#just a brief snippet into Splinter's state of shock

[mischievousspooks]

Part 3 - in which Splinter struggles

Donnie was still giving out instructions, but Splinter wasn't going to wait, he was going to follow his red and blue sons and stay by Leonardo. Twice today he'd thought he might never see one of them again. The grief of it was overwhelming. He couldn't stand to let his baby blue out of his sight right now. Splinter wordlessly reached out his hands in a fruitless gesture, as though to support Leonardo as Raphael settled his broken body onto the hospital bed, rolling him out of his massive arms and onto his side. Leo’s eyebrows scrunched together a little more and he groaned quietly. It was a good sign, he was still semi-conscious, but Splinter would have preferred screaming to the weak sound that came from his son. It frightened him. His hands fluttered uselessly over the boy, looking for anything he could do, for anywhere safe to touch to comfort him, but there was nothing. All he could see was damage everywhere he looked. Especially his face…  

The expression of pain on the damaged face dulled as he held still; he even opened his eyes. He smiled for a moment at his dad's face. The smile turned into a half-hearted smirk. "No offense, pops, but you look like a drowned rat."

He was making jokes. That was also a good sign. Splinter felt a little better at the insult, he even wanted to laugh a little, but it seemed to get lost in the same haze as the rest of his thoughts. Everything was moving in slow motion. He was moving in slow motion. He didn't know who spoke, and didn't catch what they said, but he watched as Leonardo started to laugh. The laugh got suddenly cut off, a spasm of fresh pain rolling through the boy’s whole body. He curled in on himself, one of his knees pulling up towards his chest as he coughed and shuddered. Splinter again reached a hand out, uselessly. He didn’t know what to do. He was aware that there was motion around him, people talking, but he couldn't focus on anything. He thought his own body might collapse under the weight of his son's pain. Leonardo tried to speak again, to Donatello this time, but couldn't even get the whole sentence out before he started coughing violently, blood spitting across the bed and spilling out of his mouth. Splinter was nearly frantic now, looking around the room for any kind of help, guidance, anything. Casey was a shining beacon in the darkness that was closing in. Splinter focused in on him taking charge. But when Casey told him to do something that would require leaving the room, he couldn't move. He needed to help, but he couldn’t take even a single step away from his boy if he might be lost… again. 

Barry entered his field of view. He looked at the sad, soggy rat man for a moment. "Lou, you take the gauze and stay with Leonardo. I will go fetch the human."

That was exactly what he needed. Finally, something to do to help. Instructions he could follow. He silently thanked Barry for seeing him in this moment. For helping him stay with his boy. For being here with them now. He was truly grateful.

[whoisthispersonwow]

1.4K words: wip, snippet. Buck and Bucky reconnect after some times after the war, and Gale is shocked to learn that John is married: they go outside, and feel like the other is a stranger, despite having spent 3 years of their existence with him. That's it, that's the pitch! enjoy! (ps: keep in mind that this is a WIP, english is not my first language, and i'm trying really hard ok-)

tw: alcoholism, mentions of nsfw

The toothpick feels rotten in Gale’s mouth as it twists around, sweeping against sharp molars. Bucky’s smell tickles his nostrils, a bitter mix of whiskey and cold tobacco, the hot breath of a drunk man. The whole ordeal feels sour, a pitiful improvised play between two strangers that used to sleep in the same bed, miserably clutching to any sort of normalcy. Grass tickles Buck’s fingers, the blades embedded with thick drops of rain and rendering the back of his trousers wet in something akin to discomfort. During the war, John had never been one to care about those things: he would laugh and pull on Gale’s sleeve until the other Major followed him to the ground, always amused at best, neutral at worst, but certainly never rebutted by anything filthy. Buck looks at the way the man stands propped on his elbows, muscled arms shining with sweat and naked ankles anchored to the floor as he comfortably lies almost entirely on the drenched ground: and a part of him feels pride, seeing that this is a part of Bucky that did not change, that he still knows. 

There is a space between the two of them, and it registers as wide as the ocean they had to cross to get to England to Gale. It is a divide that should not be there in the first place, one that he desperately wants to fill as if it would make him forgiven. Despite his discomfort, Gale has always known to respect John’s space. He knows it is not his place to move closer in any way, not this time. Still, it feels wrong for them to be this far from one another, and Buck is reminded of the morning of the day he went down: the numbness in his chest he had felt when Bucky had not been there to briefing, not there to greet him as he climbed up his fort on that wet tarmac, not even there to pat his shoulder, easy as breathing, and tell him to be home for dinner as he always did when he did not fly, grinning from ear to ear but eyes full of the worry of a man who has already lost too many friends. In a way, it had hurt less to be this far from one another when the war was the one thing that kept them away from one another: Bucky had managed to get his way back to him across England and into Germany, for them to spend the rest of the war together, and Gale has managed to loose his best friend when the man lived one state away. Shameful, truly.

