#scar tissue on top of scar tissue after so many years of injury.

[hidden-havven]

1 life left sure hope nothing bad happens to them..

plus more doodles (cw: blood (not very graphical))

g e g g i s l o v e g e g g i s l i f e

[cdyssey]

Trust Me, Pt. 2/2

Summary: Melissa had to put someone down as her emergency contact.

A/N: Part two, @straperine​, my friend!!! 8K+ words of the most unhinged angst imaginable, but then I wrote a little fluff—as a treat. 

CW: Car Accidents, Medical Procedures, Hospitalization, Alcohol

Part 1 | AO3 Link

In the hospital waiting room, Barbara paces the harshly-lit tiles back-and forth and then back again, likely driving the other two bleary-eyed occupants of the space insane. 

She is beyond caring about other people at this point, though, as selfish as it is, as uncharitable, and as unkind.

Melissa Ann Schemmenti might as well be the only person left in the world.

The wonderful surgeon, a maternal woman who insisted upon being called Njoki instead of Dr. Anyango, had already come out around an hour ago, sat next to Barbara in one of those dreadful hard-backed chairs, and explained it all very carefully to her. When the truck had hit Melissa’s comparatively tiny Civic, her seatbelt had thankfully done its duty and kept her in its seat when she careened into a shallow ditch… however, the external pressure exerted by the safeguard alone probably would have been enough to bruise a kidney. It was not an uncommon injury in a car wreck—a trade off even for not flying through the windshield. But then, on top of that, Melissa’s airbag didn’t deploy, and it appeared that she slammed forward into her steering wheel, which did quick work of lacerating what had likely already been a tender kidney.

Her only remaining one.

This was news to Barbara, who had assumed that she knew most everything there was to know about Melissa: her favorite color (lime green), the names of her fists (John and McClane), the significance behind the saints nigh perpetually suspended around her neck (a gift from her late nana, divine and holy protection). She even knew things that her friend hadn’t explicitly told her, such as the fact that she always had to face the door, hypervigilant against potential threats.

But she hadn’t known this.

“What do you mean she only has one kidney?” She had all but yelped, gathering the collar of her shirt in her clenched fist, rumpling it even further than it had been already. She’d barely given a thought to what clothes she had thrown on, half-pulling on garments at random. She wasn’t wearing a blessed stitch of makeup.

Njoki seemed surprised at Barbara’s surprise, raising a grayed brow, but she didn’t remark upon it.

“Her other kidney must have been surgically removed because there’s some old scar tissue there,” she said in a didactic voice, not dissimilar to the one that Barbara used when she was introducing shapes to her five-year olds for the first time. “But I didn’t see the operation on her medical records, so it may have been done a long time ago.”

Barbara hadn’t known what to do with this overwhelming information except to be distantly hurt that she had never been told about it. Granted, she supposed that there weren’t too many occasions when Melissa could have brought up the detail that she was missing a kidney in casual conversation… but just maybe, it could have been folded into the same discussion that they should have had about her apparently being Melissa’s emergency contact.

Because that was news to her too.

Not as surprising, she grudgingly reasoned.

Melissa probably had to put someone down after the divorce, and she didn’t trust any of her family as far as she could throw them.

But still.

Barbara would have liked to have known.

She would have liked to cherish the knowledge that Melissa trusted her so deeply… even though the very fact that it had remained a secret almost ran counterintuitive to that epiphany. 

Melissa had spent the entirety of their friendship taking care of her in so many ways, from making her feel at home in Philly at the very start to doing her damnedest to ensure that her house didn’t become an empty haunt in all the lonely months after the divorce.

But, in twenty-something years, she rarely—if ever—let Barbara extend those same sorts of extraordinary measures to her.

Not even when she had been married to Joseph, who was an overgrown manchild at best and a drunk buffoon at worst.

Not even when she had finally divorced his stupid ass and seemingly forgotten how to smile for years upon aching years, the gesture never entirely reaching her dark eyes. 

Not even when her nana passed away a few years after that, and she’d ended up falling out with her younger sister because of it too.

So much pain, year-in and year-out, and Barbara had tried to be present for her—bringing casseroles over to her house, embracing her in the teacher’s lounge, taking her out for lunches, telling corny jokes that never exactly succeeded in making her laugh, threading their hands together in unnoticed places, sometimes taking far too long to let go—but it never felt like enough. These gestures were all nice and good, and Melissa was audibly appreciative of each and every one of them, but Barbara, ever a model Christian, wanted to thoroughly save her friend.

Melissa once said she’d kill for Barbara—Barbara was family—but the inverse was precisely true for her.

She’d do anything to drag her friend back from the consumptive darkness, even if it killed her.

“I’m sorry… this is just a lot to process,” she had admitted to Njoki, by then delicately massaging her pounding temples with her fingertips. “Melissa can be”—(so damn stubborn, headstrong, prideful, cagey, self-deprecating, and maybe even self-loathing, quite possibly unconvinced that she deserves to be loved)—“protective about the particulars of her life sometimes.”

“Understandable,” Njoki smiled graciously and let the sticky moment pass.

“But her other kidney...” The only one she had. God, it sickened Barbara. How could she not have known? “Were you able to fix it?”

She dreaded the answer, already fearing the worst outcome, unable to prevent herself from catastrophizing when every nerve in her body was alive with adrenaline and panic and hurt.

She would be brave enough for Melissa not to look away from it—the answer, the future, whatever else this hellish event had in store.

She owed Melissa her bravery at the very least.

“Mhm… I was able to fix it with an emergency partial nephrectomy,” Njoki returned patiently, “which simply means that I removed the damaged tissue from the kidney and did other repairs to successfully restore it to full functionality…”

The surgeon bit her dark lower lip then, hesitating slightly for the first time since the conversation had begun, and the gesture wasn’t lost on Barbara.

“There’s a but in there, though,” she intuited, her mouth abominably dry. She stared at palms, which were slightly red from the way she had been worrying them together for three hours.

Because Melissa had been in surgery for that long of a time—if not longer given the fact that an hour had passed since the accident and when Dr. McGill actually called.

Three godforsaken hours.

And Barbara had endured every second like her own personal hell. They drove through her hands—those seconds, those minutes, those hours upon unfathomable hours. They wounded her tender skin—scourged it even—but she could not stop herself from participating in her own bitter annihilation. 

She could not stop herself from fearing a world where Melissa Schemmenti could suddenly stop existing.

“Yes,” Njoki agreed softly, lightly curling her hand around Barbara’s wrist. Her fingers were cool, and that felt good to her feverish skin, soothing even. “She only has one kidney, so recovery is going to be on the longer side. We’re giving her a hemofiltration treatment while she’s in the ICU to ease the stress on the organ as it starts to heal. But I’m also not necessarily happy with her oxygen output yet, so I’m going to wait to take her off the ventilator for another couple of hours until she’s stabilized.”

“She’s on a vent?” Barbara had inhaled sharply, incapable from keeping the terror and unholy fear from climbing up the rungs of her throat. What she knew of medical terminology wasn’t much. What she knew of ventilators was absolutely terrifying. “She can’t breathe on her own?”

Njoki’s grip on her wrist tightened.

Reassuring but firm.

And kind.

So kind.

“It’s less that she can’t, Mrs. Howard, and more that the ventilator is giving her some help at the moment, so her body doesn’t have to work so hard to do so for her,” she clarified. “We’ll have her off of it in no time—don’t you worry, hon.”

Barbara winced at the use of her surname—the very one she had consciously decided not to change—still attached to the history behind it, wanting to continue to share a name with her daughters, and not wanting to endure the legal hassle of reverting to her maiden name besides… but, at the same time, Howard was inherently a reminder of Gerald. And there was something about the invocation of her ex-husband when she was in the waiting room of a hospital nearly about to lose her mind over her dearest not-just-friend that knifed her between the ribs. 

They’d been divorced for nearly an entire year, and she still felt the need to apologize to him.

For what exactly?

She could not say—in the very same way that she’d been unable to tell him the real reason why she couldn’t leave Philadelphia.

There had only been one reason, really.

One name.

One inexcusable sin.

“I’m going to allow her another hour to rest,” Njoki continued, giving her one last squeeze before finally standing up from the rickety chair, “and then I’ll send someone to come and get you. Does that sound alright?”

“Yes, of course,” she had replied somewhat untruthfully. Every atom in her itched to be wherever Melissa was now, to lay eyes on her for herself, to embrace her, to empirically confirm that she was still breathing, but she forced the facade of Barbara Howard to arise and perform her due diligence.

She smiled at the doctor with all her pearly white teeth.

But when she was finally gone, when it was simply Barbara and the two faceless individuals in the waiting room who were studiously looking away—rightfully lost in their own torments and fears—the kindergarten teacher bowed her head and cried.

She cried because she had apparently almost lost Melissa Schemmenti, and there wouldn’t have been a damn thing she could have done about it. And she cried precisely because she didn’t lose her best friend. She was still on this Earth—alive, tangible so miraculously here—and the guttural relief cascaded through her broken body like a deluge, like a Biblical, almighty flood. She cried because she was so utterly exhausted. She had spent the last three hours in a state of hypervigilance, every microscopic detail that she perceived razor sharp and stinging in the clarity of trauma. She cried because everything hurt—it all did—down to the way that when she glanced at her phone—and it was Melissa’s twinkling eyes that greeted her!—she had to hold back a sob.

She cried because had this been the end—had Melissa gone and left her, had she died—then there would have forever remained an unspoken thing, a wordless specter that perpetually haunted the few inches that unfailingly remained between them.

In Melissa’s music-filled kitchen when they accidentally brushed hips, standing side-by-side in front of the stove.

On Barbara’s soft couch when their shoulders just touched as they coincidentally laughed at all the same parts of a stupid movie.

In the teacher’s lounge at the round table that they both loved, their ankles occasionally glancing beneath their chairs.

Barbara cried about all of these things, having never verbally articulated the importance of even just one of them, a hand carefully splayed over her mouth to keep the carnage from coming out.

It was a quiet affair, of course, because she was conscious of the others—(she was always conscious of the others and their perpetual surveillance)—but the tears leaked from the corners of her eyes and down the weathered planes of her face anyway, collecting calmly on the vertex of her chin.

She allowed herself those five minutes of nearly unadulterated grief.

She indulged the child inside of her who had no recourse except to fall apart, who could only physically manifest these big emotions in the total reckoning of her own body.

And then, just as quickly, with expert precision, she capably mothered herself.

She wiped her streaming eyes on the sleeve of her soft shirt, the mask settling back into its proper place again, and she became Barbara Howard once more, unable to sit with herself and all of her unwanted baggage for very long.

Quite literally.

Which is why she’s been pacing for almost the entire hour, only taking a few sitting breaks before inevitably getting up again, continuing to pace, and impatiently waiting for the moment when the double doors open and someone tells her that she can see Melissa.

When that finally happens—sometime around three—when a nurse appears in front of her and tells her that her wife is starting to wake up, she never fully registers that there is something inherently wrong with such a sentence in the first place.

She just nods—speechless, so grateful—and follows eagerly, every step forward illuminated by the harsh fluorescence above.

—

The ICU is a terrifying place, dimly lit, shadowy, claustrophobic, and frankly alive with ghastly noise. Curtained beds line each side of the unit like stalls from which the intense whirring of machines rises upwards into the air and crashes indelicately upon her ears, but even that electric undercurrent isn’t enough to disguise the moans that frequently surface through the hum like a keen sort of lowing. 

Her stomach clenches, the column of her throat, as she catches a glimpse of a patient on a ventilator—not Melissa, thank God—but she knows that her friend must look similar, spidered with so many crawling appendages.

The nurse, a young lady named Cecily, silently gestures for Barbara to follow her down the corridor of beds on the right.

Before they reach the very last unit there, which is also initially eclipsed by a floor length curtain, Cecily gently whispers prepare yourself as though this is something achievable when one’s best friend—(and partner, confidant, companion, family, sole reason for staying in Philadelphia, guilty pleasure, greatest what if)—is behind that curtain, vulnerable and so broken, picked over and picked apart. But she only nods, distantly aware that it’s just something that the nurse has to say to be polite.

And so, Barbara Howard takes a deep breath and rounds the corner.

And she nearly falls to pieces where she stands.

Because there is Melissa Ann Schemmenti—a woman who always insists on looking so damn alive —thoroughly diminished in a hospital bed, washed out in a paisley-studded hospital gown. She is crisscrossed and scissored and swallowed up by so many colorful wires and tubes. Lines ribbon her arms, snaking around them and plunging inwards, connected to at least four different IVs that are swinging gallows-like from a singular pole. A row of stitches, neatly taped, rakes her colorless cheek, and the bottom of an empty catheter bag just pokes out beneath the blankets on the left hand side of the bed.

All of this Barbara Howard might have been able to live with, rationalize, and capably endure as part of the minutiae of what it means to be in an intensive care unit, were it not for the big and ugly tube erupting from the side of Melissa’s mouth, leading to a dreadfully bulky machine.

The ventilator.

Every rise and fall of the second-grade teacher’s chest is too perfect, too controlled, too precise.

Mechanical.

“Melissa.” Her name, the lilting three syllables of it, comes out shattered on her tongue. Barbara is desperate, unhinged at all of her carefully articulated seams. She’s scrambling to her side, unkeeled, unraveled, and so utterly unmoored. “Oh, sweetheart."

She stops just short of reaching out and touching her, though, suddenly afraid to do so—unable to stomach the thought of hurting her even one iota more—but then Njoki, who has just arrived, moves to the opposite side of the bed and gently shakes her head, her hands primly tucked into the pockets of her lab coat.

“It’s okay, Mrs. Howard,” she says. (It takes everything in her not to visibly recoil at the innocuous usage of her full name again.) “You can go ahead. See? She’s looking at you…”

And so she is.

Melissa’s olive eyes are half-lidded with exhaustion and likely a slew of painkillers too, purple half-moons edging them like elongated shadows, but even still, she’s clearly staring at Barbara, something of distress in those dark depths, something of unmistakable fear.

The younger teacher has always hated doctors—distrusts them, suspects that some (if not most) of them are quacks, won’t even go to her yearly check-ups unless Barbara nags at her to do so. Remembering all of this with a pang, she reaches out and runs her fingers through the familiar mane of red hair splayed all around Melissa's face in dull and lifeless tangles, tucking a stray strand behind her ear... behind the ventilation tubing...

“I’m here, sweetheart,” she murmurs as a single tear lances down the side of her face, falling somewhere onto the whiteness of Melissa’s sheets. With her free hand, she grabs the other woman’s closest hand—so careful not to disturb the IV port—and squeezes lightly.

“I’m here. I’m here.”

Melissa, with what little strength she seems to possess, squeezes back. There is dried blood still crusted around her painted nails, and the sight disturbs Barbara. They’d gone to get mani-pedis together just last week, and Barbara had never laughed as hard as she did when the technician had scrubbed Melissa’s feet with a pumice stone, and she’d erupted into unreserved giggles, surprisingly ticklish.

Endearingly so.

“Ms. Schemmenti and I—” Njoki starts, but Barbara quickly interrupts.

“—Melissa,” she says gently, glancing back at her friend, who hasn’t pried her glazed eyes away from her yet. “She prefers to be called Melissa… and it’s perfectly fine if you call me Barbara...”

Mrs. Howard—though she has long served Barbara well—does not have a place in this hospital, not here, not in this fragile moment, not by Melissa Schemmenti's sickbed.

Njoki nods once, her eyes warm and commiserating.

“Melissa and I, then, have come up with a system for communication while she’s still intubated,” the doctor continues with a slight smile. “I don’t want her moving her head too much, so we’ll go by blinks in response to questions until we can get her off the vent. One blink for yes and two blinks for no—right, Melissa?"

For the first time, Melissa’s gaze darts over to Njoki, and she blinks once and rather slowly to indicate that she’s understood.

Easy enough. 

Maybe, when all of this is behind them, years and years and innumerable years down the road, they will both be able to laugh about how this is the least Melissa has ever talked in all her sixty-years.

(Maybe, though, that wound will always be too tender to ever jokingly prod, and Barbara will treat any reminder of it like a cardinal offense. This is the day, the hour, the night, when she almost lost her. That will never not hollow her out to her bones.)

“Are you hurting, sweetheart?” Barbara asks, slowly lowering herself into the chair next to Melissa’s bed. It’s as uncomfortable as the ones in the waiting room, so she leans forward a little and presses her elbows into the mattress of the hospital bed for support, still holding on to her friend’s hand, though, refusing to let go.

Not now.

Never again.

Melissa blinks once and then twice, but the agonized way that her brow is furrowed over her eyes easily tips Barbara off to an alternative and very distinct possibility.

“Are you lying to me, Melissa Ann Schemmenti?” She asks in her most serious teacher voice, the one she only uses when she catches her kindergarteners trying to stay awake during naptime. And when she receives a thorough eye roll and then an accompanying blink in response, she can’t help but hoarsely chuckle in such a way that it's clear that she’s rather close to crying.

“As inappropriate as ever, I see.”

Another blink, and the corner of Melissa's bloodless mouth nearly twitches, but there is a tube in the way.

There is a ventilator.

The smile slips away from Barbara’s own lips at the unpleasant reminder, and before she can stop it, another tear falls from her eye. She hastily swipes at it—doesn’t think it’s her right to be so damn emotional when she’s not the one lying in the hospital bed with one barely working kidney and a machine dispassionately breathing for her.

“I apologize,” she says thickly, and she leans down to impulsively press a kiss against the other woman’s bruised knuckles. “Silly me. I shouldn’t be so upset in front of you…”

Melissa blinks once.

And then twice.

And then three times, staring at her expectantly, but Barbara glances up at Njoki instead, her dark brow pinching somewhere in the middle.

“Three blinks?” She muses aloud. “What would that be…?”

Njoki seems confused herself, pulling a hand through her long braids as she thinks on it.

“Mmmm, could be analogous for maybe?” The surgeon suggests, at which point Melissa squeezes her hand again, this time a little more insistently than before.

Barbara looks back down again to see that she’s blinking thrice once more, the expression in her eyes impatient, frustrated at not being understood. She frowns sympathetically; it has to be an utterly alienating experience to be entombed in one's own body.

“I’m sorry, sweetheart,” she murmurs, now rubbing soothing circles into the other woman’s clammy hand with her thumb. “I’m not sure what you mean. You’ll have to tell me later...”

She receives a look that quite plainly says, What aren’t you getting?  

But nonetheless, slumping her shoulders resignedly, Melissa blinks once anyway, which she assumes is most closely translatable to an affectionate, Fine, dummy.

“So how long will she have to be on the vent again?” Barbara asks, now addressing the question to Njoki, who is adjusting a dial on the main IV pump. Whatever she does seems to produce an immediate and tangible effect on Melissa because she moans with audible relief.

“Just increased the dosage of morphine you’re receiving,” the doctor explains, briefly placing her hand on Melissa’s other arm. “Should help with any pain you’re feeling, hon… as for the ventilator”—she looks at Barbara again—“the team who does early morning rounds can reassess in a few hours while I’m in another surgery. If they’re satisfied that her vitals are stable, I’ll give them the go ahead to extubate her.”

Melissa tightly closes her bruised eyes at this, her nails suddenly digging into Barbara’s palm, sharp and terrified.

“I know,” Barbara interprets readily. “You don’t like that answer…”

It scares you to be so thoroughly dependent upon another.

Upon an unthinking, brutalist machine.

You’ve never known of a fight that you cannot handle with nothing but your own two fists.

You always think you have to survive the worst alone, Melissa.

Why is that?

Who taught you such a terrible way of existing in this world?

Barbara knows that even if Melissa wasn’t on a ventilator, she wouldn’t have been able to answer either of these questions aloud. They’re far too vulnerable, demanding the second grade teacher’s total honesty, and Barbara knows that it would be hypocritical to ask that of her when she can’t even fully offer it herself.

“But I’m not leaving you, you hear?” She goes on, her voice suddenly constricted, a hundred emotions thick. “I promise.”

Even though the effort looks a little painful, Melissa opens her eyes again to deliver one blink.

Two.

And then three… that same elusive response, and Barbara frowns, feeling guilty and lost. She knows Melissa so intimately, and yet, whatever she is attempting to convey with these microgestures is as baffling to her as some arcane language.

“Mhm,” she placates lamely. “Yes, of course. I see...”

But she still doesn’t get it, and Melissa isn’t stupid. 

She blinks twice in blatant admonition, and Barbara can almost hear what she would have said.

No, goddammit, she would have laughed. You definitely don't.

—

The critical care team extubates Melissa around six that morning after a weaning test is successful; her oxygen saturation has risen, and she’s been heavily struggling against the vent for a while, trying to breathe on her own. Barbara holds her hand through the entire process, whispering soothing words into her ear as she tries not to cry at the sight of Melissa coughing and coughing, her throat inflamed from the intrusive tubing. The resident in charge immediately replaces the life support apparatus with an oxygenated mask, and it’s a sign of the younger woman’s utter exhaustion that she doesn’t buck against yet another restrictive measure.

She just stares at Barbara from the depths of glassy eyes for what feels like an eternity before finally closing them, less falling asleep than succumbing to it. The kindergarten teacher kisses the side of her hand again and continues to temple it with her own, rocking back-and-forth in her deeply uncomfortable chair. She prays to God for at least another half-hour after that, asking Him for His mercy and His healing, for His continued hand of protection on Melissa; she pleads and pleads and so desperately pleads, hoping that the voice in her head scrapes against the infinite (and sometimes depressingly remote) heavens. 

When she has done all the prostrating herself before her Lord that her overtaxed mind can handle, she simply sits still and vainly fights against the fatigue that is threatening to overwhelm her own body, focusing on the rhythmic beeping of the intravenous fusion pump that is decorated with a nauseating number of IV bags—all playing a part to sustain her best friend’s life.

Beep.

Surely it’ll be okay if she closes her eyes for just a minute… she won’t fall asleep… she just needs a moment to collect herself, to recenter her shaken core…

Beep.

Nothing bad will happen if she allows herself a brief respite; thinking otherwise is just a byproduct of the remaining adrenaline that is slowly working its way out of her system.

Melissa is stable.

Melissa is (likely) going to make a full recovery.

Melissa is the strongest person she knows.

Beep.

Despite her best efforts, though, Barbara feels herself starting to drift off, and she is unable to drag herself back from the depths, her consciousness floating out to that vast and welcoming sea of darkness. The last productive thought she feels her brain entertaining has to do with her friend’s three blinks, which no one had been able to satisfactorily decipher. She doesn’t think it’s Morse code or some other professional equivalent, nor does she think it’s maybe like Njoki had suggested. Melissa has always hated the tepidness of that word, preferring a straightforward yes or no…

Blink.

Blink.

Blink.

I and love and you.

The epiphany—agonizingly simple though it is—suddenly breaks over Barbara's head like a cresting wave, nearly pulling her back to the waking world with a fierce and overwhelming  joy. She smiles in her twilight state, eyes still closed…  

“I love you too,” she murmurs sleepily, only dimly aware that Melissa can’t currently hear her.

Perhaps they’re constantly saying those three words to each other, her and Melissa...

... just always doing it when the other isn’t able to fully understand.

—

She wakes up to the sensation of someone gently pulling a thumb across her jaw—over and over again, tracing the outline of that sharp bone with a practiced touch. The action disorients her—reminds her so powerfully of her late mother who had once soothed her when she was sick in the exact same way, but then the clinical smell of the hospital hits her: sharp, astringent, acidic.

And it all comes rushing back to her in jagged fragments.

Oh, God.

Melissa.

The wreck.

Those untenable hours in the waiting room.

The ICU.

She bolts upright, limbs half-flailing, and is suddenly confronted with a sight that reconfigures her insides: Melissa, looking like death warmed over, but even still and all the same, smiling that damned crooked smile—the one that Barbara loves so well. While she was sleeping, they apparently replaced the oxygenated mask with cannulas that have been threaded into her nostrils and around her ears. But she’s still covered with as many lines and tubes as ever, and the presence of them unnerves her.

Barbara blinks a couple of times as her eyes adjust to the dim lighting.

“Melissa,” she simply says, relishing every phoneme of that holy name.

She’s so powerfully relieved that she will have every opportunity to continue saying it.

Melissa, Melissa, Melissa.

“Hey, Sleeping Beauty,” the younger woman rasps, her voice hoarse from the ventilator, barely audible, but it’s still the sweetest sound Barbara has ever heard. She will never forget the sight of her on that machine for as long as she lives; it will stain her vision like an anemic afterimage every time she so much as closes her eyes at night; she will nightmare the staccato beats of Melissa’s heart being measured out by a rhythmic monitor. 

And she will thank God every day that He spared her.

That He let her have this one good thing.

This miracle.

Melissa, Melissa, Melissa.

“Hello yourself,” Barbara chokes out, sudden emotion throttling the stem of her throat. “You gave me quite a scare there, you know.”

“Gotta liven things up a little every now and then,” Melissa tries to chuckle—as is one of her favorite defenses against any sort of uncomfortable sentiment—but the familiar gesture immediately costs her. She begins to cough, her pale face suddenly splotched with small patches of red, and the beeping on the heart monitor starts to pick up. Barbara, her own heart plummeting into her stomach, reacts swiftly, splaying a sturdy hand on the younger woman’s chest.

“Breathe,” she instructs in an almost calm voice, but the word breaks at the end, her facade slipping, her poise. She cannot stomach seeing Melissa Schemmenti so helpless; it is an untenable contradiction, an oxymoron that she cannot capably resolve. “Mhm… that’s it, sweetheart. Inhale. Exhale. In and out.”

And beneath the weight of her palm, she feels Melissa’s breathing begin to slowly even out, the rise and fall of her chest regulating itself again. Relief cascades through her, comorbid though it is with the heartache, and the interplay of these two polarized emotions settles inside her like a stomachache. When the beeping on the cardiac monitor finally returns to normal, she briefly dips her head against the railing on Melissa’s bed, grounding herself against its coolness and steadiness, closing her eyes against the rising nausea.

“Sorry,” Melissa apologizes, her voice indistinct. The exertion of the coughing spell has thoroughly depleted her; there is nothing left of rosiness in her cheeks; gone is that inappropriate twinkle in her eyes.

All that is left is apology and pain.

Barbara doesn’t know why the younger woman has always felt the need to apologize for something she didn’t do. She can conjecture, of course—can guess that it’s a side-effect of having been told that it was her fault all of her life. Joseph was especially bad in this regard, foisting the most egregious of his indiscretions onto his ex-wife’s overburdened shoulders.  

He has supposedly matured since then—has assumed total responsibility for what he so recklessly broke in the first place—and Melissa, being a good Christian, has generously forgiven him. She even calls him just to chat from time to time...

But Barbara hasn’t.

Forgiven Joseph, that is.

God forgive her for it.

“Nothing to apologize about,” she forces herself to lift her head from the railing and smile a wane smile; it feels stiff on her lips, tense and unnatural; it stretches her mask of a face into a new and unsustainable configuration. “You’ve had a long night.”

“So have you,” comes an immediate rebuttal, so tender and concerned. Indeed, the intensity of the other’s penetrating gaze makes Barbara suddenly realizes that her hand is still on Melissa’s chest, and blushing slightly, she withdraws it—idly smoothing her blankets instead.

Of course, the second-grade teacher quickly follows this charged moment with yet another quip: “You look like shit, Barb.”

“Me?” She snorts incredulously despite herself, despite knowing what Melissa is trying to do. “You’re the one who’s lying in a hospital bed looking like, like...“ But she stops short, faltering, stumbling on her next words.

The expression she had nearly been about to use was like you’re knocking on death’s door, but she finds, at the threshold of this teasing irreverence, she cannot follow through. She cannot be like Melissa and turn the severity of what happened tonight into just another throwaway joke.

“Like what?” Melissa prods quietly, sensitive to the change in the conversation.

Or, maybe more accurately still, sensitive to any changes in Barbara herself.

