#mental health problems

[kiindr]

friendly reminders:

you don't have to be productive every day

you are worthy even if all you did today was get out of bed

there are people out there who care about you

your existence makes a difference

if something bothers you, then it bothers you. no one has the right to tell you otherwise

you are allowed to take up space

there is no 'right way' to grieve

you cannot put a time limit on emotions

your likes and interests are valid and they matter

it's okay to take your time in doing things. not everyone can do everything at the same pace

[rippersz]

ᴀ ꜰᴏᴏʟ'ꜱ ᴅᴇᴀᴛʜ

---

---

(Brienne of Tarth x Named Reader; Angsty; Hurt/Slight Comfort) (TW: Suic*de attempt; Suic*dal ideations/thoughts; Slight Romanticization of mental illness)

---

“An autumn whisper between the maples kept urging: Die with me.” ~ Anna Akhmatova

---

A Fool’s Death.

That’s what they call it.

A Fool’s Death. You’re a coward if you do it. You’re a lazy bastard if you live with thoughts of it. You’re a selfish prick of a soul either way.

There’s no winning and there’s no losing. There’s no talk of it. Not even a mention. Not even a whisper. And if there is, you are spoken of. Judged. Scrutinized until The Fool’s Death becomes your death. Until the village and its people and everyone in your family are forced to spit upon your narcissistic bones and claim you disowned even though there is nothing left to claim and nothing left to disown. Just a corpse that is cold and dull and useless.

Cold and dull and useless.

You think that’s how you’ll do it.

Winter has already carried her snow and chill and winds into the region, laying it all upon the land like a warm blanket around a small child’s body. Painting everything white and leaving it to glisten to sludge beneath the eventual heat of the spring sun. A perfect time for rebirth. A perfect time for death.

—

Your hands shake as you slowly pull open the door to your quarters, wincing while it creaks and groans, forcing you to stop every time a noise rings out into the empty hall. Your heart, pounding away in your ears, ruins your sense of hearing while you stand like a statue within your own doorway. Anxiety slips through your bones. Fear pulls at you. The last desire you have is to wake everyone in the castle and call attention to yourself. No, having eyes and ears on you while you lay in the snow and wait for the freeze to set in is less than ideal. A Fool’s Death, after all, is never A Fool’s Death if done with company.

So once you decide that the corridors are empty and you can slip out through the back entrance into the kitchens, you do exactly that. A singular torch is lit, burning away within its stone perch, nearly beckoning you closer with its dancing flame. You trail toward it and stop there, watching it for a moment, reveling in the last bit of warmth that your skin will ever feel. You know that some hours later, when the moon is long gone and the clouds block the sun and the stars keep themselves veiled, you will no longer be able to feel fire. You will no longer be able to feel ice. You will no longer be able to feel the breath in your lungs leave you in short pants. It will all bleed into the same numb feeling. And you will freeze until Mother Nature tells you to thaw. And once your body has been revealed to the changing air of the seasons, once the earth’s creatures start to take advantage of your indirect kindness, you also know that your frozen flesh will not be mourned. Because no one will cry for you. And no one will beg the gods, both old and new, to bring you back. And no one will waste another precious breath worrying about who you were.

You, who were just another soldier out of an army of hundreds. A faceless woman. A person easily replaced. Inconsequential in every sense of the word. Your family was dead, your acquaintances were no more than good mornings and good nights, your position would be filled as soon as you broke rank. And no one would notice your absence. The Lord Commander wouldn’t even blink. The royal family wouldn’t even spare a thought. Though then again, it wasn’t like you deserved their thoughts, their sympathies, their prayers anyway. You weren’t a war hero and you weren’t important and you didn’t do anything beyond follow orders and live your life. Well- that last bit would change, of course. As soon as you pull yourself away from the torch and get going.

The chill of night is a harsh contrast from the few minutes of firelight, but you find that your body, already shivering and slow beneath the thin white nightgown, doesn’t take true notice of the cold. You’re only propelled forward by a distant urge. A previously agreed upon understanding with no one but yourself: This was necessary. This is what it was going to come to anyway, whether you died a fool sooner or later. This was the way of the world and you were just another pawn amongst the masses. Going to war, front of the line, hoping to die in glory.

But there was no glory there. There was no glory in your measured footsteps and there was no glory in your sagging shoulders and tired expression. And there was no glory in your desire. How could there be? How could the good gods ever wish to touch you after your blasphemy? How could you hang your soul out to dry and still expect to find your place in Nirvana? They will call you a coward. They will call you a fool. They will call you a rotten whore and they will say that they wish you’d done it sooner. They will walk past your nonexistent grave without a wandering thought as to what your name was. You could’ve saved everyone the trouble, they will say. Could’ve saved them the breaths. Spared them of your quiet awkward presence. Making everyone uncomfortable. Leaving the men to tease and toss aside the idea of censoring themselves just because you were a woman. Not the only woman, but a woman nonetheless. Of course they held their tongues when The Lord Commander walked past, or sat at the table, or existed and breathed in their general vicinity, but that didn’t matter. Brienne of Tarth was not always around to control them nor comfort you - not that she did the latter anyway. You weren’t important enough for that.

And the universe seemed to agree. The path was laid out before you, lit by the silver moon, traced by the glow of the white ground. You’d decided on your resting place only a few days ago. During a morning patrol with some of the newer trainees, you came across a spot of smooth Earth. Two logs, parallel to each other, framed a large empty patch of snow. From where you stood, it looked like a beautiful painting that had yet to be finished. There was no subject- no goal- no lesson to be learned- no deeper meaning and no unintentional intentional wicked talent. But before that could be rectified, before it could be completed, it would have to be ruined. Once you’re long dead, you’ll find the time to apologize to Mother Nature, but as you trek over the last hill, you’re more focused on becoming one with the frozen ground.

The site of your death is far enough away from civilization, near the edge of a tall cliff, so any wandering strangers won’t bother to come too close. Well that’s what you tell yourself, living in hope as per usual; but in reality nothing is stopping another living creature from stumbling across your frozen corpse. The snow is thick, yes, but not thick enough to hide all of you. And the sun is only some hours away from rising. Oh well. It won’t matter anyway. You’ll be passed out by then, icicles hanging from your eyelashes and blue coating the lining of your lips. Your heart will be quiet, weak, in your frozen chest. Your hands will be limp. And the rest of you will be blanketed by the sweet tasty frost of death, creating a home for its festering teeth. Teeth that will bite and gnash and taste and tear - but their attacks will be in vain. You will be numb. So wonderfully, perfectly, fatefully, numb.

And your fingertips, for what it’s worth, are already tingling with the beginnings of it.

The beginnings of it.

‘It’ being your end, of course.

‘It’ being the thing you want. Desperately.

‘It’ being the Fool’s Death you were born to have.

Oh so poetic it was…

Oh so… lovely.

…

…

You blink suddenly, forcing the chilled tears out of your eyes. Damn wind… so cold… so refreshing… Your knees bend to crouch into the snow, slow and exhausted like the sluggish looking of your eyes. ‘Hello’ the snow grins- beams- smiles so cheerfully up at you, ‘come to see me again, have you? It’s only been a few days. But I have missed you so much. We all have missed you so much.’ And you glance up to take in the ‘we’; the looming trees and the deep blue sky and the twinkling stars and the sweet bright moon, and you nod to yourself. Yes. This is how it is. This is the perfect atmosphere.

This is the glory of a Fool’s Death.

This is the peace of a Fool’s Death.

This is salvation.

No loud men and no flickering fires and no furs and no royals and no company and no messy thoughts and no sleepless nights and no terrifying dreams and no days of forced starvation and no sadness, no sadness, no sadness, no sadness, no sadness, no sadness, no sadness, no sadness, no sadness, no sadness, no hope, no love, no happiness, no reason, no reason, no reason no reason no reason to live live live live live live live- live!

The thin white slip on your body shields you from nothing. Your palms sink into the soft fluff of the ground. Instantly, upon laying down, you’re soaked to the bone. Water finds itself languishing along your body, playing games and laughing while it gathers in your scalp and dances on your fingertips. And the snow, whispering near your ear and beckoning you to salvation, stretches its hands and says ‘Come, dear friend. Come rest here. I am soft. I will give you everything you want.’ So you rest. And you give in. And your body relaxes; your muscles unclench and the tension slides from your shoulders as a sigh bubbles past your lips.

Is it one of relief? One of stress? One of defeat? You’re not sure. You don’t know. Your heart is shuddering- pulsing- with excitement, but it’s a mystery as to why. Death is not supposed to feel good. Death is not supposed to feel powerful. Death is not supposed to feel like you’re finally grabbing life by the balls and saying HAH! THIS IS IT! THIS IS MY MOMENT! THIS IS MY DEATH! MY END! AND YOU CAN NEVER TAKE THAT AWAY FROM ME.

… So why does it feel that way?

Why does it feel so good?

…

…The night is quiet. It does not have answers for you. The moon looks on with unblinking eyes. You feel yourself grow heavy.

But the deed is not over yet. There is still one thing left to do. Slowly, the snow falls away as your limbs stir. They move on autopilot, not drawn by the thoughts in your head but again pushed by that faint desire.

Heels digging, nails running blue, curling into the snow, pushing it away - only to drag it back five minutes later; hastily working to complete the masterpiece. Desperate to become one with the Earth and fall into oblivion. A deep, bone-cold, quieting oblivion that will leave you shivering before it leaves you dead. Even beneath the blanket of snow that caresses your skin, that lays over your bare legs, that nuzzles the sensitive parts of your body, you begin to shake. And you begin to think.

The thoughts, interestingly enough, don’t freeze like the rest of you does. Instead, they grow. Swirl like a winter’s storm. Obsessive and rough, they pull you under like they always did.

This is great, isn’t it?

No, you think in response to yourself. It hurts, actually.

Oh stop whining. It will be worth it.

Why? How?

For years, it has been worth it.

That doesn’t answer anything. How has it been worth it? Is that why I’ve been hurting so much? For the sake of worthiness? Or something else?

Well you never felt worthy of anything else.

But I feel worthy of this?

Death? Yes. Everyone is worthy of death. Even The Lord Commander.

…What does she have to do with this?

You know what.

Your hands grasp at the snow, mindless and desperate. Pulling and pulling and pulling - clawing at the crisp white so it can cover you until no part of you is left to the air. Shielding you from the hatred of the universe. From the angry eyes of the gods. From the venom of the men. From the disinterest of the women. From the world… and its lack of care for you. And its lack of positivity. And its rude- disgusting- vile- way of treating you. And its overwhelming desire to kill you before you could kill yourself.

