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whatifxwereyou · 3 years

Text

The Oncoming Storm Part 2: Fire

Fandom: Mortal Kombat 2021

Liu Kang x Reader or Kung Lao x Reader

Summary: You wake up somewhere strange *again*. This time your underground and greeted by Liu Kang. For some reason you trust him, but why?

A/N: Have I mentioned I’m a huge fan of the slow burn? Whoops. I’ll let you guys know when the paths are branching between Lao/Liu. Thanks for reading and hope you keep enjoying! Also, thanks for coming to my TED talk.

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Warm flames flickered off brown-gray stone walls. Other than the burning flame to your right, the room was small and dark. There was no door and you could hear movement somewhere beyond its opening. I’m underground, you thought. The air smelled musty and it was so dry that your nose burned. Underground and maybe in the desert. You closed your eyes again quickly.

In your mind’s eye you pictured the small purple flower Kung Lao had given you in your youth. Frail and rare. Many flowers had grown in your hometown but purple had been a new and exotic color. You’d always been fond of it afterward. You’d never gotten the chance to tell Kung Lao that. For a time you had kept it pressed between the pages of your favorite book as a memorial to the boy who had been your best friend. You hadn’t thought about the flower in years. You’d be lying if you said you hadn’t thought about him.

The details of what happened were fuzzy. You remembered the fight in your shop and remembered waking up to the face of Kung Lao. It was still insane to think that the boy you’d thought dead was, in fact, alive and in good health. It was even crazier to think that he’d been the one to save you from the fire in your shop.

You shook away the memory lest it return you to the darkness of unconsciousness.

You were, again, in an unfamiliar bed but things were vastly different. You’d been cared for and changed into a modest dressing gown, judging by the soft but coarse material. This had likely been done by a health professional. You were certain that Kung Lao must have brought you somewhere to be helped. Then again, most hospitals you knew of weren’t underground and they certainly didn’t use these types of gowns. It wasn’t a hospital gown, more like the type of gown that would have been worn for bed in ages past. Long and thin, but warm. You pictured it off-white. The one you wore had no sleeves, most likely for ease of access since you’d been injured.

You had to decide if you should panic or not. If you looked around and saw a medical professional or Kung Lao then you would remain calm. If you didn’t then panic seemed the way to go. Opening your eyes again, you were relieved that the world didn’t spin and you weren’t nauseous. But there was no doctor and definitely no Kung Lao.

There was a different man in his place, unfamiliar, shorter in stature, his gaze focused on something other than you. He was dressed mostly in black, no sleeves (which seemed the fashion of this underground wherever), and a red sash tied around his middle. His demeanor was calm and quiet and in his left hand he clutched a string of prayer beads. His skin was dusted with soot or grease, you couldn’t tell. He looked as though he had been handling charcoal for hours. He was also surprisingly muscular.

And handsome. You wouldn’t deny that you’d admired him. His brow was knit with concern and as you shifted, he turned toward you. Brown eyes met yours with genuine concern and he held a hand up defensively. “Take it slow.” His voice was soothing but this was all too familiar.

A strange bed and a stranger next to it after having fallen unconscious. He was telling you how what to do and how to feel. Again. Not a chance! On the small table next to the head of the bed there was a bowl half-filled with water and some medical tools. The tool closest to you was a hook used for stitching up wounds. It wasn’t the best weapon but it was all you could reach. You sat upright quickly, snatched the hook, and moved far enough away from the stranger that you had room to breathe and could better gauge his intent and reactions.

But you had moved too quickly and suddenly there were ten of him as the room spun. You thought you might puke if he got any closer. That would get him away from you, probably better than the needle would. Much to your surprise, he laughed with the subtlest of smiles. The smile radiated more from his eyes amidst his worry than it did outwardly. “You’re surprisingly fast for someone who has been in and out of consciousness for over a week.”

“A… a week?” You stuttered and forced your vision to focus on the blurry version of him smiling in the middle. Thankfully, your brain obeyed and the room stopped spinning. He didn’t seem to pose you any threat. You could tell just by his smile. A smile that made him all the more handsome. The time that had passed was not important so you didn’t wait for an answer to your initial question. “Who are you? Where am I? And where is Kung Lao?” Those three things were at the top of your list now that you were thinking clearly. There were a hundred other questions you had about Mortal Kombat, the dragon mark on your back, and other realms but you figured those could come later. Dealing with the here and now; that was the right way to do it.

“I am Liu Kang.” He bowed his head, holding up his prayer beads as he did. “You are in Raiden’s Temple where the Order of Light gathers to protect Earthrealm. Kung Lao is off on an errand at Lord Raiden’s behest. I assure you that he did not wish to leave you but had little other choice.”

Breathing a sigh of relief, you leaned against the cool stone behind you. Answers, finally. “I’m Y/N. Thank you for answering my questions.”

“Kung Lao mentioned you would likely be defensive.” Liu Kang gestured to the bowl on the nightstand. “I have been caring for your wounds. I do not usually tend to the sick but I promised my cousin that I would see you were cared for.”

“Cousin?”

“Kung Lao. He is my brother. Not by blood but by bond.”

That was a relief. At least this complete stranger had a connection to the other near complete stranger that you’d met the last time you’d woken up in a strange place. Wait… hadn’t you gone blind? Setting the hook back down on the side table, you patted your face in search of a mark or wound that would have caused that. There was none. Liu Kang’s eyes were sparkling in amusement.

“The last thing I remember is losing my vision.” You explained.

“Yes, about that.” Liu Kang moved the hook back to its original place. “The men who attacked your shop were vicious and cruel warriors. They were gifted but squandered their gifts to satiate their greed, a thing that can never be sated. You did the world a favor by stopping them. However, the blades that wounded you were coated in a rare poison. It is lucky that Kung Lao found you and could bring you to us for treatment. The blindness was a temporary side effect of the poison.”

“Poison?” This was wild. That morning you’d been stocking your shop and had taught a class of ten-year-olds. Now you’d been attacked, killed a few men, and had been poisoned. Wild. You supposed, in reality, it had been over a week ago and not that morning. Whatever. You decided to take the blows as they came. Deal with the problems and insanity as it happened. It was the only way to keep a clear head.

“It took many days and much prayer but we bled the poison from your wounds. Now they should begin to heal.”

“I’m still stuck on the poison part of this story. Really? Who does that?”

“You must be very resilient, Miss Y/N. Even the mightiest of warriors poisoned so terribly would submit to death. You are a fighter.”

“Thanks… I think.”

Liu Kang bowed his head again respectfully. He was easy to talk to, you weren’t sure why. You’d been careful around Kung Lao but you found yourself immediately not careful around Liu Kang. There was an instant connection to him.

“I was ill as a child. It made me more resilient to sickness, perhaps.” You had been ill but it had been the kind of illness that parents sent their children away for, the kind where they couldn’t explain how their child saw or did things beyond their understanding. It had made you terribly sick and weak. Why were you telling him this? It’d slipped out of your mouth without permission from your lips.

“I have not met many who would credit childhood illness for their resilience.”

“Perhaps I’m more stubborn than most. I’ve been told I have thick skin. The kids would tease me for being different. I was told that I would never be strong. I would never catch up. Never be normal. I didn’t like that word, not even as a kid.”

“Which one?”

“Never.”

That subtle smile again. Damn, it was attractive.

“I’m sorry.” You laughed with an apologetic bow of your own. Your head spun and you mentally cursed your politeness. “I didn’t mean to say all that. It just slipped out.”

“It’s no problem. I would like you to continue your story if you would.”

“Only if you’re certain.”

“I assure you that I’m not merely being polite.” There was something genuine about his words, as if he considered them carefully before he spoke. Perhaps Kung Lao had warned him about you. Or perhaps he was just careful. Your first instinct had been to jump at them both. It was their every right to be defensive but you couldn’t be blamed either. “How did you overcome your illness?”

“I fought. I worked harder than most did just to be on the same level as everyone else. I grew out of my sickness with age and thanks to my hard work I became stronger than most. After that I dedicated my life to teaching others to become strong, to be more than the ‘never’ we’re told we’ll be.”

“Admirable.” Liu Kang seemed as relieved as you had been upon discovering he was not there to hurt you. Maybe he’d been worried about your intent too. “It is nice to have another worthy of their marking.”

“The dragon mark?”

“Yes.”

“About that…”

“Do you know why you are here?”

“Kung Lao said something about being chosen because of the mark but I’m guessing that the mark only came to me because I killed those men. Am I right? It had to belong to one of them. It’s less like I was chosen and more like… I stole it.”

“Yes. Did Kung Lao tell you? He said you wouldn’t understand.”

“I assume that he would have told me but then I went blind. As you can imagine, I no longer cared much about the mark after that.” You laughed and so did Liu Kang. His laugh was quiet and genuine. It made you smile far more than should have been allowed. His joy was as comforting as the flickering light of the candle on the side table. “I didn’t have the mark that morning. I can only assume that was when I got it. Weirder things have happened so it was as good a guess as any.”

“Your intuition is remarkable.”

“What happens next?”

“For now you heal.” Liu Kang gestured to your arms. The gauze wrapped around your forearms was stained with blood even though the dressings looked fresh. You didn’t feel any pain. Either you’d been given good drugs to deal or adrenaline was protecting you. “You are in no condition to begin training. Lord Raiden has been told about you. I am keeping him informed on your condition.”

“So, you’re my babysitter.”

“I prefer caretaker. But yes.”

“If it’s been a week and I’m still bleeding like this then I have a feeling it could take awhile to heal. Can I learn more in the meantime? About any of this? I don’t want to just sleep and sit around doing nothing. I don’t know anything about this place and I know very little about the Order of Light. And I definitely don’t know anything about this mark or Mortal Kombat.” Liu Kang seemed surprised, but pleasantly so, as if this were something he’d greatly desired to hear.

“You really want to learn more?” He smiled brightly. You nodded. “The masters have trained me for years in matters of Mortal Kombat and the protection of Earthrealm. I would be happy to teach you if you would allow me.”

“I would be delighted to have the company, Liu Kang.” You very much meant that.

“I have some work to do around the temple but we can start this evening.”

“Perfect.”

Next Chapter >>

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anxietysroomsupport · 3 years

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Hypermobile anon here. First, thank you so much. It's just nice to know there's someone here for me. And to give a little more info, I have a serious problem where if I'm not currently in pain. I don't remember how bad it was. I know everybody does this, but my brain literally checked out as I was going to bed recently and I fell on the floor. I nearly forgot to tell my physical therapist.about it because it didn't really hurt. So, I can't do the pain scale very well, and I never remember (1/2)

(2/2) It just makes it sort of hard for pain relief when I don't know I'm going to need it and don't have the energy when I do. Also, on the vitamin subject, I know that I've had vitamin d issues before (bad heat exhaustion and allergy scares = going outside less), bad enough that I was close to being diagnosed with hypothyroidism. I'm not sure about the others, but I do know I'm not amazing healthy, so? I take calcium pills for the vitamin d, though. Again, thank you guys for all your help.

We just got a bill from my PT place that says we owe money that we can't pay. They told us up front how much it would be with our insurance, and my mom's been paying each time, but it says we owe 177 dollars. Sure, it's not a lot, but we're not rich and trying to send a sibling to college. If we can't get this sorted out. I can't just not go. 10 exercises I can do at home and 5 appointments is not enough to help a chronic disorder. I cant focus and I have practice in 30 mins. -Hypermobility anon

Same day but later when I'm feeling a little better (my director was very supportive though so that's nice), I'd seen the letter and heard my parents talking a bit, but my mom told be as we got to school for rehearsal about PT. I got upset, and I felt bad because I could tell she felt bad because she didn't expect me to be upset, and in the heat of the moment I said "chronic illness" in front of my mom for the first time. She loudly (not quite yelling) (1/?) - Hypermobility anon

said to me "That is the most self-pitying thing I've ever heard. Chronic illnesses are like cancer". Sure, I probably should've said disorder and not illness, but I'm scientifically right. Then I said "It is, it's chronic pain, I am always in pain" and she said "Well then clearly PT isn't helping anyway" - I??? When I went in after 15 minutes after another girl, since we were both there for an hour and a half, I decided to stop trying too much to hide my crying (useful masks) (2/?) -HSD anon

since the other girl was in the hall to eat, and when I managed to explain to the director, she was understanding and nice, and when I said chronic, she said that I should never have to live with that, especially at my age. And when I mentioned not being able to sing at that moment from my crying, she pointed out how I was singing an empowering song that was about standing against the bad stuff in life, and I was perfect for it. I know my mom was just mad, but it just drained me.

Sorry I keep sending asks so often, I just feel like telling someone this. I decided to put 'zebra' in my bio. It's a thing that people with EDS and HSD sometimes like to call themselves. I like it, so even though I just have my name and pronouns, plus a random joke, in my bio, I added it. It just feels like a step in the right direction to remembering that I don't need google to tell me I'm dealing with this every 5 minutes. Accepting it, I guess. :) -HSD anon

My sleep schedule just keeps getting worse and I think it's my ADHD combined busy days and pain but I just never want to sleep anymore. I can't, I don't want to, and it hurts physically and mentally to just lie there and see if I can fall asleep. 80% sure my circadian rhythm changed to sleep at about 2 am but I get up at 7 and have a chronic disorder that's getting worse because of this I *need sleep*. And I'm so scared I'll mess up, want to make a side blog for it but want to make one (1/2)

for something happy first because I always figured that if I had side blogs they would be ask blogs or for fandoms or whatever. But I got a little better at not caring what other people think, so I haven't really needed one for fandom. But I looked through the tag and felt so comforted by some of the stuff that I just think it would help me. Maybe I'm just extra bad tonight because I went outside but also talked about it a fair amount with a friend I hadn't seen recently who didn't know. -HSD

I wanna talk to my physical therapist about hip braces because I tried a knee one we have and it honestly helps, but my hips are worst so I wanna see if it would help, but they're pretty expensive. It's hard to find dual hip braces, from what I've seen in my research, and even though one more than the other, both cause me issues. Idk, I'm conflicted, because it could help but is it worth all the effort? Also, even if it's under clothing it's still physical evidence (1/2) -HSD anon

(2/2) of my "invisible" disorder. Also, stopping exercises for a few days because of not feeling well from my covid shot reminded me of just how much time I spend on them, so it's another thing to deal with this. . . Idk, sometimes I just wonder if it would be better to just deal with it. I still have pain anyway, though it might be a little better. Less often, maybe? I don't really remember. It's not stressing at the front of my mind all the time, but the back of it. I'm just conflicted. -HSD

HSD anon here, idk if I mentioned it in an ask already, but recently I had a small breakdown because I was watching something where a character was in a car accident, as was trying to push through having trouble walking even with a hip brace. After a minute, I registered it and just thought "That could be my future". My joints had already been acting up and then they got worse, so I don't know if it was cause and effect? But I don't exactly know what to call it other than a trigger. (1/2)

Physical and emotional effect, at least I'm assuming on physical because I've had a bad reaction to something similar before, but like, I don't have trauma, I think it's more fear of the future. And I don't want to use trigger incorrectly, it's insensitive to those who actually have triggers. I'm just so confused.

Forgot to sign the last ask with 2/2 and HSD, whoops.

Hfnsiwk I'm not ready to walk into PT tomorrow and say that I don't think months of PT have been helping but I have no way to be completely sure because for all I know it's the weather since this is the first year I've known/it's been noticeable. Maybe it's just change, I don't know, but it just feels like such a waste of time if it really didn't help. Plus, I'd stop, and while that'd be great, I do enjoy being stronger, even if it didn't help pain. I have 12 hours and a bad pain day idek. -HSD

Hi Hypermobility Anon,

I think I found all your asks and got them in the correct order. And found your last ask!

I’m so glad you kept writing in. I think you should go ahead and make your side blog - you definitely have enough material for it. Wanting to make a happy side blog also is a great goal to have, but if you don’t know what it will be yet, don’t let that prevent you from doing something you know you want to do and that will probably help you.

You are dealing with So. Much. Your mom especially sounds like she just is not ready to accept the situation. It’s not self-pity to state your actual conditions. It’s just reality.

Forgetting about pain is normal, and really all you can do is try to write it down or make some kind of note about it in the moment or immediately after, so you can refer to it later. Maybe you can track your pain events in your phone notes.

I think your idea to add “zebra” to your bio is a good one, this is part of your life and just something you have to deal with. It sounds like you’re finding a community for this.

Sleep schedules are tricky, and feeling like you desperately need to sleep can make it so stressful that it starts a vicious little cycle. Some strategies to get around this are First, remember that just resting is okay and helpful too, even if you don’t fall asleep. Letting your body lay there to rest is good for you.

Second, if you’ve spent several minutes laying down without falling asleep, its okay to get up and walk around, or any small light exercise that’s comfortable for you. The goal with this one is to get out of the bed for a bit. It will help your brain to re-learn that the bed is for sleeping only, not for laying awake. That association can help signal to your brain to start its sleep-process when you get into bed at night.

Third, it’s really common to have a changing circadian rhythm during your teens and twenties. That’s just a thing that happens and you can’t do much about it, so just try not to worry too much. Sleep when it feels right and when you can, instead of trying to force yourself to sleep when you’re “supposed” to.

If hip braces would help you, you should definitely at least mention it to your physical therapist. You might research online for any used ones as well. A physical sign that you have pain can have good and bad consequences, but I think the good consequence of being in less pain far outweighs any others.

The triggering event you described is not so much a trigger as it is just a genuinely really upsetting situation. You related really strongly to the character you were watching, because they’re dealing with similar problems to you, and to problems you could have in the future. It’s a lot to process. But while you could potentially be in a car accident, remember that television is made to dramatize events and probably made it seem a lot more difficult and scary than it really would be.

Since we know you sometimes forget your pain, it’s safe to say that the exercises are helping you manage it, and you say that they’ve made you stronger in general. Those are good things, and I would recommend you continue the exercises you can do on your own even if you end of ending your physical therapy sessions. We don’t know yet if your pain might have gotten even worse without therapy. You’ll have to find that out on your own if you stop exercising, and then decide whether it’s more worth it to you to continue exercising or to live with the pain. Whichever you choose, it’s Your choice, Your body. Take care of yourself. <3

-bun

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d-ama-ien · 4 years

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Take a Break

Summary: The District Attorney is sick, yet they drag themselves to work anyways. Damien convinces them to take a break, helping care for them after they agree to take the rest of the day off.

Pairing: Mayor Attorney (Damien x the DA)

Warning: Some mentions of nausea and other cold symptoms

A fic for @fgfluidity

Author note: It’s cold season y’all, take care of yourselves! Damien wants you to be health uwu

You know you're sick- yesterday your body felt tired, bone achingly tired, you weren't able to finish even half of the dinner you made yourself, and you passed out before the clock chimed 8, barely waking up to your alarm this morning. But, you're not allowed to be sick, not with the trial coming up, with all the work you need to do. So, you trudge through your morning routine, managing to make yourself look something like presentable, arriving at the office on time, as usual, smiling at the secretary like there wasn't a worry in the world. Just the short walk to your office had you exhausted, but fortunately, you could sit while doing your work, and then you'd be fine.

You were not fine. It didn't matter that the only thing you had been doing for the last hour was paperwork; you were exhausted, barely able to focus on the paperwork in front of you. Just another hour or so until lunch, then another 5 hours until you could go home, then another three days until the weekend, and then you could rest. For now, it was out of the question, and you page the secretary for some coffee before quickly changing your order to tea. Yeah, coffee wasn't the best idea with your stomach. Tea would have to do for the caffeine fix.

The tea didn't do much for your fatigue. It was warm, tasted nice, and it felt good to have something in your nearly empty stomach, but you managed to get through to lunchtime, at least. You sigh as the phone rings, not wanting to deal with a last-minute request for a lunch meeting or anything that would add to your workload, and accidentally let the phone ring through. Whoops.

It starts ringing again a moment later, and this time you force yourself to take the call.

"I'm sorry to bother you, DA. I know your lunch break just started, but the mayor has requested a meeting," You bite back a groan at the secretary's message, instead saying they could send the mayor in. You groan after hanging up, though- if it was anyone, literally anyone, else you could've said to claim you're busy and out of the office and that they could make an appointment for later. Yeah, that's not an option when it comes to the mayor.

Of course, the mayor isn't just the mayor; he's Damien, your dearest friend, and usually, you'd happily clear the day for him at the drop of a hat. Today wasn't the usual; you are sick and wanted to steal a quick nap during your lunch break so that you could push through the rest of the day. But, if Damien requests your presence, then your presence is given. There's a knock on the door then, and you prepare yourself before calling out, "Come in!"

Damien comes in, a warm smile on his face, though it falls slightly when he sees your face. He seems to know something is off, even though you had done your best to force a smile before he came in.

"Are you doing well, friend?" Damien asks, voice gentle with concern.

"Just a bit tired is all," you wave off his concern, gesturing for him to come in and sit. No reason to make him stand around; the cane only offers so much support after all.

"I'm sorry to pop in on you without warning. I realized how long it's been since we got to spend time together casually, and I know this is your usual lunchtime, so I figured we could go eat together," Damien sits on the edge of his seat, eyes trained on my face.

"That sounds lovely. Just let me grab my coat," you rise from your seat, having to pause and brace your weight on the desk when a wave of dizziness hits. Well, that's new. Damien is openly concerned now, standing and leaning on his cane as he puts a hesitant hand on your shoulder.

"Are you sure you're well? I wasn't going to say it, but you look awful," you figure you must look really bad for Damien to say something like that. He never says anything negative about your appearance, except for in university when he would be laughing about how terrible you'd look after a good party.

"I'm fine, really, just-"

"This is more than "just tired," you look like you're going to pass out!" Damien's grip leaves your shoulder, and he briefly rests the back of his hand on your forehead. You'd blush at that if your face wasn't already so hot. "You're burning up. What on Earth possessed you to come in today? Get your stuff; we're taking you home this instant,"

"Damien, I can't just leave in the middle of the day. I have work to do!" You protest, blushing as Damien levels you with a stern stare- the kind he uses when his staff acts up and needs to be reprimanded. You've always shuddered just witnessing it, but seeing it could never prepare you for being on the receiving end of it.

"You're just putting your health at risk by staying. How much work will you get done if you end up needing to go to the hospital?"

"Okay, Dames, it's a cold,"

"Colds can become serious if not properly dealt with. Gather your things now. You're taking today and tomorrow off,"

“Tomorrow?” He knows the case you have coming up, the work you have to do, and he thinks you're going to take a day and a half off?

"Tomorrow. Friend, your work will suffer if you aren't well. I know you have that case coming up, and doing this to yourself is just putting that at risk,"

You want to keep protesting, should keep protesting, but Damien is right. You and your work will only suffer if you don't nip this issue in the bud. So, with a deep sigh, you fetch your coat, obediently locking up the office and following Damien down the hall. He pauses to speak to the secretary, informing them you'll be out of the office for the remainder of today and all of tomorrow, on Damien's orders. You're glad Damien doesn't say the truth, that he's forcing you out of work because you're sick. After all, it would be rather embarrassing for the mayor to need to drag an ill district attorney home. Well, it was embarrassing, but only to you, as no one else knew about it.

Damien brought you to where his driver was waiting outside the building, quickly rattling your address off to the driver as you get settled. It isn't too far a drive, you live reasonably close to where you work after all, and soon you're sitting at your own kitchen table as Damien wanders through the kitchen, gradually collecting ingredients and cooking tools as he goes. He's taken off his jacket and vest, eventually rolling up the sleeves of his shirt as he starts fusing with some of the ingredients he had gathered.

"Dames, what are you doing?" You ask, "You got me home, you don't have to stay," Damien looks at you like you’ve grown a second head, pausing for only a moment before continuing his quest.

"Friend, you were barely able to walk from the car to your table. There's no way I would just leave you here unattended. Would you even be able to cook for yourself?"

"You don't need to cook for me. I'm fine,"

"When's the last time you ate, then?"

