#It's far more healthier for her (even more damaging to her patients)

[nerendus]

I know I should be writing my WIP right now, but I'm severely more interested in reworking my og dnd character to be far more concise even though I may never play the game again. Because as her canon stands, she's just a mad scientist who just happens to want to fuck a dragon god who doesn't care about her weird religious flesh changes or her blood fetish, and as an engaged couple (her delusions), that's really not healthy. :/

[angelisgonnastartchangingurls]

ted on a tuesday

when ted came into annie's office, he alluded to an incident with his daughter but seemed to want to work up to it, instead going back and revisiting their conversation from the previous week about a coworker he'd been having issues with. he continued to think this woman's comments in meetings were designed to undermine his contributions, and if in fact she was wording things the way ted described, that was exactly what she was doing. annie was hesitant to take his side out loud, though. she wasn't sure ted needed the ego boost.

was ted sexist? she mused. probably not, i mean here he was confiding in a 27 year old female therapist. he'd been remarkably candid with her over the course of their time together so far, even admitting to bouts of erectile dysfunction (though refusing to take even the free samples of ED meds annie had in her desk).

he also seemed to get a long very well with his 16 year old daughter, but annie was fairly certain that was less a testament to ted's fathering and more of a commentary on his wife and her jealous, suspicious mindset. a week after ted had started seeing annie, his wife had barged into her office to see if the operation was "legitimate." she'd apparently suspected prostitution. annie was very firm and calm with this hysterical woman and had practically chewed a xanax down to the atoms after she'd left. that woman was rarely far from annie's mind when ted described issues at home. maybe it was unprofessional, but annie had repeatedly assured ted the home issues were "unequivocally" not his fault. at work it was harder to say. and with the daughter, it was harder to say.

finally, ted got around to the incident. he explained that he'd walked into his daughter's bedroom two nights early and encountered her doing a "sex act" with her boyfriend.

"a sex act?" annie had asked, quizzically.

"yes," he said, not elaborating.

ted was bothered because his daughter had apparently not done anything to cover up or be apologetic about whatever she was doing.

gradually, annie understood that the girl had been receiving oral sex, and was somewhat graphically exposed on her bed. essentially, ted was rattled because A. he'd seen his daughter's pussy and B. she hadn't seemed to mind.

"odd question, but what's the level of comfort with nudity in your house?" annie had asked him.

"very low?" he'd said.

"has your daughter ever... has she ever seen you?" annie asked.

"i suppose maybe," he said. "like, i don't know, i remember i had a problem with the shower one time, leak in the basement, i ran down there with my dick out." he laughed. annie also laughed. it was a funny image.

"did you fix the leak?"

"i contained the damage until a plumber got there," he said. "by then i had pants on."

"so, OKAY, not much casual nudity at home. so i imagine this is the first time you've seen your daughter's private areas since a younger age."

"yeah," he said. "not since long before she grew pubic hair and then shaved it all off again, apparently."

"nothing wrong with that," annie offered.

"no, it's fine. her mother does it too, in the summer."

"me too," annie said. she saw it register on his face with a light smirk. sometimes she liked admitting little personal things to her patients. her therapist, carlos, called it "strategic flirting."

annie picked at ted some more. he described the way she was laying with her legs open and how shocked he'd been that she hadn't covered herself or closed her legs or anything -- she'd just calmly asked him what was up and if he needed anything. the boyfriend had apparently been fully dressed. she nursed a theory about oral sex being performed so subserviently, if maybe that was triggering something in ted. seemed unlikely. ultimately, she concluded that he was reading it as defiance, and was offended. he clearly valued his positive relationship with his daughter a lot -- it was a better and healthier than his relationship with his wife.

"did you ever think," annie said. "that your daughter didn't cover up just because she trusts you?"

"what do you mean?"

"she wasn't like, trying to rub your face in it," annie said, regretting her choice of words immediately. "she just didn't even think to cover up. if your wife had come in, she would have. but with you, she doesn't mind."

annie watched with satisfaction as the clouds cleared from ted's brow. he said he'd talk it over with his daughter when they had some time alone.

when ted left annie napped on the couch for a while in her office between appointments. it smelled faintly of ted's cologne, which she rather liked.

[primrose-path-of-dalliance]

psa: trent ikithon is not as competent and powerful as he makes himself seem.

(cw: discussion of abuse)

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i'm not sure how to get into this in a way that's natural, so i hope you don't mind if i go for the straightforward route.

trent ikithon is an abuser. that means his tactics all center around—and rely upon—making vulnerable people believe that he has far more power than he actually does. and when it comes to our pov, the m9's pov, ikithon is trying his damnedest to accomplish the same.

now, i don't know everything that's in matt mercer's head when he has played or characterized trent ikithon. i'm sure there's some depth to his motivations and intelligence, and i don't doubt that ikithon ideologically believes in strengthening the empire. but this is not relevant to the abuse tactics i want to discuss.

because the reality is this: abusers do what they do because they enjoy victimizing and controlling the vulnerable.

that's why you get abusers like archivist zeenoth who are attracted to positions of authority. those positions facilitate structural imbalances of power between them and their potential victims. trent ikithon, too, is doing the same thing—as an archmage of the cerberus assembly, he is exploiting the authority of his position to gain victims for abusing. he is not doing what he does because he's a brilliant mastermind focused on a goal. if he was, he wouldn't abuse his students.

think about it in terms of effectiveness. no matter what people like ikithon try to assert, his volstrucker are not in any way stronger or more capable from his 'tutelage'. caduceus clay roasted the man in his own dining room for this lie. what the volstrucker are are an organization of ruthless, skilled spies built from deeply abused and damaged people. they aren't healthy; they aren't stable. caleb widogast spent eleven years in a sanatorium because he was one of many recruits who broke under the abuse (see EGtW), and then five years as a solitary, paranoia-ridden mess in a filthy coat. he spent months trying not to self-sabotage his growing friendships and had a panic attack as soon as he left ophelia mardun's mansion in shadycreek (e27, 2:55:21). he has ptsd from using fire magic to burn people to death—considering his statement on executing traitors to the empire as a trainee (e18, 2:48:12), it was probably an everyday part of the job.

even the minority of volstrucker that do get through the training stage aren’t functioning well. only a few episodes ago, we watched astrid finish a conversation with caleb and then duck into an alleyway so she could curl up and have a five-minute breakdown before putting the composed mask back on (e126, 1:50:47). abuse makes being alive harder; good luck being a sustainable espionage program at that point.

so that's one lie. how about another?

at the dinner in ikithon's tower, ikithon implied that he has guided every step of caleb's path to recovery and ever-growing power. that caleb's plans to murder ikithon are exactly what he wants; that he even arranged his escape from the vergessen sanatorium (e110, 2:52:58).

i think enough people have recognized that ikithon's first claim is utter bullshit, considering that caleb and the m9 had just arrived from a random island on which they hosted a cult gathering festooned with phalluses. but the implication that he arranged for caleb's escape from the sanatorium was just that: an implication. he never says outright that he did so. he only couched what he knew in gaslighting platitudes and handed over the holy symbol of the cleric that healed him. you won't sense a lie that hasn't been spoken. he let caleb and the m9 make their assumptions, and the assumption worked in his favor.

let's consider the actual circumstances of caleb's escape (e18, beginning 2:51:54). a fellow inmate of the sanatorium who was a cleric suddenly grabbed him and healed him of his madness before returning to her own ravings. caleb then pretended he was still insane for two weeks before killing a guard, stealing the amulet that kept him hidden, and fleeing. how would any of these events work in trent ikithon's favor? the number of absurd assumptions here are off the charts.

first, you would have to believe that a cleric could permanently heal a man who'd been insane and probably experimented on for eleven years.

second, you would have to assume that this man would still be competent enough to pass general scrutiny and break out.

third, you would have to believe that he'd totally survive on his own without any resources whatsoever,

after eleven years of being institutionalized,

while first beginning deep in the pearlbow wilderness—

all without raising the suspicion of this apparently still hypercompetent ex-patient that his escape was too easy.

and fourth, you would have to believe that this man would actually accomplish something in your interests instead of, say, dying or remaining a vagrant beggar forever.

if this was all on purpose, then trent ikithon is really an idiot.

another truth: caleb was not special. both liam and caleb have said so (talks for e88, beginning 28:00; & e110, 29:06), with the examples of other volstrucker supporting this. all of them are talented mages and good at spycraft! they have to be to graduate in the first place! ikithon's assertions that caleb was extra special (e110, 2:52:11)? also a lie—specifically, a great tactic for convincing a victim of abuse not to think about it further. of course they're being hurt again. of course they're being targeted again. not to mention how abusers selectively compliment in order to confuse the people they’re hurting (relevant here: e88, 3:28:25). caleb having an unhealthy amount of hubris and thus open to being diagnosed with protagonist disease doesn’t help.

ikithon would have easily deduced the details of what happened and obtained the holy symbol after an investigation of the break-out. not too hard to piece things together if you simply ask about unusual events prior to the escape and learn that he'd had an altercation with another patient two weeks ago—and oh yes, that patient used to be a blasphemous cleric.

caleb widogast basically reappeared next door healthier, much more powerful, and more capable than ever. ikithon doesn’t have control over caleb’s entire past and future—but he wants him to believe he does. it’s a gaslighting attempt to make caleb question his own accomplishments and attribute them to ikithon so that ikithon can regain some control over his ex-student.

another truth: trent ikithon is already on thin fucking ice. no one in the cerberus assembly likes each other, of course, but a consistent point was made again and again that everyone deeply dislikes ikithon. he's stayed because he made himself useful, but he could and would get taken care of should he be a detriment instead (see e88, 3:19:27; & e97, 3:19:32).

any sort of thorough investigation into the volstrucker and the vergessen sanatorium would reveal exactly how fragile all of his agents are and how frequently he fails in conditioning his recruits. ikithon gets the pick of the crop when it comes to nationalistic, talented students that enter the soltryce academy. to find out that he drives a significant number of them insane? well, that's a pure waste of unrealized potential. and for what—a program of spies who are paranoid enough and opportunistic enough to turn on each other if prodded the right way?

and now... trent ikithon, as part of the traitorous beacon research, has been under heavy investigation from two fronts: the augen trust and the cobalt soul (e125, 2:31:10). and he has been getting very nervous recently (e125, 2:41:42).

the final truth i want to point out: trent ikithon is just as control-obsessed as any other abuser. we got the most obvious example of this yet from e128—his pursuit of the m9 to nicodranas and tidepeak tower. think about the circumstances again.

he was apparently so curious and so annoyed by caleb rebuffing all of his attempts at ‘conversation’ that he made his excuses before teleporting directly to nicodranas,

through a circle implied to be arranged diplomatically between the empire and the clovis concord,

with a plan to break into the lavish chateau, one of the most high-profile locations of the city, to potentially kidnap or kill everyone,

including the famous and beloved ruby of the sea.

he then chased the m9 and their families to the equally high-profile tidepeak tower on the open quay, all of which is owned by yussa errenis, an archmage himself who’s learned far more about local politics than he ever wanted to know,

intimidated his “man”servant,

and broke in.

and they did all of this possibly with some very confused members of the zhelezo following right behind them.

other people have gone through the potential political consequences of this more thoroughly than me, so suffice to say that trent ikithon has gotten himself into some deep shit. you can’t negotiate or magic yourself out of being witnessed by hundreds of people breaking into the tower of an archmage who is infamous among the locals for being a bitchy recluse.

if he was smart, and clever, and a brilliant mastermind, he wouldn’t have done any of that. what he could have done: continue to handle caleb from an ominous distance through spells like sending. allege to the cerberus assembly and king dwendal that the break-in was an underhanded cobalt soul mission because of beauregard’s association with the m9. or just straight-up say that the m9 broke into his facilities because they have a vendetta against him and have them at least investigated the next time the empire can hold onto them for a second.

but he didn’t do any of those much more clever possibilities. he acted impulsively and rashly and may well be on the way to a lot of trouble now. all because ikithon just could not handle caleb being saucy.

with all this in mind, i want to go back to one last detail: astrid and eadwulf. because these two would suffer terrible consequences if they ran away—allegedly.

because i want to ask... what exactly could ikithon do to them?

they’ve already killed their own parents. so far, we’ve had no sign either that they have anyone else important to them in his reach besides each other. they have nothing tying themselves to him besides years of abuse and the crimes they’ve committed as volstrucker. they might want some power of their own, sure, perhaps they want to kill him while they’re still close. but we certainly know that eadwulf and astrid are not invested in the volstruckers as it stands. they doubt ikithon. and they already have their own amulets.

so what else could make them so terrified by the idea of leaving with the m9 except the way that trent ikithon has abused them and convinced them that he’s powerful enough and capable enough to catch up to them?

don’t be fooled. he hosted the most embarrassing excuse for a dining-with-the-enemy scene (seriously, i hope someone reading this cringed the entire time as well from all the long pauses and terrible topic transitions) and then teleported away to flee caduceus clay’s scalding tea. no retort, no blackmail. he acted recklessly in nicodranas and appropriately pushed two of his own volstrucker to betray him, losing his one opportunity to capture the m9′s family there. and now ikithon is between a rock and a hard place in terms of political standing, with a spy network he has openly encouraged to turn against him.

there is no terror waiting in the wings anymore, no more strings he can pull. just an abuser playing up his own grandeur. at this point, the only thing he hasn’t reached his limit in yet is his high-level spell slots.

[ladyalienist]

Health, size, and honestly fuck everything.

I wouldn't want to write this post, but here we are. I mean, this is the most anonymous I can get.

In January 2020, before this whole Covid mess started, my head started spinning at random.

It was slightly uncomfortable, but I could do stuff while slightly uncomfortable. I'm used to doing stuff while in pain.

In March 2020 I received an endometriosis diagnosis - after thirteen years of pain and bathroom gore one week a month, five different oestrogen pills that worsened the situation (to this day, I haven't spent ONE DAY in my adult life without taking some hormonal pill) and TWO YEARS OF ME SAYING "I have endometriosis, I have every symptom, PLEASE HELP ME!".

Finally I had a therapy that made me feel better - no more The Shining blood-in-the-corridor scene! No more pain! Just follow religiously the regimen of progesterone and supplements for the side effects and you'll be fine! Still fatigued as fuck, still suffering from dyspareunia, but who cares.

My head kept on spinning at random. I didn't bother.

I don't go to the doctor unless it's extremely necessary. It's not a matter of money - my country has free healthcare, thank you very very much - it's about how I was treated. Not listened to, my problems overlooked, diagnosed at best with "fat" and at worse with "maybe it's all in your head, sweetie", the very few time I was in for somethig that couldn't possibly be reduced to "fat" the exams were invasive and painful and included screaming at me for flinching. And then a "lose weight, anyway".

I won't go on and on with rambling about my misfortunes with doctors, but anyway, in late June my head spins a lot and it's not just being slightly uncomfortable, it's "I'm risking to fall and hit my head every morning when I get up and I can't do shit". I go to my doctor this morning.

This woman who had me as a patient for about a decade makes her visit and assumption - not that important, it's not the point - prescribes me more in-depth exams and one medicine that should help, and then proceeds to tell me "you must really be sick to come, you're not the type who ever goes to the doctor". Yeah ma'am, maybe if you had listened to me when I came the first two times I'd trust you better. Then she sends me to a very kind nurse who needs some information to make a new file about me. Including height and weight.

Based on BMI I am obese. And I am fat. Like, I'm a really big and intimidating sturdy woman. But I have unbreakable bones and a strong build and even when I'm not doing any sports I can still lift most of my friends up and spend a whole day marching. I am undeniably fat and I'd need to lose weight, but I'm far from being the kind of obese most people imagine when saying the word. Like, many people including males in seeing me genuinely don't think I'm in any way medically problematic.

BMI is shit. It's shit on so many levels. Everyone knows that. Yet the nurse kinda frowns, she didn't expect those numbers.

I go out from the doctor. It's a nice, sunny day.

I am thinking about killing myself once again.

I think about all of the desperate work I put into learning how to take pleasure from food and still eating healthy - once a week I have pizza. Once a week I might have a sandwich with a bit of mayo or a sushi lunch. No soda of any kind. Some biscuits at breakfast because in my culture breakfast is carby and sweet - but my breakfast is overall not that big deal. I don't drink alcohol. I don't smoke. I don't do drugs. I try to be intuitive and follow the needs of my body. I take long walks whenever I can - if I can't it's because university is a fucking full time job nobody ever recognizes and I get TIRED.

I'm fat and no amount of salad can change that. My weight stayed the same for seven years after school no matter what and how much I ate. Science is telling us that size is 90% genetics and epigenetics and diet culture is killing people.

I tried to learn how to enjoy eating and how to do it in front of other people and how to share. But now I'm having thoughts about how much I need to lose and how to do - no more weekly pizza? No more sushi? Never again? A sad sad life of counting calories and going back into massacring my body in sports the way I did when I was a teenager? Or maybe I could finally fit (haha) the criteria for bariatic surgery, so I can have exactly one slice of pizza per week and be satisfied with it for the rest of my life. Still a bit sad but fine, I guess. I wasn't meant for pleasure anyway.

I think about how people were grossed out by my body and mocked and ridiculed me and whoever looked like me. Thin was the price to pay for being free to exist, for being at least a girl/woman - not even a person, misoginy still counts, but a girl/woman. A fat girl, a fat woman, is less than that, she's scum.

I think about how the men (boys actually) I partnered with were delighted with the fact that they could hit me and be rough - I could take the pain and no serious damage was ever done. But fucking me and hitting me did not make me their girlfriend. Their reputation could be ruined, God forbid. The very first male friend who didn't actually bother about being seen in public spaces with me... well I met him at 20, exactly 20, it was my birthday.

I think about the repulsion I feel in the morning when I shower and I see and feel my naked body.

Yesterday a friend of mine, a friend of mine who says I'm beautiful, who calls me "hottie" on a regular basis, and I were drinking a cocktail. She took a picture of me for Instagram and I was OK with it. Now I think about how people might see me and feel the same repulsion. I get them.

I think about a woman my age who just died in my country because of bariatic surgery. She went under and never woke up. She was just like me, big and sturdy but healthy, happy. She had a boyfriend and friends - one friend in common with me indeed - but the job market wanted her to be skinny. So she died.

I raise my gaze and see a man, his lower abdomen so bloated it hurts to watch, slowly walking to somewhere. I don't want to blame a guy who has done nothing but exist, but... has he ever thought about his body in the same terms I think of mine? Look at his slow slow walk... entirely different from my fast and nervous pace, the one that has my acquaintances and friends screaming "where the fuck are you running please wait for us short-legged people you valkyrie", fast and nervous not only because I have places to go but mostly because I have calories to burn. Does he know that fast walking makes you healthier? He doesn't seem to know. Health for him is a non concern.

I'd deserve a healthcare system that does something for me. What I have is ineffective measures for serious problems and a useless culture that would rather have me die in an unnecessary surgery than just reconsider it's priorities. Tell that woman that it was for her health. Please, go on her grave and tell her.

I get to a bar.

"Good morning, may I have a coffee cream, please?"

My head has not stopped spinning yet.

[is-it-art-tho]

This is Chapter 8!

Chapter 1. Chapter 2. Chapter 3. Chapter 4. Chapter 5. Chapter 6. Chapter 7.

