#sometimes its counterproductive in a way because i say that information but that information is wrong it feels wrong and it shakes me up

[the-acid-pear]

Dissociation is probably the easiest state of mind for me to notice. When any other matter is modifying my brain it's impossible for me to be sure if I'm experiencing it or not, but for dissociation is SOOO easy because I can just say my legal name and not feel weird and that just solves it 👍

[itgomyway]

is it okay to journal? i ask because, it's doing something as ego. but for me, i want to do it as a way to write down quotes, passages, and anything else i learn or want to remember. i also like to write down passages or text from non-dualism blogposts and then explain it back to myself in a "dumbed down" way for myself to grasp and understand better, without confusion.

i don't want to be counterproductive, i know that ego really doesn't need to understand everything, but i feel like for me, organizing my thoughts and information in journal form will help me consume less from the internet by having all i need in a notebook, as well as reminding me only the important things when i fall back into the habit of identifying ego or searching for external validation of things (like when i want to view a different ego and then think "but i still see this one", i'd just go into my notebook, read the important things and then little by little i stop looking for "results" or looking through the ego for validation or realization of self, 'til i eventually genuinely quiet the ego mind) i also feel like it'd help reducing the need for me to come on here asking anon questions because i'd have all the necessary info in one place 😭

if this isn't the best way to do things or there's a different way then plz lmk!! 🩵🩵

the ego as a separate entity does not exist. it can literally do whatever it wants to. you don’t have to disregard it. just stop identifying as it. when you journal, say your affirmations, shift your reality, change states, visualize, or script “you” actually aren’t doing anything to change anything. you are consciousness and this consciousness is the only thing that actually exist. everything you could ever want to get is already there. there is literally nothing you can do to gain anything else. the aforementioned only exist and matter to you because of the human condition and the ego. theres no need to take ego identification seriously.

despite the fact that the ego cannot actually do anything and how it interprets its illusions are irrelevant, theres no need to condemn what it does do. for example. limiting beliefs. sometimes you learned these beliefs and they were put there to protect you. thats not harming you. you are okay. as consciousness, you should be able to look at the situation calmly and observe however you please. be nicer to yourself 🤍

[enneamage]

I wanna talk a little bit about talk therapy because there’s a big misconception around what it is and the function it serves.

Talk therapists and most other mental health counsellors cannot give advice—this means no direct ‘you should’ ‘you shouldn’t’ or uninvited judgement statements. There are actual rules against it, and you get training to be sure that you don’t do it. While people slip and bend the rules sometimes, because of course they do and there’s always special exceptions, the modern standard of mental health intervention is not based on the worker ‘calling out’ things that they think are ‘wrong’. They follow the structure of the given therapy (since there’s more than one out there) and try to follow what the client’s stated intention for the therapy is, but there are big robust rules about keeping judgement to a minimum now.

There are some people online who use therapy as more or less a threat—“Go see a sanity officer, they’ll fix your personality/make you moral.” That doesn’t happen in reality. Most people swear by talk therapy and its results because it performs an important function of mirroring the clients back to themselves, and because they’re in a conversation with another person while feeling very lost some people don’t notice how self-directed the therapy is, but when people say things like “my therapist told me to [non-therapy thing]/my therapist yelled at me” the odds are good that it didn’t happen exactly the way they’re telling it.   

The philosophy for modern talk therapy is client-led, and gives people a place to explore their own thoughts in front of people who are trained to follow what the client says they want from the experience. The days of doctor-knows-best are gone because they were largely abusive times—the new thinking is that if you give people the tools to explore their own brain, they can and should be trusted to be self-directing. It’s a consent thing, and people shut down if you present them with something that they’re not ready or willing to deal with anyway, so pushing is counterproductive. Negative judgement is a trust killer, and a good chunk of what makes therapy work is connection.

This has changed over time so I’m sure there’s some older workers who act very differently, but that’s the current standard. Even what Dr K. does is a stretch from what talk therapy is (I respect him for bending the rules to bring mental health to the gamers but I also see what he’s up to) because he quickly starts going ‘is this your card’ and dropping advice on people, which is not often the move because of how badly it can go if you’ve got it wrong. What he runs is called coaching because it’s the job title that’s allowed to give advice and be more directive—which is what people need sometimes, and what some people are looking for.

Again, this is strangely rare information, so the public attitude and expectations for therapy just don’t reflect it. It may be a hangover from Freudian Psychoanalysis, which is still around but standards have shifted well past that by now. A lot of people go to therapy thinking that their worker is going to come at them with the mental health equivalent of a baseball bat and read them to filth, but that often doesn’t happen. They then get frustrated because they were ready to surrender to a mental health officer, but the therapist is sitting on the other end depending on the client to be proactive and self-directed in what they want.

tl;dr Talk therapy isn’t as directive as people think it is and therapists are not supposed to force change on anyone if the client themselves doesn't think it's a problem.

[a-small-batch-of-dragons]

Gödel’s Incompleteness Theorem and Wittgenstein II

Prompt: Thinks about Logan breaking his clean streak on self-harm

Thank you for the prompt, babe! I’m a massive nerd so here you go!

Read on Ao3

Warnings: Self-harm, self-doubt (kinda), our boi Logan not having a good time. Please be careful guys I messed myself up writing and editing this so PLEASE PLEASE be careful

Pairings: LAMP, DLAMP, DLAMPR, can be platonic or romantic you decide

Word Count: 6908

Gödel's Incompleteness Theorem: For any consistent formal system, there will always be statements that are true, but that are unprovable within the system. The second incompleteness theorem, an extension of the first, shows that the system cannot demonstrate its own consistency.

Wittgenstein II: For a large class of cases of the employment of the word ‘meaning’—though not for all—this word can be explained in this way: the meaning of a word is its use in the language.

*       *       *

Despite what you think it is, it’s not a cry for help. It’s not a desperate attempt at anything. It’s not out of control.

It’s just an option.

Logan is Logic. That is his job, that is what he does, that is what the others rely on him to be. Thus, he is not an accurate facsimile of a human person. He does not experience certain things that a human does, and as such, he should not be held to the same standards and expectations as a human, as he is not one.

He is not a human. He should not be treated as such.

Logan is Logic and thus he must be. He has work to do. Anything that risks interfering with the work must be avoided at all costs. Thomas relies on him to sort through the noise and arrive at the clear, simple, clean solution. Oh, yes, those solutions might not always be as clean or clear as perhaps everyone would like, but it is Logan’s job to ensure that they are as close to that projected ideal as possible. Even if they all acknowledge that such an ideal is impossible to truly achieve, that does not render it irrelevant for use.

An unfortunate side effect of being a metaphysical humanoid is that there are certain things projected onto him that have no strong basis. It is one of the many unfortunate aspects of living in a world that is so—sometimes frustratingly—anthropocentric. The inability to extricate the human bias from any given set of observations is an issue that has plagued many disciplines for centuries, from science to philosophy. Because of the influence of sensory perception on any piece of information, there will always be things that are either assumed that should not be, or things that are taken for granted when they must be considered. There will always be things that humans cannot prove. It is impossible to prove certain things within a given set while existing within the set.

Gödel’s Incompleteness Theorem.

Logan is not human, and yet he is assumed to bear more similarities to a human than he truly possesses because Thomas is human. Thomas perceives him in a specific way that is in direct opposition to the function that Logan needs to fulfill in order to be useful to Thomas.

Thomas, as a human, assumes that Logan possesses human traits such as emotion, irrationality, and the inability to behave logically separate from the two aforementioned traits.

Thomas, as a human, requires Logan to be a being of pure Logic, in order to assist in scenarios that arise from the three aforementioned traits.

Logan is what Thomas requires him to be, but he cannot exist as something that Thomas does not see.

There is a small grey area in which Logan can therefore find a solution. Thomas has an abstract awareness of the existence of Logan, but he is not directly interacting or seeing Logan when Logan is not actively working with Thomas or talking with him face to face. If Logan is not being seen at that particular moment, the bounds of his existence are allowed to modify themselves in order to be the most productive. The meaning of the word is its use in the language.

Wittgenstein II.

Logan requires himself to be a being of Logic, and thus when he is not directly seen by Thomas, he must strive as close as he can to that point in order to be the most useful. If he can perform the logic and derive the solution before Thomas sees him again, then the fact that he will once again be altered is inconsequential. All he must do is remember.

Of course, the process of getting as close to that ideal as possible is difficult. Particularly when the switch must occur directly after filming. The process is not typically one that allows for the human traits Logan bears to be kept aside. No; between Roman’s stubbornness, Patton’s exclamations, and Virgil’s interjections, the three of them combined with Thomas’s inability to keep control of them for more than approximately ten seconds ensures that Logan’s capacity to control his emotions is a moot point.

The good news is he has learned how to curtail these emotional outbursts to exclamations of excitement over Thomas’s choice to pursue something or slight judgment towards the attitude the others possess. Or sass.

Mostly sass.

And it is not as if he never allows himself to retain the more human traits when he is away from Thomas. Socializing with the others is an important aspect of his existence. If they are all to work together for Thomas’s betterment, isolation would be counterproductive. And to say that their presence was merely an obligation or necessity would be a falsehood. When he has the capacity to enjoy things, he most certainly enjoys spending time with them. And when the emotions are simpler to handle—contentment, for example, or fondness, derivatives of happiness—they are simpler to put aside when he must work.

When they are not, the process is not nearly as…clean.

Frustration. Anger. Confusion. Other derivatives of sadness. These ones are troublesome. Mainly because they do not remain static—their meanings change as often as Logan looks to see what they are. They do not always stay the same word. They switch and flip and it is quite vexing. Which, of course, only serves to exacerbate the issue. The only commonality is that they all produce and/or derive from a sense of hurt.

Therein lies the solution.

There is a—quite clever, if Logan has to admit—loophole that Logan has devised in order to get to work. Emotional pain is something that he does not—can not—understand within himself. Physical pain, on the other hand, is a survival mechanism. Processing physical pain is much simpler, more distanced, and much easier to put aside than the complicated human emotional pain.

A loophole.

One that Logan has jumped through over

and over

and over again.

Just as Logan can adjust himself based on the meaning of ‘see,’ so too can he adjust what it means to feel ‘pain.’

The loophole works, and thus it is true.

Logic.

Of course, Logan is aware that this particular loophole is not one that would be approved by many people, let alone the other Sides. They, however, can afford to retain the emotional human traits that enable them to perceive it that way.

Hurting them would be…counterproductive.

But if they do not see it…

“What you don’t know can’t hurt you.”

That is not the same thing. They have no risk of feeling the same type of pain. Nor will Logan take any measure that will endanger anyone other than himself.

Not that this is endangering himself.

It is simple. Logan needs to work. This allows him to work. There is no risk posed to anyone else, including Thomas.

Therefore it is true.

And it’s not as though Logan does this often. It’s not every day, it’s not even every other day. And it’s not much. Never that much.

Just…a quick one, two, three, four, five.

Then he can go to work.

The pain fades, as it always does, and his mind is clear, ready to be filled with the logic of what needs to be done and the quiet assurance that whatever it is will be untainted by human emotion.  Occasionally the loophole will not stay open as long as he requires, but that is easy enough to remedy.

The others do not notice—and if they have, though he doubts it, they have never let on—and as such he makes an effort to conceal the loophole to the furthest extent he can. After all, it would not be ideal for the loophole to close, preventing him from using it to work.

It’s always small. It’s always hidden. It’s always private.

And if it isn’t executed as…precisely as he anticipates, well.

The others have never question why he keeps the first aid kit in his room.

There is a brief moment, early on when they are figuring out the dynamic between the four of them, that there is a name put to the loophole that gives Logan pause.

Fortunately, it was not him they were paying attention to.

“Virgil,” Patton says quietly, sitting next to the shaking Virgil on the couch, “can you take a deep breath for me?”

Virgil shudders. Roman makes eye contact with Logan as he comes down the stairs and quickly moves them to the kitchen.

“Is everything alright?” Logan asks as they move past the counter.

“Yeah, Specs, I think so,” Roman mutters, glancing over his shoulder, “I think it’s just a panic attack.”

“‘Just,’” Logan murmurs, “does this—has this been happening more often?”

“I think so, but I haven’t—we—“

“We have not been around Virgil long enough to ascertain a pattern.” Logan glances over to Patton, still mumbling softly to Virgil. He catches his eyes and shakes his head minutely. “What do we do afterward? Do we need to grab some food, water, anything?”

“Can you go get his headphones?”

“Are they in his room?”

“…I would presume so.”

Logan sighs. “I don’t want to violate Virgil’s trust by entering his room while he’s not there.”

“I’ll just go stick my head in.”

Roman vanishes and Logan turns, purposely paying attention to his hands on the glass, on the tap, on the counter, not looking over to the living room. When Roman reappears with the headphones and a quiet ‘they were on the doorknob,’ he risks a glance back over his shoulder.

Virgil’s leaning fully into Patton’s arms now, Patton murmuring softly into his ear. His breathing seems to have slowed considerably. Patton glances up again and nods.

“That’s us,” Roman murmurs, taking the headphones as Logan grabs the glass of water and walking over to the couch.

“Hey, Stormcloud.” He sets the headphones on the couch behind Virgil and carefully takes his hand. “You doing a little better?”

“Mm.” Virgil rubs his cheek against Patton’s shirt. “Sorry.”

“There’s no need to apologize,” Logan assures, setting the glass of water down on the coffee table. “You’ve done nothing wrong.”

Virgil shifts in Patton’s arms. “It’s annoying.”

“What is,” Logan asks, “taking care of you? Of course it isn’t.”

“Logan’s right, as usual,” Roman adds with a wink.

“You’re alright, kiddo.” Patton plants a kiss on his forehead. “And you’ll never be annoying to take care of.”

“…never?”

“Never.”

“Here,” Logan says when Virgil still looks unsure, “why don’t you name everything that you think will be annoying, and we’ll tell you how it won’t be?”

“Oh, great idea, Specs.”

“…panic attacks?”

“Not at all, kiddo.”

“Insomnia?”

“You know my sleep schedule’s as off as yours,” Roman says, “what with time in the Imagination being different.”

“Nightmares?”

“Dreams are difficult,” Logan says, “even when you are awake.”

“Self-harm?”

“Never,” Patton says, Roman not far behind. Logan, however…

Logan sits quietly for a moment. He is, of course, familiar with the term, however, it is not one he’s heard in…

A while.

He offers his assurances that of course, he would be more than happy to help Virgil with any issue he may have, including self-harm, but the conversation lingers in his mind long after Virgil giggles at Roman’s antics and falls asleep on Patton’s lap. And certainly long after everyone has bid each other goodnight and Logan has retreated to his room.

Perhaps…

No. Logan is not human, and thus he cannot be held to the same standards and definitions. If this self-h—if this loophole is required in order for him to function, then it is not the same thing.

If he thinks he hears a soft hiss in the darkness as that conclusion crosses his mind, he dismisses it quickly.

…it still may be best to…attempt to refrain from using the loophole.

The loophole has not been necessary for a long time. Whether it is because Logan has gotten adept at reaching his necessary headspace without it, or there has not been sufficient ‘pain’ for the loophole to be required, there sits a shelf in his bathroom that has remained untouched for a significant period of time.

Surprisingly enough, this is one of the only things for which Logan’s impeccable sense of time does not seem to work. Neither does the possibility cross his mind that the two could be related.

Regardless, it is something of a shock when he reaches up to grab something and his fingers find the wrong shelf.

He pulls his hand back quickly, surprised to see the dull shine of blood on his finger. He glances back up.

Ah. Yes.

Well, it is always good to be aware of one’s options.

He turns the water on and runs his finger under the tap, watching the red dilute and fade, feeling the sharp little sting as the water hits the cut. After a few moments, when the water runs clear, he removes his finger and goes to dry it off when he puts pressure on the cut again.

His fingers part and there it is again. Dull, wet, and a little shiny.

He squeezes.

The blood fills the cut again.

He runs it under the tap.

Clean.

There is something strangely satisfying, he has discovered, about watching simple repetitive things. Watching the waves go out and roll back in. Watching the soft tick, tick, tick of a metronome hand going back and forth. Watching the gentle breathing of a sleeping animal.

Squeeze. Blood. Wash. Clean. Squeeze, blood, wash, clean. Squeeze blood wash clean. Squeezebloodwashclean.

There’s a knock on his bedroom door.

“Logan? You in there?”

Logan blinks. “Yes, I’m in here.”

“You coming down for dinner?”

“Yes, I’ll be down momentarily.”

“Great.”

Virgil’s footsteps trail away as Logan washes his hands. He turns off the bathroom light and locks his door behind him.

“Oh, Logan!” Patton reaches for his hand when he passes the plate back. “You’re bleeding! What happened?”

“Simply an accident,” Logan says smoothly, brushing Patton’s concerned look aside in favor of a smile, “I reached for the wrong thing in the bathroom.”

“Oh, well, alright.” Patton gives his hand a gentle squeeze. “Just be careful, alright?”

“Always.”

Janus gives him a strange look but says nothing.

Life is…good.

Thomas has been paying more attention to them recently. All of them. Virgil is talking more, Patton is explaining things, Remus is being listened to, Janus is being included, Roman is being cared for…and Logan is being seen.

It’s good. Things are…good.

And something niggles in the back of Logan’s mind, even as he smiles, talks, is with the others.

Something that tells him he has to work.

He tries. He honestly does.

He talks with the others, and they help, truly, but there are some things they cannot give him. And he cannot help them the way he needs to if he isn’t working himself.

He cannot help Patton if he is not distanced enough from the emotional turmoil.

He cannot help Virgil if he is not able to embody the logical reassurance.

He cannot help Roman if he does not offer firm, rigid guidelines.

He cannot help Remus if he is not able to critically examine his ideas.

He cannot help Janus if he can’t think.

He cannot help Thomas if he continues to be like this.

And the knowledge that he can’t help…hurts.

Well. He knows what to do.

He stands up from their dinner one evening and accepts the hug Patton gives him. Even as Patton’s arms curl around his waist, the contradictions in his head make his eyes close. It is warm but it shouldn’t be. It is safe but it shouldn’t be.

It feels good but it shouldn’t.

That’s not what Logan is for.

Roman offers him a hug too but he declines, saying he has some work to take care of. Roman pouts.

“But I haven’t had a chance to see you lately,” he says quietly, reaching out to lay a burning hand—it’s not burning, it shouldn’t feel like it’s burning, this is wrong—on Logan’s arm, “won’t you come on a walk with me? We can go to the garden you like, I’ll see if I can have the herb section all ready, too.”

It shouldn’t feel like Roman’s smile is melting Logan. It shouldn’t feel like Roman’s hand is holding him together. It shouldn’t feel like this.

“Not tonight, I’m afraid,” Logan’s mouth says, “perhaps tomorrow?”

“That’s a promise.”

Roman lets him go and turns to Patton. Logan moves to leave but finds his way blocked by Virgil.

“Oh, my apologies, I didn’t mean to run into you.”

“I did that on purpose, L, don’t worry.”

“May I ask why?”

Virgil shrugs. “Wanted to talk to you.”

It shouldn’t feel like the hairs on Logan’s neck are rising. It shouldn’t feel like his chest is getting hot. It shouldn’t feel like this.

“About…?”

He shrugs again. “Haven’t had a chance to see you a lot.”

“I can assure you that I have been present,” Logan says, “and I can distinctly remember spending time with you over the last three and a half weeks.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know, I just—“ Virgil scuffs his shoe along the carpet— “just feel like I haven’t seen you.”

Logan blinks. “I’m afraid I don’t understand.”

“Just—never mind.” Virgil waves him off. “Good luck with your work tonight.”

“Thank…you…”

Logan starts up the stairs. He gets to his room, unlocks the door, and steps inside.

It shouldn’t feel like a weight being lifted off his shoulders.

It shouldn’t feel like that weight resettles onto his chest.

It shouldn’t feel like his hands are tingling.

Logan bites back a curse and goes to the bathroom.

It’s gone too far. He—he can’t make it to his work headspace on his own. They’re too loud. There are too many of them. He can’t focus. He has to stop this. He has to remove himself from this set.

He can’t fail Thomas like this.

No one can see him.

He has to change what it means to feel pain.

Gödel’s Incompleteness Theorem and Wittgenstien II.

Logan takes a deep, slow breath.

In.

Out.

He knows how to do this.

Get to the bathroom, close the door. Now there are more walls between him and everyone else.

Turn on the shower. It’ll be easier to clean up.

Put the blade right next to the razor. If necessary, blame the razor.

In.

Out.

In.

Out.

Always in the same place.

Ignore the other scars.

Pull the skin taut.

Make it precise.

Step a little more out of the water.

Remain in control.

Don’t grip the blade so hard it trembles.

Where no one can see.

In.

Out.

In.

Out.

In…

Out…

One.

Two.

Three.

Four.

Five.

In.

Out.

Now the other side.

Reach over.

Step so the water doesn’t run over either thigh.

Ignore the blood running down the other leg.

Pull the skin taut.

Make it symmetrical.

Adjust the grip on the blade.

Don’t bite the lip until it bleeds either.

Ignore the shine on the blade.

If the lines aren’t right they will have to be fixed to match.

Don’t be sloppy.

Do this right.

In.

Out.

One.

Two.

Three.

Four.

Five.

Logan leans his head back and closes his eyes. The blade is set down onto the smooth side of the shower. Water runs over his hair, down his back. The temperature is warm.

The water beats down over his head, his neck, his shoulders, his back. Unbidden, his shoulders relax and slump, his head bowing forward under the guidance of the water.

He cups his arms over his chest and turns. The water pools in the cavity of his arms, overflowing until it laps gently as his collarbones and down the creases of his elbows, landing with soft smacks on the shower floor. He watches it land, watches the little ripples and distortions from the falling water refract little artifacts of light onto his arms through the surface. Watches the water slowly start to run a faint red as he lets the water begin to run down his legs.

It hurts.

It stings and sticks and it isn’t clean, not by any means. It hurts and it feels and it’s the perfect loophole for Logan to jump through.

Now, if he closes his eyes, he should see—

Roman’s soft voice asking if he wants to go on a walk.

Patton’s hug, wrapping him up perfectly.

Virgil’s quiet remark that he hasn’t seen Logan recently.