“— Cat got your tongue?”

Buck bites hard on the splintering toothpick, wood chipping against his tongue. His head spins to see Bucky already looking at him, intent and unreadable. There is something that reminds Gale of England, in the wetness of John’s mustache and upper lip, the way he licks the chapped skin while suckling on his saliva: and, as it always has, it elicits a disgusting sloshing noise that has Buck refraining from frowning in disapproval. But it’s just the two of them, and the silence of the night makes him remember that there are no songs to make them go back to Thorpe Abbotts, no brotherly arms wrapped around their shoulders as everyone laughs and shouts, no affectionate playfulness carving the  features of John’s face. His jaw is tense, the muscles of it flexing as his tongue swirls around his mouth, sweeping across his front teeth: Gale focuses on the way it makes them gleam, still pearly white despite all those years of smoking. 

Even John's eyes have lost their warmth, their homely feel that had always eased and led Gale to relax: he looks at them now, red and puffy, their edges roughened by exploding blood vessels that stand out when he looks up at the sky to avoid looking at him. Gale had seen John drunk more than a few times: it was a social endeavor for him, one that made him all baritone voice and gentle pats on the waist, open smiles and kind eyes. Upon coming back, Rosie had told him that Bucky had started drinking when Buck had been declared MIA at first, then every time he started to feel a little blue. To Gale, the relationship that John had with addiction limited itself to harmless little bets and gambles. When he sees him now, he realizes that, perhaps, he had never wanted to face the truth; Gale had never expected to look into his best friend’s eyes and see them covered by the glassy veil only a drunk alcoholic can muster. And Gale is convinced, deep down, that, if he didn’t know any better, he would have thought he was looking straight into his father’s misty eyes after a bad race.

“— You know…” And Gale doesn’t know, feels like he knows nothing of Bucky anymore, but remains silent. “I never thought I would get married. Was never the settling type, you know? I just didn’t see it, for me. Why only get one girl, when I can get a new one every night? Why bother at all, get into all this trouble of dating and meeting in-laws and so on, when I could just get into a bar and fuck into a girl by the end of the night if I was lucky?” He shifts with a small grunt, heavy body gliding against wet grass without a care in the world for the stains rubbing his thighs against the ground would certainly cause. “But then I came back, and guess what Buck,” the name feels heavy as his lips curve around the syllables, as loaded as it is sacred. “I realized that once the war was over, my way of living, uh, well, it didn’t matter. Now that it’s all done, no one cares enough to fuck just for fun, forgetting in the morning and leaving a trail of hickeys on a stranger, because everyone clings desperately to a pretence of normalcy and prays to God that it becomes reality. And it does.” He pushes on his elbows, looks right at Gale as he does, eyes unfocused and perhaps a little lazy: he frowns, trying to convey how serious he is, Buck supposes. “And I decided that with or without you as my side as a friend, Gale, I deserved to try. I deserved to have a beautiful wife at home who pops out children for me chastise, who sucks my dick as she kneels in the kitchen and is delighted, like it’s a privilege to be performing her marital duty. I deserve it, and it doesn’t matter how I felt  about this whole type of life in the first place. I had to get it, one way or another. I just had to, you know, either that, or dying alone like a fucking coward who accomplishes nothing, leaves nothing of himself on this God forsaken Earth, not even a fucking wife to cry him. And if I had chosen to do that, then why would I have even bothered surviving the war at all, uh? Why not just get my head chopped off by a piece of burning flak in the cold belly of a B-17? It could have been a quick death too, I betcha I wouldn’t have felt nothing. But it didn’t happen that way, so why did I survive, if not to try to be happy?” His mouth quivers, a subtle thing that he tries to hide by looking away, biting into his lower lip with force: Gale notices anyway. “Fuck, after everything, I just wanted for it to be gone, bury myself deep in a woman and forget I even have a name as she screams it. When anyone talks about war, I wanna be as numb as a fucking corpse, feel nothing as if I didn’t drop bombs for a living for God knows how long, just go on and live a normal, happy life. The entire country is moving on, and so am I. After those god awful three years, I deserve to be happy, Gale, don’t I? And I am, now.” He snorts, inhales sharply. “I am.” He adds, as if the words had run out of his mouth, voice smaller. And Buck, for all he trusts Bucky with everything he has, does not believe him.