"Dinner last night,"

"And did you actually eat a full meal?"

"Yes?" Damien pauses again, frowning at you, "Fine, no. I couldn't finish it,"

"You need to eat, so I'll cook for you," Damien sets a glass of water in front of you before going to the pot, starting to fill it with water and putting it on the stove.

"Drink that; with your fever, you'll need the hydration," he calls over his shoulder, ignoring your grumbling. The more stubborn part of you is a bit indignant at the treatment- you're an adult, a freaking district attorney, and Damien is instructing you on how to take care of yourself like you don't know any better. The more honest part of you is relishing in the attention because it's Damien taking care of you, sweetly looking out for your health and well being. You drink the water as you watch Damien work. He slowly added things to the pot, having dug up some veggies and herbs that you had nearly forgotten about, and adding those once they're cleaned and cut.

In a half-hour, there's a warm bowl of chicken noodle soup in front of you, Damien smiling warmly as he sits at the other side of the table with his own bowl.

"I had to improvise some of the ratios, so I hope it tastes alright," he says, sounding almost nervous. Is he worried you won't like it?

It's definitely one of the better soups you've had, not over seasoned but not bland like most foods made for an upset stomach are. You find yourself smiling as you take another spoonful.

"I didn't know you cooked," you say. The last time you had seen Damien cook was back in university- if that could be called cooking with the less than stellar results of most of his attempts.

"Well, I learned the basics from Celine before she moved in with Mark, but my staff does most of the cooking anymore," Damien explains, starting on his own bowl.

"I owe Celine a thank you. Last time you cooked for me, it's what caused me to be sick," you laugh slightly as you remember that "meal," using the term "meal" loosely, of course.

"In my defense, we were drunk," Damien points out, smiling at the memory. He's only smiling because he wasn't unlucky enough to eat it.

"Yes, and then I was suffering from food poisoning," he laughs fully at that, and you're thankful that at least a funny story came out of your misery. Damien finishes much faster than you do, but he sits with you and entertains with some more reminiscing as you slowly finish the full bowl.

"Why don't you go to your room and get in something more comfortable? I'll tidy up here and will be up in a moment," Damien suggests, standing to take your bowls to the sink.

"Dames, you really don't need to stay,"

"None of that, I always have time to be there for you. Go on upstairs," your protest dies in your throat when Damien briefly rests his hand on top of yours, squeezing gently. Then he's heading back over to the sink, starting the water and rinsing the dishes. You make your way upstairs, changing into a more comfortable outfit, resting on the edge of your bed after the effort of getting upstairs and getting changed. Damien knocks before coming in, always the gentleman, bringing a glass of water with him.

"I really don't need you to supervise me taking a nap," you point out as he sets the glass on your bedside table.

"I won't be supervising; I'm just keeping you company. You get settled in; I have to grab something." Part of you is embarrassed at the idea of Damien sitting with you while you sleep, but the other part of you recognizes the number of things he had seen you do in university and, well, taking a nap beside him was nothing compared to that.

You're laying down, just getting comfortable, when Damien reenters, carrying his briefcase in the hand not occupied by his cane.

"Do you mind if I sit beside you?" He asks, not even resting his hand on the bed until you nod. You glance over at him as he settles in, first noticing he was polite enough to kick off his shoes, then noticing his bare forearms, sleeves still rolled up from preparing lunch. He pulls out a file from the briefcase, starting to read it over while humming something under his breath. Damien's voice is rich and sweet enough when speaking, but his hums are like melted chocolate. You don't even notice how tired and relaxed you are until you're dozing off, asleep in mere minutes.

The sun is setting when you wake up, Damien's silhouette practically glowing with the late afternoon sunlight that hits him from the window. He's buried in another file, pen in hand. His other hand, you notice with surprise, is holding one of yours, thumb idly stroking the back of your hand as he reads, occasionally making a note. Now that you're awake, you should pull away, because this isn't proper- Damien's your friend, and your boss, but he's also so warm, and you're so comfortable, and you never want to let go of his hand. You shift slightly, drawing his attention your way, and you could die from how much affection is held in his smile as he notices you're awake.

"Ah, there's the little monster," he greets, and even though you're awake, he doesn't pull his hand away. You look down at your joined hands, Damien following your gaze- for a second, you swear he's blushing as he pulls away, but it could easily be the lighting.

"I'm sorry about that, you grabbed at my hand while you were asleep, and I didn't want to disturb you," he explains.

"Ah, sorry about grabbing you," you reply, a bit embarrassed.

"Don't apologize, I didn't mind," now that's definitely a blush rising on his face as he realizes what he said. You don't press the topic anymore; it's clear that he's flustered, so you just roll over and reach your arms above your head to stretch. You slowly move to sit, grabbing the water off your bedside table, and taking a long drink.

"Are you hungry? I can heat the soup, or maybe I could make some pasta if your stomach is feeling better,"

"I think I could handle some pasta," you say, Damien nodding and moving to stand up.

"Take your time getting downstairs; it shouldn't take too long to have dinner prepared," Damien says as he packs his files and pen away into his briefcase, sliding his shoes on and grabbing his cane before leaving the room. You take your sweet time stretching and moving to stand. The water is boiling, and Damien is adding pasta to the pot as you get downstairs. True to his word, it doesn't take very long for the noodles to be prepared, Damien adding a bit of butter and a hint of salt and pepper before serving you a plate.

"Hopefully, it isn't too dull a meal, but we don't want to take any chances agitating your stomach even if it's feeling better right now," Damien says. The noodles are, admittedly, very plain, but it's also nice to have something a bit heavier in your stomach, even if it isn't a very exciting meal. There's less conversation this meal- you aren't sure that you fully woke up from your afternoon nap, and Damien seems content with the silence. It's quiet even after you finish, Damien talking and washing your plates as you finish another glass of water.

"Well," Damien starts once the dishes are set in the drying rack, fusing with his cane in a way that betrays discomfort.

"Well?" You question, not having enough context to prompt him further.

"I know it's a bit early, but since you're sick, you probably should be heading to bed soon," he says.

"Right. Would you want to stay the night?" You're not sure where the boldness to ask that question came from, your face burning with a blush as soon as you say it. Damien looks just as embarrassed but, well. He hasn't shut you down, hasn't proclaimed how immoral it is to even suggest that.

And then, "Do you really want me to stay?"

That's not the response you were expecting.

"I'd be happy to have you," while the sentiment was true, it was much bolder than you would usually be.

"Then I'd be happy to stay," your heart melts when he looks at you like that- if you were a little younger, a little more confident and naive, you would call that expression one of love. As it were, you knew better than to call it that, but it made your heart flutter nonetheless.

So, you end up lying on your side in bed, respectfully facing away as Damien removes his shirt and belt and his slacks. It was the only practical way for him to sleep, you had both agreed, but you wouldn't encroach on his privacy and observe as he disrobes. The situation was indecent enough as it is; there was certainly no reason to add to it. You're blushing as the bed dips, the covers shifting a bit as he slides between them.

You reach for the bedside table, turning off the lamp, plunging the room into a darkness that feels almost oppressive. You're hyper-aware of everything- his breathing, your own breathing, the warmth of having another person in the bed, the way the bed moves as Damien shifts. Then, a deep breath.

"Would you," Damien pauses, speaking quietly, "could I hold you?"

That isn't a question you asked a friend, you think, blushing at the implications behind him asking that.

"I wouldn't mind that," you answer, and your voice sounds too loud in the quiet room. There's more shifting then, a hesitant arm resting over your side, and you can tell that Damien hasn't fully settled, posed to pull away at any moment. So, you snuggle back, feeling his chest against your back, sighing as you let yourself relax into his touch. He relaxes a moment later, his arm a comfortable pressure on your side, breath warm where it occasionally brushes your ear. You fall asleep like that, his warmth almost painfully comfortable, and you have a blissfully deep sleep for the first time in ages.

The first thing you notice is how bright the room is, the sun much deeper in the sky than it would usually be when you get up. The next thing you notice is how much better you feel, no traces of nausea and barely tired. Then you notice that your bed is empty, and it's an incredibly disappointing realization that Damien had left while you were sleeping. But, on your bedside table was a glass of water, still cool, and a folded note with your name on it in curling script.

"My dearest,

I am terribly sorry to leave while you're still asleep. Unfortunately, I received an urgent request and had to go into the office earlier than I had been planning, and you needed the rest, so I didn't want to wake you. I left instructions for reheating the soup down in the kitchen, make sure you eat lunch and drink plenty of water. After work today, I will be stopping by check in on you, but you can call me if you need anything. Feel better soon.

Love,

Damien"

He called you his dearest and he signed the note with love, and you’re nearly swooning. You can't count how many times you skim the note, grinning every time your eyes cross his signature. Eventually, you manage to get up- you haven't had a proper day off in forever, and you fully intend to take advantage of it with a proper lazy day. And, at the end of the day, you get to look forward to your dearest, your Damien, coming home to you.

Well, maybe coming down with a cold isn't the worst thing after all.

#fg i hope you like it!#i tried to make it really fluffy #i want to snuggle with damien so bad #fanfiction #my works #mayor attorney #mayor damien #wkm damien #wkm the mayor #wkm the district attorney #y/n district attorney #i usually do first person and kept accidentally typing 'I' so i hope i didnt miss any lol #sick fic #okie i'm going to bed now i hope y'all have a good night #fortunately i was feeling very soft and very inspired today so this didn't take long :)

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miss-tc-nova · 4 years

Text

Contagious Affection - Riku x Reader

Oh my gods! I’m so sorry this took so long! Life’s been crazy, you know, but I’ve been thinking about it ever since you asked. Thankfully, things are gonna slow down for me soon and I can focus more on what I love: writing.

I hope you enjoy.

~~~~~

“Riku! Stop!”

The perpetrator freezes, shock across his face and a fist against his eye. Huffing, I slap his hand down and proceed to clean it with a wet wipe.

“Ugh, this sucks,” he grumbles, blinking awkwardly to relieve his clearly irritated eyes.

“Yes, but if you don’t keep your hands away from your face, you’re gonna make it worse and get your germs everywhere.” I point a finger at him. “And if you give me pink eye, I’m gonna make you miserable.”

Threats bounce off his resilience. “With you around, I don’t know if that’s possible.”

“Shush! No amount of smooth talk will soothe my rage if I get infected! Got it?!”

“Yeah yeah,” he says, clearly not taking me seriously.

“Good. Now go take everything off the bed so I can wash it.”

That saps his pleasantness. “Don’t you think you’re going a little overboard with this?”

“Listen, I’ve had pink eye before—it ain’t fun. I do not want it again and if all this seems excessive, it’s only because sometimes you have trouble following the really simple instructions such as STOP TOUCHING YOUR EYES!”

His hand instantly drops as he realizes what he’s doing. “Oh…”

A stern point directs him to the bottle of sanitizer on the nightstand. I’m not quite exasperated with the boy, but I will be thoroughly annoyed if I get pink eye because he can’t restrain himself.

Riku begins pulling the bed apart and I amble into the hall for clean linen. As I’m digging through the closet, the doorbell rings. Lo and behold, we have unexpected guests in Riku’s closest friends.

“Hey,” Sora greets with a beaming grin.

Kairi waves. “Hi.”

The answer is pretty much guaranteed but it’s only polite to ask. “Hey guys. What’s up?”

“Is Riku around? He promised to show us one of his master techniques he came up with,” the red-head answers.

“I’m sorry, but Riku really shouldn’t hang out today. He’s got pink eye.”

The last thing I expected from his two best friends is that they would light up at the news of Riku having a contagious infection.

“Really?!” Sora exclaims. “His eyes are pink?!”

No politeness is offered as the pair bustles past me. I close the door, a bit perturbed, and scurry after the two who have ambushed my inflicted boyfriend in the bedroom.

“Woah! Hey! What the hell?!”

“C’mon! Lemme see!” Sora demands, practically scaling the taller boy while Kairi watches expectantly.

“Sora! Get off!”

That’s when I see the hands reaching for Riku’s face.

Snatching the back of his jacket, I tear Sora off and put myself between the sick and the visiting. “Woah woah woah! What are you doing?!”

“We just wanna see!”

Kairi puts in her defense. “Yeah. I haven’t seen his eyes change colors yet.”

It hits me what they’re thinking. “Riku doesn’t have pink eyes!” I exclaim. “He has pink eye! And he’s still contagious! Go wash your hands!”

The girl’s eyes widen as she comprehends but Sora is still clearly confused. “He what?”

I throw a finger in Riku’s direction. “Look at him! His eyes are still green; the pink is on the outside! He’s sick and you were touching his face! You’re gonna get sick if you don’t go wash your hands now!”

“You better do as they say,” warns Riku. “They’ve been disinfecting everything and threatened to tie me to a chair at least twice.”

Finally, Sora hurries off to the bathroom and Kairi asks, “Isn’t pink eye pretty mild?”

“Usually, but I had a pretty bad infection when I was little and I do not want to do that again,” I explain. “It doesn’t help that Riku keeps forgetting not to touch his face every five minutes.”

His eyes roll at my complaints and a hand instinctively reaches up to alleviate the resulting irritation. It barely takes any thought to swatting his hand.

“If I somehow make it through the next few weeks without getting it, it’ll be a miracle.”

“You’re just being dramatic,” Riku reprimands.

“No, you’re being careless,” I retort, resuming his half-finished assignment of pulling off the sheets and blankets.

Kairi and Sora visit for a while, frequently forgetting that Riku is contagious until firmly reminded. On the bright side, despite his irritation, Riku doesn’t seem all that put out by his infection—I’d hate to see him truly under the weather.

Bidding farewell, the guests take their leave and I close the door behind them.

“Those two will have pink eye this time tomorrow,” I mumble.

Riku agrees, “Probably—Sora touched his face like half a dozen times in the last hour.” Returning my full focus to the job of cleaning the apartment, I stroll towards the kitchen. “What are you doing now?”

“I gotta make dinner. But I’m gonna be lazy and just do mac and cheese.”

A grip on my shoulder pulls me around so he can lead back towards the sofa. “Will you slow down for a moment. You’ve been going non-stop since we got back from the clinic. Take a break.”

He’s right but while I want to just collapse and spend some time with the sickie, there’s a lot to clean to make sure the contagions don’t spread. “Riku…”

“Nope.” One more nudge puts me on the couch. “Relax. No one’s going to die, or get sick, if you take a break for ten minutes.”

Attempting to thwart his task is a beeping alarm. “And that’s the laundry.”

“If I go switch it over now, will you just sit with me for a bit?” My sigh of defeat is taken as an answer and he leaves to throw the clothes in the dryer before coming back to flop beside me. In an effort to distract me, his hands play with my fingers as we chat. It’s the most peace I’ve had since waking up to the invasive illness.

Honestly, Riku’s always been the laid back one in our relationship, versus my nitpickiness; he can roll with life’s surprises better than I can. The boy wasn’t even going to go to the clinic until I practically shoved him out the door. And though sometimes this indifference can get irritating, he’s always been a pro at keeping me from going overboard and drowning myself in self-imposed responsibilities. In the same vein, I tend to keep things a bit more orderly around here. It’s not that he’s a slob or anything but—as evident with this pink eye—some things just get away from him.

“Alright, now I really should go start dinner,” I hum. An annoying buzz sounds. “Is that the dryer?” I glance to the clock before swiping at Riku. “That was way longer than ten minutes!”

“Whoops,” he chuckles, not the least bit fazed by my attack.

“You’re terrible. How I get anything done with you around is beyond me.”

“Because you’re amazing.”

“Don’t try to butter me up,” I scoff. When he simply smiles, the reality of how hectic I’ve been today begins to set in. A soft laugh escapes me. “Geeze, how do you put up with me?”

That grin softens, becoming the embodiment of admiration; it nearly entices me to forgo dinner to indulge in his company.

That comfort falters when a ring of magenta sparks in his eyes, swallowing the teal color until all that’s left behind is that vibrant shock.

“Because I love you,” he hums.

First off, neither of us have come up with the courage to say that yet and I know I should be over the moon with delight, but I’ve never seen anything like this before so all I can do is stare. This is not the reaction he was expecting, though, and that soft happiness vanishes.

“Oh my gods! Was that too soon?! You don’t have to say it back! I—”

“Your eyes are pink!” I manage to blurt out.

It’s his turn to stare. “Yyyyeah…I have pink eye.”

“No! They aren’t green anymore—they’re pink!”

The blush flushing over his face nearly matches the color of his eyes. “O-Oh…”

“I’ve never seen this before!” I push off the sofa. “I better call the doctor and—”

Riku’s hand snatches my wrist. Looking back, I find him wearing that same warm smile—that magenta shade undulating brighter. “It’s okay; it’s a dream eater thing.”

This is where he has to explain to me what a dream eater is, how he ended up becoming one, and that his eyes occasionally change color depending on his emotions.

“Is this what those two were talking about when they wanted to see your pink eyes?” I ask after.

“Yeah.”

“Oh thank gods—I was really worried about their sanity for a moment.”

“You should still be worried,” the young man teases.

We share a laugh but as I watch him, I can’t help noticing the brightness in his eyes. “So, if the color depends on your mood, what does pink mean?”

I half expected the guy to break out in another full blush, but instead it only accents his cheeks as he smirks. “I know you’re smart enough to figure it out.”

I’d kiss him if I wasn’t afraid of his pink eye, the sickness not the eye color. Still, I follow his lead: “I love you too.”

~~~~~

The next day…

“I told you guys if you weren’t careful you were gonna get it too,” I scold, smacking Sora’s hand from his face with a wet wipe. “Stop touching your eyes!”

He complains, “But it itches!”

“I don’t care!” I snap, turning my glare on Kairi who’s halfway to rubbing her eyes. “If you don’t stop, I’m gonna put eye patches on both of you and tie you to chairs!”

“They’re not joking,” Riku adds, giving me the side eye. “I was stuck at the kitchen table for three hours this morning.”

“See? Don’t tempt me,” I say, eyeing the sulking pair. I swear, getting these two to resist the urge to rub their eyes is worse than keeping the seagulls at the pier away from food.

When there are no more complaints, I stalk into the kitchen to start dinner, of which I now have to make extra.

“Thanks for taking care of them,” Riku hums, having followed.

“It’s fine. We knew they were gonna catch it,” I reply, washing potatoes in the sink. A little simper takes over. “But they aren’t gonna tell me they love me and get glowing eyes too, are they?”

“No,” he sighs. “Just me.”

“Just for me?” I coo.

Riku chuckles. “Just for you.”

Putting aside the food, I tug at his shirt. “Say it.” I’ve made this demand a few times already so it’s no wonder he just laughs. “Come on, please. Say it!”

I could fly our whole apartment building with the butterflies raging in my stomach at the sight of that fuchsia flash. With absolute adoration, he snakes his arms around my waist and nuzzles against my nose.

“I love you.”

Delighted, I bury my face in his chest, squeezing as tight as I can. His chin nudging against my forehead makes me look back.

“Your turn now,” he insists.

Without hesitation and knowing that I one hundred percent mean it, I respond, “I love you too.”

“Good, because now you’re probably gonna get pink eye,” he snickers, indicating our close proximity.

“Shit!”

#riku #kh riku #riku x reader #riku kingdom hearts #novas requests #gender neutral reader

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whumphoarder · 5 years

Text

Beanimia

Summary: While Peter is visiting Tony and Morgan at the lake house for a long weekend, the six-year-old manages to accidentally break his nose. Unfortunately, Spider-Man's super-healing decides to go on holiday the same weekend that he does.

Word count: 3,877

Genre: Fluffy illness/injury, whump, hurt/comfort, humor

A/N: Thanks to @xxx-cat-xxx and @sallyidss for beta-reading and to @awesomesockes for plot, summary, and title ideas <3

Link to read on Ao3

“So”—Tony snaps the single use ice pack to activate the chemicals and gives it a few shakes as he moves back over to the kitchen table—“which one of you is going to explain what happened here?”

Morgan shakes her head gravely side to side. “Peter didn’t catch the beans...”

“Well, to be fair,” Peter points out, his voice significantly more nasally than usual due to the wad of paper towels he’s pressing to his heavily bleeding nose, “you didn’t really warn me you were about to chuck a can of beans at my head.”

“But I did!” the six-year-old defends. “I said, ‘I’ll throw down the supplies.’”

“Supplies for what?” Tony questions. He passes Peter the ice pack, earning a grunt of thanks.

“For the mission,” Morgan explains as though it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “We were playing superheroes and we needed to pack the supplies to take with us ‘cus we had to go fight the bad guys in space.”

“She’d been stockpiling stuff for the last couple days in the treehouse,” Peter goes on, “so she was just tossing everything down for me to put in the bag. Which, y’know, was fine for the stuffed animals and the walkie-talkies and the plastic lightsabers”—he gingerly touches the ice to his nose—“just not for a sixteen-ounce can of refried pintos.”

(Tony winces in sympathy.)

Morgan lets out an exasperated exhale. “Well, we had to bring something to eat—it’s a long way to Pluto.”

Huffing out a laugh, Tony shakes his head slowly. “I guess it’s hardly Peter’s first experience getting injured before a mission officially even begins...” he muses. He grins at the teenager. “Remember when you tripped off the quinjet ramp and sprained your ankle two minutes after we landed?”

Peter rolls his eyes, clearly annoyed. “That was one time, Mr. Stark.”

“Memorable though,” Tony quips. He gestures to the kid’s messy face and sighs. “Alright, let’s see the damage.”

Reluctantly, Peter pulls the paper towels away and fresh blood starts to trickle down. There’s a cut at the bridge of his nose and it’s rapidly swelling, a dark bruise already starting to form under his eye.

Tony prods carefully at the break, making Peter wince. “Well, it’s definitely broken,” he reports after a moment, “but it seems pretty well-aligned at least. Nothing to reset.”

Peter lets out a short, breathy laugh. “Probably because it was already a little crooked from the last time I broke it. Guess she knocked it back.”

“So… I made it better?” Morgan asks hopefully.

Tony turns in his daughter’s direction. “Oh no, don’t you start thinking you’re off the hook here, Little Miss Budding Plastic Surgeon,” he says, holding up a stern finger. “You still need to be more careful where you’re chucking your beans.”

Peter snorts, then instantly seems to regret that as he groans and adjusts the ice pack on his face.

Morgan’s expression sobers and she drops her gaze down to her feet. “I just thought he would catch it. He always catches stuff when I throw it to him…”

Her comment gives Tony pause. Now that he thinks about it, it’s not the first time since Peter arrived at the lake house for their long weekend that the kid has seemed rather sluggish and off his game. He’d dozed through most of the drive over on Friday afternoon and then slept in until almost noon the next day. Even now, he can see the dark circles under Peter’s eyes and the pallor to his cheeks that can’t be completely explained by his current blood loss.

“It’s okay, Mo,” Peter reassures her with a small smile. “I know you didn’t mean to hurt me. It’ll be all better by morning, okay?”

Morgan perks up at that, so Tony pushes aside the twinge of worry in his gut. After all, Peter’s been taking seventeen credit hours at MIT this semester, not to mention his Boston vigilante activities and the additional part-time lab assistant gig he’s picked up; that’s enough to make anyone run a little ragged.

“Why don’t you two just watch a movie or something?” Tony suggests. “Give Peter’s nose a little time to sort itself out.”

Morgan and Peter agree, so Tony rustles up some of Peter’s super-strength painkillers and sets the kids up in the living room with some weird movie that Morgan inexplicably loves about a talking parrot whose biggest goal in life is to see the sun rise over the Grand Canyon. Before they even hit the fifteen minute mark, from out of the corner of his eye, Tony sees the ice pack slide down Peter’s face as the boy drifts off.

The combination of pain pills and the usual post-injury recovery time knocks Peter out and he sleeps straight through the rest of the movie. He’s still a little groggy and disoriented when Tony wakes him for dinner, but years of mentoring a reckless teenage superhero have taught the man that this is all par for the course.