No.

No, no, no!

Logan’s eyes fly open and he looks down. He—this should’ve worked. He jumped, he jumped, he used the loophole, this should be—

The blood is gone. It’s all gone. The tile isn’t stained, the water isn’t stained, everything is clean. But it—it hasn’t worked, did he—

The cuts are uneven. They’re too short on one side, too tilted on the other. They’re too faint. They’ve already stopped bleeding. They already blend in with the other scars.

No!

No, no, no, he has to—

This has to work.

He has to work.

Okay, okay he can do it—do it again. Do it properly.

Grab the blade.

Don’t worry about the grip.

One,

Two,

Three,

Four,

Five,

Six.

Okay. Now to the other side.

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six.

Patton’s laugh. Roman’s touch. Virgil’s gaze.

One two three four five six seven.

One two three four five six seven.

No, no, no, no, why isn’t this working? This should be working, he shouldn’t be feeling this anymore, has he—has he forgotten how to do it right?

It’s been too long, he doesn’t remember, this isn’t how this is supposed to work, the loophole should’ve stayed open, he needs it to stay open, he has to—he has to work, he isn’t useful if he can’t work!

Don’t worry about the numbers.

Overload the system.

Drown it out.

Drown it out.

Ignore the dull red shine all over the tile, the blade, the legs, the fingers.

Drown it out.

Make it stop, make everything go away.

Ignore the sting, if the feeling is still there it hasn’t worked.

Drown it out.

Drown it out.

Ignore the knocking on the door, it’s not there.

Drown it out, drown it out.

“Logan?”

“Logan, are you in there?”

Drown it out drown it out.

“Logan! Logan!”

“Logan I swear I’m gonna break your door down!”

Drown it out drown it out

“Logan! Logan, can you hear us?”

“Damnit, Logan, answer!”

Drown it out drown it out drown it out drown it out drown it out drown it out drownitoutdrownitoutdrownitoutdrownitoutdrownitoutdrownitoutdrownitoutdrownitoutdrownitoutdrownitoutdrownitoutdrownitoutdrownitoutdrownitoutdrownitoutdrownitoutdrownitoutdrownitoutdrownitoutdrownitoutdrownitoutdrownitoutdrownitoutdrownitoutdrownitoutdrownitoutdrownitoutdrownitoutdrownitoutdrownitoutdrownitoutdrownitoutdrownitoutdrownitoutdrownitoutdrownitoutdrownitoutdrownitoutdrownitoutdrownitoutdrownitoutdrownitout

drown

it

out

…

Logan blinks.

The shower is covered in a dull, red, wet, shine.

His thighs burn.

His hands carefully set the blade down on the tiled edge.

The water runs over him, running and running and running.

Slowly, slowly, slowly, it runs from red to pink to clear.

Logan stands and shuts off the water.

The towel is black.

He dries.

He dresses.

His clothes are black.

His hair is wet.

He puts his glasses on.

Mutterings are coming from the other side of his door when he exits the bathroom, shutting the door behind him. He tilts his head.

“I don’t know what’s going on!”

“He seemed alright at dinner, what’s—“

“He was not alright at dinner, in fact I don’t know how long it’s been since he’s been alright—“

“I swear to unholy fuck I’m gonna break this fucking door down.”

“Please do not break my door down,” Logan says.

The voices stop.

“…Logan? Logan, is that you?”

“It’s me.”

“Oh thank god—“

“Are you alright?”

“Why didn’t you answer?”

“If you don’t open this fucking door—“

“Alright, alright, I’ll open the door, one moment.”

Logan opens the door and takes a step aside as the others spill into his room, Patton and Roman looking around, Virgil taking up residence on the desk. Remus walks in slowly, followed by Janus. Janus shuts the door and stares at Logan.

“Why didn’t you answer at first,” Patton asks quickly, “we were worried, did you—where were you?”

Logan indicates his wet hair. “In the shower, I’m afraid. It is both quite difficult and quite…impractical to come to the door while occupied.”

“Oh…okay.”

He adjusts his glasses. “May I ask why you were all outside my door to begin with? It has only been…a little while since I’ve last seen you.”

“A little while,” Janus muses, still staring at Logan. “How long exactly?”

Logan tilts his head, eying the clock over Janus’s shoulder. “Thirty-five minutes and forty-six seconds.”

“And why would you need to look at the clock?”

“…surely all of you are no stranger to losing track of time in the shower.”

He gets a round of vague agreements from Virgil, Patton, and Roman. Remus remains silent, prowling around the room.

“We are not,” Janus murmurs, “but you…”

Logan swallows. “You have not answered my question.”

“We,” Patton says, gesturing to himself and to Roman, “followed Virgil.”

Virgil hunkers on Logan’s desk. “I came because I heard Remus and Janus shouting.”

“…and why were you shouting?”

Janus just stares at him.

Logan’s throat begins to run dry.

“…Janus?”

“I believe you know the answer, Logan.”

He swallows. “You must be mistaken.”

“Please,” Janus says, almost too quiet for the others to hear, “don’t make me do this.”

Logan swallows heavily.

“Do what?”

Something flickers across Janus’s face as he looks at Logan.

He looks at Remus.

He nods.

No.

No, no no.

Logan was so careful.

He can’t—

Remus reels back and kicks Logan’s bathroom door open.

“Remus!”

Remus pays Patton no mind, striding in and away from Logan, even as Roman rushes after him.

Logan is frozen.

“Remus, what’re you—hey!” Roman makes an indignant noise as Remus shoves him back out through the door. “Remus!”

Logan can feel Janus’s eyes on him as he scans Remus’s hands. He’s not holding it. Did he—did he miss it? Is something—

He knows when his gaze flicks up to catch Remus’s that he’s been well and truly caught.

“You do know what my job is,” Remus hisses, “don’t you?”

Logan raises his chin. “And you know what mine is.”

“If you think that even begins to explain this—“

“Explain what?” Roman looks frantically back and forth between the three of them. “What the hell is going on here?”

No.

No, no, no, no, no, Logan was so—he was—he’s been—it can’t—why didn’t it just work? He could’ve been fine, this would’ve worked, he could’ve worked, he wasn’t—how did they see?

“Logan?”

“Logan, look at me.”

“Lo, you’re panicking—“

“Way to go, you two, look what you’ve done.”

“We’re trying to help him!”

“You’ve messed up a perfectly good Logan, that’s what you did. Look at him, he’s having a panic attack!”

“Logan,” comes a soft voice in front of him, blocking out the others into a distant murmur, “Logan, look at me.”

Logan blinks.

Remus’s face swims into view, concerned. He reaches out to cup Logan’s face in his hands.

“You’re panicking, Lolo,” he says quietly, “you gotta calm down.”

“I’m not panicking,” Logan tries to say, only his throat won’t work.

“Why are you doing this,” he tries again, but nothing’s happening.

“What’s happening to me,” he tries desperately, only for nothing, nothing to work.

It isn’t until Remus’s thumbs come away damp that he realizes he’s crying.

“Lo—a little help here!”

“Logan!”

Logan collapses into Remus, who quickly wraps his arms around his waist and pulls him into a seated position, cradling the limp form in his lap. Roman, who rushed forward when Remus cried out, pulls him closer, laying his legs across his lap, not caring that his trousers started to soak.

“Easy there, Specs,” Roman hushes, hand drawing little patterns on Logan’s damp knee, “shh, shh, you’re okay.”

Then he looks down.

Logan can pinpoint the moment Roman sees the patterns of wetness through his jeans.

Roman’s eyes widen.

“Oh, Logan…”

“Can someone please tell me what the fuck is going on?”

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Janus turn toward Patton and Virgil. He can’t move. He can’t—it hurts, it hurts—

“Oh, sweetheart,” Roman murmurs, cupping the backs of Logan’s legs, “oh, sweetheart, I’m so sorry.”

“Fuck!”

“Oh my gosh—“

“Logan—“

“Oh, kiddo—“

Oh. Virgil and Patton are here now. Great. Is it great? What is—how does this—Logan hurts.

Janus crouches down by his face, gently cupping his cheek and leaning forward to rest their foreheads together.

“Come on, sweetie,” he whispers, “I know it hurts, but you have to breathe.”

Is he—has he been quiet this whole time?

“At the very least you’ve got to breathe. In an out, come on.”

In.

Out.

In.

Out.

No…

That didn’t work last time…it didn’t work…it didn’t…

“…didn’t work,” Logan mumbles, “it didn’t work.”

“We’re not trying that, sweetie,” Janus says easily, “we’re trying something else. I still need you to breathe for me.”

Logan breathes.

“Shh, shh, there you go, just like that…” Someone rubs his knee gently. “Just like that.”

They’re all here. They can all see. They can—does that mean Thomas can see? IS that why Logan—is that why it’s been so hard?

“None of that now, sweetie,” Janus chides, lightly chucking Logan under the chin, “stay here, stay with me…no drifting off just yet.”

They’re all here.

Virgil frowns. Then he glances at Patton. “Pat, let’s go get L something to drink.”

“But—I—“

“It’s too much for him, Pat,” Virgil says softly, “with all of us here, he’s getting overwhelmed. Let’s go and then we’ll come back, yeah?”

“O-okay.”

As they leave, Roman shifts to let them by, and the fabric rubs right over the cuts, making Logan hiss through his teeth. Even though it’s quickly shushed by Janus, he doesn’t miss Roman’s wince.

“Yeah, denim over the fresh ones is rough, isn’t it?”

Logan goes absolutely still.

Judging by the way Remus growls and Janus turns, that’s news to them too.

Roman just looks at them all and raises an eyebrow.

“Oh, please. It’s not all long sleeves and pants all summer for no reason.”

“R-Roman, you—you—?”

“Yeah, Specs,” Roman murmurs when Logan can’t find his words, “me too.”

“Oh, we are not done with this conversation,” Remus mutters, softening slightly as he turns his attention back to Logan, “but c’mon, Lolo, you gotta—you gotta believe we’re as shocked about you, too.”

“But—“ Logan stammers— “but you—Roman you—you’re—“

“What, Logan,” Roman prompts gently, “what am I?”

“You’re—you can feel, and—and—“

“I can feel, Specs, that’s true.” A rueful smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. “And I’m sure that the…idea that it’s not always ideal isn’t that foreign to you, huh?”

“But you have to feel to work, I—I can’t, the loophole—“

“What loophole,” Remus asks sharply, “Logan, what are you talking about?”

“I—“

Janus cups his head again, easing himself down, mindful of Logan’s legs. “Why don’t you explain that to us, sweetie,” he says softly, “help us understand?”

“You—I—“ Logan tries to breathe. “I…I have to be useful. I have to—I have to be Logic. You—you all…Thomas needs Logic.”

“So...?”

“So I—Thomas still sees us as people, or—or at least Sides of people which means he end—endows us with certain human traits and—and qualities.”

Janus nods.

“I can’t—in order to be useful I can’t feel, I have to be Logic.” Logan swallows. “But if Thomas can see me then I have to be what he sees.”

He swallows again.

“So if I take myself out, then I can—then I can be Logic.”

“But that doesn’t necessarily mean you aren’t what Thomas thinks you are anymore,” Roman asks gently, “so you…aren’t you still in the…aren’t you still in?”

“The meaning of words is dependent—“ Logan swallows— “dependent on the context, so if I can change the—the context then I can take myself—myself out.”

Roman squints. “I’m afraid I don’t understand.”

“Oh, Logan,” Janus murmurs, “are you telling us that you’ve determined that this is the correct course of action through logical principles?”

“Excuse me he’s done what?”

“You cannot prove certain things about a set while using the language of the set,” Janus says softly, his gaze locked on Logan’s, “and the meaning of a word is dependent on its use within the language. Does that sound familiar?”

Logan nods. “Gödel’s Incompleteness Theorem and Wittgenstein II.”

“You’re operating under the assumption that your role as Logic is the determining factor,” Janus continues, “and that in order to fulfill that role to its greatest potential, you must remove yourself from the set of emotional beings, including a re-contextualization of what it means to feel.”

He nods.

“But if the language has become re-contextualized, then attempting to operate under all the other assumptions the previous language affords is illogical, let alone the fact that it renders the act of removing oneself from the set redundant. Another language is required to derive a solution ytt it would be impossible to translate the solution into the language of the original set.”

Janus cocks his head.

“And haven’t you yourself created an assumption about the nature of the original set? The role you play within it and its very existence prevents your leaving of it in its entirety.”

And Logan’s poor, tired, illogical brain is so, so lost.

In the distance, Roman huffs. “Okay, so I’ve got no idea what the fuck we’re currently talking about.”

“Same here,” comes Remus’s voice.

Janus smiles gently. “You’ve overlooked something, sweetie,” he says, stroking Logan’s cheek, “about you and how much we care.”

“What…what did I miss?”

“You said that you need to be useful.”

Roman makes an ‘ah’ sound. “You could’ve just led with that instead of showing off.”

“I most certainly was not.”

“Yeah, you were, Janny, shut up.”

Roman shakes his head fondly and leans closer. “You don’t have to be useful, Logan, nor do you have to worry about not being exactly what you think you do.”

“B-but—“

“Shh,” Roman murmurs, gently stroking Logan’s leg, “can I talk for a minute, sweetheart?”

Logan nods.

“Thank you…you think that you’re not being you because you’re getting emotional, yeah?”

“Yes.”

“Okay…well, have you considered that you’ve got a warped perspective of yourself because it’s being affected by your own perception?”

Janus turns to Roman. “My, my, Roman, discussing the limits of sensory perception?”

“I do listen to my dear darling nerd,” Roman hums, lightly showing Janus’s shoulder, “but anyway, Logan, you have to realize then, that means that you can’t objectively say you do or you don’t have these traits because you’re being affected by them.”

“Gödel,” comes Janus’s voice.

“Yeah,” Remus says, “and also that just because you think you’re only wanted because you’re useful doesn’t mean that we think that.”

“And there’s Wittgenstein II.”

Oh.

Oh.

“Isn’t that what you told us,” Remus continues, “that you can’t logic your way out of everything? You’re no exception to that, Lolo.”

“Logic can be used in a lot of ways to justify all sort of things,” Janus agrees, lightly tapping Logan’s cheek, “and just because something may be logically valid doesn’t make it true.”

“That’s why we have you.”

Logan balks at Roman’s words. “M-me?”

“Yeah, sweetheart,” Roman smiles, “you. You with your feelings and your care and your you-ness. You’re a part of this set and you’re not going anywhere.”

“And we don’t want you to.”

Logan’s thighs burn.

“Shh, shh, sweetie,” Janus hushes as tears start to well up in Logan’s eyes again, “it’s okay, we’ll help you—oh, sweetie, it hurts, doesn’t it?”

“Yes.”

“Will you let us help you clean them?”

Unbidden, Logan’s face flares bright red.

“You don’t have to be embarrassed, sweetie…”

Roman gently nudges Remus’s arm. “Let me. You two go check on Patton and Virgil.”

“What?”

“Roman—“

“Come on,” Roman coaxes, “it’s not like I don’t have the practice.”

“We are so not done with this conversation,” Remus mutters as he squeezes Logan’s waist, “but is that okay, Lolo?”

Logan nods. Better just one than all.

“We’ll be back,” Janus promises, giving his cheek one last pat as he leaves.

“Easy does it,” Roman murmurs as he starts to lean Logan back against the wall, “do you have a long shirt?”

Logan motions wordlessly toward the closet. Roman finds the softest shirt Logan owns—how Roman knows is beyond him—and lays it gently in Logan’s lap.

“Change,” he says softly, letting their foreheads rest together for a moment, “I won’t look.”

The cuts have dried to the jeans and they burn, Logan biting his lip to keep from crying out as he gets them off. He’s panting by the time he’s done. Roman turns back with the first aid kit in his hands and kneels down. Logan stares at a spot on the floor, far away.

“Alright,” he says, pulling out the wipes and bandages, “Logan?”

“Mm?”

“You tell me to stop, I stop dead,” Roman promises, “but you must tell me, alright?”

“I will.”

“Thank you, sweetheart. This may sting a bit.”

It does, but Roman is careful and thorough and far too good at this.

“How do you think it was for us,” Roman whispers when Logan voices that last part, “when we realized?”

“My apologies.”

“Oh, no, sweetheart, that’s not what I meant. I just meant that you’re so important to us, Logan, you, that this…this hurts. And I don’t ever want you to think that this is necessary for us to love you.”

Love.

The word stutters in Logan’s throat.

“Too much?” Oh. Roman must think it’s his legs. “Here…”

Roman reaches out and gently rests Logan’s hands on his shoulders.

“There…Keep your hands on my shoulders. Then if something hurts too much, you give me a squeeze and let me know, hmmm?”

“…okay.”

Love…

One of the larger cuts stings horribly as Roman begins to clean it and Logan tenses, his hands gripping Roman’s shoulders.

“Hurt?”

“A little.”

“Here…” Roman leans down and blows a stream of cool air over the cut. “…better?”

“Yeah.”

“Good. I’m almost done.” He carefully applies the bandages, smoothing his hand across them as he finishes. “There…all better.”

He packs away the first aid kit, only to pause and look up when Logan’s still staring at the same spot on the floor. He stops, setting the kit aside and taking a seat near his hips, reaching and twisting to cup Logan’s face in his hands.

“Hey,” he calls gently, “talk to me, sweetheart.”

Logan wets his suddenly-dry lips. “I don’t think I’ve…processed this yet.”

“That’s okay, Lo, it’s not gonna be a quick thing.” Roman glances back. “And certainly not if it’s been happening for a long time. Though, if it’s any consolation, I don’t think any of us have fully processed it either.”

“I…”

Logan gets interrupted by a gentle knock on the door.

“Can we let them in, sweetheart?” Logan nods. “Come in.”

Patton appears first, holding a glass of water out to him. Virgil comes in next, holding a massive pile of blankets, helped by Janus. He can hear Remus take the kit and put it away.

“Hey, there, kiddo,” Patton whispers as Logan starts to drink, “there you go…thank you.”

“How’re you doing, L?” Virgil tilts his head a little. “All things considered?”

All things considered…

Logan takes a deep breath and turns, trying to look at his legs.

Before he can, Remus has his hands over his eyes.

“Ah!”

“Sorry, Lolo,” Remus mutters, “but even I don’t think that’s a good idea right now.”

“…if I don’t look, it—I…”

Did it happen? Did I—did it work, did I not—did I do it wrong? It has to be done right, I need to—dull, red, wet, shine, one, two, three, four—

“…alright,” Remus whispers, removing his hands.

The bandages cover most of it.

His hands tremble.

It hurts.

It hurts.

“H-help me.”

“I’m here,” Roman says instantly, rushing forward to pull Logan into a tender hug, “I’m right here, sweetheart, I’m right here.”

He tries to hug him back but his arms are shaking too much so he can’t.

And this, more than anything, is what makes him finally start to fall apart.

“Oh, sweetheart…”

Roman adjusts his grip, settling Logan’s arms over his shoulders. He cradles Logan like he’s something precious, something true.

“Can we help,” comes Patton’s strangled whisper, “can we help too, Logan?”

“Please?”

Patton is behind him in an instant. Remus clings onto him from the side. Virgil wraps them all in one of the weighted blankets as Janus pulls Logan’s legs into his lap.

“Don’t worry about figuring anything out right now,” Patton murmurs, “or jumping through any loopholes. Just…just be for a little bit, yeah?”

Logic disappears in a soft puff as Logan buries his head in Roman’s shoulder and cries.

Set complete.

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[vanderlindemorgans]

Cross My Heart (Chapter 5)

Pairing: Agent Whiskey x Reader

Rating: Explicit/18+

Summary: A traitorous Agent Whiskey returns to the United States on the run. Being cast out by Statesman, he soon finds that you’re the only person he can turn to - the embittered former flame from years long passed

Word count: 7.5k

Warnings: Eventual smut, some references to alcoholism and drug use. Reader is in her late twenties but there is an age gap between her and Whiskey. Chapter specific warnings: one scene takes place in a hospital, some medical talk, more heavy drinking, talk of death and alcoholism (specifically related to drunk driving), mentions of drug addiction, Whiskey being a dick, lotta heavy topics in general.

Read on AO3 | Previous Chapter | Next Chapter | Masterlist

“Alright, so the X-Rays have come back and as you can probably already guess your left arm has been fractured”.

The news hadn’t been a shock to you at all - it was only logical that the result of being thrown off the back of a horse was your arm breaking from the impact of the fall, nevermind the sheer amount of pain that it had already caused you was even more indication that something was definitely wrong there. All things considered, it still wasn’t a pleasant piece of news to receive, causing you to let out a low groan as you settled back into the hospital gurney they had allocated to you after the ambulance had pulled you in. Dressed in only a hospital gown, you felt the chill from the room's air conditioning prick the edges of your skin, the coolness of temperature making the whole experience even more foreign to you. Of course, it wasn’t like you’d never been to a hospital before - an unlucky bout of croup had sent you to the emergency room as a little kid when you’d almost stopped breathing. At the resurgence of that particular memory you felt yourself shudder, recalling the hours spent passed out in a brightly lit room and being forced to drink gross tasting liquid that was meant to clear up your airways. At least you weren’t choking on your own breath this time round. 

“Well that’s just fantastic. How long will it take to heal? I kinda got a ranch to run” you asked the doctor, who was standing off to the side consulting the clipboard nestled against his arm. Sighing, he looked up at you with a look of sympathy while he ran through the information he’d jotted down on his notes. “Usually it takes twelve weeks for fractures to heal - given the fact that a good part of your arm has been displaced you’ll need to be put into surgery to shift the bone back into place, which we’ll have scheduled for you in the next twenty-four hours. Afterwards, I’ll be putting you in a cast for a couple of weeks and you’ll have to come back in for checkups weekly. I’ll also give you a list of rehabilitation exercises you can do to ensure the recovery process goes as smoothly as possible” he explained. “After your surgery and subsequent discharge, I heavily recommend a few days bed rest due to the concussion you have sustained”.  

“So I’m guessing most physical labour is out then” you muttered under your breath, sighing once you realized how heavily this would impact your ability to keep things running smoothly back at the ranch. Yes, you had employees but without you to oversee everything things would slow down and descend into madness real quickly. You wished you had allocated some sort of second in command for times like this, a manager of sorts to keep things in place while you recovered but you’d just never gotten around to it, brushing the thought aside every time it sprung up with a simple “Why would I need extra help anyway? Nothing ever happens around here”. 