[hookaroo]

Vocivore, Ltd. (45 of 46)

Also on FFN and AO3 (ListerofTardis)

Tagging @ouatwinterwhump, @killian-whump, @sancocnutclub, @killianjonesownsmyheart1, @courtorderedcake, @facesiousbutton82 <3

***THE MOST WONDERFUL, HEARTBREAKING, and BEAUTIFULLY WHUMPY COVER ART BY @cocohook38 HERE and HERE!!!!!!!!!*************

***Chapter 12 animation and art that will absolutely astound you!!!!!!!!!**********

***LETHAL Chapter 19 art in all of its BLOODSTAINED GLORY!!!!************

**POOR STABBED KILLIAN falling into the sheriff station! Ch. 7 & 23 art!!**

****KILLIAN AND HIS MASTER IN THE GORGEOUS CATHEDRAL!!!!!!!!!!!!    CHAPTER 1 ART THAT KILLS ME EVERY TIME I SEE IT!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!*********

*CH 34 ART! A DEFEATED KILLIAN, HEAD BOWED BEFORE HIS MASTER!!*

***CH 36 ART! DETECTIVE JONES BOWS BEFORE HIS NEW MASTER!!!!!!***

***AAAAHHHH!!! THANK YOU MY WONDERFUL COCONUT FRIEND!!!!!!***

________________________________________________________________

Present (Thursday)...

Zzzzzzzz…

Shave day.

Killian had only to close his eyes to be transported back there. That dreadful hovel with its table of pain. Those callous hands dragging a dull-edged blade along his jaw. And nothing ahead of him but more suffering. No hope.

Focus on the differences. Warm, soft bed, no splintered, uncomfortable wood. Blankets and a gown instead of cold nudity. The din of automation replacing the scratchy ring of imprecise steel. Similar pungent disinfectant but less decay, less blood and pain and fear. And, most important, gentle touch. No intent to hurt or degrade. Only meticulous, loving care from the one person on Earth he trusted without reservation. 

“Holy crap,” teased Emma, “I think we need to get Whale to put a sign on your door warning that there's a handsome pirate inside.”

Knowing that he still looked like a wreck despite a neatly trimmed beard, he played along for her sake. “And what would its purpose be, to entice eligible nurses inside, or warn them away from his jealous bride?”

“I don't mind them looking,” smiled Emma. “What's the point of having a gorgeous husband if a girl doesn't show him off every once in awhile?”

Killian clenched his teeth as a wave of violent shivering overtook him; to a casual observer it would have appeared as if he were suddenly chilled to the bone despite climate-controlled surroundings and the layer of blankets draped atop him. Through nauseating pain, he heard Emma lay aside the razor and felt her grip his elbow in solidarity.

Whale remained hesitant to classify them as seizures, stating that the corresponding brain activity did not match any known convulsive disorder and responded to none of the anticonvulsant drugs they’d tried. Of course, that didn't rule out the possibility of eventual development into actual seizures, as most of the slave fatalities had experienced just before their deaths.

Killian had managed to catch snippets of conversations, grave tones and sobering words that betrayed what they seemed to be trying to hide from him. He would probably have guessed on his own, anyway, with his worsening state mirroring the course of the slaves who had preceded him in death. Sometimes he was able to comprehend what a shame it was, for him to have survived so long only to succumb now, when peace had returned to his home. In those moments he tried to take solace in the thought that he'd been granted more cherished memories with his wife and daughter, without a threat hanging over them, when he could focus on lavishing them both with the fierce love he felt for them. Emma would remember. Hope... he liked to think she would.

None of that mattered in the moment, though, as quivering muscles shocked every single inflamed nerve ending into high gear, enveloping him in a fog of inescapable agony.

Emma met his watery gaze with a sad, stiffly calm smile, and he read the desolate grief in her forged reassurance even as he realized that the attack was finally subsiding.

"Morphine?" she asked quietly, but he shook his head. Hope would be coming by for a visit soon, and he wanted a clear mind for her.

Her grip on him relaxed by degrees as some of the tension drained away from his body.

“I'm so sorry, Killian,” she whispered. “If only we could somehow bring magic back. I might not be able to stop these attacks, but I could at least heal your wounds and prevent some of this pain.”

She sniffled and before Killian could summon the breath to respond, she continued, 

“It doesn't make any sense; I mean, we thought it was related to the Vocivore, but maybe we're wrong, ‘cuz it seems like we should have found something by now…”

“I have something to report about that,” came Regina’s voice from the doorway. “But you’re not going to like it.”

