#in sketching for sure gotta see how lines will behave so far it seems like not too much of a difference

[glimpsesofeuterpe]

Are you going to be using your new tablets for commissions too? 👀 Or is it still a learning curve to get used to them?

yesss

[flightfoot]

Miraculous Ladybug and Conflict Resolution, especially when “what happened” is in doubt

So in Miraculous Ladybug, the episodes often showcase a particular method of conflict resolution and ways to defend yourself and others from attack, namely by trying to defuse troubling situations through talking things out, trying to get to the bottom of things but not jumping to conclusions, and de-escalating, which is usually what her canonical defenders like Adrien, Alya, and her parents, will do. They focus generally on defending and protecting Marinette from bad outcomes as well as they reasonably can, without being aggressive towards the people who’re going after her. 

In Rogercop, for instance, Chloe starts accusing people of stealing, and the mayor demands Marinette be searched. Something Tom’s having none of:

Scene: College. Mr. Dupain and the Mayor have a discussion.

Tom: Don’t even think about getting near my daughter or her bag!

Mr. Bourgeois: Do you know who I am?

Miss Bustier: Please, gentlemen! This is a school here! Think of the children! Surely the bracelet is around here someplace.

Marinette herself tends to favor a more aggressive approach, defending herself but also lashing out a bit:

Marinette: See, Chloé? I tripped on the bag, but Sabrina held the bracelet, Nathaniel sketched it, we are all suspects!

Nathaniel: Hey! What's that supposed to mean? I didn't swipe her bracelet!

Marinette: And neither did I! But when it comes down to it, Chloé can accuse anyone and everyone!

Chloé: Fine! Since you're a suspect, you'll have no problem letting me search your bag!

Marinette: Okay! As long as you also search everyone else's too!

Nathaniel: No one's searching my bag!

Tom: Marinette, let the adults handle this.

Marinette: Papa, she called me a thief! I'm just defending myself.

Tom: You're also accusing all of your friends like Chloé's doing to you!

Marinette makes some good points here about how she’s not the only suspect, but the way she does it makes it sound less like she’s just defending herself, and more like she’s dragging everyone else into this as well in order to provide some cover for herself.

Notice with Tom especially that he doesn’t actually interfere in the debate among the kids until Marinette pseudo-volunteers everyone else to have their bags searched, as well as her own. I don’t think that was her intent, but like Tom said, it DOES kinda sound like Marinette’s accusing her friends - something that could get her in trouble with them later if this escalates, since she’s putting them in the firing line of something that they weren’t originally the target of, even if it’s not fair that SHE’S in the firing line either.

Marinette has a strong sense of justice and fairness, and hates when someone - herself or someone else - is singled out when other people have done the same thing, and generally wants to be able to respond in turn, “turnabout’s fair play” and all.

You see Marinette’s defenders taking this sort of approach in Despair Bear as well, with concentrating on not jumping to conclusions or firing back or escalating a conflict when Marinette’s accused, but instead just focusing on defending Marinette herself, and discouraging going after her attacker directly.

Chloé: I saw a student leaving the classroom right before the alarm went off. It must have been her.

Mr. Damocles Really? Who was it?

Chloé: Let's see if she'll come clean. What do you say, Marinette Dupain-Cheng? (the students gasp in shock)

Mr. Damocles: Marinette, do you have something to tell the firefighter captain?

Adrien: Urgh, wait. Excuse me, sir! (Marinette pants) It couldn't possibly be Marinette. Why would she disrupt her own father's cooking class?

Alya: And I know for a fact that Marinette didn't even have her phone on her when she went out of the classroom.

Adrien and Alya just focused on defending Marinette herself, rather than going after the integrity of her attacker, which would’ve escalated the conflict quite a bit. They tried to keep it contained, and only interfered where they had to in order to protect their friend.

But Marinette has that strong sense of justice and fairness and DOES want to respond in kind, since she saw CHLOE on her phone before this, and if Chloe can make these accusations, so can she.

Marinette: I'm not gonna let her get away with this. I've gotta tell...

Adrien: Hang on, Marinette. We don't know for sure it was her. (He whispered to her ear)

Alya: He's right. Let's not stoop to her level.

(Chloé snickers.)

Adrien and Alya have a point. Chloe’s a jerk and is making this stuff up pointing the finger at Marinette, but she’d do that even if she WASN’T responsible just because she feels like bullying Marinette, and while it’s true that pulling the fire alarm is the kind of thing she would do, just because she WOULD do this, doesn’t mean she actually DID. Also, without solid proof accusing her is likely to go nowhere at best, and put a bigger target on Marinette’s back at worst. Alya herself experienced what happens when Chloe has half a chance to go after you, with a simple case of Alya photographing Chloe’s open locker, being escalated from something which would’ve gotten her an hour of detention at worst, to being suspended for a week because Chloe threatened the principal with sending the mayor after him.

Alya: I didn't break into her locker! It was open!

Mr. Damocles: And nothing was stolen?

Chloé: Only my very soul! My locker is my secret garden! He who enters uninvited burglarizes my inner being and steals my life force! (cries)

Mr. Damocles: Right. An hour of detention for you, Alya.

Chloé: Are my ears failing me? Did I hear you're giving one miserable hour of detention to a... a heinous criminal? Sabrina!

Sabrina: The school rules clearly state that any student guilty of theft should be suspended for one full week.

Mr. Damocles: Yes, but she's hardly stole anything.