Too late now. We’re at least one foot deep in the ground! This is it. Keep digging. Keep digging. Keep digging! No stopping here! No energy left. Nothing left, actually. Not a goddamn thing. Nothing. Nothing at all.

Nothing at all….

Nothing.

At all.

Your eyelids flutter shut.

—

It’s two hours later when Ser Brienne of Tarth starts to wrap up her last duty of the evening.

A quick patrol of the furthest border is something not necessarily reserved for The Lord Commander, but is more of a safety measure she enforces upon herself before retiring for bed. Exhaustion pulls at her before she sets out, yes, but sometimes the nightmares… the white walkers… they leave her paranoid. Expectant of an attack that will never come. Worried about an enemy that no longer exists. Thus, she does it alone - and with only the royals’ knowledge.

It’s always a quiet affair, drawn along quickly by her and her steed Valour. They work with sharp eyes and a torch through the dark, stopping every few paces to listen for threats. There aren’t any, of course, but that doesn’t stop her from clip-clopping along the terrain with tense shoulders and keen senses, looking through the din of the torch’s fire in her hand. She has to be careful not to set her furs alight, but it’s not a hard task. Keeping it level, shunting it toward the ground and out toward the trees, proves to be more difficult. There’s no use in a flame if it can’t illuminate a damn th-

HUFF.

Valour’s hooves press into the snow, leaving them to stop - suddenly, quickly, with a jerk - as hot breath puffs from her nostrils and curls into the air. She’s tense, Brienne realizes. Tense and alert, with white ears twisting to take in sound. They stand in silence. Blue eyes watch as the animal’s head turns - first to the left and then to the right. But aside from the night and the usual rustle of the world, there is nothing. Nothing to hear, nothing to notice, nothing to fight or defend. Nothing to… find?

With one last sweep of the flame, she catches something quick. It’s nearly unnoticeable. Buried beneath the snow, but not one with the ground. It’s foreign. Out of place. A mere lump with no distinct beginning and end. Brienne chances a glance down at the horse, interest and apprehension dancing through her veins once she sees Valour’s eyes have caught the same thing. The same… intruder. The same issue.

When she slides off of the horse, half expecting to see the thing rise from the ground, one hand shoots to her sword. It waits. Curls around the hilt. Stretches beneath her glove. Twitches with adrenaline.

But there’s nothing. Not even a tremble beneath the dirt.

“Stay,” she whispers to Valour, moving the hand from her blade to gesture, palm facing the ground, for the horse to stand in wait.

And as cautiously, as quietly, as she can, Brienne approaches the mystery. She rounds one of the logs, taking notice of the odd placement, and tries not to wince each time her boots make a small crunch in the silence. Footprints will no doubt be left behind, but that doesn’t seem to bother her much as she catches sight of another pair in the distance. They’re small, the knight notices. With no distinct shape if not for a slight curve. The snow is kicked up, forced from its smooth blanket. Hurried in their demeanor. But slow in the amount of distance between each print.

Human, she thinks.

Human indeed, the snow hums; bearing all to see as it glistens beneath the firelight of her torch and brings Brienne to her unsightly treasure.

Frosted skin. A soaked nightgown. Arms and legs bitten by the chill.

Dead, she thinks.

No. Alive. The snow breathes.

—

Someone is taking off your clothes. They’re cold, sticking to you, and little grunts follow as bits of your nightgown rip with the effort. Your body is shocked, shivering so hard that the stranger can’t keep you still and isn’t quite sure what to do. Eventually, a mind is made up and you’re stripped completely - then covered with woolen hose. At least two pairs- both of which are too big for you and hang by the feet and are quite loose around the waist, but the dresser doesn’t seem to care. Trousers are next. How many pairs? You don’t know. Then shirts. And furs. And even a pair of leather gloves that droop at the fingertips and gape at the wrists - but they’re warm and lined with wool and you can’t feel your body but that’s okay. You didn’t want to anyway. More grunting and growling and small whispered curses follow until you’re very much tucked into a bed far bigger than your own. It’s warm. Good. You’re numb and half-dead, but it’s good. Lovely, really. And the outside world doesn’t call your name as you close your eyes.

Waking up was not on your agenda.

It wasn’t even in the cards.

And you don’t really want to - but the universe never cared for your opinion. And it did what it wanted whenever it wanted anyway. So you have no choice.

Thus, your eyes flutter open and your lungs expand with breath and suddenly the world comes flooding back in one confusing twist of fate. Nausea wastes no time in tearing you down; instantly going to churn in the pit of your stomach and curl in the back of your throat and pound against the skin of your temples. A deep groan slips from between your chapped lips. The lining of your skull feels as though it’s been replaced with cotton.

The snow really took its chance, didn’t it? Brutal. Ruthless. At least the Earth doesn’t lie to you. At least the Earth doesn’t save you.

But someone did. Someone has.

They’re actually shuffling over; measured footsteps sounding like big loud stomps in your head. You close your eyes. Everything is too bright. Everything is too much.

“Morning.”

Hm. The voice sounds familiar. A bit wonky, like it’s far away, but familiar. You don’t have the energy to respond so you just let out a grunt and allow it to taper off into a weird rumbly hum.

“Hey,” there’s a sudden clicking noise near your ear, making you jolt and snort when your eyes flick open. There are fingers - long pale fingers snapping beside your head, falling silent when you glare up at the offender, only to find-

“Lah Commandah?!” Your tongue and throat are stiff and achy, keeping your speech limited and your voice strangled. You grimace at the sound and instantly try to growl the discomfort away, but she cuts you off.

“Don’t do that- you’ll just make it worse.” It comes out in a huff and silences you with ease.

She doesn’t look or seem very happy, which in turn makes you frown. It was a shot straight through the heart when the Lord Commander was in a bad mood - which surprisingly wasn’t always. In fact, she’d grown a little softer over the years. The tales talk of her unwilling attitude and stubborn pride, but sometimes she’s full of wit and humor. And on the best of days, she’ll give the most successful troops a small smile and a bow of her head. The only sign of ‘You did well’ that anyone would ever get from her. You’d never gotten a reaction like that before.

I wonder why she didn’t leave us out in the snow.

“Can you sit up?” Glacier blue eyes run over your face.

You’re not sure what you look like but you suppose it doesn’t matter. She’s seen worse.

“Dun-no, Lah Commandah,” you breathe, trying to do exactly that.

After the fifth try of shifting your arms and legs and quickly running out of strength, she seems to get the hint and suddenly large strong hands are sliding under your arms and tugging you up, then pushing you back. It’s done in one swift movement, leaving you dizzy while you rest your head against the wooden headboard of-… of a bed that certainly isn’t yours.

No, you’re definitely not in your own room. The layout is completely different. It’s more… it’s not pretty but it’s better looking than your own. Complete with greys and blacks and silvers and even a hint of red here and there. The fire that’s been crackling steadily in the background is clean and well-kept, where your room doesn’t even have space for one at all. And the curtains are drawn over the windows covering the right wall, leaving the place shrouded in a darkness that would have existed there anyway even if the curtains were open - it’s nighttime, pitch black outside, and suddenly you’re very much aware of the fact that you’ve kept your Lord Commander- The Brienne of Tarth- out of her own bed for more than a day.

By the time you blink yourself out of your dizzy distracted haze and try to find her form again, she’s already busy doing something else. Wringing out cloths over a bowl… and then returning to your side. Your lips, chapped and still tinged blue, open in an effort to say something- anything- but then a soft hot cloth is draped over your forehead, covering your temples, and suddenly you don’t have a damned thought left in your mind. The feeling is so nice. So blissful. You could stay like that forever.

If only the universe showed you mercy.

“It’s been two days since I found you,” the Lord Commander says, placing the bowl down gently on the side table beside the bed. Her eyes glance over your coverings, making sure the furs and gloves and shirts are all still in order. They are. She was very thorough before. She would not have made a mistake. There was no room for error.

But there’s room now for judgment. Judgment and disdain, and you’re terrified of those things and you really don’t want to have to hear her tell you that you’re a stupid wench and that the rest of the troops will forever make fun of you for your idiocy, so you swallow and wince and your hands twist together in your lap. The leather of the gloves is soft, well-worn, and the wool is only the tiniest bit matted - and you can’t help but admire the craftsmanship as you bring them up to your abdomen. They’re obviously not your gloves, just as everything else is not yours either, but you don’t know what to do first: apologize or thank her.

Honestly, you don’t really want to thank her - because she ruined your plan - but at the same time, she saved your life. Whether you wanted to end it or not doesn’t matter… because she would’ve helped you no matter what. And perhaps you’re selfish for being a little bit angry about it, maybe you’re being self-centered and dumb, but you can’t help the feeling of bitterness creep into your heart. You wanted to die… and she took that from you. She wanted you to live.

It was a duty. She doesn’t want anything. Anyone would have done it.

But that’s not true.

The men would have left you. Or hurt you. Or anything else.

But there she is, having gone through the trouble of saving you… and she’s looking down at you with a frown on her handsome face and a furrow to her light brows that seems like it never leaves and you wish so terribly that you could just tell her-

“I-m sorr-ey.” It’s a pathetic rasp of an apology, but it’s out of your mouth before you can catch it.

She blinks. You don’t know why her expression changes, why it softens into something less stern and concerned, but when it does you feel your breath catch in your throat. How anyone could see her as anything less than glorious is something you’ll never understand.

“Why were you out there.”

It’s a demand.

You look away, baring your eyes to the fire.

“…I sl-leep-wa-lk someti-”

“Bullshit.” She spits, one hand reaching down to curl into the bit of blanket that drapes over the side of the bed. Her expression has twisted back into one of anger. “Don’t you dare lie to me.”

But what other choice do you have?

How could you be honest?

Why did she, of all people, have to find you? And why like that? Why couldn’t she have walked into the bathhouse during the few times you’ve wept your eyes out in the steamy silence? Why couldn’t she have caught you staring at your horse, dread in your eyes as you fantasized about running away and never looking back? Why couldn’t she have stumbled upon your vulnerability when you were still willing to live?

Why did it take a Fool’s Death to finally grasp her attention?

You want to tell the truth… but you can’t.

You can’t.

So you lie again.

“Was out- on a s-strollll. Got- um- lost.” You try not to cringe at the sound of your own bad grammar. Turns out not having full feeling back in your mouth does indeed prohibit being able to speak properly.

The Lord Commander doesn’t seem to care much. In fact, she doesn’t seem to be focusing on that at all. Instead, her face has grown slack - and she’s looking at you hard. Leaning both of her hands on the side of the bed, broad shoulders going up near her neck, eyes peering through light lashes - like she’s using her stare alone to dig holes into your soul and she doesn’t need to say anything in order for you to understand that she simply doesn’t believe you. And why should she? Your lies are so obviously half-baked; only muddying up the truth; ruining what little of it can be said.

