#i think i arrived @ disassociation station

[panb1mbo]

i’m having shrimp emotions oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck

[canyouplzjust]

Leaving the Nostromo

Dear Diary,

We made it all the way to the airlock, staring (metaphorically) into the space between the ship and the space station before I realized we had no way to get from one structure to another. Maybe we could have orchestrated a space walk, but I never saw any magnetized boots. I don't know how 'Master' Max got from around this place, but we found his fan-made map of the Nostromo on the bridge so I know he was here. Can he track us here? How does he locate us when its time to fuck up our plans? There are a lot of higher level mysteries I'm trying to solve. I guess we are trying to solve them together, but I'll be damned if any of these players get to Max before me. He's mine. Oh, but! In the airlock I "remembered" that I had grabbed a canister of air back on the bridge, in an effort to say One Step Ahead, you might say. The rules say once per session, but I think I'm limited to once per in-game day. Whatever, I'm not going to court over it. Didi the Fool was the best choice to navigate the void of airless space with a lil tank of compressed air, because even though it was my idea, it was a damn foolish thing to do hahaha

We made it to the Center Station, a massive space station, and were greeted at the airlock Les hacked by a squad of security guards. Now, I know these guys aren't technically soldiers, but I know my audience, and I stepped forward to use my Voice to reassure them of our right to be there, and kinda glossed over questions I had no answer to. "Where did you come from," and "What are you doing here," seem forthright enough, but I didn't have a great answer, so I pleaded for these big, strong men to help us, and they sure did! They didn't even report our arrival to the internal security system. Nice.

We got to the main hub by foot, and Gigi somehow correctly guessed that it looked like Dark City, but I don't know what that is. I'm looking now. I looked it up, it looks INTENSE. First order of business is to get to a terminal so Les can get a layout and do some snooping. Seriously, what would I do without him? I used to wish my life was an indie movie, and I used to feel captured in little moments where serendipity would touch my life, and even if I was miserable, I still felt picturesque. Something to take me out of myself, ya know? Its not an internal memory of getting my tongue pierced all by myself, new in town and shit, but I could see it from the outside, and it made me love my hollow little life. Anyway, I felt a familiar disassociation in that moment, my back leaned up against an unfamiliar wall, one knee up - how very Jordan Catalano of me - watching the bottomless determination of a repressed woman manifest as one solitary drop of sweat on the brow of a man cut from marble and silicon. Neos are so fucking cool, seriously. When can I get an augmentation? Is that multi-classing? i'm getting lost here...

We needed some food and drink, so we wandered into a bar to find some. Didi and I put on the ole one-two strut and lo - a pair of men appeared to buy us drinks and mozzarella sticks for our friends. It was like riding a bike, being on a tag team with her. And Rory was jamming a stick into our wheels every chance she got. The guys, Temm and Brock, were understandably interested in her wings, but she wouldn't really take any questions and I know she wasn't scowling on the outside, but inside I think she was imagining all of us with duct tape over our mouths. The guys were cute, but we had to move on, so I got their numbers for later ;) and we found a hostel. We got two rooms.

I had been waiting for my henchman to show up, and I had my fingers crossed that he was here at this station. Les found an old friend of mine on the prison roster he downloaded, so we popped down to the jail to say heeeyyy. Rude awakening number one - the security at the prison had some sort of coin lock for Neos and they openly referred to Didi as "the Fool," how were we clocked by these normal looking NPC's??? And not to like, be a bitch, but I was alarmed that no other party members seemed to be like, alerted to the classist treatment. But that Neo lock was cool as shit, duly noted. Hardy was is good spirits (he's never been that chatty of a guy) and he did warn us about some horrific carnage happening on the Factory level of the space station. His entire faction, The Judges, was apparently wiped out in a mess of otherworldly carnage and human misery. "That's a bummer," I told him, "and don't worry, we'll spring you asap." In the end, it wasn't the kind of spring I had been meaning, and the otherworldly carnage - fuck I'm getting ahead of myself again.

Les and Didi dug up a shitload of data on the Station and found out it was being run by a Dictator named Corvath Kyball. Rory and I went to the market and managed to sell one of her rupees from Hyrule for quite a bit of money. I wasn't around when apparently MORPHEUS called Les again, told him to look for him on The Grid, and then gave Didi some fucking frameless sunglasses, whatever, they don't do anything besides just block the sun. Am I jealous? I think its in my nature to be jealous, especially of her. I think what happened next really illustrated that. I only point out the thematic foreshadowing of myself pouting about Morpheus because I realize the story about what happens in the bar perfectly illustrates it, and I'm not actually writing this, its just what I did.

Bored in our room, Didi and I called those cute guys from the bar and let Les and Rory know we were gonna go meet them. I'm easy, so I chilled a little and let Didi pick which one she wanted - she chose the skinny one with the multi-color mustache, so I focused on Brock, the muscular one, but like, we were all at one table. I don't recall who brought up her band, but the next thing I knew, the bar patrons were staring at Didi, gazing and whispering, and clearing some space on the stage for her to play a song. The boys stood up and pulled her towards the stage. She had been a star here, too, but we were only bandmates in Delray Beach, FL. Here she had been Didi and the Lost Boys, and the Jackrabbits didn't exist. I felt the anger like a fire alarm ringing in my head, and as I lifted my chin to watch her walk away, Didi held her hand out for mine, and motioned for me to go with her. I'm nothing if not a good sport, so I followed her to the stage, swallowing my pride in giant audible gulps, and we both picked up guitars. "I don't know a lot of your songs," I warned her, my tone audibly sullen. She smiled at me, literally beaming, and she said, "No, we're gonna do one of ours. You sing," and she practically bowed out of the way, motioning towards the mic. I've never loved her more. I stepped into the limelight and instantly felt 21 again, for the first time since coming back to DIE. I felt the growl in my throat as I sang lyrics to a song I didn't know I could recall. I felt the sweat building up and sticking to my skin, and I felt my hair come to life under the stage's glow. I don't know if it was DIE or magic or just being in a band with your old best friend again, but in a moment I had been transformed into apowerful creature I was once, in a dream.

I don't know why I needed that and she didn't, and maybe I never will, but I fucking needed it. We brought the house down, and then cut out the side with our dates to find somewhere more private. The Factory level, perhaps? Their badges could get us in, we could snoop around, and then maybe get busy while we're doing it. The night was still young.

[samspenandsword]

The Three Times You Meet Obi-Wan Kenobi, and the Last: Obi-Wan Kenobi/Reader (GN)

Summary: You are the personal aide to Senator Bail Organa of Alderaan, training to one day perhaps take his place. These are the three times you meet the Jedi Obi-Wan Kenobi, and the last. Pairing: Obi-Wan Kenobi/Reader; gender-neutral reader with no mentions of their appearance.  Rating: MA, 18+ (Younglings, foundlings, and cadets, BEGONE!) Warnings: Mature content (no smut) — Angst, Clone Wars and Imperial era galaxy, events and aftermath of Order 66, war violence and descriptions of battle, mentions of PTSD and disassociation, death, pining, grief and hurt, language, SPOILERS FOR OBI-WAN KENOBI (SERIES), tagged accordingly Word Count: 5.5k

The First Time

The onset of the Clone Wars brought change to your life, but you could not say that the life of a senator’s aide had been calm or peaceful even before the war. Your every day had been filled with annoying red tape and patience-trying bureaucracy and general political bullshit. And that was all before you got to your real job, which was to handle any and all administrative needs for Senator Organa, as well as any research that needed doing for whatever reason or another, most often into mundane, long-forgotten Republic laws and policies. You even functioned as his representative if needed.

And this time, it had been needed. 

Today found you aboard a Venator-class Star Destroyer, the Negotiator, en route to Scarif, a small world on the Outer Rim. Scarif was a tropical world, but it was rich with dense metals that would be invaluable to ship construction for the war effort. Many in the Republic Senate considered it too expensive to invest in Scarif, seeing how far it was from the Core Worlds, but your senator and some others disagreed. 

Not because it wasn’t expensive. It was. But because it would benefit the Republic in the long-run. 

This war had raged for less than a year now and the Republic had already spent billions on ship construction alone. And while you couldn’t deny that the destroyer you stood on was armed to the teeth and prepared for battle, Republic ships, quite frankly, could barely withstand battle. Nearly every week saw construction on a new fleet of ships for whatever legion or battalion or corps needed it. If the Republic was willing to invest so much in their clone army (an entirely different matter of its own), why were they not willing to invest in proper, safe, battle-enduring transport for that army? And with how often medical frigates, shipments, and stations were targeted, the Republic needed better ships to withstand the ever-advancing droids and weapons of the Separatists. 

You personally believed that investing in the metals Scarif offered would save the Republic money in the end, but more importantly, would save lives.

And all lives were worth protecting and saving.

“Everything all right, sir?”

You glanced over your shoulder, lips curling into a small smile. “Yes, Lieutenant, thank you. Is there an estimated time of arrival?”

“Yes, sir. Within the hour.”

“Thank you, Lieutenant.” 

“You seem pensive.”

A new voice cut in. Looking over your shoulder, your eyes fell on the owner of the new voice. 

With a poised stride, lilting accent, and dashing smile, Jedi Master Kenobi was too charming for his own good. And despite your better judgment, you felt your heart skip as he approached.

“I apologize, Master Kenobi. Were my thoughts too loud?”

After years spent on Coruscant, and many dealings with different Jedi, you were relatively familiar with some of their abilities, including how they could often sense the thoughts and feelings of others without meaning to. You were loath to think your thoughts were so loud they distracted him from his, likely, more important duties. 

“It wasn’t your thoughts. Rather your expression.” He still smiled at you, polite and friendly. With a nod, he dismissed the clone lieutenant assigned to assist you while on board.

“I will take that as advice to never play sabacc.”

Master Kenobi let out a surprised, bright laugh. You felt your own smile widen at the sound, which you admitted, somewhere in the back of your mind, was annoyingly beautiful. Though as soon as it quieted, you felt compelled to say something. 

“I must thank you, Master Kenobi, for transporting me to Scarif. I know you are not often away from the front lines.”

“And that is why this mission is such a relief for me and my men,” Master Kenobi instantly replied. “It’s not often we get assigned to peaceful negotiations.”

You couldn’t withhold a snort. Neither the word “peaceful” nor “negotiations” truly applied to your mission. It was plain old research, which you normally liked.

But you feared your Republic did not know the meaning of those words anymore. Peaceful. Negotiations. Neither did the Separatists. But the longer the war stretched, the more you began to wonder who this Republic was actually fighting this war for: its people, or its pride. 

“May I ask you something?”

“Of course, Master Kenobi.”

“Why become a senator’s aide?”

You looked over at the Jedi, meeting his blue eyes. “I believed in democracy. I believed in the Republic. And I wanted to serve it in whatever way I was able.”

And most of the time, you still felt that way. 

If Master Kenobi noticed the afterthought, he gracefully decided not to mention it. He instead said, “The Senate could use more people like you.”

It was his turn to startle a laugh from you, evidently. And his amiable smile became more of an amused smirk.

“Hardly,” you said. “I have no patience for days-long sessions and fake smiles and debating for debates’ sake. Senator Organa is a saint for putting up with it all.”

Master Kenobi chuckled. “A harmless little debate never hurt anyone.”

“Hmph, I’m not surprised to hear you say that,” you said. You smothered a smirk. “Your own negotiation exploits are quite... infamous.”

“Why must you call them exploits?” He sounded both amused and affronted. 

Your shoulders shook with laughter that bordered along giggle territory. 

“Master Kenobi, they can hardly be called ‘tactics’ when they end with General Grievous’ four lightsabers in your face.”

A snort sounded behind you. You turned in time to see General Kenobi’s marshal commander straightening. Master Kenobi tried to feign offense, but you saw his lip twitch. 

It spurned a rather smug grin from you. One that soon softened. 

“Well, whether this mission is a nice reprieve for you and your men or not, I am still grateful. So thank you, Master Kenobi.”

He smiled back, and it looked far more real and genuine than his practiced, polite smile. “You’re welcome.”

You both turned, knowing that it was time for you to get to the hangar where a smaller shuttle would take you to the surface. You had nearly arrived. 

“Would you perhaps mind some company on the surface?”

You were surprised by the offer, yet delighted. Not only would it be extremely beneficial to have a Jedi help you research the metals and assess the potential Republic partnership, but you also felt happy at the prospect of spending more time with this particular Jedi. 

You still had to tease him though.

“As long as you’re not planning on getting up to your exploits —”

“No promises.”

You smirked. “Then I would be delighted for your company, Master Kenobi.”

“The honor is mine, representative. And please, just Obi-Wan.”

You smiled, only your years of politics giving you the ability to temper the full-blown giddy grin it wanted to become. 

Yes, Obi-Wan was entirely too charming for his own good. 

The Second Time

“Obi-Wan Kenobi, I am so mad at you.”

A cocky grin was thrown your way. “Whatever for?”

Bastard. Stupid, charming, disgustingly attractive bastard.

Battle raged around you. Your ears rang with the constant whistling of blaster fire, and you could feel explosion shockwaves deep in your chest. Your face was streaked with ash, and your formal Alderaanian robes were torn and more than a little dirty.

The battle hadn’t been anticipated. And there had been no indication that the Separatists had any interest in D’Qar. It was in Republic territory, and there was no civilization to speak of. D’Qar had once been home to a great civilization, but all that was left of it was ruins. So you had gone there to do some research into maybe establishing a secret Republic base somewhere within the planet’s expansive forests. 

The first hour had gone well, and every hour after it had gone to utter shit. 

A blaster was held in your hand, and you were decidedly not afraid of using it. Obi-Wan had spotted the Separatist squad first, snagging his arm around your waist and yanking you to him just in time for a blaster bolt to appear where your head had just been. 

Three days later, the battle was still raging and communications off-planet were being jammed. No backup was coming, so you and the 212th were on your own. You had had the opportunity to negotiate a stalemate with the Separatist commander a day ago, but Obi-Wan had thoroughly karked that.

Not that it was going to succeed in the first place, but you still felt like giving Obi-Wan shit. His negotiation tactics truly were “exploits.”

“Cody!” Obi-Wan called. The hum of his lightsaber had become a strange comfort to you as the battle raged. When you heard the hum, you knew Obi-Wan was near. “Status report!”

“Waxer and Boil took a squad northwest, and scanners picked up even more clankers to the northeast. They just keep coming!”

“Are they trying to push us back or funnel us north?” you huffed aloud. Seemed like a weird tactic for them to only come in wide. It also didn’t seem like an effective ambush strategy. 

You truly hadn’t expected any response or reaction to your semi-rhetorical quip, but Obi-Wan looked at you like you’d personally won the battle for them. Despite the fact that it was very much still happening. 

“Cody, run a scan directly to the north, make sure they’re not pushing us into a trap!”

“Yes, sir!”

“We might make it out of this yet.”

Just as the words left Obi-Wan’s mouth, a rocket landed less than ten feet from you. Obi-Wan and you both reacted by throwing yourselves toward the other, and you collapsed against the forest floor in a tangled, limb-entwined heap.

“Had to say something, didn’t you?” you grouched.

Whatever Obi-Wan’s surely sassy retort was got swallowed by a second explosion, and his weight pressed down on top of you as the ground shook beneath you and trees splintered into wooden rain. You thanked the Maker that Obi-Wan probably attributed the frantic beating of your heart and flush of your cheeks to the heat of battle rather than the flush press of your chests. 

“General!”

“Cody!”

“Scanners picked up tanks and cannons due north. They’re pushing us into an ambush.”

“Fan the men out, try to maneuver around the droids, and make sure the men know not to be pushed in. Use the trees if you must. Take two platoons and circle around wide to the north, and we’ll take another platoon and meet them head on. I’ll confront the Separatists and keep them occupied until we can fully attack and take out the tanks and cannons.”

“Yes, sir!”

Obi-Wan looked at you, indicating that you’d be with him. There was no ordering you to stay behind. You’d already had that argument three days ago when the battle broke out. He’d lost when you’d told him, rightly, that he needed as many boots on the ground as he could get. You had a blaster and you were willing and able to fight. You served the Republic, wherever you were needed.

And this time, you were needed on the battlefield. 

“The Republic truly does need more people like you,” he’d said.

Again, he was entirely too charming for his own good. But you did not mind even a little bit.

The battle continued to rage as Obi-Wan cut a path down the middle, you somewhere amongst his platoon. Your blaster had never felt more natural and comfortable in your hands than it did right then, and if you had any awareness of anything other than the battle, it would rattle you to your core. But as it was, you were too focused on dodging searing bolts, not dying, and trying not to allow the beacon that was Obi-Wan distract you. 

He truly was an elegant fighter, with a refined, precise, absolutely devastating technique. Everything seemed to be about defense with him — deflecting blaster bolts, dodging them, whirling in and out of lines of battle droids. Only when he was too close to deflect bolts did he use his lightsaber to cut through the clankers. 

Though, as you noticed him twirl his blade in arcs of light, and practically dance in between the droids, you had to laugh that his fighting could be as flashy as his negotiations. 

You could instantly tell where the Separatists had laid their trap, because the deep, looming forest around you suddenly thinned. Trees had noticeably been cleared away, leaving a smoother ground beneath your feet that felt very out of place on a planet where the terrain was notoriously difficult. Even to you, someone who was most definitely not a soldier, this screamed trap.

And indeed, in an arc surrounding the clearer landscape was an impressive amount of tanks and cannons. 

Your arrival drew their fire instantly.

Knowing your blasters would do nothing against tanks and cannons, your platoon took cover behind the trees.

“Aim for the operators!” came Obi-Wan’s clear voice. “We need to draw their fire and give the others a chance to flank them!”

But every time someone took out a cannon operator or droid tank commander, another seemed to take their place. And their onslaught was constant and unrelenting. 

A clone only five feet away from you fell with a scream, and your throat squeezed closed. His name had been Draft.

You weren’t sure how long you continued firing from the cover of your tree. Your later memory of the battle would make it feel like it was both seconds and hours later when the Separatists’ onslaught suddenly faltered, and no less than five cannons and three tanks suddenly exploded.

“Move in!”

An entire battalion of droids seemed to meet you in the middle, and it was all you could do to shoot your way through them. The air glowed red around you, and the air itself smelled singed. Every time one of your shots pierced metal, it was like you were watching through someone else’s eyes. The edges of your vision were blurred, and everything seemed to happen too slowly to be real.

An arc of blue cut into your vision. You blinked. And everything became clear again. 

“We need to take out the transports, or the droids will just keep coming!”

Obi-Wan’s voice had never sounded as sweet as it did just then. The mere sound of it allowed you to breathe easier, and your entire body relaxed. You hadn’t even realized how tense you’d been.

“Got a plan?”

That annoying grin of his was back.

“Cover me?”

“What — Obi-Wan!!”

But he dashed away, cutting a path through the battle droids so fast and fiercely you could do nothing but follow.

Between you covering his flashy ass and his flashy lightsaber moves (and more than a few droid poppers and bombs courtesy of Cody), the Separatists were scrap, and the battle was won. 

Later, after the surrounding area was confirmed to be clear of droids and secure, Cody had to laugh as he saw the cross (albeit half-hearted) looks you kept tossing at his general, even as you stood right beside him.

“What did he do this time?”

“Nearly gave me a heart attack. I thought General Skywalker was supposed to be the reckless one.”

Obi-Wan pouted, actually, honest-to-maker pouted, as Cody laughed harder than you’d thought possible. But as you laughed as well, Obi-Wan could only join in.

You really loved his laugh.

The Third Time

You couldn’t say you were much of a singer, but the baby in your arms seemed content with your shaky rendition of a traditional Alderaanian lullaby. Luke was on the precipice of sleep, lulled by your voice and the gentle rocking of your arms. 

The calm soaring of the asteroid field outside the window did nothing for comfort you, neither did the glowing stars behind it. The skin of your cheeks pulled and itched uncomfortably from dried tears. And something deep inside you felt numb. The sweet little baby in your arms was the only thing keeping you grounded right now, so you clung to him in the quiet of the medical station.

Bail had long left with Luke’s sister, as the journey to Alderaan from the Polis Massa asteroid field was rather long. Little Leia had been swathed in warm blankets and the promise of a loving mother and father. Luke too would live happy and loved, away from the Sith and their empire. 

So much had happened in so little time. You could hardly believe it all. But these little babies would hopefully never have to remember the horrors they were born into. They would grow happy, healthy, loved and good.

They would never have to experience the horrors their family had. 

Padmé had been a dear friend to you for a long time, and the thought of her brought more tears to your eyes. You swallowed them back, lest they disturb little Luke. But the thought of Padmé Amidala only brought thoughts of Anakin Skywalker.

And how far and hard he’d fallen.

You had considered him a friend as well. Anyone dear to Padmé and Obi-Wan was dear to you. But your family now lay in tatters, and all that was left was a pair of infants, a trapped senator, the aide who had barely scraped by with their life, and the Jedi who had lost everything.

How had it come to this? How had it come to this.

Quiet footsteps broke through your haze. You recognized them instantly.

You had never seen Obi-Wan look so... subdued. His blue eyes didn’t twinkle as before, and the lines of his body drooped with exhaustion and grief. And yet still, you wondered if it had fully set in yet. What had happened. Anakin. Mustafar. Padmé. Order 66. The fall. The Empire. You wondered if it had fully set in yet, and if not, worried about when it inevitably did.

You worried for yourself too. It would not be long until you heard the ringing of blaster fire and the screams of friends in your dreams.

You’d had the unfortunate luck of being inside the Jedi Temple as Palpatine executed Order 66. You’d been meeting with Jedi Master Corrine Wallen about what it would take to introduce an initiative in the Senate regarding clone rights. With the war waning following the deaths of Count Dooku and General Grievous, it was past time to give the clones the rights they deserved. But as you and Corrine giggled over matching cups of tea, gossiping about mindless little things that made it feel like you weren’t still in the thick of war, Corrine’s giggles had suddenly stopped. And she had fallen, a hole in her chest smoking. 

And at the threshold of the door stood her own clone captain, Miles, his blaster smoking just the same. 

The Jedi Temple erupted into chaos. Clones stormed the place, their fire focused solely on their Jedi brothers and sisters. Lightsabers whirled through the air with sheer confusion and desperation, and the screams of younglings and masters alike echoed through the halls. Miles had not even answered you when you demanded what was happening, beyond a nearly robotic chant of good soldiers follow orders. 

The terror and horror it filled you with would live with you forever.

You had fought your way through the Temple, finger trembling over the trigger of your blaster as you defended the Jedi. It was then the clones turned their fire to you as well. An ally of the Jedi was an enemy to be executed. And you could still feel the stinging heat of the blaster bolt that had streaked past your cheek, leaving singed skin and inevitable nightmares in its wake. 