Chloé: I'm not sure that my father would share your point of view. (prepares to call her father)

Mr. Damocles: Uhhh, well, now, Chloé, let's not bother your father, I mean, the honorable Mayor with a minor locker situation...

(Chloé starts calling her father.)

Mr. Damocles: Ehhh... what I mean is, you're suspended for a week, Alya.

Alya: What?! That is so unfair! I am so gonna protest this on the school blog!

Mr. Damocles: (looks at Chloé who's smugly shaking her phone, sighs) The school blog is hereby suspended as well.

Anyway, back to Despair Bear; when Chloe does outright admit, even brag to Adrien about what she did and with getting away scot-free, THEN he interferes, privately, now that he knows for sure what she did.

Chloé: (To Rose) Can't you see I'm trying to relax here? Go sweep somewhere else, Cinderella. (Rose whimpers and walks away and Adrien sees that Chloé made Rose cry while he was wiping the windows with a rag.)

(Adrien grunts and scolds Chloé by walking to her.)

Chloé: Adrikins!

(Marinette stares from a distance and grunts.)

Chloé: Of course it was me who called the fire department. So what?

Adrien: And it doesn't bother you that everyone's being punished because of you?

Chloé: No. Why would it? They all seem to enjoy getting dirty making cookies. How's it any different than getting dirty, cleaning floors? They should be thanking me if anything.

Adrien: (sighs) Chloé. How long have you and I been friends?

Chloé: Since we were adorable little tots, Adrikins. (Pouts)

Adrien: Well, I'm sorry Chloé, but I can't be friends with someone who treats other people like this. You've gotta be nice to people.

Chloé: N-nice?

Adrien: Yes, nice. It's not that hard.

Once he’s certain of the situation, knows that she doesn’t feel guilty at all and there doesn’t appear to be any deeper reason why she’s doing this, he puts his foot down and tries to get her to change her behavior as best he can - but not by attacking her directly, but by trying to give her a reason to change. And not by like, humiliating her or exposing her or whatever, but giving her a reason which minimizes the possibility of her lashing out and hurting others to try and “get back” at anyone.

You see this sort of thing in “Ladybug” as well. Again, Alya and Adrien concentrate on defending Marinette from accusations, while Marinette goes on the attack - for seemingly no reason for the people who don’t already KNOW that Lila’s a malicious liar who will deliberately try to hurt people, both physically and socially - something which only Adrien and Marinette have experienced with her so far.

Miss Bustier: Today, someone placed an anonymous note in my mailbox, claiming that you'd stolen the exam answers, and it looks like the anonymous person was right!

(Everyone gasps)

Marinette: But that's not true! Someone must've planted that piece of paper in my bag!

Miss Bustier: But you've answered all of the questions correctly.

Marinette: I did? Yes, but because I've studied.

Alya: Miss Bustier, Marinette always scores high on your tests.

Lila: This is so terribly unlike you, Marinette. You're usually so well-behaved.

Marinette: Of course! You put the answers in my bag! You're the "anonymous informer"!

Lila: (gasps) I'm coming to your defense and you're accusing me?!

Miss Bustier: You can't accuse someone without proof, Marinette.

Marinette: But I'm sure it's her! She stole the test answers!

Miss Bustier: That's impossible, Marinette. Lila got the worst grade in the class.

Marinette: Then... she flunked the exam on purpose!

Adrien: Excuse me, Miss Bustier, but everyone here knows it isn't like Marinette to cheat.

Alya: He's right!

Rose: It doesn't make sense!

Marinette’s sure it’s Lila because she’s the sort of person who would do this, but she and Adrien are the only people who’ve had the experience with Lila to KNOW that, and even then, she DOESN’T have any sort of evidence that Lila WAS responsible. The evidence incriminating herself may be planted, but it’s not like everyone else knows that.

Later on, after Scarletmoth’s failed akumatizations, Marinette talks with Alya about what happened and what to do next.

Alya: (on phone) So let's recap, right. You're accused of stealing the answers to the mock exam. Evidence 1: The paper with the answers was found in your schoolbag. You're also accused of pushing Lila down the stairs. No one witnessed the actual incident, but everyone did see Lila at the bottom of the staircase. You're also accused of stealing Lila's necklace, which was, Evidence 2, found inside your locker. And finally, you have a motive. I know for a fact that you've hated Lila from Day 1 because she hangs around Adrien.

Marinette: (sarcastically) I'm so glad I called you. Thanks for your support.

Alya: You're my best friend, Marinette. I totally believe you, but the evidence is stacked against you. The good thing is, the world's greatest reporters always seek the truth, so I'm gonna prove your innocence.

Marinette: (sighs in relief) Thanks, Al!

Alya: First off, a culprit always leaves clues. That's a given. And by following these clues, it will lead us...

Marinette: ...to Lila!

Alya: No, to the guilty party. If you're so quick to accuse Lila, you might just overlook another potential baddie!

Marinette: Oh. (laughing) Right.

Alya: Whoever it was had to have touched your locker when they put the necklace in there. I'm gonna go track down some fingerprints.

Alya goes through the evidence so they have a starting point, acknowledges how the situation works, but never actually doubts Marinette. She’s also very focused on proving Marinette’s innocence and trying to find the real culprit, but isn’t leaping to conclusions on what happened without solid evidence to back it up. Honestly? I think this is a good move. Even the bit of this that she gets a lot of flak for, with not wanting to jump to the conclusion that Lila must be lying about Marinette having pushed her, with it just being Marinette’s word against hers, makes some sense; from Alya’s point of view, it’s possible that someone or something else pushed Lila down the stairs, for instance, and she just jumped to the conclusion that Marinette did it because Marinette was near her.