Still. She doesn’t let up. Her gaze starts to burn. Shame tugs at your cotton-lined skull. Guilt claws its way to the surface.

Pink lips, scarred on the top right, part slowly. There’s a soft inhale. You brace yourself, clutching your warm hands into fists.

“You were buried,” the Lord Commander says, barely even blinking as she looks at you. “Covered with snow.” She shakes her head and allows it to fall to her chest, letting out a scoff so quiet you had to strain to hear it. “One of the smartest soldiers I have… and you expect me to believe that you got lost on an evening stroll?” Her head comes up, eyes pinning you in place with such dull ferocity that you can’t look away. “You can’t be serious.”

It’s at that exact moment when you realize that you’re sweating. It is the amount of warm things covering your body? The clothing and the furs and the gloves? Or is it your Lord Commander’s attention? And the fact that it’s never been placed on you like that before? With such… such focus. Such- dare you even think it- care?

You swallow against the nervous lump in your throat.

‘One of the smartest soldiers I have…’

Well if you were as smart as she thinks you are, you’d be fucking honest, wouldn’t you? Yeah. You’d tell her the truth. You’d admit that you’re a coward.

But you can’t.

You can’t.

She spends all of that time training you, keeping an eye on you, making sure you’re fed and well-rested and looked after in her own roundabout Lord Commander type of way… and you repay her with…with what?

With suicide?

So disgraceful.

So horrible.

So shitty of you.

How terrible can a person be?

How-

“Are you crying?” Your Lord Commander gapes, certainly caught off guard by your sudden emotion.

“N-no?!” You stutter, just as shocked to find yourself reaching up and smearing salty tears along your cheeks.

Oh how embarrassing-!

You stupid girl!

This is why you wanted to do it in the first place!

Because all you do is just fucking embarrass yourself-!

“N-no? No- s-sorr-y La-Lor-d C-Com-”

“Enough with the Lord Commander,” she admonishes, cutting off your bumbling apology with a swift tsk. “In private, it’s Brienne.” Then she hesitates before letting out a sigh and taking a seat next to you on the side of her bed. “…I’m not your superior here.”

All you can do is blink.

I’m not your superior here.

So what are you?

That’s all you want to ask.

What are you to me then? What is this now?

But even if you did find the courage, you’re not sure what she’d say.

“Okay,” you sniff, trying your damnedest to stop the tears.

But they’re a direct result of your aching heart. And aching hearts have veins that scream in agony, wishing for nothing but silence. Utterly tranquility. The very absence of tension-filled life. And you can’t get rid of aching hearts and screaming veins without getting rid of yourself…. And your only chance to do that was destroyed. Trampled upon. Interrupted.

I just wanted to die. It rests on the very tip of your tongue but never spills out into the air.

Brienne is so clearly unsure of what to do; she’s sitting rigid in her spot and staring at a mark on the floor. You want to tell her it’s okay. You want to tell her that she doesn’t have to comfort you. You want to tell her to just let you go back into the woods again… let you find yourself back in the snow. And she can go on with her life and forget it ever happened.

But you can’t.

That’s not how it works.

That’ll never be how it works.

Foolish girl.

“…Why were you out there, Anya?” Brienne’s voice is softer than fresh lilies.

You know why.

You know why.

“…I c-can’t- I-”

Her head turns. Midnight blue eyes trace a line from your neck to your face, taking in the exhausted circles beneath your eyes and the blue-ish tinge to your skin and the utterly defeated look that blooms behind your expression. A war happens in you, taking place in the span of a moment, and you can do nothing but blink through lingering tears and stare at her.

“I can’t.” It’s a whisper. A confession all on its own.

I can’t… because you’ll think I’m a coward. And you’ll hate me. And I already hate myself enough for the both of us.

Brienne’s lips form a hard line, but she doesn’t say anything. She just peers back down at the floor and allows silence to creep into the room and lay between you both like a tired direwolf on its last legs.

The fire burns in the background. The sweat on your body cools. The dizziness in your head subsides.

It’s going to be okay, some part of you speaks. It’s going to be okay.

But you’ve told yourself that before, haven’t you?

And look where that got you.

It has to be at least 30 minutes later when Brienne finally speaks.

“There was a girl I knew once, in my early youth,” you watch her mouth move, enchanted and confused. Where was this going to lead? “She was older than me by two years. A pretty girl- like you.” Your heart trips over itself, but you don’t have time to dwell as she continues. “My father saw that, out of the very rare few, she was good to me - and so we were allowed to play often. For her it was ‘horsies’ and ��hide and seek’, for me it was ‘swords’ and ‘knights’.” There’s a soft smile on her face, half hidden by the natural shadow of her body facing away from the hearth and half lit by the fire that lived there. Her lips twitch and she begins again. “We did everything together. She was a village girl but that didn’t matter… until it did. Time eventually caught up to us and we were forced to live our lives on our own. No more days of play and no more sharing stories.”

A soul-deep sadness settled into her eyes. She had yet to look at you. Maybe because it would make her too vulnerable… maybe because she didn’t want you to cry again. Either way, you felt yourself frown. Why was she telling you this? What happened?

And as if she could read your thoughts, she continues.

“By the time I was old enough to decide that I wanted to leave, she was already married. Kind husband, even though I only met him once. It was when I stopped in to say goodbye. I wanted to tell her that I’d write, whenever I found the time and place to do so.” Her hands, you notice, are fidgeting - running over and pulling each other quietly within her lap. The natural lines in her face grow darker as she falls back into her memories. “…I didn’t know she was struggling. I was so busy with my own life. My father’s wishes, my training, my fights with the men who challenged me… our communication grew slim. So I didn’t- I-… well.” Brienne swallows. “Her husband answered the door and when I asked after her, he burst into hysterics.”

Your heart stops.

She- no… She didn’t….

Brienne’s head goes up, her eyes turning to look at the ceiling - keeping her tears in her eyes, resistant in letting them fall. Resistant in being weak. You want to hold her and let her cry, but you know it’s not the time. She sniffs and her chest heaves with a sigh and it takes everything in you not to start sobbing. Tears build, they fall slowly, but your throat aches with held back sounds of distress.

“…She ended her life two days before I arrived.” A pause. Then- “A butter knife…,” she scoffs out a laugh and shakes her head, still pointing her face skyward - as if the gods have all the answers to her grief. “… I didn’t know what to do with myself. I didn’t know what to do with her husband. So I gave him my condolences and I left. Cried in the woods for as long as I could and kept going. And since then, I haven’t stopped.”

Despite her efforts, tears still creep over her eyelids and race down her cheeks. They mirror the ones on your own face - warm and sad and annoying in the stiff little trails left behind.

And you sit like that for a while, silently crying. Her gaze stuck to the heavens, thinking about the friend she lost; and your gaze stuck on her, thinking about the possible metaphor behind her actions. Behind the full circle-ness of it all. She couldn’t save her friend but she saved you. What did that mean in the grand scheme of your lives? What did any of it mean? How would you continue to train everyday after seeing your Lord Commander cry? After witnessing her care?

She saved us. She saved us. She saved us.

“Thank you,” comes your hoarse whisper- the first in-tact thing you’ve said since waking up.

The sound of your voice tugs Brienne out of her stupor and draws her eyes to your sad face. You don’t have the energy to give her a sympathetic smile, so you settle on a soft look. If it says all you need it to say, she doesn’t show it - but she does look away quickly and reaches up to brush the tears away.

“What for?” It’s rough - hard - a sliver of the tough Commander she’s used to being.

No no no - don’t go back to that. Your heart is safe here. I won’t judge you for your tears.

“…Saving me.” It’s more courtesy than anything as you say that, but it’s fine. You’re not magically going to wish for life again after Brienne shares a sad story with you… though it already has your heart struggling against its achy confines.

Brienne shakes her head, the gold of her hair catching the fire’s light so beautifully that you have to take your eyes off of her in order to catch your breath. If we were her friend in her youth, we would have surely fallen in love with her.

“You shouldn’t have gotten to that point,” her voice is watery- muffled with the lingerings of sadness. “No one should.”

You nod. What else is there to say? What else is there to admit? Clearly she knows. Clearly she understands. And yet… you’re still curious…

“…Why do-n’t you hate me f-or it?” Your words come out in a squeaky whisper, but you don’t care. You just need to know. You just need to make sure that you’re not reading things wrong- that there’s a chance she may actually care- and that perhaps there is a reason to stay…

Brienne doesn’t respond immediately. It’s clear that she takes a few moments to bring herself back to the present. To clear her throat and wipe her eyes again and sniffle a few times and then turn back to you. She’s tried so hard in clearing herself up, but the eyes have never lied. And you see the sadness breeding there. Festering. Sadness is wicked. You don’t know if you’re the cause of it.

“You’re strong, Anya." A pause. "Training wouldn’t be the same without you.”

But you know she means to say Nothing would be the same without you.

---

Something I've been working on for a bit. It's not as good as I hoped it would be, but I'm tired and my back hurts so whatever. I hope you're all doing well.

And if you're not and you need some help, here's the National Suicide Hotline: 988 - And the link https://988lifeline.org/

It's gonna be okay, my friend. One second at a time. - Yours, Rip x

---

[ceruleanwhore]

I just had a friendship breakup and there’s some stuff with that that lines up with a particular sub-population of the internet that I think some of y’all really need to hear. Basically, it doesn’t matter if you’re neurodivergent or mentally ill or whatever, you cannot just deny reality, make shit up, and insist that your fantasies are real. For example, if you do something shitty to someone, you cannot just decide that them being mad at you is not a natural consequence of your actions and that they aren’t allowed to be upset because it makes you uncomfortable.

I bring this up on here because it’s super common for people with mental health struggles to go through a phase where they feel like everyone else should just cater to them while they do literally nothing to treat their issues. I know it comes from recognizing the unfairness of how everyone else can just do whatever while you have to dedicate years of your life to changing yourself but that change is necessary and you’ll get over it. This is for the traumatized girlies who try and insist that literally any and all expressions of anger are abuse and anything else like that because anger makes them uncomfortable so they make it everyone else’s problem. Touch grass and get a therapist, you’re not valid and you aren’t going to be able to form and maintain relationships as long as you have that level of entitlement and detachment from reality.

Also, I get that a lot of you didn’t get the special extra education that those of us who grew up autistic did, where you’re manually taught social pragmatics and emotions and shit, but I’ve also got another something special that y’all missed. If you did a shitty thing to someone you have a relationship with, it is neither normal nor valid for your very first response to them expressing their anger to be playing the victim and saying they can’t be mad at you. Same also goes for if your very first response to them is to nitpick the wording of what they just said before you say literally anything else. If you’re the asshole in the situation and now you need to make amends and shit, do the apology stuff first and then bring up any issues like that after.