Given that the pork chops Pepper left for them to reheat (before heading to her sister’s house for the weekend) require a bit more chewing than Peter’s face is up for at the moment, Tony whips the kid up a smoothie to drink instead.

Peter peers warily into the glass Tony hands him, swirling the green contents around. “What’s in here?”

Tony shrugs. “Whatever I found in the fridge. Blueberries, yogurt, scoop of protein powder, a banana, some spinach…”

“Ew, why would you drink spinach?” Morgan interrupts, her nose wrinkling up in disgust. “That’s gross.”

“Says the girl who put mayonnaise on her graham crackers last week,” Tony points out.

“It was good!” she defends.

Peter takes a cautious sip of the drink. He looks contemplative for second, then must have decided that he approves of the flavor because he just shrugs and proceeds to down about half the glass in a few gulps.

Morgan makes a dramatic gagging noise. Tony rolls his eyes and flicks her arm playfully.

“It’s actually really good,” Peter admits, lowering the cup back down. “Been awhile since I’ve had real vegetables.”

“Ugh, lucky,” Morgan groans as Tony adds a few pieces of asparagus to the little girl’s plate. “They’re the worst. Except for artichokes—those are good.”

“You like artichokes?” Peter questions.

“Uh huh.” She grins. “And turnips!”

“Well, Gerald likes turnips,” Tony clarifies, “and Morgan likes feeding them to him.”

This comment inspires Morgan to launch into a long-winded explanation of all the things she’s ever seen Gerald eat—from grass, to broccoli stalks, to a weird-looking bug—and which of those were his favorites. Peter nods along to her rambling, but seems far less engaged than usual and doesn’t even react when she mentions Gerald’s favorite type of cookie is double stuffed Oreo.

(Tony, on the other hand, interrupts at that point with a stern lecture for the six-year-old on what she can and cannot feed the alpaca moving forward.)

Once dinner is over, they all migrate back to the living room. Morgan wants to play Uno, and Peter obliges for a while, but his overall lack of focus persists.

“Peeeterrrr,” Morgan whines for the third time, poking his arm to snap him out of his daze. “It’s your turn again. You gotta draw two.”

“Oh. Sorry.” Peter takes two cards from the deck and adds them to his hand before reaching up to rub tiredly at his temples.

Tony’s brow furrows. “Headache?”

“Yeah, kinda,” Peter admits. “It’s not bad, just like… there.”

“Hm.” Tony nods. Turning to Morgan he says, “What do you say we finish this game up tomorrow?” Morgan’s face screws up and she looks like she’s about to protest before he adds, “Pretty sure there are some fudge-pops left in the freezer. I won’t tell Mommy if you don’t.”

Morgan drops her cards with an excited whoop and jumps up to run to the kitchen.

Tony gets to his feet to follow her. He glances back at Peter, who has sunk into the cushions with a relieved sigh. “Fudge-pop?” he offers.

Peter makes a non-committal noise in his throat. “I dunno. Think I might just head to bed.”

Tony glances at his watch. It’s just shy of eight o’clock—even Morgan doesn’t usually go to bed for another half hour. He knows Peter’s healing always takes a lot out of him, but he’s seen the kid looking less drowsy and out of it after getting slammed into the airport tarmac in Germany and cracking three ribs than he does at the moment. “Think you might be coming down with something?” he asks.

Peter shrugs once more, prompting Tony to press his hand to the kid’s forehead. He definitely isn’t detecting a fever—if anything, Peter’s skin is a little cold.

“What’s not feeling good?” Tony clarifies. “Head? Stomach? Throat?”

Peter hesitates a second. “Just… just my head I guess.” He sighs. “I think I’m just tired. Haven’t really been sleeping that great lately,” he confesses.

Tony’s forehead creases in concern. “Kid, you know May and I talked to you about overloading yourself your first year at school.”

“No, I go to bed,” Peter clarifies, “I just don’t always, like, sleep.”

“Why?” Tony’s frown deepens. “Are you having nightmares, or…?”

“No…” Peter exhales deeply, running a hand through his hair. “It’s not that. I just can’t always, like, settle down? I don’t know—it’s really not that bad,” he quickly backtracks. “I think I just need a good night’s sleep. I’ll be better tomorrow.”

(Like an idiot, Tony believes him.)

“Alright, well, sleep well kid,” he says as Peter shuffles off to the guest room.

“Okay, so... this is a little weird,” Peter says as he enters the kitchen the next morning.

Tony glances up and blinks at the sight of Peter’s very swollen and now darkly bruised nose and cheekbone. He sets down the bowl of waffle batter he’s been whisking and moves over to get a closer look.

“What the hell, kid?” Tony mutters under his breath, running his fingertips carefully over the still-clearly-broken bone. “You once healed from a compound fracture overnight.” He pauses a beat. “Of your femur.”

“Eh...” Peter shrugs tiredly. “Super-healing isn’t really a science, is it?”

“Well it’s certainly not an art,” Tony retorts. He gestures to the kid’s nose. “Unless this is your Black-and-Blue Period, Picasso.”

Peter groans, sinking down onto one of the kitchen chairs. “That was almost as painful as my face,” he complains.

It’s clear the kid meant it as a joke, but that admission does nothing to alleviate Tony’s concern. He finds Peter a fresh ice pack and doses him out another painkiller before resuming making breakfast.

Somehow even a second night of sleep doesn’t seem to have restored much of the kid’s energy. Peter sits hunched forward with one elbow on the table to hold the ice to his face and has his phone resting in his lap. He scrolls idly through it, looking like he might nod off any second.

After a few minutes, the backdoor to the kitchen swings open and Morgan re-enters with pieces of hay still stuck to her boots.

“I gave Gerald two turnips,” she announces. “And he hummed at me and then he tried to steal my hat but I got it back ‘cept for the fuzzy thing.” She points at the red knit hat on her head, which is missing a pom-pom.

Tony groans as he ladles more waffle batter onto the iron. “He didn’t swallow it, did he? Because if that vet has to come out here one more time, I swear—”

“Peter!” Morgan blurts, suddenly noticing the boy at the table. He startles and looks up from his lap as the six-year-old runs over to him. “Your face looks so bad!”

Tony clears his throat. “Uh, Morgan, we don’t—”

“So, so, so, so bad,” she emphasizes, as tears well up in her eyes. She throws her arms around his waist. “I’m really r-really sorry!” she cries. “I didn’t m-mean to hit you with the beans!”

“Hey, hey, it’s okay, Mo,” Peter assures, wrapping her in his arms. “It’s gonna heal really soon, okay? I’m a spider, remember? I always heal fast.”

“But sp-spiders don...don’t heal fast!” Morgan sobs into his chest. “You can squish ‘em re-really easy and they d-die if it gets too c-cold or if they get sprayed with bug killing stuff, an-and…”

Peter glances up and shoots his mentor a look of utter helplessness.

In return, Tony shrugs his shoulders in an exaggerated fashion. “Don’t look at me, kid. I’ve been wondering the same thing since we met.”

Still holding the crying child, Peter rolls his eyes at him.

“Kidding, kidding...” Tony says under his breath. He abandons the waffle iron and heads over to gather the sobbing six-year-old up into his arms. “Morgan, sweetheart, listen to me,” he says as he rubs her back gently. “Peter isn’t really a spider, okay? He’s actually more of a mutant.”

(Morgan only cries harder at that.)

Peter huffs out a short laugh and leans back against the chair. “Doing great, Mr. Stark.”

“...And because he’s a mutant,” Tony plows right along, “his DNA is different from ours and that’s why he usually heals freaky fast,” he explains over her tears as she buries her face in his shoulder. “Except it’s just being a little slow today, so we’re gonna just let him rest and eat some good food and that should help fix him up, okay?”

She hiccups a few times. “So he ju...just needs some w-waffles?” she manages to get out.

That jogs Tony’s memory. He spins around to see that the iron is still very much on and the waffle is starting to burn, smoke wafting up around the edges. “Ah shit,” he mutters.

“It’s okay, I got it,” Peter says, pushing himself quickly up from his seat. But the moment he gets to his feet, he staggers sideways and grips the table, his face draining of color.

“Pete?” Tony goes to set the still-sniffling six-year-old back down, but before he’s able to get her feet on the floor, Peter’s knees give out.

Tony curses and shoots a hand out just a second too late as Peter crumples first to his knees and then to the ground, landing directly on his already-injured face.

Morgan’s eyes go wide. “Daddy!” she shrieks.

Tony plops her down abruptly. “Go unplug the waffle maker, okay?” he instructs her as he drops to his knees next to Peter. He figures the last thing they need to add to the chaos is a smoke alarm.

Eyes still locked on the scene before her, Morgan nods and runs over to the counter to unplug the device. Meanwhile, Tony rolls Peter over onto his back and instantly grimaces at the sight. Besides the deathly pallor, the kid’s broken nose is definitely crooked now and fresh blood is streaming down.

“Is he… dead?” Morgan asks, horrified.

“No, no, of course not...” Tony presses two fingers to the pulse point in the boy’s neck, relieved to feel a strong, albeit fast, beat. “He just fainted—he’ll be fine,” he says, shaking the unconscious boy’s shoulder.

“He looks dead,” Morgan whispers, still staring.

“Yeah, but he’s not,” Tony says firmly. Not wanting the blood to run down Peter’s throat, he continues to roll the kid over until he’s on his side in a sort of modified recovery position. “Pete, c’mon, this isn’t a good look,” he mutters, tapping Peter’s cheek. “We’re all getting enough trauma therapy as it is…”

Finally, the kid’s eyelids start fluttering open. “There you go, that’s it,” Tony praises when Peter blinks up at him. “You back with us yet?”

Peter groans and lets his eyes close again. “Do I ‘ave to be?”

“Yes,” Tony says curtly. He starts shaking Peter’s shoulder again, though gentler now. “I need to know how I’m taking you to Bruce—car or ambulance?”

“Ugh… How ‘bout neither?” Peter mumbles. He lifts a hand up tiredly to wipe a bit of blood off his upper lip. “‘M alright. Just got a lil’ dizzy…”

“Nope.” Worry is quickly taking over Tony, though it comes out in the form of briskness. “You’ve got sixty seconds to get off the floor or I’m choosing for you,” he declares, already pulling out his phone.

Morgan’s voice comes out small and quavering. “Peter...?”

Ultimately, that sound is what it takes to make Peter move. With Tony’s support, he pushes himself up and sits there for a moment, blinking wearily as blood trickles down from his nose. Tony sends Morgan to fetch a box of tissues and a clean shirt for Peter, then loads them both into the car for a little field trip.

“Anemia?” Peter repeats, incredulous.

The kid is sitting on an exam table at the SHIELD Medical base, his recently-reset nose now splinted. Meanwhile, Morgan sits in the chair beside Tony, entertaining herself with a handful of wooden tongue depressors and a roll of medical tape.

Bruce adjusts his glasses as he scans the results from Peter’s blood panel on his tablet. “Yeah, that’s what the tests are showing. Basically, it means that your body isn’t getting enough iron to produce hemoglobin, so it can’t carry oxygen effectively. This results in fatigue, lightheadedness, insomnia, headaches, shortness of breath, and—apparently in your case—a reduced healing factor.”

“But how did I get anemia?” Peter balks. “I’m Spider-Man.”

“Well, there are a few possible causes,” Bruce explains, “but based on several nutrient deficiencies I’m seeing in your bloodwork, my best guess is from your diet.”

“Ah.” A look of understanding flickers across Peter’s face for a second. “Yeah, okay, that checks out...” he mumbles.

“Wait, how exactly does that ‘check out’?” Tony asks.

Peter shrugs. “Well, I just… haven’t been eating the best food lately.”

Tony raises an eyebrow. “What do you mean? Doesn’t MIT’s cafeteria serve a pretty decent spread?”

“Uh, yeah, I think so,” Peter allows. He rubs a hand at the back of his neck awkwardly. “I just haven’t been really… uh, going there?”

Tony blinks at him. “Why the hell not?”

“That’s Mommy’s word,” Morgan pipes up without looking up from the two wooden sticks she’s connecting together with tape.

“I just don’t have a lot of time between my classes and job and stuff, and the cafeteria is all the way across campus,” Peter explains. “So I mostly just eat my own food.”

“Which would be…?” Bruce asks.

Peter hesitates. “Ramen,” he says after a moment. “The chicken flavor one.”

“Hm, okay…” Bruce nods, jotting this down on his tablet. “Not really the most nutritious option, but definitely a college staple. What else?”

Dropping his gaze to his lap, Peter starts picking at a piece of fuzz on his sweatshirt. “Uh… sometimes I get the beef one?”

Tony blinks at him. “Beef ramen?”

“I tried the lime chili shrimp one once. Not a fan.”

“You’re kidding me, right?” Tony blinks again. “Peter, I’m paying for you to have three square meals a day at that college—not three styrofoam cups of dehydrated noodles.”

“I also eat granola bars,” Peter says. “And bagels.” He starts ticking foods off on his fingers. “Microwave burritos, yogurt, uh.... those little frozen chicken taquito thingies? But like, only if my roommate isn’t using the freezer for his weird cult ritual stuff. That’s why I usually stick to the soup.”

Tony pinches the bridge of his nose and heaves out a sigh. “Jesus take the wheel…”

“Oh! I had an apple last week!” Peter throws in.

Bruce runs a hand through his own hair, exhaling a carefully measured breath. “Okay, Peter, you know that you have an enhanced metabolism, right? That means you need to eat significantly more food than the average person.”

“Right, and I do!” Peter nods. “I always make sure I get enough calories.”

“And that’s good,” Bruce says, “but you also need to make sure you’re getting enough nutrients. Calories are just a part of that. With your unusual physiology, it’s especially important that you’re getting all the required vitamins and minerals to support the rapid regeneration of your cells, and a diet of cup noodles and bagels—”

“And frozen burritos,” Peter interrupts.

“—is simply not nutritionally dense enough for you,” Bruce finishes. “Not by a long shot.”

There’s a beat.

“Oh.”

“What does ‘nu-tri-tion-al-ly dense’ mean?” Morgan asks. Her tongue depressor creation has folded over itself and vaguely resembles a collapsed bridge now.

“It means Peter needs to eat more vegetables,” Tony butts in. “Just like you and Gerald.”

She sticks out her tongue. “Gross.”

“Alright, we’re gonna start you on some iron supplements,” Bruce addresses Peter. “But it might take a couple weeks to get your levels back up enough to reverse the anemia. I’m also going to give you a list of foods high in iron—things like dark leafy greens, broccoli, dried fruit, nuts, red meat, kidney beans—”

“NO BEANS,” the other three all declare in unison.

After hauling the kids back to the lake house, Tony sets Peter and Morgan up on the couch with another movie (Pirates of the Caribbean this time) and heads to the kitchen to fix them all some lunch. Potatoes and turnips are both high in iron, so he cooks and mashes up a big potful with some milk, butter, and salt, figuring that would be easy to chew without hurting the kid’s face too much. He scoops some into a bowl for Peter and then whips up another green smoothie for him to drink, as well as sandwiches for himself and Morgan. Once everything is ready, he piles it all onto a tray and heads back.

As he approaches the living room, Tony can already hear Morgan’s voice floating towards him in the falsetto stage-whisper she always uses when she’s voicing make-believe characters.

“Help me! Help me!” she cries. “Oh no, I’m falling!”

Tony stops in the room’s threshold to watch. The movie is still playing in the background, but neither kid seems to be watching. Instead, Peter is lying on his back on the sofa with his eyes closed, giggling quietly while Morgan kneels on the floor in front of the cushions, dancing a single M&M around the edges of the boy’s open mouth.

Suddenly, she drops the candy into his mouth with a dramatic gasp. “Noooo… the king has fallen into the pit! The anemia monster got him!” she cries.

“The anemia monster?” Tony asks in amusement.

Peter’s eyes snap open. “Uh, we were just playing a game.”

Morgan turns back to look at her dad, grinning. “Chocolate is on the list Uncle Bruce gave him!” she says, waving the piece of paper in Tony’s direction.

“Pretty sure that says dark chocolate,” Tony says, eyes narrowing at them as he crosses the room. “Not leftover M&Ms from the Christmas stash.”

Morgan’s face falls. “Aw…”

Tony sets the tray of food down on the coffee table. “Don't worry, kids,” he says, passing Peter the kale and fruit-rich protein smoothie. “Iron Man to the rescue.”

Link to all my fics

If you liked this story, you might also like:

Morgan Stark, M.D.

Dad Level: 3000

Long Distance Dadding

#sick peter parker #hurt peter parker #irondad fic #peter parker whump #hurt/comfort #blood #injury #broken nose #nutrient deficiency #anemia #fluff #whump #humor #peter parker is a mess #tony stark has a heart #morgan stark is adorable #my fic #mcu writing

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seaswalllow · 4 years

Text

of home and hearth

04.37

jbm: Welcome to the inaugural meeting of the group chat for dumbasses who keep getting their asses haunted by what is likely the very epitome of fear. or something like that.

jbm: Aka the easiest way to take roll call for us

magnificent: Don’t give him that credit. Just.. a demon.

brody: r u kidding me???

brody: he nearly fucking took u down

brody: with jackie and i backing you up!!

brody: and u want to diminish his power?

magnificent: There’s no point giving him more power.

brody: he’s not exactly lacking in it. you’re dead on your fucking feet

jbm: Both of you, quit it

jbm: Just. Lets focus on making sure nobody’s abt to collapse

jbm: Wait

jbm: Where r Hen and Jamie?

jbm: Wasn’t he w/u, Chase?

magnificent: Last I saw of him, he was trying to keep Anti away from Henrik.

brody: ye and i have no fucking clue he ran off the minute our electricity went out

brody: oh

jbm: fuck

Incoming call notification from Unnamed GC

Missed call from Unnamed GC

brody: fuck

brody: ill checck the other rooms

jbm: Marv can u do some of your.. funky magic shit? Check up on em?

jackson: Even if he was capable, he’s exhausted enough that it’s best not to.

jackson: Chase, we are in the next room over. Please bring Henrik’s medkit.

schneeplestein: Quickly, preferably. The idiot got himself stabbed.

jbm: Wait WHAT

jbm: Holy shit im coming one second

jackson: Nothing to fret about! Henrik’s quite handy at adapting, and H- it didn’t get much farther than a wound before Marvin dragged it back.

schneeplestein: He is stable, but it would still be preferable to get the wound stitched and cleaned sooner rather than later.

jbm: or we can go to the hospital like normal human beings

magnificent: Are any of us actually normal?

schneeplestein: And how would you explain the cause of this wound? There would be an investigation.

brody: that implies any of us has the money to actually pay for healthcare in this system

magnificent: …

schneeplestein: …

brody: nvm

jbm: Legally, for the love of god, please don’t say anything else. Fine, holy shit

jackson: Henrik is a perfectly capable fellow :D I trust him wholeheartedly!

jbm: I do too it’s just better to be safe than sorry??

brody: here u go henrik pls dont text and… stitch? heal? idk

brody: right forget i said anything

jackson: What’s the worst of the damage? Was anything broken?

jbm: You got stabbed??

jackson: Yes, but I’ll heal. Did it break any of the furniture or lights?

magnificent: You- never mind. The lights have to be replaced, and one of the doors.

brody: thats actually not that bad

brody: glitchy mcgee didnt expect all of us i bet

jackson: Hm.

brody: pls dont hm right now lets just pretend that this was a battle we won

brody: im going to make some tea. cocoa. whatever. give me your orders, we’re having a hot drink and then crashing in the room that was the least upturned

jackson: Cinnamon tea, if you don’t mind! Earl Grey for Henrik!

brody: cool. jackie? marv?

magnificent: The white chocolate cocoa that we have. Chai spice, too.

brody: fancypants, shldve figured

jbm: Nothing for me

brody: another order of cocoa it is

jbm: Chase

brody: jackie

brody: whoops can’t talk gotta brew

jbm: Asshole. Marv, come help me with the blankets?

magnificent: Way ahead of you. Full offense, you can’t fold for shit.

05.36

brody: jackie

brody: move ur fuckin cup im abt to accidentally spill it

brody: jackie?

magnificent: He’s asleep. Wake him up and I’ll dump the remnants on you.

brody: oshit he finally fell asleep?

brody: overprotective much?

jackson: They look very comfortable :-) I would not blame him for not wishing to move from that position.

brody: wait what

brody: oh my god. marvin. that’s.

magnificent: Not a fucking word.

brody: how about three then

brody: what the fuck

schneeplestein: Isn’t it time for all of you to go to bed?

brody: eh eventually we’ll crash

brody: rn im too focused on the ~*cuddling*~

brody: fuck

brody: im lonely

brody: henrik cmere

schneeplestein: This is not coffee, but it is just as hot and it will scald you.

magnificent: Are you capable of typing messages longer than three words?

brody: :( to me, your oldest friend, your bestest friend

brody: rude, clearly i am

schneeplestein: Disturb Jameson’s wound, as well, and I will ensure that you have a matching set.

brody: holy shit

brody: okay???

brody: ….if i promise to be careful

jackson: I see no reason why not! There’s an extra blanket here :-)

brody: cool thx one sec

brody: suck it hen

schneeplestein: Arschloch.

brody: somebodys bitter that they didnt get their coffee

jackson: Henrik understands that caffeine, after such a stressful time, is a poor idea!

jackson: Correct? :-0

schneeplestein: Next time see if you get your tea.

jackson: Noted! :-)

brody: so thats terrifying!

brody: hen what did you do!

brody: dont answer that actually im not gettinf in the middle of this

brody: i am going right the fuck to sleep with a very non-threatening cuddlebuddy

brody: gnight

jackson: Sleep well, Chase!

schneeplestein: Good night.

jackson: Peaceful, is it not, Henrik?

jackson: The ideal time to rest. Perhaps you ought to as well.

schneeplestein: Perhaps when I finish the tea.

jackson: Wonderful :-)

jackson: Rest well. We are all an arm’s length away.

schneeplestein: Good night, Jameson.

#jacksepticeye #kit writes #marvin the magnificent #jameson jackson #henrik von schneeplestein #chase brody #jackieboyman #long post #please god let the cut work otherwise this is gonna be a PAIN #of home and hearth

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boleyn-falcon · 4 years

Text

The Queens of The Castle Chapter 4

THE TIME HAS COME - IT HAS BEEN UPDATED!!!

im soooooo sorry this took like a month(i actually had half of this chapter written already) ill try and keep on it now since this up coming week is my last week of school!

And if you got tagged, theres a chance you prolly even forgot about this fic by now... hehe whoops and if you've just been added to my general fic taglist, welcome to the shit show! imma link the last few chapters so you can catch up!

[im also sorry for the last chapters, they where my first fics and i didnt grammer or spell check them so be careful of that, i have grammerly now so its a lot better]

Chapter1 Chapter2 Chapter3

‘The queens make it to the resort and get ready for the park!’

