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mor-beck-more-problems · 3 years

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Breaking Bonds || Morgan & Bea

TIMING: Current

PARTIES: @beatrice-blaze & @mor-beck-more-problems

SUMMARY: Bea invites Morgan over to share a new discovery. The world will not consent to be fixed, but somebody has to try.

CONTAINS: references to Bea’s, Morgan’s, and Adam’s deaths

There were not many people in this world who understood life and death in the same manner Bea did. They may never have been close before either of their deaths, but after, Morgan and Bea were implicitly connected. This connection made Morgan the clearest person to go to about what Bea had found through her research. The kettle let out a shrill cry for attention as the witch finished lining up the tomes she had flagged for this discussion. It was good timing that Bea’s bracelet informed her that Morgan had crossed into the Vural’s property as she began steeping the tea. She went to the porch with a smile, Dia weaving between her legs as she waited for Morgan. “The tea should be ready soon! I hope you don’t mind that I tried to find something you’d like to eat, though I wasn’t completely sure what would be palatable,” She told the zombie, thinking of the container of meat that she had waiting for Morgan, if she wanted it.

It was no small relief to visit Bea at her place. Morgan didn't know her as well as she did Luce and Nell, but she had an ease with Bea that she couldn’t have with the others either. They had died and come back around the same time, and they were both determined to have a whole life as their altered selves. As she came up to the porch to meet her friend, she sighed and let that ease pull away some of the tension her body carried.

“I don’t mind,” she said, smiling with gratitude. “I will try any and everything you have prepared. I literally can’t get food poisoning, so there’s not much to lose. And thanks for having me over. I want to hear all about New York and Felix and whatever else people who haven’t seen each other in a while swap. But uh, you said there was something you wanted to talk about, right?”

Small talk, Bea had almost forgotten that she should be engaging in small talk because she was so excited by what she had found. “Oh yes! I need to hear all about what you’ve been doing too, I’m sure things have been very exciting over here.” And she did, just like she wanted to see how Morgan was, especially since Morgan was taking care of so many people at the moment. Still, that could wait until after.

Bea invited Morgan in, before walking over to the table and lightly touching a book. “But, first, you should see what I found in here,” She couldn’t help the excited tilt her voice took. Flipping open to the first tab in the book she pointed to a line and read,“‘I have found that some of the new undead can be controlled, tamed if the right-hand guides them.’ The wording is awful, but doesn’t that read like I could help people who are struggling with this? You were the first person who seemed right to call about this.”

“Oh, you know,” Morgan said dismissively. “Been better, been worse. Still kind of a mess. But as long as we have each other, or as much of each other as we can, and if we can keep trying to make hope…” She smiled, weighed down by every terrible thing that had happened over the past month, though no less genuine for it. “We have to get to ‘okay’ eventually, right?”

She followed Bea in eagerly. Distractions were good, learning and projects were better. If she was moving toward something, she might still be able to make something better, or at least be better. She came over to the book and looked at the words. Controlled and tamed were two different things, but maybe this meant that there was an under-utilized conditioning process. Use magic at first to mitigate the damage and get them used to things, Let them choose the right thing for themselves later. “With--by ‘this’ you mean undead hunger cravings, right? Like, if I lost myself in front of a dead body, or a vampire was trying to stay off people. Do you think…” Her hand went to her lips as she thought of Ashley the zombie last year and Nico Jemisin in the thrift store. She shouldn’t get too excited, she shouldn’t brew hope over just a stray phrase and an untested experiment. She shouldn’t, she shouldn’t. And yet. “How far have you gotten on this? This could be…it could save so many people.”

A small, sad smile took Bea’s lips as Morgan spoke. She knew that hope as well as she knew her shadows. Before all of this, the necromancer had never had to worry about being okay, she had simply trusted in the universe to balance itself again. Being hit with hardship after hardship had created that doubt in the world’s ability to allow her to have a break. “We’ll be okay eventually, Morgan,” She said softly, “We’ll be able to create our own okay, you’re strong enough for that.” Anyone who had survived what Morgan had already was more than capable of bending the world to her whims.

She nodded eagerly, “That’s what I would intend to find out at the very least. I’d like to think that the word ‘tamed’ would imply that, though I do hate the implication that the undead needs to be tamed.” She had found herself drawn to the power of necromancy at the beginning, the ability to twist death itself to what she wanted. Now, though, after experiencing that power, she had found something softer, something that could change lives, save them. That part of herself she felt had left in death was returning, the part that could help and care for others without asking what they could do for her. She could grant people some form of comfort again, she could help facilitate something beautiful from a hardship. “I’ve marked every mention I’ve found of it, but there’s not much I’ve seen. I think we can write something together on this, we can find a way to get this information out there to help others.”

A piece of Morgan’s heart unclenched at Bea’s reassuring words. She hadn’t realized she’d been holding something in, but she was swallowing tears and so loose in her bones she felt like she might fall over. It had been a while since someone had tried to comfort her, and even longer when she was able to accept their gift without any guilt. Morgan smiled, lips quivering, and whispered, “thank you,” before putting her attention back on the main subject.

“What would you need? In terms of resources or experiments?” Morgan asked. She was self-conscious enough about her now-constant discoloring at all times, but as she considered the possibilities, she felt the hollowness of her stomach too. Morgan shouldn’t be this excited for Bea’s idea. Fuck Odell, and fuck her hold on this cursed town. “Would it...I mean, you’re the expert, so you would know whether it’s safe or too dangerous if you...tested it on me?” She met Bea’s eyes with trepidation. “I’m not high risk or anything, obviously, and a year does a lot for a girl’s impulse control around viscera, but...I wouldn’t say no to some extra help.”

There were many forms of strength that Bea has seen over the years, many of them represented by the women she surrounded herself with. Morgan, she found, had one of the softest forms she had seen yet, but that did not mean she didn’t respect it. If anything, it proved to Bea that she could be strong without violence and anger. Her sisters, for as strong as they were, often hurt themselves from it. Luce with her anger, an all too powerful storm that untethered her, but kept others aware of who they were dealing with. Nell with her fierce strikes, hunting beasts and controlling demons that left her all too vulnerable to the world’s evil. Bea couldn’t always be like them, but she could be softer, she could adopt some of Morgan and create her own brand of strength that did not always mean striking first.

“Well, we’d need an area far from anyone else just in case something went wrong.” Bea wouldn’t risk doing it at her home when her sisters were so close by. She looked at Morgan for a long moment, she trusted the zombie, but it put Morgan in a hard situation if something were to happen. “We can try it on you, but I would want other people there, just in case. Who would you feel comfortable with helping?” Bea had her own list of who they could call, but Morgan was the one being controlled. She was certainly in a much more vulnerable spot. “I think we should start with small portions and then work our way up.” This would be a long process, but it would be worth it to explore the possibility.

“Well, there’s plenty of spots in the woods,” Morgan sighed. “If screaming moose can hide, so can we. Especially on the outskirts, near the border, I don’t think there’ll be anyone for miles.” She wasn’t that worried. White Crest liked to keep its secrets to itself as much as possible. But Bea’s second question was another beast. Deirdre came to her mind briefly, but her love had promised to never physically harm her on purpose and refused to be released. And then, Bea wouldn’t want to endanger her sisters after all they’d been through. Who did that leave? Mina, who barely spoke to her anymore?

At last, Morgan had to admit defeat. “I...don’t know. If you know someone or have ideas, I trust your judgement. You know about discretion as much as anyone, so. But, little bits at a time! That sounds good. Reasonable. It’ll, you know, probably come in handy some time. Even with someone like me.” Or especially, with how things stood at the moment. “You’re the one channeling big magic, so you should probably set the pace. I’ve got that infinite stamina going for me. So I...I can take it. Whatever might happen, I can take it. I want to, if it means having more control over myself.”

With everything, Bea had good and bad days. With the woods, she had bad far more often. She controlled her face as well as she could, only hesitating for a moment. “Let me pick the spot in the forest? I’ll find something in the outskirts for us.” She would pick somewhere far from the place it happened, where even on her bad day she could hold herself together. Her first thought would be to ask Leah to help, but that could be very dangerous for the phoenix. Her sisters weren’t an option. Maybe this wasn’t as easy as she had originally thought it would be. “I could see if Kaden was willing to help.” She trusted him to behave with Morgan, but she had no idea if they were on good terms anymore. “If you are feeling comfortable with that.” That was a good point, Bea had no idea how much energy this was going to take. If it was anything like the other necromancy magic she had done, she was going to need to work her way up. “We’ll go slow, there’s no need to rush what’s going to happen. Especially as we need to get more people on board to help.”

“Of course,” Morgan said. To her shame, she only remembered how much the woods had taken from Bea when she saw the look on the woman’s face. Morgan, for her part, never lingered on the part of main street where she’d felt the sun on her back for the last time, and ice cream trucks made her feel sick and bitter. But these were small things, specific. As much as the spot where Bea died was cursed ground, for all Morgan knew, every dark cluster of trees held the shadow of her trauma. Too late now.

Morgan considered Kaden. She didn’t want him to know she was struggling. She didn’t know how much of his fear and disappointment she could bear. And would he feel guilty for helping? Would he doubt himself? Or feel as though he were betraying himself? But a hunter was a clear and obvious choice, for Bea’s safety as well as Morgan’s own. And the only other hunter Morgan trusted was dead. “It makes sense. If you think he would, and that he wouldn’t...feel wrong or bad about it, yeah. That sounds like a good idea. And you’re right about needing others, strong muscle-y others probably, but don’t know who else is left.” She met Bea’s eyes slowly, knowingly, and ached as Adam’s loss stung once again. She cleared her throat and let the spectre of his memory pass. “Later, when we’ve got the basics down, I’ll be of more help. I’ve got lots of fresh experience with my muscle strength, and fighting off people, living and undead. But, slow and steady first.” With difficulty, she summoned a smile. “Who’d have figured it would take two people like us to make a new magic discovery?”

Oh, Bea thought, Of course Morgan knows. A fragile, brittle smile made its way onto her face. As the days went on, as his loss compounded, the closer she felt to slipping away. She was teetering on a precipice, close to falling over the edge of understanding grief as other people had. Her understanding before had been abstracted at best, a twisted and strange version of an emotion that everyone around her seemed to understand better than she did. A necromancer who had faced death, danced with her, but did not comprehend her affects seemed like an oxymoron. The room was spinning, twisting around her as she tried to focus on Morgan’s words. “Oh, I don’t know it makes sense, doesn’t it?” She replied weakly, “We like pushing and figuring stuff out. We’re fixers.” Fixers in a world that could not be fixed, would not consent to be fixed. Adam had been a fixer too, it was why he was gone.

“Fixers, huh,” Morgan repeated, her own smile turning sad as well. She didn’t think of that word often except in terms of her own shame and desperation. She broke something, therefore she had to fix it. But to hear Bea say it, they were doing something better than hastily atoning; they were solving the world. Not all of it, because no one could do that. But little hurts, difficulties, problems. They knew how to seal cracks in people’s hearts and put in new supports where old ones had snapped. And it didn’t have to mean that any of it was their fault or their responsibility. Just that they happened to know how. They happened to have the strength to try. And when everything broke all over again, they would fix it again. On and on.

The future stretched out in her mind’s eye, a line of patch jobs into centuries. Nothing holding or staying for long. She wondered if Adam had ever seen the future that way, and if he ever let himself dream of a green field and a quiet existence where the only things that needed fixing were fence posts and kitchen appliances, as she often did. She didn’t know which answer was sadder.

“I guess we are,” she said quietly. “I guess somebody has to be.”

#wr bea #wr chatzy #wr bea chatzy #breaking bonds #sibling death tw #//short and v sweet

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stones-x-bones · 4 years

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Dreamkeepers (Part 2) || Morgan and Bex

TIMING: Current PARTIES: @mor-beck-more-problems and @inbextween SUMMARY: Bex shows back up at Morgan’s, a little worse for wear. CONTENT: Domestic/Child abuse references, self harm references

Bex limped all the way to Morgan’s.

It wasn’t that long of a walk from the ferry, but the pain that burned in her knees-- and in her arms and her stomach and her face-- made it feel like she’d been at it for miles. Little glass shards still stuck in her palms, hurting everytime she forgot and clenched her fists. She kept licking her lip, tasting the warm blood that stuck to it each time the scab peeled off. Tears had traced clean trails down her cheeks through the blood smeared on them, and the one bag she’d managed to stuff full of things clicked against her side as she walked. She could already feel the bruised cut forming where she’d fallen on the stairs and smacked her head on the railing, but the cool air actually felt nice against it, despite it making her shiver. Her body ached to just sit and more tears prickled in her eyes. She didn’t bother wiping them away as she finally rounded up the driveway to Morgan and Deirdre’s. There was a minute of fear as she pulled herself up the porch and to the door-- what would Morgan think? What would she say? What if she turned her away? She stood there for what felt like hours, doubts and fears and angry voices rattling in her head. No one could ever love you, no one cares about you. Finally, fingers left a bloody smear across the doorbell as she pushed it and waited, vibrating in her own skin the entire time.

And when the door finally opened, Bex looked down at Morgan and in the smallest voice asked, “Can I...stay here again for a bit?”

Morgan hadn’t been able to stop thinking about Bex since she’d left. It was one thing to panic because you’d been in some wild dreamscape for a couple of weeks; it was another to panic again because you were afraid of going home to her parents. Only an anxiety over kidnapping charges had kept Morgan from suggesting that Bex simply stay. They could buy her new things, down to her school books. They’d get her the good kind of insurance. Whatever she wanted. But Bex left before Morgan could invent an excuse that wasn’t, ‘your family shouldn’t be people you want to hide from; they should be people to be afraid of.’ So when she saw the girl in the door the very next night, there was an uncanny second of wondering if she’d fallen into an enchanted sleep this time.

But Morgan didn’t have the courage to conjure an image of Bex like this: bloody, bruised, and stuck through with glass. She couldn’t begin to trace the chronology of the violence. Everytime she tried to find it, something new caught her eye that she had to account for. This was worse than when Deirdre had come home from Ireland. This was worse than anything she’d ever seen on a child. Bex’s voice was so quiet, it didn’t break through her shock. Had she walked? Had no one stopped to ask if she was okay? How was she holding that bag with so much glass in her hands? But finally her mind stopped spinning in place. She knew what to do.

“You can always come to me, Bex. Inside, quickly. I’ll get the first aid tub and meet you in the great room. Get your jacket off. We can put your things in your room later, okay? Let’s get you taken care of first.” The words rattled out of her quietly and quickly. She stepped aside and beckoned her inside. “You did the right thing, coming here. You’re safe now, okay?”

You did the right thing. The words rang in Bex’s head as she lowered her gaze and stepped inside. She was sure the bruises on her face had swollen because the ones on her knees had and she could see them now. Purple and yellow and blue. She moved inside stiffly. “I’m sorry about your door,” was all she could manage to say, eyes glued to the floor, to her shoes. These weren’t even her favorite shoes, why hadn’t she put on better shoes? Oh, and her dress. Her nice dress was all ruined, covered in blood and all torn. How had this happened? Bex closed her eyes and she saw red. Anger flashing, feet pounding up stairs, loud voices outside her door. The crack of a belt. Shattering glass in time to loud screams. Her breath started coming up heavy again as she sat on the couch, shaking in her spot. You’re safe now. She curled her knees up to her chest and repeated the words, hands turned outward when she remembered the glass still stuck in her palms, bloody and painful. She was silent when Morgan came back in. She didn’t know how to explain.

Everything they might need was in the tub Morgan kept under the sink for easy access, even a basin for pouring water in. But there was something horrible about the preparedness. This place, the cost of this world, where girls asked for love with their blood, where there was nowhere to be taken care of or be assured kindness except behind closed doors and drawn curtains.

She came into the room and set everything on the coffee table, kneeling before Bex. “Hey, honey…?” She prompted. “I’m going to need you to uncurl just a little bit, so I can get this glass out. It’ll hurt, but I’ll be fast, and you’ll be in less pain long term and your body will have a chance to heal.” She tilted her head, trying to find the girl’s gaze. “Maybe some deep breaths first, huh? Slowly. Do you know five-three-five?” She held out her hand, patient but expectant.

Bex felt like a child. Maybe she was a child. She’d been robbed of the ability to be one, after all. There were no fun games or birthday parties or rolling around in the mud. There was only proper manners and sitting up straight and learning how to be a good girl. Don’t make noise, don’t take up room, don’t embarrass her parents. Bex looked down at Morgan on the floor and searched for the anger behind the gentleness, but found none. Reluctantly, she held out her hands and shook her head. She stayed silent, as if waiting for some unspoken wrath to jump out and break the calmness that she was trying to find. She hadn’t known where else to go, but little by little, she was beginning to believe what Morgan had said. She was safe here. “I’m sorry,” she finally mumbled, “I didn’t call first.”

Morgan took Bex’s hand and set to work with her tweezers. “Sometimes there isn’t time. Emergencies can be like that. You don’t have to be sorry for that. It’s good that you knew this was a place to go to. I want that for you, okay?” She stared down a particularly large piece lodged in Bex’s palm. This couldn’t be about her upset. She needed to work. She needed to come through. Someone had to for this girl.

Pinch. Pull. Out came the glass, joining the other bloody pieces on the towel she’d laid out beside her.

“So,” Morgan said quickly, as if she could talk over Bex’s pain. “Five-three-five, it’s a breathing game I play when I’m anxious or panicking. Sometimes--” Especially now that her default was not breathing, “I get in this place, and I can’t breathe at all. Or I hyperventilate. And so I have to play to get myself back. You draw your breath in for five whole seconds, and then you hold it for three, and then you let it out again in five seconds exactly. I learned it in therapy. It’s one thing you can control again, no matter how bad everything else is. You get a rhythm going, and you start a chain of breaths like that, and you don’t stop until you’re ready. You can even tap the rhythm on yourself, that can help too.” She took another piece out and dropped it on the towel, noticing the tension coiled in the girl’s body. “It might help, is all I’m suggesting. Other hand now, please?”

Bex was quiet. “I didn’t have anywhere else to go,” she admitted under a breath. And it was mostly true. She supposed she could’ve gone to Nell’s, but the hike was longer and she didn’t know if Nell’s anger would be as controllable. Nell had already threatened someone for her. And her parents hadn’t meant it, not really. The glass was her fault, anyway. People were hurt because of her. She inhaled deeply and held it. Bit down hard on her cheek as she prepared for the pain-- she’d grown accustomed to tolerating it in short bursts, but this was different. She flinched and whimpered, more tears pooling in her eyes. Five three five. “I’m not-- it just hurts.” She wanted to say she wasn’t panicking, but that wasn’t true. Every time she thought back to what happened, her chest seized up. So, she closed her eyes, and when Morgan plucked out another piece, she inhaled for five seconds, held it for three, then let it go for five.

