#but even still like. taking the meds again doesn’t make the withdrawal go away immediately

[ghostickle]

I’m already not making enough money to afford Anything like can barely afford bills rn much less food or gas and anything fun or little treats just not an option and I had to call out today which means even less money cause my psychiatrists office way of doing things is so fucked and it left me in probably the worst withdrawal I’ve ever felt and I’m having such a good time :)))

[lalistilltrying]

So, I have fibromyalgia.

And I'm tired, yes. But I'm also tired of people with fibromyalgia. Because it sucks, yes. But it seems to me that they have been convinced that it doesn't get better. That is going to be like this the rest of their life.

I'm working on a real thin line here. No, it's not your fault, and no, I know that most of the time you're so flare up that you can't do anything. I understand. I'm like that too.

BUT, it DOES GET BETTER IF YOU PUT THE EFFORT. I swear, don't let anyone convince you otherwise. Don't let yourself convince you otherwise.

My story is like everyone else's : issues with competitive behavior from age 7, psychologist for a year. Tape A personality. Stomach problems anxiety related age 13. Bit of a breakdown age 15. But not Generalize Anxiety Disorder, not yet. Pain at 16, but still a happy go lucky girl. Tried college, first failed exam. First metal breakdown. Go back to my parents house. Diagnosed (correctly) age 18. Medicated correctly age 19. Psychologist and psychiatrist. Anxiety, depression, chronic fatigue. And this is what I learnt, age 21:

*It IS better to get medicated by a psychiatrist than a rheumatologist. There was not an ounce of inflammation in my body in my case.

*Codeine, Tylenol, Weed. Not really helpful, do more damage than good for me.

*What's helpful immediately? HOT. A hot bag, a hot bath. Maybe it doesn't get the pain away but (and I'm going to give quite a bad advice here) the "pain" of the hotness is brand new and kind of makes you forget the other ones.

*Mental Health Support. I'm lucky that nothing triggered my fibro. My family and people that I surround myself with were selected very carefully to be understanding and empathetic, I did this without realizing from a young age, because I was (am) demanding. Now it's a conscious effort.

-What happened was: Tape A personality. Difficulty to accept failure. Anxiety. Fibro. Depression. In that order. SO, I had to figuring it out backwards. Treat the immediate pain first. Depression next. Then look at yourself and realize when the flare ups really happen, then anxiety. I'm there now. I'm figuring that last one out. I still feel an incredibly amount of pain and exhaustion, and have fits of extreme anxiety like twice a week. But you have to be resilience and fight the core of all of it.

*Doctors don't know that much. Your gut feeling in this specific case can be more helpful, but do not go overboard. Don't go Worst Case Scenario. Find a good doctor for God's sake. There's always one. And work WITH him, don't let him do everything for you, and don't try to dictaminate everything yourself. Both of those are dangerous.

*Understanding yourself doesn't mean you're cured. There IS an unbalance in your brain chemistry, and that's why the meds are important. But it's a teamwork of meds + therapy + daily behavior. One falls off, and everything crumbles.

*GOOD NIGHT SLEEP. Blackout curtains, white noise, chilly atmosphere, big duvet and a bag of hot water. The goal is to go to bed early, the MEANS are to wake up early. That way, you won't feel guilty and anxious if you don't go to sleep early that day, because you WILL make it up and wake up at the exact same time as always. It's difficult if not impossible for some to do it yourself, so ask ANYBODY to help you. Maybe from months on end. But eventually your body will get used to it.

*HAPPINESS. And you are rolling your eyes right now. But listen. I know how depression for months feel like. I know how hard it is to crawl out of bed to take a piss, let alone stand for 15 minute to have a whole shower. But listen to me. YOU. ARE. ALIVE. You are NOT going to DIE FROM THIS. Nothing is happening to your physical body that can't be fixed. It's your brain. It is harder? Yes, so much more. But take my word please. If you are stubborn, if you fight everytime you can, you will eventually win.

*What you mean fight? Well, this is a long one. Bare with me: Fight does not means control. Does not means going against your body. It's understanding. It's balance, push a little bit but not too much. It's being happy for a little tiny bit. In so much pain, and darkness and sorrow. You HAVE to find this little bubbles of happiness. And it's fucking hard, because what can you do? You can't play an instrument, you can't go out with friends, you can't play videogames, or cook. You don't enjoy reading enymore, you don't enjoy movies anymore. So what? Well, let me give you this stupid premise:

AND THIS. TOO. SHALL PASS AWAY.

Pain will be a little bit tolerable, and the next day absolutely devastating. But it will pass, both those occasions. Find the good feeling of feeling better. Rejoice in it. Embrace it. And then let it go. Because it will be temporarily. Then recibe the pain, embrace it, and bare with it. Listen to what it has to say. And when you're body is ready, and you are ready, it will go too.

This is not a simple process. It could take minutes, days, moths, years. But it will eventually change. Even if it comebacks, make sure that you have change a little bit in the process, so you are not the same person anymore. Suddenly you will notice that this things will pass more quickly. That letting it go will be easier.

Let go of expectations, but not hope. Let go of drinking alcohol, let go of eating everything you want. Let go of that dream job, that meeting with your friends, your independence, your mental health. Let it go somewhere. And maybe, sometime, when you are ready, they'll come back to you. But only if you expect them standing up, strong and with open arms.

*So stop THINKING ABOUT IT ALL THE TIME, acknowledge that is there, but also think of something else. If you are smart enough, you will eventually find your bubble. Sing. Pet a puppy. Swim. Have a good laugh with someone. There are still bubbles to find. This is a part of you, a big one, but it not all there is.

*Play it an octave lower. Don't let it escalate. It hurts, yes. But at least it was better than last time. Don't lie to yourself, you won't belive it. But try to make an effort and not think the worst of it all the time, it will make you angry. And Sad. Write about it, talk about it, but tone it down. Explode every once in a while, absolutely. But let the blow fade away.

-I got it bad. I got it early. I got every symptom. I got into every diet. Every therapy. Withdraw. Headache. Feeling like I wanted to chop my legs off. But I'm alright. Because I learnt to almost, almost, enjoy the pain. The bad times. I learn to respect them. I learnt not to be so hard on myself. I found my bubbles of pure joy and happiness amidst all of this.

I don't know if it is because is my willing to live that got me here, but I don't care. I am here. I matter. And let me tell you something. One day, I realized It went away. All of it. Very low pain, very low tiredness. I was almost a normal human being for MONTHS. And then it passed. I got it all again.

But I am not the same person. I'm not a scared 16 years old. I learnt to enjoy things while being anxious. I swear is possible. I am happy, I am a happy go lucky girl again, just with more nuance underneath. Please, the only thing that this god damn desease can't take from you, it's hope. That's the only thing that you can cling to. Carry it with you. And be happy, because you are alive.

[heyitsani]

Let Down My Guard

Omega!Dick Week Day 2: Reverse!Robins

Word Count: 2926

Rating: Mature-ish

Warnings: Threats of non-con (nothing graphic) and Robincest (obviously)

Pairing: Dick Grayson/Jason Todd

Summary: Dick’s scent blockers fail him on patrol when he’s out alone and brings a predator his way.  

Notes: Day two and the one story for the week that doesn’t fit the rest of the series.  The non-con-ish scene happens in the very beginning so the entire story is under the cut to avoid triggering anyone who might stumble upon this post.  The ages/codenames of the Robins are as follows:

Damian Wayne: Sparrow 28

Tim Drake: Red Hood 25

Jason Todd: Phoenix 18

Dick Grayson: Robin 16

You can also read this on AO3 here

“Here birdie, birdie, birdie,” the voice called out, chilling Dick to his very bones.  He knew who the man was calling for.  He knew that somehow his scent blockers had stopped working and the dirty alpha had caught his scent.  He also knew he was cornered.  He had nowhere to go and unless one of the Bats answered his distress call soon, he was so very screwed.  Perhaps quite literally.  “I know you’re around here somewhere, birdie.  Can smell you.  Like,” there was a pause and Dick assumed he was taking a deep breath, “like honey and spice.  Do taste as tempting as you smell?”

And that was something the sixteen-year-old had no intention of letting this man find out.

He wished he knew if someone was on their way, but the sharp screech in his ear earlier and told him something had gone wrong with his comm unit and now he was just stuck.  Stuck hoping and praying to a god he didn’t believe in to save him from a fate he had saved so many others from over his years of being Robin.

There was no out for him.  And suddenly Dick to felt weaker than he had ever felt in his life.  Weaker than he had felt watching his parents fall to their deaths those years ago.  A glance above him told him there was no way for him to get to the roof and to safety without his grapple.  And since the snapping line was what had caught the attention of the alpha to begin with, he was stuck.  And he was scared.  And his head and his knee hurt from his fall.

“You might as well just come out from your hiding spot little birdie.  Make it easier on both of us.”  Closing his eyes, Dick tried to pull his scent back in a bit to put the man off just a little longer.  The closeness of his voice was enough to make his hands shake in terror.  “I won’t bite…too hard.”  And Dick could practically see the sneer on the man’s face.

“Is that so?”  Oh, thank god, Damian.  “Perhaps you didn’t get the memo, but that’s not how things go here in Gotham.”  Dick jumped when a shadow jumped down next to him from the roof and immediately, he fell in a defensive crouch.  He wasn’t going to go down without a fight.

“It’s just me Baby Bird,” the electronic sound of Tim’s voice modifier in his helmet was a bigger comfort than most would have thought, and Dick felt his muscles relax as he threw himself into his older brother’s chest.  There was a click, but instead of trying to find the source of the noise, Dick just buried his face in the armor-plated shirt Tim wore as part of his Red Hood suit.  “Are you hurt?  You smell hurt.”

“Nothing dangerous, just so fucking glad you guys are here,” he muttered into Tim’s chest.  He relaxed further when one of Tim’s arms wrapped around his back and held onto him.  Dick could hear scuffling in the background and a pained yelp, and he knew it was Sparrow taking down the alpha who had put them in this situation.

“Robin,” the edge of Damian’s voice caused him to pull his face away from Tim’s chest and look over at his brother.  “Are you hurt?  Did he…?”  Dick shook his head quickly and though it took a moment, Damian eventually nodded and looked back at the entrance of the alleyway where the alpha had cornered him.  “Hood and I have Robin.  We are heading back to the cave.  Tell Phoenix he’s fine.”

That caught Dick’s attention.  “Why didn’t he come with?”

“Come, Robin.  You shall ride with me.”  Looking from Damian to Tim, Dick frowned.  He was going to demand an answer but stopped when Tim shook his head.  “Robin.”  The sharpness to Damian’s tone caused Dick to flinch.  Rare was the moment when Damian was short with him.

“Fucking hell, Sparrow.  Can’t you see he’s already freaked out enough without you snapping orders at him?”  Tim tightened his arm around Dick and while it wasn’t strange for Damian and Tim to be at odds, it was strange for it to be about Dick specifically. 

He could hear the sigh slip from Damian even though he obviously tried to hide it.  “I am sorry, Robin.  Please, let us get you back to the cave.  There is a very worried and just slightly injured Phoenix desperate to look you over.”

Without saying anything, Dick nodded and pulled away from Tim to follow Damian back to his bike.  Glancing back at his other brother, he watched Tim take out one of his guns and put a bullet in the chamber. 

“Don’t kill him, Hood,” was all the warning that Damian gave Tim before taking Dick’s arm and pulling him out of view of the still whimpering alpha and into the street.  Dick put on the offered helmet and slid onto the motorcycle behind Damian, the engine revving just enough to make Dick wonder if he actually heard the gunshot and resulting shout of pain.

But he decided he didn’t care if Tim had shot the alpha.  If he had tried to do that to someone who could obviously handle themselves (if not in that exact moment), Dick didn’t want to know how many others he had managed to hurt because they couldn’t defend themselves or have someone defend them.

No, instead he focused on tightening his arms around his older brother’s waist, closing his eyes, and letting go of the fear that had caused him to freeze.  He wasn’t sure what it was that had caused him to freak out so suddenly, but there had been something about that alpha.  It hadn’t been the first time one had tried to take something from him by force, but it had been the first time he had frozen so completely.  Never had he ever felt so weak before.  Not even just in a normal fight when the opponent was obviously far superior.  He had always managed to find a way to get himself out of a situation. 

But this had been different.

He shuddered to think of what could have happened if his brothers hadn’t gotten there in time.  What would they have done if they had come even a few minutes later to find him in the clutches of that alpha?  What would Jason have done if he had been violated?  Would he withdraw his intentions?

No, that wasn’t the kind of man Jason was.  Otherwise, he wouldn’t have made his intentions clear two years before he could even act on them.  Being eighteen meant Jason could bond legally, but Dick still had two years to go before he was of age.  And though Bruce could have given them permission, he had made it clear that he wouldn’t give his blessing until they were both consenting adults.  Even though he followed that up with stating he approved of the pairing and would happily support it when the time came.

Sapphire eyes opened when he felt the terrain change under the motorcycle, and he found they had pulled into the entrance of the cave.  So, carefully, he pulled the fear scent as far in as he could.  There was nothing he could do about the scent that still clung to his suit, but he could overwhelm with relief at least. 

Hopefully, Jason wouldn’t panic too much.

“Dick!”  Well, there went that hope.

“Honestly, Todd,” Damian reprimanded Jason as he came running up to where Damian brought his motorcycle to a stop.  Dick could see the bandage wrapped around Jason’s forearm and he knew there were probably stitches under it.  “I said he was fine.”

“Forgive me for wanting to check for myself,” Jason shot back, reaching out to help Dick slip out from behind Damian.  Thankfully, the helmet hid the wince of pain on his face when he was back on two feet and the pain in his knee made itself known again.  Dick let Jason remove the helmet and mask, dropping them both to the ground, before he ran his hands down the length of his arms and gripped his hands.  “What happened?  Alfred wouldn’t let me go out with Damian when you sent the beacon.  Are you okay?  Why can I smell you so strongly?”

“I don’t know what happened, but my blockers failed, and the alpha was following me before I realized it.  I was going through Crime Alley when my line snapped, and I think the crash of my fall caught his attention initially.  The blockers failing was just bad luck.” Dick said as Jason pulled him toward the med bay where Alfred was probably waiting to look him over.  He did his best to walk normal despite the sharp pain that shot through his knee with each step.  “I sent the beacon the moment I knew I was going to end up cornered.”

“The animal never got the chance to touch him,” Damian added from where he was following the pair.  “Tim arrived from wherever he was at the same time I did.  I took care of the disgrace of an alpha and Tim went to Richard.”

Jason glanced over the top of Dick’s head with a raised brow.  “Tim let you handle the alpha?”  Dick glanced back in time to see Damian sniff haughtily.  “You promised him he could take care of him if you incapacitated him in order to get Dickie out?”

“I certainly hope that wasn’t the case, Master Damian.  Your father would be greatly disappointed.”  Alfred stood next to one of the beds in the med bay, obviously waiting for Dick.

“Perhaps.  But perhaps not when he hears what that waste of space was planning for his youngest.”  And Damian was probably right.  Even if Dick was no longer a child, Bruce did have the tendency to treat Dick as though he was more precious than air.

Dick watched Alfred consider his oldest brother before the man looked back to Dick and waved him over to the bed.  “Come now, Master Richard.  Take a seat so I can look you over.”  Dick let Jason lead him over to the bed and didn’t complain like he usually would have when Jason lifted him to sit on the bed.  He could smell the distress on the young alpha and knew he needed this.  Dick could be coddled if it meant he stopped smelling so sour.  “Any injuries you wish to make us privy to?”

Thinking over his night, Dick couldn’t recall anything to worry about outside of when his line snapped.  “Maybe a light concussion from my fall?  I didn’t pass out at all, but I think I knocked it on the ground.  And my knee hit pretty hard as well.” 

“Very well.  I will need you to get out of the suit so I can check your knee.  Master Jason, will you please retrieve some more comfortable clothing for Master Richard?”  When Jason looked like he was going to protest, Dick placed a hand on his upper arm and drew Jason’s attention back to him.

“Something from your locker, maybe?”  The pleasure at the suggestion filtered into Jason’s scent and Dick was glad he could manage to get some of the sour distress scent out.  With a quick press of his lips to Dick’s temple, Jason hurried out of the room.

“That was wise,” Alfred commented as he moved closer and began concussion protocol.  Dick focused on the questions and commands as best he could, but his attention kept falling back to Damian who still stood in the doorway with is arms crossed and a dark look on his face.  “Yes, I do believe you have a minor concussion, nothing to be concerned about given your level of alertness.”  Alfred was stepping back as Jason made his way back into the room.

“Do you need help?”  Jason asked quietly when he came up to Dick’s side with a few items, all smelling strongly of Jason and home.  Dick only nodded and held a hand out so Jason would help him down from the bed. 

“Master Damian, you should get out of your own suit and contact your father.  I did not want to worry him without all the details.”  Though it sounded like a request, it was definitely an order and Dick could see the annoyance on Damian’s face without even bothering to read his scent.  But the oldest nodded and left the room.  He was followed by Alfred, to give the pair a bit of privacy Dick was certain.

Instead of letting Jason help him out of his suit, Dick turned and buried his face into the spot of his neck where his scent glands were as he wrapped his arms around Jason’s torso.  “Dickie,” Jason whispered, voice hoarse as he buried his face into Dick’s raven hair.  His arms came up and around Dick, holding on tightly.  The pair let the silence fall between them as they took the moment to comfort each other without words.  But eventually reality came back to them and Dick was pulling back so Jason could help him out of the suit and into the clothes he had brought.

He was just slipping on the t-shirt when Alfred reappeared in the doorway with a tray of food and some water.  “I would appreciate it if you would eat this while I look over your knee,” he explained, setting the tray next to Dick on the bed, giving him a pointed look.  Nodding, he picked up the sandwich and took a bite as Alfred moved to the knee he had left exposed by pushing the loose sweat pant leg up.  The touch was firm, but gentle and just enough that Dick was able to hold back the reaction to the pain that flaired up with the inspection. 

“A sprain,” Alfred told them, grabbing the items needed to wrap it to stabilize the limb.  “A few days rest and you shall be right as rain, young sir.”  Jason visibly relaxed at the diagnosis and Dick sent him a look before turning back to Alfred.

“Crutches?”

“If you would rather be carried everywhere…”  Dick balked at the idea of being treated like a damsel in distress and Jason choked out a laugh.  “Then yes, crutches for at least two days.  We shall check the condition of your knee once we check it again.”  He knew he was pouting, but Dick hated crutches and the limitations they placed on his movement.

“Don’t worry Dickie.  It’s only a couple of days,” Jason tried to comfort him, but Dick just pouted more and Jason let out another laugh.  Dick supposed if Jason took this much glee in the situation then he could suffer through it.  Especially if it made his scent go warm with amusement and joy.

“Fine,” Dick grumbled, finishing off the sandwich before grabbing the water bottle to drain.

“Before you finish that,” Alfred stopped him, getting up from his stool and grabbing a small cup Dick hadn’t noticed before.  But it was one he had seen plenty of times in the past.  Pain pills.  If he didn’t have a headache on top of the knee pain, he probably would have turned them down, but he knew there was no way he would sleep with this headache.  So he accepted the cup and tossed the two white pills back before finishing off the water.  “Now, Master Jason will you help Master Dick up to his room and place a pillow under his knee?  I am going to check in with Master Damian and then I will be up shortly.”

“Sure, Alfie.”  Jason said, holding the hoodie he had also brought in for Dick so the younger could pull it on before they headed up.  “Piggyback or…?”  Dick just rolled his eyes as his head slipped through the neck hole and he pushed his arms into the sleeves. 

“Just pick me up,” Dick said, holding out his arms to wrap around Jason’s neck.  He didn’t say anything else as Jason slipped one arm around Dick’s waist and the other under his knees, lifting him with ease.  The walk to the elevator that would take them up to the manor revealed Damian at the computer, talking to someone (probably Bruce) as Alfred soon behind him.

Nothing was said until the doors to the elevator slid shut.

“Do you think B will come home early?”  Dick asked, tucking his head under Jason’s chin.

“Maybe.”  The rumble of Jason’s deep voice beneath his ear was a comforting sound.  “Damian said the League was almost done anyway.”  So, it could go either way.  Dick wasn’t sure which way he wanted it to go.  Yes, he missed Bruce the past two weeks he had been gone, but he wasn’t sure he wanted to deal with the surge of protectiveness that would be sure to follow his homecoming. Sometimes being the only pack omega had its downsides.

“Can you stay with me tonight?”  Jason didn’t say anything in response, but the tightening of his grip on Dick was enough of an answer. As if to say there was no where else he’d be.  “Thanks, Jay,” he whispered, closing his eyes at the steady sway of Jason’s steps as they stepped off the elevator.

“Anything for you, Mate,” Jason whispered back.  And though it wasn’t technically true yet, Dick still felt a familiar warmth fill him at the title.

[brooklynislandgirl]

For the headcanon{s}, can you talk about Beth's mental illness? How it does and does not impact her daily life, if things trigger it, how she handled this after losing Riley {in verses that are sans Riley, obviously}, and what some of her experiences have been? I feel like it's something people determinedly overlook about her, and I'd like to know!

This.

“You can’t be fuckin’ serious!”

“You keep a civil tongue in that head of yours, boy. I think I know what’s best for your sister.”

“With all due respect, sir... you haven’t known what’s best in-”

Beth is an oyster.

Vague lines and curves that are nothing remarkable perhaps to the point of being unappealing. She can only burrow into the Sand....sandy...Andy. Andy and the Admiral are outside of the room, arguing about the proper course of treatment. She can’t hear every word because she’s underwater and all the sounds are so far away as to be indistinct from the beeping of the monitor that is keeping track of her vital signs. The bandages on her pseudo-pods ~arms, they’re arms, Beth~ are too heavy. They keep her trapped to this bed where she can’t really move and she doesn’t know why. It’s all wriggling around inside of her. A parasite. One she has to wrap in smooth layers of aragonite and conchiolin. Layer after microscopic crystalline layer. Maybe if it’s smooth enough and round enough, maybe if it has enough lustre, then they will set her free. She’s so very tired but she doesn’t have her turtle, and the thin cotton gown isn’t warm enough, worn thin in places. The blankets are too scratchy and the air smells funny, too many chemicals that it’s making her feel nauseous.

But that’s all wrong. Oysters don’t have blankets and they aren’t tied down to beds and they don’t... they don’t...

“Electroshock! How can you? Look at her. She’s just a kid!”

“And your sister nearly killed herself tonight, Andrew. I am done discussing this with you. I’m your father, and a neurosurgeon. If anyone is capable of choosing a treatment plan, it isn’t a teen age boy.”

~*~

Beth was fourteen years old when she was diagnosed however wrongly with Depression mood disorder with features of psychosis, after she smashed her bedroom mirror with her fists, deeply slashing her arms from wrists to elbows. The symptoms leading up to this moment certainly were red-flags for what was wrong with her, all of them classic to the specific diagnosis: the trouble concentrating or making decisions, chronic fatigue, feelings of guilt and worthlessness, insomnia, restlessness, loss of appetite, phantom aches and pains that didn’t seem to go away, persistent sadness and anxiety. It isn’t uncommon for girls and young women diagnosed with Turner Syndrome to also develop depression. And her father felt the matter was cut and dry, despite strenuous objections from her brother.

She spent three miserable weeks in an in-patient psychiatric facility receiving less than pleasant electroconvulsive therapy, psychotherapy and was prescribed citalopram {Celexa}. Which made Beth absolutely nauseous to the point that she had trouble keeping water down, only worsened her sleeping troubles, and made her jittery. As soon as the Admiral shipped out again for a year long deployment aboard the USNS Comfort, Andy took her back to the doctor to get a second opinion.

It was then, at fifteen, that she was re-diagnosed correctly with Rapid Cycling Bi-Polar Disorder. Andy nursed her through the withdrawal of the citalopram and taking over her care regiment seemed to do his sister wonders, as she started to be the sweet and gentle girl he’d always known her to be. He’d sort out her medication by days of the week, would make sure she took the right ones at the right times with her meals, going out of his way to cook things she could stomach, letting her sleep in his bed when she wanted to, and for years after, she seemed to improve. She went months without crippling depression and her manic and hypomanic states were few and far between as well.

