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creativeashproductions · 4 years

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If I Stay Part Two (Final) // Luke Patterson

Summary: Life as you knew it shattered and now you’re left picking up the pieces with memories of a boy with hazel eyes in your dreams. A handsome guitarist who easily becomes your unseen number one supporter. If only you could see him again.

Warning: Swearing, mention of injuries, mention of car accident and talk of death.

Words: 2.5k (excluding the song lyrics of “I Won’t Let Go” by Rascal Flatts)

A/N: Second and last part to If I Stay! I really enjoyed this story because I adored Charlie St. Cloud and I really enjoyed If I Stay. The second part to Lost Time will be up soon when I feel confident in the storyline of it.

If I Stay Part One

Masterlist

In a split second for the first time, you felt yourself, poof, away to a sterile white room staring down at the person in the bed. Covered in cuts and bruises of all colours, was you. A broken version of you that made you sick to your stomach. You desperately yearned to go back to being unaware.

“I’m…a ghost?” You breathed looking at your blemish-free hands, a juxtaposition to the arm in a cast. Then in a nauseating thought, the grief faded for fear on your family. Had they survived? You ran out of the room straight to a nurse, “Where are my parents! Where’s my cousin Lou?”

Of course, the nurse was unaware of an upset, emotional teenage girl, a victim of a car crash and in a battle for her life. Realizing no one would answer you spent hours running around the hospital searching for your parents or Lou.

“Lou!” You shouted through the halls unfazed as you ran literally through gurneys and medical equipment even the odd doctor.

At the very last room, you found Lou sitting up in a bed staring silently at the white wall with an official man seated by the side of her bed. He held a clipboard in his hand.

“Lou, how are you feeling?” The man spoke, his white coat embroidered with his profession and labelling him a psychiatrist.

“Fine.”

“You’ve suffered a trau-“

“I’m aware. I was there. I saw a paramedic violently hitting my cousin’s chest, I saw so much blood. I didn’t know there could be that much blood!” Lou snapped glaring the man down, “I saw the brains of the idiot that caused the accident! You don’t know shit! Oh, your little degree magically has you able to understand what I’m going through?!”

“Lou-“

“You wanted me to talk! So, let me talk!” Lou screamed at the man startling you with the anger, “My cousin! My best friend, my SISTER is up in a bed in a coma! A coma because I wanted to go to a stupid resort to ski! It’s my fault! And no one will tell me anything about my aunt and uncle!”

You stumbled back at the pain Lou displayed, it broke your heart, and you couldn’t listen to it anymore.

“Lou, let’s talk about survivor’s gu-“

You fell through the closed door before you could hear anything more from the psychiatrist. You ambled around the floor aimlessly feeling the worst you ever had and to think for two weeks you hadn’t been aware of anything.

“Did you hear?” A nurse spoke from just outside your hospital room. You jogged over reading her name tag of Melissa.

“Heard what?”

“The father of the mountain accident he flatlined in surgery. Doctors got him back, but they’re concerned about brain damage.” Nurse Melissa told her fellow nurse with concern pinching her expression.

“That’s the father of the Y/L/N patient, right?” Nurse Lucy spoke glancing at your hospital door, “I hope they’ll be alright.”

“That poor girl has quite the decision to make. To live or to die. It’s all on her now.” Nurse Melissa replied, “Her mother died-“

“Little unprofessional to gossip about patients in earshot of everyone. Did you know that coma patients can often hear things while unconscious? Or my favourite tip…did you learn about HIPAA?” The doctor on duty asked, staring the two nurses down with a glared. Each nurse shifted on their feet, “Stop gossiping and do your job. I’m sure you can change bedpans or give sponge baths.”

The nurses scattered, leaving you standing in shock at the information given to you. Your mother was dead, your father could be brain dead, and Lou wasn’t coping well. Leaving you in a state of wondering what to do. Should you stay in a world without your parents or let go to join them in heaven. The thought had you collapsing into screams on the floor as everyone went about their work; walking through the hysterical teenager.

A warm hand slid into your own with a comforting squeeze, but all you wanted was to feel your father wrap you in a bear hug. To listen to your mother’s laugh, move in the air with that beautiful musical sound. You want Lou to be okay.

Luke was quiet as he sat the floor, squeezing your hand every once in a while. You slumped into his arms, staring unfeeling at the door that separated your ghostly form from your physical one. Luke poofed you to the Molina garage right on the couch where he held you tight for god knows how long.

“She’s dead.” Your voice cracked tears rolling down your cheeks once more, “My mom is dead.”

“Sh.” Luke cooed pressing his lips against your temple as you curled further into his body. His heart broke for you as the gravity of the situation became crystal clear.

“Hi.” Luke’s eyes met the concerned ones of Julie Molina, a girl that would undoubtedly know how you felt. The thing that connected you being the loss of a mother figure, “I’m Julie.”

Your blank expression lifted to see a girl you had often seen in the halls of Los Feliz High School and vaguely remembered her. She had been performing during the Spirit Rally months ago.

“I’m a friend of Luke, Reggie and Alex. I’m sorry you’re going through this, but you are more than welcome to stay here. You can be in my room or here if you’re more comfortable.” Julie offered knowing exactly how you felt when a year ago, she had been grieving the loss of her mom.

“Thank you.” You replied hoarsely. Exhaustion from sobbing closed your eyes, something that was different to Luke as a ghost was your ability to sleep.

Alex theorized that you could sleep because your body was still alive, whereas the boys had no physical body. They were just ghosts. He and Reggie were in the studio sadly watching as you slipped in a deep unsettled sleep. Luke’s broken eyes met his best friends before he had Alex come over.

“Please stay with her.” Luke whispered, leaving the tall blonde to switch places. Luke disappeared without another word.

“Where’s-“Julie began, but Reggie interrupted her with a sad smile.

“Remember when we took you to Luke’s house? He’ll do the same but with her.” Reggie supplied coming to sit on the floor in front of the couch; his hand grabbing yours in support.

In a medium-sized house with a backyard kept tidy by the neighbours, Luke found his way to your room. His grabbed a few items of clothing and sneakers into a discarded bag before he dropped the bag off in Julie’s bedroom. His next stop was your hospital room. Luke settled himself in the chair beside you watching your chest go up and down from the breathing tube.

“Hi. I don’t know you in this form, but I know your spirit. I’m not good with my words, but I’m going to try. Two weeks ago I met you in a record store, and I fell in love faster than I can tune my guitar and believe me I have the record in the band. I never believed in love at first sight, but I also didn’t believe in ghosts, but here we are!” Luke chortled leaning to place his hand on yours, but it slipped through.

His smile saddened, “As much as I love holding you and kissing your head… I’d much prefer feeling that aching and yearning feel in my gut. If I felt that then it meant you would be alive and well. I’d rather be sad that I can’t feel you than have you die so young.”

Luke saw your eyelids flicker and he hoped it was because you could hear him.

“You have so much to live for. It’s gonna be hard. I can’t deny that, but I need you to stay. Stay alive and fight for me. For Lou.” Luke choked, squeezing his eyes shut grateful when a hand rested on his shoulder. He knew it was Alex.

“Whatever you’re saying. Continue.” Alex whispered, “It’s working, her body is slowly becoming transparent.”

Alex’s words were further proven as Nurse Melissa jogged in surprised as she took vitals, “Well I’ll be damned. You decided to fight.”

Alex and Luke shared a relieved expression as you got even more strong. Together they returned to the garage. Luke was able to press one kiss to your forehead before you flickered once, twice, thrice before you dissipated.

In that hospital room, a beautiful thing occurred. Your eyes opened. Luke swore the birds sang better at the moment.

Recovery was hard. Relearning the little things, you took for granted was frustrating. Lou would hover as if you would disappear and you thought you were going insane. If you were waking up screaming by nightmares of the crash than it was waking confused on dreams that felt like memories.

The small victories helped like when you walked the entire hospital or when you were able to use the toilet and not the bedpan. The best win was being discharged to Lou’s parents and only needing outpatient physical therapy. Six months later, your father was awake and getting better; the loss of your mother still burnt hot and red.

It was on the sixth month anniversary when you walked down an oddly familiar street. Merritt happily trotting on his afternoon walk; Merritt had been an immense help. In your first month of recovery post coma, you met Merritt who would become your service dog.

A sense of déjà vu nudged you as you took in a vintage styled record store you swore you knew before. Continuing on you stop again at a toy story with a dollhouse.

“My cousin had one…for her unborn niece.” The sentence floated in your mind, but you couldn’t put a conversation.

“Caspar?” A male voice recalled in a distant memory of a dream a few days ago. You couldn’t think of anyone who had that voice, and absolutely no way had you ever seen that dollhouse before.

“Just coincidence.” You mumbled scratching Merritt’s head as his wet nose nudged your head before you could worry more. You watched people roaming thankful that you could do that, that you survived.

It was the building on the very end that confused you the most. Your eyes scanned the name proudly announcing itself as a tattoo parlour. A gasp left your lips as a vivid memory popped into your head with a boy that matched that voice you had thought of earlier.

“Luke. My name is Luke. Hey! I know this shop!” Luke beamed, stepping back to take in the storefront. In the twenty-five years since he last saw it, the blue faded into a teal, but the door was still the same as it always was.

“You have a tattoo?” You asked, scanning his arms bare in the cut off shirt he wore.You couldn’t see any ink on his skin. Luke couldn’t help the smirk on his faceat the blatant heated gaze.

“No.It was 1994. We just played our biggest gig at the time, and Bobby decided we should get tattoos.” Luke’s mouth twisted at the mention of his former friend, “Of course we were sixteen and Alex just about fainted in the shop. The guy took one look at Reggie and laughed at our fake IDs. Told us to come back in a few years.”

“So, you’re a ’90s kid.” You raised an eyebrow coming to a stop on the edge of the street, pressing the button to cross.

“Technically a ’70s kid. We died in ’95 a few hours before a life-changing gig.” The mood turned sombre as Luke thought back on that one night that life decided to raise both middle fingers at his dreams, “Death by a hot dog.”

You were so thankful for Merritt as he nestled up into a dog version of a hug as you felt the crippling anxiety. He was always there and knew about to help, support dogs don’t get enough credit.

When your eyes opened, it is like a dam broke and suddenly you remembered walking this street with three guys. The conversations and even the garage where one had held you in an incredibly vulnerable moment. Three ghosts that helped you when you needed it but didn’t know.

“Luke.” You breathed seeing a form shimmer in the sun as it flickered into a hazy form. Similar to how you did in the garage before going back to your body, he flashed three times. He solidified on the fourth with a great big grin.

“You can see me.” Luke cried, walking closer as he felt on top of the world when your eyes focused on him. He finally felt that yearning to meet your gaze fade away, “I missed you.”

You followed him to the Molina garage.

“I thought we’d never be able to talk again.” Luke sighed, reaching over, and he physically grabbed your hand, “I don’t know if I can touch you because of your former state or because of Julie.”

“Hm?” You questioned sitting cross legged on the bed.

“When I wasn’t watching over you, I was with Julie and the guys.” Luke went into detail about Caleb and the jolts, “We didn’t cross over because it’s not our unfinished business, but the stamps were destroyed when Julie hugged us. We’re sure that just like our instruments are connected to our souls that Julie did as well.”

Your hand brushed Luke’s cheek taking in the silky feeling of his skin, “I thought I was going crazy. I had these dreams of things I didn’t do in reality. My mind just wasn’t ready to remember the beauty of our connection.”

“This is an interesting little relationship you and I have.” Luke chuckled, thinking on how lucky he was to even know you, “You’re so beautiful.”

“Thank you.” You whispered gratefully to intertwine your fingers with Luke’s hand as well. It was like they were made for each regardless of the circumstances that brought you together, “I’m not ready for anything more than friendship, but I do strong feelings for you.”

“Being dead has an advantage. I can wait for eternity, and for you, I would. Just so you know, I have strong feelings for you as well.” Luke beamed scanning your face, taking in the blemishes from the crash. In the time you hadn’t been aware of him following coming out of the coma, he had become acquainted with your injuries.

When those little victories of weight-bearing, walking one step then two and finally that entire hallway Luke had been there unseen cheering you on. When you ‘graduated’ from the inpatient therapy Alex, Reggie and Luke had been there in silent support.

“Do what you need to do, and I’ll be right here for you.” Luke smiled gently, removing his guitar from the case, “Can I play something?”

You nodded in response as started strumming to a new song he had created in the last handful of months.

“It’s like a storm

That cuts a path

It’s breaks your will

It feels like that

You think you’re lost

But your not lost on your own

You’re not alone

I will stand by you

I will help you through

When you’ve done all you can do

If you can’t cope

I will dry your eyes

I will fight your fight

I will hold you tight

And I won’t let go

It hurts my heart

To see you cry

I know it’s dark

This part of life

Oh it finds us all (finds us all)

And we’re too small

To stop the rain

Oh but when it rains

The song touched you so intimately as he sang the last few lines softly keeping eye contact with you.

“…Oh I’m gonna hold you

And I won’t let go

Won’t let you go

No I won’t”

You pressed a lingering kiss to his cheek that flushed at the feel of your lips against his skin. His heart fluttered and knew that you were his soulmate and he truly hoped Julie could find someone that could love her like she deserves. Luke’s heart belonged to yours and yours alone and vice versa for you as well.

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#luke patterson imagines #julie and the phantoms imagines #jatp luke #luke patterson x reader #julie and the phantoms #angst #caitsy and ash productions #agentsofsupernaturalmarvel

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vanderlindemorgans · 3 years

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Cross My Heart (Chapter 6)

Pairing: Agent Whiskey x Reader

Rating: Explicit/18+

Summary: A traitorous Agent Whiskey returns to the United States on the run. Being cast out by Statesman, he soon finds that you’re the only person he can turn to - the embittered former flame from years long passed

Word count: 7.7k

Chapter-specific Warnings: Descriptions of blood from a gunshot wound, alcohol consumption, talk of drug addiction, more death talk, mentions of entitled kid + parent, everyone being in denial and uh I think that’s about it

Read on AO3 | Previous Chapter | Next Chapter | Masterlist

The strangest thing about dreams were how quickly they disappeared: you could be passed out in bed, a million miles away from the waking world before the rays of sun started to shine over the horizon to rouse you from your slumber, and just like that - whatever world you were in would vanish, being replaced by an often disappointing reality in front of you. For Jack, vivid dreams weren’t too often of an occurrence for him, not that he really remembered anyway. Nightmares were even more rare, though at one point in time they’d plagued him for months on end. That was how he’d spent the first few months after his wife’s passing: waking up in a cold sweat, heart racing in panic from the lingering remnants of dream clung to the back of his mind, horrifying scenes of loss and tragedy playing out to torture him in his most vulnerable state. Usually the nightmares involved him being forced to watch Lily’s death with his own eyes and being powerless to stop it, the illusion always shattering just as her body hit the ground. Other times he’d be confronted by her, blood cascading from the bullet wound in her head and onto her skin while she stared at him with harsh eyes. He’d try to reach out for her, only to feel her hands had gone cold. And then the blame would start. The words that were repeated over and over by her until he felt his brain was going to break.You couldn’t protect me. Those ones were always the worst, and thankfully, the most rare.

All of this being said, Jack hadn’t dreamt of Lily in a long time. As the sting of her passing began to fade with time, leading into hate and anger towards the world for taking her away, the dreams slowly stopped. He still mourned for her every day, feeling frozen in time no matter how many years passed, no matter how fine he seemed on the outside, but the worst of it had left him. Or, so he thought.

Jolting out of bed with a fierce start, he could feel the rough material of the duvet in his hands, his hands grasped around it with an iron grip. He felt compelled to scream, though no sound was able to escape his mouth, and as he took note of his surroundings he started to feel less afraid when he realised where he was. He didn’t know what the time was, if he had to guess it was probably after midnight. Hesitantly, he placed the back of his hand to his temple, feeling the stray beads of sweat running underneath. It’d been a long time since something had managed to scare him to that degree, much less a nightmare. He probably should have felt relaxed once he realised that none of what he just went through was real, but he still felt spooked by the entire experience. Jack couldn’t even remember most of what happened - it all blended together in a frightening blur. The only moment he could still make out in his mind from the dream were its final moments: his wife was standing in front of him, in the middle of the convenience store where she died, with a man holding a gun to the back of her head. He remembered screaming out, pleading for her to be spared. It was too late - the sound of a gunshot rang out and her body fell limp to the floor, a pool of blood forming underneath her head. That wasn’t even the worst of it, as when he looked down upon her corpse he realised that it wasn’t Lily’s body lying dead on the ground anymore. It was yours.

“God fuckin’ damn it” he cursed, placing his head in his hands. On top of everything else that had already happened, he now had to deal with the return of old haunting nightmares that somehow were even worse than the ones he had years ago, because now you were involved. He sat up abruptly, grabbing onto a discarded shirt that he’d thrown over the foot of the bed and pulling it over his head, using nothing but the moonlight pouring through the curtains to guide himself out of the room and into the darkened hall. He stole a glance towards where your room was, a droplet of fear etching itself into his mind. Before he entirely knew what he was doing, he was opening the door to your room, being careful not to make any sound lest you were awakened. His fears subsided when he saw you curled up beneath the covers, sound asleep and none the wiser to his presence. Exhaling gently, he untensed his shoulders and looked over at your sleeping form with a small but sweet smile on lips. Of course she would be fine. You’re being paranoid.

Pulling the door behind him softly, he turned his attention to the end of the hall where the stairs were, the vague recollections of the nightmare rattling in the back of his mind. If he didn’t do something soon, he would keep himself up all night mulling over the implications of it all, and he wasn’t keen to spend the early hours of Sunday morning losing sleep because of his fucked head. He supposed it wasn’t that out of nowhere to dream about his wife, as he had been talking about her with you just last night. What scared him more so was that you were there, taking the bullet and ending up exactly as she had: dead. He couldn’t begin to fathom its meaning. Did it have to have meaning? Was it nothing more than a nightmare?

Scooping up a glass, he poured himself a generous amount of whiskey to sip on, returning the bottle back to the corners of your liquor cabinet. He probably should have asked before helping himself but it wasn’t like you were awake to answer to him, and he had a feeling you wouldn’t notice anyway, considering he’d found the aforementioned bottle pushed to the furthest reaches of the cabinet. When he noticed the label on the bottle, he couldn’t keep himself from smirking at the irony of it - of course you’d keep the Jack Daniels whiskey towards the back. Reclining into the couch with the glass in his hands, he took an absentminded sip while his mind further delved into the worrying implications of such a dream.

The only part of it all that made sense was that the dream had been about his deceased wife - with the discussion that happened between the two of you last night about her it was only logical that his subconscious had lingered on some parts of it. After you’d turned in for the night Jack had stayed up for a little while longer, seated out on that veranda with a pensive look and the bottle of bourbon you’d neglected to bring back inside. Your words made rings around his mind, sparking a debate of sorts with himself as he considered your criticisms towards him. The emotional part of him wanted to blindly hate, and to keep on doing exactly what he’d always been doing. But when he realised that blind hate had gotten him into this whole mess in the first place, he’d allowed himself to listen more carefully to your words, and to examine them on a deeper level. Upon knowing your own past with loss and pain at the hands of another, it made him take a step back and actually look at everything that had transpired in Cambodia, all the little things that led him to working against an organisation that he once devoted himself to. Whereas you’d taken steps to try and live in a world without your parents, he’d remained angry and hurt, stuck in a world that had long moved on from the tragedy and still feeling every raw cut of emotion that losing her dealt. Sure, he wasn’t exactly inconsolable over it constantly - he had been able to live for sixteen years without Lily. If he went to a psychiatrist, he knew exactly what they’d say to all that: “You’ve externalised your hate onto someone easier to blame, in this instance addicts, when really the only person you feel should be to blame is yourself for not being there to save her”, or something like that. He couldn’t help but let out a small laugh at the ludicracy of it all. Never in a million years did he think he’d be one for deep introspection. What in the goddamn has this world come to?

Even so, your words wouldn’t leave his mind. Did you have a point? Was it wrong to blame every addict on the planet for the actions of a few? In a rational sense, he could see what you were saying. His actions hadn’t been based on rationality though, it was all emotion. His instincts wanted him to reject the notion of him being ideologically wrong in this, a notion he in turn fought to reject from himself. One thing in particular that Eggsy had said to him during their final confrontation had stuck out to him at that moment: “You’re working for the president?”. He’d denied it at the time, and there was truth to his denial: as he put it himself, he didn’t want any kind of association with that asshole. At the same time, his feelings on the matter did happen to crossover with the president's own agenda, and some part of that in general hadn’t sat right with him.