“I-it’s my fault,” she said unprompted, holding out her other hand, “I-- I got so angry. I was so scared and then I--” she had to stop to do it again. Five, three, five. “I blew up. It was my fault.”

“You haven’t had a chance to learn how to control what you can do,” Morgan said simply, working steadily faster. “I don’t know if that counts as being your fault.” Three more pieces came out. They were almost there. “If you were doing the best with what you had, with what you know, then it doesn’t seem fair to hold whatever happened against yourself. But that’s just my two cents.” Four more pieces. Morgan felt up Bex’s arms and plucked out the last of them. They could shake out her hair later. “Okay, all done with the worst part. I appreciate you being so brave. Now lets rinse this blood off and get you bandaged and salved up, and then into some pajamas. You’re about Deirdre’s size and she has a drawer full of pajamas she never wears, so we’ll have something extra cozy for you.” She reached for the other cloth in the bin and soaked it in the water before starting to rinse off the blood. “Since it is on your mind, though, do you...want to tell me what happened exactly? It’s your choice, to be clear. You can stay here as long as you like, no questions asked. But maybe it’ll help you make sense of it, or work off some more of that energy.” She soaked the cloth again. “Roll up your sleeves, please.”

Morgan was working through this as if she’d done it a thousand times before. Maybe she had. Bex remembered the manner in which Morgan had talked about her mother and she wondered if hers had ever looked at her the way Bex’s mom had that morning. If she’d ever released all her anger and resent on her instead of where it should have been. “I didn’t mean to,” she responded, robotically. “They wouldn’t believe me, but I didn’t mean to. I didn’t want to hurt anyone.” She breathed through the rest of the pain and finally looked down at her arms. They were shaking, but that wasn’t surprising. She didn’t want to roll up her sleeves, Morgan would see. The bruises. The ones that weren’t her fault. “They didn’t mean it. It’s not their fault. Things were-- it just got out of hand. They were just worried. My mom said-- they didn’t know where I was.” She looked at the cloth Morgan had. “I told them I fell asleep and couldn’t wake up but they didn’t believe me. I didn’t mean to this time,” she said, clenching her sleeves in her palms. “I knew it was coming. I can always tell now. I don’t know what happened. I just-- I didn’t want it to happen again. I broke-- the windows shattered and my head hurt so bad I just passed out.” Tentatively, she held out her arms. Rolled up her sleeves, one after the other. Purple and blue, just like her knees. “They didn’t mean to, they just get so angry sometimes. It was my fault. I shouldn’t have ignored their messages.”

Morgan had to pause again to process what she was seeing. She could gauge where the hands had been, grabbed and shaken. From the swelling on her face, Bex had probably been hit. There was no good story of a girl brutalized by her parents. Months ago on this couch, Morgan had chilled at the care, the finesse the Dolans put into their violence. And now she had the opposite and didn’t like it any better. Bex’s parents were reckless, careless, like there would be no consequences and whatever Bex might do about it after wouldn’t matter.

“You are not responsible for other people’s actions, Bex,” she said at last. “Your family...a good family shouldn’t be something that hurts you on purpose. And lashing out on impulse is still an intent. It’s not your job to anticipate their emotions, to bend yourself into whatever shape you hope will make them happy. And their choices, however short sighted, are not your fault.” She swallowed thickly and went back to wiping the blood off Bex’s arms and hands.

“I’m sorry they didn’t believe you. It makes things harder, when you have to lie. When you can’t really choose. But you know that I...there’s no reason for that here. It’s just your choice, whatever you feel like you can do.” Morgan exhaled and blinked the moisture from her eyes. “Can I get the blood off your legs? I can cut the leggings, but if you roll them off I can try to salvage them, if you prefer.”

“But they’re my parents,” Bex argued weakly. “They don’t mean to.” They always apologized afterwards. Her mother always drew her a warm bath and poured in the salts and eased her bruises. They always made sure to never scratch her face or leave cuts behind. These were her own wounds, her own mistakes. She’d done this to herself. “They’re all I have, they gave me everything. I need to be good for them and I wasn’t.” That was really all there was to it. But this time...had been different. She’d tried so hard to be good for them, and she’d still somehow messed up. This time hadn’t been her fault, but they’d still blamed her. It didn’t feel the same. She hadn’t deserved to be punished for what happened. Bex looked down at Morgan, still curled tight in herself. “I know I’m an adult, I know I can make my own choices, but I-- they’re all I’ve ever had. I never meant to hurt them.”

Slowly, stiffly, she moved herself enough to slide her tights off, wincing as she rolled them over her bruised and bloody knees. She sat back on the couch, gently uncurling her legs from her chest and setting her feet flat on the floor. “I don’t wanna be this way anymore,” she said, barely audible, as more tears streaked silently down her face.

“Love shouldn’t hurt like that,” Morgan said simply. “And it shouldn’t be conditional. I believe you, that they care, but sometimes people who love us very much do it badly.” Her lips thinned as she remembered her own mother, the adamant insistence that she didn’t need to be sorry for anything because it was for Morgan, for love of Morgan. “Maybe no one showed them how to be better, or maybe they don’t want to learn, but that doesn’t make it your job or your fault. Not like this…” She wiped the girl’s legs slowly and gently, trying to soothe the tension in her muscles as she worked. “I’m sorry your life has been like this, Bex. You are so very brave and so very strong to be as kind as you are in the face of all this.

When the rinsing was done, Morgan got out her disinfectants and swabs and bandages. “This is probably going to sting, but it won’t be as bad as the glass, but the salves will take the edge off the pain, and the bandages will help with pressure.” She smiled at the girl, earnest despite the sadness of the moment, and went to work again, keeping her touch as gentle as she knew how. “There’s nothing wrong with the way you are, Bex,” she sighed after some quiet. “Can I ask what you mean, though? By ‘this way’?”

Even though Bex knew Morgan was tending to her wounds, she still flinched every time she touched her legs. Muscles tightening on reflex. She tried her best not to move too much, but feeling brought only muscle memory and reflex. “I just want to be what they want me to be,” she said again quietly, arms wrapping around herself as she curled up again, keeping her legs planted on the ground. “I’m trying so hard but it’s never enough.” She felt the well of tears damming in her eyes again, trying her best to hold them back but knowing eventually they would come. They always did. She was never strong enough to keep them in. “I’m not brave,” she said, hands clenched on her sides, “and I’m not strong. I’m just me. I’m just doing what I have to.” To survive, to get through each day.

Morgan’s smile made the damn break and Bex let the quiet tears roll down her cheeks in droves. She hadn’t even started putting the disinfectant on yet. “It’s okay,” she mumbled, “I’m good at tolerating pain.” She didn’t try and wipe away her tears this time, but she couldn’t meet Morgan’s gaze anymore. “I’m such a fuck up,” she answered, “I can’t do anything right. This-- this thing inside of me, the thing that keeps breaking things and hurting people, I-- I don’t want it.” She folded in on herself, head resting on her legs. “I fought so hard just to live a normal life and now I have to deal with this, with being this. I don’t wanna be like this, I never asked for this.”

“Okay, hold on a second, honey,” Morgan sighed. She pulled the coffee table closer to them and crawled up onto the couch, pulling Bex into her, back to chest. She wrapped her arms around, ready to continue the work of bandaging the poor girl up, but first-- “Hey, you’re not a fuck up, honey. You shouldn’t talk about yourself like that, sshh…” She brushed her knuckles over the girl’s cheek, wiping away her tears. Bex was stiff but didn’t fight as Morgan settled around her, finding the way they might fit together best. “You’re not a fuck up, and there is so much you do so well. You don’t have to be anyone but who you are. Because that girl is nothing short of wonderful, and brave, and strong, even if she doesn’t see it yet.” She ran the tips of her fingers through the girl’s hair, skating along her scalp the way she’d once found comforting when she was alive. “Let me know if you want me to stop and I will, okay?” She murmured. “Now let’s get you wrapped up.” She thumbed her salve over the girl’s hands and laid pads on either side before wrapping them up. The small band aids would be fine for her arms and fingers, and the same mix she’d tried to give her the last time she was bruised went on the bruise blossoming on her face. “There’s nothing wrong with who you are, Bex. And the sooner you turn some of your wonderful kindness inward, the sooner you can control your power and do beautiful things with it. It’s that easy, and that hard. But maybe starting on that can be a tomorrow challenge, huh?”

As Morgan moved up around her, Bex reflexively began to tighten. Her mother often did this same thing, but instead of gentle caresses, it was firm hands, brushing along her back, her arms, smoothing down the bruises. They were stiff arms that wrapped her up and held her and told her if she was better next time, this wouldn’t happen. She flinched only slightly when Morgan ran her hands gently through her hair, dangerously close to the place her mother’s nails had scraped down her scalp. But despite the coldness of Morgan’s fingers, the act felt warm. It was...comforting. She’d never felt anything like it before. There were no harsh lessons to learn here, no words of blame, no apologies. She let Morgan work, the coolness of the salve soothing her aching hands almost instantly. The cuts on her arms burned and her side ached, but she let her continue, watching with a sort of marvel in her eyes, unsure that this was real, that someone could be this gentle with her. She tried her hardest to listen to Morgan’s words and take them in, but she couldn’t believe them yet-- did the bruises on her skin not prove that wrong? Did the tears in her eyes not prove that wrong? “I was never what they wanted me to be,” she finally said, breaking her own silence, “I don’t even know who I am.”

Finished with the wounds she could identify, Morgan tucked Bex carefully into her arms. She resumed her combing motions, working out the tangles without breaking any strands. “You’re Bex,” she said. “You are kind and curious and you find beauty in the past as well as the present, in life as well as death. You’re smart, even funny, when you let your guard down enough. You’re someone who tries. How could you be all these things and not be wonderful? How could we be anything but lucky to have you in our life, Bex?” She brushed the girl’s cheeks again, lapping away the stray tears she’d missed before. “Are there any other places you’re hurt that I need to know about? I won’t touch them if you don’t want me to, but you should tend to them if I don’t. And I want to be mindful of those places, so I can be extra careful. And then we can get you washed up and into something clean and soft to wear. How does that sound?”

It was almost eerie, how similar Morgan’s actions were to her mother’s. But they held no intention of harm. Was this what it was supposed to be like? Was this how it was supposed to feel? She didn’t know if she believed Morgan. Maybe that was a person Bex wanted to be, but she didn’t know if that was the kind of person she already was. She chewed her lip and pushed herself up a little more, not saying anything as she looked away again, shame turning her cheeks red as she slowly pulled up her sweater to reveal the large, rather foot shaped bruise growing on her side. “I’ve never seen her so angry,” she whispered, her voice suddenly raw, “I tried to run. I’d-- I’d never done that before.” And then, even quieter, “I was so scared.”

Morgan didn’t gasp or stare when she saw the mark. She wouldn’t have asked if she hadn’t suspected. But there was something not-right about being relieved that it wasn’t a stab wound or placed over her organs, where there might be internal bleeding. She scooped out more of the yarrow salve and applied it carefully over the mark before taking out one of the big rolls of gauze and wrapping it around Bex carefully. “Thank you, for trusting me,” she said. “I swear to you Bex, which you know is something I don’t do lightly: I will never, under any circumstances, intentionally touch you in anger. You shouldn’t have to be afraid like that. Do you...want to tell me what happened? After you ran?”

“It’s-- she--” Bex started, “she was probably just scared, too. I’d been gone over a week. It’s my fault, I should’ve messaged her, but I didn’t and she was just worried. She said she’d been worried. They didn’t know where I was or what happened to me.” But they seemingly hadn’t done much to look for her. They hadn’t called the police, they hadn’t looked for her themselves. Bex pushed the thoughts away. Her parents were busy, they had to keep things going, even if she’d been stupid and gone missing like that. She looked up, a little shocked, at Morgan’s words. “You shouldn’t-- you said not to do that.” Wincing slightly at the cool touch of salve on her skin. “I didn’t get far. I wasn’t thinking straight. I just...ran to my room. There’s no lock on my door, though. I just wanted to find somewhere safe.” Somewhere they couldn’t get her, but they could get her anywhere, couldn’t they? Even here. A hiccup of panic swelled, but she didn’t have the energy to process it right now. “I...I don’t want to talk about this anymore,” she added on after a long moment. “Tomato.”

“I know I said that. And it’s still really ill advised, as a rule. But this is important.” Morgan said. “I promise not to touch you in anger. Anywhere, to any degree.” She rolled the girl’s sweater down and raked her fingers through her silky hair. “Let’s get you to your room, or at least your stuff. Deirdre and I did some decorating since you were last here.” She guided Bex to her feet and shouldered her bag. “We can change anything you like, it’s kind of a hobby of ours, and we haven’t had much reason to indulge. So you’ll kind of be doing us a favor if you want the walls painted or the ceiling stars taken down, or different curtains, whatever.” She made a stop by the laundry room to pluck a pair of long silk pajamas out of the warm folded laundry basket and lead the way up the stairs and down the hall. “We can do whatever you want tonight. You have your own TV in here, but you can also use the one in the great room. I’ll probably be out there until Deirdre gets home, if you’d rather have some time to yourself. And there’s plenty of stuff in the kitchen to whip up something fresh or reheat some leftovers. Whatever you want is okay, is all I’m trying to say.” She held out the girl’s bag and the pajamas, still warm, and smiled hopefully.

“You made me...a room?” Bex could only stare bewildered. After everything Morgan had said, that was all she could think. The promise still rang in her ears, but some big, burdened part of her couldn’t believe it, even if Morgan had never done anything to the contrary. She’d followed her up, still limping from the pain in her legs from falling on the stairs. She didn’t actually know what she wanted to do, holding her hands out as Morgan handed her her bag and the new, warm pajamas she’d picked out for her. Such kindness had never really been a part of Bex’s life, save for maybe some of the house maids or nannies that had helped out through the years. She drew them into her chest and clutched the objects tightly. “Th...thank you…” she said quietly, more tears welling up. “S-sorry. I’m sorry,” she mumbled, wiping her eyes with her palms, wincing again. “I didn’t mean to, I’m sorry. It won’t stop.” She sniffled, looking at the room, then to Morgan. “I--” she felt her voice choking, “I don’t wanna be alone, I...I think.” Swallowed, and said a little more confidently, “I’d rather not be alone tonight.” Because not only was she still reeling from what had happened, the fear of sleep still gripped her insides. The fear of falling back into that place she didn’t know how to get out of. The fear of getting so lost again. “If...if that’s okay.”

“Hey,” Morgan cooed, cupping Bex’s face and wiping her tears. “You don’t have to be sorry. There’s nothing to be sorry for, honey. I know crying feels embarrassing sometimes, when you’ve been shamed for it, but it’s nothing to be sorry for. It’s okay.” She smiled again, encouraging. “You don’t know this about me yet, but I actually cry a lot. So I’m the last person who’s going to tell you anything bad about that. Okay?” She nodded, hoping it would help the words sink in. “Why don’t you get changed, and then meet me downstairs.” She tucked Bex’s hair behind her ear and smoothed it out again. “Have you eaten recently? Do you think you could handle some food? It’s okay if you don’t, I can get you some tea instead. But, either way: does back on the comfy couch in ten sound good?”

Bex only had the capacity to nod more as Morgan explained that it was okay-- it was okay to cry and to be upset and to be emotional. It was okay to show that she was human. Usually, by now, her mother had dragged her into the bathroom and was scrubbing her face with a hot towel, trying to get rid of the puffiness in her eyes, or to sooth away the blue of her bruises. This time, when Morgan reached out to smooth down her hair, she didn’t even flinch. She nodded again. “Tea sounds good. Ten minutes,” she repeated quietly, before stepping into the room and closing the door. For the first time since she’d woken up, she felt relief. There was nothing in this house that was going to hurt her, at least not on purpose. No one who would look at her with those eyes, or say those harsh words. Back pressed against the wall, she took a moment to breathe, before she opened her eyes again and took a look around. The room that stretched out around her was larger than she remembered, with light blue pillows and bedding, warm colors on the walls, stars on the ceiling. It was decorated in a way that made Bex feel as if she could spend a lot of time in here and not have it feel like a prison. There was a mini fridge, a bookshelf, a TV. Even the decorations were tailored to her-- leather maps and a few fossils, and an articulated skeleton. It felt so...nice. She sat down on the bed and let the rest of her tears out.

When she was done, she removed her clothes stiffly and put on the warm, soft pajamas, letting out a long sigh of relief. It felt so nice, so comforting. Slowly, she made her way back downstairs, finding Morgan back in the great room by the couch. “Thank you,” she mumbled, “again.” Sidled over and settled back onto the couch. “The room is nice.”

Morgan cleared the first aid stuff out of the great room and brewed some tea and brought the set down to the coffee table. She sent Deirdre a text, telling her about their unexpected guest, and if she felt up to having family time with Bex as well as the cats when she came home. It was hard not to picture it and will a pin through the image to bring it to life. Something good could happen here, if she could keep those parents away. If anyone ever deserved to be eaten, it would be them. Anyone who used their daughter as a thing, who could handle her so cruelly when they should be at least trying to love her…

Morgan felt the tension building in her jaw and pushed the thought aside. Bex was coming in, looking like she belonged here already. Morgan fluffed up the pillows around her and turned on the TV, sliding over the remote, and picking up one of the books she kept piled nearby. “I’m glad you like it,” she said. “We only know you so well right now, but we did our best. And, really, the shopping and the moving things around is fun, so you can ask to have it put different.” She poured the girl a cup of tea and passed it to her. “Put on whatever you want, okay? Just don’t judge me for how much trash TV is in my queue. It’s good comfort watching.”

There was something strange, yet wholly familiar about the scene playing out in front of Bex’s eyes. Tea on the table, fresh and piping hot; magazines and books piled on it as well; blankets and pillows and two cats wandering around. Pictures of family, of loved ones, of two women holding each other, happy, decorating the room. A house that felt like a home. It was only then that Bex realized it felt like something out of a movie. It was something she’d previously thought wasn’t actually really, all of this feel good, comforting shit. Who actually made tea for someone these days? Who actually sat on the couch and watched stupid TV shows all day? She’d never gotten to do either of those things, and so much more. The foreignness of it all was making her a little overwhelmed, and she couldn’t hide the fact that her eyes couldn’t stick to one place. Morgan had even cleaned up the first aid from before, instead of making Bex do it, to remind her of what she’d had to make her mom do. Of how she’d forced them to act. She sank back into the couch and let it swallow her as she clicked the TV on, flitting through the recorded shows. “You watch Grey’s Anatomy!?” she said, perking up just enough, despite the exhaustion in her muscles. “I love this show! I only just got into it recently, though. Can we watch it? I-is that okay?”