Then everything changed.

Beth was accepted into several universities and chose Columbia, knowing that their pre-med program was top-notch and their medical school was even better, and wouldn’t require her to change schools for the duration of her education. Having just turned sixteen in June she was starting a new life perhaps far younger than she ought to have.

There was major upheaval, stress and abject terror at leaving Hawai’i behind, going almost as far away as possible. She was not prepared for the cross-continent move. Neither was she prepared for living on her own. Perhaps she simply expected to live with Andy the whole of her life, or at the very least through her under-grad years. But after the initial first two months that it took to move into their grandparents’ apartment in Brooklyn, and Andy setting up all of her bills, hiring a cook and house keeper, making sure she got settled in as a freshman, he enlisted in the US Air-Force. She saw very little of her brother for the next two years, and the only thing that kept Beth from failing out of school was the idea that she would be sent home to live with the Admiral.

She began to notice that her medication {bupropion aka Wellbutrin} seemed less effective during this time. She was barely getting more than three hours of sleep at night, and maybe half that during day time naps. She experiences bouts of nausea that once again made eating difficult to prioritise, a feature that would last her entire life thus far, with Beth being at least twenty pounds consistently underweight. She also began to experience chronic sore throats, what she describes as her bladder shrinking down to the size of a pea, and worse...tinnitus that became co-morbid with her audio processing disorder. 

The few times during the year that she was able to see Andy, things seemed to get better....until she crashed immediately after he left again.

Beth decided she no longer wanted to take her medication.

~*~

“C’mon Beth, I’m getting married, it’s not like I’m dying!”

“GET OUT! GETOUTGETOUTGETOUT!” She’s throwing things at him. She’s destroyed seven plates,six coffee mugs and at least one irreplaceable vase. There are so many tears, so much snot, it’s hard to believe his sister is almost eighteen and not eight. But thankfully, she’s still so short she can’t reach the stemware and is forced to come out from behind the island kitchen.

Which means he manages to get his arms around her, a bear hug from behind that locks her stick-figure arms to her chest. She fusses and has a fit, kicking and trying to bite him, but his training in Pararescue has taught him how to hold someone without hurting them.

“I’m not gonna leave you, jelly bean, I promise. And you’ll like Lana. She’s a real nice girl, her family’s from Jersey, and she’ll be moving in with us. You won’t have to-” “LA LA LA! NO CAN HEAR YOU!”

Beth is a hermit crab.

She can just shrink back into her shell and keep everyone out. She can hide down in the bottom of the sea and let the water of her Mother’s arms wash over her and if anything gets close, she’ll pinch them to bits.

But she really isn’t. She isn’t a hermit crab, she’s just a girl and there’s nothing that can keep everything inside of her from dying a slow and painful death. Because now Andy is not only not going to be around, but he’s getting married. To a stranger no less. But like a hermit crab, her house is too small and this woman is never setting foot inside of it. And it’s his stupid fault, because that’s what her brother is...stupid.

Doesn’t he know that no one will love him like she does? That no one depends on and needs him as much? Doesn’t he know they’re supposed to be together, forever and always? Doesn’t he know he’s the only person who truly loves her? The person who said he’d never leave her? Why does he need a wife anyway? She can do everything this Lana person can, and better. If he’d just let her prove it, he’d see!

~*~

But he didn’t. Andy ended up getting married.

Beth dropped out of medical school before completing her residency, but applied her credits to nursing. She was absolutely certain the Admiral was going to have a stroke that she had decided not to become a neurosurgeon like him, or his second choice, a cardiologist. Emergency room nursing suits her needs. She is indoors and on her feet throughout the darkness of the night when home is ever so lonely. It feeds the excessive energy that floods her system and lets her literally crash, semi-conscious during the sometimes three, sometimes four consecutive days she has off.

Life settles into a medication-less routine. Beth finally grows her final inch in height, puts on a few more pounds so she doesn’t seem nearly as cadaverous as she did before. She can blame late occurring puberty for that and for just the most brief moments of time, things seemed to have found their balance. There were no great highs. There were no life-threatening lows. Beth could finally breath.

At least until....the sun burned out and destroyed everything in a single knock on the door.

Perfunctory words that echo in her dreams.

~*~

“Miss Riley, on behalf of the Chief of Staff, United States Air Force, I regret to inform you of the untimely death of your brother, Second Lieutenant Andrew M. Riley-”

Beth Riley...isn’t anything any more.  All of everything that was bright and best within her is now a single leg and some bone fragments in a beautiful koa wood casket. It is a folded flag put into her hands. It’s the reception in the Admiral’s house and an incredibly long line of people talking and talkingandtalkingandtalkingandtalking and saying nothing at all. She can’t breath. She can’t feel. Nothing makes sense and it never will because what do you say when half of you is ripped away and gone forever? What do you do when the world stops turning and the sun has burnt out of the sky?

Beth slips out of the house without being noticed. She manages to get in her brother’s Mustang and heads into the city proper, and ends up at the bar he used to like to frequent when he was on leave. She sits at the bar and orders scotch, 25 year Macallan.

She buys the bottle. She buys the entire bar drink after drink until last call.

She lets someone take her home. Gets into his apartment. Doesn’t really feel his mouth and his hands pawing at her. Doesn’t feel anything really at all until she shoves him away. Things become blurry after that and she only really vaguely remembers calling Jay from a payphone some blocks away.

She can’t find her shoes. But that doesn’t matter.

Nothing does.

Three months later ~one hundred days, to be precise~ Beth quits her job. She turns her utilities off. Throws a few things including her wallet, her passport, and her rosary into a sea bag that she’s had forever. 

Darfur. The Democratic Republic of Congo. Amsterdam. Uruguay. Wherever Médecins Sans Frontières will let her go, to treat people living in the worst conditions. Ironic, isn’t it...that no matter where she goes, Beth always manages to make it back. That all those fears Andy had of her killing herself from neglect or inattention, or even possibly through deliberate action, and she can’t get so much as a life-threatening paper cut? It isn’t fair.

And maybe...maybe it doesn’t matter. There’s a lot of ways you can die in Louisiana.

She hears the coffee in New Orleans is really wonderful.

[clintashaotp]

Author’s note/summary: I’m pretty predictable at this point. Natasha!whump, Clintasha, team fic. April challenge day 13, I hope you all are doing okay in quarantine :)

1,686 Words

Fighter

.

The Avengers aren’t afraid of death. All of them have experienced life-threatening injuries in the past, especially the two assassins. All of them have woken up in hospitals they don’t recognize, or had surgeries, or been dragged a mile and a half to a medical jet. But bleeding out in the middle of a jungle is a new one. 

The mission was supposed to be simple. Get to the terrorist’s bunker in the center of the jungle. Tony and Steve were supposed to break down the gate while Clint sniped out guards from above. Banner flew the jet, and Thor helped keep the gates open while Natasha snuck inside and retrieved the biochemical weapon that had been stolen from a SHIELD lab. But things always go wrong. 

“Tasha. Natasha, can you hear me?” Clint whispers to the half-conscious woman in his lap. She stirs slightly, and Bruce bites his lip in concern. 

“We don’t have any supplies, Clint, and they blew up the jet.” Bruce runs a hand through his hair. 

“So what can we do?” Steve asks worriedly. “She’s been stabbed at least five times, for Christ’s sakes, and what about infection?” 

“I don’t know!” Bruce repeats. “We….we need to find shelter. Somewhere for us to stay until SHIELD picks up the distress signal.”

“I can’t fly,” Tony shakes his head, gesturing at his suit. “They used an EMP during the fight and fried all my internal wiring. I doubt I could get above the treeline, not to mention all the way to the base.” 

“Friends, I can fly ahead,” Thor offers, and they all turn to him. “I will go to the SHIELD facility that we came from and get some medical evac to come here, for Lady Natasha.” 

“Okay,” Steve agrees in his captain’s voice. “We’ll look after Natasha for a while.” 

Thor swings his hammer, then launches into the sky. The clouds darken, but when they don’t clear immediately, the fear of rain begins to set in. 

“We need a shelter,” Cap says quickly, and Tony salutes. 

“On it. Doctor, care to help?” he gestures to Bruce, who nods in agreement. 

“Tasha. Nat.” Clint murmurs again. “Clint?” she mumbles, and his eyes widen. “Ah--” she winces. “Okay. What happened?”

“You’re okay. You got a few knives stuck in you, but we pulled them out. You’ll be okay.”

“Jesus.” she struggles to sit up, and when Clint tries to push her down again, she glares at him. “Clint, I can sit up on my own.”

When she gets into a sitting position, she sways slightly, and Clint helps her lean back against him to help her remain upright. 

“We don’t have any medical supplies, the terrorists hit the jet,” Clint says, worriedly, and Natasha just hums in response. “On a scale of one to ten--”

“Six,” Natasha responds, lips tight, words clipped. 

“Yeah, it doesn’t look like a six--” Clint tries, but she cuts him off. 

“It’s a six, Barton. I’m fine. Okay?” he knows better to argue when she uses his last name, so he just lets her relax against his shoulder. 

“Hey, Master Assassins, we got a shelter, if you want to come.” Tony waves them over to a makeshift hut, where the scientists have taken the shell of the jet and covered the holes with branches and leaves. “It’s not perfect, but it’ll keep us dry if it rains.” 

“It’s fine.” Clint nods, and, to Natasha’s great protest, he scoops her into his arms. 

“What do you think you’re doing?” she growls at him, and he looks at her apologetically. 

“Nat, I don’t want you to hurt yourself more.” 

“Clint,” she says, her voice tight. “Let me go.”

“No, Nat, I can’t, you need to--”

“I’m going to be sick,” she says quickly, and he sets her down gently on the ground, where she turns her head and vomits onto the ground. “Ah.” she hisses, grabbing her temple. 

“Nat?” Clint asks nervously, and she waves him away. 

“Just...give me a second,” she mutters, hands on her head. “Okay. Okay, I’m good.” 

Clint looks up to see Tony, Bruce and Cap watching from the entrance to the shelter, concern reflected heavily in his gaze. 

“I’m going to carry you to the entrance now, okay?” he says cautiously, and she nods, not opening her eyes. 

He picks her up again carefully and carries her to the seats that Tony and Bruce managed to pull out of the wreckage, which has been fashioned into a makeshift bed. She hisses when he sets her down, her posture rigid and stiff, and he settles onto the floor next to her, ready for a long night. 

After a quick sweep of the plane shell, they soon establish that no food or water is nearby. Thor should have come back half an hour ago, and they have no idea how long it will take to get Natasha to a medical facility. 

It’s almost three hours before fever sets in. Her health has declined steadily, and as the team chatters aimlessly, awaiting extraction, her face has steadily paled, except for flushed patches on her cheeks. 

“Tasha?” Clint whispers softly to her, as to not alert the team, but she shakes her head. 

She shivers when he puts a hand on her arm, and he gazes at her, concern rushing through his mind. 

He sets his hand against her forehead, only to withdraw it quickly. 

“Tash,” he gasps, “you’re burning up.” 

“Sorry?” she says, her voice hoarse, her eyes not quite focusing on his face. 

“Bruce,” he says sharply and turns to see the other members staring at him. “It’s bad.” 

“I’m fine--” Natasha tries, but Bruce steps forward, ignoring her protests. 

“Natasha,” he says calmly, “how do you feel?”

“Fine,” she murmurs, but it lacks conviction, and when Bruce checks her temperature, his eyebrows contract with worry. 

“Alright. Okay, the infection must be setting in on your wounds, there’s even a chance there was poison on one of the blades,” he mutters, frowning. “But we don’t have any med supplies, god--”

“I can hold out until Thor comes back,” she says firmly. “Really.” her tone leaves little room for protest, but when Clint leans against her, he feels her trembling against him. 

“Hey, Natasha, JARVIS says your body temperatures at 101 and climbing…” Tony trails off, an expression of worry on his face. 

“I’ll be okay,” she says, but her voice is weak, and she leans back against Clint, her limbs still shaking. 

They sit there in silence. Clint monitors her closer after that, checking her eyes, her forehead, feeling her pulse. He knows that no matter the results, there’s nothing they can do, but he still feels the sense of dread in the pit of his stomach grow each time he feels her forehead get hotter and hotter. 

It is almost an hour before the conversation starts again, but it’s Natasha who tries to speak. 

“Clint,” she whispers softly, and he immediately bends down to listen. “I….I’m not feeling great.” 

“Yeah, Nat, I know,” he mutters, guilt pounding through his chest. “From one to ten--”

“I’m getting a little closer to an eight now,” she says softly, and he can tell she’s having trouble focusing. 

“Okay. Nat, I’m really sorry, all we can do is wait.” 

“I know.” she nods. “Yeah.”

“Do you want to hold my hand?” he knows it’s an awkward question, but he knows she can get scared when blood loss sets in.

“Sure,” she mutters and laces their fingers together. “Ah.” she winces slightly. 

“What’s wrong?” Clint frowns, eyebrows knitting together. Her blood loss makes her face pale, and her movements are slow. He can see her hand trembling when she grabs her temple. 

“I don’t know. Everything hurts. My whole body hurts.” 

“I’m really sorry, Na, what can I do?.” 

“I’m feeling kind of dizzy--” she whispers, and Clint looks down at her to see her eyes lose focus completely. 

Her eyes flutter closed and she collapses against him. He inhales sharply with worry and the other team members look up at him. 

“What happened?” Steve asks, approaching. 

“I think she passed out,” Clint says softly, placing a hand against her forehead. “Jesus.” 

“103 degrees,” Tony winces. “And there’s nothing we can do?”

“Nothing.” Bruce shakes his head, and Steve slams his fists onto the floor. “We don’t have water to clean them, and we shouldn’t use rainwater. We’re in a polluted area, it’s likely that it would worsen the infection.”

“We could at least try,” Clint bites his lip, and Bruce sighs. “I mean, we’re in a jungle, for christ’s sake, how polluted can it be?”

“We’re right next to a weapons manufacturing facility,” Bruce starts, but at Clint’s look, he sighs and pulls off his jacket, tearing off a strip and walking outside to let the rainwater dampen the cloth. 

“Jesus, she’s dying, and there’s nothing we can do.” the soldier hisses, and Clint raises an eyebrow, surprised by the outburst. 

“She’ll be okay.” he tries to comfort them. “She’s a fighter. She’s been through worse.” 

“We haven’t,” Tony shakes his head, “Not with her.” 

They lapse back into silence. Natasha’s unconscious form rests against Clint, and he strokes her hair away from her forehead carefully. Bruce hands him the wet cloth and Clint examines her carefully, pressing the cloth gently to the gash along her ribcage, which is still bleeding sluggishly. She doesn’t even flinch. 

“She’ll be okay,” he repeats, though it's more for him than any of them, he knows that. 

She looks so small in his arms, her brow furrowed, her eyes shut tightly. He holds her close. It’s okay. 

.

And she is. When she wakes up in the hospital two days later, Clint is sound asleep in a chair next to her bed. Steve, Tony, Bruce, and Thor are talking softly in the corner, and when they notice that she’s awake, they crowd around her bed. 

Amidst the chatter, Natasha makes eye contact with a sleepy Clint, and she smiles at him reassuringly. She’s a fighter. She’s okay. 

[mollymauk-teafleak]

I will love you if I never see you again (final chapter)

It’s the end! Thank you so much for sticking with this fic, if you enjoyed it please let me know by reblogging or by leaving a comment on Ao3! It really means everything to me.

Thanks to my wonderful betas, @spiky-lesbian and @minky-for-short, I love you both

Chapters: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6

Trigger Warnings: kidnapping, violence, references to trans pregnancy 

-----

Nureyev’s eyes had been fixed for the last twenty minutes, staring out of the window of the med bay, oblivious to the tugging sensation at the back of his head as Vespa stitched his wound closed.

Every so often, one of the stars he saw would shift or turn, suspended in the invisible molasses of space but moving by some impulse that had fled hours ago, and he would realise it wasn’t a star at all. It was an earring, a necklace, a bracelet. Some fragment of his life that had been torn away with the drone’s retreat and scattered out into an unreachable, empty coldness. Things he’d treasured at one point that were now lost to him, even though they seemed so close, just past the thick, reinforced glass. If he had the inclination to lift his hand, he could have pressed the tips of his fingers against the window and felt those impassable inches that may as well have been miles.

He would have, if he’d cared. But he barely saw the stars or the not stars, he only saw the distance between them. The miles and miles that stretched between where he was now and wherever his daughter was. And he was sitting here, doing nothing, eyes and cheeks burning with drying salt, shame pooling in the bottom of his stomach like acid.

He’d allowed himself to crack. He’d sobbed and lashed out and collapsed the way he’d told himself he would never do because it was amateurish and childish and everything he’d been taught that master thieves did not do. And because of it he’d cost them minutes that were more valuable than any amount of gold and silver and diamonds now floating in the slight gravitational orbit of the Carte Blanche.

Because it was only after his panic had run its course, burning down into something he could use rather than something that debilitated him, did he remember. Only when his throat opened up again was he able to choke out the words. And he would spend the rest of his life thinking about how things would have been different if he’d only acted quicker.

Vespa finally stood back and there was a single, high chime as she dropped the bloody needle into the metal tray beside her, “Right. Now do not move, I’m doing one set of stitches so if you open them back up, better get some glue.”

Nureyev’s eyes flashed, “If you think for one second I am staying on this ship-”

“Who do you take me for?” Vespa demanded angrily, moving back into his field of vision and wiping her hands on a sterile cloth, “Do not move between now and when we land and then you can wreck as much shit as you want.”

Nureyev was far beyond relaxing at this point but he fell silent, accepting that and turning back to the window. Still Vespa lingered, a lime green smudge on the edge of his eye, looking like she wanted to say something but couldn’t get it out.

Eventually she managed, voice low and rough like a lioness trying to give comfort, “Ransom...we’ll get her back. And if they’ve hurt a hair on her head, we’ll make their deaths that much slower.”

Nureyev felt the many knives concealed under his fresh clothes pressed against his skin until the barrier just disappeared under the constant, cool weight and they were practically part of his skeleton. He pulled himself away from the window to give Vespa a tight, grateful nod.

Clearly relieved that was the end of it, she left him alone with another reminder not to move. Nureyev listened, though he’d usually disagree on sheer principle, holding himself as still as his fast rising bruises would allow. He could follow rules for the promise of free reign once they touched down on wherever they ended up. He could ignore the almost unbearable burn of adrenaline in the deep down channels of his body if he and his knives could go to work.

Instead he thought of what his meltdown might have cost them. What if, while he’d sobbed and screamed, it had been discovered and deactivated? What if the kidnappers had set it on another drone flying far out into space, just to lead them on a pointless winding chase while they took Bianca who knew where? What if it was too late in any one of a thousand different ways, all because he’d been weak when his daughter had needed him to be strong?

The soft hiss of the door sliding back registered to Nureyev only slightly, though the voice and it’s words drew his attention immediately.

“Rita got the signal,” there was a strain to Juno’s voice, like he’d ran to the med bay, like he was feeling the same burn that Nureyev was, “Clear as day, she said, and it’s heading back into occupied space following the drone’s trajectory so it’s got to be her.”

Nureyev felt no relief, just a solidifying of the need to act inside him. It didn’t erase his mistake.

He hadn’t even thought of the bracelet until almost twenty minutes had passed, ten long minutes of Juno holding him by the shoulders to keep him up right and directing him to breathe through the tight clutch of panic on his chest. What good was a tracker on your child if you didn’t realise it was there immediately?

Bianca had adored the teething bracelet when he’d presented it to her months ago, loving the rattle it made and the colours and the way she could gnaw on the soft rubber shape that hung from it. And as long as she didn’t bite down on it too hard, the tracker inside the shape would keep on silently beeping away.

It was only for while she was very, very young, he would trust her once she was old enough to take care of herself, of course. He didn’t want to be that kind of father. But Nureyev had slept through far too many nightmares to take chances in his waking hours.

“Nureyev?” Juno prompted, standing close to him now, closer than he’d dared since he’d set foot on this ship. A line had been crossed apparently, “We can find her. As soon as the drone touches down we can go get her and they’ll never expect us. We can win.”

Nureyev looked at him and felt like he’d already lost.

“Juno,” he murmured, voice level, “When we get Bianca back, I think I should leave and you should take custody of her.”

His thick eyebrow furrowed, “What? Nureyev, come on, what the hell are you talking about?”

“Juno, just listen,” Nureyev exhaled, making himself look the former detective in the eye. From this close up, he could see the injuries he’d taken as their home had been shaken in the sky, less extensive than his own but there were countless nicks and scrapes on his cheeks. Apparently he’d fallen face first into the wall, “Look at what’s happened to her when she was in my care. Whoever’s taken her, they’ve done it to hurt me and she’s suffering because of it. I was a fool to ever think I’d be able to do this with the life I lead, I have too many dogs snapping after the blood on my hands. She deserves a hero for a parent. That just isn’t me.”

Juno’s eye widened, looking beyond stunned, “How hard did you hit your head? Because you’re talking absolute nonsense.”

He was making it so much harder than it needed to be, as always. Nureyev tried to keep his face and voice as cool and level as possible, “Juno, it’s what’s best for Bianca. I’ll do this for her, I’ll bring her back and then I’ll give her a good life. Without me. With you.”

Juno was shaking his head before he’d even finished speaking, “Nureyev, look, you’ve had pretty much the textbook definition of a shit day but you need to shake this off. This isn’t going to help anything.”

Nureyev frowned, “Juno, I didn’t expect you to push me back on this. You’ve wanted to be her mother since you stepped on this ship and you’re ready for it. You’ve grown so much and you’ve got something real here on the Carte Blanche. You can make her part of it so easily and she can grow up happy and never need to think anything like this will happen again. You can be what she deserves.”

“Will you please stop?” Juno wasn’t angry, he was pleading, “Just stop. Why would you just assume there’s no place for you too? Why would you just write yourself off like that?”

“Because someone has taken my daughter, Juno! They’ve reached through her to hurt me, I’ve not been careful enough-”

“No parent is careful enough, not all the time-”

“You’re talking about a child skinning their knee when their parent isn’t looking, not being taken halfway across the galaxy-”

“Nureyev, you love her, that’s what matters. And she loves you-”

“And that’s why she needs to go!” the last burst from Nureyev with a force that surprised even him and, god help him, it came with tears, “Because look what happens to people who love me!”

Juno flinched but he didn’t take a step back, he didn’t turn away with shame or pity, even as those own feelings took root in his own mind, “Peter…”

“Mag, the only example I’ve ever had of parenting and look how that shook out!” Nureyev gave a laugh that was half a sob, “You and you only grew better after you left me behind, doesn’t that tell you everything you need? And now Bianca! I somehow convinced myself that she could be the exception, that I could let my guard down and love her and let her love me. I thought if I worked hard enough it could happen but I just let it all build up like a volcano and now it’s gone off, I could have killed her as surely as I killed Mag!”

Silence followed his words, like the universe was sucking in a horrified breath. Had he ever said it out loud before? Hadn’t he been afraid of exactly this, that once he said it, he’d realise he’d done something unforgivable?

But if the universe was going to call him a monster then Juno Steel would be his one defendant. The lady who’d seen it happen with his own eyes, the one who’d dealt with countless monsters, he didn’t withdraw and there wasn’t a hint of condemnation in his eyes. His gaze held steady, the only emotion visible there was a fierce kind of love that Nureyev simultaneously yearned towards and shrank away from.

“Nureyev, my ma said very little right in her whole life but one truth she did know was that you need other people to live for. So when you’re not tough enough, they can be, that’s what she said. So you can’t give up because you’ve got them to worry about,” Juno looked him right in the eye, “And that works both ways. You live for them and they live for you and that’s how we all get by. Bianca isn’t just your person, you are her person too. And if you take yourself away from her, it all comes crashing down. God, you don’t have to be perfect. You don’t have to be the flawless Peter Nureyev. You just have to be you. And so does she. That’s how everyone gets better.”