Medical instruments whirred and beeped, filling the sterile air of the private hospital room with a constant hum. Thankfully, Dick had been captured as a civilian and his body was not yet the dense matrix of scar tissue and old injuries that Bruce’s was, so taking him to the hospital was not as risky as it might have otherwise been. Typically, they would have taken him back to the Cave or to Dr. Thompkins, but after watching Jason practically will Dick’s heart back into rhythm, Bruce would have taken Dick to the hospital himself if the paramedics hadn’t arrived so quickly.

That had been three days ago. Since then, Dick had laid mostly unmoving, only waking for a few minutes here and there to blearily ask questions or hold short exchanges.

Bruce looked out the window. Dusk had begun to fall over the city, and soon the batsignal would light up the sky if there was anything pressing going on.

“Are you working tonight?” Bruce asked, and though he spoke in a low murmur, his voice still felt like a jarring intrusion in the stillness.

Barbara looked up from her book and glanced out the window then at the clock. Sighing, she laid the book on her lap and rubbed her eyes.

“You don’t have to,” he continued. “You know that.”

“I know.” She sighed again, turning her gaze to Dick and pushing his hair back from his face. “I should, though. He’d want me to. It’s safer for the others when I’m there.”

Bruce made a point of looking at his phone as she leaned forward to murmur something and kiss Dick’s forehead.

She paused beside his chair on her way out to ask, “What about you?”

“I’m staying.”

“That’ll be the third night in a row.”

“Someone should be here.”

“Right. Because the two dozen nurses on rotation and extra security personnel you had stationed on this floor don’t count.” On a normal day, there would have been a bit more of a bite to her sarcasm. Not mean spirited, but sharp and witty the way she usually was. But today those edges were dulled by exhaustion and the fact that she likely knew what he was saying, even if he wouldn’t say it aloud.

I will never take my eyes off him again.

“Just make sure you at least try to get a little sleep, okay?”

“Likewise.”

“Hm. Touché.” She patted his leg and wheeled away.

And then Bruce was alone, once again watching the slow rise and fall of Dick’s chest beneath the sheets. He leaned forward, bracing his elbows on his knees as his thoughts turned outward, to the streets of Gotham where the rest of the kids were out searching for those responsible for this.

Hunting.

“How is he?”

Bruce blinked, startled back to the present.

“Alive,” he answered. “Better.”

There was a deep sigh behind him followed by the sound of boots on tile as Jason entered the room, arms crossed. As far as Bruce knew, this was the first time he’d visited the hospital. In fact, this was the first Bruce had heard from him at all since it all happened.

Something occurred to him then, and he sat upright and took a breath before turning to look at Jason directly. “I owe you an explanation.”

Jason glanced at him with guarded surprise. There was so much tension in every inch of his being that he looked like he would sooner snap in a stiff breeze than bend.

“Tim spoke to me,” Bruce explained, though this was by far an understatement. Once it had become clear that Dick would be okay, Tim had cornered Bruce in the Cave and let him have it.

Bruce couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen the boy so upset. He assumed that most of the outburst was likely fueled by the stress of the past few days, but he also knew that Tim had still meant every word.

Jason appeared uncertain, like he was waiting for the other shoe to drop. Bruce continued.

“It was my idea to look into you as a person of interest.”

The younger man managed to go even more rigid. He turned his gaze to Dick. “We don’t have to talk about that.”

“I think we do. Tim told me how much it upset you–”

Jason scoffed. “‘Upset?’ I don’t give a shit what you think of me. I’m not twelve anymore, Bruce.”

Bruce could not begin to express how painfully aware of this he was. Sitting here, staring at the son who he had lost as a boy and had returned a man, Bruce felt almost as if he could count each lost year in the lines and scars on Jason’s face, like the rings in a tree.

“That’s true,” he allowed. “But even so, I want you to know that I regret it.”

“You regret it. Regret what, exactly?”

“Treating you like a suspect.”

“Why? If that’s what I was then why should you treat me any different.”

“Because you are different. You have to know that.”

Bruce could see the muscles working in Jason’s jaw. The younger man’s arms were still crossed, and his fingers were balled in the sleeve along his bicep.

“What are you trying to say.”

And again Bruce felt it, that old wound that had been with him for nearly seven years now. The wound that had opened in him the moment he had lifted Jason’s broken body in his arms and knew that he was gone. It had only grown when he’d found Jason alive again only to learn that there were certain things that even the Lazarus Pit could not resurrect.

It was an ache that reminded Bruce every day of the myriad ways he had failed Jason and continued to do so. He had failed to set him up with a better, healthier life as a child – one far away from Bruce’s own world. He had failed to keep the boy safe. Failed to give him the closure he craved. And now it seemed he had also failed to communicate even the simplest truth.

“You’re my son,” Bruce said, and it felt like an impossibly foolish thing to have to say out loud, like explaining that the sky was blue or grass was green. To think that Bruce had done something to call that into question, or that perhaps he had never made that clear to begin with, was a crushing realization.

He had let his own child down spectacularly. Nothing he could do in life would ever be a suitable restitution. Surely, Bruce would take this with him to his grave.

When Jason finally turned to him, he looked like he’d been struck by lightning. But there was something profoundly sad in his eyes.

“No,” he said after a while, “I’m not.”

“Jason–”

“Your son died, Bruce. He’s not… I’m not that person anymore.”

Bruce wanted to disagree, and he could feel that part of Jason wanted that, too. But this wasn’t entirely false. The Jason who had returned to Gotham was not the same Jason who had once fought by Bruce’s side. It had taken Bruce a while to accept that; he had been so grief-stricken and relieved to have his son back that he had been blind to the obvious fact that things had changed.

That Jason had changed.

Bruce couldn’t be sure how much of that change was due to the circumstances of his death or the passage of time and how much was a result of the Pit itself, but it didn’t matter to him. Not really.

Because when Bruce looked into those green eyes which had once been brown, when he studied the streak of white hair that dangled in the younger man’s face and noted the perpetually defensive set of his mouth and shoulders and all of the other things that had changed since his return, all Bruce saw was Jason.

His son.

And right now, his son was in pain.

“What have I told you about the time after my parents died?” Bruce asked.

“What? Not much, I guess.”

Bruce nodded, unsurprised but vaguely disappointed in himself all the same.

“I went to a dark place,” he explained. “Some kids grieve by lashing out. It’s a cry for help, obviously. They get loud, throw tantrums. I did the opposite. I collapsed in on myself. It was like there was a black hole in my chest, sucking up all of my emotions, my thoughts, my feelings. I didn’t laugh or even cry, really. I barely spoke. I don’t even remember really tasting anything during those days. I walked around for feeling like a shell. Or a ghost.”

Bruce paused. This was a period in his life that he didn’t often reflect on, and now that he was talking about it, the memories were rushing back, vivid and visceral as if he were reliving them.

“What are you–” Jason began, but he quieted when Bruce held up a patient hand.

“After a while, I started to accept that this would just have to be my new reality and I got better at masking it. I learned to smile and laugh at the right times. I talked more and did everything I thought I ought to do to be who I had been before. To be Bruce again. For one thing, I didn’t want Alfred to worry about me, but I was also scared that if I didn’t put on the act he would leave. He had agreed to care for the old Bruce, not whoever this new, damaged person was.

“Then one day – this had to be almost a year later – I was sitting in the den. Not thinking or doing anything, just sitting. I had started doing that a lot. Maintaining the facade was exhausting, so when I was alone sometimes I would just… sit. Only, this time Alfred had been watching me. I have no idea for how long, but eventually he came in and sat next to me and just put his arm around me and I knew in that moment that he knew, even though he didn’t say anything.

“And I was terrified. I expected to wake up the next the day to an empty house, but there he was in the kitchen making breakfast just like always. Still, I couldn’t even look at him and when I got up to leave he stopped me, tilted my face up so that he could look in my eyes, and all he said was ‘I see you, Master Bruce.’

“I see you,” Bruce repeated the phrase to himself, thinking of that moment, those words. How much they had meant to him back then. How much they still meant to him, even now.

“It was all he needed to say,” he continued. “And I realized then that I hadn’t fooled him for a second. He knew that things had changed, that I couldn’t be the boy I had been before. He saw all of that damage – those broken parts in me – and he stayed anyway. I didn’t have try to be something I wasn’t or worry about scaring him away. I could just be. And God, it was like I could breathe again.”

Bruce didn’t realize he’d begun to well up until he felt a tear hit his hand. He wiped his eyes, mildly surprised at himself, then looked to find Jason staring at him, wide-eyed. “What I mean is, I may not always understand you, and I know I’m not the perfect father or ally or whatever it is you see me as these days. But I see you, Jay. All of you. And I’ll never give you another reason to think otherwise.”

Jason’s face went red and he turned away, muttering, “Whatever,” before dragging a chair up near Bruce’s and dropping into it with a heavy flump. "Just stop."

Bruce risked clapping the younger man on the shoulder and giving him a quick squeeze. When Jason didn’t recoil from it, he let his hand linger there a second longer than necessary, struggling to remember the last time they had touched like this, before letting go.

[oriigami]

we’re running against the wind

[Part two of my One Piece Wing AU, this time focusing on the Strawhats and their histories. Read it on AO3 here!] [Part One]

“I can’t fly,” Kuina told him, one warm and dusky night, sitting on the porch step and staring down at the grass. Arms wrapped around bony knees, bruised and grass-stained. “Did you know that?” 

Zoro blinked, and sat down beside her, baffled for a moment. “What do you mean? Cause your wings haven’t grown out yet?” 

She sighed, heavy and tired, and stretched one wing out at her side. It was simple, plain black, small for her age. “You know what a rail is?” 

“A rail?” 

“It’s a kind of bird. The kind I am. They live on the ground,” Kuina said, staring down at the grass between her scuffed shoes. “They don’t fly. They’re no good for it. Their wings are too small. Even if they try, they can never get too far off the ground.” 

She shot him a sideways look, and halfheartedly tugged on one of his feathers. His wings were still growing, but already much larger than hers, big and brown, almost gold in the sunlight. Eagle wings. Wings meant to soar. 

“You’re lucky, Zoro,” she said, looking up at him with a terribly sad half-smile on her face that he never, ever wanted to see again. “Someday, you’re going to fly.” 

Zoro woke up with her voice still ringing in her head. 

Consciousness hit him with an unpleasant jolt, and he had half a second to process the dusty courtyard- not Shimotsuki dojo- before a half-dozen different varieties of discomfort hit him all at once. 

The hunger pains were practically screaming in the back of his mind, and he was parched from dehydration. He was half-numb from the ropes digging into his skin, cutting off blood circulation. He shifted, trying to prop himself up as best he could, and grit his teeth against the sharp, stabbing pain of blood starting to flow again.

As soon as he moved, his wings pulsed with pain, and he had to bite back a yell. They’d been lashed roughly to the pole at his back at an uncomfortable angle that had started as barely tolerable and progressed, over the course of the days, to maddening. The dusty ground all around him was scattered with fallen dusty gold feathers, both those that had been pulled loose by the ropes and those that had shed on their own as starvation had taken its toll. 

It was fine, though. What was a few feathers lost? It wasn’t like he was going to die here. It wasn’t like he could.

He had a promise to keep, after all. 

-

Arlong never clipped Nami’s wings. They were too useful for quick getaways. To him, they were just some of the features that made her such a valuable tool, such a clever, profitable little thief. So, no, he never damaged her wings.

But he loved to remind her that he could. 

If she disobeyed, if she tried to run away- well, fishmen were so strong, and wings were so fragile. She learned to bear the fear, though she always kept her wings folded close and tight to her back whenever she walked through Arlong Park. If there was one thing she could be grateful for, at least, it was that he never thought to threaten to hurt Nojiko’s wings instead. 

She could still hear the crunch of Bellemere’s wingbones when Arlong had stomped on them.

Fishmen didn’t have wings. It made sense- what sure would undersea creatures have for them? But she couldn’t help but suspect, every now and then, that Arlong was envious. He could rule their towns and beat them into the ground and proclaim himself and his brethren superior over humans in every way- but he would never, ever fly. That was something Nami would always hold over him.

Nami’s wings were simple at first glance- black, with splotches of bright white at the shoulders and tips- but under the sunlight, the black glittered, turning to dark iridescent bluish-green. They looked nothing like Bellemere’s wide, long-feathered osprey wings had. 

“Would you cut it out?” she snapped, one wing stretching out to swat Luffy’s curious hands away from the straw hat resting in her lap.

She’d known him for more than a day now, but she still couldn’t really make up her mind on her temporary captain. He was annoying, but good-hearted, but stupid, but honest- and she’d never seen wings like his either. They were bright red and featherless, looking more bat than bird. Overall, he was a frustrating enigma, for how open he was. 

Not that it mattered, really. She’d be parting ways with them soon enough. 

“Are you done yet?” he asked insistently, leaning around her shoulder to peer at the mostly-repaired hat cradled in her hands. The wide, ugly knife cuts Buggy had left in the golden straw were mostly hidden now, though you could still see the scars if you knew to look- the replacement straw she’d had to use in places was brighter and cleaner than the worn, aged material of the rest of the hat. 

She wondered idly just how old this stupid hat was. There were other repairs worked into the straw here and there, some more recent and some much older, hand-stitched with varying levels of neatness and expertise. 

“Nearly,” she said, not for the first time. “Be patient.” 

The sun caught on the mended straw, and all of a sudden she remembered a question she’d wanted to ask. “Hey, Luffy,” she said before his attention could drift. “What’s with this feather?” 

She’d noticed it when they’d first met, and wondered at it. It was tucked into the red ribbon that ran around the hat, and when she’d taken the hat to repair it and gotten a closer look, she’d noticed that it was carefully stitched into place. It was striped black and sapphire blue, with a tiny splash of white at the tip. 

“Oh!” Luffy said. “That’s Sabo’s!” 

Nami blinked. “Sabo?” she repeated. 

“My brother!” Luffy said. 

Zoro blinked one eye open from where he’d been napping on one of the little boat’s benches, lifting his head. “You’ve got a brother?” he asked. 

“There’s more of you?” Nami said at the same time. 

Luffy snickered. “I’ve got two big brothers!” he explained. “They both set out to sea before me, though. Sabo first, and then Ace second. Sabo had bluejay wings. Yours kinda remind me of them, Nami!”

Had, Nami thought, and thought of Nojiko- solid blue wings, tipped with black. Thought about the osprey feather tucked away in the very back of her dresser in Cocoyashi. “Yeah?” 

“Yeah!” Luffy said. “They’re really pretty! And glittery and blue, like the ocean!” 

“Oh,” Nami said. “...Thanks.”

...So maybe she liked her temporary captain, just a little. It wouldn’t change anything, in the end. 

-

Usopp lied about his wings. He kept them tucked close to his back, and whenever someone asked, he’d come up with a new species, something big and intimidating. Hawk, eagle, falcon- something flashy, impressive, worthy of a brave warrior of the sea. 

Of course, none of those were true. (Nothing he said ever was.) Everyone in the village knew it, too- they’d known him since he was a kid, after all. The truth he never wanted to admit was that his wings were unremarkable, just like him. Plain black, medium size, with a thick stripe of white running through the middle of each. He only ever opened them when he was with his friends, or with Kaya. 

The first time she’d seen his wings was when he threw his arms open too wide when telling a story, caught up in the fantasy inside his head, and unbalanced himself from his perch on the tree outside her window. They’d snapped open on instinct to break his fall and let him catch himself midair, and he’d flapped back up to her window to see her beaming. 

“Look,” she’d said, and stretched her own wings open- big beautiful crane wings, wide and white but with a thick band of black on the inside of each. Just the opposite of his. “We match!” 

Over time, Kaya’s sickness had taken its toll on her wings, just as on the rest of her. She was always shedding drifts of feathers, leaving her wings looking scrawny and patchy. They were beautiful nonetheless, though, wide and graceful, the surviving feathers bright white. 

“Someday,” he told her, “We’ll go flying, once you’re better and your feathers grow back. And I’ll show you the island where everything is made out of candy, and the trees talk to you!”

She laughed into her hands, wings curling around her. “Do they?” 

“They do!” Usopp confirmed, nodding emphatically. “And they sing, too. But only for kind-hearted girls with white wings. So if we went there, they’d sing for you for sure!” 

She smiled, big and warm and honest. “That sounds lovely, Usopp!” 

Usopp grinned back. 

A couple days later, the pirates came. 

And it was sudden and violent and terrifying, and Klahadore’s massive black vulture wings seemed to block out the sky, and Usopp was sure a dozen times over that he was going to die, but- 

But he didn’t.

By the time it was all over and it was time to set sail, Kaya’s wings were already looking healthier. 

-

“Kid,” the old man had said, the first day on the rock, voice gruff and thick from coughing up seawater. “You still alive?” 

Sanji didn’t say anything, pulling skinny knees to his chest and glaring over the top of them at the old man’s back. The old man had a long piece of driftwood balanced over his knees, and was methodically shredding his shirt into long strips. One of his wings was awkwardly bent in a way that made Sanji cringe to look at. The pain must have been terrible, but the old man’s voice didn’t even shake.

“C’mere. I need your help with something.”

Sanji didn’t move. “What?” he asked, and almost winced at the croak of his own voice. 

“Can’t reach my wing. Busted it against the rocks, and if I don’t set it now it won’t heal right.”

“So?” Sanji muttered sullenly. “What do I care?” 

“You stupid, brat?” the old man asked tiredly, and didn’t even give Sanji time to bristle before he continued, “Your wings ain’t big enough to reach land yet, but you’re little enough to carry. If my wing heals right, I can get us both off this rock. Hopefully before we starve to death.” 

“...How do I know you won’t leave me?” Sanji had asked suspiciously.

The old man looked at him askance over his shoulder, holding himself stiffly so as not to jar his injured wing. “Shit, kid, I might be a pirate, but I’m not a monster. You think I’d just ditch a little kid to die?” 

Sani blinked. Oh.

(It had made Judge so, so angry, that Sanji was the only one of his brothers with wings. It was an embarrassment, an infuriation, that the failure could fly unassisted when the perfect sons could not. It was why he’d been locked away, in a cell where he could never see the sky, where there was no hope at all of flight.)

He inched his way across the craggy stone to the old man, lips pressed tight. He took the stick of driftwood and makeshift bandages and quietly set to work, following the old man’s terse instructions. He wasn’t used to being on this end of it. Normally it was Reiju bandaging his injuries, setting his sprains and broken bones. 

(“You deserve to fly,” she’d said through desperate tears as she shoved him towards the ship, grey-and-violet wings pulled close to her back. “Go!”)

One he had the last clumsy knot tied, the old man gave him some of the food- so little- and they split to wait. For the old man’s broken bones to heal, or for a ship to come. Whichever came first.

And they’d waited, and waited, and waited. 

After the third week, Sanji had started to lose feathers. After the makeshift shelter he’d managed to scrounge together fell apart, his wings provided the only protection from the elements. He huddled behind their shade as the weeks crawled by, agonizingly slowly. 

Fallen black and white feathers littered the stone around him by the time desperation drove him to curl shaking fingers around a knife, and drag himself to the other side of the island, and discover the terrible truth. The knife clattered to the stone, and Sanji collapsed along with it.