“You’d be correct on that. Now, I have some other patients to check on but I will be back in about 20 minutes or so to prep you for surgery, though I will send a nurse to give you some painkillers so you can stop feeling the worst of the pain for at least a little while” he replied. You went to thank him but before you could you felt a light touch graze along your right arm. Your eyes glanced over to where Jack’s hand was placed, his touch delicate and comforting, sparking that same feeling in your chest that you’d felt when he’d stroked your forehead back at the ranch. His eyes met your own for a moment, deep cedar brown looking at you with nothing more than concern and worry, somehow pulling at a single string of your heart even though you wanted to fight against it with all your might.

Snapping you focus back into place, you nodded back over to the doctor and thanked him for all he was doing, listening to his reassurances that he’d have you fixed up as soon as possible as he hurried on out of the room to his next patient in need. Once he was gone, you exhaled in annoyance and went back to staring aimlessly at the ceiling, mulling over the inconvenience of your predicament. 

“Everything ok, sugar?” you heard Jack ask you, feeling his enchanting eyes study your expression, his anxiety over your wellbeing plain as day. Letting out a small laugh, you returned his question with a small smile of your own. “Does it look like I’m ok?” you joked, gesturing vaguely to your fractured arm. 

He chuckled at your sarcasm, always enjoying that certain fire you had to your character that refused to silence itself. Unbeknownst to you, that was one of things that drew him towards you in the first place - his own air of cockiness and confidence was equally matched by your spitfire and sarcastic wit. Finding out the sweet disposition that lay behind that harshness the first time round had taken him by complete surprise, but only did more to endear himself to you. God, he was such a fool for losing that. He was certain that your sweetness was still there, closed behind even more layers of hurt and pain that he’d caused such a large hand in. 

From the moment the ambulance had arrived, Jack had stayed beside you, refusing to leave for even a single moment. It was quite endearing, truth be told, a feeling that attempted to worm its way through your steadfast reasoning against him. He’s a liar. Don’t fall for his shit again, you repeated to yourself. Though it was becoming harder and harder to continue regarding him as your greatest mistake when he was behaving so kindly and gentlemanly towards you. Just a part of his deceptive charm, I guess, you thought bitterly. 

“Y’know, you don’t have to worry about things gettin’ outta hand down at the ranch. I’m more than happy to step up and help” he spoke up, snapping your attention back to his words and out of your own contemplation. You thought about his proposal for a minute, the temptation to say yes seeming very appealing towards you, though somehow that felt like admitting to weakness. The ranch wasn’t his responsibility, it was yours, left to you by your dear parents. It was your obligation to run it in their stead - there’d been difficulties along the way, sure, including the occasional nasty cold every now and then but you had pulled through without any trouble. You didn’t need help or any sort of handout, and you were more than capable of taking care of business by yourself, even with a broken arm.

Then again, it is gonna be kinda hard to run a business while being confined to bed rest. Briefly you thought about just closing the ranch for a couple of days while you got back on track yet once you thought about the loss in profits you discarded that idea quickly. It wasn’t like you were struggling to make ends meet but a dip in profits could cause a bit of issue. 

“Yeah but...It’s my responsibility. I can’t just ignore that because I got a stupid broken arm” you rebuffed, though you didn’t sound entirely convinced of what you were saying yourself. Sadly, stubbornness was your nature and even if you knew you were fighting a losing battle, sometimes it was more about the principle of having a position rather than whatever thing you were debating over. Some would say that was quite a counterproductive way to look at things, and you’d agree with them, yet you still remained stubborn in spite of them, feeding back into the cycle.  

“Darlin’, with all due respect, I think what’s best for you is that you take a step back and let someone else take the reins. You need to allow yourself to rest a lil. Tell me, in all the years of runnin’ the ranch by yourself, have you ever once taken a day off?”. 

“No, but-”.

“Exactly as I thought. You’ve been doing an amazing job at keeping things together for all these years, sweetheart, but you gotta relax a bit. Let me help you” he interrupted, gazing at you with those heart-meltingly sweet eyes of his, a look which made you seize up ever so slightly in minor fake annoyance. Little shit, he had to be doing that on purpose.

“Fine, only if it’ll get you to shut up” you relented, rolling your eyes in a dramatic fashion and hitting your head back down into the pillow below, eliciting a playful smirk from him in return. “That’s my girl, stubborn as always” he jested. 

To that you cocked an eyebrow at him in disbelief. “Your girl? Careful there, Jack, for a minute I thought you were capable of genuine compassion and care. I may have once been your girl, cowboy, but not anymore. Or did you happen to forget?”. 

His own expression softened slightly in regards to your snide remark, his mischievous grin faltering while he turned his gaze to the floor, looking somewhat sheepish towards what you had said, a far cry from his usual air of arrogance. “Yeah, I guess I deserve that” he murmured. “Tell me, sugar, do you ever think one day you’ll believe me when I say that I’m sorry?”. 

“When pigs fly, dearest” you smiled with a shit-eating grin, though you couldn’t miss that momentary flash of hurt in his eyes that made you pull back, a sharp pang striking through your chest that hurt harder than the agonizing ache in your arm, which really, was saying something. Could that be...guilt, perhaps?, you thought, searching Jack’s face for any further sign of offense. If he was feeling hurt, he was doing a pretty stellar job at hiding it. Maybe it was nothing, and even if he was hurt, well, he said it himself, he deserved it. Without giving you another minute to ponder your own feelings, a welcome interruption in the arrival of a nurse found you, shifting your thoughts towards the relief of finally getting some painkillers into you. 

___

The surgery had gone over well, and after a grueling day spent hanging out in that hospital room hopped up on painkillers you were finally discharged late afternoon the following day. The worst of your concussion had cleared itself up too yet you were still confined to your bed for those first few days - the doctor was insistent on that fact, saying you could never be too careful. You’d begrudgingly complied, not wanting to cause any further problems to your health, and even if you had tried to go against the doctor’s orders, you knew that Jack would be there to send you off back to bed if you dared lift a finger. 

Jack had doted on you the entire time, making sure you were well hydrated and cool enough in the midst of the hot Texas summer, fetching you snacks and whatever else you needed from downstairs. In his own words, what kind of man would he be if he didn’t take care of an ailing woman. You’d rolled your eyes and insisted that he didn’t have to go all out with looking after you yet he’d insisted. It was somewhat heartwarming, and it felt nice to be taken care of again after those last few years alone. It reminded you of when you’d come down with the flu back in third grade, staying home in bed lazily watching television and barely being able to keep your eyes open while your mum made soup in the kitchen. You could feel your heart drop at the mere recollection of your parents, pain that stayed beneath the surface rising up in full force. Usually you pushed those feelings down, not wanting to become distracted from the business, but today, you allowed yourself the indulgence of missing them. What would they think if they could see you now? Would they be proud, or disappointed? 

Feeling your stomach grumble, you shifted over in bed and reached your only good arm out to grab onto the half-eaten grilled cheese Jack had brought in for you five minutes before, letting out a low wince at the pain that writhed through your other arm, which had been placed into a cast and sling for the time being. Already you couldn’t wait for the day you could get the damned thing taken off - you hadn’t been able to shower and you felt grotty and gross. It wasn’t like you had to impress anyone, it was just you and Jack lying about the place. Still, you could only take so many days of waking up with unwashed greasy hair. And it was itchy too. Oh dear god, it was fucking itchy. You’d heard about how itchy the plaster could get second-hand but you never anticipated it to be that bad. 

Directing your eyes to the clock on your bedside, you took notice of the time and let out a small relieved sigh. You could finally take another one of those painkillers, the fourth and dismally last one for you of the day. 

Your relief quickly fizzled out into disappointment when you realised the packet of painkillers that had been sitting by your bedside was empty. “Seriously? It’s only been a few days, I couldn’t have gone through them already…” you muttered to yourself in annoyance. Nevermind, there was another packet downstairs. You may have been perfectly capable of getting out of bed and retrieving it yourself, though you found yourself not wanting to be bothered with such a task. “Hey Jack, you there? I ran out of painkillers, could ya run some up to me?” you called out.

“Sure thing, sweetheart” you heard him shout back, and no more than two minutes later he was striding through your bedroom door, carrying exactly what you had requested within his palms. “How are you feelin’?” he asked. 

“No better than six minutes ago when you last asked me that. Thanks for bringing these up though, fuck that stupid horse for bucking me off” you grumbled, sniping the blessed white packet out of his hands and into your fingers. “Pain making you grumpy, sweet girl? You seem a bit more full of spitfire than usual today” he joked. 

“Nah, you’re getting the discounted version today. If I wanted to vocalise exactly what I was feeling right now you’d be obliterated in a second” you laughed, chucking a tablet into your mouth and washing it down with a large gulp of water, anxious to feel some semblance of relief. 

“You don’t say. How’s your head doing, though? No dizziness or anything like that?”. 

“I’m fine, Jack, I promise. You don’t have to fawn all over me just because I broke my dumb arm” you assured, rolling your eyes at him. 

“I wouldn’t call in fawning, I only want to make sure you're comfortable and all that. Not only because of your arm and all” he smiled gently, reaching out to brush a stray hair off your forehead. It could have been the heat of the room but you could have sworn your skin felt on fire the moment he touched you. You could feel him press the back of his fingers against your head, unconsciously allowing your breath to hitch at his touch. And just like that, the warmth of his hand was gone, leaving an invisible searing mark in its place and your own head full of frenzied and confused thoughts. 

“Like I said earlier, just call out if you need anything else, alright darlin’?” he said as he was leaving, words that you didn’t care to take notice of as he left you to yourself again. Blinking slowly, you couldn’t even fully begin to describe what had just taken place, or why one little gesture was throwing your mind into somersaults. Why did his mere touch have to affect you like that? Why couldn’t he just leave you alone? Groaning loudly, you settled yourself underneath the sheet covering you and huffed at nobody in particular, cursing both yourself and him for even existing. For fucks sake...

___

Taking a sip of bourbon from your glass, you leaned against the side of the stairs of the veranda with your gaze fixated off into the distance, though you didn’t take any notice of what lay ahead, lost deep in your own thoughts that clouded your mind. It’d been a couple more days, and you’d finally been able to get out of bed and get back to helping out around the ranch - not that you were still of any use to anyone, given the state of your arm. It felt good to be back overseeing things, albeit a bit more behind the scenes than you had been in years. It’d be a good month or so before you were able to move your arm properly and have things back to normal. At first that fact did nothing short of irritating you, since you weren’t one to lie about helpless when work needed to be done. Over the last few days though, seeing the ranch go about with business as usual with Jack’s extra help had put you at ease a little. It still bothered you somewhat that you had to be asking any sort of help from Jack Daniels of all people, though really, he was the one offering it in the first place so you hadn’t so much as asked him to do anything, moreso conceding to his instistance at the behest of your stubbornness. 

The pain was getting a little better too, though whether that had more to do with the painkillers or not remained to be seen. For example, you couldn’t feel anything now but you had just ingested two glasses of pure straight bourbon, so of course any type of pain would be numbed. Remember when it could numb more than just that? You let out a small snicker at the thought, sounding as hollow and empty as it felt. Once upon a time you might have been classed as relatively lightweight, a fact that changed after years of the trials and tribulations life had thrown your way. You still got drunk easy, but it took a good few glasses before you actually passed out.

“You know, you should let me sign that for ya”. 

Hearing that familiar voice ring out from behind you, you swivel around so see its owner standing right in the opened doorway of your home, his hands casually resting in his pockets and his frame leant against the wall. “What are we, in middle school? I don’t want it getting dirty” you scoffed, rolling your eyes at him for good measure. 

He smirked right back at you, letting out a small snicker that mirrored your own. “Why not? It’s not like you're gonna have to be wearin’ it forever. A little scribble in permanent marker wouldn’t do ya any harm” Jack grinned, taking a large step forward to descend down to your level, seating himself right next to you on the veranda. You cocked an eyebrow at him, letting your fingertips trail over the edge of the glass in your hands while you stared at him with utter audacity. “And yet I know you’re only so persistent in signing it because you’ll write something crude or vaguely flirty” you snipped. 

“How little you think of me, sugar. I’d never dream of doin’ such a thing. I am nothing if not a gentleman”. 

“Oh, do cut the charm, Jack. What is it you want?”.

“Please, can’t a man share a glass of bourbon with a lady without being subjected to the Spanish Inquisition?” he asked, wearing his devilish and frustratingly charming grin as he spoke, the appearance of which you swore made your cheeks flush a little bit hotter. Probably because of the alcohol...and it is hot out here after all...

“Not this lady, cowboy” you stated, gulping down the last dredges of bourbon in your glass and placing it back down to the floor with a thud. You went to go grab the bottle from beside you but found Jack had already snatched it up, pouring you another glass. Mumbling out a small thank you, you considered asking him if he wants a glass of his own, however once you caught sight of his silver Statesman issued flask in his hands you dismissed the idea entirely. With nothing else left to say, you glanced back up to the sky above towards where the moon was hanging over you two, the delicate light illuminating the stretches of countryside around your property in a soft glow, one that was both enchanting and eerie at the same time. Every now and then you would be reminded of how beautiful the Texan countryside could look, whether it be bathed in the rays of that damned blistering sun or the enigmatic glimmer of moonlight. It could pull you back to moments lost in time, years ago sitting right where you were in that very same spot, seven years younger and with the exact same man sitting beside you, head rested on his shoulder and looking out into the vast expanse of midnight black. Funny how things change, don’t they?

Out the corner of your eye you saw Jack shake his head, his eyes quiet, the sparkle of stark confidence bordering on plain arrogance missing. It was a similar look to the one he’d given you at the hospital that night, before he’d tried to cover it up with a certain facade of indifference. “What will it take for you to believe I’m sorry? What happened between us, it was all-” he started before being unceremoniously cut off by your interjection. 

“In the past? I’m well aware of that. Doesn’t change how I feel” you stopped him. You’d anticipated him throwing out that line from day one and you’d come prepared. Shut it down. Don’t let him try to swindle you for a fool. 

His expression changed to one more serious, a hint of him being slightly miffed that you cut him off in the first place. “Let me finish, darlin’. I’m gonna level with you for a second - what I did to you was one of the worst mistakes of my life. Letting everything fall apart like it did, I never should have let it happen” he expressed, his tone straddling between being firm and also being gentle. Cocking an eyebrow at him, you turned back to your glass of liquor, swirling the liquid around idly in a way that reminded you of that persistent thought running round your head. Did he have a point? Were you being too harsh on him? 

Don’t become soft on him. Don’t do it. You shifted back into focus, pushing those thoughts far to the back of your tipsy mind while you took a couple large sips of liquor as if it were a lifeline. “Worse than whatever mistake led you to showing up on my doorstep?” you asked, eager to direct the conversation right back out of that uncomfortable territory and into something a bit more easier to stomach. Maybe later on you could ponder the true depths of your perceptions of Jack. Right now, though, you wanted to get wasted and not have to think about anything anymore. And hey, it’s not like I wasn’t wondering about the events that led him here in the first place anyway.“You never did tell me what happened. I know you said it was none of my concern but...I want to know. Call it a spate of drunken curiosity, if ya want”. 

The question alone was enough to draw Jack’s face from being merely serious to an expression more cold and distant. He looked away from you entirely and rested his gaze to the few steps below the two of you, his hand clenching in a subconscious act that alone was enough to tell you his own reservations regarding the topic. “Truth is, I’ve been fucking things up for a good couple of years. What happened to lead me here, well, it ain’t a pretty story”. 

“I don’t care, Jack, I wanna know” you asserted, surging with a sense of fiery confidence. It might have been the alcohol giving you a bit more moxie to push the topic. One thing was for sure though: you wanted answers, and you didn’t wanna let this go. Stretching your legs out, you finished off the glass you had while you waited for him to reply, not wanting to cave to your request even if he was looking at you like you’d threatened to kill the President. 

Finally, he let out a low groan of annoyance and leant against the side of the veranda, not affording you a single look as he launched into his tale. “Basically what happened is some agents from an English based secret service came over to the states as a last resort - their base got blown up by someone and the two guys that approached us were the only ones left alive. Well, them and this other guy we had at our headquarters, but that’s a whole other story. The people behind the attack were a group called the Golden Circle, and Statesman had already been investigating them for awhile. I was called in by Champ to partner up with the Kingsman fellas, do the regular secret agent spiel of espionage and savin’ the world and all that crap. But, me and these other agents, we had an...ideological disagreement. I was covertly tryin’ to hinder them until the older guy got wise to my shit and shot me in the head. Ginger managed to bring me in and revive me, I went over to Cambodia where the two agents were confronting the leader of the Golden Circle, and to make a long story short things got nasty pretty quickly. I barely escaped with my life” he explained.

You nodded along to his explanation, the load of information being a lot to take in the first time round. You were always somewhat aware of Jack’s position as a secret agent though you were never privy to the nitty and gritty details - in fact, the way you’d found out about it in the first place was by complete accident and Jack had to beg Agent Champ to allow you to become cleared on even knowing the basics of his true work behind the front of being a Statesman investor. “And these ideological disagreements were…?” you pushed. 

“Trust me, you don’t wanna know” he deflected.

“Try me”.

He didn’t reply to you straight away, instead staring at you with a stark look of confliction across his face, an inner turmoil brewing inside of him on whether or not he should tell you even more. Being cast out as a traitor, he didn’t have to worry about breaking any sort of rule of confidentiality, so if you had to wager a guess at what his dilemma was, then it must have been that he felt mildly ashamed, or even embarrassed about the whole situation. In your mind though, you’d let him keep his secrets for weeks now, but if he was going to stay in your house you wanted to at the bare minimum know what he did that was so bad that he simply couldn’t return back home anymore.  “Well go on then, hit me with your best shot” you prodded further, hopefully enough to get his demeanour to crack and for him to spill what exactly the entire fuss had been about. And sure enough, crack he did. 

Running a hand across his forehead, he let out a low exasperated sigh, one that would have been inaudible if you hadn’t been seated beside him, indicating the exact moment he finally decided to break his own silence and reveal everything to you. “The Golden Circle were primarily a drug cartel and terrorist organization based out in the hidden depths of the Cambodian jungle. Their leader had devised a plot that involved lacing their distribution of drugs with a new type of chemical she created that caused death. Since their supply was mass distributed over the globe, they were holding the entire populace of drug users and addicts hostage to their respective governments, demanding a payout for the antidote. They didn’t, however, anticipate the President and other world leaders not really giving a red hot shit about the lives of junkies. Being the noble men they are, the Kingsman agents as well as the rest of Statesman were striving to get ahold of the antidote to save all those people. And that, is where me and them disagreed” Jack elaborated, avoiding your gaze in what appeared to be a calculated move in order to refrain from seeing your reactions to his admittance. In the span of two minutes, your expression had shifted from intense curiosity to straight up bafflement at what he was saying. It didn’t make sense - why was he against distributing the antidote? He was a secret agent, wasn’t he meant to save the world and innocent lives and all that?

“Let me get this straight - you were assigned on a mission to try to save the lives of innocent people, and you chose...not to do that” you asked, your tone laced with judgment. Not that you had intended for what you said to have come across any different. If what he was implying was right, then that would mean...

“Well, when you put it like that, sure, it sounds awful. I will concede, it wasn’t my best move. But all the people who ingested those drugs did so willingly. They knew they were taking a gamble on their lives the moment they stuck a damn needle into their arms” Jack grumbled defensively, allowing you to gawk back at him in utter disbelief. “Jack, no, you can’t seriously believe that? So what you’re saying is that the kid that decided to get high with his mates one weekend at a party deserves to die? Is that right?”. 

“No, no, I didn’t mean like that, I just…”.

“Really? ‘Cause it sounds a lot like you’re saying that innocent people should die for their poor choices” you cut in, shaking your head to further drive your point in. “Jesus, just when I thought you couldn’t be a bigger asshole you proved me wrong”. 

“Sweetheart, please, I know. It was a mistake, you don’t have to keep rubbing it in”. 

“You know it’s a mistake, but do you truly feel it? Do you really feel remorse? Because if you don’t then it’s just a bunch of empty words” you rebuffed, shooting him with a cold piercing glare that could make an entire continent freeze over. Around about this time, you really began to take notice of the dazed feeling clouding you, every glass of liquor draining straight into your brain and making you feel like your entire head was swimming. Maybe take it easy on the next glass, why don’t ya? With that thought, you shoved the glass off to the side with your free arm and bit your lip, debating whether or not you should even say what you wanted to next. That debate, however, did not last very long as you found yourself blurting out exactly what was on your mind within two seconds of your last thought. “Jack, look...maybe I’ll hate myself for saying this later, and maybe it’s just the liquor talking but I don’t think you’re an inherently bad person. I think you’re an arrogant son of a bitch who does cruel stupid things but probably has a decent enough heart. You just...you gotta stop with this shit. Stop with the betrayals, and the lies, and the false promises, all of it, and just be the real you. The Jack I knew may be a prick but he was never one to let an innocent die on his watch. What’s really behind all this?”. 

He continued to glare from his position beside you, somewhat intent on making you recant and drop the whole subject entirely. You wouldn’t go down that easy though, and he knew it, for as stubborn as Jack was you were at least ten times moreso, so when he folded first and trained his eyes low to the ground, you knew that he’d finally conceded. You could feel a whole shift in his demeanour from where you sat, the mask of defensive anger slowly falling away to reveal what was truly underneath: hurt. Pure, raw, unbridled hurt. Anguish that felt especially familiar to you and spoke to a part of yourself that you’d been turning away from for years, and even before he said those words you knew exactly what he was going to say. 

“Years ago, before I became an agent to Statesman, I was married to the young woman I’d fallen for in high school. I think I told you about her in passing maybe once, or twice, I don’t know…” Jack started, trailing off once he began to fully re-immerse himself in the past, heartache plainly sewn across his features. It was then that you felt an ache of your own in your chest, a heavy feeling of guilt descending upon you once you realised the gravity of what he was saying. “I remember. You said her name was Lily, wasn’t it?” you murmured, your voice small and unsure, with a hint of something else present too. Regret? Guilt? Whatever it was, you couldn’t quite put a name to it, but it was there, strong as anything and clearly wasn’t going away any time soon. 