Morgan couldn’t find her words. Bex looked hopeful for the first time all night, and if it weren’t for the bruise on the side of her face, this might be some normal night in some other world, bubbled off in time where this was just another Friday night. Nothing more remarkable to it than people fitting together just right. Morgan looked her over and couldn’t shake away the similarities she saw, as if the girl had been transmuted from hers and Deirdre’s experiences with a little something extra, that was all Bex. And that was stupid and too much to hope for and something she could never speak into existence on a whim but… “Yeah, honey. That is way more than okay. It just so happens that Grey’s is my favorite. We can pick up right where you left off.” And Deirdre would come home and the cats would sniff and mewel and knead resting places on everyone’s lap, and maybe they would stay up all night, because that’s what she and Deirdre did when they were too distressed to sleep anyway. Maybe the sun would come up and Morgan would make breakfast and take out three sets of dishes instead of two. Maybe…

Morgan squeezed the book in her lap tight as she set it aside and scooted closer. She was getting carried away with herself and needed to reign in, get her priorities straight. But I want this. Stars know if I can ever make it happen, but I want this.

Despite all the ache in her body-- her arms, her legs; her chest, her face, her heart-- Bex found that in this moment, things didn’t hurt so much. Even if the bandages were tight and there was still blood and bruises, it was easier to ignore when she had a comfortable couch to sit on and hot tea and someone beside her who had promised to make the pain less and not more. And although maybe her mind didn’t fully believe it yet, her heart wanted to. She settled closer to Morgan, until their shoulders touched, and tucked her legs under her, leaning against the older woman. Being in close contact with people had usually always made her feel so uncomfortable, so tense, but not here, not now. Even if it was just for tonight, Bex wanted this. And as the title card began to play and the show flicked on, Bex thought that just maybe, she might want this more often.

#chatzy #wickedswriting #dreamkeepers #dreamkeepers part 2 #chatzy: morgan #domestic abuse tw #self harm mention tw #morgan

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kadavernagh · 4 years

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Check Me Out || Regan & Morgan

TIMING: Current LOCATION: The Depression Shed PARTIES: @kadavernagh and @mor-beck-more-problems SUMMARY: Regan checks out of the shed. Morgan insists on being checked out. Apparently feet can be regrown.

Everyone claimed that it was a good thing that she was moving out of the shed. Deirdre and Morgan seemed to want her out of there, Kaden was worried about her mental health, and Leah was… well, Leah mostly seemed confused. So three out of four people wanted her out. 75%. That was statistically significant. The new cabin she and Deirdre had picked out was isolated, near the training clearing, and even equipped with scream-proof glass.

So why wasn’t she happy? Regan glanced down at the two empty duffle bags, an equally hollow feeling inside of her, like even her organs had been removed. This is a good thing, everyone had told her. It didn’t feel like it. It didn’t really feel like anything. She hadn’t brought many belongings over considering the duration of her stay, but was still leaving with more than she had come with: a velvet box housing the knife, first aid supplies, tea for her throat, and several notebooks and logs full of content from training. Whatever wouldn’t fit in the bags would just need to be placed in the car. Carefully, she collected her folded clothes and placed them in one of the bags. In the extra space near the top, she squeezed in a couple of her books -- not training-related, but medical texts that she credited for her sanity over the last few weeks. A gentle knock at the door of the shed made her pause. She could tell who it was, even without looking. That dark pull on the other side of the door. Regan surmised that it wasn’t a decedent or a stack of dead raccoons that had come knocking, so that left Morgan.

She had wanted to thank Morgan before leaving, anyways. Properly. Regan knew that she and Deirdre weren’t the only two people struggling with their new routine -- Morgan and Kaden also bore the brunt of it. Kaden hadn’t been there while the decision was made -- and maybe he should have been, but it was too late to take that back -- but Morgan had made every verbal and emotional plea she possibly could to try and steer her and Deirdre away from this path. She knew what it meant. And she hated it. Regan wondered if Deirdre shirked away from Morgan since they’d started their training, if Deirdre’s voice was a knife’s edge as she talked to her girlfriend now. It was an awful thought, and only deepened the pit in Regan’s stomach. No, even as hollowed out as she felt, she needed to express her gratitude to Morgan. Surely even Deirdre would allow that. “Take a few steps back,” Regan called out from inside. When she heard a quiet shuffling and felt that pulse pull back, just slightly, she opened the door to Morgan. “I’m just, you know, packing. There isn’t a lot to pack. It won’t take long.” She paused, hand lingering on the door. “Um, do you want to come inside? Just for a little while, and keeping your distance.” She wasn’t sure what made her offer. Maybe she still felt badly for how she’d reacted to Morgan’s question about what happened with Margot the other day. Or maybe there was some more practical explanation she could offer up. “I just-- I want to make sure I’m leaving the shed that way it was when I got here. So I’d appreciate you or Deirdre giving it a look over.”

Morgan felt guilty shipping Regan off to the countryside like she was some unwanted nuisance. She was a young woman with good intentions having a difficult time, going through unexplainable torture in order to control abilities she didn’t have the capacity to fully understand. And she was also, in practical terms, an unwanted nuisance. The mattress was convenient for when Deirdre’s explanations of taxidermy technique gave way to pulling each other’s clothes off, and something about Ratty and Squirrely hanging out on their shelf was...strangely comforting. Ghosts came back, friends fell to the side, but Ratty and Squirrelly were always around. Because they were stuffed and wired together, but still. But that was her, dealing with her own life-wrecking bullshit. She couldn’t imagine how Regan felt about this place, what it meant to be camping on Deirdre’s lawn, how she even felt about them now that she was going...her training. “Hey…” she said, bouncing awkwardly on her heels. “I uh, thought I’d see if you wanted any help. I’m really good at moving...whatever, basically. I can load up or help clean. Uh, not that, you know, you should take your time. It’s just, I hate moving, and so do most people I know, so doing it with other people is usually...better. And more efficient.” Stars above, she had no idea how to talk to Regan. “Hanging out inside sounds good!” She stepped inside and started clearing away the tarps draped over the stuffed animals. She found Ratty at the back of the bunch and picked him up, giving his fur a good stroke. “You don’t have to worry about doing any of the cleaning, okay? It’s really not that bad in here. You can just chill, or...whatever chill-adjacent thing you do now.”

Morgan’s cheerfulness seemed wasted on her, but at least she recognized that. Regan also had to wonder how much of it was forced. Whether Morgan felt the need to offset her irretrievable glumness or whether she felt any disdain that she was trying to mask. She supposed it didn’t really matter. A few weeks ago, she would have craved approval from any girlfriend of Deirdre’s, but now there was complication over complication over complication, like a patient with a mile-long list of comorbidities, and all Regan felt was tired.

As Morgan approached the covered taxidermy animals, Regan shivered. She had a feeling she knew what was about to happen, and was quickly proved correct. She hadn’t even wanted to look at Bell when she had gone to pick some things up from her apartment, and Bell was a cherished childhood fr-- achievement. Shed taxidermy that resembled some of the animals she’d blown up was to be avoided. But, now that Regan was moving out, and unlikely to ever return, Morgan had every right to proudly display those animals. “I don’t mind packing. There isn’t a lot to be done. But, uh, I can help you clean. It’s the least I can do, considering everything that the two of you--” She bit her tongue, stopping herself from saying what Deirdre would have reprimanded her for. “Can I… is it okay if I thank you? And apologize?” It seemed like a ridiculous question to ask, but Deirdre had been very explicit in her rules. Regan even wrote them down in her notebooks. With that thought, she stacked them into a small pile and fitted them into the second duffle bag. “I noticed the workbench, but it didn’t occur to me to ask. Or maybe I just didn’t want to know. What is this shed used for, when it’s not housing depressed individuals?”

Morgan didn’t understand Regan’s aversion to Ratty and the other forest critter gang. With the whole death-pull thing, she’d assumed they’d be comforting, or at least, not something you would go out of your way to avoid. But Regan was sort of an anti-banshee banshee is a lot of ways. Maybe there was some other screwy trauma she didn’t understand ruining this for her too. She looked at Regan curiously as she stumbled over her words, trying to work to her point anxiously. Morgan had to stop to consider, mouth quirked to one side. She had about three different answers on the tip of her tongue, and she wasn’t sure if any of them were actually going to be helpful. If she could set aside the ache from picking Deirdre up after her Sunday sessions, a practice that now took days to accomplish with dubious results… she wanted Regan to find something decent about her abilities without breaking whatever zen apathy she had to hang onto. But was that even possible? Morgan sighed and went back to folding up the tarp. “If it’s not breaking secret banshee club rules, I guess you could try,” she said. “But it mostly depends on what it is you’re apologizing or grateful for. You shouldn’t take on things that aren’t your fault. That’s not good for anyone, especially you.” Tarp finished, she hopped onto the worktable, her feet dangling off the side. “And this is a work shed. Deirdre does all the taxidermy herself, from the animals she finds on our corpse walks. I bring home a couple sometimes, too.” Because she had the best-worst sense for roadkill, and impulse control was an ebb-and-flow kind of thing, but she didn’t think Regan would want to hear about that. “We articulate skeletons in here sometimes too, and bring them back to the bone room for display. Sometimes I just sit in here and read while she works. It’s a nice place, at least for us. Some of the time.”

“No, it’s not breaking any rules,” Regan agreed, though she couldn’t help her slight scowl at the word both Deirdre and Morgan spoke with such ease, the one she could still barely think to herself. “I’m just-- Deirdre said I can’t offer gratitude or apologies to her, and I wasn’t certain whether you felt the same way, given that both of you are sacrificing a lot for me.” She watched Morgan shimmy up onto the workbench, and noted that her feet didn’t touch the ground. That was quite a height difference between her and Deirdre; it was still strange to think they had been together this whole time and she hadn’t known it. But then, it seemed most people in her life hid things from her, intentional or not. And at times, Regan could hardly blame them. She sat on the cot -- she had already made the covers, and tried not to stir them too much. “So, because it’s allowed, I’d like to say thank you for having me here. I know it hasn’t been -- I mean, even if it might have been inconvenient. And thank you for the other kindnesses you’ve offered me.” She paused, eyes flicking down a moment. “Even if I haven’t been accepting of them.”

Apologies were harder to enunciate, and more likely to receive backlash from Morgan. Regan knew enough from prior conversations that Morgan didn’t believe she should feel guilty about what had happened. But there was still one thing Regan couldn’t apologize enough for, and as the weeks went by, her past apologies for it seemed increasingly insufficient. “And I’m sorry for-- I know this isn’t what you or Deirdre wanted, any of it, and even if you don’t blame me, or don’t think I should feel guilty, I am sorry. If I had it my way, and if Deirdre had it her way too, I’m sure, my dad would still be alive and I wouldn’t be sitting here in your shed, jobless and winged, because I accidentally hurt people I was responsible for. But that isn't the case. And I’m sorry for that. You’ve lost something, too.” Maybe it did break the rules, slightly, in the sense that Deirdre always reminded her to work from where she was -- there was no sense in looking back, or even to the future. Regan puffed air out of her cheeks, the cot bouncing underneath her. “Once I’m out of here, I hope the two of you continue that. The walks, the taxidermy, the skeleton articulations. I’m glad you love Deirdre because of that, in part, and not in spite of it.” Rarely, in her life, had Regan experienced that. Kaden proved to be the exception. “I wanted to ask, too… was Margot okay? When you drove her to the hospital? And are you? Not because of-- obviously you didn’t get attacked by a porcupine. I’m referring to the incident in your classroom. You told me you were no longer injured, but in my experience, many patients downplay their injuries.”

Morgan listened to Regan’s thanks, wondering in the back of her mind what the rest of her life had been like before all this. She felt an uncomfortable familiarity with what she figured gratitude-worthy. It was like anything in the realm of basic kindness was noteworthy, and the self-awareness of being inconvenient, or ‘a lot,’ to use the phrase tossed at her way. Morgan knew why she defaulted that way, but she wasn’t sure about Regan. She knew her father wasn’t affectionate, but was he anything like Ruth? Who was it that taught her to think a little gentleness was a rare commodity? And who wouldn’t have given her some sort of place to stay? It would’ve been cruel to do otherwise. She remained silent, kicking her legs idly as Regan moved onto the apologies. It was nice, if kind of useless, to apologize for what this was still doing to them. A bitter part of Morgan wanted to challenge her, so why do this to us, if you know what it’s doing? But she wasn’t doing it to them, not really. The late and not so great Mr. Kavanagh was the actual person to blame, and he was already dead, so he couldn’t take further responsibility for anything. Morgan’s smile fell as she thought this over, thinking on Regan’s wishes for them, two people she only knew so well, one of whom was leading her in ritual torture. It was sweet, and earnestly meant, and Morgan couldn’t help but melt, sinking a little deeper into the sadness she tried so hard to stay above.

“We will. Continue that, I mean,” Morgan said at last. “And we do. She only has about one or two good days out of the week right now, three, if I work very hard and if we are very lucky, but we do. I don’t understand how you can see how happy it makes her, and listen to how...absurdly poetic she sounds when she explains it, and not start to love it too. Besides, I kind of have a vested interest in this stuff now. It’s good for me to have a positive relationship with dead objects. But I loved her for it before, too.” Morgan sniffled and let out a long breath of her own. “Margot’s fine, just uncomfortable on her crutches. And I told you before, I don’t have a scratch, but--” Morgan sat up a little straighter and unbuttoned her flannel shirt, leaving only a dainty bra and her unblemished skin from the waist up. “Six months ago, I was impaled right here,” she pointed, shivering. “And again in my classroom, here. I had a few gunshot wounds around...here-ish? There was a lot going on, so I can’t be too sure, but I ruined a very good turtleneck in the process. Um...strangled here, four or five months ago. And again a few weeks ago. I don’t even count broken bones anymore. And…” She smiled ruefully. “I’m having a low day today, I’m sorry. I’m not always so blunt, when I’m feeling better,” she said. “As much as you should know by now that I don’t lie to you, Regan, you don’t have to believe me, either. Just, you know, spare me the ‘delusion’ talk or whatever else. But you are more than welcome to check me up, since you can confirm the chair-leg to my chest by asking any of my students.”

One or two good days out of the week. That struck Regan like an axe to the frontal bone. Before she and Deirdre had started, that would have been different for them, for Morgan. She knew Morgan had lost a lot, but she hadn’t known just how much Deirdre was bringing their exercises home with her. She remembered thinking to herself that they could keep what they did contained, that it didn’t have to exist outside of that clearing in the woods. But that just wasn’t true. It was sculpting her thoughts, dulling the tone of her voice, even changing her vocabulary, and it was impossible to miss the injuries if one knew where to look. Deirdre, she was sure, was much the same. And for a moment, Regan let her chest crack open, as bloody and painful as an aortic dissection, and she felt just as strongly and badly for Morgan as she had for Kaden. She had to look away as her eyes grew wet. “I’m sorry,” she said again, sounding like gravel had been funneled through her trachea. The tea could only do so much, and raw emotion always made things worse. Morgan had once cautioned her that she wouldn’t be able to cry once they were through. But there were tears, now. It was hard to see them as anything but an indication of work still to be done.

She wasn’t sure what Morgan meant about having a vested interest in death, but Morgan said a lot of things that confused her. And while Morgan had said she wouldn’t lie, Regan’s chest tightened like barbed wire whenever she considered asking. How many times had she asked a question in this town and immediately regretted it? Her curiosity seemed to burn her every day. At least in regards to Margot, she received a normal, satisfactory answer. But asking about Morgan’s health… that always seemed to be riskier, and Regan braced herself for a challenging answer. What she hadn’t expected was a demonstration. Her mind whirred into doctor mode. She couldn’t imagine any other reason Morgan was unbuttoning her shirt. She listened, raptly but disbelievingly, as Morgan went through a grocery list of injuries that would have put most people in the emergency room or even on her autopsy table. Meanwhile, her fingers tapped around her chest and stomach, and Regan squinted, looking for injuries or scars that simply weren’t there to be found. She didn’t know what to say. She so rarely did, with Morgan. Part of her wanted to believe that Morgan wouldn’t lie to her -- did believe it -- but what she was describing was impossible. Even people like herself and Kaden didn’t heal so quickly so as not to leave scars. And yet, Morgan’s skin looked as delicate and clear as an infant’s.

They could compromise, apparently. Regan couldn’t quite believe Morgan’s version of events, though she believed that something had happened. And she wouldn’t trot out any words that might invalidate what Morgan believed. She simply nodded, eyes still following Morgan’s fingers like she was waiting for something to happen, for something to show up there. How could there not be anything, if Morgan suffered through what she had described? The latest impaling, at least, had been well-documented by students, faculty, and the local paper. Realizing she’d been silent the past few minutes, probably staring at Morgan like a frightened child, Regan shifted in her seat on the cot. Her wings flitted, betraying her anxiety. “I won’t touch you,” she finally said. She wasn’t even sure she could bring herself to touch a decedent in the morgue right now, if she had still held her job. “But-- but could you turn around? I’d like to see if there are any scars on your back. I’d also like to know what it felt like, getting-- did it hurt? When you were impaled? When you were shot? How often do you fracture a bone? Considering it doesn’t sound like you see a doctor for those injuries -- which, I’m sure you can gather what my thoughts are on that subject -- how have they been treated in the past?”

Morgan hopped off the table and turned around to let Regan see her back. She scooped up her hair to tie off with a scrunchie, revealing her neck as well. “You know that’s probably not a bad idea. People like you can get upsetting visions or… ‘sudden vivid intrusive thoughts’ when they touch me. And I’m gonna go out on a limb and say you’re not ready for that. But, you know, break out the old stethoscope or whatever else you need.” She knew, dimly, that a less miserable version of herself would disapprove of how she was acting. Regan needed...well, with the ‘murder your feelings’ regimen, Morgan wasn’t sure, but she didn’t need to be an expert to conclude that this probably wasn’t it.

“Six months ago was bad. You could say it killed me.” Morgan sniggered bitterly at her own joke. “I went numb, eventually, but all the fluid in my lungs and the concrete and all the trying to get up and off the pole inside me was… it just passed that point of adequate description, and then it kept going, and looped back around to not mattering. Or maybe that was because of all the blood loss. But it was bad. Everything after, not so much. But with the chair leg I was more upset about my old wound reopening on principle. It was...heavy? A little rough on the hands when I pulled it out. It was wooden, so.” She smiled over her shoulder at Regan, flashing her some pity for whatever was happening in her brain just then. “You aren’t going to like my healing regimen, Regan. You might want to practice not being upset before I tell you. But I do fracture bones a lot. And I can’t tell you how many times I’ve had to regrow my feet.”