Every guiding instinct Nureyev had left told him to deny. To sink back behind his mask and ignore what Juno was saying, ignore the love he saw in his gaze. But he didn’t want to. He just didn’t want to.

“Yeah, I got better,” Juno continued, “But I didn’t do it without you, Peter. I was always thinking of you, even when I told myself I wasn’t. Because you were the person who really made me believe I could get better. That I didn’t have to die for a cause to be worth something. You woke me up to the people who’d been telling me that for years, you...you became my person.”

Nureyev trembled in the face of that love. The love that wasn’t conditional on whether he was perfect, whether he was collected and in control, whether there were tears on his cheeks or not. It was just being offered.

“I want to be one of the people you live for, Peter,” Juno murmured and the distance between them seemed closer all of a sudden, “And Bianca’s. But only if you’re okay with that, only if it’s as a family. And only if one of your other people is your own damn self. That was another thing my ma got wrong.”

It would be so easy to lean in, cross those few inches, though they were as significant as a few inches that would walk you off the edge of a cliff.

He wanted, he couldn’t deny that. But he had to study this want, find out if it was the want that drove him to take things that belonged to other people or the want that had made him look down at the squalling, squirming, seconds old baby in his exhausted arms and realise he couldn’t give her away as he’d planned.

“Can we speak again after...all this?” Nureyev murmured, “After we get her back safely? Can we come back to this then?”

Nureyev had known a hundred people, some of them people who’d claimed to love him, who would have grown angry. Who’s faces would have darkened and shoulders would have set and a possessiveness would have clouded their eyes.

But Juno Steel only nodded.

“Sure,” he gave a rough laugh, “Today’s more than enough to deal with. And there will be a tomorrow, Nureyev.”

He’d always known that. He’d lived for tomorrows for much of his life, moving forward to a new face, a new name, a new thing to steal to prove he could. He’d always thought tomorrow was worth showing up for.

But this felt so much more real. This felt like a promise of tomorrows that would be hard at times, where some would hurt. But these tomorrows were ones he could spend as Peter Nureyev, with people he cared about and who cared about him.

Both of them jumped at the sound of footsteps in the hallway, fast approaching. Rita drew the door back, her hair flying out of its usual twin buns, her eyes red raw from crying and staring at too many screens in too short a time, smoke practically rising from her fingertips. But she was grinning, in a manic, frantic kind of way.

“The signal stopped! The drone must have landed!”

In an instant, Juno had turned and Nureyev was on his feet, twin expressions of determination and frantic energy.

“Where?” they both barked, not even reacting to the other speaking.

Rita was bouncing in place, clearly jittery, “The signal held strong the whole way there, I didn’t even need to triangulate when it got messed up with all the other frequencies you find buzzing around an inhabited planet like giant space bees in that one stream, the one that made me scared to eat honey for six weeks even though honey roasted salmon squares are my seventh favourite snack-”

“Rita, please!”

“Mars!” Rita finally choked up, fighting through her own panicked babble, “She’s on Mars, Mistah Steel, at a place called, um…” she looked down and read her comms screen again, “The Oasis Casino Resort.”

Nureyev’s eyes met Juno’s, the same expression of sickening deja vu shared between them.

The former detective gave a wayn, humorless smile, “Looks like it’s not just your fault after all.”

The sense of deja vu, the sensation of falling and waking up in the middle of the night, continued through the family meeting, the crew sat or stood around the kitchen table and a projected schematic of the Oasis. Looking at the tiny, translucent rooms and hallways and grand game halls, floating and shifting whenever the people across from him moved, he felt nearly three years younger. Three years, two heartbreaks and a baby younger. He remembered when he’d felt invincible and so sure of himself, running into victory with a beautiful detective by his side, like something out of an old fashioned movie. He would need some of that old self to get through this, he realised.

Plot points happening all over again but the order shuffled and the roles recast. It was dizzying. And he needed to focus.

“And you’re sure this is up to date, Rita, dear?” Buddy leaned forward, eye focused like a laser on the plans in front of them all.

“Yes, Captain,” she nodded, still bouncing with anxious energy, “Remotely hacked the head of security’s computer so it’s a live feed. Even if they reshuffle all the rooms or something, we’ll know about it. And this…” she tapped something on the comms in her hand, causing a bright white dot to appear somewhere in the depths of the projection, “...is the current location of Bee Bee’s beacon.”

It was sliding slowly at a walking pace through a stairway, up and up. Nureyev’s throat tightened. Was she being dragged? Had they knocked her out with some chemical so she was lying limply in a stranger’s arms? He found himself bleakly hoping for the latter, he didn’t want her to know what was happening.

“They’re taking her upstairs. To this two bit con artist with ideas far above his station, I assume he has the penthouse suite to compensate for his lack of skills,” Buddy said smoothly, leaning forward with an intensity to her gaze that would have given weaker souls heart conditions, “Isn’t it helpful when they give us a lovely, high, phallic pedestal from which to reach up and drag them down?”

“It certainly is convenient,” Jet said cooly, somehow paying attention while calmly assembling a frankly enormous, heavy duty pistol on the counter, “I suggest we enter from the same height, scaling the fire escapes. It will limit potential interactions with innocent bystanders and employees of the resort. The only problem will be exiting once they realise how we have entered.”

“There are trash chutes,” Juno spoke up, sharing a glance with Nureyev that made both of them feel somehow a little better, for a brief second, “We could use those.”

“Are they big enough to accommodate a person?” Vespa raised a doubtful eyebrow.

“Oh yeah,” Juno was somehow fighting a smile, despite it all, “Believe me, they are.”

“That would work,” Jet nodded, “Reverse what they would expect, entering through the exterior and leaving by the interior. We could store the Ruby and my hoverbike in the garage, recoloured and with false plates. Present ourselves as rich visitors, the kind that pass through such a place every day.”

“This is assuming Engstrom is hiding his activities from the Oasis,” Vespa pointed out, also preparing herself, sliding an oilcloth down the blade of her knife as she spoke, “And they haven’t been told an assault might be incoming.”

“They won’t be,” Nureyev answered, eyes still fixed on that dot, like he could somehow reach in and give Bianca comfort through it, “Engstrom’s arrangement with the Oasis is hush hush. If he could rely on them to such a degree, he wouldn’t have to pay them under the table for his security privileges. This will be a small operation, low to the ground, only with a few trusted people. Engstrom will be aware how thin the ice under his feet is, no matter how much he paid off the guards after the Utgard Express fiasco.”

“So you two really did rob the Utgard, huh?” Vespa muttered, mostly to herself, “Always thought you made that up.”

Nureyev shot her a look before continuing, “We have to move quickly, a skeleton plan is all we can manage. He may be planning to move Bianca.”

“Well it isn’t as if we haven’t played it fast and loose before,” Buddy lifted her chin, “In fact, I’d say it’s when we do the best work. Rita will work through the comms, diverting cameras and blocking the security communication line. I will be posing as our fictitious Oasis patron, the pass will give me access to wherever I might need to go to clear your escape. Jet, Juno, Vespa and Ransom will go up the fire escapes and unleash hell upon this low life who thought he could threaten our family.”

Her eye passed over them all, causing them to straighten their backs and square their shoulders with the sheer magnetism of her words and her gaze.

“Let’s bring our girl home.”

The Oasis was true to its name, standing and glittering in the middle of complete Martian wasteland, the only object for miles around. Covered in flashing lights and bold colours, it could so easily be a mirage or a hallucination brought on by radiation poisoning, so incongruous did it look with all it’s flashy finery on a backdrop of constant, unbroken mud red dunes and a flat night sky.

They’d touched down under the best cloak that Rita could manage, the Carte Blanche’s bulk hidden a few miles out, right at the edge of the dome but not out of signal range of her hacking equipment. She would stay on board, working remotely, while the rest of them travelled to the Oasis in the Ruby 7, with its new, rush job coat of glittering gold and false plates, all of its features cloaked and hidden as well as just a scant hour of Jet’s time could allow. Rita had given Vespa a kill switch to temporarily plunge the garage cameras into static so there would be no record that there were more people in the car than just the illustrious and completely fictitious Comtesse D’or who had just made a last minute reservation at great expense.

Already Nureyev was seeing holes, gaps he’d want to plug with far more research and preparation but the time just wasn’t there. As the Oasis loomed in his vision, rapidly approaching until it wasn’t clear who was rushing at who, Nureyev realised how much of this would be riding on sheer dumb luck.

It was a little easier that Buddy seemed entirely unconcerned, sending them off with a wink as she sped towards the garage entrance, letting them simply leap off the Ruby 7 and hide in the clutter of the building’s back side until the attendants were occupied with her loud and flashy arrival. Before they jumped, Nureyev saw fear flash through Juno’s one eye and he took his hand, squeezing briefly. Whether Juno would have jumped if he hadn’t done that or not, the smile he gave him after they’d hit the cooling sand and caught their breath with their backs pressed to the brick made him glad he’d done it.

Climbing the fire escape was simple enough, Vespa and her knife leading the way, her hair as vivid as the hotel they were scaling, eyes flashing like the neon lights. Jet was next, climbing smoothly and skillfully despite his size and despite the serious hardware strapped to his back. Juno next, clearly not as comfortable with being a thief just yet but a fierce determination in his eye that showed he wouldn’t be turning back. Nureyev gripped the metal, still warm from the heat of the day’s blistering sun, and what Buddy had said before they broke away from the family meeting. They all cared about Bianca, they were willing to risk everything, not least the search for the Curemother Prime, to get her back.

He certainly could see the benefit of Bianca having family.

Over many years of thieving, Nureyev had developed something like an extra sense for when things were about to go wrong, a pull in his stomach that would signal him to duck, a second’s lead on searching for hiding places, a moment to tense his muscles to run as fast as he could or throw himself into their nearest available shadow.

Apparently it was something inherent to anyone who lived outside of the law because in the same instant both Jet and Vespa stiffened, something cold and sharp seized Nureyev.

Vespa, as always, was the quickest and most ruthless. Like a bear snatching a salmon from a driver, her hand flashed into the open window just above her head and caught the guard who’d been about to look down and see the four of them by the front of the jacket. With a hard yank, the unfortunate individual went careening down, an almost comical look of surprise on their face, and landed with a muffled crash in the garbage below. Mercifully, the guard was as stunned as the rest of them and didn’t make a noise.

Juno craned his neck down and, rather adorably thinking that they’d care, whispered, “They’re okay. Knocked out.”

“Did you see their weapon?” Jet grunted, his expression unchanged, “Heavy stuff.”

“Did you see their uniform?” Nureyev arched an eyebrow, “Not Oasis. It would seem Engstrom has some hirelings. Who knows how many?”

Vespa had ignored them all, poised on the wall like a cat, face tight as she waited for any response from a partner the guard may have had. When one didn’t come, she settled one hand on the windowsill and leaned out like some kind of murderous acrobat so she could address them all.

“Hallways clear. Jet and I will go around the other side of the building, cause a distraction, draw whoever else he’s got patrolling. You two continue on to Engstrom’s room,” her tone brokered no argument, there was no time to weigh up pros and cons. Even Juno swallowed any objections, though God knew there were plenty to make.

The last majordomo of Engstrom’s had nearly killed the two of them handily, after all, and the late, unlamented Valencia was who he’d kept around when he hadn’t been deliberately pissing off a master thief. But as Vespa took her largest knife between her teeth and slunk in through the window, quickly followed by the hulking yet graceful form of Jet, laden down with blasters, it was whoever had taken Valencia’s place that Nureyev felt sorry for.

Maybe it wasn’t just Bianca who was glad to have a family.

Juno risked a glance down to him, looking oddly beautiful as he leaned out over the edge of the balcony, bathed in neon colours like Nureyev was seeing him through a stained glass window, as a strange kind of saint. As the goddess he was named for.

But had Juno ever held so much fear and determination and anxiety in her eye?

Nureyev gave him a nod, trying to look encouraging. Trying to look like all his fears that they weren’t prepared, that they didn’t know their target, that far too much was at risk, were all coming true.

But all they could do was put one foot in front of the other. Two more floors and they would see their daughter and whatever that would bring.

Nureyev felt the press of the knives against his skin again, insistent and hungry.

The Oasis was grand in every sense of the word, they were some height above the ground now, enough that a breeze that smelled of hot sand lifted their hair and snagged the corners of their clothing. As much as every muscle in his body wanted to surge forward and rush to wherever his daughter was, Nureyev forced himself to go slowly, hugging the brickwork and keeping out of the teeth of the wind. Now down to half their numbers, they couldn’t be caught now.

Finally, the topmost window and, muffled by glass, a voice. Juno and Nureyev crouched on the last platform of the fire escape, ducking under the golden glow emanating from behind the glass and listened, feeling the same burning anger as they recognised it in the same moment.

“...whether it’s some drunk gaggle of socialites or not, I want confirmation,” a gruff, scraping voice that seemed to have aged more than the time since they’d last heard it would suggest, “Don’t put anything past these charlatans, there’s no way they should know the brat is here but they’ve proven to be inconveniences before now. Go, quickly. Carter said she heard blaster fire.”

A grunt of conformation, footsteps whispering against thick expensive carpet. Juno tensed and rocked on his heels but Nureyev gripped his arm to still him, shaking his head. They couldn’t afford to move before they had a better idea of what they were running into. Not when so much was at stake.

He maintained that for a whole heartbeat until they both heard what was unmistakably a muffled sob from inside the room. A sob they both knew.

Nureyev’s other hand was on a knife handle before he was really aware he was even moving, having to snap fast to keep control of himself as something dark and angry, a shadow in red light, thrashed inside him. His fingers tensed on Juno’s arm, feeling an electricity run through him. Hold fast. Stay quiet. Wait for the right moment.

“Oh, will you be quiet?” Engstrom snapped, his voice less muffled now, as if he’d moved closer to the window. Nureyev tried to build up a mental picture of the room, a map he could work with, though it was hard when the younger, red washed self was fighting him.

There was the sound of an angry snap, like the sound of a puppy baring its teeth after being backed into a corner and a short cry of pain from Engstrom.

“You little…” his voice was tight and his shoes made thin sounds on the floor as he backed away, voice dampening. That meant she was close. Nureyev leaned forward a little more. Would he have been fool enough to keep her by the window?

He’d never believed in any being more powerful than himself up until now, not even at the tensest, most teetering brinks of his career, not even in the underground tomb with Miasma. But now he was throwing out desperate murmurs, willing anyone to hear them. Any port in a storm.

Engstrom was still talking and Nureyev took pleasure in imagining him cradling a bitten hand, “More trouble than you’re worth, you brat...no wonder your father taught you no manners, the classless parlour magician...I’d behave before I decide that the pleasure of breaking your father’s teeth and seeing him rot in jail while my name is cleared is worth less to me than the joy of you disappearing down that trash chute. God, you broke the skin, you freak, you vile little monster…”

Nureyev realised a second too late what Juno was doing, though he didn’t think an hour’s preparation would have been able to stop him. He wrenched free of his grip so easily it was as if it had never been, threw open the window and launched himself at Engstrom with a snarl of fury.

“Juno!” he yelled, pointlessly, though his voice was lost in Bianca’s scream and Engstrom’s sound of bewilderment, followed quickly by a loud crash.

Expensive whiskeys and brandys were soaking into the carpet when Nureyev leapt through the window, knife whistling from his fingers in the direction of the single guard who had been about to raise their blaster in Juno’s direction. It struck them hilt first, dead between the eyes, sinking them in an instant where the blade wouldn’t have had a hope of shearing through all the armour they wore. People who saw only one end of a knife were fools. First rule of thieving.

“Mama!” Bianca’s voice yelled from behind him, “Daddy!”

Nureyev couldn’t help it, he turned to her, feeling a relief like cold water on a burn. His treasure was tied cruelly tight to a chair just beside him, within arms reach and so much in him yearned to take her in his arms and promise her it had all been one bad dream. But the monster was yet to be defeated.

Engstrom was pinned under Juno in the wreckage of a drinks trolley, unsuccessfully defending blows to his face which now resembled a melon that had taken a hard trip down a very long flight of stairs. Panic filled Nureyev’s chest until he saw a small comms unit lying an arms length away from the old man’s grasping hand. Again, he found himself praying that he hadn’t been able to send out a call to the other guards, they needed every second they could snatch now.

Those seconds were stretching and warping as they tended to do when lives hung on gossamer strands. People seemed to move in slow motion, blows falling with a maniacally comedic exaggerated performance, light tripping and dancing on broken glass on the carpet. It seemed to take Nureyev an age to cross the room, focused on crunching that comms under his heel until it was beyond repair, before Engstrom could grasp it.

And it took him far too long to realise that wasn’t what Engstrom was intending at all.

The old man’s grasping fingers finally found the neck of a half empty bottle of some heady liquor the colour of ancient bark. Nureyev saw it at the peak of its arc, catching some fragments of blue from the sign just outside the window, moving so slowly but not slowly enough.

Bianca cried out as it connected with Juno’s head, almost as awful a sound as the crunch of glass and bone cracking in harmony. Juno rolled, head clutched in his hands, blood seeping from between his fingers, too gripped to even make a noise.

And Engstrom was sitting up.

Not a complete fool and running on sheer cruelty, he didn’t lurch for the comms or try to stand. Instead he pulled a blaster from his inside pocket, small but no less deadly for it. And he didn’t bother trying to decide which to aim at, the former detective or the thief. He simply pointed it directly at Bianca.

“Stop,” he croaked, voice even fainter than before, “Or I shoot.”

Nureyev froze, hand halfway to another knife. Juno looked up with swimming eyes, having enough of a hold on himself to stop too, swaying on his knees.

“The two of you?” Engstrom seemed to be on some kind of lurid, pain fuelled high, grinning like a haunted waxwork, even as his lips swelled and his gums ran red, “Now even this is beyond my wildest dreams. Guess the two of you stuck together after you left me for dead on that damned train, hmm? And how is that working out, seeing as one of you is missing an eye?”

Nureyev tried to keep his voice calm and still, as if the two of them were still sitting at that card table from years ago. And in some ways they were, though the stakes had ballooned far out of either of their reaches.

“What is it you want, Engstrom? A ransom? The Ruby Seven? Me? You can take me if you like, I’ll stay as long as you allow Juno to take Bianca far from here.”

Juno gave a pained noise that had nothing to do with his head. Tears dripped helplessly down Bianca’s cheeks but his girl, his brave, brave girl, stayed silent.

Nureyev tried to feel none of it and just calculated. Could he get to him before his finger squeezed the trigger? Could he throw the knife fast enough, strike his wrist or, better yet, in the neck so his shot went wide? Could he find the right words to reach this bitter, broken man and appease him?

Every calculation came to the same unthinkable end.

“And why shouldn’t I have it all, Duke Rose? After everything you two took from me, why shouldn’t I have it all back including your blood, your wife’s and your daughter’s? Is that not what I’m owed after what you did?” his voice sounded like it was on the verge of breaking and his bloodshot eyes, one swollen almost shut, never looked away from Bianca, “I had thought you had more sense than this. To bring a child into our life, the life of a thief. Just more poison in the well…and look where it has ended…”

Nureyev felt bile in his throat, tearing around for more options, another way. Beg? Stall until by some miracle, Jet and Vespa could come crashing through the door? Plead? Pray? Offer him the world? Go back in time and never even set foot on the surface of Mars?

Everything around them slowed. But Juno Steel moved so, so fast.

He lurched forward and seized the barrel of the blaster between blood stained fingers. But he didn’t try and wrench it away, there was no time for that. He didn’t knock it or send it off course, what if it bounced and hit Bianca by chance?

Instead he made sure of where it would go. He turned it and pressed the barrel hard to his own skin.

The sound of the discharge was loud enough to tip the room, as if they were back on the Carte Blanche, twisted and wounded in space. Nureyev screamed, Bianca screamed, Juno screamed and neither sound could be teased out of the others.

Fortunately there was enough of Nureyev’s mind left to see what Juno needed him to do and to do it. He ran forward and brought his knife hilt down with all the strength he had left at the base of Engstrom’s skull. Fingers slackened, there was a hard, dull sound and he hit the carpet, out cold and maybe even beyond that. The blaster fell uselessly to the floor.

Nureyev cared for none of it. All that mattered was Juno, trembling in wordless agony, his shoulder smoking. He felt so light in Nureyev’s grip, light enough to come apart or simply fade away.

Nureyev felt the ghost of cold iron under his fists, felt years old bruises ache again from beating them against that door and against a future that didn’t have his detective in it.

“Just my shoulder...just hit my shoulder…” Juno managed to grit out from teeth clenched so hard they looked like to shatter, “It’s fine...it’s fine…”

The wound was a horror, a massive burn in a starburst shape but it wasn’t bleeding, just smoking and spitting. He would last, Nureyev told himself, he would last back to the Carte Blanche and Vespa would fix him, she would fix everything. But his arm hung so limp and useless, fingers not twitching and shaking like the rest of him was…

“Get Bianca,” Juno grunted, “Get Bianca, we need to go.”

Nureyev nodded, though his mind felt fractured, hairline cracks forming as he was pulled in different directions, different versions of himself pulling him apart. He stood, Juno’s good arm over his shoulders so he could take the weight of him, walking over to the chair where Bianca was tied.

“Saved me,” Bianca mumbled, looking up at the two of them with tears in her eyes, “Mamma, daddy…”

Nureyev knelt and sheared through her bindings easily, “I’m so sorry, my sweet girl, my treasure, I am so sorry…”

Bianca didn’t seem to be listening, her arms shooting up as soon as they were free, grabbing in the air. Towards both of them.

Nureyev lifted her and held her between him and Juno, taking one minute of calm in the midst of the storm they’d found themselves in. Juno’s arm tightened around his shoulder, his face buried in Bianca’s hair, leaning heavily against Nureyev. Bianca had one hand on his cheek, the other twisted tight in Nureyev’s earring. And Nureyev circled them both in his arms, like that would always be enough to keep them safe.

But it wouldn’t. Though he knew one way to ensure it.

A cold numbness descended on his mind, filing away all the adrenaline and hurt and fear with an eerie efficiency. He let Juno hold Bianca with his good arm, disentangling himself and settling the knife more easily into his palm, the hilt fitting into calluses worn onto his hands over years and years. He approached the still limp, still weakly breathing form of Brock Engstrom, everything in him trained on silencing that breathing for good.

“Nureyev,” Juno’s voice was weak and still brittle with pain, pain the pathetic excuse for a human at his feet had caused.

“Look away, dear,” he spoke words he was familiar with, though his tone was now flat and dead, “I’m going to stab Mr Engstrom to death now.”

“Nureyev, no.”

“I said look away, Juno,” Nureyev moved the knife an inch, his mind flicking idly through his decades old banks of knowledge on where to put the point to cause maximum pain.

“Nureyev, look.”

He did, turning slightly to see Juno watching him with an eye full of hurt. And their daughter, clinging to his coat, looking at him like she didn’t recognise him. Like she had no idea who he was. Like she was face to face with Engstrom again.

The knife slipped to the floor and he wouldn’t pick it back up again. The younger self bathed in the red light retreated, maybe for good this time. His shoulders slumped and he exhaled with a breath he hadn’t realised he’d been holding.

Peter Nureyev made a choice that was very unlike the man he used to be, very unlike the man he’d been brought up as. But it was the kind of choice the man he wanted to be would have made.

“See, Bee Bee?” Juno murmured, voice rough but a small smile quirking the edge of his mouth as Nureyev walked back towards them, “Your daddy’s one of the good guys.”

“Good guys,” Bianca repeated softly, reaching out to him again.

Nureyev took her, letting Juno hold his injured half and lean on him, “I suppose, my treasure.”

“C’mon, let’s get going and find me a nice place to faint,” Juno rasped, again showing off his ability to find some humour while mortally wounded that Nureyev had always admired and been baffled by in equal measures, “Bottom of the garbage chute sounds good right about now. Real classy.”