“Like… you nearly died,” she shudders, her voice folding in on itself, seismically collapsing. And there are unbidden tears in her eyes yet again.

There is the raw and visceral grief of having almost lost Melissa Schemmenti.

She withdraws both of her hands, using one to grip the fabric next to her stomach, using the other to swipe her forearm across her eyes, as though that will help, as though that will do anything but prolong the inevitable.

Which, granted, might be what the both of them do all of the time in their separate and intertwined personal lives.

Prolong the inevitable.

Familial heartbreaks.

Broken marriages.

This unspoken thing between them.

“You nearly died, Melissa,” she goes on, still shielding her leaking eyes away from the other woman, “and I don’t know what I would have done in light of that fact.”

The proclamation lands heavily in front of them both.

It is an ugly, pitiful thing.

And it whimpers.

It wails.

“It… would have been... hard,” Melissa swallows, her voice uncertain, as though she's just now realizing how close she had been to the end herself. Between being on the operating table, waking up on a ventilator, and trying to recover from the ordeal of both of these traumas, there probably hasn't been space enough for her to fully process the night's events—excluding the times she’s been consciously trying to repress them all with a laugh, of course. In the back of her mind, Barbara wonders if there’s some implicit faux pas she’s making by discussing the hypothetical of Melissa's death even when she's right in front of her, clearly and miraculously and so thankfully alive.

“Yes,” she replies anyway because they’ve gone all of their damn lives without ever once saying exactly what they mean.

And she can’t take it anymore—Melissa almost died and all of her nerves are so brutally exposed.

Melissa almost died, and things still haven't changed between them; there is still something dividing them, unbearable inches.

“But y’would have gone on, Barb," she valiantly replies. "Life would have gone on, even if—“

“No,” Barbara cuts across her ferociously, finally lowering her arm to see that Melissa is staring at her from wide and watery eyes too, her face still leached of all its exquisite color. She looks less like a person than she does a corpse, less like a corpse than she does a ghost: insubstantial and wispy, one exorcism away from total dissolution. “Don’t even suggest that, Melissa. I would have never been able to move on from you. I would have been so... so lost.”

And there would have been no coming back from that.

She knows herself entirely too well.

She would have wasted away in the absence of Melissa Schemmenti. She would have let it all, the sixty-seven years that she has spent meticulously constructing the mythology of Barbara Howard—mother, wife, woman of God, devoted teacher—crumble to dust and ashes, returned to mire and clay.

“And what does that matter, huh?” Melissa croaks, and the stubborn woman tries to prop herself up on her arm, but she’s stopped short by all the wires and tubes, and perhaps (hopefully), the withering glare that Barbara levels at her. “I’m still here, aren’t I? And according to the doc, I'm not leavin' anytime soon. You don’t have to imagine a world where I’m not in it.”

The other teacher attempts a smile that almost instantly falls flat on her chapped lips, but she extends her nearest hand all the same, palm facing upwards—an open invitation of platonic communion, yet another reification of their well-established status quo of just being friends—but Barbara wants more than that.

She wants more than the stolen glances and the almost touches and the secret words that languish on the tips of their guarded tongues.

She's nearly seventy-years old and she has only recently wondered what it means to be selfish in a glorious, unabashed, and unrepentant kind of way; she wants a whole  lifetime.

Barbara slowly stands up then, ignoring the dull ache in her arthritic knees, and simply stares at Melissa, the light wash from a nearby machine staining her face a sad and desolate blue—the same color as a mottled bruise.

"Barb, what are you—" Green eyes widen, the pupils in them entirely blown.

And as the tears that have been threatening to obscure her vision finally spill over her long and dark lashes, she leans down, with exquisite tenderness, and kisses Melissa Schemmenti's forehead. Eternity stretches between them, infinity wrapped in the moment that her lips meet the other's feverish skin, and she is the sole witness to the exact moment when Melissa's eyes glaze over too.

"I don't want to imagine a home without you in it anymore," Barbara whispers, drawing back. "I realized as much tonight."

Perhaps even well before she received that damned call.

Perhaps sometime or another over these last twenty-something years.

She just could not say the words aloud; they were impossible to think, much less articulate.

"I'm sorry, I'm so sorry"—and she bows her head, ashamed, verklempt, overwhelmed, and undone—"for having not said it sooner..."

She's been a coward, hiding behind the veneer of her wedding ring up until very recently, ultimately hurting herself and Gerald both.

(She's been a good, Christian woman.)

Melissa reaches upwards then, disturbing the nest of varicolored wires that spiral around her milk-white arm, and palms Barbara's cheek, her thumb gingerly resting against the side of her jaw.

"Always slow on the uptake," she chuckles as tears trickle down her scraped and battered face like a soft, April rain. Barbara tries to wipe some of them away, but they continue to fall anyway, as though the spillage is endless, a long drought finally ended.

Rejuvenation can only follow.

Spring.

"Forgive me, sweetheart," Barbara implores again, sniffing noisily, as Melissa lightly cradles her face.

"You keep acting like that's something only you've gotta apologize for."

"Isn't it?" She doesn't dare to be hopeful—doesn't dare to believe that Melissa feels the precise same way that she does about all of the missed opportunities and untaken roads and lost years—but even still, the relief prematurely leaks into her voice anyway.

"Nah," Melissa grins, the crooked gesture somehow both beautiful and tortured all at once, "we're both complicit here."

"Oh."

And then, whether Melissa is drawing her downwards, or Barbara is taking initiative and leaning in, regardless, they're suddenly brushing lips like everything about this moment is fragile and delicate, like the time they have been afforded is precious, like they are making up for all the times they have never kissed before, like they plan on kissing every day from now on—as long as they both shall live. It is slow and lovely, pained and more than a little sad; they're both hyperaware of Melissa's current physical limitations, careful not to exceed them. The rhythmic whirring of machinery, the hiss of the oxygen filtering into Melissa's nose, the lines that entangle their hands like so many dozens of snares, serve as perpetual reminders of where they are, and what it almost cost them to arrive to this bliss in the first place.

Barbara tastes the salt of their intermingled tears and suddenly dreams about how one day, when the younger woman has sufficiently recovered, she would like to take Melissa with her to the sea, where they can wade into the warm waters, chest deep beneath the moon, and bask in its silvery glow. She will drag her fingers through that damp, red hair and tell her that she is so lovely.

She is beloved.

But at least for now, they're confined to this oppressive hospital and to the fact that Melissa could have very well died last night; indeed, the weight of that particular knowledge presses upon them both like a shared and bloodied wound.

Oh, how they anoint each other's lips with their own, though, in jubilant defiance of this unspeakable grief, and in doing so, begin to heal.

—

Later that same day, when Njoki and the rest of Melissa’s care team are satisfied that she’s fairly stable and that her kidney function has mostly returned to normal, they move her from the ICU into a regular room on the second floor, where she'll stay for a couple of days for close monitoring. And upon Barbara’s polite, if a little embarrassed, request, kind orderlies obligingly shove two hospital beds together with the rail lowered between them.

And for the first time in both of their lives, Barbara and Melissa lie together in the same (kinda-sorta) bed.

But it will not be the last time—they're both damn sure of that.

And once Melissa is finally out of the hospital, the next time will be under far better circumstances.

For naturally, Barbara Howard plans on taking her home.

Until that eagerly anticipated moment, though, she just holds her, laying an arm across that soft, warm belly, careful not to disturb any of the many lines that are still attached to her companion, conscientious of every wire and every trickling tube.

And for her part, Melissa is astonishingly good at finally letting herself be held, perhaps too tired to fight the sensation, or perhaps realizing that it isn’t such a bad thing after all to be cared for so intimately by another. At one point, when Barbara is idly skimming her fingernails up and down the length of her arm, Melissa even admits that this is nice.

And so it is.

And so it shall always be.

The setting sun leans against the square window with a relieved sigh, amber and honeyed gold.

They talk a little about everything and nothing as they patiently wait for seven o’clock when they can finally watch Jeopardy! together on the boxy TV mounted in the corner of the room. Melissa recounts what she remembers of the accident; she’d thankfully reacted quickly enough to avoid swerving into a tree, but the alternative had been careening into the ditch—that was when she’d slammed into the steering wheel as the car violently tilted downwards.

“Damn piece of shit,” she pouts mutinously. “I outta sue Honda’s ass for that airbag not deploying.”

“Amen,” Barbara vehemently agrees, her chin nestled against the younger woman’s shoulder. “They owe you big time."

When Barbara tentatively asks how she’d lost her first kidney—(after spending at least ten minutes ranting and raving about having never been told that crucial fact in the first place)—Melissa only chuckles, which makes Barbara immediately suspect that this is yet another thoroughly traumatic event in Melissa Schemmenti’s sordid life that is about to be tragically underplayed.

Much to her chagrin, she is absolutely correct.

“Lost it in a game of cards.”

“A game of what?!” Barbara nearly cries, briefly forgetting the intimate geometry of their bodies.

“Dammit, Barb. My eardrum!”

“Sorry"—she lowers her voice—"but, girlfriend, what?"

“Listen,” Melissa shrugs casually as Barbara massages the skin beneath the other's ear in silent apology, “it was no big deal. Needed some money to pay off some student loans, and I was, uh, young and dumb, and that was a very high paying game. Fuckin’ Tony Artino, though, a stronzo if I've ever seen one, cheated when he was dealin’ the cards.

If Barbara could do so without disturbing the other woman, she'd be emphatically shaking her head in disapproval right about now.

Mm.

“Every time I hear a new detail of your younger years, I’m very much alarmed,” she says, thinking about how this is somehow even worse than the story of a twelve-year old Melissa having had to take all five of her younger siblings out to the woods one night because her paranoid father had thought the mob had come to call.

It had not, in fact, been the mob.

It turned out to be a very lost pizza delivery guy.

“Yeah, well, that’s why I don’t say most of this stuff aloud,” Melissa teases, glancing over her gowned shoulder at Barbara. “Don’t wanna upset your delicate constitution, hon.”

“Well, quit that,” Barbara immediately retorts, as studiously solemn as Melissa is facetious. “I don’t want to find out any more dark secrets from some doctor in a waiting room at three in the blessed morning, Melissa. I want to just know your truths—all of them.”

“Even the ones that involve me gettin’ into illicit organ gambling poker games?” Melissa arches a not entirely serious brow, though her tone has slightly shifted, raising itself into the form of an implicit, tentative question.

Do you really want all of me?

Even the ugly parts?

Even the parts that most people run away from?

And Barbara’s definite, resounding answer is,“Yes, even those. I want you in your entirety, Melissa Schemmenti.”

Ugly parts and all—anything and everything that makes you human.

That makes you my Melissa.

My lovely Mel.

"That makes you a masochist, I think," comes yet another quick witticism—(she should really start calling them Schemmenti-isms at this point)—but she can tell that Melissa is genuinely moved by the sentiment, the strange gravity in her voice betraying her, the tightness with which she squeezes Barbara's hand.

"No," Barbara murmurs, so softly, against the shell of Melissa's delicately formed ear. "I think that just means I plan on taking my role as your emergency contact very seriously. You've made it my business—nay!—my moral duty to worry about you... to care for you with everything in me, Melissa. Let me do that then. I want to do that."

She gently cards her fingers through that rich and vibrant hair as Melissa seems to formulate her response to this against the background noise of the steadily beeping heart monitor and the pneumatic hissing of the oxygen that is still being supplied to her. Barbara is supremely comfortable with the silence—quite patient with it now that she figures that she and Melissa have all the time in the world to finally get things right.

"Trust doesn't come easily to me," she finally says, and there's a hint of warning in her voice, as though she's alerting Barbara to this long-ingrained trait of hers for the first time, as though nearly three decades of friendships hasn't made her well-aware of the fact that the younger woman approaches the world like everyone she meets is doing a good job of hiding their knives.

Barbara gets it.

Sometimes, she absolutely feels the same.

"Me neither," she admits quietly, still playing with Melissa's hair, now twining a curl around one of her fingers, now just as idly letting it go. "I've always been terrified that my honesty to others would be used against me... or else, my candor would eventually backfire in some other karmic hand of fate."

"Yeah." It's just a monosyllabic reply, but even still, Barbara hears the weight of it.

Melissa knows precisely what she's talking about.

The lived experience of being vulnerable before another and agonizingly paying for it.

"But we'll just have to learn how to fully trust each other together," she insists, trying on the role of the idealist for once. She wonders after all these years of resisting the  very idea, if Janine hasn't been rubbing off on her anyway. "We already have an excellent foundation already; now we're just building up the walls, brick-by-carefully-placed-brick."

"Hah. You always know how to make it sound so damn achievable," Melissa chuckles tiredly, even as she leans further into Barbara's embrace, apparently growing comfortable within it.

Secure.

"Perhaps it is this time," she smiles softly against the crown of that scarlet head. "When the two of us put our mind to something, there is little that can be done to stop us, you know."

"Oh, I know," Melissa only says—still skeptical, perhaps—but nonetheless gentle and entirely fond. 

Jeopardy! comes and Jeopardy! goes, and between them joking about how Ken Jennings reminds them a little of Jacob and competing over who gets the most correct answers, Barbara has probably never had so much fun in a hospital in her life. Melissa wins—just barely—but that’s because Barbara is rubbish at anything to do with pop culture categories.

(Who in God's almighty name is Christine Baranski, for instance, and what exactly does she have to do with ABBA?)

When the show is over, though, both of them start to feel the weight of their exhaustions dragging at their aching bones—Melissa especially. After the night nurse comes in to administer some more pain medicine to her, she settles in Barbara’s arms, her breathing becoming heavier, her eyes starting to droop to a close despite her best efforts to stay up and also watch Wheel. When a long time passes without the younger woman saying something, Barbara assumes that she's asleep and decides to settle down herself, flicking the TV off, and tracing vague patterns into the back of Melissa's thin gown.

Even though she won't want to, she'll likely go home for a little while tomorrow... shower... make a soup for herself and Melissa... pack a proper night bag... and then come back to stay again. She'll also need to spend at least a few hours on the phone to placate each of her daughters, as well as so many other people besides. When she'd called Taylor earlier to tell her about why she had to cancel dinner plans, her eldest had immediately freaked out over the prospect of her Aunt Mel being hurt. And then Taylor had told Gina, and Gina had told her grandmother on her father's side, and Gerald's mother Hannah—Barbara's kind but notoriously interfering former mother-in-law—had seen fit to put it in on Facebook that Melissa needed prayers, tagging Barbara in the post, and now everyone at Abbott knows that Melissa is down and out for the count too. Janine has texted her at least five times that she's seen since she last picked up her phone.

So, yes, she'll have a busy day tomorrow trying to make sure no one barges in on an unsuspecting Melissa.

Or, well, the both of them together.

They'll tell their friends and family in their own time assuredly.

Soon even.

But she has a strong feeling that both of them would like to remain in their infinitesimal pocket of forever—just the two of them—for a little while longer.

It's nice here—safe.

Melissa has always felt like home.

As she turns these plans over in her tired mind, s he's incredibly surprised when not even ten minutes later, Melissa unexpectedly breaks the silence again.

“Barb?” She asks, her voice comically thick with drowsiness.

“Yes, honey?”

“Did ya ever flippin' figure out what three blinks meant?”

Barbara can't help but laugh, pleasantly caught off guard by the question; she had passively wondered if Mel had been too zoned out and drugged up to remember those failed exchanges in the ICU but apparently not.

“It took me awhile," she confesses.

Hours. 

Months. 

Years upon lonely years. 

Decades even. 

Almost all the time that the two women have known each other and pretended that friendship was the only mutual language that they spoke. 

“But I made it there in the end,” she finishes, pressing a light kiss against the side of the other woman’s head.

Three blinks.

Three words.

"I love you," she utters it so easily, like she's been saying it for quite sometime now.

I love you and I love you and I love you.

Maybe, if she's lucky, she'll echo this refrain throughout eternity.

[mt-musings]

Bluebell

Chapter 35

After being abruptly transferred to the BAU at what she suspects was Gideon's request, Cassie Boann struggles to find her footing. Shy and solitary by nature, the transition is made all the more difficult when Dr. Spencer Reid seems to take an almost immediate dislike to her. Unfortunately for them both, their respective areas of expertise leave them paired off more often than not. But when Cassie's past literally starts hunting her, Spencer is forced to consider that he might, in fact, not hate her at all.

Quite the opposite, actually.

Spencer Reid x OC

Warnings: Canon typical violence, kidnapping, stalking, drug use, blood, injury, death, PTSD, eventual smut, more tags to be added

Series Masterlist

Read on AO3

35. Scar Tissue

Cassie had been spending more time back in CASMIRC rooting through old files that had yet to be digitized. When she wasn’t buried in old case files, she was on hold with immigration or the State Department or the Ukrainian consulate, trying to find even the smallest of leads as to where Hadeon Lyvychko ended up after the murder of her grandfather back in 1977.

He’d never had a passport in any official capacity and the only photos Detective Melnyk had been able to dig up were old and faded, of a boy barely more than fifteen. She’d brought it to one the the forensic artists to be aged up but was still waiting on the results. 

A nineteen year old cold case wasn’t high on their docket. 

It didn’t help that she was forced to rely mainly on old Soviet records which where shoddy at best, when they existed at all. Many files had been purged in the Union’s fall, the rest lost or shoved to rot in some warehouse. 

She sighed and propped her head on the edge of the file cabinet. It still hadn’t quite hit her that Hadeon Lyvychko, her top and only suspect, was her uncle. Or half-uncle, not that it made it any better. She’d tried going over those nights in her head, tried to remember any sort of indication that might have given away some sort of relationship between her mother and the man who’d tortured them, but she couldn’t remember anything, not before the familiar edge of a panic attack set in. 

There was, of course, the fact that he had abused her mother the least, that there had to be some reason he disproportionately targeted her father and her. But he’d still killed her in the end, judging by the blood left at the scene. She had the report from ERT, had gone over their results a thousand times, but hadn’t been able to go over the photos again. Not sober, at least. 

Of course, if she was honest, she’d also been holing up in CASMIRC’s stacks on paperwork days to avoid Gideon. 

She hadn’t thought Hotch would announce her new title to the team after she’d submitted the paperwork following her successful defense. She’d thought perhaps they’d both just keep it as nothing more than an addendum in her file and a few extra dollars in her checks home. 

Instead he’d pulled the team into the conference room to congratulate her, blindsiding her and half the team. Spencer knew, of course, and Penelope because she’d helped Spencer transcribe his edits, but the others all expressed shock that she’d been in a graduate program at all, that she found the time for it amidst their case load.

Gideon had just stared at her, opened his mouth to say something and then thought better of it and closed it. She hated the hurt behind his eyes, the way he searched her face as if trying to puzzle out her rationale. 

She didn’t want to tell him she’d kept it secret specifically from him, that she’d done so because he’d have seen it as a perfect opportunity to push her towards something that wasn’t the FBI, wasn’t the BAU, wasn’t hunting down murderers every waking moment. She knew he’d mean well by it, knew he’d always had her best intentions in mind, but she couldn’t handle that sort of pressure from both him and Dr Garvey, not when she knew, deep down, she’d love nothing more than to split her time between research and academia. 

She wasn’t naturally suited to the field, she never had been. All the aspects that made her a good field agent—her hyper-vigilance, her marksmanship, her endurance, her determination—they’d all been bred either by her childhood assault or in response to it. As a child she’d loved nothing mored than to bury herself in a mountain of books or spend all day at her father’s piano, or perched halfway up a tree trying to mark off more birds in her dog-eared field guide. Nearly all her favorite activities had been solitary and self-driven, which was perhaps part of the reason she still struggled so much with being part of a team. 

Gideon had given her that field guide, when she’d moved to Montana with her parents. It had been a guide to the local species and she’d marked up the pages for each one she’d found with colored-pencil notes on when and where she’d spotted them, so she could tell him the next time she saw him. It had been their thing whenever he visited, to hike out into the woods for a few hours in relative silence and just admire the birds around them. Her mother had never had the patience for it and her father had an almost pathological aversion to silence—even when he read he’d make sure there was a record playing softly in the background, filling the room with sound. 

They’d kept it up erratically as she’d grown up—sometimes if he had a case by one of her foster placements he’d swing by at the end of it and they’d grab dinner at a diner or something and wander around a park, looking for interesting birds. It suited them both—he never wanted to discuss whatever horrors he’d just faced and she never wanted to tell him just how shitty her newest placement was or how much it sucked not only to be the new kid again, but to be new twelve-year-old junior with crippling PTSD. They’d both much rather sit on a moldering park bench and compete to see who could find the most finches before they lost light. 

Cassie still wondered why he’d ever recommended her for the BAU in the first place—it wasn’t like she was a psychology wiz or expert in body language and micro expressions like the rest of the team. There was no denying she was a good investigator, but it had been made clear in the last almost-year she’d spent with the team that she thought about cases in an entirely different way than the rest of the them. 

She’d left an invitation to the actual graduation ceremony on his desk. It was printed on fancy, cotton-rag paper, even the envelop done up with elegant scrolling and the university crest. Dr Garvey had asked how many she would need for friends and family, carrying a thick stack of easily forty. His face had fallen, just a bit, when she’d only asked for two—one for Gideon, to hopefully start to make up for not telling him, and one to stick in the back of the photo album she kept at the bottom of her fire-proof safe. It seemed silly to give one to Spencer. He already knew when and where it was supposed to be, after all. 

And chances were they’d catch a case, anyway, and she’d miss it. 

She was trying to ignore the fact that that reality bothered her.

She opened her eyes at the sound of a throat being cleared and pulled her forehead from the cool aluminum of the filing cabinet. Spencer stared at her, head cocked to the side.

“Everything okay?”

She nodded, gathering up all the files she’d pulled in hopes that he hadn’t been standing there watching as she stood there with her head on the file cabinet for the past fifteen minutes.

“Yeah, just thinking.”

She overbalanced the towering pile, nearly dropping the whole lot on the ground, but Spencer steadied them before taking half the pile.

She swore, taking a deep breath before glancing around for her glasses. She last remembered putting them upside-down on the desk behind her, but then maybe she’d moved them as she worked her way through the stacks—

“Where did I—“ she began, but stopped when Spencer plucked them from the top of her head and held them out, fighting a smile. She didn’t know when he’d begun to read her so well. Maybe he’d always been able to, he was a genius profiler after all.

The thought still turned her stomach, even though she knew it shouldn’t, that she should find it somewhat endearing at the very least that he paid enough attention to know what she was thinking. 

After all, what was love without the mortifying ordeal of being known?

She sighed and took them, hanging them off her collar as she turned back towards the elevator. Spencer kept pace, glancing through the pile in his hands.

“Why are you looking into ex-Soviet nationals? Is this for the Sokolov case?”

“No,” she said quickly, her stomach swooping nauseatingly, “It’s just a hobby case.”

“Another cold case?”

She just nodded. Another implied it was different from the last hobby case she’d been working when he’d asked, or the one before that. But it all ended up amounting to the same. 

At least that what she told herself. 

“Do you want to come over tonight? I know we just got back from the last case and you’ve probably got plenty to catch up on at home, but—“

“Sure,” she said quickly, without letting him finish. She rarely turned down an opportunity to spend time with him, could only think of a handful of times when she’d either absolutely had  to be in the lab or it had simply been too bad a night to be in the presence of others. Still, Spencer’s face lit up like he’d expected her to refuse.

“Great! There’s a new documentary on the BBC about the Neanderthal I thought we could watch. I TiVoed it while we where gone, it got fairly good reviews.”

“I do love the Neanderthal. Did you know they were possibly the first humanoid with complex burial rituals? The Shanidar Four suggest the deceased would be covered in flowers and multiple sights have shown evidence of deliberate pits dug into the earth for the bodies to be placed in.”

“I never really thought about their funerary practices.”

“It’s really fascinating, actually—sort of a cognitive milestone for the development of societal behavior. I mean, there is evidence that certain mammals like elephants have a form of death rituals, so it’s not exclusive to humans, by any means, but the growth in intricacy and ritualism marks a higher level of cognitive functioning as well as a societal structure that allows for the diverted resources it takes to enact them. Funerary rites can tell us so much about a group’s priorities and beliefs. I mean, if we look at the recent excavations in Pontecagnano Faiano, we see a clear correlation between biological stress on the skeletal remains and class, all denoted purely through grave goods. I—Sorry,” she said, stopping herself from info-dumping. “I did my undergraduate research on ancient burial practices and their role in the development of civilization, so I get a little carried away.”

“Why are you sorry?” He asked, brows furrowing. 

“Because, just—all I ever talk about is death. Even when I’m not talking about cases. I’ve been trying not to.”

“It’s interesting. Besides, you listen to me ramble all the time.”

“It’s not the same.”

“It is. I mean, how long did I go on about the New York City Subway system last week—?“

“Okay, but the 76th Street Station is fascinating, it shouldn’t even exist.”

“Well, I like listening to you talk. And I like how excited you get when you talk about grave goods and funerary practices. It’s adorable.”

Cassie dropped her gaze to the carpet, trying to ignore the rush of heat in her cheeks. Adorable. She’d never been called adorable.

“How do you feel about Thai? I can call it in and we can pick it up on the way.”

“Sure, that sounds great.”

“Did you know Thai food is traditionally one of the most vegetarian-friendly cuisines in the world along with Indian and Ethiopian?”

She smiled up at him, shaking her head. “I didn’t. I never really looked much into it, to be honest.”

“Really? I just thought since you keep a pretty strict diet you might have looked into different types of cuisines. When we started hanging out I wanted to know what sorts of places would have the most options so I looked into the prevalence of vegetarianism in different cultures.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, I didn’t want to suggest places you wouldn’t have a lot to pick from.”

Cassie stared at him, unable to properly string together the words. In the end she just smiled, unable to put the warm, fuzzy feeling into a coherent sentence. He returned it almost shyly, a faint pink tinge in his cheeks. He walked with her in silence back to their desks, dropping the files off on her desk before going back to his own. She couldn’t help but keep glancing at him throughout the rest of the afternoon, every so often meeting his gaze over the half-divider between their desks. It made it easier, combing through all the horror and depravity in the files on her desk, just knowing that she wasn’t alone. That whenever she looked up, he’d be there. 

---

The documentary lay ignored, serving now only as flickering light in his darkened living room as the focused solely on each other. Spencer wasn’t sure when the lingering kisses had turned into something bordering on desperate, when she’d ended up in his lap, fingers buried in his hair. His hands were at her waist, flirting with the hem of her sweater, his senses overwhelmed by her. 

He hadn’t realized just how slight she was before he’d held her—he’d known, intellectually, that she was far too thin for her frame, that she weighed maybe 110 pounds soaking wet even though she was a good two to three inches taller than Prentiss. Feeling her like this, pressed against him with scarcely a breath between them, he could feel the strength in her form, the strength earned by near constant distance training. 

Spencer didn’t exactly have a ton of experience romantically--he'd only ever had two girlfriends, both when he was still out in California, and only one had ever been what anyone might have considered 'serious.' Now, looking back, he wasn't so sure it had been. He'd never found himself preoccupied in the way he was with Cassie, never felt the intensity of connection he did with her. Just kissing Cassie was different. He’d never quite got as lost in the act, in the emotion it stirred in his chest. 

Even though she was in his lap, he still wanted to be closer, to feel closer. His grip tightened on her waist, pulling her closer, tracing patterns into her back. Cassie hummed into the kiss, pressing closer as one hand left his hair to gently cradle his jaw. He sighed, pulling back only slightly to catch his breath. 

Cassie smiled at him, her face flushed, close enough that he could count the individual freckles on her face if he wanted. He hesitated a moment before letting his fingers trail lightly underneath the hem of her sweater, tracing over the bare skin underneath. She shivered at his touch, nipping at his bottom lip as she pressed her lips to his with more urgency. He smiled into the kiss, glad to see she was losing a bit of her hesitancy in initiating more intimate affection. 