You’d finally escaped, finding Obi-Wan and Master Yoda hunched over footage of Anakin Skywalker, your friend, slaughtering children. 

What happened afterwards was a bit of a blur. You remembered Obi-Wan and the relief you’d felt seeing him alive. And that same relief mirrored in his own eyes as he looked at you. You remembered Padmé, and her vehement refusal that Anakin was responsible, and the anguish in her as she realized it was true. You remembered the orange and black and red hot surface of Mustafar, and Padmé’s tears as she confronted the man she loved. You remembered Obi-Wan’s lightsaber, ignited and turned on the man he had called brother, and the sheer pain in his eyes as he returned. He hadn’t needed to say it.

Anakin Skywalker was gone.

And now here you were, and the baby in your arms was as good as gravity. You’d surely float and fade away without him.

And you saw the same devastation in Obi-Wan’s eyes.

“The ship is ready,” he said, in barely a whisper.

You swallowed. And nodded.

It was with a tight chest and lump in your throat that you placed the sleeping baby into the little cradle hovering beside Obi-Wan. Tatooine wasn’t too far from Polis Massa, but Obi-Wan would not be returning. And you would not be going with him.

Your place was with Bail. You were not well-known enough to be identified as someone who escaped the Jedi Temple, so you were able to return with him to the Senate. And now with the rise of the Empire, he would need as much support as he could possibly get.

Your place was here. You could not go with Obi-Wan. No matter how much your heart ached to do so.

Obi-Wan looked at you with your heartache reflected in his eyes. But it seemed neither of you were able to say anything. For what was there to possibly say?

But you took a small communicator, untraceable and simple, and pressed it into Obi-Wan’s hands. 

“Just in case.”

Obi-Wan left you with an embrace as memorable as he was. And you knew, as you looked back out at the asteroid field, that it would never leave you.

You would never want it to.

You began to cry.

The Last Time

Obi-Wan walked into the cave of a hovel that had been his reality and home for ten years now. Ever wary, Obi-Wan had been on edge since the moment he’d been alerted of an intruder in his home. And he was prepared to do whatever he had to.

A cloaked figure stood in the cave, practically haloed by the light of the setting suns.

They raised their head, turned, and flicked the hood away.

Obi-Wan nearly stumbled. You were still so beautiful.

“Hello, Obi-Wan.” The mere sight of him had a smile shining in your eyes. “It’s been a long time.”

He slowly relaxed, exhaling heavily. “You should not have come.”

You admitted that it was risky for you to come to Tatooine, but it was a risk you would take a million times over if it meant saving Leia.

“You know I had to.”

Obi-Wan had aged in the past decade. His hair was longer, more scraggly, and the auburn color was fading to a greyed brown. His skin was tanned and weatherbeaten; his clothes were roughspun. You watched as grains of sand rained from his poncho as he pulled it from his shoulders. His boots had seen better days, and frankly, he looked like he needed a shower. But what struck you most was his eyes. 

They were haunted.

Haunted by the horrors of the past, and the bleakness of the future. You wondered if he was sleeping, or if dreams plagued him as much as they did you. Probably more considering his connection to the Force. And as your eyes flicked to his waist, you saw no lightsaber.

Probably for the best, but it was still jarring.

Nevertheless, before you stood the Jedi you had, against all common sense, grown to love. And though everything had changed in the decade since you’d seen each other, that love you felt was so familiar and comforting that seeing Obi-Wan felt like coming home. 

“It’s good to see you, Obi-Wan. Truly.”

His expression softened, and you saw his lips turn up. His smile, too, was changed. Yet you loved it all the same.

“And you. And you.” But as your smile grew, his faded. “But I’ll tell you what I told Bail and Breha. Find someone else.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

“No! Obi-Wan, don’t you get it? There is no one else!” You strode towards him. “You are the only one we trust to find Leia!”

“My place is here, with Luke!”

“Luke is fine! He is safe! But Leia —” Your voice broke. “They took her. She’s only ten, Obi-Wan, she’s still just a kid. And someone took her! She’s in danger!”

You inhaled sharply, forcing yourself to calm down. Obi-Wan didn’t deserve you yelling at him. Your voice softened. “Despite the sudden appearance of Inquisitors in Mos Eisley, don’t think I didn’t notice, the Empire has no presence on Tatooine. But Leia... She and her parents are public figures in the heart of the Imperial Senate. We cannot risk sending ourselves or a bounty hunter, lest word about her reach the wrong people. And you know this, Obi-Wan.”

He didn’t look at you, and for a long moment, you started to believe he wouldn’t even respond. Until he finally did, in a broken, burdened voice.

“I’m not the same man I once was.”

Your heart ached. “Obi-Wan —”

“No, I failed. I failed! And I won’t fail again! You have to ask someone else. Ask someone else!”

The outburst seemed to drain him, his shoulders slumping as soon as the words were out. He squeezed his eyes shut, and truly, your heart ached.

“Obi-Wan...” You dared to reach up and cup his weathered cheek. He leaned into the touch unconsciously, starved for it. Then consciously, craving it. “We all made mistakes. And no one has forgotten the past. But we cannot cling to it. It is to our future we now must look. And our future lies with Luke and Leia.” You brought your other hand up, cradling the face of a suffering man in as gentle of a hold as you could manage, for Tatooine was not a gentle place. “I do not have the skills to go after Leia myself, Obi-Wan. And I’m too recognizable now. So Bail sent me here to watch over Luke while you rescue Leia. He would never ask you to leave the boy on his own.”

Obi-Wan’s hands, trembling, slowly came to cup over your own.

“I know you have suffered, Obi-Wan. More than anyone. And it’s not fair to ask more of you than you have already given, and I wish desperately I did not have to ask at all. But there is no one else we trust to find her, Obi-Wan.” Your lips wobbled, thinking of the princess. That imp of a girl with absolutely no filter, more sass than seemed possible for her tiny little body, and all the makings of a galaxy-rocking leader. Your niece, for all intents and purposes, who you loved with all your heart.

“We cannot let them, let her suffer as we have, Obi-Wan.”

It nearly broke you, seeing the tears your words brought to his eyes. And you’d meant it when you’d said you wished you did not have to ask this of him, but you had no choice. Obi-Wan truly was the only one you and the Organas trusted to find and save Leia.

He was your only hope. 

“You’ll stay with him?”

Obi-Wan’s voice had roughened in the last decade. The accent was no less lilting, but where once his voice had seemed silken and even musical at times, it was now roughened from a decade of Tatooine sands and grief.

You still loved it all the same.

“I promise.”

Obi-Wan’s lips touched yours so gently tears instantly sprang to your eyes. Everything was different. You, him, the galaxy, everything. But here and now, with his unpracticed, chapped lips against yours and his greying beard scratching delightfully against your skin, you could swear it was the closest you would ever come to finding solace. 

So you cradled Obi-Wan’s head in your hands and kissed him as gently and tenderly as he deserved.

“I’m sorry, my love,” came his whisper after you’d pulled away. His eyes were still wet, and you knew he wasn’t apologizing for the kiss, but rather that you’d never have the opportunity for it to become more. 

You smiled, gently.

“I’m not.” You pecked his lips. “This was a gift, Obi-Wan. You are a gift. To the twins, to the galaxy. To me. Don’t apologize for making me happier than I’ve been in the last ten years.”

Obi-Wan surged forward, kissing you with still unpracticed, but passionate abandon. Smiling beneath him, you guided his lips into a rhythm, continuing to hold and kiss him with everything you weren’t able to voice. Reverence. Appreciation. Grief for what could’ve been. Yearning. Relief. Happiness.

Love.

You helped him pack. He showed you the best spots to observe and watch over the Lars farm. He offered you his credits so you could get food in town. You shoved them and more back at him when you saw how little he truly had. And then snuck more into his stash when he wasn’t looking. 

And when Obi-Wan left you the next morning, a lightsaber on his hip and his kiss still searing your lips, you truly felt happier than you had in a very long time.

You weren’t sure how long it would take for him to return, though you had complete faith he would find and save Leia, so you settled in. Luke was a cute kid, just like his sister. And you were endlessly amused at how alike they were without even knowing. More than once you had caught Leia sneaking into the woods or kitchens in order to escape her responsibilities. And similarly, you’d now observed Luke, more than once, sneak away from his uncle and chores in favor of pretending to be a pod racer or playing with his toys. Not to mention both of them seemed to like watching the incoming and outgoing ships.

Indeed, you felt happy. 

______________

The age of the Empire had seemed to stretch for centuries, and you felt you could remember each agonizing, oppressive day with excruciating detail. Nineteen years. Nineteen years since that fateful, horrific day.

And yet you felt change was coming.

Leia now was the Galactic — Imperial — Senator of Alderaan, and you served as her aide just as you had served her father. And while your days were still filled with bureaucratic nonsense and political lunacy and senseless cruelty that all came together to be your personal, ongoing nightmare, you still continued to serve as you always had: to the best of your ability. 

Though Leia had still yet to curb the compulsion to straight-up tell others they were morons. Sometimes, you were tempted to let her.

News of Scarif had been both terrifying and exhilarating. The Alliance to Restore the Republic, the rebellion you proudly and secretly served, had finally secured their first true victory against the Empire. But many had given their lives for such a victory, and part of you feared it was not over. More was still to come. Word of the Death Star, the Imperial superweapon and planet-killer was a harrowing thing. Both Jedha City and Scarif had met their fates by it. 

But with this victory, and with the stolen Death Star plans, you had real, genuine hope that the Empire would not win. 

Leia had been on her way back to Alderaan from Coruscant when word of Rogue One’s mission spread through the Rebellion. And as the battle loomed, Leia lied in wait nearby, ready to receive the secret, stolen plans. Ready to receive hope. 

But with Leia occupied with bringing the plans to the Rebellion, it was up to you to step up and represent her in the Senate. So you were packing your things to return to Coruscant. 

You liked the congested planet even less now than you did twenty years ago.

“Ready?”

You smiled at Bail over your shoulder. He truly was your oldest and dearest friend. You admired and trusted him like none other.

“Never.”

He chuckled. “You are more than capable.”

“Of course I’m capable, I just don’t like it.”

Bail laughed more heartily. “Oh, my friend, as always, I’ll miss you while you’re gone.”

You smiled. “I’ll miss you too, Bail. Walk me to my shuttle?”

“As if you need to ask.”

But as you and Bail left your home, the sky darkened, like it had been taken by a sudden night.

And indeed, when you looked up, shielding your eyes, you could see a large, moon-like sphere eclipsing the sun.

Terror seized your body. That was no moon.

Across the galaxy, inside a hunk of junk masquerading as a Corellian freighter, Obi-Wan Kenobi clutched his heart and fell.

______________

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[softlystarstruck]

drape me in your warmth

written for the @drarrymicrofic prompt "bite" but i love this song so much it got a bit out of hand | 3.1k, M, warnings for disassociation, anxiety, mentioned minor character suicide | a bouquet of thank you's to my beta @avenueofesc ♡ | read on AO3

The first time they talk, snow is falling outside of the small Eighth Year common room, and Harry hasn’t been to class in three days.

“Potter,” Malfoy says, in that soft way he has nowadays, like he’s afraid to commit to his words. The clock over the large fireplace ticks towards three a.m. slowly, or maybe too quick; time has been warping around Harry and he doesn’t try to keep up anymore. Standing on the plush rug in a cotton t-shirt and striped pajama bottoms, Malfoy looks impossibly young, like he’s been suddenly snapped from another universe where his father didn’t kill himself before the war trials and his mother still has her sanity. Not that Malfoy talks to Harry about this, even with only six Eighth Years back at Hogwarts– three Ravenclaws, one Hufflepuff, Malfoy and Harry. The reasons the others returned doesn’t matter much to Harry, not when they all retreat to their own rooms, their own friend groups; not when they don’t bother talking to Harry.

Yet Malfoy.

Malfoy is a question mark.

Harry himself returned so he won’t have to accept a position as an Auror trainee. He doesn’t want it. Thinking back to the letter alone is enough to make him curl into himself with panic, but he didn’t have a reason to turn them down– not until the letter penned in McGonagall’s graceful script arrived. He cried, then, for the first time since May. Hermione had been relieved, so relieved, and Harry had nearly snapped if you’re so worried about me then don’t leave. Yet the words sat heavy and unsaid on his tongue, even as he was at the International Portkey station waving goodbye to her and Ron, even as they were swept up to Australia, leaving behind nothing more than empty air.

“Potter,” Malfoy repeats, and Harry jolts back to the present, to the soft weave of the couch fabric underneath his hands. “Hullo.”

Harry blinks. He’s mostly been managing to go to class, though sometimes he wakes up feeling scraped raw and he loses days to bed– but it’s alright. He’s alright. Malfoy is always in class, sitting ramrod straight with his hair over his eyes, never speaking to anyone but the professors.

“I brought you notes,” Malfoy says, and Harry belatedly registers the parchment held in Malfoy’s hand. “For Herbology.” Malfoy’s hands are trembling and Harry can’t make himself look away; it’s the clearest thing he’s seen through the fog that's permanently taken up residence in his mind. Pale, pale hands, trembling.

“I can just…” Malfoy thrusts the parchment out. “Here.”

“It’s three in the morning,” Harry says, finally looking back up to Malfoy’s face. He’s turned away, looking at a point on the floor, the firelight flickering over his cheek.

“I couldn’t sleep. And I know sometimes you stay down here late.”

For a few moments Harry just watches Malfoy– watches his hands tremble, watches the way the blood red lines of the Mark jump in the firelight.

“You always wear long sleeves.”

At Harry’s words, Malfoy snatches his hand back, pressing his left forearm to his stomach so hard he huffs out a small breath. “Sorry, s-sorry,” he stutters, face dropping into something between panic and horror, and Harry stands up on instinct. The parchment in Malfoy’s hand crumples and Harry reaches out as Malfoy crumples, too. His bony knees hit the carpet with a thud even as Harry clings to Malfoy’s shoulders, so Harry goes down with him.

“Hey, I didn’t mean anything by that. I don’t care, I was just caught off guard,” Harry mumbles into Malfoy’s shirt, trying to remember how to fucking breathe when Malfoy is so close and so warm and so real.

Has Malfoy always been this warm?

Has Malfoy always been this scared?

“Hey, hey,” Harry murmurs, his own body shaking with the force of Malfoy’s. “Hey. You’re alright now.”

“No,” Malfoy whispers, sounding as though he’s been punched in the sternum, and Harry holds him tighter, trying to keep Malfoy together under his hands. “No, I’m really not.”

“Okay. Yeah. Me neither. But you can breathe for me, yeah?” Harry rubs a hand between Malfoy’s shoulder blades in soft circles, unsure how to comfort someone– how to comfort Malfoy. “You can breathe. In with me now.”

Harry breathes, Malfoy breathes. Shaky but alive.

Has Malfoy always been this warm?

“I crushed your notes,” Malfoy says quietly, after an indeterminate amount of trembling and stuttering breath. “I’m sorry.”

“That doesn’t– Malfoy. That doesn’t matter.” Harry’s nose is still pressed to Malfoy’s neck, his arms around Malfoy’s fragile shoulders, and when did Malfoy get so thin?

“I just wanted to make sure you had them.”

“Why?” Harry starts to pull away but Malfoy fists a hand in Harry’s jumper and clings, making a terrified noise in the back of his throat, so Harry stays. “Why did you get me notes? We don’t talk.”

“You... spoke for me at the trials.”

Oh. “So you feel like you owe me?”

“No. When you don’t come to class, that means your fogginess is worse, but you do try to pay attention when you’re there. It must be hard to keep up.”

Harry does pull back now, looking into Malfoy’s wide eyes. “What– what? How do you know about that?”

Glancing down at the floor, Malfoy shrugs. “I look at you. Anyone who knows you could see it.”

“But–” how do you know what I call it, Harry wants to ask. How do you still see me when the boundaries of my body are blurring?

“I should go up to bed.” Malfoy presses the crumpled notes into Harry’s hand, every line of his body apologetic.

“Wait,” Harry blurts, startling Malfoy. “Do you… do you feel the same way? That fogginess, like– like you can’t feel anything at all?”

“Oh, Potter,” Malfoy whispers with a sadness that pierces straight through Harry’s heart. “No. I feel everything.”

He’s gone before Harry can respond. Harry spends another hour gazing into the fireplace, and forces himself to go to class the next morning.

~

Every night, after midnight, they sit side by side on the same couch. It’s not something they agreed upon, or even talk about; one of them comes down and waits for the other. During the day they don’t interact, though it doesn’t make a difference since they both rarely talk to anyone else.

At first, Draco– because it’s Draco, now– doesn’t speak at all even in the dark, so Harry does, his mind clearer when Draco’s warm shoulder is pressed to his. He talks about his invitation to Auror training, the disconnect he felt from Ron and Hermione even before they left, the way time has started jumping in a way that means he’ll be at breakfast, blink, then be sitting in an afternoon class. He talks haltingly about nightmares and Horcruxes; that’s the first time Draco reaches for him, holding Harry’s hand in his trembling one. In this space between dawn and dusk Harry doesn’t ask Draco questions, giving himself up instead, but eventually he slips.

“Why do your hands shake?” Harry asks. The winter holidays are nearing and the common room is chilly, but Harry’s palm is flat and warm against Draco’s. Right now, he doesn’t feel foggy at all, his thoughts clear as he traces the line of Draco’s jaw with his eyes.

“From overexposure to Crucio, I think.”

“Oh,” Harry replies. “I’m sorry I asked.”

“It’s alright. I want you…” Draco swallows hard. “I want you to see me, too.”

“Alright,” Harry says, and after that Draco talks about himself, his own nightmares and memories and fears, how he came back to Hogwarts because he doesn’t have anything left.

It isn’t until the second day of the winter holidays that Harry understands what's happening.

~

“Hullo.”

The morning light is weak through the common room windows and Draco looks hesitant, paper thin. His hair is mussed from sleep and he blinks owlishly and suddenly Harry is in freefall, his stomach swooping as he just knows.

“H-hi.”

“I think that we are officially friends,” Draco says tentatively, twisting his hands together. “Since you know more about me than anyone. So I was thinking– hoping– we could, ah. Hang out. In the daytime too.”

“Yeah,” Harry replies, unable to stop reeling over Draco’s jaw and collarbone and unsteady fingers and beautiful beautiful eyes.

“You don’t sound very sure.” Draco is already drawing into himself, making himself smaller as he tries to move back towards the stairs up to their rooms, and Harry leaps to his feet in panic.

“No! I am. Draco, I’m sure. I’m sure. Come to breakfast with me?”

Draco’s shoulders relax as he nods. “Alright.”

~

“Muggles did not land on the moon,” Draco states, staring at Harry. They’ve been in the common room all evening, but with the other Eighth Years gone for the holiday there’s no one around to be bothered by their conversation. “They did not.”

“They did!”

“No.” Vigorously, Draco shakes his head. “I don’t believe you.”

“I’ll take you to a museum. There’ll be pictures.”

“Hmmm.” Draco leans his head against Harry’s shoulder, and Harry forgets to breathe. As easy silence falls between them, Harry imagines holding Draco’s hand all the time, the way they do before the sun comes up. He imagines talking to Draco every night, tucked up in the same bed, covers pulled up to their chin.

“Would you like to stay in my room tonight?” Harry blurts, his mouth moving before he can consult his brain, and Draco makes a choked sound beside him.

“Uh–”

“Just, I know neither of us sleep much, but we should try, but then we could still talk, and it can get cold in those rooms, so–”

“Harry. Yes. Let me change into pajamas and I’ll… meet you there?”

“Yeah.” Harry swallows his panic. “Yeah, okay.”

~

They last barely two minutes under the covers before Draco’s hands are on Harry’s face and Harry is desperately gasping can I– can I please to which Draco frantically nods and then they’re kissing, kissing, kissing.

Draco’s mouth is hot and Harry’s heart is ablaze.

Impossible, his mind is telling him as Draco gasps and arches off the bed against Harry’s chest. This is impossible.

“Harry,” Draco moans, and Harry decides reason has no place here. He digs his fingers into Draco’s hip and presses Draco’s body down, holding on so tight he distantly wonders if Draco will bruise. “Harry, Harry,” Draco pants, his fingertips ghosting across Harry’s back in a way that makes Harry squirm. He pushes himself up but Draco’s hands stay light, easy, and Harry growls in frustration before biting down hard on Draco’s bottom lip. Jolting up so hard he knocks his hips up into Harry’s, Draco whines high and long, and after a moment Harry feels wetness creeping up the fabric of his pajama pants.

“Draco, fuck, did you–”

“Shut up,” Draco whispers, sounding like he’s about to cry, or maybe he already is, so Harry presses his mouth down firmly to Draco’s shoulder and tightens his hold. Underneath the covers everything is too hot and smells like sex and Draco is trembling violently, but he pets his hands through Harry’s curls softly and murmurs something Harry can’t understand.

“Hm?”

“Sorry,” Draco whispers, and Harry bumps his nose against Draco’s neck.

“For what?”

“For– for– you know.”

“Was it good?”

“Y-yeah.”

Pressing one last kiss to Draco’s neck, Harry pulls away to grab his wand and clean them up. He sets it back down on the bedside table and pulls the covers up to their shoulders.

“Do you want…” Draco starts, then trails his fingers lightly down Harry’s stomach. Heat flushes through Harry’s thighs as he tries his best not to buck up against Draco’s hand.

“Only if you want to.”

“Yes,” Draco replies softly, and his hand wraps around Harry much too loose but it feels good anyway and too soon Harry is gasping as he streaks come across his own stomach. Draco watches with wide eyes and slightly parted lips until Harry brings his hands up behind Draco’s ears, pulling their foreheads together.

“What is this?” Harry asks, letting Draco make the choice because Harry wants everything all at once and he’s afraid it’s too much.

“I– I,” Draco fumbles, pulling away to look at Harry, panicked. “I want– what do you want?”

“All of it. You,” Harry says, and Draco smiles so brightly Harry wants to cry.

~

The winter holidays trip by in a haze of kissing and frotting and waking up with Draco in his arms, and Harry doesn’t think he’s ever been this happy. The slow-creeping fog that has spent months clinging to his mind is present, but only just, since he can count the faint freckles scattered across Draco’s cheeks and remind himself this is real. Only once does Harry wake up screaming against Draco’s chest, but Draco spends a long hour talking him down and pressing kisses to Harry’s cheek, and Harry falls back asleep with the pervasive feeling of home. Draco’s nightmares come quieter, more insidious, leaving him whimpering and jerking until Harry drapes his body warm over Draco’s.

Kissing still sets Harry on fire, and he thinks he may never stop burning; he doesn’t ever want to stop, even when Draco touches Harry so lightly he could scream. He finds out that his hands fit perfectly around the soft skin of Draco’s hips and that kissing behind Draco’s ear drags out a high, delicate whine.