It was twenty more days before the old man was well enough to fly. Sanji was half-unconscious with delirium by then, and all he knew of the flight was hunger, and wind, and endless, endless blue. The ocean below, and the cloudless sky above, and nothing at all between.

It never did quite leave his mind. 

“Have you ever heard,” he said, leaning against the railing and turning to look at the idiot in the straw hat, “of the All Blue?”

-

Chopper had never had wings. 

It was just another reason he knew he’d never fit in. No matter how human he could make himself look, he would never have wings, and that would always give him away.

He did know how to treat them, though. Of course he did. A great doctor needed to know those sorts of things. Doctorine had taught him- about wing breaks and sprains, the sort of injuries that could be crippling and the ones where the patient might fly again, her own grey parrot wings flaring dramatically whenever she made a point. 

At the moment, Doctorine was leaning over the unconscious bodies of their three newest patients- the blonde man with the back injury, the girl with the fever, and the black-haired boy. 

“Let’s see here,” she hummed. “Secretarybird, common magpie, and- hm.”

Chopper blinked up at her, intrigued by her sudden silence. Her expression was hard to read. “Doctorine? Is it about that boy’s wings? I saw they were different, and he hasn’t got feathers, is that normal for humans? Is he sick?”

“Not normal,” she agreed absently. “But not unprecedented, either.” She chuckled. “It’s been some time since I last met a D.”

“A… huh?” 

Doctorine waved it off. “Oh, nothing. Get him to a warm room and then prep Mr. Secretarybird there for surgery, will you? I need to find the antibiotics for Miss Magpie, she’s the most urgent of the three.”

“Ah- yes, Doctorine!” Chopper agreed, and bounced into action, and questions about feathers and wings and Ds were quickly forgotten. 

-

Franky didn’t have wings. 

He had had, at one point, though he’d never really cared much about them either way. After all, Tom-san hadn’t had wings, and neither had Kokoro. And it wasn’t like they were any use for shipbuilding, and he didn’t have many places to fly to, anyways. 

Iceberg had taught him how to fly, even though he’d always insisted he didn’t need Iceberg to teach him anything. But it had been useful for getting up to high places that needed construction, or making a quick getaway after breaking something, and- yeah, okay, he could admit it. It was fun. Flying had been fun. 

And then there had been the sea train. And wings were so very fragile. 

By the time he hauled himself aboard the scrap ship with broken hands, he already knew he wouldn’t fly ever again. His wings were wrecked beyond any dream of repair, skin shredded and bones shattered into fragments. Even if he had the ability to create prosthetics lightweight and detailed enough to replace them- which, not to sell himself short, he probably could, given time and materials that he didn’t have- he never would have been able to attach them to the nerves properly, not at that angle. 

No, better just to amputate, and cauterize, and focus on the things he did need: his hands, his eyes, his organs.

And he’d gone on, and it had been fine, and most of the time he barely missed flying at all. 

“Look,” he said, as the Agua Laguna raged outside and the dumb pirate kid refused to listen to reason. “Listen to me, bro. I’m serious. You listening?” 

The kid didn’t answer, but he did pause in hammering away at his dead ship for a moment, which Franky decided to take as a yes. 

“Your ship’s crippled,” Franky said bluntly. “She can’t sail anymore. It’s like- okay, you saw my wings are gone, right?” 

“...Yeah.” 

“Taking that ship to sea,” Franky said, “would be like pushing me off a cliff. There was a time I could’ve survived that just fine, but now it’d smash me to pieces. Your ship’s lost her wings. And no matter what, you can’t fix that.”

The kid stared at him, biting his lip so hard it looked like it might bleed, something cracking in his eyes, black and white wings curling protectively around his shoulders. Franky felt for him, he really did- he knew better than most what it felt like to fight something you couldn’t possibly win to try and save something you loved- but truth was truth, even when it hurt. 

He was just starting to hope he might have finally gotten through when the door crashed open and suddenly, they all had bigger problems to worry about. 

-

Robin’s wings were nondescript. It was useful, in its way, when it came to living in hiding. From the slanderous stories told about her and the people of Ohara, people expected crow, raven, rook- something dark and threatening. Or even featherless demon wings, much like those of her new captain. 

Instead, her wings were simple, uniform dark grey with tawny orange-brown patches spreading from the shoulders. Robin wings. 

Her mother’s had looked much the same, she remembered. It was one of the only details that had stuck in her head about Nico Olvia, as the long years had worn away at the few memories of her mother she had. Most of her mother’s face was a blur, now, but she still remembered a few things: white hair, sad eyes, wings of a mourning dove.

As Spandam dragged her down the Bridge of Hesitation, hands and powers bound, she flapped her wings frantically as hard as she could, even as the chains around her shoulders to weigh her down and stop her flying broke feathers and gouged at skin with every movement. She didn’t even need lift, just to push herself backwards a meter, a foot, an inch- 

If she could buy even a minute, even a second-

Spandam spat an ugly word at her as he was jerked backwards, stumbling for a moment and nearly face-planting onto the bridge before he managed to find his balance. He snarled, grabbed her by the shoulder and hurled her to the ground, driving the air from her lungs with a painful gasp. 

He stomped down hard between her shoulder blades, pinning her down. 

“You know,” he said, sounding almost gleeful, “the Tenryuubito cut off the wings of their slaves. To be sure they’ll never escape. Maybe I’ll recommend that, as part of your judgement. Or…” 

He moved his shoe from the center of her back to press lightly down on one of the delicate wing-joints in her right wing, and her breath caught. 

“Or maybe I’ll just do it myself,” he said. “What do you think, Nico Robin?”

Nico Olvia, with white hair and sad eyes and mourning-dove wings that had been bloodied, perforated by rifle-shots, ruined to stop her from flying away-

They’d aimed for the wings, first. They’d wanted to be sure that not a single scholar could escape. Not one was left uncrippled by the time the marines evacuated the burning wreck of Ohara. 

(Except Robin.)

“It’s not like you’ll be flying ever again, where you’re going,” Spandam continued, starting to press down, and Robin closed her eyes and grit her teeth against the pain and the rising plea for mercy alike. She refused to beg. Her mother had fought to the end, and so would she. 

Then there was a blaze of light, and a crash, and a fireball caught Spandam perfectly in the head, and Robin was saved. 

(Though, perhaps, if she was honest with herself, she’d been saved a very long time ago.)

-

When Brook had been alive, his wings had been soft, plain uniform brown. 

Nightingale, Yorki had laughed, one late night when they were sorting through a wing glossary one of the crewmen had picked up on the latest island, trying to place everyone’s wings. Oi, Brook, no wonder you’ve got the best singing voice on the ship.

Brook had warbled out a few notes in response, as horrifically flat and off-pitch as he could physically manage, and Yorki had nearly cracked a rib laughing. 

But wings rotted away just like all other flesh, and by the time Brook crawled his way back to the world of the living, they were nothing but bones and a drift of soft brown feathers, shed on the rotting planks. He tucked a few of the feathers away in an inside pocket of his coat, just in case they helped Laboon to recognize him, someday. 

Catching the remnants of his wings in the corners of his eyes (ah, but he didn’t have those anymore-), grasping and skeletal, always caught him off guard, almost worse than catching sight of his reflection. The bare, bright white stood in such contrast to the soft brown he was so used to seeing that he thought he would never truly get used to it. He couldn’t imagine anyone else would, either. 

And then- 

“Your wings are awesome, Brook!” Luffy said, bright and enthusiastic and entirely sincere, sprawled on his back on the piano. His wings were splayed out beneath him- featherless and red, entirely unlike any Brook had never seen before. “They’re so cool!”

For a moment, Brook couldn’t find words. (How unsuiting, for a songsmith.) And then he said, “Why, thank you, Luffy-san. I should tell you, though… I’m afraid they’re not good for much. I can no longer fly.”

Luffy blinked, and then said, “So? I can’t, neither.” 

“...You can’t?”

Luffy snickered, grinning. “Nah! My wings only sorta work. Something ‘bout my devil fruit and my bones or something. I don’t really get it. But it doesn’t matter! I mean, I can just rocket to places. And you too, right? You can run on water! That’s so cool!”

Brook looked at Luffy’s beaming grin for a long moment, and couldn’t stop the urge to smile back, even though he had no lips with which to do so. 

And then he said, “May I join your crew?” 

Luffy laughed like the best song Brook had ever heard. “Sure!”

[bamboo-muse]

TW: possible gore/violence and mention of narcotics abuse.

Lately the black lives matter tag has developed into a slew of different topics, one currently being the recent coup that just took place at the U.S. Capitol.

Now, I'm happy to say most of posts are discouragement from doom scrolling and reminding others to step back and take care of themselves in healthier methods

Unfortunately that is not all of them.

I snapped a screen shot of @enragedbees highly questionable metaphor before they blocked and deleted my comments, thus hiding my reblog.

This is a dangerous mindset to project onto a social media platform with minors and those who suffer with maintaining their health, mental health, and utilizing effective and safe coping mechanisms.

I asked them to edit or remove their post due to what they were advising people to do because they were encouraging using any means necessary to cope that which could ultimately result in suicide or death.

To summarize even fatal coping mechanisms such as self harm, drug use, and abuse of alcohol. They used a medical emergency as their metaphor such as a stroke and attempting to driving yourself to the hospital.

I will told them step by step what that accomplishes:

As someone who just passed her level 2 first aid course, I can guarantee you that you won't make it to the hospital.

Your analogy here is terrible.

You'll have weakness on one side of your body.

You'll veer/get bombarded by incoming traffic.

Your airway is closing up cuz that is a thing for stroke victims that most don't know about.

You're not breathing if you're not dead from the car crash.

You're now going into shock.

Your heart isn't beating from the not breathing- cardiac and respiratory distress

If you aren't dead from the car crash and if haven't quite died from any of that yet, the moment you turn your head after the car crash that has likely fucked your spine/neck your paralyzing/severing that you're dying in the car.

Or your car door has been ripped off as you didn't have the ability to close the door as you drove off, you've fallen out because you never clipped your seat belt because of the weakness on one side of your body, you're on your back, not breathing, closed airway, you've vomited -stroke victims vomit- you're choking on your own vomit, the car crash has left you with a ruptured spleen from floating ribs, liver damage/internal bleeding, you have broken legs and one of your arms has an exposed fracture with an arterial bleed.

Your shock has advanced to the point of cool, pale, and clammy skin, your body was diverging all blood flow to your brain and heart, but the shock has progressed too far and your body can no longer control or regulate itself.

On the list of priorities in large car pile up of now multiple injured or dying people the stroke patient is a code black and not going to be looked at.

What's suggested is you dial 911 and spout whatever you can while you can, not hanging up and do your best to lay on your side 3/4 prone to keep yourself from choking on your own fluids, or run to find someone who will call 911 for you before you lose consciousness and collapse from lack of oxygen.

So the answer really for your crisis is be informed, have a plan, and talk to people.

Don't take it all on yourself because you won't last long if you do.

Please use critical thinking when reading any coping or self help posts on this website.

Please reach out to any one or organization to talk to if you are suffering and your mental health state is altered or suffering.

The rhetoric used in @enragedbees post is dangerous and is going to get people hurt, or killed because it's encouraging them to self-medicate which can result in overdose and death. Others have called them out and they aren't changing or fixing their post. Please report their post.

Please, if you need someone to talk to message my inbox and I'll chat with you a while. If talking doesn't help, please try to eat something doesn't have to he huge -could be a slice of bread, a few tea spoons of peanut butter -any food you have. Drink water, small sips.

Practice deep and steady breathing to calm your heart rate.

In through your nose, out through your mouth.

You're not alone, the world is in this together.

Here is a website with a list of help lines.

http://worldhelplines.org/usa.html

If anyone knows of more or better ones please reblog and boost this post!

[inspired-by-the-music]

For You: 4 O’Clock

Chapter 4. Truth

The fact that Mom and Donghae, during their argument, had forgotten about my presence in my upstairs bedroom was a curse and a blessing. 

It was a curse because (I think) if they considered that I was listening from afar, they wouldn’t have yelled their deepest secrets. Although, I guess I have to understand that their guarded truths were only secrets from my perspective. It was a curse because I didn’t want to know what they had worked so hard to keep between themselves. I know Lucas and I had spent the past few days casually wondering why Mom was avoiding Donghae, but I didn’t really want to know. I didn’t have any right to know. 

It was a blessing because their focus on each other— away from me— allowed me to slip out of the window undetected. 

I would probably never go so far as to thank Baekhyun, Lucas, and Mark for stealing me from my bedroom the night before, but were it not for them, I wouldn’t have known that the climb down to the back driveway was possible— easy, even. There was no destination in my mind when I started the descent, but once my bare feet touched the cold pavement, I knew where I could find refuge. 

The garden connected my house to the house the other members of SuperM called home until our projects were completed. I guess that since it was technically their garden too, I could have crossed paths with another member on any of the countless nights I walked out there to stroke the roses, and admire the stars, and reach for the moon. I never saw anybody outside, though, so I didn’t expect him to be out there. 

Earlier that night, I thought that Taemin was the last person I wanted to see. Now that I saw him sitting on the bench, holding a flower, I realized that I had been holding my breath, anticipating the sight of him since we parted ways that morning. I (who wore his jacket) felt silly approaching him (who wore my ribbon around his wrist just as Lucas reported— just as I remembered from that morning at the campsite). I felt silly that the ribbon, the symbol that lit me ablaze with rage that morning, should comfort me now. 

“Lei.” Taemin smiled at me. 

I realized when I blinked that the rose he held was broken. It hadn’t wilted, but the still scarlet petals that looked soft to the touch were falling apart. He cradled the flower with both hands as if willing it to mend. I wondered if he knew that it was an impossible hope— the petals were shed forever— but I didn’t want to tell him. I wanted his efforts to succeed. And maybe they would, I dreamed, if I kept my mouth closed. 

“Can I sit with you?” I asked, and he made room for me on the bench. 

When I sat next to him, Taemin seemed to realize that the rose was damaged beyond repair. Sighing, he placed one petal into my palm, and then two, and then three, and he continued until all that remained on the stem was a small bulb. The rose was probably less magnificent than it had been when it held all of its petals, but it looked healthier now. It was still beautiful. Maybe it didn’t need everything it lost. 

“Here you go.” Taemin delicately dropped the flower onto my lap. It matched my ruby-red dress. 

I couldn’t understand why he had given me all of the rose— the broken parts and what little remained intact— so I asked. 

He answered softly, “Because you’re crying.” 

Then, I realized that my face was sticky with tears, and my breaths were shallow, and I was practically leaning against Taemin. Taemin, who looked at me like he knew me even though he didn’t— Taemin, who wore my ribbon where anyone could see, as if it were something to show off— Taemin, who was far more than an idol. He didn’t shift or crumble under my weight, and he didn’t reciprocate the touch like I knew many others would without considering the implications of their actions. 

It wouldn’t have been so bad, I thought, if Taemin were to wrap his arm around me. I wouldn’t have flinched if Taemin reached up to wipe my tears. 

And yet, I didn’t quite crave his touch because his presence alone was calming. We looked up at the moon for what felt like a second and an hour and an eternity, and when I finally told him why I was crying, he seemed surprised that I had filled our silence with words. 

Knowing that my words would never leave our garden, I didn’t make Taemin swear to secrecy before I revealed, “Tonight I found out that Donghae has been in love with my mom for fifteen years, and she probably loves him too, but she always has to reject him because she’s the idol who never debuted, and I—”

My voice caught in my throat like it did when I was talking to Kai on the beach, but this time I was on the verge of tears— I was past the verge of tears because, “I’m what ruined her career. I’m what everyone at S.M. is told to fear when they talk about the idol who never—”

I hiccuped, drowning in my own tears, and that’s when Taemin touched me. He pulled me close and held my head against his chest, where I could feel the steady beating of his heart. He waited patiently until the sobs finished racking through my body. 

I know that I should have been embarrassed by my complete loss of control, but I had not fully cried about any personal emotional injury in my entire 21 years of life. Once the tears started, I didn’t know how to stop crying until all of the tears were expelled. I know that it’s wrong to lean on people (or at least that’s what I always thought), but I don’t know how I would have gotten through that first night of knowing the truth without having Taemin as my anchor. I know that I would have gotten through— I always did— but I don’t know how, I can’t imagine how, and I am glad Taemin was there. 

When I thought about it, though, it was like he had always been there. Before, it had been through his music that encouraged my emotional release; that night, it was through his embrace that shielded me from the feelings that threatened to destroy my sense of self. 

Once we were both satisfied that I would be okay— that the tears had finally run out— Taemin let me lift my head from his chest. He let me slink over to my own side of the bench, and we stared at the moon until we caught our breath. 

Then, it was Taemin’s turn to break the silence. “I have watched people— good people— drown in negative self-perceptions. Wrong self-perceptions. I have learned that I can’t make people see what I can see, but I have to tell you, Lei—” 

Taemin wouldn’t continue until I looked at him and fit my hand, still clutching the rose petals, into his. I didn’t hesitate. His skin was warm. 

Squeezing my hand (not hard enough to hurt but hard enough that I could never forget his words), Taemin said, “You didn’t ruin your mom’s career, and you didn’t ruin her relationship with Donghae. You didn’t ruin anything just by existing. You are one of the brightest people at S.M. and in the whole world, so don’t— don’t despair, okay?”

Taemin spoke with such gentle authority that I couldn’t have argued even if I wanted to. 

So many times, I had rolled my eyes or shrugged away when boys said things like, “You’re the best dancer,” or “Your voice is beautiful,” or “You’re my ideal type,” because there was an unspoken expectation that I should say something back. I should return the compliment. I should thank them for their attention. 

Taemin didn’t expect me to say anything in response, though. (What could I have said anyway?) As soon as he finished saying his piece, he stood from the bench and offered me his hand— the one donning the blue ribbon— saying, “I’ll walk you home. It’s late, and we have to leave early tomorrow.” 

To take Taemin’s hand— to hold it as we walked— I had to leave the shed rose petals behind. I don’t know why that made my heart twitch from sadness. What could I have done with a bunch of stray petals? Even the intact rose Taemin gave me would be wilted by the time I returned home from the tour to find it still lying on my vanity. 

Why, then, did I bother rooting through the house for a flower vase once Mom had retired to her room? My behavior made no sense. It made no sense to hope against all reason that Taemin’s rose would be the first in the history of roses to live forever. 

And still, I did.

Although Taemin and I texted until sunrise, we didn’t so much as wave at each other (at first) after boarding the plane. He was deep in conversation with Kai, smiling that bright smile, as I eased into the seat next to Mark. 

Besides, I rationalized as I ignored the urge to look at him just once, I wouldn’t have known what to say to Taemin anyway. It was one thing to talk in the garden (where only we could hear) or via texts (that only we could read); it was another to talk on the plane— at work— even if the only witnesses were the other members and staff. 

“Are you okay, Lei?” Mark broke a chunk from his chocolate bar and pressed it into my palm. “You look a little green.” 

I heard once that chocolate makes people feel a little happier, so I wasted no time in eating the candy. 

“Yeah, Lei.” Baekhyun leaned forward to poke his smiling face between my seat and Mark’s. “Do you think you caught whatever bug kept Momager from Donghae’s birthday party?” Evidently, the apology he delivered through Lucas didn’t promise that he would refrain from annoying me in the future. 