Alya’s focusing solidly on defending Marinette and trying to identify the guilty party, but making sure she doesn’t leap to conclusions on what happened without doing some investigating first. First and foremost she wants to protect and defend Marinette. 

Adrien’s approach in Chameleon is somewhat similar, though he doesn’t even really know that Marinette’s being targeted specifically; he only saw the scene in the classroom, with Lila pushing to sit up front with him, and for Marinette to go to the back.

That’s another example of the conflict resolution in the series, especially Adrien’s approach: he sees that there’s strife, and tries to defuse it by offering a solution to solve both their problems - well, the problems that he’s aware of, with Marinette not wanting to switch seats, and Lila needing a seat in the front, even though that solution was detrimental to himself.

Marinette: Miss Bustier, why do I have to sit in the back now?

Miss Bustier: Do you have any trouble hearing or seeing, Marinette?

Marinette: Uh, I… I…

Adrien: My eyesight and hearing are good. I'll sit in the back of the class and you two can sit up front. I don't mind.

Marinette and Lila: No!

(Adrien looks at Marinette and Lila)

For the problems that have been stated, this WOULD have been a good solution. Pity those weren’t the ACTUAL reasons the two of them were fighting, but Adrien didn’t know that.

Like with Chloe in Despair Bear, he tries to talk with Lila privately later to try to get her to modify her behavior.

Adrien: Hey, Lila.

Lila: Adrien, we'll have to figure when you're gonna help me catch up on all the schoolwork I missed. I also heard you play piano, my uncle's the great pianist Chuch Boroughchuck. He wanted to teach me when I was little, but I had to stop playing because of arthritis. But when my wrist gets better, I'd love for you to give me some lessons.

Adrien: Lila, I'm perfectly happy being friends with you, and I'll gladly help you catch on your schoolwork, but please don't lie to me like you did last time with Ladybug.

Adrien: (in flashback) So I'm guessing you're not a descendant of a superhero, either.

Ladybug: (in flashback) She's more like a super liar.

Lila: Ladybug's the liar.

Adrien: I'm not judging you, Lila, but instead of making friends you're going to turn everyone against you. You can tell me if there's something bothering you. I can help. But you need to be honest with me.

Lila: Are you trying to be some superhero lecturing me just like Ladybug did? Well thanks, but no thanks. Ugh. (storms off)

Adrien: I'm still here if you need help catching up with your schoolwork. (walks away in a dejected manner)

Unlike with Chloe when he confronted HER about her behavior, he doesn’t know that Lila’s actively malicious here, even though she IS causing some strife. He’s honestly trying to reach out and resolve this conflict and try to change her behavior so she doesn’t cause problems, for herself and for everyone who gets caught in the cross-fire, like Marinette. At least trying to prevent more scenes like that morning. 

In the end, it doesn’t work. But he does at least TRY to talk to Lila first.

And then, there’s the infamous scene where he talks with Marinette about waht to do about Lila.

Marinette: (standing at a distance) Right ear?! Did she say right ear?! This morning she said that the ringing was in her left ear! I've got her this time! 

(prepares to walk up to the group but is stopped by Adrien)

Adrien: Are you going to tell everyone?

Marinette: 'Course I am. Lila is—

Adrien: (interrupting) A liar. Yes, I know. But do you really think exposing her will make things better? If you humiliate her, she'll just be hurt more. Making a bad guy suffer has never turned them into a good guy.

Lila: Ladybug and I are like two peas in a pod.

Marinette: So we just stand by and let her lie?

Adrien: As long as you and I both know the truth, does it really matter?

Marinette: You're right, maybe it's not such a big deal.

Adrien acknowledges her feelings and perspective, but is mainly trying to defuse the conflict between the two of them. He already tried to defuse things on Lila’s end and that failed, so now he’s trying to do it on Marinette’s end. 

The main goal here seems to be to de-escalate conflict - which all he knows of at this point, is that Lila’s an attention seeker and a liar and Marinette hates her because she hates liars, but hasn’t actually been “wronged” beyond being asked to go to the back of the classroom because of the seating rearrangement to accommodate Lila - an issue he tried to solve by changing seats himself, a solution that neither of them would accept for reasons that wouldn’t be clear to him. 

Exposing Lila at this point would just escalate the conflict, and with what HE knows, there’s not really a good reason to do so - she isn’t hurting anyone as far as he knows, and exposing her would likely cause her to lash out, causing harm to the people around her, and damaging the chances that she might change in the future - something which at this point, he still has reason to hope for, since he hasn’t seen or heard of her doing anything especially terrible.

He does continue trying to prevent as much harm and strife to Marinette as possible at least, changing seats to be with her so she doesn’t feel alone and so that the one “thing” that to his knowledge, Lila has actually DONE to Marinette (rather than simply existing within proximity to Marinette while telling lies) has as minimal a negative impact as possible.

(Everyone sits down in their seats; Adrien sits besides Marinette at the back of the class.)

Adrien: Good for you for taking the high road, Marinette. Hey, it's pretty cool back here. 

(Marinette giggles)

Notably, once he knows that Lila IS causing harm purposely and maliciously, with Oni-Chan, he changes his approach - still in ways that minimize conflict and the potential for things to spiral out of control with hugely negative consequences, but without extending as much benefit of the doubt and without trying to get her to modify her behavior so much, since he knows it’s useless. Instead, he gives her a warning:

Adrien: Nathalie and my bodyguard got reprimanded last time because of you.

