#she’s not normally in pretty dresses. but I was trying to depict the initial fic scene

[dailydegurechaff]

Today's Daily Degurechaff is... Regular Tanya is on vacation day 6 - Amnesia/Memory Loss AU

[thewayshedreamed]

This Time— Part 5

A Nessian Fan Fic

Fic Masterlist

This chapter was a tough one for me to write. I got stuck a few times with the order of things (for this chapter and the following ones). Once I decided on that, the angst in this one was a little emotional for me to write, then edit. So, proceed with caution. That’s the official angst warning!

On a more positive note, this is a definitive turning point toward resolution, so it WILL get better! Thanks again for all of you who have offered your feedback and followed the story. Knowing y’all are enjoying this little au with me makes it all the more fun to write 😊

Trigger warning for short depiction of grief.

——————————————————————————

Birthday breakfast was really more of a birthday lunch the day after celebrating at Rita’s. Elain was sitting at the small island of Nesta’s kitchen, nursing a Gatorade and holding her head in her hands. Feyre was next to her scrolling through her phone. She was doing intel on their group’s collective social media updates, and so far, there were no embarrassing posts to deal with.

Nesta was mixing pancake batter, periodically folding in chocolate chips. Chocolate chip pancakes were reserved for Archeron birthdays or holidays, and they looked forward to sharing them when the occasions presented themselves. She poured some of the batter into her skillet, absently watching for bubbles as her indicator they were ready to flip. After making the initial flip, she walked to her refrigerator and produced a bottle of champagne with orange juice.

“Who wants to open the champagne for birthday mimosas?” She set both bottles on the island, with glasses, before turning her attention back to the pancakes. Elain’s only response was a long groan. Feyre giggled, pulled the champagne toward her, and started untwisting the cage over the cork.

“What’s the expression, El? Hair of the dog? It may make you feel better.” She stood away from the island to pop the cork. The last things they needed were physical injuries.

“I guess it can’t make me feel any worse, right?” She picked her head up from her hands. “I’m going to go grab my phone,” she said, with a cringe. She padded away to Nesta’s room, returning seconds later. She was scrolling through her phone as she walked and stopped short once she met the threshold of the kitchen, a horrified expression on her face.

”Why the fuck would I have deleted all of my texts last night?!” Her voice was more shrill than normal, and her sisters’ eyes grew at her use of “fuck” during pancake breakfast.

It was Feyre who dared answer her. “Umm... I have no idea. Maybe it was an accident?”

”That’s a pretty impressive accident.” Nesta realized her comment wasn’t helping as her sisters glared in her direction.

Elain continued. “I’ll tell you why. Because drunk me tried to hide something from sober me.” She paused for a second, blushing. “My evidence, in case you were wondering, is a text from Azriel that says: ‘*laugh emoji* Not cool. You had me worried there for a minute, Ellie. Goodnight. Hope you enjoyed your birthday.’” She glanced up at them in horror.

Nesta gave her a small smile. “Ellie, I’m sure it’s nothing. Even drunk you couldn’t have said anything too terrible. Maybe just talk to Az? It would be better than wondering.”

Elain sat down, her anxiety palpable in the small kitchen. She was quiet save for the nod she’d given her sister in acknowledgment of her advice. Nesta assumed maybe she could use a little more encouragement since she didn’t look wholly convinced.

“I really think it’ll be okay. Az is reasonable and has probably said his own fair share of drunken things he would care to take back.” She offered a short chuckle before sipping her mimosa. “You could call him, maybe, or—“

”Nes, are you really preaching to me about communication right now?”

Nesta blinked, taken aback by the irritation in Elain’s voice. “I wasn’t trying to preach, El. I just meant you didn’t have to worry and could trust Az to give you a chance to—“

”The same way you gave Cassian a chance to fix whatever the hell you’re holding against him? Why should Az be any more gracious than you’ve been?” Elain snapped. Her shoulders rounded a little at her own words, and Feyre’s eyes grew to the size of two steel blue saucers.