Would it even matter by this stage if he’d accounted for his errors? He’d already single -handedly destroyed all that he had by then, the only thing that could properly atone him in his own opinion would probably be death, and he’d be damned if he was gonna let himself die any time soon. The realisation that he might have to spend the rest of his days with the guilt of the incident in Cambodia eating away at him wasn’t too kind on his psyche, but he was ready to accept it in lieu of the alternative. And damn it, if there wasn’t something about that judgemental way you’d looked at him that gave him enough of a kick in the teeth to want to do better. You’d said it yourself that you didn’t believe him to be a bad man. Maybe somehow he could redeem himself enough to even be half of what you’d described of him.

Drumming a lone finger along the fine seam of the couch cushion, his thoughts circled back around to the disturbing dream and everything it entailed, including the part that had shaken him the most. Why you? Why were you of all people appearing in his nightmares? And not only that, why did you take the place of his long dead wife at the end? His mind was ticking into overdrive to decipher every little detail. There was only one other time in his life he remembered seeing you in his dream, and that was when you two were dating. He could chalk up your sudden appearance in his subconscious to the conversation the both of you were having the night before - it would explain the return of his nightmares about Lily too, although his mind swayed towards ruminating on a much more confronting possibility.

What if it means I’ve fallen back in love with her?

As soon as the concept crossed his mind, Jack frantically sought to purge it from his mind altogether. What a foolish idea, he reasoned to himself, taking a larger sip of whiskey out of the glass. There wasn’t anymore to this, and he shouldn’t be throwing out such wild theories based on a nightmare of all things. He went and thought back to the small moments you two had shared throughout the weeks together, times where one lingering touch almost seemed to convey something more. He realised just how many times he’d caught himself staring at you the last few weeks, or the times his touch lingered on yours a second longer than it should have, things he hadn’t noticed until he began to pick apart his own behaviour and examine it underneath a microscope. Old habits die hard, I guess. He may have teased you about making him coffee by “accident” a couple of weeks back, but there wasn’t meant to be any insinuation behind it. It was just that - a harmless tease, a simple reflex of his infamous flirtatious charm. None of this necessarily meant there were any reignited feelings, and furthermore, if by some insane stroke of dumb luck that did happen to be the case, then they were only small at best, fleeting in nature. He couldn’t fall for you again. He couldn’t. Not after putting you through so much pain.

No matter how hard he tried to convince himself it was nothing, even he wasn’t buying it tonight. If he was falling for you again, how would you take it? Not well he guessed, as you still felt hurt by his actions. Why wouldn’t you? He was the one that hurt you then came back into your life without warning because he had to go screw up the one good thing he still had. It was painful to be reminded of how little still had left by that time: his status as an agent stripped from him, everyone he ever loved being dead and buried, and not able to return back home as he was still on the run. Him being at your ranch at all was putting you in enough danger, a fact that made him uncomfortable in of itself. Falling for you would make things more complicated than they already were.

She doesn’t have to find out. Keep it to yourself, and she’ll never know.

That’s it. That’s what he’ll do. He won’t ever mention these returning feelings of affection towards you, and in doing that, hopefully they will run their course and die out. Jack would still be courteous towards you, it went without saying since you were implicating yourself in all of this by hiding a fugitive. He could do that, right? Ignore it all, and avoid anything more than general amicable gestures. A part of him hurt to think of that, especially when those thoughts he had when you two were on the veranda together last night pushed themselves to the forefront of his mind. The way your hair had looked splayed out over your shoulders under the dim porch light, the burn in your eyes that gleamed as you’d admonished him for every mistake he ever made that shouldn’t have made him so entranced. He chastised himself for thinking so lewdly of you in that moment, hating how the very image of you in such a light darted straight to his groin. Finishing off the last dredges of whiskey, he wiped his lips with the back of his hand and let out a heavy sigh.

Forget about it. Leave her be. You’ve hurt her enough.

_______________

At long last, there was finally a lull in the day, giving you some off time to relax and decompress a bit. There was still an hour to go before the ranch closed for the night, though nobody else had any riding lessons booked and it was unlikely that anybody was going to show up unannounced at five in the evening. To say the day had been busy would be selling the whole experience short - downright exhausting would have been a more accurate way to put it. There was a function going on for a good chunk of it, a birthday party for the son of some big-shot oil tycoon. You’d been worried your injury would slow down your progress with getting tasks done but to your pleasant surprise you were able to manage just fine, though having your other employees and Jack around had also been a huge help. It’d been four weeks since you’d gotten injured, and according to the doctor during your semi-regular checkups the recovery process was coming along nicely, which had been more than evident to you with the lessening pain. Sadly, you wouldn’t be able to get the cast off for a while, despite your protests. You didn’t see why it all had to take so long: you hadn’t been in any excruciating pain for a good while so it was clearly healing. As well as the cast being a nuisance when bathing and the like, it was also annoyingly itchy, leading you to talking yourself out of shoving a coat hanger down the side of it in an attempt to stop it several times. If only you didn’t have a ranch to run, then you could take an antihistamine pill and be done with it.

Dragging yourself back into the house, you headed straight for the stairs, eager to lie down and doze a little - normally a long day like that would call for a bottle of scotch. This time round, however, you decided to forego the alcohol in favour of a more straightforward way to relax. Once you’d come to the door to the guest bedroom upstairs you felt compelled to stop, your mind wandering to where Jack was at that very moment. Last you’d seen him that day he’d been bringing the horses in. The two of you had stopped to chat for awhile, your usual bitter-edged banter being exchanged, things playing out just as they should when suddenly that same familiar feeling started to make itself known, the same thing you’d felt when he’d handed you the painkillers, or when you two had been out on the veranda a little while back. That spark, so to speak, the frightening feeling of something burning in you, something that shouldn’t be there in the first place. You’d instinctively ended the conversation soon after, making up some excuse about needing to take care of some accounting and hurrying off. Thinking about it now you couldn’t stop yourself from going a tad pink in the cheeks at your behaviour, thoroughly embarrassed for daring to act like you were inflicted with something as trivial as a schoolgirl crush.

Don’t be soft on him. Don’t do this. You’re better than this, those words you repeated to yourself like a mantra started to wear thin during those weeks, especially after the conversation you two had shared where you’d divulged some of the pain closest to your heart. You never thought that you’d tell anybody what you felt after your parents had died, not in a million years, so to have you in a position where you were comfortable enough to reveal such details was nothing short of astounding, particularly when one took into account the exact person you’d told it all to. You could justify these choices with the flimsy excuse of being drunk, but even you knew that in order to run your mouth about something that personal, even while intoxicated, meant you had to feel a certain amount of trust to the other person. Did you trust Jack? Was that what was happening here? To that, you couldn’t fully answer, as you didn’t really know.

Glancing from the doorknob to the stairs and back, you twisted the handle and allowed yourself into the spare bedroom, letting your feet move you towards the closet at the back of the room. Like a woman possessed, you didn’t stop yourself from doing any of this, the feeling of your heartbeat ricocheting through your chest. It had been years since you permitted yourself to look at any of this stuff, let alone giving any of it a second thought. Out of sight, out of mind, you’d thought to yourself when you’d originally boxed it all away, not being able to bear throwing any of it out. Sliding the doors open, you took note of the fact that everything was left in its precise location indicating that true to his word, Jack hadn’t meddled in any of it. A small sigh of relief escaped your lips while you sunk to your knees, poking your head through the rows of old coats that you kept neglecting to donate or sell to the very back of the closet where your eyes locked onto what you’d been originally seeking: a plain velvet blue shoebox shoved underneath an ugly knitted blanket that you plainly despised.

For as much of a hardline no-nonsense woman others perceived you as, a huge part of you was deeply sentimental towards both people and things, or more specifically, things people had given you, hence the choice to simply box up every gift and memento he’d ever given you rather than setting fire to it in some overly dramatic yet cinematic manner. When Jack and you had broken up, you’d gathered up everything that reminded you of him, thrown it in a box and then tossed it into the back of the closet of your apartment to be forgotten forever. When you’d taken over the family ranch from your parents, the box had ended up in the guest room closet instead due to you not wanting an object holding that many sorrowful memories anywhere near where you slept. Taking the box out and setting it down in front of you, you stared at it frostily for a minute, considering throwing it back into the closet and forgetting that you ever wanted to open it. Ultimately you caved, lifting the lid off and opening up the treasure trove of mementos, symbols of a love that used to be that became tarnished with time.

A lot of the items in question were photographs, a couple of polaroid shots of the two of you out at some bar in New York thrown in with the myriad of photos depicting you on various other dates with him. One in particular that caught your eye was a polaroid that had a heart drawn in red permanent marker on the white margins - you were wearing Jack’s Stetson and had one arm thrown around his neck, looking as if you hadn’t a care in the world while he looked up at you with those heart-meltingly gorgeous brown eyes of his, as if nobody else in the world existed except for you. You could still recall the smell of the cigarette smoke from that day, how the loud music reverberated through your ears the entire night you’d spent there with your head rested against his shoulder, ignoring all your other friends in favour of him. You caught yourself grinning at the memory as if you were some kind of lovesick fool. Back then you might’ve been. Not anymore though. Not now.

That’s what you continued to tell yourself while you sorted through the box’s contents, pulling out items ranging from small bits of jewelry to a small cat plushie that he’d won for you at the county fair. Your gaze zeroed in on a small silver chain necklace with a little horseshoe charm dangling on the end, earning yet another foolish smirk from you. Jack had bought that for you as a Christmas present, although you had insisted to him that he didn’t have to go all out on a gift for you. He’d even gotten the underside engraved with your name, which you traced over with the pad of your finger at that very moment.

Looking through all these gifts and the significance they once held to you, your mind started to wander back to the possibility you’d considered during your last proper talk with Jack, questioning once more if he deserved such harsh hostility being thrown towards him. You didn’t want to let yourself be hurt again, so it only seemed logical to make yourself guarded and keep him at an arm's length. With that said, time and time again he’d managed to surprise you - he hadn’t been pestering you as much you thought he would. Sure, he did jokingly insinuate that one time you made him coffee that you were growing fond of him but other than that he’d kept the charm to a minimum, or at least, less than you were used to in the past. It all made sense to you after you’d learned what happened to him that brought him back to you, his magnificent fall from grace so to speak. You meant what you said to him that night - you didn’t think he was a bad person, rather just someone who’s done bad things out of hurt and anger. With everything he told you about his wife’s death, you couldn’t help feeling a sense of powerful empathy towards him, a feeling that scared you a little to tell you the truth. It’d been easy for years to write him off as a liar and a player, but in reality, Jack was far more complicated than that. How ironic: the advice you gave him ended up being a hundred percent relevant to yourself at the same time, you huffed with an absence of amusement.

If you had to be completely honest with yourself, without any kind of lies or facade to keep up, you didn’t know what you felt about Jack anymore. You couldn’t say you hated him, no, hate was far too strong of a word. Actually, you couldn’t really say you even disliked him that much anymore. But you didn’t really like him either. Or did you? Once again, the thoughts of how his touch had made you feel over those last few weeks invaded your mind, things that by all means shouldn’t make you feel some type of way but did. Hell, even how you continued to make his coffee exactly how he liked it every morning, not bothering to question it anymore than necessary for the sake of your own sanity.

Shaking your head, you let out a heavy sigh as you glowered down at the box witheringly. Great, now you’d made yourself confused on your own emotions, all because you felt the need to reminisce on the past. You’re being ridiculous about this. You don’t feel that way about Jack, and if you did, you can’t have him. He’s on the run, he’s a criminal now, and more to the point he broke your heart once. Who’s to say he won’t do it twice? Do yourself a favour for once. Ignore those feelings. Ignore it, and they’ll go away.

You quickly boxed up everything soon after that, pushing it to the back of the closet as if you’d never been there at all. Lifting yourself to your feet, you neglected to look back when you maneuvered yourself out the door and back into the hall, pulling your mind back towards any kind of ranch duties you could muster up out of thin air that you had to attend to, anything that could distract you from the small pink tinge that had crept across your cheeks that refused to leave, or the racing of your heart with every step you took.

__________

After a day that felt like it dragged on forever, you’d been looking forward to turning in for the night. For whatever reason, everything that could have gone wrong that day decided to go wrong - one of the horses had done a runner during one of the riding lessons and you’d had to go out and try to catch the bastard. It took forever to rope the damn horse back into the property. Jack, you and another one of the instructors managed to catch him in the end but it ended up setting your schedule behind for the rest of the day. Later on in the day, some entitled kid had come down and decided he didn’t like the horse he’d been assigned to ride, waltzing right into the stables and picking out one that he deemed more suited for him. The horse, one of the older boys, was understandably annoyed by this random loud kid appearing out of nowhere and being rough with him, leading to said entitled brat getting chomped on the arm. The rest of the day had to be spent dealing with the screaming kid and his mother, who was every bit as entitled as her son was. Apple doesn’t fall far from the tree, does it? Despite your damndest to put on a smile and placate the woman who was screaming threats of a lawsuit, she still wasn’t letting up so you’d metaphorically thrown your hands up in frustration and told her straight to shut up. She’d left soon after that, huffing and threatening to get your entire business shut down. You weren’t scared in the least of her empty threats: you’d dealt with hundreds of other people just like her in your stint running the ranch and nine times out of ten nothing ever came from their tantrums. It was still supremely exhausting to deal with, draining your energy and putting you in a foul mood for the rest of the day.

You’d been angling to end the day as soon as the first instance of idiocy started, so when it was finally late enough in the night and you’d grown tired of the bottle of merlot that you’d been speeding your way through, you’d taken yourself upstairs, thrown on a random t-shirt and sweatpants, and sunk right into bed ready to forget it all and start over.

However, you weren’t so lucky. From the moment you’d first entered your room that night, something had felt off. You couldn’t quite put your finger on it at first, so you’d tried to ignore it, writing it off as feeling slightly on edge from the rough day. The weird feeling wouldn’t go away though - everytime you closed your eyes, you felt like someone else was there, like there was another presence nearby. Five minutes passed before you’d flicked the lamp next to your bed on and looked around the room. You knew Jack had already gone to bed before you, and you couldn’t hear any sort of noise from downstairs that would indicate someone else being there. Nevertheless, you couldn’t shake the feeling that someone else was there, maybe not in the house precisely but somewhere on the property, as if there were a pair of foreign eyes staring at you from afar. Your eyes darted towards the window, the curtains open to reveal the glimmering starry sky outside, your breath becoming shallow as you were finally able to place the exact feeling that was making you tense up in fear:

You felt like you were being watched.

Diving out of bed, you scrambled towards the window and scanned the vast expanse of countryside surrounding your property, searching to see if there was anything out there that was unfamiliar to you. Nothing - all you could see were the stretches of field that lay beyond your ranch, with a lone few collection of trees situated off the edge of your property, exactly as it always looked. That alone should have eased your nerves a bit but for whatever reason that feeling of being watched wouldn’t go away. You glanced back at your bed, trying to talk yourself into downplaying it all as you being paranoid. There isn’t anyone out there.You’ve had a rough day, and about three glasses of wine so you’re a little bit tipsy too, you told yourself as you trudged back to bed and pulled the covers over your head, a useless action that did nothing to quell the anxiety festering in you. For the next twenty minutes or so, you did everything you could to push your unease away in favour of sleep to no avail. The entire time you’d been lying there you felt like there were a pair of eyes burning into your back, directly across from where the window was, yet every time you sat yourself up to check there was nobody there.

Fantastic, guess I’m not sleeping tonight then. Clearly, that creepy feeling wasn’t going to leave and you didn’t feel comfortable in that room anymore. Briefly you contemplated going down to sleep on the couch but that idea was dismissed almost as quickly as it came to you - if you felt like someone was watching the house, then moving sleeping locations wasn’t gonna solve anything. A part of you wanted to go grab a firearm and go on a patrol around the property to be safe, though once remembering that you were a little bit tipsy you didn’t feel it would be the best course of action to go hold a gun right then. Throwing a single glance towards your bedroom door, another idea popped into your head, and before you could try and talk yourself out of it you were already out the door and down the hall to where the spare bedroom was.

Opening the door as quietly as you possibly could, you poked your head inside and peered over to where Jack was laying in bed, covers tangled up around him and facing away from you, appearing to be fast asleep. “Jack? Are...are you awake?” you called out hesitantly.

It took a minute for him to respond, by that time you’d come close to convincing yourself that you were being a baby about all of this and that you should go back to bed. “Darlin’? Is there somethin’ wrong?” he replied, his thick southern drawl sounding groggy, matching his dazed expression he wore while he fought to keep his eyes open.

“Sort of...maybe, I don’t know...I can’t sleep” you admitted.

“Having nightmares or somethin’?” he asked, sitting himself up in bed to properly face you. You couldn’t help but let your eyes wander down his torso ever so briefly - it wasn’t anything you hadn’t seen a million times before but damn, he did look good. Shaking your head fervently, you attempted to ignore that fleeting thought and focused back on what you’d come there to say, proceeding to reply. “No, no, nothing like that. I just...ok, this might sound a little bit crazy but I can’t help feeling like I’m being watched in there, and it’s freaking me out”.

You could see Jack’s brow furrow through the darkness, a look of concern creeping over his face while he thought on what you’d just said. “Watched? Like how?”.

“I don’t really know how to explain it, if I’m gonna be totally honest. All I know is that everytime I close my eyes I feel like there’s somebody outside. Whenever I go to look out the window though, I don’t see anyone” you explained, and at almost the very second you finished your sentence you could see Jack’s eyes widen, the last remnants of sleep falling away and being replaced by an alert and alarmed expression. Before you could say anything about it, he was already throwing the covers off him and sliding out of bed, hustling over to where you were standing by the door. “Stay right here. I’ll go take a look for myself” he instructed sternly, pushing himself past you and making a beeline straight for your bedroom. Instinctively, and in all honesty against both his wishes and your own better judgement, you followed in behind him, seeing him linger close to the wall just enough so that he was out of direct sight of the window. Slowly, he advanced forward to a position where he could properly take a look out, his eyes steely as they examined the landscape, the tensity of his demeanour feeding into your own feelings of concern.

“Jack, what’s going on?” you asked in a small voice, something that was uncharacteristically meek of you. In all fairness, something like this had never happened before. You’d hoped that Jack would come in, take a quick look, confirm there was nobody on the property and give you a little bit of peace of mind but the way he was acting made the possibility of someone actually being out there all the more real to you.

“Darlin’, I’m sorry, but I’m gonna need you to be quiet for a second” he orders, not tearing his eyes away from the window for a single second. You didn’t know how long you two stood there for - it was probably no more than a minute or two at most, even so it felt like an eternity to you, until at long last you saw some of the tension in Jack’s shoulders dissipate and he finally slunk away from the window. “Give me a second, I just gotta go check something” he mumbled, dashing back out of your room and still looking vaguely distressed at the entire predicament. This time around, you did as he said, not wanting to leave the house on the off chance there really was something to worry about. You heard him run back into his own room briefly before darting off downstairs, hearing the unmistakable click of the front door lock opening. You had no idea what to make of any of this - why was he acting so weird? Was there something you should know? Was there really something to your weird feeling and should you be genuinely scared?

The sound of gravel crunching from the ground below alerted you, leading for you to wander over to the window for what felt like the millionth time that night to see for yourself what was going on. Your eyes first landed on Jack, who was pacing the gravel and looking off into the distance, searching for something. You could see he was holding something in his hand but couldn’t quite get a proper look at it as he was angled away from you. He disappeared from your view and a moment later he was back upstairs with you, appearing to be infinitely more relieved than he was before. Now you could properly see what he’d gone to fetch from his room once he’d left: his gun from his days as an agent, the moonlight streaming in through the window glimmering off the silver barrels and onto the floor.

“Nothin’ out there, thank fucking christ” he sighed, giving you a smile that was meant to be comforting. His gesture did nothing to ease your worries, despite the confirmation that there wasn’t anything out there like you’d originally hoped. Along with still feeling uneasy being in that room, there was also the matter of what you’d witnessed in Jack before, the plain and unconcealable look of suspicion and worry that had been showing on him.

“Are you alright? You...seemed worried. The way you were looking out that window, it was...like you were searching for something in particular...”.

“It’s nothing, sweetheart. Don’t worry your pretty little head off about it” he dismissed, obviously wanting to put this whole incident behind the two of you. You were having none of it, so you pressed further, taking a single step closer to where he was standing in the door. “You sure about that? ‘Cause you kinda got your gun out” you pointed out, your eyes flickering down to the weapon resting in his hands knowingly. “Did you think it was Statesman or something?”.