Oh and last thing - I know it’s been said before but if anyone claims or acts like they’re always the victim, no the fuck they aren’t. If someone has a pattern of not having relationships with people last and then claiming every single time that they did nothing wrong and it was all the other person, they are lying. Also, don’t be that person either.

[rhp6]

A story of a hard coming out, bipolar disorder ,trust issues, tragical ups-and-downs but then true love and understanding even in hard times...🥰🤧

Skam France

I really recommend this show to everybody who's struggling 'cause it shows that there's never a time for giving up even if it seems like there is🥹🥹

There always will be someone who'll pull you out from the darkness or if there won't then there's you!! YOU ARE STRONG ENOUGH TO PULL YOUR OWN SELF UP!!! Believe me🥺🥺❤️❤️

Please take care!❤️❤️ Love you all so much!!!❤️❤️

[currently-getting-a-diagnosis]

I wonder how well my mental health would improve if my house were cleaned. But for my house to get cleaned my mental (and physical) health needs to improve. Yet when I say, "yeah I don't usually get around to cleaning certain parts of my house because of lack of motivation," suddenly you're the most disgusting person that they know.

In all honesty I don't have the energy to feed myself half the time Sally* why do you think I have the energy to clean my house? Why don't you offer me something that's actually helpful? Or at the very least pay for my therapy.

*Sorry to the Sallys reading this I don't mean you.

[sculptorofcrimson]

Ten Thousand Others

“A warlord once marched an army over the plains. In his conquest, child died and He carved litanies of loyalty upon its bones.”

He watches His hands work the scalpels. He was there when the oldest of the Ten Thousand were born. He was not technically the first, not truly, not when the Emperor had His own failures and His unfinished experiments. But he was the first of the Ten Thousand, the first He perfected, his fate bleached of all wonder, all possibility. 

He was Constantin Valdor, and he will dream of nothing but his lord.

He is nothing but stone and endings. He was already half-betrayed.

The Emperor drains him of his last delusions of being human. He does not apologize when He twists the knife in unresisting flesh, He does not regret when He stitches him up, the First Custodian’s heart hollow, dreams plucked from his chest and left to wither. When there is nothing left, not even the illusion of joy, of love, of wonder, of humanity, how could he march on when there is so little left of him? For those who have lost their minds, their hearts and their dreams in the name of their lord, only eternity remains. For those who have nothing, there are only ashen plains and an immortality devoid of life. 

When the Emperor cuts away the last bones of humanity left in an inhumane mind, he feels his master’s caressing touch upon his brow when the last ghosts of joy snuff themselves out like hollow candles without a flame. There is so little left of him now, only ink and stone and finished endings, without even the will to care. How does he endure, when even the last dignity to hate, to fear, to love, awe and revere, has been lost to him? And how could he end, when even the will to live for any other than his master has been forgotten by his bones?

He was the first He created, the First He stripped away. He was half-gone already. 

Weep, limp, kneel, rise and fall, dream the last phantom of long-dead dreams crushed beneath a tomb of genesculpted flesh and bones, drowned within oceans of hallowed ichor, forever wandering blindly in a void they had been cast out. Discarded like refuse when they could not kneel to His commands. Shattered upon the anvil of His forge. Dreams scraped away and left to die. Poor thing. Poor, poor things, all of them. The Golden did not know they were always dead, the living stone, simply ancient automatons marching in auramite corpses. Doomed to serve, to kneel instead of rule, to see the dreams of one who dreamt for humanity yet never dream themselves. Doomed to forget what it felt like to dream, forevermore. They are only sculptures now, left to dream with eternity.

He was Constantin Valdor, and he would never dream again.

[malicious-vampire]

Aching, crumbling, staring in painful silence until any sense for good or bad feels just like bland words in my mouth. Meaningless, faded. Is this what insanity feels like?

It tastes like freedom.

[kitten-forward]

[kiindr]

gentle reminders:

you are not too much

even if it's hard to believe, there are people who love you

you deserve to be treated respectfully

you have a lot of potential to do well

there is support out there for you

you do not need to prove anything to be loved

it's okay to feel your emotions. let them out. supressing them will only harm you in the long run.

hydrating yourself is important. take a sip right now if you can <3

take one day at a time. it all compounds. you're getting there.

[arkytiorwrites]

Rainfall and School

Tony Stark x Teen! Reader

Summary: Tony notices his ward is a bit down in the dumps, and asks what’s wrong.

The reader has social anxiety like I do, I know that anxiety manifests in different ways, and this is what mine does. Know your limits and take care of yourselves guys! Lots of hugs and love!

Tony Stark entered the room of his ward, Y/N, and found them sitting in their window seat, staring at the New York skyline. No music came from the sound system, and not an earbud in sight.

"You doing okay, kiddo?” he asked warily.

"Can I be homeschooled?" they asked quietly, not even turning to face him.

"Okay, where's this coming from?" he questioned, genuine concern taking over.

“I've been going to school for six months, and I havent made any friends,” Y/N explained, voice getting wobbly. "I keep trying to hang out with people that I think show interest in hanging out with me, but they just flat out ignore me. I'm done trying anymore and I wanna stay here, I'm too weird and awkward and dumb for people to want to hang out with me."

Tony sat down next to the quietly crying teenager and pulled them close so that their head rested next to the softly glowing Arc Reactor.

“I'm sorry you're going through that kiddo," he murmured into the soft, Y/H/C hair. "If they don't think you're cool, then they don't deserve to hang out with you."

Y/N laughed brokenly and pressed closer to her guardian.

“I don't think that's how it works, but thanks, Tony," they mumbled.

"Anything else?"

"You know I get sensory overload really easily in big crowds and I get out-peopled within a few hours? That's one of the biggest reasons,” Y/N mumbled.

“Yeah , you and your social anxiety,” Tony agreed.

“I also know that no one freaking cares,” they whispered as though they didn't want it to be true.

“Hey, I care,” the billionaire objected indignantly.

"You’re my guardian, you're legally obligated.”

“Okay, unfair. I could easily be one of those assholes who took you in as a charity case for publicity, get you a small platoon of nannies, and never see you outside of photoshoots. I spend time with you because I genuinely like you as a person and a friend. You've got a great sense of humor, your taste in music is excellent, you're creative. I could go all damn day, kiddo. You're one of my favorite people, alright?"

Obviously trying not to cry more, Y/N nodded and hugged the billionaire tightly, hiding their face in his shoulder. Smiling sadly at the gesture, he rubbed soft circles on their back as he took in the rainfall over the Big Apple.

[fallloverfic]

@nnayomaise mentioned you on a post “i don't think enough people understand that, as a...”:

@fallloverfic i think he had to be suicidal before his dungeon, (not as much as he is in the current story ofc) but purely because he chose to become a dungeon lord knowing that it would eat all of his desires and he would wither away and die- and for him having a place to go, he could very easily have left his dungeon and gone back to the canaries (yes they would've killed him but they likely would've just revived him) which would be the right thing to do, he knows this

​(continued): "he knows the process of how they remove dungeon lords, he knows this is how canaries literally save the world from the dungeons, he probably thought a lot about backing out and essentially returning to reality but the goat manipulated him into staying then ate his desire to return"

I don't personally think anything about his decision to go with and stay with the mirror/goat indicates he was suicidal at that point, and you kind of disprove this yourself by indicating the goat - an outside force - was manipulating him into his decision(s). To each their own headcanon, obviously, and I like crunchy background for Mithrun, but here's at least why I don't think we have canon evidence for Mithrun being suicidal before he was abandoned by the demon.

In Bonus: Miscellaneous Monster Tales -6-, we learn just how dangerous magic mirrors are:

The manga notes this is specifically a moment of weakness, to an object specifically designed to steal his heart. Sometimes we all get caught on bad days. This was one of Mithrun's (he made the mistake of not ignoring the mirror). He was strong back then, but he wasn't invincible.

As the Adventurer's Bible notes about the Central Watchtower (his dungeon), "Since it hadn't had a lord for a long time, it was believed to be nearly collapsed. Mithrun was dispatched to investigate a nearby rash of disappearances and got taken in." (133). This was relatively routine/not a big deal, but it got him in a chance moment. The goat struck while the iron was hot. As the Adventurer's Bible explains, "Once, while under the impression that his older brother had stolen his beloved, Mithrun wished for a life where he hadn't joined the canaries. As a result, he fell under the spell of a demon" (74). This is framed largely as an accident/bad luck: we can't all be vigilant forever, after all. He even comments about these things to Kabru earlier, "You wished for those things... . . . You wished, so the dungeon provided. . . . Don't wish often." (p.157, Chapter 61: Roasted Walking Mushroom, Volume 9). Even casual wishes can have major consequences, and that desire attracts the demon (e.g., when Marcille is trying to get control, the demon acts on her subconscious desires for protection, and the only solution they have is to trap it in a book):

A moment of weakness against resolve to continue can perhaps imply he had depression he wasn't addressing, and was likely desperate and missing things he'd sacrificed, and was vulnerable to manipulation, but none of that really indicates specifically that he was suicidal. Knowing a bad thing could happen to you - even perhaps a form of death - when performing your job doesn't necessarily make you suicidal, though it might make you a bit reckless and/or foolhardy. Firefighters are not, by definition, suicidal. And there's really no evidence that Mithrun was in his right mind when he made his wish/went with the demon. As we see with Sissel, Marcille, and Laios, the demon is a master manipulator who knows how to overwhelm its targets, where even casual things you don't actively think about can lead to your undoing.

"and for him having a place to go, he could very easily have left his dungeon and gone back to the canaries (yes they would've killed him but they likely would've just revived him) which would be the right thing to do, he knows this"

How easy would it have been for him to leave? We can see what it took to get Sissel and Marcille to leave (Sissel ultimately fell to the demon, Marcille was a special case that involved large groups of people working together to find alternate solutions), and even what the demon used to keep Laios from enacting his plan when Laios becomes lord of the dungeon (chapter 88 is really great for showing just how skilled a manipulator the demon is; and even with fail-safes, Laios + Co couldn't get around this). And it's clearly indicated from at least Kabru's perception of Mithrun's backstory that Mithrun worked hard to stop anyone from coming in to get him while he was dungeon lord. It's easy to, academically, know how to solve a problem. It's another to make it work in the field. The only reason anyone was able to drag him out was seemingly because the demon "hadn't eaten enough to build up sufficient power" and "vanished" (p.185, chapter 62: Six Days, Volume 9). Mithrun had no apparent desire to leave, and was actively working to stay, likely in part because he was under the demon's spell. He even notes in the Complete Adventurer's Guide that the demon's love is compelling to the point of mental collapse. His knowing, logically, that leaving would have saved him, did nothing for him, because a lot was working against him, including powerful magic and his own human weakness for things he could have if he stayed. And him choosing to stay, despite likely somewhere in his head knowing what would happen if he didn't leave, again doesn't make him suicidal. I doubt he was thinking of the consequences all that much: he was too focused on the fantasy the demon made for him. When you're in the middle of a high, you typically aren't thinking of the comedown.