Emma turned with a weary expectancy, and Regina stepped inside. She was the very picture of classic irritated aloofness, but she did glance at Killian and say,

“Sorry for barging in like this.”

"You found something?" demanded Emma, and Regina stopped at the foot of the bed. Her scowl could whither the blossoms off an apple tree.

"It's those damn pigeons."

"The... pigeons," repeated Emma slowly. In his mind's eye, Killian saw a ragged pink feather coated in slime; white, powdery droppings splattered on chancel cobbles; black and amber irises reflecting nothing but pure animal instinct. He heard the trilling cooing that had been the quiet backdrop for many a scream, memories as clear as if the blasted birds were right there in the room with him.

"Those ridiculous pink pigeons, Sheriff Swan," Regina confirmed, completely oblivious to Killian's uneasiness. "I cannot fathom how, but they're the ones responsible for the magical shielding. Pesky vermin."

Emma looked unconvinced, and Killian wanted to agree, but considering how the birds seemed inextricably linked to the Vocivore's presence, perhaps the idea wasn't so farfetched.

"Regina, are you sure? They're just dumb birds. How can they possibly block magic?"

"I'm... still working on that," admitted the queen. "But I know I'm right. Did you hear about those hooligans who set off the fireworks in front of City Hall this morning? Right in the middle of an inter-realm council meeting?"

"David filled me in, yeah; said he thought it was some Lost Boys from the Wish Realm."

"Well, as disruptive as it was to the meeting, it was a hundred times worse for our feathered friends. They took off like their tails were on fire and made for the Enchanted Forest or... Madagascar or somewhere; trouble was, they're too stupid to remember that for long, and they were back within 10 minutes. But in that time, there was a brief window in which I could almost access my power; it was there, just on the edge of awareness, just out of reach." She made a growl of frustration, both hands tightly fisted. "I thought for a second that the shield was collapsing for good, without us having to do anything about it, but wouldn't you know, we're stuck with our usual luck again."

Regina looked like she'd rinsed her mouth with lemon juice as she continued ranting. "The first bird to come back, while we were still searching the area for any unexploded fireworks? A pigeon. A fat, iridescent pink pigeon. And that's when I made the connection."

"Well, I've been saying we needed to get an exterminator, but just because you saw one doesn't necessarily prove that they're the culprits."

"I think she may be right," Killian said with another shiver. "They were... fairly strongly bonded with the Master. Sometimes would even ride on its shoulders." He cringed as the haunting outline of the beast filled his imagination, complete with winged companions, its tentacles pulsating as they reached toward him....

"And we have only recently started noticing them around Storybrooke," added Regina. "Just about the same time as magic failed. They’re remarkably distinctive, and I remember being surprised the first time I saw one."

"I don't see the connection," Emma began, still doubtful. "But it can't hurt to check it out. So say it is the pigeons. What's the next step?"

"That's the bad news." Regina glanced at Killian in apology. "It won't be a quick fix. Short of poisoning them, or making the town somehow inhospitable to birds in general--both of which are options that I can't see our critter-loving neighbors approving of--we're down to trapping and relocating each one individually, or trying to figure out what exactly gives them the ability to block magic. And either way, it's going to take time." She folded her arms, waiting for questions, but Emma and Killian were quiet, mulling over the situation. "I've tasked Robin with the job of bringing one to me for study. Don't tell your mother."

Killian was only half listening as a whole movie's worth of scenes replayed in his head. Pigeons, pigeons everywhere. He felt foolish for not noticing their conspicuousness before, but, of course, he did have other things to worry about at the time. 

He felt his spirits sinking impossibly lower as the consequences of the news took shape. No quick solution would mean no magical healing. He'd be stuck in this infernal hospital, recuperating in the conventional way, spending whatever time he had left uncomfortable and in pain. Somehow, the Master had managed to orchestrate continued torture for him; even in death, it was having the last laugh at his expense.

"Pigeons," scoffed Emma. "Pigeons and a crab. Who would have guessed?" Seeming to sense Killian's dark musings, she stroked his cheek with her thumb. "Sorry, Killian. This sucks."

"They must have evolved together," muttered Regina absently. "Developed some kind of symbiosis; they shield the Vocivore, and it gives them, what, shelter? Protection from predators?"