Word-count - 1256

TW - None! (other than an unholy amount of fluff)

The group made their way up to the fifth floor to find their two rooms, three queens per room. “Here they are!” Jane exclaimed unlocking the door with a grey band on her wrist and opened the door to the first room. The room had one queen-sized bed and a bunk bed. “ Me, Kitty, and Anne will take this room since I bet they want the bunk beds” The beheaded cousins ran into the room already claiming bunks. “I call the top bunk!”, “C’mon Annie!”, Jane and Cathy let out a small chuckle watching the previous queens of England fight over who gets the top bunk. The blonde walks over to the next room over and opens the door to find two queen-sized beds, “I don’t care what you lot say I’m getting a bed to myself”, Anna stated as she set her stuff by the bed closest to the door. “Well I guess that just leaves you and me mi hija, I hope you don't kick”, the older Spanish queen says with a laugh. After a few minutes of adjusting and setting up all of their belongings, they start to settle in. In the first room Anne and Kat are already buzzing with excitement and a bit of impatience. To waste some time while the others get ready, Kat skips over to the balcony next to Jane’s bed and walks outside. The young queen is in awe as she looks over to see a beautiful grass field with amazing savannah trees. She stares for a few minutes longer, she starts to turn to go back into the room but something catches the corner of her eye. She turns back to see two majestic giraffes walking too one of the trees right in front of their room. Right as Kat is about to call in her cousin, she sees a small baby giraffe run with its long lanky legs to catch up with the other giraffes, it’s family. “Annie! Jane! Come out here and see this!”, they open the door to reveal Kat with one of the biggest smiles they have ever seen on her face. They both walk forward to see what their friend was yelling about and see the small family of giraffes eating from the tree. “Oh Kitty, that's amazing! They are so beautiful!”, the motherly queen says giving the pink-haired girl a soft smile and a hug. Anne, with a large smile on her face, takes out her phone to take a picture of this moment so they can always have it. The picture had Anne holding the phone while smiling, Jane hugging Kat, and the giraffe family in the background clearly in view. After a few more minutes of gawking at the animals, all six walk into the lobby, ready to take on the first park. There is when an issue arrived, they didn't know what park to go to for the first day. On one hand Magic kingdom was the main park, but it was also very overwhelming since there was so much. They finally just gave up and decided to pick Magic Kingdom since they couldn't decide and only do some of the park today and the rest another day. “Okay girls first we need to figure out how to get there since we have no car, I’ve heard that there are buses that can take us there”, Cathrine then pulled out her phone to find bus times and what stops the buses make. Cathy was way too distracted by the little wristbands Jane had all given them. Each queen’s band had a little Mickey head on them and they had all of their corresponding colors. Cathrine had yellow, Anne had green, Jane had grey, Anna had red, Kitty had pink and finally Cathy had blue. Jane had used hers to unlock their room doors and she vaguely remembers her explaining that they always need them on. The blue-clad queen was always marveled at the new technology of the 21st century, from street lights to iPhones, it was all so fascinating. When hearing about the resort that they would be spending their week at, it only ignited a flame in her mind of what all she could see. Cathy shooed these ‘nerdy’ thoughts, trying to just focus on waiting for any new information her godmother may provide about their means of travel. “Okay loves! Our bus will be here in around five minutes so let's hurry up and get down there”, Cathrine leads the queens out the door of the lobby and to the line of people waiting to get on the next bus. The bus arrives and they all pile in, ready to see what lies ahead of them. After a just few minutes of a slightly loud bus ride, Kat was already starting to get antsy in her seat. There’s so much she wants to see, all of the rides, new foods, a new culture even, it was making her mind race. The youngest queen was surely excited, but also scared, this was all so new and foreign. Just the bus ride alone overloaded her senses, the people were very talkative and honestly, kinda loud. She takes out her earbuds from the small maroon drawstring she had brought with her and began to listen to some calming orchestral music. The girl leans her head on the window of her seat and watches the myriad of large trees that scattered the land with a mix of purple road signs. Kathrine’s attention was grabbed as she felt an arm around her shoulder, she was immediately startled and panicked, she turns her head to only see Anna’s warm smile. She calms down almost instantly and removes her earbuds, “Oh hey Anna! What’s up?”. The German woman shifted slightly and gave a kind look to her younger friend, “Well I know when its loud like this is works you up a tad so I thought i might come over and just kinda be here for you”. Kat gave a huge smile and hugged the red queen in appreciation and they began to make small talk to calm the pink girl’s nerves. Meanwhile, Cathrine and Jane chatted away at what to do first at the park, they knew Anne and Cathy liked having a schedule so they wanted to make sure they knew what they were doing. The golden queen pulled up a map of the park and began to start making plans, “Okay so it looks like after we get to the front of this castle here it makes somewhat of a circle, I say we start at a place called ‘Adventure Land’ and make out way around to ‘Tomorrow Land’”. The blonde looked over her friend’s shoulder at her phone and smiled, “That seems like a rather nice plan Cathrine, it looks like they designed it so you’re going from the past to the future, kinda like we did in a way”. The Spaniard laughed and thought about the last comment her friend made, she was right after all and made her plan even better. The bus came to a stop and they exited to find they weren’t at a park, but looked to be some kind of transport center. Their suspicions were confirmed when Jane read allowed the nearest sign “Ticket and transportation center, hm well this doesn’t seem like the Magic Kingdom”, she looked the sign over to see pictures of train-like vehicles with arrows. Anna approaches the purple sign then turns to her fellow queens, “Well Shit”.

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Taglist - @mindless-pidgeon @prisky0731 @patdfobmcr-yt @whenallthestarscollide @ashkibagi-ziibiing @homosixual-dumbass just tell me if you wanna be taken off or added!

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chaptersinprogress · 4 years

Text

demolition lovers | 4

"P'King!"

Sighing, he closed his eyes and sent the heavens a quick prayer for patience. Speak of the devil.

Rating: T

Warnings: mild swearing

Pairings: Ram/King; Bohn/Duen

King frowned as he checked his watch. What was taking Bohn so long? Surely the meeting with the professors hadn't run that late. He sighed and shot Mek a text.

K: I'm at the Gear Statue. Where are you guys? Is the case still being discussed?

M: Still outside the Dean's office. They're taking longer than expected. Might be more serious than we thought.

K: Damn. Still can't believe it was the archi department the nongs brawled with. We've always had a decent relationship with them.

M: Yeah. But don't worry, we haven't seen any sign of the med kid yet. We'll make sure Bohn doesn't run into him.

K: Thanks. Sorry for taking up your afternoon.

M: Bohn's our friend, it's nothing.

King pocketed his phone with a smile. Mek and Boss were far too good to them. He swung his bag onto his shoulder as he got up. He'd better go find the Year 1s now, or he'd be late for their tutoring session.

"P'King!"

Sighing, he closed his eyes and sent the heavens a quick prayer for patience. Speak of the devil. Opening his eyes, he found Duen standing in front of him, holding a bouquet of flowers.

"N'Duen," he said coldly.

Duen flinched slightly at his tone. "Ah, sorry to trouble you, P'King. Do you mind helping me pass this to P'Bohn? I didn't manage to find him this morning to pass them to him myself."

"Don't worry, you can consider the deal over. You needn't bother."

"But I want to," Duen replied slightly desperately. "I have to make it up for hurting him."

King let his eyes fall to the bouquet Duen clutched. Purple hyacinths were interspersed with daffodils, all enclosed within a ring of fresh snowdrops. He mentally catalogued the flowers - forgiveness, new beginnings, hope.

"And why should I pass this to Bohn?" he asked. "What are you expecting, N'Duen?"

"I...I..." began Duen, stammering. He took a deep breath. "I wish to court P'Bohn!"

King raised his eyebrows. "Oh? But I thought you found his attention... troublesome."

Duen flushed. "I didn't mean it that way! It's just... P'Bohn can be kind of forceful. And there are a lot of people who aren't happy about his attention being on me, so...um... they take it out on me. It's a bit scary sometimes," he admitted.

King felt himself soften slightly. He'd grown up with Bohn and knew first-hand just how aggressive he could get when he wanted something. That and people could get very ugly sometimes, especially when it came to matters of the heart.

No wonder the kid had reacted so strongly. The stress of being pushed around by Bohn and the others had slowly built until he'd finally exploded. Bohn had simply been in the wrong place at the wrong time.

"But are you willing to deal with this?" King pressed. "There will probably be many times in the future that situations like this occur again. Who's to say that you won't react the way you did again? I don't want to watch my best friend get hurt."

Duen considered the question carefully. "P'King, I cannot guarantee you that I will never hurt P'Bohn again. We are both human, and we will end up making mistakes, some of which will hurt each other."

"But I can promise you that I've had the week to think about this,” he continued. “And I'm sure that P'Bohn is worth the effort. The future may be uncertain, but I'm willing to apologise for the mistakes I've made and will end up making. And if P'Bohn will have me, I hope to stay by his side for a long time."

King searched Duen's face for the slightest hint of insincerity, finding none. And the fact was, the type of relationship Duen and Bohn had was between the two of them. He had no right to determine it. Caving, he took the bouquet.

"Fine. I'll help you pass this to Bohn. But- !" he said as a smile spread across Duen's face. "First you'll need to convince Bohn to accept you on your own. Then you'll have to convince me that you're a good match for him."

Duen nodded frantically. "Yes, P'King! Thank you for giving me a chance!"

King sighed, already beginning to regret the decision. "Alright, alright. Scram," he said, walking off to find the Year 1s.

"P'King, over here!" shouted Phu.

King raised his hand in acknowledgement and strode over to the group of Years 1s huddled together at a bench in the Engineering Faculty's garden.

"Hello nongs, I've heard that you need some help. Your midterms coming up?" he asked, leaning against the side of the table.

Phu nodded frantically. "Yes Phi, but we're all lost when it comes to indeterminate forms of limits and L'Hospital's rule."

"Ah. Yeah, it can be a bit tricky to wrap your head around at first. Let me see, we can work through an example together."

King spent the next ten minutes explaining the concepts, first to the entire group, then tailoring the explanation to suit the individuals who still couldn't fully grasp it. When he had satisfactorily cleared the theoretical doubts, he assigned the group a set of questions from the textbook to try applying what they had learnt.

After giving them five minutes to attempt the questions on their own, he began walking around, checking their work and offering corrections and guidance to those who needed it. As he pointed out a mistake to one of the students, he heard Phu call out.

"Ram! I saved you a seat. Hurry up, P'King has already started tutoring!"

King felt his heart rate pick up. What were the chances that this was some other 1st year engineering student also named Ram?

He felt more than saw someone settle down opposite the student he was helping. King's palms grew sweaty. Still torn between wanting to know and remaining ignorant of who exactly had joined them, he forced himself to focus on the worksheet.

When he finished pointing out the errors and could delay no further, he slowly straightened up. His eyes dragged across the books stacked on the table to muscular forearms encased in a crisp white shirt, travelling along the length of a slim black tie, before arriving at a familiar face.

King swallowed heavily as Ram looked up at him, expression carefully blank.

"Ah P'King, do you mind explaining the concepts again to Ram?" asked Phu. "Sorry he's late, I forgot to mention to you that he had a prior commitment."

King hastily turned to face Phu, grateful for the opportunity to look away. "No worries, Nong. I'll be right there."

He made his way over to Ram at snail-pace, desperately trying to prolong the time it took to reach his ill-fated crush. His heart was pounding so hard it felt like it was about to burst right out of his chest.

Finally reaching Ram's shoulder, King took a deep breath before speaking. "So, um, do you have any particular questions or do you want me to start from the top?"

Ram nodded sharply. King waited for Ram to clarify which of the two he was referring to but received no answer.

"You do understand Thai, right?" he asked carefully.

Ram gave another jerky nod. When no further reply came, King ran a hand through his hair. "From the top then, I assume. Turn your textbook to the chapter on indefinite limits, we'll start from there."

He muddled his way through the explanations, relying on Ram's nods and head shakes to gauge his understanding. Assigning Ram a couple of questions, he stepped back and took a few moments to collect himself.

Shit. Having to tutor his crush was pure torture. He had been hyper-aware of himself the entire time - every breath, every tiny motion he made, and even the volume of his voice. The stress of having to be near Ram was going to be the death of him.

"P'King," Phu called. "Ram's having difficulty with this question."

Pulling himself together, King braced a hand on the table and leaned over Ram's shoulder to study the problem. As he did so, he caught a whiff of Ram's cologne - a heady blend of musk, wood and leather. The scent hung seductively in the air.

King inhaled deeply, subtly trying to fill his lungs with it. Too distracted by the smell to concentrate on anything else, he stared at the paper blankly, not processing a single word.

Ram turned his head slightly to stare at his suddenly all-too-quiet senior. The movement caused his nose to lightly brush against King's cheek. The touch burnt like the white heat of a comet trail and yanked the senior back to the present.

King jerked away like he'd been stung.

"I...er...I forgot about a meeting. Gotta go now," he stammered, grabbing his bag and the bouquet from Duen off the bench. "N'Phu, send me a photo of the question. I'll get back to you later," he said before promptly fleeing, leaving the 1st year students staring after him in confusion.

Bohn stroked a smooth petal delicately. "What did you say the flowers meant again?"

"Forgiveness, new beginnings and hope," came King's muffled voice from where he'd buried his face in the mound of pillows littering Bohn's bed.

Bohn hid the smile that had slowly begun to spread across his face in the bouquet. "King, he went through the trouble of making an apology bouquet."

"Yay... lucky you..."

Bohn shot his friend a glare. "What's your problem? You've been like that for half an hour already."

"Don't remind me," King moaned, attempting to smother himself with the pillows. "Or better yet, just kill me now."

"You have five seconds to start talking before I come over there and make you talk," Bohn threatened. "Five. Four. Thre-"

King threw a pillow at him without looking. It bounced off the edge of the couch, nowhere near Bohn. Grabbing it, Bohn chucked it back at King, and unlike his friend, nailed him right in the head.

"Ow! Alright! He was part of the group I had to tutor today and then I went and fucked it all up with my stupid crush, happy?!"

"What did y- "

Bohn's phone pinged. Deciding to drop the subject for the moment, Bohn reached over and picked it up. Reading the message, he whooped and jumped on top of King.

"He asked me out! King, Duen asked me out!"

King lifted his head up with a groan and wheezed, "He did what now?"

"He asked me out!" yelled Bohn into his ear. "Our usual bar, tomorrow night at 9!"

"Ok, ok, I heard you now get off me," King pleaded, gasping for breath.

Bohn promptly rolled off him and moved to text Duen. King put an immediate stop to that by grabbing Bohn's arm.

"Wait, are you sure you want to accept? This is the same guy who rejected you a week ago that we're talking about."

Bohn raised an imperious eyebrow. "Of course I'm sure. I always get what I want."

King sighed and let Bohn get back to texting Duen. He pulled out his own phone. Like hell was he letting Bohn walk into this on his own.

K: Our resident idiot has decided to accept that kid's request for a date tomorrow

P: You serious? The same one he was avoiding at the fundraiser?

K: Yeah. A bouquet of flowers is all it took for that resolve to collapse like a house of cards.

P: What's the plan?

K: I'm gonna go with. No way in hell am I going to leave them alone till I'm sure of his intentions.

P: Text me the address and time, I'll be there

K: No way. You have your hazing trip the next morning. Are you not planning to sleep? You're not coming.

P: You're not my dad. And that's my problem. Besides, Bohn's given you the slip plenty of times. As long as he doesn't know I'm there, we can keep an eye on him.

K: Fine. The usual bar, 9pm. I'll let you know if there's a change of plans.

P: Got it

#chaptersinprogress #my engineer the series #my engineer #ramking #bohnduen #ram x king #bohn x duen #king x ram #duen x bohn #fanfic #fanfiction #demolition lovers #long update #ah I love these kids so much #is this a good time to post?#i have no clue

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earsofducks · 4 years

Text

Day 6 - Titanic

Whoops, I wrote this in like 20 minutes before my last class. I love having no time management skills.

Warnings: Titanic stuff. Lack of knowledge about Titanic stuff on the part of the author. Coercion (Gabriel @ Aziraphale, because Gabriel is trash and does not deserve to be an angel). Major character discorporation. ANGST.

@ineffablehusbandsweek

Aziraphale’s heart has sunk so low that she’s pretty sure it’s tangled in her stomach.

Her mood is a sharp contrast to everyone else boarding the ship, all of whom are deliriously happy. Excitement is tangible in the air.

After all, who wouldn’t be excited to be boarding the great ocean liner Titanic? It’s big and bright and beautiful and, as they've all been informed, unsinkable.

Aziraphale, who is miserably handing over her ticket and is also, incidentally, an angel of the Lord, knows better.

She’d been rather charmed by all the talk of the ‘unsinkable’ ship, to be honest. The humans’ confidence in their handiwork is always endearing, in her opinion.

Heaven did not think so.

She’s been tasked with making sure the Titanic sinks mid-journey, and she feels ill every time she thinks about it. She resisted this assignment more than she’s ever resisted anything. But she had no allies in her fight, and the higher-ups won, as they always do, and she can’t help wondering if this really is what the Highest Up would want. Surely She wouldn’t be in favour of drowning all of her children?

Images of an ark and a unicorn and dismayed golden eyes flash in front of hers, and Aziraphale forces herself to focus on the present, in which a voice is shouting “Aziraphale!”

She turns to find Crowley weaving his skillful way through the crowd towards her, looking absolutely delighted.

“Hullo!” he says once he’s within earshot. “What are you doing here?”

“What are you doing here?” Aziraphale asks instead, unwilling to answer the question.

“‘M only here for the ride,” says Crowley, beaming, clearly caught up in the thrill of it all. “Built all this themselves, angel, can you believe it? Humanity - best idea She ever had, don’t you think?”

“Yes, quite,” say Aziraphale, clutching her bag and praying she doesn’t lose her lunch. And they haven’t even put out to sea yet.

“Here, let me take that,” says Crowley, snatching it out of her grasp before she can properly protest. “You’re looking a bit peaky.”

“Oh, no,” says Aziraphale, “I’m feeling fine.”

“If you say so,” says Crowley cheerfully, “but I’m going to carry it anyway.”

He is very excited about this boat, thinks Aziraphale wretchedly, and wishes fervently that she weren’t so much of a coward, that Falling didn’t scare her as much as it does, that she’d fought Gabriel harder.

Too late now.

Crowley shows her to her room, chattering about the ship and how big it is and what’s on it and who’s on it and Aziraphale grows more and more upset about what she has to do.

She lets Crowley show her around the room, too, regaling her with information about the bunk, the mirror, the bathroom. She lets him lead her up to the deck, watches him close his eyes and inhale ocean air, watches him smile to himself as children scamper past them, laughing.

And the whole time she knows, she knows, that she’s going to be sinking this ship in a few days, and it makes her absolutely sick.

But it would make her sicker for Crowley to know what she’s going to do, so she forces a smile when he turns to look at her, grin stretching from ear to ear, eyes bright with excitement, and prays to be given the strength to do what she has to do.

Except she can’t do it. She can’t, she can’t, she can’t. She comes to this conclusion right around the time that she sees Crowley listening intently to a little girl who is telling him why the boat is floating. (It involves a lot of fairies and a few mermaids and is not very scientifically accurate but you’d never know from the serious ‘mmhmm’ and ‘really?' noises Crowley is making.) When the girl is finished explaining, he surreptitiously snaps his fingers and presents her with a mermaid doll which is sporting sparkly purple hair and a long orange tail. The bright colours and plush sturdiness of it are all are well before their time, and Aziraphale can’t stop herself from beaming at him as the girl runs off to show her new toy to her mother.

“That was quite sweet,” she says.

Crowley promptly turns forty shades of red and sputters a lot of incoherent things that eventually turn into, “Shut up.”

Aziraphale does, but keeps smiling at him, because she can’t help herself, and then feels guilty, because he’s a demon, and the whole time she knows with absolute certainty that she can’t do it. She cannot sink this ship and end all these lives.

She simply cannot.

But Gabriel can make her, and she learns this in the most horrible way possible. She is on the deck late one night, enjoying the fresh sea air and feeling like an awful angel, which is how she feels most of the time, these days, when there’s the unmistakable sound of someone threading themself through time and space. She turns to her left, smiling, fully expecting to see Crowley (he’s so silly, she thinks fondly, to insist on doing things the miraculous way when he could just use the stairs) but instead finding the cold violet eyes of the Archangel Gabriel.

“Why is this ship still above water, Aziraphale?” he asks, voice dangerously level.

“Oh, Gabriel!” says Aziraphale, well aware that her attempt at surprise and innocence leaves a lot to be desired. “I was wondering if you’d - ”

“It’s been five days,” says Gabriel, voice still dangerous but not quite as level.

“I realize that,” says Aziraphale, unable to keep the nervousness out of her voice, “but I’ve been - ”

“We told you not to wait,” says Gabriel. He’s losing his calm. “We told you that it was time sensitive. It has to happen - ”

“But why can’t we wait?” asks Aziraphale desperately, interrupting Gabriel for the first time possibly ever. “Why couldn’t we wait until it’s closer to shore and more - ”

“No!” says Gabriel, and he is in fact glaring at this point. “Aziraphale, we know you like the humans, but you cannot let your emotions get in the way of your tasks. Angels are not supposed to have emotions. Now do the job.”

“Couldn’t you do it for me?” says Aziraphale, aware that she’s pleading at this point and hating herself for letting it happen at all but she can’t, she can’t -

“Aziraphale,” says Gabriel, and he’s in her personal space and she can’t seem to breathe and he’s too close and he’s angry - “Do it.”

And in a moment that Aziraphale will regret for the rest of her life, she does.

The effects aren’t awful immediately, because Aziraphale is a coward. There’s a shudder that seems to run through the whole of the ship, and then silence. Gabriel steps back, a satisfied expression on his face. He says “was that so hard?” and then he disappears.

Crowley appears almost immediately after, and Aziraphale feels relieved, thinking, “that was a close thing,” and then absolutely horrible, because how can she care about being found out for fraternizing with a demon when she has just done a much more unforgivable thing?

(Except that according to Gabriel {and Michael, and Uriel} it was supposed to happen and no forgiveness is necessary. Aziraphale does not understand.)

“What just happened?” he asks. There’s no hint of panic in his voice. He has no idea. He’s just curious.

“Oh,” says Aziraphale, and she feels as though she’s going to be violently sick any moment now, “I’m not sure.”

Crowley looks at her, really looks, because she’s never been able to lie to him. But he doesn’t realize what really happened, he can’t have, because he just looks concerned.

“What’s wrong, angel?” he demands. “Who frightened you?”

Aziraphale scoffs.

“Frightened,” she says. “Ridiculous. I’m an angel of the Lord, Crowley, I do not get frightened.”

“Okay, okay, I believe you,” says Crowley, who does not believe her. “Just - if something big were going down, you’d tell me, right?”

“Of course,” says Aziraphale, and when he wanders away, apparently satisfied with the answer, she starts crying.

It is one of the most horrendous nights of her life.

She stays on board, trying to help where she can, trying to find quiet places to multiply lifeboats and failing. She gives hugs and distributes as much peace as she can and tries to keep the tears at bay. She tries not to think about Crowley.

And she succeeds, until they’re loading up one of the last lifeboats. He turns up at her side, hands in his pockets, a haunted look in his eyes.

“So this is why you were here,” he says quietly. “It was the ‘unsinkable’ bit, wasn’t it? Heaven just couldn’t take that, could they?”

“Oh, Crowley,” she says, voice breaking, and somehow finds herself crying into his shoulder. His arms, wiry but strong, wrap themselves around her and she is held tight and feels safer than she ever has. (Which is silly, because she is on a sinking ship with a demon hanging onto her, but that’s the way it is.) “I’m sorry,” she sobs. “I’m so, so sorry.”

“Shhh,” says Crowley, and his voice is raw, too. “‘Sn’t your fault.”

“But I - ”

“‘S those absolute wankers,” he says, voice going harsh and vicious and shocking her a little bit, “that made you do it.”

“I did the miracle, though, Crowley, I - ”

“Didn’t do it until you had to,” says Crowley, and his voice is soft but full of conviction. He pulls away, holds her at arms’ length, and she tries to pretend that she doesn’t very much miss the warmth of his torso and the snugness of his arms. “Not your fault, angel. It’s not your fault.”

“Well - thank you,” she whispers, feeling overwhelmed with grace she does not deserve. “That’s not - you don’t - I’m so sorry - ”

“I know,” says Crowley, looking past her to something on the deck. He’s quiet for a minute, and when he speaks again he sounds properly choked up. “Me, too.”

She turns to see what he’s looking at, and follows his line of sight to a purple-haired doll lying, abandoned, on the deck.

“‘S how it goes, I guess,” says Crowley, letting go of her and taking a couple long strides to pick it up. “You’d think we’d be used to it by now.” He looks at the doll contemplatively for a moment and then turns to her. “Well,” he says, puffing his cheeks and blowing out air. “This is it, then.”