“Draco,” Harry says now, flat on his back with Draco perched on his hips. He’s a vision, his bright hair mussed, wearing only pants and a Gryffindor jumper of Harry’s. “You can put your whole weight on me. You’re lighter than air, anyways.”

“I– I know,” Draco replies, but he still holds himself just above Harry. Neither of them have much experience with sex, but Draco remains timid, nearly disbelieving, every time they reach for each other.

“Draco, I’m serious.”

“I…” Draco shifts, looking away from Harry’s face, but he finally rests his full weight on Harry’s hips. “What do you want?”

“Touch me.” Just looking at Draco makes Harry feel like his skin is too small for his body, like his edges are blurring out. Harry wants to be contained, to be pressed back together under Draco’s hands. “Please?”

Fingertips light and faintly shaking, Draco traces a line up Harry’s bare chest, stopping at the hollow of his throat before moving back down. Harry wiggles underneath Draco’s thighs, trying to press up harder against Draco’s touch, but uncertainty flickers over Draco’s face and he pulls his hand away. Quicker than he means to, Harry reaches his own hand out, grabbing Draco hard around the wrist.

“What?” Draco asks. “What’s wrong?”

“Stop touching me like I’m breakable,” Harry snaps, then instantly regrets his tone. Draco’s eyes go wide for a moment before his mouth twists.

“Then stop touching me like I’m not,” Draco replies, sharper than he’s been in a very long time, and Harry’s mouth drops open.

“Oh. Oh.” Harry slowly releases his grip on Draco’s wrist and sits up, bringing his arms around Draco until they’re chest to chest. “Oh.”

“What?” Draco breathes. “Harry, what?”

“You want me to be gentle.”

“I… yes.” With a shiver, Draco presses his lips down to Harry’s shoulder, feather light. Harry shies away until Draco kisses him more firmly, raking his teeth along Harry’s skin.

“Ah,” Harry pants, and Draco raises his head to meet Harry’s eyes.

“You want…” Draco trails off as he winds his hands into Harry’s hair and tugs, not enough to hurt but enough to snap Harry’s mind fully into his body, everything suddenly going bright. “You don’t want me to be gentle?”

“It’s hard to remember where my body is,” Harry replies, which isn’t really an answer at all, but Draco twists so he’s lying on his back underneath Harry. His fingers press hard against Harry’s ribs and Harry nods frantically, his breath coming rough and quick.

“Harry,” Draco says. “Kiss me?”

Harry lowers himself down until their noses bump, Draco’s face blurred in Harry’s vision. His arms are burning slightly with the effort to not put his weight onto Draco, but there are fingers digging forcefully into his hips and he feels inexplicably adored.

“Harry–”

“Yes, love.”

Draco’s breath catches. “Kiss me. Kiss me, kiss me,” he murmurs against Harry’s lips. “Softly. Please… don’t bite.”

“Okay,” Harry replies, barely a whisper. He kisses Draco like he’s spun glass, like he’s fairy floss, like he could dissolve in Harry’s hands. Draco’s fingers move up to wrap firmly around Harry’s shoulders. Reality tightens to the point of contact between Harry’s mouth and Draco’s plush bottom lip, between Harry’s goose-fleshed skin and Draco’s long fingers, and Harry didn’t know being with Draco could get better but they fit perfectly now, their rough edges overlapping.

~

Something presses warm against Harry’s cheek and he blinks, slowly dragging himself into consciousness. Golden light filters through his window and spills bright across Draco’s arm where it’s out of the covers and thrown across Harry’s stomach. Draco’s forehead is pressed warm against Harry’s cheek and he makes a tiny snuffling noise in his sleep that instantly melts Harry’s entire being. Closing his eyes, he falls back into half-dreams until Draco shifts beside him, grumbling softly in a way that’s become intimately familiar.

“Love,” Harry murmurs, his voice scratchy with sleep. “Good morning.”

“Mmmmmm.”

“I see,” Harry says with exaggerated seriousness. “You make a very good point.”

“Mmmm,” Draco repeats, somehow managing to sound exasperated, and Harry laughs.

“It’s our last day to eat breakfast together. Everyone’s coming back today.”

“Oh.” Rolling away from Harry, Draco smushes his face down into the pillow then peers up at Harry with a bleary eye. “I guess.”

“I mean…” Harry trails off, looking up at the ceiling. “We could just keep doing that.”

“Eating breakfast together?”

“Yeah.”

Draco hums, and Harry turns to look at him. “People will probably… know,” Draco says, reaching his hand up to the side of Harry’s neck and resting it there, lightly until Harry scrunches his nose. Smiling softly, Draco presses down harder, a solid warmth, and Harry realizes Draco’s hands tremble less the tighter he holds onto Harry.

“I mean… I want them to know. Unless you don’t. I just… I like you,” Harry murmurs, ghosting his finger around the shell of Draco’s ear until Draco eyes flutter closed. Softly, softly, Harry reminds himself. Gentle. “I like you very much.”

“It isn’t going to be easy.” Draco moves closer to Harry, kissing the point of Harry’s chin. “People will think you’ve sullied yourself.”

With a snort, Harry tilts his head down, pressing a delicate kiss to Draco’s top lip. “That’s just ‘cause they don’t know how sweet you are.”

“Hmm.”

“It’ll be alright,” Harry says, trailing his fingers along the line of Draco’s shoulder, marveling at how Draco’s breath stutters. Has Draco always been this lovely? Surely, yes. He’s so impossibly lovely. “We’re going to make it alright.”

Read on AO3

[approximately20eggs]

Hell yeah!!! Shovel scene time :3c

So the shovel scene is one of my favorite scenes in all of TFTGS! It's also so brutal I have trouble reading it.

So it takes place very shortly after Jack's right leg is amputated from the knee down due to medical complications, and he's still adjusting. One night, Spencer, local semi-undead serial killer, kidnaps Jack from his workplace and drags him behind the gas station with the promise that Jack is going to die tonight. Jack doesn't take it seriously, because Spencer is a lot more bark than bite in his opinion, but he goes along with it.

Spencer attacks Jack with a shovel, deliberately missing by barely an inch with each swing, just to scare him. While Jack is yelling and trying to get away, Spencer says calmly, "Stay still, Jack! I wanna see how close I can get." (He also reopens Jack's surgery scars from his amputation, and that's the part that always makes me cringe a little.

He then makes Jack dig his own grave at gunpoint, and there's a very funny bit where Spencer says, "Has anyone ever told you you're really good at digging?" And Jack, who used to dig holes while disassociating, says, "I've had a lot of practice."

At this point, Jack and Spencer have a bit of a confrontation, where Jack says that he doesn't think Spencer is a killer. He's dangerous, yes, but not a killer. Spencer just smiles at him. And then Spencer hits him hard and knocks him on his back at the bottom of the grave.

Jack takes the opportunity to shoot an SOS text to Amelia, using the phone he slipped out of Spencer's pocket while they were talking (Jack is very good at pickpocketing, which Spencer always forgets).

Spencer then reveals his trump card. So there's a character in book one named Vanessa, who goes missing mysteriously. Well uh. Found Vanessa. Turns out, Spencer has her, and he brings her out, bound and gagged, to talk to Jack. And Vanessa, panicked and crying, insists that, yes, Spencer is a killer, and they're both going to die here.

Jack puts on a brave face to try and reassure Vanessa, and when Spencer gives him the option to kill either himself or Vanessa (with the other being allowed to go free), Jack chooses neither. Jack says there's no way Spencer is actually giving him any power in this situation, and he tries to talk his way out of it.

Spencer gets PISSED at not being taken seriously and killd Vanessa right there, and then he starts to bury Jack alive next to her body. Jack begs and yells and keeps trying to bargain, and when he realizes that won't work, he starts insulting Spencer. Eventually, he strikes a nerve, and Spencer drags him out of the hole to throw him down and kick him around, yelling and in general being So Fucking Angry but still not just killing him.

Then, Amelia arrives on the scene and hits Spencer with her taser before he can start in on Jack with the shovel again. While he's convulsing from the shocks, he drops the shovel, and Jack takes his chance.

What follows is my favorite moment of Jack Going Fucking Feral. Jack grabs the shovel and beats Spencer with it HARD, over and over, and as he does he screams, "STAY STILL, SPENCER! I WANNA SEE HOW CLOSE I CAN GET!"

Jack doesn't end up killing Spencer, but he comes close! He stops when Amelia pulls him back and calms him down. But yeah I think Jack should've killed him, maybe, just a little bit. I love Spencer sm but he should have

that's definitely quite the scene! to be clear I am not complaining but man this sounds like one hell of a series and I'm not sure what else to say. ty for telling me about it tho :) /gen

[todoshotoki]

𝙋𝘼𝙄𝙍𝙄𝙉𝙂: todoroki shoto x reader

𝙏𝙍𝙄𝙂𝙂𝙀𝙍 𝙒𝘼𝙍𝙉𝙄𝙉𝙂: mentions of anxiety, anxiety attacks, mentions of past abuse, thoughts of suicide

𝙎𝙐𝙈𝙈𝘼𝙍𝙔: where your sweet sixteen isn’t as sweet as you thought it’d be

𝙒𝙊𝙍𝘿 𝘾𝙊𝙐𝙉𝙏: 2.6K

𝘼𝙐𝙏𝙃𝙊𝙍'𝙎 𝙉𝙊𝙏𝙀: these are my raw emotions from last night and i wrote this to cope. these situations are very much real to me and what happened to me the day before posting this so please be kind about it. i’m still trying to recover.

you were turning sixteen. the day you had been anticipating had finally come and you could barely sleep the night before.

your parents had offered your boyfriend, shoto todoroki, to accompany you for breakfast to celebrate your birthday. he, of course, accepted and pushed everything else that he had to attend to on that morning for you.

you got up early, dancing and skipping around your dorm room while picking out clothes. you had clothes you had never worn since you bought them and you were ready to show the world that you had been confident enough to wear them. you were humming while doing your makeup when three knocks were heard from your door.

you stop contouring your cheeks to get the door. your lover was standing at your door with a small bag in hand, presumably a gift. “happy birthday, (y/n),” he pecks you on the cheek and pulls you into a hug.

“thank you, sho, you’re so sweet,” this makes the boy’s eyes light up as he had passed the gift onto you. you had known how much he was trying to be more openly emotional so little phrases like that were sure to make him happy. “should i open it now or later?” you ask him, sitting back down at your vanity.

“you can open it now if you want. i personally think it would go well with what you’re wearing.” he says, giving you a hint as to what it could possibly be. you spare him a smile before unraveling the decorative paper to take out a black small box with a red and white bow on it.

you grinned at the little detail and untied the bow. you lifted the lid of the box with a gasp and took out the expensive earrings you and shoto had seen while window shopping in shibuya a few weeks back. he remembered you looking at it and wanting to buy it but taking a glance at the price and turning away almost immediately.

“you didn’t!” you swoon over the accessory, holding it up in the air. a subtle smile curled up on shoto’s lips as he saw you try them on. and they did in fact match what you wearing. you turn to him and give him yet another hug which was just as warm as the first, “thank you so much!”

“anything for you, baby,” his grin becoming wider, completely feeding off the praise you were giving him. “i’ll finish my makeup and we’ll be out of here, hold on,” you spin back around to look at the mirror.

the two of you soon head out the door to the common room. it was still rather early so only the early birds were up. “(y/n)-chan, hey! happy birthday!” izuku waves to you from his place on the couch next to tenya. “yes, happy birthday, (y/n)! i hope you two have fun and stay safe!” tenya calls right afterward. “thanks, you guys!” you call back before stepping into the elevator with your boyfriend.

“are you as excited as i am?” you ask shoto, rocking your body from your toes to your heels as the doors close. “more like nervous,” he sighs, scratching the back of his neck. “don’t worry, you’ll be fine! they loved you the first time and they’ll definitely still like you this time.”

you two walk out to the more populated areas in musutafu. you were meeting up at an american style diner and shouto had a bad of picky eating so you had chosen here on purpose. at first, he wanted whine and protest but you had brought up the point that “if you two were going to be dating then he couldn’t just live off of soba.”

once you had spotted your parents, you caught on quickly to the fact that they didn’t bring anything as a present. you ignored it, maybe it would show up later...

“(y/n)! shoto-kun! you’re finally here.” your mother clasped her hands in excitement. your parents were seated at a booth and the waiter must have did her round and asked if they wanted any drinks so there were two glasses of water in front of you.

“hi, mom! hi, dad!” you sat down closest to the window while shoo bowed in greetings to your parents before sitting down.

your parents continued to make small talk varying between the food and your school life. the whole time you were smiling, this year was so much different from the others.

your parents weren’t huge fans of celebrating birthdays and often treated them like normal days besides a gift so going out today was definitely a change of atmosphere.

“americans eat a lot, no wonder, (y/n) picked this place.” this remark from your mother made your smile falter a little bit but not too noticeably as you fiddled with your straw. shoto had scowled at the woman, but calmed down and started a conversation just between you and him.

once you all had finished eating, your dad got up and said, “well, i’m going back to work,” your raise an eyebrow, “already?” your smile almost faded this time. “i have to go run errands as well,” your mother says trailing behind your dad to head to her car.

“but-” you cut yourself short, sighing a bit to yourself, you were planning to take pictures with all three of them but your parents just rushed to disappear from this event completely. they hadn’t even thought to buy you a birthday present.

“don’t be upset, i’m here,” shoto caresses your cheeks knowingly, “we can go shopping if you’d like?” you shake your head at this. “it’s okay, sho,” your eyes dart away from his gaze of white and blue, “i’m not going to let it get to me. plus you have spent way too much money.” you say referring to the earrings that were dangling at the side of your cheeks.

“well, i could always use my dad’s card,” he wiggles his eyebrows uncharacteristically making you chuckle and hit him playfully. “pfft- no! let’s go back to the dorms.” he caved in, muttering some nonsense about wanting to make his father bankrupt which you just shake your head to.

you walked to the train station and took the first train back to u.a. amidst the train ride, you had gotten a message. it was one of many. it was an unsaved number and you assumed that it was was one of your old friends from middle school or something. you opened up the chat log.

the texts and calls all day had made you happy. people actually cared about you?

you checked the suggested name and your heart sunk so low in your stomach that you swore you were suddenly falling. you felt your blood begin to pump in your ears.

you felt a hand on your’s to which you flinched to. “hey, what is it?” shoto whispers, massaging your hand with his thumb, he didn’t want to peer at your phone for the sake of privacy. you just shook your head and shut off your phone. with trembling fingers and jagged breathing, you had put the phone in your bag.

you were not okay.

you were definitely not okay.

how could they do that to you? how could they do that so easily?

“i’ll be fine shoto, there’s nothing to worry about,” the use of his full name and the harshness in it made him looked like he had been kicked. his gaze almost made you want to crumble. it made your heart sink further and further and your nerves started to flare up again.

how could you possibly explain this to shoto?

oh, my abusive ex, just wished me happy birthday so i’m flipping out even though i haven’t seen them in two years and i still haven't recovered cause i haven't been treated or medicated for the trauma because my parents refuse to???

yeah right.

you became nauseous as the train movement was pushing you to the edge. everything they had done to you was manifesting once again and the shock was slowly spreading and decaying each and every one of your abilities to function. 

your muscles in your face felt heavy. you were aware every ounce in your body and how much effort it took to lug it around.

you were supposed to be happy today. it was your day.

what seemed to be something had just turned into nothing in the matter of moments. who knew a two letter phrase could fuck you up so easily.

you talked a lot with shoto for the remainder of the time left. you held his hand but you couldn’t feel your fingers, the buzzing of disassociating completely was crawling up on you and you wanted nothing but to scream.

it’s okay. you still got the cake, right? everyone in class 1a would love to share cake with you and shoto. you haven’t had a celebration with cake in so long that it became your only hope at this point.

but a part of you knew that this was another way of your brain coping with the stress. nobody had bought the cake for you. nobody had bough the candles for you. nobody had noticed it was your birthday until you took the initiative to tell them the day before. you were all doing this because nobody actually ca-

don’t think about that.

it was your birthday.

you were happy. you were happy.

your forced a smile on your lips as you trudged along the sidewalk to the dorms. everything was so heavy. you set it aside as the lack of sleep you were getting. you had to put more concealer under your eyelids this morning to cover up the dark circles.

it was that it was definitely that.

...

as the day drew to a close, you were still in your room from when you arrived at noon. you sat in your bed alone. you couldn’t bring the courage to ask your classmates to join you anymore.

you had kicked your sheets off your bed, blasting the air conditioning and sat upright to just feel something. 

you wanted to tear your skin a part, you wanted to shred every emotion you felt right now into shreds. the pulsating agony of the thoughts that nobody cared just triggered tears to well up in your eyes.

the stupid birthday cake.

you had built a realty that you wanted to come true but it was always to good to be true for you, wasn't it?

yes, you had gotten birthday wishes but your parents seemed like everything to you. they criticized and nagged you for things you took pride and joy in. they told you over and over that you were eating too much, too little, talking too loud, too much.

everything was wrong with you and if everything was wrong with you then they were all pretending.

they didn’t care. they never cared.

that’s why you sat there lighting your own dumb ass store bought cake with cheap ass flavorless frosting and spongy cake batter.

what were you trying to prove to yourself?

were you trying to prove that you were mentally stable? that you had people in your corner? let me tell you that was delusional thinking.

crying yourself to sleep on your birthday wasn’t something that you had thought would happen. it was supposed to be special. it was supposed to be different.

it was the first year where you thought you had friends and you weren’t being yelled at and hurt but even then nothing had changed. the ghost of trauma still loomed over your head.

nobody believed you, nobody would ever believe you, you had no bruises to show for it, no broken bones, just a twisted up mentality.

“sho...,” you whimper as the shivering wouldn’t ever stop. you felt your eyes well up in tears and just let them silently cascade down your face.

they looked so disinterested. they all could care less.

a few knocks at your door. “hey, (y/n)?” you heard softly at your door. it was izuku.

you didn’t want to answer. you bit down on your lip so the sobs wouldn’t start up again. it soon became almost too much as your chest tightened.

you covered your mouth as more and more tears streamed down your face and your body failed to take oxygen into your lungs.

maybe dying wasn’t that bad?

fuck, you were being so overdramatic.

“(y/n), we know you’re there...” another voice calls from your door. this time it was ochako. you still didn’t want to answer.

“just leave me alone,” you gasp out to yourself since you highly doubted that they would be able to hear you.

it hurt so bad being so alone. 

no matter how much time you spent. no matter how much love and affection was thrown your way it all seemed so fake.

another voice, “c’mon, (y/n), if you won’t answer them. can you answer me?” it couldn’t be other than your boyfriend’s. this made you feel torn between just sitting here and going to the door.

your feet carried you to the door. only shoto stood there now looking at the ruined makeup on your cheeks. “baby...” his soft voice was all it took for you to start ugly crying.

sobs and wails escape your lips and he close the door behind him, hushing you as he takes you into his arms. “you’re okay, it’s going to be okay.” he leads you to your bed and helps you lay down next to him.

between the combing through your hair with his fingers and the kisses that he left on your forehead, your anxiety soon slowed.

“listen to me, okay? whatever you’re thinking right now and whatever you’re doubting right now is all untrue. everyone loves you and even if some things didn’t work out, there’s always a next time, remember?” he hums, transferring some of his quirk to his fingertips to ground you a little bit more than just the sheets underneath you two.

“i’ll be okay, right?” you mumble, moving your ear to his beating heart.

“yes, of course, you will. we all have got you.” he hugs you a bit tighter for a moment, “it’s okay to cry. you’ve been through a lot. those feelings are valid and you will be able to conquer them eventually with one step at a time.”

you both laid their in silence intertwined. you inhaled the smell of peppermint from his shirt and finally said something.

“can i tell you something?” you ask him lowly. you could already feel the burning in your throat. “anything you want, sweetheart,” he nods. “well- um- i was mistreated... badly in the past.” you felt your voice start to fade with the words. you cleared your throat and punched your chest to get that choking feeling out.

“i don’t like saying it was this bad out loud because it sounds so stupid but i was manipulated and...” you trailed off into tears as your crying started up again. you felt his body run cold for a moment but he quickly recovered. “it’s okay, it’s okay, don’t worry... you don’t have to explain anything to me right now.”

you nod and sniffle, “okay... then i would like to tell you later,”

“alright, remember, i’m right here and i’ll never leave,” he hums, wiping away your tears, “rikido made a cake for you, do you still want to celebrate?”

this made a smile manifest on your lips, “of course!”

[abused-sides]

Looking [Roommates AU]

Trigger warning: This au follows most of the sides in the aftermath of surviving abuse (domestic, parental, etc). In this particular fic it’s only implied, but it’s an instrumental part of the story and if that bothers you, then please not only scroll past this fic, but block my blog as well.

More tws: Homelessness, homeless shelters, sleeping outside, paranoia, house-bound, anxiety/overwhelmed, malnourishment, let me know if i missed anything 

Genre: ??? Virgil escapes and Patton interviews him to move in 

Ships: Endgame romantic intruloceit, romantic prinxiety, queerplatonic royality

Wc: 2541 

A/N: I promise I’m getting to your prompts I love you guys

Virgil laid flat on his back, eyes fixed on the familiar water stain on the ceiling. 

It’d been there since he moved in, three years ago. He hadn’t noticed it right away, instead focused on exploring all the rooms, thrilled about all the space he would have. He wished the house was smaller— Wished they lived in an apartment. He certainly would have more free time. 

There were four spots in the house Virgil hid the money, and he never visited the same one too often. One was tucked inside an empty spray bottle with all of his cleaning stuff, under the kitchen sink. One was slipped between the bedspring and the mattress, on Virgil’s side. He’d never felt a lump or anything, but he was terrified his boyfriend would somehow feel it in his sleep and find the stash. 

Another was hidden in a plant pot under Virgil’s favourite window, buried under the dirt in a plastic bag. The last was tucked into Virgil’s wallet, which he hadn’t touched in three years. No need for a wallet when you don’t leave the house, and your boyfriend pays for everything with his card. 

His boyfriend had been gone for hours. He’d be gone for several more. Virgil wasn’t sure why he hadn’t left yet, why he did his daily chores and then just laid there, hoping the water stain would grow and spread and swallow the entire house. 

He wouldn’t get another chance like this. Not for years, probably. It was the exact opportunity he’d been waiting for. 

So why couldn’t he do it?

He squeezed his eyes shut as they welled with tears. He imagined his boyfriend getting home with his gifts and false compassion, imagined having to spend another several years as his property, with his dull life of cleaning and not much else. 

He pushed himself off the ground and headed for the window that looked out the front yard. He dug under the daisy growing in the pot, spilling dirt all over the immaculate carpet, ripping up its roots and petals, and grabbed the first stash. 