Nureyev managed a tired laugh in response, shouldering the weight of his small family as they made for the door.

Another first rule of thieving was to never assume an easy escape. So many thieves tripped up on their exit from the job, too high on the loot in their hands and the thrill of the light at the end of the tunnel. Just because you had the goods didn’t mean life would pull its punches.

But it seemed, for once, that life had no more blows left to deal. Their escape was smooth as silk, as easy as pickpocketing a drunk man with a blindfold on. Jet and Vespa had taken out every guard on Engstrom’s payroll, Buddy was waiting for them in the Ruby Seven, Rita was running at them to fly into a hug before they’d even parked up in the cargo hold of the Carte Blanche.

Maybe it was luck. Maybe that rule had grown rusty with time.

Or maybe this was the advantage of being the good guys for once.

“Right. Now do not move, I’m doing one set of stitches so if you open them back up, better get some glue.”

“How the hell am I supposed to not move?” Juno grumbled, wincing as Vespa finished his stitches, “For how long? Can I breathe?”

“Unfortunately, yes,” Vespa snarled back, slamming down her needle.

Nureyev chuckled to himself from the opposite bed. It was rather nice to know he wasn’t the most irritating patient on the ship.

The wound on the side of his head, nearly identical to Nureyev’s own, was easy to fix. His shoulder was less so, the skin blackened and flesh raw and red. Vespa could clean it, she could swathe it in bandages so it was less difficult to look at but there was no getting around the fact that it would be a long, painful time in healing.

Every time he looked at the clean bandages that stiffened Juno’s collar, every time he saw him wince or saw his teeth sink into his lip to bite back a groan, Nureyev was plunged back into that single second when he’d thought he’d lost him. When he’d thought he’d paid an awful price for their daughter’s life.

It was strange and bitterly unfair, Nureyev reflected, how you often didn’t realise what someone meant to you until they weren’t there. And how certain thieves could still be such stubborn fools and need to be taught that over and over.

But fools could still learn. People could still change. Juno had taught him that.

Bianca slept soundly by him, her head pillowed in his lap, her cloth cat tucked under her arm. How that thing had survived, Nureyev had no idea.

Mercifully, his treasure was no worse for wear, just tired, dehydrated and hungry from her time in the drone. Apparently she’d dealt far more damage than she’d taken; Engstrom hadn’t been the only one to feel her teeth. Nureyv felt a fierce pride at that but he would remain on guard for bad dreams as long as he needed to. He was determined to be there when she woke up.

Juno and Vespa were still bickering up until the second when the door shut behind her. And then they both realised in the same moment that they were as alone as they’d been in some time, since their half conversation in the hallway after the auction. Suddenly everything they’d said and hadn’t said was crowding in the space between the two infirmary beds.

Juno was the first to break the sudden blanket of silence, venturing a weak, lopsided smile and a little laugh. After a moment, Nureyev found himself snorting, giggles pressing up against his chest, like a child in class well aware he shouldn’t be laughing but unable to stop all the same. Juno cackled along with him and it had the sensation of a tap being let go, something leaking away and what was left behind behind able to breathe again.

“God, what’s wrong with us?” Nureyev chortled, wiping at his eyes.

“Uh, some bastard took our kid and we had to go get her back?” Juno ventured, running a hand through his hair, pushing it into even more disarray.

“Ah yes, of course,” Nureyev touched her lightly on the temple, “But we did it. We saved the day.”

“We did,” Juno leaned back against the wall, unsuccessfully hiding how it pained him, “And now...see, that’s the strange thing, isn’t it? No one ever tells you what happens to the heroes after the credits roll or after the story ends. So what do we do now?”

Nureyev looked down at Bianca, humming softly as he curled a lock of her hair around his finger, “Whatever we please, I think. Though these two heros need a place to sleep, actually, seeing as our bunk got dragged out into space.”

“You could come sleep in my room?” Juno offered quickly, before a light blush touched his cheeks, “I mean...if you were okay with that? I know it might be...weird.”

Nureyev smiled, lifting his eyes to Juno’s, “No. That would be nice, Juno, thank you. Bianca will be pleased. She...she really loves you, you know.”

Juno’s gaze softened and he seemed to feel the pain a little less, “Well...I love her too. You made a great kid, Nureyev.”

Nureyev chuckled, looking down at her, sleeping so peacefully and deeply like she was so sure that the people around her would protect her, “You know, I was so scared of her when I first met her. And I had been for nine months, really, I was just terrified. Everything became so complicated all of a sudden, my own body felt unfamiliar when I was so used to being sure of myself, it was...an unpleasant feeling. I went back to Brahma but I was halfway there before I even realised I was doing it, like something else was pulling me in that direction. I told myself I would find her a nice family with kind people who could take care of her and give her a good life. Where she’d want for nothing. But it was still so hard. And...then I met her. I held her in my own hands and I realised how silly it was to be scared of something so small.”

“I wish I could have been there,” Juno rasped, voice small but sincere.

Nureyev nodded, “Me too. But it felt like you were, in a way. I told you I kept Bianca for selfish reasons, back on Mars. And I wasn’t lying. I kept her because...well, because she looked so much like you. I wanted to keep part of you in my life, Juno, because I loved you.”

Juno swallowed, watching him closely, “And now?”

Nureyev looked up, “And now...now you’re someone new. Someone brave and beautiful and still so infuriatingly stupid...but someone I would be proud to call my daughter’s mother. And, well, I think I’ve fallen in love with you all over again.”

Juno had tears in his eye as he smiled, “Fool. And I love you too.”

Nureyev grinned back, “Fool.”

Juno leaned forward, ignoring Nureyev’s groan of protest, the start of his plea for him to hold still, there would be time later. The kiss was sweet all the same, more unfamiliar than he had expected but he supposed they were both very different people, after all.

People who could make something good out of this.

Nineteen Years Later   -

They had said their goodbyes, there had been tears her little brother Persephone had pretended weren’t there, there had been countless promises to stay safe and keep well and remember everything she’d been taught.

But still, Nureyev followed her to the shuttle.

Juno had looked up as he’d gone, as he’d mumbled something about seeing her off, and for a moment it had seemed like he would catch his husband’s shoulder and seat him firmly back down. But he didn’t. Maybe something inside him recognised that they both needed this.

“Do you have your laser cutter?” Nureyev asked as the two of them walked down the hallway of the Carte Blanche, “Your rope? Your TV remote?”

“Daddy,” Bianca laughed, turning on her heel, having to look up and meet his eyes even at twenty years old, “I have it all, okay? You double checked my pack ten times.”

Nureyev blushed, folding his arms, “Well...a thief can never be too prepared.”

“I know, daddy,” Bianca nudged him with an elbow, “You taught me that.”

Nureyev sighed, feeling how close that last, final goodbye was and wanting to do anything he could to delay it. “You know, I looked over the plans for the facility you’re targeting and a two man con would-”

“Daddy,” his daughter tilted her head, making those voluminous curls so like her mama’s bounce, and her hand came out to take his, squeezing gently, “It’s gonna be okay. I can do this. And you know it isn’t going to be forever, I’ll always come back and visit.”

“Often,” Nureyev corrected, feeling his throat tighten as he grasped that hand that had once been barely bigger than his finger, “You’re going to visit often.”

“Sure,” her smile was brilliant, cocky and confident and infections, “When I’m not busy being the most badass thief in the whole universe.”

“I’m sure,” he had to laugh. Though he really did believe it.

Her mama’s old coat was a little big on her, the sleeves coming a little past her knuckles, she’d inherited Juno’s small stature. In some ways she still looked like a little girl playing dress up, like this was all a game to find her daddy’s lost pair of glasses or lead her little brothers on an adventure as Andromeda the Chainmail Warrior.

But Nureyev knew the solar system wasn’t going to know what hit it when Bianca Nureyev swung in on her beam of starlight.

He just had to let her go. Far easier said than done.

“I’ll call you when I land, Daddy. Auntie Rita secured the line, right?”

“She did,” Nureyev knew that look in her golden brown eyes, the look he’d never been able to deny, “But I think you have forgotten one thing?”

Bianca frowned, “But I went over the checklist…”

Nureyev grinned, it was uncanny how similar that frown was. He brought his other hand out from behind his back. The cloth cat, Kitty as Juno insisted on calling it, was looking more than a little worse for wear these days, it’s fur faded and three of its eyes missing but still, Bianca gasped in delight when she saw it.

“Of course!” she giggled, taking it happily and tucking it into the front pocket of the coat that used to be her mama’s, “I thought Idun might have wanted to keep him…”

“No, I think he realised it would be much better off with his big sister,” Nureyev nodded.

“Well, tell him thanks. And tell him I love him. Both of them, tell them I love them lots and lots. And mama too! And Auntie Vespa and Auntie Buddy and Auntie Rita and Uncle Jet…”

Nureyev was laughing before she was halfway through, “I’ll tell them. But what about your old dad?”

Bianca’s expression softened and she pounced, hugging him so tight his ribs hurt, “I love you, Daddy. Thank you for this.”

Nureyev closed his eyes and pressed his face into her hair, “I love you too, my treasure. And thank you.”

When she pulled away, it was completely, her hand slipping out of his own. He let it, though it broke his heart.

“I’ll see you soon, Daddy,” Bianca smiled, giving him a wave before she disappeared into the shuttle that had been her eighteenth birthday present from her Uncle.

Nureyev waited a long time before he turned away from the window, looking out as he had on so many journeys with his treasure, off to exciting places and interesting people and scores that would make them legends. He had no doubt that the same thing awaited her, now she was alone.

Still he watched. He watched until her shuttle joined the rest of the stars and for a little longer after that.

He knew something amazing was waiting for her.

[abarbaricyalp]

The Babe With The Power

@pynchpromptweek

Pynch // Prompt: Future/Kid Fic // Rated: G

No archive warnings, but Adam bruises his face in the second half and the injury is discussed

AO3 Link

“We have to talk,” Ronan said, leaning on the door way to the living room.

Adam looked up at him, leaving his hands to the mercy of RG IV in front of him. The baby wasn’t actually called RG IV. Actually, the baby wasn’t a Richard at all. She was a Noa Percy and had stalled the great debate about whether Blue would allow Gansey to name their son RG IV. But they’d all spent so long calling Blue’s baby bump RG IV that the nickname stuck when they weren’t actually talking to the baby. (Names were important for cognitive growth, they were told, so don’t fuck her up with your joke)

RG IV gnawed at Adam’s knuckle and Ronan scowled at her. “You shouldn’t be baby sitting so much.”

Adam frowned and pulled the baby into his lap. “What do you mean? You volunteered us for the summer!”

“Yeah, but you’re supposed to be working on your dissertation and you have that grant proposal in a month. You should be focusing on that.”

“What? Do you want more time with her?” Adam asked. “I’m balancing everything just fine. I’m ahead of schedule on my dissertation and the proposal is being edited right now. If you want me to back off to give you time, just say, Ronan.”

“I don’t want more time with her. I already have to entertain her when you’re writing.”

Adam stood suddenly, a fast flash of anger. “You told them we’d take care of her. Get over yourself, Lynch,” he snapped, cuddling her closer to his chest.

Ronan’s jaw worked and Adam could see it all the way across the room. “She’s gonna forget what her dad looks like ‘cause she stares at you so much.”

Adam’s eyes widened and his arms tightened around her. “Did Gansey tell you to do this? Is he mad at me?”

Ronan made a face. “What? No. Gansey would probably be honored if she started to call you Daddy. He’d be like, ‘That’s fair, I get that.’”

Adam rolled his eyes and relaxed a little bit. “Then what the hell is your problem?”

“Watch your mouth, she’s literally right there.” Ronan shifted from foot to foot, chewing on his lower lip in irritation and anxiety. “It’s distracting. And she takes up so much room. I mean, there are baby toys down our couch and you're always sleeping with her on your chest and that's just a safety concern to begin with. Her bottles are all over the drain tray and I almost put formula in the coffee this morning.”

Adam steeled his jaw and shoulders, glaring so hard Ronan felt it cut him to the quick. “If you want me to take a step back, I will. But I think you’re just throwing a fit. Here.” He crossed over to Ronan and held RG IV out. “You tell Gansey that you don’t want her around.”

Ronan took the baby, immediately cuddling her in the crook of his arm and letting her hold his other arm hostage to chew on his bracelets. “You gave her a bath the other day in the sink and you were baby talking her and I walked into a door.”

“I remember,” Adam said with a nod.

“And I don't even know which is worse--when you're talking her nonsense or when you're sitting there, asking her serious questions about whatever paper you're writing and nodding along seriously when she coos back at you.”

“I knew it!” Adam crowed. “You have baby fever! You’re not upset, you’re overwhelmed!”

Ronan glared at him. “I do not! I am not! It’s just that my boyfriend is always hugging on her and kissing her and you’re so good at it, I want to scream.”

“She’s our niece. I’m not gonna send her home just ‘cause you never learned how to process emotions.”

“You’re pursuing a doctorates! You should be living a distractionless life!”

“Oh, ‘cause you’re so distractionless.”

Ronan scowled at him for a second longer before sitting heavily on the couch. “I didn’t want kids. I wanted a family, wanted my family back. Kids felt like I was trying to replace them and I didn’t want to. And, y’know, bein’ gay and all. And I never thought I’d actually get to fall in love.”

Adam sat down next to him. For a moment, he just smoothed his thumb over the baby’s weirdly soft forehead. “I always thought I shouldn’t have kids,” he said eventually. “That I might end up too much like my dad. I figured he musta been in love at one point, he must’ve been halfway decent and it was just me who ruined everything for him, so I should avoid kids too.”

“Clearly you’d be a great father,” Ronan muttered.

“Yeah, I get that now. But I’ve grown a lot since then too. Who knows what might’ve been true if things in my life hadn’t happened the way that they did.”

“Adam, you’re a good man. You’re nothing like your father. You never would’ve been.”

Adam shrugged. “Yeah, but that wouldn’t have been enough to convince me to have kids, probably. But now I have you and I see myself in such a different light, I’m a different person. And you’re right, Ro. I am good at this. I love it so much.” Like she was trying to prove his point, RG IV let go of Ronan’s bracelets to grab Adam’s hand and chew on his thumb again.

“It’s a big change. And I’m having to come to terms with a lot of things about myself that I didn’t know, or didn’t want to know,” Ronan said. They sat in silence for a few moments, watching the baby who was keen on watching them too. She had a big, gaping grin for them each time she caught their eye. “I’m sorry I snapped at you,” Ronan eventually said.

“It’s alright,” Adam murmured, leaning into his side. “I know you didn’t mean it. And we don’t have to make any kind of plans, Ro. I mean, this is literally the first time we’re talking about it. It’s not like we should be at an adoption agency tomorrow morning.”

“I could dream us a kid,” Ronan said immediately, like he was anticipating Adam’s response. “A little kid with your hair and my eyes and your freckles and--”

Adam pressed his hand over Ronan’s mouth. The baby watched intently. “You can’t dream them. I can’t lose you both in one moment.”

Ronan sagged under Adam’s hand and his eyes lowered before he nodded. “I won’t. I promise,” he murmured. He met Adam halfway in a kiss and the baby giggled between them.

Two days later, Ronan ran through the door, breathless and terrified. “Adam? Where are you? Are you okay?” he asked, rounding into the living room with a panicked look on his face. He saw RG IV first, asleep in some mini-bed on the couch, perfectly safe and happy. Then his eyes found Adam, and his face, and the already mottled bruise down half of it. “Oh my God,” he breathed, crashing to his knees in front of Adam.

“Please don’t wake her up. She was so freaked out, I thought she’d never go to sleep,” Adam groaned, leaning back in the couch and replacing an icepack on his face.

“What happened, Parrish?” Ronan asked, voice still tight with worry.

“I was chasing her around the house and I ran into the french doors on the other side of the kitchen. One was open and one was shut, but I was looking down at her and I didn’t see it.”

“Adam, you look like you got hit by a baseball bat. Move your hand, let me see.”

Adam sighed and sat up, obediently pulling the ice away. Ronan hissed in sympathy as his cold fingers probed at the bruise. “Did you clean these cuts?” he asked, tracing two fingers down either side of the gash that ran from the top of Adam’s forehead to his eyebrow and then picked up again at his cheekbone, a perfect visualization of the edge of the door.

“No, I didn’t have time. It was all I could do to get some paper towel on it to stop the bleeding,” he explained.

Ronan flicked his opposite temple. “I’ll go get the alcohol and some bandages,” he said. “How’s your head feel?”

“Hurts like hell,” Adam admitted.

“We should take you to an emergency clinic. You might have a concussion.”

“I don’t have a concussion. Besides, I’ve lived without getting them diagnosed before.”

“Doesn’t matter. You have to go get checked out.”

“We can’t take a baby to a med clinic in the middle of flu season.”

“Then she can go to her grandmother’s place.”

“You really got used to leaving kids with them, huh? Having withdrawals, Lynch?” Adam teased softly.

Ronan shoved Adam’s shoulder just as softly and got up to go to the medical cabinet. When he got back, Adam was rocking the mini-bed, hand pressed over the baby’s chest as she clung onto his index and pinky fingers.

“When I ran into the door, I knew I’d hurt myself pretty bad,” he said as Ronan sat himself next to him. “I was in pain, I couldn’t think, my vision had gone a little black, I was bleeding immediately. And she’d gone running off still and all I could think about was how badly she could’ve been hurt if she’d hit the door instead of me. I mean, she was running full speed. And she’s fast. It’s part of why I wasn’t paying attention. I didn’t want her to run away from me and be able to hide.

“But I could only see her running into the door and how small and fragile she is. She noticed I wasn’t chasing her and she came toddling back and she crawled into my lap and I just...hugged her so tight. I was so scared.”

“Nothing happened to her, Adam,” Ronan said, setting aside the alcohol wipes and grabbing neosporin. “She’s totally fine. Look at that little face.”

Adam sighed and rubbed his hand against her chest and tummy. “She was so sweet about it. She pointed up at my face and pouted out her little lip. She really freaked out when I carried her in here and kept wincing and stuff.”

“Adam. Adam. Look at me. Look.” Ronan turned Adam’s face to his. “She’s okay. And you’re gonna be okay. This wasn’t a tragedy.”

“It could’ve been, Ro.”

“But it wasn’t. Hey, look. You did good, alright? You took care of her, got her down for a nap even.”

“It was already nap time. That’s why I was trying to wear her out.”

Ronan snorted out a laugh, which made Adam smile, a little begrudgingly. He finished bandaging Adam’s face and leaned over to kiss the corner of his mouth. “You did good.”

“There’s still so much we don’t know, Ro.”

Ronan shrugged. “Sure. We’re twenty five and haven’t dealt with a baby until her. We’ve got a learning curve. But, hey, at least we get to practice with the best baby ever.”

Adam smiled over at the baby and nodded. “She’s pretty cool.”

“Gonna be cooler for knowing us.”

Adam rolled his eyes and leaned over to kiss Ronan again. “Well, not so much for knowing you.”

“Now I’m definitely gonna drag your ass to a med clinic.”

“I might let you. To set a good example for her.”

Ronan hummed and kissed him again. “One day you’re gonna do something for me and I’m gonna keel over.”

“Yeah, I’ve never done anything for you,” Adam agreed sarcastically. “You have a hard life.”

“It’s getting better.”

Adam stole another kiss. “The best is yet to come.”

“You’re a damn sap, Parrish,” Ronan murmured against his mouth.

[cripplecharacters]

What would a real experience in a psychiatric ward be like? Lots of sites say its good but they seem to be from non-patients. Do you also have any/know where I can find more reliable resources?

yeah, they’re awful. i’ll give my experiences, but they’re pretty intense. 

tw psychiatric abuse, suicide mention, sex ment, conversion therapy(?) under the cut. i’ll be getting a little personal and a little painful. a lot personal. i want to be clear: the only people these places help are those with unipolar depression and anxiety and EVEN THAT is only if you do everything they say and act the way they want. and are above the age of 35. and are nice to them. i take that back: it doesn’t matter what you have, if you don’t do whatever they say then they don’t help you.  i don’t actually mind giving my experience because venting is good.my experience is heavily tied to my being lgbtq/queer, but that by no means was the focus.

now, this is all worse-case… i’m sure there’s people who work at these places who are good people, but there’s bound to be people in the replies with their own horror stories and i recommend they share said stories and that you read them. and i do mean horror stories. first of all, it depends on the ward. short term facilities completely reduce your sense of freedom down to nothing because all they want is to make sure you aren’t going to kill yourself or someone else. in several places you are required to have a psych evaluation after a suicide attempt that lands you in the ER, some places skip it and just toss you into a short term facility. most people stay in those facilities for about a week at most, then move on to a long term facility if they need to stay longer. generally you get tossed in a room and have to wait until a counselor can see you, they usually make you go to their ‘group therapy’ which, in short term facilities, is pretty weak since most everyone there is exhausted and/or actually having a breakdown, but if you don’t go to groups they can mark you down as non-compliant and it’ll make it harder for you to be cleared to leave.the nurses can try to be sympathetic, but most of them have kind of reduced patients down to moving faces. they aren’t really sympathetic because to them, you’ll be gone in a few days, and your panic and fear will go away like it always does, and it’s not their problem. sure, they can handle a crisis- but they really aren’t all that kind and tend to get annoyed easily if patients don’t comply since they see so many patients they’ve stopped seeing them as individuals and just as nervous animals to be calmed, drugged, and booted out. sometimes the counselors will diagnose you with something completely off base and change all your meds before kicking you out, then you have to have everything changed back. seriously, if you don’t want to go to the groups, they make sure you know that it’ll keep you there longer. it doesn’t matter if you’re exhausted and want to rest. they made us go out and do “stretches” and lie down on linoleum. i don’t like touching the floor. they made me do it anyway. i can’t be still for long periods of time doing nothing. they made me do it anyway. granted, i was 14 and in the minors ward at that time, but still. if you’re too sick to eat, they mark it down and they’ll start breathing down your back about eating disorders. if you don’t do whatever you’re told, they usually imply you’ll have to stay longer. that’s essentially how they keep control. there’s a lot of ‘how’s your mood today’ and fake concern that hides that they’re just getting your info and wanting to move on. kids wards are especially horrible. they act like everyone there is a complete brat that is actively trying to cause trouble and they can and will make you sit in your room with nothing to do. 

also they WILL just change your medicine. the second place i went to as a minor just decided i didn’t need my stimulants, they didn’t believe in giving stimulants to people during nonwork days. they didn’t consult with me OR MY PARENTS, they just didn’t give me the medicine i’ve been on since i was five. adhd meds aren’t the types to cause withdrawal, but they keep me calm, awake, and alert, and when i’m not those things there really isn’t much being done. my mom went ballistic and pulled me out of that facility because they decided to screw with my medicine without asking anyone.

it’s pretty unanimous in any of these facilities that they think they are Always Right. ALWAYS. they can never ever be wrong. giving a 17 year old one of the most potently sedative antipsychotics out there instead of one less intense? they were absolutely in the right. thorazine WILL knock you out completely. i slept for hours on the couch in the rec room and it was my fault for not going to groups that day. 