Jack looked surprised that you’d dared to be that direct in your line of questioning. He supposed he shouldn’t have expected any less from you, following your eyes down to where he was holding his gun. “Well, if I’m gonna be honest, yeah. For a moment there, I was worried they’d found me somehow. But there isn’t anybody out there - besides, if they were doin’ surveillance on the house they woulda had me led away in cuffs already. You’re safe as pie, sugar” he confessed.

Exactly as you thought. You’d wondered if Statesman would ever make an appearance, suddenly becoming hot on Jack’s tail. So far nothing had happened, thankfully, and seeing as your strange feeling tonight turned out to be nothing, you permitted yourself to relax a little, despite the still present feeling of discomfort from being in that room. “Alright...thank you for checking. Sorry I woke you up for something stupid”.

“Don’t apologise, sweetheart. I haven’t been sleeping great this last week anyway so I wasn’t even fully asleep when you came in. You make sure to get plenty of rest, ok?” he nodded towards you, turning to leave the room, the comfort of his presence slipping away from you and leaving you to feel the same odd and uncomfortable unrest that plagued you all night.

Glancing back over towards your bed, you dreaded the thought of trying to go back to sleep in that thing tonight. It sounded so childish and silly for you to say, or rather think, but you really didn’t want to be in that room tonight. If you stay in here you aren’t gonna get a wink of sleep.

What you did next was something you never thought you’d do in a million years. In your defense, it’d been a long day, you’d had some alcohol earlier, and you just had to deal with the intense unnerve of being watched only to discover that your feeling was nothing more than a spate of paranoia. With all that taken into account, it was only logical that you asked what you did next. “Jack, wait” you called out before you could stop yourself, freezing once you saw him stop in the hallway and turn back towards you with those sweet eyes of his. “Look, I know this is an odd request but...can I sleep in your room? Only for tonight. I don’t know, I still feel a little on edge and it’s dumb but I’d rather be around someone else right now” you mumbled, simultaneously hating yourself for asking in the first place and feeling utterly embarrassed at your own audacity.

Some part of you wanted him to laugh in your face. Laugh at you and make some stupid little quip about you being a “big girl” who could handle herself. It would be easier to hate him still that way. Of course, he didn’t do that at all. What he did instead was give you the sweetest damn smile you’d ever seen from him, different from those charming smirks you were used to and harkened closer to those rare moments from when you two were together that he would lay down the bravado and be vulnerable. “Sugar, you don’t need to feel bad for askin’ at all. I understand completely where you’re comin’ from” he reassured, holding his hand out and beckoning for you to come forward. And come forward you did, following him out into the hall and into his own room, the anxiety from before fading into nothing and being replaced by relief.

“Thank you. I know we’re not...like that anymore but…” you stumbled dumbly as you glided over towards the bed, fatigue overcoming your brain and making you more impatient to be in bed and asleep as fast as possible. It had to be extremely late by then and you wanted to get a decent amount of sleep before having to get up and go about with business as usual the next day.

Jack, meanwhile, was on the other side of the room throwing his gun back into a chest of drawers. “Say no more, honeybee. If you want, I can sleep on the floor if it makes you more comfortable” he posited, to which you promptly snapped your head back up and stared at him as if he were crazy. “You don’t have to do that, Jack, I’m not about to be kicking you out of your bed”.

“Technically it’s your bed, not mine”.

Rolling your eyes at him, you flopped down on the pillow and sighed. “Doesn’t matter, just...stay here. I’d rather have someone close right now, ok?”. If you weren’t already tired beyond all reason, your brain might have been fretting over the oh so horrific implications of staying in the same bed as him, though if you were really being honest you couldn’t care less right then. It’s not like sleeping in the same bed meant anything, plenty of people did that all the time. So what if you wanted someone near after feeling scared? Wouldn’t someone else do the same thing in your position?

“If that’s what you want, sweetheart. I’ll keep to the other side of the bed if you’d like” Jack assured you, sliding into the other side, doing exactly as he said and keeping a safe enough distance from you. It might’ve been silly for you to care so much, but you had to admit it was nice having someone else be there, and at the least it calmed your anxiety enough for you to feel fine sleeping. Stealing one last brief glance over at him, you wished him goodnight and let yourself relax truly for the first time in hours, letting the world fall away and fade into nothing as you closed your eyes and passed out in mere minutes of being there.

___________

When you awoke the next morning, it was to the strands of sunlight streaming through the parted breaks in the curtain, shining right over your face and rousing you from your slumber. Through bleary eyes, you became aware of the room around you, memories of the night before flooding back to you instantaneously. You noticed you felt warmer, becoming aware of the heavy feeling on your body, which caused your eyes to snap open fully. Looking back over your shoulder, you saw Jack, still sleeping and curled into your back, his arm lazily stung around you. You knew you two hadn’t fallen asleep like that, reasoning that he must have reached out to you during the night, leading to the position you were in now. You could feel the light tickle of his breath against the nape of your neck, something so small managing to light an unexpected spark in your heart. You should have pushed him off. You should have woken him up. You should have done a million other things in that moment instead of the one thing you did.

When instead of flinging him off you and darting out of bed like a skittish cat you curled yourself further into his light embrace, the mortifying realisation hitting you right then with a full force - Jack Daniels, the man who’d broken your heart, was caressing you in his sleep.

And you didn’t mind it, not one single bit.

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samnyangie · 3 years

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Since people liked rsl interview on dps, I’d like to share one of my favourite interview by him. I think it’s one of those rare interview where he wasn’t joking around that much but discuss acting quite seriously haha

So enjoy:DD

(Credit)

____________________________

1990 New York Times

Young Actor's Life Has the Makings of a Movie

by Lynn Mautner

New York Times

May 20, 1990

It would make a good movie. A 15-year-old sophomore at Ridgewood High School is playing the Artful Dodger in the musical ''Oliver'' with the school's theater group, New Players, when he is discovered by a casting agency secretary and whisked off to Broadway and the movies.

That's exactly what happened to Robert Sean Leonard, now 21, and a star of the 1989 film ''Dead Poets Society,'' which received an Oscar for best original screenplay.

''My mother took me to New Players' summer performances when I was 10,'' he said, ''and I loved the camaraderie of people, rehearsing and singing. I began spending more time there, painting signs and moving furniture, and soon became an element of the company, with small roles in 'The Miracle Worker,' 'Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat,' 'Barnum.' ''

Starting as an understudy for three roles at the New York Public Theater (he never got on stage), Mr. Leonard amassed credits that include ''The Beach House'' with George Grizzard for the Circle Repertory Theater, television movies, ''Brighton Beach Memoirs'' and ''Breaking the Code'' on Broadway, plays at the West Bank Cafe on 42d Street and the recent ''When She Danced'' at Playwrights Horizons.

He has just completed a part as Paul Newman's and Joanne Woodward's son in the movie ''Mr. and Mrs. Bridge,'' filmed in Kansas City, to be released in August. ''I age from a 15-year-old Eagle Scout to 22, coming home from World War II with a mustache,'' Mr. Leonard said.

Mr. Leonard, who received a general equivalency diploma when he was 17, lives in New York City and attends Fordham University between performances. Soon to return from the Cannes Film Festival with his fellow actors in ''Dead Poets,'' he is next scheduled to go into rehearsal for the film ''Married to It,'' a romantic comedy.

Q. Do you remember when you decided on an acting career?

A. I never decided to pursue an acting career. It just has happened. I still think it's going to stop and I'll have to get a real job soon, but I'm afraid to question it because if I do, it will disappear.

Q. How do you think your theater experience in high school has helped you?

A. It was a great teaching experience that prepared me in a lot of ways. We did 10 shows in 10 weeks, so there was no time to think about method. It was running for the stage, hoping you'll make it in time for your entrance. In Steven Soderbergh's new book of his diaries when directing the film ''Sex, Lies and Videotape,'' he said that on a film set there should always be a chain of command, but never a chain of respect.

At New Players, those three to four years, everyone was given the same respect. You had to, because you'd be the lead one week and painting sets the next. That's a luxury that is not available in New York, unfortunately, because of the unions. You're an actor and that's it.

Q. Have you taken any acting lessons? Do you recommend them for others?

A. I've taken two classes - a video acting class to help me get from stage to film, with Marty Winkler, currently my manager, and an acting class at H. B. Studios.

Acting classes are tricky. It's like asking someone in therapy if they'd recommend going to a psychiatrist. For some people it's great; for some it's not necessary; for some it's harmful. The best way to learn acting is just to do it.

There's a danger to the classroom, because it's safe, and you can get addicted to it. The clique of people are there, and you might tend to remain with them and never go out on your own. So it can give you the safety net which can eventually strip away your courage to go out and really try. On the other hand, you can get a wonderful teacher who brings out the best in you and gives you the courage to go out and dazzle everybody.

Q. You went from high school to Off Broadway. What were your feelings and fears during your first professional performance?

A. The first time I performed in New York - in ''Sally's Gone, She Left Her Name'' - I played Michael Learned's son. I think I was too young. I wasn't even aware of reasons to be afraid. I was just there for the fun of it. Fresh out of New Players, I knew it to be fun. I've never worried about lines. In ''Brighton Beach'' I should have been tense, because it was Broadway. I was nervous, but not racked - more excited.

Q. What do you enjoy most about acting?

A. The people, and opportunities to learn, to travel, both physically and emotionally. To look at people other than myself and try to figure out what makes them tick.

Olivier said you never play a villain; you play a man considered to be a villain; that you have to justify everything he does first; you have to know that what you are doing is right and find a way to make it right - even murder.

I just played a conceited piano player in ''When She Danced,'' and I had to figure out what would make a person be conceited and make that O.K. with me. I learned where conceit comes from - from confidence and talent.

Worst thing you can do is play someone and judge him at the same time, saying: ''Here I am. I am so conceited.'' First you have to understand why you're that way so that people interpret you as conceited.

Q. Do you consider acting an escape?

A. I don't look at performing as escaping, as really becoming another person and leaving my problems for two hours, so I don't have to deal with me, because I don't become another person. I work, so that when I am working, in a way it is me at my best. I'm not leaving myself; in fact, I'm more focused on myself than ever. I don't become that person, but I fully understand him, fully explore him, as to why he does what he does and justify it.

You can't play a fool to play Bottom, who's the opposite of fool in Shakespeare's ''Midsummer Night's Dream.'' What makes people fools is that they're completely confident in what they're doing. They don't think they're fools; they think they're right on track, which makes them so funny and makes them look like fools.

Q. Who influenced you the most?

A. I have not had one person or experience that stands out that's a turning point. Every step in acting relies heavily on the one before. Everything I've learned colors everything I have known before, and suddenly changes it.

I have learned a little bit from everyone I have known, whether about acting itself, or living and working as an actor. Like a good detective novel, for every clue that is solved, two more appear. Every time I learn something, it opens two other doors. In ''Dead Poets,'' the rooftop scene, where I throw the desk set off, was improvised. Are instincts then a part of acting?

Q. Are there desirable qualities to have as an actor?

A. Concentration, perseverence, lack of inhibitions. There's no room for self-consciousness on stage. Also, there is an element in acting that is not fair. Whatever talent is, part of it can be learned and part can't. There are people that audiences like to watch or don't. In Soderbergh's book, he says that talent plus perseverance will equal luck. But I don't know what talent is; it is beyond definition.

Q. Do you learn by watching other films and plays? Your own? Other people?

A. Sometimes I watch for directing; sometimes for performing. There are lines in ''Dead Poets'' I would do differently, if given the chance. For example, Todd said: ''You talk and people listen to you, Neil. I am not like that.'' I answer, ''Don't you think you could be?'' I think I could have made it clearer. I don't get much from observing strangers, because although I see what they do, I don't know where they're coming from.

Q. What are the main differences between stage and film work?

A. I feel that as an actor, you should start in theater, to learn the process of creating a character, in rehearsal. Film is an arena for people who already know that, because on the set they expect you to know the character inside out.

Film work is harder, because this tangible part has to happen in your head before filming takes place. And it's more solitary. You create your character alone, without the give-and-take of other actors.

Q. What tips would you give young, aspiring actors?

A. Read plays aloud with friends at home; do any work you can do in high school. Hang out with jocks, leatherheads, and see what makes them work. Don't be a theater rat and only talk to actors. Read a lot. You really have to feel it; really want it; then take it. Don't take no for an answer. Seize the day.

___________________________

There’s another one I really want to share as well, I’ll bring it with me at some point:))

#robert sean leonard #rsl #theatre #acting #interview #I love how he ended the interview with seize the day

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crossdressingdeath · 3 years

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Still thinking about s2 Alana (because clearly if Tumblr's going to hide my complaining from me the solution is to complain More), and I think part of it is there's this strong sense of selfishness I get off her? Like... I think part of her reason for pushing the idea that Will's guilty so hard to the point of discouraging him from making any attempt to investigate it (her insisting that if he has her hypnotize him he'll just remember how he murdered all those people is an active discouragement because why the fuck would he want to remember if she convinces him he's guilty, I'll fight you on that) might be that she doesn't want to admit that she could've been that wrong. Something something the guilt of having let an innocent man get locked up without really demanding a proper investigation and then spending who knows how long calling him a delusional murderer to his face no matter how many times he professed his innocence would be so bad that subconsciously she'd rather completely shut down even the possibility, even if it means he stays in jail despite being innocent. Which, again, I don't think for a second she was aware of! But I think there is a part of it where for her it's easier, having already accepted that Will's a murderer, to just keep thinking he's a murderer... even if that's wrong. Also, something something if he's innocent she'll have to confront how quick she was to believe the worst of him because holy shit did Alana buy into "Will managed to kill five people while seriously ill without anyone including multiple psychiatrists and people whose entire job it is to catch murderers noticing" fast; they all did, and the fact that they initially jumped to that conclusion kind of makes sense given the ear and the lures, but it stands out with Alana because of a) how vocal she is about it and b) how suspicious she continues to be of him even after his innocence is proven.

And then there's the whole thing with Hannibal, which... yeah, it's a thing. With Hannibal Alana figuratively put her own eyes out she was so blind! Literally every other member of the main cast is like "Yeah, Hannibal's starting to look really fucking suspicious" but not Alana! Nope, she doesn't question him at all for ages, long after she should have started realizing something was up (hell, even the fact that he just happened to sleep with her for the first time the night before Jack came to ask him for an alibi which her presence assured him while his time in med school and as a surgeon and probably as a psychiatrist likely ensured he'd know how to drug someone... should've raised a couple questions from her, if only in association with all the other circumstantial evidence piling up); if nothing else the fact that Will did point the finger at Hannibal and believed it so hard he was willing to try to have the guy murdered should've been a red flag, what with how Will is literally never wrong about whether someone is an active killer at any point in his work with the FBI. Which I guess links back in with how willing Alana is to believe the worst in Will, because regardless of Hannibal being an old friend the human bloodhound for serial killers being that certain should've gotten her suspicious. She knows Will isn't a killer, and yet it doesn't seem to occur to her that maybe he wouldn't go that far if he wasn't sure enough that it was worth considering! And hell, even when she starts being suspicious she goes after Will instead of Hannibal. It's him she interrogates! Like... I'm aware I'm maybe being a bit unfair, but I got the sense part of why she was so determined not to consider the possibility that maybe Will was right and Hannibal was a murderer was because she was enjoying her little affair with him. Which is fair! If I was being given increasing reasons to think the person I was dating was a serial killer I'd be pretty tempted to bury my head in the sand and pretend I didn't notice! But at the same time the way she seems to displace her suspicions onto Will, who she's already falsely accused of murder once before, and even telling him she doesn't think his relationship with Hannibal is healthy while still sleeping with the guy is... hm. Not exactly sympathetic at this stage.

I don't really know where I'm going with this. I guess what I'm saying is I think at least part of why Alana shoved so much of her suspicion onto Will well after it should've become clear that if nothing else Hannibal's involvement was way less innocent than she thought (even and perhaps especially if she was already aware that Hannibal was suspicious and she just didn't want to say it out loud, which is also possible; I think the only thing worse than her deliberately blinding herself and blaming Will just to avoid blaming Hannibal is her outwardly blaming Will again while fully aware that that was bullshit) is that it was just easier to blame Will and convince herself Hannibal was innocent no matter how much evidence piled up and how much it hurt Will for her to do so.

#hannibal #...do i need to come up with a non-character tag for alana?#s2 alana anyway

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brokebuckkmountain · 4 years

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Today was the worst

(long rant ahead, mostly about workplace politics with irl problems sprinkled in for flavor)

So. I’ve already been in my feelings lately due to like: life sucking, it’s the plague times, I am struggling to find a psychiatrist despite being told it was imperative I get help immediately, it’s winter and winter makes me sad, I’m losing friendships left and right thx to Miss Rona, I hate my job, yesterday was the one year anniversary of my breakup, there’s tons of gossip about me at work for things I genuinely did not say, and some of my work buddies are ignoring me for no apparent reason (including my best friend who has been ignoring me since my literal birthday a month ago? It’s all her friends that are ignoring me to it’s hard not to think it’s something related to that). Also, those PMS mood swings are a bitch.

I wanted today to be a good day. I wanted to get up early. I wore my new clothes and new perfume and was excited to train a coworker I genuinely like who was never trained when she was hired a year ago and struggles to get through her shifts. I mean I volunteered to do it for free because she deserves the help. But no no. Today was not a good one.

-I was woken up at 3 am to a litany of text messages from an ex asking to hook up again. Promptly fell back asleep and missed my later alarm, causing me to have to skip my workout this am and rush my shower.

-My boss didn’t assign my trainee online learning or make a schedule, told me I was a “strong enough trainer” to just do what I felt needed to be done. That was all he said to me, no further instruction. This is important later. Trainers and trainees are considered non-coverage and I run into an issue with this everytime I train- shifts want us on the floor doing different tasks than what I’m actually teaching. I personally think being a little backed up for 30 minutes is preferable to new hires not knowing how to do things because they never got one on one time, but most supervisors think otherwise.

-My trainee and I had about 25 minutes until our joint lunch break. She had expressed to me that knowing more about the mechanics of coffee- what is the body of a shot, why does it expire, what’s the difference between blonde and regular- was helping her, so I decided 25 minutes whizzing through that part of training before lunch was fine. I was immediately chastised by someone we’ll call Manager 1 because that “isn’t part of the training”. It very much is, and is available on every training resource, it just never gets taught because of time constraints and corporate not really caring about coffee quality. Manager 1 has consistently made a scene every time I train a new hire over us doing training and not just whatever she wants to get done. Manager 1 is also known for berating almost every one, and has lied about altercations that never happened between me and customers before to our manager. So she’s not exactly a fan favorite of mine. I maintained that the coffee basics was part of training and returned to the back, planning to use that time to do coffee basics and more memory games for drink recipes.

-After about 5 minutes, my coworker came to the back and told me the two managers wanted us out there helping. I went out alone to tell Manager 2 (who was technically in charge and generally less awful) what we were working on and asked if they really needed us or if they’d be okay. She said they needed us and Manager 2 began snapping that we were floor coverage, that my trainee was supposed to be on the floor all day, and that she had no business in the back “staring at a computer screen” (which we were not doing, but I digress). Since this is about the fourth time I’ve had this issue with this particular manager, I responded that we were supposed to be doing whatever I felt needed to be done, not working the floor. When they maintained that they were “under the impression” from our boss that my trainee and I were to remain on the floor all day, and we were coverage, I said “I guess I got confused by the dashed lines on the schedule that signify non-coverage as us being non-coverage” and went to get my trainee.

-My trainee knew the situation because she had overheard, got super nervous, and started making drinks wrong that she had been making correctly all day. During this time I overheard Manager 1 and Manager 2 not-quietly discussing them both texting our boss to complain about me. Fair, I guess, since I planned on doing the same when I was on my lunch. At one point they both left the bar area to send their texts and squat by the safe while waiting for it to unlock (it’s on a timer and beeps when it’s ready, no need to hover) which only infuriated me more- they moved us to bar so they could leave it. When it was finally our lunch time I sent my trainee and was pulled aside by Manager 2. I tried to move the conversation to the break room (something I have always been adamant about- not publicly berating coworkers in front of others) but she stayed on the floor where multiple people were and reprimanded me for my bad attitude. I told her I was never instructed to stay on the floor, had a schedule, and would’ve been more flexible if they had actually spoken to me rather than yelling and demanding. She maintained that I had a bad attitude and needed to follow orders. I said, once again, “mutual respect goes both ways, if you want me to incorporate things into my training schedule then you need to have an actual conversation with me about it and not demand it at random”. She said that as my superior I wasn’t allowed to “talk back” (ignoring my point that they had both, indeed, begun yelling at me) and told me my bad attitude “wasn’t a good look” and that she didn’t feel I was understanding. I said I understood perfectly that I shouldn’t be rude, but that they shouldn’t yell at me either, and I wasn’t going to take unprofessional yelling to pull me off my job as a trainer. Manager 2 didn’t listen to a word I said and kept going “you can’t have an attitude, do you understand?” so after a period of staring at her silently I said “Can I clock out for my lunch now and proceed with training?” and walked away.