She giggled as his hands traced up her sides, squirming in his hold as the featherlight touch ticked her. He laughed in turn, repeating the motion to draw more laughter from her—it was such a sweet sound, and so rare. He’d give anything to hear her laugh like that more, to hear it every day—

She nearly squirmed out of his hold and he wrapped his arms more securely around her, peppering her face with kisses. She froze as his hands settled in the skin of her ribs, its surface ridged with what he knew must have been dozens of thick scars. Something shifted behind her eyes, the playful spark replaced by that all too familiar anxiety he was used to seeing there. 

“Cass—?”

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry—“ she said, pulling away, cheeks flushed. 

“No, Cass, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to push you—“

“It’s not—it’s not that. I want to, I—“ she broke off, wrapping her arms around herself as she pulled herself off his lap and scooted to the corner of the couch, knees pulled to her chest.

Something, clearly, had triggered a panic attack. He could see it in her glazed over expression, in the way she held on to herself. It wasn’t as severe as the one that had woken her weeks before—this one was more subtle, the sort that would be easy enough to hide, if you didn’t know her well.

Perhaps that had been part of the point of pushing them all away, of always keeping the team at arms length. 

Spencer stared a moment before getting up and crossing to the kitchen to grab a glass of water. He returned, placing it on the coffee table in front of her before sitting next to her again, careful not to touch her.

“Do you—would it help to talk about it?”

She took a deep breath, closing her eyes. “It’s stupid.”

“It’s not.”

“It’s, it’s just—it’s worse, than what you’ve seen already. The scars. They’re, um, there’s a lot and they’re bad and I just—I just don’t want to see that face.”

“That face?”

“The face people make when they see them.”

Spencer thought back to the first time he’d seen her all those months ago in the early morning bullpen, seen her in shorts and a tank top for the first time, before they’d even been friends. The way he’d catalogued the scars like she was a case, the way she’d shrunk in on herself when she’d noticed, giving him that perfect, practiced smile that never met her eyes.

“It’s vain, I know that. I’ve had them so long, and it’s not like I won’t get more in this line of work. I just—I hate them. And I’m not used to people touching them.”

“I don’t want to make you uncomfortable, ever—“

“You didn’t, Spence. You didn’t. It’s just my own neurosis. I want to be close to you, I want to do normal things couples do. I’m just—I’m broken and it’s one of the more visible reminders.”

“Cassie—you know we don’t have to push anything. We can move at whatever pace makes you comfortable. I just like being with you.”

“Spencer—“

“Cassie, I mean it. I love you. Do you think I wouldn’t, just because of some scars?”

She didn’t answer, and the silence broke his heart. He took her left hand in his, pressing a kiss to her knuckles. He noticed the thick surgical scar that extended down from her pinky and ring finger, across the back of her hand and, disappearing under the sleeve of her sweater. He pressed more kisses to the scar, glancing up at her through his lashes. 

She was staring at him with an inscrutable sort of expression, pain the only thing evident enough to put a name to. She swallowed, hard, before pushing up the sleeve almost to her shoulder, revealing how the scar continued up, a little past the elbow, the only sharp, straight scar out of the dozens that covered its surface. 

“That’s from when they reconstructed my arm. My ulna was broken in two places, the head of my radius nearly destroyed along with my lunate, scaphoid, and my fourth and fifth metacarpals. The fingers never healed quite right, especially the pinky—it’s still crooked. They were the first bones I learned the names of after the surgery—fingertip to elbow. I made the doctor go over them with me until I knew what they had to fix. The surgeon would go bone by bone, showing me where they were, until I’d memorized them. I don’t know when it became a grounding technique but—“ she cut herself off, shaking her head. “The rest—the rest are from when I was little, mostly. When my parents died. And they were always ugly and terrible and kids were mean, but adults were always worse—and it’s just, when I’m with you I forget. I’m not B—I’m just Cassie. But then it all comes rushing back and I have to remember that I’m not.”

“Can I—can I hold you?” Spencer asked, hating seeing her curled in on herself, hear the self-loathing twisting her words. He knew what it was like to be different, to be ostracized for things outside of your control—still bore the psychological scars of the severe bullying he faced as a child, of the abandonment of his father. He knew it wasn’t something that you just grew out of, something that went away on its own. But he could be there. He could help, just like Cassie had been there for him, had held him when the memories of Tobias’s torture became too much. Like she still did, when he woke up terrified, needing to know that he was not alone, that there was still light among the darkness. 

She surprised him by nearly throwing herself into his arms, burying her face in his chest. 

“You know, ritual scarification was prevalent in multiple ancient cultures, and is still prevalent in certain places today. They were seen as proof of an individual’s strength, as marks of certain rites of passage, of being part of a community. I know it’s different, because there’s a semblance of agency and choice in cultural scarification, as opposed to what was done to you, but I just—Your scars don’t make you ugly, Cass. I don’t look at them and think less of you. When I see then, it just makes me think of what it must have taken to endure what you have, to survive. I see your strength. They’re a part of you, but not who you are.”

Cassie tightened her grip around his waist, shoulders trembling slightly. Spencer hugged her back, pressing a kiss to the crown of her head. He knew she didn’t quite believe him, knew that she thought he was being placating and saccharine. He knew it would take time for her to accept, time for her to realize that he meant it, that he wasn’t going anywhere, that he truly thought she was the most beautiful creature he’d ever laid eyes on, that it was her heart shining through the little cracks in her armor that made it so. 

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[acupuncturebradenton01]

What Is Moxibustion: The Simple Art Of Herbal Healing

Moxibustion therapy is an ancient Chinese practice used for thousands of years to treat various ailments. It is also known as Moxan or red moxa. The procedure involves burning dried mugwort leaves on specific acupuncture points to provide relief from pain, aches, and other conditions. It has been increasingly adopted to treat a wide range of diseases and conditions.

This ancient practice dates back to the Han Dynasty when Buddist monks used herbs to treat illnesses. It is a form of alternative medicine in which special herbs are burned and then applied to acupuncture points to stimulate healing and immunity in the body. The burning of herbs activates their pharmacological constituents, which then travel to the affected parts of the body to treat various health issues. Moxibustion combined with an acupuncture treatment can increase its effectiveness when used together. It is commonly used to relieve pain due to injury or arthritis, specifically in cold patterns where the pain naturally feels better with the application of heat.

Benefits of Moxibustion

1. Boost the Immune System

It activates the body’s natural defense mechanisms, increasing the production of cells that fight off infections and tumors. This helps promote a healthy, balanced immune system.

2. Reduces Pain

The herb-induced burning sensation caused by this therapy stimulates the brain’s sensory system, eliciting an analgesic effect that relieves pain. This is why many people find it more effective than painkillers.

3. Alleviates Anxiety

Like acupuncture, this treatment also has a calming effect that reduces anxiety. This is because it interacts with the same receptors that respond to opiates, which are known to have anti-anxiety properties.

4. Improves Circulation

It also promotes the flow of blood to the body’s tissues which is helpful for recovery after surgery or injury.

5. Boosts Metabolism

It helps boost metabolism, helping the body burn fats more efficiently. This is because it causes the release of endorphins, natural painkillers that also increase metabolism.

6. Lowers Cholesterol Levels

Like acupuncture, it also can lower cholesterol levels in the blood. Some studies have found that it can lower cholesterol by up to 27%.

7. Regulates Menstrual Cycle

It can also regulate the menstrual cycle because it stimulates the body’s natural healing mechanism, helping the body recover faster.

8. Turn breech babies to regular position

According to the University Midwifery Associates, some studies claim this therapy’s effectiveness in turning breech babies into regular head-down positions successfully. However, there is currently insufficient scientific research to support these claims. Consulting a doctor should be best before undergoing this treatment.

How to Practice Moxibustion

There are three ways that this therapy can be applied:

1. Direct Moxibustion

This is when the moxa cone is directly touching the skin’s surface, which targets the treatment point. Moxa cone will be lit, leaving it slowly burning, and soon removed when the skin turns red and once the heat is felt. This should be done only by a professional to avoid any burns or scarring since it should not be left in place for too long.

2. Indirect Moxibustion

This is more commonly practiced since it is considered safer than the direct alternative. Instead of leaving it directly in the skin, the professional will be holding the burning moxa stick about an inch above the specific treatment area. They will remove it once said area turns red or warm is felt.

3. Other Methods

Other methods of applying Moxibustion indirectly are such as the following:

If done or combined with acupuncture treatment, the moxa will be placed on top of the acupuncture needle, leaving it to burn until it’s extinguished. By doing so, the heat will travel through the needle to the acupuncture point.

An insulating layer can also be placed in between the moxa cone or the skin. A layer of salt, ginger, garlic, or a moxa box can be placed on the body so that the moxa cone will not touch the skin directly.

Tiny threads of moxa lit using an incense stick can also be used, typically with an ointment or cream to separate it from the skin.

Moxa can be rolled into a stick or compressed into a pole where one end of it can be burned and is waved over the skin. Moxa sticks can either be smoky or non-smoky.

Moxa can be produced into a liquid form which can be spread over a specific area of the skin which will then be placed under a heat lamp to get the warming effect. This is preferred, especially when one doesn’t like the burning sage smell of a moxa.

Takeaway

Moxibustion is a form of alternative medicine that uses herbs to activate the body’s natural defense mechanism and promote immunity. It is an effective treatment for pain, anxiety, and blood pressure, and it can even regulate a woman’s menstrual cycle. This therapy is an alternative to modern medicine and is safe if it is done under health care supervision and performed by a professional.

[nahoney22]

The Hurt Lies Within

Echo X F!Reader

word count: 2.1k

After both facing traumatic experiences, yourself and Echo have a small talk after he sees something you’ve been hiding from them for a long time.

warnings: Ansgt, mentions of severe injury such as burns and scarring on reader (not self inflicted) Mentions of Echo’s traumatic experiences too. Not an established relationship, a little fluff/comfort at the end.

A/N: this was a request that my irl friend has asked for and their comfort character is Echo. She has been badly burned on her left leg that has left her with a third degree burn that she’s had for years now. Ive took note on how she wants it written too so this is basically for her ❤️

“Where is it?” Irritation laced your voice as you manoeuvred around the cramped refresher in search for your moisturiser that you typically applied to your skin once you’ve gotten out of the shower to prevent cracking. Unfortunately for you, it was nowhere to be seen.

You stood in a tank top and a pair of shorts, hands akimbo as you frowned and swore that you had left it right where you were.

Why couldn’t you go out and just ask someone or search the rest of the ship for your cream? Well, that’s because nobody knew about the large scarring from a severe burn you had five years ago. It was large and severely damaged the tissue of your skin. If you can’t bear to look at it, how could anyone else? It made your skin crawl whenever you looked downed, a constant reminder of the incident that occurred many moons ago.

You heard some footsteps outside the refresher door and that’s when you thought that you may as well ask if someone had seen it. They had seen you with it before but never asked what it was particularly used for. Most of them assumed it was just a face cream rather than an ointment for treating burns over years.

“Uh, hello?” You knocked once on the door and the walking had stopped.

“Hello?” The voice called back and you instantly recognised it to be Echo. You smiled a little at that, having a small soft spot for the clone.

“Hey Echo. Just wondering, have you seen my cream in the red tube laying around anywhere? It’s not here.” You called out to him.

Echo on the other side of the door did a quick glance around. “I can’t see it from here, is it in your bunk?”

You thought for a moment then it clicked that maybe you had taken it back to your bunk and placed it inside your backpack yesterday for whatever reason. “It may be in my backpack! Could you please do me a favour and go get it for me whilst I dry my hair?” You asked with a small hint of cheekiness that Echo secretly adored. If it was anyone else he would tell them to get whatever it was they wanted themselves but with you? He had a soft spot, too.

“Sure,” he chuckles, “I’ll be back in a minute.” His footsteps receded.

“Just leave it outside the door and I’ll grab it!” You called out but whether or not he heard you, you were unsure but began to towel dry your hair regardless, the black towel ruffled against your head and water dropped onto the floor.

Echo found your backpack with ease and began to rummage through it for the red tube, pulling some stuff out in the process such as ammunition, a med kit, toiletries and your datapad. As he pulled out the datapad, the screen flashed on and it showed that your background photo was one of yourself and him. Echo felt his cheeks burn, flattered that out of all the photos you have snapped on your many adventures. It was the one with you on his back with a wide smile after you had begged Crosshair to take a picture of you both after a successful mission. He chuckled softly and placed it away until his eyes finally landed on the red tube that he had seen countless of times.

Swiping it up with his hand, he begins walking back to where you were but pauses as he actually stops to read what was imprinted on the front.

“...treatment for scarring, burns, blisters, rashes…” he read quietly and a sudden worry struck his gut and made his way quicker to you and didn’t even stop to think before hitting the button on the side of the refresher door that opened with a swoosh.

“Hey, have you hurt yours-”

Echo cuts himself off, his mouth snapping shut as you stare at him with horrified eyes whilst his eyes hand instantly landed on the large and noticeable third degree burn that covered almost all of your thigh and etched down just below your knee.

His mouth had run dry and his brown eyes widened in shock.

“Get out.”

Your voice was stern yet shaken, quickly grabbing a towel and sealing the lower half of your body off from his eyeline despite the fact you were still dressed decently.

“S-sorry, I should’ve knocked.” Echo quickly meets your gaze, guilt eating him up for intruding your personal space. The fact he didn’t even consider that you could have been naked or even on the toilet when he entered didn’t hit his brain until now and somehow this was probably worse than the latter.

“Yes, you should have. Now get out, Echo.” You had to look away at this point, your eyes stinging with the tears that threatened to spill.

Echo understood the hurt in your voice and said no more, putting the tube down and making his leave.

Once the door had shut, your tears had fallen.

You covered your mouth to hold back your strangled sob of humiliation as you pictured his disturbed looking face in your mind. Glancing at the cream that he placed on the side of the basin, in a small burst of rage you slammed your hand against it and it flew to the wall. You leaned your back against the wall and controlled your breathing and thought about how you could ever look Echo back in the eye again.

As for Echo, he could feel his soul crushing. When he thought of you, which was often, he would always envision you glowing with a smile brighter than the stars in the galaxy but now he could only see the tears in your eyes and hope your lip had ever so slightly quivered. He crossed his arms over his chest and thought long and hard on what he could do.

It had been hours since the incident and the others were beginning to pick up that there was some tension between the pair of you. You had been avoiding him like the plague supposedly and Echo had appeared quiet and not quite his more upbeat self like he was usually around you. They decided not to pry and left you both to your own thing but the guilt was still devouring him whilst you felt incredibly terrible for snapping at him like you did.

That night, or when everyone went to bed since it was hard to tell if it was dusk or dawn whilst travelling through hyperspace, it was just you awake. Or so you thought. You were on your datapad, your stomach stirring at the sight of the photo of yourself and Echo to the point where you couldn’t look at it anymore and decided to make yourself some caf.

As you left your bunk, creeping along the floors to not wake the others, you headed towards the spacious area of the Marauder but froze when you saw that someone else had the same idea of getting some caf. Of course, it was Echo.

He had heard you coming and glanced in your direction, his heart instantly stopping at the sight of you. Whether it was from the shock of how beautiful you looked or the shock that it just so happened to be you in these tense circumstances, he was unsure.

You stopped too, eyes scanning his face to read his reaction to your arrival. He looked neutral and poured himself a cup whilst pushing an empty mug towards him with his scomp. “The usual?” He offered with the faintest of smiles.

“Oh, yeah, sure.” You reply with a nod, moving towards a seat whilst Echo kindly makes you your cup of caf. All the boys knew how you liked it made but there was something in the way that Echo made it that tastes more delicious. Did you put in extra honey? Less milk? Water? You were unsure but it always tasted better when he did it.

Echo sighed internally. Not a sigh of annoyance but one of contentment. You hadn’t run away and you accepted his offer so maybe it wasn’t as bad as he had initially thought. Once it was made, he hands it over to you and he opts to sit on a chair beside you behind a control panel, taking small sips on his drink until one of you two has the ability to say something. Anything.

“Listen Echo.”

“I’m sorry about before.”

You both had spoken up at the same time, both of your cheeks turning a little pink. “You first.” You say swiftly before he could, your fingers resting around your mug.

He smiled softly and placed his mug down before turning to you. “I’m sorry about before… about me barging in. You’re right, I should have knocked but...” He pauses for a moment, contemplating his next set of words. “But when I saw what the cream was for I panicked. I wanted to make sure you were not at all injured like if you cut yourself shaving or burnt yourself on a pipe you know?” He rubs the back of his head as his words splutter out his mouth quickly. “I didn’t know about your, uh, scar.”

You listened to him ramble and couldn’t help but sigh softly at his adoring he was, especially towards you. You could see how truly apologetic he was and he didn’t want to make you uncomfortable at all. “It’s fine, Echo.” You say quietly, watching him quite down and his shoulders relax. “I’m so sorry for snapping at you. I didn’t mean to be rude, I was just… embarrassed I guess. I felt ugly.”

Now Echo frowned. “W-wait what do you mean you felt ugly?”

You were looking at him for a moment before looking away and placing your mug down. “I’m quite insecure about my leg. Hence why none of the others know.” You muttered, a hand self consciously grazing over your blacks on your thigh. “I don’t even like seeing it myself so for someone else to see it too is a big deal.”

“If it’s any consolation at all, it didn’t bother me. I won’t ask you how it happened if you’re uncomfortable but just know that I’ll happily listen to you.” He offers, leaning across and hesitantly placing a hand over your own, fingers lacing over the top of yours.

The gesture made your heart flutter a little, eyes stinging for the second time that day. “Thank you, Echo.” Your voice was quiet as your other hand came up and placed on top of his, sandwiching his hand between both of yours.

“Not a problem.” He grins, glad to see a small flit of a smile grace your soft lips.

You're silent for a while as your mind begins to panic. “You probably thought I overreacted, didn't you?” You mutter the question and he arches a brow.

“Not at all. Why did you think I did?”

“I just feel like my injury is nothing compared to-.” You cut yourself off, knowing that you were about to hit Echo with a sensitive topic about himself. Guilt begins to chew away at you for even thinking about comparing the two of you but Echo had an inkling that he knew what you were going to say.

“Nothing compared to what I went through?” He finished off for you, no malice in his voice luckily for you. Reluctantly, you nod and stare down at your lap that still had his hand in, your fingers gently tracing over the soft skin at the back of his hand.

“Cyare, your scars are no less important than mine.” He tells you honestly, scooting a little closer to you until you were shoulder to shoulder. “It doesn’t matter if they’re internal or external, the hurt will always lie within at the end of the day. Like you said, your scar most likely doesn’t hurt most of the time but it hurts you when you notice it or think others will treat you differently.” He semi-lectures you but he meant well. “Heck, I wish I was normal again but these scars actually had a great perk.”

You smile warmly and quirk an eyebrow. “Oh yeah? What perk?”

“Well,” he says slowly, twisting his body to face you more, “if I had died at the Citadel then I wouldn’t have met one of the greatest ladies I know.”

You didn’t need to ask who he was on about as he carefully lifted his cybernetic and gently stroked your cheek which made your skin erupt with goosebumps at the coolness of his scomp and the indirect suggestion.

Blushing, you looked down as you suddenly became bashful but Echo wanted to see you and removed his hand from you and tilted your head up and leaned a little closer. “Also,” he breathes softly as his forehead rests against your own, “you’re absolutely gorgeous regardless of your scars.”

His lips were then on yours and that’s where you wanted him to stay.

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[words-writ-in-starlight]

where's the essay op

Okay so bayonets.  I don't know why I ever pretend that I want to talk about anything but military history and battlefield medicine.  I checked all my sources in the waiting room of a doctor's office so you're just going to have to trust me because they are Gone.  I’m pretty sure this can all be found on a few Wiki dives, though.

First of all, to recap, let me clarify a common misconception.  The triangular bayonet was NOT outlawed in the 1949 Geneva Convention, nor any future revisions—as it was originally a musket weapon, it was fading out of use by World War II and the subsequent Convention.  However, you'll notice that I opted to use to word "violates" rather than "were banned by," which is a fine semantical hair to split and, I suppose, debatable.  Most bayonets were not explicitly banned in the GC, in that there is not an article in the GC saying you can't use them.  However there IS an article in the GC, adopted from the earlier 1899 Hague Regulations, stating that it is prohibited to "employ weapons...of a nature to cause superfluous injury or unnecessary suffering" (originally part of Article 23 of the HR, now Article 35 of the GC, expanded in 1977).  Personally, as someone who knows a lot about how a lot of weapons impact the human body, I think that is a more expansive statement than most people would expect, and should be treated accordingly.  Regrettably I do not work for the UN.

Point is, triangular blades specifically are known to cause wounds that are difficult to heal, highly prone to infection, and extremely likely to never fully recover, while also having a relatively low mortality rate.  This is because the axes of a triangular wound, which is shaped sort of like a Y, make it very hard to stitch closed, and very easy for any "twisting" of the blade to create a large hole with ragged edges that's functionally impossible to stitch closed.  As an added bonus, because of the way scar tissue forms, it's possible for one "line" of a triangular wound to pull open other parts of the puncture while the scar tissue forms and pulls on the skin.  Even by standards in the 1700s, triangular bayonet wounds were phenomenally likely to infect and consistently difficult to repair, and modern medicine has made only limited improvements on that situation.  As such, cases have been made that certain types of bayonet/triangular blades in general are therefore in violation of this article, despite not being explicitly banned.

(Side note: yes, the American military violates the GC on the regular.  The American police violate the GC.  I am excruciatingly aware.  The GC is interesting reading generally, but especially if you're an American and you ever feel like being appalled for a few hours.)

Anyway, with that covered again, let's actually talk about the development of triangular bayonets, which might've been out of use by the time of the GC but DEFINITELY violated that article in a big way for a good two centuries prior and are also a fascinating insight into the fact that humanity, as a whole, is really determined to do things in the dumbest way possible.

The first thing you have to understand about bayonets is that they were originally invented as a way to integrate pikes with guns, not knives or even swords.  When arquebuses and muskets were first invented, you were lucky to get a rate of fire around one round per minute, and you still had to protect your army while they were reloading their clunky black powder guns.  Therefore, most infantries between like...the invention of the gun and the late 1600s were comprised of soldiers equipped with muskets, and also soldiers equipped with pikes (a type of spear).  The idea of a bayonet was "what if we put a pike and a musket TOGETHER and then we could give everyone THAT and have way more guns in our army because we don't need pikemen anymore." Which makes sense when you think about it.

What makes less sense is that the initial effort at bayonets was something called a plug bayonet.  You'll never fucking guess what these geniuses (first record is Chinese infantry around-abouts 1600, popular use of plug bayonets recorded in Europe around the 1630s) figured out for their first try at a bayonet.  Here's a hint!  There's not a lot of places on a gun where you can "plug in" a sword. 

Obviously plug bayonets did not exactly catch on as a fantastic solution, because these guns were either a gun OR a short spear and neither was especially good at their jobs.  A bunch of battles hinged on this problem. Which brings us to the end of the 1600s, when English forces in Scotland got absolutely obliterated by a bunch of Highlanders in 1689 because the English were so busy trying to fix their bayonets that the Highlanders literally just charged them, fired one volley, and cut them down with swords and axes. The English took that one very personally (which, you know what, fair, it was a humiliating defeat, especially since the Highlanders had been using that tactic very successfully for a while) and started developing better bayonets.

This is where we get to socket bayonets, AKA what you would probably recognize as a bayonet from a period TV series or a museum.  Socket bayonets have a metal sleeve that gets attached around the barrel of a gun (in this case a musket), so that you can still theoretically use the damn gun while it's attached.  There were problems with the development of socket bayonets (notably, it took a while to figure out how to keep them from falling off the gun during battle), but overall they worked much better and armies started getting rid of pikemen. This was also when bayonets were shortened to a little over a foot, which isn't really important but made them much easier to maneuver.  Socket bayonets were the European order of the day by the early 1700s, and mostly came in three flavors: single edge (like a knife), double edge (like a sword), and spike (like a...spike).  There were pros and cons to all of these (single edge wasn't great for stabbing, spike was ONLY good for stabbing, and double edge was kind of okay at stabbing and kind of okay at slashing), but most importantly, both single and double edged bayonets were fragile.  The heads of polearms were shaped on patterns other than "sword on a stick" for a reason, and it's because "sword on a stick" is not very sturdy.

Triangular bayonets were the solution to this problem.  Triangular bayonets are basically a single piece of metal creased long-ways, with both edges sharpened and the top fluted to form a third edge at the crease.  This makes a much more resilient weapon than a flat blade, because a twisting motion doesn’t risk snapping the blade in the middle.  It also means that now you have three edges, and human nature is to figure “more knife better.”

And don’t get me wrong, as a weapon of war, the triangular bayonet was a great one.  It was introduced in the 1710s and then got used regularly to maim and terrify through the start of the 1900s.  In fact, the triangular bayonet worked so well that it only began to get phased out of use when the style of war itself started to change dramatically during the World Wars.  When warfare was focused on pitched battle (your old school “two armies enter, one army leaves” kind of warfare), the emphasis of a bayonet was on extending the reach of a gun.  A bayonet lets a soldier have a weapon for closer range combat, where a gun—especially a long gun like a musket—is not as effective.  So when you had two armies on the field and a bayonet was first and foremost a way to keep the enemy at least gun-length away, longer bayonets were better.  

But World War I was the advent of trench warfare, which was a terrible idea and also meant that a long weapon, like a gun with an extra foot and a half of sword on top, was much, MUCH harder to work with.  Either fighting took place in no man’s land, where you probably weren’t going to get close enough to use a bayonet anyway, or in a trench, where a weapon as long as you were tall was just impossible to work with.  

(If you know anything about WWI, you’re probably asking me about bayonet charges right now, specifically the concept of “going over the top.”  Contrary to every media representation of WWI ever, “going over the top” of a trench faded out of use pretty quickly.  It was a type of bayonet charge where the soldiers in ONE trench fixed their bayonets and tried to charge no man’s land in an effort to reach the OTHER trench, but it was basically never effective because no man’s land was often heavily trapped and strafed with gunfire and mortar shells.  Also, it was the kind of battle tactic that military history books talk about with phrases like “total annihilation of whole attacking battalions,” so that’s the kind of mortality rate we’re talking about here.  The Battle of the Somme featured a good number of bayonet charges by the British, for context, so people learned and started using other tactics.)

So, since bayonets were only useful in trenches, suddenly everyone was scrambling to shorten bayonets and guns so that their soldiers could get ANYTHING DONE.  And THEN soldiers started admitting that they were literally taking their bayonets off their guns and using them as knives instead, because for trench fighting that was way more useful, and so everyone just decided fuck it, let’s just make bayonet-knives, which is why WWI weapons with bayonets usually look, very literally, like someone duct taped a short knife to the front of a gun.  This was the start of the decline of the triangular bayonet, a full two hundred years after it hit the battlefield, which is a frankly spectacular run for any weapon since the invention of the gun.  Triangular bayonets held on, here and there, through part of WWII, but they were almost entirely gone by the time of the Geneva Convention being ratified in 1949.  However, spike or knife bayonets are still issued to many armies as a weapon of last resort to this day, although they aren’t often used in actual attacks.  Now we have bigger, worse weapons for actual attacks.

 TL;DR, the development of bayonets went like this:

“What if we put a pike ON a gun?  …oh wait, you still want to use the gun?  Sucks to be you, I guess.”

“What if we put a sword on the gun instead?  Then we could put it somewhere where we can still use the gun!  Good luck keeping it on there, though.”

“What if we actually made something designed to get put on a gun and stab people effectively?  Like, what if we designed something with that purpose in mind?  Perhaps?” SMASH CUT TWO CENTURIES

“Well if you’re just gonna take your bayonet off and stab someone with it anyway, can we just go back to giving you knives, then?”

And now you’re caught up on all the dubiously successful ways we’ve tried to mutilate people with a knife-gun.