Jack let out a small hum in reply, everything about his composure presumably a million miles away from everything around the both of you.“So you do remember” he muttered, brushing his fingers over the edge of his silver flask that he had cradled in his handles, tracing the Statesman logo engraved on the side with the pad of his thumb. “I remember you askin’ me about her the first time you came back to my apartment in New York - you saw the photo of her I kept on my desk and asked who she was. I only told you briefly that she was long gone, but I never told you how. The both of us were only twenty-three, and she was pregnant with our first child, a baby boy. Last time I saw her she left the house to go to the convenience store a few streets over”. He stopped himself for a split second, the darkness of his eyes being the all-too recognisable sign of falling deep into his own recollection, feeling as if he was reliving every memory that he revisited in his mind. “Twenty minutes later I get a phone call from a cop, saying there’d been an incident. Meth addicts had robbed the store at gunpoint and she’d been caught in the crossfire. She died instantly, and I wasn’t there to say goodbye. I never got to meet our baby boy, I never got to hold her in my arms again and say how much I loved her, because she was taken from me by a couple of meth-addled scumbags”. 

You were honestly at a loss for words, not knowing if saying something would be the appropriate option or not. He was right, you knew he was married before - the time with the picture that he mentioned was the most you had heard of her. He never brought Lily up again, and you never thought to ask, since in your mind it wasn’t any of your business who Jack loved before. Now, the pieces were falling into place, the interwoven connections of his past to his actions as an agent making all the more sense to you. 

What you wanted to do most was lean forward and envelop him into your embrace, tell him that you understood more than anyone what exactly that felt like, and even permit yourself to pour out your own heart to him. Drunk as you were though, you couldn’t talk yourself into doing anything more than placing a reassuring hand on his knee, letting your touch be soft and hesitant in case he shrugged you off, since you did basically just goad him into revealing his own wounds in the name of having answers. “Jack, I...I had no idea, I-”. 

“How could you have known? I never told you” he mumbled flatly. In the dim veranda light, all though it was faint, you could swear that there was a teardrop lingering in the corner of his cedar brown eyes, nudging the dagger of guilt further into your heart. Say something, you idiot.

Starting off softly, you let your hand rest firmer on his knee, trying to catch his eyes into your own. Tearing his glance away from the flask, he looked back at you with the same raw grief that you had seen on your own face so many times. “I know it must have hurt like hell losing her. And you have every right to feel angry, and hurt that she was taken, but that doesn’t give you the right to hate. Every addict in the world is not the same man who took her life. You can’t just-” you started, before the sound of Jack’s harshest tone cut through your words like a knife. 

“How would you know? Do you have any idea what it feels like to hurt, to have lost everything because of someone else’s choices?” he spat, anger seething in his scowl that was directed solely at you. It had taken you by surprise at first - as a reflex you withdrew your hand quickly from him as if he were burnt, perplexed at his sudden outburst. That didn’t last long however, as soon enough confusion was replaced by your own flair of anger. Now it was your turn to get defensive.“I think I do know what it’s like to hurt and to lose. In case you’ve forgotten, dickhead, there’s two people who should be right inside this house that aren’t anymore and haven’t been for about six fucking years now!” you yelled back. 

Shit. He’d forgotten about your parents. The anger that had been in him disappeared without a trace right then, being replaced by something close to resembling remorse over his behaviour. “I...I didn’t mean...fuck, sugar, I…I’m sorry. I don’t even know what to say” he apologised. You didn’t say anything back to him. You didn’t want to dignify him with any sort of a response. First of all, how dare he? You were only trying to empathise with him, and here he was biting your head off for daring to suggest that he doesn't hate every drug user on the planet. Why do I even fucking bother? 

The awkward silence between you hung for awhile, the two of you not wanting to break it for your own different reasons. You could feel Jack stealing glances at you, like he was trying to talk himself into saying something but never had the courage to follow through. Huffing to yourself, you took in your next glass fast enough to make your head spin. You’d have to turn in for the night eventually, and truth be told you were considering doing so right then when you heard Jack speak up. 

“I never did ask...if you don’t mind me askin’ that is...what happened to your folks anyway?” he asked hesitantly, as if he knew the question was fat-witted to begin with. Not that you minded too much by then. Drunk you was a lot more forgiving than you were sober. 

Taking in a heavy breath, you relayed your tale of woe to him, one hand placed steady to your side to keep you sitting upright. “It was late, and they were coming back from a friend’s 50th birthday party. Their friend lived in downtown Dallas, so they had a fair way to go to get from there to here. When they were almost on the highway, an out-of-control car barrelled towards them, smashing into the front of their windscreen and killing both of them instantly. The driver of the other car had been drinking - according to the local news he was a known alcoholic and had been out having a heated argument with his friend in the passenger seat. The only survivor of the entire collision had been his friend”. 

You saw Jack blink at you in silent shock, the weight of your words falling heavily on him while he continued to process it all. “Shit, darling, I feel like an even bigger piece of shit than I already did. If you slapped me clean across the face and kicked me out on my ass after this I wouldn’t blame ya one bit” he replied to you solemnly in a way that didn’t leave you questioning the authenticity of his words - he was genuinely sorry this time round. Taking his apology in stride, you shrugged back at him  and acted as nonchalant about the whole thing as possible, not wanting to ponder the topic further. As far as you were concerned, you’d felt enough things for one day and would very much like a break from it all. 

“It’s fine. You had no way of knowing. But please, if you take anything from this, at least listen to my words: externalising hate towards random people only feeds your trauma. It doesn’t resolve anything, and the only person left suffering in the end is yourself”. 

He furrowed his brow at you, most likely feeling a little defensive that the topic had circled back around to here, but considering his unruly display of anger earlier he wasn’t one to indulge in his own instinctual need to defend his position. “But...didn’t you want the man who took your parents away to suffer? Didn’t you look at every other drunk driving incident in the papers with a little more anger and rage than before?” he asked, earning a single eyebrow raise from you in return. “I mean...I guess what I’m trying to say is...it’s so easy to hate...why didn’t you fall into that trap?”. 

“Well, I did, for a little. It was almost tempting to look at every person I saw struggling with alcoholism in red. Since the man who caused the collision was already dead as a result of his own mistakes, at times I’d externalise part of that pain I was feeling onto others, and sometimes that anger became so hot and so burning that it was almost impossible to ignore. I realised pretty quickly that hating alcoholics wasn’t going to bring my parents back and that I’d have to make peace with their passing at some point. Honestly, I still haven’t processed a lot of that shit myself yet I’m still out here living my life as best I can, and really, with my own drinking habits I’d be a goddamn hypocrite to even try to find any true hatred in my heart towards heavy drinkers” you explained. Taking one last sip of bourbon, you discarded your glass off to your side and chuckled lightheartedly. “God, If I drink another glass I’m gonna collapse on the fucking floor. Think it might be time for me to turn in for the night. At least it’s Sunday tomorrow so we can sleep in a lil”.

“Y-you’re goin’ to bed? You’re not telling me to get lost or anything?” Jack sputtered in disbelief, which in turn earned him a minorly strange look from you. “Why would I do that?” you asked. 

“I quite literally just admitted to treason against my former organization to you”. 

“So? You made a mistake. A pretty fucking big mistake, and a shitty one at that, but still, a mistake. You obviously have some of your own pain you need to work through, and I can get that. Doesn’t mean I agree with what you did, but I get it. I’m not gonna kick you to the curb just because you have issues”.Upon saying that, you hoisted yourself up by latching your free arm onto the veranda’s fenceline, stumbling a little as you fought to maintain your balance while being both drunk and unable to fully utilise one of your arms. Nevertheless, you’d managed to straighten yourself up, and once you’d determined that you were alright to take yourself upstairs you faced on towards the front door and grasped at the brass knob in your hands, taking a brief pause to turn back and nod softly towards the man behind you. “Night Jack, I’ll see ya tomorrow” you called out, leaving him to sit there and watch you disappear back into the house with a certain look of dumbfounded astonishment.

Tag list (lemme know if you wanna be added): @giselatropicana​

[ladynestaarcheron]

Fears All the Way Down - Chapter Four

ao3 - masterpost

hello all. not entirely back from my hiatus, but i decided i did want to share this on tumblr just in case someone isn't on ao3. i've been having a rough month and as it turns out, writing this really helped boost my mood, so maybe reading it can help boost someone else's. so enjoy!

---

Elain is hysterical, but Nesta expected that. Feyre takes her by surprise, though.

"How did they get in?" she keeps saying. "How did they get in?" Almost as though she can't say anything else at all.

"Azriel's taken them in for questioning," Rhysand tells her, rubbing her shoulders. "We'll know everything soon enough."

Nesta's mildly irritated that she's the one who was attacked and yet it's her who has to comfort her sisters, but no matter. They're upset and she...isn't.

"It's really all right. The House kept me safe." The House keeps her safe, actually. Safe and comfortable and healthy and warm and clean....

"You'll come to stay at home tonight," Feyre says, squeezing a shaking Elain's hand tightly.

Home being Feyre and Rhysand's mansion by the Sidra. "I...don't think I will, actually. Thank you."

Her sisters blink at her.

"You don't want to stay here," Elain says, the first thing she's managed since crying.

Nesta bristles slightly at the implied insult to the House. "I do."

"It kept her safe," Cassian says, speaking for the first time since he brought in Elain.

"But they got in!"

"Maybe it let them in so you could catch them," Nesta suggests. "But it's safe for me here. And...I don't want to go." How could she possibly give up her standing bath, her magically-warmed room? There's not a price one can put on a proper night's sleep and then starting the day clean.

Feyre and Elain glance at each other for a moment, then nod at her.

"All right," Elain says, brave face on. "We'll stay with you."

Unnecessary. But if it'll make them feel better. "All right, then."

Rhysand gives Feyre a kiss on her cheek and puts a hand on Elain's shoulder. "We'll leave you ladies to get settled, then." He gives Nesta a charming, reassuring smile--ugh. "Everything's going to be fine."

"You're going to those Illyrians?" she asks.

"Yes," Rhysand says. "You get some sleep. You don't need to worry about any of this."

She's not worried about any of this. Why is no one listening to her?

No matter, she decides again. She was never in any danger anyway. She can just...calm her sisters, and go to bed, and put this from her mind.

Except she can't. The House's damaged wall stays etched in her mind, and the sound of those Hyben soldiers chasing after her in the library in her ears. What if they get in? Illyrians, or Briallyn, into the library? During a session with Thalia or one of Calliope's lectures or jewelry making or weekly check-in?

As she gets more agitated, tossing and turning, the room warms slightly. The House lulling her to sleep.

Fine. Fine, she can sleep tonight. Thalia says that she shouldn't agitate in bed, anyway. It's counterproductive and illogical--she'll sleep now, then be well-rested in the morning, and then she can come up with...something. To ensure the library remains safe while she is here.

Because if she doesn't...she might have to leave.

And she realizes she's not prepared to do that.

Something a soldier learns quickly is that torture during interrogation needs to be handled with precision and care, because people will generally say absolutely anything to get the pain to stop, and then none of the information can really be trusted. On top of that is the act itself, which damages the perpetrator as much as the victim. Cassian knows all this, and yet, as he thinks of Nesta, he can't bring himself to care.

"Calm down." Azriel's icy voice cuts through the images of her in duress hitting him like a series of punches.

He only snarls in return, but Az isn't shaken.

"She's all right," he says. "Calm down."

"She could have died." There it is, the simple truth. She could have died . They could have killed her . Briallyn wants her revenge; she'll probably do it slowly and painfully.

"She was safe the whole time, Cass."

"She didn't even know anything was going on," Rhys says, agreeing. "She's not even scared."

So what? So she wasn't scared this time, so what? The other times she was scared. Next time she might be.

"I should have been there." He should have never let Feyre and Elain go through with this. Fought to keep her in Rhys' home in the city; surely even these Illyrians would not dare attack the High Lord's residence.

"That's enough," Rhys says sharply. "It's not your fault. She's safe. And you were there. Right as the alarms went off."

"You were there faster."

"What does that matter?"

"It's a good thing she was at the House, Cass," Az says.

Yes, good thing. Good thing the House can keep her safe, even if he can't. From his own people.

"What did they say?" he asks, voice a growl. Rhys had not let him in the rooms if he could not promise to control himself. He could not.

"Not much," Rhys admits. "Just confirmed what we knew."

"It'll take time," Az says, spinning Truth-Teller in his fingers. "But I would like to state for the record there is a way to speed up the process."

"We can't make them martyrs," Rhys says. "We can't just senselessly slaughter them."

"It's not senseless. They're collaborating with an enemy to overthrow the crown. They attacked a Lady of the Court. There should be punishment for that." Az's eyes are cold in a way Cassian's never could be when talking about his own. Yes, he wants them to die for what they'd do to Nesta. But the way his brother feels about their people as a whole will always hurt in its own way.

"So they're scattered throughout the camps?" Cassian says, steering them back towards the matter at hand.

"With their strongest presence in Windhaven, yes."

Cassian frowns. Even though intelligence had led them to suspect it, having it confirmed...Windhaven is a more moderate camp, with Devlon, it's leader, being mild enough that he had let him and Az participate in the Rite centuries ago. But perhaps Windhaven's structure had led to its rebels being organized enough to form a strong base.

"We should start by cutting them off at Windhaven," he starts slowly, "and then we might not even have to bother with the dissenters in the other camps. Should we start interrogating the males there?"

Az raises an eyebrow. "You want to interrogate every male in Windhaven?"

"I think it'd be easier to just kill anyone who won't swear fealty to Rhys and Feyre, but since you two want to go about this diplomatically--"

"That's not the diplomatic approach," Rhys cuts in. "And that's not what we're doing. That's a colossal waste of time."

"Keeping Nesta safe is not a wa-- "

"I didn't mean that," Rhys interrupts again. "But there are far more productive methods of ensuring her safety and also furthering our cause of diminishing theirs."

"And I'm not going to like it," Cassian says, scowling.

"No," Rhys admits. "I don't think you will."

Nesta had been looking forward to going back to the library, because Elain had looked at her all weekend as though she was already mourning her and Feyre had driven her spare with her constant reassurances that all would be well and safe. But being here now, with the girls who were so close to having their sanctuary breached--yet again, because of her--brings forth a new layer of guilt.

"You're quiet," Gwyn whispers to her in weekly check-in.

"I'm always quiet."

"Bad quiet. What's wrong?"

"Just tired," she says, softly.

It's something of a lie, actually. Despite her concern over the safety of the library and the House--and herself, she supposes--Nesta actually awoke today feeling refreshed. She sleeps well and can stomach a few small meals a day. She's even begun inserting small jogging segments during her walks outside, just to get her blood pumping. Sometimes she catches herself aching for a drink, but her head no longer throbs in pain and Thalia's exercises help her to rid her mind of the thought.

It's working with her hands Nesta likes best. The lectures are fascinating, but she still ends up drifting down some spiral, but the jewellery-making and book-sorting keep her focused enough that she can't think about how miserable she is.

And the thing is, here, now, she's not miserable. She's not happy, not by any stretch of the imagination, but she's not miserable. And that's...worth something.

She wonders if any research she might get assigned to will also help in distracting her...or if that might make her happy.

No, she thinks, looking around at the dozens of girls, plenty of whom don't even speak after decades or centuries of being here. Research does not make people happy. Perhaps there are some people who just aren't meant to be. After all, she does not think she has ever been so. Not in her wealthy childhood, not in her poverty-stricken adolescence, and certainly not here.

Not miserable is good enough. She can be not miserable for her sisters, be presentable and not so embarrassing for their sakes.

Elain and Feyre are still there when she leaves the library for the day, joined by Rhysand and a particularly stoic Cassian. In fact, she thinks as she studies him in the reflection of the mirror in the living room out of the corner of her eye, she cannot recall ever seeing him this...upset. He's glaring at the floor, bright hazel eyes dark and yielding nothing of his typical irritating, incessant character. He spins a dagger between his fingers, siphons glowing bright each time he nearly slices his fingers clean off.

"Did it...go well with the Illyrians?" she asks, trying to keep her focus on something else.

"If you're an optimist," Rhys answers, grinning.

Ugh.

Feyre catches her annoyance at his answer and throws him a sharp look. "We've confirmed that Briallyn is taking advantage of the rebel situation in Illyria to get to you."

"Is that different from what you already thought?"

"It's good to have it confirmed," Feyre says. "We know more about the rebels in our context--" she gestures to herself and to Rhys, "--than in hers. So we know the best way to combat it."

Nesta waits a few moments, but no one says anything. "Which is?" she prompts.

Elain's throat bobs. Nesta watches Cassian's jaw clench even tighter in the mirror.

"The Illyrians need to be reminded of their place," Rhys says. "They forget, because of the distance between us, that they answer to us."

Nesta doesn't particularly care about the inter-politics of the Night Court, but she suspects that if an organized Illyrian rebellion is now working with Briallyn to kill her in order to unseat Rhysand or separate themselves from him, there's probably more than just distance involved.

"So you're going to remind them?" Nesta asks.

"That's where we thought you might have something to do with it."

Cassian starts tossing the knife between his hands faster, almost stabbing at the air. Nesta ignores how her heart speeds up when he nearly drops it through his foot.

"If the Illyrians end up going to civil war, we'll win. But we prefer to tamper down the rebels. We think the best way to do that is show them, first and foremost, this isn't worth dying over. And they will die." Rhys' words are a cold promise.

It's--frightening. What does he want her to do?

"Come with us to Windhaven," he says, as though in answer.

Nesta blinks. "I...thought I was here to stay safe."

"You'll be safe the whole time," Rhys says firmly.

"We would never entertain this otherwise," Feyre adds, eyes wide.

"What would going to Windhaven do? A display of strength?" Seems like it'd be right up the Inner Circle's alley, but overall, in her opinion, useless.

"Precisely," Rhys says, satisfied she's understood. She stifles an eyeroll. "You don't have to do much. Just walk around. We'll give you a tour of the camp. You remember how terrified they were of you, don't you?"

She does. Witch, they had called her. "But they won't be," she says. "They must know I don't have any magic." There's simply nothing to be scared of. She is, perhaps, not quite as sickly and pathetic today as she was a month ago, but certainly nothing to look twice at. Nothing to fear. Nothing to note.

Feyre opens her mouth to object, but Cassian beats her to it.

"You're a female twice as powerful as any of them. They'll fear you." She has no choice but to look at him when he speaks, and he catches her gaze tightly, fiercely, and she can't look away, can't turn her head or even blink--

"We'll be with you the whole time," Feyre says, breaking the spell. She forces herself to look at the floor instead.

"I'll come too," Elain says, determined.

"You don't need to," Nesta says, voice softened. "It's fine. I can do it. I'm not scared."

Elain deflates a bit, in relief or in disappointment, she isn't sure.

"I'm sure you're tired. We'll go tomorrow, if that's all right with you," Feyre says.

Nesta of a month ago had no plans for the day or her life, but now... "Actually, could we go to Tuesday?"

The four of them look at her in surprise.

"There's a new lecture circuit starting." History of limb and organ transplants, led by Daphne, their healer. "I wanted to go."

"Oh," Feyre says, blinking. "Oh! Well! That's--yes, of course, we'll go Tuesday instead. Yes, that's...that's fine."

Her sister's attempt at being casual. Nesta stifles another eyeroll.

"Well, I think I'd like to wash the dust off before bed..." Lie. She wants to go for a walk and eat a small dinner and read. But she wants them gone. She's had quiet enough company for the day.

"Of course! We'll leave you to it, then." Feyre leaves with a smile, and Elain gives her a soft kiss on her cheek before leaving with the pair of them. Cassian follows, but he lingers in the doorway.

"You don't have to go, you know," he says, turning and taking a few steps towards her. Too many.

"I know," she says. "I meant what I said. I'm not scared." The House won't be there to protect her, but... "Aren't you coming?"

"I am," he says, voice low--lower than normal, that is.

She nods once, eyes trained on the floor. She can't look at him again. Not when there's no alcohol to muddy the intensity of his gaze, no promise of some other male to drive him from her thoughts tonight.

I have no regrets in my life, but this.

I have never in my life thought you were pathetic.

"Good night," she says abruptly, turning around and rushing down the stairs.

No, no other male. A book or a game with the House will have to do.

They travel to Illyria the same way they came up to the House, but in reverse. Cassian flies her up until they are out of the House's protective sphere, then Rhys and Feyre grab on to each of them and winnow them to solid ground, miles and miles away.

She had been here once, during the war. It was miserable. It hasn't changed much. The lack of the stench of death is a significant step up, though.

"We'll be meeting Devlon. Camp lord."

Feyre links their arms together and Nesta bites her tongue to keep from saying anything. She doesn't think she and Feyre have ever walked arm-in-arm like this before. She and Elain had plenty, once. She and her other human friends, back when she had them. Way, way back.

They reach a sort of training center soon enough, and the Illyrians do double-takes when they see them-- her . She sees familiar religious gestures and even recognizes some of the males.

"Morning, Devlon," Rhysand drawls to the one approaching them.

"What is this?" he growls.

"Lady Nesta heard some soldiers were interested in her wellbeing. She was curious too."

Devlon narrows his eyes and scowls, but some of the younger males behind him grow faint.

And she supposes...considering how all this might look to them...she understands.

For Rhysand is their all-powerful High Lord, magic rippling from his being. Cassian is their most feared warrior, and he flanks them from behind, seven siphons radiating enough heat that she can feel it through her cloak. And she stands with Feyre, their High Lady, their cursebreaker, in a fine gown indeed that the House had picked out for her (one the nicest she's worn in quite some time)...yes, perhaps this does look a sight to behold. Perhaps they do seem powerful, not worth the effort.

Still, she knows that she herself is nothing to fear. Any one of these soldiers are as strong as the ones from Hybern who pulled her out of bed, and she has not exactly improved in physical prowess since then.

"My sister would like a tour, please," Feyre says sweetly.

Nesta almost blanches at her tone. She doesn't think she's ever heard it before.