-After lunch I was able to continue training, only because that part of the training constituted us being on the floor helping. I apologized profusely to my trainee for putting her in that situation, reassuring her that regardless of who was in the “right” or the personal issues of the people on the floor, my first priority was her being able to successfully learn and feel comfortable. She told me she had a hard time focusing on drinks and was anxious after the scene, and that she felt the public reprimanding I received was far out of line and unprofessional. I told her I knew that, but being as it was two managers against one me, I would probably still receive a write up tomorrow morning and not to let it worry her when it did go down (tomorrow is our final day of training and my last day before a long break from work, so I know it’s going to happen in front of her). She said she would talk to my boss on my behalf and I told her not to worry, I didn’t want her pulled into workplace drama, but she insisted it wasn’t right (she is considerably older than everyone in the workplace and I think a little protective of me since we volunteered together and I’m the only one who doesn’t chastise her for small mistakes). We’ll see if she says anything tomorrow but I don’t want her to feel like she has to “go to bat” for me and involve herself in unnecessary drama against people who will lash out at her.

-While trying to clock out, I overheard Manager 2 trying to get other coworkers of mine to give accounts against our boss to his superior over not liking their scheduling. Perhaps I’m biased, because I am friends with my boss and literally vacationed with him this summer, but he is the type to listen to concerns and always give people the benefit of the doubt. I’ve never seen him give a write up and he bends over backwards to accommodate people. So whatever their issues are, something tells me they haven’t brought it up to him. Manager 2 frequently breaks safety protocols because she “doesn’t care if she gets Covid” and has vacationed out of state many times resulting in us not allowing her to come back to work and being short staffed. Despite this, I’ve never given my boss her name when he asks who is breaking safety protocols. Manager 2 is well known for being deeply unpleasant, her and my boss have been at odds for years from working together at another location, and has frequently tried to egg on other employees to get our boss in trouble while refusing to make any formal complaints herself. If you’ve been following for a while, she’s the same ass-kisser who used to say my old boss could break any rules she wanted and allowed herself to be constantly demeaned in hopes of a promotion (10 years without a promotion and she thinks it’s unfair rather than realizing she’s mean and unpleasant, chooses to attack the people who do get the promotions she wants). I know there’s a way to spin those two plotting against my boss as a way to cast some doubt on their accounts of me, but no way to do it without being a blatant shit disturber who’s just retaliating. Which is not how I want to live my life. But he deserves a heads up.

-Now I’m sitting at home with an arts and craft project I came up with to give my coworkers all a gift before the New Year and no desire to do it. Like, fuck these people, why should I do something nice for them? Even though I know the majority are good people, just not the ones in management. No energy, completely lethargic (yay depressive episode and still no antidepressants because I can’t get ahold of a goddamn psychiatrist even though my GP okayed the antidepressants herself), wishing I just could get a better job but I need the insurance at mine. It’s one thing to be constantly belittled and insulted by customers (and a very big thing, at that), but to get it from coworkers too just makes me feel awful, day in and day out. I know I’ve hated my job for the entire 3 and a half years I’ve been there and bemoaned how much less interwork drama I’ve had at every other job I’ve had (so I don’t think it’s all me, many agree it’s a toxic environment likened to a high school), but quitting a job you’re great at, passionate about (at times), live super close to, that gives you insurance, during a pandemic? Harder than it looks.

Life sux. Super anxious for tomorrow. Thanks for reading. Pls don’t reblog.

#i should text my boss since i KNOW he's gonna wanna talk tomorrow and my anxious ass will forget half of what i want to say #but thats also nerve wracking i guess #personal

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thecomicsnexus · 5 years

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BATMAN, BATMAN: SHADOW OF THE BAT, DETECTIVE COMICS, ROBIN #0 OCTOBER 1994 BY DOUG MOENCH, ALAN GRANT, CHUCK DIXON, MIKE MANLEY, BRET BLEVINS, GRAHAM NOLAN, TOM GRUMMETT, JOE RUBINSTEIN, SCOTT HANNA, RAY KRYSSING AND ADRIENNE ROY

SYNOPSIS (FROM DC DATABASE AND COMIC VINE)

Batman tracks down a serial mugger that has been stalking victims in the Park Row section of Gotham City. While he investigates the case, his mind reels back to his childhood.

When he was four-years-old, Bruce fell through a cistern on the Wayne estate and discovered the cavern that would one day become the Batcave. Soon after this event, Alfred Pennyworth came to work for Thomas and Martha Wayne.

When Bruce was eight-years-old, he was returning home from the movies with his parents, when a mugger, Joe Chill, accosted them, killing both Thomas and Martha Wayne. This event would drive Bruce towards an isolated existence and a life spent studying the law. Using his knowledge of computers, he manipulated the local bureaucracy allowing him to become the sole ward of Alfred Pennyworth. Child psychiatrist, Leslie Thompkins soon became a frequent fixture at the Wayne estate helping young Bruce through his darkest years.

As an adult, Bruce traveled the world, learning various crime-fighting skills from venerable masters. All of these would one day become part of the arsenal of the Batman.

The Batman is on the hunt again; this time, he is after a group of hitmen called the Stone Brothers. Ex-military, the Stone Brothers were hired to go after crime boss Mick Molloy, but found Batman instead. While Batman takes on the brothers, a separate group of criminals are convinced that the Batman is after them. After being spooked by every little noise, the gang surrender themselves to Commissioner Gordon. Batman, while remembering his past, takes down the Stone Brothers, and returns to the Batcave, his mission fulfilled.

While Batman takes down criminals on the streets, he remembers his origins and the early days of his career when he was preparing for his debut as the caped crusader. Batman rescues two kidnapped children.

While Robin and Nightwing stake out some safe-crackers, they discuss what led each of them to become Batman's crimefighting partner. Nightwing also reveals a particularly unpleasant episode from his time as Robin: Two-Face had set up a double gallows trap, to hang either Batman or Gotham's new district attorney. Dick tried to double-blood Two-Face but failed, leading to the death of the D.A.. Both he and Two-Face still remember this incident clearly, though Batman has never mentioned it to the current Robin.

Returning to the Batcave, they meet Batman, who says he needs a rest, but this time will hand the mantle on to someone it always should have gone to: Nightwing.

REVIEW

Batman’s retelling of the origin post-zero-hour is almost intact with very minor differences. The main one being that Batman never found out who killed his parents. In this continuity, it was just another faceless criminal, and that is why Batman is so driven to get back the city from crime. This makes sense, but Joe Chill’s name is already engraved in our brains. I didn’t like it at the time because I am one of the few people that actually liked Year Two. But it wasn’t that big of a change (it is odd that after preparing to be one of the world’s greatest detectives he still couldn’t figure it out).

Another character that went through changes was Catwoman, but I will review that on her own zero issue.

Finally, another big change is Nightwing. After Crisis, editorial mandated that Dick Grayson had to be part of the bat-family (even though they were barely using the character), this changed parts of the New Titans back stories, particularly how he became Nightwing and how Jason became Robin. Since then their stories have been in flux. After Zero Hour, they really took Nightwing back from the Titans book and as you can see above, he actually became Batman for a long arc. Since then, Chuck Dixon managed to give him his own city and supporting cast and a new era for Nightwing began. Part of the editorial changes was making Two-Face a Robin villain (perhaps because Batman Forever was around the corner), in Robin’s zero issue we see one of Robin’s worst adventures when he was fooled by Two-Face. Tim Drake and Jason’s origins remained the same as post-crisis. That Two-Face story will be essential for Batman: Prodigal.

If I had to pick one issue to skip of these four, I would have to pick Shadow of the Bat. Both BSOTB and Batman tell pretty much the same flashbacks. Bruce is a bit more human when used by Alan Grant, and Moench has a more elaborated prose. But of the two, Batman’s flashbacks are more complete.

Of course my favorite issue of this batch is Robin. I love Dixon’s run on Robin, mostly because at the point, both Tim and I were 14. Tim decided to not grow up since then.

I give these issues a score of 8

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elizabeth-234 · 4 years

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The Hourglass

Previous Chapter Ten: For the Great Good Part Two

Hi All. Thank you for reading. This is for prompt ten of whumptober: Internal Bleeding and blood loss.

References to suicide.

Chapter Eleven: Where in the World is Peter?

???

People were talking around him. They were the type of murmurs you could never hear the exact wording no matter how hard you concentrated. His head lay heavy on the pillow, sunk into the dent worn in it by time. He found the same experience with his limbs. They were all but useless at his side besides the small twitch in the ring finger of his left hand.

Time held no meaning in that state of immobility and exhaustion dragged him back to sleep whenever consciousness creeped back in. Inside the immobile body his cells worked to heal and repair the damage from the attack and fall, though his mind remained unaware. Hours or weeks could have passed, and in some ways they did but Peter wasn’t aware to the consequences of this yet.

He woke up to the sound of voices again. Shaking from the effort, he cracked an eye open. There was a young nurse sitting on a stool near the door. She was on some talking into type of boxed hospital phone. Her intonation rose and fell as skimmed through some paperwork on a clipboard. Peter closed his eyes and panted while trying to ignore the trembling in his neck. He slept again.

Waking moments were more prevalent from then on. He noticed someone was always stationed in his room no matter the time of day. Some stayed in the chair by the door while others came in and watched TV. They sat in the chair beside him and though he would fall asleep, it this strange state of sickness seem less lonely.

The doctor came sparingly but they made sure to give a progress report when they did. “Low urine output still. Give him more fluids” The doctor said much to Peter’s embarrassment. His palms were clammy against the bedsheets but his arms wouldn’t respond to his attempts to move. His mind wanted to claim health, that he was fine and could go back, but his body knew what his mind wouldn’t acknowledge: Peter was hurt and it was taking too long to heal. His heart was beating fast but his pulse pressure remained low. He wasn’t just tired but had full exhaustion and fatigue in his muscles.

Sometimes he pretended they were talking about somebody else so he didn’t have to be embarrassed. Like he wasn’t invisible and they weren’t talking around him. Other times he couldn’t follow the updates from the people. He’d get lost in the numbers and vocabulary, the twisting sentences that almost seemed like they contradicted themselves. A headache formed and he would block out the sounds instead of trying to wake up. Still, Peter slept on.

When he opened his eyes without strain and forethought, it was night. He stared at the moon from his spot on the bed. It hung low and thick in his window. The yellow and dark watercolors of the face casting a strange tint across the room and the blankets covering him. The face stared right back at him all dark eyes and long mouths. Did the man in the moon pity him or was he laughing?

Peter took a mental stock of himself. He tensed his muscles pushing them to see how they functioned after no use. He was breathing hard from his exploration, his legs twitching and restless. With slow, measured movements Peter pushed himself to sit, though his stomach muscles protested the whole way. Hunched over and catching his breath, Peter thought about his next options.

The memories of how he came to be in the hospital were gone, but he knew he had to get out. The more time spent here, the easier it was for the men to come back. They would fine him eventually and such public exposure would work against him. Peter almost caved against the onset of his plans and fell back onto the bed, but he held firm. Rhodey and Tony’s faces appeared before him like apparitions in a ghost story. Their transparent expressions yelling at him to run as invisible enemies attacked them. A branch in the tree outside moved with the wind, disturbing the shadows in his room, and they were gone. He would find a way out for them.

Peter swung his legs off the side of the bed. He gasped as the cold of the tiled floor soaked through his socks and chilled his feet. Some plastic pouch was strapped to his leg. He palpated it and blushed when he felt liquid inside. Pushing away thoughts of his urinary track, Peter tested his balance. He fully placed his feet on the ground and pushed away from the stationary structure of the bed. Back and forth he teetered on the balls of his feet before what felt like the first time in forever, Peter was standing on his own two feet. His muscles burned and shook from the effort, and Peter began sweating but he was standing. It seemed like a time ago he was running on the dock. Had he fallen into the pond? His head pounded. He couldn’t remember what happened next.

Something moved and he saw the heat rustle the papers of the nurse sitting by his door. Her head was bent over to rest on the wall. She was almost asleep. Her eyes kept closing and not even the sounds of Peter’s explorations woke her. He could sneak around her if he moved fast enough. He tried walking but something tugged him back. The IV poll moved forward to catch up with him leaving the metal to scrap on the floor. The nurse woke up with a snort.

“Oh my.” She said when she spotted him up standing. “You shouldn’t be up. Let’s get you settled back in.”

There was no room for argument and he was tucked back in before he knew it. He drooped into the bedding and despite hating to admit it, even to himself, Peter felt like he’d just ran a marathon. Escape stretched further away from him if standing caused this much of an energy drain. He stared at the nurse how was working around him. She was an older nurse, one he might have seen before in one of his brief instances of clarity. She refilled his water and tucked the covers over his shoulders. Before she could move away he stopped her.

“Miss?” He said wanting to ask something that had been bothering him all night. “I’ve been to the hospital a few times when I was a kid and never had someone sit with me. Not that I don’t appreciate it but I don’t think I can sleep knowing someone’s watching me.”  

She gave him a critical eye as she checked the IV measurements with the time.

“Well, Mr. Parker that hasn’t stopped you from sleeping in the past 24 hours with other nurses here. I’m acting as a sitter tonight. I’m here to make sure you’re not a danger to yourself given how they recovered you from that lake.”

She patted him on his arm and his mind reeled with startling clarity of her words. They thought he jumped. They thought he chose to jump into the icy waters and not come back. A shiver ran down his spine. He needed to make her understand.

“That, that wasn’t it. I - someone was running after me and I fell. I - it wasn’t on purpose.”   

She clucked her teeth and pushed the covers up where they had fallen when he tried to get up to reassure her and maybe himself as well.

“Be that as it may, Mr. Parker. I have a job to do until you are cleared with the doctors and you do too. Rest easy tonight and focus on getting better. You’ve had some internal bleeding that they need to look at now you’re awake.”

He nodded and fell back into his pillow all fight and plans of escape forgotten.

“It’s Peter, please. Could you put the TV on? I would feel better with some background noise.” He said.

“I’m nurse Bee. Sleep well, Peter. I’ll be watching over you tonight.”

He closed his eyes and the sounds from the TV filtered into the room. His last thought was he thought he heard a commercial with Shrek come on.

“You’ve got some very unusual markers in your blood, Mr. Parker. It’s the reason it took us so long to find a suitable donor to get a transfusion. Now that it’s all set you should be feeling much better. We’ve removed the catheter as well and stopped most of the pain meds. The goal is to get you mobile now, build up any muscles, and, of course, you’ll have to see a psychiatrist. One will be sent up this afternoon. CPS was called and-”

“I’m eighteen, Doc” He said maintaining eye contact. The doctor raised an eyebrow but Peter didn’t move a muscle. He didn’t believe Peter, never mind that he was right not to trust him. It was that or he didn’t care either way. “Plus, I’ll call my uncle and he’ll tell you. There’s no need for anything else.”

The afternoon was filled with appointments. Just thinking about it left him a state of denial. Question after question bombarded him. He was scanned and poked and prodded. He didn’t even know how he was going to pay for everything.

The talk with the therapist was the worst. The hour dragged on. Every question was followed by another. Peter tried to be as honest as possible. Sticking to the truth was best in a lie and it would be easier to remember later, but Spiderman, that place, and May. No, all of those things were off limits. What he did repeat was he hadn’t jumped. He was chased and fell. The man nodded and wrote down something in his notebook before trying to dive into Peter’s past. He had no past here.

In any other circumstances it might’ve been helpful. If Peter was open to the experience he might have found talking about his life to a stranger freeing. But this wasn’t the case. His past was gone here to all outside eyes. It hadn’t happened because it would be dangerous to talk about it. He was increasingly closed off as the minutes went by. His attention more focused on the plaid sweater vest the man was wearing than their session.

Night came again. They must have believed his story because was finally alone. He was parched from retelling everything he remembered and more during the day. Still, something was missing. Dr. Lang suggested it was the trauma but Peter thought everything seemed off somehow. Everything was different from before.

He stuffed the blanket around his feet so the cold air wouldn’t chill them and grabbed the controller. He almost wished the nurse from the previous night was there before he stopped the thought. Escape. He needed to escape tonight. The CPS had been too late to arrive today but he didn’t think he would be lucky enough tomorrow. They couldn’t make plans about him and take him farther away than he was now.

The IV prickled with blood after he pulled it out. He pressed the corner of his gown onto the small hole and once it coagulated, Peter tossed a blanket around his shoulders as disguise. It wasn’t the most incognito appearance but it was all he had until he could find something, maybe a nurse’s zip-up to use. He also didn’t want the cold to stress his body even more in its weakened state.

The memory of the therapist in plaid confirming his time with the CPS tomorrow was enough to get him out of bed and into the hallway. It was empty. Only his heart racing and machines talking were heard at this time of night. Above everything else, he couldn’t be caught. He walked without sound but he was too slow all his thoughts of daring escapes and only managed one hallway when he heard someone walking. A nurse turned the corner wheeling a cart in front of him. One of the wheels squeaked as it rolled. Peter held his breath and pushed himself into the wall but it wasn’t cover enough. As fast as he dared Peter darted into the closest room hoping the patient was asleep. He leaned against the door not breathing until the squeaking grew too faint to hear.

“What are you doing?”

Someone said from inside the room. Peter swallowed. His assessment of sleep was way off base. With a stolen breath he peered around the door wall and into the room.

Papers were strewn over a spread of open books on the bed. It was chaos but the person sitting didn’t seem to mind. They were hunched over one of the papers. Peter waited for them to look up. He wondered if his eyes would be cold or warm but they were shrouded from view. His brown hair longer than Peter’s haircut. It was grown out from his buzzcut but still not longer than his ears. Peter spared a glance at the boy’s mouth and forehead. Both were furrowed and lined as he concentrated.

Peter felt like he was in middle school again waiting in the principal’s office after getting into a fight when one of the other kids called him a nerd. The principal made him stand in front of his desk for five minutes while he finished work. Peter didn’t have time to wait now.

“Well?” He asked again with a raised eyebrow. Peter realized he’d never answered. While the ground seemed infinitely a safer place to look Peter forced himself to look up.

His breath froze in his chest. In front of him sat an apparition. Peter almost pinched himself to see if he was dreaming. His eyes were the same brown with flecks of black speckled throughout, but like the first time it was the emotion that kept his attention. There was a certain duality to his eyes. They stayed focused completely on him and taking in his face but this time there was no recognition of the distance between them. This time Peter felt as though he carried the ocean in him that separated them and, for a moment, he could almost understand the expression in his eyes the first time they met. Maybe he’d been asleep longer than he thought. Peter continued to stare and the longer he looked the more differences he spotted. The lines weren’t the same around his eyes, age hadn’t touched him yet, and he was missing that familiar edge to the brown pupils that had grown over the weeks of Peter being with them.

“I was just hiding - I mean, I was, Tony? What the hell are you doing here?”   

The man’s – boy’s - eyes hardened but the curiosity stayed.

“Who are you? And how do you know my name?”  

Thank you!

Next Chapter Twelve: The President, Shrek, and Sweater Vests

#whumptober2020 #whumptober 2020 #no. 10 #blood loss #internal bleeding #spiderman #iron man #peter parker #avengers #marvel #MCU #tw: references to suicide #tony stark #rhodey #james rhodes #AU #marvel AU #peter parker AU

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split-n-splice · 5 years

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Sometimes those who are bad do good while those who are good do bad with good intentions. A kidnapping and a brief encounter between villain wannabe and a hero-to-be.

Pre-Team Go. Just thinking about origins and adjusting to new powers. I fancy the idea that Drakken and Shego go “way back.”

Chapters: 3 Words: 12k Warnings: violence, language (Updated with revised version Feb, 2020!)

[Chapter Guide]

Chapter 1

Save for the rhythm of her own breath and the hum of a fluorescent she’d grown deaf to, her chambers had been dead silent for hours on end until the lull was broken by the long-awaited click of the lock and the quiet swish of the door opening.

“Subject B?” came the wavering call of an uncertain man.

The teenager’s lip almost quirked into a smirk. Almost. Fresh meat, she thought wryly.

