moderation and hydratation- hence the milk and juice- but liquor bursting its way back from his guts? Nuh uh.

It had taken lots of coaxing, but he'd explained the plain tastes, or lackthereof, were very hard for him to deal with, especially when contrasting with strong ones like beers and whiskeys. I'd shackle it to gustative hypostimulation, but I don't know enough about him that way to say. He'd said sparkling water was a good compromise.

But I don't have sparkling water, because I do not like suffering.

I might buy a pack for when he visits though.

And I do know a handful about him already. Shackle that to perceptiveness and a stubborn streak on top of a year and so long camaraderie.

And having a certain uncontrollable fear of failing to act quick the next time coped with by accumulating information and patterns compulsively.

I shake my head to focus on the present again. He's switched from juices to soaking bread in milk to eat it small portion after small portion. He pauses in mid-bite when he catches me staring. He's still hunched on himself and red-faced and a tad bloated. His cheeks are drying and he's blown his nose. I smile calmly. Worst of the storm passed, unless I screw up and blow it.

"Ywou wan' chom'?" He offers a dripping piece of bread. In moments like this, when he's sobering but not quite, the resemblance with Jas are unmistakable. The glint in his reddened eyes that open wide, and his blank-but-not-quite wondering expression, it's all here to paint a scrutinizing but vulnerable picture of tired but bright minds.

"Nah thanks. You done with that milk?"

"...Sure." He eyes it, wary. He knows where this is going, and he doesn't like it. I take the drink off the table, and his gaze follows my movement until I bring it to my lips.

He frowns. A silent warning.

And as I lock onto him with a dead stare, not blinking a millisecond, I down the rest of the 2 liters jug in three, five gulps. I even take the time to lick my new mustache away, and close my mouth with a click of my tongue.

His expression is the macabre marriage of beffudled horror and pure affliction, disgust if you will. The face of someone who doesn't hate milk, but has grown out of it enough to not be able to live off the stuff like the brave souls I'm apart of. And probably with reason, as I actually can't, like most 20+ years old, digest the liquid in large amount. But I smile like a smug cat, perfectly content.

Cats really can't digest milk once adults, it's all social mythos.

We silently judge and fuck with each other like that for a while more, as more time passes, until the room's elephant gets it all humid with its prancing around. Enough that tears and nervous sweats start again, for no apparent reasons but the residual anxiety from the whole chain of events that led to this.

"I think we should talk about this."

--- to be continued.

#alcohol cw #emetophobia cw #self hatred cw #stardew valley shane #sdv shane #stardew valley #stardew valley farmer #sdv farmer #1!Dow Farm #Farmer Uidelsib #☆my art☆#♧Shane #*watch me push my autistic headcanons onto chicken boi*#*just you wait for the trans and hispanic ones*#*i'm about to destroy this man whole career of self depreciation*#*highly functionning dumbass energy vs immovable but movable force of sadness*#food cw #*fuck tumblr for not letting me put a read more on mobile rip ur dash y'all*#☆writing☆

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hybrid-lion · 4 years

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Lion Daydreams Journal

2-3-21 / 2-5-21

Succulent witch jokes and DnD cheatcodes

Musing on perpetual journey and points of processing certain themes..

Four days prior exiting Hedgewitch Hollow (more on that later) from my abusor(s), at @ the hospital and other musings

Curbside outside familiar building, looking something like a cross between between the rite aid/CVS in West Emoryville I saw in 2011 this one time and and outside heron pond plaza from tripjoy advantage in New Hampshire.

Present was a Sedan with big extra Star Wars wrap all over it- specifically Rebel Alliance logo on hood.

Don't fall for the nurse; they're always immensely humane and kind and working; not to be your fixation (I've gathered this for a while too, though as the derivative term goes, "What a Catch.."

Anyway Fallout girl/nursing tech (With the magnificent taste in communication skills and tattooage whom was without a doubt better at putting up with my roundabout chittering than I even am (which states a bountiful amount of patience in her own rights and also that I need to work on alloying others more time to have the proverbial talking stick in dialogues), whom I had chatted with the day prior for a while regarding the matter of the vibrational level on this conscious and graceful hostess; (That's the planet we are graced with being able to provide for in turn), with with the rose and sun moon tatts, was present in this dream sequence, as short lived as the scene was.

Clearly taking a journey. Capable technical reasoner boi was there as well who cannot even understand where that's at at all definetly was also present in this one.

Clearly journey symbolism, as I was approaching the vehicle in question.

2-5-21

"WHY IS THERE BRINE IN THE ORANGE JUICE"

Walking around downtown burning time between returning from securing a temporary order/petition to court and grabbing dinner, I was between looking at the lines in leaves and patterns in the puddles near an underpass when it occured to me regarding my subjectiviteas this far:

Almost anybody would be able to tell you that there's more than one way to skin a cat as well as probably one of the worst things you can do is box with an apex creature, specifically one that most dungeon Masters wod probably have on the back burner as a sort of endgame accomplishment that would either make or break the parties resolve to complete that leg of their long arduous campaign; or correctly enough the kind of boss fight that one would face in an old RPG that then unlocks a potential ally to the party whom would essentially have the capacity to either RUIN EVERYTHING, knock something off a really high shelf at the appropriate time, or just absolutely love you to death in the dirt merely depending on the way you decided to associate prior and subsequently accounted for).

