#shoutout to me for getting this done in the face of the Symptoms

[gilears]

it's so hard to believe (but i'm trying to change)

1.4k, fig missing scene, canon-compliant

Fig follows Quincy home after warlock class for two reasons and two reasons only—the first reason is because he’s suspicious and may pose a security threat for (future) President Applebees. The second reason is because he’s a narc and a shitty bitch. (or: fig goes on a walk and thinks about gilear.) (read on ao3)

this week's follow up is about the fact that gilear still hasn't, like, even reached out to fig at all to let her know that hes gonna be gone for... a year? because what the fuck, man.

[moogleannywrites]

Do's & Don'ts [Matt Murdock x Karen Page]

Summary: When Matt starts to say a lot of “don’t”s for Karen in their daily life, she might think there is something wrong about her rather than something different about them.

Word count: 3k+

Warnings: mentions to pregnancy symptoms; mentions to previous drug abuse; mentions to sickness; few mentions to alcohol; Daredevil season 3 spoilers. The drug abuse is only implied but minors dni, please.

Content: fluff & angst; happy ending; pregnant protagonist; pet names; small comic book reference.

Read it on AO3 | My masterlist ❤

Based on this prompt, by @esther-likes-evermore (thank you so much for letting me use it!):

tI took a small freedom to put some angst, but the fluffiness prevails! I'm not sure this is exactly what you asked for (and I'm sorry) BUT I do hope you enjoy it. A huge shoutout to my best friend and beta-reader @areiko who helped me quite a lot <3 and if anyone wants to read something different, Karedevil or reader insert, you can ask me on my ask box! It would be my pleasure to take a request :)

image done on photopea by me, horns and halo found on the internet.

“You should absolutely not be drinking tonight.”

Josie’s Bar, one random hot evening after work. Karen Page’s collar was completely wet due to insistent sweat dropping from the back of her neck, and not even the tied up strands of hair were enough to diminish the boiling temperature of her body. A cold beer was everything she needed, everything she thought about most part of the day, shifting from a feeble fan back at the office to an even weaker one at the bar, whose blades moved so slowly it was almost impossible to feel the wind.

That said, Karen’s eyes went wide as she slowly moved her face from the table to Matt’s face, giving a silent opportunity for him to withdraw those words, however, his expression continued placid, a smile from the corner of his lips glued to his face.

“You threw up just yesterday, dear”, Matt said.

“Save your pity for the weak!” Karen laughed out loud. “I am sure it was because of the hot weather. Maybe some rotten food, I don’t know… but certainly nothing that can take that cold beer away from my imagination.”

She moved her hands towards her face, and, soon after, Foggy gently put his palm on her back.

“Hey, maybe she will even feel better after that beer”, he said in an attempt to light up the mood. “It’s the hottest summer New York has had in what, fifty years? It surprises me how you are holding up so well, Matt. Most of us, mere humans, are not.”

“I’ll leave you gentlemen right here and take a trip to the bathroom…” Karen shifted her eyes from one man to the other, adding: “Not because anything is wrong, just to get that out of the way”, she left her place and tapped on the desk, “Josie, can you get me a cold, cold beer, please?”

Just as soon as the woman went down the corridor, Matt pushed his body on the counter, grabbing the bartender’s attention and asking:

“Could you please switch to the non-alcoholic version? Thank you.”

Josie’s face almost turned into a question mark of sorts, from frowned eyebrows and a semi-open mouth by the end of her face’s curb, but she did not ask anything about it. She even poured the drink into a big glass and took out the non-alcoholic version from sight; although Matt couldn’t see it, he could hear the thud of a bottle, the tingling of the long neck on another recipient, the pouring of the beer and another thud from the bottle being hid. He smiled once again to show his gratitude, making a small nod with his head, while Foggy came closer and asked:

“I know you are the loving husband, but what’s with all that?”

Matt took a small breath, making sure he couldn’t hear Karen’s steps returning, taking a small sip of his own beer before lowering the tone to say:

“I have a few reasons to think Karen is pregnant.”

The sound of a small child yelling “Uncle Foggy!” and jumping into his arms made Foggy open his mouth in surprise before beaming in excitement and hugging his best friend. He would be an uncle; Matt tapped his back, more than listening to his heart, feeling the jolly, thrilled pulse against his shirt.

“Dude! I don’t know what to say about this” Foggy’s voice sounded loud at the same time he let go of the hug, and Matt did a quick sign for him to lower the tone. “You should tell her that. Like, right now.”

“Oh yes, I am surely going to tell she’s expecting our first child in the middle of a chaotic bar with drunk people all over the place- Foggy, please”, he giggled. “Moreover, I am not sure yet.”

“Oh, sorry, I got carried away”, Foggy answered while he, himself, looked around his shoulders to make sure Karen wasn’t around so he could continue: “But what makes you suspect that she is pregnant?”

“Karen… has been waking up sick in the morning for a few days now, usually going to the bathroom while she thinks I am still asleep. Also, I think she is running late this month, although she did not mention anything yet.”

Matt made a quick pause, filling his lungs with air. Foggy would surely think the next bit of information was weird, so he chose his words carefully:

“I heard something odd today as well.”

“How odd?”

“Like her heart was beating twice.”

Foggy exhaled the air from his cheeks with a long “oh”, putting his arm around Matt’s shoulders.

“Do you think it is…”

“I do not know that yet”, he didn’t allow his friend to finish. “But I will figure it out soon enough.”

Foggy looked again to see Karen not returning yet, which raised his worries, however, he could see Matt was somewhat calm – as much as the situation allowed him to be – and, if he could still sense his wife well by the bathroom, Foggy shouldn’t be concerned at all.

“And why don’t you talk to Karen?”

“I don’t want to scare her right now. We should just… Take our time, I think. If she really is pregnant, it will be something new for us both, but mainly for her. So waiting for the right time is the best thing to do.”

Soon, the previously empty place became crowded since night was covering the sky, and they both knew the conversation needed to end.

“Promise me you’ll help me take care of her?” Matt whispered, loud enough so his friend and co-worker would be able to hear.

Foggy put his own beer over the counter and held him, pressing his fingertips on his back muscles in a fraternal way.

“You two… Maybe three” he laughed “are part of my family. Of course I will take care of her.”

Meanwhile, Karen held the bathroom sink like dear life, trying her best not to vomit and having Matt knock on the door to ask if she was alright. Filling her palms with water, she threw it on her face, the burning feeling of nausea going up and down her stomach, stopping by her throat as a knot tying her air passage to the extent she needed to catch her breath a few times.

She could not be sick. Not when things were doing so well.

~.~

“Step away from the window, honey, please.”

Murdock-Page residence, probably a couple days later, a lazy Sunday morning in which Matt was getting ready to go to Mass. Karen’s breath quickly became way too fast before she took a few steps away, her hand, holding the window, being the last one to let go. Not only was she particularly light-headed that day, it also was Sunday and everybody decided to cook home meals to spend a little more time with their family – and, if the smell of shrimp and dubious pasta was affecting Matt’s sensitive nose, he could only imagine how it would affect Karen’s.

“You were dizzy this morning, right?”

His confirmation words filled in the void, but to no answer. Karen gently placed her hands on his chest, shaky fingers biding his tie with a deep sigh. That place, that apartment, held so many memories of themselves, from the day they’ve met to their own married life, connecting to the moment Karen decided to finally tell her husband the whole truth about her past; the addiction, the family problems, all things he listened comprehensively at the same time he caressed her hair.

Amidst the thoughts rushing through her head, Matt attempted to speak once again:

“Look, I just want to help…”

“I am not sick, alright?”, Karen answered sharply. “I am completely fine; it’s probably the damn weather. But thank you” she added to seem a little less stupid.

“Are you sure you don’t want me to stay?”, he questioned in a gentle manner.

“Oh, no, please don’t miss Mass because of me.”

“You know I would rather be with you in a heartbeat.”

Matt took a step closer and hugged his lovely wife, trying to make sense of the sound. An insistent pulse like a heart, as if her heart had gotten bigger, beating twice, once normal and a small, almost imperceptible follow up to the first. The excessive noise from the city did not help him… at all.

“I know, but I don’t want you to miss something you like just for me. Okay?” Karen held his face and kissed his lips softly at the same time her thumb caressed his cheek tenderly. Matt gently brushed his mouth with hers, the warmness emanating from her skin touching him like a hug on a cold day.

“I don’t want to leave you…” said Matt in a cottony voice, making Karen laugh. “If you feel sick, promise you will call me?”

Karen internally wanted to yell, afraid of what could be leaving her like that. Afraid of making Matt worry even more. She breathed to be able to respond without letting him know about her fears:

“I am fine. Now go, you’ll be late.”

“Don’t you want to come with me?”

“No, thanks. Love you!” she shouted while he took his own coat from the coat rack and opened his cane.

“Love you too, however” Matt made a quick pause “when you go to hell, Karen Murdock Page, I won’t be able to help you, even being the devil.”

He shut the door behind him while laughing and she took a few minutes on both feet, walking through the apartment, before laying on the sofa and letting all the dizziness she had been hiding swallow her body.

Was there something wrong with her?

~.~

“Please, don’t lift that box, it’s too heavy!”

Nelson, Murdock & Page, a weekday afternoon. Matt had left to make a few errands out in town, and both Karen and Foggy were alone. Karen tried to move a box full of papers but, as soon as Foggy saw her, he immediately said she should stay put, which led her to glare at him ready to announce, once again, that she was fine, yet being stopped by the dizziness and sudden sleepiness making her eyes hazy just after moving her head.

“Are you alright?”, Foggy held her arms.

“Yes, yes I… Maybe not”, she grasped, feeling her stomach roll once again. Did she even eat before leaving for work?

“Karen, can you tell me what is going on?”, she held onto the wall, listening to Foggy’s worried voice. “Both Matt and myself are really worried about you, you know…”

“Did Matt tell you why he thinks I am sick?”