Her arms were bent uncomfortably over her head, shielding her eyes from the infinite light above as she lay on her cot. For quite some time now, she’d had nothing better to do other than sleep until she ached and then some. If only sleep was easy to come by.

The footsteps neared. “I’m your, uhm. Psychiatrist.” He waited. She’d leave him hanging, she decided. “Hello? Are you awake?” Another moment passed. The footsteps began to retreat, and she heard him mutter impatiently to himself, “I must be in the wrong sector.”

The girl sat upright then with great exertion, lifting a heavy cast over her head. She slumped forward and glowered down to her hands secured and bound together in the slipshod plaster cocoon before squinting up against the searing white light as a man in a crisp blue suit came into focus.

“M’name’s not Subject B,” she rasped, voice hoarse from thirst and lack of use. A far more interesting glass of water on the homey little nightstand beside her cot drew her attention away from the stranger, reminding her how parched she was. She’d been encouraged to break her strike for a while now – she’d lost count of the days she’d been on it, honestly – and though she was presently hooked to an IV to treat dehydration, she was still holding fast to her conditions: let her go or she’d find a way to self-destruct. So far the tactic wasn’t working.

Her visitor said something she didn’t catch – the damn water had her fixated. She could have – should have – knocked it over hours ago, or maybe days ago, but what if another glass never came—?

The girl shook her head and tore her eyes away from the tempting glass. She scrunched her nose as if smelling something foul as she studied the spectacled man again. “You look too young to be a psychiatrist,” she deadpanned. “Mommy still do your laundry? Looks like she dresses you too.”

Something she said must have struck a nerve. “Listen, you snot-nosed little brat—” the man began, but she lurched to her feet. The wobble of her knees couldn’t have been threatening but her glare must have done something. She liked to think so anyway.

“This snot-nosed little brat left yesterday’s psychiatrist’s face looking like a Picasso,” she hissed venomously, and raised her trapped hands a little as evidence before dropping them. “So watch your mouth.” She couldn’t do much to him in her present state, but he seemed on edge just enough for threats alone to be sufficient.

When she took a step forward, IV stand scooting along with her, the man took a step back. Her eyes darted to the floor. She almost smiled, but he was talking again. “Is that what that is about?” He gestured with his clipboard to her bound hands. “Why?”

The girl arched her brow at the perplexed inquiry. There wasn’t an inkling of sarcasm. She looked down to the plaster keeping her primary means of defense at bay. She was sure she could burn the cast off, but not without burning herself again in the process. Her skin was already raw and blistered from earlier attempts to burn her way to freedom. Having a go at her last doctor had been the last straw. They’d said the improvised cast was only a temporary quick fix. They’d said it was to keep her from hurting herself, like a cone on a dog – but that had been a load. The burns lacing her palms and knuckles might have gotten the attention they needed if she weren’t so obstinate, but she’d hardly let anyone near enough to check on her in days.

She’d been a lab rat under observation for months – ever since the organization holding her in custody had caught wind of something extraterrestrial practically leveling her neighborhood. She hadn’t been compliant with their studies.

The snapping of fingers made her blink. An almost concerned look crossed the man’s face. He was stupid enough to take a step closer. He opened his mouth to repeat the question but she cut him off.

“If you’d read my file, you would know what it’s for.” She narrowed her eyes at him in suspicion as he scrambled to flip through the scant pages on his clipboard. “There was even a hazard sign posted outside the door, last I saw.”

“I – uh – I’m just making small talk. Of course, I’ve read your file,” he said, a tentative smile quivering.

The girl glanced to the floor again, to the painted red caution line marking the boundary behind him, and a second marking a boundary through the center of the barren room between them, her own personal invisible fence. If he was a stuttering idiot because he was scared, he would have taken the proper precautions when confronting her. She did the math. Something didn’t add up right. “Then you wouldn’t have crossed the line,” she stated in a quiet mutter, eyes fixating on the particular warning line three steps behind him. Personnel without guards were unauthorized to cross it, and as of yet, no doctor had even risked seeing her alone.

Dragging the IV stand behind her, she approached the center of the room, the invisible barrier clear only to her. The tingle of a thick mechanical collar around her throat became noticeable, heating up in warning.

“Line?” uttered the young man, face scrunching as he looked down and all around. By the time he’d noticed them, the warning lines, the sound of her hacking something made his spectacled eyes snap back to her.

She really didn’t want to encourage being muzzled too, but she was in a bad mood. Without pausing to think twice, she spat what could only be described as a plasma loogie his way. The man leapt back with a startled yelp, both disgusted and frightened as the green flame bubbled and burned itself out in a tiny pit in the linoleum. Her throat burned like she’d swallowed a hot coal and she choked on the aftertaste, but it had been worth it for the look on the stranger’s face.

Her eyes watered. The glass of water had never been more tempting. “How’s that for snot-nosed, huh?” she coughed, caught between laughter and choking. She smiled wider than she had in days, or maybe weeks. How long had she been here? Long enough for her hair to grow back long enough to tickle her ears again. She didn’t want to think about it.

She focused her heated glare back on the livid man, who now stood a safe distance out of her spitting range marked clearly in the floor by a dozen other divots and of course the red paint. “Why, you little!” he seethed, clenching his fists and gritting his teeth.

“You’re not the shrink they sent to get inside my head,” she decided, making her way back to her cot. “So who are you?” Talking was getting to be too exhausting, but she could use some relief from the monotony of this hell of solitary confinement. They’d tried to give her a television and other enrichment, but that had been one of the things she’d fired at that had gotten her hands bound up. They kept telling her to behave and cooperate like Subjects A and C and they’d let her go in no time – but she had her doubts and had become increasingly volatile since this had all started a month or two or three or more ago. She didn’t even know if her brothers had really been released or if something worse had befallen them. She hadn’t seen them since they were put into custody for observation.

The man said something else she didn’t catch as she flopped down in her cot and instantly regretted doing so a little bit, the jolt making her body ache ever more and the IV tug in her arm. She leaned awkwardly on her elbows to study the glass at eye level, resting her chin on the nightstand. She had the worst case of heartburn right now. Her eyes stung.

She expected the man to be done with this session and leave to tattle on her for spitting acid at him. To at least take some notes if he was, in fact, her new psychiatrist. Something.

But after a moment and a thoughtful hum, his footsteps neared instead, crossing the warning line again.

The girl twisted around to glare back incredulously at him. He held the clipboard under his arm and was fidgeting with something with an antenna in his palm. “Why don’t we take a little walk, Subject B?” he suggested.

She thought she recognized what he held but she wasn’t sure, maybe it was just a radio or—

“No thanks, I’m good,” she said quickly, scrambling to her knees and pressing herself into the farthest corner, folding her legs up to her chest. Her heart started to pound.

What was this sketchy doctor playing at? He must realize he was playing with fire. Was he brave or just stupid?

She tried to swallow as he approached but she was too parched. She couldn’t even draw upon the green alien fire to spit in defense this time.

In the back of her mind, the state of her dress became a concern and she squeezed her legs tighter to her chest. A dress – that was all they gave her – a dress and nothing else, no shoes, no underwear, just the bare necessity to keep her decent. Suddenly the dress didn’t concern her anymore. Pants never warded off grubby hands much anyway, she supposed.

Flight wasn’t an option. Fight kicked in.

The man had a lot of gall to reach down for her, but she kicked out at him, targeting his groin but her heel making contact with his stomach instead. It knocked the wind out of him at least, and for a split second she fancied the thought of cracking the cast open like a coconut on his stupid head – but he was recovering too soon, and frankly she was too exhausted from malnutrition to fight a grown man, even a sort of scrawny one like him.

He glared hard down at her and held up the device to wiggle mockingly. She blanched. It was exactly what she’d thought it was – it went to the damned obedience collar locked around her neck to keep her under control for those special occasions she went batshit. It even kept her behind the invisible barrier. He must have seen the fear flicker in her eyes because he grinned maliciously.

Her stomach turned.

“You know, it’s funny,” he ground out, not particularly amused as he stood back and held the device out of reach when she lunged for it, forgetting for a second that she couldn’t grab at things in this state. His hand on her head was enough to hold her at bay. She could have bitten him. She wanted to. She scowled instead and threw herself back against the wall, legs tucked tight again. “When I stole it, I thought this was the remote to the inexhaustible nuclear weapon I heard rumor of Global Justice obtaining. It goes to something alright, but I’m not sure about the weapon being inexhaustible. Or nuclear. Hm.”

He studied the remote as if it determining the ripeness of a piece of fruit in a produce aisle, and then looked back down at her. “Oh well,” he sang, idly spinning a knob of settings like some sort of wheel of misfortune that made her heart thunder. “I suppose it still functions for the intended purpose, but I wasn’t expecting the weapon to be some kid.”

The sick bastard was just plain taunting her now. “I’m a freshman,” she snapped. Or at least she was supposed to be.

She didn’t have time to argue about it, bracing herself again to thrash when the questionable doctor stooped over her a second time.

The man was wrestling her for her arms now. “Don’t be a pill! I’m as displeased about this as you are,” the man assured her unsympathetically.

She tried screaming, even though she knew her chances of getting any help were slim to none. She’d already cried wolf countless hours before – so any guards in the area were desensitized to her screams and whoever was on monitor duty must be napping on the clock or there would have been an intervention by now.

“What are you doing?” she squawked, writhing and kicking, but her weak legs were useless in prying off her assailant.

“You don’t need this where we’re going. Just – ow! Stop that!”

A headbutt only dealt her more harm than him. She was dazed just long enough for him to get a grip on her, and she nearly resumed her thrashing again until she realized his target was the IV in her arm. She went rigid then. She wasn’t keen on having it simply ripped out. She hadn’t eaten in days but she felt like puking when she finally surrendered, if only for the moment. Pressing her face to the wall, she squeezed her eyes shut against the sight. It didn’t help knowing he was holding the remote carelessly between his teeth now as he worked to remove the catheter – she didn’t want to think about the voltage burns that could be inflicted by the accidental press of a button.

The vinegar breath and entire weight of his presence backed off suddenly, the foreign object dislodged from her flesh as well. She stared at the little piece of gauze taped over the site, a dot of blood blooming already.

“Now,” said the man with an exhausted huff of frustration as he stood back from her. He tried to smooth his hair back into place and pointed the remote at the door. “How about that walk?” His eyes narrowed at her bare feet as the cautious girl put them on the floor. “I don’t suppose you have any shoes—?”

“No.”

“Huh. You know, you’d really think they’d be more hospitable than that,” he uttered, stupefied for a second. She didn’t have a chance to ask him to clarify who they were. The man shook his head then and shuffled away, fidgeting with the controller and then aiming it back at her.

The girl tensed when she saw his thumb hover over the control pad and heard the tiny beep.

She waited.

There was no electric shock, no heat, no choking – nothing they’d used against her to get her under control when typical civilized methods failed.

There was, however, the sudden absence of a barely-perceivable vibration she’d grown numb to.

She started to reach for her throat, blinking in surprise, but remembered about her plaster-bound hands and dropped them. She stretched her jaw instead and tried to swallow, readjusting to the missing sensation. “Would feel better if it was off,” she rasped.

The sketchy doctor was leaned out the door, peeking into the hall. He scoffed as he looked back at her incredulously. “I don’t think so.”

“Can’t blame me for trying,” she sighed.

“Let’s go, Subject B.”

“I have a name.”

He sighed impatiently and rolled his wrist at her in encouragement. “Then what is it?” he demanded in a hiss.

No question about it. Her eyes narrowed at the phony doctor’s back as she followed two steps behind him down the blinding white halls. “Are you kidding me?” she balked. “It’s on my paperwork.” She knew that much, even if she hadn’t been called by name in months. And in any case, phony or not, he should have at least known what he was targeting.

“Yes, well, I didn’t read them, so—”

The girl rolled her eyes. “Of course you didn’t. You’re not a real doctor.”

“Am too.”

“Are not.”

“You little sh— shush!” he snipped under his breath, whirling on her. He might have poked her in the chest with a sharp finger if she was standing any closer, but instead he jabbed at the air. “I demand you behave yourself and act natural. Don’t make me use the, the uh—” He waved the device menacingly. “This.”

“Obedience collar,” she supplied. The young man glowered, nostrils flaring, holding his tongue. She sighed, shoulders sagging. “Whatever. I’ll play along.” It should be pretty fun when he got busted and it sure beat sitting around doing nothing for another day, she decided.

“Thank you,” he said, spinning back around.

A couple minutes passed as she followed the man through twisting corridors and security doors that took a mere sweep of a card to open. It was soon clear he’d lost his sense of direction by his frown. “You don’t know what you’re doing, do you?” she whispered behind him, making him jump. “You didn’t think this through at all.”

“I – I did too,” he hissed back. His hands flailed in the air, gesturing at her in frustration. “I just wasn’t expecting – augh!” He bit back a curse and skulked ahead, hands still flapping. “You were supposed to be a thing. Like a gun or something.”

“Sorry I’m inconvenient.” She rolled her eyes. “What do you plan to do with me?”

The man glared over his shoulder and swiped his pass card again. “Keep moving.”

She wasn’t one to be rushed, and certainly not by a bumbling idiot. He looked about ready to throw her over his shoulder to speed things up, but she doubted he had the muscle to do so. Then again, she’d lost quite a bit of weight recently. She was probably as light as an armful of kindling by now. She certainly felt like a walking stick anyway.

Following the stupid black mop ahead of her became the only thing keeping her legs moving, like following the white rabbit down the rabbit hole. She was zoning out again, the man’s complaints never quite reaching her ears. Every once in a while, the sketchy young doctor looked back to frown at her or wave the remote in threat, and his grip wrapped around her arm at one point to all but drag her along when she paused to rest.

They passed legitimate personnel, typical doctors and science geeks in white lab coats, in the hall at one point, and she was vaguely aware of the intruder beside her straightening up and fixing his pokerface. Act natural. Whatever that meant. She walked along, feet dragging on the cold linoleum, like the prisoner she was, on her way to whatever destination her phony doctor had prescribed for her.

And then they were outside. The hot air hit her like a wall, every fiber of her being soaking up the evening sunlight. She had to stop to enjoy the moment, even if the blacktop was searing hot underfoot. It was nothing compared to the fire she’d been burdened with.

She was being manhandled again, shoved into a car and pushed down to the floorboard. “Hide there until I give the all-clear,” the phony doctor instructed, throwing his jacket down at her face. She got the hint. She was being smuggled out. She had her doubts how well it would work, and almost voiced her criticism from beneath the cover when she heard a spoken exchange above.

She held her breath. Crouching beneath a glovebox like some sort of lumpy painfully-obvious frog had to be one of the stupidest things she’d done, but it was too late to suggest the trunk as a better hiding place.

Moments after the brief chat with the gatekeeper, there was a light rap against her head and she climbed out of the cranny, collapsing back into the passenger seat and heaving a sigh from all the exertion.

“So what flavor of hell does my new captor have for me?” she wondered idly, head lolling to study the man. “Rape, murder, desecration – the standard procedure? Wow me already. Say something. Cripes you’re boring. You’re not very good at kidnapping.”

He pushed his glasses back up his button nose, grimaced, and shook his head. He was chewing on something he didn’t want to say.

As they hit the highway, he almost commanded she put on her seatbelt, but she held up her bound hands before he could finish the word, and he groaned, reaching over to fumble for it himself to stretch over her awkwardly.

“Thanks,” she said dryly.

He only grunted in reply.

She slumped uncomfortably against the window, the vibration of the wheels covering ground soon lulling her effortlessly to dreamland.

#Drakken #Shego #Kim Possible #fanfiction #Bad is Good and Good is Bad #I wrote this within 5 days when I was pretty tired n sick n stressed so some of it’s pretty uhhh *blows raspberry* hazah #also Subjects A and C would've been Hego and Mego just throwin that out there

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mushroomminded · 6 years

Text

Mend Until You’re Whole

The Aftermath of Bend Until You Break

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3

Written by @fundeadasylum, illustrated by myself.

Warning for light medical gore.

Dan and Jake had thought the worst was behind them once they’d walked out the doors with Milo in their arms. It should have been smooth sailing from then on—take Milo home, help him recover, and everything would go back to the way it used to be. Naivety to think that way, maybe, but it was a hopeful naivety born out of love and the wish for safety.

It never occurred to them that taking Milo straight home wouldn’t be a viable option.

Their armed escort herded them to the back of an ambulance and they climbed in without question. Milo, almost asleep with exhaustion and warm in Dan’s arms, didn’t stir at all until the doors slammed shut with a bang, jolting him out of his half-sleep state. His wide eyes darted across the interior of the ambulance as it rumbled to life and set off down the street, sirens quiet so as not to draw more attention. The chemical smell made his heart race, the stretcher sending his brain into fight or flight, and he squirmed in Dan’s arms, tiny noises of fright escaping him as he bumped the top of his head against Jake’s shoulder.

“Milo, Milo, hey, sshh, Milo, it’s okay, it’s okay, I promise,” Dan gave the teenager a gentle squeeze and then immediately loosened his grip when Milo bucked against him, “Milo, buddy, ssshhh, shh, it’s okay. Hey. Hey, Milo, look at me. Milo. Up here, kiddo.”

Frightened eyes darted up to meet Dan’s worried gaze, glazed in confusion for a moment before clarity settled in and he tucked his face into Dan’s shoulder with a shuddering sigh. Jake’s shaking fingers carded gently through Milo’s hair, trepidation and fear and relief dancing across his features in equal measure.

This was not going to be the pleasant reunion they had been expecting.

———

It wasn’t.

Though Milo had calmed down by the time they reached the hospital, he refused to let the EMTs near him and would only curl deeper into Dan’s arms, glaring at them with his jaw clenched as if resisting the urge to bite them. Tremors shook his thin frame from time to time and he kept twisting around to make sure Dan and Jake were still there.

He clung to Dan when they tried to convince him to get on the stretcher, eyes misting with frightened and angry tears he stubbornly tried to keep from falling. With an apologetic glance at the EMTs, Dan carefully followed Jake out of the ambulance and in through the emergency room doors to the hospital proper.

Really, it shouldn’t have been a surprise what happened, all things considered. But relief had a way of draping a blanket of security over rational; they’d dropped their guard once they’d left the Facility grounds.

Milo got one whiff of chemical cleaner, of chalky medicine, of faded blood, saw the flash of scrubs and heard the murmur of medical terms, and he screamed.

He thrashed in Dan’s arms and it was all the man could do to keep the boy from falling to the floor. He and Jake desperately tried to calm Milo down as his screams broke into heaving sobs and begging. His choked words tore cold fear through the men as the pleas tumbled out of Milo’s mouth,

“P-please, no, please, I’ll be good, I’ll be good, I promise! N-not the—no! Please, I don’t want—not the chair! Don’t cut me—don’t take them out—please! I’ll be a good boy! I’ll be good! Please, please!”

———

He had to be sedated, of course. And that went about as well as they could expect. More thrashing, more screaming, more tears.

Jake had his face in his hands at Milo’s bedside, looking more drawn and exhausted than he had earlier. The tension had yet to leave him, the ridges of his spine harsh through the back of his dress shirt where he was doubled over his lap, reading misery in every line of his body. Dan was slouched in the chair next to him, staring vacantly at the shallow rise and fall of Milo’s chest in the hospital bed. The beeping of the heart monitor was too loud.

There were a lot of tests that needed to be done, a lot of injuries to heal, a lot of pain to undo. It would take a long time. It would have taken a lot of money if the government wasn’t paying for everything as penance for their facility’s errors. Small fucking penance that it was.

“When did our lives turn into this?” Dan said hoarsely, something lost and not a little hopeless in his expression, “What happened to us?”

Jake raised his head, gaze falling on the body of the teenager that used to be their friend,

“Who the hell knows. Some kind of karmic bullshi—stuff?” He cast a glance at Dan, dark humor steepled in his voice, “You haven’t murdered anyone, have you?”

Dan blinked and the ghost of an angry smirk twisted the corner of his mouth, something feral and angry and unfamiliar,

“No. But in that place…kinda wish I had.”

Jake knew what he meant.

———

Milo did not like the hospital. That went both without saying and was to be expected. But it didn’t make things any easier.

When Dan and Jake weren’t around, he cried and kicked and made things generally difficult for everyone, refusing to cooperate with unfamiliar adults. If any of them grew frustrated or displayed signs of anger around him, he shrank away in terror, holding his arms over his head or begging not to be hurt. Even when his dads were around, he still struggled, keening in distress if he saw a needle or if someone moved too quickly. He clung to them, curling up in the safety of Dan’s big arms or tucking his head under Jake’s chin and snuggling into his lap. It was an ordeal to separate him from either one of them and no one was keen to do it. With enough reassurances and gentle coaxing, he would cooperate but it was a delicate and careful thing.