Last night, I lashed out when Baekhyun criticized Mom. That was before I knew her backstory. That was before I couldn’t look at her— who I had looked at every day of my life— without drowning in empathy. 

Now that I knew, now that I was drowning, now that Baekhyun was waiting with mischievously twinkling eyes for a reaction to his (probably well intentioned or, at least, not deliberately malicious) taunting, I couldn’t yell. 

Once looking at Mark and focusing on his concerned gaze, I could barely manage the words, “I’m okay,” as a whisper. 

Before Mark or Baekhyun could pry deeper, Lucas came to the rescue. He grinned as he urged Mark to move, saying, “I need to talk to Lei.” I knew Lucas well enough to understand that he came to discuss last night’s chaos in person. 

“Dude, you need to honor the straw system!” Mark initially refused to give in to Lucas’s demands until he met my pleading eyes. Talking to Lucas always made me feel better, and I think Mark understood that. Always, being a good guy took precedence over his crush. 

Mark huffed as he walked, chocolate bar in hand, to take Lucas’s old seat next to Taeyong, who murmured, “The straw system has been broken for a while,” jabbing a thumb at Taemin and Kai as they giggled like school girls. 

A crimson blush must have tainted my face as I looked at Taemin. I felt it— the heat of some unexplainable embarrassment marking my appearance— as I remembered that rose he gave me, as I imagined that the suddenly deafening pulse in my ears was his heartbeat that I felt when he held me in the garden. 

No, this erratic heartbeat could never belong to Taemin. His heartbeat had been slow, confident, unaffected by my proximity, and mine— mine was sporadic just because of the sight of him, smiling, radiant, and (thankfully) too lost in some other world to notice that I was staring even when Lucas loudly said, “God, Lei, try to be a little discreet!”

And Baekhyun seconded, “Yeah!” while pounding his fists against my seat. 

And Ten plucked an earbud from his ear to ask, “Who’s Lei ogling?”

And, finally, my temper was reborn because I wasn’t admiring Taemin in a way that justified their stupid boyish big-mouthed grins. “Nobody.” I fought to keep my tone even, knowing that Baekhyun and Ten would lose interest as long as my reaction was dull. 

Baekhyun might not have noticed how quickly my eyes averted out the window when Taemin turned to face the commotion. I couldn’t imagine that he would have been able to refrain from shouting, “Lei likes Taemin! Lei likes Taemin!” But I couldn’t trust Baekhyun. Maybe he was holding the information in reserve. 

Lucas definitely noticed, though. As the plane took off into the clouds, he dropped his voice to a whisper and asked, “What happened with Taemin?” 

I shouldn’t have been winded by how casually Lucas asked a question whose answer would require a deep probe into my heart. Lucas couldn’t have known the weight of his curiosity; he probably couldn’t have understood even if I endured the discomfort and tried to explain. 

“Nothing,” I almost lied. 

I almost convinced myself that it wasn’t a lie because probably, surely, that night in the garden wasn’t so special to Taemin. It wasn’t as if his idol braved a storm with him. It wasn’t as if I had tended to his wounds. It wasn’t as if I had become his friend for a moment— just a moment— of profound loneliness. It wasn’t as if I had called him one of the brightest people at S.M. and in the whole world.  

Maybe— maybe he could forget those eternal moments under the moon— and maybe that made them nothing to him. 

But they weren’t nothing to me. Even if they were once in a lifetime— and the nagging voice in the back of my mind that was never wrong told me they almost definitely were— I could never forget. There was this naive, foolish, selfish part of me that thought I could endure it all again— Donghae’s party, Mom and Donghae’s argument, every scattered moment of wanting so desperately (that I could never admit) to be in love— if that led me to Taemin’s embrace in the garden. 

So I couldn’t lie to Lucas, and I couldn’t tell the truth either. Sometimes, I think, the truth is too intimate to share. And that makes me sad because— I always wondered— what happens to the moments we harbor as secrets? 

Stealing a glance back at Baekhyun, shrinking when he winked, I mumbled, “I can’t talk about it here.” 

Had I known that Lucas would drag me by the hand into the tiny bathroom stall, eliciting catcalls from Baekhyun that attracted Taemin’s and Kai’s attention, I might have said something different. 

And I might have yelled at Lucas, “This is why we have dating rumors!” as he pressed his back against the closed door if he didn’t look at me like that. Like Mark had. Like I was about to be sick or burst into tears. Like he had never been so concerned. 

Was I really so fragile? 

Pulling me into a hug that was much gentler than his usual bone-crushing grip, Lucas asked, “Are you okay?” His voice, usually a shout, was a whisper. “I don’t know what happened. I know that Mom and Donghae had a fight. I know that you suddenly stopped texting me. And now I know that you can’t even look at Taemin, so— just— what happened? Did he hurt you?”

“What? No!” Jarred by the misunderstanding, I flinched out of Lucas’s hold. “No. I just—” I couldn’t tell him about the rose and the moon. I couldn’t. So I said, “I can’t look at Taemin because he is the only person who knows that Mom is the idol who never debuted.” 

Expecting that Lucas would look away, I tore my eyes away from his first— as if that would lessen the blow of knowing his impression of me was changed forever. I didn’t look at him until he asked, voice returning to its normal volume, “Well, how does he know that?” 

Unbelievable. When I looked up at him, he wasn’t stunned. He wasn’t looking at me like I was fragile anymore. His arms were crossed over his chest, head tilted and brows drawn together— the pose he always assumed when gossiping. 

I could have thanked him for being so normal, so himself ,when I felt less like myself than ever, but I didn’t want to make things weird. In the most casual tone I could muster, I answered, “I told him in the garden last night.”

“What was Taemin doing in your garden?”

Before I could explain that the garden wasn’t mine— it was ours— Mom forced the bathroom door open and hissed, “What are you two doing?”

Oblivious (or indifferent) to how bad this looked, standing close together in this stall, in light of our dating rumors, Lucas grinned as he started, “We were just—” 

Mom held up a hand to silence him. “I don’t even want to know!” She yanked Lucas out of the bathroom and reached for me, faltering (I guess) when she noticed my complexion. I must have been inhumanly pale or inhumanly red. I couldn’t tell. I was numb with emotions. 

Hopefully, she interpreted that as humiliation of being caught in an airplane restroom with Lucas. Hopefully, she didn’t know that I learned from her own mouth that she was the idol who never debuted. 

Would knowing the truth have been so bad if I hadn’t overheard it through our home’s thin walls? If she told me face to face, would I have felt so guilty? 

As Lucas and I did the walk of shame back to our seats, unresponsive to Baekhyun’s enthusiastic cheering, “Take their phones, Momager! Take their phooooooooones!” I covered my face, feeling as if the words “Mom is the idol who never debuted,” were tattooed in bold letters across my forehead. 

To Lucas’s horror, Mom held her hands out for us to turn in our phones. He stuttered, “But I need my phone, Mom! What if I get lost in America?”

“You won’t get lost,” Mom responded instantly, but I’m not sure anyone else was as confident in Lucas’s orienteering skills. 

I didn’t meet her eyes as I dropped my phone into her palm. Lucas sulked as he parted with his phone which, I guess, was his prized possession or something. Had he not looked so miserable when he sat back in his seat, I might have popped the back of his head for getting me in trouble in front of everyone. 

As Mom put the phones in her oversized black bag, Taeyong cautiously told me and Lucas, “We were just about to draw straws for our hotel roommates—”

“The straw system is broken!” Mom yelled before throwing the straws into the garbage bin. “Taemin and Kai always end up together, and so do Lucas and Lei!”

Everyone, even Baekhyun, was stunned silent by her outburst. 

Knowing that Mom would never be so angry at me and Lucas, even if we really were a couple, even if we really did sneak off to kiss in a bathroom, I squirmed. This explosive behavior— the frown contorting her scarlet lips, the slight smudge of her eyeliner— was a response to her fight with Donghae. Donghae, who loved her. Donghae, who she must have loved too. 

“You two—” she pointed a manicured finger at me and Lucas— “are on probation. Until further notice, I only want to see you together on stage for your subunit!”

Baekhyun leaned forward to whisper in my ear, “That’s taking LX2’s forbidden love concept a little far, huh?” 

He shot back in his seat, wincing, when Mom scolded, “Be quiet, Baekhyun!”

“You two,” Mom eyed Kai and Taemin, who stared back at her, wearing identical wide-eyed slack-jawed expressions, “are gonna have to separate. Kai, go sit with Lucas. And Lei, come sit with Taemin.”

Careful to avoid making eye contact in case that might prolong Mom’s rage, Kai and I wordlessly obeyed her orders. Taemin, apparently, didn’t think the same way that Kai and I did; he smiled brightly as I sat in the aisle seat. 

“I hope you all like who you’re sitting with,” Mom said shortly, “because that’s who you’ll be rooming with throughout the tour.”

It wouldn’t have mattered if I had been able to find the voice to point out how inappropriate it was for me to room with a boy. Mom stormed back to the portion of the plane reserved for staff as soon as she finished speaking. 

While the others— excluding Lucas, who already understood— discussed Mom’s unusual behavior, Taemin turned to face me. 

For some reason, I thought he was going to scold me for the whole Lucas/bathroom incident. Or maybe I thought he would ask if I was okay, since that was the question of the day; I hoped he wouldn’t because I couldn’t have lied to him. 

He only asked, “Are you cold?”

And there was barely any time to feel surprised at the re-emergence of that question he asked at the campsite before Taemin was draping another fleece lined denim jacket over my shoulders. This jacket was darker, heavier, warmer, and I hoped that its weight would prevent me from wearing it off the plane, where it would be seen by unforgiving eyes. 

Vaguely regretting my decision to leave his first jacket folded on my vanity as my eyes fell on the ribbon still tied around his wrist, I thanked him. I hoped he could feel the depth of my gratitude even though I couldn’t explain it. 

“Are you tired?” He asked, blinking. 

I knew better than to tell the truth: that I had been exhausted before sitting by his side, that I couldn’t sleep with my heart pounding and burning like it was. I shrugged. “A little.” 

“Do you want to listen to music with me?” He offered one half of his earphones. “I won’t be offended if you fall asleep.” 

On the one hand, I appreciated that our in person conversations consisted of Taemin asking questions to ensure my comfort. I was glad that he wouldn’t let us slip into a forever silence just because I didn’t know what to say. And yet, I wished more than anything that I could talk to him as openly (now that he was a real person before my eyes) as I had last night on the phone. 

How long would he be out of reach? Did we have some kind of bond that flourished only under the moon’s guidance? Or— 

Stop. 

Live in the present. 

Stop dreaming about the moon just because you can’t feel the sun’s rays. 

“Yeah.” I took Taemin’s earphone and allowed myself the pleasure of watching his smile grow. “I would love to listen to music with you.” 

I didn’t expect a song to already be playing as I fit the speaker into my ear, and I definitely didn’t expect the voice to be a familiar sound from my childhood. Tiffany, an American singer from the 1980s. An artist Mom played for me when I was first learning to sing. 

“You listen to Tiffany?” I couldn’t bite back my smile. 

“Not usually,” Taemin admitted as a rose color crawled from his neck to shade his bare face. “I watched this program where an idol said that Tiffany was the best performer she had ever seen live, and I wanted to hear her for myself.” 

Mom was the only person I knew who liked Tiffany; that’s why we went to one of her concerts the last time we visited my grandparents’ in Atlanta a year ago. Try to imagine my excitement, then, when I heard that some other idol, and now Taemin, liked Tiffany too. 

“Who—” I started to ask which idol had such impressive taste when I realized from Taemin’s bashful smile that he was talking about me. He was listening to the music I liked with me because he watched some TV show. 

Why? 

Maybe too embarrassed by the silence, and realizing that I wouldn’t break it, Taemin asked, “Which song is your favorite?”

Isn’t that a little too personal? 

Then its piano opening began, and Taemin said, “I think this is my favorite,” although I imagined that he would have preferred one of the more upbeat songs. 

“‘Could've Been’ is my favorite, too,” I admitted, suddenly less anxious. 

Smiling, he laid back in his seat. His eyes closed, and I thought he was falling asleep until he opened his eyes, caught me admiring him, and asked, “Can you translate this for me? Please?”

My heart dropped. Could I really explain such a sad song to Taemin? Of course, I knew that “Could’ve Been” wasn’t the first sad song he ever heard, and maybe it wasn’t the saddest either, but I didn’t want to be the mouthpiece for such an emotional message. 

When Taemin poked his bottom lip out, though, I had little choice. So, it turned out, Taemin could use his cuteness as a weapon. And it was especially effective on me. 

“Yeah,” I had to say, “I’ll translate it.” 

He restarted the song, and I translated each line to Korean, keeping up with the music as well as I could. Although I heard the song thousands of times, and I had cried to it throughout my younger years, the lyrics never quite resonated as they did then. 

Maybe it was more upsetting than usual because I couldn’t cry no matter how my lip trembled— not with Taemin looking at me for a translation. Not in this plane full of co-workers. Or maybe my chest was aching because the lyrics reminded me of—

“This is definitely my favorite,” Taemin decided with a smile that seemed to lessen the song’s sting until he started it again. And then again. And then again. 

And I thought that maybe I could predict the lyrics that would come next, and then they would lose their effect. I thought that maybe the words wouldn’t cut so deep this time or the next. I thought that maybe I could have eventually caught my breath until Taemin’s arm brushed against mine as he said, “This part— ‘Still, what could have been is better than what could never be at all’— is the best part.”

He was right. That was the part that cut the deepest. 

I was so eager to escape that song— so eager to stop the bleeding— that I walked off the plane wearing Taemin’s jacket.

Even though the song wasn’t playing through my ears, it was playing in my head, so my chest was still tightening. I must have looked unwell even in the hotel because Taemin sat on the foot of my of my bed, hair tied in a small blonde puff atop his head. 

The toothbrush dangling out of his mouth muffled his voice. “Are you okay?” 

I was going to have to get myself together if I wanted that question to end any time soon. 

“I’m just tired from the flight.” My answer wasn’t technically a lie, so why couldn’t I face Taemin? Why did I cast my gaze down to my hands pressed flat against my yellow striped pajama bottoms? 

“I’m sorry if I’m not the best roommate. I’ve never had to share a room with anyone before, and—” He kept moving closer, so I stuttered, “don’t you think you’re sitting too close?” 

“Hm?” Taemin hummed before walking into the bathroom to spit out his mouth of toothpaste. When he returned, he sat on his own bed, blushing. “Sorry. You were just talking so quietly, and—” his voice fell to a sheepish whisper— “after last night, I didn’t think you would mind being close.” 

Oh. So things were different now. It wasn’t just in my head. 

“I don’t mind.” I still couldn’t look at him. “Just warn me next time before you get so close, okay?” 

His soft laughter encouraged me to look at him. Nodding, he promised, “Okay.” 

My heart dropped with a heavy breath when he tugged the tie out of his hair and slid under his blankets. I never would have admitted it to myself, but I must have been hoping that he would sit with me again before the night ended. I must have been disappointed when he asked for permission to turn the light off from his side of the room. 

Suddenly it didn’t matter that I had spent the entire day by his side. Now that we were separated by only a few feet, I was crushed by the weight of the things I hadn’t said. All the things that would have to wait until tomorrow or the next day or sometime in the distant future when I could speak comfortably again. 

Taemin’s voice cut through the darkness. “You don’t have to worry about being a good roommate— whatever that means. You don’t have to worry about anything right now. It’s just us. Every night that we’re together can be like last night in the garden.” 

Oh. So he was still thinking about last night too. Why didn’t that make me smile? Why could I only think of the rose withering on my vanity and cry? 

“But you don’t have to talk if you don’t want to or if you just don’t have anything to say to me. I don’t mind. I just really like being around you.” 

Whatever instinct kept me from saying everything I thought and felt— Taemin didn’t have it. It was almost embarrassing to talk to somebody that honest. I wasn’t a liar or anything— except maybe I was. To become what my label wanted, I had to learn what parts of myself to omit. I had to learn what to keep to myself. I had to learn what the public wouldn’t like or appreciate. 

To talk to Taemin, it seemed like I would have to unlearn those lessons. 

Shivering under my blanket, I confessed, “I want to talk to you. I just don’t know what to say. I’m sorry.” 

Had I been brave enough to search for his face— had I been able to find him in the dark— what would he have looked like? I still wonder. 

“It’s okay. You don’t have to apologize. You can say anything you want. Even if it’s like the things you said in the garden—” 

He wanted me to talk like that? Wheezing my insecurities between sobs? I didn’t think I could do that every night and smile for the cameras by day. I knew I couldn’t. 

“I don’t— there shouldn’t be any distance between us.” 

“Why?” I choked, drawing the blankets tighter around myself. “Because you’re wearing my ribbon?”

Silence. 

Then, Taemin offered, “I’ll take it off—”

And before he could even finish the statement, I blurted, “No.” A desperate plea that resulted in more silence. I swallowed the tear-inducing lump in my throat, but it remained, “Please don’t take it off.” 

Maybe I didn’t believe in soulmates, but I wanted to believe. Maybe I didn’t think Taemin could declare himself mine just by marking himself with my ribbon, but I wanted to think he could. 

I really hoped that counted for something. I hoped Taemin could hear that desire in my voice because I didn’t know how to express it plainly with words yet. I didn’t know if I could ever learn to be honest like him. 

“Okay,” he promised, “I won’t.” 

Even though I wanted to, I couldn’t wear his jacket everywhere, so I promised, “I’ll wear your jacket when I can,” and hoped that he smiled even if I couldn’t see it. 

His jackets and the withering rose— those were my only symbols of a bond I couldn’t understand but cherished nonetheless. 

Again, we talked for so long that I can’t remember all the words I swore I could never forget. All I remember in echoing color is that when I told him that I kept imagining his flower dying in my room, Taemin said, “Then I’ll give you more roses, Lei,” as if that were the obvious solution. 

Knowing that he meant well, I frowned. “But that won’t replace the first. I barely even got to admire it before we had to leave.” 

Taemin argued, if you can really call it arguing when his voice was such a delicate whisper, “I would never try to replace the first. That’s impossible. And it’s not the point. I just— I want to give you beautiful things even if they're not mine to give. And before you ask why—” 

I reddened because that was exactly the question on the tip of my tongue. 

“— I don’t know why. I don’t think it matters why. I think— I know that I’m drawn to you, and you shouldn’t be afraid if you’re drawn to me too.” 

I didn’t want to be afraid. I wanted to be comforted by Taemin’s voice as I had been consoled by his embrace in the garden. But I was so afraid— trembling from the fear and the coldness encapsulating the room— that once I watched the sun rise, I tiptoed past Taemin’s snoring form to find Lucas, as if he could change the fact that I was falling face first in love— the kind of love no one ever recovers from— with Taemin.

[etherealwaifgoddess]

A Quiet Normal Life

Main Characters: Bucky Barnes x Reader

Summary: When Bucky comes out of cryo for the last time all he wants is a quiet, normal life.  

Warnings/ Content: Feels. Lots of feels. Typical sad then sweet fic.