There's also another reason he probably wasn't thinking about it, that we see with Laios (and Marcille, and even I think with Sissel): a lot of us always think we'll be the one to get one over. We think we're smart enough or strong enough to succeed where others fail. Only Laios managed to succeed in part because his plan was so ridiculous and the demon's own overconfidence got in its way. In the Adventurer's Bible, Mithrun notes that before the dungeon, he "looked down on everyone." (76). He was arrogant. I imagine that part of why he probably wouldn't have given up had he thought about his potential fate was that he thought he'd succeed in surviving. His story is very much one of hubris (e.g., his thinking for why the demon took away his eye and ear ends). In the Adventurer's Bible, we see his confidence when he approaches Milsiril to talk to her (86), and we see how he is in combat. He was confident, and self-avowedly arrogant. That's a dangerous mix.

There is some vagueness for how other dungeon lords who weren't Mithrun, Marcille, Sissel, and Laios got out of their situations: we know there are a number, because we see them in the Complete Adventurer's Bible during the group chat scene set up by Pattadol. If it's explained somewhere how they were rescued/removed, and if for some reason Mithrun knew that could be him, too, but he chose not to for specific suicidal reasons, I have no idea. cartchytuns in the notes noted that they were probably freed when Laios got rid of the demon at the end of the story, since the demon in every dungeon was all the same demon, and I think that makes a lot of sense! If this is what happened, that means even fewer dungeon lords left the dungeon of their own volition/abilities, and that decreases the likelihood that Mithrun was able to and actively chose not to.

Mithrun was jealous, angry, arrogant, and had seemingly some form of imposter's syndrome, possibly due to being an illegitimate son when his legitimate brother was someone he viewed as inferior, but his supposed superiority didn't save him from getting sent to the Canaries, which he is bitter about. He perhaps sometimes wished at least somewhat for things he didn't and perhaps couldn't have. As he notes in the Adventurer's Bible, "And instead of [his brother], my parents sent me to the Canaries. I couldn't forgive any of that." (76). He was also good at hiding/masking all of this and pretending to be light-hearted/have no problems and "perfect" (in Milsiril's words). He was very clearly deeply unhappy and hiding it. His already being suicidal is a neat headcanon! And good luck with it/any fics! The fun part of the story's ambiguity is how much we don't know and how fanworks can fill in those gaps! But as of this moment, I really don't see canon evidence for him being suicidal before he was abandoned by the demon.

[hello-nichya-here]

What are your thoughts on MJ's daughter supporting Israel and trying to distance herself from her dad? Girl won't even defend him

Jesus fucking Christ, are you guys coordinating these asks? This is the third time one of you asked me it, I'm legit impressed.

Let's get the easy, and horrible part out of the way first: nobody on the fucking planet has any excuse to support Israel. You can hate Hamas and the goverments of countries like Iran without excusing the literal genocide of civilians in Palestine, because yes, that's what Israel is doing right now.

Paris Jackson (and everyone else, famous or not, that is still pretending Israel isn't commiting all kinds of crimes against humanity right now) should have known better and needs to get her shit together.

Now, onto the messy part:

Although Paris has recently said "it's not her role/place" to defend her dad, lets not forget the other things she said on that same controversial statement:

1 - She fully believes her father is innocent and called the "documentary" Leaving Neverland pure lies.

2 - She believes that everything that could be said about her father's innocence has been said already and she'd have nothing new to add to the conversation.

3 - Her cousin Taj has become basically the leader of the family's campain to clear Michael's name and has been doing an amazing job.

4 - She's not as patient as her father was to deal with that kind of stuff and she has been focusing more on trying to recover from her mental health issues.

That last one is important, specially when we remember that Paris has claimed to have been sexually abused in school (which left her with PTSD), and that she has struggled with addiction, paranoia and a freaking suicide attempt.

It would not be surprising to me if having to listen to allegations of childhood sexual abuse is extremelly triggering for her - especially since the person being accused of being the abuser is her late father, who was murdered by his doctor when she was just 10-years-old, and she was treated like a stupid child in denial everytime she tried to point out the things being said about him were not true.

Considering she has continued to praise her father over the years, both with small things like posting a family picture on Father's day this year and big things like saying he was a super accepting man that was totally cool with her not being straight, and DID defend him publically every now and then, like, once again, calling "Leaving Neverland" pure lies when it came out, I'd say she's not really trying to distance herself from her dad or imply she's starting to think he might have been guilty. I think she just genuinely cannot fucking stand having to act as his lawyer only to have every word she says ignored, no matter how much evidence she offers to back it up.

(And before anyone brings up the fact that Taj was also a victim of sexual abuse in his childhood and has is still speaking out in support of his uncle, including of how he helped him deal with his trauma, keep in mind that people cope differently and heal at different paces).

Do I think she could have phrased some things better? Yes.

If either of my parents were accused of something horrible and a bunch of people kept insisting they were guilty despite all evidence poiting to the contrary, would I interact with said celebrities? No, and it is extremelly disappointing whenever Paris does that...

... But then again, Michael was at war with his record label, Sony, for years and was convinced they were not only sabotaging his career but also trying to murder him, yet he still was ready to go on a final tour that was going to make them A LOT of money. Like father, like daughter.

Honestly, I would not blame the entire Jackson family if they just made one last big documentary to try and clear Michael's name, then, regardless of how it was taken, packed all their shit and moved to a remote island, far away from the spotlight and never spoke to any journalist or had any social media presence again. They've been getting screwed over and surrounded by awful people in the industry, the media, and amongst other celebrities since the goddamn sixties, it's a miracle anyone of them is still trying to "play the game" or explain themselves.

[artofkhaos404]

To those who celebrate, I hope you enjoyed your holiday today🖤🖤🖤

But to those, like me, who don't... hiding in your house and trying to forget what day it is... choking on the trauma... I know there's no sympathy for how tortured you are right now. No one appreciates how difficult it is, having bucketfuls of triggers dumped on you over and over and over every day for two whole months. And God forbid you don't smile about it. Don't mask. Don't pretend. Don't participate. Don't shout "Merry Christmas!" until you're dizzy and nauseous.

But it will get easier. I promise. Take advantage of the good food this time of year and stay in your house as much as you can.

It's almost over. Breathe, friend.

[anonymityisfunwriter]

Alone Together

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader Summary: It was always been you and Bucky, alone together, you'd say. But suddenly, you're just alone. All you have is yourself. A you that you hate. When those people died because of you, you throw yourself back in. When you find out about Sharon and Bucky, you have the game. It's a good game, you tell yourself. You're always winning. You're perfect at it. It's all a game to you - you've convinced yourself that you'll be happy once you win. That is, until you lose.

Trigger/Content Warnings: Eating Disorder Relapse, Eating Disorder Recovery, Vomiting (non-graphic), Suicide Ideation (not acted upon)

"Where is she?" Bucky demands, eyes frantically searching the MedBay were Steve told him you were.

Steve sighs, arms crossed, upset that they let you go when you were very clearly unwell. They said you were just dehydrated, a little malnourished.

You lied and said you were sick last week, when you and Steve both knew that you were perfectly fine last week. "They cleared her. She took off the second they told her she was good to go."

Bucky sighs in relief. "So she's okay?"

"Okay?" Steve scoffs. "No, she's not okay. She's so far from okay. She collapsed in the middle of a mission. That's not okay!"

"So what happened then, Steve?" Bucky urges.

Steve exhales in frustration. The two of you were friends, good friends even, but he never really knew how to get through to you. Not when you were like this. Heck, he'd never even seen you like this. "I don't know- I-I think she's doing it again."

"She isn't. I would have noticed."

"Would you notice? You've been a little...preoccupied lately."

"Don't start, Steve."

He shrugs in innocence, "I'm not. I'm really not, but she's pulled away. When she's here, she's training - harder than any of the rest of us. She's not even developing her powers, she's physically training. You can see it, Bucky. Her uniform doesn't even fit her anymore, she was an hour late for the mission, she locked us all out of her room. She's doing it again."

"No, she's not! I would know!"

Now, Steve's getting mad, he sees your self-destructive behavior and the way you're tearing yourself apart. It hurts him to see his friend like that. "And I'm telling you that you wouldn't have! You know firsthand how good she is at hiding what she needs to hide. You're never even here! You can't see anything past you and Sharon!"

"Is that what this is about? Another lecture about me and Sharon? I don't need this."

Steve takes a deep, semi-calming breath, desperately trying to deescalate the situation. If only because the two of them fighting isn't going to help you. "I'm not lecturing you about Sharon, I'm telling you that you're being a bad friend right now. And right now, our friend needs you." Bucky huffs in frustration but waits for Steve to continue. "Since that mission - she took it hard those people dying. If you hadn't noticed, she's been really struggling lately. I haven't seen her outside her room in months."

"That was months ago, Steve, I talked to her, she was fine," Bucky says, simultaneously trying to convince himself and Steve. He knows that you two hadn't spoken, really spoken, in months. And he knew he was mostly to blame for that.

"Are you sure about that?"

Bucky scoffs, "Piss off, Steve, I'm sure."

"Well, Tony's pissed, he's benching her until further notice."

"Tony can go to hell," Bucky mutters, turning on his heels to go and find you.

Steve grabs his arm to stop him before he can leave. "She needs your help, Buck. You know she'll listen to you."

"I know. I'll talk to her."

--

He finds you at an empty, dreary Coney Island.

You talked about this place a lot when you were at HYDRA.

How you'd always wanted to come here, but your parents never allowed you anywhere near the general population.

They kept you locked away until HYDRA took you. He'd tell you stories about how much fun he and Steve had here as kids and you hung on to every word he said.

He promised you he'd take you when you both escaped. You two did a lot when you escaped, somehow this wasn't one of them.

The park is empty, desolate.

It's eerie with no one here, but for some reason he knows you're here. 

When he finds you, he immediately knows that he was wrong.

You're doing it again, you're playing your game and from the looks of it, you've been doing it for a while.

He watches you for a minute, you're doing that thing again. You take your hand with your middle finger and thumb pulled together to form circle, then you wrap that circle around your wrist.

He hasn't seen you do it since your shared HYDRA days.

--

You're in a cell. It's dark and cold. You're terrified, unsure of why they brought you here. And then you see the shadowy figure in the cell across from you.