This I would assume so boldly is primarily due to the nature of such back burner endgame beings, as well as with all things considered that it is most likely cognitive of it's own journey as well to some extent and that it has retained all the EXP of both that, along with some of the experiences said party would have had by that point, again considering stuff and things.

I digress from the point- but we're getting there.

So 'boxing'; i.e. showboating or perhaps just putting up and making the most of the situation pertaining to that proverbial beastie the DMs sent around the way--

Noting that at that point to some fair extent isn't quite OP persay, but had maintained a good enough vantage for some time that it had or has more than enough capacity for adapting, recanting it's own skills based in experience as it do/what have you, as well as subsequently recognizing that somewhere along the way said party or perhaps their questgivers or guild leads decided to not entirely tell said prior and then the party at hand- what have you-

they would then be either in the same raid/map/party/team as it already, but still decided it would mostly likely do well to or behoove them to, and said prior backburner beastie to just go proverbially or metaphorically corner it; and subsequently snare or root or web or whatever their skillset would do; then dragged it off to have a dialogue with it about or pertaining to..

..something sort of akin to poking it awake with a slow burning brand,

But only after years of putting it on display without its consent or knowledge.

This is probably one of the worst things you can do for either yourself or anybody else, regardless of the lens of which it exists in, without having prior and then post poking explaining it.

Especially considering the nature of some endgame beasties and the capacity for critical analysis.

If you had a support tank, that didn't know it was a support tank, and you left it out in the rain for like, ever, do you think a little K, Y Jelly and some WD40z to Freedom would constitute a thoroughly squeezed explanation of this scenario to that support tank?

Depends on the tank and some stuff and things probably.

~~~

All things considered…

I take it back the brine is fine but the synaptic firings of my brain giving me a first class ticket to Stockholm's I could do with more of for sure, but I'd rather just hang in the Catskillz and make art about

===

This lens of comprehension on dealing with what to not allow to occur to a raid party would have been monumentally helpful for me subsequently years ago years ago.

This would been subsequently helpful for me in decision-making, free will, yes, and choice-based processes of course as humans go.

And if in when the case arose that I had to tell my younger self, "Hey don't put yourself on display or get worked up, but hang in and also read this book in full before walking out to the tarmac or at least in between flights to and from, don't act the fool for the sake of a fool, unless you need to act to fool forreal forreal. Just leave that shit in the sand, dig a foxhole for it if you have to, or bring it sooner maybe?

Don't let other people harsh thine proverbial mellow and as it would only fuel their trashcan fire of excusable accounts as to why they allotted a random roaming low level beastie to accumulate that much of an exp grind crunching on bones and jellies and some mimics that don't even, without alluding thoroughly so that they wouldn't act a fool at the loss or sacrifice of someone else's journey as well as their own.

At that point, you should have just pulled the support tank aside and been like-

*Mumbles*

listen, "you are our favorite dumb dumb juice supersoaker palindrone cat, just saiyan"...

we just want/wanted to sap and then sac your last floating stackable 💕 for the raid that pulled it along on a chain that long for display and experience just to see how it would go like, IDK it'll work out either way but like we could probably use a dumpster fire and we hear you're full of shit, but also the ship is intact and just needs a happy tree friend sometimes so like, knowing the support tank is going to anyway because of its back story…

~^•=•^

Uhm.

*TAKES DEEP BREATH*

~=^•Î||I•^=~. •°•°{"UNACCEPTABLE CONDITIONS"

*TAKES DEEP BREATH*

~^•=•^~

"we deserve better and also some stuff you left in my backpack over here oh wait what's that accounted for oh okay here a random distracting smoke grenade quick make your escape.*

🍊 🍃

---

In retrospect-- this would have been monumentally helpful years ago, as would have keeping the deck of playing cards I received years ago with me, my towel, journal and probably better time management skills and also understanding the concepts of the journey of oneself as both the lessons of our priors on the road and with us as we continue.

I will continue to explain why this could have to explain this to myself in dreaded prose.

Preferably after I come to terms with the huntresses and chieftainesses and the shield maidens who keep attempting to bait and no scope my ass when they can't even decide if they want to be a volva a shield maiden again or a valkyrie or a witch of the wild blue yonder or all like 20 at the same time; but are getting fond of kiting me around with salt rounds and rubber bullets and genuine uncondition positive regard despite both of our sanity and interests even though it ain't nobody's goddamn business how baby treat me.

Anyway if you see a random roving ** monster on the map assume it has your best interest at heart or if it's in your teahouse just do yew fam, most likely it's just stopping in for coffee or orange juice or the finest proverbial trashcan fires to warm up aside this side of the milky way.

Also try not to forget to set a reminder to wake up at an appropriate time, and don't forget to to carry on and through and keep up with your affirmations and random google searches for sigils you have no understanding of and show love to all your complex houseplants and rock's needs balanced with your own.

Also don't worry about eating carbs late at night before bed. We can burn them off when we're running through each other's minds.

More in all that later though in detail.

*Switches to sleepytime mode, proceeds to cleans whiskers and thanks you for coming to it's shed talk.*

#witchjokes #journal #blog #daydream #captainslog #journalentry #dreamjournal #liondaydreams #DnD #witchaesthetics

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