Karen’s eyes looked like daggers, however, in the depth of her voice, there was a weak cry for help. Something that made her terrified. Foggy stuttered a few words before she asked again:

“Did he?”

“Ye- I mean, no” he replied, “Matt didn’t tell me anything.”

Foggy was willing to tell her about the thoughts on pregnancy that Matt had; on the other hand, although he did not have the same abilities his dearest friend had, it was possible to notice that something was different about her. Something she was reluctant to talk about. They probably had not talked to each other about that yet, or Matt would certainly tell them to celebrate together.

“He just asked me to keep an eye on you”, Foggy continued.

A shiver ran down Karen’s spine as she became more likely aware of the roots from where these new symptoms emerged. Her drug abuse. And she made Matt worryabout her, even Foggy, with her strange behavior and constant symptoms of some unknown sickness. Her vision became blurred and she said, in a whisper:

“Can I go home for today?”

“You absolutely should”, Foggy held her arm and helped her to stand up. “The office is an extension of your house, you know that, right?”

He had a compassionate smile alongside the words, which made Karen’s heart a little bit lighter as she grabbed her things to go home. The next few minutes were a complete blur of people coming and going, the flow, craziness of tourists, angry citizens and everything shiny and bright that made the place feel like home. Her new home was so different from the peaceful place she came from, about four hours away from probably the busiest place in the world.

And it honestly felt nice.

~.~

When Karen looked at her pulses, she sometimes still could see it.

The stings on her skin from drug abuse.

A far-off remark of the past, gone after blinking once or twice, just like a nightmare. She sometimes grabbed Matt’s hand and squeezed it in a way to forget about it more quickly, keeping an uneasy mind on the present. On the family she had now.

She also faintly remembered the feeling of being high. Of being on the edge of life and death at the same time, a thin line between pleasure and demise which she had crossed way too many times, taking a loved person with her the last time she did it, making her sure she shouldn’t, wouldn’t, do it again. She couldn’t risk Matt’s life or safety.

The click on the front door came as soon as Karen looked at herself in the mirror; bags under her eyes and an even paler tone to the sand-white skin highlighted under the dim light of the bathroom reflected that something was odd. Something she needed to resolve about soon. She took a deep breath while silently leaving to the main room, listening to Matt’s voice calling out to her:

“Babe?”

He dropped his cane – which was absurdly rare for Matt to do when he wasn’t being the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen, running around to save other people – and ran towards her, throwing his arms around her shoulders and sighing in relief.

“Hey, hey” he called out. “Is everything okay? Foggy said you needed to leave.”

“Yeah, but… Matt, we need to talk.”

Her voice echoed through the apartment’s walls, and Matt frowned his brow above the familiar red glasses, a silent way to say that yes, they should talk about whatever was wrong about her. Karen took a deep breath before saying, slowly:

“I have a few reasons to think I’m sick”, she closed her eyes and opened them twice. “I’ve been feeling down for a few days now, and…”

Suddenly, her husband took a step ahead. He suddenly, and regrettably – because he loved hearing her in any situation – shut off the whole world so he could feel her. His fingertips slowly found their way to Karen’s stomach, a tangible shiver making its way through his hand while Matt gently went down and touched right under her belly button. In his ears, there was only a heartbeat. Her heartbeat. An anxious

Ba-thump, ba-thump, ba-thump.

Ba-thump.

And then, he listened.

The small heartbeat following hers was, indeed, another heartbeat.

She was pregnant. His wife was pregnant.

“Darling”, his tears came along a smile, interrupting her speech about how she was afraid of being sick, and scared with the possibility of him being sick as well. “There’s nothing wrong with you.”

“What do you- Are you crying?”

For a few seconds, Matt could not say anything, because a knot on his throat stopped him from doing so; all the emotion, the happiness of finally noticing her pregnancy before she even knew about it. His face was completely wet as he gently cupped her cheeks with both hands.

“Karen, you are pregnant.”

Pregnant. This single word, which came out as a whisper, crossed her heart in a way she never thought about. It suddenly hit her; the nausea, her running late, overwhelming tiredness. She opened her mouth in surprise while Matt touched his forehead with hers, a giggle turning to a laugh and to a beam just after.

“But, but that’s… I’m not sick?” Karen tried to say while tears fell from her eyes “How do you know?”

“I can hear him, darling, I can hear the baby’s heart”, he caressed her face, an emotional tone from the overwhelming feelings giving his voice a nasal touch “it’s so small, just a little thud. I’ve been trying to hear it since last week… We need to take a few exams, just to be sure, but…” More tears streamed from his eyes, amidst a radiant smile “Oh, I love you so much!”

Karen shook her head slowly, the tip of her nose shadowing a smile while she organized her own thoughts. Past, present and future became one in her blurry mind, however, she only focused on Matt’s lips for a little while, on the happiness he felt shown by his never tiring smile, and the piece of life growing in her womb. They were even more of a family now. Her husband passed his arms around her waist and spun her around the living room, much to Karen’s fright:

“Matt- Matt, be careful, I…” it felt weird to scold inside his own place, especially since his glee was contagious, so she just let the feelings show until taking the courage to grab his face and say: “I love you too, my little devil.”

She dived in and kissed his lips slowly, feeling a hint of salt from the tears which made her smirk at the same time their mouths touched. Karen’s hand gently caressed the back of Matt’s head, while his fingers, once again, touched her belly. There was an abnormal warmness on her skin, perceived even over the fabric of the dress, as the heartbeats became even clearer to his ears, the soft thump between his wife excited heartbeat. Matt could not wait to feel Karen’s belly growing, to feel the warmth of their child when they were born, to hug them and hear them laugh. His wife’s kiss embraced all those feelings at the same time, her sweet lips who tasted sweet like dreams coming true.

They had a lot to talk about – about going out as Daredevil during her pregnancy, where they would put the baby’s crib inside the apartment (should they even move?) – but words, at that moment, were not necessary. Not when you had love and affection so touchable around them. Those led on to a few moments of completely silence, broken by Karen sometime later:

“So you did tell Foggy about the pregnancy”, she said with a laugh.

“Yeah, last week on Josie’s. Also, I asked for her to switch to a non-alcoholic beverage.”

Karen’s eyes went wide.

“You little…”, she jokingly punched Matt, who said an “ouch” in a pitiful tenor.

“But I was right about the pregnancy. Which means we need to let Foggy know, now that’s for sure.”

“Yes”, Karen smiled. “We should all go out and celebrate!”

A sudden realization came to her, leading to Karen slap her own forehead in disbelief.

“What’s wrong?”, Matt asked while getting her a coat next to the door.

“Now that I’m officially pregnant, you are going to make a giant list of ‘don’ts’ for me to follow, aren’t you?”

A heartfelt laugh echoed through the walls as Matt, holding a cardigan for Karen on one arm, used his opposite hand to caress her forearm and slip his thumb through her palm so they could intertwine their fingers.

“Honey, you don’t date the one and only Daredevil just for show. The list of don’ts will be a lot bigger than the list of chores you are allowed to do. I will probably ask Foggy to come once a day to help me out, before and after the baby is born…”

Hell’s Kitchen, the most important day of their lives until now. A newlywed couple who came from broken homes was now prone to make the happiest family possible inside their home.

[chaotic-noceur]

puppy therapy

pairing: Sukuna x reader (ft. Yuuji, Megumi, and Megumi's dogs)

summary: when Sukuna finds you in a slump of burn out, he calls in a favour from Yuuji in an attempt to help

universe: modern + roommates au ; same-ish universe as what's unspoken isn't unknown

warnings: depression/burn out symptoms, wearing his shirt, headphone usage, no-shoes-in-the-house living setting, kisses

a/n: i'm tired, probably going to fail something, and i really want to pet a dog so i self projected :) shoutout to @ezrasarm for being the bestest hooman ever and beta-ing this even though she has never read/watched jjk in her life 💕💕

Sukuna does a double take when he passes your room on his way for a coffee refill. The last thing he expected was to find you still curled up in bed, watching an episode of whatever it is you had borrowed his Netflix account for. As he takes in your figure, a frown forms on his features. He doesn't need to see the look of exhaustion on your face to recognise the sure signs of burnout. He knows the feeling all too well himself.

He knows the wave of indifference that washes over you every time you're reminded of your deadlines. He knows the hollowness in your chest that refuses to be filled, no matter how hard you try. He knows the heaviness in your limbs that are so worn down by fatigue that every move feels like a workout. He knows the insults that your mind hurls at itself for its own inability to push past this slump. And he refuses to let you wallow alone.

The sound of your door being nudged open catches your attention and you pause the show before glancing towards Sukuna, unamused at the interruption. “Get dressed,” he says as he tosses one of his shirts at you — knowing you find comfort in wearing them, “we’re going out.” You move to protest, instinctively drawing up an excuse about how you have work to do. But you stop yourself short, it’s not like you're going to get anything done anyway.

"Good morning to you too," you grumble instead as you move to pick up his shirt from where it had landed on your bed. Sukuna snorts in response and you roll your eyes before moving to usher him out of your room. Mechanically, you shrug out of your sleepwear, and get yourself into a semi-presentable state before meeting him at the door.

Sukuna hands you your keys as you walk up to him, his sunglasses pushed into his hair. You do a quick check to ensure you have everything you need as Sukuna does the laces of his boots. Putting your shoes on, you spare a glance at your reflection in the mirror before following Sukuna out the door.

You slip your hand into his when you catch up to him by the elevators and he brings it up to his lips before pressing a kiss to your knuckles. He smiles at you with a softness that you rarely see in public but when your eyes turn to meet his gaze, there's a tiredness behind them that makes his heart ache. Sensing his concern, you squeeze his hand in silent reassurance, and he returns the action.

