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religion-is-a-mental-illness · 10 months

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By: Reid Newtown

Published: Nov 27, 2023

I grew up attending integrated public schools in Atlanta. From the start, I was used to being in the minority: I’m white and my friends were almost all black or Hispanic, and when I was a freshman in high school, in 2010, I came out as a lesbian. Neither my race nor my sexual orientation mattered to my friends. One reason for that was dance and music and the belief that my friends and I shared that art can change people, give them purpose, communicate something beautiful and transformative.

I moved to New York City when I was 18, but the day after George Floyd was murdered in Minneapolis, I was back in Atlanta visiting my parents, and I drove to my friend Sean’s house. He lived in a quiet, black suburb called Camp Creek filled with orderly, identical homes.

That night, I remember wanting to wrap my arms around my friends, to be there for them in what felt like this unbelievably dark moment. As the protests turned to riots closer to the heart of the city—just a few miles east of Camp Creek, near Centennial Olympic Park—Sean’s neighborhood stayed quiet.

But as soon as I stepped foot inside Sean’s house, I was greeted by the family dogs, and smelled the grill being fired up. There was a bowl of potato salad on the counter. Our mutual friend Khalil greeted me as if nothing was wrong, sweeping me off my feet into a familiar dance lift we’d done a thousand times. “Reidist!” he said.

Sean’s mom told me she was so glad I was safe, away from the neighborhoods being vandalized and, in some cases, set on fire. She shook her head as she prepared the hamburgers and hot dogs, as she always did in the summer. There were violent clashes all that night, and the mayor issued a 9 p.m. curfew, which meant, as usual, I would be sleeping over.

That night, all of our friends were there. There was a sense of deep-seated grief, and people wanted to be together, and they wanted to cry and hug and share stories. My friends—all black men in their early twenties—recalled run-ins they had had with the cops.

Being pulled over for no obvious reason while police dogs searched their car. Being roughed up. Being cuffed. Being called racist slurs. Being taken down to the station for questioning when they had done literally nothing. In the coming days and months, we donated to bail campaigns and posted a black square on our Instagrams. In June, we marched, and chanted, and we waved signs and demanded justice.

That summer, the world seemed upside down, violent, crazy. We wanted to make it right. What I couldn’t see then was that, far from making it right, we were on this spiral, and it was taking us somewhere dark: The world I had grown up in was being dismantled, and it was never coming back.

* * *

I grew up going to public schools just north of downtown. My kindergarten class resembled one of those stock diversity photos with one kid from every race sitting at a table together. I didn’t think twice about it. They were my friends.

I frequently had friends over at my house. My mom—everyone called her Mama Newt—hosted everyone no matter what they looked like or where they came from. No one left Mama Newt’s kitchen hungry.

[ Reid’s mother, “Mama Newt” ]

In middle school, the black kids started sitting with the black kids at lunch. The Hispanic kids with the Hispanic kids. The white kids with the white kids. I agonized over where to sit. All of my friends were at different tables.

I loved to dance, and I became captain of the step team. I was the only white girl on the team, and I stuck out, but the girls didn’t treat me any differently. There were jokes about how surprising it was that I had rhythm; we all laughed about it. Race was present, but it didn’t feel overbearing.

In high school, race and racial identity became more important, more talked about, inescapable. The dance studio was the only classroom that reflected the school’s diversity. Most other classes were de facto segregated based on students’ academic track.

The dance crew—we were like a sitcom. There was Sean, the music theater geek who was also a first-rate swimmer. Then there was Khalil, who was a firecracker gymnast and cheerleader—and hilarious. (People compared him to Kevin Hart.) Then there was Isaac, who was tall and lanky, a lacrosse player and preacher’s son. And then there was me. They called me “lil sis,” which I loved, maybe because I’d never had siblings. As an only child, my friends really felt like family.

[ From Left to Right: Sean, Khalil, Reid, Isaac, and Kwame ]

The studio was like a race-blind utopia, and it felt unreal, because it was: the moment you stepped out into the hallway, the intimacy and warmth gave way to a kind of unhappy, low-level tension.

Usually, that tension resided just beneath the surface. But not always.

I remember one day in 2011 there was supposed to be a big fight between the black, white, and Hispanic students. There had been an altercation a few days before between rival gangs, and it was near the end of the school year, when fights were more common, and someone started a rumor about a “race war.”

I stood in the middle of the courtyard and looked around at the various corners full of people siloing themselves into white, black, and brown factions. I had no idea which corner I belonged in. In the Hispanic section, I glimpsed Jessica Sanchez, who had taught me in the sixth grade how to throw a punch. I wondered what would happen if I had to punch Jessica Sanchez.

Luckily, security stopped it before it started, and everyone eventually returned to class as if nothing had happened.

The point is, the racial tension notwithstanding, we seemed to be moving in the right direction. Maybe I was blind. Maybe my whiteness made it impossible for me to see what was really going on in other people’s heads. I don’t know. I found my tribe wherever I found kindness and laughter. Wherever the bass was bumping, and people were dancing. The rest always seemed to work itself out.

* * *

In 2014, I moved to New York to go to Fordham University and the prestigious Ailey School of Dance. Alvin Ailey, who founded the school in 1969, was known for having said that “dance is for everybody” and “we are all human beings and color is not important.” I loved the power of art to transcend difference.

[ Reid and a fellow classmate at Ailey School of Dance ]

My high school sweetheart, a black woman I naively believed I would one day marry, started her freshman year at Harvard, where she immersed herself in the spoken-word poetry scene and acquired a new racial consciousness. I remember taking the five-hour bus from New York to Cambridge only to find myself sitting alone in her dorm, excluded from the party and poetry slam she’d gone to.

She said that she no longer felt safe being near me because I was white, that any physical affection I offered was me attempting to colonize her body.

Six months into college, she broke up with me.

At the time, I thought this was an anomaly—a sad derangement that came out of elite places like Harvard. I had no idea what was coming.

Dance distracted me from the hurt. My goal had been to make it to the professional Alvin Ailey American Dance Theater since I first saw Ailey’s Revelations performed at the old Fox Theatre, in Atlanta, and that feeling intensified after I attended Ailey’s Summer Intensive when I was 16—now that I was at the dance school I felt like I was on the cusp of getting in.

A hip injury put an end to that dream, but it didn’t really matter. I went on to dance professionally elsewhere—among other gigs, I spent three seasons as a dancer and stunt double on The Marvelous Mrs. Maisel—graduated from Fordham in 2018, fell in love once again with an older, Bengali-American woman, got my own apartment in Queens, and moved my dog, Tiger, a Pekingese-poodle mix, from Atlanta to New York.

I also started to think beyond the narrow confines of a New York City progressive, which felt increasingly small and myopic. I read books like The Coddling of the American Mind and The Problem with Everything and The Rise of Victimhood Culture. I started to disagree, silently, with my friends.

Then, in early 2020, my girlfriend and I broke up, and Covid happened. I was furloughed from my day job as a technician at a physical therapy clinic, and my dance gig auditions came to a halt. I got depressed being all alone in my apartment, and I flew home to Atlanta to be with my family.

A few days after I got home, George Floyd was murdered.

Suddenly, I felt this thing I had never felt: people viewing and talking to each other through the lens of race. Yes, I know, that lens had always been there. But there had always been other people, ideas, forces to counteract that. Our impulse to divide had always been eclipsed by a more powerful desire to come together.

But now the fissures were opening up, and it was impossible to sew them together. I remembered being broken up with six years earlier by my critical-race-theory-poetry-slam girlfriend, and suddenly it seemed like millions of people were breaking up with each other, walling themselves off. When I showed up at Sean’s house that night, his mom’s familiar embrace almost made me cry. Between social distancing and racial siloing, physical affection had started to feel foreign. I leaned into her hug hard, and she had to steady herself to keep herself from falling backward.

When the lockdowns ended, I went back to New York, but I couldn’t stay for long. My mom had always had multiple sclerosis, but now it was getting worse. My parents were everything to me: They’d supported my dancing; they’d supported me when I came out. Now, my mother was struggling, and my dad, forced to juggle full-time work and full-time caregiving, was overwhelmed, drowning in responsibility. I had to go home, and I wanted to.

At the time, I didn’t know you can’t ever really go home again.

* * *

By spring 2022, things were finally reopening, and we all wanted to go out and dance.

That night, at a club in midtown Atlanta, I was, as usual, the only white person. I was used to that, but this time it was different.

As I danced with my friends to classic southern hip-hop songs like “Knuck if You Buck” by Crime Mob, “It’s Goin’ Down” by Yung Dro, and “Walk it Out” by Outkast, I could feel the eyes around me searing into my back and head and legs and face. People pulled out their cameras and filmed me in disgust—as if I had two heads. They said things like: “Who does she think she is?” and “She shouldn’t be allowed here—I don’t care if she can dance.”

The worst part wasn’t how it made me feel, how out of place I felt in this world I had once thought of as an extension of home. The worst part was that the people in that room felt threatened by my being there. This seemed crazy to me, but it was undeniable. They genuinely felt unsafe and uncomfortable because of the color of my skin. They viewed me as an oppressor and a grifter looking to take—to appropriate—what wasn’t mine.

The world of dance, which had given me that precious language to communicate with anyone irrespective of who they were or where they came from, was fragmenting—consumed, like everything else, by our seemingly inescapable racialization and tribalization.

A few weeks later, I received an invitation to a party. At the top of the invitation bold letters stated: “THIS IS AN ALL-BLACK EVENT.” I responded to the friend who sent it to me and asked if they meant to wear all-black clothes. She responded, “Nah, it’s for black people only, but you know you’re the exception.”

I did not attend.

The self-segregation was suffocating. The most meaningful art and friendships in my life had come out of piercing through racial boundaries. Expanding my horizons. Now, it seemed like those horizons were closing in on me, my friends, the wonderful, collaborative, fluid, undulating world of dance that had infused my life with so much meaning. It felt like something was being lost forever.

I know, I know—we’ve been in this moment for three years, and I can’t tell you how many times I’ve been told that setting aside my race, my whiteness, is a privilege. Does that mean we shouldn’t aspire to live in a world in which we all set aside our immutable traits? That we shouldn’t try to see beyond race?