Lila: I’m sorry, Adrien. Please, I didn’t mean to.

Adrien: Lila, you can always count on me. But not if you hurt the people I love. (walks away)

He changes his approach based on the new information he’s gotten on what she’s like, knowing now that she actually IS dangerous and harmful - which is good. He doesn’t want to start a fight, but he’s still trying to minimize the damage she causes.

Honestly? I think Miraculous Ladybug showcases some really GOOD methods of conflict resolution here, with focusing on not jumping to conclusions on who’s guilty without solid evidence (even if those assumptions are usually right in this case, it’s bad practice on the whole), focusing primarily on defending the person under attack, rather than lashing out at the attacker (that can escalate the conflict and prevent a good resolution that may otherwise have been reached, plus it can be dangerous to do if the attacker is more powerful/influential than the person being attacked), and when the guilty, harmful party IS identified, trying to modify their behavior so they don’t cause the problems in the future rather than trying to tear them to shreds, and shifting gears when they’ve crossed a threshold in the harm they’ve caused, or at least have proven that they aren’t willing to attempt to change.

The emphasis is on preventing harm first and foremost, rather than inflicting punishment.

[dolphin-bouillabaisse]

GO-ctober prompts, 5

Inktober except without the ink, and with drabbles instead.

Prompt #5 - Build

(previous | next | beginning)

(find it all on Ao3)

(Note: Build - Create - it’s all relative, isn’t it? I gotta find some wriggle room for these prompts from time to time, right?)

Demons were not creators.

They were destroyers, that was more their style, raging destruction and disaster in the world. Not making things, inventing, breathing life into newfound creations. That was angel work. (Or it had been, back when things were being created, six thousand years ago and before. By now, even Upstairs was not really involved with anything close to 'creation' anymore, but at least closer to it than demons were.)

Nevertheless, Demons did not create.

Then again, Crowley had never given much of a shit about what demons did or did not supposedly do.

Crowley was good at creating. It might hint back to his former profession, of which he'd told Aziraphale only once or twice, under the influence of far more alcohol than a human would've been able to digest, but was barely enough to let a demon who'd spent the past few millenia closing up and hiding finally open up just a little.

Most of all, though, it spoke of his intense imagination (yet another very un-demonic thing, to be honest, but again – Crowley didn't care. As stated before).

He'd created an awful lot of things over the many centuries. Even at the beginning of it all, he'd snuck the strangest looking creatures into the garden when the guardians didn't look his way – Aziraphale would stumble over them while taking his tours, and look at the little things shuffling about, something always a bit off about their markings or their eyes or the way they moved, but beautiful and fascinating nonetheless. Six thousand years later, and he was still trying to figure out which were just from some poor angel having a bad day, and which were from Crowley.

“The platypus, really? That one's almost a bit too on the nose, don't you think?

“Yeah, I admit, that was mostly stuck together from random parts I had left. You know, nose and tail and webbed feet and some fur. Turned out pretty funny though, didn't it?”

“I suppose. Poor thing.”

“Hey, I gave it venom at least. That counts for something, right?”

He'd spent the early years of humanity's growth learning their various crafts, turning his imagination towards everything and anything that meant creating new things. From stone to clay to metal to fabric to paint to gemstones, there was nothing he couldn't make something out of. When the Renaissance finally came around, Aziraphale saw the demon happier than he'd ever seen him before. He turned his attention to everything at once – in true Renaissance fashion – and Aziraphale's lodgings were filled with sculptures and paintings almost as much as any of the palazzos they found themselves in as guests. When Aziraphale's own guests became too interested, Crowley's name close to becoming famous (not exactly a thing he'd get a commendation from Downstairs for, both of them suspected), the demon turned his imagination towards the more supporting role of a muse.

“You can't give him that! Humans aren't supposed to invent these things for at least another- where did you get these plans from anyway?! Did you steal them?” “Oh come off it – he's not gonna be able to build any of it properly anyway – I just wanna see what he'll do with it. The guy's bloody brilliant!” “Can't you stick to being a bad influence with his art, instead? Or his social life? Do you have to give him- do the humans really need more war machines?”

“He's already better than me at painting and sculpting. How much more do you want? And he's got the strange private life done all on his own, that wasn't my doing. C'mon, angel. Don't you wanna see a helicopter crash at least once, before they do them right in a few hundred years?”

He'd stopped sharing his creations with Aziraphale at some point – when exactly, he couldn't remember. It had all become a bit icky, seeing the angel stare lovingly at a statue that maybe had just a bit too much fluff in its golden curls, or smile at the soft curves of a pencil study that would've turned into a full painting if the angel had only sat still for a little while longer, or stroke reverently over dark satin and linens and comment on how lovely it would look on Crowley when the job from Downstairs called for a more feminine tempter again. It was a sweet mixture of joy and pain, seeing Aziraphale so enamored with his creations. It was not something he could stand for too long without the pain overtaking, unfortunately. He couldn't imagine how it would feel to see him reading one of his poems. He didn't dare.

“Really, Crowley, you just have to give this one a try. The boy is nothing but brilliant. Oh, the stories he can think of-”

“Thanks, but no thanks. You know I don't do the whole book thing, that's yours. I don't read.”

“Ah but that's the brilliant part! It's a play! And I was wondering- I mean, that is- next friday is the premiere, and dear Oscar has given me tickets, but I wouldn't know who- he was very insistent I come-”

“Oh please, like he's expecting you to come with someone, you know damn well he's just trying to get into your-”

“Crowley!”