Once he started, he couldn’t stop. He flew through the house to grab all the money and put his backpack together, and then skidded to a stop in front of the door. He swallowed. He was going to throw up. 

He reached blindly for the coatrack, his fingers wrapping around the soft fabric of his boyfriend’s hoodie. He pulled it on and threw the door open. He didn’t think to close it as he stepped out onto the drive, almost disassociating. All he’d felt under his feet for three years was carpet and tile and hardwood. He hopped off the driveway into the grass, and then the sidewalk, and then the road. 

He took in a shuddering breath, pulled his hood up, and ducked his head as he headed for the nearest train station. 

The ticket stole most of his money, but it didn’t matter. As long as he got to the city, he would be fine. He could figure it all out from there. 

He sat alone on the train, wanting desperately to sleep but instead sitting straight up, never resting from his constant patrol. A lady sitting across from him at one point offered to buy him something to eat, but he refused. 

The train stopped in the city’s station close to midnight. Despite him saying he didn’t need any help, the lady guided his shaky self down the steps, and patted his back. 

“Where are you headed?” 

Virgil swallowed. “Um…”

“Do you… Have family in the city?”

He shook his head. He didn’t know where his parents were. 

“Here, let me see your arm.” 

Virgil was hesitant, but carefully rolled his sleeve up. The cool tip of her Sharpie scribbled over his pale skin for a moment, and when she finished, she’d mapped out the directions to a few homeless shelters. 

“They should be able to help you if you don’t have anyone else,” she said. “They can feed you, too. You should eat.”

Virgil’s face turned red. “Okay. Uh, thank- Thank you. Thanks.”

She smiled and squeezed his shoulder, and then she was on her way. 

Virgil spent the next few weeks hopping around homeless shelters. Most of them only allowed a few days’ stay at a time, and he was forced out after breakfast early in the morning. Occasionally, he had to find alternative places to sleep, resorting to behind closed stores, alleyways, fire escapes— Anything he could find and be relatively certain he wouldn’t be caught. 

Most days spent in the city were unproductive. He was overwhelmed, not sure what he wanted, what choices he even had. The stark difference of the empty house he spent three days in, the loudest sounds being traffic outside or his music, to plunging himself deep in the middle of something that was constantly alive, constantly busy, was… 

Overwhelming. 

He was at a cafe, his current favourite place in the city because they let him stay as long as he wanted and gave him free water, when he saw the ad. 

THREE ROOMMATES (MALE) LOOKING FOR FOURTH 

The three of us are currently struggling to make rent, and we have a spare bedroom. Rent would be approximately $575/month. Two of us work from home, and they’re very loud. One of them only works from home part-time. 

Attached was a phone number to call for an interview. 

Virgil asked the girl behind the counter to borrow her phone, and dialled the number with shaking hands. 

“Hello?” 

“H-Hi.” Virgil cleared his throat as his voice broke. “Um, I saw your ad?” 

“Oh! Awesome! When are you free for an interview?”

“Any time, but…” He swallowed. “I’m… I’m just a little, uh, short. I only have about $490 left. But- But if I just had a place to stay, I could-”

“Hey!” The boy sounded concerned. “Hey, hey, calm down. We can still do the interview! Everyone here is struggling, we get it. Besides, you’re our third applicant, and the other two are… Not favourable. So if you nail the interview, and we don’t get too many more applicants, I’ll try to convince my roommates. Where have you been staying?”

Virgil hesitated. “Kind of, um, all over the place. The- The shelters, mostly.” 

“Hmm,” he hummed gravely. “Okay, are you free in an hour? I’m home, so if you want to bang out the interview today, we can!” 

Virgil’s eyes widened. “Really? Uh- Yeah. Yeah, I can get there. Um, what’s the address?” 

When he arrived at the apartment complex, he wanted to throw up and go back to the shelter. Images of Patton laughing at him, or harassing him, or attacking him were the mildest thoughts to run through his head. 

But this was his best option. 

He knew that. 

He had to go inside. 

He took in a shuddering breath. He had to go inside. 

He walked inside. 

Virgil was afraid of elevators, so he took the stairs, only half procrastinating. Patton and his roommates lived on the fourth floor. By the time he arrived, his thighs burned and he was a little out of breath. He looked down at himself and cringed— He was so skinny, mostly just bones, and pale. He looked like he crawled out of a cave. He wore his boyfriend’s now dirty hoodie and jeans that hadn’t been washed in a week. 

How the fuck was he supposed to land this interview? 

He forced himself to push forward, though, and when he knocked, he barely heard it. The door flew open and Virgil barely managed not to jump back. The boy on the other side had golden-brown skin and big, round green eyes. His dark hair fell in messy curls over his forehead. His apron, covered in flour and cocoa powder, followed the swell of his round belly. 

“Hi!” He stuck his hand out. “Virgil? I’m Patton!” 

Virgil shook his hand with a loose grip and stepped inside when gestured. Patton pointed out the table while he hung up his apron, and Virgil nervously lowered himself into one of the old, chipped wooden chairs. Patton came to sit across from him with a warm smile and a sheet of paper. 

“Okay, so I just have a few questions!” He said cheerily. “Don’t let yourself get too nervous, this is hardly formal, I promise.” 

Virgil nodded. 

“Okay! First question: How long would you be staying?”

Virgil blinked. “Uh… I’m not- I’m not really sure. As long as possible, I guess. Until I get back on my feet and some time after that, if you all are still here.” 

Patton scribbled his answer down. “What do you like to do in your free time?” 

Virgil spent an embarrassing amount of time thinking about that question. Did cleaning count as free time? No, that was basically his job. Better refer to it as such. He wiped his sweaty palms on his jeans and stumbled out, “Well, uh, I guess- I guess I listen to music a lot. I gardened sometimes with, you know, those tiny plant boxes?” 

He gasped, and for a terrifying second, Virgil thought he’d somehow offended him. But then Patton pointed to the right, into the living room. Along the sill of the huge window were several of the exact planter boxes Virgil’s boyfriend bought for him. 

“That’s awesome!” Patton gushed. “You’d be able to help us take care of them! They die a lot. We’re planting a lot of strawberries right now, are you any good with them?”

Virgil nodded. “Y-Yeah, I grew tons of strawberries.” 

Patton grinned ear to ear and furiously scribbled some things down. Virgil relaxed a little. “How clean are you? Are you good at cleaning up after yourself?”

Virgil was nodding before he finished speaking. “Yeah, I’m really clean. I spent a lot of time cleaning before I left, so it’s, uh, pretty much habit not to leave a mess around.”

“How would you feel about a chore chart?” Patton pointed to the fridge behind Virgil. Stuck on the front was a large sheet of paper split into three columns, with the headings PATTON, LOGAN, and ROMAN. “Logan made it, and he’s pretty strict about everyone sticking to it. It basically just splits our weekly house chores down the middle, with small accommodations depending on what job everyone has. On paper, I have the least amount of chores because I work the most hours, but a lot of those are cleaning, anyway.” 

Virgil shifted nervously. Would they let him off by saying looking for a job counted towards those hours? Otherwise… He’d be doing a lot of cleaning. What if I trick myself into thinking leaving was a waste of time? 

“I can do that.” He was surprised at how confident he sounded. 

“Great! How often do you cook? No one’s required to cook a certain amount a week or anything- You don’t have to cook at all, if you don’t want to or can’t -but we eat a lot of family dinners so it’s evened itself out so far naturally.” 

“Yeah- No, I can cook. I have a few recipes pretty nailed down so, uh, that shouldn’t be a problem.”

Virgil’s body was alive with adrenaline. Was he doing well? He thought he was doing well. Patton looked happier and happier with each answer, so he had to be doing well, right? 

“Along the same line, how do you feel about sharing?” Patton bit his lip. “We understand that everyone has their boundaries, but we’re all pretty close. If you moved in, someone might dip into your groceries by accident, and borrow something without asking. We’d never go into your room without asking, but, well… Yeah, we have boundary issues.” He giggled nervously. 

Tightness expanded in Virgil’s chest. “That’s fine,” he managed. 

Patton frowned. “It’s okay if you’re not. If you’re the right fit for us, we’ll just have to be more careful. You’d just have to forgive a few slip-ups while we adjust.” 

Virgil nodded and forced his voice to steady. “It’s fine. I promise.” He’d just keep everything important in his room- It’s not like he had more than a backpack’s worth right then, anyway. 

Patton nodded slowly and wrote down his answer. “Okay… Um, what’s your sleep schedule like? Roman and Logan both get up pretty early. Logan’s really quiet, but Roman’s really… Not, so if you’re a light sleeper and you sleep in like a normal person, his singing might get on your nerves.”

“I’m fine with that. I, uh, my sleep schedule’s kind of all over the place, so I don’t think it matters?”

“Okay! How has it been lately?”

“Well, uh, the shelters kick us out pretty early, so my sleep schedule probably coincides with Roman’s.” 

Patton nodded. “Do you have any pets, or plans to get any?” Virgil shook his head, and Patton made a noise of disappointment. “How often do you get drunk?”

Surprised, Virgil admitted, “I’ve never gotten drunk.” 

“Oh!” Patton blushed and laughed. “Do you plan on changing that any time soon? Was it a rule, or?” 

“It wasn’t a rule, I just… I don’t know, there was never too much alcohol around. I don’t plan on getting into the stuff, no.” 

Patton nodded and mumbled, “Good.” He straightened up. “Are you still friends with your old roommates?” 

Virgil folded his hands in his lap, squeezing tight. “No?” He stammered, “Is, uh, is that bad?”

He shook his head. “No, not necessarily! How many roommates have you had?”

“Well, there were my parents, and then my boyfriend.” 

“That’s completely understandable,” Patton promised. 

Virgil tipped his head to the side in confusion. Even the part about his parents? He didn’t assume Virgil was some ungrateful, heartless monster? 

“And, um, I’m sorry about this-” Patton looked at him guiltily, “-but I do have to ask… How would you be paying the rent? Would you be able to put down a deposit?”

Shit. Fucking hell, this was going bad fast. “I’m not really sure yet? I- I know that’s bad, I just- Uh, well, I have been looking, I promise. I’ll get the first job I can. I promise.”

Patton held his hand up with a frown. “Hey, it’s okay. I know, you’re in a rough spot right now. It’s okay. You said you’d be a little on the first month?”

Virgil swallowed and nodded. “I can give it to you now, though.”

Patton laughed nervously. “Uh, no, that’s okay. Please hold onto that. If we accept you as a roommate, we’ll take it then, okay? Don’t let someone pre-emptively take your money.” 

Virgil blushed. “Okay.”

Patton wrote something down, then looked up and asked, “Is there anything else I should know?” 

He thought for a moment. He was sure there was something he should tell them, something they were obligated to know before they agreed to live with him. Plenty of ideas ran through his head in his boyfriend’s voice, but for whatever reason, he didn’t think those were appropriate to voice. 

“No,” he settled on. “Not that I can think of.” 

“Okay.” Patton smiled and set the paper down. “We’ll get back to you as soon as possible.” 

Reblogs > Asks > Likes 

Also, for anybody who isn’t aware, I have a ko-fi where I’ll write you 300 words with your prompt for one coffee 

[aelaer]

The Blood in Our Veins (a serial)

This came out faster than I expected.

Prompt (via @ironstrangeprompts): Kidnapped to play doctor for a still unseen other prisoner; Stephen realizes there is only one person on the planet who would have palladium in their blood.

This is unbetaed; apologies for any errors.

Part 1 |

Part 2 - Get Me Through the Night

The time on Stephen's watch read 5:24 P.M. on April 24, 2010. Doctor Baar caught him looking at his wrist as he helped prepare samples for the pharmaceutical chemist.

"If your watch is set for New York time, it will not match here. I do not think we are in America."

"What makes you say that?" Stephen asked. He was told that talking was allowed so long as they still worked, but a couple doctors gazed over at the camera as that was said. He got it; they were being both watched and listened to. Great.

"Breakfast should come in the next two to four hours. Or at least, they are more breakfast-like foods. Eastern European, maybe Middle Eastern. I am not entirely sure." The German doctor adjusted the microscope he looked into and kept his head down. "They do keep us well-fed, for what it is worth. You will not starve here."

Playing lab technician was not something Stephen had done since medical school and it was not something he particularly enjoyed. He wasn't exactly in the position to change his circumstances at the moment, however—and there were a lot of blood samples that needed preparation by someone, and he wasn't one of the lab specialists. So he took on the prep work. It was tedious, but necessary in their situation.

"Breakfast?" Stephen frowned. "Then when do they let us sleep?"

"At the beginning, when Doctor Ferguson and I were first brought here, we were permitted to sleep seven hours. They even dimmed the lights." Again the doctor kept his head down, appearing very focused on his work.

Stephen followed his lead and kept his eyes on the centrifuge tubes he was preparing. "How long have you been here?"

"For us, it has been a month. It was maybe two weeks later when Doctor Mahajan joined us. Doctor Weston has been here for only a few days." Doctor Baar typed a few notes into a computer and replaced the slide with another one; both slides had a small drop of blood upon them.

"I don't suppose that computer has an internet connection," Stephen muttered.

The chemist smiled dryly. "That would be useful, wouldn't it?"

Stephen had nothing to say to that and the conversation petered out into nothing.

————  

Stephen's watch read 6:41 P.M. when Doctor Mahajan asked if Stephen could be spared for more sample handling at her work station. He had hundreds of more questions, but Doctor Baar had asked for silence soon after their conversation and Stephen understood that need well and had followed his request.

"Thank you for joining in the work so quickly," Doctor Mahajan said after relaying her instructions to him. "I am surprised you didn't elect to sleep further first. You were heavily drugged."

"I get through stress best by working," Stephen replied, "though I haven't done lab work for some years." The knowledge that he had been kidnapped was a thought he had pushed into the back of his mind, placing it in a spot to deal with later (when he inevitably had to). In the meantime, he wanted to distract himself as much as possible and gather what information he could regarding his circumstances, and he had the opportunity to do both right now.

Doctor Mahajan continued lowly, "Doctor Weston has been helping us a lot since her arrival, but she deserves further rest. She remained awake during her time to sleep to monitor you."

Stephen had been instructed by her to place samples onto slides and label them in a specific manner on both the slide and computer, so he was in the process of doing just that. "What is this about taking shifts to sleep? Doctor Baar mentioned it had not always been like this."

"It changed about a week ago," she answered. "It was just before Doctor Weston was brought here. Before, during my time here, they had only come in once to deliver new equipment that Doctor Ferguson requested."

"How're food and messages usually delivered?" Stephen asked.

"Through the slot at the bottom of the door," she said, then lowered her voice even further into a near whisper, leaving Stephen straining to hear her. "But they came in again." She went off on a tangent to add, "If they come once more, put your hands on your head, quickly. They're impatient." Doctor Mahajan then paused to enter something longer on her own computer before continuing to speak in a whisper. "They said the last time they came that only one of us could sleep at a time, and we needed to eat meals faster. There would be 'consequences' if we didn't." She quickly pivoted the subject. "Let me know when you are starting to get tired; my sleep shift started an hour ago, but Doctor Weston needed it more. We will need to adjust to about five hours a shift with your arrival, too."

Stephen frowned down at the slides as he listened to her words. "What could be so damn important that we can only sleep one at a time? What are these samples for?"

Doctor Mahajan didn't answer immediately. When she did, he again had to strain to hear her. "The less you know and the less you guess, the safer it will be for you. Please don't ask me again."

————  

The time was 8:30 P.M. in New York when Stephen finished his prep work for Doctor Mahajan. She had gone for her sleep shift about 45 minutes ago. Just as he finished, he heard a metallic scraping sound that sounded near-deafening in the quiet room.

"That's breakfast," Doctor Ferguson told him as she turned to face him. "We have a table to eat at over there." She waved a hand at a corner of the room. "They don't like us eating together all at once. We'll eat first."

She sent a couple silent gestures to the other two doctors, then went towards the door. Stephen followed her and eyed the entrance up and down. It looked like it was made of steel and in no way was going to be forced open. Beside the door were two large closed containers. Doctor Ferguson picked one up, leaving Stephen for the other, and he followed her to the table.

The containers turned out to be filled with an ample amount of food: several pieces of flatbread, a chunk of cheese, a chunk of butter, another container filled with a porridge of some type, and something that resembled yogurt but didn't quite smell like the yogurt he was used to. There were also two canteens of what turned out to be tea and coffee, and enough dishes and cutlery for them all.

"Doctor Baar wasn't kidding," Stephen muttered. "They do want us well-fed."

"It wouldn't do them any good if we were too weak to work," she replied. "Help yourself to whatever you want."

Stephen avoided the yogurt-looking substance, but took a bit of the rest and helped himself to some coffee. It wasn't spectacular, but it was manageable. "Doctor Baar mentioned that you, alongside him, have been here the longest Doctor Ferguson."

"Call me Jada," she answered. "It seems ridiculous to me to stand on titles in a situation like this. Summer—Doctor Weston—agrees with me." 

He raised his brows. "And the other two?" 

"Steffen doesn't seem to care either way; he's a tough read. Doctor Meera Mahajan always refers to us by title, and seems to want the same. I think it helps her disassociate from our circumstances—helps her cope. We're all worried, but she's having the toughest time of it." 

Stephen looked sidelong at the British woman as they spoke about her; she was currently asleep in one of the beds along the far wall. The stress lines across her brow had hardly faded. His eyes quickly caught sight of the unlabeled pill bottle on the floor just beside her cot. "Pills?" he asked. 

"Oh." Jada paused for a moment in thought. "She has a condition—best if she tells you, rather than me. I'm not her doctor, but…" 

"I get it," Stephen said with a slight smile. 

"Steffen has his own pills, too. A different condition. But you need to let us know now if you need anything daily; they'll have it to you within a day, if it's like when they got the other pills." 

He shook his head. "No, I'm fine." He then glanced towards the camera at the corner near the door. "They're very well-stocked." 

"Very," she muttered. 

"Who are these people?" Stephen muttered back. "What do they want with us?" 

"No idea who they are, but I can show you what they are having us do after breakfast." Jada jutted her chin to his plate. "Finish up; we've been talking too long without getting work done. They're even starting to get annoyed at longer showers. Though to be honest, I don't know why I still try and bother with long showers; that white people shampoo has completely ruined my hair." 

Stephen snorted softly at the unexpected comment. "Should send a complaint to management." 

She half-smiled. "We've gotten a few changes of clothes, extra towels, and water containers as needed—they brought stuff in for you when you arrived, by the way—but even I wouldn't push my luck with this group." Jada then turned fully to her meal and Stephen followed suit. 

After they ate, she led him back to her workstation. Doctors Baar and Weston took their turn to eat breakfast as Doctor Ferguson opened a cabinet. 

Stephen stared blankly at the contents within. On one shelf were a number of inorganic compounds: calcium hydroxide, lithium carbonate, lithium hydroxide, hydrogen peroxide, and lithium peroxide, to name a few. On another shelf chlorophyllin, several supplements in the form of vitamin C, vitamin B12, magnesium, calcium, and iron, and a bottle of Calcium EDTA were all in sight, though there were other things behind those. There were also various fruits, of all things, on the very bottom shelf. 

"The fruits aren't for us, by the way." She tapped a handwritten recipe beside the cabinet. "You can make the drink right now. We're making it twice a day at this point. Refrigerated items are over there." Jada gestured over to a small medical fridge. 

His bewildered gaze went from the cabinet to follow her hand, then fell on the recipe. "What the hell is this for?" 

"Our patient." She went to her microscope and placed a slide under it. After a moment of adjusting the focus, Jada said, "Come take a look at this." 

Stephen stepped up to the microscope and frowned to himself as he looked at what happened to be a blood sample. The white blood cells showed clear signs of toxic granulation and he saw both basophilic stippling and microcytic anemia in the red blood cells. 

"Well," he started, "the patient does not have normal-looking blood cells. I hope you have more than blood samples to work with." 

She half-smiled. "Lucky for us, we didn't have to search for what was causing these abnormalities. The patient has palladium poisoning." 

Stephen lifted his head from the microscope to stare at her. "Palladium poisoning? Is the patient chewing on engagement rings?" Seriously, palladium? 

"It gets weirder," Jada answered. "Calcium EDTA could solve the trick, but for whatever reason the patient is being continually exposed to this palladium and it's not leaving the body. The smoothie," she nodded to it, "was on us to make from the first day we got here, to treat symptoms and to limit the spread of the poisoning. We've added a couple other things to try and help the patient's body fight it. Start making a cup; we leave it at the slot and they collect it with our dishes." 

Normally Stephen would not be thrilled to be ordered around as such, but again, his circumstances weren't exactly normal—and his brain was still trying to come up with an idea as to where someone would be continuously exposed to palladium, of all things. 

As he began to make the drink and Jada returned to her own work at the microscope, he asked, "And I suppose that you've been tasked to find some sort of permanent cure against continuous palladium exposure." 

"Bingo," she answered. "During my second week here we began experiments with lithium compounds after we saw potential in the samples. After Doctor Mahajan arrived, she suggested lithium dioxide which has had the most effective results in slowing the poisoning. Several tests later, Steffen synthesized a stable mix with the least likelihood of side effects. 

"But as you saw, it slowed down the spread of poisoning; it hasn't done anything to fully stop it or repair the damage. We're still seeing a deterioration in the patient's tests. The current trend is leading into a direction that, if we don't figure something out soon, will leave the patient dead in two months—even with regular lithium dioxide injections." 

Stephen's frown remained a permanent fixture as he mixed the strange smoothie and listened to her. "Do these people know this?" 

"Yeah," she answered. "And a couple days after we told them, Summer arrived. We're still trying to find a more permanent solution, but she was given X-rays yesterday." 

"Doctor Weston did mention an X-ray earlier." 

"I haven't had a chance to look at them yet. I guess they are having her explore another avenue." Jada jutted her chin to the smoothie. "Cap the smoothie and leave it by the door; Steffen will put everything that needs to go back to them into place in the container. And if you're up for it, I could use a hand inputting all my notes into the computer." 

It was something to do, so he agreed.

—————  

It was 11:13 P.M. according to Stephen's watch when he agreed to take the sleep shift after Doctor Mahajan starting at about 12:30 (at least in New York). Steffen Baar had been after Meera Mahajan before Stephen's arrival, but the chemist wanted to finish some experiments that would take more than two hours to complete, apparently, so they 'may as well start the new shifts now'. 

So Summer Weston pulled him away from his transcribing work with Jada Ferguson to discuss some matters with him before he went to sleep. 

"Your latest paper on neurogenesis was fantastic, Doctor Strange. Some of the more complex concepts went beyond my medical knowledge, but what I did understand really excited me for what we may see in neurosurgery in the future."

His ego ate the compliment with ease, but he replied politely, "Thank you, Doctor Weston. Your own pioneering work with robotic cardiovascular surgery is bound to help cardiothoracic surgeons across the world."