Which brings me to the most amazing woman I’ve ever known.

After a couple of years of dating as a gay woman in New York, I was feeling discouraged. Everyone I had gone out with was a hyper-political leftist. They always seemed to be in the middle of a rant. Every date gave me an uneasy feeling for fear of saying the wrong thing—my views on race, sex, gender, you name it, were not in lock-step with those of my fellow LGBT New Yorkers. On edge and worried I would never find my person, I had almost given up dating entirely.

Then I connected with Bianca. She’s an elite marathoner and the daughter of Cuban immigrants, and she’s perfect: measured, kind, curious. The only woman I’ve ever met who could convince me to run a 5K and the only one who’s made me rethink some of my opinions about politics, identity, life, and the world.

I like to believe we were always meant to be, but I also know I would never have arrived at this place were it not for the ups and downs of the last few years. Before the summer of 2020, it was easier to feel or think or exist outside our superficial differences. We didn’t talk about these things with the same frequency or intensity. There weren’t as many landmines. Now, it’s more important than ever to discuss our differences—while also trying to see beyond skin color and demand that we’re seen the same way.

A few months ago, I had a ring made for Bianca using the diamond from my late grandmother’s wedding ring. I haven’t proposed yet, but we’re thinking maybe a small wedding with family down the line. As for Sean, Khalil, and Isaac—they’re planning on being my three best men.

[ Reid and Bianca ]

"Critical theory is a universal solvent, and the problem with a universal solvent is finding a container that can hold them. Spill enough and dissolve society." -- James Lindsay

#Bianca Newton #antiracism #antiracism as religion #racial division #critical social justice #critical theory #critical race theory #colorblindness #religion is a mental illness

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incognito-melancholia · 10 months

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That comment about how you should not borrow grief from the future has saved me multiple times from spiraling into an inescapable state of anxiety. Iike every time i find myself thinking about how something in the future could go wrong i remember that comment and i think to myself: well i never know, it might get better. it might not even happen the way i think it will and if it does happen and it is sad and bad ill be sad about it then, when it happens. and it's somehow soo freeing!

#thoughts #poets on tumblr #words #dark acadamia aesthetic #sad aesthetic #melancholia #sad poetry #feelings #sad thoughts #sad poem #sad sad sad #sadgirl #dealing with grief

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thedragonagelesbian · 1 year

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someone (hi it was me) rolled a crit fail (two 1s) on a +Weird roll

that’s fine right? its basic probability, with adelaide’s +3 modifier there’s still three dice rolls with 2d6 that could land me a failure. there wasn’t a huge chance of it but it was there.

it’s fine right? just a glitch or two, lose control, burn some things you didn’t mean to, but it’s not the end of the world R I G H T

WRONG

because this wasn’t a use magic roll. this was a roll to use one of my ROTES, the FIRST SPELL adelaide EVER TAUGHT HERSELF after she realized she was trapped in harborview to keep from having perpetual, monster-summoning panic attacks about being trapped in harborview

because magic in this world is fueled by faith and focus. and nervously fixating on your fears manifests them. :)

Your real start was a trick you taught yourself to keep from drowning when the fear and loneliness and grief caught you like the undertow: how to forge a life raft of silver and blood. You’ve held yourself together for so many years with just the scar tissue on your thighs.

but casterisk, you say, surely even that’s not that bad. after all, the entire mechanical premise of a rote is that you know its consequences in advance. at least you were making an informed decision when you, as the player, without any prompting from your keeper, VOLUNTARILY decided to give your character a panic attack and then also had her use her rote against herself.

YES B U T

the consequence. for this particular rote. is “The target spirals, bringing their belief into reality immediately as a threat.”

alright, casterisk, you say, but what is this belief it’s probably no that bad right?

N O P E

the belief in question :) arose from a conversation with her dad :) in which adelaide realized that although he has tried to keep her in harborview :) he hasnt used magic to do so :) and didnt even know magic existed in this world until adelaide set his dining room table on fire :)

which means that adelaide’s helplessness is well and truly learned because her very belief that she was trapped in harborview contributed to the magic keeping her trapped in harborview

SHE HAS BEEN LIVING IN A HELL PARTIALLY OF HER OWN MAKING FOR THE LAST SIX YEARS

AND IN TRYING NOT TO FREAK OUT ABOUT THIS FACT, SHE TRIED TO USE MAGIC TO FORCE HERSELF TO CALM DOWN

AND INSTEAD!!!!!!!!!!! SHE SOLIDIFIED HER FEAR THAT SHE IS WELL AND TRULY AND INESCAPABLY TRAPPED IN HARBORVIEW WITHOUT ANY HOPE WHATSOEVER OF ESCAPING

A FEAR THAT IS NOW PHYSICALLY MANIFEST IN THIS WORLD AS A MONSTER THE PARTY MUST DEAL WITH

AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH

#adelaide posting #this was literally just me and the keeper on a call together bc we were like #the other players arent free until next week and we really need to get this wyatt&adelaide scene hashed out #OH BOY DID WE FUCKING EVERRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR

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enneamage · 2 years

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Speaking as another 3w4, I’d say love and achievement are never fully separate since achievement is the means by which this type feel they become deserving of others’ love, so “presidency” (guidance, competence, control, responsibility, protection, authority, role model, moral compass) could be how Wilbur perceives he earns his place in Tommy’s life, in and out of character. Sure is curious that the finale has him leave because others DO expect him to fulfil that role and vilify him for not reaching its high standard, even for “not being there to protect them” aka killing himself. You’d expect a story like his to end with a realization that others don’t actually value him for shallow conditional reasons and see him for the human beneath, but he really *is* living in a world that detests him for suffering and only cares about him to the extent it can expect the impossible of him, so he has to leave that reality and get far away from all its inhabitants to stop beating himself up for not reaching their expectations and for all the times he crumbled under them. Is Wilbur is crumbling under the pressure of being Quirky White Boy or does he really think people view their friends like this

The DSMP really was a callous place, I won’t deny that. Lot of gamers trampling over each other, it was the fandom who rose-tinted those glasses and made a CN show out of a Rick and Morty episode /pos. If you had to learn that love exists, I wouldn’t have chosen there as the destination spot to do so.

I do generally get the sense that C!Wilbur felt the need to do something in order to earn a place in his environment. He seemed anxious about being underwhelming or irrelevant, that did turn out to be the seed of a lot of grief down the road. The question of how rational or irrational the concern was is up in the air, but it was definitely magnified by his nature; soon only positions of power seemed tolerable to him to overcome his shame and anxiety. He wouldn’t (couldn’t?) experience what was in front of him as good enough because everything was already wrapped up in the pretense of his impulses, so he felt he had to keep them up in order to hold onto what he had. He never really gave himself the chance to explore another option, and maybe that was the feeling of needing to be ‘worthy’ before he could be satisfied with what was around him.

If you put Wilbur (and his neurosis) at the center of the narrative of the world, he can be sympathetic, he even makes sense. The issue is that putting one single person at the center of the world can never be the source of a sustainable, or just, plan. Everyone is part of a natural exchange, the world is give-and-take on the micro and the macro level, and in a big network of people that matters. Most of the characters wound up afraid of the destructive road that C!Wilbur went down with his mental spiral, because he turned to mass public violence and then suicide. The latter could have been a delicate and private matter, but the former made it real personal to everyone involved, and they reserved the right to feel that the TNT was at least unnecessary.

In this scenario, is the high standard being Tommy’s or everyone’s ‘President’? And are the characters in-universe holding him to that standard, or the audience? If I remember correctly the thing that made C!Wilbur afraid was that people didn’t give him the defference of a leader and things weren’t happening on his terms, not that the people around him were calling him to be something greater than he could be. Maybe those two things blended into being one and the same, but that connection would have been made in his head. I’m trying to figure out what the impossible standard that he can’t meet is, why he wouldn’t be able to meet it on more modest terms, and if it comes from inside or outside. It’s probably both (Input ->interpretation->narrative->output->input again) which is why it feels so inescapable.

I feel like you've discovered a thread here that I hadn't thought of before—Few people are consciously holding him to a standard of greatness, but if that's what it takes to get attention and results, they may as well be, because he finds the apathy intolerable.

There’s probably a depression reading here (the fear of sadness making one unwanted) and that’s something that Main is more willing to go into with their metas. Feeling like you have a larger need for attention and respect and love than there seems to be in the world is probably terrifying, especially if you feel like who you really are is the thing that’s keeping you from getting any.

You know that question that gets passed around by internet dwelling couples, “Would you still love me if I was a worm?” For the most part it’s a meme to throw at someone to see their reaction, but it’s known to create some strangely intense conversations. The premise is goofy, because nobody is at serious risk of being hit with the wormification ray, but it has something strangely vulnerable underneath it; If I suddenly lacked all human output and was basically helpless, would you still love me? It’s a hard situation to size up, both in yourself and other people—would you still love me if I was a worm? Would I still love you if you were a worm? The caretaker instinct says ‘yes’ but how long would that last? Much to think about.

I feel like the seed of neurosis, deep down, is that he feels he is that worm. He wants to be everything except that worm, but the vulnerability is always close behind, and his instincts are wrapped around protecting it. We’ve had the Age Regressor talk here a couple of times, so sometimes he even acts like that worm, or at least tests people to see if they could handle it. In the end you’ve got to zoom out again and look at the bigger picture, harsh as it can be to the one perspective.

#I feel like this got pseudo-personal so whatever you’ve got going on I hope you get a good resolution anon #This got philosophical #loreposting #gen wlbr tag #other people seemed to tolerate c!Wilbur as a peer but c!wilbur couldn't tolerate himself as a peer #get this man some DBT

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spoilertv · 24 days

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#SpoilerTV

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jcarreto · 8 months

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That comment about how you should not borrow grief from the future has saved me multiple times from spiraling into an inescapable state of anxiety, like every time i find myself thinking about how something in the future could go wrong i remember that comment and i think to myself: well i never know, it might get better. it might not even happen the way i think it will and if it does happen and it is sad and bad ill be sad about it then, when it happens. and it’s somehow soo freeing

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judielmay · 9 months

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In 2023, I learned to stop borrowing grief from the future. This saved me multiple times from spiraling into an inescapable state of anxiety, and made me feel free.