i went to a long term facility literally a week after i turned 18. i had been told before i fit a lot of bpd symptoms and it was likely i had it, so i communicated that- i also communicated the horribly toxic and messed up friend situation i had been in the past two years, and i also communicated that i was asexual- big. mistake. they threw me into groups about healthy relationships and the counselor told me to my face that ‘sex is the most important part of intimacy’ and they kept drilling that i would forever be unhappy and toxic unless i listened and obeyed their concepts of healthy relationships and sex. again, i had literally just turned 18. most of the people in the facility had an average age of 35. i went there to process trauma and abuse and was treated like i needed to ‘get over’ my struggles in relationships- not the struggles that were actually there, like being unable to stand up for myself and communicate my needs, oh no- for my apparent resistance to intimacy and trust. those places medicalize the fuck out of being lgbtq- i had to also sit and go in depth about my dysphoria only for them to look at me funny (sorry nonbinary dysphoria weirds you out? my therapist understands it fine?) and continually gaslight me over and over about my experiences, my attraction, who i was attracted to and how- it was as though they had absolutely no idea how to interact with anyone lgbtq that wasn’t cis and gay and middle aged. i said i knew who i was: nonbinary, asexual, trans, not attracted to men: they used my close friendship that had been horribly toxic and traumatic with someone who wasn’t even a guy but who used he/him (or any) pronouns to try and convince me i was actually in love with him, because the concept of toxic friendships and relationships that aren’t romantic and are still painful exist. i still don’t know if they were trying to convince me i was a gay man or a lesbian, the trans thing confused them and they went back and forth with me not accepting my body or me not accepting being trans (i said i was trans?) if they do not immediately understand it, they want to make you say you’re something they do understand, because that way they’ll still be right. 

the gaslighting is something.a lot of these long term places (at least the one i went to) are meant for people older than the age of 35. they are meant for cishet people with depression. if you have issues that cannot be resolved with the treatment they give cishet people with depression, screw you. there WAS a trans guy in the ward who was given a decent amount of respect when they didn’t want him to talk about being trans in groups. they encouraged disclosure and they wanted to know everything. and again: you HAD to go to the groups, no matter how uncomfortable you are there. there’s not a lot of support for people who have disorders that Will Never go away- it’s just “coping strategies” for unipolar depression and anxiety and sometimes ptsd groups that i didn’t get to go to because i was too busy learning about sex and relationships. they acted like i was the one who could fix all my problems and i just needed to take charge and accept things and be kind to my inner child, but i’m a person with two personality disorders and severe dissociation. some things will NEVER go away, you can only learn how to manage symptoms as they come.and honestly i don’t think they even had very good depression and anxiety treatment. i feel bad for the people under the age of 25 who went there for depression treatment and were told it was something they could fix on their own. it’s not. 

these places are often old fashioned in that manner. the second you mention BPD, they go completely off the rails with treating you like you’re a menace to your relationships and you need to fix yourself before it’s too late. but that’s another story about how much BPD is stigmatized.  

also, they made me stay in a room with someone who snored despite the many free rooms. i know it meant ‘less rooms to clean’ but i have profound sleep issues and i’m autistic and have misophonia. i wanted to go out and sleep in on the couches in the open area but they just gave me earplugs and made me go back to bed. no sympathy. no sympathy for panic attacks or people dissociating. they shoved essential oils under my nose when i dissociated and i nearly hacked up a lung, those things are awful. 

you can’t just be left alone. you are NEVER alone, you can’t go and be quiet and be left alone, it is constant. you are stuck there and you cannot leave no matter how they attempt to sugar coat it: even if you went there willingly, they can keep you there if they say you’re a danger to yourself. they will check on you constantly if you want to be alone because you can’t want to be alone without being a danger to yourself, according to them. it’s not like people are autistic sometimes. it is IMMENSELY, unbelievably stressful. there is no being alone, they make you keep doors open, they make you viewable at all times- i can understand why, to an extent, but they have absolutely no sympathy for how you feel and don’t usually try to accommodate you either, so you just have to suffer through it. there are a million ways the rules to protect people could be better handled, but that would require being more one on one with a patient and actively being sympathetic to an individual’s needs, and you’ll just be leaving in a few weeks anyways, so why should they bother? there’s really absolutely no sympathy or compassion for the patients because they keep telling us to look at the big picture- when most of us are stuck in the here and now and the pain we are currently going through. 

anyways, i got bitter and angry, but that’s most of my experience. i have a lot of blurry memories i can’t really remember as bits and pieces, it’s all just one solid blur of six weeks of incredible stress. i hated every second and i learned absolutely nothing there because i’m not a 40 year old with depression, i was a traumatized teenager with several serious disorders. they were NOT equipped and they were stuck 30 years in the past. i was gaslit most of my time there about my relationships and my sexuality and my gender, about my illnesses and my life and my feelings- they’ll sit down and tell you in a gentle voice that you’re just stressed out and it’ll be okay, but then they don’t actually do anything to encourage that or help you be okay. they just claim to know how you feel, then insist on how you feel, then threaten you if you get mad. 

i honestly hated that place so much. there’s no compassion. they try to make it homey but it’s really just throwing a blanket on how they see the patients feelings as temporary and inconsequential.

I left learning absolutely nothing. i’ve gone further with my personal therapist than i’ve ever, ever went with the facility because she actively listens, respects, and understands me. 

there’s no respect in these places. none. they are for people with easily palatable anxiety and depression- if you have severe psychotic depression? you’re screwed. if you’re severely depressed and suicidal? you’re screwed. if you have constant panic attacks? you’re screwed. i mean the most basic concepts of those disorders, no room for anyone else. 

anyways.

as usual, reddit has a lot of first-person experiences to check out; there’s no doubt some about psych wards. this may be non conventional, but there’s a webcomic about an inpatient facility called ‘fresh meat’ that might be useful to look at. it’s about a 17 year old with depression who has to go to a psych ward. it’s really viscerally uncomfortable in all the ways these places are, and i frankly cannot recommend it enough if you want a good idea of how those places work (the author is mentally ill themself.) it made me a little ill how well it captured the dehumanization and gaslighting, even if it’s fiction, i think it’s worth a look if you want more ideas.  also check the post replies for people with their own experiences. -mod a

[what-even-is-thiss]

Addictive Personality

I have an addictive personality. No, that doesn’t mean my personality is awesome and people like me so much that they can’t stay away. It means I get addicted to things very, very easily. Addictive personalities run in my family and I was lucky enough to get some help in learning how to avoid super harmful addictions and get clean when you do get addicted to something. So if you have an addictive personality or suspect that you might, here’s some stuff to keep in mind:

Be extremely mindful when trying party drugs like alcohol, marijuana, LSD, and the like. Take small amounts at first. If you find your body is telling you to keep taking the drug or you can’t be sociable without it, then stop. Throw all of that drug that you own away or give it away. You need to be able to live without it. If you can’t live without it and it’s not necissary to your health then you’re addicted. Get it out of your life.

People will tell you that stuff like weed and LSD and other stuff isn’t addictive. For people with addictive personalities potentially anything can be addictive. My dad once got addicted to cough drops. There are people that are addicted to eating mattress stuffing or pulling their hair out or drinking blood. Don’t give into peer pressure. Be careful.

If you allow yourself to have a relatively harmless addiction like to coffee or social media or diet coke be mindful of how much of your life it’s taking up. If you miss a major life event because you’re scrolling through Tumblr or had to go to Starbucks it’s probably time to cut back. If your family and friends are worried about you it’s probably time to cut back.

You will become jealous of the people that can try things and not immediately become addicted to them. You will also become very irritated when they ask why you don’t “just stop” or wonder why you don’t drink at parties. Wanting to choke these people is understandable but please don’t do it. Take a deep breath instead.

If you drink it’s a good idea to limit yourself. That limit is different for everyone. I know that if I drink more than a few times a month I’ll be in danger so I only drink on holidays and two other times a month. For some people limiting looks like allowing themselves one drink a day or only drinking on weekends. However you limit keep in mind that there’s no such thing as a functioning alcoholic. You need to be sober a majority of the time. Do not be drunk every day and do not be buzzed at work or school.

Withdrawal is different for everyone and it’s often different depending on the type of thing you’re trying to get clean/sober from. Sometimes it’s a constant need, sometimes it’s like an itch, sometimes it can turn into depression, sometimes anxiety. You might get moody and angry. You might feel like the world is crashing down around you or you might just be mildly irritated. If you are recovering from certain hard drugs parts of your body might stop being as numb as before and it might be physically painful. This is all normal and you can get through it. It will last anywhere from a week to several months depending on what you’re recovering from and how long you were on it but you can get through it. And remember that there’s no shame in taking a sick day.

Relapses happen. They’re not an indication that you’ve failed. Recovery isn’t a linear path. Some days you might dip down again. You might even fall back to the bottom. This doesn’t mean you’re doomed. It means you’re having a bad spell. You can still get clean.

If you can’t get rid of the thing you’re addicted to then ask someone you trust to remind you and keep them away if they can. When I realized I was hooked on opioids I gathered all the opioid pain meds we had in the house and handed them to my dad and told him to keep them away from me. And while I was in withdrawal he definitely had to keep them away from me. And he still does. Especially when I feel that itch and go looking for them again.

If you do get addicted to something on accident whether it be coffee or diet coke or actual coke or self harm or eating mattresses know that it’s not because you’re stupid and it’s not because you’re a bad person. Mistakes happen to the best of us. Assess the situation and figure out if you need professional help. If you decide to get out of it by yourself then let someone you trust know so they can check up on you. Online friends are acceptable for this if you have no other option but having someone in person to wrestle things out of your hands is preferable.

If you’re addicted to something illegal remember that medical professionals aren’t cops. Be honest with them.

I see a lot of mental health posts on Tumblr for people with OCD, Depression, anxiety, etc.but never ones about people with addictive personalities. So remember that having an addictive personality doesn’t make you a weak or bad person and if you have gotten addicted to something there is hope! There’s always hope. One of my favorite stories about getting clean comes from my dad. He was quitting smoking and went to a support group. Someone asked the woman leading the support group “Don’t you still think about smoking?” and she replied “Yes, I do think about it but it doesn’t trouble me.”

That point of getting to where it no longer troubles you is always possible. No matter who you are or how long you’ve been doing it or what it is you’re addicted to. Stay safe. Be mindful. I love you guys.

[mercifuldeaths]

Vertigo: Chapter 2: Jacked Up

Vertigo: Chapter 2

Jacked Up

This fic is in progress.

Jim Mason x Reader

Warnings for this chapter: Graphic descriptions of drug use.

Summary: Jim’s very good at hiding his vices, except, that is, with Medina.

Notes: More exposition. I’m sorry guys but the drama is worth the wait. This is Jim’s story-Y/N is a component, but this is a story about Jim’s journey. Thank you all so much for the positive responses from Ch 1! 

Word Count: 2.6k

Jim would see Y/N at the beach pretty regularly, not that he was looking for her. He couldn’t help that his room had a perfect view of the bay and whenever Medina was going for dawn patrol with her he would have his coffee outside, waiting for Sandy to be awakened by the other’s starting their day in the waves.

It seemed that Medina had finally had a friend, which made him exceedingly happy. Jim recalled the nights Medina would slip into his room and lay on the unmade bed asking why nobody liked her. He didn’t have an answer for her, or rather he did, but didn’t have the heart to tell her.

He couldn’t help but constantly be reminded of how much stronger she was. Of course, she was heartbroken that she didn’t have friends, but she did have the strength to not change herself for others’ approval. Jim couldn’t say the same for himself.

Coming in from his coffee- she wasn’t out there that day- he picked up his backpack and jacket.

“‘Dina,” he whispered, ear pressed to her door. He almost fell over when the door was ripped away from his face.

“Hey, we’re running late, let’s go,” she responded. She managed to smack him with her backpack as they snuck out the door, avoiding Sandy.It was a miracle that she even let him go to his classes.

The pair hopped into Jim’s car, a new Nissan SUV from Phil. A graduation gift his father had called it but Jim knew what it really was. It was a “Sorry we’ve been shitty parents and let you overdose, but here’s a material item that’ll make up for it” gift. Medina got a smaller Volkswagen beetle that she absolutely adored.

It had been three and a half years since his overdose. It really wasn’t even that bad, he thought. He had passed out at home, Sandy overreacted and he spent a night in the hospital. Then Phil proceeded to tell him that they wouldn’t be going to Paris and that he’ll do better.

Admittedly, it had been slightly better. With Sandy back on her meds she wasn’t as prone to mood swings and temper tantrums meaning Jim had slightly more freedom. It didn’t allow him to escape his responsibilities as ‘man of the house’ but things were almost manageable. Almost.

After everything, he had to be more careful. Withdrawal had been a nightmare but when his mind cleared he found that the memory was fuzzy. Turning back to booze, then weed, then pills, then coke, then everything at once, had been an easy decision. This time, though, he needed to be careful.

A few weeks into sobriety, his mother would inevitably forget about Jim’s problems, replacing herself as the center of attention in her mind, so hiding it from her had been a joke. “Oh, I’m just tired, mom. Long day at school,” he’d say as his eyes fluttered shut, laying on the couch with a comfortable blanket of haze clouding his thoughts. She ate that shit up.

His father was even easier. He had still moved out, but his relationship with Ava had ended a while back, now seeing some other redhead. He was never around, not that Jim wanted to see him anyway. But with him being a doctor, he had to make sure he was sober around the man. He’d recognize all the signs, especially knowing Jim was a user.

Medina. She was...complex. He had tried to hide it from her, he really did. She found out almost immediately and hadn’t said anything but he could see the pain in her eyes. The only response she gave was a “Be careful with that shit, Jim. You don’t know what you’re playing with,” bitten out on his way back to his room from the bathroom where he had just taken an oxy. All the warning he needed was written on her face every time she looked at him. He tried to ignore it, for his own sake.

It’s because of this that when she said, “Is it getting bad again? Please tell me,” while biting into an egg McMuffin on their way to campus that morning Jim almost crashed his shiny new car. She had begged to get breakfast on the way and he could never say no to his sister.

“What are you talking about, Medina?” he rolled down the window and looked out the windshield pretending to focus on the traffic in front of him.

“I know what you’re doing. I’m not stupid. But just tell me if it’s that bad again,” she tried to seem casual, sipping her iced coffee but it sounded a little too rehearsed.

“I’m fine. You don’t need to worry,” his teeth grit together. Turning into the parking lot of their university

“‘Cause I know when mom gets weird you get weird. I don’t think she’s taking her medicine again- since dad’s new girlfriend,” she hesitated not knowing what reaction Jim would have.

His fist slammed against the steering wheel, making Medina jump, spilling coffee on her corduroys. “I’m not ‘getting weird’ or whatever, okay?” he yelled. “Yeah, mom’s fucking crazy again, it’s whatever.” He pulled into a parking space a little too quickly and the car lurched.

“You know I didn’t mean it like that,” her voice was smaller than she wanted it to be.

Jim’s jaw was still tense, teeth clenched. He took a deep breath through his nose and rolled his eyes back. “I know you didn’t. I’m sorry for yelling,” he looked over to her and stuck his tongue out a little, the way that usually made her laugh.

She wasn’t laughing. “So it’s gonna be like that, then,” he leaned over and poked her in the ribs, right in the spot that tickled most.

“Jim, stop!” she shrieked, attempting to get away from his long arms. Her laughter bounced in the car. They both smiled.

“Now, go. I know you have ‘Adult Coloring’ or some bullshit,” he loved to make fun of her customized major, full of classes she was taking to one day do what she wanted most, travel and surf. It was a lot of photography, journalism, and some random classes for credits.

“It’s ‘portraiture’, I’ll have you know,” she called over he shoulder before closing the door. Through the open window, she smirked, “Have fun with your blocks or whatever you do.”

He let out a groan that turned into a laugh, “It was once!” he shouted to her back, walking to campus’ central. He had been trying to figure out the flow and perception of this one project he was working on, so yeah he brought out some Legos to visualize it. That’s architecture for you.

What she’ll never mention is that she distracted him and then proceed to spend the entire night on the living room floor trying to one-up each other's towers. Jim using what he had learned from four years of design and structural classes while Medina relied on ‘just staking them up until they fall.’ Her’s was taller by two blocks and she will never let it go.

Grabbing his backpack he decided to pull the small baggie of pills out and place them in an empty plastic cup, hidden under the seat. Out of sight, out of mind. He was almost off his last bender and held a small glimmer of hope that this would be the last time. The back of his mind was already itching for another fix, reminding him to be even more careful around Medina.

Planning for a long day in the library, still trying to find a topic for his senior thesis, he grabbed Medina’s unfinished iced coffee and headed into the beating sun with a brave face painted on.

--

No. No. No. He coughed up more bile, spilling from his throat into the toilet in front of him. It was disgusting, he knew, but he needed to rest his head on the seat of it, cool porcelain taming the heat that coursed through him. He dry heaved this time, causing the head-splitting migraine to reappear.

“Jim?” his mother knocked on the bathroom door. “Jimmy, are you okay?” The handle jiggled but it was locked.

“I’m fine, mom,” he breathed through his nose, trying to stare straight ahead to stop the room from spinning.

“I can hear you in there. Are you sick, honey?”

“Food poisoning. I’m fine.” Short words. Short sentences. The sound of his own voice making him want to smash his head on the tile, hopefully blacking out.

“Let me in,” she demanded. The thought of her being around him made him retch again, this time probably for the last time as there was nothing left to vomit up. But, from experience, he knew to sometimes just go along with Sandy rather than fighting. Especially when he was feeling like this, he had no fight left in him.

He crawled over to the door and managed to unlock it, Sandy not missing a beat and plowing into the room. “Jim!” She kneeled next to him and immediately put her hand over his sweaty forehead. Admittedly, her cool hand felt nice.

“It’s just food poisoning, mom. I’m fine,” he whispered and leaned into her- an instinct leftover from childhood. “Just need to sleep.” Chills wracked his body but sweat was clinging to every pore, the dark circles under his eyes almost red. His irises still shined a brilliant blue.

Sandy put her arm around him and helped to bring him to his feet. They shuffled into his room, his mother rambling about how California sushi can’t be trusted because so many of the people eat it, its mass produced.

Jim wished she would shut the fuck up.

He didn’t fully recognize how, but he was laying in his bed, tee shirt removed, blankets pushed off the mattress. In the fetal position, he slowly rocked himself willing the nausea away. He nearly lept out of his skin when Medina suddenly appeared, replacing Sandy.

“He likes to be alone when he’s sick,” Medina tried to reason to their mother, recalling when they were kids how Jim would always shy away from attention when he was sick, preferring to suffer in silence.

“He doesn’t like to be alone, he likes to be with you,” their mom spit out and turned on her heel, leaving Medina in the doorway holding a glass of water.

She made her way closer Jim, placing the glass on the nightstand. Perching on the side of the bed, she ran a hand through his sweat soaked hair, grimacing a little. He sighed under her touch and closed his eyes again.

“Thank you,” she whispered, mindful of his migraine. His eye cracked open and managed to convey his confusion. “I know what this is.”

“It’s food poisoning, that’s what it is. It’s that bullshit sushi we stopped for. Thanks for that,” he scoffed. She knew he didn’t mean any of it, that he was hurting. She could see his muscles twitch under his thin skin. They reminded her of springs, coiled and ready. His eyes screwed shut again and he nuzzled into her thigh. She could hear the small cries he was trying to hold back.

“We had the same thing for lunch, Jim. We split it,” she observed, letting him know his jig was up. She felt his head shake.

“Okay, then. It’s the stomach flu. Same thing, Jesus. Let it go,” he attempted to growl out but the intent wasn’t there. She held out the glass of water she had brought in and he was never more grateful for their twin telepathy ‘thing’. He managed to prop himself up and take a few slow sips. “Thank you,” he mumbled and handed the glass back to his sister, relishing the cool that washed down his throat.

Laying on his back he tried to stare ahead again, this time at the blank ceiling above him. He briefly thought about going outside to look up at the sky, but remembered that any sort of movement was practically impossible at the moment. His body ached as he had just run a marathon. Joints tight, frozen in place, he continued to lay on his back trying to regulate his breathing. 5 seconds in, 5 seconds out. He counted.

Medina continued to run her cool hands over his head and face. It only felt good because it was her. His other half, a strange extension of himself. Or probably he was the extension-Medina was already her own person. She didn’t need him anymore. His thoughts made him start rocking again, seeking any sort of primal comfort.

As if on cue, he felt the bed shift and she started to leave. Before she could, he managed to grab her wrist. “Don’t.” Only his lips moved. “Please.”

“I’ll be right back. I’m just getting more water,” she went to pull the blankets over him as the had shivers started despite his constant sweating. He nodded, content with her answer.

He thought that maybe he had finally started to drift off to sleep but was awakened by yelling. Sandy. At Medina, of course. Their shouts were muffled by the door and the fact that he couldn’t really think straight helped a bit, but his head still throbbed.

Sandy was going off about how Medina was always so judgemental towards her. Medina was snapping back with questions of why she wasn’t the ‘favorite’ twin. Sandy didn’t bother trying to hide it and plainly stated that she liked Jim better because he cared for her. Loved her. Medina started ranting about how this was just like last time. Last time, when things were Not Good. When Jim, the favorite, was Not Good. She suggested that maybe Sandy wasn’t that great of a mother if she didn’t love one of her children and couldn’t even manage to keep the one she liked from spiraling, practically killing himself.

Jim ground his teeth willing them to stop.

“This isn’t like last time for god’s sake,” Sandy screeched. “And it wasn’t my fault. Jim’s fine. Just like he was last time. It was a stupid mistake, once. He hasn’t touched that shit since, I’ll have you know,” she huffed. “Don’t make things worse than they are.”

Medina wasn’t about to out Jim. She was just trying to drop subtle enough hints that maybe Sandy would get the picture that things weren’t all that great.

Medina and Jim knew what was really going on in the other room. He was trying to detox from everything he had been taking in for the past few weeks. The two of them knew, and that’s the only thing that mattered.

Jim continued to hear them screaming from one thing to another. It was Sandy treating Jim like a husband, then it was how Phil was a bad father, then it was school, then Jim, then back to Phil, then Medina’s apathy, then back to Jim.

It always went back to Jim.

In a further attempt to block it out he rolled onto his side to his body’s dismay. Everything screamed in protest. When he opened his eyes he was greeted with the almost empty glass of water resting on the nightstand. His eyes narrowed in on the draw. Oh shit. Oh fuck.

To his horror and delight, he remembered the two small tablets he had pushed in the back of the drawer. For emergencies only, he told himself when he had placed them there. They went completely forgotten for so long he couldn’t even properly remember what they were. As if a puppet on a string, he propped himself up and opened the drawer, feeling the contents with long fingers. He felt the thin plastic and pulled the baggie out.

Directly depositing both of the pills on the back of his tongue, he used the last sip of water his sister had brought to swallow them. Shortly thereafter, he finally fell asleep.

Tags: @langdonsdemon @coloursunlimited @thecinderellaposts @michael-langdon-appreciation @langdonalien @tarkofetis @stupidocupido @katiekitty261

Special thanks to some ultimate babes: @michael-langdon-appreciation @thecinderellaposts @katiekitty261 You are all so amazing and keep me fed with only the best Jim content. Thank you <3 

[thisisabouta]

This is About a... Downfall.

It’s happening. I’ve been taking Lamotrigine consistently for 8 months or so. Maybe longer. This is the longest i’ve consistently taken medication in a long time. It’s Lamotrigine along with Doxepin, Hydroxyzine and Gabapentin.

This is where my head has been during these last 8 or so months. I was driving on the freeway, about to merge and as I saw my car getting closer to the concrete barrier, I decided to go faster instead of slowing down for the car that had the right a way. I was about to crash into the side of this fucking car but I just kept going. The car to my right had to slam their brakes and I waited to hear the loud crash from the cars behind them because there was no way this wasn’t about to be a 5 car pile up.

God was there because nothing happened but that was way too fucking close to a catastrophe. The car that I cut off trailed me for awhile and pulled up next to me, I’m sure they were trying to cuss me out, flip me off, something... Whatever they did, I didn’t see it but it was justified. I would’ve been fucking heated if it had been the other way around. I cut people off all the time. I drive like an asshole, whatever. This was different.

I’ve been disassociating for weeks now. In that moment, I could see everything that was happening but my brain was not telling my body the correct way to react. I knew to slow down but I couldn’t. Everything i’ve been doing lately has had a delay. 1 minute. 5 minute. 10 minutes. My processing is delayed. My speech stumbles out of my mouth and doesn’t make sense. I’ve been blacking out and losing moments of time for years now but not to this severity. Now it’s like i’m blacking out and not fully coming back from it.