[keilemlucent]

i am your salvation

(r18+)

hawks | takami keigo x reader

ao3

word count: ~13k

For years, Keigo had trained his body, fucking perfected it’s abilities. Every part of him was honed and forcibly designed to be the winged-hero, Hawks. But, now? He was the defunct number two, ‘Hawks’ and at home— reality? He was the comically broken Keigo Takami who struggled to do basic physical therapy.

Only you know him like that.

warnings: manga spoilers, suicidal ideation, abuse, ANGST with a capital A, just sad :^(((

this piece is hellish, enjoy ;^))) beta’ed by the lovely @keiqos, bless u

----------------------

Keigo was fucked.

He was so beyond fucked.

He was dead.

Basically.

He was half-alive in a hospital bed. An IV drip in each arm, pumping him full of god knows what. He didn’t care to ask. All he knew was that he fucked up.

He’d gotten sloppy.

Stupid.

Pompous. 

And now his wings were fried off his back.

(By fucking Dabi no less.)

 The first conversation he’d had with his doctor upon waking at the HPSC hospital was one where he legitimately contemplated suicide for the first time in a long while.

  “Hawks... There’s no good way to say this. There just isn’t,” The doctor began, looking through Keigo’s chart, sighing deeply. There was something so grave about the way he moved through the sterile hospital room.

The doctor handed him a handheld mirror. 

Hawks slowly raised it up with weakened arms, knowing what he’d see. 

A gruesome burn tore down the left side of his face. It puckered the skin around his eye, narrowing his field of vision (thank god he still had any vision at all). The soft flesh around his eye was so angry and blistered, pockets of puss gathering beneath the surface of his skin.

But what was worse than the scar, so much fucking worse, was the absence.

The complete absence of his wings.

No stubs, no nubs. Just nothing. 

His back ached against the hospital bed as he handed the mirror back to the doctor.

The doctor sighed again. He spoke to Hawks like he didn’t think the hero already knew what he was going to say, “Your wings are gone. Fully. The scans we’ve taken show that the... well, roots of them in your flesh are still present, they’re encased in scar tissue. Even the sections that the feathers grow from are cauterized. In our professional opinion, we don’t think that they’ll ever grow again.”

His heart fell in his chest. 

It fell so deep.

So far.

He didn’t let himself cry.

Instead, he contemplated how hard it would be to overdose on morphine they were undoubtedly dosing him with. 

The doctor continued as Keigo stared sightlessly at his lap, “As established, the muscles that control the roots of your wings are still intact, yes. But, they’re heavily damaged in a way that will affect your everyday life. Even without your wings, the recovery to stabilize your injuries is going to be strenuous.”

Who fucking cared.

Hawks had spent the vast majority of his life training to be a hero and now the very thing that made him the best was literally burned from him. It felt unholy. It felt awful.

Fire wasn’t cleansing, it was putrid. Desecrated was his body as well as his mind.

  He didn’t listen to much else of what the doctor said. He let himself go blank, wishing tears would fall. 

 ...

 That was yesterday.

Today, he was allowed visitors. His PA came, informing him that the Commission was putting him on extended, indefinite (thankfully, somewhat paid) leave in exchange for media appearances. They also informed him that half of the top ten were dead after the war with the PLF. Ryuku, Miruko, Edgeshot, Kamuiwoods, Crust, all lost. And countless others, too. Even some students. It seemed that there was no clear winner of the fight that took so many and changed so much.

One of the most hard-hitting pieces of news was that Endeavor was in a coma, on life support, with a brain injury that would most likely kill him. At best, he’d be a vegetable. 

Keigo felt nothing but hollow as he laid in his hospital bed. He was half machine, based on all of the tubes and monitors that he was hooked up to. He felt truly mechanical and falsely alive. Truly, he was used up. He wanted to die. He was sure of it. 

Keigo wanted to ask his PA to smother him.

He didn’t.

 The next person to visit him was you. His PA had informed him that they were legally obligated to see him first, otherwise, you would’ve been clawing his door down.

You.

Keigo didn’t want you to see him like this. All the reasons you had fallen for him were gone. There was no confidence, no lip, no charm, no drive, no stunning scarlet wings— nothing. He even had the bonus deterrent of a nasty scar covering half his face. He was so sure that you’d take one look at him and turn right out the door. 

Leave him for good. 

Maybe spit on him for good measure.

The old muscles of his wings twitched as you walked through the door. It burned like an old hell. 

You’d clearly been crying, face and eyes puffy. 

But you were strong for him.

You pulled a chair up next to his bed wordlessly. You sat, laying your head on his antiseptic smelling sheets and mattress. Your eyes went half-lidded, just barely looking up at Keigo’s terrified expression. You reached out, grabbing one of Keigo’s clammy hands. You squeezed it.

“I’m here, Kei’,” Your voice was so quiet. “It’s alright. I love you. I’ve got you.”

It made him break.

The machines that he was reliant on screamed as he desperately grabbed at you, dragging you up with the little strength he had. You pushed him down, moving to half kneel on his bed. You didn’t make Keigo work for your touch. 

You cradled his head to your chest as his scarred hands fisted your sweater. He screamed into your sternum. Keigo wailed and cried with everything he had. He was losing himself, raging for far more than just his current injury.

 He bawled for every single time he couldn’t in his hero training, forced to be broken by the demands of the Commission. He sobbed for every casualty and death that was on his hands, righteous or otherwise. And, selfishly, he cried for himself. He let tears fall in mourning for the version of himself that died by Dabi’s hand. 

He let himself shatter in your arms for the burning muscles and scars of his back, the ache of his face, and the emptiness and vulnerability that his lack of wings graced him with.

You more than let him; you encouraged it.

You stroked his hair, matted with sweat and grease. You whispered soft adorations, validations and love into his ears. He can hear your tears too, but it didn’t stop you.

“I love you, Keigo.”

“I’m here.”

“You’re safe.” 

“I’m not leaving.”

“I’ve got you, Kei’.”

“No one else will hurt you. I won’t let them.”

 You were far too late on the last one. But, you were quirkless. Powerless to stop the destruction that ravaged his body and now, his mind. 

Additionally, Keigo was relieved you didn’t say that ‘everything will be okay’. 

He knew it wouldn’t be.

You let him crumble against you for hours. 

Finally, he was spent, falling back in his bed, and letting you slump back into your chair. You took the liberty of finding a warm towel to wipe his face down with.

The rest of visiting hours, you laid your head on his mattress, holding his hand as he drifted in and out of sleep. Nurses came and poked and prodded him. They didn’t bother making conversation with either of you. 

They understood, to some degree. 

You were both together in mourning. 

A nurse came by later, night had fallen, telling you visiting hours were over. 

Keigo audibly whined.

You shook your head, running a thumb over Keigo’s knuckles.

“It’s alright,” You soothed both him and the nurse. “I’m not leaving.”

The nurse didn’t fight you, merely exited the room.

Keigo watched, awed. You retrieved a decently sized duffle bag and pillow that you’d brought (he hadn’t noticed). You set up a blanket and the pillow on a couch in the corner as a makeshift bed.

“Y-you’re staying?” Keigo asked, voice raw. 

You, somehow, smiled. So gentle and precious, nodding, “As long as you’d like me to. I told you, I’m here.”

Keigo relied on you for comfort in the past, sure. But not like this. Not like you were his anchor, tethering him to his existence now that his pride and preen were plucked from him. You were his salvation in that hospital room. You were the ground that he desperately and necessarily needed to learn to walk on.

 You both fell asleep quickly, dreaming of better things outside of your waking nightmare.

 ---------------------------

 Keigo was discharged two weeks later.

It is thoroughly confirmed that, unless by some medical miracle, his wings were truly toast. Gone for good.

The Commission brought in at least a dozen folks with spectacular healing quirks. Truly, the best the country had. Turns out, the Commission was clawing for hope too, in the wake of everything.

The efforts were in vain, of course.

Nothing stuck. 

The scar tissue wouldn’t shrink. The damage was too severe. The cauterization was so intense, it altered him. Forever.

 You stayed with him the whole time.

You went home, just a bit, maybe an hour a day. You showered then, changed clothes. 

You’d come back and do what you had been the whole time.

Just being there.

 You didn’t make him idly chat or make him watch shitty, hospital cable. You let him ruminate, stew, and simmer. You let him be crushed.

You were smart enough, empathetic enough to know that nothing you could do or say would lift him right now. 

He just needed you there.

And so, you were. 

 After being discharged with several prescriptions, orders to limit activity to allow for his other injuries (and concussion) to heal, the two of you went home. 

 Your first task was Keigo getting properly washed. 

At first, Keigo resisted.

“N-no, I’m fine, I’ll take one tomorrow,” Truthfully, he wouldn’t probably, not without your help. He just didn’t want you to see him so intimately in this state.

You shook your head, speaking as you brought several plush towels into the bathroom. You turned to Keigo who had wrapped his arms around his frail-looking form, looking at the floor.

You brought him into your arms, rubbing at his neck, not wanting to aggravate the injuries on his back, “I know you don’t want to, but it’ll feel good. Let me take care of you, please.”

You spoke so earnestly, it made Keigo fall apart. He hated being so helpless. 

He nodded against you.

You sat him on the toilet seat while you ran a bath in Keigo’s spectacular tub. You poured in epsom salts and some lavender bubble bath, filling the room with a familiar, herbal scent.

You helped him strip, mindful to not linger on any part of his body. Carefully, you lowered Keigo into the water. He could help but be surprised by the strength in your body to do so. Perhaps foolishly, he had never taken you as physically strong. After stripping yourself, you got in as well, across from him, so you wouldn’t see his scars. You were perhaps a bit too considerate.

The water burned his wounds, yet calmed his muscles. It was a different sensation than the ones he’d had for the past weeks. He welcomed it.

Keigo sagged in the bathwater, looking somewhat relaxed for the first time in so long. You knelt in the water and suds, lathering up his hair and body. So carefully did you wash away the sweat, smells, and lingerings of the hospital and the war that preceded it. You went through his hair with your own conditioner, figuring that the familiar smell might help keep him calm. Keigo didn’t say anything, just let you do as you needed. You carefully untangled any and all knots from his tresses, rinsing him down.

You dried him off, putting a few scented body oils on his dry patches of skin, parched from his time in the hospital. You still didn’t look at his back.

He felt ashamed and thoroughly disgusted. He smushed his face into your shoulder, gripping onto your like if he wasn’t, he’d die.

You find him fucking repulsive, right?

 “Kei’,” Your voice quiet still, “You okay?— Wait, don’t answer that.”

You chuckle at yourself. Keigo would’ve laughed too if he could. 

Keigo dressed himself, a semi-self sufficient act that made him feel better. Though, you picked out the clothes. Some of your own, soft, old garments that Keigo had seen you in a hundred times. 

It was only before he put on a shirt that you gave his back the quickest once-over, “You can put your shirt on now, Kei’. I just wanted to make sure it looked okay. It’s okay, you’re okay.”

Even that much sight and contact of the old roots of his wings made him feel so ashamed. It burned the corpse of his ego like the hot fire that crisped his wings. 

Despite those nasty feelings, the simple act of wearing your shirt made him feel better. It felt so good, so good, to be surrounded by you instead of the sterility of the hospital. 

 You had been kind enough to leave the hospital for a bit longer than normal the day prior to go shopping. You bought Keigo a large, fluffy, ivory blanket. You even washed it, so it smelled like home (and you) too.  

After you helped him to the wide couch, custom made to accommodate Keigo’s now torched wings. It was a small burn (ha) to his psyche, but he tried to let it go as you got him comfortable.

You gave him your special pillow. The one Keigo loved to steal and take naps with. You covered him in the new blanket.

“Is that okay?” You asked, tucking him in. Keigo would normally be embarrassed by something childish like that, but he couldn’t make himself care. It felt so good to be comforted. 

 So softly, he replied, “You made it feel like home already.”

You let a sad smile drift to your face, massaging Keigo’s scalp as he sobbed into his new blanket. 

He was so glad to be surrounded by you, no matter how rotten he felt. 

 -------------------

 The first week home was the hardest. Sleeping was painful, even next to you. Eating was a fucking labor as he had no appetite. Nothing interested him in the slightest other than staring at walls and pretending he would wake up from this nightmare soon.

An at-home physical therapist was brought in. He had to retrain the muscles in his back to relax, now that they weren’t carrying the weight of his wings. The constant tension in his back would cause long term damage (not like he wasn’t already riddled with chronic injury), least of all tension headaches. 

Your job let you work from home. Thank god.

...

Keigo hated his exercises. They hurt so bad.

For years, Keigo had trained his body, fucking perfected its abilities. Every part of him was honed and forcibly designed to be the winged-hero, Hawks. But, now? He was the defunct number two, ‘Hawks’ and at home— reality? He was the comically broken Keigo Takami who struggled to do basic physical therapy. 

Only you knew him like that.

 Keigo’s fists slammed against the floor as he strained with his PT exercises, the therapist themselves long gone for the day. You worked from your laptop on the couch. You weren’t supposed to aid him with his exercises unless necessary, as the therapist had instructed.

“Do you want me to help you?” You asked, almost coaxingly. 

Keigo beat his fists once more, crying out almost like a petulant child, (he hated himself for it oh my god—), “I don’t want to fucking do this! I can’t do this!”

And Keigo sobbed into the floor with abandon.

You moved from the couch to haul him into your arms, pressing his face into your neck. You said nothing, you just let him scream and die against you.

“I can’t do this!” 

“I hate this!”

“Make this fucking stop!”

“Just make this all fucking stop!”

“JUST FUCKING KILL ME ALREADY!”

This got you to speak, not shushing him, but just trying to soothe—

“IF YOU REALLY FUCKING LOVE ME, THEN YOU’LL SLIT MY THROAT IN MY SLEEP AND LET THIS FUCKING NIGHTMARE BE OVER!—”

 You froze. 

He didn’t.

Keigo kept begging you to kill him. 

Incessantly so.

He didn’t know what to do.

This was a tantrum, maybe. More like a breakdown. It felt dramatic. But, his thoughts were real. He’d be happy to die, especially by your hand. Then you wouldn’t have to take care of him and he wouldn’t be able to feel as awful as he did. 

You kept holding him, squeezing him harder and harder still. 

Finally, Keigo tuckered himself out and sagged against you. 

 You reached up to the side table, grabbing your own glass of water, and offering it to him. You still hadn’t spoken.

Part of him thought to apologize, crack a joke even. But he couldn’t make himself do either. Instead, his shaking hands grabbed the glass. You didn’t fully let it go, just guided it to his lips where it dribbles down his chin. 

Keigo sputtered a sob.

He couldn’t stand being so weak.

 “Love,” You spoke so softly as he sipped. “I will never hurt you like that. I won’t let anyone else, either.”

Keigo suddenly started fucking laughing, for the first time in so fucking long, ripping the cup fully from your hands and throwing it across the room. It shattered in a wild display of raining glass and water. He hadn’t laughed in what felt like months. He let it loose, grabbing your face and directing it right at you, breath curling over your cheeks.

He knew it was cruel, to take it out on you. He hated himself for it even as he was doing it.

“How the fuck do you think you’ll protect me?” Keigo cackled into your face, horror beginning to overtake your features. He didn’t care. It felt good— “You’re just some stupid, weak, quirkless civilian— how the fuck do you think someone as powerless as you can protect me when I can’t even protect me—!”

 He kept laughing, but he was crying. He couldn’t tell which was which. Keigo could only tell he was hysterical.

 This whole time, since he had woken up in the hospital, you had been nothing but the perfect partner. You had been so kind, asking for nothing in return.

And yet, he’d verbally strike you like this for no other reason than his own hurt.

How fucking cruel.

 You let Keigo go, unable to disguise the pain in your expression. You didn’t say anything back to him. As you left the room, you were covering your eyes with your arm. Keigo caught one of your sobs as you fled to the bathroom, almost slamming the door. 

 Keigo heard your muffled cries for hours until you fell asleep on the bathroom tile as his old burns and guilt ate him alive. 

 He tried his exercises again. 

 -------------------

 That night, Keigo was too deep in sleep to hear you enter your shared bedroom. Part of you didn’t want to sleep next to him. You thought about returning to the bathroom or moving to the couch. But, you couldn’t make yourself. 

Keigo’s words hurt so bad. 

Partially because they were cruel. They gnawed at your insecurities, the fears you were desperately suppressing for him. 

Partially because you hated the fact you couldn’t do more, despite already doing so much. 

Partially because you knew that Keigo would never say things like that to you if he wasn’t being eaten up on the inside. 

Partially because the love of your life asked you to snuff his life out. 

It all hurt. Stung. Ached. Burned. 

 There was a small detail that hurt in a different way.

He called you quirkless.

You weren’t quirkless.

Your quirk was so weak and so taxing, sure. It was basically unusable. For fucks sake, you never even bothered to tell Keigo directly as you never used it. He had access to citizen quirk records, and you figured he checked in the several years the two of you had been dating. Apparently not.

But, you did have a quirk.

You stood next to your bed, Keigo covered in the comforter and soft white blanket you’d gotten for him. You could see the peakings of his back. His skin was marred with burns, cuts and scars that looked unimaginably horrible. You’d been avoiding looking at it, for him. You’d seen how it made him cringe.

But now with Keigo sleeping so deeply? You took it all in.

You looked at the nearly black scarring where the roots of his wings were. The fanning out of puckered, red skin from the burns. His back, which once rippled with the muscles that controlled his crazily powerful wings, was now a charred plain. 

...

You had an awful, far-fetched, fucked up idea. 

You sat, sinking into the bed as you contemplated your idea.

You brought your hands to your face, concentrating on your fingertips. 

Small, tiny vines and green shoots left your fingers.

There’s absolutely no way that this will work.

But, you’d hate yourself if you didn’t try.

 Life reclaimed life, you supposed. 

You drummed up a half-assed plan. It was a weak, frail idea— it would need a lot of support. Even then, you didn’t want to give yourself false hope. You couldn’t give Keigo false hope. It would ruin him.

...

You’d have to fix your diet. Eat lots of nutrient-rich food. Take more vitamins too.

You slotted yourself next to Keigo who, in sensing your warmth, turned into you, pressing into your front. His head nuzzled into your chest, an arm wrapping around your waist. 

You heard him wince at the motion, flinching in his sleep.

You had to try. 

One of your hands went to his back, brushing down the comforter to reveal the particularly gnarly scars where Keigo had lost part of himself. You laid your hand flat on the fire-flayed skin, praying you don’t wake him. You concentrated, watching small greenery go from your fingers to his flesh, desperately trying to repair the damage that had been done. 

 ------------------------------------

 Keigo apologized to you the next morning. He clutched your chest and told you how sorry he was. He told you how he knows he’s acting out, he’s just so fucking sad—

You told him that he didn’t need to justify himself. Not to you. Though, you accepted his apology and asked him to not say those kinds of things to you again.

“I’m trying my best, and I know it's not enough sometimes... but it's all I’ve got,” You speak to him in your own small voice. One that portrayed a weakness that you hadn’t shown since Keigo had been injured.

He felt even guiltier. 

 But, the second week was better.

His exercises were getting easier. Eating came a little better too. You started cooking more, not getting as much takeout. Part of him missed the comfort of familiar street foods, but another part of him craved the home-cooked meals you made so much more. They helped him feel better too, packed with veggies and lean proteins. 

Keigo didn’t notice, he was far too out of it, but you were already looking more haggard. 

It came with using your quirk in general, let alone to the extent you were pushing it. It was a pitiful quirk and you’d never strained it half as far as you were then. 

It had a price. 

To heal others, even something as small as a paper cut would take from your own body.

And, you were dedicating at least thirty minutes a night to attempting to ‘heal’ (read: reconstruct) the tissue of Keigo’s back. You had to start so deep in his muscles; it hurt to push your quirk that far down. Within the first five minutes, that first night you tried, you were silently crying from exertion.

But, you didn’t relent.

Each day, it was a little easier.

Sure, you had bad nights where it was extra hard. You blamed it on not eating well enough, using up too much of yourself during the day. 

It was a shitty excuse, notably. Your quirk was weak and self-destructive, it was beyond your bodily capabilities. There was no way to tell if it was even working to heal Keigo’s body. It was a gamble. 

And your wager was your health and body.

Even eating optimally and taking a bevy of new vitamins each morning before Keigo awoke, you could tell your physical health was suffering. You were losing a bit of fat already. Dark circles were punched under your eyes from the exhaustion. You had developed the slightest shake when you moved.

And the worst part was, you knew that you’d only get weaker from here on out.

So, you upped your calorie intake. You kept careful track of the foods you ate, the same with Keigo’s. He didn’t seem to mind the delicious meals you now coveted crafting, no matter how tired you were. If he was eating better, it would probably help you too, right?

You could only hope, resting it all on a long shot. 

 --------------------------

 Week three was good, but hard. 

The HPSC commission forced Keigo to do a media appearance. He told them, bluntly, that he couldn’t fake it right now. Probably, forever. 

They told him to suck it up, get out there, and put some hope into their society that was being pulled apart at the seams.

Keigo refused to let you come. He didn’t want to think about how you’ll look at him when he’s all dressed in his hero uniform, wings absent from his back, forcing him to bear the two empty slots of his jacket. 

When he mentioned it, you offered to sew them up.

Keigo felt horrible, but he just gave a nod, handing you his jacket without looking at you. 

You stitched the slits shut for him. Keigo requested red thread for the stitching and you obliged him.

 (You made note that Keigo truly had no hope. You couldn’t tell him a thing about your quirk usage until you were positive that it would have results.) 

 The media appearance went okay. Not great, but okay. ‘Hawks’ was dead, and Keigo was not a performer like he was. Though he still went by his hero name, his real name only known by himself, the Commission, Dabi (may he rot in hell), and you. He coveted that you had the intimacy in knowing his identity, but it felt dirtier now that Dabi (Touya?) had that name in his throat as well.

 When Keigo came home from the media appearance, he was keyed up. He flitted around the apartment while you made dinner. There was an anxiousness in his movements.‘Hawks’ would’ve taken to the skies to fly off some of this fractious energy. Keigo just had to wait for food to be ready and pray that the feelings went away. 

Just before dinner, he decided to try exercises outside of the one his physical therapist assigned him. He was feeling energetic enough, right? Might as well pull out some of the easier moves from his hero training. 

Keigo moved to his now seldom-used at home gym. He picked up a dust-covered five-pound weight and proceeded to try and curl it. The moment Keigo brought it above his head, his back tensed and burned something fierce.

The weight fell from Keigo’s hand, half-thrown, luckily missing any and all of his toes and feet. 

He cried in frustration, stuck staring at himself in the wall of mirrors. 

Keigo truly thought he looked pitiful.

He was still wearing his hero uniform sans the jacket. He’d lost a lot of muscle mass with his more sedentary state. His hair was too long. He had gotten more pale, losing his few freckles. His eyes were bloodshot and his teeth curl over his lips in a snarl—

“Keigo?” You opened the door to the gym, eyes wide with shock, but your tone didn’t change. He just glowered at you from the mirrors. You spoke again, staring him down with an almost scarily neutral poker face. “Dinner’s ready. Would you like to eat? Otherwise, I can save it for you.”

Keigo didn’t reply. He went back to trying to pick up the weight, screaming each time and hating how his back burned so intensely.

You left without saying anything. 

 ---------------------------

 Week four was hard because you and Keigo’s relationship is beginning to suffer. Or, it had been, but it was reaching a fever pitch. 

Keigo’s lack of human contact, lack of physical activity, and general cabin fever were getting to him. He was lashing out more and you, kind as you were, were having trouble dealing with it.

Your own run downstate was eating you alive, literally. No matter how much you put into your body, you needed more to heal Keigo. You were up to two hours a night of working at Keigo’s tissue with your quirk. By the end of your ‘sessions’, you would simply pass out and fall into listless slumber. You were losing a lot of sleep each night, but you were determined to keep going. 

Your exhaustion, in general, was making you a bit more prickly towards Keigo’s increasing frequent outbursts.

It all came to a head on a Sunday night.

The two of you were curled up on the couch, half-cuddling and half-watching TV.

A notice for breaking news showed red on the screen.

Both of you tensed. Before Keigo’s injury, he’d be rushing to throw on his hero gear and fly to help. Now, he just sat next to you, stiff as a board with pin-pricked pupils.

A picture, pre-PLF injury Endeavor flashed on screen.

“The Hero Public Safety Commission has just made the press release the former number one hero, Endeavor, is no longer in comatose.”

You watched a real, happy smile, spread on Keigo’s face. For a moment, there was a sliver of hope—

“But, he still remains in critical condition. Due to injuries affecting his central nervous system, he is reported as being in a state of paralysis. As of now, his life still hangs in the balance, though he is lucid.”

Keigo stiffened again.

There was rage painting his face. 

And pain. 

You stiffened with him.

You did not have it in you that night to deal with one of Keigo’s explosive moments. 

“Endeavor has left us all with this message—”

The camera flashed to an old video of the old ‘number one hero’, healthy and strong with a fist raised in the air.

You braced for impact as Keigo stood, shoulders hunching over.

Endeavors voice washed over your living room,

“Go Plus Ultra!”

And Keigo, honest to god, shrieked.

He fell to his knees and beat the floor beneath him. He slammed his fists in the hardwood over, and over, and over again. You slipped to the ground with him, trying to grab at his fists.

“Keigo, you’re gonna hurt yourself—” You tried to tell him. You managed to capture one of his fists, urging it to stay down-

But, you looked up to see Keigo giving a feral look with a frenzied, white-hot sneer all for you. 

 And his free fist flew towards you. It connected hard and solidly to your jaw.

You hadn’t been expecting it. Keigo had never struck you before, not even close. For fucks sake, he had never even raised his voice at you before his injury.

So, how could you expect to brace yourself for it?

The force of Keigo’s blow knocked you back. You jolted, falling onto your side and turning your head to the side, away from Keigo.

You brought a hand up to cup and shield your face, your jaw and eye socket throbbing. 

All you could feel was shock.

And sadness.

And horror.

And anger.

And terror.

 Keigo snapped out of it.

The news report was still playing, but he couldn’t hear it.

There was only the rushing of blood in his ears.

His mouth turned bone dry.

He had watched you move with his strike, falling more to the ground, hiding yourself—

“Oh my g-god, (Y/N),” Keigo’s voice was slippery and warbling. “I-I d-didn’t—” 

“No,” You stood up, still holding and hiding your face from him. His heart was crumbling in his chest.

You looked at him with only fear and heartbreak.

Keigo scrambled up, trying to apologize, hold you, mend this before it got worse—

But you put the hand that wasn’t cupping your face out, just barely touching his chest. You refused to let him any closer. 

“H-hey Kei’?” Your voice sounded so, so shaky. It’s hardly there. You were holding back tears and it was so obvious. It made every part of Keigo burn with shame. “I can’t today. Maybe another day, I could deal with this, y-ya know? But not today, okay? Have a g-good night.”

You walked away before he could say anything else.

 You dashed off to the guest room, shutting and locking the door before falling against it and breaking. You cried and rocked yourself as you tried to self-soothe your shattered body and mind. 

The month prior had been so hard. The person you love was hurt so deeply, and though you were trying with everything you had to help, it didn’t seem like enough. You were getting verbally beat up semi-frequently and now Keigo had fucking hit you. 

You were scared. You were terrified that this would become the norm. That Keigo’s outbursts would continue to worsen, as they had been, and you would become a physical punching bag for him.

It especially hurt because you were trying so hard to help Keigo. 

You weren’t delusional enough to think you could really fix him, were you? 

The fact that you were secretly and silently trying to regenerate Keigo’s body with a quirk he didn’t even know you had struck you bluntly in your mind.

“I’m just so fucked up, aren’t I?” You laughed and sobbed to yourself at the same time, slamming your head backward on the door, relishes the pain that floods your skull. It was a reprieve from the bruises blooming across your cheekbone. 