Devlon probably isn't allowed to glare at Rhysand or Feyre or maybe her either, so he settles on Cassian. She can hear him chuckle slightly, but she doesn't turn to see.

"This way, Lady," Devlon says finally.

Devlon's tour-guide skills leave a bit to be desired, but in his defense, there isn't much here.

"Don't you have a school?" she asks, interrupting his riveting description of the shops and the living quarters .

Devlon freezes in his tracks. "You will not touch our children, witch," he snarls.

Nesta rolls her eyes and makes to answer, but Cassian moves before she can.

"Don't threaten her again," he hisses, knives at the ready in his hands.

Feyre and Rhys don't act as though this disturbs them in the least. On the contrary.

"Answer Lady Nesta, Devlon," Rhys says, almost lazily.

After another glaring-match with Cassian, he does, pointing to a dilapidated building. "There," he grunts.

"Not in session, I see," she says.

He grunts again, and walks them a little more along the main road, not bothering to point out any more attractions.

"Well," Nesta says, when they reach the training center again. "Thank you for that...riveting experience." In truth, while she doesn't like Devlon much, all this day has done has shed some light on why the Illyrians hate living under Rhysand so much. Velaris' luxury seems ostentatious in comparison, even vulgar. She doesn't think she ought to bear the brunt of it, obviously. But there seems to be an easy path to calming the rebels.

"I didn't see any girls this morning, Devlon," Cassian says, stepping in front of her and Feyre to talk.

Feyre pulls her closer. "All right," she whispers. "Now, we're going to go back to the training center, and you can walk around the shops. Don't be scared," she hurries to say. "You'll be perfectly safe. I promise."

"I'm not scared," Nesta replies.

"Good."

After a few more minutes of discussion--with Cassian angry at Devlon for a lack of female soldiers, Nesta gathers--the four of them trail off, Feyre squeezing her hand in goodbye.

A few Illyrians loiter around her, pretending not to stare at her as she turns around and heads back towards the shops.

There aren't many here--a butcher's, a liquor store (Nesta had clenched her jaw the whole way past the first time, and she does again now), some clothier's. One of them, Nesta notes, is stocked with winter goods, while the others seem to be selling out quite nicely.

She makes her way inside. If only to escape the gaping from the Illyrians who can't seem to decide if they want to follow her or run away.

The shop is warm, quiet, and empty but for a female at the front, with her back to the door.

"Good--morning," she says, the pause in her words when she turns to see her customer and sees that it is Nesta. "Lady," she adds.

"Good morning," Nesta says.

"Can I help you with anything?" the female says bravely.

"Just browsing."

They both know it's a lie. The shop is far too small to pretend to browse. But she lets her.

The female looks younger than Nesta, but she might be older. The fae take longer to age, with Cassian's five hundred-odd years giving him a face that Nesta would guess is thirty-two, and Nesta's own body, frozen at twenty-three, probably looks to fae to be two hundred or so. She wears a simple dress--everything in the shop is simple, and makes Nesta feel uncomfortable in her finery. Like Velaris' vulgar beauty that she had thought of earlier. Nesta's clearly not here to browse.

"I had heard you were interested in a tour," the female says politely. "Was it to your liking?"

"Yes," Nesta says. "News...travels fast around here, does it?"

"Not much to talk about." The female turns to put away a folded sweater, and Nesta sees a horrible set of scars down her wings. She can't stop her mouth from falling open, and manages to say something with slightly more decorum than her original intended gasp.

"I'm Nesta."

The females turns. "I know. I'm Emerie. I own this shop."

Nesta cocks her head. "You do?"

"I do."

"That's very impressive," she said. "I used to own a business." Her own trading on the continent. She hadn't trusted her father with all of their finances again, and had insisted on running some of her own.

"Really?" Emerie says, clearly mirroring Nesta's sentiments. Which is--nice. That camaraderie. And outside of the library, too. "Well, it's nice to know there are other females interested in making a name for themselves."

Nesta huffs a noise of amusement. "It is." She's silent for a beat, then asks, "Is it...difficult? Here? For you, as..."

"As a female who's not cowed by this?" she says, gesturing outside. "It's...not as lonely as you might think. And that makes it less difficult."

Nesta nods. She understands what Emerie means, even if she doesn't quite feel it herself. Friendship, she means. Sisterhood.

All the same, it's nice to know. That it's out there, outside of the library, and in it. Even if she doesn't have it. Even if she...

"Did it work, then?" she asks Feyre, hours later.

"It did," she says, a smug smile on her lips. "You did great. Good job, Nesta."

Nesta nods, even though it doesn't feel as though she's done much.

"I'll see you, then," Feyre says, reaching Nesta's hand to squeeze it in goodbye. "Elain will be so pleased to hear," she says, partly to herself, Nesta thinks. She practically skips towards Rhysand, who sweeps her in his arms as they descend into the city.

"Wait," Nesta calls to Cassian, before she realizes what she's doing.

He freezes in his tracks, wings still poised to follow after her sister and Rhysand. He turns.

"I wanted to ask you," she said, suddenly very aware of her heartbeat. "If you'd--once you asked--I--"

Her face flushes crimson, but he doesn't mock or even grin. Only nods once, patient, and that spurs her.

"If you could perhaps teach me some self defense? Not--not training, not like those soldiers...but maybe, if they attack again, and they get to me, just so that I know--just so I'm not entirely--"

"Yes," he cuts in. "I will."

"All right," she says, nodding slightly. "Thank you," she adds, realizing she probably should.

He swallows. Starts to say something. Then, nearly flinging himself off the veranda, he flies away.

[dogduocatquartet]

@kung-slinger i genuinely almost don’t know what to say to this reply, it reads as if you didn’t even look at my post before responding. i specifically said very clearly that i don’t have anything against pit bulls and nowhere did i imply anything about violence being a need for that or any other breed of dog.

dogs will more often than not prefer to avoid fighting, they have a complex language which in large part consists of navigating around conflict (similar to wolves, since you bring that up, since they’re both social species and good communication skills are essential for functioning in groups). there are many breeds of dog that, due to a number of factors, have weaker or less clear body language than others (language between dogs is also in no small part learned, so socialization is also a factor here). pit bulls are generally considered one of these breeds, which makes a lot of the signals they send out disappear or get misunderstood, leading to heightened stress and may accidentally end up in a fight/bite even though the pit bull may have been trying to signal “i need some space”. the exact same could be said for a retriever with poor body language due to lacking socialization. a lot of owners also punish dogs’ ways of communication, such as growling (“leave me alone”), unintentionally leading to their language growing even poorer and instead of a ladder of escalating signals, the dog in question may end up jumping straight from “this is starting to become uncomfortable” to biting, rather than modifying their language accordingly and having opportunity to remove themselves from the situation. none of this is exclusive to pit bulls, but a higher tendency of conflicts CAN be seen in breeds that have poor body language, just as with dogs that are poorly socialized with other dogs.

if the word “aggression” makes you uncomfortable, let’s call it “stress” instead. a stressed dog may engage in behavior we consider aggressive, so these often overlap or are basically interchangeable anyway. some breeds are more predisposed to stress around either other members of the same sex as them or just other dogs in general, though again there are many factors to consider as to why this is. it’s been a while since i read up on this specifically, so anyone is free to correct me on this, but breeds with same-sex stress often have a higher production of hormones, making them more “competitive” with members of the same sex. for wolves, this can be a useful trait if they break off from their original family group (that’s generally what wolf packs are; two parent wolves and their children) to mate, establish their own territory, and create a new familial group (aka pack). akitas, frenchies, shibas, and st. bernards are some other dog breeds that have a relatively high occurrence of same-sex stress. terriers, guarding breeds, and herding dogs tend to have this in higher degrees than hunting or companion breeds. but again, ymmv.

stress, aggression, fights etc. between dogs are also often triggered by resource guarding. any dog can have issues with resource guarding, but breeds that have typically been bred to guard often have a higher tendency of this, and may be quicker to escalate the situation, because that’s what they’ve been bred for. dogs that have been bred to be independent and guard the home also have a higher tendency to “deal with” conflicts on their own, than dogs bred to be more handler-oriented. again, these are things to consider when getting a dog. for some people, these traits are desirable, for some they’re a downside that other traits weigh up for, for others it’s a dealbreaker. all of these are fine, and should honestly be encouraged more, because, as i said, not all dogs are suited for any person, and not all people are suited for any dog.

the reason pit bulls are often overrepresented in discussions of shelters/rescues is partly because it’s more of an umbrella term than a very coherent breed, referring to bull-type terriers and mixes thereof. there technically IS the american pit bull terrier, though this is not a breed recognized by the FCI or the AKC. regardless, a lot of different dogs often get lumped into the same category, especially when the history of the dog is unknown and it kind of looks like a bull-type terrier breed. ive seen plenty of “pit bulls” that probably have more pinscher or molosser/mastiff in them than bull-type terriers. so just on that alone, you have a huge span of dogs with varying temperaments and historical uses, and that’s before you consider more “immediate” factors like genetic lines and socialization (or nurture, if you will). there’s also the fact that due to their appearance, history, and reputation, there are a lot of terrible bull-type breeders out there, who breed for unethical reasons or for profit, which in turn produces a higher amount of dogs with poor backgrounds and poor parentage, which in turn makes a lot of these dogs end up in shelters (good breeders will commonly take the dogs back if there’s an issue or the owner has to surrender it, so more bad breeders = more dogs in shelters). this is not the dogs’ fault, obviously. in my experience, huskies and border collies are also breeds that make up a big chunk of shelter populations, because they might be cute when they’re puppies, but they often end up being more demanding than someone just wanting a family dog can handle. no amount of nurture can change an individual dog’s energy level or need for stimulation. what you CAN do is meet the dog’s needs. this is not the same thing as nature vs nurture. i cant love or train away a husky’s energy level, but i can let it use its natural resources by taking it for longer/more frequent walks/runs, maybe do some sledding/pulling/packing with it, making it a happier and more well-adjusted dog.

i recently saw a family with a staffordshire bull terrier who was very sweet with them and all around a great dog, but who would bark and pull incessantly whenever he’d see another dog. they had no idea how or why this happened, as he was otherwise really nice and they’d tried to socialize him a lot as a puppy. turns out, what they’d done when the dog was younger was let him meet every single dog they saw or walked past on the street, which created an expectation which created stress which ended up in very strong “stay away from me!!!” signals (barking, showing teeth, leaning forward). this is extremely common for dog owners of all breeds and it’s honestly both annoying and saddening, because no dog needs to befriend every dog they happen across, and it’s often counterproductive and create stress instead, especially since leashes limit a dog’s body language. your dog can hate every other dog in the world, but as long as they can walk past them without acting out, it’s literally not a problem. some dog breeds are less inclined to get along with other dogs, and that’s fine! they don’t need to hang with other dogs to be happy and if you train them to walk past other dogs it’ll likely never be an issue. like i said earlier on, dogs will almost always try to avoid conflict when they can, so you’ll be doing you, your dog, and other people and dogs a favor if you stop trying to “socialize” your dog that doesn’t like other dogs with said other dogs, and instead focusing on walking well on a leash. which is something that all dog owners should be aware of, not just owners of breeds that aren’t generally sociable with other dogs or people outside its family, which are typical traits of bull-type terriers.

and just to sum it up and really spell it out: i don’t think any dog is born “aggressive”. i think genetics, socialization, instincts, and training all play a role, and sometimes you can do everything right and still get a stressed dog that may lash out. dogs have also been selectively bred for all kinds of purposes by humans for thousands of years, so dogs of different breeds and origins may have very different behaviors, reactions, and instincts that we’ve often deliberately created. it’s bizarre and just plain wrong to state that all dogs and all dog breeds are born essentially with the same configuration and everything else is just “nurture”. pit bulls are often singled out or used as examples like in the post i reblogged because of their high density in shelters combined with their bad reputation, media sensationalism, and stereotypes. they’re not inherently worse or better than other dogs. they’re similar to rottweilers to me; fine dogs, can be great family pets, but you should know what you’re getting beforehand because they’re big strong dogs that may possess strong prey drive, same-sex stress, or guarding instincts + for which there are a lot of shitty breeders. id say the same for poodles or retrievers honestly; they can be high energy and were originally hunting dogs, so you should do your research, as with any other breed. i feel like over-defending and figuratively “defanging” pit bulls may end up doing more harm than good, even if the intentions are good, because downplaying a dog or breed’s potentially negative traits and specific needs will likely just result in the dog ending up with people who don’t know what they’re doing and who were expecting, like.. a bichon in terms of temperament and drive. how about we all just have a normal, neutral, informed approach to these breeds instead of this insane, eternal discourse where both sides can be equally fanatical? thanks

[om-headcanon]

Hi!! For the ✨sad✨ headcanons, how would the demon brothers cope with/take care of an MC with BPD? It's a really difficult for some people to take care of due to the crises and intense mood swings we go through. Have a lovely day/evening 💕

hi hi hi! im excited to receive my first request!! ^^ to be quite honest im not //super familiar with bpd so i dont know the depths of it, but i made sure to do some more research before hand and i hope i did well!! (if not just lmk and ill fix anything!) i hope youre having a lovely day/evening as well :D

lucifer:

when he went through your file before you arrived, he saw that you had bpd

he went to barbatos to ask if he knew anything about the disorder, and he gave him a brief synopsis of what bpd was

he wants nothing more than to be a good host and tries his best to understand

lucys too prideful to ask questions to you directly, but that doesnt mean he doesnt care!

he finds as many books as he can about human mental disorders and reads up in his free time

every day he asks you if youre alright with little to no explanation why hes asking

if he happens to catch you during one of your mood swings, he doesnt say much but just stays by your side

if he has work to do he will bring it into the room youre in so he can work by your side

(if he doesnt have work he will literally just sit next to you or climb into your bed with you)

mammon:

hes never been too vocal about how he feels about you, but then once he hears about your fear of abandonment, he constantly reiterates hes never going anywhere

(maybe too much)

all eight of you can be eating dinner and he will just recite an entire monologue about how thankful he is to have you around

and everyone else would agree of course

if the others didnt know about your bpd, they may wonder why he does this

but regardless they all join in and share things they love about you

to say hes clingy is an understatement... but he also wants you to know if you ever feel like hes around too much he will leave you alone

he just really wants to help in any way he can and he never wants to hurt you nor have you think for a second he doesnt love and care about you

leviathan:

the moment he finds out, he takes some time to do research himself

immediately after he realises you prefer to not be alone, he never leaves your side

to be honest, he hates being alone too but he is also pretty anxious when it comes to asking people to hang out with him!

but its different with you!

hes always right beside you when your mood swings cause you to feel extremely low

he doesnt know exactly what to say and he may ask lucy what he would do when someone he cares about is feeling sad

lucifer tells him the best thing you can do is be by their side and levi does exactly that

sometimes he will even go as far as offering to leave the house and get you ice cream just to show he cares

satan:

of course he has read up on this before, but still continues to ask you questions as hes never met anyone with bpd and wants to be as understanding as possible

while he has periods of intense anger, he realises that you also experience mood swings, so he tries to be more aware of his anger

he really doesnt want to counter your anger with his own as he realises that might be counterproductive

he read something online once about how pets can help with bpd

when lucifer said no to getting a cat, he decided that he would take you to a cat cafe!

...every single time youre upset!

if youre allergic he will just pout about it but then make you watch cat videos on the couch while he cuddles with you

asmodeus:

as much as he would love to be around you all the time, he still wants to give you your space

but the moment he hears that a common symptom of bpd is fearing abandonment, he fears that him being away from you made you think he doesnt like being with you

similarly to mammon, he counters this by staying around you more

he does research on his own as well to make sure he understands you to the best he can

but mostly, asmo very much acknowledges the importance of communication

unlike most of his brothers who would be too prideful or embarassed to ask, asmo asks you directly how he can support you the best

if you want the others to know but dont feel like telling them personally, asmo will relay the information!

he acknowledges that up until this point, your life may have been extremely difficult because of your bpd and now all he wants to do is make your life easier

beelzebub:

he honestly doesnt understand at first!

when he sees you have your first mood swing he just assumes youre really hungry

he immediately heads to the kitchen and works to make your favorite food

asmo comes in and explains what bpd is, and explains youre not just acting out due to hunger

beel is kinda upset with himself that he didnt know about this and he wishes he knew so he couldve understood you better

he still brings you the food of course

but then he decides to sit with you as maybe what you need the most at that time is for someone to stay by your side

he offers you hugs but isnt offended if you say no

when youre feeling back to yourself again you try to apologize but he tells you that theres nothing to worry about and hes always here for you

belphegor:

firm believer of ~sleep is the best medicine~

when he notices your first mood swing he suggests that you should just take a nap

once you wake up and he notices youre not that different, he decides to ask some questions

after you say that you have bpd, hes very curious has a lot of questions

hes never met anyone with bpd so he inquires how does it affect your day to day life and what exactly is it?

you tell him a few of the common symptoms like the mood swings, the feelings of emptiness, and the fear of abandonment

he apologizes if anything he has done was insensitive or if he hurt you in any way

he often asks if theres anything he can do to make you feel better whenever you seem even a little different

hes not the best with comforting you with words so on nights youre at your lowest, he invites you to watch the stars with him so that you arent alone

(sorry this took so long i took all day writing this :0 do tell me how i did! if you believe anything was worded poorly or incorrect do let me know! ^^)

[olivieblake]

As a writer or even just a consumer of media do you find people are less willing to accept “flaws” in characters and stories? I’m not talking like this character is a murderer he’s evil no one should like him type stuff, though as someone who started off writing dramione I’m sure you’ve seen your fair share of that but just like when characters are ever short of perfect. Like when a strong female character is kinda insecure or a couple isn’t communicating well or has a heated fight everyone gets mad that it’s a toxic relationship or bad writing. I once read a review of a book where someone stopped reading it after two chapters cause it had bad therapy practices, ie. the character still had shit to work through and therapy isn’t magic therefore they weren’t always doing the healing right and it’s like? that’s the whole point!! it’s an arc the character is gonna grow! It’s also made clear early on that the therapist didn’t agree with the coping methods (overly controlling their life) so it wasn’t like they were trying to portray it as a good thing. I know you’ve mentioned people have ✨opinions✨ about your DFS Hermione for having flaws and staying flawed and her flaw is just that she kinda thinks she’s right a lot and maybe isn’t the most self aware nothing even serious lol. I’m not saying don’t be critical of media but it’s kinda overwhelming reading think piece after think piece about why this thing you enjoy is actually the literal worst™️. Like am I toxic for having some of the same flaws ? Am I a problematic creep for enjoy stories where everything isn’t always sunshine, I don’t want to have a train wreck of a relationship but sometimes reading about one can be kinda fun? Is that terrible?

there’s a lot here that I’d like to discuss and I’m thinking about how I’d like to do it (I’ll inevitably chat about it in a video because it’s interesting and complex but I think I may have too many topics for this monday)

let’s see I think I will start by saying: in general, critical discourse about media (books, tv, film, fanfic) is a good thing, but it has definitely gone awry from what I consider to be its origins. I think the whole point of viewing media critically and making observations about what we are portraying via fiction is crucial for amplifying/protecting marginalized stories and reducing harm—specifically, the harm that minorities and women face by being inundated with bigoted, prejudiced, hateful, or ignorant tropes, caricatures, or relationship dynamics. I definitely believe that we should consider what we consume and how we consume it, particularly when it comes to the marginalized voices who do not see themselves represented well or fairly in white male dominated media

that being said, I do think it has led to the expectation that fiction cannot have ANY problems, which is absurd and counterproductive. it’s also extremely reductive, particularly when it comes the Strong Female Character™ thing you mention, where a woman STILL only has value if she’s strong in the “correct” way. I mentioned in one of my other posts and also last week’s video that there’s some kind of disconnect between the VERY GOOD intentions of things like #ownvoices or the movement to empower female characters and the actual outcomes, which make it so that any flaws in a marginalized fictional character are magnified to represent the entire group. the very reasonable request to see ourselves in fiction has somehow become an exponentially convoluted demand to see ourselves a certain way in fiction, where any character who does not reflect our personal experience is bad and wrong. previously, the expectation was that white male stories were universal whereas everything else was only for that specific group, and now, ironically, everything that is created still has to fit that universal quality and please everyone, despite that not being the point. the problem is when you only have ONE movie about this topic or ONE book about this ethnicity, then of course it hasn’t done enough to exemplify an entire subject or culture. there has to be an entire body of work the way there is with white-dominated media, where no single film or book accurately represents the experience of being white

plus we have twitter which is a horrifying hellscape where you get rewarded by the algorithm for making loud, obnoxious points so add that to the list (yesterday I saw that one of the top 3 reviews on Beloved by toni morrison is a 1-star review written by a white man and I was just flabbergasted by the lack of self-awareness) 

but anyway that’s like, more of a macro look at what I think is going on but you’re right that people are not very forgiving of flawed characters. to some extent, I get it; the one thing we don’t want our characters to do is annoy us, and that’s fair. but I also think people have lost the sense that “oh, this thing isn’t for me” and thus can’t successfully identify the difference between critical failure and personal dislike

now. as for Divination for Skeptics. let me start by saying it’s not like I don’t understand why people find hermione in Divination for Skeptics annoying, because I get it. if you’re taking the story very seriously then sure, maybe you want her to change her behavior and it’s frustrating that she doesn’t. fair enough! to that I say it’s a comedy and if you don’t find it funny you’re perfectly welcome to dislike it, it’s not a big deal to me if I don’t make you laugh. however, I DO take issue with people who claim she’s too flawed or doesn’t grow, because they almost always do it in a very specific way: they say that she doesn’t show enough empathy, aka how dare she not read draco’s mind and simply alter her personality and behavior to suit his. it genuinely infuriates me that in my opinion, people who voice that particular “criticism” have seemingly internalized the belief that women should be emotionally perceptive; that for them, hermione’s “flaw” is that she does not take on the emotional labor that draco refuses to perform. (her actual flaw is that her survival technique/coping mechanism is a hyper-rationality that incorrectly assumes she has perfect information; i.e., that everything she knows is accurate, and therefore all of her decisions must be sound.) whereas draco knows this about her—knows and acknowledges it—and yet cannot bring himself to voice his feelings out of a fear-based desire to hedge his own emotional risk. who, then, is more flawed in the context of the story? 