Though increasingly, Regan was doubting that she would find any physical evidence on Morgan, she still did her due diligence and studied her back. It was just as smooth and intact as her abdomen and chest had been -- unmarred with no indication of past or current trauma. The conclusion should have been obvious: there hadn’t been any physical trauma. And while most of Regan believed that to be the case, some small part of her lingered on the topic, trying to reconcile what she was seeing with what she was hearing. “I don’t exactly have a stethoscope with me,” Regan said, still watching Morgan’s back like something would change. She propped herself off the bed and, after a moment’s debate, came a little bit closer. “I don’t use one for-- I didn’t use one at the morgue, either. My patients didn’t require it, being deceased.” Morgan, despite how she inexplicably felt, was of the living, and beyond the fact Regan was afraid to set a hand on her, she didn’t have any of the tools necessary to give her anything beyond a cursory examination.

She stood like stone as Morgan described what being impaled felt like -- an experience she ostensibly shared with Kaden, and one so painful Regan couldn’t even imagine what it must have felt like. She often found that words frequently weren’t enough to describe most types of pain -- words like throbbing, aching, and stabbing could help diagnose and qualify, but quantifying was far harder. “I’m sorry for that, too, Morgan. Not in a-- I mean, not in a personally responsible kind of way. But it sounds like you’ve been through a lot of pain.” Whether it left a mark or not. And whether it had really happened or not. Did it matter if someone’s cold knuckles against your back was really a gun or not when they said they were robbing you? No, the fear was the same. And if nothing else, Regan believed Morgan’s pain.

But it was the mention of regrowing feet that did it, the casual cadence Morgan had. Nausea flipped through Regan’s stomach and she backed up to the bed again, wide eyed. Morgan truly believed that. With every cell of her being, she believed that she had regrown her own feet. And while Regan had tacitly agreed not to accuse her of being delusional or insane or anything in that vein, she certainly couldn’t help but think it. She swallowed the bile down, burning her already raw throat, and shook her head. “I-- I should get back to packing,” she said quietly, turning to the velvet box and first aid supplies. “And you should put your shirt back on; according to my phone, it’s getting chilly, and as I’m sure you know, this shed doesn’t appear to be heated.” Not that she could really feel it.

“I’m sorry,” Morgan said, grabbing her shirt off the table. “I know I’m being—” Awful. Intrusive. “It’s a bad day. And my um...special brand of medication only does so much.” And she was beginning to worry in an unhelpful way how Felix and his suppliers were getting the fluid to make the injections work. “I get bitter. I want to shock people. I want them to be disturbed by me because I don’t have the bandwidth to be shocked with myself or my situation.” She had to do the buttons up twice because she missed one. “Let me just help you move stuff. I’ve got some mad advantages in the strength department, as I’m sure you’ve noticed.” Demonstrating this, she took two stacks of books and hefted them into her arms with ease. “Where should I put them?”

“No, that isn’t something you need to apologize for.” Though Deirdre wasn’t accepting of apologies from Regan, she had never said anything about Regan not accepting them from others. Still, Morgan hadn’t done anything deserving of one, not really. “And I’m not disturbed by you, I just… don’t really know what to make of you, or anything that you just said.” She pinched the bridge of her nose and chased it with a sigh. “Maybe-- maybe a tiny bit disturbed at the thought of regrowing feet.” Something that shouldn’t have been possible, wasn’t possible. She let her silence speak for her. Morgan, though, only seemed to want to help. Regan blinked as she lifted two stacks of heavy books without batting an eye -- a feat she’d only expect Kaden to be able to do with such ease. She’d had a similar thought when she’d watched Morgan lift Margot into the air the other day. Was Morgan… like Kaden, in that respect? She considered asking, but then she supposed Morgan already gave her the answer to that question. “Um, those go-- you can bring them into the car, if you want. My car, out front. You don’t need the key; there aren’t any windows so you can just, uh, put them onto the seat. With a flutter, Regan lifted herself from the bed again, maintaining her distance, lifted the duffle bags. “I’ll be right behind you. Well, not right behind.”

“If you’re not disturbed yet, it’s because I’m not telling you the whole truth. Either that or you’re adapting to this world a lot better than I figured,” Morgan said. “But I guess it’s not a bad thing, if it’s the latter. More things in heaven and hell and all that talk.” She took the books out to the car and dropped them into the back seat through the windows and turned back quickly for more, almost knocking into Regan in the process. She stumbled back awkwardly, knocking into the car to avoid touching her. “I really am, uh, sorry. I can...take the heavy stuff? I’m pretty sure I don’t even sweat anymore, much less feel the cold. One of those fun body changes we almost but not really have in common. Plus I’m finally jock strong without having to work out.”

This world. Regan couldn’t help but frown. There was only one world that they lived in, and she continued to question Morgan’s grasp on its reality. But then, she’d also spent the last six months questioning her own, so who was to say which one of them had actually lost their mind? Maybe they both had. Either way, she wasn’t sure that she could handle Morgan’s whole truth right now, even if it was only a truth to herself. Perhaps in time. So many things, in time. How was she supposed to work only from where she was, when all she could do was regret the past and think of the future?

Morgan didn’t stumble or wobble as she carried the books to the car like they were nothing more than a few sheets of paper. Regan watched from a distance as they were slipped in through the window, and she came closer to-- bad timing. Morgan spun around and nearly smacked right into her, and panic shot both of them backwards. Morgan hit the car, and Regan tripped, wings just barely catching her fall. A yelp spilled out of her mouth -- one fit to break her windows had they not already been missing. She’d dropped the duffle bags in the process, but Morgan was her primary concern. “No, I’m sorry! I didn’t mean-- are you--?” All things considered, it hadn’t been a particularly loud noise by her standards, but it still probably wasn’t pleasant on the ears. “You’re okay? Um, maybe that’s a good idea. I mean, you taking the bags. I’ll just… back up.” She stepped back several steps until she was maintaining her distance again. Only then was she able to actually consider what Morgan had said. “What do you mean you don’t sweat? This happened after the accident six months ago? All of… that?”

Morgan had to take a breath. Maybe bonding with someone just as if not more neurotic than her had been a bad idea. “Incidental noises like what you just did aren’t going to give me any permanent damage. As long as I don’t literally lose my head, I don’t sustain permanent damage,” she said carefully. “I just know you aren’t going to like it if you touch me on accident. That’s all. I am unharmed. You haven’t done anything to make me uncomfortable.” That covered all of her bases, right? She couldn’t help but smirk at some of Regan’s question and tried to shield the strange bemusement in her face. “No sweat, no heartbeat, limited appetite, dulled sense of touch, taste, and smell. It’s a whole package, for the past six months, yes. But I’m a swell moving buddy!” She stepped to the side, respectfully avoiding Regan’s wings, and turned back to the shed to pick up the rest of Regan’s things.

She really believed that -- no harm, no scarring, no pain. It was one thing to claim you healed fast, but this went well and beyond that. And Morgan’s insistence did little to quell the fear jumping in Regan’s stomach. The list of symptoms Morgan rattled off was alarming at best. Especially the second symptom. Which was a symptom of death, not any disease. Regan was previously on the fence when it came to believing some of what Morgan was saying, but now her credibility was as broken as the windows in Regan’s car. No heartbeat. She truly thought she didn’t have a heartbeat. Regan turned away so she didn’t scoff or roll her eyes or do something else she would regret. Morgan may have been delusional, but she was still a kind person who Regan felt she owed a lot to, right now. A hoarse “right,” was all she could muster. “Well, I do appreciate your help with the bags and the books. And everything else, of course, as I said before. I won’t forget that.” As Morgan emerged with the rest of Regan’s small collection of belongings, she offered a small, tight smile. Those were starting to feel out of place. “Thank you, Morgan. I can’t thank Deirdre, but I’m… please know that I’m equally grateful toward her, even in spite of everything else.” She sighed, leaning against her car. It was all loaded up, she had the keys to her new cabin, and soon, it would be too dark and dangerous to make the trek through the woods with all of her things. “I should probably get going. But it’s-- I want you to know that-- I mean, I’m not much of a doctor, currently, but if you ever need someone to look at one of those fractures you get so frequently, I will do so.”

Morgan couldn’t help but smirk at Regan’s diligent insistence on not calling her batshit crazy to her face, even if it spread over her features faster than a banshee death mask after a scream. For all the trouble she caused, she really was a nice young woman who wanted to do right by her friends. She didn’t deserve any of this shit. For a moment, Morgan’s dryness dissipated, and guilt speared through her. “Don't thank me again, Regan,” she said quietly. She walked back towards the shed, shaking her head ruefully at Regan’s offer. She couldn’t even tell her why she wasn’t someone worth helping, and Regan wouldn’t believe her even if she did. “Sure thing, Doc,” she said, shooting a pair of finger guns. “And I’m always here to bring the nightmare circus show. Or talk. It’s not a popular feature, but hey, at least you know there’s nothing too weird for the dead lady!”

#wickedswriting

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zahneundklauen-retired · 4 years

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Sleepwalk It Off || Leah and Alcher

TIMING: Sometime before Charmed, I’m Sure PARTIES: @phoenixleah and @zahneundklauen SUMMARY: Leah goes for a walk and runs into Alcher, who’s on a different kind of walk. CONTENT: Family death mention, House fire mention

The fall air was crisp in White Crest, and despite a chilled, wet, and miserable Winter surely on its way, this Autumn was proving to be generally dry and enjoyable, barring the killer fog that seemed to be rolling it’s way through town. Leah was on one of her usual walks in the forest, enjoying the color of the trees as they continued to change for the season. Truthfully, on these walks, she always hoped to catch a glimpse of a rogue supernatural animal, to study it from afar so she could learn as much as she could. Instead, she spotted another person in the distance, and as she got closer, the person was looking more and more familiar. “Ada, hey!” she called out, waving to get her attention. How exciting! They were just planning on meeting up for lunch soon anyway, it was a nice coincidence that they’d be able to enjoy a walk together, too. Leah knew Ada’s sleep troubles had been bothering her recently, and it was easy to tell, even from this far away, that her gaze was distant and far off; almost definitely worried about the restful nights that were still plaguing her. Ada’s mood seemed to change as Leah approached her, and now not only was her gaze still distant, but now she was yelling- about what, Leah couldn’t quite make out. “Ada?”, she asked, trying to catch her eyes and gain her attention with a wave of her hand, her eyebrows furrowed in confusion.

Dreamland was an escape. Alcher didn’t even realize her body was taking itself on a real journey. In her dreams, she had her family. They would play together and laugh together. In her dreams, she had a pack. And they would hunt together and they would smile. In her dreams, she had her own pups, and she loved them with her whole heart. But, as dreams often do, they turned to nightmares. Her life melted away. It burned. They all burned. And Alcher was back in that room, tripping over furniture, scrambling from the flames. Climbing up the chimney and feeling the burn of the flames on her legs as she did. Feeling the flu digging into her leg and tearing it apart as she forced it shut and pressed herself against the walls of the tiny space. Trembling. She screamed and cried and shouted and-- someone said her name. Alcher’s eyes snapped open and she was staring at Leah. And she was in the middle of the forest, not her home, not the chimney. Her skin felt hot. She wasn’t wearing much but her body was sweating and she shivered. “L-Leah?” she asked, out of breath, “where...where am I?”

The closer Leah got to Ada, the more the concern in her belly grew. She was disheveled, shouting, and dazed. The clothing she was wearing were wrinkled in a way only sleeping in something will do to a person. It was certainly a contrast to the confident, poised Ada she first met. Was she sleepwalking, then? It would make sense, with all the sleep troubles she’d been having. And it would certainly explain the dazed look, but the yelling...? She wondered with furrowed eyebrows if she had looked as lost when she was sleepwalking as Ada did now. “Ada”, she said more firmly, reaching out to grab her shoulder. “Ada. You need to wake up, I’m worried you’re going to hurt yourself”. Suddenly, something seemed to snap her awake, and Ada was looking at her with a horrified expression. She kept her arm firmly on her arm, hoping to steady her. “You… you’re in the forest. White Crest Forest.” She pressed her lips together, blinking slowly. “I think you were sleepwalking, Ada. You-... you didn’t seem… yourself.” Had Leah really known Ada enough to know what herself even was? Or would Ada stiffen at the rude assumption. “Do you know what day it is?”

Leah’s face came into view after a few hard blinks and Alcher felt herself falling out of whatever daze she’d been in. When she came to, the world was still spinning a bit, but the light of the morning was peeking through the trunks of the trees around them. Her gaze fell back to Leah and she tried to calm her expression, but the worry that wrought through her body was clear on her face. “It’s…” she blinked again, but she didn’t know yet. The world hadn’t come all the way back. “Thursday.” She reached up to rub her face, to try and wash the weariness from her eyes. “I...am sorry. I don’t know what’s happening to me,” she mumbled through her palms. First, the sleepwalking, then she’d started seeing Klaus everywhere-- and now she was feeling and doing things not of her own volition. She shook her head, running hands shakily through hair. At least she was dressed, that was more than she could say for the last time she’d woken up from a sleep walk episode. “What are you doing out here, anyway? It’s dangerous out here.” And Alcher was one of those dangerous things, especially if this kept happening.

“Thursday”, Leah said, nodding slowly. Her eyebrows were furrowed with concern, and she rubbed up and down Ada’s arm gently, almost as if she was willing the confusion out of her. “Don’t be sorry”. Her voice was quiet- gentle even, as if she were talking to a child waking up from a bad dream. It was so similar to the way Ada had spoken to her when she first called her out on her scent. “Let’s find somewhere to sit, yea? Get you situated again.” It was less of a request than it was an urging, and without waiting for confirmation, she did her best to guide Ada to sit on a nearby rock, licking her lips once she was sure she was situated. “I take most of my walks in the forest”, she admitted, finally letting go of Ada’s arm. “I’m not afraid of what I might find- I’m pretty versed on what to look out for, and how to avoid getting hurt”. Her father warned her often that her refusal to see the danger in these walks would come back to bite her one day (quite possibly literally), but she paid him no mind. “What about you, though…” she tried. “Do you...remember coming here?”

The world was still taking its time in trickling back into Alcher’s senses, but she could smell the warm ash of Leah’s scent, and the comforting smell of the forest. The sounds of leaves and birds and critters crunching leaves on the ground. She drew in a breath and brought herself back down to Earth as much as possible before speaking again. They were sat upon a rock and Alcher felt the cool, smooth ridges of its shell under her palms. “Knowledge can only get you so far in a place so unpredictable,” she answered quietly, brows knit with concern as she turned to look at Leah. “I don’t, no,” she went on, looking down at her legs. “I still have my leg on, which means I did not change.” Which was, ultimately, all for the better. She took another look around but it was just the two of them in the clearing. “I’m beginning to believe this...might be a problem,” she muttered, lifting a hand subconsciously to her ribs. The spot where the doctor had written upon them.

It was a relief that Leah had gotten Ada to sit down, it would be much easier for her to regain her bearings that way. She nodded softly, understanding Adas concern, but still too stubborn and proud to stop the activity that she loved so much. “I’m quick on my feet”, was all she offered as a response. Leah’s eyes followed Ada’s down to her legs, and she nodded at the observation before she looked back up. “Every problem has a solution”, she said, fully believing her words. “Maybe it’s a problem, but we’re going to find an answer, Ada.” She grabbed her friends hand instinctively, squeezing gently to emphasize her point. “Do you live alone? Maybe you should come stay with me so I can stop you if you try to leave at night.” She remembered how terrified she’d been when she found out she was sleepwalking, and if she hadn’t been staying with Morgan and Deirdre- with Morgan there to wake her up and stop her if things got bad, she didn’t know if she’d ever even have been able to fall asleep. She wanted to grant Ada the same comfort. “I have an extra bedroom, you’d have your own space.”

“As am I,” Alcher responded, looking at Leah with tired, but firm eyes. She motioned to the scars on her face, her arms, and left it at that. Rubbed her eyes again, trying to wipe the weariness from them. She glanced down when Leah grabbed her hand and squeezed, wholly unused to this gentle comfort. Usually it was Alcher giving the comfort, helping someone figure out how they felt, or what was bothering them. She swallowed. “I’d hate to put you out like that,” she answered, “besides, it could become dangerous. I know that more than once I’ve slept walked while changed and I would never forgive myself if I hurt you.”

Leah pressed her lips together, looking to the side in defeat. Point definitely taken. She shook her head at Ada’s words, disagreeing. “It wouldn’t be putting me out, not at all. It’d be like, a fun research project for me. I could even observe you in your sleep at some points to see if there are any warning signs before you start sleepwalking.” She stood up, pulling Ada up with her. She wasn’t going to take no for an answer, at least not easily. “Come on, Ada. I’ll drive you to yours so you can pack up some things, and then we can get settled at my house. I really don’t see how this could go wrong.”

Leah, for her small stature, was quite determined in her stance. Alcher looked up at her as she stood, and let the small woman pull her up with her, looking down at her now, with a tired glance. “Well, if you insist,” she said, half rolling her eyes. But in reality, she was relieved. This was beginning to become a problem, and she was unsure how to help it. If Leah wanted to extend her offer, then Alcher supposed it was best to take. She reached out and grabbed Leah’s hand, her only action of agreeance to the idea, too tired, now, to fight it. “Alright,” she finally said, giving a nod. “But only if you swear to me we’ll do this safely.” And she knew she would. Besides, as Leah had said-- what could possibly go wrong? Famous last words, Alcher supposed, as they headed out of the forest. Only time would tell.

#chatzy #chatzy: leah #wickedswriting #sleepwalk it off #leah #//short but sweet :--)#what could possibly go wrong after all

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rocket-remmy · 4 years

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Captain Moose and The Vicious Vampire || Otto and Remmy

TIMING: Late September PARTIES: @gravityfissure and @whatsin-yourhead SUMMARY: Remmy tries on their new fair prize for size. Otto needs to stop taking walks at night.

Ever since Bea’s birthday party, Remmy had been feeling an uplift in their mood. There was still a lot to be worried or even upset about, but if there was one thing they had learned, it was that attitude was more important than the situation. If they could just keep their head up, then things wouldn’t seem so bad. Couldn’t be so bad. They would find a way to fix things, and they’d find a way to fit into their new life. Even if they still felt that little tremor of panic when they went outside. Going for walks daily had helped, but Remmy still had an aversion to going outside at night. Today, they’d donned their new craft fair socks and spent most of the day walking around the common. And the more they walked, the more confident they felt. In fact, they began wondering why they didn’t go out more. There were so many people who needed help. A kid whose ice cream had fallen needed a new cone. A woman who had lost her phone needed help finding it. (They found it one of the trash cans wrapped in her sandwich paper). A man was following a girl home and Remmy stepped in to stop him, giving a pleasant, innocent smile and badgering him till the girl was safe inside.