"Blood," realized Killian suddenly. The inspiration had come out of nowhere, a thought buried deep within his subconscious that had burst unbidden into full awareness. He'd only ever seen it out of the corner of his eye, with no attention to spare, his own misery and how long he'd been given before the next Session at the forefront, always. But there they were. Pink bodies fluttering to earth, a writhing mass behind him as he left the church, squabbling among sticky smears and warm pools, dipping dainty beaks, plunging belly-first in some macabre bathing ritual…

Then outside. They would be strutting through the gutters, congregating near fresh corpses while his tunnel vision kept him limping in the direction of Z's cottage, never truly seeing how beady little eyes sized him up even as blood-crusted heads burrowed into decaying flesh in search of more nourishment.

"Um... what?!"

Killian returned to reality to find Emma and Regina staring at him with matching expressions of revulsion.

"The pigeons, they... they seemed to fear the noise and, f-for the most part, remained in the rafters... during..." He hesitated, winced, then carried on with great effort. "But afterward... the Master didn't care about the stains on the floor, yet I never saw fresh blood when I first arrived. I... I think the pigeons... consumed it."

Killian thought he might vomit. Both of his visitors seemed to share the feeling.

"Okay, that's... disgusting."

Regina gulped and plastered on a weak smirk. "So. ‘Carrion’ pigeons. I wonder if their feathers are just stained, then, or if they turn pink from some substance in the blood they eat, similar to flamingos."

"Gross," moaned Emma. She took a sip of her bottled water. "But hold on a sec. If they're so fond of... that... then why did they make their way all the way to Storybrooke? There's way less... that... around here."

"Guess they can do without it. Or maybe they live off roadkill out here."

"Overcrowding?" suggested Emma, answering her own question. "Better nesting sites?"

"Would have made an intriguing Exchanges topic." Killian cringed at the thought. "Had I known to ask."

An uncomfortable silence descended upon the trio, until finally, Regina grunted her irritation at the whole thing.

"Well, I can try to confirm all of this once I get my hands on one of those little pests. Guess it's good to finally be getting some answ-"

"Mr. and Mrs. Hook, get your Thank-You cards ready; I've just-" Dr. Whale paused when he noticed Regina in the room. "Oh. Your Highness."

"Victor."

Whale caught Killian's glower and smirked. "What's that look for?"

"I'd explain but I'm still recovering from that utter shipwreck of a salutation."

"Sounds like you're feeling better. Guess I'm wasting my time, then, working around the clock?"

"Did you have something to tell us, Whale?" Emma's feigned irritation fooled no one--it was obvious she anticipated more important news.

"We've had a bit of a breakthrough, thanks to the data gleaned from you and Detective Jones." The physician held up a cautionary hand. "Results look promising, but this is by no means a sure thing, and there's no guarantee of long-term success. We'll of course continue to tweak it as we go along, but for now I think Killian could benefit from an initial dose as soon as possible."

"You think you've found a cure, then?" clarified Regina.

"A therapy," he corrected. "To slow the degeneration and maybe, eventually, reverse it. Tested on some lab animals, then this morning on two rescued slaves who were near death. They seem to be doing better." He pulled a hand-labeled vial from his pocket and set it on a table with a flourish. "The FDA would burn my license and probably toss me into prison for this. Good thing none of us officially exist."

As Killian stared at the little container of clear fluid onto which, suddenly, all of their hopes were pinned, he was struck with unexpected anxiety. It was all well and good when there was nothing that could be done, his fate seemingly sealed. Now that there was a reported chance, he wanted nothing more than for it to work. He wanted to live, to be a husband and father, to watch Hope grow and be there for her. The vial represented that future... and what if it didn't work?

Whale took Killian's silence as reluctance, and he sighed. "Yeah, I can't guarantee its safety either, or provide you with a list of possible side effects. Just that for you, with your weird, extra barrier that we still don't entirely understand, I'd like at least the first few doses to be administered directly into the CSF, and we do know the risks and side effects of lumbar puncture. But, well... listen, if it were me or a loved one in your position, I would still say that we need to try something, because the risks don't matter once the condition becomes terminal. Make sense?"

"None of that is in question," said Killian slowly. Then he flashed a short, tired smile at the physician, radiating self-deprecation. "Believe it or not, I actually do trust your medical expertise. I was only... praying for its success, I suppose."

Whale looked genuinely touched, for a fleeting instant. But soon enough his cocky demeanor was back. "You're right: I'm not sure I do believe it. I'm gonna take that admission as another symptom and then we can just carry on the way we always do."

He tossed some forms at Emma, ordering,

"Read and sign for him. Assuming you want to go through with it, we'll be back shortly to perform the procedure."