Milo was scared, on edge, and panicked easily. He clung to the big stuffed shark his dads had brought him on one of their visits and wouldn’t let it go, not for a second. He screamed in the middle of the night, waking other patients and sending nurses into a frenzy. When the doctors brought up moving him into a psychiatric ward, the thundercloud that Daniel Fuller became filled the room with a swelling rage and a look of such ferocity that the doctor immediately changed the subject and never brought it up again.

A psychiatrist was brought in to talk with both men and Milo himself. It took several weeks of careful nudging but Milo eventually talked. And when he talked, he broke down into gasping sobs and clutched his plush shark to his chest as if he could keep it all from spilling out the horrid scars in his skin.

———

The staples had to come out eventually.

Milo didn’t want to go under, didn’t want to be knocked out, and hyperventilated at the suggestion. It took him hours to calm down and even after he would snap at any doctors or nurses who came too close.

“How much will it hurt him?” Jake asked while Dan sat in the background, rocking Milo gently to soothe him, “If he’s awake for it, I mean. How much will it hurt?”

The attending physician rubbed the back of his neck, looking disgruntled but not angry, “Honestly, taking the staples out probably won’t hurt all that much. The problem is…after they come out. We’ll need to assess the damages, check his organs, lots of fun poking around. Then he’ll have to be properly sewed up and bandaged.” The doctor sighed, offering an apologetic, one-shouldered shrug, “Given the way he’s reacting to everything, I can’t imagine he’d be very keen on letting us do any of that.”

Jake but his lip, glanced over his shoulder at where Dan was murmuring softly into Milo’s hair. It made his heart ache, seeing what was left of the bright and brilliant Milo, seeing the shell of an empty firecracker tossed to the side of road. God, but it made him hurt in a way he hadn’t hurt since he’d had his heart broken during his teenage years.

No, it hurt even more than that.

“Fuck…” He groaned, “I—I mean, sorry, it’s—shoot.”

The doctor chuckled weakly, “It’s all right, I’ve heard worse. Look, um, I’ll talk to the kid’s psychiatrist and see what he recommends. See if you and your partner can’t talk some sense into the boy. This needs to happen; sooner, rather than later.”

“My—no, Dan’s not—nh…” Jake’s reaching hand dropped to his side, his shoulders slumping. He stared at the closed door of the hospital room for a moment and then turned to face the room’s two other occupants.

This was going to be one hell of a conversation.

———

In the end, the kept Milo awake but so high on numbing agents and gases he could hardly process anything around him. And as long as he stayed out of the way, Jake was allowed to stand by Milo’s head and offer him gentle reassurances through a medical mask and latex gloves.

Dan kept crying and so he was regulated to the observation room of the operating theatre. If Jake looked up he could see the larger man’s hands pressed against the glass, his cheeks wet with tears as he tried to see what was going on. Once in a while, he would meet Jake’s eyes and mouth something that might have been “how’s he doing”. And Jake would look down at the little boy whose head was cupped gently between his hands, eyes dull and lidded with drugs, occasionally twitching his head back and forth against the feel of the rubber mask over his face. Then he’d look up again and give Dan a shaky thumbs up, forcing a wide enough smile to make his eyes crinkle even if he didn’t mean it.

Milo was terrifyingly still during the operation, his breathing shallow, his comprehension minimal. But when he blinked himself awake enough to realize where he was, he’d begin to fret and struggle against the drugs weighing down his mind and body.

In those moments, Jake would lean down, brushing Milo’s hair or massaging his temples, and murmur softly to him. Most of the time it was promises that everything would be okay or the temptations of sweet treats when they finally made it home. Sometimes it was stories of his days in a band, things he wouldn’t normally talk about.

Once, and only once, it was almost a confession of the truth.

———

“MILO!”

The teenager jumped and looked up in time to get an armful of his best friend as Cody threw himself into Milo’s hospital bed.

It was far enough into Milo’s recovery that he’d gained back nearly all the weight and muscle mass he’d lost, but he still looked pale and drawn. The heavy bags under his eyes still clung like grim reminders of his ordeal and his chest was a lacework of bandages and tender stitches. But he still laughed when he saw Cody, laughed until he cried, and hugged the other boy as tightly as he could. It was only the twinge of pain from his chest that made him release his friend with a sharp intake of breath.

“Oh, sorry! Are you okay? Did I hurt you?” Cody wiped the tears from his face, his hands fluttering over Milo as if he could do something to help.

“No, no, it’s okay,” Milo’s voice was choked and he curled his fingers into Cody’s shirt, “I’m just…so happy you’re here. I missed you, dude.”

“I missed you too.”

———

Cody told him how his story had been all over the news, how everyone had been talking about it, how there was a lot of yelling back and forth from people in power. The government had shut down the Facility and apparently the staff were all in prison while everybody fought over what had happened.

“What’s school been like?” Milo asked quietly and Cody’s demeanor shifted, looking away to watch his fingers twirl into the hospital sheets.

“Honestly, not great,” Cody said, “There’s a lot of rumors and stuff going around. Other kids have been asking me a lot of questions. Sometimes the press would sneak onto the school grounds, try and interview people. It’s been awful.” He looked up again, a wane smile on his face, “But you’re back so everything will be okay again…!”

Milo hummed, turning to face the only window in his private hospital room, watching the dust motes swirl in the sunlight spilling onto the cold tile floor. There was a contemplative look on his face, brow furrowed. The bright lights of the hospital made him look worse than he was; drawing out the still heavy bags under his eyes, sharpening the shallow jut of his cheekbones, and caving in the dip of his clavicle peeking through the top of his hospital gown. He looked older, exhausted and drained and still teetering towards the corpse-like side of pale. “Milo…?” Cody murmured, soft, wary, worried. His hand stretched out, tentative and maybe a little frightened, and he tucked his fingers into Milo’s palm, clasping his friend’s hand in his own. Milo turned to look at him again, lips twitched in a tired imitation of a smile, but his eyes warm. “’S gonna be different from now on, huh?” “Yeah,” Cody said, “Maybe.” There was another stretch of silence, filled only with the background buzz of hospital activity outside the door and the steady beat of the heart monitor. Cody sucked in a breath, let it out again, hesitated before words haltingly tumbled out of his mouth, “Will you…tell me? Someday? Not now, I mean, but someday, will you tell me what happened? What really happened? Just—you don’t have to—but just…if I can help…” Milo’s hand tightened around Cody’s and he slumped forward, bumping his head into his friend’s shoulder, hiding his face in the other boy’s jacket. His spine was a jagged ridge down his back. The curve of something black poked out from the edge of his gown, harsh and dark against his pale skin. Cody brought a hand up and curled it gently into the short hair at the back of Milo’s head, comforting, supportive, reassuring. “Maybe,” Milo’s voice whispered into the quiet, breath hot against the soft fabric of his best friend’s jacket, “Maybe someday I’ll tell you. But right now, I just want to forget.”

———

Milo didn’t want to look at himself when they removed the bandages from his chest.

But he did.

His heart stuttered against his ribs and he bit his lip hard, blinking to keep the tears inside because he refused—refused—to cry anymore.

The staples were gone but the memory on his flesh would remain. Pink and tender and held together by stitches that they told him would naturally dissolve when he’d healed. There were damages that could not be repaired, though; severed nerves and split muscles that would leave him weakened for the rest of his life. Pain would be frequent throughout the healing process and possibly still haunt him afterwards, phantom twinges that would taunt him with memories he sorely wished to forget.

Milo swallowed a shaky breath and raised a trembling hand. His fingertips rested gently on the line of stitches down his sternum. They tingled like live wires, stinging slightly against the palm of his hand as he ran his hand down to his stomach,

It didn’t feel like his body anymore.

And the thought made the pain all the worse.

——— Leaving the hospital sucked. Not as much as being in the hospital sucked, but it still sucked. It sucked because they wouldn’t let Milo walk out on his own two feet, insisting that he be pushed out in a wheelchair. It sucked because Jake had a bag of pills and a stack of papers for diet and exercise and therapy sessions. It sucked because the press had been hovering like vultures trying to get a glimpse of Milo since he’d been freed from the Facility. It sucked because Milo should have been excited about finally being able to go home. He should have been thrilled, overjoyed, grinning with happiness. But instead he was scared. As much as he hated being there, the hospital was familiar, it was routine, it was almost horribly normal with its white walls and fluttering machines. Home should have seemed normal too. But to Milo it felt like a massive chasm stretching down into infinite blackness in front of him while someone shouted from the sidelines that there really was a bridge it was just invisible and all he had to step out over that vast emptiness. Nothing could ever be the same, not after the Facility, not after what he’d been through. Not after what they’d all been through. ——— Settling Milo in was difficult. He crept tentatively through the house as if he was in a stranger’s home and was afraid of going somewhere he shouldn’t. Silence made him fidgety and strangers knocking on the door made him bolt. He didn’t really cry if Dan or Jake left the room, but the whimpering noise Milo would make when one of them was out of his sight was an animalistic sound of fear and distress that wrenched their hearts. He trailed after one or both of them like a lost duckling, plucking at the hems of their shirts and squashing himself against their backs or sides, soaking in their warmth.

“Milo, sweetheart, you gotta eat,” Jake murmured, brushing his hand through the boy’s hair. Milo was staring at the plate of cooked rice and softened vegetables in front of him, his nose wrinkled and his hands in his lap. “M’ not hungry,” Milo told the plate of food. “Just a few bites?” Jake ventured hopefully, “For me?” No response, “If not for me then for Dan? You know he’s going to get all mushy and wear that kicked puppy look the rest of day if he finds out you didn’t eat.” Milo glanced at him out of the corner of his eye, the corner of his mouth twitching as he tried not to smile, “Are you using Dan to guilt trip me?” “Me? Guilt trip? Never.” Jake scoffed, unable to keep the smile off his own face, “But…between you and me, I know where Dan hid the ice cream in the freezer. So if guilt tripping doesn’t work, there’s always bribery.” Milo laughed. He laughed and even though it tugged painfully at the mutilated skin on his chest and made him a little bit dizzy, it felt good. He cleaned up his entire plate of food. Then he laughed again when Dan whined at them both for taking his ice cream.

#art tag #bummers #bend until you break #fics #mico #milo #dan #jake

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romvnova · 6 years

Text

Owen Grady Collection: Plus One

Slightly mature themes in this piece. Nothing overly detailed or explicit though. I composed a small list of short stories I’d like to write for this collection but I’m considering taking requests because eventually I’m likely going to run out of ideas and I’ve found that as much as I adore Claire I particularly like writing with the narrative focused on Owen who we still don’t honestly know a whole lot about.

Owen wakes up as the sun begins it’s ascension in the morning sky, painting the horizon a myriad of pastel colors of dawn through the velveteen night. The light over the Airstream’s stove is left on, casting a soft glow over the small camper. He peeks out of the bedroom to check on Maisie, resting his arm on the wall where the wood door slides out to divide the bedroom from the rest of the RV. Some nights were better for her than other’s. Some nights she slept in her makeshift bed and others he’d wake up — his time as a SEAL had made him a light sleeper capable of waking up at the smallest of sounds — to Maisie clutching her stuffed t-rex, eyes wet with tears from her nightmares. He thought the stuffed animal was in poor taste when Claire suggested that it might help Maisie with the nightmares she suffered from.

Maybe it did; but it couldn’t keep them all away and Owen knew each night that she suffered from them. Bless her innocent heart nothing seemed to diminish Maisie’s love of dinosaurs. During those nights, Owen will place his hand to her cheek, swiping away her tears with his thumbs and allow her to climb into the bed where she quickly slides under the covers and nestles herself between Claire and him. Sometimes Claire wakes up to drop a kiss to the girl’s head and run her fingers over the scruff on his cheek.

Maisie looks peaceful in her sleep, the head of the t-rex clutches under her arm. She has a fistful of her blanket and she’s sucking her thumb, he realizes. For a moment, Owen worries about it. She has far surpassed the age where that is “acceptable”. Of course, an eleven year old climbing into bed with them to soothe her nightmares wasn’t precisely healthy either. That was creating habits of co-dependency and Owen knew that Maisie was brave and intelligent and very much independent.

He trusted her like he trusted Blue — he gives Maisie run of his land, though Owen ensures she has a walkie-talkie clipped to her belt and that it’s on so they can stay in contact in case something did happen. Claire isn’t quite so keen on letting her roam the woods like a “wild thing”, coming back to them with new scrapes and bruises, sap stuck in her hair and clothes dirty and even in some cases tattered. Owen has that old saying of “kids will be kids” and assures Claire that his Pops let him roam the farm like a “wild thing” and he turned out just fine. She rolls her eyes at that but it appears to soothe the worst of Claire’s anxieties.

Claire shifts in the bed behind him and Owen drops his arm, turning his head to glimpse at the bed. The covers have shifted and one of Claire’s pale legs hangs out.

“Owen?” She inquires sleepily, gasping as she pats his side of the bed to find it empty. She clutches the covers to her chest as she sits up.

“I’m here.” His voice is raspy, quieted to a hush as to not disturb Maisie. He turns, quietly unhooking the door stopper and gently and slowly slides the door closed. It has no lock and it’s thin but it offers them some privacy.

It’s hard to be quiet and not cause the camper to rock — especially when it rocks from just walking through it. Harder yet to not disturb Maisie or let her know what’s happening. Owen isn’t used to having to sneak around. It was almost fun at first but now it just makes him anxious and he tries not to feel gross about it.

They’d learned, mostly from trial and error, with little other choice presently how to be quick and quiet about it. Most parents have the baby and toddler stages to learn how to be sneaky about sex but Claire and him became over-night parents to a highly intelligent eleven year old. Old enough to grasp what happens between two adults in love but not old enough that Owen believes her innocence should be spoiled by “the talk”; and anyway he thought he’d let Claire handle that one when the time came.

“We didn’t wake her, did we?” Claire asks a little while later as Owen fishes for his jeans that Claire threw …somewhere. He shoots her a look as his fingers skim over the smooth denim of his jeans and he snatches them from the floor. He sits on the edge of the bed and tugs on a fresh pair of briefs and pulls his jeans on one leg at a time, tugging them up before he buttons them closed. She laughs, pulling the covers over her head, her face flushed a pretty red under the bronze light of the rising sun peeking through the slats of the blind.

“We’re terrible parents.” Claire groans, her words muffled by the bunch of fabric over her face.

“Because we have sex?” Owen asks her as he opens up the small closet — mostly taken over by Claire’s clothes — and finds a clean henley shirt. He tugs it over his head and pulls it down as he rounds the bed to Claire’s side.

“Listen, I know my parents were having sex when I was twelve because when I turned thirteen they gave me a baby brother for my birthday.” Claire busts into laughter and protests as Owen tugs the covers down from her face. “So, no. We’re not terrible parents.” He leans down and kisses her.

“Mm, get out of here Owen. Before I decide you’re not allowed to leave this bed anymore.” Claire breaks the kiss and shoos him away when he throws her a lopsided grin. He slides the wooden door open enough for him to slip out before he gently closes it. He peeks down at Maisie as he moves past the couch, sighing in relief that she appears still deep in slumber, still sucking her thumb. He unlocks the RV’s door and steps outside into the cool morning after he slips on his boots. He heads to the fire pit and pokes at the ashes with the toe of his boot, before he goes to the firewood pile and grabs enough to make a small fire. He layers the wood in the pit and grabs a couple hand rolled newspaper from the plastic bin they kept it in. After that’s placed on and around the wood he takes the lighter out of his pocket and flicks it, lighting a corner of a newspaper before he kneels down and drops the flaming newspaper into the pit, watching as it catches and the fire spreads.

He promised Maisie they’d make breakfast over the fire and though it took longer than over the stove — and damnit he was getting hungry ( which was his own fault; he knows better than to have sex on an empty stomach ) — Owen didn’t want to deny the young girl anything.

“How’d you sleep, Mais?” Owen asks as she slips out of the camper, dressed but clutching her t-rex stuffed animal.

“Ok, I think. I didn’t have any nightmares last night.” Maisie answers, rubbing her eyes with a small fist.

“Good.” Owen still worried about her. Claire and him were not qualified psychiatrists and he can’t help but think maybe they should try to get her a therapist. The Navy’d forced him to go to one regularly after each mission.

It probably wasn’t a bad idea to get her enrolled in school so she can socialize with kids her own age and has all the experiences of a normal kid. Clone or not, she was still a child; and try as Owen might he can’t help but study her behavior. He studies Claire’s too. As an animal behaviorist it’s ingrained in him, and the switch between animal and human isn’t very different.

Owen poked at the fire with the metal poker, stoking the flames.

“Owen?” Maisie asks coming up beside him, holding out her hands to soak up the fire’s warmth. Owen looks up at her.

“What’s up?” He can tell she’s troubled by the furrow of her brow and the frown tugging at her lips.

“Is Claire alright?”

It’s Owen’s turn to give her a puzzled expression, wondering if Maisie’d been faking sleep earlier.

“Why?” Owen inquires with a soft clear of his throat, telling himself that he’d figure it out if she had actually been awake. He didn’t want to have to be the one to talk to her about it but she was smart and it would be an insult to her intelligence to write it off as anything less than it was.

“She was throwing up a little bit ago.” Owen stands up abruptly, his mind trying to make sense of it. She was fine earlier. She hadn’t complained of an upset stomach — and no doubt if she hadn’t been feeling well she wouldn’t have wanted to have sex. The puzzle pieces begin to form together in his mind.

“Holy shit.”

He hands Maisie the poker and instructs her on what to do, telling her to be careful for extra measure before he heads inside the RV. It takes three long strides to put him in front of the closed bathroom door.

He deliberates for a long moment.

“Claire?” He eventually asks, looming before the door, blocking the doorway with his frame. The shower’s running.

“Claire!” He calls again.

“Hold on! Let me get out of the shower and get dressed.” It’s the longest handful of minutes in Owen’s life before she slides the door open and he’s greeted by the warm, muggy air of the shower. She lets out a small noise of surprise to find him there. “Owen. Let me out.” She goes to duck around him but he stops her with his arm.

“Maisie said you were throwing up.” Owen tells her point blank, looking down at her expectantly. His eyes go to the small counter looking for the tell-tale test. He doesn’t see one and he looks back down at her as she presses her hands to his chest and stomach and pushes him back. He allows her to, breathing in the wafting scent of her fruity shampoo as she brushes past him.

“Damnit.” Claire sighs as she runs a brush through her hair. “I was going to wait to tell you…”

“Wait to tell me what?” Owen demands.

“Owen I’m …” Claire loses her voice on the last word, fidgeting nervously with the cuff of her shirt. Owen looks at her expectantly, grabbing her dainty shoulders in his hands, giving them a reassuring squeeze. “I’m pregnant.” Claire blurts it out. Sort of as if she’s ripping off a bandaid. Owen’s fairly certain that she even winces as she says it. For a moment, his grip on her shoulders is the only thing keeping him grounded as her words sink in.

“You’re pregnant?” He repeats the words back at her, incapable of mustering much of anything else. He feels dumb as the words leave his lips but he’s in shock. He understands, of course, how it happened.

“Yes.” Claire whispers, pressing her hand to her mouth as tears well in her eyes.

Her tears jolted him quickly out of the shock and Owen feels his brow furrow.

“Why’re you crying?” Owen asks her, one hand moving from her shoulder, down to her waist, while the other way cups her face, brushing her wet red hair out of her face, trying to catch and swipe away her tears as he does so.

“I know,” Claire takes a breath in an effort to compose herself and instead lets out a sob that he feels like a bullet in his bones. She tries again. “I know it’s not opportune. I mean with the dinosaurs on the loose,” She waves her hand errantly. “and with us still trying to figure out how to be parents to Maisie.”

Owen realizes that Claire’s worried he’s angry and for a moment, very briefly, he does feel a spike of annoyance at her. For assuming that he’d be angry about a baby. Their baby. Or that he wouldn’t want it. Or whatever other worse case scenarios of things that he’d never in a million years feel is going through her mind; or has went through her mind.

“Is anyone ever prepared for a baby?” Owen asks her, drawing her against him. Claire doesn’t resist and he buries his face in her hair, dropping a kiss to the top of her head.

“People that plan to have one, yes.” He laughs because the answer was so Claire and his heart swells with so much joy that for a moment Owen fears it might explode out of his chest. Because god damn he loved her.