Every time I find myself thinking about how something in the future could go wrong, I remember what Taylor Swift wrote in her journal, "It's senseless to worry about someday not being happy, when I am happy now" and I think to myself - Well I never know, it might get better. It might not even happen the way I think it will. But if it does happen, and it is sad, and bad, I'll be sad about it then, when it happens. But for now, I'll give myself a well-lived life my future self will be thankful for.

Live for the present. ❤️

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bouwrites · 1 year

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Those Warm and Halcyon Days: Chapter 24

In the Blue Hours of Morning

Ao3.

First, Previous, Next.

Story under read-more.

Professor Byleth doesn’t leave her father’s office for days.

In a way, Veery can relate to her. Truthfully, it is so long ago that he barely remembers it, but he thinks his own parent’s deaths are the catalyst that lead to him being… the way he is. After they die, he feels lost, alone, and though he knows that most people go to others for help, or even just sink into an inescapable spiral of grief (and it pains Veery to think that he has no idea if that is what Professor Byleth is truly feeling right now), for Veery… he finds solace in solitude.

It’s nice. It’s comforting, in a way, when his actions only affect him. When he doesn’t need to worry about anything or anyone but himself. When he doesn’t have to… navigate such complicated… everything. There are wonderful things about being with others, but there are some things that can only be found alone.

Self-reliance and the need to survive are what keeps Veery going, way back then. It’s still what motivates him. The pure and simple fact that if he doesn’t take care of himself, then no one will. It keeps him busy and it keeps him moving and he can focus on himself, on his needs, physical and mental, without worrying about everything else. That experience permanently reshapes his entire worldview.

When Professor Byleth refuses to leave her father’s office, the Golden Deer bring food up to her. They take turns at the door, waiting for her but giving her space. Professor Byleth has so many people who love her. She has so much family so devoted to taking care of her. Everything from the other professors taking over her classes to Mercedes and Annette’s cookies slipped inside the room is everyone showing that love.

Veery doesn’t know if he’s jealous or not. Whatever he’s feeling, it twists uncomfortably in his gut and he knows for certain that he doesn’t like it.

Is she using solitude to heal, or to hide? There are many, many problems one can hide from. Predators, inclement weather, big crowds at parties… but this? There is no hiding from this. Sooner or later, Professor Byleth is going to have to decide if she can move forward, or if she will let this kill her.

Veery makes no attempt to invade Professor Byleth’s solitude. He has no idea what solitude is doing to her – whether it’s helping or hurting – but he, of all people, won’t force company onto her if she doesn’t wish for it. As much as he hopes for her recovery, the simple truth is that, when it comes to something like this, she needs to help herself. If that means being alone, then so be it. If that means reaching out, then that’s fine, too. But it must be her decision. If she’s not willing to take that step, then there’s nothing anyone can do for her.

He wants to give her the time and space to focus on herself and not worry about looking strong for her students or how her feelings are affecting them. When she comes out, when she approaches him and tells him what he can do, then, and only then, will he do it.

To his knowledge, she doesn’t take that step yet with anyone. That’s why it surprises him when he sees Claude leave Captain Jeralt’s office holding a small, leatherbound journal like it’s something holy.

“Claude? How’s the professor?”

Claude looks over to him and sighs. “I won’t lie, she’s been better. But… I think she’s getting there.”

Veery nods, feeling reassured and relieved, like a pressure is lifted off of him. “Good,” he says. Then, he nods to the book in Claude’s hands. “What’s that?”

“This? Ah…” Claude frowns. “It’s Jeralt’s diary. I’m hoping that looking through it might give me some hint as to why Jeralt left the monastery back when Teach was born. Maybe it’ll even give me a clue as to why Rhea is so obsessed with her.” He shakes his head. “Sorry. As much as I’d appreciate a second set of eyes…”

“It’s precious to Professor Byleth. I understand.” Veery nods. He doesn’t need to read that, anyway. If anything is relevant – in that it poses any sort of threat, at least – Claude will fill him in on everything he needs to know later. Still… Veery glances between Claude and Seteth’s door and thinks maybe Claude being here is a blessing. “Hey, I know you’re probably itching to read that, but… could you come with me for a bit?”

Claude raises a brow. “Of course. What do you need me for?”

“Just…” Veery takes a breath. “I need to fill you in on something. I should’ve told you as soon as I found out, but I’ve been… trying to handle it.”

Claude presses his lips together and nods. “Where are we going?”

Veery offers a strained smile. “Seteth’s office, actually. You… might want to hide that diary if you don’t want him asking questions.”

Claude slips the diary carefully into his pockets and nods. “What are we waiting for? I’m dying to hear whatever this is about.”

Veery winces, but forges on and knocks firmly on Seteth’s door. The call that admits them inside comes quickly, and Veery crosses the threshold before he can talk himself out of it.

“Ah, Veery, Claude. This is unexpected. Did something happen?”

Veery frowns. “You could say that. I have… more information about the attack during the night of the ball.”

Seteth stills and then sets his quill down to fix Veery with his full attention. Claude is likewise raising his brow as he looks over at Veery. “Any information you have is welcome,” Seteth says gently. “And you just discovered this?”

“No.” Veery shakes his head. “I found out the night it happened. I just… couldn’t bring it up with everyone focused on Captain Jeralt. Since then, I’ve been trying to decide what to do about it.”

“I see.” Seteth’s brows knit together as he frowns idly at Veery. “And what is this information you have?”

“It’s…” Veery takes a shaky breath, and then releases it. “As you know, demonic beasts are made from the hearts of agell.”

“Yes. I am led to believe that you recovered all of the Crest Stones from the attack that night.”

“Singular, actually,” Veery says. “It was one. Part of one, to be specific. And I know where Monica got it from to start with, too.” He pulls the Crest Stone shards out of his bag and unwraps them, keeping a careful eye on both Seteth and Claude to ensure they don’t try to touch it.

“The Crest Stone was… broken?” Claude asks. “To make more demonic beasts with fewer resources? This could mean that the Agarthans don’t have many of these things just lying around.”

“Possibly,” Veery admits. “That might’ve been one of the reasons for the attack. To see if they can make demonic beasts with only fragments. But… Seteth… this heart is…”

Seteth closes his eyes and sighs. “It’s the one from Zanado, isn’t it?”

“…Yes.”

“I told you to keep it safe.”

“I know. I failed.”

“Veery.” Claude frowns. “This isn’t… it’s not your fault.”

Veery sighs. “Not all of it, maybe, but… I should have been more careful. I know how dangerous these hearts are, so… both of you… I’m so sorry.”

Claude’s hand is on his back almost immediately, rubbing in reassurances, and Seteth just watches him for a moment before he sighs again. “What’s done is done,” Seteth says. “Are the other hearts safe?”

“They are.” Veery nods, gesturing to the bag he has attached to his belt. “I have them with me.”

“Good. And the broken one… what do you intend to do with it?”

Veery swallows down the lump in his throat. “Destroy it, if I can.”

“Destroy it?” Seteth balks. “Veery, even if it is broken, can you really-”

“I tried to listen to it,” Veery says sharply, cutting Seteth off. He hears the quick intake of breath. “When I first saw the dead student with it.”

Claude keeps rubbing his back soothingly, carefully. “…And?” he prods, obviously expecting the answer to be bad.

Veery shakes his head. “I can’t… I can’t describe… I’ve never felt pain like that before. And then after…”

“After?” Seteth asks. “It affected you even after you closed your heart to it?”

Veery can only shrug helpless. “I don’t know. I can’t explain what happened. I don’t know if it has something to do with this, or if it’s something else entirely, but… right after that, I saw Captain Jeralt get stabbed in the back. He… he collapsed, and then the next thing I knew I was touching that shard again. When I looked up, Monica hadn’t even drawn her blade.”

Seteth openly gasps. “You are saying you saw the future?”

“I don’t know,” Veery says shaking his head sadly. “I still have no idea what happened. All I know is this thing is broken, and when I listened to it, I felt the most immense pain I’ve ever felt in my life. I saw Jeralt get stabbed, and then he wasn’t, and Professor Byleth was swinging her sword and I… I hesitated because I didn’t know what was going on and… and now… this.”

Seteth worries his lip, gazing down at his desk. “You said… did Professor Byleth attack Monica in your… vision? Before time reversed?”

Veery furrows his brow. “W-well… no, I don’t think so. Everyone was so surprised.”

“Seteth?” Claude asks. “What are you thinking?”

Seteth sighs through his teeth and completely ignores Claude. “Veery… Captain Jeralt’s death is not your fault. Even if what you saw was true, it is not your fault that Monica could not be stopped.”

“But I-”

“Please, Veery.” Seteth holds his gaze firmly, determination and resolution clear in his eyes. “If even turning back the hands of time was not enough to save his life, you must accept what came to pass was fate.”

“I don’t believe in fate,” Veery says, looking to the floor. “But… the past can’t be changed, only dealt with. Don’t worry about me. I’ll keep moving forward. I just… I need to be stronger. I can’t hesitate again. Professor Byleth…”

“Professor Byleth is a strong woman,” Seteth says. “She will recover from this.”

“I know.” Veery nods. “I know.” He shudders, suck in a breath, and tightens his resolve. “Let’s just… this broken heart. After I listened to it… Seteth, it needs to be destroyed. It’s twisted beyond recognition.”

“…Very well. I will trust you on this. And the others?”

Veery removes the bag from his belt, feeling the weight of the hearts in his hand for a moment. “I want to ask you to look after them,” Veery says. “You can keep them safer than I can.”

Seteth’s eyes go wide. “Veery… what of Rhea?”

“I still don’t trust her, but… I trust you. This is the best option I can see right now, while we’re still uncertain if there are any more Agarthans in the monastery.”

Seteth carefully takes the bag when Veery offers it, cradling the hearts with such care that Veery feels a little better about giving them up. Seteth, at least, will do his best to ensure they are taken care of. “Thank you,” Seteth says. “Your trust means… a great deal to me. I promise you; I will safeguard these hearts.”