As you step into the street, you're tempted to ask about his plan. But Sukuna was never one to reveal his surprises before they unfolded in natural order and you're in no mood to pry the answers from him. Instead, you connect your earphones to your phone, pass the other earbud to Sukuna and shuffle your shared playlist as he leads you through the streets.

You lose yourself in the melody as the pair of you make your way to the secret destination. Occasionally, Sukuna tugs on your arm to signal that you're turning but otherwise, you allow your mind to wander, trusting in him to keep you out of harm's way.

Your thoughts drift to the list of deadlines that should induce more stress than they currently do and a pang of guilt spreads across your chest. If you had any sense, you should've said no to this impromptu date. You don't deserve to take a break, not when your list of responsibilities continues to grow and your care for them dwindles by the day; not when you know you're setting yourself up for failure but don't have enough care left to give to change the ending; not when —

Something in your expression must have alluded to the thoughts swarming in your mind because Sukuna stops the pair of you then. He moves to stand in front of you before sliding his sunglasses into his hair. "Stop thinking so much," he says as he runs his thumb along your cheek, forcing you to meet his eyes, "just focus on me. Focus on us being here, okay?" You nod minutely and he sighs before bringing his lips to your forehead. He intertwines his fingers with yours again and continues his journey, hoping that his surprise will lighten your mood.

"Does this mean you'll tell me where we're going?" you ask after a moment. Sukuna snorts.

"No way in hell. Besides, we're almost there."

As the sound of laughter and barking fills the air, you perk up and glance around at your new surroundings. You turn to Sukuna, curious, but he's tapping away at his phone. He comes to a stop when he reaches a clearing, a sea of dogs running around before the pair of you. You're about to ask him what was going on when a head of strawberry hair enters your peripheral vision.

"Sukuna!" Yuuji cheers as he runs up to the pair of you, his phone clutched in one hand. Sukuna removes the earbud from his ear and passes it to you as you do the same.

"Brat," comes Sukuna's response before Yuuji turns to greet you. He moves to hug you but falters when Sukuna puts a hand on his shoulder, unsure of how your current state mixes with hugs from sweaty individuals. Yuuji seems to understand. He shrugs his brother's hand off before spinning around and guiding the pair of you to his picnic blanket.

You spot Megumi a little way away, Ghost and Shadow running in circles around him as they wait for the tennis ball in his hand to be released. When you notice the snacks and your favourite drink perched on the blanket, the pieces fall into place and your mouth falls open in shock. "Sukuna! You didn't have to trouble them into all this!"

Yuuji responds instead of his brother, waving off your exclamations. "It was no problem! We were planning on coming here anyway and the dogs love people!" As if on cue, Ghost and Shadow come bounding towards you, Megumi following after them. Sukuna lets go of your hand to kneel and pet the bundles of excitement that have huddled around your legs, a chuckle escaping him as Megumi settles into a seat beside his friend.

"You didn't have to do all this," you say to Megumi as you take your seat.

"It's fine," he shrugs. "The food was on the way and those two needed to expend their energy." He gestures towards his dogs as hints of a smile creep its way onto his face. Ghost detaches from Sukuna to come greet you then and settles his head into your lap once he'd given you several affectionate face licks. You giggle at the sensation as you ruffle his fur.

Yuuji and Megumi fall into conversation amongst themselves and you grab what you assume is yours and Sukuna's drinks from the cardboard holder. He seats himself beside you not long after, Shadow retreating back to Megumi's side. You offer him his drink once he's settled and he takes it with a quiet 'thanks' before falling naturally into the conversation between Yuuji and Megumi. Sipping from your drink, you bask in the air of joy around you as you rest your head against Sukuna's shoulder and let your eyes fall shut.

You chuckle as you watch Yuuji dote on Shadow, Megumi begrudgingly handing over yet another treat. They're far away enough that their voices are drowned out by the screams and barks of the others in the park but judging by their interaction, you imagine Megumi's saying something about spoiling the dog in question.

Sukuna returns from disposing the trash that you had collectively cumulated and slings his arm over your shoulder as he seats himself once more. Ghost stirs in your lap, blinks lazily at Sukuna before closing his eyes again. You lean into Sukuna's side, skin tingling when he places a kiss onto your temple.

"You really should stop taking advantage of your brother's kindness," you chastise after a moment, but there's no bite to your words. A soft smile lingers on your face as you card your fingers through Ghost's white fur.

Sukuna shrugs before running his thumb over the curve of your lip. "It made you smile again though didn't it?" The beginning of a smirk forms across his features and you refrain from rolling your eyes at him. Instead, you lean your forehead against his before connecting your lips together, a silent thank you exchanged.

The remnants of numbness still linger in your chest and your mind still drowns in a dizzying fog. There’s no guarantee that you won’t wake up tomorrow without an ounce of motivation. But, for now, it’s enough. For now, you relish in the warmth of the sun that beats against your skin, the sound of joy and bliss that filters into your ears, and the love that Sukuna envelops you in — safe and ever present. He is your light, and for now; that’s enough.

[my-reality-my-rules]

my first times shifting pt. 1

shoutout to @opalsheart for inspiration for this idea!!

so I've mentioned in a previous ask that i have already shifted four times, and that i would elaborate on them

i always keep a journal nearby so i can record when i shift or what happened! it makes the experience feel more surreal. the ones below cover only my first two times :))

[update: pt. 2, pt. 3, pt. 4]

TW: language, graphic descriptions of blood and gore

FIRST

the first time this actually happened it had been last year, october 07. now i know i said in my last post that i wasn't able to shift til april this year, but the reason i didn't include the one from last year was because i hadn't been sure of it at the time. so i simply didn't add it in, but looking back, it might as well have been though.

i was introduced to shifting methods around late september, and i decided to try doing the raven method with no script whatsoever. just blindly shifting to the potterverse.

i did get the symptoms. instinctively, i knew i was still in my bedroom when i felt my surroundings change. it's like being on a bed in a ship. it felt as if my body was swaying on my mattress. it was cold, and the lights that people talk about were present as well. i also remember feeling my heart literally beating out of my chest, and it was weird because i don't recall having anything to be nervous about.

the moment i opened my eyes, i just found myself dumbfounded. at first, i just wrote it off as a dream. but thinking about it now all i could distinctly recall is that it had all felt too tangible. i woke up to find that i was lying in the dirt, with tall ass trees overhead. it was still cold, and my body felt stiff and sore. i remember trying to move my neck so i could twist my head, and when i found that i couldn't, i just used my eyes and ears. my hands, however, were at least facing the ground (on my sides), so i could feel the dryness of the damn soil. and now don't get me wrong i would've been hella excited had i known what I've just done. but i was also tired, and in the end, i just passed it off as an illusion.

there wasn't much to begin with, just the sounds of birds chittering and the occasional breeze. i do recall simply staying in that position for around 2 or 3 minutes, until i thought, 'what the fuck is happening why isn't the scene changing'. because i know for a fact that all my dreams have changing sequences, if that makes any sense.

when i woke up in this reality, all i could register at first was still the wild beating of my heart. I'm not kidding-it was like i took 2 mugs of coffee. it's only now that I'm acknowledging the incident as shifting, if only because it looked and felt real, and it took only a second for me to panic and get out compared to when i actually dream, where it takes me like 3 scene changes to wake up.

SECOND

the second time came in a rush as well, only this time it was more vivid. and for a hairy fuck's sake i actually still get jittery thinking about this one—

now i don't remember exactly when this happened, only it had been around the start of april. every other shift attempt before this one ended with only symptoms (so I'm not including those, obviously). this one is also very brief, just 2 minutes if i had to estimate. [2 minutes of utter hell if you ask me but oh well]

i woke up in a modern and peaceful looking room. it wasn’t anything fancy either, just wide neutral-toned walls and a large window facing trees. there was a fireplace, with the inner hearth still burning. there had also been a couch, a coffee table, and some stray pillows on the carpeted floor. if i had to guess, the time might have been around late morning or early noon. i think i was also on the second floor of wherever i had been in. i remember standing in the doorway, in the process of entering the room.

and in the exact moment that i set a foot inside, an unseen trigger went off and—fuckfuckFUCK, I’m not joking when i say i can still feel the fucking thing going through my fucking head,,,, and dear god no it was not a bullet. no, it was a damn crossbow bolt. it didn’t go through the front, it went through the right side of my head, directly on my temple. sometimes this memory just randomly plays at the back of my mind and i just can’t help but shudder because it was real. i know it happened. and this paragraph looks like I’m going off in a tangent because i can’t express the sheer shock and pain that i felt at that moment—now, I’m not too sure on how fast arrow injuries are supposed to kill or even what type of arrow was shot at me. but dear god it was an utter bitch to feel.

the feeling itself...it’s comparable to having a stick vertically stuck in the small space near your teeth to keep your mouth from closing shut. imagine a toothpick in your mouth, but instead of biting it, it’s standing inside. the stiffness, the way you can’t move or shut your mouth, it’s similar to the sensation i felt, only accompanied with a searing kind of pain. i hadn't even registered it at first, too caught up in the fact that i was not at home and intuitively knew i was not dreaming so what the fuck was stuck in my head and why was it there. when i came to, all i could think of was how much it fucking hurt, it’s like taking a pinch too far—only this time the pinch is going throughout your brain, and you can actually feel your brain reacting to every inch of the metal that’s stuck inside it.

and the thing about the entire situation was that i couldn’t even help but just drop to the floor, not because the thing stuck in me was heavy (at least i didn’t think it was), but because i started feeling fucking woozy. it wasn’t the same as those descriptions in stories where, like, everything gets blurry or the character suddenly faints. it’s more of feeling your body sway, when you know it’s not. just the illusion of it, and yet you can’t control the way it feels, like you’re about to fall, even when you’re already lying down on solid ground. i don’t know how else to describe it, only that i felt light and yet heavy at the same time.

i had been conscious for the most part, from what i can recall. my eyelids, for some reason, refused to close, even when i thought, please take me back because despite all the action movies I’ve watched i am NOT prepared—

time wasn't of the essence in that moment, and i knew that, just as i knew no one would come. i was alone, and bleeding. in some weird contemporary room. with a crossbow of all things. my attention was spent watching mental replays of what happened; of just how fast the bolt went, the awareness of my brain, and the sheer jarring of the entire matter. i stayed like that, awake for it all, and all it took was, again, a mere second until I’m waking up in my own bed, shaking.

i know it happened. and that’s the very thing that still bothers me, because i know I’m dead in another reality, i know that i died, i felt it (and i still feel a sharp pain in my right temple whenever i think about it), and i was there to experience it.

oftentimes, I’ve contemplated what it was like to actually die. like that one ricky montgomery vine (i think it was a vine) where he sings that no, he’s not suicidal, he just wants to know what it’d be like to be dead. now, looking back upon it, i didn’t think i would ever be so affected by that, and yet i am.

it’s surreal and it’s unsettling.

and fucking hell i want burger king i don’t wanna relive those ideas

[hispeculiartreasure]

All We’ve Got is Time - Chapter Fifteen | B.B.