“Cauldron, Elain,” she said, looking from one sister to the other. Her back was straight, anticipating Nesta’s best weapons: her words.

Nesta took several seconds to reflect on their current situation. It was such an unexpected shift, where Elain was the one throwing insults, and Feyre, of all people, was defensive of Nesta. She wasn’t used to this type of interaction with Elain, and her words stung more than she was willing to admit. She finished her mimosa in one swift gulp and placed her dishes in the sink.

“Lucky for you, Azriel is nowhere near as disappointing, or shitty, as I am. I’m going to shower while you two finish breakfast. I’ll bring you home when you finish.” Her tone was neutral, dry even. By all measures, it was on the milder side for Nesta. She was halfway to the bathroom when she heard Elain’s wavering voice.

“Nes, wait. I’m sorry I didn’t mean—“

“Don’t ever apologize for saying what you mean, Elain,” she said, coldly, before walking the rest of her way. She couldn’t get out of there fast enough, wanting to leave the gaping wound that Elain had ripped open far behind her.

——————————————————————————

The following week went by fairly quickly. Elain and Nesta had made up within the day, Elain insisting that she had spoken from her own nerves rather than how she truly felt. She asked if Nesta wanted to talk about what happened with Cassian, but she declined, saying it wasn’t a big deal. She tasted the lie the second it left her mouth, but she shoved that down with everything else.

Her attention to the day of the week was higher than usual in anticipation of Wednesday. She was oddly preoccupied with a day that truly meant nothing to her, but it had haunted her since she overheard Cassian’s conversation with Alis. When the day finally arrived, she found herself ruminating over their conversation, letting her imagination run wild with the possibilities of how they were spending their time.

She told herself that she didn’t care beyond the fact that he would usually tell her all about these sorts of things. Gods, it bothered her to no end that she wasn’t his person anymore.

That Thursday, she found herself getting ready for dinner with Tomas. He had called her that Monday to see if she’d like to go out, and she didn’t have a reason not to. She may have even wanted to go. The downside, when the day arrived, was that it happened to be a particularly brutal work day. She was at home touching up and mentally preparing herself for a couple of hours of conversation. She would usually call Cassian for pep talks on days like this, but their non-friendship was a dealbreaker in that department. Not to mention, he likely wouldn’t have cared to give her a pep talk for this particular night. Gods, it bothered her to no end that he wasn’t her person anymore, either.

Dinner had been fine enough. Tomas looked handsome and seemed completely engaged with her the entire night. He was interested in her work, how her life had been since he’d last seen her, and her friends. He made brief mention of her mother and how he had been really sad to hear that she passed a few years ago. His condolences were sincere, but Nesta found herself oddly defensive at his mention of her. He hadn’t known her well, since their relationship hadn’t lasted long, and she felt like he couldn’t possibly imagine the void she left in their lives.

She resisted any response beyond a “thank you”, knowing that her reaction was likely due to her death anniversary coming up within the week. The rest of the night had gone well. The food was good, the conversation was fine, Tomas was fine. They had a fine time together. Everything was just fine.

Which is why, she assumed, that Tomas had tried to kiss her at the end of the night. He had driven her home, walked her to the door, and hugged her goodbye. As he pulled away, his cheek lingered next to hers, face turning toward her in slow motion. She cleared her throat abruptly and reached into her bag for her key.

“Well, thanks for tonight! I had a nice time.” She had the key in the lock, and she was already mentally selecting her sweatpants for the evening.

“Wait.” Thomas grabbed her elbow, turning her around. “Why are you being so weird? I thought we had a good time?”

”We did. I just said I had a nice time.”

”You seem to be rushing out pretty fast for a person having fun.” He paused for a few seconds to allow her to insist that she was having fun, or to invite him inside, she thought. She did neither.

He sighed and ran his fingers through his hair. “Is it Cassian?”

She knew she was balking at him, but she didn’t have it in her to control it.

“Are you kidding me? Just because I’m ending the night without kissing you or asking you to come inside and fuck me, there has to be a man responsible? Could it be because this night has taken us as far as it was ever going to?” She rolled her eyes, turned the key, and walked inside. “Goodnight, Tomas,” she said, as she shut the door in his face.