She waved a hand. "Summer, please."

"Call me Stephen, then," he said. "You mentioned you had some X-rays?"

"Yes." They reached her workstation and she clicked on a folder on her desktop. "They're not incredibly helpful, though."

He was about to ask what she meant, and then the first image came up. Stephen raised his brows. The image was of a male torso with several splinters of some sort of foreign body scattered throughout the chest. But instead of showing the entire affected area as an X-ray usually would, the image was cropped midway up the torso, leaving off the upper chest entirely.

"And this one is why you're here, I'm afraid," Summer said, and again he was presented with a strangely cropped X-ray. This one was taken from the side; the spine and a couple inches of the body was shown, but it was cropped before the sternum. In what he could see from this X-ray and in comparison to the first one, there were a couple shards dangerously close to peripheral nerves and one uncomfortably close to the spine.

"How is this man still alive?" he muttered. "Are these shards causing the palladium poisoning?" What palladium item would create such trauma in the first place?

"It's amazing he's alive," she said in agreement. "And take a look at the heart X-ray." She went to the image (again cropped to cut off view of the sternum) and, other than the foreboding shards lodged about the area, he immediately saw the issue.

"His heart is too far left," Stephen muttered. "What's pushed it there?"

She offered him a slight smile. "I have written to them," she gestured to the computer, "that I will not be able to give them an accurate idea of surviving a surgery without full chest X-rays at the least, and that I would definitely need an orthopedic surgeon or neurosurgeon for the shards near the nerves." She then gave him an apologetic look.

Stephen didn't bother answering; what was done was done. "They can't expect us to perform surgery on this man without a full X-ray at the least."

"I don't think they want us to," she answered. At his questioning look, Summer clarified, "They're still trying to find a more permanent solution to the palladium poisoning with the other three, but they are running out of time. We're more of a last resort."

He wasn't quite sure how he felt about being a last resort (he felt a bit miffed, actually, but he had enough sense to realize that this was not a good time to express his annoyance). "Doctor Ferguson said two months at most." Stephen looked again at the X-ray, and he found himself frowning; something was tickling at the back of his mind, some piece of knowledge that was relevant to all this, but it remained elusive.

"Hopefully they won't wait until last minute for the surgery, then," she answered.

Stephen spent the rest of his time awake studying what imaging and tests had been made on this male patient (obviously no MRIs); but alongside the cropped X-rays there were extensive blood tests, images from a CT scan, urine tests, lung function tests results, and cardiac function tests. There was more than enough data to read through and get a better idea of the overall health of the man he might have to perform surgery upon.

When he eventually took his turn to sleep, he was exhausted and fell quickly asleep. Stephen's last waking thought was the puzzle of the palladium and the niggling, niggling suspicion that he was missing something he already knew.

————— 

A/N: Tony's injected with lithium dioxide in Iron Man 2 to slow his poisoning. In reality, this chemical compound doesn't exist. Its real-life cousin, lithium superoxide, would definitely not be good for his body considering you use Kelvin to measure its temperature (aka very very very cold). It's other cousin, lithium peroxide, doesn't seem nearly as bad, but not exactly what you'd call anywhere near accurate science. But this just means that the fic can get away with some Hollywood Science. 

Hollywood Science is used in the ingredients for his symptom-counteracting drink (for instance, chlorophyllin has no proven health benefits, just conjectures, and treating metal poisoning is a good deal more precise than I write here and the ingredients are all rather loosey-goosey, though I try to put some real world logic into it). Huzzah!

Medical people: if you see anything blatantly erroneous (and clearly not Hollywood Science in the form of fictional treatments), please let me know.

Tag requests: @sobeautifullyobsessed, @tashacumberbitch @babywarg, @nishtha3012, @ragingstillness, @walkin-in-the-cosmos, @lafourmii20. Others: Let me know if you want to be tagged for future updates in a comment (as it won't be on AO3 for a while and has no steady update schedule planned). Or let me know if you want to be removed.

[largethingslargerthings]

Short reflection on Chang, Amico and Humienik

Questions can be profound moments in a poem, but there is also the risk that they go nowhere, that you issue a query to nothingness.  The opening lines to Spencer Chang’s “Ghost Stories (III) are stained with the interrogative, “it’s June / I wake up / you’re not / in bed I call you / we’re sorry you have reached / I call again / call me when you get home / turn lights off / I leave for the gas station / I buy you coffee / stay out until it’s very dark / every face blurry / I grab a stranger / he looks like you / he pushes me to the ground”.  The lines live in the body of a question.  In one part of the poem, the narrator queries a voice mail, literally speaking to the absence of the person.  Everything thereafter is the  attempt to find stable ground in a world where symbols have become disassociated from their referents, where voices are separated from mouths. Memories separate from their historical moments and spill across time.  There is a fear to allow the question to do its work, to bifurcate reality into what is hoped-for and what is actual.  Consider further in the poem where Chang’s narrator says, “I feel guilty / I wash my hands / I wash them until they’re red / blue / red / red / red/”.  There has been no resolution, no physical goodbye, concrete initiation into the next state of existence.  There is a hesitancy to finish the question, receive the response.  (Is the person really gone, dead?  Or, can I sit on the question and avoid the terrifying possibilities that await?)  Things happened so suddenly and, as a result, the memories fly across time like papers on a desk scattered by a strong wind.  Still, history does not react. The moment is indifferent.  The feeling might be that if action is not taken, then the importance of this moment would disintegrate.  Disintegration inevitably carries existential undertones.  What does it mean if what I consider important is revealed to be meaningless?  How do we deal with the fear of moving forward when one option might be too terrible to even consider?

Brandon Amico’s “The Gravity Between Two Objects is Proportional to Their Masses and Inversely Proportional to the Distance Between Them” answers this question indirectly by calling out the way in which “meaning” is constructed (after all, this is one of the main concerns with asking the question...what does it “mean” for me?):

“The dog in any 90s film was only ever being itself; to a dog, acting

and taking orders from the trainer off-camera with a bag of treats

is identical. It’s not lying in the same way acting

is not lying, which is to say it’s giving permission

for us to be happily wrong and to glean something

from that wrongness.”  

For the dog, meaning is not a ground from which to act but an historical moment. Being given the treat is an instant abundant with meaning relevant only to that moment and never again.  It is never carried across.  Later, Amico elaborates:

“If a tree falls in the woods and you’re no around to hear it

an unlabeled bird that was close enough to the crash

will bring that news     will fly off and carry

soaring out                  the sound far,

above your head.        far away from you.”

Meaning is not around if we’re not there.  To obsess over meaning is to take the chance that you will see it trivialized in front of you, reduced to empty noise and spread so thin that the essential nature that was once so important is revealed to be an empty assortment of sounds.  To question something is to provide opportunities for the matter in question to be affirmed definitely or negated absolutely.  Questions, when posed strategically, have that power.

Questions sometimes lose their meaning in poems in the way they are posed. Who are they posed to?  Is it a rhetorical device and nothing more?  It is a pause in the action that is turning back to gaze at...what? I think those who do it best have a style of verse that I would call meditative.  This is poetry that arrives in the moment.  It is physically in the world and widens itself to include the infinite, the impersonal.  Within that inclusion are other phenomena happening simultaneously. People taking the action of witness on. Their small acts are world-altering precisely because of their uniqueness, which interrupts a constant flux of instants... of whom they are a witness.  That which they face (fate, random chance, etc.) lowers its hand and they

(1)   lift their heads against it 

and/or

(2)   allow the full strength of the hand to come down on them (but record their process of subdual).  

The first seems the most noble, but that isn’t to say that the second response is negative.  There are moments in Chang’s poem where the narrator’s helplessness pierces through the poem: the constant calling of the missing person’s number, the attempt to project the person’s memory onto strangers.  Sometimes we are not in control of our lives and the best agency is the manner in which we respond.  Both 1 & 2 seem like prime scenarios to pose a question that would unsteady the momentum of the poem and cause the reader to reflect. (The fact that Amico doesn’t do this seems to be all the more powerful because it highlights a self-restraint (either purposely or inadvertently) that elaborates on the power the concept has over the narrator.  The narrator identifies with the dog and so question the assumptions his ego places over reality.  (I.e. that  the “meaning” that the narrator judges to be the ground of existence might be no more than an echo dissipating within the largeness of the world and so revealing its triviality)

There is a third manner, which is to describe the moment just before the hand comes.  The moment when you are unsure of what will happen.  Something stands before you and you feel paralyzed, energized. You feel life pulsing in you and it is this expectation that you sometimes want to live in again and again. This is the reflective witness. Something that people look back at and attempt to study.  What were conditions like before we ended up where we are?  What can we learn from those conditions?  Others don’t attempt to learn. They simply stare into the void of the moment. There are no lessons to learn, just meditations on the curve of the moment.  They remember the details of every moment and sometimes enter into one of those details as if it were a world unto itself.  There is a discovery in those moments that this detail is the imprint of time.  There might also be a question about the use of such an imprint.  Should this be my ground?  Or, is this a mystery that I will carry on my back without turning back to look at it?  Patrycja Humienik’s “Cargo” has this manner.  The poem opens,

“night arrives at the door with a lidded platter of chocolate chip

cookies vegan since you can’t have dairy unlaces their boots and sits

across from me responds to my raised how-did-you-find-me-in-the-woods eyebrows”

Night is the impersonal, the void; yet, it arrives with such a strangely personal gift (“chocolate schoolmates who are shocked to find each in the world again.  The night makes demands on her (“telling me to come press my back against the ground”), but she refuses to totally supplicate to an acceptance of unloaded cargo (“the ships having taken their cargo elsewhere i say i don’t want any more stuff”), “cargo” being the insurmountable weight of the ineffable.  I also wonder if the “you” of the poem is addressing herself.  The infinite matter of possible “responsibilities” that one could convince oneself are essential to take on are what she is faced with.  Yet, she knows that in taking on the totality of responsibility, of “cargo” that she has carried from the vanished day, could destroy the very vessel she wishes to protect.  She prefers to be in the presence of responsibility, but not be compelled to blindly take it on.  At the end, she awakens alone, neither bowing to or resisting that which she encountered. In refusing to do either, she records an event but does not internalize it enough to ask a question.  She keeps it in front of it.  She lives in the question, refusing to actuate it.  Pressing that obligation onto the reader, or perhaps pressing the reader to decide if a question is needed at all.  The question seems very therapeutic in this sense.  Chang illustrates the danger of asking questions to recklessly, Amico notes the repressive tendency of refusing out of a nihilistic tendency and Humienik notes the possibilities inherent in taking control of the question and passing it off to the community when it has become too burdensome for one individual.

[justicealwaysprevails]

ducks and drakes.

WHO: Bruce Wayne @justicealwaysprevails & Jason Todd @thatsjasonfkntodd, mentions of Dick Grayson @amazingflyingdick WHERE: The hospital WHEN: Backdated to June 30th, 2020 WHAT: Bruce is the first to arrive at the hospital

Jason: The ambulance ride from that alley to the hospital seemed to simultaneously take a lifetime and be over in the time it took him to blink. Dick was unconscious for the entirety of it, and after answering a few questions for the EMTs, Jason just allowed himself to disassociate for the rest of it. He stared at the same spot for the whole ride, eyes fixed on the bottom left corner of the stretcher, and wasn’t aware of much else until they opened the doors at the hospital. They rushed Dick inside and Jason was directed to the waiting area. Someone stopped long enough to ask if he needed to call anyone, but he shook his head. He did, but he’d do it on his own time.

As it turned out, one of those people already knew. Bruce has somehow ended up there before the ambulance. Once Jason saw him, he stopped several feet away and looked at him only briefly before his gaze was on the floor again. He was still covered in blood, though most of it had dried by then. It was on his clothes, on his hands, some was even smeared against his jaw where he’d absentmindedly reached up at some point. He should say something, he knew he should, but he just stood there instead. Bruce: The alert that medical had been dispatched pinged on his phone. After triangulating the position, Bruce instantly knew he wouldn't be able to reach the location before the ambulance. He was already on his way to the hospital by the time he received details from Barbara about who was involved. It could have been anyone in the league, but the knowledge that Jason and Dick were involved changed everything. Up until then he assumed it had to be the scheduled group on patrol or possibly a civilian or an agent of NOVA. He never once considered the possibility that it could be someone in the family.

It wasn't long after he reached the ER that the ambulance arrived. Bruce could hear it and he was already waiting when Jason stepped into the waiting room.

Bruce stared at him, shocked by the amount of blood, but instead of asking what happened he reached to hold both of Jason's arms. He took only long enough to determine that he wasn't injured before pulling him into a tight hug. There was a desperation in the embrace that Bruce wasn't able to hide, not right then, and he was silent. He couldn't bring himself to speak quite yet. Jason: It took a lot to really get under his skin. Given the life he’d led, the things he’d done with his own hands or watched happen in front of him, it was rare that something impacted him in a big way, especially in the same period of time that it actually happened, but he couldn’t get the paleness of Dick’s face out of his mind or the way his words had ran together more and more before the ambulance got there.

It had him distracted enough that he didn’t pull away when Bruce embraces him like he typically would have. He didn’t even ask some smart ass question like what are you doing? like he probably should have. He just didn’t have it in him right then to keep up every front and every wall. Jason didn’t relax in the embrace, nor did he exactly return it, but he let Bruce pull him in and he felt a distinct tightness in his chest as he did. Bruce: The number of times Bruce had hugged Jason since his return could be counted on one hand. The number of times he'd wanted to far exceeded that, but he held himself back when he knew it wouldn't be welcomed. That was, unfortunately, more often than not. He never relished the circumstances, but he did let the hug linger for a few extra seconds while Jason allowed it. There was no telling when the next opportunity would be.

When he pulled back, he kept his hand up on Jason's shoulder. He considered guiding him to a chair, encourage him to sit, but he wasn't sure if he would be able to. Bruce was too anxious to even consider it himself. He looked at Jason directly, his voice even in spite of the devastation in his expression. "Do you know what happened?" Bruce had some information from Barbara, but he had no idea if Jason arrived during the altercation or after. Jason: The question finally pulled him back down to reality. Jason blinked and looked around, taking in the area they were standing in. Fortunately, they were the only ones there for the time being. Jason was still wanted, still on the run from the SCPD. Eventually someone would show up. Dick had been one of them until just a few days earlier, practically. He’d need to be gone before that.

A violent shiver ran through him and he could feel the hair on his arms standing on end by the time it was over. “Dick went to...help some kid or something. That’s what Babs said. When he asked for his name, he said Gary Kemp. That’s the-“ Bruce would know already, he was sure, “that’s the name of the NOVA agent that Dick killed.” That was one of the first things Dick had told him when Jason showed up in Star City. Someone had been harboring that grudge for a long time.

He looked down and was confronted again by the sight of all the blood on him. “They shot him in the head, B. Straight through. I don’t know...” It was unlike Jason to hesitate or stumble over words. He typically had no struggle in just saying what came to mind, but he couldn’t finish that thought. Bruce: The waiting room was empty. Even the nurse had disappeared from the station. Since Bruce didn't know what to expect, he'd called Gordon as soon as he found out that Jason was involved and let him know that he was there, for now, and Barbara had been a witness. She would need to be talked to. Based on her story, he didn't think Jason would have seen anything - but he wanted to be sure. It sounded as if it everything happened quickly.

On instinct he quickly reached for Jason's other shoulder when he felt him shiver, as if he were bracing him that way, and he listened carefully to everything he said. He nodded, not flinching at the mention of the name. He'd heard the same story from Barbara earlier. It didn't leave much doubt as to who was responsible for the crime, but it wasn't a given.

What Barbara couldn't tell him was the extent of Dick's injuries. Bruce heard how quickly the ambulance pulled in and the rush of the EMS team in the hall. That meant Dick was alive. It didn't make the news any easier to hear and he closed his eyes for a moment. His grip tightened on Jason's arms and perhaps it would be too much, especially in such a close time frame, but this time it was purely for his own sake. "He's still alive," he said. "If it went straight through, that's good. It creates less damage." Jason: He looked up at the ceiling, squinting against the harsh fluorescent lights. “Right,” he muttered, feeling the same irritating sting that had been there in the alley. He blinked it back for a second time. “Less damage.” It wasn’t exactly comforting, but it wasn’t unhelpful. All it did was make him not feel worse. Considering it was Bruce, that was probably the best he could hope for. “Lost a lot of blood.” Like he needed to say that and wasn’t walking around wearing the proof of it.

After a few beats of standing there, Jason walked over to one of the chairs and slumped down into it. He raked his hands back through his hair and leaned forward, elbows on his knees, and closed his eyes. He wanted to just make a box of himself and stay in it until someone walked out with some kind of news. Bruce: It wasn't much comfort and Bruce was aware of that, despite not being capable of offering much more. He had never been good at comforting others, not with words, and Jason could often be resistant to it. He wasn't a particularly positive person himself. The situation looked grim from even a realist's standpoint. Nodding, he couldn't fully accept that all the blood on Jason was from Dick even though he understood it to be true. It was too much.

At first he couldn't bring himself to sit. There was a tenseness in his posture that was only seen at times like this, when emotions were involved and death was a possibility. It was more possible now than ever. Eventually he did sit next to Jason, but he was silent for a long time before speaking again. "I've never known them to use children." Jason: He was barely present. His mind was blank, for the most part, filled with static. If he tuned that out he’d have to deal with the thoughts it held at bay and he just didn’t want to. Not yet. The others would show up eventually, at some unknown future point a doctor would step out and speak something at them. He’d push the static away then, maybe.

“Everybody uses children,” he said without really weighing the words even as he spoke them. It might have sounded like some unfair barb in that moment, but it wasn’t really. It was just a fact of life. Bruce: The statement made Bruce furrow his brow, but he said nothing. It was not something he could refute or deny, especially because he had plenty of his own regret, and he let more time pass instead.

It was a long time before he could say anything else. There was a visible difference in the way he moved and in the way he didn't move. "I will call the others once we have something more to tell them." Bruce didn't want them to sit there the way they were right now, silent and somber. Jason: “It’ll be awhile.” Unless...the news they were getting was the worst case scenario. Then it might happen faster than he wanted to think about. Jason curled his fingers hard against his scalp, clenching them around dark locks of hair. “If the SCPD is on the way, give me a heads up. I have to leave.” They’d show eventually, they’d have to, and he couldn’t add that on top of what was going on with Dick. His own stupid backfired plan had already caused enough issues as it was.

Jason looked up as he heard steps coming toward them, but it was only a nurse passing through to go to a different room. It had left his pulse racing anyway. Dick had seemed determined not to give into it, but it wasn’t like that was really something that was up to him. He was only human, didn’t even have the edge that the Lazarus Pit gave Jason. It wasn’t a choice. Bruce: Bruce nodded. He knew they'd taken Dick into surgery. It would be a few hours. He wasn't sure how much time had passed already, but when he checked his phone he was shocked to see that it'd been almost an hour. He'd let that much silence pass between them? It was obvious that Jason was beyond just affected by what he'd experienced. Perhaps his silence shouldn't have shocked him so much. "I told Gordon I was already here and that Barbara has the information he needs." Eventually the SCPD would show up at the hospital, but there wasn't much to do if they weren't able to talk to Dick.

The sound of footsteps also made him tense. Even when they passed and faded away he couldn't quite relax, his expression strained, and he sighed softly and turned his gaze to the floor. "Jason..." He paused, his hands folded between his knees, but whatever he'd thought to say was abandoned as he understood the pointlessness of it. It would come across as if he were trying to assuage own guilt. "I do take responsibility," he finally said. "For everything. I need you to know that." Jason: He only nodded his acceptance. It wasn’t going to keep the SCPD away forever, but it might work long enough for Jason to get some news in person rather than a phone call or a text. If he could stick around to hear that Dick was going to make it through the night or something, that’d be enough for the time being. He didn’t relish being there for everyone else arriving, nor was he in the mood to try to navigate or even acknowledge anyone else’s feelings yet. The past two weeks had already been exhausting. He’d counted on that exhaustion, signed up for it even, but he’d never guessed it would be immediately followed by what had just happened. To say that he was drained didn’t even come close to the truth.

“What are you talking about?” He raised his head, brows furrowed, and stared at Bruce. “Responsibility for what?” As inclined as he was to play the blame game and lay things on Bruce, he didn’t see how Dick getting shot could be lumped in there. Bruce: There had been numerous times in the past that ultimately brought Bruce here - at the hospital or a bedside - and every time it was intrinsically linked to the lifestyle they'd been raised in. It carried consequences they couldn't have possibly understood at that age. As their guardian, he'd taken on that responsibility to protect them. That was something he'd always failed at doing even when they needed it most. He knew that. It didn't matter how much he loved them if he couldn't keep them safe. What was ironic was that most of his efforts to do just that ended up doing more harm. Instead of acknowledging his own failings and recognizing his distancing was because he feared their loss, he was unflinchingly strict with their training.

Bruce was silent for a few minutes, staring at his hands, but then he sighed. "If this were NOVA, they had months to take their revenge against Richard Grayson. They waited until they had the confirmed link to Nightwing." It was a link they might not have ever made if it weren't for Joker. Jason: Jason had not planned on searching for some way to blame Bruce for what happened to Dick, but he’d not been so quick to make the same connection Bruce did, either. He should have, and would have eventually, but he wasn’t thinking clearly. Of course NOVA had waited. They’d waited until he was both a confirmed vigilante and cut his ties to the SCPD.

“I won’t say that us getting outed,” which had only come about because of Bruce’s choice, “didn’t lay some foundation for it. But who cares right now? Doesn’t matter if it’s your fault or in what percentage. You can take all the responsibility you want and it doesn’t go back in time.” Bruce: Dick's resignation from the SCPD had actually brought Bruce some relief. He knew he was overworked and that was something that could sneak up on you, even in small ways. Not that he was one to talk. Still, he no longer spent time at Wayne Enterprises. Lucius Fox was the acting CEO. Bruce paid the occasional visit, but he no longer had any official authority there. His position as a board member was merely a formality.

"That's not what I'm trying to do." He knew there was no undoing what happened tonight. "I'm thinking about the future and what can be prevented, regardless of past actions." Bruce paused. "Or inaction. What matters is what can be done now." There was no going back in time and preventing Dick from taking up the Robin mantle. That one action could have prevented a series of mistakes. Jason: “I don’t fucking know, Bruce,” Jason cut in, snapping more than he’d meant to even if that wasn’t something he usually tried to control anyway. Not for him. Right then, he was just mentally and physically worn down and he didn’t have it in him for hypotheticals or vagaries. “I don’t know what can be done or want you want to do. Maybe just stop deciding shit without us. Maybe start there.”