I’m around people constantly. I’m in a position of “leadership” at work so I have to direct and plan, be on alert at all times. My work day now consists of getting asked questions that I can’t comprehend fast enough so I stand there with a blank stare on my face, slowly losing my credibility. It’s worse because some of the things i’m being asked, I absolutely know the answer to but my brain just cannot get there. I can’t focus on ANYTHING. I know i’m walking around in circles (literally) and I know other people see it but I can’t stop. This circling shit happens a lot but it’s picked up in frequency. After I realize what i’m doing, it’s already done. People are trying to get my input and ideas and all I can do is squeeze my hands together and stare straight ahead, hoping my brain will figure out that I need it to work.

When I try to read, I can’t. This isn’t all the time but it happening occasionally is already too much. Words are not always making sense to me. I cant understand what i’m seeing and I have to go over things multiple times. It’s the same with counting. I shouldn’t have to use a calculator to add 30 and 20 or hold five $5 bills in front of me and stare at them until I realize what it is that i’m looking at. It’s embarrassing to even acknowledge that this is happening.

I’ve been losing things more and more everyday. I’ve had a habit of losing my keys. I lost my work keys at my last job, three times. My new job, i’ve already lost my keys once and it hasn’t even been 2 months that i’ve been working there. When my coworker texted me telling me that she found them, I just wanted to cry. That sounds ridiculous but having those keys is a huge fucking responsibility. I can get fired for losing them. Somehow I escaped that at my last job but it was a constant fear that I had. This last time, I hadn’t used the keys at all that day and I still managed to lose them. I retraced my steps and I had not taken them off of my keychain. Things like that don’t help me overcome this engrained idea I have that the universe is against me. Those keys represent me trying to do everything I can to keep it together while everything still managing to fall apart.

I’ve been forgetting to pay bills that i’ve been paying on the same day, every month for years. I’ve been forgetting people’s names. I can’t always comprehend what people are saying when they’re talking to me... that’s been a big one. I had a customer walk to my register at work. I was looking down at something when he asked if he could pay for his merchandise (I found out later on). That’s not what I heard. It came out as mumbling so I just assumed he was making a comment about something that was left on the counter. From what I remember, I said “Oh... yeah...” and went back to what I was doing. He looked at the Associate next to me and she told him that there were registers at the front where he could pay (she was already helping someone). He walked to the front and it took me about 2 or 3 minutes to realize that he was asking if I could ring him up. And to add to that awesome moment, he glared at me for the rest of the time he was in the fucking store. Yes, one small incident but that’s nowhere near how many times something like that has happened. Someone will be talking to me and i’m literally catching about every third word they’re saying. You can only ask “what?” so many times before that person looks at you like you’re the dumbest person they’ve ever met.

Writing things down... i’ll go back and read over my notes. They make no sense. Things are spelled incorrectly. Everything’s scattered. Like someone else wrote it. I walk around feeling like i’m not apart of my surroundings. My surroundings are not reality, like walking through a Fun House with no fun in sight. It’s like i’m seeing everything in those mirrors that make everything look distorted. All I can do is stare and try to figure it out. I can only imagine what that looks like from the outside. People walking around me while I just stare. Standing there trying not to cry because i’m in public.

I’ve been hallucinating. That comes and goes. I’m still forgetting why I picked certain things up, or why I walked to a certain room or what I was going to tell someone. Things a lot of people do but usually with somewhat immediate recall. I’m not remembering these things til days later, if at all. That’s the more frustrating part. Very small, seemingly insignificant things are happening over and over and over again. It’s no longer an insignificant mishap, this shit is snowballing and affecting everything. I can’t manage a store if I can’t function like a normal, fucking human being. I talked to my Probation Officer about some of the things that were happening and she asked me what medications I was taking and if any of them were used to treat seizures. Gave her the list and two of them just so happen to be used to treat seizures. I already knew that was the case but didn’t think that they would cause this long, intense stream of side effects. I know all about the side effects of medicine. You’ll basically die if you take it and die if you don’t.

I’ve experienced the lighter ones. Nausea, dizziness, dry mouth. The usual shit. Not forgetting how to read a fucking sentence. To my POs knowledge, those drugs do cause a lot of neurological problems, much that make it feel like i’m disassociating. Most of these things had been happening prior to taking the medications but it got much worse over time. I read up on the side effects in detail when I got home and everything aligned. So [because I will control this situation as much as I possibly can] I stopped taking the two that were the main issue. Should anyone ever just stop taking their medicine without consulting their physician first? No. Did I do it anyway? Yes. Now i’m going thru the withdrawal. Besides me losing my fucking mind, the Lamotrigine was actually working. It was the first medication I had taken for my Bipolar that has ever had that positive of an effect on me. But that was at the expense of me literally going insane. It’s not going to matter if I feel better when i’m dead because I crashed my car into a wall. The risk does not outweigh the reward. It did not cure anything. It did not solve even half of my problems but it did make me feel better. Not taking the Gabapentin doesn’t make a difference.

Now i’m going thru the withdrawal. I have 11 drafts on here that i’ve tried to complete and publish over the past few months and they’re just sitting in there. I know the only reason i’m able to write this one is because i’m not on the meds right now. Now my heart hasn’t felt off beat for the past few days (that’s a difficult feeling to describe) but in return, i’m the angriest i’ve been in awhile. I got in an argument with one of my employees this morning and did not feel bad at all. I got into it with another ASM a few days ago. I feel my temper coming back.

I made an appointment with a new MD for next week. I need to start over. I made an appointment to see my current Psychiatrist and cancelled it. I’m done with that guy. He keeps throwing these random pills at me and it’s not working. Not that the next doctor isn’t going to do the same, exact thing but I made an appointment at a facility that offers “Advanced Integrative Medical Care”. Basically, they’re on some new age shit. I’ve been reading up on Ketamine Therapy for over a year and even though it scares the shit out of me, i’m not completely against the idea. They also offer Medical Marijuana. I am officially now in my last 3 month stretch of my house arrest and this shit has finally gotten difficult. The first few weeks were hard because I was still trying to figure out what I could get away with and apparently it’s a lot but now, I just need this shit to end. I’m getting restless. I’m scared too tho.

I’m still going to be on supervised probation for a year (based on good behavior) but I need to get back to... something. I can’t be sober and I don’t want to be. Weed has been fine. Good, enough. I’ve grown a liking to it and found some that actually relaxes me. Alcohol. I miss alcohol. I’ll forever miss alcohol. I’ll miss it even if (when) I start drinking again. It’s that important. Watching movies, seeing people drink to have fun, to relax, to be brave, to socialize. And yet, I shouldn’t engage in that. I know I can engage in good things but the drinking is what i’ve been told I should stay away from. I’m not going to stay away from it. Alcohol makes things better. I know it, the people who tell me not to drink know it. It’s there and I need it. Yes, the problem is that I abuse it. I don’t know if I can overcome that problem. I’m going to try. That sounds crazy and insane so... it’s just going to have to be crazy and insane.

There are other ways to deal with my problems and i’m trying to implement them and hang onto them. I need those things too but I can’t walk thru the world with this open wound that is my life, unarmed. Chemicals... drugs... my brain chemistry will never be right and if I know there’s something out there that will give me temporary relief, i’m taking it. I just have to put the recklessness aside. This time around was a lot. I pray that it was enough to set me straight. Or at least to keep me out of jail for the second time.

[lokilickedme]

Part 3 of Read By Loki Laufeyson - Fifty Shades of Grey

Posted originally on the Archive of Our Own (no longer available there) 

Rating:  Mature

Archive Warning:  No Archive Warnings Apply

Category:  F/M

Fandom:  Loki - Fandom, Loki (Marvel) - Fandom, The Avengers (MarvelMovies), Tom Hiddleston - Fandom

Relationship:  Loki/His Book, Ana/Christian

Character:  Loki, Loki Laufeyson, Loki (Marvel), Ana Steele, Christian Grey

Additional Tags:  Explicit Language, this book deserves its own warning tag, one that says DON'T READ ME, Explicit Sexual Content, lame and exceedingly silly descriptions of sex acts

Series:  Part 3 of Read by Loki Laufeyson

Stats:  Originally Published 2016-02-27   Words: 3386 (original version)

Part One:  The Night Manager

Part Two:  High Rise

   50 Shades of Grey, Read By Loki Laufeyson by lokilickedme 

Summary:  Loki reads 50 Shades and throws up multiple times. I would offer my apologies to E.L. James, but she doesn't deserve it. 

Notes:  See the end of the work for notes  

  This shitshow gets on the shaky road with a dedication that made the right side of my face twitch before the story even got started.  It's dedicated to "the master of my universe" and as of right this very moment I'm ready to preemptively toss it into the bathroom, not as reading material for my next luxury soak, but as a replacement for the empty roll of toilet paper that I keep forgetting to run to the store for.  Fuck me people, she didn't even capitalize "master" and ANY GOOD SUB KNOWS THAT NOT CAPITALIZING MASTER IS A MASSIVE SHOW OF DISRESPECT AND YOU DESERVE THE ASS BEATING YOU GET FOR IT - WITH ZERO AFTERCARE.  Don't ask me how I know that, but go ahead and fight me, this is a hill I’m willing to die on.  If this person is writing a book that's touted as an even remotely accurate accounting of a Dom/sub relationship, I can tell you right now, she doesn't know jack shit. 

So I've read a couple of pages and I'm already looking around for my seizure meds when I realize I don't take seizure meds.  I will after this, I might as well go ahead and call it in.  I'm to the part about Wanda the Volkswagon when my anticipatory boner not only goes away, but retracts so far up into my scrotum as a result of the most horrendous writing I've seen this side of Thor's second grade book report on Anne of Green Gables that I'm thinking I might just be female now.  I mean seriously?  This hurts.  I’m not even exaggerating, if you have a penis it’s going to draw up into your gall bladder.  If you have a vulva it’s going to need a vat of Burt’s Bees Extra Moisture Replenishing Salve and a bottle of cranberry capsules.  I’m not even female at the moment and this thing gave me a flaming UTI.

 I’m not sure Wanda, my old VW Beetle, would make the journey in time.  Oh, the Merc is a fun drive, and the miles slip away as I floor the pedal to the metal. 

People, this is a published book.  Someone got paid for this.  It got made into a movie.  I haven't even gotten to the sex yet and I'm already Google mapping monasteries within a one-hundred mile radius because I'm ready to take my vows.  No, this book hasn't made me believe in a higher power.  It has taken away my will to ever get laid again.

 The elevator whisks me with terminal velocity to the twentieth floor. 

Holy fucking shitballs people, terminal velocity by its very definition means someone is going to die.  Is this person wearing a pressurized speed suit?  Do they hand them to you at the door before you go into the elevator?  How does the building tolerate the mechanics of generating that kind of speed?  And if by some random blessing by some random god who won't be getting any thanks from me she actually survived this trip to the twentieth floor, her brains would be leaking out her asshole.  That's not the way to make a good first impression, sweetheart.  Take the fucking stairs next time.

 It’s a stunning vista, and I’m momentarily paralyzed by the view.  Wow. 

Yes, wow.  Paralysis is rarely ever momentary darling, and it does ugly things to pretty girls.  Like, rendering you a jelly-like heap on the floor because your muscles don't continue working while you're paralyzed.  Paralysis sort of means your muscles have stopped working. 

I've begun highlighting every word I come across that the author obviously doesn't know the definition to.  Fake it till you make it, right darling?  Five pages in and my yellow pen has died a violent death.

 I push open the door and stumble through, tripping over my own feet, and falling head first into the office. Double crap – me and my two left feet! 

YOU. 

HAVE. 

GOT. 

TO. 

BE. 

FUCKING. 

KIDDING. 

ME.

In what universe is this ridiculous cutesy sort of shit thought to be amusing?  The cliches are giving me hemorrhoids.  Me and my two left feet?  Not that I'm an expert on Earth terminology and phrasing, but I'm fairly certain people stopped saying shit like that around 1962.  And...I can't believe I'm being forced to say this, but - double crap??  I was already calling my brother a bilgesnipe’s vagina by the time I could crawl, I'm pretty sure the last time I said something as immature and amateurishly silly as double crap I was still in the womb and cursing in Morse Code.  I may actually have even still been a sperm in my father's left testicle.  How old is this writer?

 “Um. Actually–” I mutter.  If this guy is over thirty then I’m a monkey’s uncle.  In a daze, I place my hand in his and we shake.  As our fingers touch, I feel an odd exhilarating shiver run through me.  I withdraw my hand hastily, embarrassed.  Must be static.  I blink rapidly, my eyelids matching my heart rate. 

I'm sorry but I really don't even know where to start.  The Um. Actually- ?  Or the I'm a monkey's uncle?  Maybe it's the staccato pacing?  The elementary school sentence structure?  The fact that all but one sentence of that paragraph has the word I in it, sometimes multiple times?  She placed her hand in his and they shook - sort of like I'm shaking right now.  It's the seizures this damn travesty has provoked, honestly I should sue the author for my prescription costs.  And if that girl's eyelids matched her heart rate then I'm just envisioning one of those blinky-eyed cupie dolls strapped to a paint mixing machine.

 “I own my company.  I don’t have to answer to a board.”  He raises an eyebrow at me.  I flush. 

Yes darling, always do a courtesy flush when the stench is really vomit-inducing.  Like now.  I'm not even going to ask if this conversation is taking place in a bathroom because I can tell you honestly, the bathroom is right where it belongs.

 His voice is warm and husky like dark melted chocolate fudge caramel...or something. 

Something...like, maybe shit, perhaps?

 I shake my head to gather my wits. My heart is pounding a frantic tattoo - 

No darling, trust me, it's not.  A tattoo is something you draw on your body, there's no pounding involved unless you've done the drawing on your vagina.  And if you’re referring to the drum beat, then you should just say so because frankly this is meant to be a sex book and your readers aren’t going to be interested in Googling your sophomoric attempts at using interesting words.  And just as an aside, most humans are going to think of a Scottish marching band when you use that word in that context, and the last thing you want your readers thinking about while you’re sliding into a smut scene is men in plaid skirts blowing bagpipes.

 I am utterly thrown by the sight of him standing before me.  My memories of him did not do him justice.  He’s not merely good-looking – he’s the epitome of male beauty, breathtaking - 

Hold on a second, I wasn't aware I was in this book?  I must have been drunk.  I'm not sure that I would consent to this idiocy even if I was soused off my gourd, so I think I'm going to be filing a second lawsuit for character theft.

 - and he’s here.  Here in Clayton’s Hardware Store.  Go figure. 

Yes, go figure sweetiepie.  Everybody, even handsome people, need replacement U-joints for their toilets.  They come in handy when you're trying to flush books.

 Finally my cognitive functions are restored and reconnected with the rest of my body. 

Honey, cognitive functions aren't a part of your body, they're a part of your brain.  So unless your head fell off while you were walking around in Clayton's Hardware Store, I doubt this happened.  If it did, my condolences to Mr Clayton and the other shoppers, I know how traumatic that can be.

 And from a very tiny, underused part of my brain – 

You mean the whole thing?

 - probably located at the base of my medulla oblongata where my subconscious dwells – comes the thought: He’s here to see you. 

I just had another seizure.  It’s a sex book darling, stop trying to use seventy-five cent Merriam Webster words and settle for something along the lines of My fucking head exploded - trust me, at this point your readers will relate to that far more than to the concept of subconscious thought.  Or any thought at all.  And we all know it’s highly unlikely Miss Double Crap Wanda-driving headless-in-Clayton’s-Hardware store is capable of coming up with a term like medulla oblongata after that terminal velocity elevator ride.

 No way! I dismiss it immediately.  Why would this beautiful, powerful, urbane man want to see me?  The idea is preposterous, and I kick it out of my head.

 And now your head is completely empty, much like the author's, because that poorly constructed series of sentences was all that was rattling around in there. 

For the sake of moving this along, because I have something to say about literally every fucking sentence in this roll of rough-ass toilet paper, I'm going to skip to the first round of sex and see if anything improves.  Because that's what people do when things aren't going well, isn't it?  They have sex and see if it gets better?  And then if it doesn't, you kick them out and finish up with a fresh pack of batteries and a few minutes of Skinamax and when you wake up in the morning it'll be a whole new day, sunshine.  Because honestly, I just got to the part where her cheeks went the color of the Communist Manifesto and if I don't get to some penis and vagina action I'm going to kill myself.  Besides that, all this double crap inner monologue is starting to make my ballsack clench up. 

So alright people, I've got my lube and my right hand ready, let's get this party started shall we?

  "Does this mean you’re going to make love to me tonight, Christian?”  Holy shit.  Did I just say that? 

Well it certainly wasn't me.  Having medulla oblongata issues again, are we sweetheart?

 His mouth drops open slightly, but he recovers quickly.  “No, Anastasia it doesn’t.  Firstly, I don’t make love.  I fuck... hard." 

Finally, someone steps up.  Is that the sound of zippers headed south I hear?

 "Secondly, there’s a lot more paperwork to do, and thirdly, you don’t yet know what you’re in for.  You could still run for the hills.  Come, I want to show you my playroom.” 

Nope, my mistake.  Zippers firmly holding north.  How far is this fellow going to count?  Do people actually do that cheesy little “Firstly, secondly” speech tic all the way up to thirdly?  I usually only get to secondly before someone pops me in the mouth.  Somehow I have no trouble envisioning this obviously anal retentive Christian fellow proceeding right along to fourthly, fifthly, sixthly, seventhly...perhaps he has a numbers fetish to go along with that paperwork obsession of his.  If this is foreplay I'm leaving because math was never my strong point and I’ll be damned if I’m going to relive the hell of ninth grade just to get a two page smut scene.  If you want to have sex with me we get to firstly, I point to my zipper, and the game is on.  But he does get points for being forthright enough to come right out up front with the admission that he's such a rough fucker there have to be contracts involved.  Kudos my man.  Too bad he wrecked it by planting that playroom visual immediately after, because now all I can think about is a toybox full of Legos and a plastic xylophone.  Even I can't make anything kinky out of that.

 My mouth drops open.  Fuck hard!  Holy shit, that sounds so... hot.  But why are we looking at a playroom?  I am mystified.  “You want to play on your Xbox?” 

Yes darling, Fuck hard!  It sounds like a Bruce Willis movie, only this time he's not in an office building crawling through the ceiling or on an airplane fighting off terrorists, he's tied to a bed while Bonnie Bedelia drips hot wax on his scrotes.  It's a real shame we lost Alan Rickman, I'd give anything to see Hans Gruber standing at the foot of the bed in a leather corset intoning Yippee ki-yay, motherfucker just one more time.

As for playing on his Xbox, the Sims have a "whoo hoo" function.  That's all I'm going to say about that.

 - it feels like I’ve time-traveled back to the sixteenth century and the Spanish Inquisition.  Holy fuck. 

Ah yes, the good old days of the Inquisition.  I had quite a wonderful time during that era, it was a sado-masochistic wet dream.  And no, I wasn't an Inquisitor...I worked as a volunteer equipment tester for the Vatican.  There wasn't a steel spiked ball cage or 360-degree nipple twister that earned my seal of approval until I screamed for my mommy.  Something tells me this pansy-ass little ninny isn't going to make it past the electroshock vulva clamps before she's crying for every matriarchal figure in her family all the way back to the Charlemagne era.

 “It’s about gaining your trust and your respect, so you’ll let me exert my will over you.  I will gain a great deal of pleasure, joy even, in your submission.  The more you submit, the greater my joy – it’s a very simple equation.”  “Okay, and what do I get out of this?”  He shrugs and looks almost apologetic.  “Me,” he says simply. 

Um...no. Just no.  Unequivocally NO.  That isn't how it works, E.L. James.  Not in the slightest.  In a true Dom/sub relationship the submissive receives every bit as much as the Dominant, and there is no two ways around that.  Anything less is bullshit and whoever you're trying to force-feed this lie to should leave running and punch you in the crotch on the way out.  I sincerely hope anyone reading this nonsense is doing so on a dare and not because they want to learn about D/s dynamics, because you're obviously not going to learn anything from this book except how to be a lip-biting ningnong who doesn't do much more than chat merrily with herself inside her medulla oblongata while mentally spouting double crap! on repeat every thirty-seven seconds.  And any respect I had for this Grey fellow for being up front about his sexual preferences just went out the window, which coincidentally is where the lip-biting ningnong should be headed.  Like he said - you could still run for the hills. 

Skipping ahead...skipping ahead...my god are these idiots ever going to do it?  I'm on page 194 and so far the closest they've come to coitus is when he almost ejaculated in his pants in an apoplectic rage when she told him she was a virgin.

 “Ah,” I groan. 

Ack, I puke.

 “You smell so good,” he murmurs and closes his eyes, a look of pure pleasure on his face, and I practically convulse.  He reaches up and tugs the duvet off the bed, then pushes me gently so I fall on to the mattress. 

I'm practically convulsing too darling, but unfortunately not with pleasure.  I need more anti-seizure meds, I've already gone through the entire bottle.  I'll be starting on the Xanax next and then it’s another call to my HMO.

 I’m panting... wanting. 

I'm vomiting...heaving.

 Not taking his eyes off mine, again he runs his tongue along my instep and then his teeth.  Shit.  I groan... how can I feel this, there? 

Hold up a second - this is a man who is so persnickety he pulls the duvet off the bed before he lets her set her ass on it, but now less than a page later he's just removed her sneaker and is licking the bottom of her sweaty all-day Converse encased foot?  My capacity for suspension of disbelief is not only wavering at this point, it’s pretty much died a slow and painful death.  Which is what I feel like I’m doing.  And if a man is holding eye contact while licking the bottom of your foot, he’s either upside down or your leg is so high up in the air he could be looking up your hooch and seeing himself through your left nostril.

“How do you make yourself come?  I want to see.”  I shake my head.  “I don’t,” I mumble.

I call bullshit.  She’s twenty-one, a virgin, and has never diddled herself?  That’s about as likely as me never having had intercourse with a horse.

“Let go, baby,” he murmurs.  His teeth close around my nipple, and his thumb and finger pull hard, and I fall apart in his hands, my body convulsing and shattering into a thousand pieces.

Huh.  And here all this time I’ve been laboring under the delusion that more was required than just two short paragraphs worth of nipple play.  This girl is a physical wonder, her nipples are clitorises.  Clitori?  Clitterati?  However you say multiple clits.  I know playing with them feels nice and I’ve made more than one maiden squirm with a few well placed sucks and a pinch or two, but this girl was climaxing before he even got her out of her brassiere.  Someone get her a job at the Kinsey Institute.

Suddenly, he sits up and tugs my panties off and throws them on the floor.

I hope they didn’t land on the duvet, he went to such trouble to keep it from getting mussed.

Pulling off his boxer briefs, his erection springs free.  Holy cow...

Rather like a jack-in-the-box, I’m envisioning.  Holy cow indeed.  Twist the handle and Pop Goes The Weasel plays while you wait in panicked anticipation for that horrid little clown to burst out of the hinged metal box and scare the shit out of you.  Well, he did say playroom, didn’t he.  Oh, and boxers and briefs are two entirely different things, my dear.  The further we get into this silly little tale the more convincing my sneaking suspicion that the author has never actually met a man before.

“I’m going to fuck you now, Miss Steele” he murmurs as he positions the head of his erection at the entrance of my sex.

I’m sorry, I know I’m an adult and all but I’m giggling like a sixth grade girl that wandered into the wrong locker room at school.  And for the record, I know exactly what that sounds like because I’ve done it.  But this...this is just...holy fucking hell with twice the fire and ten times the brimstone, that sentence up there just chemically castrated me.  The head of his erection at the entrance of her sex.  I’m going to go out on a limb here and assume it means he put his cock on her pussy and we’ll call it fair and move along.

“Hard, he whispers, and he slams into me.  “Aargh!” I cry -

To quote Miss Steele, holy fuck!  His dick is so big it’s turned her into a pirate!

He speeds up.  I moan, and he pounds on, picking up speed, merciless, a relentless rhythm, and I keep up, meeting his thrusts.