I don’t really have a conclusion yet so I’m going to pause for now and we’ll revisit this; I think mainly it’s that the more media diversifies, the more people will struggle with the preconceptions they have and the presumption that everything they consume is for them, and therefore that they are the metric for whether something is “good.” I think good art, good media, will reflect the world as it exists, but it will still only be the world according to one tiny fraction, a sliver of the actual human experience. does bad representation mean bad art? when it harms people yes. but when it speaks to a deeper truth (the truth of “we are all given to vice and imperfection even if it is not this specific version”), no. but that requires quite a degree of sophistication and self-awareness to identify, hence the discomfort of continuous vitriol or bad takes

[katsidhe]

Hello as a long time silent lurker with post notifications on, and someone who has been very into the minecraft roleplay for about 9 months, I am oh so incredibly intrigued on your thoughts! I hope you don't mind if I ramble a little. Sam (both minecraft and spn, but in this context the minecraft one) is one of my favourite characters because he's so incredibly complex. The prison story has sparked so much discussion and conflict in this fandom, so I would love to hear your thoughts if you want to share!

oh noooooooooooo don’t enable me. (Jk <3)

I’m putting this under a read more for those of you who don’t want to be inflicted with my minecraft roleplay brain worms. I would apologize but I think we’re well past that.

So, like, full disclosure that I am pretty new to dsmp and am surely missing out on big ol swathes of Essential Character Content, etc etc. But I do know the basics, and I’ve (naturally) watched all the Torture Box Content, because I mean come on, that’s my brand.

k so First of all, THE most essential part of any media: x-coded y girl. Dream is a textbook Cas-coded Sam girl. Sam (Minecraft) is a Cas-coded Dean girl. Quackity is a Dean-coded Sam girl. I’d say Tommy is Dean-Dean. Techno is, hmm, Cas-Cas. Okay, important part done.

Minecraft Sam is very fun! I find it absolutely delightful that he clings to moral high ground while torturing and starving a prisoner. And at least from what I’ve seen, there’s a lot of room for interpretation as to the level of guilt and involvement he actually feels about what’s being done to Dream. He goes back and forth between justifying the treatment as something Dream categorically deserves, and justifying it as a means to an end. Whether that end is the book itself, or whether it’s Quackity’s cooperation/satisfaction, or whether it’s some twisted and bloody sense of justice and duty, seems to vary wildly. On top of that, of course, is the irony that Dream was the one to give him this commission and this job in the first place: in every respect, it’s a duty to Dream (to punish him; to secure him; to uphold his rules) that Sam’s fulfilling. Dream isn’t the only one to suffer from Sam’s inflexibility surrounding the entire concept of Dream: Tommy and Ponk do too.

And yet it’s not the inflexibility that ends up hurting Dream the worst: it’s the gaps in that rigidity. If Sam had kept the prison operating as apparently originally commissioned, it would be inhumane but just about bearable: hardly the level of absurd, over-the-top war crime that it’s reached by now. His choice to begin starving Dream in earnest seems to have been mostly an emotional reaction, after Tommy’s death. (Ironic, too, that Tommy also suffered the result of this choice.) And this is fine, because it’s not active: it’s passive, something that’s happening by inaction. Same with giving Quackity specially made weapons and total carte blanche.

The level of trust that Dream has in Sam’s sense of duty is also fascinating. Even as late as the most recent stream, after the guy’s been permitting him to be tortured for months, Dream appeals to Sam’s need to keep Dream static, in one place as his prisoner, in order to save his life. Incidentally, I do think that convincing Sam to keep Quackity from straight-up murdering him is the only concession Dream was actually hoping to win with that conversation. because like, food and a courtyard visit? after a jail break? Like hell is Sam going to grant that, even before the stunt he and Techno pulled, and Dream knows it. I think that the rest of that conversation was just to deflect, and keep Sam from questioning Dream more sharply about whatever he and Techno have planned. Bringing up Tommy and letting Sam go off on his predictable diatribe about morality and just desserts seemed similarly strategic: Dream knows what Sam thinks about what kind of treatment he deserves. He’s had months to figure it out, and it wasn’t exactly rocket science to begin with.

Anyway, that trust is the same reason Dream appealed (unsuccessfully) to Sam when Quackity first showed up: it devastated him to realize that he’d miscalculated the degree of Sam’s willingness to set aside his duty in this one particular way. Quackity in general represents a HUGE blind spot in Sam’s otherwise completely rigid inflexibility: so huge it’s almost baffling, given what Sam was ready to do to Tommy and Ponk and Ghostbur. But Quackity represents a loophole Sam badly wants. He badly, badly wants some good old-fashioned vengeance, without dressing it up with any pretensions of procedure or justice, but he can’t allow himself to actively act on those impulses—or else he would be Bad, and he can’t have that. He has to believe himself to be Good, and he wants to indulge himself with Dream’s suffering anyway. So he explains that, actually, Dream’s treatment is Dream’s own fault. It’s hilariously deluded.

Which brings me to Quackity, because what makes Quackity fun is that he’s actually NOT hilariously deluded—not about this, at least. Unlike Sam, he’s not laboring under the insane mental acrobatics necessary to convince himself that torture is Good Actually. He knows that what he’s doing is terrible, but he owns it: he’s fine admitting that he enjoys it, that he’s doing this for personal gain and personal vengeance and not for reasons of high-minded civic duty. He’s justifying the torture with brutal simplicity: Dream has hurt him and Dream has something he needs, done and done. He seems to be a firm believer in vengeful and disproportionate retribution, just as with his whole Butcher Army thing. To which I say, neat and fun! I also really really enjoy the power dynamic between him and Dream. Dream is someone who commands respect and fear and power, who could murder Quackity with one hand tied behind his back if they were on equal footing, and who probably barely spared him a thought as a threat. Quackity lives in terror of the thought of Dream escaping and wreaking his vengeance. And Quackity is trying his very best to wrestle that power away from him.

He seems to be pretty unpracticed and ineffective at torture, too—like, yeah, I get this is Minecraft and props are limited, but torturing someone long-term with an ax and a sword is going to be more than a bit unwieldy. and did he even bring in health potions his first day? It’s pretty telling and hilarious that Sam is the one who offers the shears, a far more practical choice of tool. Not to mention that the entire premise of his interrogation gives Dream massive, massive incentive to never give Quackity anything. Quackity straight up admits to Dream that the information he wants is the only reason he’s letting Dream live, which is utterly counterproductive if he wants the book sometime this year. Functionally, he needs to torture Dream not merely into admission, but into suicide. And as the days and weeks and months pass, he’s still got nothing to show for it but growing vindictiveness, paranoia, and frustration. By the time of the latest stream, he’s completely lost the plot—his threats don’t even make sense, his violence is ineffective and unhinged and indiscriminate. He’s lost all leverage and he’s needlessly (re)made a powerful enemy in Technoblade.

So, like, characters like Lucifer are fun because they’re good at torture. Characters like Quackity are fun because they’re bad at torture. But that doesn’t much matter. He doesn’t need to be particularly talented, or strong, or skilled to make Dream’s existence hell: the bare facts of the situation are more than enough for that. What does he learn, over the course of these visits—what skills does he hone, what kinds of violence does he discover that he can stomach? What depths of ruthlessness and creativity and hatred does he discover within himself? What threats does he make that he finds himself following through on before he’s even thought through the implications? It’s a learning curve, for him and Dream both. They’re learning each other, they’re learning the corners of this little hell together. Dream wasn’t expecting him to be capable of this degree of hostility or violence. Quackity is sick of being underestimated.

Which brings me finally to Dream. My general and hastily-gleaned impression of the fandom gives me the distinct impression that there is somehow a school of thought convinced Dream’s earned this treatment? Which baffles me. not only in how its absurd extremity (daily torture in a tiny box for literal months, jesus fucking christ) isn’t something even the most terrible villain could earn, but also in how Dream himself strikes me more as a morally gray fallen/falling antihero type than anything else. I was honestly completely prepared to find him to be a straightforward Bad Guy pre-prison, but that’s not at all my impression. He’s clearly got people and things he cares about and wants to protect, and big picture goals he’ll ruthlessly sacrifice anything to advance (ahem Cas-coded Sam girl). Really, it’s more that roleplays don’t tend to lend themselves easily to those types of narrative classification: nearly every character is a POV character; consuming the content from every perspective is nearly impossible. There aren’t super neat ways to sort antagonists and protagonists in essential terms, only in their relationships to one another. In terms of manipulation, war crimes, power-grabbing, and general destruction, practically everyone on the server is guilty to some degree or another. Dream’s treated Tommy pretty damn terribly, but that hardly makes him unique. What does make Dream unique is that he’s been singled out for near-universally-agreed-upon confinement (which oh so conveniently aligns with him being held as a tool, for information). And that’s neat!

…Look, tldr I just like it when people are in torture boxes. more media should have torture boxes, they are good and fun. 

[foreverandaday-1]

Tenderly They Turned To Dust All That I Adored

Inspired by @julielilac s post/gif on the doctor and the master. The first 14 lines of a dialogue are hers, with a few minor changes.

I kind of went on a tangent, and turned this into a weirdly tense hurt/comfort fic, but oh well. Also inspired by my Renamed fic on AO3, under foreverandaday_1

‘Doctor,’ came a voice from the shadowed corner.

‘We meet at last,’ said the woman, equally as wary, yet with a predatory sharpness to her eyes. She wanted answers, and she would get them.

‘I’d like to say I’m glad to see you, but I’m not,’ he said, a slight teasing note, something comfortable but still wary.

‘Shame. I was actually hoping for a welcome for a welcome kiss,’ she returned, voice relaxed slightly.

‘Oh really?’ was his reply, full of put-on amusement to mask the confusion at her unusual playfulness. Yet playfulness wasn’t right, unless describing the way a lion played with its soon-to-be-dead food.

‘I was joking,’ her tone was back to serious.

‘Right. So why are you here then?’

‘I’m looking for answers and you are well aware of this. Who or what the timeless child is, and why you destroyed our home,’ she raised her eyebrows, as if offended by his question, it was obvious what she wanted.

He huffed out a laugh, looking amused. She didn’t notice his slight twinge when moving his ribs.

‘Also, what happened to your hair?’ curiosity was evident in her voice, and she was trying not to compliment him. Luckily she was distracted by the hopefully-soon-to-be-given answers.

‘There were difficulties in escaping from the Kasaavin Dimension.’

‘And yet you were able to escape?’

He huffed, ‘no thanks to you.’

‘You were expecting me to help? Why would I put you somewhere, that took effort and time, just to bring you back out again? A little counterproductive don’t you think?’

‘As if I’d want help from you.’

She smirked, ‘so no help with your injury?’

‘What injury?’ he played off.

‘You’re ribs, I saw you wince.’

‘I’m perfectly capable, thanks.’

‘Manners? Take off your shirt Kos.’

‘Trying to undress me?’

She sighed, crossing her arms.

‘I’m fine.’ 

She raised her eyebrows.

‘Ok, ok, maybe I could collapse within an hour, but it’s not that bad.’

‘Shirt. Off.’

‘Fine. you’re ever so bossy, love. I can’t say it’s just in this regeneration either.’

She ignored his comments, and, thankfully, only slightly affected by the pet name. ‘That looks painful. No wonder you were wincing,’ she moved closer, ‘go lay on the table.’

He rolled his eyes before doing as she said, flinching slightly as he bent his torso. She prodded at the bruised skin of his chest. There was a slightly green glow coming from the deep purple bruised across his lower right ribs. She tried not to enjoy inflicting pain, but sometimes it was nice to have revenge, even if that reinstated her hypocrisy. 

‘So,’ he said after a few minutes, ‘you going to do anything?’

‘I want an explanation of what the hell happened to you later.’

‘Of course, love.’

Well there’s an easier way and a harder way.’

‘For me or for you?’

‘Easy for me, painful for you. Easy for you, stupid for me.,’ she tilted her head, thinking. His mental barriers were just out of reach. Even though it was a bad idea to get closer again, she wanted to. The last time before the Paris thing had been centuries ago, and sometimes her mind felt empty. Lonely without another presence.

‘Well I vote the least painful way.’

‘For me or for you?’ her voice was looser and calmer, she was relaxed in his presence. It probably wasn’t the best idea but it was as if they were young again, without the millennia of pain and fire separating the strands of time.

He smirked at that, looking like he wanted to laugh. She walked towards his head with a contemplative expression, before voicing her thoughts.

‘There’s a quick way, and it’s not like I don’t have any left. Who knows how many I actually have.’

He grimaced, ‘about that…’

‘What?’

‘You have an infinite amount.’

‘I’m going to ignore the fact that you shouldn’t know that, and jump straight to what the hell?’

‘That's not for today's conversation, because I also happen to have none.’

‘You have, but… If you die, you’ll be dead?’

‘That is how death works, love.’

She rolled her eyes, ‘I mean, permanently, no resurrection or trick or stupidly thought out yet genius plan to surprise me again?’

‘No, dead as in gone forever.’

‘But you can’t,’ she said thickly, almost crying for the first time, she realised, with this particular face.

He looked shocked that she was actually voicing some feeling for once.

‘Koschei,’ she said, looking in his eyes, voice carrying the musical lilt of Galifreyan, ‘you can’t die, not now.’ Not ever.

He smiled at the language, one that they hadn’t spoken for a long time. It was a genuine smile, not seen for as equally as long of a time.

‘You said you had an idea, Theta,’ he said softly, comforting with a press of his consciousness against hers.

‘I,’ she sniffed, ‘ when River… you know who she is right?’

He nodded, ‘one of three humans I can tolerate, yes.’

‘Because River had… weird genes… when she broke her wrist, I used regeneration energy to heal it. I wasn’t able to regenerate for a few hours after, or heal as fast, but it worked.’

‘Awfully sentimental of you.’

‘She was important, and had pretended to be fine for my benefit.’ she paused, before looking up at him. ‘How come you don’t mind that I married her?’

‘While I may hate your pets because they don’t deserve your attention, she was different. She was important to you, and not a pet of yours. I could actually get on with her, and have an intelligent conversation.’

She smiled, happy that two people that shaped her life could have gotten along.

‘Now love, enough of the emotion, we should get to your plan.’

‘I can use my, apparently limitless, regeneration energy to heal you. It might have to be a full one, to properly work, but I don’t think you’ll change,’ she sounded happier, a slight touch of sarcasm evident in her voice.

‘Won’t that mean you can’t regenerate for a while? Or that you’ll regenerate with me?’

‘Possibly. But, again with River, when she revived me, she didn’t change.’

‘What?’

‘She may have killed me after regenerating before giving up all of hers to bring me back to life.’

‘Ignoring the fact that she of all people managed to actually kill you for the first time in all of history…’

‘It’s probably why Daleks seem terrified of her,’ she cut in.

‘... yes, but you need a mental and physical connection.’

‘Yep, full open contact between consciousnesses, and a close physical contact, with as many inner surfaces close.’

‘You and River, properly married?’

‘Yeah, Bonded and everything. It was partly in a separate timeline that no longer exists and also never existed.’

‘Okay, but, love, mouth to mouth?’

‘I wasn’t entirely joking when I mentioned a welcome kiss earlier.’

‘I didn’t think so.’

They stayed close together, and she stood by his form laying on the table, hands clasped in each others. They reached out their minds, before he sat up, wincing. Both closed their eyes, physical sight wasn’t needed. 

They leaned together, hand-to-hand, forehead-to-forehead, hearts-to-hearts.

‘Contact.’

Contact.

They both whispered it quietly, and spoke loudly in their minds. Volume didn’t matter as much as intent did. Intent to re-bond completely after a lifetime of mental separation. It took both eons, and no time at all.

It was an explosion of thought and feeling. A sensation unlike any other, yet reminiscent of coming home. A sense of welcoming in a place long forgotten yet forever remembered. A contradiction and cycle, of my thought is yours, your thought is mine. Memories were absorbed, and information shared.

She tugged on the always-there well of energy, as if waking it up. It swirled within her, before spreading out to her limbs, gathering at her fingertips. 

His hands glowed the same pale gold, as the tangible glow drew up his arms. They pushed closer still, tilting their necks to have better access.

Her lips pressed to his. His lips pressed to hers.

The energy pushed through completely, moving around them both. A swirl of pale gold and a feeling of life hanging in the air.

The glow collected around his injury, the bruised fading, sickly green hue leached away. Small scars knitted seamlessly, and any more bruises disappeared. His ribs shifted slightly, returning to their original position.

After a few seconds, minutes, hours, she stepped back. Not just one, but continually walking back to the door.

‘It’s not the time to ask,’ she smiled with an air of bittersweetness. ‘We’ll find each other when we’re ready.’

[nothorses]

So I have a question/something I'd like your input on, since I feel like you'd have something interesting to say about this.

Anyways, some background: i'm in a child and youth care program in a rather left leaning, relatively progressive college, in a rather left leaning/progressive city.

It's actually been a very validating experience so far--I feel so much more accepted here then at my last school, which, while it was located relatively close to the city, had a rather more conservative student body and faculty. I had to fight for accomodation and acceptance, and I didn't end up going to my convocation since, when I had asked, they said they wouldn't call my prefered name when I'd get the certificate at the ceremony, or use the right name on it (they made it seem that their hands were completely tied, even though I know of other schools who've done this exact thing, incl the school I'm at now, without needing proof of a legal name change).

Anyways, at this school, i'm even having instructors I don't even know well going to bat for me and using their connections to get the help I needed when I was having trouble with my name being displayed wrong in the online classroom. Like, thank god for having CYC's as profs, right?

So, to my point: one of our classes is all about inclusion and anti oppressive practices. It's literally the name of the class. I actually enjoy the class a fair bit--despite classes being virtual, my class is sharing a lot and there's a lot of bonding and openness going on in the virtual lecture space. It's encouraged me to be open about my own troubles as a trans person, and people have been v supportive.

In a recent lecture, we start talking about the different terms of discrimination against various groups that face oppression (like, racism, albleism, etc). So she asks us: what is the term for discrimination against trans people? And I say Transphobia. Because that's the term I see most often, and the one I say myself. Apparently the Proper term now is cissexism (or cisgenderism?), and I got chided for saying transphobia.

I went and turned my mic on and basically said that I feel like transphobia is the term the general population is only Just started to take seriously, and the instructor argued that as we're in an academic circle, and as CYCs, it's our job to use the most progressive terms to move things forward, and that we shouldn't be conflating the discrimination trans people face with a phobia. Since, not only does it validate the fear of trans people, but it's not fair to those that have legitimate phobias.

I dropped it there, but I was brave and I asked to speak with the instructor after class.

During that talk, I pretty much said that it's hard being probably the only trans person in at least first year, and being visible and open as one, and having to be told the "right" term to use for my own experiences. She could relate, she said, as she's a black woman, and have faced probably similar experiences from white people correcting her on terms she uses for her own experiences. She did say though, as she's in the role of an instructor, it is her job to educate herself, think on what they're saying, and potentially make changes to her language.

But, she also said she can't speak for my experiences, and she won't make me change my language.

I was appreciative, and I talked about things I've personally faced, and how, even just 10 years ago, trans people were treated so frequently as a joke. Even on screen deaths were funny in media. I brought up that the trans panic defense was still considered a valid defense to use in court not long ago (and still probably is in some places), and someone won a case recently that way. Even just the term "transphobia" is only just recently been taken seriously, in my eyes, while before it was often brushed off as not a legitimate concern. Even when I was first coming out, I was told I was just confused, or trans people were just doing it for attention. I still face open glares sometimes, purposeful misgendering, fights with my sister about some of her transphobic views she refuses to question... And while it was hard to be that vulnerable, the conversation ended on a very good note.

I personally don't feel ready to change this language. But I don't really know if I was in the right to argue all of this. I'm only one trans person, I don't want to talk over those who've probably fought to switch the language away from "transphobia" as the valid term. But, i'm in an awkward position of being an unofficial spokesperson as the token trans guy in the class, talking to a lot of folks who've admitted I am the first trans person they've met. So, i dunno, i'm weird with conflict and I was wondering what you're thoughts were on all of this.

This is kind of a tricky one for a lot of reasons, tbh? And I have... a few thoughts. This is already super long, so under the cut it goes!

The first thing is that “transphobia” and “cissexism” aren’t actually interchangeable; they’re different concepts. “Transphobia” refers to bigotry against trans people or transness in general, while “cissexism” or “cisgenderism” is appealing to (or is) the wider system of oppression. (x)

That’s not to say those words are actually used that way in practice, because they’re not, and I certainly don’t use them that way every time either. Like you said, “transphobia” is the word people more often understand. When I’m writing for or talking to audiences that don’t already have a strong background in trans theory, I stick to “transphobia” for clarity’s sake.

But if you’re positioning yourself as an educational authority on the subject, and even going so far as to correct trans people on those terms- you should know that. If your question is “which term refers to discrimination against trans people?”, your answer is reliant upon how you choose to define “discrimination” in that context.

It’s also reasonable to assume people would answer with the first term if they don’t know both of them, and what she’s set up sounds like an unfair “gotcha!” meant to cow uninformed cis people.

And tbh, I take issue with that. There’s a great essay on this- The Cycle of Socialization by Bobbie Harro. The core of this cycle, which allows oppression to continue and encourages its perpetuation, includes confusion and insecurity: oppression is complex, and big, and people are afraid of taking a stand and doing it wrong. They are insecure in their knowledge and position, and afraid that if they try, they’ll get it wrong, and they’ll be punished. So they stay silent. What is that “gotcha!” moment doing except enforcing that fear and silence?

The other thing here are her reasons for using “cissexism” instead. She’s absolutely right that there is dialogue about what terms to use, and her listed reasons are informed and well-educated. I don’t know how I feel about the discussion myself, honestly, as I’ve seen it from the start and I’ve watched it play out for multiple years.

I don’t know if I agree that it’s ableist, part of that being that the “-phobic” thing was originally created as a “compassionate justification” for people’s bigotry against gay people (though there is the “-misic/misia” replacement for “-phobia” if you prefer). That’s still problematic for different reasons; like she said, it might validate bigotry as “fear”. “Cissexism” illustrates bigotry as enforcing a system rather than being honestly rooted in feelings, and that’s generally a good thing, imo.