You eventually managed to cry yourself to sleep, literally. You curled up in a ball on the floor next to the door, worn down to the bone.

 In the early morning, far before dawn, you pulled yourself into half-wakefulness. 

You were relentless and you were coming to hate yourself for it.

You needed to work on Keigo, no matter how you shitty felt.

You crept into the master bedroom, trying to be silent. You didn’t want to wake him. Only when you were fully in the room did you notice a soft lamp is still on despite it being early, early morning. 

Wide awake and upright, Keigo looked horrified to see you. He looked at you, shaking and half-sobbing into a pillow he clutched to his chest.

You both seemed shocked to see each other. 

You sniffled as you turned off the lamp, stripping down to just a t-shirt and panties before climbing into your side of the bed.

You refused to face him while he was awake. You got as comfortable as you could (which wasn’t much). 

There was half an hour of disgustingly awkward silence. It coated the room, bearing the two of you who refused to sleep. 

“I’m s-sorry,” Keigo had yet to move. He was frozen in place as you were turned away from him in the dark. “I’m so sorry, (Y/N).”

Silence.

Your mouth felt dry and your mind parched. 

“Keigo,” You spoke like a being empty. You truly felt like it too. “If you ever touch me like that again, I will do worse than just leave you.”

It was a threat.

You let yourself have it, in all of this. You deserved one low blow. 

Keigo slowly slid down into the covers, babbling apologies and beginning to cry again. 

“Stop, Kei’,” You finally turned towards him, cupping his face. He blinked at you, eyes wide and glassy. “I love you. Just stop. Apologizing doesn’t make something like this better. I can’t do this if you keep hurting me, you know that. Just be better.”

Keigo winced at that. He knew it was true, but that didn’t mean it wasn’t painful.

You fell asleep on each other that night. You let your headrest nestled up against Keigo’s chest. He breathed softly above you, arms wrapped securely around you, holding you tightly like he was afraid you’d leave. You wouldn’t. You made the decision to stay at the beginning of all this. Your threats would always be empty. 

Idly, you had an arm thrown over Keigo’s waist, snaking up the back of his shirt to press your fingertips against his scars. Your roots and greenery didn’t have to go as deep now, as far as you could tell.

But, it had been a month with no discernable progress, visual or otherwise. 

But, you held onto hope. 

Because you had to hold onto hope that Keigo would get better. 

All of him.

 -------------------------------

      The second month was... different. 

Keigo tried with his whole heart to earn back your trust.

You flinched at him for the first week or so. 

He hated himself so fucking much each time you did. But, he never blamed you. He couldn’t.

(Even as you twitched away from him in the daylight, you tirelessly worked on his scars in his sleep. You couldn’t give up, no matter how awful you felt). 

Keigo did his exercises several times a day. He made a few more media appearances but refused to be seen with Endeavor. He (and truthfully, the Commission) knew that he could not psychologically handle it.

You were rapidly getting weaker, but you didn’t care. You ate more, slept when you could, and pushed on. You were up to three hours of healing a night. Tears rolled down your cheeks the whole time.

You were clinging to the prayer that you could unburn Keigo’s back like it would save you from your personally made hell. 

This was despite the fact he was already crawling out of the pit himself. 

 Your existence was eased slightly as Keigo was starting to help out more. 

Keigo wasn’t anywhere near normal— normal Keigo was dead in a disintegrated building, miles from your shared home. But, he was getting better.

 His muscles felt better. He wasn’t sure how, but they did. His PT exercises must’ve been working. The outbursts he had thrown so often during the first month pittered out to maybe once or twice a week. They were calmer now. You were still his anchor, of course, that was undeniable. But, it was mostly crying and clutching and not screaming and breaking.

It was a welcome shift.

Most of the time, Keigo would pull you into his lap and wrap you in his embrace. Softly, he’d sway and rock the two of you, like he was trying to lull and calm not just himself, but you in tandem.

A lot of the time, this was true. 

Your flinching subsided and Keigo had no more close calls with any physical violence towards you. In a few high strung moments, he still snapped at you. He’d apologize, and do better. At least, you told yourself that. That’s how you saw it anyways. 

Keigo was thoroughly traumatized. His mind was an open nerve and that had consequences. You were so endlessly tired. What kind of wounds and trauma were you incurring?

You forced yourself not to think about it. 

 Part of you, during this month, wanted to simply pack a bag and leave without a trace. 

But, you stayed with Keigo. You stayed determined. 

(Or, you stayed out of spite. On your bad days, you really had trouble figuring it out.)

Your body looked like shit. You were endlessly glad Keigo still wasn’t in a position to be having any sort of sex because he probably would’ve noticed how fucked up your body was getting.

You shook constantly, always quaking like a leaf in a rainstorm. Your skin bruised with almost any contact beyond light touch. Your eyes, once vibrant and expressive, had sunk in. 

Your body, no matter the several thousand extra calories you forced yourself to eat a day, still ran through your fat reserves. It was leeching muscle from you. It made your joints feel raw. 

 It almost hurts that you noticed how Keigo is so pained, but he didn’t notice you falling apart.

 -----------------------

      The third month was when shit hit the fan.

It was near the end of the month. 

You were doing so badly. You stretched yourself far beyond your body's abilities. 

You felt particularly sick, but you needed to get groceries. Keigo couldn’t himself for a host of reasons, which made it your job. You kissed him on the cheek as you left for the market.

Meanwhile, Keigo’s physical therapist dropped by for a check-in appointment. 

Keigo did his exercises beautifully. He had to admit, his muscles didn’t ache in nearly the same way they used to. They only really hurt when the weather changed, like he was some old, arthritic man. 

“Wow!” His therapist gasped, watching him complete his exercises. “It’s looking great, Hawks. It looks like you’ve gained back a lot of strength.”

The small amount of praise made him beam as he sat up. 

“I just want to check the actual wounds around your back, if that’s alright? Just feel the scar tissue,” The therapist asked. Keigo bit his lip, slowly pulling off his tee-shirt. He didn’t like the idea of anyone’s hands being that close to the intimate roots of his dead wings. 

But, it was necessary.

Keigo faced his back to her.

All he got was an audible gasp as the therapist’s hands traced at his spine.

“The progress back here- Hawks this is insane,” The other was alight, pressing a thumb somewhere near the root. It hardly even hurt. “The scar tissue— it’s not gone, but it's a lot more tender than it should be. Like it's actually healing.”

“Is that why it doesn’t hurt so bad?” Keigo asked, letting a few slivers of joy light him up from the inside out. During his initial prognosis, multiple doctors had said that he was going to be on fire for years, not months. 

The therapist nodded, “Looks like it. Even the scarring on the surface looks pretty good. Must have some damn good genes to be healing like this.”

The two laughed, Keigo feeling more lighthearted than he had in months. 

 You, on the other hand, were greatly struggling. 

You were so, so fucking cold; yet another bi-product of your overextension. You were wrapped in an oversized cardigan on top of one of Keigo’s mock necks. You couldn’t stop trembling as you try to shop as quickly and effectively as possible. Anything to get you home as soon as possible. 

You had a great deal of difficulty doing this, though.

If you moved too fast, your vision blacked out. It had been like that for a while, a week or two. You’d lost track. You figured it was your iron, maybe blood pressure. 

It was an easy thing to hide at home, but much harder in public.

You reached for something high on a metal shelf, tossing it into your cart. You needed another item, on the bottom shelf. You dropped to your knees, your body aching and rolling.

Almost done.

So close. 

Then you can go home and rest.

You stood up too fast. Your vision went black ringed for a second. You stumble, trying to catch yourself as you lost sight. 

You felt weightless for a moment, spinning, Though your limbs felt weighed down, impossible to move. As your vision returned, its field wouldn’t move, pointed up at the ceiling of the crowded market. 

There were people speaking, shouting around you.

Alarmed.

Speaking to you?

You didn’t care.

You were so, so tired.

You let your eyes slip shut.

 ------------ 

 Keigo had been waiting for you for several hours longer than it took to go grocery shopping, sure. And, to have you gone from the apartment so long made him itch too. It had been eating him, making him pace around. You hadn’t been answering your phone either. He figured you had made a detour and let your phone die.

 When he received a call from the local civilian hospital about you, he feels his blood freeze in his veins. 

“You’re listed here as (Y/N)’s emergency contact as a partner, yes?” The nurse asked. “They collapsed at a local market. They’re stable, but we’d recommend coming to the hospital as soon as you’re able to.” 

Keigo nodded, head swimming.

You’re hurt.

You’re safe, but you’re hurt.

...

Keigo was whisked to the back of the hospital in a poor disguise. He gets recognized, given some extra security. The scar that marred his face was enough of a marker even if he didn’t have wings. He hardly cared. He couldn’t. 

Your door opened to a very dark room, soft beeps and hums filling it. 

He imagined that he must've been feeling close to how you felt, seeing him in such a similar position those few months ago.

The nurse enters ahead of him, clicking around on a tablet to pull up your chart.

Keigo could hardly pay attention. He felt like he was going to die, seeing you like that.

You had an IV, pushing fluids into your thinned arms. Your face was hollow looking, sockets sunken, especially with your eyes closed like they were. You had several blankets on you, piled over you. Yet, you were still visibly shivering.

The nurse whispered, “They’ve been asleep for a while now. A doctor will be in soon. Just sit tight.”

She left the room while Keigo pulled a chair up to your bed. 

The smell of the hospital burned his nose. It reminded him far too much of his own time. All that pain. 

The ache in his back flared, but he figured it was somatic.

 Keigo reached out as he sat, holding one of your frail-looking hands in both of his own (had you looked this purely death stricken this morning? Keigo couldn’t recall either way, and he hates himself for it).

Your eyes slowly opened.

 Keigo met your gaze, breath caught in both of your throats.

Neither of you got a chance to speak, not a moment of fucking comfort, before a doctor barged in, flipping through your chart with a bored look on his face.

“We finished up your testing. Lucky for you, no concussion or fractures from your fall,” The doctor nods. He doesn’t even seem to notice Keigo, or rather, Hawks. “The rest of your results aren’t looking so great though.”

Your hand stiffened violently in Keigo’s grip. Your face went from worn and exhausted to filled with terror and... guilt?

 You were fucked.

The doctors and nurses had mentioned to you that they were fairly certain that all of your symptoms came from quirk overuse. You started weakly crying at that, your nurses looking confused. You didn’t elaborate then. You knew, the moment you woke up in the hospital that you were going to have to confront your own damage to your body.

You were going to be forced to explain it.

To Keigo.

The doctor continued. 

“Low levels of nearly all essential vitamins and minerals. Particularly low iron, magnesium, and potassium. In general, your test results and physical state would lead me to think you’re suffering from malnutrition. But, your panel shows that your metabolic rate is actually going abnormally quickly in a way that could only be linked to-”

Wait for it.

“Quirk overuse-”

Keigo barked out a laugh, letting go of your hand, “I’m sorry, but what? They’re quirkless, it has to be something else.”

 You didn’t say anything. Your eyes, glassy and unfocused, are trained on your lap. You’re taking sharp, quick breaths.

You’re going to have to tell him everything.

 The doctor flips through your chart again, shaking his head and bringing it over for Keigo to look at, “I apologize if this seems out of turn, but they’re listed in the public files as having a quirk... It’s marked as a weak healing quirk, but all the same, any strength of quirk has overuse.”

Keigo is stone still.

There’s tension so thick in the air of the room that the doctor excuses himself. 

 Keigo, for months now, had been in a traumatized stupor. His normally sharpened senses, aided by his wings, were the key to so much of his cunning. Both his physical and mental states were affected, which had made him less observant.

It had caused him to disregard so much. 

 But now, in your stupid, acrid hospital room, he was quickly putting it together. 

His back burned again. 

 You felt frozen. You couldn’t force yourself to move. You couldn’t do anything other than look at your lap and roll in your head. Your body hurt so bad, your head hurt too, and so did your fucking heart.

 “Can I clarify? Because I think I have an idea of what’s going on.”  Keigo had physically moved away from you. He leaned back in his chair, staring down with a mix of expressions you couldn’t suss out. It made you feel even sicker.

You nodded.

“Breath, (Y/N),” Keigo reminded you. He watched you take a massive inhale, followed by tears beginning to gather. You still wouldn’t meet his eyes. 

 “Have you been... using your quirk on me? Without me knowing?” Keigo asked, trying to keep his voice firm, but truthfully, it wanted to waver and bend so badly. “Please be honest.”

You nod, breaking down to rub at your eyes. 

Keigo doesn’t stop the instinctual way he moved towards you, leaning over your bed and wrapping his arms around me.

With his cheek pressed to the top of your head, he broke the illusion:

“Please tell me what’s going on. Please.”

And so, you did.

It came out tearfully, you spilling and cracking as you did. You felt stupid and guilty and awful, but at least you were out of this fucked up lie. 

It all poured out of you. Your fear and your desperation were all laid out and Keigo was reading the cards.  

You explained that your quirk has always been weak in addition to taxing on the body. Hence, you had seldom, if ever, used it as an adult. You were effectively quirkless and you were okay with that. Keigo had never asked so you never told him. 

You tell him, voice shaking, what happened the night Keigo had pleaded with you to kill him.

“I-I, Kei’,” You push out, pressing your face into his shoulder. “I didn’t know what to do. You were so hurt and so sad and I had this stupid fucking idea that maybe, maybe I could use to my quirk to heal you.”

Keigo’s breath catches. He doesn’t say anything for a moment before asking, “Why didn’t you tell me? Ask me?”

“I didn’t know if it would work. I still don’t know if it does. It didn’t wanna... I didn’t want to get your hopes up. E-especially since it would’ve been coming from me.” You pressed harder into him like you’re scared of him disappearing. “You were already so crushed.”

Keigo didn’t know what to say. There was a swirl of emotions bubbling and writhing in his body and mind and he didn’t know what to say for the first time in a long time.

 So he didn’t say anything.

Keigo sat back in his chair, putting his elbows to his knees, using folded hands to rest his head on, parsing through his own feelings.

“K-Keigo?” You asked, wiping a tear away. As much as Keigo hated seeing you like this, he also recognized your state was by your hand. 

Right?

“Sweetheart, I love you—” Keigo stopped himself, sighing deep in his chest. “But, I can’t... I just need some time.”

 You nodded, tears coming back to drip down your face.

Keigo just watched with a neutral expression.

 -----------------

 Despite not being able to handle talking to you, Keigo was more than willing to help you out of the hospital. You were discharged with a prescribed diet and vitamins as well as a followup appointment in a few weeks. 

“And, most importantly,” The doctor made eye contact with you. “Don’t use that quirk of yours until further notice. Honestly, with it being so destructive, I can’t understand why you would in the first place.”

You burned with shame.

The night you came back from the hospital, Keigo took incredible care of you. He didn’t talk much during it, not to you anyways. He was nearly constantly speaking under his breath, all unintelligible. From his tone and myriad of expressions, you guessed he was verbally processing. 

Keigo gingerly gave you a bath, scrubbing away the smells and stickiness of the hospital. He managed to cook you one of the nutritious recipes you had shown him a few weeks ago. You sheepishly had to ask for another portion, explaining how your metabolism burned so quickly.

“Have...” Keigo finally spoke while making you another plate. “Have you always been eating this much?”

You nodded, sipping your water, “For a long time, yes.”

He hated himself for not noticing such obvious things. 

 Keigo kept carrying you from place to place, no matter how much his back hurt. He didn’t care. He couldn’t.

He laid you in bed at some point, sliding in next to you. He still hadn’t spoken much since you’d left the hospital. 

You had tried to babble apologies and beg for forgiveness, but selfishly, Keigo wasn’t listening. He was trapped in his own head. Even when you clung to him in the bath, he could hardly make himself hold you up from sliding too far into the water. 

It almost hurt to touch you.

 It was late when Keigo finally verbally, directly regarded you. 

“Why?” Keigo asked. You’re both turned away from each other. The bed had been vibrating with your harsh breathing and crying for an hour or so now. “Why did you do all this?”

You stop shaking, but only for a moment.

Your voice is so soft, weak, “Please don’t blame yourself. It was my choice.”

“That’s not what I asked.” Keigo could hear the anger in his voice. “Why. Did. You. Do. This?”

You’re silent for a moment. 

And then you’re sitting up, yelling.

“Because I didn’t know what else to fucking do!” You gripped your hair at the roots, pulling. “You asked me to fucking kill you, Keigo! You begged me to!”

Keigo sat up, staring you down. He felt so much anger and rage in him, it was bubbling up, “That doesn’t mean you had to hurt yourself like this for me!”

“I didn’t want to hurt myself! I wanted to help you! Using my quirk was all I could do!” You looked over at him, digging your nails into your exposed thighs. “What else was I supposed to do!”

“Exactly what I thought you were doing, helping me!” Keigo screamed back at you. “You were doing so good at it!”

“You wanna know why I could even help?!” You shouted. You grabbed Keigo’s shoulders and brought him inches away from your face. “Because, every night, I got to give myself just a shred of hope that you would get better. That maybe, maybe your wings would come back and you’d smile like you used to instead of yelling at me, and hitting me, and asking me, begging me, to slit your fucking throat!”

 You couldn’t stop crying. Your body was so run down, so depleted, but it still musters up the energy to drip tears like a flooded creek. You wanted to run and leave the bed, retreat to the bathroom where you can break down on the tile in peace, alone where Keigo wouldn’t have to watch. You’d done it enough prior to know he wouldn’t check on you.

 Keigo stared at you with wide eyes. 

He didn’t know what to say at first

He was feeling so much—

 Keigo didn’t know what to do or say.

So, he just twisted the knife, one could say.

 “You should’ve just left if you were really that miserable with me.” Keigo regretted it the moment it left his lips. You tense up, looking at him with a gaze he could only call broken.

 “No,” You grabbed your shoulders, rocking yourself. “No, Kei’, I couldn’t, I won’t—”

“Then stop complaining.” Keigo shrugged. God, this was awful, wasn’t it? Why wouldn’t he just shut up? “You’re the one who stayed and tortured yourself. That’s on you.”

“So you’d rather have that I... left?”

“Duh,” Keigo laughed, staring down your crying form. You’re so decrepit in your current state. He hated looking at you, purely because he knows he was at least a portion of what led to this. But, he’d never admit it. “Fuck, (Y/N), you didn’t have to kill me, and you didn’t have to kill yourself either.” 

 He’s splitting inside as he watches you break in front of him. Some fucked up, sadistic part of him relishes it. The other, muted, more sane part is screaming at him to stop fucking talking-

“You really got yourself hospitalized for overusing a quirk on me that I didn’t even know you had. You were so desperately trying to get me my wings back, all while acting soooo supportive of me trying to live without them?!” Keigo bellowed at you. You cowered, bent legs beginning to slide off the bed — “Do you realize how fucked up that is? That, behind closed doors, while I was fucking asleep, you were trying to fix me? Well, guess what, (Y/N), I’m broken beyond fucking repair, and no cute little shit you pull is going to fix me!”

Keigo shrieked his last words.

You fell off the bed, slamming onto the floor. A sickening crack filled the room as your head, basically unsupported, met the hardwood.

 “Stop it!” You were screaming yourself silly from the floor. Your head hurt so badly. Maybe you were bleeding. You didn’t care. “Stop it!”

You knew you couldn’t handle this.

You were raw. You couldn’t do this. You couldn’t confront any more than you had already that day. Your body hurt so badly and your mind hurt too. Everything Keigo said just rubbed salt in the wounds he helped to create.

“Keigo, just fucking stop it!”

Your vision spun. You thought that maybe you were hyperventilating. You couldn’t feel your hands, numbness beginning to pull at your extremities. 

“I’m fucking sorry!” You wailed. “What would do if you were in my position, Keigo?! Just watch me suffer and not do anything even if you could?!”

Keigo leaned over the bed, giving you the most empty look you’d ever seen him wear. 

“I would’ve just fucking left, (Y/N),” He spoke in a monotone, eyes like dead coals. “I would’ve just left.”

You stared up at him.

This horrible feeling had filled you from toes to top and you couldn’t escape it.

 Keigo didn’t say anything else as you panicked on the floor. He simply got up, left for the guest room, and slammed the door.

 Neither of you ever felt as awful as you did that night.

 --------------------

 Keigo didn’t sleep that night.

Neither did you.

 He figured (he hoped) you’d be gone by the morning. Maybe you would just pack your dusty suitcase and get the fuck out.

...

Truthfully, not a single fragment of Keigo wanted you to leave. No piece of him wanted you to go out of his life. God, if he really thought about it, the prospect of not being side-by-side in this world together threw him into bends of anxiety and pure grief. 

Truthfully, as Keigo silently, tearfully, examined your actions, he felt his anger ebb away.

He understood. 

Why you did what you did.

But it didn’t mean that it didn’t hurt. 

Guilt was eating him, too. For all the horrible things he had said. The things he’d done that hurt you without regard for months now. The fact he never noticed you deteriorating. And all the nights you crept back into your shared room, for comfort and to keep trying to help him, though perhaps cruelly. 

 It was dawn when Keigo exited the guestroom. He figured that you were either gone or would be soon.

He was clearly mistaken.

Keigo stopped when he saw you at the kitchen table, head down, and resting on your folded arms. You were wearing a huge sweater, one of his, and a blanket around your shoulders.

Keigo had, incredibly selfishly, somewhat forgotten your physical state.

He ached.

 “I made coffee,” You said quietly. You looked up, meeting Keigo’s gaze with bloodshot, puffy eyes. “It’s still warm.”

“Why are you here?” Keigo asked, heart starting to beat too fast again. “Why haven’t you left-?”

“Do you really want me to leave?” You asked with an unfamiliar edge to your voice. It’s not anger or malice, but something different. You stand, bracing yourself on the table, wobbling. Keigo wanted nothing more than to scoop you into his arms and apologize. But, he doesn’t. 

 You looked at him with this edge of fierce determination, asking the penultimate question, the core of this all, “Keigo, do you want me to leave because of my actions, or do you want me to leave because you don’t think you deserve help?”

There was a poignant quiet over the apartment. 

The birds of the new day interrupted it from outside, chirping with the eos of dawn.

“I don’t think... I—” Keigo was speechless again, stuttering. “You shouldn’t have hurt yourself so bad.”

“That’s been established, I went too far. I should’ve told you, offered and asked, and go from there. It ultimately was a complete breach of boundaries and for that, I’m sorry. Fuck my good intentions, it was selfish.” You squeezed the edge of the table, eyes low. Your gaze turned up sharply to meet his, that edge of determination and fierceness in it that Keigo was unfamiliar with. “My question is, do you want me to leave?”

Keigo stared at his feet. His head was swimming, “You should leave.”

“I asked if you want me to,” You asked again. You were being more firm than you had ever been. You sounded unbreakable. It was that stubbornness that kept you there with him, right?

Keigo met your eyes with a sharp glare, “You should’ve left the night I asked you to kill me.”

You sighed, shaking visibly, but still keeping yourself so strong, “Please just answer me. Do you want me to leave? If we’re going to break up, let’s just call it that, and get it over with, okay Kei’?”

Oh, hearing you say ‘breakup’—

That broke Keigo. 

Having to truly think and reckon with a reality where you weren’t with him and you weren’t facing the horrors of the world together was purely the stuff of nightmares. 

The stupid little facade Keigo had so carefully crafted broke. The burns on his body started to ache anew, somatically. The scar over his eye twitched as tears were gathering anew. 

“N-no,” Keigo hugged himself, shaking his head. “N-no— I don’t want you to go—” 

You didn’t say anything, just watched him with a sad expression.

“Then I won’t.” You sat back down. “Keigo, I know that this is all fucked beyond belief. I know. But, I won’t leave. I really, really don’t want to. I won’t, not unless you want me to go.”

And Keigo was breaking for you again. 

He somehow stumbled next to your chair, managing to fall to his knees and rest his head on your cold, cold thigh. He pressed his nose into your flesh, trying to fucking absorb your smell like you could disappear any moment. 

“Why did you do it-” Keigo sobbed into your skin, nails biting in the flesh of your calves. It made you jerk in your seat. “WHY DID YOU HURT YOURSELF FOR ME!”

You didn’t have a good answer for him, so you didn’t reply. 

Keigo’s grip on the flesh of his leg started to break skin as he wailed into your leg.

You just looked down at him with this expression of pure remorse,  melancholy coloring your eyes.

You grabbed his clawed-hands, recalling the last time you tried a move like this with a twitch. You held his hands in your own, pulling him up, “You can’t do that, Keigo. You’re hurting me.”

“All I DO is hurt YOU!” Keigo crushed you into a tight hug, knocking the wind from you. You jolt forward into his death grip. 

 “It was my choice,” You remind him, so much weakness in your choice. “A very, very selfish one. If I was going to try to heal you, I should’ve asked.”

You started crying with him. 

You both were just torturing yourselves, truthfully. 

 At his core, Keigo was a fucked up man who was so thoroughly repressed and manipulated, it was hard to see his psychological shortcomings. They were all so meticulously hidden. 

But not then, not after losing his wings.

“I’m so fucked up,” Keigo kept crying into you as you had his hands locked together. “I hate myself for being this upset at you when you were trying to help me.”

“Love,” Your voice was so soft, releasing Keigo’s hands to pet his hair. “It wasn’t right for me to try and do what I did. You can’t help how you feel.”

“I could before I lost them!” Keigo muffled himself with your flesh.

Them being his wings, obviously. 

You hauled him upwards, forcing him to sit in your lap. Keigo had always had a bit of size on you, but in your shrunken state, it was even more pronounced. 

“Then you weren’t feeling,” You pressed your face to Keigo’s chest, wrapping your arms around his waist. He entangled himself with you, and you both just held each other for a long, long time.

 ------------------------

In the following six months, a many very important things happen.

Keigo got a place for you for two entire months, just so you two have some separation. After actually having a calm talk about your relationship dynamic since Keigo’s injury, it was comically apparent there were so many fucked up things that had happened and that you both needed a bit of time to collect yourselves.

It was a hard separation, but you still see each other at least half of the days of your time apart, and even a few that you snuck over for the night to stay over. Keigo was so, so thankful. Being wrapped in each other was a different experience, something actually healing. 

You both got therapists, next. A couples therapist too. 

Thank God. 

Keigo had oodles of trauma to sort through, and you had your own shit to deal with as well. Not to mention the whole ‘Keigo being a dick to you because he was hurt doesn’t justify it’ kinda broke your brain for a second. Also, Keigo having to process ‘he was capital A abusive to you after he got hurt, and your only stability being the hope in healing you is much more complicated than just them trying to ‘fix’ you’ was a case of note. 

It was weird, really. 

 When you moved back, fully, to Keigo’s (you weren’t sure if you could call it ‘your’ apartment anymore), it was nerve-wracking. It was under the understanding that you could move out if you needed to, that separation and an ending were just a corner away.

It made you feel more unstable than you had in months, but you kept up with it. 

Keigo noticed, much more observant than he had been. About two weeks into you returning to the apartment, he asked the question, “What if we moved?”

You had been quietly eating your breakfast, but this startled you, “Move? Why?”

“I mean,” Keigo sheepishly rubbed the back of his neck. His gaze flickered to the living room, recalling the times he broke down and was so awful to you. It shifted to the bedroom door where you broke boundaries over and over. “A lot of bad stuff happened here. If we’re going to have a fresh start, might as well live somewhere new, right?”

You mused on it for a moment, then nodded, “Yeah, that would be good.”

The next few weeks were the most healthy and productive that you and Keigo ever had, pre- or post-injury. Apartment hunting turned into purchasing a two-floored, highrise, insanely nice condo across the city. Keigo suggested buying a house, but you refused. You both liked the views too much to live somewhere so close to the ground.

You packed your things, mutually. You both threw away plenty, bits and bobs that had been relatively unused for a long time. Lots of old memories were thrown out to make way for new ones. Though it was sad and there was plenty of grief in it, you actually had each other this time. 