She kicked her shoes off in her entryway and tossed her purse onto the small table next to her door. She removed her dress over her head as she walked purposefully to her bedroom and ripped her sweatpants out of the too-full drawer. She pulled on an extra large t-shirt and went to the kitchen to pour herself some red wine. She settled onto her couch, put on some mindless television, and tried to relax.

She reflected over the night’s events. She was honest when she told Tomas that they had a fine time. She had enjoyed herself tonight, and she started to feel a twinge of guilt for snapping at him in her doorway. He hadn’t done anything wrong before asking that question, and if she was honest with herself, she knew why it bothered her so much. It’s not that he wasn’t handsome, that he was unkind, or that he was disrespectful. It wasn’t even that he had misjudged and asked the wrong question. The truth hammered through her brain like an ambush, and she was utterly incapable of stopping it.

He’s not Cassian.

——————————————————————————

Nesta watched several episodes of a home renovation show as she worked through her bottle of wine. She decided that it was the perfect type of show to watch on nights like tonight, where she was knee-deep in her thoughts. Her earlier revelation had sunken its claws into her brain, and she was having trouble thinking of anything else. She wasn’t sure at what point she had stopped fighting it— either glass 2 or glass 3. She finally allowed herself to take a critical look at all these pent up emotions, and noteworthy memories of Cassian started to play through her mind like a montage.

She is sitting in the passenger seat of an older, black pick-up truck. Cassian is driving, and they have the windows down to feel the cool fall breeze. They’re going for a leisurely drive because he got his license just yesterday, and he loves the freedom it’s given him. He doesn’t have to be a slave to his home life or his abusive father anymore. He can just drive. She makes a joke, and he’s laughing now. His mid-length waves are dancing around his face, and he turns to look at her for mere seconds before looking back at the road.

She sipped her wine thoughtfully, noting the memory as the first time he ever took her breath with how beautiful his joy could be. She remembered how her chest had burst with pride at being able to make him laugh and smile like that, despite his pain. She noted now what she was too scared to admit then: there was little she wouldn’t do to protect his happiness.

It’s junior prom, and she’s posted against the wall with a bottle of water. Her date is a total jerk, and she’s hoping that maybe he’ll just leave. His departure would be better than pretending to enjoy herself anymore. She sees Cassian approaching her from her left. He looks so much more mature in his tux, half of his waves tied back in a knot at the back of his head.

“Hey, Archie. Where’s your date?”

She chuckles softly. “I don’t know. But I think I like it that way. He’s kind of the worst.”

Cassian frowns. “Well, he’s an idiot, then. Dance with me?” He extends his hand to her, palm up, and offers her a half-smile. He looks almost nervous, and her heart swells with affection for him.

“Always. You’re my favorite person here.”

She wiped the tears from her face, not sure of when she started crying. The feeling now so vivid; her favorite person. The truth of that statement refused to be downplayed. She shook her head, realizing it to be as accurate as ever.

It’s her sophomore year of college, and her friends are at a local bar celebrating the end of finals. She hasn’t been able to see them nearly as often this semester, and she’s enjoying their time together. At a certain point, a guy she doesn’t know gets awfully too comfortable with her, and he’s touching her all over. She tries to walk away, and he grips her arm tightly as she fights against him. He’s so much stronger than she is, but her brain can only focus on getting away from him. Just before the panic sets in, she sees two familiar figures approaching from the side. Faster than she can note what is really happening, Azriel is separating the guy’s hand from Nesta’s arm and is shoving him too easily away from her. She’s immediately wrapped in a tight hug, her face tucked tightly into Cassian’s chest. She inhales his scent as she steadies her breath, and she clutches the back of his shirt like a lifeline. She isn’t truly crying, but tears are starting to pool in her eyes from the sheer relief of being safe with him. He pulls back only as much as he needs to cup her face with his hands. His brow is deeply furrowed as he scans her face in that knowing way of his, and his lips form a tight line. He is painfully concerned. He is furious. He is fighting all of those things to remain even for her.