“Fine. Alright. One play, if only to keep you from succumbing to his temptations. That'd be something now, wouldn't it? Thousands of years working with a demon, and you fall for some human making pretty eyes at you.”

Nowadays, in the calm times after Armageddon't, he'd turned towards smaller creations. The garden of their cottage was filled to the brim with his ideas quickly turned into reality, from raised vegetable beds housing plants that shouldn't be able to withstand English weather to a shed that was far bigger on the inside to a proper little picnic area complete with stone-encircled campfire that never seemed to burn out. The flowerbeds were a work of art, and so was the conservatory. While Aziraphale had finally found his own interest in creations in the kitchen, Crowley had turned their garden into his very own Eden again (safe for the weird little creatures he'd made back then, as he didn't think it would look to good on the protocol of either Heaven or Hell if some new animal showed up in the north of England of all places). And this time, no one would be banished from it (as long as they behaved).

“Adam called to say he might drop by for a visit next weekend with the rest of his friends. Apparently school will be out by then.”

“At least he's giving us a warning beforehand this time.”

“He said you were expecting him. That you were planning something in the garden?” “Oh damn, right. Didn't think he'd remember that. We were talking about putting up a treehouse, cause his parents won't let him have one. They think he'll try to sleep up there, or cause some kind of trouble with the other kids. Wouldn't put it past him, to be honest.”

“A treehouse? Where would you put a treehouse here?”

“The tree back at the wall should be sturdy enough to hold it, with a bit of occult help.”

“Really, Crowley. You're really building a fort for the Anti-Christ in an apple tree?”

It took a while, and a lot of courage, to share his creations again. Aziraphale had ooh-ed and aah-ed over anything new popping up in the garden, and spent a considerably long time reading between the flowers in the conservatory instead of his library, but Crowley still wasn't sure if he should let him see the new sketches he'd begun. Show him the warm tones of a study of hands, holding a book like a relict. The lines of a soft body hidden under even softer sheets, the precise colouring of the light dancing over porcelain skin and golden hair. None if it was as beautiful as the smile on the angel's lips, though, as he carefully leafed through the pages of the small sketchbook he'd found on Crowley's nightstand, opened only after asking for permission. Crowley was glad he'd been to groggy from waking up, too distracted by the joy of warmth and scent and sight of his angel next to him in bed, to say no.

“Oh my dear, these are wonderful. Just wonderful.”

“S'just sketches.”

“I really missed your art. Do you remember those little figurines you made back in Spain? And that shawl you gave me for the dauphin's ball, oh my heart, I have it somewhere in the back of the closet. Do you still have your drawings? I must've kept some sketches-”

“Got some leftovers. Back with the stuff from Leonardo. I think. If you wanna see them.”

“I do. We could frame some of them, put them in the study.”

“Don't think we should frame the new ones, though. For the bedroom, maybe.”

“They're not- I see what you mean, but it's not really too erotic, isn't it- more romantic, I know you don't like that word, but really, the way you've drawn these-”

“Angel.”

“Yes?”

“Would you-

Would you like to read one of my poems?”

[builder051]

If it rains I’ll wear my coat

Bad scribble sketch, but this fic demanded a doodle.  Whoa Bessie (AU featuring Trans Steve and Veteran/Amputee Bucky).  

Contains PTSD and panic attacks.

Steve’s in the middle of talking to a client when somebody knocks on his office door.  He’s set to ignore it and hope whoever it is reads and heeds the in session sign, but after two raps, the knob rattles.  Fury stands in the doorway, his phone to his ear.

The client whips around in her seat.

“It’s ok,” Steve reassures her.  “He’s my boss.”  He gives Fury a pointed look.

“Uh-huh.  Yeah.  One sec.”  Fury holds the phone against his chest as he addresses Steve.  “I’m sorry.  I know you’re busy, but I need to speak to you.  It’s urgent.”

“I apologize,” Steve tells the client as he gets to his feet.  “We’ll reschedule, and I’ll make sure you’re not billed for today.”

“Rogers.”  Fury beckons for him to follow, then resumes his call.  “Yeah, I’ll put you on speaker here in a second.”  He heads for an empty conference room across the hall and kicks away the door stop.

“What’s going on?” Steve asks, his heart thrumming as his head works out a thousand different possible situations, most involving James, and none of them good.

“Ok, you’re strong in a crisis, but try not to freak out on me,” Fury starts.  He’s a good manager, and a good man, but it’s times like these when Steve’s forcibly reminded that his supervisor’s experience lies firmly in the realm of physical health.  He respects psychiatry and counseling, but well-intended slip-ups are unfortunately common.

Steve takes a breath, acutely aware of his heart rate continuing to rise.  “Ok.”

“Local PD gives me a courtesy call when they think they’re picking up one of ours,” Fury says, sitting on the edge of the conference table.  “And, uh, today they picked up yours.”

“What?”

“Barnes was wandering around, having a breakdown, and someone called the cops.  They have protocols, but any additional insight helps.  And usually they try to follow our guidance.”

“Oh god.”  Steve’s hand instinctively comes over his mouth.  “Oh shit.”

James is on some street corner falling apart, and it’s entirely Steve’s fault.  He’s gotten lazy and lax, and now there’s a price to be paid.  Guilt hits him like a wallop to the stomach.

They stayed up too late last night.  Steve should’ve put his foot down at midnight, but something about The Rocky Horror Picture Show jogged James’s memory and he started reminiscing about college.  After a year of watching him try and fail to access the details of anything before Afghanistan, Steve couldn’t bring himself to stop him.