“We’ve got nine months to plan for little baby Dearing-Grady.” Owen shushes her, grinning down at her as she pushes against his chest to put some distance between them so she can look up at him. Her lips part to ask her question but she doesn’t need to. He can read it in her eyes. “Of course I do.” He replies in a raspy murmur. “Jesus, Claire. I love you so much that somedays it genuinely annoys the shit out of me,” She laughs, clutching onto his shoulder as his body bows in on itself with the depth of her laughter. “We made a baby.”

“Well, actually, I’m making a baby.” Claire corrects him and Owen snorts.

“I helped.” Claire shoots him a look and Owen rolls his eyes. “Fifty percent of the baby making process is me.” Claire lets out a loud laugh and steps away from her.

“Fifty? Don’t you think you’re overreaching?” Claire asks him deadpan as she opens the fridge and pulls out two avacados.

“Ok. Thirty percent.”

“Thirty? I’m sorry but who’s currently growing our baby inside them? And will continue to grow the baby for nine months? And give birth to them? And then breast feed until they can eat solid food?” Owen grinds his teeth together and crosses his arms over his chest, knowing he probably looks like a petulant over-grown child. It’s certainly what he feels like at the moment.

“I’ll give you ten percent credit.” Claire shoots him a cheeky grin over her shoulder as she kicks the fridge door closed and sets the avocados down on the cutting board, peeling off the market price stickers.

“Ten percent?”

“Ten percent is generous and you know it Owen.” She tells him casually with a roll of her shoulders as she takes a knife from the knife set and slices each avocado in half, fishing a spoon out of the drawer to pull out the pits.

“Does Maisie know yet?” Owen asks abruptly, letting Claire win the argument with a subject change. He looks out the small RV kitchen window to where Maisie dutifully stokes the fire as he pulls out a bowl for the eggs, and grabs a handful of them and sets them carefully in the bowl, and balances the packages of bacon and sausage on the top of the bowl.

“No. I’m not quite sure how to approach the subject with her. She was an only child, and she’s used to undivided attention. Not to mention, she’s been through a lot in the past few weeks. I don’t want to cause her to pull away and distance herself from us.” Claire has obviously been worrying about telling Maisie as well. Owen tucks the bowl between his arm and ribcage and scratches at his facial hair with his free hand. “We can talk about it more a little later. Don’t stress out about it.” He drops a kiss to the top of her head as he moves past her. “We’ll figure it out.” He promises her, giving her shoulder a squeeze with his free hand before he heads outside.

Eager to help him, Maisie jumps up and sprints towards him, bouncing on her feet as he tells her to grab the fire pit grill piece and a skillet and she darts off to fetch the items he’d requested.

#owen grady collection #jurassic world #jurassic world fallen kingdom #jw #jwfk #spoilers #owen grady #claire dearing #maisie lockwood

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obsessive-fics · 6 years

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you’re gonna be my wound-chapter eighteen

Title: For Good

Word Count: 1.8k

Rating: T

A/N: As always thank you all for being amazing and supportive and thank you to @yourfriendlyblogstalker for being a great beta and continuing to put up with me

[Read on Ao3]

[Previous Chapter]

[Masterlist]

“I can’t believe we just did that,” Dan laughed, looking up at the ceiling. “In front of all your posters too! Sarah Michelle Gellar saw us, Uma Thurman saw us- oh my God. oh my God.”

“What?” Phil asked, watching as Dan laughed uncontrollably, both enamored and a little confused.

“Uma Thurman just watched me have sex.”

They both burst into laughter, and Phil couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt this light- a mix of the alcohol, the post show adrenaline, and the person laying next to him.

“I’m, like… Really happy right now,” he said aloud, turning to Dan, who gave him that smile that always managed to make him feel like he was floating.

“Good. Me too,” he said softly.

“Hey, you two can’t stay in here all night, you know!” PJ called, walking in.

“Peej!” Phil exclaimed, scrambling to pull the covers over them, completely mortified.

“Oh! Sorry, didn’t think you’d be- probably should’ve known- I’m… I’m gonna go. Uh, congratulations?” PJ said, and then backed out and closed the door.

“I am never gonna hear the end of this,” Phil groaned, throwing his arm over his face and Dan laughed.

“We should go back- I wanna dance with you and have it not end in throw up,” he said sitting up.

“I’m definitely gonna need another drink first,” Phil replied, sitting up too. Dan laughed and leaned over and kissed his temple.

“Come on, let’s get cleaned up.”

They rejoined the party, pouring themselves more drinks and watching everyone dance. Phil caught sight of Dodie and Amy making out in the corner, and he couldn’t help but feel a small sense of pride. He guessed they’d both upheld their ends of the pact. They leaned against the kitchen counter drinking and talking, leaning in close to hear each other over the music.

“Okay I’m drunk,” Dan announced, putting his cup down on the counter.

“Me too. You’re so pretty,” Phil said, wrapping his arms around Dan and putting his head on his shoulder.

“You still up for a dance?” Dan asked, turning and smiling at him.

“I owe you one, don’t I?” Phil replied, smiling back.

“You do,” Dan agreed, taking his hand and leading him towards the living room.

They found an empty corner near the kitchen, and started to dance, slightly too slowly for the song that was playing, their arms around each other, their foreheads touching. There was a room full of people talking and laughing and dancing, but they’d all seemed to melt away. It was just him, and Dan, here in this moment together, drunk on cocktails and on each other. He was just starting to lean in when he heard a voice shouting over the music, shattering the moment.

“Alright, you two, break it up!” Louise called, walking over, just as the song changed to “Come On Eileen”, something much faster.

“Yeah! Come dance with your friends,” PJ added dragging them to the middle of the room. They laughed and let themselves be pulled over, spending the rest of the party laughing and dancing with PJ and Louise. Phil couldn’t remember the last time he’d been this happy, and he couldn’t believe he owed it all to a spur of the moment decision to do something different this year.

---

The show ran for the rest of the weekend, one more show on Friday and two shows Saturday and Sunday, before officially closing for the season. All in all it was a smooth run, people coming up to Dan and Louise after shows to tell them how much they enjoyed it. There were a few mishaps- quick changes not going quite as quickly as they should, props being forgotten backstage and then awkwardly brought out in the middle of the scene, and one very memorable case where Phil dropped the gun during his suicide scene and had to climb offstage to get it. But that was the thing with live theatre, you never knew what you were going to get. And even with all the mishaps, it was still amazing, and quite possibly Dan’s favorite of all the shows he’d been in.

The cast brought Ms. Jay out on stage to thank her with a bouquet and she cried and told them she never could have done it without such a wonderful, talented, and hardworking cast and crew. Then they all engulfed her in a huge group hug right there onstage. It had been a long and emotional night, and afterwards, leaning against the kitchen counter eating pancakes at 1AM with Louise, Phil, and PJ Dan wished they could go back and do it all again. Without theatre, it became increasingly harder to be happy here. Exams were coming up, he hadn’t been to most of his lectures in weeks, he was behind on almost off of his assignments, and without the show he didn’t really have an excuse to skip anymore. He recounted all of this to Dr.Hallowell at their session the next week, who remained suspiciously silent.

“Um… Are you gonna say anything?” Dan asked after he felt like he’d been talking forever.

“Dan… Theatre can’t be the only thing making you happy. It’s good to acknowledge what it’s done for you, but you can’t depend on it,” Dr.Hallowell said finally.

“I don’t depend on it,” Dan said reflexively, but Dr. Hallowell just gave him a look.

“You’ve said multiple times that you wouldn’t even be here if it wasn’t for theatre.”

“Well, yeah, but that’s not the worst thing is it?” Dan asked.

“No, but I’m worried about you. What happened to going on medication?”

“Well… I may have googled the side effects and got kind of freaked out. Besides, I feel okay right now,” Dan pointed out, and Dr. Hallowell looked at him, unconvinced.

“Depression is episodic, Dan. Just because you feel okay now doesn’t mean you should ignore how you were feeling before,” Dr. Hallowell told him, and he hated it when Dr.Hallowell was right about things.

“I’m just… I’m scared,” he admitted finally. He’d looked at the psychiatrists’ information at least a hundred times, but every time he went to make the call, he just… Couldn’t.

“It’s a scary step, but the only way to know if it’s the right step is to actually make the appointment,” Dr.Hallowell told him, making an infuriating amount of sense.

“Okay,” he said finally, “I’ll go.”

“I just want you to do what’s best for you. The last time we spoke you said you were miserable anytime you weren’t in rehearsal,” Dr.Hallowell continued.

“I’m not always miserable. It’s been hard since the show closed, but I have Phil. And Louise. And PJ I guess,” Dan explained, shrugging.

“It’s good to have a support system. Why has it been hard?” Dr.Hallowell asked, and he was really not getting out of this anytime soon. Or, anytime before his session ended.

Dan sighed and braced himself for a brutal conversation. It’s the same conversation they always have- Dan explaining yet again that he hated law, Dr.Hallowell asking him why he didn’t pursue something else he knew would make him happy, and Dan just… not having an answer for that. It was like he didn’t even know what happy was anymore- sometimes he felt numb, and sometimes he felt like his whole world was ending, and sometimes he felt okay. But happy? That was basically a four letter word at this point. Dan explained all of this, Dr.Hallowell was understanding, but challenging, and Dan contemplated just getting up and leaving this conversation all together several times.

By the time he got out of his appointment, Dan was more than exhausted. He wanted to crawl into his bed and never get out of it, but he’d been seeing Dr.Hallowell enough to know he couldn’t. He could call Louise, but she was busy working on a really big class assignment, and she wasn’t “taking social calls” until it was turned in. Without really thinking about it, he wandered in the direction on Phil’s flat.

“Hey, wait up!” a voice called, and Dan turned to see Phil walking towards him carrying a comically large stack of books.

“Oh, hey. Do you need help with that?” Dan asked, taking a few books off the top of the pile.

“Thanks- what’s wrong?” Phil wondered, his face falling once he caught sight of Dan’s expression.

“Rough day,” Dan replied, shrugging and attempting to sound flippant.

“You know what the perfect cure for a rough day is?” Phil asked, bumping their shoulders as they walked.

“What?” Dan asked, smiling genuinely for the first time all day.

“Disney movies. I have to analyze Wall-E for class, you in?”

“Yes, definitely.”

They walked the rest of the way in comfortable silence, and once they were inside, Phil went to go put his books away, and Dan wandered into the kitchen to try and find Phil's stash of microwave popcorn.

“Did you break in?” PJ asked from where he was leaning against the counter eating leftover Chinese out of the container.

“Uh, no, but I’m a little concerned you’re so calm about the prospect of that,” Dan replied, and PJ shrugged, completely unbothered.

“Do you know where Phil keeps the popcorn?” Dan asked, looking around the kitchen. PJ reached up behind himself without really looking and pulled out a bag of microwave popcorn.

“You do know if you hurt him I can and will murder you in several increasingly creative ways, right? We don’t have to have that conversation?” PJ said, holding it out to him.

“Got it,” Dan replied, because really, what else could he say to that? PJ could be weirdly intimidating when he wanted to be.

“Good,” PJ said, grinning, and patting him on the shoulder, before taking his food, presumably up to his room. Dan put the popcorn in the microwave and turned it on.

“There you are,” Phil said, walking into the kitchen, and wrapping his arms around Dan from behind.

“Well, I remembered you can’t watch movies without popcorn, so I thought I’d make some,” Dan replied, leaning into his touch.

“You are officially the best boyfriend ever,” Phil said excitedly.

“Boyfriend?” Dan repeated, turning around.

“Oh, I… I just meant- are we not there yet?” Phil asked, turning a very endearing shade of red, and Dan couldn’t help but kiss him.

“No, we’re there. You’re gonna have to take me on a real date though.”

“Noted. Will you settle for a movie on the couch for tonight?” Phil asked, and he nodded.

“For now.”

They poured the popcorn into a bowl and settled onto the couch.

“Do you want to talk about why you had a rough day?” Phil asked before starting the movie.

“Just a really intense therapy session,” Dan replied, waving it off. “I’m fine, really.”

“You know, you don’t have to be fine. You can tell me when you’re not fine,” Phil said gently, placing a hand on his shoulder.

“I’m not fine. But I also don’t want to talk about it right now, is that okay?” Dan asked, turning to look at him.

“Of course. Do you wanna cuddle and watch this movie and not point it out if one of us cries?” Phil offered, and Dan nodded, already feeling a little teary.

“That sounds perfect.”

[Next Chapter]

#phanfiction #Phanfic #phan au #phanfic au

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kirokgi-blog · 4 years

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One week on new antidepressants

Okay. I made a pact with myself that I would write about my first week on a new antidepressant drug. To be fair, it’s been a little over a week already. Since February 10th, I’ve been taking one pill of Desvenlafaxine a day. Prior to that, I spent a month and a half going cold turkey w/o Escitalopram, which is the drug I took for a little over 2 years - always the same dosage of 10mg.

I think I should start by describing why I stopped taking Escitalopram in the first place. And this is a funny story. I went to visit my parents for the holidays, where I spent two weeks. Before that, I was extremely stressed with the year-end at my job, since I had to finish quite a bunch of different bureaucratic administrative processes before Dec. 31st, and also because I had my finals at this new undergrad major I started online (Statistics). I even had a major muscular spasm in my back that left me unable to walk or stand for 3 days, which had got to be psychosomatization. Anyhow, in the midst of all this, I forgot bringing the adequate amount of medication to this trip: I only brought an almost empty blister pack with three pills. As soon as I realized it, when I was already there, I knew I was fucked. I had no prescription to buy a new box, and I also felt so damn stupid because I had a full month’s-worth box just sitting at home - some 800 km away. So, the only thing I could do was bear the moodswings and the sweats and whatever would come along with the process of having Escitalopram leave my body slowly throughout those two weeks. Needless to say, family quarrels and bursts of cry ensued.

When I got back to where I live, I already had an appointment with my trusty psychiatrist only a few days later, which was a major relief. After I described the situation to him, adding that aside from the moodswings in the first week I felt no major side effects, he went on and suggested that I just stay off the medication altogether for a while. If I was showing good signals staying off of it so far, if I was commited to exercising and eating better and acquiring healthy habits, perhaps I could stay healthy without medication. As much as I appreciated his suggestion and I knew that I had support from him in case I felt whatever I could feel in the meantime, I did have my doubts. Nonetheless, I moved on with my life.

Oh honey, let me tell you. Two weeks were fine, I was busy getting back to work (mind you, work that I don’t particularly like but don’t know how to escape from), dealing with quarantine life again etc. By the third week, what I feared the most started crippling in: a dense cloud of depressed mood, confusion, lack of focus and just complete dreadful feelings about myself would cast over my head and I felt increasingly more miserable. First I was just unable to go to the gym, which I was doing really well in the first two weeks since returning from my trip. Then I started having some difficulties sleeping, then difficulties staying asleep - I’d wake up at 4h30 and not be able to go back to sleep at all. Not every day, of course, but more often than not. Then it slowly started taking over me: I was increasingly unable to laugh or even smile at anything, I felt extremely irritated about getting to work or doing whatever daily task I had to accomplish. Of course it also translated to a worsening of my self-image, looking at the mirror became increasingly difficult. Then the “bigger picture” also got worse and worse: I didn’t quite understand why I had to stay alive, feeling stuck in a place and in a persona that wasn’t me. I felt disconnected from reality, like I was in a video game or something.

Last year, before the trip to my parents’, I was also doing bad. Indeed, this was ever since I moved to this place to live alone - which should be a bliss! I can do whatever I want, be whatever type of person I believe I should be. But all I could feel, even under medication (Escitalopram 10mg), was an utter lack of joy for the condition of living as a human being. After all, I have no dreams, no plans, nothing to look forward to. Things I liked a lot in the past, such as writing or music or cooking, became nuisances for me. Slowly, I started giving into that feeling. So you can imagine how much worse I got after leaving the medication entirely.

But I had compromised with myself on one thing: I want to get better. I don’t want to waste my youth hating myself or hating life, because I know that as much as I had a lot of suicidal ideation, I just wouldn’t do it. I knew it. I know that life comes in many forms and has many different angles, there’s got to be one that I like to look at. There’s got to be a nice lens to look at all this mess and feel content. I “just” have to work toward that.

So I decided to go back to antidepressants.

I’m glad to say that Desvenlafaxine had a very short onset of action for me, I could already feel its effects in 3 or 4 days. What I feel right now is some sort of chemically induced “emotional stability”. The fundamentals of my life have not changed: I still have a very low image of myself, I still feel lost as to who I am, what I like or dislike and what I want to do in life. However, I at least feel like I can set those thoughts aside and not obsess over them for some time. I can breathe a little! And this has been helping me organize a course of action to counter these bad feelings. This week, I said goodbye to the therapist that had been following me since September ‘20, but with little to no therapeutic effect on me, and contacted a new counsellor to start sessions with her (it’s a she now). I also know that I have to get back to eating healthy, which I slipped off of for a while during the worst weeks I had, and stop drinking alcohol as a mechanism of escape since it doesn’t lead me anywhere. I am still alone, but I can finally see the connection between my feelings of loneliness and the elephant in the room that I was denying big time: COVID-19 and quarantine life! It’s obvious that I feel lonely; if I’m lonely now, when I think back at my late 2019, for example, I was going out so much and meeting so many people - especially coworkers - that it was a bit too hectic. I dialed back a lot, but perhaps too much, and wasn’t aware of it. I have this silly tendency of denying what’s right in front of my nose. And as much as I like spending time alone, I don’t like doing that because I have no other choice - and this has been happening repeatedly in the past year or several months.

I’ve been telling some friends that care about me that I feel optimistic. And I do! At the same time I know the size of the challenge that lies ahead, I have no option but to go ahead and take it up. And I’m optimistic because it is definitely going to be something near a rebirth. Imagine, I have to find out who I actually am! Who I want to become, what I find beautiful, what my true moral values are, what’s important to me, what I want to avoid. This is a humongous task, but I’m privileged enough to be surrounded (even if online) by people who support me and believe in me, and also to have access to adequate counselling and medication. In many ways, I am already thankful and I know I’m already in the process.

Let’s see how it goes.

#depressiondiaries

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leonawriter · 7 years

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To Change A Sombre Morrow

Read it on AO3

Fandom: Final Fantasy VII

Characters: Genesis, Sephiroth, Angeal, Cloud.

Pairings: None.

Summary: The gift of the goddess could be argued to take on many forms, it was said. Genesis had already experienced it in the form of a second chance once, when he had asked and expected it. This time, his second chance was far less obvious, far more time consuming, and had a great many more far-reaching consequences.

Perhaps this time, his role could be the hero, even with the goddess as his only witness.

...

The last thing he saw was blinding light, and deep within it, the impression of her face - the face of the goddess herself, her immaculate beauty something that he had never forgotten in all this time, smiling at him - encouraging him. It was an indulgence... but also a challenge.

He understood her expressions as well now as he had before, when that one disappointed look had made it clear that the one thing that had kept him going for the past six years had been wrong, that he had not been the hero, that he had never been the hero, only mistaking himself as such as he walked further into a prison of his own making, and required someone such as Zack Fair, a disgraced fugitive who no longer even had any reason to have a positive tie to ShinRa, to remind him what his pride as a SOLDIER even was.

Then, even her face was lost to him as he fell, the pure white of her holy light fading into the more natural blue of a clear day, not a cloud in sight.

The wind whistled in his ears, and for a moment he thought that he could hear something, a sound in the distance, but the wind took it away from him. Whatever was happening, it was no matter to him, no business of his-

Closer.

The wind turned. Smoke - something that smelled of burned metal and sparks flying.

He was holding his sword. The feeling of its weight in his hand a reflex as he tightened what had been a loosened grip on the weapon he had lost so recently.

"-Genesis!"

His name, he realised as he fixed his freefall into something more manageable. And spoken by one whose voice he would know anywhere.

The lifestream? No, something else!

He wasn't dead yet. There was something he had to do - if there were not, then what else had the Goddess wanted of him?

"-ephiroth, stop this! Something's wrong!"

His mind shuddered, instincts taking over from a trained swordsman's technique and finesse, that and the fact that his body knew how to fight even when his mind was no longer there.

Something he had become intimately acquainted with, recently, and had no desire to return to, even for one moment.

Sephiroth.

Silver hair and silver sword appeared, green eyes glinting at him as though he had called them with the thought of the name. His world narrowed down to one thing - the man in front of him. No other sounds, no other opponents.

They had been friends, once. Genesis was no longer fool enough to say that he had no fault in their downfall, the three of them. He had been afraid, and desperate, and full of self-loathing. A dangerous combination.