When you found Keigo sobbing, clutching an old picture of him and Touya, one of the only of him from his childhood with the Commission, you held him and rocked him. You cried with him, not just settling for ‘dealing’ with him anymore. 

When you cleaned out the kitchen, you found the two dozen extra vitamins and extracts you had been taking while healing Keigo. You stared at him, idly, for ten minutes, somewhere far off in your head. Keigo came up behind you, wrapping his arms around you. Softly, he pulled you back from your mind. He helped you throw away each bottle, talking reverently to you so your gaze and mind would stay in that moment, and not those past and unsavory.  

You helped each other, or, were learning to.

 You and Keigo both had to agree that shopping for furniture was probably the most fun the two of you had in a while. With a facemask and a beanie on, Keigo appeared a lot less like his former self, allowing for the two of you to covertly search for new homewares without prying crowds.

The old apartment had originally been Keigo’s from his early years of being a hero. You simply moved in with him, adding yourself to his space. This time, you were making it together. 

 “What do you think of this one?” You turned to Keigo, next to you. Both of you laid on top of a fairly nice mattress, the store relatively empty aside from the employees and the two of you.

“I think it's good, it’s not too soft,” Keigo turned and smiled at you, speaking from behind his mask. 

You couldn’t help sitting up, tugging the cloth mask just a bit lower to drop a sweet kiss on the side of his mouth, “Get out the credit card then, babe.”

 The condo was sorted within a few weeks, full of furniture and slowly being decorated. 

You also had the opportunity to christen the mattress, if you will.

...

How long had it been since you and Keigo had laid together like this? 

Your bodies were sticky with sweat and cum, several rounds having passed throughout the night. Your new mattress was going to need a fresh change of sheets after this.

“Hey, angel, come over here,” Keigo tugged you closer to him, laying your head on his chest. You smiled softly, pressing closer. You missed it, truly, the warmth of his body and the feeling of his skin on your own like this.

“Alright, check-in,” Keigo pressed a kiss to your damp forehead. “You feeling okay?”

“I feel great,” You hummed, throwing a leg over his waist. “I can honestly keep going.”

“Should you?” Keigo raised an eyebrow and chuckled, nudging a knee between your legs. You flinched, knowing how sore you’d be in the morning already. 

Though your body had recovered somewhat, you weren’t fully back to where you were before Keigo’s injury. You didn’t mind, though. Keigo had taken to doting on you a bit more than he used to. 

You shrugged and Keigo just chuckled, bringing you ever-closer. 

“Are you okay?” You straddled Keigo’s hips, cocking your head to one side. 

Keigo was silent for a moment, stormy almost. He bit his lip, tracing hands and eyes over your figure, finally landing on your face. His softened hands cupped your jaw. 

“Yeah, I’m okay,” His thumb rubbed over your lips. There’s something so melancholic about him. “I just missed you.”

You knew exactly what he meant by ‘miss’.

 It was a feeling beyond sex, but rather intimacy. Sure, Keigo had been balls deep in you for the first time in months and that was ecstasy you wouldn’t trade the world for. But, this feeling Keigo regarded was different.

It had been so long since the two of you had been so softened around each other.

Guards, after months of being raised high, had begun to fall.

  Thank God.

 Your eyes watered as you lowered your face to his, ghosting your lips over his, “I missed you too, Kei’. I missed you so, so much.”

 How many minutes of hell had your both endured? And how many were there still to go? Thoughts of fear and anguish constantly swirled within the two of you for so long. They certainly hadn’t stopped, but they were lessening. Therapy helped. Being in the new place with a fresh start did wonders for the two you. Keigo’s passion for cooking continued to grow and you had taken up a few new hobbies of your own. 

It was the mundane, you supposed, that was the stitching for broken relationships. The real healing of proverbial flesh and bone was intimacy, vulnerability, and love.

“Hey, Kei’,” You kissed him breathless, once, twice, three times. “I love you, you know? A lot.”

“Yeah?” Keigo giggled, something high and light that he wouldn’t have released a year ago. “I love you too. So much.”

 The night continued in tender fucking, the two of you visibly watching wounds begin to grow smaller and scar, no more fire, and no more forced stitchings. 

Salvation came from time and small things, you supposed, half-asleep and nestled neck to Keigo, feeling better than you had in a long time.  

---------------

     You supposed, some time later, that karma gave the two of you a small gift. In the eyes of all things, it must’ve been just a spec, but God, it was something. 

     ...

They had come back over a year and half from when you had tried to heal Keigo. 

The attempt wasn’t forgotten, no, but it certainly wasn’t at the forefront of your minds like it used to be. Except the one morning that Keigo got up before you, sleepily yawning his way to the bathroom.

You heard his sharp gasp, loud exclamations in your half asleep state.

“Babe?” Your voice hoarse with sleep, you spoke. “You okay?”

Keigo jumped onto the bed, straddling over you and the comforter. 

“(Y/N)!” Oh, his eyes were wet. Soft, gooey tears were streaming down his face as he shakily grabbed your wrists. He pressed them to the scars of his back.

Your eyes went wide as your hands brushed against small, soft feathers. 

“Keigo!” You shouted, sitting up, urging him to turn around so you could take a better look. 

Keigo trembled as he bared his back to you. 

Your breath caught as your hands trailed down his marred flesh.

The scars, old and worn now, had faded a great deal. The charred plain calmed with time, perhaps by your own touch and very much so by Keigo’s own cells and flesh.

But, in the center of his back, where the roots of his wings once were, was something growing anew.

Small, burgundy feathers were growing from spindly looking, down-covered bones and skin.

They were small, nothing like his old wings. More aged, with their darker color. The feathers felt softer as you ran your hands along the largest, no bigger than your hand from wrist to tip.

Keigo shuddered.

“Do... Do they feel like they used to?” You asked, transfixed.

Keigo shakily shook his head, “N-no, they feel less sensitive I think. They feel different.”

...

 As Keigo had healed and changed, so had his body.

His wings never grew to their own old size and power, not even close. They couldn’t support his own body weight, so Keigo never flew again. But, the feathers, wine-colored and almost bruised looking, could be sent to do small tasks, much like his old ones.  

At first, it seemed cruel. After so long and so much, his wings grew back but in such a decrepit form. For days, the two of you waited and waited to see what the final form of his regrowth would be. In the end, at their best, they stretched out to about the span of Keigo’s arms. The feathers weren’t symmetrical either, even at their peak regrowth. Some grew in fluffy and rounded, while others were jagged, sticking out awkwardly from the rest of his form. 

Over time, the inherent disappointment and despondence turned into appreciation.

Because they had come back, it just took time. 

...

With enough time, Keigo wore them proudly, no matter how oddly they stuck out from his marred skin. Keigo’s body was still too damaged to do hero work proper, but he still was kept around.

At the end of the day, the feathers colored like dried blood represented something far larger. If the completely destroyed number two hero could come back to even a fraction of his former, angelic glory, that was something, right?

It was like in the eyes of all things, you were both awarded a physical manifestation of healing. The gnarly wings that grew from Keigo’s body may have been off-putting to some, but to the two of you, it was a testament to it all.

It just took time. 

[the-slasher-files]

Hello, can i request 16 and 46 for the prompt thing with a S/o with low self steem with Bo? Please and sorry for my english 🥺🖤

OOOH ANGST!!!! I love it thank you! and honestly your English is perfect :) It’s like these 2 sentences were made for a reader x bo scenario!

So I went a little wild with this that’s why it’s a bit longer (1k plus words) but I really love how it turned out.. also Bo maybe says ‘I love you’ for the first time when he’s sober :o hope you enjoy 🔪💕

MASTERLIST

THE KITCHEN FLOOR 

WORD PROMPT:   “I want you to be happy... even if it’s not with me” AND “Please don’t say that about yourself. Please don’t believe that. You’re so much more than that. You’re so...”

Today was just one of those days. 

You felt your mind weigh heavy on everything you did. It badgered you every second of the day, pounding your self-esteem lower and lower with every glance in the mirror and every tug of your baggy clothes. You couldn’t escape the constant hounding and you felt almost uncomfortable sitting in your own skin; as if bugs were crawling on top of you, and as if a fire was set beneath your feet and every moment you struggled to hold yourself away from the burn. 

Bo was at his dingy garage all day and Vincent was in the basement making more creations for the town, and honestly, you never knew where Lester was at any given moment but he defiantly wasn’t in the house. This left you all alone in the reticent home, just your thoughts and heartbeat. Sure you could go down to the basement to have company with Vincent, but he never liked to be disturbed while working, and you could go to the gas station but something was blocking you in the house; your demons wanted you away from the sunlight and easing voices of the people you loved, they wanted you all to themselves today. You let them win today for you didn’t have the energy to fight it. 

As the sun faded behind the native Louisiana wood that surrounded Ambrose the voices became deafening, and Bo’s absence was louder than the voices at times. Skull crushing and heart aching. You didn’t care if it was his yelling or large footsteps creaking on the hardwood, you just needed to hear something else besides the twisted thoughts that were burning, and chugging along like a freight train threatening to run itself off track and kill the engineers. 

Bo will never love you... Bo has never thought you were beautiful... Bo hates you... hates your body... hates your love... Bo just wants some skinny perfect woman... one from his trophy wall... one better than you... one to satisfy his every need better than you ever could...    

Tears stung in your eyes painfully, as you tried to make yourself busy with dinner. Every cut of a vegetable and every stir on the bowl was becoming a burden, you felt the lump in your throat build and tears spilled out in a stream much to your dismay. Anger, frustration, sadness and pain became all too much for your psyche to handle, and in an outburst you pushed everything off the counter, carelessly letting dinner go to waste and everything around you crash and clang against the linoleum.  

Silent sobs sealed your airway and you sank to the floor slowly with your back scraping against the fridge, raking your shaky hands through your hair, tears falling wherever they pleased. Breathing seemed fleeting at this point, you felt as if you were drowning in the ocean, all alone, with sharks circling you, taunting your demise. The sobs began to become more painful and broken wails hung in the humid Louisiana air, the force and strain made it feel like you were vomiting but betrayed the fact that your throat was closing against the laments.  

Suddenly there were heavy footfalls coming towards you, it was clear as day who they were from; the give away was that the gate was a little unbalanced from the apparent stiffness Bo had always carried in his right leg. The steps stopped for a moment as he was taking in your balled up shaking frame under the flickering fluorescents of the old house. Food, utensils, bowls and plates were all scattered around you like war zone debris, and you were the broken soldier in the middle waiting for the end. You knew he was standing there but you didn’t care; he was never one for comforting you, why would he care tonight? 

“Baby... Baby girl wha- shit” Bo stuttered but quickly came to encase you in his muscular arms, groaning as he sat in front of you, his legs caged you, feeling every sob, every painful sharp inhale. “Shhh, shhh, baby it’s ok” he cooed, trying to be soothing though it went against his gruff nature. 

His warm body caging you and the unmistakable smell of gas, cigarettes, and some sort of sweet undertone to his cologne that you just couldn’t place, made your body ease enough to catch a deep breath filling your strained lungs. Opening your swollen eyes with a sting, you were somehow surprised to meet his worried stormy blues, eying you like a hawk; his intensity made you force your eyes closed, jerking your head downwards and off to the side, not wanting him to see you so broken. Stifling your cries by biting your lip hard enough to draw the coppery taste along the soft flesh, letting whine escape.

His rough fingertips gingerly caressed your wet chin, commanding you to look up at him; though Bo’s fingers were gentle, his blanketing dominance coated every movement he made effortlessly. Once again your eyes met; pain and concern clashing.

“Angel, what’s wrong?” He spoke softly letting his cigarette stained breath ghost over you. The question brought a new set of tears that started to swell up, teasing to fall through wet lashes. Bo didn’t force you to speak and he just let you catch your breath and collect your thoughts, studying every part of your face as if it was new to him. Checking for any apparent injuries that might be causing the sobs; at least that he could fix that, but no, these wounds were behind the skin, in the deep tissues of your heart and brain, strangling them.

“Bo... I just-” You weakly strained against the lump in your throat. “I’m sorry” pulling away from him you saw something dangerous flutter behind his eyes; Bo was full of his own troubles and insecurities too, and your choice of words fueled something under the surface of him, some deepness he wasn’t ready to face yet. His touch became a little tighter, slowly and agonizing like a python, squeezing the truth out of you. Your apology was out of your embarrassment for him having to see you like this, but he thought it was for cheating on him or harming someone he loved; ultimately resulting in your slow painful death. 

Before allowing his anger rise you quietly cried “Bo, baby, I’m just having a bad day... the voices in my head just wouldn’t shut up... I-I just broke” He relaxed his grip slightly and pulled you against his chest with a huff, relaxing around you. Bo was no stranger to the way you felt, he had ended up on the exact spot on the kitchen floor many times before, he was probably drunk when it happened, however, but he understood. In a strange way, you mirrored him like broken glass glued together. 

Clutching his coveralls like holding onto a lifeline you stained them with tears, as he moved his hand to cradle your skull closer to him if it were possible, carding his hand through your hair, and his other hand snaked around your waist. His warmth was welcomed but dangerous and painful, loving a broken soul like his hurt all too much; behind every kiss and pleasure, you couldn’t help but wonder if he was better off with someone else, and think about the day he doesn’t come home. Bo’s love was addicting and one day you knew it would be ripped away and you would be left scratching and clawing for any remnants that could be salvaged.   

“I- I want you to be happy... even if it’s not with me,” weeping and shaking you let your insecurities come to the light allowing Bo to see the sick but not unfamiliar thoughts. “I’m fucking broken... I’m nothing you should have, just damaged goods... You can find someone much more beautiful and stronger... I’m not what you want” 

Spilling your guts like a wounded animal begging to live Bo’s hands moved to your shoulders, now pushing you away to look at him with authority oozing off, it made you stop; thinking he was going to lose his temper, and you just waited for the yelling or for him to drag you to the bedroom. The yelling never came. The forceful grip of his large hands never appeared. Just his eyes hardened on you, the blue becoming dark and foreboding, like the black sea that has swallowed a thousand ships.

“Please don’t say that about yourself. Please don’t believe that. You’re so much more than that. You’re so...” He begged then allowed his fortified walls to come down for a brief moment worried you would shatter him completely, “You’re my everything baby... Why don’t you see that?” his voice broke at the vulnerability. The knights were down, off their posts and able to rest after 20 some years of being serviced, taught and berated. This was like a searing knife to his core, slipping between the bones and waiting for it to be yanked out and have him bleed out on the linoleum, alone. “I- I love you.” 

Those words, the three words he spoke echoed loud and clear in your brain. The only time he had ever said it was after 5 beers and sloppy sex. Bo was sober tonight and he was painfully aware of it. He said it without flinching or moving his gaze from yours. This is the moment you waited for, after almost 2 full years of rage, blood, tears, love, fights, and pain; it was out there crystal clear. Of course, you had hoped it would be on a scenic hill looking out at the night sky, with your fingers interlaced and shallow breaths matching each other in perfect harmony; not on the cold floor with glass and destruction around you, brokenly clutching one another. However, you were going to take what you could get.    

Tears began to flow again but for a whole different reason, as you cupped his strong square jaw, running your thumb on the long jagged scar he carried with grace. “Bo Sinclair, I love you too.” He crashed his lips against yours, his hands were everywhere on you, he craved you, he needed you as much as he did the oxygen to breathe.

[fruitcoops]

Can you do one where it turns out greyback injuring Remus way back years ago was actually caught on camera and that video of young remus getting his shoulder ripped is like released at a hockey game on the screen or maybe just put online and everyone sees what happens Omg please I'm begging you to do this!!! ILYYY

Hello anon! This is a really interesting idea and I’ve been thinking about it for a while--the NHL doesn’t allow security cameras in locker rooms, but I assumed there would be audio somewhere from one nearby. People who leak ~scandalous information~ on the internet are literally the worst.

Sweater Weather credit goes to @lumosinlove!

TW for graphic descriptions of injury (mostly the sounds)

“How did this happen?” Remus asked, wincing internally at the tremor in his voice. He was shaking from head to toe; it was a miracle he hadn’t started screaming yet. Then again, he wasn’t sure that he would be able to stop. “How the hell did this happen?”

“We don’t know,” Alice said quietly in the chair across from him. “This information was confidential and we haven’t even presented it to the NHL board for review. Someone must have leaked it to the press.”

“Why does this keep happening to me? First Sirius, and now—” He pressed his lips together as his voice cracked. There were a few beats of silence. “Why did you call me in here? I already saw it on the internet.”

“We need you to confirm it was you and Fenrir.” Alice looked him in the eyes. “If you don’t think you can listen to this, Remus, that’s okay, but it will help us build a stronger case to get him punished.”

He took a deep breath. “Can—can Sirius come and sit with me for it?”

“Of course.” She stood and left the room, leaving him alone with the coach.

“You’ve listened to it, haven’t you.”

Arthur nodded. “I’m so sorry, Remus.”

“I don’t need you to be sorry, I need people to not look at me like some sob story.” Bitter fury rose in his throat, though he wasn’t angry with Arthur. “I worked hard to get there and even harder to come back. I’m done dwelling on the past. This is going to undo everything and I’m sick of it.”

“Did the team know?”

“I told some of them when Sirius was at All-Stars.” Remus knew Arthur remembered the fight; he had chewed Sirius out for it as soon as practices resumed. “Didn’t tell my parents, though.”

Arthur closed his eyes and let out a long breath. The door clicked open behind him. “Re?”

“Hey, baby.” Instant relief washed over Remus, though he still felt like he would lose it at any moment.

Sirius settled into the chair next to him and held out his hand—Remus took it immediately, scooting their chairs closer together so their shoulders touched. “Are you ready?” Alice asked, picking up a remote. Remus nodded.

The video was grainy, but the audio was pristine. A few voices—familiar voices, I remember them clear as day—jumbled together as the last members of the team filtered out of the locker room. “See you tomorrow, Moony!” one called over his shoulder. “Great game!”

“Bye, Tags!” Remus said from inside. Did I really sound that young?

The hallway outside the locker room was empty; he heard himself shifting around inside as he stretched out. Left thigh, right thigh, left calf, right calf, reach and roll. “Hey, Lupin.” Fenrir’s gravelly voice made him freeze and Sirius rested his other hand on top of theirs.

“Sup, Backer.” A light smack signaled their fistbump. “That was a beautiful goal you had at the end of the third, by the way. The scouts definitely saw.”

“They certainly did. Are your folks here tonight?”

“Yeah, Jules was so excited. He’s been bouncing off the walls for the past couple days.” The unbridled fondness in his younger voice was a balm. Jules had been convinced that he would be drafted to the NHL right after that game.

“They’re saying you’ll be number one.”

“Really?” Young Remus laughed. “I dunno, man, there are a lot of players this year. You and me are neck and neck, right?”

Dumbass! he wanted to shout. Just shut up for once! “Neck and neck,” Fenrir muttered, barely loud enough for the camera to pick up. “Hey, do you need a hand with your stretches?”

“Sure, thanks. Might have a bruise from your pads tomorrow, eh?” The friendly joke made him wince. More shuffling noises followed. The hall stayed empty.

“Here?” Fenrir asked. There was a dangerous edge to his voice and Remus swallowed around the sudden dryness of his mouth.

“Yeah, that’s—okay, that’s actually a bit too far, can you let up a bit? Fenrir, you’re pulling too hard.” Panic seeped in. “Fenrir, stop, you’re hurting me—”

There was a horrible cracking noise and younger Remus’ strangled shout cut off abruptly as his shoulder came out of the socket. He squeezed his eyes shut and gripped Sirius’ hand. If he focused, he could still feel Fenrir’s fingers pressing his face into the mats.

“‘Look at me, I’m Remus Lupin, I’m the fastest player on the ice and I’ll be number one’,” Fenrir mimicked as Remus’ agonized whines continued. “You think you’re so clever. So perfect. You’ve never had to work a day in your life. I’m the best player out there and the scouts are fucking idiots if they think you’re better.”

A muffled wail ended with a gasp and a series of pops. “Please—”

“Shut the fuck up,” Fenrir growled. “Look at you now, crying like a girl. You’re never going to tell anybody about this, because I know your secret.” Remus’ breath shuddered. “Oh, yeah, I know all about you. If you even think about tattling, everyone is going to know.”

“Ple—ah.” Sirius’ grip tightened around his fingers as Remus’ sharp cry caught in his chest. The green-tinted video fuzzed out for a moment, but still nobody walked past. Fenrir had planned this well.

“You’re nothing now, Lupin. You are damaged goods and you’ll never set foot on the ice again.” His voice lowered. “If you do, I’ll find you.”

There was a thud as he finally released Remus’ arm and quiet, wheezing sobs filled the silence. “What did you do to me? Oh my god, oh my god, it hurts so much, what the hell did you do?”

Remus tasted something salty on the edge of his lips and pressed his thumb against Sirius’ ring. This was real. This was his. Sirius loved him. The team loved him.

“I did what I had to do. Say hi to Jules for me.”

The locker room door opened a few seconds later and Fenrir walked out, flexing his hand. With the open door, Remus’ hoarse weeping was clearer as he was left alone on the floor. The video ended.

“Remus.” Alice held out a box of tissues, her voice gentle as the screen went dark. He reached out for one, but his hand was shaking too bad to grab it; Sirius took one and carefully wiped his cheeks dry with feather-light touches.

“That was him,” Remus managed around the boulder in his throat. “That was Fenrir Greyback, and that was me.”

“Would you be able to swear it in court?”

“What the fuck do you think?” Remus snarled. Sirius ran his thumb over his knuckles. “Do you want to see the scars on my shoulder, too? What reason do I have to lie?”

“I meant are you prepared to talk about this in front of people?” Alice rephrased, calm and collected as ever. “This is a traumatic event and I don’t want to force you into anything.”

“Remus, you’re a valued player on the team,” Arthur said. “I’ll do whatever it takes to make sure you’re safe in this league.”

“Don’t look at me differently. Now that you know this, now that everyone knows, people will treat me like I’m fragile. I’m the same person I was two days ago and this will not change how I play.”

“I know.” Arthur folded his hands on the desk. “You’re a fighter, Loops. That’s one of the reasons I wanted you on my team.”

“Do you two need a moment before you head back out?” Alice asked, glancing between him and Sirius. “We’re going to kick the reporters out and then everyone’s going to go home for the day while we talk to the board.”

“We do, yeah.” Remus’ voice wavered and coach stood, following Alice into the hall.

“Oh, mon loup,” Sirius murmured, standing and pulling him into a hug. A kiss pressed against the top of his head and Remus grabbed the back of his soft shirt like it was the only thing holding him steady. “I am so sorry.”

“You already knew.”

“No, I didn’t. You told me, but—” Sirius faltered. “I had no idea how bad it was. The things he said to you…”

“Were wrong.” Remus finished. He had spent so many long nights and dark days convincing himself of that.

“They were wrong. You are not damaged goods,” Sirius said fiercely, pulling back to hold his face in his hands. His eyes were fiery. “Listen to me, Remus. You are not damaged. You are everything to me and I love you for exactly who you are.”

“I love you, too.” Remus’ lower lip wobbled and he rested his forehead on Sirius’ chest again. “Hearing it—I already knew what happened, but hearing it was horrible.”

“It was.”

“I’m sorry I made you listen with me.”

“Don’t be sorry, mon amour. I’m with you through the good, the bad, and everything else. I’m glad I was with you for this.”

“The team…” He trailed off and sighed. “I don’t want them to see that. My folks, too.”

“I think they already have,” Sirius admitted. “But they love you so much and they’ll be here for whatever you need.”

“We have to go sometime.” He took a deep breath and stepped back, rubbing his eyes and kissing Sirius quickly. “Alright, let’s go.”

They made it four steps down the hall before James appeared and engulfed Remus in a hug. “Holy shit, I’m so angry,” he choked out on a harsh breath. “I love you, man.”

“Love you too, J. Where’s everyone else?”

“Inside. I called dibs on first hug.”

“Have they all seen it?”

“Some of it. I don’t know if anyone watched it all the way through.” He sniffled and squeezed Remus tighter. “I don’t know how you came back from that.”

“PT helped.” He closed his eyes and leaned into James. “So did you guys. I couldn’t have made it this far without you.”

“Neither could we.” James pulled back. “Do you want to see them or are you heading out?”

“Heading h—”

“I want to see them,” Remus interrupted quietly. Sirius raised his eyebrows. “It’s going to happen sometime. Might as well be now.”

James nodded and walked over to the locker room door. “Ready?”

Remus laced his fingers with Sirius’. “Let’s do it.”

[mia-ugly]

Breakable Things

Martin is big.

Not in a strapping film-star kind of way. Not tall or broad-shouldered, not a ‘mountain of a man’ or a ‘tall drink of water’ or anything like that.

Just big (a dumb, blunt, smack of a word.)

He was big as a lad, he’s bigger now. He always had the kind of body that inspired too many teachers to push him toward wrestling, football, rugby even (apparently his dad had been involved with the clubs. Apparently he’d been a fair tighthead back in the day, before he left Martin’s mum, and left Martin to gather up the pieces, cutting his fingertips on every one.)

It didn’t take Martin’s teachers or schoolmates long to realize that Martin’s size did not equate to any sort of athletic skill. And once the - inevitable rumours started circulating around Year Seven, well. Any motivation he might have had to be ‘part of a team’ was drained out of him like a tire going flat (that metaphor needs work. Doesn’t really convey the violence, try again.)  His motivation left him like the air being knocked from his lungs, shove after hard shove against the lockers.

Martin is strong.

Physically. He doesn’t know why - got it from his father, didn’t he - his wide back, his thick fingers, his solid legs. He took a cricket bat to the face once - ought to have broken his nose, blackened his eyes, but it didn’t. Got in a car accident when he was seventeen, didn’t even crack a rib. Flipped the whole thing into the ditch, and his mum screamed herself hoarse when she found out, but Martin walked away from it. Physically. He walked away.

He doesn’t bruise easily. If he cuts his hand chopping vegetables, it heals quickly. He doesn’t have any scars (he has stretch marks though, all over his stomach and thighs, and for all that he is strong, he’s soft. He’s soft and he knows it, all pudding and poetry and fear, oh, fear most of all. It's pathetic how easy he is, how quickly he caves, rolls over and does whatever's asked of him.

In most situations, anyway. With most people.)

“Why don’t you want me coming with you?”

Jon is in his office, seated in front of that bloody tape recorder as always. The sight of him there is so familiar, like the negatives from a film camera. Like even if Jon wasn’t there, the imprint of him would still linger, white as a ghost against the darkness.

He doesn’t seem surprised to hear Martin’s voice. Neither does he glance up from the desk where he’s shuffling papers, gathering up books. His hands move constantly, restless and bird-boned and Martin is always looking at them, even when he tries not to.

“I don’t want you getting hurt.” Jon’s voice is low, rough with exhaustion, and it makes Martin wince. Makes him want to fuss (when is the last time the man got a decent night's sleep? Someone should bring him a cup of tea, someone should rub his shoulders, someone should do something -

He knows he has a caretaking thing. He knows it’s not - good. And the sharp ones get to him like anything, he wants to win them over in a pathetic, salivating way. It’s a sickness, but - 

- but there was a point when it suddenly stopped being about Martin’s Whole Thing, and just started being about Jon.

He’ll talk to someone about it, swear. A professional, even. If the world doesn’t end.)

“It’s fine if you get hurt, though, is it?”

Jon does look up now, and Martin forces himself not to take a step back under the dark-lashed scrutiny. The heavy eyebrows, the shimmer of scars.  Sometimes Jon’s skin reminds Martin of the surface of a planet, a rough and distant moon. He wonders how it is that Jon can be so narrow, so small, and still take up so much room in the Archives, and in the world, and in Martin’s big (and soft and so so stupid ) heart.

“It is my job.”