But there was more to be done. They couldn’t let anyone see their face, though, right? They needed to be careful about this. They needed some sort of disguise. Perhaps a mask. Maybe even a cape, to cover themself with should the need arise. Morgan was out for the night, as was Deirdre, and Remmy took it upon themself to dig through the linen closet, grabbing the first things they could find that looked good enough. Snipped it to fit right, cut out holes or the eyes, and then donned their favorite shirt-- “Home is wherever my dog is”-- a pair of black pants and their only pair of boots. Gloves for extra measure, in case punching needed to happen. It was with this set up-- a cape with little cat’s with witch’s hats on, and a bandana for a mask that was a pink, sparkly galaxy, full of glitter-- that they found themself trouncing through the alleys of White Crest. And when they saw a shadowy figure following someone down an alley, they knew it was time to swoop in.

It was late and recent events had left Otto feeling more drained than he cared to admit. Being dragged along on Deirdre’s shroom adventures had very real and damaging repercussions. One that had ended in the operating theatre and doctors claiming it was no small miracle by which he’d survived the impaling he’d suffered after his ‘fall’. The pain meds he’d been given took the edge off, but work rolled on and there was hardly any time that could be taken off even for a through and through laceration meaning the walk home at 3AM was inevitable.

The pain meds were also the reason Otto failed to notice the creature silently stalking him down the alleyway until it launched itself at his back colliding with enough force that he staggered, tipped over some bins and fell with an echoing clang while claws slashed and teeth gnashed; seeking purchase anywhere they might be capable of rending flesh from bone. “Fuck!” blind fingers scrabbled, seeking anything that might be able to help until they curled around a trash can lid dragging it across and shoving it in the way of the creature’s teeth. “”Help!” as if that would do anything. In a town like this he was almost certainly done for. Hells, what an underwhelming way to go out.

The poor man in the alley was thrown from his spot by the larger, hulking figure. Remmy swooped down quickly. “Halt!” they shouted, the towel rustling behind them. The vampire, confused, turned to look at them. “Why don’t you pick on someone your own, erm--” Remmy looked the vampire up and down, realizing how much taller they were than them, but swallowed, standing confident again, “--strength!” Yeah, that made sense. That made a lot of sense. The vampire, still confused, dropped the other man and turned to face Remmy. “And who the fuck are you supposed to be, then, huh? This ain’t comic con, kid, go back to where you--” but before he could finish his sentence, Remmy had grabbed the front of his shirt and was tossing him up and over them. He landed hard on his back at the entrance of the alleyway, crashing into a few trash cans on his way. Remmy smirked. “Wanna try that again, villain?” they asked, before turning to look back at the guy. His arm was already in a sling, it was a good thing they’d shown up. “Are you alright?” they asked, holding a hand out to him.

Otto tasted asphalt and felt the sting of the ground against his face as he skidded to a stop. He also felt a wet stickiness against the lower right quadrant of his tee and a pain that made him suspect the stitches he’d gotten had popped, his hand immediately went to as voices continued behind him. Pushing himself over awkwardly, Otto propped himself up against one of the walls staring at the weird scenario playing out in front of him. A scenario whereby a masked and caped hero seemed to think it fitting to swoop in and save the day in- was that cape printed with cats wearing witches hats? The fuck? He blinked in apparent confusion, those pain meds must’ve been doing something seriously fucked up to his head. No way was his imagination usually this creative. But then the caped crusader was rag-dolling the vampire into the bins and Otto couldn’t bring himself to question the weirdness of this. “Uh.... sure?” his eyes flickered back to the pissed off looking vampire getting up out of the trash as he cautiously took the proffered hand and clambered to his feet still looking over the figure’s shoulder, “might uh-- wanna do something ‘bout that guy.”

The poor, innocent civilian looked pretty banged up and scared, but that was okay. Remmy was here to rescue him now. Turning back as the villain rose from his heap on the ground, shaking garbage from his limbs and glaring them down. “Don’t worry-- I’ll take out the trash!” They spoke with a crooked smirk on their face, before running straight at the vampire, catching him off guard. Two punches to the face startled him enough to nearly topple him again, and Remmy spun to give him a good kick straight to chest. The vampire went flying from the alley, landing in the middle of the street and tumbling a few feet before skidding to a stop. “If I were you, I’d give up now,” they said, hands on their hips, as the vampire scraped himself up from the street, skin scored from the asphalt. Shaking his head, fangs bared, he leapt at them. Remmy shook their head, disappointed, before striking up another stance. They quickly moved out of the way, expecting him to turn and follow them but-- “Hey!” the beastly man kept going, charging at the victim in the alleyway. “Oh no!” they shouted, leaping for the vampire, trying to stop him before he got to the man. Fists dug into the vampire’s shirt, yanking, and the two went tumblring to the ground hard, rolling just past the wounded man. “Don’t even think about it,” they demanded, wrenching his arm up behind his back.

Otto could only stare at the weird scene unfolding in front of him. The corny one-liners ripped straight out of some kind of comic strip that he’d normally roll his eyes at. Hells was this what his life had become? But the stranger seemed intent on fulfilling their caped crusader fantasy and hey? Who was he to stop them from punching his would-be assailant in the face. It was kind of entertaining to watch all things considered, at least, it was until he had a full grown vampire bearing down on him again. “Oh fuck!” he ducked out of the way just in time to see them both go toppling by and feeling the need to help grabbed the nearest thing he could find; a half broken baseball bat sticking out of a dumpster. It would have to do. Rushing up to the duo he slammed the wood with a sickening crack against the back of the vampire’s skull twice for good measure. If he could just get a decent angle it wouldn’t be hard to shove the splintered bat through this bastard’s heart. It was the least he deserved Otto just needed to find an opening.

Remmy ducked and rolled with the vampire, slamming him to the ground, just in time to be thrown onto their own back, slamming against the ground. It didn’t exactly hurt, but the surprise caught them off guard enough to not be able to right themselves in time to dodge the incoming fist to their face. The vampire’s hand curled around the eye patch on their face and yanked, pulling off. Remmy tried to push them off, only to hear wood crack against the back of his skull. The man flopped down, face first into the cement. Ow, that was gonna hurt in the morning. Wincing, Remmy shoved them off and scrambled to stand, stumbling only slightly. They looked down at him, then over to the man they’d been trying to save, watching him raise the splintered bat above the vampire’s heart. “No!” they said, running over and grabbing for the bat. “Don’t kill him! You can’t kill him!”

The cry for mercy came right at the very moment the splintered wood of the bat plunged downward piercing the flesh of the dazed undead creature. Good riddance. Otto thought, grunting as he put his full bodyweight behind the act before the piercing scream echoed off the walls of the darkened alley. There was a bright flash of flame as though the figure had been doused in gasoline before vanishing into nothing but ash and leaving Otto to fall to his knees breathing hard. The clatter of wood on asphalt rang loud and clear. The tremors came a few moments later as the adrenaline began to subside. “He-- He was trying to kill me!”

“No, no, wait--” Remmy tried again, but they were too late. The wood splintered through the vampire’s back, and in an instant, he was dead. They stood still for a moment, unbelieving of their eyes, before dropping to their knees. “You killed him,” they stuttered, “why-- why would you do that? I had it handled!” They stood up again and began rooting around the alley, looking for a container-- something they could scoop the ashes up into. They needed to move them. Even if that vampire had been attacking someone, they needed to lay him to rest somewhere that wasn’t an alley filled with garbage. “You can’t-- you can’t justify killing with more killing! That’s not how it works! You have to-- someone has to break the cycle,” they said to the man, “someone has to be better.”

“You had it handled? How do you call him almost ripping my throat out two times handled??” There was a minor note of panic in his voice as Otto waved at the pile of ash that was being blown away by an autumnal breeze drifting through the alleyway. He tossed the piece of wood aside, backing up one step and then two away from the strange caped crusader. “Break the cycle?” his expression mirrored his look of disbelief at the sheer faith this individual seemed to have in law, order and justice. He couldn’t help the slight huff under his breath “break the cycle of death? In this town? Good fuckin’ luck with that.” No way that was going to happen after all. But hey if they wanted to hop on that train bound for failure who was he to stop them? “Sorry Captain Washline, that sort of sunshine BS really isn’t gonna fly here.”

“But he didn’t rip your throat out! I saved you!” Remmy insisted, feeling their chest heave again. This man was yelling at them when all they’d done was help. Sure, they made a little mistake, but everything had turned out alright. Except for the dead vampire. Remmy found a jar and started scooping the ash into it, looking over at the man with a furrowed brow. “Yeah, well, with that attitude, of course you wouldn’t think it was possible. But it’s gotta start with someone,” they muttered, standing up straight. “It’s Captain Moose to you, too,” they snapped, closing the lid on the jar. “And you’re welcome. For saving your ass.” They brushed their hands off and started heading out of the alley way. “You can believe whatever you want to, but I’m going to believe in the good of people. Even you, Mister Stakes-a-lot.”

“I don’t count near brushes with death as good things but thanks.” Otto answered shortly still wondering how of all the people in this town to come to his rescue it was someone dressed in a witch hat cat cape. The town certainly knew how to make a niche even its so-called heroes didn’t stick to the norm. His eyes narrowed a fraction, half tempted to ask if there were antlers to go with that name. “Aye, sure,” he tipped a salute from his temple, scoffed and backed into the alley. Hells he needed to stop going out after dark.

As the man said his last words-- more like spat-- Remmy stuck the jar in their pocket and sighed. He was backing away and taking off now, not even a thanks in tow. But then again, they hadn’t done it for the thanks, right? They’d done it to feel like they could still help someone, that they still could be worth something. They sighed again, gathering up their cape and brushing off their pants, then turned to head out of the alley as well. They patted the jar in their pocket. “So,” they asked, glancing left and right, “where should we spread your ashes?”

#chatzy #chatzy: otto #captain moose and the vicious vampire #otto

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gravityfissure · 4 years

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[meta] What, if any, games, movies, books, tv shows, etc. have you drawn influence from for your character?

Okay so round 2, much in the same vein for Arthur there are... A lot. Possibly even more things that influence and inspire where Otto’s muse and views comes from. That said in writing this there are also a LOT of similarities between the characters I can pick out certain attributes and to be honest there’s a lot of crossover with the traits and characterisations highlighted.

Namely: playful and proactive, self-serving yet loyal to those that meet his criteria as to who is deserving of it. A grifter by nature that will approach almost any situation if he feels he’ll get something out of it while equally hoping that one day someone might actually bother to ask him (and maybe give him a true reason) to stay.

Dorian - Dragon Age: Inquisition

Uh, the heir of a famous magical dynasty? A flair of magical talent that made him the envy of his peers? Studied at one of the best colleges for the magical arts before being kicked out and privately tutored before eventually vanishing and being found by Magister Gereon Alexius who offered to take him as his apprentice eventually becoming a fully-ranked enchanter. A pariah for opposing every fault his homeland is renowned for?

It’s been years since I’ve played DA:I and Dorian always was one of my favourite characters but tbh I completely forgot his background and it’s only in revisiting it now I actually realise the similarities in the framework of their characters/development/story line. Not to mention the fact they both enjoy playful flirtation and witty banter and oppose the things they don’t fit into their view of the world. They will probably do the right thing, but that doesn’t mean they might not take their sweet ass time in actually getting into a situation.

Isabela - Dragon Age II and Inquisition

AND AGAIN. Isabela’s a great character - a pirate scourge of coastlines and nations around the world who values fun, freedom and getting ahead in life. They both value solving situations in clever and devious ways and getting ahead even if it means being somewhat selfish when they’re dealing with other people, example: Otto conning Deirdre out of $28k when she tried to cover for Regan or those plans he has to try and record a banshee scream? They’re both always down for trying to squeeze that little bit extra out of a person. If it one ups them in life and people are gullible enough to fall for it well... They really did it to themselves didn’t they?

But that doesn’t mean there aren’t depths to that hardened persona they both present. There are actual feelings and things hidden behind the wall and appearance they both present to the world. And underneath it all they’re both afraid of being left behind, but figure it’s best to push people away before they decide to leave of their own volition. At least that way they can say they have some control over the situation..

Sera - Dragon Age: Inquisition

Apparently this is a DA characters list but you know what sue me. x) So NEXT on the list is Sera, an elven archer who is incredibly impulsive and reactionary. She takes pure delight in humbling the established authority she views as arrogant and selfish. It’s less about what’s right in the grand scheme of things but more about what’s right in that very moment. She doesn’t believe in actions taken for a greater good, instead viewing it as just another excuse to hurt others undeserving of such treatment because it’s easier than making the truly hard choices in life.

Felix Dawkins - Orphan Black

Look Felix is one of the many fascinating characters on Orphan Black. Don’t get me wrong there are SO many and it’s a great show. But Felix is a character whose very existence proves that you can have a very effeminate, boisterous, loud, witty gay character and not have him be limited to the perpetuation of the sassy gay friend stereotype. Why? Because he has a whole complex personality beyond just that aspect of his life. He’s got to deal with real life issues on top of all the drama clone club brings into his life and he deals and he survives and he cOPES.

Not to mention he’s a positive representation of foster children being happy, positive representation of LGBTQ+ characters and gives positive representation of sex workers. Not to mention on top of all that representation you see how he’s smart as hell, the only person who knows Sarah well enough to keep her on track. The BEST uncle to Kira and one of the most supportive characters on the show.

Sarah - Orphan Black

Felix’s foster-sister, another character that shows the positive and complex dynamic that foster families tend to have while also demonstrating the fascinating found-family dynamic with clone club. Sarah’s interesting because she’s a natural chameleon, she’s street-smart and tough, a born outsider living on the fringes by her wits while in possession of a dark sense of humour that sees her by.

Sarah and Otto have a rather morally ambiguous compass, they’re both characters who swing between being very self-serving and selfish and acting for the greater good when they decide it’s needed. Not to mention the act as if they don’t care about other people’s issues (see clone club) when actually it transpires they both might just care a little more than they actually let on.

Garcia Flynn - Timeless

Unfortunately Garcia fits the my favourite character type: tall, dark, snarky, sassy antihero motivated fiercely by love and willing to do things of questionable morality against a greater evil, self-aware and doesn’t make excuses for his behaviour, but isn’t wringing his hands over it either. A character who so dearly loves the people in his life (see revenge for his wife and daughter) so much so he’s still fighting for them 5 years later just to be alive and not even to have anything to do with him again because he knows the things he’s done are enough the he could never go back to being that person for them. The man who loved his mum and went on a trip just to make her happy and save his brother. When he truly cares for someone he does EVERYTHING for them while somehow having none of the toxic jealous possessive business, despite his well-attested Garbage Drama in other departments, and just generally being a mature adult and an essentially good person who has gone down some really dark places and is finally rediscovering what he’s buried and lost. Look man, I’m a suuuuuuuuuuuuucker for found family, enemies to lovers, and villain becomes weird family member. And he covers all of those, so yes.

There’s a lot of that I’m planning and drawing on for Otto, this weird currently antagonistic little self-serving shit who is out for his own ends but maybe along the way finds some semblence of a conscious and maybe has a fair few moral dilemmas and self-questioning moments along the way? Who maybe finds friends (and even love?) Who has to deal with FEELINGS and things he’s repressed for years because of the things he’s done just to survive the life he fell into? Uh, yes give me give me give me.

Jesse Custer - Preacher

Okay, so this one’s kind of another given. Jesse’s another character I’m fascinated with because before Genesis’ arrival he was a down upon his luck preacher. A man who was trying so hard to fit into his dad’s ideal and not let the life he had before affect his day to day. Except it all goes to hell in a handbasket because of course it does.

Jesse essentially gains the ability to make anyone do anything he says. And that power? It’s addictive, and we see the struggle he goes through to learn how to control and manipulate it to his own end. To begin with he tries to right wrongs, to tell people to stop doing the bad things they’re doing in their lives and fix them so they’re better people but with each act that power and god-complex grows. It goes to his head until we meet the moronic messiah Humperdoo and Jesse eventually agrees to take his place. The messiah-complex and power corruption is complete, and the repercussions of his choices are devastating especially with how they impact Cassidy or Tulip and the repercussions in Angelville.

Much like Otto’s own magic, the more its used the more enticing it is to carry on using it for more and more things. At first it was small deeds, little acts of good until Otto in kind started to realise that good deeds weren’t enough to make a change. They weren’t enough for other people around him and with each act it grew and grew - and it continues to grow. The question is to what level? And if it ever got out of control, would he ever know how to stop it?

Crowley - Good Omens

An overall non-threatening demon, who tries to be “evil” in his own way to fit into the role his society (other demons) expect of him. Crowley wants to save the world (for his own reasons) and can be rather self-serving in certain moments. There’s plenty of times he tried to convince Aziraphale to run away with him and let everything else forgive the irony but for lack of a better term “go to hell” but he always comes around in the end (typically to a Queen track) to help when it really counts for something.

Not to mention his flare for the dramatic, very rarely thinking things through, with many of his own plans backfiring on him.

Sound familiar?

Wrench - Watch Dogs 2

Part-hacker and full-fledged anarchist who wears a freaky mask with LED displays capable of bizarre emoticons. He's vulgar, crude, entertaining and an absolute adrenaline junkie who lives on the edge. He's jokingly called the wrench because he's the wrench you throw into somebody's gears to grind them to a halt.

The final one on the list, because it’s a side I haven’t yet played into so much but I’m curious to given means and opportunity to. Otto does have some inclination towards an anarchistic nature, if a system doesn’t seem to work he isn’t afraid to speak out or more likely act out against it. Whether it’s in the greater good or not isn’t so much relevant rather that he would happily take a torch and burn something to the ground if it meant starting again with something new and better in its place. It’s definitely something I want to explore more down the line.

I also find it interesting the whole concept of “hiding behind a mask” which is something wrench quite literally does. Both have built personas to defend themselves from people breaking through and seeing that what actually exists on the other side is a rather shy and awkward person who tries to “act out” and be “dramatic” in an attempt to get attention from a world in which there’s so much noise how could anyone ever feel like their voice mattered let alone be heard unless they started shouting “HEY, LOOK AT ME” at the top of his lungs?

#Anonymous #answered #wickedsanon #meta #headcanon #// this GOT SO LONG

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childrenoflight-darkness-nothing · 4 years

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How the OCs are handling current events under the read more, if I miss a tag please let me know.