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Female Reader

AU: If They’d Survived/Post-War/Window Washer!Bucky Barnes

Rating: Teen

Word count: 4,300

Chapter 15/24

Warnings: Language, PTSD symptoms, lots of angst, Bucky is sad, allusions to horrible war time, self-loathing, etc.

AN: It’s hard to articulate exactly why this chapter was so hard for me to write. My own mental health played a big part in it, but there was something deeper I was forced to work through when confronted with their heavy conversation. Forever shoutout to my relentless cheerleader @lucyyannabel.  I’m blessed to have @barnesrogersvstheworld in my life, who put a finger on my doubts and worries of this chapter and gently shooed them away. May we all have an Attie in our life who so ardently tells you how valuable and loved you are. And you are, Reader. I promise. Love you.

 Chapter Fourteen

‘All We’ve Got is Time’ Masterlist

“Chevrolet Corporate, Anderson’s desk, how may I help you?” you rattle off into your desk phone’s handset, distracted by the rough draft of a memo your boss had tossed on your desk with little instruction.

“Hey, baby.”

The paper falls from your fingertips. “Buc-? Hi, wh- are you okay?”

You hear a sigh and then, “Sorry to call you at work, I know it could get you in trouble. Wanted to catch you early.”

It doesn’t escape your notice that he hadn’t answered your question. “What can I do for you today, sir?” You phrase the question again, warily eyeing Flannery across the office.

“‘M gonna have to bow out of dinner tonight. I know it’s my second time this week, I’m just absolutely beat, think I may be getting sick. I’m leaving work right now. Wouldn’t be much fun company.”

“Oh,” you deflate in your chair. “We’re sorry to hear that, sir. Is there anything we could do to accommodate you? Perhaps an alteration to the proposed agenda?”

“I don’t think so. Just wanna be home and go to sleep. I’m sorry, I know we haven’t seen each other this week. I’ll make it up to you.”

You keep your voice professional, shoving down your disappointment. “There’s no need for that, sir. I’ll make note of the change in schedule and be in touch at a later date to confirm with your office.”

“Thanks, sweetheart. I’ll talk to you soon.”

“Feel better,” you whisper before setting the receiver down. Something in his tone haunts you the rest of the morning and well into the lunch hour. You don’t hear the break room’s topic of debate as you push your leftovers aimlessly around your pyrex. A bitter taste had settled in your mouth after the unexpected phone call.

“You’re awfully quiet,” Suzy slides into the seat next to you, sounding too casual for your taste.

“Got a lot on my mind.” You chew another mouthful of fruit in contemplation.

“This have to do with your dreamboat?”

“I’m really not in the mood today, Suze.”

“That’s fine. But are you okay?”

Chewing your lip, you turn to her. Her red curls had a little extra bounce but her eyes betrayed her concern for you. “Not really. I can’t put my finger on it, but something’s not right with him. I can’t shake the idea that he’s avoiding me.”

“Did anything specific happen? You guys have a fight?”

“No fighting. . . though he acted strangely after our last date.”

“Strange how?”

The yellow and orange leaves beneath your feet had a distinct crunch to them synonymous with the time of year. It had been a standard evening out for the two of you: comfort food from the diner, a shared piece of pie, and a stroll along the streets. Now that the temperature had been dropping slowly, you could nestle closer to each other.

“‘M just saying, you’ve picked the pie the last few times, I’m past due to choose the flavor.”

“But Bucky, you pick blackberry every time, I’m giving us some variety!” you protested.

“Why would you stray from a pie that never fails you? One that never gives up, that truly strives to be its best for us-”

“Are you eating this pie or marrying it?”

“It’s crossed my mind.”

Your giggles and his chuckles echoed, the street lamps lighting your way home.

“I don’t know why you’re with me then, sounds like pie is your true-”

A loud pop shattered the peace of the night and Bucky went rigid. Before you knew what was happening a shove knocked the breath out of you and you ended up several steps behind your boyfriend. He’d grabbed a pipe out of a nearby trash can, ready to wield it against anyone.

“Buck, it’s okay.” You reached out to grab his shoulder and he immediately jerked away from you, chest heaving. “Hon, it was just a car back-firing.”

His eyes were wide and terrified, grip tight on the pipe.

“We’re okay, Buck. We’re safe, nothing is going to hurt us.”

“Right. Sorry. That . . . was an overreaction.”

“You alright?” you stepped toward him. “I know you-”

He took a surreptitious step backward. “I’m fine, uh. . . yeah, I’m fine. Oh, and your door’s right here.”

“Bucky, you’re not-”

“I’m good, really. I’ll see you in a few days, right? Hope you sleep well.”

Decidedly distracted, he brushed his lips against your forehead and took off down the street, loosening his tie. Watching him leave kicked up a storm of confusion in your mind.

“And I haven’t seen him since,” you conclude, leaning forward to put your head in your hands.

The gentle hand on your back surprises you but you don’t shy away from the comfort. “It’s gonna be okay, babydoll. We all go through stuff, sounds like his stuff is a little heavy right now.”

“Then why isn’t he asking me to help?”

That’s the question still on your mind when you get home from work that night and make a call to Steve and Bucky’s apartment.

“Sorry ma’am, no one’s answering at the residence,” the operator drones in your ear. “Is there another number you’d like me to call?”

“No, thank you.” You stare at the telephone as if it had personally offended you, eyebrows knit closely together, arms crossed.

Somewhere in the space of the last three weeks you had messed up, done something to send Bucky running for the hills. You wrack your brain for an explanation, an event or conversation that was even the slightest bit terse. Coming up empty you sigh and force yourself to continue about your evening.

One day passes with no word from Bucky.

Another day goes by silently.

At the end of the third day you find yourself staring at the phone again, debating your next move. 

A girl was allowed to call her boyfriend, right? Especially after not having seen each other in a while, at least to say hi and catch up on the day - and he said he was sick, surely it was alright, even expected to check on him. You reach for the handset. 

Then again, he’d clearly been sending signals that something wasn’t right, perhaps you should just leave it alone. You snatch your hand back to yourself, drawing it up to pick at your lip nervously. 

But Steve, on the other hand. . .

Shockingly, the line connects.

“Hullo?”

“Steve? It’s me.”

“Hey,” Steve’s voice warms, “you wanna talk to Buck?”

“I actually wanted to talk to you.”

“Oh, okay. What’s going on?”

You twist a finger around the phone cord, digging for the right words. “Is Bucky okay?”

“‘Okay’?” you can practically see his forehead wrinkled in confusion.

“I’m not sure why, but he’s been distant over the last few weeks. I don’t know if it’s me or what, but is he safe? Is he okay?”

“He’s, uh. . .” Steve lowers his voice. “He’s been better. Seems to be having a tough time. I thought you knew that, though.”

“No, I haven’t seen him for two weeks.”

“Really?” Clearly as shocked as you were, his tone turns suspicious. “He’s been avoiding me too. In passing he mentioned that his classes have been giving him some trouble, but I figured he’d seek you out with help on that.”

“Yeah,” you sigh. “Me too.”

“Huh. Thanks for letting me know, lemme see what I can do from my end. I’ll keep you posted.”

“Thank you, Steve. That makes me feel better.”

“Of course. Take care of yourself, okay?”

With a smile you bid him goodbye and hang up, hoping he could make some headway.

-x-

Bucky hears Steve hang up the phone and hopes to God he’s not in for a well-meaning chit-chat.

But of course, a knock comes on Bucky’s cracked-open door, and he can’t really deny Steve entrance. Turning back to the pile of classwork on his desk, Bucky busies himself with a half-finished essay. His friend perches against the dresser, ankles and arms crossed.

Bucky scratches absentmindedly at some stubble on his cheek before grunting, “Whaddya want, Steve?”

“Your girl just called. Said she hasn’t heard from you. She’s worried.”

“Been busy.”

“That’s bullshit.” The pencil in Bucky’s hand snaps in two and he forces himself to let go of the pieces and keep his hands flexed open. “What happened, Buck?”

The aftermath of the nightmare - the first that had plagued him in several months - comes back to Bucky. He’d woken in a cold sweat, hands shaking violently, head pounding. Banging out of his room he’d sprinted for the bathroom faucet, dousing his face in ice cold water to shock his senses back to him. Light sleeper that he was, Steve was there in seconds. Bucky had snapped at him when asked what was wrong, had told him to leave him be. He should’ve known Steve wouldn’t leave it for long.

With effort, Bucky spits out, “The day we took Fischer down.” Any additional detail would have been Bucky’s undoing; he knew Steve could connect the dots.

The blond brings up a hand to cover his mouth, heaving a deep breath. “Yeah, that one’s given me nightmares too.”

“Does it? You don’t show it.”

“We’ve pretended not to hear each others’ nightmares for a long time, pal, no use continuing that charade.”