Is anyone else envisioning these two jogging through the park playing bongos?  Just me?  Okay.  Oh and for future reference, because I assume this world isn’t lucky enough to escape at least three sequels to this travesty, no sentence should have as many commas as it has words unless the person speaking it is being punched in the mouth between each syllable.

Two orgasms...coming apart at the seams, like the spin cycle on a washing machine, wow.

Darling if the spin cycle on my washing machine made anything come apart at the seams I’d be at Home Depot demanding they make good on the warranty.  Which, something tells me, you should be doing with this new man of yours.

He increases the rhythm infinitesimally, and his breathing becomes more erratic.  My insides start quickening, and Christian picks up the rhythm.

I looked up infinitesimally, mainly because I’ve never actually seen it in print before and it’s such a strange looking word.  I laughed so hard my Xanax came out my nose when Google offered up this definition:  immeasurably small, exceedingly little, less than an assignable quantity.  To give it a meaning, it must usually be compared to another infinitesimal object in the same context.  Mr Grey, I do believe your tight coochied little virgin just called your dick tiny.

“You. Are. Mine.  Come for me, baby,” he growls.  His words are my undoing, tipping me over the precipice.  My body convulses around him, the precipice.  My body convulses around him, and I come, loudly calling out a garbled version of his name into the mattress.

Well damn, I have to say I’m impressed, both with the uncanny power this fellow’s voice has to make orgasms happen from out of thin air, as well as this girl’s ability to climax on demand after never having done so in her entire life previous to this encounter.  That’s three times now she’s “shattered into a million pieces” all over the fucking bed - thank god he had the presence of mind to toss the duvet on the floor, because those stains would never come out.  He’d probably be getting a visit from the local police as soon as Mrs Fratelli at the dry cleaners got a good look at it.  And I don’t know about anyone else but I really want to hear this “garbled version” of his name that she called out into the mattress.  No, really.  I want to hear it because I’m imagining something like what went down in the Caves of Caerbannog when the Knights were debating the pronunciation of the last word written on the wall.  Does that make Ana’s orgasms the sexual equivalent of the Black Beast of Argh?

I’ll wait for you to hit Google on that one.  Go ahead, I’ll wait.  I’ve got all the time in the world.  I still have six hours of studio time booked and this travesty of a novel is now residing in stall #2 in the mens room and I’m sitting here playing with the roll of toilet paper I stole.  It was a worthwhile trade.  The word Charmin printed four million times on these little squares in infinitely more intellectually stimulating than that undigested goat’s dinner we were reading.

Fifty shades of TP’ing E.L. James’s house, anyone?

End Notes:  All passages in italics are the property of E.L. James, and as far as I’m concerned she can keep them.

[potterandpromises]

Oblivion

Fandom: Timeless

Pairing: Garcia Flynn/Lucy Preston

Summary: The kitchen clock reads 2:26 am; Lucy's pretty sure she's lost her nightly battle.

Word count: 1,986

Notes: Takes place between 2x05 and 2x06. Slight canon divergent in that Lucy started sleeping on the couch a day after 2x05 instead of at the beginning of 2x06. 

Content warnings: Intrusive thoughts, injury, medical stuff (stitching up of a wound), mild language, references to self-harm, and mentions of alcohol.

Also on AO3.

The kitchen clock reads 2:26 am; Lucy's pretty sure she's lost her nightly battle.

Judging from the sounds that had stopped only a matter of minutes ago; Wyatt and Jessica are very happy together. And she should be happy for the her friend, and she is, really (really!). But it doesn't seem too unreasonable to dislike having to listen to their very loud 'happiness' into the early morning. Not when time for sleep, let alone a mind for sleep, is already an unstable commodity.

But bringing that up to the couple isn't an option. And she has the silence she wanted right now, and she should be taking advantage of it. Except her ancestors created an actual evil cult in order to secretly control America. And her mother groomed her for said cult's purposes. And—

Screw it.

Lucy rolls off the couch and walks to the kitchen. She'd seen Mason undeniably drunk just yesterday. Even if he keeps his stash in his room he must get it from somewhere. So she searches every semi-plausible hiding place the metal pantry has to offer. Even pulling up a chair for a better vantage point.

Nothing.

Maybe she should just watt it out until Mason leaves his room for more than a few minutes at a time. Then she can—

Somehow, she manages to fall on her dissent from the chair in such a way as to hit her recently-stabbed arm on the counter, than catch the entirety of her weight upon landing. Typical, really, can't even stand on a damn chair right.

"Lucy?"

She's too preoccupied writhing in pain to turn to look at him; but notes the concern in his voice.

"I'm fine, go back to bed." she marriages to say, despite searing pain.

Not ready to get up, Lucy clutches her arm, squirms fully onto her back and squeezes her eyes shut. If she ripped open her stitches she'll have to tell Agent Christopher and— Flynn's hand covers her own, tugging slightly at her fingers in a gentle attempt to move them off the offending injury. Peeling her eyes open, she gives him a questioning look.

"I need to see if you ripped out any stitches." He says matter-of-factly. 

She considers telling him that she can handle this herself. That he should go back to bed and pretend this never happened. But she's tired and re-bandaging her upper arm is a struggle. (And it does not hurt that his abnormally gentle demeanor makes for a compelling distraction.)

Lucy nods and sits up, nearly flopping backward. Flynn steadies her with a hand between her shoulder blades. "Wash your hands first."

"I'm just looking."

"But you are touching," she points out. He removes his hand Immediately, as if just realizing his mistake. “And I can't risk another infection." she's barely heeled from the last one. She can't deal with another, ever.

He gives a tight-lipped smile, "Fair enough." How much of that ordeal had he been around for? She doesn't remember him being there, but she doesn't remember much of anything.

He washes his hands. She attempts to stand, only to hiss in pain when she puts too much weight on her injured arm. Yup, definitely ripped out some stitches.

Flynn's arm is around her in an instant, lifting her to her feet, done and over with before she can even process it. He then delicately pulls her cardigan off her shoulder, just enough to reveal the freshly bleeding wound. His gaze flickers briefly to her other, newer bandage, courtesy of Emma; which mercifully doesn't show any blood— unlike it’s predecessor. He removes the covering from her stab wound and carefully probes the area with a wet cloth.

He's always like that, she realizes, purposeful in his touch. Ever since he came to the bunker; when he had to touch her it was always careful, practical, never lasting longer than necessary. 

Why? (She has the absurd thought that she would not mind his touch in very different circumstances, if it wasn't for the possibility of having to live and work with multiple one-night stands.)

Slouching, he visibly takes a moment to choose his next words. "You might be able to get away with butterfly stitches, but I think it would be best if you got replacements." Lucy cringes inwardly at the idea of attempting to explain the predicament she got herself in to Agent Christopher. What happened was silly; would she judge Lucy for it? And her injury couldn't be that bad, did she really—

Flynn licks his lips in that unconscious, thoughtful way. "If you would prefer, I could fix it."

"You know how to do that?" He probably learned during one of the wars he fought in, or his time on the run. But she feels the need to clarify, telling herself she isn't yet at that level of uncaring.

"Learned on the job." He confirms. “You'll let me stitch you up then?" He searches her face for an answer, expression artificially neutral.

"Better you then—" anyone else. She doesn't wish to examine what that means. "Yes."

"Are there medical supplies someplace around here?" She catches a note of criticism. She'd heard from Rufus how he'd insisted they add a first aid kit to the lifeboat after Salem, when she had to use a dirty rag to keep from dripping.

"Maybe in there?" She gestures in the direction of the spare room where they'd kept teenage JFK a few days prior. Flynn nods and leads her toward the space. She stops just outside the doorway. 

He rummages around industrial shelving units. "is there a reason you ware— ah," he pulls out the not-so-recently-acquired med kit and gestures to the cot. Lucy doesn't move.

"Having second thoughts?" 

"No, just... not in here." It isn't even that small of a space, but her claustrophobia doesn't care; not tonight.

He seems to consider her, before nodding and starting toward the couch.

Lucy sits awkwardly, awaiting farther instruction. Flynn puts the kit on the table and empties some of it's meager contents. Soon making a disgusted, disapproving noise that turns into a sigh. "Looks like I can't numb you." he turns to her, gauging her reaction.

Lucy feels nauseated, momentarily. But she's sure she'd felt worse upon the initial stabbing, and her desire to not have to explain this injury to anyone else is a powerful one. She tries to shrug, but fails on account of needing to hold the cloth over her damaged skin. Instead she mutters "it's fine."

He grabs a pill bottle, shaking a few into his hand. "Swallow these, we'll do it in 15 minutes." She takes the pain killers without comment, and watches him lay out his tools in a neat row on the table. So unlike him, she thinks. 

"The supplies in this place are abysmal. How is it that Wyatt and Rufus have both been shot and nobody thought 'hey maybe we should keep a first aid kit in that thing?'" He gestures with vague frustration in the direction of the lifeboat. She can’t be sure if the hints of worry amongst the annoyance in his tone are reel or imagined.

"I think Christopher said something about putting one in the lifeboat."

"About time," he mutters.

Watching him prepare a curved needle with alcohol, she thinks of having an actual conversation with him. Like they're normal human beings, who aren't caught up in a real-world conspiracy, living in a secret government bunker; just two people enjoying each other’s company. But it feels out of reach, like another timeline entirely. (Right next to the one with her sister, across from the one where she and Wyatt had a relationship lasting longer than one night.) And nothing good comes from dwelling on those.

"I think it's been long enough, are you in less pain that you started in?"

it takes her a moment to perceive the question. "Um, yeah, I guess so." A lie, given that over-the-counter hardly works on her anymore (saying so wouldn’t make this any easier).

"Lay on your side, it will help with the bleeding." 

And so Lucy gracelessly half falls onto her side, painfully jostling her arm in the process. She takes a moment to psych herself up, and withdraws the damp rag. She trusts him not to hurt her anymore than necessary, but she feels the loss of control anyway.

He begins by wiping away the blood that had begun to pool under the cloth. Then douses the area with hydrogen peroxide; which stings, but is perfectly expected. And she manages to barely react, only wiggling her foot as a distraction—

She stifles a yelp into a sharp intake of breath. He pierces her skin, than quickly pulls her it beck together. The first time this was done to her she’d been numb to the intimacies of digging into and altering flash, first by adrenaline than by lidocaine; now all the details are revealed. Her breathing becomes rigid; it screams for a more severe physical response. 

Flynn hesitates only a moment. "It will be over soon.” he reassures. And she wants to tall him to stop, to let it be over now. But the logical part of her brain wins out and she stays excruciatingly still for five more stitches. Reminding herself that this is instead of bothering Agent Christopher and having to deal with a doctor; because, for reasons she doesn't care to examine, he is the best person to do this.

"I'm done with that part, Lucy." He says softly, spreading ointment over his handily work. Than wrapping it.

Her pain, now a dull throb, is replaced by an enveloping calm, one she recognizes from her junior year of high school. It had scared her so much she'd never done it again. But she'd seen more, done more, a few small cuts meant nothing. And It did help, if she just—

It's not a coping mechanism she can afford to adopt. Being semi-undressed in front of her team is inescapable, even if she cut somewhere no one would theoretically have to see— ending up stranded without access to clean water or fresh bandages is always a possibility, and another infection isn't an option.

Flynn is still standing by her couch, his expression unreadable. He cleans up and returns the medical supplies. Than walks away only to come back a minute later, handing her a glass of water and her cardigan.

Lucy accepts the glass. "Hey thinks for—" she gestures to her newly re-stitched arm. 

He nods and stays another few moments, watching her drink, than her put her cardigan on. He has no reason to do so— unless he just wants to; or he’s delaying the return to the most intense of his own internal battles. That seems more likely. 

"Goodnight, Lucy." He says, voice nearly too soft to hear, it feels all too meaningful. She says it back, even knowing it isn't like that for him either.

People will be up in a few hours, and she will have gotten just as much sleep. But her thoughts aren't as relentless as before, and she's finally tired in a way that will let her rest. - When the alarms sounded for her first mission post-stabbing, Lucy wasn't anticipating her first challenge to be getting out of the lifeboat. She'd done this dozens of times and it wasn't like it was particularly difficult, but the last time she tried to step off of any remotely high surface—

"Care for a lift?" Flynn looks up at her, apparently having seen her dilemma and wanting to help. He always wants to help lately, it's sweet.

Nodding, she gives him a half smile and he lifts her safely and easily — which does not go unnoticed by her — onto the ground.

(And If his hands linger on her side a moment longer than necessary, she does not mind the contact.)

[seirye]

so anyway

a few months ago (I don’t remember when anymore. I think 2.5 months?) I quit cymbalta because it was making my chronic fatigue even worse. I quit it the right way. weaned off it slowly, but it was capsules so that was tricky. I had some very nasty withdrawals and would be sobbing uncontrollably for no reason, but I had more energy, I was feeling better overall mood-wise. I thought I was making the right choice.

for a couple weeks I felt really good. I thought I didn’t need an antidepressant anymore. my doctor put me on phentermine because I was still having so much trouble with the fatigue, and because he wanted me to lose weight. he didn’t tell me it was basically a diet pill when he prescribed it which was sketchy, but hey. I lost 20 pounds on it over two months, and not a single pound of it was because I was starving myself. I was eating healthier, went gluten free (to see if this would help my fatigue) and sugar free (except one cheat treat a week).

the phentermine went really great for the first 3-4 weeks, but I started having the typical side effects: chest pain, weird chest feelings etc. anxiety started up again, and I hadn’t really dealt with anxiety in...a few years? not real, true anxiety. not the kind of anxiety that needs medicating. 

stayed on phentermine for another month, so two months total. the anxiety continued to get worse and worse. I continued to get more and more emotionally unstable. crying a lot, depressed all the time, dissociating even more constantly than before. I was irritable beyond belief and without reason, lashing out at people over nothing. I tried to keep it under control because I knew it was fucking stupid and irrational, but I still slipped.

at the end of july we went to portland to see the backstreet boys in concert. the whole drive up and the whole drive back I felt so...wrong. not myself. I am one to drive 75-80 on the freeway, but I was inching along at 55 thinking I was going too fast. I was paranoid the other cars around me were going to swerve into me. I felt...insane? I don’t know if that’s a PC term anymore and I’m sorry if it isn’t, but I felt so out of my own head, not in a dissociative way but in a manic sort of way. I hated it. the anxiety was so bad, I had to pull into almost every rest stop to get out of the car and breathe. portland to home is usually 5 hours, it took us like...8? 9?

I told my doctor almost two weeks ago that I wanted off the phentermine. the nurse that checked me in for my check up said she could tell by the way my heart beat sounded that I was on that medication. my doctor didn’t put up a fight, he took me off it immediately. I thought the phentermine was the source of my anxiety and that being off it would help, but even on the new medication (modafinil) it’s been getting worse. 

I have been depressed for the last few weeks in a way that I have not experienced since I was first diagnosed with depression in 2011-2012. I have been anxious in ways that I have not been since I was in a very toxic relationship. I told my doctor what I was feeling and that I wanted antidepressants again, that the modafinil alone was not keeping me awake and that I needed help. he didn’t even see me for an office visit, he just prescribed me wellbutrin/bupropion to go with the modafinil. I’ve been on it almost a week.

I know these medications take time, a couple or more weeks to start getting into your system, but I am so desperate for it to work as soon as possible. I am so absolutely depressed and I don’t know what to do. I have felt so disconnected from both of my best friends, and I am so terrified that if I talk about it any more that it will annoy them, that it will chase them away, that I’ll lose them. wednesday night I had a whole ass mental break, and I didn’t go to work thursday because of it. it doesn’t sound like much, but 1/4 of a xanax will normally do the trick for me and knock me out. it took a whole pill for me on thursday to even get to a point where I could exist without hyperventilating and panicking. 

I just hate feeling like this. I hate feeling like my friends are having more fun without me than they would with me. I hate feeling like a fucking burden and a stranger. I hate feeling like I have to keep it all to myself because I don’t want them to get fed up. I want their support and attention because when I’m alone, when I’m idle or bored or by myself, it gets worse. my mind goes to dark places. I haven’t been suicidal, but it’s such an extreme depression that I just...don’t know. I don’t know what to do with myself.

all I want is to be with my friends. I try to think logically when one tells me I need to keep my stuff to the specific venting channel, but the anxiety and depression tells me that when she says that, she’s just trying to brush me under the rug so she doesn’t have to deal with it. I know that’s not the case, but it’s hard to keep logical thoughts in your head when you feel like this. when no one responds to anything you’re saying, when you’re basically yelling for help to get through this, it feels like no one gives a shit at all.

idk. I thought typing this all out would help a little, but it doesn’t. I never really cared when someone accused someone of seeking attention, but honestly? sometimes attention is what you need to get through the shit your mind is putting you through, because being ignored is so, so much worse. being ignored makes me want to disappear, because surely they don’t care anyway? that’s what the depression wants me to think.

I want these meds to start working. I don’t want to feel like this anymore. I just want to be myself, the person my friends used to actually do things with, not the person that’s been excluded for the last few weeks (mostly my fault because it’s always too many people in voice chat and the anxiety won’t let me join because it’s too much and I freak out, and I’m too...idk I don’t want to ask for just us stuff because they have so much fun with their stuff as a big group and I want them to have fun and just...idk)

[dontshootmespence]

An Arduous Journey

A/N: An anon request for a Spencer x Reader where she ran out of her antidepressants. Due to a glitch in the system of her drugstore, she isn’t able to get her medication for a couple days and starts having a couple of withdrawal symptoms. I use the specific medication because it was one I have been on, so I know the withdrawal symptoms.

Additional note: This piece will make it sound like I’m a proponent of medication for everyone. I think antidepressants can be great, but it depends on the person; medication hits as all differently. Talk to your doctor before going off medication and continue talking about your symptoms after being on it. Things change and medications that once worked may need to be changed. For others, medication doesn’t help a lot. Please talk to a doctor and don’t take your mental health into your own hands.

                                                              ***

“Seriously?!” You exclaimed. “Isn’t there anything you can do? I can’t go without these meds.”

Spencer stood behind you, his hand in your back in an attempt to bring some calm to your frazzled body. “Can you even give a few pills until the supply comes in? Then subtract them from the amount in her prescription?”

The pharmacy tech looked distraught. “I’m sorry. I know where you’re coming from Miss, but we literally don’t have any of that particular medication in the store. The best suggestion I can make is to go to the emergency room in the event of any symptoms. They’ll be able to help you.”

“For a price!” You cried. You had insurance, it was just shitty insurance, which meant that a trip to the emergency room was going to cost you an arm and leg and a piece of ear.

Immediately, your entire world was spinning. You’d been off Zoloft once before and it had been hell. Granted, that time you took yourself off cold turkey because you were insistent that you didn’t need medication. That was a lie. A big fat lie. Now you knew better. You had no qualms about needing medication. And the thought of being off of them made you sick to your stomach. Already, you could feel the acid eating away. 

“I’m so sorry, Miss. If you want to give me your phone number, I can give you a call personally once the medication is in.”

She was trying her best, so you agreed and gave her your number. It was going to be a little over two days before their supply truck came in. “Spence, I can already feel the anxiety coming on.”

“It hasn’t been 24 hours yet, so that’s probably just you preemptively panicking, but I’m going to stay with you until the medication comes in, okay?”

You felt horrible. He meant well, but now you felt like a horrible inconvenience. “What about work?”

“I can take a few days off. I have the time and if they need me they can call me,” he assured you. “Now let’s go home.”

                                                             ***

For the first half a day or so, Spencer did everything he could to distract you. You watched a bit of Doctor Who, you played a board game, he even made your favorite pancakes, but once your dizziness set in everything went to shit. “You don’t have to do this alone okay. I’ll be here.”

“I know,” you said, your voice beginning to shake as the anxiety crept through. “I just hate feeling like this. How does a drug store fuck up that bad? Lives are at stake for fucks sake.”

Spencer gathered you in his lap, rubbing your temples to alleviate the burgeoning headache that was forming. Withdrawal headaches were awful. They took on a whole different form than they normally did. Usually, they were dull and steady. This one was throbbing and insistent. Curling into Spencer’s lap, you willed the headache to go away, only to have the pain in your head shoot to your stomach.

“I’ll be right back,” you breathed.

Spencer nodded, his eyes heavy with guilt. He had nothing to be sorry for, but he felt bad that there was nothing he could do for you. Between the nausea and the cramping, you were there, leaning against the bathroom wall for nearly 30 minutes. “Spence, can you grab an ice pack for when we go to bed?”

“Of course,” he replied softly. “Do you want to go to bed now?”

You emerged from the bathroom, your eyes heavy with exhaustion. “Yea. Sorry, I’m a buzzkill.”

“You don’t need to be sorry,” he said as he kissed your forehead. “This will all be over soon.”

This was the curse of antidepressant medication. It was necessary. You needed it. Every other healthy thing you did for yourself didn’t do shit if you didn’t have the medication to go along with it. During the night, you’d been curled into Spencer for a short while, but then every touch overwhelmed you and you had to move to the other side of the bed.

About seven hours later, you woke up to the zaps rolling throughout your body. These were the worst, because they weren’t necessarily painful, but they were wildly uncomfortable and made it feel like you had bugs crawling under your skin. You grimaced and pushed your head into the pillow. 

Spencer knew better than to touch you. “Zaps?”

“Yes,” you said, shivering at the foreign sensation that somehow felt all too familiar. “Fuck, I hate this.”

“Do you want another ice pack?” You felt his hand hover over your arm, but he pulled away. It was for the better; the touch would have the opposite effect right now and you didn’t want to snap at him.

You shook your head softly, feeling another headache coming on. “No thanks, babe. I think I’m just gonna try and go back to sleep. I’ll be up in a little bit, okay?”

“Take your time.”

                                                            ***

“Spence!”

You woke up in a cold sweat, your eyes wild as your boyfriend ran into the room. “What’s wrong? What happened?”

Despite the slight zaps that were still rolling down your arms, you clutched onto Spencer’s t-shirt and pulled him in. “I’m sorry. I just had a bad dream. We were in the car and there was a truck coming toward us. I even remember the color of it, and we had no way to move out of the way so you told me you loved me and turned the car so that the truck would hit you first and then I woke up, and-”

“Breathe,” he said softly, as he stroked your hair. “It’s okay. It was just a dream. I’m here. I’m okay. We’re okay.”

Your knuckles practically turned white grabbing his shirt. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry I scared you.”

“It’s okay.”

It was going to be another day before the shipment came in, but you’d slept most of the day and still felt like death. Instead of trying to go back to sleep, you asked Spencer to keep you company with some more board games and TV. 

Before it worked, but now it wasn’t doing a damn thing. Spencer kept trying even though he knew it wasn’t working either. But he was at a loss; there was nothing else he could do. As your pieces moved around the board, your mind started racing. What happened if the shipment takes an extra day? Will I have to go to the emergency room? That was going to cost too much. I can’t possibly go. But my heart wants to burst out of my chest. I can’t take that for another day. God, Spencer was probably so sick of this. Who wouldn’t be? Why did he put up with me? One of thee days he wasn’t going to anymore and he was going to walk away. Honestly, I wouldn’t blame him. I-

“Y/N?” He said again. “Your brain is telling you things that are untrue. Look at me.”

Of course he knew - profiler boyfriend. Double whammy. “I can’t help it,” you breathed.

“I know. Let’s go get some sleep and tomorrow morning, you should get a call.” You’d slept most of the past two days away and the awake hours had been hell. 

For the entire night, you tossed and turned. Spencer was sound asleep, probably because he’d been so worried about you, which made you feel worse. While he snored, you switched positions over and over and over again, getting little winks of sleep here and there. Finally, at around 8:15 the next morning, you got a call. “Hello?” You asked, your voice strained.

“This is Claudia at the pharmacy. Your medication is in.”

“Thank you, Claudia. I’ll be in as soon as possible.”

Spencer roused from his sleep. “Meds are in?”

“Yea. You mind driving. I’m still shaky.”

“No problem.”