He left in a swirl of white lapels, muttering a polite farewell to Regina on his way. The queen turned back to Killian and Emma, wearing a slightly uncomfortable grin.

"Well. Good news, then. Or, a seed of hope, at least." She brushed invisible dust off her jacket and made other I'm-about-to-leave cues.

"Yeah. Thanks for filling us in about the pigeons." Emma glanced down at her phone, and a tiny frown creased her forehead. "Although you could have just called me."

Squirming, Regina blustered,

"I... thought the news would be better delivered in person. And... well... maybe there's a... small part of me that wanted to see how Killian was doing."

"That's most appreciated," said Killian. "Thank you."

Regina nodded stiffly, shot an, "I'll keep you informed," then exited.

Killian gritted his teeth through another bout of shivers--thankfully shorter this time--and when he could open his eyes again it was to find Emma watching in sympathy.

"Hope that's over with for now. You don't wanna be doing that while they're trying to stick a needle into your spine."

Throbbing and aching, Killian grimaced. He needed a distraction. "Everything okay, love?" he growled. "You were rather tight-lipped toward the end there."

It was then that he noticed the tear tracks staining her face.

"Emma?"

She lay aside the consent forms and wiped at her cheeks. "I've been so scared, Killian. Starting a month ago, but it hasn't stopped even with your rescue. I... well, Whale's been pretty pragmatic about your condition, and... truth is... I was starting to prepare myself to lose you." She caught two droplets before they had a chance to fall. "I mean, how horrible is that? You aren't even gone yet and I'm coaching myself to start saying goodbye."

She started to reach for his hand but stopped and gripped his wrist instead.

"That's human nature," he pointed out. "I've been doing it, too."

Her eyes glistened with sad questions. "We didn't... I mean, Whale thought that..."

"No, no one's told me anything; not before now at any rate. No one had to."

Emma leaned forward to kiss his cheek gently, brushing back some stray hair as she murmured,

"I'm sorry, Killian. Shoulda known better than to give up so soon."

His eyes found the vial, which Dr. Whale had left on the table. "Do you think it will work?"

"It has to," she said simply. "If nothing else, to give us more time. And you know... Whale's kinda the expert at this sort of thing, even if his attitude leaves something to be desired."

Killian was tiring rapidly; it had been one hell of an afternoon, and this was the most he'd participated in a conversation since his rescue, if not longer. But he still had one final question before hopefully catching a nap between interruptions.

"Whale mentioned 'data,' gleaned from you and Jones. Did I hear that correctly?"

Emma waved a dismissive hand. "Just a couple of tests he did on us; no big deal."

"You subjected yourselves to becoming his laboratory animals, all on my account?"

"And to help the other rescued slaves." She flashed him a twinkling grin, which softened into loving fondness. "But... yeah, mostly for you."

"Thank you, Emma, truly."

She graced him with a quick kiss, saying,

"You're welcome, and like I said, no big deal, and that's all we're gonna say about that." Noticing his heavy eyelids, she smoothed an eyebrow and then sat back. "We better do that paperwork before you fall asleep. Want me to hold it up so you can read it, or I could read it aloud to you..."

"Don't bother about it, love," he murmured. "You can read them yourself if you'd like, but I think we both know that there isn't much they could say that would change our views on the matter."

Killian cast his eyes on Hope's artwork once more before succumbing to his weariness. Perhaps it would guard his dreams and bring positive thoughts from here on out. Because now that he had a fighting chance at survival, healing his psyche had suddenly become that much more important, and it would most definitely be a longer road than the not-insignificant path to physical health.

Would he be up to the challenge?

________________________________________________________________

AN: Well, obviously I failed to get this posted quickly enough. Blame @cocohook38​ and @lillpon​ for killing me in their own wonderful ways :) Less than 36 hours til I’m on the plane to Ireland!!! Sorry to make you wait for the conclusion! It’s really not that long of a trip, though. I should be back to somewhat functional by July 10 :D

I’m looking for some milestone that gives me an excuse for “Winter Whump” to have lasted this long... XD The closest I’ve come is that I probably had the first inklings of what the premise would be sometime last summer, as sign-ups for the event closed June 30, 2018. So the final chapter will be released approximately 1 year later. *Shrug* Best I can do.

[lackadaisical-pottymouth]

Aphasia! AU

Brocas, Wirneckes. A mess around with the blackout phenomena. 

Fandom: Birdmen

-- is a change in perspective

xx is a change in snippet

Brocas.