Word Count: 2.2k

Author’s Note: Hello lovelies! I wanted to try my hand at a different writing style and so this fic was born. I’ve never tried a more narrative style before so it might be trash but I kinda like it. Hope you enjoy it on this dreary cold Sunday! XOXO - Ash

A Quiet Normal Life

After his final thaw from cryo Bucky has more bad days than good. He spends most of his time wandering around the new and unfamiliar world in a fog, caught between trying to forget the decades with HYDRA and to remember his fleetingly short life before the war. They promise him things will get better and he tries to believe them. It’s six months before the bad days balance with the good. 

Slowly his prewar memories return, breaking free from his mind like waves; some soft and gently breaking the surface, others wild and crashing threatening to drown him with their force. Eventually though when Steve gets that far off look in his eye and says “Remember that time, Buck...”, he really does remember. He remembers the taste of Missy Hanson’s sweet pink bubble gum that she always forgot to spit out before he kissed her. He remembers the wailing sound of their neighbors cat that woke them up almost every day during the scorching summer of ‘41. Bucky prays that as his memories return he will feel less like the Asset and more like Bucky Barnes. The end result is something entirely new and he is working to make peace with that. He slowly starts to think about what he wants his life to look like.

It’s a year before the good days outweigh the bad ones. Bucky finds he’s able to hold a conversation with strangers for more than thirty seconds without having a panic attack. He stops surviving on take out and Steve’s kindness, and starts going out to the store for groceries and things for his home. He collects little succulent plants, liking how easy they are to care for even if he hits a rough patch and forgets to water them for days at a time. Bucky finds reasons to linger in public places, no longer hurrying straight home after his errand. He’s surprised he doesn’t mind small talk with the girl who runs the cafe he favors, and some days he spends an hour at the park feeding ducks bits of bread and watching the world around him. 

The nightmares ease up and he’s getting sleep regularly again for the first time in seventy years. Everyone tells him he’s looking better, healthier, stronger. He looks for signs of these things in the mirror and tries to connect with what he’s seeing. It’s not just a hand, it’s his hand. The hair falling into his eyes is part of him, not an outside presence. Bucky thinks his body is nothing like The Asset’s and tries to take comfort in finding differences. His grey-blue eyes are clearer now, his skin is tanned from days spent outdoors tending his flock, a soft layer of fat now blurs his previously harsh, lean muscles. No one stops and stares at him anymore; the world seems to have forgotten he is an enemy, a danger. Or maybe, he thinks, he is so far from The Asset now he’s unrecognizable. Bucky starts feeling tentative hope that he’s going to have a normal life one day soon. 

A year and half after cryo he meets you. You’re new at the coffee shop and he thinks your smile is so bright it could blind him. The way you repeat his name as you write it on his paper to-go cup makes his cheeks heat and he almost bolts from the shop when your fingers collide with his as you pass him his drink. The second time he sees you he’s prepared, he steels his nerves and asks you about the muffins in the display case. He’s never bought food there before but it seems a plausible reason to make conversation. You’re friendly, helpful, and he thinks he would do just about anything to keep you talking. Bucky chooses to sit in a corner with his coffee instead of retreating the way he usually does. He picks at the blueberry muffin, having bought it out of politeness and not hunger. New memories bubble up as he sits and he wishes absently that he had the blind confidence of his youth. Back in his early twenties he would have planted himself at the end of the counter and chatted you up until he had you blushing, smiling that perfect smile of yours, and agreeing to see him Friday night. But he’s over 100 now, not that he looks it, and has too many scars, both inside and out, that hold him back. 

It’s two weeks of stopping in daily before Steve realizes something is going on. Bucky has tried a dozen new drinks and various pastries all at your suggestion. He doesn’t care what’s in his cup but listening to you describe the different drinks makes his chest feel warm in a way it hasn’t been since before the war. Steve finally asks about it one day when Bucky stops in to his office for their morning hello’s. Bucky’s blushes brightly and tells Steve all the quiet things he’s noticed about you that have him going back everyday. Steve hugs him tightly, assures him this is a good thing: progress. Steve tries helping Bucky build his confidence, reminding him everything he is feeling is normal and okay. 

It takes four more weeks before Bucky is brave enough to ask you on a date. Not that he calls it a date. No, he stumbles over his words with shaking hands and a blush that spreads all the way down to his chest. He asks you to join him on a walk around the park after your shift ends in a few hours. You agree with a quick smile, relieved he’s finally asked you out. You know who he is, who he was, and it doesn’t dissuade your interest in him. You look forward to his morning trips into the cafe, your heart stuttering in your chest when he dares to look up at your face through those impossibly long lashes of his. He’s nervous and you try to keep from adding to that. You’re always calm and patient when it’s his turn at the counter, you don’t make any sudden movements and keep your hands where he can see them the whole time. Subtle, small things that most people take for granted but are ingrained in your habits ever since your brother returned from Afghanistan with his own set of demons. You know the steps to the delicate dance around a land mine filled mind.

The walk around the park is quiet at first, you let him take his time adjusting and give him quiet smiles when he glances over at you. Bucky worries you can hear the pounding in his chest when you smile at him. His breathing is labored but not from exertion and he tries to make conversation though he knows he’s not good at it yet. But you don’t complain, you just go along with the flow of things. He’s relieved you don’t push him when he stops mid-thought and needs a moment to collect himself again. The outing lasts all of thirty minutes and at the end he gives you a stiff, forced hug before parting ways. He wants to wrap his arms around you so badly, but the physical contact is almost a little too much and he’s terrified of how strongly he craves the feeling of your body pressed against his. You’re surprised when he begins pulling you towards him and you force your body to be still, giving him a chance to go as far as he’s willing with no pressure from you. It’s an exquisite form of toruture having him so near, wanting the physical contact so badly, and yet reigning in your desires to not scare him off. Bucky pulls back after a few seconds and you can’t hide the wide smile that’s formed. He smiles back, forgetting his hesitation for a moment, and your breath catches in your throat at the sight. Bucky retreats then, scared to prolong what had been a perfect outing for fear of ruining it in some way.

Walks in the park become a daily occurance and Bucky enjoys the easy flow of his days. There is a simple kind of peace in knowing what the next day will hold and he cherishes it. He feeds his flock, gets coffee, visits Steve and sometimes Shur or T’Challa, works on his little farm, walks around the park with you, and then heads home to read or watch TV during the heat of the day. Steve stops over most nights to hang out and it’s two months after his first walk with you that Bucky asks Steve to not stop by the following day. Steve is concerned but Bucky explains he is expecting a different dinner guest: you. The pride that burns in Steve is bright and radiates from him brilliantly. Bucky shies away from the attention but appreciates it all the same. 

Two hours before you’re set to arrive Bucky throws up and then calls his therapist. He’s not ready to bring you into his home. He wants to be, but the fear that claws in his chest reminding him that he’s dirty, rotten, damaged, ruined, dangerous, keep him frozen in place. He’s shaking and cold against the bathroom tile as his therapist walks him through grounding techniques and affirmations. When the nausea rises again forty minutes before you arrive he’s able to fight it back and thinks that’s enough progress to keep on as planned. 

Bucky feels your presence in his home on a visceral level; the air feels different, the light a little brighter. He wonders what his little collection of rooms looks like to your eyes. He knows it’s not much but it’s his and he hopes desperately that it meets your approval. Bucky hangs on every little sigh and hum you make as you wander around his living room. The delicate way you hold onto a terracotta pot with both hands, carefully admiring his Roseum plant, makes him want to feel your hands entwined in his. Bucky can’t decide if he loves or hates the way you are so painfully careful around him, and now also his home. He can’t help but notice the way you hold yourself back when you start to get excited over something, how you slow your movements so as not to startle him, always announcing your intentions if you have to move around him or touch him in some way. It’s a kindness he never expected and helps him let his guard down just a fraction more around you. He wishes it wasn’t necessary though; he wants to see you unfiltered, unrestrained, happy, and free. A long buried part of him wants to see you fall apart completely for him.

It’s another month before he dares to kiss you. The voice in his head that rails against him reminding him of his faults does not go away, but it quiets long enough for the briefest brush of his lips to yours. Two more months and you’re stumbling into bed together, literally stumbling. Bucky’s heel catches on the cuff of his pant leg and he falls gracelessly onto his grey blanketed bed. You flop yourself down next to him giggling, glad that the mood is lightened a fraction. You’re both nervous; Bucky worried about disappointing you, and you worried about doing something to trigger him. It’s awkward and stumbling and he wouldn’t have it any other way, because it’s with you. Things get better the second time around and even better the time after that. You take your time learning each other’s bodies, unhurried and patient.

A year and a half later you’re living together, choosing to move your belongings into his home where he’s most comfortable. The nightmares slowly receded until they are just distant memories. He feels safe letting you share his bed and secretly thinks your presence helps keep the nightmares away. You are more worried than he is about the change of merging your lives. Bucky likes the way your things fit around his, making his home feel full and warm. It gives him another layer of peace he didn’t know his life was missing. Bucky loves the quiet, sleepy mornings laying in bed with you when nothing else matters but the way the light hits your hair against the pillows. You whisper words of love in the dark at night, promises to each other for always. Bucky starts to think of his future in a broader sense than what the next few days will bring. 

The future comes. The years blur together as time passes and Bucky is awestruck by how quickly a collection of days becomes a year and then years. Bucky proposes two years after you move in, it’s not a grand gesture, barely more than a hushed plea. Your wedding is equally subdued, exactly as you both wanted it to be. Life goes on whether you want to slow it down or not and you ride the wave of time together. From celebrations to mournings you face it all side by side and slowly Bucky comes to realize he got exactly what he wanted all along. A quiet, normal life. 

[singledarkshade]

Finding The Lost

Summary: Rip used the Time Core to stop Mallus. Waking from his coma this act put him in, Rip has no idea what surprises are waiting for him. Author’s Note: Rip Week Day 7: Free Day – You're free to give us anything you like, so let your imagination run wild. So I did. Enjoy                                ********************************************* “Good morning, John,” Kelly said brightly to the comatose man on the bed, “It is a lovely day. The sun is shining and for the first day this week, my train was on time.”

Picking up the chart, she scanned over the notes from the nurse on the night shift had written.

“Well, you’re still much healthier than any of us expect,” Kelly noted, “Considering you’re in a coma. So, since you’re not going to give me your opinion on the weather we’ll go through the checklist.”

Kelly hummed to herself as she checked his blood pressure, stalling when she heard a murmur. Shaking herself she went back to work, continuing to hum the tune stopping as she could hear someone murmuring the words to the song. Looking around, she saw there was no one there but the unconscious man on the bed.

“I wonder,” she said before deliberately humming the same tune stunned as their coma patient began to mutter the lyrics.

Kelly quickly checked the chart to see if this had ever happened before. She was about to check his pulse but the moment she touched his arm, their coma patient grabbed her wrist. She gave a cry of shock and he let go, his eyes flickered open showing confused green eyes for a few seconds.

“Doctor Burns,” she poked her head out the door to where the doctor was standing, “John Doe may be waking up.”

“What happened?” the young doctor asked as she walked in, her unruly black curls pinned tightly in a bun, and her dark brown eyes filled with interest.

Cece Burns had only been with them a few months, but she was already a popular member of staff. Kelly quickly explained everything that happened and handed her the chart. The doctor scanned the chart as Kelly waited.

“Has this ever happened before?”

“No,” Kelly told her, “He’s been here for six months and until today he hasn’t responded to any stimuli.”

The younger woman frowned, “Alright,” she moved to the man on the bed and pulled out her penlight, she leaned over to check his pupils jumping when he jerked awake.

“It’s okay,” Cece soothed as he gasped for breath, eyes searching around, “You’re safe.”

Confused the man eyes settled on her, “Where am I? When am I?”

“You’re in Coast City General,” she told him, surprised to note he had an English accent, “You’ve been here, in a coma, for six months.”

He stared at her, asking intently, “What year is it?”

“It’s 2048,” Cece told him, although a little bemused by the question “The fifth of May to be exact.”

He closed his eyes for a moment taking a slow breath.

“When you were found you had no identification documents,” Cece said gently, “Can you tell me your name?”

He remained silent for several minutes before saying, “Phil…Phil Gasmer.”

“I’m Doctor Cece Burns,” she introduced herself, “And it’s nice to meet you, Mr Gasmer.”

 “Hi, honey,” Cece called as she saw her husband coming towards her across the hospital car park, crouching down to catch their boisterous puppy who came bounding over to her, “Hi there.”

“I hope she’s not the only one getting kisses,” her husband grinned as the puppy enthusiastically licked Cece’s face as she cuddled the bundle of fluff.

Leaning over she kissed him hello, “Jealous, JJ?”

“Always,” he grinned at her, “How’s your day been so far?”

Smiling as he wrapped his arm around her, Cece said, “It’s good. I’m really settling in here.”

“And you were worried.”

Cece rolled her eyes at him, “Oh, do you remember my coma patient?”

“John Doe who looks a bit like me,�� he nodded, “Which I’m still not sure is a compliment or not.”

Laughing, she smirked up at him, “Wouldn’t you like to know.”

“Anyway?”

“He woke up,” Cece explained, “Poor guy is completely confused and, from what I can tell, alone.”

“But he’s got the best doctor in the city,” JJ grinned before asking, “Did you get a name?”

Cece nodded, “Yeah, he doesn’t have amnesia which means several people lost money on that.”

JJ sighed, “Including me.”

Laughing at him she checked her watch, “Got to get back,” she kissed him again and grabbed the paper bag from his hand, “Thanks for bringing me lunch. Love you.”

“Love you,” JJ replied before he crouched and said to her stomach, “Love you too, little one.”

Rolling her eyes, Cece shook her head she didn’t even have the slightest bump yet, “You are so embarrassing.”

“But you wouldn’t have me any other way.”

 JJ Burns watched his wife head back into the hospital with a smile. He never imagined settling down, considering his childhood and what happened to his family, he’d intended never to let anyone close to him again. You couldn’t lose anyone that way. But Cece had simply pushed through every wall he had, and he fell for her hard. She was the first one to call him JJ, mostly to tease him but it had stuck. And he liked it.

He couldn’t believe it when she agreed to marry him, couldn’t believe that he asked her to be honest and was now happier than he could remember. Especially when she told him she was pregnant.

“Come on,” he said to the puppy they’d adopted only a few weeks ago, grimacing when he remembered the message from his mother-in-law that needed an answer now, “Damn.”

Heading into the hospital he left the puppy with one of the receptionists, thankfully everyone loved Cece, and headed up to her floor. As the elevator door opened, he caught sight of a bed being pushed down the hall. Cece appeared and looked at him confused.

“What are you doing here?” she asked.

“I…” JJ started, stalling as a nurse walked past carrying a bag of clothes with a familiar long brown coat draped over her arm, “What’s that?”

Confused Cece glanced over at the nurse, “Oh, that’s the clothes our former John Doe was wearing when he was found.”

“The coat,” JJ whispered, shaken by what it could mean.

“What about it?” she asked, worrying filling her voice as she caught his hand, “JJ, what’s wrong?”

Shaking his head, he breathed, “You said he looks like me.”

“Honey,” Cece took his face in her hands, “I need you to focus and tell me what’s wrong.”

He took a slow deep breath, “I want to see John Doe.”

“You’re not making any sense,” Cece frowned.

“I know,” JJ whispered, “And I will explain but please, let me see this guy first. I think I might know who he is.”

After a few moments she nodded, “Okay, but it can only be for a few minutes.”

As his wife led him along the corridor, he felt his stomach begin to twist in knots, he wasn’t sure if he wanted to be right or not.

“Can you let me go in alone?” he asked softly.

“You’re worrying me,” Cece told him.

JJ shook his head, “There are some things about my past, and my family I’ve never told you. I will explain but I need to see this guy first.”

Still looking confused, Cece nodded, “Okay.” Before she let him move, she kissed him softly, “I’m right here.”

Taking a deep breath JJ opened the door and stepped inside. Walking forward so he could see the man on the bed properly, JJ felt his heart stop.

“Are you another doctor?” the man asked, and JJ felt tears prick his eyes at hearing the voice he hadn’t heard for so long.

“I…I’m not a doctor,” JJ stammered slightly and shook his head, “You probably don’t recognise me, but it has been a long time since we saw one another.”

“Excuse me?”

JJ moved closer to the bed, he glanced at the chart and smiled slightly, “Interesting name you gave them.”

“I don’t know what you mean,” the reply was filled with defensiveness, “I gave my name.”

“Or an alias you thought would be safer than your real identity,” JJ said before adding while his heart pounded, “Rip Hunter.”

Confusion and a little panic covered the other man’s face, “How do you know that?”

With another quick breath, JJ smiled, “Hi, Dad.”

“Jonas?”

 Rip was trying to work out how long it was safe for him to stay in the hospital, relieved when they moved him into a room that wasn’t going to be monitored 24/7. He knew he’d been in a coma for several months, and even though he was now awake it would take a few more days before he would be allowed to leave the hospital. It had taken the nanites in his system six months to wake him up so there must have been a lot of damage. Thankfully, from the date given, the technology currently didn’t exist to detect them, or he had a feeling there would have been much more security.

He also had to contact Gideon but that wasn’t going to be easy without some equipment.

When the door opened, and a man walked in, Rip simply assumed was another doctor at first.

“You probably don’t recognise me, but it has been a long time,” the man said.

Rip frowned realising that he looked strangely familiar and panic began to set it. He’d been told it was 2048, the Time Bureau could still be after him, although he couldn’t work out why they would be, but then again original reasons they’d used to imprison him hadn’t made any sense.

“Interesting name you gave them,” the man said slightly amused.

“I don’t know what you mean,” Rip said, trying to work out who this man was, “I gave my name.”

“Or an alias you thought would be better than your real identity,” the man chuckled before adding, “Rip Hunter.”

Stunned Rip demanded, “How do you know that?”

The man smiled, “Hi, Dad.”

Rip stared at him, taking in the blue eyes and light brown hair. The familiar jaw line and slight upturned nose just like Miranda’s. It couldn’t be but...

“Jonas?”

“Yeah.”

Slowly Rip reached out and touched his son’s face, his son who looked to be almost the same age as him.

“Is it really you?” Rip asked, terrified that this would be snatched away from him.

Jonas nodded, “It’s me, Dad. I’m just glad you still have your duster. The moment I saw it I knew you were here.”

Rip wrapped his arm around his son and hugged him tightly, “I thought I’d lost you forever.”

“I know,” Jonas breathed, pulling back he wiped tears from his eyes, “There’s so much I have to tell you, so much I want to ask.”

They both turned as the door opened and Rip’s doctor appeared, she stalled confused to see them emotional holding onto one another.

“JJ,” she asked, “Is everything okay?”

Jonas laughed, moving to her, “It’s fine. We’re fine.”

“What’s going on?” she demanded.

“Cece, this is going to be really hard to believe,” Jonas continued as he moved her to the bed, “But I swear to you it’s the truth.”

Dr Burns looked at him, “Okay.”

“This is my dad,” Jonas told her.

 Cece tried to get her head around her husband’s declaration but in the end just demanded, “What?”

“Okay,” JJ moved to her side, “I know this is weird but, consider your own family, honey this isn’t that strange.”

“How about you explain exactly what you’re talking about,” Cece stated sharply.

JJ sighed, “I want to tell you everything, but this is not the best place. Can you hold off questions until later?”