Silence stretches between them for several minutes. Bucky stewing, Steve waiting.

“Why was it them and not us, Steve?”

Steve knew ‘them’ wasn’t just the girl at the church, wasn’t attached to a singular person or event - ‘them’ stood for every life lost in the war that had stripped the world bare of too many things to count.

“I wish I could tell you.”

Clearing the emotion from his throat, Bucky’s next question surprises Steve. “How do you not let it eat you up?”

Shaking his head, Steve replies, “Some days it does. You know I don’t wear my heart on my sleeve, but I try to talk about it. With you, with Peg, sometimes one of the other guys. If you let it stay in your head, it only grows bigger.”

“I don’t know if I can do that right now.”

“That’s okay. And it doesn’t have to be me you talk to if you don’t want. But do me a favor?”

Bucky finally shifts in his chair to look Steve directly in the eye, lifting a brow as if to ask “And what would that favor be?”

“Don’t shut her out. You know you can’t scare her away. Obviously she wants to be part of your life, so let her. She’s the best thing that’s ever happened to you.”

As messed up as I am, is it fair to her to drag her down with me?

-x-

Bucky was grateful for the quiet apartment - Steve was away on business, his classwork was in a lull, and the day’s work had drained him. All he wanted was to eat and fall into bed. The thought of skipping another meal tempted him as he dreamed of what could possibly be a restful night of sleep.

Soft knocks at the front door startle him away from his bedroom. Slowly, he steps to the door in socked feet. Pressing an eye to the peephole, his heart drops into his stomach and threatens to pound right out of his body. You’re waiting on the other side, fiddling with something in your hands. 

You look nervous.

“Bucky?” How could a voice feel like home but also make him dizzy with anxiety? Letting his forehead rest against the door, he realizes how much he’s missed the sound.

He can feel the second rap of knuckles reverberate through his head. Your voice wraps around him again.

Open the door, Barnes. She’s right there. You need her. 

Shame whispers, “But does she need you as a burden? Does she need this broken man in her life?”

A voice that sounded like Steve urges him to open the door, to let himself be vulnerable. 

The doorknob tenses under his grip.

But he doesn’t move. He can’t.

“I don’t know if you’re even home right now, but uh. . .” he hears you sniffle, prompting his eye to focus again on the peephole. You wipe at your cheek - Bucky convinces himself it couldn’t be because of him. “I got something for ya. You mentioned in one of your letters that writing things down cleared your mind, helped you move past things. And while I don’t really know if you’re going through something or just want to be alone for whatever reason. . . I just hope this helps.”

You stoop down, setting whatever you’d been holding against the door. Straightening, you turn to leave, pause, then face the door again. “I miss you, ya know.”

Hesitant footsteps retreat down the breezeway, your tread easy and familiar in his mind.

Only after counting out a few minutes Bucky cracks the door open. A small packages falls to his feet with a surprisingly solid thud. He nudges the door closed and pulls at the twine, then the brown paper wrapping.

Shaky fingers feel at the strong, yet simple leather cover of a journal. He flips through the unlined pages, mind reeling at your memory of something he couldn’t recall mentioning to you. Forcing air into his lungs he cradles the book as if it were a priceless artifact; maybe for him it was.

Opening to the first page his eyes are immediately drawn to black ink, to your familiar handwriting.

Whether it’s with me or without me, I hope you find peace.

You’d left your initials beneath the note, as if he ever would have questioned whose hand had written the inscription. He lets out a humorless laugh before his knees weaken. Letting himself be taken to the floor, he leans against the door, clutching the journal to his chest.

And on the floor of his empty apartment where he wept the full anguish of his soul, it was a lifeline.

-x-

This was a bad idea. I should go home. This is stupid. 

Bucky’s foot taps against the sidewalk outside of your work building impatiently. He’d been there a few minutes already, knowing your schedule like the back of his hand. A deep urge to finally speak with you had brought him this far, though he was fighting the pull to run back home.

Just as he had convinced himself to turn around, you emerge from the front door and he’s frozen in place.

The notion of home floats through his mind as he watches you, hair only slightly rumpled from your day of work. Poised, graceful as ever, a true striking presence on the sidewalk - earning more turned heads than you would ever be aware of. 

So focused on making sure your hat was perfectly in place, you don’t notice Bucky until he’s right next to you. 

“Hi,” his mind goes blank as he stares into your eyes, wide as dinner plates at his sudden appearance.

“Bucky. . . uh, hi,” you stammer. “Wh-what’re you-”

“Can I walk you home?”

“Y-yeah, absolutely.”

Together, you traverse the deeply familiar path home, though a pace apart. 

“How’s the family?” you ask, reaching for an innocuous subject to fill the dead air.

“Uh, good. I’ve missed the last few Sunday dinners, but I assume everything is fine.”

“Oh.”

“Are you - you doing alright?”

“I’m . . . okay. Been a long few weeks.”

He watches the ground as you walk, the click of your heels on pavement bringing sweeter memories to the forefront of his mind. But then the rhythmic sound stops and he looks up, shocked to see your apartment. You’ve turned to face him and his eyes are drawn to how you’re picking at your cuticles.

“Can we sit?” you motion to the brick steps leading up to your door. He nods and you perch on the stairs, closer to each other than you’d been for weeks. “Bucky. . .” 

“Yeah?”

“I. . .” you turn your eyes back to your fiddling fingers in your lap. “I just need to know if this,” you gesture between you, “is over so I can not think of you as mine anymore. If it is, I can handle it and move on.”

Bucky’s mouth hangs open, at a loss for words. You take that as a cue to continue.

“But if this isn’t over. . . you don’t have to meet my parents next month, if that freaked you out. Or if I came on too strong when you got back from Pennsylvania, I can back off. Just. . .” your eyes finally move to meet his and the uncertainty in them was foreign to him, “tell me what I did wrong so I don’t do it again?”

His mind reels as he sits back to take a long look at you. You were serious. You genuinely thought this was a result of something you’d done - but why would you think any differently?

You don’t know how not seeing you left an aching hole in his chest. You don’t know how often he thought of you, how many times he’d frozen when the operator had asked who he’d wanted to be connected to only to hang up. You don’t know about the wad of cash in his sock drawer for which he had sparkling ambitions. Without knowing that, what other conclusion were you supposed to draw?

“I’m such an ass,” he mutters aloud, much to your furthered confusion. After dragging hands harshly down his face he threads his fingers in yours. “Sweetheart, this hasn’t been about you, not in the slightest.”

“Then what is it about? If it wasn’t something I did, what happened?” Your grip on his hands almost breaks his heart completely - like you were scared he’d bolt if you let go.

Words stick in his throat and he swallows in an attempt to dislodge the lump that had formed there. 

“Buck, it’s me. You can say it.”

“I. . . I don’t even know where I’d start.”

“The beginning?” you gently suggest.

At your urging, he begins haltingly, stumbling over words, hoping he was making some kind of sense. “Uhhh. The night after we spent the day at the garage together. I had a nightmare, a memory of being in Europe. A young woman died - she died because of me. It felt like I was there again. I could feel the cold air and the smell of. . . I relived it that night. The days seemed to get worse after that.”

Details begin to spill from his lips - slowly, then all at once. Things he couldn’t have recalled if asked suddenly were toppling into your lap, unorganized, bloody, and heavy. He recounts the sleepless nights, the images seared in his brain from the battlefront, the components of war rarely shared with civilians that had taken a good portion of his innocence and good conscience.

Pausing, he clears his throat and scratches his chin. “It’s hard to talk about,” he admits in a low voice.

You’ve been silent, but present until this moment. “I know. Thank you for sharing with me.”

“The last few weeks have been a fight between wanting - no, needing - you to bring some light into my life; and living in fear that my darkness may snuff your own light out. I can’t take you down with me, you don’t deserve that.”

“Don’t I get a say in it?”

Tears prick at the corners of his eyes and he withdraws a hand from yours to dash at them. “I hate this,” he sniffles. “I thought I was getting better, that this was behind me. I’m sorry.”

“Sorry? For what, being human?”

“For being like this when my life has gotten better. I’ve been home for so long, I should be past this by now.”

Your hands are on his cheeks, tilting his head to look into your eyes again. “Says who? Honey, things like this, it’s not a simple trip from point A to point B. This kind of healing takes time. And a backslide isn’t an indicator of failure.”

“Sure feels like I failed at something.”

“But you haven’t,” you insist firmly. He doesn’t respond and you pull your hands away, hesitantly grasping his again. “Why haven’t you been home to see your family?” you ask after a few moments of reflection.

“The girl I . . . that. . . she reminds me of my sisters. It’s hard to look at them and not see her after. . . it happened. I don’t want to attach that memory to them more than it already is.”

Your chest heaves with a long breath as if you were preparing to dive into deep water. “Your time serving, the things you saw. . . they affected you. You have to admit that.”

“It bothers me, sure, but I didn’t come back wounded. I made it in one piece, I don’t have a reason for being this shaken by it.”

“Just because you’re physically safe doesn’t mean your mind didn’t take on injuries. You’ve been through so much-”

Brusquely, he cuts you off. “My mind is fine. I’m not a coward.”

“Bucky, I know that. Everyone knows that. This isn’t about cowardice or weak minds, or whatever nonsense doctors and generals say it is. To survive what you have, to have made so much progress to get to a place where you’re working and taking care of yourself. . . it’s the strongest thing I’ve ever seen. You’ve chosen a career path. You’re almost done with the training while juggling two jobs, family, and a demanding girlfriend.” Both his lips and yours twitch at your teasing. Then you soften again. “You know I’ve seen this up-close with my uncle. You’re not alone and you’re not crazy.” 

Bucky’s face must have mirrored the doubt he felt inside. 