“No. This - this is not your job.” Martin struggles to put the words together in the face of this vast, ridiculous injustice. “Going off to - what? Do battle with some sort of evil, circussy death-cult, that’s not your job . You don’t get paid for that.”

Jon snorts, derisive, and Martin wishes he could be angry. It’d be easier if he was angry with Jon.

But he isn’t.

“Melanie needs you here. And I can’t be - there, thinking about -“ Jon stops. He swallows and looks back down at the scattered papers on his desk. A snowfall of horror stories, laid out neatly on Hammermill Bright White. “Worrying about you.”

(“Leave it, Martin, I’m fine just - leave me alone -” Mum smacks him away with a vein-bruised hand.)

“Because I’ll make a mess of things - is that what you think? I can help you, I want to help you-”

“I will feel better knowing you’re here.”

“And how do you think I’ll feel? Knowing you -  you and, um Tim and Daisy - are out risking your lives while I’m sat on my hands, drinking tea, being useless -”

“You aren’t.” Jon’s voice is suddenly loud, as if he’s in pain. He pinches the bridge of his nose, squeezing his eyes shut. “And I don’t - I can’t - you’ll be helpful here. The Institute needs you, and Melanie needs you, and I -”

-don’t, Martin hears.

Though Jon doesn’t say it, Martin hears it.

“Right,” he manages. “All right.”

He should go. He’s going to go. But he lingers for a moment more, committing as much of Jonathan Sims to memory as he can. The angles of him, compact and rigid with anxiety. The fall of hair across his forehead, ink black shot through with grey. Thin pink lines that a blade left below his jaw, a ripple of lacy scar tissue on his hand (and Martin mostly, mostly doesn’t wonder what those scars would feel like against his own skin. On his shoulder or - or sliding down the length of his throat. At the back of his neck, tugging him into a kiss.)

Come back, come back, come fucking back. Martin isn’t religious, never one for church, but it’s as much of a prayer as he’s ever said.

“Is there something else you want?” Jon asks, terse and tired and - for one thoughtless moment he is the Archivist and only the Archivist, and Martin can’t help but gasp out a shocked, “yes.”

Jon knocks a book off the desk. It slams to the floor loud as a gunshot, and Martin flinches.

“Sorry,” he says quickly, “I’m sorry, I -”

“No, I’m - I’m sorry, I wasn’t thinking -”

“It’s fine - I know you didn’t -”

“I would never -”

“But you can.”

There’s a horrible silence, like the moment after the tape recorder shuts off, statement ends. Martin feels sick to his stomach and Jon looks like - like -

He doesn’t know what Jon looks like. Maybe that’s why he keeps talking.

“You can ask me. What I - what I want.” Heat is rushing to his face, a blush that feels like thorns. Jon just stares at him, and this was a bad, bad idea. It’s obvious, isn’t it? Jon doesn’t even need to ask the question, probably knows the whole awful story just by looking at him. “If you wanted.”

When Jon says nothing, just keeps staring, Martin tries desperately to double back.

“Never mind, that was -” He flaps his hands a bit, moving towards the door. His shoulders hunch, an old defense mechanism, useless body trying to make itself look as harmless as possible. Trying to make itself so small it’s beyond notice (it never works.) “I shouldn’t have. I can’t believe I -  just - be safe. All right? That’s all I -”

“Martin -”

“That was - stupid, such a - I’m sorry, I only -”

“-what do you want?”

The words are spoken quietly. Barely above a whisper. But Martin doesn’t need to hear them - his whole body hears them, and suddenly every syllable feels golden in his mouth. Saying it out loud isn’t frightening or humiliating, it’s easy. Answering the Archivist is like falling asleep in a patch of sun-warmed grass, or gasping for air after holding your breath underwater.

“I want you to come back.” It’s honey dripping off his tongue. “I want you to come back for me. And I want the world not to end, and I want to know what your hair feels like, whether it’s soft or coarse and whether I can tell the difference between the black parts and the silvery parts just by touching them.”

Jon is absolutely frozen behind his desk. He might not even be breathing, but that’s okay; Martin can’t remember why anyone needs to breathe.

“And I want to help you. And the others. I want to matter. And I want Sasha to be okay, and I want Tim to be okay, and I want Elias to finally face some fucking consequences for once. I want to take you on holiday and - and watch you while you sleep so you know you don’t have to be afraid. I want to wake you up if you have nightmares and make you tea in the morning and bake things for you, and - and I want to kiss you, even if it’s just once. Only once, just so I know, and only if you want me to. That’s what I want.”

The sweetness ends the moment the last word leaves his mouth. Suddenly the honey is cloying and acrid, suddenly his heart is unsteady with embarrassment, skipping beats like he’s just had a shot of adrenaline. Martin chokes on a breath and slams his eyes shut against the spinning room.

“Fuck.” His voice cracks on the word, insult to injury, and he claps a hand over his mouth. “Oh God - I’m - oh God. That was -” He barely remembers what he said, which is the only thing keeping him upright at the moment. He just knows it was soft, pathetically soft. Even his fantasies are as weak as his jawline. “I’m going to - go, I’ll go. I shouldn’t have -”

“W-wait.”

Martin doesn’t want to open his eyes. But he does. Just in time to see Jonathan Sims stand up. Start to walk around the desk.

And Jon is not big. Or strong, physically. Martin knows a bit about anatomy, took a couple art classes, was always fascinated by the bones of things. As Jon steps closer, Martin can only see the breakable things about him. Collarbones, fingers, bridge of his nose. What’s that bone in the arm that everyone’s always breaking?

Humerus.

Ulna.

Jon is not strong, and he is scarred, and he is small and fragile and God he is the bravest person Martin’s ever met.

“Martin, you -” Jon stops in front of him and Martin looks down, gaze almost level with the top of Jon’s head. “You can ask me. What - what I want.”

He’s shaking, Martin can see it - and it makes him realize that he’s shaking too. He barely manages the “What -” before he forgets how to say the rest, forgets how words work (but Jon, Jon is brave.)

“I think - I would like -” Jon reaches for Martin’s hand, and lifts it to his mouth. Presses a dry kiss right in the centre of Martin’s palm.

It’s a ruining sort of softness, and Martin’s big (physically) and strong (physically) but somehow Jon knows where his weaknesses are - the loose dragonscale, the slipped disc.

(And of course, after this the world will almost end (but not quite.)  After this, there will be Elias and Martin’s humiliating tears over a statement he knew damn well, a beholding that came as no surprise to anyone.

After this Jon will die.

Almost. Not quite.)

But now: Jon is murmuring, “I think -” as he leans up to kiss Martin (and his warm mouth is shocking and brief, a knife sliding home.)

But now: Jon is still shaking when their lips part, and Martin’s hands are on either side of his face, tips of his fingers settled lightly in Jon's hair (it’s softer than anything, as it turns out, and the silvery parts are softest of all.)

Their foreheads press together, both of them breathing harder than one kiss should warrant. And Martin doesn’t say any of those other things he wants, any of the white-hot words he’s scratched down on paper or typed into the notes app. He doesn’t say anything about the shape of Jon’s shoulder-blades through that thin grey t-shirt he wears, doesn’t bring up any metaphors about fading light or seaglass or breakable things that are also strangely beautiful.

Because what good is poetry at the end of the world?

“Be careful,” Martin says instead (and Jon won’t be.)

“Come back,” he says (and Jon isn’t going to. Not for a long, long time).

And hours later, standing in that empty office, Martin will see the lighter that Jon left on his desk. He will notice the black handful of ashes in the rubbish bin, and wonder what Jon was burning.

And Martin is soft. People-pleasing and pathetic and terribly, terribly in love.

But Jonathan Sims kissed him once (once) and for a moment, in that office, with a small blue flame leaping in his hand -

Martin is not afraid.

[samstree]

Press your hands upon my heart

Geralt x Jaskier, hurt/comfort, 2k, soft geralt, hurt jaskier, married husbands, established geraskier

cw:  torture aftermath, hand injuries, descriptions of broken bones.

read on AO3

Geralt loved Jaskier’s hands.

They were one of the first things Geralt noticed about him.

Years ago, back in that stingy little tavern, the bard had gesticulated throughout their one-sided opening conversation, tapping on the table between them, waving and pointing with excitement. Jaskier had extended his arms in a full-body pose as he marveled at their first adventure.

From that day on, it was his nimble fingers that strummed the lute and played songs after songs, spreading the tales of the white wolf. Even hidden at the corner of a tavern, trying to not draw attention from the audience Jaskier was entertaining, Geralt could not help but always notice those hands on the instrument and how easily they produced those captivating notes. Not that he would admit it to Jaskier until many years later.

Jaskier’s hands were beautiful.

They were long and lean, untouched by heavy labor, the unblemished skin a stark contrast to Geralt’s labyrinth of scars.

They were soft to the touch. The only calluses were at the tip of his fingers, developed from years of plucking the strings. Their gentleness eased Geralt’s pain as Jaskier bandaged a wound or applied salve on Geralt’s scratches and bruises.

They were warm and welcoming when Jaskier caressed Geralt’s face before leaning in to kiss him. These hands soothed the tension between his brows; these hands carded through his hair as he was lulled into sleep surrounded by Jaskier’s familiar scent; these hands brought pleasure that left him moaning and begging, a whimpering mess under the eyes blue as the sky.

Geralt did not understand Jaskier’s love for wearing all those ridiculous rings. The colored stones were flashy and big, weighing down Jaskier’s slim fingers. Plus, they posed an extra obstacle if Geralt wished to hold Jaskier and simply feel the solid contact. The huge gemstones dug into his palm whenever he stroked Jaskier’s soft skin looking for reassurance.

“But my love, they are the latest trend at all the royal courts. A bard as esteemed as I needs to stay in fashion.”

Jaskier chuckled, amused at Geralt’s distaste for those jewelries, but continued to collect even bigger and flashier ones.

So one day, Geralt replaced them with a simple silver ring.

By the coast of Cidaris, on a beautiful cliff overlooking the sea, Geralt put the wedding band on Jaskier and called him husband for the very first time. He then placed a solemn kiss on top of it, the silver glint a most complimenting addition for those lovely fingers.

The war with Nilfgaard still raged, but their unlikely little family of a princess, sorceresses, and wolf witchers gathered for this moment.

In this little bubble of happiness, Geralt held Jaskier close and interlocked their fingers, a silent promise to never let go.

*

Jaskier’s hands were the first things Geralt saw when he slammed into that prison cell.

In front of his prone, motionless body on the stone floor, his hands were stretched out. The once unblemished skin was now speckled with dried blood. Dark bruises bloomed from his wrists, all the way up to the knuckles. Some of the fingers were swollen from what must be broken bones inside, but they still twitched slightly at the sound of Yennefer’s continued fighting in the hallway.

Where their wedding band should be, was now a flayed gash that has stopped dripping blood.

Geralt was almost knocked out of breath by the stench of pain, Jaskier’s pain. Gone was the familiar scent of sweet honeysuckle and contentment, now only despair rolled off of his husband in waves.

Gathering Jaskier in his arms, he checked for other injuries and found more: cracked ribs, a broken leg, and a gash near his hairline. It seemed his hands had received the most damage. Jaskier’s eyes stayed worryingly closed when Geralt desperately tried to rouse him. Tucking away the matted hair, Geralt winced at how hot his forehead felt.

They know he’s a bard. The back of Geralt’s mind screamed, they know he’s my bard.

They hurt what was the most precious to Jaskier, and Geralt seethed.

Geralt secured Jaskier’s hands in front of his torso, careful not to jostle the battered bones, and propped him up to lean against his chest. In the hallway, Yennefer cleared out the last of the soldiers and rushed in.

“Yen. His hands.” He pleaded.

Yennefer examined Jaskier’s hands with magic and the flow of chaos seemed to pain him even in unconsciousness. Jaskier whimpered and burrowed further in the crook of Geralt’s neck.

“It’s really bad, Geralt.” Yennefer’s expression was still calm but Geralt could see she was affected by the extent of it. “My chaos is almost depleted. I’m not sure how much I can do right now.”

“Do what you can. Please.”

“This is going to hurt,” Yennefer warned and started working her magic.

Geralt murmured into Jaskier’s ear as the pain built up, but it offered no comfort. With the crack of bones being reset, Jaskier woke screaming and writhing against Geralt’s chest, hitched breathing racking his body violently.

There was nothing Geralt could do but hold him tighter.

*

Four days held in that Nilfgaardian prison took more than forty for Jaskier to heal. Or at least on the outside.

The lacerated skin on his forearms and wrists turned into a canvas of newly formed scars, jarringly red and sensitive to the touch. The broken leg and ribs eventually regained strength after weeks of physical therapy and exercise.

As soon as they brought him back to Kaer Morhen, Yennefer knitted back the broken bones inside Jaskier’s hands, and continued to heal them with magic. Yet there was only so much she could do.

The damage to the soft tissues and ligaments was already festering when they rescued him. During the first few days, the searing pain would often flare up and keep him from any real sleep, leaving Jaskier delirious in his fevered state.

After those days, Geralt developed a habit of gently massaging the spasms out of Jaskier’s muscles. He would unfurl Jaskier’s constricting fists, kneading out the knots with the cream that the bard loved so much – honeysuckle and lavender. The warmth from Geralt’s larger hands soothed the aches, more or less depending on the day, so he made it a mission to reach for Jaskier whenever he had the chance.

Geralt wished he could erase all the hurt inflicted on his husband, but nature had to take its course.

After forty days recovering in Kaer Morhen, Jaskier was almost back to full health except for when the joints in his hands creaked and made him tremble in agony.

“Thank you, my love,” Jaskier said sleepily.

They lied face-to-face on their shared bed in the keep. Jaskier was already drifting off, his hands soft and pliant, wrapped in Geralt’s palms as if this could shield them from the hurt within.

“Anytime.”

He shouldn’t be thanking me. Geralt kissed a faded scar on a knuckle. I’m the one who couldn’t protect him.

*

Jaskier’s hands were still beautiful.

The backs of his hands were now marred with faded scars that itched when rubbed too hard. So Geralt made him gloves with soft silk to protect the delicate patch of skin. Jaskier had brightened with joy and gave him a massive smooch for being ‘the most thoughtful husband on the Continent’. The dark blue fabric now accompanied Jaskier everywhere.

His wrists moved with an unprecedented carefulness, all the dramatic gestures reigned in to avoid aggravating the long-lasting injuries. Though Jaskier never stopped talking with his hands, adding to his emotions when he got carried away. The movements, albeit subdued, were still the most beautiful dance in Geralt's eye.

Jaskier couldn’t wear his wedding band anymore.

With Yennefer’s help, Geralt found another ring to replace the one that was lost during Jaskier’s capture. At the time, Jaskier had put it on with a most contented grin, like something was returned to its home.

But the joints in his fingers too often ached in the cold wind of the Blue Mountains, sometimes even swelled up with inflammation. One day the bloating suddenly worsened, and they had to cut out the silver band before putting him on ice for the rest of the day.

Jaskier looked so defeated that night, fidgeting and stroking the empty base of his ring finger. When Geralt gathered him in an embrace, he retreated into himself even further.

“I don’t need a ring to know that you are mine.” Geralt tried.

“Thank you.” Jaskier’s breath shuddered. That seemed to be all he said these days. “But I just need something to be normal again.”

With that, Jaskier buried his face in Geralt’s neck and let out a silent sob. His tears soaked through Geralt’s shirt as they both rocked slowly back and forth, a wordless companionship of shared powerlessness.

*

One thing about Jaskier’s hands never changed.

They still knew how to love Geralt.

With stolen touches and reassuring squeezes, Jaskier never ceased to convey the depth of his feelings despite his weakened movements.

He would still open his inviting arms for a hug and absent-mindedly stroke the nape of Geralt’s neck. He would still wash the grime out of Geralt’s hair with the soap he knew didn’t bother the witcher’s sensitive nose. He would card through those silver locks when they were both plagued by insomnia – a common occurrence now that Jaskier frequently screamed awake with nightmares – to calm his own racing heart while giving a silent apology for waking Geralt up.

These were still the same hands when they traced every line on Geralt’s body, mapping out all the plains and ridges of old scars. As Jaskier traveled across his body, Geralt shuddered with tears blurring his vision.

He never understood why Jaskier would worship his scars, why he memorized them by touch and kissed them with soft lips, as if they were the most precious things on earth, until now.

Now Geralt did the exact same thing to the scattered marks on Jaskier’s body in return, tracing the lines with everything he had. Now Geralt shared the sentiment that, maybe, he could erase the hurt retroactively with all the tenderness he poured into the contact.

“You are being sappy again.” Jaskier kissed away the tears on Geralt’s cheeks, his palm cupping the side of Geralt’s face.

“I just – I never knew I could love someone so much.”

Geralt had to look quite an embarrassing sight, tearing up in the middle of an intimate moment. But Jaskier only melted at his words, the blue of his eyes flowing with adoration.

“I love you too, you ridiculous man.”

*

Geralt woke to the strumming of lute.

It was the first time since Jaskier’s rescue that he picked up the instrument. The melody was slow and haunting, an old love song in Elder. Jaskier hummed along with his back to their bed.

Geralt sat up quietly, not wanting to disturb the moment. He watched Jaskier take measured movements when handling the lute, gripping the handle just a little too tightly.

The old songs soon warmed him up for fervent composing. As if struck by sudden inspiration, Jaskier started singing new verses over and over again while scribbling in his notebook. Then he scratched something before trying a different line. From the short distance, Geralt smelled the familiar scent of excitement and realized how much he’d missed it.

The music and scratches of quill nearly lulled Geralt back to sleep, until a dissonant chord struck, followed by a pained gasp.

Jaskier was hunched over his lute, breathing through what must be another bout of cramps.

“Hey, Jaskier. Easy.”

With a few long strides, Geralt reached Jaskier and knelt in front of him. He pried away the lute and notebook and started massaging Jaskier’s trembling hands. Slowly opening the clenched fists, Geralt began the motion he knew by heart, kneading out the tension bit by bit.

Every time pressure was applied on the knots, Jaskier shook all over, pained, whimpering.

“You are doing so good, Jask,” Geralt cooed and apologized, easing his mind with murmured encouragement.

Finally, he pressed a chaste kiss to each knuckle, giving them equal attention, before cradling Jaskier’s now relaxed hands right above his heart to warm them up.

“Alright?”

Geralt looked up to Jaskier. The storm in his features had passed, leaving only a tired, timid smile. His glassy eyes were filled with softness only reserved for Geralt.

“We will be, love.”

[kirishwima]

what quirks do the mysme characters have ?? would they go pro ?

this has been sitting in my inbox for so long and ive been wanting to answer it cuz i LOVE the crossover of bnha x mysme!!! so after long deliberation, here’s my lengthy, ranty answer-and if you wanna talk more about quirks or bnha p l e a s e hit me up im always happy to talk about this ;u;

YOOSUNG:

- I think what'd really fit him and be adorable af is if he could talk to animals, kind of like Koda!!

-He manifested his quirk earlier than most-at about 2-3 years old, and his parents found out after they found him crying because their house cat called him, and I quote, 'a bag of flesh and bones ready to eat'

-At first he didn't like his quirk much-something about seeing a cute chihuahua and rather than that high-pitched funny bark hearing 'i will MESS YOU UP' can be scarring to a kid

-Eventually he came to love it though! He found out it could be so useful when interacting with injured animals

-For this reason, rather than going pro, I think he'd become a vet once again!

ZEN:

-Do not even argue with me on this one baby boy would have a Siren quirk!

-Singing certain melodies can have different effects on people-one melody can lull them to sleep, others, more dangerous ones, can make them feel fear, anger, agression etc

-It took him a while to learn what melody and pitch of voice triggers each emotion, and for a while he was afraid to sing-his parents calling him a monster over it didn't help either :(

-Yet he insisted on using this power for good. He worked hard, memorised each melody and even created more complex ones, and would only use them if he had to!

-(I feel like he might also have some mild regeneration quirk maybe passed down from one parent cuz who said we can't have dual quirks? Not the Todorokis thats for sure)

-I feel like he'd be kind of like Hawks, in the sense that he's more of a celebrity than a hero; everyone knows of Zen the knight!

JAEHEE:

-ok at first I was writing a plot for a speed quirk but THEN i had this idea, you'll have to bear with me as I ramble through it: Jaehee has a matter manipulation quirk.

-Soph, what the heck is that, you ask? Well, here's the breakdown of it

-Jaehee can manipulate particles around her on a 4m radius. That means she can manipulate anything, change its shape, position etc-and with enough effort, eventually can also manipulate time IN this radius only.

-Think like matrix-style, bullets flying, but the moment they reach Jaehee, she manipulates them to slow down and they just casually graze by her as if nothing ever happened-ITS A BADASS QUIRK OK

-It's a little OP though, so as a drawback, she gets exhausted easily while using it, so it has quite the cooldown period.

-Despite the cool quirk, I don't think she'd want to go pro. All she ever wanted was to live her life quietly. But with a quirk like that, she's bound to get into crazy situations all the time.

-Now I want a fantasy-comedy show of powerful quirk-bearing Jaehee aaaa

JUMIN:

-I think he'd have a quirk like Shinso's! The moment you address him, he can, if he wills it, manipulate the person as he sees fit.

-But, unlike Shinso, Jumin can do one more thing with his quirk-Thought manipulation/Insertion. He can think of something, or simply voice it (for a stronger effect), and convince the other that this was their thought/idea

-i.e: Jumin, sitting across a potential company partner, smirking as he thinks to himself 'I want to sign that contract'.

-The partner, eyes wide while scanning through the document 'hm..yes, I want to sign this contract. Why didn't I want to earlier?!'

-He actually keeps his quirk a top secret, since the moment it manifested; no one would ever want to work with him face to face if they knew, now would they?

-Plus he's afraid deep down, afraid of people being scared of him.

-So he doesn't go pro; he keeps this quirk a secret, and god forbid anyone tries to find out about it.

SAEYOUNG/707/LUCIEL:

-Electric quirk!!! Electric quirk!

-Sae with little zaps coming out his fingertips grinning menacingly 🥰🥰🥰 id let him electrocute me

-Similar to Denki but minus the 'go dumb if overuse' thing; you're on my blog and we love angst and gore here, so here’s the catch:

-if he overuses his quirk, he starts to become vulnerable to it too. After all, it makes some sense-we have neurons firing signals in our bodies in similar fashion that electricity is conducted. Were you to touch a wire, not only is it very dangerous, the current MUST be conducted. So with electrical injuries-there’s always en ENTRY and EXIT wound, where the current came into and exited the body.

-So overusing his quirk can cause severe damage to himself, and is a reason why he’s riddled with scars-on his arms especially, but also legs (an often exit point for currents), back e.t.c.

-He found out about his quirk whilst protecting his brother. He…didn’t mean to use it. It terrified him. But it was a means of survival, and he was ready to use it no matter what.

-I really feel like someone form LoV would try to convince him to join them-and if they were to protect his brother too…he just might’ve.

-If we’re ignoring canon and going into a full BNHA universe, then I think Saeyoung would definitely go pro! He’d want to help people, and he’d be such an amazing hero, loved by so many people <3

V/JIHYUN:

-This is soo biased given that V’s my baby, but mmm, i really feel like he’d have a healing quirk, WITH a regeneration quirk mixed-this is my absoloute favorite quirk idea, and here’s why:

-How this quirk would work, is that he’d be able to take on any injury someone may have, big or small, so long as it’s not lethal-dead is dead after all. He can also heal significantly faster than average via self-regeneration, so he’s virtually overpowering, right?

-Well, here’s the catch:

-Anytime he takes on an injury or damage, he feels all of it-every single thing, and whilst the physical injury vanishes, the pain lingers, longer than it should. It does go away eventually, but taking on massive injuries is jarring and can scar him, physically and mentally.

-If we follow canon, after his eyes are hurt-his quirk deals with it, healing the tissue fast, yet he keeps injuring it himself, hating his quirk for the very first time.

-If we go full bnha AU, then he’d try to train his quirk as much as possible, and would go pro, but as a support hero, helping the injured after fights e.t.c.

SAERAN/RAY/UNKNOWN:

-Hmm, I’ve been thinking about this, and here’s what I’m thinking: I think Sae’s quirk would be bloodbending.

-Essentially he’d be able to use it in 2 forms; one is that he can use his own blood to form weapons, support items e.t.c (think blood swords….badass)

-The other form, is that he can bend the blood of others-anything with blood is doable, human or not, so long as there’s an injury, no matter how minor, for him to drag the blood out of. He can’t bend it whilst the skin is completely unpunctured, as cool as that would be, and he can only use it on one person per time.

-I think he’d hate his quirk at first-consider it hideous, monstrous e.t.c. He’d cry about it, his brother comforting him, reassuring him the only monsters out there are people judging him for a quirk he has no control over.

-If we go with canon: Rika DEFINITELY makes him use his quirk even when he doesn’t want to. He hates himself for it, spiraling depeer into her clutch.

-If we go fanon: He’d definitely be scouted by the LoV, but he’d never accept their offer. He instead wants to become a hero, and put his quirk to good use, to protect others. So I think Sae would go pro too!

[butterflyinthewell]

Some stuff about wheelchair!Vegeta with headcanons everywhere:

Vegeta was chronically ill before his injury due to medical abuse by Freeza. He was meant to be stronger than Goku, but will always be a half-step behind because of this, but even he doesn’t know that.

The illness stunted his growth and damaged all his organs. He recovered with lasting damage to his heart and kidneys. Saiyajin bodies compensate for damaged organs until they no longer function, so his liver and spleens(yes two) do some of the work his kidneys used to.

He gets drunk on less alcohol than other Saiyajins because of this.

In human terms he’s in chronic heart and kidney failure. He has to be very careful taking any meds that are toxic to the heart, liver and kidneys.

A human in his condition would be dead in a week. He’s been this way for decades.

His medical rap sheet is many pages long, and he paid huge amounts of money to have his medical records sealed so Freeza wouldn’t use them against him in the future. Medicines dangerous to him due to his organ damage were listed as allergies.

The Androids caused his spinal cord injury and the violent beating left him with PTSD. He already had sub-clinical PTSD symptoms before and this incident is what made it manifest fully.

He lost his ‘little’ spleen because of them. (Which is fine, it’s like a human appendix. He needs the big one, though.)

The damage to his body made his kidneys fail temporarily, so he was put on dialysis until they spontaneously started working again.

For a short time he was a quadriplegic on a ventilator because the surgery to repair his shattered 10th thoracic vertebra caused massive swelling in his spinal cord and brain. Nobody knew if he would survive the night after surgery, and the true extent of how the spinal cord injury affected him couldn’t be assessed until the swelling went down.

Saiyajin central nervous systems swell up when their brain or spinal cord gets punctured or exposed. It’s a vestigial trait from billions of years ago when their evolutionary ancestors’ bodies became toxic to any predator trying to eat them. This “immune edema” normally isn’t survivable, so Vegeta is the first and only Saiyajin to experience it and live.

He was in a coma from May until August. Nobody knew what condition he would be in if he woke up at all. But he did, and spent a long time in a minimally conscious state before becoming alert enough to communicate.

For awhile, he couldn’t use his vocal cords even if he had a Passy-Muir valve attached, so he communicated via AAC through a tablet and a mouth switch.

The brain edema caused neurons to sheer apart. While Saiyajin brains are capable of more neuroplasticity than human brains are, he still sustained a traumatic brain injury. He was diagnosed with epilepsy (he has tonic clonic seizures) caused by scar tissue all over his brain, and it’s inoperable because of the immune edema response. He takes meds to control his seizures and only has breakthroughs when something drastically lowers his seizure threshold.

Vegeta understands epilepsy because Raditz was born with it. Raditz’s was a lot worse and no medication controlled it. (Raditz had focal aware, atonic and tonic clonic seizures. His could be triggered by strobes, but Vegeta’s aren’t.)

Raditz was shameless about his seizures. They were just a thing that happened. Vegeta, in contrast, finds it humiliating if anyone other than Bulma or Trunks sees him have one, doubly so if he wets or soils himself during it.