He leaned forward again, creating the same box on either side of him with his arms so that he could just stare down at the floor. The pattern was ugly. Little black specks in otherwise clean white. It looked like dirt. Bruce: Bruce was silent, but Jason's response took him by surprise. He never set out with the intent of leaving the rest of them out of a  big decision, even though he knew they would be affected by it. It was a responsibility he would shoulder himself, because they all carried too much guilt. Anger was easier. Someone else was always to blame.

"How is Roy?" He knew about what was going on, but hadn't involved himself in the situation. Jason's abrupt departure from the manor combined with the terse discussions they had during his jail visitations made Bruce back off. At least for the time being. He hadn't known about Roy until very recently. Jason: Jason lifted his head a fraction as Bruce mentioned Roy. He thought about asking how he knew or why he cared, but there was no point in that. He knew everything that was going on whether he wanted to acknowledge it or not. “Getting better.” He’d made it a couple of weeks, through the peak of it and the physical symptoms of withdrawal. That didn’t mean it was over, but the most acute part of it had passed. “I’ve got it under control.”

Dick had given him some relief during all of it, though Jason had barely let him. Now Roy was barely on the other side of it and Dick...he’d been so close to Roy’s when he got that Jason half wondered if he’d been heading that way. It made him clench his fist against his temple. Bruce: Nodding, Bruce frowned when Jason claimed to have it under control. He wasn't going to contradict him, it wouldn't be received well, and Jason wasn't entirely wrong. The situation had been handled. The hardest part was over. Bruce wished he'd known sooner, but there was nothing he could have done even if he had. That didn't mean he wouldn't have offered. "Is there anything I can do?" It was the better question to ask. He'd learned that the hard way.

The nurse returned with two small bottles of water. She awkwardly offered a damp towel, which confused Bruce at first, but then he realized it was for the blood on Jason's hands and his jaw tightened. After he thanked her and she turned away, he shifted in his seat and put his hand on Jason's arm. Instead of handing him the towel, he began to clean it off instead so he could keep his head down. Jason: Jason shook his head as soon as Bruce asked the question. He didn’t want or need anything from him. He’d handled it. Roy was going to be alright. Having this all happen to Dick right as he was getting past the withdrawal was about the shittiest timing in the world, but he was just going to have to trust that Roy wouldn’t undo it all in one night. If he did, if Jason left the hospital and went back only to find out that he’d got his hands on something and used in the hours he’d been gone, he didn’t know how he was going to deal with it. He didn’t linger on the thought more than a second.

After the nurse came and want, Jason ran the towel along one side of his face and stared down at it. It was streaked red with one swipe. “Can you get me a change of clothes? If somebody else is coming?” Bruce: It was the answer Bruce expected and he nodded, silent. When he found out about Roy, he considered reaching out to Oliver about what was going on. Ultimately he'd decided against it. As concerned as he was, he knew it would be interfering too heavily in something Jason would resent him for. The right decision seemed to be to stay out of it, even though it didn't sit right with him. It wasn't up to him to fix the situation for Jason. Even if it worked, he wouldn't even see it that way. What he could do was guarantee that he wouldn't lose his job in the meantime, Wayne Enterprises funded the center he worked for, after all, but that was something he'd elect to keep to himself.

Bruce started to respond, but stopped as soon as the doctor appeared. He stood immediately, but when the doctor asked to speak to him privately, he hesitated. "This is his brother. We can both hear what you have to say." Jason: If Dick had not brought it up first, and if he was not one of Roy’s best friends, Jason would have kept every bit of what was happening to himself. Even if he’d wanted to ask for help, Bruce would have been low on the list of people he would have gone to for that. He didn’t need the judgement. He certainly didn’t need to feel like he owed him anything.

As the doctor came, Jason got back to his feet, too. Admittedly, he was a little surprised that Bruce didn’t just go with him. He dropped his hand back to his side, still holding the bloody towel, and tried to gauge the expression on the man’s face. “Is he alive?” The paramount question. Bruce: Bruce's attention was fully on the doctor even though he was aware of Jason next to him. He was silent as he listened to him explain how Dick was stable and had just gotten out of surgery that would relieve swelling in his brain. When the doctor began to explain about the medically induced coma he tensed, but relaxed somewhat at the reassurance that they intended to bring him back after a couple days.

It was all the information the doctor could offer, at least until he'd looked at updated brain scans that were currently being taken, but he informed them that they could both go back and see Dick as soon as he was brought to a room. Jason: It wasn’t the worst news. It certainly wasn’t the best, either. The only reason to place someone purposely in a coma was to give them a shot at recovering from extensive damage. That wasn’t news, exactly, as Jason had seen first hand what the wound had been like, but it still made his stomach drop a fraction. Still, he was stable. He was alive.

Once the doctor had gone, he let out a long sigh. “Are you telling the others now?” He would have offered to do it himself, but was fairly sure all he could’ve mustered was a group text with an address. Then again, that could very well end up being what Bruce also did. Bruce: Bruce was already sending a message to Barbara before Jason finished the question. He nodded, his voice quiet. “I will call the others once he’s been assigned a room.” That way he could tell them where to go. He knew they would all want to be there. The thought was a bit overwhelming.

It didn’t take long before the nurse returned and led them to the room. Dick was already settled there, connected to various machines, and Bruce took his time to study the readings on each of them. He only stepped out long enough to call the others. Jason: He hated hospitals. Granted, everyone said that. Who would ever enjoy being there? But he had a special dislike of them that came from years of dodging Child Services. He’d spent most of his childhood avoiding getting any kind of help or care because doing that meant seeing a social worker, being sent to some group home, yada yada. The feeling stuck.

He didn’t say anything more to Bruce, but stood in silence with him by Dick’s bed until he stepped out to make those calls. Only then did Jason let his shoulders slump and the deep, tired sigh he’d been holding slip out. “This sucks,” he said aloud, talking to someone who couldn’t hear him.

[writing-for-amusement]

Commission for Confidence, 7

Summary: Y/N has been struggling with her self-esteem for years. After incessant pushing from your best friend, Y/N decides to commission an artist to draw her, expecting everything to happen via Internet. However, when your phone is stolen, you try to cancel the commission, but Peter Parker has other ideas. He quickly becomes enraptured by you, and a friendship forms easily. Will it lead to something more? Or will your past fears get in the way?

A/N: Okay, so, here is the next chapter of CfC! It’s a really long one because I have no self control and couldn’t find a good place to cut off (honestly, I’m not SUPER happy with where it IS cut off), but I hope you all still like it! Make sure you read my warnings, though, because some violence does occur.

PLEASE let me know what you think!! I’m desperate for validation; you can always message me, or send me an anon, or put it in the tags of a reblog, or whatever!! I do read every response to my writing, so I’d love it if you could give me some feedback or just some sort of response!!

As always, if you want to be tagged, just let me know!!

Taglist: @pparkerwrites, @scatterbrainedgenius, @jordyns-library, @wildfirecracker, @pastlives-purplesouls, @maybemona, @hotchocolattee

Word Count: 4765

Warnings: robbery attempt, violence, depictions of violence, some blood, hospitals, Peter being cute and silly and worried, some awkwardness, some self-doubt at the end, disassociative episode, some anxiety, some lame nerdstuff at the beginning bc I’m the author and write what I want, swearing

A few days later, on Thursday, you looked up to see your Edith at your door, a package in her hands. With an excited shout, you got up and hurried over to her. Your supervisor chuckled at your actions, pretending to hide the package behind her back.

“Edith,” you pouted as she kept the box with a teasing grin.

“Fine, fine,” she acquiesced, handing you the box. “Now you can start actually texting that boy instead of emailing like you’re old. Don’t email like me, don’t be old.” Edith widened her eyes as if picturing deep, dark horrors, and you laughed at her.

“Email is still perfectly acceptable, Edith,” you chuckled, trying to push the topic of Peter right out the window.

It didn’t work.

“It’s not acceptable when you have a crush on a handsome man!”

“Edith!” you chided, fumbling with your box to try and maintain composure.

That also didn’t work.

“I’ll leave you to your phone,” Edith cackled, winking at you before leaving.

You muttered to yourself and sat down at your desk. It didn’t take long to get your new phone up and running. As it sat on your desk, you sent out an email to your coworkers to inform them that your phone was back in business again, with the same phone number as before. It was nice to be easily connected to Monica again, and it was nice to be able to play your mindless little games when you needed a break from reading.

And, well, it would be nice to be able to talk to Peter without needing an Internet connection. The two of you had been emailing back and forth rather consistently since Saturday, and you had plans to meet up for a movie/game night at Peter’s place on Friday. Ned had finally returned from his business trip, and Peter really wanted you to meet him and his Aunt May, who would be at the movie/game night as well.

You’d been hesitant to accept the invitation. Even though you really liked Peter (probably too much considering how long you’d known him), you were always nervous about meeting new people. But, after encouragement from Monica, and reassurance from Peter, you agreed to go.

You emailed Peter, telling him your phone number, and tried to get back to work. You tried, you really did, but your brain was jumping around like a happy rabbit.

You sighed and sat back, pinching the bridge of your nose. Your lack of focus could also be attributed to the ache in your eyes from reading too much. This job was amazing, one of your dream jobs, but sometimes it was hard to deal with because it did leave you with aches and pains, both in your eyes and your lower back. Then again, you’d always had a bad back.

Your phone dinged and you opened your eyes. You had a text message from an unknown number. Upon opening the message, you saw it was a message from Peter.

Peter: Heyyo, Y/N! It’s a-me, Peter!!!

You chuckled and wrote back: Hello, Peter, it’s a-me, Y/N, the Wario of the world.

Peter sent back several shocked and angry emojis, making you chuckle again. Then, this message arrived: How dare you. You are my Mario AND my Princess Peach. Never slander yourself in my presence again.

You laughed loudly, tilting your head back. You couldn’t help the heat that came to your cheeks and you typed out your response: Or what, I’m going to be turned into Bowser?

No, you’ll get a strongly worded letter and a disappointed look

You rolled your eyes and tried to control the beating of your heart.

I cannot believe you think you’re Wario, Peter then wrote. You are the shining light, the Princess Peach in “Paper Mario and Thousand-Year-Old Door”, taking charge and doing her best to save herself while stuck on the moon.

A snort escape your body and you shook your head. You’re ridiculously silly.

But you’re the one that decided to like me and be friends with me, so who’s the REALLY silly one here????

It took you a minute to think of a reply. In the end, this is what you sent: … fair point.

Peter simply replied with a bunch of emojis, rather nonsensically, but it made you chuckle. After sending back a few emojis of your own, you told him that you needed to get back to work and be productive for once.

Fine, leave me, Peter wrote. I’ll wither away, but go be ‘productive’, I guess. ‘Responsibility’ is important, I GUESS

You almost cackled with laughter at his dramatics and told him to hang tight, because you’d be back soon to revive him.

Mouth to mouth better be in order, I think I’m dying…

You rolled your eyes and put your phone on silent so you could get some work done.

Of course, you ended up being restless again, because you were thinking about his demand of mouth to mouth. Was Peter just teasing, or was he flirting? Was this what being friends with Peter Parker was like for everyone? You had no idea, and those thoughts were crowding your mind after a few simple minutes.

Then, your savior arrived in the form of Arthur, your beloved coworker. He knocked on the frame of your door as he leaned against it, making your head jolt up in surprise.

“Hello, dear,” he greeted you softly in his London lilt. “You doing alright there?”

You smiled at him, probably a little raggedly, and shrugged a shoulder. “Not really,” you admitted. “Can’t focus, my brain is being too loud.”

“Then it is a perfect time to come on a coffee break!” he announced, striding in and trying to pull you from your chair. Since your chair had wheels, it simply went along with you, making you laugh.

“Arthur, let me get up! You know that the chair will barely fit in the break room, the door frame is only barely big enough,” you giggled. “We all remember what happened the last time you tried this stunt.”

The man pretended to look insulted and dropped your hands. “For your information, we’re going to a café for the coffee break. Get up, let’s go.”

You chuckled and stood, gathering your purse and phone; you made sure to pack it in the bottom of your purse, just in case.

As you followed Arthur out of the office and to the elevator, you said, “Are we going to bother poor Charlie at work?”

Arthur turned around with wide, dramatic hazel eyes. “What? No, no, why would we do that? No, we’re just going to get coffee. I don’t even know if Charlie is working today.”

You giggled into your hand as you entered the elevator. “Arthur, it’s his café. He works every day except for weekends.” Of course, you knew he knew this.

“I would never interrupt Charlie at work, how could you possibly assume that of me, I am hurt. I’m truly hurt. How could you. I am always professional.”

You laughed at the deep voiced man acting like a dramatic Shakespeare actor. The two of you made small talk as you walked the two blocks to the café, Bean Me Up. It truly had amazing coffee, and if it had been a bit closer to the subway station, it was where you would have suggested to meet Peter because of its inherent nerdiness. It was quite popular.

Arthur opened the door for you, the scent of coffee washing over your body and relaxing your shoulders. It was a small place, one you had always enjoyed visiting, and it wasn’t too bright or too dark. At the moment, there were a few people lounging around.

“Oh Charlie!” Arthur sang out in his deep voice, nearly skipping to the counter. You were confident that if he actually had been skipping, his suit would have ripped.

Charlie, a stocky man with his dreadlocks in a ponytail today, looked up as he heard Arthur. He rolled his eyes but there was a small smile on his face.

“Wow, Arthur, what a surprise,” Charlie drawled, smirking. “Second time today, do you have a crush on me or something?”

“I would never, you’re simply not my type,” Arthur teased.

“What is your type, then, gorgeous?”

Arthur pretended to think about it, and you smiled. Their interactions were always amusing to watch, to say the least.

“I like Jamaican-Filipino men that own their own business and make the best coffee in the entire damn city, with dreadlocks and glasses and a scar on the left eyebrow,” Arthur finally stated, nodding to himself.

“Oh my gosh, just greet your husband already!” you exclaimed teasingly, gently pushing the man’s shoulder. “I want a coffee.”

“Y/N!” Charlie exclaimed, rushing around the counter and completely bypassing his husband to wrap you in a hug. “I didn’t even see you; this big lug was in the way. How are you, darling, is this one still being annoying in the break room?”

“Oh, you know,” you joked, “just always making my life difficult.”

“Hey!” Arthur protested, though you both ignored him.

“Aw, sorry, he can be like that. The other day, he—”

“We’re not telling that story!!” Arthur interrupted abruptly, turning his husband away from you forcibly. You laughed loudly and Charlie winked at you.

You and Arthur ordered your drinks, and since Charlie wouldn’t let you pay, you shoved a twenty-dollar bill in his tip jar. As you and Arthur sat by the window, enjoying your coffee slowly (Thursdays were always slow days at the office, and Edith knew the power a break could have), you looked out to see four people in masks approaching the shop.

“Charlie!” you barely had time to shout as the men burst into the café. They waved large guns around and started yelling.

“Everyone, get down!” one yelled above the others. The other people had already scrambled to the floor, their hands over their heads. It was deadly quiet in the shop once everyone was on the floor; you and Arthur, however, were behind the men, sitting at your table in shock, and for some reason, you were ignored.

You shot Arthur a look and he nodded subtly, slowly reaching for his phone and texting Edith to call 911. She immediately responded with a thumbs up, but Arthur’s phone was on sound, making the robbers turn around.

“Hey!” one yelled, striding forward and shoving Arthur down to the floor. “You think you’re hot shit, you fucking piece of shit? Pulling shit, calling people?”

“I-I didn’t do anything!” Arthur protested.

“Get on the ground!” a second guy walked up to the table, talking to you.

You didn’t move.

“I said,” he growled, grabbing you by the hair, “get on the ground!”

“Leave her alone!” Charlie shouted from the counter, where he was slowly complying with the leader’s demands.

“Oh, why should I?” the guy still holding you by the hair asked. The gun was pressed to your head and the man growled, “Hurry the fuck up.”

“Look, we don’t wanna shoot anyone,” the leader was saying, “just give us all the money in the entire store, okay? Go to the safe and get that, too. Or we’ll start with her.”

Tears were pooling in your eyes from the force of your hair being gripped so tightly, but you could hear sirens in the distance. As you were trying to relieve the pain from your roots by pulling your knees under your body, you remembered a video you’d once watched. It was a risky idea, but perhaps you’d be able to turn the situation around.

You quickly rammed your elbow into the back of the man’s knee; he crumbled, releasing your hair. You grabbed his gun and threw it at the man that was standing by Arthur, knocking him to the ground. It was that moment that Spider-Man burst through the window, sending glass flying everywhere.

The superhero was webbing up the two guys that were standing as the one you’d hit in the knee turned to you with fire in his eyes. You raised your arms and curled your body into yourself to protect your organs as he kicked you in the side and back.

The café was full of sound again as people were yelling and you felt the vibrations of people running outside, but you were still being kicked at. You remained in that position even when the kicking stopped, but the sounds were still in your ears, and you didn’t want to risk anything. You stayed like that until the vibrations from the floor calmed down.

“Shit, Y/N, are you okay?” a weird voice asked, and strange feeling hands were gently touching your shoulders.

You opened your eyes and saw Spider-Man, looking at you with wide white eyes. He seemed more panicked than you would have thought, especially since no one had been shot and the police had already arrived to take away the webbed criminals.

“I-I’m okay,” you muttered as you sat up.

“Y/N, you’re bleeding. There’s glass in your face and your hand.”

You looked at your hand and were shocked to see that Spider-Man was right. There were little pieces of glass in the back of your hand and down the outside of your forearm. It was from when you’d dropped to the floor in a ball to protect yourself.

“Well, would you look at that,” you blinked.

A paramedic approached you at that moment, making Spider-Man back up. “You’ll take care of her, right?” the hero asked the professional.

“Of course, Spider-Man. Leave it to me, thank you for stepping in. It would have been a lot worse if you hadn’t showed up,” the paramedic said.

“Thank you, Spider-Man,” you said quietly as she helped you up.

“Y-you’re welcome, Y/N,” he stuttered, backing up towards the broken window. “Stay safe out there.”

You barely heard him as you walked slowly with the paramedic, Siska, outside the café. Arthur and Charlie were holding each other as they were looked over by another paramedic, and thankfully they both looked okay. Arthur had a few small cuts from broken glass, but he didn’t look too worse for wear. Charlie looked stressed and scared.

Siska made small talk with you as she looked over your injuries; she was worried about the glass in your hand and face and the bruising forming around your midsection. So, Siska accompanied you to the hospital, keeping you distracted from the creeping pain by telling you about various Indonesian foods that she missed from visiting family.

Arthur called you as you were waiting for a doctor to come into the room, and you answered right away, still rather numb and in shock.

“Are you okay?” he immediately demanded.

“Y-yeah, I’m okay. A doctor is gonna look over my injuries and stuff, remove the glass and shit, make sure I don’t have any broken anything.”

“That’s a relief,” he breathed out. Then, “What the FUCK were you thinking?”

“W-what?” you stuttered, nearly dropping your phone from your good hand.

“There were four men, Y/N! FOUR of them! And you thought it would be a bloody good idea to try and debilitate one, as if that would’ve made a difference!”

“Arthur,” you began in a deadly steady voice, “if you keep yelling at me, I will hang up this phone right now and not speak to you for two weeks.”

“Stop berating her,” Charlie’s voice said from the background. “Let me talk to her. You’re being unhelpful, and I know that’s not what you want. Go sit, okay, babe?”

Arthur muttered something that you couldn’t quite make out, but the phone was handed over to Charlie.

“Look, Y/N,” the man sighed, “I do admit, the way you went about things was reckless, but it was also pretty smart. Thank you for that. Now, tell me what’s going on.”

You told Charlie everything that you knew at that moment, though you barely registered that you were talking. When the doctor entered, you said goodbye to Charlie and told him to take care of himself.

“Alright, let’s get a look at you,” the doctor said as she entered. “I’m Doctor Miriam Finestein; Siska told me what you did today, and that was pretty brave.”

Your faraway look and mumbled, “Thanks,” did not go past the doctor. Her eyebrows furrowed as she took you in, the way the pieces of glass were sticking out from your skin and slowly bleeding, the way you seemed to have no focus whatsoever.

“Y/N, right?” Doctor Finestein confirmed, walking forward slowly. You nodded, trying to force your focus from the stupid white wall and onto the doctor. “Can I see your arm?” she asked gently.

You held your arm out to her and her warm touch on the palm of your hand seemed to help you wake up. Your vision came back into focus and you blinked as you got a good look at the lovely doctor. She smiled at you as you did, making you feel a little sheepish, but at least now you were alert.

“I thought you might be disassociating,” the doctor told you quietly.

“That happens to me a lot,” you admitted. “But I tried to fight it this time.”

“But I think this was shock induced.”

“You’re probably right.”

Doctor Finestein kept up small talk while she examined your arm and hand; she told you about her cat, Frank, and her dog, Stella. It helped keep you grounded as she turned to your face, making a small clicking sound with her tongue.

“I’m going to take out the glass,” she informed you, rolling back on her chair towards the sink. “It doesn’t look too bad, truth be told. You’ll heal up just fine. Thankfully, there’s only a handful of deep and big pieces. I do want to do a CT scan afterwards on your hand and arm, just to be sure there isn’t any damage that’s not superficial. I’ll also check your ribs for breakage or other such things. Of course, we’ll also patch everything up and send you home with some painkillers.”

“Okay. Uh, how long will it take?” you asked hesitantly.

“Well,” she washed her hands and glanced at you, “it’s not going to be short. Unfortunately, there are a lot of smaller pieces, and there might be a wait for the scan. You could call someone to keep you company, we wouldn’t say no to that. It could take a few hours and it does get a little dull.”

You nibbled your lip in thought; you didn’t want to go through it completely alone, but you also didn’t want to be a bother. As you were thinking and Doctor Finestein was getting everything together, your phone went off. The doctor let you answer it and went out to get a nurse to help her with the glass removal.

You answered without looking, immediately being greeted with, “Y/N, are you okay? I saw something about a café robbery and saw you on the news, is everything okay? Where are you? Thank goodness you picked up!”

You chuckled despite yourself, trying not to move too many muscles in your face. Moving your mouth was fine, but there was a curve of cuts and pieces of glass going from above your eyebrow and down to your cheekbone. Still, as you were now more alert, you were actually registering the glass in your face.

“I’m okay, Peter,” you told him calmly. “I just have some glass in my arm and hand, and some in my face, but I’m okay, really.”

“Oh, thank God,” Peter breathed out. “Where are you? Do you need anything?”

“Actually,” you hesitated, “actually, Peter, if you’re not busy…” You steeled your nerves. It would be fine. “If you’re not busy, could you come and sit in the hospital with me? There’s stuff they gotta do and I,” your throat tightened, and you finally registered how actually terrified you still were, “I don’t wanna be alone.”

“Of course! I’ll be right there; I’m still in Manhattan. Where are you?”