His own sword rang out against Sephiroth's Masamune, and if he noted that the man was being more reserved than usual, the words he was using seeming more curious, as if to test him rather than taunt him, then that merely helped him focus better on what he was doing.

His feet touched something solid - not ground, at least he didn't think so, but it gave cease to the sensation of falling, and as they stared at each other, Genesis' mako-blue eyes meeting Sephiroth's Jenova-green, it almost seemed as though time stood still, or slowed down, even though he knew that no Slow spell had been cast.

A third sword was added to their stand-off. Lesser quality, something that was bound not to last.

He didn't pay it any attention, just as he hadn't for quite some time now - and that was his downfall.

Something changed, and time began moving normally again, but somehow he was now gasping on the floor (a floor, a flat surface, not something found and hollow) and blinking in the bright lights (electric, with no blue sky in sight) and, worst of all-

His hand reached for his shoulder, and came away red.

He'd been here before. This room. This fight. This injury - he'd been here before.

The goddess, looking at him with encouragement and indulgence in her eyes - but also a challenge.

He could hear the blood rushing in his ears, his vision blurring at the edges in the aftermath of being thrown into what his body had been convinced was the middle of a life-or-death match, and then forcibly brought back down to earth again.

"My friend, do you fly away now? To a world that abhors you and I?"

His lips opened to mouth the words, but he was uncertain whether he ended up speaking them loudly enough for even a SOLDIER's hearing to pick up before the darkness took him.

All that awaits you is a sombre morrow, no matter where the winds may blow...

He wished, a fleeting thing, that the goddess was more prone to communicating in more than expressions and deeds.

...

"If you could go back. To the past, and change even one thing... would you?"

The sun had been rising - a new dawn over the ruins of Midgar. And yet, even with the light hitting the fallen buildings, only a rare few times had it ever appeared even slightly like nothing had changed.

The place had been levelled during Meteorfall, and become a literal war zone when the WRO had waged their war against Deepground.

They were both sitting at the edge of a building, the height not holding any threat for either of them. For Genesis especially, he had lost the remainder of his fear of high places and falling when he had first learned that he could fly.

He turned to Cloud, who was staring resolutely forward and toward the sky, one boot lightly kicking the bricks of the roof they were on, as though he hadn't just asked that kind of question.

Genesis had smiled, then.

"My soul, corrupted by vengeance, hath endured torment. To find the end of the journey in my own salvation, and your eternal slumber."

Perhaps it was right, that they would be the ones to ask such things of each other. Everyone else was gone. Everyone who had been involved to that degree, at least. And no one else had quite the same experience with questioning their own humanity, and coming out somehow cracked and broken in places, but still in one piece, more or less. Despite everything, neither of them had truly lost who they were.

"Does that mean you would, or... you think you've done enough?"

Cloud, Genesis had slowly started to realise, was the kind of person who didn't really care for the art of drama, but never said that Genesis was taking the play too seriously, or too far - but he also questioned what Genesis' intent was. Something that not many had thought to ask.

He reached up to flick a few errant hairs out of his eyes, and watched as the sun's rays reached the Shinra building itself at long last, the reds and yellows of daybreak making it seem almost as though the building were on fire.

Fleetingly, he wished that it were, and he had been the one to set that fire. It would have been satisfying.

"I have regrets enough that there's plenty I'd change. If the opportunity presented itself, of course. And yet, those regrets are in the past, along with everything that caused them. For myself, there is nothing I would go to such drastic measures for." He turned back to Cloud, smile on his face once again. "And you? You were the one to bring this up, were you not? You owe me an answer of your own."

Cloud ducked his head, and Genesis almost - almost - regretted having asked. A shadow fell over them for just a moment, before the blond not-SOLDIER smiled again.

"I'd never be done with just one thing, if it was to make the future better for everyone. But... all the people I care about are safe and okay, and things are improving." Cloud's shoulders shrugged, awkward as a teenaged trooper even though he was in his twenties now. "So, I'm okay with things as they are."

...

"-can't say you didn't notice something wrong. You could have stopped, like I was trying to tell you to."

Reality came back to him lazily, with muted voices sounding as though they were being heard through a great distance, but up close at the same time.

"I did notice. And I deemed it unwise to simply 'stop', as you would have had me done. What would have happened then, Angeal? Two of us injured, instead of just one." The old pain in Genesis' shoulder spiked with Sephiroth's voice, although something was wrong about it - almost as though it had been reopened, like an enemy picking at an old weak spot.

It wasn't just that, though. Something about Sephiroth's voice sounded off-

"You're saying-?"

"Some trauma he had preferred not to speak of, for the sake of his pride, perhaps? Whatever the cause, our fight turned from a training room spar, to..."

Realisation struck him like a blow to the chest, along with all of the disjointed memories of the events leading up to his falling unconscious in such a way. He gasped, cutting off whatever Angeal might have said in response.

His attempt to sit up on his own was hindered by Angeal's hand on his good shoulder. No longer in the midst of a fight for what he had believed was for his very life, he had the first chance to take the time to understand what this meant - this was Angeal as he remembered him, with no pale hair and no ashen complexion. No white wing flaring out on one side.

The Buster Sword, still attached to his back.

There are no dreams, no honour remains... the words no longer held the weight they once had. The arrow had not yet left the bow of the goddess.

"You know, I wonder if Sephiroth might be right. First that fight, now this - you should talk to someone about this. One of us, or one of the psychiatrists. It is their job, after all. And maybe get someone to have a look at that shoulder and-"

Genesis didn't even let him finish, eyes narrowing as he shoved Angeal out of his way in order to not only sit properly, but also stand. A fainting spell was humiliating for a decorated SOLDIER First Class, but he was no invalid. Even suffering from the later stages of degradation, he had never been that.

"No."

They both turned to look at him, and perhaps it should have hurt how alien an expression of honest concern was on Sephiroth's face, after so long of either expecting it to be nothing but pity, complete disinterest, or only the slightest attempt at pretending that even a drop of compassion could exist.

"If it is for your own good," Sephiroth said slowly - cautiously, unmoving - with that same expression still on his face, "then you are the only one that you are inconveniencing by choosing to decline."

"The last thing that I want, or would be good for me, is the idea of being poked at, and especially not by scientists."

Being at Hollander's mercy for the better part of seven years purely on the desperate chance that the scientist would find a cure for the degradation had been bad enough, especially on the realisation that no cure was forthcoming. Then, despite his hope that his restoration at the hand of the goddess would be the end of his trials... Deepground had taken him.

He had had far more than enough of scientists for one lifetime.

It was the slight widening of Sephiroth's eyes, the minute nod, that put him off balance, however. Even remembering what he knew of his... friend's past, he hadn't expected to be reminded of it in such a human way, opposed to the wings of destruction and control that he had become accustomed to.

"Very well then. As long as that is your decision."

And then both he and Angeal were staring after Sephiroth's back as the silver-haired general swept out of the training room as the repair techs started to file in, fire extinguishers in hand.

It'll heal up soon enough, he told Angeal on the way out, using all of his willpower to not put his hand to the old (new) wound. We've all of us had worse on the battlefield. This is nothing.

The words turned to ash in his mouth. Pretty little lies. A dramatic sort of poetry, in that it was almost as though he were repeating a previous verse, but this was his life, and not a poem, or script, except in one way - that like LOVELESS, what had once been his immutable past was now open to... variation.

...

AN: Okay so this came about because I love time travel fics and I love FF7 time travel fics but although I love Cloud time travelling my mind threw up but 'what if it was Genesis instead' - partially, I wonder, because I'd been having a hard time imagining any Sephiroth from the future regaining himself enough to want to change the past for the *better*.

I have a few vague ideas for the missing adventure that Genesis will be referring to occasionally, but it might just be small scenes and glimpses into what goes on, rather than a long-term thing.

As for the main story itself, I've got a specific idea of where I want to go with it in some places, but as for others it might have a few time skips.

#final fantasy VII #ff7 #ff7 stuff #genesis rhapsodos #Leona fic #to change a sombre morrow verse

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renaramblesaboutcomics · 7 years

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Wednesday Roundup 18.10.2017

When it comes to a variety of genres... I honestly wasn’t very variable this week to be honest. Superheroes and Giant Robots, or otherwise known as two of the three ingredients alongside furry animals and a dash of Chemical X which are required to create a Rena of your very own. But in this contest of Heroes and Robots, the real question is who is going to come out on top? Or at least it should be because people love pitting things against each other and gamifying everything. Or so I’ve heard.

DC’s Batwoman, DC’s DC Comics: Bombshells, DC’s Super Sons, DC’s Titans, DW’s Transformers: Lost Light, Lion Forge’s Voltron Legendary Defender Vol. 2

DC’s Batwoman (2017-present) #8 Marguerite Bennett, Fernando Blanco, John Rauch

I was already fully on board with this storyline for Batwoman last month when it was revealed that the Needle was the Scarecrow all along and Kate was in a fear toxin induced fever dream for most of the out there visuals and flashbacks, but that grounding came through in full force this issue as Kate proved herself to not only be a badass and to get herself out in the most seasonally appropriate and cool one-liner of comics this month, but also while never undermining the threat that the Scarecrow poses.

One of my problems with how the Scarecrow has been underused is that not only is he almost always the underling to some greater plot and easily tossed to the side within the narrative -- I could even make a good argument that this is still the case in this storyline -- but the existential threat of having a psychiatrist who is more fascinated with abusing his knowledge and position of power over those he examines, and forcing confrontation of someone’s worst nightmares and fears, is just a fascinating subject that has hardly received its dues in decades now.

And Marguerite Bennett, who has always been someone I trust with a focus on character first, understands that potential and shows that brilliantly over the course of these last two issues. Really, Kate’s character and history has been the focus of this entire run thus far, sometimes even to the detriment of the pacing considering that we take so long to -- for something like the tenth time in half as many years -- retell her origin story, which is something I was pretty critical of, but it is something I appreciate so much more now.

Bennett is truly making Kate her own, and all the backstory, all the set up, helped make the fears and anguish of the fear toxins feel that much more earned within the comic itself when we showed them. Yes, if you’ve been following Batwoman for the past decade which... well, I have -- you can infer a lot of these things without all that set up. Her relationship with her father being complicated, her mother’s death and sister’s kidnapping her original trauma, even the turbulent romance of her year abroad. She didn’t need these things, but having them all presented within the run and really allowing for an insulated story experience for new readers and old alike, frees Kate of so much of the baggage one might have otherwise expected from her at this point.

And it works as it gets us to the gates of a true confrontation with Scarecrow himself. Kate Kane’s traumatic life before and as Batwoman has always been the source of her unyielding attitude and her drive forward. It defines her far differently than the other members of the Batfamily. So facing her fears and overcoming her trauma may have just unleashed a Batwoman that the Scarecrow is even less prepared for than he realizes.

The art in this issue, as the art for this entire series so far has been, is just excellent. It’s stylistic and weaves in and out of traditional paneling to complex, interwoven dreamscapes and I love that we can have that level of detail and understanding without sacrificing readability, which has been a critique I’ve had of Batwoman stories as far back as Elegy itself.

Just overall this was a really inspiring read and it feels especially powerful during the Halloween season. So fantastic timing.

DC’s DC Comics: Bombshells (2015-2017) Vol. 5The Death of Illusion Marguerite Bennett, Laura Braga, Mirka Andolfo, Elsa Charretier

I am not the huge fan of Bombshells that most of the people I know are, and as such I’ve not really gone out of my way to comment on the last few volumes, but it felt a bit incomplete this week to not mention Bombshells since it did come out this week and is taking us to the “new season” that is currently being published.

There are too many artists to really get into on an individual level so I’m instead going to focus on the formatting, as the adaptation from a Digital First to a printed volume is something all the issues share regardless of artist or style. I just want it noted that while I do enjoy the retro pinup style for some characters, I don’t always like it for all characters, and it’s also a judgment call on how well it adapts from artist to artist.

Strangely enough, it feels like the comics that are the least exploratory with being a part of the digital medium and instead are drawn like comic strip-sized panels that are then stacked for physical publication and volumized format are usually the ones that read the weirdest. That continues to prove true in this comic especially since, as overstuffed as this cast is, the limitations of being drawn like they only have half the page to start with, means we get lots and lots of pages where everyone in a scene are crammed in together -- which you can sort of see in the panels I chose to post above. And that inhibits something that Bennett, as a writer, is usually exceptional at. And that’s building female characters from and around their environment.

Look at those last two panels and think of how much more impactful that sense of loneliness and being surrounded would feel for Ivy if there had been more space to allow that sense to come across.

And that bleeds right into a general writing issue I’ve had with Bombshells since the start. I, on principle, love all the characters and I love the world and the world building. There is precious little that is not inherently appealing to me about this series.

But I feel like I have so few central characters to focus on because of how bloated the cast is and how intertwined all the characters and events are, that I’m left almost annoyed at the fact that we can’t say who, in any one issue, is the central protagonist. And even if that’s a problem I’ve had a sense of from the start, it’s becoming more of a problem in this volume than any of the one before because they’re fitting so much in any one issue. We had the introductions of at least ten characters that I can remember who are obviously going to be prominent, the concept of this universe’s Suicide Squad, and the idea that Hugo Strange is working for all sides and countries at the same time while cloning Kara even though.... Russia had had her loyalty before and... I don’t know. It’s a lot. It’s a whole lot at once.

And even though this is counter to my main argument, I’m getting really damn annoyed that every Batgirl and Batgirl adjacent character in the damn world has been featured now as a Batgirl or otherwise now except for Steph and Cass. Like. Why. What’s the point.

DC’s Super Sons (2017-present) #9 Peter J. Tomasi, Jorge Jimenez, Carmine Di Giandomenico, Alejandro Sanchez, Ivan Plascencia

Super Sons wraps up yet another arc but this time around we have a bit of a juggling act being performed with the artist chair. This isn’t to say it gets completely distracting, but there are a few transitions that were not nearly as smooth as they could have been. I am more of a fan of books who switch artists at least attempting to maintain a theme, but as far as getting the job done story wise, Super Sons more than steps up to the plate.

But of course that leaves the question of what I feel about the storyline and... I still enjoy it! I stand by my consistent criticisms that without Gleason, Tomasi tends to invest more in Jon being the Perfect Child foil to Damian rather than digging into his own insecurities and flaws, and that definitely applies here where he moralizes to save the day and also drops the very interesting thread of plot that actually had me hopeful that we would be seeing more angles to Jon’s naivety, what with the possibility of Damian finally revealing that it was Lois who asked Damian to befriend/train Jon all along, but does it work for having our two young heroes inspiring an entire future of heroes for a parallel dimension?

Sure! I would think so. It feels like Jon and Damian’s new friends and this parallel world are going to be the Legion of Superheroes to Jon’s Superboy which is honestly a pretty exciting idea and is neat to see in the context of modernizing an old idea with a whole new spin and within the current comic landscape.

Or we’ll never see any of this again because comics do that sometimes. It’s hard to tell.

Personally, I enjoyed the ending, even if it was mostly action and explosions, but it’s like I always tag here on the blog -- Every Story Needs an Explosion!

.... I also have a tag on this blog that is “Sun Bleached” for characters who are whitewashed and goddamn DC, you have got to get a memo out to all your colorists on rather or not you’re going to commit to Damian being dark skinned or not. And don’t think I don’t notice that he and Talia both shift between “white” and “brown” depending on the morality they’re showing at any one time. I’ve seen the panels of Batman #33. I see you.

DC’s Titans (2016-present) #16 Dan Abnett, Brett Booth, Norm Rapmund, Andrew Dalhouse

I’ll be honest.... this wasn’t the best issue. And it’s not that it’s bad it was just that it felt entirely skippable. Young Wally shows up but we don’t at all get any time with him to have more than a surprised reaction -- there’s no time to see him mourn or get angry or anything. And the rest of the Titans don’t really have that time either. They’re just more angry than they had been in the last issue and... judging by solicits Wally’s going to be back so the emotional stakes and catharsis were pretty much all we had for this issue.

Instead it was purely fighting and not really even fighting that came to a conclusive end. After all, we still have another issue to go and none of the possessed Titans were freed either. Instead it just leads to.... well an Evil Donna reveal which... I don’t know what that’s going to lead to because I’m still wondering what we’re going to be doing about Wally and Wally!

Overall I still like Titans but this is one issue that really gives me nothing to add or even to say that I haven’t mentioned in previous Roundups because, for me, this issue didn’t do a great job of adding anything writing or art wise.

Just gotta wait for next month then.

IDW’s Transformers: Lost Light (2017-present) #10 James Roberts, Jack Lawrence, Joana Lafuente

In all honesty, the last couple of issues of Transformers: Lost Light have made me feel things that I haven’t since James Roberts’ “First Season” of MTMTE. It really, truly feels like he is back on his A-game and that we’re getting places where his original outline had us going before the whole Dark Cybertron stuff jumped into the fray.

And if it wasn’t obvious from my Batwoman review, it’s because i really really love fridge horror and mind trips and just in general when stories shock me with where they’re willing to go with their characters. Because this is dark. Arguably this issue reveals itself to be darker than almost anything else that Roberts has shown us in his Transformers yet.

Which, again, is saying something.

And it’s darkness an passing a moral event horizon that is really necessary to get us on board with having Getaway and other mutineers as bigger villains than the likes of every other antagonist that the Lost Light crew has encountered so far. I mean, that’s a hell of a direction to take us and yet it’s managed because we’re now beyond just the hatred for what he did to Cyclonus and Tailgate, we’re down the moral sinkhole where his actions are not justified at all. Where you arguably could see the reasons for mutiny when they did so in the last arc of MTMTE.

Now he’s just. Straight up a villain? Though that comes with some questions of its own because before he didn’t seem to be happy that the Black Block Consortia was going to destroy all of them. He jsut... wanted them to not be on the Lost Light? Or so I thought? He did call the DJD, but specifically he thought it was just for Megatron so idk. I literally don’t know but I’m fascinated to see things from Getaway’s perspective.

And speaking of perspectives, I already adored First Aid but he was so good in this issue, and this his discoveries and the further and the further and further down the hole things went from there felt like my stomach was dropping each time. To the point where I wanted to just scream “it’s a trap” multiple times.

It’s just good stuff, I really enjoyed this issue and am on the edge of my seat for what’s coming up.

Lion Forge’s Voltron Legendary Defender Vol. 2 (2017-present) #2 Tim Hedrick, Mitch Iverson, Rubine, Beni Lobel

Okay. All my skepticism before, all my complaints, all my concerns that both art and characterizations were lacking in this story compared to the actual series? I take it back because... I had an absolute blast reading this issue.

So along with our art change, we get something in this issue that we honestly haven’t even gotten from the series, and that is non-food related Hunk centric storylines with him being hailed as a hero to an entire species, having girl problems, and people literally fighting for the right to marry him. Even if those people are more like... sexy female Knuckles and Sonic.

Anyway. This issue pretty much addresses everything I was worried that we were missing before. There’s a coherent plot with a clear need for the individual paladins as well as Voltron all together, there’s jokes but not so much at the expense of a character’s dignity, and Hunk... Hunk is treated better in this issue than he is for the majority of episodes for the last three seasons of the show and I’m genuinely kind of floored by this fact.

There’s a scene I absolutely loved where Hunk, baffled at his own situation, even goes to Lance and they have a whole page dedicated to their heart to heart. Lance ranges from jealous to sarcastic, to genuinely helpful and it’s the first time that any of the franchise has remembered they were friends and roommates first before anyone else.

I was genuinely surprised with how much I enjoyed this issue and if I could give a reward for the single most improvement from one issue to the next it would go to Voltron this week.

Though I will say, c’mon artists, backgrounds are a pain but you have to treat them like your friends. You can’t rely on gradients 100% of the time.

So while there was some harsh criticisms I had this week, I think overall it showed to be a pretty good week for comics, and more than a couple of surprises came up to really make me sit back and reflect on things. But with little doubt, my pick of the week has to be Batwoman because that series and Marguerite Bennett just as a writer on her own have managed to really redefine a familiar character and make her story her lore, and her personality stand proud and alone from all the strings of continuity that has been supposedly holding her back for all these years. I absolutely love it and can’t wait for the next issue.

And those are the comics for this week! Did you happen to agree with me? Disagree? Think I missed out on picking up a comic that was good? I’d love to hear your thoughts.

But before I let you go, I have to (yes have to) plug once more:

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#Rena Roundups #Wednesday Spoilers #SPOILERS #DC Comics: Bombshells (2015 2017)#Voltron Legendary Defender Vol. 2 #Transformers: Lost Light (2016 )#Titans (2016 )#Super Sons (2017 )#Batwoman (2017 )

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