"Hey, are you okay?" he asks in a hushed, whispered tone. 

"Where are we?" you ask, still groggy from whatever sedative they jabbed into your neck.

"I don't know."

"Well, who are you?"

"I don't know."

A few days pass, Bucky doesn't go back in the ice thing anymore. They're keeping him in the cell in front of you. You know the only reason the man talks to you is because you're the only other person here.

"Why'd they bring you here?" he quietly questions.

"I, uh, had abilities as a kid. My parent said I was a monster. They handed me over to the first person that offered to help me control my abilities. I've been here a while, they just moved me here, something about nicer accommodations," you joke, though it lacks any real humor. "What about you?"

"I-I don't know."

"You say that a lot," you try joking again, but then it's all silent. "You know, since we're the only ones here. I think I need to give you a name. What about Buddy?"

"Buddy?"

"Well, you're my friend, aren't you?"

"Sure," he tiredly chuckles.

"Buddy, it is."

You're not sure how much time passed, how many experiments you've gone through, all with varying degrees of success.

But it's been a very long time.

And 'Buddy' is the only thing keeping you sane. You talk to each other a lot, he's apparently been alive for a few decades, but he doesn't look it.

You've been with HYDRA since you were 16, and you spent five years in a different base before they moved you here. You find that you've got a lot in common, other than the fact that you're both held captive here. 

You two keep each other alive.

You always offer Bucky your food, they give him just enough so he doesn't starve but never anything more.

You don't tell him this, but you're used to not eating, it doesn't bother you.

He rarely takes the food except when you use your telepathy to float the food over to him. He hates when you do that, but you know he needs it more than you do.

And he... well he talks to you.

They don't let you outside the cell, you haven't seen the sun since you arrived. When they let 'Buddy' out he tells you everything. He reminds you about the outside, about the weather, about anything. Anything to remind you to hold on. 

Experiment after grueling experiment, he's there.

When you were crying in the middle of the night about the suffocating loneliness, about being alone and abandoned, he corrects you, 'alone together'.

And you lived by that now

It kept it all bearable. 

The day they brought him back from the mission where he encountered Steve - he's hurt. More hurt than normal.

His face is a bloody mess, he's practically dragged back into his cell. You're not sure if it's because of the actual mission or punishment for the mission and you don't ask.

You've been practicing on the locks, turning the gears until you can get them open. Sometimes it works, on those nights you and 'Buddy' make plans to leave.

They're pretty good plans. Your abilities are getting stronger, you feel sure that the two of you can do this. You're both strong, capable of escaping.

You focus on the lock all your energy and capabilities on the lock, feeling the desperate urge to get to him, to be there even if you really can't help him. 

It's a risk you two normally don't take during daylight, but he needs you right now. You manage to get both locks opened and then you're hovering over his crumpled body, trying to figure out how to help your friend.

"What are you doing? Get out of here before they see you."

"You're hurt. Just let me help you, I can help you."

"No, they'll see you. Get out," he weakly argues.

"No, it's going to be okay-"

"Well, what do we have here?" A menacing voice appears from behind you. You freeze, blood running cold. "I think it's time to try that serum again. It might inspire you to behave."

You're fighting against strong arms that are pulling you away from your friend. "No! Please - he needs help."

Bucky's up now, sluggishly fighting to stand. "You can't. You almost killed her last time."

"Well, you know the saying: if at first you don't succeed, try, try again."

You're dragged out of the cell and that's really the last thing you remember. The only thing that's clear after that is pain. The most excruciating pain known to man. You will your heart to stop. For it all to stop, but it never does. It's an immeasurable amount of time in complete agony.

All Bucky hears for days is your screams, you sob, beg, plead.

When you return, you're not conscious.

In fact, at first Bucky's pretty sure you're dead and they're leaving your body there as a message.

But then he hears your ragged breathing, it's slow, labored. But you're alive.

In that moment, Bucky swears to you that he'll get you out.

He swears he'll never let another bad thing happen to you.

He has a friend on the outside he tells you - Bucky doesn't remember him well, but Steve seemed so sure. The two of you can find him, even if Bucky is arrested, you'll be free from this hellhole.

It's days before you're able to do anything except lie there and breathe. They haven't even brought you any food - just dirty buckets of water.

Bucky pleads with you to wake up, but you're so far gone that you barely hear him.

Before you're even able to sit up, you unlock the doors again. It's never been that easy before, which frightens Bucky. They've done something to you and this time it worked.

But he doesn't hesitate to scramble to your crumpled figure. 

When you finally recover, Bucky tells you it's time to go. You feel your powers thrumming in your veins - it's a new feeling. It doesn't feel like the old passive energy that flowed through you- this is chaotic, destructive.

With a flick of your hand, you wipe out dozens of soldiers blocking your escape. It scares you, but you don't hesitate to leave with Bucky in tow. 

After that it's all a blur, you and Bucky alone together, finally escaped the place that almost killed the two of you.

Two troubled souls on the run from a lot of people. You're both weak from your respective beatings, but you take turns keeping each other motivated. You trek for a long time. On the way, you hear flickers of voices in your head that don't belong to you. You shake them off each time. 

And when you finally make it to a city you two can hide out in, something happens.

Voices, so many voices in your head.

They're all screaming at you, saying different things.

It's too much, you double over in pain, clutching your head.  You beg your friend to make it stop.

Bucky's frantically searching you up and down, trying to figure out what's wrong, preferably before you attract too much attention. He drags into an abandoned building where he can figure out how to fix you.

"I need you to focus, Doll. Focus on my voice." You try, but it's all so loud. "Just relax. Deep breaths, just focus on my voice. I forgot to tell you, I know my name now, it's Bucky. You weren't too far off, Doll."

You're not sure how long it takes, how long you writhe in agony, but the voices soften and eventually fall silent as you focus on Bucky. You're resting your head on his lap, while he gently strokes your head. "What do we do now?"

"I don't know," you whisper, finally calmed down enough to speak.

"You don't know what?"

"You just asked me what we're going to do now?"

"No, I didn't," he says, out loud. Then, he pointedly thinks, "Are you in my head?" 

"I think I am," you reply, sitting up and staring at Bucky in abject horror. "I think that's what all those voice are."

It takes months and it's incredibly difficult to control, particularly being that you're both on the run, but with Bucky's help you're able to get ahold of your enhanced abilities.

Most of the time, you can shut out the voices, which is an incredible relief to you both.

It's in between all the chaos and tumult that comes with being two fugitives, that Bucky notices that you hardly eat and when you do, it's not enough.

It wasn't until one night when he burst into your room and caught you sneaking rancid food out.

And you catch him screaming in the middle of the night or wandering the halls when he's supposed to be sleeping.

Alone together, you remind each other.

You help him with his nightmares, sometimes even sleeping in the same bed.  

Bucky makes you eat every single meal with him.  He even checks your room every once in a while, but you think eating with you is what helps the most.

Every meal, every day, no matter what.

He doesn't just watch you like you're a strange case study, he brings back a happiness you'd long disassociated with food. You joke together, talk, you lived in the moment together. 

It takes your mind off of your rocky relationship with food.

You feel comfortable enough to explain how some foods just don't feel safe, how eating sometimes repulses you.

How you've dealt with this since you were a kid.

Your parents hated you, they were disgusted by you, so you strived for unattainable levels of perfection in every part of your life. You even explain the inexplicable game. You explain to him and he understands without a trace of judgement.

Even when you two lived in Wakanda, at the Compound, every meal was together. Until it wasn't.

Then one day when you're both living at the compound as Avengers, Bucky doesn't show up.

He's normally very strict with your routine, every day like clockwork. 7 AM, 1 PM, 7 PM, those are your meal times.

By 2 PM, you're frantic, worried that something happened to Bucky, but then Steve casually walks in and apologizes for being late.

'Late for what?' you ask, feeling a sick, twisting sensation build in your stomach. 

He explains how Bucky told him to make sure you ate, to eat with you in fact.

You liked Steve just fine, you could even consider him a friend, but he wasn't Bucky. It was embarrassing that he told Steve without asking you if it was okay. Like you were a chore to be passed around.

And suddenly, you were always eating with Steve. You have trouble explaining it to Steve, you water it down enough so he understands, but it's different. Steve interjects with advice, with anecdotes, with talks about discipline. You don't take it to heart, knowing that Steve has good intentions.

Then, other people started stepping in when Steve couldn't be there, you find yourself dismissing them, saying it wasn't important, that they could go on about their day.

Tony's the one who sets you up with FRIDAY monitoring and reminders, as though the real problem is that you forget to eat every now and then. You don't blame him for the misunderstanding, but you don't correct him either.

You're embarrassed that people don't think you're perfect. You eat alone all the time after that. 

And then you're just alone.

All you have is yourself - a you that you hate.

When those people died because of you- you throw yourself back in.

When you find out about Sharon and Bucky, you have the game.

It's a good game, you tell yourself.

You're always winning. You're perfect at it. It makes you beautiful - maybe one day you'll be beautiful enough for someone else.

Maybe one day you'll be perfect.

--

It's all a game to you - you've convinced yourself that you'll be happy once the circle closes.

That's not what makes him so sure, it's the look on your face. It's sunken in, your skin tone has a sickly gray undertone.

It's the look of absolute despair when your tiny hand doesn't wrap around your wrist.

The park is completely empty. He knows you're the one moving the carousel and Ferris Wheel. He also knows with how little energy you have, you shouldn't be using your abilities.

"I thought I'd find you here."

You instantly drop your hand like a kid with their hand caught in the cookie jar. "Hey, Bucky."

"Hey, yourself."

He comes and sits next to you. He looks down and see his old, faded sweater in your lap. You've held onto it for so long.

"Here," you hand the hoodie that you've been clutching like a lifeline back to him. It breaks your heart but neither him nor that hoodie are yours to keep. "I should give this back to you- I finally got all the sand out."

You think back to the night on the beach, when everything was still perfect.

--

You were both pretty sure you were not allowed to be here, but neither of you care.

You're both free, you're not on the run.

It's a good life as far as you're concerned.

You could stay in this moment forever.

You're in the midst of fits of giggle and jokes that no one else would ever laugh at.

In between kicking sand at each other and building castles, there's not a care in between the two of you- a rare feat.

Then you're doing impressions of your fellow teammates. Bucky's really good at his Tony impression, while you've mastered Thor.

You're laying down on the sand, you're wearing Bucky's hoodie after he saw that you were getting cold. You two drove far enough away that you can actually make out the stars, Bucky's pointing out the stars and you're hanging onto his every word.

Then he turns to you. And stares at you for a minute too long. 

"What?" you giggle, feeling pricks of self-consciousness brewing in your head. "Do I have something on my face?"

"No, I just think you're the most beautiful girl I've ever seen."