You told Peter the hospital and the room number before hanging up. At that moment, Doctor Finestein knocked and came back in with a smile directed at you.

“We’ll get started in a few minutes. Would you rather check your ribs before or after removing the glass?”

“After, please,” you said with little hesitation. “I really want to get this stuff out of my arm. I’m tired of holding it like this.”

“No problem!” she reassured you. “Is someone coming?”

“Yeah, my friend Peter—”

           You were interrupted by a knock on the door and Doctor Finestein opened it, revealing an out-of-breath Peter Parker.

“And that would be Peter,” you chuckled.

“Jesus, Y/N, I’m so glad you’re okay!” Peter breathed out as he nearly knocked the good doctor over. He was hovering around your injured side, the worry on his face making his eyebrow twitch. Then, as if he realized that he had nearly knocked a doctor over, he spun on his heels.

“Peter, yes?” Doctor Finestein asked rhetorically, a teasing smile on her face.

“Yes,” he puffed out before offering his hand. “I’m Peter Parker.”

“She told me,” the doctor chuckled, “right before you burst into the door.”

“So, when are we getting started?” you asked, trying to diffuse the awkwardness.

“Once my nurse gets here,” Finestein informed you both. Immediately after, there was a knock on the door, and the doctor said, “Wow, Y/N and I just have wonderful timing today, don’t we! Everyone’s appearing at our beck and call.”

“I’ll always come to Y/N’s beck and call,” Peter stated firmly.

Your eyes widened in embarrassment at his strong statement and avoided looking him in the eyes. As you looked at the doctor, she was giving you a knowing look, so you looked at the nurse instead. He also gave you a knowing look, so you resigned yourself to not winning at that moment. Life wasn’t always fair.

You kept repeating that internal mantra as Dr. Finestein and the nurse, Jeremy, worked on removing the glass from your face. It was certainly not a nice feeling.

As you clutched the edge of the table, you felt heat coming closer to your hand. Peter gently touched your hand, forcing it to relax from the table, and your eyes flickered up to him. He smiled gently at you, the softest of pinks gracing his cheekbones, and laced your hands together. His hand was soft but steady, comforting.

“You can squeeze my hand,” Peter said tenderly. “Don’t worry, it’ll be over soon.”

The sweetness of his gaze made your heart melt and you smiled your agreement.

You winced and squeezed his hand as the tweezers removed the glass shards from your face. Doctor Finestein assured you that they were almost done with the face, but you nearly jumped out of your skin as the tweezers dug around in the flesh of your cheek.

“Sorry,” Doctor Finestein tried to calm you. “Sorry, I’m sorry, I should have warned you. Just this piece in your cheek, and we’ll take a break, okay?”

You breathed out an “Okay,” prompting the doctor to go back to finding the glass. Peter rubbed your hand with his thumb, his other hand moving to rub up and down on your back. His touch was incredibly comforting, and it helped you get your breathing back in proper order, instead of the slightly-too-fast breaths you’d been taking.

It was a strange sensation as she pulled the glass out and placed it on the tray, allowing Jeremy to rush in to disinfect the spot. They put a few butterfly closures on your face, and you had to admit that so many hands touching your face was strange.

“Okay, we’ll take a little break,” Dr. Finestein announced as Jeremy finished with the bandages on your face. “I’ll let them know that we need a CT scan so the stuff will be ready by the time we’re ready.”

“Do you two need anything?” Jeremy asked you and Peter. “Water, maybe?”

“I’d love some, please,” you nodded vigorously. Peter nodded as well.

“Alright, I’ll be back in like two minutes,” Jeremy stated, giving you both a thumbs up and leaving the room.

Peter let go of your hand and stopped rubbing your back, clearing his throat and stepping back a bit. The pink that had been on his cheek had become red in a short amount of time, and he seemed nervous.

“I-I’m sorry this all happened,” he said quietly.

You looked at him and tilted your head in confusion. “Why?” you asked. “It wasn’t your fault those guys tried to rob Charlie’s business.”

Peter chuckled anxiously and rubbed the back of his neck. “S-still,” he stuttered, “I’m sorry there’s a bunch of glass in you.”

You shrugged a shoulder and heaved out a sigh. “You know, it could be worse. I’ll take a little glass over the alternative bullet in my skull.”

Peter blanched at that and his facial panic had you chuckling. He began to stammer, and you held your good hand out to him. At the gesture, he blinked in surprise before slowly moving to take your hand. You brushed your thumb over his knuckles, only to be surprised as Peter laced your fingers together again.

“Thank you for your concern, Peter,” you smiled. “But let’s focus on what happened and what’s going on now. No need to worry over ‘what ifs’ right now.”

As Peter beamed at you, Doctor Finestein and Jeremy knocked and entered the room. Peter dropped your hand and stepped back, once again blushing furiously. Jeremy handed you and Peter some cups of water as Dr. Finestein announced that it was time to begin the removal once more.

You chugged your water and put the empty cup behind you before brandishing your arm to the good doctor. You felt a lot better after wetting your throat, and you were really wanting to get home and just go to bed. All the “excitement” of the past handful of hours was taking its toll on you, and you really wanted to go to bed.

As the professionals washed their hands and got everything ready once more, Peter finished his cup and took yours, throwing them away. He laced your fingers together and squeezed as the doctor and nurse began to remove the glass from your arm.

There were bigger pieces there, and each removal stung more than any in your face had. Peter kept squeezing your hand and rubbing your back; at once particularly irksome pull, he started to trace nonsensical patterns on your hand with his thumb. Then, you saw his face light up as inspiration struck.

He unlaced your fingers before turning your hand palm up. “I’m going to do little drawings, and I want you to try and guess what it is!” he beamed at you.

“Okay, sounds like a good idea,” you agreed, wincing slightly.

As Peter traced small designs on your palm, you managed to direct most of your attention to him. You hadn’t even known the doctor and nurse were done removing the glass until a sting of disinfectant snapped your head over to them.

“Almost done with this,” Doctor Finestein smiled at you. “We’ll bandage you up and check your ribs before the CT scan, okay?”

“Sure,” you nodded as Peter gently scratched his fingernail down your palm, obviously vying for your attention. Your laughter at his behavior made everyone in the room smile, and you shook your head at Peter. “So needy,” you teased.

Peter simply winked at you, making blood run to your face and chest, and drew his design once more on your palm.

Sooner than you expected, Jeremy was leaving the room (not without you thanking him, of course) with the tray of bloody glass, and Doctor Finestein was telling you to remove your shirt so she could look at your ribs.

Your wide, panicked eyes flashed to Peter and his red face.

“I, um, I’ll step out,” Peter stuttered, quickly fleeing the room.

You tried to ignore how your heart ached as he left; it was obvious to you that he didn’t want to see any part of you naked. It hurt your heart, but you tried to reassure yourself that Peter was just being polite. It didn’t stop the slight ache in your heart of the rush of anxiety in your mind as you took off your shirt so the doctor could do her examination.

[tejeshvemula]

My atheism..How it all started..?

I used to believe in God(s) when I was a kid. It was not because I had a revelation from sky through divine voice, but because of my very religious mother. As a kid I was very curious about mythological stories, I would not miss a TV serial or a movie on mythology. I liked the wars especially, it was super fun to watch all those shapeshifting arrows and maces :-). I used to ask a lot of questions about a lot of things and the most common answer I would get was “Thats how God meant them to be” and that would be the end of the conversation with me left clueless.

Even as a kid, praying to God didn’t make any sense for me. More often than not the signal wouldn’t come while my favourite cartoons are coming on TV, and I would pray to all the Gods that I knew but my prayers were never answered. At that age God never answered my prayers because he didn’t like me. In retrospect I see this was where I started having questions about the concept of God.

While growing up I started noticing contradictory things people said regarding God. I still remember an incident from my child hood: A person died very young near my house and I heard people consoling his family by telling that God likes good people and takes them early. It got me thinking. Firstly, I wondered why those people were crying if he was taken by God? After all, it must be a good thing! Secondly, old people must be bad as they are still living. By then, I experienced that questions pertaining to God were forbidden. I still was a believer in God but just not sure of his reasons behind his actions.

I vividly remember there was an earth quake in Gujarat when I was in my primary school, and a lot of people were killed. A circular was sent to our class to bring old clothes to donate for the people who lost everything in this violent act of God. Next day, an NGO representative came to collect the clothes and he said that God would bless us for our kind act. I thought to myself, why was God not kind enough for the people in Gujarat?, but I didn’t say it aloud as I knew that would be futile. By this time, I was not sure of the morality of God.

Amidst all this confusion about the God and his role in our lives, I still would oblige my mom and fold my hands and close my eyes as if I were praying but in my head goes, is it really effective to pray? will the God deliberately make me suffer if he knew that I was not being sincere in my prayers? .. I once asked my dad if there is really a God watching us and writing down what we are doing and he said to me quoting some philosopher, “If you believe in God, and if there is one, you are right.. if you believe in God, and if there isn’t one, you are wrong ..if you don’t believe in God, and if there is one, you are wrong and you are making him angry. So why taking a risk?” I was convinced and I decided to go with the flow and not question God.

I was in 8th Standard when Tsunami hit India hard and I saw the havoc it created. There were visuals on television that caused me feel nauseated.I was furious after seeing the deaths of all those innocent people. I still was believing that God existed but I was also convinced that he must be a sadist to enjoy watching people suffer. I started challenging him in my own childish way - I stopped praying, I started making obscene jokes on Gods. And sooner, I realised it was so silly and made peace with myself and stopped thinking of God at all.

When I was in studying intermediate, I started reading stuff on internet. The more I read, the better I understood my lack of understanding of things. It was very interesting to see how we humans tend to prefer some theory to no theory( the very reason why conspiracy theories are very popular). We are beings of strong sense of purpose and it comes naturally to us to attach purpose to random occurrences as well. To state an incident that happened to me as an example; I was once waiting for a train and it got very delayed, and as soon as they announced the train’s arrival, some guy rushed into the station and came running to me and asked if the train had left already. I told him I was also waiting for the same train and the announcement just came. He was so relieved and said to me,”God is there Brother! I would have missed the train, had he not delayed it for me.” Seriously! I then realised that things happen with no sense of purpose but we interpret as we please for our comfort. It occurred to me on that moment that my hate towards God was because I attached a sense of purpose to his actions. I also wondered for a brief period What if God just created the universe never to interfere in between? By the time I was doing my Graduation, I vaguely arrived at the concept of a Non-Interfering God that created a Universe and set up physical laws of nature and set it on a path. I was at that time agnostic, but I wished God to be non-interfering type, if at all it existed. 

Then I stumbled upon “The Selfish Gene” by Richard Dawkins, which changed my perspective on the origins of life on earth or the possibility of life elsewhere. The archeological and biological evidence provided in the book was so compelling that it seemed ridiculous to think of the term “God’s creation”. The more I was exposed to the scientific findings and theories pertaining to evolution and astrophysics, I was more convinced that there was no invisible hand of God pulling strings for us. The awareness of the expanse of the universe knocked me out of Human-centric thinking.  

After graduation, I spent a great deal of free time reading history books as I felt it was important to look into past to understand how things are shaped as they are in present. And It’s startling to know the amount of violence perpetrated in the name of God and Religion. It’s interesting to see how almost all the religions claim to provide God’s revelations and they all can’t be correct at the same time. I am certain by this time that I don’t need any Religion to explain things to me as I have something better to rely on. ‘Science’. I disassociated myself from all the religions. Likes of Bertrand Russell and Christopher Hitchens provided me the deeper understanding of the evils of religion and the need for atheist movement. 

It’s liberating to finally accept that I don’t need God or Religion to validate my actions. Whatever the good I do, I do it cause I am good not because I am afraid of someone. I, as an atheist, have the highest respect for the ability of mankind to be noble without the need for an enforcer. 

Yes, I can’t prove the non-existence of God. I can’t put it better than B. Russell

“..nobody can prove that there is not between the Earth and Mars a china teapot revolving in an elliptical orbit, but nobody thinks this sufficiently likely to be taken into account in practice. I think the God just as unlikely”

No matter how much ever the science advances, there will always be so many mysteries to be solved. Theologists incapable to reason with atheists, always slip into the dark areas where the Science hasn’t shed its light yet. 

When asked, what caused Big Bang? The scientific world answers “We don’t know it yet”. It’s much more convenient to answer “It’s God”. But what will be the answer for who created God that created universe? Theists may say that God is “un-creatable” and therefore eternally existed without being created. If God can exist without being created, why can’t the universe?

[hexalene]

Im loving your flower shop anecdotes so much!

(ﾉ´ヮ´)ﾉ*:･ﾟ✧ Thank you!! Have another!

For a little backstory, I’d been working in a grocery store since I graduated high school, to pay for college and life and all that capitalist fun fun. This is the story of how I got hired into the florist department and thus became a part time florist.

Back then, my sister wasn’t yet old enough to drive. Whenever I could, I’d drive her home from school. So she and a friend get into the car, and she asks, “Why do you have all of the bamboo from the lake?”

“It’s for work.”

“Why does (Grocery Store) need bamboo?”

I had no idea, to be honest. I just knew the floral department and my manager were on a desperate hunt for bamboo. Desperate enough that they’d texted the whole produce department offering to pay a reward for whoever could bring some in. This was great, because we had a shitload of bamboo and wanted money. It was bad because it reinforced my dad’s belief that if we keep EVERYTHING it will one day pay for itself, but that’s another story.

But anyway. So I drive to work with my sister and her friend, and call my manager to let her know I found the elusive bamboo. I pull up to the front of the store, get out, and chat with Manager while we wait for Florist and Bride to come look at the elusive bamboo.

Yup, Bride. As it turns out, the bamboo is for a wedding! Bride is DEAD SET on having bamboo sticking out of her table arrangements, and the bamboo the store ordered didn’t arrive for Very Boring Reasons. If we didn’t get that bamboo the WEDDING IS OVER. DONE. RUINED. The sale would be ruined, the world would end. And naturally, Store didn’t want this on their record.

So Florist and Bride arrive, and…I need to explain the “scene”.

Picture me, truck to my left, facing Manager and Bride, with the truck to their right. Bamboo is in back of the truck. Florist is standing next to me. About 20-30ish feet to my right is the store entrance. Standing in front of the store is a lone teenager, completely absorbed in his phone.

So, while Manager and Bride gush over the bamboo and explain all of the wedding theme and arrangements and omg y’all, they talked forever. For. Ev. Er. I just want this lady’s money, so I’m being polite and nodding and smiling, when I see my sister’s arm slowly creep out of the back window and veeeerrrrry quietly pick up a stick of bamboo, and sloooooowly pull it into the cab of the truck.

Next, the passenger window carefully creeps down, just an inch or so. Bride and Manager are still talking.

Next, to my absolute horror, I see the end of the bamboo peek out of the crack. At the same time, my sister’s arm is creeping slowly back down for another stick of bamboo and pulling it into the cab. The first stick is slowly leaving the window.

Florist spots it. Manager is still talking to Bride. The bamboo is still sliding slowly out of the car window. Only now, I can see the second stick.

It’s been taped to the end of the first stick, combining their reaching power. My sister is reaching for a third bamboo stalk. It slowly disappears into the car. The Stick is creeping from the window.

The third stalk, as you might have guessed, was taped to the second. My sister had already acquired a fourth. I think I legitimately felt time slow down, watching this ever growing bamboo monstrosity slowly reach for the teenager absorbed in his cell phone. Manager and Bride were still talking. I cannot remember what they were saying. Florist is clutching my elbow, trying not to stare at the stick emerging from my car.

My sister acquires a fifth stick. There is an old couple staring at the bamboo slowly emerging from my car. The teenager still hasn’t noticed. Florist is trying to interrupt the Bride, trying to get her to come inside the store, without turning around and seeing The Stick.

I, at this point, have Ascended. Full on disassociation. Smiling and nodding, and so sooooo not getting that reward money. The Stick is about 20 feet long. It’s almost touching the oblivious texting teenager. My sister takes a sixth or seventh stick.

Florist has slowly begun to maneuver Bride and Manager to come look at something in her car, conveniently parked away from The Event emerging from my truck. I think I may have met God, in that moment when Bride and Manager started walking away WITHOUT TURNING AROUND.

Meanwhile, The Stick has landed, very gently, on the screen of the teenager’s phone. He freezes, staring at it, before looking up and seeing the sheer length of the thing, and the truck it’s emerging from.

(I should probably mention that the truck is white, with tinted windows. The side is littered in decals that make it look like someone has decided to shoot us up in a drive-by. They’re quite realistic, and have horrified many church ladies.)

His mouth drops open, and he almost drops his phone. The Stick swoops up, and comes to a rest on his head. He lets it happen for a second, before screaming and swatting it off his head like an errant spider. He runs into the gas station next to the store.

I can hear my sister and her friend hyperventilating with laughter from inside the car. At this point, my soul re-enters my body, and I yank The Stick out of the window (smacking the other end into the automatic doors, whoops) and began ripping it apart, terrified Manager would come back and see it.

I BARELY managed to get it back in the truck tape-free by the time the Bride came back. She paid me for them via awkward side hug and casual pocket breast pocket slipping. It was exactly as awkward as you can imagine. I thanked her, shoved the sticks into her cart, and rushed home, finally breaking and crying with laughter along with my sister.

After all that, you might wonder how this ended up with me getting a new job? Two or so weeks later Florist offered me a position in her department, saying, that if I could keep my cool while that weird shit was going down then I was worth more than hauling boxes in a back room somewhere, and she was happy to offer me a raise to take me ;)

[ukthxbye]

Like An Apple From A Tree-Swedenlolly multi chapter fic

https://archiveofourown.org/works/14823371/chapters/34303595

Chapter 1:Proper holiday

“How about Sweden?” Sherlock Holmes asks Molly Hooper casually one day while they were both working in the lab at St. Barts.

“What?” Molly looks confused as she cuts her eyes above the microscope she was adjusting.

“Holiday, let’s take one,” he says, not looking up from his microscope. “Also, you were right, it was a genetic disorder that killed him.”

Sherlock peers up then and smiles at her. Grabbing his phone, texting and then calling Lestrade,  he steps outside the lab.

“Okay, let’s do this,” she says, even though he was already gone from the room.

Logic might say that a chalet in the countryside would be a safer, more private option. Sherlock has that in mind too, but for now being in the most obvious place would be the safer option.

Molly was not as accustomed to extended travel like Sherlock and he wanted to consider her comfort as well. She had always said she wanted to go to Sweden. He had heard her say that in casual conversation when it had come up and had saved the memory.  Of course, booking one of the best luxury boutique hotels in Stockholm was sure to provide her some respite. He had grinned a bit too widely when he saw a review that called it a perfect urban bolthole and drew John’s attention.

“What is that grin for?” John asks.

“It's a private matter.,” Sherlock says attempting to hide his smile.

“Ooooh, I see,” John emphasizes. “Holiday planning then?’

Sherlock almost frowned, but to be honest he is quite happy at the thought and cannot not hide it.

“Yes John, proper holiday planning.”

Sherlock prepared Molly for all that could happen on the trip, all the scenarios he could imagine so she was aware of them. They both were practical people, he thought. She’d appreciate the knowledge going into it. “Of course, these are hypotheticals. I am sure the most we’ll have to endure is some annoying cameras if they discover us” he assures.  Nearing the end of the conversation, he notices her looking a little lost in thought. He pauses to give her space to speak her mind.

“I was thinking about doing something to my hair,” she says absently, looking off into space. He raises an eyebrow but tries an encouraging look.

“Always have thought about shorter hair, maybe even blonde?” she laughs a bit unconvincingly.

Sherlock smiles warmly, “I fell for you as you are. I am not asking you to change for this trip and my concerns if you don’t feel comfortable.  But it might keep some attention off you since there are rumors going about us around London.  But if you have wanted to do this for awhile, please do. Your hair, your choices. I’ll always love it.” He knows it was a bit of a lie; he might hate it. But he also knows she needed the encouragement.

He deduces her disassociating from the trip and from other moments in life and the signs become clearer each day. She had developed a mild case of PTSD from the near death experience with Eurus, which was understandable. He knows her excitement is genuine at times and relishes it, but her mental state of being had weakened. While he found therapy oddly helpful, he has not shared that he had been going. Only Mycroft knows because, well, he knows  everything. He had thought Molly was doing okay, managing and moving forward, but the more clairity found him,  the muddier her state became. Their holiday planning had brought out the dissociation as a way for her to deal with the stress, he knows that. But ultimately it was his fault, all of it, always. That guilt made him strive to make the trip therapeutic for her if at all possible and to assure her of their future. Guilt was not the relationship base he wanted. He loves her deeply, that he knows. His heart was finally open and bleeding and he had embraced, it just as hers started closing up to protect itself. Perhaps he would get rid of the guilt, but for this he would always have regret.

Molly smirked at his matter-of-fact approach to her changing her appearance, but she still felt parts of herself cracking under the pressure of her own demons.

Maybe this will help, she thinks to herself. A different me. I need to try it out. I don’t feel like myself much anymore lately, anyway. Being his, well whatever she was, was new. Time to shed some of those old ways.

Sherlock composes on the violin while waiting for her return to keep his mind occupied. In fact, if he was honest with himself, he is nervous. His Molly is all colorful jumpers and brown ponytails. He isn’t sure about the change and any effect it will have on him.

When Molly returns from the salon, she pauses before going inside. She loves her hair, of course, and had felt her spirits lift at seeing a new person in the mirror. Bright blonde, just below her chin. It would be easier to take care of, as well. Of course he can’t wait to see. Face the music, literally, she reminds herself. She tried a big grin when she caught his eye as he looked up from his violin, but her face immediately falls when his becomes unreadable. Oh God, he hates it, she thinks.

But she could not be more wrong. He stands up without a word, and he gets me every time he does that, just holding my eyes with his and locking me in place, she reflects. His hands go to her face and into her hair as he runs his fingers through it slowly.

He leans down and kisses her, covering her mouth with his with immediate passion. Once he releases he smiles genuinely. “I love it. Really. It suits you.”

She breathes out finally. “Oh thank God, I thought you hated it for a moment.”

His brow furrows,

“Do you like it?” he asks gently. She nods grinning. Running his fingers through it again and mentally noting how the products in it smelled, he grins back.“Plus I won’t get my fingers as tangled when we have sex,” he risks with a smirk as he plays with a stand of hair. She smacks his chest playfully with her hand, but her eyes darken to match his. She went in for another kiss and he meets her, both lost in the moment, But he eventually pulls back, tenderly kissing her before bringing her into a tight hug. Her heart falls a bit and she feels her insides ache to be as physically close to him as they were a few weeks ago.

“I would love to Molly, but I do have much to do before our holiday starts tomorrow,” Sherlock says with regret  “Once we are there, we will be free of the burden of London. Be patient with me until then?” he asks. “Plus, you have shopping to do.”