But, y’know, “transphobia” is what people readily understand, and punishing people for using it is counterproductive. Using “transphobia” as a starting point for a discussion and an understanding is helpful, too; it connects these ideas back to what people already know. It meets them where they are. If you want to add “cissexism” to their vocabulary from there, please do! But that shouldn’t be rooted in shame.

I don’t know if any of this is helpful, but I thought I’d throw out what seemed to be the core of the issue to me, in case it resonated with you. If you still feel weird about the interaction, it might be worth it to address that with her again; she seems like she’s genuinely trying, and cares, and like she’s open to making changes. If nothing else, you might be able to sort out what’s still bugging you and address it as a feelings issue, rather than a language one, if that works better for you.

Good luck! And sorry for the super long answer, lol.

[gallagherwitt]

Hey, writer folks, let's talk editing for a minute.

Lately I've seen some posts by a number of writers concerned about the editing process. In particular, what happens when your editor starts trampling your voice? Or when they start changing things that are clearly a matter of taste, not structural or grammatical issues? Or when their comments are rude or condescending? Or when you don't even recognize your own book anymore, and not in a good way?

Basically, what happens when you get your manuscript back from your editor, and you get that sick feeling in your stomach like "This is ruined"?

First, right off the bat, without even getting into whether the editor is right or wrong, it's a perfectly natural and acceptable reaction when you have some hardcore edits that involve massive revisions. This is especially true early in your career, but trust me, it doesn't magically go away. It's tough on the ego to see that manuscript you worked so hard on come back slathered in red. It's demoralizing. And it's okay if you feel that way!

You know what I do when I get a set of edits? I go through it one time and let my inner toddler go nuts. I mentally flail and push back and holler and roll my eyes and "oh my GOD that is BULLSHIT" and I eat a cookie. Then I put the manuscript aside. The next day, I take a deep breath and go through it again, and more often than not -- especially now that I'm mostly indie and I hire editors who I mesh with -- the comments and changes aren't so bad after all. So I 100% give you permission to do that if getting it out of your system helps.

THAT BEING SAID.

The inner toddler isn't always wrong. When I read through it the second time, if my eyebrows keep climbing until they touch my hairline, it's possible that something is amiss here besides my ego needing a nap.

So what happens when you and your editor disagree? How do you know if the problem is the editor or the manuscript? And how do you handle it? Well, that can be tough, and the answer usually comes down to communication.

But let me say this upfront: it's not just you. After 11 years in print, I'm creeping up on 200 titles in my catalogue. I have, shall we say, extensive experience with editors, and it hasn't always been good.

With one publisher, I had to hire a copy editor on my own to go through and undo all the errors *their* copy editor inserted, not to mention fix all the ones they'd missed.  That's a pretty objective problem.  If your editor is missing mistakes or ADDING mistakes, then you need a new editor. Period. Do NOT be afraid to go to your senior editor (or your agent), tell them what the problem is, and request someone new. If the problem isn't resolved or you're told "this editor does a perfectly good job," then consider that a sign that you and the publisher have differing standards on quality. You might have to grit your teeth through the process on your currently contracted book(s) (that's why I hired an outside editor for mine), but consider not submitting to that publisher in the future. If you're an indie author who hired your own editor, you can fortunately choose not to use them again.

Sometimes it's a personality clash or a difference in taste or style. Maybe the editor's method of communicating rubs you the wrong way. I had an editor who thought that since I'm fairly sarcastic with a dry sense of humor most of the time, that would be an effective way of communicating via comments in a manuscript.

Spoiler: it was not. I have a thick skin when it comes to writing, but if I feel like my editor is making fun of me, talking down to me, or yelling at me, I shut down. I can't work like that. Solution: ask the editor to do things differently or ask for another editor. DO NOT grin and bear it if your editor is communicating in a way that's hurtful or counterproductive. You're equal partners here, and you have a right to be treated with respect. It's okay to say so if you feel that's not happening.

I also had an editor who did line edits by making the change they wanted to see rather than putting in a comment about how and why they thought it should change. I really liked that because in comparing my original to the tracked change, I could see what they were getting at, and even if I didn't accept their change in its entirety, it was a good way to communicate the issue to me. For us, it worked really well.

But that approach had the opposite effect on another author, who felt like the editor was stomping on their voice and just changing things willy nilly.  Neither of us was wrong, it was just different people responding to different means of communication. In that instance, simply approach the editor, explain why you would prefer they made comments instead of changes, and see what happens. If they're willing to do so, great! If not, you and the editor might not be compatible. That doesn't make you a diva or them a bad editor, it just means you're not a good match. That's okay!

Also, if they've made a suggestion or recommended a change, and you disagree with it or don't understand it, sometimes just typing out your concerns in an email or a reply to their comment can resolve it. I can't tell you how many times I've been in the middle of explaining to an editor why I wanted to keep something the way it was, and I talked myself right into a solution to their comment that I was happy with. The solution wasn't always what they'd initially recommended, but the result was that the problem they'd pointed out was fixed.

Which is another thing to keep in mind: if your editor suggests you do X to fix a problem, but you don't like X, think about WHY they want you to do it. What is X fixing? One of my editors told me "There isn't enough tension in this scene, so I recommend cutting it by 10% to tighten it up." I tried. Lord, I tried. But there was no way I could cut anything without losing vital information. So I revisited the comment. The problem wasn't that it needed to lose 10%. The problem was there wasn't enough tension. In the end, I ratcheted up the tension....by *adding* 10%.

So sometimes it's just a matter of stepping back and asking yourself, is this editor stomping all over your voice and tearing apart your work in a way you disagree with? Or is it a difference in communication style? Are they trying to hijack my book? Or does their suggestion illustrate a problem which I can fix in a way that is more satisfying to me and more in line with my story?

Also, a lot of writers have come of age hearing that you toe the line and do what your editor tells you to, or else you'll get blacklisted for being difficult. And to some extent, sure, you CAN cultivate a reputation for being an unreasonable diva, but there is an enormous gap between diva status and being a professional asking to be treated accordingly. If you feel your editor is being rude or they're hurting your story, say so. If you think there's a lapse in communication somewhere, say so.

If you don't understand something, ask. When my current editor makes suggestions for significant changes, it's not unusual at all for me to email her first and say "I'm thinking of doing X, Y, and Z to fix A, B, and C. What do you think?" Or "You suggested A, B, and C, but I think if I do X, Y, and Z it'll work better because... What do you think?" And we'll go back and forth a little before I ever touch the manuscript. It works beautifully, and I'm always confident going into the edits that I understand what the issues are and how to fix them. You're not alone when you're editing! Your editor is there to help you and to work with you, and if they won't do that, they're not doing their job!

Seeing a pattern here? Communication is crucial. If you aren't comfortable with something, or you don't understand something, or the way the editor is communicating isn't working for you, it's okay to speak up. It goes without saying that you need to be professional about it, but don't buy into the idea that for authors, "being professional" means gritting your teeth and taking whatever your editor shells out.

And yes, if you absolutely cannot work with an editor -- if just thinking about looking at that manuscript spikes your anxiety like a tornado siren just went off because the comments are rude, the changes are uncalled for, or something is just OFF -- it is acceptable to say "This author-editor relationship isn't working for me."

Yes, you can break up with your editor.

Obviously that's easiest for indie authors. We just...don't hire that editor again. With publishers, it's a little more complicated, but it CAN be done!

In just over a decade, there has been one occasion where I stopped midway through the edits, emailed the senior editor, and said "I'm not working with this person anymore. I want a new editor." This came after a round of edits left me so emotionally wrung out and beaten down that I was literally in tears over it, and if you know me, you know that says A LOT. The first draft of my email basically said "You know what? This book is obviously garbage. Let's just cancel it." I felt that bad about the whole thing. But after talking to some industry friends, I pulled myself together, realized the book was not the problem, and I sent a firmly-worded but still professional email to my senior editor.

You know what happened? I got a new editor. We scrapped the existing edits, started over, and it was like night and day. The edits were still intense, but they were reasonable, and instead of feeling like I was being told to nuke the book from orbit and start over, I felt like I was course correcting. In the end, readers loved the book, and I continued working with that editor for a long time because we meshed so flawlessly.

If you find yourself in a situation like this, and you're not sure if it's just you, run it by some trusted writer buddies. Ask some long-published veteran authors. It's okay to say "Something about this doesn't feel right -- what do you think?"

Don't suffer in silence! Get feedback from a third party. Talk to your editor. Talk to your senior editor or your agent if you have them. It could be just a simple miscommunication. It could be that you and this editor aren't compatible. But if no one knows you're struggling, they can't help.

And honestly, if there's one thing I've learned in working with literally dozens of editors over the years, it's that most of them genuinely do want you to succeed, and they want you to be happy with your book. If they do, they'll also meet you in the middle and try to make the whole process work for both of you. If they don't, well, then that's somebody you probably don't want to work with again if you can help it.

To recap:

Talk to your editor if you have concerns or if something isn't working.

Talk to your senior editor or agent (if you have them) if you think a new editor would be the best solution.

If you're truly unhappy with an editor, you might be stuck with them for the duration of one book or series, depending on your contract, but beyond contractual obligations, it's okay to choose not to work with them again. (And if it's really not a good situation, push for a different editor.)

 If an author and editor disagree, the author is not wrong by default. Neither is the editor.

Communicate, communicate, communicate.

Remember that you are colleagues, and you should expect to be treated accordingly.

Sometimes calmly explaining to your editor why you disagree with or don't understand their comment can lead your thought process right to the solution.

It's YOUR book. In the end, YOU should be happy with it. Your editor should be on your side.

 You are not obligated to correct a problem in the manner your editor suggested. Most problems have multiple possible solutions!

It's totally okay to email your editor and ask for clarification, bounce ideas off them for solutions, etc.

So go forth and bravely tackle those edits, but communicate like whoa and trust your gut if something doesn't feel right!

[ctrl-alt-languages]

tips for people learning multiple languages

i’ve recieved a good amount of messages/asks about how i learn several languages at once, and how i manage my time! so i thought about it a lot and made this post to share how i do it! :)

in this post, i will discuss what to focus on while learning multiple languages, the idea of time management in language learning, parallel language learning, and outside resources.

so to start, there are different ways you can simultaneously learn different languages, and that sometimes depends on which languages you specifically chose to learn and also your proficiency level. some things that you may find helpful if you’re just beginning your multiple-language journey is if you focus on these aspects:

language families: take note of whether your target languages are from the same or similar language group(s) (i.e. japanese, korean, chinese or spanish, french, italian). this will be super helpful to know about from the start when it comes to language compare/contrast. if your target languages are not from the same group, that is okay, you’ll just know that they won’t be as easy to compare when to comes to grammar structures or vocabulary.

proficiency: if you are more proficient in one target language than another, you can practice “parallel learning” (i’ll get more into parallel learning later in this post). this i would say is one of the most helpful tips i could ever give anyone. being a complete beginner in a lot of languages without being proficient in at least one target language will be difficult because you have to start from basically nothing.

differentiation: notice the similarities but ALSO differences in each language before deep-diving, so that you can draw connections but also be able to compartmentalize and not mix them up

foundation: have a strong baseline for each language. learn the script, alphabet, basic grammar structures.

immersion: i have personally been successful if i don’t start learning the language until i have some level of linguistic or cultural immersion of each language. for example, i didn’t start seriously learning korean until after being surrounded (more like gently bombarded) by korean media like movies, tv shows, music, etc, so i highly highly reccommend immersing yourself completely before diving into the academics of language learning, because it really helps you get the feel for what it will be like (and plus you’ll be able to pick things up quicker as you were exposed to them before to some degree)

relativity: beware! some languages will be harder but some will be easier compared to your native language. comparing your target languages to your native language is actually a very good gague as to how much you will need to dedicate to each language. for the specific case in the ask above, assuming that your native language is english, i would say you might find yourself spending more time on russian than french because it is from a different language group. however, french is far more specific than english in terms of grammar, so you’ll probably find russian grammar more simple. don’t fret though, just because a language is completely different from your native language doesn’t mean that it will be impossibly difficult to learn.

time management:

i think you might find that the more you learn languages, time management becomes less of an issue because you actually enjoy it. also, you will eventually find that you aren’t placing aside equal learning time for each language, and that is very normal. to be honest, i actually wouldn’t even recommend thinking too much about time management unless you feel that it really helps you succeed in this arena. language learning is a very fluid journey, and it’s actually a lot less academic in a way than we would like to believe. i would say, if you divide the language into its parts: immersion, speaking, listening, reading/writing, the academic, “sit down and study for an hour” part of the language only makes up like 25% of the actual language learning. so i would spend most of my time off the books and trying to practice other things. 

use the books as something to fall back on or reference rather than something to prop up your language abilities. because usually it helps more to see something you don’t know in a real life situation than in a book so that you have some level of prior knowledge and proper context.(obviously don’t do this with grammar though, that part i do suggest that you sit down and study.)

but,,,regardless of how you chose to learn multiple languages- whether it is to set aside time and peruse through books or to avoid books at all costs and dive into the deep end- here are some time management tips:

if you chose to take a more structured path for language learning (this applies to less structure as well in a way):

tailor your time to your own focus: set aside a little time every day. don’t make it a school class where you lose focus halfway through and then you force yourself to study for all two hours. if you find yourself losing focus, that’s when you should take a break or call it a day. and it doesn’t have to be that long either. as long as you were able to learn something from your study session, regardless of how short it was, you were successful.

goal-setting: have one or two daily language goals. making a giant do to list can sometimes be counterproductive and it can lead to you feeling defeated if you don’t complete everything. focus on the core parts of language-learning when you set these goals too: immersion, listening, speaking, reading/writing. keeping it simple will help you be satisfied as well.

stay holistic: always take a step back and widen your perspective when you are doing formal studying. it is very easy to get caught up in a few vocab words that you can’t get memorized or tenses that you don’t feel secure with. while staying in the shallow end until you feel like you are ready does help, it is mostly a security blanket. throw yourself in the deep end. try to write full sentences, a paragraph, a story. do journaling. read an article in your target language and see what you picked up. you’ll be surprised at how much you know when you see the end product. and, you’ll also know what to work on.

don’t worry about time management but be mindful of it: it’s okay if you don’t study a language every single day, and it’s okay if you jump around a little bit. keeping a routine is great, but following it may not always help you succeed. studying too much is just as bad as studying too little because you will end up having this overflow of information that you will have trouble retaining in the long run. don’t study too little either, because you will end up forgetting what you learned too. find that happy medium that works just for you and study in those increments.

parallel language learning:

this tip is my absolute favorite thing, not only because of how important it is for those learning more than one secondary language, but because it’s such a good way to learn multiple languages at once.

so what is parallel language learning?

parallel language learning is a method used in which you effectively stop learning a target language through your native language, and you start learning through another target language in which you are more proficient. for example, i am learning japanese through english, which is my native language. however, because i am learning french as well, which is a language that i have a stronger grasp on because i am more proficient in french than japanese, i chose to learn japanese through french instead.

how is parallel language learning helpful?

parallel learning is an incredibly good tool to use in order to advance both the language in which you are less as well as more proficient. using the previous example, by learning japanese through french, i am not only learning japanese, but advancing and refining my french as well. therefore, you learn two languages with half the effort.

other resources:

this is all i have for now but i will keep updating as i find more. these are some articles/blog posts that i have found incredibly helpful:

https://lindiebotes.com/2020/03/25/making-time-for-languages/

https://lindiebotes.com/2019/09/26/how-to-choose-language-to-learn/

http://www.howtolanguages.com/juggling-multiple-languages-some-practical-advice/

well, i hope you all found this helpful! if you have any more questions or any more tips, drop an ask or comment :) i would be happy to add to this or make other posts with language learning tips!

[oh-theatre]

Objection!: Chapter 10

Chapter title: Utinam Ne Illum Numquam Conspexissem

A/n:  My bois ™ I love them. I'm sorry this chapter took longer than usual. It was a bitch to write! I actually don't know how I feel about this one, but stuff was revealed so yay!! Ooo what are Rem and Emile discussing... Also, I just love Latin, and Latin phrases...hence the title. Anyway, leave me some comments! I would really appreciate it!

First | Previous | Next

words: 4287

summary: Virgil and Remy must save Roman from a dangerous situation

pairings: Eventual logicality, eventual prinxiety, platonic demus, romantic remile

warnings: Murder mention, child murder, Law and Courtroom, swearing, blood, gun, gun mention, drug and alcohol mention, sweating, hospital, screams

Ao3 Link  

“I warned you Rem, the waiting process is the worst” Emile advises from his desk, Remy paces around the room. Emile sighs looking up from his computer, Remy huffs. “Rem come here” He gestures for the worrisome detective. He joins Emile on the other side of the desk, sitting in the chair.

“We could get married in the time it takes” Remy comments fiddling with the funky pencils in the cup. Emile chuckles taking Remy's free hand.

“Did you just propose to me Remington Nyx?” Emile asks coyly, using his other hand to type some more things on his computer. Remy drops the pencils leaving a cluttered mess, Emile rolls his eyes.

“No, that's not for another month” Remy sighs, Emile blushes biting his tongue. Remy kisses his hand jumping up. “Alright! I can't sit here wallowing! I need to do something”

“Glad to hear you saying that” Virgil slides in through the door. Emile gives him a small wave return, Remy falls back onto the couch soon joined by Virgil. “Is it bad that I don't wanna work today?” Emile shuts off his computer standing up. He makes his way to the chair across the couch, opening his notebook.

“What's wrong?” Emiles voice shifts, Remy stifles a laugh recognizing what he's doing. Virgil rubs his forehead causing a red stain of heat.

“I'm stuck! I really can't do this job, I don't know what's happening” Virgil complains. Remy's smile disappears now, he leans forward, placing a hand on his partner. Virgil shoots him a grateful glance but it doesn't do much, because he's stuck spinning. “I'm just so confused”

“Oh, I felt that” Remy mumbles spreading himself on the couch laying his head on Virgil's lap. Emile smiles sweetly at his partner. “Em, we need therapy, clearly” he gestures dramatically. Emile chuckles, Virgil nods solemnly.

“Alright fine, but you better be paying me for this” He teases, Remy wiggles his eyebrows making Emile shift. “Not like that you absolute dork” Emile chides. Virgil begins fiddling with Remy's hair, twirling and twisting it every which way. Nothing harmful and Remy doesn't mind, it helps Virge calms down. It gives him something to do. “Ok, what's your sleep schedule like?” Emile begins.

“What does th-” A hand quickly covers Virgil's mouth, he looks down at Remy expectantly.

“Dude, just answer the question. He's the professional” Virgil rolls his eyes removing Remy's hand. Emile, who at this point is used to the detective's antics, politely waits. He has to do it a lot, patients tend to take longer to start off a conversation. But once you get them going, it's like rapid fire. Sometimes Emile can't keep up, however, others are less willing.

“Uh, I sleep...I guess…” Virgil grumbles, Remy appropriately yawns. “It's pretty sporadic, never more than like...mmm four to five hours?” Remy snaps in agreement, Emile tries hard not to shake his head. Showing disapproval or disappointment is counterproductive but Remy sleeps plenty, almost too much if you ask Emile. Virgil flicks Remy's forehead causing a mock pout. “You sleep so much it's not even funny” Virgil quips, Emile chuckles. Remy looks to his boyfriend for comfort or support but is instead met with a shrug, as if saying its true.

“Ok, we’re here for Virge, let's get back to him” Remy huffs, Emile nods coyly. Remy tries his best to kick Emile from his position but it ends up looking like he's flailing.

“Right well I mean...Damian keeps me up sometimes” Virgil informs returning back to a more reserved state. A pit of shame formed in his stomach, Emile notices the detective begins to pound his fists rhythmically on his thighs. Virgil's thoughts are cluttered, Damian. How could he think that? How could he say that? How dare he blame his child, his own son. How dare he complain about his job? His life is perfect, he has everything.

Not everything

Selfish, that's what I am

“Virgil? Is everything ok?” Emiles voice somehow makes its way into his head. A fruity intrusion in his echo chamber, his thoughts make way for the question. Pausing just for a moment, so he can look the doctor in the eye. Remy sits up now, growing concern riddles his face.

“Virge, you still with us bud?” Remy waves in front of his face, he can focus on the swift movement. Virgil couldn't really see it much, but it was consistent, it wasn't changing on him. But every time even the slightest thought of something pushed its way into his mind, an uneasy feeling tugged at his stomach. He grabs the hand, setting it down.

“M’fine” He lies, his problems are his own. Obviously, Remy and Emile could see straight through this, but just as impeccable timing goes. This takes the cake. The door swings open hitting the wall quite heavily. Virgil stands soon joined by the other two. Dylan appears his radio going wild, Emile and Remy throwdown in a staring contest. Emile crowned the winner, hopes his message of ‘Do not hurt Dylan, it wasn't his fault’ gets through. “Whats up Dyl?” Virgil asks, dusting off his pants.

“Hey, sorry to interrupt-

“It's fine, what's going on?” Remy pushes, Emile frowns at him. Every hint of annoyance towards the office that Remy could muster, he would. It may seem a bit too much but he put Emile's life in Dylan's hands and was completely betrayed. Every time he sees Emile he can't help but be reminded of the barrel he found his boyfriend staring down.

“There was a break-in at…” he snaps struggling to recall the address. Virgil exhales, his own patience wearing thin. “4563 Witch Lane, I think” Virgil's brows furrow, he knows that address. “It's ongoing and officers say the perpetrator is violent” Virgil heart pounds in his head.

Remember

“Why do you need us?” Remy questions flopping back onto the couch “Sounds like they got it covered” He blows, Emile shakes his head. Why? Why do they need us? They're usually called once the crime has happened, to investigate; How, when, why, and who. And that all depends on whether or not the patrol officers catch the culprit or not. So why, on god's green earth, do they need Virgil and Remy.

“Uh...because-” It finally hits Virgil, knocking him down a peg.