“You said Steve has episodes too right?” He nods. “Do you think that he has a weak moral character? This man, who you think the world of - do you consider him mentally fragile? No,” you answer for him as he can only shake his head. “Then why would you flip that onto yourself? Why would Steve’s hand-picked second-in-command be considered weak? You wouldn’t because you’re not.”

He couldn’t think of an argument against that - but you took his silence to be dubious.

Your voice is hesitant, unsure. “They do have psychiatric hospitals-”

“I’m not desperate enough for that.” The second the words left his mouth he hears how harsh they sound.

“Do you have to be desperate to ask for help?”

“I shouldn’t need help!” he exclaims suddenly. “Other men came back fine, Dad never went through this. I don’t know how to be this way without feeling like shit about myself. Besides, from the stories I’ve heard, what they do is more similar to torture than treatment.”

You’ve shrunken back, shoulders hunched forward as if to ward off his tone. “Okay. I won’t mention it again. I’m sorry.”

“No,” he huffs in frustration. “I should be the one that’s sorry. I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

“There’s nothing wrong with you. You’ve been to hell and back which would make anyone’s soul weary. Please be kinder to yourself.”

“I don’t deserve your kindness, let alone my own. But for some reason, Sixth Floor, you’re giving it to me in spades. I don’t understand.”

“Caring for someone doesn’t always entail what they deserve - but I assure you, you are absolutely deserving of all the patience and gentleness. You are one of the most noble men I’ve ever known.” If the conviction in your voice hadn’t rung so clear, he’d think you were full of it.

“How can you still say that after how I’ve treated you?” He doesn’t give you the chance to respond. “Don’t get me wrong, I don’t want to lose you baby, I just, I lo. . . I love you too much. And the thought of having pushed you away makes me sick, but I won’t blame you for walking away because of how I’ve acted.”

A sad smile crosses your face as you press your forehead to his before whispering fiercely, “Love isn’t a feeling, it’s an action. I love you to the very bottom of my heart, James. Can you let me love you? Let me show you? I want to be here, if you’ll have me.”

With most of his energy channeled containing sobs, he offers a nod. Leaning in to each other, your lips unite for the first time in too long - earnest, sweet love mingled with relief pours between you. 

Pulling back only slightly, Bucky’s blue eyes search your own. “I missed you,” he murmurs roughly as his thumb wipes away a tear from your chin. 

“I missed you, too,” you return as the pads of your fingers swipe against his wet cheeks.

He lets that settle on his bones for future nights where he may hear whispers of doubt about you and your devotion.

“I wanna get better for you, darling.” He meant it sweet, touching, but you shake your head.

“No.”

He begins to shift away from you, your previous words with the solitary one dissonating, but a hand to the back of his neck holds him fast.

“Don’t get better for me. James Buchanan Barnes is worthy enough to get better for himself.” You interrupt what was obviously going to be a protest from him. “You’re the one that has to live with yourself. I don’t plan on going anywhere, but I also can’t fight this battle for you, as much as I wish I could.”

“I don’t know what getting better for myself even looks like.”

Your eyebrows settle into determination, a directness in your gaze. “Your training is almost done. Quit washing windows, focus on finishing well. Life is about to change for the better. Refocus, take a breather. And let the people in your life love you.”

“I. . . I’ll try.”

“That’s all I can ask. Except. . .” You bite your lip, as if pondering whether you should continue.

“What?” he prompts.

A twinkle returns to your eye and you lean in even closer, “You could shave the beard before you meet my parents or they’ll think I’m dating a hobo.”

For the first time in weeks, a laugh bubbles up through Bucky and out into the world with joy that was anything but hollow.

Chapter Sixteen

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[canyouhearthelight]

The Miys, Ch. 59

I am so, so sorry for the delay on this week’s chapter. My hours at work have changed, and on top of it I had to make a 16 hour round trip in the car this past weekend.

The good news is, I have the next 4 days off from work, so I should be able to post on schedule going forward.  Shoutout to @charlylimph-blog and @baelpenrose for checking on me when I didn’t post Tuesday. Y’all are awesome.

I woke up to a faint smell, reminiscent of chili, and the whir of atmospheric scrubbers working overtime.  Groggily, I sat up and looked around, trying to find a clock that I slowly realized I didn’t own.  Instead of flicking open my datapad and scorching my eyes with the light of a thousand suns, I rose to stagger after the sound of laughter coming from my kitchen. I rubbed my eyes as I stepped into the light, only to be greeted by a wolf whistle and a simultaneous cry of dismay.

Still fighting off the blessed sleep of medication, I looked around and tried to reconcile the people in my kitchen with the faces I was expecting. A man too short to live there was standing with his back to me…That must be Alistair.  He’s early. Tyche, check.  Antoine, check plus bemused grin?  Woman with rich, dark skin and flashing white teeth, laughing…

“Xio? Where did you come from?” My nose scrunched in confusion.

“I’m going to say the same place you left your pants,” she teased.  “Nice legs.”

I glanced down and realized I was only clothed in one of Conor’s t-shirts. That explained the noise and why Alistair was very pointedly not looking at me.  Shrugging, I looked at my sister. “It covers more than some of the clothes people wear on the ship. Should I put on shorts, just in case?”

“Yes!” my assistant yelped. “That would be much preferred, Miss Reid.”

Tyche smirked as I tossed up my hands in resignation and went to assuage Alistair’s modesty.  When I returned, he was still bright red but at least facing me. Xiomara broke the silence. “Who are we still waiting on?”

“Conor and Maverick,” Antoine supplied. “Then we’ll make Maverick’s dinner while he’s in the shower and we can all eat.”

Comprehension dawned on her face. “That’s right… the food thing.  He doesn’t eat curry, I take it?”

I shook my head. “Not a huge fan, no. Sometimes he can handle vindaloo, but he’s been stressed, so we aren’t pushing it. Falafel and papadums for him.” I braced for some remark, but it never came.

“More for me,” she grinned, leaning on the counter to sneak a piece of meat before having her hand swatted away by Antoine.

“Conor eats enough to make up for it, believe me,” Tyche fake-grumbled, just as the men in question walked in.

“To make up for – oh! Curry night!” He gave a wide but exhausted smile as he waved Maverick toward the cleaning unit. “Your turn to go first, mate.” Maverick just nodded and dropped a kiss on each of our cheeks before retreating to wash off the dirt and sweat he was covered in. “Is this mine?” Conor murmured in my ear as he tugged the hem of my shirt.

“Shorts are Mav’s,” I pointed out. “I took a nap and woke up to find myself invaded.”

“You weren’t invaded,” Tyche argued. “We all arrived on time, but Grandma Kim said to let you sleep and that she would be checking when you woke up to make sure.  Before you get upset – “ she held up a hand to stop any objection I had, “it’s just a medical alert, and well within her job to set one.  She isn’t here to sic Lyric on any of us, so I’m guessing you got enough sleep for her.”

Antoine cleared his throat pointedly. “Not quite. She asked me to have you take another dose two hours after dinner.”

“Antoine…” I whined with utmost dignity. “You’re her boss. You can override her request, right?”

All vain hope was dashed by the flat look he levelled in my direction. Guess not.

“Another dose? Of what?”

My stomach sank as I remembered the sweaty Irishman currently draped around my shoulders. “Let’s wait until dinner, and I’ll tell you and Maverick first thing. I promise,” I turned my head to look in his eyes. “I just don’t want to repeat it, and it’s not fair for either of you to find out before the other.”

Eventually, everyone was washed and seated at the table. As I started to spoon some curry and lentils on my plate, Tyche cleared her throat and gave a pointed look.  Rolling my eyes and dropping my head back with a sigh, I snagged a papadum before speaking. “I got sent home from work today,” I started. “I fell asleep after several cups of Xiomara’s coffee, had a nightmare that left me screaming and hysterical. A medical scan showed that I have severe vitamin deficiency and exhaustion, so I was sent home to chug a vile concoction from GK and take a nap. Hence the pajamas.” I waved at myself in demonstration. “Noah wanted me to go to a medical bay for IV treatment and monitoring, but this was the compromise.”

“And if you aren’t better tomorrow, you’re going to the medical bay,” Maverick stated in a tone that most people used to explain that water makes things wet.

Conor apparently agreed, judging by the enthusiasm of his nod. “I encourage this and will do so – “

“Physically if necessary,” I finished for him. “Noah said the same thing. I was wondering where he got that from.”

“I got it from Antoine.”

The sound of three utensils being dropped was followed by deafening silence. Tyche, Xiomara, and I gaped at Antoine as he became very focused on the food in front of him. “This tastes of caprine… is that what it is meant to taste of?”

“Yes, it’s supposed to be goat, and don’t change the subject,” my sister grumbled. “Who did you threaten like that?”

“I am a nurse, Tyche!” he defended. “I say that quite often to recalcitrant patients, especially the elderly.  They do not like being treated for ailments – they think it means they are falling apart in their old age.  They often do not realize or understand that they will live longer if they simply get the treatment they need.”

“Speaking of falling apart,” Maverick interjected. “We finished testing on the samples from the failed swimming platforms.”

Xiomara leveled her fork like a weapon, first at Tyche and Antoine. “You? Hush.” She turned to a cringing Maverick. “You, speak. Now.”

“Yes ma’am,” he gulped around an unholy mouthful of falafel and ketchup. “The researchers tested samples from every individual piece of each platform. They were able to determine that the accelerated failure of the pieces was the cause of an iron-eating bacteria, not any flaw in the manufacturing or construction.”

She nodded at this news. “This is good. Keep going… what’s the bacteria and how do we rein it in?”

“Grey’s people don’t know the answer to either of those,” he answered apologetically.

“So, run it through the Ark’s database.”

“We did. Twice. Even then, it isn’t recognized.”

“Wait,” I stopped them both. “If they don’t know what it is, how do we know what it does?”

Maverick scowled at me like I asked a stupid question and should have known better. “They observed it eating the iron molecules in the metal.”