Consciousness returned with the whistles of cold wind, and threads of sunset spilled in from the bus window to his right. Eishi’s breath stuttered, unfamiliar with the chilly burst that filled his lungs. He curled inwards, pulling his school coat tighter around trembling arms. Someone had left a window open.

A low hiss gritted through his teeth. He drew in two more, equally shaky breaths, reluctant to do so much as move from his grainy bus seat-turned bed despite the creeping chill freezing his limbs in place.

He sneezed and it echoed on the walls. Again and he brought a sleeved hand to wipe angrily at the itchy spot beneath his nose. It was then that he opened his eyes to take in the overhead rails, the distinct lack of passengers in the surrounding seats.

Karasuma rose quickly. He was awarded a heavy thud to his head for his efforts. 

Scrambling to the offending window, Eishi pressed his fingers against the cool surface as panic did terrible things to his insides. Bile rose in his throat as his fears manifested--he stared out to a seaside bus stop.

He’d fallen asleep.

Thoughts splintered then. Why hadn't he been woken up? Surely the driver would've seen him. Flittering fingers searched for his belongings. He tangled his legs in the straps of his bag and landed with a collosal thud. The surly boy would have frowned, but urgency ran deeper than displeasure and he quickly rose up and out of the vehicle.

Cold embraced him, and the sloppy spray of salty kisses from the nearby ocean flirted with his sinuses.

Reluctantly awake, Eishi sneezed, then coughed. The silence seemed to echo it back to him and he scowled, thoroughly displeased. He licked his lips, swallowed in vain. God, he was thirsty. The crash of water mocked him, resounded haughtily from empty corners.

He pushed till he was sitting, feeling the pricks of icy sand shift under his hands. He coughed again, still eerily silent. He fumbled for his glasses, the boring round rims that had been a constant through his childhood--likely the rest of his life. They were near where his head had been.

Putting them on shed no light on his situation. The watery waves stretched out as far as he could see, and behind him was an unforgiving limestone ledge. A burst of light chirped warmly in the distance. He stood, swatting idly at his pants. The sand shifted but did not fall.

Eishi frowned and started towards the light.

Memory served that he’d skipped the last periods of his classes. He recalled scaling the high gates of his school, landing with a thud on hard sidewalk, then taking off. All else was withered by an aggravating haze--a gift, he supposed, for somehow falling asleep on a beach.

His shoes made crunching noises as he padded to the distant lights. He coughed again, once, twice, but the world seemed indifferent to him. He was the ant before the tidal wave, the grass before the bulldozer, the sand beneath dirty Nikes. His steps did not so much as echo.

Perturbed now, he moved faster. His mind made quick work filling the silence, convincing himself that he was not afraid, he was worried, and there was a difference.

Besides, reasoned his impertinent rationality, it was getting late. If he lingered any longer, his mother would be home and there were much better wastes of time than listening to half-hearted lectures. Worse, she could try talking to him. Ugh.

Eishi clicked, pulling on his coat once more.

--

They turned out to be light posts. Twin sentinels, tall with a wash of rust and peeling paint. Their amber glow, warm and comforting against the settling frost, stole his attention. Behind him crashed morose waves. The wind had abandoned this place.

He stared, a momentary moth to their flame. Brief dancing flickers were entrancing, and for an ephemeral eternity, he wanted for nothing but to stay there, to sleep. He’d scale the post to come closer to it. Then, with fragile delicacy from frozen fractals in the shape of fingers--

The bulb in his mind shattered and Eishi blinked away splinters of crystal glass. He came back into attention. Cold settled heavily on his shoulders, grounding. Stairs. Home. The sky was dim, the pale green hue of sunset long gone. He snuck back into his coat, unsettled.

He took the stairs two at a time, hissing sharply at their edges when he mistepped and they nicked at his toes.

On concrete now, Eishi allowed himself to look around. Familiar trees obscured his view of what he knew would be paltry starry skies. There were no cars, no pedestrians, as if in a hasty exit they’d been all swept away. The night world shrouded him in a silence that seemed to settle on his bones. It wasn’t often he was out so late, however ‘late’ it ended up being.

A spire across the street to his right proudly presented dark Roman numerals on a sickly green surface. He ignored the feeling that there was something missing, a car, a person idling on the ugly concrete slab that passed for a bench beside it. It was seven. He bit his cheek instead of wincing, balled his hands in the fabric of his pockets. The hell had he been doing for--six hours?

Sleeping. He’d been sleeping.

His brow furrowed. Eishi frowned.