"Shut up," you laugh, pushing his shoulder away. 

"It's true. I'll even let you look in my head. Go ahead."

The way he closes his eyes and scrunches his nose, makes you laugh. 

"Okay, one, you don't 'let me'. I keep everyone out, including you. If I wanted to I don't think there's really anything anyone could do, except maybe Wanda. And two, I know I'm not. I've seen the girls you hang around, I'm definitely not..." you trail off, because the way he looked at you, the awe-filled, tender look in his eye, it made you feel beautiful. 

"You are," he whispers. "And you don't even know it."

And your phones ruin the moment you thought you were having. 

Just a few days later, you see something that makes your heart break.

You turn the corner into the training room and you see Bucky and Sharon, kissing.

And it makes you hate yourself.

For so many reasons.

For one, you instantly start comparing yourself to her. She's taller than you, thinner, more statuesque. You fight the urge to continue down that path - it never leads to anything good.

Another reason, you start to hate Sharon.

You become a person that you loathe. You used to like Sharon, she's kind, smart, she seemed like an overall nice person. She made Bucky happy. And now you're silently cutting her down every chance you get. Like doing that will make him want you instead. You were never that person and now you are. 

And when they become an official item, she's around all the time.

You can't seem to escape her, and it's not for a lack of trying.

It like Bucky's throwing it in your face that you're not good enough for him, he's showing off the new most beautiful girl he's ever seen.

Then that mission happens, those people die because you didn't do more.

Because you weren't perfect.

And you're stuck retreating. You're always in your room, only ever leaving to train now.

FRIDAY is the one that reminds you to eat your 3 meals a day, but you get creative, finding ways around that. You learned that as long as you took a bite, FRIDAY wouldn't alert anyone, and sometimes, on your really bad days, you wouldn't even swallow that one bite.

You restrict access to everyone and anyone to your room. You're disgusted with yourself and you don't want anyone to see yourself like this. But even worse, something that you won't even admit to yourself, you don't even care if they think you're disgusting, you're worried they'll catch you and they'll force you to stop. 

But now you can't stop, you desperately want to but you just can't.

It makes you hate yourself even more.

Those people are dead because of you and here you are killing yourself.

And then one day, it all turns into a game again.

This game - it's a twisted one.

It's not for the faint of heart.

Every day, you push yourself. You're training so hard that people are starting to notice, and they don't even know about the sit-ups you do in your room.

You train harder and harder.

You see just how many days you can go without your bite of food.

It's not a fun game, but it's your game. You're good at it. You thrive on it.

Until you don't.

When you woke up this morning, you know you've pushed it too far. And still, you can't bring yourself to swallow that bite of food.

It's repulsive, it's practically shameful - almost as shameful as letting those people die.

It's shameful that you've made one person in your life so important, that you don't know how to be without them.

Besides, you're winning, you're the best at this game. 

You're laid out on your bed, checking your wrist again. You're getting really close.

You're only jolted up by a light knocking on your door, and before you open it, you're frantically hiding all the food you haven't been eating.

"Give me a second," you call to whoever's waiting outside your door. When you've finally hidden all the food, you creak open the door.

"Since when did you remove access to your room?" Steve questions, his voice laced with cautious, almost suspicious, curiosity.

You shrug nonchalantly, "It's always been like that."

"I could've sworn-"

But you cut him off, "What's up, Steve?"

He nods suspiciously. He knows you're hiding something, he can very clearly see that you're not yourself. "Right, just wanted to let you know that we'll be leaving soon. You ready to go?"

You nod, playing off the fact that you completely forgot you're on a mission today. "Yeah, I'm ready to go."

"Alright, suit up. We leave in 10."

"Okay."

You start to close the door, but Steve stops you. "Is everything okay?" he asks. "You know you can talk to me about anything, right?"

"Yeah, of course," you shakily nod. "Thanks."

You're dressed and ready to go fairly quickly. You're ecstatic, the happiest you've been in months, when you pull on your uniform to find that it's too big for you now. The fabric hangs off of you and you're can almost feel your heart swell with pride. 

And then you panic because it's so very noticeable.

With shaky hands, an uncomfortable cold sweat, and weakness radiating throughout your entire body, you walk up the Quinjet ramp. You hear people talking to you, but their voices sound distant. You shake your head, trying to straighten yourself out before you land.

Even though you swore it's only been a few seconds, Steve's suddenly crouched in front of you. "Are you sure you're okay?

"Yeah, yeah. I told you I'm fine. Just a little tired."

He chuckles, though the humor doesn't quite reach the laugh. "I bet, you've been training really hard lately."

You nervously chuckle and nod along to the rest of the conversation.

You're barely off the Quinjet with the order to help evacuate, and the first time you use your ability, you're down. Out cold.

--

You didn't know this yet, but while you were in the infirmary, Steve and Tony overrode the security access to your room.

They searched and searched until Steve got close to your dresser, he immediately smelled something rancid. He opened your bottom dresser drawer to find your hidden stash. He found the molding food that you hadn't managed to sneak out yet.

He knew this was how you were bringing clean plates to the kitchen every single day when he could almost guarantee that you hadn't eaten.

Bucky takes the hoodie from your hands - he doesn't miss the frailty this time.

You just happen to notice him noticing you. You stuff your hands in your pocket and sigh.

You know why he's here, and it hurts even more. Steve told him what happened.

He probably pried him away from Sharon and told Bucky to come talk to you.

Your mind is all dark these days, all positivity and optimism are drained, your brain is devoid of anything remotely resembling happiness right now.

You weren't sure when that happened, it wasn't even this dark when you were a HYDRA guinea pig, but now it all seems so bleak.

All you can think is that Bucky doesn't care about you.

That you're an obligation and have been since the days that you two escaped HYDRA.

"You know, I'll never know why you like coming here. It's creepy," he hesitantly jokes.

"It's nice being alone."

He nudges your shoulder, internally cringing as he feels the new frailty. "I thought that was our thing. Alone together, right?"

"Right," you laugh weakly.

Then it's all quiet except for the slight creaking of the Ferris Wheel.

"Well, if you're not going to talk then you can just listen."

"Bucky," you sigh.

"No, you're listening now. What the hell are you doing?" he demands, staring you down for an answer.

"I thought I was just listening," you dryly remark.

"Do you really think this is funny? We don't do this anymore. We don't tear ourselves apart like this. You were doing so much better, why - why would you do this to yourself?"

You don't look at him. You're too afraid he'll see you cry again. "I don't know, Bucky. I didn't think there was a 'we' anymore."

"Even if there wasn't a 'we' anymore, that doesn't mean that you go off the rails," he continues, not knowing how much that hurts. How he didn't even deny that the one-time unbreakable bond, the ironclad unit was now gone.

You're alone, your mind chants. 

"I'm not off the rails," you snap. "I've got it under control."

"Under control?" he scoffs. "Passing out - in the middle of a mission, might I add - is under control?"

You don't look at him as you clench your jaw tightly.

"It won't happen again," you spit.

Even as the words leave your mouth, you know you're lying. You know it because you're already plotting on ways to improve.

How to hide food better.

How you can make the game last longer.

Right now all you want to do is be alone. You're sick of yourself, sick of trying, sick of being so... you don't even have words for what you feel right now. 

"You're damn right it won't happen again. This stops - today. God, what were you thinking? Why didn't you come to me, to anybody?" he asks, his words bordering on accusations. 

You don't tell him that you tried, you tried telling him the last time you spoke.

It's another reason that you know he doesn't give a damn about you. It's been months since the two of you really talked. You refuse to bring up Sharon, flinching at the memory of the last time you did that.

--

"Nothing, Bucky," you sigh, trying to gather the courage needed to ask for help, but for the first time, he's not listening to you.

"It's obviously something. Can you please just tell me?"

"It's just you and Sharon," you mumble, not being able to look him in the eye.

You want to tell him that you need him right now - it's pretty hard to admit.

You can handle torture from HYDRA, but food will always have an inexplicable power over you.

You want to tell him that you feel alone, really alone, and you need him, but the words aren't coming out right.

You're trying to be happy for him, but you miss him so much.

You're pathetic, being co-dependent on Bucky, but you don't have any strength to take this loneliness anymore.

Ever since that damned mission, it's getting so dark in your head, and he isn't hearing your cry for help.

You feel so selfish that you're unable to let him go, but you can't.

You just can't.

You can't lose him too.

"Jesus, you too!" Bucky shouts. "Why does everyone else get to be happy, but when I finally find someone, everyone's suddenly got a problem with it? I don't say anything about you and Steve, do I?"

"Me and Steve?" you ask, tears burning at your eyes.

Another first, you find yourself recoiling from your person. And you can feel the splintered remnants of your heart breaking into a million little pieces. 

"Please. Don't lie to me, I've seen it with my own two eyes, how you two flirt with each other, how you're always touching each other - And that's just what you do in public, God knows what you do behind closed doors!"

As if on cue, Steve walks in, probably having heard what Bucky said.

"Speak of the devil," Bucky mumbles.

"Bucky, there's nothing going on between us," Steve cautiously affirms.

"I don't care. You guys can sleep with each other all you want, just don't lie to me about it! And don't tell me how to live my life!"

"We're not," you insist, the tears still welling in your eyes.

You've never seen Bucky like this, not even as the Winter Soldier did Bucky ever scream at you like this.

And all you can think is, 'Wow, he must really love her'.

The tears are spilling now and out of fear for anyone, especially Bucky, seeing you like this, you stand up and walk out of the room. 

The two men remain glaring at each other.

Steve's the one that speaks first, Bucky too choked up by the guilt at making you cry.

He's never been the one to make you cry, never.

He's the one you come to when you're falling apart, he's not the one that tears you apart.

"If I go after her, are you going to accuse me of sleeping with her?" Steve angrily retorts before leaving and going after you.

For the first time in a long time, you cry yourself to sleep.

And it pummels you over and over that you're really, truly, undeniably alone this time. 

--

It's been months since that night and other than an apology for yelling and fleeting niceties, you have barely seen Bucky, let alone spoken to him.

The whole thing kills you.

You're falling apart and Bucky's never looked better.

Every day you have to talk yourself off the ledge, both physical and metaphorical, and lately you don't even know why you're bothering.  "I just don't know how you could be so okay without me."

"What?"

"Nothing," you shake your head.

You're so pathetic like this.

Another first, Bucky's not even remotely getting through to you this time. 

"What are your safe foods right now? Let's go get a bite."

"What?"

"What are you eating?" he reiterates. "I know there's something."

You can't look at him as you shake your head. How do you look at him and tell him that you're weak? That you're not choking anything down these days? 

"There's nothing? You haven't been eating anything?" he asks, his voice shaking as he fights to maintain a small semblance of composure. 