Then chatting turned to love-making, which turned to drowsing, which turned to nightmarish thrashing, and the spell had broken at 4:30.  They’d gone to watch TV again, this time in silence.

When Steve had set coffee and a paper cup of pills on the side table and given him a kiss on the forehead, James had looked at him and smiled before glazing over again and returning his attention to Nova.  Steve could claim sleep deprivation or excessive hope and trust, but they’re just excuses.  He should’ve stayed five extra minutes and made sure James took his meds and started the morning right.  But he hadn’t.  He’d left.

“Rogers?”  Fury raises his brows at Steve while he presses buttons on his phone.  “I got Officer Coulson on the line.  He’s a good dude.  We used to work together.”

“Hello?” A voice says from the other end of the line.

They’re on speaker.  Steve needs to pull himself together.  “Yes, hello.  This is Steve Rogers.”

“Ok, Mr. Rogers,” Coulson says.  “We’re responding to call about an individual in distress.  He’s conscious and responsive, but not able to communicate.  Behaving violently toward officers, but scared, and maybe in pain.”

“Yeah, that’s,” Steve starts.  “He does that.  He has PTSD.  He dissociates.”

“We called for an ambulance,” Coulson continues.  “It’s obvious he’s having a medical episode, but I don’t think he’ll respond any better to that—”

“Yeah, he definitely won’t.”  Steve jams his hands into his pockets, closing his fist around his keys.  “I can come get him.”

“Ok, sure.”  Coulson gives him the cross streets.

It’s around the corner from the VA, near the block of apartments where James had lived for a few months when he first returned to civilian life.  “Give me ten minutes,” Steve says.

“Sure,” Coulson replies.  “Just, do you have any form of ID for him?  Nick’s pretty sure it’s James Barnes from the description, but, like I said, he’s not talking to us.”

“Yeah, um…”  If James is that far gone, who knows if he has his phone or his wallet.  Steve wonders if James’s entry at the top of his list of contacts will count.

Fury sets his phone down on the table and quickly wakes the laptop on the podium in the corner.  He holds up one finger as he taps a few keys.  “Copy of his VA ID card is on the printer now.”

“Yeah, I do,” Steve says.  He mouths thank you to Fury.

“And you’re a family member?”  Coulson presses.  “I’m sorry, I have to ask.  Just for everybody’s safety.”

They’re close to two decades into the 21st century.  Steve shouldn’t be embarrassed to call their relationship what it is.  But even then, finding the right word is difficult.  He’s thought about it before, how challenging it is to sum up what James is to him, and he still hasn’t come to a good conclusion.  There’s no time to think now, though, so he says the simplest thing.  “He’s my partner.”  Then he adds, “I’m his emergency contact,” so there’s no space for argument.

Steve sees Fury pulling up James’s patient profile on the screen, too, the one that shows his relatives.  Steve tops the list, even though nothing binds them together but emotion.  One of the cases where water collects enough sediment and dissolved minerals to be thicker than blood.

“On the printer too.”  Fury points to the screen.  Steve nods.

“Good deal,” Coulson says.  “See you soon.”

“Ok.  Yes.  Thank you.”  Steve’s already halfway to the door before Fury returns to the table to end the call.  He can hear Coulson murmuring through the static as he fumbles with his own phone.  Steve’s coming, ok, Jimmy?  Steve Rogers.  It’s the wrong nickname.  But the right sentiment.

“Take the rest of the day,” Fury says, keeping pace as Steve jogs down the corridor to grab the documents from the office hub.  “I’ll clear your schedule.”

“Thank you.”  Steve realizes he’s not breathing, and sucks in a quick lungful.  “I’m sorry about this.”  The words tumble out, his body desperate to shed some of the stress so he can deal with the more pressing issues at hand.  “I probably could’ve prevented it.”

“Nobody sees emergencies coming.”  Fury claps him on the shoulder and holds the side door open for Steve.  “And this is well within the definition of what your sick time will cover.”

Steve’s timecard is the last thing on his mind.  “Thanks,” he says again.

“Hey.”  Fury gives him a meaningful look with his real eye while the glass one seems to stare through Steve.  “Call me if you’re gonna be out tomorrow.”

“Yeah,” Steve agrees as he walks backward toward his car.  “I will.”

Fury nods and gives him a smile.

***

The lights of the police cars are visible halfway down the block, but at least there aren’t any sirens to add to what has to already be an overwhelming amount of sensory input.  Steve pulls up to the curb and jumps out, papers shaking in his hands.

James is on his knees with his head resting on the bench at the bus stop.  His hand is fisted in his hair, and what’s visible of his face is ghostly pale.

“Are you Steve?”  An officer rushes up to meet him, interrupting his beeline.

“Yeah.”  Steve pushes the documents at him, trying to swallow his guilt and borderline panic and drudge up a calm frame of mind.

“Phil Coulson,” the officer says.  “We spoke on the phone.”

“Yeah.”  Steve can’t concentrate on him, though.  James makes an uncomfortable sound, and Steve’s stomach twists in response.  He notices the ambulance parked behind the cop cars, EMTs standing nearby.  “I think if I can just get him home…”  Plans are good, for everyone involved.  “He has a TBI.  Post-traumatic stress, a seizure disorder,” Steve explains.  “I’m pretty sure he forgot his meds this morning.”

It’s not James’s fault that he forgot.  It’s Steve’s fault. 

James groans again and mumbles something.  He blinks hard, but doesn’t look up from the bench’s chipped paint.

“Sure, we’ll stand by,” Coulson says.