[[MORE]]

Aislin - Single Mom Mode Activated! Just trying to make sure the boys get their schoolwork done. Misses her husband, wishes she could be there as he deals with the stresses of the hospital and takes the brunt of all of the madness. Would like everyone to stay home and remember to was their hands!! 👏 GLOVES 👏 ARE 👏 NOT 👏 A 👏 SUBSTITUTE 👏 FOR 👏 HAND 👏 WASHING 👏

Clarissa - Is disinfecting EVERYTHING!! A little obsessively, as Deirdre’s high risk. Freaking the fuck out. Grateful niether of them had been declared essential. Online classes? They expect you to be able to focus on those????

Deirdre - Most likely time end up hospitalizated 2020!! Has convinced Claire to teach her to draw in hopes of offering a distraction. If Claire even so much as thinks about a bottle of bleach she will snap.

Dragon - Is the one making grocery and pharmacy runs for their elderly and high risk neighbors. Masks, gloves, and hand washing are your friends!!

Elise - Already had a hard enough time getting Faye to go to school before. Is slowly losing her mind. Having Faye and Ciáran stuck in the house. Is trying to keep things as normal as possible for Serena. Sewing masks as a way to cope.

Faye - Is slowly losing it. She wants to go outside! She wants to explore the city! See her friends!! If she has to attend another zoom class she might scream. School was bad enough before.

Serena - is having a hard time adjusting to the new way of life. There was an order to things before. A system. Everything’s constantly changing and she would like for it all to go back, thank you very much. Misses her friends Peadar at school.

Ciáran - Keeps being found in odd places. Like a cat. The top of the refrigerator isn’t a normal and acceptable place to read??? Has convinced Elise to help him clear out the dining room and turn it into a makeshift dance studio.

Castor - YouTube is your friend. Has learned 30000 new things. Is adjusting to quarantine well. Enjoying the extra attention from his boyfriend.

Tyde - is a hyperactive puppy now locked inside. That’s a bad mix. He gets bored. Gets into trouble. Is being extra lovey dovey to castor as an attempt to keep from going insane.

#covid #covid 19 #corona #coronavirus #i started this days ago #finally getting around to finishing it???#i guess #modern au headcannons #clarissa #faye #deirdre #tyde #elise #dragon #castor #serena #ciáran #aislin

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sunnydaleherald · 4 years

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The Sunnydale Herald Newsletter, Tuesday, April 28 - Wednesday, April 29

CORDELIA: Hi guys! WESLEY: Cordelia? GUNN: No way! ANGEL: You're safe. CORDELIA: Little bit. They made me ruler. WESLEY: But this is fantastic! CORDELIA: Well, it's not like my throne couldn't use a few extra cushions, but I'm really not gonna complain because -- well, hey -- throne?

~~Through The Looking Glass (AtS Season 2)~~

[Drabbles & Short Fiction]

Hugging is Good Medicine (Buffy/Spike, T) by handwithquill

Stealthy (Buffy, Angel, G) by badly_knitted

passion (redux) (Jenny Calendar/Rupert Giles, E) by The_Eclectic_Bookworm

I Like This Dream (Faith, T, Doctor Who xover) by Unfeathered

Mission (Spike/Buffy Summers, T) by EllieRose101

pink and black (Spike/Buffy Summers, G) by ayebydan

Oz Comes Back (Willow, Oz, Buffy, G) by jackofallfics

Cause and Effect (Dawn, M, Batman xover) by patriciatepes

Foundations (Buffy/Giles, T) by froxyn

Willow's Day Off (Willow, unrated) by ILLYRIAN

Crumbs (Buffy/Spike, E) by Holly

Heaven Sent (Buffy, T, SPN xover) by eatyourhartout

Wrong (Buffy, T, SPN xover) by eatyourhartout

Fast Cars and Thrice Dead Slayers (Dawn, T, Fast & the Furious xover) by eatyourhartout

The Other Side of the Stars (Buffy, M, SG xover) by jezaeiri

[Chaptered Fiction]

Walker of Night Part 8 (Xander/Spike, T) by madimpossibledreamer

Taibhse Ch. 1/? (Rupert Giles/Ethan Rayne/Randall/Deirdre Page/Thomas Sutcliffe/Philip Henry, M) by CantSpeakFae

A White Knight in the Cove Ch. 1-2/? (Xander, M, Dante's Cove xover) by WhiteKnightDragon

Those Three Words Ch. 1-20/20 (COMPLETE) (Ensemble, M, SPN/Smallville xover) by muses_circle, xtremeroswellian

The New Normal (Ensemble, G) by TheAncientWizard

Compassion pour le Démon Ch. 1-5/? (Spike/Xander, M) by Silu_chan

Chapter 15 (Living Conditions, The Harsh Light of Day) - I Need A Bad Idea (Buffy/Giles, E) by Skyson

Light of My Lantern, Chapter 6 (Buffy/Spike, M) by sandy_s

Xander Harris and the Eye of Ra (Xander, Buffy/Spike, T) by SlayrGrl

Detention (v.2), Chapter 5-7 (Buffy/Spike, E) by Frillyria

Always Been Bad , Chapter 9 (Buffy/Spike, E) by DarkEternity96

These Violent Delights, Chapter 4 (Buffy/Spike, E) by Touchstoneaf

Civilized monster, Chapter 23 (Buffy/Spike, E) by Axell

The Divine Honesty , Chapter 4 (Buffy/Spike, E) by Blade Redwind

I Won't Forget You, Chapter 7 (Buffy/Spike, E) by incendie

Death Wish, Chapter 5 (Buffy/Spike, E) by Sigyn

Spiking the Pot, Chapter 1 (Buffy/Spike, T) by Baphrosia

The U in Robot, Chapter 5 (Buffy/Spike, E) by Girlytek

Speranta Lumii, Chapter 51 (Buffy/Spike, T) by Irishrose

Fool me Once, Chapter 5 (Buffy/Spike, E) by Miss Marisol

Love is a Many Splendored Bitch, Chapter 3 (Buffy/Spike, E) by MissLuci

Inattendu, Chapter 6 (Buffy/Spike, G) by Miss Kitty

Always Been Bad , Chapter 10 (Buffy/Spike, E) by DarkEternity96

This Little Piggy, Chapter 1-3 (Buffy/Spike, T) by Ajmilone

I Wanna Be Sedated, Chapter 1 (Buffy/Spike, T) by talesofstories

Two For The Price Of One Ch. 10 (Ensemble, T, DCU xover) by SeaSpectre

Amber Xander Ch. 5 (Xander, M, Chronicles of Amber xover) by Balder

Xanderpocalypse (Xander, M, X-Men xover) by AxelBlade

[Images, Audio & Video]

Artwork: Earshot Episode Poster by swallowedshark

Artwork:William by chibilostsoul

Artwork:schrootdinger by Ghost Willow

Artwork:Buffy and Spike by Georges Jeanty

Artwork:BtVS Avatars Pt 1 by via-whitmore

Artwork:BtVS Avatars Pt 2 by via-whitmore

Artwork:Giles by HEXEnART

Artwork:Buffy by agentofship

Artwork:The Master by ericdockeryart

Artwork:Oz by peterfoglesong

Artwork:Scoobies as TMA avatars by artsying-ifer

[Reviews & Recaps]

PODCAST: 5.16: The Body by Buffering the Vampire Slayer

PODCAST: 0.25: Conversation with Jen Malkowski on The Body by Buffering the Vampire Slayer

PODCAST: 066 - The Scream That Kills (S04E10 Hush) by Buffy Boys

PUBLICATION: Review of Buffy the Vampire Slayer: Season 1 #1: Halloween Rain by Profmorbius

[Community Announcements]

Jenny Calendar Day by jenny-calendar

[Fandom Discussions]

Looking for Spuffy Prompts by sandycoelho

I’m just a sucker for a bad boy with a redemption arc by monny287

For the preference ask: Cordelia, Drusilla, Darla, Lilah and Fred? by mybitca

Everybody is so fucking shitty to Buffy and Literally nobody EVER has Buffys back by bossyblondebabe

I just wanted to remind everyone that the Watcher’s Council are the real villains of the series by mybitca

Buffy's bangs by ifeveristoday

Buffy: Season 1 by takaraphoenix

Kennedy by DeadlyDuo

I am going be honest I have never really like Faith! by Multiple Authors

Would Buffy Season 2 had been perfect if Darla was in it? by Multiple Authors

Mr. Trick is Hilarious by Multiple Authors

Bonjour ! by kReEsTaL

If another Vamp had been chipped by burrunjor

Planning on getting back into Buffy/Angel soon, should I start over? by cwhagedorn

willow and erasure by salvbitch

Once More With Feeling, Tabula Rasa, and Smash is like a shakesperan Dramady by SuperTitan11_

Joyce being in the dark about her daughter by davect01

Buffy quotes that inspired you. by thatgirl829

Okay, we need to talk about the damn house... by vegeterin

Well Hallelujah! I’m FINALLY starting to get why people love Angel by tierachaun

Vampire armor by GoodMorninJulia

I can’t connect with season 7 by avasaeva

Stunt doubles by Burgs84

Has any been reading the recent Buffy comics? by Smiler2834

Cleaning up the mess by mrsbossangel

Giles’s choice of scotch? by frecklestheowl

The Puppet Show is my fav Throwaway Epi, What is Yours? by MarthaRunsFar

What are some parallels or throwbacks you've noticed in the dialogue? by Garlicknottodaysatan

Theories on why different vamps retain more humanity than others? by coolbitcho-clock

I wish they’d establish a better reason for Xander to hate Angel by coolbitcho-clock

I tricked my boyfriend for a second into thinking... by MattLoganGreen

Normal Again by Desparia

Favourite ‘nice’ moments of the series by purplemackem

Do you think Buffy would have had Joyce turned into a vampire? by shonenhikada

The Death of Firefly Saved Angel by Moon_Logic

Giles in season 5 of angel is a bit of a dick by BettyPurple

How did angel feed by zebarothdarklord

The body Christmas special we never saw? by Hairsprayisfab

What are people's opinion on the recent Buffy boom comics? by Smiler2834

Mark Metcalf - The Master by MarthaRunsFar

I need something to hit the way OMWF does by valentinezero

[Articles, Interviews, and Other News]

Video: 11 Small Details You Only Notice Rewatching Buffy The Vampire Slayer by WhatCulture

PUBLICATION: Buffy The Vampire Slayer Theory: Dawn's Existence Killed Joyce by Screen Rant

#btvs #ats #buffy the vampire slayer #angel the series #fan fiction #fan art #meta

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queenofnohr · 6 years

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Last Encore was............ a weird experience? And I don’t mean that in a “lololol sooooooo weird I have obviously never had a shaft experience in my entire life” kind of weird. SHAFT is my fucking brand, man. Spring quarter I binge-watched all of monogatari because of how on-brand it was for me. I love their weird conceptual symbolic bullshit and their playing with framing and style even when they aren’t switching up the actual artstyle, but i digress.

Opinions for like the first......... 5ish? (Shinji’s Floor and Dan’s Floor) episodes under the cut. I actually wanted to just do everything but those two arcs get me so heated I needed to rant about what was wrong with them.

Basically, for me:

1st episode - cool. loving purgatory.

2 - 5 episodes....... just felt like a gigantic waste of time tbh. Namely because at that point in the series it feels like there isn’t a clear vision for what needs to be told; SHAFT is weird, yeah, and “hard to get” or whatever, but for their own IPs, at least, it’s clear that they DO have a vision, even if they have a roundabout way of getting there. Shinji and Dan’s episodes feel...... floundering. There isn’t enough substance for them to anchor themselves other than “ooooooooh what could be gOiNg ONNNNN?!?!” and to the viewer, it’s annoying. Even on a rewatch, where it technically makes sense now, there’s not enough emotional depth to any of it to warrant...... anything, really.

At that point in the series it’s clear that the target audience isn’t “new viewers” or else literally nothing makes sense, but it’s also EXTREMELY alienating to anyone who played the OG EXTRA because, at least in that point in time, it feels like almost a..... slap to the face? One of the most striking parts of EXTRA is that very first week; we see Shinji, known Mother Fucker with a face and personality so punchable it really doesn’t matter if you played FSN or not who........ turns out to be 6 years old. And, unlike in other Fate installments, Masters do not have the liberty of saving other Masters. Part of the tragedy of EXTRA is that no one (save for clown and pre-CCC Gatou - but even then he’s just like an idiot, and like....... Julius, until you learn how fucked his life is) actually deserves to die. Many of them (including Shinji) don’t even realize that it’s really fucking real that you’re going to die if you lose. Talking to NPCs and seeing them have to take lives and how they react to all of that is a fundamental part of the story...... as is seeing the school slowly grow more and more empty, one by one.

And looking back on that, on the original, emotional impact, Shinji’s days especially just feel like a complete waste. They spent two episodes on him to do what amounts to absolutely nothing. At least Dan, while his storyline here kind of feels like a huge slap in the face, still had some emotional depth by bringing up his wife and the verrrryyyyy last second and like. that one line with robin.

And in both of their cases I feel like too much is wasted keeping everything a mystery from the viewer. Alice’s arc works and works AMAZINGLY because you’re seeing it from her perspective. I honestly, honestly think that Shinji and Dan’s arcs would have benefited from and least partially being from the PoV of Drake/Robin respectfully. We still wouldn’t need to know everything that’s going on, but seeing how the way things “should be” in their eyes vs. Kishinami’s reality would have provided emotional depth while also hinting at the nature of this story pre-Alice arc. Or, even if they wanted to keep the mystery, having shots of Shinji thinking about Rider - because we KNOW Rider actually Kind of means a Ton to Shinji ala CCC - and how maybe not being worthy of her help in favor of half-baked data he got from other Masters actually does kind of hurt. Maybe hurts in a very Shinji tch-ing about how worthless the “shadow” servants are, but still thinking of her wistfully nonetheless. Same with Rider maybe looking on and some reference to him being a “stupid kid who never learns”. Even that, with just like two extra scenes showing them thinking of each other with all the baggage that comes along with that, could’ve given more depth to the eventual team up and conclusion of their arc. As it stands it was just....... nothing.

Dan...... Dan was done dirty tbh. They spent a lot of time with PUNISHED DAN without any, like...... explanation or redemption??? Dan is a good man and he deserved better. Like, even if you want to make him PUNISHED EDGELORD you gotta balance it all out with flashbacks of who he should’ve been and/or Robin purposefully sabotaging himself and DRAWING ATTENTION to the fact he could’ve won “like this” - aka shady dirty way he’s known for - rather than trying to fight head on (they sorta did this in his last fight with Saber, and it’s reaffirmed when he goes to Dan’s grave and says something along the lines of “Looks like I’m really not cut out for a fair fight) but there’s no attention brought to it in scene and................. tbh Shaft ain’t really known for action scenes so while I noticed it, it was still kinda like “oh, did they mean to do this or.....” and then at the end of the episode like “oh i guess it was intentional” but at that point the emotional impact it could’ve served ESPECIALLY if Robin had purposefully “thrown” the battle by fighting fair and openly because he wanted to honor the man he once served, even if he could’ve totally bested Saber - that would’ve been MUCH more impactful than what actually happened.

and, in the end, I guess my grievances with those two arcs are summed up by - EXTRA was never the journey of just one person. In OG extra, Hakuno is forged in the flames of the trials they must go through. No Master’s story is ever shafted because by shafting them and the emotional impact they bring to the table, you also shaft Hakuno’s emotional development; by writing strong antagonizing Masters, by making them complex and emotional journeys, Hakuno also benefits as the protagonist. Their choices, their pain, what they choose to do or not do is weighted by the experiences they have over the course of the game with these other Masters. So when whoever did the script for the first two Last Encore character arcs - because that’s really what each floor is, a character arc - says “making this soooooo mysterious is worth more than making a complicated narrative” it does Hakuno an injustice in that his story isn’t furthered as far as “deaD FaCE?!?!?!” “so...... much........ hate...... why.......................” goes

#the thirst manifesto #last encore spoilers #long post #deirdre EXTRA screams #<- i guess screaming abt anything in the fateverse. rn its last encore

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mcbastardsmausoleum · 5 years

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5-Disc THE FLY COLLECTION lands on Blu-ray 12/10 from Scream Factory! Extras: Disc 1: THE FLY (1958) · NEW Audio Commentary with author/film historian Steve Haberman and filmmaker/film historian Constantine Nasr · Audio Commentary with actor David Hedison and film historian David Del Valle · Biography: Vincent Price · Fly Trap: Catching a Classic · Fox Movietone News · Theatrical Trailer Disc 2: RETURN OF THE FLY ·NEW Audio Commentary with actor David Frankham ·NEW Audio Commentary with author/film historian Tom Weaver · Audio Commentary with actor Brett Halsey and film historian David Del Valle ·Theatrical Trailer ·TV Spot · Still Gallery Disc 3: THE CURSE OF THE FLY ·NEW Audio Commentary with author/film historian Steve Haberman and filmmaker/film historian Constantine Nasr ·NEW interview with actress Mary Manson ·NEW interview with continuity Renee Glynee ·Theatrical Trailer ·TV Spot · Still Gallery Disc 4: THE FLY (1986) · NEW Audio Commentary with author/film historian William Beard ·NEW The Meshuggener Scientist – an interview with executive producer Mel Brooks ·NEW Beauty and the Beast - an interview with producer Stuart Cornfeld ·NEW A Tragic Opera – an interview with composer Howard Shore ·NEW David’s Eyes – an interview with cinematographer Mark Irwin ·NEW interview with casting director Deirdre Bowen ·Audio Commentary with director David Cronenberg ·Fear of the Flesh: The Making of THE FLY – covering all 3 stages of the production - Larva, Pupa and Metamorphosis ·The Brundle Museum of Natural History with Chris Walas and Bob Burns ·Deleted Scenes with Storyboard and Script versions ·Extended Scenes ·Alternate Ending ·Test Footage (Main Titles, Lighting and Makeup Effects) ·Vintage featurette/Profile on David Cronenberg ·Still Galleries (Publicity, Behind-The-Scenes, Concept Art and Visual Effects) ·Theatrical Trailers · TV Spots · George Langelaan’s short story ·Charles Edward P https://www.instagram.com/p/B4ktPDglUOm/?igshid=oz22a7k1fj98

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mor-beck-more-problems · 4 years

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Lover You Were Gone So Long || Morgan & Deirdre

TIMING: Current

PARTIES: @deathduty & @mor-beck-more-problems

SUMMARY: Lover when you see that glare, think of it as my despair, think of it as my despair for you.

Morgan and Deirdre go for round two of hashing things out.