“Are you okay? Nes, please. Talk to me. Tell me you’re okay.”

”I’m okay.” Her response is quiet, robotic.

“He’s gone. Azriel took care of it.”

She was yearning for a sense of normalcy, the intensity of his care becoming too much. She resorts to humor as she usually does.

“I’m surprised. It’s usually you who runs straight to the front lines. Forever the hero.” She cracks a small smile, hoping it’ll comfort him.

He’s still holding her face in his large hands. He drops his gaze briefly as he shakes his head, and when he looks back at her face, he’s wearing an ironic sort of smile.

“All I could see was you.”

The memory knocked the breath out of her, having been so long since she had thought about it. She understood his meaning then, but it hit her with a renewed vigor now. She superseded his basic instincts to protect, eliminate the threat. When it came to her, he trusted no one else and had to personally ensure she was okay. He would throw himself between her and anyone or anything that threatened her, and he would do it happily. Her heart clenched as she thought about how no one else could have made her feel comfortable or calmed her under those circumstances. Another tear rolled down her cheek at how careless she had been with his heart and how much she had taken him for granted. At how much she had always lied to herself. Because she was feeling particularly masochistic, she entertained one last memory, her tears pouring.

Her mother is terminally ill, and the doctors believe she will leave them any day now. It’s 3 AM, and her phone rings. Her father tells her she’s gone, and she holds herself together until she hangs up the phone. She is panicking; can’t catch her breath. Her father is calling Elain and Feyre, and they are supposed to meet at his house when they can get themselves ready. She doesn’t know how she will face this. She can’t do it. She can’t do it. She Can’t. Do. It.

Her fingers work automatically, pressing Cassian’s contact and putting him on speaker phone. Holding it to her face seems too taxing, and her tears will smear all over the screen. He answers in two rings, his voice gravelly with sleep.

”Nes?”

Her only answer is a choked sob, followed by several attempts at catching her breath.

“Nesta. I’m on my way. Stay on the phone with me.”

She complies, finally mastering herself enough to say, “Momma” through her sobs.

“Nesta. Sweetheart. I’m so sorry. I’m in the truck now. Please stay with me.”

Everything else is a blur except for hearing him come through her door. He opens her bedroom door swiftly, obviously in a hurry to get to her. He leaves the bedroom light off, allowing the hallway lighting to be his guide to her. His weight is shifting the mattress next to her, and he’s leaning against the headboard. He easily pulls her into his lap, and she’s tucking her face into his neck as she cries. She curls her legs into herself, and he holds her for what feels like seconds and years. She feels something wet soaking into the shoulder of her t-shirt and realizes his tears are falling as well.

He drives her to her father’s once she’s ready, holding her hand the entire way. He never leaves her side the days following, through arrangements, the ceremony, and family visitations. He makes sure she eats on somewhat of a schedule because time is all an illusion to her. He sleeps on her couch every night for the couple of weeks following, knowing bedtime is the hardest time for her, and she won’t want to be alone. She is so touched by his dedication, and she isn’t sure she could do this life without him.

She cried for a long time, only recovering when she felt like she had nothing left to give. She was hardly surprised at the landslide of emotions tackling her considering she had been repressing them for the entirety of their friendship. It was now apparent to her what should have always been apparent: she was in love with Cassian.

She was in love with him, but she had been myopic for so long that she may have finally exhausted his love for her.

——————————————————————————

A/N: Well, here it is. We’re nearing the end of this one, and I’m excited to get the rest up for y’all. As always, your feedback/ comments are welcome! If you’d like to be tagged, feel free to message, comment, or reblog! I’ll be happy to add you to the tag list.

Tags are below!