He's angry. At you. Even more at himself. 

He's hurt that you didn't come to him. Even more hurt that he's only got himself to blame for that. 

"I'm sorry," you whisper, still refusing to meet his eyes.

He takes you to a small diner. Without minimal words exchanged, he buys you a burger and fries.

You swear you can see the hatred burning in his eyes. The ire. The contempt. 

He forces that entire meal into your mouth.

All want is for it to be the same - you just wanted it to be the same.

You wanted to laugh with him, to make eating the slightest bit more bearable.

But the entire time he watches you silently, offering passing remarks and comments. It's all painfully silent. It makes it so much worse.

With the occasional forceful look, you finish the plate in front of you.

He never did that before. He didn't force you - he only offered encouragement.

And now you've made him hate you too.

After months of not eating, eating a full meal leaves you feeling sicker than you'd ever felt.

You swear that it wasn't even on purpose. You're in your room, choking down bile until you can't anymore.

You run to the bathroom feeling all the food burning at your esophagus.

When you're done, you're slumping down on the cool tile. You're cold and hot all at the same time, you're slipping into a comfortable darkness.

And this time you don't have enough energy to fight it.

When finally become aware, your eyelids feel too heavy to open or maybe you're too tired to carry the weight anymore. You're in some strange state of semi-awareness.

"You know, even before HYDRA, she was abused. She won't call it that, but I know she was. Her parents gave her up to HYDRA, freaking HYDRA. That's how much they hated her. I'm all she's ever had, and I wasn't here. She needed me and I turned my back on her," Bucky quietly laments, his warm hand resting on your cold hand.

"It's not your fault, Buck. No one knew how bad it was. I see her everyday and I didn't know. You can't blame yourself." Another voice says, Steve, you're pretty sure.

"I just don't get why she didn't say anything. To me, at least. I would've been here. She just looked - She looked fine. That's what I don't get she doesn't do this - she's never done this before," Bucky swears, his voice thick with distress. 

You hate you're the one that's making him miserable. 

"You think it was an accident?"

"Maybe. I think I pushed her too hard. I didn't even really talk to her, I just yelled at her."

"You yelled at her?" Steve remorsefully exhales. "Wait - What do you mean you pushed her too hard?"

"What else? I forced her to eat."

"Jesus, Bucky, you're the only person she trusts with this. I found what was probably months worth of food in her drawer. God knows how much she snuck out before that, she doesn't eat. At all. And you forced an entire meal into her?"

"I'm really messing this up, aren't I?"

"I think you two need to stop acting like it's your job to help her, she needs professional help." Another voice, a female voice says, you're pretty sure it's Sharon. "She's not a child and yet you two keep holding her hand and letting her get away with acting like one."

"She's not acting like a child, she needs help," Bucky defends, his tone gradually becoming sharper. "Why are you even here? I know how you feel about her."

"I'm here to support you. In spite of everything, I'm here for you. And I don't think you should be letting her get away with this desperate cry for attention. Just let them tube her and get it over with."

"I'm not letting them tube her if she doesn't need it. It won't help."

"You don't know that. Maybe this is the wake up call she needs," Sharon repeats, you can tell she's not trying to be mean, not trying to ruin your life. She doesn't get it. You've encountered those people before. The ones that believe in tough love and will-power. "Actions have consequences." 

"You should leave," Bucky whispers, his forehead coming to rest on the hand he still holds. "I don't want your support."

"Look, no matter how you two spin it, she did this on purpose. People don't throw up like that by themselves. I'm telling you what you need to hear. She needs some tough love."

"She's had tough love all her life - that's the last thing she needs right now. She needed a friend and I turned my back on her," Bucky grits. It's too silent for a minute, when he finally speaks, it's sharp and to the point, "Just go, Sharon."

You hear her quietly scoff, "Fine. Do what you want."

When you actually wake, Bucky's quietly snoring in the chair next to you.

You're relieved there isn't a tube in your nose. You've heard it's painful.

But Bucky's right, it won't help.

You'd probably rip it out yourself then continue on. The two of you always said that recovery was a process. Bucky's nightmares didn't stop in one night, and it took you time to get back to healthy eating habits.

Your heart is beating out of your chest and it feels like you can't breath right now.

The lights are all off and Bucky's out cold, so you take this opportunity to get some fresh air.

The roof is a place that you'd become accustomed to.

You came up here all the time.

It was a place where your newfound loneliness became bearable. 

You take a seat at the ledge, your legs are criss-crossed and you just sit there and imagine a time where you didn't completely hate yourself. Where you didn't make everyone around you miserable. Where people didn't die because of you.

In the infirmary, Bucky jolts awake.

It's not completely unnatural for him, but it's like he can tell that you're not there.

That a vital piece of him is missing.

He looks over to your bed and immediately notices your absence, he's up and searching for you immediately. 

He asks FRIDAY about your last known location - the stairwell to the roof. 

And he's running.

He doesn't know where your mind is right now and he's not taking a chance.

He runs and runs like hell until he makes it to the roof.

He slams the door open. Only freezing when he sees you sitting on the ledge.

You're startled by the slam of the door.

You turn around to find Bucky breathing heavily, looking panicked.

You quickly put two and two together: he thinks you're going to jump.

"Relax, I'm not going to jump," you huff, rolling your eyes. "It's just nice up here. You can ask FRIDAY, if you don't believe me, I come up here all the time."

"I believe you," he says, but he remains in a cautious stance.

He's inching closer to you like any sudden movement will set you off. You really hate that.

"Do you? Do you believe me when I tell you I didn't mean to throw up like that? That I didn't mean for any of this to happen?" You know your tone is much too curt for Bucky, but everything hurts so much right now.

"I do - that was my fault. I pushed too hard."

Bucky's slow approach doesn't stop, and now it's starting to really bug you. You'd never thought about actually jumping before.

You roll your eyes and nudge your head over for him to join you, "I told you I'm not going to jump. You can stop that."

"Promise?"

"Promise. It's not like I couldn't save myself if I fell or something." You remain quiet as Bucky takes a seat next to you, dangling his legs off of the ledge. "What would happen? If I did do it?"

"I'd probably bust my ass jumping to save you," he chuckles.

You're just thinking out loud right now, not bothering to censor your ideation in front of Bucky, "No, I mean, really - what would happen if I jumped? Who would miss me? People wouldn't die because I mess up."

"Don't talk like that. I'd miss you. I'd miss you forever. And those people, it was an accident. You're a human, a human with limits just like the rest of us."

You nod, but you don't say anything for another moment. "Why didn't you let them tube me?"

"Because I know you - I know you wouldn't want that," he says simply.

Then it's quiet. You're both staring at vast emptiness that surrounds the Compound. 

"Do you miss me like I miss you?" you whisper, thinking about all the moments that you've shared with Bucky. It's always been so easy, until now. Why can't it be like that anymore, you wonder.

"Every day, doll."

Bucky is naturally a retreater, you - you're not like that.

Your response is to dive in, to poke and prod at the area until you figure out why it hurts.

And when you retreated, Bucky would be lying if he said that he didn't notice.

He thought that it was his fault, so he backed off. He retreated.

It just never occurred to him to do the poking and prodding himself - he figured when you were ready to confront whatever was bothering you, you just would. He hates that he didn't see all the signs.

"Don't lie to me," you grit out, the rooftop lights flicker with the surge of your power. "Just stop lying to me. This - It's not healthy. I should be able to let you go. I shouldn't need you like this. Not when you don't need me."

"Who said I don't need you? Of course I need you," he insists, resting his hand on yours.

"No, you don't," you vehemently refute, pulling your hand away from his. "You're perfectly fine without me. And me? The second you try to have an ounce of happiness, I fall apart. Sharon was right, it's not your job to put me back together. It's not fair to you."

"Since when do you listen to Sharon?"

"Since she's the one that makes you happy. And I'm the one that makes you miserable. I am sorry about that. About Sharon." It's selfish that you can't let him go. That you want to be the one that makes him happy even though you know you can't. "I guess it's true: misery loves company."

"You don't make me miserable. You could never make me miserable."

"Yes, I do."

"It's a dark place you're in right now," he acknowledges.

He knows his words right now are just that - words. There's probably nothing that he's going to say right now that will sink in - that it will take time and work before you believe anything that he's saying.

He knows what its like to be in this place, he knows and yet he says the words anyway. "Why didn't you come to me earlier? We've never kept things from each other before, why now?" You don't say anything, you don't want to make Bucky feel worse when you're the reason that he's down already. So you don't say anything. Your silence is his answer. "You tried to tell me that day - the day I yelled at you. Didn't you?"

"It just gets so loud sometimes," you whisper.

"I thought you were still shutting all the thoughts out."

"I can't shut out my own thoughts," you quietly admit.

"What are you thinking?"

"That I'm all alone. For real this time."

"You're-"

"Don't say I'm not," you cut him off, tears stinging your eyes again. "Because I am, every second of everyday I'm alone. Every good thing I've ever had, I ruin. I'm a ruiner. It's why my parent gave me up. It's why you left me. It's why those people died. That mission today. It's my fault."

"I'm sorry I left you, Doll."

"Please don't do that. You should be able to be happy without me interfering."

"What do I have to do to get it through your thick skull? You're stuck with me." He cups your head between both his hands, forcing you to look at him. He presses his forehead to yours. "I'm not happy unless you're right there with me. I've been in hell the last 6 months trying to give you your space. All I want to do right now is kiss you and make it better."

"What?"

He drops his hands and suddenly he's the one not looking at you. "I should not have said that."

"Why not?" you timidly ask, worried that he's going to say that he doesn't mean it. "It's because of Sharon, isn't it?"

"No," he scoffs. "I broke up with her months ago. It's because when I do kiss you - it's going to be when you're back on your feet. Not like this, not when we've both been tearing ourselves apart for months." He takes your hand when he sees the thinly veiled disappointment on your face. "And when you're better, I'm going to take you to Coney Island for real this time.  And it's going to be perfect, just you and me."

"Promise?"

"Promise."

AnonymityIsFun Masterlist Bucky Barnes Masterlist

[malicious-vampire]

I always feel like something is missing. I used to be so much, made so many memories. I used to be a whole person.

But then I think about when I was 16, disconnected from the entire world, and I ask myself: "Was I? Was I really?"

I look back on being 12 and remember all the evenings I stood at the window asking myself if I'll ever be fine. "Was I then?"

I think of all the times I felt lost, shattered and alienated, even when I was just a little kid.

And suddenly it dawns on me: I was never truly whole. There was always something off, something strange, some undefined darkness gnawing on my mind. I was never going to be like the others, I was never going to live with that lightness the people around me seem to have.

Ever since I could think, I have been missing something I never had.