CONTAINS: codependent death girls

The first day Deirdre was home, Morgan kept them on the couch in the great room until Deirdre’s arms started to hurt and she had to help her to the downstairs bathroom for a shower and an extensive reapplication of bandages. Even with all the extras from their recent trips to the fae clinic, Morgan had to order more by delivery to make sure they had enough for next time. She caressed every pink patch of healing skin that looked safe enough to touch and murmured, I can see your freckles a little more than last night, that must be a good sign. And, your poor hands, be careful, you should be more careful. She kissed Deirdre’s shoulder when she finished and helped her into something clean and soft and carried her to where she wanted to be. Her eyes met Deirdre’s, and for a moment she could almost read her: a question, an assurance, something reaching into the most tormented part of her heart where her love had once thrived. Morgan pulled away and left the room. But she stopped in the doorway, a fresh ache throbbing in her chest. Deirdre’s eyes had followed her, hooked into that piece of her heart despite her best efforts, dragging it out of the dark.

“I love you,” Deirdre said.

“Not enough, apparently,” Morgan muttered. She left before Deirdre could reply.

That’s how things were now.

Today they were in the great room again (the ground floor was the easiest for Deirdre to get around on and being in their room without being them made Morgan’s chest fill with acid), watching TV, leaning against one another under the blanket. Niamh sprawled in the corner, chasing her ball between naps. It was time for lunch, and Deirdre’s hand was cupping Morgan’s body against her side, so gentle and secure at once she didn’t know if she wanted to cry or scream. Her finger curled, so breathtakingly casual, and Morgan clenched all over. She threw off the blanket and fled to hide in the kitchen without a word. If she closed her eyes and memory wiped the last week or so, it would have been so perfect. Morgan would have guided her hand under her shirt, they would’ve started kissing, and lost the plot of the TV show by debating what kind of tree. It would have been so easy and perfect and worse, Morgan hurt with her want for it. Why couldn’t she just have that? (She knew why, but this knowledge didn’t feel like an answer, just another hole she didn’t know how to fill.) Morgan squeezed her eyes shut and bit down on her hand. It was too early in the day to be crying already. Get a grip. That alter-world picture of them she ached for might mean everything to her, but it certainly hadn’t meant as much to Deirdre. How could it?

It was five minutes, maybe ten, before Morgan emerged, red eyed but mostly collected, now with a smoothie and a small plate of sandwiches done up the best way she knew how. “Sorry, that must’ve been kind of alarming,” she deadpanned, a cruel edge to her voice. “It sucks watching someone you depend on run away without a word. Gosh, just imagine how much worse it would feel if I’d done that when I came back from the dead!”

Deirdre didn't know how to act. Loving Morgan in this strange, half-space was worryingly difficult. She wanted to hold Morgan tight, kiss her hard, laugh easy—but such acts seemed to put Morgan on edge, or would cross some line. She was quiet, mostly, adopting a gentle quality of voice. Inviting, soothing; acts and words that she hoped spoke of how okay it would be if Morgan wanted to find the world they once occupied together, and fall into it again. She thought of herself like suggestion; firm, steady, secure and immortal. Always there to be held, considered, but not demanding—never asking. Only suggesting. She leaned against Morgan, and when she felt Morgan ease against her, she would move to hold her. And if she felt Morgan tense, she would go back to the leaning. She obeyed the flow of Morgan’s thought, the best she could interpret it in silence, finding familiar cues in the body she knew better than her own. She spared her girlfriend the volley of love and assurance her heart demanded to give, she sprinkled them softly instead. Like suggestion. Except, suggestion was a strange thing; too strong and too weak at once. It made her burn, unable to share the love that chewed up her insides. Unable to dare to soothe the pain she could see in Morgan. Suggestion was at the mercy of time, and time could be so painfully slow.

Keeping her eyes on the TV was one such way suggestion foiled her. The way they normally enjoyed it was curled into each other, so Deirdre might take Morgan and the TV in in equal measure. Being leaned up against her was a horrible idea. She couldn’t look at Morgan, and her body fluttered dangerously with static. Even the arm around her wasn’t much of anything at all. But like a respectable person, she kept her eyes straight and her hand chaste. She wasn’t watching the TV so much as she was staring at the pictures. Her free hand curled around the blanket shared between them. She burned. And then she was falling over.

“Morgan?” She asked; soft, sweet, concerned. Her girlfriend didn’t answer, and was out of the room by the time Deirdre righted herself. “Morgan?” She tried again, louder. “What’s wrong?” And again. She stared at the floor. She couldn’t walk. Her legs were swollen and sore and she’d made a promise not to hurt herself intentionally—walking was one such way to hurt herself. Her body was thankful for the rest, but her mind was not. Her eyes drifted to her cane leaned up against the table. As she tried to grab it, her fingers brushed the wood and it knocked over, startling Niamh, who was then intrigued by the new object. “Not a toy,” Deirdre hissed. She couldn’t reach it anymore. So, she’d crawl then. She rolled herself off the couch, falling to the floor with a dull thud. She strained to grab the cane, careful not to agitate her wounds and break a promise as well as a stitch. Niamh swatted at the cane as Deirdre wiggled it into her grasp. “I’ll play with you later!” She didn’t know how long it took her to grab the cane and stand up, only that by the time she did, Morgan was back. “Morga—“ And then she was speaking.

Deirdre’s expression shifted wildly, no suggestion in them. She went from shocked, to hurt, to confused, to something between hurt and confused. She blinked, and wondered if she’d heard right. And then realized she did, she had been. Now it made another cruel sentence gain sense. “Oh,” she chuckled dryly. “Is that what you want to do, Morgan?” She stepped forward, cane smacking against the ground. “Is that it now? Is this it?” Deirdre slumped, having made her way to Morgan, she reached out and plucked the plate from her hands and placed it down. Doing the same with the smoothie a moment later. “You’re right. It does suck. I know that already. And you’re right, imagine how terrible it would have been if you did the same. I can. I do. If you wish to punish me with cruel words, Morgan, don’t do it whilst holding lunch—which, thank you for, by the way.” She paused, voice gentle despite itself. “Go ahead.”

Morgan flinched back with surprise.This Deirdre was usually so quiet, Morgan had forgotten that she could command with as much ease as she could soothe. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she mumbled stupidly. “What ‘this’?” She let go of the plate without a fight and lowered her gaze, feeling chastised. But Deirdre dared her, urged her, and the rest of Morgan’s excuses at the back of her throat--I’m not doing anything, Talk to me after you eat, you need to keep your strength up--died. Slowly, Morgan lifted her face, bracing herself with hands on her hips. “Do you?” She accused. She held Deirdre’s gaze and seeing all the versions of her she’d ever known, the one who’d been afraid, the one who belonged to the mushrooms, the one who’d sworn Morgan was her love, the one who’d vanished. She didn’t know which new side she was speaking to now, or what she was capable of. Calling her out hadn’t been on Morgan’s guess list, but her smouldering anger was relieved to have a chance to breathe.

“Do you know?” She asked. “Because I couldn’t even process whether or not you’d died before you were yelling at me to get in the car and drive! If we count your scream--which, thanks for not checking to see if my brain had melted--you’ve left me what, four times now? If you know, does that mean you actually thought about it and decided whatever happened was worth fuck all, or did I just stop mattering so much that you forgot I was there and it never crossed your mind?”

Deirdre stood straight and still and as steady as she could manage leaning on her cane. She wanted to hold Morgan, even now, especially now. She tried to ask if that was okay with her eyes, the way she always did, but wasn’t sure if Morgan was looking for it. It was fine, anyway, she didn’t want to stunt Morgan’s anger--it needed to be released, lest it come back in another cruel one-off sentence destined for repetition. “Four times…” Deirdre repeated, she could only remember three. She’d have to meditate harder on her muddied memories then, find the missing piece. “Your brains wouldn’t have been touched at all, I know how to control my screams. And--” Deirdre swallowed. She’d been trying to match Morgan’s anger in some respect, but she found it hard to feign. As much as she wanted to fuel the anger--let it release, let it spill, let Morgan have this, if she wanted it--she couldn’t summon the voice to match. She spoke measured, though gentle. “I’m sorry I yelled at you. I thought it was more urgent than my physical state, though I regret that I didn’t properly consider your emotional state. I should’ve. You’re right. And I’m sorry.” Deirdre slumped, “you’ve never stopped mattering to me. I don’t know what I thought--I just wanted to get to Lydia. I thought if I did, I could make it okay. And I had to get to her quickly, the more time between--” She swallowed again, closing her eyes. “I didn’t want to be too late again. I didn’t want that.” Deirdre opened her eyes to the ground, meeting Morgan’s gaze slowly. “I’ve thought about it now, I can’t say how much I thought about what I was doing in the moment. I’m sorry for that.” She paused. “What else? I abandoned you, I didn’t love you enough….what else? Tell me what else.”

“Yes, four times! Our home, our driveway, that bench, and running off to do your fucking death wish murder!” Morgan snapped. She locked her face into a grimace, stubbornly holding onto her anger. It was the only time her hurt didn’t threaten to break her, the only time her body wasn’t burning for the chance to connect again. “If you’d remembered I existed, I could have driven you! I did, in fact, try to drag you back home and drive you anyway, even while you were fighting me! We could have been together! I could’ve held your hand! But you weren’t interested in any of that.”

Deirdre had dared Morgan to ‘do this,’ whatever ‘this’ was supposed to be, but her voice held none of the stubborn fire she’d shown only a moment ago. She just agreed and took it. When she met Morgan’s eyes, she looked sad. Morgan looked away, wrapping her arms around herself. “No,” she mumbled. “You don’t get to say those things like they’re arbitrary. And you can’t seriously--” Her voice caught. She wasn’t that mad about that first time, just scared out of her mind in the moment. It shouldn't count. Not when Deirdre’s grief was so surreal and fresh. “Four times,” she repeated stiffly. “That doesn’t explain all of them. It can’t. Because I told you how I felt, that day we broke into the house. I begged you. I begged you or whoever the fuck you were back then not to leave me, not to give me your love if you were just going to take it away in five more minutes. And then you did. That is not ‘what else.’ That happened. I begged you and then you kept doing it. And I don’t understand how you could have even once.”

Four times. Deirdre nodded, logging that in her head. At night, she would keep herself awake replaying it until she could figure out how to repent. For now, she listened, as steady as she could be. “You’re right,” she said, “you’re right. We could’ve. And I didn’t let us, and I’m sorry and you’re right.” She didn’t know what else to say. She felt like there should have been more to offer than agreeing with Morgan and apologizing, but that was all she felt right to do. Morgan was right. And she was sorry. She didn’t want to explain or excuse herself, where did she deserve to? “It’s not arbitrary! No, I’m not--I don’t think it is. I just don’t want you to stop, so I thought it’d be better if I didn’t--” If she wasn’t crying, if she wasn’t spilling the depths of her own emotion so plainly. This was about Morgan, not her. But trying to do what she thought was right was her problem, and it was her problem now. She opened her mouth to explain again, but Morgan was off to the next point, and Deirdre didn’t have the heart to interrupt her.

“I’m sorry,” she said; meek, lame. She wanted to ask what else Morgan was mad about so she could take it on herself, carry it for her; so she could understand it too. But that hadn’t worked out, and so she tried to explain herself. “I don’t understand it either, not now. I can’t justify it. I screamed for Lydia, and then I knew I had to go. I promised her a good death no matter what, and that was exactly what I was doing. I can’t tell you what was promise-binding and what was my own thought. And then she released me, and I knew what was going to happen, and I knew we had to get to her quickly. And I’m sorry; I was wrong about how I treated you. But I had us stop, and go to the clinic and then when we were walking...all I wanted was to tell you it was okay. Because it was. I wasn’t mad at you, I didn’t hate you...I just wanted to find Lydia. That was all. And then I felt her and I had to go, I felt like I had to go. It wasn’t right, I’m not saying it was right. But that was it.” She paused. “And then I didn’t know what to do. I lost my sister, taken so unfairly….and I didn’t know what to do with all the pain. I should have talked to you, I should’ve. I didn’t know how; I thought you had enough to worry about; I knew what I thought I had to do for justice and I didn’t want you to hurt too. It was many things, none of them were correct. I’m sorry, but I want to make things right.” She swallowed. “Please, tell me everything. Not because it’s arbitrary--you never are--but because I want to know it all. I want to know if I can fix it. Please. I know you’re angry at me; be angry. Let it out. I’ll take it. I want to.”

Morgan’s face began to crumple. She clenched her jaw harder, she thinned her lips, but Deirdre’s tearful voice and her flat, useless agreements picked apart everything Morgan had to shield herself with. She shook her head furiously, trying and failing to stay hard and cruel and disconnected enough to be safe no matter what. “No,” she croaked, grimacing when she heard how childish she sounded. “I don’t want you to take it. I want you to tell me why! Because everything you’re saying--I still don’t understand. Where does the part where you decided to do this after I begged you not to come in? I need to understand because I thought--” Her voice caught again, throaty and terrible. Morgan held herself tighter. “The person I thought you were would never have done this. She couldn’t have. Not with everything you said about how much you--” How much she loved her. Wanted her. Would never hurt her. “I know you aren’t perfect. You make mistakes. But you...you said you loved me so much, and I believed you. Enough that I thought you would never watch me fall apart in front of you, telling you what’s wrong and how badly I need you as fucked as it is, and say it’s going to be okay one minute and the next, push me away for days and then leave without even knowing if it was for good or not. You would never. But you did!” Morgan’s breath trembled through her teeth as she searched for some harsh thread to bolster herself on. She rubbed her hand across the corner of her eyes. “So I need you to explain how that makes sense. Make me understand why this was so much more important you couldn’t even bother to say! And don’t tell me you don’t know, I need you to know!”

“Well you can’t have it.” Deirdre sighed, “your anger. You shouldn’t have it--carry it. You’re angry at me, right? What else were you trying to do if it wasn’t to punish me? To put your anger somewhere else. I’m trying to tell you that’s okay.” It made sense in her head, but she figured, like several things that had once felt right in her head, it probably wasn’t. The only thing she knew was right, always, was her love for Morgan. She clung tightly to that fact, and used it to hold herself up. “I can’t explain it! I can’t--” But Morgan wanted her to. Deirdre winced. She searched her mind for the logic, but it was paper thin and flimsy. Her hand unfurled and curled up into a fist meekly in the air, trying to grasp a Morgan that wasn’t there. She wanted to hold her. All she wanted to do was hold her. “I wasn’t pushing you away. I just--I didn’t want you to see the--I didn’t know how to tell you about the--I didn’t know what to--” Morgan was asking her to explain, and she was trying to, but her voice was choppy and broken. Shaky, at best. Still, she persisted. “I didn’t mean to be gone. It was just Sunday, for some hours. It was supposed to be. But the--the place I was in takes away time; it skews it on the other end. And the pixies wanted me to get treated by a doctor before I left. And I wasn’t strong enough to argue. And I’m sorry, Morgan. It doesn’t make sense because it’s not right. And I can’t explain it because that’s it. Nothing was ever more important than you, but I’m sorry. I know that’s hard to believe now, and I’m sorry.” She sagged, wishing there was more she could offer. But this was the truth; terrible, hurtful, uneventful. “I thought I was doing what was right, I thought I was doing the only thing I could do. There was all this pain and I...can’t explain it. I can’t make it make sense because it doesn’t. It doesn’t make sense to do that to you.” Her hand curled and unfurled again. “I’m sorry.”

“NO!” Morgan screamed, her voice echoing off the walls. “There has to be a reason! You can’t say I was that important and then tell me there was no reason! You said…” Her voice broke with a sob and she clenched her hands into fists, nails curling into her skin. “You said that I was your life, your good, that you would find a way to stay with me forever, you loved me that much. And you made me feel so safe I made you my anchor and I believed you! I believed you even though I wasn’t sure anyone ever could! Not that much. Not me. But I believed you and I trusted you. And if you loved me as much as you let me believe, you couldn’t have done this for no reason. So there has to be one. You can’t do this again in a year when some asshole hunter kills someone else you know, you can’t. There has to be a good reason. Because otherwise, I was right to think I could never be loved like that. And I can’t go back to some small, halfway decent life just because the one I thought I had turned out to be lie. It was real to me, and I can’t be here knowing there’s so much less and I’m just going to disappear to you the next time someone dies…” Morgan hid her face in her hand, trying to press her tears back into her eyes.

In any other circumstance, Deirdre would have been impressed with the calibre of scream. She would have found some measure of humour in it. In the moment, she only flinched. “There’s no reason for hurting you,” Deirdre shook her head, trying to elaborate. “Nothing that makes sense. I can’t justify that, I can’t--and won’t--make that make sense. You were hurt. I hurt you. That was wrong. There’s no good reason for that, there never will be.” She lifted her hands, dropping them swiftly. She couldn’t hold Morgan, she couldn’t wipe her tears away. She fought against her own body, the reflexes that burned to comfort her girlfriend. “I do love you so much. You are my life, you are everything that’s good, I still want to stay with you forever--I promise it. All of it.” Deirdre slumped further; she thought she might sink into the ground. “I suppose--you might say it’s fae culture. The revenge; I’ve been doing it all my life. All on my own. That’s the way it works. But I don’t understand--it’s still my fault. I didn’t intend to hurt you at all, in my mind, I thought I was protecting you. But I was wrong. I was wrong and I should have done better and I can’t offer you anything else. I’m sorry. I can’t make hurting you make sense. I can’t do that.” Her hands lifted again. She dropped them with a groan, flexing her fingers. “I won’t do this again. I could promise it to you. At this point I’d---Fates, if you wanted me to never kill someone ever again, I’d promise that away. If you wanted me to give up my duty, I’d do that too. If I can do anything to make this right for you, I will. I want to. I don’t care what it takes out of me, I just want you to feel safe again.” And despite all the great work she’d done keeping herself together, the tears contained inside her eyes and the quivering at a respectable minimum, she let it slip now. Fresh tears fell, and when her hands raised, she didn’t drop them away. “I don’t want you to disappear. Please, I--Can I hold you? Can I---I can make it right. I can.”

Morgan opened her mouth to reply, but no words came, only a broken, whining cry as her lungs refused to open any further. The two pieces didn’t fit. If there wasn’t some hidden secret, something Deirdre didn’t remember or know how to say, then how could everything she believed about them be true? How was Deirdre able to tell her so many things about how much she was loved without getting sick if it was a lie? “So all of this...was an accident? You told me you would carry me and be with me and our world was the one you wanted to be in and--and--” She sputtered, choking on the sobs she was determined to swallow down. Morgan heaved for the breath to speak again. “Did you ever?” she croaked, forcing herself to look up. “Did you not love me as much as I thought you did? You made everything...it was so good, and so beautiful, even if I was wrong, I don’t know if I can go back.” Her body wanted nothing more than to be comforted again, than to be nested in the space where it belonged. Deirdre looked so heartbroken, like she needed her, and they always knew how to hold each other just right, or they had before Lydia died. “And I can’t promise tape you into being this person you were or who I thought you were. That’s not okay, that’s cruel, that’s--that--that---” She was stuck again and staggered forward to the couch, clenching it to try and steady herself.