“Because that's Romans address” He mutters, fear is not the word he's looking for.

~~~

One more text and Patton might scream. One more text and Patton might scream. One more text from Liam and Patton might scream. One more text about how much Liam wants to see him, or talk to him or how much he misses him and Patton might scream. One more-

“Papa! Your phone is buzzing!” Valerie claims from across the small cafe table. Patton gives her a wary smile before turning over the phone, mostly to humor the excited girl. Quickly skimming over the multiple texts from Liam and one from Logan, he turns it back over. He will respond later, the mystery of what Logans might hold does set his heart racing.

“Alright kiddos, what do you want to eat?” Patton asks looking expectantly at the twins. For the past twenty minutes, the kids have been reading through the menus, on their own per Patton's request, trying to figure out what they wanted. Obviously, Patton would help if they needed it but he wanted them to try and do it on their own. The look of pride on their faces when they understood an order was all Patton was looking for.

“Waffles!” Remus has decided, shouting it for everyone to hear. Patton smiles politely at the other patrons, turning back to his son. “With...whip cream and sprinkles!” Patton nods, the waitress, Ally, writes down his order moving onto Valerie.

“I want some eggs please” She informs, wringing her hands. The failure to meet the waitress's eyes makes Patton smile sadly. Valerie, unlike her brother, was very shy towards strangers. She was much more comfortable around people she knew, to which she would shout and scream and dance around to her heart's content.

“Would you like that with bacon dear?” The waitress asks, Valerie ponders for a moment using the menu as an escape tool. She nods. Ally smiles writing down the order before moving onto Patton. “And you sir?”

“I’ll take eggs benedict” Patton shows, she nods scribbling it down. “Oh! And to drink, can we have two fresh orange juices and a latte?” The kids bounce at the sound of juice. Ally leaves after a moment, the bustling cafe revving in energy.

Breaking how own rules, as the kids play with one another, Patton checks his phone searching for one specific message. The ‘new notification’ mark hovering by Logan's name is enough to make Patton's face red. The blush he had grown so fond and familiar with returning, his finger debating whether or not to open the message. Had he gone to open it, his morning would have been a lot different but the sound of his name being called pulled him away.

“Mister Hart?” Patton shuffles around in his chair, a smile embracing his face.

“Reeve! Hi!” Patton stands, shaking the timid intern. Logan was not wrong, in his mumblings, the lawyer had revealed how Patton's smile could light up the room. He ushers for Reeve to join him at his table, after a moment of resilience, he takes his place next to Patton. “What brings you here?”

“I'm just here to pick up mister Tolentino's order” Reeve rubs the tips of fingers together trying to remember what it was. “One black coffee, an eclair, and three palmiers” Patton and Reeve recite in unison. The intern raises a brow receiving a sweet chuckle in return.

“Almost ten years and it hasn't changed” Patton reminisces, Reeve stays quiet a secret itch to find out more about Logan. “I used to pick it up for him” Reeve smirks, Patton shakes his head playfully “He would forget a lot, he claims to hate sweet things but obviously that's not true” Patton laughs, sitting and watching the lawyer Reeve couldn't agree more. “Anyway, it's nice to see it's the same” Reeve nods, there was something truly entrancing about this man, the intern could listen for hours. Patton bites his bottom lip, fishing something out of his bag. “It's really not a healthy order, would you get him an apple or some berries?” Patton requests, holding out his hand with money.

“I-i can't accept that” Reeve stutters, how can he be so trusting? What if Reeve just took off with`1 the money, what if he spent it on drugs or alcohol? Patton chuckles only furthering his insistence.

“It's on me, really” He insists “Logan needs to eat actual food” He chides, Reeve, takes it feeling awfully guilty. Patton's affect made him want to spend it on the right thing, he was just so...sweet.

“He was not wrong” Reeve mumbles, his eyes flying open through his tired manner. Patton turns to him cocking his head.

“Wrong?” He asks, Reeve shakes his head wishing away the thought with an awkward squeak of a laugh. Patton shrugs, if it wasn't his to hear, it wasn't his to hear. And yet it was, it would honestly make Reeve’s life so much easier. Logan was...an adequate teacher but he'd be even better if some things (cough Patton cough) weren't constantly on his mind. Reeve also wouldn't mind seeing the lawyer a bit happier. Whether he would severely regret this next move was at the tip of his mind, and yet…

“Uh, Logan...talks about you… a lot” Reeve explains, Patton coughs back a smile

“Pardon?” He tries, sipping his water

“He likes to talk about you Patton” Patton’s laughter turns to a quick blush. The light dusting of pink flattering his face. Reeve swallows, he stands giving a brisk smile. “I should probably get going, you know how he is, thank you again” Reeve rushes, practically scrambling to get the order and out of the cafe.

As Patton comes to terms with the feelings he himself had been feeling for years. He's kept so hidden and down, fear of rejection overwhelming and consuming his every action. Because for the life of him, he couldn't conjure up one reason why a lawyer, no a person such as Logan would ever give Patton a second thought. And yet ten years later…he couldn't help but think of one thing.

No, thank you, Reeve

~~~

“Fuck”

“Virge”

“No, fuck” Virgil repeats as they step out of the car. Cops, on cops, line the street outside of Romans house. To say Virgil's heart was racing was an understatement, it was pounding. Beating so hard and fast it almost hurt.  He walks towards the main station. “What's going on Kane?” He asks the lead officer, Kane turns to him his eyes confused.

“Break in, possible violent inside” He informs, knowing that the fire in Virgil's eyes didn't mean a lengthy explanation. However, the twitching at the detective's mouth scares him even more.

“He's still in there?!” Virgil exclaims, he huffs pushing further past, right up to the captain. “I'm going in” he declares

“Absolutely not detective Tormine” Haley warns. Remy finally catches up to his less than excited partner. Virgil clenches his fists, Remy recognizes the distinct furrowing of his brows. A little too late in his opinion. “Detecti- Virgil!” Haley calls out as Virgil races past the yellow tape. Remy sighs following after him, shooting Haley an apologetic glance. “Detective Nyx! Ugh why do I try” Haley moans

Virgil ducks in the house pulling out his gun, flashlight placed above it. He’s been here before, typically its harder to get around these situations when you don't know the layout of the house. But this one? He knew like the back of his hand. He hears small noises, he can't tell if they're just house noises or people noises.

“Virge!” Remy whispers coming up behind the detective. Virgil jumps slightly turning to his partner. He motions silently for Remy to go one way towards the kitchen, while Virgil will go upstairs. They make their separate ways, quietly walking through the house. Virgil checks the bathrooms upstairs first before slowly making his way into Romans room. Its sealed shut, he pushes carefully trying not to draw attention. He swears he can hear a silent struggle. Finally, something shimmies on the other side falling to the ground, he opens the door using his light to see. A light shuffling in the corner catches his eye, he turns practically dropping his things.

“Virge?” Roman croaks. He sits huddled in the corner, a hand over his stomach, another covering the bright light shining in his eyes. Virgil wastes no time kneeling in front of the judge. “I always thought I'd be the knight in shining armor coming to save the prince” Roman jokes, clearly delirious.

“You're bleeding” Virgil realizes, Romans hand is applying pressure on his stomach. Blood oozes through the cracks of his fingers, his eyes barely stay open. Roman laughs immediately seizing through his teeth, the pain runs through. “Ok, come on” Virgil wraps his arm carefully around Romans waist, silently apologizing. Roman tries his best to stand but relies almost entirely on Virgil for support. Virgil goes to take a step but Roman can't, collapsing with just enough space for Virgil to set him down. “So that's not going to work” He mumbles, Roman can feel Virgil's hands tremble in his own.

“You're scared” He notes, his eyes closed at this point. Virgil scoffs.

“Of course I'm fucking scared Roman! You're bleeding out, there's a violent person in your house, cops are surrounding your house!” He shouts Roman slaps him softly.

“Loud, way too loud” He chides, Virgil avoids his eyes knowing the judge is right. “M’fine, let's go” He decides, opening up his eyes grabbing onto Virgil again. Virgil fights to stay balanced as he goes again, knowing Romans not here to argue. He also knows Roman doesn't have time to argue, not with the loopy state of the judge. Once stable, lightly they make their way out of the room, checking the hall is safe.

“You doing ok?” Virgil checks as they huddle close together down the stairs, he wishes he had paid more attention to Romans answer, or lack thereof. “Ro?” Virgil asks as they reach the bottom, he turns to him noticing the limp state. He also notices he's basically carrying the man. “Dammit” He grunts rushing into the kitchen, keeping his steps light. The warm blood still flowing out of Roman is enough to make Virgil gag.

“Hey” Remy whispers joining the pair, his eyes growing wide at the sight Roman. “Oh my god… is h-” His words cut off by a violent noise as something tumbles into the kitchen. Too dark to see, both detectives ready themselves, back to back. Their guns aimed at both kitchen entrances, the patterning of tiny feet growing louder. An ‘oof’ noise coming from Roman, they both turn to exhale breaths of relief, Ollie sits atop Roman licking his face. Remy chuckles before turning to the entrance. “I'll keep watch, you make sure he's ok” Virgil nods.

“Virge, I think you're pretty nifty” Roman comments as Virgil tends to his wounds as best he can. Virgil chuckles rolling his eyes playfully. He uses a damp cloth to wipe Romans forehead, removing any soot or dried blood. “Don't laugh at me” He pouts, Ollie stands brave by the judge's side.

“Never princey, never” Virgil promises, holding a wad of towels to the stomach wound. That won't do, he thinks. “Rem, we gotta get him out of here or…” Virgil would rather not finish his sentence, Remy gives a brisk nod understanding. He takes one more look out the entrance before aiding Virgil, taking place on Romans other side. “Just to the door, that's all we need to do” Virgil licks his lips, they're unmistakably dry.

“Ready?” Remy cocks his head towards his partner.

“Set” Virgil takes a deep breath his eyes aimed at the door.

“Arf!” Ollie barks, ready to charge with the trio. Virgil and Remy share a glance before setting off. They avoid anything that might make noise, reaching the door easily. Still supporting Roman, Virgil pushes the door open, shoving Remy and Roman through first Ollie squeezing in after them. He hears Haley shouting commands towards the officers. The aching his heart resembles when the medics peel Roman away from Virgil is almost too much. But having to watch the ambulance drive away without him was worse.

~~~

“Nothing too drastic, we got him into surgery just in time” The doctor explains leading a very worried Virgil to Romans room. “He should be resting, but well…” The doctor eyes the room, Virgil releases a breath he hadn't realized he was holding at the sight of Roman flirting with the nurse. “He insisted he was fine, he's all yours” The doctor squeezes Virgil's shoulder, and it takes everything in his power not to cringe away from the man.

“Thanks” Virgil slides open the door making his way into the room. Roman finishes his latest quest to be the most loved man on the planet turning to Virgil. His smile is like no other, even though the pain is clear as his face morphs. Virgil should feel relieved but something else washes over him.

“If it isn't my favorite detective, Vigil Terrible was it?” Roman teases, as if everything is ok. Virgil slides the door closed, his hands gaining increasingly sweatier. Its not ok, the countless tubes hanging out of Roman, the IV drip attached to the man, the bruises on his face, all indicate otherwise. “Virge, I was kidding…” Roman assures seeing Virgil's blank stare.

“You almost died, you know that right?” Virgil jumps right in, approaching Romans bed. Roman shifts uncomfortably in his spot, his smile faltering. “As in, bleeding out, unconscious, death” He pushes further if it's for him or the judge Virgil isn't sure. Roman knows it's not aimed at him, or at least he hopes.

“But I didnt...you saved me” Roman gives him a sad smile, Virgil scoffs. “As cliche as that is, it's true”

“It's my job” Virgil reminds, although he wouldn't disobey Haleys orders for anyone, he wasn't telling Roman that.

“Be that as it may, you still did it, and I'm fine so…”  Roman waits for something, anything to tell him how Virgil feels. But he can't let it go, something is itching at the detective clearly. No matter how many ‘Im fines’ Roman conjures or how many doctors say otherwise, Virgil needs more.

“What about Damian” He blurts, he's not sure where it came from. Roman sits up now, his eyes wide. The feelings and thoughts running him through him are incomprehensible. No words explain the jumble of things.  

“Damian's not my kid” He claims, funny. He always assumed Virgil would be the one to set that boundary, he didn't want to but if it would calm Virgil down.

“No your right, only when it's convenient right? Not when he's scared, or lonely, or has questions I can't answer. Not then right? You only act like…” He trails off, pacing around the room.

“Virgil what is this really about? Cause right now you're not making any sense” Roman argues, ignoring the pain his side shoots through him. He waits for a retort, another fiery remark from the detective.

“I don't know! Ok? I'm just...worried” Virgil's voice, in layman's terms, sounds so defeated. Romans poise softens as he ushers Virgil to come to him. Virgil obliges, putting on an annoyed front as he sits in front of the judge. “You didn't see you ok? You were...bleeding and…” Roman tilts his head softly.

“Yeah but I'm fine now” He repeats for what seems like the millionth time that day. “Look, I've got a steady heartbeat” He points to the monitor, Virgil listens intently to the stable pattern. Waiting for some drastic change, but it stays, its constant. He stops shaking, he silently begs for Roman to continue. Roman nods picking up “My wounds stopped bleeding” He lifts his gown showing the surgical remains of his stomach cut. Virgil traces it with his fingers, the cold sending a shiver through Roman, nothing he can't handle.

“Sorry!” Virgil pulls away, Roman takes his hand.

“Its fine, but god are you a corpse V?” Roman asks squeezing different areas of Virgil's hands. “You're freezing.” Virgil grasps his hand back, swatting Roman away. They share a quick amused smile. Roman leads Virgil's hand to his own face, showing him the already healing bruises. Roman goes to say more but in true dramatic fashion, is quickly interrupted.

“Patton! I told you they would be here!” Logan calls out, appearing in the doorway. Virgil jumps out of the bed moving away from Roman. Roman shuts his eyes, wincing away from the disappointment. A smile appears on his face as Logan, followed by Patton enters the room.

“Roman, oh my gosh!” Patton cries examining the judge. He turns to Virgil then back to Roman. “What on earth happened?” He asks, sitting where Virgil once sat. Logan moves into the room sliding the door closed, Virgil eyes the pair, specifically Patton, afraid of what he might do. “May I?” He inquires softly, Roman nods. Patton checks Romans face, turning it carefully as he looks at the wounds.

“Some guy broke into his house” Virgil informs, Logan listens intently. “They searched the house after Ro left but he was nowhere to be found” Patton shakes his head disapprovingly.

“I'm so sorry you had to go through that, we got the text and we were so worried” Patton rushes, cupping Romans face lovingly. He hadn't realized how nice it felt until Patton pulled away his hand. Unlike Virgil, Patton's hands were warm, almost burning hot. As he reassesses Patton's words he shares a look with Virgil.

“We?” They recite in unison, both raising their eyebrows. Patton's blush is instantly recognizable, Roman laughs as the lawyer faces away from Logan.

“Patton and his children obviously,” Logan says not understanding the obvious teasing that takes place. Roman concurs mockingly, shoving Patton playfully. “Speaking of children” Logan mumbles as to quick feet are heard outside of the room.

“Roman!” Remus and Valerie exclaim together as they run into the room. Patton stands to scoop them up before they jump onto the judge. Roman and Virgil laugh at Pattons expectant look, clearly a common theme for the twins.

“Careful” Is all he says as he places them gently on Romans bed. Virgil feels a tug at his stomach wishing Damian was present. The little boy would be incredibly mad at Virgil for NOT bringing him. He shakes his head taking his leave, not giving Roman a second look.

The twins take turns very carefully hugging an unfortunately distracted Roman. Virgil might not have given the judge another glance but Roman was watching him the entire time.

~~~

“Did you do it?” the dark voice carries, the timid man is almost too afraid to speak. “Answer me” He wastes no time, he doesn't like waiting.

“N-no...the detective showed up b-before I could finish the job” He mutters, his words tripping over themselves. A crash can be heard through the room, vibrating into silence.

“I don't like failure” The voice seems closer now, the man clings to the door. “You failed me, twice now, and I don't do...failure” No no no no, the man begs silently. “Kill him”

The screams buried under a mountain of murder.

“The lawyer and the judge” The voice informs a new body “I want them taken out, do you understand?”

[craigslistpets]

The dangers of rehoming on Craigslist pets and free to good home

You have the best knowledge when it comes to treating these issues and adjusting the husbandry the diet and the care in order to help the animal the best you can I also want to say please do not tell the person that their husbandry is wrong you should not shame them for whatever like it's just really going to put them off and they'll just not respond to you anymore and the animal will no longer be rescued even if you're not planning on rescuing this animal and you see someone offering really terrible husbandry or really terrible care on Craigslist pets.

When they're rehoming an animal the best thing you can do is not say anything if you're not planning to rescue it because if you like tell them that they're doing something wrong a lot of people will refuse to acknowledge they've done something wrong and they'll just be really combative we're ignorant and they'll just take the post down and then that animal doesn't get the chance to get out of that really terrible situation so I urge you use care and caution when you are going into situations.

Like that just ask questions without being accusatory if you're especially if you're like looking to rescue the animal ask questions without being accusatory and just try to get the best information about its current situation as possible even if the care is absolutely horrendous until you have the animal doesn't say anything about it because it can give people pause and they'll just like cut you off entirely and really your main goal.

When it comes to rescuing is to get that animal out of that bad situation and make sure that you're putting it in a better situation so if you'd like to reach out to them after the fact and politely offer husbandry tips for the future in case they ever get any other animals that are fine but I would wait until you get the animal to do that when it comes to our rescue even if like you see it and you know what's going to need a lot of help you have to be prepared for literally everything because people who take in rescues will be surprised.

Even though they have seen pictures of the terrible enclosure even though they've seen pictures of the terrible gecko I'm sorry I keep saying gecko even though they've seen pictures of how bad the animals condition is you can still be surprised like the people can still give you something that is even worse than what they were describing so just be prepared for the worst have a vet appointment ready have a quarantine enclosure ready prepared with everything that you can possibly offer before getting a rescue now I don't want to put you off rescuing it is one of the best things you can do for an animal I think it is so.

Incredibly generous to give your time to help an animal become healthier and better and give them a proper caring and reaching home I think it is the best thing you can do and I am Pro Rescue I'm sure you know and so I would advocate definitely rescue but I also would say do it responsibly.

Don't just rescue and then start a GoFundMe for this rescue because you can't afford to pay for the medical bills you need to be responsible about it and understand that it might cost you money it's gonna cost you time and it's gonna cost you resources you have to be aware of the risks before you go into it make sure they're quarantine so they can't spread anything to your other animals and be aware that there's gonna be costs that come with it and those costs are your responsibility to bear it's fine to ask for donations like on occasion like I'm not saying people shouldn't ask for donations if like they rescue an animal but to call yourself a rescue like say you own a reptile rescue.

For example, to say you're a reptile rescue and then to literally only take money from other people to pay for the needs of the animals is really counterproductive what you should do is have all the resources you already need to spare for that animal before getting them that way you can make sure that they get every care that they possibly need you can't rely on outside donations because eventually.

What if those donations stop and then the animals are no longer getting what they need you to need to be able to sustain them all on your own dollar and if you have donations that are great I have no problem with that but you need to be able to first make sure that you can help them with your own dollar and your own time first also don't take on so many rescues at one time that you're overwhelmed it doesn't help the animal if you can't give them all that you can give them so if you can only do one or two rescues at a time that's okay.

Leave rescuing to other people as well so that everybody can make sure that the animals are actually getting what they need instead of one person just being super overwhelmed by having too many rescues on their hands one last thing I want to talk about is that a lot of times when you go to rescue an animal the person will have like a super pricey rehoming fee for a really

A terrible enclosure that you're not going to be able to use anyway and for an animal that's super stifling it's gonna cost you money sometimes you can talk these people down in price sometimes you can offer it hey I don't need the enclosure I just want the animal so can I have that for a reduced price or you know you can kind of bargain with them however a lot of times.

They're gonna be a real stickler about it and they'll be like no this is the price I want and that's gonna be up to you if you feel comfortable paying for that price now the money that you're paying them really isn't gonna go into anything like if if you're afraid of like offering money to a breeder for a problematic more for example because you don't want that money to then further promote problematic morphs being bred by that person or if you don't want to put money into a pet store animal because then it just supports the mills that the animals come from and they're really bad breeding practices there but when you're putting money into like a person's pocket who is like rehoming on.

Craigslist Pets it's not really going to go back into that cycle back into that breeding situation or back into that pet store so it's a little bit different but again it's totally up to you if you want to print if you want to pay that pricey rehoming fee because they get it it's it's counterproductive because you're gonna have to go ahead and spend more money for a proper setup and for vet costs anyway so again it's totally up to you you can try and bargain with them but some people are really stubborn about it.

Now I want to go over some general tips that no matter what you're doing if you're rescuing or if you're getting them from a situation of rehoming these are tips you should follow for your own safety always let someone know where you are going so if you're gonna go meet up with someone from Craigslist let a third party person know that like you trust that you're gonna be at this place at this time meeting up with this person so that if anything nefarious happens you will have someone who knows that

something nefarious happened and then they have information that they can help to locate you safely so just be very safe about that situation.

I also recommend bringing a friend with you or a family member with you so that there's someone else in the car with you and you go meet up with this person don't meet up with this person at your house or anywhere that you frequent regularly.

In case they decide to stalk you or harass you select not your place of employment not your house anywhere like that I also recommend meeting someone at a public location so meet them in the parking lot of a grocery store and meet them at a gas station meet them somewhere where there's going to be a lot of people so that they don't do anything nefarious and that if they do there are witnesses have a quarantine setup ready before you get the animal that way as soon as you bring them home you can put them in that quarantine set up which will allow them to be comfortable instead of like them having to be in that nasty enclosure for however long and bringing that nasty enclosure into your home could let some of the and other animals.

You have like it could contaminate them and quarantine enclosures are also important because it helps keep that animal from contaminating your other animals if they have parasites or things like that and lastly be prepared for disappointment be prepared for this appointment if the person decides not to meet up with you even though they've been great at communicating with you up until the very last moment be prepared for disappointment sometimes they won't meet up with you be prepared for disappointment if the animal passes away like if it's a rescue and it passes away or if they decide last-minute to give it to somebody else or if they just decide last minute that they no longer want to give it to you just be prepared for disappointment because it happens I've been through it and I feel like most people who get animals off of Craigslist pets have been through it so those are all of my tips.