She raises an eyebrow at him and then frowns as she gets what he is saying.

There’s the Sherlock face she knows, irritated.

”Oh, don’t frown at me. Not my idea, though I agree with Mycroft, as much as those words taste terrible in my mouth. He has a personal stylist meeting you outside the Knightsbridge station,” he says with a big smile. He is trying to make it convincing. “Besides, he is trying to be sweet in his own way.”

Molly’s jaw drops a bit.  There were nothing but high end stores, including bloody Harrod’s, over there. No Marks and Spencer’s for her, she thinks.

“Looking the part will keep suspicion away that it is you. I cannot promise there won’t be interest, but it will be more in the line of ‘who is the stunning blonde woman on his arm?’’ Plus, you deserve a shopping afternoon. A treat before the holiday.”

Molly sighs. “It's a poor excuse, but I’ll take it.” A darker part of her mind wants to latch onto a deeper, more unsettling meaning behind it all, but she pushes that away and buries her face in his chest for the moment. He knows that her thoughts have turned dark and it makes him hold her a bit tighter. When she lifts some of the pressure and moves back, he kisses the top of her head, then her forehead.

“I will see you in the morning, picking you up at your flat in a cab. Then it's on to Heathrow and fresher air for us both. Proper holiday,” he smiles warmly. “I love you.”

She smiles back, trying to hide the way her thoughts are turning.“Yes, proper holiday. See you in the morning. I love you, too.” And with that, she turns to leave. Both feel the ache that separation now gives them, but duty calls.

-:-

Molly checks her Facebook absently while waiting for the assigned stylist to meet her. Like all things related to Mycroft, they arrive at 13:00 on the dot. Molly is taken aback when the woman approaches her.  

“Hello Molly,” she says, offering her a slender hand with a bright white smile. “My name is Gemma Smith, it is wonderful to meet you.” She is about 5’10” and stunning, polished from head to toe, ginger hair just below her shoulders in perfect waves.  Molly feels herself shrink standing next to her, but she senses a kindness in her voice and it helps assure her.

“Molly Hooper.” Molly offers her hand back and gets a strong handshake in return.

“Sorry, being as I work with police and dead bodies I have never had much occasion for fashion,” Molly apologizes as they walk “I mean going out with friends and such, sure, but well…”

“It’s okay, Molly.” Gemma shakes her head bit and smiles reassuringly. “I go home and put on pyjamas the same as you and watch telly. I just have nice clothes and a job that pays for them.”

And a bloody model’s body, Molly thinks to herself.

But as they peruse shops, Molly becomes more comfortable with Gemma. She could charm anyone, she thinks, and finds herself enjoying having someone make most of the decisions regarding clothing.

Gemma asks questions about comfort, tastes, colors, and brands. Molly is sure this is for business only, not her trying to make friends, but Molly finds her company very pleasant and genuine. There is a hint of the flare for life that Mary had and it makes Molly miss her for a moment.  

“Look, you love color and patterns, and you are eclectic. I don’t want to change that but let’s sophisticate it a bit, okay?” Gemma assures Molly. ,

Well, at least it isn’t going to be court clothes or a drastic step away from my usual. Though she wouldn’t mind that. Her own skin seemed to bother her more these days and she relishes looking in the windows as they pass and seeing a different haircut and color, like seeing another person. She cannot shed her skin, but she can change the outside and maybe find a new person out of it.

In Harrods, they browse through cocktail dresses. She finds plenty that are obviously sexy but she can’t see herself being comfortable in them. Gemma makes her try on one. Molly shakes her head. ”No, I am not sure that a low cut v half way down my chest is for me.”

Gemma narrows her eyes in thought. “Hmm, let me look one more time for you. Stay here.”

She comes back with a satin sleeveless aubergine dress, boat necked with the most luxurious ruching. Everything about it screams that it can be worn multiple times to a number of occasions, so her practical side likes that and yet, it reminds her of something she can’t quite recall.

“Oh,” Molly says out loud with emotion.

Gemma beams, “Well, I didn't expect that. It's not most flashy of dresses, but there is an element of luxury to it. And that fabric under a man’s hand, well...” She giggles a bit.

Molly goes red-cheeked. Gemma says plainly, “Secret's safe with me. Let’s try it on,” handing her the dress and nudging her into the dressing room.

Molly slips it on and zips as much as she can, but gets help from Gemma who waits outside the dressing room. Her mind flashes to a future thought of Sherlock helping her in and out of the dress, and she can feel herself turn red again. But nonetheless, Gemma is right. As she looks in the mirror, Molly can see the fabric is luxurious, slinky against her skin and hugging her curves. I have hips? She hasn’t seen them in awhile. And the color, well, there it is. It reminded her of her favorite shirt of Sherlock’s. This is a sexy dress without being obvious. She takes a deep breath, and smiles at Gemma who was biting her lip.

“I’ll take it,” Molly says confidently.

“Victory!’ Gemma smiles big and bites her bottom lip again. “If I didn’t know you were with him, I would ask you out myself. That fits you like it was bespoke,”  she says while scanning around Molly, checking the fit. Molly pulls a face that is odd instinctively, though she takes the statement from Gemma as a compliment. Gemma softens her face in response, “Sorry, bit too much honesty there. But if nothing else, it should give you confidence in how he will see you in that dress, right?”

Molly nods. “You are gorgeous, and I am flattered. But I am straight as a pin I am afraid,” she admits with a reassuring smile.

Gemma laughs a bit to lighten the mood. ”Nothing ventured, nothing gained. And you are in love, that is obvious. And who wouldn’t be, at that one you got? I might be gay, but I am not blind. Congratulations on that catch.”  

Molly blushes and smiles fondly.

Gemma smirks sheepishly, “I am sorry if I made you uncomfortable though. I have a type, what can I say.”

Molly half laughs, “I know exactly what you mean, having a type.”

Gemma cheerfully changes the subject. “Now onto casual outfits and perhaps a bathing suit?” Molly looks at the dress price tag and chokes and coughs at the 825 pound price tag. Gemma grabs her arm to steady her, and shakes her head, both looking at each other through the mirror. “You are in with the Holmes now, money doesn’t mean the same.” Molly drops the tag and nods, but still feel the shock of the moment.

-:-

Molly stumbles into her flat, arms full of bags and her new dress. She laughs thinking of how Gemma had thought she was cute, but with no time to focus on anything else as she has to pack. She really does need a hanging bag, but she had looked up methods to pack for no wrinkles, and also she assumes she can get the dress pressed when she arrives in Stockholm. Everything feels quiet in her flat and she does not want the thoughts to fill her head again that she has successfully pushed away most of the day.  She knows Sherlock might be busy, but she risks a text anyway.

I hope I get everything packed in this carry on bag since you insist we don’t check any luggage-MH

I have all confidence in you...how was shopping?-SH

Lovely, just what I needed. She works for Mycroft or just hired? Might have a new girlfriend if this doesn’t work out ;)-MH

She grins to herself with that tease.

Girlfriend? I’ll fight her for you if I need to. But I am not surprised. That blonde hair really does suit you. You continue to surprise me, please never stop-SH

Molly laughs to herself a bit and he starts to write again before she can respond.

You should get some sleep, Molly. I wish I was there tonight but alas chasing a couple more things down with John before we leave. Forgive me that. You’ll have my arms tomorrow. Good night xxx-SH

Stay safe, please. Good night xxx-MH

She hopes she doesn’t need them tonight, like she had one night, her body wrecked from crying. It had happened not long after their confessions. She had called and he had come, no questions asked. Held her from the minute she met him at the door until she made him leave the next afternoon. Made sure she ate and drank, and sat in silence as she needed. She reminds herself of these moments when she doubts. Its something he would have been incapable of years ago.  With those thoughts, she wills herself into a fitful sleep.

[cateyesinthenight]

Unpopular Opinion?

I haven’t really enjoyed the last few chapters as much- the ones that take place in the station. I feel that even though Sangwoo and Bum should be on the spot, the chapters themselves have been more about Seungbae than anything else- his need to prove his theory- and I just don’t find him all that interesting. Sangwoo and Bum can’t act how they normally do because of obvious reasons, which means we aren’t really ‘interacting’ with them. Yeah, we know they’re lying through their teeth (looking at you, Sangwoo), but they’ve been doing that since they first got to the station. Nothing has changed since they were first brought in.

I honestly do not believe Sangwoo is any closer to being caught than when he was first brought in. If Seungbae had a leg to stand on, he wouldn’t be rushing through his interrogation desperate to prove himself before someone stops him. The fact that none of the other officers are helping him (we’ll discredit Lee as a romantic (?) fool) shows this.

Maybe it’s just me, but I feel a lot of the tension has evaporated. I mean, just before they were brought in we had an epic showdown between Sangwoo and Seungbae, and now we have...what? Everyone just sitting in chairs doing not a lot of anything while occasionally someone looks worried, and Bum disassociates while dreaming of Sangwoo. I personally did not ever believe that Sangwoo would be caught now. With two seasons left, there’s not much chance Sangwoo would be taken down so early. I just don’t really consider it an option. Not that it couldn’t happen, I just don’t think it would make much narrative sense. It would change the dynamic of the entire manhwa, and Sangwoo in prison is not as interesting as Sangwoo the free-to-kill-whenever-he-wants serial killer. Thinking this way means that I’ve never really felt any tension over the station-based chapters. And this manhwa is all about tension, so when it’s gone (or severely depleted) something feels lacking. What’s a thriller/drama/horror/murder mystery without any tension?

What I really want to see is what happens when the station visit is over. When everyone leaves and the status quo has partially returned. What will Seungbae do when he has to let Sangwoo go free? What will Sangwoo do now that Seungbae has officially threatened him? Will Bum stop daydreaming about Sangwoo once he’s returned to the real thing? 

Right now, both sides are at a kind of impasse. We’re in limbo. Seungbae can’t prove anything. Sangwoo’s hands are tied, and Bum is mostly useless as always. For something to happen, each character needs to be returned to their environment. Sangwoo and Bum only act themselves (especially Sangwoo) when they’re alone or with each other (or with victims). Sangwoo cannot be Sangwoo where he is now. He has to wear his good-guy Sangwoo persona. I personally do not find his persona all that interesting. At least not unless I can compare it to his actual personality. But we haven’t really seen Sangwoo for a good few chapters. We’ve only had his persona, with a few little slippages of Sangwoo here and there. But even his persona hasn’t been in the last few chapters all that much. Most of the characters have been isolated, and- while that was interesting at first- it’s gotten a little dull. 

I find the most interesting part of the manhwa the ways in which the characters interact with each other. When each is isolated there’s just not much to go on. We’re repeating the same conversations over and over, and nothing will change unless the Sangwoo and Bum go free, or one of them is charged. Something has to change, or nothing will. 

We still have a huge amount of questions we need answers to (what happened to Sangwoo’s parents? Why did Sangwoo start killing? Will he ever remember Bum from the army/college?) and we aren’t going to get those answers with Seungbae keeping the story at a stand-still. ‘Just one more test’ only works for so long, but now that Chief Kwak has arrived hopefully we’ll get back to the regular plot soon, rather than humouring Seungbae’s obsessions any further.

[enemyofvice]

A New Kind of Living - Edited

A door slammed somewhere in the house, and Sam bolted upright in bed, his heart slamming like a jackhammer against his ribcage. He quickly looked over to his brother’s bed, whispering in an attempt to get his attention. “Caleb?”

                                                           ~

This wasn’t the first, or the last time Sam Seabury would find himself in the waiting room of New Haven Correctional Center, sitting in a cold metal chair as he waited for his father to be allowed into the visitor’s area. That night was so long ago, and yet it was all that Sam could think about every time he was here. It played over and over in his mind, and it was almost a blessing when his father sat down heavily across from him.

Samuel Seabury Sr. was a heavyset man about the age of 40, although his sun kissed skin from years spent working outside made him look about 5 or 6 years older. His dark brown hair, although normally cropped just above his ears, was pulled back into a ponytail in an effort to remain presentable. He had a blossoming bruise on his cheek, as well as several other marks on the rest of his face and hands that proved his time in prison to be less than enjoyable. All of this, however, did not damper the shit-eating grin he seemed unable to wipe from his face; nor did he want to. He had everyone right where he wanted them.

~

“Always, always do as I say.” His dad chastised him, standing above Sam, who lay on the ground haphazardly. He wasn’t 100% sure how he had gotten on the ground, but he couldn’t help flinching when his father moved to pick him up. “I only want what’s best for you. Now go clean up your mess.”

~

Samuel Sr. had been in prison for a couple years now, and each and every visit with his son started out with the same couple words. “I can not wait to get out of here.” While his time in prison hadn’t the most cushiest of experiences, he always made it out to be worse than it was, no matter who he was talking to. He almost seemed to enjoy the look of guilt that passed over his son’s face every time he mentioned that he had been in another “fight”. Sam didn’t need to know that his father spent about an hour before their meetings making himself look worse for wear. All he needed to know was that his dad was still alive, and he wasn’t going to be free of him anytime soon.

Sam himself was dressed rather impeccably, his reddish brown hair freshly cut and styled back out of his face, and he was wearing what looked like a new blue and white checkered sweater vest, along with a white button-up and khaki pants. Someone might see him at a gas station and assume that he was on his way to some church service, but the reality was much harsher than that. His foster father had bought him the new outfit a couple weeks ago, and it had stayed in the box until this morning. Sam had wanted to impress his dad, and he didn’t have any newer or better looking outfits than this one.

Sam straightened his back when his father sat down, jerking suddenly and thankfully out of his thoughts, a small smile appearing on his face. He pushed his glasses up on his nose before folding his hands on the table in front of him. He’d already laid out a stack of papers on the table before his dad arrived, and had been anxiously working his way through a bottle of water before Samuel Sr. sat down. Now, he was watching his father as he silently looked through the pile of homework, waiting for him to speak first.

Instead of complimenting the good grades on top of his papers and tests, Samuel Sr. turned his sour gaze upon his young son, scanning him up and down as he looked for something to pick out. Finally his sourness turned into some kind of twisted smile as he finally found something.

“I didn’t buy you that vest.” Samuel Sr. said flatly, and continued before Sam could explain himself. It didn't matter that he hadn't been able to buy his son new clothes in almost two years. “I can only assume that Mr. Washington bought it for you. He really cares about you… You know, it’s been a long time. I hope you’re not trying to replace your dear old Papa.” He asked, and Sam quickly shook his head, shifting in his seat as he tried to defend himself.

“No-no, Papa, no. I hate it there. I hate him, he’s, ugh, he doesn’t really care. He just thinks buying me things will make me like him, or something. I told him not to buy the vest but he did it anyways.” He said, hoping that his father wouldn’t be too mad. “But I, you know, I thought- I know that it’s important to look nice, and make a good impression. And he did already buy it...” He said, hoping that maybe Samuel would let it slide, since he had fought against receiving the gift at all.

It was deadly silent for a moment, and Sam became hyper-focused on his father’s fingers tapping on the table, and when they suddenly stopped it took him a couple seconds to focus on his father’s voice again.

“.... right, Samuel.” His dad said, and Sam blinked a few times and leaned forward in an attempt to focus more. No matter how hard he fought against it, he couldn’t help disassociating when he was around the older man. “You’re old enough to get a job, nobody needs to be spoiling you anymore. You’re smart, so I don’t doubt that you’ll be able to find one by the time we meet again. And I expect you to keep up your grades without any trouble. Am I understood?” He finished, voice like a hammer on nails, and Sam nodded. He didn’t really want a job, knowing that he would only be burdened more by the work load. And his foster father probably wouldn’t let him get one anyways.

“Good boy, Samuel. Any father would be proud to have you as their son. Well, most of the time. You really need to work on your stutter.” He said, and Sam’s face lit up with the praise, almost feeling energized. He was good, he was okay, he was doing a good job, he was okay.

“I’m-I’m really trying, Papa! And I’ll get a job. And-and the lawyer, he said-” Sam’s ramblings, full of promises to continue doing a good job, were interrupted by his father’s hand slamming onto the metal table, reverberating throughout the room. Sam’s ears were jarred from it, and for a second he wondered if it had been him that was hit and not the table. He jumped in his chair as well, moving back away from him as he tried to calm down the beating in his chest.

“Don’t talk about that! You don’t need to worry about the lawyer, or about me getting out of here. You’re not smart enough to understand it, and you’ll probably mess it up by being too.. Sensitive or stuttering or something.” He said, his lip twisting in anger, shaking his head and making a show of being disappointed. “All you need to worry about is keeping your grades up and getting a job. Do you understand?” He said, voice sharp, and it obviously took some effort to keep it lowered to an acceptable volume.

Sam nodded meekly, not daring to say anything, keeping his eyes trained on the table and his hands in his lap, still taking quick scared breaths as he tried to calm down. It was obvious that he was on the verge of having a full scale panic attack, and he dug his nails into the palm of his hand in an attempt to calm down.

~

    “Just close your eyes and hide under the blanket, alright?” Caleb whispered, crawling into Sam’s bed as quickly as he could and wrapping him in a protective hug, pulling the blanket over both of their heads in an attempt to block out the sound of their dad’s voice screaming at their mother from the living room. “Nothing can get to you, I promise.”

~

“Mr. Washington, why is it that I can’t have one single conversation with my son without the government’s favorite watchdog hovering over him?” His dad’s voice cut through his thoughts, and even though he was now paying attention to what was happening around him, he didn’t move or acknowledge the newest presence next to him in the slightest. If he had been looking, he would have seen his father crossing his arms over his chest and narrowing his eyes. While Sam was too far gone to really have an emotion other than thankfulness that his father had shown up out of the blue, he normally would have been annoyed. He had a tendency to view these small increments of time with his father as precious, and he didn’t want Washington to ruin them.

George pulled up a chair despite knowing how unwelcome he must have been, sitting down next to Sam and putting an arm on the back of his chair, making sure not to touch him. It was enough that Sam knew he was there and that he wasn’t alone, and although George wanted to pick him up and carry him away and never come back, he knew that it had to be done this way.

“I think if you could have a conversation without upsetting him, then we wouldn’t have a problem.” He said, keeping his voice as light as he could in a situation like this. “I’m sure that we don’t need to be reminded of the last time you…. Got out of hand.” He said, and a quick glance at Sam told him all he needed to know. It was time to leave, and to stop talking about this.

“A misunderstanding. I’m sure that Samuel explained it to you.” He paused, looking over at his son with something akin to affection, if the older man was even capable of it. “He fell asleep and hit his face on the table, it happens all the time with teenagers. Especially when they don’t have the right guardianship.” He said, and his voice was light as well, even with the heavy topic they were discussing.

“I think that it’s time to go.” He said, voice firm and directed at the man across from him, looking over at Sam and softening his tone as he continued. “Is that alright with you?” He asked, not wanting to force him into moving around when he wasn’t ready to.

“What, are you going to force him to leave early? To cut his already precious hours with his Papa short?” Samuel asked, obviously upset, leaning forward in his chair and raising his voice. “I never get to see him, just let me have this. Samuel, please, stay.” He almost took on a begging tone, turning his gaze to his son.

~

    Sam climbed the tree in his backyard, quickly trying to catch up with his much older brother, who was teasing him for not being able to tag him. They’d only been in the tree for a couple minutes before the back door opened and they both froze, listening to feet on the stairs. “Boys, it’s time to come inside and do homework, I’m counting to three.” Sam, still only on the first branch, quickly hopped down and ran inside, making it just in time. Caleb never seemed to make it on time.

~

George had spent a lot of time trying to help Sam learn how to work through his panic attacks, and he knew what it looked like when he wasn’t going to come down from one anytime soon; however, so did his father. And while Sam was used to someone knowing all of his ticks and issues, that didn’t mean he liked the feeling.

He turned to face Sam fully, forcing a smile despite the fact that Sam wasn’t even willing to look at him. It was something that he was used to, even when his foster child was calm. Sam seemed to be the dictionary definition of an angsty teen, fighting George on everything he could. But George hadn’t decided to become a foster parent because it was easy, and he didn’t make a habit of giving up on something once he’d started. “It’s time to get going anyways, Sam. We’re going to be late picking up your brother soon.” He said, standing and smoothing a hand over Sam’s shoulders, before shoving both of his own hands in his pockets ashamedly when Sam practically jerked away. Despite the movement, however, Sam stood, giving his dad a quick apologetic smile.

Samuel stood as well, taking a step towards Sam as if to hug him. He was obviously still angry that they were leaving, and it showed in the way his jaw was clenched. George was very quick to step between them, putting a hand on Samuel Sr.’s chest. He wouldn’t dare hurt Sam in front of George, but that didn’t mean George was just going to let the other man touch his foster child. It was all just a show, of course, to upset Washington. Samuel Sr. had never been a fan of hugging, but he was a fan of making the man who took away his child angry.

“Absolutely not. Even if the court allowed it.” George said, quietly enough that he thought Sam couldn’t hear, face deadly serious.

Samuel stepped back, pushing George’s hand away, and Sam peeked around his caretaker’s shoulder, biting his lip nervously. His cheeks were still coming back from the shade of ghostly white they had been earlier.

“I’m sorry, Papa. I love you.” He said softly, giving him a gentle wave as his foster father maneuvered him gently towards the door. He felt a little guilty, like he always did when they had to turn around and leave his father behind. Sam was worried that one day he’d show up only to find that his father had been let out or killed in his cell or something like that, leaving Sam all alone.

~

    The front door slammed shut, almost clipping Caleb’s heels, as if saying one last goodbye. Sam would get used to being alone.

~

As soon as they made it into the car, George let out a sigh, leaning back against the seat. “I’m really sorry that that happened.” He said, turning to look at Sam, only to find him unresponsive and staring out the window. “I mean, I’m sorry that I couldn’t get you out of there sooner.”

“He didn’t even do anything wrong, you’re just jealous that I like him better.” Sam retorted, and George couldn’t help how much that hurt. He thought that maybe he’d gotten somewhere with his foster son, but it was obvious that his work was going thankless as usual. “I don’t get why I can’t hang out with him for as long as I want. It’s not like he’d even do anything anyways.”

George sighed, running a hand over his face and putting the car in drive, not looking at him as he pulled out of the parking lot and onto the busy highway. This was an argument that they’d had many times. “Sam, you know why. I don’t have to remind you; and I don’t want to.” He said, voice soft. A quick glance at Sam, despite the traffic, proved to be more painful than it was helpful, watching as he reached up and skimmed his fingers over one of the scars that arched just above his collar, the skin twisted and painful-looking, and he seemed to wince almost from the memory. He’d hardly ever shown any part of his skin since George had known him, making sure to wear hoods and jeans, even in the summer. He knew that most of them were from his father, but it was no secret that he’d been stuck in some scary foster homes before coming to George’s house. George quickly looked away, not wanting to think about it, trying not to stare as he turned a corner.