“Indeed,” says Aziraphale somberly. “I’m not meant to fly away, I don’t think.”

“I’m not meant to be on board,” says Crowley ruefully. “Still, ‘m glad I came. Worth it, I think.”

“You can’t mean to - there’s still space!” says Aziraphale, staring first at him and then at the -

Last boat. The very last one.

“There is,” agrees Crowley, and he’s looking at her in a way she thinks she understands and knows she does not want to. “Just a little, though. Just for you.”

“No!” says Aziraphale, appalled at the thought. “No, not without you, Crowley! No!”

“Give that to her if you see her, will you?” says Crowley roughly, thrusting the doll into her hands and taking her by the shoulders.

She starts to struggle.

“No!” she cries. “No, no!”

But he’s relentless, and she’s used a lot of her strength tonight, and he guides her over to the last of the lifeboats. There is just barely space, and she tries to put up enough of a fight that someone else can get in, fill up the space, before she does.

Crowley spins her around to face him and meets her eyes. She can feel her eyes are welling up with tears.

“You’ve got to go,” he says firmly. “You can - help. You can help, without getting into tr - you can help. And you’ve never been discorporated, and believe me, angel, you don’t want to be. Now get in the bloody lifeboat.”

And he sweeps her up and deposits her into it with a tenderness that she starts crying harder.

“Please,” she says, so emotionally overwrought that she doesn’t care that she’s begging. “Please come with me. Please let me stay with you. Please, Crowley, please…”

“Bye, angel,” says Crowley, and kisses the back of her hand. “See you ‘round.”

And then he lets go of her and backs up and sticks his hands back in his pockets and she and the other weeping people in the boat are lowered into the water.

She stares at the redheaded figure on the deck, who is watching the grim proceedings with very practiced, very forced casualness, and her vision blurs when he raises his hand to give a final, lackadaisical wave.

She watches, eyes blurring with tears, until he’s out of sight, and then she clutches the doll to herself for a moment, wipes her eyes, and sets about keeping everyone in the boat alive.

#ineffable husbands au week #ineffable husbands #titanic #titanic au #aziraphale #crowley #gabriel #miracles #I don't even know what happened

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kinetic-elaboration · 4 years

Text

December 14: 1x28 The City on the Edge of Forever (Also I’m 32)

For my birthday, I watched an ep of Star Trek, because I can. It was very good and I enjoyed watching but now I’m starting to get some pretty bad evening anxiety, so!! I’m going to try to ignore that.

Here are some thoughts:

I love this wavy camera work. Space turbulence.

I recognize that this intro really doesn’t have anything to do with anything but it’s still really, like, sudden--weird time things are happening and the ship keeps shaking!

Sulu’s looking damn good today. (I say this in every ep with a closeup of Sulu.)

That was a real rookie mistake on McCoy’s part there, stabbing himself with the hypo. (Harlan Ellison voice lol.) (Still better than the original script.)

“They’ll never catch me!”

Sulu and Spock have been trading eye shadow secrets obviously. It’s a real shame that the AOS movies didn’t give people awesome makeup. I mean heck if you couldn’t force yourself to give men obvious makeup (the horror!) you could have at least done something cool with Token Girl Uhura.

Kirk sounds very formal today. Idk why, but his tone is just slightly different--calling Scotty “Engineer” and something about his log... Probably just me being weird or an effect of there being so many writers on this thing.

Damn, McCoy was almost as good as Spock, the way he knocked that guy out so efficiently.

I’m pretty sure this is Uhura’s first landing party. And she barely gets to do anything because this is the Kirk and Spock Show today.

“Unbelievable.” / “That’s funny.” Is it though?

Legit laughed out loud when Bones popped up from behind that rock, right after Uhura said he wasn’t there.

I don’t think Spock likes the Guardian. “Primitive science knowledge? Excuse you, Sir.”

The Guardian really is just like hand-wave-y sci fi lol. Uh it’s really old and really advanced so it can’t really explain itself, the point is, time travel!!!! I mean I don’t hate it but still.

Kirk is very quick to want to play with time. A little vacation away from his usual work. Getting to satisfy his curiosity and be his nerdy self and learn things. Can you even imagine TOS Kirk in AOS???

Love the dramatic moments: Kirk looking very suddenly when the Guardian says “Behold.” Jumping into the sand as he fails to catch McCoy.

Kirk’s biggest fantasy--a vacation that’s also exploration--turns into his greatest nightmare--loneliness.

“No star date” Can you even imagine Starfleet HQ getting this? “Whoops we just destroyed literally everything. Don’t worry, we’ve probably fixed it if you’re reading this.”

History nerd Kirk. Correctly identifying the Great Depression. If Spock thinks THIS is barbaric, what would he think about today?

“I’m going to be difficult to explain in any case.” Truly, only Kirk, and his love goggles, would choose the ONE alien in his crew to take with him on the first expedition into the past. This was completely foreseeable guys.

Spock’s like “That’s a cool car. Let me examine it now. In the middle of the street. While people yell at me.”

This ep starts out so dramatic and now all of a sudden it’s a comedy, right down to the music. (Again, a sign of how many writers had their hands in this.)

“I’m going to like this century. Simpler, easier to manage.” LOL.

“You’re a police officer. I recognize the traditional accoutrements.” Spock is having such a good time watching this.

Really relying on American racism to explain the alien, huh? “I know you don’t know what Asians look like so.... he’s Chinese.”

“I double dog dare you to put together a computer, Mr. Spock.” Effective.

Put on the hat, the hat!!!!

Starfleet’s greatest Captain couldn’t come up with a fast fake name for Spock.

Kirk looks good in this outfit. Actually the outfits in general are great.

Honestly what does Edith think of these weirdos?

Kirk hears trash talk: “Shut up. SHUT UP.” No talking badly about women in THIS house.

She should have been living in our time. I wonder if she always thought space was cool or if Kirk (and uh literal actual alien Spock) inspired her.

Spock’s eye roll at “I find her most uncommon.”

Kirk definitely did manual labor in high school.

Spock really is building a whole-ass computer.

“I’ve brought you vegetables? What else do you want??” Is this the first reference to him being a vegetarian?

And there was only one bed...

Edith’s reaction to Spock’s sass is hilarious. She’s really not confused by him at all.

When Spock’s straightforward, honest answers about why he stole the tools don’t work, Kirk steps in with the charm offensive.

“By his side, as if you’ve always been there and always will” is basically the toast at their wedding.

Favorite thing about Edith remains that she meets an actual alien and says eh, not so weird, and then looks at the Iowa Farm Boy and is like ????????? does not compute.

“Why don’t you want to talk about the war? Are you a war criminal?”

I feel like Kirk gets a weird kick out of saying he and Spock “served together.” And like it’s literally the truth? But he has this little smile like he’s getting away with a cool lie.

Only about 10 years until we get the cool alien book about love!

Spock bringing out the big guns with today’s requisite “Jim.”

Imagine meeting McCoy like this: weird-ass uniform, rambling and paranoid. Thinks he’s met a humanoid alien. Getting so upset about 20th century hospitals he starts crying and rolling on the ground. He’s so empathetic. I love him.

What a way to go, killing yourself accidentally with a future weapon you steal from a 23rd century time traveler you mistake for a drunk.

Bones is so good at not being seen. That’s straight up comedy how he just passes by behind Spock. There are really weird, random comedy elements in this.

“She was right but at the wrong time.”

Kirk’s in love with Edith... I mean he’s not lol but that IS what a romantic such as him would say.

“I’m a surgeon, not a psychiatrist,” says the man who testified as a psychiatrist at a court martial in a previous episode.

How convenient that U.S.S. is an abbreviation she’d recognize.

“I don’t believe in YOU.”

I know this isn’t actually true, but it feels like Spock literally just came out of the room to be jealous while Kirk and Edith kiss.

Spock’s lesson “do[ing] as your heart tells you to do” is wrong.

So McCoy just got over it, I guess. Kirk was all ready to manipulate time to stop the accident but all they needed to do was find him, catch him, and sedate him a while I guess.

“My young man.” So cute.

The reunion hug with McCoy is adorable. I watched it 4 times.

Yet another Kirk vacation fantasy foiled.

No final talk on the bridge... Very dramatic and sad.

This IS a really good episode but I just still can’t get behind calling it the BEST Star Trek episode. To me, it doesn’t feel enough like Star Trek to be the best. It’s a really great story, and it’s entertaining to watch, but it’s not representative. Too few of the crew--not even really that sci-fi-ish at the end of the day. Like I said, the Guardian is really generic and ill-explained, just a prop for the main story. And while that main story is obviously all about time travel and the effects of time travel, even THAT is incidental to the real point, which is the moral question: save one or save many? But it’s not even a conundrum, like in TWOK/TSFS,because there is no real choice. Obviously Kirk is going to let Edith die. To do otherwise wouldn’t just damn many more people in the 20th century to death, it would damn his crew and his ship and, in a way, himself. So it’s more like, well, inevitably, she will die, and he will let her, but it will be really sad. So the point is just this tragic, doomed love story. Which is not a bad story in any sense, but it’s not what one generally primarily associates with TOS.

I’m not sure this is making sense because I’m just working out my thoughts as I type.

I do think there’s some interesting stuff here: I think one could do a lot with what this ep does for Spock’s development, since we don’t hear too much from him but he’s pretty intimately involved in all this. And the lessons it’s teaching him about feelings and vulnerability are...not great.

Also Uhura saying “at least be happy” in the beginning ties in interestingly to the rest of the narrative--he could have chosen his happiness, in a way, at least fleetingly. Perhaps it would have been more interesting if Kirk had ever really considered letting Edith live--but then, would he be Kirk if he ever considered it, seriously, out loud? Am I being dense by thinking the narrative should have said this in so many words, when it’s obvious enough as is?

I’m also not totally sure about the... message. I’d prefer to say there isn’t one, honestly, because of the way the conundrum is set up: as a non-conundrum. Because, obviously America should have entered WWII; if ever there was a war that was worth fighting, this would be it. Hence there’s no need to really interrogate whether or not Edith’s death was right. There’s no way it was not right. There’s no complication there, allowing the story to focus on the tragedy of Kirk’s inevitable decision instead. It could have been a different story, about weighing the pros and cons. And then possibly also a story with a moral lesson attached to the decision Kirk makes: about the many versus the few, for example, or about war specifically, since obviously this is airing with Vietnam as a background.

It could also have been a story about fate. Obviously, McCoy can and does change time. But you have all 3 of them ending up at the same place/time, right near this Big Event. You have the almost-fall on the stairs, implying death is out for Edith. You have the total set of circumstances around her death: as it actually plays out, she’s only there BECAUSE of Kirk and Spock. Were they always there? Does she get killed in a slightly different circumstance in timelines without them? The way the story plays out, all of these details seem so beside the point--again, the story uses time travel but isn’t really ABOUT time travel; it uses sci fi tools but is not telling a sci fi story--so it’s not even really worth interrogating.

(Other than just now, when I did.)

I think it’s pretty obvious that a lot of people had their hands in this story: Kirk’s very IC romantic nature is first and foremost and I like seeing this part of him, but the Command part is kind of hidden; there are moments of tragedy, in the traditional sense of the word, but also other parts that feel like Tomorrow Is Yesterday in terms of the style of comedy; the sci fi stuff is really random.

None of this is really criticism, just thoughts. It’s definitely a really interesting episode.

Next is the FINAL EPISODE of S1, which is RIDICULOUS imo. I’m fairly sure Operation Annihilate was one of the first TOS episodes I saw. I have a real soft spot for it so I’m looking forward to watching.

#star trek tos #the year 2020 #2020: fandom thoughts #2020: star trek #it's my birthday today

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angelofthequeers · 5 years

Text

Hold Me By Both Hands: Chapter 17

Disclaimer: I don’t own ML.

Chapter 16 | Chapter 18 | AO3 link

“Die already!” Alya growls, furiously mashing the buttons on her controller.

“No can do, babe!” Nino mashes just as hard, trying desperately to keep up with his girlfriend. But she’s on the warpath and is out for blood, so there’s absolutely no chance of him getting any ground on her, and he’s soon utterly crushed by Alya, who whoops and punches the air.

“I never knew that Alya was so ruthless at Ultimate Mecha Strike III,” Adrien comments, his voice slightly warped by the phone speakers. Marinette just laughs.

“Why do you think I never play against her?” she says, turning her phone so that she can see Adrien’s face while still letting him see the gameplay. “She’s terrifying.”

“And I can never beat Marinette!” Alya snarls, already loading a rematch with Nino, who looks like he’d rather be akumatised thrice over than go up against her again.

“That’s because she’s super talented!” Adrien says. Marinette beams at the compliment, idly marvelling at how she can smile now at something said by Adrien that would’ve turned her into a hot, gooey mess only weeks ago. And it’s not like he doesn’t still make her insides shiver, but the more she focuses on being friendly without the looming pressure of asking him out, the softer those shivers become. Part of her misses the hot intensity of her feelings for him, but really, would she be interacting with him in this way if she was still a disaster around him? She’s become better friends with him over the past few weeks than she had in all the months of crushing so hard on him that she could barely talk to him. Hell, she’s even stroking his hair consistently now.

Who knows? Maybe those feelings will bear fruit someday. But as it is, Tikki had been totally right; she’s far closer to Adrien as friends than when she’d been stressing over asking him out. And if something does happen between the, at least she’s got a solid foundation of friendship to build on.

“I wish you could have come,” she sighs. “It’s not really a sleepover if you’re not actually sleeping over.”

“Father was pretty firm,” Adrien says, his smile fading. “And I didn’t want to push it. There’s a line between teenage rebellion and being outright disrespectful.”

“It’s probably wise to pick your battles,” Marinette agrees. “But still. Now Nino has to sleep on the floor alone because Mum and Dad are on the whole “no boys and girls together!” thing.” She makes a face and Adrien laughs.

“Can’t we talk about this?” Nino pleads. Alya just gives the most terrifying laugh that Marinette’s ever heard and proceeds to crush Nino, who drops his remote and throws his hands up.

“I think that’s the end of that,” Marinette says, her lips twitching at how Alya immediately loses her scary competitiveness and tries to cajole Nino into hugging her when he’s looking at her as though she’s an akuma. “Maybe we should do something that you can actually do with us.”

“I don’t mind watching,” Adrien says. “I mean, I wish I was there, but this is better than just sitting in silence.” He smiles at Marinette. “And at least I get to talk to you.”

Marinette grins back, wondering why his face suddenly morphs into a look of horror.

“Uh – and Alya and Nino – when they’re not playing their game – not that it’s not nice talking to you –”

A voice in the background on Adrien’s end halts his rambling in its tracks. He grimaces and drops his phone on his pillow, giving Marinette a wonderful view of his high bedroom ceiling as his footsteps cross over to his door.

“Adrien, your father has requested that you practice your current piece –”

“But I’ve already done my piano practice today!”

“Yes, but your father is dissatisfied with your progress. He feels that you should practice the piece a little more until you reach his standards.”

“Seriously? He won’t let me go to my friend’s sleepover and now he’s not even letting me be there by phone?”

“If it was up to me, I would be perfectly happy for you to continue talking to your friends. But it’s not up to me.”

Marinette desperately wants to jump in and say something but doing so will only make things worse for Adrien. Plus, he probably doesn’t even realise that he’s got an audience of not just Marinette but also Nino and Alya, whose bickering has ceased so that they can listen in too.

“You know what? No.”

“Adrien –”

“All I ever do is practice my piano and fencing and Chinese and model for him! And he can’t even let me hang out with my friends for one night!”

“Adrien, this is so unlike you –”

“What, like going to school was unlike me?”

“Those were exceptional circumstances –”

“Leave me alone.”

“But –”

“I don’t care what Father says! Tell him that it was all me and you tried your best. Just…leave me alone for the rest of the night.”

“Adrien –”

“Leave me alone!”

There’s silence for a few moments. Marinette bites her lip and exchanges a glance with Alya and Nino, who look just as worried as she does.

“I’ll tell your father that you’re coming down with something and feel too unwell,” Nathalie finally says.

“Thank you, Nathalie!”

“But be warned, he will expect more effort in the next few nights to make up for this.”

“I don’t care. Really. Just…thank you.”

There’s the sound of the door closing, followed by footsteps that gradually grow louder. Marinette has a brief bout of motion sickness when the phone is picked up, making the screen blur and move wildly until it refocuses on Adrien’s miserable face.

“You okay, dude?” Nino says. Adrien smiles, but it’s a weak effort.

“Sorry you guys had to hear that. Guess I didn’t hang up like I thought.”

“What Nino said,” Marinette says when she notices how pale Adrien is. “Are you okay?”

“Honestly? I think I’m about two seconds from a panic attack. I can’t remember the last time I’ve put my foot down like that.”

“Well, are you sure you can’t make it over here?” Alya says, while Marinette’s stomach lurches. “You shouldn’t have to be stuck there with a borderline panic attack just ‘cause your dad’s on a power trip.”

“I wish I could. But there’s no way out without my father seeing except through my window, and I’m pretty sure I wouldn’t survive the jump.”

Marinette briefly entertains the idea of turning into Ladybug and rescuing Adrien, but she has to force herself to think clearly. There’s no way she could explain how Ladybug found out about this so fast, not to mention that there’s no way she could explain her extended absence to Alya and Nino. Hell, she already pushes that enough during akuma attacks, and at least those are a convenient excuse. Her powerlessness right now makes her clench her fists. What good is she as Ladybug if she can’t help those who need it?

“Anyway,” Adrien says, pasting a grin on his face, “I’ll be fine so long as I can talk to you guys.”

“Do you at least know how to focus on your breathing?” Marinette says. “Five seconds in, hold for three, out for seven. Do it now, while we’re here.”

Adrien immediately obeys, sucking in a deep breath while Marinette counts to five, holding it, then releasing it while she counts to seven. After a minute or so, Adrien closes his eyes and sags.

“Thanks, Mari,” he mumbles. Marinette smiles at him.

“Any time!”

“I think I’ll be okay now if I keep my mind off it. What should we do next?”

“Anything but truth or dare,” Nino shudders. “Marinette and Alya get ruthless when they gang up on you.”

Marinette and Alya laugh together. The mood’s slowly starting to creep back to where it was before, but Marinette still can’t help but wish that there was more she could do for her friend than leaving him in his prison-like house and only having him over via phone call.

The next day, Adrien’s not at school, although Marinette’s not totally worried because he’d texted her beforehand to say that he’s being made to stay home due to Nathalie’s excuse of him coming down with something. Still, though, she can’t help but worry a little and that, mixed with her feelings of powerlessness, leaves her distracted all day. Especially since he’d also said that his phone was probably being taken for the day while he had lessons at home, so he hasn’t messaged her since his initial text and is therefore most likely unreachable.

“Marinette.” Ms Bustier’s voice snaps Marinette out of her haze. Marinette jumps and meets Ms Bustier’s eyes guiltily. “Please pay attention to the lesson.”

“Sorry!” Marinette says. Ms Bustier’s face softens.

“Are you feeling unwell? Do you need to be excused from class?”

“I…actually, now that you mention it, I do feel a bit sick.” It’s not like Marinette’s lying; her stomach really is rolling, and she hasn’t been able to concentrate all morning. Ms Bustier just can’t possibly know that it’s from anxiety over her friend rather than an actual illness.

“Alya, could you take Marinette to the nurse?” Ms Bustier says. “Marinette, if you still feel unwell after having a rest then please go home.”

“I’ll take her, Ms Bustier,” Chloé declares. The class goes dead silent. Ms Bustier is the first to recover.

“Thank you, Chloé, that’s very nice of you,” she says.

“I know,” Chloé says rather smugly. “I’m being super nice now. Come on, Dupain-Cheng.”

Although Marinette doesn’t trust Chloé at all, she can’t really say no when she’s the one showing Chloé how to be nice. So, rather than kick up a fuss, she swallows her words, packs up her things, and follows Chloé out of the classroom.

“What’s the deal, Chloé?” Marinette says when they’re walking down the corridor, Chloé strutting ahead of her. “If it was anyone other than me…”

“Because you’ve been a mess all day and Adrikins isn’t in class,” Chloé says. “I put it together. Something happened to him and you know what, and since he’s not answering my texts…”

“He probably doesn’t have his phone,” Marinette says. She explains what had happened the previous night, all the while wondering why she’s confiding in Chloé like they’re friends or something, and Chloé doesn’t look anywhere near happy by the end of her explanation.

“Cute,” Chloé drawls. “You’ve worried yourself sick over your friend. At least it’s not something super serious like I thought.”

“Nothing super serious? How can you say that?”

“Because his father’s like this all the time. It’s not like I’m happy, but at least I know it’s not something like having a broken leg or me needing to destroy whoever hurt him or something.”

Marinette totally doesn’t buy that. “Rubbish! After you let Adrien take the fall for what you did twice, pretending like you care is a total new low for you, Chloé. You don’t care about him at all, do you, you just see him as some trophy –”

Chloé’s hand shoots out to grab Marinette’s wrist and yank her down the next corridor and into the girl’s bathroom. “Don’t you even dare go there, Dupain-Cheng,” Chloé hisses, squeezing Marinette’s wrist as the door slams shut behind them. “I’m trying to be nice so that my best friend will talk to me again, so don’t you even think of implying that he’s just a shiny thing to me. I just…didn’t realise how special he was until he stopped talking to me for good. I didn’t realise that I was treating him like shit as well as all you peasants since, you know, that’s my default.”

An awkward silence falls over them. Chloé clears her throat and lets go of Marinette, then deliberately wipes her hand on her jacket. Marinette stares at Chloé with a tilted head.

“Are you really in love with him?” she says. Chloé just sniffs and looks away. “You can tell me, Chloé. I’m the last person who’d go telling everyone your private information.”

“You hate me, Dupain-Cheng,” Chloé snaps. “I hate you. Forgive me if I don’t believe that.”

“I don’t hate you,” Marinette says. “Not since you asked me for help. I’ve actually been…impressed at how you’re really trying to be nice. I don’t like you, but I don’t hate you. And even if I did hate you, I wouldn’t go spreading around anything that you tell me in private.”

Chloé stares at her for a long moment, then sighs. “You’re, like, the one person I can actually believe wouldn’t do that to me,” she mutters. “Stupid, goodie-two-shoes Marinette Dupain-Cheng. No, I’m not in love with Adrien, okay? He’s like my brother. But I don’t want anyone else to get near him.”

“Why? If you’re really that close, you can’t possibly believe that he’d abandon you for someone else, right?”

“He did!” Chloé clenches her fists and stomps her foot. “He left me for – for you! And that Ladyblogger and weird DJ!”

“Only because you were being mean and he knew that he had the power to push you to become a nicer person,” Marinette counters.

“Exactly! Now I’m stuck turning myself into some fake, nice, smiley person that I’m not just to get my friend back!”

Marinette’s face softens as she regards Chloé, who snarls and looks away, crossing her arms. “Then don’t do it for Adrien,” Marinette says. “That’s what I’ve been telling you. Find a reason why you want to be nice.”

“I don’t have a reason! Don’t you get it? Why should I want to be nice when I can get everything I want anyway?”

“You didn’t end up being class president. You’re always getting kidnapped by akumas with a vendetta. No one apart from Sabrina and Adrien likes you, and Sabrina’s more of a servant than a friend. Those are three good reasons.”

“Whatever, miss perfect know-it-all. Come on, we’re supposed to be at the nurse’s office.”

As Chloé storms for the door, Marinette scrambles for one last line of reasoning as to why Chloé should keep being nice. Finally, as Chloé’s pushing the door open, Marinette blurts out, “What about Ladybug?”

Chloé freezes. “What about her?”

“You’re her number one fan, right? Well…why not do it so you can be the kind of person Ladybug would love to have as her number one fan?”