“I know you will,” Veery says. Claude silently takes Veery’s hand in his and squeezes tight.

Rhea finds out about Veery’s intentions with the heart fragments. Veery isn’t honestly surprised when he finds himself called to the audience chamber the very next day after speaking to Seteth, and Rhea confronts him about it.

She’s apparently also interested in his… premonition. Veery’s skin crawls when she actually smiles after he tells the story. In fact, she asks so many questions about it, none of which he has any answers to, and seems so borderline overjoyed by the story of his premonition that for a moment he forgets that the original topic in the first place is the fate of the broken dragon heart.

It takes a lot – a lot – of convincing, of both of them arguing back and forth, before they settle on a compromise. Rhea promises that if, after she resonates her own heart with the shards, she agrees with Veery’s assessment of them being simply too far gone, then she’ll give them the ancient Nabatean rites and cremate them herself.

Veery mostly only agrees because he thinks, if there is anything left of a soul in this heart, it will appreciate having the funeral rites of its own homeland. If he goes to Mercedes, she can only do modern rites for it. That and he’s admittedly not certain how, exactly, he’ll destroy it himself.

Plus, he’s not overly fussed about Rhea getting hurt from trying to resonate with that… twisted, corrupted mess. He’ll fight harder to stop Seteth or Flayn from putting themselves through that pain he experiences when he first does it, but Rhea? He warns her. If she hurts herself, it’s her own fault.

Predictably, she hurts herself.

The moment she opens her heart to the shards, smiling blithely at Veery as if he’s simply being paranoid and stupid, she erupts into a blood-curdling scream and collapses onto the audience chamber floor.

It’s her own fault.

Seteth rushes in like Flayn is being kidnapped again, and only his presence stops the knights at the door from charging in to attack Veery at the sight of him standing casually over their precious archbishop, still trembling weakly on the ground.

There is a lot of arguing back and forth, with Seteth trying to defend him, until Rhea holds up a hand to silence them all. It’s nothing to worry about, she says. The knights can go back to their posts, she says. And amazingly, they do.

Humans are so weird. That kind of devotion, to simply stop questioning because they’re told to, is borderline frightening.

Still, it works out to Veery’s benefit this time.

“I warned you,” Veery says.

“…Yes, you did,” Rhea admits, still wincing. “That… death truly is the only mercy left for this poor soul. Allow me a moment to compose myself, and I will begin the rites immediately.”

As good as her word, that is exactly what Rhea does. When she collects herself once more, she carefully collects the shards back together, laments at the pieces still missing, and says a prayer in an old…

An old language that sounds almost like Ancient. It’s obviously different – considering the goddess herself probably teaches it to the Nabateans, it’s likely actually older than the modern dialect of Ancient that the agell today speak. Still, the relation is fairly obvious. Despite the difference, Veery can still pick out many words and assemble them into coherent sentences, filling in most of the gaps with context. He wonders just how much or little time has changed this language. Agell in general are long-lived compared to humans, and dragons the most so, so is it possible that even their language changes slowly compared to human languages?

And, honestly, he feels kind of stupid when he hears Rhea’s prayer. “Oh Goddess, hear my plea,” she says in her own dialect of Ancient. “Please accept this beloved person. When the cold rain cleanses the body, when the hawk and wolf announce the dawn, accept them into your green blood. Accept them into a sparkling star.”

Translation issues aside, Veery is fairly certain that he reads that exact mourning prayer in Common in a book somewhere. It’s still not something he’ll come up with on his own – he would still need Mercedes’ help if Rhea doesn’t do it – but it doesn’t occur to him at all that many of the prayers and rites established by Rhea’s Church of Seiros are more or less exactly the same as Nabatean ones.

Of course, they are. Rhea makes the church, and she’s Nabatean. If it’s not something she feels the need to change to satisfy her control over Fódlan, why would she change it? Especially since the Nabateans and the Church of Seiros worship the same goddess. It makes less sense for the rites to change than it does for them to be the same.

Well, whatever. It works out. Rhea obliterates the heart fragments right before Veery’s eyes with the most intense Faith magic he has ever seen and spills the tiny pile of ashes remaining in her palm into a small pouch.

“Cremation is an understandably rare funerary practice among Nabateans,” Rhea explains quietly. “But I will entomb these remains with the other Nabatean hearts we are protecting all the same.”

Veery can only nod. That… is good. Veery doesn’t think anything else can be done with the ashes, so he’s inclined to believe her.

Good. What a relief that this is over and done with and out of his hands at last.

Veery doesn’t go to Captain Jeralt’s funeral. He doesn’t see much point in doing so. Funeral rites, from the prayer Rhea gives the broken dragon heart to the extravagant ceremony laid out for Captain Jeralt, strike Veery as… mostly superfluous.

He won’t deny some inkling of superstition tugging at his heart. If he truly doesn’t care at all about such things, he wouldn’t think to get rites for the agell hearts in the first place, but that’s mostly just his way of respecting the memory of the person those remains once were. (And maybe a little bit of cautious “what if?” telling him to be careful.)

But saying a prayer to pass a soul over to the goddess (which, again, power has a way of lingering, true, but the goddess is dead – this doesn’t practically do much of anything) is still very different from the massive gathering of knights and clergy who all apparently are personally affected by Captain Jeralt’s death.

Veery doesn’t know Captain Jeralt very well. They fight together a couple times – in Remire and again technically on the night he dies – but that’s about it. Most of what Veery knows about him comes from his daughter, Leonie – especially Leonie – and gossip he overhears, because he still doesn’t quite get rid of that habit of eavesdropping on people. He has no attachment to Captain Jeralt, but Jeralt doesn’t strike him as the kind of pomp and ceremony kind of man who would care for such a spectacle of his funeral.

Maybe he’s wrong, though, but going feels unnecessary either way. There are many reasons why this death does affect Veery – the premonition, Veery’s inability to help when he feels like he should be able to, the connection through Professor Byleth, aspects of the attack being partially his responsibility to start with because of his decision to bring the Crest Stone into the monastery and leave it so unprotected – but none of those really have anything to do with Captain Jeralt himself. Honestly, Veery thinks it’s much more distasteful for him to show up and pretend that Captain Jeralt personally means something to him than it is to simply avoid the funeral and keep moving.

Veery is a healer, but this isn’t even the first death on his hands. He has patients from Remire die, too. It’s not a feeling he’ll ever get used to, but… action is what’s important. He has to make sure he doesn’t hesitate again. He has to make sure that the next time something like this happens, he’ll be fast enough to stop it.

The past can’t be changed. All he can do is deal with the consequences of what has already happened and change himself in the present accordingly.

Veery just… hopes that the people who need help find some form of it in the ritual. That’s what funerals are meant for, after all. To give the survivors some… resolution. With hearts and, in the belief of most, souls that linger long after death, it is easy for agell to get lost in the dead. Veery may not know his modern peers very well, but he knows at least three stories told by the elders that warn against that very thing.

The souls that reside in the hearts of the departed… they are to be respected, cared for, and well-loved, but under no circumstances should they be mistaken for the living person. To lose sight of life and death in one’s grief is surely the quickest path to madness.

Veery’s parents never have a funeral. Or, at least, not one that Veery knows about. When they are killed by the hunters, Veery flees, favoring his survival over the recovery of their bodies or hearts. Most hunted agell are skinned on the spot. By and large, agell are killed because the humans fear predators and competition and because the two peoples hate each other so much, not for actual meat, so beyond the warm fur, most agell bodies are left to the ice.

Not Veery’s parents, though. That’s a bad winter. Bad enough that the humans need fur and food and can’t afford to pass up even agell meat. It’s… distasteful, even for the humans, and so much weirder to Veery now that he spends time with humans and sees all the ways they’re essentially the same, but everyone does what they must to survive.

But the point is that there are no bodies to recover, no hearts to retrieve, and no way to track them down. Veery… has greater things to worry about at the time than funerals, anyway, since he’s still just a cub that suddenly has to fend for himself. With the benefit of hindsight, he thinks that, if he reaches out to the agell, they likely will take him in. If instead of finding his purpose and serenity in solitude he decides to seek out others of his kind and rely on them, they likely will care for him.

Back then, at least. Now, Veery is undoubtedly a taguel, a word which in the modern parlance is used to refer to agell that get too close to the humans rather than agell unable to shift freely. In Veery’s later years in Albinea, he already suffers the name, but going to Fódlan and learning from the humans makes it inarguable.

Not that he minds. He doesn’t think there is anything wrong with his interest in humans, especially now that he knows them as well as he does, and the simple truth is that his motivation for learning about humans is and always has been entirely selfish. He just wants to stop being afraid. He needs to do something to change the way he thinks, or he will be afraid for the rest of his life. He does not find his pursuit shameful in the slightest, no matter how the word “taguel” may as well be synonymous with “traitor” nowadays.

He’s a hermit. It’s not like he’s chomping at the bit to make friends, anyway, so what does it matter if they don’t like him?

Still… while he doesn’t attend Captain Jeralt’s funeral, he does show up just to check on everyone. He stays hidden, in the back where no one notices him, and leaves quickly, but… right up in the front, as Rhea preaches, giving a touching eulogy that Veery doesn’t pay any attention to, sits Professor Byleth. Veery maneuvers to get a glance at her face, but it’s… completely and utterly blank.

He supposes that should be expected when it’s Professor Byleth they’re dealing with. But it’s the first time that Veery sees her out of her father’s office since he dies.

Veery can’t help but wonder where he would be right now, if, when his parents died, he decided to seek out the other agell for help, rather than teach himself everything his parents weren’t able to. Where would he be if he had a funeral?

Veery can still see the red. It’s just about the only thing from the encounter that he does remember, but he can still see it. He wonders if Professor Byleth is going to be the same as him, someday.

He doubts it. She has everything he didn’t. Family, people who care for her who will take care of her so that she doesn’t have to take care of herself. The parts of Veery that are jealous of her and the parts that wonder if that’s even a good thing at all war within him.

He sits at the fishing pond, staring into the water, letting the fish gliding through the water entrance him. He thinks about Captain Jeralt and about Professor Byleth, about Leonie, who weeps the entire short time Veery watches the funeral. He thinks about how nothing can be done for those lost, how the past cannot be changed and on how he needs to change himself for the better.