“If I must,” she frowned before looking at her patient again, “So, what’s your real name, Mr Burns?”

The two men swapped a glance before the man on the bed replied, “We should stick with Phil Gasmer for now.”

“Oh my God, this is just crazy,” Cece murmured.

“How long will it be before you can release him?” JJ asked.

“Normally for  someone who has been in a coma for as long as you have,” Cece said, “Then you would not be able to be released for some time but, as always, you’re amazingly healthy.”

JJ looked thoughtful, “So does that mean soon?”

“If he has somewhere to go then I can actually let him leave tomorrow,” Cece shrugged.

“Then I’ll pick you up tomorrow, Dad,” JJ turned to the man on the bed, “And you can stay with us.”

At that declaration Cece touched her husband’s arm, “Honey, a word alone.”

JJ rested his hand on Gasmer’s arm, “I’ll be back in a few minutes, Dad.”

 Walking with his wife into the corridor JJ knew she wasn’t happy with him, confirmed when the door closed.

“What the hell are you doing?” Cece demanded.

“Honey…”

She cut him off, “I know you lost your parents when you were a kid, and I understand why you would latch on to this fantasy. We’re going to have a baby soon and it’s natural for you to wish for your own paternal influence but this isn’t…” she trailed off and took his hand, “It’s impossible that this man is your father. You’re practically the same age.”

JJ sighed, he’d never told her about time travel or the Time Masters or how his mother had really died. Never told her about the hope that his father might still be alive out there somewhere.

“I promise you,” he took her hands, “I will give you a full explanation, but this isn’t the place to do that.”

“JJ…”

“This isn’t me having a panic about becoming a father,” he continued, “Trust me.”

Cece sighed, “Fine but once we are home tomorrow, I want the full story.”

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

 Rip was relieved to be released from the hospital but even more relieved that Jonas did come to pick him up. His son was alive, okay they’d lost many years, but Rip was going to be there for him from now on.

Glancing to the side, Rip studied his son who was driving them away from the hospital and saw so much of Miranda in his features. As much as he wanted to, he managed not to ask any questions until he knew they were definitely alone.

Finally they drew up to a good sized house, with a neatly mowed front garden in what seemed to be a quiet neighbourhood. When Jonas parked, he grabbed Rip’s bag of belongings before leading him inside.

Dr Burns…Cece was already there, his daughter-in-law which Rip knew was going to take some time to get his head around, looking stern and a little distrustful which he couldn’t blame her for. She also looked slightly familiar to him, which Rip was trying to work out how. From the age she’d given then it was possible she could be related to Jax or Kendra, but he was sure it wasn’t either of them he could see in her features.

“Up here, Dad,” Jonas said leading him to the stairs, “We made up the spare room for you to use just now.”

Rip smiled, “Thank you.”

“I am not letting you stay anywhere else,” Jonas told him.

Warmth filled Rip that he hadn’t felt since that horrible day, and he rested a hand on his son’s shoulder.

Jonas grinned, “Settle in and I’ll make some tea. Then we better explain to Cece what’s going on.”

“I can’t believe you’re married,” Rip breathed.

Jonas smiled, “I’m surprised that she agreed to marry me.”

A wistful smile touched Rip’s lips, “I remember that feeling.”

 JJ couldn’t lose his smile as he jogged downstairs to the kitchen. Cece wasn’t happy with him at the moment but was holding her tongue until after the explanation. His dad was in the lounge when JJ walked in with the tea.

“Here,” JJ handed the mug to him, “I think it’s how you like it.”

His dad took a sip and smiled, “Precisely.”

“Okay,” Cece spoke up, “I think I’ve been exceedingly patient, but I want to know now, JJ. What the hell is going on?”

JJ took a deep breath, “Honey, I know this is strange. I know it is really hard for you to believe that he’s my dad, but he is.”

“Alright,” Cece said, “I’ll play along. How?”

He locked eyes with his father who shrugged, “I’m a time traveller.”

Cece began to laugh, “You’re serious.”

“You know Team Flash,” JJ reminded her, “Your own parents were involved in events that involved aliens and alternate universes.”

“They were?”

JJ turned to his father, “Cece is a nickname. Her full name is Sara Diggle.”

“Diggle?” his father demanded, “You’re the daughter of John Diggle, Spartan and Lyla Michaels, the head of Argus? No wonder you look so familiar.”

Cece stared at him, “How do you know that?”

“Time traveller,” his father stated again, “For me their exploits are history.”

JJ moved to her side and took her hand, “My given name is Jonas Hunter. I was born in London on 26th March 2158. My mother was Miranda Coburn and my father is Rip Hunter.”

Cece frowned in thought, “Hold on. I know that name. He’s the guy who recruited my aunt Sara and the Legends originally.”

“Guilty,” his father murmured, slight irritation filling his voice.

While Jonas murmured confused “Legends?”.

Before they could continue barking preceded their puppy bounding in looking for attention.

JJ motioned the puppy to him, “Come here, Gideon.”

“You called your dog, Gideon?” his dad remarked in surprise.

JJ shrugged, “I was going through a list of names and it was the one she barked at.”

 Rip chuckled as his son explained the reason their dog was called Gideon, “I think she’ll be happy about that, but you know she can be prickly about that sort of thing.”

Jonas grinned, “I remember.”

Cece shook her head, “No. I don’t know what game you’re playing but this isn’t possible.”

“Honey, I know this is strange,” Jonas took her hand, “But I can prove it.”

Rip watched her frown before she demanded, “Then prove it.”

Jonas disappeared leaving them in a disapproving silence, reappearing holding a small box Rip instantly recognised.

“Your mother made that for you,” Rip breathed, “To hold all your special treasures.”

Nodding, Jonas unlocked and opened it bringing out a small holo-player.

“What is that?” Cece asked.

“Just a minute,” Jonas said softly, he moved to the fireplace were several photographs sat and lifted one handing it to Cece, “You know this is me.”

She nodded, before Jonas passed it to Rip to let him see. It was Jonas, as a boy, not much older than the last time Rip had seen him. He was smiling as he watched something unknown in the distance.

“Where was this taken?” Rip asked softly.

“The orphanage I ended up in,” Jonas replied, “They had puppies that day which is why I’m smiling. I think it’s the only real smile I gave before I met Cece.”

His son’s wife gently touched his hand, the affection in that moment reminding Rip of his relationship with Miranda.

“Okay,” Jonas touched the holo-player and it lit up. Rip stared as he watched himself catch his son in a hug and run towards where Miranda was filming them. It was the last time they’d been together, the last time Rip remembered laughing so freely and he moved away so they couldn’t see the tears spring to their eyes.

While staring out the window he heard Cece breath, “It is him.”

“I know this is weird,” Jonas said to his wife, “But he’s my dad. And I lost him once before, I won’t lose him again.”

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

 Rip woke slowly, becoming aware that he was not alone in his bed. Opening his eyes, he found the puppy curled up beside him, sniffing at his hand.

“Good morning, Gideon,” Rip said, gently stroking the dog, “You’re an excellent alarm clock.”

She gave a quick bark making Rip smile. It had truly been the strangest few days, and that was by Rip’s standards. But he’d found his son and, even if Jonas was now basically ages with him, Rip was not letting him go.

He now also had a daughter-in-law who he hoped to get to know better once she stopped looking at him with distrust. Even after Jonas had shown her then holo of them together, Rip could tell she was still suspicious.

There was a small ensuite attached to the room he’d been given to use so Rip was able to take a shower and get dressed without the possibility of interacting with anyone. He did want to get to know Jonas, but he also didn’t want to be under their feet.

As he was pulling on his t-shirt, the sound of an argument floated up the stairs.

“I did what I thought was best,” Cece snapped.

“Why can’t you trust me?” Jonas yelled back, “I don’t need anyone to tell me I’m right.”

Rip winced, knowing this was regarding his claim to be Jonas’ father and wondered what Cece had done that had Jonas so riled.

Heading downstairs, Rip saw a familiar man standing just inside the doorway with a look of resignation.

“I’m guessing this is the reason I’m here,” the man said, noting Rip appear from the stairs.

Rip frowned as the man’s identity finally came to mind, “John Diggle.”

“See,” Jonas snapped.

“JJ,” Diggle said softly, “We’re just here to make sure…”

“What?” Jonas demanded.

Rip moved to his son’s side, “To make sure I am who I say I am. Unfortunately,” he continued, “As we’ve never met then I don’t see how you can do that.”

Diggle shook his head, “But I’m just the driver.”

“No,” Jonas shook his head and resting his hand on Rip’s arm, “I don’t need anyone to confirm what I already know. This is my father.”

Cece grimaced, “I know this sounds strange but there are people in the past who have managed to change their appearance. I don’t want you to get hurt, JJ.”

Rip could see how much this was hurting his son, Cece was his wife and Rip didn’t want to come between them.

“Jonas,” Rip said softly, moving him away from the father and daughter in the doorway, “If they need this then it’s not a problem.”

“Dad…” Jonas started.

“Besides,” Rip cut him off, “I’m interested who Mr Diggle brought to identify me.”

Jonas grimaced at him but folded his arms across his chest and said, “Fine.”

 JJ was trying to keep his temper in check, he couldn’t understand why Cece didn’t believe him about his father.

He loved her family, they’d accepted him happily and always treated him like one of their own, but this was his dad, his family and JJ wasn’t letting anyone take him away again.

“Mr Diggle,” his father spoke up, “Who did you bring to identify me?”

John smiled slightly and stepped to the side allowing another man inside. JJ turned hearing his father make a noise of surprise.

“Jax?”

JJ recognised the man as one of the friends of the family but not someone he knew well. The man identified as Jax stared at JJ’s father in amazement.

“It is you,” Jax said stunned, “Wow, Rip we thought you were dead.”

Chuckling his father replied, “Because I touched the time core, I’ve done that once before and survived.”

“That is not something you should be boasting about,” a strangely familiar voice said as a woman walked in behind Jax.

Turning to his father, JJ frowned confused at the amazed look covering the other man’s face.

 Rip stared in astonishment at the woman who walked into the house, an annoyed look on her face.

“Gideon?” he whispered.

Her annoyance melted away and without hesitation she closed the space between them to hug him. Rip gripped her tightly, confused but happy to see her. Letting her go, Rip turned to where his son was staring bemused.

“Gideon,” he smiled, “I want you to meet Jonas.”

She frowned, studying the man in front of her intently, “Jonas?”

“You’re Gideon?” Jonas demanded, “As in the Waverider’s AI, Gideon?”

She nodded, “Yes, Master Hunter.”

“You were at our wedding,” Jonas said astonishment, shaking his head, “You’re Gideon?”

Gideon nodded, “I had no idea that you were Jonas, or I would have…” she trailed off and wrapped her arms around him for a moment before bringing Rip into the embrace.

“So,” Cece spoke up interrupting the reunion, “This is true?”

Jax confirmed, “He is Rip Hunter. And as JJ is Jonas, which I wish you’d told us before now then that makes him…”

Jonas turned to his wife, “My Dad.”

Cece shook her head, “I’m sorry, I just…”

Jonas kissed her softly, “You were trying to protect me. Never be sorry about that.”

 Jonas and Cece ushered them all into dining room and made breakfast. Rip watched the couple, seeing that now everything had been sorted that they were happy together. It was all he’d wanted for Jonas, to have the normal life Rip was never able to have.

“It is wonderful to see him happy,” Gideon said softly from his side, “He’s so grown up. I wish I realised who he was before now.”

“Waking up and finding him here was like a miracle,” Rip replied, “He may be almost the same age as me now but let’s face it my own father and I have a similar issue.”

She chuckled softly.

“I can’t believe you’re here too,” Rip whispered before asking, “How did this happen? When did this happen?”

Gideon sighed slightly, “We have a lot to talk about, Captain but later. You should spend time with your son.”

“I intend to,” he said, “But I’m hoping I can spend time with you too. I have missed you greatly, Gideon.”

“And I you,” she smiled, “We’ll talk properly soon.”

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

 “May I join you?”

Cece turned to find Rip standing just inside the patio doors. She’d come out for a little peace as Jax and her dad were telling stories, “Of course.”

He took the seat beside her, “I understand how strange this has been for you. Even with your family history.”

“When I met JJ,” she said, “He was so closed off. He was only at the mixer because his roommate, Toby had badgered him into coming. He was quiet, kept in a corner and to himself most of the night.”

Rip sighed, “Sounds like he unfortunately takes after me.”

She gave a slight smile, “Anyway, Toby was friends with one of my group and introduced us all. The first laugh we got out of him was when I had to explain why I was called Cece and not Sara by everyone.”

“Can I ask?”

Shaking her head in embarrassment, she laughed, “When I was a kid and I was proven right I would say ‘See, See.’ My mom used to call me Cece and when she did in front of one of my friends it stuck.”

Rip chuckled softly.

“As I grew up and learned all about my aunt Sara,” Cece continued, “I preferred my nickname rather than being compared to the woman who came back from the dead and travelled through time protecting it. Even if every story they told sounded more like chaos than anything else.”

“I can understand that. You know Rip Hunter isn’t the name I was born with either,” he told her, “I chose it. Which is a long story that I will tell you another time.”

Cece smiled, “We had a few classes together and had to partner in several of them. The more time we spent together, the closer we became. I always knew he was holding back things from me but he’s from the future and his father is a time traveller was not on the list of things I was thinking.”

Rip laughed again before he sighed softly, “Cece, I am so glad he found you. The last time I saw Jonas he was eight years old, I’ve thought him dead for just as long and I do not want to come between you but I can’t lose him from my life again.”

“No,” Cece cried suddenly, “I wouldn’t want you to. Now I know you are who you say you are then of course I want that. Besides, we’ll need extra help soon.”

Rip gave a frown, “Why?”

She rested her hand on her stomach with a smile.

“I thought we were not telling people yet?” JJ’s voice made them turn to find him leaning against the door.

Cece chuckled, “After everything I thought he should know.”

Rip stared at them, “A baby?”

“You’re going to be a grandad,” JJ chuckled, taking the seat on Cece’s other side, and placing his hand to her stomach with her hand, “Surprise.”

Cece watched Rip hug JJ, before she stood and when they parted Cece hugged her new father-in-law as well.

 Rip watched the couple head back inside their house to talk to the rest of their guests leaving him for the moment. A small bark made him turn to see the puppy running out the house. Crouching Rip picked up the excitable bundle of fluff, smiling as she licked his face.

“You’ve made a friend,” Gideon said as she joined him.

Rip nodded before asking, “Have you met your namesake?”

Gideon looked at him horrified, “They named their dog after me? Their dog?”

“To be fair I think Cece may have thought she was naming her after the Gideon of Star Labs,” Rip replied, “But if you think about it, Jonas didn’t know where you were and it was a way to remember you.”

Moving to pet the puppy, Gideon sighed, “If I had known, I promise I would have found him and made sure he was safe.”

“I know,” Rip whispered.

“If I had known that you were in the hospital,” Gideon added, “I would have found you and taken you to the Waverider.”

Rip looked at her hopefully, “You still have her.”

“She is mine,” Gideon reminded him, “No matter what anyone else believes.”

“That’s good,” Rip smiled, he scratched the puppy’s head for a few minutes before asking, “What are you doing now?”

Gideon smiled, “I help the Star Labs team, it’s not the same but it lets me use my knowledge and skills.”

“So,” Rip shrugged, “You settled in Central City?”

Gideon nodded, “I felt it was a good idea as Mr Allen and Mr Ramon live there. They know who I am and my connection to the ship.”

Rip smiled as Gideon slid her hand into his, their fingers entwining.

“I probably shouldn’t tell you,” Rip said softly, “But I’m going to be a grandfather soon.”

“That’s wonderful,” Gideon sighed, “Which means you can’t leave Coast City.”

Rip shook his head, “I don’t want to lose him again.”

“You won’t,” Gideon assured him, “Jonas will never let that happen.”

“I don’t want to lose you either,” Rip told her.

Gideon smiled and pressed a soft kiss to his cheek, “You never will.”

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

 Rip looked up from his book when Jonas entered the living room carrying two mugs.

“Here,” Jonas handed him one before taking his own and sitting on the chair across from him, “Cece has an early shift tomorrow so she’s gone to bed.”

“And everything is alright?” Rip asked.

Jonas nodded, “Cece always knew my past was something I couldn’t really talk about. I could have handled the revelation of who you are better.”

“She reminds me a bit of your mum,” Rip told him, “Strong, independent, able to kick the Hunter men in the head when they’re being pig-headed.”

Jonas laughed, “I know.”

They sat in silence for a while, drinking their tea while the puppy wandered around the room every so often moving to one of them demanding to be petted.

“I was surprised Gideon left with Jax and John,” Jonas mentioned tentatively.

Rip smiled, “She’s going to bring the Waverider here and find somewhere for us to stay.”

“What?”

“Jonas,” Rip sighed, “I can’t live in your spare room forever.”

“How about a few days at least?” Jonas demanded, “You’ve been gone from my life for…” he trailed off.

Putting his mug down, Rip reached out and took his son’s hand, “I wish things were so different. I wish so much…but I promise you that I am here from now on. For you and my grandchild.” He laughed, “No matter how strange that is when in my mind you’re still only eight.”

Jonas chuckled softly, “That must be really weird.”

“I now know how my own father feels,” Rip replied before adding at Jonas stunned look, “Have I ever told you about Booster Gold?”

[dealeagle6-blog]

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[thejackalsden]

Angela “Mercy” Ziegler’s Cybernetics

Alright so this is all of her body cybernetics tied into one post. This will cover from medical school (5% body alteration) to the Overwatch Recall (85% body alteration). This is not common knowledge, and having your muse know requires discussion first. Angela guards this secret with her life, and only those that have to pick her up would truly notice it, or those who get intimately close and she trusts. Aside from that, even the reports she handed in to SC Morrison were altered to hide it.

Medical School to Uprising Mission

    During medical school, Angela created the base prototype for VALKYRIE - a Cybernetic augment that would extend into a suit; for on the go healthcare with enhanced mobility. Created with the help of [REDACTED], Angela began what would start a long career of personal augments solely for the means of assisting her career choice, as well as a side project to make it easier to heal others in a less than ideal setting.

    Being cybernetic, it ties directly into her body, and while the initial prototype was the simplest harness it evolved from there. The initial prototype was nothing more than two ports, simply connecting her ‘wings’ to her back and allowing for controlled descent if having to drop to comrades, or slow an unexpected fall. Connecting directly into her spine just to the side of the thoracic spine (just inside of her shoulder blades so arm movement was unhindered) - a flawless integration up her spinal column, and a perfect installation of the ports supporting said harness. Current weight of the prototype at this time: 6lbs/2.72kgs. Angela’s weight; 116lbs/52.62kgs.

Effect of the Cybernetics on the Systems of the Human Body - V.0.1

    While Angela was extremely lucky in not having any fatal side effects due to working on herself with untested cybernetics, there was no major side effects of any of the major systems of her body. Notes are unremarkable, as follows;

Circulatory System

Functions as expected, no issue with blood delivery even around installation sight; no issues of port rejection. 

Digestive System

No change noted; though Angela did change her diet to involve more fruit to promote a healthier diet and spinal fluid that meshed better with the cybernetics; a tricky balance, easily controlled.