“Are you implying that she doesn’t see me or want me as her number one fan?” Chloé arches an eyebrow as she turns, letting the door slam shut again. Marinette gulps. Now she has to be careful with how she navigates this, or she’ll end up either outing herself or offending Chloé into hating Ladybug again.

“I never said that,” Marinette says slowly. “Look, if you truly can’t do it for yourself, do it to become a person that Ladybug would be proud of. I know I try every day to strive to be the kind of person that Ladybug would approve of. And once you’re in the habit of being nice, who knows? Maybe you’ll find that you really do enjoy having people like you and want to do nice things for you because they like you and not because they fear you.”

“Hmph.” Chloé crosses her arms. “Well, she did totally praise me for being nice and helpful at my party. Whatever. Come on, Dupain-Cheng. You’re supposed to be sick.”

“You could start being nicer by calling me by my first name,” Marinette says as she follows Chloé out of the bathroom. Chloé snorts.

“Over my dead body, Dupain-Cheng.”

#miraculous ladybug #ml fic #aotq fic #aotq: hold me #marinette dupain-cheng #adrien agreste #alya cesaire #nino lahiffe #chloe bourgeois #oop is chloe actually trying #slowly but surely #also gabriel sucks

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ladysmaragdina · 5 years

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I know I'm late as hell, but Dishonored 2... Which path should you choose (high/ low chaos) in order to stay the most true to Emily's and Corvo's character? I've always loved reading your Dishonored fics and analyzes, you always make the characters make such good sense =>

So this ask has been sitting in my inbox for over two weeks now. Which I feel terribly guilty about, because I want to give this question the thought and weight and few-thousand words it probably deserves, but… ugh, okay.

Dishonored 1 is my single favorite game, ever.

I’m utterly indifferent to Dishonored 2.

I’m not interested in Dishonored 2.

I have a hard time even saying that I like Dishonored 2.

I’m not going to be able to answer this question, anon. And I feel like I should explain why. (A lot of this is going to be a reatread of what I talked about in my big Dishonored 2 critique I wrote back when the game came out. Whoops)

I played through the game once, the instant it came out – as Emily in a Clean Hands run – and I really, really enjoyed it at first. I loved getting to play as Emily. I loved that the gameplay was objectively better than the first one. I loved how bright and different and rich the world looked. I was so fucking into Dishonored 2! I probably spent an extra couple of hours exploring every nook and cranny of the Royal Conservatory after knocking out the witches, and finding Corvo’s old apartment in the Dust District was a fucking treat. I love the Dishonored world. I wanted to know everything. I was gonna write so much fucking meta and fanfic.

But by the time I got to A Crack In The Slab, I was starting to realize that the story felt… off.

By the time I finished that mission and it was suddenly time to go get rid of the Duke… I mean, I was still having fun! The game was fucking cool! But I raced through the streets leadup to the Duke’s palace without really exploring. I raced through the Duke’s palace like I was speedrunning it. There are entire floors of that level I never saw, and wasn’t remotely interested in seeing. I didn’t care.

I was bored by the time I got back to Dunwall. I was frustrated by how long it took me to work through the many levels of the palace. I just wanted to get to the finale and find out how the story ended. (and then I found the ending profoundly unsatisfying)

I realized none of this mattered.

If this was ultimately a story about stopping Delilah from mantling the Outsider —- as the metaplot seemed to insist – what the fuck were we doing in Karnaca? Why did we care about Karnaca? Karnaca’s problems weren’t my problems, Emily’s problems, at least not in any clear direct way; Karnaca’s problems weren’t even bad. The bloodflies were endemic to the region instead of being a super-scary weird semi-supernatural plague; it might have been a particularly bad year for bloodflies, but it didn’t feel like anything the city couldn’t deal with. The streets were lively. There were nobles sitting in cafes playing guitar music. Shops were open and well-lit. I felt like I could go to the beach and sip mai-tais. Even the most run-down, awful section of Karnaca that we got to see – the Dust District – wasn’t much worse than anything we’d seen on a Tuesday in Dunwall.

And Karnaca wasn’t home. It didn’t feel like it mattered to Emily. Not really. It was in Emily’s empire, sure, but it was an ocean away and it wasn’t under her direct personal governance. And the Emily we met at the start of the game wasn’t interested in governing to begin with. I could never buy the sense that she cared – really, emotionally cared – about the well-being of Karnaca, because Karnaca was relatively fine, and because Emily seemed like she would rather fuck off and abdicate given half the chance. Being exiled from Gristol didn’t feel like exile – it felt like a sunny vacation, a chance for Emily to have cool swashbuckling adventures without the boredom and paperwork of sitting a throne.

I didn’t understand what I was really doing in Karnaca, and I didn’t understand why it was so urgent and important and needed that I get home to Dunwall. I was just told that I had to get home to Dunwall because Delilah was Bad. And that she was doing some Very Bad Things on the other side of the ocean, and that if she remained unchecked things would get Worse. YOU NEED TO STOP DELILAH, I was told.

But…. gosh, that was on the other side of the ocean. That didn’t seem to affect anything here. Again, Karnaca was fine! Karnaca’s had some issues, but they were were caused firstly by the Duke, not Delilah! What bad things was Delilah really doing? Can we see them? How are they worse than anything any other nobles and rulers are doing? How would installing Emily on the throne be meaningfully different?

What would Delilah’s plan to mantle the Outsider actually mean? The finale gives us a vision of The World As It Should Be, a supremely alien lotus-eater machine where Delilah is absolute monarch; it comes so late in the game, at the absolute eleventh hour, that it doesn’t feel meaningful. It also comes totally out of left field and is so bizarre and extreme that I had no fear that it could ever actually happen. Everything about Delilah’s ascension and ultimate goal is so bizarre and extreme that I had no fear it could ever actually happen. I didn’t understand how it was supposed to happen. The mechanics of magic had never mattered before; why did they matter now? Why did the half-baked explanation for Delilah’s endgame rely on lore from the previous game’s second DLC? (What the fuck, Arkane?)

What was my motivation? Why were my missions important – why did Emily want and need to do these things? What would happen, actually happen, if I failed? What was keeping me from just walking away?

I’m really not sure.

Maybe, just maybe, we could ignore the weird ascension to godhood plot. Maybe my real motivation had nothing to do with Delilah – maybe Emily just wanted to get back to the home that was taken from her. Maybe this was a “take back whats yours” story. But Emily didn’t seem to really want the throne back. The Emily we met at the beginning of the game was bored with governing and wanted out of Dunwall. If we’d had more time and attention paid to that shift in her character, I’d buy it, but you can’t do a complete and instant 180 on a character’s feelings and call it motivation.

Or maybe my real motivation was to get home to Dunwall to save Corvo. But the opening sequence made it seem like Corvo was dead. That’s not a valid motivation either.

Maybe my motivation was to avenge Corvo? I don’t buy that the way I bought Corvo avenging Jessamine in Dishonored 1; in Dishonored 2, Corvo is not the focus and meaning of Emily’s life, and I can’t see her structuring her entire life around fighting back from exile just to avenge him. Emily has hopes and dreams and a distant love interest and isn’t the same hollowed-out husk of vengeance that Corvo is. Sure, he’s her father figure, but I don’t buy that as her sole motivation.

This lack of motivation trickles down to the individual missions of the game.

If I don’t really know or care about what Delilah is doing, why is it so important to stop Breanna Ashworth?

Kirin Jindosh is supposedly making an army of Clockwork Soldiers, but what does that mean? How soon would they be ready, what are the logistics, how powerful are they, how are they worse than Tallboys or other existing technology, what was he going to use them for? Why is it so important to take him out? Couldn’t we just bribe him or write him a strongly-worded letter? I’m going to be the Empress – couldn’t I make his soldiers illegal or shut down his factories? Why do I have to go to such an immediate and awful extreme?

Sure, the Duke is a dick and should probably be replaced by a better ruler. Doing so doesn’t feel important. I’ve never met the Duke. He never did anything to me. Karnaca’s in decent shape, all things considered. Killing or replacing him feels like taking out the trash.

Where are the stakes?

Why do I care about any of this?

Tangent – I feel like I’ve got to talk about Corvo a bit here. Would Corvo have a different, stronger, more personal attachment to Karnaca? Sure, but I’ve never played Corvo’s route in Dishonored 2 and can’t speak to it. Personally, I always got the sense that Corvo felt like an outsider in Gristol and that he would have tried to distance himself from Serkonos in response to this, and that returning must have felt oddly alien, like an ill-fitting suit. Now, this is a cool thing to explore. It might make him more invested and interested in some aspects of the game – I’m thinking of the Duke and Stilton in the Dust District, specifically – but I don’t think it fixes the core issues about lack of motivation in the overarching plot.

So, let’s talk about that overarching plot. Would Corvo feel more strongly about getting back to Gristol and restoring Emily to the throne and/or bringing vengeance to her “killer”? Probably! Corvo’s arc in Dishonored 2 isn’t about toppling Delilah and seeking vengeance for his own sake, but rather for Emily’s sake (or at least the memory of Emily-who-we-think-is-dead). That’s less selfish and entitled, more emotional and tortured. That’s honestly more interesting to me. But that’s the exact same story we got in Dishonored 1. Corvo’s entire existence in Dishonored 2 feels like a rehash of Dishonored 1. The vengeance arc in Dishonored 2 feels much more muddled and unfocused and distant in comparison. It’s not as good.

I think Corvo’s story and motivation are more clear and pressing and straightforward than Emily’s; but I think Dishonored 1 did that exact same story and motivation much much better. Corvo’s story in Dishonored 2 honestly makes more sense to me than Emily’s story. Which feels utterly backwards! One protagonist has a storyline and motivation that has no real weight or drive or urgency behind it. The other protagonist has a slightly stronger storyline that is still a weaker, fuzzier retread of the first game.

I think Dishonored 2 is badly written.

I like it on the micro level – I like the characters and the levels – but on the macro, i think it’s a confused jumble that doesn’t know what it wants to be. Is it a vengeance story? Is it a story about stopping a supernatural threat? I don’t know, and I don’t think it does either. The game doesn’t manage to mesh those ideas at all, and neither idea holds water on its own. I am utterly confused and turned off by the game’s decision to make the vengeance so un-urgent and impersonal and the villain’s magic-driven plan so distant and obtuse and ill-defined. I think that in deciding to make the scope bigger, it bit off way more than it could chew and lost sight of what matters in storytelling.

Dishonored 1 was a tightly-focused straightforward revenge plot where I understood exactly what I had lost, how much it mattered, and what was at stake. Dishonored 2 is a fucking mess.

I can’t write about which choices Corvo and Emily would have taken because their choices don’t make sense to me; because their existence and participation in this story makes no sense to me; because the story hops from point to point without establishing thematic or plot coherence; because I don’t understand – emotionally, really buy and feel and understand – why I’m meant to give a shit about any of it.

I played the game once, started a High Chaos replay, wandered away from the game after the second mission, and uninstalled. I have no interest in replaying it. I have no interest in ever picking up Death of the Outsider. The fact that the writing seems to be moving away from the vengeance quest and doubling down on its focus on the supernatural (and the fact that they’re dragging back characters – Corvo in Dishonored 2, Daud in DotO – whose arcs had finished) has honestly killed my interest in the franchise at this point. I don’t feel anything about this other than a profound sense of disappointment.

I wanted to like Dishonored 2. The game is gorgeous and fun and an improvement on the original in many ways. I wanted to answer your question, anon. I truly wish I could, and I’m sorry for how salty this post has become. I’m sure someone else would have fantastic headcanons and insight.

But I just. don’t. care.

#Dishonored 2 #Dishonored 2 meta #Dishonored 2 critical #I HOPE YOU LIKE RATS #Anonymous #also thank you so much for sending this anon!#I'm really flattered #sorry that I'm apparently a salt mine when it comes to the second game

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antarctica--elektra-bonnefoy · 5 years

Text

I want to talk about something

I want to talk about ADHD, as you all probably know by now I have ADHD and a pretty bad case as well. I have been diagnosed since I was really young. This is so important to me because, I know it often gets swept under the rug as just not being able to sit still, forgetting things sometimes, and being distracted. No one really seems to pay attention to the big impact it has on our lives, my mental health and even my emotional and physical health is affected by this.

Now, usually when I start talking about ADHD I get the usual chime ins of- “Well, we just got a good ass whooping to take care of that.” or “Just focus more, have some self control.” Let me tell you, if it was that easy. All of us with ADHD would. Now ADHD comes in my experience I have trouble expressing myself verbally, I sometimes can’t process my emotions very well, or I have an overabundance of the same feeling. May it be happy, sad, angry, etc.. So, that’s where stimming comes in. That can be just be rocking back and forth, shaking my leg, flapping my hands, fiddling with my fingers, pacing, and there is so many more things that I do.

Also, I just HAVE TO MOVE sometimes or it feels like I will explode. (That is the best way for me to explain. I know it seems kind of extreme) Now, the next thing I want to move on to is sensory issues.

Sensory issues is different for everyone, for me it can be just random times where I feel it’s either way too loud or way too quiet. Now the best way for me to explain this is, it feels like I’m drowning in my own head, for both instances just in very different ways. It can and often times will send me into a panic attack, now, A good way for me to combat the way too loud situation is get my own music going on a device and put in earbuds if I can’t take myself away from the situation. I know, it might seem weird that it’s way too loud, yet I’m adding more noise by listening to my favorite music. The best way I can explain that is it grounds me and helps me calm down. The way too quiet I combat it by doing pretty much the same thing and or turning on a show. Something that adds noise to the area I’m in. Also, sensory overloads make it almost impossible to concentrate and if it doesn’t send me into a panic, it can make me very upset and frustrated. To the point where I am gripping my hair by the roots and trying to remind myself not to yank my hair out. (I know, it seems rash, but again this is with the processing emotions thing)

Now, I’m going to talk about RSD, for those of you who don’t know what RSD is it stands for Rejection Sensitive Dysphoria. I myself have just found out about this a few months ago (and I was diagnosed at like 3 and 4, I’m now twenty). Anyways, something I’ve learned about this is I feel emotions much more intensely than others. My highs are high and my lows, well, they are rock bottom. I can be talking excitedly about one of my hyperfixations and someone will tell me that I’m being too loud or something. I will go from being super happy and excited to wishing I was mute. Even if it’s not meant cruelly or hatefully, and honestly the anxiety I have adding to that doesn’t help.

Volume control, okay let’s get this out of the way. A lot of us with ADHD have issues with volume control and get told we are yelling or that we are aggressive with our tone of voice. We aren’t trying to be, volume control is a thing I struggle with when I’m talking about something I’m passionate about. I just get so excited about the thing and I want everyone else to be excited about the thing and it just gets out of hand. So, please have patience with us and tell us gently that we are being too loud.

I forget the actual term of what this is called, there’s this thing where I know I need to get up and do something that it should be a priority. I will sit there and agonize over it and about needing to do it though it might not be difficult and I know it’s not, I just, I literally can’t physically get myself to get up and do it. Then all the sudden it’s 2 am. And I have not done the thing, but it’s not because I am lazy.

Now, let’s talk about time management. I like a lot of people with ADHD, sometimes have issues with time management. I will sit there realize oh shit, I need to get dinner on it’s 9 pm- but I could’ve swore it was just noon.

Okay, one of the most common things people know about. Hyper fixation and hyper focusing. This one is a doozy, it’s basically one thing, I will hyper focus on and hyper fixate on. Let me make this clear, I do not and I can not choose what it is. I will focus on this thing(s) and it can make me forget about the things around me or about taking care of myself easily. I’ll forget my basic needs, like eating, drinking, going to the bathroom (oddly enough), sometimes showering.

Now, medication can help these symptoms, but I stopped my meds when I was 16 because my doctor wasn’t listening to me. I was feeling tired when I took my day meds and felt like I was moving through a fog all day. My mother wouldn’t listen to me when I told her about it. So I just stopped taking it, now I feel a lot better, but it is a struggle. I do have to push to get through the day, it is by no means easy. Some days are easier than others as with all mental illness I have my good days and bad days with it.

I know this has been a really long post, but I think it is important for me to speak my piece on this. I know, I probably rambled and went off track with this and I apologize. If anyone ever has any questions about ADHD please, feel free to ask.

#personal #not hetalia #ADHD #my piece on ADHD #If you have any questions please feel free to ask me

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ionlyreadfivebookslastweek · 6 years

Text

Bless The Broken Road - 5

The next day, Jane sat at her desk, trying to catch up on paperwork. She found herself re-reading the same line over and over again as her eyelids drooped. She was about to nod off when Reid came over to her and asked if she was OK.

Jane snapped awake and looked up at him. She hesitated before saying, “I’m fine,” with a bit of defensiveness in her tone.

“No, you’re not,” Reid replied.

She narrowed her eyes. “Excuse me?”

“Your hesitancy and defensive tone say that you’re not fine. Your tiredness and the dark circles under your eyes show a lack of sleep, most likely due to nightmares related to your brother.”

She crossed her arms in front of her chest. “Are you profiling me?”

“I’m right, aren’t I?”

They stared at each other.

“Hey, we’ve got a case,” JJ told them, interrupting the argument. Jane got up and followed her towards the briefing room without even looking at Reid again.

~~~

“Hey Jack, I’m on the jet heading to Florida for a case. I thought I’d call and check in to see how you’re doing,”Jane said.

“I’m alright. It’s my last day before I go back to work,” he told her.

“Is that a good thing or a bad thing?”

“Good I suppose. It gives me something to do.”

“Yeah, I guess that’s true. Is Logan there with you? I wanna talk to him.”

“Yeah, one sec.”

There was a pause for a moment before another voice came on the other end.

“Hey, Jane.”

“Hey, Logan. How’s he really doing?” she inquired.

“He’s doing pretty good. The doctors switched up his medicine so he has to adjust to that, but he’s definitely doing better than he was leading up to last Friday.”

“Right, ok, good. Thanks for keeping an eye on him.”

“No problem.”

Logan handed the phone back to Jack and he and Jane said goodbye before hanging up.

When the team landed, Jane and Morgan headed off to check out the most recent crime scene; a forested area just outside of town.

“Well, it’s clear he didn’t want the bodies to be found, dumping them way out here,” Jane stated as they approached the scene after walking through the forest for around a half mile.

“This isn’t very far from where the first body was found either,” Morgan said, looking around.

“So it’s not about getting recognition for what he’s done. Maybe he has something against these women?”

“Possibly.” Jane walked around a tree, examining the area. “They still haven’t ID’d the victim?”

“Not yet. They’re running her fingerprints but so far they haven’t found a match. Why?”

“Well when they picked up the body to bring back to the coroner, this must have slipped out of her pocket.” Jane pulled out a glove, picked up the item, and showed it to Morgan. It was the victim’s driver’s license.

“Seriously? How did they miss that?” he questioned.

“It doesn’t matter, we found it now. Ms. Daisy Baxter. She’s from out-of-state. Montana,” she told him.

“We better call Reid, let him know what we found out. I’m assuming you wanna be the one to call?”

The pair began to make the trek back to the SUV. “No, thank you. You can call him.”

He looked at her curiously. “Alright then.”

Morgan called Reid to fill him in. When he hung up, he looked over at Jane and said, “Alright, what happened to you two?”

“It’s a long story,” Jane sighed.

“Well we have some time,” Morgan insisted.

Jane gave in and explained the fight that she and Reid had about her brother the other day as well as what had happened earlier that morning back at the office.

“Maybe you should give Reid a chance to say what he has to say. He may know more than you think,” Morgan suggested.

“What, does he have a brother with bipolar disorder too?”

“No, but trust me. You should listen to what he has to say.”

“We’ll see.”

They arrived at the vehicle and climbed in, heading back to the local police station.

“So these dreams you’ve been having. Do you want to talk about them?” Morgan asked.

She explained how they had to do with her putting her brother in a sanitarium and him hating her forever. “The scariest part is they’re realistic dreams,” she told Morgan as they parked and got out of the car.

Morgan stopped walking when he noticed tears falling from her eyes. He walked over to her and gently wiped them away before hugging her. They then continued towards the doors as he said, “They may be realistic, but the possibility of them ever coming true is not likely. Jack will always love you no matter what happens. It’ll be alright.”

“Thanks, Morgan.”

“Hey, I gotta keep my baby girl number two happy!” He wrapped an arm around her and she leaned against him.

Jane laughed. “Garcia better not hear you say that. She'll get jealous.”

The two entered the station and found the others waiting for them.

After sharing information, the team was split up again.

“Jane, why don’t you stay with Reid to give a fresh perspective on victimology?” Hotch asked. Jane nodded.

When everyone else had left, Jane and Reid turned to the board where all of the case information was spread out.

“Listen, Jane, I-”

“What do you have so far?” she asked, cutting him off.

“The victims don’t seem to have any connection, not even in looks. The first victim was blonde and the second a red-head. Now that we know the latter was from another state, it’s even more unclear what’s going on,” he answered. “Jane, about before-”

“There is a killer out there who could strike again at any minute. We can talk later, but right now let’s focus on the case,” she told him.

“Later?” He asked, his face hopeful.

“Yeah,” she affirmed with a nod and a small smile.

“Ok, alright, later.”

~~~~~

On the flight back, Reid took a seat next to Jane.

“I’m sorry if I offended you with what I said about your brother. I just feel like he might benefit from going to live somewhere where he has people to help him learn how to live with his illness,” he explained. “And it doesn’t necessarily have to be for the rest of his life.” Jane remained silent. “Look, this isn’t just coming from reading books. My-my mother...”

She turned to look at him.

“My mother has schizophrenia and she lives at the Bennington Sanitarium back home in Las Vegas. When I was 18, I saw that she needed help and I couldn’t be the one to help her so I had to send her there where she could get the help she needs.”

She reached out and took his hand. “I’m sorry, Spencer. I had no idea,” she began. “I really appreciate you caring about my brother and understanding how hard this is.”

He gave her a soft smile. “Would you wanna come over this weekend for a Dr. Who marathon? You still owe me one.”

“I can’t. I’m going to Jack’s,” she told him.

“Oh.” He frowned.

“But I can be back by Saturday night,” she offered.

He looked back over at her and smiled again. “Saturday night. That sounds good.”

“Great! It’s a date.” She caught herself and corrected, “I mean, it’s a plan to hang out.”

~~~~~

Friday morning, Jane stood at the counter in the breakroom, pouring sugar into her coffee.

“Woah, take it easy with the sugar in the coffee, Addison! You’re turning into Reid,” Morgan joked, entering the room.

“I didn’t get much sleep last night,” she told him.

“Nightmare again?”

“Yeah,” she said, stirring her coffee.

“You should talk to someone.”

“I’m fine. I can handle it.” She stopped and turned to look at him. He seemed unconvinced. Taking a step forward, he wrapped his arms around her to comfort her.

Reid came around the corner and she stepped out of Morgan’s embrace. She grabbed her mug and got out of his way so he could make his own coffee.

“Where’d all the sugar go?” he asked.

“Whoops, that’s my bad,” she said, laughing at the disappointed look on his face. “I’m sorry!”

After lunch, Jane approached Reid’s desk and set a bag of sugar on it.

“What’s this?” He asked, looking up at her.

“I felt bad for taking the last of the sugar, so I went to the store on my lunch break and bought you your own bag. It’s not in little portion packets, but I figured your genius mind could figure out how much to put in.” He smiled as he took the bag and placed it in the top drawer of his desk. “So should I bring pjs and plan on sleeping over Saturday?”

“Yeah, it could take a while,” he told her.

“OK, sweet.”

Spencer pulled the bag of sugar back out and held it up. “Sweet.”

Later in the day, Jane sat working on files at her desk.

“Hey, cutie pie.”

“What do you want, Derek?” Jane asked with a sigh.

“I may have procrastinated just a little bit on getting my files done and Hotch wants them in by the time I leave for the weekend.”

“And you want me to do some of the work for you?”

“I figured your genius little mind could handle the extra work with ease.”

“If you wanted help from a genius, you should've asked Reid,” she told him.

“But you're prettier.” Jane rolled her eyes and turned away from him but he spun her chair back around again. “Baby girl, please, I’ll do anything.”

Jane sighed, “Fine, but you owe me!”

“I know I do! Thank you so much!” he set the files down on her desk and leaned down to kiss her on the cheek. As he walked away, he shouted back, “You’re the best!”

“Don’t you forget it!” Jane yelled back.