And he misses his parents.

This hollowness in his chest is almost startling. He honestly doesn’t even know how he comes to this conclusion, but… he misses his parents. There are… scant few details he remembers about them. He remembers the feeling of his mother’s tail as he clings to it so as to not get lost. He remembers watching them interact cordially with other agell at festivals before they’d allow him to go bother the elders for stories. He remembers being told stories of humans – his parents liked those stories, and Veery just likes stories, so he hears those ones from them more often than most. He remembers… red. Not just the blood from their deaths, but the color of their fur. His father’s is exactly like his, but with darker stripes, and his mother’s is darker, the base almost the same shade as his father’s stripes, but her lighter belly is about the same color as Veery. He… only remembers that because the image, the red, all the shades of it stark against the snow when the hunters kill them, is etched into his heart forever.

Otherwise… he has nothing. He has the memory of fur, just enough context to know that they weren’t hermits like him, the fear of humans that they instill in him as a cub, and the image of their bodies dead in their own blood.

How can he miss people he doesn’t even know?

“Veery? What are you doing out here?”

Veery raises his head to look back at Edelgard. “Hi. Is service over already?”

Edelgard purses her lips. “Yes. Many are still gathered, but those are mostly only the ones who knew him better than I did. Did you not attend? I didn’t see you, but…”

Veery shakes his head. “No. I dropped by, but I didn’t stay for it.”

Edelgard watches him quietly for a moment, and then seems to decide something and takes a seat next to him on the pier. “May I ask you something?” Veery looks over to her, tilting his head curiously. Edelgard takes a careful, controlled breath. “Everyone, from all the houses, have been trying actively to pitch in to help Professor Byleth in this… difficult time for her. I saw everyone at the funeral, as well. Even Bernadetta has ventured out of her room to support our teacher. Yet you alone have separated yourself from our teacher and abstained from attending the funeral. From an outside perspective, it seems… well, rather cold.”

Veery furrows his brow, hanging his head and looking only at the fish. “Is that what it looks like?”

“It is,” Edelgard says. “I don’t believe you to be that cold-hearted, but I admit I am at a loss for your reasoning behind such behavior.”

Veery purses his lips. Cold-hearted? Is he cold-hearted? He… might be. After all, as much as he likes people, he’s not… like them. At the end of the day, if it ever comes down to his survival or theirs, he’s going to choose his own. Survival, self-reliance, it’s all he knows. He’s learning a lot about humans and how they live, but… he’s still a hermit at heart. In the end, he is still going to end up with only himself to rely on. Even if it’s by choice, it’s not an easy lifestyle to just… change.

Veery doesn’t know if he even wants to change it. Never, in all his time here, even as he grows close enough to these humans to call them his family, does he ever falter in his end goal of peaceful solitude. To a bunch of humans who value togetherness so much… maybe he is cold-hearted.

He chews on his lip, wondering what he can say to Edelgard, and eventually just… talks. “I’m not like you,” he says. “You humans – all of you – have… so many people who will step in and take care of you when you can’t do that for yourself. I… don’t. I’ve only ever relied on myself, and I’ve only ever taken care of myself. I don’t know… I don’t know how to take care of people the way you humans do. I’m not even convinced that having someone there to take care of you isn’t just allowing you to neglect yourself instead of actually helping.”

Edelgard hums thoughtfully. “You think the way to help someone get over grief… is to not help them at all? So that their own need for survival forces them to keep moving forward?”

Veery shrugs. “I don’t… I don’t think that applies to everyone, no. But… that’s the only thing I know. When my parents died, I was on my own. I only survived because I learned how to take care of myself. I liked being alone. I still like being alone partly because I can just… focus on myself and my needs and… do that. When I always have people talking and I’m trying to keep up and not offend anyone and listen to all their advice, I just get overwhelmed and end up more stressed than I was before. I don’t think I can… I know some people will need help, but I don’t think I can help them unless they tell me what they need. With Professor Byleth… I don’t know if she needs time alone to focus on herself or if she needs someone to pick her up. I just figured… if she needs someone, she’ll find them. If that’s me, she’ll tell me what she needs. That’s all.”

Edelgard purses her lips. “And if they do not realize they need help, or are not strong enough to reach out?”

“Then…” Veery sighs. “Then they die. Grief isn’t a threat you can hide from. If they can’t take that step out to face it… there’s nothing I can do for them.”

“You think of grief as a threat?”

Doesn’t she? “If you let it trap you, it can kill you. That’s a threat. Like any threat, it can be managed. There are more or less safe ways to handle it, but… it’s still dangerous.”

“…An interesting perspective.”

Veery shakes his head. “I mean… someone like you might be able to help someone who’s hiding from their grief. You might be able to… give them the experience that changes the way they look at it. I’d like to learn, if I can, how to help people like that, but… right now, I can’t. I know my limitations, and I don’t want to accidentally make anything worse by trying what I know I can’t do yet. Not when the stakes are so high.”

“So that is the reason why you are not reaching out to our teacher.” Edelgard nods. “I believe I understand. It is wise to be mindful of your capabilities. Still, I am surprised that you are so critical of yourself. I believe that, were you to reach out, our teacher would appreciate the gesture. You are one of her precious students, after all.”

Frowning, Veery sighs. “Maybe. I just think… It’s just…” He shakes his head. “Can I admit something… maybe kind of shameful?”

“You may speak freely with me, Veery.”

Veery bites his lip. “Despite… despite everything… I think I’m jealous of Professor Byleth.”

Edelgard blinks. “Jealous?” she asks. “…Because she has so many people who care for her?”

He nods. “It makes me wonder… if I wasn’t all alone back then… who would I be, now?”

Edelgard furrows her brow, taking a long minute to think about her answer. “Allow me to share a secret as well. I feel much the same. There was a point in my life where I was in desperate need of help, and though my father and perhaps others would gladly have given it, that help was beyond their ability to give. I had to bring myself up from that on my own. To be honest, I also believe that to move on from grief is a decision that only the one grieving can make. And… I admit to feeling a tad jealous myself when I watch the many people doing all they can for our professor, when no one, even those who wanted to, were able to do the same for me.

“But to ask who we would be if we had that support? If we did not have to survive and overcome our grief with our own strength alone? Obviously, I can’t know the answer to that. Still, I can tell you that you have many people who care for you now, as well. Including me.”

Is that true? People really care for him? All of this is bringing back the doubt. Not that it’s ever eradicated entirely, but… it hurts to doubt, now. It’s not that he doesn’t want them caring so much over Professor Byleth or anything like that; it’s that if his and Professor Byleth’s positions were reversed… he doesn’t think anyone would care all that much.

But he’s just being stupid. Of course, these people care for him. Not nearly as many as those who care for Professor Byleth, and that’s fine, but the students, his friends, care about him. “Thanks, Edelgard. I… needed to hear that. And… I care about you, too.”

He’s still not sure why, when he has every intention of leaving them all to live in solitude eventually, anyway, but it’s comforting to know that someone cares.

“I’m glad I could help. You are my friend, and besides that, we’ll need you when the knights find our enemy’s location. So, prepare yourself. As soon as word comes in, we will assist our teacher in finding her revenge.”

Veery looks over to her, furrowing his brow. “Revenge?”

“Of course. Who wouldn’t want revenge after their parent is killed?”

Veery awkwardly purses his lips and looks away.

There’s a moment of confusion on Edelgard’s part, and then a soft gasp. “Ah. I suppose that was insensitive of me to say, wasn’t it?”

“I don’t know about insensitive…” Veery murmurs. “But… I never wanted revenge. Do you really think Professor Byleth will?”

“I do,” Edelgard says. “I certainly would, were I in her place.”

“…Why?”

“Hm?” Edelgard blinks at him for a moment, trying to comprehend his question. “Why? Because they took someone precious to her. We cannot simply allow them to get away with it.”

Veery tilt his head, confused. “I thought that was more, uh, justice. You know, punishment for wrongdoings.”

“Ha!” Edelgard laughs sharply. “You are not entirely wrong. It is most certainly justice to see these villains brought to heel. However, revenge is a personal thing. For Professor Byleth, it is likely that. I suppose you could think of revenge as… a personal justice.”

“Isn’t all justice personal?” Veery asks. “I mean… it’s subjective, isn’t it?”

“Hm. Quite so. I must admit, the difference between justice and vengeance is… not as wide as some might like you to believe. I must ask, do you feel no desire for revenge yourself? Or justice? To see Monica and her allies brought down?”

Veery wrinkles his nose, frowning down at the fish in the pond. “I… wouldn’t call it justice. I want to put a stop to the attacks. I want to make a world where I can live alone in peace without fear of some evil lurking in the shadows. That’s… always been my goal, though.”

“You feel no outrage at the injustice? No desire to punish those who have committed such gruesome acts?” Edelgard asks.

“…No,” Veery answers honestly. “Not really.”

Edelgard shakes her head, smiling ever so slightly. “Not at all? What about what you felt when you faced Solon? Does thinking of Monica not stir the same feelings?”

Does it? When Veery lashes out at Solon, he’s angrier than he’s ever been in his life. Why does he do that? Because of the wanton slaughter, for one, and for insulting Marianne, then threatening the agell.

…No. It’s more than that. It’s not the terrible acts or goading that make Veery lose it. It’s the betrayal.

For so long, Veery is terrified of humans. He comes to Fódlan to change that, to put an end to his fear and, ideally, the terrible structure in place that gives rise to it. It’s just around the time that he begins to truly open up and accept the humans around him as true friends and family, when he finally starts to let down his guard, just a little, and Solon reveals himself as having been hiding in the monastery the whole time. It’s that, even though Veery doesn’t ever get close with Tomas, it feels like everything he’s taught about humans, about how they’ll betray him, if they even pretend to get close to him to start with, are all proven right.

Veery sighs, shakes his head, and explains just that to Edelgard. “Monica…” Veery concludes. “After Solon, I expected it. I didn’t let my guard down again. It’s not the atrocities. It’s not justice. It’s just… frustration.”

“I see.” Edelgard sounds almost… disappointed. “To tell you the truth, I cannot wrap my head around your seemingly complete ambivalence towards such terrible deeds.”