He turned sharply, faster now. A familiar bubble roused in his stomach, spread hungrily in time with the chill eking into his skin. A breadtrail of emptiness followed behind him where there should have been echoes.

xx

Wirneckes

The bells on his belt jingled loudly as he moved, white noise to his actions as he meticulously counted coins. It was overpriced as far as he was concerned--bordered on daylight robbery, really-- but he assumed it would be worth it if it would ease the tightness of his throat.

Eishi allowed himself to breathe as he surveyed his stack of loose change. Just a moment, though, and then he pushed it closer to the mountain of notes and change already taking residence on the counter. Tired fingers pressed around the bottled water he’d bought with sidewalk coins.

He dared not make eye contact with the attendant or the elderly woman she chatted with. He'd learned that lesson already, thank you very much, and once was more than enough. Unnerving seemed the least of the words to describe the bizarre vertigo that accompanied the screaming silence.

He really, really needed that water.  

Eishi turned heel, feeling his face burn. Like a criminal, fe fled the scene, eager to be away from statues of people frozen. The outside greeted him with a most frigid indifference, the sun in the same spot it had been the last time he bothered to look at it. A scowl glowered on the edges of his lips and he began to move.

He weaved through a disorder of statuesque bodies, much the same as he’d done on school day mornings and lunchtimes. He clicked at them, disapproving of their outstretched limbs and freeze-framed antics. The incredible mundanity of it all irked him deeply, sent his skin crawling with heat.

A clock nearby had frozen on 12:30pm. He clasped his fingers around his belt, felt ease ripple with the soft jingling. Then he continued in his pilgrimage, his head low and avoiding the sea of inevitable deadpan stares. In a way that made him feel uncomfortable, it was no different from any other day.

At one point he stopped, a light catching his eyes. Suddenly there was something present in his bones, in his stomach. Something awful that froze He stared up at the semi that returned the favour by looming ahead. For a moment it seemed as though time had stopped and he was in his last.

Then he realised that time had stopped, and the feeling faded quickly to something of indifference. He walked around it.

Recognition hit him like a truck and he almost ran away, but the same thing kept him rooted, dug his feet into the grey concrete like shackles around his ankles. A matching case of wordless shock crushed his lungs, stole his breath. His eyes were trained forward.

There, on her shoulder. With the pink frills and eye-straining highlights. The ugly brown bag she kept at her side. She liked it because she believed it made her look young. Thought he, more than once, it was a lost cause and a fruitless endeavour. Her youth was long gone. Same went for the short heels she forced her feet into despite being a size too small.

He remembered them.

Her head was tilted upwards, obscured by an over-large sunhat. Ridiculously so, much too big for her head. She probably thought it looked cute. Eishi followed her vision to a lone dark spot in the ocean of blue. A plane froze, several idle feet above them.

Slowly, his eyes returned to her, to the halo of angry black-tinted cloud that surrounded her. He knew they were his, had acquired matching ones from the bus driver, from the store owner that was often witness to his truancy. But these were different.

They seemed to him, in that frozen pod of time and space, like manacles. One ghosted near her arm, another around her leg. Others still seemed to press heavily on her shoulders, her back. Spikes extended from them, oppressive things that hovered just above, breaths away from contact with skin clad in try-hard office wear.

Eishi froze. Time moved like crystal shards, seconds shattering against each other in splendid discordance. Time moved with ungraceful bounds, lurching and then stopping. Time moved in a stream of  fragile droplets, despite somehow never moving at all.  

His others hummed at his sides, the unknown force still attaching them to him. He blinked, once, twice, in a moment that seemed to stretch forever. His mother continued to stare past him. He risked a glance backward, just a quick peek to see if maybe the plane had moved.

Maybe, thought some part of him, an angry mix of emotions that had no name but froze him nonetheless, maybe time had begun to move again.

The picture frame world had not. It remained as it had before he had turned, in that state of brisk desertion.  

The trees were still stuck in place, a firm hold on whatever they’d been gossiping about. Obnoxious crows were frozen, their wings extended and grasping greedily for altitude that wouldn’t come. The world seemed all at once indifferent to him, yet glaring from the corner of metaphysical eyes.

Eishi frowned, annoyance rousing where nausea dwelt. Something twisted in his stomach, something he did not name. Of course they hadn’t moved. Nothing moved when it wasn’t supposed to.

A wave of nauseau almost sent him running, backpedalling through the frozen world to a place where it was safe and away from her.

At this he stomped his feet. Because he hadn’t moved in a while. Because the silence was starting to niggle at his eardrums. Because he could.

Muscle memory should’ve dictated what happened next: he would reach out, draw the things to him, and then leave. Muscle memory failed him.