Okay, so I did ask a stupid question and should have known better. The scowl was fair, point to Maverick.

“Is there any danger to the ship as a whole?” Xiomara pressed on.

“They are trying to determine that now,” he admitted. “Only iron molecules are being… eaten? Processed? Whatever it is, only iron is affected.”

Seemingly satisfied, Xiomara nodded. “Sophia, please consider taking tomorrow to find out whatever is going on?”

My thoughts whirling at the conversational whiplash, I only shrugged. “It’s probably related to the gravity change. You know, increased anxiety, nightmares, all that.” I glanced at Antoine, hoping for confirmation.

Once again, my faith was misplaced. He shook his head, “Non. Gravity changes will cause increased anxiety, yes. But not the level of malnutrition you mentioned.  I am aware you eat regularly, if for no other reason than seeing you eat. There is no easily explained reason for you to be in such condition, and as such, I would like you to have tests done if I am not satisfied with your improvement by the end of the day tomorrow.”

“Do I have to?” I groaned. “I hate doctors… no offense, Antoine.”

“I am a nurse, so none taken.”

I felt a tapping on my left shoulder and turned to see Conor leaning across Maverick. “Sophie. Love. I know you hate it. But you wouldn’t let any of us just skive off going to the doctor if we were sick.” He pointed around the table, including Alistair and Xiomara. “If one of us so much as looked a bit droopy, you know you would task yourself with barking at our heels until we were checked out.”

“You did drag me to the medbay when I cut my hand,” Tyche pointed out.

“Annnnd you brought in Antoine when you realized I wasn’t eating,” Maverick chimed in.

Traitors, I thought petulantly.

Silent through all of dinner thus far, my assistant cleared his throat. “Sophia. From what I have seen just working with you, they have a point. If I, for instance, were exhibiting the signs you are showing, would you allow me to continue attending my daily responsibilities and trust that I was addressing the issue outside of my working hours?”

“Blast and BURN it all, why are you all being so logical?”

“Guilt trips don’t work,” Maverick pointed out. “You’ll convince yourself that you are doing the right thing for us all by hiding your symptoms.”

“And working harder just to prove you’re okay,” Conor chimed in.

“Mother henning people….” Xiomara trailed off lazily before flashing a smug grin at me.

“Et tu, Brute?” I begged. “Even you won’t let me work when I’m tired?”

“One,” she ticked off, holding up a finger. “You aren’t just tired, you are somehow malnourished, despite the fact that you are the most social eater I have ever met. Two, I have let you work when you were so-called tired. You literally passed out in my office on multiple occasions – “ She held up a hand when I tried to interrupt and plowed on. “Twice, it was mid-sentence.  Three, I’ll even go with you and have tests done on myself, just in case it’s something impacting everyone.”

“Wait – “ I sputtered. “That’s your negotiation? You’ll have tests done on you, and submit to treatment if needed, just to make me go? I’m not a child.”

“Then stop acting like one,” Tyche muttered, glaring at me and knowing full well I heard her.

As much as I wanted to fire back at her, something inside of me wilted. Tyche would never say I was being childish if it wasn’t true. We had literal screaming matches in the past because I was too adult as a teenager. “Fine,” I spat, ashamed. “I’ll go, the day after tomorrow, if I’m still not up to snuff.”

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[hhdigi]

5# - Digital Buying Process

Today's post is semi-serious.

Laptop hunt in the digital age

Follow me on my laptop hunting process... I mean, digital buying process. That’s today’s topic. (Scroll down for a dope educational story)

It’s inevitable that the buying process has changed over the years due to digitalization. When we were young, there was less information and fewer advertising platforms available. Our parents might recall a time when they saw something they liked on a billboard or print and they’d contact a sales representative or head into a physical store to ask questions and make a decision. They may still shop around or look for alternatives, but options were much more limited. I for sure remember seeing toys on TV and Anttila’s magazine before Christmas and based my wants solely on that information. Done. Simple. Easy.

Now, however, consumers have access to an almost infinite number of shops and resources at their fingertips, on a platform that rarely leaves their side. Before making purchasing decisions, consumers will use the internet to compare prices, sellers, alternative products, read reviews and look at product ratings and get style ideas from influencers. It’s the convenience that makes it so delicious. Borders, geographic location, closing times don’t limit our access to new items and services. The decisions we make today are hugely based on what we read online about the product we are considering to buy – even if our friend might recommend it or it’s a simple item such as face cream.

We could argue it’s faster to shop around but we take WAY more time to shop around before we decide whether we want to purchase something or not. It leaves to fatigue and multiple open tabs. On the other hand, it can push us to a shopping spree and spending too much, too quickly and recklessly. Online marketing campaigns and big masses with a pinch of hype and attractive advertising makes people spend their hard-earned money. Think about it. It’s estimated that in 2018, Cyber Monday alone netted $6 billion just in online sales! (Leftronic, 2019)

But it doesn’t stop there. Mobile has changed the way consumers interact with brands, and with it, it’s fractured the buyer journey into hundreds of quick-fix decision-making moments. But for your sake, in this post, we will concentrate on a simplistic modern-day buying process like the following: Awareness > Consideration > Decision.

How does this process work step by step?

Awareness could arise from a webinar you found online, checklist or a how-to video, eBook or whitepaper. In this stage, the buyer might not even realize having a problem but they are experiencing the symptoms of one. You could be just googling answers to, “how to look more put together” when all you need is a good haircut, or clothes that match your natural skin-tone. [Laptop story starts here] Recently my laptop broke and after a gloomy diagnostics and a hefty repair price estimate ($1200 laptop vs 750€ repair, do the math. Also, remember you have absolutely zero customer protection if your device comes outside of EU), I decided I would look for a new, better laptop. So, I went on Google and searched for the best student-friendly laptops. I had to do some serious evaluation aka considerate my options.

Consideration consists of a phase where the buyer is acknowledging the problem and is now looking for possible solutions. This includes anything from demo videos to samples and frequently asked questions to case studies. Doing this helps the buyer understand the possible options before hearing about a specific company or product. And this is where companies begin to build trust with buyers through education.

From a company's point of view, it seeks to educate the buyer on the problem, show possible ways to solve that problem, and it could also help them prioritize the requirements they’re looking for in a solution. This helps to eliminate competition and narrows options for the buyer. I spent a great amount of time comparing different brands and models, defining my wants and needs. Remember, it had to be perfect (your idea of perfect can be something completely different) laptop for school, work, and leisure. And it was very, very important that the laptop would smoothly run ribbon shortcuts on Excel. Therefore, Apple was out.

Continuing my laptop buying process, I found out I quite liked the new Surface 3 laptop. It looks sleek and comes in a fancy metal black aluminum body with pretty good specs. At this point, I wanted to know if it lives up to its hype, so I watched multiple video reviews and contacted my friend who works at Microsoft in Seattle. Based on their reviews and feedback, I was happy to lock my decision… Which takes us to the final step: decision or purchase. Here customer can still say no to all options and back off, or the company can encourage hesitant buyer to get the product by offering coupons, free trials, reminding them (remarketing, ever get those emails “don’t forget your item in the cart before it’s gone!”?) or just simply offering them a price or consultation.

My laptop hunting had a happy ending when my dear Microsoft geek told me I could get the laptop with a nice student discount. So yeah, happy early Christmas to me, I guess. And shoutout to Rishi for being a bro.

[marlosbooknook]

In the Depths of the Sea- A Practical Occupation

Read The Prologue Here

Quick Authors Note just to get this out of the way. Yes, I have actually decided to write. I am just as surprised as you all are, but I figured I just needed to rip off the band-aid and post something! Special shoutouts to my cheerleaders and best friends @mibasiamille and @internallydeceased because without them constantly yelling at me for not writing I would not be posting right now!

Also, if anyone can thing of a title for this chapter, hit me up, because I have hit a wall and It is really frustrating!

So without further ado, here is Chapter One!

“Mary. Go into the garden and bring me the Aloe Vera,” Claire demanded, pressing her gloved hands onto the bloody thigh of a Lieutenant Jeremy Foster, a soldier and university student who had sought out Claire’s medicinal talents for a rather particular affliction.

An hour prior, the young man had arrived at the steps of her home, begging to be treated, but refused to divulge what ailed him.  Herding the debilitated gentleman into the rear of the house, Claire ushered him into the shed that had served as her makeshift infirmary: a place where she could tend to the patients of Bridgetown confidentially.

Sending a messenger to fetch her friend and assistant, Mary Hawkins, Claire begin to interrogate the lieutenant, pressing him for details on what brought him to her doorstep.

“I need to know what has happened to you, Lieutenant Foster.  If you refuse to tell me what ails you, it is untreatable, and you might as well just go into town where Doctor Abernathy can attend to you”

Foster, delicately perched on the side of the “examination table”, sighed and lowered his head, refusing to meet Claire’s eyes. Normally a proud, stoic man, who carried himself about the port with an aloof sense of entitlement; Claire felt mildly pleased to see him reduced to such a state. Still, she had agreed to help him, and knew that the circumstances must be unusual to bring him to seek her rather than the resident doctor.  She began cautiously moving closer to the young man, beginning to take a more passive approach to procuring the required information.

“Lieutenant Foster, Jeremy, I can promise you that nothing you tell me here will ever leave this room. You have my word; I am here to help you.”

Blushing scarlet, Foster began to quietly mumble, and Claire struggled to weave together the pieces of the tale being told to her.

“Well…I was finishing my rounds along the harbor… and I thought it would be far simpler to take a shortcut through the forest so as to not miss the evening roll-call.”

He paused and took a breath, and Claire sensed that he was soon to divulge the truth.

“Go on,” she prodded.

“Ah. Yes. So, um,” he stammered, “As I was making my way back-- along the path mind you-- I happened to encounter a young lady with whom I have had some intimate relations in the past, and I appear to have contracted some sort of...rash...”