@polireader // @lord-douglas-the-third // @justgiu12 // @notyournymphetish // @sjm-things // @strangeenemy // @iammissstark // @keshavomit // @sjmships // @cookiemonsterwholovesbooks // @dusty-lightbulb // @texas-shaped-waffle-maker // @julemmaes // @charincharge // @superspiritfestival // @awesomelena555 // @sleeping-and-books // @hizqueen4life // @maastrash // @bookstantrash // @rhyswhitethorn // @grace-k-sterling // @sayosdreams // @sis-it-dont-add-up // @ladywitchling // @b00kworm //

[garden-of-succulents]

Wait, so you don't have BPD but you want to write parse with bpd as your representation? How does that work? I'm really sorry, I like your Parse stories and read them and I don't mean to say that you shouldn't write them, but I don't understand where you're coming from on this. Is it really that difficult to identify with any of the characters of color on the same level?

I’ll answer your questions backwards so the long personal story can go under a readmore:

“Is it really that difficult to identify with any of the characters of color on the same level?“

That’s something I’ve been thinking about a lot over the last few weeks. Like, mental health is my wheelhouse, that’s a huge thing I write about; what about writing mentally ill characters of colour?  I can do it pretty easily with my OCs (cf. Luis and Maida) but feeling my way into mental health themes with canon characters of colour is more difficult while Kent and Jack are kind of like... low-hanging fruit, for me.

It’s why I’ve started bugging @abominableobriens with thoughts about BPD Nursey, gone back to trying to work my way into Ransom’s anxiety (I can’t find the post where I talk about where I was with this a couple months ago).  It’s not a smooth process, though--I’m flopping around being like “but how do I respect Ransom’s personality and preferences but get him some TREATMENT and REST” and “Okay but I haaate conflict-laden relationships and Nursey and Dex’s canon relationship is so full of sniping, how do I write Nursey without Dex?” and that’s the kind of flailing and experimentation I have to do internally or talking to a few people. Mostly the for-public-consumption stuff that’s come out of that process so far has been fluffy romantic headcanons.

So we’ll see how that goes. It’s partly that positive depictions of BPD/the kind of complex trauma I’m interested in are really rare. Before OMGCP, I spent most of my time writing straight-up OCs in fandom contexts because I couldn’t find what I wanted in the source material. ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

Oookay, and now for the long bit: Why I care really personally about representations of BPD even though I don’t have it myself.

So basically, I’ve been depressed/mentally ill since elementary school, but growing up I kind of internalized the idea that letting my family know I was suffering would be so awful and unbearable for them that I could NOT do it. So I hated myself and I was miserable and was convinced that I couldn’t tell any adults about it. The big lifeline for me were young adult problem novels--books about teens in treatment programs for eating disorders or self-injury or, heck, kidney disease or parapalegia--I never saw myself in the symptoms, precisely, which was confusing, but I did see myself in the emotional experience of overwhelming pain, and I was captivated by the idea that feeling so awful all the time wasn’t normal, it was a disease; and a disease that could be treated. There were people who could help me be Not-That--but I couldn’t ask my parents to see a therapist, since that would be too awful for them, so I tried to soak up what knowledge I could through those books (or the nonfiction books that were available to me).  The books... were very  bland, whitewashed, rendered down to be acceptable; the girls were very soft, very fragile, would never hurt a fly (except themselves). I kind of internalized that as what a Good Mentally Ill Person should look like, and didn’t realize there was any other sort of mental illness.

In junior high school I started being able to articulate this depression to other kids and started making friends, online and in real life, who were also mentally ill like me. We could talk together about feeling worthless and unlovable, and participate in a conspiracy of silence Not To Let The Adults Know.

I’m struggling to explain this and keep my narrative somehow concise, not an essay about my entire childhood--long story short, I’m not Borderline; I was a lot more emotionally stable, even if my stability was in absolute fucking misery. I could take an emotion like a punch to the gut and sit with it, when a lot of my friends would have to get it out somehow--it drove them to do crazy and self-destructive things. (As an adult I know this difference is a lot about genetics and our lives before the age of three.)  And also, long story short, I learned that one way to make people like me was to pay attention to them and take care of them. I nurtured out of self-defense and because it was the only way I knew how to socialize. So I was the person all my friends told about their problems.