“An accident…” Deirdre winced. She tried to think of a more accurate word, something that gave her more rightful blame. It was true she hadn’t meant to hurt Morgan, and in that way, saying it was an accident was apt. But Morgan’s pain was her own, and she couldn’t accept such a flippant label. “I don’t know what to call it…” She mumbled. She was thinking, she was trying to think. But between trying to make sure her cries didn’t interrupt Morgan, and her fingers didn’t grow overzealous, she couldn’t. “I do love you!” She asserted, stabbing her cane into the ground and shifting closer. “I do. I always have, I’ve never stopped, I’ve never loved you any less--not once. I promise it. If I have made mistakes, it was not for losing love--I can’t say what it was, but it wasn’t that. I promise it wasn’t. And I promise, Morgan, that I want to do whatever I can to make this right to you. To love you, to be better for you. I want that. I want to be with you. I’ve never stopped wanting that. I promise. I promise.” She slumped, throwing her cane aside. “Please let me hold you. Please tell me that’s okay right now and can you--that promise I made not to hurt myself...can you release me from that? I can make it again just...please let me help you, Morgan. I don’t want you to hurt anymore.”

Morgan didn’t have anything left in her. She tried to get more questions out, but she only rasped sobs and whined tears. She reached out for Deirdre, her arm stiff and quivering, and pulled herself in so violently they knocked into the side of the couch. She clung to Deirdre’s robe and tried to shuffle them back to where they could sit, shaking her head as she tried to say, no, I can’t let you hurt yourself, please don’t hurt yourself, sit with me, lay with me, I don’t care just don’t do that anymore, but that sentiment only came as aspirated whimpers. But this much she hoped was obvious: Hold me, I don’t want to hurt anymore either, hold me, please.

Deirdre’s arms wrapped around Morgan and she sighed with relief, breathing her in. She wanted to hold her tight, close, the way she knew Morgan needed—but the best she managed was a stiff grip, wholly too weak. The back of her knocked into the couch, and lacking the power to shift their bodies, she let them crumple to the floor. “Please,” she croaked, “the promise, Morgan. I can’t hold you right. My body is still sore, and it won’t let me hold you right. And I just want to—I just want to hold you.” There was still more to talk about, she didn’t feel good letting Morgan go off thinking that she wasn’t loved completely, that Deirdre hadn’t always loved her with everything she had. But trust wasn’t something she could force, no matter how many promises she offered. And Morgan was right, this sort of thing was exactly something she said she would never do. And Morgan begged her, and she still did it. It hadn’t been so intentional, but Deirdre never cared for intentions where it concerned herself. “I love you,” she said. “I love you so much.” And if Morgan was still angry, she’d wait and hear it all again. As many times as she had to. “The promise, if you can, please.”

Morgan clung tighter to Deirdre, crawling into her lap. It would be so good if she could stop, if she could let go and still be caught and held. Her body exhausted her and she wanted to rest so badly. She whined, trying to hold the two of them tighter together, trying to make the air come back into the pit of her lungs, trying to place why the part of her that protested releasing Deirdre was getting so quiet. Was this the pain she wanted, or the pain she could bear? Cutting into Deirdre with harsh words was too much to stomach honestly, but to make Deirdre take on more pain for her, to break with her--did that satisfy her arcane sense of justice? Was that the missing equivalent? Was that fair, or cruel? Morgan moaned pitifully, burrowing as deep into Deirdre as she could. She didn’t have it in her to be sure, but she wanted the rest, and Deirdre was begging her. “I--I--” she coughed, struggling, “release you. H-hurt for me. Hold me until it...til you…” Another cry took her and she let it. Her hands loosened, her body sagged. For once, Morgan didn’t try to do anything.

Deirdre breathed free. Morgan had released all of the promises like that, but it wasn’t so terrible of an issue—she’d just promise them all again. With great relief, she gripped Morgan as tight as she could. Her muscles protested, and pain flared back up in her abdomen and across her scarred arm. She didn’t mind it, and she certainly didn’t care about it. She shifted them to press Morgan against the couch for added pressure, pressing in until she was sure her girlfriend was safely bundled up between the two. And she held her, just as she wanted to. “Thank you,” she breathed, pressing her lips firm and hard against Morgan’s temple—hard enough for pain to bloom in her lips for just a moment, hard enough just because she could now. “You are safe,” she said, wondering if it would come off as an assurance or a mockery of one. But she’d meant it, she’d meant every word. “I’ve got you. You’re safe. I’m here. It’s okay. I love you.” There was so much more she wanted to say, words about how sorry she was, how much she loved Morgan, how often she would promise it to her (for all of her life, if Morgan would have her). Always. She committed it like a spell, repeated as a rasp across her skin. “I love you. I love you. I love you…”

Morgan gasped with relief as Deirdre’s body closed in. It felt like so long since she had been pressed like this, cocooned in another body so intensely she started to lose track of where one started and another finished. In the days Deirdre had disappeared, Morgan had lain flat on their bed, too miserable to try and rig the pillows into her shape again. And the days before that, with Deirdre peeling her hands away every time Morgan tried to give her a squeeze, being held made her feel like an obligation to be managed, something to be embarrassed of. This feeling was so different it almost felt like new.

Morgan didn’t mind the words Deirdre gave her either. Noting burned or tore through her ears. This Deirdre sounded right, a lullaby modulated with desperate certainty, so clear Morgan sobbed harder just to hear it. She closed her eyes and let it all happen. She cried on the loop her body had set her on until her voice cracked ragged, the gray December day outside changed its tint toward evening, and the cloud of hurt around her mind cleared. Morgan nuzzled into the crook of her banshee’s neck and curled her fingers gently into the spots she remembered as having healed the most. It was like sleeping in their bed again, being held like this. “...How much do you hurt?” She asked.

“Internally or externally?” Deirdre asked, figuring that Morgan probably meant the outside, because no one ever asked about the inside like that. To her credit, she had been focused on clutching Morgan to her the tightest she could—as if she might drift away. “It’s not so bad…” she began. “It’s just muscle pain.” But that wasn’t entirely true, her arms screamed in pain, but it was her abdomen that really hated what she was doing. Something about the pressure, or the strength of her grip, awoke the sleeping stab wound. “It’s not so bad,” she repeated, wanting to be more accurate now. “The stab wound hurts a little, but I can manage. How are you? Do you want me to go tighter?”

Morgan shook her head. “No,” she murmured. She didn’t make any move to do anything in particular about the rest of what Deirdre said. If her sutures were breaking, they could take care of it later, and if they weren’t, then there wasn’t much to do besides let go and Morgan wasn’t ready for that. Some petulant part of her wanted to cry good, just for the sake of fairness. But the sentiment wasn’t strong enough to make it up her throat. Her head was clear and her anger had been largely exorcised, even if it hadn’t really come to much in the end.

She ran her fingers along Deirdre’s arms in little caresses, following the swell of her muscles. They didn’t tremble, they bore their pain so well. Morgan could close her eyes and find each spot Deirdre’s fingers pressed into her skin, solid and gentle at once. Was that who this Deirdre was? “You can tell me about your hurt internally, too,” she said. “I um...I want to know.”

Once Deirdre settled, the pain that spurred from the extra pressure did too—it came in dull throbs, completely ignored. Her hurt internally was a strange creature; something she still lacked the words for, and still feared giving a voice. More than that, she was better interested in Morgan’s hurt. But there was something she knew to say about that, and she smiled softly. “Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine…” Deirdre said, adding, “...will you? I want to know yours too; the angry parts, the sad parts, the hopeless parts, the parts that feel too afraid to speak...If you ever want to share, I’d like to know. I’d like to hold them with you.” Her own hurt could be a beast of quiet and screaming; it was quiet now, largely. Soothed to be holding Morgan, hopeful that it could rid her of her pain in a tight enough embrace. Deirdre pressed her lips to Morgan’s forehead and tried to explain it. “I want to hold you like this every night. I want to kiss you. I want to be with you, and the pain of not loving you fully—like I want to—is terrible. But I know it wouldn’t be so bad if this was what you wanted; if you broke your hand and wanted me to stop holding it, I could live with that. But it’s me. I did the breaking. And that pain is….indescribable. I feel useless. I couldn’t help Lydia, and the best I can do to help you is just...waiting. I’m useless and I miss you. And I just want to...make things right. Make them okay. Make them better and good again. And I still miss Lydia, and I don’t know what to do about that. Everything feels so…” She sighed, “...inadequate. But your pain is more important to me right now. I can—can you tell me about it at all? Do you feel alright to speak?”

Morgan listened in stillness. Before, she tended to work in small comforts with a whisper or a touch, keep going, I’m here. But the only time she stirred was to laugh sadly at the poem Deirdre quoted. “That’s where we are, huh?” ‘Wild Geese’ was what Morgan said when she needed to get her hands around the most stubborn pieces of Deirdre’s heart and make them accept being loved. You do not have to be good. You do not have to walk on your knees for a hundred miles through the desert repenting. You only have to let the soft animal of your body love what it loves. How strange, to have not even thought of the words in days and hear them now in a different voice. Stranger, to have thought so little of Deirdre’s verse before, and to shiver at them now.

Morgan’s eyes leaked again, but she brushed them away quickly. “I think the worst part right now...is that I’m starting to believe you. Enough that I can’t even be glad that what you’re describing sounds just like what your choices put me through these last two weeks and the times you were too afraid to love me back before then. I tried very hard not to show you how much it hurt. I didn’t want you to feel guilty and rush yourself or quit. Now you know.” She shrugged; it didn’t matter to her now, however tempting it was to add this to their personal injury calculus. “I believe you...but I can’t give myself to you yet. Not the way you want. I don’t even know how hard I could try before panicking.” Morgan sniffled and wiped her eyes again and went quiet, waiting for some follow up argument to present itself. If she ached so badly, if not even understanding that the Deirdre holding her really, desperately loved her was enough to make the pain stop, what would? “I feel like there’s more but—I don’t know. I think I’ve hurt you enough for today.” The way the words fell sounded strange to Morgan’s ears, like she was saying I’ve assigned you enough homework, be sure you turn it in on time. She grimaced and searched for a new place to hold her back. Maybe there really was no going back for them. Maybe they were different versions of themselves already.

Slowly, she reached for Deirdre’s wet cheek and stroked it dry. “What happened to Lydia wasn’t your fault. Maybe if she wasn’t so stubborn and proud she might have picked up on the second call and everything would be different, but if she’d done that, she wouldn’t have been Lydia. She wouldn’t want you to carry guilt. And I don’t think you should either. Not for that.”

“That’s okay,” Deirdre smiled. The cynical part of her remarked that of course that was easy for her to say. Her trust hadn’t been so shattered, her love wasn’t so tested. But what else was there? How else could she tell Morgan that her emotions, her trepidation, was all okay? “You can tell me just how badly something hurts you, Morgan. If I can’t see it myself, I think you should tell me. And, well especially when I am the cause of it. I want to be able to love you and take care of you the best that I can. If I can’t see it, I can’t do that. So if you can, if you will, please tell me.” But it wasn’t Morgan’s fault that she didn’t say anything, Deirdre didn’t imagine that any person would’ve in her place. To be with someone grieving that strongly, trying to explain one’s own pain must have felt too selfish. Still, if it could have been possible, Deirdre wished she knew. “And that’s okay too,” she sighed, pressing her forehead to Morgan’s. She’d meant to kiss her, obviously, but had to stop short. “You don’t have to, I’m not expecting you to. However long you need...that’s okay. I’ll be here. I promise for today and tomorrow that I will not leave you as I did before….remember that? And I promise to never leave your side abruptly without telling you where or why I’m going. I’ll be here for you, whenever you’re ready.” She shifted, pulling back as the rest of Morgan’s words sank in. She tangled her fingers in her hair, tugging and pressing in just enough for Morgan to feel her. “Is that what happened before? Were you panicking? If holding you gets to be too much, you can tell me. If you can. What would you like me to do for you in that case?” Deirdre shook her head, laughing shakily. “Don’t worry about hurting me, not for this. Not when it comes to the way you feel. If you want to tell me more, I’d be happy to listen. And if you’re too tired for it, we can revisit this later.”

At the mention of Lydia, Deirdre grimaced and shifted again, still clutching Morgan tight to her. “It is my fault. All of it. Her death, her torture, her being ash, your pain, your broken trust...it’s all my fault. I know that. I called her a lot to tell her about dead animals I found, or just because I wanted to hear her voice…she probably didn’t think anything of it, I bet. And if I wasn’t so stubborn, maybe I would have realized that of course Ariana was planning on having her killed. She’d always been. And maybe if I was a better friend to her, I could have helped her fix her life instead of letting her take more humans. I could’ve done something. I could’ve done more. I know Lydia won’t agree, but she can be wrong, sometimes. And it is my fault. All of it.” She sagged into Morgan, curling against her. “I could’ve killed the warden that did this instead of a girl who did nothing. If only I wasn’t so stupid. It’s my fault, Morgan. That’s okay. I know it is.”

Morgan tilted her head back to watch Deirdre’s face as she replied, still drying her face as she did. “I was trying to put you first…” she explained lamely. She welcomed the press of their foreheads together, nuzzling down to her cheek. This much, this moment, fit right. The grooves in their wrinkled forehead and the down of their cheeks nested just enough to make Morgan exhale, unclench. The assurances and promises sounded naturally to her ears as ambient rain down the windows. She nodded along, moaning softly when Deirdre pulled on her hair just right. She wasn’t surprised by this complete, tender forgiveness, but it didn’t tack cleanly onto what she’d known before either. “You really are different, huh,” Morgan marveled.

She nodded in acknowledgement of the stupidity that had landed them on the floor again. “It wasn’t that you were holding me. It just felt so nice I wanted more. And like it could almost be easy, just reaching out and taking you. And that’s when I got really scared. Because I can’t do that right now, I can’t. And I think I needed to leave the room no matter what, but I was so angry that I could want to give in so easily, without you having to do a thing. That's when I decided I wanted you to hurt with me. I’m sorry, for that much at least.” She curled her body in a little tighter. “But you can still hold me. We can have that.”

And they could have this too: Morgan straining her head up to kiss Deirdre’s cheek, her lips lingering tenderly on her skin. “There’s a lot that could’ve been different, yeah. But it’s not all on you, even if thinking that is more comforting than saying some parts were out of your control. You can put some of it down now. If even I can see that from where I’m at, you have to know it’s true.” She kissed her cheek again. “I don’t have room for many mercies in my heart right now, but I do have this one. Be gentle with yourself, Deirdre. It isn’t only on you. Forgive yourself a little.”

“I know, I know…” She assured, voice like a breeze. Deirdre smiled, as much as she could given the circumstance. But as small and tender as her smile was, the love behind it wasn’t any less strong. “I know you were. I know that now. Thank you, my love. You can rest now, you can worry about yourself now. It’s okay.” At Morgan’s marvel, she resisted the urge to ask whatever she meant. She was the woman she’d always been, the one that loved Morgan. In her mind, at least, she hadn’t changed at all. But there was a week of grief that said different about her, and she figured Morgan meant that. Deirdre smiled a little wider, brows pulled together. “I suppose so.”

Deirdre’s smile fell, and her frown turned with understanding--and remorse. “I’m sorry,” she said, “is there anything I can do, for next time?” Though she didn’t mention it, she hoped it was clear that she’d wanted more too, that she was doing her best to keep them at the boundary Morgan wanted. It wasn’t much, and it clearly wasn’t enough, but she was trying. Once, Morgan would have said that counted for something. Deirdre held hope she still felt that way. “If it soothes you, I am hurting.” But she couldn’t--and wouldn’t--measure her pain to Morgan’s. And it wasn’t a comfort to her at all to know Morgan was hurting like she was, she’d rather neither of them were. She wanted their peace again, their world--the good one, away from everything that kept taking and taking from them. Deirdre sighed against Morgan, trying to lean into her kiss. She turned her head, nuzzling into her cheek. She couldn’t kiss her, and these acts to fill the space didn’t compare, but they helped. “I don’t know if I can do that,” she confessed in a small voice. “Not until things are right. Until then, it’s my fault. But thank you--thank you. I’ll think about what you’re saying.”

Morgan relented, asking her quiet body if there was anything else to unclench, anything else she could release to bring herself closer to rest. She moaned again, encouraging Deirdre with little nods and turns to keep going, holding her, talking to her, touching her face. At Deirdre’s smile, Morgan managed a weary one of her own. Her soul was so tired, and she could believe now that these gestures were as real as the hands that gave them, let it soothe her.

She tried to think about the moments that made up her stupid, clumsy escape from the room. Deirdre’s knuckles had brushed her side, digging into Morgan’s tattoo just enough to be distinct. But Morgan thought she would welcome that now, at least while her mood prevailed like this. “I think you already have,” Morgan murmured. “I believe you now. I think whatever Deirdre you are now, you want to be careful with me, love me, and you won’t do anything like this if you can help it. I um...I think I just need to use better words next time. Tell you that I need a minute, and trust that you’ll give it to me.” She sighed. “Maybe this morning knowing that probably would’ve made me feel better, but not right now.”

Deirdre frowned, she should have felt happy to know Morgan believed her now—and she was, just not as happy as she reckoned she should be. Part of her mind clouded with doubt; there should have been more. She should have had to do more to make it true. All she’d done was talk and hold her, nothing special by any standard she held herself to. She should have had to lose a finger, or a metaphorical finger. Vaguely, the idea bounced in her head that there was something wrong with her instinct to use suffering as the barometer for success. She didn’t know how that idea got there, but she shook it out. “Well, it’s okay if you can’t get any better words out. Whatever you need to do, that’s fine. I’m okay with that.”

Morgan knew better than to give too many kisses, however chaste. But the freshly melted piece of her heart craved closeness and she found herself cradling Deirdre’s face and combing her fingers gently through her long hair. “Ssh,” she whispered. “Not all at once, just a little. We can forgive a little at a time. We can try.” She pulled away so Deirdre could see her and understand through her look--still guarded, but softer and more sober than it had been in many days--that she meant the two of them could forgive each other that way too. If nothing else, they could try.

#wr deirdre #wr chatzy #wr deirdre chatzy #lover you were gone so long #//don't know if morgan's wild codependency needs its own tag #//but lmk if it does #wickedswriting

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