Raditz tended to get confused, hyperactive and giddy the day after a seizure. Vegeta is bone-tired, struggles with brain fog and has trouble with his short term memory the day after a seizure. It takes him two days to fully recover.

Once all the brain issues settled down, it became clear that Vegeta is a t10 paraplegic, but he still gets autonomic dysreflexia because Saiyajins are more easily prone to it than humans. His experience of it is also worse than humans because he goes right to high blood pressure and a pounding headache. This drops his seizure threshold and it’s a mess. The only thing to control it is stopping the pain signal that’s happening below his lesion and keeping his head above his heart until his BP goes down.

Saiyajins have redundant nerves throughout their spine, so Vegeta can feel his toes, the soles of his feet, his tail scar and some spots on his butt. He can flex his butt muscles, but can’t wiggle his toes. He has no sensation from his belly button to the tops of his feet.

He can hobble along wearing knee-ankle-foot orthotics and using forearm crutches (four point gait) because those muscles in his butt give just enough movement to initiate a leg swing while gravity does the rest. He walks therapeutically to keep his legs from completely atrophying, but prefers his chair to get around.

He’s more prone to G-LOC in the gravity room due to orthostatic hypotension. Bulma programmed the computer to check his blood pressure periodically and tell him to power up if it drops too low since powering up raises blood pressure.

He tends to have seizures if he passes out from G-LOC. His brain is very sensitive to lack of oxygen since his injury.

He can exercise and train in up to 700Gs, but can’t fight in anything above 95 because his blood pressure and unhealthy heart can’t cope. He can die of anoxia if he’s turned upside down, abruptly flipped right side up again and held there while all the blood goes to his legs.

Vegeta doesn’t measure his disability by human standards. He measures it by Saiyajin standards. To able-bodied humans he doesn’t seem all that affected by what happened, but from his perspective he’s extremely affected.

The PTSD can make him violent and quick to anger. He has flashbacks and nightmares. If he gets triggered hard enough, he dissociates to the point of memory blackout. Sometimes he has bouts of depression.

Manual wheelchairs made for humans can’t survive him. He goes to push the wheels and they fly off, or it flies apart if he powers up, or it collapses in the gravity room, so Bulma made him some Saiyajin-proof chairs.

His current wheelchair LOOKS like an ultralight rigid open frame manual wheelchair, but it actually weighs about fifty pounds and is made of similar material to his old armor and attack ball. Unlike us in the real world, he’s got a button to push that’ll poof his chair into a capsule if he’s getting in a car or something. Btw, his chair has a white frame (hanger at 90 degrees and tapered to fit his legs), a hard backing, dark blue upholstery, a silver open tube footrest, black wheels, black push rims, white spoke covers, gold casters and gold bolts.

A regular human probably wouldn’t be able to use the wheelchair at all due to its weight.

His chair can survive up to 700 Gs in the gravity room, can survive him powering up and can take direct ki blasts without falling apart. This is because the frame is solid, not hollow tubes, and the wheels are also solid so they can’t pop or go flat.

His wheels have micro-treads, but he’s got “off road” wheels with huge treads he can switch to if he’s going somewhere outdoors or muddy.

He’s gentle about moving his chair around inside the Capsule Corporation compound, but give him a straightaway with no obstacles and he can shoot himself forward at 50mph on one full-strength push.

One of his fighting moves is to knock someone down, pop a wheelie and slam his casters down on them. Sometimes he keeps going by running them completely over. This could kill an ordinary human.

He can cheat stairs by flying, but finds that annoying and will use a ramp if it’s available.

He can still fight how he used to, just no kicks or leg movement.

All the pills he has to take (extended release Tegretol for his epilepsy, Valium for when a panic attack won’t stop) require a special coating so he metabolizes it with the full benefit instead of getting all the medication in his system at once for an hour. Injected meds work on him the same as a human, though.

Morphine is the go-to pain med when he’s having AD because he metabolizes it the fastest (he sprays it on his gums) but it zonks him out so it’s literally ever only used in dire emergencies where the cause of pain can’t be found or fixed by external means. Using morphine requires he gets blood work after to check on his liver.

Trunks is the only one in the story who grew up with Vegeta in the wheelchair and seeing him being tended to by Bulma whenever his health issues came up, so all his dad’s medical stuff is normal to him. He’s a sweet helper of a kid too and will sometimes ask if he can push Vegeta somewhere.

Actually, Vegeta kinda hates being fussed over, but he feels loved when family does the fussing. If it’s anybody else, though? He gets irritable and embarrassed.

He HATES it if people touch, lean on or move his chair without permission. Gohan makes the mistake of moving the chair exactly one time and learns a really hard lesson to never do it again.

Bulma can sit in the wheelchair without asking when Vegeta isn’t in it, and sometimes she does if she’s sitting at his bedside after he had a medical issue or seizure.

VEGETA’S DISABILITY WILL NOT BE CURED, EVER, NOT EVEN WITH THE DRAGON BALLS.

Vegeta sees his wheelchair as a reminder that he survived something that killed all the other Z-fighters. It’s a source of pride, not shame!

Sometimes he refers to his wheelchair as his throne.

Wheelchair!Vegeta is sexy af.

[fucking-zawa-sensei]

A hurt/comfort blurb after the USJ incident? 😭

It has been 100 years, but I return with some good old hurt/comfort, my favorite kind of story. 

I hope you enjoy!

Unravel

It was such a simple motion, unfastening the little metal clasp that held the edge of the long bandage secure. That part was easy. 

Unwinding them all should have been just as straightforward, gone just as smoothly. 

Yet, his fingers tremble around the fabric, his hands shake as he repeats the motion, gathering the layers and layers of gauze in one hand as he circles Shouta’s arm with the other. He wishes he could go faster, can only think about the way Shouta’s sore shoulders must be getting tired from holding his hand out for Hizashi to change his bandages. 

Here, in the small space of their humble master bath, Shouta sitting on the toilet seat lid, Hizashi towering over him but feeling like he was shrinking with each and every rotation, he could feel the weight of every breath they exhaled. 

Here, in the same bathroom where Shouta had stitched up Hizashi’s shoulder blade when he’d taken a blade to his back...

Here, in the same bathroom where he’d cradled Shouta’s head again his chest in the tub, where he’d pushed those dark locks away from Shouta’s temple to press his lips against the soft skin there...

Here, in the same bathroom where he’d massaged his hands into Shouta’s lower back just a few days ago, as the other man complained about how it was time for a new mattress...

Here...where he hadn’t been able to take his eyes off the massive, ragged-edged dark bruise, matching the color of the creature that had given it to Shouta, traversing up and down the majority of his husband’s back...

Here...the bandages weren’t the only thing unraveling. 

Finally, Hizashi reaches the last layer, the strip of fabric fluttering away from Shouta’s skin with a soft, delicate noise that has no right to be made in this room, in this place, in this moment. 

This breathe is the hardest one he’s ever held. 

He’d known this day would come since Shouta was sent home with him from the hospital, had asked more questions than was necessary, had taken notes, had prepared himself. He knew it would smell bad, he knew it would look bad, he knew it would be discolored and clotting and yellow and bruised and weeping. He knew. He knew. 

He’d been prepared to vomit, to hide his gut reaction to grimace like he does when Shouta tries to convince him to eat rice porridge when Hizashi is feeling sick. 

He had been prepared for all of that. 

He hadn’t been prepared to look at his husband’s broken skin, at his bruising and scabs and stitches and all the little, tiny fibers of fabric left behind from the gauze still sticking to the wet edges of his wound and see none of it. 

He hadn’t been prepared to see only the limp, dying body draped across a young hero-in-training’s back, to see the slowly growing pool of blood on the ground, leading back to each drip, drip, drip, running down his husband’s fingers and the back of his hand. 

So when he exhales and the rush of wind is a little too powerful in the way it always is when he can’t quite keep his quirk at bay, when the tissue box on the small wall shelves above Shouta’s head rustles side to side with the force of it, he knows that Shouta is aware.

He has to be.

Hizashi has done such a terrible job of being strong. 

His hands shake as he crumbles up the soiled bandages, and when he turns abruptly to throw them in the trash, to look at anything but all the broken parts of the man he loves, of the arms that almost never got to hold him again, he stubs his toe against the bottom of the sink counter and can’t quite stop the shaking curse that trickles through his lips. 

Hizashi clamps a hand over his mouth, the other gripping the edge of the sink. He knows it must look like he’s about to be sick and that’s the last thing he wants. This isn’t Shouta’s fault. He’s not disturbed by the sight of his injuries, this is the exact thing he wanted to avoid, the exact situation he’d been trying to prevent.

He wanted Shouta to feel loved, to feel secure, to feel like any scars that form are just another layer of beauty. 

He needed to Shouta to know that the shake in his shoulders has nothing to do with that, has nothing to do with what he’s seeing, and everything to do with what he saw. 

“Hizashi.”

Whatever sob that had been forming in his throat turns into a gag instead, cutting off his breath. 

“Turn around.”

He does, slowly, dropping the hand away from his face. He feels the tears start the moment he turns, feels the first tracks dripping down his cheeks. 

Shouta stares up at him from his seat, having apparently pulled the bandages off of his own face once his hands were freed. They’re tired and bloodshot, the bags underneath them more prominent than ever, highlighted by dark, purple bruises that litter his entire face. There’s an extra patch of gauze beneath his right eye, still in place, but there are a few spots of dried blood on it and he knows this too will need replaced. 

He opens his mouth, about to apologize, but Shouta’s hand reaches out instead. It’s trembling just as much as Hizashi’s did and he doesn’t know if it’s from the pain or the stifling way the air seems to be growing heavier with each second that passes. 

It finds its way to his shirt, gives a weak tug, and Hizashi follows the silent command, crouching down onto his knees to be at Shouta’s level. The other man spreads his legs to make more room. 

Then, Shouta’s hand is on his face, still shaking, the movements rough as he caresses the short, fine hairs that have started growing along Hizashi’s cheek and jaw a week ago, after the first night he’d spent sleeping beside Shouta’s hospital bed. 

“Time for a shave,” Shouta says, a small smile pushing at one corner of his lips. 

Hizashi wants to say, no, this is about what you need, but Shouta juts his chin toward the corner of the sink where Hizashi’s razor and oils and lotions are all set neatly on a little bamboo wood tray. He doesn’t know what to do so he does what he’s told, grabbing the razor and shaving cream. 

Shouta nods back at the floor and Hizashi settles on his knees once more. 

His hair grows slowly, always had, it had taken him many months to perfect his current mustache, so while he’s sporting a nice little layer of something slightly more than peach fuzz, it’s not very much to shave. Still, Shouta uses whatever strength the painkillers he’d taken a half hour ago have provided him to clumsily lather Hizashi’s face with the shaving cream. 

He’s a little nervous when Shouta’s quivering fingers bring the blade to his face, so he finds himself instinctively helping, using his own hand to help support Shouta’s. Together, they give him the longest, most harrowing shave Hizashi’s probably ever had. 

They do it all in silence. 

When he turns to the sink to wipe off his face with some water and a towel, when he runs his hands over his somewhat smooth cheeks, a few patches uneven, he’s surprised to see himself smiling in the mirror. He’s shocked to see his hands are steady, his heart not racing anymore. 

Hizashi turns around and Shouta is leaning back on the toilet, his arms hanging loose in his lap, legs still spread lazily. His head is lilting to one side, and his eyes look like they’re struggling to stay open, but he’s smiling too. 

“We shouldn’t have done that,” Hizashi says. “I need to wash your wounds, we need to re-bandage them...we-”

“It’s okay,” Shouta cuts him off. “I needed that.”

Hizashi looks down at the tiles. 

“I needed that,” Hizashi admits quietly. 

“You did.”

“Shouta, I’m sorry...you’re the one who was hurt...I..”

Shouta’s hand appears in his vision, finds his own, and pulls weakly again. Hizashi redirects his gaze towards his husband’s face, allows his fingers to be intertwined. 

“I’m not the only one who was hurt.”

Hizashi bites his lip and Shouta shakes his head. 

“It’s okay, let it out,” Shouta encourages. 

Hizashi swallows hard, his grip tightening around Shouta’s hand. 

“I was scared to lose you too,” Shouta says, his voice tripping over the words, obviously difficult for him to say.

He wants to throw himself at Shouta, pull him into his arms, hold him tight, but he knows he can’t do these things, knows he has to be gentle. So he gets back on his knees and wraps his arms around Shouta’s waist and lets his head fall in his husband’s lap. The sobs rip through him like nothing he’s ever experienced before, quickly filling the small room with all the noise it was previously missing. Shouta’s hands card through his hair, rub up and down his arms. 

He doesn’t know how many times he says “I love you,” but Shouta matches each and every one. 

It takes hours to finally finish cleaning and re-wrapping Shouta’s injuries, but only minutes for them to fall asleep, Shouta’s arms wrapped around Hizashi’s middle, his face tucked into Hizashi’s chest. 

The past few nights had been difficult, he’d been unsure where to place his hands, what was safe to touch without hurting Shouta. 

Tonight, he lets his palms gently trace up and down his husband’s back, careful, soft, but confident. 

He’s here.

He’s safe.

Like a mantra, Hizashi repeats it until his eyelids falls shut, his lips pressed onto the top of Shouta’s head. 

He’s here.

He’s safe.

[verstappenfan]

The scar on my right palm

People often ask me how I got the scar on my right palm. It usually happens when I go to shake hands with people or just accidentally show them the palm of my hand. They look at my hand and say something along the lines of: “What’s that? Let me grab your hand real quick and put it right up to my eye so I can stare at that weird line on your hand. Dude, is that a scar? How did you get a scar there? That is weird my guy.”

Not the biggest fan, but I can’t really help it. Scars fade, but they never go away completely, they are always there whether you like it or not. So people are free to stare and poke and prod because that is their god-given right, apparently. I probably wouldn’t be that different if I hadn’t had my scar if I am being honest. Everyone is curious and constantly seeking information about each other. And anyway, how many people do you know that have a scar on their right palm?

The healing process of a scar goes as follows: Right after the scar has been made the inflammatory process begins, this usually lasts only for a few days. During this stage, the bleeding will stop and our best friends, the white blood cells, will come running as fast as they can and fight any nasty infection you might have. The scar at this point will look red and swollen. Afterwards, the proliferative stage takes place and lasts for three to four weeks. During this stage, fibroblasts (let’s call them skin and tissue creators) gather at the site of the injury just like people would gather at the sight of a violent murder. These fibroblasts will then create a thing called “Collagen”. The collagen strengthens your wound and pulls the edges of said wound closer together. At the same time, tiny blood vessels are formed to aid the healing process. At this stage the scar will become thicker and uncomfortable, many people usually worry at this stage because the scar looks worse, but there isn’t any need to, it is simply a part of the healing process. Lastly, the remodelling stage can begin. This stage can take anywhere from several weeks to many years to finish, depending on how bad the scar is. The scar will go from thick and red to thin and white, barely noticeable. But don’t worry, it will still be there, it will never go away.

But you might ask, “How did you get this scar then? And what was the point of telling us the healing process of a scar?” For your second question, the answer is simple. The more you know the better, right? I gave you information for free, be grateful. For your first question though, that is a bit of a story if I am honest. See I had this friend, we will call him Kyle, short for Kyloffer.

Kyle was my first real friend, and by that I mean someone I actually wanted to hang out with, not just some classmate you pretend you are friends with for about four hours while you smash your toy trucks together at terminal velocity. Someone you can actually talk to and feel like they aren’t judging you. Kyle felt the same way about me, friends forever and all that jazz.

But you see, back when I was a little smaller, let’s say around fourteen or fifteen, Kyle told me he was moving away during the summer. His parents had got a new job somewhere, so they had to move, as it would be much easier for the parents to live closer to their work. Besides, you can just change school like you change the background of your phone without having too big of an impact on your life, right? But I shouldn’t talk, mommy and daddy know best.

Kyle and I would still be able to talk, of course, but it would be over the phone, and I don’t know if you know this, but hearing someone’s voice and seeing them in person can’t really be compared when you actually think about it, no matter what people try to tell you. So, fearing that we might somehow lose contact, we decided to do something drastic! Now, now, calm down, we didn’t create a suicide pact where we both would jump in front of a train. We did something less drastic, but it was still a pact, a blood pact. We had heard about people being bonded forever with the help of blood pacts, so we decided to do one.

We met up one evening with two knives, we had to be a bit sneaky with them because two teenagers with kitchen knives just walking around would arouse no suspicion at all. We went into the forest and walked in as far as we could without getting lost, so about twenty meters off the path basically. We took out our knives and looked each other in the eye. No, before you ask, there was no romantic or sexual tension in the air, thanks for asking.

We placed the knives on our palms, let the sharp end pierce our skin like it was butter, and grabbed each other’s hands with a firm grip. Any businessman would have hired us on the spot, trust me. We sat there for a few minutes, not really knowing when to stop. We stopped when we heard someone coming along the path. We got scared for a second because what would a person think about two teenage boys with blood on their hands and knives on the ground. Thankfully, it was just a jogger with her dog that ran past without a second look.

We laughed about it when she was out of earshot. We decided that the best way to walk home was with our bloody hand in our pocket. We promised each other we wouldn’t wash away the blood from our hand until the morning, so it really worked or some dumb thing we made up on the spot to make a ritual that we just did somehow actually work.

A scar never leaves you, it may fade with time, but it is always there. Just on your body, sitting there, telling you it will never leave you. You could say a scar can be your best friend, it is always there through your highs, but also your lows. Always remaining by your side until the day you die, and even then it stays until you decompose enough for it to finally not exist anymore. It is a soothing thought actually, that something will be with you when you die.

But a friendship can also fade with time, but unlike a scar, it can go away. Kyle and I talked all of that summer, even hung out for a week when my parents decided to take a mini-holiday in their city. We showed each other our scars and how they were still there. Just resting on our palms.

We started talking less and less when school actually started, we had always talked about how we would study the same thing, but halfway through his first year away from me, he started talking about how he wanted to do other things. I was okay with this, of course, people don’t need to do everything I want them to do. That would be selfish and egotistical to think everyone should revolve around me. But I still felt a bit hurt.

He met some other friends, the good kind. The kind I would probably like if I got the chance to interact with them. He started hanging out with his other friends more and more and spent less time talking to me. He often made up excuses like “Homework is overloading me”, “I promised -insert name here- I would hang out with them” and “Dude I just have a lot going on okay?”

Every time the excuses got more and more that he didn’t have enough time any more. I was okay with this, of course, people don’t need to do some of the things I want them to do. That would be controlling and selfish and egotistical. The world should not revolve around me, Kyle shouldn’t have to make his life revolve around our phone calls. But I still felt a bit hurt.

We started talking about once a month, it was supposed to be more, but sometimes he didn’t pick up the phone. When I got my driver’s license I asked if I should come over that summer so we could hang out, like the good old times. He said that he wasn’t sure if he would have time, the summer holidays are so short and all, right? But a few days into it, he called me for the first time in a long while (I had been calling for a while, not the other way around). He said that I should come over, it would be nice to reminisce.

So I got in my car and I drove through the hours and kilometres it would take to get there. When I finally got there he welcomed me in. We sat and he offered me a beer, I thought that was weird as he had never liked beer before. People change I suppose. I declined his offer and we just sat there. I asked him about the last few weeks and he did the same in return. He seemed to be mostly just using my questions and letting me make up new ones to keep the conversation going. I finally got around to asking him about his scar.

I will never forget his reaction, it pains me to this day whenever I think about it. It actually hurts to just think about it. He said “Scar?” Then he paused for a few seconds before getting hit with a realization as I was hit with a wall of something I can not describe in words, it was like my lungs had collapsed, my eyes began to water and my fingers twitched. “Oh yeah, sorry, yeah the scar is still there. Sorry, I forgot about it.” I simply responded that it wasn’t a big deal. I looked at my clock. I said, “Oh look at the time”. I looked up at him and said I had to go. He just stared at me confused, I had only been there for an hour. I left without saying a word, he followed me out to the driveway. He must have realized what he did wrong because he started apologizing for forgetting the scar, I simply said it was OK, no big deal. He then changed his answer when I opened the car door. He started saying that it was a long time ago, it was a childish thing, it wasn’t that big of a deal, I shouldn’t be so upset about it. I agree, I shouldn’t be so upset about it.

I slammed the car door and drove away, holding back the floodgates the best I could. In the safety of my home, I fell apart. Scars are always there, always a part of you. They will always remain by your side no matter if you are at the top of your game or have just hit rock bottom. Scars are there when you are sad, scars are there when you are happy. Scars are your closest friend.

When people ask me why I have a scar on my right palm, I simply respond with: “Oh yeah, as a child I was stupid and tried to catch a falling knife with my hand. Stupid. Little. Me.”

[thatblondeperson]

TimSteph, taking care of chronic injuries!

Hey look, another ask that got buried! Sorry friend!!!! 

This is all preboot, RR/Batgirl era.

Ok so Tim is super extra imo when it comes to treating any kind of sickness, injury, ANYTHING. He’s the type of guy who will go to CVS and buy out the entire “cold + flu” aisle as soon a Steph gets a runny nose. He absolutely drowns her in cough drops and tissues. I can see him being extremely attentive as well. Like bringing blankets and pillows around the clock, happy to carry her from point A to point B, almost insisting to do so on occasion, and just sitting with her for as long as she desires/needs company. He absolutely pays no mind to germs. Steph can cuddle all she wants.

Steph is similar but less extra. She’s got some more classic home remedies that Tim doesn’t have. She absolutely would baby the hell out of him if he got sick though, and probably more often than not she has to put her foot down on him trying to patrol even if he’s completely out of it and burning up. Tim has a hard time relaxing, but eventually the time is used for him to catch up on sleep. Tim getting sick is like a mini-hibernation. I can see Alfred stepping in occasionally if they were both sick because Tim’s an absolute mess, and Steph can only do so much before she gets wiped out. They’re hopeless and completely out of service if they’re both ill at the same time. Error 404: Dorks not found. 

Chronic injuries are a constant process. Steph obviously has a ton just from Black Mask alone. I’m sure she gets aches and pains on the regular due to the severity of the torture she experience. Power drills would leave some lasting abdominal pain for sure. Hell, I wonder if it makes cramps worse for her? It could in all honestly. She may need serious pain meds during that time of the month which are of course always kept on hand. On top of that, the physical trauma definitely left endless mental trauma. No question about it. Not to mention that time she got lightly shot in the head. I say lightly because I forgot this was a thing because they don’t really address it again. I imagine that would cause occasional headaches/migraines, and I’m sure Tim likes to run a scan every now and again to make sure there isn’t any lasting damage. And of course, we return to the medicine cabinet for more pain pills. (Thank you @incoherentbabblings for reminding me of the gunshot.)

I headcanon that both of them get nightmares on almost the regular. They’ve both got it set that if one of them is in the middle of a bad nightmare, the other just holds them close, doing whatever they can to soothe them until the calmness sets back in. The nightmares get more spaced out some time after they move in together because I think the constant safeness of having someone beside them every night would eventually help them both sleep through the night better. It is hard to get back to sleep though. Both of them have been put through the ringer, they’ve both seen death of loved ones up close and personal, and I imagine a lot of what they’ve experienced is still very vivid and intense for them.

Tim’s got his own fair share of recurring pain. The boy doesn’t have a spleen and tbh I don’t know how he’s not getting sick more frequently. But extra precautions need to be taken to keep him from getting infections when he gets any kid of open wound, thank GOD Steph is a nurse. Tim has to be kept pretty healthy though if at all possible, which brings us back to my previous headcanon about him not caring about germs when Steph is sick? Yeah, not his smartest move, but Tim’s an idiot and forgets that he’s fragile. 

Both of them have regular joint issues. They’ve dislocated enough things for just about everything to make awful clicking sounds now and again. Steph doesn’t have as much regular muscle pain, she’s far more flexible than Tim is so she stays pretty loose and limber, but that doesn’t mean she doesn’t have to work at it every day. Steph does yoga as a part of her routine. She gets Tim to join sometimes but he’s not very good at keeping up with it. He’s flexible too but not to her level, and he locks up easier if he’s had an especially tough night. They both try to put the time in to exercise when they can, spotting each other, keeping a routine going, because given how much they both get beaten and battered on the daily, if they don’t keep up with muscle pain, it’ll just get worse. On bad days when the pain makes any mobility difficult, massages ensue. They’ve got at least 15 ice packs in the freezer at all times, and a stack of heating pads in the medicine cabinet. And if all else fails, a nice hot bubble bath never hurts. With Epsom salts and everything. Steph likes to add a touch of lavender oil.

Immediate injuries they’re both very good at treating. Steph obviously has more technical knowhow, and she is the most medically trained of all the Batfam members, but Tim is detail oriented and good at focusing when he needs to so he can keep up just fine. They’re both good at stitches and general wound treatment, but Steph is better at consistent treatment. Tim will absolutely forget to switch out his bandages or clean things because his brain is soup and he cannot be bothered to think about injuries when he’s too busy with 50 other things on the constant. He needs to slow down. We get right back into “more prone to infections” again. Alas. Idiot. 

They both have their fair share of mental health issues, though Tim’s tend to be more intense. Steph has her ways of managing her own mental state but Tim gets stuck often. He falls into some pretty deep depression spells, and his anxiety acts up fairly frequently. Steph has started teaching him how to meditate, but also has a list of distractions and special remedies that she can utilize if need be. Movies and tea are a good base line, though Tim’s mind gets very far away sometimes and it’s hard to pull him back out. Like he almost wants to wallow in his sadness. Often she just tries to ground him as best she can so he doesn’t get so lost that he can’t come back. Steph likes to make sure that he isn’t always using patrol as a crutch for when he’s feeling upset or tense. It’s hard to sway him away from more pain when he lets himself get so close to the edge. It breaks her heart, sometimes she feels helpless.

Steph has anxiety as well, and some psychosomatic tics from her past abuse. She needs a lot of reassurance and gentleness when her mind starts racing. She’s still prone to trust issues, even now when she’s surrounded herself with stable people. She’s been let down and she fears losing her steady ground sometimes. Tim, let’s face it, hasn’t been the most reliable in the past, but I firmly believe that with some growing up he’d step up to the plate and try to be a solid home base for her to the best of his abilities. He’s not going anywhere anytime soon. He’s very good at being gentle. That’s canon as fuck. I will die on the hill that Tim is as delicate with Steph as one would be with a priceless porcelain heirloom. Fight me, the boy would never intentionally try to physically or mentally hurt her. He tries so hard to reassure her but I thinks he feels a little helpless sometimes too. Some of her trust issues are his fault, and he can’t just snap his fingers and reverse his mistakes. He tries his best, but there will always be scars. 

All in all, I think they’re both very tender and caring with one another. They’re both beyond broken sometimes, and they are a mess and a half. But they know each other, they know each others pain and sadness and I think once they got back together they’d settle very easily into a care routine. Both of them are carrying the weight of countless consequences and mistakes and hardship on their shoulders. Pain is just a side affect that comes with carrying so much baggage, but it’s a little easier to manage when they have each other for support. I do think some of it would get easier over time, and my wish for them is that they can move somewhere just outside the city, maybe by a lake. Far enough away that things are quiet, but not so far that they would completely leave the hero gig behind. I agree with the consensus that neither of them could fully quit. Tim would just sink into the background, but Steph would be out there in the field for many years. Justas long as they have somewhere safe and comfortable to return to, I think they’ll both be just fine. Plus smooches are the best fallback medicine for all ailments and we all know that they never run out of those. 😘💋

THANK YOU FOR THIS ASK! More than half of this was not anything to do with chronic injuries but fuck it. We’ve tapped into the hurt/comfort section of my brain and there is a lot of material there to work with. Idk when you sent this in but I hope it wasn’t too long ago. I hope this answered more questions than you ever intended to ask. 💜❤