“It’s not that,” Veery says. “Of course, what they did is terrible. It’s just… Honestly… I kind of pity them.”

“Pity them?!” Edelgard’s eyes flash with anger. “How can you possibly pity such… such…”

Veery slowly shakes his head. “Because they don’t know any better.”

Edelgard stares at him, mouth agape.

“I told you before, didn’t I? Humans hate the agell, the agell hate the humans, Solon’s group hates everyone who’s not a part of them, Fódlan hates Almyra and Sreng and Duscur and Brigid, and most likely most of those places hate Fódlan. Why, though? In at least a lot of those cases… it’s just because we’re told to. Because our parents and our parents’ parents hate so much, they teach us to hate, too, until eventually we’re where we are now, all hating each other for no real reason at all.”

Edelgard’s eyes cloud over as she looks to the water.

“I think… Solon and Monica… they just… couldn’t break out of that cycle. They’re probably taught that this kind of thing is okay, because we’re not part of their group. Just like humans are taught that it’s okay to kill agell, just because we’re not human.”

Edelgard’s body is tense as she says, “That does not excuse what they have done.”

“Of course not,” Veery says easily. “They’re a threat to you, and you have to defend yourself to survive. That’s why I’m fighting with you against these people. It doesn’t matter why you’re being hunted, whether it’s for sport or for the hunter’s survival. All that matters is getting out alive.”

“Hm. Again with that survival-first way of thinking,” Edelgard huffs. “If that is your concern, why not simply go back to Albinea? You will not need to fear Solon’s group if you flee.”

“That’s not true, though.” Veery shrugs. “In Remire, Solon said he’ll kill all of the agell. That implies that he intended to come to Albinea eventually. Besides… I still haven’t accomplished what I came to Fódlan to do. If I run now… I’m not sure I’ll be brave enough to try again. I’m tired of living in fear. I want to be able to trust without doubt. I want to live in peace and not wonder when someone is going to come for my fur. If I leave this business with Solon’s group unresolved, I’ll only be leaving Fódlan with more fears than I came in with.”

Edelgard furrows her brow. “I… suppose that does make sense. I can’t say I agree with, or even fully understand, your way of thinking, but it seems our course of action nonetheless aligns.”

Veery nods resolutely. “When our enemies are found, and Professor Byleth is ready… I’ll fight with everyone.”

#write #fanfiction #FE Fanfiction #Fire Emblem Three Houses #fe3h

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shadestepping · 3 years

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The Bad Batch: Trespass- “A Statistical Loss”, pt. 7

Word count: 2,282 Characters: Tech, Hunter, Echo, Fives, Reina Darr (original), Noei Darr (original), Fae-Rao Viszla (original) Date: Early-Mid 16 BBY Tech and Noei console Reina in their grief and promise to find a cure for their vision loss, while Fae-Rao deliberates over whether or not she should use the Force to speed along the process. Part 1: [ link ] -- Part 2: [ link ] -- Part 3: [ link ] -- Part 4: [ link ] -- Part 5: [ link ] -- Part 6: [ link ] -- Part 7: (you are here)

Archive Link: [ Ao3 ]

Their reaction to the prognosis was harder to endure than previously quantified with the data he possessed.

Despite his expectations, the one thing he couldn’t account for was the degree of emotional dysregulation from his concussion exacerbating his own response. He had seen grief like this in the eyes of displaced civilians and retired veterans, but he had never held it in his arms, never felt it deconstruct a soul as he did when Reina reached around his body with their good arm and clawed at the fabric over his back. Tension rippled through their shoulders, despondent sobbing rattled their chest, the mass expulsion of melancholic energy permeated to his very core… the true weight of it was inescapable. ‘Crushing’ turned out to be his greatest understatement in recent memory.

It was unclear how much time passed as he waited for them to speak again. Tech was too busy mentally cataloging every last micro-expression of their manifested grief, processing his emotional reactions, and filing the information away for future insight to pay it any mind; but he did notice when the shaking started to subside.

“How… how did… this happen?” Reina struggled to ask.

“Retinal detachment from mass deceleration,” he replied, calm and rehearsed.

Silence took them as they searched for reason in this explanation. “But… my retinas partially detached in the last crash… can’t that be repaired?”

Tech drew in a shaky breath and swallowed hard, his eyelids fluttered threateningly. “It could… if there wasn’t also damage to the macula.”

Reina’s brows crinkled. “What… what does that mean, I don’t-…”

“The macula is the part of the retina at the back of the eye, about five millimeters in diameter, responsible for processing central vision, color, and fine detail-“

“Tech…” Reina gently interrupted before he could get too carried away with defining, rather than explaining. “I appreciate your knowledge… but what does that mean?”

Tech exhaled a quiet puff through his nose. He was avoiding a direct answer and they knew it. He knew it. “It is… not something that can be fixed, dral kar’ta…” he admitted, tone dropping with the term of endearment he rarely used. “… at least, not with any known treatment. It is too small and too delicate to operate on.”

The tremors in their chest started up anew.

“Noei says the previous retinal detachment likely contributed to the extent of the damage this time. I am afraid, it was just bad luck… like everything else.”

The information didn’t help to slow their spiral; if anything, it made it worse. A low cry forced its way out of their lungs on a frequency that was uncomfortable to his ears. He cringed at the itch it triggered behind his eyes but tightened his grip and tucked his chin over the top of their head as their back curled forward. “I’m sorry Reina…” he whispered, throat quivering, stomach gnarled, and heart heavy with empathy. “I’m oh, so sorry…”

Tech jumped and turned halfway around as Doctor Darr burst into the room behind him moments later, anticipating the worst. Noei’s disheveled appearance greeted him with bruised, sleep-deprived eyes, unbrushed hair, freckles bleeding through smudged makeup, and clothes now three days old. Her blue-green gaze stared through him at her sister, as if she had been ripped from one nightmare and thrown into another. He’d been so fixated on his research he’d forgotten to check on her to make sure she was as okay as she’d seemed, so he hadn’t realized just how exhausted she was until she was standing five feet away from him. For a moment he was ashamed, because Doctor Darr was, after all, a good friend and confidante, regardless of his irritation with her.

Despite her emotional reservations for the last few days, hearing Reina’s cries unearthed instincts long-buried and set her back on auto-pilot. Noei wordlessly crossed the room and climbed up into the bed next to Reina, tucked Lula into the crook of their slung arm, and wedged a cold bottle of water into their right hand. Tech had had enough extensive academic talks with Noei in the past about how to care for psychological and emotional trauma to know that these were grounding techniques, but he hadn’t yet had the opportunity to put the practical application to use.

Without prompt, he fell into step with her efforts. Tech tapped Reina on the back of the head with two firm, two-fingered taps, and felt the trembling in their core weaken. This was a tactile reminder Noei had established to remind them to take pause and recalibrate their focus, that he and Reina had worked into their routines. They normally used it to alert each other when they were hyper-fixating and hadn’t eaten, slept, or taken a break in too long, but he was relieved to see it had the same effect when they were spiraling.

Reina clutched Lula tight against their chest and took in a deep, calming breath, while Noei counted out loud in sets: inhale for five, hold for seven, and exhale for eight. Each time they exhaled, their symptoms dissipated a little more. Tech felt the vibrations in their shoulders cease about five minutes later and loosened his hold on them once the sobbing subsided.

“Reina…?” he called in as soft a tone as he could, though they just burrowed further into his embrace, wishing to disappear. They still weren’t ready to continue the conversation. He repressed the anxious strain in his occipitals with a deep breath in and exhaled slow and even as Noei followed up.

“Reina, listen to me,” she coaxed in a motherly tone, one hand on her shoulder.

This time they lifted their head and turned halfway toward her, and Tech finally saw Noei’s composure crack. Her head dropped, her lip quivered, and the corners of her eyes wrinkled. Maker, how had he been so blind to her pain? She’d been struggling with her grief, same as he.

“There’s no way we’re going to let you lose your purpose to this.”

Every negative thought plaguing him for the last three days evaporated the moment the words left her mouth. Finally, they were on the same page.

“No,” he agreed, more emphatic than intended. “It does not matter how long it takes, we will find a solution.”

Reina’s grip on him relaxed, though when coupled with the question that followed, it felt more like disappointment. “How can you be so sure…?”

Tech paused before answering and lifted his gaze to look Noei in the eye. “Because, my dear,” he affirmed with a blooming, confident grin, “Your recovery is in the hands of the two most brilliant minds in the universe.”

Although she still doubted their ability to guarantee complete recovery, Noei returned his sentiment with a reserved smile and a determined nod.

“You will fly again- of that, I am certain.”

From the communications room three doors down, Hunter’s attention piqued. The two Night Watch rebels missed his brown eyes lift from the holo-table to focus with deliberate intent on what appeared to be a blank wall, but Echo knew better than to dismiss his tells. He’d heard something.

“What is it?”

Hunter set his jaw, sighed, and grunted a short reply. “Reina’s awake.”

Echo’s expression softened and he tossed a worried glance at Fae-Rao as she read between the lines of Hunter’s verbal and non-verbal cues.

“I take it Tech broke the news…?” she asked, even though she already knew the answer by the flattening of his tone and the tilted grimace in his cheek.

Hunter nodded crookedly, swiped around the data he’d been examining, and stowed it for the time being. “Yeah… and they’re not taking it well.”

“Understandably so,” Fae mused with quiet reservation, violet eyes staring unfocused before her. “I’ve been friends with Reina for four years- flying is their life. They’d rather die than hear that truth.”

“That’s a bit extreme,” Echo commented absently.

“You try telling a bird it will never fly again,” she huffed as she closed the data hologram and stepped away from the table. “Reina’s already had to fight tooth and nail to put themself back together once before- imagine how exhausted you would be to have to endure your trauma for a second time, and lose more of yourself than you already have…”

He let out a heavy-hearted sigh, then cast his gaze to the floor before circling back to the elephant in the room. “Have you given any further thought to my suggestion?”

The balosar inhaled and lowered a dejected gaze as she leaned over the back of his chair. “I don’t know if it can be done, Echo…” she answered truthfully after a pause. “As much as I want to be able to help my friend, I was never trained to be a healer, and I wouldn’t want to accidentally make things worse.”