Neither of you bothered to get dressed, driving to the pharmacy in slept in pajamas before running in for your meds. Once you were back in the car, you took one and closed your eyes while Spencer drove you back home. “How are you feeling?” He asked.

It hadn’t even been 10 minutes. “I’m not sure. Too soon.” 

Over the course of the next hour, your brain stopped buzzing. The muscles in your back and neck released. Your heartbeat slowed back to its normal pace. That little bit of edge was there - the scared one that told you something was going to go wrong - but everything else evened out, and your thoughts weren’t racing anywhere near as fast. “Feel better?” Spencer asked, seeing the shadow of a smile on your face. 

“Yes. Still a bit mentally on edge, but otherwise, better.” Leaning into his chest, you took what felt like the first deep breath you’d had in days. “Thank you for staying with me. I feel bad that you used time for this instead of something fun, but thank you.”

Spencer kissed the top of your head and sighed. “You don’t need to be sorry. I love you. That’s just what you do for the ones you love. Wanna watch more Doctor Who now that you can actually concentrate?”

Your muscles were tired, but you felt so much better. “Yea. Can I sit in your lap?”

“Of course,” he chuckled, walking you over to the couch. You’d been down this road before, and last time it had been even worse, but you made it through. It was a long and arduous journey. There was no one solution, but medication and a little understanding went a long way. 

@kalie-bee @jamiemelyn @prettyboyeffect @iammostdefinitelyonfire26 @unstoppableangel8 @veroinnumera @lookwhatyoumademequeue @hogwarts-konoha @bitchinprentiss @captainreid @tippy06 @cynbx @smolldork @lukeassmanalvez @marvelouslyme96 @literallyprentissstwin @chickenstringlights @ggyolo17 @rmmalta 

[forgettinggirlinterrpted]

Sunday 5/6

My roommates name is Shauna. She doesn’t flush and when I got here there was what I can only assume were soiled clothes in a brown paper bag. 

A woman in the hall is also talking about her shit. I’m the youngest person here and im afraid to shower, there’s no door. The poop lady is cackling. 

My roommate and I talked, she’s nice, and I met her night nurse and she is so nice. Her name is Maria. 

I’m having a hard time figuring out why I feel like this. Its hard b/c I’ve been hungover but surely that’s not all it is. How do you recover from a hangover so bad you end up in a psych ward?

It weird not having my phone, I want to check twitter. I don’t want to go to group therapy tomorrow. 

I just can’t stop crying, my eyes actually hurt. 

My mouth tastes bad but I have no toothpaste. 

I started reading this book called notorious nineteen and it is truly trash. 

I don’t have the lights on bc Shauna’s sleeping- I feel like Mozart. 

My eyes hurt, I might go call my dad again to get my moms phone number. 

Ill be back. 

Got Taylor’s # and called her/my mom. Maria gave me some antihistamines to try to calm me down/sleep. 

My sisters want to come visit me on Tuesday. 

I’ve only eaten a donut this morning. 

There’s a painting of a window that is 100% mocking me. 

I’m sweaty. 

Some snaps I would be sending if I had my phone 

*a pic of the little card that was on my bed when I came in w/ a number on it for housekeeping. Caption idea- 

is this a joke?

It’s a work in progress. 

*def a snap of me whipping/nay naying to the woman whose been singing in the hall all night (singer)

Shauna is snoring. There’s no joke there but its absolutely worth noting. 

I just want to play candy crush. 

Monday

(12:30 pmish) I feel like I’m in a dream. I’ve been sleeping all day- it turns out it was only like 3 hours tops.

I had so many dreams. 

I just went and talked to a big ass table of doctors about my life and I just feel so groggy. They’re in there talking about me. 

I skipped lunch b/c my tummy hurt so bad after breakfast. 

Shauna puked everywhere. 

I think she’s leaving. 

Also turns out she’s in withdrawal AND pregnant. 

And she has an infected injection site on her arm. 

I just talked to my mom/dad/Taylor and asked them to bring me some books + shirts. 

The nice psychiatrist said she would give me some adavan to calm me down. Also I skipped lunch b/c my stomach hurt so bad from breakfast but now I’m hungry so I guess they’re gonna order me something. I feel so weird. (might have napped here)

4ish pm

40 mg stratera (sp?), one mg atavan. 

Finally left my room, I’ve been asleep all day. 

Nurse went and got me a coke + a water and I saw they’re watching forgetting Sarah Marshall so I thought Id join. Everyone called me out when I came in since ive been hiding out. Bitches. 

Movies suggested by the dude I’m watching FSM w/

- assassin’s creed

-Dogma

10 positive ways to describe myself

1. Legs that go up to my asshole

2. College educated

3. Big heart

4. Good sense of humor

5. Love babies

6. Love my friends 

7. Good communicator

8. Love the outside

9. Big smile

10. Lovely family

9 positive coping skills 

1. Talk to Taylor

2. Going on walks

3. Calling my parents

4. Reading

5. Going to therapy

6. Doing hw

7. Watching movies

8. Candy crush (questionable) 

9. Eating veggies

8 things I’ve accomplished 

1. College

2. Getting into grad school

3. Learning Spanish

4. Coming to the hospital

5. Making great friends

6. Moving a lot and making it through

7. Driving to SLC 

8. Supporting myself (for the most part)

7 healthy things I can do each day 

1. Eat well

2. Shower

3. Talk to my friends

4. Not drink

5. Clean my room

6. Clean my clothes

7. Do my hw

6 things I can change

1. My eating habits

2. Drinking

3. Exercising more

4. Getting a routine

5. Whitening my teeth

6. How I see myself

5 things I can’t change

1. How my family acts

2. How my friends act

3. The status of the US public school system

4. The amount of sunlight in my apt 

5. My face 

4 reasons I can’t give up

1. My family

2. I’m going to change the world

3. My friends

4. My future students

3 places I can get help

1. w/ dr. whose name I can’t remember 

2. my apt (Taylor)

3. the hospital 

2 people I can really trust

1. Taylor

2. my parents

1 reason I’m here

1. I need to not feel like this anymore

I’m holding myself back from asking why everyone’s here. 

Assassin’s creed guy, also known as biting guy (an inside joke from earlier) and sweater girl are talking about if the food delivery guy has extensions. 

We got called to dinner, now were finishing Sarah Marshall. 

Biter dude told hair guy “nice hair”.

Oh my god, when peter sings about how much he hates himself, biter and white shirt turned to me and said dang sounds like he’s going to be in the room next o me! way to be self aware guys! 

Just called my dad to find out about my stuff getting dropped off but turns out he did 2 hours ago and its all been in my room. 

I started crying immediately b/c Taylor is amazing- she brought me the perfect books. It was like she was talking to me through the books. 

She gave me b Franks autobiography and Jesse Donaldson’s ‘on homesickness’. And the book Amanda gave me. also wuthering heights and pastures of heaven. All so perfect. 

Shirts is roasting the shit out of double lasagna (he ate… double the lasagna we all got for dinner).

He keeps saying he looks like he’s about to give birth 

“I mean were already in the hospital we just gotta figure out what floor is maternity”

Wuthering Heights

1801- Mr. Lockwood +Heathcliff

Thrushcross Grange

Double lasagna is talking about the last time he had tequila- brother the last time I drank it I ended up here. 

What an anecdote. 

“they could have stolen my jewelry or even my virginity!” – about the guys who helped when he got too drunk. Double lasagna’s real name is * but he just introduced himself as Dorothy (to hair the night nurse helper). 

Fake Abby (biting guy came to my room thinking I was her) is here and shirt just said “you’re awfully quiet” and she rejected him hard. It was awk. 

One of the helpers is just chillin in here w/ us while I read my shitty book and we watch “just go w/ it” – its so bad. 

One of the nurses (pony tail) just made me go on a walk down the hall w/ him. They all keep asking me how I’m feeling and I keep saying fine but I’m not. As long as I don’t talk I don’t cry. I’m starting to think I want to stay here longer but also leave right away. Its all so confusing. 

Double lasagna just asked hair nurse if he could have his phone out of his bag and the way just looked up from his phone and said “nuh uh” was iconic. 

Its 805 pm and I think I’m going see about getting my sleeping pills so I can just crash. 

I need to document stuff better tomorrow b/c I don’t like how much of a blur today is. 

I finally showered and I feel better I think. I just don’t know what the move is once I get out. Like I don't know how to talk to anyone. 

I need Taylor to contact Morgan I think. 

I’m sure she’s confused. Or maybe she doesn't care literally at all.  Who cares. I’ve been surprised at how easily I’ve been sleeping today especially without my phone and with everything on my mind. 

I need a talk therapist like yesterday.

I can’t bring myself to get through any of the books Taylor brought. The 19 book in such trash but it’s easy to read.

 The shower needs to be pressed every 45 seconds to say on. I wore shower shoes.

 Fake Abby doesn’t know what the move is, I can tell.

I called Taylor + my mom then got snack in my night meds. I mom told me to call back to talk to Mack so I just did. She’s lovely. 

Double lasagna somehow talked to snack nurse into giving him a full sandwich. I got a strawberry poptart and a coke. 

They’re checking in a new girl now who looks a bit like she’s closer to my age. 

I’m happy she’s not my roommate. 

I think tomorrow ill try to call family/friends less and trust the process. I need to really take a step back. 

I’m just happy I feel comfortable sitting in the sun room. I knew a lot more about movies than they did 

Goals for tomorrow-

Check out group

Find rec room/sign my name by Mack’s 

Document everything

Keep room clean

They still haven’t cleaned Shauna’s side. Its off putting. 

Have I mentioned they check on me every 15 minutes? 

Its off putting also. 

I wish I had just like some mascara or something. I hate to be that girl but damn. 

My mom keeps trying to talk about the funny aspects of this but I can’t say I’m feeling them yet. Today just really was such a blur. I sept a lot then talked to therapists then I think went back to sleep? Then begged for lunch then I think slept? That’s where its fuzzy. Called my fam too much, I need to not tomorrow. 

I also want to gain control of tv room tomorrow. Power move!! 

Did I mention I called Chelsea? My brain is mush. 

- Be more present tomorrow-

- Ask more questions- 

be warned: new beginnings are rarely pure, and neither are the men who seek them

On Homesickness pg 23

Scott County

We are homesick most for the places we have never {truly} known

37, Franklin County 

Questions to Proteus -> how do I get home? 45, Montgomery County 

Tuesday 

7:10 am 

slept super hard but also had super vivid dreams. Mack and I talked about that last night. 

She said she had never brought it up. I was a little restless, prob just bc they were constantly opening my door and eventually just stopped closing it. 

I’m just trying to let go of control. I don’t want my phone back. I need to talk to someone about the insane anxiety I feel when I think about home back to the real world. 

Even just being in my apartment scares me b/c it feels like its full of negative energy. I need to focus on the good when I get out. 

I keep thinking about my phone bill and I can’t remember if I paid for internet. Also the maintenance light is still on in my car. 

Even though mom and dad are coming today I need to be communicating less w/ outside world. If I really want to be off the grid I need to really b alone with me thoughts and be okay with it. 

I kept feeling for my phone throughout the night. 

I wonder what the nurses think of me. do I seem different than everyone else?

I keep finding myself trying to relate to the nurses, esp. the young male one (hair) but what am I trying to prove? That I’m not like everyone here? 

Newsflash, asshole, I am 

(I’m the asshole)

I need a sharper pencil- do you think a lobotomy joke will be appropriate when I request one orr?

I wonder if Prather has texted me. I’m supposed to sub on the 21st. 

Yikes

Not looking forward to checking my bank account. I really spent a lot w/out giving a shit. It was freeing but I also haven’t worked in over a week + a half soooooo. 

On homesickness is so dramatic but I love it. Makes me think of Taylor. (bc home, not the drama)

Also I think I’m getting fucking sick. Or, according to Lula (Flula) in 19, I’m getting hospital cooties. 

7:27 am 

I’m in TV room w/ singer. I asked what we’re watching and she said “some kind of cartoon”. She’s not screaming which is awesome. I’m going to read Wuthering Heights. 

Almost 8 

Called dad and asked him to bring me a pair of readers since my eyes hurt. Nice nurse #2 is here again. She’s blonde. I haven’t seen Maria again. Met another nurse too. She was young. Also there’s a fake nurse (fake nurses are in teal, like hair, and he real ones are in blue) who I def. know. Cant figure out from where, maybe high school? Either way, not cool with it. Also, they sharpened my pencil. 

TIME TBD

Having a hard time focusing on reading. My eyes hut. 

I don’t like waiting around. 

Is it petty to point out inconsistencies in the rules? There’s different info on different sheets in the packet they gave us. Makes me wonder how closely these patients are reading it. Its all petty though, like whether or not we should take 5 or 10 minutes to use the phone or how many visitors we can have at a time. 

I know myself too well, ill be bringing it up. I’m going to check on breakfast. 

8:30ish

breakfast was sub par. Sat alone. New girl, sat w/ double lasagna. She only wanted milk so homeboy asked if he could eat hers! Has he learned nothing?? I ate pretty quick; I think I need to go back to sleep. I feel weird. 

Time-?

Dr.?? (nice psychiatrist) came in and we talked. Started fine but I got really upset b/c of how much I feel like garbage and I don’t now if I want to be here. But also I don’t want to go back to the real world. She left and I went to go get a visteral 25 mg b/c I’m so upset. They gave it to me and when I got back to my room I 100% had a panic attack. 

I felt like I was a kid again. Maybe its b/c I’m here but I’ve never been sure that what it was until now. They happened a lot as a kid and usually ended in my mom holding me and saying everything’s ok. Its so hard not having that now. I left my room and the med student from Sunday was in the hall and he came and talked to me until I calmed down. 

With talking to them I finally feel like I’ve been able to verbalize how anxious I feel here along with how I feel about leaving. I just need to rest my eyes for right now, but when I’m up I need to write down what Dr. B said about when I get out. 

I miss my parents. 

Time unknown

Honestly can’t remember what happened next. 

Social worker came in, she’s lovely. Talked a bit then I kept resting. 

She gave me some info on how to stay grounded during a panic attack. 

Then I think I went to the rec room to do a puzzle but then religion group started. I stuck around but then little dr came to get me and asked if I would meet with big table of doctors even though I hate it. 

I did it but it made me upset again. They said they would come talk to me but they haven’t. 

I fell asleep again then not Maria nurse came to tell me they’re gonna give me more adavan once my visteral wears off. Fell back asleep then got a drink/ate lunch.

My puzzle got hijacked so I brought a new one into my room. I hit a wall so I stopped to write all this down and go find out what they talked about it my meeting. 

I think its around 1 pm. 

2pm

Sat and watched how I met your mother for a little. Started crying. Asked a nurse when I was gonna get talked to when little doc came up. they gave me an adavan and now I’m waiting for him to come talk to me. the maid is making up Shauna’s old bed while I sit and cry. Very awk. 

I don’t know why I keep crying. I just feel like I’m going to keep having these attacks. I feel so hopeless. 

Still sitting here crying. Still no doctor. 

My name is Abigail and I am safe. I am in the present and I am safe. 

~505

lil doc came to talk to me and I got upset. I don’t understand what my next move is. 

Just slept pretty hard until now then got dinner. Going back to sleep is very tempting. 

I think I’m allowed another pill. What’s the point? 

6:50 pm 

I honestly don’t know what I’ve been doing since after dinner. I’ve been doing the puzzle in the TV room. I’ve been watching the office. I asked nice nurse if I could have another pill but she’s pretty sure she cane until its time for bed. My anxiety is pretty high right now my parents will be here in like an hour. 

7 pm

officially been hoarding pencils. They say I can have an atavan at 10 pm for bed, but they gave me a V. im wondering if that’s going to help me sleep. They’re going to put me on abilify on top of my startera. I’m hoping they’ll give me some of this visteril to take home in case I start to freak. 

Decided that in order to help me not get stressed I want someone to take my phone and ask me one by one about who texted/called/emailed and help me deal with it. Same w/ my bank statement. 

I want to say I feel better, but I don’t know. Its just all a blur. 

I want to see m parents so I can find out what the move is when I get out. Maybe a meeting with Andrea and social working and one of them would be cool. 

I don’t want to get out after Taylor leaves. Fuck.

Double lasagna and biter left. 

* is still here, and fake Abby is MIA. 

New girl who I don’t know 

New guy Brandon- wears vans 

And tad who Mack warned me about. Apparently he called 911 on the nurses from the phones. 

Bold move. 

Fake Abby and I are friends. I think she’s lonely, I know she wants to be my roommate, but I can’t deal with that. 

Now I just kill time until mom gets here. 

930 ish?

Mom and dad came and I feel a bit better. Mom and I did our crossword puzzle and dad and I figured out grad school. I also had him assure me I don’t need to worry about $ right now. 

I asked for a pen but they said no. but I STOLE ONE FROM MY DAD!! 

Honestly its low on ink but just having it feels great. 

Just called my mom and said goodnight to Mack. I feel ok. Mostly just shook b/c of how much of a dream this all feels like. But I’m ok. Time to crossword and eat my poptart like the star patient I am. And I’m gonna do it in god damn pen! 

Goals for tomorrow- 

- track when all meds taken

- get better at checking time 

8am

slept like shit. But I think I might go home today?! I’m sick so my head fucking hurts. I dontknow what to think. I just want to sleep in my own bed. 

11am 

talked to dr. B + some of the team and I think I’ll just stay another night. It was hard for me to think of what I wanted to b/c I just woke up. but she made a good point that if I’m sick and drowsy it could be good to stay since they’ll change the time I get the abilify. I don’t know. Just very tired. 

1109

Watching fresh prince. Thought there was gonna be group in here, but so far nothing. Fuck this. 

Fake Abby told shirt he looks like Carlton and no shit he kind of does. He deadass did the dance while he was walking out. He thinks side burns were cool. Now singer is singing Elvis songs. 

Newer girl is even scarier she’s very touchy. Seems like she doesn’t listen. 

singer is standing directly in front of the tv. She threatened to fire the nurse that told her to stop. 

Shirt is leaving today. 

New girl just came in and snatched the stuff out of singer’s hands and then tried to talk to everyone. Now singer is out for blood. New girl is wild. 

1140

going to lay in bed until lunch. 

~12

slept a little until lunch. Hamburger and a coke. 

I’m def staying another night. Thinking of some ideas for pickup since I need someone to go back to my apt w/ me. 

I think that’s the move. And then if its horrible I can try to stay somewhere else. I’m thinking of asking my sisters. Idk. Might call some of them now. 

I’m really just waiting to get something for my cough. 

215

just slept super hard

even denied taking my cough meds so I could sleep more

I finally got into the rec room and unsurprisingly it was a disappointment. 

Couldn’t find macks mark so I left. 

Gonna go try to get more crossword 

255

just called Chelsea, she said she would try to come over after work/talk to liv about doing the same. I just want to take a real shower. 

Crazy Tad just said hi to me. 

New girl (maid) is asleep sitting up, we’re watching that 70’s show. 

My shirt smells like Keenan. 

Also its almost snack! 

Hmmmmm 4? 

took a shower after smashing a poptart. The sheets they gave me to use as a bathmat smells like actual piss and shit- maybe I shouldn’t have wrapped myself in it. 

A little before 5

Slept again. Got woken up for dinner. It was ok. God I’m so fucking tired. 

I’m glad I’m writing everything down b/c its all such a blur. 

Cant remember if I already wrong down that I talked to chels. I want help meal prepping and doing some laundry. Also someone to sleep over. I want my own bed, but I don’t want to be alone. I don’t want my phone. I don’t know what good anyone can do me right now until my meds get figured out. I don’t know!! 

I met my new nurse, DD, who said I’m taking my abilify in an hour. Then I want my sleeping pills so I can konk out, ugh. 

Time to lay down. Again. 

I think I fell asleep again?

Went to get my abilify around 615. Panic attack happened again. 

I can’t stop crying and I don’t want to be here anymore w/out talking to someone about all my regrets. 

I think more than anything I’m really disappointed with how this whole thing is going down. 

Just want to stop crying. 

830 pm

calmed down. Kind of okay w/ leaving but also so anxious. 

844

Singer has 12 different personalities. 

About to go ask for my meds/follow up on what’s up w/ the nurse’s research 

9ish 

Ate a poptart. Nurse was doing meds so she hasn’t looked into anything. Took 2 hydroxizines (50 mg) + a 3 mg melatonin. Called dad, still not a grad student. Very frustrating. Everything sucks but its ok bc I am Abigail Nash and I am safe in the present. I am not in the past. The present. And there are people that love me. 

Thursday 

- if… because then 

- one day at a time 

9 am?

Had breakfast, found out I’m going home today. 

Called mom + dad, and mom is gonna pick me up around 5 

2 more free meals! 

Getting a therapist is going to take a minute but I feel ok about it 

Nurse Nadine is so sweet. 

These people are getting the wildest thank you cards later. 

930

I’m going to get a watch 

I don’t like not always knowing the time 

That fucking short haired nurse came in again and gave me shit for being in my room

 Don’t know her name 

But I don’t want to 

I’m getting out here short haired lady! And I’m pulling out to win! 

I’m getting sleepy, fuck 

I have like 8 hours to kill 

Soooo

Suddenly now that I know I’m getting out I feel like some kind of bubble has been burst and I feel semi normal 

Am I really the Angelina Jolie of this place? Not actually Angelina, but her character from Girl Interrupted? 

She’s hot in that too, though.

Final thoughts for now- RIP Brittany Murphy. 

925

group- only going because nurse Nadine is leading it. 

Tad gave a very sweet little speech about his dad

Grabby girl wouldn’t share, she it nuts

But now miss congeniality is on!!

1055

cute rec therapist let me into the rec room. I wrote 

SCABZ

In big letters on the table, and made a picture frame. Also played ping pong with grabby. I’m not even going to go into how that went. 

Update: grabby thinks I’m her mom 

My best gift:

The gift of travel. Travel in the sense of moving, traveling to see a friend, or a friend traveling to see me. travel has allowed me to maintain friendships w/ people I usually wouldn’t. Another gift coming from travel is my best friend, Taylor who traveled to another state for school, where I met her. And the gift of going to visit my best friend in France a few years ago who I’ve known since I was 9. 

~~~~ when the party is at it’s best, it’s time to leave the party ~~~~ 

- Tad’s ex-father-in-law

almost noon 

Tad (ok turns out its not the Tad Mack was talking about) said some really good stuff in group and when he was talking about finding balance I said, “like the yin for your yang?” and he did not know what I was really talking about but it fit into the convo really well. So I started to draw him one and when it was over I gave it to him and he was really touched. I feel really good about it. It sucks I’m just now getting to go to group but I think my meds might be working b/c I haven’t gone back to sleep yet. 

Also, they said I could keep 19! 

I need to get some books together to donate. And some puzzles. 

After lunch 

Pulled pork. Singer change the channel on TV to cartoons. I see a nap in my future. Also brushing my teeth. 

There’s a new kid, he’s gotta be newly 18 b/c he looks young. 

Tried playing monopoly w/ Tad, maid, and new guy, but it devolved. 

Thought he was cute but he might be nuts (shocker)

I said he was welcome to my books and he looks a mans search for meaning and I’m about to leave so I don’t think im getting it back. 

Amanda wrote a nice note in it. That sucks. I gotta stop being so nice. 

I asked them to give me a visterile and they did. I should be ready to rock when mom gets here. 

430

did more painting- made a weird sign for door knobs. No sign of homeboy + my book. I kind of don’t want to leave, but I refuse to let myself have fomo in a place like this. Idk what the move is for my book. He better be reading it. I don’t want to leave before dinner so he can at least have a chance to say something to me about it. 

Tad is really fun to hang out w/. he is really nice. We talked about grounding during panic attacks and he invited me to play monopoly and we talked about how it sucks that we all just started talking to each other but that’s also prob just a sign that the meds are working. 

I saw he put my yin yang in the front of his journal. Very sweet. 

This isn’t to say he isn’t totally nuts. Also, young guy said my voice reminded me of “stuff” what the fuck. 

Grabber called me mom and tried to give me her hand.