Steve runs the last few steps to James’s side, but slows as he lowers himself into a squat.  “Hey, Buck.  Hey.  It’s me, ok?  It’s Steve.”

“Hm.”  James moves his jaw around, but no other sounds come out.

“Can you look at me?”  Steve hovers his hand over James’s arm.  He wants to jump straight to hugging him, but it’s better to go slow.  “I’m gonna touch your shoulder, just letting you know I’m here.”

James is too far gone to process the warning, and he lashes out as soon as Steve’s palm makes contact with his sleeve.  He catches a snag in his hair, and Steve can see strands of it clinging in the webbing between his fingers.  There’s no power behind the blow.  It glances off Steve’s chest, and he uses the opportunity to sandwich James’s hand between his own.

Coulson moves in Steve’s peripheral vision.  “We’re good.  It’s ok,” he tells the officer.  Then he gently squeezes James’s hand.  “You’re home.  Let’s bring you back, ok?”

James blinks again.  He turns his head a fraction of an inch so he can squint sideways at Steve.  There’s a second of recognition, then glassy dizziness again.  He swallows.  “I…  I don’t…” he mumbles.

“It’s ok, Buck.  You’re in DC.  It’s 2018.  It’s getting cold out.”  Steve thinks frantically of other sensory absolutes to point out, ones that won’t be further triggering.

“What’re you…?”  James shakes his head.  It starts slow, then the movement becomes a tremor, shaking his cheeks and his lips.  “You gotta…stop the fucking car…you’re gonna…hit another one…”  His voice dies with a wet sound.

“Ok, ok, Buck?  Look at me.”  But it’s no use.  He’s either going to throw up or start seizing.  James lunges away from the bench, but Steve still has his hand, and he snaps back like a stretched rubber band.  He face-plants into Steve’s chest just as he starts to gag.

Steve couldn’t care less about the mess or the dull ache from the impact of James’s forehead against his sternum.  All that matters is the twitch of tension in James’s hand as his fingers slowly interlace with Steve’s.

“Alright.  There you go.  It’s ok,” Steve murmurs.  He rubs James’s back until he’s done coughing.  “You’re safe.  I got you.”

James leans into him, pressing his face and the front of his neck and his shoulders against Steve’s body.  Steve returns the embrace, dipping his head till his nose brushes James’s back.

He doesn’t know how long they stay like that, but eventually adrenaline wears off, and Steve’s knees ache from being jammed against the cold pavement.  He strokes James’s hair and whispers, “How about we go home?”

James takes a breath.  He’s not up to talking.  Steve still gets the meaning.  He’s heavy and limp like an overcooked noodle, but at least now he’s pliant.

“Ok.  Good.”  Steve plants his feet and slowly straightens his legs, heaving James up with him.  Coulson appears at his elbow, ready to help, but Steve warns him off.  “Don’t.  I got him.”  He pulls James’s arm over his shoulders.  “Sorry.  He just—”

“Isn’t good with strangers,” the officer finishes.  “I get it.”  He looks down at the splatter of sick on Steve’s jeans.  “You need medical, or anything?”

“No, it’s ok, really.”  Steve struggles to free his keys from his pocket.  “But can you help me unlock the car?”

Coulson holds the passenger side open while Steve settles James in the seat.  “Thank you,” he sighs.  “I’m really sorry about all this.”  Steve gently shuts the door and rubs his forehead with the heel of his hand.  “We’ve usually got things better under control.”

“Hey, no worries.  Everybody’s safe, and that’s what really matters.”  The officer gives Steve the keys back, then raises his hand in farewell and heads for his cruiser.

“Yeah,” Steve breathes.  “I guess so.”

***

He drives below the speed limit, then shuffles James across the parking lot and into the apartment.  The coffee and pills from this morning are still on the table beside the couch, but they don’t get that far before James is done with being vertical.

“Whoa.  Ok.”  Steve catches him around the waist before he hits the floor and slowly lowers him the rest of the way.  James gets a fistful of Steve’s collar, yanking his neckline down a few inches and begging Steve to hold him with everything but actual words.

Steve whispers to him and rubs his shoulders and matches his breathing to James’s, imagining the puffs of warmth on his chest feeding him with a little strength that he can foster and pass back to James on the next exhale.

It works for a while, but James starts to shake again.  He makes a humming noise, and Steve feels dampness on his shirt.  At first he thinks James is sick again, but when he pulls his head back to look down, he realizes James is crying.

Tears aren’t bad.  Steve tells that to his clients all the time.  Sometimes they’re necessary.  Emotional purging works very much in the same way as its physical counterpart: sometimes things just need to come up.

“It’s ok,” Steve soothes.  “It’s ok.  You’re ok.”

James pauses sniveling to listen to Steve’s voice, but then he sobs again, air gusting from his lips and making the wetness cold against Steve’s skin.  The vomit on his leg is cold too.  But the tears that run from the corners of his own eyes are hot.  He’d hug James all day and into the night, but he also can’t take this anymore.  The physical weight of him is too much on top of the weight of the responsibility Steve feels for him.

“Let’s get you to bed, alright?”  Steve manhandles James into the bedroom as gently as he can, then unlaces his shoes and tucks him in.  He catches a teardrop with his thumb and kisses James’s stubbly cheek, promising he’ll only be gone a minute.

It takes him longer, though.  Steve stops in the hallway and fights to keep his face from crumpling.  One deviation from routine, one skipped dose, and this is already where they’re at.