~~~~~

Spencer opened the door to his apartment and let Jane in.

“Hey! Sorry, I’m late. Jack and I were having so much fun that time got away from us.”

“That’s alright, I’m just glad you could make it.”

Jane set her stuff down and looked up at him. “You’re wearing your glasses again!”

“Yeah, you ready to start?”

“Let’s do it!”

They headed into the living room where Spencer had popcorn made and the TV ready to go. They took a seat on the couch and he hit play.

~~~

Jane woke up the next morning on the couch alone. She heard sounds and smelled something good coming from the kitchen. She sat up and stretched before getting up and following the smells and sounds to find Spencer cooking breakfast.

“Good morning,” he greeted when he saw her enter the room.

“Good morning.”

“I made us breakfast,” he told her.

“That's so sweet,” she cheered. Reid turned back to the stove to hide his blush.

“It's almost done.” He pulled a chair out for her to sit down and she watched him finish cooking.

After eating, they went back to the couch to resume their marathon.

Later in the evening, Jane sat up in between episodes and said, “We should probably stop for the night and I should get headed home. We have work in the morning.”

"Oh come on, let’s at least finish the season,” Spencer protested.

“Oh alright.” Jane settled back in and they continued watching.

~~~

“Aww, isn’t that adorable.”

Jane started and quickly sat up. “Morgan! What are you doing here? How’d you get into Reid’s apartment?”

“I have a key,” he explained. “Can you lay back down and close your eyes? I wanna get a picture of your guys’ cuteness.”

“No!”

“Alright, alright. We gotta get going. We have a case.”

The two must have fallen asleep on the couch and slept late, making them late for work.

“What time is it?” she asked, looking around.

“Twelve-thirty.”

“That late?” Jane looked down at Spencer. “Spence, you gotta get up.” She shook him lightly and he groaned without budging. “Spencer!” She smacked his face.

“OW!” He sat up quickly and put a hand to his face. Morgan laughed, enjoying their interaction.

"Come on, we gotta get going. We have a case.” Jane looked at Morgan. “How long do we have?”

He looked at his watch. “Fifteen minutes before wheels up.”

She got up and went to grab her bag. “Alright, I’m gonna head home quick to repack my bag. It’s not too far from here. I should be able to make it. I’ll see you two at the jet.”

Jane arrived at the plane around the same time as Morgan and Reid.

As they boarded, Hotch turned and told them, “You’re late.”

“I’m sorry, sir, it was my fault,” Reid apologized.

“I don't want excuses. Just get ready to take off so Garcia can give us the briefing,” he told them.

The three rushed to put their bags above the seats and gather with the rest of the team around the laptop.

“Alright, now that everybody is present,” Garcia began, looking at all of them through the computer screen, “You are heading to Las Cruces, New Mexico where three men have been killed over the last few weeks. The first victim was Evan Howard, a mechanic. The second and third were Joe Mills and Russell Fernandez who both worked at Desert Winds High School. Mills was a janitor and Fernandez was a biology teacher. All three were beaten pretty badly and then killed with a single gunshot to the back of the head.”

“When we arrive, Rossi and Addison, I want you to head to the school to talk to the principal. See what kind of people Mills and Fernandez were. Morgan and Reid, head to the coroner and JJ and I will talk to Howard’s family. We have a long flight before we get there so everybody can relax before then,” Hotch told the team.

Everyone went to go take a seat and settle in for the long flight.

Jane yawned as she sat down next to Spencer. “How is it that I’m still tired when we overslept?” she asked him.

“Well we were up pretty late so we really didn’t get the recommended amount of sleep,” he pointed out.

She shrugged. “I guess that’s true. Well, we have some time, so I might as well try to catch up on some sleep now to make the flight go faster.”

Before Reid could respond, she put her head on his shoulder and closed her eyes. He smiled slightly and shut his own eyes, trying to get some rest as well.

As Jane and Rossi walked towards the school’s entrance, Jane unsuccessfully tried to stifle another yawn.

“Long night?” Rossi asked.

She turned and looked at him. “Yeah. Reid insisted on finishing the season of Dr. Who we were on and we both fell asleep,” she explained.

They headed inside and were directed to the principal’s office.

“Mr. Ingram. SSA David Rossi, this is my colleague, Dr. Addison.”

“Ah yes. They told me you were coming. Please, have a seat,” Mr. Ingram offered. The pair obliged.

“Mr. Ingram, do you know anyone who would want to hurt your staff?” Addison asked.

He shook his head. “No. Both were liked by other faculty members and students alike. I can’t imagine anyone wanting to do this.”

She nodded. “There was also another victim before these men, Evan Howard. Do you happen to know who that is?”

“Evan Howard went to school here years ago.”

A knock came at the door and Ingram’s secretary entered. “Sir, you have a parent asking to talk to you on line 6,” she told him.

“Tell them I’ll call back when I’m finished here.”

“Actually, that’s alright. I think we’re done here. We’ll call if we have any more questions,” Rossi told him, standing up.

~~~

“So when are you going to tell the team?” Morgan asked as they drove to the coroner’s office.

“Tell them what?” Reid asked.

"That you and Addison are dating.”

“What? We are not dating!” he insisted.

“Not dating, huh? Let’s see: you get coffee together in the mornings before work, you stay overnight at each other’s apartments watching movies and eating food, you went with her when her brother was in the hospital and stayed the whole weekend, aaand I found you two cuddled up together on your couch this morning,” Morgan pointed out. “You are definitely dating.”

“We’ve become great friends since she joined the team. Best friends even. And best friends can do all that too,” Reid argued.

Morgan pulled into the parking lot. “Alright, but you do have a thing for her, right?”

Reid sighed, looking down. “Yeah.”

“Well then, you need to ask her out soon before I do!”

Reid snapped his head up. “What?!”

“That’s right. Better hurry pretty boy before I make a move on her myself.”

The team reconnected at the local police station to share information. Up until now, it had looked like the first victim was a practice kill, however, the news that he was an alum of the school led them to believe he was the trigger that had started the UNSUB’s desire to kill.

After discussing what they knew a little more, the team called it a day and headed to the hotel.

knock knock knock

Jane knocked on the door to the connecting hotel room and a moment later Spencer opened the door.

“I was right! I thought it was you who had the connecting room!” Jane cheered.

“What would you have done if it was a stranger that answered?” Spencer laughed.

“Well, it wasn’t so we don’t have to worry about that!”

Spencer laughed again. Now’s your moment to ask her, he thought to himself.

“Well since we’re standing here talking in our connected rooms’ doorway, I...” he trailed off.

“You what?” she asked.

“I just wanted... wanted,” he stuttered. You raised your eyebrows. “I just wanted to tell you goodnight.”

“Alright then, goodnight,” she repeated back.

They closed the door, leaving Jane confused why he was struggling to say goodnight and Spencer kicking himself for wimping out on asking her.

In the morning, Spencer knocked on her door. She answered it, still in the middle of getting ready for the day. “Good morning!” she chirped, running a brush through her hair.

“Good morning. I was wondering if you wanted to go get coffee before we have to head to the station?”

“Sure!”

“Are you alright?” She gave him a confused look. He gestured towards the area below his eyes. “You have dark circles under your eyes,” she explained.

She shrugged. “I’m fine, I just need to get more sleep than I do.” She turned and disappeared into her bathroom. “Let me just finish my makeup and then I’ll be ready to go,” she called back to him.

He stepped over the threshold into her room. “Alright, but you don’t need it,” he told her. “Nor does any woman need makeup.”

He peered into the bathroom and she looked back at him through the mirror as she covered the dark circles. “You’re sweet,” she said.

The pair rolled into the station’s parking lot the same time as the rest of the team.

When they stepped out of the vehicle, Morgan asked, “Where were you two?”

“We went for coffee,” Jane explained.

“Oh, a quick morning date before work!”

“Not a date!” Jane and Reid replied at the same time.

Morgan laughed. “Well if it wasn’t a date, then maybe Jane wouldn’t mind going on a date with me later?” Morgan asked as they entered the station.

“I, what?”

Before anything else could happen, Hotch jumped in and told the team to focus on the case. They reviewed what they knew again before calling Garcia to get more intel.

“What year did Evan Howard graduate from the school?” JJ asked.

“1986,” Garcia replied.

“Were the other two victims working there back then?”

“That would be a yes.”

“Alright, look for other faculty members that worked there in the years 1982 to 1986.”

After a moment of nothing but the tap of the keys, she said, “None.”

“How about faculty members that attended as a student during those years?” Morgan asked her.

“Three: the gym teacher, chemistry teacher, and principal.”

“One of these could be the next victim or UNSUB,” Morgan told the team.

“I don’t think any of them would be the UNSUB,” Jane said, shaking her head. “The first victim didn’t work there, but he was the trigger. He wouldn’t need an outside trigger if he worked at the school and most likely would’ve been triggered earlier than now,” she explained.

“Alright,” Morgan agreed. “Is there anything in one of the three’s past that might lead them to be the next victim?”

Garcia began digging and discovered an old newspaper article talking about Principal Ingram and Evan Howard. “It says they were called heroes for saving a classmate from drowning in the school’s pool.”

“Ingram failed to mention he knew Howard personally when we talked to him,” Rossi pointed out.

“That doesn’t matter now. I’m willing to bet they were only there to save him because they caused him to almost drown in the first place,” Jane stated.

“And the two faculty members must have been witnesses to the bullying but never tried to stop them,” Reid added.

“Garcia, send us the classmate’s address. He’s our UNSUB. Reid, Addison, and Morgan, head to the school. He may already be going after Ingram. JJ, Rossi, and I will check out his home.”

On the way to the school, Garcia called them.

“What’s up, baby girl?” Morgan asked.

“The school was just put into lockdown. The UNSUB showed up and has the principal cornered in his office.”

“Alright, thanks for the heads up. Let Hotch know to meet us at the school then.”

“Roger that!”

Morgan hung up the phone and turned on the siren so they could get there as fast as possible.

Just as Garcia had said, they found the UNSUB pointing a gun at Principal Ingram in his office.

“Thomas Miller, put the gun down,” Morgan told him as they entered the room.

“I can’t do that. He has to pay for what he did to me!” Miller yelled.

“Thomas, listen to me,” Jane began. She put her gun back in its holster and stepped forward. “My gun’s put away. We can just talk. I know what it’s like to be picked on. I was bullied in high school too.”

“You don’t understand. Girls just hurt each other with their words. You don’t understand the physical torture I went through for those four years,” the UNSUB argued.

“I do,” Reid spoke up. He lowered his gun slightly but didn’t put it away. “They had a pretty girl lure me out onto the football field and... then they forced me to strip naked and tied me to a pole. I was left out there all night.”

“Wow,” Miller exclaimed, temporarily distracted. “What did you do?”

“I moved on, which is what you need to do too. Killing Ingram means that he wins. It means that he got to you like he wanted to. Moving on, and as hard as it might sound, forgiving proves you didn’t let it get to you and that you’re the better person.”

Miller thought about it for a moment before dropping the gun. Morgan stepped forward and put him in handcuffs before leading him out.

“Are you alright, sir?” Jane asked Principal Ingram.

“Yeah, I’m fine. Thank you.”

There were footsteps coming down the hall. They turned to see Hotch, JJ, and Rossi approaching. “Morgan has the UNSUB outside,” Jane told them. “Mr. Ingram, please follow these agents out to the ambulance. You should get checked out just to be safe.” He nodded and followed them back down the hall.

Reid and Addison remained in the room alone. She turned to look at him.

“Was what you told him true?” she asked.

He nodded. “Every word.”

“I’m-”

“Don’t say you’re sorry. You had nothing to do with it. It’s in the past now,” he insisted.

Jane stepped closer to him and looked into his eyes. She could tell he was still upset over what happened. She took another step forward and hugged him and he buried his head in her hair, squeezing her back.

“Do you happen to have headphones and a laptop with you?” Spencer asked on the flight home.

“Yeah,” she said, pulling them out of her bag. He reached into his own and pulled out a DVD.

“I grabbed the next season of Dr. Who. I thought we could watch it on the way back.”

“That’s a great idea! Let’s do it!”

When they arrived back, Hotch told the team they didn’t have to be at the office until 10:30am the next day so that they could get some sleep.

“Hey Jane, do you wanna maybe go get coffee at the normal time tomorrow? We could actually take the time to sit in the coffee shop,” Reid suggested as she gave him a ride home - he had ridden with Morgan to the jet since they’d been running late.

“I’m sorry. I think I’ll have to pass. I really need to catch up on some sleep.”

“Oh,” Reid replied, disappointed. “No worries, maybe another time.”