“Well… t’be fair,” Fives chimed in from her right, “I don’think a total loss of sight could really ‘get any worse’.”

Fae shifted her gaze like a silent prayer. “Force, how I wish that were true...”

Fives tilted his head and furrowed his brows. “What do you mean?”

“The kind of precision needed to restore such a small part of the body requires intricate knowledge I do not possess,” she reasoned. “If I make even the slightest mistake, if or when Tech and Noei do find a solution… it could set back their recovery by months, years... maybe even indefinitely.”

Echo's gaze hardened, and Fae-Rao’s eyes fell shut with the weight of his screaming thoughts. She didn’t have to look him in the eye to know what he was thinking: “If it were me, I’d want that option.” Yes, she wanted to do her part to help, if possible, but she also did not want to bear the burden of responsibility if she failed spectacularly. It was selfish, but Reina was a dear friend, and she didn’t want to lose them to resentment.

“But… shouldn’t you at least try? I mean… isn’t it worth it to offer?”

Fae-Rao placed a gentle hand on his shoulder. “You know I’d heal everyone if I could, but that’s just not how the Force works. It’s not a mystical cure-all, and it takes special skill to wield with medical precision.”

Echo’s lips drew thin in grim understanding. His hand lifted and settled over hers and he turned to lean his forehead against her forearm.

“I know you empathize with their plight… and I want to help, but this makes me uncomfortable.”

“She’s right, Ech,” Hunter echoed in agreement. “You can’t ask someone t’perform surgery when they’re not a surgeon- Jedi or not.”

“Why don’t you leave the decision up to Reina?”

Fives’ neutral suggestion gave a much-needed pause to the weight of the conversation. Neither of them was inherently wrong in their logic. Echo was right- that to try and fail was better than to not try at all, but Fae-Rao’s discomfort was also valid and not to be discounted. However, the decision wasn’t theirs to make, and there was no point in fighting over whether or not they should when the question was if they could.

Neither objected to his reasoning. Echo seemed pleased with the compromise but Fae’s expression remained troubled. Echo had missed it, but Fives had been by her side long enough to know even the slightest nuance in her expressions and body language. She was deeply conflicted over this matter.

Hunter could sense that something was amiss. His eyes shifted between Commander Vizsla and Echo for a few moments before he moved away from the communication center toward the door, and tossed a casual order over his shoulder.

“We’ll take a break and reconvene at 21:00. Echo, with me- Crosshair and the Kryze girls’ll be back soon, an’they’ll need our help.”

Echo stood with a quiet “Sir” and glanced down at Fae-Rao as she took back her hand, crossed her arms, and averted his eyes. He flexed his jaw as he stared into the pattern of her silver fishbone braids, wounded by her sudden cold-shoulder, and sighed. “I’m sorry, I don’wanna pressure you,” he breathed. “Just… do what you think is right.”

Her composure wavered as he left the room, but Fives interjected before she broke. “Don’mind him…” he reassured, jerking a thumb in the direction of Echo and Hunter. “He trusts your judgment, even if he kin’ be a stubborn sheb.”

His teasing earned a quiet laugh as she relaxed, her expression somber. “I… would like some time to meditate with the Force, before I talk to Reina.”

“I’ll keep watch,” Fives nodded toward the door, but before he could step away, she caught his hand in hers. He froze at her touch and tossed a questioning glance over his shoulder.

“Would you, please… sit with me? It’s been so long since I’ve been able to commune with anyone-”

“Of course,” he replied before she could even finish. “Whatever you need, I’m at your service.”

dral kar'ta = "bright heart"

** Special thanks to @hazardous-studios for being my point of reference for the proper terminology and treatment of macula-off retinal detachment!

World-building

Commander Fae-Rao Viszla: Having left the Jedi order halfway through the Clone Wars, Fae-Rao returned to the fight at Ahsoka’s behest to assist in the Siege of Mandalore against Maul and the Crimson Dawn, and reclaimed her birthright as Tarre Viszla’s successor in name only.

Following the Imperial Reformation of Mandalore, the people of Mandalore divided in their loyalties- in opposition of Imperial Occupation, a Resistance of Freedom Fighters calling themselves The Night Watch emerged, hailing “Viszla Reborn” as their Champion. In response to her people’s outcry, Fae-Rao accepted her role as protector of a true, free Mandalore, and united the scattered rebels under one banner. For several years following the end of the Clone Wars, she led tactical strikes and rescue missions against the empire, saving the lives of millions of Mandalorians.

The Night Watch: The name for the Mandalorian Resistance against the Empire, after the Imperial Reformation of Mandalore, which consisted of Bo-Katan Kryze and her Night Owls, the Protectors, what would eventually become known as “the Clan”, and most of House Viszla. This Resistance was led by a former Jedi Padawan named Fae-Rao Viszla —the first Mandalorian to enter the order since Tarre Viszla— and was aided by a group of non-Mandalorians and clone deserters, who sympathized with the plight of Mandalore. Commander Reina Darr: former Combat Transport Pilot of the Republic Navy (before the Clone Wars) who was discharged after a bad crash in which they lost both of their legs from the thigh-down. After their discharge, Darr continued flying a modified light freighter known as the Trespass for a smuggling operation based out of the Coruscant lower levels, which specialized in relocating anyone trying to escape dangerous situations and start a new life. Following the Imperial Reformation of the Republic into the Galactic Empire, Darr and their crew fled Coruscant to base their operation out of Ord Mantell, but joined the Night Watch at the request of Fae-Rao. For a little over two years, Darr Commanded a small Airborne Fleet, running tactical strikes against the Empire and evacuating non-compliant Civilians off-planet to the care of the Protectors on the third moon of Concord Dawn.

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hoe-imaginess · 4 years

Text

baby socks | hawks

Hawks x Reader

summary: Hawks isn't ready to be a dad. He doesn't think he'll ever be—but now, he might need to rethink some things.

word count: 3.4k

a/n: short and montage-y. follows the idea that Hawks realistically isn’t looking to be a family man, but might be converted... for reasons

inspired by an idea from @gabb-yeet ty friend <3

⤰⤰⤰

After two long, stressful weeks, your concerns were no longer contestable. Two weeks during which you waited, and hoped, while your mind did manic rebounds between joy and fear.

A third week came and went without your period, and you knew then that there was no denying the truth growing inside of you.

A pregnancy test from the local drug store gave you final confirmation. The other two you took while riding a wave of denial reverberated the inescapable.

You were pregnant. You were pregnant with Hawks’s baby.

And you had no idea what to do.

⤰

His visits were rare, but thoroughly cherished.

You loved to be in his arms, to feel the supple caress of his feathers around you; tickling a warm, blissful exhilaration up your spine.

He loved your hands on him, and always esteemed their softness as you touched his temple or cupped his cheek, as though your gentle embrace extracted the day’s stress right from his skin.

Hawks could make you laugh as easily as anything. Your smiles came easy and organic—there was nothing more in the world he loved than to see your smile.

But now here you were, eyes hot with imminent tears as you showed him the pregnancy test, as he took a step away from you. He simply looked at you with bewilderment, then averted his gaze, somewhat shamefaced by his own shock.

“Wow,” he muttered, eyes and tone lacking any of the passion for this confession that you might have hoped for. “I… thought you were, ya know…” He gestured stiffly to his mouth, denoting your birth control, you guessed. “And we were careful–”

Hawks stopped then, noticing how swiftly the emotion drained from your face. He took a breath to dispel his confusions, and pushed his goggles up into his hairline so he could rub feeling into the bridge of his nose.

“Okay,” he started, like he was trying to wrangle his thoughts back in line. You saw his gloved hands fidget about, eager for orientation. “Um… Well, I wasn’t really… ready for this.”

“Well, neither was I,” you returned, hoping to convey to him that you were the equal of his wariness in this dilemma; you had no ambition to bestow obligations on him.

The proceeding silence took a substantial toll on your already crumbling poise. His gaze took an idling perusal of the ground, at the space between you two, unwilling to meet your eyes.

Then, as if a saving grace to his discomfort, the pager at his belt sounded off.

Your heart stung at the interruption. He sometimes had to make your time together short on account of duty, but surely he could spare a minute more to discuss this—something of this magnitude.

“I have to go,” he murmured, after reading the message on his pager. He was still reluctant to meet your eyes, but found a heartbreaking sadness in them when he did. He swallowed hard. “I’m… sorry.”

“Hawks,” you started, searching feverishly for the words that might keep him there with you. “I’m—We need to…”

“I know.” There was a flash of somber determination in his eyes, something that aspired to reassurance, but failed. “I’ll be back.”

His arm moved, almost as if to reach out and touch you. But he seemed to think better of doing so, and instead he moved to your window, and flew from it as he had a hundred times before.

Except this time, you watched him go not with an enthusiasm to see him again, but a despairing anxiety.

⤰

His return was a no less cumbersome affair.

Hawks sat on your couch, looked around the room with thorny cautiousness, as if he were in an unfamiliar environment, as if he no longer found peace in your presence like he once had.

“What do you want to do?” he asked, still partial to keeping his gaze lowered.

You’d sat down next to him on the couch, with a condemning distance between the two of you that made your chest tight with despair. You looked down at your feet, at the soft carpet beneath your toes, and curled them restlessly into the fluff.

“What do you mean?” you answered, even as you feared clarification.

“I mean… have you decided?”

Your head came up to look at him, a mounting trepidation quickening your pulse.

“Decided?” you repeated.

Realizing your apprehension, he perked up, and a flash of apology softened his eyes.

“I didn’t mean it like that.” His hands hovered to assuage you, and that tender, sweet look in his eyes that you’d so missed made itself known. “Listen, I just mean… you said you weren’t ready for this either, so I just thought you’d be thinking... I don’t know.”

“Do you…”

You trailed off. Was he really after a verdict? Was he asking not how you two might endure parenthood together, but rather, whether you two needed to at all?

Your mouth felt dry; you wet your lips anxiously. “I mean, are you asking me if I want to…?”