It might just be a bad day.  James had had a rough night.  Maybe if he’d slept, he’d be fine.  Or if it was warmer outside.  If Steve had just stayed and watched him swallow his pills, this wouldn’t have happened.

Or maybe if Steve wasn’t always coming up behind him, he’d pick up some more self-sufficiency.  No matter how he slices it, it’s his fault.  The pressure of tears yet unshed makes Steve’s head ache, but he’ll take the pain if it saves him from falling apart.

He strips out of his jeans in the guest bathroom and leaves them in the tub, then pads down the hall in his underwear.  He grabs James’s meds and fills a glass with water.  He digs crackers out of the cupboard, then looks over the spread.  Steve’s about to take it all back to the bedroom when he changes his mind and opens the drawer of pill bottles.

The benzos don’t do much for James’s sleep patterns, so he doesn’t take them.  Occasional insomnia is a joke of a diagnosis anyway; the sleeplessness is hardly a problem compared to the nightmares that cause it.  

He doesn’t like pills that make a fuzz his head, he’d told Steve.  But James is already in a fuzz.  What he needs now is rest.  Steve does too, and he knows he won’t get any if he spends the next couple hours with his heart breaking into smaller and smaller pieces as he listens to James cry.  

There are already four medications in the paper cup, a motley collection of capsules and tablets.  Steve can add one more.  James probably won’t even notice.

***

“Here, let’s take your meds,” Steve says, helping him sit up.  It’s not a lie.  They’re all James’s meds.

James complies without question, even shoving against the mattress with his shaking arm so Steve doesn’t have to do all the work.  He knocks back the pills and swallows a few times, squinting as if it hurts.

“I’m sorry, Buck,” Steve whispers.

James slumps back toward the pillow, reaching for Steve’s hand.  “Steve,” he whispers, drawing out the name until it’s just a breath.

“Yeah.  I’m here.”  Steve forces a smile.  He perches on the edge of the mattress and watches James’s eyes drift shut.

Once he’s breathing evenly, Steve changes clothes and retreats to the kitchen.  He downs a dose of ibuprofen and shovels cold leftovers into his mouth until his throat’s too tight to swallow.  He drops his fork and folds his arms on the table.  He pushes his chair out, then buries his face in his sleeves, wondering if he’s any more put-together than James was when he was breaking down at the bus stop.  Tears aren’t bad, Steve thinks to himself.  He repeats it over a few times, just to be sure he doesn’t forget.

It’s a miracle that logic kicks back in once the weeping tapers off.  Or maybe it’s just his protective instinct playing up again.  Steve peeks in on James, and once he’s sure he’s alright for the time being, he starts a load of wash and does the dishes.

He wanted a few hours of quiet, needed it, in fact, but now it’s too quiet.  Steve opens his laptop and fires up Pandora, but after five minutes he’s out of skips. and still restless.  He calls Sam and puts him on speaker.

“Hey,” Sam greets him.  “I heard what happened.  How’s he doing?”

“He’s ok,” Steve says.  “He just dissociated.  Panicked.  Got sick.”  The need to act, to keep cleaning up, gnaws at him.  He opens a new browser and clicks through the process to order James a medic alert necklace.  “He’s asleep now.”

“Well, that’s good,” Sam says.  “I mean, that he’s getting through it.  And no seizure this time.”

“Yeah, no seizure.”  Steve stares at the computer screen, wondering how on earth this is going to help.  He’s treating James like a stray dog he’s deciding to keep for his own.  Or throwing him back to the Army, with his name on a tag around his neck.  Just with Steve’s phone number instead of a serial.

“But…it’s all my fault, Sam,” Steve whispers.  Not just today.  Everything.  James had joined the Army for Steve.  To support him.  Then, after they’d fought about it, to get away from him.  

And now Steve’s doing the same thing.  Escaping. Slipping drugs to his medically fragile significant other when he needs a break to cry.  At least James had only risked his own life when he’d signed on.  It was gallant.  Steve feels disgusting by comparison.

“Steve.  Hey.  I’m not your kind of therapist, but I’m pretty sure you’re wrong.”  Sam pauses.  “Mistaken beliefs?  Is that what they’re called?  You know I don’t always pay attention in seminars.”

Steve chuckles.  “That’s right, actually.  You’d probably make a better counselor than I would right now.”

“I’ll drop off my resumé,” Sam laughs.  “But I’m serious.  We spend so much time on our patients, our clients.  It’s hard when it’s a loved one.  And it makes it even harder when you realize your limits.”

“I just ordered him a dog tag,” Steve blurts out.  It’s suddenly hilarious instead of sad, and it makes him question his sanity a little.

“That’s a good thing.  What does it say?  ‘If lost, return to Steve Rogers’?”

“Just about.”  Steve sighs and wipes his eyes.  “I just…  I really love him, Sam.  I don’t want to hurt him.  I don’t want him to hurt.  At all.  Ever.”

“You’re doing good,” Sam says firmly.  “Not everything turns out perfect, but overall, you’re doing good.”

“Hm.”  Steve’s still not entirely convinced, but Sam’s words are reassuring.

“Do you want to order a pizza?”

“What?”  Steve wonders if he heard right.

“Since I’m applying for everybody’s job, I thought I’d add pizza delivery boy to the list.  And I didn’t want to straight-up ask if you wanted company.  Since I’m not that kind of therapist.”  Steve can practically see his friend’s grin.

“Yeah,” Steve says.  “I could use some pizza.  And company.  We could use company.”

“Alright.  See you in 20?”

“Sure.”  Steve closes his laptop.  “Sounds good.”