An infamous courter and well-known casanova, it did not surprise Claire that the cause of his ailment stemmed from ungentlemanly conduct. She shuddered as she realized the location of this self-described rash and knew that, unfortunately, she had already agreed to treat it. It was clear why Lieutenant Foster came to Claire instead of the town doctor, Joe Abernathy; a scandal that would erupt in the small community of Bridgetown would ruin the young officer’s reputation.

Claire found herself puzzling over how to proceed. She could treat the most grisly of wounds and infections with so little as the blink of an eye, but this simple quandary posed an incredible, unsolicited challenge. She knew what she must do, and clearing her throat, Claire began in her most civil and professional manner, “May you please show me the location of this… rash, Mr. Foster?”

The young man’s eyes widened, as though he suspected that Claire would turn him away due to the delicate circumstances of his condition. Taking a steely breathe, stood up and dropped his trousers, averting Claire’s eyes and making sure that sure that he remained thoroughly unexposed. Claire could clearly see the red welts and patches spotting his skin, dancing up his leg until their disappearance beneath the folds of his shirt. Sorely out of her element, Claire walked over to the desk in the corner of the room, and after sifting through the college of papers, diagrams, and leaf trimmings scattered across its surface, retrieved a pair of white cotton gloves.

Claire slid the thin gloves onto her fingers, the only barrier between her skin and the Lieutenant’s. She glanced at him over her shoulder, quickly swiveling back when he raised his head to meet her eyes.

God I hope I’m not blushing! She thought to herself, but she could feel heat of her skin and the rush of blood traveling up to her face. God damn my glass face!  Smoothing her skirt and clearing her head, Claire returned to Doctor Foster’s side.

“May I see, please?”

With a nod from Lieutenant Foster, Claire gingerly placed her hand against the raw skin of his leg. He let out a hiss of pain.

“Your hands are like ice!”

“I’m sorry.” She said as she quickly lifted her hands

“Wait! Don’t stop; it feels good.” Claire grimaced internally at the Lieutenant's unwanted advances.

Slowly moving upwards on his leg, Claire examined the damage. The skin on his leg was raw, appearing almost burnt like. Even as she gently grazed her fingers over the skin flakes of dead skin peeled forward and stuck to the fabric of her gloves. It was grisly to be sure, but nothing she couldn’t fix.

In the near ten years in Bridgetown, Claire has become particularly acquainted with the various illnesses and maladies that ran rampant through the tropical community. Her book of herbs and plant life, now worn and dusty with age, came in great use, and allowed Claire to become informed not just on what pants to avoid, but what to collect as well. With her Uncle’s support, Claire began to collect and grow her own holistic collection of herbs which could be used to treat a variety of ailments, from a fever to an allergic reaction. People came to Claire as a sort of second doctor, her policy of confidentiality and unwillingness to accept payment setting her apart from Joe Abernathy.

Removing her hand from the soldier’s bare leg, Claire busied herself flipping through the pages of her book, scanning for what plant could have caused the lieutenant’s rash. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Jonathan picking at the raw flesh, itching and peeling off the flaking skin. She was quick to scold him.

“If you keep that up, you’re just going to make it worse.”

“Sorry, ma’am,” he responded guilty

“Don’t call me that. Or ‘Miss Beauchamp’. Considering I’ve seen you nearly naked, I think it is only fair that we call each other by our first names. Wouldn’t you agree, Jeremy?”

Hiding the rising pink in his cheeks, the lieutenant turned his head, “Thank you, ma’am… I mean, Claire!”

Shaking her head Claire returned to her book, leafing through the pages before letting out a quick cry of triumph as her finger landed on the culprit.

“The Manchineel tree, or Hippomane mancinella,” she read allowed, “All parts of this tree contain strong toxins, producing strong allergic dermatitis and blister like symptoms.”

But her triumph was quickly interrupted as Lieutenant Foster let out a cry of pain. Whirling around, Claire gasped at the sight that lay before her. The skin on the lieutenant's leg was nearly peeled off completely, and rivulets of ruby colored blood ran in rivulets down his leg, absorbing into the wood of the floor and table.

“What the bloody hell did you do?!” Claire exclaimed, running to the cabinet where she kept the gauze

“It was just so itchy…” The officer couldn’t finish his sentence as he let out another bark of pain, pressing his hands on the inflamed flesh.

“Move your hand,” Claire commanded, pressing the padded gauze on the blood until it was stained red.

Claire, so concentrated in her task, didn’t hear the door fly open and the small form of Mary Hawkins rush in, her race flushed from exertion.

“I’m so sorry Claire, I got here as soon as I could. Goodness!” she exclaimed as she saw the hectic scene before her “What happened?”

“Mary, go into the garden and bring me the Aloe Vera.” Claire ordered like a first rate general. Mary hesitated, looking at the the ragged form of Lieutenant Foster’s leg.

“Go, now. I’ll explain later.”

With a quick nod, Mary rushed back outside, and returned momentarily with a bundle of large green leaves. Moving to Claire’s side, she began peeling back the green leaf, revealing the spongy interior of the plant. Claire removed the gauze from the Lieutenant's thigh, and, after ensuring that the bleeding had ceased, began to gently rub the aloe onto the raw skin. Lieutenant Foster let out a hiss at the shocking coolness, but soon slipped into a state of peaceful relaxation as the Aloe began to ease his discomfort. At long last, the deed was done.  When she was sure that his leg was sufficiently slathered, she began to carefully wind a strip of cotton fabric around the exposed tissue, making sure it was secure, but not too tight as to cause further irritation. At long last, the deed was done.

Wiping the sweat from her brow, Claire took a moment to inhale and collect her thoughts.

“Mary, may you please escort Lieutenant Foster to the main road, so he might be able to travel back to his barracks?”

Mary was quick to oblige, though her small frame nearly buckled under the weight of the incapacitated officer. Stopping at the door, Lieutenant Foster turned around.

“Thank you again, Miss Beauchamp. My sincerest gratitude for both your kindness and your discretion.”

Claire stifled a giggle as he made a feeble attempt to tip his hat before limping out the door with Mary’s aid. Once she was sure they had safely departed, she turned around to deal with the battle scene before her. Papers and bloodied pieces of cloth were strewn about, and the wooden surfaces of the table and floor were stained crimson.  Fetching a clean rag and some lye soap from a shelf, she went to work sanitizing and cleaning the room. Claire hiked up her skirts to begin scrubbing at the floor, vigorously rubbing against the floorboards until the rag, and her hands, had adopted a red hue.

Humming as she worked, Claire’s thoughts began to drift, wondering about the next days and what medicinal puzzle awaited her. Although she found solace in the simple continuity of her life in Bridgetown, there was a part of her that desperately longed for something greater.

In her childhood, Claire drank in the tales of powerful women, from Cleopatra to Joan of Arc, and some deep rooted seed of fantasy pictured a future filled of adventure and mystique. Though her life was far from mundane, Claire felt trapped. The Earth seemed to have put weights on her feet, slowly dragging her downwards, when all she wanted to do was fly… or sail.

She recalled the moment when she saw the beauty in the ocean, saw the freedom it could give her and its remarkable ability to wash away the pain of the past. Even though it had taken her parents away from her all those years ago, it had also delivered her to this magical place, and allowed her to discover her passion for healing. From the moment she stared at the vivid blue surf and white surf of the Caribbean shores, she knew that she has found her home. It was a place for her to begin again, and live a life apart from the English pomp and circumstance. The ocean delivered her to paradise, an nurtured as if she was her own. Claire Beauchamp was truly a daughter of the ocean.

Claire was so engrossed in her thoughts and cleaning that she did not hear the wooden door creak on its rusty hinges. It wasn’t until she felt a weathered hand on her shoulder that she was startled back into reality, as she swiveled around to face her Uncle Lambert, curls flying in front of her face as she whirled forward.

“Jesus H Bloody Christ! You nearly gave me a heart attack!”

Uncle Lamb chuckled as he helped his niece of the floor. “Looks like quite the battle took place in here. Who was the unfortunate victim?”

“Lieutenant Foster,” Claire replied as she smoothed her skirt and tied her hair into a bun. “He had a rather unfortunate rash.”

“Well, I’m glad you were able to help him, but I’m afraid I must cut your cleaning short. We have a guest who is very anxious to speak to you. Go make yourself presentable and meet us in the drawing room.”

Claire was perplexed by her Uncle’s abrupt command, and the circumstances of it. Very rarely did people come to the main house to see her. She participated little in the local social scene, puzzling the community with her preference for books over ballrooms.

“Might I inquire as to who this visitor is and what, exactly, they want with me?” she inquired, beginning to grow frustrated at her Uncle’s lack of explanation.

After a moment of contemplation, he responded, “You would much rather hear it from them. It really isn’t my place-”

“I will not leave this room until you tell me the purpose of this meeting and who I am to expect. I am hardly a child anymore, Uncle Lamb, and I refuse to be kept in the dark. I don’t want to go in and make a fool of myself for being unaware of our visitor’s motivations!”

Lambert was taken aback by Claire’s outburst. It was very rare that they disagreed, and even rarer when she refused to abide by his instructions. Still, he knew that she was as stubborn as a bull, and that she meant it when she said she would not leave the shed until he told her the truth. So, sighing and running a hand through his graying hair, he met Claire’s blazing amber eyes and mentally prepared himself for the inevitable maelstrom of his confession.

“It is Professor Randall, my colleague from the university. He came to ask my permission for your hand in marriage.”

Claire felt her stomach plummet. In her wildest dreams, she had not imagined herself being married, let alone to a distant figure she had only spoken to a handful of times!

She swallowed the bile rising in her throat, assuring herself that it was impossible that her Uncle had agreed for her to marry without speaking with her first. They held each other in complete and utter confidence.

“And?” Claire questioned, the distress becoming increasingly clear in her voice. “What did you say to his request?”

“I granted him my permission. You are to be married to Frank Randall.”