And I thought they were like me, that we had the same problems, the same illness? I tried to take what I learned from books and apply it, which was all about being patient and giving and empathetic and loyal and A Good Friend. I thought friendship could cure anything.  No matter what anybody did to me, I was totally disconnected from my anger and self-protective instincts; I thought I had to be a sponge, soaking up all their bad emotions and loving them no matter what.

So I was totally unprepared for them to split on me. I didn’t know anything about the idealization/devaluation cycle.

Splitting is... so, Borderline Personality Disorder is basically an inability to self-regulate, to integrate, to tolerate ambiguity. Either the person with it is an amazing perfect god, or a destructive piece of shit. Either their friend is a wonderful loving angel, or an evil demon who hates them and wants them to suffer. And this is an opinion that can flip on a dime, depending on how the person feels in that moment. So like--

I was maybe 16 or 17, and made a friend through a speech and debate club I was part of. From out of nowhere she liked me, thought I was pretty and smart and special. I stayed up until 3am one weekend and talked with her; we shared our hopes, our dreams, our favourite books. She sang a Scottish ballad that she said reminded her of me (”black is the colour of my true love’s hair”). The next time we met she gave me a little teddy bear with a hand-written note about what a good friend I was.

Then in the club, it was my job to make sure everyone got to meetings on time and was properly dressed and everything, and someone pointed out to me that my friend was wearing a skirt that was way shorter than dress guidelines allowed for. I had to go tell her that she was supposed to change and said, squirmingly uncomfortable, “People have talked to me...”  She stalked off.

That night was a ceremony where people who aged out of the group got to talk a little bit about what the group meant to them, and say goodbye to people, and play or sing a song. Her turn came, and she announced that our entire group was full of fake, awful, petty monsters, two-faced liars, almost as hurtful, hateful, and abusive as her foster parents. The song she played was “Just Like You” by Three Days Grace. I sobbed the entire time and tried to apologize to her, but it didn’t work. 

About a month later, she emailed someone in the group to say she’d been angry and hadn’t meant it, and she was sorry for ruining the ceremony.

That kind of thing happened to me with... maybe five or six different people, to greater or lesser degrees, from the time I was 12 to the time I was 20, which is when I finally got a handle on what was going on and how to predict it and keep it from happening. Friendships where everything was fine, wonderful, great thanks, how are you, fine, wonderf--KABOOM YOU’RE A FUCKING PIECE OF SHIT LIS YOU ABUSER (oh wait sorry i didn’t mean it where are you going).

It took a lot of work to learn that I had to get my sense of self from something other than helping other people, to look after my own needs as well as other peoples’, to learn (GASP) to accept and even ask for help. A lot of things changed when my mom told us, when I was 15, that she was depressed and going into therapy, because that meant we were allowed to do these things in our family. I immediately blurted out, “Can I see a therapist too?”  So I got more centred in myself, and also finally figured out what was going on with my friends, and got better at maintaining friendships with people with BPD that did not explode, at making friendships that were not based around me being a pseudo-therapist, and at getting my helping-people jonesing out with actual paid work.

So you might notice that a lot of my fics about Kent and BPD aren’t actually from Kent’s perspective or about him--they’re about people trying to live with him. Hurricane or Campsites are stories about people who know what to expect, who have some understanding of what he’s like and how to keep themselves safe. They can find ways to love him for his good parts without letting his bad parts hurt them, can love him without letting themselves be sucked in by the extreme warmth of his regard, can maintain their own boundaries and make their own decisions.

(To be honest, I was initially really amazed to find that people with BPD appreciate my fics or me talking about the subject? Because I am an outsider, because I am writing from this perspective--a medical perspective, no less! The voice of the Establishment! But a lot of people have been really receptive to my POV--which might just be, again, the paucity of positive representations at all.)

I didn’t really think about it this way until I got this ask and started trying to explain it, but... I’m trying to write the kind of story I could have used when I was a kid.

(So then you ask, Lis, you’re still writing about other people, about meeting other peoples’ needs--when are you going to write about children like you were, about experiences like yours? When are you going to tell your own story? and then I change the topic and sidle awkwardly out of the room. I’m not ready for that yet.)