Patient still insists on chocolate in her diet - only swiss

Endocrine System

No noted important changes in hormones and chemicals so long as Angela maintains healthy diet. Very easy to tip the balance.

Patient has sworn off alcohol; main hydration is water, tea, or hot chocolate in moderation due to high caffeine content. Water preferred.

Integumentary System

Sensitivity near port installation that extends across her shoulders. A spot to be well covered and protected; aside from that all else is noted as normal.

No hair loss, no skin changes aside form sensitivity, nails and glands unaffected.

Lymphatic System

Slightly compromised immune system; diet adjusted with tea (preferring green) for added oxidents to support a healthy immune system.

Muscular System

Notable difference at installation sight, Angela forced to maintain some semblance of workout; needs to train the muscles that are merged with the cybernetics; minor rehab needed during school to readjust the muscles to regular strain.

Nervous System

Flawless integration through thoracic spine into the spinal column through port installation. No noted outlier issues, textbook installation.

Renal System

No noted changes; proper functions

Reproductive System

No noted changes; sex drive unchanged. 

Respiratory System

Minor changes; rehab and exercise needed to strengthen the muscles and adjust for more weight on her back.

Skeletal System

Bone structure took fine to the addition of ports; spine unchanged in a negative way. No noted outlier effects.

    Overall installation of initial prototype is a success. Prototype persists through the remainder of her Medical School and the original Omnic Crisis to the Uprising Mission; next Prototype (Angel Prototype V.0.2) being researched and built on her own. The Base Prototype (V.0.1) was damaged during the Uprising mission and forced to be retired, prompting Angela to step into the next Prototype (V.0.2); the classic ‘Angel of the Battlefield’, which would persist until the Swiss Base Incident.

Angel Prototype (V.0.2); Uprising to the Swiss Base Incident

    Developed with assistance from Moira O’Deorain, the Angel Prototype is the iconic Mercy suit. The HALO Systems are introduced as well as the Caduceus Staff V.0.1 being fully synced into the suit. Moira and Angela are the only two known to work on the tech for the Cybernetics, and the research has not been seen - false documents were handed in to her commanding officers to deter them from realizing the extent of her experiments.

    Cybernetic installation extends to consume most of Angela’s back and part of her neck and waist - Angel Prototype covers every port and ensures complete coverage while in combat. Angela’s mobility has increased with the addition of more propulsion to her ‘wings’, and a more reliable, bulletproof material for the suit. Current weight of the prototype at this time; 15lbs/6.8kgs. Angela’s weight; 130lbs/58.97kgs.

It should be noted, along with the creation of the prototype, through Moira & Angela’s combined efforts, a ‘synthetic skin’ was created to go over her back in the event she was just going about her day to day life. While foolproof to spot with just vision alone if her back is bared, the synthetic skin remains extremely cool. This is to prevent the cybernetics from overheating themselves, and the moment it’s touched, one will think she’s either constantly cold, or know it’s not what it seems. It’s part of the reason Angela is so hesitant to let anyone close. The synthetic skin is also waterproof - but to an extent. Extended trips into water are ill advised and eventually it will get in. A few hours in a pool for exercise, for example, would not harm or hinder the skin, providing it has ample time to dry once she’s done.

Effect of the Cybernetics on the Systems of the Human Body - V.0.2

    Angela’s next upgrade to Cybernetics would replace the basic 15% to an astonishing 45% - pushing the limits of her research, and introducing even more untested tech into her body. Findings are as recorded.

Circulatory System

Blood infusion necessary to support the surgery; O+ used, no negative effects noted. Recovery staged noted a higher white blood count.

Pulmonary valve replaced to better support blood flow to the lungs - heart failure and valve collapsed mid-surgery, necessary change. 

Digestive System

A more natural diet; no processed foods, minimal sugars that aren’t natural (Fruit or raw honey most common source), to promote balance and nutrients needed for the supporting of Cybernetics.

Patient still insists on chocolate in her diet - only swiss

Endocrine System

Minor changes noted, easily controlled through diet and proper nutrition. Nothing drastic to concern.

Integumentary System

Sensitivity is no longer just the shoulders; it extends across the back, up the nape of the neck, and down into the cradle of the hips. V.0.2 securely covers all of the sensitive areas with bulletproof metal; allowing safe movement in battle.

Hair loss reported at the nape of the neck; nothing major, just refusing to grow over synthetic skin to hide the cybernetics. Use of a sensory panel that encompasses her entire neck and the back of her skull used to hide it; reason for Angela’s hair being up constantly aside from being out of the way. 

HALO System connects directly into the sensor panel on her neck, allowing flawless synchronization with the Caduceus Staff V.0.1 for augmental, physical enhancement in teammates.

HALO System stores and recalls medical profiles of teammates for the Caduceus Staff V.0.1 for ease of support in fight without having 20 different settings on staff.

Lymphatic System

Considerably compromised immune system; battled with a daily regimen of green tea and supplements; only honey is allowed in the green tea for added health benefits.

Angela is far more prone to sickness, though recovers far faster even if she does catch something minor.

Muscular System

Considerable difference upon full installation of Cybernetics; muscle to cybernetic integration went smoothly, though more rehab was needed to adjust to the enhancements of strength; with Valkyrie V.0.2 Angela is able to lift patients larger than her in the heat of the battle with minimal effort

Allows for better placement for onsite care and treatment.

No noted side effects except extended fatigue after prolonged use.

Nervous System

Nerves fully responsive; integrating and meshing well with muscular system.

Nerve synapse response time doubles from normal (536mph) for increased awareness and reaction time.

Renal System

No immediate noted change; if Angela wears her suit for too long, however, a makeshift dialysis is needed to lessen the strain on her kidneys.

Failure to do so can result in fatal results

Reproductive System

Reproductive organs function; Angela is sterile however. Minimal loss, Angela is fine with the exchange.

Respiratory System

Cybernetics installed extend to her diaphragm to assist in breathing functions - minimally - to ensure even in a critical event, she can get the oxygen necessary.

Skeletal System

Bone structure continues to support added Cybernetics, bone marrow production still on par for what is needed.

    Initial installation was overall a marked success, despite a rough surgery. Angela runs a contact in her left eye during missions; a high-tech screen allowing her to monitor vitals and status in real life time when paired with her HALO System.

    A second Angel Prototype was made to run alongside the original; Valkyrie V.1.2 with minimal differences, only there in case Valkyrie V.0.2 got damaged in any way. Exact in appearance, Valkyrie V.0.2 was lost during the Swiss Base Incident, leaving Angela with only Valkyrie V.1.2 to continue her work with.

    Post Swiss Base Incident, functioning without the suit is difficult, and through the years of traveling, she had provided minor updates to the cybernetics here and there, slowly increasing the amount of them within her until reaching the current state at the time of the Recall; 85% Cybernetic.

    Given the nature of Angela’s line of work, Valkyrie V.1.2 was outfitted with an internal defibrillator for emergencies and isolated instances for herself. There is an external defibrillator on her body at all times, covered in a later section (See Caduceus Blaster). The Valkyrie V.1.2’s Defibrillator is only to be used in last case scenarios and drains from Angela’s personal Cybernetic energy; prone to failure if her Cybernetics do not have the energy to shock her heart back into rhythm if it stops.

     Adjustments made so gradually offer similar results as the Valkyrie V.0.2’s installation; most adjustments and changes were to muscle structure and replacing her nervous system for full synchronization with her suit and tech. Minimal complications recorded, overall her body has taken to the Cybernetics well. Valkyrie V.1.2’s final weight going into the Petras Recall Incident; 45lbs/20.41kgs. Angela’s weight; 195lbs/88.45kgs.

Outlier Technology; HALO Systems, Caduceus Staff & Caduceus Blaster

HALO Systems

    In synchronization with her Cybernetics and optical output via her contacts, Angela is capable of keeping track of her teammates vitals, as stated earlier, due to the collection of profiles stored on HALO. Connected directly to her research computer, it also allows for generic scanning and overlook of any patient - though less precise and more of just the basics; heart rate, temperature, an estimate blood pressure, breathing rhythms, etc. Simple things.

    While HALO is not perfect, Angela has synced it flawlessly to the Caduceus Staff V.0.1. It allows for a more fine tuned integration of the physical enhancement nanites as well as adjusting the nanites if her target to heal has something to take into consideration; Cybernetics, prosthetics, health conditions, or other concerns. Due to this nature, Angela’s ‘Damage Boost’ can only be applied to those she has profiles on (Teammates) so the nanites know how to react accordingly.

Caduceus Staff V.0.1

~ Augmented

Augmented Nanites function as expected; they augment the target that is linked into the Staff’s beam. Augments are predominantly physical; enhanced strength, speed, mobility, or damage output (*). Augmented Nanites are depleted the fastest from the Staff’s reserves. A setting that is used mainly as a last resort, Angela’s Augmented Nanites will only be seen on a battlefield if she finds herself cornered and has to get someone out with her.

* - It is worth noting, Augmented Nanites cannot affect weaponry that has not synced it’s specs into the HALO Systems. Angela holds all information on most Overwatch weaponry in HALO as well as most generic weapons used by most militaries found around the world on the off chance she has to work with others. What most consider a miracle, is Angela begin anal and covering all her bases on the chance of ‘what if’ on the field.

- Even after the Disbanding of Overwatch, Angela archives the files on their weaponry. It is still very much readily available on the off chance it is needed, and it allows seamless integration into any fight she needs to help with.

~ Healing

The Healing Nanites, while more common, are far more complex in their creation and execution. Alongside weapon archives in HALO Systems, Angela stores a database of her teammates’ resting status, allowing a live feed of vitals to adjust the nanite’s density level for what is needed given a patient’s injury in the field. Prior Overwatch Members’ files are archived into HALO Systems, updated as necessary until the disbanding.

-  Generic, textbook vitals are used for everyday patients in her line of work if she has to use her staff on a battlefield to get Civilians out and healed - human or Omnic. Healing Nanites run off of a biochemical fuel composition that charges through the staff - running off the energy available in both the Caduceus Staff V.0.1 and whatever Valkyrie Project it is synced to at that given time.

-  Excessive healing will drain Angela’s Cybernetics faster due to Nanite consumption and will be monitored appropriately. Too much energy removal from the Cybernetics and Valkyrie Project will result in potentially fatal results.

Resurrection Tech (Res.Tech)

    Built into all Valkyrie Projects and prototypes is the patented Resurrection Tech (Res.Tech). Comprised of a unique type of Nanites, Res.Tech allows for a mass resuscitation of an area providing the targets have not been deceased too long prior. Freshly deceased work best, and there is a window of opportune time being about five minutes long. The longer past that window of opportune time the target is, the less likely Res.Tech will malfunction - at 5:05 past death, already a target has gone from a 100% Res.Tech success chance down to a 15% and steadily dropping.

    Res.Tech siphons energy and nanites directly from the Core of not only the given Valkyrie Project worn at the time, but from Angela’s own cybernetics - it is extremely taxing, and excessive use without proper time to recharge and recover from it will result in near fatal consequence for Angela. Post deployment of Res.Tech equipment will leave Angela vulnerable and weak, relying on a team or the environment for protection.

Caduceus Blaster

    As any good combat medic, Angela does carry a means to defend herself. The Caduceus Blaster is dual purpose tool; not only is it a firearm, it possesses a built in defibrillator for when Res.Tech is too resource-wasteful as a means of resuscitation. While in normal medbay work, Angela will have a crash cart and not need her Caduceus Blaster, but in a pinch on the field, the recoil rod (Silver rod under the barrel) can be removed to work as a cross current location along with the gun’s barrel itself.

- The Caduceus Blaster being used as a defibrillator is uncommon, but it is there on the off chance she does not have enough energy to use Res.Tech, but can still bring someone back from the brink. Defibrillator is activated by the orange button on the back of the pistol. – Before use of Caduceus Blaster’s Defibrillator, it is imperative that no other living creature is touching the target due to the voltage expended - it can short circuit omnics, and stop a human heart.

- Ammo is regenerating - though one magazine must be fully extinguished (twenty rounds) before it can start to recharge itself. Angela does not use her gun often, it is a last ditch attempt of defense for her and whatever patient she is protecting.

- Over the years her accuracy is surgical; She won’t kill you if she thinks she doesn’t need to, but she will absolutely disarm you.

[biopsychs]

In 1994, the National Football League formed a Committee on Mild Traumatic Brain Injury to study an alarming trend: Players were retiring early because of what seemed to be concussion-related problems, including persistent headaches, vertigo, cognitive impairment, personality changes, fatigue and difficulty performing ordinary daily activities. Around the same time, Eve Valera, then a Ph.D. student in clinical psychology at the University of Illinois, began to volunteer in a domestic-violence shelter and wondered how many of the women there might be experiencing comparable post-concussive symptoms as a result of head injuries inflicted by their partners.

When Valera could not find any published studies on brain trauma related to such violence, she decided to conduct one herself, by interviewing the women where she volunteered. She published the results in 2003 — two years before Bennet Omalu, then a pathologist at the University of Pittsburgh, reported the first known case in a deceased N.F.L. player of chronic traumatic encephalopathy (C.T.E.), a neurodegenerative disease characterized by some of the same symptoms plaguing the retired players. Three-quarters of the women, Valera found, had received at least one traumatic brain injury (T.B.I.); half had sustained multiple mild traumatic brain injuries.

In the U.S., the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention estimates that one in three women over the age of 15 has experienced what it categorizes as “intimate partner violence.” When Valera extends her sample to the overall population, she gets estimates that as many as 31 million women might have had a T.B.I. and 21 million might have had multiple mild ones. “Using annual estimates of severe physical violence,” Valera notes in a study published last fall in the Journal of Neurotrauma, “1.6 million women can be estimated to sustain repetitive T.B.I.s in comparison to the total annual numbers of T.B.I.s reported for the military and N.F.L. at 18,000 and 281 respectively.”

Yet most of what scientists know about the potential prevalence and consequences of mild traumatic brain injury has come from studying contact sports, especially football — so, mostly men and boys — over the past 15 years. It’s a vivid illustration of a broad and pernicious problem in medical research, which is that some groups of people get far more attention than others — often leading to important gaps in medical understanding, even around conditions that the public regards as “widely studied.”

For her study in the Journal of Neurotrauma, Valera, now a neuroscientist at Harvard Medical School, imaged areas of white matter thought to be involved in learning and memory in the brains of 20 women subjected to partner violence. The brain injuries were associated with what she believes reflects abnormalities in these brain regions. But she says that the study had significant limitations because of meager funding: a small sample size and no control group of women who were assaulted by partners but did not have head trauma. Understanding the effect of such changes over time would require expensive long-term studies. Yet, the news that thousands of women might be dealing with undiagnosed brain damage did not garner much attention: According to Altmetric, which tracks the online activity generated by scientific studies, Valera’s findings were tweeted four times.

In contrast, a 2015 study of football players’ white matter, conducted by researchers at Boston University and published in the same journal, was tweeted 50 times and received more widespread notice. (“Are You Ready for Some Football Brain Damage?” a USA Today headline asked.) It compared the white matter in areas of the brain of 20 former N.F.L. players who began playing football before age 12 with that of 20 who were the same age and started at or after age 12 and found many more abnormalities in the brains of the younger group, suggesting for the first time that the age a person is first exposed to football may influence his later susceptibility to brain injuries. It, too, acknowledged the limits of its sample (small and specific) and called for further research, much more of which has now been done, including on youth players who never reach elite levels. “We’ve shown over and over that it isn’t just concussions,” Ann McKee, who is the director of Boston University’s C.T.E. Center, told me. “It’s number of playing years.” She adds: “It’s the lower-level hits, what we call subconcussions, that are asymptomatic, that the player plays right through without even recognizing that he’s had an injury. Those are the low-level hits that we’ve shown increase the risk and severity of C.T.E.”

The media has raised alarm about these findings — so much so that other experts worry that the media is overstating the absolute risk of developing C.T.E. and understating the substantial health benefits that team sports, including football, offer. In a 2017 editorial in The Journal of Neurology, Neurosurgery and Psychiatry, Alan Carson, a professor of neuropsychiatry at the University of Edinburgh, points to a 2012 study of 3,439 former N.F.L. players. It found that they died from neurodegenerative diseases at three times the rate of the general population, but were half as likely to die of any other cause.

The trouble with comparing N.F.L. players with the general population, however, is that people who go on to become elite athletes may be a healthier cohort to begin with. Their superior health may lead them to play football, rather than it being the case that playing football improves their health. Last month, a new study by researchers at Harvard sought to control for this bias by comparing N.F.L. players with Major League Baseball players. It found that the football players had higher levels of mortality from all causes, including cardiovascular and neurodegenerative diseases, than the baseball players did, which could indicate that football itself was detrimental.

All available evidence suggests that reducing exposure to tackle football would reduce the incidence of C.T.E., which meets the criteria of a public health concern, the authors of a paper last year in the journal Human and Ecological Risk Assessment wrote. It is hard to say how much of the lingering debate over the risks of tackle football are a result of the N.F.L. becoming a major donor to concussion research; in the past, the league has attempted to defund researchers whose work shows that the accumulation of lesser hits may be even more detrimental. “In many ways, it’s to their advantage if the debate continues,” Philip M. Rosoff, of the Trent Center for Bioethics, Humanities & History of Medicine at Duke University, told me. But the paper also noted a “large and growing disconnect” between how public health scientists read the data and how clinicians do: a pediatrician whose young patients suffer from obesity, for example, may see football as a risk worth taking.

But if these risks are important to understand and mitigate for the million-plus boys playing tackle football — clearly they are — then why have we not put equal resources into studying them in women, a potentially vast number of whom could have been exposed to head trauma? The implications could be profound. For example, researchers hope that learning how C.T.E. works could help them diagnose and treat other neurodegenerative diseases, like Alzheimer’s, in which abnormal proteins in the brain may appear decades before they eventually damage tissue and lead to symptoms; unlike Alzheimer’s, which has no known cause, C.T.E. now appears to have a clear starting point in head trauma, which makes it possible to study its progression over time. (Researchers are still searching for a way to definitively test for both diseases in a living brain.) This progression, however, may be different in men and women. In fact, the little research on head injuries in female athletes and service members suggests that their brains may be more susceptible to trauma than men’s are. Two-thirds of those who get Alzheimer’s diagnoses are women.

Unfortunately, they may never benefit from adequate research. Part of the problem is that women hurt by intimate partners tend to hide that fact, making them hard to identify and study. But the bigger issue is that public outrage and advocacy play a major role in determining what research gets funded. In the case of head trauma, almost all the attention is going to football — and so, by extension, to only one gender.

[im-fairly-whitty]

I’m curious about Carlos, who is he and how does he know Ernesto? How did he point out Ernesto’s toxic behavior?

Carlos Rodriguez is a popular Mexican Youtube star who specializes in content about fashion, sewing projects, and healthy self-acceptance/mental health. He’s actually Ceci’s cousin and the two of them were thick as thieves growing up since they shared similar interests. 