~~~~~~~~~~

Bless The Broken Road Masterlist

~~~~~~~~~~

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@cynbx @neon-deanmon

27 notes · View notes

artificialqueens · 5 years

Text

Washed in the Tide of Her Breathing 2/4 (Branjie)--athena2

A/N: Thank you to everyone that read and commented on chapter 1! Your support means so much to me! I would love if you could leave some feedback on this chapter. Writ is the best and I can’t thank them enough for beta-ing, brainstorming with me, and answering all my questions. (Also, I’ve taken too many English classes not to cite my source, so the article about the Melville to Hawthorne letter can be found here).

For a second when she wakes up, Brooke forgets.

She forgets there’s a woman just feet away, tucked under a plaid quilt in Brooke’s old bedroom-turned-guest-room that’s been useless until now, her presence breaking through the dust of memories coating the room. The room overlooks the ocean, and Brooke used to read by the window while sea-kissed breezes flowed through. Her parents smiled at her from the precious few photos she had of them, a collection that stopped growing before she did.

Brooke had moved into her grandfather’s room years ago, after carefully packing most of his stuff away (something she discussed at length with Dr. Ganache), and tries not to feel like an imposter in his room. This morning, she reminds herself that she’s capable and deserving of her job, capable and deserving of being in his space, capable and deserving of living, and gets out of bed.

Smoky gray casts a shadow over the window. The rain has slowed to a drizzle, splattering on the roof, and it seems the roads really will clear by Monday. But that still leaves three days of the same gentle water Brooke loves imprisoning her like some princess in a tower.

It’s not being stuck inside that bothers her. Brooke has more than enough food, books, and streaming services to last. It’s the thought of being stuck with someone, mind racing and skin itching with the thought of someone watching her constantly.

She takes slow, measured breaths and ties a few knots, fears rising out on a steady stream of air. She’ll be polite to Vanessa, they’ll watch TV, and Vanessa will be gone Monday. This whole thing will be just a memory for Brooke, a tiny drop of water in the ocean. A few weeks and she won’t remember the sound of Vanessa’s laugh, how it’s rough and velvety in the same breath. A few months and she’ll probably forget her name, how it’s sweet like chocolate in Brooke’s mouth.

Brooke flicks through a book, the weight of it as steadying now as it was in her childhood, the idea of all those worlds beneath her fingers making her feel secure, comforted. It was these worlds she escaped to, to have adventures alongside the characters, to pretend she had parents waiting for her like they did.

“Morning, Brooke!”

Alice in Wonderland slips into Brooke’s lap as she jumps.

“Sorry, did I scare you?” Vanessa asks.

“I’m fine.” Brooke takes a good look at Vanessa, stomach stirring as she does. Vanessa looks stronger today, more vibrant. Her cheeks bloom with rosy life, eyes bright and grin broad. Brooke is so relieved she’s okay, showing no pain from whatever (or whoever) hurt her, that she ignores her ridiculous theory about Vanessa being some sea creature. Vanessa’s okay, and that’s enough.

She realizes she forgot her medication in her cloud of worry, and notices Vanessa watching.

“I take medication, I–”

“It makes you feel better?” Vanessa asks.

“Yeah.” Brooke has bad days occasionally, but when the mental illness was at its worst she couldn’t even get out of bed, could do nothing but lay there and pray for sleep to avoid being conscious. She wouldn’t be able to function without the meds, and she’s not ashamed of it.

“That’s all that matters,” Vanessa says firmly. “You don’t have to explain anything.”

Brooke nods appreciatively. Her offer of coffee is met with an enthusiastic nod, and Vanessa is practically vibrating with energy as Brooke passes her the lobster mug. It’s a good thing she made decaf.

Vanessa is at ease in the kitchen, cheerfully eating eggs on toast, and Brooke wonders what it’s like to be so comfortable around others, to say things without turning them over in her mind a hundred times, worrying how they’ll sound. To be the kind of person other people go toward, instead of away from.

“We gonna watch Thrones today?” Vanessa asks.

Brooke nods.

Vanessa crunches her last bite of toast. “Let’s go.”

—

The morning passes quickly, Vanessa letting out whoops and gasps as they move through episodes. It makes Brooke grit her teeth at first, because she always watches things in silence, but when Vanessa screeches about ‘Sharpie Bannister’ (as she’s renamed Cersei Lannister), Brooke has to laugh. There’s something about watching the shock and excitement play out across Vanessa’s face that’s simply infectious, impossible to resist.

Vanessa tags along when Brooke climbs the steps for her afternoon light routine. Brooke’s skin prickles as Vanessa watches her. The only person that’s seen her work is her grandfather, and Brooke sweats with worry that she’ll mess up the one thing she’s good at and look like an idiot in front of Vanessa.

It takes Brooke a few windows to sink back into her rhythm. She can’t really blame Vanessa for staring. Brooke used to observe her grandfather with the same bright-eyed wonder over how his gnarled fingers moved of their own accord, how he didn’t even look where he stepped because his feet knew the way. If Vanessa’s open mouth is any indication, Brooke has perfected his movements, making it all look as natural as breathing, and she bursts with pride.

“So, how do you know this stuff?” Vanessa asks, motioning for Brooke to sit with her at the base of the light. This close, Brooke can smell her own lavender body wash Vanessa’s been using. “You have a degree in lighthousing?”

Brooke hugs her knees to her chest. “I have a degree in English, actually.” It may have taken her a while to finish it, after a leave of absence because the anxiety and depression grew so severe she couldn’t complete her assignments, but she had finished all the same, with a minor in marine studies. “The lighthouse stuff is from my grandfather. He taught me everything I know.”

“He’s a lighthouse keeper too?”

“He was.”

The silence hangs like a midday sun as Vanessa processes the words.

“I’m sorry, Brooke,” she says softly. Vanessa’s hand curves toward Brooke’s knee before darting back, like she wants to comfort Brooke but isn’t sure she should. Brooke suddenly wants her to, wants to see what Vanessa’s hand feels like, wants its steadying weight.

“It’s okay,” Brooke says.

They sit in fog-thick silence and Brooke wonders if she should speak or leave, sink or swim. The air is wide open for her to talk about her grandfather, but she just doesn’t want to. She’s been thinking about him constantly since she found Vanessa, trying to be kind like him, but she selfishly wants to hoard her memories like treasure, not share them. Vanessa doesn’t know how he preferred waffles to pancakes and put cinnamon in the batter, how we let her practice dance recitals in the living room and applauded wildly, how he let bugs go outside rather than kill them, and if Brooke tells her, then the memories aren’t just Brooke’s anymore. It’s like she’s giving part of him away.

“It’s real cool. This lighthouse stuff, I mean.” Vanessa fills the quiet. “You make it look so easy.”

Brooke shrugs. “I’ve had lots of practice.” Learning it was the best thing for her after losing her parents, and she had thrown herself into it to ease the pain. It gave her something to focus on, something to keep her worried mind occupied. A way to help people get home, like her parents couldn’t.

“Well, it’s beautiful. The way you move and everything.”

Brooke swallows nervously, stomach fluttering like butterflies are running wild. No one’s complimented the way she moves since her dance days. But Vanessa notices the grace Brooke’s always carried, even thinks it’s beautiful. The last bit of fear melts away, and Brooke stops thinking of Vanessa as an intruder and starts thinking of her as a fri–acquaintance. It’ll have to do, because there’s no title for ‘nice person that washed up on my lighthouse’.

“Thank you,” Brooke says finally. “Um, do you like quesadillas? I was thinking of making them for lunch.”

Vanessa grins, exposing bright white teeth. “Of course!”

—

Vanessa asks if they can play a board game that night, and Brooke brushes the dust of her childhood and pulls out Monopoly. They play on the floor, lantern illuminating the board, the glow highlighting all the different shades of brown–chocolate and hazelnut and mocha–swirling in Vanessa’s eyes. Brooke keeps getting lost in them, and has to tear her gaze away to focus.

Brooke quickly sees that Vanessa came to win, racking up properties and snatching money from Brooke like a middle-aged banker. But Brooke’s had years of practice, and she takes Vanessa’s money right back, their stacks too high to tell who’s winning.

Vanessa asks questions while they play, wanting to know Brooke’s favorite foods and colors and movies. Brooke hesitates at first, but what’s the harm in giving these pieces of herself to someone she’ll never see again? So Brooke answers questions and echoes them to Vanessa, hours ticking by like minutes as she learns the colors Vanessa likes to wear, the funny movies she watches to cheer herself up. She talks more with Vanessa in an hour than she does in a week.

Brooke coughs and sneezes through the game, using a whole box of tissues. Not changing her clothes after finding Vanessa is catching up with her. When Brooke sneezes so hard it sends paper money fluttering, Vanessa’s eyes flicker to her in concern.

“You gettin’ sick?” Vanessa asks.

Brooke shrugs. “Probably a cold. Happens a lot near the water.” Brooke often got sick as a kid because of how cold and damp it was by the sea. Her grandfather would set up a makeshift bed on the couch, tell her stories, and let her watch anything she wanted, a Star Wars marathon making the coughing and sneezing and bitter cherry medicine almost bearable.

Brooke can’t help but wonder what it would be like to have Vanessa sitting at her side, telling her stories.

—

Brooke is definitely sick when Saturday morning rolls around, her head cloudy like it’s stuffed with cotton, tissue after tissue chafing her raw nose.

The rain is still trickling down, mocking the weather reports that said it would stop by Friday. The new report is predicting Sunday.

Brooke shuffles into the kitchen and sees Vanessa sipping coffee and looking so right at the table. Brooke’s never considered her kitchen empty before, but Vanessa makes it full.

“You’re sick!” Vanessa yelps with worry. Vanessa is worried about her, is upset that she’s sick, and maybe it’s the illness making Brooke’s thoughts fuzzy, but she’s grateful Vanessa is here, grateful to have someone worried for her.

“I’m fine. Just a cold.”

Vanessa’s hand stretches up to her forehead before Brooke can stop it. She figures it’s rude to push Vanessa away, and her touch is soothing, so Brooke leaves it.

“I don’t think you have a fever,” Vanessa says, hand lingering longer than necessary.

“It’s just a cold,” Brooke repeats, wracked with a sudden shiver from the loss of contact.

“Well, why don’t you lie down?” It’s an order more than a suggestion, and Brooke gives in, too tired to argue despite the strangeness of it all. No one has cared for her like this in years. She usually just took medicine and went on with her day, no one even knowing she was sick, and Vanessa seating her on the couch and buzzing with concern spreads affectionate warmth through Brooke’s chest. Some part of Brooke likes it, likes having someone take care of her when she’s done it alone for so long. And some part of her likes that the someone is Vanessa.

Vanessa carefully drapes a blanket over Brooke, watching her with such tenderness and adoration it makes her ache with a sudden longing to hold Vanessa. The cold is really messing with her head. Vanessa brings her cold meds, cough drops, and extra tissues before settling into the armchair and starting the next episode.

Brooke’s eyelids grow heavy after the theme song, and she drifts off into a warm sleep punctuated with dreams of sailing with Vanessa.

A gentle hand nudges her shoulder, and Brooke blinks awake to see Vanessa, bowl of steaming soup in her hands. Brooke’s mind lags as she processes the scene. Vanessa made her soup. Vanessa took the time to go through her pantry and cupboards just to make soup to help her feel better. It’s been seven years since someone cooked for her. Brooke’s eyes dampen at the corners (it’s probably the cold).

“S-sorry. I didn’t mean to fall asleep on you,” Brooke says, sitting up and eating a spoonful.

“Don’t worry about it. You need sleep when you’re sick.” Vanessa pauses. “Anything else I can do? Call a doctor or somethin’?”

“I don’t need a doctor for a cold,” Brooke says, melting at how concerned Vanessa is. “Soup and meds are enough. You didn’t have to do all this for me,” she adds, looking down at the bowl.

“I want to,” Vanessa says firmly. “You got sick ‘cause of me.”

Brooke shakes her head. “I was only outside a few minutes getting you. I didn’t change my wet clothes after. That’s my fault, not yours.”

“Still,” Vanessa insists. “It’s the least I could do.”

Vanessa tucks a strand of hair behind Brooke’s ear and Brooke has no air in her lungs. Her whole face tingles, and she wishes she could grab Vanessa’s hand and put it on her cheek, let the warmth rest there forever, an eternal flame to keep Brooke warm.

The day is cozy and carefree, but there’s something bugging Brooke, swirling below the water like a predator. It’s not until Vanessa gives her more cold meds that night that it hits her: Vanessa isn’t sick. Vanessa was sailing in a thunderstorm, thrown into the icy sea, left in the rain all night, and doesn’t have so much as a sniffle.

Brooke would say it isn’t humanly possible, but it’s true. Unless…

No. She needs to stop with her theories. It’s probably just the grayness of the world affecting her judgement. Some urge to keep her grandfather alive, to put a wild story in everything she sees.

It’s a quiet night, Vanessa more hushed than usual, a mug of hot chocolate making Brooke full and sleepy, electing to sleep on the couch because she’s too comfortable under her fleece blankets to move.

Vanessa heads to bed with a soft ‘feel better, Brooke’ tumbling from her lips and soothing Brooke’s skin like hot water, but when Brooke wakes the next morning, Vanessa is back in the chair, watching over Brooke like a tower watching over ships. When Brooke asks her about it, Vanessa just says she wanted to make sure Brooke was okay.

—

The weather report was right, and Sunday is the first dry day in what feels like years, the world bathed a delicate gray-blue as the public works crew clears the roads. Vanessa radiates her own sun in the lighthouse, growing more exuberant by the hour.

Vanessa wasn’t exactly quiet before, but she bursts with renewed energy over waffles that morning. She makes Brooke take more medicine and drinks two cups of coffee with a pound of sugar, asks (commands) Brooke if they can make brownies, and eats three of said brownies in one sitting.

“You know any stories?” Vanessa asks that night. “Sailors always tell stories in the movies. And lighthouses are good places for stories, all spooky and shit.”

Brooke has to agree. The night is perfect, orange fire glowing against the pitch-black darkness outside, wind rattling the windows like a monster begging to be let in, she and Vanessa trading smiles over mugs of hot chocolate, blankets wrapped around their shoulders. It’s nights like these that Brooke believes the legends with all her heart, the world so alive with magic they had to be real.

“I know some old legends about sirens and mermaids and stuff,” Brooke suggests.

Vanessa flinches so quickly Brooke might have imagined it, an unreadable expression settling over her features.

“Sure,” Vanessa agrees. “Maybe somethin’ happy, or romantic?”

Most legends were darker than the depths of the ocean, used as terrifying warnings to respect whatever creatures lived in the sea so they didn’t kill you, but Brooke searches for something at least a little happy.

“Sit by the fire with me?” Brooks asks, heart thumping.

Vanessa’s eyes twinkle brighter than ever in the firelight, and Brooke’s not sure if her face is burning from the fire or Vanessa’s knee pressing against hers.

Brooke clears her throat. Her ears are full of her grandfather’s voice, deep and rich as the sea. She can hear him clearly tonight, in her spot on the rug that used to be his, and she knows he speaks with her when she begins.

“Once upon a time–”

“This some kinda fairytale?” Vanessa interrupts.

Brooke shoots her the same look Vanessa gives Joffrey on-screen. It must work, because Vanessa bursts into giggles.

“Okay, okay, keep going.”

“Once upon a time, there lived a lonely young woman named Arabella. Her father was a lighthouse keeper. He told her mermaids lived in the sea, and every day, Arabella went to the water’s edge, hoping to see one. But none ever turned up.

“One day, a mermaid named Cordelia swam to shore. She had been watching Arabella, but was too shy to see her. Cordelia had hair like spun gold and eyes of sapphire. Some said the ocean herself had made her eyes. Arabella fell in love instantly. But she couldn’t breathe underwater, and Cordelia couldn’t walk on land, so Arabella took her boat out while Cordelia swam beside her.

“As the days passed, their love grew like the waves. They were so in love, neither noticed they were going farther and farther into the ocean. Soon, they were at the cove of the murderous sirens, falsely promising people their heart’s desires and drowning them.

Vanessa’s hands fly over her mouth. She leans closer, eager to hear what happens next, and Brooke surges with pride.

“Arabella’s desire was to breathe underwater, and Cordelia’s desire was to walk on land. The siren queen, Marina–”

“It’s Marilla,” Vanessa says. “The siren queen. Marilla, not Marina.”

The crackling fire is the only sound in the room.

“You-you’re right,” Brooke says. “Marina is the mermaid queen, I always mix them up. I just–how did you know?” She’s not judging or doubting Vanessa, just curious. Most legends have died out.

“I…I think I read it in one of your books when you were sick,” Vanessa says.

“Oh. Anyway, Marilla promised them their desires, and they were pulled beneath the waves. But Marina, the mermaid queen, didn’t want the lovers to perish. She convinced Marilla to grant their wishes, but at a cost.

“She allowed Arabella to breathe underwater for one hour each dawn, and allowed Cordelia to walk on land for one hour each dusk. But if they met any other time, or stayed longer than an hour, they would be cursed with eternal solitude.

“They obeyed. Cordelia stayed beneath the sea, longing for the hour she could feel sand between her toes. Arabella stayed on land, longing for the hour when the water flowed around her. The two hours they were together each day were the happiest in both their lives. They met every day, even as old age meant Cordelia had to hold Arabella in the water and help her walk on land. They stayed in love until Arabella died, and Marina released Cordelia’s soul, so their spirits could be together for eternity.”

Vanessa’s mouth opens and closes a few times before she can speak.

“Wow, Brooke,” Vanessa breathes. “You should have people come here on tours and tell them stories. You’re really, really good at it.”

Brooke beams with joy. It’s a small compliment, but it means more than Vanessa knows. Her grandfather could have an entire room biting their nails in suspense, hanging on his every word. Brooke has never told a story to anyone, and not only is she good at it, she loves it. Loves the rush of bringing words to life, of having Vanessa so close that Brooke could just reach out and touch her, maybe even kiss her–

“Thanks. Someone asked me about doing tours before, actually. I said no.”

“Why?”

“Just…didn’t want anyone inside.” Brooke confesses.

“I get that,” Vanessa says. “This place is special to you. If you don’t want to do tours, that’s fine. I’d just hate to see you say no because of fear.”

How could Vanessa understand her fears so effortlessly? Brooke loves the history of the lighthouse, how it’s served ships for centuries. Maybe, if she works hard with Dr. Ganache, she could feel safe enough to let people in and share that history.

“I’m headin’ to bed.” Vanessa yawns. “Thanks for the story.”

“Sure.”

Brooke lingers behind, curiosity driving her to the book of myths on the coffee table. She checks twice, but there’s no mention of Marilla.

—

“Is that the sun?” Vanessa asks Monday morning, jaw dropping open.

“I think so.” Brooke smiles.

Vanessa whistles. “Damn. I thought I ended up on some planet with no sun! Can we see the town today?” She asks, bouncing in her chair.

“Okay.”

Three days ago, Brooke would have been out the door at the crack of dawn to get Vanessa on the earliest train home. But somehow, between the daily meals and board games and stories, Brooke has grown comfortable with Vanessa, smiling whenever Vanessa laughs, passing dishes to the left for Vanessa to dry without thinking, her heart softening every time their soap-slick hands brush against each other. There’s a certain ease between them, one Brooke didn’t think she’d have with anyone but her grandfather.

Even when they watch TV, Brooke finds herself turning to Vanessa during big reveals, to see Vanessa’s eyes widen and her jaw drop, revelling in the knowledge that she’s not alone, that someone is sharing it with her. She smiles when Vanessa does the same, trying to discern spoilers from Brooke’s expression and gloating when her predictions are right.

Brooke’s heart is heavy over Vanessa leaving, and she wants to make an amazing day for her, one she’ll remember even after returning to the bright city lights.

Brooke thinks of what Vanessa might enjoy in town. Brooke has always liked the main street of Cape Charles, how the cheery shops smiled at her even when most of the owners didn’t, turning their noses up at the crazy lighthouse keeper. But she can take Vanessa to the diner, and the bookstore, where Brooke used to need a stool to reach the shelves until her growth spurt hit and her bones screamed as she shot up eight inches in a year.

She wonders what it will be like to have feet beside hers on the cobblestones again, to eat with someone across the booth again, to see another reflection in the shop windows.

“D-do you want to have breakfast? There’s a really good diner on Main Street.”

“You ain’t gotta ask me twice!”

Being cooped up must be hard for Vanessa, Brooke guesses. Vanessa lives in the city, where she could do anything at any time. Brooke has never liked the dizziness or buzz of the city, how easily you could get lost with no one to even care about finding you. Even when she took classes in the college there, she would ride the commuter train, take her usual walk to campus, and return the same way, never straying for fear of getting lost in a sea of concrete, no light to guide her home (it was a relief when she found out two years in that she could finish her degree online). She hasn’t returned to the city since that bad day when her grandfather died.

“Hey, Brooke?” Vanessa snaps Brooke out of her thoughts. “You got anything I could wear that’s not a wool sweater? Don’t get me wrong, they cute on you, but I don’t think they’re working for me.”

“Of course.”

Vanessa in her house is strange enough, but having Vanessa in her room, her big brown eyes roaming across the bed where Brooke sleeps and the photos linking Brooke to the past, makes Brooke feel like her entire being is on display, like Vanessa can see right through her.

“And I thought your wool stuff was out of control!” Vanessa exclaims.

Brooke smothers a laugh at the array of flannel shirts hanging in her closet.

“I do have a lot of wool and flannel, huh?” They’re Brooke’s favorites because of the coziness, protecting her from the cold sea air.

“Well, they look good on you.”

It’s the second time Vanessa’s said she looks nice, Brooke notes. She wonders if it means anything, if Vanessa’s heart squeezes when she looks at Brooke like Brooke’s does when she looks at Vanessa. She also wonders if it means anything that she thinks Vanessa is beautiful in anything.

“Your jeans are longer than my whole body,” Vanessa mutters. “What are you, like, six-five?”

“Five-ten.”

“Shit.”

Brooke laughs. She’d put Vanessa at five-three, if that, and she likes how tiny Vanessa is, how Brooke’s clothes make her even tinier and more adorable.

“This coat is cool.” Vanessa nods at the navy coat in Brooke’s closet.

“I’ll show you if you want,” Brooke offers.

It’s her grandfather’s lighthouse keeper coat, navy with brass buttons, done in the old style. He took excellent care of it and it’s impeccable, heavy and warm like his hugs. Brooke used to put it on as a kid, giggling as it dragged on the floor and thinking she’d never be big enough or good enough to fill it. But she’d inherited his height as well as his eyes, and when she put it on a year after he died, the coat fit her like it was meant to do nothing else. She had taken it as a permission of sorts, some sign from the universe that she was worthy of wearing it, of running the lighthouse. That she would be okay on her own.

“What’s the K for?” Vanessa asks, pointing to the gold loops embroidered on the lapel, neat K’s stitched inside.

“For keeper.”

“You sure are.”

Brooke flushes as red as a warning sky, and busies herself finding clothes for Vanessa, grabbing a red sweatshirt since it’s Vanessa’s favorite color, and leggings so she won’t trip on any pant hems. Brooke takes jeans and a navy fisherman’s sweater for herself and changes in the bathroom.

Vanessa is fully dressed when she gets back, gazing at the pictures on Brooke’s dresser. “This your grandpa?”

“Yeah.”

“You have his eyes. They look like the sea.” Vanessa smiles. “I bet he was kind like you too.”

“He was.” It’s all she can manage, tears hovering on the horizon. Whenever she was upset, all she had to do was look at him and she knew things would be okay. All she’s ever wanted is to be like him, to be good and dedicated, a beacon of hope for people.

Nina says Brooke is like him, but Nina knew her grandfather, saw Brooke’s similarities to him emerge, and Nina is always nice. But Vanessa doesn’t know her grandfather. She barely knows Brooke. She has no reason to say it, no idea how much it means. For her to think Brooke resembles the man who was her guiding light for so long is irrefutable proof that Brooke is like him, is maybe as good as him, and it warms her heart like a fire. She’s never been more grateful for Vanessa.

“Do you miss him?” Vanessa asks, cringing a second later. “Shit, sorry, you don’t have to answer. Don’t mind my nosy ass.”

“I do,” Brooke says. “He–he was a great person. One of the best.” It’s gotten better over the years, the wound receding to a dull pain, one she sometimes can’t even feel. But then she’ll do something that tugs on the scar tissue, like looking at his picture a second too long or making waffles that taste almost exactly like his, but not quite, and the pain comes roaring back anew.

“Hey,” Vanessa says gently, wiping a tear from Brooke’s cheek, one she didn’t know had fallen. Vanessa is so close Brooke just wants to wrap her in a hug. She wants Vanessa’s head against her chest, wants to bury her face in Vanessa’s hair, wants Vanessa to feel her heart beating. “Let’s go eat.”

—

Nina almost drops her pen when she sees Vanessa next to Brooke. Brooke’s mouth dries out as she struggles for an explanation.

“I’m an old friend of Brooke’s,” Vanessa supplies smoothly. “Just visiting for a few days.”

Vanessa and Nina carry on like actual old friends as Nina takes them to a booth, and Brooke isn’t surprised. Nina can make friends with a wall, and Brooke doesn’t know anyone who wouldn’t love her in seconds.

“So,” Vanessa says, peeking over her menu with a grin, “what’s good here?”

“I always get the apple-cinnamon pancakes,” Brooke says.

“Always always?”

“Yeah.”

“You don’t ever wanna change it up?” Vanessa asks in confusion.

Brooke lowers her head, heat creeping up her neck. “I don’t like change,” she admits. Change had been a police officer’s scuffed black boots in a cheery kindergarten classroom. Change had been an unknown number calling from the city, saying her grandfather was in critical condition.

“I know change can be scary,” Vanessa says softly. “But what if you did just a little one? Like, what if you still get pancakes, but with”–Vanessa scans the menu–“bananas instead?”

Maybe Vanessa is right. Dr. Ganache had said a routine would be helpful when Brooke began her recovery, but she should never feel trapped by it. Brooke’s been sticking to it so long she’s never considered if it’s guiding her or forcing her, protecting her or caging her.

Brooke knows bananas aren’t a big deal in the grand scheme of things. She knows her palms shouldn’t be sweating. But if she doesn’t have apples, does that mean the day won’t go like it should? Will it make something bad happen? What if she did something different on those bad days, like eating raspberry jam on her toast instead of strawberry, and that was why the bad things happened?

“You don’t have to if you don’t want to,” Vanessa says quickly.

“I want to.”

Brooke’s fork shakes a bit when the banana walnut pancakes arrive, but they’re just as delicious as the apple ones, and Brooke doesn’t think anything bad can happen with Vanessa smiling at her, eating hash browns.

“So, Miss English Degree, you ever read that book about the big-ass whale?”

“You mean Moby Dick?” Brooke snorts.

“Yeah! With Captain Abfab!”

“Ahab.” Brooke giggles. “And I did. It’s kinda gay, actually. Melville was basically in love with Nathaniel Hawthorne. He wrote him a letter saying their hearts beat in each other’s ribs.”

“That’s romantic as hell.” Vanessa’s eyes are bright with admiration.

Brooke lets herself dream of writing letters to Vanessa, pressing kisses to the envelope.

Next in line is A’keria’s boutique. It takes all of ten seconds for Vanessa and A’keria to cackle in unison and talk about clothes. Maybe Vanessa is magic, just not how Brooke thought. Being so open with people, winning them over with a few words, is certainly its own magic, one Brooke has never been skilled in.

Vanessa squeals in delight when they drive past Monet and Monique’s Clam Shack. “Oohh, can we stop there?” she asks, wriggling in her seat like a toddler. She sticks her head out the window to read the specialties advertised on the sign. “Are you one of those ‘we have food at home’ people? ‘Cause my mom used to–” Vanessa cuts herself off abruptly, shaking her head like she’s trying to clear water out of her ears, or maybe a memory out of her mind. Her smile flies back. “Look, they have fried shrimp, that’s your favorite!”

Brooke takes a second to respond around the lump in her throat, because no one has known her favorite food or wanted her to have it in seven years. It makes Brooke’s face warm, almost impossibly so, given the cold air blasting through Vanessa’s window.

“Fried shrimp it is.”

—

“Brooke?” Vanessa asks, looking up from her fried shrimp.

“Yeah?”

“Can I pay you back somehow? I mean, you saved me, and let me stay with you, and bought my food, and I…aren’t I in your debt?”

Brooke’s heart breaks at Vanessa’s earnestness. Was she not used to people being kind to her? Brooke could never make Vanessa give her anything back, especially when she’s just as much in Vanessa’s debt. How can Brooke explain that the past days have been a gift to her, one she can never repay?

“There’s no debt. There never will be,” Brooke says firmly. “I wanted to help you. I don’t want anything in return.”

Vanessa’s hand slides across the table, fingers curling around Brooke’s. “Thank you, Brooke. Really.”

Brooke grips Vanessa’s hand like she would grip a sailing rope to keep herself steady at sea, her body coming to life at the warm touch. “Of course. You’re my guest, for as long as you want.”

“I was thinkin’ about that, actually,” Vanessa begins. “I don’t have to be back in the city till Monday. And I like y–like it here, and I’m so grateful for you, and if it’s okay, do you think I could stay till Saturday?”

You could stay forever, Brooke thinks. A lifetime of board games and cooking together, of movies and morning coffee, of breathing salt air and watching the tides ebb and flow. Autumns tinted gold and springs tinted green, crunching on leaves and splashing in rain puddles. Winters of snowflakes sticking to windows and melting in your hair, a crackling fire and soft blankets. Summers of fresh blueberries and walks on the sand, the sunset so close you could touch it, fill your hands with its buttery light.

“I’d like that,” Brooke says.

—

Last week, four days had seemed like an eternity. Now, Brooke has five more days with Vanessa, and they aren’t enough for everything she wants to do.

Brooke’s heart has a crack in it, the first crack in a ship that leads to disaster as more and more water flows in. Each day that crack widens, another realization slipping inside and dragging her whole body down. How she won’t see Vanessa’s smile anymore. How the couch will be empty, not even a dent in the cushion where Vanessa sits.

They go bowling, and Brooke laughs till she cries over Vanessa’s hunched stance, rolling the ball with both hands and one time shooting it into another lane. They rack up tickets at the arcade and earn a Cape Charles pencil (‘300 tickets and all we get is a pencil?’ Vanessa rages). Vanessa wins a stuffed dolphin at the claw machine and gives it to Brooke. Brooke has slept with it every night since, holding it to her chest and pretending it’s Vanessa.

Every time Brooke burns from people’s stares, wondering why the ghost was released from her tower, Vanessa shoots them a death glare until they back off, reminding Brooke she doesn’t need to concern herself with them.

They finish Game of Thrones, Vanessa screaming about how they did her girl Dany dirty, and start on the Ghibli collection, wordlessly passing the tissue box to each other when Sophie puts Howl’s heart back into his chest.

Brooke relishes the brushing of their arms as they make dinner, Vanessa tossing croutons into the air and catching them in her mouth. Brooke loves putting the food on the table knowing the meal is something they created with their hands working together, trying to ignore that her future meals will be made with two hands, not four.

Before she knows it, it’s Friday night, and Brooke is trying to keep it together. She cooks Vanessa’s favorite foods, rice and beans with shrimp, plus salad, garlic bread, and chocolate cake.

They talk like they do every night, but Brooke has always been sensitive to change, and the air is different, thick with the knowledge that this is the last time, that there won’t be another dinner.

Brooke cuts the cake, and halfway through the first slice she realizes that she’ll have leftover cake and there won’t be anyone to share it with. This cake that she and Vanessa made will belong to Brooke alone, its frosting hardening and crumb drying with only one fork to eat it.

She looks at Vanessa’s lobster mug, irreparably labeling it Vanessa’s, and knows she won’t be able to look at it again without picturing Vanessa’s slim fingers wrapped around it, tossing her head back with laughter.

The crack in her heart widens into a chasm. All the sorrow over Vanessa leaving, the emptiness that will consume her after Vanessa’s gone, rush into Brooke’s heart until it sinks to the ocean floor, never to see sunlight again.

Stay, Brooke thinks but doesn’t say. Please stay. Her chest aches, and she thinks her ribs are throbbing with the pulse of Vanessa’s heart as well as her own.

But she can’t ask Vanessa to stay, stop her from returning to a life more exciting than this, to fabrics shinier than wool and flannel, to more restaurants and stores than she could count.

She can’t ask no matter how badly she wants to.

Brooke doesn’t do this. She doesn’t get attached. Dr. Ganache says she has a fear of abandonment, that she isolates herself as an unhealthy coping mechanism. She doesn’t form relationships, doesn’t even try, because her mind is trying to keep her safe, denying her any connection to spare her the pain of that connection’s loss.

You can’t lose someone if you don’t know them, let yourself get close to them. And Brooke has learned more about Vanessa, gotten closer with her, than she has let herself do with anyone else since her grandfather died.

She knows that Vanessa always buys the Rainbow Room in Monopoly just because she likes rainbows. She knows that Vanessa stops dead in the street to pet dogs, like Brooke used to. She knows Vanessa dances every chance she gets. She knows Vanessa has brought her places she hasn’t visited in years, has shielded her from people’s stares and kept her safe like a lighthouse tower.

“I have something for you,” Brooke says after cake, handing Vanessa the bracelet she made from ropes on her grandfather’s old boat.

“It’s a sailor knot,” Brooke explains. “Sailors wore them at sea. It’s supposed to bring good luck and protection on your travels.”

Vanessa is silent as she runs her fingers over the bracelet, tracing the fibers like she can feel the ocean clinging to them.

Brooke takes a breath. “Vanessa, um, I really liked having you here, and if you ever want to come back…” Tears stream down Vanessa’s face, and Brooke’s heart shatters. “I’m sorry! Did I do something wrong? Are you okay?”

The panic claws at Brooke, heart racing, each breath frantic as Vanessa’s tears thicken. Brooke wants to cry herself over seeing Vanessa so upset, and she struggles to stay above the tide of fear. Finally, Vanessa shakes her head, like she’s answering her own question.

“I can’t do this anymore, Brooke.” Her voice runs deep with sorrow, but Brooke is so relieved she’s talking that she manages to get air into her lungs, heart slowing. “I can’t keep lying to you.”

“What do you mean?” Brooke has ignored Vanessa’s obvious lies and refusal to talk about her life in the city, but the questions always lurk in her mind. Is she finally going to find out what happened? Is Vanessa running from something? Is–

Vanessa sighs. “I’m a siren.”

#rpdr fanfiction #brooke lynn hytes #vanessa vanjie mateo #branjie #angst #hurt/comfort #washed in the tide of her breathing #athena2 #tw mentioned past death #concrit welcome #submission

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