“It’s your choice,” he amended quickly, but uncertainty still cast its shadow over his face, gambling with his otherwise assuring words. “Whatever you decide I’ll… I’ll do what I need to do.”

There was no enthusiasm behind his promise, only a reluctant acceptance. You’d hoped for so much more.

⤰

Hawks couldn’t join you at your prenatal appointments.

He tried, once, when not a minute after showing up on the same block as the hospital, he was spotted and swarmed by fans. Thinking better of making a move that might lead you to suffer some unwanted media attention, he pulled back.

Later, after you’d trudged through the appointment alone, he called you to apologize.

You told him it was fine, and that you understood his need for discretion during all of this. After all, any whiff of information that the press claimed from this situation might prove detrimental to Hawks’s career. He was young, and a top hero; even if the two of you weren’t married, you knew part of his appeal was his bachelor status. Even if you’d both decided on this together, you were still worlds apart.

And from then on, there was an unspoken agreement that you would have to traverse most of your pregnancy alone.

⤰

When Hawks wasn’t thinking about hero work, he was thinking about you.

He was thinking about you, and his relationship with you—how it had been so ideal and complete. It was an escape from the labors of his day that often times felt more injurious than anything. Seeing you remedied that. Your presence was alleviating; your affections curative.

But now when he thought of the relationship, the happiness was sabotaged by a cloud of uncertainty—uncertainty for the unknown. From the very onset of his hero career, he’d planned to strictly dedicate himself to the betterment of society, no matter his personal sacrifices.

But how faithfully could he keep to that philosophy when it would no longer be his sacrifice alone, but also yours?

Hawks had thousands of admirers. Among them were beauties that would have undoubtedly been the apple of any other man’s eye: stunners who flashed him pretty smiles behind pretty lashes, flattering him with their worship and exaltation—but they were tributes he couldn’t afford. He couldn’t devote himself to one person when the rest of the country demanded preservation.

But you were the exception.

You two had met under such fleeting circumstances that he could have never guessed the journey on which the short encounter would take him. But then you two kept running into each other, over and over, until he’d found the opportunity to indulge the humor of it.

Is this just a coincidence? he’d joked with you. Or maybe you’re plotting something? Understandably, I’m a little suspicious.

You’d laughed so sweetly in response: a laugh that made his face warm and his wings twitch.

He had little control over what happened next. The warmth had sprouted. It had all gone so well. Doubts and fears about indulging a relationship with you slowly dwindled to a dormant worry. You were always so understanding and accommodating; you never harped on his business, and never guilted him for prioritizing hero work when it was necessary.

It was perfect. You were perfect.

But now, he had no idea what to think.

His feelings hadn’t changed for you, not at all. But this was an impossible situation, with an impossible answer. He was going to be a father. That was an unavoidable truth now, one he had yet to completely wrap his head around.

He wished it were easy. He wished he could bask in the anticipation of fatherhood, that he could be there to encourage your enthusiasms and grant you his part in this endeavor. You deserved that. You deserved support and happiness throughout this. But he didn’t know if he could deliver.

On patrol, Hawks saw mothers carrying their young infants in the street—something he’d given little thought or contemplation before. Now his soaring wings would come to a slow as he tried to imagine that it was you down there holding a baby in your arms, his baby; a baby with his hair and eyes—or maybe yours, or maybe a mix of both…

He’d shake his head and turn away from the spectacle, knowing his thoughts would spiral, and that they would serve only to distract him.

⤰

Hawks stopped visiting as often as he had been. It was a palpable evasion, and it cut you worse as the days went by.

He kept up with your texts, mostly. But the longer they went unanswered, the worse your anxieties grew. Whereas before an unanswered message would scarcely disturb you—he had a demanding job, after all—your reservations had all but crashed now. It left you in a state of unending worry; gut-wrenching conclusions toppling over one another until you’d exhausted yourself with grief.

You would spend hours curled up on the couch, waiting for his response, eager to be quelled of your dread. Didn’t he realize the longer he kept away from you, the worse you were for it?… The more guilt you felt for deciding you wanted to keep this baby?

Your hand would curl over your stomach, and you would wonder how something meant to bring so much joy had so far served only to bring you sorrow.

⤰

During a break in his late-night patrol, Hawks called you.

Bleary-eyed, you woke to the phone’s tuneful ringing, and reached for it clumsily on the nightstand.

“Hello?” you croaked once you’d answered the call.

As if he’d been idle, and not expecting you to answer, he cleared his throat. “Uh, hey.”

You waited, brain too fogged by sleep to think of your own mediation to the silence. It was then he realized that he would need to take the lead, lest he make this late-night disturbance in vain.

“Hey,” he started again, with hesitation. “I just… wanted to talk.”

“It’s late, Hawks,” you murmured, blinking away haze as you peered at your alarm clock. It was nearly past three.

“I know. Sorry. Listen, I…” The mere notion of elaborating on the toilsome thoughts in his head made his chest tight. The onslaught of guilt and confusion struck instantly.

“I’m sorry,” he said, and you could hear the self-condemnation constricting his throat. “I just…” Now his confidence digressed, his sentiments running faster than what words could articulate.

“I just didn’t know what to do,” he admitted finally, certain but woeful in his repentance. “I… guess I still don’t.”

You sat up in bed, let the blood flow evenly through your body to aid your thinking. “I’m confused too, Hawks, but I…” The thought of the turmoil you’d suffered all alone these last few weeks brought pitiful tears to your eyes, and a stutter to your breath. “I need your help.”

Touched by the sorrow in your tone, he raised his head to the night sky and breathed in his grief, then breathed it out.

“I know,” he said. “I know, and I’m sorry.”

For the next half-hour, you stayed on the phone with him, talking through mutual worry and braving the shame of confessing the anguish you felt because of his behavior.

He promised that he would take care of you. Both of you, he said.

And you went to bed that night with a little smile on your face, hoping the soothing optimism you felt would last.

⤰

Baby socks.

It was baby socks that did it.

With his wings withered down from a particularly exhausting battle, thereby shedding the token of his celebrity, Hawks indulged himself by doing something he rarely did: take a trip to the supermarket.

Still, it wasn’t something he did often. Even disguised in casual attire, sick mask and a hat complimenting the facade, there still remained a risk that he may be noticed. But the risk seemed worth it that day; the distraction that the mundane offered from his knotty thoughts was what he needed.

Still, wherever he went, so too did his anxieties, following him and reminding him of their need for resolve. In fact, maybe it was an unconscious decision that he ended up right here: staring down the baby supplies aisle, hesitation in his every step, almost as if the ground was hot coal. Unconscious, because part of him knew very well that despite the promises he’d made you, he still needed to come to his own terms with his convictions.

So it was part-obligation, and part-unbidden curiosity that pulled him down the aisle, his golden eyes giving a nervous perusal of the products on display.

He saw the rows of diapers, and tried to imagine using them: cleaning up an infant’s mess, suffering the smell. Hawks winced with a wrinkled nose.

He’d rather endure one of those interviews, for that one magazine, of who the interviewers always asked about his political preferences, almost like they wanted him to say something controversial. He hated those more than anything, so to say it was preferable to changing diapers wasn’t a very good outlook on his imminent child-rearing.

He was on a path to conjuring up more unpleasant visions of fatherhood, when he came to the clothes section.

It was a parade of bright pastels and fuzzy cotton; animal-print designs and cheesy phrases glaring at him from every shelf. It was banal to the point of nausea.

But then, the baby socks.

He couldn’t help but chuckle when he saw them: ornamented with fluff and lace, so small and delicate that it was almost impossible to believe a human foot belonged in there. But it did; a baby’s petite, soft foot—his baby’s foot, would fit snuggly.

Hawks envisioned it, then envisioned it some more, the array of merchandise fueling his imagination.

Then there were the pacifiers. The beanies. The onesies—

He had a stupid smile on his face as he loaded his cart with whatever caught his eye.

⤰

Your water broke while Hawks was on patrol.

He’d given you the number to his personal hero pager, with a promise that he’d leave work to his sidekicks if he was able and rush to you immediately.

Unfortunately, the odds were stacked against him; an aspiring group of villains, all of whom used wide-range quirks that made their capture difficult, took the better half of an hour to subdue.

By the time Hawks had done his work and left clean-up to the authorities, you were already in labor. And by the time he’d checked his pager for your emergency message—something he’d been doing almost hourly, now that your due date was close—and rushed to the hospital, all your work was done.

When he finally arrived, he was met by his newborn’s red cheeks and sweet cries.

“A boy,” you breathed out with a tired smile, sagging into the hospital bed.

Sweat streamed from your temple; dotted your brows and nose. If he hadn’t been so absorbed in the sight of the little human in your arms, he would have moved in to worry over your fatigue. But there he remained transfixed, golden eyes going to pinpricks as he gave the baby a hard inspection; his shock morphed into excitement, and from excitement: joy.

⤰

There was no paternity leave for heroes like Hawks. Crime in the streets demanded his attention almost as much as his crying baby.

But it was a rare night that he could be home with you, taking his parenting duties in stride, and finding them far less strenuous than he would have ever imagined.

In fact, he was starting to enjoy them. But the most treasured time was after all work was done, when you, him, and his son lay on the bed together, his little body between you two. It was restful, and strangely, to Hawks, the most at peace he’d ever been.

Whatever chores he’d done in his time with you fell far from the work you did every day taking care of the baby, and the moment you hit the sheets, an easing fatigue started to take you. Hawks might have indulged rest, if he wasn’t so engrossed in the spectacle his infant son was making.

Hawks watched him with adoring fascination, his honed eyes taking in every little wiggle, every soft twitch, every gentle stretch.

“Look, look,” Hawks entreated, reaching over to nudge you from a much needed sleep. “He’s kicking his little legs.”

You groaned quietly, kept your eyes shut. “He’s been kicking my insides for months now,” you responded groggily, but with the smallest of smiles. “Nothing new.”

Removed from all nuances that didn’t involve his son, Hawks was unfazed by your comment, and his enthusiasm continued undeterred. He lay there, the baby between the two of you, and watched his son test his little muscles for the first time.

The smile never left Hawks’s face.

⤰⤰⤰

#hawks x reader #keigo takami x reader #hawks x you

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