They still call each other for advice on projects and to spill tea when they have it, but because they’re both so good at keeping confidences for those who trust them it wasn’t until after Imector’s wedding that they realized two very important facts:

1. That Ceci’s friend was the terrible ice queen boss girlfriend of Carlos’s best friend’s lovable idiot roommate

2. That Carlos’s friend was the overbearing tonto of a roommate to Ceci’s friend’s lovable idiot boyfriend/fiancee/husband

In light of this information they have to immediately rehash the last year’s batch of sanitized gossip to cackle together over how ignorant they were. If they had ever made the connection that they were seeing two very different sides of the same trainwreck things may have turned out very differently. While Ceci was playing damage control with a friend who was bungling her own romance, Carlos was trying to coach a friend who was clearly a mess through a painful period of growing up and coming to terms with personal trauma.     

Carlos and Ernesto met at a youtube meet up several years back (during the time Ernesto was giving Hector the cold shoulder right before Victoria’s death) after being fans of each other’s work for a while and since then Ernesto has crashed on Carlos’s couch several times when he’s traveling in the area or they want to do an in-person collab. Hector may have been Ernesto’s IRL best friend, but over time Carlos became his internet best friend, being the person he could text at any hour of the day or night to brainstorm or complain or discuss or just chill with. 

It starts because Carlos loves Ernesto’s music and charismatic brand and Ernesto loves Carlos’ appreciation for looking good and even the mind-boggling skill of actually making his own fashion. Over time though they stay friends because 1. Carlos sees that Ernesto is a likable hard-working man with big dreams who’s hiding a staggering amount of personal trauma and really needs a good friend who understands him 2. Ernesto has a deep admiration for Carlos’ self-confidence and way of easily confronting hard truths and difficult topics without looking away or breaking a sweat.

Because Ernesto’s used to only being friends with Hector it took him a long time to trust Carlos to a degree that he started sharing some of his past with him, but Carlos was patient, knowing that if he kept being the friend Ernesto needed that eventually it would come out and that he could perhaps get a chance to help Ernesto sort through the toxic masculinity issues that Carlos could smell a mile away. 

Over the last year or so they’ve become good enough friends that Carlos could not only see the red flags in Ernesto and Hector’s relationship from what Ernesto told him, but was able to gently start nudging Ernesto to think about it in a healthier and more objective way. Carlos is also the one that finally finally is able to get Ernesto to attend his first session of professional therapy nearly a year after the Imector wedding in order to finally have him deal with all those daddy issues he has because in Carlos’ words “it’s not a cute look.”

The reason Carlos doesn’t really appear in the main timeline of the teacher au beyond his brief texting appearance in Ernesto’s last chapter is because the story ended up being strong enough without him to proceed without him being mentioned. Although Carlos definitely helped, Ernesto’s choices were still very much his own.

But Carlos is still hinted at in the story in a couple places. For example when Ernesto disappears for a couple weeks after the disaster concert where Miguel got locked outside it’s because he went to stay with Carlos to be able to escape for a while. Carlos was also nearly included in the beginning of the chapter where Ernesto verbally attacks Hector, trying to talk Ernesto down since he could sense something was about to happen, but we decided that doing so would be too distracting since it would be introducing a heretofore unmentioned character, which would risk taking the spotlight off the main characters too much too late in the plot. 

Essentially Carlos was too far in the background to come to the foreground in time to make it to the official chapters, but his unseen influence is a key to the success of the story after all.

And besides, his real influence actually comes after the main storyline when Ernesto moves into his apartment. At that point Carlos has the luxury of being able to pester Ernesto in real-time where he can’t escape by putting his phone down, meaning that a lot of progress is made in dismantling toxic thought processes and that their channels have a phenomenal amount of crossovers and collabs.

(Lashes and some of the fandom accuse Carlos of trying to replace Hector at first since Hector sightings practically cease to exist after the wedding, but with some tactful sweet-talking from Carlos and the passage of time it’s very clearly demonstrated that Carlos is completely musically inept and that his and Ernesto’s Youtube careers remain very healthily separate despite their friendship.)

[ernmark]

A prompter who asked to remain anonymous requested:

If your prompts are still open I would ADORE a continuation of Damien on Mars with human Arum. I'd love to see a continuation of that world! I'm really enjoying Damien's internal struggles that are now more modern. I'm so curious how this would resolve into his romances.

I’m trying to get back into the swing of writing again, and this one in particular called out to me.

It’s a continuation of this snippet here. 

For maybe the hundredth time that hour, the Keep reminds Arum to be careful. 

He scowls at the confines of his hiding place. If it’s going to insist on micromanaging every step of this endeavor, it should have found itself a mechanical puppet so it could the job itself. But it didn’t-- supposedly it trusts him to take care of it and to send him out to do these tasks on its behalf, and supposedly that means it should trust him to do it without all this incessant prodding.

What does the Keep know, anyway? 

It tells him to be careful and to take his time and all the while it can’t even hide the undercurrents of pain that fill its every thought. It might pretend to be all strong and noble, but he can feel that constant ache as if it was his own, his muscles calcifying and his skin turning hard and cold and his nerves freezing in the last signal they sent before sputtering out. It’s awful. It’s distracting. And it’s a mere phantom of what the Keep is feeling at this moment, and he can’t stand the thought of letting it continue a moment longer than absolutely necessary. 

And that calls for drastic measures.

His research brings him to a small laboratory at the edge of the city’s dome, its walls reinforced with homemade fortifications to compensate where the aging shields fall short. A shiny, state-of-the-art lock stands out against the dented steel and carbon fiber of the door and the surrounding wood.

He almost snorts. That lock probably cost the scientist a fortune, and it still can’t keep him out for more than a few seconds against the Keep’s portal protocols. 

Almost everything about the little laboratory seems cobbled together from spare parts, with only a few bits of shiny new equipment that seem out of place among the weathered resin and dented metal. For all its ramshackle quality, though, there’s an obvious order to it all. He would consider it more carefully, but the Keep sings a warning: someone’s coming.

He flicks off the light and hides behind a corner just as the door opens.

The door slides open, and the neon lights outside cast three long shadows across the floor: one in a wheelchair, one standing, the third obviously canine. 

“So... maybe go stay with Damien for a little while?” says the first, almost wheedling.

The second scoffs. “I’m not going to stop my experiments--”

“Just for a little while,” the first says quickly. “Until Talfryn and I figure it out and save the day and...”

Arum stops listening. What that one thinks isn’t his concern. All that matters is that he doesn’t call for help.

He stays in the shadows, silent and still, until the scientist all but slams the door in the man’s face and says her last goodbyes through the crack. 

There’s a long, low moment as she watches him leave through the monitor by the door frame. 

“Finally,” she sighs, and for a moment her exhaustion is palpable. She flicks a switch, and one by one the outdated halogen lights flicker on, illuminating the laboratory in an unnatural yellow-blue glow. She steps past the corner where he’s hiding, too tired to notice him in her peripheral vision. Her long dark curls, once piled into a bun on her head, coil around her face like vines. Her clothes are covered in glitter and shine and flowing fabric, entirely too impractical for a controlled environment, but perfectly suited for the parties and parades that filled the city streets last night. That would certainly explain her exhaustion. Her comms sits in her ear, still alight with a dying charge. 

Be careful, the Keep warns again.

He doesn’t need the reminder. He only has one chance at this.

She stops. Blinks. Turns. 

“Who’s--” 

He doesn’t let her finish the thought before he lunges at her. She twists out of his way, but not fast enough to save her comms from his grip. 

She backs away, cowering as he rights himself.

“Get out of here,” she says, her voice shaking. “Now. I have a gun, and I’ll--”

“Do you mean this gun?” Slowly he draws her blaster from his pocket, a cold-blooded smile crossing his lips. It was easy enough to find among such meticulous organization.

The scientist stumbles, her back colliding with a filing cabinet-- and then her expression changes. “Actually, I meant this one.” 

There’s no time to fumble with the stolen blaster. Just move: get out of the way, knock her down, disarm her-- 

But no matter how fast he is, the laser bolt is faster. 

Arum wakes up with a flood of sensation: the burn of his overworked synapses around his implant, the ache of a fresh bruise where he hit a counter on his way down, the secondhand pain and fretting from the Keep, the taste of ozone in his mouth from the blaster, the smell of disinfectant, the discomfort of limbs twisted in ways they shouldn’t be and held in place by steel handcuffs. 

His captor paces in front of him, cradling her comms to her ear. 

“Hey babe,” she says with more chagrin than he would have expected for her triumph. “I wanted to give you a chance to say ‘I told you so’. It happened again.” The cry on the other end is so loud even Arum can hear it, though he can’t make out words.

“No, I’m not-- hey-- hey, take a second and breathe. I’m not hurt, okay? I’m fine. The backup blaster was right where you left it, charged and everything. Yeah. Yeah. Yeah, he’s still here. No, I don’t want to file a police report. What do you mean, why? Because the last time I did, the whole precinct showed up and confiscated half my stock as ‘evidence’, that’s why. But I would feel better if you were around. Okay? Okay. Thanks. I love you. I’ll see you soon.”

She ends the call, and he shuts his eyes and lets his head fall back against his chest. 

“You can quit that already,” she says. “The stun will have worn off by now. I know you’re awake.” 

He keeps pretending, just to spite her. 

She huffs and rummages around in one of her cabinets. When she speaks again, her voice is immediately in front of him. “Look this way.” 

She grabs him by the chin and lifts his head, and he can’t quite stop himself from opening his eyes, just in time to be blinded by a flashlight aimed directly into his cornea. He hisses and pulls back, blinking away the afterimage of the light.

“Mm-hmm,” she hums and proceeds to check his pulse. “How does your neck feel right now?”

“That’s no business of yours,” he snaps. 

“You sure about that?” Two fingers under his jaw check his lymph nodes. “Because even legitimate cybernetics will malfunction after a stun blast, and the black market varieties tend to cut corners on the fail-safes. Depending on how deep it’s wired into your nervous system, it could be doing a lot of damage right now.” 

As if the Keep would ever be so careless with his safety. 

Arum sneers. “If you were so concerned, you shouldn’t have shot me.”

“If you hadn’t broken into my house, I wouldn’t have had to.” 

“Well, if you hadn’t--” A renewed wave of pain pulses through the Keep, and Arum gasps under the force of it. 

The scientist stands, her jaw set decisively. “Your cybernetic is going to keep doing that, and it’s going to keep getting worse.” She grabs some kind of mechanical device and reaches for his neck. 

He jerks his head wildly to the side. “What do you think you’re doing?”

She’s patient, but impassive. “I get it. You’re in pain. The best thing we can do right now is shut down your cybernetic so we can degauss it and reboot it safely.” Her voice is so calm, so clinical, and it somehow makes the savagery of her words even worse. “I promise, it won’t hurt.”

Hurt?! Of what consequence is a little pain compared to severing his connection to his Keep? He’s never been without it, not even for a moment, not since he was a child-- what if it can’t be restored once the connection is broken?-- what if he loses it forever-- what if he can’t find his way back to it and it dies without him?--

The scientist leans in again, and he’s already planning his defense. She’s cuffed his hands, but his legs are still free. He’ll kick her legs out from under her. He’ll headbutt her if she gets too close. He’ll bite her fingers off. He’ll do anything-- everything-- whatever it takes. 

But before she can make the attempt, a pounding comes on the door, followed by a muffled, frantic shout. 

The scientist sighs. “Hold on.” 

Before she can rise, the door slides open and a uniformed man rushes inside and descends on the scientist in a flurry of fluttering hands and babbling lips.

“Rilla!” he cries at ear-splitting volume. “My love, my light, my forever-flower-- are you hurt? I’m so sorry it took me so long to reach you, I came as fast as I could, but--”

“I told you, Damien, I’m fine.” She sets her hands on his shoulders and puts a healthier distance between the two of them. “Honestly, I’m a bit more worried about this guy. He’s got some kind of back-alley subcutaneous cybernetic, and that laser did a real number on him.”

Arum sincerely doubts that Damien heard a word of that. The moment their eyes met over the scientist’s shoulder, the police officer went pale and his eyes went wide. 

“You,” Damien breathes, low and rough and far closer to the sounds he made during their fight the night before. “You-- you villain! You fiend! I let you go and this is what you do with your freedom?” 

“I won that fight,” Arum grumbles.

Rilla looks from one to the other. “You two know each other?”

“We’ve met,” Arum says, in the same moment that Damien starts on another tearful tirade: “Rilla, my Amaryllis, my love, if I’d known he would come after you I never would have let him go, I swear it on my life, on my soul--” 

She blinks. “Wait. So this was... what? Some kind of revenge?”

“Don’t flatter yourself,” Arum tells the officer. “I had no idea the two of you knew each other.” Maybe if he had, he might have looked harder for another scientist who fit Dr. Amaryllis Of-Exile’s qualifications. Bad enough when he had the memory of an impassioned knife-fight nagging at his focus; now he knows that the beautiful police officer who let him go is in a relationship, and with the woman he tried to kidnap, no less. All of this is a distraction that he doesn’t need.

His train of thought is derailed by another wave of pain from the Keep. 

He doesn’t have time for this.

“Okay, then,” Amaryllis says, turning to face him again. “Then why are you here?”

“It hardly matters now, does it?” 

“Isn’t it obvious?” Damien asks. “He came to rob you, like the last brigand who broke in here.”

“I don’t think that’s it,” Amaryllis says. “The last one went in and out with as much as they could carry. This guy had time to find one of the blasters you left, but he didn’t take anything else. He was waiting for me.”

“You think he was after you?” Damien says something else, but Arum can’t hear the words over another wave of agony. When his eyes refocus, Damien is immediately in front of him, looking ill. “--swear, I didn’t touch him--”

“It’s the cybernetic,” Amaryllis kneels beside him, that infernal device in her hand once again. “Damien, I need you to hold him steady.”

Arum tries to squirm away, but callused hands close on the side of his head and keep him still.

“No!” he hisses, but it’s lost in another cry of pain. The Keep is dying, and he can feel it-- and if he doesn’t act now, that pain will be the last impression of it he’ll ever feel. “The implant isn’t broken-- the Keep is.”

Amaryllis hesitates. “The what?” 

“That’s why I came here. That’s why I--” He shudders through another wave. It’s getting worse. “I need your help, or it’s going to die.” 

[itsnotpatsy]

Ramble about Daphne and Trish and their relationship? I love the dynamic want to hear more!

oh boy oh boy oh boy there’s not enough words in the universe.

daphne knows a trish just picking up her pieces from her absolute worst. just developing her powers and just coming off her major season 2 relapse and just having lost everyone and everything. so trish takes up the hellcat mantle. because she has what she’s always wanted, right? and she’s going to get better! do right! save people! she’s going to help others!! she’s going to—

—parkour incorrectly off a roof and keep running (accidentally) while trying to lose traction straight into daphne’s glass terrace door, shattering it completely. and these were the days before a suit, after all, only in that fucking train bandit bandana and the dark blue track suit. after not braining her with a bookend, daphne and she started talking. and talking. and talking. and before they knew it it had been two days and trish hadn’t gone anywhere. before they knew it, a very lonely starlet and a very lonely superhero had started to bond. and why? well, because that very lonely relapsed addict currently struggling in recovery had held rachel getting married close to her heart. a film depicting an addict and their private struggle with addiction in a positive light? it meant everything to someone who had spent their lives struggling with addiction, and only recently fallen back into how hard it was. not to give up and turn back to going on a bender. not to take a handful painkillers to get through the migraine. an overwhelmingly grateful, lonely new superhero couldn’t be more thankful that a single person seemed to sort of understand. to kind of care.

daphne listened. and trish talked. and daphne talked. and trish listened.

they’re both in the same profession— sort of. trish, who could no longer stomach the acting profession after the abuse and the addiction, keeps up on the oscar noms. pays attention to the technique. watches closely how actors become their roles. and trish happens to have been on the same network as one daphne kluger— patsy owned by disney and princess diaries so the same. unintentionally, their paths had never crossed, but they’d been walking the same road. and this means daphne understands what the pain looks like. how the abuse in the industry can damage a person. she was lucky where trish was— absolutely not.

daphne encourages hellcat with every fiber of her being. she thinks it’s amazing that someone can come out the other side of this suffering and still be so kind-hearted. trish makes daphne a better person without necessarily making her feel like she needs to be better. and regardless of anything, they’re a team. trish might be the newly ordained hero but daph is her other half— just as helpful in matters trish needs saving from as it is the other way around. she’s had her life saved by daphne on several occasions, including dragging her out of the hudson river.

trish is absolutely eventually moving into daph’s penthouse with her. it’s a matter of time before she can agree to that, though she needs to find a way to section off her own space and just— make living with someone an experience she can handle, considering her anxiety triggers, her powers, and trying to drag herself back to na (which she hates, but it’s necessary). and daphne loves nothing more than waking up to a trish who often doesn’t sleep until the tiny hours of the morning, knowing that ultra-warm body’s there and heavy beside hers. knowing she can curl into trish’s body like a kitten and drift back to sleep. she always has to shower and then slip into bed, but sometimes she doesn’t even bother to change into clothes. daphne makes trish feel safer and more loved than anyone ever has. she listens and she’s patient and she cares. she never belittles what she thinks, even if it seems incredulous or, since it’s trish, it’s probably somewhat unsafe or out of control. daph finds a way to diffuse without making trish feel small or stupid. and that respect means everything, because trish is a healthier person because of daphne’s patient influence. daph has no patience for anyone but trish, basically.

their home is often a mashup of entertainment news and a constant stream of cnn. daphne keeps her up to date on the pop culture and the cinema world, and trish is perpetually politically inclined on a regular basis. it’s what she pays attention to, what she knows most about, and what she’s trying to structure a new career around. they’ve spent christmas, thanksgiving, and new years together, so far, and trish has become imbued in the oceans family, taken in by tammy, debbie, and lou who’ve adopted her as much as they’ve adopted daphne.

(also worth mentioning since daph has done get smart, she has her own limited but useful martial arts knowledge, and judging by the fact that she almost drowned on interstellar and what she had to put up with through dark knight rises, daph is no stranger to tenacity or grit, herself. just maybe a little less than trish, who has become one of the most formidable martial artists one can face in her rigorous acquisition of krav maga knowledge and her hellcat powers.)

trish willingly goes to daph when she has a problem, no matter how grievous the problem is. it took a lot of learning to understand that they’re a team and they can be there for each other no matter what. trish can fuck up massively and count on daph to help her out of it, or to help her get over the ridge for it.

let’s go for some headcanon bullets ‘cause i love those.

when trish and daphne adopt dakota, they get him a black borzoi puppy he names macaroni, who is promptly nicknamed roni. 

macaroni is a ptsd service dog who specializes in anxiety and grows up with dakota, learning to help him when it gets hard for him to express or when he needs to get out of a situation. 

daphne really likes trish’s short hair because it’s so easy to run her hands through.

daphne also really enjoys making it into a mohawk in the bath solely for the purpose of blowing bubbles off the top of her head. they both get a good giggle out of it.

daph convinces her into the yearly oscar nom watches. they’re either incredibly serious and attentive or completely absurd about how shitty or boring the content is.

mutual complaining about the straight-white-cis-maleness of the academy is household discussion. 

trish, after being taught somewhat how to dance by tammy, has coerced daph into a dance later that night to brown-eyed girl. it was very deliberate, and it lights up daph like no other. it’s the most sincere gesture she’s ever had anyone make.

every so often trish is gorgeous in a suit that compliments daphne’s outfits, colored to match her palette.